#wick sable x reader

[a-libra-writes]

If you don’t mind, may I request headcanons for the lackadaisy characters reacting to the reader(GN) saving them by taking a bullet that was going to hit them and almost dies from it?

GN reader, most of these imply the reader and character are in a romantic relationship or at least close. obvs mentions of injury, blood, morphine, hospitals etc and the angst that follows! Our kitties arent doing well :(

♣️Rocky - The fact you took a bullet for him is ... a lot. That takes processing, something Rocky isn't good at. It ends up manifesting as a long, drawn-out anxiety attack that gives him jitters, a little dissociation and mild mania. Eventually the Arbogasts asks Freckle to just get him out of the house and do something with him; they'd call when you woke up. When you're awake, the tabby is making his usual quips and chatter, but his off-kilter mood is obvious to even your morphine-addled mind. Rocky's more disheveled than usual and clearly hasn't slept. His shirt still has blood on it - your blood.

He's is ready to go absolutely feral on the person who did this, channeling all his fear and guilt into a single plan of revenge. He's so full of this manic energy that it's hard for him to keep still, let alone eat or sleep. But first! You're awake! Even if it's clear he's unwell, he's trying to smile and assure you that you'll be back on your feet in no time! So don't you worry, he and Freckle will take care of it. No amount of exhausted arguing will divert him from this.

You're stuck in bed for days, so you don't know exactly what happens. It's up to Freckle to tell you, as he went along with his cousin - but he's tight lipped about it, and fidgety, like always. Once that's dealt with, Rocky's fixating switches to fussing over you. And his heart is in the right place, but ... he's exhausted, all that lack of sleep and emotional turmoil catching up. Eventually he just passes out on the bed and you let him curl up at your side for a while. Rocky's excellent company (and a questionable nurse) in the following weeks. He has plenty of stories, music and chatter to keep you occupied.

♣️Freckle - He is, uh, not coping with this well. At all. He jumps to action to shoot whoever did this... Several times, and keeps shooting long after they're dead. He doesn't stop until his cousin calls out to him. Freckle is in something of a daze on the way to the back-alley doctor - wow, people have a lot of blood in their body, but now it's all over you - and doesn't start throwing up until the bullet gets pulled out of you.

He's sent out of the makeshift operating room because even Rocky can tell he won't cope with it. How could he? Isn't this his fault? Maybe if he reacted sooner, it wouldn't have happened. The poor guy is sleepless for days and consumed with too much guilt to visit until he's all but dragged in your sickroom by Ivy. Freckle fidgets often and struggles to look into your eyes - it goes a long way to just reassure him and promise you aren't angry. He shot the bastard who did it, after all.

He visits most days, bringing soup (his mother seems to think you have a terrible flu?) and slowly, slowly talking more and relaxing. He has a better bedside manner than he thinks; Freckle's a fairly quiet companion and has a good idea of what you need. Changing your bandages makes him feel pretty awful, but he's a good help. If you decide to continue bootlegging after your recovery, he's extra jumpy and protective of you.

♣️Ivy - Ohhh nonononono no, this is not happening. She's grabbing your shoulders and yanking you toward her, ignoring the blood getting all over her. She's a mess and doesn't even think of the danger you're both in; the bullets and gunfire keeps on all around while she holds onto you and tries to pull you to safety. Small as she is, with pure determination and adrenaline, she makes it.

You don't remember much after that, but the girl's right in your face as you slowly come to. Ivy looks a complete mess; having been crying for the the last hour, and before that watching intently while a bullet was yanked out of you. At least she washed the blood off her arms, but the clothes she was wearing are utterly ruined. Ivy alternates between chattering apologies and quiet fidgeting, even if you're too loopy to respond properly.

Eventually she has some strings pulled to get you to a nice hospital, with no one asking questions. This whole situation alters her for the worse; she gets more frequent nightmares and struggles to focus in school. Nearly every day she comes by you bring you snacks and magazines and nice flowers for your room; sometimes seeming a little frantic, like she was trying to make up for something.

♣️Mitzi - She is furious. Someone told her when you woke up, and you hear her swishing dress and clacking heels rushing down the hall. Her eyes are red, her make up is ruined and she practically shakes you. Even though you're still full of morphine, she demands you promise to never, EVER do that again. Zib has to remind her that a) you're still drugged out of your mind and b) the bandages are getting bloody.

While she'd want you in a proper hospital, they'd ask too many questions. You stay in the apartment above the cafe. She's too squeamish (and guilty) to help change your bandages, but she does bring you food, some records to listen to, an extra pillow, and so on. It's obvious Mitzi struggles to talk casually, as if nothing happened. When you're sleeping, she'll sit at your bedside. If it seems like the wound - or maybe a dream? - is bothering you, she gently pets your hair until you settle.

♣️Viktor - He's only in shock for a few seconds before instinct and absolute fury takes over. The perpetrator is not alive for long, but their last moments are painful. Not that you're around to see it - you've longed passed out from bloodloss. The only thing keeping Viktor from totally rampaging is the awareness that you're in a critical condition.

His old soldier training takes over; he's able to push emotions aside and get you to Elsa, the only one he trusts with this situation. While you're being operated on, he's still stewing. If whoever is responsible still has friends or a leader around, well, that won't be the case for long. Mordecai considers stopping the big Slovak to make him see reason ... but just ends up helping him instead. 'Keeping him out of trouble', the shadowy man claims, but really he's just as angry.

Once you're awake and coherent, it takes Viktor a while to sit in with you. He's disheveled and tired, and has trouble meeting your eyes. His bedside manner is ... basically nonexistent, but earlier Elsa walked him through the basics of what foods are best and how the bandages need to be fixed. After this, he's adamant about not wanting you on jobs any more, even if you're recovering well. The fact you took the bullet for him is even worse, in his mind. He could've taken it; you should have let him take it.

♣️Zib - Nope, he's not okay. Definitely not coping well with this situation. It's bad enough he got involved in one gunfight, now a second and this happens? He wants to get the hell out of this speakeasy. Anyone can see how jittery he is. Zib alternates between smoking too much and avoiding your sickbed, or drinking too much and sleeping by your side. When it's two am and he's resting beside you and listening to your labored breathing, he really wishes he was shot instead.

He thinks he's pretty shit at caring for anyone, but he's actually not bad, especially when he's half-sober. Helping with the bandages gets him feeling queasy and guilty, but getting food and keeping you company isn't so bad. Now and then, he asks if you still want to hang around this place - what do you think about leaving, with him and the band? If you're a triggerman for Lackadaisy, why don't you reconsider? Is it really worth it? And so on.

Expect a lot of late-night discussions when he's restless and can't keep his mind wandering. What if you had died, what if you get sick like this, what if you just left with him? Where would you all go? More than once you've fallen asleep in the middle of his talking, but he doesn't mind.

♣️Atlas - Everything is spinning, but you can feel his arms around you. You don't realize how much blood has soaked through his suit. And for the first time, you hear him shout - his voice resonates through his chest as you rest against it.

Eventually you wake up in a hospital bed, though the blanket is something from home and there's flowers all over the windowsill - wait, is that a radio? The nurses don't say much, but you're also not in a state to talk. You aren't sure if it's been one day or many, but finally he visits. He looks more tired than you've seen him, and far more solemn. He puts his hand on your's and explains you'll be leaving the hospital soon and recovering in his manor, along with a live-in nurse. This is quite a shock if you two aren't married, but if you are, it's nice to go home again. The guest room is already set up with what you need.

You don't hear whatever came of that triggerman, though the Lackadaisy staff whisper about Viktor and Mordecai being away for some time. Atlas doesn't want you about the cafe or speakeasy anymore, or out on your own in general. It'll take time for you to recover, but even longer for his paranoia and agitation to lessen. He seems the same to his business associates and employees, but those who know him better ...

🏵Serafine - She only pauses for a moment, then jumps to action. Serafine doesn't have to say anything to Nico, he's already picking you up while she mows down whoever shot you. Outwardly she's calm, inwardly she's furious. At the gunman, at herself, at you. Well, they keep a doctor on call for this reason. Serafine holds you very carefully in the car ride to the hotel, alternating between talking about revenge and reassuring you that you'll be just fine. No need to fret.

Everything's fuzzy after that. Serafine isn't there when you awaken, but you're in her bed. If you're a girl, you're probably in her nightie, too (when did your clothes get changed?). There's warm food on the nightstand, enough morphine to take out an elephant and a little vase of flowers. It's like any other morning when you wake up in her bed, well. Except the drugs and the hole in your chest.

Eventually she comes back, with more food and a disturbingly calm demeanor. Whoever that gunner was, well, they're dealt with, and so is their boss. Isn't that good news, cher(ie)? You just rest up and you'll be back on your feet. The stitches are neat and the bandages aren't too tight - understandable, considering how much she was threatening the doctor. Nico tells you all about it later.

🏵Nico - He uh, probably manhandles you more than he should as he gets you into the car. He wants to retaliate - to bash in the gunman's head rather than put a bullet in it - but Nico knows a bad shot when he sees it. He grits his teeth and keeps you in his arms while Serafine floors it, not caring how much blood gets on his clothes or white coat.

As much as he wants to sit in on the operation, it makes him restless. So he settles for pacing in and out of the room, often reminding the doctor how unfortunate it'll be for him if something goes wrong. He's quietly boiling in the perpatrator, too; by the time you're bandaged and tucked in bed, he and his sister already have a plan of retaliation. While you're still doped up and asleep, he gives you a kiss on the brow and disappears to get the job done.

Once you come to, there's flowers on the nightstand and a maid coming in with room service. You stay in the Savoy's suite during your recovery; Nico only sleeps on the couch because he moves a lot in his sleep and doesn't want to disturb you (he still naps right by your side). He's not careful enough to help with changing bandages, but he's excellent company when you're bored. Nico only laughs when you bring up the gunman. Old news, he's taken care of it. He'll even share the grisly details.

🏵Mordecai - He doesn't react to the blood immediately. His mind tells him to clear the area first - but. That's a lot of blood. He's acutely aware the bullet was meant for him. The logical side starts to short-circuit once you're in the backseat of the car, bleeding all over the coat he wrapped around you. He knows how to put pressure on a wound, and he thinks he's staying calm, but he snaps viciously at Niko to stop screwing around and drive faster.

He bothers the doctor so much while they work - hovering, observing, commenting - he gets pulled out of the room. Whoever shot you is going to be dealt with, and whoever ordered the hit. Mordecai just wants to make sure you'll survive the next few hours, as that'll determine how he deals with them.

The first few days he's agitated and not sleeping well. Mordecai alternates between fussing and fixating on your wound, and bothering the hell out of whoever's looking after you. He really doesn't settle until the gunman is well and dead, and you're more coherent and talking. Expect lots of lecturing about how stupid it was for you to get in the way, how you need to fix the bandage this way or that, and have you been eating? When Mordecai's away, the Savoys like to come in and cackle about what he did to the gunman. They were also apparently given instructions by him not to bother you, which they gleefully ignore.

🏔Wick - He's completely frozen in place, stuck by distress and panic. It occurs to him to shout for help not when more bullets fly by, but when you start coughing up blood. He has enough wherewithal to get you to the hospital - somehow driving without crashing into anything - but once you're taken away, he just crumples. He's utterly distraught.

Once his mental faculties have recovered just enough to let him stand, he paces. And paces. The receptionist in the waiting room manages to get him to make a phone call; he tries to inform Lacy to just take the day off tomorrow, but the events of the evening all come spilling out. If you both were innocent bystanders in the incident, that's one thing, but if you were involved in some criminal business and that's what put Wick in the line of fire ... well, Lacy has some choice words for her hopelessly infatuated boss.

Once you're stable and resting, he finally allows himself to breathe. The receptionist all but shoves him home because he looks like a mess and he's frightening other patients. By the time you can accept visitors he's (somewhat) rested and bringing you flowers. There's still an awkwardness, so ... at some point, talking about everything is gonna have to happen. But Wick wants you to rest first, and he needs to figure out his own thoughts, without the whiskey.

#ive rewritten this many times im tired of looking at it LMAO pls enjoy #lackadaisy x reader #rocky rickaby x reader #freckle mcmurray x reader #ivy pepper x reader #viktor vasko x reader #mitzi may x reader #zib zibowski x reader #atlas may x reader #serafine savoy x reader #nico savoy x reader #mordecai heller x reader #wick sable x reader #sedgewick sable x reader #calvin mcmurray x reader #dorian zibowski x reader #nicodeme savoy x reader

[libras-interactives]

Under the Devil's Moon - 1.1.0

This is the final stuff I wanted to add before seriously drafting Chapter 2. Woo! That means I won't be adding any additional content until Chapter 2 is mostly done, only bugfixes.

Here's where you can play the update, the usual place! It's still an HTML file and super simple y'all - open it up in whatever browser you use on desktop or mobile. PLEASE DM or message me about bugs you come across, I'm still new to this!

ALSO thank you for @ladybugkisses for taking my commission to draw my babies 🥺 Jack, Lottie, Eveline and Marius look so wonderful!!!! I'm going to be posting the picture separate because I can't get enough of it ... please check out her blog, her art is so fun and nice to look at.

Patch Notes:

Zib and Wick scenes have been added, both platonic and romantic. You won’t get all three in a single night! That’s alright  - plenty of time to meet them in Chapter 2.

Eveline has gotten a small, additional scene if you're romantically interested in her, as well as some text changes in general.

Zib and Atlas get themselves a tarot reading scene. Wick and Viktor will have to wait until you see more of them!

Filipino and Swedish have been added as culture options.

Some cultures (Mexico, Germany and Russia for now) have additional text in the Bringing Family to America deal; others will follow eventually. Mostly just some historical context because I really like reading and writing about it

Scars in general, especially visible and severe ones, have been reworked. A tin facial prosthetic (similar to those worn by WW1 vets) is an option if you'd like to cover up.

Cello and Saxophone have been added as instruments for Musician!MC.

MCs with the Baby deal can now specify what the child calls them (i.e. Mom, Papa, etc.)

Additional text and clarification in some places. Some dialogue has been changed to better suit the chosen Occupation/Personality.

Plenty of grammar fixes, typo corrections and bugfixes - Musician has been fixed quite a lot (oops) and gender is no longer rioting... For now.

A little preview for Chapter 2 ... 👁️👁️

#okay its time to lay down. i am. tired of looking at twine LOL #if:devil's moon #updates & builds #interactive fiction #lackadaisy x reader #rocky rickaby x reader #zib zibowski x reader #dorian zibowski x reader #wick sable x reader #mordecai heller x reader

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Hello!

I wanted to say that I love your blogs and seeing that you posted something can make my day :)

I would like to ask if I can request a blurb/hc of Wick taking care of a sick reader?

Or Zib teasing the reader (shorter than him) about their height which makes the reader upset and then Zib having to appease them? - i hope it makes sense😭

Also I wanted to add - please don't overwork nor rush yourself, get some proper rest and take care!

A/n: I WILL DO BOTH, and ahhhh you're so sweet, thank you for giving me my to favorite boys 😩

<Wick taking care of a sick reader>

"Love?"

Stepping into the room, Wick frowned as he looked you over. He hated seeing you like this, all bundled up between the blankets. Hearing your coughs, seeing your body shake.

Stepping close, he flinched at your cough as he sat next to you. Rubbing your back gently, he brushed a stay curl aside as you weakly looked up at him.

"I'm sorry Wick." Coughing, you looked up at him as you gave him a weak smile. "I'm sorry you had to cancel our date night."

Shaking his head, Wick smiled as he bent down giving the top pf your head a gentle kiss. "Never apologize love....I'd rather spend time with you....now I know the perfect thing to make you feel better. My grandmas famous recipe!" He beamed.

Letting out a weak laugh, you did your best to hide your cough as Wick covered your body with another blanket. "Get some rest dove, I'll bring you the food and you'll be better in know time."

Sitting by your side, Wick made sure that you were comfortable. He set a bath for you and while you were cleaning yourself he changed out the sheets for fresh ones. He even went as far as to carry you back to the bed.

"What if you get sick Sedgewick?" You weakly looked up at him, your ears flattened on your head, tail twitching as he moved to lay next to you.

"Then I will take that risk." He muttered kissing the top of your head. "Now get some sleep, rest is very important in getting better."

Letting out a soft laugh you nuzzled your face into his chest. "Okay, but I'm only doing this for you."

<Zib teasing short reader>

"That short enough for ya....I mean...you sure you can reach it?" ​Dorian Zibowski or Zib as everyone called him teased you as he hovered ofer your short frame.

"I can help ya of you like." The cigaret dangled from the corner of his mouth.

Puffing out your cheeks, your fur bristled as you tugged the mic close to you. "How very kind of you Zib but I'm fine! Maybe you should worry about not hacking up a lung on our next performance."

A deep chuckle left his lips as he took a step towards you. Grasping your chin he gave you a teasing grin bending down, his head pressing yours as his hat pushed up. "I keep forgettin how cute you are when you get all flustered."

"Zib!"

Humming, Zib put out the cigaret as he then placed his hat on your head. "You weren't complanin last night though. Gotta say you looked really good wearin my shirt."

Feeling your body grow warm, you turned your back to him. "You....shut up!"

#sedgewick sable #blurbs #blurb #sedgewick sable x reader #sedgewick x reader #wick sable #wick sable x reader #sedgewick sable lackadaisy #wick sable lackadaisy #lackadaisy sedgewick sable #lackadaisy #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy x you #dorian zibowski #dorian zibowski x reader #dorian zibowski lackadaisy #zib lackadaisy #lackadaisy zib #zib x reader #zib x you #dorian zibowski x you #lackadaisy x

[speakeasyaoi]

Sedgewick Sable x M! Reader

> Requested by anonymous | I actually really enjoyed this prompt! I might go on to write some fanfic inspired by it, just because I had so many ideas...

PROMPT: The reader is Sedgewick's secretary.

He has to sit himself down with a bit of alcohol to contemplate and think once he manages to realize that he's falling for you. ...A 'bit of alcohol' soon turning into a bottle or two. His feelings are all mixed up and complicated when it comes to yearning for another man, let alone one who's working so closely with him, which leads him to have a bit of a personal, moral dilemma; this is all so new and strange to him, and he's completely lost on how he should handle his newfound feelings. You likely being his queer awakening certainly doesn't do anything to help that. As opposed to women, whom he's significantly more flirty and forward with, with you, Wick is more inclined to bury his affections under a front of nothing more than a typical professional relationship-- out of a cross between repressed queerness and fear of his feelings not being reciprocated. He's not opposed to it, just very...inexperienced.

With so much extra money at his disposal, he can't help but dote on and spoil you with gifts and raises in your pay (which would already be considerably higher than he would give to anyone else in your same position, considering how he feels about you). He tries to limit himself to more discreet, smaller gifts--knowing anything too drastic would give away his feelings, no doubt--but in the end it's rather obvious anyway. Fancy pens and pencils and office supplies to 'help with your work' soon progresses to buying you clothes and accessories and other, more luxury items, and eventually it wouldn't be out of place to find a new set of cufflinks boxed on your desk, or a fine pocketwatch, or a rock or geode that he found interesting. ...That last one is probably more meaningful in his eyes than it is in yours. But it's the thought that counts.

Oftentimes he'll get the urge to come by your workspace to 'check up on you' and make sure you're doing your job properly, which normally just consists of him standing over your shoulder for as long as he can without raising suspicion, paying more attention to you than he is to anything you're doing. He'll comment and make an attempt at sparking up conversation here and there, but he soon grows nervous he's being overbearing, and leaves you to your own devices with a hasty pat on your shoulder.

If you burn through your paperwork and manage to finish everything you need to do early, Wick gradually begins to ask you to do more and more mundane, everyday tasks for him just so he can get you to stay around him a little longer. And if he's feeling particularly bold, he might ask you to stay afterhours, just for some quality time.

He frequently comes up to you and adjusts your uniform, straightening your lapels, tightening your necktie or messing with your buttons, and while he tells you it's for the sake of maintaining your professional image, it's pretty obvious he just wants to be up close and make any sort of physical contact with you. His hands linger for a second or two longer than they need to.

He tries his hardest to foster a connection with you outside of the workplace. In his eyes, it heightens his chances of gaining your favor, and lowers the chance that his advances will be rejected. This initially starts out with him taking you out to a quaint little bistro or a nice restaurant to discuss business, and over time, the topics of conversation become more and more personal and intimate. It's most likely that he'll end up drunkenly confessing on one of these occasions, or giving away too much, which prompts him to fluster and apologize once he sobers up.

He always finds some way to join you on your smoke or lunch break. Maybe for the whole period, or a part of it, or even just dropping by to check in on you, but it's practically a guarantee that he'll be there. Half of the time he can't even muster an excuse or any sort of reasoning to defend himself, he just wants to be able to spend as much time as he can alongside you.

Other notes: N/A

#lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy comic #Lackadaisy x m!reader #lackadaisy x m! reader #lackadaisy x m reader #sedgewick sable #wick sable #lackadaisy wick #sedgewick sable x reader #wick sable x reader

[theres-a-body-here]

Sable: "When meeting new people remember to keep it light and casual. Use our conversation starters if you get in trouble"

(Y/N), nodding along: "Light and casual, got it"

~~~~

(Y/N), throwing themselves at the Killer's feet: "I LOVE SWEATY, EVIL, AND VIOLENT MEN, PLEASE GO OUT WITH ME! PLEASE! PLEASE! PLEASE!"

Screams and yells echo through the realm as the killer frantically attempts to shake off (Y/N) from their thighs

~~~~

Sable, panicking and holding her head: "He's pulling the freak-off card THIS EARLY?"

Mikaela, looking through binoculars: "If he u-turns the topic back to the Mori Rework we might clutch this"

#dbd x reader #dead by daylight x reader #male!reader #dead by daylight #male reader #dbd #slasher x reader #slashers #dbd shitpost #dbd incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes #sable ward #all things wicked #mikaela reid #killers x reader #killers dbd #dbd killer

[mediocrevideopodcast]

Prompt: Calling Sedgewick by his full name Pairing: Sedgewick Sable/Reader A/N: Realized it's been a while since I've posted anything, so Sedgewick be upon ye! Ivy and Mitzi to be posted at a later date :)

Sedgewick likes to believe he has an appropriate work-life balance. He doesn't, mind you, but a man can dream. He tries his best to disentangle himself a little from the business after-hours, bless his heart, but it's hard when you do what you love… even if the logistics of the business can be frustrating. But he can say one thing with confidence: When he shuts the office door, he's more than a businessman. Papers fall from his hands to be replaced by a half-filled glass of scotch, and "Sedgewick Sable" is exchanged for "love" and "dear." 

That's all to say that when he hears "Sedgewick Alastair Sable" fall from your lips, he's about ready to fall to your feet. He can practically feel his parents nudging his leg from under the table to correct his posture, or grab the right fork. (Dinner forks are on the inside, Sedgewick Sable, salad forks on the outside.) He's not sure what he did wrong, and as much as he tries to play it cool… he's about ready to crumble. 

"Yes, darling?" He laughs nervously, straightening his posture. His hands move forward to adjust his tie before realizing that he's yet to put it on for the day, and instead come to rest behind his back.

It's best not to laugh at his sigh of relief when you ask him where the coffee tin is. Poor man is a little too gullible for his own good… but that's not to say he doesn't catch on. He presses a kiss to your jawline when he moves past you, punctuating it with a gentle nip. 

"You think you're quite the fox, huh?" 

You grin -- the double meaning isn't lost on you, and you squeeze his arm tenderly. "Not quite sure what you're talking about, dear." 

#banner by @cafekitsune! #sedgewick sable x reader #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy imagines #lackadaisy sedgewick x reader #lackadaisy wick x reader

[master-muffinn]

Lackadaisy

When their s/o accidentally farts.  😮

And it was in that moment you know…you fu**ed up. They laugh. Hard. “S/o did your ass say something or what?!” They will make fun of you, and probably use it against you whenever they feel like it. But If they see that it hurts you, then they’ll tone it down of course. Honestly, they probably already have been farting in front of you before and laugh about it, especially if you make a funny face.

Asa, Nicodeme, Serafine

Those cats doesn't give a fu*k. You must likely get a quick side glance, but that’s it. They are respectful and grown up. Everyone farts, it’s natural. Why make such a fuss? But if they notice that you are freaking out about it, they will simply tell you, “Don’t worry about it s/o, it happens for everyone. I'm not gonna make fun of you.” (or something like that). However they expect the same respect from you if they ever would let out a fart as well.

Atlas, Viktor, Dominic, Elsa, Mrs Bapka, 

Disgust…Is written over their face. “s/o did you just…gross..” Will probably move a few steps away from you. They won't be like that for long tho, but they expect you to apologize for your little “mistake”. This will never happen to them of course! They excuse themselves to the bathrooms or when they know nobody is around. 

Mordecai, Ivy, Abelard, Lacy, Nina, Mitzi?

They are quiet and give you a surprised expression 👀😶 They are trying to think of what they should say or do. Should they tell you it’s ok, it happens? No then s/o might be even more embarrassed. Should they just laugh it off? No that would be mean. Maybe they should… But under those seconds they are trying to think of something. They are either giving out different weird face expressions or looking at you with a straight 😐 face. Which may come out the wrong way.

Wick, Calvin, Horatio, Bobby?

Looking at you and then giving you a little teasing smirk. “Did you hear something, hmm?” But they would stay at that. They would self be a little embarrassed if it was them farting in front of their lover, so they wouldn't make a big deal out of it. They have probably been covering it up when they fart and talking about something or gone somewhere else with you to avoid the smell. 

Zib, Rocky

Doesn't even notice, lol.

Virgil

Thank you for reading! If liked, reblogs are very appreciated! :) 

I do not take requests.

Post made by @master-muffinn

Lackadaisy belong to @lackadaisycats I recommend reading the series! Really Great!

#lackadaisy viktor #lackadaisy rocky #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy #lackadaisy headcanons #viktor vasko #rocky rickaby #ivy pepper #atlas may #mitzi may #lackadaisy virgil #mordecai heller #wick sable #calvin mcmurray #lackadaisy freckle #lacy hardt #dorian zibowski #lackadaisy zib #nina mcmurray #horatio bruno #mrs bapka #dominic drago #nicodeme savoy #serafine savoy #lackadaisy nico #the arbogasts #asa sweet #bobby bastion #elsa bastion #abelard arbogast

[an-otterly-adorable-being]

Wick x M!LocalPolitician!Reader

I'm back bitches/lh! And for my grand return, I did way too much research into St. Louis' city government. Look up the Board of Alderman, if you're curious. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy!

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

• You're father was a decently wealthy man. Not old money level of money, but enough for him to afford a nice townhouse in St. Louis, specifically Lafayette Square.

• It was also enough money to earn him good will, and a few financing jobs for American politicians.

• With that money, comes amazing opportunities for a kid like you.

• Enter the 1904 World Fair and Olympic Games.

• You attended them both, and it lit a flame in you.

• You saw the wonder in the world, and you wanted to make sure people could find.

• Naturally, you wanted St. Louis to be the place to see that splendor.

• You became a lawyer at first, running a practice from a building, using the upstairs as your home.

• You had a pretty good thing going, with money coming in, most going back into the community, and a good reputation among the locals.

• But then you ended up finding out about some, not so great news.

• Turns out most of the city's were somewhat corrupt.

• Granted, the corruption isn't what you were upset with, it was with the fact that they weren't  helping the people.

• This simply wouldn't do in your eyes, and so you set out to win a local office.

• Eventually, you got your wish, and became the alderman for ward 8 of St. Louis.

• It was during this time you first met Mr. Sable.

• He was a fine young man, and you do mean fine.

• You didn't even know you had half of these feelings until you saw him!

• It started out simply enough, with you inviting him to business meetings and lunch.

• Eventually you started hanging out around town, as friends.

• Even later, and you ended up continuing the "business meetings" in his bedroom.

• (For my ace besties out there, or just those who aren't into it, y'all are just enjoying the privacy, and nothing more. Love y'all<3!)

• Wick also had a lot of confusing feelings as your relationship developed, but hey, you two figured it out together.

• It took a while for either of you to get things really going, relationship wise.

• And it still is difficult, with both of your jobs requiring so much time.

• Still, you try to spend as much time together as possible.

• Even if it is under the guise of reviewing his company's policies, or meeting to get "a better sense of how to help the people."

• That second one was at least somewhat true, though.

• Yeah, Wick probably wasn't the best person to be going to for the general public's opinion, but it did help.

• Especially when he introduced you to the Lackadaisy.

• It was a nice little place, even if you did first visit it at its decline.

• Wick would've brought you sooner, but you were a politician, and prohibition was in effect...

• Luckily, you never bought into the "alcohol is evil" thing, so you were more than happy to share a few drinks to loosen up.

• On top of that, the Lackadaisy gave you the opportunity to meet some of the actual citizens of St. Louis.

• Granted, there weren't many, as the place was already drying up, but it still gave you insight.

• Insight which, with a little bit of nudging, and financial backing, from Wick, let you make a difference, even if it was rather small.

• Now that terms are ending, though, and you aren't sure about your reelection, you have a nice little back up plan.

• And that plan is to be Wick's "advisor," which should give you more than enough time together.

#lackadaisy #headcanon #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy wick #wick x reader #sedgewick sable #sedgwick sable x reader #lackadaisy cats #lackadaisy headcanons #im back bitches

[star-writez]

Hello can i request dating headcanons for wick x male!reader ? Also thank you so much for answering my questions!

(Thanks for the request also feel free to ask questions about my writing or about requesting!)

-so starting out you were one of wick’s rich friends who inherited his wealth from when his rich dad passed away-

-you weren’t used to being rich and you had trouble talking to other rich people (cause you didn’t really know what rich people talk about)

-but then there was wick-

-he was friendly and very easy to talk to-

-you automatically fell for him but he took some more time-

-then he finally accepted that he had a crush on you and that he was bi (this is a hc btw idk if wick is bi or not tbh)

-it took him so long to ask you on a date mostly because he didn’t know if you would like him back and most men back in the 1920s were straight cause that wa the social norm-

-but when he finally did you automatically said yes with no hesitation-

-the date was very fancy-

-he took you to some fancy restaurant and kinda spoiled you-

-he mostly wanted to make sure that you would go out on another date with him-

-the second date was more down to earth you just both went on a picnic-

-most of the other dates were simple and down to earth nothing too fancy-

-the only time he kisses you is at the end of the date (unless you ask for him to do it before)-

-mostly just brings you flowers and sometimes fancy lil gifts-

(That’s all I can think of I hope y’all enjoyed)

#fanfic #writing #x reader #lackadaisy #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy fanfiction #sedgewick sable #wick x reader #lackadaisy headcanons #lackadaisy wick #sedgewick sable x reader #random #lgbgtq #mlm #male x male

[comfortless]

Only Other

chapter one of three.

Goth soldier! König x fem, Roman! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. historical au (set around 350BC); potential inaccuracies as i am no historian!, König speaks some German here (as opposed to Gothic), mutual pining & worship, mentions of an arranged marriage with a large age gap, slight sexism, descriptions of gore, groping, dubcon sword/knifeplay. additional warnings will be added to the next two chapters.

notes: for @writersdrug’s request. ^^

wc: 11k.

The barbarians are here.

The dream of river water lapping over your knees and songbirds in swaying trees fades out into a hazy fog as you begin to rise, dropping your legs from the mattress to spur yourself to move across the small room as quietly as your feet can carry you.

Heavy footfalls and staggering hoof beats from their horses weighed down by heavy sacks of supplies is what has pulled you from sleep.

The flames of their torches crackle, accompanied by the shrieks of clanging, well-polished metals singing out as if in the throes of war becomes a dull song; weapons, wicked and crudely crafted unlike the spears of the soldiers donned in red you were so accustomed to by now.

You had heard the whispers on the wind of the untamed beasts from Germania filtering in, settling down here; their arms and their blood for just a sliver of land to claim, soil to birth farmland, a semblance of peace from within the walls of the great empire.

Never, in these small words from gossiping tongues, did you suspect that these rugged men would be taking to camp so very close to your city. Not only that… they’ve been accepted into the walls, the door flung open for them with their gnashing teeth and thick, ugly weapons. These men of myth were usually set further out into the countryside, far from view of polite people to sow seed in soft fields, build the little shacks that seemed far too fragile for their rugged forms that could never compare to the villas built here.

Peering over the sill of the open window, stretching your upper half out into crisp night air to catch a glimpse of torches sailing along the breeze, flames just as ever-shifting as their darkened silhouettes, your breath seems to halt entirely. They look the trueness of harbingers like this: each somehow more imposing than the one they follow behind. You count only two horses split between the eight men of this small band.

Could any of them even speak in your tongue?

What stories could they tell?

Had any of them ventured as far as the sea or had they only bathed in waves of warm blood?

With eyes wide, you even dare to perch there to watch on, never bothering to conceal your underclothes with the faith that the darkness would hide away anything more than a illusory view of your shape.

Through the faint glow of the yellow-red flickering flames, your gaze drifts to something large, hulking and brutish, darker still against the backdrop of a sable horizon.

The shadow walks in line with the others, their proud and raucous foreign voices feathering through the otherwise quieted air… only he does not speak, does not make a single utterance of mirth or glee. He stares only forward as his feet tread on just paces behind the rest of the group.

Nine, then.

Like the tales you’ve heard of the Goths, you’ve also listened in on the children spinning wild stories of monsters, the legends of heroes of old slaying cruel beasts told by their elders. You had always believed them, even without the evidence currently striding through the sleeping streets, dark like a crypt, like the underworld itself. A true titan.

Just as your eyes track the brooding, silent form, he abruptly turns his head in your direction.

The glow of a nearby torch paints the shrouded face in the color of a dying sun, casts a glint on the thick seax strapped to his hip.

In that moment, it isn’t wonderment curling through your blood, but surprise, maybe even a tinge of fear.

Your heart hammers as you pull yourself from the window to whisper hurried, hushed prayers to Juno, protectress of women, as you reject your curious nature and climb back into your bed. You’ll bring your offerings to her altar just as any devout: incense and a sweet pastry so long as she keeps you safe, chaste.

Buried beneath cushions stuffed with straw and thin fabric sheets to tuck yourself away, you wish only to return to dreaming of the river’s silt beneath your feet and colorful birds parading past in the open air that smells only of violets and honey.

Instead, you dream of fire.

You dream of the city bathed in gold, molten and angry as the walls come down around you.

You watch as your neighbors, friends, all begin to writhe and shriek as their skin begins to blister, boil beneath until it melts layer by precious layer to puddle like oil where feet once stood until the mighty, wraithful scorch takes even that away too. What once was human becomes smoke: women, men, children, it made no difference. It all becomes a mighty roaring flame as the structures wail and crumble around you.

Yet, you remain untouched.

Dawn breaks with the puppets sewn in shadow all but entirely forgotten, washed away in the fearsome tides of your own dreaming.

You startle and bolt upright as you wipe cold sweat from your brow with the back of your hand.

You’re no oracle: it’s just a dream… Vulcan would never turn his fiery gaze to your people after you’ve all honored him so, the offerings paid at his altar had been plentiful this past year with the steady expansion of the empire and the need for well-smithed weapons.

There were no volcanoes here to sweep away your life with magma and sulfur… only the lemures that haunted old shacks with their wailing had paid a visit to you last night. You let them in with your fears, and you would ward them away next with your courage.

The sun’s warmth creeps its way in, sweeps up from your blanketed legs until it curls and caresses at your cheek. From its positioning, proud and impossibly high in the sky it’s almost as though Sol himself were staring down at you, radiant yet scolding.

You’ve overslept.

Hurriedly, you ready yourself for the day, cinching your waist, clasping the shoulder of the stola, and dutifully washing your face with still water held in a clay pot. There was little else to do than bide your time with tedium: the animals loitering about needed tending to, a neglected sewing project lay strewn across the floor that had long-awaited its completion, and as the questions began to stir in your mind again… perhaps, gods willing, you would safely be gifted the opportunity to peek at the barbarian camp. To see that peculiar titan that they kept tethered at their sides.

It was dangerous and unheard of for a maiden, of course, but with little else to do than work and practice stitching threads for a betrothed you held no true affection for, this was a significant reprieve from the humdrum of what was scrawled out into the stars.

You weren’t given the luxury of further studies and communing with the aristocrats at their hearty banquets, sipping wine and prattling onwards about politics and how to further Rome as a whole. A part of you preferred this simple life of taking to the street, to peruse the market with what little money you held clutched in your palm, to pet the horses and watch as bulls sparred out in the fields beyond. Returning home to an empty house was a comfort, too.

As always, the market is a lively place, full to bursting with people exchanging anything under the sun, either beneath painted wooden stalls or from the first floor of their very homes, all with very little regard for you.

The city was simply too full to take in every name and face, and only their chatter seemed to intrigue you anyhow. You didn’t need a scroll or a song about each individual, your people were easy enough to read: war, pride, and duty all embedded into their very blood. The only ones that drew your attention were the poets and bards, entertainers who spun their stories of lives vastly different from your own… but there were none awaiting coin on the streets today.

A man passes with his wife at his side, loudly bolstering onward about his progress on some expedition.

Women with flowers woven into the braids of their hair laugh softly behind their palms as they exchange their secrets in singsong whispers.

The children play and pocket with eager palms when salesmen are unaware, likely to be caught later on and have their hands whipped raw.

There’s no talk of the Goths.

With these foreign men, most of your people seemed unbothered, taking solace in the knowledge that the empire’s cavalry would ride to strike down any opposition. A tentative, arrogant sort of comfort that you knew very well not to trust entirely. Most were simply not as educated on the potential of what could be, hadn’t snuck around on quiet feet to listen in on the men discussing failed treaties and negotiations.

The Goths could find their own food, their own women and shelters after fighting for the empire for a time: likely what they were here to do… give up their lives in exchange for a sliver of a Roman dream. A band as small as the one you witnessed could never quite hope to topple an empire, anyhow.

That sense of safety brought forth disinterest and smug little grins with little else to say, whereas your mind only took to further conjuring curiosity.

The more you wander the more you question whether you saw them at all, or if they were mere specters, already slain and silenced on some field far off from here, long dead and forgotten by all but the sleep-addled mind of a maiden.

You’ve never felt so disheartened. Though the city remained constantly bustling and full of intrigue when you knew where to look, these days the ease of it all only seemed to further the boredom. If nothing were to come, it would be no surprise to find that Juno would serve her purpose, looking after all with her blessings. You almost regret calling for her safety last night.

If the barbarians were indeed real, had some plot to overthrow an empire with their small numbers, perhaps only a vulture would be pleased with your thoughts now: teetering on the cusp of anticipation and wonder. You would never think yourself treasonous, but to learn, to see more… Your appetite for something further than a life spent sewing and child-rearing after marrying a man that made your skin prickle with distaste in the coming winter was rational.

Maybe not to most, but to you.

The fruit stall pulls you from thought with its sappy, honey-sweet scent and brilliant colors littered in crates: reds, greens, even some soft and blue… You only then notice you’ve been standing entirely still here, lost in thought, as if expecting a bolt of lightning to split the world in two.

Two apricots were purchased, one for you and the other for the gray mare in the stable you had grown fond of. You give the merchant a smile and a few bronze coins and carry on your way, nibbling at one of the fruits on your walk.

There were usually servants tending to the horses just beyond the city's paved streets, but it seemed today they were busy with other affairs: Quinquatria would be upon the city soon, and there was much to prepare for such an important festival. The place was empty all apart from yourself and the horses, some off in the fields to gallop to their heart’s content, while others like your mare, secured by wooden gates and paddocks.

You feed her, cooing gently as she takes the pitted fruit from your hand and between her blunt teeth; then, allows you to lead her into the grass with your honeyed words and languid steps.

One day, you hoped to have the opportunity to ride her, perhaps far away to touch the waters of the ocean, to see the foreign trees in some great adventure that would leave you more fulfilled. Ideally, without being weighed down heavy with child.

Your hand strokes at her nose before she begins to tense, eyes wandering from your form to something just beyond, far off and nestled in tall, fluttering grass and small bushes. You track her gaze for a moment, finally turning to look over your shoulder.

The wind has the tops of the trees swaying along the hills, grass pushed down to kiss the earth with each flutter of air. It all smells and feels so gentle, carrying the scent of wildflowers and the soil and salt of the earth itself. Ceres would have found herself prideful at the sight; everything rich and lush with the spring… Harvests would be bountiful this year, and everyone would be well-fed and contented. It’s no surprise that after pilfering through old calendars and running his tests upon the soil, Gaius had declared that this was the year he would take you to be his wife.

Past the expanse of soft blossoms and a cavalcade of greenery, all sweeping and rolling, a beauty that would stifle anyone should they think to look hard enough… but amidst all of this sits a man that you recognize immediately. Though he remains utterly faceless, his stature is somehow enough to make a gladiator blush and turn tail in shame.

There, just where the hill dips down and gives way to the soft rush of the stream, sits your warrior. His head is lowered as he crouches by the water, hands tucked to his front as he busies himself with something in his lap. The bare expanse of his back presented to you is unfathomable even from such a distance.

The men from Germania were said to be huge, dwarfing those that you were accustomed to by lengths, tall and thick like the weapons that they carry. They were said to be handsome, too… and like some hazy dream you were already certain that he was, somehow, beneath the pelt tied round his waist to keep him warmed at night, the sable shroud hanging over his head as he works away at sharpening the blade laying over his lap.

Your legs feel weak like a freshly birthed lamb’s as you watch him; the muscles of his bare arms bulging and quivering, his nude back tensing with effort. The soft rays of the sun beaming down only seem to paint him golden, untouchable except by higherborn women and men who could pay well to have him dirty his blade or his cock. Radiant, cruel, maybe even a bastard son of Mars himself, because what better a place for a man so vast and laden with scar tissue to be than in the midst of some great war.

Someone like this, you know with a certainty, would have no time for fickle maidens with their heads filled with the fluff of fantasies, and in a way that only seems to solidify a plume of possessiveness stirred up within your head.

You wonder even, if he calls to Vulcan as he pauses to hold his blade up to the sun to marvel at his work, the sharpened silver glinting in the light. The weapon casts its rays to only further illuminate the paleness of his flesh, coupled with the gleam of the flowing water ebbing past it only serves to make him look the very picture of those old stories and myths. The older women in the city would have tapestries embroidered of this scene, no doubt, if they could see through your eyes now.

Your horse trots off, satisfied that there is no true threat here, and you feel yourself begin to creep forward.

The gods and goddesses must play their tricks, because you are no fool. The pull only feels undeniable, something that you could not fight with a stern will alone. You pacify your impromptu decision with the thought that you could turn away at any point in the meters it would take to reach him. Surely, if he turned to face you before then that same fear from the night before would come to surface and you would sprint, startled and wary.

Perhaps he would even give chase…

There’s no excitement to be held on him, either acutely unaware or ignoring your presence entirely as you draw ever-closer. The grass softens your footsteps, the breeze blanketing any sound from each shift of your legs beneath the linen stola. You’re near silent in your approach, only halting where the hill crests over the bank several paces away from where he remains seated.

Only then does he turn to look your way.

There’s no greeting, no display of friendliness. His body language remains closed off, distant, like that of a wolf in cautious preparation; deciding whether or not it would be necessary to bare his teeth, to snap and growl until your flesh rends beneath him.

So it’s left up to you and to Juno who remains harbored in your heart. The goddess would protect you most assuredly, you’ve left her offerings for as long as you could remember, prayed at her altars and devoted yourself entirely— perhaps not in the same way of the temple maidens, but certainly more so than most.

You take a breath, watching him with kind eyes and an air of unease about you that only seems sweet by comparison to the very danger that his presence proposes. He only returns your stare with something colder, detached and unamused beneath that ugly veil he wears: two holes for the eyes, dyed beneath with the red rimming yellow like the tissue a butcher may find in a plump calf.

“Can you understand me?”

There’s a long, tense silence that follows your frail question. The titan stares, looks you over from the crown of your head, briefly pauses midway- at your hips- then further. It’s both heated and cold, coaxing yet analytical.

Finally, the barbarian gives a curt nod in response, seeming no less frigid and closed off even as your voice feathers over the breeze. But he understands, can decipher your language, that’s a start.

“You are… one of the barbarians, yes?” Is that even what they preferred to be called? The word certainly sounded prettier on your tongue than the brutish pronunciation of ‘Goths’. There would certainly be some price to be paid if your blood was spilled over a mere insult…

Graciously, he only seems to overlook it as he sheaths his blade and rises to his full height, tall like the mountains you had only heard stories of, where gods and goddesses sit in council not meant for mortal ears.

Freed of any covering upon his upper body, you find yourself reluctantly mesmerized by the trail of light hair that runs from chest to abdomen and down further… until a little tuft peeks from the hem of the pelt tied around his narrow hips. The layer of fat over his midsection paves a way upward to reveal the muscles of his chest, wider and more prominent somehow than most breasts you’ve seen.

Unruly thoughts clutter that would have others questioning your status and devotion to your Gaius if they could hear them. It couldn’t be helped, you reason; you had never seen a man quite so vast, so meant for battle and breeding.

“That is what your people call me,” he huffs, bull preparing to charge. His words come out with a thick accent, northern. The trees and mountains would sound similar if they could speak at all.

He drinks you in with his eyes, fingers twitching at his sides as though itching to touch your most sensitive parts. Though he doesn’t move yet, you get the sense that all it would take is one false move, a skitter in your step that leaves you tumbling to the earth, and he would be upon you like the downpours of spring. You even wonder if he would roar like the thunder delivered from Jupiter’s weighty palms if he were to mount you.

Of course, what he sees before him is not a maiden of Rome. His people didn’t care for purity, for your religions and ideals: you’re a fertile little doe, wandering straight to a buck in his prime.

You swallow hard, a little bob from your fragile throat, to force those treasonous thoughts from your mind. Even talking to this man was a risk to your reputation… Your poor betrothed, nearing thrice your age and horribly delicate by comparison to this beast, would be up in arms if he were to find you here. More concerning, you couldn’t find it within yourself to care.

“What do you call yourself, then?” Your voice comes almost breathless, thighs pressed together beneath your stola as your own body sends its signs and omens to tell you that you’re precariously close to the underworld just by gracing him with your presence. Perhaps it would be that dark, too, if this giant decided to push you to the soil, hover over you as he plucked you apart like petals from a flower.

His eyes track that subtle shift of your legs, crinkling at the outer corners when they roam back upward to your face. The beast grins beneath his hood, you’re certain of it, and those eyes of pale blue seem to glitter like the sun's rays on the stream to your side. He shifts, crosses his arms over his chest and tilts his hips just slightly forward, some strange display undoubtedly meant to tempt and charm you.

You don’t budge from your perch, despite your body’s persistent singing for him. Enticing scents and views of flesh could do that… this man wasn’t special, you were just curious. That’s all that it was.

“König.” He answers things plainly in that lilted voice, as though he’s trying to seem more of a man to spite that boyish way of speaking. And gods help you- it’s cute.

“Does it have meaning?,” you settle to ask when he does not request your name in turn. A bit rude, though you do wonder if perhaps the bullish men in his settlements see delicate things like you more like pets anyhow. The thought of this warrior whisking you away and naming you one day… You swallow that lump in your throat again, teetering back on your heels as if to place more distance between you two.

“What do you think it means?”

That simple non-answer does finally allow your pulse to settle, only to rise immediately to find it insulting— as if this wild man with no proper education had the right to insult you at all.

He only smiles again beneath that veil when your face sours. Awful, wretched, gorgeous creature… You’re no threat to him and he knows it. He’s only playing with you, dodging your pretension with a bit of his own, and unfortunately… This is the most pleasant conversation that you’ve had with any man.

Your betrothed was only arrogant and dull, there’s no light in his eyes when he smiles at you- everything is duty. Not here. Not with König, and surely the goddess of marriage and love is frowning down at you from her lofty throne, because you’re almost certain you’re infatuated with the brute by now.

“You’re a bit rude.”

“King.” He grins, a grin that you can see when he frees the leather flask from his belt and shoves his mask upward to take a heavy gulp of what is undoubtedly Roman wine. The glimpse alone makes you weak again, honey drips from your thoughts to your cunt, and you know now that you were never simply curious.

No, this brute would be the end of your engagement and even you if you allowed it.

You watch him take his fill, catch the bitter scent in the air as a bit trickles down from his rough jaw to his throat, all covered in scars. He’s been in battle for a long time, likely why he wears the hood at all. The rest of that handsome face is undoubtedly a wreck just as what could be seen of his body, all covered in memories of where he’s had scrapes and dances with daggers only to fell his foes one by one with that long seax dangling from his hip.

After the hood and the flask are in their proper places once more, he gives you a nod, then speaks, “How many coins?”

It takes a moment for the question to register in full; he isn’t asking what you have on your person, but how much you’re worth. How much it would cost for you to spend a night in his bed, tolerating this giant between your legs…

Your attractions billow up in smoke immediately, just as you expression sours and your hands curl to fists at your side, crushing the half-eaten apricot in the process. You toss the ruined fruit to the ground, allowing the sweet juice to coat your fingers as it flows downward.

You wring your hand as you very nearly shout, “You are an animal. I’m not here to sell myself.”

Your voice falters to a meek, little whisper with your final words, the breath a weak gust through the first tiny blossoms of spring.

Of course he catches onto your body language, to the way your thighs rub and tense beneath your skirt, the way your nipples peak at the mere sight of him and all of the infatuation and curiosity in your eyes. Men knew things like this, offhandedly, it seemed; if the others were correct then this beast could surely smell you, too.

The bastard only stares, eyes narrowing as his brow pulls together beneath the hood in some strange confusion. The whores wore their togas, not the stolas of maidens and married women, even a barbarian should have known that: his men were certainly no strangers to the sweet women with their faces chalked in lead.

Then, his shoulders pull up to fall in a shrug.

“Run, then, little one.”

It’s almost as though he knows your thoughts in and out, a lemure himself as he presents the bulk of him that would strike fear into any man, taunts and goads. You don’t want another fire dream. You force your courage and mirror his stance: chin up, back straightened as you look down upon him like a goddess sent to deliver her fury with… a pitted apricot at your feet rather than bolts of famine and misfortunes.

His eyes become stars, twinkling in earnest when he sees you then. You’re no aristocrat, no empress, but you certainly feel the part when the giant’s gaze finally relaxes its pilferage and settles upon your face instead.

Your act is all for naught, because you realize that his men are approaching, opposite the stream. One of them was enough, but a hoard of others… You were not even certain that he could understand you properly, and the others could be even less patient. Your gaze travels over their forms, smaller than this ‘König’, but each equipped with their own weapons and their own scars from battle.

They look from their leader to you, eyes grazing over the plush flesh that your stola dutifully conceals like starved dogs. One of them mutters something in a foreign tongue, harsh and guttural, his eyes never leaving your shape in a display of brazen appraisal.

König responds in turn, voice taking on a lower octave as he all but barks his response: harsh, unyielding language that you couldn’t hope to interpret… but if you had to guess, you were nearly certain that his men were asking who would lift your skirts and have their way with you first.

You depart from them with tentative yet hurried feet, and you don’t look back as you cross across the lush field. There’s no stopping at the stable, not a thought in your head except that you would most assuredly not be returning. The barbarians could have the field, the stream, whatever the city’s officials had allowed them.

Just not you.

It’s Gaius that greets you when you arrive home, to the little villa he had secured for you; to the place that would become less of a home and more of a prison once the two of you were wed. You’re barely a foot in the door when the man’s gaunt face turns to you, his lips set in a stern line.

“Where were you?”

You knew that look, it’s the very same that he gives to his slaves when he’s about to bleat out his orders like an enraged goat, shove them or grab at them to feel less small than he truly is.

Your brow pinches, a shaky breath leaving your mouth as you try in earnest to look the part of an innocent lady who had not just crossed a field and fantasized endlessly of some rude, barbaric oaf.

“In the field. With the horses,” you deliver your half-truth with practiced ease. This wasn’t the first time you’ve lied to him, and it certainly would not be the last. If the protectress of Rome could overlook your stunts and recognize your discomfort in this wretch’s presence… then she might even side with you; save you from a future of sharing this man’s bed.

Gaius relents then— as much as a stoic, old man could. He reaches out to cup your face with one weathered hand and you have to force back to urge to shudder.

It’s not that you mean to be cold, not after all that he’s done to care for you… it just comes as naturally as the seasons and the wills of the gods. Something about him always made you feel ill.

You eventually, tentatively jut your chin forward just a bit to force yourself into leaning toward the touch of his cold hand.

His lips curl into an unsightly grin; then, he pats your cheek and draws away enough to bless you with fresher air to breathe without his withering presence alone contaminating it.

“I brought you a gift, meum corculum.”

“Oh…” Your words come in a little hiss, your heart stuttering in your chest as you teeter back on the heels of your sandals. The straps along your calves feel tighter now, your stola too… maybe even the room itself: everything seems to close in, and you could only silently hope he doesn’t request your affections for doing such. “… you didn’t have to-“

“Nonsense.” Gaius raises both of his hands, arcs them before stepping out of your path to reveal a new dress lying on the wooden table just beyond him, dyed a light blue.

It’s pretty, well-spun and soft-looking… yet you still hesitate a bit when you step closer to run your fingertips over the fabric. It yields beneath your touch, bunches when you move each digit along the pliant linen, and it’s the softest thing you’ve ever touched, maybe even softer than the lambs and kittens you’ve played with in the streets.

“I thought that you might like something nicer to wear during Quinquatria,” he adds from just behind you. You feel his hands trace along your arms, further, until they reach your shoulders and give a gentle, but almost demanding squeeze.

It’s meant to be affectionate and he is your husband-to-be… but he still manages to make you feel ill. It’s only a blessing that he’s never requested more from you than a peck for his offerings to you.

What a man in his late stage of life could see in you, you couldn’t hope to imagine. A fertile womb, likely, and you could only hope that that isn’t also what he saw in the women he kept as slaves in his own home further toward the city’s center. Nosy, dull man that he was, of course he needed to be closer to the housings of banquets and discussions to feel some level of importance while he kept you locked away toward the wall and the slums like some filthy little mystery.

“I’m tired, my love,” you manage, voice thin as you slowly pull yourself away, from both Gaius and the delicate blue thing you would be forced into wearing for the coming festival.

The man balks, but doesn’t push. A few seasons and he would have what he’s awaited for years, the confident gleam in his eyes tells you that he’s certain of it.

It’s difficult to believe that someone you had once considered a hero and a friend could make you feel so much disgust now. You were naïve, then, and now you only feel how those poor horses locked away in the stables must feel, burdened with a constant yearning for your own freedom.

“Then rest.”

When the door shuts behind him, you’re only then able to expel your relief. The weight of what you must do settles upon you, heavy and unyielding, the boulder of Terminus.

You can not marry Gaius. You can not continue to breathe in the stink of the city from its miasmic aqueducts, perfumed only by the crowded marketplace full of mortals so contented with their own tedium. The unknown calls and calls, howling like a mother wolf to guide you. Even with the stories told of what fiends and horrors lie outside of the city you could almost feel with a certainty that you were destined for it.

You light your incense with a lump of coal in the burner of a clay pot. Just cinnamon would have to do for now. You make your peace with that promising Juno whichever sweet, flaking pastry that appeals most during the festival of Minerva.

Though you were more than content with your wish for nothing more to do with the barbarians after meeting with König earlier… he comes rushing back into your mind, rolling and lapping like waves as you begin to prepare yourself for sleep. The polished tin of your hand mirror reflects your face as you twirl the handle in a curled palm and you stare. Did he see beauty or simply a womb…? Had you taken offense to nothing? The questions stir up remorse as you strip away your gown and take to the bed.

Just one more meeting with the foreigner, maybe. Just to say your farewells, wish him luck in future battles, bless his seax and his shield with a touch and a prayer (if he even had the sight to keep any form of defense on his person).

When Quinquatria comes, when the people are busy and satisfied with their food, fortune telling and the gladiator games, you will take your mare and ride off into a sea of stars. Each light will be a point of guidance until you reach the riverbed you’ve only ever dreamt of, until you scale the mountains that sang so sweetly from the goth’s tongue…

And perhaps he will chase you.

— — —

Quinquatria used to be one of your favorite festivals. The fortune tellers were your favorites, always seeming to know so very much with so little insight into your life. Then there were the revelers donning their colorful masks, barking out song with bitter wine painting their tongues.

You try to listen in on them as a woman traces over the patterns in your palm, the curved lines and straight, fine indentations. Palmistry, rather than any proper reading with sacrifices and proper seers stood before a temple. You reason that this is for fun, just like the wine-drinking and the gladiators fighting for their lives and the horrible stink of the city’s streets: natural, reasonable, and dreadfully normal.

The fortune teller hums as she reads you through your hand, laughs a bit when she seems to note a secret or… something. You were not entirely sure. The woman was young, her belly likely as full of fermented fruit as everyone else’s as they dance and crowd the street where you two are stood.

“You’re unhappy, girl,” the woman muses, giving you a sympathetic look before another laugh pulls from her lips.

You give her a nod but don’t say a word as she continues to stroke at your palm. Of course you were, anyone could tell just by the frail look upon your face, as if you were indeed bereft and ready to cry at any moment in this horrible, dainty dress with your betrothed fondling some lady mere paces from you.

“Yet, so lovely,” she continues, nimbly running her fingers to your wrist. She curls them around you, turns your hand over and gives it a soft pat to signify that your reading is done.

“You’re destined for a summer wedding.” Winter, you want to correct. “And your husband… strong and brave like the sacred wolf.” Weak and old, you force back with a clenched jaw.

She releases your wrist with one last assessment, “Juno favors you, sweet girl.”

You want to call her a fraud, but instead you merely part with the bronze you had promised to her. With Gaius preoccupied, his wrinkled hands already tucked beneath the skirt of the other woman’s stola, now would be the best time to wrench the door of your little cage wide open… not make a scene.

Your chest feels tight, and for the first time it isn’t from some unknown fear, it’s excitement. Your heart hammers as the blood stirs within your veins, belly tense and breathing shallow, taking a stiff pace to walk along the shadow untouched by silver paths of moonlight.

There’s a bellow, a wail as the gladiators fight some distance off. Soft words and whispers filtering past like eerie words from something ghastly, moans from a brothel, bells on the wind, the stink of rot and perfume all from all that you’ve known for so long as you leave it all behind.

Your mare is pacing restlessly in the field, her ears flicking and tail swaying behind her. You’ve no saddle, you hadn’t even thought to procure food or any supplies. You’re not even certain that she’s been ridden by anyone, but you coax her over to the wooden fence that your body rests over; hands find the velvety fur of her gray snout, fingers moving to gently caress her mane and ears.

“We are going to be free,” you whisper as your hands curl over her neck. The mare makes her displeasure known immediately, huffing and tensing immediately… and you realize that this isn’t going to work, not without her bucking you off and leaving you injured or dead. You’re not stupid or brazen enough to break a horse or anything, really. Not Gaius. Not…

You would find König. Perhaps you could even trade the Goth for a horse already accustomed to being ridden… he had already revealed his intentions, and he was easy enough on the eyes to entertain the thought.

You give the mare a kiss farewell, right on the softness of her cheek and detach yourself from the fence to wander past the silver field, the gently flowing stream. The water dampens your dress, embeds it’s cold into your very bone where the sandals fail to protect. Spring or not, it’s hardly warm at night, and there are only so many rocks lying in the water to keep you from sinking in.

The clothes are drenched by the time you crawl to the other side. On the opposite bank, it’s only then that you turn back to look over at the city, one final glimpse of a place bathed in gold; cinder and ash from torchlight, flowers and the creeping scent of decay carry on the breeze. Even from the distance you can hear the music, chimes of steel on steel, the laughter and cries of mirth and pleasure.

Begrudgingly, you feel the first seeds of regret plucking at your heartstrings. You’ve nothing to your name apart from a few coins in a pouch strapped to your hip, no weapons, no food. You could die, you verily would if you went at this alone. And still, you force your face forward and continue your steady waltz to look the unknown straight in its bloody maw.

You won’t panic, won’t fear. Whatever awaits would be better— it had to be.

The barbarian camp comes into view some time later. You couldn’t be certain how long you’ve been walking, as though some spirit had plucked the chords of your mind and left you in some confused daze. It couldn’t have been your own desperation. Something greater had to be at play, a proper destiny: one much better than the life of Gaius’s wife, owned like a hound, imprisoned and uninspired.

Though their torches burn, their tents stitched together amalgamations of old pelts and cloth, the air is fresher here. You expected the reek of death, heavy on their skin, bathed in blood and the rot like visions of Mors herself. Instead, you smell smoked meat and wine on the air: a boar and fermented grape, fruit from the surrounding orchards, the heavy scent of men. There’s no celebration here, a few men talking quietly as their eyes wander over what you can only assume to be some sort of map— tactical discussion for their next bloodbath.

You puff your chest and steel your gaze as you walk towards them, expression set not unlike the stern looks your betrothed would give.

Your attempt at intimidation only earns a flicker of hunger in the gazes of these men, and then a bout of grating laughter. They glance at one another, discussing you in hushed voices in their mother tongue before one finally looks to you and asks a simple, “Was?”

“König,” you answer simply. “Where might I find him?”

The question undoubtedly goes uninterpreted, but the name does spark a wave of interest that passes between their faces. Finally, one points toward the tent at the far side of the camp: ugly thing, vast and layered in dark tones of gray and maroon, the very structure is a bleeding animal.

You hear the laughter behind you, the lewd whispers and jeers and only a simpleton wouldn’t be able to interpret the meaning; the titan that heads their little group has a lovely woman seeking him out like a wayward dream, and with adrenaline already coursing through you the thought of spending your night here doesn’t even seem an insulting prospect.

The flap serving as the door of the tent parts as your hands move to lift it, and sure enough… the beast lies in wait in his den, seated on a mattress made up entirely of fur. His hood remains over his head as he traces the carvings on the handle of the seax, under flickering flame and the shadow of the tent König seems further unearthly, god walking amongst men as he toys with his weapon in some strange sort of ritual.

The ritual only seems to be one of boredom, because his eyes light up when they rest over you, standing like a dream as your dress billows with the breeze creeping in. You’re drenched and dirty and pitiful in his presence, but he only seems to soften when he beckons you toward him with a curl of his fingers meeting his palm.

You obey with tentative steps, stopping next to him as he waits on the bed. If it were possible for your heart to seize and halt entirely without you collapsing to sink beneath the earth, it surely would now, so close to him.

“I need a favor,” you explain in whispers. “A horse.”

“A horse,” he repeats as his weapon is set aside, “Warum?”

You don’t want to explain a thing. He’s working with the very men that could drag you back to the city after being paid heavily by Gaius… your trust is blind and foolish and you almost want to break apart right here. How stupid to believe that you could find some solace here, with a giant that walks along the cusp between men and beasts. Your shaking hands reach out to drag along his vast shoulders, lingering on the healed wounds that dent and give rise to his flesh.

“I’ll do what you want,” you offer quietly, earning a pleased rumble from his chest.

Though after a moment, he only sieges your wrists, pulls you down to the mattress at his side. He touches you no further, only stares down at you in a twist of amusement, reverence and confusion.

“Warum?,” he repeats, “Tell me.”

You wind over onto your side, staring up at him with a desperation that you’ve never known until this night, clawing down from your throat to bed it’s way into your roaring pulse, frightened and pleading. Just give in, ask no more, you want to wail to him as your vision begins to blur with tears.

Mercifully, he doesn’t ask again. König lies at your side, mimicking the way you curl onto your side and again… he smiles, though this one is unlike the way he looked upon you by the stream. It lacks that boyish twinkle, the intensity of the lines forming beneath his eyes: it’s more of a pleasantry than anything genuine.

“You are married?”

“What? No…” You swallow hard, toying with a thread that’s begun to pull free from your hip, twirling it between your fingers. “…not yet.”

“Ach… but you belong to another, ja?”

You want to howl out your frustrations up to every god and goddess above, burn through the Elysian with your misery alone. You wish, yearn for the courage to cast off that mask and lure him in with a kiss, erase any memory of Gaius with the kindling of a truer passion.

Your voice doesn’t come, and your fingers steadily pluck at that thread, feeling more unsure of yourself with each passing second.

Again, your bastard god grants his mercy as he raises a hand to cup your jaw, the warmth of him singing away the memory of the weathered hand that had touched you there before. His hand is so much larger, strong and riddled with calluses; you swear that you can feel his own fluttering pulse through his fingertips when they press against your bottom lip.

“Not after tonight,” he hums.

When the shroud is tugged up and his mouth meets your own, König’s kiss is exactly what you had expected: a sloppy, eager clash of teeth and tongue. He steadies you with a hand pressed to the back of your neck as his grunts filter past your own lips. Your eyelids flutter, then close as you allow your mind to finally relax, coaxed into the ethereal with each swipe of his tongue and pleasured sound drawn up from the well of his throat.

He pulls away with a gentle peck to the corner of your mouth, gazing down at you as though he’s been deprived of light for the entirety of his being and had only now met the sacred flame. It’s incomparable to how easily your betrothed would cast his scrutiny; though the hunger is similar, there’s something far more enticing here.

“Do you trust me?”

König’s voice holds no apprehension as he speaks; the question is just as blunt as each bulge of muscle and peek of teeth through the grin on his face, only set aglow by dim candlelight in the tent. You don’t nod, don’t even reply immediately as you stare at him a little dumbly, still intoxicated by the ferocity of his affections.

“… I don’t know.”

He moves a hand over your eyes then, gently presses his palm over you until you’re bathed in such darkness that you shudder. It’s a disconcerting feeling— not because you fear him so much anymore, but because if this were Gaius you would have already been squirming away, rushing to hide. You want to kiss his palm, revel in whatever piece of him he gives to you.

“Sehr schön,” König coos to you in a whisper. You settle further, allowing the tension to leave you almost entirely as you fall into the velvety embrace of all of this darkness and the pelts beneath your back.

He shifts at your side, and almost immediately there’s a cold chill at your collar, something sharp that he rakes over the softness of your flesh, then down, down to snag at the top of your dress. Your gasp is quieted by a kiss as you feel his weight shift over you, and just as you begin to melt into it… the fabric begins to tear, shreds as he guides his blade further, past your breasts and along your sternum, your belly, further.

“Don’t..,” you manage to hiss against his mouth, immediately taken over by the feeling of his tongue lapping at your teeth. Your nipples peak at the sudden chill as your dress lies ruined to either side of your body, thighs trembling as the blade hooks along the linen concealing your maidenhood.

One more generous, gentle cut and that comes away too.

You’re entirely bare when he retreats to your side again, one hand still clutching the blade as he moves his head to lay over your breast and… never, never had you heard of a man lapping and suckling at a woman like a pup, but that’s what he begins to do; his tongue circles over the bud, tugging it between his teeth until you feel the wetness between your legs beginning to drip to smear upon the mattress.

It’s caught, quick, as he turns the blade in his hand to slot its grip against your sex. It’s cold, but his mouth is warm, attentive as he licks between the valley of your breasts to capture your other nipple.

The noises that leave your mouth are filthy, rivaled only by the sounds you’ve heard in brothels… König only seems appreciative of them, muttering praises as he grinds the cold metal against your cunt, careful as the ridges of it graze your throbbing bud, gathering your slick to make the glide that much easier.

When he moves to dive for your breasts again, you cradle his jaw in your hands, peering up at those moonlight eyes in silent pleading as you capture him in another burning kiss.

The blade turns again, its sharpness directed down so as to not bring you any harm as you desperately roll your hips against its coldness. He groans into your mouth, panting softly just as you begin to whine.

You’ve never heard of a man making love to a woman with a weapon… or of one suckling at her as though she’s lactating when she is not, but… it has the desired result when your body tenses and all that can escape you is a frail whisper of his name.

The heat sweeps from your foggy head to your middle as your thighs squeeze around the damned thing and König presses his lips to your temple. You climax for him, chasing wave upon crashing wave of intensity with stilted bucks of your hips. He clicks his tongue in approval when you’ve finished, holds up the seax again, smeared wet with your essence and twinkling as though it had been bathed in the stream once more.

You know with a certainty you’ve lost Juno’s favor. If he chose you to carve you open with his come-stained blade the goddess would not make her descent to save you.

“Gut,” he whispers into your hair. To your horror, maybe even fascination, he raises the dirtied silver to his lips and licks your sweetness from it with another low groan.

“Wh… why would you do that..?” Your rapture feels almost shameful as you watch him lap at the weapon, the long tongue meeting silver only warmed by your heat.

He’s mad, certainly, and you only find yourself further infatuated: you reason that you must be too…

König doesn’t answer you as he sets the seax aside again, not in words. Instead, he cups your face and directs your lips to his own where he laps at your tongue, suckling it in the same way he did your tits. It’s slow and sensual, and you can taste yourself in his mouth, smell yourself on him as his hands find your waist and tug you closer until you’re lying almost entirely over him; one leg thrown over his thigh with your hands splayed over his chest.

The titan is hard beneath the pelt he wears, felt against the plushness of your thigh, the brown fur wrapped around his hips is pushed to rise where it’s harboring something akin to a pillar… but he doesn’t force you to settle over it, makes no attempt to tug it free, despite its throbbing against your leg,

“I needed your blessing,” he mutters, a hand settling over your naked hip, tracing small shapes with his thick fingers. The other finds your shoulder to pull you into a cuddle, pulled so tightly against him that you’re hardly able to discern where your warmth ends and his begins.

“A.. a blessing?” Your voice comes as a trembling croak, head pressed into the gap between a broad shoulder and the column of his throat.

“We are leaving in the morning.”

“Oh…”

“I will give you the horse when I return.”

Your head feels like a mess. You’re not even certain of what you’ve just done— did that count as sex? Would he tell the Roman soldiers he works alongside of how he had convinced some pompous aristocrat’s lovely bride to lustrate his blade with her essence? You could hit him, demand the horse now and bolt, but you only melt against him: eyelashes fluttering as exhaustion takes hold and the tension leaves you entirely.

“That’s all?”

König pets you, running a hand along your spine and back up to repeat. He presses his nose to the crown of your head, nuzzling against it until his hand is freed from your form and only then does it coax its way beneath the fur covering his groin.

He laughs at the weak sound of surprise you elicit when that beast is pulled free, another, thicker weapon curled in his hand. The thickness, the length of it that tapers off to a layer of skin, eager and pulled back from the tip, leaking beads of milky white: something that would surely tear you if he were not careful, and the thought brings you to squeeze your thighs together, concealing the leaking, thrumming thing between.

“I will fuck you when I return, too,” he huffs into your scalp, causing you to further bury your face against him, intent not to let him see the effect his derangement seems to have on you. You would let him bury himself into your chest, steal the breath from your very lungs, but you don’t breathe a word of it. Something tells you it’s a mutual thing, perhaps it was all spelled out for you when he asked for your favor rather than from any of his foreign gods.

You count your undeserved blessings. He seems sated only ruining you with his touch for the time being, you’re very comfortable here, and though you dare not speak it… you do find this brute charming. He speaks where you fail to, whispers of your beauty being like that from myths and dreams.

He doesn’t force you to leave, either, only paws at and squishes your breasts until you squeak and whine your protests, already sore from his teeth leaving their marks all over them. When he tires of his fun, you’re pulled into a crushing embrace where he rests his head against your own, blankets you in himself entirely. You were right… the shadow he casts over you blackens out the sun, moon, stars all of it; dulls the haze of carnality with something far more tender.

Your night becomes entirely made up of König: his scent like forest and sweat, the furs from beasts he’s chased down and slain, his soft breathing and gentle snores when he does fall asleep against you.

No dreams come to you, no lemures to haunt you with their wails and flames. Not even Juno descends to punish you. You’re warm and soft and contented like the kittens curled up in clusters along the streets on cold nights.

It’s the first night of peace you’ve had in some time.

When morning comes, the brightness of the sun peeking through the flaps of the tent, you wake to find König already out of bed. He stands at the far side of the tent, strapping on pelts and gear and the leather pouch filled with wine. His seax is held up in utter revelry, and mortifyingly enough… you immediately note that he hadn’t cleaned away the remnants of what occurred last night either.

When you bring yourself to sit upright, the giant only drops to his knees at your feet and curls his arms around your middle, pressing a kiss to the valley between your breasts through the thick fabric of the hood.

And… it almost hurts, to realize then that this is something you’ve longed for. You’re not arrogant enough to believe yourself worthy of some foreign worship, but he seems to liken you of some devout little acolyte, as if your come and kisses could grant him favor while he butchers poor souls all in favor of your empire: the people he had likely been communing and trading with only months before. Traitorous, mad, utterly enthralling man… You’re not certain whether you want to relieve yourself from him or guide him back into bed for more frenzied pleasures.

“You will stay?,” he murmurs into your skin as his kisses trail up to your neck.

You hadn’t even considered what you would do, it never came to mind, but staying in a shoddy tent in wait for him to return with the horse he’s promised was far from favorable. You’re out from the city, still without food or weapons, your dress and underclothes are a torn ruin on the floor, nothing but the wind and the stream and König’s stinking furs… The bathhouse seems to call to you now more than ever. Your lower lip trembles when you think of returning to that stale place, to be questioned endlessly about your affairs from your ‘doting’ husband-to-be…

Your head shakes solemnly. “I’ll wait for you at home.”

König drags you up onto your feet and closer as he savors in another embrace. You’re cloaked in a gray pelt, tied up and over your shoulders like the gaudiest tunic in the world, but you bur your nose into its shoulder, humming in contentment when you find that it smells just like him.

He’s more confident and proud than you’ve ever seen him now. The filthy blade remains strapped to his hip when he gathers you up to sit at his front on the back of his horse— a dark stallion with a pelt the same shade as the night sky. It doesn’t even seem to flinch at your combined weight, just canters along smoothly as König directs it through the sprawling field and past the stream to lead you back towards the city’s gates.

You’re not thinking of Juno or Gaius or traditions when König cinches your waist with a thick arm to draw you in closer; there’s nothing but fluffy warmth pooling in your chest sent by Venus when you feel his hips shift to press himself against your back. His head dips to kiss at your neck, your burning cheeks, shoulder, anyplace that he can.

When the horse comes to a halt with a sharp tug of its makeshift reigns, some length of rope and twine, his hand is at your rear.

Everything’s incensed and floral when you’re lowered to the ground, when he lifts the hood to grin down at you, not only with his eyes this time. It’s a sheepish, gluttonous grin, drunk off your very presence.

“I will come back for you, meine Göttin.”

And you know now, that the palm reading had been true— there’s your wolf in preparation for a hunt, the man who’s unwittingly aiding you in your pursuit of freedom painted with mountains and vast, blue skies. You will convince him to come away too, lay down the blade you’ve blessed with your pleasure. A summer wedding… far from wars of greed and smirking old men.

Your head swims when he bids you farewell, rides off on his massive horse back to his camp to gather his own men to march. You watch him go, breath caught up in your throat, a burning longing in your chest that you can not entirely dismiss.

The walk of shame only comes when you’ve crossed the threshold separating König’s world from your own.

The stink of the streets immediately washes away any lingering scent of him on your skin, on his pelt you now hide away with your arms curled around your waist.

You catch your reflection in stagnant water held in a pot, swaying and ebbing gently as others breeze past you.

You’re in a foreigner’s clothes that just barely crest your thighs, hair a mess and the carmine you had worn to bring a false blush to your cheeks is smeared over an eye and down to your jaw. You look the part of an adulteress, maybe, even as you dip your hand into the water to wash the makeup from your face.

There isn’t much to be done about the marks left over the hints of your chest revealed beneath the fur, but you make your way home without anyone even bothering to ask. If anything, the festivities from the night prior only seemed to subdue the standard bustle. You could only imagine how exhausted the hungover soldiers may have been as they undoubtedly prepare for the expedition König had mentioned.

That overrides your shame, sobers you from that sugary elation somewhat. You’re worried. It’s not just about König himself, not about the threat of fucking you when he returns left unfulfilled— though, those are enough to make your heart begin it’s hammering, rabbit in the throes of a chase. The horse, too. That proud stallion, your hope of a swift escape before winter comes and it’s all lost. If his drunken allies fail him in battle, if some other barbarian’s spear strikes true and fells your titan then the dream is dispelled into smoke, sunken down to river bed to be lashed away by frothing waters.

Whoever decided that the day after revelry would be the time to move was a fool indeed. The deities couldn’t look at you after last night, you know if they saw their noses would be turned up in disgust… perhaps not Jupiter’s, he’s more guilty than you could ever be, but your offerings had never been for him had they?

You fret and hiss below your breath as you wind your way back to the villa with its white walls and terracotta-tiled roof. The sun bears down on you like the flame of your dreaming. You’re afraid again, letting the lemures find their way in through the gaps in your shivering limbs to haunt your dreams.

Gaius is not there to greet you, likely still recovering from his own fevered night. You’re grateful for that.

The little altar to Juno still stands atop a table in your room, the burner still smells of cinnamon, dried flower petals and a dish of honey still sat there entirely untouched. She hasn’t split it in two, abandoned you, but it does feel that way when you peel away the fur.

Your fingers nudge at the bruises laden into your skin, the marks that look like teeth to either side of your breast. You press into them, gently, immediately feel that coil of heat, and you don’t want to sleep. That fire from your dream only seems to have become a part of you: you know it intimately now, it comes with pleasure and bite marks and a heavy weight harbored in your chest.

You cinch your waist and tie your stola at your shoulder, brush your hair out with a comb made of ivory. You rub your bruises with a salve made of honey, bandage up what you can and hide away what you can’t by tugging up your breast band.

The same as any other day, you take to the streets of the city and peruse the marketplace, take to the empty bathhouse to wash away all that’s consumed you over the past day. And you watch the soldiers go as they march through the streets, women and children waving away their fathers and brothers with prayers and sentimental words.

They don themselves in red, clutching their gladiuses, spears and heavy shields as they filter out and away where your very being longs to be. Their faces are giddy, almost: the prospect of pillaging and felling each enemy another delightful treat just like those found in the gladiator pits and amidst rolling with the whores in their brothel beds. You can not hope to understand their mirth, the happiness in any of the civilians either.

You watch them leave wistfully, lips pressed to a thin line, fingers digging into the waist of the stola. You down your fair share of the wine Gaius has left in your cellar. The day merely passes you by, the sewing left undone on the floor, altar bathed in cinnamon and saffron as you make your prayers and beg like any dog.

The mattress feels lonely and sad without the warmth of a body made for war curled against you, without his breath in your hair and his arms wrapped around you. It’s cold, too, and far harder than his, all straw and thin sheets. None of this feels like home.

Your eyes eventually close as the last of the sun’s rays begin to die, blotted out by the dark, untouched by torchlight.

You dream of fire.

#könig #könig x reader #könig x you #konig x reader #konig #konig x you #cod fanfiction #f: only other #tw: dubcon

[a-libra-writes]

can I please request for a Mordecai Heller x female reader? like reader is a showgirl who sings on stage like Mitzi one and tends to attract a lot of attention but backs out when they feel this murdercat plotting their death lmao. thank you 😁

heyo! I decided to do a looot of the cats for this one, since its p similar to my Peaky Blinders Jazz Singer post that I was fond of. GN Reader.

Being a Jazz Singer & Performer!

Rocky - When he was hired and met you for the first time, it was absolutely an "infatuation at first sight" situation. Pros!: He's unfailingly polite and sweet, he seems to play with even more energy when you two share a stage, his grin is very off-putting to creeps who shout up at the stage and harass you. Cons: He can get quite distracted when you two share a stage. Many times Zib has had to pull him back with the rest of the band, because he keeps unintentionally scooting closer to you.

The worst part of the Lackadaisy falling onto hard times is the fact you rarely worked there now - you had to sing at other clubs to make ends meet. One of Rocky's big motivators for getting the club back to its old self is you'd come back! Forever this time! (Probably). Rocky doesn't exactly have the time or money to visit the other clubs you work at, so he wants all of your attention during your infrequent visits to the Lackdaisy.

Freckle - Look, he's a shy kid, and the whole 'sneaking out under cover of night to do bootlegging/torpedo shenanigans' is still new. He doesn't have a lot of experience or frame of reference for what a good club singer is like, but Freckle thinks you've got to be one of the best. You have to be, right? Your voice is wonderful and you look positively celestial under the stage lights - wait, that's weird to think, right? Thank God he didn't say it out loud. ... He didn't, right?

Freckle hasn't the slightest idea of how to approach you, so it's up to Ivy and his cousin to drag him over and attempt conversation. It's... a little pitiable, but he's trying. That said, he's surprisingly outspoken and a little scary if someone tried to mess with you while you performed. You're used to the heckles and catcalls, but it's shocking to see that shy tabby jump up from his seat and raise his voice at them.

Ivy - She liked you from the moment she first saw you perform at the Lackdaisy, and that crush hasn't dulled over the months. She maaaay have kept a few posters that advertised the clubs you sang at, and may or may not have cajoled her way into those clubs so she could watch the show. She could easily sweet talk her way to backstage, too - seems you've got a fan.

When the Lackadaisy goes downhill, it's Ivy who wants to sweet talk you into returning. You'll bring in a crowd! The acoustics are great! Pretty pleeease? Her dad Ivy will pay you and not get in trouble until months later when the family accountant goes over the finances. Obviously she cares about the club's wellbeing, but she also wants to spend time with you! Though she's bold enough to just ask you outright. She's also bold enough to outright shout and fight anyone whose heckling you - throwing a heel is a favorite tactic.

Viktor - You're someone he saw often in the olden days, back when the club could afford to have you perform several times a week rather than once a month. Viktor never cared much for the cacophony the crowd and music made, though he knew objectively you were an excellent performer. Rather than endure the crowd, he'd listen to your voice drift across the caves backstage, rehearsing with the band or just by yourself. It was pleasant to listen to, and he could do so in private, either coming back from a job or about to go on one.

Once things began to fall apart, it's not as though he went around to clubs ... or anywhere, really. So if you stopped performing at the Lackadaisy, you might never see each other again. Choosing to stay (or at least do a few pity gigs) would lead to the surprising sight of the big, morose Slav working behind the bar and watching from there, rather than his previous hideouts. It's a little intense to be under that stare... but not all unpleasant? And given how sparse the crowd is, anyone making trouble and catcalling will get dealt with so promptly, they won't even have time to finish their wolf whistle.

Zib - Well, obviously he's going to be drawn in by an attractive singer. Come on. Zib can be smooth when he wants, chainsmoker-scent and rumpled clothes aside. The band likes to tease him mercilessly about it, but that doesn't stop him from cozying up while you two perform together and shooting his shot backstage after every show. Back when the Lackadaisy was thriving, he could afford to hang out at the other clubs you performed at; nowadays, though, that's not so likely.

Even so, starting up a friendship or even fling wouldn't be difficult. He's attracted to and interested in creative spirits, doubly so if you two had very different taste (so there's more to discuss!) and you got on well with the rest of the band. Late-night debates about this musician or that show over a game of cards and several bottles of wine, either together or with the rest of the boys, and waking up half-dressed and seriously hungover come sunrise. Opportunities for visiting would dwindle as the Lackadaisy's business dried up, though if you stayed on ... No, he wouldn't want that for you. If anything you'd be mentioning to him and the band that there's other places to perform to pay the bills. Well, it'd be food for thought.

Wick - Wick wouldn't call himself a music aficionado, especially what's listened to at these rowdy speakeasies, but he won't deny how hard it was to focus on his business associates when you were on stage. So when he discovered you often performed at his favorite club, it was a pleasant surprise. He really wanted to speak with you at some point, at least compliment the performance, but didn't want to come off as those typical entitled wealthy guys who get too fresh with ""lower"" class performers ... so sometimes you'd find flowers in the dressing room and an anonymous note of appreciation.

He finally gets a conversation when you're a guest at a posh party he's attending, or when you continue to perform at the Lackadaisy in spite of the dwindling crowd. It's a shame your large audience is missing, but at least it's way less awkward for him to strike up conversation when you come to the bar? He probably won't bring up the flowers. Oh god, what if you think that's weird. You probably assumed the flowers were some freak fan. Is he a freak fan? He's not, right? (It will take him like months of dating to finally admit to the flowers thing)

Serafine - A good-looking cat with a nice set of pipes is certainly someone she'd notice, especially if they were a regular performer at the Marigold Room and other places she frequented before that. If it was the former, she'd have plenty of chances to wink when you met eyes, "chancing" across you backstage or just being forward and chatting you up after the show. She certainly isn't shy about expressing her interest, and it could be a fun fling.

You do look adorable swinging your hips and swaying your tail along to the beat, not to mention the different get-ups you have to dress in. Serafine maaaay or may not have wanted to help pick a suit out, or help with make-up, or give you some of her jewelry to wear... It's half marking her territory and half she loves to lounge around your dressing room and be a pest. You'd never kick her out and she knows it. She'll do it in other clubs, too, though you have no idea how she keeps getting past security.

Nico - Like his sister, he has no qualms nor shame about trying to get your attention on stage. Unlike Serafine, though, he'd start doing it immediately and be a general pest after the show. The difference between his attention seeking and the other men's in the audience is he actually has some charisma when you two meet backstage, so you're only slightly inclined to tell him to buzz off. He wasn't much of a music expert, and he still isn't ... But he likes hearing you rehearse and hum to yourself, and it's endearing when he requests songs.

He's pleased when you get gigs at the Marigold Room, as it's easier to hang around before and after the show - and bonus, he gets to be extra aggressive with throwing creeps out to impress you! But if you're performing elsewhere then Nico will stop by. He might be bruised and/or bloody because he just left a job, but don't worry! Sometimes he'll even bring flowers or whatever - though without Serafine knowing, she'd never let him live it down.

Mordecai - He wouldn't approach you any differently from others - he'd still be his usual prickly, anti-social, often awkward self - in fact, he might avoid an avid performer, simply because they often have fans around them or at least people recognizing them. What could get his notice was someone whose real persona is very different from their ostentatious self on stage - more quiet and pensive, perhaps. Like any attempt at friendship, let alone romance, it's slow going with him.

That said, he's the type to admire professionalism in a performance. A well put together outfit, thoughtful musical arrangement (as if he's an expert ...). He wouldn't like a femme presenting singer have to wear skimpy clothes or tolerate a rowdy audience. If there was a questionable manager or creepy fan bothering them, Mordecai can deal with that, at least, not that he'd tell his friend/partner. Mordecai would generally glare down any touchy fans and annoying admirers like a jealous terrier. This amuses Mitzi to no end.

Asa - Simply put, he saw you performing at a ritzy party he was invited to and reached out to your manager so you might perform on a weekly basis at the Marigold Room. Very professional! He'd send flowers with his name to the dressing room afterward, would make sure you're finding everything to your liking and not being bothered by anyone. Requests to continue performing would bypass your manager to being nice, short handwritten notes.

Eventually he'd pay you extra and treat you to a nice dinner afterward, if you were comfortable with it. If you let the older man down, he's not too bothered. He'd continue the friendly business relationship and would still send flowers and so on. He'd rather keep you as a good business associate and continue to enjoy the performances than let his silly feelings get in the way. Alas, he is hopeless at discussions of your music. My guy called a ukelele a tiny guitar.

Wes - He never hung around the Marigold Room after hours - it's his workplace, and not really his vibe - but it's very hard to resist not sitting by for an hour (or three) with a drink while you finish your set. Sometimes you two will meet eyes, or he thinks you are, and he considers dropping backstage to say ... hello? He's an 'employee', so isn't checking up on you a normal thing to do? Make sure you're satisfied with the Marigold Room and all that. Right.

Ironically that's how he's finally able to meet the singer he's been mooning over for months. A drunk patron was getting too cozy on your way out, and Wes happened to be there. His face and ... charming demeanor is good for scaring off upper class wimps. So there's that. He's not so bad, though - clumsy, and prooobably realizes you're out of his league. You get to see more of his earnest side when you two meet outside of the Marigold Room, where his fellow murderous gangsters coworkers aren't watching yalls every move with popcorn in hand.

#posting 1 year later lets go lmao #lackadaisy x reader #rocky rickaby x reader #calvin mcmurray x reader #ivy pepper x reader #viktor vasko x reader #zib zibowski x reader #wick sable x reader #serafine savoy x reader #nico savoy x reader #mordecai heller x reader #asa sweet x reader #wes clyde x reader #also lmao sorry mordecai would not take a singer/semi famous partner well. too much attention #its funny to think abt tho like. cannot imagine this man has taste in upbeat jazz #cant even pretend to dance at least calvin tries!

[danddymaro]

Run | Byakuya Kuchiki x Reader

This has slight Byakuya x reader as well as a hint of the sternritter showing a slight interest in her too.

- Let’s pretend

During the fight against  Äs Nödt

Word count: 3050

Run 

Clammy red ornamented the ground, the resistance it has as you take a trembling step back hard to overlook. 

Regret immediately fills you as you soon come in full contact with a body that nearly cocoons you still, blocking off your escape.

Scarlet clings to the bottom of your sandals, acting as red ropes that bind you to the spot as you feebly watch what you dreadfully accept are the final breaths of your captain. 

And you do so at the hands of the very man you now utterly despise. 

His large, pale hands tenderly pet the sides of your arms before they each cease their travel, finding comfort on the spot that's right between your shoulder and neck. 

You can feel the pointed black ends curl into you, caging you furthermore as he leans down to you.

A falling river of sable softly tickles your cheek before it falls past your shoulder, and there's a part of you that imagines it aiming for your neck, coiling like a serpent that takes what's left of your life. However, it's seemingly harmless, soon flowing down to touch the most pronounced bit of your exposed collarbone with a tease that steals a breath from you.

The feather-soft strands that fall to you pet you, and even though it's an unwanted caress you feel as though it's a sense of betrayal. 

After all, It's damning to be so close to your enemy and do nothing.

What isn’t covered by your uniform can feel him and the sickening twist that comes from the delicate contact blends the insides of your stomach until the contents threaten to rise up. Heavy heat collects between the travel of your throat and stomach, and you try not to think about how revolting it is to have his scent surround you, owning you. 

It's the nauseating stench of too clean, reminding you of a once prolonged stay at the 4's barracks. It reminds you of powdered latex too, and as it overwhelms you,  you try to escape the invisible snare that has you at his mercy.

But all you can do is look toward your captain, helpless.

He sees you in a way no one ever has, and while pride has been a staple in your demeanor, in your very duties... it's lacking at the moment.

A low chuckle that comes from behind you forces a tiny shiver from you, and as you swallow down thickly you release a breath that quivers.

You want to fight back, yet, you've yet to draw your blade. 

Instead, the gleaming sharpness resides in its decorated sheath at your side as you feel defeated, beaten without a breath that harbors evidence of resistance.

A low, warm breath scarcely graces your right cheek as it escapes his black mask while he speaks, starting with a single sound that’s of consideration. 

“Ah...” he says. " Yes, you are terrified," he observes, and somewhere in there, you can hear his excitement gently dribbling from his wicked tongue. 

-And perhaps that's why the monster that teases you treads so close, so intimately.

It's mere entertainment to him.

"But moreso...grieving," he murmurs as he realizes that the man before you is someone precious to you.

It’s not the fear of your death that has you stunned, but instead, his. 

"He's dying," he tells you in his low, dragged-out voice that only makes the dreadful moment feel eternal, the very deep hum of his words just more mockery that pulls you into despair. 

Your moves feel terribly slow as your sluggish body proceeds to act, and as the Dark haired being that mercilessly taunts you watches, he wonders if you realize how much your movements hold no peril.

He stirs not one bit, and no movement is made to stop you. 

He merely stands in wait, truly curious as to how you will proceed.

Your fellow officers are slain, scattered bits of their remains only bloody trails that paint the ground of demise.

Your lieutenant is defeated as well, but faring better than the rest of your squadron as he lays motionless while low, struggled breaths emit from his bloodied mouth. 

He hangs over the crumbled ground and the Sternritter knows it's only minutes in counting before he draws his final one.

 And the captain he had witnessed you gaze at awe with was painted red, slowly drained of his life as he remained where he'd last left him, defeated by his own power.

-There was no saving him by that point.

' What will you do? ' he idly wonders.

It feels like a century before your clammy palm comes in contact with your zanpakuto, but as it finally reaches it, you bite your inner cheek with no true idea as to how to proceed. 

Feebly, you continue to look over to your Captain, your eyes gleaming with sorrow, speaking unsaid words too as your voice has no volume.

What has always felt like second nature leaves you, and you're bare to the world, defenseless like a beast without teeth, left to fend without claws.

The hand that firmly grasps your sword trembles as your shoulders begin to slack, and you swallow down thickly, 

"I..." your voice catches in your throat, and as the Quincy hears it he feels rather piqued by curiosity to know just how soft you sound when conquered. 

It's only a breath, but his ears perk, and he even stills his own.

Meanwhile, you're not sure what you want to say, what matters most. 

Would it be an apology? Should it be a sorrowful apology for failing before even trying?

-For being such a coward when he'd done the contrary.

Would another attempt at a breath be enough to tell him that you'd been happy before? 

-That just before the attack, before the declaration of war when it'd been just another day... you'd been happy?

Your red-haired lieutenant grins too hard, and he narrows his eyes at you with so much mischievous playfulness, you're immediately flustered. 

"Why didn't you tell me," he says lowly while he finds a way to jab his elbow at your ribs. "Huh?" he presses on while coming close as though he's being inconspicuous despite how loud his harsh whispers are.

You barely have time to argue before he proceeds, 

" Look at you putting the moves on him," he adds with actual awe that worsens your response.

You can feel yourself overheat, slowly melting like a well-lit candle, and as you try to say something a small squeak escapes, making things even worse. 

All you'd done was Bring the man some tea and a sample of some baked goods you thought would pair nicely. You had free time and thought of it as a good idea before.

"It's not like that!" you say, your voice failing at first, and when you stutter it's worse for your case, making Renji laugh. 

The way he throws his head back as he releases the sound has you wanting to hide, but not much more than when your superior finds you two.

Your moment is interrupted as your captain arrives, his eyes immediately on his desk where your offerings had been delicately placed. 

There's a touch of surprise there, but it slowly softens before his dark eyes then skim over to you two.

"Evening captain!" Abarai quickly finds his composure, the touch of respect and cordiality he addresses your captain with, one you hope to one day find balance with. 

 A little hum and nod are offered to him before you seem to be specifically targeted by his gaze, and your hands begin to sweat beneath the long sleeves of your attire.

Your greeting is small and terribly bashful as you fight through the intensity of his glare, and what is definitely a stifled chuckle from the man beside you.

"Wouldn't you know..." Renji starts as he places a hand on your shoulder, tightly gripping it, " I actually find someone to fill in," he adds while gesturing to you as you look at him with terribly wide eyes, not knowing what he's referring to.

You're terribly lost, but you're too afraid to ask.

"Oh?" Byakuya raises a perfectly trimmed brow as he looks at you. 

"She said she'd loved to be here with you all day," Abarai claims, and you can hear your heart pounding away as your breath fastens.

is he really  throwing you under the bus like that?

"She even made snacks," he points out merrily before he lets out a soft sigh.

"I don't know why you'd want to be stuck here all day," he then tells you, and there's a discreet touch of tease in there you catch and has you feeling nervous.

"But who am I to argue," he says before he halfheartedly shrugs, leaving with just that before letting you fill in on the extra workload that had been left to him.

It's only until your alone, stuck before a towering stack of paperwork that you realize how he'd played you.

'That asshole,' you think to yourself, your jaw tightened as you think about how Renji had found a way to stack his paperwork onto you while he was probably getting drunk with that pretentious prick Yumichika and that big, shiny-headed jerk Ikkaku.

It was supposed to be his shift! His work! His duties!

'i'll get him back,' you swear as you're about to leave, but you are stopped by the sound of your name.

You're rooted by the exit, your hand on the door as you slowly peek back, 

"Yes?" you say back your voice soft as silk. Anything he says is listened to dutifully, and if you knew how much your face glowed at his attention, you'd understand how easy it is to discover your closely harbored secret.

- The one you’re so afraid to let anyone know.

Byakuya remains seated on his chair, and he's overlooking the last bits of the reports in hand as he speaks, his entire demeanor untroubled as always, 

"Thank you for your help," he tells you, the straightforward appreciation greeted with graciousness of your own. 

Your response comes naturally.

 You smile at him, subtly, and touched with a faint show of fluster that he does find endearing, even if he doesn't comment on it. 

Momentarily, he eyes it as he breaks his concentration on his work.

Somehow you manage to respond, and it earns you a faint sound that hints at content.

" Oh," he then sounds, as though he remembers something, 

 "The calligraphy club is having a meeting this Thursday," he informs you, and you look at him with surprise. 

You recall how exclusive it is, how the only other remembers are respected captains, and you nod in acknowledgment before it strikes you that maybe he’s inviting you. 

‘Is he inviting me?’ you wonder dumbly before he says more.

"I hope it interests you, " he then proceeds, and after a moment of disbelief, you fiercely nod.

And you smile in a way that has him certain you'll attend. 

You practically glow.

' I was so hopeful,' you think idly, and your face softened into a melancholic smile directed at him.

'So...happy,' you add. 

'That I'd like to think you were too....' you proceed to wistfully muse.

Rukia has trouble not looking your way, her dark eyes briefly skimming over you to admire how lovely you look as you walk alongside her brother who seems rather lighthearted as of late.

She's noticed, even if it's been a rather modest change, but he has a certain glow to him that's warm. And the occasional smile he walks with is also a sight she can’t overlook.

" You know I'd been hiding from her for hours," Renji said while looking at you, finding everything but a seething woman.

At first, he was convinced were going to get back at him and that it was all an act to make him drop his defenses, but the more that time progressed, the more he was changing his mind about it.

 " I thought she'd be angry when she saw me, but it's like she's been floating on air, " he notes, having observed how happy you seemed.

 Much more the lack of animosity towards him when he did bump into you, which would have eventually happened given how close you and captain Kuchiki had been as of late. 

“They've both been...” he takes a short pause before his eyes round, quickly looking at Rukia who only offers him a soft smile.

'Run...' Byakuya silently pleas, detesting how it's his immediate thought.

It’s a bitter sting to him, and an insult to you, but it’s the only thing his heart tells him is right.

He looks at you with dread, with unfortunate defeat as he fails to reach you, helplessly watching the enemy so near you. 

It’s sickening to him, and he can’t do anything about it.

His eyes then skim down to his broken blade that serves no purpose but to lay there silently.

.

.

.

.

"I've yet to pierce you," the slender male that observes you comments as he cranes his head to the side, his wide-eyed stare more apparent than yours, yet holding none of your tremor and dread.

 His eyes which are the emptiest black lack an empathetic shine, harnessing the same empty existence as the center of black holes, holding nothing but mystery within them that you don't wish to look back to.

'- Run away,' Kuchiki silently begs again. 

It's like he's crying out to you, and the speed at which your face hides from his sight is near blinding. 

You shut your eyes tight, and as your chest heaves, there's a sound that leaves you that reaches long distances before you finally react. 

The echo of your misery is one that peaks with determination as you finally find your courage.

The hand that reaches for your blade quits shaking, and while your first strike fails as your opponent dodges, you advance with another swing.

The cold sweat that had decorated your forehead finally rushes off you as you fight, the narrow misses your blade preforms encouraging you enough until one good strike gets him.

-An opening.

You move with haste delivering a second strike, and whilst you feel the connection, he seems unscathed, a truth that has you peeved. Blow after blow he’s unaffected.

Instead, he simply looks to you with just the softest touch of amusement in his dead eyes as he waits for you to realize your attempts are futile, that he has no weak spot.

The precise jut of your blade’s point that touches his neck’s base is blocked off, angering you.

 ‘Of course,’ reality hits you. ‘We don’t know anything about them,’ you inwardly curse, not knowing how to proceed.

 ‘And what little we’ve just found out doesn’t help me at all!’ you add as a cursed thorn flies past you.

You stare with a hard glare at the last that threatens to pierce you, and you swallow down bitter spit.

  He’s practically toying with you, something you can’t seem to understand until he moves, his true speed a terror to you as he approaches you, nearing dangerously close. 

The sharp points of his mask seem even more threatening as they've approached you, soon digging into your flesh as he even leans closer to your terribly stilled form, yet again at an intimate distance.

“Tell me,” he starts, “ Do you fear me?” he dares to ask, and he stares at you the entire time, unable to look away, hardly able to waste a moment with a blink that obscures the sight of you.

one of his hands take hold of your face’s lower half, tightly gripping for only half a second before he yanks the hand away, black nails wickedly raking over your skin, leaving angry marks over you. 

His touch grazes you before he intentionally pulls back, yet another showboat of his that has you cold shivering.

‘I can’t beat him,’ you think solemnly, knowing so, aware any strike of yours would be immediately deflected by his strange shield. 

“I have to...” you breathe, struggling through the ache in your chest as you know what you have to do. You’re certain, yet it doesn't take away from what you feel.  

He can see it in your eyes, the desperation, the pretty shine your gaze holds and it fully captivates him.

‘I don’t want to go...’ you lament wishing you had the strength to stand your ground.

The gentle flicker that is your captain is hardly there for you to feel, and it’s like you can feel him slowly fading away, forcing you to focus on another presence instead.  

‘But he’s still there,’ you think with relief, and you accept the only other choice you have as your empty hand aims to your neck where the choker that snugly decorates it is hastily torn off.

‘We lost the battle...but not the war,’ you think.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and while you look toward the man before you, you’re not speaking to him.

With an underhanded swing you send the choker towards the sternritter and as it explodes you make an escape.

 It’s a diversion with a small window for you as smoke spreads after the blast. 

As you hold your blade in one hand, the other collects the thick tears that obscure your sight as you speed through the destruction that has destroyed everything you knew.

The very ground you once walked on is crumbed and painted red, a scene that makes your heart wrench, but you continue to move forward.

Meanwhile, the dark haired menace that stays behind glances at you idly, his eyes following your figure as it draws further from him, as you head to the same direction he’d seen your lieutenant land.

“Are you still there captain?” he asks, his eyes possessed by you as you flee.

A spiteful, stuttered breath leaves Byakuya , yet it causes the Quincy no torment.

Instead, he seems pleased as he grins at the defeated male,“ You must be relieved,” he proceeds.

“ - To have her far from me,” he then muses. 

“You seem to have some luck,  you won’t have to watch her die,” he adds.

#byakuya x you #byakuya kuchiki x reader #byakuya x reader #bleach byakuya #byakuya kuchiki x you #byakuya kuchiki story #byakuya x y/n #byakuya kuchiki angst #Byakuya Kuchiki #Bleach #Äs nödt #Äs Nödt x reader #Äs Nödt x you #as nodt x reader #as nodt x reader x byakuya #bleach fandom #thousand year blood war #tybw #tybw x reader #tybw fanfic #byakuya x reader x as nodt #byakuya x reader x Äs Nödt

[multi-fandom-imagine]

I'm resendung the sedgewick request!

idk why but I feel like Wick would get scared EASILY and is really jumpy, SO:

Imagine reader teasing him by scaring the absolute crop outta him any time possible

(that's just my opinion :3)

A/n: Thank you for the resend!!!

Wick was a jumpy man, it was cute seeing how he would always cling to you when he got scared. You couldn't help but tease him. Biting your tongue you slowly crept up to Wick only to jump on his back, a loud yelp escaping him. His body tensing only until he realized it was you. A small smile forming on his lips when he realized it was you.

"You know..." he cleared out his throat as he turned his body to tug you into his chest. "If you want my attention so badly you can just get my attention."

Grinning, you shifted your body so you were now sitting in his lap pulling him away from his work cupping his cheeks. "Oh I know, I just think it's cute seeing you all jumpy."

Snorting, Wick cleared out his throat then turned his head away in embarrassment. "So I take it that you're not going to stop?"

"Nope."

"Wonderful."

#blurbs #blurb #wick sable #sedgewick sable #lackadaisy #lackadaisy x reader #wick sable x reader #sedgewick x reader

[speakeasyaoi]

Requests currently closed! | 20/20 slots filled

What I WILL do:

Headcanon lists and rambles

LD x reader (including specifications + details)

LD ships (platonic, romantic, familial, etc.)

Rarepairs/crackships

AUs

Female, male, NB & GN reader

All characters, including niche + side characters

Practically anything! Don't feel afriad to ask

What I WILL NOT do:

Anything I find immoral or uncomfortable (Incest, noncon/dubcon, underage, etc.)

Explicit NSFW; I'm willing to make allusions and mentions to NSFW if I find it appropriate in the scenario, but I will not go into heavy detail (if you would like to request something of that sort, go to my sideblog @crackadaisie)

Fully written fanfiction/scenarios

A lot of ships involving Ivy and Freckle that aren't with eachother, considering the age gaps and the fact theyre both 18

Masterlist

Roark 'Rocky' Rickaby

PROMPT: Rocky is in a close friendship with the reader that looks more like a couple at first, and has the beginning buds of a romantic relationship. {GN!Reader}

Mordecai Heller

Prompt: N/A {GN!Reader}

Serafine Savoy

Prompt: N/A {F!Reader}

Mary Ellen 'Mitzi' May

Prompt: N/A {F!Reader}

Sedgewick 'Wick' Sable

Prompt: The reader is Sedgewick's secretary. {M!Reader}

Atlas May

Prompt: N/A {F!Reader}

Art deco dividers by @saradika

I take on average 4-7 days to answer asks, but this can fluctuate heavily!

#lackadaisy #lackadaisy x reader #lackadaisy headcanons

[outerrimhours]

Fluffember Day 3

Title: To Touch the Sun

Pairing - Darth Maul X AFAB!Fem!Reader

Prompt - “I cannot stand you, and yet I also cannot stand to be away from you.”

Word Count - 505

Warnings - Fight scene

Song -  

{Masterlist} / {Fluffember Masterlist} / {Taglist Form}

Sweat glistened against the skin of your forehead, the blue glow of your saber illuminating the wild look in your eyes. Breaths heavy, lips parted as you braced yourself in a fighting stance. Jaw set and tense as rain pelted your skin, matting your hair against your face. With every flash of lightning, Maul’s eyes were even more piercing than before, robe drenched and consumed by the darkness. Crimson glow of his blade heightening the scowl across his face. Electricity prickled through eager fingertips, tight against the hilt of your blade; waiting. When Maul struck, you blocked, blades clashing in a crackling frenzy above your head to mingle into a violent purple. Every strike met with an anticipated block, a choreographed dance of destruction.  

Unable to get the upper hand, Maul growled in frustration, hating to admit he loved the challenge. For often opposites not only attract, yet make the best of battle. 

“Give up girl, while you’re ahead”, he taunted. 

You screamed in rage, wildly swinging the saber into his own. Maul was caught off guard by your violent indignation, stumbling slightly backwards before regaining composure. 

Even in the rain, the flood of mud beneath boots, Maul remained elegant in his motions. His years of training though did not match to the sudden overcome of emotions from you. Every assault of your blade angrier, a savagery he had never witnessed from you. An annoyingly dutiful Jedi suddenly overcome with a ferocity. 

Maul had never seen such a wild look in your eyes, rain catching and falling from long, sable eyelashes, falling until they met the curve of your lips. The venereal urge to lick the rain from your lips made his position vulnerable. You had the upper hand once more, chest heaving with anticipation as your blade met his by the ground, mud burning from the heat of the saber as it dug into the ground. With one swift movement, Maul had his blade pressing into yours as you blocked in front of your chest, leaning back to avoid the deafening burn, when your knee met his own as an anchor.

You knew the consequences when you extinguished your blade, but you needed to touch the sun. A bright and exciting end, you thought, to such a meaningless life. Maul was disconcerted at the sudden end.

“I cannot stand you”, you seethed, fists clenched, “And yet, I cannot stand to be away from you.”

Tears formed like the tide, threatening to spill over. 

“Strike me down”, you demanded, begged almost; pleaded.  

Yet there was a divine, mischievous spark in you that Maul wanted to taste. 

With an abrupt douse of his blade, hilt falling to the ground, Maul’s tattooed hands grabbed the back of your head forcefully. 

“Devilish”, he whispered, before cold, wet lips met your own in the most vicious way. The way you tasted on his tongue was sinful. Rain soaked every inch of you both in a shivering chill, yet your skin felt on fire. Hungry lips feasting, hands searching. Truly wicked. 

Taglist: @acatalystrising , @the-good-shittt , @ummwhatwasthat

#darth maul #outerrimhours fluffember #31 days of december #fluff #angst #darth maul x you #darth maul x reader #star wars #Spotify

[rawiswhore]

Val Venis x Fem Reader- "Mr. Ass"

Hopefully none of you reading this fanfiction will be offended by it, so viewer discretion is advised.

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We all know professional wrestling is when 2 or more people are beating each other up.

But in professional wrestling, there's often moments of wrestlers tapping out from the pain, such as when they're locked in painful submissions.

When these wrestlers tap out, that's them crying out for their opponent to stop hurting them.

Here's one way of taping out in a wrestling match...

On a "Sunday Night Heat" episode that aired in November 1998, you and Billy Gunn had a mixed tag team match against Val Venis and Sable.

The highlight of this match was when you were laying down on your stomach in the ring due to you selling a move, and Val was standing right next to you.

In fact, Val was the one who performed that move on you.

He did a delayed vertical suplex on you, where his hands held on to you as he pulled your body and your legs up in the air while your face was buried in his shoulder and then he threw you over his shoulder and slammed you into the ring.

After he did that, he crouched down to where you were laying.

Now was his chance.

The audience's eyes were focused on Val, eager to see what he might do to you, especially considering he plays a porn star.

With his iconic sleazy shiteating grin on his face while he crouched down next to you, he placed his hands under you and rolled you over until you were now laying on your stomach.

While you laid on your stomach on the ring, his hand began to repeatedly spank your ass.

His hand was spanking both of your ass cheeks at the same time, his hand spanking you as hard as he could.

During the first spank, you let out a yelp and a shriek while your face scrunched in pain.

You were shrieking and screaming in pain from selling how much pain he's putting you through from spanking your rear, and you couldn't crawl away from him even if you tried.

It would be difficult for you to run away from him since he's bigger than you are.

Even if you did try to run away from him, he could've locked one of your legs in between his leg, which surprisingly he didn't do.

As Val spanked your ass repeatedly, the audience-especially the male fans--was getting out of their seats and cheering, whereas your hands were beating on the ring as you screamed, screaming out for no more.

If Val could, he'd pull your bottoms down and spank your bare ass cheeks until you scream.

Even getting spanked while your ass cheeks are covered hurts.

Your eyes were shut and your mouth was agape as you screamed out, your hands wanting out of his hands spanking you.

Val grinned as he spanked your ass, staring at you with that wicked grin as he spanked you.

"How painful are those spanks?" a commentator asked.

"Why can't it be Sable spanking her?" another commentator asked.

"Wouldn't it make more sense if Billy Gunn spanked her?" a commentator asked. "Considering he's Mr. Ass?"

Honestly, you'd rather be spanked by Val rather than Sable, much to the dismay of the horny eager male fans in the audience.

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How ironic I type this fanfiction and post it on Brian Kendrick's birthday---and one of his wrestling names/monikers was Spanky!

#val venis #wwf #1998 #90s #attitude era #wwf attitude