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extremelyblackandwhite · 1 year

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the price of power - 03

pairing: mob boss!sebastian stan x wife!reader

part of handmaid | masterlist

warnings: 18+ (MINORS DNI), swearing, mentions of organised crime and violence, arguments, angst, smut (18+), shower sex

Everything was quiet on the drive back home, the noise of the metropolitan city drowning in her loud mind as her brother’s words whispered poison into her thoughts. She was sure he was just trying to get under her skin, to trap her into doing something she didn’t want to do. Her son was safe. There had never been an attack or even whispers of trying to harm him, Sebastian had always ensured her Nate was safe. She bite the inside of her lip, looking at the numbers lit up on the lift panel. Ever since the events with Gwen, she hadn’t really returned to New York, or at least Sebastian’s New York penthouse - well, she guessed it was hers as well now. There was a mix of emotions surrounding this place but it they were mostly positive. She had always felt safe here, even if he wasn’t around.

The lift doors opened, the windows that gave view to the top of the city becoming visible. It was almost like magic, that sense of safety she got whenever she came into the home and the sight of her husband holding their son while pointing out stuff out the window only heightened it up. However, she could not deny that band around her heart got tighter as she heard the giggle of her son. He was not gonna get hurt. She couldn’t let him get hurt.

- We need to stay. - those words flowed out her mouth like a river against a dam.

- What? - Sebastian turned around, his grip growing unconsciously tighter against his son.

- My dad needs my help. We need to stay.

- No. - he took a stride towards her. - That’s not what we agreed to, Y/N. We agreed to staying in Paris where it’s safe for you and for Nate.

- How can you confirm that it’s safe? What’s stopping someone from breaking in and attacking us?

- Are you insane? Your safety has never, ever been breached. I made damn sure it’s a safe place for our family.

- What about my dad? And my brother? They shot my dad, Sebastian. I need, I need to be here so I can help.

- Staying here is not gonna help anyone, Y/N. - she took a step back, her name sounding foreign coming from his lips.

- Daniel suggested I take over for dad ... in the interim.

Sebastian features tightened and he shut his eyes forcefully, constrained and angered breathes leaving his lips. She stood there, still and looking up at him, waiting for him to say something, anything.

- That’s not what we discussed. - he sighed. She could see how he was attempting not to burst. - That’s just putting a target on your back.

- I need to protect my dad ...

- Yes because he’s always been so protective of you. - he interrupted her. - He just showed up in your life.

- He’s my only family left.

It would’ve hurt less to be shot. He’d been shot many times yet those words leaving her lips, the same lips he kissed each night with the passion and warmth of a thousand suns, had to hurt more than all those times. The truth was that he’d had nothing for so many years and now he had her and their son - those words stung more than anything else. She noticed the tiny break of his strong facade, biting her tongue immediately after.

- You’ll be signing your own death warrant if you do that.

- Don’t you believe I could do it?

- You know I think you do. You’re just not ready, you don’t know your father’s deals or associates. This is why we decided to keep away from it, at least until Nate is older.

- I am going to do it, Sebastian. My father gave up so much to keep me safe, I have to repay the favour. - he smiled, but it didn’t carry the same weight it did whenever she looked at him. It was void, almost as an expression to keep him from slipping into old patterns or hurting her with sharp words only he could muster. That was no smile to her.

Instead, he just handed her Nate, the young boy looking up at his mother as if he could sense something was wrong. She guessed anyone with a pair of eyes in that moment could sense it themselves, it was in complete opposition to what the past two months had been.

- Your father took the coward’s way out. - he looked down at his wife, with an unreadable look. - I would’ve burned the whole world down if it meant keeping you safe, but I would not let you be mistreated the way you were. But if that’s the favour you’re trying to repay, who am I to stop you?

He left and she was unable to do anything to stop him, instead staring at him, hoping he did countless things which vanished into thin air as those lift doors closed, leaving her all alone in what now felt like a darker home than before. She held in her breathe, attempting not to break down, however, after trying not to cry for a whole day combined with the lack of sleep and her husband’s words, she couldn’t help but let it down. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she bite her lip forcefully, attempting to quiet herself. Why was everything so hard? Things were supposed to have been easier now. As a child she always thought if she had parents everything would be better, so how come things were harder?

Y/N attempted to distract herself from her own emotions, rocking her son slowly while looking around the home. She hadn’t been here since, well, since Gwen’s almost wedding. Sebastian was the one who usually came to New York and stayed here when needed. She usually preferred to stay at their place in Paris with Nate or if she were to come to New York, they’d make a holiday out of it and stay at a nice hotel. Things looked the same, except for the photos on the frames which were now either of her or their son. Their wedding photo on the coffee table only had her struggle more at keeping her sobs silent. It had been such a happy day, even if it had been small, just the two of them somewhere in a little chapel in a place in France which she could no longer remember the name. She could’ve sworn on that day that all that was bad was behind them, so how come it was coming back to haunt her? She could deal with the bad nightmares as long as they were just that - nightmares, a succession of images and feelings inside her mind when asleep. This was real and this she didn’t know if she could handle.

Finally, the sob that she had been holding in broke through her dry lips, causing her infant son to look up at her.

- No, no ... - she whispered, recognising the face that usually led to Nate start crying. - It’s okay. Mumma is okay, she’s just being silly.

She didn’t like being alone, she didn’t like being apart from him and she specially didn’t like it when he was upset at her. Sebastian and her argued like any couple did but it was usually over stupid things like the dishes or clothing on the floor, it was never this. In the back of her mind she knew he was gonna come back, he always came back from her but as nighttime fell, she wondered when he would come back, or if he even wanted to come back at all.

Looking at her son, sleeping peacefully in his crib, she decided she was done for the day. She needed a shower and she needed to go to sleep, maybe this was all a bad dream and if she went to sleep she would wake up in a much better reality. However, the hot water hitting her skin was only further proof that she was very much awake and this was a living nightmare. She stared at the tiles, very much lost in the nothingness and the colour of them until a rustling sound followed by the glass door of the shower being open having her turn around.

- Hey. - her heartbeat slowed down as she saw him standing in front of her.

- You reck of whiskey. - she retorted, not exactly knowing what to say. Were they still in a fight?

- I know, angel. I’m sorry. - he wrapped his arms around her, the warmth of his skin against hers making her forget the bad things for a while. - I’m sorry.

- I’m sorry too. - she looked up from his embrace. - You do reck of alcohol, are you drunk?

- I tried. - he confessed. - Then I realise my wife’s at home with my kid and I’m acting like a fucking idiot. I’m sorry.

- I really need you, Seb. I need you, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I know you hate my dad but he’s my dad, I can’t just leave him and go away like nothing happened.

- I know, I shouldn’t have asked that of you. I just want to make sure you and Nate are safe and I don’t know if I can do that here.

She cupped his face, leaning her forehead against his. His fingers drew patterns on her hips, the feel of her skin bringing him comfort. She always brought him comfort, even if she was mad at him or if they had an argument.

- I’m sorry. - he kissed down her temple, leaving wet reminders of his kisses in a trail.

He took a few steps forward, her back hitting the wet tiles of the shower. His lips parted as he watched the sight in front of him. There couldn’t be anyone in this world who was more alluring to him than the woman in front of him and she couldn’t want anything more than to always experience that look of lust for him. He bucked his hips against hers, his lips meeting hers in a passion filled moment as his fingers trailed against her slit.

- I guess there are benefits to us staying here. - he kissed under her jaw. - We’d have to spend more time together.

- You don’t s ... - her words got stuck in her throat as he easily slide a finger inside of her, smiling at the wetness that coated his fingers.

- You were saying, angel? - he smirked, putting a hand over her stomach to stop her from moving her hips into his fingers. - C’mon, I thought you were gonna say something.

- You’re me ... - she got once again lost in her own thoughts, moaning as he added another finger and started moving at a faster pace than before, his thumb circling her clit. - Mean.

- Am I? - he cocked his head to the side, slowing down his pace. - Then why are you trying to fuck yourself on my fingers?

Her back arched, her hands trying to hold onto anything, but slipping down the wet tiles. She was at his mercy and she couldn’t say she didn’t enjoy it. The feeling of his long, rough fingers against her walls as he rubbed her clit was enough to have her moaning like a desperate woman. Her walls starting to tighten around his fingers, her moans quickening as she started to climb up to her high, only for it to come crashing down as he unceremoniously removed them from her. She pouted, her eyes looking at him with pooling tears at the inner corners. He took his fingers to his mouth, sinfully wrapping his tongue around them, not breaking eye contact with her. She couldn’t find it within herself to be mad at him, getting hypnotised by the way he cleaned his fingers as if he’d eaten his last meal. Smirking at her, he laid his thumb against her bottom lip, pulling it down.

- Maybe I am mean, angel, but you do enjoy it.

- Not fair. - her voice was small, almost trembling.

- Not fair? Ok. What is fair, then? - he cocked his head to the side, eyes scanning her naked body. - What do you want, angel?

- I want you.

- No, no. - he sucked his teeth, kissing down her neck. - You have to be specific, angel. What do you want me to do?

She whined, the feeling of his lips against her skin only furthering the wetness gathered in the middle of her legs and the need to have him inside her. She attempted to grind against him, yet, the feeling of his cock against her slit did little to nothing to soothe those feelings. He grew tired of her incessant grinding, stopping her hips by holding them against the tiles of the wall.

- C’mon, ask me. - he said almost cruelly. - You know I’ll give it to you, angel. Just ask.

- Please. - she whined, propping her hand on his shoulder. - Please, fuck me.

He smirked at her, rubbing the head of his cock between her folds, gathering her wetness and teasing her enough until he pushed himself inside of her. Her nails gripped the skin of his shoulder, one of her legs wrapping around his waist to bottom him further into her. Shuddered moans left both of them as he fully entered her. He shut his eyes forcefully, trying to gather some control before he started to move, setting a quick pace.

- God, you fucking feel good. - he groaned.

She was lost in cloud 9, the familiar stretch and the move he’d set along with his thumb rubbing her clit having her eyes rolling in the back of her head. All worries vanished as he laid everything on her, his grip bruising on her hip, his movements sharp and quick while his lips sucked and bite bruises which were sure to last until she began to feel herself falling apart.

- C’mon, angel, c’mon. - he silenced her pitched moans with messy kisses, thrusting harder into her until she fell apart.

She continued upright mainly due to the force of his body against hers, holding her still against the tiles. Yet, he continued chasing his high until he stilled, burying his head on the crook of her shoulder as thick ropes of white painted her walls and dripped down her thighs.

- You did good, angel, you did good. - he whispered against her skin, laying soft kisses over the bruises and turning the shower off.

He wrapped her in a monogramed, white fluffy towel and made his way towards the bedroom, kissing the top of her head. He wanted to cherish these moments, have them tattooed in his brain like wine stains. He knew what this world looked like and he knew that she was being offered to it like a sacrificial lamb. Yet again, that’s what he expected the Forrest family to do - they had always been cowards in his eyes. Similar to the rodents, escaping the fight and hiding only to thrive after the threat was gone. Parasites, most of them. Of course, he could never say that of her. She was too good for all of this, too good for her father and too good for him. He’d been happy to live in Paris, away from all this, just being in their little family unit. He should’ve known things never stay quiet for too long.

- What are you thinking about? - she leaned her hand against his cheek, her thumb caressing the rough stubble.

- Nothing. - he lied, forcing a smile as not to worry her. - You’re really gonna do this, huh?

- Yeah. Are you gonna help me?

- I’d burn down the world for you, angel. I’ll do anything.

He just hoped what she encountered didn’t take her away from him.

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taglist: @buckysteveloki-me @sadbucksblog

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan/reader #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan/you #sebastian stan x you #sebastian stan/y/n #sebastian stan x y/n #sebastian stan smut #mob! sebastian stan #mob boss!sebastian stan #mafia sebastian stan #mafia boss!sebastian stan #sebastian stan imagine

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thetravelerwrites · 3 months

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Ynghadin Pt. 4

Rating: Mature Relationship: Female Elf/Male Minotaur Content Warning: Child Abuse, Physical Abuse, Kidnapping Additional Tags: Exophilia, Monster Boyfriend, Interspecies Romance, Reader Insert, Minotaur, Manhwa Tropes, Reader-Insert, Second Person Perspective Words: 5439

The reader learns why she was engaged to Elyngar, and his origins. Please reblog and leave feedback!

Every ounce of drowsiness left your body as you sat up. “Fiance?”

The duchess held up her hands to placate you. “I know that sounds strange, seeing as you only just arrived, but it wasn’t a decision we made arbitrarily. There are many reasons why this engagement is necessary, for you and for Elyngar. Plus, the engagement is not set in stone. We’d never make you marry anyone if you didn’t want to. It’s just on paper as of right now and it’s been announced, sure, but we haven’t even filed the engagement papers with the imperial palace yet. It can be broken with a single word, if that’s what you wish.”

You sat in your sea of bed linens and frowned. “Why do we need to be engaged?”

“When we decided against having more children and chose to adopt a successor instead, there were many amongst the nobility who wanted us to take their children as adoptees. For us, watching those parents take advantage of our tragedy and try to sell us their children in exchange for power… it made us sick. It was like they were trampling all over our anguish. So we chose to extend our hand to a child who was close to the family, but had lost his own parents and was in need.”

“Elyngar,” You replied.

She nodded. “Yes. He came to us years ago, desperate and alone. We took him in and made him our successor, much to the dismay of others attempting to curry favor with us. Even still, there were many among the nobles who looked down on him, as he isn’t elven.” She sighed, though you weren’t sure why. “Are you aware that most of the nobility in this country are elves?”

You shook your head. “Why?”

“Several reasons, but the main one is that we are a long-lived race, the longest lived race of all the mortals, so we’re capable of outliving most of our opposition if we merely wait long enough. However, there are a number of noble houses that are not elven, and Elyngar’s family is one such house. Since Elyngar’s a distant relation to the current head of his household and had nothing to do with them before becoming orphaned, there was little chance that his family could use him to get closer to us. It was one of the main reasons we chose him over everyone else.”

“Is that why you chose engagement?”

“Yes,” She confirmed. “There are many who would refuse to recognize Elyngar’s legitimacy as our successor, regardless of what powers we were to afford him. In order to solidify his position, it was better for him to become your fiance than merely our son, since your right to inherit is more concrete than his.”

“Why is it good for me, then?”

“Ah,” She sighed again. “Your father and I were concerned about what would happen to you if anything happened to us, so we wanted to ensure there would be someone strong and capable to look after you if we were unfortunate enough to not be here when you returned. Someone who was in your debt as well as ours, and therefore couldn’t betray us without great detriment to himself. Elyngar is just such a child.”

“So you engaged me to him for my protection?” You asked.

“Yes. You’re still our main successor, but we wanted to make sure there was someone who could take care of that until you felt prepared to inherit, even if it takes decades. We wouldn’t expect you to take over the duchy right after returning, so Elyngar is the interim successor, to take charge until you decide to do so or until your child inherits, should you have any. We wanted you to be safe no matter what. Having a husband who’s sworn to support you and protect you is the best way, and Elyngar agrees, though it took him a while to wrap his head around the idea. He was just a boy when this union was first proposed, after all. Of course, there were conditions.”

“What conditions?”

“Several, but there were three main ones. Number one: he must find you alive. Engagement would serve him no purpose if you were never found, and we would never step down if that were the case, therefore we would no longer need a successor. At least, not for a long while yet.”

“He’s fulfilled that condition, then.”

“Indeed,” Elythuin said with a smile, stroking the peach-fuzz on your head. “The second condition was that he must prove himself capable of leading the duchy. The Leonidas duchy is the largest in the country, and indeed on the continent. Elyngar has to prove to us that we would leave the duchy in capable hands when we decided to step down. Up to now, he’s proven himself more than competent.”

“What’s the third condition?”

“Well, it’s the most important. He must earn your consent.”

“My consent?”

“Oh, yes. Despite our arranging this engagement, your father and I would never force you to marry anyone against your will, not in a million years. Elyngar must prove himself worthy of you, not just in our eyes, but in yours as well.”

“How will he do that?”

She laughed. “I haven’t the foggiest, my love. That’ll be completely up to him.” She stroked your cheek softly. “I’m sorry that we didn’t mention it before, but we were worried about overwhelming you on your first day. We’d always planned to sit down with you as a family and explain it properly, so we had told Elyngar not to mention it until your return. I’m sorry, sweetheart. I hope you’re not too upset.”

You shook your head. “No, it’s alright, I understand. I feel better now that I know it’s a decision I can make and not one that’ll be made for me.”

“Of course, darling, of course” She assured you, pulling you into a gentle hug. “All we’ve ever wanted is your happiness.”

You returned the hug hesitantly, still not familiar with physical contact, but you enjoyed the feeling of the warmth of her arms around your shoulders. So much so that you relaxed to the point of stifling a yawn.

“Oh, darling, you must be terribly exhausted,” Elythuin said, releasing you slowly. “It’s been quite a day. Lie down and get some rest.”

She tucked you back in and bent to kiss your forehead. The gesture felt… strangely familiar. It didn’t bring back any sort of memory, just the shadow of a feeling that came to your mind of something from a long time ago, some vague sensation that slipped through your fingers no matter how hard you tried to hold on to it. It was a comforting feeling, and you felt safe and at ease. All of the day’s anxiety washed out of you, and your eyes closed on their own.

“Sleep well, my beautiful baby girl. I love you so much.”

Immediately after you heard those words, you were asleep.

The next morning, Clara helped you dress in a pale pink gown with a pretty peony pattern and a satin veil to match that had peony lace along the edge. Apparently, Elyngar had ordered matching veils to fit all of the dresses he had bought for you on the day you returned, and you were grateful. You’d had a shaved head since before you could remember and it hadn’t been something you thought too much about, since you’d been more concerned about survival. However, now that you were home with your parents, who were the loveliest two people you’d ever seen in your life, and Elyngar, who was handsome in a far more rugged way, it made you extremely self-conscious of your own appearance.

You met your parents and Elyngar at the family dining table for breakfast. According to Clara, it was the first time the family had sat down to breakfast together since you first went missing. Both your mother and father usually began their work day quite early and took their breakfasts in their respective offices, and Elyngar spent most of his mornings training with the family’s knights and often skipped breakfast altogether.

Now that you knew that Elyngar was your fiance and the heir to the duchy, you felt a little awkward around him. He had been unfailingly kind to you, but how much of that was genuine care for you and how much of it was his desire to inherit the duchy? Was any of the kindness he had shown you real? You wanted to believe it was, but you didn’t know anymore.

Although, just as you shrunk in on yourself, he put a plate of almond cookies, the kind he had given you on the first day of your acquaintance, next to your plate of eggs and sausage, smiling gently at you. You returned his smile shyly. If his kindness was false, he was certainly a very good actor.

“So, my dear,” Your father began. “I hear you are unable to read and write, is that correct?”

“Ah… y-yes. I apologize for not being up to standard.”

“No, no, not at all! It’s no surprise that those bastards neglected your education, so I was merely going to suggest that you begin taking lessons soon, when you’re ready. What do you think, my child?”

“Oh,” You said, perking up. “Oh, yes, I would like that.”

“I know you might be quite overwhelmed at first, but you’ll take the first of your lessons with your mother and I, since I hesitate to leave you in the hands of strangers quite so soon. Your mother will teach you reading, mathematics, art, music, and sciences, and I will be instructing you in economics, business, and politics. Elyngar will also be helping you recover your strength and stamina as well as teaching you basic self-defense, when you’re more healthy. You’re far too frail to even attempt it now, my poor girl.”

“Dr. Reenav recommends at least a full month of rest and recuperation before you begin any sort of physically strenuous activity,” Your mother said, buttering a scone for you. “Trying to force yourself into it too fast could have the opposite effect and cause you further damage.”

“Quite right,” Said Larongar. “You can start all that when you feel ready and Dr. Reenav clears you for physical exercise, so just rest easy for a while. I’ll have you begin introductory magic lessons with the family’s magician, as well. Your other lessons will be taught by Lady Laudmoor, including dance and court etiquette.”

You flinched unintentionally, but said nothing. You didn’t like the idea of being left alone with her. She gave you a bad feeling that you couldn’t explain.

“Is something amiss, my Lady?” Elyngar asked, noticing your silence. “If you feel uncomfortable with the idea of studying alone with a stranger, I’d be happy to accompany you to those lessons.”

You were sure he was remembering the question you posed to him the day before about Lady Laudmoor, judging from his expression. You thought you had done a good job of asking casually, but perhaps he was just very perceptive.

“I couldn’t ask you to do that,” You said. “You’re already a busy person.”

“I’m not so busy that I can’t make time for you, my Lady,” He said, smiling. “Besides, I could always use a brush-up on etiquette. Mother is constantly admonishing me for being too brusque with the court ladies.”

“Just because you are already engaged, there's no reason to ignore every other woman who so much as speaks to you,” Elythuin said, laughing fondly.

“Mother…” Elyngar hissed, cutting his eyes to you quickly. “We haven’t—”

“No, it’s alright,” She assured him. “She asked me last night about why you kept calling us Mother and Father, so I explained it to her. She understands.”

Elygnar and Larongar shared a look of concern between them before returning their gaze to you.

“You’re not upset, I hope,” Your father said fretfully.

You shook your head. “No, I’m alright.”

“I apologize, my Lady,” Elyngar said, worried. “I didn’t keep it from you intentionally; I was instructed to keep quiet about everything until you returned and the four of us could discuss it together.”

“I know, the duchess told me,” You said. “It’s alright, really. I understand.”

“Well,” Your father said slowly, frowning. “It’s not something we’ll need to worry about for a while. A long while. And if you decide not to marry, that’s… also fine. Completely, absolutely fine.”

“Darling, really,” Elythuin said with a sardonic smile.

“I’m just… saying…” Larongar said, avoiding her eye. “She doesn’t have to get married. Elyngar can be her… I don’t know… her personal escort knight when she inherits. He doesn’t have to be her husband, if she doesn’t want it. She doesn’t have to get married at all. Ever.”

Both Elythuin and Elyngar chuckled. Clara and Reice covered their mouths in an effort to hide their smiles.

“Anyhow,” Larongar said, clearing his throat. “I’d like to have you see our family mage today, dear, if you’re up for it. I would be interested to determine if it would be possible to restore your ears magically.”

“Would that make you happy?” You asked him.

“Oh, my dear,” He said with a sad frown, patting your hand. “It’s… not that it would make me happy or unhappy, I just don’t want anyone doubting you or making things difficult for you because of them. Court life is already a minefield, even for nobles who haven’t been through the awful things you have. My only concern is making things a bit easier for you.” His eyes narrowed. “Although, if anyone does give you a hard time, you be sure to let your father know and he’ll fix it for you, alright, my dear?”

You smiled a little. “Yes, I’ll do that.”

“I hope to see you restored before we begin the trial for Marcus, at any rate,” Your father said. “I want the satisfaction of watching him see you at your strongest.”

You dropped your fork in shock. “Is… is Marcus here?”

“Oh,” Your father said, blanching. “Yes… he’s in our dungeon.”

“Here on the estate?”

“Yes.”

You felt your blood run cold and you were unable to breathe, your head spinning. You heard all of them stand up and flock to you, but you couldn’t understand what they were saying because of the rushing in your ears. You could feel yourself shaking and crying, but you couldn’t speak or control your body. You felt as if you were falling into a deep, deep well, pitch black and all-consuming.

You felt someone press their fingers to your forehead, and you felt a sudden rush of warmth in your body, calming your reeling brain and allowing your body to ease out of its intense rigidity.

“Breathe, My Lady,” You heard Elyngar say. “Just breathe. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

You struggled to slow your breathing and your heart rate. While Elyngar worked to calm you, your mother wiped the tears from your cheeks, and your father had removed your veil and was softly stroking your head. They both had stricken, anxious looks on their pale faces. Clara and Reice were absent, strangely. They’d been there only a moment before.

“I’m sorry,” You wept, trying and failing to gather yourself and sit up straight. You had shrunk in on yourself and slumped down in your chair, unable to keep your composure. “Forgive me… I ruined breakfast, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t apologize, my precious girl,” Your father said, kneeling next to you. “It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have mentioned that bastard. But, I assure you, he’s locked up tight and guarded by at least four men at all times. It’s only until an imperial trial can begin, as it’s a formality that must be observed when crimes are committed against royalty by a noble.”

“Marcus is a noble?” You asked, shocked out of your fetal position.

Your father nodded. “He was. He used to belong to the only Orc noble family in the country, the Smeltbourne Marquesate. He was disowned by his family after he committed a number of crimes against fellow nobles, such as theft, lewd conduct, assault, and the like. He seemed to be under the impression that nobles are above the law and should do whatever they like without worrying about the consequences, which is sadly a notion shared by many nobles, but his family had been imperial knights for generations and couldn’t tolerate that type of dishonor. We believe that’s why he began hating nobles and started this campaign to destabilize and demolish as many households as possible. He’s succeeded a number of times, in fact. Your abduction wasn’t the first, but it was certainly the most ambitious.”

“Why does he need to be prosecuted if he was expelled?”

“Because despite being disinherited, he still has noble blood, which means the rules are different for him than they would be for a simple commoner. That fact alone means he can’t be summarily executed without due process, as much as I would delight in the idea. But once that’s over, you’ll never see or hear of him ever again, I swear. Alright, my love?”

You nodded.

Clara and Reice returned, both towing someone behind them by their sleeves. One was Dr. Reenav, looking worried, and the second was a person who you hadn’t met before, since they hadn’t been present when you were introduced to the household staff. They appeared bored and disinterested, clearly being dragged against their will, and wore dark, hooded robes with inscriptions in various languages embroidered into them rather than normal clothing, though your family’s crest was emblazoned on the breast of them. Even someone as sheltered as you knew this person was a magician of some kind, likely the family mage your father had mentioned.

“What’s happened?” Dr. Reenav asked. “Some sort of fit, Clara mentioned?”

“I just… panicked for a moment,” You assured him. “I’m alright, really.”

“What brought this on?” He asked, using his fingers to widen your eyes a little, looking at your pupils.

“The fault lies with me, I mentioned that bastard’s name in my daughter’s presence,” Larongar said. “I should have minded my tongue.”

“Ah, I see,” Dr. Reenav said. “It’s no surprise. Trauma has a lasting effect on the mind of its victim. I will give Clara a tea for anxiety.”

“If I’m not needed, may I leave?” The mage said in a bored voice.

“A moment, and remove your hood so that she may see your face,” Larongar said to the mage before turning back to you. “My darling, this is our family’s mage, Kirin.”

Kirin removed their hood, and you saw a person whose gender was difficult to determine at a glance, but their long ears and glittering eyes told you they weren’t mortal. They seemed to have the long-lived grace of an elf, but their general disinterest in their surroundings spoke of someone who existed outside of the same reality as the people around them.

Fae.

They were the first fae creature you’d ever met, but they couldn’t have been anything else. Their skin was a pale pearlescent blue, their eyes black and deep and seemed like they weren’t there at all if not for the strange glittering. Their limbs were just slightly too long to look natural. Their unkempt hair, longer in the front than it was in the back, was an empty, inky blackness that didn’t reflect the sunlight or move in time with their body.

“Pleasure,” They said flatly. “Can I go now?”

Larongar sighed. “I suppose.”

They snapped their fingers and disappeared in a flurry of feathers that dissolved when they touched the ground.

“Don’t mind them, my dear,” Your father said. “They’re always like that. The nature of their kind, I assume.”

“Well,” Elythuin said. “Come now, let’s finish our meal. Afterward, I’ll show you our library. Perhaps we can have a small lesson on letters, if you feel up to it. Would you like that, darling?”

You nodded and sat up straight in your chair, trying to finish your food and put Marcus far out of your mind. It was difficult.

In the afternoon, Elyngar took the time to show you the in and outs of the training hall and knights quarters, telling you to come here if you ever found yourself in trouble, as every single person in the barracks had sworn an oath to protect you. The knights were all eager to meet you, since many of them had heard about your disappearance even before joining the knighthood. You found their interest a little overwhelming, and Elyngar was careful to keep them all at arms length, but they all strangely reminded you of over-eager puppies, so you didn’t mind their attention as long as they kept their distance.

“My Lady, those men have been members of the duchy’s knights for nearly thirty years.” He gestured to three older men standing at attention, almost expectantly, at the mouth of the outdoor hallway leading back toward the main building. One was human, one was a tiefling, and one was a lynx-faced tabaxi. “They’re the oldest serving members of the knights corps at present. I brought you here partially because they submitted a formal request to meet with you.”

“Me?” You asked in surprise. “Why?”

“Why not ask them, my Lady?” He said. “Would that be alright?”

You nodded.

As you approached, all three of them bowed deeply at the waist, nearly folding themselves in half, and shouted: “Please forgive us, Young Miss!”

You made a squeak of surprise and stopped in your tracks, anxious.

“That’s enough, stand up straight. You’ve startled her,” Elyngar said.

They stood straight again, their heads bowed and they’re hands behind their back, as if they were prisoners. You dared to venture from behind Elyngar and address them.

“Why do you want me to forgive you?”

“We failed to protect you, Young Miss,” The tabaxi said. “For that, we sincerely apologize. We have never forgiven ourselves for letting you or your parents down.”

You thought about that for a moment. So many people had apologized for the exact same thing since you arrived, and it made you think… if someone had come in and abducted you with all these people looking after you, then they must have been close to the family. It wasn’t just you they had betrayed: it was everyone. They didn’t need to apologize, you thought, since they were victims, too.

“May I ask something?”

“Of course, Young Miss, ask us anything you please,” The tiefling said.

“Was it my fault that I was abducted?”

Their jaws dropped in unison, looking distressed at the very idea that you might think so.

“Of course not, Young Miss!” The tabaxi insisted.

“Why?”

“You were just a child! How could it be your fault?”

“Well, who’s fault was it?”

The human man grimaced. “That wench who tricked us.”

“So, it’s her fault and not mine, then?”

“Of course!”

“Then that means it’s not your fault, either. You said so, you were tricked. Nobody, not even my parents, knew what kind of person she really was, so you couldn’t have known, either. Besides, you’ve apologized, so you should forgive yourselves now. I already have.”

They looked conflicted and emotional, but they nodded.

“You’re too kind, Young Miss,” The human man said. “I’m Derek. My colleagues are Break of Dawn,” He pointed at the tabaxi. “And Reilly.” He gestured at the tiefling. “Please come to us if you need anything, My Lady,” Derek said. “We have rooms in the knight’s bunkhouse and we’re almost always somewhere on the estate.”

You smiled as best you could through your nerves. “It’s nice to see you again.”

They gave you watery smiles and bowed again. You smiled shyly in return. Elyngar dismissed them and led you back to the main building.

“My Lady,” Elygar said diffidently. “You must have been quite surprised to learn you were engaged.”

“I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a shock,” You replied. “But Her Grace explained it to me. I understand.”

“Did she tell you about the conditions?”

“Yes. You have to find me alive and prove you can lead the duchy in my stead.”

“And the last one?”

You couldn’t help but flush. “You have to earn my consent.”

“Exactly. And I don’t want you to agree just because I asked or because we’re already engaged or because you feel like you owe me anything. I want you to choose me because it’s what you want.”

“Shouldn’t it also be what you want?” You asked him.

“It is what I want,” He said simply.

“Why?” You asked him in confusion. “Is it because you feel like you owe my parents? You’ve only met me a few weeks ago, and we haven’t spoken enough or spent enough time with each other for you to feel anything more for me than pity or protectiveness. I don’t mean to sound mean or ungrateful, I just don’t understand why you decided that it’s alright to spend your entire life with a woman before you’d even met her, other than because it’s what my parents decided. That’s not fair to you.”

Elyngar was quiet for a moment, and you looked up to see him watching you with an indecipherable expression.

“My lady,” Elyngar said slowly, holding out his hand. “There’s something I’d like to show you. It’s something that means a lot to me, and I want to share it with you. It’s… my most precious treasure.”

“Alright,” You said, taking his hand. He led you to a set of double doors at the end of the second floor and opened them.

“Where are we?” You asked.

“My chambers,” He said.

You hesitated, unsure.

He laughed softly. “I understand this is an improper request. I can call Clara to be here as a chaperone, if that would reassure you.”

You frowned, but shook your head. “It’s alright. I trust you.”

His smile widened greatly when he heard those words.

“Come,” He said, holding out his hand, and you retook it. He led you to a case in his sitting parlor that displayed different pieces of masculine jewelry, cape brooches and cravat pins, but instead of opening it, he reached underneath it and fiddled with something you couldn’t see. You heard a click, and the entire top of the case lifted away, revealing that the cushion holding the ornate jewelry was simply a facade. Elyngar removed the top of the case, peering down into it.

Inside lay a jagged piece of rusted metal, the tip of a sword, about four to five inches long. It lay there as if it were a precious jewel or some holy artifact that needed to be locked away from the eyes of others. As if it were priceless.

“Do you recognize this?” He asked you.

For a moment, you were unsure what he was asking, but after a second closer look, all at once you realized and gasped, your hands against your mouth. Ynghadin! You had given this piece of metal to him on the final day when he was meant to be killed! It’s what cost Marcus his eye!

“Did he live?” You asked him, turning and bouncing on your heel in excitement. You grabbed the front of his shirt anxiously with both hands, momentarily forgetting both noble propriety and your timid nature. Whatever residual anxiety you felt with Elyngar dissolved in an instant. “Ynghadin? Do you know where he is? Is he alright? Can I see him?”

Elyngar laughed and shook his head, a little disbelieving, and took your face in his hands.

“I told you I’d come back for you, didn’t I? I promised,” He said softly, whispering reverently, pressing his forehead against your own.

Your jaw dropped in shock, and tears filled your eyes. “It’s you?”

He nodded and covered your hands, which still clutched his shirt, with his. “It’s me.”

You fell into his arms, sobbing with joy. Of course. How hadn’t you realized? It was so obvious . The hints were all there: him being a child of a family friend, losing his family ten years ago, knowing who you were and what you were like the day he pulled you out of the chest. He never ate anything made of wheat. He knew your nature and that you’d been trained not to speak. He knew you so intimately, despite only having known you for just a few weeks. You always believed that he’d forgotten you after running away, but he hadn’t. He’d remembered everything. And he never stopped looking.

“Come and sit, My Lady. Let me pour you a cup of tea.”

You nodded through your tears and he put his arm around you, leading you to the parlor area of his quarters and setting you on a couch. He called his attendant to bring a tea set and some light snacks.

“Your coloring is different from before. That’s why I didn’t realize,” You told him.

“I figured as much. My kind of minotaur is born pale in color, which then darkens as we reach adulthood. My full color didn’t come in until I was fifteen, long after we had last seen each other. I was wondering if you’d realize on your own… I guess I got impatient.”

“Why do you go by Elyngar and not Ynghadin?”

“I took the name when I was officially brought into the house. Elves have strict naming conventions, especially noble houses, so I decided on a combination of your mother and father’s names. It was important to jump through the appropriate hoops if I wanted to be of use to you.”

“Why did you want to be of use to me?”

“When I was young,” He began, sitting next to you on the couch. “My father would tell me tales of his childhood best friend, your father, and often spoke of a little girl he was desperate to find. Seeing how distraught your father was after losing you made my father a man obsessed with finding you, if only to relieve his friend’s suffering. After my mother died, he devoted nearly all of his time to searching for you, and I often assisted him in various ways. In a sense, I had been looking for you before I even knew who you were.

“When we met in the guildhouse, I didn’t know you were the little girl my father had been so desperate to find. If I had known, I’d have never left you there. I already felt bad leaving you in the first place, but once I realized who you actually were, I felt like I had disappointed you, your parents, and my own father.”

“How did you figure out how I was?”

“It was after I came here to the capitol to meet with the duke, which is what my father told me to do if anything ever happened to him. The moment I saw your parents, I realized the mistake I had made. I led them back to the guildhouse, but it had been burned to the ground and abandoned, and you were gone. Ever since, I have done as my father did and devoted my entire life to your rescue, hoping beyond hope that you’d still be alive.”

He took your hands in his and kissed them.

“You saved my life that day, ten years ago. If not for you, I’d be lying dead in that hole they made you dig until your fingers bled, and no one would have been looking for me. I owe all that I am to you. Your parents adopted me partly because they were friends with my father and felt an obligation to help me considering how my father died, but they also realized that I wasn’t in it for their status. They chose me because I was almost as desperate to find you as they were, if for no other reason than to thank you. The duchy, the title, the money; none of it means anything to me. It was all a means to an end, to find you. You’re my savior. Nothing means more to me than you.”

You felt yourself blush at this bold declaration.

“Do you understand now?” He asked.

You nodded shyly. “Yes.”

“Good,” He caressed your cheek and urged you to look at him. "Take your time, My Lady. I will wait for you forever, if need be. We have all the time in the world.”

You smiled shakily at him and nodded.

Since my work is no longer searchable, please do me a favor and reblog this story if you enjoyed it. Help me reach a wider audience! To help me continue creating, please consider buying me a Kofi, becoming a Patron, or donating directly to my PayPal!

Thanks for reading!

My Masterlist

The Exophilia Creator’s Masterlist

#Exophilia #Minotaur #Elf #Manwha Tropes #Interspecies Romance

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peniscat · 11 months

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hiiiiiii. you have probably answered this many times but i can’t find it so if you don’t mind repeating yourself: why do you think romangerri stopped being a thing? when? was it is gerri deciding to not be into mess anymore as a ceo and roman not taking a no for an answer? why did she get so upset with him firing her in s4 when just talking about firing was a constant thing? was it that finally gerri felt the power roman had over her and finally realised she can’t play around with that? the photo to logan obviously fucked her and it’s roman’s fault. hm. i think im explaining it to myself out loud. but s3 is more interesting i thought itd be explored more. was it just about avoiding mess then?

if i have answered this it has definitely been a while so i don't mind doing it again! honestly i don't think romangerri ever stopped being a thing. even on s4 when they're cross with each other it is absolutely undeniable that they're still very much affected by each other! but if we're talking about gerri trying her most to erase the mess from their relationship, i think the danger of it caught up to her. roman's refusal to focus on the business aspect of their relationship and his inability to consider consequences combined with gerri's role as the interim ceo and the fact that if anything came out, it would be gerri who suffered – of course she tried to get the situation back under control by not engaging in the sexual aspect of their relationship.

i also think gerri never envisioned anything else for them than the business relationship. j just talked about this in an interview, but apparently gerri thought for a long time that roman was just fucking with her with the suggestions and all that. she didn't take him very seriously and i think the situation kind of crept on her, too. and ultimately she never would have considered anything serious with him, either, not in the timeline of s2/s3. what she wanted with him was the dynamic duo, her being the brains and him being the beauty, but i think roman sort of lost the focus on that especially in late s3.

of course she got upset when he fired her twice on s4? yeah, no one was really safe in waystar during logan's reign, but it's a fact that logan absolutely wouldn't have soured on gerri to that degree without the dick pic fiasco. and the second time – roman making a rash choice to fire her because of his inability to deal with logan's death and the fact she refused to lie to his face, insulting her in the worst possible way in the process? i'd be upset too. both of those times were proof of how associating with roman quite literally hurt her career.

but to return to your original question, i just really feel like the two major reasons were gerri realizing the possible consequences and the differences in what they wanted, which ultimately drove them apart. but what's fascinating is that at the point when it all falls apart, they are unable to just forget about each other. even when roman fires gerri in the beginning of connor's wedding, gerri sees right through him and it's clear that having to do it makes roman's tummy hurt exceptionally bad. and when everything goes to even more shit, gerri is visibly worried about roman (the funeral) and he literally breaks down when he sees her (board meeting). they're far from being over, baby <3

and of course we'll never know what the post-series romangerri dynamic looks like, but at least i can always comfort myself with the words of the world's leading gerri kellman expert, miss jsc herself: i don't know at what point she'd thought about it as a romantic thing. except if somebody young and wealthy and charismatic had a silly crush that they kept insisting on when they were around you, you'd have to be made of stone to not eventually respond to that. i could see them getting tipsy and making out in a bar once he's not her boss.

#sorry i rambled hjsfkjdsf #also i left out the part where j says they wouldn't have a relationship but it's ok i get her.#i appreciate how she still went. here's how romangerri can still win #and they did win. the trajectories of their lives were mutually changed <33333 #idk as much as i would have loved to see gerri mommy domming roman in every episode after safe room #i think the lack of it also makes for a very interesting relationship. the absence of something etc #romangerri #answered

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s0apysm1les · 10 months

Note

Lol okay so I got this funny idea or at least... it seemed funny to me in my head... welp so anyways imagine this: Reader calls yandere Peter Parker by this full name and starts to glare at him when he doesn't do something reader asked him to like maybe not doing the chore the darling asked him to?

CW: Goofy reader who adds extra names as emphasis, couple's argument, angry cooking

Batter Chatter

Peter Parker x Reader

not really a yandere story, this one's just cute! Just gonna drop a good one instead of explaining where I've been all this time.

"Peter Benjamin Parker!"

Wasn't a good thing to hear as a teen and it still isn't a good thing to hear as a 27 year old super-hero-but-also-photographer-by-trade. He had only just removed his mask and turned to the source of the alluring voice to see the love of his life.

Definitely angry and with a sharp glare in those beautiful eyes... and it's at that angry look that he remembers why he even left in the first place! Eggs... he forgot the eggs again. He only stepped out for a minute! He could go back out-

"Don't you even think of stepping out that window again Peter Edgar Benjamin Parker!" Oh, you're really mad this time.

"I ask you to do one! Thing! What is that?!" Before he even opens his mouth to respond you continue, "Get eggs! Why? For me to make cakes for YOUR office party that YOU signed me up for!" It was technically his boss, J Jonah Jameson, who signed you up for it but Peter didn't want to bring that up and earn more ire. Why the Daily Bugle is hosting a potluck, he doesn't know but it is a test of all the worker's ability to cook and everyone is pulling all stops.

He was specifically told "Parker, since it seems the only thing you're capable of doing is bringing half-shot photos of Spiderman, I don't trust you to bring in anything edible. You better leave it to that girlfriend of yours. Mary Jane or whatever."

"Ah, it's actually-"

"Don't correct me, Parker. Didn't I just say 'or whatever'? Whoever it is, I'm sure it's better than you! Have them bring it in or else!"

And with that, you were unwillingly listed in the catering field for the next week as you figure out what to bring, what you need and how you'll do it in the small apartment kitchen. With Peter hovering over your shoulder, you settle on bite sized portions of three types of cake, lemon pound cake, chocolate cake and strawberry cakes, each with little pads of icing or glaze on top. Peter called them cupcakes, you called him uncultured in the kitchen. "Petit Fours" you called them.

And all you asked of him was to bring you a 24 pack of eggs... which he didn't...

"Peter Edgar Johnson Parker! Are you listening to me?!"

"Yes, of course! I'm sorry! I promise I'm listening."

"Then why didn't you do what I asked! You decided to just fight random thugs on the street again." Your voice went from dry anger to wet anger. You sounded like you were going to cry. "It wasn't even any of your big bad enemies. The police could have taken care of these guys! Why don't you care about me?" You finished by dropping your head and hugged yourself.

Peter drops his mask and races to your side and attempts to both hug you and lift your face to look at him.

"I'm sorry baby, I'm sorry. Look at me, please?"

"No" You cry out, head still dropped and trying to hide yourself from him. You're immediately embarrassed because you're crying over such a little thing as a carton of eggs that you yourself could've gotten in the interim - remembering you had actually done so after he left.

You already knew that he was going to stop and fight some bad guys. It's his job. And he has to do this to keep you safe. You know this, you do. But just, over and over and over again. He forgets what you ask him to remember when he's fighting and it's to the point where it feels almost purposeful and that you're not worth remembering.

You wipe your eyes and sniff. You're mad. Stay mad. You remind yourself.

"Get out." You say. Trying to make it not obvious that you're crying and failing as he looks at your red shiny eyes.

"What? No wait -"

"Peter Charles Edgar Johnson - whatever the - PARKER!" You yell out. "Get out of the living room! Get out of the kitchen! Let me cook in peace!" You push away from him and watch his strong arms drop limply to his side, bumping off of his body as they fall.

Calling the expression on his face the "kicked puppy" look would make him seem less hurt than he actually was. But you were mad and you had to make yourself be strong.

"Go to the room, Peter. Now." You point for emphasis at the doorway a mere 3 feet away. The imposing hollow core door that hung crookedly on its hinges felt more like iron bars. And after a staring contest of 10 seconds, he slowly made his way into the room.

He didn't turn on the light and instead stood in the dark and stared at you until you ahem'd him to close the door with another flick of your finger. He complied...

With a stiffening of your shoulders, another wipe of your face and a full body shake you got started with cooking. You removed the eggs that YOU bought from the fridge and pulled up the recipes for the three cakes you intended to miniaturize and got started. Halfway through the second's batter beating, you heard the loud creak of the door opening and knew the eyes watching you belonged to your sulking boyfriend.

You didn't turn around, instead just let him watch. And as you cooked and moved and decorated, he slowly emerged from the room and sat in the doorway. You assume anyway, because you refused to turn back and look at him, still wanting to make him feel how upset you were despite not being so angry any more.

With you finally finishing up on the decorating portion, you felt that Peter had moved closer now and decided to finally glance at him. You see him propped against the corner of the kitchen's island and looking at you with his own set of tired and red rimmed eyes.

You look at him, the desserts and the sink half full of dishes and breath out an exhale. You grab a pink iced mini cake and a lemon cake and walk over to him and drop down into a cross legged position in front of him. Without a word and without looking into his eyes you pass him the strawberry cake.

He's staring at your face and you can feel it while you watch him in your peripheral vision bite into the cake.

"Is it good?" You ask after a far too long moment.

"mhm" he says around the cake in his mouth.

You lean against his shoulder and look up at his face.

"... can you do the dishes?" you ask. I love you, I'm sorry.

"Mhm" he kisses your forehead and then leans his head onto yours.

"I love you" "I love you too"

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oboetemasuka · 3 months

Note

Can I hear the director's commentary on Mahiru’s visiting section of Order of Attack? I loved all the prisoners' visits, but there were many lines from that one I specifically enjoyed!

Hi, hi! Thanks for asking!

(Source here)

I've taken to writing in a notebook before typing and editing. It's similar to how I draw on paper, scan, and edit. So lucky for you, I can provide some cut content as well!

My commentary in purple, out-of-order writing in green, typed parts in red. Hopefully it's not too hard to read. If it is, I'll figure out something in a reblog.

----

"Fuuta-kun…" Mahiru said as Fuuta opened his eyes.

Would you lot stop hovering over me while I'm sleeping?

Mahiru didn't seem to notice Fuuta's glare—or maybe he just wasn't able to be intimidating enough. Her hands remained on her shoulders, like they had been for the whole interim. She realizes nothing is keeping her arms in place anymore, right?

(Sometimes I realize I wanted to add something sooner. Since I've already written things on the page, I have to figure out where to add new things. For the green part, I had enough room to scrawl it in the margins. The red part was added during the typing process. So in other words, this detail that my dear readers love/hate was an afterthought. :))))))) )

"How much does it hurt?" she asked, still uncomfortably close to his face. Rub salt in the wound, won't you?

"Back off," he managed to say. Mahiru sat straight up, putting space between them.

"Sorry. I… I've been worried about you."

You and everyone else. "So what?"

( Around this point, I wrote a bit that I ended up scrapping. "I didn't mean to let it slip... what happened with you bleeding out." "You' rather have... let me... live a lie?" "N-no! I just realized it wasn't my place to tell you!" "What isn't your place is..." Fuuta struggled to catch his breath as a pain shot through his chest."Fuuta-kun? Are you- hey, I'll wake up Shidou-""No! ...don't need... stupid lectures..." Does this sound like Mahiru's VD? Yeah.)

"I just wanted to know if there's anything I can do to make you feel better."

You? Make me feel better? If it wasn't for you, someone might have saved me sooner! Yuno might have heard the attack right away.* Or Shidou wouldn't have sent Kazui out to protect you. Then I wouldn't have been so broken!

( Cut line: Then I wouldn't have bled out for an extra five minutes, and I wouldn't have permanent brain damage. I wouldn't have been unconscious and broken then. I wasn't sure what the actual medical implications are, so I decided not to include this particularly specific line. )

Whatever expression was on his face as he tried to get his words out must have caused Mahiru to tense up. Eventually, three words made it out.

(The part below, in green, was written in a different section of the notebook. I had switched gears to revise Mikoto's section. Well, to append the part where Shidou lectured Fuuta about lashing out. I'll show you what it originally looked like.)

"It's… your… fault…"

Mahiru looked very hurt, but not surprised. Her eyes started to quiver, like she was trying too hard not to blink.

( Original: [Mahiru is worried about Fuuta] "You... worried about me?" "Of course! After everything that has happened, knowing that-" "It's... your fault." Mahiru was taken aback, but she looked more hurt than surprised. She seemed to take time to process as Fuuta continued on. )

"You're… the cause… of all my problems!" Fuuta continued.

(Mahiru sat silently, guilt plastered all over her face.)

"You think I don't know that?" she responded quietly, tears streaming down her face.

"…doesn't… seem like…"

"You think it doesn't keep me up at night? Wondering what it would have been like if things were different? If I was the one alone, if Kotoko-chan had attacked me first, if you and Amane-chan didn't have to go through all of this because I wanted a little comfort? If…"

Mahiru's ramblings soon became engulfed in her sobs. But things are like this, Fuuta thought. I wouldn't wish this pain on you, but that doesn't mean you can waltz in here and try to make me feel better. As if you know me.

"You're… making this… about yourself…"

"I-I didn't mean…"

"…can't stand it… looking at you…"

(This is the end of the original block of text; the rest is written in a different section of the notebook. The rest picks up from the last green passage.)

(Mahiru kept crying for a few minutes. Fuuta found it impossibly irritating.)

Mahiru let go of her own shoulders to bury her face in her hands. Shidou walked up to her and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, got up, and walked out of the cell. Shidou sat down in her place.

(You told me that I made Mahiru "worse" even though she is physically unscathed. When she doesn't have to deal with the possibility of dying herself, imagine how much more time she has to worry about everyone else. And the way she tends to ramble on about things, I figure she would absolutely do that when under verbal attack.)

"Kajiyama-kun, what did you say this time?"

"What's… it… to you?"

"How many times do I have to tell you that your injuries are no excuse for you to treat everyone else like dirt?"

"Then maybe… they should just… leave me alone."

"I need their eyes from time to time. I can't monitor you constantly and in isolation."

Fuuta huffed. "Then tell them to… stop saying s…"

(Maybe I had a bit too much fun censoring the obvious words...)

"At this rate, they'll figure it out on their own."

(I guess the Shidou lecture came more naturally this time around since I had recently written the one after Mikoto's part)

#milgram #fuuta kajiyama #mahiru shiina #bad things happen to amane #ask game #asks

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because-she-goes · 1 year

Text

chocolate

warnings: none, just fluff. Enjoy!

What do you get for the boy on the other side of planet who has everything he could ever possibly want. What do you get the girl all the way back in America who could simply thrift or create whatever she needed.

The answer they both came up with was flowers. Matty’s being a classic romantic and liked red roses. Nora loved daisies and how summery they were. They also decided on dessert deliveries. Matty sent muffins for his muffin and Nora sent him the unreal brownies he loved from her place in New York.

So, now here we are. April 8th, 2017. Matty’s 28th.

Matty woke up that morning in his London home, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. They had started work on the next album, still untitled. Him and George were pulling late nights and drinking too many redbulls. His plaid pants hung low on his hips and he pulled on a robe, his house freezing. Going to make his morning cup of tea, he starts checking his phone for any overnight emails or texts from Jamie… he sees a missed call from Nora from last night at about 10pm - 3am London time. He checks the clock and sees its only about 5:30am there, Nora won’t be up for hours. Other than that, no immediate fires that need to be put out. Sipping his tea, he walks to the front door and grabs his newspapers - all the boys collecting them for album material. He loves these types of mornings - slow, relaxed, sleepy. He just wishes Nora could be with him, she had a work meeting tonight with a friend she had who was interested in commissioning something. She told him she would be getting the next flight out of New York in 2 days. He couldn’t wait. Her presence alone making the concrete house feel warm and comforting - like raspberry iced tea and summer time. He worked on a demo for a few hours and by the time lunch rolled around, his doorbell rang. Who could that be? He didn’t order anything and wasn’t expecting anyone. Matty swung the door open, and didn’t see the royal mail person there. Just a box with a note. Looking around again, shrugging his shoulders and picking up the box wrapped in twine with his name and address in a beautiful caligraphy.

Taking the package up to his kitchen, he unwraps it and the note falls to the ground. He takes the card and unfolds it. He inhales sharply when he recognizes the handwriting.

“To My Matthew,

Happiest of birthdays, Handsome! I am sorry I could not be there in person, but figured in the interim before my arrival you’d like a little piece of me. I love you so much, more than the English language will ever be able to articulate. I organized some things to arrive for you today so hopefully you like them. The first of which is a package of brownies from the bakery you love down the street from me, and before you even ask I did get the oreo ones you go nuts for. Don’t spoil your appetite, handsome… the boys’ll be round later to take you out. Have fun and again, I love you more than you’ll ever know.

Xx always,

Your Nora”

Matty was misty eyed, no-one had ever thought to send him something overseas when he was away. No girlfriend ever going that far for him. Putting that out of his brain, not wanting to get too emotional this early in the afternoon he tore open the box of brownies. The decadent smell of chocolate and candy filling the space around him, Matty thew his head back in bliss. “You’ve done it again, Downey!” He says to the universe - hoping someway she hears him. Munching on the brownie, he calls her.

“Well, good morning birthday boy! Gotten any of your gifts so far?” Her peach sweet voice comes through the line after a few rings.

“And a lovely afternoon to you, Honey! Yes actually, the brownies just came. Half already gone I’d like to report. Best brownies ever! What else is in store may I ask, beloved?”

“Oh, you’re good Matthew. I will be honest, I may have ordered a pack for myself to get delivered to the studio later. They truly are god’s gift to baking. As for the rest of the agenda, that is for me to know and for you to find out. Wouldn’t exactly be a birthday surprise if you knew, now would it, Handsome?”

“No it wouldn’t, Darling… Just know that when June rolls around and I’m locked away in a writing dungeon, I am gonna outdo whatever you have 10 fold.”

“You got yourself a challenge, Handsome.” She smiles. “Okay, I gotta run. I love you baby and happy birthday, I’ll be there before you know it.”

“Okay, good luck, Honey! I love you and am counting down the minutes.”

With that, another ring of the door bell comes as Matty hangs up the phone. Before him he sees a floral van and a young girl nervously holding a delicate bouquet of red roses and what look to be little bits of eucalyptus and white hydrangea. Oh, she knows him way too well, he thinks as he opens the door to the teenager.

“A Matty Healy?”

“I’m him! Thank You, doll. Have a good day!” He says to the girl as he tips her a few pounds and shuts the door softly. He grabs a vase and holds the flowers to his nose, he sighs in content. She really does know him incredibly well, a perfectly beautiful yet subtle arrangement.

Matty enjoys the rest of his day, texting her a picture of the brownie box now empty once the boys came and the flowers in their vase on his kitchen table. He blushed as she sent a kiss emoji and a “all for you, birthday boy <3”. Maybe 28 wasn’t going to be so terrible after all.

June in New York, Nora Downey turned 25 as the clocks struck 3:51am on the 16th.

She awoke quite differently than her other half. She slept through her alarm and wokd up a whole hour later for an appointment with her therapist. Calling the office, she rescheduled for the following day and was told it wasn’t any issue. Deciding to grab some coffee and swing by the local bookstore for her monthly magazine grab. Getting some copies of i-D magazine, DORK, Rolling Stone, British Vogue and British GQ. Heading back home excitedly to read her magazines, she gets a call from Matty.

“Hey baby, hows your birthday going? Doing anything fun today?” She smiles at his voice and the petname.

“Uhh, just heading home to read some magazines and things. Then maybe go to my painting and wine class!” He wishes he could be with her, but things with the album and the guys wanting to go to the countryside for the summer to write and work was just getting a little hectic. He does appreciate though that she is atleast doing something for her day, she raves about these wine and paint classes she started years ago. He still kept his plan of sending her a little something to her apartment, but she must have not seen it yet.

“Oh, that sounds fun! Me and the guys were gonna drive up north today and work at that studio I mentioned last week. Maybe I can facetime later and we can have a little virtual dinner date, yeah?”

“Sounds lovely, Handsome. I’m almost home by the way so sorry if this cuts out or if I go quiet trying to get upstairs.”

“Not a problem, take your time, Muffin.”

Getting to her building and clicking the button for the elevator she is shocked when she reaches her door.

“Healy, what have you done? Oh my god, don’t tell me you actually went through with the thing I joked about in Apri…”

“Oh, yes I did, Baby! Hope you love them, gotta run! Happy Birthday and I love you most!”

“Impossible, Handsome!”

Hanging up, grabbing the gorgeous bouquet of roses and daisies and the box she slides her keys in and kicks the door open. Knocking it closed, she carefully puts down the gifts on her entry table next to her key dish. Running to grab the cold champagne she keeps in case of emergencies from her fridge, a glass and a vase she makes me way back to the entry for the flowers. Setting the vase down on the living room table, she fills it with water and the flowers. Pouring her champagne, getting the box and magazines she sets up her afternoon. Nora goes to her bedroom, slides off her overalls and throws on a flannel shirt she stole from Matty and jean shorts. Gathering her hair in a ponytail and walking back to her idea of heaven, she sits comfortably on the couch. Snapping a picture of her and her treasures, she sends it to Matty - fully knowing its gonna drive him crazy that she’s in his shirt alone in her apartment.

“Couldn’t ask for a better start to 25 xx” She presses send and takes a bite of the incredible chocolate swirl muffins. She couldn’t ask for a better boyfriend.

#drew’s writing :)#matty x nora #matty bday week !!#HAPPY BDAY MATTHEW!!!#OFFICIALLY MIDNIGHT HERE :)#Spotify #an encounter

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spaghettificationandpretzels · 2 years

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A Taste of Heaven Part 7

Series Masterlist

Part 6

Contains: Fluff, hurt/comfort, medical cannabis use, smut (oral sex M and F receiving, fingering, P in V)

2,340 words

Comment if you want to be tagged or follow #a taste of heaven.

After years of study and effort, you finally secure your dream job, as one of the head curators at the best museum in New York. After inheriting a huge brownstone you're looking for a roommate when your best friend Ubbe comes up with a suggestion, his younger brother Hvitserk. Better yet, you're a food historian and he's a three Michelin star chef.

"What did Harold say?" Hvitserk put the coffee down on the table in front of you, "even if the radio host won't pay, now that he's confessed, we can take it from the proceeds of his show. We've all decided that Bob should also get a pension if his hands don't improve, which will also come from the host and the actual participants, some of them are very wealthy."

Hvitserk nodded, "when do the court proceedings start?" You shrugged, "not for ages, they need to handle the criminal case first, but it looks like they're all going to plead out."

Things had been strange over the last few days, with each good update, he didn't seem even a little surprised. He would smile softly and press a kiss on your cheek. You knew something was going on, but there's was no point in worrying about it, Ubbe would have said something if there was a reason to be concerned.

"We've got to take the kitties in for their first shots tomorrow, then we need to help Ubbe set up his house for his little one." Hvitserk shook his head, "who knew a few days with our guys would turn him into a foster mother." You smiled, "your brother has always been a little too soft, all it takes is one sad story for him to be invested."

"I know, I'm taking a half-day in case they need extra cuddles. I know when dad got the dogs their rabies shots, they felt pretty shit for a couple of days." You nodded, "that's not uncommon with the rabies vaccine. I know we're not letting them outside but I think we should get the heartworm shot rather than back of the neck."

He nodded, "good idea, is there anything else we should ask the vet about?" You shook your head, "they're too small for spay and neuter, I'll ask the vet the soonest possible date and set up the appointment tomorrow."

"Great, I'll see you tonight. Love you."

"Love you too."

There was a buzz in the office when you arrived, it had been there since the day the host turned himself in. The cleaning was done with a purpose instead of just a sad drudge, whispers were passed back and forth about who would come out next. Mary had made a bet with Carl that the politicians who advertised on the show would here glad handing to save face.

Sure enough, the interim guard stood and waved his metal detector wand while a man in a crisp suit and red tie walked into the bearly clean space. He walked up to you with the stride of a man who had never had the smug punched off his face.

"Hello Dr l/n I'm sure you know who I am." You didn't take his extended hand, "yes I do, Mr Hicks is one of your biggest doners. Are you here to win votes? Because if so, you're in the wrong place and you can bet when your campaign comes around I will be bringing this up with everyone who will listen."

His face changed, "Mr Hicks…" You cut him off, "Mr Hicks and his lies are the reason one of my good friends will have to go through months of painful medical care. I'm not some rich socialite, sir, you can't bullshit me. I don't want your cash or your promises of doing better. Leave, before I get you thrown out."

He shook his head, "I leave my check with your bosses and come back when you're less hysterical, I'm sure you'll be more reasonable once this mess is gone." You wanted to punch him but you refrained, "I'd be careful sir, Mr Hicks is singing like a canary, if I was you, I'd be worried about what skeletons he's going to let out of the closet to save his own skin."

He went red, "Mr Hicks is a smart man, he's knows when to stay quiet." You nodded, "let's hope, I imagine there are a lot of powerful people who want him to keep his mouth shut."

You raced off the called the brothers, the group call took a little while to connect but everyone was there listening, "you won't believe what just happened. You know that hardline Republican senator who's always going on cutting public spending?" There was a rush of yeses, "he just came here hoping to smooth things over with us. That's not the best part, he basically threatened Hicks when I said that he was ratting on people."

You could hear Ivar laughing, "are you starting a pool for how long this guy lasts before his powerful friends take him out?" The burst of giggles was cut off by Lagertha, chastising him, "Ivar, you know that's not appropriate. At least over the phone when other people can hear."

"Sorry mum." You shook your head, "you guys are terrible. I need to get back to work." The warm goodbyes were met with being invited to dinner that weekend and you hung up.

****************

The rest of the day went by quickly, most of the cleaning had been done by now and the department was almost ready for tours. By the time you were ready to head home, things looked practically normal.

Hvitserk was still at work when you got home, Ubbe had come by to drop the kittens off, having asked to look after them again today. You were in the laundry brushing Lady Soot when Ivar showed up.

"Hello sweetie. What brings you here today?" You pulled him into a hug and invited him inside, "hey y/n." He sat down and took his braces off, moaning and rubbing his legs, "I was at work, my legs won't stop aching. I figured you understand." You nodded, "I can give you some of my weed if you like? I take it for the migraines so I don't know if it will help but it's worth a try."

He nodded, "anything." You ran off and returned with a cookie, "we like our lungs in this house." He laughed and scoffed it down, "it should take about an hour and a half to work. I'll get you a heat pack in the meantime." He smiled softly when you came back and laid it over his legs.

"How's work been?" He shrugged, "busy, Bjorn's still trying to get the big security contract but they're playing hard to get. They want us armed to the teeth but they're not willing to pay for us the train their old guys or hire our guys." You shook your head, "why is he wasting his time? The security contracting part of the business is super high-end, why waste time and money on someone who wants a cheap job?"

He shifted again, trying to get comfortable, "I'll rub your legs, you explain why your brother wants to torture himself." You gently rubbed the ache away while he continued, "he hired us first to help with trading. He wanted to move fresh produce from the east to west coast without the carbon footprint but it took off and now he wants protection for his warehouse."

"Fuck that, he's made millions off of you guys, he needs to be grateful and listen to you and your brother or he needs to fuck off." Ivar laughed, "that's what mother said but you know Bjorn, he gets his mind set on something and he won't let it go."

Ivar kept venting to you as the medication kicked in, after a while he started to get sleepy so you covered him up and closed the blinds in the lounge room before calling Hvitserk to tell him to come in the backway.

"Hello my love." Hvitserk pulled you into a kiss, his hand coming to stroke your cheek, "how long's he been out?" You rested your head on his chest, "an hour, I think we should let him spend the night here so I can look after him if his legs act up again. We can wake him up for dinner at seven." Hivtserk nodded, "good idea, I'll make his favourite."

An hour later, you were walking up to Ivar's sleeping form and patting his cheek, "hey, it's time for dinner." He opened his eyes slowly, "I'm not hungry." You shook your head and helped him sit up, "Hvitserk make your favourite, you need to eat something even if it's just a bite."

You helped him put his braces back on and walked him to the dining table, "how are you feeling?" He shrugged, "much better just foggy." Hvitserk was smiling, "what are you smiling about?" He shook his head, "nothing, I just got lucky when you chose me."

Ivar chuckled, "you guys are really cute." You threw a bread roll at him, "you're one to talk, bringing flowers to Miss Hanah on your way to work." He blushed, Miss Hanah worked at the preschool next to one of Ragnar's buildings that Ivar did IT in and Ivar was utterly smitten.

"She's nice to me." Hvitserk laughed, "she's more than nice to you Ivar, you know mother saw you and her kissing in the cafe." Ivar put his spoon down, "we all know dude, Hvitserk couldn't want to tell me." Ivar started to laugh, "you guys are killing me."

"I've set up the spare room for you, I don't want you driving home in this weather while you're in pain." Ivar tilted his head, "what weather?" You raised your eyebrows, "it's going to pour in like half an hour, don't you pay attention to the sky."

Sure enough, forty minutes later the heavens opened and it was bucketing down. You all sat and watched some TV for a while before Ivar headed to sleep in the spare room and you and Hvitserk went to yours.

You were laying in bed with your back to Hvitserk's chest while he told you about his day, his hands rubbing the stiffness out of your shoulders. He leaned in to pressed kisses on your neck, his hands moving to stroke your skin.

"Can I suck your dick?" His breath caught in his throat, "fucking hell yes." You spun around and sat on his lap, holding his chin in your hand while you kissed his lips. He pulled his T-shirt over his head and you ran a hand down his chest, your lips following the path of your fingers while you moved down his body.

When you got down to the waistband of his pants, he practically pulled them off, you took his half-hard cock out of his pants and stroked it until it swelled against his stomach before placing kitten licks on the head.

"That feels really nice." His tone was breathy as you pulled him into you mouth. His hips started moving slowly, pausing each time to let you adjust as you went deeper, "just like that, oh fuck." You sucked him deeper, using your hand for the parts your mouth couldn't take in while the other rolled his balls.

"Can I cum in your mouth?" You pulled off and took over with your hand, "sure." You put your mouth back on his dick and went back to work, Hvitserk tapping your cheek soon after to let you know he was ready. You squeezed his hand in consent and seconds later, he was cumming down your throat.

He pulled you up, pressing an opened mouth kiss to you before flipping you over and kissing down your body, "your turn." Hvitserk pulled your top off then sucked a nipple into his mouth while his hand rubbed the other one softly, swapping over when you gasped and grabbed his head.

You pushed your panties off as he made his way down your body and lifted your legs onto his shoulder when he kissed over your mound, settling down comfortably into the pillows. He used one hand to hold you open and sucked your clit into his mouth, moaning as your taste filled his mouth, "you taste like sour candy." You giggle was cut off by a moan as he slid two of his long fingers inside you.

"Hvitserk, please." He lifted his head for a moment, "I know, I'm here. Just let me make you feel good." He didn't stop until your legs were quivering around his head and you were pushing him away from the overstimulation. He kissed up your body and rested his weight on you, his hard cock laying against your stomach.

"Do you want to keep going?" You nodded, "yes please." He shifted onto his elbows and used one hand to line up with your entrance, with one last nod for you, he slid inside your body. "Oh God."

He chuckled, "Hvitserk is fine." You huffed a laugh through a moan and he sped up slowly, ending in his hips slamming into yours while you bucked to match his speed. He felt you contract around him, his hand coming to rub your clit while he kissed you like you had the last breath of air in your lungs.

"Give me one more." You were powerless to resist, clenching around him. His pace faltered and he half fell on top of you. He grunted and you felt him pulse inside you, "holy shit, that was something."

You giggled, "I know right." Hvitserk smiled and rubbed his nose with yours, "you stay there, I'll clean us up." He got up and came back a few seconds later with a warm cloth and wiped you down.

"You good, not sore or anything?" You shook your head and opened your arms, "I'm great." He smiled and climbed on top of you, resting his head on your chest. "You good?" He nodded through a yawn.

"Ok then, good night my love."

"Good night y/n."

Part 8

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saltypiss · 2 months

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Really think how stupid ya gotta be in politics to look at the wide array of people in this country and go "One person can umbrella all these individuals and their perspectives"

That's republicans for ya, and the fact they keep losing is rather obvious. It's not because of RvW, unfortunately, it's not because of democratic action, however little, it's solely because one party decided to shrink to one person.

That's it. Why vote republican, if not solely for Dump? Seriously there isn't much left with him pulling the border bill while not even in office. Dems got a boost because there's more than the one guy and people can't ideologically vote for R's when it means more Dump. It's also why people don't want to vote for Biden after he came out as Pro-Genocide whole-heartedly as loudly as he possibly could.

Recognize MTG is in fact in office. It's not about anything but Dump. He successfully made politics all about him, you'll get votes associating with him, not republicans, and yet here we are, where He IS the republican party, not cruz, not desantis, not whoever and no one else, they're supporting characters, like a secretary. The only reason Biden is relevant is because he's memed with Dump, far more than he was with Obama.

It's simply a popularity contest, and Dump's out of new seasons until he's in jail. Then the spin offs will happen. Otherwise, everyone else is a politician, Dump still remains a Party. And presently, he ain't winning ever again.

Which is why I say, let's make a third party NOW before republicans get their footing again. Once Dump is gone and R's decide to move on, R's will be back in literally no time at all. It takes ONE fuck up by a democrat president for R's to make a come-back, and you can't deny that, most people won't allow criticism of Dear Leader from either party.

Whether the cages at the border that are still there, the bolstering of police, or being pro-genocide for economic points, there are a LOT of people who aren't voting because neither candidate is remotely good for them. To me, R's speed up our decline, D's just slow it down, and we're past Covid, at worst periods of time in history, and we're just supposed to accept this is the new, still declining, normal?

Vote third party. Most of you aren't gonna vote anyways, so vote third party. A Vast, amount of issues are fixed by pushing R's out, and third party to take second place FAR EASIER than any other period of time before or after.

This election matters alot. In that, if we don't get a third party, we're back to sliding backwards slowly again with this as the new normal until R's come back to speed it up.

We can grow as a country, Biden is Not the future, but a Helpful Stop-Gap as he himself said he was when he ran for Interim President and once again pulled back on that promise. With his genocidal ass running, we're safe from Dump, he has both party's support from R's jumping ship this election but not others. The blue wave is not anything but a trend that can be killed by apathy and time. Time Dems waste substantially.

Use him. Use his safety from R's to make a third fuckin party. Because I Guarantee You This: After Biden, shit gets back to normal, after Dump, R's come back and we're right back where we started with Obama transitioning to Dump. Just this time, it'll be someone dumber than Biden, against someone smarter than Dump. We can't let that happen.

I'm not trying to syphon votes from Genociden Biden, but for those that have lost all hope, trust, or confidence, throw that last sticky note into the wind, vote third party. This is it. There will never be another opportunity for third party to happen again. Even if it fails, if there's enough steam, we can make it eventually. If we put everything into Biden, we're accepting the old norm nobody was happy with, except it's worse and gonna get worse. At least with a third party, we complicate the downward spiral enough for Hope to sometimes uncover. I say it's worth it. If you know someone who's not voting for Biden but hate's Dump, tell em to vote third party AND WHY. Motivate them. Keep people voting.

Voting only doesn't work when it's between 2 bad parties. If you believe that, vote third party. If you don't, convince non-voters to vote third party.

#trump #politics #US politics #voting #republicans #democrats

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reidscanehand · 2 years

Text

Reaching for the Moon ~ part II

Part I - Part II

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Interpolfem! Reader

Category: Angsty Fluff

TW: cursing, mentions of the possibility of cheating, insecure Spencer and Reader, I reference the idea of “running away from home to find a happy ending” but it’s more of a concept than anything else, I’m also kind of mean to Ethan, but I also don’t know a ton about Ethan (there isn’t a ton to know), so I made up a lot about him.

This is the finale of this piece and I hope you like it! xx

It really upsets him how absolutely impossibly simple it is to fall in love with you all over again.

Not so much upsets him as completely demolishes his heart and puts it back together again every single time the two of you hang out. Which turns out to be a fair amount, actually. It’s possible David spoke to Emily, or both were just of the same mind in deciding that spending time with you would be good for the both of you. And then, of course, old habits die hard. The two of you were close friends for a reason. That reason being that he’s desperately in love with you, but also because you’re wonderful friends to one another. If he wasn’t so damn happy to be around you again, Spencer would almost be embarrassed by the extra skip he’s got in his step that has everything in the world to do with you.

He can tell you’re nervous about joining the FBI, even in the interim capacity you’re in. You needn’t be - as ever, you’re brilliant - but he understands. You’ve been working for two weeks, Spencer sitting with you in the batcave, completely different now that you’re in it. It’s your third week with the team when he realizes that you haven’t decorated at all - not even leaving your own office supplies when you’re done for the day, but carfeully packing them all away.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he begins awkwardly one morning, watching you unpack your bag full of office supplies as he perches on the edge of your desk, “but why...why don’t you just leave your stuff here?”

You stare up at him as though you’ve been caught; your eyes are so wide, he feels bad for asking. You look away for a moment, scrunching your nose (adorably) in thought before answering quietly but carefully.

“I don’t want...I don’t want to get too comfortable.”

“Why not?” Spencer asks carefully. Watching you now he notices your body language in this office. You keep it meticulously clean, you keep your bags near the door - even now, getting ready to work, you’re perched on the edge of the chair. It’s bizarre to be in an impersonal batcave after the years and years of Garcia’s personality nearly bursting through the office door.

“Because...because when it’s all over, I’ll have to leave and no one will remember me,” you state plainly. He knows his jaw drops. He knows his eyes widen. He knows because he’s shocked.

“You think no one will remember you?” he asks.

“Yes...no, I mean...” you trail off, looking away from him. “It’s-it’s just that I w-worry that I...”

Your silence gives Spencer a moment to speak, but he almost can’t.

“Y/N,” he starts, “I can’t believe that y-you would feel that you’re unmemorable.”

“It’s not even...it’s not that, not really,” you amend quietly. “I just don’t...make an impact anywhere.”

“You made an impact at CalTech,” Spencer replies.

“I certainly did not,” you snort humorlessly. “You did but-”

“You made an impact on me!” He’s just a surprised at you are at the intensity of his voice, but he can’t stop himself. “You made an impact on me, Y/N. You were the most important person I met at CalTech.”

You stare at him, jaw dropped for a moment before you say, “Spencer, that’s kind of you, but-”

“It’s not kindness,” he interrupts you again, “it’s the truth. You were the only person who made CalTech feel like any kind of home for me. You made me more comfortable than I’d been in years and, not only that, but you made me feel ready for the FBI. I was so uncertain, so terrified, but you made me feel like I could do anything.”

You’re still staring at him, mouth slightly ajar.

“I understand that someone who travels as much as you have could feel like it’s hard to find a home somewhere,” Spencer continues, staring right into your eyes. “But you light up every room you’re in...and-and you’re allowed to be at home here.” With me, he almost adds, but he doesn’t have the courage.

You stand and throw your arms around him suddenly, an action he reciprocates fervently. Eventually you pull away slightly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

“I’ve missed you, so,” you whisper.

Neither of you mention the hug or the kiss on the cheek for the rest of the day, but Spencer feels the glow that both have given him all day long as the two of you officially move you into the office.

~~~

You’re incredibly kind to him, but it doesn’t feel condescending as it does with some others. You’re still kind, even when he eventually tells you about prison. You knew, of course, having been warned about it by Emily, he assumes, but you let him tell you everything that he wants to. He tells you all of it, not sure he’s told anyone all of it ever but you listen so patiently and unjudgmentally that you win his heart all over again.

You ask him to walk with you to a farmer’s market one Saturday, a task he is happy to help with. The two of you are walking along calmly when a small argument breaks out in one of the stalls. The argument is quickly shut down by the owner and the security guard, but it triggers something in Spencer.

You’ve walked ahead of him as he’s stopped moving, but he suddenly feels more alone and lost than he ever has. There are far too many people around him, the noises are all too much, the sunlight is too bright, the smells too potent. He slams his hands over his ears, trying not to hyperventilate as the panic sets in.

A gentle, but firm pressure against his back pushes him to behind a stall, hidden away from everyone. The spot where the farmer’s market is set up has a bench conveniently located behind this particular stall, and he’s pushed to sit down. You kneel in front of him and he realizes that it’s you that got him out of there.

“Spencer,” you whisper, “are you okay?”

All he can do is shake his head desperately.

“Okay, okay, no worries,” you say, still very quiet. “Do you want me to go get you some water?”

The idea of you leaving is so terrifying that Spencer can’t do anything, but pull you up to him and wrap his arms around you, crying into your shoulder. You’re not alarmed at all, but coo softly, pulling him closer, and rubbing soothing circles into his back.

Eventually, the panic and anxiety clouding his brain and sitting in his stomach calm down, allowing him to breathe correctly again.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, embarrassed by the tears and sniffles.

“Nothing to be sorry about, Spencer,” you smile. “Really, I’m sorry I brought you-”

“I should be able to handle stuff like that,” he cuts you off. “It’s been ages since...”

“Spencer,” you say after he trails off, “even if you’re never okay, it’s completely alright.”

“That’s not...I don’t want to be more of a burden than I already am.”

You cock your head to the side in confusion, “You have never and will never be a burden, Spencer Reid. You’re the strongest and bravest person I have ever known. And I’m sorry that no one has told you that enough.”

Spencer can’t do anything but hug you again, trying to hide the tears that start to fall, but they are no longer tears of panic. The tears he sheds as you hold him for God knows how long on that park bench are for how long he’s loved you and how you can never ever know.

~~~

It astonishes no one that the two of you start to hang out outside of the office. It doesn’t even seem to phase you, really, and it surprises Spencer that he isn’t phased by this change. But, nearly every Saturday evening, the two of you end up at his apartment, watching a foreign film, typically. This is one such evening.

The film you picked is shockingly romantic, enough to make Spencer blush, which makes you giggle. Over the two months you’ve been at the BAU - your interim position changed to permanent - the two of you have only gotten closer, but nothing coul’ve prepared Spencer for what feels like the damn near domestic bliss in which the two of you seem to exist. You’re leaning against his shoulder, so close he could kiss you if he so chose.

And then there’s a loud knock on his door. The two of you pasue the film, and Spencer walks to his door cautiously.

“Hello?” he calls.

“Spencer!” It’s Ethan on the other side of the door. He opens the door only for Ethan to practically fall inside it. The smell of him is enough to tell - he’s drunk. Very, very drunk. “Oh, and Y/N’s here!”

Spencer looks over to where you’re standing behind the couch, a nervous look on your face. He can feel all of the color draining from his face.

“What’s going on, buddy?” Spencer asks. “How’d you-”

“We were visiting Rebecca’s parents,” he tells them, his voice slurring. “And I had to leave.”

“Why’d you have to leave, Ethan?” you ask quietly.

“Because I’m not ready to get married,” he explains as though he’s telling you two the sky is blue. “No, I’m still in love with her.”

He points at you and Spencer’s heart sinks even further somehow. You stare at Ethan with an unreadable expression.

“Ethan, I-”

“You still love me!” Ethan declares. He steps toward you and you step back, but it’s unnecessary as he falls onto the couch. “You’ve always loved me. You said you’d wait for me as long as I needed and now-”

“Ethan, I was 21,” you interrupt him firmly. “That was a long time ago.”

“Oh, come on, sweet cheeks,” he disagrees, looking up at you from the couch, “you and me - we are meant to be.”

“You’re drunk,” you say, clearly uncomfortable. Spencer steps toward you, reaching out to you, but you step away. “Can you handle him?”

“Of course, he’ll fall asleep soon,” Spencer replies, sad that you won’t look at him.

“Would you mind if I left?” you asks quietly.

“Of course not,” Spencer answers, hoping you can’t hear how much he wishes you’d stay in his voice. “Go ahead.”

As you start to leave you rush back over to Spencer, giving him a huge hug before rushing out the door.

“Still in love with my girlfriend, I see,” Ethan slurs from the sofa. He’s quieter now, clearly about to succumb to the alcohol and fall asleep.

“She’s not your girlfriend, Ethan,” Spencer says, covering his friend up with a blanket.

“No, but she was-”

“A long time ago,” Spencer interrupts, trying not to get annoyed.

“You’re just mad because she was never in love with you,” Ethan retorts, his comment somehow still stinging, even as he closes his eyes.

“You’re right,” Spencer whispers, knowing Ethan is fully asleep, “she’s never been in love with me.”

~~~

The evening before feels like a nightmare. Ethan’s half-assed apology as he leaves Spencer’s apartment doesn’t numb it either. That’s all it is and Spencer can’t help but feel as though he should’ve expected it - his sunny, happy world lit by your renewed presence in his life turned quickly into a nightmare. A nightmare that only continues when you don’t show up to work the next day.

“She’s not here,” Emily says. Spencer looks up to see his friend staring down at his desk in the bullpen from her office door.

“Who do-”

“Spencer,” Emily says, almost warningly, “I know you know I mean Y/N. Playing the idiot has never looked good on you.”

“I don’t know what you-”

“Look,” she cuts him off again, “I don’t know what happened. I don’t know the whole story, but what I do know is that the both of you have never looked happier than you do with each other.”

“Emily, it’s-”

“She loves you and you love her and if you can’t recognize that and do something about it, than you’re not the genius I thought you were,” Emily retorts. She looks at him, face softening slightly, “Spencer, it’s okay to run away and find your happy ending, you know? You deserve it. You both deserve it.”

She goes into her office, leaving Spencer alone. He doesn’t need to think about it anymore, but jumps up, rushing to the park where he knows you’ll be. He can feel it in his soul.

And there you are. Right on the bench where he’d had his panic attack just a few days ago.

“Hey,” he breathes. He wants to say more but all he can do is repeat himself, “Hey.”

“Hey,” you almost whisper. He gestures to the seat next to you and you nod allowing him to sit down. “Sorry I wasn’t at work.”

“That’s not why I’m here,” he replies, “I was worried about you.”

“It was cowardly of me not to show up today,” you whisper after a moment.

“Y/N-”

“I was too scared to face you,” you interrupt him, “and you deserve better than that.”

“I never want you to be too scared to face me,” Spencer says, “and I’m sorry-”

“Spencer,” you cut him off again, “it wasn’t your fault at all...it’s just...it’s difficult to face your mistakes with one person, let alone everyone who was involved.”

“Y/N,” he murmurs quietly, “what...what do you mean?”

“I’ve been in love with you for a long time, Spencer Reid,” you say timidly, “and I was way too much of an idiot to realize it.”

Spencer’s heart is practically banging in his chest, his face is curving into a smile that feels far too jovial for how serious this moment is. “You...you love me?”

“Yes,” you nod, “very much. I fell in love with you the day I ran into you at CalTech. And I understand if you-”

It’s Spencer’s turn to cut you off finally finally pressing his lips to yours. He smiles into your lips as you begin to kiss him back, your hands finding their way to his chest, his arms looping around you.

“I have been in love with you since I looked up from the ground and you were offering to help me up,” Spencer says when he pulls away. “But I always thought that Ethan-”

“Ethan was never the one for me,” you break in, smiling up at him as he cups your face in his hands. “It’s always been you.”

“You’re it for me, you know that?” he asks, pressing a kiss to your forehead. He wraps an arm around you, settling back into the bench.

“I’ve never felt at home anywhere,” you tell him again, only this time you lean your head up against his shoulder, still gazing out at the river, “except with you.”

“With me?” he asks quietly, leaning his head atop yours and squeezing your hand.

“Yes,” you whisper, bringing your joined hands to your lips and kissing his knuckles. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it.”

Spencer smiles to himself, a sense of contentment he’s never known passing over him, “Being in love with you always felt like reaching for the moon and, in the grand scheme of things, a long journey here feels appropriate.”

You laugh slightly, pressing a kiss into his shoulder, a gesture he returns by placing a kiss on the top of your head.

“Reaching for the moon,” you repeat quietly. “That is accurate...but about you, I must say.”

“You can’t mean that,” Spencer chuckles.

“Oh, but I do,” you giggle, tucking yourself further into his side, “you’re a gorgeous genius FBI agent. You are the moon.”

“Says the most beautiful, wonderful woman in my orbit,” he amends gently. You laugh as he presses another kiss to your head. The two of you sit, cuddled into each other for a while, the sense of happiness feeling nearly miraculous.

“So, how does it feel?” you ask eventually, and he can hear your smile in your voice.

“What?”

“Being on the moon,” you whisper. “Because, I have to say, it feels pretty marvelous to me.”

Spencer lifts his head and curls his free hand under your jaw, gently pushing you to look at him.

“It’s not at all like I imagined,” he tells you, eyes flicking to your lips.

“Isn’t it?” you grin, moving closer to him, your eyes dropping to his lips as well.

“Not at all,” he agrees, his mouth a mere breath from yours, “it’s much better.”

~ Gentle swain at thy request I am here. - John Milton ~

~~~

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robininthelabyrinth · 3 years

Note

Prompt 1) NMJ is the son of the concubine, NHS is the son of the legal wife, who had difficulty conceiving because of an old night hunting injury, and picked out a concubine for her husband who was big and strong and healthy as on ox - the strength got passed on, her more even temperament didn't. The legal wife conceived later, with much difficulty and they weren't entirely sure NHS would live at first

ao3

“Are you well?” Nie Mingjue asked Jin Guangyao, his voice stiff, and Jin Guangyao looked at him sidelong, surprised by the question, as well as the fact that Nie Mingjue was talking to him at all.

Normally, he would assume that Nie Mingjue was doing it because Lan Xichen was encouraging him to get along with Jin Guangyao again, but Lan Xichen was in the Cloud Recesses, had been in the Cloud Recesses for quite some time. Officially, he was helping oversee the rebuilding; unofficially he was caring for his brother, who had officially entered seclusion and unofficially was healing from a punishment so grievously terrible that Jin Guangyao was reminded all over again why one could not trust the righteous facades of the wealthy and powerful Great Sects.

Not that he needed much reminding, here in Jinlin Tower…

At any rate, Lan Xichen couldn’t be the reason Nie Mingjue was asking Jin Guangyao about his well-being, and that meant that his stern, grim-faced oldest sworn brother was doing it on his own, for reasons of his own.

Naturally, Jin Guangyao mistrusted that even more.

“Of course, da-ge,” he said with a practiced smile. “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Nie Mingjue said, somehow, impossibly, even stiffer than before. “No, I just – I meant – with Jin Zixuan’s death. It must have made it – hard. Here. For you.”

That was a staggeringly perceptive insight, and the fact that it came from Nie Mingjue, who thought ignoring rumors until they went away was a valid strategy, was something of an uncomfortable surprise. Even Lan Xichen hadn’t really thought of Jin Guangyao in the aftermath of Jin Zixuan’s death and the ensuing calamity, with the Nightless City and Wei Wuxian’s final downfall and everything with Lan Wangji taking away his attention; at best, he’d penned a careless letter belatedly expressing that he was sad that Jin Guangyao hadn’t had more of an opportunity to get to know Jin Zixuan better before his untimely demise.

Not even Su She had said anything, taking Jin Zixuan’s death as an unmitigated good – an obstacle out of their way, and nothing more. Easy enough for him to think as sect leader of his own sect, however small.

Not so easy for Jin Guangyao.

Not so easy when Madame Jin’s dislike of him had turned to full-blown maddened hatred, when his father looked at him like filth on his shoe, when they wouldn’t let him anywhere near Jin Ling as if his mere touch were some sort of toxic poison…

“…thank you,” he said cautiously. “I’ve been doing fine.”

Nie Mingjue jerked his head in a nod. “Avoid the sect elders for a time,” he said, and when Jin Guangyao looked at him, he was staring straight ahead, not looking at him at all. “Be careful with what you eat and drink. Some people don’t like to take chances.”

Was Nie Mingjue – Nie Mingjue – warning him about a possible assassination attempt? The man who had barely consented to using spies during wartime, who thought politics could be conducted through above-board dealings, who thought bribery and blackmail were unacceptable crimes? Him?

The world had truly turned upside down.

“I’ll be careful,” Jin Guangyao said, and found to his embarrassment that his tone had unconsciously softened, revealing the sudden fondness he was feeling for no good reason. He could rationalize it as a deliberate move, because allowing Nie Mingjue to do him a favor and sounding touched about it was a good way to get closer to him, to get back through those iron defenses of his. The problem was that it wasn’t a stratagem, not really, and that was dangerous.

Nie Mingjue nodded again, and Jin Guangyao expected him to move on – he and Nie Mingjue might be sworn brothers, but they didn’t chat – but he didn’t. He lingered, instead, clearly wanting to say something, something he was chewing over and not quite able to spit out.

Unusual, for someone who normally prided himself on being straightforward and direct.

“Is there something else?” Jin Guangyao eventually asked when Nie Mingjue didn’t seem to be actually making any progress towards saying anything.

Nie Mingjue grimaced and took a step – off to the side, to a corner of the path that was a little more secluded than most. Interestingly, he didn’t make the amateur mistake of going for one of the obviously secluded alcoves, which of course had all sorts of hiding-holes for eavesdroppers, but rather ended up in one of the few areas where the architecture created a natural dead space for sound.

Intrigued, Jin Guangyao followed him there.

Once they were there, Nie Mingjue still looked awkward – he was still refusing to look directly at Jin Guangyao, as if they wouldn’t be talking in hushed tones in a secluded corner if he didn’t admit that that was what they were doing – but finally said, “Would it help or hurt if I said anything?”

Jin Guangyao frowned a little, not following. “Said anything?”

“About the inheritance,” Nie Mingjue said, and Jin Guangyao’s eyes widened. “You’re the only recognized son left; you ought to be named heir until Jin Ling is full grown. But that doesn’t mean people will let that happen so easily.”

Jin Guangyao would have been less surprised if Wen Ruohan had spontaneously resurrected himself from the dead and performed a brothel fan dance on the front lawn of Jinlin Tower.

It had not even remotely entered his calculations that Nie Mingjue would be anything but an obstacle to his ambitions for power over the Lanling Jin sect – at best, he had hoped only that Nie Mingjue would be convinced that Jin Zixuan’s death was wholly Wei Wuxian’s fault and not find some way to blame Jin Guangyao for it, and that he wouldn’t immediately suspect that Jin Guangyao of scheming to kill Jin Ling and take the whole thing for himself.

He’d never dreamed that Nie Mingjue might think that he deserved it.

“I’ll support you, of course,” Nie Mingjue said, as if it were obvious, when it was the least obvious thing that had ever happened in Jin Guangyao’s life. “But I’m not actually any good at this sort of thing, you know – playing politics with the internal affairs of other sects. I don’t want to make things worse for you just because I don’t know what the right approach is, especially not here.”

Jin Guangyao stared at him.

Nie Mingjue, not hearing a response, glanced at him and scowled. Lowering his voice still more, he said, “Think on it carefully. Sect Leader Jin hates me personally, but my Nie sect isn’t nothing, not even in Lanling. It’s still more so after the war, after all those battles I won to save the Jin sect’s rotten – that is, after everything I did to help. Even if your father doesn’t like it, he still has to give my sect face, and his sect elders know it. You’re a war hero, and my sworn brother; if a public stand on my part would help make things easier for you…”

“I’ll think on it carefully,” Jin Guangyao assured him, his mind already racing over the possibilities. Nie Mingjue underestimated himself – he wasn’t just a war hero, he was the war hero, the righteous and unyielding war god that had won an impossible war for the rest of them. He was Jin Guangshan’s chief rival for the position of Chief Cultivator and he wasn’t even trying to get the position; he probably wanted nothing more than to go home to Qinghe and sleep for three months and yet practically every single sect leader that Jin Guangshan felt out on the subject invariably dropped his name as the possible alternative. Assuming he was serious, and Nie Mingjue was always serious, his public support would make it extremely tricky for Jin Guangshan to refuse to name Jin Guangyao as the official heir, even if he tried to claim that this was a private matter. The rest of the sect would force him to do it, even against his will.

Moreover, Lan Xichen would follow Nie Mingjue’s lead, or at least could be easily encouraged into doing so. He was so distracted with his brother, if Jin Guangyao went to him and pointed out that Nie Mingjue thought it was a good idea to stand behind him…no, he wouldn’t even need to do that. Everyone knew how much better his relationship with Lan Xichen was in comparison to Nie Mingjue; if Nie Mingjue stood behind him, everyone would assume that Lan Xichen did as well, and then he would have two of the remaining Great Sects backing his right to inherit – even if only in the interim – the seat of power for Lanling Jin, as the only recognized son…

Except, of course, Jin Guangshan had already accounted for that.

Jin Guangyao’s eyes flickered. Perhaps there was a way to test Nie Mingjue’s sincerity.

“There is one issue,” he said, and Nie Mingjue turned his head to look at him directly. “My father has – decided to bring home another son.”

Nie Mingjue stared at him. “Another son?”

“From a minor noble family of commoners –”

“He brought one home now?” Nie Mingjue said, and he sounded angry. He always sounded angry, but this time he sounded angry on Jin Guangyao’s behalf, something he hadn’t been since Langya, since Qinghe, and it thrilled Jin Guangyao’s heart to hear it. He’d always secretly enjoyed having someone as physically and politically strong as Nie Mingjue in his corner, the power of it going to his head; it was even more so now, when he was finally in a position where he could really use it. “That’s a deliberate insult to you, and for what? Some untried boy…”

One who isn’t the son of a prostitute, Jin Guangyao thought, but of course Nie Mingjue wouldn’t think about it that way. He never had, not from the beginning.

“Father is of course within his rights to bring home whoever he wishes, for the best interest of the sect,” he said diplomatically, and Nie Mingjue huffed and rolled his eyes. “Da-ge…”

“It doesn’t change anything,” Nie Mingjue said curtly. “Think on it, and tell me what you want me to do.”

With that he turned away and strode off towards the main hall, a scowl firmly on his face.

Jin Guangyao watched him go, pleased – Nie Mingjue was really too easy to manipulate, if you knew him well enough. He’d keep quiet during the opening ceremony of the conference, but if he was really sincere about standing up for Jin Guangyao’s right to inherit, there would be no way he’d be able to refrain from expressing his views to Jin Guangshan at some point later that evening.

Sure enough, Nie Mingjue seethed throughout most of the complex and beautiful ceremony Jin Guangyao had arranged to show off Lanling Jin’s wealth and strength and taste – all wasted on him, naturally, so Jin Guangyao didn’t take any offense – and through dinner as well, and afterwards found a reason to make his way over to Jin Guangshan. After a few words, they both retreated to one of the receiving rooms.

Jin Guangyao made his excuses very shortly thereafter and slipped away: the receiving rooms, at least, were not dead spaces, and he knew all the ways to listen in there.

By the time he arrived, they were already arguing.

“ – what business of yours?” Jin Guangshan was snarling. “These are my private family matters!”

“He is my sworn brother,” Nie Mingjue said in return, his voice stiff as always. It was interesting to Jin Guangyao that he still didn’t seem happy about admitting that fact; he was still resentful of Jin Guangyao, still suspicious, and yet he supported him regardless, just because he thought it was his right. Ah, the foolishness of good people! “When you refuse to give him face, that becomes my business.”

Jin Guangshan spat, audibly. Jin Guangyao, still carefully moving into a position where he could see as well as hear, hoped he’d aimed it at the floor and not at Nie Mingjue’s face.

“Oh, I’m sure it is,” Jin Guangshan said. “I suppose I really shouldn’t be so surprised to find you supporting him, should I?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Nie Mingjue demanded, and Jin Guangyao wondered the same.

“You know exactly what I mean,” Jin Guangshan said. Jin Guangyao had never heard his father sound so cruel – and he had quite a bit to compare it to. “They do say like calls to like, don’t they?”

Jin Guangyao had just finally gotten into view position, which meant he was just in time to see all the blood drain out of Nie Mingjue’s face as if he’d just been stabbed.

“You may have won some merit,” Jin Guangshan said, and he was smirking now. “But they do say blood always tells – or did you think that people would forget that it’s your brother that’s the true-born son, and you merely a concubine’s get?”

He was what?

Nie Mingjue was –

It was impossible. Surely, it was impossible.

And yet Nie Mingjue was not denying Jin Guangshan’s words, was not getting angry at the slander, was standing there stiff-backed and grim-faced –

“I still remember how disappointed your father was when his beautiful, beloved, delicate wife couldn’t get a pregnancy to last the term,” Jin Guangshan said, picking up one of the jars of wine and taking a swig. “He didn’t want to take a concubine at all, thought it’d be disrespectful to his wife, but what could he do? He was the sole heir, with an obligation to continue his lineage…they bought your mother for the breeding, like bringing in a cow for the farmyard bull.”

He laughed.

Nie Mingjue said nothing.

“Healthy, I think he said about her. Healthy and big, good hips for bearing children, good tits to nurse them – that was all he cared about, squeezing a few sons out of her, and she didn’t even manage that. Ran away after the first one, didn’t she? You ever figure out where she went, whether she ended up married to some dumb farmer as illiterate as her, or else lying on her back in a brothel? Dead in a beggar’s grave somewhere, perhaps?”

Nie Mingjue said nothing.

“No, it’s no surprise: of course you’d back the little son of a whore for the position of rightful heir, as if letting him take it would help cover up for the way you stole your own brother’s –”

“Watch your words,” Nie Mingjue said, his heavy voice slicing through the air like a saber.

“Still pretending it wasn’t theft, then?” Jin Guangshan laughed again, pacing the room back and forth, prowling like some sort of beast. “You were supposed to step down when he was ready – you had to swear never to have children, never to marry, all so you could warm the sect leader seat until he was grown up and ready to take it himself. But a weakling wastrel like that, he’s never going to be ready, is he? Very clever of you. I bet your sect elders hadn’t thought of you getting around it like that.”

“You dare –”

“Oh, I dare! And I’d dare more, if you think you can push me around!” Jin Guangshan bared his teeth. “Let me tell you now, Sect Leader Nie, if you dare make a public statement of support for Guangyao, I’ll remind the whole world that you’re no better than him, that you ought to be one of the Nie sect’s servants, not its sect leader –”

“Go ahead.”

Jin Guangshan stopped.

“Go ahead,” Nie Mingjue said again, stepping forward, and Jin Guangyao had never actually seen him purposefully use his height against someone, wield it like a weapon to remind the other party which of them was the more terrifying. “I’ve already had half a dozen public arguments with Huaisang about the fact that he needs to take the role of Sect Leader; everyone in my sect knows that he’s the one who keeps refusing. Do you really think everyone is like you? Scrabbling for every scrap of power you can get, like a rat in the rubbish bin?”

Jin Guangshan took an involuntary step backwards as Nie Mingjue continued to advance.

“When there are those who speak against you, you must do so well that they have no choice but to shut their mouths,” Nie Mingjue said, and it was the very same words he had spoken in encouragement to Jin Guangyao, all those years ago when they had first met. At the time, and thereafter, Jin Guangyao had thought him naïve, of not knowing of which he spoke. “Tell me, Sect Leader Jin, if you go out and spew your poison to your sycophants, do you really think any but the most loyal and brainless will open their mouths to condemn me now? Now, when I’ve just won the cultivation world a war, when I saved Lanling Jin a dozen times or more? Do you really think people will remember my mother instead of my saber?”

“You’d be amazed what people remember,” Jin Guangshan said, even if his voice was weaker, more desperate than it had been before. Less mighty and more pathetic than before, as if Jin Guangyao were suddenly seeing him in a brand new light: seeing him as what he was, as a man who would never looked beyond a person’s birth, no matter what their merits. “In the end, public arguments or not, you were the one who raised Nie Huaisang, now a good-for-nothing, a waste, and you sit in his throne, managing his Nie sect. People will remember that! Your sect will still lose face, be dishonored!”

“Fine. Then I’ll just kill you,” Nie Mingjue said, and Jin Guangshan gaped at him. “Why not? You’re right. To protect my brother’s birthright, I vowed never to have children, never to marry; the only ambitions in my life were to allow Huaisang to live well as he grew older and to avenge my father, and I’ve accomplished both. Even if they execute me for your murder, what’s it to me? What will I have lost?”

Jin Guangshan’s mouth moved open and closed, mute in his shock, and Jin Guangyao couldn’t blame him.

Nie Mingjue’s lips twisted into a sneer of his own.

“For once in your life, Sect Leader Jin, just do the right thing,” he said, sounding tired, and Jin Guangyao felt something loosen inside of him that had gone inexplicably frozen and pained at the idea of Nie Mingjue breaking all those morals and principles he always seemed to hold so dear.

It was strange. Not a day earlier, Jin Guangyao would have sworn that he would’ve liked nothing more than to see Nie Mingjue pushed too far, forced down into the muck and mud that the rest of them trudged their way through, and now that he saw a hint of it, he’d never wanted anything less.

“Name Meng Yao your heir until Jin Ling is grown,” Nie Mingjue continued. “Reap the benefits of the alliance he brings with him and have us all honor you as an elder, if that’s what you want. But playing games like this…I’d say it’s beneath you, but I’d need a shovel to get that deep. So don’t think about it. Just do it. Or I’ll make you.”

He left, Jin Guangshan still gaping after him. It wasn’t long before he finally started moving, throwing around expensive teacups and furnishings and shouting for servants to bring him a drink and a whore, even though it was early; Jin Guangyao returned to the party, knowing there would be nothing more for him to learn, not when his father was in a mood like that.

Later that night, when the party was over and all cleaned up, he went to the quarters assigned for their guests from the Nie sect and was unsurprised to see a light still lit within the one assigned to the sect leader.

He knocked, and a familiar voice beckoned him to enter.

Nie Mingjue was dressed in a sleeping robe, but he was at his desk, writing a letter; he’d clearly been unable to sleep. He looked up when Jin Guangyao entered.

“What?” he asked, short and sharp and rude as always.

These days, Jin Guangyao usually planned out his encounters with Nie Mingjue in advance, hoping to minimize awkwardness and achieve his goals without too much of a scolding. He’d done that at the very beginning of knowing him, only to rapidly give up during his time at Qinghe – Nie Mingjue was both predictable and yet somehow an utter mystery, and it was easier to just go with the flow, adapt to the circumstances, than it was to plan in advance. Only after he’d left did he start planning once again.

He wasn’t planning now.

“Your mother,” he said, and Nie Mingjue barked a laugh, reaching up with a hand to rub at his eyes.

“Did your father tell you?” he asked. “Or did you just listen in?”

Jin Guangyao shrugged, and Nie Mingjue for once did not seem inclined to demand an answer.

“Is it true?” he asked instead, even though he already knew. “That she was…”

Like mine.

Not exactly like, of course. Jin Guangshan wouldn’t have hesitated to call Nie Mingjue the son of a whore directly if he thought he could get away with claiming it was merely fact, and had managed to imply as much nonetheless. Jin Guangyao’s mother’s shame could never be washed away, not in his lifetime; Nie Mingjue’s birth, being merely low, was not the same.

And yet.

“Oh, it’s true,” Nie Mingjue said mirthlessly. “Right down to the fact that they all but bought her based on how fertile she looked, for all that my father later pretended it wasn’t that, and the fact that she ran away.”

Jin Guangyao blinked. If he was playacting, he might have bitten his lip, averted his eyes, and he still considered doing it, but for the moment he was still feeling too off-balance to really commit to it. “Is she – still alive?”

Nie Mingjue shrugged.

“Have you looked for her?”

“I’ve been sect leader for over a decade,” he said, which wasn’t a denial. “If she wanted to find me, she knows where I am.”

That was a good point, Jin Guangyao supposed.

“Was it hard?” he asked, and Nie Mingjue frowned, clearly not understanding the question. “For you, when it was you. Was it hard to convince them to let you inherit?”

Nie Mingjue’s eyes slid half-shut in pained memory. “Yes.”

Jin Guangyao nodded, and went to sit down next to Nie Mingjue, who allowed it, returning to his work. He didn’t say anything.

It was rather atypical for Jin Guangyao – he was always thinking of something to say, when it came to Nie Mingjue, trying to bridge the gap between them with clever words. Perhaps it was only that the gap had shrunk, or had never been as large as he had thought.

After a while, Nie Mingjue said, “You know I wish you were better than you are,” and Jin Guangyao looked at him sidelong. “But in the end, you’re my brother. Isn’t that what matters?”

“Yes,” Jin Guangyao said, and there was that uncalled-for fondness again. “Yes, I suppose it is.”

#mdzs #jin guangyao #nie mingjue #jin guangshan #my fic #my fics #alternative backstory #dead spaces #jessaramine

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jotunn-loki · 3 years

Text

no penance due to innocence

FANDOM: tom hiddleston rpf, mcu rpf PAIRING: tom hiddleston/reader RATING: explicit, NS// FW!! WC: 4,544 WARNINGS/K¡NKS: female!reader, professor/student, daddy k¡nk, praise k¡nk, schoolgirl fantasy, age difference/age k¡nk, voice k¡nk, degradation, spanking, dom!hiddles, sub!reader, pain k¡nk, not a warning but hiddles in suit/glasses/beard

SUMMARY: Despite your best interests, you can't help but fantasize about your classics professor, Tom Hiddleston. But as it may seem, your thoughts may not be so fruitless after all...

NOTE: the title is a line from John Donne's poem "to his mistress going to bed" which is partially quoted in this fic--you'll see! imagine Hiddles reciting it hehe. also, i typically don't use "y/n" in my fics, but this fic does use "Miss Y/LN" (your last name) thrice! not in the heat of the smut but near the beginning and end:) enjoy!

It was nearly seven p.m.

Tom Hiddleston, your classics professor, stood at the front of the lecture hall, one hand wrapped elegantly around a remote clicker and the other adjusting his glasses as he spoke.

You loved his voice; everyone in the class did—the smooth richness of it, the authentic Britishness that was so short in supply at your American university, the elegance and intent he put into each and every syllable. He obviously was quite passionate about his subject, which made not only for a fascinating class, but an attentive group of students. You were sure that there was no one in the section who ever dared to not pay attention to his lectures, much less skip it completely. Why would anyone want to miss the crisp tightness of Professor Hiddleston’s custom-tailored suits or the soft unintentional growl in his voice when he read aloud a section from your readings? He was a talented actor in that regard, but you were glad he had never gone into such an industry...otherwise you wouldn’t be able to watch him in class now, listen to him, soaking in every bit of his perfection.

And that, truly, was the reason that you loved this class most of all. While you were ashamed to admit it, after the seventy-five minutes you spent in the Intro to British Literature lecture, your underwear was always slightly damp as you rose from your seat and tried to ignore your mortification as you passed by the man you couldn’t stop thinking about on the way out of the door, murmuring a quiet, “Thank you, Professor.”

It was the same now, and you could barely focus on the class’s content while Professor Hiddleston turned from one completely filled up white board to the next, giving you a splendid view of his glorious tight ass. You shifted in your seat in what you hoped was an inconspicuous way and turned away. This was getting out of hand. You almost were wondering if you needed to drop the class altogether, purely for your own sanity.

But then again—if every student in the class did that, there would be no one left in the section.

Now Professor Hiddleston was running a hand over his beautiful dirty blonde beard, thinking for a moment before he wrote the next name upon the board. John Donne, it read, and you suddenly remembered the poem you had been assigned to read the night prior. It was short, less than one hundred lines, which had lent for easy reading, even for the turn of the sixteenth century. But that wasn’t, of course, what had drawn your attention. The poem was unashamedly erotic, a scene about undressing, a mistress and her lover, vulnerability between them both.

And now, to your absolute undoing, Professor Hiddleston had decided that it was a good idea to read it aloud. You could barely breathe as he spoke, as he again, acted, the poetry, each line sending you further into a frenzy. Around you, the class held its collective breath as well, creating an unnatural silence. Not even a paper moved, nor did a pen drop.

“...shew / thy self: cast all, yea, this white linen hence / there is no penance due to innocence / to teach thee, I am naked first; why then / what needst thou have more covering than a man,” Hiddleston finished with a flourish, a slight smirk on those perfect lips. His eyes roved around the room thoughtfully, that smirk dissolving into an unabashed grin. “Quite the charmer, Donne thought himself to be,” he added with a laugh. “We can thank him for that.”

Suddenly, his eyes locked with yours, and you could have sworn that he swallowed as he looked at you. Or perhaps that was just a stupid hope. You twisted your lips and looked away abruptly, missing the narrowing of his eyes and the way his hand ran down his tie and fiddled with its tip.

Soon enough, class was over, the hour just passed, and you gathered your things, stuffing the poems you had printed out into your bag and rising from your seat with a grimace. Your body had found itself aroused. Again. Thankfully, now that your day was finished, you’d be able to make it back to the dorms with minimal consequence, and you knew it would be a few hours before your roommate to return, so you’d have a solid amount of time to...get your professor off of your mind.

But as you turned the corner from the descending steps between the rows of chairs towards the door, a voice cleared itself behind you. Heart pumping, you pivoted to find Professor Hiddleston standing there, one hand rolling up the sleeves of his crisp shirt up to his elbows, revealing lean but corded muscle there under smooth pale skin.

“Y-yes, Professor?” you asked him, trying not to let your voice shake. It was almost as if he could read your thoughts, sense that you were clearly horny and in need of leaving the fucking lecture hall.

“I need to speak with you privately,” he murmured, and you couldn’t help but clench tightly and swallow.

“About what, sir?” you asked.

Hiddleston smiled. “Just grades. Your recent performance.” Seeing your confounded face, he added, “Nothing serious, of course.”

Slowly, you nodded. “When should I come?”

You didn’t miss the slip there, the unintentional double-meaning, but as it would seem, neither did he, as Hiddleston’s pleasant smile slid into a heavily lidded smirk, one eyebrow raising.

No. It couldn’t be. Professor fucking Hiddleston—into you? Just another one of his sophomore students who was most likely taking the course solely for a humanities credit? Granted, you were not one of those—you loved classic English prose and poetry, but it was such a large class that most of them were not that into the subject.

“Right now,” Professor Hiddleston said then, gesturing for you to follow him. Eyes widening, your hand tightened around the strap of your bag and you waited for him to gather his teaching materials before you both left the lecture hall promptly.

His office was not far, only a few floors up. Luckily, you did not have far to go, as it was in the same building, and so you did not have to dwell in the anxious interim stage for long.

The office itself was spacious and graciously private, with a large modern window that looked out onto the urban campus of your university, and a shade that was currently rolled up to the top. There was a large mahogany desk as well, old-fashioned as you had expected, and a luxurious chair that sat behind it. A plush violet-colored rug laid on the floor as well, completing the look.

You had been purposefully avoiding office hours for this class all semester, unable to trust yourself in such close proximity to your professor. It seems that your goal had now been foiled by the man himself. Oh, well. Hopefully this would be quick, and you wouldn’t have to endure this torture for long.

Sighing, Hiddleston sat himself down behind his desk and rolled the chair away from it, hands steepled with his elbows on his thighs. His thighs... which were currently separated far apart in the most attractive manspread you’d ever seen, no matter what an oxymoron that may have been in any other situation. But not in this one. Not here, with Professor Hiddleston, alone.

This man who you could guess was around forty years old. This man who was probably over twenty years your senior. Unwittingly, the thought sent another stroke of heat down to your pussy. Oh, god. Biting your lip, you waited for him to speak.

He seemed to enjoy holding you in suspense for a moment, that infuriating grin still plastered across that handsome face. “You must have wondered why I called you here.”

“Yes, sir.”

At that, his grin disappeared, and something else crossed his face instead, something much darker, much hungrier. “I do love it when you call me that.”

You gulped. “What’s that, Professor?”

“Either of those,” he replied, that familiar growl filling his voice. “And you must know by now that I don’t give a damn about your grades. That is your own business...besides, you are doing excellently in my class.”

You couldn’t think of anything to say, so you just smiled and crossed your hands behind your back.

“No...you’re here because you are far too distracting. It’s causing me problems during lectures. That is an issue,” Hiddleston said, spreading his legs even wider.

“I...hadn’t noticed that, sir.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he replied simply, that prim accent making it all the better. “I wouldn’t be a good lecturer if I allowed myself to be easily affected by a student...even if you are as stunning as you are.” His eyes flashed. “I wonder...are you doing this on purpose, darling?”

Mouth parting, you shook your head.

“Mm,” Hiddleston murmured, scratching the side of his beard slowly. “I don’t know about that. Are you sure?”

“Why would I be so willing to entice you, Professor?” you asked him, willing yourself not to collapse where you stood.

Hiddleston dropped his hand and ran it instead along the inside of his thigh. Your eyes widened and you had to avert your gaze. “Because you want me as much as I have lusted after you,” he said huskily in reply.

When you didn’t respond, throat too tight to speak, he stood, edging around the side of his desk. “Admit it, Miss Y/LN,” he said sternly.

He was so close to you now, just an inch away. You could barely intake breath—no, scratch that, you couldn’t breathe at all.

After a painful moment, you nodded.

“Say it,” he whispered.

“Yes,” you squeaked, eyes flitting to his, a bright, intense blue.

“Yes, what?”

Steeling yourself, you brought your hand to his chest. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good girl.”

You clenched again, barely withholding an audible moan. Still, Hiddleston had spotted your near slip, and he grinned, bringing one of his large hands to cover yours where it was placed on his chest and entwine both of your fingers. “Say yes to me, then. And I will give you what you so crave.”

You didn’t need to be told twice. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston. Please.”

“That’s my good girl,” he said again. “Now. Undress.”

You gawked at him. “Excuse me?”

Hiddleston snatched both of your wrists then, pulling you right to his chest so that your bodies were pressed together. “You do want me to fuck you, Miss Y/LN, don’t you?”

Quickly, you nodded.

“Then do as I say,” he hissed.

You complied easily, removing first your bag from your shoulders and then your light jacket. You hesitated only a moment before sliding your fingers under the hem of your shirt and lifting it from your head, exposing your skin to the slight chill of the room. Still, everything inside you was fire, and it only burned hotter as Hiddleston inhaled deeply, taking in the sight of your breasts, hidden only by the bra that cupped them gently. “So beautiful,” he murmured. “Just like I imagined.”

Your breath quickened at that. It was terribly gratifying to know that he had fantasized about you, his student, just as you had fantasized about him, your professor. So you smiled at him through your lashes, putting on a facade of demureness.

“Now, don’t give me that,” Hiddleston automatically smirked, grabbing your jaw and holding it tightly. He leaned in close to your ear and whispered, “I know how dirty your thoughts have been, my dear, and it would be a lie for you to pretend otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

Unable to help yourself, you whimpered. Beside your ear, Professor Hiddleston laughed. “Whore.”

You held your breath as he then unbuckled your bra, the garment in his hands looking like it belonged there—and leaving your breasts bare. “Professor,” you murmured as he leaned forward, cupping both of them in his large hands and placing a kiss to each nipple. “Professor—fuck—”

CRACK.

There was a sharp stinging feeling on your ass, and you realized that Hiddleston had just spanked you—actually spanked you—and was now leaning onto his desk casually again, this time with a stormy expression on his face. His chin tilted upwards in disgust as he said, “Such foul language. When have I ever tolerated that, little one?”

When you didn’t answer, he raised an eyebrow. “That wasn’t rhetorical.”

“You didn’t, sir,” you said meekly, grimacing from the pain. You could only imagine what it would have felt like without clothing to cover the sensitive skin of your ass.

“Hence why I needed to punish you,” Professor Hiddleston said matter-of-factly, which somehow only turned you on even further. His confident nonchalance made you want to kneel before him and unbuckle those perfectly-pressed trousers, but you managed to hold yourself together.

It wasn’t long before you were standing before him naked, trying fruitlessly to hold in a tremble as Professor Hiddleston circled your body, eyeing every part of you. “So,” he said when he’d finally turned to face you eye-to-eye again. “You not only are extremely intelligent, but you are a goddess among humans. You look so innocent, but I know you aren’t. Not with those eyes.”

It was true. You hadn’t been able to stop yourself from looking at him the way you had been doing all semester.

“Intelligent, sir?”

Hiddleston smiled gently and stepped toward you, finally encircling you in his arms. His hands, placed firmly on your upper back, slowly slid down to cup your ass, pulling you against his form. You could feel the strain of his crotch there, and your heart pounded at the thought. You still couldn’t believe this was actually happening.

“Yes, intelligent,” Hiddleston murmured, brushing a light kiss on your cheek, your jaw, your lips. “Your textual analysis of Much Ado About Nothing a few months ago was one of the best interpretations I’d ever seen.”

Had it been? You’d only been commenting about the way that it had impacted modern fictional tropes and set up socially acceptable gender roles in romance, but you supposed that it had been written in such a way that had greatly pleased Professor Hiddleston.

“Do not be so hard on yourself,” he said then, as if he could sense your thoughts. “Truly...you are a pleasure to have in class.”

You felt your body tense at the way he said ‘pleasure,’ for he certainly knew what he was doing. “Even if I am distracting to you?” you asked.

“Especially when you are distracting to me.”

With that, he pinched your ass firmly between two large fingers and you yelped, flinching into his arms. You felt the outline of his hard cock in his trousers again and squirmed against it, desperately needing friction. “P-Professor—”

He tsked quietly. “Such a cockslut you are, my little schoolgirl begging for me,” Hiddleston tutted. You felt your arousal even stronger as your mind filled with the fantasy he had planted there, imaging yourself in high stockings and a short skirt, a pure virgin teenager with no experience.

Luckily, that was not the case, but he was your professor, and if anyone found out that he’d fucked you, you’d both be in serious trouble. It only made the whole thing more exciting.

“Please, fuck me,” you whimpered. “Professor, I need you—”

“What did I say about foul language, little girl?” Hiddleston said sharply. “Or do you think yourself above such formalities and rules now that you are standing naked like a filthy whore in my office?”

You moaned, and without warning, Professor Hiddleston threw you against the dark mahogany desk so that you were facing away from him, clapping a hand across your ass again. Your eyes watered from the sudden pain, but you only bit your lip, loving every bit of it.

Hiddleston leaned over you so that you could feel his hardness against your body again and tilted your tear-stained face towards him. You watched him remove his glasses silently and place them beside you on his desk, smirking all the while. “You are going to count for me now, alright, my dear?”

You nodded, tensing your body in preparation.

And then it came without warning, his hand on your backside with a sharp cracking sound, leaving the feeling of fire against your skin. You cried out in pain, and Professor Hiddleston cleared his throat.

Oh. “One,” you whispered quietly. “But, Professor Hiddleston, won’t anyone hear?”

He let out a soft laugh at that. “I’ve been tenured here long enough that no one else of importance is in the vicinity, little one. But who knows…”

With a self-satisfied laugh, he spanked you again.

“T-Two,” you said.

Crack. “Three.”

Crack. “Four.”

Crack. “Five.”

With each spank, your voice grew stronger, more sturdy, and you relished in the sting of your ass stuck out behind you and caressed by your professor’s hands. He was rubbing it now, a gentle reprieve before he hit you again, this one harder than the rest.

You shrieked and gripped the edge of the desk, feeling the wetness of your cunt moistening your legs. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston,” you moaned. “Hit me harder, please, Daddy—”

The word slipped out of your mouth without expectation from either you or him, and you immediately stilled, feeling embarrassment cloud your senses.

“You are a kinky bitch,” Hiddleston murmured softly, and he ran a hand along the top of your head, even as you lay panting over the edge of his desk. It made you feel lesser, somehow, and you wanted that. You needed it.

“Be a good girl then, and take what Daddy gives you.”

The spank following was the hardest of them all, making you buck into the desk in all its force. “T-Tom!” you cried. You needed release, now, and him building you up was starting to irritate you.

“One more,” he said through gritted teeth, and you tensed as a final slap hit your backside, causing your eyes to water in pain as you heaved against the desk, nearly bringing you over the edge in and of itself.

“I can’t wait to see that bruise up nicely,” said Professor Hiddleston smugly, flipping you over as you let out a pained hiss. “And now that you’ve been adequately punished, I will give you what you’ve been longing for.”

You let out a long sound, something that was a mix between a contented sigh and a broken moan, and watched as he tore off his belt buckle and pulled out his cock, hard and weeping and flushed a very eager red. “Ready, darling?”

You nodded quickly before your nerves could get the better of you.

He raised his eyebrows at you expectantly.

“Yes, Daddy,” you murmured, still feeling the familiar tendrils of embarrassment creeping across your neck.

Professor Hiddleston—Tom—smirked and spread your legs with each of those gorgeous large hands, gripping the flesh of your thighs. Between them, you were on fire, evidenced further by the wetness dripping from your core.

“Oh, my dear,” Tom whispered with an air of disappointment, though it was impossible not to see how pleased he was. “You’re so wet.”

“Mm—” was all you could say. With him standing over you, eyes boring into your pussy and flitting back to your face every few moments it was all you could do not to scream.

Suddenly his fingers were upon you—within you, and you let out a long moan as he pumped them deftly, the other hand gripping his own cock. As you panted, completely at his whims, Tom grunted, his eyes fluttering closed.

But then, just as you felt yourself reach your peak, body begging to throw itself off into the abyss, he stopped. “Daddy,” you whined, pouting at him. “Why did you stop?”

“I had to, little one,” he murmured gently, running his hand along the inside of your thigh and sending shivers across your skin. But though you bucked your hips forward into his touch, Tom didn’t continue, only let out a smug chuckle. “I want this to take a long time, my dear. I want every part of your body to remember that I was here. I want it to know—I want you to know—that it belongs to me. Understand?”

You swallowed. “Yes, Professor Hiddleston.”

“Good.” The word was sharp, succinct, radiating with pure dominance. You clenched at the sound of it.

And unfortunately for you, your professor had witnessed that with his very own eyes. Immediately, you felt a sharp sting against the same spot on your thigh where he’d just been caressing, and you squealed. “Professor!”

“Whore,” he spat, pushing your upper body flat onto the desk. “I told you that you needed to be patient, didn’t I? Didn’t I?”

“Y-Yes, Daddy…”

“And you disobeyed me,” he replied calmly. “So you deserved that, little one.”

You let out a small sound of assent and he kissed your lips softly. “Now, let’s continue. You’re doing so well, my darling.”

He slid those fingers along the inside of your thigh and caressed the sensitive skin where your legs met your cunt, tickling your skin. You tried to hold in a laugh and failed, a small hiccup escaping your lips. Tom glanced up at you and smirked. “My poor little girl,” he teased.

You smiled at him and bit your lip. “Daddy?”

“Yes?”

You couldn’t help the whine that slipped into your voice. Honestly, it awed you. Less than an hour ago you were afraid to even make eye contact with Professor Hiddleston for fear of your own sexual desires; now you were sitting on his expensive desk bare naked with your legs spread for him and pussy dripping with unquenched arousal. Still, he refused to bring you release.

“Will you please fuck me?” you asked him softly, sweetly. “I need your cock, Professor.”

You could see the way his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he tried to hide the way your words affected him, So you pushed out your bottom lip and bared your breasts forward to him for good measure. “ Please.”

Where he had been gentle and sensitive a moment ago, Tom was no longer holding back. “What happened to ‘you need to be patient?’” you hissed as he flipped you over, bending you over the desk as he’d done before.

“Hush, my little whore,” Tom grunted as he shifted behind you, and you could feel the head of his cock nudging at your entrance impatiently. Hypocrisy at its finest, but you couldn’t care less. “You’re going to take all of me, and I will be merciless,” Tom whispered as he took your hands and pinned them beneath his own on the desk. “Do you understand?”

You nodded, difficult as the action was in your current position.

“No,” Tom said softly. “I don’t think you do.” He sighed dramatically as he pinched the spare skin on your hip, making you squeak in pleasure. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, gravellier...that same cadence he had when he’d read some of those poems. “You’re going to take every inch of my cock, and it’s going to be painful for you, my dear. But I’m not going to go slow, not going to rest and wait for you to adjust. And only when you’re begging for me, crying for me like the whore you are will I finally let you come.”

“Oh, Tom,” you moaned and he chucked. “Yes, that’s right, baby. Moan my name. I haven’t even entered you yet.”

You couldn’t even feel the embarrassment hit your mind; you were too fazed over with the anticipation of him fucking you. “Please—”

Then he was pushing into you, and you groaned in pain. He had been right—this was unlike any other man you’d previously fucked. He was large, but just perfectly so; you felt as if the pain inside your cunt should live there forever. His hips snapped as he thrusted into you again, and you pushed your ass into the air to get more friction. “Oh, Professor Hiddleston—”

“Yes, fuck yes,” he panted as his thrusts sped up, and he moved one hand off of yours to finger at your clit. Sensation flooded you, and you cried out again. You could feel the warmth and power of his body behind you, even through the now-sweaty formal shirt he wore. And you could feel the coolness of the desk against your skin, and the rising pleasure throughout your body. “Tom, fuck—”

“Remember what I said?” he growled. “Beg.”

You couldn’t resist. “Please, Daddy, let me come! I want to come so bad around your cock, Professor. Fill me up—please—”

He grunted in pleasure at your words, and you ground into his fingers where they worked at your clit as he continued to pound into you. Each thrust sent you higher, hitting your g-spot just perfectly. “That’s my good girl,” Tom cooed gently, such a contrast to the violet strokes of his body. “You’re doing so well for Daddy. See how well you take my cock? That’s right, little one. Keep grinding into me. Such a good whore—”

At that, you moaned, grimacing in pleasure. “Can I come yet, Daddy?”

“Not yet, my darling,” he replied through gritted teeth. “I need you to be louder for me. I need everyone to know that you belong to me. That you’re my little cockslut who’s only taking this class so you can fuck your professor like a filthy whore.”

“Please let me come, sir!” you cried, bucking into him. You let out a loud cry as he nipped at your shoulder, teeth digging into your skin. “Yes, my good girl. Scream for me.”

“Tom!” you shouted. A shudder coursed through you at the possibility of someone hearing you, but in your haze of pleasure, you could barely notice. “Professor, please—”

Finally, he chuckled, and his thumb pressed tightly into your clit. “Come,” he commanded in a low voice, and you did, gasping as you rolled against his touch and felt his cock find release within your walls and he cried out your name.

“ Tom ,” you moaned, eyes rolling backwards. “Oh, Tom… ”

“Such a good girl,” he whispered, caressing your neck with his free hand. “My sweet darling.”

You were both breathing hard, covered in sweat, and an utter mess against the rich wood of Professor Hiddleston’s desk. “I’m—I’m sorry,” you stuttered, coming back to your senses. “I...didn’t realize. This all happened so fast…”

But to your surprise, Tom only chuckled, helping you to stand and wrapping his arms around you. “No, my dear. This isn’t over yet.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he repeated. “I wouldn’t let you go so easily.”

You swallowed, feeling a pleasant flush spread across your body as you met his gaze. “So…”

Tom smiled. “I will see you on Tuesday, Miss Y/LN.”

As disheveled as you were, and most likely smelling of sex as you left his office, you couldn’t help the giddy feeling that had risen within you. You would see him again, and soon.

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A/N: thanks for reading! comments, reblogs, likes - all appreciated! this fic is also posted on ao3 under the same name (via my username MavenMorozova). give it some love there if you’d like!

TAGS: let me know if you want me to make a taglist!

#tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x you #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston x ofc #hiddles #tom hiddleston fanfiction #hiddles fanfic #tom hiddleston fanfic #hiddles x reader #tom hiddleston smut #professor hiddleston #fanfic by maven #mine #mcu rpf #tom hiddleston x yn

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archetypal-archivist · 3 years

Text

Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone P.2

So, a little while back I wrote piece titled Tommyinnit and Hermitcraft- Heartstone (linked here) which was inspired by the works of @petrichormeraki and @redorich, who popularized the AU of Tommyinnit from the Dream SMP getting dropped into Hermitcraft somehow and summarily getting adopted by the entire server. I, in my infinite wisdom, decided “yes, but also angst” and spat out a solid 1500+ words with a cliffhanger at the end because it was getting ridiculous and I had yet more to write. This is another 1500+ words of continuation.

-----

It's not easy, knowing things. Joe knows more things than most, and oh, how it eats at him sometimes. He jokes with Cleo that between the two of them and their dogs, they are perhaps the leading experts on being chewed on, but she never laughs at that joke. He can't help but wonder why, his thoughts drifting as he lies still and silent in her arms, curled up together on his bed in the winery. Her orange hair tickles his nose as he moves to bury his face in her shoulder a bit more, her cool breath ghosting over the sticky tear tracks that still line his cheeks. All the things that remain unsaid lie between them, but their silent agreement binds them together tighter still. And indeed silence is the name of the game, however much he wishes it wasn't necessary- everything will work out in due time, he knows. But oh, how it aches that he can't say anything more on the matter, not even to her.

"Cleo?" The zombie woman makes a soft inquiring noise, politely ignoring how his voice cracks on the syllables. "Are we doing the right thing?" Her grip tightens again, almost crushingly so, and Joe goes limp at the implied rebuke. Be it right or wrong, his silence must be ensured- he knows so much that if he said anything, it'd all come pouring out. A real modern-day Cassandra, verbal fountain and harbinger of doom in one. No, best to stay cryptic when he can and silent when he can't- and if even his silence fails, Cleo is there, sword in hand, ready to keep him quiet.

He should not take comfort from that. But here, wrapped up in his best friend's embrace, utterly at her mercy and all the safer for it... He does anyway.

-----

Joe and Cleo aren't in a romantic relationship, but it would not be amiss to call them platonic life partners in this universe. Joe has been seeing things for as long as he can remember, the exact mechanics are strange and baffling at best, and if he tries to actually do any Science to figure out how this stuff works, the magic changes to spite him. It's led to a lot of unfortunate visions of peanut butter and how the server generally tends to misuse the stuff (Etho sometimes using it instead of slime in a sticky piston is a milder example), so after enough peanut visions to make him allergic on principle, Joe tends to just let the visions come as they may. The only hard-coded bit that comes with them is that anyone living who hears his prophecies won't believe them and will have something bad happen to them as a result. Cleo, being a zombie, is a special exception to the rule. She's only alive in the most technical of senses, so while bad things still happen to her if she hears Joe speak about his experiences, she at least will believe him.

Which is why she is so determined to not know more about whatever is going on with Tommy. When Joe had rushed in a month ago, tears streaming down his cheeks and glasses barely hanging onto his face, she had merely put down the book she had been reading and had opened her arms wide to him. Convincing him that she would not betray his trust or break his heart had been hard, but she had known it was worth it. How can it be anything but, when Joe had looked at her then as if she was the most precious being on the planet and had immediately thrown himself into her arms, bursting out into troubled tears? He offered to tell her the full story, eyes wet and longing, and her long-dead heart ached at the trust he is giving her- but she is far too selfish to give that up. So she had turned him down, smile on her lips.

Even when he whispered, voice hoarse, that they wouldn't be seeing Tommy for a while. Even when he shuddered and shook in her arms, fragile as glass in her grip. Even when he begged her to ask, just ask, please, it's too much... She did not ask. If she asked, he would tell her, and then she would be hurt and his heart would break because it would be his words that had hurt her. She would not, cannot, will never inflict that upon him, or let him inflict that upon anyone else. (Of all the heads in her collection, the one she has most of is Joe's.)

She simply asks him if there will be a satisfying ending, and when he says yes, she asks no more. Everything will be okay, in the end. So long as there is that much, so long as she has Joe in her arms and the comfortable silence stretches out between them, then she will be content.

(At the foot of their bed, deep in Joe's winery where the barking is muffled and the light cannot touch them, there lies a chest of heads. Inside it, nestled among the many faces of the dead, rests an old iron sword bearing the name Hush. It's blade is rusty from disuse, but if Cleo ever decides that she isn't satisfied, well. There are ways of dealing with that.)

(Things will be okay. She'll make sure of it.)

-----

Philza was no stranger to death. A veteran of a hardcore world, where even the very earth was out to kill him, he had seen his fair share of deaths and had dealt out even more. Usually just to the local mobs and wildlife, but there was still the occasional player dropped into his world by the cruel hands of the Void as a sort of "apology" for leaving him alone, bereft of his sons. As if some random strangers could ever fill the Void in his heart.

Most of them had wandered off upon seeing him, more interested in escape than any companionship he could offer them, and he'd inevitably see their death messages in the otherwise silent chat a few days later. Others would approach him, some curious, some desperate for kindness- he gave them none, was often intentionally cruel just to drive them away. He had the Void in his heart and the Void had him, and he ached and ached for what he could not have. Anything less would be a pale imitation, a mockery of the love he was desperate to return to. He tried not to think about how those kind strangers would also come to meet their ends, often more messily than those that had decided to leave him be to begin with.

Then there were the rare few with... less than gentle intentions. (Blood for the Blood gods, no matter the universe.)

Theirs were the deaths he regretted the least, but the blood still gave him nightmares. For all that he loved his sons, he never understood their love for glory, be it found in conquering other nations or the sticky ooze of a dying foe. Maybe that's why he had spent so much of his time with his elder sons when he returned, the Void finally releasing him from his hardcore prison. Just a father's attempt at understanding, even if it left his youngest at loose ends.

But the problem with loose ends, he had come to find, is that the world had a way of setting them to rights- either by tying them back into the grand narrative, or by cutting them out entirely. For months after Dream had come to him, apology on his lips and charred shoe in hand, he had believed that Tommy's fate had been the latter. He had mourned his son as if such was the case, weeping openly at the news for the first time in years. (He wasn't the only one, though- Technoblade was an only child now and he was not taking it well.) It was only when Tubbo came to him with his compass to ask about its ever-spinning needle that he felt a spark of hope, for a compass that spun was not a compass linked to a dead soul- simply a lost one. Such hope was justified when, six months later, Technoblade burst into his house with a snarl on his lips and a smile in his eyes. Tommy had returned.

And as Phil stood, back straightening and wings spread wide, hope bloomed in his chest like hanahaki, choking him with love right down to his core. Tommy had returned, despite everything.

And Philza would not let him go again.

-----

For all that Tommy might have been... gone for at least a month now on the Hermitcraft server and life has significantly slowed down for all involved, by no means has it stopped entirely. The shops are still stocked, the torches are replaced when the old ones burn out, Hermits still go out and see each other, if less often than before. Xisuma, in fact, instates a series of mandatory meetings every week or so as a way of making sure that everyone is still alive- a bit of reassurance that no one else has died in the time interim. Even the hermits who prefer to keep to themselves show up, such as Tinfoilchef, Joe, and Cleo, although the latter two remain distinctly separate from everyone else on the server during the meetings, their refusal to take a side alienating them from the rest. Grian, broken though he may be, also comes, usually in the arms of Iskall or with a vacant smile on his face depending on the state of his mental health on the given day. His presence is also alienating, as most of the hermits don't quite know what to say around him and thus will give him and Iskall a bubble of space to themselves during the meetings. Mumbo is the only one to cross the divide, standing loomingly tall at Iskall's back, as if daring anyone to say something potentially hurtful to either of his friends.

Frankly, the entire concept of weekly meetings is a bit of a mess. Xisuma stands at the front with Keralis at his back, voice and posture more and more tired with every meeting and Keralis standing just a bit closer, a silent show of support (ready if his admin ever needs some physical support too). The prognosis is usually a mix of dull stuff and hopeless stuff- lag is better than it has been in years, the Chestmonster shop is out again, Tommy still has not been... found. It's not exciting exactly, but the tension during the reporting stage is palpable as everyone waits to hear if something else has gone wrong. It's a bit like being on the front lines- horrible, drawn-out minutes of tedium as everyone holds their breath, waiting to see if another bombshell will drop but knowing that they have to be there, because some warning is infinitely better than seeing a death message in chat one day and not knowing if that person will ever make it back.

In addition to this is the tension that comes from the server being split in three- the believers, the mourners, and those too damaged or too caught up in their own narratives or too neutral to swing to one side or the other.

The meetings are where the most near-fights happen, and Xisuma is so, so tired of having to be the sane one these days. (The benefit of a helmet, he's come to find, is that no one can see you cry.)

(He doesn't take it off much anymore.)

-----

It's after one such meeting that Zedaph finds himself cooped up in his base, eyes burning with unshed tears and feet dangling out into the Void as he sits at the bottom of the hole in his base, the one that goes straight to bedrock and then even further still. The chill is a welcome distraction from his own inner turmoil, and for all that it's dangerous to be sitting so near to the edge of the world, he can't find it in himself to move away form its cold comfort. After all, Tommy can't have died permanently, right? So sitting there is perfectly safe. He has to believe that. He has to.

The meetings are tough on everyone, but sometimes Zedaph wonders if they are a bit worse for him than they are for the rest. It can't be normal that the first thing he does after every meeting is burst into panicked tears as soon as he gets back to his base, as he's certainly never felt such deep fear and relief after the meetings they had before the Incident. And yet, as soon as the iron door of his base sncks shut behind him, he drops down into the Void hole, sits at the edge, and bawls his eyes out. It's kinda funny- he's shed more tears in the last month than he has in his entire life so far. And all for a boy he had known for less than a year.

During this particular day, however, something odd happens. When he sits down for a good cry, it feels like there's the slightest of breezes coming off the Void beneath his feet, chilling him right down to his bones. It's cold, yes, but a welcome relief as he feels a bit like he's burning up from the inside out. Every moment he spends with Tango and Impulse is stifling, as with them he has to shove himself into a hateful mold he never wanted for himself. He doesn't like being angry, and being angry alongside his best friends is hardly any better. If he had it his way, he would have curled up in bed and simply slept the horror away, only waking when the nightmare was over and he could go play mini golf and Among Us with Tango, Impulse, and Tommy again. Instead, his love for his friends demands that he supports them in all their endeavors, even if their goals these days seem to run a little closer to "get them all killed" than is comfortable.

But yes. The breeze. It feels like ice on his skin and sends every nerve in his legs buzzing. It has a distinct smell to it too, like TV static, ozone, and that sensation you get after you brush your teeth and go take a big gulp of cold water. It's... odd. But vaguely comforting. And as the tears finally well up in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, as he lets himself sob for all the friends- both new and old- he's lost, he finds that it's exactly what he needs.

And if Zedaph would only listen a little closer, let himself see beyond his broken heart, perhaps he would hear the whisper on the wind, too.

Everything will be okay. I'll make sure of it.

-----

Evil X has his own troubles to deal with. He had been present when Tommy had died, if watching from the wrong side of their dimension. Lost in the Void with nothing better to do, he had often found himself watching his friend go about his day. With space and time being as screwy as they were in the Void, he could find himself taking three steps and then would be watching Tommy go from sleeping over at BDub's base to having "breakfast" with Rendog. So when Grian and Tommy had gone out End-busting that fateful day, of course he had been watching. And that was all he could do- watch- as he saw his best friend fall to his apparent death, that little line of code that signaled "perma-death" flashing once, twice, and then glowing a deep, ominous red.

But that wasn't the end of it, even as his dull and bruised heart stuttered in his chest at the sight.

Like a redstone pulse lighting up everything around it, that red glow set off a cascading chain reaction that rippled up and down Tommy's code until it eventually trailed out to wherever his code stretched out into the Void. There, it must have severed something because before he could even call for help, his friend's code yanked inwards and away, slingshotting the whole mess into the distant darkness beyond, leaving naught but a vague impression on the inside of his eyelids behind. It was... awful. One of the scariest things he had ever seen, perhaps second only to watching his brother, stern-faced and cold, send him off to the Void once again. But for all that it hurt to see that red glow and watch in mute horror as the server he had once tried to destroy shake itself apart at the seams, there was still hope.

The code was gone, yes, but not unraveled, not destroyed. Merely... transported. Moved. Like a file being sent from one computer to another, or a player teleporting between servers. Tommy's code vanishing like that was cause for alarm, yes, but somewhere out there in the vastness of the Void, it lingered still- and it had left a faint impression of itself in its wake. That meant there was hope.

Evil X- and by proxy, his twin Xisuma- were voidwalkers, beings specifically designed to see, understand, and even modify the world's code. Were he anything else, he surely would have perished by now, his consciousness scattered across the Void as it was. And having been in exile for so long, he had gotten to be adept at seeing the seams between worlds and reading the truths of existence as the Void had intended for her children. If anyone could follow that faint trail, could get Tommy back, it would be him.

For the first time in a long time, Evil X had hope. And hope is a vicious motivator indeed.

-----

TBC :)

#fanfiction #my writing #minecraft #dream smp #hermitcraft #hermit tommy au #heartstone #i'm pretty pleased with this

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eldritchtickles · 3 years

Text

A Lesson in Love and Dunamancy

And here's one of those once in a moon fics I write! Inspired by an ask from a long long while ago that I cannot find anymore lmao. But enjoy some wizard tickles! And of course a big thank you to the Critickle Role discord for not only lotsa ideas, but also keeping me writing this with your own amazing work lmao. Enjoy!

Fandom: Critical Role

Characters: Essek Thelyss, Jester Lavorre, Caleb Widogast

Word Count: 2665

“And as you can see here..”

The dark skinned hand moved lightly across the thick paper, gentle fingers tracing the runic symbols etched into its form. Essek’s eyes were focused as he read through the ancient script, while Caleb’s followed the drow’s finger with intent. Both wizards were sat closer to each other than either seemed to realise, leaning deeply into one another. The room was cosy, hazy with incense with small candles floating lazily through the air. Calm, oriented, as a wizard’s study should be. “These dunamantic symbols are the basis for most spells”, the Shadowhand continued. “Any current spell relies on these calculations, and predictably any new ones would include them too.”

“Ah, ja, I see it now…”, Caleb muttered, leaning closer as a slight smirk played at the edges of his lips. “I also see you already suspect I intend to play with dunamancy’s limits myself, hm?”

Ah, he was caught. A soft smile came to Essek’s face as he nodded. He knew Caleb Widogast would not be one to leave such magic alone if he could create with it. The transmutation master kept true to his discipline, creating something of nothing at a moment’s notice. Including making a need for Essek to put him back in place.

His face leaned down closer to his human companion’s, a twinkle of slight playfulness in his eyes at Caleb’s snark.

“Yes, Herr Widogast, I imagine you’ll be creating many a spell based on the Krynn magic, hm?”

As Caleb went to retort just as smartly, the gentle cosy candlelit haze of the room was bathed in the harsher light of the hallway outside.

“Oh Caleeeeeeeb~!”

Both wizards were suddenly acutely aware of their close proximity to one another as Jester Lavorre loudly interrupted their study session. In a second Caleb found himself alone on the floor as Essek’s floating spell took effect and jettisoned him into a more regal standing position, even if his face was flushed an embarrassed lilac colour.

“OH!’, Jester exclaimed, a not so sorry grin on her face as she surveyed the suddenly awkward tension she had created. “I didn’t meanto interrupt you two cuddling-“

“Jester!!”, Caleb yelped, embarrassment lending his voice a strangled tone as he stumbled to his feet and brushed himself off and cast a glance to Essek. “You… You did not disturb anything. Was there something you needed from us this urgent?”

Jester was already in the room as the wizard spoke to her. She inspected the floating candles overhead, courtesy of the magic inside Caleb’s Tower, giving each a slight poke to watch it bob away free of gravity. She cast a teasing grin at the two flushed wizards, before diverting her attention to the dunamantic scroll on the floor as she spoke.

“Weeeeelllllll”, she began, nose scrunching up as she tried to understand the arcane glyphs. “Beau asked me to get you! She needs help compiling notes, and said ‘his stupid keen mind would kind of be helpful’. So I came to fetch you for her!”

“Ah scheisse, you’re absolutely right”, Caleb said with a small groan, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Essek, would you remain here? I promised Beau earlier I’d help her with her endeavour, I’ll finish quickly and be right back to continue.”

“Ah, quite, yes…”, Essek mumbled, glad to feel the blush on his cheeks calm down. “Take all the time you need, alright? I’ll prepare the next part of the lesson in the interim.”

No more words passed between the two, just a polite smile and a nod before Caleb parted to help his comrade. Soon as the door closed, Essek let out a slow breath. What had he been thinking? This was a professional relationship, student and mentor, and yet he had been practically sitting in Caleb’s lap as he had taught. Where was his usual maturity? Had he gone mad? Really, he had to get his act together before someone thought-

“Essek likes Caleb~!”

The Shadowhand froze up. The heat of his lilac blush returned, reaching his ears this time. Just over his shoulder was the grinning face of Jester, he knew it. He could practically fucking feel her waggling her eyebrows suggestively at him. Damn tieflings.

He rounded quickly on the woman, face not seeming able to decide between incredulous, embarrassed, or angry. Probably a mix of all three.

“Jester I- You can’t think that- That’s just not-“

A breath. Nerves calmed.

“…….. Ms. Lavorre, you cannot make such claims about two acolytes. It is in very bad taste, our relationship is strictly-“

“Oh come ooooon, Essek! Admit it, you like the stinky wizard!”, the tiefling said in a lilting voice, walking around to his front so she could stand on her tip toes till her nose met his, which made him make a funny face as he floated back a step. ��I mean, no one will blame you. Caleb is charming, and sweet, and kind of dirty but that can be fixed, and he’s so clever, Essek! And he’s-“

“Jester, I do not-“

His voice caught in his throat, before a pout was brought to his face as the drow turned from the intruder on his lesson. He started to spread out another spell scroll, putting all his effort into making sure he was solely concentrating on this.

“I would prefer not to speak on this topic if you don’t mind Jester.”

If it were anyone else, they might have taken the hint. Essek’s exterior had turned icy and aloof, as it had been when they first met, and was usually enough to deter more questioning. But while her insight may not be as good as Caducueus, Jester had enough of it to see through the drow’s shit.

“You are such a liar!!”, she whined, accentuating her point with a poke to the back of his ribs.

It took Essek a few seconds to realise through his brooding that he had squeaked.

It took a few more to have him pinned on his back underneath the grinning tiefling.

“Jester, this is most- A-Ah, Jester!!”, the Shadowhand blustered, squirming slightly as a clawed hand gripped his ribs. He was not used to… Physical touch. Much less being pinned with his arms above his head, straddled by a strong blue trickster. His blush was back in full swing.

“Well, are you going to tell me Essek~?”, Jester asked, that familiar lilt in her voice that meant a plan was in motion. “Or, we could juuuuuuuuuust…”

She accentuated her point with a gentle waterfall of tickles cascading down the stretched out ribs beneath her. Those pointed nails cut through Essek’s shirt worse than any blade, a choking giggle trapped in his throat now he expected it this time. That didn’t mean it didn’t- No, if he admitted the word to himself he’d be doomed.

“M-Ms. Lavorre, I would kindly ask you-“

Shit, he almost laughed as she brushed the area right under his arm. Deep breaths.

“I would ask you let me gohoho!! Dohohon’t!!”

That was most definitely a whine.

“Wow Essek, I knew you were squishy but even Caleb can hold out longer”, the girl teased with a giggle, concentrating her free hand on the wizards lower tummy. It was the spot that had earned the giggle, and with a slight ruffle of his shirt that dark drow skin was exposed to the air and a tiefling’s evil fingers, fluttering along his waistline. “Aren’t you the most ticklish Shadowhand in the Dynasty~! Tiiiiiickle tickle, Essek!”

“I am… T-Thehehehe only Shadowhand and you knohohow this full wehehehell Jester- DOHOHOHON’T SAY THAHAHAHAT!!”

She snickered at the little squeak as he said her name, and the subsequent shout at such a little tease. The poor man’s face was flushed so much you’d think him drunk, the only thing worse would be- oh, she couldn’t-no, definitely could. Artagan would be sorely disappointed if she didn’t.

“Ok Essek, time to get real!”, Jester said with a serious face, nodding to the giggly elf beneath her as if in agreement on what she was about to do. “When you want to tell me how much you looooooooove Caleb, you let me know, ok Essek?”

“W-What? Jester, wait, what?”, Essek asked as he regained his breath, diaphragm working overtime to get back oxygen lost to giggles. His mind was already slightly addled, not even realising his arms had been let go. He quickly did take that into account, if only because they had shot down to grab Jester by the horns and try push her away as a scream ripped through his body.

“JEHEHEHEHESTER!! THAT IHIHIHIS- EEEEEEHEHEHEEE!! TERRIBLE STOP IT STOP IHIHIHIT!!”

Ignoring his pleas, Jester just giggled and shook her head in amusement before returning to nibbling gently at the soft stomach beneath her. The tiefling’s hands held Essek’s hips down as her thumbs gently massaged a ticklish touch into the dips in them. His back arched as the sharp little teeth scraped along his skin, and as Jester cast a look up at his face her eyes lit up like a Winter’s Crest tree.

“You’re crying?!”, Jester giggled, an incredulous look on her face. Essek’s head was tilted back in ticklish ecstasy, eyes screwed shut as streams of tears stained his bright lilac cheeks. Frankly, it was the most adorable sight Jester had ever seen! And she knew she was close to getting an answer from the deathly ticklish drow.

“P-Plehehehease, Jester, just not my stohohomach...”, Essek pleaded weakly, hand still tangled in the tickle monster’s hair and horns. “I’ll do anythihihing, just not there..”

“Anything, hm?”, Jester pondered, raising herself from his stomach to give him a break and smoothing his shirt back down. Even thatearned a squeak, she noted. “Liiiiiiiiike….. Admitting you have a teeny, tiny, itsy-bitsy crush on Caleb….?”

There was a solid five seconds of silence as Essek debated with mattered more; his sanity, or his pride.

Jester got her answer as his face turned back to a pout, turning away from her.

She shrugged. Time to try somewhere else.

“Hm, alrighty then Essek!”

In a second, after a slight tousle, Essek’s light form had been flipped so he now lay on his stomach with Jester laying on top of him, facing toward his-

“Jester, don’t you fucking-“

His face burned as she ignored his words, feeling his ankles gripped in a hold by Jester’s deceivingly strong arms. He had of course taken off his shoes on entry of the tower, as any good guest would. Now he was wishing he’d be a bit ruder in the Nein’s abode.

“Oh, I’m just making sure your feet aren’t dusty when your crush comes back! See? I’m helping~!”

Essek thought no such thing as he felt those fluttering fingers returning to his poor oversensitive skin. He felt the tears well up already, which was fucking embarrassing might he add. Speaking of embarrassing…

“A cootchie coo, little Shadowhand~! Don’t be embarrassed, maybe Caleb will find it cute when he finds out how unbearably ticklish you are! He’ll be all like ‘ja, zat is inchresting Essek, you look so cute ven you are laffing unt squirming, tickle tickle my dear’. Just like that! Wow, you reeeeeaaaally hate teases huh, Essek? Let’s test!”

“Lehehehet us nohohot, Jester-“

“I’m going to get youuuuu~! I’m going to tickle these poor, helpless feet!! Aw you’re going to giggle soooo much when I just….”

“Jester, no, Jehehehester- NAHAHAHAHAHAHA!! STOP THIS INSTAHAHAHANT- EEEEEEEHEHE!!”

As her claws scratched from his heel, across his sole, before nestling under his toes to make a wiggling, tickling home for themselves, Essek lost all resolve. He barely kicked anymore, body limp as silent laughter overtook him. Instead he lay shaking from the intensity of it, face sore from smiling so much more than normal, tears rolling hot down his face and falling dangerously close to meticulously written scrolls. All till…..

“I- Pffft nahahahaaaaa!! I LIHIHIHIHIKE HIM JESTER!!”

No sooner had the words left the wizard’s mouth did the devilish fingers below leave him. Essek sucked in deep breaths, grateful for fresh air in his tired lung. Finally, a break… Even if…

His eyes snapped open as his blush deepened. Had he really-

He looked back quickly at Jester, grinning broadly with twinkling eyes.

“Jester-“

“I have to, Essek-“

“You will not, Jester-“

“OH, CALEEEEEEEB-“

No sooner had Jester yelled for the wizard of the hour had she found herself under Essek instead, helped by some sort of gravity spell. His hand was clamped over her mouth to shut her up, a panicked expression on his face.

“Jester, you cannot mention this to anybody, do you understand- DID YOU JUST LICK MY HAND?!”

The look of delight as Jester giggled through the barrier of his hand gave him an answer. Despite his panic, Essek couldn’t help but break a smile. Jester Lavorre was genuinely the silliest girl he’d ever met. But still, he had to keep her quiet… And there was one way to keep her that way.

“Let me explain this in a way you can understand Ms. Lavorre…”

Jester was about to say something rude back, but instead a muffled squeal was all that escaped. Essek had a look of absolute seriousness on his face, not unlike the first time they’d met him, that made the cleric’s eyes widen. Then they snapped closed as his hand goosed her lower rib, extracting another squeal.

“You are not to mention this exchange to anyone, understood?”

His hand moved lower, fingers digging deep into the pocket of her hip. Jester cackled and snorted behind the man’s hand, unable to fight against the dunamantic magic that held her in place. It seemed wizard’s made amazing ticklers, with their dexterous, precise fingers.

“Nod your head if you understand, Jester…”

Essek was enjoying this. He had a grin on his face, one less evil and more proud. Jester was about to nod when the hand at her mouth joined its brethren, both choosing to squeeze at the point where hips met thighs. The laughter that spilled from Jester’s mouth was hysterical, giving her the boost needed to break the spell’s hold on her as her hands weakly tried to pry Essek’s off of her, legs pedalling in the air with how much the Shadowhand’s fingers tickled.

“Ah… Essek? Jester?”

Both parties stopped dead. Neither had even heard the door open, but as they looked they found Caleb standing in the entryway. His face was noticeably flushed at the sight he had encountered, not able to look directly at them. Though Jester and Essek didn’t look at each other, both knew what the other was thinking; adorable.

“I-I apologise, Beauregard had asked the Tower be soundproofed tonight so I did not hear from outside… Should I….?”

“No!! Gods, Light no!!”, Essek yelped, scrambling to his feet and casting a half-hearted glare to Jester, who stuck her tongue out back. “Jester was just leaving, aren’t I right Ms. Lavorre?”

“Oh, of course, Mr. Thelyss~!”, the woman giggled, speeding from the room with a wink to the wizards.

“……… So that was-“

“Advanced interrogation techniques, we shall call them.”, Essek said quickly, trying to keep away the blush once more. Caleb couldn’t help a small smile crossing his face at that, taking a seat beside the spell scroll once more.

“Ah, a different sort of lesson for our cleric, I suppose…”, he said with a small chuckle, patting the spot beside him. “Let us stick to dunamancy for tonight, hm?”

Essek took a few seconds to smooth out his robes and compose himself. Seeing Caleb act so… Normally about all this. It was oddly comforting, to know he didn’t mind. Even stranger, Essek thought as he took his seat, was one observation.

That wasn’t so bad.

“Perhaps a lesson for another day, Mr. Widogast?”

He caught the way Caleb flushed and concentrated on the scroll, along with the small embarrassed smile that returned.

“Heh. Another day, yes.”

#critical role #critical role tickle fic #critickle role #caleb widogast #essek thelyss #jester lavorre #shadowgast #tickling #tickle fic #eldritch writes #YES WELCOME TO MY LONGEST FIC #i spent so fuckin much time on this akdskd #hopefully people like it tho!!

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bluejayblueskies · 3 years

Text

eros

n. a natural, passionate love; based in physical touch, such as a kiss to the back of a hand or to another’s lips

Words: 3.1k Relationship: Jonathan Sims/Tim Stoker Tags: Pre-Archives, First Date, Alcohol, Ace Rings, Asexual Jonathan Sims, Kiss-Averse Jonathan Sims, Sex-Repulsed Jonathan Sims Warnings: internalized acephobia (throughout), mention of past acephobia (brief), fear of poor reaction to finding out a character is asexual (doesn’t actually occur), brief mention of unsafe food

|| Ao3 ||

In retrospect, Tim probably shouldn’t have begun their very first conversation on their very first date at the very nice bistro by the Thames (which he’d chosen because he’d panicked and picked the place that was the least likely to earn Jon’s disdainful expression) with, “I really, uh, like your ring?”

It had seemed innocuous enough. But from the way that Jon froze up, his eyes affixed to the menu in front of him with suddenly rapt attention, it was painfully apparent that somehow, somewhere, Tim had fucked up. It had barely been five minutes since they’d walked through the doors of the restaurant and their date had officially started, and he’d already managed to ruin it. God, it had taken him months—months—to work up the courage to ask Jon—beautiful, prickly, awkward, and completely oblivious Jon—out on a real, actual date—no, not a lunch date, not a coffee date, a would you like to get dinner with me date?—and he’d already somehow crossed a line he hadn’t known not to cross.

“Or, uh. Not?” Tim’s mouth says all on its own, which is worse, so much worse, just shut up Timothy Stoker. In an effort to do some—any—kind of damage control, Tim says, “Sorry, just- just forget I mentioned it. The, er. The mushroom ravioli here is good?”

Tim’s never had the mushroom ravioli. It just seemed like a good thing to say.

Fuck.

Jon still hasn’t said anything. One of his hands has gone to the shining gold ring holding the cream-colored fabric napkin neatly wrapped and is twisting it back and forth, like Tim usually sees him do with the black ring that sits on the middle finger of his right hand. The ring that Tim had seen ages ago, back when Jon had first joined Research, a stripe around the base of his finger that was fractionally darker than the skin around it. It was something he never took off, and Tim found his gaze going to it every time Jon would hand him a book or a file folder or a cup of coffee. He’s held Jon’s hand only once, and the ring had been cool against his fingers, worn smooth from how often Jon’s hands went to it during the day to twist it back and forth, an absent-minded motion done whenever Jon was stressed or anxious or nervous or just deep in thought.

Jon’s fingers twitch around the napkin ring, just for a moment, like they’re itching to reach for something else, before stilling, and now Tim just feels guilty. Before he can stop himself, he says, “I- I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, Jon. I’ve just. I’ve always thought it was nice?” Oh god, stop talking, just stop—

“It looks good on you.”

Finally, Jon looks up from his menu, his eyes blown wide with surprise. “What?” he says, his voice just a touch rougher than normal, and Tim isn’t sure whether or not to find that incredibly concerning or incredibly hot.

Focus, Stoker.

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes. So, with a shrug that’s meant to seem casual but really, really isn’t, Tim says, “I’ve always thought so. The way you fiddle with it sometimes, it’s- it’s, I don’t know, cute.”

“Cute?” Jon says, that same roughness scraping the edges of the word raw.

Fuck it. “Yes, Jon, cute. I asked you on a date because I think you’re cute and because I want to spend more time with you and because I like you. And I just- I don’t know, it just seemed like the ring was something special to you? Maybe should have gone for something like favorite movie first or something, but I already know a lot of that stuff, and I guess I just. Wanted to ask?”

Tim’s thrown all semblance of this being a put-together, normal date out the window. Not that anything has ever been normal, or easy for that matter, with Jonathan Sims. Still, he wants this to work. He wants it so goddamn bad he aches. So he bites his tongue, watches Jon’s face, and waits.

The waiter comes to their table suddenly and without any preamble, with quite possibly the worst timing ever. Tim has no idea what Jon orders. He just blurts out mushroom ravioli on instinct and orders a mid-priced bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon because if this conversation turns any more sideways, at least he’ll have wine to drown his sorrows in.

There’s a brief pause after the waiter leaves, during which Tim can’t help but notice that Jon’s hand has gone back to his ring, twisting it back and forth on his finger with what now seems like an intentional focus, a way to ground himself in the feeling of it against the pads of his fingers. Then, Jon lets out a small exhalation and says, “I’m… I’m not upset that you asked, Tim.”

Oh. Tim searches for something to say and comes up with nothing. Relief and confusion curl in his chest in equal measure, and he settles for just nodding, giving Jon what he hopes is an encouraging smile—though it feels decidedly more like a grimace than he’d like.

In the interim, the wine arrives at their table, their glasses filled by the waiter and the bottle set near the candle flickering in the center. The firelight refracts off the dark glass and Tim swears he can see it reflected in Jon’s eyes, a repeating reflection of flames in Jon’s pupils that goes on for eternity. Tim takes his glass, feeling the desperate need to have something in his hands, and takes a long sip of the wine. It’s nicely bitter on his tongue, briefly chasing away the salty, nervous taste that had filled his mouth.

Jon takes his own glass in hand and tilts it back and forth, watching the red liquid within swirl around and around. After a long moment, he says, “I wear it for a reason, and I… I suppose I’m afraid that you won’t care for that reason.”

What? Tim sets his glass down more heavily than he intends to and reaches across the table. When his hand meets Jon’s, Jon flinches ever so slightly.

“Sorry, sorry,” Tim says, hastily retracting his hand. Before it can retreat more than a few inches, however, Jon shakes his head and reaches forward, grasping Tim’s hand firmly in his. His fingers are warm and dry against Tim’s, and the ring on his finger is cool to the touch where it presses against Tim’s palm.

“Please, don’t- don’t apologize.” Jon looks down at the table, catching his bottom lip between his teeth and worrying it for a moment before continuing, softly, “I just don’t want to mess this up before it’s even begun.”

Tim says, with more certainty than he’s ever felt about anything, “You aren’t going to.”

Jon sighs, exasperated. “Tim, you can’t possibly know that.”

“Yeah, I can. Because whatever horrible reaction you’re expecting from me isn’t going to happen. Unless your big secret is that you’re secretly a mass murderer, or- or that you’re only dating me to use me for some big master plan—neither of which seem likely explanations for the situation at hand—I’m not going to hate you for telling me. If you don’t want to, I won’t pressure you to, but I don’t want you to not do it because you think I’m going to like you any less for whatever it is. I’ve had a year and a half to pine over you, Jonathan Sims—believe me when I say that I want to be here, with you, more than I’ve wanted a lot of things in my life.”

Tim really hadn’t meant to say all that, but there it is, and he finds he really doesn’t regret any of it. Well, maybe the pining bit, if only to scrape back together at least a bit of his over-confident and charismatic reputation. Jon’s eyes are wide with shock again, and his mouth opens and closes a few times before he finally says, in a punched-out voice, “A year and a half?”

Oh. “Ah, yeah,” Tim says sheepishly, rubbing his free hand on the back of his neck. “Didn’t really think I was being all that subtle, but. Yeah.”

Jon looks scandalized. “Tim, that’s the entire time I’ve been in Research! This whole time, you’ve—”

He breaks off with a strangled noise, and if Tim squints, he thinks he can see the tips of Jon’s cheeks darkening, though that could just be the flicker of candlelight across his face. “You didn’t say anything,” Jon says finally, after several seconds of silence during which Tim decided to stop pretending like he’d ever been anything other than completely enamored with Jonathan Sims.

“Sure I did,” Tim says with a shrug and a sliver of a teasing smile. “Three days ago, when I asked you out to dinner. And now, of course, can’t forget that.”

“Tim!” Jon’s hand retreats from Tim’s and he pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “Christ, and I thought six months was a long time.”

“Six months?” Tim echoes, a wide grin splitting his face in two. “Wait, wait, have you been—”

“Tim—”

“—for six months?”

“Well, it’s better than a year and a half!” Jon snaps, taking his hand away from his nose and shooting Tim a glare that contains about as much heat as a block of ice.

Tim laughs and reaches for Jon’s hand again; when Jon sighs and allows him to take it, Tim runs a thumb along the back of it, feeling the smooth texture of Jon’s ring as his thumb passes over it. “Mm, perhaps I should have said something sooner,” he relents, his mouth still curved into a smile. “But I didn’t want to mess things up. I like you so fucking much, Jon, and right now, I can hardly think of anything in the world that could change that. All right?”

Jon’s staring at their hands, his forehead creased with lines of mild irritation. When he says, “All right,” there’s still a touch of petulance to it, but there’s something softer behind it as well. Something warmer.

“All right,” Tim repeats.

They talk about everything and nothing as the evening stretches on, and Tim doesn’t mention the ring. He can tell that Jon’s still thinking about it by the way that his hand goes to it every so often, twisting it around his finger as he talks about the proper types of grass for each climate and the fermentation process for the wine they’re drinking and the food safety protocols put in place to ensure that things like insect legs and metal shards don’t end up in their meals.

(“Ew,” Tim says, spitting his wine back out into his glass and giving Jon a look that he hopes fully communicates his disgust.

“Sorry,” Jon says with a wince. “Um. But it’s safe? Because of the protocols.”

Tim is not convinced.)

Despite all of that, the meal is lovely, and the tingling warmth the wine is sending throughout his body is lovely, and Jon is lovely. Tim can’t stop staring at him—at the few curls that have slipped loose from his braid and that now frame the sides of his face, at the crisp cut of the emerald green suit he’s wearing that Tim had almost made a joking remark about before he realized that he found it really, really hot, at the way that Jon’s nose wrinkles and his hand flies up to cover his lips when he laughs, like his joy is a secret to be kept hidden. Tim has to take another long drink of wine to keep himself from blurting out right then and there that he loves Jon; he doesn’t think that an hour into their first date is quite the right time to lay his entire heart bare.

They haggle over the check for an embarrassingly long time until Jon finally relents when Tim pulls out the a year and a half is a much longer time than six months, Jon, and also I asked you card. The night is cold and biting when they step out of the warmth of the bistro, and when Jon gives a full-body shiver as they’re walking to the tube station, Tim doesn’t think twice before shrugging off his coat and wrapping it around Jon’s shoulders.

“Tim, I can’t take this.”

“Oh? Seems to me like you already have it. Would probably be more trouble to give it back at this point.”

Jon looks at the ground sullenly, gripping the edges of Tim’s coat with thin-fingered hands and pulling it tightly around him. “Must you always be so- so chivalrous?” Jon mutters, like it’s somehow a crime now to be nice to people.

“Only on days that end with ‘y,’” Tim quips, and he wraps his arm around Jon’s shoulders. His fingers brush against the ring on Jon’s hand, settling there as they continue on their way.

Tim doesn’t really live near Jon, but he still walks with Jon to his flat, his left hand at some point having slipped into Jon’s right. The ring cuts gently into the flesh of Tim’s palm as they walk, and Tim wonders if Jon finds the pressure of it between their hands as grounding of a presence as Tim does. Then, they’re at the door to Jon’s flat, and Jon lets his hand slip from Tim’s as he fumbles for his keys, narrowly avoiding dropping Tim’s coat onto the ground as he catches it with one hand and retrieves his keys with the other.

“I…” Jon hesitates, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth, before continuing, “I had a nice time tonight. I… that is to say, if… if you would like to do it again, I… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Tim chuckles, a soft, quiet noise, and throws caution to the wind, placing a gentle hand on the side of Jon’s face and feeling the prickle of stubble against his palm. It draws a surprised, breathy noise from Jon’s mouth, and when Jon’s eyes find his, Tim sees in them those same nerves from before, when Tim had finally tripped his way into It looks good on you. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t be opposed either,” Tim says with an audible smile in his voice, running a thumb softly over the curve of Jon’s jaw.

Jon lets out another little noise, and all in a rush, Tim thinks, I want to kiss him.

So he takes a step closer to Jon, lets his eyes fall to Jon’s lips, and says, “Can I kiss you?”

The nervousness in Jon’s eyes multiplies tenfold, and in a quiet voice, like he’s admitting to something overwhelmingly tragic, he says, “Is it okay if I say no?”

Something sharp shoots through Tim’s chest at that, and he only recognizes it as concern after he’s taken a small, shuffling step back in some instinctual effort to give Jon more space. Tim can see a million thoughts flashing across Jon’s face, none of them good, so he says before Jon can think to- to apologize again or something, “Of course it’s okay, Jon.” He hesitates only a moment before allowing himself to give in to the confusion nagging beneath the concern (and ignoring the hurt below that) and saying, “Is… does this have something to do with the ring?”

Because Tim can put two and two together like any researcher worth his salt. And by the way Jon’s hand instinctively flies to his ring when Tim says it, he knows that he’s right. He just doesn’t know why.

“I said you wouldn’t like it,” Jon says quietly, and Tim’s heart breaks at the certainty in Jon’s voice. Even though Tim hasn’t said anything yet. Tim gets the horrible, sinking feeling that this has happened before and that whoever had been standing in his shoes then had not been nearly so kind.

“Jon,” Tim says firmly, his hand dropping from Jon’s face and finding Jon’s hand instead. He tangles their fingers together and squeezes tightly, hoping that the sensation will ground Jon enough that he’ll be able to hear what Tim has to say and that he’ll believe it. “It’s okay. If you don’t want to kiss me, then we don’t have to kiss.” He hesitates, only for a moment, before continuing carefully, “If you don’t want to do… any of that with me, that’s also okay.” He bites back the need to make a joke to dispel the awkwardness and says instead, straightforwardly, “Kissing, sex, all of that—I like them, sure, but I like you more, Jon. So if you don’t want to do any of that, then we don’t have to, okay?”

Jon’s hand is stiff in Tim’s, but his eyes when they meet Tim’s are wide and watery and full of a raw uncertainty, like he thinks that any moment Tim will admit that it’s all too much, that Jon isn’t enough, that it just isn’t working out. Whatever he sees reflected back in Tim’s eyes, however, is enough to cut through that uncertainty and leave behind something cautiously hopeful. “You… you really mean that,” Jon says, a strange sort of wonder in his voice, like a child staring up at a truly clear sky for the first time and witnessing the full scope of the stars above.

“I do,” Tim says resolutely, leaving absolutely no room for misunderstanding.

Jon looks down at where their hands are joined and says, quietly, “Okay.”

That same rushing, swelling feeling overtakes Tim in a tidal wave of affection, and he says, “Are hugs okay?”

Jon lets out a little huff. “Yes, Tim, of course hugs are—”

His sentence ends in a punched-out noise as Tim wraps him tightly in a hug, feeling Jon’s hair tickle the side of his neck and the rapid-fire hummingbird beating of Jon’s heart against his chest. “Good,” Tim says into Jon’s hair. He takes a chance and presses his lips to the crown of Jon’s head; from the way that Jon shivers and presses himself closer into Tim’s embrace, it was the correct choice. So he does it again, holding Jon close and trying to communicate with the press of his arms and the pressure of his lips against Jon’s hair just how much he wants this. How much he wants Jon.

“I really should get inside,” Jon says finally, his voice slightly muffled from where his face is buried in the fabric of Tim’s shirt. “It’s gotten to be quite late.”

“Mm, just give me a sec,” Tim mumbles into Jon’s hair, holding him a bit tighter to accentuate his point.

Jon’s laugh is light and breathy, rumbling against Tim’s chest like the purring of a cat. “Okay,” he says, his smile hidden by Tim’s shoulder. “Okay.”

#tma #the magnus archives #tma fic #aspecarchives #jontim #jonathan sims #tim stoker #asexual jonathan sims #sex-repulsed jonathan sims #kiss-averse jonathan sims #internalized acephobia //#my fic #my writing #i call the last two fics of aspec archives week 'jay goes absolutely feral' lmao #giving the gays everything they want--tender yearning for this one #and [REDACTED] for tomorrow's

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alastaircarstairsdefenselawyer · 3 years

Text

seventeen (paris, 1901)

this is inspired by "seventeen" by MARINA! i recommend giving it a listen! the way she sings the chorus honestly gives me chills, it really makes me think about how young alastair was when all of this was happening. sorry in advance for the angst!

cw: toxic relationship, bullying

Read on AO3 | Masterlist

Could never tell you what happened

The day I turned seventeen

Seventeen, Alastair thought. The number sat happily in his mind. It wasn’t a particularly special number. He still was not an adult in the eyes of the Clave, but he took comfort in the number. One year older.

When he was younger, he thought of his birthdays and the years passing optimistically, imagining that in the future there would eventually be a day where he felt like the age of his body matched the age of his mind. Now, however, he doubted that day would ever come.

Adults liked to tell him he had an ‘old soul.’ Parents always commented on his maturity. Not his parents, of course, but when he visited the boys from school or his family found themselves at some gathering of sorts, those were the words he always heard. Oh, Alastair is so mature for his age.

Perhaps that was his problem, he’d always thought. That was the reason he could never make friends the way that Cordelia did. The reason he never got on well with people his own age. He was never any sort of teacher’s pet in school, but he always found it easier to converse with adults nonetheless. He felt far more comfortable with Charles than he ever did with any of the boys from the Academy. It was all because he had an old soul, and his peers did not.

As he grew older, however, these designations made less and less sense to him. He did not feel as if his soul was old at all. In fact, most of the time, he felt more like a thirteen-year-old pretending to be a thirty-year-old than anything else. Now, he was certain that he would never feel like his physical age fit the rest of him. Still, seventeen was a nice number.

Alastair didn’t have strong feelings about birthdays. Most of the time, he simply did not wish for the attention. Back before he went away to school, birthdays were never much of an ordeal. They were far too busy with his father’s health to spend much time, money, or energy on something as relatively insignificant as a birthday. Still, he and Cordelia had a habit of making each other presents for their birthdays. His was in early autumn, September, and they’d spend the day outside, wherever they were living.

They’d collect the prettiest flowers and stones and anything else they could find, then build whatever they could make out of what they had. A castle out of clay; a crown out of twigs. It was nice; it was special. It was theirs.

Then, Alastair went away to the Shadowhunter Academy. He was not excited to spend his fourteenth birthday alone. He missed Cordelia dearly, and the bullying did nothing to help. On the morning of his birthday, he’d gone to the mess hall, attempting to contain both his excitement that there would be letters waiting for him and his anxiety that there would not.

When he arrived, however, the boys were waiting for him, Clive and Augustus and the rest. Clive was in the front, holding an opened envelope. He twirled a flower stem in his fingers, the petals clearly torn off. He could see a few other broken flowers, crushed at his feet. Augustus was beside him, holding out a letter for the others to see, already mocking the writing on the page simply because he could not read it.

Alastair would never read it either, whatever his mother had written him, nor would he read Cordelia’s letter. In fact, he would not remember most of that day at all, only the bruises after.

He did not write to them after that, and when he returned for the winter holidays, conveniently the same time as Cordelia’s birthday, he let the occasion pass without a word. When she asked him if he’d received the flowers she sent to him, he told her he didn’t.

She did not send him anything for his fifteenth birthday.

He spent his sixteenth birthday at home again, but it did not matter. He’d already put far too much distance between him and his sister. He considered trying to apologize for the way he’d treated her, promising to do better, but when the day came, he’d spent the entirety of the night before searching for their father who always decided to go on a bender a few weeks after they arrived in a new city. He’d wistfully wished himself a happy birthday at some early morning hour, gone to bed, and decided it simply was not worth the effort. The only thing he wanted for his birthday was for it to no longer be his birthday anymore.

Today, he was finally seventeen. He’d received two letters at the Paris Institute the day before, one from his mother, wishing him well on his travel year, and the other from his sister, though it was short and he was fairly certain their mother had forced her to write it. There were no flowers, and he did not deserve them. The boys at school may have hurt him, but the way he continued to treat her in the years after was entirely on him. He thought for a moment that he should find her something in Paris, a book or a piece of jewelry so beautiful and thoughtful that she would need to forgive him. He did not believe he deserved her forgiveness, though.

Charles was away visiting his family in London, so Alastair would spend his seventeenth birthday alone. He doubted Charles even remembered it anyways, or that he would have wanted to do anything special for it if he had.

Thus, he did what he did any time he needed some cheering up: he started by visiting various bookshops across the city. He did not typically purchase much from them, but he found the atmosphere comforting. His father was an avid reader and was always severely critical of his son’s tastes in literature. He had many opinions over what was worthy of reading and what was an utter waste of time. Any time Alastair attempted to choose a volume to purchase for himself, he inevitably felt his father’s voice creeping up in the back of his mind. He wasn’t certain whether he preferred the books that the voice favored or the ones it didn’t. Nonetheless, he disliked anything that reminded him of his father, so he resigned himself to casual browsing, purchasing books as gifts for others, and only ever buying for himself what he had the space to hide.

After, he’d take himself to an art exhibit or the Louvre. He was fairly certain he could spend weeks in the Louvre and never grow tired of it.

When he finally returned to the Paris Institute that evening, he’d felt content that at the very least, his birthday was not as terrible as the ones preceding it. As he entered the building, he was startled to see Charles’ coat in the cloakroom. He quickly hung up his own belongings and went to the dining room where dinner was already being served. Charles was there, politely chatting in French with the head of the Institute, Jean Beauvale.

“Monsieur Fairchild!” It felt odd to address him so formally, but while it may be appropriate to address Charles by his first name in English, it was not in French. “You’ve returned from London.”

“Yes, I just got in a few hours ago,” Charles responded. “How was your day?”

“Yes,” Monsieur Beauvale added. “You must tell us how you spent your day off.”

Alastair always felt like this question was a bit of a trap. He knew that Shadowhunters viewed art and literature as a waste of time, but at the same time, he did not want to show a lack of appreciation for the culture. In the end, he simply commented on the beauty of the city and the language, thankful that he could spend a bit more time learning about France.

A servant arrived then with a bottle of champagne, and Monsieur Beauvale proposed a toast. This was how Alastair learned that the Beauvales would be traveling for several months, and Charles would serve as interim head of the Institute. “That is not the only thing we have to congratulate you for, is it,” he added.

Charles grinned a humble, sympathetic politician’s grin. “Oh, thank you, Monsieur. Yes, it’s true, Ariadne Bridgestock and I are to be married,” he announced.

Alastair felt his blood run cold. He bit the insides of his cheeks, forcing a smile and a congratulations. The rest of the meal dragged on, though Monsieur Beauvale and Charles did not seem to sense any tension. When it was over, Alastair promptly excused himself and returned to his room. He suddenly wished desperately that he had purchased a book earlier, anything to take his mind off of this awful truth. Charles was to be married. He was marrying a woman. Of course he was, why would Alastair have ever been enough for him? Still, he felt as if he’d at least been owed a warning.

He heard a knock at his door, but he did not respond to it. “Alastair,” he heard Charles say gently. “Please allow me to explain.”

He should have refused. He should have told him to leave and been done with the whole ordeal. When he looked back on this moment years in the future, he’d wish he did. However, he was lonely, and it was his birthday, and thus he let Charles inside.

“I know you’re upset,” he began.

“I’m not upset,” Alastair said quickly.

“Right,” he responded. “Anyways, this is merely what needs to be done to please our families, both mine and Ariadne’s.” Of what Alastair knew of the Fairchilds, he had a hard time believing that they cared that much about Charles’ romantic life. “This is what I need to do if I wish to secure a position in the Clave, a real position, not simply interim head of an Institute. It means nothing, I swear it. She has no interest in me. It’s merely an arrangement; it’s not real.”

“Not real? You mean, you’re not getting married?” Alastair asked, not fully believing Charles’ words.

“No,” he said quickly. “I mean, perhaps, one day far, far in the future, I will need to, but I have no intention of getting married right now. I am merely doing what I must, you understand that, don’t you?”

“I suppose.”

“You know what the world we live in is like. We must do what we can to ensure our success in it.” Satisfied with Alastair’s reluctant acceptance, he pulled a long, thin box from his pocket. “I have a present for you.”

Alastair blinked. “What?”

“You didn’t think I would forget your birthday, did you?” Charles handed him the box, already smiling in anticipation.

He slowly untied the string securing it, and uncovered a fine, ornate dagger made of stunning Damascus steel. He must have paid handsomely for it. He knew that Charles did not understand his collection of blades, why someone, a warrior, would collect weapons with no intention of using them, but the dagger was gorgeous, each element of it expertly chosen. Alastair could not keep himself from smiling.

“I knew you’d like it,” Charles said, pleased. “Alastair, you know how deeply I care for you. I would never do anything to hurt you. I swear, everything I do is so that you and I could be together.”

Alastair looked at him in stunned silence. He’d never heard those words before, but he’d hear them many, many more before their relationship finally came to an end. At that moment, Alastair felt as if Charles’ words were true. He felt as if there had never been anyone to care for him as much as Charles cared for him, and there never would. He felt as though the key to everything he desired lay within this man. The way he was looking at him, this beautiful dagger in his hands, how was he to feel anything but loved?

He’d look back on it years down the line and wonder how long Charles must have planned that moment, if he’d organized his trip and his engagement all around Alastair’s birthday so that he could have an excuse to give him such a very expensive gift, whether the existence of it was merely a ploy to distract him from the reality of his engagement. If it was, it worked.

That night, Alastair held no doubts in his mind that Charles’ words were anything but the full truth, even as he left him cold and alone that night to return to his own room, only ever staying until he himself was satisfied. Many months would pass before Alastair would even begin to question that night, when he would begin to wonder whether it was the beginning of the end.

The rise of a king and the fall of a queen,

Oh, seventeen

Seventeen

thanks for reading! taglist (lmk to be added/removed or if you only want to be tagged in certain fics): @stxr-thxif @satanisanauthor @zosiaenrique @lifewouldbebetteronmars @littlx-songbxrd @dianasarrow @eugeniaslongsword @bookswitchcraftandcats @jamesherondaleofficial @thomas-gaypanic-lightwood @livingformyself @anarmorofwords @foxglove-airmid @writeforjordelia @sapphic-in @jem-nasium @fortheloveofthecarstairs

#alastair carstairs #anti buford boy #the last hours #tlh #fanfiction #fanfic #cw toxic relationship #cw bullying #stairstairs appreciation month 2021

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