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kosmosguk · 4 years

Text

Lineage (M)

Pairing: Duke Yoongi x Princess Reader

Word Count: 6.7K

Summary: When an engagement locks you, the 8th and forgotten princess, to the duke infamous for his cruelty, you find yourself counting the days until your inevitable death. It’s terrifying to think of your end, but when you arrive at his territory, you realize there’s a more morbid reason behind your marriage, and that the duke is much worse than the rumors have painted him out to be.

Warnings: HEAVY yandere themes, mentions of gore and death, near-death experiences, obsessive behaviors, manipulation, dubcon smut (reader is a virgin, fingering, unprotected sex), 18+, explicit language

A/N: Part 1 of Lineage! Took 3 months, a messy outline, and 2 drafts that I decided I hated halfway through writing and deleted before starting over to finish one part. Tags of people who replied to the preview will be added in a reblog. Thank you for everyone who has been waiting and has shown support for the preview of Lineage and my writing account overall! This is inspired by the multitude of Korean webnovels I’ve been reading during quarantine. If you like it, please leave a comment because I will cry out of joy and this took me a WHILE to get out of the drafts. Enjoy!

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |

‘‘Duke,’’ the king’s teeth chattered in terror as he spoke, his voice low. “What have you come to visit me for?”

Yoongi closed his eyes briefly as if he was in thought. Normally, he’d be furious at the lack of efficiency, but something stopped him from simply slicing the fool’s head off with his sword. After all, there was a much more important matter at hand that he needed to deal with.

‘‘My king, you do,’’ Yoongi spoke slowly,’’ remember our deal, don’t you? I win the war against the bordering kingdom and give you a considerable sum, and you…’’

Yoongi directed a pointed look at the king, and the king flinched before hurrying over to his desk. He fumbled around with the papers on it, even knocking down a stack of sealed and stamped documents with his shaking elbows, before extracting a small silver-framed portrait.

Yoongi could see the tremor in the man’s hands as he handed him the portrait, but Yoongi only exhaled softly, almost as if he was relieved, as he took hold of the small painted picture.

Pretty long-lashed eyes that warmly sparkled despite paint being the only medium used, curved lips like budding flowers, and silky tresses that swooped past her delicate shoulders. The maiden etched into the canvas was not known as a beauty compared to her extravagantly dressed older sisters, but to Yoongi, she was worth much more than the other princesses combined. Yoongi gripped the portrait a little tighter, his hands slightly clammy.

‘‘You wanted the 8th princess, Princess [Y/N], as your bride,’’ the ruler before him sputtered. “As soon as you’re ready, I will have the engagement officially announced.”

Yoongi broke out of his reverie and tucked the portrait into the pocket of his coat before getting up from his seat. ‘’Thank you, my King. I will never forget the kindness you have bestowed upon the House of Min.’’

As Yoongi was about to open the door, the king called out once again.

‘‘Duke Min, if I may ask, why do you have so much interest in the 8th princess? I would have never thought she would suit your preferences. If you wanted, you could have the crown princess. Her beauty is known even in distant lands, and she is skilled—”

Yoongi coldly smiled at the pathetically shivering man, interrupting him sharply,’’ Do not interfere in personal matters, my King. Long live the Sun of the Kingdom.’’

The door clicked shut behind him, and the king sagged further into his extravagantly plush ruby couch. For the first time in his greedy life, the king truly felt sympathy for the young princess he had just sold to the notoriously named Duke of Hell.

You kneaded the dough of the bread firmly down onto the table, flour sticking to the crevices in your palms. The harvest had been plentiful that year, although many of the lands surrounding the kingdom had been ravaged by war, and the small palace, which was more like a shack than anything else compared to the palaces of your older siblings, you had in the royal territory was fortunate enough to receive a small portion of the year’s yield.

You had to be quick about kneading the dough. The weather in the kingdom had been warming up as the seasons changed, and if you dawdled, the dough would stick to the table and you’d spend the next half hour trying to scrape it off the wooden surface. You could feel the sun’s warmth on your back, and you hummed a pleasant melody as you kept working.

There were footsteps outside of your palace, a sharp knock on the door, and you paused. It was strange; no one really visited your palace other than the occasional maid, and their visits had dwindled down to barely showing up after they realized how insignificant your position was in the palace. But the maids never knocked; they always burst in, throwing down a basket of food before running off without so much a word.

Could the person outside be lost?

You hastily grabbed a piece of fabric, tying it around your neck to obstruct the view of your collarbone; this had become a habit you developed when you had been taken to the palace in order to hide the strange mark on your clavicle. You hastily pushed open the door, your fingers still crusted with flour-covered dough. The person outside was dressed in the garbs of a messenger, but you noticed that he looked and acted much too elegant to be in the role of a servant; perhaps he had been more blessed with good looks and manners but had no fortune in status, you mused to yourself.

You must have looked more like a maid than a princess because the messenger in front of the door took one look at you and asked,’’ Could you bring me the 8th princess? I carry a message from the palace.”

You smiled pleasantly. “Sir, you’re speaking to her. Are you lost, perhaps? The crown princess’s palace is down the road, and if you take a left, you’ll be right there.’’

The messenger blinked in surprise, his mouth falling open slightly, and he practically trembled as he realized his mistake. “No, this is a message for you! I’m so sorry, Your Highness; please punish this lowly servant for making such a—!”

You shook your head good-naturedly; you were no tyrant after all, having been born more like your mother, a noble of lower class who, albeit poor, was much more noble than those of higher ranking, than your father, the king. That was a fact that you took pride in.

“What message do you come to bring me? No one quite visits this palace,’’ you questioned.

“Your Highness, the 8th Princess of this Kingdom, I pass a message from the Duke of the House of Min to you. Your marriage has been agreed upon by His Majesty, King [L/N]. The Duke requests that you move into his estate as soon as you can so the preparations for marriage can be efficiently arranged and completed,’’ the messenger spoke.

Your smile stiffened, the edges of your lips curved awkwardly as you took in the message with wide eyes. “My marriage?’’ you managed to keep the tremble away from your voice as you asked the question.

“The Duke himself has personally requested of the king that he be bestowed your hand in marriage, Your Highness. He expects you to be done packing anything you find essential from your home by the morning of tomorrow. The wedding will be held the day after you move into his home.’’

You nearly sputtered in shock at the words of the messenger drifted in one ear and out the other, barely registering properly in your incredulous mind. “The wedding?! Isn’t that too soon? The engagement period usually lasts for at least a few months!’’

The messenger tried to smile, as if comforting the shock-stricken you, and he slowly spoke, hesitating,’’ The duke values efficiency above all else. Might I be so bold to say something? Princess...I’m sure you’ve heard the rumors about the Duke. May they be either bad or good, please keep in mind one thing: you’ll be safe in his estate. He will protect you well. Good day, Your Highness. I wish you good fortune in your marriage to the Duke.’’

The messenger turned and was about to walk away when you called out,” Can I at least know your name?’’

The messenger turned back around, his eyes wide with surprise. Those of the nobility class never asked a lowly servant their name; names were symbols of rank in the upper classes, and thus the nobility did not care much about names when those names marked the identity of the lower classes. You were different from the other nobles. You looked and spoke just like her; no wonder the Duke was so fond of you.

“My name, Your Highness?’’ his voice hesitated as he spoke, his eyes wide in surprise,’’ Namjoon.’’

“Namjoon,’’ you breathed out, your lips that had been strained in an unnatural, forced smile spread into a genuine smile,’’ Thank you.’’

The nobility never thanked a servant, nor did they smile at them with such warmth. To a servant, a lack of punishment was enough.

Namjoon nodded and left your palace. When he was free from view of you and anyone else lurking around your palace, the ground underneath his feet turned an inky black, swirling like an abyss that was ready to swallow him up. Namjoon took one final glance at your palace, his previously dark eyes glowing an ominous red, and his lips that had been shyly smiling at you twisted into a smirk, flashing off two indents in his cheeks. He could see why the Duke, a man so devoid of warmth and humanity that he was a clear reflection of the demonic blood running in his veins, took such interest in you; you were interesting. Something about you drew him in; was it the kindness you showed, or was it just how hungry your smell made him feel? Whatever it was, Namjoon was sure of one thing: the Prophecy was to be fulfilled. Yoongi would make sure of it, after all.

Namjoon vanished from sight, swallowed up in the black that had dyed the soil in dark wisps of air, and the only trace of him left was a sharp acrid scent of smoke.

You closed the door, your hands trembling as you went back to kneading the bread dough. The warmth of the afternoon sun seemed like a chill on your back now as you prodded and shaped the dough into loaves. Since you were to leave the next morning, it seemed like a waste to bake bread; it wasn’t like you were to eat all of them by the time the dawn came. You would go into the city later after they finished baking and give them out; after your marriage to the duke, you were certain that you would receive no more chances to dress up in the garments of a maid and sneak out into the city.

It was unfortunate, was it not? To go from being the daughter of a lowly noble, one who had unfortunately caught the attention of a tyrannical king and ran away from him to the woods only to be caught and killed, to the forgotten but trapped 8th princess to something to be sold off for the selfish gain of another. You were like a lamb going to the slaughter, desperate to live but powerless.

The Duke was notorious for many things, the kinds of things that were gossiped by maids passing by your palace and left goosebumps prickled on your skin. He was a man who killed as easily as he found it to breathe, a man whose very name was used by the children as a way to scare each other. You were certain that you would be no exception to his murderous rage.

After you returned from the city, barely being able to take in the last wisps of life outside of the cage you had been forced in, and packed your remaining items into a small bag, you fell into an uneasy sleep. In your dream, you saw shadowy figures. They screamed and yelled, and you could only stand there as cold metal pierced your body through the collarbone. It hurt so much; it felt like agony ripping away at your skin, and you could feel your own blood rush down your weakening frame. You woke up before the day came to life, your body wracked in a cold sweat that left your eyes wide open in the pitch black of the night.

The carriage of the House of Duke came right as the light of dawn broke upon the horizon, sending splatters of rosy pink and gold light onto the sky’s canvas. You were drowned in the dappling shades of the new day as you handed the bag to the driver, who remained silent after a formal greeting. You took one final look at the building you had spent half of your life in, watching with unblinking eyes as the home that you had spent many lonely days in disappeared from view.

How were you supposed to feel? There was no jittery high of happiness that came from being married, something that was common throughout the romantic novels you had bought from the city; there was only a foreboding sense of doom. Would the Duke kill you once you stepped off the carriage, or would he enjoy the game of hunting and wait?

Although the House of Min had an estate in the capital of the Kingdom near the palace, the Duke preferred living a secluded life away from the tiring politics of the capital. You understood him on that. The ride was not long to the territory, however; the rich could afford paying to use the small portal stones to travel, which were remnants from the times that there had been magic and gods in the world. What would have been a trip lasting two weeks was narrowed down to a trip of 9 hours.

You arrived at the territory in the early afternoon, your body sore from having remained seating for such an extended period of time; you only had two breaks throughout the trip, one to empty your bladder and another to eat a small lunch at an inn. As you stepped from the carriage down to the ground in front of the manor, your mouth dropped in shock at the size of the Duke’s land. The wealth of the Duke was vast but to see it in person was astonishing. You recalled the trip through his territory; as the magical portal had been on the cusp of his territory and the outer lands, the trip to his estate from that magical portal had taken a solid 2 hours of your trip.

The land for just his estate was large; you could not see the edge of the estate’s land that you had previously entered in earlier. His main manor building loomed above you like a fortress, spiraling black buildings and shadowy crevices, and you felt a wave of anxiety rise in your throat. The manor of the Duke was more like a fortress with its sturdy, impenetrable walls and dark atmosphere. A chill ran down your spine, prickling goosebumps on your otherwise smooth skin, as your eyes scanned the buildings on the estate. There was only one word that could properly describe them: ominous.

Even the atmosphere of the maids lined up in front of you in greeting had you unconsciously tensing, your jaw clenched slightly. You could see their eyes; they were haunting in the way they were so devoid of emotion. You were familiar with how maids were like; they always had some form of emotion in their eyes: either a sickly sweetness as they itched for favor or a mocking expression that didn’t conceal their spite. You fought back a shiver when you heard them open their mouths, their voices in perfect unison as they spoke.

“Welcome, Your Highness, to the Estate of the House of Min. We look forward to serving you from now and into the future.’’

Three of the maids stepped forward, their steps aligned perfectly and their bows matching. They dipped their heads, and one of them spoke. She looked middle-aged, older than the other maids, but the look on her face matched theirs.

“We will be the main maids serving you. I am the head maid of the manor. As the future Duchess of the House of Min, everyone at the manor is at your service. The Duke will—.’’

She paused; you heard a crunching of something underfoot in the silence of the courtyard. Was it stone? The smile that you had forced on your face froze, uncomfortably stiff.

“Welcome, my fiancé,’’ you heard a voice call out. The voice unnerved you more than the expressionless looks on the maids had; it sounded cordial and low, pleasant to the ears even. If your ears had been untrained to the sounds of the nobility, you might even have mistaken it for affection, but you knew that there was no true emotion in the voice, or at least that’s what you assumed. No warm voice could make you feel so terrified after all. You, however, didn’t notice the brief look of shock in the staff in front of you; never, in the whole time they had been serving the Duke, had he sounded so gentle.

You looked toward the sound, your fear cleanly masked by your frozen smile; after being mocked by the queen, concubines, and their children as a child with lowly blood, you were good at training your expressions. The more you squirmed, the sicker the nobles’ expressions got, which is why you spent your later years at the palace hiding away in your palace, hoping that you would continue to be forgotten. The Duke was no exception to this; if you crumbled before him, he was sure to crush you under his polished shoe. You couldn’t die yet. You had not much to live for, that you admit, but the core essence of humanity was its desire to survive. To live.

The Duke stood before you. His demeanor was elegant, but you could sense an imposing aura radiating from him. He was good-looking, though; from the rumors you had heard from passing maids, you envisioned a hideous monster with sharp teeth and claws for hands who would rip out your throat for breathing too loudly. He looked like a statue delicately carved by an artist with his smooth, white skin, like alabaster and marble, and sharp, handsome features. His nose slanted gorgeously, his jawline was strong, and his lips were softly curved.

But the most distinct feature of his were his eyes. They were shaped elegantly, curving in a refined shape, but it was the color that left your feet glued to the ground. You had heard the rumors but seeing it in person was another ordeal. His eyes were a vibrant shade of crimson, the color of freshly spilled blood, and there was an eerie depth to them. They were, you recalled, the eyes of the devil. A chilling thought came to your mind as you stared into his eyes. They were the same color as the mark on your neck. You unconsciously tightened your fingertips around the scarf you had carefully looped around your neck.

“What has your mind so distracted?’’ the Duke smiled, but although you should have felt calmed by the sight, his smile unnerved you for some reason,’’ Everything has been properly arranged for our wedding tomorrow, if that is what you are scared of. If you desire, you may look over the plans and arrange it however you like.’’

The Duke had walked closer to you when you hadn’t been paying attention, and you flinched when he reached out towards you, his fingertips brushing the side of your cheek affectionately. Your heartbeat raced in your chest; however, instead of the giddy heart thrumming that was depicted in romantic novels, your heartbeat racing was purely because of anxiety. The presence of the Duke made you feel like a small prey in front of the menacing gaze of an apex predator. Would he snap your head off? Twist your delicate neck in his hands?

He took his touch away from your cheek as your thoughts raced, his fingers snagging into your scarf accidentally. The scarf fell down to the ground, and his eyes widened in glee slightly. Your hand flew to your clavicle, covering the mark there. You didn’t know why, but something in your gut told you to not let him near the mark. His eyes glowed for a split second, the color of a polished ruby glistening in light, before dimming back to their normal color; you blinked rapidly, wondering if you had imagined the change.

“My deepest apologizes, Your Highness. You must be exhausted from your trip. We don’t want you too tired for our wedding. Your maids will take you to the room you will be staying in tonight,’’ the Duke smiled politely once again, hesitantly stepping back, his composure poised,’’ I am looking forward to our union. Rest up. I have a meeting later, so unfortunately, we won’t be sharing a meal tonight.’’

He turned to leave, his eyes lingering on your collarbone, and you stayed glued to the ground, your hand still covering your mark. The head maid reached out with another scarf in her hands, and you took it, your fingers trembling slightly, before wrapping it around your neck. You knotted it two more times than usual this time, your eyes trained on the Duke’s retreating back.

You did not notice it at the time, your mind too busy wandering in your thoughts, but the previously emotionless expressions on the maids’ faces flickered with fear before quickly shifting back. As you turned your gaze back towards them, you mused to yourself once more. How odd was it that their expressions had not changed even once?

The room you were staying in was lovely; of course, that was to be expected from one of the top noble families in the kingdom, if not the whole land. Billowy drapes hung from vast windows, detailed gold embroidery sparkling in the brightening sunlight, and there were expensive pieces of furniture adorning the large room. The price of one of the candlesticks would be enough to cover the expenses of a peasant family for a year.

You had an unrestful sleep; nightmares plagued your dreams once again. They were more vivid this time, and you could still feel the agony of cold metal piercing through your soft flesh. The mark on your collarbone seemed to throb and burn against your skin, and you dragged your nails against it, trying to quell the itching sting. You somehow fell asleep once more, and when you woke up, the dreams had vanished from your mind, and the only remnants of your nightmares was a clammy coldness that lingered on your body and red lines on your mark from your nails.

You heard a knock on the door.

“Your Highness, may we come in? We will be preparing you for the wedding,’’ you recognized the voice of the head maid.

You inhaled a deep breath, trying to recover from your body’s cold sweat and slow the frantic pounding of your heart before calling out calmly,’’ Come in.’’

The maids came in, walking in calmly with their hands full of items.

The head maid was the one who had spoken outside, and as she walked near you, you held out a wary hand.

“If you are to serve me, I must know your name,’’ you spoke, trying to put on the dignified airs that was similar to the queen, or your stepmother, though you refused to refer to her with that title.

“My name, Your Highness?’’ the head maid looked taken aback, her eyes on the floor,’’ I’m sorry, but the names of servants are an insignificant thing to be known in this household. I only go by my position, here, as head maid. If you wish to know my name to have me punished, please just ask for the head maid to be punished.’’

You could tell that this was some unspoken rule and forced down the part of you that wished to rebel and find her name. If you were to pressure her over something so mild, unpleasant rumors would spring forth.

You followed their directions silently as they prepared you, and you ate small bites of the meal they had laid out when you had completed your morning routine. They then changed you into your wedding garment, tying up the corset around your torso so tightly that you could barely breathe when they were done. You could feel their gazes lingering on the mark you had on your collarbone; you were used to the looks, the mockery and the disdain, but their gazes were different. Was it curiosity? Hell, admiration? Or perhaps, fear?

Hours stretched and passed as they worked on your hair and makeup. Your scalp and skin were prodded at by them as they worked to prepare you. When they were finally done, you caught sight of yourself in the mirror and was left breathless at your reflection.

Your hair had been coiled up in an elaborate up-do and decorated with sparkling hair pieces that weighed down your head. The dress was made by one of the capital’s top designers and fit you perfectly, as if the measurements of your body were known by the Duke’s Household down to a tee; it showed off your neck and the mark on your neck, and when you had asked to find something to cover the mark up, the maids shook their heads.

“The Duke wishes for this style of dress; unfortunately, nothing can be used to cover up your neck properly, and the dress can not be changed,’’ the head maid told you.

The dress, other than expose society’s stigma imprinted upon your flesh, was gorgeous. It was a pure white, sparkling with small pieces of carefully cut diamond, and tastefully accentuated by delicately beaded pearls. It wrapped around your torso and flared out into wide, layered skirts, a style that was extremely trendy in the capital. You looked stunning in the dress.

The maids had done extremely well on your makeup too; your skin glowed and was soft like a baby, and your lips were reddened to the color of cherries. Your cheeks were reddened as well, a blush delicately touching your cheeks. You looked ethereal, like a mystical being descending upon earth, though you embarrassingly believed that it was rather conceited of you to think that.

The head butler—you vaguely remembered him from the staff yesterday, although he had not spoken a word to you after the initial greeting—guided you to a carriage silently after politely greeting you, which led down to the church building in which you were to be married in.

Your fingers twisted in your fine white skirts as the rush of anxiety churned in your gut; you were grateful that your breakfast had been light, or else you would have hurled it all over the floor of the carriage.

You somehow managed to keep it together, even when you stepped down from the carriage. You even managed to keep your composure together as you walked towards the Duke, standing in front of the church, with the Kingdom’s Priest standing behind him. The church was filled to the brim with people, mostly nobles who vied for some connection with the Duke. You could even see the King in the front, watching you with eyes that told you not to mess your marriage up.

You even managed to keep it together underneath the burning sting of the Duke’s eyes as the Priest recited aloud the vows of marriage. You gazed back into the Duke’s eyes, watching the reflection of the sunset’s lights glow in their cold depths as the priest concluded the ceremony.

“May this couple’s union, placed together by the holy goddess of creation that had formed the earth, be a blessing upon the Kingdom.’’

You felt the mark on your collarbone throb slightly, a dull ache, but, in that moment, you had believed it to be a part of the bone-aching exhaustion that had settled deep into your body’s marrow.

The first duty of marriage was the consummation of it. You were aware of what went on, having ventured off into the city and gotten your hands onto romance novels that had their fair share of obscene scenes, but to be experiencing it firsthand, that was something that terrified you. The pain of having your virginity taken had been described in detail in the novels, and you could feel a pit of nerves form as the maids led you to get prepared for your first night as a married couple.

The maids bathed you, as the head maid crooned to you low in your ear the duty you were to fulfill. They rubbed fragrant rose oils into your skin, as the head maid repeated over and over the instructions and her condolences for the night, and dressed you in a nightgown—it was a soft, clear pink that scandalously showed off your figure—that was more like an undergarment than anything.

Then, the maids led you to the room you were to share with your husband. As the head maid was about to open the door, she spoke one last time,’’ Duchess, I have done my best to inform you of your first night. May the fortune of the goddess of creation bless you upon your first night as the Duke’s wife.’’

The room was dark when you stepped in, and it would have been pitch black had it not been for the wispy pale rays of moonlight glowing through the large glass windows. This room, through your adjusting vision, was certainly much more beautiful and elegant than the room you had used for your temporary one-night stay. You saw the Duke standing in front of one of the windows, his eyes on you, unnervingly unblinking. Although his gaze remained eerie, you could not deny the ethereal beauty that radiated off of him as he watched you with ruby eyes.

As you were admiring his looks, you noticed that he had taken steps forward before pausing before you. His eyes looked at yours before roaming your body, and you noticed that there was an almost carnal hunger glowing in his crimson-red eyes. He looked starving, and you realized, unconsciously wrapping your arms around your body, that you were the meal he was to satiate his hunger with.

You could not help but flinch when the Duke pulled you forward into his arms and kissed you, his lips harsh against your own as he stole your breath from your lungs. His teeth snagged into your bottom lip, digging into it. There was nothing gentle in the kiss; nothing sweet and romantically sentimental like what had been described in romance novels.

His hands, the palms roughened from his days on the battlefield, caressed your body, slipping underneath your night gown. You gasped breathlessly against his mouth at the cool touch on your warm body, a sound that was swallowed up by his lips as his tongue delved into your mouth, and you clung onto the thin fabric of his night clothes.

“D-duke,’’ you managed to breath out shakily when he finally broke away from this kiss. You were about to say something more, but the sight of your lips, bruised and swollen from the Duke’s harsh kiss caused his eyes to darken in lust.

“When you are with just me, call me Yoongi,’’ he rasped, and the sound of his voice near your ear caused pleasurable shivers to travel down your spine. You felt something wet between your legs, and your cheeks flushed in shyness, your eyes widening in embarrassment. That look of pure innocence seemed to cause something in the infamously cool-headed Duke to snap. Yoongi’s actions were more hurried as he practically tore the dainty dress from your body, and the breath in your chest was knocked out as you were thrown onto the large bed.

His touch felt like it was burning against your body as it touched you in intimate ways. You tried to block his touch anxiously, but he simply brushed off your hands as if you had no strength; against his overpowering strength, you were utterly weak. You closed your eyes anxiously when you felt him suck bruises into your neck and then on your breasts, leaving bite marks blooming on your quivering skin like roses on silk, but you felt a sharp ache in your jaw as he grabbed your chin harshly and lifted your head to face him.

“Look at me. I want you to witness your first night with me, my beloved wife.’’

His voice was sharp despite the pained rasp coating its tone, radiating with an authority so powerful that you found yourself snapping open your eyes to look at him in mute shock. In the dim lighting of the night, with only the ghosts of the moon to leave a sheen of waning light on his handsome face, the Duke—no, Yoongi—looked lethal.

Your mouth fell open in a wide o-shape when his touch brushed down your soft breasts to your stomach and then finally to the most intimate spot on your body. His index finger swirled around your bud, sparking little shocks down your spine before venturing lower. His first finger stretched your walls, going deep into the sacred garden that had been guarded since you had been born, and you could only pant helplessly. There was a buzz in your head, something heady that you couldn’t quite put your finger on, as Yoongi touched places deep within you.

He added another finger and the another, and your mind spun as your walls stretched and clung onto his fingers. You clutched onto his clothes tighter, holding your breath, as he explored your walls. He dragged his fingers out, his movements slow and gentle, before he slammed them viciously into you; you choked on a sound that was a mix between a gasp and a moan. He repeated the movements until you were writhing under his touch before pulling his fingers out of you. His fingers were drenched in a honey-like substance, and you, with your ears burning, watched as he sucked on his fingers.

“My beloved wife, my goddess,’’ Yoongi’s voice sounded ragged, as if he was about to fall apart, and his fingers, sticky with dried saliva and your essence, curled up under his garments and peeled them off,’’ I can’t wait any longer.’’

“W-wait,’’ you stuttered out pathetically as he pushed something firm but soft and undeniably hot against your garden. Yoongi paid no heed to your word as he pushed into your walls mercilessly without so much a pause, and your heart raced as you realized what was invading your innocence. There was a throbbing agony as he got deeper and deeper, a feeling that was much more painful than his fingers had been. You clung onto his shoulders when he finally stopped moving in, tears building up in your eyes and dripping down your cheeks. When the head maid and your romance novels had talked about the pain, they had described the pain as fleeting, a sharp pinch that faded away quickly. This was different; you could feel your lower regions burning in agony as they stretched and trembled around Yoongi’s length.

At the sight of your tears, the look on Yoongi’s face was practically feral. Without waiting for you to get accustomed to the feeling of your purity being torn apart, Yoongi pulled out and slammed back in, his hips setting a tormenting pace that made you squeal in pain.

“Please pull out; oh my God,’’ you gasped out, your nails digging into his skin,’’ It hurts, it hurts so bad.’’

Yoongi let out a grunt in response, his breath choppy as he forced his voice from his throat. “The pain will go away soon. If we don’t fulfill our first duty of marriage, then the marriage will be considered void by law. Do you want that? The next man the King marries you to…’’

Yoongi’s eyes turned deadly, as if the thought of another man even touching you set him on a murderous outrage, and you trembled at the idea. The next man would undeniably be a portly, greasy lower noble, who would take you as his concubine as your purity had already been taken by the Duke. Your future children would be spat on by those around them, an experience that you had gone through but would never wish on your children.

Yoongi spoke again, a question this time. “Will you endure the temporary pain, or will you refuse and endure a much more lasting pain as someone who lost her purity but did not fulfill her first duty?’’

You could feel him inside you, pulsing and twitching, and you swallowed your nerves. Although Yoongi had worded it as a choice, you knew it was not. It was anything but. You already knew the decision you had to take before he finished asking.

“Please,’’ you begged, softening your voice in order to incite some pity from this brute of a man,’’ Be more gentle?’’

His lips twisted into a carnivorous smile, something that caught you off guard and left you in a short daze, and his only answer was him pulling out of you before pushing back in. The pain was rough at first, but you could tell that the Duke had taken into consideration your plea, at least he did so at first. When the first pricks of pleasure sparked in your gut, your head slammed back and you moaned before panting out a shameless,’’ Duke, Yoongi, please, faster.’’

You looked ravishing in this state; marks littered on your soft skin, and your face in an arousing expression with your swollen lips parted open in shaky breaths and your eyes glazed in desire. You looked like the embodiment of sin itself against the pure white sheets of the bed. The constraints that Yoongi had placed on himself snapped, his hips slamming against you hard, an erotic sound of the clapping of skin echoing in the night, that left your skin feeling heated and flushed. You only mewled in response as he began to pound into your body. He was animalistic, the cold airs he had been encased in dropped as a rosy flush tinted his pale marble face. You felt like you were being intoxicated by the sensations of pleasure and sin.

He pushed in even deeper than before, and you felt an uncomfortable pain as his length pushed against your cervix. Your air left your lungs at the feeling, and your nails dug even further into the Duke’s broad shoulders, leaving drops of blood in its wake. The Duke didn’t even flinch at the pain, burying his head into your shoulder to let out an almost growl-like noise. You were so fucking tight; it was like you were squeezing around him, refusing to let him go.

You felt sensitive, your nerves heightened as the whirl of pleasure building in your gut climbed. Your eyes remained wide open, your dizzy mind remembering the Duke’s earlier command, and your back arched slightly as a wave of pleasure crashed into you. Your vision went blurry as you crashed into your first climax; you were coming, tightening around him so hard that your mind went completely blank.

You could feel Yoongi’s teeth sink into your collarbone, a flash of white digging into your red mark, and the pain coupled with the pleasure cascading onto your limp body caused you to let out a lewd choked moan. Yoongi slammed into you, his pace steady and stable as his breath grew more erratic, before he pushed deep into you, a groan pulling out deep from his chest. You felt something hot spill into the depths of your body, and your fingers and toes twitched at the feeling.

You were exhausted as he pulled out of you. He was still painfully hard, but you were so tired, and the lull of sleep was so tempting. Your vision blurred, and your eyes drooped shut as you fell into an unconscious state, ignoring the pulsing sting of your collarbone. The last thing you saw before you were swept up in a rush of sleep was a flash of red eyes, the look of them so vivid against the darkness of the deep night, and Yoongi licking off droplets of your blood off of his lips, his lips curved up in a menacing smile.

“Goodnight, my beloved wife,’’ Yoongi spoke out into the silence, his fingers reaching out to entwine themselves into strands of your hair,’’ May the dreams that reach you be a blessing.’’

He brought up a stand of your hair to his lips, his lips touching it tenderly.

“And may our marriage bring us both fortune beyond what humanity can perceive, my Goddess.’’

A/N: if you want to be tagged in the next part, please reply with a 👑! And if you liked the story, please leave a comment or a review! Thank you so much for being here for my writing journey :) I’ll do my best to keep improving.

Part 2

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secretkeeper13 · 4 years

Text

Nerves

This little bit of fluff was inspired by the illustrations of the Quidditch team uniforms in the new Quidditch Through the Ages. The Harpies uniforms had really short skirts, and I couldn’t help imagining what Harry would think of Ginny wearing it. Thank you to the always kind @thedistantdusk for reading it through for me and giving me the confidence to post. Some slightly NSFW moments below the break, but its a fade to black, so nothing explicit.

Also on Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27047911

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, Harry’s favorite time of the week. He sat on the new leather sofa in the sitting room at Grimmauld Place, listening to Lee Jordan’s show on the wireless and sipping a bottle of Butterbeer. His arm rested on the back of the sofa around Ginny, who was curled up into his side, reading the paper.

Harry was content to laze about for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe he and Ginny would go out to dinner later. Ron and Hermione had gone over to her parents for lunch, so the house was still and quiet. In fact, Harry thought, Ginny was unusually quiet. He missed her usual chatter and commentary on the articles in the Prophet.

A light tapping sounded from the front window and interrupted his thoughts. A tawny owl clutching a large parcel wrapped in brown paper sat on the sill.

Harry rose, opened the window, and took the package from the owl. The gold and green seal of the Holyhead Harpies was embossed on the wrapping.

“It’s for you, Gin,” he said, handing her the parcel.

She smiled as she took it. “Oh, it’s probably my kit. I had my fitting the other day. They said they’d be sending it home for me to try on once they’d finished.”

“I can’t believe the opener is going to be next week already,” said Harry.

“Me either, although training camp this summer felt like it took ages.”

She tore open the paper wrapping to reveal folded fabric in dark green.

“I’ll take it upstairs to change,” she said, rising from the couch.

“You can change in here, I won’t mind,” Harry grinned, lifting an eyebrow at her.

She laughed. “I’m sure you wouldn’t, but my boots are upstairs. And I want the full effect,” she said tossing her long hair loftily over her shoulder.

She picked up the still-folded uniform and walked towards the stairs. Harry stood and followed her.

“You’re coming up?” Ginny asked, a hint of a surprise evident in her tone.

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to miss you in your kit for the first time,” Harry smiled.

Ginny looked pleased, and her cheeks flushed slightly at his words.

“And I want the full effect,” Harry teased, climbing the stairs behind her, “boots and all.”

As Harry climbed the stairs, his eyes were drawn to the swell of her bum. Ginny had a fantastic arse. The first time he saw her naked, the two dimples above her arse had practically ended the evening for him before he’d even taken off his pants.

When they reached the first floor landing and entered their bedroom, Ginny grabbed her boots and headed towards the en suite to change.

Harry raised his eyebrows at her. Ginny wasn’t modest. In fact, she was one of the least self-conscious people he knew.

She saw his look and chuckled. “Well, if you’re going to all the trouble to come up here, the least I can do is give you a proper reveal,” she said, and winked at him as she closed the door.

Harry sat on the bed, on top of the white duvet, smiling to himself as he thought of the upcoming season opener. He couldn’t wait to watch Ginny play in a professional match. Not to mention after the match. Ginny’s post-Quidditch euphoria had already led to some of their best shags, and that had only been after practice sessions.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Ginny’s voice sounded from behind the door and broke the silence, interrupting Harry’s (increasingly dirty) thoughts.

“Everything all right?” Harry called.

“I can’t believe this bloody skirt.”

“Hard to tell what’s wrong with it from behind a closed door,” Harry called back, wondering what the issue was.

The door to the ensuite suddenly opened, and when Harry saw her, any coherent thoughts he had were gone. Ginny stood in the doorway, anger flashing in her eyes, red hair swept out of her face, wearing a sleeveless, dark green kit emblazoned with a bright gold talon in the center. The neckline, trimmed in gold, cut in a v-shape down towards Ginny’s cleavage. Another band of gold trim snaked around her small waist, forming a v-shape at the center that pointed down towards the shortest, tightest skirt Harry had ever seen Ginny wear (outside of in the bedroom). A green and gold cape attached to the back of the waist, the hem of which skimmed the back of her calves. The dark green mini skirt stopped well above mid-thigh, revealing almost all of Ginny’s toned legs in the front.

He felt himself growing hard at the sight of her. She was always gorgeous, but she looked undeniably sexy in the kit. It took every ounce of willpower he had not to take her against the wall and snog her right then and there. But he could tell she was upset.

“How the fuck am I meant to play Quidditch in this?” Ginny asked, her eyes narrowed, her tone annoyed, bordering on outright anger. “It barely covers my bits.”

Harry’s eyes followed as her hand motioned to the skirt and down her legs. He tried not to think of the expanse of creamy skin in front of him, and what the skirt was barely covering.

Harry swallowed. He wanted to try to make her feel better about it. He always wanted to try to make things better for her.

“You look fantastic. I know it’s different from the uniforms at Hogwarts, but I’m sure you’ll get used to it in time.”

“It’s ridiculous that we have to play in skirts,” Ginny spat disdainfully. “I told Gwenog as much during the fitting. But it’s ‘Harpies’ tradition.’” She snorted. “I’m sure the skirt tradition has got nothing to do with it helping ticket sales to have our arses hanging out.”

Harry thought of Ginny, straddling a broomstick, wearing the kit. He desperately needed a trouser adjustment. But he tried to push his randy thoughts away to offer reassurance.

“Well, the cape covers your bum, at least, if you’re worried about that,” he offered.

Ginny scoffed and rolled her eyes at his feeble attempt. “The cape isn’t going to lie flat when I’m flying around at top speed, Harry,” she retorted, and there was a bite to her tone instead of her usual teasing humor.

He was unable to help himself from imagining Ginny, bent low over her broom, the cape flapping behind her, her rounded, pert arse sticking up in the tiny skirt. He had to bite back a moan.

Ginny exhaled loudly and swept a hand through her hair. Her eyes were shinier than usual, almost as if she were holding back tears. Harry tried not to focus on the contrast of her silky, coppery hair next to the dark green of the uniform. It really wasn’t like Ginny to get so worked up over something like this.

He stepped off the bed, and walked over to her, pulling her to his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, and he rested his chin on the top of her head.

“What’s really bothering you?” He asked softly, as he gently stroked her back. “You’re the most confident person I know. Something like this wouldn’t normally upset you this much.”

She sighed and looked up at him. The little line that appeared on her forehead when she was worried was there, and there was a look of concern in her warm, brown eyes.

“I know it’s silly. I never care about idiotic rumors in the press, but... they’re already implying that I only made first team because I’m Harry Potter’s girlfriend. I just want to prove I’m there on my own merit, you know? And if I’m worrying about flashing my arse to everyone instead of scoring goals, I know my game will be off.”

Harry felt guilt welling up inside him. He knew all the extra rubbish that she had to deal with because she was in a relationship with him. He knew that since she left Hogwarts, she’d been hounded by the press, faced prying stares from strangers, and been the subject of not-so-quietly-whispered gossip. And he hated it.

As if she read his thoughts, Ginny pulled back slightly, reached up, and gently placed her palm against his cheek. “None of that is your fault though, love.”

She paused, biting her lip, and dropped her hand to rest on his chest. Harry could tell she was on the verge of sharing something, so he waited.

“I’m just really nervous about the first match,” she said, her words tumbling out in a rush. “I want to perform well, and I’m scared that I won’t.”

“Hey,” he said, as he stroked a strand of hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear, looking into her eyes, “Of course you’re nervous. You’d be barmy if you weren’t feeling a bit anxious about it, yeah? But you’re a brilliant player, Gin. You had offers from lots of teams. Gwenog was really pleased with you during training camp.”

She nodded, and he could see her face start to visibly relax.

“You’re going to be great,” he said firmly. “And I can’t wait to watch you play,” he added.

At this, Ginny lips quirked up into a grin. “I know you can’t wait to watch. I saw your face when I opened the door earlier, you know.”

Harry laughed. “Was I that obvious?”

“Yes. Your eyes get this glazed look,” Ginny grinned, as she did a far too accurate impersonation of him.

Harry pulled her closer until she was pressed up against him. “Well, I can’t help it,” he murmured low into her ear, his lips grazing her neck. “You look,” he kissed her neck, “incredibly,” he he moved his lips down to her pulse point, “sexy.”

At his last kiss, she inhaled sharply and let out a breathy little moan. He was hard (again), and he pressed himself against her, relishing the contact.

“It’s like all my sixth-year Quidditch fantasies came to life,” he continued murmuring as he kissed down to her collarbone. “I think I’ve held myself together very well, considering.”

“Considering what?” she deadpanned.

“Considering all I’ve been thinking about is what you’re wearing under the skirt.”

“Ahhh,” Ginny smirked, pulling back and running her hand lightly down Harry’s chest and stopping at his belt buckle. “Normally, we’ve got these little shorts for under.” Harry swallowed, the image of Ginny in tiny green shorts burning in his mind. She moved her hand across the waistband of his trousers nonchalantly. He groaned at her light touch. “But I didn’t bother with those today since I was just trying it on,” she finished, looking up at him with that blazing look.

At that, Harry lost any semblance of control. He pulled her closer, cupped her jaw, and then crashed his lips onto hers, kissing her passionately as she pushed him backwards towards the bed.

What followed was perhaps the most intense shag they’d ever had. And that was saying something, Harry thought, as Ginny lay naked next to him, her head resting on his chest.

“You know,” Ginny said, as her hand traced lazy circles on his bicep, “I really don’t think the skirts on the others’ uniforms are that short.”

Harry glanced down at the discarded kit that now lay on the bedroom floor. He’d wanted her to keep it on, but the damn cape got in the way.

Ginny continued, “I had the poster of Gwenog on my wall for years, and her bits were more than barely covered.”

“Maybe they pinned the length up wrong at your fitting?”

“You may be right. I’ll have to talk to Martin in equipment,” Ginny said, and then she let out a horrified groan.

“What?”

“I should’ve known. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this earlier.”

Harry, who was still lost, looked at her quizzically.

“Well, Martin’s got a bit of a thing for me,” Ginny said, in a casual, matter-of-fact tone, as if she were discussing the weather, and not lying on his naked body, talking about another man fancying her.

Harry raised his eyebrows. His chest monster, which had laid dormant for a long time, suddenly perked its head up. “Erm, elaborate please?”

“Martin’s been the Harpies equipment manager for ages. I think he’s 80 years old. It’s his last season with us- he’s supposed to retire this year.”

Harry, who had already been envisioning Martin as a handsome and muscular bloke in his 20s, relaxed considerably.

“Anyways,” Ginny continued, still stroking Harry’s arm, “His wife passed away a couple years back, and he’s mentioned that she had red hair like mine, so I think he’s got a soft spot for me because of that. He’s always so sweet to me, and makes sure I’ve got the kind of gloves I like, things like that. During the fitting, he was going on about how he liked the old kits better because they ‘showed off the legs.’ I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“So, the eighty-year-old equipment manager had your uniform hemmed shorter because he’s got a thing for pretty redheads,” Harry said, laughing as he stroked Ginny’s hair.

“That about sums it up, I think,” Ginny said, smiling up at him.

“Martin’s a bit of a perv,” Harry said, though he couldn’t help but grin. “But I’m not complaining about the skirt.”

“I’ll tell him to add a few inches back on to the hem when I bring it back in tomorrow,” Ginny said, nuzzling into Harry.

“Be sure to send Martin my regards,” Harry smirked. “And tell him I look forward to meeting him at the opener.”

Ginny laughed, and Harry was relieved to see that any traces of her earlier anxiety were gone. He leaned down to kiss her, and as he rolled her on top of him, he set about showing her just how enthusiastic of a fan he would be.

#hinny #quidditch #fluff #sortofsmut #fade to black #harry potter fanfiction

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floral-and-fine · 6 years

Text

When it’s Over

Charles Xavier x Female! reader

warning: Angst! so much angst! and a touch of smut!

Summary: This is a sad story

A/n: I love this! I don’t usually write things this angsty, but the feels were too feely not to write this idea. (I freaking love Charles btw, and this even hurt me to write) @mandalorian-slut I understand if you don’t read this, I’m sorry.

You were trembling, you couldn’t keep your hands from shaking. Your whole world was falling apart around you. The life you spent the last three years building destroyed in just a moment.

“I can’t… I can’t believe you did that,” you croaked, not daring to look up at the baby blue eyes that were watching you.

You giggled, as a pair of arms snaked around your waist. Soft lips sprinkled kisses over your bare shoulder. You tried to go back to sleep, keeping your tightly shut.

Then a hand gently caressed your upper arm, and you could smell his cologne as his chest pressed against your back.

You peeked your eyes open to see light seeping through the crack between the curtains.

“Good morning,” Charles whispered in your ear. “It wasn’t my intentions to wake you, I just wanted to steal some of your affection before I left.”

You and Charles had been dating for about 8 months, the two of you took turns sleeping over at each other’s home.

Charles constantly pointed out that there was enough space in his home for you to move in with him, but you had always refused not wanting to rush into things.

This was the first relationship you ever had with someone like you, another mutant.

It felt so wonderful not having to hide that aspect of your life. In fact, with Charles, you were able to explore your abilities, improve your control over them, and have someone to share it all with.

You loved hearing about his dreams to meet other mutants, and his desire to create a place where they could come and learn without judgment or fear. You suppose that it was just a side effect of being in love, but soon you wanted to help his dream become a reality.

A school for mutants. Good thing both of you were professors.

“Your thoughts are awfully romantic this morning,” Charles mused nuzzling against your neck. “So, my love has inspired you to also help others like us?”

You pouted, “That’s not fair… you shouldn’t be snooping in my head when I’ve barely woken up! It’s cheating!”

“But I love hearing your first conscious thoughts of the day, they’re always so sweet like you.”

You laughed, rolling over onto your back so you could look at him, “Well aren’t you being awfully romantic as well!”

Your fingers ran through his silky brown hair, pushing the strands that had fallen in front of his eyes back. You loved his eyes, they were the bluest blue and so big.

Charles smiled at you, his finger tracing your jaw. “Sadly, I have work to do this morning,” he sighed. “I love you.”

He quickly kissed your lips, before getting up from the bed.

“Y/n,” he calmly said your name. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Tears started to fall.

You desperately wanted to hide, to wish it all away. You didn’t want to have to deal with reality. How could he have betrayed you like this? How could he hurt you like this?

“It’s too late for that!” you muttered.

About a month later, you gave in and moved in with him. It was exciting to know that from now on you’d fall asleep in his arms and wake up to his smiling face.

It was also fun getting to know Eric, Raven, Hank, and the others. It was wonderful knowing that there were others like you, that you weren’t all alone in the world.

These months spent with Charles have been the happiest in your life. You were convinced that he was your soulmate, your one and only.

Your hands were tangled in his hair, as the two of you feverishly kissed one another. His hands were on your waist, and you were straddling his lap.

He started kissing along your jaw, then down your neck, gently sucking on your soft flesh.

You moaned and grinded your hips against his.

His hands moved down to your thighs. Slowly, they explored underneath your dress. His fingers curled around the waistband of your panties and started to pull them down.

He flipped you over so you were on your back.

“Have I told you how stunning you are?” Charles said playfully. “You are literally the most beautiful woman.”

He leaned down kissing your lips again before he helped remove your dress.You laid there bare, as his blue eyes took in all your beauty.

“Thank you for moving in with me,” he murmured. “I want to be with you as much as possible.”

You ran your hands up his chest and started undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“I want the same thing,” you replied. “I love you, Charles.”

You kissed along his collarbone and chest. He hummed under your tender and loving touch.

You couldn’t contain all the emotions you were feeling. Finding out the truth was so painful. It made you question your entire relationship with him.

Was any of it real? How could you believe that he loves you?

After the incident on the beach, you stayed by his side and supported him any way you could. Because of your efforts, you managed to keep the school running, while Charles processed the loss of his legs, his best friend, and his sister.

He had felt completely abandoned, except for you and Hank. If it hadn’t been for the two of you, who knows what kind of state he would be in. His relationship with you became that much stronger, fortified by your dedication to him and his school.

Finally, when he felt able and healthy enough, he went back to running the school and finding young mutants who needed guidance. With the two of you working together, Charles was sure that you and he could change the world’s perspective on mutant change.

Charles watched you strutted down the hall, a lovely smile on your lips. Your high heels clicking against the hardwood floors as you headed towards your classroom.

A couple of girls ran passed you,“Good morning, Professor l/n!”

“Good morning, girls!” you said cheerfully.

Charles could feel his heart swell, you kept his dream alive for his sake. He knew that he would never find anyone else as perfect as you. And just like that, it became clear to Charles that there was only one thing left to do.

One morning, the two of you were sitting outside on the school grounds, drinking tea. It was so peaceful. There was a light breeze and everything was quiet. It was almost as if you and Charles were the only two people on Earth.

You looked like an angel, as the morning light illuminated the delicate features of your face. He couldn’t contain himself any longer.

“I was planning on waiting until our 2 year anniversary, but I don’t think I can wait a week,” Charles looked over at you his eyes were sparkling.

“Y/n, will you marry me?”

He presented you with a small velvet box, inside was a delicate engagement ring.

Charles sat up trying to get closer to you, but you shrunk away. It hurt him seeing you so upset and inconsolable.

It stung even more, seeing how badly he wanted to comfort you. He attempted to read your thoughts, but you blocked him.

Planning a wedding was a lot of work. Charles and you agreed that having it in the courtyard would make a lovely venue.

Almost everything was ready, caterers had been selected, a band to play during the reception had been chosen, you picked out the bridesmaid dresses, all of it was coming together.

It was close to 1 o’clock in the morning, and you were still worrying about the wedding’s smaller detail. Charles was already fast asleep so you couldn’t get his opinion on what fabric napkins were better.

You groaned inwardly, you hadn’t even started writing your vows yet.

You sighed, you knew that Charles had probably written the most beautiful vows anyone could ever imagine. He had such an amazing way with words. It was one of the many things you loved about him.

You took out a clean sheet of paper and a pen.

There were so many things you wanted to say about your soon to be husband. You had never loved anyone like you loved him.

But you were finding it incredibly difficult to put any of that into words. How could you say I love you more than anything, more eloquently?

You remembered when you first met him, you couldn’t believe that someone like him was real. No one could be that cute and yet sexy, or that charming and sweet, plus he was so intelligent.and wasn’t an ass about it.

What was even more unbelievable, was that he came up and started talking to you! Out of all the people in that bar that night, there something about you he fancied.

You fell for him, head over heels that night.

You looked over at Charles, who was quietly snoring. Standing up, you made your way over to the bed, you sat beside him. Carefully, you brushed his hair back with your fingers so you could admire his sleeping face.

Thinking about the night you first met him, had you curious about what he remembered about you.

You focused on his thoughts and tried to reach those memories from several years ago.

But instead what you found broke your heart.

“Y/n?” Charles asked waking up. “What’s wrong?”

You were trembling, you couldn’t keep your hands from shaking. Your whole world was falling apart around you. The life you spent the last three years building destroyed in just a moment.

“I can’t… I can’t believe you did that,” you croaked, not daring to look up at the baby blue eyes that were watching you.

“Y/n,” he calmly said your name. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

Tears started to fall.

You desperately wanted to hide, to wish it all away. You didn’t want to have to deal with reality. How could he have betrayed you like this? How could he hurt you like this?

“It’s too late for that!” you muttered.

You couldn’t contain all the emotions you were feeling. Finding out the truth was so painful. It made you question your entire relationship with him.

Was any of it real? How could you believe that he loves you?

Charles sat up trying to get closer to you, but you shrunk away. It hurt him seeing so upset and inconsolable.

It stung even more, seeing how badly he wanted to comfort you.

He attempted to read your thoughts, but you blocked him.

“You got close to me just so you could control me…” you mumbled staring at the ground. “You needed to gain trust, so you could get inside my head.”

“Y/n, dear, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve lied to me since the beginning,” you sobbed.

Charles gulped as it dawned on him, he never wanted to you to find out.

“Y/n please, I love you,” he tried to console you. “I was concerned, your gift is unparalleled in power,” he confessed. “I was worried what would happen if you lost control.”

“Then you should’ve trusted me! You should’ve told me!” you cried. “I would’ve understood… I would’ve given you permission…”

“I’m sorry… y/n, I will spend the rest of my life making this up to you.”

Charles reached out to take your hand. You shook your head. You tugged the ring off your finger.

“I can’t…” you whispered as you placed the ring on his open hand.

Charles closed his fingers around the ring tightly as he watched you walk out. He broke down once you closed the door.

The pain he was feeling was unbearable. Why didn’t he see this coming?

That day when he first met you, he had no idea how much you’d mean to him.

Charles found you through Cerebro. You were incredibly powerful, however, most of that power was untapped.

It had seemed like the best solution at the time, he’d get close to you, then place barriers in your mind to ensure that you would never lose control. He’d set limits to your abilities and you’d never even notice the difference.

It was what was best, not only for the world but for you as well. At least that’s what he tried to convince himself of.

He walked into the same pub you were at one night, and that’s how it all started. He bought you drink and the two of you started talking.

It was so easy to fall in love with you, even after he accomplished what he set out to do, he continued seeing you. Soon he was the one wanting you to live with him, then he wanted to make you his wife.

And now… he’s lost it all.

The pain he felt, hurt worse than when Raven and Eric left. He cried until he physically couldn’t anymore.

Hank quietly entered the room. Charles looked like an absolute mess, eyes red, hair matted, he looked like he had given up on everything.

“She’s gone…” Charles muttered not bothering to look up.

“I know,” Hank started sitting on the edge of the bed. “She asked me to take care of you before she left.”

Charles wanted to laugh and cry hearing that. “That’s so like her even when she’s angry she still cares… but I don’t know how to fix this, Hank.” He looked into his friend’s eyes, “I don’t want to feel anymore,” Charles begged. “I can’t tolerate this pain…”

Hank sighed, he promised you that he’d watch over Charles. And with the way Charles was acting, he was afraid that the professor would do something drastic.

“I’ll see what I can do in my lab,” Hank told Charles.

tags: @babe-with-thepower @skellingtonbatz @starfirette @captainbvckfire @harry-puddle @i-wished-upon-a-star-one-night @damalseer

#charles xavier #professor x #charles xavier x reader #charles xavier fanfiction #charles xavier fanfic #charles xavier imagine #charles xavier angst #marvel fanfiction #x-men fanfiction #marvel imagine #x-men imagine #female reader #reader insert #james mcavoy #james mcavoy charles xavier

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bibliosexxual · 7 years

Text

you know you’re on my mind

This is part 1/? of a human AU I’ve been wanting to write for AGES in which Derek and Stiles are long-distance friends/pen pals. Derek lives in California and Stiles lives in Poland. Features brief past Stiles/Malia (Derek and Malia aren’t related in this AU). Idk how long this fic could eventually get; I’m hoping to just work on it as I get the time/inspiration.

Title from “Mind Over Matter” by Young the Giant because that song always makes me think of LDRs.

EDIT: This WIP is now also up on AO3 here.

If there’s one thing Derek’s learned in life, it’s that crushing on someone who lives on an entire other fucking continent is probably a bad idea.

He’s got dozens of photos of Stiles saved to his phone, and a whole box of letters from Stiles, and years’ worth of emails from Stiles, and a whole wall of postcards from Stiles pinned up on the wall over his bed, and none of it is enough.

He wants to do things to Stiles, okay, things besides just watch movies together in two different time zones or talk on skype.

...which… is kind of a new feeling.

Derek didn’t even know he liked guys until three years ago, freshman year of high school, when Stiles came home from a party raving about this girl he’d kissed, Malia something-or-other, and how Malia’s hair was so soft, and how Malia had the prettiest brown eyes and the best laugh, and—and suddenly Derek wanted to throw his computer against the wall.

“I have to go,” he’d snapped, and slammed his laptop shut and thrown on some jogging clothes.

He was five miles deep into the Preserve before it really sank in, not just the jealousy but the absurdity of the jealousy. He and Stiles had never even met, technically. They were probably never going to live in the same country. There was no logical reason for them not to date other people. Especially given that Stiles might not even like guys, or like him.

Still, he was secretly, guiltily, viciously satisfied when Stiles and Malia broke up barely two weeks later.

And since then the crush has gotten, if anything, worse.

They weren’t always even that close. They didn’t write to each other every week, or even every few weeks, not at first.

At first it was just Derek in his second grade classroom, the teacher passing out their first letters from their new Polish pen pals, all shaky too-large handwriting on paper colorful with crayon doodles. Derek’s was from some kid named Mieczysław Stilinski. (Stiles didn’t go by Stiles yet.) Not even Derek’s teacher could pronounce it.

It was almost Thanksgiving—an American holiday but not a Polish one, apparently; Derek was aghast—and Stiles' class was learning about American culture. Stiles had drawn a turkey, sloppily tracing his hand and adding feathers. The other kids' pen pals had colored theirs in various shades of brown, red, and yellow; Stiles had given his green and purple stripes.

“What a weirdo,” one of the other kids had sneered, so at recess Derek pushed him off the monkey bars and gave him a bloody nose.

Derek still has the turkey card in a box in his closet. It's where he keeps all his letters from Stiles. He'd been embarrassed about it for a long time, until one day a few years ago when Stiles admitted offhand that he had a similar box under his bed.

At this point he can’t really remember what it’s like not to be pen pals with Stiles.

He’s known Stiles through all his weird phases: that one year he was embarrassingly obsessed with Tobey Maguire, and that brief period when he took to sketching strangers’ shoes on public transit, and that month he wanted them to write to each other only in Elvish because they had both gotten hooked on Lord of the Rings at the same time. He knew Stiles back when he still pronounced “ship” like “sheep” and thought a daffodil was a species of bird. He was there when Stiles had an awkward Bieber haircut and an even awkwarder crush on this girl in his class named Lydia. He was there when Stiles’ mom died.

And Stiles was there in fourth grade for Derek’s intense obsession with wolves, when he took to memorizing wolf facts, referring to his mom as “the alpha,” and practicing his howling just in case he was ever stranded in the wilderness and adopted by a wolf pack. (He read Jean Craighead George's Julie of the Wolves fourteen times in a row that summer, and probably would have kept on reading it if he hadn’t accidentally dropped it in his cousin’s pool.) To this day Stiles sends him snapchats of every wolf-themed thing he stumbles upon, mugs and T-shirts and ads on the tram, and whenever Derek is in a bad mood, Stiles calls him “Sourwolf.” He thinks it’s hilarious. (So do Derek’s sisters, and now they’ve started calling him that, too.)

Everyone at school thinks Derek is cool, but Stiles knows better. And Stiles likes him anyway.

These days they skype every chance they get, although that’s not as often as they’d like, thanks to the nine-hour time difference between Beacon Hills and Warsaw. Most days they text each other good morning and good night. They send each other copious amounts of postcards. They have a standing date every Friday afternoon (Derek) / Friday night (Stiles) to watch movies together on Netflix. And Derek has already planned every detail of their wedding in his head, down to the flowers (peonies, Stiles’ mom’s favorite), the color scheme (red and black), and the cake flavor (red velvet).

At this point he’s not sure which fantasies are more embarrassing, the wedding ones or the… other ones. The ones where Derek is there with Stiles, curling up with him in bed, undressing him, exploring, coaxing moans from Stiles’ mouth and kissing his moles.

Usually, whenever he sees Stiles on skype, he’s wearing at least two layers, more often three—some kind of hoodie over some kind of plaid over some kind of graphic tee. In winter he’s likely to be wearing a beanie and scarf as well. Derek hates when Stiles wears scarves, even though Stiles looks good in them, because then he can’t sneak glances at Stiles’ neck during their skype calls.

Sometimes, though, when it’s late enough at night, Derek gets to see Stiles stripped down to just his plaid pajama bottoms and a well-worn Wonder Woman tee that’s so large it nearly reaches his knees. It’s Derek’s favorite of Stiles’ shirts because it hangs so soft and loose on his lanky frame, showing off the lean cords of muscle in his arms and giving Derek a tantalizing glimpse of his collarbones and the hollow of his throat.

That’s Derek’s favorite thing to fantasize about, Stiles in nothing but the Wonder Woman t-shirt. Just thinking about it always sends a low swoop through his belly, like the drop in a roller coaster.

Still, it’s not like anything’s going to happen. Poland is almost six thousand miles away, a number so huge it boggles Derek’s mind. It’s the very definition of impossible.

Derek just has to keep reminding himself of that.

Sometimes Derek entertains himself imagining absurd scenarios. Moving into a Sims house with Stiles in place of a real one. Marrying Stiles over Skype, both of them holding up their rings in different countries, kissing the screen to seal the deal. Texting each other flower emojis every Valentine's Day, cake emojis every anniversary. Derek, one hundred years old and in a nursing home, nearly blind but still crouched over his (now ancient) laptop and skyping a wizened, grey-haired Stiles in a bathrobe and slippers.

It’s kind of depressing.

(tbc, probably, if you guys like it)

(part 2)

#my fic #sterek fanfiction #wip #the pen pal au #also pls correct me if i ever get any facts about poland wrong in this fic

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astoldbyacertifiedunicorn · 7 years

Text

Ready ?

Prompt : Season 12 Prompt: april and jackson find out on ultrasound that harriet is a girl?

Thank you anon, for sending me this prompt and I’m so sorry if it came out more as a short drabble than anything too long but this is how I saw it happen. And it’s really hard to write season 12 japril without some angst. Hope you’re not too disappointed. :)

Disclaimer : I do not own the characters, they are property of Grey’s Anatomy and Shonda Rhimes

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“Do you have a preference ?“

Alive, he wanted to say. His preference is that whatever the baby would be, he or she would be alive. They would be healthy and they wouldn’t die 2 hours after they were born. That’s all he wanted. That was his preference. But he couldn’t possibly say that. The last thing he wanted was to remind April of the last time they were pregnant and he didn’t want the resident Arizona had left them with to take the scan to think that he was being intentionally sadistic. But he looked over at April and saw the way she was looking back at him and realised that she was thinking the same thing, that neither of them cared even a little bit for this baby’s gender as long as they would have a baby to take home this time. It broke his heart, because she was happy, she was excited for this baby and there was a glow in her eyes whenever their baby popped up on the screen, but that underlying sadness and fear never goes away. It looms beneath her excitement and stops her from fully allowing herself to accept this baby. He knew part of her was prepared for there to not be a baby at the end of this, because they knew the most disappointing, bleak truth about pregnancy; there wasn’t always going to be a baby.

“We really don’t care as long as he’s healthy.” He hears her say, voice breaking towards the end.

He wants to take her hand so that she knows he’s here with her but he promised himself that with the divorce he let go all of his privileges to have physical contact with her no matter how badly he wanted to sometimes. There would be days when he’d notice a stray curl that he wanted to run his finger through, when he saw her flushed cheeks and wanted to run his thumb across her skin or when she’d wear a tank top, stretching it across her ever growing bump and he would want to touch her stomach, feel their baby grow and maybe even kick, without been asked to. But he couldn’t. He signed off his privileges when he signed that stupid piece of paper. There are times when he regrets it and if he’s really honest he regrets it all the time. He reminds himself that he was trapped and he needed to get out but every day that excuse becomes weaker and he realises he’s just kidding himself because he’s never felt more trapped than he did right now.

“Alright then, let’s get started."

He watches the resident slathers the gel over her bump, placing the probe on her skin and running it over the bump, immediately popping their little baby into the screen. He has done this before, but it never fails to put him in a state of complete awe that the image on the screen was of the child he and April made together. He looks on, patiently awaiting the the verdict, enchanted by the way they moved inside the womb.

"Let’s see here, if only this one would move a little bit mo- Oh wait ! There we go. It’s …. It’s a baby girl ! Congratulations !” She said, smiling widely at the two of them.

Oh shit, he thought. A girl. A baby girl. He had no idea how to raise a baby girl. A boy, sure. He knew how to raise a boy. But a girl was a whole other ball game. He thought, back when him and April were pregnant with Samuel and in their blissful ignorance talking about more children, that he would have the chance to raise a son first before he raised a daughter, so that he would tackle the difficulty of raising a baby before he would be confronted by the added hardness of raising a daughter. He has to raise her right, raise her to be a strong, independent woman in a world plagued by patriarchy and discrimination. What if he failed ? What if he failed her ? What if he couldn’t love her enough, or protect her enough ? What if he disappointed her ?

“We’re having a girl.” April whispered, tears starting to form on her eyes.

He looks at her, and realises that the warm feeling in his heart wasn’t just because of how happy she looked but because, he glanced down at his lap and realised, she had taken his hand, intertwining their fingers together. He hadn’t held her in a while and the feeling was overwhelming. He smiled at her, squeezing her hand and it hit him. He wasn’t raising this baby alone. He had her. He had April. She would help him. She was born to be a mother, an absolute natural at it, and she knew exactly how to raise a little girl. She would be with him, beside him, helping him along, making sure that even if he takes a stumble, their baby girl will be alright.

“I want her to be exactly like you.” He says, his heart speaking before his mind can catch up. He sees her looking back at him in a bit of a shock because he knew she didn’t expect such an endearing statement from him, but now that he put it out there he doesn’t want to take it back. It’s true, he does want his baby to be like her, good, kind, loving, humble, intelligent and strong. And of course, it wouldn’t hurt if she had her hazel eyes and dimples, her soft skin and those freckles that run across her nose and collarbone. He would have no complaints having her take after the most beautiful woman he knew.

“But I want her to have your eyes.” She insists, gazing deeply into his. He knows she’s always had a preference for them, letting him know that they’ve always been an aphrodisiac.

“Yours are prettier.” He replies, smiling at her, and watches her blush. “And with your dimples."

He knows he hasn’t complimented her in a while, and so this whole thing is awkward and uncomfortable and he can’t help but hate himself for that.

"Fine, but she is going to have your curls. No arguing with me on this one !” She teases, grinning at him and he marvels in the fact that he hasn’t seen this smile from her, genuine, full and lively, in a long time.

“Aright, I’ll let you have that one.” He laughs, noticing how their fingers were still clasped together.

“She’s going to perfect either way,” She says, gazing wistfully at the screen, “because she ours."

He smiles at that. She’s ours. He loves the sound of that. Their baby. Another baby. If anything was a miracle, this has to be it. This baby was a miracle, because it came to them at a time they needed it the most.

"Yes she is."

He looks at her then, and he sees the regret in her face too. The want to be closer, to experience this together, with each other instead of individually. This is what their choices has led them to. He sees the regret in her eyes and wonders if she sees the same in his.

He wants to tell her he’s sorry, because maybe that’ll make a difference, maybe it will change them. He isn’t sure.

"April, I-”

“Hope that was enough time you got to spend with your baby, Doctors."

Jackson gets interrupted by the resident, whom he never noticed walk out of the room in the first place. He both hates the fact that he got interrupted and is relieved because he’s not sure if he was ready to have that conversation yet, especially when they were both so happy, and because he wasn’t sure she’ll say sorry back.

"Yes it was.” April replies, although it takes a while for her eyes to leave his. “Can we have a sonogram ?"

"Sure thing. How many ?"

"Just one.” He says.

“Two,” April replies, staring at him in confusion, until he remembers that they don’t live together anymore and so they can’t do with just one sonogram that they’ll put up in their fridge, “We’ll need two."

The resident causally nods, not understanding the depth of the moment that had just passed, not understanding what it meant to Jackson that he forgot that they now needed two pictures for their separate apartments, separate lives. Like the two nurseries, the two cribs, the two rocking chairs and the two houses where their baby will grow up to call home.

He takes the picture handed to me and stuffs it in his pocket, suddenly finding it hard to look at it.

"Ready ?” She asks him, getting down from the bed and grabbing her bag.

He knew she meant ‘ready to go’, but he couldn’t help but wonder at the other meaning of those words. Was he ready ? Ready for what ? Raising a baby ? Sure. With April’s help, of course. Ready to accept the fact that the divorce ruined the chances of him having a perfect family under one roof ? He didn’t think he’d ever be ready to accept that.

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Please send me your lovely prompt requests - I will write as inspiration hits :) And there’s no closing date or anything lol Send as many as you’d like for the foreseeable future and let me know if this was at least halfway decent :)

Published on fanfiction.net : https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12104676/6/My-Love-Will-Clothe-Your-Bones

#japril #fanfiction #jackson avery #april kepner #harriet kepner avery

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