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atlabeth · 1 month

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(not so) simple pt 4 - anthony bridgerton

pt1 pt2 pt3

summary: coercing lord bridgerton into pretending to court you to avoid the affections of a baron is very simple — that is, until it isn’t.

a/n: SO. UM. once again this took fucking forever to come out which is kind of insane when you think about it because i've had 7000 words of this chapter written for like 4 months. truly wild. 2 babies have been born in the time that it's taken me to write this mini series but anyways there’s a lot happening here, shoutout to anthony for finally getting some more pov parts, the fun thing about your mc being out of commission for a while is that you have no choice but to write for the other characters. equality we love to see it. anyways most of it is angst, but it’ll all be wrapped up with a little regency romance bow i promise

wc: 7.6k

warning(s): aftermath of the end of last chapter which is angst. stab wound, talks of death, mentions of edmund's death, quite a bit of crying, anthony bridgerton's inner angst, miss worthing makes poor decisions. not a happy chapter but WHAT CAN YOU DO

“What were you thinking?” Violet demanded.

Anthony could barely hear his mother over the sound of the blood pounding in his ears, the pure terror gripping his heart. He’d no idea how to respond to her. He doubted she would like to hear that he, indeed, was very much not thinking.

And he was certainly not thinking much now, what with you on the brink of death with their doctor and his apprentice the only thing there to stop you. He could be of no help to you, bent half over in his chair, head in his hands, the image of you collapsing burned into his mind.

“Anthony Bridgerton, answer me.” Violet stood over him, her face flushed and eyes filled with anger and fear. “What were you thinking, bringing Miss Worthing out into the city?”

“I cannot deal with your questions right now, Mother!” he snapped, something letting loose inside of him. Anthony would have been ashamed had he any sense. “My future wife is in that room fighting for her life, and it is because I was not able to protect her. I am hardly able to form words at the moment, Mother, so please—” Anthony’s voice broke, and he ran a shaky hand through his hair. “Please just be quiet.”

It took a bit of nerve to be such an ass in front of his very own mother, but Anthony apparently had plenty of nerve at the moment. After you collapsed, he’d done the only thing he could think of in the moment and brought you back to Bridgerton House—it was closer than your residence, and if their physician had been able to keep his mother alive through eight pregnancies, then surely he could bring you back.

Now, though, he was not so sure. Every other option seemed to be plaguing his mind, for your blood still stained his hands and his clothing and Anthony didn’t know if he would ever be able to get it off.

His father died in his arms from something so small as a bee, and yet you had been stabbed. How were you meant to come back from that?

The door suddenly slammed open, and when Anthony glanced up, his insides twisted.

“Where is she?” Eloise demanded. Her windblown hair matched the wild look in her eyes, and the flush of her cheeks and haggard breathing told him everything. She was meant to be promenading with Penelope Featherington—her speed on foot was admirable.

“With our physician,” Violet responded. She seemed more subdued now, and though Anthony knew he would apologize profusely later, he could not find it in himself now. He could hardly find anything in himself apart from panic.

“With our physician—” She turned on Anthony, her gloved hands clenched into fists. “What in God’s name happened, Anthony?”

He allowed himself a moment to breathe before he responded. “She was stabbed.”

“Stabbed?” Eloise cried. “She was with you! How could she have been stabbed?”

“I was not with her when it happened—”

She scoffed. “That is a likely fucking story.”

“Eloise,” Violet said, “language.”

“I do not care about my language,” Eloise spat, gesturing wildly with her hands. “My best friend has been stabbed— I will say whatever I please!”

And then, as if to just add fuel to their fire, Benedict rushed in. Anthony held back a slightly unhinged laugh and shook his head. You were dying and they were out here arguing.

“I’ve made sure this hallway is off limits like you said, Mother.” Benedict looked just as shaken as the rest of them, and in a strange way Anthony was grateful. You’d grown closer to his family than he’d known. “Your lady’s maid is outside the door alongside a footman ensuring privacy, and your driver is on route to the Worthing residence to alert her parents. They’ve all been sworn to secrecy—no one will be disturbed, least of all Miss Worthing.”

“Thank you, Benedict.” Violet sighed, and she collapsed into an armchair. “At least one of us is in order.”

Benedict sat down on the sofa, his words coming out in a mumble. “I am hardly in order.”

The fire seemed to have died down in Eloise, for however temporary a time, and she settled down next to Benedict. She leaned her head on his shoulder, and he wrapped an arm around her.

“She’ll be okay,” Eloise whispered, “right?”

No one answered for a moment. At last, Anthony looked up, his hands clasped in front of him.

“Yes,” he rasped, hoping with everything in him that his words would be true. “She will be okay.”

He would not have been able to live with any other outcome, not when it was his fault in the first place that you were in this position.

Anthony didn’t know what he should have done, but he should have done something. He should have brought you to your senses and suggested a promenade in the park instead. He should have called on you at your estate, safe and sound in your drawing room. He should have been arm in arm with you, his heart steadily melting as you smiled and laughed and made him aware of all things good in the world.

He could not lose you. Not when he still had so much to tell you, so many words left unsaid.

Not when you didn’t know he loved you.

“I’m sorry, Anthony.” He looked up at the sound of Eloise’s voice—though she did not look at him and her arms were still crossed, the sincerity of it was not lost on him. “I know it was not your fault.”

His chest tightened. It was his fault.

“You clearly care about her,” she said. “It is not fair to pin this on you.”

“Sometimes we hurt the people we care about,” he said, his voice hollow.

“Sometimes,” she agreed. “But not this time.”

His eyes shimmered with unshed tears. Eloise had been at odds with him for nearly this entire season because of their ruse. Though she knew of its falsity, she still chastised him for taking up time that could have been spent with her, still rolled her eyes when he announced his leave to go see you, still questioned why he had to go after her best friend.

But Eloise was driven by her emotions, no matter how red hot or icy cold they may have been. At this moment, her concern for you outweighed anything, and she recognized the same in him.

So Anthony nodded. Once, twice, hardly moving but a clear acknowledgment. He glanced at his mother and brother, both unfocused with glassy eyes. His mother’s were red-rimmed, and she held a handkerchief tightly in one hand. The guilt hidden from earlier struck.

He silently thanked their governess for keeping Gregory and Hyacinth occupied, thanked that Francesca was on an outing of her own. The last thing he needed was for his littlest siblings to find out that the woman they believed to soon be their sister was one misstep away from death. And thank God for Colin’s decision to spend the day with Mondrich—one of his younger brothers in the heat of the moment was enough.

Anthony let out a shuddering sigh, screwing his eyes shut for a moment before he ran a hand through his hair then planted his palms on his knees. He could hardly sit still but he hadn’t the slightest idea of how to get his nervous energy out.

All he could think of was you. Of how the last word you spoke was his name. Of your dried blood on his hands, staining his clothing where he had held you. Anthony barely kept you from hitting the ground when you collapsed, and he nearly did the same once he reached his residence.

Yelling at any servant in the proximity to call for the physician, unaware of his mother trying to calm him until she shook him by the shoulders, having to literally be forced out of the room by the physician’s assistant once they arrived because he refused to leave your side.

It all felt like a blur, and yet he remembered it perfectly. It all played on repeat in his mind no matter how much he tried to block it out.

The door slammed open this time, and when Anthony looked up, he felt as if he could wither away.

“Where is my daughter?” Cecilia Worthing demanded, her husband trailing after her. She was all out of sorts, with an even wilder look in her eyes and a deathly grip on her skirts. Mr. Worthing’s expression made his heart sink, with his haunted eyes and taut lips.

“I am so sorry, Cecilia,” Violet rasped, and she crossed the room and enveloped her in her arms. It took a moment for your mother to respond, but she returned the hug as a sob escaped her.

“Your footman said she had been injured,” your father said levelly, though his voice shook ever so slightly. “How?”

“She was stabbed,” Anthony spoke up, forcing himself to look at your parents. “Some zealot in the city. I brought her here as quick as I could.”

“The city—” your father started.

“Stabbed?” your mother interrupted, halfway into hysterics. “How?”

“We got caught up in the midst of a riot,” he said quietly. “We were separated, and I assume it happened then.”

Mrs. Worthing let out another sob as she pulled her husband into her arms, and though he kept a semblance of solemnity as he whispered to his wife and held her close, Anthony could see the fear in his eyes.

How could he possibly offer reassurance? It felt different, staring at the desperation of your parents. The horrific realization that they might leave a family of two, might have to bury their only child.

His stomach twisted and Anthony’s head fell into his hands again. He couldn’t.

Eventually, Philip helped his wife onto the couch, and she remained curled into his side. No one said a word—how could they?

Apart from whispered reassurances between your parents and even shorter conversations between Benedict and Eloise, their saddened group continued in silence for the better part of an hour. No one spoke louder than a whisper, no one rose and left—they just sat together in their fear, hoping and praying that the inevitable could be denied.

Until the door creaked open and each of their heads snapped towards the noise. Anthony shot up at the first glimpse of their physician’s assistant.

“What news?” he asked immediately. The tension in the room had grown to be near palpably thick.

“The surgery went well,” the assistant said, and all the air dissipated from Anthony’s chest. “Miss Worthing lives. The doctor is ensuring a final few things, but provided our treatment is followed, we believe she will recover fully.”

Anthony fell back against the couch with a breathless laugh, and Mrs. Worthing sank against her husband, wrecked by thankful sobs. Eloise’s smile was enough to brighten the whole room, Benedict’s relief just as obvious. Violet just let out an exhausted sigh, her hand pressed to her heart.

“Thank you,” your father said. “Can we see her?”

“Miss Worthing is resting,” he said. “You will not be able to speak to—”

“We do not care,” your father asserted. “I need to see that my daughter is still alive.”

The physician’s assistant nodded after a moment, and the tension lessened in his shoulders. He helped your mother up, their hands clasped tightly together, and Mrs. Worthing looked at Anthony. You truly had your mother’s eyes.

“Will you come with us, my lord?” she asked.

“Oh, I—”

“You are family,” she said softly. “You’ve a right to join us.”

Emotion swelled in Anthony’s chest, and it took a moment for words to come to him.

“Of course,” he finally said, inclining his head. “And it is just Anthony between us. Please.”

The slightest smile spread across her lips as she nodded, and they all stood up together. Anthony took her offered arm and they started down the hallway together, your father on her other side.

How strange it was to be arm in arm with your mother. She thought the man beside her would be her future son-in-law, when he was truly nothing but a liar.

No, he thought, not wholly a liar. Not anymore. Because they believed that Anthony was to be your husband. And if there was anything this had proven to him, it was that he wanted nothing more than for it to be true.

Anthony just had to figure out a way to tell you. How strange that it would be the most difficult part of this ruse.

Violet’s maid and the footman stepped aside when they arrived and the assistant opened the door. Anthony followed your parents in, and his heart nearly stopped upon seeing you.

Your mother’s eyes filled with tears as she approached your bedside, and, after a nod from the doctor, brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear and laid the back of her hand against your forehead.

“She’s burning up,” she whispered.

“It is typical after surgery,” the doctor said. “With any luck, she will sweat it out. I will monitor her throughout.”

Your mother nodded, a shaky sigh escaping her, and she took your hand.

“I am so sorry, darling,” she whispered. “I am so sorry I was not there for you.” She brought your intertwined hands up and lightly kissed the back of your hand. “I love you more than anything. Please, come back to us soon.”

Your father joined her, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I do not know if you can hear us,” he said, voice slightly shaky, “but we are here for you. We will be here when you awaken, and every moment onwards.”

Mrs. Worthing looked back at Anthony, inclining her head towards you. Anthony swallowed his doubt as he moved forward, but the breath was stolen from him when he could fully see you.

Your eyes were closed. Your chest rose and fell just so, hardly noticeable, thin linens provided by the doctor rested over you, and sweat beaded on your brow. Alongside the discoloration of your skin, you looked…

You looked as if you were dead.

And Anthony knew that you were not—for God’s sake, you were breathing—but all he could think about, all he could see, was his father, all those years ago, dying in front of him while he could not do a single thing to stop it. And he felt that same helplessness with you; just standing there, watching, unable to do anything but hope.

“We are here for you,” he whispered. “...I am here for you. No matter what, I am here for you. Just know that, if nothing else.”

Your mother’s watery smile made him look to the doctor for fear of the same emotions eliciting even further in him.

“When will she wake?” Anthony asked. His voice sounded almost foreign to him.

“In a few hours, with any luck,” the doctor said. “At the very most, it will be the end of the day.”

“We will gladly host her until she is able enough,” Anthony said, looking at your parents. “And we have plenty of spare rooms for you to choose from if you wish to remain by her side during those days.”

“Thank you, Anthony.” Your mother placed her hands on his shoulders, though she had to look up at him, and she smiled. “You make her so happy. It will be my greatest pleasure to officially welcome you into our family.”

Anthony’s throat bobbed. God above, he hoped that was the truth.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “She… she means a great deal to me.”

“You’re a good man, Bridgerton,” your father said. “I’m thankful my daughter will end up with someone like you.”

“Your approval means the world,” he said, and he found he meant it wholly.

The doctor cleared his throat. “It would be best for her visitors to be limited as of now. The parents can stay, but…”

Anthony nodded, smoothing his lapels. “Of course.”

“We will alert you of anything,” your mother said. Anthony nodded again, and he allowed himself one more moment to look at you before he left.

You were alright. You would be alright. That was all that mattered.

Still, when he found himself alone in the hallway, finally able to breathe again, he still had that weight on his shoulders.

A revelation such as the one he’d had should have been a blessing, a relief. A man in love was meant to be a happy one. But a man in love did not usually find his feelings in the midst of season-long ruse whilst his beloved fought on her deathbed.

Anthony blew out a loose sigh, shaking his head as he continued through the halls. Being on his own, he found, was worse than sitting in silence with his family. He was trying to think of something to say, trying to gather his emotions and push them aside so he could be the man of the house as he was meant to be, but when he reached the room from before he was only met with Eloise.

She looked up from the floor, and he noticed the puffiness of her eyes, her slightly blotchy skin. His heart sank yet again.

“Benedict helped Mother to bed,” she explained, her throat bobbing. “All of this exhausted her. I’ve no idea where he is now.”

Anthony nodded, his mind still wandering. “Ah.”

“How is she?” Eloise asked, her brows knit in concern.

“As well as she can be.” Anthony sighed. “She has a fever, but she’s resting. Her parents are with her and the doctor is watching over her. He said she should awaken before the end of the day.”

The furrow softened as she smiled. It was good to see her smile. “Good. That— that’s good. I’m glad.”

“And how are you, Eloise?” Anthony asked, folding his arms.

“As well as I can be,” she responded wryly. Anthony’s lips twitched in a momentary smile, but she leaned against the couch and let out a sigh of her own. “This all certainly ended in the best way it could have.”

“The best way would have been for it to have never happened,” he said. “I should have prevented it—I was meant to keep her safe.”

“Brother,” she said wearily, “I already told you that you cannot blame yourself.”

“And I’ve never been one for listening to you,” he said dryly, “have I?”

Eloise huffed a laugh and shook her head. “I am not a fool, Anthony. I know what is happening between you two.”

Anthony frowned. “Eloise—”

“You love her,” she said bluntly. “Do you not?”

He tried to say something, but no words would follow. He could only stare at his sister and her nerve, resulting in a small smile from her.

“You are not that talented an actor, brother,” she said. “It is easier for me to believe the two of you are truly in love than that you could actually trick me in such a way.”

He blinked. “You believe she loves me?”

Eloise laughed, turning her head slightly. “I do,” she said. “And seeing as you are not denying it, I believe that means you love her.”

Anthony bit the inside of his cheek. So the two of you could fool the entirety of the ton for over half the season, but apparently not Eloise. How typical.

He walked over and took a seat on the couch next to his sister, leaving a bit of space between them. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

“I do.” He glanced at her. “I love her.”

Saying it aloud—admitting the truth of feelings he’d been fighting for so long—brought him an unexpected lightness. One other person knew both truths: that they had been lying about their love, and that Anthony had been lying about his lies.

It would have been laughable had he not been so unsure of everything else.

It took Eloise a moment to say anything back. For a while, she merely looked at him, unreadable depths in her eyes. He didn’t think he would ever be able to fully decipher his sister.

“I know my blessing means very little in the scheme of things,” she finally said. “But know that if this does come into fruition… I will support you two. Every step of the way.”

The smile that spread across Anthony’s lips was brighter than anything he’d experienced today, and he inclined his head. “Truly?”

“Yes, truly,” Eloise said, a smile of her own growing though she tried to hide it as she glanced away. “It is not a big deal. Do not make it out to be one. There are far worse men that she could end up with.”

“Alright,” he said, unabashed in his joy. For such a solemn day, Eloise had turned his mood around.

“And I will also keep your secret,” she said breezily, “again, so do not worry about that.”

“You say it does not mean much,” Anthony said, “but you are wrong. Your support means more to me than you know.”

She shifted, seemingly bolstered ever so slightly by his praise. “...I’m glad.”

He smiled as he stood back up, smoothing out the wrinkles in his outfit. Anthony grimaced as his hands came into view. He was in dire need of a bath and some new clothes. He could not deal with your blood on him for much longer.

“I must be going,” Anthony said. “I need to clean up. And,” he sighed, “ensure that none of this has spread to the rest of the ton.”

Eloise hummed, and Anthony was nearly at the door when she spoke up again.

“...Thank you. For being here for me.”

His expression softened as he glanced back at her. “I will always be here for you.”

Her lips curved just so. Anthony had never been so thankful to no longer be at odds with one of his siblings.

Your head hurt.

That was the first thing you could truly understand as your eyes slowly cracked open, squinting while you came to. You blinked a multitude of times, trying to regain your bearings and relieve the dryness of your eyes.

It took another moment for them to adjust to the darkness—the curtains were closed, but no light filtered through. How long had you been asleep?

You grimaced as you shifted ever so slightly, a dull but constant ache in your chest leaving you stiff, but there was a weight of a hand in yours. You glanced over and recognized your mother, asleep but still grasping your hand.

You smiled. She came for you after all.

But as you tried to shift further in the bed, you groaned, a sharp column of pain shooting through you. Your mother’s eyes shot open, her body starting from instinct, but it took a moment for her to truly realize it all.

“Nice of you to wake up,” you said wryly.

“You—” tears sprung in her eyes, and her lips spread in a grateful grin— “You must be alright if your first words are to antagonize your mother.”

“I am still here,” you said. You didn’t want to tell her you didn’t think you would make it. That you thought your fate was sealed when you pulled your hand away to nothing but blood.

“That you are,” she said breathily. “Are you alright, though? How do you feel? Does it hurt?”

“I believe I am alright,” you responded, “I feel… tired. And my chest aches.”

“The doctor said that would be expected,” she murmured. “What do you remember?”

“...That depends,” you said. “What do you know?”

Your mother gave you a look as she said your full name. “This is not the time for games.”

Your cheeks heated and you averted your eyes. “I was in the city with Anthony. I was stabbed after a riot broke out. That is all I remember.”

“Lord Bridgerton is the reason you are alive,” your mother said. “He brought you back to Bridgerton House, and their doctor saved your life.”

Somehow it was possible for your face to burn even more. You dragged Anthony out to that meeting, and you repaid him by making him drag your near lifeless body all the way back to his estate.

You were the worst fake fiancee a man could have.

You felt your eyes begin to fill with tears and you rapidly blinked them away.

“Where is he?” you asked quietly. “Where is Anth— Lord Bridgerton?”

Your mother gave you a knowing look. “It is alright to call him by his name, darling. It is quite clear how much he cares for you.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. You could not do this. “Where is he?”

“He is with his family,” she said. “You caused everyone quite a fright.”

“I can imagine,” you said hollowly.

“Would you like to see him?” she asked. “Because I am sure he—”

“No.” The haste with which you sat up drew out another wince. “No— I…”

You closed your eyes, biting down on the inside of your lip. You could not do this.

Your mother said your name softly. “What is it?”

You opened your eyes, ignoring the wetness around them as you looked at her. “Anthony and I cannot marry.”

She blinked. It looked as if it took a moment for your words to sink in. “What?”

“We cannot marry,” you repeated. “We— we never could marry. Our courtship is a ruse.”

Your mother blinked again, this time wholly taken aback. “What?”

“It is a ruse,” you repeated, more forcefully. “I wanted to escape the baron, and Anthony wanted to escape a thousand desperate debutantes. I proposed a mock courtship between us, and he accepted.”

Her brows furrowed deeper than ever before, as if she still couldn’t fully believe it. “You lied to me.”

“To everyone,” you said. You hadn’t a clue what had gotten into you, tearing apart a story carefully crafted throughout nearly the entire season, but something burned inside of you. You couldn’t keep going with this—you couldn’t keep stringing Anthony along, not when your feelings were far more real than they had any right to be.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“Because I did not want to marry,” you repeated. “The baron is nothing more than a lecher, and the thought of any sort of marriage to him disgusted me, but you and Father refused to listen to me. The only way to get out of it was for you to believe I had caught the affections of someone better. Anthony Bridgerton’s word was certainly better than mine in the eyes of the ton.”

Your mother stared at the floor for much longer than you anticipated, and you could not tear your eyes away from her.

“Mother,” you said quietly, “say something. Please.”

“I do not quite know what to say.” She finally looked at you, and your throat bobbed. “All of our plans have hinged on this marriage for the entirety of the season. What am I to tell your father?”

“Do not tell him,” you begged. “Please. It is enough that you know— I could not handle the shame if he were to as well.”

“I do not keep secrets as well as you,” your mother snapped. “Marrying into the Bridgerton family would have saved us, both in riches and name. Even your dowry would have gone to use for something of your choosing.” She shook her head, clasping her hands together. “And now you have almost died and we will have to control this and I just—”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you interrupted.

That ceased her arguments quite quickly. “What?”

“I will marry Lord Cardew,” you repeated. “He has both riches and name.”

Your mother frowned as she gripped your hands tighter. “You despise him. You got yourself into this entire mess in order to avoid him—you’ve said so yourself.”

“What choice do I have?” you asked desperately. “His name is enough to weather the scandal I’ve created. His money will secure a life for you and Father, and he has a fine pedigree. It is the only way to save the Worthing name.”

“Have you not considered the very man who has been courting you this season?” Your mother gestured with her hand. “Look where you are, darling! Lord Bridgerton has offered up his estate to us so we can be near you as you heal. Your courtship may have started as a ruse, but the man clearly feels something for you!”

“We have become very good friends over the course of the season,” you said, “and I am thankful for it. But I cannot taint the Bridgerton name further.”

“Dearest—”

“It is necessary,” you interrupted, but your quick movement brought on a sharp thread of pain in your chest and you winced.

“Do not push yourself,” your mother whispered, and you nodded.

“It is necessary,” you repeated, though slower. “My rebellion was just… naivete. I will not be the reason for our family’s ruin borne from my own stubbornness. I will secure our legacy, I will secure my future—I will marry Lord Cardew, and… and I will finally stop trying to resist my fate.”

Your mother stared at you, and you stared back. “You said it yourself—our family’s well being hinges on my marrying into wealth. What sane man would consider me after what I’ve done?”

She continued to look at you long and hard, her expression one of unreadable depths. “You are sure?”

No, you wanted to say. You had never been less sure of anything in your life. But you could see no other choice. So you nodded.

Your mother glanced away from you with a sigh, eyes searching the room for a moment before she nodded as well. “...Alright. If that is what you wish, your father and I will contact him once you are recovered.”

“Mother—”

“That is non-negotiable,” she said, and she smiled at you. “You may be blossoming into a true lady, but you are still my daughter. And I will not allow my daughter to do anything until she is fully healed.”

You nodded. “Alright.”

“I am sure that it goes without saying that you are never going to be allowed out of our sight until you are married and settled?” your mother said, and though it caused a sharp pain in your chest, you couldn’t help but laugh.

“I assumed just as much, Mother.”

Dearest Reader,

It is a fact well known throughout Mayfair that the social season requires the full attention of every single person, frantic mamas and bored bachelors alike. It is a game of wits unlike any other, and this season has proven no different. The middle of our merriment marks many of the most eligible debutantes as engaged — this author pays special attention to the season’s diamond, Lady Adelaida Kennington, who has found her happy ending with the young Earl Pembroke.

Though congratulations may be due to another lady of the ton, one of the simple yet highly discussed Worthing family — as it seems, Miss Worthing has tossed aside the much desired Viscount Bridgerton for the hand of the Baron Jonathan Cardew. One can only be left to wonder what Lord Bridgerton must have done to go from an obviously incoming proposal back to his rakish ways in little more than a night, but it most certainly has to do with Miss Worthing’s recent disappearance from society. Word has passed around of her frequent visits to the lesser parts of London, engaging in activity that can only be described as scandalous. Perhaps it was not the fault of the viscount indeed—Miss Worthing may have finally pushed Lord Bridgerton to his limits.

No matter the reason for the ending of the courtship, this author must extend her thanks to the pairing for providing such material for my pen. It is not every day a nobody in the ton manages to bring down two families at once. Perhaps Miss Worthing deserves congratulations for conducting this fantastical feat all on her own. If it was outrage she was searching for, she has certainly earned it.

Yours Truly,

Lady Whistledown

You huffed a sigh and threw the leaflet across the room, letting your head fall back against the wooden headboard. It was one thing for Lady Whistledown to criticize you, it was another thing entirely for her to bring your family and the Bridgertons into it. You deserved everything that came towards you for what you had done, but your parents, the Bridgertons, Anthony— they were not a part of any of it.

Especially when all your father had done was visit the Cardew estate to have a conversation with the man, see if he was open to the possibility of a marriage with you. Nothing was at all set in stone, but the way Whistledown told it, you were already steps from the chapel with a ring on your finger.

So now, as if it weren’t enough that you were bed bound until your physician deemed you recovered for regular activity, as if it weren’t enough that you were likely set to be married by the end of the season, as if it weren’t enough that you were constantly denying Anthony’s requests to visit you, every single one of your idiotic mistakes was revealed to the ton through a woman too cowardly to write without a pseudonym.

If you ever found Lady Whistledown, you thought bitterly, you would strangle her.

The silence in your room was broken by the door opening, and when you looked up you were greeted with Julia’s face. The usual smile she bore when around you was not there, but before you could ask she answered your unspoken question.

“I apologise for the interruption, my lady, but you have a visitor. He insisted on seeing you.”

A small part of you knew who it was even before she stepped aside, but when Anthony Bridgerton walked into your room your breath still hitched the tiniest bit.

“What are you doing here?” you asked immediately, holding back a grimace as you pushed yourself into a sitting position.

“I had to see you,” Anthony said.

“And you chose to do so by invading my privacy.”

“I have not heard a single word directly from you nor your pen since the accident,” he said, his voice not without a slight barb. But underneath it all, an uncommon hurt festered inside of him. You could not see it, exactly, but you could sense it. “Forgive me for wanting to confirm with my own eyes that you were still alive.”

“I will remain here as a chaperone,” Julia said, closing the door behind her. “You may talk as freely as you please — I will not repeat a single word.” Anthony nodded and pulled the stool away from the vanity so he could be closer to you, then sat down.

Despite Julia’s reassurance, neither of you spoke a word. The silence began to weigh heavily, the tension growing so thick it could be cut with a knife. For so long you had been rejecting Anthony’s requested meetings, not wanting to see him after what you had done. You feared for how he would react, both to your complete ignorance of him after your nearly fatal injury and your acceptance of Lord Cardew’s courtship.

You left Bridgerton House without a word mere hours after your ill-fated decision despite the protests of your parents—you could not stay there for another moment under Anthony’s good graces, not when you had doomed any possible future with him. You did not deserve a single millimeter of Bridgerton good will.

You stared down at the covers you laid under, fidgeting with your hands in your lap as you focused on everything except your visitor. You could not bring yourself to meet Anthony’s gaze, though you’d felt his own on you for the past five minutes.

“Is it true?”

You finally looked up at his sudden question, meeting the intensity of those dark brown eyes you’d lost yourself in so many times. “Is what true?”

“Your marriage to Jonathan Cardew,” he said stiffly. “Is it true?”

Just as quickly, you glanced away. It was near impossible to even be in the same room as the viscount since you had made the decision, even more so to think of the reason why it was that way. So instead, you just nodded.

“Yes. If all works out, we are to be wed at the end of the season.”

“Why?” Anthony leaned forward, his arms resting on his knees as his hands clenched into loose fists. “You openly despise the man—you asked me to court you to avoid him. Why in the name of all things rational would you willingly enter a marriage with him?”

“He will provide for me,” you said. “He has money, he has land, and he is a respectable member of society. He has already been content with the possibility of marriage once, and his name is enough to weather the scandal I have created. It is the smartest choice available.”

“And what of us?” He had an almost wild look in his eyes, and the worst desire took root in you to root your fingers in his hair and ease the troubles you’d caused him. “We have spent the near entirety of the season becoming closer, and you are willing to just throw it all away for a man like Cardew?”

“I could not trap you in a marriage you do not want,” you insisted. “You deserve more than a woman you share no love for, Anthony, and to be married to the woman who made a fool of your entire family. Lord Cardew is the only option.”

“Even if all of that is true, that does not mean it is a smart choice!” he exclaimed. “He is not a safe man to be around! If he has been pursuing you so strongly and only backed off because of my influence, what do you think will happen when you are his legal wife with no sort of protection?”

You swallowed thickly at his words. “He is not that sort of man, Anthony. He may be… horrid, and a complete egoist, but it will be a life of comfort. And that is the life that I need.”

Anthony laughed breathlessly, completely devoid of mirth as he frowned. “You cannot be serious. I have been by your side for an entire season of feminist rants and marriage complaints, half of which revolved around Cardew himself, and now you are telling me that you are just— just alright with this sort of compliance?”

“Nearly dying because of my own idiotic choices has forced me to reexamine my life,” you said plainly. “If I had been even the slightest bit unlucky, I would have perished on those streets, and what would I have had to show for myself? A rebellion that I was only able to take part in because of the privilege I so often fought against?”

“You have made a difference,” Anthony insisted. “You provided for women that no one has the gall to look out for. You’ve spoken out for your own rights, you’ve stood up for your own interests rather than sit around and take what you have been given.”

“I have been fighting against a life that so many less fortunate than myself would kill for,” you said. “I believed death to be a better fate than being forced to marry a man I did not love, but when I was on death’s door, I realized how foolish I was— how utterly selfish.”

“You are not selfish,” Anthony said, but you shook your head.

“I am. Unbelievably so.” You huffed a mirthless laugh as you looked at him. “My parents did not love each other when they married, but they were friends. They could tolerate the other’s presence, and neither of them were fortunate enough to be able to care about anything else. They have grown to love each other in their own way, of course, and they are in a better situation now, but they could not have known it would turn out that way. They did what they had to for the sake of their families and themselves, and it is time I do the same.”

“Love matches are rare,” you murmured. “And even if I were granted the opportunity… I would not deserve it.”

Anthony shook his head. “Do not say that.”

“It is the truth,” you said, letting out yet another humorless laugh. “I have been horrible to my mother when all she has ever wanted is a better life for me than she had. I have fought her for every step of the way for no other reason than my hubris and the dim belief that I deserved different than everyone else simply because I wanted it, no matter what the greater good was. How can that not be selfish, Anthony?”

“You do not have to do this,” he insisted. “You said you dreamed of unmarried life! You told me your fantasies of escaping from society, of living on your own and depending on no one but yourself. You are willing to give all of that up, just like that?”

“I was a fool for ever doing so!” you exclaimed. “Anthony, this world is hard enough on its own for married women — what do you think will become of my family if I do not marry? What do you think will become of me?”

“But you are strong.” Anthony leaned forward, his brow knit in determination. “You are strong, and intelligent, and fully capable of managing on your own. Spinster brand be damned, if it is what you wish, you will flourish completely!”

“Will I?” you questioned, and you gestured at yourself. “I am bound to this room of my own doing because I refused to see the truth of the world around me. I was young and naive to believe I could achieve anything of the sort I dreamed of without consequences, and I will be naive no longer.”

“If you insist on marrying, at least find somebody else,” Anthony begged. “You will be miserable for the rest of your life if you marry Jonathan Cardew.”

“I cannot afford to marry for love, my lord,” you said simply, “and even if I could find a man who loved me, I could never love them back. I would not force anyone into a marriage they did not want, not when…” You trailed off, the words catching in your throat.

You shook your head, choking them down. “It is not important.”

“Please do not marry him,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper, “I beg of you.”

“Then who should I marry?” you asked, almost brazenly. “Who should I marry, if not him? I am certainly not one for options.”

You did not know what you wanted Anthony to say. To marry him? That he felt the same for you as you did for him? That, while you were indeed a fool for falling for him, he was one as well. That he would not leave you, not now, nor ever.

But instead he just stared at you with those dark brown eyes that even now could make you melt, a million emotions brewing inside of them yet none of them being given an outlet.

“I do not know,” he murmured, and your heart sank. “But I beg of you, do not let it be him.”

“It is not your decision to make,” you said quietly. “Soon I will be engaged to Lord Cardew, and I will be out of your life.”

There was an underlying desperation in Anthony’s eyes as he looked at you now, that storm of emotions thundering inside of him begging to be expressed. “I do not want you out of my life.”

The words felt like poison leaving your lips. “You do not have a choice.”

Before Anthony could protest any further, you stood up and looked over at your lady’s maid. “Please escort Lord Bridgerton outside. I wish to be alone.”

“My lady, are you—”

“Julia,” you said, your voice strained, “please.”

She nodded and she gestured for Anthony towards the door, but he did not move a centimeter.

Anthony said your name with such pain that you could not even stand to look at him, the inside of your lip drawn so tightly between your teeth that you could taste blood all in the effort to prevent tears from emerging.

“Do not make this harder than it has to be,” you whispered. “I beg of you, Anthony.”

“Lord Bridgerton,” Julia said quietly, “please obey my lady’s wishes.”

He stared at you with desperation before he finally nodded and walked out the door, Julia closing it behind him.

You screwed your eyes shut as you dug the heels of your palms into your forehead, letting out a frustrated sob as your hands dropped back down. The pinpricks of tears were already starting, and while you were thankful you were alone, you already longed for Anthony’s presence.

You wished, more than ever, that things could be how they used to be. You wished you’d never even made this ridiculous deal with him—then you would not be in such pain, yearning for a man you could never have while the reputation of you and your family was destroyed and your life fell to pieces around you. You could not do a single thing about it, and you could not blame a single soul for it other than yourself.

You’d never felt so useless.

taglist, only bc this series has been going on since i still had a taglist lmao. pls dont ask to be added because i do not do tag lists anymore!! follow me or rb the masterlist or something idk @ifilwtmfc @readers-post @fangirling-galore @funkydinosaurs @baby-i-am-fireproof @mess-is-my-aesthetic @likeballet @mdkfh @brezzybfan @magical-spit @lafy-taffy @miss-celestial-being @mercurysrhapsody @evilsailorsenshi @mainstreambitchlife @aangsupremacy @chloepluto1306 @lostaudfound @panhoeofmanyfandoms @blhemmings @my-acrylic-heart @seninjakitey @vlodi @arianagrandes-things @preciousbabypeter @youraliendaddo @stupidlittlebei @illuminwtesz @eringaitskill @otheliesstuff @users09 @chloepluto1306 @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @m-rae23 @the-horror-and-the-wild-simp @diemdurantia @theyoungestchild0w0 @mschievousx @alwaysreading1019 @ibelieveindragons141 @pretzywetzy

#this is so soap opera of me #anthony bridgerton x reader #anthony bridgerton x you #anthony bridgerton fic #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton fic #anthony bridgerton fanfic #x reader #bridgerton imagine #sadie writes

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urlocalfeiner · 1 year

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perfect | neteyam sully

pairing: neteyam sully x omataciya!fem! reader

warnings: pure fluff, kissing

a/n: please feel free to send in requests for neteyam!

masterlist!

it was the day you had been preparing for since you were young, the moment a na’vi truly becomes one of the people. the right of passage. you had finally completed and it was now your turn to be apart of the people. you were nervous to say the least, your best friend neteyam had just had his ceremony a couple weeks ago and was overly joyed for yours.

“can i come in y/n?” he knocked against the wooden door to the hut you were in- or hiding in- with his knuckles gently.

“no! don’t come in!” you shouted back, still trying to get ready.

neteyam sighed still leaning up against the door, “your ceremony is starting soon, are you ready yet?” soon? oh eywa you were panicking now- you still hadn’t put the traditional face paint on yet. you didn’t reply, “okay y/n, i’m coming in.” he opened the door and was met with your back, you sighed turning around to meet him. as soon as you did his breath get stuck in his throat, he felt as if he had just got the air knocked right out of him.

you looked beautiful- you had a beaded top, that went around your neck, filled with little stones throughout it making it slightly shimmer. a cuff that matched your top around your upper arm and a simple purple cloth that also had beads around your lower waist. your hair done in braids by your mother, along with a feather in your hair. neteyam had never felt so at a loss for words. you truly were a gift from the great mother herself.

“do i look okay?” your voice snapped him back to reality, getting nervous that he wasn’t saying anything.

“beautiful,” he breathed out stepping closer to you, reaching his hand to fix a loose braid that fell in-front of your face. “you look so beautiful.” you smiled, butterflies forming in your stomach from his words- overlapping the nerves that filled your body. neteyam then noticed you had yet to put on the white face paint, “would you like me to help with the face paint?”

“yes please.” you nodded, guiding him to where the thick white paint sat its bowl.

neteyam picked it off the floor, “here, sit.” he motioned to sit in front of him, you quickly did so as he dipped his fingers in the paint- as it met your face it felt cold and wet, his fingers adding warmth to it as he so delicately placed the face paint upon your face .

"nete," he hummed in response, dragging his fingers along your face. "i'm nervous." you voice came out small.

he slowly smiled looking at your face, your eyes focused directly on him. "do not be nervous yawne, you have nothing to worry about." he finished off the paint, his fingers finishing off on your lips. "i will be there the whole time."

"thank you." you whispered softly smiling up at him, he nodded back leaning in stealing a kiss from your lips lovingly. as the two of you pulled away you looked down to his lip and giggled, some of the white paste from your lips had smeared onto his own, "you have paint of your lips, nete." you reached your hand up to his mouth, your thumb passing over his soft lips whipping away the paint.

"i do not mind, then people will know that i am yours and you are mine." you blushed grinning widely at his words, "when your ceremony is done i am going to make it official." he had patiently been waiting to make you his for too long, and it will all be worth it when the two of you will mate before eywa. becoming one with one another.

your ears perked up happily, tail swaying from beneath you. "i cannot wait nete," you smiled.

he stood up slowly reaching his hand to help you up, "let's get you there then, my y/n." you took his hand getting up from off your place on the floor hand intertwined with neteyam's as he pulled you up gently to him.

"do i look okay?" you asked neteyam again, he smooth out your top a bit tucking your hair behind your ear then looked back to you.

"you look perfect."

#neteyam x you #neteyam x y/n #neteyam sully #neteyam x reader #neteyam #jake sully #sully family #neteyam sully x reader #na'vi x reader #na’vi x reader #na'vi #na’vi #x reader #fluff scenario #avatar way of water #avatar 2 #neteyam sully x y/n #neteyam sully x you

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lostinforestbound · 2 months

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Hi! Could I request hcs from you on Rolan being jealous?

Absolutely! I had fun exploring this topic, so I hope you enjoy! This will be Rolan and a GN!Tav. To the people reading, Please feel free to add on to this and share your ideas!

Rolan and Jealousy

In Rolan's opinion, Jealousy is an improper and ugly thing to have; it sounds hypocritical when he gets jealous of a lot of things himself.

It's instinctive; his life has never been fair to him, and he never got to have what a lot of others do. It's deep rooted into his insecurity.

Loving parents? He wanted that, as his own family abandoned him. Food on the table? He wanted that too, why did he deserve to starve? Wizard Schooling? As an orphan, he never stood a chance of getting into one. No matter though, he doesn't need schooling! He's a prodigy!

Gods, he knows he shouldn't be jealous at all anymore, he will have everything he could ever want soon. It's unbelievably petty.

This jealousy starts extending towards Tav without him meaning to.

When they start taking interest in someone else, even if it's a simple conversation, his mind trails into the thought "That should be me."

As much of a loud, prickly person he is, he surprisingly says nothing about it. Instead is stews in his heart ready to burst, but he keeps it together.

Why is he so jealous if they're not even his partner? It's absurd and childish. Especially since he is unworthy of their attention. Once he has everything to provide for Cal and Lia, then he'll be worthy.

If Tav and him are together, it is a different story.

His jealousy is still quiet, but they notice how he holds their hand tighter when they speak to certain people. How his tail wraps around their calf. How he glares when other people decide to flirt with them.

Once he works on his own insecurity and Tav's reassurance that he's the only one for them, his jealousy starts fading away to nothing.

That doesn't stop him from playfully stealing them away from their companions with a "fuck off, they're mine".

Writing Blurb

When did he become such a prickly, bitter person? When, at some point of his life, did he become so jealous? Why is he so jealous of Tav, of all bloody people? Is it because they're a savior? That they saved his siblings where he couldn't? He should be grateful!

So why is he bitter, even though they saved everyone, including himself? Is he truly this entitled?

He doesn't see them approach him as he stews in his own thoughts. Usually he's not this insecure with himself, but he feels unworthy of them. He doesn't deserve them, not yet. The tower is not truly his, he has to refurnish everything to make it all of their homes. Cal and Lia love it so far, but there's still so much to be done.

Files need to be organized. All of the dealings fall on his shoulders now thanks to Lorroakan's demise. There's so much to do so he cannot truly have them yet-

His thoughts stop short when Tav kisses his cheek. "You're still dealing with these people? Don't you think it's time for a break?"

He subconsciously leans into the touch but stops when he realizes they pulled away. "I can't yet. There's too many-"

"You can do it later. Come have tea with me, or would you prefer some wine?"

He waves a dismissive hand, staring back down at the mess of papers in front of him. "I can't, Tav, they're all-"

A hand comes to his face, gently but firmly turning his head towards theirs. They don't say say anything at first, looking him straight into the eyes which makes him shut up instantly. He knows that determined look too well, and his mouth goes dry.

"You know I love you very much, right?" Before he could speak up, they continue on, "I'm already impressed with you. I don't need you to work yourself to death to prove you want to make this work. I love it here, and I love you. You shouldn't have to 'prove' anything to anyone, especially not to me."

"You're a savior-" Finger press to his lips before he finishes.

"I couldn't have done that without your help. Your arcane cannon saved my life that day. I thought I was done for until I called for your help," They state, pressing a kiss to his jaw then lips, "You're more than enough for me. Now, how about some reading and wine?" He closes his eyes briefly before that playful smirk returns, looking up at them. "I suppose if you want me to read to you that badly, I shall."

#rolan #bg3 rolan #forest-writes #rolan x tav #rolan x reader #holy rolan empire

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kwanisms · 1 year

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Kinkuary 26 Minho — angry/hate sex // impact play

➥ hard dom!Minho x sub!Reader summary: Sometimes, Minho gets really annoyed. Sometimes he gets really frustrated. The rest of Stray Kids know he gets frustrated, but what they don’t know is that he channels that anger and frustration in his sex with his girlfriend. wc: 1.7k warnings: afab reader, adult dialogue, established relationship, sexual content (minors dni!): unprotected sex (pls use protection!), rough sex, angry sex (Minho takes all his frustration out on the reader but the aftercare is top tier), impact play (spanking, face slapping, choking, mention of reader slapping Minho once), use of pet names (mainly baby, honey, angel at the end, etc), reader is a bit of a pain slut, moderate degradation (he calls her slut & whore mainly and bitch one time), spitting, and I think that’s all of them. If I missed anything let me know! a/n: TW: THERE IS MORE THAN SPANKING IN THIS PART. IF THAT BOTHERS YOU, PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS!!! I couldn’t imagine anyone else in this part other than Minho. I know he’s not a violent person, he just seems the most likely to be into impact play. Thank you for reading, I hope you like it, and as always, this is a work of fiction and all characters are not reflective of their respective irl counterparts. for entertainment purposes only. banner made by me. I do not allow reposts or translations of my works. All my works are ©️ kwanisms. Permanent taglist: @yoonguurt @candidupped @dejavernon Kinkuary full taglist: @baldi-2 @wonderfulshinee @lacie220900 @sup-dallyboy @drunk-on-dk @violagoth @mixling-blog @kosmoreads @yourfavoritefreakyhan Stray Kids taglist: @niktwazny303 @g4m3girl @rapmonie2047 @indigo35 @witherednotes @cixrosie @fay-ebrahim @imseungminsgf @yeosayang @leeautumn @katsukis1wife @flowerboykun @beomgyusbabygirl Strikethrough means I cannot tag you. MINORS WILL BE BLACKLISTED & BLOCKED. Taglist closed!

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“You know I don’t actually hate you, right?” Minho said softly as he ran the warm wet washcloth over your skin, red marks and bruises forming from his tight grip and heavy handedness.

You smiled at him warmly. “I know, babe,” you answered.

True, it wasn’t like Minho to be so rough with you.

At least, he didn’t make a habit out of it.

Sometimes he just needed to let his frustrations out and you were more than willing to let him fuck his frustration out with you.

It didn’t stop him from feeling slightly guilty when bruises showed up the next day from his manhandling, despite you reassuring him that you liked it.

You were truly a masochist.

It started when Minho came home angrier than you’d ever seen him before. Practice had gone extremely poorly and all of the guys were mad. Nothing seemed to be going well for them today.

You knew you were in for a rough time from the moment Minho slammed the front door shut, dropping his bag and making a beeline for you sitting innocently on the sofa, watching TV.

“Min?” You asked, looking up at your boyfriend as he towered over you. “Get up,” he said in a dangerously low voice. It sent shivers up your spin. “W-what?”

Minho grabbed your arm roughly, pulling you up from the cushion and dragged you away from the living room, slamming your back against the wall. Your wide eyes made him hesitate. “I’ve had a… really shitty day,” he started softly, dropping his head so you couldn’t see his eyes.

“I’m just so… fucking angry.”

A warm smile crossed your features as you reached up to cup his cheek tenderly.

“Let it out,” you encouraged softly.

The simple command was enough for Minho to slip into his own form of domspace. One where he almost lost himself entirely. Almost.

You knew from the second he looked up with that unreadable expression and those dark eyes, things were about to get very, very interesting.

It didn’t take much to set Minho off once he was in his domspace, a few shoves and a well timed slap had him dragging you to the bedroom, practically tearing your clothes off before knocking you back onto the bed.

He was on you in seconds, pulling his own shirt off as he knelt between your thighs. The two of you hesitated for just a moment, breathing heavily as you stared at one another. His eyes were dark, pupils blown with lust while yours were shining with excitement for what was to come.

Minho grabbed your leg, rolling your over onto your back before settling on your thighs. You knew better than to ask because sooner or later, he’d act.

And act he did, delivering a quick blow to your ass, making your body jump and a moan to escape your lips. Not giving you a chance to recover, he continued, landing slap after slap to your ass, alternating sides until your ass was red and sore. Not that you were complaining.

You loved the pain almost as much as you loved the pleasure.

By the time he’d finished marking your ass, you were practically dripping, something your boyfriend took notice of.

“Fucking typical,” he growled, untying his pants and pushing them down along with his underwear. “Of course a whore like you gets off on being used and abused.” You whined as he roughly pulled your thong down your thighs.

The tear of fabric had you groaning. ‘Aww and those were my favorite pair.’

Minho tossed your ruined panties away, taking your sore ass cheeks in his hands and spreading them to see your soaked cunt. “I bet I’d slide right in,” he whispered, moving his thumb down to brush over your glistening slit.

“On your back,” he barked suddenly, getting off you and kicking off his pants as you rolled onto your back as ordered. Minho was back on the bed in moments, forcing your legs apart and kneeling between your thighs.

“Look at you, so fucking pathetic,” Minho scoffed. He took his cock in his hand, giving himself a few strokes as he glared down at you. “You know, I really hate sluts like you,” he growled.

You narrowed your eyes up at him. “Oh fuck you,” you answered.

The slap to your cheek wasn’t hard. It was less about strength and more about the shock of it.

Minho didn’t give you a chance to recover as he lined the tip of his cock with your slit and pushed into you quickly, bottoming out almost instantly as he slid in with ease. “Fuck,” he groaned, eyes fluttering shut.

“For a whore, you sure have a tight cunt.”

You clenched around him, as if further solidifying his comment.

Minho let out a moan, grabbing your thighs harshly, nails digging into your skin.

“Tell me to fuck off again,” he ordered, opening his eyes to meet your gaze.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do,” you hissed, earning another slap. The pain was a welcomed addition to the pleasure of Minho’s cock splitting you open. You felt his fingers close around your throat.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want, insolent bitch,” he growled, hips snapping against yours roughly as he set a slow but intense pace, each thrust driving his cock deep inside your pussy.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want; fuck you however I want,” he growled, fingers around your throat squeezing lightly. “And you’ll just lay there and take it.”

You moaned as his hips pounded against your ass, ramming his cock into your wet cunt repeatedly. “You’ll take it like the fucking whore you are.”

Every time he used that word, your walls gripped him even tighter, moans tumbling from your lips as he fucked you hard.

“Shit, you’re so fucking tight I might blow right now,” he grunted, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple, his bangs sticking to his forehead. “Would you like that? Want me to cum all over your stomach?” He asked.

“Or better yet,” he continued with a smirk.

“Cum inside this tight little cunt and make you mine? You want that, baby?” You moaned loudly.

Minho chuckled darkly, his grip on your throat tightening slightly. “Of course you would. You’re my little cumslut, aren’t you? You just love it when I fill you up.”

Another moan and a hard thrust had you tumbling towards the edge but not quite falling over it. “Minho,” you whimpered, voice hoarse from your incessant moaning. Minho leaned over slightly, his thrusts aiming for that soft spongy spot inside your cunt that always managed to drive you over the cliff.

“You must be thirsty,” he commented, looking down at you. “From all that moaning and back talking.” You nodded in response. Your throat was definitely dry.

“Open your mouth,” he commanded.

Not wanting to be told twice, you obeyed him, opening your mouth. Without word or warning, Minho spit into your mouth, using his thumb to push your chin up, closing your mouth.

“Swallow it.”

You obliged, swallowing his spit. “God,” he groaned, hips stuttering for a moment. “You really just do whatever I tell you, don’t you?”

It was enough to push you over the edge, your walls convulsed around your boyfriend's cock as you came, moaning his name and back arching off the bed.

Minho wasn’t far behind, groaning and gasping as his hips stilled, cock buried balls deep as he came inside you, painting your cunt with his hot load. A few more thrusts for good measure and your boyfriend finally pulled out of you, rolling off the bed and disappearing into the bathroom.

You tried to regain control of your breathing as you heard the water running in the other room. A couple minutes later and Minho returned, carefully helping you to your feet and guiding you to the bathroom.

He’d started the bath and helped you into the tub, holding your hands as you slowly lowered yourself into the running water. Once you were situated, Minho disappeared again for a moment, returning with clean towels and a washcloth.

He joined you in the bath tub, turning off the water and dipping the cloth into the hot water before bringing it up to your face and pressing it against your cheek.

The bath was nice. He always took exceptional care of you after a rough session and this time was no different.

“I’m really sorry, angel,” he murmured as he wiped your face gently with the cloth, making sure to get your cheeks, nose, forehead, and chin. Minho wasn't one to get too into his feelings but after sex, it always jumped out and he got a lot more affectionate than usual.

“It’s okay, babe,” you answered as he continued to carefully wipe your body. He shook his head, clicking his tongue. "No, honey, it's not." You smiled at him, taking his hand and kissing his knuckles.

"It is," you insisted. "We go over this every time, Minho. I want you to do this to me. I want you to hurt me."

He shook his head again. "You aren't supposed to hurt the ones you love," he answered, a slight break in his voice. "It only hurts for a little while," you murmured, pressing the back of his hand against your cheek. "But the pleasure overshadows the pain any day."

Minho turned his hand over in yours, cupping your cheek and caressing the skin with his thumb tenderly. "I'll make it up to you," he said softly. "People will think I'm abusive," he added, noticing the red mark on your cheek.

"No more slapping. I don't think I can keep doing it."

You nodded, turning your head to press a kiss to his palm. "Okay," you answered. "But spanking?" You asked, your voice hopeful. Minho nodded. "I can do that," he admitted.

"Sometimes you can be a real brat."

You laughed as Minho gently pulled you forward, turning your body and pressing your back against his chest as you both relaxed in the hot water. He pressed a few short kisses to your neck and shoulder.

“I love you,” he whispered in your ear. "So, so much."

You leaned back further, resting your head on his shoulder as your eyes shut, a soft sigh escaping your lips.

"I love you, too, baby."

#stray kids scenarios #stray kids imagines #stray kids smut #stray kids x reader #lee know scenarios #lee know imagines #lee know smut #lee know x reader #lee minho scenarios #lee minho imagines #lee minho smut #lee minho x reader #kwanisms kinkuary #kinkuary 2023

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cuubism · 1 year

Note

I see your "Dream yelling at Desire because 'how dare you make me have feelings for Hob!!'" and raise you "Dream yelling at Desire because 'how dare you make Hob have feelings for me!!'" because it's the only logical explanation for why Hob would claim to want someone like Dream

[ cat screaming crying . jpg ]

Dream storms into Desire’s realm, steps thudding on the uneven floor, rage propelling him forward. He cannot remember ever feeling such anger, such betrayal towards his sibling, not even when he had learned they were behind his imprisonment.

Desire’s games have always gone too far, but this is beyond trying to teach him a lesson, this is beyond what Dream can reconcile, this is simply cruelty.

“YOU,” he thunders, the air shaking around him as he stalks up to where Desire is lying casually on a chaise lounge as if they haven’t just ripped Dream’s one comfort in this life out from under him. “How dare you.”

“Brother, dear,” drawls Desire, popping a grape into their mouth with not a care in the world, “it is rude to simply fly in without even knocking on the door. You wouldn’t like it if I did it to you.”

Blind with fury, Dream grabs them by the throat and hauls them to their feet. Desire lets out a choked gasp, genuinely startled by his vitriol. Their pulse trips under Dream’s thumb.

Desire cannot be killed through something as simple as strangulation, but it truly is tempting to try. “What,” Dream snarls, grip tightening, “what have you done to Hob Gadling?”

Desire blinks at him, torn from their alarm by confusion. “Whomst? Listen, I know you know everybody’s name and their kinkiest fantasy but I honestly can’t be bothered with the details, you’re going to have to fill me in.”

The rage in Dream’s core only flares hotter. “Enough of this charade, you know exactly what you’ve done.”

“No, seriously, I have no idea what you’re—”

Dream whirls away, leaving his sibling staggering in the wake of his grasp. “Was it not enough?” he demands, staring sightlessly into the gleaming red curves of Desire’s realm. “Was the vortex not enough? Was a century of imprisonment not enough for you?” His voice cracks halfway through, and it’s mortifying. “Truly, your hatred of me is untempered by even the slightest compassion.”

Desire’s voice is quizzical when they next speak. “I am starting to wish I was behind whatever this is that seems to have pierced you straight through the heart. I’m afraid my own arrows have missed that organ thus far.”

“Hob Gadling,” Dream insists, but Desire’s seemingly-genuine confusion has him wavering. It’s not like them not to revel in their own victory, and oh, this has been a victory, Dream feels laid lower than even a century in a cage had managed. “You are manipulating him.”

“Once again, I don’t know who that is. But he’s clearly excellent ammunition so I’m certainly going to find out once you leave.”

Dream flexes his hands at his sides, summoning his control. If Desire truly was not behind this, then he’s already made a mistake in coming here. Best not to offer anything else.

Being in Desire’s realm makes this stoicism difficult. The very space brings emotions to the surface, drags feelings up from his stomach that he’s tried so very hard to tamp down. He tastes blood at the back of his throat, his stomach churns, his skin prickles with sweat.

Desire stalks up behind him, sensing all of this. “Now I am curious,” they murmur, dragging a finger up his shoulder, over the collar of his coat and along the back of his neck. “Now I must know what’s go you so riled up.”

“You think you have earned such things?” Dream says through gritted teeth. His heart is pounding hard and uneven such that it physically hurts in his chest, the weight of the Threshold bearing down.

“No need to earn, you can hide nothing from me here.” Desire circles around him to his front, dragging their finger along his collarbone until it lands right at the base of his throat. They look at him from under their lashes, all smug satisfaction. “You are all tangled up in the realm of Desire, aren’t you?”

Dream moves to storm off, but Desire blocks him, nails pressing into his skin.

“Nah-ah, no running away. Let your little sibling help you, hm? As you may know, I am rather wise in matters of the heart.”

The look on Desire’s face is craftiness, glee, not charity or wisdom.

“I neither need nor wish for your assistance,” says Dream, voice hard. “On this, or any other matter.”

“But there is a matter.” Desire leans in and speaks right in his ear. “I can smell the heartsickness on you, Dream.”

There is nothing Dream can say in response to this. Any denial would only be read as falsehood, for Desire does not lie – of late, Dream feels sick with wanting in Hob’s presence, hunger so sharp it turns over into nausea, much like the first time Hob had pushed him to eat after his captivity. How cruel, then, to have his pain eased, his desires sated by a reciprocation that cannot possibly be truly felt.

There is nothing to say, so Dream doesn’t speak. Silence, of course, is its own answer.

“You know, if there’s one thing I have always admired about you, big brother, it’s your willingness to destroy yourself for the sake of passion,” Desire continues. “You’d think that’d be my sort of thing. Who’ve you lost yourself on this time? Demigod? Demon? Dryad? Vampire?”

Dream glares at them, but does not speak.

Desire’s face absolutely lights up as they realize. “Oh. My. God. Is he human? Dreeaaammmmm, my my, maybe your little time out did change you, after all.”

Dream turns away, refusing to give them the satisfaction of confirming. Though he knows this reaction is also a confirmation.

Desire claps their hands. “Oh! I’m so proud of myself. Look at this! Look at the softness of your heart. Look how I can bruise it.”

Dream’s heart, indeed, gives a painful thump. “Should you dare to touch him, even the old laws will not protect you.”

Desire sighs, flopping back onto a couch, legs crossed, head propped in their hand. “Why bother? You’ll destroy it yourself, and that’ll be much more fun.”

I hate you, Dream thinks, like a petulant child. He hates, also, how any argument with Desire makes him feel that way, feelings crowding at the surface of his skin, throat tightening, mind spinning in a chaotic churn. His muscles clench so hard he thinks they might have snapped, were he human, then he forces himself back into a semblance of ease.

There is no extracting himself from this situation with any dignity.

“Interfere with my affairs again,” he warns darkly, “and I will destroy you.”

Then he storms out of the Threshold.

“Love you too!” Desire calls after him, a grin in their voice. “Good luck with your human!”

When he’d found Hob at the New Inn, thirty-three years after he’d meant to arrive, Dream had not known how he might be received. Friendship extended once may not be extended again after so brutal a rejection, and so prolonged an absence, no matter that the latter offense was not within his control.

Being met with a smile, then, and an easy acceptance of his apology, like Hob had already forgiven him long before Dream had stepped through the door, had been a revelation. Something had settled in him that he had not known was knocked askew. Could there, truly, be one thing in his life that was allowed to be easy? Where Dream’s missteps were not met with scorn or vitriol or world-shaking consequences, but with grace and the chance to try again?

It seemed improbable, but still Dream had grabbed for it with cold, shaking fingers. Had held that unlikely flame between his palms. Had watched as it grew, hotter and brighter with each smile Hob sent his way, with each gentle brush of fingers as he pressed cups of tea into Dream’s hands, with the hug Hob finally managed to wind him into, once Dream had told him of the true reason for his absence in 1989.

Hob’s grace, Hob’s generosity in inviting someone, something like him into his home, into his life… Dream did not quite know how to hold it, so unlikely it was. He tried, though, oh he tried. And he swore he would not mess it up, not like he had when Hob had first offered his friendship.

He has now, quite royally, messed it up.

He very much doubts Hob will be so generous this time.

He finds Hob where he left him, sitting on the couch in his flat, a book in his hand. He doesn’t seem to be concentrating on it; his thoughts feel scattered in ragged, disturbed daydreams.

He doesn’t even startle when Dream materializes next to him. Though he knows it can be startling to humans, Dream has not been able to break himself of just appearing where he needs to – traversing the long way from point to point is not how he works. But aside from the occasional, teasing, I have a door, you know, Hob never truly complains about these disturbances to his day.

Dream means to offer him an apology. To say, I should not have walked out when you said that you loved me. To say, I am supposed to be better, I am trying to be better.

Instead, just as Hob looks up, the words that trip out of Dream’s mouth, pushed by the flurry of Desire’s realm still pounding within him, are, “Did you speak truly, Hob Gadling?”

Which is a ridiculous question. Dream does not think he has ever heard Hob speak a lie. Still, Dream must have the answer.

Hob’s expression shifts through several incarnations, none of which Dream feels capable of reading. Finally, it settles on the same soft, exasperated understanding Dream remembers being presented with when he’d said, I know thirty years is truly quite late, at their reunion, before he’d told Hob why he was late.

Grace, then. He is to be offered grace, again.

His emotions are still so close to the surface that he has to physically swallow down what he feels about that.

“Of course, I did,” Hob says, and there’s a hint of nerves in it, but he pushes through, he always does. “I wouldn’t lie to you about that.”

His gaze is genuine, open, and no, Desire had not lied – Hob’s feelings are no manipulation of theirs. And while it is tempting to search for other answers, spells or illusions or any number of other causes, Dream knows, deep down, that he will come up empty.

Hob’s feelings are true, are his truth, confounding though that is.

Dream no longer feels capable of holding any of this in his hands.

Instead, he kisses him.

It’s like he is pulled forward by a force outside his own body. He goes to Hob like he had gone to the sugar in the tea Hob had made him, that night at the inn when Dream had first realized how long it had truly been since he’d eaten; he goes to him like he had gone back to the Dreaming after being freed, returning home breathless, lost, changed.

Hob catches him against his mouth, hands cradling Dream’s face. His grip is solid and warm, and he kisses Dream like he looks at him like he speaks to him, with a care Dream hardly knows how to accept. He leans into it anyway, he leans in.

“I wasn’t fishing for a kiss when I said that, you know,” Hob says when they part, still lingering close enough that Dream can feel his heat, his breath. “I meant it in more of— well, that way, for certain, but really, any way you wanted to take it.”

“Any way,” Dream repeats, not sure he comprehends Hob’s meaning.

“Yeah, you—” Hob cuts himself off, letting out a breath, thinking. His hands slide from Dream’s face down to his shoulders, and he holds him there. “I. You just. I want you to know that you’re loved. Not demanding anything of it. Just telling you. Take it however serves you best.”

Dream stares at him, his whole being tripped and restarted at a new rhythm, and Hob gives him a sad smile.

“It’s too big to hold,” he says, and taps his chest. “In here. And besides, I wanted you to have it.”

Dream had had it. Only he hadn’t quite known what he had. The sunshine of Hob’s smiles, sustaining him, a bridge between distant points of light.

Finally, he manages to say, “I felt it. You have been my succor. My… only.”

Hob has captured him more effectively than Burgess’s snare, but this capture is not a prison. It hurts, oh, it aches, but it never wounds.

Hob smiles at him again. There’s still something pained in the creases around his eyes. “I know.”

He’s still touching Dream. His hands run over him, up his neck, over his throat, along his collarbone, and—

catch, on the collar of his shirt, above his heart.

“What happened?”

His voice is tight, now, worried, and— yes. There are bruises on Dream’s chest, crawling up over his breastbone. He had felt them form, and hadn’t stopped them.

Hob’s expression darkens further the longer he looks; he drags the collar of Dream’s shirt down, trying to see how far the damage spreads. “You’ve got bruises all over you. Dream, what happened?”

What happened is Dream stood in the Threshold and his heart beat so hard it drummed right through to the surface of his skin. What happened is it hurt so badly his form shifted to give reason for the pain.

“Desire,” he says, and he does not mean his sibling.

Hob doesn’t seem to understand, but he smoothes a hand over Dream’s heart as if to wipe the bruises away. Dream could will his body to return to its original, unharmed state, but he does not. He lets the blood stay pooled beneath his skin.

Hob sighs, tugging Dream’s coat tighter around him, shielding him from further injury. “Come here, you. You strange creature.”

He pulls Dream in, though he does not have to pull hard. Dream tucks his face into Hob’s neck, reveling in the warm scent of him, woodsmoke from the fireplace down in the inn where they’ve now spent many a long evening, basking in the heat of the flames. Hob’s arms go around him.

Absolution. Dream does not think this is a gift that has ever been granted to him.

“I would also love you,” he says. “If you would accept it.”

“If I would accept it?” Hob repeats. “Darling, your love is a privilege.”

Dream’s heart, in all its bruises and blood, finds rhythm again, and he thinks, though he certainly doesn’t pull away from Hob to check, that his skin clears up partway, too.

#dream literally STOMPING into desire's house and screaming at them #desire being like why are you hitting yourself? while wacking him in the head #truly sibling behavior #dreamling #the sandman #dreamling fic #dream of the endless #hob gadling #desire of the endless #my writing #i made dream like. way too self aware in the first draft of this. then i had to go back and make him LESS self aware lmao #like first draft dream: hm i think perhaps i am doing this because of my past trauma 🤔#me: babygirl u are not that self aware try again #as per usual. this started as a short little drabble. and got much longer. and much more serious XD

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scarletwritesshit · 3 months

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📏 Dr. Ratio x Reader 📏 If I were Smart, I Would've Titled This with a Math Pun

This wasn’t the sort of rigorous stimulation that you were hoping for, but it was Dr. Ratio who suggested it, so you couldn’t exactly expect anything different. You blinked at the page that was laid out before you, dumbfounded. The problem on the page was rather complex even by your standards, almost as if it were written in some otherworldly script, which had a fair chance of being true. No worries, just break it down piece by piece to solve it? All...seemingly one thousand parts of it.

Dr. Ratio stood across from you, staring directly at you while tapping his foot on the ground with his arms crossed. You were quite surprised that he had not yet donned his stone-faced disguise, and quite frankly, you wish that he had. He was eyeing you up with a gaze that just screamed, "I could’ve had this solved 20 times by now, incompetent idiot." Which, was probably true.

It took a painfully long time, but at long last, you solved it, or at least you thought that you did. Your fingers went limp and released the pen from your hand, letting it almost roll off of the desk. You laid your head face down on the desk after circling the answer with a thick yet scribbly circle, emphasizing the results of your treacherous labor. At the sound of Dr. Ratio’s footsteps getting louder, you looked up at him to still see the same glint of disappointment in his eyes.

"I take it that you have reached your final conclusion?" he asked.

Without saying a word out of fear of premature judgement, you pushed yourself up from the desk so that he may freely observe and critique your work.

He skimmed over every extra page of your work quite rapidly, and in what felt like mere seconds, he pulled out a red pen and promptly marked your paper.

"Zero marks," he said bluntly, writing a massive red X over your answer.

You had a sinking feeling from the start that this was your inevitable fate, but hearing the actual words from him somehow stung a lot worse.

"In fact, I do not believe that I have ever seen anyone mess up so…horribly," he commented. "In fact, there are mistakes within mistakes, all among the most preposterous that I have ever seen in my life."

"...Thanks?" you said, as personally having the honor of making the most mistakes that Dr. Ratio has ever seen was better than your efforts simply being disregarded.

"My words were not intended to be interpreted as compliments, but rather, as a degradation of your overall performance and attitude towards your studies.”

"So?" you said, indifferent, "I’m still thankful that you spared some of your precious time to personally put me down."

"There must be something deeply wrong with your cognitive functions," he said, twirling his pen around between his fingers, "for I have never seen anyone quite enthusiastic about insult and utter disappointment."

"There are far easier ways to call me stupid, you know," you said, mockingly.

"Is your intelligence truly so challenged to the point that you cannot comprehend my direct words without the most basic of forms being utilized within a sentence? Why, you could not solve the simplest of problems if I asked of you!"

"You think I’m that dumb? Want me to prove it?"

"Oh, I believe you plenty, but since you proposed the offer, might I ask you for your interpretation of the answer to one added onto three?"

"I’m dumb, remember? Simple terminology, please," you said.

Despite his usage of overly complicated roundabout terminology, you knew exactly what he was asking of you. He was asking you to add 1 and 3 together. A simple question that anyone, even someone with your abilities could answer with ease. But, you wanted to see just how far you could push Dr. Ratio, before he caught onto your methods of toying with him. His patience was impressive enough considering how by now, you would’ve expected him to simply mark your paper with a failing score and walk off without another word.

With a noticeable twitch of frustration in his eyes, Dr Ratio said, "Fine, what is one plus three?"

"Five," you said, quickly and confidently.

"Are you positive that that is your final answer?"

You nodded yes. Dr. Ratio, no longer holding back his annoyance, leaned in closer and lifted your chin up with the back of his pen, forcing your eyes to meet his.

"You cannot possibly look me in the eyes and say that so…matter-of-factly," he said, frustrated.

"Oh, but I can,” you said with a smile. “And I just did."

"It is arguably a miracle how you have made it this far, not just in your studies, but in life as a whole. The fact that you fail to comprehend the most basic of tasks when I personally made the decision to allow you to study beneath me is well beyond my comprehension."

"Really? I was led to believe that you knew everything."

"It is physically impossible for one who is temporarily existent to learn all that our universe has to offer. Your stupidity, however, stretches even beyond the limits of our universe.”

"You’re saying that I’m so stupid that I’ve managed to become incomprehensible? Even to you?" you said with a proud grin.

"Regrettably, yes," he said, allowing the pen to fall down between his fingers, freeing his hand so that he could hold your chin up, "unless I perhaps study you for myself?"

"Study me? What is there to study, if I am as empty-headed as you claim?"

"How someone with intelligence comparable to a warp trotter has made it this far."

"But warp trotters’ lives don’t involve solving math problems, or whatever you’d call what you gave me."

"Which is why it is so baffling that you have made as much progression in your life as you have," he said, his grip tightening around your chin. "If it were anybody else, I would have promptly excluded you from my teachings."

"Anybody else?" you asked, tilting your head. "You mean, you’re going through all of this just for me?"

Dr Ratio went silent for a moment, and the grip that he had on your chin became a bit gentler. His eyes narrowed, yet his overall expression became softer. He seemed to be at a complete loss for an appropriate response to your claim. Either he was so baffled at your stupidity that he couldn’t quite find the words to express his annoyance, or you simply caught him off guard and red handed. The latter seemed more likely, as if your suggestion was truly so preposterous, he wouldn’t have wasted the time in putting you down.

"...A most fascinating conclusion," he finally said.

"Sounds like I got you now."

"I do have to applaud you for deciphering me in such a way, despite how you greatly lack otherwise."

"And after all of that, you still think Im an idiot? The answer to your question is four, by the way."

"Did it truthfully take you such an extended period of time to arrive at the correct answer?"

"No, I knew all along."

Knowing how he was the one outsmarted now, Dr. Ratio accepted defeat with grace, and laughed a little at his defeat. It wasn’t a laughter intended to put either of you down, but rather, a genuine expression of amusement, perhaps at himself for allowing such a situation to become so comedically blown out of proportion.

"Toying with me as a jest, I see. I will admit, it was rather clever of you to do in such a way, yet I still feel the need to observe you further."

"That is an unusual way of saying that you want to spend more time with me," you said with a laugh.

"Perhaps, but if it was nothing more than a jest, does this mean that you do not require my assistance with the problem before you? It seems an awful lot of effort to put into feigning intelligence, or lack thereof."

You lifted your face up from his hand and turned to look at the papers on your desk, with a large red X marked on your answer on one of the sheets. Right. You had completely forgotten about that.

“No…that I actually put my best effort into.”

“I shall see that you put your best effort forward into it during our second attempt together,” Dr. Ratio said, walking behind your chair. “Now, let us start fresh.”

He instructed you to tidy up your initial attempt and set it off to the side while he took out a fresh sheet of paper with a problem identical to the one you previously attempted on your own. He reached for the pen that was still dangling at the edge of the desk and laid it parallel to the side of the paper. As he loomed over you, you thought that he would be behind you the entire time, having to hear him critique every little mistake you make directly against your ear.

Your assumption was proven half correct when he leaned over you, placing his hands on opposite sides of you and practically pinning you to the desk. You looked to your side to see his face directly at your shoulder, able to feel his every breath against your face. Dr. Ratio smiled with an enthusiasm that seemed far too great to be suited to the likes of a basic education.

“Now then,” he whispered, “let us try our first time together.”

#honkai star rail #honkai star rail fanfic #dr ratio #dr ratio x reader #fanfic #fanfiction

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saltymongoose · 4 months

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ok i have a request: phobos with a shy player who hides behind him to avoid talking to people. extra bonus points if they also tend to get overstimulated and will just hang out in his office because they know nobody will disturb them

Of course! Here you go Anon, Happy New Year! <3

Phobos' Reaction to a Shy!Player

(TW: Yandere, Obsessive Behavior, Referenced Violence)

The moment you first show some signs of extreme shyness, Phobos’ concern is obvious. The sight of you ducking behind him when two of his agents passed by made him wonder if they'd committed the sin of scaring you in some way.

He’ll ask you about it in a soft manner, ever polite and gentlemanly. “Have my men done anything to make you wary, Your Grace? I assure you, I’ll punish them appropriately for their transgression, whatever it might be."

(Perhaps he was a little too convinced that they did something. But the Director couldn’t stand for anyone or anything making you too scared to be there at the Nexus’ headquarters, too scared to be near him. Plus, he couldn’t stand it if these nobodies made his organization look bad to you. Not when all of this was for your favor.)

You wave your hands and try to assuage his concern, explaining that you were just a bit overwhelmed by others’ attention and that his personnel weren’t at fault for anything. (Luckily for them.) The Director merely hummed in response, but you could tell he was put at ease by the way his hand fell from the pommel of the sword at his side.

After that, however, Phobos learns to appreciate your shyness each time it rears its head. The way it causes you to go to him for comfort is something he can’t help but adore, not only because it serves him with that attention from you he so craves, but also because it shows just how much you trust him.

Really, it’s enough to make him swoon. Witnessing his God showing so much faith in him and his capabilities, seeing how you go to him and him alone for comfort—it's far more than any simple vessel of yours could hope for.

Phobos will do his best to ensure that you never regret your choice, and he’ll be infinitely welcoming and understanding whenever you feel the need to escape from others’ attention.

He’ll place himself between you and anyone else who enters your vicinity, acting as a barrier should you not want to spend your time mingling with his lessers. (Besides, he really doesn’t think that they deserve an inkling of your attention anyway, even if they are his underlings.)

If you do decide to socialize, he’ll try to keep you close regardless. He figures it would be best to do so in case anyone tries to get too comfortable around you or dares to upset you.

Needless to say, the workers of the Nexus Core are never truly at ease whenever they’re around you; it’s impossible to be. Not when their Director is leering in their direction like he’s a second away from violently lunging at them. And they honestly believe Phobos enjoys the discomfort they feel around him. (And they’d be right.)

On the off chance that Phobos cannot accompany you, he’ll have one of his officers do it instead (likely a Tower Guard or another one of his more powerful units). They’ll be under strict orders concerning their treatment of you, of course.

Phobos absolutely loves it when you hide away in his office to get some proper peace and quiet. Just being able to look up from his work and see you lazing about on the seat closest to his or reading a book he’s gifted you makes him feel all the more warm in your presence. Perhaps it’s the joy of being in your sphere, or simply the gratefulness he has that you chose him and his place as your getaway, but the butterflies in his chest can’t seem to die down when you’re so close.

He’ll encourage you to stay more often and for longer each time you drop by. Phobos will also use a myriad of reasons to try to convince you if you hesitate; whether it be his need for your tactical knowledge or him “accidentally” ordering someone to bring your favorite snacks/drink to his office before you even entered. Either way, you’ll find yourself having some obligation to spend more time with him. Not like you mind it that much; Phobos is surprisingly good company (to you, at least), and it stops you from having to mingle with others when you don’t wish to.

Overall, Phobos is surprisingly soft and doting when faced with your shyness - even affectionate (and clingy) at times. However, that's to be expected; it's a side only you could ever bring out of him, after all. For the Director of the Nexus Core, treating you any different would be a crime worthy of the worst consequences imaginable.

#tw: yandere #i ❤️ anons #my writing #samau #self aware m:pn au #player!reader #yandere madcom #yandere madness combat #madness combat x reader #madcom x reader #yandere phobos #phobos x reader

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svgvru · 6 months

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꒰ ✮ 𝗞𝗜𝗡𝗞𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 '𝟮𝟯 — 𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗞 𝗧𝗪𝗢!

𝗗𝗨𝗥𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗔𝗖𝗧! vanilla + "fuck, this pussy was made for me" ꒰ afab!geto/kenjaku x top m!reader ꒱: oral ꒰ suguru!receiving ꒱, doggy, public sex, manipulation, slight manhandling, breeding, creampie, possessive behavior from the reader, "marking/claiming," angst 'n smut. the words and phrases change for a reason! we're gonna pretend the curses aren't there and gojo's not...gojo. btw they're fucking on those rectangular concrete thingys that hold up buildings.

𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟴—𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗔𝗧 𝟴:𝟯𝟬, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗦𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗬𝗔!

"i— i don't think we are good together." since that day, suguru's words echo in your head. it was a lie of course, suguru would never say that—and his future actions prove otherwise. however, the fact that those particular words left his lips, the love of your life—it burned a hole in your heart that could never be healed.

you, satoru, and suguru. it was always—you, suguru, satoru, and then shoko. you'd swear the other two would forget she existed, but regardless— you were all prodigies of your year. three special grades and a cursed technique unlike any other. the four of you combined were an unstoppable team, but trios never work— why would a squad work? you and suguru were dating, he had stolen a piece of your heart and held it close to his chest. you truly believe it was love. and during that time, "the strongest trio" was a real thing. the teamwork and results the three of you produced made an impression on the jujutsu higher-ups. you were never without eachother, and it was fine!

never had you been so happy and satisfied like when you were with suguru. and then an incident occured when you were, for the first time, pulled away from the two. toji fushiguro and the star plasma vessel. it should've been a simple mission, but satoru and suguru were playing checkers—fushiguro was playing chess.

it was no longer alright. it was the two of them facing a deathly experience and failing—for the first time. suguru had become distant, and satoru had become obsessed with eliminating weakness as if he hadn't just truly become the strongest. "i don't think you're good enough for me." it was as if the world shattered, the world along with that beautiful diamond ring you had been waiting to put on his finger. he took a piece of your heart, one of which was like glass, and he threw at the wall with a force you couldn't bare.

when shoko called you, informing you and gojo where suguru was—your heart thumped in hope. however, the only thing you could hear was the sound of your duo collapsing and the cruel sound of his voice repeating: "you will never be enough for me"— replaying over and over in your broken mind. you couldn't bring yourself to go see him. your mind wouldn't allow your feet to move, to chase after him and beg. it was pathetic, really. you wished more than anything for his return, but you couldn't even chase after him? you sat slumped against your wall, fingers mindelssly rubbing and twisting that familar diamond ring. "suguru," you whisper into the air, as if hoping your call would manifest him to you. as if this were a dream and he'd wake you up with a kiss and soft smile.

but that wasn't reality, it was just a fantasy. so you wonder why you're in a bed with him? why did you destory that hate for him, only to hold him and fuck him in that hotel bed. why— why did you accept him back into your heart, knowing he shattered it? those thoughts could never beat your raw desire for him, your need to make love to him because he— is your soulmate. his existence is etched into your soul— and it cannot be removed by simple and conventional means.

and it only caused you more pain as you watched him slide down that brick wall. you had arrived to late to jujutsu high. satoru's students were beaten bloody, but yuuta okkotsu came in the clutch...by beginning the end of "the worst cursed user" suguru geto. those years of love were all for nothing as you decided to "curse him in the end," sparing satoru's feelings at the cost of your own.

at the result of your own hands, your own words and actions you had ended suffering, only causing more for yourself. but regardless, no more deaths would be caused that specific day. and the spirits of one-hundred and thirteen people (or way more) had been avenged. "the worst curse user" was gone, but suguru geto still resided in your heart with the wish that his soul was at peace. hoping that haibara would finally have familiar company after such a long time. however, nothing you wish comes to fruition. his could likely but resting...but— the soul cannot truly rest until its body has truly rested. learning that was likely the worst experience of your life. 𝗢𝗡 𝗢𝗖𝗧𝗢𝗕𝗘𝗥 𝟯𝟭𝗦𝗧 𝗢𝗙 𝟮𝟬𝟭𝟴—𝗛𝗔𝗟𝗟𝗢𝗪𝗘𝗘𝗡 𝗡𝗜𝗚𝗛𝗧 𝗔𝗧 𝟴:𝟯𝟬, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗧𝗪𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗥𝗢𝗡𝗚𝗘𝗦𝗧 𝗦𝗢𝗥𝗖𝗘𝗥𝗘𝗦 𝗔𝗥𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝗜𝗡 𝗦𝗛𝗜𝗕𝗨𝗬𝗔!

satoru gojo had completed a feat you were proud of him for. yes—you were a bit dizzy, maybe out of it from his domain, but you were proud. he truly was the strongest, and you were no doubt a close second. but being to strongest—having power, is not enough.

"yo!" he calls out your name first. although, it doesn't sound as sweet. its familiar, but it's not warm. the voice of suguru geto would always make you feel as if you were wrapped in a fluffy blanket. the sound of your name coming from his lips was magical. but there was no magic, and there was no love in it. "h-huh?" you stopped and stared at him, you wish you could will your body to move but you couldn't. the man you killed with your bare hands, the love of your live, stood before you in the flesh. "S-SUGURU!" it hurt to see his body have such a reaction to your voice. to see his hand twitch and attack is own neck, maybe the soul and body truly exist in tandem. you were so out of it. you'd barely realized globs of a red, flesh looking substance was binding satoru. and as if in instinct you'd jump to protect him, as if he were suguru.

"ah, ah, ah!" from the black pit in the ground of the subway station arose a curse to stop you. you quickly exorcise the curse and he calls your name again. except its familiar this time. its warm— and you can feel a hint the magical tingle you get. someone must be screwing with you! this can't be real, he can't be real.

the 'stops's from satoru start to sound muffled as "suguru" walks towards you. stop? stop what? you think to yourself, accepting the touch of him. his hand cups your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing your cheek. this can't be real—but he feels so warm. your soul is telling you it isn't him, that the man before you isn't suguru, but your head is spinning and you can't seem to focus properly. and suddenly his lips are against yours. you can hear satoru yelling, you certainly can—but you're not listening to what he's saying. suguru's lips are soft as they move again yours, tasting his tongue again was like a glimpse of heaven. you didn't process the words: "prison gate, close" from "suguru." not until gojo was suddenly gone in your peripheral and there was just a floating box.

the dark red box floated to suguru's outstretched hand, turning as grey as stone when it touches his palm. "wha—" you feel suguru's lips against yours again. "don't pay attention to that, just me," he whispers. it was a shame how quickly you gave into him. suguru chuckles when you become more forceful with the kiss, the box falls from his fingertips as he wraps his arms around your neck.

perhaps the kiss was just to distract you, perhaps he was going to far in his plan. but it seems that this body longs for you a lot more that kenjaku had thought. or perhaps kenjaku himself was longing for something he hadn't experienced in quite a while. but regardless of that, he felt himself becoming wet— turned on from simply a kiss. your relationship with suguru geto was certainly something! he thought to himself as he allowed you to push him against a concrete column of the subway, used for foundation. it seems mahito was correct when he said you could mix business with pleasure.

non-sorcerers stand scattered around the station, mindless from satoru's domain. they probably couldn't hear a thing even if they wanted to. kenjaku allowed you to touch him like that, to desprately pull off his clothes. he even laughed at how furiously you ripped off the gojogesa, perhaps a bit angry possesive that he was wearing something carrying gojo's name. even in suguru's memories, you were quite possessive of him, needing to keep a hand on him no matter where the two of you were. fuck—he was getting ridiculously turned on by your actions! his hands desprately grip your shoulders, his eyes fluttering as your kisses trail from his lips to his neck.

no, this isn't him. just like a few minutes ago, for the first time in centuries a body has acted on it's own. just how much did suguru love you? it was a stupid question, he thought seconds later. kenjaku knows how much suguru loves you.

for all of those years, despite what he said to you—you came back. he's seen suguru's memories. he knows how much you made love to him, especially during those ten years of him being a fugitive. whether you'd fold him over or held him in your lap, your kisses—were suguru's weakness. a pleasured shiver racks his body as you kiss and kiss him, his clothes falling to the ground as you kiss further down. "ah...a-ah!" your lips wrap around one his perky nipples. your tongue swirls around the pink nub, sucking on it lightly. suguru's back arches, surprise filling his eyes. kenjaku is aware how sensitive suguru's body is, although this was a little surprising. his cheeks flush as you move to the other one.

moans pathetically leave his lips, legs wobbling from your actions. he feels as if he could cry just from this, suguru geto really was lucky to have you. you pull away and watch his chest rise and fall, "suguru's" eyes widened and tears pricking at the corner of his eyes.

"you look surprised," you kiss up and down his chest as you speak. "im sure you know how much me and suguru made love. i know him and his body more then he does himself." your voice is soft but there's a hint of anger in your eyes. some part of you hates this—but your heart thumps as you see him. you can't help but pick him, stripping him of the clothes on his lower body as you push him against the concrete foundation peice again. you glance down between his legs, slick painting his inner thighs. your kisses move down to his inner thighs licking your lips at his taste. bending down on the less than sanitary subway floor, your put your face between his legs, giving kitten licks to his clit.

your tongue swirls around his clit—dipping in between his folds for a true taste of him. your nose bumps his clit as you do, a gasp leaving kenjaku lips. your tongue slips inside of him and he involuntarily leans forward, putting one leg onto your shoulders. your hands cup his ass, keeping him this position.

this is a feeling kenjaku hasn't felt in a long time. specifically, the last time he was a woman. the feeling he had then—and the feeling he has now it similar, but it's different, more intense. and he knows why. his body—suguru's body, it feels so hot. he can't help but melt into your touch, fall in your arms and let you have your way. he can't tell if its muscle memory, or if it's suguru's soul interferring—but what's clear is this body loves you. the second he saw you, he felt something. the second he kissed you, he felt a pulse in his groin. suguru truly did belong to you—mind, body, and soul. the moans he was letting slip, higher octave and even whiny, that wasn't him. his body leaning into you, putting his leg on your shoulder, that wasn't him. and the way he humped your face with an eagerness, that surely wasn't him. kenjaku would never be so desperate. but it did feel fantastic.

"ah—fuck!" his eyes roll back, tongue lolled as he grips onto your hair. "ngh—! a-ah...mphf—fuck!" your erection strains in your uniform as he whines and moans. his eyelids flutter and his thighs tighten as he feels it. your mouth brings him to an orgasm as he's practically sitting on your face. you lap up his cum with your tongue, moaning into his cunt at the taste.

suguru kenjaku stumbles off your shoulder, hitting that same concrete column where his clothes rest below. before he could slide down and fall, he feels your hands on his hips, lifting him up as his shaky legs are unusuable. you flip him around and his chest and face are pressed to the concrete. he grabs the concrete column, at an attempt to ground himself before he feels your thick tip press against his pussy. he feels the tip push into him, a loud moan leaving lips. he's quite thankful for satoru's domain, or else the people hear would be getting quite the show. it was smart of him to send the curses away aswell, imagine what they'd think if they saw him— "ngh—AH! fuck— i...please! mphf!" he's panting as your cock slides in, kenjaku slaps his hand over his mouth, ashamed of his noises.

with no mercy you move once you've pushed into his cunt fully. the wet slaps of his pussy fill kenjaku's ears. oh how the memories are returning.

"fu—fuck!" the voice crack in his voice was pleasant as he tried to keep his moans quiet. he was so warm. his body rocks with your thrusts, feeling your fingers delicately knead his ass, rubbing the sore skin from the harsh smacks of your hips. his eyes cross and eyelashes fluttering as your balls mercilessly slap agaisnst his already swollen clit. kenjaku was enjoying this a bit too much. his hand couldn't help but fall— the curses and moans finally being set free. "good boy," he hears you coo. he'd be disgusted by it—maybe even hit you. but suguru's body isn't in tandem with what kenjaku may value. you feel the warmth around you tighten—your cock being swallowed by his pussy.

he couldn't help but arch his back, sliding his front just a bit lower for your cock to reach just a bit deeper. "aAH! ngh—" my, suguru was one lucky man. kenjaku is sure his cheek is red from the sliding, your rough treatment that made him rock helped none.

kenjaku is enjoying this too much. and believes he knows why. the memories of jin itadori were fresh on his mind. it wasn't too long ago that he experienced a woman's view of life— pregnancy, and the pleaures that could be given through the means of a vagina. it wasn't that long ago that he took cock into him, masquerading as a loving wife to conceive yuuji itadori. it wasn't that long ago that his eyes were rolled back and his head was pushed into the cushion as he was plowed into from behind. this wasn't new. it's almost as history repeated itself. his back bent and curved to take a man's cock deep inside of him. the pleasures women could perceive was a godly experience. as if his cursed and wretched soul were blessed to experience this.

up on the tips of his toes, his knees knock inward as you reach a particular spot within him. the spot that could get suguru cumming in seconds—and you spongey tip continued to plow directly into that particular spot. his eyes fluttered closed as he came with a cry on your cock. you slide your cock out quickly, cumming on the back of his thighs. the sound of your rough and pleaured panting aparent to his ears as you hold his bottom half up. you turn him around against the concrete column, panting as you speak. "one more— hah...one more time."

kenjaku couldn't help but reluctantly comply, the heat between his legs continued to grow—never had been so needy. "one more time," you pant into his ear as you hoist him up. a whine leaves his lips as you push one of his legs to his chest. suguru was always flexible, it was one of the things that made sex so enjoyable with him. you allow that leg to rest on your shoulder—holding the other one up with your hand to the back of his knee. it was such an interesting position, a breeding one had the two of you been on the floor, but kenjaku was sure he'd be given the chance to be fucked and filled again. perhaps to the point of cultivating another child?

a loud moan left his lips as you unexpectedly drop him on your cock. this entire time, you've used him as nothing more than a sex toy. a pussy to use to your satisfaction. did you truly love suguru? kenjaku wishes you would allow him his thoughts, but your cock was such an attention stealer! "fuck, this pussy was made for me," you hiss into the skin of his neck, rutting your hips against his.

pathetic girly whines and moans leave his suguru's lips. it was embarrassing how easily suguru's soul could slip in, how he could make his body do things kenjaku wouldn't even dream of doing. but it seems there was no choice at this point. two minds, body's, and souls were lost in the feeling of you. who knows was making the noise at that point. you felt so deep—how did suguru handle this all these years? kenjaku think to himself. your cock plunging over and over into his cunt was a pleasurable experience. your girth stretching him—length filling him to the brim. "i see why he loved this so much," kenjaku whisper aloud in the middle of you fucking him.

it seems you had ignored him, but he meant it. he understands why suguru was so cock addicted with you. he wonders what could possibly be going on in your head, wondering if your thinking through a pussy addiction.

and in one way you are—you're acting on a pussy addiction. an addiction reserved only for suguru. however, your mind was all over the place. your sure the other sorcerers are rushing, running around to get through the barriers. your sure they're getting hurt, but here you are—a special grade sorcerer—fucking the enemy. but the enemy felt so good! it was exhilarating to finally feel suguru once more. and if this was the last chance you would get to see him, you'd do it. you'd do in a heartbeat a thousand times. your cock plunging in and out of his messy pussy. wet and squelching noises fill your ears as he drips onto the floor—a white ring around the base of your cock.

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck. the words left your mouth like a prayer. his pussy felt so good! the only thought was cum and filling him up, your sure his mind was on it aswell. and it was. the thought of you breeding him seemed to be so pleasant. perhaps because it was suguru's body, but who wouldn't want your cum.

kenjaku felt the signs, and it seems you did too. a grunt leaves your lips, a whine leaving his as you both cum. his pussy wraps tightly around your cock, milking you for what your worth. a gasp leaves his lips when you slip out of his leaking cunt, more cum sputtering from your tip and now onto his face since you've dropped him on the floor. his naked body rested on the subway ground, your cum leaky pleasantly from his pussy—face decorated as well. it was bad. terrible—that you gave in. but this sight, the sight of your claim on suguru was enough to make up for it your head.

no matter what, suguru was the most important piece in your game of chess. it was unfortunate that the king—satoru gojo—was not.

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azulashengrottospiano · 1 year

Text

like real people do: solomon

they've seen the world shift and change throughout their long, long lives, but if they could they would have given it all up just to be with you.

~~~~~

I would not ask you where you came from I would not ask and neither would you. Honey, just put your sweet lips on my lips We should just kiss like real people do.

~~~~~

There’s a dull ache in his back as Solomon works on his new project. It’s a memento he was to bestow upon them, yet another gift that’s meant to protect them from the demons they’re surrounded with on a daily basis. Solomon has convinced himself that if he works hard enough, he can have them for just a day longer, he can make space in the universe for just a little bit more time in their lifespan, all without directly affecting their mortality. He doesn’t want them to turn out like him. He doesn’t want them to watch everyone around them grow old and forget their face, to be a wisp of what was once human as time slips away from them.

The brothers often compare him to a demon. Though he is still a human at heart, there is very little humanity left in him.

Solomon has come to terms with the fact that he will never have a chance to truly be with them, as they’re always surrounded by the brothers and the Prince of the Devildom himself, plus the prince’s own butler and an angel that could give them far more than Solomon ever could. He cannot fascinate them with wings or shift forms to protect them, nor can he wow them with extensive knowledge of a world they are not familiar with. Though Solomon hides it well, the fact of the matter is that he will always feel inferior to everyone else that chases after their heart, and yearns for the moment when they turn their eyes to him and promise him their entire being. He wants their soul, he wants their body, he wants anything and everything they have to offer. He wants to swallow them whole and clutch them to his chest, if only to keep them safe from all the demons (and angels, too, as Simeon is just as devious as a demon) that might try and lead them astray.

Solomon takes a moment to admire the finally finished product, intertwining his fingers and thrusting his arms over his head. His joints crack pleasantly, and he pushes himself up out of the chair with a satisfied sigh. Now that the little object is complete, all he has to do is cast a protection spell on it. It’s a simple thing, just meant to keep the brothers out of their room when they want their own space, something that he knew they would appreciate on days when he wasn’t there to whisk them away from the chaos and loudness of the House of Lamentation.

It was silly to worry about him not being around, as they were the ones with a much shorter lifespan.

How silly of him to lament on such an obvious thing.

Solomon sighs again, gently lifting the precious little object into his hands.

“Spirit of affection, spirit of love, spirit of benevolence, offer your power to the object before me, so that the loved one I bestow it upon shall be protected of all they deem a threat.”

A soft glow emanates from it, and Solomon slams his eyes shut in order to pour as much love as he can into it. His heart opens like a set of floodgates holding back a tsunami, and he’s reminded of the urge to consume them whole. Fuck, he needs them. He needs them so much, every day is so much brighter with them and it’s like he doesn’t need to be lonely anymore. They’re so terrible for making him so dependent. He doesn’t know how he’ll manage anymore, not when he’s pledged his everything to you for as long as his lifespan drags on. He can only open his eyes and wish he was a better man, wish he could say for certain that he wouldn’t go digging in every spellbook he could find for a way to bring them back once they've passed.

That’s not his choice to make.

He mutters another incantation under his breath, and this one brings him right into their room. Ironically enough, he’s the one invading their room. Didn’t he make this for them so this wouldn’t happen?

Just the demon brothers, he thinks as he sets the gift on your bed, Just them.

Because obviously, Solomon is special. He means more to them.

Right?

He wants to mean more. He wants to be number one on their list, always.

He’d drop everything for them in a second if that's what they wanted him to do.

He decides to wait for them, since they’re most likely gaming with the Avatar of Envy right now. Whether they’re doing it to pacify his jealousy or because they genuinely like spending time with him, he doesn’t know. He hopes it’s just to pacify Leviathan. He wants them all to himself, being the selfish man he is.

He wishes he were a better man.

He only has to wait a few minutes more before the door clicks and swings open, their form slipping into the safety of their room. They turn around after the door is shut and jump when they see him, but they don’t scream. They smile.

Fuck, he’s in love with that smile. He wants to see it every day for all eternity.

“Hey Solomon.” they hum, approaching him far too quickly and smoothing back his hair like they’ve done it a million times before, “Do you need something for me?”

He needs so much from you.

“I wanted to give you something.” he snickers, a mischievous grin masking the fluttering butterflies in his belly, “It’s a gift. Don’t think too hard about it.”

They laugh, and he resists the urge to take them into his arms.

“Oh, when you say things like that it makes me nervous.” they shake their head, amusement evident as they take the object from him, “So, what do this one do? Prevent Beel from eating my snacks? Stop Mammon from stealing my spare Grim?”

“Even better.” Solomon chirps, “It’ll be helpful in the future, I can assure you.”

“You’re avoiding the question.” they roll their eyes, but there’s no malice behind it, “It’s never easy to get an answer out of you, huh?”

“I promise it’s nothing dangerous.” he jokes, eyes trailing after them as they sit down on their bed.

“It’s okay, Sol. I trust you.” they pat the spot on the bed next to them, an affectionate mirth blooming on their face, “You’re always doing so much to protect me...makes me want to protect you too.”

A moment of silence. Solomon doesn’t move. Sol sounds so much like Soul that it has heat creeping onto his cheeks and his pupil blown wide. Shocked by the affectionate name, he laughs.

“Don’t laugh! I know I can’t protect you as well as I'd like yet...and you’re capable of protecting yourself and me.” they murmur, holding the silly little thing he made them so gently in their hands.

“I can’t protect you from everything.” Solomon says seriously, taking their offer to sit down. He’s closer to them than he should be, he knows this, but they don’t pull away so he doesn’t either, “I can’t protect you from your own mortality. You must know this.”

Their smiling face turns equally as serious in the blink of an eye, but Solomon stands his ground. It’s an inevitability that they steer clear from, something they don't discuss even if it feels as though it’s going to break them apart. It will eventually, he reminds himself, and he has to be careful or else he’ll become too greedy and selfish and ransack the world—no, the three realms—for any way to make you just as cursed as he was.

“I can protect myself from that. I’ll find a way.” they say, so certain that they will.

It sends a shiver down Solomon’s spine.

“After all, I can’t just leave you alone, now can I?” they hum, turning away from him to place his newest project on their bedside table, “Not my Solomon. I’m staying with him for all eternity.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying.” he laughs shakily, desperately hoping that what they’re saying is true and that they actually mean all the things they say, because if that’s the case that means they genuinely want to stay with him for that long and he’ll never have to be alone anymore. It means that they’re willing to give up their humanity for him and the rest of their loved ones and the world they know right now.

All of it. All of it pales in comparison to him in their eyes.

He’s going to cry.

“MC...I can’t let you do that. You know I can’t.” he mumbles, reaching out for them. It doesn’t matter what he touches, he just needs to feel them, to know that they’re there and they won’t leave him even though it would be better for them if they did.

“It’s not your decision to make.” they say, and they meet him halfway with their gentle hands that hold him like he’s breakable even though he’s been through far more than they have.

“Can I not influence it a bit?” he laughs brokenly, slamming his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to look at their face.

“Not if you’re going to tell me no or all the reasons I shouldn’t stay with you.” they whisper, using their free hand to tangle their fingers through his hair and pull him into their chest, “Why are you denying yourself love? Why do you try to perpetuate this cycle of loneliness that you’ve been trapped in? I’m not saying my decision will fix everything or make it better, but I want to be with you even if it gets worse. Just trust me.”

Solomon does.

He trusts them and he believes them, so much so that that is the problem.

“I do.” he sighs, leaning into them like they’re the last person he will ever touch, “I trust you completely, and that’s the problem. I know that you’re being honest and I know you fully intend to pursue immortality, but-”

He stops to catch a breath, and they wait patiently for him as he tries to make sense of all the swirling thoughts in his mind. Even a millennia of experience wouldn’t have prepared him for what he was facing right now. He can’t let them do this. He just can't. He knows better than they do what being immortal entails, he can’t let them go down the same path.

“I…Please, listen to me.” he cries out, feeling tense behind his eyes as he begs them not to go through with it.

“I can’t just die.” they whisper. Those four words sound like shattered glass, cutting up his heart and he’s sure they’ll leave scars, whether they succeed or not.

“I know.” he concedes, head bumping against their shoulder defeatedly, “I know you can’t. I don’t want you to.”

They make a soft sound of acknowledgement, and he knows they’re aware of his internal conflict. They figure everything out so easily. He wishes they weren’t as smart.

They busy themselves by stroking the back of his head while he’s silent. Solomon leans into the loving touch, and finds himself listening to the steady thumping of their heart. It’s an unimaginable feeling for someone like him, being so close to another person, a fragile person, a person that cannot be as frivolous with their lifespan as he is.

And so he listens, and takes it all in.

Their hearts stutter.

It’s aching, he can sense it.

Despite the pain they both feel, it’s like their souls are being interconnected just by the closeness of their fragile human bodies, and he wishes their soul would be all his. He wants to feel what they feel, absorb all of their pain and sorrow so he can protect them even further.

“I’m not going to ask how you became immortal.” they mutter into his hair, giving him a gentle squeeze, “I know you won’t tell me. I’m going to figure this out by myself, and prove to you that I can handle immortality by your side.”

You can't do that is what he wants to say.

He can’t bring himself to say it.

If only he were a better man.

“I love you.” he says, and whether it’s a response to what they said or an impromptu confession he doesn’t know.

All he knows is that the reciprocated “I love you more,” is all he needed to hear.

#auburn's fics <3 #om: like real people do <3 #om x reader #om solomon #om solomon x reader #om! solomon #om! solomon x reader #obey me solomon #solomon x reader #obey me solomon x reader #obey me angst #obey me x reader #obey me

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brewstersbru · 6 months

Text

More halstarion cuz ive been playing my lil origin run; also happy halloween folks !

Pain. Sharp, dragging, unbearable agony against his back. Astarion huffs a small noise of pitiful discontent before clenching his mouth shut. Quiet. Can’t let him hear you. His fangs tear a little into his gums, but there isn’t enough blood in him for any to really trickle out of the wounds.

A voice- disembodied, but cold and lilting as ever- sounds from behind. “My dear, how prettily you bleed. Even lovelier now, with the poetry I am bestowing upon you. Truly, a gift. And what do we say to gifts, Astarion?”

Astarion moans miserably into the ground- or is it a steel surgical table? He can’t remember, he can’t focus. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. There’s a feeling of hands in his hair, grasping, tearing- the flash of a derisive, fanged grin- “What do we say, Astarion?”

His name sounds like rot coming from his lips, similar to the way one would utter the word “disgusting” or “vile”. Astarion hiccups with the force of his suffering- it’s simply too much, never before has Cazador been so persistent, never before has he carved so deep, for so long. Astarion’s weak, starving body cannot maintain itself against his tides of cruelty.

There is quiet as Cazador waits for his answer, he knows Astarion will do his very best to give it. Years and years of this torment had to have culminated into something- into an exceedingly loyal dog, he’d hoped. It’s why he tries not to command anything; not only because it takes the fun out of things, but also because it encourages a kind of devotion to the task that a simple order could never elicit. Pain can be such a useful tool, and he’s spent years honing his skill with it.

Astarion gasps, chokes on a putrid mix of saliva and droplets of rat blood as they clog in his throat. “T-Thank you.” He coughs. Cazador hums and pushes his head back down. He runs a sharp nail down the middle of the warm, wet mess on Astarion’s back. It stings like a million tiny needles.

“Thank you, what?”

He digs the nail into one of the runes he’d just finished carving, ever so slightly, and Astarion writhes in agony. His breath comes choppy and ragged, and tears track endlessly down his nose. A moment, two, as Astarion brings a heaving breath in and steels himself against the revulsion he is about to feel.

“Thank you, Master.” The hum this elicits is decidedly pleased and Astarion hates himself all the more for earning it. If only he was stronger, if only he were able to hold out just a bit longer. If only he’d been able to make himself wait; Cazador would have grown tired, would have ordered him, eventually.

Now, he is little more than a lapdog, bereft of even his pride, and the pain will only continue. How he despises the man he’s become, the man Cazador has moulded him into.

The agony in his back resumes, even sharper and more unbearable than before. Astarion muffles a scream behind clenched teeth and wrenches his eyes open to reveal a circling of trees. A cool gust of air swipes across his sweat-soaked skin and he shivers, slightly.

Astarion takes a moment to orient himself. He’d been trancing, curled into himself and facing away from the fire- Gods know why, he could use all the heat he can get with the way his undead body refuses to hold onto it on its own; some lingering self-flagellation, perhaps.

He’s no longer bound to Cazador- for the time being at least- he’s fine. The ‘dream’ or whatever that had been was only a memory. Nothing more. He’s fine.

Sitting up, he swats at the tear tracks on his cheeks and comes face-to-face with a wide-eyed Halsin, who had been whittling, it seems, judging by the knife in one hand and the partially carved wooden-something in the other. Astarion ducks and covers his face with a slender hand.

“What in the hells are you doing, you oaf!?”

“… Whittling?” Halsin’s voice cracks a bit as he stumbles over the word. Astarion tries not to notice how endearing that is. He huffs.

“I gathered. Could you just- turn around? Please?”

Halsin tilts his head to the side, just slightly, and stares at him with furrowed brows, mouth set in a firm line. He speaks carefully, but directly, unable to tiptoe around a subject when they’re both aware of the gravity of it.

“Are you alright, my friend? I don’t mean to pry, it’s just I noticed-“

“Not now.” Astarion’s voice comes out rough, grating, and he cannot bring himself to look Halsin in the eye as he speaks.

“… Alright” There’s a shuffling as- assumedly- Halsin picks himself up and heads back to his tent. Astarion only allows himself a breath of relief when the other man’s footsteps retreat outside of his range of hearing.

On one hand, Astarion is astoundingly, exceedingly grateful to have his wishes honored. On the other, it is so, very quiet, and he can still feel the ghosts of fingers petting, clawing and grasping at his skin. He feels dirty, a vile little thing ought to be left in the dirt.

His back aches- phantom pains, he knows- and even years after their conception his scars throb. It’s not the first time this has happened, but it is the first time he’s been able to focus on it, the first time no other, greater pain can distract him from the dull shock of remembrance. Maybe he’d never healed correctly, maybe it’s his mind playing its usual tricks.

Suddenly unable to stand the scratch of cloth against the raised skin on his back, Astarion wrestles his shirt off of himself. Sharp nails dragging uncaringly against the skin as if trying to sate an itch. He wants the ‘poetry’ off of himself, he wants to be clean.

His scratching becomes more fervent, less careful as his thoughts spiral. A sob works its way up, only to die in his throat, he chokes a little on it. Off. Off. Off. He needs it off. He wishes he could claw the taint away. His skin crawls under his fingernails, even as they scratch past skin. Blood flows, sluggish, down the bony curve of his spine. It is not an unfamiliar feeling.

A sharp gasp sounds, quiet, but cutting in the previous silence that had pervaded the space around the campfire. Astarion does not dare look up from the ground. Great. Another interruption to him losing his fucking mind.

Thankfully- which, who could guess he’d ever think the word in relation to the druid- it’s just Halsin again. Arms now laden with jars and cloth, rather than the sharp woodworking tools he’d left the fire with. The jars are labeled, but his scrawl is too small for Astarion to parse the words.

“Astarion, my friend, please cease this needless self-mutilation!” He rushes to Astarion’s side, carefully placing the jars on the side of his bedroll and gently, loosely grasping at Astarion’s wrists- assumedly to encourage the vampire to pry his claws from his skin. He doesn’t push, simply holds him there.

The warmth is welcome, grounding in the swirl of pain and cold and despair that had previously been clouding Astarion’s mind. He lets out an unnecessary, but comforting breath and allows his hands to be pried away.

“Good. That’s good, my friend, thank you.”

Astarion grouses a discontented sound, to which Halsin huffs a small chuckle.

“Alright- you’re alright. You were looking rather pale- moreso than usual at least- and I had hoped some of my oils or salves could soothe any injuries you’d overlooked, or old aches.” He pauses for a moment and rifles through the pile of goods he’d brought over, “As elves, our ‘nightmares’ are more memories, than anything. I’m more than familiar with a long-forgotten wound making itself known after a particularly jarring remembrance. I am sorry yours were so visceral.”

He’s babbling, Astarion notices, low voice rather quick compared to its usual steady thrum, but he can appreciate the effort in attempting to keep him grounded. His body doesn’t want to move, though, and he simply slumps into himself, gaze steadily forward, hollow, almost in its vacancy.

“Here let me-“ A warmth hovers over the mess of Astarion’s back. Well, this is rather familiar. But it pauses,hesitates. Still, Astarion can feel himself tensing. A short, ragged sound punches out of him, unwitting. Halsin hums.

“Apologies, my friend, it seems my manners have escaped me in my nerves. May I touch you? I wish only to soothe the hurt, I have a balm that should do the trick well and once I’ve applied it, my hands will not touch your skin again should you wish it.”

Astarion takes a moment, another unnecessary breath, then nods. It’s curt, almost imperceptible really, but Halsin had been paying very close attention to his body’s reactions. He thanks him- what for, Astarion cannot even begin to fathom.

It’s quiet as Halsin’s deft fingers tenderly pass a wet towelette down his spine to clean the blood from it. It soothes, cool and stinging against new cuts and Astarion can only hope that at least he’d left new scars. Something to disrupt the carving of pure malice that had lain there, undisturbed, for so long.

“Thank you.” It takes a while, and his voice is fairly destroyed by what he can only assume had been long minutes of screaming and sobbing in his sleep, coupled with the panic attack after waking. Halsin’s fingers continue their deft work.

“Please. No need. If I may I- I hate to see you struggle so. Is there anything that caused it? Anything we can avoid?” His sincerity is sweet, but useless. Astarion shakes his head.

“Comes and goes, really. Used to be able to ignore it with other things. Can’t focus on memories when the present is fucked too, right?” Astarion chuckles, but Halsin does not join in.

It’s quiet for a bit, Halsin’s hands feel almost hesitant against his skin, “I am not a man easily drawn to violence but- well- your old master deserves nothing but the slowest, most painful death possible. I know it means little but I am sorry. You did not deserve his torment. No one could deserve that.”

“I was no angel in life, druid. For a long time, it seemed like a penance.” The words are almost hissed, but the sincerity in them is unmistakable.

“Even penance ends, eventually, Astarion. Forgiveness usually follows. Two hundred years is more than enough time. Especially when you had not even truly lived before being thrust into undeath- I mean thirty-nine? You still bear your child name.” Halsin sounds almost pained, although his hands remain steady, now pressing fingerfuls of balm to each cut, and even the undamaged rune-scars too. Something in Astarion howls, surges forward into an incessant rage at the tenderness.

“And perhaps I was a truly devilish child, druid! Perhaps I deserved it!” Halsin sighs.

“No one deserves that, Astarion. You have to know that.”

“If I allow myself to believe that, then I have to accept victimhood. I have to accept that loss of control. I have to accept that it’s not that I deserved it, it’s that no one cared enough to try to save me. Tell me, druid, which would you rather believe.” With a final, gentle pass of his thumb Halsin retreats. Shamefully, Astarion misses the warmth of his touch. The druid rounds his bedroll, settling criss-crossed in front of him and busying himself with organizing his bottles into a neat pile.

“Well, first, I’d like it if you used my name and not my title. It feels rather impersonal talking to you when you won’t even call me ‘Halsin’. Second, I truly don’t know, but I have always favored the truth over anything else.”

Astarion hisses, “I will call you what I like, not what you tell me to call you.” Halsin simply nods, and something inside him deflates. Backs down from its haunches.

“Oh, alright, you big baby. Halsin. Maybe the truth is that I was- however implausibly- the kind of person to deserve my penance.”

Halsin seems to light up at the sound of his name from Astarion’s lips. Astarion tries to find it dorky and uncool and not hopelessly endearing. Then, “I find that incredibly hard to believe. Had you even chosen an adult name? Had anything in mind?”

Astarion falls quiet at this. “I had an idea, a few, maybe. I remember being excited about them, I thought I was so clever with the word choice… But I cannot remember them. Cazador only called me by this name, when he deigned to adress me, and I did not exactly have the time or energy to care about choosing another.”

Something within Halsin cracks at the admission. To have that rite stolen from him was abhorrent. Heartbreaking.

“Truly you remember nothing?”

Astarion shrugs, “Hard to find that kind of thing important when there are other, more pressing matters. It’s not like the names would fit me anymore, either, two hundred years have taken their toll, after all.” He smiles, a crooked, self-depreciating thing and gestures to himself, the scars on his back. “Thank you, by the way. I wouldn’t have treated them on my own.” The thanks doesn’t even need to be forced from his lips. Halsin smiles at the ease with which it is offered.

“No need. And I know.”

It’s quiet for a while longer. The two of them take the time to simply look at each other. Astarion wonders, for perhaps the millionth time, what Halsin is seeing as he gazes at him with such open fondness and admiration. Surely it cannot be him. Godssakes he hasn’t even seen himself in two hundred years, who knows what kind of effect it’s had on his wrinkles. He tries not to dwell.

“I’m going to read.” Astarion says, when he can no longer stand the thought of just how many lines have been carved in his face, without the help of Cazador’s many painful instruments. Halsin simply nods, but continues searching his face. Astarion is unsure what he’s looking for, but is fairly certain, whatever it is, has long since left him. Nowadays he’s mostly bared teeth and vengeance more than anything.

“Please, go right ahead. If you would not protest, I would very much like to join you. I’ll whittle, stay quiet so you can focus. Would that be alright?” He tilts his head to the side, and, with the way he’s fiddling with a jar, seems so incredibly bear-like in the moment that Astarion has to clamp down on a giggle.

“… Alright. But you had better keep that promise to stay quiet.” Halsin grins, a warm, blinding thing.

“As a mouse. And we druids are rather good at mimicking animals, you know.”

A laugh punches itself from Astarion’s throat as he heads back to his tent and settles on some pillows, his most recent thick tome open in his lap.

It’s not long before Halsin is quietly announcing his presence, shuffling around to settle a few feet away, legs tucked up under him as he situates himself against the nearest surface- a stolen chest from one of the many towers they’d rummaged through.

It’s easy to forget he’s there- or, no, it’s easy to simply exist in a space with him. Astarion doesn’t feel the need to perform or prove anything to him- after all, he’s basically seen him at his worst- and the silence is warm. Interrupted, every so often, by the methodical scrape of metal against wood, or the crisp flipping of a page.

Before he can stop himself, Astarion’s fallen into another trance. This time blissfully devoid of any visions or memories.

He wakes to an empty tent, but his book is neatly bookmarked and stowed beside his bedroll. He, himself had been carefully tucked under a pelt of some sort- a piece he knew was not from his own tent- and next to the book lay a small, intricately carved wooden star. On the back, a careful engraving:

little star, how you shine

It feels like a declaration.

#if you couldnt tell im enamored with the idea of halsin carving lil trinkets for his bf #and astarion secretly loving them #very nascent (new word i learned from a commenter ily) romance #bg3 #astarion #halsin #halsin x astarion #halstarion #astarion ancunin #enjoy #no idea how long this is but oh well #happy halloween have gay people!!#tipsy scribbles #brublurbs

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