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long-live-astronerd-ghost-king · 26 days

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DPXDC prompt: Spiritual Siblings

Bruce: My assassin kid can't be that normal!

Damian: Well, I’m completely emotionally stable by Amity Park standards. The problem is with you. Obviously.

~~~~~

Damian had long found peace and home in Amity, so he did not worry that the new family and Gotham might not accept him.

Sure, Al Ghul had lived without any contact with his biological father all these years but he could safely say that he had a happy childhood. First years were hard and he was raised more as a weapon than a human being. Even so, after that a ghost who decided to become his brother appeared and everything changed.

Damian still does not know what Ra's owes Phantom but Danny has a right to take him, without prior notification, to live with Fentons, to visit Aunt Alicia at her farm, and to make Vlad’s weekends much less calm and boring. Danny jokes that he just steals him as a hostage when Al Ghul does not pay taxes for using Lazarus Pits. Whatever the reason, he already has a family that loves him.

However, he still wanted to make an effort to fit in this one too. The model of conduct certainly was his older brother. No, not the oldest, of course. To be honest Dan wasn’t the kind of a man that could charm you from the first minute. But Danny, in Damian’s experience, had a calming effect on people. So he tried to act like him.

And, yeah, for lack of experience, he was more fun!Danny at home and super!Danny on patrol but he also really tried not to get any of his own assassin personality in his new-self and was tired of it. He couldn’t get a 100% match. Fine. Still doesn’t look like anyone in this house really likes him, so whatever.

Damian understood why Bruce didn't like his company. Jazz had long ago explained to him the importance of voluntary consent. His mother did a terrible thing. Al Ghul was not a child and therefore he was ready to admit it. However, he also understood that children were not responsible for the actions of their parents.

As a biosocial being, he wanted to be more than just a painful reminder of what had happened to Bruce. Wayne's ignoring of his existence was rude. But Damian wouldn't force this man to spend time with him just because he was legally obligated to take care of his well-being. He wasn't going to prove anything to Batman, and he definitely didn't need his attention. The care of his real family is enough.

But Damian really tried to get along with new potential siblings. He even shared Sam's and Danny’s special jokes with some of adopted kids 'cause he didn’t want them to feel like he put himself above them. He wasn't good at showing emotions but he was as open as the assassin could afford to be to strangers.

But they all obviously expected something from him. And it reminded him of the League in an unpleasant way. It was easier with Fentons. Almost everyone in Amity Park was saying what they thought, and Damian didn’t have to waste time decoding potential conspiracies.

Damian missed movie marathon nights with Sam, Tucker, and Danny. And he hoped Dani had time to bother Vlad in his absence.

It was so weird here. When Danny and Valerie were fighting, they would gather at the dinner table anyway. When Damian wanted to have combat training with Drake here, he was forced to stay in his room. A very strange punishment. And undeserved one too.

Al Ghul felt quite calm and fine sitting at his easel and painting the people he left behind. An unusual subject for his paintings. But, Ancients, he missed Amity.

He missed Jack's bone breaking hugs, Maddie's Ecto-Contaminated food, arguments of Sam and Tucker, cozy art class with Mr. Baxter and even Vlad's done look. He missed Danny telling him about the stars. He also missed sword practice with Dan's boyfriend Fright Knight and he missed Dan's stories about his other youth. He missed literary evenings with Mr. Lancer, Clockwork and Ghost Writer. He even missed the hours-long Jazz lectures. He missed the dance of death and life. He missed being looked at without expecting anything from him. He missed the crowd. In the league, he was never at one with himself and in Amity he was always surrounded by people who were not afraid of his fate as the heir to the said League. This Manor was full of people, but for the first time in his life he felt lonely. Damian has to admit that he felt left behind. Of course, he understood that people needed time to build relationships, but he could have sworn that even he didn't need that much time to connect with Fentons. Maybe this is one of the tricks of the Clockwork? Then this one is not funny at all.

~~~~~Phone call~~~~ Damian: Mom, I want to go home. Maddie: I'm so sorry to hear that, sweetheart. What happened? Damian: Just…Nobody likes me. Why was I sent here? I'm not weak. And my brothers are quite capable of protecting me from Raas. I don't need Batman for this. Maddie: We'll figure it out, champ. Moms love you, remember? I'll talk to Talia, okay? Your brothers and sisters are already on edge and ready to steal you right during the patrol. Damian: It would be nice, but it would put a bat on their tails. So lock them in thermoses if they bother you too much. Maddie: But that won't stop Jazz. Damian: I missed the part where that's my problem. Maddie: Well, it will be your problem if she comes to your doorstep with your childhood photos and moralizing.

~~~~~~~~

It's his birthday. And he was always excited about it. But now, looking at the pile of gifts, he realizes that these people don't know him at all.

And this is the family of the best detective in the world? Maybe yes, but none of them bothered to really find info about him or ask him about his likes. Damian's a stranger here, and that's obvious.

The lunch container, which he will obviously give to the Boxing Lunch when he's in the right time interval, tennis rackets that Youngblood might like, The Graveyard Book…

Valerie had already read it to him and Dani before it was published. Thanks to Clockwork for his little miracles. The book reminded him of home.

Obviously this one is from Jason. And well, Damian doesn't think it was a pun on his life in Amity, more like Hood's inside joke about death but Dami will definitely leave this thing in the room at the Manor and maybe take it with him to the GZ or Amity Park.

~~~~~~~

When they gather at the festive table, Damian realizes that he has to make some kind of speech. He tries to be as brief as possible in his report.

Damian: Todd, your gift is appreciated. And I found a potential use for items that were given by others, Bruce.

Damian never called Batman his father. With Maddie and Talia, calling both moms wasn't weird, especially when Jazz explained to his biological mom that he wasn't trying to replace her. But with Wayne, it was different. Both women took care of him, they deserved this title. Wayne provided for his needs, but his core heart didn't feel like they were close. Surely there's nothing wrong if they're just Bruce and Damian? Obviously, they both don't enjoy each other's company.

Jason: So, do you like books, little demon? Damian: Sometimes reading is quite relaxing, I should point out. I'm not indifferent to Stephen King and Lovecraft. Jason: Personal recommendations? Damian: Cujo is one of my favorites. Jason: Not a common opinion, huh. Damian: It reminds me of my family. Damian tries to smile like Danny does, but Jason's twitching eye clearly indicates that he screwed it up.

~~~~Dick and Jason synchronously drop their forks as an excuse for a conference under the table.~~~~ Dick*whispers*: How's the situation? Jason*whispers back*: If the boy asks for a dog, don't be fooled. He will be happy to dance on our graves.

~~~~Cass knocks over their heads, urging them to return to their seats.~~~~

Damian: So how good you are at fading and sliding,Todd? Jason: Why did you ask? I can't, of course. Damian: Because you're dead. It seemed to me that this was a completely understandable interest. Jason: Wow, what a jerk. Damian: I wonder why your own incompetence makes me a jerk? Even my sister could do this when she wasn't dead for even a month.

Jason, for some reason, looks awkward, although he has never been embarrassed before by the idea that a girl could be stronger than him.

Jason: Your sister? How old was she when... So it's all about age. Damian rolls his eyes.

Damian: We're the same age. It seems like it was four or five years ago. To be honest, I don't remember. I wasn't around then. I'll ask Danielle the next time I go to the cemetery to visit her. Dick: I'm so sorry, Dami. Where is she buried? We can take you. Damian: There's no need. She has no grave, as there was nothing to bury. Bruce sighs loudly and covers his eyes with his hands. Damian: It's just easier to contact the afterlife in places like this, you now? Duke: We are very sorry, dude. Damian: Don't be. People come and go, and then come back if they haven't finished annoying you. There's no point in regretting the past. Her creation was not the most ethical thing but everything is going as it should. At least that's what Grandpa says. Considering that the old man is older than time, I prefer to believe him. No one plays with fate without his permission unless they want to get hit by the clock. Tim now looks like he's going to throw up and Damian hurries to move his plate closer to him. Jason: Yes, Bruce, this is definitely your son. Damian: Did I say something wrong? Dick smiles faintly at him but still doesn't find anything to say. Damian shrugs and goes back to eating asparagus. People outside of Amity are so weird.

Signal looks at Damian suspiciously as he carefully rearranges the plate of soy sausages away from himself. Did he take him for an idiot? Everyone knows that even vegetarian sausage bite and fight no worse than those with meat when they come back to life. It's not Damian's fault that he doesn't have an ectoblast with him and wants to have extra distance from the opponent.

~~~At the same time, in the walls of Wayne Manor~~~ Dani: The operation codenamed "Get Haunted Idiot" is declared open. Danny and Dan *salute*.

~~~Several Days Later~~~

Damian: So, this is Dan. Danny says we keep him as a GIW repeller. Dick: And Danny and Dan are.. Jazz: His brothers. I'm Jazz by the way. Elle and I are his sisters. Damian: I feat the criteria to participate in their name cult, so they took me. Dan, Danny, Dani and Dami. Dan *ruffles Damian's hair* : I prefer to call this biting threat Damn, to be honest. Dami: Shut up, DaNtE, they almost wrote Dark in your passport, you idiot. I can't believe I thought I missed you. Danny: Wow. Rude. Your grandpa would be disappointed. Great job, lil one.

~~~Several years later~~~

#dpxdc #dpxdc prompts #dpxdc prompt #dpxdc memes #damian and danny are brothers

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throwaway-yandere · 5 months

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𝗖𝗹𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗰𝗮𝗹 𝗖𝗼𝗻𝗱𝗶𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 [Yandere!Dottore/Reader]

a/n: this fic is 100% dedicated to @leftdestiny-posts and they would know just how much they had inspired me in this fic once they finished reading it HAHAHAHAH. P.S.: the classical songs mentioned are actual songs. Yes, the title is half a joke. Here's the spotify playlist if you're curious.

Unreliable Synopsis: You cannot remember your past, but your doctor has been with you every step of the way— and he's more than willing to spend some time with you outside the hospital. Still... did you always have pure white hair?

CW: yandere themes, light body horror, manipulation, its dottore, c'mon LOL.

Concert II "Tristezza Di Fine Anno", performed by the Morespoke Philharmonic with their conductor, Lady Columbina, began nearly an hour ago. And you had the fortune of hearing their songs for yourself.

The well-dressed crowd filled the seats, behaving in what was appropriate for their high station. It was fully booked. The music overwhelmingly masked anyone's breaths, if they had one to start with. Her program can be felt deep in the audience's bones. Rattling them in each sforzando before it lulls down through the sound of her handpicked musicians— with Lady Columbina as the lonesome soloist when the moment calls for it.

"This piece, Symphony No. 5 in C-Sharp Minor, is not Columbina's own making, she had failed to mention that," your company hummed. "This was by another composer who hid behind the name Safed. They were a self-fulling prophecy. Do you wish to know what they said about this piece?"

You said nothing as Zandik— Lord Dottore— stroked your unnaturally "white" hair.

"They said that nobody understood the piece and that they wish they could conduct the first performance five centuries after their death."

Zandik smiled.

"What say you? Do you think those words are true?"

Your company was a tall and thin man with artificially pale-ish skin and wavy blue hair. His eyes were reportedly bloodshot crimson, although you had not received proof of that in this lifetime. But, you were drawn to his deep ocean-like colors, and that was enough to keep you mildly complacent to his strange remarks.

Zandik is surprisingly a considerate man, but he must've brought you with him for a reason. He told you himself that the reason he brought you out of your prison-like hospital room was a mere experiment on his behalf. Paradigm-shifting consequences of his strange social experiments with you are likely to occur, and he cares not for its ethical debates. He won't ask for rhetorics; these to him are tangible outcomes and no questions will be entertained.

All except his.

"I think… "

The composition had a serene, slightly asymmetrical feel to it. You were certain this was Lady Columbina's creative liberties at play. Something about it did not capture its true authenticities. The show purported to narrate three stories: the first concerned a judge who had to find a loved one guilty; the second concerned a prince who drove their beloved into despair; and the final was a tale of a knight who disregarded his obligation to defend a loved one.

But it felt incomplete. As if there was a missing piece— a secret fourth act hiding between the notes and stage.

"A person can't completely mourn for something they would never experience," you told him. "But even so, if I were Safed, I'd feel like my effort would've been a waste."

His eyes remained trained on your hair as you spoke. Zandik seems to dislike it. Unlike his cells mixed with engineered nanomaterials, yours are uniquely… "natural". His hair has a color intensity, whereas yours was the presence of every color— as physics explained it.

"Something they would never experience…" Zandik repeated, tasting the words on his tongue— a smirk etched on his face as though it tasted like bitter irony.

You continued.

"I have a hunch that Safed put everything they worked hard on all their pieces because Lady Columbina wouldn't have performed it otherwise. Since all the songs on the concert's program are marketed as underappreciated compositions, I would… um… infer that they also questioned their works and ultimately themselves if it all had worth in the end. Hopeless for the lack of attention, they probably thought there's more hope if they lived in another generation."

You wanted to say, though you're not sure where this negativity came from, that they probably despised how their well-crafted works were ignored and their sloppy yet significantly more popular compositions angered them.

But you're not Safed. You don't want to put words in their mouth.

".... Hmm, an acceptable hypothesis— a decent one, even," whatever monotonous response Zandik wished to convey, his voice betrayed his grand satisfaction. "Yet I won't give you any confirmation."

"I know."

Zandik laughed.

"The next piece is Norn's Adagio for Strings Op. 11, before the closing Symphony No. 6, better known as Pathétique Symphony, in B Minor Op. 74."

You tilted your head innocently. "Pathetic?"

"Another piece by Safed. It's a Fontaine-translated title. It's originally named pateticheskaya, which meant passionate or emotional, not at all pitiable."

He crossed his arms, insulted as though he was the one who came up with the original title.

"Roughly half a millennium past, the masses attributed Safed's demise to the strains of their final composition, the so-called Pathétique, a mere nine days preceding their exit from this mortal coil. The prevailing narrative spouts a tale of a tragic surrender to the clutches of undiagnosed clinical depression. I find such simplicity in analysis rather pedestrian, wouldn't you agree?"

You took a while to process his inquiry before hesitantly nodding.

"I… I think so."

Zandik smiled.

It's hard to tell if it's genuine, especially when such a protruding mask hides his eyes. Should its existence vanish, you aren't certain you'd see a soul within his pupils either.

"Safed hated this piece, believing it should be cast aside and forgotten. They were living in the woodlands when they wrote it— and when they decided to live with their benefactor, it was suddenly difficult to tear them away from their work."

You nodded to cue that you were still listening.

"They have an incredibly deep connection with their works. One might say they see in tunes rather than color."

You nodded again.

"Your inclination towards a perpetual affirmation of propositions, presumably to veil any potential lacunae in your cognitive purview, does not escape me. It is, if I may be so bold, your agreement that conceals your specter of unfamiliarity, right?"

You rarely understand a word he says when he is in this passionate state. You just nod as if you knew.

"Adorable," Zandik chuckled.

His voice was chillingly low yet… comforting.

"Your sincerity constitutes an enchanting facet of your comportment."

He had to be teasing you.

"Although…" Zandik grabbed a few locks of your hair as though it was slimy and unpleasant— quickly retracting them with a disapproving tilt. "You could stand to utilize more (h/c) hair dyes. How is it conceivable that it has returned to white yet again?"

You opened your mouth but Zandik raised a finger.

"No. I am the scholar here. Do not answer."

You giggled. "Understood, Doctor."

He grinned, inadvertently showing off his pointed canines.

"What a good test subject you are, my dear (Y/n)."

Whether good was a subjective or objective assessment or not was up to interpretation.

The mid-concert intermission began, allowing Lady Columbina's pressured musicians a 20-minute sigh of relief. Zandik ushered you to the back where the Lady Harbinger reposed on a white sofa, her cheek brushing a visibly soft and cloud-like pillow. The bright backstage lighting made her seem ethereal.

She looked like heaven, but Zandik would argue that "(Y/n)" is the true epitome of the word.

"Greetings. As expected, you'd initiate conversation at the earliest convenience." She cooed. "You look younger today, Doctor."

"You know very well that I do not take that as a compliment, Columbina." Zandik scoffed. "How many times will we rehearse this canned script until it is a learned lesson?"

"Perhaps it shall end on the day you refrain yourself from recreating… perspectives."

"Since my encounter with the Dendro Archon, I have not revisited that notion."

Columbina's gentle smile dropped coldly. "You know that your segments are not what I am referring to."

You looked back and forth between the two. Each of them was a distinctively unique person and it's a challenge to take your eyes away from the other.

Hence, when you felt Lady Columbina's eyes on you, you shook and straightened yourself before bowing stiffly.

"G-Greetings, Lady Columbina!!!"

Her gentle smile resurfaced.

"Greetings to you as well, dear Safed."

You blinked.

Dottore clicked his tongue, and Columbina laughed softly.

"Apologies, I meant to say (Y/n)— that is the name you go by in this era of humanity, right?"

You'd rightfully claim that between the three of you, you were the most human. Zandik has his clones, Columbina's origins are of strict secrecy, and you are a mere amnesiac patient. But the way she addressed you was sounding awful like stripping you away with that sense of humane identity.

"Yes? I guess?"

Columbina delightedly buzzed in your reply. "(Y/n)— truly a lovely name. That must mean that you're very healthy! It warms my heart to hear that name again. The other ones had terribly dull names, but if the Doctor had given you this title, then it must mean his research is finally drawing to a close."

Her remarks made little sense. You know little about yourself and trust only the Doctor's judgment. Should you trust her words, then it must mean (Y/n) isn't your real name…

But… that doesn't seem right either.

"Not quite, the name deserves no celebration," Dottore replied happily. "I merely ran out of translations. Bianco, Wit, Bái— what else is there? Ancient Natlan?"

"Scientists truly make for terrible poets— Why not try Inazuman?" Columbina offered.

Those words must have had a heavy weight to them because Zandik pondered for much longer than expected.

"Hmm. I'll keep that in mind," Zandik muttered. "Although it is preferable it does not have to reach that point."

"May I ask why did you bring them here?" Columbina asked.

"It's a bit of an unconventional experiment, but I've been exploring how to elicit positive associations with certain stimuli. Exposing them to music as I accompany them should cause them to associate the emotional response it elicits with being around me." Dottore hummed. "It would be asinine to put them in a chaotic yet controlled environment such as a theme park. While a racing heart may be effective, I shouldn't risk a (Y/n)'s well-being by subjecting them to roller coasters."

"Are you sure you're not the scared one?" You asked cheekily. Zandik rolled his eyes.

She shook her head.

"What a roundabout way of saying you're taking them out on a concert date…"

Columbina looked at you once more.

"Oh, but (Y/n), you appear unwell, my dear…" she pointed at stage left. "Why don't you fix yourself up in the nearest restroom?"

Dottore raised an eyebrow, which made you want to decline Columbina.

"I'm r-really okay, Lady Colum—"

"I insist."

Columbina smiled wider. Her laced mask cast a gloomy shade on her visage.

You had no other choice.

"O… Okay."

The halls that led to the restroom were mostly empty. Perhaps it was due to Lady Columbina's performance that made them patiently await the next song.

But there was one young man you encountered along the way. He had blonde half-way braided hair and purple-ish eyes. You paid him no mind as he circled a small rectangular paper, likely the concert's ticket, between his fingers. However, within a second, that paper vanished.

You stopped in your tracks and looked at him curiously, wondering if your eyes played tricks. He laughed, noting your attention.

"Ah! Sorry," he cheerfully gestured a small wave. "Didn't mean to practice in public."

The blonde man approached you with a smile.

"You're #9805, right?"

Immediately, you both got on the wrong foot.

Your nose scrunched, "I prefer (Y/n)."

The man flinched. "Oh, yikes! I'm not making the best first impression— nice to meet you (Y/n)! I have something for you."

You thought he was handing you his concert ticket for a moment but when you took a good look, it was a grayscale brochure.

And a white tulip…

"Um…"

"Needless to say, I'm something of a—"

"Trickster?"

"Magician, but an astute guess nonetheless!" He laughed sheepishly. "I was waiting for you, I thought you wouldn't go to the restroom."

So, did Lady Columbina plan this?

You caressed the binding and skimmed through the pages. "What's this for?"

"Father said you might be interested in its contents," the young man said. "That's all."

You blinked.

"... Are you saying you missed out most of the concert just to hand me this?"

He laughed awkwardly again. "My dear sister says I have a habit of missing a hint of romanticism when it counts, so I guess today's just one of those moments."

"Did you not like the music?" You scoffed, temper rising.

"Did you hate the composition? Did you not understand the e-emotion behind the chords? Don't you understand just how d-disrespectful that was?!"

"Woah, woah, I didn't say any of that." His eyes widened.

He didn't expect your voice to crack.

"I'm so sorry if you're offended— are you one of the original composers?"

…

You took a deep breath.

… Why were you mad?

… Why did it feel like those songs mean more to you than meets the eye?

"Sorry, I just…" You shook your head. "I guess I'm not feeling well. Oh, no, I'm so SO sorry…"

An unknown part of you thrived to hear him praise the music. That same part pitied the composer who worked day and night to perfect their piece. It's an ugly voice, but it was sincere.

… What was wrong with you? Why did you suddenly lash out? What was going on?

"Oh, well there's no need to be sorry then." The blonde man took his hat off and bowed.

"Farewell, Mx. (Y/n)!" He grinned. "The greatest magician in all Teyvat will take his leave. Thank you for your time!"

With the sway of his dark cape, he disappeared.

You entered the restroom to wash your face. It didn't do much to soothe your nerves. The lingering dread for your strange emotional mood swing remained.

To distract yourself, you read through the article.

The Enigmatic Legacy of Composer Safed

In the annals of musical history, few figures emerge as enigmatic and hauntingly captivating as the orchestral composer, Safed. Born five centuries ago amidst the ancient woodlands of Sumeru, this ethereal musician seemingly materialized from Vanarama with no familial relations.

Huh… So it's about the one who wrote the previous compositions earlier.

No wonder that blonde man asked if you were one of the composers. He was being a smartass.

A Fiery Finale: The Pathétique Symphony

Legend has it that in their final act of emotional expression, Safed penned the "Pathétique Symphony," a composition so emotionally charged that, overwhelmed with disdain for their creation, they purportedly set ablaze their woodland home. Seeking solace and escape, Safed accepted the benevolent offer of a city-dwelling benefactor.

…

Safed… burned down their house?

No…

No, that's not how you remembered that.

No.

No. No. No. No. No.

That's not what happened. "Safed" didn't burn their house down.

Suddenly, you stilled. Your thoughts ran wild, but your inner rationale tried to force them to a halt. This peak in anxiety did not make sense.

… Why would an amnesiac like you know what happened?

A Swansong: Il Dottore's Beneficence

Their benefactor, now celebrated as our Lord Harbinger, Il Dottore, welcomed Safed into the city's heart. It was here that the truth unfolded: Safed had been grappling with hearing loss for years, an affliction that fueled their artistic brilliance yet cloaked them in a muffled world. They were unaware of their disability, yet thrived in their field.

…

Wait…

Before you began to read the final paragraph in Safed's brochure, you hurriedly went back to Dottore and the composer's vintage photographed portraits.

After seeing their face, you dropped the brochure in the restroom's sink.

You saw their face.

You saw YOUR face and Zandik's.

But not quite. That was you, but at the same time, it wasn't. Zandik looked stiff in those photos with "you", likely a product of the time since Kamera photography was used only in rare formalities that required a bit of dress up. But the "you" you saw was sickly way beyond the formal costumes. They had (e/c) eyes and (h/c) hair, but yours were all white.

White…

Safed… That's the Sumeru translation for white, isn't it?

Bianco, Wit, Bái— they're all translations for "white", aren't they? And if Dottore and Columbina's earlier conversations were to go by, the one after you would be named Shiro.

…

The one… after you?

"Tut tut."

You trembled at the familiar sound.

You slowly turned your head around and there he was, leaning against the restroom door.

"You were in the restroom for too long. It appears my suspicions were not unfounded."

Without waiting for a response, he approached with large strides. His gloved hands seized your stressed shoulders. The grip tightened harshly as he forced you to meet his intense gaze. Blood trailed from the corner of your mouth, and your anxiety heightened. He angrily bared his sharp teeth as he watched it stain his gloves.

And yet Zandik looks…

Sad.

And distressed.

He pressed his earpiece.

"Test Subject #9805 exhibits troubling symptoms. Hematemesis suggests a severe physiological response. Persistent manifestations of albinism in ocular and follicular pigmentation indicate underlying deformities. Immediate isolation is warranted for the researcher and subject's well-being."

His hand was cold. Skin imbued with silver nanomaterials after several operations, reminiscent of the age-old philosophical question: "Is it still the same ship if you gradually replace all of its parts?"

Then Zandik did something unexpected.

He dropped his hold and you prepared yourself by shutting your eyes as he swung his arm.

To hug you.

"I'm sorry, I have failed you again, (Y/n)," Zandik muttered. "I should not have raised my expectations."

"W… What? Why are you putting me in isolation?" You asked, rattled. "What have I done?! I just— I didn't do anything wrong! What did I—"

He shifted, dragging your arm to hug him back as though you were a little girl's doll. Zandik rested his head on your shoulder, shaking slightly.

"In your innocence, no fault lies. I thought I had accomplished what I had set out to do, and met unfulfilled expectations" Zandik gritted his teeth, voice somber. "Despite centuries of refinement, it appears that I still have room for improvement in perfecting the process… I was right. This deserves no celebration."

The doctor laughed sadly.

"When will I ever be proven wrong?" He asked himself as he wiped the blood off the corner of your lips.

He pulled away, pecking your forehead.

"I'm sorry."

Those were not the words you expected from his mouth, and yet you heard it more than once. I'm sorry. It does not fit his character, nor does the tender yet cold hug he had given prior.

You're scared. You're terrified. You know what was bound to come. You know what awaits you. White walls. Silence. Separation.

Solitary.

Far from a choice. Far from negotiable.

There's no amnesty.

And yet, the words flowed from you naturally.

"... I forgive you."

You have no idea why you said what you said. There's no certainty that you believed your own words. Zandik's lip twitched downward.

"You should not," Zandik croaked. "Why? Why must you always forgive and accept my selfishness? Do you derive satisfaction in seeing me in this state?!"

You opened your mouth to answer but were stopped abruptly as he grabbed your hair.

Zandik had always favored you compared to other patients. You know this very well. He's an evil man and the list of actions he had done that had harmed you in the name of science is at least two pages long upon your awakening. Yet, you were sure he liked you enough for he told you of his new exciting experiments. He scolded you when you left his research institute for fresh air. And he would hold your hand whenever you dreaded those thick injections.

You just didn't know he had it in him to fold from his intimidating facade just to kiss you like a desperate man.

Breathless under his control, he softly pressed his lips against yours. His lips were chapped and cold, and he took you in gently as though he'd break you. Zandik, as strange as it was, still seemed to prioritize your comfort over his needs. Normally, this tension would've made him so short-tempered. But this will be your last interaction. The doctor tasted your blood in his mouth, and he was nauseous at the thought of hurting you more. But he stopped. Even though he wishes to force all his pent-up desires onto you. Even though he wanted to love you thoroughly that you'd forget your name again.

Zandik whimpered quietly as he pulled away— sounding like a dog that would not sleep that night. What was left in between was a thin disappearing line of saliva and blood that quickly broke off.

The doctor should be happy he finally got to have a proper date with you after 9805 failed attempts.

But he's not content.

He was about to lean in for the second time but stopped himself. Selfish. To think he nearly saw you two finally walking down the aisle. Why was he always so selfish when it came to you? But those rhetorics mattered not in your head.

You were silenced. You were held.

You were loved.

"No." Zandik breathed in, laughing humorlessly. "No— I am the scholar here. Don't answer."

And you will be disposed of.

"Take them away." He spoke to his men calmly. They had entered long enough to witness what he had done. The men did not hesitate to grab you, thinking Dottore thought you no more than a mere toy.

But calm was deceptive. It does not convey the distress that chokes him.

Maybe…

Maybe in the 9806's trial… he'll have you as he always wanted.

The Fatuus that escorted you in was gentle. A silent guide. The expression on her face was clear that she wanted to extend her apologies as well but mustn't.

You already have a white tulip in hand.

Arlecchino already sended her regards in advance.

When she opened the door by tapping a card against the lock, she bowed her head. You let yourself enter without a fight. The room was pure white with the rest of the furniture matching the drapes. But Dottore didn't just provide the necessities. There were books, sketch pads, and other recreational materials.

As you were about to approach the center, something was off on both sides.

You looked to your left.

Two clear mirrors divided your room from the others. There's a sign on the left wall. Code #4135.

You stood, shocked, grieving at the sight of your predecessor. They were a mirror of you but with a different name— and an even worse state.

One had made a slight sound coming off their skin— rotting slightly. There's a tube connected to their mouth and you could see yourself— you could see them dripping. They had your face. Their hair and eyes were white. The nose was gone, leaving a gaping hole. Their neck was cricked back at an unnatural angle. You don't know if they're still breathing. They're still bleeding. They must've bitten off their tongue.

There's a lone white blanket that covers the rest of them.

You think they might be dead.

You think "you" might've died more than once.

THUD!

You jolted at the sound coming from the wall behind you. Upon seeing their body, you froze.

Code #032.

They were but a head. You wish you could only focus on that aspect, but you looked lower and your hair raised. They cannot feel the same, for they were almost only a spine left. The rest of them were their skeletal frame, guided by thin lines one can barely call flesh.

Their head banged against the mirror. The thought that the sound was what made you flinch earlier made you unwell.

They seem to be telling you something. Their breath fogged up the glass and their thinned white hair splayed across your view. Their mouth said something urgently you couldn't comprehend because their tongue was paper-like in size.

#032 was shaking. Their pain grew vivid in every movement that the room was starting to spin. You sensed their turmoil.

They looked like death.

You all looked like death itself, both the pretty and ugly ends of it.

"Don't." You whispered, begging as you knelt to their level. "You don't have to speak."

You laughed deprecatingly.

"We're not the scholar here. He is."

In every syllable, you saw the outline of their esophagus strain. The nerves were blueish purple. The little skin they have left on their cheeks is sunken. Their lips were gnawed, likely as a response to the pain they'd gone through previously. Fists of bone tapped against the glass, and you quivered, imagining their pain.

You were not afraid of them. You only mourned their anguish. In fact, you feel at ease to be in the presence of yourself from the past.

It reminded you of what "Safed" had allegedly spoken years ago.

Nobody understood the pieces you made and you wished you could conduct the first performance five centuries after your first death.

And now, here you are.

Seeing two "people" who do understand you.

And they share your face.

"Pathetically", the only one that can understand you is yourself.

You're all flies trapped in a web that the predator refuses to wrap and consume out of pity. Compared to the others, you looked fine.

But your lungs were blistering.

Despite their deathly ill and mutilated bodies, you were the one bound to die soon enough.

His experiments worked.

You love him.

You love Zandik.

And how tragic it was that the person who learned how to love him was doomed to perish.

In your last minutes, you recalled something vital:

As an outsider, your body was not meant for this world, but after encountering the woodland creatures and Zandik, it became tremendously difficult to part ways with it.

You coughed up yet again with a gentle smile on your face. Maybe you're not dying…

Maybe you're just returning home, for every atom in your multiple bodies was once part of the galaxy.

You are (Y/n) (L/n).

And you were not from Teyvat.

Much like the rest of the descenders, you have a quirk about you that sets you apart from the norm. For the travelers the world reveres today, it was their distinct determination and questionable age that was remarkable. Yours slightly titters to an inhuman level.

You can "clone" yourself.

Zandik and the "original" you wouldn't phrase it in that manner, but it's the easiest way to describe your talents.

"So, it is cloning." Zandik paused. "Mind letting me in on the science behind the process?"

He was an ordinary student when you both met. Far from a doctor, but at least he was a registered scholar in the Akademiya. Zandik didn't have an eloquent tongue as he does in the present, yet his curiosity burned all the same.

Which is why, back then, you thought his questions were cute.

Not dangerous.

"It's not that I can make copies of myself without consequences," you humored with a grin. "I'm just making… fragments of myself. Segments, if you prefer to call it that. It's a common ability for the people back in my world. None of us do it excessively— especially since we're kind of an invasive species."

Zandik raised an eyebrow, "is that a commendable trait?"

"My kind says so. Whether good is a subjective or objective assessment or not is up to interpretation." You answered noncommittedly. "I don't think that's right. Our soul splits apart until we're just… empty. We lose some memories in the process."

"But functioning?"

"In a sense, yeah, but we lose a part of ourselves like memories and well, hair color, I guess." You nodded. "Why are you so curious?"

"Since you have rejected my confession, I want to try my hand at seducing a copy of yours instead," Zandik said. You couldn't tell whether he was joking with his naturally piercing red eyes. "Until then, you are not allowed to asexually reproduce without my authorization. Understood?"

You laughed. Unaware of his arsonist crimes, you willingly indulged his words.

"I owe you my ears, so it's only right that I'll listen to your commands, Zandik."

"Good." Zandik grinned, shark-like.

"What a good test subject you are, (Y/n)."

Centuries later, that closing sentence will continue to remain true.

Since then, his life has changed. Multiplied, even. Upon studying your genetic makeup, he found ways to duplicate himself as well. Despite his feats in science, Zandik remained unhappy.

Deep down, all the Harbingers pity the Doctor who cannot save his most loved one. That includes both Columbina and Arlecchino.

No one protests even when harmful orders are given; everything appears fine until the symptoms are felt. Because the organism— the astral descender— has no nerves or voice, he continues to assume that the patient is not in pain.

The patient needs peace but because they are not to speak, they remain silent, and the need persists.

The patient wants to eat and breathe fresh air, but because such desires might hurt the feelings of the doctor who thinks he has done everything needed, the patient remains quiet, contemplating desires out of fear of reprimand.

The original (Y/n) (L/n) suffers in silence. In a white room only accessible by a man who continues to nurse his unrequited love: Zandik.

No one else can enter this room.

He won't allow it. Only he can be obsessed with you.

The thought of you haunts him like a smiling reflection upon window panes— like a gift of a Trojan horse with nothing but your echoing laughter and hospital monitor beeps inside. Your thin limbs were marching clock hands with rusted gears that miraculously function till the end of time.

What is immortality for if every day was a death loop?

It is such a lonely concept…

You ought to be thankful that he's willing to be your eternal company.

"I endeavored to elicit a reciprocation of my sentiments from the latest subject. Regrettably, their discovery of my antecedent experiments transpired prematurely. Nevertheless, as asserted several times, it remains but a temporal inevitability until an iteration of yourself succumbs to having an interest towards me." Dottore hummed.

He held your feet.

He held Test Subject #01's feet.

If you spoke up, he would've bragged about how he was right. How people do love your songs. But no one knows if you can't or won't answer him. This one-sided conversation is the punishment for his hubris.

He took out a sharp knife and cut off one of your toes. You no longer feel any pain as you bleed into his hands. What a kind man the doctor is, for he blocked all your pain receptors years ago. It's a good thing you regenerate quickly.

That's what he loved and hated about you.

You only gave and gave.

But you never ran out of soul. You never ran your heart fully dry— and that left you ill. Zandik could never let you go.

You're already a part of him.

Hence, he must not make clones of exaggerated memories. He wanted your perfect yet healthy replica.

Praise be the white corpuscles extracted from your veins which had brought him new life. You were the reason for his research. You were the breath that gave his segments life. You were his muse, much like he was yours.

"Fear not, (Y/n)," he reassured with a measured tone. "Upon my mastery of the arts, I intend to reinstate your autonomy and awareness. Perhaps then, you shall find the organic inclination to reciprocate affection toward me by the 9806's trial. Until then…"

In other words, give him more time and he'll reinvent love.

He leaned his forehead against yours.

"I'm so, so sorry."

And ultimately, he'll reinvent YOU.

"Can I have another piece of your scalp?"

"No."

"Do you not understand the weight of this research or must I expound on it further in another three-hour presentation?"

"Alternatively, you could start by saying that you're sorry," you raised an eyebrow. "I'm still not over the fact you randomly cut a piece of my ear when I was asleep, doctor. You know, I heard from the aranaras that white tulips are given to someone when they ask for forgiveness."

Zandik smirked.

"Regrettably, it seems that such an occurrence is unlikely to transpire. Do not expect such words and gifts from me."

You smiled.

"We'll see, we'll see."

Taglist (pls notify if you wish to be on the taglist for the last two): @average-yandere-enjoyer @pix-stuff @sagekun @vennnnn-diagram @dilucragnidvr @tnsophiaonly @lsleepysimpl

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medicbrainrot · 3 months

Text

you make me wish i could disappear

A/N: Soooo, it’s been a while, hey? Instead of studying for my immunology exam, or even going to bed at a reasonable time, I wrote 1460 words of angst/hurt/comfort instead. Apologies in advance for any poor writing, I’m running on not enough sleep and not enough dopamine, hence this new piece after months of nothing. Spoilers for MW3 kind of. Let me know what you guys think!

It’s the middle of the night; she suddenly bolts upright in bed panting heavily, her hair wild from sleep as she gasps, trying to hold back tears. She clutches at her chest as she tries to catch her breath, disoriented to her surroundings. Simon is currently asleep beside her, but begins to stir when he feels her moving and hears her gasping. He cracks open his eyes, alerted to his love’s distress.

“Sweetheart? Are you alright?” He reaches up slowly as he sits up, trying not to startle her in her disoriented state. “What’s wrong?”

Still half asleep and half panicking, she turns to Simon and immediately starts conducting a trauma sweep, the muscle memory of her training kicking in as she checks him for injuries.

Simon doesn’t fight the inspection, letting her check him with the understanding that it might take a bit for her to snap out of her frantic nightmare-induced state. He gently brushes his fingers across her cheek, hoping that the gentle touch will pull her back to wakefulness and help her feel safe again.

“You’re okay, you’re safe here love. It’s just a nightmare.” He murmurs gently, cupping her face.

Although still frantically checking Simon for injuries as she presses on his collarbone followed by his facial bones, she slowly starts coming back to a more coherent state, her frantic search slowing down as she calms down.

With his other hand he gently reaches to rub up and down her back, looking at her with worried eyes. He takes one of her hands and places it on his chest, letting her feel his heartbeat.

“Slow down babe, you’re okay. You’re fine, I’m fine. You can calm down.” He says softly, sliding his fingers from her face into her hair.

He lets her get herself oriented, softly brushing her hair back as she rests her hand over his heart. “You’re okay, nothing’s wrong, I promise.”

“You’re alive.” She pants softly, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill.

“I’m safe, I promise.” He reassures her, rubbing her back in soothing motions. “It was just a nightmare, I’m right here.” He knows he needs to be gentle with her right now, she can be on edge for a while after a nightmare like this.

She relaxes onto her knees a little bit, leaning into Simon’s shoulder as he pulls her close. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her into his lap, holding her tightly to give her the comfort she needs. He can tell she’s still tense, so he encourages her to lean into him as he soothes her.

They sit there in charged silence, curled into each other as he gives her a few moments to gather her thoughts together.

“Makarov came after the 141 again.” She sobs softly, pressing her face into Simon’s neck.

Simon knows exactly why she’s been having recurring nightmares about Makarov, he’s been having similar ones alongside her. They almost seem to take turns having fitful nights of sleep, interrupted by each other’s nightmares.

He sighs, knowing there’s not much he can do at the moment except comfort her. “It’s okay, it’s over now. It was just a dream.” He turns his head to press a kiss to her forehead, hoping his touch soothes her frayed nerves.

He lets her melt into him, his arms around her tightly enough to keep her pressed to him, his heartbeat thudding in his chest as he recalls the events of a few months ago. They simultaneously feel as if they happened yesterday, just like they feel as if they happened a lifetime ago.

He shifts their bodies across the bed so that he can adjust them from sitting into laying down, encouraging her to rest her weary body on his. He keeps her curled onto him, running his hand up and down her back to try and comfort her.

After several moments of sniffling, she finally bursts into tears, breaking the silence in the room. “I’m scared….”

As soon as she starts crying, he knows she’s one step closer to getting it out of her system for the night. This is a recurring event, and he knows how to comfort her so that they can eventually both fall back asleep. He gently rubs the back of her head, encouraging her to let it out.

“I’m here, everything is okay sweetheart, I’m here. You’re safe here.”

He holds her tight to his chest, knowing that all he can do right now is comfort her. It’s easy for him to do so, he knows her like no one else. He allows her to press herself into him and cry, letting out intense sobs as she processes the nightmare and the events that caused it.

After several minutes of intense crying, it seems she’s gotten through the worst of the breakdown. She continues crying, but a little less intense, eventually shifting to sniffles instead of sobs.

He kisses her forehead again as the tears start slowing down, his comforting touch doing its job of calming her down as she cries it out. “It’s okay love, it’s okay. You’re safe here with me.” He whispers soothingly.

“I miss Johnny.” She sniffles into Simon’s neck. “He’d laugh if he saw us like this.”

“He called it from the beginning, didn’t he?” Simon agrees softly, holding her a little tighter. He knows Johnny’s death had hit her extremely hard, the two of them having become fast friends upon the formation of the Task Force. “I miss him too. I just know he’d be teasing us about being right.”

“It was cruel of the universe to not let him see he was right.” She sniffles softly.

“I’m sure he knows love, I’m sure he knows.” Simon chuckles softly.

A few more moments pass before Simon nudges her with his shoulder. “Are you feeling a little better?” He asks gently as he swipes his thumbs across her cheekbones.

She nods, sniffling away a few remaining tears. “I was just thinking.”

“About?” He inquires hesitantly.

“The first time you kissed me.” She mumbles.

Simon recalls the incident in question. It had been her birthday, just before midnight to the next day. They had gone out for a quiet dinner to celebrate, neither of them being in a particular mood to do so, but using it as a reason to get off base.

On the walk up to her door, Simon had finally gathered up the courage to kiss her, but she had started crying after he did so.

“I’d be lying if I said I didn’t remember the moment. It was certainly… unique. Had I’d known you’d cry, I might have held off.” He says softly still inwardly cringing at the idea that he’d made her cry. “You never did explain why you cried…”

After the tears started, she had bid a hasty goodnight and shut the door in Simon’s face rather abruptly. Things had been a little awkward afterwards, but upon her insistence, Simon eventually accepted that it wasn’t necessarily his fault she’d shed tears.

“It’s kind of silly now, in retrospect.” She mumbles into Simon’s shoulder. “Before… Makarov… There was one night Johnny and I had gotten a little drunk, and he’d bet me that you’d wait until something like my birthday to kiss me.” She sniffles, trying to clear her nose. “When you kissed me, I remembered that bet and the memory kind of startled me, because it felt like Johnny was shouting ‘I told you so!’ from the afterlife or something. So I guess I owe him a drink the next time I see him.”

Simon chuckles slightly at the explanation, relieved that her tears hadn’t been exactly his fault. “He was right on target with that one. I didn’t think I’d have the guts to do it, but I’m glad I did.”

They lapse into a comfortable silence, the warmth of the bed helping them both feel a little more relaxed after tonight’s ordeal.

She yawns, the adrenaline from the nightmare finally starting to wear off. “Sorry for manhandling you earlier.”

“It’s alright, it was just a nightmare, it can be incredibly disorienting sometimes. I’m just glad you’re feeling a little better.” He smooths his hand across her hair before pulling the blankets back around them.

She takes a deep breath, letting the warmth of Simon’s embrace comfort her. He tucks the blankets around them, settling into the bed as they get sleepy again. He continues rubbing his hand up and down her back a little longer as she drifts off to sleep, feeling at ease that he’s there to comfort her.

He presses one last kiss to her head before drifting off to sleep himself, comforted by the fact that his lover is safe in his arms.

A/N: Thanks for reading! Likes, reblogs, and feedback are always appreciated! (Requests are also still open)

Masterlist

#medicbrainrot #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #cod mw2 #simon riley fluff #simon riley hurt/comfort #cod mw3 #ascensionism #and #take me back to eden #sleep token #were the songs on repeat for this fic #i will never get over how beautiful that album is #a literal year and i'm still obsessed #also it's been almost a year and a half that i've been hyperfixated on cod and the dopamine still hasn't worn off #i'm pleasantly surprised that it's lasted this long

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sleepiexx · 8 months

Text

I Still Love You

Valeria Garza x fem!Reader

Link to Pt.1

Note: I’m not even going to tell u the excuse for why this took so long, terribly sorry for that, more stuff is coming I love y’all 🫶

Summary: How can you expect to get the woman you’ve loved for such a long time out of your mind?

Warnings: small mention of blood, someone threatens someone w a knife

Word count: 1463

A familiar scene was spread across the prison floors, the deep crimson that Valeria knew all too well along with its pungent metallic smell and the unmoving bodies of prison guards. Carnage.

Valeria could be a philosopher with how often she thought poetic thoughts of carnage. It followed her around— or rather, she created it— how could it not take president in her mind? Be it guilt, or justification of her actions, or even past traumatic events she had witnessed, carnage was always there. But during her time behind bars, the time it seemed the most fitting to reflect, she found that something else took up her every waking thought.

This led her not to one of her many safe houses, as she had planned in the event of her capture and prompt escape, but to an apartment she’d only narrowly been able to discover through research she had her lawyer conduct. Fourth floor, number eleven. She repeated it over and over, until it may as well have been etched into the tough bone of her skull. Y/n’s place. All she wanted was y/n.

At night, in her cell, it wasn’t the stiff mattress, or the freezing cold air which was barely combatted by the all-too-thin blanket that kept her awake. No. It was the constant replay of y/n walking away from her that had her staring at the concrete ceiling. She could still feel her lips, as if they had only just parted despite the months they spent apart. You can never just forget the woman who ran through your mind rent free for years, especially not when she makes an exit like that after you see her for the first time since you left the army to start a cartel.

So she followed her gut, followed it all the way to the fourth floor, and all the way to number eleven.

The room was dark, but cozy, sleepiness seeped from every pore in y/n’s body as she sat nearly fused to the couch, yet despite that, she continued to raise the tv remote and click “play next episode” on the series she had been watching on Netflix. It was mindless, truly, she hated it. The show was lame with it’s bland plot lines mashed between mediocre sex scenes, but y/n would not dare consider the alternative. Sleeping ever since she had left Valeria in that shipping container was not an option. When she tried, all she was met with was a gut wrenching guilt which left her staring at the ceiling like her eyelids were stapled open.

She wondered what Valeria was up to. If she was getting any sleep in prison, y/n guessed not so she rationalized her own insomnia by saying she did not deserve sleep as long as Valeria could not. In the beginning, she almost hoped Valeria would break out. It was wrong, sure, but y/n couldn’t force herself to want the woman to rot in prison. Now, though, as the months dragged on, her hope seemed to dissipate and what had happened felt all too real. Valeria was stuck in a cell now, all because of her. The guilt ate away at her spirit like acid.

So, yeah, maybe she did really need sleep, but no she would not turn off the trashy Netflix series because it was the only thing keeping her mind off of it all. Until her attention was caught by a slight noise in the kitchen. Nothing loud, in fact it would have gone undetected to the untrained ear, but y/n was anything but. She left the tv on, so as not to alert any possible intruder to the fact that she knew they were there. Ever so carefully, she crept into the kitchen, grabbing a pocket knife she left on the coffee table after opening a package earlier in the day.

A figure stood in front of the window which led to the fire escape outside, closing it quietly. Y/n let it close all the way before shoving them into the wall, knife pressed against their neck. The lack of fight that the opposing party put up was a shock, that is until y/n got a good look into their deep brown eyes.

“Valeria?” Shocked, y/n pulled away. She dropped the knife on the dinner table, in favor of walking a few paces backwards away from the woman.

“Did you miss me?” She smirked, that same smirk y/n had seen time and time again.

Y/n scrunched her brows in disbelief, “Christ, what are you doing here? And why did you come through the window?”

“I thought you would be asleep, and isn’t it obvious why I’m here?” Valeria stretched out a hand.

Y/n shook her head and turned away, furious, attempting to walk away. Maybe she could just crawl back under her blanket on the couch and everything would all just go away. But that couldn’t happen with Valeria chasing after her, grabbing onto her shoulder and spinning her around.

“I told you this couldn’t happen again.” Y/n fumed.

“Yeah, well, we both know you didn’t mean that.”

Valeria pushed y/n up against the wall of her apartment, breaking the tension without hesitation by kissing her. Where the prior kiss had been tender and loving, this one was rough. Fast paced and dirty, with Valeria digging her teeth into y/n’s bottom lip. The girl let out a yelp from the pain, only giving Valeria further access to her mouth.

The kiss was reciprocated, as y/n threw all coherent thought and caution to the wind, grabbing onto Valeria’s shirt and pulling her closer.

All at once it was like she was taken back to years ago when all she knew was her love for the spitfire lieutenant who saved her like she were nothing more than a damsel in distress.

She stood in her own apartment and yet the walls seemed to morph into the one Valeria used to own. She felt younger, as though her sergeant patches and all of her ribbons had been ripped off in exchange for her old private ones. Years of separation and the passion had not changed.

They parted for air, y/n still clutching Valeria’s shirt. She stepped forward, closing the space between them as she wrapped her arms around Valeria and buried her face in her neck, inhaling the scent that was so uniquely hers.

“As much as I don’t want to admit it, it’s so good to see you.” Y/n whispered.

Valeria pushed away, only so that she could stare at y/n’s face, “what, didn’t think I’d come back?”

Y/n shook her head, scratching the nape of her neck awkwardly, “I didn’t know if you wanted to.”

“Do you want me here?”

The abrupt silence that followed was overwhelming. The answer was yes, god, yes y/n wanted her there, but how could she ever admit that?

She worked hard to get to where she was, trained tirelessly, and fought tooth and nail for her rank. It was not an easy feat, not from how she had started, and especially not from the major set back Valeria’s disappearance had caused her. But she persevered through it all, reigning victorious, claiming the rank she proudly wore against her chest every day; with no help from the woman who stood before her, mind you.

So how could she cave in that moment? How could she give it all up for someone who was not even there for support? Neither without great internal struggle.

“I shouldn’t.” Y/n muttered, beginning to pace around, “fuck, I really shouldn’t, everyone- everyone would be so mad at me but, damn it, I can’t help it.”

Valeria made her way closer and closer, until y/n was up against the wall again, unable to focus on anything but her. No more pacing, no more fighting with herself, just Valeria. Valeria pressed the palm of her hand to the side of y/n’s face, running her thumb over the girl’s lips, mesmerized, “no one else is here. Just you and me.”

“Just- just you ‘n me.” Y/n whispered, “you gonna leave me again?”

Valeria shook her head, “never meant to the first time.”

Y/n nodded and tilted her head so she could press a kiss to the heel of Valeria’s hand, content with her answer, allowing herself a moment of respite in her old flame’s grasp.

“‘M tired, and I bet you are too. Come to bed with me?”

Valeria agreed, following her into her bed and shortly thereafter into a deep sleep. It wasn’t much, it certainly wasn’t perfect, but they were right where they belonged: together.

#valeria garza x fem!reader #valeria garza #valeria garza x reader #valeria x reader #valeria cod #valeria garza cod #call of duty valeria #valeria x fem!reader #call of duty x reader #call of duty fanfic

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brucewaynehater101 · 16 days

Note

Read a fanfic a while ago where Red Robin gets Surgeoned by (OC? Canon? Idk) the villain The Surgeon to have wings that are hinted to work

Now imagine this; Everybody in the Batfamily has bat and bird wings and bat and bird instincts, minutes the token human Timmy

And Tim suddenly has wings thanks to a villain Playing Doctor + God and the Batfamily's bat/bird brains are going crazy going stupid because one of their flock members has wings now!!

Except Tim got wings, and nothing more.

Tim doesn't have the instincts to act as a bird should, he can act, he can pretend, but it can only go so far

He doesn't have any other traits of a bird person, be it Talons, feather sin his hair, natural chirping, etc

He can register that hey, his wings will need to preened but his subconscious doesn't register the gravity unhealthy wings can have

Furthermore energy and blood flow and more has to go into maintaining those wings like he rest of his body. The Surgeon gave him wings and wings only, no other modifications.

Tim's body is only equipped to maintain a human body not a human body with wings

He has to eat for more body mass and feathers and bird bones than his body is made for and—

Yeah Tim is not having a good time and nor is the rest of the family

There's probably ideas I've missed

Feel free but not pressured to expands/explore/etc with this idea as you wish

Hmm... All of the batfam members? I do think it could be interesting if Alfred was human too. This could be a representation of the emotional disconnect he often displayed throughout Bruce's childhood. Not only does Alfred employ a professional distance between him and his charge, but he doesn't understand the instincts (and overwhelming needs).

Besides that, this is a super interesting concept! I love the idea that the instincts the Bats have support their ability to take care of themselves and their wings. I bet finding flock members is part of that end goal. I'm also curious about the dynamics pre-wing transition.

So Tim, as the token human, has never felt any of the flock needs that the others do. Since he's human, would their instinct be similar to a human's adoption tendencies for cute animals? Would Tim treat it as a cultural difference? Like, Tim gets invited to cuddle in the nest, something he doesn't feel the need for and has never done himself, so he politely declines at first. From what he knows (and has researched about hybrid cultural needs, behaviors, traditions, etc.), this is a ritual done with close loved ones.

When does he get invited to the first one, and who invites him? I don't see Bruce, who is at first pushing Tim away, as the one to invite him. Because it is such an intimate moment, it would take Dick awhile too. Even if he saw Tim as a brother, the difference in species, instincts, the grief of just losing a brother, and living in a different city (meaning less quality time over a period of time) probably combined to Dick needing a while before his bird brain could allow it.

I like to imagine maybe Cass, who has less notions about safe flock connections (aka not imprinting on people immediately), saw Tim and immediately invited him to the nest. It's a small point of contention for Dick cause he's been trying the entire time to work up to it (by combing Tim's hair, offering him small gifts, showing his back [a lot to the point Tim becomes concerned] to the younger one, and offering customary greetings in chirps). Dick has been putting in the effort, and then Cass's instincts immediately grab onto Tim.

Tim being human could also explain some of the tension between him with Damian and Jason. Bruce was already breaking some of the typical hybrid standards of conduct by mixing hybrid of different types (prey birds, bats, predator birds, etc.). Then Bruce just throws in a human and claims he's flock despite him not having the instincts at all.

I also love the symbolism of Tim being considered an outskirts member (as maybe not truly apart of the family) until right before he gets his wings. I think we can tie Jason into this as well (like maybe his death fucked with his wings and/or instincts. As he slowly gets integrated into the flock again, he starts to heal or get those instincts back).

Basically, everything is settling down with the batfam dynamics. Then Tim gets his wings.

It's symbolic of him finally feeling accepted in the family, but it also fucks him over. The others see him as a hybrid, their instincts are desperately reaching out, and they unintentionally feel hurt because Tim doesn't reciprocate. Tim is trying, by the gods is he trying to deal with everything new, but he just doesn't have those instincts.

Thus, the family has to rework through their dynamics as the hybrids battle their instincts and Tim has a mental breakdown about his identity.

#dc comics #dc universe #tim drake #bruce wayne #jason todd #dick grayson #damian wayne #alfred pennyworth #thank you for the ask!!!!#sorry it took so long I was drunk and sleep deprived when I received it and couldn't give it the attention it deserved #this concept is really cool too!

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frogchiro · 1 year

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I just finished the world quest with Jeht and Azariq and please I'm in love with the Stone Enchanter model. I need him to pin me down and crush me istg

If this makes you uncomfortable feel free to ignore it, but I'm imagining MC being this sheltered Rainforest scholar hiring a group of Eremites to escort her on a mission, only for the weather to turn bad and oh we all have to hunker down for an extended period of time and she's worried that the Eremites will leave once the money runs out but they're just taking the opportunity to get close to their little lady.

Alternatively, doctor!MC who is the primary medic in the camp and she's always there to take care of everyone. What do you mean that Daythunder tripped face first into her tits on purpose? Can't you see that he's hurt??? Yes he needs to squeeze her hips, it's for balance! Honestly 🙄

Alternatively alternatively, barmaid!MC who serves a certain group of Eremites and she's theirs alone. No one else touches her except them, and they love playing with her regardless of who else is looking. Groping her tits when she bends down to pour drinks, grabbing her ass when she turns around, biting her nipple through the sheer fabric of her top if she doesn't escape fast enough etc. (I feel like you wrote this before? I think)

I really just let my hands run away from me adfhk I hope you're doing well! 🌺

darling, I am so incredibly normal about this you have no idea i'm currently biting at the bars of my enclosure

also this turned out way longer than I intended but the brainrot was real for this one ;; the barmaid!reader hc turned out to be the longest and the smuttiest of them all but in my defense it was my absolute favorite one to write and I'm seriously asking begging you guys to please indulge me and send me all your possible barmaid!reader thots (different men, eremites, aus', whatever comes to your mind ;;)

fem!reader, nsfw, reader is implied to be chubby/curvy, LOTS of perviness and big gross pervy men <3

Rainforest Scholar!Reader who hired a group of Eremites because of an important study needing to be conducted near the dangerous territory of the Apam Woods which is known to be inhabited by dangerous fungi and other possibly hostile creatures, not to mention the ever-changing weather environment. For someone who has little-to-no combat training it's basically a suicide mission so you did the next best thing and hired a group of Eremite mercenaries, four big and scary looking men with weapons seemingly bigger than you, wild grins full of sharp teeth and smug voices telling you "It's gonna be okay Little Lady, we've got this".

Well, turned out no one 'got this'. Dear Gods no one got this. The whole journey ended up in a near disaster with a sudden wild storm striking the woods in the middle of studying a group of fungi not only making them hostile and attacking you but also during your and the mercenaries' escape and frantic search for a reletively safe place to wait out the storm you managed to slip and fall straight into a large puddle of water effectively drenching you and ruining your travel clothes.

Although you truly noticed this major detail only after holing up in some beat up shack left to rot in the forest when the cold finally started to seep into your bones. One of the men, Daythunder you believe others called him, pointed out your violent shivering making all the men in the group turn towards you with slight concern on their masked faces.

And indeed you were shivering like a scared puppy, wet clothes clinging at your form, combined with the howling wind making it almost unbearable and the small fire they managed to start did little to keep you warm.

"You need to get outta these clothes Little Lady or you'll catch your death here", a slightly smaller man of the group gruffly said and vaguely motioned towards your figure. You flushed slightly and looked down bashfully, 'Little Lady' they called you, a nickname meant to tease you at first but over the long days of your journey turned into some sort of endearment from the men towards you.

Your thoughts of embarrassment were quickly thrown away by another wave of unpleasant shivers due to your drenched state. You were well aware that if you didn't do something soon, you'd catch pneumonia and only gods know how long you'll be stuck here in the middle of nowhere with a raging storm outside. The only logical thing to do was to strip, let your clothes dry and get warm by the fire but you were surrounded by all these big men and while you trusted them to not make any unwanted moves, it was still a mortifying thought to be almost naked in such a small space among them.

However, even these thought were dissipated quickly enough when Daythunder gently lifted your chin with his finger, making your heart flutter with warmth and look up at his handsome masked face and listen to him quietly murmur that they'll keep you warm and make sure no danger will come for you, please Little Lady.

And so before long you were stripped down to your underwear, sitting in the warm lap of the large blond man, his beautiful tanned skin hot under your slowly warming body as his sturdy arms wrapped around you. Actually, the men surrounded you with their big bodies in a sort of cuddle pile, warming up not only your body but also your heart and lower belly, the tingling sensation only amplifying when you felt the sudden touch of warm, calloused fingers of Daythunder on your knees, slowly traveling up your thighs and massaging along the tired muscles making you let out an embarrassingly pleasured moan that caught the attention of all the other men, making them grin wildly again.

"Maybe being stuck here for a little longer won't hurt-" you thought to yourself before getting interrupted by ravenous hot lips of one of the men and letting out another pleased hum as you felt other big calloused hands join the others on your soft body.

Medic!Reader who is the resident healer of the tribe, and while it might be considered relatively small, her hands are almost always busy due to the group being made up by men who are considered to be hunters/mercenaries; always on the move, rarely setting camp for more than a week. Plus, life on the desert can't be considered an easy one, food and water rations are scarce, danger is common here and if you're inexperienced with this kind of environment or travels it's best if you just stay in a village or travel in a larger group.

And then there is little ol' you, a real delight to the men of the tribe, kept like the biggest treasure in the camp. Always cherished and spoiled with the best cuts of meat during meal time, gifted the softest and most delicate silks from their 'adventures', not to mention all the hot, reverent, hungry touches to your skin as they slowly mouth at the expanse of your naked, glistening bosom.

Oh yes, the life of the 'Treasure of the tribe' is good, very good even, but first and foremost you are a trained, skilled healer, your skills being utilized unfortunately almost everyday as your men just seem to not be able to keep out of danger if even for a day and you hate seeing your boys hurt.

After returning from yet another successful hunting trip all the returning men loudly announcing their arrival; loud, boisterous laughs and cheerful bellows can be heard from the enterance to the camp. You sighed deeply although a small smile made its way onto your face, judging from the loud joyous commotion outside it was a successful hunt and probably no permanent damage was done but it still meant looking after the men, cleaning and stitching cuts, applying cooling salves and balms and bandaging smaller wounds. While you were undoubtedly proud of your buys you swear that their pride and want for showing off will drive them into an early grave.

Making a last check-up on the stacked medical equipment you gathered, you got up and walked out into the blazing sun of the desert, although the scalding hot temperature slowly cooling down into a pleasant warmth with the incoming sunset.

Your enterance was met with loud greetings and whoops, the large men showing off their hunted prey, a large furred beast with claws the size of your fingers. While you definitely appreciated the sentiment and admired their strength and prowess in battle to be able to take down such a creature, you were more worried about the blood staining Daythunder's clothes. Making him sit on an wooden stump you quickly got to work as he seemed to be hurt the most; while definitely nowhere near deadly, that cut on his chest worried you.

Out of all the things you learned as a healer of a tribe full of men is that they're surprisingly childish and clingy, especially when hurt. The second he heavily sat down, Daythunder immediately grabbed onto your full hips and dragged you close to him so that no space can be between your bodies and with a heavy sigh the big tanned man shoved his face right into your tits, for the lack of better wording.

All you could do is sigh heavily, comb your hand through his braided blond hair and coo at him. The insistent touches more than familiar and no more embarrassing you, more like making a small pleasant flutter bloom in your belly as you gave the man a bit more time watching him nose along your barely clothed breasts and nuzzling against you much like a big cat.

What you didn't see, so preoccupied with Daythunder nuzzled deep into you, are the former joyful faces of the other men sour with ugly jealousy. Why weren't it them you were paying attention? They just slayed a beast too! But don't you worry pretty little Treasure, as soon as you finish with that big oaf they'll have their turn with you too.

Who would have guessed that Eremites could be so jealous~?

And now for the grande finale and my personal favorite, Barmaid!Reader!! Working as a barmaid at the only tavern in Caravan Ribat is one hell of a busy job. Living and working in a place that is literally in the middle of nowhere and simultaneously always busy with passing by merchants, mercenaries, travelers and adventurers alike can be definitely often hectic and at times even messy but it has its perks! Being able to listen to various stories, some of them sounding almost like a fairytale with how whimsical and fantastic they sound and yet they are all true is definitely one of those perks.

Another perk (definitely the best) is a particular group of Eremite men who seem to frequent Caravan Ribat, specifically the tavern you work at is their target. Not only being regulars, but also knowing them more...intimately, they are a delight to be around even with their burning jealousy and possessiveness; perhaps even more so with it.

Almost always you hear them before you see them, their loud talk among each other, deep booming voices almost reverberating through the local and just as you serve a patron their meal they enter in all their glory. Even with the crimson bandanas covering their eyes you can feel their eyes on you, burning with lust and want for their pretty little barmaid.

Greeting them with a warm smile and a warmth to your cheeks you tell them to sit down at their usual table (which by now is almost reserved only for them, no one dares to sit where they always touch down). Luckily it's a relatively slow night; all the patrons are already seated and busy either talking among each other or drinking their worries away in a bottle of ale of fire water.

With an almost jump in your step you quickly walk up to the table with the Eremites, their covered eyes never leaving your curvy figure and when you finally stand before them you can almost hear their deep growls of delight and ravenous apetite for more than a regular meal.

Deciding on being cheeky today and wanting to tease them a little, treat them as if their just another regular customers. You pull out a small paper and pencil from behind your belt and ask these 'gentlemen' for their order. They seem to catch on immediately, their grins widening, licking over their sharp canines as they relax and spread their thick muscled thighs wide open lounging around, deep gruff voices laced with lust listing of their order.

As you're diligently jot down their choices on the slip of paper, a small smile appears on your face as you feel the strong arm of Stone Enchanter slip around your middle and pull you closer to him, his enormous build making your stomach on level with his face even when he's seated, his big and rough with callouses hand caressing and grabbing onto your full hips, snapping the material of your skirt (the long material obscuring only your intimates and ass while exposing your thighs, you know this cut drives them crazy) against your hips and they laugh loudly as you take in a quick quiet breath, followed by the gentle scrape of teeth on your waist as the large man starts mouthing at your skin and to be honest you're quite embarrassed by how quickly this simple touch can get you wet.

But with this group you're so used to this that when they don't visit for a longer period of time you actually long for it. They are always like this; loud and boisterous, clingy, unapologetic and absolutely shameless with their touches and so so possessive over you.

You barely manage to write down their order with a small 'be right back sirs' when suddenly a swift swat to your bottom is delivered and the table erupts in laughs and jeers at Sunfrost that he managed to get you. It's even worse when you get back and start setting their cups down, when the hot touches and gropes come.

Your low cut top is made of a light material, almost sheer and you almost always forgo wearing a bra due to the almost unbearable heat due to the closeness to the desert and the stuffy inside of the tavern doesn't help, and you can be sure that these men take full advantage of it.

Large scarred hands grope your tits the second you bend down to pour their drinks and you almost spill it when they pull down the loose neckline and the mouthing at your waist and hips starts again.

Suddenly, you let out a small shrill cry as you're suddenly hoisted into the lap of Stone Enchanter and moan loudly at the feeling of hot lips trying to mouth at your nipples through your top, the straps falling from your shoulders from all the sudden movement much to the delight of the men at the table.

The loud atmosphere of the lively tavern concealing the lustful act, all the other patrons are either so deep into laughing with their companions or way too drunk to even look your way, but even if there are some curious eyes looking at your figure, you are way too deep into the hot, fuzzy headspace to care.

The dark skinned man holding you made you suddenly straddle him and you flush even deeper at the feeling of his hard cock grinding up against your barely clothed pussy and you can't help but moan helplessly and grab at his dark braids to pull him closer to your nipple which he's still insistently mouthing at, the scrape of his sharp teeth causing you to let out a delightful moan which only seemed to spur the turned on men further on.

This was definitely going to be a long, long night~

#kin speaks #asks #interactions #JESUS FINALLY I'M READY #this took me like 2.5h to write but it was a true delight ;;#thank you so much for the food nonnie <3 #now barmaid reader is rotting my brain >:(#genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #eremites x reader

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strixcattus · 2 months

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Chapter I: Fear/Safety

That's how this works.

History

System check. Go.

Heart: Beating. Incredibly quickly, to boot.

Lungs: Shaky but functional. Airways unobstructed.

Liver and digestive system: Not actively trying to kill you.

Nerves and muscles: Responsive to voluntary commands.

Sense organs:

Paranoid’s eyes snap open, then slam shut again at the sting of light from outside.

Operational. Your eyes have been shut for long enough that the pupils could dilate. You’ve been here for longer than an instant.

Mental faculties: Functioning well enough to progress this far in the checklist. Further analysis is impossible to conduct without filtering it through itself, and thus meaningless.

Backup: Has not yet complained about the systems check.

“Who’s there?” he asks, aloud. His voice is louder than he’d expected it to be.

No one answers.

He opens his eyes again.

He is in a cabin, which is already unusual. Normally, the cabin would be a ways down a path—which ideally would be solid beneath his feet, and if he were to really get his hopes up, would even be open and lined with perfectly ordinary trees.

The cabin is… very nice, actually. Its walls are made of clean stone, with wide, glassless windows. Cloth banners drape from the tops of the walls on either side of an ornate wooden door, and the blade is perched on the edge of a sturdy, carved wooden table—already quite a step up from the other cabins he’s had the dubious pleasure of entering. A warm light filters through the viewing window in the door.

This is a much friendlier place than any other cabin he’s seen, which means it is not to be trusted. The other cabins presented themselves as exactly as dangerous as they actually were. This one is hiding something.

He turns around and grabs for the handle of the door to the outside. It’s well above his head—how inconsiderate of the designer of this cabin. The body he normally inhabits would have been tall enough to reach it easily, but he’s clearly not taking the backseat in that body anymore.

He’s alone, and he is in his own body, his pathetically short, scrawny body that can feel every molecule of this world trying to drag him to the ground.

He finally manages to grasp the handle on his third attempt, legs kicking uselessly at the floor they can no longer reach. The quilt on his back falls to the floor without a hand holding it in place. It’s fine. There’s no one else here to see him, and he can pick it back up once he’s opened the door and escaped this place.

His feet find purchase on the wall beside the door, and he pulls. And then he pulls harder, and then he tries to twist the ring-handle as though that might be the obstacle preventing the door from opening.

It’s not, obviously. It’s locked. Where has he seen that trick before? Right—every time he tried to go somewhere the Narrator didn’t want him.

He lets go and falls to the floor, the bones of his arms clashing painfully with the cobblestones even through the fabric of the quilt beneath him. This is fine. There are more ways out of a cabin than the door.

The windows on the right are just low enough for him to look out—and no doubt low enough to climb through. The Narrator might never have bothered to mention them, but they’re still a viable escape route.

He clambers up to the frames of the windows and looks down.

The ground spans out far beneath him, a dry plain with steam rising from the ground. It’s certainly a far cry from the woods he’s used to, but that will just make it easier to see any ambushes coming, and the fall still looks safe enough. He’ll be fine. He just needs to go back and grab his quilt, and then—

His footing slips and he falls forwards into the window, all hopes for a controlled landing vanishing from his mind. If he’s lucky, he’ll get away with a broken arm. If he isn’t, it might be one of his joints that snaps, or even his skull—

His face collides with an unseen barrier, and he’s sent sliding back onto the cabin floor, facing a harsh landing for the second time in as many minutes. At least this one isn’t far enough to break any bones.

The windows won’t let anything pass through them. Of course they don’t. Do they even exist on a conceptual level? Is that why the Narrator never mentioned them?

Fine. There is one more exit he hasn’t tried. He’ll just have to play into the Narrator’s games. That’s how this works.

The Narrator, who is still not present.

Quilt back in place, he takes the blade from the table and grips it in his beak. The handle of the other door is even higher than the first. He’ll have to jump and hope he’s lucky enough to maintain his grip.

His fingers slip out of the ring on his first attempt, but he manages to grasp it on the second, and this door swings open the moment he’s caught hold of the handle, as though the cabin itself wants him to enter the basement. He drops to the floor and steps onto the stairs, slipping the blade beneath his quilt.

The stairs are as polished as the cabin, with a soft carpet to match the banners. Beautiful candelabras light the way down—a nice change of pace from the basements lit with starlight alone, if that.

“Is that you, my hero?” asks the Princess from somewhere unseen. Her voice is clear and innocent.

Great. She’s as much of a liar as the cabin.

“No, that’s someone else,” he mumbles as he descends the final few steps to see what, exactly, he’s working with.

The Princess is actually exactly where she’s supposed to be—at the other end of the basement, beyond another carpet, beneath another tantalizingly open window, and with one hand in chains. A second chain hangs ominously on her other side, leading to nothing.

She herself looks like an ordinary princess, with a golden tiara atop her head, wide eyes, and the most extravagantly puffy dress Paranoid has ever seen—not as though his sample has much in the way of puffy dresses, but he still feels safe asserting that this one is particularly puffy.

She tilts her head to one side. “...Is that you?”

She’s fishing for information. He’ll have to ensure he doesn’t give her any. Play dumb.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, gripping the blade tighter. “Do you know where we are?”

The Princess shrugs. “We’re in a basement! And above that is a cabin. And outside that… I’m not sure.”

“Who locked you down here?”

She pauses for a moment, then shrugs again. “I don’t know! But it doesn’t matter anymore, right? Now that you’re here to free me?”

She’s playing dumb, too, isn’t she? And what’s more, she’s better at it than him. He’ll have to be more direct or he’ll never get anything. “Who are you?”

“I’m… a Princess?” Her voice shakes a little, as though she’s unsure if this is the answer he wants to hear. “Oh! If you need a name, you can call me the Damsel.”

Damsel. A damsel in distress. Something to be rescued. Or an innocent. Of course, this is all assuming she’s telling the truth about what she is, and since she’s a Princess, by default I can’t rely on that.

“What do you want?” he asks, squinting at the Damsel.

Her response is quicker than her previous ones. “I want to leave!” Of course she does. She’s a Princess, after all. “And then after that…”

The Damsel trails off into thought, and Paranoid leans forward. “After that?”

She shrugs. Again. “I don’t really know! What do you want to do after we leave?”

“Get far, far away from this cabin,” Paranoid whispers. It should be soft enough that the Damsel can’t hear him, but she tilts her head when he speaks nonetheless. “Do you know how you’d get out?” he asks at a more normal volume. It’s a risky question, but at this point it’s probably the only way he can get any real information.

The Damsel shrugs. Maybe she’s not as good at playing dumb as Paranoid thought, if she only has one strategy—but she is still managing to dance around all his questions without missing a beat, which means she very much has one up on him. “I don’t know! Don’t you have any ideas?”

She cannot possibly be this incapable. She’s a Princess. She has to have a way out. She’s just playing dumb so he can let his guard down and she can strike.

Maybe he ought to strike first. But that would be showing his hand before he can see hers, and if she has something up her sleeve he doesn’t yet know about, it could spell the end for him. Then he’ll just wake up in a new cabin, and she’ll be even more of a threat. That’s how this works.

There’s something strange about that shackle on her wrist. He can’t see it, but he knows there has to be something. Some way she has more power than it seems she does. Something she has over him. That’s how this works.

She wants to use him. For what, he can’t tell. She’s a lot more cagey than the other Princesses he’s met. But she clearly wants to use him for something. That’s how this works.

That’s how this works. There’s a set narrative, and he has to figure out where everything fits into it before it swallows him whole.

Her hand. It’s not unusually slender, but it is slight enough, and the shackle large enough, that her hand has already half-slipped through her chains. She could probably slide it all the way out on her own.

And the moment she sees weakness in him, she will do so.

The Damsel tilts her head, and he remembers that the normal thing to do in this situation would be to continue the conversation. Anything out of the ordinary might tip her off that he knows that she knows she has the upper hand, and then there would be no reason to keep lying.

“No. I don’t know how I would get you out.” I know full well how you would get out, but there’s not a chance I’m enabling it. I’m just going to stay right here until I have you figured out, and then I’ll find my ticket out of this cabin.

She frowns. “Really? But… you’re supposed to save me. That’s how this works.”

That’s how this works?

That is not how this works. They’re supposed to slay Princesses, not save them, because even though the Narrator who ordered them to is clearly an untrustworthy sack of half-truths, the Princess they’re meant to slay is just as clearly a world-ending monstrosity who would be one step away from ending them if she didn’t need them to…

…If she didn’t need them to escape. Is that what this is? That’s how this works? She can’t just take her hand out of the chains because she needs him to do it for her?

Only one way to find out. He’s probably going to regret this. “Isn’t that chain big enough to slip over your hand? What do you even need me for?”

The Damsel glances down at the shackle, places her free hand on it, and slips it off her wrist. Of course she does.

…Then she slides it back on and looks at Paranoid. “Like that?”

What.

“Yes. Like that.” Paranoid grips the blade as tightly as he can. “Why can’t you just do that?”

The Damsel looks at him for a second before breaking out in laughter. “You’re funny! You’re really funny! Don’t you know that’s not how this works?”

Apparently not. “Explain to me how this does work.”

“I’m supposed to wait for you to rescue me,” she says. “Then you’re supposed to rescue me. Then we’re supposed to leave together. And then… I don’t know! I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.” She tilts her head. “Why? How else would it work?”

Paranoid hesitates. This is probably going to get him killed, and getting himself killed will only get him killed in a second, even worse manner.

…On the other hand, he’s really out of ideas at this point.

“You’re supposed to wait for me down here,” he begins. “Then I’m supposed to come down here, and you’re supposed to threaten me into letting you out, if you even want out instead of slicing me to pieces. Then either you kill me, or I kill you and then die, or I give up and let you wreak havoc on the world.”

The Damsel blinks. “And then what?”

“And then…” Paranoid shakes his head as though that will cause some thread of logic to slide into place. “I don’t know. I think that’s where it’s supposed to end.”

“Hm,” the Damsel says. “I think I like my version better.”

Paranoid forces out a laugh. “Yeah. I wish that were how this worked.”

“That is how this works!” She holds up her chained hand. “Can you let me out now?”

She’s asking him to let her out of the chains that she just slipped over her hand a minute ago. Sure. Fine. This may as well happen. Except…

“The door’s locked upstairs,” he says. “I couldn’t get out.”

The Damsel frowns. “Really? Do you think it might open if I tried it?”

He’s about to say no, that’s not how this works, the point of the cabin is that the Princess isn’t allowed to leave and the Hero can come and go whenever. Then he changes his mind and is about to say yes, absolutely, you’re some sort of world-ending monstrosity and I’m all of three feet tall. Then some bitter part of him is about to say no, everything about this whole setup is out to get us both but also me specifically but also you specifically, and if the past has taught me anything it’s that the way out will only open when you’re dead.

What he actually says is, “Probably. At least you’d be able to reach the doorknob.”

She holds out her chained arm, and Paranoid takes a moment to mourn the loss of the last bit of sense he has before taking hold of the shackle and slipping it over her hand.

The Damsel watches him through every step of the process, not as though there’s more than one step to it. “Your hands are really small.”

Shut up, he thinks but doesn’t say.

He leads the way up the stairs, half-expecting the door at the top to slam shut on them. But it doesn’t, and why would it, when the Narrator has been silent this entire time? It was always his doing whenever a door locked on them.

They step onto the first floor of the cabin, and the Damsel strides past him, reaching for the door handle. It’s easily within her grasp.

Paranoid clutches the blade under his quilt. If the Damsel can’t open the door, it’s his only remaining option. He’ll have to slay her and leave before he can learn what the consequences are.

The latch clicks and the door swings open.

The Damsel steps to the side as though allowing him through first. A courtesy? Or a way of making sure her back isn’t turned to him? Or a way of making sure his back is turned to her?

Or maybe he’s thinking about this too much, and he just needs to get some fresh air.

He steps outside into the driest “woods” he’s ever encountered. Heat wafts through the openings in his quilt, as warm as if he were standing in front of a roaring bonfire. He’ll probably end up boiling if he stays here for too long, what with the quilt wrapped around him… though there might not be enough moisture in the air for “boiling” to be an option. How is that even possible? There were steam clouds, right? Or are they just… haze?

It shouldn’t matter, anyway. This is where it all ends. That’s how this works.

He waits for a moment. The void does not come.

When he turns around, the Damsel is looking at him, brow furrowed for the first time he’s seen. “It’s supposed to end now, right? That’s how this works, right?”

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s how this works.”

Clearly, how this works and how it is are not necessarily always the same.

“I think… we need to look around,” he begins. For some reason his eyes hurt. Why would heat make his eyes hurt? “See if there’s anything… anything else…”

The blade slips from his grasp, dry grass crunching beneath it. He does not land on top of it, saved by the Damsel catching him from behind.

“Anything… else out there,” he mumbles as his eyes close and he finally falls asleep.

#slay the princess #outside context problem #voice of the paranoid #the damsel #stp fanfic

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lucysstoryworld · 1 year

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Lease of Life | Azriel x Reader part 3

Thank you all so much for all the love. Just a quick one, I read all of your comments and there's so many that I can’t respond to all of them but I do read them. Especially with the tag list, I check for new entries before I post so don’t be worried if I don’t respond! hope you enjoy this next part! Let me know if you have any feedback!

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Violence, self deprecating thoughts.

Minors DNI.

You were sure that others would rather gouge their eyes out than stare down the High Lord of the Night Court like you were in that moment, daring him to answer incorrectly. Your body felt like it was on fire, like each and every nerve ending was being scratched and torn. The sounds that had gone unheard by your human ears, the scent of the very air was an overstimulated nightmare. And your sister’s absence did nothing but fuel the inferno pooling within your soul, threatening to break the surface. Glancing around the room, the look on the others’ faces told you that they had been blindsided too. All eyes were on Rhysand, demanding an explanation as to what the actual fuck just happened.

So he explained. Explained how he and Feyre had slipped out to have an impromptu mating ceremony... and had her named High Lady of the Night Court. Explained how she had sacrificed her safety for the sake of your escape.

Classic, selfless Feyre.

It was Nesta who broke the pregnant silence, the anger on her face matching what you felt, “So you just let her?! Wow, you really are useless. First you rock up to my home and promise that we will have no part in this war. You lied. Next, you allow my sister to just give herself over to the enemy!” She barked, growing close to being feral.

“Watch how you speak to my High Lord,” Cassian growled, towering above her.

“He is not my High Lord, so I will speak to him how I want. All he is to me is someone who has dragged all of my sisters into a war we have no part in.”

The tension was thick, rage and shock at what happened fuelling the fire, “Feyre died so we could live and now she is risking her life again for the sake of this court all of her own accord. No one is forcing her. So I will only say it once more, mind you tongue, girl,” He sneered.

“That’s enough,” Rhysand ordered, his demeanour was commanding all of the attention in the room.

“Rhys...” Morrigan spoke, voice barely above a whisper. She stood from your side, approaching Rhysand with an uneasy calm, “You’re telling me my High Lady is with the enemy? She is in danger.” Morrigan seemed desperate, concern lacing her tone.

“Your High Lady is conducting a recon mission in the Spring Court and will be safe,” Though the words were meant to be reassuring, you knew deep down Rhysand did not believe them.

“Oh please!” Nesta scoffed once again, “Safe? Safe. You wouldn’t know what safety was if it slapped you in the face!”

This was all too much, the anger you felt was now at boiling point, “Shut it, Nesta!” You boomed, chest heaving with the effort it was taking to not blow up. All eyes were on you, yet your own remained fixed on your eldest sister. “Do not pretend as though you give a shit about Feyre’s safety. Not when she risked her life every day in that forest hunting just so you could pester her when she came home!” You wished the shouting would calm the storm brewing in your very bones, the strange feeling was clawing its way out.

“(F/n)...” Morrigan whispered, edging closer to you once more.

“I am not speaking to you,” You snapped, lifting your hand to halt her pursuit towards you. The room began to fill with metallic scent of magic, seemingly consuming each molecule of air in the room. You did not miss how everyone in the room readied themselves to intervene. Both you and Nesta stared each other down, daring the other to make the next move.

“I have always cared for our family,” She whispered lowly, almost darkly.

In that moment, that insufferable feeling that, for all this time, had been dancing just beneath your skin broke loose. The power in the room made every wooden fixture begin to groan, glass began to shatter and fly violently across the room along with splinters of wood.

All of them directed at your sister.

In an instant, Rhysand stood before you. He placed a hand up, halting the assault on Nesta. Shards and wood chips fell to the floor and he looked at you with gentle eyes. The gentleness in his eyes shook you to the core. He had the same eyes as Feyre. The seriousness of what you just tried to do had you backing away from the group slowly.

“It’s okay,” He said quietly, “Just look at me. I will get Morrigan to bring you to your room. Is that okay?” Cautious. He was being cautious.

A slight nod was all you could manage. The journey to your room was a blur and when Morrigan took her leave silently, you laid down in the soft bed and cried yourself to sleep.

* * *

It had been a few weeks since then. Weeks since you had tried to kill Nesta, and neither of you had made an effort to speak of it. Weeks since you were ripped away from your mortality and given a new body that coursed with strength and power that you barely keeping a handle on. It was obvious that you were not the only one struggling with the change. Elain had barely uttered two words since she arrived here, had barely eaten or slept. She seemed chained to the chair that faced the window, overlooking Velaris. At first, you believed she wanted to marvel in the undeniable beauty of the city though, it became clear her eyes were unseeing. Her sight seemed entwined in whatever catatonic blur that had encased her mind. You and Nesta desperately tried to coax any reaction from her, inviting her out to see the beautiful gardens or come try some of the baked treats the two wraiths had made.

It seemed as though your sister was lost.

Azriel had managed to get subtle reactions from her. Offering her tea resulted in an almost unnoticeable tilt of her chin, or a gentle good morning seemed to make her eyes glance towards him in response. It wasn't much, but you and Nesta prayed that whatever magic Azriel was working would continue to work.

Caring for Elain made it easier to ignore the constant gnawing sensation in the back of your skull, the feeling like you were not the owner of the body you inhabited was both refreshing as it was grating. You relished in the feeling in taking long, powerful breaths of air. In walking around Velaris without tiring as you would have before. It felt like you had been given a new lease of life, appreciating every single second of health you walked in. Yet, the constant scents and sounds that invaded your senses were jarring. The conversations that you overheard on your walks past the cafes seemed so loud. The smell of the brewery down the next street seemed so strong. That female was surely letting all of Velaris know that she was wearing high heels, clacking against the cobble. Or the male in the restaurant was happy to let the whole dinning hall know he was chewing.

It was all so... irritating.

So, the walks in the beautiful city had ceased just as quickly as they started. You could barely cope with the sounds in the house, let alone a whole city’s worth.

It made you yearn for Feyre more. Asking Rhys, as he had urged you to call him, whether or not she was coming home soon became a daily occurrence. Each day was filled with, ‘No, but she is safe,’. Disappointment seemed to weigh you down with each day she did not return. You needed her now more than ever.

The following day, after not receiving the update you wanted from Rhys had you sulking on the balcony, with your head in your hands. Gods, you needed her so bad. The irritation of everything prickled underneath your skin to the point where you couldn’t even look at Elain without becoming exasperated by her state.

“You doing okay out here, (F/n),” Azriel’s deep voice called from the doors.

Without lifting your head, “Doing wonderful, thanks.” The guilt for being so rude added to the list of things weighing you down.

Gentle tingles began dancing across your arms, a cool sensation that made the hairs on your arm stand on end. Finally lifting your head to see what is was, you were met with Azriel’s shadows twirling near your body. Their master was now standing right in front of you, looking at you were a softness that you had not experienced before. “You’re so quiet, I didn't hear you walking over here,” Was all you managed to say.

“Sorry if I startled you, it is part of the job description to move about unnoticed.”

“Not at all,” You sighed, “It’s nice actually. For something to be so silent.”

His eyes narrowed slightly in confusion, gesturing you to elaborate, “I’m not entirely sure what that means,” He replied. His eyes were like pools of gold, staring down at you were unnatural calculation yet it was not threatening in the slightest.

“It means that fae senses suck and I miss being able to hear so little.”

The soft chuckle was like music to your ears. In the brief moments you had interacted with Azriel, often during the make shift hand overs for Elain, you could feel a strange excitement when he would look to you. When he would speak, your heart would begin to thump heavily in your chest. You weren’t stupid, you were aware that it was a crush.

That is all it was, a crush. You had never witnessed beauty akin to that of Azriel’s. So it was only natural that you were attracted to him. It was just a simple crush, was what you told yourself. Especially when you saw how dearly he was caring for your sister. Part of you whispered that his aid to your sister went beyond that of respect and love for his High Lady thus, you shut down any thoughts of how devastatingly handsome he was.

“Well, I can’t imagine how… off-putting it is to learn everything about your new body. I know it is not any consolation now but it will get easier, Feyre managed eventually,” He deliberately spoke soft, like he was afraid his voice was going to add to your irritation.

A smile tugged at your tugged on the corner of your lips, your heart swelling with the consideration he was showing, “I wish she were here though. I wish I knew how long it’s gonna take for this to feel normal,” You sighed, motioning to the body you inhabited. “It’s strange, I’m grateful that I feel strong for the first time in my life. I don’t remember a time where I wasn’t ill, or completely exhausted or able to just do what people do without being sick for the following days. Yet, I’m so miserable. Every little noise and smell makes me feel like my head is going to burst. I feel so pathetic,” You whispered, tears lining your eyes after finally voicing your woes.

“You’re not pathetic,” His sharp answer had you meeting his eyes once more. “You have been pushed into this without warning, which is partially my fault. I promised Feyre that I would protect her sisters and I failed. So do not, for one moment, think that you are supposed to feel a certain type of way about this. I can’t say there is one right way to adjust to being fae. But I can imagine being in a city is a sensory nightmare. So perhaps, we should take it slow. Maybe we should bring you somewhere more manageable, like a forest, or a small town or village,” He replied. The determination in his voice filled you with hope, that same jittery feeling of your crush set you on edge in the most wonderful way.

“I would like that, Azriel. Thank you for speaking with me. But for now, I want to stay here in case Feyre comes back.” The thought of not being in this house when Feyre came back was not up for discussion. You had already lost enough time with your sister over the recent years, you weren’t about to willingly risk losing even more time with her, despite having immortality to make up for lost time. Though, with the war looming, there was a real chance immortality wouldn’t protect you.

“Of course,” His answer was distant, as though he was building himself up to say something more.

“What is it?”

“I can offer you a short reprieve from the sounds, but it is only if you want it,” He suggested, shyness causing a slight blush to dust his cheeks.

You were sure that if you were still human, your heart would have given out by now. His suggestion sent butterflies dancing in your stomach, “What does it involve?” You whispered, your own cheeks heating.

“My shadows... They can help. I mean, if I just,” He released a frustrated sigh, unable to explain himself. “I can just show you, but again only if you are okay with it.”

The thought of complete silence was so inviting, you were ready to do just about anything for a few moments of peace. “Yes please, Azriel,” Was all you could manage.

Slowly, his shadows seemed to grow thicker. They began stretching from him to you, entwining themselves around your body. The blackness the shadows possessed was so unlike that of the cauldron. They were lukewarm, comforting. They were silent. The pocket they encased you in made it feel like the world outside ceased to exist. Made it feel like time stood still. No sights, no sounds, no smells.

It was divine.

You sat for what felt like hours, just enjoying the complete nothingness you had craved this whole time. Slowly, a small crack appeared in the pocket. It allowed the slightest sounds to creep through, another tear invited the scents of Velaris. The final crack had the pocket melting away, revealing the Shadowsinger.

“That was...” You started, words escaping you. “That was beautiful.”

A sheepish smile graced Azriel’s face and again, you were sure your human heart wouldn't have coped with the sight of him in this moment. “I’m glad I could help you, (F/n).”

A comfortable silence settled between you and Azriel. You couldn’t help the soft smile that took hold, the kindness this male had shown you was unlike anything else. Gods, he really wasn’t helping with this crush you had.

As though that thought was heard by fate, Azriel stood, “I must get back to Elain. Hopefully I can get her to eat something today.” While you watched his retreating figure, a strange sense of disappointment replaced the peace you felt moments ago.

You couldn’t decipher why you would feel upset for him taking care of your incapacitated sister. Yet, it also made so much sense. When you were human, you never had the experience of having a man’s interest. Your health making it impossible to just go out and mingle with people during your time in the cottage like Feyre had. And your health also made you an unsuitable bride during your family’s re-assimilation into aristocracy, being too weak to even consummate a marriage let alone produce an heir for her husband’s name was among one of the remarks you overheard one of Nesta’s ‘friends’ say during one their seemingly obligatory charity visits. Essentially, you knew you were unable to differentiate between genuine kindness and romantic interest.

Yet before you could even entertain any more of the self pitying thoughts, Rhys’ voice entered your mind. It was frantic, yet you knew what he said.

Feyre was back. With Elain’s mate.

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#azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x reader #Azriel #acotar azriel #a court of wings and ruin #a court of thorns and roses

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inkyajax · 1 year

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feels like forever, even if forever’s tonight

characters: thoma, kamisato ayato

genre: smut

notes: aaaaah my first (finished) genshin piece!!! i had such a blast writing this hehehe i just love this dynamic so! much! reader is female, and this is mostly written from thoma’s point of view. in my mind, this is absolutely a crime family AU, but you’re welcome to think of it in terms of canon if you’d like! please heed the warnings and stay safe! | title cred: mine by bazzi | this piece was originally posted on my main blog.

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, dubcon, manipulation/coercion, daddy kink, toxic relationships, size kink/size difference, belly bulge, cuckolding kinda (ayato watches thoma fuck his girlfriend), praise, reader is quite flexible, a hint of dumbification/degradation, rough sex, overstimulation + mentioned orgasm denial as punishment, dacryphilia, power play/power dynamics, thoma is a sub-leaning switch in this, interchangeable use of the words my lord/master

words: 5.7k

synopsis:

Everything feels raw, exposed, Thoma’s nails scraping against the thin material of his pants, fingers scrabbling for something to do under such an intense stare. That glitter in Ayato’s eyes seems to shine bright and burning as Thoma squirms beneath it, the ghost of a smirk brushing against his lips.

It’s as though his master’s gaze is stripping him bare—stripping the clothes from his skin and the flesh from his bones, prying open his rib cage and peering into his very soul itself. It’s all so invasive, yet Thoma bares it all to him anyway, almost voluntarily, begging his lord for some instruction, some guidance, some rules to follow and obey and be praised for, eliminating any room for error or overstepping of boundaries, desperate to be told what to do and how to do it so he can satisfy everyone and do it well, do it right, do it the very best.

The walls of the Kamisato Estate are intentionally thick, tasked with concealing centuries of secrets within their wooden embrace. Many important words—deals, negotiations, threats—are spoken throughout these halls, many promises made within these rooms, and such precious, confidential sentiments must be protected at all costs.

So, of course, when Thoma hears the distinct murmuring of that low baritone vibrating through the hardwood floor from below Ayato’s home office, he thinks nothing of it. This isn’t out of the ordinary—Ayato often works late, after all, and it isn’t uncommon for him to be busy sifting through documents and conducting phone calls long after Thoma has turned in for the night.

It’s common courtesy for Thoma to let his superiors know when he’s done for the day, and common respect to bid them a good night before he finally retreats back to his own quarters, the action so ingrained in his daily routine it’s become almost instinctual at this point.

Those dense manilla walls keep Ayato’s words muffled and unintelligible, even as Thoma nears the room they’re being spoken from, and he thinks nothing of sliding that heavy wooden door open just enough for his slim body to slip through the crack, as he’s done a million times before.

But the scene he’s met tonight with is unlike anything he’s ever stumbled upon, tongue gone heavy and sluggish in his mouth, saliva gathering in suffocating pools at the back of his throat, so much so that it gurgles with his sharp gasp of surprise and he chokes, coughing around the stinging breath tangled in threads of spit.

Various documents and expensive paperweights litter the floor, evidently knocked to the ground by your writhing limbs, naked body sprawled across the surface of Ayato’s long, low desk, one hand curled around the sharp edge of the dark mahogany wood, the other fisted in Ayato’s expensive dress shirt.

Kneeling between your spread legs, a fully clothed Ayato leans over your body, murmuring out a condescending croon as one strong hand catches the trembling ankle hitched on his shoulder, mindlessly readjusting it.

“Poor thing,” he sighs out with a touch of indifference embedded in his tone. “You’ve completely lost control of your body, haven’t you?”

You’re babbling out a string of unintelligible words, letters welded together with spit on your tongue, head nodding in slow, sluggish, stupid movements.

“Well, that’s okay,” Ayato coos, voice silk and syrup. “You don’t need to do anything when Daddy’s here do to it for you, do you?”

You aren’t afforded a moment to answer, though, the hand buried between your thighs twisting, pumping, curling, two—or three, Thoma can’t really tell from this angle—fingers deep in your glistening cunt, motions yanking a cracked whine from your throat.

“You don’t need to talk,” he grunts in time with the thrusting of his hand. “You don’t need to move,” another grunt, another thrust. “You don’t even need to think at all, isn’t that right, princess?”

You don’t answer, and Thoma isn’t sure if it’s because you’re not supposed to, or if it’s because you can’t, fragmented mewls being torn to shreds by hitched little gasps.

“Thus,” Ayato continues, calmly, coldly, serenely, as if he is completely unfazed by the current situation. “Next time, when Daddy tells you to not talk to a client and to stay put during his meeting, you will obey, correct?”

A moan vaguely reminiscent of an affirmation falls from your lips, head nodding in quicker motions now, short and sharp.

Thoma should leave. This isn’t right, staying to watch something so intimate, hiding in the shadows like a fucking pervert; this is—this is morally reprehensible, this is disgusting, this is a very private matter he should’ve never been privy to.

Yes, Thoma should most definitely leave. Anyone with common sense, with half a mind, with any sort of respect for their superiors at all, would’ve already left.

And yet, his heavy legs won’t fucking move, feet filled with concrete and weighted to the floor, hard cock throbbing, begging, him to stay just a little longer.

But then your misty eyes, half-lidded and unfocused and lolling around in your head like a pair of loosely secured marbles, graze over Thoma’s shrouded figure, and your gaze snaps to his face, shock and terror eradicating that drowsy, dopey haze in an instant.

“Daddy—”

“Hmm?” Ayato hums, the curling of his fingers turned vicious. “Didn’t Daddy just tell you that you don’t need to speak?”

“No—” you gasp, the word trembling, wide eyes stuck to Thoma’s face.

“No?” he seems surprised, a touch of amusement in his tone, and Thoma can practically hear him raising an eyebrow—a question, a challenge. “You’re telling Daddy no, after all of that punishment you just endured?”

“Wa-Wait, Da—”

“Oh,” he clicks his tongue, as if it’s such a pity, and Thoma doesn’t need to see his expression to know his forehead’s crinkling and mouth’s tugging downward, features saturated with mocking disappointment. “And you were doing so well.”

“I just—”

“I was going to allow you to cum, too,” he continues in that solemn tone, mourning your lost orgasm that Thoma’s sure you worked so hard to achieve. “Shame.”

“Daddy!” you squeal, the honorific practically fucked out of you by Ayato’s fingers, face contorting as you force the second name from your mouth. “Thoma!”

And, for a moment, everything stops, your whines gone silent, Ayato’s voracious fingers halting their ministrations. Thoma’s blood turns to sharp ice in his veins, his heart freezing in his chest, his breath gone frigid in his lungs.

“Oh,” Ayato says after a moment of realization, following your watery gaze over his shoulder and staring up at his subordinate. “Thoma, hello.”

Shuffling a little on his knees, Ayato turns to face Thoma fully, a pleasant little smile plastered across his face.

“I—I—” Thoma begins, head shaking in jerky, rigid movements, body thawing enough for him to start backing up, spine whacking painfully against the corner of the wall. “I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry, my lord—This was—I really just—” his lungs shrivel in his chest as he runs out of air, inhaling harshly to revive them only to choke on his own breath as his eyes involuntarily scan his master’s body, focusing on the shimmering patch of slick staining his trousers, massive cock outlined by the wet fabric clinging to it as it strains against the material.

You’ve soaked him all the way through.

The whimper that sounds at the back of Thoma’s throat as he arrives at such a realization is downright mortifying—automatic, animalistic, pathetic—and he presses his lips together firmly in a futile attempt to silence it.

“Please, relax,” Ayato instructs, calm voice drawing Thoma’s attention back to his face. “You are not in trouble, Thoma,”

And although his voice is ridden with concern, Thoma can see it, that special little twinkle glittering in those periwinkle eyes, the one Thoma’s witnessed a million times before during deals and threats and negotiations, the one Ayato gets just before he strikes.

“I’m so sorry,” Thoma says again, the apology nothing more than a rush of breath from his mouth, elbows bumping against the wall as he raises his hands in surrender. “I was only—”

“Would you like to stay a while?”

Thoma stops.

Stay?

His cock twitches eagerly in his trousers at the prospect, his throat going dry, gummy walls sticking together as he attempts to swallow.

“Uh—Wh-What?”

“You’re welcome to continue watching, if you’d like to,” Ayato continues without a hitch, pleasant and cordial.

“I—” Yes. Yes, he would very much like to. “No, I really should be going. I’m sorry, my lord, I really shouldn’t have stayed—that was so gross of me—please forgive me for such disrespect, I’ll take my leave now—”

“Nonsense,” Ayato dismisses, eyes traveling down Thoma’s quivering body, halting their trajectory at his erection and pausing for a moment before trailing back up. “You are more than welcome to stay if you’d like to. And,” violet eyes flick down to his crotch again, a smug smirk molding to Ayato’s lips. “It seems like you’d like to.”

Of course he’d like to, Thoma’s features crinkle a little in self-deprecating confusion. Who wouldn’t like to?

From behind Ayato’s broad shoulder, you peak out, arms wrapped loosely around your torso, shoulders curved inward in a poor imitation of a shield. You look unsure—unsettled, almost—and Thoma feels that thick, tarry guilt unfurl in the pit of his stomach, spreading to engulf his surrounding organs in its sticky, suffocating embrace, snuffing out his spark of hope in an instant.

What a fucking sicko he is for even considering it, for even deriving the smallest amount of perverse pleasure from such voyeuristic endeavours, for memorizing your expressions and sounds, burning them into the tissues of his brain for later use.

He should’ve never invaded on something so personal, so precious, in the first place.

“I’m not sure she’d like me to.”

He doesn’t mean for it to come out as utterly disappointed as it does, whole face crumpling with bitter embarrassment. Eyes scrunched shut tightly, he attempts to clarify himself.

“I just mean—I don’t want to upset—offend—her any further,”

“There are no such worries to be had,” Ayato reassures lightly as he turns back to look at you, a hand reaching out to cup your jaw, long fingers tracing the curve of your cheek, the bow of your lips. “Right, sweetheart? You don’t mind if Thoma stays to watch, do you? Wouldn’t you like to show him how pretty you look when you cum on Daddy’s cock?”

Another one of those sinful whimpers claws at the back of Thoma’s tongue, but your eyes have gone glassy, glittery, glazed over with sheer want, lips parting a little as you nod.

“See?” Ayato says, but his eyes do not stray from yours, his head quirking slightly, voice gone soft. “She doesn’t mind one bit.”

Microscopic shards of ice prick through his skin, and Thoma shivers.

“Are you sure?” he whispers, wincing with the words.

“Absolutely positive,” Ayato responds with an amicable smile, finally moving to face him again. “But the choice is yours, Thoma.”

Swallowing thickly, Thoma’s eyes shift from Ayato’s face to yours, and then back again, tongue running along this top teeth and sucking as he contemplates. He wants to, of course he wants to, god does he ever want to, but—

“Stay,” you offer quietly, chin tucked cutely to your chest, gazing at him through your lashes. “Please, stay.”

And so, he does.

There’s something so taboo about it all, something so wrong, so bad about watching his boss fuck his most precious treasure, cinders of desire flickering in Thoma’s tummy as he settles down on the floor only a few feet away from your tangled bodies, legs tucked beneath him.

The hunger in Ayato’s eyes is fierce enough to swallow you whole, pupils blown and insatiable as they glide over your body, soaking up every expression, sucking down every sound, his face a heady blend of admiration and ardor.

But Thoma can’t blame him; you look breathtakingly beautiful. Skin sweat-drenched and sparkling, lips bitten raw and puffy, tiny crystal teardrops still clinging stubbornly to your clumped lashes, the devotion in your stare so strong it’s nearly crushing. Paired with the symphony of your soft mewls and sweet whimpers, you’re a living, breathing masterpiece all on your own.

He isn’t sure what, exactly, he was expecting Ayato’s style of fucking to consist of, but the healthy mix of slow, hard, sensual thrusts—filled with murmured out teases and lots of biting, licking, kissing—followed by bouts of fast, rough pistons of his hips—filled with sharp, mocking sentiments and cruel little laughs, all still managing to sound elegant in Ayato’s dignified lilt despite their callous nature—is really fucking hot.

Blunt nails carve crescents into his flesh as his fists clench tighter, thin skin stretched taut over his knuckles.

His cock is aching, but he’s unsure if he’s allowed to touch it. Would rubbing the heal of his palm against it be considered rude, or would Ayato see it as silly constraint? What if he took it out? Does he even want to take it out? Is it weird if he does? Is it weird if he doesn’t?

“Thoma,” his lord calls out in a singsong scold, stilling his hips and snapping Thoma from his thread of thoughts. “I can hear you thinking.”

“Sorry, my lord,” he responds immediately, hands uncurling and palms laid flat against his tensed thighs. “I just, uh, I...I don’t really know what to do.”

Heat scalds his cheeks at the mumbled confession, and he resists the urge to shut his eyes against the mirth his humiliation has painted across his boss’s face.

“You can do whatever you’d like,” Ayato responds, as if it’s that easy, that obvious. Amethyst eyes seach his face, and Thoma forces his spine to straighten, avoiding the temptation to hunch in on himself in a futile attempt to protect himself from his lord’s vying, prying gaze.

“My,” Ayato finally says. “I’ve hardly begun, yet you’re so hard you’re leaking through your pants. It’s...incredible.”

Thoma’s eyebrows knit in confusion, head shaking a little to indicate that he doesn’t understand. Incredible? It’s ignominious, is what it is.

But Ayato’s still observing him with that inquisitive gaze, eyes darting to your heaving body for a moment, still impaled by his cock and trying your best to keep from wiggling impatiently, before returning to Thoma’s face.

“Thoma,” he begins conversationally, and Thoma’s heart begins to pound, ribs rattling with the force. “Would you like a turn? I think it’s awfully selfish of me to keep her all to myself tonight, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I’m sorry?” Thoma sputters as the question tangles on his tongue, eyes blinking rapidly with incredulity, head nudged forward as if he’s sure he’s just misheard his lord.

“I’m asking if you’d like to fuck her,” Ayato chuckles—a patronizing little sound that plays at the back of his throat, as if Thoma’s uncertainty is so cute—and Thoma flinches. It’s always so jarring to hear such a vile curse fall from the lips of such an elegant man.

“I—No, no, my lord, I could never, she—she’s yours, and—”

“You are, by all accounts, our guest this evening. I have invited you to stay, and I think it’d be rude of me not to offer you a turn,” he explains. “You don’t have to if you aren’t comfortable with it,” Ayato adds at Thoma’s hesitance. “I am merely extending the invitation, should you wish to take it. But if you are content with just watching, that is perfectly fine, too.”

“I...Want to,” he slowly exhales the confession from his mouth after a stretch of ringing silence, eyes finding yours. “But...I—Is it alright?”

Mutely, you look towards your Daddy, something akin to distress saturating your features. Ayato frowns, shaking his head a little, and your lips mimic his own, eyebrows raising with incentive.

“Show her your cock,” Ayato demands after a moment of unspoken conversation.

The order startles Thoma, and he coughs around his response. “I, um—”

“Go on,” Ayato urges gently, violet eyes kind and trusting, disarming, that terrifying twinkle Ayato had never dared to turn on Thoma before tonight now replaced with that comforting familiarity his direct commands bring. “Show her your cock, and I promise you, she’ll say yes.”

It’s an odd request, and Thoma doesn’t fully understand it’s implications, but he obeys anyway.

Nodding to himself, Thoma shuffles closer to you, trembling hands fumbling with the waistband of his pants, gracelessly shoving at it until it yields, allowing his cock to spring free.

It glistens in the dim glow of the lamplight, head smeared with precum and steadily drooling out pearlets, shaft pretty and pink and oh-so-perfect. You murmur something, soft and awe-stricken, and Thoma’s gaze snaps to your face.

“Hmm?”

“I said it’s really pretty,” you repeat, seemingly captivated, fingers flexing, as if you wish to touch. “It’s almost as pretty as Daddy’s.”

“Oh! Uh,” heat crawls up the back of his neck and he resists the urge to scratch at it, forcing his eyes to stay trained on your profile. “Thanks,”

“You like it, baby?” Ayato coos, brushing back a few strands of sweat-soaked hair from your temple. “You want it?”

“Yes,” you breathe, gazing up at Ayato before shifting your stare to Thoma, head nodding in dreamy little movements. “Yes, please.”

“Are you sure?” Thoma asks for what seems like the umpteenth time tonight, powerless to keep the question from leaving his mouth, urgently requiring that explicit confirmation that this is real, that this is happening.

“Yeah,” you stare up at him with shimmering eyes, tongue sucking your bottom lip between your teeth and speaking around it. “Please, can I have it?”

Thoma’s body is moving the moment the bashful request tumbles from your lips, body gracefully replacing Ayato’s—who resigns himself to sitting near your head—and hips finding a snug place between your spread thighs, his cock bobbing with enthusiasm.

“So polite, my darling,” Ayato murmurs, and while the timbre in his voice is mocking, his eyes are soft, the pads of his fingertips trailing along your jaw, down the curve of your neck.

A quiet noise of contentment vibrates at the back of your throat, and you lean into your Daddy’s touch, gaze filled to the brim with adoration, begging for more of his sugary approval.

The moment feels too intimate, and Thoma averts his eyes. The head of his cock bumps against your cute little hole a second later, selfishly drawing your attention back to him, and you whine a little, hips twitching downward in desperation.

“She hasn’t been allowed to cum on a cock in a while,” Ayato explains, still gazing at you with melted affection in his eyes, palm stroking your damp forehead. “I’m quite sure she’s exceptionally excited to have you inside her,”

For a moment, such a thought instils in Thoma a bold confidence, sparks of it zipping up his spine, straightening each vertebra as they pass.

But they fizzle just as fast as they ignited, leaving behind a special type of terror, an icy dread that seeps into his bones and submerges his brain.

What if he isn’t good enough?

While his cock is considerably thick—possibly slightly thicker than what you’re used to—he definitely isn’t as big as Ayato. Will he even be able to satisfy you at all, or will he only leave you with the sourness of disappointment and regret? Is he merely here to make an utter fool of himself by cumming so hard, so fast it’s piteous? It’s been an embarrassingly long time since the last time he’s had sex, what if—

“Thoma? What are you waiting for?”

Ayato’s voice yanks him from the snare of his own thoughts once again, his eyes flashing to his superior, worry written into the creases of his forehead. Frowning, Ayato blinks twice, imploring him to speak what’s currently infecting his mind.

“What’s wrong?”

And, oh, it’s so fucking embarrassing to have to say it aloud, to admit to all of his timorous thoughts of being wholly inadequate, eyes downcast as he mumbles out his concerns.

Unsurprisingly, Ayato laughs—something that isn’t quite nice, but isn’t quite mean, either, like candied condescension—and leans forward to clap a reassuring hand on Thoma’s shoulder.

“That is entirely okay,” he says, and Thoma’s brow furrows. “She doesn’t have to cum. You can just use her, if you’d like; she’d be happy with that, too,” he pauses, violet eyes flitting to your own and eliciting an obedient nod, as if to prove his point. “And then I’ll take care of the rest. Just enjoy yourself, Thoma.”

”But...But I—” Thoma’s nose wrinkles in distaste, and Ayato’s frown deepens. Reaching out, he takes the younger man’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, tilting it up to face him and holding it firmly in place.

Outwardly, Ayato appears as calm as the smooth, cool surface of an ice-glazed lake, but Thoma knows better. Thoma can see the impatience, the irritation, beginning to simmer just beneath that layer of polished frost; the blazing periwinkle that demands Thoma spit it out already, the infinitesimal flexing of his jaw, methodically pulsing in time with his even breaths; one, two, three, tense, hold, relax, one, two, three.

Clearing his throat, Thoma continues, ignoring the slight tremor sewn into his voice. “But I want to satisfy her, my lord.”

It’s hard not to grimace as the confession hangs thickly in the air between them, Ayato’s eyes clouding over with something undecipherable, something Thoma’s never experienced before. The look makes his skin crawl, little spikes of sweat erupting from his pores as he’s forced to hold his superior’s scalding gaze.

“Alright,” Ayato says after a moment of consideration, finally releasing Thoma’s chin. “I’ll show you how, briefly, and then we can get on with this. Sound reasonable?”

Thoma’s head is nodding, but Ayato doesn’t wait for an answer, moving towards the slighter man and taking Thoma’s hand between his large one, palm molding to the back as he pushes two of Thoma’s fingers down.

“It doesn’t take much,” Ayato’s saying, voice turned professional as he wraps his own fingers over Thoma’s folded ones, bringing their mess of hands to your fluttering cunt and beginning to insert them.

“Daddy!” you gasp, eyes squeezing shut as your delicate flesh yields to the four fingers.

Ignoring you, Ayato continues in the same matter-of-fact lilt. “Her favourite spot is right here,” he curls his fingers, forcing Thoma’s to curl in conjunction, pressing their knuckles into a rough, swollen patch of tissue.

A loud, sharp cry rips itself from your chest, eyes springing open only to fall shut again as Ayato massages the spot, your hips instinctually grinding downward, desperate for more.

“If you can, try to rub your cock against it, like this,” Ayato folds their fingers halfway, forcing them to dig into your silky walls and move in long, slow strokes, each pass over that spot sending a borderline violent shudder rippling through your body.

“It’s very sensitive.” Ayato nudges the spot once more—a demonstration of sorts—before gently removing their fingers. “I trust that now that you know it’s location, you’ll have no trouble angling your hips to ensure your cockhead hits it, yes?”

If he doesn’t cum in the first ten seconds, maybe.

He has several additional questions—what type of thrusts do you enjoy most? Is there a particular pace you like the best?—but Ayato is done teaching.

You seem to be getting restless, too, Thoma’s name falling from your lips in the sweetest little whimpers. “Thoma, Thoma, please, give me your cock, please,”

You sound so fucking needy, almost bordering on bratty as you reach for him, hips wiggling, thighs straining as they spread wider. Cavernous pupils shine in the low light, eyes glazed over with sugared desire and half-lidded with lust.

And finally, finally, Thoma snaps.

His body’s moving before he’s even made the conscious decision to, primal instinct surging through his blood, overwhelming his body and overriding his mind, and he growls, using his sharp hips to keep your thighs spread wide.

It’s all automatic impulse now, rational thought drowned by animalistic urges and sheer desire, that burning need he had been so desperately attempting to suppress, to control, finally erupting, flames of it burning through his veins, incinerating all previous trepidation.

And then he’s shoving his cock into you, moaning at the way your flesh yields to him, submits to him, opens up for him, stretching and splitting to accommodate his girth.

Just one swift, sharp thrust is all it takes to have him buried to the hilt, cockhead pressed snugly against your sensitive cervix. His hips shove forward further, knocking a gasp from your throat, cockhead grinding in slow, hard circles against the mound of tissue.

“Th-Thoma!” you nearly wheeze, little fingers tangling in the cotton of his t-shirt, nails piercing through the thin material and leaving fine, ragged lines of red in the muscles of his back. “Hurts!”

“Oh, you can take it,” Ayato chastises lightly, speaking over the deep growl rumbling in Thoma’s chest. It’s incredible, how calm his lord sounds, how entirely unaffected he seems to be, tone kept conversational, as if none of this matters in the slightest.

But Thoma’s barely listening; Thoma barely cares at this point, ears buzzing and vision blurred by pure lust, this insatiable craving he had tried so hard to deny, to erase, to restrain, so fierce it has dulled all of his senses to anything other than you.

Leaning back slightly, he hooks a hand under each of your knees and pushes up, up, up until your knees nudge your shoulders, legs folded up on either side of your body.

“Be a—Be a good girl and hold yourself open for me, yeah?”

It’s supposed to be an instruction, a demand, but it comes out whiny and full of yearning, voice already wrecked and mangled in his throat. If he were in his right mind, he’d be horrified by how eager, how utterly desperate he sounds. Yet he doesn’t pay it any mind at all, the breathy plead that practically dribbled from his lips like dollops of thick honey, too focused on fucking you for it to be of any importance.

With a singular, shaky exhale, his hips draw back, slow and steady, the smooth sculpted muscles in his arms flexing with the strain as he hovers above you, stilling for just a moment before he’s fucking back into you, his thrust harsh enough to send your entire body skidding against the wood beneath you, setting a ruthless pace from the start.

Each pound of his hips is more brutal than the last, each ramming fractured sobs and pitched mewls of his name from your chest, each forceful enough to shove Ayato’s heavy desk a few inches forward with every plunge into you, mahogany wood scraping against the floorboards.

It must be hurtful for you, each slam of his cockhead against your cervix, each drag of his shaft against that spot, your features twisted in the perfect mix of pain and pleasure; eyebrows scrunched and eyes squeezed shut, mouth lolling open and tongue flopping about, lips slicked sheen with spit, drool oozing from the corners of your mouth to drip in viscous beads along your jaw.

It’s fucking beautiful, the most immaculate piece of art Thoma has ever witnessed, experienced, had a hand in creating.

“You like that, huh?” he’s nearly spitting at you, words sandwiched between ragged pants. “It’s good?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” you’re chanting, head nodding in quick little motions as your eyes drift back, eyelashes fluttering prettily.

“Tell me,” he keens, voice shattered by his razored breaths. “Tell me how much you like my cock,”

And although his tone borders on begging, his eyes are sharp and blazing with ardor, his chest heaving with exertion, strands of golden hair saturated in sweat and clinging to his forehead, his temples, his neck.

“Your cock is so good, Thoma,” you nearly wail. “I love it—I-I love it s’much!”

A groan vibrates in his chest, his eyes shutting tightly before springing open again, shuddering out a breathy little, “Yeah?” in time with the next drive forward of his hips.

“Uh—Uh-huh, so big, fills me up so good, can feel you in my tummy, Thoma,”

The resulting whine that catches in his throat, pitched high and desperate, is absolutely pathetic—though you don’t seem to think so, cute little cunt pulsing around his cock in response.

“Lemme feel, baby—ah, fuck—lemme feel,”

A large hand splays itself on your gut, his hips never once faltering as he presses down, a loud cry falling from his lips as the tip of his cock nudges his palm through your flesh.

“God,” he breathes. “That’s so fucking hot.”

Your dainty hand lays itself atop of his, soft palm pressing down harder, forcing him to feel the bulge of his cock buried inside of you again, a choked moan strangling itself in his throat as the arm supporting his weight begins to quiver.

He can tell that you’re getting close now, whole body beginning to tremble beneath his own, little fingers digging into the flesh of your thighs as you force yourself open wider for him.

Ayato can tell, too.

“Are you going to cum, sweetheart?” he asks, the pet name drenched in saccharine condescension. “Are you going to show Thoma how very pretty you look, creaming all over his cock?”

You can barely speak, too fucked out to manage anything other than the stammered stream of Yes, Daddy’s and Can I, please Daddy?’s flowing steadily from your mouth.

Ayato gives you his murmured permission—a gentle Go ahead, princess—and then you’re complying, convulsing cunt gushing all over Thoma’s cock, a tangle of his name and your Daddy’s jumbled on your tongue, a mess of letters so intertwined that they’ve become one unintelligible word.

“Good girl,” Ayato breathes, and that’s the first time Thoma has heard him sound affected by anything all night.

Thoma’s thrusts are getting sloppy now, devolved into frantic and uneven jackhammering that gains more speed with each snap forward, the aftershocks of your orgasm still coursing through your veins, vibrations spiking with each pump of his hips.

He can feel his own orgasm simmering in the pit of his stomach, rising higher and higher with every weak throb of your over-sensitive cunt, growing hotter and hotter with every noise he manages to fuck out of you until it’s finally boiling over, up his throat and out his mouth and—

“Oh, oh god, oh, Aya—my lord, I—I’m gonna—Can I—Can I—” And, truthfully, Thoma isn’t sure whether he’s asking if he can cum, or if he can cum inside his master’s favourite plaything.

But he doesn’t have to decide; Ayato does that for him.

Humming in contemplation, amethyst eyes shift from Thoma to you, Ayato’s head tilting slightly. “Would you like his cum, princess?”

Your response is immediate, bleary eyes snapping to Ayato’s face, head nodding enthusiastically. “Oh gosh, Daddy, yes, yes, I want his cum, yes!”

“F-Fuck,” Thoma whimpers, hips stuttering with the shudder of his breath.

“You can cum inside, Thoma,” Ayato grants him permission, voice soft as a silk blanket that envelopes him, caressing his cheek as it drapes itself across his shoulders—a warm, familiar embrace of encouragement, of praise, of approval.

“Th-Thank you, my lord,”

“I want it, Thoma,” you’re whimpering beneath him, blinking up at him with filmy eyes, words drowning in muddled pools of spit collecting in the dips and crevices of your mouth. “I want it, I-I want it, give it to me,”

“Greedy girl,” Ayato scolds with a disapproving click of his tongue, demeanour changed in an instant. “Ask nicely,”

Turning your glassy gaze back on Thoma, you stare up at him like he’s some sort of fucking god, eyes glistening with potent want, an indescribable craving that manifests as pleads spilling from your mouth.

“Thoma, Thoma, please give me your cum, please, fill me up with it, stuff me full of it, I want it so bad, Thoma, pretty please!” you practically cough out, the sentiment fractured by hiccups and gurgled together at the back of your throat, words flowing in one continuous sob.

It’s so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, so fucking delicious, and the whine that claws it’s way past his lips and rips through his gasping breaths is nothing short of gorgeous, pitched high and cracked with pleasure, with desire.

“Give my princess what she wants, Thoma,” Ayato says, and although it’s phrased as a statement, it’s clearly an order, and Thoma’s good at following those.

Three more pistons of his hips and he’s obeying his master. It’s vicious, the shudder that tears through Thoma’s body as his cock throbs, filling you to the brim with scalding, thick cum, so much so that it’s begun to leak out of your cunt, smeared all over Thoma’s cock and your inner thighs, pearly glops of it drooling down your ass to collect in a puddle on Ayato’s desk.

Black darkens the edges of his vision, a pair of strong hands catching him just before he collapses on top of you, Ayato leaning Thoma against his chest, his cheek snug against the crook of his lord’s neck, exhaling uneven little pants of breath against his skin.

Everything feels hazy, like time has slowed, seconds dripping by as if they were hours, the gentle, repetitive rhythm of Ayato’s fingers through Thoma’s hair keeping him grounded in this reality.

“Come here, baby,” Ayato murmurs, holding his free arm out towards you and inviting you to crawl sluggishly towards him. You allow yourself to be wrapped up in your Daddy’s embrace, head finding purchase on Thoma’s damp chest, clinging to the both of them.

“You did so well,” Ayato whispers, punctuating his praise with chaste kisses to the crown of your head. “You both did so well, I’m so proud of you. You were both so good for me.”

And, well, all either of you ever want to be is good for him.

#thoma x reader #kamisato ayato x reader #ayato x reader #thoma smut #kamisato ayato smut #ayato smut #eeeeee i hope this works!!#i figured it would be good to have it here as well #tw:daddy kink #tw:dubcon #tw:toxic relationship #tw:size kink #tw:degradation

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