#scar's moving castle | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ahqkas · 9 days

Text

♯ TOO SWEET ; mattheo riddle

❛ i take my whiskey neat, my coffee black and my bed at 3, you’re too sweet for me ❜

PAIRING! mattheo riddle x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS! in which mattheo recalled the two times you were too sweet for him (based on this req.!!)

WORD COUNT! 4.1k

WARNINGS AND TAGS! consummation of alcohol, lovesick mattheo, fluff, angst, a lot of my hcs for mattheo’s past (i wrote him the way i see him), lmk if i missed smth !!

NOTES! this is purely my view on mattheo’s character bc the hc i wrote suit him sm 😿😿 reblogs & comments are greatly appreciated <3

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

ONCE A MAN FALLS IN LOVE, he finds himself drawn to not just the physical beauty of his muse, but for the essence of who the person truly is - their quirks, intelligence, kindness, and their unique way of seeing the world. Every interaction, every shared experience, every memory he brings, adds another layer to his adoration towards the love of his life.

His love for them is evident in the little things - the way he watches them when they aren't looking, the small gestures of thoughtfulness, the silent support during their dark moments of life. It's in the way he listens, truly listens, to the hopes and dreams, fears and frustrations, always eager to offer his thoughts and ideas. This love manifests in his desire to be their anchor in times of storm, their cheerleader in moments of triumph, and their person in all the in-betweens. It is a love that values their independence and individuality, recognizing that they are their own person with their own journey, and yet, he longs to be a part of that journey, to walk alongside them and share in their joys and sorrows of life.

Mattheo Riddle was no different.

He marvels at your kindness, your sweetness, and the light you bring into his life. You are his muse, his inspiration, a spark of the goodness that stands in stark contrast to his own perceived flaws and insecurities he feels deep inside himself. He sees you as an angel, a pure and radiant being who somehow chose to share your life with him, despite his own imperfections and inner demons.

He sees you as an angel in a human form, who chose to live among the devils, just so he could feel the heavenly touch for the first and last time in all eternity.

He often wonders how he, with all his rough edges, hidden scars, and a past life without a happy memory, could be worthy of your love. He feels like a monster, haunted by past mistakes and burdened by the weight of his own fears and failings. You, on the other hand, are everything he aspires to be - kind, compassionate, and endlessly forgiving. Your presence in his life is a constant reminder of the beauty and grace that he lacks, and yet, your love makes him strive to be better, to rise above his darkness and become someone worthy of your affection.

In his heart, he knows that your love is transforming him, helping him to heal and grow. Your existence is a light that dispels his inner darkness, a reminder for him to cherish that even monsters like him can be loved. He clings to this, that your love is making him a better man, one day at a time.

01. THE PARTY

The Slytherin common room was full of shadows and flickering lights, transformed into a wild moment of freedom for the night. The music, a thundering beat that echoed off the stone walls, could be heard from miles away, yet no professor or ghost visited the common room to cancel the party. It was as if the ancient castle itself had granted this one night of freedom to its most cunning and ambitious students. The rhythmic thrum of bass notes and the infectious melody of the latest wizarding hits filled the air, blending with the sound of laughter and the clink of glasses.

Bodies moved in a hypnotic dance, swaying in sync with the music. The students had discarded their usual aloof demeanors and uniforms, lost in the euphoria and joy of the moment. Green and silver decorations adorned every surface, shimmering under the enchanted lights that hung from the ceiling like glowing jewels. Laughter rang out, high and clear, mingling with the deep, resonant hum of conversation.

In one corner, a group of seventh years huddled together, their heads bent close in a whisper, before erupting into loud laughter. Nearby, a couple twirled around each other, their bodies intertwining like dark waves, eyes locked in their private world amidst the chaos around them. The fireplace, usually a place of quiet contemplation, was now surrounded by students perched on its stone ledge, their eyes gleaming with the thrill of the night and alcohol.

Long tables filled with food and drink stretched along one wall, bearing the weight of a feast other students could be jealous of. Platters of magical meals, charmed to stay warm, smelled of aromas that mingled with the scent of butterbeer and stronger beverages. Bottles of firewhisky and elf-made wine were passed from hand to hand, each sip fueling the atmosphere more and more as drunken the students got. The alcohol flowed freely, loosening tongues, transforming even the shyest students into party animals of the night.

The Slytherin common room had never felt so alive. Tonight, they were not just the students of Hogwarts; they were a family, united by their house and their understanding of what it meant to be a Slytherin.

Mattheo Riddle was one of those students who were enjoying themselves tonight. His breathing features were illuminated by the green lights as he leaned casually against a stone wall, a cup of firewhisky filled to the brim in his hand. The amber liquid sloshed perilously close to the edge with each of his slowed gestures, but Mattheo seemed unconcerned, clearly lost in the haze of alcohol. His dark curls, usually styled in the way that made uncountable amount of girls fall on their knees, now fell loose around his face as you watched from a close distance.

He was engaged in a drunken conversation with Theodore Nott, whose tall, lanky frame was the opposite to Mattheo's more athletic build. Theo's typically serious demeanor had softened, his features relaxed into a rare, genuine smile as he listened to Mattheo's ramblings with a giggle threatening to spill out from his lips. The two of them, often seen together, now looked like true brothers. It was almost scary how much they resembled family when they were drunk.

Mattheo's voice, rich and slightly slurred, carried over the music as he recounted a particularly outrageous story from his recent fight. Theodore threw his head back and laughed. It was clear to anyone how close those two boys were, drunk or sober.

"Can you believe he actually thought I was serious?" Mattheo snickered with a big grin stretching across his face, taking a swig from his cup, the whiskey burning a warm path down his throat. "I mean, I barely managed to keep a straight face!"

Theodore laughed, shaking his head in disbelief. "You're a menace, Riddle. One of these days, you're going to get expelled."

"Ah, but tonight isn't that night, mate," Mattheo replied with a slow wink, raising his glass in a mock toast. "To living dangerously and laughing in the face of consequences!"

They clinked their cups together, the sound barely audible over the throbbing beat of the music and you thought now was the best time to approach your boyfriend.

Mattheo's brown irises scanned the crowd, catching a look of you as you pushed your way through the crowd of dancing bodies. The sight of you instantly brightened his expression and a genuine smile spread across his face. He felt a rush of emotions that the whiskey in his hand only intensified, each beat of his heart echoing with the certainty that what he held for you was pure love. The Slytherin straightened up, his posture shifting from the casual slouch of a carefree boy to the attentive stance of a man. Theodore noticed the change and a knowing smirk made its appearance on his lips as he stepped aside, giving the two of you a moment of privacy.

"[Name]," your boyfriend called out, his voice full of warmth. He reached out, his fingers lightly brushing against yours as you came closer. "There you are, love."

You beamed up at him, your eyes reflecting the party's enchanted lights, making them look like twin stars. "Having fun, are we?" you teased and the tone of your voice carried a playful match that always managed to make his heart skip a beat.

"Only now that you're here," he replied. The world around you seemed to blur as he gazed down at you, all the noise and chaos fading into the background. "You make everything better."

Drunk on both the whiskey and his overwhelming affection, the boy's usual reservations melted away. He held you close, his hands resting on your waist as if anchoring himself to your presence. When he was sober or feeling down at heart, his love for you was often hidden beneath layers of stoicism and insecurity, but now, in this moment of happy drunkenness, it shone through.

He bent down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally your lips, enjoying the sweetness of the contact. "I'm so lucky to have you," he murmured against your lips, his voice thick with emotion. "I don't deserve you, but I'm going to spend every day trying to be worthy of your love."

“You have no idea what you mean to me. I look at you and . . . it’s like you’re the sun and I’m just a planet orbiting around you, soaking up your light,” he continued without a break. The boy wanted to get every one of his words out as fast as humanly possible. To show you his hidden feelings he wasn't able to tell you before. “You’re my everything, [Name]. I don’t know how I got so lucky. You’re so kind, so . . . good. And me? I’m just . . . I’m a mess, you know? A monster sometimes.”

You shook your head lightly and took his hands into your own, enveloping him with your warmth. He was starting to get emotional, and you didn't need to have your boyfriend drunkenly mopping around. His mood changed like weather when alcohol got involved. “You’re not a monster, Mattheo. You’re human. We all have our demons.”

“But you,” he didn't allow you to finish your sentence before he spoke up again, his voice raw with sincerity, “you make me want to be better. For you. I see you, and I just want to be the man you deserve. I’m not always good at it, but I try. I try because you’re worth it.”

You could see the glazed look in his eyes as he swayed slightly on the spot. He was rough around the edges, you couldn't deny the truth, but he was the sweetest boy when he managed to fall in love. Which wasn't exactly difficult, Mattheo fell in love easily. But when he did, it was worth everything. Mattheo was your sweet boy. “Love,” you said softly to him, your voice filled with gentle concern to the brim, “you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Maybe it’s time to slow down a little, okay?”

Mattheo blinked, giving you a lopsided grin, his expression a mix of boyish charm and pure happiness. “But I’m fine, [nickname]. I feel great. Better than great, actually. With you here, everything’s perfect.”

“I know you’re having a good time, but I don’t want you to feel terrible tomorrow. Let’s take a break from the firewhisky for now, alright?”

He pouted slightly, his shoulders slumping as he realized you were actually serious. “You’re probably right,” he admitted, a hint of reluctance in his voice. “But only because you’re asking me.” You chuckled softly at his behavior, threading your fingers through his and gently leading him away from the dancing crowd. You navigated through the common room, moving towards a quieter corner of the space where a plush couch sat, inviting you both in with open arms. The room’s enchantments cast soft shadows on the walls, the flickering lights creating a soothing atmosphere.

“Here, sit down,” you instructed as you guided him to sit on the couch. Mattheo obeyed, sinking into the cushions with a contented sigh. You sat beside him, your hand never leaving his. You took the half-empty cup of whiskey from his hold, reaching for a glass of water on the table nearby instead and handing it to him. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

Mattheo took the glass, his fingers brushing against yours as he did. He took a long sip, the cool water a welcome relief from the heat of the alcohol he consumed. “You really do take good care of me, don’t you?” he murmured, his head resting against the back of the couch as he looked at you with a mixture of admiration and exhaustion.

“Someone has to,” you replied playfully, brushing a stray curl of hair from his forehead. “And I wouldn’t want anyone else to have the job.”

As the night wore on, Mattheo felt a warmth spreading through him that was only partly due to the whiskey. It was the warmth of belonging, of being surrounded by friends who understood and accepted him, flaws and all. Despite his often rough exterior, he was deeply grateful for these moments, these stolen hours of joy in the corners of the Slytherin common room.

02 - THE MARK

The past has a profound power to shape a man, especially when that past is influenced by suffering at the hands of a father.

For Mattheo Riddle, his family history was the darkest shadow of all the shadows that clung to him, a reminder of the pain and fear that had molded his entire life. Raised in a home devoid of warmth, where love was a foreign concept and cruelty was a daily reality, Mattheo had learned to build tall and thick walls around his heart. A shield to protect him from more hurt that would come his way.

The orphanage was a harsh place, stripped of the luxuries the boy had unknowingly been born into. It was a world of strict discipline and a poor form of affection. The caretakers, overwhelmed and underfunded, had little patience for a child with such a notorious legacy. Mattheo grew up under the weight of whispers and sideways glances, the infamous name "Riddle" ensuring he was never just another child. The women of the orphanage knew his father, having taken care of him when he was around the same age as his son. What a wicked child Tom was. Mattheo was different because of that, marked, and this awareness shaped his formative years in ways he could barely comprehend.

As he grew older, the whispers about his family name became more pronounced. The children at the orphanage were cruel. “Monster,” they called him, creating the very fears that nested within his own heart. He began to internalize these taunts, seeing himself through the lens of his father's sins. The idea that he could be worthy of love seemed more and more distant, more of a fantasy that had no place in his reality. But the same idea of letting someone see past his defenses, of allowing someone to love him despite his flaws, seemed not only impossible but dangerous. For how could anyone love a monster, especially one crafted by his own father?

Despite this, Mattheo yearned for something more. He longed for the kind of love he had never known, a love that was gentle and kind, that saw past his scars and accepted him for who he was. But every time he felt himself getting close to someone, the fear surged up, a wave of doubt and self-loathing washed over him and forced him to retreat behind his walls again. It was a never-ending cycle.

Hogwarts had saved him.

Mattheo Riddle’s first steps into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry were met with a mixture of curiosity, awe, and apprehension. For the other students, he was a figure of whispered rumors, his infamous last name carrying with it a weight of fear and fascination. They had heard the stories of his father’s dark acts, of the legacy that haunted the halls of the castle like a ghost. But for Mattheo himself, Hogwarts represented a new beginning, a chance to escape the personal hell he called the orphanage and create his own path. The boy was no longer just another orphan. Here, he could be anything he wanted to be.

He wasn't deaf. The young boy could feel the weight of his father’s name bearing down on him like an invisible burden. And he wasn't blind either. He saw the way the other students looked at him, their eyes flickering with a mixture of fear and suspicion. They didn’t openly taunt him as the children in the orphanage had done, but he could sense the whispers and the wary glances that followed him wherever he went. For Mattheo, however, their fear was a source of power. He reveled in the attention, in the way his presence commanded respect, even if it was tinged with fear. He was finally someone.

He excelled in his classes, his natural talent and restless ambition setting him apart from his peers. But it was on the Quidditch pitch that Mattheo truly came into his own. Flying high above the castle grounds, he felt a sense of freedom unlike anything he had ever known. With every twist and turn of his broomstick, he left behind the weight of his past and embraced the thrill of the present, making him feel like a bird.

Six years had passed since Mattheo Riddle first walked through the grand doors of Hogwarts, a hopeful and determined young wizard with dreams of greatness he was so sure he'd achieve. But now, as he entered his sixth year at the renowned school of magic, the world around him had shifted irrevocably. The return of Lord Voldemort two years prior had plunged the wizarding world into chaos, and with it, Mattheo’s life had been destroyed once again.

Even among his fellow Slytherins, Mattheo felt like an outsider, a traitor to his own house and everything it stood for. He had once prided himself on his ambition and cunning, on his unwavering determination to succeed at any cost. But it didn't matter anymore.

Mattheo sat alone in the quiet atmosphere of the Astronomy Tower, his gaze fixed on the night sky that sparkled with millions of stars. Each twinkling light seemed to mock him, making fun of the darkness that now stained his soul even more than before. His fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket tightly, as if seeking some comfort in the fabric, but finding none.

On his left forearm, the Dark Mark burned like a brand upon his skin. It was a mark of shame, of betrayal, and every time he looked upon it, he felt a sickening sense of disgust and self-loathing. He had thought that by aligning himself with the Dark Lord, his father, he would finally be able to escape the shadows of his past, to prove himself worthy of the name Riddle and his father's presence. But now, he realized that he had only succeeded in plunging himself deeper into the deep hole. Even the orphanage was better than this.

The footsteps behind him shattered the sweet silence, echoing off the stone walls of the tower. Mattheo tensed, his heart racing as he turned to face the intruder, steeling himself for whatever judgment or punishment awaited him. But as he turned, he was met not with the accusing glare of Filch or the triumphant sneer of a rival, but with the concerned gaze of a familiar face. It was you, with your eyes filled with worry as you approached him slowly, as if he'd disappear if you were a bit louder.

“I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Are you alright?”

No, he wasn't alright. But he would be caught dead sooner than having you worry about him like that and more.

He forced a tight-lipped smile, attempting to mask the emotions raging within him. “I’m fine,” he replied, his voice strained with the effort of maintaining the facade. “Just . . . thinking.”

You stepped closer, taking a seat on the ground beside him. “You don’t have to pretend with me, Mattheo. I know something’s been troubling you lately. You can talk to me.”

You were his angel, full of that purity and light he adored about you in a world darkened by his own sins. He longed to confide in you, to unburden himself of the guilt and shame that had consumed him since he had received the Dark Mark. But the fear of your rejection, of you seeing him for the monster he believed himself to be, held him back. It would shatter his heart, to see the pained expression on your face.

“I . . .” he began, his voice faltering as he struggled to find the words, "there's something I need to show you." With a heavy heart and trembling hands, Mattheo finally mustered the courage to reveal the truth to you. For months, he had carried the burden of the dark secret alone, pushing you out and shutting you down in an attempt to shield and protect you from the darkness that was his father. But now, as he sat before you, his heart and his soul laid bare, he knew that he could no longer hide from the truth. The boy reached for the sleeve of his jacket, his fingers fumbling as he pushed the fabric up to reveal the twisted lines of the Dark Mark etched upon his skin. The sight of it made him recoil, a wave of shame washing over him as he exposed his deepest, darkest secret to the one person he had sworn to protect.

Your eyes widened in shock as you took in the mark, your palm flying to your mouth in disbelief. For a long moment, there was silence between the two of you, broken only by the sound of your shallow breathing and the distant hum of the night owls.

“I received this a few weeks ago," Mattheo confessed, his eyes avoiding yours. "When he decided I was good enough for him."

He felt your gaze on him, eyes searching his face for answers. He could see the confusion and concern written in your expression, but beneath it all, he saw something else - a flicker of understanding and acceptance that filled him with both hope and fear. How can someone be so good to someone like him? "I've been living with the Malfoys ever since," he continued, the words tumbling out in a rush as he struggled to explain himself. "But it's not what you think, [Name]. I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be a part of his plans, to be branded as one of his followers. But I had no choice. He made me do it."

Tears welled in his eyes as he spoke, and he felt a desperate plea for forgiveness in his chest. He needed you to understand, to see past the mistakes that consumed him and into the depths of his soul where his love for you burned bright and true. The thought of losing you hurt him more than the Cruciatus curse ever could.

“Forgive me. For shutting you out, for pushing you away. I was scared, I was ashamed . . . but I can't bear to keep this secret from you any longer. You deserve to know the truth, even if it means losing you forever."

Your heart swelled with a bittersweet mixture of sorrow as you gazed upon Mattheo, your sweet boy, sitting there before you with tears in his eyes and the weight of the world upon his shoulders. In that moment, all you wanted was to wrap him in your arms and shield him from the pain and darkness that threatened to consume him. With shaky hands, you reached out to him, fingers brushing against the mark of his father's followers etched upon his skin. The sight of it filled you with a fit of fierce anger, but beneath it all, you saw the boy you so dearly loved - a boy who had been shaped by his past but who was so much more than the picture of his scars.

"Love," you whispered into the dark, taking his face into your hands and wiping away those tears that managed to escape his control, "there's nothing to forgive. Nothing in this world could ever tear us apart, not even your father or that mark."

In that moment, Mattheo knew that he would do anything for you, that he would move heaven and earth to ensure your happiness and safety. You were his light in the darkness, his angel in a world filled with demons, and he would cherish that for the time being his heart swelled at the thought of you. You were simply too sweet for him and you knew that Mattheo’s struggles were far from over, but for tonight, that was enough.

515 notes · View notes

comfortless · 3 months

Note

I already sent you an ask today so hiiii

(Alright so now I hopefully have your attention, imagine: ancient settling, mercenary könig is made prisoner and enslaved and reader, a cute noble girl, buys him to ☆have fun☆. He doesn't mind at all.)

Have a good day!

anon whoever you are… every message that you have sent has been like you putting a clawing animal in my brain. all of these concepts are so good. sorry it took me a bit to get around to this one. <:•)

captured mercenary! König x noblewoman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. medieval au (so: gender role nonsense), slightly mean slightly pathetic König, very brief mentions of violence/beheading, masturbation.

“That one.”

You hear yourself speak without thought. Your voice is shy, almost. It’s unbecoming of your station to seem so meek… even as you eye the men lined up before you like cattle prepped for slaughter.

Prisoners, they were. All apart from the one you had chosen would be little more than toys for the executioner after what they’ve done: to think that such a little band of mercenaries would even be planning for a siege… ridiculous. Most of the men have already had their hair cut cleanly away from their necks in preparation for the blade that would be slicing past each vertebrae and layer of muscle to chop away their heads.

This one is saved only because he’s been stripped of his armors, and though his face is rather rugged… there’s strength beneath his skin and such a deep misery in his eyes it sets your chest ablaze with pity. He could be useful, a willing servant if you could only save him from what terrible thing haunts him.

Maybe it’s the old wounds that flare his skin with the raised flesh of scar tissue, perhaps it’s the harelip or the wild thing set between his thighs where he’s forced to kneel. It catches your eye, that last one…

The prisoner’s jaw sets when your finger does point his way, blue eyes narrow just a fraction as realization settles in the pit of his stomach. No freedom to be garnered here, no love, nothing but that blade he had intended to use against you sworn to you instead. If the giant spit at your feet then, it would be expected, welcomed almost with the way your chest roars with sympathy.

He only stares.

You pay off his captors with a few silver coins and watch as they lead him bound to your side. His arms are tied too tightly before him, muscles slack with exertion after trying to fight the ropes for what must have been hours. Whether he sees you as savior or something revolting remains unknown. He doesn’t speak, not even as a servant leads him into the back of your carriage and you step inside after him, holding up the middle of your gown as to not sully it with the dirt and old blood splattered over the stones layered for street.

When the horses begin to move you give the man a proper once over, hiding your smile beneath a handkerchief, free hand curled into the lap of your skirts. He’s not just tall and broad, but incredibly well endowed. Not just sad and downtrodden, but pissed, though the only tell remains his shaking fists. His gaze never meets yours for longer than a moment before it settles back to gaze at the passing tall grass and sheep prancing about the fields, but each time that it does… there is no denying the mixture of confusion, maybe even attraction upon his face.

Your home was something this giant had never had a taste of prior to you: a castle atop a hill, charming and stone with its high ramparts and blunt roof. You didn’t need his confirmation in words, though you do ask and get nothing in turn.

The carriage pulls you right through the gate and it is almost cute the way that this man’s eyes seem to wander as he takes it all in. There are other servants tending to the sheep and horses, the smell of fire and the chiming of blade meeting blade ringing out as men spar, there are cats to keep away pests and modest but cozy homes, a tavern, an inn all beyond the wall. A small city of your own: all for the perfect little noblewoman that you were.

The only thing that you lacked was the trained sword of a man to ensure your safety, and now you had that, too.

You explain to him his place here, the role that he would take for the price you paid as you both disembark from the wooden carriage. He would be fitted for armor donning your family’s crest come the morning, whipped into obedience should he dare raise a hand toward any one here. You even think to warn him of the executioner’s sloppy work, how he may even live with his head chopped only halfway off should you request it…. some horror you had heard one of the travelers speak of.

As the weeks pass, König does begin to settle immensely. His speech is disjointed and parsed, his mother tongue muddled with your own language in a way that is cute… terribly, horribly cute.

He’s intelligent and strong: spends much of his time out amongst the lower men aiding with the animals and teaching them the deft way he swings his blade. It is an art form in its own right, the way that he paints the air with swift strokes… For a woman to fawn over a man’s swordplay was absurd, but it was impossible not to enjoy when he taunts and jabs the way that he does.

He rarely wears that armor the blacksmith crafted for him, both a flattery and an insult. You don’t mind watching him best smaller men in solely his trousers, pressing their faces into the muck while he barks his insults to them in words they can not understand. To you, now, when he flashes the most beastly of grins in your direction and utters the words, “Verpiss dich.”

You aren’t even certain why you stand there rather than hissing out orders to have him taken away. Your stupid corset feels too tight, gown too small, and your chest aches. There's not been a thing you could do to have this man do more than simply tolerate you. He sleeps within his own room in the castle, eats his fill and then some, you talk to him and layer your words with praise. He has not once been punished for anything. Not even now.

“Come here,” you demand without thought, walking down the staircase to cross the yard with your hands balled into delicate fists at your sides.

Your giant only looks confused for a moment as he clambers off of the man he’s just wrestled to the earth and rights himself. His eyebrows raise, his nostrils flare… and then he laughs. At you like you’re the most puny of rabbits, hardly a threat. Your betters would have laughed too at just how fragile you sound, on the cusp of tears over what? Some ridiculous little crush on a captive soldier??

He eventually does as you ask, stomping over to stand before you- not kneel, he never knelt. If his height and stature were meant to intimidate… your god would have to forgive the thoughts that muddle your head then, like filthy water as you drink him in.

“Was…?”

So you explain to him as best you can just how insolent he’s being, how horribly he repays your kindness, how he would be dead on some shrouded mountain pass or have his body tossed into the river if not for you. You explain your heart out when tears come to your eyes and spring forth as your chittering continues, and you don’t even know if the moron can understand; he only stands there with the wildest grin on his face when he sees you beginning to sniffle and sob.

“Was?,” he demands again, blunt even as he takes your face into one of his large hands, turns your head to brush a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Why are you crying?”

“You need to learn your place!” And you know you’re being a hypocrite, that a proper lady should never allow a man to touch her like this, look at her the way that König does. You should call for a servant to have him dragged through the yard and whipped… or worse, but your voice only comes in a crestfallen whisper.

He shrugs those massive shoulders, rolls his neck and huffs a breath as he gazes down at you before his hand falls to his side and he merely walks away. That’s it.

Though you had the hopes that your warning had been taken seriously, the days following seem even worse.

König abandons his duties and takes up the most horrendous idea of courtship that he can muster. If courtship is even what it could be considered. It is more like a direct taunt, a jab now that he’s been made perfectly aware just how fragile the maiden he was sold to guard is.

He takes liberties once you’ve bedded down each night, your dresses stripped away to be replaced with a plain linen gown with nothing beneath: your only protection in the form of the wooden door between you two because König is no protector.

It always starts with the sound of spitting into his palm, then a drawn out sigh that rises to a near-animalistic groan. Sometimes he speaks, other times the soft, wet sounds rise in tempo until all that comes from his mouth are sharp hisses and whines.

This night proves to be the worst.

The wood creaks under his weight as he leans back against the door, stroking himself to the thought of you behind it. He makes it apparent when he breathes your name, low and shaky as you squeeze your eyes closed and pretend to not hear the words that follow.

“Scheiße… bet you’re tight,” he hisses between his depraved whimpers, the slick sounds increasing even as he rights himself to stand proper. You can almost hear the way he salivates, can almost imagine the way his jaw must fall slack and his eyes go dazed as he pleasures himself… you squeeze your thighs shut.

“Ja… you want it too, huh…” The bastard is most assuredly imagining you, knelt before him with the most helpless, reverent gaze as you plead for him. It should make you ill, yet it only stokes a fire in your belly, one that bridges between rage and need. “Ich will dich ficken…”

Your breath comes to a halt when your hand drifts beneath your thin gown, forcing yourself to listen as he brings himself to ruin in the halls as your finger presses to the spot that demands attention most of all. A fragile, shaking circle before your breath already begins to catch.

“Bitte…”

The brute sounds so helpless now, no longer the horrid thing that ordered you to “piss off” or scowled in your direction. He doesn’t know a thing about love… about how one should yearn for a maiden, only of spilling blood and seed. It’s only in the quiet of the night when the rest of the castle sleeps does he allow himself to be even this vulnerable… only his vulnerability seems even more terrifying.

His groans morph into pitiful sighs as he no doubt slows his motions, drawing out an impending orgasm in the hope that you will crawl to your door to let him in and fuck you rough on your bed.

“Just let me…”

Your thighs tremble as you weep between them in longing. The sooner it’s over the sooner you can close your eyes and drift back to sleep, no longer needing him the way he seems to need you now.

Your motions grow more heady, the patterns traced quicker and more deliberate as the heat rushes down further like the most vast wave of pure fire… When you tense, when your lips part to allow a low murmur of pleasure to slip from them, you’re met with laughter from the other side of the door.

“Ja… my lady… you do want it,” he hums as you draw your covers up and over your head in shame. You hadn’t been that loud, surely… but the way that he follows after, coming undone himself with a loud grunt as though it were some ridiculous competition…

“Let me fuck you next time,” he rasps, panting soft as he leans back. Depraved as he was, you were certain he was probably admiring the pearly paint he left along the stones. “That is my place, hm?”

#könig x reader #konig x reader

869 notes · View notes

ddejavvu · 9 months

Note

hi hi, I loveee your animagus collection!! I was wondering if you could do one where reader appears all scratched up and injured cuz she got in a fight with another cat in her animagus form. thanks!!

part 1 / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6

Sirius knows to expect your presence from your spot on the map that's moving hurriedly towards his dorm, a powerful stride from how you're blowing past other names quicker than they can step out of your way. He's glad that none of them seem to stop you or confront your seemingly abrasive speed, and he's equal parts curious and petrified when you finally burst through the door.

Most of it melts away though, heated and liquified and dripping into his stomach by a burning panic that seals itself around his heart and lungs instead.

Your face is scratched, lines of blood-red crust slowly darkening the more you expose them to the air. He's sure they'd dried and scabbed quickly as you'd stormed through the castle to find him, and he's worried they're contaminated before he's had the chance to clean them out.

"Darling," He stands abruptly, noticing similar scratches across the rest of you, and even a bite mark, pinpricks of violence and spit laid into your arm like twin red flags, "What- what happened to you?"

"I got in a fight," You grumble, and for all of the enthusiasm you'd had storming into the room, you stand there now, letting it leak out of you like air from a balloon that had once been close to popping.

"With who?" Sirius's brain does not register the conflicting statements; how a punch to the eye could result in fang prints in your forearm.

"Muffy," You spit the cat's name like a dirty word, emphasizing it's dull stuffiness, "She came and sat in my sunspot, and I was gonna let her share it, too, but then she started bitching at me to move!"

Sirius's limbs loosen from where they'd been locked tightly in place, and he remains standing where he has been all this time, watching you explain your tussle with astonished curiosity written on his face.

"I didn't, but then she started batting at me," You recall with bitter disdain on your tongue, the same sting that you'd felt when the other cat's claws had sunk into your fur, "Before I knew it, she was just going at me, like- like some fucking animal! Well- like- like some other kind of animal."

Sirius steps forwards to take your arm in his own, and inspect the only bite mark he can see. It's angry and vicious, though it doesn't look like there's blood seeping from it anymore, and he makes a mental note to disinfect all of your abrasions in case Muffy had indulged in something unsanitary for breakfast.

"I'm sorry, darling." Sirius says, both because he means it and because he doesn't know what else to say. It's teetering on the edge of absurdity that you managed to scrap with a cat and come away looking like you'd lost, and he wonders if you'd fled the scene on four paws, or two legs. Both would be comical to him if you weren't hurt, so he pushes the thoughts out of his head and steers you into the bathroom by what he hopes is an uninjured shoulder.

He sits you on the counter with ease, and from the hiss that you let out, the cool marble bites at the scrapes on the backs of your thighs. But they seem to mellow into a soothing effect, and you relax into them, your flesh flattening out as Sirius rummages through the cabinet below.

"Muffy's quite vicious," Sirius muses, rubbing disinfectant on a cut along your cheek, "This one might scar."

You groan, the sound nearly gruff enough to be a growl, "Oh, get her back for me Sirius, would you?"

"Get her back-?" His raven-black brows furrow, and he glances away from the cut up a few inches to your eyes, "What do you mean, darling?"

"I mean you're a big scary guard dog," You push pleadingly at his shoulder, "Just- snap your jaws at her, or something! Please?"

"I'm not sure Prewett would like it very much if I traumatized her cat," Sirius muses guiltily, but he's persuaded when you let loose the most devastatingly gut-wrenching pair of puppy eyes that he's ever seen, far more powerful than anything even his canine form could produce.

"Oh, fine," He sighs, his lips finding purchase at the bridge of your nose, in an awkward crevice between your brow-split and your eye, "Darling, you know I love you, but next time, please tussle with a cat that isn't so terrifying?"

#sirius black x reader #sirius black imagine #sirius black scenario #sirius black oneshot #sirius black one-shot #sirius black one shot #sirius black headcanon #sirius black headcanons #sirius black hc #sirius black hcs #sirius black fanfiction #sirius black fanfic #sirius black fic #sirius black blurb #sirius black drabble #sirius black dialogue #sirius black fluff #sirius black x reader fanfiction

2K notes · View notes

niki-phoria · 5 months

Text

NOT EVEN THE GODS ABOVE CAN SEPARATE THE TWO OF US

pairing: leon kennedy x gn!reader (no pronouns used) genre: hurt comfort word count: 731

notes: set in the re4 castle, leon cries (kinda), reader cries, not proofread so pls forgive any mistakes !!

summary: leon can't bare the thought of losing you for a second. so what happens when you disappear for four hours in a haunted, monster-filled castle?

four hours. it’s been four hours since leon found himself in this hellhole. four hours of mindlessly wandering through seemingly endless corridors of concrete and stone. four hours of agonizingly tracing and retracing a maze filled with monsters. it almost reminds him of the haunted houses you’d drag him to, all too eager to bring him along to experience some fake scares for once.

it’s been four hours since he lost you.

an unrelenting chill blows past him again, causing goosebumps to arise along his exposed forearms. monsters don’t care about the cold, he supposes, though it would be nice to have his jacket. with his adrenaline slowly wearing off with each step he finds himself more and more susceptible to the unrelentingly cold castle.

studying the monotone bricks ahead, leon’s mind wanders. he’s distracted. you shouldn’t have even been on the island, much less this close to whatever monstrosities linger far too close for comfort. what if you’re hurt? what if those monsters have somehow gotten to you. what if… the worst has already happened?

leon sighs. his eyes flutter closed for a second as he sends a silent prayer to a god he isn’t sure he ever really believed in. please be okay. if anything happens… take me instead. please be okay.

his heart leaps when he notices a soft scuffle. it’s nearby. something - or maybe someone - is in the darkness. leon’s hand instinctively draws to his knife. his fingers dig into the handle as he grips the blade tightly against his side. ready.

he moves like an animal. a predator - ready to strike at any moment. the stone bricks behind him are ice cold as he presses his back against the wall, silently waiting for his prey.

there’s another step. then another. and then -

“y/n?” he can almost feel his heart cease its beating in his chest. he blinks once. twice. like you’ll disappear in the milliseconds it takes for him to open his eyes again. his knife clatters to the ground in his shock. leon’s fingernails dig into the thick fabric of his gloves. he has to resist the urge to pinch himself in fear of waking up from whatever fucked up dream this is.

“leon.” your voice wavers. a second passes. then another. and another.

and then you’re running at him, all but tackling the man as you jump into his arms. leon stumbles backwards slightly. his combat boots scrape against the concrete floor as he scrambles to maintain his balance. he’s unfortunately not fast enough; the momentum sends both of you tumbling to the ground.

leon’s back aches from where you both slammed into the cold floor below. he’s sure your knees do, too. you’re both covered in dirt. a layer of sweat and grime stains the fabric of your shirt. your hands are bloody and bruised and your arms will be littered with a variety of new scars by next month - you’re sure of it - but it doesn’t matter. because you’re real.

you’re really here. you’re really wrapping your arms around his shoulders. you’re really burying your face into the crook of his neck. you’re really here.

“y/n.” this time his voice is louder. his body moves before his mind does. wrapping his arms around your waist, he sighs, taking in the feeling of you finally back in his arms once again. leon slips his hands underneath the fabric of your shirt, tracing his fingertips along the ebbs and flows of your back.

leon squeezes his eyes shut; his grip around your waist tightens. his heart cracks a little more with each new tear he can feel drip against his skin and stain into the fabric of his shirt. gently rubbing his hand against your back, he hopes that with enough loving touches and whispered reassurances he’ll be able to mend your heart back together.

leon is desperate. dull nails dig into the skin of your hips, as if the lack of separation between your bodies now will make up for lost time. “you’re here,” leon whispers. he isn’t sure if you can hear him. he can barely hear himself over the noise of his own beating heartbeat and your quiet sobs. “it’s okay. i’ve got you.” stray tears escape his own eyes before leon has the chance to stop them. “i won’t let anything happen to you ever again. i promise.”

if you enjoyed this fic, please consider leaving a like, comment, feedback, or rebloging !! and if you want to support me, consider checking out my resident evil masterlist <3

942 notes · View notes

kingkatsuki · 4 months

Text

Thinking more Dragon King Bakugou thoughts.

Imagine you’ve been married less than a month, an arrangement which protected your village from attacks from the ruthless king, and any other settlements.

But you still haven’t consummated the marriage, you haven’t even slept in the same bed together. You have the same routine, each morning you meet him for breakfast (when he isn’t away pillaging or scavenging). Barely speaking a word to each other outside basic pleasantaries, asking how you slept or how you’re feeling.

Spending the rest of your time as though you’re a stranger in someone else’s home, even though this is your home now. Your reality.

You spend a lot of your free time in the library, or in the castle grounds. Sometimes sneaking into the kitchen to help Sato bake, finding any excuse to occupy your mind with something other than the four walls that feel more like a prison. Seemingly gravitating to every single person inside the Kingdom that isn’t Bakugou Katsuki.

It’s only one evening that you’re padding down the empty corridors to have a late afternoon bath, wanting to clean the dirt off yourself after weeding the hellebores that grow outside when you hear a soft grunt from inside. Stepping closer to the large wooden door as you push it open to peer inside, and you freeze on the spot.

Dragon King Bakugou is hunched over himself, a forearm against the cold stone wall as he sloppily fists at his cock. Bloody cloth and furs strewn around the floor as you’re surprised to see him— certain he wasn’t due back for at least three more days.

You know you should turn back, pretend you didn’t see anything and find solace in your room— but you can’t move. Eyes focused on the way the veins along his hands clench as he strokes with more vigour, the power behind his movements as the slick sound of his wet cock echos in the bathroom. You unconsciously rub your thighs together at the sight, a swirl of pleasure ebbs in your pelvis as you try to quell the throb. Your heart rattles the bars of your ribcage as you stand transfixed on your husband— you’d never seen him in a more vulnerable position. Hunched over and naked. And you couldn’t deny every inch of him was perfect, every scar that marred his glistening skin told a story as you followed each trail they left. Even down to the backs of his thighs as you felt yourself falling.

“Fuck—” He grunts, and then you have to stop yourself from falling.

The debauched, husky sound of your name called from between clenched teeth has you weak at the knees. You’d never heard anyone utter your name like that, and it had never had such an effect on your body. Your cunt clenching around nothing as you reached to hold onto the doorframe for some semblance of reality. Watching transfixed as the man in front of you; your husband, stroked his cock to the thought of you.

Dragon King Bakugou has always been astute, alerting him to the sensation of someone watching as his crimson eyes snap towards you. Dropping his thick cock in an instant as he moves to stand, pushing himself back from the wall as he bares everything to you. Standing tall, completely unconcerned that he’s completely naked in front of you. His heavy cock drags down towards the ground, the sheer weight of it unable to stand upright as it sits against even heavier balls.

He expects you to turn and leave, faster than the wild foul he hunts in the early morning. But you don’t, you stare back with warm cheeks and an even warmer space between your thighs as your tongue slips out to wet your lips.

“Maybe I can help you with that, my King.”

#dragon king bakugou #once again I had no clue where I was going with this #thirst posts #jo thirsts #Bakugou thirst #Bakugou x reader

913 notes · View notes

good-chimes · 11 months

Text

Proposing:

Grand Unified Scarian Theory

a single, overarching Scarian romance arc across the whole Hermitcraft and Life series as well as a primer for anyone curious about the early seasons.

We start with NEIGHBOR MEET CUTE in early Season 6:

Season 6 begins in a peaceful pirate bay. SCAR, an established hermit just beginning his third season, is happily making pirate caves. Into this tranquil scene comes GRIAN.

Grian, fresh-faced and new to Hermitcraft, picks a sea-themed base location right next to Scar’s pirate caves. He gets himself set up and starts his base. Even someone like Grian can get newcomer nerves, and he spends the first few weeks desperately trying to act like a normal person instead of the horrible gremlin he really is.

(Some hermits are taken in by this. Doc and Xisuma give him pity diamonds, something that—after getting to know Grian—they noticeably never do again.)

The only person exempt from Grian’s just-a-little-birthday-boy act is Mumbo, whom Grian already knows, clearly has a puppy-crush on, and pursues relentlessly.

Grian and Scar don’t interact much at first. Grian sees Scar for the first time while passing by his base. Scar instantly falls in one of his own caves and dies.

Grian panics.

Grian: I DIDN’T DO IT!

Scar, intrigued by his new neighbor, makes some overtures of interest:

1. Scar leaves a fully enchanted trident at Grian’s base as a welcome present. This is a generous gift for the cute neighbor you have a crush on and frankly the most normal thing either of them do in the entire years-long relationship.

Grian goes ‘huh!’ at the trident, never finds out who sent it, and immediately forgets the whole thing.

2. Scar entertains Grian’s traveling-salesman pitch and buys his overpriced armor boxes.

Multiple jokes about the size of Scar’s wallet. Grian clearly pleased by the transaction.

3. Scar makes Grian a complementary in-joke build (Spongebob’s house by Squidward’s house).

This delights Grian immeasurably for five minutes until he turns back to his prank war with Mumbo.

(Poor Mumbo. Clearly immensely fond of Grian but not sure he wants to be in a relationship with a lit stick of dynamite. This is very understandable.)

By this point Scar obviously kind of clocks that Grian is insane about Mumbo. This isn’t much of a leap. The entire SERVER is aware that Grian is horribly in love with Mumbo.

Ah. That’s okay. Scar backs off a bit. He recognizes when he’s not really in with a chance.

Maybe this thing he has with Grian is just going to be a friendship, and that’s okay! Having a crush is fun even if you’re not going to do anything about it. Scar is going to build some shops about it and be normal.

Both of them are going to be very normal.

FLIRTING (First Stages) – mid-Season 6

Both of them immediately forget to be normal.

Grian has started a detective agency and has no mysteries to solve. Scar instantly invents a cookie-based mystery supervillain called the Jangler and leaves Grian a series of tantalizing cookie-based puzzles for enrichment in his enclosure.

Grian has invented a game where you kill people with rockets. Scar volunteers to get murdered. Both of them are delighted.

Scar and Cub’s business empire is incidentally crushing Grian’s startup venture. There is no reason for this to be so flirtatiously charged.

At this point all the hermits move to a new village because of the Minecraft update. Grian starts a who-can-build-the-tallest-house war with Mumbo and Iskall. Scar notices and starts doing the same from the other side of the village.

It quickly gets so wild that Mumbo taps out (Mumbo does not do well with intensity, would rather just not, thankyouverymuch), and it's only Grian, Iskall and Scar.

Scar builds a wild giant plant eating his rocketship, and then a castle in the sky, and an enormous version of himself firing a canon at Grian's house. This is the first time you can really see Grian trying to hold in shrieks when he flies back in to see what Scar has done while he's gone.

Grian’s interest has been caught. He’s gone from barely seeing Scar to checking on him regularly. What’s our good friend Scar up to? What’s Scar done? What is Scar going to do next?

FLIRTING (How To Catch Your Crush’s Interest By Building A Secret Government Facility) – late Season 6

What Scar does next is put on a snazzy military uniform, team up with Doc to steal the time machine Grian invented last week, then, in the most effort someone has EVER gone to to get Grian's attention, spend weeks on end building a fully-functional 'Area 77' military base and containment facility to stop him getting it back.

Turns out this works beyond Scar’s wildest dreams.

Grian INSTANTLY obsessed with breaking into Scar’s base and retrieving his time machine.

Grian persuades Ren into forming a hippie camp with him next to the base and spends weeks entirely fixated on Scar. Meanwhile Scar, who is starting to really understand how to get and keep Grian's attention, builds more and fancier infrastructure to keep Grian out. This is also where Grian really starts looking at Scar's art—the insane cliffs Scar has build around his new hangers—and awkwardly not quite managing words, because it would be very embarrassing to just outright say the word beautiful, and Grian’s a very normal and non-embarrassing person.

In the climax of the season, Grian-the-hippie breaks into General Scar’s base.

Nobody can say that Scar making himself a top brass general and Grian making himself an anti-establishment flower power hippie does not end up with plausibly-deniable not-making-out Grian-provoking-Scar-into-holding-him-against-a-wall.

but.

BUT.

This is Hermitcraft. It’s temporary. Scar and Grian both know it was a bit. A bit they both got super into, sure! But a bit. Not weird at all.

(“Sure, mate, not weird at all,” Mumbo says, after all of this is over. “Then why are you making it SOUND weird Mumbo you’re the WORST”)*

(“Sooo....” Cub says, and Scar says, “I know. I know!”)*

*not canon but you can't tell me it didn't happen off screen

FLIRTING (But What About…) – early Season 7

Okay, so that was weird, but Grian is definitely still in love with Mumbo. The Mumbo pursuit is going great and Mumbo definitely doesn’t look nervous whenever Grian turns up with a new idea. Grian is going to get Mumbo to fall in love with him and they will marry in the spring and have a dozen beautiful children redstone contraptions.

Grian attempts to make it more official with Mumbo. Surely they have been flirting long enough, they are ready for the next stage! This is in no way a reaction to Scar becoming a weird wizard in a way very unsettling to Grian and building the kind of wild organic tangled forest build that Grian is fascinated by but can't even begin to comprehend.

Everything is very under control in Grian's life. He's now official boyfriends with Mumbo. They live together and have a messaging system and everything.

Mumbo announces he’s moving out.

It’s-not-you-it’s-me

You’re… you’re moving out? Grian says, in the smallest possible voice.

We’ll still have the messaging system, Mumbo says, unconvincingly.

FINE, Grian says, I’m moving out TOO.

Mumbo moves out.

Grian deals with this in the healthiest possible way. He invents a mayorship and attempts to give it to Mumbo.

Grian is Mumbo’s self-appointed campaign manager so Mumbo has to be round him ALL THE TIME, it’s for the CAMPAIGN, Mumbo.

Mumbo, a man who doesn’t deal well with pressure or responsibility, is maybe not the ideal choice for mayor, something that has escaped Grian entirely.

Mumbo builds a robot and attempts to palm off all responsibility for decision-making onto it. Grian immediately calls it their son.

Grian puts his moustache all over the server.

NO other hermits support them for mayor (except Scar, from a lost bet, who Grian has continued to have intensely weird flirtations with while all this is happening)

Things reach a fever pitch. Election day arrives. Mumbo doesn’t want this actually but try telling Grian that. The entire MumboGrian edifice that Grian has obsessively and wildly build has reached an unsustainable pitch and finally comes tumbling down around them.

Mumbo votes Scar for mayor.

Grian votes Scar for mayor.

Mumbo disappears for several weeks to do some nice soothing redstone and calm down.

FLIRTING (Civil War) – late Season 7

Everything has calmed down now. Scar is mayor. Mumbo is...somewhere. Grian is going to work on his base normally.

Grian has a new project. He wants to build in the new nether biomes. He builds a huge and echoing and obsessively inverse version of his huge and echoing and obsessively symmetrical mansion base. It's very impressive. It's totally hollow. There's... no one else here.

Grian decides that okay, he is going to bring PEOPLE here.

He invites Mumbo, because he hasn't seen him in weeks. He invites Bdubs, because Grian above all loves genius. And he invites Scar. Because of course. Everything major Grian does now, Scar is an of course.

Bdubs shows up! Generously builds Grian's entire mansion interior. Mumbo shows up. Builds a tiny upside down disco shack.

Scar does not show up.

Scar is being mayor! Scar is a very busy and important man! Scar has spent the last few weeks obsessively replacing every single goddamn mycelium block in the shopping district with beautifully tailored grass and making trees whose flowers are diamonds. He's also got his own megabase going on. For once Scar has so much to do it's even enough for Scar's ambitions, which have never been small.

He does not come when Grian calls.

Grian is Not Happy.

This is the point where Grian starts a steadily more unhinged campaign of leaving Scar invitations. He makes little tailor's dummies of himself and delivers them to Scar's house. He sets up a tea party of three grians in a secret space under Scar's mayoral throne. He hangs himself in effigy on the tip of Scar's megadrill build. Normal behavior.

And then when Scar still doesn't notice, he puts a tiny bit of mycelium back on one of the streets of the shopping district.

This starts… THE MYCELIUM WARS

Scar attempts to contain the growing mycelium patch with warning tape.

Grian spreads more mushroom spores.

Scar brings in his allies to help contain the growing mushroom patches.

Grian digs out an underground rebel HQ, recruits several rebels, and declares himself Motherspore.

Mayor Scar stares into a camera and uses his most velvety baritone to proclaim he will hunt down Grian and the mycelium resistance and bring them to justice.

Grian sets loose mushroom-spreading sheep.

Mayor Scar obsessively searches for his base.

Grian and Impulse build several decoy bases and trap them.

Mayor Scar employs Mumbo to strip-mine every block of the shopping district with redstone tunnel-borers.

Eventually Deputy Mayor Bdubs, having his own thing with rebel Etho, tricks all of the resistance into ender-pearling into jail.

Scar gets to threaten to pour lava on an imprisoned Grian for ten minutes straight and they’re both enjoying this so much.

Grian: Scar! SCAR! Scar Scar Scar no Scar no Scar no listen Scar

Scar: Yes?

Grian: …Let’s take this somewhere else.

They ‘take this’ to Scar’s beautifully-appointed mayoral office. Grian sits on the arm of his chair (I don’t know what to tell you, this is on-screen canon).

Grian: So I know how to end the war.

Grian: We have to play minigames and make personal bets.

Grian: And Scar, Scar, if you lose…

Scar: Yes?

Grian: … you have to help build my base.

Entire room: [stunned silence]

Etho: Is this what it was about the whole time, Grian?

So! That happened. And the thing is, they could both mentally pass off the area 77 general/hippie stuff as Just A Fun Bit That Got Very Intense.

They can't do this with the mayor/motherspore stuff. They are basically making out on Scar’s chair. The resistance have noticed. The mayoral staff have noticed. EVERYONE has noticed.

Scar is into it. Scar is going along with it. Scar knows he’d had a crush for a long time, and he isn't scared of swimming with a huge wave, never mind where it's going to break. Scar has always embraced the rush. With Grian, you never know what’s going to happen next.

Grian has always loved being around Scar because there’s so much going on that you don’t have to think. Grian doesn’t have to think until everything’s calmed down. It's not until now that he stops and realizes… could this be… something.

(Maybe it already is.)

And then, by whatever eldritch mechanic you personally favor:

3rd life begins.

HEAD-OVER-HEELS – Third Life

In the tiny claustrophobic stripped-bare world of Third Life, Grian makes a choice. Grian thinks, for once very, very clearly: what if it wasn't a bit? What if it was real. What if Grian took every explosive piece of who he was and handed it over to someone he's—okay, he'll admit it—someone he's been obsessed with for a long time. What if that heady sparkle he's been seeing in the corner of his vision is true. What happens if you grab it with both hands?

Scar—surprised, bemused, amazed but wrong-footed—almost doesn't know what to DO with this.

Scar is so used to Grian layering all his obsession behind a thick layer of irony and drama and second-guessing and schemes. ‘Sure we can make out but only if I'm trailing mushroom spores and you're wearing that sash.’ ‘I'm only here because Mumbo's not around.’ ‘It’s not a thing.’ ‘It's not real.’

But it is real.

And, for once, Scar hears a tiny alarm go off in his brain. Scar knows Grian better than anyone else does, by now, and even he doesn't know where this ends. Grian is a force of nature and Scar has never been his unfiltered target. But Grian's throwing himself into this, throwing himself at Scar. And Scar always says 'yes.' 'Yes, and.' 'Yes, let's'. Scar never wants less of Grian. Scar has always taken what he can get.

But with that warning bell, Scar does try to keep that slight layer of dramatic distance, even in this new world where you can die and not come back, even if they don't know if they'll get out of this alive. Scar doesn't fully buy into Grian's second-in-command-devotion, he forces a space for Grian to still be the Grian he knows, some kind of safety vent (‘here's a bee on a lead’). And it could be a lot of reasons, but part of it is…Grian's head-over-heels, for once, and Scar has the unfamiliar feeling of needing to be the one to look where they're going.

Because where they're going is: the last two, all their friends dead, not knowing if there's any way to survive but knowing their friends haven't come back, and at that point Scar takes off the very last of his brakes and the very last of his reservations and says:

For everything you've done for me you can kill me.

(I want this. I want it to be you.)

This breaks Grian absolutely and completely.

And not broken in the fun way! Grian is too far in. Grian let go of Mumbo, who was safe because Mumbo never let it get too far, and he took a risk on Scar, and now Grian is discovering that he didn’t even know what risk meant. Grian is in emotional pain he never suspected existed. Grian has let himself put all his gambling chips on someone who wasn't SAFE and he has lost.

Grian has LOST SCAR and he has LOST HIMSELF and he has FOUND OUT HE CAN BE HURT and he is never going to be the fucking same again.

Scar is in the pond with Grian’s sword at his unresisting neck. And Scar is going to die, and Scar (damn him damn him) has turned it into: he's going to die for Grian. Now Grian is hurting, he's complicit, it turns out grief is an inevitable part of love and beauty, this is all it's taken for Grian's worldview to fall apart in pieces he can't pick up, and Grian has no defenses against pain so there's obviously no way to cope except to beat Scar to death in a cactus ring and jump off a cliff.

AFTERMATH – Season 8

They wake up in Hermitcraft.

They wake up in Hermitcraft! Scar is delighted to find out they just reincarnate, after all that!

Sure, they've all got some lingering trauma but Scar has never let that stop him from doing anything. Scar thought that whole thing went well! He just about dares to think...romantic...? Maybe...?

Grian is Normal to him.

Grian is so fucking normal. it's like. s6 normal.

Scar is. kind of. confused.

Grian is NOT acting like someone he had a romantic death match with.

(Grian is falling apart, but if there's one thing Grian has proved in his building it’s that he’s SO. fucking. good. at facades.)

(Don't go round the back.)

Neither of them are ready for the death game to repeat.

DIVORCE (Traumatic) – Last Life, Season 8

Second death game. Grian deals with his trauma super well by isolating Scar, stealing all his friends, tricking a life out of him, dropping his horse in lava, forcing him into an extortion death loop, then abandoning him and—just as a bonus—murdering Mumbo as well.

This time it’s Scar who comes back falling apart.

A theory that seems plausible: Scar’s old friend Cub picks him up, puts him back together, gets him on his feet. What we do know is that Cub moves in next to Boatem, where Scar is still living with Grian, and incidentally builds an enormous dripstone megabiome that is coincidentally very hostile and might murder you upon landing if you're someone who flies a lot, or happens to be a bird.

There’s a hole with an endless dark void between Scar and Grian’s Boatem bases. They built it together. It’s around this time they both keep repeatedly falling in it.

DIVORCE (But When It Was Good It Was So Good) – Season 8, Double Life

Then the moon gets big. Gets close. Gravity breaks down and that should be the end, should be a way out of this terrible spiral they're in, surely they're better without each other—

Grian turns up at Scar's base and says: Scar. Build us an escape pod.

—and Scar does.

They go out together. Both of them can feel the pull back into each other’s orbit but they’ll die if they acknowledge it. At the end of it all, the void, the protective suits, the unbearable gravity of falling into space together, of holding each other until another uncertain end. They're nowhere but they're in it together.

Is this a good time for another death game? Of course. How much worse can it get.

Double Life, and this time Scar keeps his distance. My soulmate is this allay! My soulmate is my cat! I don’t need a soulmate. Oh—it’s Grian? This whole time? Hahaha. How funny.

Grian: Soo… do you want to base together?

Scar: Do we have to?

Grian: It…might be nice…?

Scar is wary.

He has been burned.

But the pull is still there. The pull is always there. You can’t forget Grian, but you can blunt the edge of him on your skin. Scar is here to take care of these cat-pandas. Grian can do what he likes.

Cheated of Scar’s full attention, Grian tries to tempt BigB into a pale imitation of the Scarian folie à deux (BigB is a genuinely nice man who does not deserve this).

The rest of the server turn red, one by one. Grian and Scar are the last greens. BigB is audibly nervous when Grian proposes a red-green alliance, even though BigB is the red, he has the power. But Grian can’t escape the rest of the server, and the red hunt begins.

Grian and Scar, hunted—trapped at the top of flaming towers, jumping from heights, chased down like foxes at bay, crammed into boltholes with their hands over each other’s mouths, Grian shrieks and laughs and falls back on Scar and Scar catches him and they’re both as alive and elated as they’ve ever been. Scar dies once to Ren and BigB’s zombies and Grian murders both BigB and Ren in revenge (BigB was right to be nervous). Grian has another unhinged murder plan underway when he dies for the last time.

This whole time, Grian was hit in the face by remembering that when it's good, it's so good.

Scar isn’t surprised. Scar has known that forever.

Back in Hermitcraft, its not magically fixed. They’re not innocent any more. But every time Grian looks at Scar he remembers: when it’s good, it’s so good.

And Scar never forgot.

DIVORCE (We’re In Love And We’re Not Done Yet) – Season 9, Limited Life

By now we're into Season 9. They’re still alive. They always live, they always start again, and the other one is just there. Being, infuriatingly and magnetically, them.

Grian is thoroughly annoyed by Scar’s new allegiance to King Ren, but he keeps coming back to Scarland anyway. Scar, I made you an obstacle course. Scar, stand here and get squashed by this anvil. Scar if you don’t do something I’m going to start a resistance.

Grian pretends King Ren doesn’t exist and he has more important things to do, and pretends this so hard that he incidentally invents a mad science robot pulls them all through into the Empires dimension.

Scar, assuming Grian is doing his own thing, shacks up with Jimmy.

It takes Grian three weeks to notice and be shriekingly outraged.

Scar we’re doing a project. Scar you can’t spend all your time with Jimmy! Join my cult. Get in my shrinking machine. I made you an enchanted netherite bow. I need your allegiance. (Another real quote).

Scar teases Grian for weeks then instantly abandons Jimmy when the choice comes down to him or Grian.

Fourth death game—they’re used to this, now. Nothing too intense. Nothing too weird. Grian can’t help murdering Scar.

At this point, Scar is starting to read it as: I love you.

And that’s how we get to the current Scarian dynamic we know and love of you're the worst and I'm the worst and we've divorced a few time but we still like each other so fucking much.

It's been years. They've killed each other every possible way. These two characters are in love and they're not done yet.

#scarian #grian #goodtimeswithscar #hermitshipping #yes canon IS a grand romantic arc #to be super clear: i don't think any of this was cc intention #but we can have a little narrative framing fun #as a treat #i think nearly all of this is true to canon except some timing vagueness and the dialogue in parentheses #thank you to the hivemind for theory help #long post #glossywrites

2K notes · View notes

dameronology · 5 months

Text

home (frank castle)

warnings: a little bit of frank being depressed but that's about it. probably language too? i don't even notice anymore.

this is the first thing i've written in so long and it's very short buuuut i hope you like it

--jazz xx

You could always tell when Frank had had a bad night.

The signs were clear as soon as he got home. Boots thrown to the side with a loud thunk (he would apologise for the noise in the morning); body haphazardly hitting the mattress beside you as he let out a huff of exhaustion. Normally, his hands would be on you before he even in bed. He had to sleep with his chest pressed to your back, arms wrapped tightly around you, any signs of breaking free met with intense refusal until the morning. You felt safe but he felt safer.

Tonight was different. You heard the crash of shoes, and the thump, thump, thump towards the bed. The mattress dipped beside you but instead of his hands, you were met with Frank's back to you. It was tense, littered with pink scars and red ones, and fresh cuts and bruises. You could have reached out, but you didn't want to push it. A few years ago, before you, before this, before he'd learnt love again, he probably wouldn't have come home at all. He would have stayed out til the crack of dawn, fighting, fighting, fighting; fists beaten to a pulp and every part of him rigid and exhausted to his very core. Frank had learnt now: when he got really bad, he had to come home. When the going got too tough even for him, it normally meant it was the end of night. You were just grateful he had come at all.

You said nothing; just a small sigh. For him, for you, for whatever the morning would bring.

10AM came quickly. It was a Sunday, so Manhattan was nice enough to wake a few minutes later than usual. The silence in your bedroom was quickly filled with the sound of horns and brakes and the yells of the outside world. You didn't have work that day, thank god. That meant there was no rush. Frank could rise whenever he wanted.

Except - fuck - you had forgotten to turn off your alarm. It came blaring out your phone as soon as the clock struck on the hour, vibrating across your bedside table and onto the floor with a loud thud. Frank, being the world's lightest and potentially most dangerous sleeper, quickly rose. His hair was getting longer now, so it was tuftier in the mornings. You would have laughed if your chest wasn't so heavy.

You quickly hopped out of bed, sheepishly picking up the phone.

"Shit," you muttered. "Frankie, I'm sorry."

He let out a grumble, rubbing his eyes. "It's okay. I had to wake up at some point."

"Are you okay?" you quietly asked. "I know you're not but...I gotta ask."

Frank didn't say anything - instead he just sighed. Then, he opened his arms and ushered for you to come back to bed. You did so without hesitation, dropping into the sheets beside him. Strong arms wrapped around you instantly, holding you to his chest, one hand cupping the back of your head. You'd always found irony in the fact that he had to be the one to hold you when he was upset. No matter how shit he was feeling, Frank was always the big spoon. His ability to protect you was the one thing he could control. It was the one thing that made him feel a little okay again.

"It was a really rough night," he quietly admitted. "I'll be okay, sweetheart. I just wanna take it easy today."

Frank said nothing else. What he had said was beyond anyone else's wildest dreams; this was coming from the man who made a point of closing himself off, from refusing himself love and anything good. You were the only person he would ever say anything too. It was safe to assume at any given moment that he wasn't okay, but he was a little closer to it when he was with you.

The rest of the morning went like a ghost.

You moved around each other with ease; his small touches lingered - a hand on your back here, another on your hip there - and you could tell he was coming back around. Sure, he burnt the first three pancakes and didn't realise the milk was out of date til after he'd poured it into your coffee, but he was being Frank. You would have been more worried if he'd cooked properly or made good coffee.

You'd moved to the sofa by midday, dirty plates piled up in the sink and Max snoring on the rug in the middle of your living room. Die Hard was playing quietly in the background (Frank argued it was an all year round movie). You were sat between his legs on the sofa, large thighs either side of yours and arms wrapped around your front. He had his head resting on top of yours, giving you the occasional squeeze with his legs and arms.

"I love you," Frank quietly murmured. He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You turned your head to look at him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "I love you too."

"I'm sorry for being quiet last night. I didn't mean to ignore you."

"You don't have to apologise," you hummed. "I'm just grateful you came home."

"I'll always come home."

#frank castle #the punisher #frank castle x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle fluff #frank castle angst #frank castle imagines #the punisher x reader #the punisher imagine #marvel imagines #marvel fluff #marvel angst #frank castle x you #frank castle reader insert #frank castle x y/n

481 notes · View notes

dxxdhood · 5 months

Text

convince me

pairing: wade wilson x gn!reader

summary: deadpool forced me to write smut where the two of you act out the position you see in an,,,, ahem,,, erotic video.

tags: smut (18+), fingering, penetration, slight degradation, finger sucking, dom!wade wilson, sub!reader

wc: 1.2k

“Babe, listen, the mistake we made was going to White Castle sober.”

“Excellent defense, Mr. Wilson. You ever think about switching to a career in law?”

“Can’t, my tagline doesn’t transfer across professions. Calling yourself the Lawyer with the Mouth is like saying you’re the fanfic writer who’s horny.”

He manages to make you chuckle, as usual, even though you were supposed to still be annoyed about your frankly terrible dinner. But walking back into your apartment has you less inclined to hold grudges, somehow. It’s probably the promise of cuddling up in bed together. Either that, or it’s all the hilarious nicknacks Wade keeps dropping off in your living room. The fucked-up Pikachu plush where the eyes and cheeks are swapped is particularly getting to you.

“Wait for me in bed, alright?” you say.

“Oh?” Wade waggles his non-existent eyebrows. “Is this little cutie planning something?”

“Yeah, planning to spend an hour in the bathroom,” you shake your head and fail to hold back a smile. “Find us a good movie to watch while I’m out.”

To nobody’s surprise, you both end up on a site that starts in p and ends in hub.

“Nobody can get into that position,” your inner critic bursts out of you at the best of times.

You can feel Wade smirking from where his face is tucked into your neck, cuddling you from behind. “Well, in the words of Clue 1985,” he runs a scarred hand down your waist. “Sure, they can. Let me show you.”

He nips at your neck, kissing at the sensitive skin of your jaw. You exhale, trying to calm the burning sensation building in your gut, but you struggle to stay patient when he starts sucking a bruise into your collarbone.

“Wade!” you gasp, trying and failing to stop your body from grinding your ass against him. He responds in turn, moving closer to you, his hard cock slowly rubbing against your ass.

He flips over, now perched on top of you and caging you in, arms on either side of your head as he kisses you. Every time he deepens the kiss, makes you feel like you’ll never want to come back up for air, he fucks with you by biting at your bottom lip or scratching his teeth against your gums.

You bang your fists against the mattress a few too many times, understandably annoyed with his teasing, so Wade grips both of your wrists with one hand and holds them above you, plastering them to the headboard.

The action has you moaning into his mouth, and the bottom half of your body continues to move on its own, grinding against the air now. You feel so desperate, your face heats up thinking about how much of a mess you already are for him. Wishing he would close the new gap between your bodies, you arch your back off the bed, trying to feel more of his body against yours.

He giggles, watching you wriggle around. “Hold your horses there, cutie. We’re not even at the good part yet.”

Wade brings a hand up to your face, rubbing his thumb across your cheek. You’re so thrown off by the sudden show of affection that you don't even process him slipping a rough finger into your mouth.

“Suck,” he commands. And something about Wade only using a single word when he’s usually so noisy has you whining as you circle his finger with your tongue.

His big brown eyes are glued to your lips, watching them worship his finger like he’s all you’ve ever wanted. Around the time you start bobbing up and down his finger, he slips it out of you and pats your cheek.

“Good baby, such a good slut for me,” he whispers as he slides your shorts and underwear off in one motion. He slicks up the finger and you with a small bottle of lube and carefully starts slipping into your entrance.

“What? Where’d you even–” you snap your gaze sideways to your bedside table, which is curiously unopened.

He taps the front pocket of his pants, “Never leave home without it.” Did he really always have that in his pocket? At the fucking White Castle?!

He talks as he fingers you, pressing against your walls casually as if he isn’t making you lose your mind. “You look impressed, babe. Tell me you’re not impressed.”

“Oh my god, shut up!” you groan as he reaches deeper inside you, adding another finger and stretching you further.

“As you wish,” he pumps his fingers at a faster pace, gripping your hip with one hand and bringing his face to your chest so he can lick at a nipple. A spark shoots down your spine and you can feel him chuckle as your body starts to shiver.

His fingers are pounding against your insides. You can feel yourself throbbing around him, clenching and wanting more, so he adds a third finger and fucks you at a punishing pace. You bite your own lip to keep back what was going to be an embarrassing moan, but he nips at your nipple and you let out a small shout.

Just as he finally starts reaching at that spot in you that has you seeing stars, he slips his fingers out. You're going to berate him for throwing you off just as the pleasure was building, but he already has his cock placed at your entrance, so close to sliding in.

“You ready?” he whispers, and you nod so quickly you think you may have pulled a muscle.

He releases a breathy moan as he slides all the way in you, reaching right where you need him but still stubbornly not giving it to you.

“Wade, move!” you cry. He responds by smacking your ass and pulling you into his lap. You’re seated on his thighs as he throws your legs over his shoulders, folding you in half as he starts thrusting in and out of you. The position has you feeling so much closer to him, like he has free reign to stroke every part of you.

You grip onto his shoulders and try to interlock your ankles together to help you hold onto him as he pumps his cock into you faster. Wade moans so deep it sounds like a growl and you clench around him at the sound.

“Fuck!” he cries before kissing you, harshly making out as his hips continue to piston inside you. You can feel the vibrations of his moans against your own mouth, and it’s enough to make your muscles twitch around him again.

“Shit, Wade,” you whisper. “I’m going to–”

“Yeah, babe?” he says in between kissing you. “Go, do it. Come for me.”

You rip away from his mouth and release with a moan, your entire body burning as you quiver around his cock. He leans his head into your neck and bites down on the juncture between your neck and shoulder as he comes, filling you so completely you never want him to leave.

You finally come down from your orgasm and relax in his lap, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. Wade is still panting, but he keeps kissing across your face, smiling when you reciprocate and kiss his forehead.

“You’re making every thought that passes through my head sound like an ABBA song,” he whispers, eyes closed.

“That might be the closest thing to a love confession I’ve gotten out of you.”

#wade wilson smut #deadpool smut #wade wilson x reader #deadpool x reader #wade wilson x gn! reader #gn reader #dom character #sub reader #deadpool x gn! reader #marvel smut #marvel #deadpool #wade wilson #smut

690 notes · View notes