#even though parts of it are very gothic | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

comfortless · 2 months

Text

Only Other

chapter three of three.

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, smut (piv), sliiiight breeding kink, violence, as always König is horribly in love and says ridiculously worrisome things, reader feigns ambivalence but is equally unhinged and smitten.

notes: eternally grateful to @wordsbyvani for reading over my shoulder and genuinely being the sweetest throughout every part. ^^ and again to @writersdrug for giving me the idea to begin with!

wc: 9k.

<- previous.

König’s men arrive sometime in the afternoon, a few hours behind but carrying hoards of supplies. There are weapons you recognize to be from your city stuffed into bags, pelts and silks and twinkling stones, meats and fruits. They had not forgotten to bring along wine, either: two barrels to either side of a gray mare led along behind one of their rugged steeds by a length of thick rope.

You don’t ask how they found her, let alone how they managed to actually tame her down enough to follow amidst the chaos that broke out the night prior. A weak string of “thank you”s leaves your lips when you press your nose to the horse's snout, sobbing into her silver fur. She seems less bothered, huffing impatiently as she’s tethered up with the others against broad trees.

You’re not convinced that here or anywhere is safe anymore, and you don’t assist when the men begin to set up their camp. They’ve enough supplies and arms to do it themselves, anyhow.

Guilt, trepidation and confusion, haunt you: cast out for all to see by your forlorn stares and the tremor of your lower lip as you continuously fight an internal battle to keep yourself sane. And how could you? You’ve only come to reason that this has all come to fruition because of you, because of the things that you could not help. Your curiosity, fascinations, and impiety had all led you to be here, now, while everyone you once knew sleeps eternally.

You have condemned yourself to the life of a slave girl, and later to the darkness of the Orcus when you do die.

Though… men do not give their slaves the looks that König gives to you. You haven’t spoken to him in hours, and you do your best to avoid his glances, shoot down his smiles with the curved arrow of your own sullen frowns. Still… amidst setting up the tents and gathering wood for the fire to stave off the chill of nightfall, you catch the very stars reflected over a sea in his eyes.

There is love there, a too-uncanny and harrowing love, but a great devotion nonetheless. It burns like a fire of its own in your chest, inescapable and rampant. You know it in the spaces behind your skull, your ribs, that what he feels is another cage: roomier, softer, but you will never be free of it either.

König does not follow you to the tent when the moon rises. He sits by the fire, watching as you go with the pelt drawn up over your shoulders and curled around you. When you sink into the bed of fur that has replaced the straw mattress from before you find yourself somehow even more fitful here than outside. Sleep is evasive, leaving you tossing and twisting amidst the smell of sweat and animal fur. Not even the crackling fire outside defeats the quiet or the cold in the air.

There’s a sickly pit in your stomach, thorn seedling threatening to take root and spread the longer you stare up at the blackened abyss of the tent ceiling. If you’re to live a life torn, at the very least you could be warm; you take to König’s side in moments, joining him by the slowly dwindling flame.

The brute isn’t sleeping, either, just… lost. Lost like you the day that you met him.

“I need to look at your wound.” Your excuse comes weak and puny, doe limbs and fragile glances when you do sit at his side and speak. You’ve never been anyone’s ‘Göttin’, you don’t know what you’re doing, what blessings to grant or judgments to cast. Avoiding him only seems a punishment for you both, and you’ve had your share of those.

König is anything but small: even amidst the turmoil your silence has gifted to him, he still seems himself, all ego and cruelly cut silver, softened only by your words, your touch.

“Richtig,” he mutters, reaches out to pull you in, and you let him. Straddling his lap with only the moon above awake to witness, cast her curious gaze down and illuminate the expanse of his chest whilst you work to pull away the bandages.

There isn’t much to tend to, it’s healing well. The flesh that once seemed inflamed has only drawn back its redness to simmer to the natural color of his skin. When you begin your careful prodding, it does not hurt him. He doesn’t so much as flinch or huff at your touch.

When you dab your index in the sweet honey that serves as a salve, he grasps at your hand and brings it up to his lips, presses a kiss to your index and middle without hesitation. And you see it then: a glimmer of hesitation in the way his lips pull and his eyes search your own, a silent plea for vindication.

You’ve never been cold to him, not even as he spoke with so much self-importance when you first met, not when he rutted his blade between your parted legs, not even now after all that he’s done. In his own way of thinking, these things have all been some display of courtship. There’s never cruelty toward you, not in his touch, the words that he speaks, and especially not in those somber eyes. These things break down the last fraying edge of your resolve.

You press your mouth to his, sharing the taste of honey pressed to his lips, everything sugary and warm. Over and over until the night begins to close its way in, plump clouds drifting over the pearl hanging in the sky when you finally find yourself tucked back into the tent with König curled at your side. He holds you closer than he ever has, not from a fear you’ll take off under the darkened sky, but in the honoring of something far greater. Some love comes quiet like flower blooms, his comes with fire.

“Wolves pair in winter,” he says quietly, burying his face into your hair. It’s shy, almost, as though the man has not already embedded his scent into your very skin and toyed with your most sensitive parts. It’s truer, more heartfelt, than even his confessions of love.

“Is that what you see us as being?” You laugh, a slow, gentle chime that aches your throat, face still puffy from tears and voice scratchy from those thick clouds of smoke.

“Ja…”

“You really…” The words get caught up someplace in the spaces between your lungs and tongue. You don’t want to cry, not anymore, but you find it difficult not to choke up after so much comfort with a lifetime of so very little. “You do care for me, don’t you?”

He answers your question in a grumble, a string of foreign words only meant for mountain caverns and creatures that walk on all fours and somehow they make sense. A resounding yes, in three gutteral sounding words. The frayed ends of guilt and anger finally drift off as you settle into his hold like a den of pure comfort, warm and buried in a world of fur and a man blessed by trees and the earth rather than gods and myth.

When the breeze picks up outside, rustling sprawling oak limbs, momentarily silencing the fire, its as if they answer him in your stead. You don’t cry, though it aches, but you let go of the memories of all your begging to those that never seemed to listen. Here, in the dark you’ve found the only person that seems to understand without even knowing.

You drag the pelts up over the both of you, clasp your hand over his where it rests beneath them, and fall into a haze of contentment. He draws you nearer, breath filtering through your hair from where his head lies just above your own.

The dreams that come are no longer of places you can not reach, but only of the memory of a city that was never meant to house your spirit.

You wake to König’s pawing. It begins along your sternum, hand placed flat there only to glide further up and push at your tit. It’s gentle and testing, pushes fire into your very veins when for the first time he doesn’t seem to remain entranced there. It drifts, further up to cup your jaw.

“You are awake?,” he rasps, propping himself up to inspect your face where you lie, weakened and warmed by sleep.

“Yes…”

“Are you still bereaved?,” König asks in such a hushed voice, reaching toward you again. His hand seems to tremble when it finds your face, thumb brushing over your mouth with such trepidation it seems misplaced for him.

“Partly.”

You consider your dreams again: the open street, devoid of people apart from those that face down at you with contempt building in hollow eye sockets. Where grass once sprung up beneath the cracks in the stones, there were only small flames. And you do still grieve for those that were innocent in the entire affair, those trampled by cattle when they had only just had a taste of escape. Your very mind begins to darken at the thoughts, your body only tensing further, a bowstring on the verge of snapping,

“Is that why I can not have you?”

“I never said…” Your voice only grows thin, detached almost from the way you purse your lips to kiss the digit toying with you. Your heart is only thunder, the sound of those wretched hooves: yearning was dangerous itself, your own only seemed to take further shape with each passing moment. Claws and a waiting maw, just like the wolves he speaks of.

König hums, a deep rumble from his chest as he gives a slow nod of acknowledgement.

It all becomes tree sap, a sticky confectionery bout. His mouth descends upon your own as though starved, hurried and longing as he samples you, the you who certainly yearned for the bathhouses to clean herself properly. All thought seems to dispel when his hand leaves your cheek and neck to begin its painfully slow descent between your legs, burrow between wax and honey to pull soft cries from your mouth.

He only stills his dismantling of you when you’re trembling and doughy, squeezing around his fingers so tightly you wonder how he can continue to bury them inside at all.

Just as the other gods, Sol is lost here when König crawls over you, all shadow and wretched, led here with the promise of a prey that you are not. Only another wolf… the flame in his winter eyes is the same that’s settled inside of you.

His head dips to kiss into your hair while your leg is pulled to settle over his hip. You feel a kiss, a different sort, when the pillar of his manhood reaches between your bodies to settle over your sex, probing at your slit that only seems to pulse and beg under his touch.

You had never found these silly metaphors enticing with the men of the city, even the entertainers with their pretty words could have never lured you this far down. Yet, here is different, here is cold and lonely and wild: a culmination of all that he is, incarnation of the earth and man and a desperate hunt.

“You are ready for me,” your god hums, pleased, as he coats himself in your arousal, sticky like warm sap. The sounds of his toying with you are something you should be accustomed to now, with him, but still makes your face warm. Not with shame, only a quiet desperation. “Beautiful little goddess...”

It’s summer here; winter tears its claws right out of your flesh when the sun itself sinks inside. The turning of seasons is natural, so dreadfully normal you’ve never bat an eye until you could physically feel it: the strip of your own apprehension tossed into a steaming sea, the dewy wetness all but drowning you entirely.

And it’s König who loses himself first, a sound so pitiful carving its way out of him you would almost believe him to be hurt if not for the way he throbs inside of you. He feeds it, a stuttering twitch of his hips as he slowly brings you toward him by your hips. Far too large to properly bottom out but encumbered and ecstatic by the sensation around him. Tighter than any sheath, but a weapon pushes through you all the same- inch by loving inch, until he manages to fully fill you with himself.

“I don’t want to hurt you, little one.“ Each word is torn from him, punctuated heavily by the shallow movement of his body and the drag of a demanding cock. Restraint is a peculiar thing hovering over him, his brow pinched as though forcing himself to concentrate on not ripping you apart where you lie.

“You’re not hurting me..,” you sigh as your hands find his shoulders, fingernails dimpling the skin there. If anything the urgency is only shared.

When your hips push back to meet him, the lead is dropped, another surrender. Too much trust for a man deserving of none of it.

His response is a breathy groan, mouth finding your shoulder as his hands drift to pull your hips upward to better meet him. Teeth find purchase along your flesh, gentle as he can be, but grinding and desperate to leave a mark, a piece of him behind.

It’s almost with a fury that he stuffs himself into you then, his jaw going slack and eyes wild, hands grasping at every inch of your pillowy flesh that he can reach.

Never could König have looked more beautiful than now, once starved and now tasked, for and now with you. His gaze trails from where your thighs tremble around him, to where the sap pools and nature builds up its own obscene choir at your togetherness… and then, to your face where his gaze only shatters into softness.

Something bubbles right against your lash line, a stray tear, overwhelmed by the feel of the giant ravishing you, pulling you down from your world of jewels and pillars to his own devoid of anything but need.

His head dips immediately, tongue running up the length of your cheek, a hand falling away to pry open your already parted thigh as he licks at and fucks into you like something truly feral. He coos his praises against your mouth, parted and whining, claims a new kingdom all for himself in you, of you.

You feel how the temples must, trodden through and left with gifts, blood and honey and fire as the muscles of your thighs begin to tense. Instinct spurs you to catch his lip between your teeth, push your hips back to laboriously furl around him.

His pace comes to a halt, settling to only grind himself so deeply within you that you feel the last of the stars begin to die out in the recesses of your skull, dim and dumbly smothered until they reignite in a blinding wave of white. König does not give you the time to settle, only spears into you with a renewed fervor as you cinch around him, furthering your rapture to a point that is almost agonizing.

He chases his own end with the same famished glare as before, stares right into your eyes as you pull iron from his lip and cast it into the fire of your waiting mouth. The sting, the bliss, only makes him whimper, a sound so small and choked its unfathomable to have come from a man who slams into you as though you were paid for.

You lick into his mouth in a way so tentative and fragile he immediately crashes down, blankets you in the strength of his arms and kisses you in turn: so soft and chaste it’s uncanny in this moment. His groan of defeat only comes when he stills fully, buried to the hilt, thrumming and shivering through his own release. Honey and seafoam, the rise of a tide touching earth to brim and spill past your joining.

He chases the feeling for several moments longer, bucking his hips sloppily as he lies atop your spent form, barely coherent when he mutters nonsensical praises into your hair, against your neck, the corner of your mouth- any place he can think to leave a kiss.

“… everything,” he mutters when he lies atop you fully, satisfied where he nestles his head into the fur below you both. “Everything I have ever wanted.”

The day passes on like this. Even as his men maneuver about camp, preparing to hunt or practice with their stolen weapons. The only thing König seems keen on doing is bringing you to ruin, repairing you with kisses pressed into your hair, along your cheek.

He leaves you only twice as the day drags onward. Once to gather you a meal of something meaty roasted over the fire, what remained of a boar, a gathering of dried fruit, and water from a small flask. You’re famished and exhausted by the thrill of being shoved down into the fur to tolerate him three times over already. The twinkle in his eye is nothing short of mischievous when you do finally tell him that you need to rest after eating.

After a bout of playfully shoving him away, you only find yourself on top of him, then. He seemed entirely unashamed, more hurried and desperate than before as he bucks at you like a wild horse, voicing his praises and spitting out such sugary sweet nonsense about how you would carry his son and only ever experience him, you almost felt shy. A curled finger hooks under your jaw to force you to look down at him, lose yourself in the vast, uneasy sea of his eyes while he floods you with his seed again. Finally, he seems sated, pulls you down to lie atop him.

König promises you that he will find your mother, that he will take care of you as no other has or ever could, while stroking along your back. He tells you of the mountains, the trees, the animals and the men who live amongst them and inside of them.

He tells you of the sea when you ask, how the sand is softer and sticks as if it never wants you to go. In turn, you tell him that he must be like the sea then, never fully parting from you, leaving his trace imprinted upon your skin with teeth rather than sand. A sea that loves instead of hungers, one that presses you onto your back to wash over you to steal the very breath from your chest and push it back with a kiss.

— — —

The wilderness is cruel. Wild things lurk in the brush and occasionally you pass by other settlements. Less friendly than the small band you have grown accustomed to. You’re always urged to shush, then have yourself tucked further against König while he speaks low and threatening to any would-be bandits. Only once has that resulted in a death, but not to one of König’s own. You didn’t watch when the man with the red hair carved a hole through the trespasser, just squeezed your eyes shut and buried your face into a waiting bicep.

Days pass on horseback, your legs feel stiff and clumsy, and there are no amount of pelts serving as makeshift saddles that could ever help the ache that shoots up from your pelvis. It serves no aid at all that, when riding ahead or too far behind the other men, König takes this newfound intimacy between you two to be a liberty. Regardless of your formation, he never ceases looking at you as though his only wish is to devour you whole.

Those times are often quick, palm pressed over your mouth as he dutifully breeds you beneath the sun, in the softest patch of withering wild grass or barren land available. You melt into him, part your legs like a wife rather than some skittish woman that he himself has whisked away. Each time, he whispers his praises, professes his love in more creative ways, covers you in so many kisses you feel a bit dazed by the time the ordeal is through.

Then, you’re righted back onto the horse with König at your back, the most horribly endearing smile plastered upon his face.

It’s not much of a surprise that his men do start their caterwauling at some point during the journey to wherever— past dormant trees and approaching the silhouettes of hills so tall and vast you’re certain that they must be the mountains you have heard of, even if you had yet to properly see them. König had made it perfectly clear just what you are to him in his coarse words to his companions, but never directly to you. They do not mock your union, but they do often give you strange looks, particularly at your tummy while they discuss you with their leader.

There’s nothing there, you’re sure of that much, but you shoot them your angriest glare anyway and raise your chin to look forward instead. Their talk of the possibility of a little “prinz” does not distract you from your own thoughts, drifting up to scrape the sky just like the peaks of the mountains.

“So that is where the gods live?,” you ask, mostly to yourself as you curl your fingers into the horse’s reins. There’s subdued laughter from either side of you, and you almost shrink at the thought of making a fool of yourself before these brutes. It wouldn’t be the last time, surely. You couldn’t even bring yourself to fully commit to the idea of there being any sort of vast and ethereal field awaiting you when you die anymore; it was already here before you, painted in the color of evergreen and winter blossoms.

König doesn’t laugh, at least. Only places his palm over the front of your neck and guides your head back to look up to him, gives a toothy grin when your eyes light up just from the sight. It was difficult not to when you’ve been fed and pleasured incessantly by him. You reason that your punishment for forsaking all that you once knew must assuredly be your own mind deteriorating to feel the way that you do.

“They are right here,” he says, so quiet and sweet, gesturing between the two of you. He had no interest in your former gods, of what he seems to view as stories for children, but he listens as you tell him the significance of such lofty places cloaked in fog, mist and trees.

His hand finds your cheek, savors in the feel of your skin against his thumb while you tell him of your misplaced belief in him being some son of a war god that he’s never even known, much less prayed to. He then reminds you of the woman he seems certain could have been your mother, says that surely she must have been wed to the shallow of a sparkling lake to birth something as lovely as you.

The men regroup after some time, stilling their horses and your rowdy mare still tethered behind one of the others to speak, access the distance from here and their destination while sipping wine from leather flasks and putting weapons back in their proper places. You listen on, picking up on the few words you did understand from their language, but ultimately gather nothing from it all.

“Where are you taking me?,” you hazard as you try to push yourself forward in a subtle reminder that yes, you were there too, and woman or not you had a right to know.

“Home,” König gruffs simply in response, gathering you back into his arms and taking the reins from your hands. His chin rests atop your head, the fingers of his free hand petting your side in an attempt to snuff out any further questioning. “You will like it.”

Home. Home to the place he had claimed you would find your mother; to foreign woods and wild downs, sprawling hills and little shacks covered in sticks and leather instead of the villas with their terracotta tiles.

You didn’t even know that you had a place to return to at all, not now. Your eyes catch his, though, and you know then just what it truly must feel like to belong someplace. Never had home been Gaius, reduced to smoldering ash in some divine reckoning, but it had always been with someone you truly believe you have wanted. Had you ever even been allowed to want before him..?

Your brow pinches as you shift to rest your head against the broad back behind you, held fast by the iron grip around your waist. The clouds drift by above, the sun casts a warmth over your face and you fall into comfort, into promise.

— — —

Barbarian settlements are strange.

There are no paved streets here crowded with people and decay, no hallowed and looming temples hungry and waiting for sacrifices. The columns are tree bark and very much alive with twisting limbs and growths of green that never seemed to dull even in the winter, not the stiff and lifeless marble you had grown accustomed to.

The homes are pieced together with wood, clay, anything that could be used with no clear rhyme or reason to their architecture. Goats wander about, bleating out for food or ramming into one another for play. The children don’t sit in houses studying or wander from stall to stall snatching and scurrying off, they play and work. There is a strange contentment here, too, something that feathers on the wind as it does the same on each face that you pass,

Everyone seems to have a place, a thing to be, and you feel like the world’s most delicate and forgotten pearl amidst these people who do not even seem to pay you any mind. If anything, they only seem pleased to see the man with his arm cloaked over your shoulders. They smile to him, greet him in their strange words and dip their heads as though he truly were some king.

Maybe he was, to them, to the wild people with no true reasoning to have any sort of monarchy. They barely had land to claim, much less rule over.

You’re not paraded around as a slave: he cups your jaw and lifts your head when your gaze falls to the dirt and dust below your feet, chides you in a rough whisper about how a Königin should present herself. The people do acknowledge you then, with looks of awe and offerings of dried flowers pressed into your palms and tucked behind your ear, Roman bronze dropped at your feet. You look the part of a proper queen too, when you flash them all your loveliest smile and nestle closer to your giant of flame and earth.

Thoughts of your past in the city come to mind when you note their lack of conveniences. Even the dread of forsaking your own gods briefly leaves you halting midstep before a firm hand urges you forward. König’s warmth comes as a comfort now more than ever when your thoughts do eventually circle back to a guilt, heavy and dreadful: the picture of Juno’s altar forgotten and burned away weeks of travel behind you.

“You will like it here,” he mumbles, trailing the same hand up to the back of your neck as he repeats the words he spoke only days prior on your journey. You could, you will, but it all feels so different that your pulse seems to triple its racing.

Your fingers graze over the dried flowers in your hand, sweet smelling as you trace over each petal to center yourself, take back that prideful smile that was in place just a moment ago.

If you’re to run amok, you may as well enjoy it.

You settle, regain your pace and that forced look of utter contentment at his side.

At least, until he begins to speak again.

“I will kill them all if you prefer we be alone,” König whispers into your ear, has the audacity to nip at your lobe, and does not even bother drawing back as if those words were meant to make you wet and pliant for him. All sense of reason must have left you entirely, because a shiver rips its way up each knob of your spine. “Would that please you?”

“No… Do not jest,” you grit out, staring only forward and not offering so much as a glance toward the beast at your side, even as his hand drifts down to palm at your breast.

“I am not.” He laughs, breathy and low when he finds your nipple already hard, thumb grazing over it as though this act of exhibitionism was as natural as any of the other things his madness compels him to do. “I will give you anything. Even blood, meine Göttin.”

Surely… you should be flattered that his loyalty is reserved only for you, but there’s no appeasement held in the glare that you shoot him as you pry his hand away from your chest. He gives you the look of a kicked stray then, even a pout so foreign on a face so scarred, you may have even chuckled if you were in better spirits, but he does relent. His hand drops back to his side and he detached from you after pressing a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

You’re led to a shack larger than the others, but more or less in the same state. It’s simple, built solidly with thick carved wood and packed to prevent weather seeping its way in. It’s humble in a way, far more humble than any ruler’s you’ve only imagined. A bench, a table, a mattress likely stolen away from some Roman soldier’s tent. There’s nothing particularly special about it, but it smells like König, like the trees and the earth in a way that is comforting.

It takes a moment for it to fully register that this is what he had meant by home, not the people and their affairs outside, only this place. Only him. A temple all your own that you imagine he must wish to fill with love and children and an abundance of gifts he may steal away all for you.

His men bring in what little of the supplies remained, stuffed away in a corner and voluntarily relinquished; even if it means they’ll be fending for themselves like the others in the village rather than feasting on stores, they only seem happy. The red-haired one even flashes you a contented look of admiration on his way out, as though you just being there was enough to soothe and patch some void here.

That may have been the case.

When the door is shut and all falls to silence, the barbarian king kneels before you. His hands find your hips, thumbs grinding gentle circles along them and further down to your thighs, your calves, to everywhere that aches. A gentle sort of worship that coaxes soft sighs and a buzzing of flesh from you.

König brings you to the mattress when your eyelids begin to flutter, exhaustion settling over you in full when you’re lifted and brought toward his chest. You could fall asleep in his hold alone, but you settle to only rest your head there and reach up along his vastness to rake your fingers through his wild hair.

Your voice tells him that you do like it here, with him, in this strange place circled by withering ferns and trees so infinite that you could never hope to find your way away without him taking your hand and navigating through. Your touch tells him the words that you dare not speak, a kiss to voice that you too would burn away everything if it only meant that you could share in this at his side, a mimicry of his massage along his own shoulder to whisper a great confession of adoration and boundless promises.

— — —

When the ferns and flowers begin to grow again throughout the spring and into the summer, you find yourself accustomed to everything. You aid the women in caring for their children, though you begrudgingly swear that it is not for practice whatsoever. The stitching and cooking that is done here feels far less harrowing— you do not put it off and leave it in a heap upon the floor as you would have in the city. There’s no looming dread of what’s to come when you perfect your work: you’re gifted only smiles, blessings and gifts.

Though the woman König had claimed to be your mother is not here, you ask him to recount the way she looked and spoke to you often on quiet nights, where his hands drift over you and his voice comes in a whisper. She may not have even existed at all, some lost spirit amidst the trees that wails and cries and leads men like him to their destinies. Your heart only tears when you begin to wonder if Juno herself had imparted such a quest to him. Save the lost woman that she favored so much, grant him some divine luck and intoxicating charm to ensure your safety and happiness.

He does not understand when you gather up honey and blossoms to pray over, but he does sit at your side and listen when you whisper your thanks to this new altar. Kisses the crown of your head when you’re through and lures you back into an embrace where he reminds you that he knew what he needed to do the moment that you met at the stream. No other woman could have swayed him the way that you have.

His offerings are only to you, even after such a length of time has passed. There’s no goddess that he kneels for other than the one that sleeps at his side and tells him of her dreams.

The day he gifts you his seax is one that resonates more than even the necklaces and gowns of silk and linen. It feels heavy in your hands, the blade almost as soft as gossamer when your fingers trail along it, though it does not yield. It’s only well polished and freshly sharpened. The handle bears a strange carving in it now, one of two wolves staring up at a broad moon. It breaks something inside to know that even he does find some things sacred: beasts, the glow of an untouched paradise and you.

“Why are you giving me this?,” you manage to whisper as your diligently ghost over the carvings in reverent repetition. “Don’t you need it? For hunting and fighting…”

“You like it?” It’s impossible not to notice the cocky expression on his face that tells you full well he’s recounting that experience. You liked it then, certainly, but it wasn’t as if you had any use for it in such a way when he kept you satisfied enough with himself.

“Yes… but it’s yours.”

He shrugs then, a great lift of his shoulders as you’re pulled to him with a careful grip to the wrist holding the weapon.

“Will keep you safe,” he huffs against your neck, leaving a kiss there when you sheath the seax at the strap you had also been gifted pulled taught along your hip.

You didn’t even know how to use the thing properly, and you were not quite fond of the idea of chasing down rabbits or puncturing another human with it. Your concerns fall on deaf ears when you’re led out into the surrounding forest to a thicket of wild raspberries. Your wrist is steadied by a firm hand as König diligently teaches you to carve away limbs heavy with fruit without actually bringing any real harm to the plant itself.

There are many things to forage this season, some you had never even heard of before he explains their significance to your wonder-filled face. You hadn’t thought him stupid, not truly, but it still comes as a surprise that he seems to know so very much.

When you find yourself seated beside a slow-moving stream, a ripe berry crushed between your teeth, you’re finally allowed to put your new blade away and set it aside on moss-covered stones.

“You should keep it close. A bear might want to eat you, hm?,” he playfully chides behind you, lifting your drab little gown up and over your head. As if to further his point, his teeth rake over your pulse, applying just enough pressure to draw a whine from your lips.

“You are not a bear,” you huff and turn to pull away his tunic, pressing a kiss over the scar he now dons just above his heart.

“Ja…” He lowers his head again to kiss along your neck, trailing a heat up to your ear as he maneuvers you into the water to bathe.

Your foraging and banter go forgotten, and a different sort of howling fills the air shrouded in tree limbs. There are no wolves or wind, only two so feverishly desperate and in love that any other with their dowries and arrangements would find it even more compelling than the Empire itself.

He sinks into you when you’re brought to your knees, bellows his contentment when he brushes your wet hair away from your face and dives forward to cover you fully, bury you in a world of love and sweetness. Even when the act is done, König does not pull away, only lies you back along to shore and tucks you further against him.

You remain chittering and laughing until the sky begins to reflect the very stars you see in his eyes, glittering constellations that seem to flicker and echo the steady beat of his own heart as you lie against his chest.

The summer wedding that the fortune-teller had once spoken of seemed to already take place here. There’s no need for a lectus or some grand display to reveal to others that you’ve united, it comes in the stillness and shared contentment when your voices begin to quiet, and at last you resign yourself to tell him that you belong to him just as much as he belongs to you.

The final flurry of surrender comes out as a soft whisper, one that only leaves you with your knees folded back to your chest and an insatiable giant hugging his gratitude and love into your ear with each graceless snap of his hips.

He drags you down to your own ruin, spells his own with haste and what comes as a twist between a dispatch of tears and a sigh. You can’t recall ever seeing him cry, not even now as he burrows against your neck and shakily breathes against your shoulder, muttering such nonsense about how he would still take you up and into the sky if only you would continue to let him stay with you like this.

“Always,” you murmur fondly, cradling him as closely as possible. Inside, outside, embedded into your very flesh you feel him near. He does not pull out from you this night, only falls asleep in your embrace, cloaks you from the breeze over the water with his own heat. You follow suit, petting at him as though he’s far smaller than his massive weight suggests. He shifts just enough to not fully crush you beneath him, just as you begin to drift off.

When morning does come, König is already stood at your side, staring off into the distance with an expression that only foretells of something you’re certain you will want no part in. He shushes you when you part your lips to speak, nervously scrounging up your gown and the strap holding your gifted weapon. There are no protests from you, and only the babbling of the stream and sounds of distant yelling break up the silence.

You don’t need to ask to know what’s occurring. Just as you had predicted before the Romans had come to dismantle the village just as they had many others before, take the women as slaves and force the children to learn and take up arms for their empire. You had never thought of the violence before when it occurred, when you saw the faces of those miserable women at the sides of people they could never afford to feel any fondness toward. You had always been lucky and blind.

König, however, must have only known wraith. His fingernails dig into his palms, nostrils flared and expression pensive.

“Wartet hier.”

He does not even hesitate as he begins to move, leaving you behind along the peaceful shore. As if to spur you forward, the shallow water rises to lap at your ankles, and still you do not budge. Your hands feel heavy, encumbered by the seax still set in its sheath, and only then does it dawn on you that König had not even had a weapon his person. What good would he even be without one? When so many men armed with sharpened swords and spears had come for his head…

Though fear creeps in, subdues your limbs with its stiffness, rakes fangs of pure ice along every pulsing vein held within you… you can not bring yourself to flee or stay put. You follow, quiet as a wood mouse as you walk along the forest with trembling hands clutching a weapon you almost hope is not too late to save your home, your heart.

There’s no clear trail, no sign of König, not even a shadow or a whisper that may belong to him. Instead there are shouts and the heavy smell of smoke. The gray billows up, more imposing than even the oaks and pines. The only comfort you will yourself to take is the fact that the words you can make out are Germanic, not Latin. Not all is lost, not yet.

You steel yourself and push your resolve to the forefront of your mind, creeping ever closer with careful but steps far more swift. You wind past throning brush and sprawling vine, past trees but familiar and not until you finally cross over from forest to the tall grass lining the edges of the village.

There lies chaos you expect, and that which you do not. Some of the cabins have gone up in flame, fire that coils and spreads to set your nerves alight with memory and dread. There are men fighting at the heart of it all, weapons slick with blood dripping down to the fallen at their feet. The women and children have all fled or have been taken captive, you couldn’t be certain amongst all that was already occurring around you and beyond. You couldn’t even count your enemies, a smaller army no doubt, the arrogance of the Empire knew no bounds. Twenty men to take down one was substantial enough when the others could be used for further conquests.

And there is no sign of König.

You feel numb when no matter where you look you can’t seem to catch sight of him, and how easy a task that should have been given his stature. The seax is pulled from its sheath when grief begins to settle, and the tears that threaten to spill are forced back with a grimace. There was still some hope, you knew. The village was not so small that you could map all of it from the small lump of a hill, but that desire to find him, bare your own teeth and fight at his side to protect what was yours brims up and chokes back the fear harbored in your chest.

Lady or wolf, you cared not. You would lose your titles just as he would if it came down to it. When the histories speak of how that city burned, how a king without a name brought the Empire to kneel if only for a moment before they sought revenge, you would be written in ink alongside it. A devotion so strong echoed in each page, as a barbarian queen that chose to keep her heart and lose her head.

But it doesn’t come to that. There’s another woman stood at König’s side when you do find him, wielding a stolen sword from one of the opposing soldiers as sweat and blood paint his face.

Unharmed and unknowing of the presence at his side, a mirage carved of smoke she was, his eyes stared out towards where the blade struck while her eyes only settled over you. Your breath catches when your gaze moves from König to her and you do find a resemblance: the way that her hair, the same color as your own frames her face, her frame, the way that her nose shapes, even the expression upon her face.

The mother he spoke of, the feral love and protectiveness outspoken and proud in her eyes. You do not recognize this woman, even amidst the cluster of sparse memories in your mind. Not until now had you ever seen her, but the feeling you’re gifted then… a roaring settling in your chest to extinguish all apprehension tells all.

As the last of the Romans is struck down by König himself, a blade sunk so deep into the other’s stomach as the other man spits out a gurgled wail, the woman only seems to fade out into nothing, replaced by the backdrop of the trees surrounding. Nothing left behind in the wake of the place she once walked apart from fallen soldiers and a trail of blood and König, safe as he could be.

When you come to him, teary-eyed and fretful, your roaming fingers do not catch on a single gash. The blood painted over his face, neck, chest is none of his own. He’s well, just as the other men from the village as they rush to snuff out the flames and clear away the bodies.

Though König pants heavily and his eyes are still wild, mind momentarily lost to the thrumming adrenaline in his veins, your touch seems to settle him greatly. The sword falls from his hands to clatter in the dust and muck, curling around you to pull you in. You think he should be angry that you hadn’t listened when he ordered you to stay, but he only seems as grateful as you to find his other half alive and longing still. Always.

You tell him of the woman as you sob into his chest, describe her and her vanishing as best you could in your own muffled voice. He grins, strokes your hair as though he truly believes every word even with how ridiculous it all sounds. There are things far more demanding to focus on now, and eventually you fall to silence as he holds you there.

Your home still stands, built just far enough off from the rest that its managed to avoid the battle entirely. Untouched, except from inside. The altar you had dedicated to Juno is gone, vanished just like the woman you had seen before. The scent of cinnamon hangs in the air, misplaced and unannounced, but a comfort all the same. You smile to yourself, bittersweet but comforting, with tears drying upon your face.

— — —

The village takes time to rebuild.

You lose time just as much as you lose sleep helping out with the endless tasks. König, thinking himself chivalrous, or perhaps hinting at what your future may entail if he continues to ravage you as though he would die without your warmth, never allows you to carry anything heavy. Even clay pots filled with water from the stream are swiftly taken from your hands. Gods forbid you even attempt to aid in cooking over the fires, either. He pulls you away with a hand clasped over your mouth and nose, delicately caressing your face and reminding you to be careful.

Something has changed. What you knew to be love before only seems to double with each passing day. He fusses and dotes over you endlessly, ensuring that you’re well fed, trailing behind you to bathe and it isn’t even just for the chance to sink into your cunt.

Often, he sits with you in his lap, guiding a wet cloth up to gently wash you, toys with your damp hair beneath his fingers, tells you stories of his own adventures and the people who traveled alongside him. Not of the hundred wives his men had boasted about him having, a ridiculous statement only meant to make you pine for him more than you already had, you supposed. He even tells you, sheepishly, that most women seemed afraid of him, but never you.

When you do make love, it’s an act of endless desperation. Along the bank of the stream, your shared bed, against any tree he deems fit enough to not budge beneath your shared weight, and even once in a field of wild blooms you two had found along a foraging trek. The floral aroma had kissed your skin each place he had, left you more doughy and sweet even as you took to conquer him, straddled over his hips with your head thrown back to the wind. You laughed with him when it was through, curled your hand beneath his chin to you with the rough feeling of his unshaven hair.

Everything— each new thing you learn and see with König as your guide only seems to melt away any wall you put up. Your life before only seems to fade from memory, that lonely bitterness consumed by the well of love he’s pushed you into.

When autumn comes and the trees begin to turn, each wealth of green faded and given way for yellow and red, your mare has finally become more docile and tame. You’re not even sure who to thank for it, for the way she struts about with giddy children on her back and doesn’t fuss when even you will yourself to settle over her saddle.

The saddle like all else in your life only seems softer, stitched together with leather, a cushion made of a rabbit’s pelt and stuffed full with straw and down so soft you don’t even dread the idea of the long ride to come.

The mountains, here, surrounding the valley and the village are wild and beautiful, still layered near to their peaks in abundant fields of late-blooming flowers. The stars still hang above, twinkling and glittering as if only to silently deliver their blessings for your coming journey. It is only the sea that you’ve yet to venture toward, the last on the list of honeyed promises König has made to you.

Your luggage is packed and spread between the two horses, your mare and his stallion. There are blankets and preserved food, light posts to set up a tent someplace a distance from the shore, even a pearl dangling from a thin chain that König dutifully places on your neck. It’s no exchange of rings, but you clutch the little gem tight as you will yourself not to cry. There was no need to be so sentimental not now, not after you’ve already shared so many moments far more tender.

The seax dangles at your hip, catching the glow of the sun above when you pull it free and polish it alongside König as he does with his pilfered sword. He shows you how to use a whetstone, delicately maneuvering your hand to sharpen the blade before dousing the thing in oil, makes you swear not to accidentally nick yourself when you’re inevitably dragged in the throes of some hunt at his side.

You’ve yet to use it for that purpose, but going alone means you’ve no choice but to offer your support… even with the knowledge that he wouldn’t actually allow you to do much at all, frustrating as that was.

When morning comes, you say your goodbyes to the village. You’re thrown flowers both pressed and new, petals latching to the fur of the pelt tied over your shoulders. König receives wine, far more useful than the delicate little blossoms that you brush away with shy smiles and glassy eyes.

The language is easier to understand now, when the others offer you great fortune on your travels, the women speaking greatly of your fertility despite the way it makes your nose scrunch in distaste. They call you Königin, only that, never any name you’ve offered for them to use. Perhaps even above the name the people of the city called you by it is more fitting.

You settle into the saddle with König atop his stallion next to you, reach for the reins when he flashes you a wary look, tells you that you will ride slow and he will keep you safe in case anything does happen to occur. You only think to remark the same, gesturing toward the weapon strapped to your hip, smirking when he snorts in amusement.

“Are you ready to depart?,” you ask him as you reach a hand out to trail along his arm, heart thumping wildly when his gaze only begins to further soften. You almost fear he may begin to cry, just as overwhelmed and sweetly pacified as you feel now. “We can stay a while longer if not.”

“Nein… we still need to plan for the stars after,” he whispers as he takes hold of your hand, interlocks your fingers and brushes against each knuckle with the pad of his thumb before bringing it toward his chest.

The moment is broken when the horses begin to huff in anticipation. You don’t get the chance to remind him that you still see each constellation he’s shown to you in the glimmer of his eyes, but you know well enough by now that he would only tell you the same in turn. Always your only other.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #okay i lied two hours early but i’m tired of looking at words today #f: only other

493 notes · View notes

klemen-tine · 3 months

Text

Glass Bones and Paper Skin Part 2

Platonic! Bruce x Model! GN! Reader

First Part

Part 3

Trigger Warnings: Hint at suicide, Body Issues, Eating problems (not a disorder), Child Neglect, stalking

This is more of the family side than it is of Bruce. Next part will be everyone.

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

“Young Master Y/N, what a pleasant surprise.” Y/N smiled at Alfred, opening their arms and sagging in relief once they hugged the butler. The three hour car ride had been tense, with everyone asking questions and Y/N trying their hardest to be polite while not losing it. The fashion show still fresh in their mind, and the clothing Francesca had given them was gently folded and placed in the trunk of the car.

“It is good to see you, Alfred. It’s been too long.” The old man huffed, “Indeed. A year of only phone calls and cards does make it seem like it was a century ago since I last saw your face… in person.” Y/N smiled, giving Alfred a playful look before remembering where they are and how they got here.

The smile on their face became practiced, expression smoothening out as they turned to face the rest of the family who were all waiting patiently. Dick was smiling brightly, unraveling his scarf and walking forward, “Hey Alfie, you should have seen our Y/N walk. They really made the show.”

“I find it insulting they made you walk last,” Damian chimed and crossed his arms. Y/N gave him a small smile, “Being a closer is as much of a compliment as being the opener.” The young boy scrunched his nose, “I preferred the show in Paris.”

“Francesca Gabbana designed the piece, Alfred you’ll have to see it.” Tim was the one carrying the case that had the piece in it. The old man hummed, “I saw it on the television, but perhaps seeing it in person will be better.” Jason shrugged, walking in and gently nudging Y/N with his larger shoulders, “Although, did she have to make the Bat symbol just the front piece? It barely covered anything.” Y/N could see his jaw clench like the very thought of other people seeing Y/N’s stomach.

Bruce was the last to walk in, shrugging off his coat and hanging it over his arm, “Fashion designers do not care about function, only beauty.” Y/N smiled tensely, “It is a form of art.” The older man smiled at Y/N, and the model couldn’t get rid of the image of the Bruce they saw backstage.

“Of course it is. One of the most demanding forms of art as well.” Y/N couldn’t place the tone, but there was a sudden shift in the atmosphere. Alfred shuffled, “Well, dinner is almost ready. Young Master Y/N, if you want you can wash up in one of the guest bathrooms. Your room is currently being used as a trophy room.” Y/N chuckled, “Oh dear, you’re not hanging up my photos are you?”

“I did tell you I would be.” Y/N shook their head, “Thanks Alfred, but I don’t have any clothes here.” An arm swung around their shoulder, and Y/N stiffened under the sudden touch. Jason was smiling at them, “C’mon Y/N, we have some clothes for you.” Y/N felt the sudden spike again in their spine, alerting them that something was amiss and only bad things would happen if they asked questions. From how everyone was looking at them, Y/N specifically, it was like they were waiting for Y/N to ask. Impatiently waiting for that landmine to explode in front of them.

“How kind of you, I wasn’t expecting that.” Y/N jumped over it.

“Of course! How could we not have clothes ready for when our younger sibling comes home. Even though it’s been almost three years, I hope everything still fits right.” Just to land on another landmine. Y/N kept the smile on, years of being talked down to by photographers have helped them create the perfect mask of politeness.

“So, which bathroom in which guest room?” Tim stepped forward and gently guided Y/N out from under Jason’s arm and further into the manor. Y/N stayed half a step behind, taking in the gothic manor and the decorations littering the hallway.

Out of all the siblings, Y/N is closest with Tim. Not really siblings, and not really even friends, but if his relationship could be described as a length rope attached to each person, Tim’s would be the second shortest. Right after Alfred. They are close in age, and Tim was the first one to comment on Y/N’s photo when Y/N had first started modeling.

It was only once, and it may have been in passing, but Y/N had held that interaction close to their heart. The first and last comment from a sibling about their modeling. An acknowledgement of sorts, that made Y/N momentarily believe that they were noticeable, only for that to be squished that same day.

“You’re photo in the Cosmetology magazine, it looks really good. Red suits you.”

The way that color looked on Y/N was the same as how a red rose looked on a green stem; like it was always meant to be. Y/N has seen the comparisons between them and their mother. M/N L/N was a beautiful woman, with large eyes and pouty lips, the very definition of innocence. A puppy-dog look that fit so naturally on her face.

A white rose.

While Y/N had a more sultry tone, a more powerful presence, one that demanded attention.

A red rose. Not so innocent, or pure, but who can be when you see your own mother dead in the bathtub. Drug allegations and the loss of her popularity caused her downfall, and she loved her popularity more than she loved her child. Y/N finds it hard to blame her, because after they have gotten a taste of what beauty can get them, they can see why their mother got addicted to the camera flashes.

The assurance that yes, they are beautiful. They are beautiful and worthy of the cameras.

But with every camera flash, is a terrible comment. A terrible blog, highlighting their faults and insecurities. Someone dissecting every motion they made, every microexpression, ever comment.

“Here you are, Y/N.” Y/N’s attention snapped back and sure enough they were in front of the door. Tim waited patiently for Y/N to enter, “Thank you, Tim.” The young man shrugged, “Sure. Clothes can be found in the dresser and shoes in the closet.” Y/N nodded, waiting for the other to leave. Instead Tim turned around and faced Y/N, waiting for the other with a raised brow, “You’re not going to ask about the clothes?”

Y/N gulped, “I feel like if I ask, I won’t like the answer. I’d rather live in ignorance for now.” They walked past Tim, opening and closing the door, but before they saw Tim grin and a smile played out on his lips, “Smart.”

They locked the door, and when they turned around Y/N nearly collapsed. They pressed their back into the door as they stared at the room in mild terror. Their room from their condo, fully paid off condo, was present in front of Y/N. The same color palette, the same furniture, hell even the bookshelves are the same. Gulping, Y/N walked further in and when they opened the dresser, their jaw clenched and fingers shook.

The exact same clothes.

The bathroom was their saving grace, or so they thought. It didn’t look like their bathroom in the condo, save for the same colored towels. That was until they opened the shower and saw full bottles of the same brand soap, shampoo, conditioner, masks, everything.

“Just like home. It is just like home, Y/N. Only in the Manor.” They mumbled to themselves, stripping in front of the shower stall and jumping in and not even waiting for the water to get hot. They wanted in and out as quickly as possible. Washing their hair, their body, and not even bothering to do the usual masks and scrubs.

Jumping out, they quickly towel dried themselves and threw on the robe that was so familiar.

“Routine… keep to the routine…” Body lotion, while the skin is still damp so it can absorb into the skin better, followed by an oil. For the face it was a double cleanse, first an oil based then water-based, followed by toner, retinol, serums, hyaluronic acid, moisturizer, and face oil. Teeth will be after the meal, but hair…

“Moisturizer, blow dry, and then oil.” Y/N continued to mutter, trying desperately to not go crazy as the familiar brands flashed across their face and they had to use it like normal. They had too. Cause if they don’t, then Y/N knows that they will go crazy.

They don’t bother to look in the dresser again, already on the verge of having a nervous breakdown, and instead they opted to flop onto the bed. Y/N buried their face in the pillow, and tried to not think about anything. They tried to force their mind blank, just how they did on the runway.

“Y/N, are you ready?” Only it wasn’t working. Sitting up, Y/N stared at the door and contemplated answering. The carefully crafted facade was cracking and Y/N doesn’t know if they can keep the mask on any longer. From the multiple shows this week, to the shows earlier today, then this, the mask had outworn its use and now it is slowly begging to be taken off.

“One minute please.” Only they can’t. Not here. Definitely not here.

Peeling themselves off of the bed, Y/N stripped out of the robe and grabbed the first shirt they saw, underwear, and jeans. Their house slippers were right next to the dresser, and Y/N wanted to cry. All of it was getting too much and they're not sure how much longer they can be doing this.

Opening the door, Dick and Jason were the ones waiting for them. Dick grinned, “How insulting of you to look so great in only jeans and a crew neck, making the rest of us look like toads.” Y/N chuckled, closing the door behind them, “I am a model, its my job to look good in every style of clothing.”

Dick laughed, wrapping an arm around Y/N’s shoulder he pulled the other close. Close enough that Y/N could smell the detergent used on Dick’s clothes, and body heat radiating off of the other. They started walking, Jason keeping silent while Dick chatted to Y/N, catching the other up on the past year.

“There are more to the family now, but they won’t be at dinner today. Cass is with Steph, Duke is studying, and Barbara has dinner with her own family to join.” Y/N nodded, ignoring the small sting that others can be welcomed in while they couldn’t be. Instead, they kept the conversation polite, “How nice! It must be worthwhile to have so many people here.” Dick grinned, and there was a type of sharpness to it that had Y/N squirming.

“Yeah, but it was never really a full house because not everyone was here.” A jab at Y/N, who muscled through it, “Well, modeling is a travel-heavy job. There was no time to come back.” The brothers stayed quiet, leading Y/N to the dining room table where everything and everyone was sitting and waiting patiently.

Bruce caught their eyes, and motioned for them to sit at the empty seat next to him, Tim on the other side. Y/N walked over, and took the seat graciously, trying to ignore the weight in their stomach that was making their throat close. Alfred emerged, and like the true butler he was, he began setting their plates in front of them. Perfectly made and being presented beautifully on the white ceramic plates with gold leaf designs.

Their favorite meal, one that always had Y/N running down the stairs when Alfred would announce his plans to make it, sat perfectly in the center of the plate. Its been so long since Y/N had it, no one quite makes it like Alfred does, and plus its just not really in Y/N’s diet.

But Alfred made it. Alfred put his time and effort into making it, and Y/N is not going to spit on that. Once everyone had their plate, the dinner table became loud with chatter. Just like hoow it used to be. Dick would carry the conversation for the entire table, Jason would make sarcastic remarks, Tim intelligent ones, Damian’s would be snide, and Bruce would look exhausted the entire time. However, he still partook in them, letting his kids have the family moment of conversing with their parental figure. Smiling and chuckling as he did so, Bruce tried to be that good father figure.

And Y/N just sits there. They eat quietly and think about their next photo shoot, the next trends that they need to hop on, the workout routine they need to adhere by. Questions do not get thrown their way–

“Now that fashion season is over, what are your plans Y/N?” E/C eyes blink owlishly, staring at Dick in wonder as all eyes focus on them.

“Oh, uh, um, well its normally rest season for us, but I have plans to schedule a few photoshoots, commercials, and I know Maya has been talking about me becoming a brand ambassador.” Y/N wants to keep the momentum. Y/N wants to be kept busy to get and stay away from here.

“You’re not going to rest?” Jason questioned, raising a brow and Y/N shrugged, “I plan to take a few weeks off, but modeling doesn’t really have a set time.” It isn’t a 9-5 job, or vigilante job. Y/N will have to make public appearances, showing up to Galas, grand openings, other fashion shows, fashion shoots, and a lot of traveling.

Bruce hummed, “Sounds like you’re running yourself thin.” Y/N gulped, “It sounds like a lot, but most of it is traveling and getting ready. Besides, I like being busy.” In high school, Y/N would go from school the the modeling agency where they would schedule photo shoots and commercials. Then it would be meeting with dieticians, personal trainers, estheticians, and then more meeting for future goals. The next steps.

Y/N was always busy, but so was their mother and she managed. She was a single mother and a high end fashion model. If she can do it, then there is no reason Y/N can’t.

“But there are other stuff right? Like you need to get facials to make sure your skin looks nice, and working out,” Damian chimed in, and Y/N blinked in surprise at the youngest contributing to the conversation. They smiled, “That’s not really tiring, it’s just time consuming.”

Alfred walked back into the dining room, a dessert platter in his hands, “Then it is good you will be resting here. Take a few days to enjoy being free.” A cheesecake was set down in front of Y/N, and Alfred pointedly stared at the half eaten meal. He gave Y/N a raised brow, and while the model would normally smile and reassure the man that they would eat later, their face was full of shock, “What do you mean a ‘few days?’”

Bruce wiped the corner of his lips with a napkin, “A few days. Rest here for a few days, it’ll be good for you and for everyone else.” Y/N gulped, “Why is it good for everyone else if I stay?”

“Of course it’s good for us. Family sticks together obviously, and with you running off, it really sent things haywire.” There it was again. The phrase ‘running off’ as if it was something Y/N actually did. They smiled, “You’re sounding like Tim. I did not run off, I moved out.” Bruce’s brow furrowed, “ ‘Moved out,’ huh. I didn’t realize moving out meant leaving without so much as a goodbye.”

“The things you left behind, you scheduled people to grab them and throw them out. Alfred was the one to stop them from touching your room,” Dick stated. Those blue eyes keep Y/N locked in their seat. The smile on the oldest sibling’s face was anything but kind, “It’s like you wanted to erase yourself from this manor. You left behind almost nothing that would trace you to us.”

“Not a number to call. We had to get it from Alfred,” Jason chimed, taking a bite of the chocolate mousse cake.

“Or a letter explaining where you went.” Damian took a sip of the tea.

“Or an address.” Tim gulped his cup of coffee, all of them watching Y/N. They way their sibling’s shoulders tensed and that fake smile became more and more downturned. Bruce spoke once more, “It seems like you don’t even want to be a Wayne. Taking your mother’s last name despite the controversies.”

Y/N’s smile turned bitter, “I took her last name because Wayne is more influential and I wanted to start with as little influence as possible. Plus, legally my last name is still L/N.” Bruce met Y/N’s gaze, “And look how many speculations you got for drug use.”

“...Since when did you read gossip?”

“The moment my kid’s photo is attached to that piece of gossip.” Y/N is still aware of all the blogs accusing them of drug-use, the same blogs that accused M/N. People using her photos to compare their features and just cause more drama.

Y/N took a bite of the cheesecake, and the tension at the table was thick. Usually it was between Dick and Bruce, or Jason and Bruce. Never between Y/N though. Although, Y/N never spoke at the table so maybe that is why they were arguing? Can this even be considered an argument?

Alfred cleared his throat, “While talking is appreciated, arguments stay away from the dinner table.” So it was an argument. Y/N apologized to the man and took another bite of the cheesecake. Their mind filled with the workout they are going to have to do to burn this off.

++++

Alfred watched the child he considered a grandchild drink their tea, brewed in the darkness of the kitchen and now sitting at the dinner table again. While a year may not seem long, for Alfred it was. Y/N, who had been there for half a decade, had been glued to Alfred’s side. The man always taking the teen to and from school, and then sometimes to their gigs.

It was Alfred that took Y/N to their first audition to be a model, and it seems like it was only a few days before he received a call from a woman claiming to be M/N L/N’s manager, and while she may not be Y/N’s manager, her daughter will be. Alfred liked Maya. The young woman always let him know of Y/N’s gigs, she would pick the young teen up and drop him off, and she tried to be as helpful as she could. Maya was a woman born to manage models and their busy and demanding schedules.

What Alfred didn’t like, was that Maya still had the old school model critiques. Alfred gaped at the woman when she handed him a list of diets for Y/N to ‘lose weight.’ A 15 year old Y/N, who was already slender, now being told they had to be skinny but toned. A child being told that ice cream was no longer an option, and their favorite burgers were banned.

He furrowed at the training regime, wondering how agencies can expect a teenager to be toned like their already full adult models. Nonstop cardio, ab workouts, and toning exercises. Then strut practice, because if Y/N was M/N’s child, then they were made for the runway. Born to walk in front of cameras and audiences.

“If Y/N wants to be a model, then sacrifices have to be made,” Was Maya’s response to Alfred's inquiries. She assured him that Y/N would still be eating, and she encouraged Y/N to eat, but now those meals were restricted to certain foods.

Alfred watched as Y/N struggled at first, their own plate different from the others, and how the blisters on their toes and heels bled through their socks and bandaids. The old man watched as the training and strut practice became an everyday routine. Y/N walked on the wobbling plyboard, barely wide enough for one foot, and the amount of times they fell off of it. The books stacked on their head for good posture and balance, followed by walking on an incline in those uncomfortable shoes, then training the muscles to the point of exhaustion.

He had watched the child-like baby fat on Y/N’s cheeks melt off and expose cheekbones that looked tight against the skin. Y/N still looked beautiful, not more or less, but Alfred could see the exhaustion in those young eyes and how Y/N juggles modeling and being a student.

Y/N didn’t even go to their high school graduation, choosing instead to head to Paris for their first ever abroad photoshoot. That kickstarted the traveling and runway model career. Once Y/N got their highschool diploma, they were out the door and becoming busier and busier.

“I see you still drink onion skin tea so late at night.” Y/N smiled up at Alfred, “Of course. I was shocked to see that you still keep the skins.” The older man sat across from Y/N, nursing his own cup of tea “Of course. In case you ever visited, I thought it would be great to have some in stock.” Y/N gave Alfred a ‘really?’ look, continuing to sip on the still hot tea.

“I saw the piece you wore today,” Alfred started the conversation.

“It truly is a beautiful piece of work.” Y/N’s jaw clenched, “Did you know about-” Y/N waved a hand in the air, “- about Bruce calling to commission a piece?” The old man took a sip of the earl gray. Y/N shook their head, unable to be upset, “Alfred, a call about that would have been appreciated.”

“An address would also be appreciated but seeing as you have withheld that information, I saw no harm in sharing Master Bruce’s commission.” Y/N deflated, rubbing their forehead with their fingers, “Alfie-”

“You only use that name when you know you’re about to be in trouble, so you might as well just say it, Young Master Y/N.” Y/N’s cheeks blushed and their lips pouted, “Alfie, I told you that the reason I didn’t tell you my address is because I am always traveling. I’d feel awful if you showed up and I wasn’t there.”

“There’s a wonderful contraption called a cellphone, Young Master Y/N. I would call before making that trek over.” Y/N groaned, setting his cup down and trying not to crumble in front of the grandfather figure. Answering to Alfred was always harder than answering to Bruce.

“Alfie–”

“Young Master Y/N, I understand your hesitancy is sharing in your life with others. Life was lonely here, and I understand wanting to forget that. However, having only a number to call you is terrifying. What if something happens and I cannot help you?” Y/N gazed sadly at Alfred, “Life wasn’t lonely, Alfie. I had you, right?”

Alfred Pennyworth, Y/N’s saving grace and lifeline. The person who is proof that Y/N was not alone in the Wayne Manor. The butler always willing to lend an ear when Y/N vented their frustrations, and when tears escaped their E/C eyes. He is Y/N’s biggest supporter. Always buying a magazine that had Y/N in it, and he would listen to Y/N critique the pose and the facial expression. Then he would give Y/N a slice of cheesecake and compliment Y/N, in both the photo and in person.

Always reassuring the other that a cheat day will not set him back, and rest is what the body needs the most. Reassuring Y/N that their mother would be proud, that Bruce notices them, and that Y/N’s siblings do in fact love them.

“Besides, why would you even want to visit? My place wouldn’t be as grand as this–”

“It would be to make sure your fridge is stocked and that you are eating. You have always been the worst when it comes to eating, and I worry that your fridge and pantry are empty.” Alfred doesn’t have to guess that Y/N’s fridge is empty, because he knows it is.

He knows that Y/N’s fridge is empty besides some drinks, and that the pantry is only snacks. While Y/N may have the excuse of being gone for so long, traveling and whatnot, Alfred knows that Y/N does not spend a lot of money on food. Y/N spends more money on clothes, jewlery, facial and hair care products, than they do on groceries.

Y/N doesn’t even look ashamed. Nervous, yeah, but not ashamed. They sip their tea without making eye contact. Time to change the subject.

“Why is Bruce, and all the boys, all of a sudden interested in what I do?” Alfred didn’t Y/N out on the obvious change in conversation, but he let it slide. The old man sighed, “Why would a parent not be interested in what their child is doing?”

“Alfred.”

“Young Master Y/N, you have worked tirelessly to get to the position you are now. With no help from the family, you had spent your late mother’s money to audition, then to pay your managers, and now you are making it big within the industry. Is it wrong for a parent to congratulate their child?” Y/N bit their lip, “So its because I’m finally someone now? Was I not worth attention because I chose not to be Robin?”

“Young Master Y/N–”

“I don’t care about that. Like I told Bruce, it wasn’t abuse or anything, he just simply didn’t have time for me and that’s fine. I’m not mad about that.” Alfred watched Y/N get worked up, and E/C begin to shift in nervousness, “What I am talking about is why did Bruce pay off my Condo, and why does he have access to my bank account?”

Silence fell across the table. Y/N staring at Alfred expectantly, while the butler finished his tea. Once done, he grabbed his and Y/N’s tea cup and headed towards the kitchen.

“Perhaps, that is a Master Bruce question.” Y/N made a sound of annoyance, throwing themselves back into the chair and scrunching their nose. Standing up from the table, Y/N said goodnight to Alfred, and proceeded up that stairs and into dark hallways. Y/N wasn’t ready to go back to the guest room, feeling their heart rate spike whenever they thought of the replicated room.

Instead, they walked down familiar halls towards a room-now-turned-trophy room. They reached for the doorknob, but found themselves unable to open it. Y/N didn’t want to see all the photos Alfred had kept throughout the years. Rather, what caught Y/N’s attention was the lacking of doors in the hallway. There used to be two more doors on their left, but instead there was now one. The area where the second door was, was perfectly sealed and now blended into the wall.

Y/N took a deep breath, and opened the door. They used to be guest rooms as well. The two rooms had queen-sized beds and armoires for the unexpected guests that popped up. Y/N’s room used to be a guest-room, but they ended up liking the privacy because no one else’s room was around their’s. In fact, it was the guest room across from Y/N’s room that they had turned into the practice room, seeing that no one came down this hallway.

However, clearly people were not because of the renovation done.

When the door opened, Y/N sought out the light switch. The room was pitch black, and the last thing Y/N wanted to do was trip over something. Feeling around the wall, Y/N rejoiced when they felt the familiar switch and flicked it on. Once the bright light filled the room, Y/N took a deep breath. They were expecting a game room, or an indoor swimming people because that seems like something a rich person would do. Turning two guest rooms into a pool despite it being on the second floor.

Something not exactly normal, but expected.

Y/N didn’t expect this. Gone was the wall that separated the two bedrooms, making it one long room, and all the furniture was absent. No more beds, armoires, and it looks like even the bathrooms were gutted and turned into part of the room. All the tables, rugs, sofas, everything that was once in those rooms, were now gone besides the chandeliers that hung on the ceiling. Filling the room with a bright light, that didn’t fit the manor aesthetic at all, and illuminating everything that was in the room.

While the furniture was gone, the room was not empty. Mannequins lined the walls, on their own podiums and glass cases. While seeing them bare would have been scary, seeing them dressed in the clothes that Y/N had worn on the runways was more terrifying. Y/N, in the runway season alone, walked 86 shows. That is the runways season alone, not including the other smaller shows they have done since graduating high school almost a year ago.

These weren’t all of the clothes they have worn, there was still a large amount and they were the most iconic pieces. Pieces that a designer would never want to give someone.

Y/N walked further in, taking in the first mannequin on the right, and they noted that the mannequin looked eerily similar to Y/N. Only missing the facial features and hair, but it looked like the proportions were almost spot on.

The plastic doll had on the outfit from a runway show earlier in the year, when Y/N walked for Versace. A simple long blazer with deep V cut, stopping mid-thighs where only an inch of skin was shown before thigh boots bedazzled in gold, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious jewels took over the rest of the legs. The earrings they wore were poked into the mannequin's own ears and the bracelets hung off the dainty wrists. In the glass case, next to the mannequin, was the photo taken of Y/N when they were walking.

The next case was a piece they wore when walking for a newer fashion-designer, one that Y/N did for free just to get to their name out there, and the piece was a gorgeous suit, dyed a beautiful vermillion red that had the slighted shimmer of gold in it. Y/N’s runway photo was once again next to the mannequin.

The entire room was full of these iconic runway looks, with Y/N’s photo right next to them, and they surrounded all sides of the room and some of them in the middle. Almost like an art gallery of sorts, and Y/N looked at every single one of them. Not in amazement or judgment, but more of horror.

Y/N knows some of these fashion designers. They have known some of them since they were a child and watching their mom get fitted by these exact same designers. No matter how much she begged, they would never let her take one of their creations home. These clothes were meant to be either safe-guarded in a museum, in their own collection, or in some cases bought by a celebrity and worn to an award ceremony as advertisement.

In other words, Y/N knows that some of these designers would rather gnaw off an arm then give away their precious creations. Yet, here some of those precious creations were, hanging on the mannequin shaped like the model.

In the center of the room, like it was the main show, was the Batman-inspired piece. All that was missing was the photo, which wouldn’t be published for another few weeks.

Taking a deep breath, they stared at the reflection in the gold-plated bat. They were trying to process all of this. It’s one thing to have photos, because Y/N is a model and photos are expected, but to have the actual clothes they wore. Clothes that Y/N knows the designers would kill for, dressed on mannequins that looked almost exactly like Y/N was another thing.

Y/N backed out of the room, turning the lights off and shutting the door silently. They stared at their own door, sweat beginning to break out on their forehead, and they went against their instincts and opened that door.

A trophy room, Alfred had said. The walls are decorated in their photos, and the bed is still as immaculate as the day they left. Turning the lights on, Y/N couldn’t help but to smile as the time capsule in front of them. From their very first photoshoot, when Y/N was a gangly 15-year-old with still chubby cheeks, to the most recent photoshoot of a now 18 almost 19-year-old Y/N. Their confidence can be seen in their pose and gaze, something their younger self lacked.

Y/N walked closer to the walls and looked at all the different photos. Some candid, some posed, some in the water, and there’s one where they are in Greece. Some had Y/N fully clothed with barely and inch of skin, and some were of Y/N with barely an inch of clothes. From makeup, to shoes, to perfume, to clothes, Y/N’s photo was pinned on the wall or framed.

A photo caught their attention though. It wasn’t one from a website, or a magazine, but an actual photo. Y/N looked closer, and they recognized the set from when they were 16-years-old posing for an editorial magazine.

However, the angle in which this photo was taken from, Y/N knows there were no cameras there. All the cameras were in front or on the side, not behind. Another photo caught their eyes, and it was the same thing. A photo from behind.

Once they started looking for them, Y/N could begin to spot them all. Photos that they know no photographer took. There was one that had their blood chilling and fear rising in their chest. It was a photo, taken at night and through one of the windows in Y/N’s condo. Y/N had one wall in the living room that was basically all windows, letting in the morning sun and led out onto the gated terrace. It was high enough that they had no neighbors that could look through those windows.

In the photo, Y/N was wearing their pajamas and their hair still looked wet. They were sitting on the counter of the island in their kitchen, eating raspberries and watching Youtube on their TV. It was such a close photo, close enough that the reflection can be seen in the glass.

Y/N recognizes the blue and black, and when Y/N’s eyes drifted to another photo of them in their home, bile rose into their throats. The morning sun illuminated the warm neutral color palette in the living room, and Y/N was out on the terrace sitting at the patio table they had set up out there drinking a cup of coffee and reading a book. They had their shirt off, exposing ribs pulled tightly against skin and abs that remained toned even when Y/N wasn’t flexing. The shorts they had on exposing soft skin and pedicured feet, their slipped laid forgotten under the chair they were sitting in.

They recognize that book. It was a book they read in the height of summer, meaning that this photo was taken half a year ago, when it was okay to sit outside in the warm summer mornings and let the skin begin to circulate.

What chilled Y/N even more was that whoever took this photo was on their terrace with them. They were on Y/N’s terrace, and Y/N didn’t even know. The Wayne family has known Y/N’s address the entire time. They knew where Y/N was staying, they knew Y/N’s photoshoot schedules, and they knew Y/N better than Y/N thought they did.

“I didn’t think you’d come in here.” Y/N’s head whipped around and there was Dick, or Nightwing, still in costume and smiling at them.

“The hell is this?” Y/N held up the photo of them on the terrace, and Dick shrugged, “I’ll admit, those photos we took. But we didn’t take the other ones.”

“What other ones?” “The ones of you at the photoshoots. I know you saw them, but we didn’t take those.” Y/N glared at Dick, and pushed themselves close to the wall as Dick walked in. Damian was right behind him. The oldest brother walked to the photo that originally caught Y/N’s attention, “You had a stalker, can you believe that? He took hundreds of photos of you, and all we did was make him stop.”

Y/N’s lips pursed, “How do I know you’re not lying?” Dick unpinned the photo, and with Damian’s help, trapped Y/N against the wall next to the photo of them outside. He held up the photo, “Because, Y/N, as you can see we prefer more… candid photos then staged.”

Y/N snapped, “There is nothing candid about that photo! That is an invasion of privacy! Trespassing! So is that one!” They pointed to one of them sitting on the counter. Damian grabbed their arm, and Y/N wanted nothing more than to shove the kid off.

“And so is that one.” Dick pointed to one of Y/N wearing only a large shirt, a towel around their shoulders as they walked into their kitchen.

“And that one.”

“That one there.”

“There’s that one too.” Y/N looked at all the photos, hidden next to the magazine photos, and they were all of them in their home. Horror morphed on Y/N’s face when there was one photo of Y/N in the bedroom, in the midst of taking their shirt off.

Dick continued to smile, and Y/N could see Jason and Tim peeking in from the doorway.

“You did a lot on your own, Y/N. You built a name for yourself, became a highly sought after model, it really is amazing.” Dick walked closer, “But you know what all of those photos have in common?” Y/N stared into blue eyes, terror swimming in those E/C eyes of theirs.

“You aren’t even aware of your photo being taken.” The truth unsettled Y/N enough to try and squirm out of Damian’s grip and to get away from Dick. They didn’t need to be pointed out. Y/N is aware that in every photo taken without their permission, they were not once aware of it. Even when they looked like they would be only a few feet away, Y/N not once looked bothered. Y/N doesn’t even remember that feeling of being watched.

Tim and Jason stepped in the room, making it seem crowded and even if Y/N got out of Damian’s grip, there was no way they were getting past all of them.

Large hands gripped Y/N’s forearms, feeling like they would bruise the skin if Y/N struggled.

“So tell your big brother Y/N, how do you expect us to trust you on your own when you can’t even notice someone on your terrace?”

________________________________________________________

Part 3 is coming soon....

#batfam x reader #yandere dc #yandere batfam #platonic yandere #batfam #batman x reader #bruce wayne #platonic batman #platonic batfam #yandere imagines #gender neautral reader #batman x gn reader #Yandere batman #batfam x male reader #Batfamily x female reader #Batfamily x gender neutral reader

641 notes · View notes

werecreature-addicted · 3 months

Note

It’s always been a fantasy of mine to be poly w/ multiple vampire partners (like dracula & his brides, but doesn’t even have to be dracula specifically). Just imagining being the next human they bring home to toy with and feed off before eventually turning <3 anyways love your blog!!

Imagine showing up on the doorstep of a large gothic castle, pathetic, sopping wet from the raging storm that caught you off guard. the place is clearly haunted, or at the very least, creepy as hell, but you have no other choice, nowhere else to go.

You're surprised when the man of the house opens the door for you instead of a butter or maid, but he invites you in to spend the night in his home with all the warmth and charm of a snake. You know something's wrong, you know you're a foolish little mouse, but what other choice do you have?

He insists you strip out of your wet clothes to let them dry and lets you warm up by the fire, he doesn't give you anything dry to change into so you awkwardly stand naked in front of the roaring fire, drying your hair and debating if it would be rude to rip down one of the grand tapestries to wrap around yourself when you hear a squeal of delight, you whirl around but no one's there.

Then, in a flash, there are three someone standing in the doorway to the room you're in, three beautiful women, all with ashy skin and blood-red eyes that stare at you hungrily. More snakes to come flick their forked tongues at the frightened mouse.

"Oh, you were telling the truth- a new toy to play with," one says.

"Told you, a pretty little thing all naked and ready for us, just waiting to be ripped apart," another says, clapping her hands together excitedly.

"Master didn't tell us about this one, maybe he wants them for himself, perhaps it would be wise to ask for permission," the third ponders. There is a flash of lightning through a nearby window momentarily blinding you, when your vision returns the man who let you in is there smiling.

"no my deers, go right ahead, have your fun," he insists, as if he'd been listening to the conversation the whole time. The three women pounce on you, even though they might appear frail and petite they are strong, much stronger than a pathetic little thing like you.

For the most part, the man of the house watches as his wives have their way with you, but the second blood is spilled he's on you too, taking his turn to break in the new toy. Even with four vampires biting and drinking from you, they won't kill you, that would spoil the fun after all and who knows. it might be more fun to keep you around for a long long, time

#vampire smut #vampire girl #vampire boyfriend #vampire x reader #vampire x human #vampire x reader smut #monster imagine #monster fucker #monster #teratophillia

611 notes · View notes

justporo · 8 months

Note

Do you have any headcanons on what Astarion and Tav's home would look like? :)

You bet, I do! But I put some more thought into it over the day so may I present you with:

Domestic headcanons about what Tav's and Astarion's home in Baldur's Gate would look like

After your adventures and some looting of certain castles you go to buy a small but luxurious townhouse in the Upper City of Baldur's Gate - probably criminally under its actual worth but you two are just so convincing, aren't you?

Dark wooden floors, high windows (with thick brocade curtains of course), wrought-iron balcony and fence - it's giving gothic and dark academia but in a homey and warm way

Soft lighting everywhere, lots of candles and candelabra, a fire place of course and oil lanterns that make every room feel warm and cozy

Astarion has impeccable taste and enjoys a bit of decadence (of course) and really finds joy in picking out furniture and decorations - he's going for noble, rich, palace-y, posh vibes, but tasteful

Also Tav would stop him from going overboard - she's not used to all the pompous stuff and cares more about the pracitcality of it all; also she's definitely the one who brings in some plants and greenery; also some nice stuff for Scratch because I'm sure Tav would insist on being the one to keep him

When Tav says she'd rather likes it simple tho... "Simple, love? Everyone can have simple, but not just anyone can have beautiful!" "So... you are not denying that beautiful means more complicated?" "No, but isn't that also why you chose me after all? Because I'm intricately complicated and incredibly beautiful?" Can't argue with that logic

Tav's also focused on making it cozy though and especially creating comfy little corners where they can just lounge together: like a little alcove to sit and read or look out the window or some pillows on the wood floor so you can sit in front of the fire place

There's a chaise-longue somewhere in the house - maybe in the incredibly over-sized dressing room, so Astarion can lay on it and watch Tav dress

DEFINITELY NO MIRRORS - no need to remind Astarion of that particular part of his condition; also why would he need it if you can tell him how beautiful he is everyday?

There's also a piano (as we have learnt before *wink*) and lots of books and trinkets and artworks - Astarion likes all stuff having to do with arts

It might be messy, at least at the beginning, you're both not used to having and holding onto stuff, also Astarion's desperately trying to find himself - that comes with creative chaos

Is there even a need to mention the bed is huge? And also has very much cliché dark red silk sheets? But it's probably the piece of furniture where you spend the most of your nights, not only for mingeling but just sitting and laying there, reading, drawing, talking, teasing each other

Also at some point you'd probably get a joint portrait but you don't want it to be too stiff and regal rather wanting it to show how much joy you give each other

The kitchen is to spoil Tav: when Astarion finds out you enjoy cooking and are pretty skilled at it he gets you all the best equipment he can find - even though you don't know how to use half of it - yet

Oof, I could maybe keep going some more... Thanks for the message, it was fun to think about this. (Also I know I might be swinging between medieval and more victorian vibes but hush, it's a fictional world where everything is possible) Also I knew I wouldn't yet do requests - but really that was just me putting something out there I already thought about. And I'll do some requests soon!

997 notes · View notes

astaroth1357 · 1 year

Text

Devildom "Marriage/Proposal"

Again. Probably not too Christian-coded in Hell.

Contents: Satanic themes, possessive behavior mentioned

~♡♡♡~

First off, there's a big difference between a demon bonding with another demon vs. binding to a human. There's a lot more equal ground in the former, but the power dynamics are inherently different in the latter.

Traditionally, a demon "marrying" a human is usually used as the highest form of reward to an incredibly loyal follower. It's basically a way for a demon to point them out and make it clear, "This one is my favorite!"

Demons binding themselves to humans out a genuine connection is not unheard of, of course, but it's frightfully rare. Only handful may every do this at a time and not even Solomon has managed to pull it off despite the number of pacts under his belt.

It's this rare because to reform the new pact, the demon has to give up their grimoire (the books that more or less act as substitute for a demon's heart and soul) to their partner. It's like handing away the essence of their very being to another.

When demons bind with each other, the grimoire exchange is mutual. However, since humans don't have grimoire, binding to a human is seen as an act of extreme sacrifice and humility on the demon's part. It's truly the only kind of pact they have where the risks lie mostly with them.

Possessing a demon's grimoire is like literally owning the blueprint to their bodies. All of their powers, history, thoughts, and fears are detailed out within them. Every single weakness or spell to control them hides inside as well...

Because of this, demons take this decision very, VERY seriously. If your relationship falls apart, you don't want something that important left in the hands of your ex. A vast majority of demons never even show their grimoires, much less give them away.

A demon will only ever have one grimoire to share, so they can only ever be bound to one individual at a time. A human can technically be bound to multiple demons and having a binding pact does not erase lesser pacts, but again, it would be rare.

When an individual is in possession of a demon's grimoire, they will always be able to materialize it with just a slight flick of the wrist. Having it on their person will also be enough for them to summon the owner at will, barely a whisper necessary.

A demon will already show up stronger than usual if they're summoned by their grimoire, but using any added enchantments inside will only increase their power tenfold. A good caster can turn their partner into supercharged war machine with minimal effort.

There's a certain oneness between the pair that comes from binding that goes far beyond your average pact. The demon and their partner get the heightened ability to "read" each other. It's not full on telepathy, but they gain a preternatural sense for just how the other is feeling. An entire conversation can be held in the span of seconds with merely few glances and a shrug between them.

Demons are also EXTREMELY protective of their bound partners, which kind of makes sense considering what they're carrying around. They're not very good at hiding it either. We're talking full fangs out and deep, guttural growls at even the most minor of threats.

The offer of the grimoire is technically seen as the "proposal" and acceptance commences the "marriage." It's a big deal with when high-ranking demons decide to do this, so it's often celebrated by a public wedding ceremony.

The Grimores

Lucifer's grimoire has a real gothic flare to it. The whole thing is jet black leather with blood red rubies fixed to the spine and fine layer of gold leaf pressed into the corners. No matter where it's being kept, cover will always feel a bit cold to the touch... The pages are thick and textured, with every word inside written inside done in a careful, nearly mechanical hand. Perfectly legible. Technically flawless. Though certain pages are written with some hesitation, particularly the ones that go over his past...

Mammon's grimoire is, arguably, the most beautiful of the bunch. It's snow white with brilliant gold accents on the spine and along the edges. His personal sigil, painted in shimmering light, takes up most of the front cover and mesmerizes any eye that catches its shine. It's a little on the slim side, though, due in part to how thin pages are inside. Reading it can be a bit messy because the caster can always see whatever words have been scrawled out on the back of the page...

Leviathan's grimoire looks like something straight out of a sunken treasure chest. The brownish-violet leather used to bind it feels real, and it is, though it couldn't have come from any mortal creature on land. The edges are worn down and cracking from neglect, giving the whole thing a certain fragility over the rest... The pages are yellowed and hard from water damaged, yet the words inside still survive... even if parts of them are a tad smudged.

Satan's grimoire could probably pass for 18th century notebook. It too is leather bound, but it doesn’t have the same flare as his older brothers'. If anything, it has a very DIY feel to it, where the cover has a little glue in places it shouldn't and the rough-feeling pages don't all fit quite right. It feels more like a field journal than a demonic tome, perhaps adding to the distinct aura of rebellion radiating off of it... The script inside seems to change from page to page with some part written neatly and other parts apparently scrawled out in a rage. Legibility may vary.

Asmodeus' grimoire looks more like a decorative art piece than a book at times... The wine red cover is smooth and shiny with polished gems affixed like a spider's web on the front. Asmo's grimore is unique in that it is the only one that comes with a lock on it, one that can only be lifted by a spell only he knows. The penmanship inside is naturally beautiful, though sometimes the added flare of loops and flourishes gets in the way keeping everything readable.

Beelzebub's grimoire is deceptively simple looking compared to the others. It looks like your standard leather-bound book and aside from its surprising thickness, not much stands out about it. Even the engraving of his sigil on the cover doesn't have any extra color or shadow to it. But when it's open, the most gorgeous words lie inside as if penned by a master calligrapher. Every bit of space is used appropriately and each letter is clean, clear, and fluidly handled. It's not only legible, it's breathtaking and obviously done with a lot of time and care.

Belphegor's grimoire looks like a void in the space around it. It goes beyond the jet black of Lucifer's cover to an almost true black from cover to pages. You wouldn't even know that it's made of leather unless you felt it because it reflects no light and it betrays no design. Running a hand across it, though, does reveal the ridges of Belphie's sigil craved into the front and back cover. The black pages all have words are written in a bright, silvery, and iridescent ink. Parts of the pages also look seem to contain spilled stardust ready to fly off into the air. The penmanship is a little simple, compared to the rest, but nothing that can't be skimmed at a glance if need be.

Diavolo's grimoire could kill a man from its weight alone. The book is far too big for any shelf and thick with heavily textured, papyrus-like paper. No matter who has it, it will always feel as if a supernatural force is trying to pull it from their hands... Seeing much past its burgundy, black, and gold cover is more or less impossible but what's there truly befits royalty. Every aspect of the design is flawless, with polished onyx as black as night embedded in the spine and ancient symbols peppered between golden spindle-like filigree. One can only imagine what exactly is so forbidden on the inside though...

Barbatos' (true) grimoire is an honest to god mystery... No one has ever seen it and Solomon theorizes that he keeps it in a particularly empty timeline. If asked what it looks like, Barbatos will share that it's simply "a green book," but not elaborate much farther before changing the subject... One has to assume, though, it's probably as thick as a tree trunk with all the history within those pages and for the cover...? He's had all of the time in the world to make it something truly special.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me worldbuilding #obey me diavolo #obey me barbatos

2K notes · View notes

hadesrise · 1 year

Text

𝐒𝐀𝐅𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐌𝐄.

part one — part two

𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖒𝖆𝖗𝖞. the wayne family witness how you handle jason’s trauma.

𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘. jason todd x addams!male reader

𝖜𝖆𝖗𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌𝖘. sfw content, foul language, trauma, nightmares, mentions of torture, typical addams behavior (dark, edgy, gothic, disturbing behavior), romantic, death threats, soft addams!reader, mentions of a very dark and gruesome fictional book, dealing with trauma, fluff, lots of fluff, everything’s just soft

𝖆𝖚𝖙𝖍𝖔𝖗'𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖙𝖊. can't help it, i really enjoy writing addams!reader content. honestly, it's kinda getting old but i guess this will be the last one??? or one more and then i'll end its endless cycle?? anyway, if y'all have any recommended translation apps it'll be nice to know. don't wanna trust google translate that much.

FEM ALIGNED DNI !!

“Why are you awake so early in the morning?”

Bruce’s slightly raspy morning voice interrupts the silent reading you had indulged yourself in, barely reacting at his sudden presence despite the fact you failed to notice him from how focused you were on your book.

You glanced at him only for a split second before your eyes went back to reading again, “I prefer the quietness of your manor in the morning for a quick read. Although, I must say the bright sun is such a terrible sight. It nearly burned me as soon as my consciousness awakened.” As you replied casually, Bruce took notice of how the curtains are closed completely shut to block the sunlight from entering, as if getting even a little bit of it would burn you like a vampire. Well, you did look like a vampire because of how pale and ghostly your skin is as well as the all black, gothic medieval or victorian outfit.

Bruce still wasn’t used to your unique culture, ancient speech and intimidating presence, but had learned not to be too bothered by it ever since you and Jason began visiting the Manor often. He didn’t want to waste energy by constantly reacting to any unusual traits you displayed, and he’s been successful so far. Even though he still doesn’t agree with your morals, he knew not to argue with you like before, since you’ve been nothing but respectful to him everytime you set foot in the manor.

Raising one of his eyebrows, Bruce tilts his head. “Do you always read?”

“Yes, indeed.” Came your immediate response. “Books are what defines me, Mr. Wayne. My soul is practically attached to it.”

“Is that why you always carry a book with you?” Stephanie suddenly chimes in out of nowhere with Tim behind her, curiosity plastered across her face. You nodded, glancing up to see Damian sit down on the other sofa while playing a brutal game that occasionally makes a blood splattering sound.

Bruce sighs, “And why are you all awake so early?”

Tim looks at him weirdly, “It’s already eleven o’clock. Almost lunch time, you know.” Deadpanning, he then leans in from behind to get a glimpse of what you were reading, only to cringe slightly after his eyes read a particular sentence; The flesh muscles of his legs were torn off, almost as if it had been ripped open by a lion, exposing bones with blood uncontrollably flooding out. It’s definitely one of those horror books who has unnecessary amount of gore. “What in the hell are you reading?”

“Bloodthirst by Clementine.” You sipped on a black coffee before continuing, “Wherein the main character becomes bloodthirsty for revenge after his lover had been abducted and mutilated by a group of serial killers. The sentence you’ve read is one of his acts of revenge which includes a pack of wolves.” The corner of your mouth twitched up a bit, looking up at him with that glint in your eyes. “It has a pleasantly satisfying plotline.”

Disturbed and quite freaked out, Tim exchanges eye contact with Bruce and pressed his lips together. “That is... uhm, interesting.” Amusement merely crosses your face before it instantly went back to your usual emotionless expression.

They still haven’t gotten used to the extremely calm demeanor you had because of how most of them grew up not having a quiet presence in the manor, even Cassandra wasn’t as silent as you before. You’re the only calm and fully collected person they’ve ever met, coming off as rather intimidating due to your piercing gaze, emotionless face, wiser-than-thou mind, and utmost patience. Especially the patience one, because most of them were either short-tempered or just born enraged. Sometimes, they get intimidated without you even speaking — once, you and Jason reluctantly joined them to a grand event and someone made an utterly horrible decision to insult Jason by comparing him to the “well-behaved” eldest son Dick, which resulted in you shooting them a piercing, dark, cold and harsh glare not even a second after that instantly made them freeze in spot. That look in your eyes alone made their blood run cold and face pale.

Needless to say, they regretted insulting Jason as quick as the wind blows, but that story’s for another time.

“Where’s Dick? Did he sleep at Barbara’s?” Stephanie wondered, realizing the lack of annoying presence.

“Nope!” An all too cheerful voice in the morning pipes up as Dick appeared with a big smile on his face. He quickly noticed you reading a book and approached, “Reading a dark book again? Where’s Jay?”

“There’s only an obvious answer to an already obvious question, Richard.” Retorting without sparing him a glance, you flipped the page and earned a snicker from Damian. “He will be walking down the stairs soon. Sois patient, frère.”

Dick replies an ‘okay’ before jumping on the couch Damian was sitting on, deciding to annoy his youngest brother instead. Shaking your head with the corner of your mouth twitching up only barely, you focused on reading your book again despite the peaceful silence being broken by their chattering, although it didn’t take long before you averted your gaze and stared at the ceiling, as if feeling something wrong.

Damian notices. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t speak right away. Just staring up like something was there, which also made the others look up in attempt to figure out what you were doing.

“Jason is not sleeping well,” You finally stated, not looking away from the ceiling. “Humans often radiate different energy depending on their mental state, which makes it easier to specifically identify what their current emotions or moods are. It can be felt if you concentrate enough. Jason’s energy has been much peaceful ever since I’ve tormented Joker. It is supposed to stay as that.”

“What do you feel now?” Cassandra asked worriedly, her body leaned back against the wall.

“He’s distressed.” You concluded, shutting the book close without bothering to slip a bookmark on the page, which she noticed quickly. She reads with you a lot and had never seen you close a book without bookmarking it; books are absolute treasures for you, but not as much as Jason now.

Confusion took over Tim’s face as you set your book down and drink your black coffee in one go, “How do you know?”

“There is not one thing I don’t know about Jason.” You remarked nonchalantly, like it’s how it should be. You just knew Jason well enough to understand him more than anyone else, even more than himself sometimes.

Before you could stand up from the couch, a footstep erupts from the top of the stairs and comes Jason slowly walking down, wrapped around in a blanket and thick arms hugging his body, making himself as small as possible despite his large frame. “(Y-Y/n)...?” His voice was thick and hoarse, as if he had been crying, as he stuttered and looked for you like a lost child.

You quickly got up from the couch and walked up to him when he stopped in the middle of the stairs. “Come here, darling.” Jason doesn’t hesitate to drop the blanket and wrap his arms around your neck, clinging onto you for dear life. Slipping your hands on the back of his thighs, you lifted him up with ease and returned to the couch, sitting down sideways so Jason could lay on top of you, just how he liked.

“Horrible...” Jason murmured, face buried in your chest. “Horrible, all of ‘em. It hurts. Everything hurts.”

You frown, although your face had the softest look anyone had ever seen as you gently stroke his back, still having him caged in your arms. “Terrifying dream, was it?” You asked, earning a nod.

“ ‘m scared...” Jason breathes shakily, “I’m still there... Still hurts. Too dark. Cold. He’s still laughing. Hurts, it hurts.” He blabbered, words repeating over and over again, and breath increasingly becoming rapid as panic begins to slowly build up inside him. His entire body was trembling, sobs wreck through his body.

Everyone except you was at lost for words.

Jason seemed... weak and fragile. A cracked glass that can easily break with just one touch. Had Jason been suffering like this all this time? It felt as if Bruce was bludgeoned by a brick in the form of realization, opening his eyes to how the events with Joker truly affected Jason. He was obviously and clearly traumatized (who the fuck wouldn’t be?), but this is the first time everyone had actually witnessed the trauma, considering Jason refused to be vulnerable in front of them.

“Shh... Open your eyes, chéri. Look into mine and breathe slowly,” You gently instructed, rubbing his back in a soothing manner and muttering encouragements. Jason does as he’s told and open his eyes, staring into your calm and comforting (e/c) eyes while attempting to slow down his breathing. “Doing so excellent, mon amour. Breathe in and out, slowly. Good boy. You do not have to rush yourself.” The soft tone of your voice bringing him a sense of safety.

Once he’s calmed down, you slowly hold his hand and squeeze to provide warmth, hugging him tighter with one arm. “Can you tell me where you are and who you’re with right now?”

Jason squeezed back, little tears still running down his cheeks. “T-the Wayne Manor... With—with you... A-and Bruce, and Dick... Tim... Damian... C-Cass and Steph...” His gaze focusing on your encouraging eyes, his mind slowly detached from the nightmare it was drowning itself in.

“Good boy, sweetheart.” You kissed his forehead, “Is it still dark?” Jason shakes his head. “What about coldness? Am I succeeding in warming you up?” He nods this time. You smile, running your hand through his hair. “Be not afraid, Jason. Darkness will not consume your mind forever, although it is a part of our lives. You might remain afraid of the excessive trauma for years, but being afraid of it does not mean you will be chained eternally, and neither does it mean you are weak nor easily destructible. You’ve bravely fought a war within yourself. I know you will be able to defeat the nightmare someday.”

Jason sniffles, “Do you think I’m healing?”

“Yes, very slowly, as how healing process should be.” You stroked his cheek, “Trauma comes with nightmares. It especially shows when you are doing well so it could test your strength, whether you’ll be able to overcome. But it can never defeat you; it only knows to cause pain, agony, and fear. You know love, joy, compassion, and empathy. It is what make us humans that defeats the monsters.”

He curled up against you, “Just want it to be over. I feel less like myself.”

“You are not bounded to your trauma for all eternal, chéri. It does not define who and what you are, and it certainly does not make you any less.” You softly replied. “Never doubt yourself, my love. Healing cannot be completed within a day, it takes more than few years and I will be with you every step of the way.”

Biting his lip, Jason rests his chin on your chest. “You’ll get fucking tired dealing with me. Your patience might not be able to handle it.”

“I cannot get tired of you. Not when you hate pastels too.” Jason chuckles at your joke, the mood surely lightening. “And do not speak as if you don’t know me, Jason. There is no such thing as might not be able to handle it in my vocabulary when it is you. I love you too much. If I cannot handle anything that involves you and matters about you, then my love for you will mean nothing but dishonorable. The two of us definitely have knowledge of how I would rather decapitate myself than offer you a half-hearted love.”

Jason’s heart swell as the back of his eyes sting again, tears threatening to come out. He knew how difficult it is to be with someone as much trauma as he has, which made him live in fear of you getting tired and leaving one day, even though you’ve assured him more than a hundred times. He knew he was difficult to be with even without the trauma, yet you willingly giftwrap your heart to offer to him while simultaneously providing him with the understanding he deserved. You accepted him along with his trauma. Nobody knows how special that feels.

Cassandra and Stephanie sat on the carpet near the couch where you two laid, so they could check up on Jason. The others had scooted closer as they watch you comfort him nearly expertly.

“Can still feel it, (Y/n).” Jason snuggles on your chest, “The crowbar. It’s still hitting me.”

You gently pull his hand to see his arm that was littered in autopsy scars, some little and some a bit big. Caressing them, you press a lingering kiss. “It was just a fragrance of your memory, beloved. You are safe now, I will keep you protected for as long as I am here. No crowbars.”

Jason nods and looks up at you, puckering his lips. You immediately kiss him, then pressed a kiss on his forehead. “I know he can’t touch me anymore. You already tortured him enough.” He smiled and wiped off his tears.

You pat his head and hug him closer, “Everything will be alright someday. Would you like a hot chocolate with marshmallows on top? I’ll cook you breakfast as well.”

“Yeah, that would be nice.” Jason whispers.

You slowly slip out from under him, making sure he’s laying down comfortably before fetching the blanket he dropped and wrapping it around him, muttering an i’ll be right back. Watching you disappear into the kitchen, Jason sighs in content and curls up on the couch, still feeling vulnerable but not worse. Stephanie smiles softly at him as Dick walks over to sit beside her, ruffling Jason’s hair.

“You’ll be fine soon, little bird.”

Jason only nodded. The first time he didn’t scoff nor bark, indicating he still can’t forget the nightmare he had.

Soon, his other brothers joined Dick while Bruce sits on the couch beside Jason, looking regretful and apologetic with a frown. Witnessing the amount of trauma Jason has to endure even after many years dropped an equal amount of realization within the family, even though they knew he was traumatized. They just didn’t know the extent to it, and seeing it unfold before them had made them realize they hadn’t been supportive or doing enough for Jason when they should’ve known how much trauma torture and murder would cause. He literally died and came back to life — it’s impossible to not carry a lifelong trauma that greatly affects his personality and attitude; the utmost rage and murderous desires he displayed before might have just been his coping mechanism until meeting you, who quickly became his comfort and calmness.

Nearly most of them had guilt written in their faces due to feeling as if they had been invalidating Jason’s trauma, especially Bruce who did not deal with the entire thing well and had failed to show Jason he cared even though he did more than the son could ever know.

Once again, you beat him to it.

“He cares about you so much, doesn’t he?” Bruce quietly and rhetorically questioned.

Jason nodded happily, “A little too much sometimes. (Y/n)’s always careful and calm, but he gets reckless when it’s about me. Like that Joker thing.” He chuckles, “He said fucker didn’t even have time to laugh.”

The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched up only to disappear, the guilty look still staying. He breathes in and out slowly, causing Jason to look at him questioningly as Bruce avoided eye contact. “Jason, I... uh — I’m sorry. I’m sorry If you ever felt invalidated or unloved by me. I had been so focused on my morality that I failed to show you I cared for you. I really do, Jason. Just maybe not the way you were expecting me to show it.” He carefully says as to not trigger anything in his son.

Pulsing his lip, Jason shakes his head and reached out to play with Bruce’s hand. Bruce seem surprised, but let him nonetheless. “Mhm,” He hums, “It’s okay. I was just angry and hurt... You didn’t look for me enough, and there’s suddenly a new Robin, so... I thought you forgot about me. I couldn’t accept that you seemed to move on so easily.”

Bruce’s heart clenches. “That’s not true, son.”

“I can see that now. I was too bitter and angry, it made me blind.” The broken boy smiles a bit in an attempt to reassure him. “It’s not your fault I turned out like this and ruin everything, you know.” He sadly says, looking down.

The older Wayne shakes his head, “You don’t ruin everything, Jason. You were coping and still coping with what you went through. (Y/n) was right when he said healing takes time.”

Letting go of his hand, Jason instead fidgeted his own fingers now with a sad pout. A little child-like. “But you gave up on me. I know I’m difficult. It’s why you normally can’t deal with me and we always end up arguing. And I was a failure ‘cause I died easily as a Robin.” His voice was slightly high-pitched and trembling. It reminded Bruce again of a child.

Immediately shaking his head, he grasped Jason’s fidgeting hand and firmly looks at him. “You were never a failure, Jason. I’m sorry I made you feel that way. You did everything you could. What I can’t forgive is that I let you die as Robin and not as Jason Todd. I can’t forgive myself for being too late to save you. It wasn’t your fault. Nothing’s your fault, son.”

He pulls him into a hug, which caused Jason to breakdown as he clings onto Bruce and cries his heart out. Embracing him tightly, Bruce kept stroking his back for comfort. The others watched silently with a sad smile, knowing both of them wanted to reconcile for a long time but was too hesitant to do so. It made them happy yet emotional at the same time, Dick and Stephanie already having tearful eyes.

“It truly feels upsetting to ruin this wonderful moment, but I’ve got to feed Jason. May I?” Your calm voice erupted, just then everyone noticing your presence standing at the side of the couch. Bruce chuckles and pulled away, sitting down on the carpet instead so you could take his place. You nodded appreciatively before taking a seat.

Jason sits up, accepting the hot chocolate from you with both hands and sipping it. You ruffle his hair gently.

“His age mentality regresses when the nightmare’s been too severe,” You explained what Bruce was wondering. “It is one of his responses to trauma. I believe it’s the inner child coming out, attempting to relive again.”

“How long?” Dick asked.

“About an hour.” You take the mug from Jason and set it on the table as you begin to cut a bite sized piece from the pancakes to feed your lover. “He has the desire of being taken cared of and I intend to fulfill it. Mother and father takes care of him once in a while when it happens in our Addams home.”

“Mom and dad takes me shopping. It’s fun.” Jason remarked, grinning.

“Shall we buy you some dead flowers, chéri? And a new gun, perhaps. Would you like that?” You caressed his cheek while feeding him with the other, Jason leaning his face on your palm.

“Yeah, I’d love that. Love you, (Y/n).”

“I adore you too, my love.” You kissed the tip of his nose, which caused him to erupt into a fit of giggles as you feed him again.

After Jason had fallen asleep peacefully on the couch, you pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh deeply in attempt to calm yourself down. Seeing Jason struggle with trauma is not easy, especially when he’s far too scarred mentally that it causes mental age regression. It also probably came from the fact he had never lived a peaceful life even before meeting Bruce, losing his childhood by witnessing the harsh reality at such a young age, and having to stop being a child after becoming Robin.

You had utmost patience, but when something affects Jason greatly like this, you often tend to lose calmness and be overwhelmed with rage and bloodthirst. If you could take all his pain away and those painful memories, you’ve already done it. You would give up anything for Jason to not struggle with the torment of his torture and murder — you will give up everything for him.

“You okay, (Y/n)?” Tim asked worriedly, feeling your atmosphere change.

“I wouldn’t call blood boiling with rage okay.” You muttered murderously as your dark eyes glared daggers at the carpeted floor. “Joker is already encaged and chained down within the cells of Arkham Asylum, but the aftermath of his vile actions still haunts and torments the victims who have gone through survival. Trauma is inescapable, including fear of the perpetrator. Their spirits won’t rest peacefully, alive or dead, while his existence still roam the Earth.”

The way you spat with utmost disgust and anger was now understandable, as well as your nearly inexcusable actions committed before. You witness this side of Jason more often than they do. It’s already unbearable even for them, what more for you who takes precious care of him?

Suddenly, Bruce comes to understand your morals. Why you do what you do, why you believe what you believe.

“May I ask you to take care of him while I’m out, Mr. Wayne?” You asked, voice thick, clearly grounding yourself to your humanity.

Bruce nods, for the first time. “Yes, now go do what you want to do.”

You smiled, immediately standing up and wearing your coat before rushing off the manor.

Cassandra shakes her head with a smile as Damian looked at his father with a smirk, “He might kill him, you know.”

Bruce just shrugged.

“Well,” Stephanie sighs, “Can’t stop (Y/n) from going on a rampage against the Joker. He deserves what’s coming for him anyway.”

Few hours later, Jason wakes up to the news of Arkham Asylum increasing its security due to an unknown attack against Joker that left him barely alive, and you casually reading a book with pleased and prideful look. It doesn’t take him long to figure things out and tackle you in a hug, leaving kisses all over your face.

Joker’s probably going to have nightmares about you, but he deserves what’s coming for him, doesn’t he?

1K notes · View notes

britcision · 5 months

Text

So I’ve been thinking about cultural Christianity lately and how people tend to get very upset about it without really understanding what it is, so here is a primer

Cultural Christianity is not a choice you make. It does not mean you are Christian, or even that you remotely like Christianity; a lot of people who vehemently hate the religion do so because of their own cultural Christianity

It is not a shortcoming, or a moral failing, or a sin. It just means that the culture you were raised in was predominantly Christian.

Note: I did not say “majority Christian”. Christians don’t need to be a majority to have a dominant cultural influence

Cultural Christianity means you inherently understand and probably use swearwords like “damn”, “hell”, or a variation on the name “Jesus Christ”

It means when I say cultural Christianity is not a sin, you understand exactly what I mean without needing to have it explained - and you probably know the phrase “original sin” or “seven deadly sins”, even if not in full detail

It means hearing about Hades, god of the dead, wealth, and volcanoes, and assuming he’s the bad guy of Greek mythology… y’know, like Satan

(EVERYONE went to Hades when they died. The Elysian Fields, where the best heroes went, was in Hades’ underworld. The Eleusinian mysteries, a cult to Demeter and Persephone, was basically about asking them to tell Hades to give you a cool afterlife

And he would cuz he drank his “respect wife” juice if not all of his “respect women” juice. Did still kidnap her. But she is a major feature and often makes the decision herself or influences his when they’re mentioned together

Meanwhile, people try and cast Zeus as a good parent)

It means having to have a dreidel, a menorah, or a kinara explained to you at a time when you already knew about Christmas trees and Santa

(Yes, Santa Claus, Saint Nicholas, major host of the Mass of Christ, is culturally Christian. Even though Coke invented his aesthetic - that’s the “cultural” part)

It’s when you go to make up a new non-religious or pan religious winter celebration… that is centred around a day with family and gifts which is obviously the 25 of December. Maybe counting down 12 days before

It’s defaulting to calling a place of worship you don’t know the name of a “church”

Cultural Christianity is not something people have a choice in; you don’t pick where you’re born, and there are so many other cultures in places like Canada, America, and Britain that are culturally Christian out the ass! But… you will catch Contact Christianity in any of these places

It’s damn near impossible to consume any American or most Western media without brushing across it; cross imagery is everywhere, Christian demons and devils sneak into media all around the world

Western (and some other) Gothic fashion leans heavily on gothic architecture and, yeah, heavily Catholic imagery

Now, brushing across the media in other parts of the world does not impart the same level of cultural Christianity as growing up in a city with four churches on a single block and a Santa Claus parade

And you can grow up heavily in an entirely different culture even in the Bible Belt (but you know what Bible Belt means); you don’t have to abandon all other culture just because Christianity has a chokehold on your home

But when December (or fucking November these days) hits and you hear Mariah Carey in 3/6 stores, yes, you probably have some cultural Christianity

You sure as hell don’t need to be able to name half the denominations (can you name more than 4?), you may never set foot in a Christian church in your life, and still have a cultural Christian influence

If your street names have “saint” in them

If there are crosses or angels on more than half the graves in a cemetery

If you know how to cross yourself but aren’t really sure when you learned; you didn’t look it up or do research to find out

Now note: none of these have an inherent moral judgement attached to them

It’s just about what the culture you live in has taught you about the world, and there’s no culture that is magically the Right One or better than the others

There’s no reason to expect even specifically Christian culture to be the same around the world; it isn’t. It has the same root, but what flowers from the soil is another matter entirely

There is nothing wrong with acknowledging that you have culturally Christian influences and biases; being human is 90% absorbing information from the world around us and half processing it at best - there’s just too much input, and intentionally filtering out Everything Christian Ever?

Well unless you started at 2 years old, odds are pretty good it’s not really a personal choice kinda thing

And you cannot compensate for these influences unless you acknowledge that they exist, that you did not choose to form them, and that you do get to choose how they affect your actions going forward

Christmas stuffed a bunch of other religious traditions into a single package to make itself popular, but if you learned them as Christmas traditions first… do I even need to say it?

#cultural christianity #especially at this time of the year #it just bothers me when people try and deny it #like they’re ‘too good’ to be formed by the society they grew up in #no friend #your deadass brain formation is affected by your first language

338 notes · View notes

depravitycentral · 10 months

Text

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer NSFW Profile

Yandere! Chrollo Lucilfer x fem! reader

Tw: kidnapping, non/dub-con, manipulation, I know I might break some hearts but I actually think Chrollo is very vanilla, loud sex, begging, h*nd holding, voyeurism, exhibitionism, unethical usage of a copying nen ability, masturbation, stalking, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

HABITS:

Generally speaking, sex hasn’t been a huge part of Chrollo’s life. Of course, being a man with charisma and questionable goals, he’s had his fair share of partners to woo and use for information, sneakily extracting names and facts from them as he kisses and touches them, a husky, whispered question of and where might those gemstones be exactly against his temporary lover’s lips seeming strangely erotic, though the intent is anything but.

He’s never really viewed sex as something meaningful; rather, it’s simply a tool, a means to an end for whatever it is that he wants to steal next, and thus it’s never been much of a concern. Why should it be, when Chrollo finds connections and genuine human interaction something of a chore, unless it’s towards his own Troupe members?

Sex is a means to an end, and while there’s something strangely alluring about the idea of having sex for pleasure, he’s not one to simply go out and find a hookup to relieve himself. He likes to think he’s more refined than that – besides, while he isn’t especially wearing of intimacy or touching others, he doesn’t want to touch anyone he isn’t at least needing to, for some job or another. Casual sex just isn’t his thing.

Of course, then you come along, and just with everything else in his life, you’re to blame for his sudden change in opinion, his sudden changing belief that maybe, just maybe, sexual desire and intimacy has more of a purpose than he originally believed.

It’s not instantaneous, his desires to be touching you and making you moan so prettily and feel your skin against his. He doesn’t see you and immediately imagine bending you over and fucking you until you’re sweating and panting and spent. He doesn’t immediately imagine spreading your legs and getting you gripping at his hair, your pretty slick smeared all over his lips.

It’s not immediate, but rather a culmination of his obsession with you deepening over time. It takes him a long time to develop his feelings for you, and even longer to make sense of them – he’s not particularly hostile towards them, but it takes a while for his obsession to fully set in, for him to realize that he wants you in a romantic, genuine way. It will be a solid few weeks after his obsession form for him to get to the point where he’s fantasizing not only about the way you’d smile at him and softly sigh as he reads passages of his favorite gothic poems to you, but also about the way you’d quote certain stanzas as you kiss his neck, run your fingernails against his back, tug at his hair and keen his name.

It’s slow going, and to be honest Chrollo doesn’t even really notice that it’s happening until he’s suddenly so pent up that he just can’t take it, his hand itching to reach down and quell the dull throbbing coming from between his legs.

He’s never been one to masturbate much, the act seeming tiresome and without little reward, and as a result he’s more curious than anything that you’ve managed to inspire within him such primal urges, animalistic desires to see you stuffed full of his cock, cum leaking from your spent, sore pussy, your eyes dazed and hazy as he kisses you breathlessly.

He’s impressed, more than anything, but Chrollo isn’t too surprised once he thinks about it – you’re something of a breath of fresh air to him, someone real and interesting and oh so intriguing, so why wouldn’t he want to fuck you until you’re crying?

Why wouldn’t he want to map every inch of your skin out with his lips, feel your muscles clench and stiffen up under his fingertips?

He’s mildly surprised by your ability to essentially get him horny, and while it doesn’t happen too often (maybe two or three times per week), it’s still sizeable – and so is the amount of time that he begins spending in the company of a candle, a novel, and symphonic music in the background, blending in with the airy gasps and groans of the evening.

When it comes to actually touching himself, Chrollo has a bit of a dirty secret; his nen ability (and its extensions, of course) comes in handy to the extreme in a lot of ways regarding you, but as soon as his more sexual desires towards you begin emerging, he’s suddenly so grateful for the sheer amount of nen abilities that he’s accumulated over the years.

That is, he’s particularly grateful for a certain one he picked up towards the beginning of the Phantom Troupe’s existence: an ability allowing partial recreation of an individual’s body parts, up to the whim of the wielder.

Guilt has never been something he’s given too much thought to, and so as he lights the few candles surrounding his place at the edge of the queen sized bed he's used the last few evenings, he merely closes his eyes and smiles, the aroma of a blissful, peaceful evening settling around him, the feeling of moonlight hitting his pale features and the crackling of the flames relaxing his body and preparing him for the next few events.

Chrollo is nothing if not a man of culture, and so as he carefully removes his jacket (folding it on top of the Victorian style chair in the corner of the room) along with his pants, he lets out a small sigh and grabs the book laying atop his nightstand, the golden cover with its black lettering making a small shiver run down his spine.

The book is, admittedly, a bit more graphic than his normal tastes, but there’s something about the way the narrator describes the female lead that makes his mind immediately shoot to you – something about the description of her hair, her body, her mannerisms, her everything, though Chrollo could say without a hint of hesitation that you were still better in every possible way. He’s read the novel dozens of times; it’s a classic, cliché love story of a dashing, mysterious man who swoons a sweet, traditional daughter of some nobleman, their romance dark and swift and taboo.

It reminds him a lot of his situation with you, really – he’s the handsome, dark man who comes and sweeps you off your feet, tempting you into leaving your good-girl, righteous persona and instead letting him taint you. Just the thought gets him throbbing, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows and wills himself to calm down, to not ruin the ambiance he’s diligently set up for the night.

He flips to the marked section towards the middle of the book, the chapter detailing the night of passion and romance that ensues between the two characters. He’s quick to begin pouring over the words, and though he’s read this multiple page passage easily hundreds of times, the image still comes together in his head as if it’s fresh – the woman pinned below the man, the collar of her silky, white nightdress pushed down to just above her breasts, collarbone exposed along with her neck, half lidded eyes staring up at the lead while she gulps and breaths a bit raggedly.

Her wrists are beside her head, her whole body open and exposed for his future pleasure, and immediately he’s imagining you in a frilly, white nightgown, the material short and sheer and making you look angelic, like something for him to ruin.

Chrollo licks his lips, eyes still rapidly scanning the page as a hand snakes down to the slowly stiffening length resting against his thigh, the tip turning a deep shade of red, the trimmed forest of black hair standing out against the pale skin surrounding. A brush of his fingertips against the sensitive base has him exhaling slowly, the fantasy of the heroine’s knee slightly rising to brush against the lead’s clothed cock making a blush rise to the back of his neck, images of the way you’d bite your lip and whisper his name making him feel hot, every nerve on fire as the excitement and anticipation of pleasure – of you – rolls through him.

He knows the passage by heart, knowing every event taking place between what he pretends to be you and himself, his own imagination even filling in the details, imagining little additions to the plot that the book doesn’t even mention – you whispering his name and tracing the tattoo across his forehead, the feeling of your soft fingers against his skin making him groan ever so lightly. And with that thought in mind, he’s gently bookmarking and placing the book back on the stand, instead taking a deep breath, black eyes appraising his throbbing cock desperate for attention and stimulation, your attention and stimulation.

He spends a moment stroking himself, the pulls of his wrist languid and slow, just barely enough stimulation to feel good – hesitant, almost, like he imagines you being. Would you be nervous, the first time you see him naked? He likes to imagine you’ve never been with a man before (though he knows it’s likely untrue), or at least that you’ve never cared so much about pleasing one, about making him feel good and pleasured and satisfied.

(He decides you would be a bit anxious – your touches small, unsure, your pretty eyes always flicking back up to his, your soft lip caught between your teeth, your thumb just barely brushing over his tip and making him murmur your name with a slightly strained voice.)

He’s quick to pull up his book of nen abilities, flipping through the pages until he finds the correct one, the familiar black lettering describing the ability making him shiver in anticipation. It’s easy to conjure up the familiar image of your face in his mind, the corresponding physical image appearing before him immediately, and as he opens his previously closed eyes, he sucks in a sharp breath at the image of you, your lashes and cheeks and pretty eyes staring up at him.

It’s perfect – a complete replica of you, down to every last mole, hair, and scar decorating your face. It’s a bit disorienting to see a version of just your head and hair floating, your eyes gorgeous yet lifeless, muscles unable to move freely on their own, but Chrollo moves past it quickly – how can he not, when you’re right there, so pliable and beautiful and for his use?

He swallows harshly as his free hand comes down to lightly run over your strands of hair, the texture familiar and pleasing to the touch, and he watches with unblinking eyes as he slowly pushes your head down, further until your unfocused eyes are level with the now pulsing erection sitting between his legs.

He bites his lip as he recalls the words of the passage, the eloquent language not diminishing the meaning behind the words. She kneeled before him, a servant to her master, lips parted and eyes appraising him as if he were a work of art, the single most valuable thing to have graced her gaze.

He imagines the way you’d stare at him, your eyes raking over his sculpted chest, the ‘v’ of his navel, your tongue flicking out over your lips as you appraise the pale length of his cock, the soft, smooth set of balls attached.

He hopes you’d be impressed, but impatience gets the better of him as he once again moves your head further forward, so that his tip brushes against your lifeless lips.

They’re cold, a stark difference to what he’s sure is an inviting, riveting, and wet mouth you possess, but he’s in no position to complain – certainly not when he remembers how the woman swallows him as if he were the most divine, succulent meal, savoring his taste as if it were her last.

It’s difficult to recreate the scene with your unresponsive mouth, but he’s carefully pulling your lower jaw down, your lips parted and tongue lolling out as he slowly, ever so fucking slowly, pushes inside, the small groan fighting its way up his throat telling of how even your cold mouth can affect him.

He shivers, the sensation climbing up his spine, and his fingers gently scrape your scalp as he gets a good grip, his head lolling back slightly and his eyes closing as he begins moving your head up and down, up and down, your cold saliva coating his length as he sighs and whispers your name under his breath.

The music in the background is soft, romantic, orchestral and something Chrollo very much imagines fucking you to. He likes to imagine the way your moans and breaths would blend in with the melodies and crescendos – though, the sounds you’d make when he’s got you creaming all over his fingers and cock would drown out any sort of background music, he’s sure.

Once again musters up more aura, conjuring up a replica of your hand that he quickly intertwines with his own, his fingers joining yours in shakily holding up his nen book. The pace is slow, soft, the moment feeling sweet yet erotic, and as he opens his eyes and stares half liddedly down at your unseeing eyes and unresponsive mouth, Chrollo curses, a small l-love, you’re so beautiful…

His fingers tighten around your hair as he comes closer, the book’s scenes flashing through his eyes as he picks up the pace of his wrist, your head coming down over his throbbing, sensitive skin quicker, the sensation climbing and climbing as his breath steadily gets harsher, soft groans tumbling past his now puffy and overbitten lips, the light flush across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose almost endearing.

He’s fairly quiet, only the occasional deep groan or murmur of your name, and as he gets closer, his grip around your fingers tightens, his breathing getting more ragged and uneven. His complexion reddens, his skin shining with a light sheen of sweat, abs clenching and twitching as the pleasure grows stronger, more acute, the feeling of you and your spit and your soft skin only spurring on the twitching of his cock.

The music climbs to a crescendo, his eyes peeling open to see the way your lips suck him in again and again and again, his cock glistening with spit and his hips bucking to get even deeper inside you, the visual of him fucking your face just too much too much –

He’s coming with a strangled gasp of your name, dark eyes blowing wide as his hips start thrusting on their own, plunging forward and down your throat, untimed and uneven.

He imagines the way you’d gag, your throat tightening up and your pretty eyes dotting with tears as he shoots load after load of watery, semi-bitter cum down your throat, the thought only making his hips jerk harder, his body spurred forward by the motivation to get as much of his cum as deeply down your throat as possible, to claim you as his in the most carnal, natural way.

He’s panting by the time the feeling dies down, a few strands of his carefully gelled back hair loose and framing the pale skin of his forehead and the tattoo decorating it. Beads of sweat frame his temples, his chest heaving still, his nipples hard and pebbled in the cool air of the bedroom.

It takes a moment for him to slowly regain his composure, giving your floating facial replica a gentle, long kiss on the forehead, his eyes fluttering closed and eyebrows scrunching up as he kisses you harder, more fervently, more desperately, trying to express every ounce of love and appreciation and want he has for you, even if it’s merely a cold, carbon copy of you that he’s kissing.

Then, he’s shutting the book and watching you disappear, a cold, familiar sense of loneliness settling into his chest.

The music is still on in the background, lulling him into a relaxed state as he lays on his back, body nude while he thinks back to the way the novel describes the post-sex cuddling, soft touches and sweet, affectionate words, lulled promises of loving each other forever, claims of ownership and commitments to stay together.

He sighs softly, the faintest smile gracing his lips as he imagines the way he’d hold you, your sweaty bodies pressed against one another, cum seeping from your cunt as you clutch onto him, your hair tickling his chin and neck, your soft breaths as you drift into sleep, feeling safe and protected by him…

Occasionally, on nights where he feels particularly restless for you, where the stress of running a wanted criminal group begins to get to him, he’ll conjure up your full body, and while it’s cold, unresponsive and unable to speak or look at him, it’s enough. Cuddling you, kissing your freezing skin and running his fingers over your jawline, collarbone, your supple curves is enough to have him slowly drifting to sleep, secure in your arms and dreaming of the day when you’re finally there to enact the scenes of his romantic, smutty novels with him in person, just as you should be.

(He’ll never actually fuck your nen-conjured self, however. He feels it would be crossing the line – as if fucking your mouth isn’t – and although it wouldn’t feel nearly as good as the real you, he wants your first time together to be special, to be a true exploration of each other’s bodies and genuine reactions. So, rest assured, he doesn’t use the fuck doll he makes of you as a stand in for actual sex – he’ll just use your hand, or your mouth, or your breasts, or your thighs. Never that perfect cunt between your legs, the one that makes his mouth water and his fingers twitch.)

FAVORITE BODY PARTS:

Your Collarbone

In a lot of ways, Chrollo is a traditional man. Surely not with his profession, nor the company he keeps, and certainly not the way he feels for you – but still, some aspects of how he views intimacy are very classical.

That is, while he adores the sight of you in revealing, slutty clothing, with your tits nearly bursting out of the pathetic, stringy bralette and your pretty, puffy lips clearly visible through the sheer thong, there’s an appeal to the more sensual parts of your body that aren’t as oversexualized.

Specifically, Chrollo finds himself drawn to your chest – of course, your breasts are alluring and wonderful and fit in his hands so very perfectly, but his favorite spot of all is right above them.

The expanse of your collarbone is a sight that always manages to catch his eye, his dark gaze lingering on the symmetrical, pretty bones. He likes to trace them with his finger, his touch light and soft but insistent, running over the lines and pressing his thumb into the dip in the center.

It doesn’t matter if your collarbone is prominent or not – there’s just something about the intimacy of it all that makes him giddy, the fact that no one except him gets to feel this part of you making his possessiveness flare up and shivers race up his spine.

When he’s kissing you, his lips always find purchase there, traveling down your neck and the juncture of your shoulder, before settling heavily against your collarbone, soft lips pressing kisses and hickeys and biting against the skin.

When he’s pressed you up against the wall, his figure looming over you and his presence making you feel small and weak, he’ll leave a hand at the base of your throat, the heel of his palm pressing against your collarbone so that he can feel your pulse, feel the way you breath, feel you you you.

You’ll often wake up after nights of long, passionate fucking (love-making, he likes to say, though the way he loses control after his first orgasm and fucks you so hard it nearly hurts really only resembles an animal, not a man) with dark marks all over your collarbone, the entire area bruised and swollen and aching, a constant reminder of Chrollo’s presence.

When he kidnapped you, it was a very spur of the moment, rushed affair, and as a result you weren’t able to bring any of your own clothing – which means, outside of just roaming around naked (something that Chrollo certainly wouldn’t argue against), you’ll be left to dress with whatever he deems appropriate.

More often than not, that means shirts with very low necklines, off the shoulders, or with wide necks that show off your collarbone.

(It also means skirts and dresses, sheer tights or thin materials, things that show off your thighs and the curves of your legs – Chrollo’s second favorite spot on your body.)

You’ll catch him staring idly, his eyes hyperfocused on the area even when you’re speaking to him, and sometimes you can even actually see the way he zones out ever so slightly, an internal war taking place inside him because he wants to hear what you’re saying and watch your lips as you speak to him, but he just can’t stop staring at where he’d left a large, prominent hickey on the right side of your collarbone, feeling your pulse under his lips while he made you cream and squeeze and come all over his fingers, just for him.

He thinks you’re beautiful, and even if you aren’t, Chrollo finds your body to be elegant, truly a work of art, and your collarbone is the crowning jewel of said art.

So don’t be surprised when he’s forcing you to wear chokers and tight necklaces, the combination of the jewelry and the sleeveless top leaving the expanse between them open and vulnerable, perfect to suck on and kiss.

He’s just in love, and is it so wrong to find your body perfect, wonderful, so damn alluring that it drives him insane?

His fingers

From the moment his sexual urges towards you begin, his fantasies tend to revolve mostly around using his hands to please you.

Of course, he likes the idea of using his mouth on you or stuffing you full of his cock, and those fantasies are most definitely present, too.

(As are the ones where you’re pleasing him – he has to be careful with these fantasies, though, because if he’s in public, any thought of you dropping to your knees for him or pressing your pretty tits together and moving them up and down his cock gets him hard immediately, his orgasm already halfway there from just the thought of you wanting him to feel good.)

The majority of what he imagines in detail is really just him working at your body with his hands. They aren’t too terribly veiny, but they’re the perfect amount, just enough to get your gaze lingering on them, and seeing the way the tendons and muscles flex when he moves will make your throat feel dry.

Even the way his hands are connected to his forearms, veins dancing up the expanse of his pale arms can get you staring, embarrassment making your neck feel hot when he catches your gaping with a knowing look, that prideful, cocky smirk on his face making you feel hot in anger and a bit of excitement.

(He’s noticed your staring, and makes it a point to roll up the sleeves of his shirts to expose his wrists and forearms, even purposefully flexing the muscles when he sees your eyes on them, his own gaze eagerly examining your face for even a hint of awe, or attraction, or enjoyment.)

But the real draw of his hands are his fingers; they’re pale, nimble and surprisingly smooth, given his past and occupation, and they’re long. They’re always cold, the feeling making you shiver, and Chrollo has them pressed against you as often as possible.

He’s touchy, really, and while this often manifests as his hand sitting on the small of your back or your shoulder or brushing against your cheek, this habit certainly doesn’t change in the context of intimacy and sex.

When he’s got you underneath him, staring up at him with wide eyes and your lips all swollen and bruised from his harsh kisses, he’s immediately touching you, his hands coming up to rip off the shirt he’d picked out for you this morning, tearing the flouncy skirt he’d helped zip you into cleanly in half in his desperation.

He can’t control himself, really – he’s gripping at your thighs and the fat of your stomach, squeezing and kneading and wanting, and while that entertains him for a while, eventually he’ll be nudging your legs apart, fingers immediately tracing up the insides of your thigh, tickling you and making you suck in a breath as he gets closer and closer to where you need him. (Or, at least, where he thinks you need him.

He’s convinced he knows your body better than you do, though, so any amount of denying this claim will result in that same, familiar patronizing smile and a soft murmur of it’s okay, darling, your body says what your mind won’t.)

He likes to tease you, even though it ends up teasing him too, by pressing feather-light touches against your folds and sensitive clit, dark eyes flicking between your cunt and your face, eagerly taking in every expression and sound you give him.

He’ll ask you if you want more, for you articulate what you want, all because he needs to hear you say please Chrollo, I need your fingers inside, I want to feel you fuck me with your fingers! Eventually, though, his patience will snap, and he’ll push them inside, listening to your little gasps and moans as he immediately curls them, rubbing and pressing against the spots he knows make you moan and writhe.

He’s unfairly good with his fingers – he’s got the pacing and motions down perfectly, his stamina high enough to keep going throughout the entire night.

He’s always got a finger steadily working at your clit, rubbing slow, firm circles against the sensitive area until you’re coming for him, and while a lot of his desire to make you feel good genuinely comes from the place of wanting to please you, a lot of it is selfish, too.

By constantly stimulating your clit or loosening you up with his fingers, he’s making sure you’ll enjoy him, that when he’s fucking you and stuffing you with his cum, you’re wet enough and receptive enough, and god, the feeling of you coming on his cock, the constant pressure against your clit tipping you over the edge?

Well, don’t blame him when he’s gasping into your ear, a strangled sort of noise that almost sounds like your name, his cock twitching and throbbing inside you, before you feel warmth spilling into you, his black hair tickling your cheeks as he rests his face in the crook of your neck.

DRIVE:

In general, Chrollo’s libido isn’t the highest. Obviously, he desires you sexually and loves to kiss you, touch you, fuck you, make you scream his name and clutch onto him like you’ll otherwise die, but he doesn’t need to be in bed with you at all times. He doesn’t have to be making you cream and stuffing you full of his cock, fingers and cum every day.

(Every other day is ideal, or – if he’s particularly stressed or busy – maybe every two days, but that’s pushing it.)

No, Chrollo isn’t that sexually driven – though, he is that clingy, even if he’s good at not showing it. In general, there’s something about you that makes Chrollo feel, and he’s found that any sort of physical contact brings this strange, fluttering emotion in his chest, one he’s fairly sure is love – which ultimately results in the conclusion that in order to feel good, wanted, loved, touching you is something that he must do often.

The reality is that he’s never really had a partner, someone to give and receive genuine love and affection with, and the moment that he realizes how wonderful a hug can feel or how good of an experience simply locking pinkies can be, he’s hooked. Suddenly, those cliché, overt couple actions that used to intrigue him in a clinical way are much, much more interesting, the idea of wrapping his arms around your waist enticing in a way he can’t quite describe.

From pretty much the beginning of your time as his captive, Chrollo will be forcing affection onto you. It’s little things, mostly – things that make your skin crawl because they’re so innocent and sweet and pure that it makes you sick.

He’ll gently intertwine your hands with his, staring down and marveling at the sight of your fingers wrapped around his own, your smaller hand looking perfect against his.

He’ll press a kiss to your cheek or forehead after he compliments you (though, the compliments are always a bit strange – slightly threatening, or too specific, or just weird).

Of course, while this affection and surplus of physical contact is generally innocent, slowly Chrollo’s tastes and urges begin to change slightly, going from wholesome, sweet acts to more questionable touches, actions that have you slightly cocking a brow, slightly not comfortable with the implications of his behavior.

Because really, while you’ll likely be just fine with him lacing his fingers with yours (though, it’s likely that you’ll be less happy with it and more just complacent, figuring that with his criminal status and abilities, there’s far worse he could do to you), things will get a bit complicated when his hands start resting at your waist, dipping ever so slightly lower to your hip, his fingers pressing just a bit tighter against your skin than you’re comfortable with.

What starts out with a mostly tolerable chaste kiss to the cheek will turn into his lips against yours, his tongue running along your lower lip, a small groan tumbling into your mouth as he forces his tongue inside, running it along your teeth and coaxing your own tongue to participate.

What begins as a simple pair of hands resting against your shoulders will become him running them down the length of your sides, thumbs pressing circles against the area right underneath your breasts, those dark eyes seeming to shine with something that makes your breath hitch.

Because really, while Chrollo does absolutely bask in the innocent affection he can garner from you, there’s just something about you that makes his more natural urges kick into gear, the area between his legs feeling warmer, more insistent, more desperate the more he kisses you, the more he holds you and whispers to you that he loves you so much my dear, won’t you let me show you the extent of my feelings?

However, Chrollo is a smart man – when it comes to actually having sex or any sort of intimacy on the same level with you, he’s willing to be patient.

He doesn’t want to force you into anything, to make you uncomfortable or dislike him, to reverse any progress he’s made in getting you to fall utterly, completely in love with him, so he steels himself, mentally reminding himself every time he sees your plush thighs that he must wait.

He’ll chastise himself for almost losing control when you stretch, the sliver of exposed skin of your stomach and your cute little grunt nearly making him throw caution to the wind.

He has remarkable self control, and while you likely won’t know it, you’ll be seeing it in action nearly every moment he’s around you, especially when you’re already doing something affectionate, like hugging or sitting in his lap.

(He’s the one that’s forced you into these things, of course, but it doesn’t matter – if you make any sort of movement that isn’t prying him off or swatting his hands away, Chrollo considers you as being willing, happy, enjoying touching him, and the thought makes this pleasant, warm feeling bloom in his chest.)

He’s working incredibly hard to not push too far, but after some time of you not seeming to come around, not voicing any desire to go further, Chrollo decides he must resort to certain measures in order to speed up your progress.

Thus, he begins subtly trying to plant the idea in your mind, trying to tempt you into admitting that yes, you want him to reach underneath the frilly, white shirt he provided to you and cup your breasts, to roll your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, to feel you shiver and hear you sigh against his lips.

He wants to lay seeds in your mind so that you’ll come to the conclusion sooner that you want him to rest between your legs and use that talented, smooth talking mouth to make you talk, to hear you babble and cry out his name.

He’s talented at being discreet, and so as he moves his hands to rest closer to your ass, squeezing the plush of your thighs, leaving fluttering kisses against your neck, he’s hoping you’ll slowly come to the conclusion on your own, your own body and desires betraying you.

And quite honestly, while you’ll likely be uncomfortable at first, confused and a bit scared, eventually it’ll work – after all, charisma is something Chrollo possesses in mass quantities, and while you’re obviously not happy that you’ve been kidnapped, that the leader of a mass group of international criminals is holding you in his lap and nuzzling against your mouth, whispering to you that you’re so lovely, won’t you say my name darling, it’s difficult to not let the ideas form, the lack of human contact forcing you to imagine paths you rationally have no desire to.

It’ll make you feel dirty, like you’re betraying yourself and letting Chrollo win, but he’ll ultimately get exactly what he wants – he’s observant to a tee, and so once he notices the way you start clenching your thighs together ever so slightly as he tells you that he’d love to take care of you tonight, he’s inwardly smiling, pride swimming in his chest because finally, finally you’re beginning to be affected by the subtle touches and words, things that could leave you second guessing, the possibility that maybe he wants to go further unrelenting in that sweet little head of yours.

And so, as he begins probing you, asking you how you’re feeling, if you’re satisfied, if you’re feeling like I give you everything you desire, he’s waiting with baited breath for you to embarrassedly admit that you want more, that you want something only Chrollo can give to you.

He’ll goat you into admitting it, telling you to be more specific, to tell him exactly what you want, because otherwise he won’t know, and then he can’t improve, now can he?

He’s calculating, smart, analytical and damn good at getting what he wants, and so ultimately you’ll cave, admitting that you want him to fuck me please, I just – just please…

He won’t outwardly be affected, but just know that the speed with which his erection makes itself known is directly tied to you, the eagerness of his body and his movements to undress you betraying him.

And as he starts breathing a little heavier, stripping you of your clothing and his as well, it becomes hard to miss the way he’s eager, anxious, frantic to touch you.

You’ll see the signs of months of repressed sexual tension, months of desiring you but needing you to consent first, even as pressured as your admittance may be.

But in the end, does it matter?

Because when Chrollo’s hovering over you, those dark eyes fixed on your face with an intensity that’ll make you shiver, you’ll feel oh so taken care of, the small signs and subtle pushes making you insatiable for something you didn’t even know you desired.

And Chrollo will be happy to keep providing for you – what kind of lover would he be if he didn’t? Besides, no one else canmake you feel like he does – not even you – he’ll make sure of it.

You only need him.

MAIN THREE KINKS:

Loud Sex

Generally speaking, Chrollo is a quiet man. He’s polite and personable, yes, but he doesn’t bother with unnecessary chatter – when he speaks it’s purposeful, calculated, commanding, and this is true even when it comes to you.

You make him feel the closest he’s ever felt to being nervous, but he’s still not especially loud around you. He never shuts up, that’s true, always asking you questions and telling you about his day, about a flower that reminds him of you (a petal or two was missing, making him think of how you aren’t truly complete unless he’s with you), or even, on rare occasions, telling you a reason why he’s in love with you.

(It’s not as romantic as it sounds – the way he speaks about romance is too clinical, and the reasons he’ll give you are far too specific and detailed to really make you feel good.)

So yes, he speaks often, but he’s not loud.

And during sex, this stays true – the most you’ll get out of him is a low groan and a few heavy, drawn out sighs, or a few chants of your name when he’s getting close and he’s particularly pent up. He’s still not quiet though – he’s talking the whole time, dirty talk spilling from his lips about how you’re so beautiful, especially when you’re falling apart around my cock or that he loves when you moan, can you feel how I’m throbbing inside of you? It’s all for you, does it feel good to know you’re affecting me like this?

His voice is always sultry, always whispered directly into your ear, and while his particular brand of dirty talk is, more or less, mediocre (it’s always too long and makes you think too much; you’d prefer something shorter, something more explicit, something coming from anyone aside from him), Chrollo likes the concept of sex not being quiet. Specifically, he likes when you fill in the silence.

There’s something about the noises you make that make him absolutely feral – similarly to his curiosity about you in everyday life, he wants to understand you sexually. He wants to hear every sound you have to offer – he needs to understand what’s causing you to make that noise and how to keep you making it. He needs to hear every little thing, to have a mental catalogue of the different noises and cries he can pull from your pliable body.

It doesn’t matter if you’re naturally loud or quiet – he will be expecting you to put on a show for him, your body a canvas for him to create a masterpiece on, your every gasp, moan, and sigh a paint stroke that eventually comes together to form you, a piece of art Chrollo wants to keep stolen away from the world forever.

He’s not particularly shy about this desire of his, either – it’s very easy to tell that he’s striving to get you to moan for him, because you’ll feel his fingers work in that certain way, grinding and rubbing in that particular spot, those dark eyes wavering in excitement because he absolutely loves the way you sound gasping his name.

You can tell he’s aiming to get you vocal when he’s pressing his face between your legs, dark hairs tickling your thighs as he diligently works his tongue against your clit, the sensation partnered with the insistent thrusting of his fingers inside you not stopping until you groan his name, and then only getting harder, that same motion being repeated over and over because he needs to hear it again.

He’s like an addict, really – once he hears a noise he finds pleasant (every noise you make, really), he’s trying everything in his power to get you to make it again, wanting to have auditory evidence (to match the slick coating his fingers and the smell of your arousal) that you’re enjoying this, that you’re enjoying him and the way he’s touching you. It’s selfish, really, because while giving you pleasure is great and brings you a step closer to desiring him as he desires you, it quells his possessiveness.

It makes him feel good because it’s proof that he’s affecting you, that the motions and pleasure his body is bringing you is making you feel good, that your brain is mush because of him. It’s proof that your thighs are trembling and shaking because of the way he’s massaging and toying with your clit.

It’s proof that your lips are swollen and puffy and parted because of the way he’s kissing your neck and kneading at your breasts. It’s proof that he’s the only one on your mind, that your every thought is revolving around him him him, that your body and brain can only focus on Chrollo alone.

It makes him feel good, knowing that no other man could possibly be in your thoughts in moments like these, and the more he can get you moaning and screaming and sobbing in pleasure, the higher the likelihood of you focusing solely on him. So really, any time the two of you are intimate, expect your voice to be hoarse the next day – he needs you to be making noise, and he’ll even tell you as much.

He’ll tell you to show me how badly you need me inside you, moan my name and cream on my fingers and I might consider adhering to your wishes.

He’ll tell you to say his name, to tell him that he feels good, and even to narrate exactly what you’re feeling.

(That last one is a favorite of his – it’s so dirty, and it fills him with pride and arousal to hear you say that he feels s’good, your fingers are so big and it’s making me feel so full and good and fuck, Chrollo, please let me come!)

It’s an obsession, truly, one that rivals the one he holds for you – so really, just give him what he wants.

Fake the moans (but be careful, because he can normally tell – though, as he gets closer to his own orgasm, his façade slips and the true lustful, crazed man underneath his carefully constructed exterior rears its head, his snapping hips and messy hair evidence of just how much you affect him. He’s less able to tell apart your fake moans from real ones in these moments, and when he’s right on the edge, any noise from you will have him toppling over, gripping onto you and coming, filling you so fully that it leaks out, white spilling all over your thighs and dripping down his balls.)

He just wants you to be vocal, and it’s in your best interest to meet his demands – the night will be long and very, very painful if you don’t; Chrollo knows your body well enough to overstimulate you past your threshold, the pleasure melting into pain with each orgasm he tears from your body.

Begging

While Chrollo is a difficult man to decipher, one thing you’ll learn about him is that he’s very, very susceptible to your begging.

Of course, he doesn’t always give in to what you want – your escape and freedom, for example, are things he’ll never grant you, no matter how incessantly and long you beg. (And no matter how you offer your body or your fake affections or any number of things.)

He’s stringent about many things, but in the bedroom he’s more or less easy to win over – you just have to know how to do it correctly.

It takes a very specific methodology to get him to listen to your wishes, to have him do exactly what you need in order to feel good. And that methodology is mostly rooted in begging him to do what you want, what you need in order to seek the pleasure you’re wanting.

And frankly, just hearing you say his name and beg him for literally anything has his hips stuttering, arousal spiking through him because god, you must really want him, huh?

There’s something so riveting and right about the power imbalance that you begging him for pleasure sets up; he’s the one in control, giving you what he deems as the right amount of pleasure, controlling your orgasm and deciding when – and if – you’ll be allowed to come.

It’s a power trip that gets his heart racing and his cock flushing bright red, his chest swelling with pride and greed because god, every fucking inch of you belongs to him, and when you acknowledge that it makes him want to fuck you hard enough to make you scream his name.

You’ll need to beg, but even more than that, you’ll need to mix the begging with some sort of compliment. He’s good at telling when you’re lying, though, so the compliment must be somewhat genuine – tell him his fingers feel so good, oh Chrollo you’re gonna make me come, don’t stop! Tell him that he’s so big, you feel so – so big inside me, oh god, please harder, I need you harder!

If you intermix the compliments in with your begs, Chrollo is almost certain to at least consider your wishes, fucking you harder or deeper or angling his fingers just right, anything and everything to get you to keep talking, to keep paying attention to him and telling him how much you need him.

He may not show it, but he really, really wants you to enjoy sex with him, both because seeing you writhe in pleasure gives him pleasure, and also because it means you’re giving him all your focus and attention. So really, if things aren’t going quite as they should to really get you off or to make you feel good, using this master formula will often yield the results you desire – he’s a sap, even if he doesn’t show it, even if he’s not fully aware of it himself.

What he is aware of, though, is this little strategy of yours.

He’s figured it out; you’re not as smooth as you think, and although it boosts his ego and makes his heart race when you compliment him, Chrollo knows there’s an ulterior motive behind your words. And so begins a game of cat and mouse – he likes the way you beg for him, and he doesn’t want you to stop, so he’ll only slightly give in to your request.

This will, in turn, make you beg for more, a new compliment and moans slipping from your lips that get Chrollo gulping and steeling his resolve, his fingers moving slightly to the spot you want them, his pace getting slightly faster, only half-assedly doing what you’d begged for.

The cycle repeats, Chrollo managing to milk you for every last possible bit of praise and desperation for his touch, until he’s eventually giving in, doing things just as you ask for so that you’re a shaking, moaning mess for him, completely falling apart on his fingers. He’s aware of the game you’re playing, and frankly, as time passes Chrollo will begin purposefully not touching you like how he knows you like.

You like to be fingered quickly, with a certain angle and a certain rhythm? Well, he’s finger fucking you at a moderate pace, aiming for a certain spot an inch or so away from your sweet spot, the rhythm just slightly off.

It’ll be enough to get you squirming, your face scrunching up in pleasure and need, your eyes teary and watery as you beg him to go just a hair faster, because it always feels so good when you go fast, please make me feel good, Chrollo!

You’ll go through the cycle three or four times, but he’ll almost always eventually give in – with one big, glaring exception.

Chrollo really likes to bring you to orgasm, it’s true – however, he really, really likes when you beg for permission to orgasm, waiting to fully let go until he’s given you the okay to make a mess all for him.

He wants you to beg him to please let me come, please Chrollo I wanna come for you, all the while he’s holding off just a bit, not quite pushing you over the edge with his thrusts or flicks of his tongue.

He knows your body so well that he’s able to hold you right where he wants you, right on the brink of coming but not quite, just so that you’re unbearably close but needing that one final push. And he’ll milk this out of you, too – he’s unashamed with how he asks you to repeat yourself, to tell him exactly what you need, to moan his name and show him just how badly you want to come for him.

He wants you to be prickling with embarrassment at how unabashedly you shame, loving the way you get all shy and bashful when he tells you to beg me to fuck you into an orgasm, love, and then you’ll get it.

It makes him giddy to see the way you writhe and cry out his name so wantonly, your desperation to find your high trumping over any bit of self-respect you pretend to have, because ultimately you’re choosing him and the pleasure he can give you over this stupid, rebellious side of yourself that’s unwilling to accept his love.

It’s good, a step in the right direction, and by forcing you to beg him permission to orgasm (an orgasm caused by him, no less), Chrollo simultaneously gets to push you a smidge closer to willingly being his, and he also gets to feel you come for him.

(A sight that normally pushes him unbearably close to his own orgasm – just a few thrusts inside you and he’s blowing his load, cum spurting inside you as he gasps your name under his breath, the warmth settling into his stomach both a result of his orgasm and giddiness that you’re starting to come around, aren’t you?)

He just loves when you beg, and although you think you have the power in the situation, thinking you’ve got him figured out, you really, really don’t. You never do, after all, and Chrollo will always outsmart you.

So just tell him you want his cock, beg him to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to walk tomorrow, and he’ll give you just that – not without a few caveats, though.

Oral Fixation

While your collarbone may be his favorite part of your body, Chrollo really, really grows to love your mouth.

He’s always been entranced by the gentle curve of your lips, the shape playing behind his eyelids as he sleeps at night, driving him crazy when you aren’t yet by his side, making sleep – already elusive enough for him – nearly impossible to find.

(You’ll never know, but on nights where he can’t stop thinking of your lovely lips and how soft and warm and bitable they’d be, he’ll begrudgingly turn to his pillow, his own pale pink lips pressing against the silk, his eyes fluttering closed as he presses hesitant kisses against the material. As he gets more comfortable, he’ll move towards using his tongue; letting it flick out against the pillowcase, imagining it’s actually pressing into your mouth, brushing against your own and coaxing it to rub against his, to suck, his own tongue running along your teeth and reaching deeper and deeper into you until there’s not an inch of space he hasn’t touched and licked and tasted -)

He’s thought endlessly of how you might taste; would your saliva be sweet, or perhaps a nice, neutral taste? He’ll lick his lips while he contemplates, unconsciously salivating himself as he imagines how you’d taste as he kisses you, your scent and feel and everything else about you overwhelming him and making him dizzy in the best possible way.

He’s thought of the way you’d place kisses against his skin, how soft your lips would feel against the hard planes of his chest, against the firm, defined muscles of his thighs, against his neck.

He’s spent many, many nights imagining the way your mouth and lips would worship his body; he imagines you’d start with his own lips, kissing him and moaning into his mouth with fervor, your tongue slipping out to meet his, saliva and spit getting all over your chins because every time he imagines kissing you it’s messy, sloppy and earnest and dirty.

He likes to think you’d move onto his jawline next, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the sharp line, tracing it from his chin all the way back to the juncture of his jaw, leading up to kiss and lightly suck at his ear.

You’d take his lobe gently between your teeth, lightly pulling and tugging just to hear him harshly exhale, your tongue even coming up to lick at the shell of his ear, your breath warm and sensual as you breath and whisper his name.

You’d move onto his neck, next, sucking kisses and hickies against the pale skin, the perfect canvas for you to leave your artwork against. He wants you to mark him up – he may be the dominant one in the relationship, sure, and he may the one indisputably in charge of everything, but there’s something endearing about wanting to stake your claim on him. It makes him feel good, desired, possessive over you, and he’ll proudly don his coat with the dark marks all along his neck, perhaps even pulling the collar to the side a bit so that others can see that he’s yours.

Then you’ll move down to his chest; he wants to feel you press fast, quick kisses all over the plain of his chest and abdomen, your tongue tracing the lines of his abs and making him shiver. He wants to feel your lips wrapped around his nipples, sucking and running your tongue over the sensitive skin, leaving a wet pop noise as you pull back.

He wants you to kiss along his thighs, the kisses here more harsh and demanding, maybe even sinking your teeth into his skin just to get his eyes rolling to the back of his head, your sudden display of dominance (or brattiness, rather) making something primal sound from the back of his throat.

And of course, Chrollo’s fixation with your mouth extends towards your ability to suck – before you two reach a point of sexual contact, he’ll firmly trace your lips with his fingertips, only to push past them and situate his fingers against your tongue, a small smile on his lips as he sighs softly and tells you to suck, my love, I’m sure you know how.

He’ll watch with wide eyes and baited breath as you work your tongue along his digits, slipping between them and letting your lips suction, the warmth and wetness making his pants tight and his cock ache, desperation nearly sending him over the edge as precum drools from his tip. And god, when you use your mouth on his cock?

Chrollo is a fairly composed man, yes, but even he can’t keep up that image when you’re sucking on him like you’re trying to suck out his soul, your lips gliding up and down his length, the suction and feel of your tongue rubbing against that sensitive spot on the underside of his tip making his abs clench and contract, his hips getting a mind of their own as they thrust and buck and hump.

He loves when you use your mouth on him, and although he tries to let you set the pace yourself and do things at your own leisure and speed (mostly because he likes seeing what you come up with, how you think he’ll be pleased), he’ll reach a point as he nears his orgasm where he takes over, his hands grasping onto your head and physically moving it up and down, controlling the depth and pace as he groans lowly, his orgasm powerful and heady and numbing as he comes, cum spilling down your throat as he holds you tightly against his pelvis, the short black hairs sitting at his navel ticking your nose.

Another spot that makes him melt when you lick and touch is his balls.

They’re always full, heavy, swollen, aching and begging to be fondled and licked and emptied, and what better way than with your soft, pretty lips and your nimble tongue? He likes to watch the way you stroke at his shaft and move your attention to each sack, tongue coming out to lick and tease, the sensation making him suck in a shaky breath – the sound so quiet you very nearly miss it.

He wants you to take on in your mouth, the warmth making his knees feel weak, the feeling of you lightly sucking making him have to clutch onto whatever surface is nearest just to steady himself.

It’s so dirty – seeing the way your lips stretch to accommodate something so big, and by the time you’re through with them he wants his balls to be positively smothered in your spit, glistening in the light and sensitive to the touch because you’ve worked him up so well.

Of course, Chrollo enjoys when you touch him in pretty much any way, but there’s just something about your mouth that he finds himself gravitating towards, because while it’s intimate and wonderful to fuck you, when you use your mouth – something that feels more taboo, more personal, more sacred – well, that’s a different thing, isn’t it? It means you want him, you want to taste him, that you like his aftertaste of musk and cum to linger in your mouth long after you’ve finished him off.

Chrollo just likes the implications of it all – and seeing you on your knees or feeling your lips against his neck will just make him shiver, excitement and lust and love pooling in his gut, all directly at sweet, perfectly little you.

OTHER NOTABLE KINKS INCLUDE:

Holding your hand

It’s not really a kink, but you’ll notice quite quickly into your sexual relationship with Chrollo that he has a habit of always managing to interlock your fingers when he’s fucking you.

The first few times you’ll think it’s sweet, deciding that although it seems out of character for a mass murderer to want to hold you hand when he’s already stuffed as deeply inside of you as possible, it’s kind of endearing.

It seems like a manipulation tactic at first, honestly – you don’t trust Chrollo, not at all, and despite the fact that you’ve caved and given into your bodily desires to have him touch you and pleasure you, you don’t like him. Maybe this is some ploy to get you to fall for him – you’ve seen him reading articles and researching on ways to make women feel loved and valued during sex, his dark eyes diligently and eagerly scanning the words.

(You didn’t bring this up to him, however – the conversation that would’ve ensued would’ve been unbearable, and what would you even say? Chrollo, why do you want me to feel wanted during sex? What are you playing at? Is it not enough for you that I’ve already admitted I want you to touch me?)

The truth, actually, is none of those things – of course, he does view sex as a way to bring you closer to him and get you closer and closer to returning his feelings, but the hand holding actually isn’t something he’s meticulously planned.

The constant stimulation and attention to your clit, he’d known from the beginning – making you come feels good, yes, but he needs you to enjoy it, to realize that he can give you pleasure consistently, that he knows his way around your body. But the hand holding?

Well, the first time he fucks you, he’s genuinely gone – you can’t tell, not really, but from the moment he slips inside of you, he’s fighting to keep his composure, his hips begging him to just ruin you, to fuck into you as hard and fast as he can – even if it means spilling himself inside of you in as little as two minutes. He finds himself drifting away and getting lost in the pleasure that first time, and subconsciously his hand is finding yours, needing something to grip onto, something to ground him and keep him from coming much too early.

His cold fingers lace with your own, pressing your hand against the mattress as he continues humping his hips into yours, and he’ll squeeze your hand when the pleasure gets especially strong, his grip so tight it nearly bruises you.

He needs to hold your hand – it’s comforting, but more than that it keeps him connected to you.

It feels intimate, like something reserved only for you, because even though he’s slept with other women before, never has it been like this. Never has he actively been trying to make them feel good, and never has he actively been hoping they’ll want to fuck him again and again and again, something that he ardently, feverishly hopes you feel.

Holding your hand becomes something of a tradition; it gets easier to not immediately orgasm when he slips inside you, but still his hand moves on its own, capturing yours and squeezing, his dark eyes boring into yours and the veins on his hand standing out.

It’s romantic, he thinks, and even when he’s kissing you and throwing your legs over his shoulders, balls clapping loudly against your ass as he pants and whispers your name under his breath, his hand will stay in yours.

And his grip is tight – you can’t pull your hand out, he won’t let you. You’re not allowed to, because this makes the sex special, intimate, meaningful – it makes the two of you closer, your bodies truly united in more ways than one.

He loves you, he promises, and frankly, it’s best if you don’t mention this habit – he won’t tell you the truth, instead letting a small smile flit his lips and telling you cryptically that it helps me know if you’re feeling good.

That’s bullshit – it’s all for him, but you don’t need to know that gripping your hand like its his lifeline is the only thing keeping him sane when he fucks you – it’s the only thing keeping him from bucking into you like a wild animal, filling you full of cum like some sort of predator.

Voyeurism

Chrollo has a rather nasty habit of watching you. He’s not quite as overt as some other members of the Troupe, but it’s not hard to notice the way those dark eyes are always trained on your figure, observing, scrutinizing, staring with an intensity that makes you feel like a bug under a microscope.

He just finds you utterly fascinating, and he honestly finds himself unable to look away from you. You’re captivating in every sense of the word, and his feelings don’t change when it comes to the bedroom – he’s constantly, constantly looking at you.

The eye contact can be sexy, sometimes, in the right circumstance, but most of the time the intensity makes you nervous, embarrassment settling in your gut because you feel like he can see every inch of you, every imperfection and flaw.

He’s always looking at you while he’s fucking you, those eyes boring into yours as his hips snap into you, faster and faster and harder and harder, watching your face as you get close to coming, seeing how you fall apart for him and cry out his name.

He’s staring and breathing a bit harshly when you’re taking him down your throat, mesmerized by the way your lips slot around him, how his cock appears and disappears again and again, your little gagging noises when you take just a bit too far down making him near feral.

He’s even staring at you while he sucks on your clit, fingers curling inside you as he looks up at you from under his lashes, the eye contact making you shy away and close your thighs around his head, just wishing he'd stop staring at you like you’re some slab of meat for him to devour.

But more than anything, Chrollo likes to observe the way you look when you’re feeling good – pleasure looks good on you, and especially before you allow him to touch you in an overtly sexual way, Chrollo will have you touch yourself for him, all the while he gets a front row seat.

It’s thrilling, the way you spread yourself open on your fingers, tugging your lip between your teeth as you rub small, tight circles against your clit, your thighs trembling from both the pleasure and the weight of his gaze.

He’ll settle himself into a chair at the end of the bed, sitting with his legs crossed and his fingers digging into the armrests, his eyes trained directly on you. He’ll alternate between staring at your face and staring at your cunt, too entranced by it all to fully commit to one or the other.

He likes seeing the way you work yourself, how you flick your fingers or turn your wrist, the pace and tempo and precision of your movements.

He likes to stare at your breasts, watching them heave in time with your chest, seeing your nipples perk up and pebble up, looking hard and pinchable and suckable, like the perfect spot to rest his lips.

He’ll stare at the way your thighs tremble and jerk together occasionally, the pleasure and risqué of being Chrollo’s entertainment making everything feel heavier, stronger, more intense.

He’ll request that you finger yourself or play with your clit or touch your tits, anything and everything because he wants to see everything.

Of course, it’s nothing new to him – he’d watched you masturbate countless times before he stole you away, enjoying the vulnerability of it all, your weak, alluring form totally unaware of the eyes watching your most intimate moments.

But now, now, it’s different – you know you’re being watched now, and that adds a certain layer to your actions that makes Chrollo lick his lips, because while seeing your naked body and hearing your barely contained moans has his cock standing at attention in mere seconds, the fact that you’re reacting so strongly to knowledge that it’s Chrollo staring gets his ears feeling hot and his hands twitching, aching to reach out and touch you.

There’s something alluring about the fact that you’re acting all shy and bashful because it’s him that’s watching you like a hawk, his cock clearly hard against his stomach as he stares, obviously enjoying the sight.

He likes to know that he’s affecting you, that you’re thinking of him, that he’s on your mind as you play with yourself and make yourself come – it’s hot, frankly, and although it’s a test of his self control (one he struggles with far more than you’ll ever know), watching you bring yourself to orgasm is the best foreplay he can imagine.

Because then, he can watch himself bring you to orgasm, and isn’t that just the prettiest, loveliest sight?

Isn’t you falling apart for him, moaning and writhing and scratching down his back, the single most valuable thing on this Earth?

He’s a thief, after all, and anything valuable is his for the taking – including you.

BIGGEST FANTASY:

Chrollo is, without a doubt, extraordinarily possessive. You’re completely and utterly his, his property and under his ownership, to the point where he’ll often refer to you as such in passing with another Troupe member, no matter how demeaning and belittling his hummed response of yes, she’s my most prized possession may be.

You’re the only thing he’s ever wanted this badly, the only thing he’s ever wanted so much that it physically hurts, and he has no qualms with acting on these possessive urges, claiming you as his and only his.

However, Chrollo presents an odd juxtaposition in bed – while he absolutely does not want anyone else to ever see you in such a vulnerable, intimate position, there’s a certain allure to the idea of fucking you in public that he simply can’t shake off.

Of course, he’s thoroughly unwilling to allow you to be seen by other people, for your perfect, lovely body to be ogled by other human beings, those who are completely unworthy of being graced by your soft curves, your pretty moans, your twitching thighs and dripping hole.

You’re his to ogle and play with and make a mess of, and although the idea of another man watching you fall apart for Chrollo is appealing in its own right, he’d never be willing to stomach the idea of you seeing another man – or another man seeing you – when you’re in your most vulnerable, intimate position.

And these conflicting desires lead him to a sort of problem. On the one hand, he wants more than anything to fuck you in front of an audience, because what signifies ownership more than claiming you publicly, and what more can he do to show the world that you’re his, that he’s made his mark on you and you’ll never be loved by another?

But on the other, he can’t stand the thought of actually fucking you in public, which leads to a compromise – that is, it’s just so easy to spend a night in a bedroom high, high above the streets, the city skyline out the window and from the balcony mesmerizing, the dark night making the lights shine and the people they illuminate shine as well.

It’s not ideal, but Chrollo has found that the only way he can think of to satisfy this intense sexual fantasy with you is to simply fuck you in a space where no one can see you, but you can see everyone – thus, the window of some fancy, swanky hotel should do the trick, right?

Then everyone, whether knowingly or not, will be witnessing Chrollo claim every fucking inch of you, right?

It’s perfect, and something he’s so, so desperate to try out with you – just the thought gets his body feeling hot, his pants uncomfortably tight, and this strong, dizzying excitement brewing in his chest.

“The room is really lovely, Chrollo.” You compliment, appraising the room bathed in maroon and gold, the intricacies of the wallpaper and bed sheets catching your eye. It’s a simple one bed room, an adjoining bathroom to the side, but the real showstopping aspect of the horribly overpriced room is the set of floor to ceiling, pristine glass windows facing the night city, the various buildings too far to truly make out any specifics. It’s situated downtown, but Chrollo has made sure to secure a room on the fiftieth floor – towering above any nearby skyscrapers, thus giving him the privacy he’s been fantasizing of.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” Comes his response, smooth and suave, though you think you can hear the smallest smidge of pride.

Making your way towards the windows, you stare across the sleeping city skyline, trying to memorize every detail you can, while Chrollo watches you from across the room, excitement swirling in his chest at the prospect of what’s to come.

He’s quick to join you, standing beside you and glancing towards your awed face, chuckling softly and using his thumb to trace the line of your cheekbone. “You’re staring, love.”

You blink a few times, before throwing him a playful glare. “And so are you.”

He’s silent for a moment, before he leans down to press his lips against your own, his dark eyes fluttering closed. “How could I not, when something so beautiful is standing before me?”

His words are sweet, and they have you bashful despite yourself – something Chrollo doesn’t hesitate to exploit, as he pulls you in deeper to the kiss. His hand rests snugly at your waist, the other coming up to cup the back of your neck, his lips working faster against your own, though the kiss is still softer, less insistent.

That changes quickly though, as your hand reaches out to brush against the growing bulge resting in his black slacks, a small hum pressed against your lips as Chrollo unconsciously moves closer to the action. Soon you’re unabashedly groping him, fingers idly squeezing and lightly pressing against him as he deepens the kiss, lips getting needier as the minutes fly by, small gasps and breaks for air the only sounds reverberating through the night air of the hotel room.

Insistent hands grasp onto the hem of your shirt, pulling upwards and exposing the expanse of your stomach, the soft skin immediately felt and caressed by the man before you, his fingertips oddly soft for his line of work. He pulls back slightly from the kiss, dark eyes slowly opening to meet your hazy gaze, a small smile quirking on his lips as he moves forward to your ear, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin.

“Undress for me, darling.” His words are sin, his voice smoother than silk, the timbre making a shiver race up your spine as you gulp and follow his instructions, peeling each layer of cloth separating your body from his wandering touch. Chrollo’s dark eyes take every movement in, excitement burning in his chest as your body is slowly revealed to him, your skin soft and supple and touchable.

His fingers twitch.

He’s quick to follow suit, sliding off his jacket, pants and undergarments, leaving him nude in all his glory, prompting you to rake your eyes across his sculpted chest, the lines of his biceps, the sharp ‘v’ of his navel, and of course, the eager, flushed cock pressing harshly against his lower stomach, practically begging for your attention and touch.

“You’re beautiful, my dear,” He starts, approaching you and bringing a thumb up to trace your cheekbone, that same small smile decorating his lips. His lashes are long, easy to see from this distance, and as your lips part to respond, he cuts you off with his thumb placed against your tongue, his eyes shining brighter.

“Why don’t we show the world just how beautiful you really are?” His voice is oddly uneven, the excitement dancing in those dark depths of his gaze making you arch your brows slightly, confusion lacing your features as Chrollo gently pushes your shoulders. The glass hitting your backside is cold, the smooth surface alien against you as you squeak slightly.

“What – what do you mean?” You ask, voice small as he sharply inhales, his other hand coming down to run along your side as his eyes trail along your lips and down to your breasts. He smiles as he takes in your nipples, the skin puckering.

“Wouldn’t it be such a shame to keep a beauty like you hidden from the world? Don’t you want everyone to know,” he starts, leaning into your neck before kissing down until he reaches the juncture of your shoulder. “That you belong to me?”

He bites down, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to get you gasping out and throwing your head back slightly, the glass cold against your scalp.

“Would you like that? Do you want the world to know how much you crave me?” He asks, his voice low and husky.

You bite your lip and nod, murmuring out an agreement.

“Can’t hear you darling, try again.”

Embarrassment creeps up your neck as you tell him in a louder voice, “Yes Chrollo, please, want everyone to know that my body was made for you, please!”

He shivers against you, his bare skin against yours making your head spin. His eyes are wide as he stares down at you. “Good, because I’m going to fuck you hard enough that no one will question who owns you.”

And with that, he’s spinning you around so that you’re face to face with the glass. The material is cold, your nipples rubbing against it and making your thighs rub together at the strange sensation. A sea of lights fall before you, the city glowing from so many meters in the air.

His hands settle at your waist, squeezing slightly before sliding down over your hips, the smooth breath he exhales by your air making you shiver. Every sense feels heightened, and although you know no one can see you from so far below, it still sends a thrill through you at the idea that someone could, if they tried hard enough. Eventually his hands lightly pull at your hips, pulling your ass back towards his pelvis and making you bend over slightly, so that your cunt is poised out for him while your breasts still press against the cold glass.

Chrollo hums from behind you, a finger tracing down your spine and ending up right over your fluttering hole, slipping inside carefully and feeling the way you clench down on him, the sharp little gasp you give him only making another bead of precum drool from his tip, his groin throbbing and pulsing with the need to bury himself inside you, to thoroughly fuck the tight, warm cunt he’s feeling around his fingers.

He pulls them out abruptdly, making you whine a bit and wiggle your hips, the sight forcing Chrollo to tightly shut his eyes, grappling for control over himself. “Now love, in order to let everyone know just who you belong to, you’ll have to be loud enough to hear, yes?”

You nod, muttering something in agreement, but Chrollo cuts you off with a wide smile, his eyes flashing as he grips his cock and lines himself up. “Scream for me.”

And with that he’s pushing himself inside, not pausing for a moment to let you adjust. He’s thrusting into you with force, the sheer strength making you rock forward with each pulse of his hips. Your hands press against the glass, your cheek smooshed against the cold material as you moan and cry out his name, the angle hitting you deep and the eroticism of the whole situation making your head swim.

Chrollo leans in close behind you, his breath already a bit heavy and ragged. “Do you like – ngh, do you like this love? Getting fucked while so many people could be watching?”

You moan out a yes in response, gasping and feeling your whole body shake as his fingers snake between your legs and begin working at your clit.

He laughs breathlessly behind you, his chest pressing against your back. His lips brush against your ear, his breath hot and heavy, and you feel him twitch inside you, his orgasm looming near.

“Let’s give them a good show, yes?”

And when he pulls out a few minutes later, turning you around and letting his cum spraying from his tip and landing on your chest and stomach in ropes, he can only flutter his eyes closed and mutter your name, before peeling them open and exhaling shakily.

He’ll push you right back up against the window, a knee forcing itself between your legs to open you back up again, his cock still hard and insistent and aching to finish inside you this time. Meanwhile, his cum smears against your skin and the glass, leaving a film that makes you shiver – the glass is cold but his cum is hot. You moan as he forces himself back inside you, immediately continuing with the brutal, rough pace he’d taken earlier, determined to let the whole city see how prettily you take his cum inside you this time.

And when you’re done, some forty five minutes later, with two loads of warm, runny cum spilling from between your legs, the smears of his first orgasm all over the glass and your tits will only make him lick his lips, arousal once again simmering in his gut.

Maybe this time the city would like to see how pretty you look when you squirt.

#yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #_chrollo lucilfer #_lee's profiles #yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo lucilfer #hxh smut #_hxh

674 notes · View notes

kairiscorner · 8 months

Note

So I was watching the live adaptation of the addams family (released in 1991)

AND MHIEEEE,,,,,,,,

There’s this one scene where Gomez is looking down at Morticia

And his dialogue…..

“Look at her. I would die for her. I would kill for her.”

AND I CANNOT, FOR THE LIFE OF ME, STOP THINKING ABT MIGUEL IN THIS SCENE

Like babes have we ever considered gothic!miggy b4 bc

Bc….

ATE NALOLOKA NA PO AKO SAYO /hinimatay ngl i can't see current miggy as a goth, but younger miggy? oh hell yeah, he'd probably try out a goth aesthetic huhu MMMMMMM I WANNA WRITE THIS NGL ACK

(reblogs are greatly appreciated, it helps get my content out there! if you guys like what you see, please reblog it too <:D)

i mean it when i say... i'd kill for you, i'd die for you. – miguel o'hara x reader

there are times when he has to ask himself, really get himself thinking–"why am i still spider man? for what am i saving all these people who i've never even met before, taking hits from overzealous, insane villains so nobody else gets hurt even though they don't even thank me in the end... living despite the pain of living, loving despite the risk of having my heart broken–that i would be the reason of a loved one's heartache and suffering?"

there are hardly any times when questions of severe existentialism are ever answered early by the vast universe; the answers are hidden, muddled by the cosmos that keep expanding, never to be known by any living mortal–at least, not directly. miguel's dilemma is such, for truly, what is his life when put into the perspective of the grander scheme of things? what is the meaning behind the life he lives when he cannot even get a moment of rest until he's in the grave? what does he come home for, only to leave that home all over again and come back who knows when?

as he swings home, making minimal noise and conspicuous movements towards the window of your bedroom with miguel–he stares for a moment into the room. he's greeted to the very familiar sight of you sleeping soundly by your side, hopefully not suffering any internal turmoil that would discomfort you in your slumber. as you lay there, with your eyes shut and mouth slightly parted–gently snoring and mumbling in your sleep–with the moonlight illuminating your gentle figure, fragile frame... miguel has the answer to a his pondering answered in that one scene of his evening–of his life.

he mustered the courage to enter the room, quietly crawling in like a thief in the night. he shut the window closed after entering and dissipated his suit–leaving him in a pair of dark color briefs. he got under the covers, hoping not to wake you from your seemingly peaceful sleep, and once he snuggled up next to you... he found himself holding his breath in, as if anticipating that at any moment, the multiverse would part you from him and keep him as he always was before you came: miserable, lonely, and empty–without meaning.

your sleeping face was turned to his side, your eyelashes and lips looking so ravishing to miguel to pepper with kisses–your nose looking so... biteable. he smiled to himself slightly and gently pushed back a small lock of your hair behind your ear, shifting his face to move closer to you, to gaze into your lovely face and just soak in all of you.

"look at you... oh, the things i'd do for you; i can't even begin... to tell you..." he muttered, having a one-way conversation with your sleeping figure. he brushed the back of his finger against your cheek slowly, savoring the feeling of your warm skin. "i do all these things, all these things nobody thanks me for, to keep you safe–to see you in this very bed, to hold you another night, see you another day and hear your voice speak my name and tell me you love me..." he murmured, moving his face closer to yours–your lips almost touching, his nose poking yours.

he exhaled and smiled gently up at you. "i mean it when i say i'd die for you... i'd kill for you. nobody else matters to me, not anymore, when all i have left is you." he whispered as he leaned his forehead against yours, giving your nose a small kiss, taking your hand in his and gently squeezing it. whether you heard him or not didn't matter, miguel had finally gotten his answer from the universe somehow–and miguel would repeat to you that answer from the universe again and again and again.

you're the only one he has now, the only one who's never left him and has defied what the multiverse has in store for him–you're all that he loved, loves, and will ever love–until the end of time and space itself, you are all that he wants and needs.

tags !! @miguelswifey04 @binibinileonara @luvstarrstruck @melovetitties @arachnoia @fictarian @yuridopted0 @ophanimgold @meeom @hisachuu @wreakingmarveloushavok @popeheywardssecretgf @smokeywhalee

544 notes · View notes

asleepinawell · 8 months

Note

sorry if this seems a bit out of the blue, but ever since youve been posting about fallen london, im a bit curious about it! What is the game about and where can I get it?

oh no worries! I'm happy to ramble about it

fallen london is a free to play browser game you can find here. the basic premise is that sometime in the 1800's the entire city of london is engulfed in a swarm of bats and then falls through the earth into a cavern a mile below. this is the neath, a huge underground cavern where london sits on the shore of a vast ocean. queen victoria is still around locked in her palace being a typical shitty british monarch, who, amongst other things, decided that 1900 was cancelled and we were just going to have 1899 for a second time

things are a little...different down there. humans are far from the only ones running around. there's devils, rubbery men (think mind flayer vibes), clay men, and the shadowy cloaked figures running the bazaar (and the city) called the masters. death mostly isn't permanent and the dream world is a little too real. also, most importantly, cats can talk! and there are tons of them! and tigers too

it's got victorian, gothic horror, dark humor, lovecraftian vibes. also it's extremely queer as is everything the dev, failbetter games, makes. something I especially appreciate is that you don't have to give your character any particular gender (though you can) and some of the little avatars are very gender neutral:

since it's free to play it comes with the normal things that type of game has such as real money transactions (completely optional and unnecessary for enjoyment (though some of the bonus side stories you can buy are extremely cool)), limited number of actions you can take (max of 20 at a time and refills 1 per 10 minutes). it is definitely grindy too though there's so many things to do (cannot emphasize the insane amount of content enough) I will usually just switch things up every so often

it's single player for the most part but you can ask friends to assist you in certain actions and there are some specific items that can be sent to other players

(if you like the setting but not the free to play part you can check out mask of the rose which is a visual novel they just released set right after london fell. it's a romance but with full aro and ace options (which I actually preferred) and a murder mystery. that one is a normal just buy the whole game deal and I think it's on most platforms. there's also sunless seas and sunless skies which take place in the same world but are a very different type of game and would require their own post. all of these have great writing in them)

but back to fallen london. it works based off of 'storylets', or little short stories when you usually do a skill check to accomplish something in return for advancing the story, levelling your skills, and reward items. you unlock more and more things as you go and get access to new stories and areas. here's an example of one of the little activities and its resolution

since it's a game designed to be able to play endlessly there isn't really a way to lose or game over. you can die but dying is just a minigame of its own and sometimes even a thing to do purposefully. (the only actual way to die is the notorious story called seeking mr eaten's name which you may have seen me post about, which is a very unique story that will permanently erase your character at the end. why you'd ever want to do that would also be its own post. it's pretty hard to stumble on accidentally I think and extremely well-marked as a thing with severe consequences that you probably shouldn't do. or should you...)

anyway I'd definitely recommend giving fallen london a try if you're interested in the premise and aesthetic

#fallen london #flmp #mp #asks

518 notes · View notes

flowerandblood · 5 months

Text

The Man with the Deep Scar

[ Amor • Aemond x Psyche • female ]

[ warnings: mention and description of the murder of multiple people, descriptions of wounds, virgnity loss, smut, angst, violence, suicide attempt, trauma, mourning ]

[ description: After she is attacked in a fair by a strange man and narrowly avoids death, her father the king decides that from now on she will be watched over by one of his ‘ghosts’, a assassin acting on his orders, wearing a black mask. The man follows her like a shadow, accompanied by their past, which keeps her awake at night. Gothic horror love story, angst, sexual tension, very dark Aemond. ]

This story is several requests combined into one: sworn protector x female; Amor x Psyche; Phantom of the Opera! Aemond x female. I took the liberty of creating a completely new story from this, having only elements of each of these requests.

Series & Characters Moodboard Lady Walford Moodboard Gothic & Horror Sensual Moodboard

* English is not my first language. Please, do not repost. Enjoy! *

Next chapters: Masterlist

_____

For as long as he could remember, their father had taken no interest in them, preferring his first-born daughter to his second wife's children. He hated her with all his heart, jealous that although he read extensively and was so skilled in hand-to-hand combat, the King only focused his attention on her.

He lived in a constant conviction of defeat − his grandfather incited his mother against his father by saying that if it went on like this it would be Rheanyra who would be chosen by him as heir to the throne, not Aegon, her first-born son.

The tension inside the fortress and their internal strife meant that they failed to see the threat that lurked outside. Discontent among their people was growing due to poor crops and famine − although the King showed concern about the whole situation, his grandfather, Otto reassured him that he had everything under control.

He only recognised how serious the situation was when it became apparent that an army was gathering near the city walls − the lords on whom gigantic taxes had been imposed demanded that the King abdicate and a new ruler be chosen from among the nobles.

House Targaryen had ruled the kingdom for centuries and his father had no intention of giving up the crown to anyone just because they willed it; he called all the lords rising against him traitors, demanding their heads.

However, when it became apparent that the most powerful of the lords, his father's former ally and friend, Lord Walford had risen against them at the head of a rebellion, taking their stronghold by storm, all was lost.

Hearing the sounds of battle and screams he ran to his mother's chamber wanting to make sure she was safe − she was packing up in a hurry and when she saw him she grabbed him by his arms and shook him.

"There is a passage under my bed to an underground shelter. You must press with your little finger the mechanism which is hidden in a small hole under the wooden panels. You and Daeron are to hide there, go get him at once." She ordered in a trembling voice, sweat droplets on her face.

He wanted to defy her, horrified by her condition, feeling that even though he was only twelve years old he was already a man, that he would not hide like a coward but would fight to defend her.

However, he decided that it was indeed necessary to hide Daeron somewhere and was already about to leave her chamber when Lord Walfrod's soldiers suddenly rushed in, their armour and swords all filthy with blood.

He only had time to scream when the blade of one of them swung and drove into his face − he fell to the floor with a loud whine, catching himself on his cheek, completely losing sight of his left eye.

He began to waddle across the floor in front of him towards the bed − he heard his mother screaming but didn't turn to look at her, terrified, thinking only of the fact that he didn't want to die, that he was scared, that he wanted to hide, his heart pounding like mad.

He managed with a shaking hand to find the hole she was saying about − when he slipped his little finger into it something clicked and the flap lifted. He crawled quickly down and closed it behind him, breathing loudly, panting all over, the voices above him muffled and indistinct.

The corridor he was in was very cramped, consisting only of a steep staircase leading down and walls all around him − with one hand he clutched at the painfully burning wound, feeling the warm blood run down his fingers, and with his other hand he began to slide down into complete darkness. He finally reached a sort of enclosed, stone-cold room.

He fell to his knees and wept loudly, his nose all stuffed up from tears − he felt sticky from his own wetness and blood. He was terrified, but most of all he could not forgive himself for running away like a coward, for leaving his beloved mother to die, Daeron and everyone else, for hiding instead of dying with them with honour.

He lay down on the stone floor and stayed like that, listening to the sounds of battle and screams, until there was complete, empty silence. The pain he felt on his left cheek was unbearable and he thought that although he had avoided a quick death, he would die here slowly, forgotten and abandoned.

He decided that he would rather bleed out or die of thirst and hunger than go out and give himself up to these traitors.

Staying in that dark, cold pit, he lost track of time − he didn't know if days or hours had passed. All he could think about was that the ache in his skull was unbearable, his wound oozed and smelled bad, his stomach twisted with pain, his lips dried with thirst.

He felt that he had fallen asleep only to wake up and cry loudly, wishing for nothing more than to find that his mother had survived, to return with his father and brother at the head of a great army and come to his aid.

He imagined that the wooden flap opened and his queen-mother appeared in it like an angel in a pillar of blinding light, that he threw himself into her arms with relief, hearing her tender reassurances that all was well now.

He shuddered when he heard the screech of wood and the sound of a trapdoor opening, the pillar of light coming from the side of the room almost blinding him and he had to take a few steps backwards, pushing against the wall, his heart pounding like mad.

"Is someone there? I can hear you crying. Let me help you, please, speak up." He heard a soft, feminine whisper echoing through the room − he felt a tightness in his throat recognising instantly that it wasn't his mother's voice.

What if it was a trick?

If there were guards with her, if they were about to come down and kill him?

"I will spend tonight with the King in his chamber. I will order my guards to rest and not watch over my rooms. I will leave the flap open for you to leave, on my bed you will find a hooded cloak, a sack of food and coins. Leave the keep through the kitchen rooms in the cellars. My servant will be waiting for you and lead you out. She will hand you over to your mother's friend, Ser Criston."

She said quickly and closed the trapdoor with a quiet creak of wood, the room again surrounded by complete darkness. He breathed loudly, hearing only the rapid beating of his own heart.

Should he believe her or not?

What if she was lying?

What if they were going to torture him?

He clamped his eyelids shut, feeling a terrible pain in his skull and decided that he couldn't take it any longer, that he wanted it all to be over.

He walked back and forth across the dark room, feeling a sudden rush of energy and adrenaline, the blood bubbling strongly in his veins. He jumped back when he heard the creak of wood, followed by someone's footsteps and the sound of a door closing.

There was complete silence.

He swallowed loudly; over these few days his eyesight had completely adapted to the darkness, so he confidently found the steps of the stairs with his hands and slowly began to climb up. He slid out from under the bed and listened for any sounds, however, there seemed to be no one in the room.

He crawled out from under the bed and stood up on trembling legs, looking around quickly but saw no one − on the bedding in fact lay a small cloak, a pouch of coins and a little bag of apples and bread. He took it all, quickly putting the cloak on, pulling the hood over his head and left the chamber, looking around in a panic, his wound hurt more than usual, all swollen and throbbing.

He knew the map of the fortress by heart and indeed had not encountered any guards on his way, so he ran towards the kitchen rooms and stopped, frightened, when he came across a woman. She looked at him horrified and almost screamed seeing his face, turning her head quickly, disgust and disbelief in her gaze − he stood in front of her wondering if she was going to start shouting.

"− gods, so it's true − poor child − come, we don't have much time −" She whispered looking around and grabbed his hand, pulling him towards the servants' passage − they walked through the cramped, dark corridors, he could hear rats running past them, his heart pounding like mad.

After a while they reached a small wooden door, apparently intended for deliveries from merchants − the woman opened it and waved to a man dressed in a cloak, a hood over his head, he was standing next to a large cart harnessed to two horses, covered with a large sheet.

"− I got him − quickly −" She whispered to him, the man stepped forward to meet her, a sigh of disbelief escaping his lips when he recognised in him Ser Criston Cole, her mother's sworn protector.

"− thanks be to the gods − your merits will not be forgotten, woman − come, my Prince, we have no time −" He said impatiently, and he moved swiftly after him, jumping on the cart. Criston covered him with a sheet and after a moment he felt a tug − they moved off and he drew a loud breath, laying down on the wood beneath his feet.

He had escaped.

This woman had really helped him.

When his emotions wore off he immediately devoured the piece of bread and apple that the woman had bagged for him, feeling immensely relieved, no longer even thinking about the pain, just that he had survived.

He hoped Criston would take him back to his family, to those who had survived the massacre, that he would see his mother again soon.

As they stopped he heard Criston's voice speaking to someone, and then the sheet lifted, Cole and a man who looked like a monk stared at him in disbelief.

"− good gods −" Muttered a plump priest in a grey habit girded with a simple rope. "− what have they done to him? −"

First they bathed him and changed him into new robes, and then they took him to the medic despite his pleas that he wanted to see his mother and siblings first. Cole stood over him as they waited for the monk to attend to his wound, his face pale.

"− I'm so sorry, my Prince −" He said low, his voice trembling slightly, but he didn't need to say anything more. He felt a squeeze in his stomach, a burning wetness gathered under the eyelid of his healthy eye. He wept like a child even though he wanted to act like a man.

He thought that he had only survived because he was a coward.

When the medic arrived and saw the state he was in, he prayed first and said that it was a miracle that the infection had not killed him, that the wound needed to be decontaminated immediately and the eye had to be taken out.

A stick was placed in his mouth on which he was told to bite his teeth, having previously been given a huge amount of poppy milk and spirit to ease the pain, however, what he felt when his blade penetrated his skin and began to burn and cut away the dead, rotting tissue seemed like pure hell to him.

He fainted after a few minutes of writhing like an animal and muffled screaming, Criston was unable to look at it and walked out. He was left alone and thought that this was his punishment that was waiting for him from now on, punishment for his cowardice, punishment for not being able to behave like a man.

Darkness and loneliness.

He would not allow anyone to light the candles in his cell, which had previously belonged to some other monk, feeling wonderfully invisible there.

When he covered the small window at night with a thick black cloth he was once again in complete darkness, just as he had been when he had spent those few days that seemed to last indefinitely under his mother's chamber.

Criston had told him that his mother had died after several swords had repeatedly pierced her body, his father old and infirm to the point that he, like Aegon, Helaena and Daeron, had had their throats cut in their beds.

The whole attack had been premeditated − Lord Walford had pretended to be a friend of his father-king to the end, and now, from what he understood, he had been chosen from among these fucking traitors to be King and take his place on the throne.

Cole assured him that there were still individuals in the realm and lords who remained loyal to him, who wanted justice and the return of House Targaryen to the throne, who would support him if he wished to regain the crown.

He practised hand-to-hand combat with him every day in the great vaults of the men's monastery. Even though the new king's soldiers repeatedly searched the entire building, thinking rightly that they might have been hiding the prince out of sheer compassion, each time the monks warned them off and gave them time to find another refuge quickly.

He lived only for the thought of doing to the family of the new king what he had done to him.

He knew that he had time, that he could not rush, that this matter had to be carefully considered.

They met in secret in one of the strongholds of his father's former vassal, Lord Malet, who received him with great honours, gathering all his supporters there.

They discussed what to do, having an army smaller and less well supplied than the royal one, unable to act openly, treating the news that the prince was alive as something that could not come to light.

"I have my man in the King's closest guard; he is one of his ghosts. I pay him fairly for any information, he could bring someone else in there. Some spy. We would set up an ambush on one of the already existing ones, similar in size and weight − they wear the same clothes, if his behaviour did not arouse anyone's suspicion, no one would know." He said with conviction, and he licked his lower lip at the thought that popped into his head.

"I'll take his place." He said coolly, looking at the map of the fortress spread out before him on the large table, the lords looked at each other in surprise.

"What do you mean, my Prince? It's dangerous, it puts our whole plan in danger!" Exclaimed one of them, clearly horrified by his proposal − he chuckled under his breath, several of the men swallowing loudly, apparently wondering if he was still remaining in his senses.

"I am very familiar with this fortress and its customs, I will be able to keep up with what is going on there. When what we're speaking about becomes a reality, I need to be on the ground, taking charge and the throne right away." Said matter-of-factly, Criston grunted, looking at him uncertainly.

"This plan has some chance of success, but it would be best if you were not in front of the King himself, as he might order you to remove your mask in his presence. We cannot allow that to happen. It would be best if you served his son or daughter." He said looking around at the assembled crowd, the men looked at each other.

"We can arrange to ambush her at the fair. My ghost told me that she often sneaks past her guards without their knowledge. If someone attacks her, the King will reinforce her guard, perhaps appointing one of his ghosts to the task. When we find out whom, my man will kill him, and you, my Prince, will take his place."

He recognised that, although it was madness, it had a chance of success, and nothing pleased his heart more than the thought that he would be able to take the life of the man who had destroyed his family with his own hands when the time was right.

To his delight, it turned out that the lord's plan had worked and he had indeed appointed one of his closest guards as her protector. The man was killed later that evening, and he and Criston, under cover of darkness, made their way to the fortress from the side of a forgotten passageway that led out into the woods which had once been used to return from hunting.

One of the ghosts, with the help of a servant who was also involved in their conspiracy, dragged the murdered man out of the castle, and he immediately changed into his clothes.

Although they were a tad too tight, when he put on his mask he felt wonderfully peaceful − the darkness and silence that enveloped him made him feel again as he did when only blackness surrounded him.

Solitude.

The ghost explained the exact rules to him again and informed him where there was a place where he could sleep and rest, although, he said, he didn't think he would ever have the opportunity to use it − they only ate at night and usually slept standing or sitting up.

They parted in one of the passageways, and he moved with a confident stride down the corridor he knew well towards the chamber that had once belonged to his sister, and in which now slept this little whore. He saw the disturbed looks of the guards from afar and smiled at the thought that he would soon kill them all.

They needed to smuggle as many of their men and as many weapons into the fortress as possible.

"You may leave. From now on, the Princess is under my protection." He said coldly, one of the men snorted loudly, angry, he could smell the strong odour of alcohol from him.

"You are not a King, by what right do you command us?" He asked resentfully and he chuckled with amusement − he saw that the man looked at him uncertainly, with fear from which he felt pleasure and heat in his chest.

"Shall I inform the King that not only are you incapable of guarding his daughter, but you refuse to obey his orders?"

The man growled something under his breath, speaking of his insolence, walking away with his companion with a loud clang of their armour.

He hummed under his breath as he stepped against the wall facing her door, the door to his sister's chamber, and thought of Helaena, of how gentle and sensitive a person she was, of how she despaired even when one of them accidentally trampled a spider or a slug.

He thought of how she lay alone, terrified, dying slowly, coughing up her own blood, and felt a pain in his heart, swallowing loudly, his heart pounding hard.

He was comforted when the torches around him burned out and he was left at last in complete darkness − he closed his eyes and decided to rest, work out his plan in his head and wait patiently.

He shuddered and opened his eyelids, startled when he heard the loud creak of a door − a figure appeared in it illuminated only by the soft light of a candle, her large eyes looking at him with uncertainty and terror.

His jaw clenched in rage when he involuntarily thought she was beautiful, though he wished she would turn out to be a disgusting, ugly girl that no one would ever want.

However, he could not say anything about her appearance other than that her face was pleasantly fair, smooth and slender, her nose shapely and slightly rounded, her eyes sparkling, surrounded by a veil of long lashes, her long, slightly wavy hair and eyebrows seemed to him as dark as the night itself.

They stared at each other for a long moment without speaking.

"What's your name?" She asked suddenly, uncertainly, softly, with a kind of innocent curiosity from which he felt like laughing.

He didn't answer.

You are a mere whore, he thought with amusement, who wallows in riches filthy from my sister's blood.

"How am I supposed to address you if I don't know what your name is?" She asked, surprised by his lack of answer, but he just looked at her, wondering how she was going to force him to speak to her at all.

Ghosts could only speak with the King.

"Should I complain to the King about you not answering my questions?" She asked with a note of threat in her voice from which he clenched his teeth, letting the air out loudly through his nose, trying to calm himself, thinking only of the fact that meeting the King was the last thing he wanted.

He couldn't allow himself to order him to take off his mask.

"Call me any name you see fit." He answered her coolly, tired of her refusing to leave him alone. She shook her head as if she didn't understand the meaning of the words he spoke to her.

"Shall I name you?" She muttered in disbelief and he turned his head to the side, rolling his eyes, feeling that he was losing patience.

"Yes. My Princess." He said roughly and coolly, adding the last two words quickly, reminding himself that he had to title her in that disgusting way.

For now.

She stared at him for a long moment with those big eyes of hers and swallowed loudly, something on her face that looked like she had made her decision.

"Vhagar."

He felt a shudder when she said this − he remembered a book he had read when he was a small child about a great, terrible dragon that devoured people and burned entire cities.

Could it be that she had read it too?

"I will always treat you with respect and I will never make you do anything to humiliate you or offend your good name." She said with some kind of pain and regret, as if she sympathised with him − he felt his jaw clench tightly, felt for some reason a tightness in his throat at her words.

After a moment, the door closed behind her and he let out a loud breath, swallowing hard, wondering how he was going to stand it all.

However, it turned out that his suffering was rewarded, because already at supper the next day he heard some interesting information about where they were looking for his body, that the case had still not been abandoned.

He wrote a letter to Criston later that night informing him to leave some false trail in the city's vaults, his old child's robes or anything that would help them think they were on the right trail, which he passed on to a trusted servant aware of everything.

Everything was going according to plan until that little whore took him to see her mother.

As soon as he crossed the threshold of her chamber and heard her voice he recognised her and felt a squeeze in his throat, standing at the door, not knowing where to look, his heart pounding like mad.

The new King had locked his wife in the tower like some kind of animal.

He shuddered when he felt her gaze on him, her lips slightly parted, as if she really had seen a ghost.

"The gods are gracious." She whispered in a trembling voice − he felt a sting in his heart at the thought that he was only alive because of her.

"What?" Her daughter asked quietly, as if she didn't understand what her mother had just said, but she wasn't listening, staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and relief.

"You came for me like a death? Have you come to relieve my suffering at last?" She asked in a trembling voice shivering all over, pale and thin − he felt his lips involuntarily clench, his eyebrows twisted in pain, his heart pounding like mad.

"Mother, he is a guardian, he will not hurt you. He will protect us."

"Don't take her away. Have mercy on her and my son, they didn't know." She whispered pleadingly and he clenched his eyelids, thinking with rage and despair that Daeron and Helaena were innocent too.

"Stop, please. Please. You need to rest, mother. You need to eat and rest. I'll bring you some new books next time, all right?"

As they walked back downstairs he was completely immersed in his thoughts and wondered how it was possible that she recognised him. He shuddered, coming back down to earth when he heard her daughter's voice − she was leaning against a pillar with no strength, as if she was about to collapse to the ground.

"Kill me."

His healthy eye looked at her open wide in complete shock, he couldn't believe she had said that out loud.

Did she really mean it?

Involuntarily, his hand slid down to the dagger he had hidden under his cloak, he tightened his fingers on its hilt.

"Please, kill me." She whispered − he could feel his hand clamped on the weapon trembling all over, his jaw clenched so tight he thought his bones would break, his heart pounding like mad.

Don't take her away.

Have mercy on her and my son.

He swallowed loudly, thinking with pain that he would be just.

One mercy for one mercy.

His hand let go of the hilt, and she moved abruptly ahead, as if awakened from sleep, and spoke no more to him.

As soon as the door to his sister's chamber closed behind her, one of the ghosts came up to him and told him that he would replace him because the King wanted to speak to him. He nodded his head, tense, praying to the gods not to make him take off his mask.

He would have to kill him then, and he wanted to wait a little while, until they were better prepared.

He repeated to himself that he had to be patient.

That since he had endured so many years, he would endure a few more weeks as well.

He entered the chamber that had belonged to his father, originally in Targaryen red, now all in shades of blue − Lord Walford looked up at him from the book he had just read.

"Come closer." He said coldly, and he wordlessly obeyed his order, looking ahead indifferently with his hands clasped behind him.

"Did my daughter visit her mother today?" He asked, flipping the page with an aggressive, quick gesture that he noticed out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes."

The king hummed under his breath, stretching out comfortably in his richly decorated wooden chair.

"What did they discuss?" She asked lowly, and he licked his lips, wondering what he should say.

There were guards all around them, they could overhear their conversation, he couldn't come off as a liar in front of him.

He had to stick to his role.

"The Queen expressed disappointment that the young Prince was not visiting her. She also raised concerns that I was the personification of death, had come to bring her relief and take her life. She told me to spare her daughter and son because they did not know anything." He recited in a cold, dispassionate tone − the King sighed heavily, running his hand over his face.

"She has completely lost her mind. She keeps poisoning my poor daughter's head." He muttered, looking ahead with indifferent, enraged gaze.

"Take care of her."

He looked at him in disbelief, unsure if he had understood correctly what he expected of him.

"What do you mean, my King?" He asked lowly, uttering the last words with great difficulty. The man looked at him and licked his lower lip with impatience.

"It should look like she took her own life. Preferably a hanging. That will look the most natural. As long as she lives, our family will never move on."

Walking down the corridor towards the staircase to the chamber in which the Queen was being held, he took two vessels from his pocket, which he had kept for himself in case of need.

He walked all the way up, noticing that there were no guards or servants around, the door to her chamber open − she was sitting on her bed with her hands in her lap and looking towards him smiling, as if waiting for him.

"At last." She said softly, her skinny face as if it had taken on a flush. "I was hoping to see you one day. Believe me, there has not been a day in which I have not prayed for you."

He looked at her impassively feeling a tightness in his gut, playing between his fingers with the glass little bottle he held in his hand.

"You know what I came for." He said matter-of-factly, and she nodded and laughed lightly.

"I've waited a long time for this. For freedom." She replied − suddenly it seemed to him that she was completely sober and awake, that she had known perfectly well all this time what was happening to her.

She was waiting for him to come back and kill her.

He thought with surprise that something moved him at that thought.

"I have a proposition for you, my Lady." He said finally − she looked at him sleepily, wrinkling her brows.

"I will spare your daughter and your son if I gain your family's support in taking the throne." He said lowly, raising a hand with a small vial in front of him, waving it in front of her.

"Black Tears. That is the name of what I now hold in my hands. A few drops are enough to fall into a deep sleep − a person's heart beats slower, their pulse cannot be felt. However, if one drinks too much, one may not wake up again. Do you understand?" He asked coldly − she looked at the liquid and then at him, disbelief in her gaze.

"I'll help you escape."

When it was all over he informed the King that according to his will his spouse was dead. He came to her in his own person and sat down beside her on the bed, touching her cheek.

"Did she suffer?" He asked as if in pain, thought for a moment that he regretted his decision.

"No. She just fell asleep."

The King ordered that her body be prepared respectfully for burial and that he contact the prior of the monastery on his behalf to conduct the ceremony.

This is what he had been waiting for.

"She is alive. Move her to the monastery and inform her family what her king-husband wanted to do. Criston will give her an infusion that will wake her up. It is best if she vomits a few times, she may also have a fever and be weakened." He said to the man who had been like a second father to him during his years of solitude.

The monk looked at him in horror, both of them standing over her body in the small castle chapel that had once belonged to his mother.

"− you risk a lot −" He said, afraid to use his title aloud − he hummed under his breath, looking at her indifferently.

"− I am paying my debt − you always told me that a just King must be merciful − did you not? −" He asked coldly, the man swallowed loudly and looked again at the body of the sleeping Queen.

"We must change the body and put it in the coffin at once. Tell the King that there are nasty marks on the Queen's body, probably indicative of the injection of poison. He will then not allow the lid to be opened and will order a burial as soon as possible." He said indifferently and walked away, leaving the monk with his words.

When he returned he headed for the King's chamber and announced to him that everything was ready for a quick, trouble-free burial. The King showed satisfaction at the speed of his work and praised his organisational skills, glad that his face was obscured by a mask so that he could not see how wide his smile was.

Your end is coming, he thought with amusement.

"Summon my daughter." He said, putting a bite of roast into his mouth.

He wasn't surprised by the Princess's reaction to what her father had said, he wasn't surprised that she didn't believe it, that she ran towards the chamber where she had spoken to her mother only hours before.

He moved quickly after her, seeing that she was in complete hysterics, and thought that she looked just like he had when her father's soldiers had entered his mother's chamber.

"You fucking bastard!" She shouted wrestling with him desperately, trying to hit him with a candlestick, but he caught her easily, her wrists slender and petite − he thought if he put any more strength into his grip he would break her bones.

"− tell me where she is − please −" She mumbled looking at him pleadingly, the candlestick fell out of her hand with a loud clink of steel against the stone floor.

She was despairing, her face all red from tears, her lips puffed up and glistening − he thought there was something beautiful, noble in her suffering.

"− please − please, Vhagar, I don't want her to be alone −" She whined, and he swallowed loudly at the thought that her father hadn't told her everything, that she thought her mother was still alive.

"It's too late. She didn’t suffer."

She spilled into his hands, what he had told her was too much for her mind and heart − she fainted from grief and pain and he caught her in his arms at the last moment.

He picked her up and started down the stairs with her, her head resting against his chest − he thought she was incredibly light and soft, her pleasant scent filling his entire lungs.

He carried her to her chamber and laid her limp body on her bed. He sat down in the chair beside her, spreading himself out comfortably, taking satisfaction for some reason that he could shamelessly look at her from so close.

Her shoulders were bare − the sleeve of her gown slipped off one of them, exposing her naked skin in a way that was inappropriate to say the least.

He had spent eight years of his life within the walls of a men's monastery, devoting himself to training, reading and prayer − the last thing he thought about when dreaming of reclaiming his rightful throne were women and the frailties of the human body.

He shuddered when her body moved − her eyelids parted suddenly, her vision hazy and dreamy, the darkness clearly startling her and it took her a moment to realise where she was and what had happened.

Her face finally turned towards him and she froze, her eyes opened wide in horror, her lips began to tremble − he felt like he saw a flash of a tear run down her cheeks.

"You were supposed to protect her." She uttered in pain. He looked at her with an indifferent expression on his face wondering if she would have thrown herself at his neck if she had found out he had helped her mother escape.

"I did." He saw that she furrowed her brow, furious, so he continued, wanting her to understand exactly what order her father had given him.

"I showed her mercy. Your father the king wanted me to make it look like she took her own life. I gave her poison, after which she just fell asleep, although he suggested hanging. He thought it would look more...natural."

He saw that her eyebrows arched in pain and regret − she pressed her lips together and closed her eyelids, turning on her side, curling up like a small child and huddling in her furs, seeking refuge in the warm fabric.

"When will it be made official?" She asked trying to feign calm, her voice trembling however, betraying her pain and suffering.

"Tomorrow morning the kKng will convene a gathering and announce the sorrowful news."

She raised her gaze to him, he felt something change in the expression on her face − she was thinking hard about something.

"Do you still have that poison?" She whispered and he felt his heart begin to pump the blood faster through his veins − he pressed his lips together and swallowed loudly, wondering if she was really planning to do what he suspected her of doing.

"…yes."

He looked at her in disbelief as she held out her slim, smooth hand to him, trembling slightly, hanging in the air.

"Have mercy on me too." She said softly, pleadingly, warmly − he hesitated, unsure of what he should do.

He had promised her mother he wouldn't kill her with his own hands, but he hadn't said he would stop her from committing suicide.

He got up slowly from his seat with a loud creak of the old wood and pulled out a small vial of leftover poison, enough to kill her. He walked over to her and handed it to her, looking at her with some kind of wide-eyed excitement, wondering what she would do.

He thought she was only pretending, that she wanted to arouse his pity, that she hoped he would stop her at the last moment.

"Is it going to be painful?" She asked in a trembling voice, looking at him helplessly, his heart pounding like mad − he could feel the cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

"No. You'll just fall asleep." He replied softly, and she sighed quietly, as if relieved, startling him when she opened the vial in a perfectly confident motion and immediately tilted its entire contents down her throat.

She swallowed loudly and looked at him with big eyes, horrified as he was by what she had done, by the knowledge that she was going to die, and lay back, tears of sadness, grief and fear running down the sides of her face.

She looked like a small child.

"Will you stay with me?" She asked in a trembling voice filled with despair and sorrow − he felt his heart sting, only realising a moment later that he was breathing heavily through his mouth.

"Yes." He whispered, noticed how involuntarily her head slowly slid to the side, her eyelids closed, her lips slightly parted.

She did it.

She couldn't take it and took her own life.

He went to her, pulling the black leather glove from his hand and touched her neck. He pressed his lips together, still sensing her pulse, wondering strenuously whether to let her die.

If it turned out that the King's daughter on his watch had died, he would have to kill him outright.

They weren't ready yet, they needed the support of her mother's family.

He clamped his eyelids shut and sighed heavily, taking her hair from her face with his fingers and swallowed loudly at the thought that her skin was incredibly warm and soft − he ran his fingertips over it for a moment as if it were a sheet of water before he reached into his coat pocket and took out a second vial.

He took the cork out of it, caught her cheeks in his hand and poured its contents down her throat, lifting her so that she didn't suffocate, her body began to shake.

She snorted loudly and squeezed him tightly − he reached quickly for the bowl of fruit standing next to her bed and dumped it on the stone floor, placing it under her mouth before her body shook with convulsions.

"Come on, you have to get it out of your body. Yes, there we go." He whispered as she began to vomit − he looked at her and thought with surprise that for some reason he felt relieved.

She was merely a tool in her father's hands, just like him, surrounded only by a terrifying, cruel, cold darkness.

He thought with some kind of pain, watching her as she fell asleep, shivering with fever and fatigue, that she was as alone as he was. He covered her with thick furs and lasted by her side all night without a wink, wanting to be sure she was still alive.

He was shocked to see that the next day, despite her fever, she got up as if nothing had happened, ordered her servants to help her dress in a black gown even though her father had not yet declared mourning.

Her expression of defiance, her expression of strength.

She was so pale that when he saw her walking in a small procession behind the coffin, he thought she really did look like a ghost − he had the feeling she was about to collapse, yet she walked ahead, her gaze distant, cool and empty.

He watched as she smiled at her father, as she pretended in front of him only to see complete emptiness appear on her face when he disappeared from her sight, a coldness in her gaze from which for some reason he felt a pleasant tickle in his fingertips.

"It's time to go back." He said finally snapping her out of her lethargy. She walked over to the grave where she believed her mother rested and placed her hand on it, tired and filled with pain.

"No. I won't leave her alone this time."

He looked at her impassively, for some reason feeling that he understood her, that like him she blamed herself for not protecting her mother.

They had both lost them at the hands of the same man.

"She's free now." He said calmly.

It wasn't a lie.

He had never lied to her.

She looked at him in a way that made him lift his chin higher, challenging her. She approached him slowly, her face enveloped in a black veil seemed even more mysterious and disturbingly beautiful to him, as if she were not human, her shape seemed slightly blurred to him, as if she did not really exist.

He drew in a loud breath when he felt her hand on his chest, her lips placing a kiss on the cold mask that covered his face in the place below where his cheek had been. He looked at her in disbelief as her hand stroked his mask, smelling the pleasant scent of her skin, a mixture of lavender and chamomile.

"This is my expression of gratitude for your dedication to the affairs of our family." She said with feigned tenderness, her puffy lips slightly parted, her gaze indifferent, sharp, dark. He felt a throbbing inside his breeches and swallowed loudly, embarrassed and horrified by his body's reaction.

He thought, following her back towards the keep, that they were the same.

That as King he would need a Queen, a woman who would give him offspring and extend his line.

What would unite the realm more than the marriage of two conflicted sides, bringing peace and order at last?

He thought about it watching her while she was bathing, when she let him stay, saying he could watch − he was completely hard at the thought that when it was all over he would take her for himself, that this warm, soft body with pleasant, girlish shapes that peered through from under her wet chemise would be his alone.

He thought of this only to clench his hands around her neck a moment later, watching her terrified face trying helplessly to catch its breath after thinking horrified that she had ruined everything.

She had found the passage.

Why, why couldn't she just leave it all?

Why was she forcing him to do this when only he could give her freedom of life or death?

He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead against hers − he let out a growl of rage and let her go, heard her draw in the air loudly as she looked at him with a gaze full of terror and disbelief, her lips swollen and red from the blood that, through the adrenaline, flowed quickly through her veins.

She was beautiful.

He sighed heavily, involuntarily clinging to her − she trembled all over trying to push him away, but he was stronger than her. He began to rub against her body with his swollen cock and parted his lips, feeling his manhood respond with a strong pulsing, wave after wave of hot, tickling pleasure flowed through his lower abdomen.

"You are my curse. My ruin." He exhaled, looking closely at her face, her dark, wonderfully long eyelashes surrounded her eyes, staring at him with disbelief, fear and something that made him hot, her eyebrows arched in indecision, her full, moist lips parted slightly − he thought he would have killed for the chance to taste them. "My doom."

He shuddered and lost his breath for a moment when he felt her hands let go of his chest and slide down to his hips, her thighs spread out in front of him, her fingers tightening on his flesh, pressing him tighter against her − she sighed quietly beneath him, breathing louder and louder.

"− destroy me − leave me with nothing −" She whispered; he felt a powerful shudder run through him and he thought it was over, that he had to do it, that he had to feel her.

He didn't believe it when he felt her own hands help him untie and slide down his breeches, he didn't care if she changed her mind − he wanted her and took her. He forced his way inside her with difficulty, her fleshy walls clenching against him, resisting him, a whimper of discomfort escaping her lips.

He was panting and moaning along with her, sliding into her with effort all the way in, with a natural, subconscious movement beginning to root into her, delighted at how tight and warm she was, how with each thrust of his hips he slid into her with increasing ease, his movements accompanied by the loud click of her moisture.

She was wet.

"− good gods, you are fucking enjoying this −" He muttered with a sneer and groaned low, feeling her clench tightly around his manhood �� he began to slam into her harder and faster, feeling that something was happening to him, some kind of tension was rising and rising, he felt like his cock was about to explode.

And then it happened.

He came inside her, for the first time in his life he experienced fulfilment and it was so stupefying and pleasurable that for a moment he was just panting with his eyes closed, rooting into her again and again, trying to prolong it, listening to her mewling of pleasure, her cheeks wonderfully pink, her gaze misty, her lips parted sweetly.

He stared at her thinking about the fact that he had filled her to the brim with his seed, that he felt fulfilled as a man, as a lover, as a husband, as a King, as anyone he wanted to be.

He had taken for himself the woman he desired and filled her with himself.

Was there anything more natural?

However, he quickly regained his sobriety of mind as did she − they pulled away from each other, terrified. He slid out of her and she moved away quickly, covering her thighs, panting loudly, looking at him in horror, clearly thinking he was still going to try to kill her.

He reached up quickly and tied his breeches, looking at her in disbelief, his manhood still all wet from her juices, from what had flowed out of her after she had reached her peak with him deep inside her.

He looked at her and thought only of the fact that he had never experienced something so pleasurable before in his life.

That through his seed she could soon carry his child in her womb.

That she would become his Queen.

_____

Aemond Taglist:

(bold means I couldn't tag you)

@its-actually-minicika @notnormalthings-blog @nikstrange @zenka69 @bellaisasleep @k-y-r-a-1 @g-cf2020 @melsunshine @opheliaas-stuff @chainsawsangel @iiamthehybrid @tinykryptonitewerewolf @namoreno @malfoytargaryen @qyburnsghost @aemondsdelight @persephonerinyes @fan-goddess @sweethoneyblossom1 @watercolorskyy @randomdragonfires @apollonshootafar @padfooteyes

313 notes · View notes

biteofcherry · 11 months

Text

To find the light, we must first touch the darkness

Please also check out @bluepinkangel’s amazing hot moodboard for this universe 🖤

dark!mafia Steve Rogers x female reader

summary: When you unexpectedly are appointed to run a health center, you foresee many struggles along the way, but not one in the form of a merciless mob boss. Steve Rogers’ core aim is to own and he won’t take no for an answer. To any of his demands.

warnings for this chapter: dark!Steve Rogers; power imbalance; forced relationship; violence; death (minor character); D/s undertones; gun play; gun play kink; explicit sexual situation; faint choking kink; mention of breeding kink;

I did warn you this Steve is dark 😜

word count: 8k

Touch the Darkness Masterlist

Main Masterlist

Chapter 4. Heated hail

~ * ~

Hues of orange and purple brushed over the horizon in softest strokes as the sun settled down, but your heart couldn’t settle in your chest, every few hours jumping into a rapid patter to the tune of anxiety.

Staying in the safety of your apartment for two days after the horrid events didn’t help much, it still felt impossible to ease into your new life with its stains of alluring darkness.

You called in sick the morning after your engagement. Then stayed home for another day, as well. Hiding worked no miracles, your brain was very much conscious of the events that happened and of the things awaiting you, but at least you didn’t have to face it all for those few more hours of denial.

Though no one appeared on your doorstep and you didn’t sense any eyes on you as you occasionally walked out onto your tiny balcony, you were convinced that Steve knew very well where you were.

At all times.

It was a blessing he didn’t march into your home with a wedding gown, forcing you to say the vows immediately. You half expected it, since your continued talk after the kiss included Steve’s announcement that you’re to be married in a month.

He wasn’t interested in waiting.

It seemed that even when Steve Rogers appeared patient, it was only when he knew the results he demanded would come precisely in the time window he approved of.

Giving you a month was undoubtedly an act of grace in his eyes, since he could’ve as well dragged you in front of some registrar the very next day.

Or maybe it was a wicked torment on his part, making you organize a wedding you didn’t really want. Not ripping off the band aid quickly, but making conscious decisions (as indifferent as they may be) about details regarding the ceremony of binding yourself to Steve for life.

True torture was playing the part of shocked and grief-stricken when Natalie called you a few hours earlier to inform you of Felix’s tragic car accident.

You nearly laughed hysterically at that.

Car accident. Sure.

Against a truck branded Rogers.

You had no idea if they staged it so that it looked like an accident after they'd beaten him to death (or done worse things to him), or if Rogers had enough officers under his thumb that they classified it as such, without letting anyone know the truth.

But you knew the truth. Most of it, anyway, without gory details.

Maybe you shouldn’t feel sad, considering Felix gave you to another mobster on a silver platter. Who knows how that meeting would go, if Steve hadn’t intervened. However, you were still human and, even if occasionally you felt a taste for drawing blood when someone pissed you off, you didn’t wish anyone death.

You would have to play the shocked and sorrowful employer in front of the health center employees, which was also why you dreaded going back to work.

It would be easier, perhaps, if your mind reacted in the way it was supposed to.

Though you knew people reacted to trauma in various ways, there were certain symptoms you expected from yourself. They never came.

When you dragged yourself to bed, you fell asleep easily. Steve Rogers haunted your dreams, but they weren’t exactly nightmares you’d expect.

Those dreams were ridiculous, really. Dark, yes. In a gothic horror setting almost. No terror wrecked your body, however. You didn’t scream in fear, nor wake up drenched in sweat as you dreamt of running away from the altar only to fall straight into Rogers’ arms.

You were processing it all too logically, as if you were only wedding stressed and annoyed with Rogers, not in fear for your life and that of your loved ones.

If you were your own patient, you’d ask yourself if there were aspects of the arrangement with Steve that you found benefiting? Something that perhaps drew you to him?

You still had no answer to that question as you finally walked into the health center on the next day.

Steady, slow steps; a pace perhaps a heartbeat slower than your usual. The sound of your heels clicking on the floor echoing through the quiet halls.

Natalie waited for you in your office, as she always did without fail. In a way, she was playing a role just like you; wearing a mask to function without a hitch. Organizer in hand, she recited to you the changes she made due to your short sick leave and those that needed to be made for the day of Felix’s funeral.

A thought crossed your mind briefly, of what Steve would say about you going to Felix’s funeral. Since he apparently belonged to a branch of the mafia, attendance of Hydra mobsters and other of their operatives was highly possible, and you didn’t think Rogers would want you anywhere near them.

You viewed yourself as merely a civilian boss of the man that passed, but you possessed enough intelligence to recognize you were now also a part of a rivaling mob - no matter how reluctant your participation was.

Not only by shared business, but ranking now much higher in your status as the fiancée to the ruthless mob boss.

You didn’t mention to Natalie that you weren’t sure if you’d be going to the funeral at all, only nodding at her skilfully reorganized schedule.

“There’s one more thing,” she said, closing her calendar.

She walked to the door, opened them and beckoned someone over. A young man, a boy really, entered your office with a shy smile on his face.

Unruly hair, which he combed neatly, but they still betrayed harmlessly chaotic functioning of youth. A pressed collar of a button down shirt peeked above his blue cardigan. He reminded you of first year students, or apprentices at their first posting.

The first person in the past few days who seemed innocent and you welcomed that change with a softened heart.

“This is Peter Parker.” Natalie announced.

“Hi! Nice to meet you,” the boy cut the space between the two of you and extended his hand for you to shake.

“Peter has just applied for our vacant position.” Natalie’s voice remained neutral and professional, but the way she accented vacant position left no doubt that it meant Felix’s job.

Which shouldn’t be announced this soon. No one would post an ad without your authorization. So unless one of the center’s workers tried to push his own son or nephew into free position, that Parker kid was sent in by someone who knew of the brutally gained opening.

“Son of a bitch.” You cursed under your breath.

Natalie arched a single brow, but said nothing as you picked up your phone and unlocked it with a murderous glare. Parker said nothing either, only looked your way slightly bewildered.

Shame that Rogers didn’t warn him about your newly discovered tendencies to outbursts.

That it was Steve Rogers’ move, you had no doubt.

You found his name in your contacts - Steve typed it in himself, teasing you that a fiancée should have her future husband’s number in her phone.

He picked up quickly, actually surprising you that he answered at all. You thought his phone number to be more of a reminder for you that you gave yourself away to him, rather than being able to actually call him. So when you heard his voice on the other end of the line, you choked on your words for a second.

“Princess?”

You wondered if he saved your number under that pet name.

“The center was supposed to remain under my control,” you hissed into the phone when you regained your voice. “Hiring people should be my decision.”

“Peter’s very approachable and he learns fast,” came Steve’s reply; his voice soft, but there was that lining of finality to his decision.

You paused, once again surprised. This time by the fact Steve wasn’t playing lying games, just cutting straight to the core of the problem. Which also meant he anticipated your reaction, but did it anyway, disregarding your opinion on the matter.

You’d laugh at the irony of it - that a man being truthful and direct in an important conversation (traits you valued), at the same time was the fucking bane of your existence.

“Is he even of age?” You snorted, glancing Parker’s way. “He looks sixteen.”

“I’m twenty two.” Peter chimed in and you frowned.

He really didn’t look to be over twenty. Then again, in the past you’ve been asked for an ID even though you were way over twenty five. You had no idea how young people were when they started working for the mob.

Perhaps Rogers had no conscience and hired kids for dirty jobs too.

“He’s legal,” Steve sounded amused. “No forged papers on him. Lives alone with his aunt, so a solid job, like the one at the center, is something he needs.”

You did not believe in Rogers’ sympathy, not for a second. Perhaps he took care of his employees in a peculiar way, but you wouldn’t mistake it for him actually caring if Peter’s dreams come true, or if his economical status is secured.

Moreover, you suspected he used Peter’s wobbling financial stability as a means to lure him into the mafia in the first place.

“Then he could’ve applied without your commendation. Since it’s his own motivation to work here, right?” You allowed yourself a defiant tilt of your chin and a challenging gaze, since Steve couldn’t see it anyway.

You weren’t stupid to believe Steve pushed the kid into this position only because Peter needed it. More likely, Steve wanted someone from his own batch to infiltrate the center. Maybe even to keep an eye on you, though you seriously didn’t imagine how a barely-out-of-teens boy was supposed to do that.

“Recommendation is an additional bonus to an otherwise great employee you’ll be hiring.”

You didn’t know Steve well enough yet to assess by his tone alone if he was growing annoyed with this conversation, or rather bored (since he knew you would be agreeing to his demands anyway, unless you wanted more harm happening).

“That depends on the recommendation,” you muttered, too late realizing you said it out loud.

“You don’t trust my word, Princess?” A deeper timbre resounded in Steve’s voice, sending a shiver across your skin.

He wasn’t there, but you could easily imagine the glint in his blue eyes as he peered at you from beneath his long eyelashes. An edge of a blade caressing your breakable skin.

“I’m miffed at you planting your fucking seeds in my center, when it was supposed to stay under my care!”

There was a pause after you snapped.

One in which you cursed yourself inwardly for once again antagonizing someone who held your life in his hands, quite literally. Your heart thumped loudly, you felt the echo of it through your bones.

However, when Steve’s voice returned with a reply, it wasn’t a promise of your death.

Though it may as well have been, considering his words.

“I can plant different seeds, if you wish. Inside you, Princess.”

Your intake of breath was sharp, your pupils widened and your mouth hung open. He did not just say that!, your mind screeched, while your body roused in alertness.

You hung up the phone without uttering a single more word to Steve, then tossed it to the far edge of the desk as if it burned you. Your gaze lingered on it for a moment longer, in fear of it ringing to life.

You couldn’t comment on Steve’s innuendo. Acknowledging it meant recognizing this particular aspect of marriage, which you somehow repressed from your mind.

No, your marriage to Rogers was supposed to be only on paper, only for his gain of the lands and immunity.

A facade, with a shiny ring and your new last name stained with the blood of Steve’s opponents. Not a true merging of two people, neither in minds nor in hearts, definitely not in bodies.

A quiver pattered down your spine like a strummed string at the sudden, vivid image of Rogers’ thick body pressing into your naked space.

Fear, it had to be. But it also carried a rush of adrenaline that tingled in your nipples and brought heat to the sensitive shell of your ear.

“I need a break,” you shook yourself out of it and abruptly moved. “I’m going for coffee.”

“I can make you some,” Natalie offered, observing you with perfectly masked curiosity.

It was a change in your behavior, this sudden restlessness and outbursts of unresolved tension. As stressful as taking over a big health center was, you managed to remain calm and professional since the first day. Natalie witnessed you roll your eyes a few times and assertively set yourself, but this was a novelty.

She could only assume it was because of the tragic loss of an employee so early in your work, maybe suspect Rogers was threatening you. You doubted she’d ever imagine the extent of sweet terror he planned for you.

“No, I have to get out for a few minutes.” You weren’t even sure you really wanted coffee, a shot of vodka would be a better option.

But you needed to step outside for a few minutes; to not see Peter’s boyish face with its innocence written all over it, while you knew the darkness he was signing his soul to. You hoped his only job was to tattle on you.

You grabbed your handbag, purposely ignored your phone still hanging on the edge of the desk, and strode toward the exit.

“What about Peter?” Natalie asked before you reached the door, both of them staring at you expectantly.

“Hire him.” You sighed, anger whipping in your tone.

“And you!” You glared Peter’s way. “Make sure your other boss knows that within these walls your duties are only to the center.”

It was a bold statement. One you probably had no leverage to actually make real. In terms of power, Rogers had more of it, since he had it also over you. If he gave Peter a different task to run along his duties at the health center, that order would come first.

Still, you wanted to make your opinion clear and install some respect for the work here.

As you walked to the nearby coffee shop, you glanced around a few times to check if anyone was following you. You had no proof of Rogers sending someone to trail you, yet you were convinced of it.

If he had, they were skilled at blending in, since no one seemed suspicious to you.

The usual buzzing noise of the coffee shop - conversations combined with quiet music and clinking of glass - felt like a soothing lullaby to your strained nerves. You took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of freshly brewed coffee and sweet pastries.

By the time you got your order, you had mostly calmed down. You were still pissed off, but there was no point in exhausting yourself fighting a losing battle.

It was time to accept the uncomfortable truth of Steve’s upper hand. At all times.

As you stirred your coffee with a paper spatula, someone stepped next to you. In your peripheral vision you caught their hand reaching for three packets of sugar.

“I’d suspect having Rogers on your tail requires a stronger brew than coffee.” A smooth, melodic male voice started casually.

His words froze you in place for a second, trepidation stopping your heart and then rushing it into a rapid beat.

You said nothing, tossing your spatula into the bin and quickly reaching for the cup lid to put on your paper cup and leave the place. The man’s hand slipped between you and the lid, pushing it to the side as he reached for the cinnamon sprinkle; his gesture seemingly so innocent.

As he withdrew his hand, glass jar of cinnamon in his hand, your gaze dropped onto a leather casing left on the counter right next to your coffee.

A police badge. In the name Quentin Duvall.

Was it a test? Since all signs on earth and in heaven pointed that Rogers had police and other agencies in his pocket, this could be a game to see if you’d stay loyal to your future husband.

Logically, he shouldn’t expect you to. It was only your lack of connection that you didn’t dare to seek help in the law enforcement, for if you had some friend of a friend who was an officer then you’d go to them in a heartbeat.

You were quite certain Steve knew you would and he probably didn’t care.

“He’s a pain not only in your ass,” the man said, exchanging the cinnamon for his badge. “It’s hard to build a case against him when more than half of my colleagues are on his payroll.”

“What do you want?” Your fingers squeezed the paper cup, coffee sloshing to the brim.

You didn’t lift your head to look at him, figuring it was best to keep the impression of a casual conversation over coffee station. If you were being watched, perhaps it wouldn’t be too suspicious.

“There’s an ATF agent working to build a case against Rogers’ mob. He’d like to meet you and propose a way to provide you protection for whatever you can bring to the table.”

“Why won’t he contact me directly?” Deliberately, you picked a jar of chocolate sprinkles and added them to your cooling coffee.

“Since he’s one of the very rare daring to hunt Rogers, he’s on the fucker’s radar. If he appeared anywhere near, Rogers would know of it and it could end badly for you.” There was a hint of concern in Duvall’s voice, but not enough to be a poor actor’s play.

Then again, maybe it was a perfect play. Luring you with a safeline, but making it risky so you wouldn’t see it as a trap right away.

“If you want to help-” he picked a spatula and stirred his own coffee- “if you want to get out of Rogers’ grip, come here the day after tomorrow at the same time. I’ll give you the meeting details then.”

He took his cup and left, merging with the group of friends that were exiting at the same time. You waited a few moments, carefully putting the lid on your cup and lifting it to your mouth for a long, thoughtful sip.

Your walk back to the center was sluggish, your gaze switching from staring blankly ahead to staring at the pavement beneath your feet.

If it was a test and you failed it, what sort of consequences would Steve draw out? If, by some miracle, a just officer could save you from the dragon guarded tower, shouldn’t you risk it?

As you sat in your office, too preoccupied with the new dilemma, your irritation grew. That someone appeared and rocked the boat on an already stormy sea.

Though a flicker of hope tempted you to take the risk and meet the agent, you were annoyed that it came as another drastic change in your life in such a short time. Honestly, a part of you simply wanted to just go steady with one route, even if it was the one with you on Rogers’ leash.

At least it would be settled. If you kept fighting, not only would it piss off Rogers, but it meant exhaustion for you. Perhaps a never ending one.

Because was there really a chance for protection from Steve, if his ties reached to the Capitol and beyond?

Natalie found you deep in thought and blankly staring at the window of your office. She did a quick scan of the untouched documents which you should be working on, then flicked her gaze to you.

Whatever she saw in your face, it made her close the door to your office and lock it.

She moved a free chair to sit next to you on your side of the desk and in a hushed tone asked what was going on.

You looked at her for a long, silent moment. It would be reckless to tangle another innocent soul into the sticky, dark web in which you were trapped. You didn’t want to put her in danger. But you needed someone to know, someone who was a part of it from the beginning even if it was as a bystander.

Natalie and Felix were the ones who told you the truth of who Steve is in the first place, so at least you didn’t have to reveal to her something she wouldn’t already know about the man.

With a sigh, you opened your mouth and told her everything.

As you studied Natalie’s face afterwards, you realized she might have been the best choice to share the burden. There was no fear on her face, no panic settling in. She frowned, processing it all and you almost could sense the cogs in her head turning as she conjured up a plan.

“That officer, what was his name again?” She asked, sliding her phone out of her pocket and typing rapidly.

“Duvall. Quentin Duvall.” You told her. “Why?”

“I fucked a guy who has ways to check people’s background,” Natalie replied without an ounce of shame or awkwardness. “A computer geek. I’ll ask him to check if officer Duvall is who he claims to be.”

“Oh!” That way at least you’d know if it wasn’t a scheme. “That’s helpful. Thank you.”

Natalie didn’t acknowledge your gratitude, as if it wasn’t even needed. Determined and focused on the task, she exchanged text messages with whomever was so into her he still agreed to do for her something that was probably illegal.

Since you were engaged to a mob boss, you weren’t going to judge.

Few hours later, just as you were finishing for the day, Natalie returned to your office with ready information.

“It’s your choice,” she said, taking her jacket off.

Thin bracelets on her wrist jingled faintly, a peek of a small spider tattoo on her forearm quickly disappeared beneath the folded jacket which she draped over her arm.

“But I think you should meet him. A meeting doesn’t yet mean you’re agreeing to anything.” She walked next to you as both went toward the exit. “If they don’t offer you actual solid protection, you simply give them nothing.”

“What if Rogers finds out about the meeting and it angers him? Even if I don’t say anything yet.” Somehow, as you thought of the consequences to your decision, it was Steve’s face that kept popping in your head.

His icy eyes trained on you; his fingers stroking you before clenching around your throat.

Natalie paused, glancing at you with a scowl. She didn’t seem annoyed with your question, but rather with the fact she had no certain answer for it. Natalie liked knowing everything.

“That I don't know.” She admitted, with a small pout. “In different circumstances I’d go for some predictable wrath, but honestly? He declared your engagement. That’s definitely completely unpredictable. So who knows what he’d do.”

It was a very small, very naive consolation, but you reminded yourself that if he wanted you dead, Rogers would have made that happen already.

If you were his employee who betrayed him, then severe torture awaited, if not aforementioned death.

What awaited an unruly fiancee?

You hoped to never find out. Being extra careful in your act of casual trip to the coffee shop on the pointed day, you already considered potential excuses for another meeting, details of which Duvall was supposed to give you.

It better not be on some late evening in some shady place, because even though you still didn’t catch anyone following you it didn’t mean Rogers didn’t have an eye on you.

To your surprise, and actual relief, Duval didn’t talk to you this time, just slipped you a piece of paper as he tossed out a napkin into a bin right next to which you were standing at the coffee shop. It contained the address of a small apothecary in a nearby neighborhood and an afternoon hour.

That was very clever. A visit to such a place wasn’t anything unusual, even if most people bought their medicine at the big drugstores. And since it would still be daylight, it seemed even more harmless.

Natalie agreed with you on that, telling you also about a bakery nearby into which you could also step in to keep the appearance of running errands.

Both of you probably watched too many crime shows, but it came in handy.

The lights in the apothecary were on when you went in, but it occurred to you that it was completely empty only when the door closed behind you.

There were shelves stacked with medicines, some key-locked cases and an antique looking chest of drawers, which you suspected was more for decoration than to keep chemicals inside.

There was no one behind the counter, however. Only the backdoor, leading to an additional room, was open.

“Hello?” You called out, not moving from your spot near the door, in case you needed to run.

There was some shuffling and then Duvall appeared in the backdoor. He smiled in relief, clearly fearing you would not come. He beckoned you over and you followed him through the short, narrow corridor into another room.

Spacious, but minimalist (to not say empty) compared to the front. There were two industrial tables and three chairs, some metal cabinets and neatly grouped apparatus.

The man who leaned against one of the tables didn’t look like a chemist.

Though you suspected a man like him may know a thing or ten about chemicals that blew up, judging by his close to military look. Well, since you never met an ATF agent in person, perhaps it was how they dressed.

“Claude Batroc.” He introduced himself, with a smile that perhaps would be charming if not for a hint of dishonesty to it.

There was something about that man that instantly made you feel uneasy.

Steve raised the hair on the back of your neck as well, but his type of danger was a sizzling black fog that engulfed you in its warm embrace and zapped your body with scary tingles. Batroc was the sound of screeching tires a second before a truck pummels into you.

Your instinct was telling you it’s best to squirm your way out of this, even though you haven’t yet heard the deal they offered.

“Officer Duvall claims you’re able to help me,” you swallowed past your nervousness and looked at him expectantly.

Like Natalie told you, you planned on making sure their promise was solid, before you jumped off any cliff.

“I am.” He nodded, tilting his head to the side. “But that depends on what you can give me?”

You frowned. You assumed they knew how new and short your acquaintance with Rogers was; that you weren’t one of his inner circle people, who could provide a lot of intel.

Foolishly maybe, but you thought being threatened and knowing of Felix’s demise was enough for them to consider you an important witness. There wasn’t anything else of heavy value that you could bring to the table.

“Does he really have the stones?” came Batroc’s direct question.

Simple, but completely confusing for you.

Out of all the things you could’ve expected them to ask you, that never came to mind.

“I don’t know anything about any stones,” you said slowly. Your frown deepened as your brain tried to work out, if maybe there were some jewels involved in the whole mess.

Was Howard hiding a diamond mine under the health center, or something?

“There’s a rumor that Rogers is in possession of the Infinity Stones.” Duvall mentioned and you glanced his way over your shoulder. When he saw your face, he sighed in disappointment. It was clear you were unaware of what they were talking about.

“They belonged to Thanos. A Greek mogul, who’d probably surpass Zeus himself if mythological riches and armies were comparable to the real ones. He was in possession of the six, most valued gems in the world. They are called the Infinity Stones.”

“Few years ago Thanos was found dead.” Batroc took over the story. “Along with most of his men. A job so clean, nothing pointed to a rampage. And nothing but the gems disappeared from his fortress. No organization ever boasted it to be their job. In time, Rogers’ name has been whispered as the one to do it, but he never confirmed. Never put them up for auction.”

You shook your head again. The only gems that came to your mind as you thought of Steve Rogers were the few that glinted in the dark, thick silver of his rings.

You doubted anyone would put the most valuable jewels in simple rings, which he wore daily on full display for everyone to see.

Then again, wouldn’t that be a perfect power move? A shiny middle finger and a warning to anyone who dared to think they could cross Rogers.

“A different angle then.” Batroc changed the topic. Quite eagerly, too, as if the one he was moving onto was to him far more important than a few shiny rocks.

“Why is he circling around the health center?” Something dark, greedy, flashed in his eyes. “He’s already got his people sitting all over it. Made an effort to reach you directly, not just work under your nose.”

When Batroc straightened and made a slow step forward, you stepped back. Duvall was standing in the doorway, blocking your escape route. You didn’t think you’d need one, but now your instincts screamed at you that there was something bad behind their intentions.

“Rogers isn’t the kind of man to tell his secrets left and right.” You tried to stand your ground, despite your pulse quickening in fear.

You weren’t a type of person to limitlessly trust the law enforcement, but since they were supposed to be determined to build a case against Rogers they should treat you (as the potential help in successful operation) with less creepiness.

At the moment, Batroc’s stance and the way his eyes danced over your form were displaying a poor skill at charm and comfort.

“Maybe you aren’t privy to his secrets.” Batroc shrugged, then bared his teeth in a sinister grin. “Or maybe you’re the one who actually holds the key to the project Rogers has been building, huh?”

“Quentin said you keep yourself guarded, which is smart if you’re going toe to toe with the likes of us. But there’s not a can that can’t be opened…”

Perhaps Batroc was an agent and maybe he was building a case against Rogers. His methods, however, were those of another gutter kingpin. He could be working for one, doing his official job and an extra one on the side. Or he could be one himself.

You should’ve predicted that your hope for help would be false.

You considered Rogers playing you, testing your loyalty, meanwhile another mobster scum was attempting to use you to screw with Steve.

“We’re gonna play some interrogation game. With bonuses.” At Batroc’s words, you made another hasty step backwards, your back hitting the metal cabinets.

A sudden wheezing sound and a loud thump of a falling body averted Batroc’s attention from you.

Duvall fell down lifelessly, face first onto the floor. At least a second passed before you noticed a pool of red spilling around his head like a horrific halo.

Then something heavy flew across the space, knocking Batroc’s gun from his hand as he reached for it.

Still glued to the cabinets, shock freezing you in place, you watched as Steve Rogers strode inside in all of his dark glory. Shoulders so wide he barely fit in the entrance, muscles straining under the fabric of his clothes.

He and Batroc clashed in the middle of the room - forearm blocking a punch, then a knee up to block a kick.

Both of them were fast and strong, their fight a darker, less choreographed movie combat. For every of Batroc’s hits, Steve delivered two. Despite his bulk, Steve was exceptionally graceful in his technique. His opponent stumbled for a second, shaking his head to get rid of dizziness after one of Steve’s hooks. Meanwhile Rogers didn’t even wince when Batroc managed to split his lip open.

It wasn’t a fight that would continue honorably, until one yielded and pledged fealty.

After disarming Batrock when he pulled out a knife, Steve kicked him a few steps away then drew out his gun and shot him three times. Twice in the chest, once in the head.

You flinched with each gunfire sound, but remained glued to the spot.

Your gaze was on Rogers, you didn’t pay much attention to other men stepping inside. Steve spoke to them, but all the voices blurred into a dull sound as your hammering heartbeat threatened to pound away each vessel in your body.

Only your sight remained focused. Your mind picked Rogers as the only solid point to anchor itself to.

Perhaps simply because he saved you. Once again. Even if it was to ensnare you himself.

You pushed against the cabinets, trying to bury yourself into them when Steve dismissed his people with some short orders and started towards you, but they didn’t budge an inch.

You weren’t attempting to escape him. You wanted to escape your growing need to wrap your arms around him and cling to the beast that spared your life as the only source of comfort at the moment.

Yet, you knew the sickness that bubbled in your stomach wasn’t because you felt a twisted sense of safety now that Rogers was here, but because you witnessed people being killed, blood splattering; hell, you nearly were mauled. Again.

The anxiety was skyrocketing. Or it would be, if not for the freezing shock still gripping you so tightly you felt like trapped in a glass box. It was an inner torment, procured by your own neurotransmitters and chemicals, that kept you on the edge of a malfunctioning fight or flight mechanism.

Steve’s broad form caging you in, shutting away the bloodied world outside of his arms, was the first thing that pulled your focus back to reality of now and here.

The feeling of a hot, metal muzzle touching the underside of your jaw snapped you out of the traumatic trance.

He pointed his gun at you. The one with which he shot Batroc.

A spike of adrenaline roused your body into full alertness. However, instead of logical terror and tearing up at the oncoming death, your brain paid attention to how delicate that pressure of a gun was.

How the warmth of it felt against your clammy skin; how refreshing was the metallic scent of it and how quickly it disappeared under the familiar now undertones of Rogers’ cologne.

That gun held so much power.

It ruthlessly disposed of a direct threat to you. An extension to the one who was behind saving you over and over (even if it was only, so he could be the one to torment you). Steve was living up to being your knight. Not in shining armor; not even one with good intentions. No, he was a black knight whose curse trapped you in a twisted realm.

“Did he lay a hand on you?” pressing the muzzle to your chin, Steve moved your face left and right as his eyes scanned your state.

Swallowing hard, you shook your head. You were unable to form a single word, your throat constricted with all the sobs which you couldn’t force out of yourself.

“Good.” Steve stated simply, without much genuine relief.

“Your naughty stunt served me well.” He mused as he gently dragged the barrel of his gun across your cheek and down your neck; like he was caressing you with fingers, not a deadly weapon.

“I wanted to get rid of Batroc for a while now, but he buried himself so deep it was hard to find him. I should’ve known he’d come up for something when he saw everyone else wanted it.”

You weren’t paying enough attention to Steve’s words to decipher their full meaning, your senses were more interested in attuning to the trace of his gun on your skin.

Holding your gaze captive with his icy blue eyes (so clear and unmarred with anger, despite what just happened), Steve kept moving the muzzle of his gun from one of your collar bones to the other. Slowly.

He had to read something in your body you weren’t yet aware of - a spark of curiosity ignited in his irises.

You realized what it was a few seconds later as you felt your nipples stiffen.

No!, a voice in your head whispered in utter disbelief. That current at the touch of Rogers’ gun was arousal. Underlaid with fear, but the kind that spiced the arousal higher, not switched it off.

It had to be the adrenaline still rushing, you thought. Your mind locked in an acute stress reaction, so that your body got confused; it didn’t know how to react, or which hormones to produce.

That had to be the reason, the only explanation. Because you have never experienced anything like this.

Rogers being despicable aside, you simply never entertained any kinky fantasies that included a gun, or any other weapon, or being overpowered so completely. That was never something you considered you might like.

But as much as you were afraid of Steve in general, in this very moment you somehow knew he wouldn’t hurt you. Not in a bad way.

And the gun pressed to your body was a substantial proof of his power. One that could touch you physically; do things to you…

“My, my, Princess,” Steve leaned closer; whether to feel you shiver, or to shield the view of you from any prying eyes. “You’re just full of surprises.”

He ran the gun down your body - between your breasts and down your quivering belly. When the still warm muzzle nudged the hem of your flowy skirt up, the haze of shock snapped.

“I-” you started, but your voice was weak and breathless, turning into a gasp as Steve drew the gun higher up your thigh.

“I should go.” You squeaked out, but somehow couldn’t tear your eyes away from Steve’s.

The only muscles you moved were those of your legs, which parted slightly as he slipped the gun over your clothed core.

His free hand shot up to your neck; ringed fingers curling around your throat in a loose reminder of Steve’s dominance. Like the first time he’s done it, your breath hitched in your lungs, your pupils widened and your knees weakened.

Then the solid barrel rubbed against your covered folds and your lips parted on a needy whimper.

While it shocked you, it absolutely delighted Steve.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, Princess.” He cooed, dragging the gun back and forth over your pussy. “It’s okay to need to take the edge off. After the afternoon you’ve just had.”

“That’s not how-” a part of your brain tried to fight the building arousal.

You closed your eyes, instantly opening them again at Steve’s warning hiss. In his eyes danced a glint of triumph - bright and cold like a blade pulled straight from the forgery.

“Not like this.” You muttered, embarrassed with how eager your body was to experience the little thrill of being caressed with something that could so easily hurt you.

Sex as a way of destressing wasn’t a foreign concept. Hell, an orgasm or two often helped you relieve some tension after dealing with daily obstacles and minor inconveniences. You’d even agree about needing one to burst you out of the bubble of shock you fell into today.

But you could do that on your own, not by the hand of the handsome monster who forced himself into your life. And with your own toys - the normal, safe ones.

It was both a relief and a shameful disappointment when Steve withdrew the gun.

“Slide your hand into your panties, Princess,” he brushed the side of the gun against your arm, nudging your wrist.

Your fingers twitched, but you didn’t move. Your heart was still going like crazy, the beat of it pulsing in your clit.

“Come on,” Steve traced his gun up your arm, then tapped your cheek with it, “be a good girl and put your hand in your panties.”

You knew it wasn’t a request, but a command. No matter if Steve’s voice melted into a soft, thick and sweet like chocolate tone. Slowly, you reached your hand beneath your skirt and under the waistband of your cotton and lace panties.

“That’s it.” Steve brushed his lips over your temple, whispering dirty encouragement. “Now slide your fingers over your pussy. All the way.”

You did as he asked; trembling fingers dipping between your soft folds.

“Now show them to me.” He pulled back slightly.

You wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole to cut your shame short, as you lifted your hand up for Steve to see.

Your fingers were sticky with your wetness, a pearly string of slick stretching between them.

“Seems to me that’s exactly how you need it, Princess.” Steve smirked; icy blue of his irises heating into white flame.

A retort was forming on your tongue, but died a second later. When Steve’s mouth closed around your digits and he sucked them clean.

His tongue lavished the crease between your fingers, teasing your rotten mind with a reflection of where else on your body he could use that tongue. Suction of his mouth wasn’t gentle, strumming down your nerves with vibration from his pleased hum. He pulled off, with a lewd swipe of his tongue.

For a millisecond, your gazes locked in quiet suspension.

A blink of an eye and then the gun was back beneath your skirt, while Steve’s lips were capturing yours in a filthy demand. He pushed the barrel past the fabric of your panties this time, hard metal grazing your delicate parts. His dark chuckle in response to your moan reverberated on your lips.

The fingers curled around your neck tightened slightly, his thumb pressing over your carotid, but not enough to cut off your air. Not yet, at least.

Stars danced in the corners of your vision, heightened pleasure mixed with delicious trepidation filling your body with bubbles of ecstasy unknown to you until now.

Steve angled his gun so that it spread your folds, rubbing your clit and teasing your entrance with each slide. Your hips rocked back eagerly. When he pushed a little deeper, pressing the muzzle into your opening, you almost seized.

One of your hands flew to Steve’s forearm, holding onto the wrist of his hand which was choking you. The other fisted his shirt near the collar. You let out a startled cry that turned from appalled to needy.

“Give it up, Princess,” Steve teased your bottom lip with his tongue, all the while nudging the muzzle into your cunt.

Muscles in your legs tensed, your eyes shimmered with tears that weren’t of sadness or pain. You were ashamed of your reaction to the filthy debauchery, but you wanted, needed it so badly.

“I’m gonna have you cum for me anyway, so just let go.”

That demand was sharper. Steve’s fingers on your throat tightened, cutting off the flow of air. At the same time, he pushed the gun deeper. Merely an inch or two slipped inside, but it was enough to feel your pussy stretch around it.

Your climax was an outburst with sharp edges, each tremor feeling like an electric current. Your cries sounded choked, though Steve released his hold on your neck enough for the air to flow easily into your lungs.

The gun wasn’t inside you anymore, but he kept moving it harshly against your clit, prolonging your orgasm to a point of painful throb that threatened to build into another humiliation if he continued longer.

If he slid the gun back, or his cock into your quivering cunt, you’d probably lose your conscience. While cumming all over him again.

Finally, Steve eased the pressure. He occupied your lips with sensual kisses, slow and lingering, and tongue dipping indecently into your mouth. The gun withdrew from your panties, the fabric clinging to your drenched pussy in an embarrassingly uncomfortable way.

Your arms fell to your sides when Steve let go of your neck and straightened. He wiped his gun, covered with your slick, in your skirt, then secured it back in the holster at his side.

“There now. Isn’t it better?” You weren’t certain if he was mocking you, or if it was a pure cocky smugness.

You were gaping at him, your breath still ragged. Your legs were shaking and your heart was hammering, but there was warmth and life and a vivid feeling of anger resurfacing. No longer the cold stupor of shock and fear.

No, Steve beckoned your brain back to reality. After short circuiting it.

“Better?” You hissed, clenching your hands into fists. “You pointed a gun at me!”

“And you creamed all over it, Princess.” Steve’s knowing smirk added to your shame.

“You shot someone!” You derailed, unable (and unwanting) to unpack the mess of your body’s reaction to being fucked with a gun.

“Just straight up shot them. In broad daylight!” It was now reaching your mind that all the terrors and dirty deeds, which have happened in the past half an hour, didn’t take place in the deep darkness of the night. It was a sunny afternoon, with people walking the streets just outside the front door of an ordinary apothecary.

“They would’ve hurt you,” came Steve’s remorseless reply.

Simple and direct, spoken in a warning growl.

“Nobody hurts what’s mine.”

There was nothing romantic about it, even if your post-orgasmic heart flowed with bonding oxytocin.

It was a dark claim, making you into Steve’s possession. His protection of you came only from the need to have his pride untouched - if anyone managed to steal or hurt his bride, it weakened Steve’s ruthless reputation.

“Now let’s get you out of here, so my cleaning team can swipe in.” Steve motioned at you to follow him as he moved toward the exit.

Your feet were frozen to the spot. There was a dead body of a man between you and the door; the pool of blood inches away from your toes. You definitely wanted to get out of there, but you couldn’t simply make yourself jump over someone’s corpse.

Steve’s impatient sigh was motivating - you did not want to get on his nerves too much. But your body wasn’t listening to any of your commands. As it didn’t listen to you when you tried to fight off the arousal earlier.

Suddenly, you were picked up.

Steve hoisted you up easily, throwing you over his shoulder. He carried you over Duvall’s dead body and through the narrow corridor, ignoring your outraged squeak.

“All that blood and death, you really need to focus on lighter things from now on.” He said conversationally, tone light as if aforementioned gore was just a chore from which one needed to take a break.

“For a while, at least-” Steve continued, as he carried you out the front- “Wedding planning should help with that.”

“No! I don’t want it!” You protested, kicking your legs.

With what just happened, you couldn’t imagine forcing yourself to organize a fucking wedding. One you didn’t want in the first place. You couldn’t imagine going back to your routine, daily life at all.

You just weren’t sure if it was the deaths you witnessed that changed your life forever, or the wrong kind of desire that Steve brought out of you.

“Oh, I’m sure you don’t. But you will.” He put you down on your feet once you were outside.

Steve cupped your chin, crushing it painfully between his thumb and forefinger, and tilted your face up.

“We both know you will be a good girl for me, Princess.”

#touch the darkness #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x you #dark!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers #dark mafia!steve rogers x reader #dakr mafia!steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers imagine #my writing

708 notes · View notes