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holydayaria · 2 months

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Negotiation

Phinks x Reader

Synopsis: Phinks gets you back.

Warnings: yandere, i wrote this for his birthday and then forgot to post it on his birthday lol, hardly proofread

2.2k words

“Babe, come on, I’m not even mad.”

“We can go home and forget about this if you just come out already.”

“If you come out now, I promise I won’t hurt you. You know I’d never hurt you, yeah?”

Phinks is loud, not shouting, but loud enough that you can hear him, how his voice echoes off of the empty halls. Loud enough to make his presence known. 20 minutes before this, he was threatening to break your ankle if you didn’t come out that instant. It’s like he can’t decide on which strategy to use to coax you out of hiding. You wouldn’t be surprised if Phinks started shaking a bag of chips and tried calling for you as if you were a runaway dog.

Perhaps it wouldn’t be a stretch to say that’s all he saw you as.

“I’m trying to be nice to you, you’re just making things difficult?”

There’s a pause, and one of the closet doors slams shut. Phinks continues his search, his jaw clenched and his palms beginning to sweat. You stay crouched in your hiding spot upstairs, squished between shoe boxes and behind old coats on their wire hangers. The closet you’ve hidden yourself in is a small walk-in in the master bedroom. The house is on the smaller side, but it makes up for it with a second floor and a basement that is more like its own apartment. You continue trying to listen in, attempting to gauge where Phinks may be over the sound of your racing heartbeat.

“I’m trying to give you a chance to do the right thing.”

What a joke. He’s talking as if you’re doing something wrong. There’s another pause, this one considerably longer. You can imagine Phinks now, gritting his teeth and scowling, trying to calm himself down, even by a margin. If you focus hard enough, you could even smell his cologne that he wears too much of. You continue to listen, trying to pick up any noise you can. Hiding in an abandoned house wasn’t your plan for today, it was just meant to be a quick stop for you to rest and get your bearings. Phinks must have been following you this whole time, maybe not closely, if he’s already found you here.

“Fine, we can do this the hard way.”

Part of you thinks he likes this game of cat and mouse, because why else would he drag it out for so long? The truth was that Phinks was betting on you coming out on your own and apologizing to him for running away so he wouldn’t have to punish you too harshly. That, and the longer you were out of his sight, the more nervous he got.

Phinks continues to go through the house, still not done going over the first floor. If you were down there, he’d find you right away. If you weren’t, then you were still a sitting duck. The only way out from the second floor of the home was through the windows, which had the “landlord special” of being painted shut. Phinks would undoubtedly hear you trying to pry the window open, should you dare to lave your spot. Your only other chance was to somehow sneak down the stairs while he was preoccupied checking the kitchen cabinets, just in case you were hiding there.

Damned if you do, damned if you don’t.

His footsteps ascend up the stairs, getting louder and nearer. You feel like you’re going to be sick. There’s no way he won’t find you. He takes his time to look around the other rooms, the minutes passing by like hours. Soon, though, he comes before the door to the room you’re hiding in. He says nothing, no offer for you to come out already, no announcement of his impending arrival. The door slowly opens with a grating creaking sound. It must not have had its hinges oiled in years. It hurts your ears and makes your heart feel like it’s going to thud-thud-thud right out of your chest and onto the floor. You had left the door to the room unlocked, a locked door would have been a dead giveaway of your hiding place. A lock wouldn’t have helped you out much, anyway. Phinks steps inside without much urgency; as if he knows he’s got you.

His footsteps sound heavier than they are, they echo in the empty room as he pretends to aimlessly walk around. You stay crouched in the closet, a hand clasped over your mouth and nose to not risk Phinks even hearing your breathing. You feel like you’re going to throw up. It’s going to be fine, he’s going to leave. He won’t find you, you can be free. You repeat that mantra in your head, over and over again. The thought of Phinks yanking the closet door open and dragging you out by your hair overrides your thinking. He’s going to find you, he’s going to decide that you aren’t worth the trouble. You’ll die here. You want to scream, you want to pass away right there.

He eventually stands in front of the closet door, you can see his feet blocking out the light underneath the door. You hyper-focus on his shoes, it’s too dark in the closet for you to see the doorknob. Phinks leans on the wooden door slightly, pressing his ear against it, not that you can see. You can hear him, though, shifting his weight and how the door is pressed even further against its wooden frame. Your breath nearly hitches in your throat, the worst thoughts run through your head. Maybe you should open the door now, he knows you’re in there. He has to know, he’s just fucking with you. If you open the door, if you apologize and grovel at his feet, maybe he won’t kill you. Maybe the sight of you looking so sorry for yourself will convince him to forgive you and to go easy on you.

That’s just wishful thinking.

He takes a step away from the door. Your heart is beating rapidly, now is the moment when he’ll open the doorknob. He’ll see you, sitting on the floor with your eyes about to pop out of your head in fright. That never happens. Rather, he steps away, even further. You can hear him walking around, though he’s gone quiet now. A surge of disbelief goes through you. He’s leaving. His footsteps get quieter until it’s hardly audible. There’s a loud slam of a door, and the house goes silent. He’s left, he’s gone. You strain your ear to pick up any sound, going as far as to press your ear on the closet floor. It’s so dark, and you can feel the dust on the wooden floors tickling your skin.

There’s nothing.

You slowly move out of the closet, breathing easier now that you’re not cramped in a stuffy room. He’s left the door to the room completely ajar, you could walk out right now. You take a few steps, legs wobbly and hardly able to support you. When your weight shifts, the wooden floorboard beneath you creaks. You pause, holding your breath. It was quiet, so very quiet. You wait for a few seconds more and think the noise has gone undetected. Assuming it’s safe, you go to take another step. There’s a sudden rush of footsteps up the stairs and down the hall, coming closer to you. A scream nearly rips its way out of your throat when you hear the pounding footfalls getting closer. You rush to the door, locking it and pressing your weight against it to keep it shut. To keep him out.

Like a shitty plank of wood is going to stop Phinks.

The wooden door slams against it’s frame with how fast you move, half a second later and he would have gotten you. You can hear a hushed curse under the mans breath.The footsteps (more like stomps) come to a halt and he tries the doorknob. It nearly falls off with how much force he’s using. “Open the door.” He almost sounds out of breath when he says it. Desperate, even. You’re right there, just a few inches away. It takes an embarrassing amount of self-restraint for Phinks to not punch through the door and drag you back to him by force. “I know you’re in there, so open the fucking door. Don't make this harder than it has to be.” You don’t budge. It’s almost physically painful for him to hold back, even by the tiniest amount.

He can hear you, ragged breathing and all on the other side of the door. Phinks bites the inside of his cheek, weighing his options. He knows where exactly you are, it’d be easy to tear through the door and pull you out of there. It seems like the smart option as far as he’s concerned. But perhaps he can give you one last chance for you to come to him on your own terms. He licks his lips, trying to figure out the words to say. “Hey, come on, you know I meant it when I said I’m not even mad,” He says after a silent pause. You know him, you know better. This man has raised his voice at you for showering without notifying him first, and yelled at you for not being more careful when you cut yourself whilst chopping vegetables. He’d gone as far as to get short with you when he thought you were looking at the male news anchor on television a bit too intently. It felt like everything you did served to soothe his jealousy and play to his ego. Phinks has never hit you before, but you wouldn’t be surprised if today was the day he did. “Just… open the door, so we can go home.”

You step away from the door a bit, and Phinks thinks you’re readying yourself to open the door to face him. Rather, you quickly move away from the door to try another stunt. What an idiot, he thinks. It doesn’t take him more than five seconds to rip the door off of its hinges, meanwhile you’ve barely started trying to get the window in the bedroom open. So much for your escape attempt. Phinks pulls you into him, muscular arms wrapped tightly around you. You’re sure he can feel your heart hammering out of your chest with how close you two are. You let out a shriek, but it’s cut off with a calloused hand over your mouth. Not like anyone is around to hear you anyway.

“There you are. There's my girl.” He utters, with a heavy sigh of relief. It sends a shudder up your spine, his words make your stomach, already dropped, twist and contort. You wish he would just kill you. He sounds insane, you think. You should find the slightest amount of comfort, considering that he doesn’t sound all that angry. All you feel is impending doom. You’re too panic-stricken to note how he’s not-so-subtly sniffing your hair, as if it’s calming in a way. Phinks removes his hand from your mouth once he’s sure you aren’t going to keep screaming like a banshee. He’s got you pressed so tight against him that you almost can’t breathe.

“Why didn’t you open the door?” If you listen closely enough, you might be able to detect a twinge of disappointment in his words. “I thought you were going to kill me.” You admit in a quavering voice. You prepare for him to shout at you, to sneer or call you stupid. Phinks scoffs, as if you’ve said the most ridiculous thing in the world. He doesn’t mention to you that it was definitely on his mind when he first saw that you were gone. Not like he actually wanted to, it was just a heat of the moment thought, that’s what he tells himself. “No way I’d get rid of you that easily.” He says, turning you around so you face him. His expression contrasts with your dreading one. It’s a look that you can’t quite pinpoint, somewhere between anger and respite.

You’re here, back with him, and in that moment, that’s the only thing that matters. He can correct your behavior once you’re both at home.

His hands come to grip your shoulders, and as he talks, they slide up to your collarbones. “You are so stupid, do you know that?” His hands are inching upward. “What if you had gotten hurt? You know how fucking easy it would have been for someone else to just,“ Phinks wraps his hands around your neck to demonstrate, “kill you?” His hands squeeze your throat by the slightest, unconsciously. “You should be thankful I came to get you, you really are a pain sometimes,” Phinks says it as if it’s an endearing compliment. His hands don’t leave your throat. “Someone else could have gotten to you first, I don’t even want to think about what would happen then.” He speaks as if that’s a far-fetched possibility. You both know there isn’t any escape from him.

As if realizing that he’s freaking you out even more, he brings his hands up to cup your cheeks, squishing your face in his palms. His gaze softens a bit in comparison to your terrified eyes.

“Let’s go home, yeah?”

#phinks x reader #yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere phinks #_phinks #_hxh #yandere phinks x reader

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bandgie · 7 months

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Hi! I ABSOLUTELY LOVED your Beast of a Man tarzan!smut. Seriously it was so engaging and you wrote him so well (HES SO HOT AGHH). He's such a hot character idk why others don't write about him, I'm starved for Tarzan fics...

Could you please make a part 2 to the smut? You have such a great/smutty idea going I would love to see you continue it!!

It would mean everything to me!

( ^◡^)

a/n: hi yes thank you so much and ofc! it's been so long since I've written smut on Tarzan so please bear with me! (fic anon is referring to here)

synopsis: You have successfully brought back the ape-man for research. Despite behaving like an animal, he's a lot more human in more ways than you originally thought.

warnings: MDNI 18+, recording during sex, oral (m!), 69ing, semi-public oral sex, cumming in mouth (m!&f!), rough throat fucking (f!rec), cum eating (m!&f!)

2.8k words

"Who the fuck is this?!"

Your colleagues screamed and ran upon seeing who, more like what, you brought back to camp. They hopped up on tables and held up papers as weapons. They eyed you both wearily, on the verge of tears as you stood just a few feet away.

"I think that's a bit extreme," you sigh.

The ape-man was beside you, clinging onto your leg like a child would do with a mother. He, too, was very wary around these strangers. You could hear him grunting and pulling at you as if keeping you from getting too close.

Cute yes, but this would mean it would take a lot of work to build trust in the entire group.

Slowly, the fellow researchers began to try and communicate with the man. Talking slowly and softly, just like you showed them to. All of you agreed that this being could be the missing link, the answer to the question anthropologists have tried to find for decades.

It took over a month for everyone to be comfortable around one another, but of course, another issue was raised.

"So does he just not have a name?" Professor Porter asked.

As of now, you all were just calling him 'the ape-man' or 'hey you' to get his attention. It never crossed your mind to give him an actual name.

"We're not gonna name that beast," Clayton butted his way into the conversation. Clayton, as big and strong as he was, seems the most afraid of your new friend. He's hostile, rude, and arrogant. Even if the ape-man cannot understand the words thrown at him, he can feel them.

The best thing to do in these situations was to ignore Clayton, he just loves the sound of his own voice.

"No," you turn your attention back to the professor. "Not that I know of at least. Should we come up with one?"

"Oh great," there's heavy sarcasm laced in Clayton's voice. "Here you are naming a dog you're not even gonna keep."

"With no due respect Clayton, please shut the fuck up," Terk, the youngest of you, speaks. Terk is small for his age, but he has built. A hairy man who's lively, talkative, and one of the natives that live here. He and the ape-man get along well, a little too well sometimes.

Clayton flips Terk the bird.

"A name for him would be nice, yes." The professor looks as though he's sweating from the tense atmosphere. "Do come up with one dear, I think the missing link would rather you do it."

It's no secret that the ape-man prefers you over the other researchers. He's constantly at your hip, following you like you have an invisible leash on him. Your colleagues, however, don't know how close you two actually are.

The conversation stays in your head for the rest of the day. A name. A name. Something everyone has yet is unbelievably difficult to come up with. Hundreds of possibilities run through your mind as you carry out your daily tasks. Even the ape-man, who's used to you ruffling his hair, grows confused about your behavior.

Nightfall comes with everyone in their tents and you still haven't come up with a name.

With a groan, you turn on your side to see the very person who's making you struggle already looking at you. His eyes are dark, but the candle in your tent lights up his features just enough. You reach out and brush a lock of hair out of his face, watching how he moves to try and get you to touch his skin.

You settle with resting the palm of your hand on his cheek, rubbing your thumb over it.

"A name," you tsk. You narrow your eyes and let your gaze travel over his body. He needs to look like his name, that's a must. "Hey, do you know what a name is?"

He doesn't answer.

"Something to call you. That's a name. Do you have one?"

He stares at you.

Well, this is going to be harder than you thought.

Pursing your lips, you say the first name that comes to mind, "Edward?"

He reacts to that. His calm expression turns into a scowl, bushy eyebrows coming together. You quietly laugh and shake your head, "Not that one okay."

"Tony?"

He frowns.

"Taren?"

He pouts.

"Okay, okay. I think I got it...Garrett."

The ape-man groans, mimicking the behavior he's seen you do hundreds of times. It shocks you to see him act so human, so you. It's equally adorable as it is terrifying.

He's gotten closer to you, a breath away. The proximity used to freak you out, but you've learned it’s how he shows his affection. His trust.

The ape-man is waiting for you to say a word he likes, a sound that comes off your tongue magically. Judging from your facial expression and earlier absent behavior, this is an important task for you.

You want the name to be strong, versatile, and not easily replaceable. The being you've found is one-of-a-kind, it's only fair his name is as well. You play with a few letters in your head, bouncing them in your mind until you think of one that suits him.

"What about Tarzan then? Do you like that one?"

His pupils dilate, watching your beautiful lips pronounce the word. His word.

"Yes."

You gasp, sitting up abruptly. Your sudden movements make him panic as he sits up with you. He scans the tent to find an intruder while you sit there stunned.

He spoke. The ape-man no! Tarzan just spoke to you. He understood language and used it, even if it was just a mere word. A one-syllable answer that has shaken you to your core.

"Oh my god. You just, Tarzan you just spoke. Holy shit, say it again. I need to capture this on video." You ruffle through your bag looking for your camera.

Tarzan stops searching the tent and looks back at you looking as confused as ever. Like he didn't just display human speech in a mere month.

Quickly, you pull out the camera and hit record, aiming the lens at Tarzan's hard, yet beautiful features.

"Repeat what you just said," you look at him through the monitor. Instead of complying, Tarzan stares blankly into the lens. "Do you like the name Tarzan?" You press.

No answer, his eyes flick from the red light to your eyes.

"Come on! Just tell me whether or not you like the name." You're starting to grow impatient. At this point, you're convinced he's just being an ass.

Finally, he adjusts his seating position. Tarzan glances down at his crotch then back up to you, then back to his crotch. You follow his gaze, trying to understand what he's trying to say. Then it clicks.

Compensation. If you want him to do you a favor, you have to do him one as well.

"Are you being serious?" You sigh at him. Tarzan gives a faint nod to you. Even if he can't do so, you swear you see him smirk. Asshole. Setting the camera down, you angle it towards the two of you. Might as well have fun with it.

You crawl your way towards him, parting his thighs slightly before giving him a playful glare, "You're such a man sometimes."

Unlike before, Tarzan wears cargo shorts rather than a mere piece of clothes from last time. Professor Porter made it clear that if he was to hang amongst you all, clothes were necessary.

They suited him nicely, even now. The way the material hugs his toned thighs, how his cock bulges through the shorts even when he isn’t hard. You couldn't help but run your hands along his muscular legs, finding his crotch.

He groaned as you palmed him, straining to not thrust his hips up. Tarzan learned to be patient with you, especially in the presence of others. Most animals didn't care whether they mated alone or in their pack. Even if Tarzan was raised by those animals, the thought of others hearing the sounds you make for him is repulsive.

Instead, he has to settle for brushing your hair from your face as you undo his buttons. Delicate fingers unzipping the seam until his half-hard cock sprouts in your face.

It doesn't matter how many times you've seen his dick, it makes your pussy quiver every time. All you can think about is how perfectly it stretches you, how the tip slides against your cunt deliciously. Your mouth salivates at the memory, and you let your spit drool off your tongue to land on his cock.

Tarzan loves the sigh. A pink tongue just hovering over his length. He also remembers the feeling of your hot mouth on him. The way your lips slowly come closer to the crown of his head, how your breath wafts over him. It feels euphoric when you finally make contact with him, mouth enclosing his flushed head.

It's so warm in your mouth, smooth as you lightly suck on him. The hand on your head slightly grips your hair, a sign that he likes the slow pace you've set. You hum around his cock, taking him a little deeper as you widen your jaw.

One of your hands makes way to grip the base, pulling the skin upwards in a stroking motion.

This makes his hips jerk, gagging you for just a split second. Your wide eyes look up at him, small tears peeking at the corners. Tarzan gives an apologetic look, but the sight of your teary eyes and pretty lips around his cock makes him fuck up toward you again.

You pull away from him, earning a whine as Tarzan throws his head back dramatically.

Maybe he thinks you're going to stop as punishment, but it's quite the opposite. Your cunt is sopping from tasting him, even if it was for a brief moment. Even if you have a task at hand, and your camera is still recording for 'research,' you have your own needs to take care of.

Tarzan is none the wiser as you put a hand on his bare chest and lay him down. He eyes you curiously but lets you push him all the way down before hopping on top. His eyes widen as he's faced with your clothed cunt. Underwear the same color as your tongue that holds the strongest smell of you.

He doesn't need any directions as he dives his nose into you. Tarzan is obsessed with your natural smell. His nose immediately grows damp from your wetness, his tongue poking out to lick the juices that leak out.

Softly moaning, you take a hold of his cock once more. You pump it a few times before taking it into your mouth. It's surprising to see that he's not humping in your mouth like normal, but he's so distracted with your pussy that he can't seem to bother noticing his own pleasure.

It's hard to focus on his hard length as his teeth tear off your panties. You gasp when you hear the fabric split, but it turns into a whine when his tongue finally makes contact with your bare cunt.

Tarzan has to grip your hips to keep you still. As much as he would love for you to grind on his face, he needs to have his meal first. His tongue runs over your folds, finding that little bud you love so much to be touched.

He sucks on it and pulls, stretching your clit. Your legs shake and you have to pull away from his cock to catch your breath. Lazy hands stroke his hard-on as you look back. You clench at the sight of his unruly hair peeking above your ass, the sounds his mouth makes as he laps at you.

Turning back to your literal task at hand, you find the energy to take his cock once more. You unhinge your jaw and exhale, taking Tarzan deeper and deeper until your eyes roll back. You hollow your cheeks and suck, moving your head back up until just the tip remains in your mouth, and go all the way back down.

Now Tarzan can feel the bliss of your mouth on him. He moans into your pussy and slightly jerks his hips up, making you gag around him once more.

Feeling you work so hard makes him want to reciprocate. He shakes his head left and right to try and bury himself deeper. He uses his grip to force you further onto his face. Tarzan's tongue finds the squeezing entrance that he's breached so many times. He digs his tongue into you, finally getting a taste of you from the source.

He's guiding your hips so you could drag your pussy against him how you like. Tarzan can feel your hips trying to pull away from him as the feeling of his tongue has gotten too much. And it has.

You're trying to distract yourself by deepthroating him, but it's no use. All you can feel is his experienced mouth, how he remembers every detail he knows you like. You can feel your orgasm approaching, and how it builds in your stomach rapidly.

Tarzan feels your legs shake. Your thighs trembling and giving out, full lower body weight on his face. He can taste how the wetness has changed, thicker and tart. Tarzan knows this taste like the back of his hand. You're going to cum, give him that white cream he loves licking out of you.

You've completely stopped paying attention to his dick. A part of you should feel bad for neglecting him, but you can't seem to care as Tarzan's tongue fucks you. Instead, you find yourself humping his face, his mouth following as you approach your high.

You squeal as you come, clamping a hand over your mouth as you finish. Warm gushes out of you, body quivering as the eager man under you happily drinks it all. Tarzan gulps and slurps until he's beginning dripping from the corners of his mouth.

He takes and takes until you're the one having to tell him no more, that you can't handle another orgasm.

Tarzan hears the desperation in your voice, the way you plead. It takes strength for him to pull away from your pussy, a soft growl emitting from his chest.

Then his thighs wrap around your head, securing you in front of his cock. You have no time to question him as you involuntarily take his cock into your mouth.

There's so much pre-cum dripping from the slit that all you can taste is its saltiness. He's throbbing, fucking his hips into your mouth as he holds you still with his legs.

All you can do is take it. Lips wrapping around his girth as he desperately slides his dick in and out. You gag and silently plead for Tarzan to be gentler, but he's having none of it. Your hands warp around his thighs to steady yourself, your head bobbing uncontrollably to match his movements.

Tarzan twitches in your mouth once, stilling his hips deep into your throat. Tears immediately prick your eyes and fall down your face, and you swear your vision goes black for a fraction of a second before he pulls out. You get the chance to gasp for air as he lines up his cock to your lips again and shoves it back in.

You think you might pass out. You're at the mercy of Tarzan, and he's still unable to see how much stronger he is than the average man. Your mouth is nothing but a fleshlight to him as he makes you choke around him. It makes you feel like a toy, a warm hole for him to fuck his seed into.

And you wouldn't have it any other way.

The familiar twitch in his cock occurs again. Once, twice, then three times before he unloads in your mouth. Hot spurts of his cum find themselves in your throat, forcing you to gulp it down.

Tarzan's hips slow, letting his cock drag against your lips before he finally pulls out. You cough and pant as his orgasm drips from your tongue.

His thighs release you and you promptly plop down on them. You feel his hands rub soothingly over the curve of your ass, up and down your thighs. And an extra apology, Tarzan presses a kiss to your throbbing pussy. You chuckle and kiss his thigh back before sitting up, hoping off his face.

You have to crawl to grab your camera, breathing a sigh of relief to see the red light still shining. You aim the lens at his face as he too sits up. You can see the arousal on his face from eating you out, his swollen lips, and messy hair.

"So," you start. "Tell me, Tarzan, did you like that?"

Tarzan's lips quirk into what you think is a smile before he looks at you directly through the camera.

"Yes."

a/n: holy fuck I dont think y'all know how hard this was. I kinda went all out for the first one so the second one was hard as hell to match lmaooo. I physically and mentally can't do a third installment. this is the final one sowwy also I added some characters from the film! hopefully you caught that, I made Terk human, Tarzan needed a friend even if it's a fanfic

#smut #tarzan x reader #tarzan smut #tarzan 1999 #tarzan and his mate #tarzan #beast #jungle smut #tarzan of the apes #tarzan au #tarzan fanfic #holy fuck what do I tag??#professor porter

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asterdisaster06 · 8 months

Text

Reunion with the 141 boys + König

141 + König x reader - separately

summary > You stumble upon an old friend - or more - that you never forgot but thought was long gone.

word count > 2.5k

a/n > probable hiatus for a bit while I get my webtoon ideas out of me and back into writing full fledged stories

ao3

Simon “Ghost” Riley

“Simon?”

“Shit, love,” He replies, staring at you like he’s seen a ghost. Irony that you would look back on another time.

“Where have you been all this time?” You ask, tears welling up in your eyes. Tears that you couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact emotion behind them. Hurt, relief, excitement, dread, disbelief. You take a shaky breath and stumble towards the tall figure. Your frame shakes as you reach a hand out to cup his face, almost convinced that it’s a simple mirage. A ghost haunting you all this time.

“. . . Working,” Simon replies, placing his hand over yours.

“Out there saving the world, huh?”

“I wouldn’t quite say that,” He says, his eyes expressing everything that he couldn’t tell you. The deep brown eyes swirling with anxiety at the very thought of your responses.

“What happened, Simon? Why didn’t I hear from you all this time? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” You rapid-fire these questions at him, your voice breaking as you do so.

“I know, love, I know. I’m so fucking sorry. There hasn’t been a single day that’s gone by that I’ve forgotten about you, but I was forbidden from talking to you. I thought it was easier this way, to let you go rather than force you to stick around for someone that might not even escape alive.”

“I sold the apartment, I moved to the outskirts of town, I adopted a dog; but I never moved on, never got rid of your stuff, called every week to see if you were even alive,” You cry out, leaning your forehead against the chest of the man you used to cook breakfast with.

“I’m here now, I’m here. I’ll get you flowers, kiss every tear from your cheek, spend the entire rest of my life by your side if you would let me, sweetheart,” Simon whispers, rubbing soothing circles on your back. “I promise.”

John “Soap” MacTavish

“MacTavish?”

“Bonnie?”

“Welcome home?” You say, tears of happiness welling up in your eyes. You’re suddenly crushed in a bear hug that left you unable to breathe in the best way possible.

“What are you doing here, sweets?” Soap asked, taking a step back if only to stare intently at your face, studying it as if it was a simple mirage.

“Your family kinda kidnapped me,” You laugh, a beautiful sound for the man so accustomed to gunshots and screams.

“I would expect nothing less. I’ve missed you so damn much, you don’t even know,” He says, enveloping you in another hug. Similar to the kind you did around the stuffed animal - the one had gifted you before he was deployed - of yours every night.

“I think I do know, considering the fact that I’ve missed you twice as much,” You tease with a sly smile.

“Oh, I don’t think so, Bonnie. I think I missed you infinitely more than you did for little ole me,” Soap grins, a contagious thing that infected you like the flu.

“You haven’t changed one bit, MacTavish. Not one bit.”

“I think of that as a win, especially since you were so very in love with me whenever I left,” Soap says softly, his eyes betraying his regret and sadness at having to leave you for so long.

“I still am, you dafty,” You speak, cupping his face in your soft hands.

“I love you, so very much. I’m so happy to be back to you, and this time it’s going to be for a while. I promise you that. We’ll have all the time in the world to go on those little date ideas you wrote to me about, and I’ll take you out to dinner - wine and dine you if you know what I mean,” The Scotsman said with a wink at the end.

“Knock it off, MacTavish,” You say, grinning from ear to ear.

“Alright, only if I can kiss you, Sweets,” Soap asks, always the charmer.

“Alright. . . only if you plan to make up for all the kisses you promised over the phone,” You state with a cheeky smile.

“I think we could work something out,” Your lover speaks, kissing you with all of the passion and longing that’s been ruminating across the year you had been unable to see each other. It was filled with gentle sweet nothings and a desperation that was only able to be expressed in person. It was a promise, one to make up for all of the time away. And an apology on top of that. One that you forgave quickly as you melted into Soap’s soft embrace.

John Price

“John?”

“What are you doing here, love?”

“How long have you been here?” You ask, deflecting his question.

“How long has it been?” He smiles sadly. It was both a question and an answer, one that ripped your heart to shreds.

“You’ve been here all this time? All these months? And you never once thought to inform me that we’ve been stationed here, on the same base?” You cry out, your calm and collected facade breaking quickly.

“You look so different. . .”

“John, answer my question. What happened? Why didn’t I hear from you all this time? Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been thinking you were dead, or worse?”

“I’m so sorry, love-”

“Bullshit! I missed you so damn much, cried over you almost every night, I never thought I’d be able to see your face again, and here you are safe and sound! I wish I could be happy about that fact, but right now I’m just pissed,” You exclaim, your body starting to shake from the pure agony running through your nervous system.

“I wish I could give you an answer that would satisfy you, soothe your pain, but I can’t,” Price says, taking a tentative step towards you. Like you were a frightened animal.

“Try, just try. That’s all I’m asking,” You plead.

“Shepherd knew about us. He offered me an ultimatum. Be charged for fraternization or go into deep cover. I considered private pain to be better than the public argument, and he promised me I could explain before I left. Obviously that did not occur, and for that I am so very sorry,” Price explained, taking another stumbling step after the other until he was close enough to cup your face in his hands. Rough hands that have killed more men than either one of you would like to admit, but also the very same hands that have held you as you slept. The very same that have held your hand to keep you from wandering off when you got too excited by distracting environments off base. The same hands that are currently wiping your tears away.

“I’ve missed you,” Is all you manage to say in response.

“Fuck, I know, love, I know. I wish I fought harder for you,” John whispers,

“I don’t blame you, not as much. I know how much your job means to you. I also know that I would do the same for you, for us,” You reply after a lapse of silence - broken only by the shaky breaths both of you shared.

“That doesn’t mean that we had to let superiors get in the way of us - not completely at least.”

“You were sent undercover for months,” You say, mostly to yourself. Unable to believe that fact. You knew first hand what it was like based on your position and personal experience, and it was something you would have never wished upon John. Not even minutes previously when you were furious with every fiber of his being.

“I’d prefer not to recall those times, love,” Price mumbles, rubbing gentle circles over your skin.

“What do we do now?” You ask, hesitant in your words.

“What we always should’ve done, been able to do. Fall in love and be able to express it in all aspects of our lives,” Price promises, holding you close to him.

“You know that Shepherd will make our lives a living hell if he finds out,” You mention, your body simultaneously relaxing at the fact that Price still loved you enough to risk everything, but tensing at the fact that it truly was his entire life on the line.

“Fuck Shepherd. He’s kept me from you for long enough, and made sure of the fact that I have so much to make up to you. Starting today, and taking it one day at a time. I swear on my life that I will never let anything get in the way of my love for you if I can help it. And if I can’t, whatever is stopping me better pray to whatever they believe in,” Price says sincerely, making a smile come across your face at his seriousness.

“There’s that beautiful smile, love. Oh how I’ve missed that. It has got to be one of the only things that kept me going all those months without you.”

“John?”

“Yes, my love?” He replies quickly, so eager to please after his involuntary betrayal.

“I forgive you,” You murmur into the crook of his neck.

“I don’t deserve you, angel, never have,” Price speaks softly, his once forgotten voice sending shivers down your spine.

“You always have, John, always.”

“I promise, my love, I promise that I’ll always make sure to prove to you that I do until the day I die. And for the rest of eternity after that.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too, forever and always.”

Kyle “Gaz” Garrick

“Kyle?”

“Love?”

“It’s been a long time since I last saw you. How are you keeping up?” You ask, nervously fiddling with the luke-warm coffee cup in front of you.

“I’ve been surviving, and you?” Gaz responds, taking a seat in front of you.

“Living to the best of my ability. It’s good to see you’re okay, Gaz. I was starting to worry you had gone and gotten yourself killed,” You say with a bittersweet smile tainting your features.

“Hell, not even falling out of a helicopter could end me, so I think I’m doing pretty alright for myself,” He says with a chuckle.

“Since when did you fall out of a helicopter?” You laugh incredulously, beginning to slip back into old, childhood habits.

“Since . . .” Kyle starts, holding up his fingers to count, “About two weeks ago.”

A wide grin had taken its place on his face as you started laughing at the absurdity of it all. It reminded you so much of the clumsy nature of the lanky teen you had befriended so many years ago. It had never evolved to anything beyond uncoordinated first kisses and awkward hand holding for a week after you two decided you were better off as friends. Friends you were however, the best of them all the way up to this point. You had supported his dreams and ambitions and in return you got to see the fruits of his efforts blossom into something you were both proud of. He was always there for you too, through all the ups and downs of trying to find a relationship in the dating world. Harder than you thought it would be, but you always had Kyle to fall back on. Something you were incredibly thankful for.

“Do you remember when we got locked in the mall after closing?”

“That was a long time ago, huh? I’m sure you’re still the same as always,” Gaz says with a quirk at the edge of his lips. The very same that you were currently staring at.

“I’ll have you know that I have a much better perception of closing times now, you dork,” You say, kicking him under the table.

“Oh yeah? Do you wanna put that to the test?” Gaz smiles inquisitively, almost hesitant in his words.

“Are you, Kyle Garrick, asking me out?” You ask, taking a risk.

“Are you accepting my offer?” Kyle coaxed, a warm flush creeping across his cheeks.

“I think I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since you’ve left to go save the world,” You tease, warmth flowing through your veins.

“The idea of you, us, is what’s kept me alive all these years, love,” Kyle says softly.

“Why don’t we make that a reality, Garrick,” You express, sending a loving look his way.

“I don’t think I could ever want anything more than I do that, sweetheart. I want to spend the rest of my life by your side, if you would let me.”

“And I you, but this place is also about to close, so I think it’s time we hit the road,” You laugh.

“Shit, love. You really have gotten better at your time management.”

König

“König?”

“Liebling?”

“I’ve missed you.”

“And I you, Schatz,” He says, turning to focus on the sight of you under the streetlamp.

“I presume Kortac has made some contracts around here. I don’t take you guys for the type to go on vacation, especially around these parts,” You say mirthfully, a gentle smile painted across your face.

“Ah, yes. We would be responsible for the curfew and extreme supervision. My apologies,” König replies, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Don’t apologize. If anything, it’s a blessing to have you looking over my shoulder for me. That, and how else would we have met up again?” You chuckle.

“I did tell you that I would find my way back to you,” He claims, taking a small - as small as someone of his stature could - step towards you. Oddly cautious for someone that feared nothing on the battlefield.

“That you did, König. I just didn’t quite expect you to show up this soon. Or in this particular way.”

“Are you unhappy with me being here?” Asked with a semblance of doubt, searching your features for any negative emotion.

“No, of course not. Of course not. It’s good to see you again. I’ve dreamt of this moment in my downtime, when I sleep, when I miss you. Which is a lot,” You answer honestly.

“I’ve counted down the minutes to being able to see you again, Liebling.”

“Do you remember what you promised me before you left?”

“I do recall a specific promise, yes,” König acknowledges. “It was a dinner at our favorite little place on the corner, correct, Schatz?”

“Once a good memory, always a good memory, Liebe,” You tease. He had always been the one to remind you of test dates way back when you were in school. The pet name of yours brings a slight flush to the cheeks of the Austrian man, a humorous sight if you were a bystander.

“Would you still like to accompany me?” König asks, holding a hand out. One that you took and interlocked your fingers into his gloved ones. It was a comforting sensation.

“If you would still like to take me.”

“Always, Liebling, always.”

#ao3 #cod fic #cod mw2 #fanfic #mw2 141 #cod 141 #john soap mactavish #mw2 #simon ghost riley #angst #hurt/aftermath #hurt/comfort #fluff #x reader #angst with a happy ending #john price #kyle gaz garrick #konig mw2

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synnamonroll666 · 7 months

Text

Finally Me

Pairing: Syzoth X Fem!Reader Warnings: Fluff, Implied Monster Fucking, Teratophilia, Breeding Kink, Implied Breeding... Word Count: 488 A/N: Ever since I wrote that monster fucking prompt, it's been heavy on my mind. So I wanted to do a little something that's more in the perspective of Syzoth. I hope you all enjoy! 😁💚 Main MasterList: 🖤 Syzoth's MasterList: 🖤 Synny's Angels: @mornandil, @queenkhepri, @bihansthot, and @mmeerraa.

⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒⛥⭒

He knew he was a monster, and yet she didn't see him that way. He had wanted it for so long but was scared to grasp it in his claws. And here she is, bearing her fragile self to him while begging for him to bear himself to her—his true self.

Though the desire in his heart and instinct in his mind screamed with need, he was afraid—afraid of hurting the only woman who truly loved him for all that he was. But with a gentle hand upon his and a few sweet words of encouragement, Syzoth found himself changing once again. But this time, it was not to devour another victim. At least, not in the way he would usually do so.

Skin morphs into scales, and her eyes are filled with awe as she stares up at the 8ft beast before her. Not a look Syzoth is used to getting in this state—or any state, for that matter.

Her hand reaches out—shaky and clammy. Not from nerves but excitement—and those soft fingertips he adores so much brush over his leathery scales.

A low, purr-like sound is heard emitting from inside the walls of his muscular chest. He is embarrassed at first, since he didn't mean to do so, but her sweet smile makes those worries go away. He lays his head upon her chest as she continues to stroke his head—as she waits for him to make the final move.

His heart pounds like a drum, and salty tears prick his crimson eyes. He had never been so vulnerable in this form—hell, it was made for fighting and being a predator—but here he is, in the arms of a pure angel, melting like some love-sick puppy dog. The Zaterran wouldn't have it any other way, though. He loved his human more than anything—she was more precious to him than any amount of money or any rare gem in the universe.

He was fine to bask in her heat for a little longer until that voice within began to talk again, telling him that he still had a mission to finish. He raises his head, looking for confirmation, which she gladly gives.

Then he releases a breath to relax; the cold air fans her neck and makes her smile. He slowly pushes himself inside her walls, grunting as her heat consumes a more intimate area. He waits, listening to her whine and keen beneath him as she stretches over his large members. She had never had someone this big before, so it will take some time to get used to it.

But Syzoth would gladly wait for her, ignoring those voices scolding him and reminding him that his job is much too important to care for her well-being. He will still wait—all while the corners of his stiff, Zaterran lips turn up into a loving smile as he thinks about the children he is about to conceive.

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#mortal kombat 1 #mk1 #mortal kombat reptile #mk reptile #reptile #reptile x reader #mortal kombat syzoth #mk syzoth #syzoth #syzoth x reader #SinnamonsSpicyFics

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no-saints-around-here · 4 months

Note

I read Quiet Afternoon and I got to thinking, it says “tip his hand and break the sole unspoken rule he had held himself to for all these years to punish you.” Does this mean this is the first time Rindo has slept with bestie? If not, what was the first time/incident that caused Rindo to sleep with airhead best friend?

Masterlist | Quiet Afternoon

ahhh this became a lot longer then I anticipated - wrote a short fic at the bottom cause I thought it would explain what happened much better than just word vomit!

‎‎

To answer the question first: no. Its not Rindo's first time, not by a long shot.

That line is more so that Rindo is a delusional and unreliable narrator when it comes to his bestie: that is delusional and unreliable on a good day, and straight up in denial on having even held hands with you, let alone touched you, on a bad one. And this is also when this boy is at his most dangerous, willing to do anything to anyone, Ran included, to prove to himself that he was your best friend and nothing more, that you were still his sweet, naive, innocent airhead who he found especially annoying.

If you squint really hard at the implications of Rindo installing a soundproof door on his first day of moving into Bonten HQ, together with how well this boy already knows your body and your patterns by the time of the events of Quiet Afternoon, you may be able to infer that its definitely not your first tango, even if Rindo insists it is (no sweat if you didn't though, it was really very, very subtle on purpose).

And no one knows this fact better than Ran, given the older Haitani was the precise reason your purple-haired Bonten friend first broke rank against his better sense.

Rindo’s breaking point came sometime during your stardom period. All started going downhill when he reluctantly allowed you to continue to perform as an idol against his judgement on the basis of just how happy it made you - it had always been hard for this baby boy to deny you anything you wanted, and fresh out of another stint in jail, the delinquent-turn-yakuza was eager to make up for his time away from you. And this was on top of the weak spot he always had for your pouting, so no surprise that he caves as soon as you started to look the slightest bit down about having to leave your little gig so quickly after starting.

One of the caveats he does put in place in exchange for indulging you is that he is now personally in charge of your security, and that the rest of your bodyguards were from Bonten. No exceptions. Absolutely does not trust your ‘agency’ or whatever other maggots that you choose to surround yourself with, and so will take it upon himself to accompany you everywhere, to stand guard outside your changing room when he absolutely couldn’t be inside with you, fly with you everywhere you go. But of course this also means that he has to take time off work to do so, and that meant convincing Mikey to let him do so. Ran finds it amusing to what length his younger brother will go to keep you by his side (cough begging and grovelling in front of Mikey), promising that you could help to launder their money and what not. Mikey honestly couldn’t care even a lick, as long as Rindo takes the work in whatever country he ends up in.

Yet for all that he has done for you, the honeymoon period lasts only a good 6 months before everything fell apart. Rindo thought he had a good handle on things, but never has he been so under-prepared when it finally strikes your best friend just how massively popular you had become in such a short period. Everywhere you went, no matter where you toured, your concerts were all full, stuffed to the brim with fans. And oh how he detested that word.

Fans. Rabid, like mad dogs. Decked out in merchandise bearing your face and name, screaming at the stage hoping for even a smudge of your attention. even coming to the concert venue early hoping to get a glimpse of you.

Scum of the earth, how dare they ask for more than getting to breathe the same air as you?

How dare they demand more?!

The resentment of your adoring masses only built up more and more in Rindo, having to watch from the sidelines as you enthusiastically shook hands and thanked your fans for your support, dancing for them and winking at them. Like you were some sort of whore putting yourself on show for the world. Rindo would never stand for this, not for his best friend, yet he still gritted his teeth; for reasons beyond him, you were enjoying this, enjoying shaking your ass and chest at the unwashed insects.

And then all hell finally broke loose upon one of your returns to Japan after another of your tours.

‎‎

All Downhill from Here

"Let. Me. Go," Rindo hissed as he was manhandled away from the still buzzing arrival hall by a rather amused Ran, his twisting and struggling to break free from the other’s grasp to no avail. "I'll kill him. I'll fucking kill him, and then I'll kill you."

The older Haitani sighed as he continued to force his younger brother along the otherwise empty corridor. "And that is precisely why we are in this situation."

And as usual, to none of their surprise, you were at the center of it all, though your airheaded presence that Rindo’s world revolved around was nowhere in sight, having already been sent ahead to the meeting point without your best friend’s knowledge. The hallway echoed with the clicks of their shoes, joined occasionally by the buzz of machinery as they passed and the hum of air-conditioning overhead. If he had known what the day was going to bring, Ran mused, he would have proposed doing this from the start; after all, airport staff were easier to disperse and keep away compared to the hordes of fans that you attract everywhere you go, and these staff corridors were rather convenient, snaking throughout the airport and away from the public eye.

Rindo’s cursing and swearing went in one ear and out the other as Ran continued to daydream, though the man couldn’t quite blame his unusually hot-tempered younger brother either. After all, it had been the continuous build up of months of stress, having to deal with you and your little idol gig that you insisted you wanted to keep, and this latest incident was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.

A huff as Rindo finally gave up on his failed escape, his shoulders relaxing in the armlock he had been held in for the past fifteen minutes.

Ran raised an eyebrow. “You done?”

”Yeah. Let me go.”

“You sure?”

”Fuck you, I’ll get that shitstain later.”

Which was exactly what the older of the brothers wanted to hear, Ran nodding as he released Rindo without another word. Shitstain was putting it lightly in his opinion, considering how much trouble he had caused in the span of a single minute - but it wasn’t his problem to solve. As long as Rindo wasn’t attempting to pull a gun in front of the police and the public to settle his little lover’s quarrel, Ran couldn’t quite care what happened to another nobody.

Ran jerked his chin down the corridor. “She’s two doors down to the right. Security escorted her there earlier.” The room was already demarcated as yours, what with two Bonten grunts flanking each side, but he thought it would be better to make it clear, given Rindo’s state of mind.

His younger brother was already gone before he could finish his sentence, and all Ran received as a thank you for his hard work was the slam of the door.

Ah, siblings.

‎‎

Rindo didn’t quite see it as lightly as Ran did.

This past day had already been particularly hellish for him by any standard measurement. It all started with the last concert of your first tour two nights ago - he had been watching from backstage, as he always did, when your skirt had ripped during your second song. The sound of cloth tearing reached his ears even over the sound of the throbbing music. He had confirmed as much when you finally returned to him waiting for you in the dressing room during the intermission, which only sealed the suspicions that churned in his sinking gut: at just the right angle, you would have flashed the fans in the first few rows, his wretched older brother seated in the VIP box included. Even if he had made you put on a new, longer skirt, it was already too late.

And then when he had tried to drill into you about the importance of keeping your distance from those lowlives least you catch something nasty, you hadn’t taken his concerns quite as seriously as he had hoped, laughing and beaming back at him, patting his hand reassuringly and trying to convince him that they were harmless. Strike 1.

He didn’t know what he expected, Rindo had to admit to himself; you had always been such an airhead, even since childhood when he first met you. You probably wouldn’t even have survived for so long if the younger Haitani hadn’t take you under his wing as his best friend, and the least you could do to pay him back was to listen to him. All he asked was for you to stay close to him and far away from everyone else, especially Ran.

Sure, there were times like this where Rindo would be forced to allow Ran to inhabit the same space as you - seeing as his older brother had attended your concert and similarly happened to be heading back to Bonten HQ, the three of you had to share the jet - but of all the people to turn up cheekly waving merchandise with your face and name plastered all over? Well, he did say that you were one of the best he’s seen in a while, but still. The man with the short purple hair did it on purpose, Rindo was certain, and definitely to trigger an outburst from him; if you hadn’t been present, he would have strangled Ran himself for bringing up how good you looked on stage (now he was certain Ran saw your panty flashing). Strike 2.

‎

It was without a doubt that your best friend was already rather on edge as the jet finally landed back in Tokyo. It was supposed to be a secret when you would arrive, which meant that there were fans behind barricades eagerly awaiting your appearance outside the airport. Sure, fine. You were famous, whatever, Rindo could hardly bother. But what broke his dam was a single unruly fan. One man, decked out from head to toe in merchandise spouting your name and face, who had decided for very clear, unacceptable reasons to jump the fence in an attempt to ambush you. And the vein that had been throbbing on Rindo’s forehead all day finally burst. Strike 3.

If Ran hadn’t been a second faster to grip and restrain his hand, Rindo would have shot him dead before security could grab the assailant.

And the missed opportunity continued to haunt him despite thirty minutes having already passed and nothing having happened to you, the sheer anger he had felt in that moment surging through his veins once more as Rindo stalked down the corridor, leaving Ran to talk at his back. Sure, he was going to arrange to have that scum erased, yet the upcoming torture wasn’t enough to soothe his nerves. Because how dare he? How dare that unworthy insect you called a fan even think of laying a finger on you?

And then the heartstopping fear that chilled him to his bones that followed - what about you?

Throwing open the door and seeing your back turned to him only reinforced his sudden onset of fear, the closing of the door behind him reverberating in his ears. You were too naive, too stupid to think beyond your next meal, but what if there was someone else in the picture? Could it be that you had laughed away his concerns earlier because someone else told you so? Could it be that you continued to indulge others because you were being influenced? Could it be?

It had to be, Rindo gulped, as you finally acknowledged him, standing from your small seat and waving eagerly. Someone must have gotten to you while he was locked away in prison, brainwashing you into abandoning him and running off with them. Or worse, with Ran.

He couldn’t hear any of the words you were speaking at him, trapped in the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind, his body numb as you tugged him over to the small comfy corner that the airport staff had set up for you.

Nothing went in, Rindo staring blankly at you, though you seemed to have failed to notice your friend’s inaction until you tried to get his attention.

”-n! Rin-rin!! Hello?”

The Bonten executive blinked, awakening to your curious face taking up his entire view.

“Rin-rinnnnn.”

Rindo simply stood suddenly, forcing you to back away, though a beam quickly replaced your surprised expression. A quick glance around the room told him that it was empty of cameras, and he was certain enough that the grunts outside had ensured as much - they were, after all, the ones who would pay with their lives should the police ever become involved. “Bend over the table and pull down your skirt,” he ordered, though he didn’t wait for you to register his instruction, instead already moving to gently guide you.

He had to make sure that you knew who you belonged to, and no matter how much your best friend dreaded what he was going to do to you next, it was necessary. You couldn’t be trusted to know up from down, let alone keep yourself safe and away from those who wanted to do your harm. From those who wanted to see you separated from him.

“Okay!” You cheerfully agreed. “What are we doing?”

Needless to say, this fateful day was the start of the end of your career as an idol. You had a good run while it lasted.

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chubbyreaderchan · 1 year

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okeeey, a request for you... sesshomaru loses his wife while giving birth. I want to know what will happen in the mind of the demon king because uggghh I need pure anguish please... maybe later I will make a happier request hahha

A/n: Jokes on you, because I've been watching call the midwife and this is the perfect thing for my new special interest of historical baby birthing. I just wrote a quick lil blurb. But I can do head canons if you'd like of how he'd raise his baby.

Tw: death of reader, child birth, blood

“She’s bleeding,” the elder of the village said to a young woman. “Fetch more water and cloths,”

Their silver haired baby rested next to his woman, and Sesshomaru simply watched.

Sesshomaru growled. Her face was significantly pale, and the metallic sting of her blood burned his nose and wrecked his soul. But even now, he stayed cold.

“S-Sesshomaru,” she whimpered, looking into his golden eyes.

He was at her side in an instant. His fingers gently pressed against her cheek, sweat coated her face. Part of himself cursed his love for her, a mere human so weak that bleeding in such a way was deadly.

The demon knew death like he knew an old friend, he could see it from miles away. She was going to die because he wanted her to bear a child. He wanted to see her carrying his pup, but he did not think her body would collapse so severely after the birth.

“Please, don’t…. don’t hate our child,” She whimpered.

Sesshomaru’s eyes widened.

“He’s going to need you, please don’t blame him,” she pressed a cold kiss to his palm.

The baby’s cry pulled him from her, but just a moment.

These moments were one of the few times he wished he still had Tensaiga. She would die, yes but he could bring her back and he’s never allow her to bare another pup for her entire days.

“Hold him, please,” she begged weakly.

Sesshomaru looked at the killer of his woman. He looked like the demon lord but yet, something about his face looked like her.

“Please,” she begged him.

He needed to please her. Sesshomaru would literally tear down nations if it would make her happy. The dog demon lifted the baby into his arms, it’s cries turned louder and Sesshomaru felt angry.

But then the baby looked at him with her eyes. She was in him. In his very soul.

“Sesshomaru, I love you,” she whispered.

Her eyes fluttered closed and his world became silent.

“I love you,” he said softly.

#inuyasha headcanons #inuyasha fanfic #sesshomaru x chubby!reader #sesshomaru x reader #lord sesshomaru x reader

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serpentthecrow · 2 years

Text

Sleepy time with the crows

the crows(separately) x reader🖤

Summary: just some fluffy headcannons with our favourite gangsters

Warnings : big fluff, cursing, plushies

A/n: wrote this instead of a Jesper confession fic that got deleted. I also included the plushies each of them have, so enjoy!

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

Kaz:

One might assume there will not be much to say, it's not true however

If Kaz finds u trustworthy enough to even sleep in the same room with you, consider urself lucky af

Kaz doesn't really sleep much, just for a couple hours, it's assumably another trick of his, how he wakes up

When he ACTUALLY needs sleep, he drinks Camomile tea

I picture Kaz's bedside table is actually a stack of books, and there are several more stacks on the other side of the bed, so he reads quite often

He's genuinely scared to fall asleep due to his nightmares sometimes

After getting comfortable with you, he will slowly inch by inch move your beds closed to eachother everyday, until you notice

Whispers 'fuck u ' to the moon when it shines in his window

Just lays flat on his back and sleeps (how?)

Secretly has a crow plushie he got from Jesper under his bed

Jesper

The biggest cuddle bear ever

He will wrap you up with his arms and legs like a rope, and will not let go even under the use of a fucking crowbar

It's his routine to kiss his revolvers good-night before going to bed

Not before checking himself out in the mirror to look good and ready for a night intruder

REFUSES to buy a bit bigger bed, no matter if your savings could buy a bed that even majesty King Nikolai.*million titles*.. could hardly afford

The secret meaning is that Jes doesn't want you escaping from him to the other side of the big mattress

He'd rather fall off the little cot you have

Forgets to take off his rings

HAS a goat plushie

Inej

Inej is pretty straightforward- lay down, sleep if you can

challenge: try not to stab urself in the eye by the knife she has under her pillow while turning in ur sleep

Could use some protective cuddles if she trusts u

Prays before going to sleep

Bed time= heaven time. Main reason?she lets her hair down when going to sleep

Be prepared to do some careful and slow comforting for her at 1am

U will get urself stabbed if Ur not careful

Light sleeper, can be out like a light tho, after a whole day of climbing roofs

Fuzzy socks.

Has a teddy bear

Nina

U won't fall asleep with her. I swear

Is the type of person to talk and talk and talk about random things for hours

And when u think she's already asleep, ur suddenly hear "I would never kiss a dude who eats dogs"

Eats a ton of food before bed

*cough*like me*cough*

Loves bedtime stories and singing lullabies in Ravkan- recieving or giving, doesn't matter to her

Back tracing

Has an assortment of plushies all around her side of the bed and if one is missing, she will start a war

Sleeps on her stomach

Or on u

Sleeps naked by choice

Cuddly little witch

Matthias

Wrapped around u for 'protective' reasons

Tells u stories, myths and traditional legends from Fierda

Also prays to Djel, even tho he wipes his hands after finishing and exclaims he doesn't have to really

Drinks weird amount of water

Sometimes lays in bed with shoes on - sinner

Never saw a book in his life

Normal duvets? What is that? Did I hear fur?

Wake him up. I dare you. Try it.

Extra vulnerable before bed

Don't make him sad at the time pls

LOVES when it rains at night (I think they all love that, except ONE)

Owns a tiny white wolf plushie, it's under his pillow if u wanna know.

Wylan

Certified cutie

The adorable matching pijama sets he wears

Will probably draw.

No need to say he won't read before bed

The little spoon

Warm milk with honey melted in it is his to go drink for bed(try it, knocks u out)

The bed hair(not so different from his normal hair lol)

Has a dinamite plushie he sleeps with all the time

Is the one who doesn't like when it rains, because what If the rain turns into a thunderstorm?

ABSOLUTELY HATES THUNDERSTORMS

They scare the shit outta him

The sleepy mumbles... Help

whispers good night back and forth with u until one of u fall asleep

fluffy and smol bean

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A/n: Ahh turned out better then I first thought. Lemme know what u think! If you'd like to requests something, my requests are open, please read my pinned post before requesting, there you'll find rules but also the fandoms I write for ❤️❤️

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aloysiavirgata · 11 months

Note

Okay okay now me! How about the old three words prompt format? Potato salad, birthday, camel. Love having you back!

They’re eating potato salad and pulled pork at a picnic table outside of Savannah. The picnic table is behind a garden shed that has been converted to a barbecue shack. Mulder read about it on a message board, said it was worth the forty-five minute detour.

It is. She will never admit this without sodium pentothal.

“Wanna go to the fair later?” Mulder asks around a bite of sandwich. “Saw a sign outside the fire station.”

Scully frowns, poking at her potato salad with a spork. “Mulder. Those rides are set up by meth-addled degenerates with all the engineering expertise of an 8 year old with a Lego set.”

“Ahhhh, come on. We can make out on the Ferris wheel, it’ll be fun.”

She blushes and hates them both for it. “Mulder.”

He pouts. “It’s my birthday.”

“It’s August 3rd.”

“Well,” he concedes, “it’s my birthday next.”

She’s had vague ideas about his birthday, a new lingerie set maybe? But it embarrasses her to consider in any real way. They’ve slept together four times but she’s mortified at the thought of chatting with the leggy sylphs at Victoria’s Secret.

Mulder leans across the table on his elbows to kiss her, outside in the daylight in front of the ghosts of General Sherman and Flannery O’Connor and everybody.

There’s a whoop from a few stoned teenagers across the gravel, eating Kool-Aid pickles.

She tries to look prim and scandalized when he sits back, feels herself fail miserably.

“Fine,” she says. “Let’s ride the Ferris wheel.” She loves the idea of sitting at the top with him, the little frisson that will come as the seat stops and swings. She knows he’ll try to win her a prize at some rigged game.

He looks intolerably smug and she almost reconsiders on principle. He washes down another mouthful of pork with sweet tea.

“And the making out part?” He bats his lashes at her to disarming effect.

She sips her own tea. “Not a Ferris wheel exactly, but my first kiss was on the um…the what do you call it? The sky tram thing at the San Diego Zoo.”

A wolf whistle from Mulder, echoed by the teens. “Minx,” he says.

Scully grins. “We were visiting some friends over summer break and they had a son my age on whom I had a life-threatening crush. His name was Frankie. We somehow ended up alone in the air tram gondola car together after the camel rides and, well…”

“You send him letters on scented stationery all summer?”

She had indeed.

“No.”

“Liar,” he says, chewing on his straw and leering. “So how was it?”

“We both smelled of camel and we both had braces. It was very romantic.” She’d ended up with a cut on her lip that Melissa blackmailed her with.

He laughs. “Ahab ever find out?”

She grimaces. “Thankfully not. We didn’t see each other after that, actually.”

“Poor Frankie.”

They finish their food, return to their hot, stuffy car for the drive back to the motel. They do not touch.

(Later, on the Ferris wheel, they kiss like they invented it. He makes obnoxious remarks while she eats a vanilla soft serve custard; she indulges him shamelessly and holds his eyes while she licks it.

He wins her a monstrous pink bear that she gifts to a small, sticky girl.

They fall into bed for the fifth time and his mouth tastes of lemonade and sex. Above them is the Dog Star. Vega, Arcturus. Scully, who wrote her thesis on Einstein’s twin paradox, knows time travel is impossible. But she is thirteen again, her lips swollen with kisses and the sweet impossibility of being young and stunningly in love in summertime.)

#xf fanfic #xfiles fanfic #msr #my fanfic #fluff #prompts

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daryandricky · 11 months

Text

SWEAR

Chapter 9 DESOLATE

Summary: Ricks group spends four months on the road after the loss of the farm. Y/n has a painful adventure.

Warnings: Swearing, torture, sa, pregnancy, childbirth, walking dead stuff.

This one ain’t very good but I was feeling ✨chaotic✨ when I wrote it.

Rick's POV

Lori won't talk to me. I totally get it and its understandable, but that don't make it hurt any less. Her and Carl are the only family I have left, and they've shut me out. I can never forgive myself for allowing Carl to finish the job that I should've done.

We've been on the road for about 4 months now. It's winter and freezing. I'm doing my best to lead this group, but quite honestly, I'm hanging on by a damn thread. Y/n is constantly consuming my thoughts, she's always creeping in the back of my mind, begging to control my thinking. I can't allow it, not with so many people relying on me. It's a never-ending cycle. Walk. Sip water. Find a safe space to stay the night. Sleep. Wake up. Eat as little as possible. Repeat.

We're currently camped out in an old house, supplied with nothing but dog food. They tried to eat it. I couldn't control myself as there ain't no way in hell I'm letting anyone eat that shit. It's a hard pill to swallow, that we're so low in life that the only food we can find is supposed to be eaten by a fucking canine.

I grabbed that can from Carl's hand and threw it against the wall. I just couldn't bear the thought of it. I decided I needed a breather. So, I currently stand guarding the house on the porch.

But here she comes again, consuming every fiber in my being, not letting me breathe, choking me like her life depended on it. I let out a painful sigh, trying to control my emotions. My eyes are brimmed with tears, but I refuse to let them flow.

If she's alive she probably has had the baby by now, or at least she's gonna have it soon.

I shake my head at the thought, not wanting to upset myself even further.

I never shoulda shot down our conversations about kids. I know she wanted them; I know that. But I couldn't stand the thought of becoming my father, treating my child the way he had. I suck in a breath at the memory.

My mind unwillingly flashes to the first time she held Carl. She was so excited, nearly jumping out of her skin. I loved how motherly she looked and how well it suited her. I couldn't help but think of having a mini us runnin through our house. I imagined that they'd have her eyes and nose, my hair and ears.

God, I hope our baby looked just like her. I smile fondly at the memory of her. Her grin when she'd tease me. The way her eyes shone when she was with her students. How she'd laugh at my jokes, even the really bad ones.

My mind begins to drift to a memory of her. She was drunk off her ass when she showed up at my place after Lori's bachelorette party. We'd just started dating and I had no idea what to expect from this other side of her.

"Y/n? What are you doing here?" I asked slightly annoyed as I had an early shift the next day and it was currently 2 in the morning.

She grins as she looks up at me and forcefully stumbles her way in, before falling onto me and gripping my shirt. "Are you single?" She slurs. "You're so handsome." Y/n giggles. I believe she was trying to cup my cheek, but really slapped me as hard as she could. I open my jaw, trying to dull the stinging sensation.

"You're drunk." I deadpan. She erupts into giggles and hunches over, placing her hands on her knees. She suddenly stops mid-gig, stands straight and with a serious expression says, "No I ain't!" She yells, face turning red. I grab her shoulders and start to lead her to the bedroom so we both can get some much-needed sleep. She suddenly turns around to face me, shit eating grin on her face as she trails her hands over my shoulders and around my neck.

I take a deep breath. "What?"

She purses her lips as she tries to hold in another giggle. "Lori told me somethin bout you." She says in a sing song voice. The tips of my ears turn red. "What she say?"

She covers her mouth with her hand and belly laughs. When she finally stops, she has tears in her eyes and she is now pouting. She runs her tongue over her lips and starts to sway, like we're dancing. "She told me" she giggles again before taking a deep breath "that Shane told her" she leans in close, so close that I can smell the alcohol from her breath "that you love me." She whispers before cupping her cheeks and smiling ear to ear.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" I ask nervously.

She slightly shakes her head with her eyes closed, scratching her scalp. Her eyes then pop wide open, and she yawns before turning away from me, heading towards the bedroom. I follow closely behind as she stumbles along, nearly bashing her head against the wall every fucking second.

She sighs as she plops down on the bed belly first, starfish style. I smile slightly at the sight. She may have been a pain in my ass at the moment but I wasn't gonna let her forget about this, that's for sure. I start to undo the strap on her heel, trying to make her more comfortable when her foot suddenly makes contact with my groin. I double over in pain, letting out a groan, tilting my head slightly to get a look at her. She has a pillow aimed at me, ready to beat the shit outta me.

"I have a boyfriend, ya piece a shit!"

I gulp and slowly nod my head, still hunched over. I raise my arm, trying to offer a treaty. "That'd be me sweetheart." I murmur out. She gasps and begins to sob.

"I-I I'm s-so SORRY Ri-Rick." She cries out as she falls onto her back, covering her face with her hands. I let out a frustrated breath and limp my way towards her, still using my arm for protection. "It's alright baby, it was an accident."

"No! It ain't alright! I kicked your baby maker!" She sobs out again. I stifle a laugh and begin to pat her head, trying my best to soothe the woman.

"Can I lay down with ya? I promise I'll keep my distance." I raise my hands, trying to make peace. She frantically nods her head and I lay down on the edge of the bed, as far away from her as possible. She gasps as she looks at the distance, waving her arm on the empty slot before she starts sobbing again. "Ya don love me no more!"

I bite the inside of my cheek as I stare at the ceiling before turning to face her. "I do baby, c'mere." I say a little groggy as I open my arms. She sobs are quickly replaced with giggles as she jumps towards me, burying her head in my chest. I let out a sigh and start to run my fingers through her hair.

"I lo ya too." She mumbles before drifting off. I can't help but have a shit eating grin of my own at her words.

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

"Where the fuck is he?" You groan out in pain desperately wanting your brother at your side. Deanna holds your head, trying to comfort you as you wriggle in pain on the bed.

"He's on a run, he should be here any minute now." She whispers, squeezing your arm.

Pain erupts from your lower region, and you let out a cry. "Nearly there Y/n!" Pete says. You give him a disapproving look, silently telling him to shut the fuck up.

Suddenly the door is thrown open, your brother's limp body being carried by Arthur and Aidan, worry etched on their faces.

"What the fuck happened!?" You yelled out in worry and pain as another contraction wracked through your body. The men lay your brother on the gurney next to you and that's when you see it. The missing limb. Pete looks between you and your brother not knowing who he should help. You groan out partially in annoyance, mostly in agony. "Don't just fucking stare at us! Go fucking help him!" He rushes over to your brother and Deanna takes his place, trying to coerce the baby out and you remember the two idiots who brought him in.

Your mouth goes dry and turns sour, causing your face to scrunch. You glare at Aidan. "What. The. Fuck. Happened?"

"Walker." Aidan says, avoiding your gaze. "No fucking shit dumbass." You seethe. "I know my brother ain't stupid enough to get himself bit, so one of ya fuckers must have had somethin to do with it." You glance at the two men, both of them sheepishly looking at you. Anger boils through your body as you notice the missing fourth man. "James?"

"Yeah." Aidan whispers, looking down at his feet. "He dead?"

They both nod their heads. "Good, now get the fuck out I don't want ya two looking at my fucking vagina no more!" You yell, mostly at Arthur as his eyes never left your naked bottom half. They stare at you in shock. "Now!"

Deanna gasps, "Y/n, I can see the head. That means to start pushing."

Nerves wrack your body as you remember the task at hand. You begin to push. It was almost like the baby was deliberately trying to torture you.

After a good 2 hours, your brothers still knocked out from the pain meds Pete gave him, and the little devil finally managed to escape from your body. Pete smiles down at the baby, holding her up for you to see. "You got a baby girl, Y/n/n."

Tears fall from your eyes. Tears of joy. And tears of pain. Tears of raising your little girl without her daddy.

Pete comes back moments later, your daughter now wrapped in a blanket one of your elderly neighbors knitted for you, and he gently hands her to you. Your lip trembles as you look down at the baby girl. Her short brown hair already curling. You wish you could see her eyes, hoping they would be the bright blue your husband once proudly wore. She had your nose and lips. You trace the outline of her nose before giving it a kiss and smiling proudly at your baby girl.

"Hey lil miss Delilah."

#rick grimes x reader #rick grimes x y/n #rick grimes #twd rick #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #the walking dead #oneshots #imagines #fanfic

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sadtrashking · 3 months

Note

HEY!! actually wrote these all out u can tell where i started going off of mostly appearance for these because i only really know a few qsmp characters help obviously not everyone but uhm. swagever (sorry for sending it to inbox it was too big to fit in the comments on that other post)

Tubbo: Groyvle (Frozen in time/Time related things. Looks like how I imagine her, I like the idea of him not being a fully evolved mon I think it oddly fits her)

Spreen: Hisuian Typhloshion!!!!! (Guy who is like darker colors and the ghost typing is such a cool like. hint towards his tragic fate of fucking dying. Plus works well with Fit and Ramon being normal types)

DanTDM: Shiny Sceptile (works mostly with my specific QSMP dragon lore but TLDR is that Tubbo and Dan are really similar genetics wise and look almost identical, but Dan's fully evolved while Tubbo hasn't really mastered it yet hence. Shiny Sceptile (which is more blue so its fitting)

Bad: Yveltal (Death vulture thing, Dark Type, God-related status, Immortal)

Jaiden: I know the obvious choice is like Chatot but. I like to think she'd be an Archeops I feel like she'd be a raptor of some kind and Archeops is like both that and a parrot it feels made for her…. SHE'D HAVE HER NORMAL COLORS THOUGH I THINK

Pac: Shiny Dusk Form Lycanrock: I like to think Q!Pac is some kind of shiba hybrid so he's GOTTA be a dog and Shiny Dusk Lycanrock is the EXACT colors

Fit: Ursaring because like. Look at it that's just him

Cellbit: Meowscarada this is another appearance based one but I REALLYYY like Meowscarada Cellbit its fun to me.

Baghera: KILOWATTRELLLLLL i dont think any of the ducks fit her and I fucking LOVEEEE kilowattrel i think it's a really fun choice for her

Roier: Midnight Lycanrock I like to think Roier is an African Wild Dog and I think it makes this guy fit him! Plus he's red and emo which is fitting i think

Foolish: Palafin! I don't wanna give him Sharpedo because i think it'd be a bit too silly, and Garchomp is for Leo, so Palafin!! Works well with me imagining him as a Sawshark anyways…

Phil: Honchkrow. IT LITERALLY LOOKS LIKE HIMMM ITS SUCH A GOOD MON FOR HIM hes not corviknight because thats my c!phil headcanon plus i feel like q!phil's less intimidating

Missa: Alolan Marowak i know next to nothing about this guy but. dude's an alolan marowak

Cucurucho: BLOOD MOON URSALUNA THIS FUCKERS SUCH A URSALUNA its a big intimidating bear that's face is mostly obscured and doesn't really display much emotion raaaagh its so fitting

Fred: Beartic because blue polar bear but GOD i love ur pangoro idea thats so fun

(Eggs)

Sunny: Cosmog because i loveeee the idea that shes gonna turn into a solgaleo its so funny to me. groyvle dad with a metal sun lion god following him around PLUS COSMOG FITS HER IN LIKE A LOVING SPARKLY THINGS WAY… made of stars

Dapper: Zweilous (I think a lot of the eggs have evolved atp) Fits bad's dark typing! Little guy!!! Little guy with no eyes!!!!

Ramon: Drampa. Mustache dragon thanggggggggg also the idea of this baby dragon being a grampa is really funny

Pomme: DIPPLINNNNNN make that girl into a hydrapple to match dapper becoming a hydreigon eventually. the hydra sisters :fire: ALSO DIPPLIN IS REALLY CUTE i dont particularly care for flapple and appletun feels too like. lazy? for pomme? idk

Richas: Craniados!!!!!! The way people draw Richas reminds me SOOOO much of a pachycephalosaur so I gave him the pachycephalosaur pokemom!!!

Chayanne: FRAXUREEEE haxorus is SUCHHH a chay pokemon to me i think its the yellow. i like to think he's the first to evolve due to being the oldest :3

Tallulah: Swablu: I've always associated the altaria line with music and Tallulah with music so!!!!!

Flippa: Goomy. u'll never fucking guess why

Leo: GABITEEEEEE its a shark dragon its MADEEEE for her honestly

Bobby: Bagon because I feel like it mirrors Jaiden's whole thing with flying in a really sad way

I FUCKING LOVE THEESE. God I love pokemon aus so much they're so fun. And sw on the just appearance ones because they work too. Pac and sunny are probably my favorites from this list

#crunch tag #i gotta make a post about my pokemon au thoughts eventually but I'm too tired rn for a long post

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ceeceefangirling · 6 months

Text

i got really sentimental about odasaku and then i wrote this thing which is kind of formatted weird and maybe does not make sense lolol. but here u go!!

/////////////

bungo stray dogs fanfiction ~ odasaku x female reader ~ pregnancyy

/////////////

one thing leads to another and suddenly, suddenly, you’re seated at a bartop, staring at a glass of chocolate milk and waiting waiting waiting. heart in your throat, lungs in your stomach. swallow hard and fast. when will he be here? the barkeeper pours you another glass. you chug half of it. when will he be here?

swing of a door and you hear his footsteps. you don’t need to look up. it’s him.

he greets you with a kiss to the side of your head - your temple - and you feel his hands on your arms, guiding them into the sleeves of his coat. “you’re shivering.”

he sits down next to you and the bartender sets a glass down before him. his usual drink. you both wait until it’s poured, shimmering amber in front of him.

he takes a sip and glances over at you. you haven’t looked at him once.

he doesn’t ask. he doesn’t pressure you. he looks away, at his drink, at the ice floating inside of it.

“enjoying the rain?”

flash of need through you. get it out. get it out. you lean towards him, desperate for your mouth at his ear, desperate for as much privacy as you can get; and he leans forward, obliging.

you claw at him, unconsciously, nails digging into his neck as you drag his head even closer.

“i’m pregnant,” you hush into his ear, as faintly as you can. if you don’t speak it it’s not true. if you don’t speak it it’s not true

he’s silent.

you’re silent.

the barkeeper is minding his own business on the other end of the bar.

it’s just the two of you, isn’t it? just the two of you, your world rapidly constricting around you.

he’s the one not looking, now. you’re staring at him. desperate. look at me. tell me what you’re thinking.

but you already know, don’t you? he’s thinking the same four thoughts as you are.

thought one.

perfect perfect perfect perfect perfect. rush of everything golden and good. this is what you want. this is what you want. you’ve craved this you’ve needed this more than anything more than oxygen. a family. our family. our child our family me and you you and i our child our child our child our

thought two.

cold. chilling. ice down the spine.

if they target us, now, they target them.

thought three.

it’s dangerous, isn’t it? this line of work. this line of living. we’ve doomed our child. we’ve doomed our family. we’ve doomed our future. we knew this. we knew we could never have a family together. we accepted this. we accepted anything just to hold each other. there is no space in our life. there is no space in our life.

thought four.

we are lost. we are sinking. we are lost. we are sinking. we are

he does not speak. he is staring at the countertop.

you apologize, even though it is not entirely your fault. it is not something you could have helped. but your hands are shaking, and so are his, and you know that he has never ever breathed a word to you - he could never bear to - but he has never wanted needed craved for yearned for anything, anything more than to hold your own child.

you apologize again. he shakes his head.

he shakes his head.

he knocks back his drink and stands up.

“we should go,” he tells you. “go home.”

“but -”

he knows you. he knows the tightening around your ribcage when confronted with anything uncomfortable at home.

“we should go home,” he tells you, firmly.

he’s looking at you, now.

you slide off of your barstool and let him lead you off. he hails a taxi outside. usually you would walk.

neither of you speak on the drive to your apartment. how can you speak with the driver there, listening, intruding?

it takes him a few tries to get the keys into the door. you try to help, reaching out with your own shaky hands, but he jams the key in before you can do much.

the lights are off in the apartment. your hair is wet.

you don’t move to turn on the light. neither does he.

“saku -”

and he’s crashed into you, his arms tight around you, his mouth on yours his tongue on yours. he’s desperate. you stagger backwards. he follows, follows, until he’s pressed you tight against a wall, knocking over a picture frame, or a glass. who cares? he’s devouring you whole.

“saku -” you gasp, and he kisses your neck, his arms still clenching you like you’ll escape from him if he loosens his grasp even a little bit, even a little.

he does not speak. he moves to your lips again, his tongue still hot and thick in your mouth. you can hear him whining in the back of his throat.

you let him kiss you, eat you, swallow you. he loses momentum after a while, still pinned against the wall. he drops his head, panting, rests his forehead against your shoulder.

“having my baby,” he says, now, his voice husky and choked, wet with passion, love, hope, terror, reverence.

you put one hand on the back of his neck. it’s warm, and sweaty.

“i’m -” you try.

what are you?

sorry? angry? scared?

you can’t name the emotions like that, like a preschooler still learning how to feel. you want to kill something, and eat something, and watch your husband press his lips to your child’s forehead. you want to hear him tell them stories, see his eyes light up as he looks at them.

“i’m -”

he kisses you again, soft, lingering. his mouth tastes like whiskey and blood. he’s bitten through his tongue.

“i’m so happy,” he whispers. he doesn’t sound happy, does he? he still hasn’t turned the light on. you put a hand on his cheek. it comes back wet.

“saku -”

your eyes are adjusting to the darkness, just a little. you can see him looking at you. his eyes are big, wet, pleading. his lips are trembling.

you touch his cheek again. scratchy. he hasn’t shaved. his tears are warm and salty on your fingers.

“saku,” you whisper, again.

he presses his forehead to yours. his breaths are hot and quick.

he starts to say something, and stops. he’s whimpering, whining, straining sounds of pain or anger or horror or

“i think we should get some sleep,” you tell him.

he nods.

he insists on showering, first. his skin is coated with a layer of sweat, dirt, blood, rain. he stands under the water for a little too long. you sit under the covers and wait for him, folding and unfolding your fingers, nervous, nervous.

he's silhouetted in the doorway for a moment. his hair is sticking up.

he clicks off the bathroom light and crawls into bed next to you. the mattress creaks and shifts.

you lay, silent, in the dark. backs flat on the bed. eyes up at the ceiling.

he is thinking.

he can’t speak right now but his mind is so loud.

two things he wants, more than anything. writing and a family.

he’s got those orphans, holed up on a second floor. but they’re not quite the same thing. they don’t have his eyes, or her fingers. they’re not his.

he shuts his eyes, so tight that sparks flit across the back of his eyelids. she’s pregnant.

and he should be happy - he should be - but it’s hard to be happy under these conditions. worrying about the orphans is bad enough. and if they have a kid - his own kid - he’s going to wear himself out, worrying. he’s going to tear a hole through his stomach.

he turns over to look at her. her eyes are open. she’s staring at the ceiling.

he reaches out for her, his fingers brushing over her cheek. she turns her face. her eyes are shimmering.

neither of them speak. how could they?

how can you speak like this?

#bsd #bungo stray dogs #oda sakunosuke #odasaku x reader #my writing

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wolveswithblackpearls · 6 months

Text

When the nights get cold

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, dog hybrid!baekhyun x reader (if romantic or not is up for interpretation)

cw: nightmares, feelings of panic and anxiety, laboratory/hospital setting in the first half, violence mention, abuse mention (non-sexual), medical experiments mention

word count: ~1.6k

a/n: hey there @vampwrrr - 'tis me, your secret santa (find me @starchild--27, I am Admin S on here ^-^) and i come bearing gifts, hehe :D i did a little mix of all the things we talked about the last few months with what you promted for your gift, so i hope you have fun reading this little one-shot i came up with! i, for one, had lots of fun with it xD gave me a chance to dive into unknown waters here - i never wrote anything in this setting before!

finally, a big thank you @exols-silver-christmas for hosting yet another year of exo-l secret santa. it takes a lot to organize all this so i am, as always, very thankful that we can enjoy this event again this year. i can't wait to see all the creative things everyone came up with! <3

~ Admin S

Baekhyun woke up feeling uncomfortable. It was the rough fabric of the hospital gown against his skin. It was the cold metal chain that ran tightly over his face. It was the darkness and the penetrating smell of disinfectant. He hated it all. So much he just wanted to fall asleep again. But the bed had no pillow and no blanket, and he was freezing too much to fall asleep again.

I am back.

The thought slowly settled in his mind, exhaustion and resignation putting a dull feeling in his chest. He had been here before, in “The Clinic” as the people here liked to call it. But he knew that clinics are to help people that are hurt. And this place did the exact opposite. This place was a lab. And he had been created here. From some scraps of DNA the doctors had collected and altered.

Baekhyun didn’t know the specifics of how the lab worked, how they got the resources they needed, what the purpose of it all was. And he wasn’t sure if he even wanted to know. And while the question of “why” was a huge mystery to Baekhyun, the goal of The Clinic was quite clear. They wanted to create a new species. They were breeding hybrids. And Baekhyun was one of those.

Raised under constant probing and testing for the first couple years of his life, then put in a shelter with other hybrids to be socialized and later to be sold. And even then, there was no escaping The Clinic. There were regular checkups and tests the hybrids had to undergo, even after being bought.

Baekhyun crouched on the cold bed, thoughts racing. Why was he here again? Why didn’t he remember how he got here? Why didn’t he remember what had happened before he fell asleep? Anxiously, his tail wrapped around his legs while he rested his chin on his right knee and he realized how helpless he was. He didn’t know what to do, how to get out. Damn, he didn’t even know what year it was.

Goosebumps spread over his skin. This was the most scared he had felt in a long while. It reminded him of when he was still a puppy that hadn’t known anything but the lab. Even back then, when he was entirely disoriented, he knew this was not a good place. He might not have understood it back then but he had felt distinctly that this place was harming him.

The utter silence made Baekhyun nervous. Or was it just the lack of any hints that would indicate other alive beings close by? He didn’t know and his ears twitched restlessly, eager to pick up a sound. Any sound. Just… anything besides the sound of his own beating heart.

Baekhyun put his head between his knees and buried his hands in the hair at the back of his head, tightly shutting his eyes and praying for it all to go away. Praying that, when he released all the tension in his body, he would be at a better place, a safer place.

But Baekhyun was scared. He didn’t dare to let go, to loosen his grip on himself. Any moment without your guard up would be exploited. That’s what his years in The Clinic had taught him so painfully. He couldn’t let go. They would come and immobilize him in ways that hurt and give him medicine that made him feel sick and run tests until he passed out from exhaustion. He couldn’t let go. He couldn’t let go. He couldn't-

A blaring noise ripped through the quiet, so sudden that Baekhyun let out a bark. That never happened. But, gosh, this was an alert of some sort and Baekhyun could practically feel this horrible, booming sound vibrating in his bones.

He had to get out.

Faster than he thought his body would be ready, he scrambled off the bed. The floor was unbelievably cold against his bare feet, but he started running towards the exit anyway. He pulled harshly and opened the door just far enough so he could slip through and out in the long, white hallway that was rhythmically illuminated in deep red from the flaring warning light. Baekhyun didn’t have time to look around more, he just bolted into a random direction. All he wanted was to get away from this room, but as soon as he had started running down the hallway, he started to hear steps behind him. Fast. Running.

He peaked. It was the nurses. Their skin-tight, white uniforms had them look like they were clones themselves. They might as well have been. There was no way of knowing what else was going on in The Clinic - and if there was a way, Baekhyun didn’t want to know it, wanted to be as far away as possible from that way.

When he heard the nurses’ steps accelerating, Baekhyun ran even faster. He had not expected to have enough strength for that. His sight got blurry and his cheeks were getting wet. He could tell by the cold feeling that bloomed where the tears were running down his face. But he couldn’t stop running. Not when there were these nurses following him. They would catch him and do God-knows-what to him and-

-- -- --

Baekhyun opened his eyes so abruptly that it startled you a little, despite having tried to wake him up for the past few minutes.

He had been shaking in his sleep for a while now. You were laying next to him, waiting for this painful scene to come to a halt again but it only got worse the further the nightmare progressed. He started whimpering and yipping, making the most puppy-like noises you have ever heard from him.

You had tried to soothe him without waking him at first, started with rubbing his back and stroking his exposed arm. That usually calmed him a lot – but not this time. So you adjusted his blanket that he had kicked away from his body, letting his own warmth comfort him and, as a last resort, softly petted the wild strands of his hair. But nothing helped. When tears started running down his face, you decided it was best to wake him up and free him from whatever was going on in his head.

You had a pretty good idea what he must have been dreaming about. That was not the first time Baekhyun had suffered from these nightmares and when it got as bad as tonight, they were most likely about The Clinic. Just the thought of that place started a fire of scorching fury in your belly. They gave him pain his entire life and not even now that he got out of their grasp, he had no peace. You didn’t want to imagine the things that happened to the hybrids and other “experiments” there. Actual living beings, scientifically created there, only to-

You closed your eyes and forcefully stopped your train of thought. Your anger wouldn’t help anyone. Not right now, in the middle of the night with a scared dog hybrid sitting next to you, his messy black-and-white hair sticking out in every direction, puppy ears pressed flat against his head, whimpering quietly in the darkness as he wiped the tears from his face with shaking hands.

You took a few deep breaths and slowly so that Baekhyun wouldn’t get even more scared, wrapped your arms around his warm body from behind. And as soon as Baekhyun felt your presence, he let himself melt in your hug and shifted to rest even more comfortably in your arms, turning around to rest his head against your chest and your arms to wrap around his shoulders. Softly, you started to stroke his back again and tried to breath very calmly so Baekhyun’s irregular gasping for air would calm eventually as well.

You knew better than to confront him with questions in this situation. He needed to calm down first, realize that he is not in a dangerous situation anymore, that he is at a safe place, and he needed to take his time for that. The last thing both of you needed at this moment was another panic attack caused by Baekhyun being overwhelmed.

You lifted your eyes from the top of Baekhyun’s head and gazed towards the window. Tonight, the temperatures had dropped deep, and it had started to snow. It was always the first icy cold nights that gave Baekhyun the worst nightmares. It had something to do with the whiteness, quiet and cold that reminded him of The Clinic. It made you even more determined to create good and happy memories in the winter months with him.

You loved the winter, the crisp cold and how the first snow makes the world look like it has been put under a spell that makes everything really still and silent. It had always felt magical to you and even if Baekhyun would always feel a much greater relief when spring would finally come around, you didn’t want the nightmares to be the only thing Baekhyun remembered from winter nights. But it would take work to get there. He had been through too much. You had heard a lot about it from Baekhyun already but you weren’t sure if you knew everything yet. And if tonight’s nightmare brought up new memories that caused the dream to be especially bad this time around.

But you were certain, Baekhyun would immediately talk to you tonight. When he felt he was ready and not in shock anymore. You two would figure it all out from there. Or maybe you would just fall asleep again and figure it out tomorrow. And with Baekhyun’s breath becoming more and more even and your eyelids feeling heavier and heavier… tomorrow didn’t seem like such a bad plan.

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soluchi · 2 years

Text

JOJOS REACTING TO YOUR DEATH (1/2)

SUMMARY: them reacting to your death but ur being a little whore

WORDS: 1.6k

WARNINGS: death, suicide (technically, the reader jus wants to die, part 7 spoilers, mostly platonic but can be read romantically

PARTS: 4-7

NOTES: none of this is in order i write as the ideas come 2 me (slay i sound so artistic), i havent written for some of these characters but it's not obvious cause all of it is actual dog shit, I DO NOT HATE GIORNO i just wrote his part first n thought everything else wld b kept shprt 🤡

josuke higashikata

appears calm cause you won't stop fucking joking around

please assure him tht it's ok for him to cry

will try to heal you but you're like "hey. quit it >:("

jesus hes literally a mess

"you can cry, i know losing such a hot and sexy person wld hurt extremely." "*tearing up* hot and sexy mean the same thing"

"this must be payback for that time i told a 6 year old he looked like a chewed up lego." you laughed. before josuke even moved, you gripped his wrist and stared at him like a dead fish. "if you fucking pull out crazy diamond, i'm going to bring you with me."

he looked away from you in guilt. "you're too young to die." you scoffed and squinted at him. "dude, i'm literally older than you." when you flopped on him, he almost fell over. "yea, by a year." you punched him lightly, as that was all you could manage. "jesus christ man, i'm dying. are you seriously going to be mean to me while i'm fuckin bleeding out?!"

after a semi comfortable silence with you staring at josukes eyes and josuke trying to look you in the eyes. he couldn't do it, he couldn't bear to watch the color drain from your eyes. it'd hurt too much. "your eyes are pretty." you smiled at him.

"are you trying to be nice now so do can go to heaven?" you scowled at your friend. "can i not be nice?" he wasn't staring at you directly but you could see his deadpan expression. "not in practice." you sneered at him. "but i just was." he rolled his eyes and a tear fell out from his eye. "barely."

"...hey, josuke. you know you can cry right? i'm sure losing such a stunning and breath taking person would hurt immensely." there were tears dropping on your face before you could even finish talking. "stunning and breath taking means the same thing." you pushed him slightly as a response.

he holds you as if you would turn to dust right in front of his eyes, and because all that he's seen, you're pretty sure he expects that to happen. "do you think the afterlife will be fun?" he considers what he should say, hearing the tiniest bit of worry in your voice. "probably not, but you'll make it fun."

your dimples show as you smile up at him, pretending not to hear the crack in his voice because i'd make you sad. "i didn't know you thought so highly of me." an impossible amount of tears escape his eyes as his voice quivers as he feels you starting to go limp. "you know i love you, right?"

"no shit."

giorno giovanna

he litch rillee does not know how to react

and it's not really his fault cause you keep on acting like a fuckin goofy goober

like damn bitch shut up !!! anyways.

bro can barely talk like aw :( mm :(( anyways !

another mf tht tries to heal you when you literally just want to die like damn 😕

"hey, giorno." you called for him but watched the sky, laying on your back. "now that this... mess is all over, are we finally going to get to vandalize the boboli gardens?" the blonde slightly flinched at your laughter. "ah, shit!" you groaned, half because of the way your ribs felt. "do you think i'll have enough time to try every biscotto della nonna? maybe prank a tourist one last time?"

his hands are shaking but they still find their way to the left side of your waist. "you're fine, you're fine. i can help. you'll be fine." he notices that you've stopped talking but he still brings his stand out. "giorno."

the way you say his name with a tone he thinks hes never heard you use. you sound so sweet and tender at this moment, despite what's actually going on. this makes it all the more unfair because there's still so much of you that you haven't shown to the world, or even him.

"remember to visit the boboli gardens for me."

jolyne cujoh

she won cry cause her momma didn't raise a little bitch !!! (lie)

when u hit her w tht "stay gold, ponyboy" type shit she starts fuckinf bawling

yall know tht monologue johnny from the outsiders does in the hospital

"17 years ain't long enough!!!"

she starts bawling

like, damn, bro !!! was tht really necessary !?!?

at least she wasn't making a big deal about this, you smiled at your friend. "just one time, before i.. go, you've got to promise me that you'll eat microwaved cereal at least once." you laugh at your choice of words, and jolyne laughs too, but it sounds a little forced. "you know you can cry right? it's just us and i'm literally dying. who's gonna tell?" jolyne exhales from her nose, slightly turning her head to the left, so she wouldn't have to stare at the blood on your lips.

when you finally found what you were looking for, you took jolyne's hand. "jolyne, you know how i've been joking around and wishing that someone would just kill me? i mean, i guess it's still true but..." you squeeze her hand, and she can't keep her eyes off of your hand. you felt so cold.

"i can't believe im gonna die in a fucking prison!" you lament. "god, my mother was right." the blue bunned girl wants to say something when she sees you crying, but she doesn't know what. "it's not enough. i didn't get enough time! there are so many things i could've been doing if i wasn't rotting here!"

jolyne stares at the floor which you lay on, contemplating her next words. "hermes and i are planning to escape. somehow, i can get someone to help you and-" you nod your head until your eyes light up. she savors the moment and burns the image into her brain. hopefully, it'll help her cope with another friend dying to protect her.

"this," you put something cold in her hands, but it wasn't necessarily cold like your hands. when she opened her hands and glanced at it, she looked back to you with furrowed eyebrows. "this is your..."

you sat up, at least to the point where you were able to hug her. "take it with you. i feel like if you take my most prized possession, i'll still be alive. diamonds and rust probably won't work anymore, but at least i'll still be out of here."

"i'm gonna miss you." you say after closing your eyes. "hey, you haven't died yet. quit being dramatic." you laughed softly while deciding to ignore the way her voice cracked. "i'll come back to haunt you so i can tell you what the afterlife is like."

you opened your eyes for a few seconds to see her smile. you always loved how her eyes crinkled when she smiled, even when she was crying. jolyne wiped her eyes and held your hand to her face. "bring back a souvenir."

"i already gave you my necklace, greedy."

johnny joestar

STOP IMAGINE IF U DIED RIGHT AFTER HE SENT FUNNY VALENTINE IN2 DANTES INFERNO

GOD THT WLD B SO FUNNY

"we was bout 2 make it out the hood bro what the fuck 😭😭😭"

you touched your chest when you saw the president sucked into the ground. when you made the contact, there was something liquid like on you. "oh." was the only thing you said when you raised your hand to your eyes. you must've been injured while the three of you were shooting at each other, you thought while staring at the crimson liquid.

johnny turned to you after hearing your reaction, to what he assumed was the death of funny valentine. you were eerily quiet for someone who jokes even in the worst situations. you took your attention away from your hand and on to johnny. when you opened your mouth, you coughed up blood while johnny watched you in dread.

"johnny, you need to get to a doctor." the fact that you didn't say 'we' did not go over his head. "you..." you pursed your lips and looked to the ground. "this journey sure has been fun, huh?" you force out a laugh when you see him tearing up. "i told you already i knew i was going to die on the road. it's been fun being your friend."

"but we're so close, you- you can't-" you attempt a smile, but it only makes the situation worse. "you can finish for me, don't be a whore." the blood on your hand is drying and the texture makes you uncomfortable. "i'm so sorry." you finally look him in the eyes and you wish you didn't. "i truly hope you find happiness after this."

god, he really was a loud crier. or maybe it was the fact that he had no one else left. "i don't know if you're crying cause i'm going to hell or because i'm dying right now." after yelling a string of curses, he crawls over to you. you warned him about doing this because of his wounds. "fuck! you can't just... can't you use heart shaped box?" you shook your head. "if i could, i still wouldn't." he wanted to hug you but he was afraid that you'd be cold. he wasn't sure he'd be able to go on after this.

"i'll kill the devil for you after i die. maybe i'll beat up god too." he couldn't even glare when you made that dumb joke. "are you seriously going to go out without having a single moment where you weren't joking around?" you grinned at him and closed your eyes.

"yup."

yall have no idea how many times ive reposted this shit trying to get it into tags 😭

#jjba fanfic #jjba angst #angst #jojo part 4 #josuke higashikata #josuke x reader #jojo pt 5 #giorno giovanna #giorno giovanna x reader #jojo part 6 #jolyne cujoh #jolyne x reader #jojo part 7 #johnny joestar #johnny joestar x reader

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thosehallowedhalls · 5 months

Text

Of Cloudless Climes and Starry Skies (1/?)

Pairing: Sebastyan Thorne/MC (Emma Rose)

Summary: There are many things that Sebastyan doesn't like about Detective Rose. Her loyalty to Trystan, for one thing. But the most unforgivable offense is the way she keeps drawing his eye.

A/N: All right, bear with me here. Although Trystan/MC is probably my all-time favorite Choices pairing, I spent most of CoP2 annoyed by how incompetent they were throughout the investigation (seriously, don't get me started on everything they did wrong) and by their refusal to acknowledge the elephant in the room, aka that they wouldn't be able to stay together if Trystan became king/queen. This story is the result.

Alas, what was supposed to be a short oneshot grew into a (so far) 8000+ multichapter story. It turns out that I forgot how much inner work Sebastyan needs to become a viable love interest.

Because most of the first chapter is Bas' perspective of canon, there's a lot of dialogue taken straight from the book, so you can easily skip that. The only scenes you can't skip without missing part of the plot are Sebastyan's early conversation with Vasili, and his last conversation with MC at the end of the chapter.

Frankly, I don't know if anyone will be interested, but well, I wrote it, so I might as well post it.

(One final note, I could never break up MC and Trystan, so they're only friends in this one.)

Chapter 1

Sebastyan watches his sister from the door, the familiar competing pangs of love and resentment making him pause for a moment to compose himself.

Then he sees the woman standing next to her. The immediate stab of attraction is as unexpected as it is unwelcome.

One of Marguerite’s models? Unlikely. She has the looks for it, but Sebastyan knows that Marguerite won’t give her fashion line a second thought while Trystan is under arrest. A lawyer, perhaps?

Only one way to find out.

“Trouble?”

Marguerite folds her arms. “Bas, call off the guards and let us in.”

He looks back to her companion, catches her watching him. Up close, she’s even more striking. “Who’s this, Marguerite? Another of your aspiring models?”

“Emma Rose. Private Detective.”

Trystan’s pet detective, then. If he’d bothered to wonder, he would’ve assumed she looked… well. Not like this, at any rate. He clenches his fist against the absurd urge to take her extended hand. He wants nothing to do with anyone deluded enough to ally themselves with Trystan. “Oh Marguerite, you’ve armored her up. Isn’t that… optimistic of you?”

“We dress for the outcome we deserve. Play nice, won’t you, Sebastyan?”

“I don’t ‘play nice.’ If Detective Rose expects to be taken seriously, she would do well to remember that. And it’s Prince Sebastyan to her.”

From his experience with Americans, or really anyone who isn’t Drakovian, he expects her to step back. Instead, she meets his eye. “Prince Sebastyan, you should really practice your manners. Aren’t there protocols for how you treat your royal guests?”

Well. At least she’s got a spine. “I have impeccable manners. Which is why I only use them when they’re warranted.”

A boxer appears out of seemingly nowhere and steps protectively in front of the detective. It makes Marguerite smile. “The guards, Bas?”

He eyes the dog and decides that he’s not in the mood to lose a limb today. “I’ll call off mine if you call off yours.”

The detective lays a hand on the dog, soothing her. Sebastyan nods to the guards to stand back, leading his sister and her American into the palace. As they walk, he wonders if Marguerite has finally seen the light. Surely the news that there is new evidence against Trystan is too much for even her to ignore.

But then.

“I assume Trystan’s in his suite?”

“Why so eager for a reunion, little sister? You can’t still think he’s innocent?”

“I don’t think he’s innocent. I know.”

The stab of betrayal is sharp as ever. “Then there’s nothing left for us to say to each other.”

He gives her a mocking bow and strides away, leaving Marguerite and Detective Rose to their delusions.

He steps up to the courtroom steps with a dark sense of anticipation. After eight long years, Juliana will finally be avenged, and everybody will see Trystan for who he is. If only she had seen through him in time, she’d still be alive.

As he approaches the door, he sees Trystan and the detective standing together. She puts a hand on his arm, whispering something that makes his brother nod. Sebastyan’s eyebrows shoot up. For some reason, it didn’t occur to him before now that they’re probably sleeping together. Still, it makes sense. Trystan has never met a professional line he couldn’t cross – and he was cavorting with models even when he was engaged to Juli, so it’s hardly a surprise that he wouldn’t think twice before getting involved with his colleague.

He looks away. It’s time to get justice for Juliana, once and for all.

He tries to hide his trepidation when the detective calls him to the stand. He doesn’t know what she and Marguerite found that makes them think Trystan stands a chance, but he can’t believe that it will make any real difference. Trystan’s confession, and Juli’s letter, spoke for themselves.

Taking comfort in that knowledge, he glares at her as he takes the stand.

“Prince Sebastyan, how would you describe your relationship with Countess Georgescu?”

“We were friends. Good friends.”

“Then you should be able to recognize this.” She smiles and hands him a sheet of paper. The tightening of his stomach when their fingers brush is swiftly replaced by fury when he sees what she’s just given him.

“How did you get this? You’re not permitted to access my emails!”

“‘Your’ emails? So I’ll take that as a yes. Can you summarize its contents for the court?”

He grits his teeth. He’s not going to reveal to the entire court that Juli once said Trystan would make a wonderful husband. He’d rather be thrown into the dungeons. “It’s from Juliana. I offered to help her get out of her engagement, but she told me that she wanted to marry Trystan.”

“So this email, sent three weeks after the letter introduced as evidence by Ms. Zoric, is authentic?”

He wants to lie. But he knows it’d be useless. “Yes.”

And that’s it. With a few sentences, she makes it seem as though Juliana was writing to someone else. But it can’t be. He would have known if the woman he’d loved since childhood was courting with somebody else before Trystan.

Then the detective plays a new recording of Trystan’s interrogation, and Sebastyan is left to flounder. Could his brother possibly be innocent?

The thought doesn’t even have time to take root before he dismisses it outright.

Absolutely not.

He downs a glass of whiskey. He barely feels the burn anymore.

“Slow down, Bas.”

He shrugs off his brother’s words. “How did this happen? How can everybody be so goddamn blind to who he is?”

Vasili’s shoulders slump. “I don’t know. But they are, and we’re not going to accomplish anything by getting drunk.”

“I’ll feel better, at least.”

“For how long? You’ll only feel worse afterwards. And you know you have a meeting this evening.”

“Two meetings. I arranged to meet Nadja after I’m finished trying, and probably failing, to talk sense into Markarov.”

His brother’s glass stops halfway to his lips. “Nadja? Whatever for?”

“Because regardless of what happened yesterday, she’s still the best lawyer in Drakovia, and we need her to pass the Act.”

“Do you think she’ll want to help?”

“She told Trystan she’d be happy to honor Juliana’s legacy. I don’t see why she wouldn’t want to help us. It’s the same goal.”

Vasili snorts. “You can’t possibly believe that Trystan wants to honor Juliana. More likely, he wants to bribe Nadja into sabotaging the Act.”

He stops short. “You really think so? But why? Father and the queen have already reinstated him. The Act’s passing isn’t going to change anything for him personally.”

“You know he’s always had it out for you. Trystan may be an idiot, but he has enough of a brain to realize how much this means to you. Ergo…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Sebastyan does it for him. “Ergo, he’ll make sure it fails just to take a shot at me?”

Vasili doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Sebastyan’s anger heats up anew. “We will get Nadja on our side. Somehow.”

“I take it you have a plan?”

He nods, the cogs in his mind turning. “You know that married man she had an affair with when she was at university? I very much doubt she wants that getting out.”

His brother’s face is a mask of concern. “Be careful, Bas. Nadja doesn’t strike me as someone who’ll take blackmail lying down. She’s more likely to tell his wife herself to spite you. And she’ll sue you immediately afterwards. I don’t want you getting in trouble.”

He hesitates for a moment. Then he thinks of Trystan, lethally irresponsible Trystan, as king. Sitting on a throne he doesn’t deserve, ruling Drakovia into the ground. All while Vasili, who loves Drakovia like Trystan never has and who would be a good and just king, is ignored and called a bastard behind his back.

Really, there is no choice.

“I’m doing this, Vasili. For Drakovia, for Juliana, and for you.”

Sebastyan walks back to the palace after spending ten minutes in the gardens. He needed some time to breathe past the anger of his failed meeting with Nadja. He knew she wouldn’t take kindly to the threat of blackmail, of course, but he wasn’t expecting quite that level of rage – or the accusation that he’d tried to frame Trystan.

He doesn’t need to frame anyone. Whether it was intentional or not, Trystan is still responsible for Juli’s death. And it’s only a matter of time until he makes another reckless decision that results in harm to Drakovia and her people.

He can’t let that happen.

He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice it until he’s almost at the doors: utter chaos. He flags a passing maid.

“What’s going on here?”

She twists her hands together. “Your Highness. There’s been a death in the palace.”

His heart stops. “Mother? Vasili? Marguerite?”

“No, no. Not a member of the family. It was that lawyer, the famous one. Nadja Zuric.”

It feels like he’s been punched in the stomach. “Nadja’s dead?”

A hand falls on his shoulder. “Bas, let Anya get back to work. I’ll fill you in.”

Vasili leads him to the throne room where most of the family are gathered. Sebastyan tries to process what Vasili just told him – that Nadja was found murdered in Trystan’s suite. Grief and rage intertwine within him, his earlier doubts solidifying into a grim certainty. Of course Trystan killed Juliana on purpose. And now he’s killed Nadja as revenge.

Then the door opens, and Trystan and the detective walk in. He opens his mouth to say something that Vasili wouldn’t approve of, but she takes control of the situation without a qualm.

“We have several alibis, no motive, and a suspiciously messy murder. Someone’s clearly trying to set Trystan up…”

“Again.”

Oh really? His hands tighten into fists at the blatant attempt to get Trystan off the hook for murder again. It’s probably lucky that she barrels on before he can get a word in.

“No one’s leaving this room until we get some answers.”

Kaspar crosses his arms. “Is that so? Who died and put you in charge?”

It’s terribly crass – but Sebastyan can’t help but agree.

Vasili, as usual, is better than that. “Poor taste, Kaspar.”

Emika speaks up, their tone dripping sarcasm. “Fine, I’ll say it nicely. Blood and guts is Royal Guard business. Why are we all here?”

He doesn’t miss the quick glance skywards, as though she’s praying for patience. At another moment, coming from somebody else, the gesture would make him smile. “You’re here because the palace is an active crime scene. Where I’m from, protocol requires me to preserve the crime scene. My associates will handle it from here.”

“Mr. Watanabe and Ms. Webster didn’t want you all traipsing about.”

Predictable as ever, Astrid shudders. “Ew, as if I would! My Louis do not need a sole touch up right now.”

“Astrid, a woman is dead.”

Lydea raises a single eyebrow. “Oh yes, we know. In your room.”

“I didn’t do this!”

“It does bear mentioning you said that last time.”

“We’ve proved Trystan’s innocence, Vasili.”

Marguerite’s show of support rankles enough that Sebastyan can’t stay quiet any longer. “Then how is it that women always seem to drop dead in your presence, Trystan?”

Trystan’s face blanks, his hands closing into fists. “Screw you.”

The detective jumps to his brother’s defense. Once again, he wonders if they’re sleeping together. “Sebastyan, your brother is armored with an alibi. He was with me from 7 pm until now.”

Ha. “Pardon me if I don’t blindly trust Trystan’s closest American confidante.”

“He was with your father and I for the rest of the day. So you can put your grudge match back in your pocket, Sebastyan.”

“Do we all have to be here? I’m in the middle of a super important argument with my boyfriend, and I crafted the winning text.”

“Yes, you do. We need to know where everyone was. Now.”

Marguerite and Vasili easily share their alibis, but an argument follows when it's Lydea's turn. Sebastyan tunes them all out, trying to make up an alibi for himself, when the sound of his name brings him back to the moment.

Astrid sighs, dramatic as ever. “Um, hi. Are we all forgetting that Bas totally loses it when it comes to Trystan? No offense.”

For God’s sake.

“She’s right, Bas. You do take particular delight in my downfalls.”

“I don’t need to frame you for that. It’s easy enough just to let them happen naturally.”

“But you did have a history with Nadja. More than the rest of us.”

He absorbs the pain of Marguerite’s doubt without flinching, but he can’t help the rising of his voice. “I’m a politician, not a murderer! Nadja and I were friends once.” His next words come out in a rush, and he hopes that nobody can detect the lie in them. “I was in a meeting with Markarov at the legislative building!”

He’s so caught up in the ensuing argument that he completely forgets about the detective – until her voice rises.

“Stop arguing! There is a dead woman in this palace!” The disdain in her eyes as she sweeps her gaze over them stings more than expected. “I know you’re all ridiculously blasé about murder in this country but have some damn respect.”

Even Kaspar looks somewhat ashamed. Sebastyan didn’t know he had it in him.

“You’re right of course, Emma. You must think we’re dreadfully petty.”

“And useless. This is getting us nowhere.”

“With the queen’s blessing, Trystan and I will investigate the scene. You will all stay put. No one gets out of this one. Royalty or not.”

In lieu of pacing the room, which would give away his nerves to every single person from whom he’d rather keep them hidden, he turns to Lydea.

“I do believe you promised to help me improve my knife throwing.”

She gives him one of her Older Sister looks. “Now?”

“What else is there to do? Glance at each other suspiciously?”

“… Point taken. Let’s start with your stance.”

He gets caught up in the challenge, not quite forgetting the situation but putting it aside in his competitiveness.

“Damn it!” He scowls when he misses the mark. Again.

Lydea takes his wrist, adjusting its position.

“You’re always too tense. A fluid arm hits the mark.”

“Easier said than done, but I take your point.”

Astrid’s shrill voice catapults him back into reality. “Could you all please shut up? I’m going through something right now.”

That’s… unexpected. “You didn’t even like Nadja.”

“I’m not talking about Nadja! Gregor just dumped me!”

He rolls his eyes. He’s getting into position to try again when the detective and Trystan step into the room, a chill arriving with them. He sees her gaze flicker over Lydea a second longer than normal.

“Well? What have you discovered?”

Her face and stance are perfectly neutral, but he gets the sense of a leopard about to strike. “Our forensic analyst puts Nadja’s death at 7:30, only minutes before Trystan and I discovered her body.”

Not a surprise. She was with him until just before 7:30. Still, the words send a chill down his spine. The only other person who knew that Nadja would be in the palace was… was…

He slams a mental door against that thought. No.

Marguerite looks confused. “Shouldn’t you have seen the killer leaving the room?”

“If they’d used the corridor, yes. But the killer left via the secret passageway in my parlor.”

He feels rather than sees all his siblings look at each other. Emika speaks first. “Well, that’s intriguing.”

He frowns. So the killer is definitely one of them. “I didn’t think anyone was still using those.”

“Did you find any evidence in the passageway?”

“A trail of blood leading to the central chamber, where we found what may have been the murder weapon.”

“A dagger bearing the family crest,” Trystan says.

His shoulders relax. So he and Vasili aren’t suspects, then.

“Where is the dagger now?”

“Somewhere safe.”

Vasili speaks up, stricken. “If I can clarify… you genuinely think the killer is standing in this room? Right now?”

“Yes. And I know for a fact that at least one of you lied about your alibi.”

She turns her eyes on him, making him scramble for a way to explain both his lie and why he was even with Nadja in the first place… until he realizes that she’s actually looking about ten centimeters to his right. Lydea notices at the same time.

“You can’t mean me.”

And so ensues the tale of Getting Rid of Astrid’s Imprudent Partner, Round A Thousand. Really, he doesn’t know how Lydea isn’t sick of doing the same song and dance every three partners or so. Also, he wonders how Astrid never caught on before now. Then again, Lydea usually makes it so that Astrid gets to dump them first.

“On that note… are we finished for the evening? As much as I’d like to stay here and keep arguing, I am getting tired.”

Sebastyan frowns. Vasili seemed a little overeager to leave just now. Granted, he wants to be anywhere but this room too, but…

He firmly pushes the half-finished thought aside. He’s imagining things.

The detective nods at Lydea. “I’m guessing Colette will confirm everything you said tonight?”

“Not entirely. I sent Colette to supervise the security detail at Marguerite’s show after we left the restaurant. But the gatehouse guards can confirm I arrived back at the palace at 7:40pm, as will the security footage from the gate. And the opera house.”

“Fine. Looks like we’ll have to regroup and continue questioning tomorrow. I want guards posted all over Trystan’s room.”

“Done. Now can I go the hell to sleep?”

The queen intervenes. “One moment. Before we recess, detective… You are summoned to join us for dinner tomorrow night. Please continue your investigation there, and keep us abreast of your findings.”

The queen steps out, followed by nearly everyone else. Before stepping through the doorway, he looks at Trystan’s plaything. “Until tomorrow, detective.”

He sees her as soon as she steps into the room with Trystan, their body language conveying a very clear ‘us against the world’ message.

There is no way they’re not sleeping together.

She’s wearing a green dress that he immediately recognizes as one of Marguerite’s designs – one that complements Trystan’s attire. Gold jewelry adorns her neck and arms, and Sebastyan grudgingly admires the snake motif on it. He’s been in politics, not to mention a Thorne, long enough to know what the entire ensemble means. The detective meets his gaze, and he reads that same message in her eyes.

Game on.

He stands a little straighter. This is a battle he is not willing to lose.

As you wish, detective.

He finds himself watching her as she talks to Kaspar and Emika, and he can’t help but be a little amused by the twins’ failed attempts to fluster her. It’s been a long time since somebody confused either of them, let alone both.

He might have liked her if she wasn’t in bed with the likes of Trystan. Literally. He frowns, both at the unwelcome thought and its corresponding mental image, relieved that this is the expression the detective sees when she turns and their eyes meet. Unfazed, she starts walking towards him. His gaze flicks down her body before he remembers himself.

“I could do without the pleasantries, detective.”

“Why is that, Prince Sebastyan?” The slight mocking edge to the word ‘prince’ doesn’t escape him. His hand tightens on his glass. “Do I have something on my face?”

“I’m sure you know you look perfectly adequate tonight.” ‘Adequate’ may not be the best word, but he’ll willingly spend a full day with Patryk rather than admit to anything else.

“Is that your version of a compliment?”

“For you? I suppose it is. But that’s not why I was staring. I was trying to gauge whether my brother has slept with you yet.”

He expects her to react with either anger or embarrassment. Instead, she lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting. Do you think about your brother’s sex life often?”

He can’t quite hide his disgust. “Hardly. But Trystan’s never met a professional line he couldn’t cross. And here you are, his ‘partner’ from another continent, leading an investigation into family members he has no love for.”

“You’re questioning my impartiality?”

“Call it that if you like.”

“Sebastyan…” She leans in, as if to impart a big secret. He catches a whiff of… gardenias? “You caught us! I am def tapping that royal ass. What do you think we were doing before we came to dinner?”

He immediately regrets asking. “I don’t recall asking for that level of detail…”

“It’s okay, there are no secrets between family. Which is what we’ll be soon. Though I guess that technically makes you my subject too…”

He vaguely realizes that he’s gaping. “You’re not suggesting…”

“The biggest royal wedding Drakovia’s ever seen? Heck yes I am. Trystan’s promised me that I can wear a diamond-encrusted Stetson to honor my American heritage.”

… Ah. “You’re making fun of me.”

“Caught me again. All you need to know is that I’m a professional, here to find the truth. Marguerite hired us to prove Trystan innocent, and now the queen’s hired us to find Nadja’s murderer.”

As if on cue, his sister approaches them. “Are we finally talking about Nadja, the person whom everyone seems to have forgotten about in all this?”

Grief slashes at him, a vicious blade. “I never forgot about her.”

“Then you knew Nadja? I’d never have guessed, considering how inconvenienced you appeared last night.”

Does she have an abysmal memory, or is she trying to psyche him out? Because he knows he told her just last night that he and Nadja were once friends. Still… “A harsh, but fair observation. Yes, I was lucky enough to be one of the few people Nadja called a friend. As were Marguerite and Juliana.” He takes a deep breath. He doesn’t want to know, but... “Was it… Was Nadja’s death painful?”

The detective’s face softens. “Nadja died in agony, but it was over quickly. It wouldn’t have taken more than a few seconds for her to bleed out.”

“I…” He inhales shakily. “I see. Thank you for your candor.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, how was your relationship with Nadja before she died? Were you still close?”

“We…” He stops himself in time. What is it about her that makes him want to tell her the truth? “Actually, I do mind.”

He’s not giving Trystan’s… ‘partner’ the courtesy of honesty. He pivots and stalks away to meet Lydea and… a flicker of unease runs down his spine... Vasili.

Goddamn it, he knows that his brother didn’t kill Nadja. It’s the detective’s fault that he’s unable to fully shake off his suspicions.

“So, Trystan! You’re back! How was the Moldy Apple? I always preferred LA myself. Theres so much more culture over there. Plus, the people there are way hotter and friendlier than New Yorkers.”

Em- the detective chimes in. “Patryk, should I teach you how conversations work?”

“What?”

“If you ask someone a question, you need to give them time to actually answer them. Like this.”

“Are you seriously trying to school me right now? How many followers do you even have?”

“When you’ve been associating with cretins online so long that you need to be reminded of etiquette by a commoner, accept the lesson.”

He almost smiles.

The conversation soon turns to the investigation, and Sebastyan doesn’t know whether to be relieved or worried about the lack of resolution. Which one of his siblings is behind this? He has no trouble believing that they’re almost all capable of murder, except for Marguerite and… his certainty falters. Damn it. He won’t let Em-Detective Rose get to him.

As the night unfolds, he wonders who will poison her first – Patryk or the twins? Then he sees his younger brother start a livestream, like the irredeemable fool that he is, and knows.

Oh well. If she wants to meddle with what doesn’t concern her, she can deal with the consequences. Still, he’s a little disappointed when she drinks the wine without a qualm. He had higher hopes for her.

“Slow down, cowboy. Wow, Trystan, your new friend’s kind of a lush, huh?”

“Emma’s an adult. She knows her own limit.”

“I can’t help it. This Drakovian wine is delicious.”

“What’s so different about it from New York wine? Like, flavor profile-wise.”

“It’s not from a box, perhaps?” Emika chimes in.

“I’m no wine expert, but I’m getting notes of plum… chicory… and almonds.”

Patryk and the twins laugh, and god, he'll never not find the sound irritating.

“Get ready for the fireworks, viewers. Our good friend is about to bloooooow.”

If he had any doubt about the nature of her relationship with Trystan, his brother’s reaction would put them to rest. Furious, he snaps, “Shut that thing off, Patryk. Emma, how much did you drink?

She tilts her head and smiles, a triumphant look on her face that makes his stomach tighten. “Not one drop.”

“Aw, man. What a buzzkill! Eighty thousand people tuned in live to watch someone crap themselves at dinner.”

Clearly out of patience, she rolls her eyes. “You think I came to the world capital of recreational poisoning without learning what to look out for?”

Trystan throws Patryk’s phone across the room, and damn, but the detective means a lot to him, doesn’t she? “My partner is not fodder for your content.”

He yanks her out of the room. When her eyes meet Sebastyan’s on her way out, he can’t quite hide the grudging respect in his.

Well played, detective.

After retiring to his room that night, he can’t sleep. He tries going over the wording of his latest legislation draft, but it doesn’t help. He doesn’t know why he can’t relax. It has been one of the most excruciating weeks of his life, by rights, he should’ve fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow.

He gives up and groans. He does know why he can’t sleep, damn it. As infuriating as it is to admit it, he’s attracted to Em– the detective. Oh, it’s purely physical and entirely temporary – she’s almost singlehandedly responsible for inflicting Trystan on Drakovia again, which means that he’d cut off his own hands before he touches her. But this knowledge doesn’t seem to go far in convincing his hormones. The lingering soft notes of her perfume, so unexpected in a woman like her, haunt him.

He grits his teeth. Normally, he’d indulge in a brief fantasy to take the edge off. But there’s no way in hell that he’s bringing himself off to a woman who’s sleeping with his brother. Any brother, but especially Trystan.

He closes his eyes again. Her face instantly appears in his mind, an unconscious mockery on her part.

This is going to be a long night.

Sebastyan is leaning against the pantry door, a bowl of popcorn in one hand, when he hears steps. He tenses when he recognizes the sound of paws on marble. There’s only one dog in the palace, always accompanied by a specific person. A person he’s not ready to see, not after the dream he just had.

“Oh.” Emma comes to a stop in the doorway. “I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

“It’s quite all right, detective. Please, don’t let me keep you.” Translation: I was here first, so get out. Her eyebrows rise slightly, and something like amusement flashes in her eyes.

“I’ve heard insults more kindly meant,” she says admiringly. “That’s quite a skill you have there, Prince Sebastyan.”

As always, she manages to make his title sound like a mockery.

“I’m not the only one,” he mutters. He flicks his gaze down her body, refusing to let it linger there. “Were you at a tea party, detective?”

She meets his eyes. “Close. I was at the Georgescu estate.”

His hand tightens around the bowl. “You went to Juliana’s house? Why?”

“Trystan and the countesses had some amends to make.” She waits a beat. “They made them.”

His immediate fury over this apparent capitulation by Juliana’s mothers is… not replaced, exactly, but set aside when he notices the look in her eyes. Appraisal. She’s waiting for his reaction to the news, which makes no sense in this context.

“I see. People do tend to let Trystan off the hook for everything. But I admit, I expected better from Noemi and Eloise.”

“What would they be letting him off the hook for, exactly? We proved during Trystan’s trial that he didn’t kill Juliana.”

“That doesn’t mean he was good for her.”

“From what I’ve heard, she felt otherwise.”

He isn’t surprised by the pang of bitter jealousy. It’s come to be familiar over the years. But he is surprised by how… blunted it is. Like a tender scar that’s been grazed, so different from the usual sharp stab.

He holds the detective’s eyes. “And look how that turned out for her.”

“You’re still convinced that her relationship with Trystan led Juliana to her death, then?”

“Of course.”

“… How?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“How was a loving relationship responsible for a woman’s death? Even you must realize by now that Trystan couldn’t have killed her. So why are you so convinced that he’s responsible for her passing?”

“Everyone saw how drunk he was that night. He must have been all but unconscious when Juli needed his help.”

Something shifts in her expression. Anger wells up inside of him when he recognizes just what that something is.

“I don’t want your pity.”

“I’m not saying you do. But you lost someone you loved too. There’s nothing shameful about being pitied for that. And I prefer to call it compassion, anyway.”

Easy for her to say. She’s not the one with half a country pitying her, the other half looking down their nose at her.

“Shameful or not, I neither need nor want your compassion.”

“Sorry, Sebastyan, but that’s not how compassion – or feelings in general – work.”

Unbidden, his eyes drop to her mouth. “I’ll grant you that one, detective.”

“I have a name, you know.”

Of course he knows. When he woke up from his impromptu nap forty minutes ago, it was with her name on his lips – and the scent of gardenias in his nostrils. “I prefer to use people’s titles.”

At least the people from whom he’s trying to keep his distance. This woman as case in point.

“Wow. Were you born an old man, or is this a more recent development?”

He rolls his eyes. People are always needling him for being too serious. More than one ex used the word “intense.”

“What are you doing here, detective?” He asks in lieu of answering.

“Oh.” She looks around, as if only remembering where she is. “I was hungry.”

“I’m afraid that the chefs are gone with the king and queen, so you’ll have to fend for yourself.”

“Chefs? Plural?”

“My father tends to take his meals with my mother. The queen habitually dines alone. It’s easier all around to have two chefs.”

Emma makes a face. She doesn’t explicitly say that she finds this ridiculous, but her expression does it for her. “Right, well, that doesn’t help me now.”

“I’d tell you to feel free to cook for yourself, but Maria and Lukas are particular about this kitchen. They don’t even like sharing it with each other.”

She raises an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have thought that you’d know them well enough to be aware of that.”

He shrugs. “They’ve both worked here a long time.”

Emma eyes his popcorn. “I don’t suppose there’s more of that?”

Wordlessly, he reaches behind him for a second tub and holds it out to her. She looks at it, then back at him.

“Care to do the honors?”

“Checking for poison, detective?”

“Absolutely. Poison me once, shame on the Thornes. Poison me twice…”

He can’t help it. He grins at that.

“You’ve taken to Drakovia better than I expected.”

“Considering that your expectations were nonexistent, that doesn’t sound like a compliment.”

“Oh, it’s not. Merely an observation.” He strokes Tuppence's head absently, only realizing what he’s doing when he notices Emma’s gaze resting on his hand.

“I didn’t realize you liked dogs, Sebastyan.”

“I haven’t spent much time with them. The queen isn’t fond of animals, so there are none in the palace or on the grounds.”

“I would’ve thought she was a fan of snakes at least.”

He snorts. He’d pay good money to see Queen Viktoria interact with Orlenna. “In theory. But she prefers them far away.”

“Look at that, we have something in common.”

“Spent a lot of time with snakes, have you?”

“Only since I arrived at this palace,” she says dryly.

He chuckles. For once, he feels… comfortable around her.

“I should go. It’s getting late.”

“Me too. Early meeting tomorrow.”

But they stay where they are, eyes locked. His heart beats faster.

Then her phone chimes. The change in her posture, the way she angles the phone away from him… it isn’t hard to figure out who’s behind that text.

“Brother dearest, I take it?”

She spares him a glance. “If you mean Trystan, yes. Excuse me.”

Emma walks out, leaving him with no doubt that she’s on her way to meet with Trystan. At a quarter to midnight.

So he was right about them.

The armor hardens again. As far as he’s concerned, the last half hour never happened.

#crimes of passion #sebastyan thorne #detective rose #emma rose #sebastyan x mc #playchoices #i don't even know what this is #play choices

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homomenhommes · 3 months

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THIS DAY IN GAY HISTORY

based on: The White Crane Institute's 'Gay Wisdom', Gay Birthdays, Gay For Today, Famous GLBT, glbt-Gay Encylopedia, Today in Gay History, Wikipedia, and more … March 12

1860 – Eric, Count Stenbock, Estonian poet and author of macabre fantastic fiction, born (d.1895); Stenbock's father died suddenly while he was one year old; his properties were held in trust for him by his grandfather Magnus. Eric's maternal grandfather died while Eric was quite young, also, in 1866, leaving him another trust fund.

Stenbock attended Balliol College in Oxford but never completed his studies. While at Oxford, Eric was deeply influenced by the homosexual Pre-Raphaelite artist and illustrator Simeon Solomon. He is also said to have had a relationship with the composer and conductor Norman O'Neill and with other "young men".

Stenbock behaved eccentrically. He kept snakes, lizards, salamanders and toads in his room, and had a "zoo" in his garden containing a reindeer, a fox, and a bear. When he traveled, he invariably brought with him a dog, a monkey, and a life-sized doll. This doll he referred to as "la Petite Comte" ("the little Count") and told everyone that it was his son; he insisted it be brought to him daily, and—when it was absent—he asked about its health. (Stenbock's family believed an unscrupulous Jesuit had been given large amounts of money by the Count for the "education" of this doll.)

One never knew what one would find at this house, where he wrote his opium-induced poems and stories and where he kept a pet toad named Fatima and a lover picked up on a London bus. Visiting Stenbock one day, Oscar Wilde dared to light a cigarette at the votive lamp before the bust of Shelley that his host venerated. This sacrilege caused Stenbock, in true dandy style, to fall to the floor in a dead faint. The unperturbed Wilde, in even truer dandy form, exhaled a puff of smoke, stepped over the prostrate body, and took his leave.

Stenbock lived in England most of his life, and wrote his works in the English language. He published a number of books of verse during his lifetime, including Love, Sleep, and Dreams, 1881, and Rue, Myrtle, and Cypress (1883). In 1894, Stenbock published The Shadow of Death, his last volume of verse, and Studies of Death, a collection of short stories that were good enough to be the subject of favorable comment by H.P. Lovecraft.

1890 – An Ohio newspaper publicizes the suicide of a married man who had taken another man he met in a bar back to his hotel room. A letter in his pocket from his wife complains that she hadn't heard from him.

1890 – Vaslav Nijinsky (d.1950); A Russian ballet dancer and choreographer of Polish origin, Nijinsky was one of the most gifted male dancers in history, and he became celebrated for his virtuosity and for the depth and intensity of his characterizations. He could perform en pointe, a rare skill among male dancers at the time and his ability to perform seemingly gravity-defying leaps was legendary.

Probably the greatest male ballet dancer of all time, Nijinsky's two greatest achievements, assisted by his impresario lover Sergei Diaghilev, were to bring the role of the male dancer to the fore, and to revitalise a world of classical ballet which had entered a period of decline.

Born in Kiev, Ukraine to Polish dancer parents, he was admitted to the St Petersburg Imperial School of Ballet aged 10, where he received an excellent general education as well as a thorough grounding in classical ballet. He was a brillant student and on graduation joined the Imperial Ballet as a soloist in 1907.

He had two love affairs with two Russian noblemen, Prince Pavel Dmitrievitch Lvov and Count Tishkievitch but then he met Sergei Diaghilev, a member of the St Petersburg elite and wealthy patron of the arts, promoting Russian visual and musical art abroad, particularly in Paris.

Nijinsky and Diaghilev became lovers, and Diaghilev became heavily involved in directing Nijinsky's career. In 1909 Diaghilev took a company to Paris, with Nijinsky and Anna Pavlova as the leads. The show was a great success and increased the reputation of both the leads and Diaghilev throughout the artistic circles of Europe.Diaghilev created Les Ballets Russe in its wake, and with choreographer Michel Fokine, made it one of the most well-known companies of the time. His partnership with Tamara Karsavina, of the Mariinsky Theatre, was legendary.

Later, Nijinsky danced again the Mariinsky Theatre, but was dismissed for appearing on- stage wearing tights without the trunks obligatory for male dancers in the company. The Dowager Empress Marie Feodorovna complained that his appearance was obscene, and he was dismissed. It is probable that the scandal was arranged by Diaghilev so Nijinsky could be free to appear with his company, in the west, where many of his projects now centered around him. He danced leading roles in Fokine's new production Le Spectre de la Rose, a role never satisfactorily danced since his retirement, and Igor Stravinsky's Petrushka, in which his impersonation of a dancing but lifeless puppet was much admired.

In 1913 he married a young Hungarian woman, Romola Pulszky, who had travelled throughout Europe in pursuit of her dieu de la danse, whilst on tour in Buenos Aires. Devastated by his betrayal, Diaghilev dismissed his star from the company leaving Nijinsky stranded with wife and child and no career - furthermore, it was the First World War and Nijinsky was a Russian citizen in Hungary, and technically a prisoner of war.

Diaghilev attempted a reconciliation with Nijinsky, inviting him to rejoin the Ballet Russes on more than one occasion, but relations between the two former lovers and Nijinsky's wife frustrated every attempt to recreate his former success.

In the later years of the First World War signs of Nijinsky's mental illness became increasingly obvious to his wife and colleagues. In 1919 he suffered a mental breakdown. Increasingly unhappy with his marriage, his ruined career, and a world in turmoil, Romola committed him to a mental institution where he was diagnosed with schizophrenia and subjected to years of drugs and experimental shock treatment. He became a broken man and spent the rest of his life drifting between institutions, even having to be rescued from one asylum when the Nazis began to inter the mentally ill. He died in London in 1950.

Nijinsky's Grave, Montmartre Cemetary, Paris

Of the thousands of descriptions of the famous dancer, only Cocteau's suggests the "mortal god" that was Nijinsky. Cocteau alone observed

"the contrast between the Nijinsky of Le Spectre de la Rose, bowing and smiling to thunderous cheers as he took his fifty curtain calls, and the poor athlete backstage between bows, gasping and leaning against any support he could find, half fainting, clutching his side, being given his shower and massage and rubdown by his attendance and the rest of us. On one side of the curtain he was a marvel of grace, on the other, an extraordinary example of strength and weakness..."

Early pic of Sergei, Vladimir and siblings

1900 – Sergei Nabokov (d.1945), brother of Russian author Vladimir Nabokov, was born in St. Petersburg. The Nabokovs were members of imperial Russia's most exclusive social circles. The family was extraordinarily wealthy; their lineage included princes and generals and government ministers, and even their faithful dog, Box II, was descended from a pair that belonged to Anton Chekhov.

While Vladimir was the eldest and the center of attention, Sergei grew up out of the limelight, shy and unhappy and somewhat odd. Sergei was afflicted with an atrocious stutter that would only get worse as he got older. He idolized Napoleon and slept with a bronze bust of him in his bed. He also loved music, particularly Richard Wagner, and he studied the piano seriously.

Vladimir and Sergei Nabokov

When he was 15 and Vladimir 16, Vladimir found Sergei's diary open on his desk and read it. He showed it to their tutor, who showed it to the children's father. It was proof of his blossoming sexuality.

His homosexuality was behind Sergei's withdrawal from the famously progressive Tenishev school, an all-boy private school also attended by Vladimir and by poet Osip Mandelstam. Sergei left because of a series of "unhappy romances," about which his family instituted a kind of "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

When the revolution came in 1917, the Nabokov family fled Russia, barely escaping with a fraction of their fortune on a Greek cargo boat loaded with dried fruit. Neither Vladimir nor Sergei would ever return to his motherland. After brief stops in Athens and Paris, Vladimir wound up enrolled at Cambridge University; Sergei started at Oxford but joined his brother at Cambridge a semester later, where they both earned degrees.

When the brothers graduated in 1922, they joined their family in Berlin, which had become the social and cultural center of the Russian diaspora. Sergei fit easily into the growing gay community there, and he was friendly with German activist Magnus Hirschfeld, founder of the world's first gay tolerance organization. Sergei and Vladimir went to work at a bank, but the 9-to-5 routine didn't suit them: Sergei quit after a week, Vladimir in a matter of hours. Vladimir remained in Berlin, where he met and married his wife, Vira, but Sergei moved on to Paris.

In the Paris in the '20s, Sergei most likely felt at home for the first time in a city that celebrated art and music, and that took his gayness in stride.

In the winter of 1923 he met painter Pavel Tchelitchev, whose work now hangs in New York's Museum of Modern Art and who painted sets for Sergei Diaghilev. Tchelitchev was also gay and also a Russian imigri, and the two of them shared an apartment with Tchelitchev's lover, Allen Tanner.

The flat was tiny. It had no electricity and no bath — they had to wash themselves in a zinc tub using water heated on a gas stove. Sergei survived by giving lessons in English and Russian.But the cultural scene in which Sergei found himself was rich. Sergei became good friends with Jean Cocteau, and he was also connected, through Tchelitchev, and his cousin Nicolas Nabokov, to Diaghilev, to composer Virgil Thomson, to the Sitwells and even to the legendary salons conducted by Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas.

The story of Sergei's life in Paris has a Cinderella ending. Sometime in the late '20s or early '30s he met and fell in love with a wealthy, aristocratic Austrian, Hermann Thieme.

Charming, handsome, something of a dilettante, Thieme was the son of an insurance magnate. His family owned (and still owns) Schloss Weissenstein, a magnificent 12th century castle in the tiny Alpine village of Matrei im Osttirol near Innsbruck, Austria. During the '30s Hermann and Sergei often retreated to Schloss Weissenstein.

In the spring of 1940 Hitler invaded France, and by May the Germans were bombing Paris. Vladimir and his family left for America on the last boat out of St. Nazaire, but Sergei was away in the countryside at the time. He returned to Paris to find the family apartment suddenly empty.

He chose to stay in Europe with Hermann. The Nazis were already rounding up homosexuals as actively as they were Jews, and to avoid attracting suspicion Sergei and Hermann saw each other only rarely. Sergei took a job as a translator in Berlin, but he had no stomach for war, and the Allied bombings frightened him horribly. The fighting grew more intense, and flight became impossible; Sergei had almost no money, and as a refugee from czarist Russia his only travel document was a flimsy Nansen passport.

In 1941 the Gestapo arrested Sergei on charges of homosexuality. It released him four months later, but he was placed under constant surveillance. It's ironic that at that moment, after a lifetime of shyness and stuttering, Sergei could not keep silent. He began to speak out vehemently against the injustices of the Third Reich to his friends and colleagues.Three weeks later he was arrested for the second time.

An old Russian acquaintance asserts that asserts that Sergei was in fact involved in a plot to hide an escaped prisoner of war, a former Cambridge friend who had become a pilot and been shot down over Germany.

After his arrest Sergei was taken to Neuengamme, a large labor camp near Hamburg, where he became prisoner No. 28631. Conditions were brutal: The camp was a center for medical experimentation, and the Nazis used the prisoners to conduct research on tuberculosis. Of the approximately 106,000 inmates who passed through Neuengamme, fewer than half survived, and as a rule, the guards singled out homosexuals for particularly harsh treatment.

Sergei's conduct in the camp was nothing less than heroic. Ivan, son of Sergei's composer cousin Nicolas Nabokov, says that after the war, survivors from Neuengamme would telephone his family out of the blue — they were the only Nabokovs in the book — just to talk about Sergei. "They said he was extraordinary. He gave away lots of packages he was getting, of clothes and food, to people who were really suffering."

Meanwhile, Hermann had also been arrested, but he was sent to fight on the front lines in Africa. He would survive. He spent his later life at Schloss Weissenstein, without a career, caring for his invalid sister. He died in 1972.

In the early fall of 1945, in his apartment in Cambridge, Mass., Nabokov dreamed of his brother Sergei. He saw him lying on a bunk in a German concentration camp, in terrible pain. The next day he received a letter from a family member in Prague. According to camp records, "Sergej Nabokoff" had died on Jan. 9, 1945, of a combination of dysentery, starvation and exhaustion. Neuengamme was liberated four months later.

1922 – Jack Kerouac, (d.1969); bisexual American novelist, writer, poet and artist. Along with William S. Burroughs and Allen Ginsberg, he is amongst the best known of the writers (and friends) known as the Beat Generation. Kerouac's work was popular, but received little critical acclaim during his lifetime. Today, he is considered an important and influential writer who inspired others, including Tom Robbins, Lester Bangs, Richard Brautigan and Ken Kesey, and writers of the New Journalism.

Kerouac also influenced musicians such as The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Morrissey, Tom Waits, Simon & Garfunkel, Lebris, Ulf Lundell and Jim Morrison. Kerouac's best-known books are On The Road, The Dharma Bums, Big Sur and Visions of Cody.

Kerouac, born Jean-Louis Kerouac in Lowell, Massachusetts,was the third child of a working-class, French-Canadian family. Kerouac did not speak English until attending parochial school at the age of six, the French-Canadian dialect Joual being his primary language.

As a young man, he enlisted in the U.S. Navy but was discharged on psychiatric grounds. Through his first wife, Edie Parker, Kerouac met Allen Ginsberg and William Burroughs in 1944. In 1946, Neal Cassady became involved with their group, and the nucleus of the Beat Generation was created. It was with Cassady that Kerouac took to the road.

Though many of his poet and artist friends, including Cassady and Ginsberg, were gay, Kerouac, in his correspondence and journals, considered homosexuality to be a fault, a sin, a vice. In On the Road, Sal's friend Carlo Marx, based on Ginsberg, is openly gay.

Kerouac, himself, was bisexual, but in denial. He exchanged letters with Alan Ginsberg in an attempt to clarify for himself the nature of his sexuality. It appears that he may have had some gay encounters with Neal Cassady on their travels together (In Visions of Cody he waxes rhapsodic about everything from the size of Cassady's penis to how much he thought about his best friend.), but he generally detested homosexuals.This kind of hatred of gays by some gay or bisexual men is not uncommon, and may be a way for them to compensate for feelings of guilt or inadequacy. On the other hand, at that time homosexuality was not an open subject. If he were writing today, he might still be as sexually conflicted as he was in life, but he would have had a richer public context in which to view his conflicts.

Kerouac's Catholic guilt made lasting relationships with men impossible, as evidenced by his casual attitude toward his male sex partners - among whom were Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, Alan Ansen and Gore Vidal. (Kerouac, Vidal bragged in print later, was the bottom that night).

Kerouac's uneasiness toward his homosexuality led to his practice of omitting his homosexual experiences from his books. For example, The Subterraneans (1958) alters his real-life affair with Gore Vidal into a platonic night spent in a hotel room. Despite this reticence and ambivalence, many of his early works authentically depict gay culture at a time when such portrayals were rare in popular literature.

He died in 1969, from complications of alcoholism.

1928 – The American playwright Edward Albee (d.2016) was born in Washington, DC, as Edward Ranklin Albee III. He is best known for his plays Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, The Zoo Story, A Delicate Balance and Three Tall Women. His works are considered well-crafted, often unsympathetic examinations of the modern condition. His early works reflect a mastery and Americanization of the Theatre of the Absurd that found its peak in works by European playwrights such as Jean Genet, Samuel Beckett, and Eugène Ionesco.

Younger American playwrights, such as Pulitzer Prize-winner Paula Vogel, credit Albee's daring mix of theatricalism and biting dialogue with helping to reinvent the post-war American theatre in the early 1960s. Albee continued to experiment in newer works, such as The Goat: or Who Is Sylvia? (2002).

His early off-Broadway work was, for its time, daring in his mention of homosexuality and its implied homoeroticism. The Zoo Story is a Central Park confrontation between Peter, an ineffectual wealthy man, and Jerry, a counter-cultural figure intent on telling his life story and driving someone to kill him. Jerry's world is the zoo of the title, a brutal universe in which God is "a colored queen in a kimono," indifferently filing his nails. The American dream is a scantily clad, beautiful but heartless male hustler.

Yet Albee's homosexuality and the gay subtext of his early work came to haunt him. Some heterosexist critics, angered by Albee's scathing picture of modern marriage in Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf, insisted that George and Martha, the feuding central couple in the play had to be a thinly-disguised gay couple

By this time, leading New York critics were becoming increasingly hostile toward the more openly gay work of Williams, William Inge, and Albee. When Albee's allegorical Tiny Alice, in which a cardinal and a lawyer are bickering ex-lovers, opened in 1964, critics attacked furiously.

There is always a hint of the homoerotic about his male-male confrontations. Conventional heterosexual marriage, which is always depicted as infertile, and heterosexual all-American boy-men are his favorite targets. However, Albee saw himself as a satirist of the American condition and not a dramatist of the gay community. As a playwright who staked his success on Broadway in the 1960s and 1970s, he had no choice. However, his critics, though seldom fair, were partly right: It is impossible to ignore the far-from-gay homosexuality in Albee's plays.

Albee was openly gay and stated that he first knew he was gay at age 12 and a half. Albee was briefly engaged to Larchmont debutante Delphine Weissinger, and although their relationship ended when she moved to England, he remained a close friend of the Weissinger family. Growing up, he often spent more of his time in the Weissinger household than he did in his own, due to discord with his adoptive parents.

Albee insisted that he did not want to be known as a "gay writer", stating in his acceptance speech for the 2011 Lambda Literary Foundation's Pioneer Award for Lifetime Achievement: "A writer who happens to be gay or lesbian must be able to transcend self. I am not a gay writer. I am a writer who happens to be gay." His longtime partner, Jonathan Thomas, a sculptor, died on May 2, 2005, from bladder cancer. They had been partners from 1971 until Thomas's death. Albee also had a relationship of several years with playwright Terrence McNally during the 1950s.

Albee died at his Montauk, New York, home on September 16, 2016, aged 88.

1963 – Randall Kenan is an American author of fiction and nonfiction. Raised in a rural community in North Carolina, Kenan has focused his fiction on what it means to be black and gay in the southern United States.

Kenan was born in Brooklyn, New York. Initially raised by his grandparents, Kenan soon went to live with a great-aunt in Chinquapin, North Carolina, a rural community of fewer than a thousand people. The community later became the basis of the fictional Tims Creek, where all of Kenan's fiction is set.

Kenan's first novel, A Visitation of Spirits, was published in 1989. While a few critics praised the book, it did not receive much attention. This changed with the publication in 1992 of Kenan's second book, a collection of short stories titled Let the Dead Bury Their Dead. The stories, based in the fictional community of Tims Creek, focused on (among other things) what it meant to be poor, black, and gay in the southern United States. The book was hailed as a revival of classic southern literature and was nominated for the Los Angeles Times Book Award for Fiction, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award, and was named a New York Times Notable Book. The short story collection also brought renewed attention to his first novel, which was likewise set in Tims Creek.

Kenan strongly identifies with both his African American and gay identities, both of which were highlighted in his next two books. In 1993 he published a young adult biography of gay African American novelist and essayist James Baldwin. Kenan has frequently stated that Baldwin is one of his idols. He then spent several years traveling across America and Canada collecting oral histories of African Americans, which he published in Walking on Water: Black American Lives at the Turn of the Twenty-first Century (1999).

1985 – On this date the first memorial to the Nazi's Gay victims was unveiled: a pink granite stone monument at the former Neuengamme concentration camp, inscribed "Dedicated to the Homosexual victims of National Socialism."

1998 – Levi Davis is an explosive winger with an eye for the whitewash and is a former England U18s and U19s international. Davis was a regular in the Bath United team in the 2017 season and scored on his first team debut in the 26-22 victory against London Irish in November 2017.

Davis started the 2019/20 campaign in a rich vein of form, scoring three times in as many games in the Premiership Rugby Cup, with Anthony Watson, Ruaridh McConnochie and Joe Cokanasiga away with England at the Rugby World Cup and Semesa Rokoduguni injured at that point of the season.

In January 2020 he signed a loan deal with Championship side Ealing Trailfinders.

He went to the same school, The Friary in Lichfield, as Daniel Sturridge and was involved in the Wolverhampton Wanderers Academy, but he was 'scouted' for rugby aged 12 when spotted chasing someone who had stolen his cap.

Levi on X-Factor

A talented musician, Levi appeared on Celebrity X-Factor in 2019 as part of rugby boy band Try Star with Thom Evans and Ben Foden.But in April 2020, in the midst of lockdown, every Bath Rugby player received a WhatsApp message they weren't expecting. The message from Levi read: 'Hi guys. I just want to tell you something that's been eating away at me for four years now. I want to be open and honest with you boys, as friends and team-mates. I'm bisexual. It's something I have known since I was 18.'

Jokingly he signed off, 'None of you lot are on my radar... so it's OK'.

What happened next brought an overwhelming rush of relief to the former England U18s and U19s player as the supportive messages from his team mates quickly buzzed into his inbox.

'Mate, we support you.'

Davis, who joined highly ambitious Championship side Ealing Trailfinders over the summer, has praised his former Gallagher Premiership club Bath for supporting him over the last year as his mental health suffered and he turned to heavy drinking as he wrestled with his secret.

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