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ladyinwriting18 · 7 months

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A Gift For A Hound (Sandor Clegane x Reader)

Summary: Joffrey gives his faithful Hound a gift---you.

Words: 5,277 Warnings: PIV, Oral sex, Master/Slave,

The Hound walks down the long stone corridor that leads to his room. In his right hand he carries a wineskin filled with the first thing he could get his fucking hands on. Being the personal bodyguard to a cunt like Joffrey is no easy task. The little shit is ruthlessly cruel. Which is saying something coming from him. Sandor Clegane isn’t known for being kind hearted but he’s no Joffrey. The boy is sick in the head. He does his best to push it from his mind. The day is done, meaning he can forget the shit from the day and drown himself in wine alone until the numbness of sleep takes him. This is Sandor’s nightly ritual. One that he honestly looks forward to. But when he opens the door, he isn’t greeted by the usual solitude. Instead, there’s a naked woman kneeling on the floor beside his bed.

It takes him a moment to get over the initial shock, but when he does, his voice booms throughout his chamber. “What the fuck is this? What are you doing here?” You lift your head to look at him, keeping your hands palms up on the tops of your knees. You’re as naked as your nameday, all except your neck. Tied around it is a yellow ribbon with three black dogs down the front—the colors and sigil of his house. “Hello, My Lord Hound.” “I’m no lord. So you can keep those meaningless titles to yourself.” You nod but stay silent. Sandor growls, nearly barking at you. “Well? Are you going to tell me what the fuck you’re doing in here?” You don’t even flinch at his raised voice, just answer him softly with a voice as warm as honey. “I belong to you. I am yours to do with as you please.” His brows pull together, not understanding the words that just left your mouth. “What?” You smile and patiently repeat yourself. “I belong to you now, for as long as you want me.” Your words have his eyes roam over your body for the first time. Every curve, the smoothness of your skin, and the way the chill in the room already has your nipples hard makes his cock twitch. “I’m a gift from King Joffrey.” That catches his attention. Joffrey barely spared him a glance. Now he was giving him gifts? “You’re…my gift.” You smile warmly. “Yes. Master.” That was new. No one had ever called him that before. He isn’t sure how to feel about it, but it’s far better than being called ‘my lord’. He steps over the threshold and lets the door shut behind him before moving closer. At his approach, you once again bow your head. There’s a gentle air about you. It’s something that isn’t a typical trait to the women found on the Streets of Silk. Not that Sandor was a frequent visitor. Most women couldn’t stomach looking at his scarred face. Even when he paid them, they struggled. What was the point of wasting coin on that?

You, on the other hand, are almost intoxicatingly feminine. It makes him want to press his nose to your cunt and breathe in your scent. He looks down at you, feeling more curious and less irritated than when he first walked in. “You said you belong to me?” You nod. “So, you’ll do anything I ask you to?” You keep your eyes downcast but respond without hesitation. “Yes, Master Hound. It will bring me great pleasure to fulfill your every request.”

A tension builds through his frame. Not out of anger, but anticipation. Anticipation to feel release that he often doesn’t get unless he takes his cock in his hand. “Look at me,” he commands. You do so eagerly, looking at him without a speck of fear. He searches your eyes for the lie, determined to find it. He is the Hound afterall. Usually he could smell a liar from yards away, but with you, he only sees devotion. As if you truly wish to serve him. Most were intimidated or afraid of him, but this is something different. It’s submission. It awakens his more animalistic needs. The part that wants nothing more than to fuck and claim and breed. His unscarred eye twitches as his hand moves to your cheek—to see if you’ll flinch at his touch. But, fuck, you lean into his palm and press your lips to the pad of his gloved tumb. Never once averting your gaze. He lets out a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding. You’re all his. He starts to pull his armor and clothes from his body. You sit up on your knees, helping where you can. You manage to pull the gauntlets from his hands and unbuckle his sword belt. But the rest he does. His fingers move too fast and he knows the armor like the back of his hand. You find other ways to make yourself useful, taking items from him and gently placing them down while he throws the rest on the floor. When he’s left in nothing but his pants and boots, your hand lightly runs over the bulge in the front of his pants. Involuntarily, he bucks into your touch, wanting more. However, you make no move to continue past teasing touches. He grunts impatiently, catching your attention. Your eyes meet, your head tilting to the side as you whisper the words…. “Command me, Master.” Command? Why the fuck would he need to do that? Any other whore he’d ever slept with always took matters into their own hands and rushed to get things over with. “Tell me how to please you. I just want to please my Master.” Your pleading tone shoots right to his already hardening cock. The corners of his mouth twitch into a grin while his hand moves to the back of your skull. He pulls you in, guiding you closer to his groin.

“Kiss it.” Immediately, you obey, leaving kisses along his clothed cock. Only the linen of his pants separates you, but still he can feel the warmth of your mouth. Sandor lets out a rough growl while undoing the knot at the front of his pants. “Don’t stop.” You coo as sweetly as a dove and your kisses become more passionate as moans escape your parted lips. You hold eye contact with him without fear, without disgust, without judgment. He can’t recall a time when even his fellow King’s Guard was able to look at him, let alone a woman. Everything about this is different. You are different.

You look at him with desire. It only makes him more eager to sink his cock into you. However, once the cloth falls away to reveal his fully naked form, you sit back on your heels with your feet folded beneath you. You sit with your spine perfectly straight and your hands resting on your knees. You look more like a high born lady than a common whore. So submissive and pretty. “You’re waiting for my command, aren’t you?” His hand comes down to wrap around the length of his aching cock. Your eyes dart to the movement of his hand. You seem transfixed but still manage to respond, “My sole purpose is to give my Master pleasure. I’m your property to do with as you please.”

“My property?” he breathes and starts to slowly stroke himself. He does this more to tease you than himself. It clearly works because you only seem able to nod. A sly grin comes across his features. “You’re my property,” he repeats, louder to refocus you. “A beautiful…little thing…that belongs to me.” Sandor pants between words, stroking himself with a firmer grip.

“Yes, Master,” you moan with a lick of your lips. “I belong to you and only you.”

“Then be a good girl and come suck your Master’s cock.” You rise onto your knees so fast that you almost take him by surprise. Within moments, you’re pushing his hand away and wrapping your own around the base while your tongue traces over the veins in his shaft. “Your cock is so thick,” you moan out. Sandor isn’t sure if you meant to say that out loud but it hardly matters once you wrap your lips around the head of his cock. Your hand and mouth work in tandem—tugging firmly while lovingly sucking. That is…until you drop your hand away and swallow his cock whole. “Fucking Hells,” he swears and involuntarily bucks his hips forward. You hum, tightening your lips around his thickness as you pick up the pace and bob your head up and down. He watches you intently. Dark brown irises burn with lust as you suck him off like your life depended on it. “Filthy thing is enjoying this, isn’t she?” he pants, dick stiffening and pulsing in your mouth.

You nod with a happy little hum, and Sandor can’t fight the smile that tugs at the corners of his scarred lips. Your mouth is warm and so fucking inviting, like his cock was always meant to be there. He wants more. His hand shoots out to grip the back of your head as thick fingers tangle in the locks of your hair. He moves you up and down at just the right pace. You obey his physical command, allowing him to fuck your mouth while you drool all over him. Sandor is by no means a small man and his cock is no different, but you handle it with skill. The sloppy, wet sounds of you sucking with such enthusiasm makes him feel drunk. The pleasure courses through him, all the way down to his toes. It’s almost too much. And your big, beautiful eyes don’t make it any easier. They’re full of affection while unshed tears prickle at the corners of your eyes from how wide your mouth is stretched open. He slams his cock into your throat, hitting as deeply as you can possibly take him. Your hands and nails dig into his thighs to hold yourself steady. “That’s it,” he grunts, “take it.” You moan and gag with your brows knit together. He would have thought you were in pain if it wasn’t for the blissed expression on your face.

Sandor takes all of you in, wanting to commit the image of you gagging on his cock to memory. So that when you were gone, he’d at least still have that. But that’s when he catches sight of you pressing your thighs together. The blood in his veins sings. You’re getting off on this.

On pleasing him. On having his cock in your mouth. On obeying. Suddenly, having you down on the ground isn’t enough. He forcefully pulls away, slipping his cock out of your mouth. You whine at the loss and lean forward to try and get him back in your mouth, but not even your alluring mouth will keep a man like The Hound from getting what he wants. Bending at the waist, he shoves his hands under your armpits and lifts you up from the ground before throwing you onto his bed. You yelp when your back hits the mattress. Sandor simply grins at your shock from being so easily manhandled. “Is that cunt as pretty as your face, girl?” Blood rushes to your cheeks, coloring them, but still you open your legs, baring yourself. You’re a soaking, dripping mess. He’s certain he’s never seen a cunt as wet as yours is right now. It makes his throat feel dry…and in desperate need of a drink. Not willing to wait any longer, Sandor sinks to his knees and dives his face between your thighs. His tongue drags along your folds before it grazes your clit. Even at the slightest touch, you sigh and arch into his mouth. “More. Please, give me more.” Your pleas are sweet. So sweet that he’s no longer interested in teasing. He repeats the movement of his tongue but this time uses the flat of it to press firmer against your sensitive bud. You cry out, thighs closing tightly around his head. Sandor grunts, his arms sliding under your legs. He curls them around your thighs and uses his hands to keep your legs apart. With your movements restricted, he smashes his mouth against your clit. His lips wrap around it and suck. You buck and manage to throw a leg over his shoulder. Your foot presses against his broad back, using it as leverage to grind your hips towards his mouth. He smirks, proud that he’s the one eliciting such a response from you. While it’s true he rarely spends his coin on whores, this skill was something he learned long before his days at King’s Landing. In his youth, there had been a servant girl who worked in the kitchens. They had grown up together and thus she hadn’t ever feared his burned face. Exploring one another's bodies had felt natural. That’s how Sandor became acquainted with the taste of women. Once upon a time, they might have been married…if Gregor hadn’t found out and killed her in a jealous rage. Sandor forces the past from his mind. There’s no use in it when he has your cunt filling his senses. He savors the taste on his tongue, using it to flick your clit while sucking on it. You continue to buck and cry out, the pleasure clearly building for you. But he doesn’t want you reaching your peak just yet. He moves away, only slightly. His saliva mixes with your slick. They drip together making you all the more wet. It’s a delicious sight.

“Messy thing,” he praises, and he can feel the way your toes curl against his back. “You know,” he continues, “I usually spend my nights drinking but you’ve interrupted that.” Purposely, he pauses, letting you think he’s actually upset. You whimper, ready to apologize but Sandor speaks over you, his voice huskier than before. “Are you going to make it up to me, girl? And give me something else to drink?” You stumble over your words but still manage to speak, “Y-Yes Master, anything.”

Sandor hums from the back of his throat and swipes your clit with his tongue before answering. “Then be a good little slut and cum on my tongue.” Not bothering to wait for a reply, he runs his tongue to your slit, gathering more juices along the way. He probes your entrance before letting it fill you. You gasp in time with his moan. No longer can he taste the wine he was previously drinking. His taste buds are filled with nothing but your cunt. He vigorously pumps his tongue in and out of you. Your hands find his head, fingers tangle in hair in an attempt to tug him in deeper. “Fuckkkk, you’re so good with your tongue, Master!” Usually Sandor hates being touched without permission, but you’re so desperate it feels like he’d be committing a sin if he stopped you.

Besides, you’re dripping down his chin and giving him exactly what he wanted—a drink. But like a man starved, he wants more. He presses his thumb to your clit to stroke it. You throw your head back and sing. It’s the purest music he’s ever heard.

The louder you moan, the harder his cock throbs.

For the next few moments, the only sounds are your cries of pleasure and his grunts against your core.

It isn’t long before you start trembling, to the point that even your inner thighs shake.

“I…I’m going to–”

You don’t need to finish your sentence for Sandor to know that you’re about to cum. He doesn’t let up the movements of his tongue or the pressure to your clit but still you try to force words out of your mouth. “P-Please. Please can I–?” Realization flashes through him. You were asking for permission to cum. Why you think you needed to ask, Sandor doesn’t know, but Gods if it isn’t the most erotic fucking thing. He moves away just enough to speak. “Go on, girl. Give me what I want and cum.” His tongue plunges back into your depths and you spasm around it. When your orgasm hits, your entire body goes rigid and breathy, unrestrained moans bleed from your throat. His cock twitches wildly in response, precum surely dripping onto the stone floor he’s kneeling on. You’ve coated his tongue with your juices, making Sandor wonder if you’ll do the same to his cock. He works you through your aftershocks while drinking from you, licking up every drop he can. It's only when you fall limply back onto the mattress that he stops and removes his tongue and fingers from you. He sits back to look you over. You’re even more beautiful with a flushed face and glossed over eyes.

“Thank you for letting me cum, Master,” you murmur politely.

And just when he thought you couldn’t be any more perfect. Rising onto the bed, he grabs you by the back of the neck and hauls you towards him. His mouth crashes onto yours, forcing his tongue past your parted lips.

You return the kiss in a flurry of passion while your hands roam freely over his body. Starting from his shoulder, you trail your hands down his bare chest to his hip bones. He moans into your kiss, enjoying the feeling of your soft hands and the way you gently suck at his tongue.

Your hands continue downward until your fingertips brush against his still very hard cock.

He breaks the kiss with a smirk. “Something you want, Little One?” You brush your lips against his with a nod. “Make me belong to you.” “I thought you already did,” he teases gruffly with his hot breath in your face. “You’re my property, remember?” Color blooms across your cheeks, but whether it’s in satisfaction or embarrassment, Sandor isn’t sure. “I am. I belong to you, Lord Hound. I’m your—” He barks over you, cutting you off. “What did I say about that ‘my lord’ shit?” You instantly close your mouth, lips pressing into a thin line at your mistake. Fucking hells. He wanted to fuck you, not scold you. Sandor lets out a breath and forces himself to soften his tone. “I don’t need fancy titles, my name is good enough.” Your expression falls, the color draining from your cheeks. “King Joffrey only referred to you as ‘The Hound’. Is…Is that not your name?” You look upset, bordering on mortified but Sandor can’t stop the gruff laugh that bubbles from his chest.

“I should have known that slimy little bastard would pull something like that.” You look thoroughly confused. His dark eyes look you over, your once pliable body now stiff as stone. However, it’s the ribbon of his house sigil that catches his attention. It doesn’t have the same appeal now that he knows you don’t know what it means. “And I’m guessing he didn’t tell you the meaning behind this?” he questions bitterly and starts untying it from around your neck. You shake your head ‘no’. “Just that it would please you to see me wear it.” He pulls the ribbon free, but before he can toss it away, you grip his large hand with both of yours. “Tell me? Please, Master, I want to know.” You ask so sincerely that it halts his movements. Your eyes meet, and all his willpower leaves him. “It’s the sigil for my house.” “House?” you prompt in hopes he’ll continue.

“Clegane.” You smile bright, repeating after him so you could lock the information away forever. Sandor, on the other hand, is too distracted by the new rush of blood that pumps down to his groin. When he doesn’t say anything else, you squeeze his hand gently. “And my Master’s given name?” “Sandor.” “Sandor.” You take your time saying it, as if tasting his name on your tongue. “Sandor Clegane,” you whisper with a smirk, noticing how he starts leaning in closer. He doesn’t stop, forcing you to shift your position and slowly lay back onto the bed. “Master Sandor.” You moan and he growls. Your legs part to accommodate him and he places a hand beside your head, trapping you beneath him. “You don’t need to call me Master.” Your smirk widens. “But you like it when I do.” He huffs because you’re right. “Fucking vixen,” he snarls and kisses you hard. Your arms wrap around his broad shoulders and your legs hike up to his hips, allowing his cock to press against your core. You’re still so warm and wet that it’s almost painful to not plunge himself inside. And maybe he would have if you hadn’t been so smug just now. “Beg,” he commands, while the hand not holding him up grips your neck. “And tell your Master what you want.” His fingers wrap effortlessly around your throat. He doesn’t do this to hurt you, just to apply enough pressure so you know who’s in charge. To his surprise, you moan and tilt your head back to give him better access. “That’s better,” he coos and rewards you by running his tongue from your jawline to the shell of your ear. “Brat just needed to be put back in her place, didn’t she?” His hot breath in your ear gives you goosebumps. “Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.” “Then prove it.” He gives your throat another squeeze before releasing it. “I’ll behave, I swear.” Your hands run from his forearms, over his muscular shoulders and down his chest until the swell of your breasts are pressed against him. “I just want my Master to claim me. Want to feel him inside.” You pause and rock your hips forward to grind your cunt against his length. “Please, Sandor? Please fuck me.” It’s his name that does him in. He isn’t used hearing it, let alone someone saying it while asking him to fuck them. He straightens his back and guides your legs to fully wrap around his waist. You continue pleading but instead of giving you a verbal reply, he plunges balls deep inside of you. You both instantly tense. He, because of the tightness of your walls clinging around him, and you, because of the sudden intrusion of his cock demanding to be taken. “That’s it. Taking me so well,” he breathlessly praises, slowly moving out, then back in so you’d have time to adjust. He breathes out, watching his cock glisten from your juices when he pulls out a bit. Your head lulls to the side with a moan, feeling beyond stuffed full but also whole.

“Is this what you wanted, girl? To be speared on my cock and used?” “Yes!” you cry, trying to arch back to get his cock deeper. “Please use me. Ruin me for anyone else.”

At that, he slams into you, not being able to wait any longer. You yelp at the pressure, screaming and twisting your fists into the bedsheets. There’s no way he could keep his pace slow, not when you feel this good melting around his cock.

You had said you wanted to be ruined. Sandor Celegane might not be a lord, or a knight, or a gentleman, but he could most certainly ruin you with his cock.

He repositions your legs, throwing them over his shoulders so that your feet are by his ears. He’s able to fuck you even deeper now, his balls smacking against you with every brutal thrust.

His rhythm is rough and steady. And with how tightly he holds your legs in place, you can do nothing but lay there moaning and clenching around him.

“You’ll never forget this. When the next flimsy little knight comes along to fuck you, it’ll be my cock you think about.”

Your eyes screw shut, the pleasure building in your lower belly. It feels like he’s everywhere, filling your cunt and taking over your mind and body. How you manage to nod in response is beyond you. But a nod isn’t good enough.

“Say. It,” he snarls, punctuating his words with even deeper thrusts. You curl your toes with a whine. “It’ll be your cock, Master! Only your cock.” “Mhmm, good girl.” He looks down at where your bodies are joined and sees his cock, hard, ribbed with veins and coated in your juices as it thrusts in and out of your wet hole. It’s a glorious sight and it has his orgasm threatening to hit, but there’s something he has to do first. And that’s making you cum. He reaches between your bodies and easily finds your clit. He rubs it, strokes it, and draws circles on it until he finds the touch that has you babbling in broken, indecipherable sentences.

“I want you to cum,” he speaks in labored breathing, rubbing your clit while still spearing you on his length. “I want you to cum for me now. ”

For a moment, you fall completely silent, but then it hits. The unfiltered, beautiful howls that accompany your climax. All the while your inner walls close around him in the most delicious way.

He curses, lurching forward as you gush and spasm all over him. It’s too much and he’s quickly following you over the edge, filling you with his cum. Like a cat having their head scratched, an almost purring like sound leaves you at the feeling of him filling you with his seed. It has Sandor feeling dazed as to why that would please you, but his focus is on steadying his breathing as he comes down from cumming for the first time in fuck knows how long. Your breathing is also labored, while your eyes struggle to stay open. It’s clear you’re fighting off sleep. He carefully slips out of you, even more careful not to jostle you as he sits on the edge of the bed. He finds his wineskin from earlier by the foot of the bed. Greedily, he drinks from it until his throat no longer feels dry. Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of your naked form. If he was this thirsty, then your throat must be raw after all that screaming. He reaches for you, tugging you into his arms to help you sit up. You whine, eyes fluttering open, but relax when he pulls you to sit between his thighs and leans you against his chest. “Here, this will help soothe your throat.” He hands you the wineskin, which you graciously take. Sandor watches you take long, slow sips. A drop slips past your mouth and drips down your chin to land on your breast. He grins. He likes a woman who doesn't mind getting dirty. You’re just as beautiful now as you were when he first walked in to you demurely sitting on the floor. “Will you tell me your name?”

You lower the wineskin from your lips and say it with a smile. This time it’s he who repeats you, liking the way it rolls off his tongue. You nod, smiling at him before taking another drink. He stands and starts making his way to the basin of water set on a small table in the corner of the room. “Drink as much as you like. I can get more,” he says from over his shoulder as he starts washing away the sweat on his chest and the slick that you’ve managed to coat even his balls in. Afterwards, he puts on a pair of lightweight sleep pants. When he turns back to you, he expects to find you still drinking or dressing, but instead he finds you sitting on his bed and watching him. “Where are your nightclothes?” You fidget uncomfortably, looking away. Sandor grunts under his breath, he should have known this wouldn’t last. “If you don’t wish to stay, then just say so.” The bite in his voice is evident and you snap your head up in his direction. “I-It’s not that!” you protest. “I want to stay. I just…don’t have any clothes.” His brows pull together in confusion, “Joffrey didn’t leave your clothes here for you?” You shake your head ‘no’. That angers him. Joffrey was a callous shit but to leave you with nothing was just cruel. “No personal belongings? How the fuck did he expect you to get home after this?” You flinch, once again looking away. “The King said….” you trail off. “Nevermind, Master.” Your discomfort radiates off of you. Quietly, he fishes out a clean shirt out of a trunk at the end of the bed and makes his way over to you. “Arms up, Little One.”

You lift your head and see the shirt in his hands. You obey and he slips the shirt over your head and helps you dress. “This damn thing is going to look more like a dress on you, but it’ll do until morning.” You pull your knees to your chest while muttering a ‘thank you’. There’s still something bothering you and Sandor is determined to figure out what it is. “Look at me,” he commands, knowing you’ll obey. You do and he continues. “Do you know why they call me ‘The Hound’?” You stare at him in fascination and shake your head. “Because I can smell a lie as easily as I can breathe. So out with it. What’s upsetting you?”

You gnaw on your bottom lip before responding. “King Joffrey told me I didn’t need to pack anything because he bought me from the keeper of the pleasure house. He…” You falter, trying to find the bravery to continue. “He said that if you didn’t wish to keep me once we were through, that he’d pass me around to his other guards until they used me up. Or that maybe he’d kill me himself.” Rage boils in his blood. Not only because Joffrey put you through hell, but because he suddenly can’t bear the thought of another having you. “No one is going to touch what’s mine.” The threat of his words hangs in the air but you look relieved. “You…You mean you’ll keep me here with you?” Sandor nearly chokes because he hadn’t thought that far ahead. All he knew is that he didn’t want Joffrey or any other to get their hands on you. “Is…Is that what you want?” You smile bright, brighter than the summer’s sun. “Nothing would make me happier, Master.” As beautiful as you are, and as lovely as it sounds to have a warm cunt to bury himself in each night, the cold blade of reality cuts through. “Well don’t go making it sound like it’ll be all sunshine and lemoncakes. I’m not by any means a joy to live with and—” But you aren’t listening because you’re too busy crawling into his lap. You straddle him and nuzzle your face into the side of his neck. “Thank you, Sandor,” you whisper against his skin, melting against his body as you make yourself comfortable. No one had ever thanked him in his entire life. He isn’t sure how to handle it. The longer you lay against him, the more a warmth blooms inside his breastbone. He likes the way it feels having you close. It makes him feel things. Things he doesn’t have a name for. You let out a small sigh, seemingly starting to fall asleep while sitting up. He shifts and lays down on the bed with you still tucked against his chest.

There was no way of knowing what the future held, but Sandor Celange did know one thing….. This was the best damn present he’d ever received.

#lady in writing #sandor clegane #sandor x reader #sandor the hound clegane #sandor clegane smut #rory mccann

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yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy · 3 months

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DAI x BG3 matchups I need to see. I’m not good at writing crossovers nor am I clever at all. This is very much non-exhaustive and very much not the end point of these characters’ potential interactions with each other.

Karlach + Sera + Iron Bull

The absolute chaos. The absolute CHAOS. A powerhouse. Putting aside Karlach’s demon heritage aside, she and Iron Bull tossing back tankards and swapping war stories as vets that have been dealt shitty hands but continue to chug along despite it. Karlach and Sera connecting over growing up mainly on the streets and having soft spots for little ragamuffins. Plus they all talk about women’s tits a lot. I feel Sera would find Karlach sexy and funny.

Wyll + Cole

Like Solas and Varric, Wyll would take to Cole because he recognizes Cole’s desire to help others, even if his methods are a bit unorthodox. He would recognize Cole’s soul as gentle and kind, and his efforts to atone for the murders he committed in the Tower as proof of his humanity. He will join the Uncle-Dad Duo and complete the Uncle-Dad Trio. Cole would gravitate toward Wyll’s goodness in turn, and probably tell Wyll that him making a contract wasn’t foolish because in the end he saved a city, and if that was his desire, then he committed no sin in doing so.

Solas + Astarion

The messiest shit can only occur, and my messy bitch self wants to see it. Watch as Solas’s upright and stiff demeanor utterly bores Astarion. Watch as Astarion’s selfishness, penchant for violence, and casual disregard for the well-being of others utterly pisses Solas the fuck off. Watch as Astarion yawns or interrupts Solas’s lectures with a “yes, yes, we get it” or the most dramatic eyeroll and overwrought “ugh”. Watch as Solas and Astarion immediately sniff each other out as liars and schemers from first jump and hold each other at a distance, the tension spiking at random moments early in them knowing each other where the other prods at their falsehoods. Watch as Astarion is dumbfounded by Solas expressing his condolences to Astarion upon learning of Astarion’s enslavement to his master, because how could a man who holds such reproach for him still manage to feel pity? ‘It is not pity, but compassion, which you are at liberty to reject. That is your right as a free man, just as it is my right to feel it.’

In the best case scenario, Astarion calms down eventually, teasing Solas but still treating him like that friend of a friend that you grudgingly admit is useful. I think a part of Astarion would find Solas’s penchant dislike of him funny.

Vivienne + Astarion + Dorian

We are all doomed. The haughtiness will be scarcely contained. Dorian and Astarion are definitely flirting. Fucking? Not sure. But definitely flirting and enjoying killing bad guys, playfully arguing over wine, snickering over Solas’s shabby dress.

Shadowheart + Leliana

Tools forged to serve a religious order? Check. Crisis of faith? Check. Subterfuge preferred? Check.

Lae’zel + Cassandra

Soldiers recognizing soldiers. 🫡 ‘Why are the men around me so annoying.’

Minsc & Boo + Cole

Cole might be able to understand Boo! If not his speech, then his little hamster feelings. Minsc might be wary of Cole for the information that he manages to glean from Minsc’s head, but his unquestioned understanding of Boo would probably smooth that bump in the road, right?

Solas + Gale

A friend remarked that Gale would remind Solas too much of himself (prideful, ambitious) and thus they would not get along. There is that. I think that Gale would get a small smile out of Solas every now and then with his quips, because Solas himself is clearly a fan of banter; Gale would provide more of the energy in the same way Dorian does with his and Solas’s more civil banters. Gale and Solas also both hold a great measure of respect and adoration for magic as a force, an element, a piece of entirety that is beautiful for its own existence. Not simply just what magic can do for them as wielders of magic, but what it is and how it does so much to enhance a person’s understanding and interaction with the world, as precious as sight or sound.

Minthara + Iron Bull

Oh she will have him cowed in a goddamn minute. Oh man. Oh no. ‘Yes ma’am’, ‘no ma’am’.

Minthara + Cassandra

Oh this would be so interesting. Disciplined, serious bulwarks with little time for silly little men—Minthara would share Cassandra’s frustration and lack of amusement with Varric, though Cassandra would consider her suggestions to maim him.

Solas + Halsin + Iron Bull

I see potential here. Iron Bull and Solas already have a dynamic of Iron Bull’s “I have a pretty good idea of who you are, and it’s a liar” toward Solas, while Solas grudgingly respects Iron Bull’s strength and mental acumen in the same way you would respect a very intelligent bear—do not draw attention more than necessary, but stand tall lest it smell fear. Halsin feels like a softer Iron Bull, a mediation between the two. Like Iron Bull, his stature and build belies a thoughtful and sharp mind. Like Solas, he sees everything as connected, feeding into the other as part of a system, and would too feel a sense of loss at magic and mundane being so dramatically split as it is in Thedas—an aberration against what is natural. Also like Iron Bull, he’s frank with his sexuality. I’m certain the two would swap stories over booze. The trio would be arguably the three most mature and experienced in a room in any given situation. Not only that, but Halsin is far more actively in touch with his heart and honest with his feelings than Solas or Iron Bull. The latter two very much care about their loved ones, but with Solas it is under the surface and with Iron Bull it’s mixed up in cultural trappings of romance not being a “thing” in his culture, and thus both struggle with their feelings. Halsin however is very much in touch. There is next to nothing obstructing what his head and heart wants. He listens to his heart and he follows it. Solas and Iron Bull could learn a thing or two from him, tbh

Also I feel like Iron Bull, Halsin, and even Solas have a bit of a brat tamer streak in them so there’s that

Also Astarion would outright reject the notion of drinking Cullen’s blood cuz it smells like battery acid.

#bg3 #DA:I #shadowheart #gale #astarion #wyll #lae��zel #halsin #minthara #solas #vivienne #cassandra #varric #iron bull #dorian #sera #karlach #DAI #minsc

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mitsuyaya · 10 months

Text

[ epiphany ] tsukishima kei

contains: 1.3k+ words. teeny angst, knight tsukki x princess reader, kind of a prologue for my knight tsukki agenda

summary: The king, his master—tsukishima believes he is just like him, wise and honest, does not tell a lie even for his own sake. Yet, during his late-night patrol an epiphany came in the form of the person his master dislike. an epiphany that his master and the people residing in the palace, is not what he thinks they are.

end note: you would be surprised by the amount of drafts I have for this particular agenda

haikyuu masterlist

Spread far and wide, in numerous lands and kingdoms, is a valiant knight named Tsukishima Kei, who has achieved exceptional accolades, a man who is believed to be the progeny of the god of war himself and is widely known as the king's dog.

His master, to whom he devotes his utmost loyalty, is a man who leads his subordinates meticulously, metes punishment fitting for the criminals’ crime, and makes decisions that are only for the betterment of the kingdom.

Never did this faithful knight doubt his master's word, for he knew that the man he served was anything but a liar; he values honesty just like him.

But, upon knowing the second princess—the daughter his master despised wholly, the servants, and the other members of the royal family as well—he had come across an epiphany, a realization that perhaps his master wasn't the same man as he is.

The epiphany came to him in the dead of night, with stars decorating the heavens. Not a soul could be seen or felt in the gardens of the palace.

It should have been desolate and tranquil, like it always is when he goes about his late-night patrol around the palace. There should be no one but himself standing by the fountain; it should just be him admiring at the sight of the running water while he curses the one who had made this tight armor.

But to his surprise, in the somberness of the night, there sat a lady in white whose sobs filled the surrounding.

Each step he takes is with wariness, hardly putting the weight of his iron boots into the concrete, afraid that it'll leave a sound. His hand was mere inches from the handle of his sword, preparing himself in case of a sudden attack.

When he had finally taken his position at the back of the intruder, he placed his other hand on their shoulder, which earned him a jolt of surprise.

“State your name and your reason for being here this late at night.” His tone is dripping with demand, authoritative, similar to the way he interrogates the criminals he catches.

The woman in question does not utter a single word for a while; he is almost tempted to forcefully turn them around to glance at their faces until they raise their hands in defeat.

Atop his head, Tsukishima lists the names of the people he assumes to be the intruder, those who have ulterior motives against the royal family, yet none of them have been correct.

For the face of the intruder, one who was weeping by the fountain, belongs to none other than the person the king despises the most, the second princess.

“B-believe me, I do not have any ill intentions for being here. I simply wanted to be alone, and the next thing I knew, my feet had brought me here.” Not a credible justification, but for a second, he almost believed the princess's words, not until the voice and the words of his master rang in his ears.

‘The second princess is a good-for-nothing, virulent woman who has nothing except the looks and body that are nothing to be surprised of, for she is still of royal blood.’

‘The second princess is violent with her little siblings, envious of the way they are being pampered, destroying their jewelry and toys all because she wants to be the apple of everyone's eye inside the palace.’

Yet, the longer he stares at the woman who is said to be hostile, at the woman he accidentally caught crying all alone, the more this strange feeling resurfaces in his chest, smothering his train of thought.

His hold on your shoulder falls onto his side, your head still hangs low, possibly humiliated from being caught in this degrading position.

The knight clears his throat, breaking the awkward silence, “Your highness, it is very late, your father would not be pleased if he knew you were here. I suggest going back to your room.”

He expects you to put up a fight, act haughty, and push him off so you could run, just like everyone told him and just like his master warned him about.

“Thank you for your concern. I will do as you say, sir knight, but before I go, I beg of you not to say a word about this to my father.” Tsukishima thinks you are putting on an act as an obedient, benign daughter who has no flaws whatsoever. He was told that you were pretentious after all.

“You have my word, do be careful on your way back, your highness”

But in truth, he'd definitely tell your father about this. It isn't a lie he believes, it's his duty to report even trivial matters like this to his master, he's loyal to him after all. But you don't have to know that, he wouldn't say that to you outright, of course.

You bow curtly, unbefitting for a member of the royal family, but he does not tell you off, still playing out the part of a good daughter he presumes.

It was quiet, as it always has been. The princess his master warns him about, is on her way to head inside her bedroom, alone, with no guard whatsoever, at the most dangerous time of the day. Something inside his chest stirs, he can't quite decipher what it is.

Perhaps it has to do something with the chivalry code that was taught to him by his father and brother. A code that he should never let a woman walk alone, unguarded. for a knight must always think about the safety of the lady whether she is your master or not.

Tsukishima doesn't want to go against his master's warning, but he couldn't disobey his elders’ teachings as well, it's been deeply rooted in his brain, you see. So against the king's orders, he had to escort you, despised daughter or not.

You were about to round the corner when a sudden call made you halt. “For a moment, your highness!” It was the voice of the very knight who caught you crying a few minutes prior, he jogs to where you stood, standing just right in front of you.

Tsukishima is now seeing the entirety of your face; he takes note of the color of your eyes, which is similar to your father's, and your plump lips that reminds him of pomegranates but what steals his attention the most is the reddish color on your cheek, swollen. He raises his brows quizzically, pointing to your cheek, “What happened there?”

He watches as your eyes go wide, hands trying to shield your cheeks from his view. For the second time tonight, Tsukishima watches as you tremble in shock, and the corners of your eyes begin to water as if you're about to cry once more.

He wants to prod more about the red in your cheek but you have scurried away from him and run inside the palace as fast as you could, leaving the knight stunned and wondering.

Tsukishima remained there, still standing, lost in thought, dumbstruck at the way you ran away from him before he had gotten your answer.

But what really left him wondering the state you are in: a red print in your cheek as if it's been slapped, the back of your hand wounded, blood drying as if it's been hit earlier.

Surely, you'd been caught in an accident a few hours prior?

it doesn't look like an accident though.

Perhaps, this was one of your pretentious displays of being a pitiable princess, in order to steal the hearts of the people inside the palace?

It doesn't look like you did it to yourself though.

Then, if it is not. Did someone raise their hands on you?

But that's preposterous, he thinks. No one would raise their hand on you here, there wasn't anyone like that in the palace, at least that's what he likes to think.

If this isn't an accident and it wasn't an act, then who did this to you?

It wasn't the servants right? Your siblings and mother wouldn't do that either.

Even though your father dislikes you the most, surely he wouldn't do that to his daughter? Right? He isn't that kind of person, he knows it.

It isn't his master right?

As the recollection of meeting the second princess up close flashes in his mind, her actions and personality different from what other's had described—suddenly, Tsukishima isn't so sure anymore.

#[ੈ✩‧₊˚]. constellations #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima imagines #tsukishima kei x reader #tsukishima kei imagines #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu imagines #hq x reader #hq imagines #tsukishima x you #tsukishima kei x you #haikyuu x you #haikyuu fluff #tsukishima kei fluff #tsukishima drabbles #tsukishima kei drabbles #haikyuu drabbles

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a-world-of-whimsy-5 · 2 months

Text

Morifinwë

Rating: M

Pairing: Melkor x Caranthir

Others: Mairon

Prompts: Stalking | Attention

Themes: Dark | NSFW

Warnings: Revenge | Manipulation | Corruption | Kissing | Possession/ Necromancy

Wordcount: 3.8k words

Summary: After he is humiliated by Fëanor, Melkor devises a way to take revenge

A/n 1: this is the last of the three fics that have been inspired by these prompts by @cilil

A/n 2: In this AU, only Utumno was destroyed, as the Valar did not know yet about Angband. Furthermore, Mairon did not join Melkor prior to his capture and chaining. He still served Aulë, but secretly functioned as Melkor’s lover and spy. This story takes place just after Melkor is released from Lumbi, and before to the Darkening of Valinor

Etymology of Maglor’s wife’s name, Indilien: Indil(Lotus) ien (suf. feminine ending; feminine patronymic). This is her father-name, and Morilindë ("Nightingale"), is her mother-name.

Minors DNI | 18+

This is also available on AO3

The fourth son of Fëanor was whom Melkor sought first, much to Mairon’s dismay. “Of all the sons of that accursed Fëanor,” he asked, incredulous, “why him, my lord?”

Ah, why him, indeed. “Because his father shamed me before the others in Tirion and cursed me,” Melkor returned. They always met in secret, near the dark and lonely slopes of the Hyarmentir, where a primordial being was supposed to have devised their liar. Few came this way for fear running afoul of that dark creature; for Melkor and Mairon, it was a place where they could meet and talk freely, far away from the prying eyes of others. “That is why.”

His most trusted servant did not understand him. “Morifinwë is in a dour mood during the best of times, my lord, and too quick to anger during the worst of it. Besides, his gifts are middling at best. Pray tell me how one such as he would serve your purpose when one of the others would do.”

“Nelyafinwë and Turcafinwë command the affections of the Valar they serve.” Melkor did not lose patience with Mairon. Then again, he never did. The Maia served him diligently and well and loved him the way no other did. And if he was to serve Melkor properly in all things, he needed to know what plans his master had conceived. “And Oromë and Tulkas will stop at nothing to shield them from me.”

“Kanafinwë and Curufinwë the younger, then,” Mairon countered in return. “One is a gifted minstrel; the other is said to be as gifted a craftsman as his lord father. Their corruption would add more luster to your victory over Fëanor, surely.”

“Kanafinwë?” Melkor answered with a dismissive wave of the hand. “Bah! What use would I have for more minstrels? As for Curufinwë the younger… He is too fond of his father, while the warbler everyone swoons over is all too fond of his lady mother. You told me this yourself. I cannot afford to have either of them confiding with their parents; it will ruin all my plans.”

"Which, of course, leaves you with the one everyone calls Moryo and the twins.” Mairon now understood. Trying to influence the other four sons of Fëanor could lead to their undoing, and then all would be lost once the Valar learned of their schemes.

“Yes. Those three will do. They may not be as formidable as their brothers, but I will still have three sons. Three sons, Mairon, to help bring down the mighty Fëanor and heap shame upon his head. It is only proper, I think, given how he shamed me.”

“The twins would be harder to influence,” Mairon pondered aloud. “So, we should start with Morifinwë. He is often by himself; I have seen it with my own eyes. He should be the easiest to convince to join your cause. I will find out what he desires, my lord, and you must offer it to him. You, my lord, and not I. Your path will be easier to traverse after that.”

“And this is why I am convinced I made a wise choice by seeking you out.” Melkor caressed Mairon’s hair, his cheek. The Maia shivered and closed his eyes, coming ever closer to him. “Will you be vexed by this, precious? My seducing others?”

“I take no quarrel with you giving of yourself to others, my lord, so long as I am not expected to just sit in a corner and watch while you enjoy yourself,” Mairon jested, his blazing eyes filling with wicked humor. Melkor threw his head back and laughed.

Thus began the Vala’s quest to corrupt Caranthir and bring him under his influence. He started by listening to Mairon’s tales of where the elf went and what he did. It had been easy for the Maia to coax such information out of the lips of others. He listened to maids and stewards and cooks alike, for they saw and heard more than their lords and ladies ever did. They called on the Great Forge, needing something mended or something new crafted, and they talked with him while they waited. And Mairon took great care to welcome them well and reward them with harmless little tales in return, just enough to rouse their curiosity and encourage them to continue confiding in him.

He discovered much. Caranthir did not just wander off by himself. He was often lonely, having pushed the others away because of his dark moods and fiery temper. Oh, his kin loved him, to be sure, but he made it hard for them most of the time. And he envied his brothers for how each of them had neatly paired off with another, leaving him with no one. That little morsel of knowledge was repeated to him by a cook who had oft seen his lord looking on wistfully while Maedhros listened to Maglor sing, or while Celegorm taught Curufin the finer points of hunting, or while the twins drove everyone and themselves to distraction with their many capers.

And that was not all. “He craves to be known for his own skills,” a handmaid of Nerdanel said. “And he wishes to wed a lady of high birth and fortune. My lady tried to counsel him. She urged him to be patient with himself and to temper his expectations when it comes to marriage, advising him that it is better to wed for love than for wealth. Alas, such is not enough for Lord Caranthir when he weaves his world of dreams.”

It may not have been enough for Caranthir and his ambitions, but it was certainly enough for Melkor and his. He took advantage of the knowledge Mairon had gleaned from the others and appeared in all the places Caranthir frequented. He would linger just long enough to capture the elf’s particular attention, rewarding him with the occasional smile and going no further than that. Mairon counseled him to conduct himself this way, so that Caranthir approached him first.

“Make certain you are seen by him and by him alone. And wait for your prey to come to you, my lord,” he had urged, “for only then can you truly ensnare him in your clutches.”

Melkor heeded all Mairon had to say, and he agreed the Maia’s way was best.

Melkor listened to all that Mairon had to say, and he agreed the Maia’s way was best.

And wherever Caranthir went, Melkor was there: in the great library of Tirion, in the city square, walking along the paths of the city’s many gardens, or seated by the edge of a fountain, trailing his hand over the surface of the water. Wherever he found himself, Melkor was there.

It unnerved the elf in the beginning. His father and mother and all the others warned him, saying, “If you should ever come upon him, turn sharply on your heels, and walk away. Melkor is full of cunning and treachery. He will no doubt try to trap you with his lies.”

But Melkor did not approach him, strange as it may have been. The Vala never sought him out and never introduced himself to him. He did not even speak to him. He would simply turn his piercing gaze toward him and then look away. Sometimes, not always, but sometimes, Caranthir swore he smiled before he turned his attention elsewhere. The elven lord was amazed, for Melkor was said to be cold and cruel, and the crimes he had committed while he held lordship of Utumno were nigh unspeakable. And yet, there he was, rewarding an elf, a being he was believed to hold in contempt no less, with a sliver of his regard. Caranthir did not utter a word of such encounters, not to his mother and father, and not to his brothers. He thought they would insist that he be accompanied by one of the others, like he was no more than a child. The notion, quite rightly, chafed at him.

And, truth be told, Caranthir found himself enjoying the attention.

“Hail and well met, my lord.” He had espied Melkor seated upon a marble bench and approached him after mustering his courage. He looked around. The gardens were empty; there was no one to see them together. “It is not often I find anyone here at this particular hour.”

Nor would there be, had Mairon not learned of it from the others.

“Hail and well met, my lord Morifinwë,” Melkor replied warmly. “I came here because I was told the gardens were best enjoyed when there was less of a throng moving about them.”

It was a lie. Melkor did not care a whit about the gardens. He missed the smoky mountains he called home, the great keep he delved beneath it, and the ice and snow that lay thick around the great realm he had claimed for himself. Nevertheless, he was willing to endure the growing things that lay all about him if it meant achieving his goal.

"Indeed, my lord,” Caranthir agreed, and he moved to sit beside the Vala after he was invited to do so. “I too prefer the gardens this way, when the others are not present.”

Do you truly enjoy the gardens when the others are not present, or do you prefer it that way so as not to remind yourself that you are alone? Melkor guarded his tongue even as he studied the elf discretely. Caranthir was ruddy of skin like his mother, and black of hair like his father. His clear amber eyes, a rare thing among his kin, held within them the light of Telperion, as did the eyes of all the elves of the Blessed Realm. And they glittered like new gold.

Find out what he desires and offer it to him. And thanks to his beloved, Melkor now knew what the elf desired: companionship, the affections of one of high birth and rank, and a chance to stand out from among his brothers. Easy things to be sure, and Melkor prepared himself to offer them all.

“Tis a strange thing to see eyes such as yours,” Melkor observed with a casual air. “Of grey and green and blue and brown I have seen aplenty, but not eyes such as yours. They are like new gold, fresh from the forge.”

Caranthir flushed, never having received such praise before. Oh, he had received praise before, but never like this, and never from one of the Exalted Ones, no less.

“If only the others saw the same,” he grumbled to no one in particular, and looked at the heavens. The stars shone brightly against a vivid indigo and lilac sky. The spectacle took his breath away and made him feel grateful to have someone, even one such as Melkor, seated beside him. It made him feel less alone. “I thank you, my lord, for your words. Pray why are you here? I was told there is a great feast in Valmar for all of the Valar.”

“Feasts and frivolous frolics are of little interest to one such as myself,” Melkor lied again quite easily. In truth, he rather enjoyed the occasional feast; he just did not enjoy being around those that played a role in his downfall and the destruction of Utumno, like Tulkas and Oromë and that dark-haired herald of Manwë, Eönwë. If asked by Mairon, Melkor would admit that he would rather dine with the ravenous creatures of the Void than eat and drink and laugh with the likes of them. “I prefer quieter pursuits, such as enriching my knowledge. The great library is a special favorite of mine.”

“Indeed, I have seen you there myself,” Caranthir said, thinking this explained why Melkor was there at the same time as him. “The solitude and the smell of books are quite wonderful, are they not?”

“Yes,” Melkor agreed, smiling. “They are quite refreshing indeed.”

He invited the Elven Lord to join him for a meal. Alas for Caranthir, he could not tarry for much longer. Maglor had pledged himself to another, and his mother and father had planned a great feast to announce it to the others.

“Lady Indilien is a fine lady, to be sure,” he went on to add, “and everyone is quite pleased with my brother’s choice of bride.”

“Everyone but you, that is?”

“My brother is a prince of the Noldor,” Caranthir answered disdainfully, “and his lady is of low birth. Still, I suppose, it is better than him marrying one of the Teleri, like that half-uncle of mine did.”

“A prince of such a great House must be mindful of those he invites into his inner circle.” Melkor took care not to overreach his aim. Caranthir was easy to anger and easy to drive away. His plans would still come for naught if he took one misstep even now. “It is well and good that you see it this way. Farewell, Lord Caranthir. I will not keep you here any longer.”

“Farewell, my lord,” said Caranthir. He was pleased to see that Melkor thought the same way as him, for those such as the children of Fëanor had to take care with those they invited into the family. “Until we meet again.”

Caranthir never ceased his visits to the gardens of Tirion, having been intrigued by the Vala he met. He always came when it was devoid of elves and Ainur, and he always came alone. Melkor made certain to be there, seated upon the same marble bench and feigning to admire the starlit indigo and lilac skies, when he arrived and found him.

They talked, and of many things. Caranthir’s ambitions, his thirst to be as known as his brothers, Maedhros and Maglor, and Celegorm and Curufin, his mother and father, and his aspirations when it came to marriage. And Melkor listened to it all, counseling him, guiding him, and steering him down the path he wished for him to follow.

“Hunting and crafting and singing and playing at statecraft is all well and good,” he opined many a day later, after they sat down beneath the still leaves of a mighty oak and indulged in a light supper Melkor had prepared and brought with him to the gardens. It was very good. Fish roasted in herbs with thin disks of fry bread, Caranthir’s favorites. It was another sliver of knowledge Mairon had carefully gleaned from the cook. “And while they may be noteworthy skills, to be sure, they are not the only skills to be had. Has no one spoken to you about this?”

“They have.” Caranthir stopped eating and furrowed his brows in distaste. “Sewing and dancing and poetry and sporting in the arena. I confess, my lord, that while I enjoy such pursuits, I cannot see myself achieving lasting glory with them.”

Because the gifts you possess are middling at best. The Vala said not a word of this. He did not want to insult the elf and prick his pride. Instead, he sought another way to appeal to the elf and his designs for his future.

“Indeed,” Melkor agreed. “Such unimaginative interests are quite beneath a scion of the noble House of Finwë.” His words were honey, carefully concealing within them the poison he wished to feed to his prey. “There are other skills, my lord Morifinwë; other gifts that could be bestowed upon you. Such things are beyond your wildest imaginings, I am sure. They have been concealed from elves such as yourself in order to keep you shackled to a life of eternal service and your eyes closed to the many glories you could truly achieve. I can help you attain such glory if you like.”

Melkor is full of cunning and treachery. He will no doubt try to trap you with his lies. Those were the words his lady mother and his lord father uttered after Melkor was rebuked before the elves of Tirion and sent away. And each word rang out like a loud bell, warning him of some great and unseen danger.

What if this is another trick of his? he thought, A ploy to get back at father for humiliating him in the full view of others? Am I allowing myself to fall into some sort of trap?

“Is this one of your deceptions?” Caranthir demanded, rising. “Is this all part of some scheme of yours to rake revenge on my father?”

Melkor was perfectly calm, perfectly amiable. “It is no deception, my lord, I assure you.”

The elf was not appeased. “Do you think I am ignorant of all that you have done, my lord?” he snarled. Anger flared in his eyes, hot and sharp, marring his otherwise fair countenance. "You, who my father rightly called the jail-crow of Mandos?”

Melkor bristled at the insult but maintained his composure all the same. Careful now, he thought, or else all will be lost.

“Forgive me, my lord, for not making myself clearer,” he said, remaining seated. It was another ploy of his to appear humble and contrite. Caranthir had been raised with a prince’s pride, and he did what he could to appeal to it. “I have been thoroughly chastened by my imprisonment and by your lord father, and I consider them lessons well learned. Come, my lord. Sit with me and hear me out. You will see that there is no trickery.”

“I am quite content to stand, my lord.”

“Very well. I have seen you, my Lord Morifinwë. I have seen how you are often by yourself, and I was moved to make myself known to you. And I have heard how you desire to set yourself apart from your brothers, how you wish to be seen as more than just a son of Fëanor. And I know how much you crave the affection of someone worthy of your devotion. Well, here I am, Lord Morifinwë… Moryo… offering all that you desire, and so much more besides. Take my hand, and all that you have envisioned will be made real.”

Caranthir regarded him, his resolve wavering, pondering if Melkor could indeed be trusted, if he would make good on all that he promised.

To have someone such as him for myself, to learn from him, the first and mightiest of the Valar… Oh! There is so much he must know! So much he could teach me! I could finally step away from the shadows cast by others, and make a name for myself. But to join with him, I cannot…

“I see you are still plagued with doubts,” Melkor observed, rising. “So let me show you what you could possess if you heed me.”

He offered his arm, and Caranthir allowed himself to be led down a paved path to a pool gilded in silver and gold. They stood side by side, while the Vala made an elegant gesture with a blackened hand, and the still water rippled as if disturbed by a pebble that had been dropped into it. And Caranthir watched, transfixed, as a vision rose to the surface of the water once it had stilled.

He saw a mighty keep deep within the bowels of a great mountain, rich in boundless wealth and splendor. Warriors and servants and slaves and mighty beasts roamed freely throughout its many tunnels and passageways, while fires roared in great furnaces and the making of weapons and armor and objects of rare beauty could be seen. Then the water rippled again, and the vision changed. Sprites and fays and other Ainur were seated together in a chamber of dark stone, chanting and swaying, the flames of nearby candles flickering violently with the dark magic they summoned. Shades moved all around them, dreadful spirits that had left the light, and they did as they were commanded, inhabiting the forms of wolves and bats and dead things, allowing themselves to be trapped in vessels of flesh and blood. Caranthir was amazed. To hold such power, to wield the mastery of it, was more than anything he had ever dreamed of. He turned to face Melkor, overawed by what he had witnessed.

“A share of all this I am willing to give you,” Melkor said. He saw golden eyes burn like flames and recognized for himself the slow-creeping hunger for power they concealed. And now that Melkor had found the key, he knew that all he needed to do was to turn it into its proper place, and the fourth son of Fëanor would be his. “All you need to do is accept me into your heart. Accept me, Moryo, and a rich portion of what I have shown, along with my affections, will be yours.”

I would be the first elf to willingly join his cause. Nevertheless, Caranthir still dithered. To accept one such as Melkor meant to stray from the path of light and from his kin. If he left, if he pledged himself to darkness, he would never be able to return to the Blessed Realm nor see his family again.

“You still waver,” Melkor remarked, hiding his sense of triumph. Caranthir was nearly there. All he needed was a gentle shove in the right direction, and Melkor knew exactly how to do it. “Here, Moryo. Let me offer you another morsel of what you could enjoy once you pledge yourself to me.”

Without warning, he leaned forward and kissed Caranthir on the mouth. He kissed the elf for a long while, and then he growled in triumph when his new-found follower clutched desperately at his robes, sighing and kissing him back with something akin to raw hunger. Caranthir had indeed been hungry, and he feasted like an elf that had denied a great many things for an age. His kiss became mostly teeth and tongue, and Melkor more than allowed it. He wrapped his arms around him and offered all that he was willing to give. The elf accepted what was given and yielded easily, growing pliant in the Vala’s embraces and losing himself in Melkor’s smoky fragrance, the welcomed heat of his breath, and the sweet taste of his mouth. And then Melkor drew back, exulting.

Caranthir was his. He could see it in the lust flaring in the elf’s startling eyes.

“That was all so good,” Melkor began, “but it is not enough. Come with me, Moryo, and let me take you somewhere more secluded. I wish to show you the joys of flesh cleaving to flesh.”

What is there for me here, truly? The elf regarded him, then looked over his shoulder at the path he walked down on. What chance is there for me to achieve what I desire if I remain here? And to master the powers that he showed me, to taste more of what he is willing to offer—his knowledge, his body...

When he turned to face him again, a decision had been made.

“Long have I craved to experience this,” he confessed, flushing. “Lead on, my lord.”

Original image: Ed Robertson/Unsplash

#dark romance series #caranthir #melkor #caranthir x melkor #the silm #the silmarillion #the silm fanfiction

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dyns33 · 2 years

Text

Walking dead

No, this is not a zombi Matt.

Not really

Murdock was dead.

Y/N was more than sure of that. She had seen him die, killed by the Hand's ninjas. When that happened, she didn't really know who they were, Gwen had explained everything to her afterwards.

It had been terrible.

Not being a fighter, Y/N couldn't do anything to help. She rather served as a "guy in the chair" as the best friend of one of the Spidermans of the other universes said.

Still, even if they weren't really friends, she wanted to save Matthew. Spiderwoman had tried, but the Hand was too strong.

Besides, Murdock had ordered Y/N to stay hidden when the ninjas arrived. He had kissed her, and left to fight them.

Then he was dead.

That kiss had been very strange. A real surprise.

Well, maybe not totally a surprise. They weren't friends, but there had always been something between her and Matt.

They had "met" after Gwen rescued Y/N and they started working together. Shortly after, a strange blind lawyer dressed in red came more and more often in her way.

"I believe this is the fifth time we've seen each other this week, darling." he purred as they walked into a cafe together. "Well, see."

"How do you know you've...'seen' me so often if you're blind."

"I have a very good nose, I always recognize a bewitching perfume."

"... I don't wear perfume."

"Oh, natural smell ? Interesting."

As soon as she learned he had approached her, Gwen warned Y/N to beware. The one she nicknamed "Murderdock" was a very dangerous guy, a real snake, liar, vicious, cruel. The Kingpin and Master of a network of killer ninjas.

Y/N listened to the vigilante, trying to avoid Matt as much as possible and trying to stay calm when he managed to corner her anyway, but since he always knew where she was, he also knew right away that she knew who he was.

This seemed to amuse him. He was even more deceptively friendly and charming.

Except that instead of being scared, Y/N decided to have fun too, which seemed to surprise him. After all, Gwen had also told her he wouldn't do anything to her if she wasn't a threat, and aside from helping Spiderwoman from time to time, Y/N didn't do anything against Murdock.

She had no intention of harming him at all, she was not a vigilante, a heroine, she was just giving useful information to a friend when she asked for it, nothing more.

So she and Matt started chatting and flirting very often. Every time they actually crossed paths.

It was hard to know how she felt about him. What she knew about him should have scared her away, disgusted her, terrified her. What she didn't know intrigued her a lot.

What she guessed when he pouted, bit his lip, growled, frowned, hid his eyes with his big glasses.

No one really knew who Matt Murdock was. What was his true face, if he had ever shown it.

Maybe it was stupid, but Y/N felt like he let her see it for a bit. Especially the last time, when he had kissed her. He had looked so sad. Lost. Also relieved. He probably knew he was going to die.

The real surprise was instead when Y/N woke up to a body leaning on her in bed, and when she discovered Murdock staring at her with his blank eyes.

It was not possible. It couldn't be him.

She wanted to speak but jumped when he lunged at her, his nose touching her neck as he sniffed her like a wild beast.

His attitude was really weird. It wasn't him. It wasn't even his scent, he smelled... He smelled of death. He was mumbling nonsense, which she didn't understand.

"Who are you ?" he asked dangerously, turning his ear towards her.

"I... Y/N. But... You're dead. You were dead."

This didn't seem to shock him.

He knew very well that he was a living dead, a zombie. But that was obviously the only thing he knew, because he really didn't seem to know who she was.

"Why do I know you ? I can recognize your heart in the crowd. Track your scent. I have a strange feeling when I hear your voice. You are different from the others. You are important. Who are you ?"

"I told you, Y/N. You really don't remember ? I'm a friend of Gwen's. We used to talk a lot, you... Before you died, you... You and me..."

Maybe he remembered something then, maybe he guessed what she was going to say, maybe he could feel something on her lips, but then Matt kissed her.

Anyway, a parody of a kiss, but more feral, more desperate.

Before Y/N had time to know if she liked it or not, he quickly stood up grabbing her arm to force her to follow him.

"But what are you doing ?!"

"You're coming with me. You're important. I've been looking for you for weeks."

"Matt, no. Look, I don't understand what's going on, what happened to you, but I'm not going to…"

"You're coming with me." he repeated firmly, lifting her to put her on his shoulder, not listening to her protests.

The ninjas they met when they arrived at his house seemed surprised, and almost a little sorry for her.

One of them, obviously the leader, Otomo, invited her to sit on the sofa while Matt walked around the apartment, as if looking for something.

"... He was dead." she whispered.

"Yes, O jō. Our Masters considered that despite his treason, Master Murdock was a valuable asset and so they decided to bring him back. This process is difficult, and not everything comes back."

"Is that why he doesn't remember me ?"

"I don't know exactly how it works. Master Murdock has kept certain reflexes. His instincts. Certain smells and certain sounds are familiar to him. It doesn't happen often, most of the time there is nothing left, so the individual become a true Black Sky, a perfect weapon."

So the Hand had resurrected, Matt thinking he would be easier to manipulate if he was just a soulless body, but as so often with magic it hadn't worked out well, and now it was hovering around Y/N, for he remembered her without remembering her.

As Otomo had said, it was simply a reflex, pure instinct.

Matt knew she had been important to him. That he could trust her, that he wanted her, that he needed her.

While his Master continued to act strangely, which didn't seem to shock him, the ninja explained to Y/N that he had been looking for her for several weeks.

Passing through places where they used to be together, Murdock had sometimes stopped in the middle of the road, or when he had an important mission to accomplish. Suddenly he seemed lost. Confused. A bit annoyed, because Matt hated feeling like this.

He had no idea why some things seemed so familiar to him.

Without knowing what he was looking for, he stood on a roof for hours, day and night, listening. Otomo tried to reason with him, without success.

And now she was there.

After walking around the apartment for the tenth time, without explaining what he was doing, Matt came to sit next to her, purring happily as he took her in his arms, his head resting on her shoulder.

He growled to signal his ninjas to move away.

This was certainly not going to please the Hand. They could easily kill her, but that would make their weapon very angry. They could also kill him, again, to bring him back, again, but that might be worse.

So they decided he could have her, if he obeyed.

"...I'm not a toy or a pet ! Gwen will find me ! My friends, my family will find me ! I refuse to stay here ! Matthew !"

"You have to stay here. With me. It's safer."

"Matt. Please. I will come to see you, you will come to see me, but I won't be a prisoner. You would never do this to me."

It was the truth.

Anyway, Y/N thought it was the truth. Matt, the one she knew before, found it too amusing to watch her resist him, and fight, and be free.

Maybe he remembered. Maybe he decided to believe her. Maybe he didn't want her to be unhappy and hate him.

So he let her go. But he walked her home, following her, pouting like a vexed little puppy, and Y/N was sure he stayed on her roof for a very long time, until she looked up at her ceiling and asked him to go back home to eat and sleep.

She didn't go to check if he had listened to her. The next morning he was in her bed again, asleep against her.

It wasn't easy explaining the situation to Spiderwoman. Even though Murderdock's death had been a tragedy, because no one deserved to die like this, Gwen was not happy to learn that her worst enemy had returned, and that he considered Y/N her property.

"You don't seem to mind." she mumbled as Matt touched all of her stuff. Y/N was pretty sure she had seen him licking some things. "You should yell at him to make him go away."

"One, since when does Murdock obey when yelled at ? That would be the best way to invite him to stay longer. And two... I think I can help him."

"Help him with what ?"

"To remember ! To remind him of who he was before he died. Why he hated the Hand, who killed him. He might even turn nice ! It's like a second chance, Gwen ! Everyone deserves a second chance !"

"Yes Gwennie, everyone !" sneered Matt with a big smile, continuing to rummage through her drawers.

Spiderwoman forbade him to call her that, before wondering if he remembered her, or if no matter what, Matt would always give her that ridiculous nickname in all his lifetimes.

In any case, if he listened to them, he did not react while Y/N continued to say that she really wanted to do everything so that he would come in the right camp. He didn't seem to care.

He didn't seem to care about anything.

The only thing that seemed to matter to him was that they stay together. So maybe it could work, even if Matt risked playing the hero just to please her, and not at all for the right reasons.

#daredevil #matt murdock #matt murdock x reader #matt murdock imagine #matt murdock fanfic #Matt Murderdock #dark Matt #earth 65

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faroreswinds · 1 year

Note

This is a bit late, but I was reading through your answer to the dimitri-dedue and edelgard-hubert ask, and I wanted to add that I personally find the former to be more interesting on account of the fact that we know why dedue is so invested in dimitri (i.e., because dimitri shares his beliefs on duscur and has the power to enact those beliefs, among other things).

The same can’t really be said for edelgard and hubert. feel free to correct me if i’m wrong, but as far as i’m aware we don’t really know what it is about edelgard’s goals/ideals that draw hubert to her. the game tells us his loyalty towards her runs deeper than him just fufilling his duty as a vassal, but like….it never elaborates on that lol

This is also a good point.

If I recall, Hubert's loyalty is mostly implied rather than outright said, but someone who understands Hubert better than me can educate me.

But from what I remember, Hubert's loyalty is implied to come from two places: romantic love, and tradition.

Hubert's family has always served the royal one in an intimate way. They are their confidants, assassins, keepers of secrets. Bribers, liars, underworld masters. They do whatever is needed for their lord, no matter the task. Hubert has inherited this responsibility, and takes it seriously and personally. Which is funny, because it was a path of life chosen for him, in the route all about breaking these kinds of paths. But he never complains or seems to hate it. In fact, he seems to relish it. Like if he could it all over again, he would in a heartbeat.

The second is his romantic interest in Edelgard. He outright says he loves her at least once, so I would imagine his loyalty stems from his desire to take her to bed, although would never outright say as such. I am sure this would make some fans foam at the mouth at the impure idea that someone's loyalty for Edelgard would stem from their carnal wants of her, but I have no real doubt that this is something Hubert wouldn't mind doing.

So you basically have a man who was raised to believe that his lord, the emperor, is supposed to be the most important person in his life. And when he finally met this person, he eventually fell in love with her, which only enhanced his loyalty up to 11.

I believe the game kinda just glosses over this idea, since it doesn't really mesh well with the idea CF is supposed to convey.

So while I believe both Hubert and Dedue's loyalty comes from a romantic form of love, Dedue's did not start like Hubert's did, which you could argue is a form of childhood brainwashing. Dedue was not raised to believe Dimitri was to be the most important person in his life- it happened because Dimitri literally saved his life, then dedicated his own to helping Dedue and his country.

Dimidue also has the opportunity to take the position of platonic love, since the game skirts around the idea of two large men being soft and intimate with each other as a gesture of romantic feelings. Hubert's relationship with Edelgard is not granted this opportunity. It's outright said to be romantic in nature.

To me, I prefer things to be implied, it allows my imagination to run wild and elevate a story or idea from just ok to fantastic.

#anon asks #Dimidue #Hubert discourse

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daisysprimordialplayground · 1 day

Text

Turns out it is incomplete and some things will still change. This will be deleted at the end of the day. I heard there is a real life lesson for some of you to learn---one of which is likely another author I am fond of. I was told to tell you to compare the differences and try to come up with why it is what it now is. There is something to unlock in the process.

You didn’t think I’d let you loose with only that much to go by, did you? No, that would put too much up to chance. So, here is what you need to know: no one really knows who Brynnegan McCallister truly is—not even the man himself. He doesn’t truly exist.

Truly, because truth—like art—is relative. Both can take many different forms. All they require is expression. Skill is important, but many unskilled artists are alive in the world. Wit and creativity play a part no doubt, but the man who often calls himself ‘Brynnegan’ doesn’t believe they’re entirely necessary. Most of the time luck plays a bigger part. More often than not, there’s a pointless debate going on amongst artists as to what, exactly, counts as art. However, they can all agree it’s up to each individual to decide for themselves.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all.

Nevermind that they all think their opinion is superior to the others.

Since there is no true specification, ‘Brynnegan’ considers himself an artist— a master of his craft. He’s not a painter or a sculptor. And while his art does fall into the ‘performance’ category, it isn’t acting either. Those are all far too confining for a rule breaker like him: his work requires everything those do… and more. So much more. Not to mention he’s as passionate about his craft as any other artist out there. Sure, he may fluctuate in his dedication to it. He may also grow rusty or bored. And he may, gods forbid, make mistakes on occasion.

But at the end of the day, art serves one purpose— to evoke emotion. Whether it’s through pretending to be something else or simply telling a story. Without that purpose, there is no meaning to a piece and— more importantly to him— has very little value. To ensure the correct emotion evoked, the artist needs to know their way around a canvas or stage. Needs to know how to set the right tone. What techniques should be utilized and when. How to read someone.

Read being the key word…but I won’t tell you why. Long story short—seducing a woman and pleasing her in bed is no simple artform to learn.

I got you, didn’t I? It is so very you to think I was talking about him being a liar, conman, and thief. But I do have to wonder why your first go-to would be that he is a criminal of some kind. It takes one to know one, after all.

I expect you may ask something like ‘Why is any of this important?’ Well, dear friend, know this: One plus one equals two, but multiply two ones together and you still only have one. What do you think this means in the grand scheme of things? I doubt you’ll figure it out, so I’ll give you a hint.

Brynnegan is someone who does a lot of illegal things yet often enough with the best of intentions. More often than not, there is one sure place he can be found—in a bustling tavern, helping himself to ___ (compare women to food). He, too, has a variety of tastes. In fact, he’s so much like you sometimes it is hard to draw a line. Well, build a border may be a more apt phrase. Borders are harder to cross, because a border can’t be crossed if it can’t be defined. And most are not, so good luck to those who try.

Now, I think you know how the next chapter of your story will go.

You think you’re headed to your death, right? Wrong. Some stories start with death, yes, but more start with a better life dreamt. And then there are those whose stories start as far back as the dawn of time.

But yours begins with a rhyme.

It is unfortunate I am not much of a poet, but for the sake of man and mer kind—I will try. On a map in a chest is a world filled with wonders. Wonders, because I can’t help but wonder why you would mark something like a mill, of all things, as important. Not the town it’s in, nor the hidden treasure trove nearby, but the mill that lies almost outside the town lines. Several more markers make even less sense. It is certainly worth investigating, if I can find the time.

But before I solve that little riddle, you seem to have found yourself in quite the predicament while on our quest, dear friend. Because bound with rope on a road, there you sit, slumped over like a drunk on a cart, in the Rift.

Headed to your judgment day.

Or a date with destiny, as some would say. Please forgive my tone, but that was incredibly funny. It is too bad you will never get that joke. I do like to think you would have laughed if it was told in the past…And if you happened to know your future, but I digress.

Anyway.

As the wheels start turning in your head, so too do the wheels of the cart. And the rest of the world, since you seem to think it revolves around you. But is ‘cart’ really the best word to use? Or is it a wagon—a carriage? Most would fail to find this important, but the distinction is surely there for a purpose. At the very least, they do have one thing in common: wheels. And they do provide a similar service: Transportation.

Goods for sale.

Criminals for jail.

Couriers for mail.

People for…

Well.

That quickly grew stale.

If I am being honest, I am as surprised as you there were even that many openings for me to use. But if you cross a poet with a ____, the poet always prevails. And that is why I will let my skills shine. After all, why race ahead to your supposed death, when we can enjoy the rather long journey instead. When we can learn about the world around us and ____. And where best to start, than a typical Skyrim spring morning?

The working man…or mer wakes at dawn every day.

And he…or she works till the eve.

Then at night, they lay down their heads.

And wish…or dream of all that couldn’t be.

Then repeat.

This is harder than you think.

I really should have studied the life of a typical Nord, for surely with how surly they are about ___, their way of living is especially harsher than the rest. But long story short: Everyone is already going about their day. Many are probably already deep in their cups—like the miners who ____. _____. Some even enjoying several delights ___ partake. Really, this is all to say the whole world is wide awake. [TRANSITION]

But not for you, dear friend. Oh no. You are still sleeping. Well, unconscious may be the better term. Or you’re already dead, since you must be living in the most pleasant of heavens inside your head. And, according to your grunts and moans—the most passionate fantasies play out in your head. Granted, you could be lost in a hellish wasteland, fighting for your life and in a great deal of pain—it’s all up to interpretation, really. And, knowing you, you are in dire need of the former form of entertainment.

But no one can dream forever, so enjoy each and every moment.

Unfortunately for you, you only have a moment.

There is a strange sensation as you awaken: rocking, groaning, and the pounding in your head— all variables in this equation. And feeding your mind with images of all kinds of fornication. ___ of _____. Except, you note—the hooves of a horse cracking against ice and gravel. With that ____ comes dread. Ah, but then there’s the breeze—always a welcome thing.

Or at least it would be, if the world around you wasn’t freezing.

Well, unfreezing, if we—

You get it, I’m sure.

If you cannot tell, I am quickly running out of inspiration, so I’ll pass on the torch to you, dear friend. How did you get into this situation? What brought you here, to this very important moment in time?

WANT A SPOILER?

If not, don't read the rest of this

It is not Krosa the khajiit who calls himself M'aiq is talking to. Can you guess who it is?

WANT ANOTHER SPOILER?

If not, don't read the rest of this

It should be obvious as to what this is about, but I steered the readers into thinking it was the typical Skyrim opening when in reality it is not. But what did I say? And what was merely implied? What can change the meaning entirely if you change the pillar?

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bewitchingbooktours · 5 months

Text

Potion Master

Fate Cycle Series

Book One

Sam Fairburn

Genre: Urban Fantasy Romance

Publisher: Sam Fairburn Publishing

Date of Publication: November 16, 2023

ISBN: 978-1-998204-01-4

ASIN: B0CJ8DVMNT

Number of pages: 340 pages.

Word Count: 93976 words

Cover Artist: Erick Robillard at Kinos

Tagline: Moderation is key… That being said, when not one but two enigmatic liars creep into my life, what’s a witch to do?

Book Description:

Riley

All I want is to start this new chapter of my life in peace, brewing beer and mixing potions at The Drunken Sailor. Simple. Safe. Single. But when my skills as potion master and healer are noticed by a mysterious stranger, the stalking that ensues leads me to ask more questions than I should. Things take a dark turn as the secret I fought all my life to protect gets uncovered by the deadliest magical mob boss in the city. Now, my best chance at survival is down to a cocky criminal and a bookman that is too clever for his own good. As their presence haunts my every waking hour and the situation gets dire, I don’t know if I can keep fighting this relentless pull between us.

Finn

I have focused on only one thing for the last three years—work. But when Riley comes into my bookshop, searching for a way to undo the tracking spell placed on her, I am caught up in a journey that ushers me right back to the one man I am trying to forget. I was his to cherish, his to punish, yet the worst wound he gave me was not a physical one. And she might be my salvation.

Erick

My blood is made of hunger and fight, which serves me well on my side of the law. No one but him knows who I am or where I come from. And I have all the intentions for it to stay that way. But when witches start to disappear in the city and no one, not even the Sennex, does a damn thing about it, I make it my business to investigate. Grave mistake. My efforts only lead me to desires I should steer clear of and discoveries darker than I could ever fathom. I fought to keep them away, to keep them safe, but life is never as kind as to bring hope without taking something in return.

Witchy meets steamy in this tale of soul-wrenching magnetism, dreadful secrets, and magic that could wreck the world.

Potion Master is a slow burn dark urban fantasy MMF romance. It’s book 1 in the Fate Cycle series.

Amazon

Excerpt from Potion Master :

The blue liquid is shimmering like its magic is trying to get out. One of my better cocktail recipes, I would say. The Siren, I call it, in honor of Evie. Even though she is not one of those long-extinct creatures, her voice bewitches her crowd all the same. Her tales captivate the audience with their rhythm and poesy.

“Hey! Will you give me my drink or not?” the patron shouts over the buzz of the crowded room.

Keeping hold of the glass, I swiftly glide it over the wooden bar toward him. “I don’t know, Carl. Maybe a little more respect and a smile now and then could do miracles for your shitty personality and help you get what you want.” I look the bastard straight in the eye, drink the shot myself, and take the money he had put on the bar top to pay for it. The liquid goes down like the charm that it is, giving me a boost of strength and energy in its wake.

Carl seizes my gloved forearm, “Listen, girl, I know that you’re new here, but when I ask—”

His touch is gone in an instant. A big, burly man hauls Carl by the collar of his shirt toward the pub’s door. Albert’s gray-brown ponytail sways in time with Carl’s feet off the ground as he carries Carl out the door. If I didn’t hate being manhandled by drunk pieces of shit so much, I would be laughing at the sight.

Albert grunts as he throws Carl on his ass out in the street. “Take the rest of the night to cool off,” Albert says, his voice deceptively calm. “The next time you touch one of my employees, you will lose your hand. Is that understood?”

Carl has the good sense to shut his mouth and skitter off. The patrons all shout in triumph and merrily raise their glasses to Albert. When he turns from the door, Albert’s green eyes find me. His face is all red under his thick beard. I nod my head once to show him that I am okay and can handle myself. It’s not my first rodeo, after all.

I don’t have much time to dwell on what happened, though. The Drunken Sailor is packed tonight. Every sticky table and disparate chair is in use. A small crowd has already gathered before the stage in the corner where my best friend will perform tonight, sipping their drinks. The decor is no different than any other Irish pub in Québec City. The only noticeable distinction really is the customers themselves—the vast majority of them have magical abilities or ties to the magical world.

My long black hair annoys me tonight, so I quickly tie it up in a messy bun before filling another pint of my first batch of beer to give to Albert as he passes behind me in the bar area. Then I go back to the steady flow of orders coming in. I am very proud of my first brew. It’s a white ale with faint notes of lavender and rosemary. The balanced taste of the herbs makes for a bittersweet lightness that, contrary to popular belief, doesn’t taste like perfume.

Being potion master and lead brewer are both my pride and my passion in life. It also allows me to work anywhere, in any magical establishment I want, since there are a lot of people that seem to either want to get drunk or out of a hangover—or another predicament—at some point. My healing balms and potions are particularly good if I do say so myself.

Healing is my specialty, after all, and I was well taught. Diane. A sharp pang of grief makes my eyes water at the reminder of my mentor’s passing. They say that home is where the heart is. Well, it feels like my home vanished with her last breath. Throughout the years, she’d always been there for me—be it to kick me in the butt for acting stupid or to help me regain my footing after yet another failed attempt at making something of my life. Her passing is too fresh for me to be able to recall the good memories of her with fondness or a smile. I am still at the anger stage, where every fiber of my being wants to cry hysterically and punch a wall about it, hating death, hating myself for not being able to heal her. I wipe furiously at my eyes and wrestle my mind into a better headspace.

I was lucky to get this job. The Drunken Sailor is one of the best breweries in the province, and its owner is allowing me carte blanche to do with the product creation as I please. All the equipment is state of the art despite the pub’s building being more than a century old—and looking it.

Perfect work arrangements, awesome new apartment, my best friend nearby—it’s all I need, really. This time, I will plant roots. This time, I won’t bolt at the very first mild inconvenience—I can’t. I have no one left to catch me from a fall. I am here to stay, and I mean it.

At the table by the door, four casters are playing at levitating objects in the air while arm wrestling. The first to either lose the strength contest or lose their concentration and drop their object pays for the next round of alcohol. A stupid game if you ask me, but still fun to watch and good for the tip.

Evie pokes her head out from the kitchen door with a mouthful of I don’t even want to know what. “Hey, Ry! I’m on in a couple of minutes,” she says while finishing chewing. “Do you need anything before I get up there?” She motions toward the stage with her head. The movement makes her silver dress sparkle in the dim light, contrasting nicely with the soft coffee of her skin. She recently buzzed her hair close to her head, which accentuates the graceful curve of her neck.

Her hazel eyes drift to the liquid I am currently mixing. She looks fascinated and with good reason. As soon as I sprinkle my last ingredient into the potion—dried hibiscus flowers—red fire seems to emanate from it, although it’s not hot to the touch. Passion is a difficult thing to capture, and it’s always mesmerizing when it’s encapsulated successfully. It’s easily the most expensive thing we sell here. Only one swig is needed to fuel your inspirations and fantasies, allowing you to create at will. Although it cannot put ideas into your head, it will allow you to birth your ideas into the world. Well, until it wears off, that is. I pour the liquid into a small vial and hand it over to the young woman who ordered it.

“I’m fine,” I tell Evie over my shoulder. “I don’t need you mothering me.” I wink at my best friend and turn back to the clientele at the bar. I hear her huff and puff before letting the kitchen door swing behind her. Not a minute later, she swaggers onto the stage, her generous hips swaying as she walks. The usual auditory chaos of the pub falls to whispers.

We’ve always been complete opposites, Evie and I. Where my best friend shines bright on stage, I prefer the darkness at the back of the room. She is all heat and sensuality, while I am all frost and contrast. My moonlight skin, she calls it. Which is a nice way of saying that I am ghostly pale.

As soon as Evie opens her mouth to sing, the crowd starts to sway in time with the rhythm of her voice. The ones closest to the stage are completely enthralled by her story of epic love. They smile and huddle closer together, not aware that they are moving. The casters abandon their game to stare in fascination. As far away as I am, I only feel a small wave of fullness and happiness, but it’s still very nice. I have not experienced the brush of love for a very long time.

I pour the next beer directly onto my gloved hand, which then splashes onto my black tank top and jeans. I curse and shake my head slightly. I must have been more affected by her singing than I thought. Taking off my gloves and wiping them on a dish towel, I smile to myself. I have not been exposed to her kind of powers for some time now. I’ve lost part of the endurance I had built for it.

When I finally succeed at mostly drying my clothes, I throw the rag in the sink and lift my head to take the next order, but most of the patrons have now moved from the bar to the tables closer to the stage, listening quietly.

Most, but not all.

About the Author:

Sam is a Canadian author of dark fantasy romance and dark urban fantasy romance with a healthy dose of spice (because why not?). She loves daydreaming about new characters and can often be found staring into the abyss of the great nothingness, completely lost in thought. She also dislikes talking about herself in the third person. Hence, I’m going to stop this author bio here.

I am deeply grateful for every reader who takes time out of their day to lay their eyeballs on one of my books. I couldn’t be an author without you.

Website - https://www.samfairburn.com

Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/samfairburnauthor

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TikTok - https://www.tiktok.com/@samfairburnauthor

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Newsletter sign up - https://samfairburnpublishing.eo.page/xwz17

Goodreads - https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/44354199.Sam_Fairburn

Book Trailer: https://youtu.be/GplLWYBjBpE

youtube

#Youtube

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cyclonesyndicate · 1 year

Text

cat & dog || fantasia || trial 6.4

"Villain or hero I don’t really care what I’m called. I just want to make the world a better place."

It makes sense now, why Fantasia had never viewed Beowulf as particularly suiting villainhood. He wasn't one at all-- or, well. He didn't think he was one. That person who'd believed himself above all of them, who'd described himself as different from all of them self-serving villains, was Beowulf... who, in revealing himself, had become a worse villain than any of them there. He'd done all of it by lying and deceiving them into friendship, while writing self-righteous journals in the background about how none of them could trust the other. It was truly hypocritical. It was fascinating.

Fantasia, a being manufactured to be a masterful liar, had been fooled. He'd considered Beowulf one of his closest friends here. He'd thought he'd understood him, and why he'd killed his father. He'd even helped him with confessing to Null, which in hindsight was a bit unfortunate. One might expect, in that case, that Fantasia should be angry. There's no sign of that on his face, though. Just bright, shining eyes and a wide grin. If Beowulf had fooled even him, then... he must be an individual truly unlike any Fantasia had ever met. And that was worth of admiration!

"Fantastique!"

He crows, moving in his chair so he's squatting on it. It gives him the ability to lean forward further, as if if he were to get close enough, he could understand every microcosm of Beowulf's person. Then he might understand--

He might understand, then, why he can't only be delighted. Why the marvel of being tricked by one of his very first-ever friends wasn't as beautiful an experience as any other he'd had. It was new, wasn't it? Then why? Every other time he's had something new, even if it was bad-- even if he was dying-- he'd been happy about it. ...Had he? ...No, not quite. He had been upset about his death, he remembers. Upset about the lack of choice he'd had in how his life had panned out. ...The difference was, of course, that he'd simply ignored it then. He'd decided to be happy about what he had, instead of upset about what he didn't.

Now... he finds it hard, actually. Ignoring the crushing sensation behind his ribcage is harder than it was before, now that Fantasia, unbeknownst to him, has fallen into the trap known as 'humanity'. Feeling everything at once, not just the good that he chooses to feel when it suits him. Fantasia, of course, doesn't understand this. What he understands is that he doesn't understand Beowulf, and he needs to.

"...What a magnificent reveal this is! That you played us all for fools this whole time! No wonder you were always so righteous in those trials, non? I am sure we vastly disappointed you, with our poor and selfish ways!"

...Ah, that's right. He tilts his head.

"You sent a message, after I died, did you not? I thought it was so sweet, that I inspired you! That you wanted everyone to act as I did! Now I see in your journals, you were deriding those who killed for their own selfish means instead of working together-- so, which is it?"

His head tilts the other way.

"Using me as an example back then, being inspired... do you think we are similar in some ways, mon chéri? Just being someone who wanted to survive? From one murderer to another, that is what you said, is it not?"

The smile ever-present on Fantasia's face grows sharp, fangs sticking through. Maybe he does understand, in some ways. Or, rather-- he understands the state Beowulf might be in. Where lives can be taken over and over if you think it's what's needs to be done. Where you have yet to understand the beauty of the world and all it holds, and feel you're responsible for changing it. The state Fantasia was once in. But now...

"You killed all those people, oui? Those criminal heroes and villains on that chart. Maybe they deserved it-- no, no, they certainly did!

But you are now no better than them, are you? You must know this, yes? Neither a hero nor a villain-- just a rotten, self-serving devil."

He smiles, outstretching a hand.

"From one murderer to another, then... this final wish of yours. It should be your own death, should it not? It is only fair!"

There's no animosity in his tone as he says it, miraculously enough. It's simply what he feels is right.

He'd decided, back then, that Sade would be Echo's final victim, a life taken reluctantly. But as for Fantasia-- a rotten, self-serving devil in his own right-- he supposes one more would only be an expression of his own freedom.

#ch 6 #fantasia

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meduseld · 3 years

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Were Solomon and Sarah ever arranged to be married or was there some sort of understanding? Because for some reason, some people are under this impression but I can’t see any confirmation.

I don't think so, it's more like gossip/wishful thinking from what we see. Since they seem to be friends, and do get along, the town seems to think they could be a good match. Certainly Sarah's father seems to feel that way but in a light teasing way rather than a you will marry this man sort of way.

Sarah definitely feels it's something she can joke about to Solomon. Potentially if all that happened hadn't happened, the implications might have become orders. For one, it appears people are giving Solomon time to get over becoming a widower and losing a son; while Sarah's still young. But after a bit it would have been harder for her to stay single in front of social pressure and such and people would be pushing Solomon to "move on and remarry". As he canonically eventually did.

Not that, had what happened not happened, getting married would have happened even if there was that much social pressure. Sarah clearly knows she's gay and doesn't want to get into a comphet cover marriage. And Solomon being unhindged enough to, y'know, kill a woman for the Devil's book and sell his soul........ wouldn't have gone well.

#He always had a brain full of hungry rats he was just very good at hiding it #which makes him scarier honestly #bc he lied right to Sarah's face the whole movie and neither her nor the audience got it until too late #he's a master liar which served him well #another tick into the solomon wasn't straight column #i'm not saying lgbt ppl are liars i'm saying he was clearly skilled and practiced at concealing his real feelings and desires #where'd he get that practice?#solomon goode #sarah fier #fear street

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wolken-himmel · 3 years

Text

In which (Y/n) finds out the truth behind her relationship with Jamil: He only accepted her confession in order to spite Kalim, who had a crush on her as well.

Request by anon.

"You're a monster, Jamil. Do you know that?"

Countless times now, you had winded your wrist out of Jamil's grip, only for his hand to shoot forward again, recapturing your hand. Having enough, you shot around and glared at him. Jamil jumped at the scowl on your face, full of hatred directed at him — he had never seen you so angry before.

Jamil bit his lip as you once again ripped your limb out of his hold and marched away, just wanting to get away from him. "(Y/n), please—" he cried out while running after you in hopes of getting you to stop; yet, the sound of his footsteps so close behind you only made you pick up your pace. You had your eyes clenched shut in fear that tears would surface again. "We need to talk!"

"We really should, huh." You began laughing, but your laughter was so dry and ironic that it made his blood freeze and his heart shatter in pain. Wryly chuckling to yourself, you shook your head and continued your way while Jamil had come to a stop. "But I don't want to talk to a liar..." you hissed out, that pained smile immediately disappearing from your face.

"I'm not a liar— at least not anymore," Jamil exclaimed as he began walking again. "I really, really genuinely, have fallen in love with you throughout our relationship."

Finally, you stopped in your tracks, causing Jamil to let out a sigh of relief. When you turned around to shoot him another glare, the most intense and hateful so far, he felt like a deer in headlights. The scowl on your face was frightening, really. "And yet the reason why you accepted my feelings was a lie..." you seethed through clenched teeth while throwing your hands up in resignation. Jamil winced. "We built our relationship on a lie..."

"I... I'm so sorry..." was all he managed to bring out, unable to bring his guilt and sadness into words. His shoulders slouched forward and his breathing ragged, he avoided your burning stare and lowered his gaze to the floor, ashamed of himself. "I just wanted to have something that Kalim wanted — just once in my life! And then you came strolling in, and Kalim fell head-over-heels for you... yet you confessed your feelings to me, his servant. Do you know how proud I felt in that moment?"

A scoff escaped your lips, the hatred you showed for your boyfriend supposed to cover up the pain you felt in your heart. "You're selfish."

Jamil couldn't bring himself to defend himself because in essence, your words — no matter how forward and hurtful they were — spoke nothing but the truth. Merely sighing, he finally raised his gaze to look you in the eyes. The genuine sparkle in his eyes caught you off-guard temporarily. "I have never ever been able to be selfish before in my life: I'm a servant only living to serve his master..." he muttered under his breath, his voice quivering and even breaking at the end. "So why can't I be selfish for once?"

You rubbed your burning eyes, knowing that he was right; your heart was beginning to pity him, but you knew that you couldn't give in. Forgiveness couldn't be earned so easily. So, crossing your arms, you exhaled shakily and admitted, "The thing that breaks my heart is that the only reason you accepted my feelings was to hurt Kalim..." You didn't want to speak out the words your mind was thinking, but you were left no other choice. "The things you said to me must have been lies, then—"

"Maybe at first." Jamil's gaze turned steely and determined as he exclaimed, "But not anymore."

You let out a drawn-out sigh before once again turning away from him, trying to hide the vulnerable frown on your face. "I need time to think about everything, Jamil," you whispered under your breath, your voice pathetic and weak.

"I can understand that..." Jamil nodded and exhaled, too, just as angry at him as you were. "Just know that... I really love you and that I couldn't imagine a life without you any longer. Spending time with you really left a large impression on me— and I don't think I could ever erase you from my mind. I'm just... really sorry for lying to you at first. I hate myself for messing up... I always say Kalim is a bumbling fool, but who is the fool now?"

#twisted wonderland #twst #twst x reader #twst x you #twisted wonderland x reader #disney twisted wonderland #reader insert #y/n #disney twst #jamil viper #jamil viper x reader #twst jamil viper #twst jamil x reader #twst jamil #twisted wonderland jamil #female reader

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cofeekki · 3 years

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parallels. parallels. parallels. gojo & geto; megumi & yuuji

well long post ahead cause I probably won’t be able to sleep unless I get this out of my brain... just lots of crying lol

As it is... Yuuji and Megumi’s relationship is quite obviously both a mirror and a contrast of Gojo and Geto’s relationship... that all things considered... didn’t work out.

I know their circumstances differed and it wouldn’t be right to compare the gravity and weight of the cases each of them faced but this is really just about how I observed Megumi & Yuuji’s dynamic to be “a one that reaches enough” compared to Gojo & Geto’s “if only’s”.

Megumi & Yuuji’s dynamic seems to take all that “one step” Gojo & Geto missed to take. It seems to successfully reach out in a way that Gojo and Geto didn’t.

Really... I’m just trying to make myself more upset by thinking how much more tragic can satosugu get lol but yeah... parallels

1. Something wrong?

Suguru u bangs! not a problem my ass ಥ_ಥ liars’ bangs are served as somen noodles. *gives u a hug*

Anyway... my heart clenched in that Yuuji panel where he said “Ah? No way, nothing” ಥ_ಥ grateful for Megumi’s prodding stare

2. ಥ_ಥ When the “moral compass” half of the duo breaks down...

Ah but it’s something when you think about how Geto watched Amanai get shot in the head in front of him and Yuuji had to watch Junpei get disfigured by Mahito also in front of him. Both of which was just right after a convo that would motivate Amanai and Junpei to continue on with their lives. Amanai refusing to merge with Master Tengen and Yuuji offering Junpei to attend Jujutsu High...

3. The “trying to bring back your friend” or “trying to make them stay” scenes.

Well... at least Megumi was able to convince Yuuji to stay. But of course Yuuji never wanted to kill all those people and Geto mass murdered of his own volition.

4. It’s “OUR” fault.

How to make them stay: Tell them you’re accomplices. Which, by all means, is fucking accurate.

Gojo and Geto, did you two forget “both” of you were assigned to the mission “together” 😭 You have each other so why 😭 did you two shoulder things alone? Now, I will forever think about what could’ve happened if you two just.. just said “it’s our fault” too. 😭😭

5. Justice and the world of Jujutsu Sorcery

6. Ah. The one that got away and the one who stayed.

Have you ever thought about how Megumi’s first words to Yuuji after meeting him again after the Shibuya Incident was “What’re you doing? Let’s head back to Jujutsu High”? and proceeds to ramble about how he’s gonna sneak in despite Yuuji being a target for execution and every risk there is. And eventually he was able to convince him fully? By asking Yuuji to save him?

But in Gojo and Geto’s KFC scene in ch. 78, Gojo wasn’t able to utter a phrase that asked Geto to stay or at least implied it. Sure there was that bit about reminding Geto about his past principles about the strong protecting the weak but there were never explicit persuading words that asked the other to stay or at least stop and rethink his plans. Not that he could though, with Geto and his fully made up mind. It’s just sad in how I wish they could have “saved” each other too.

Yeah, I get it... Neither of them were emotionally stable and capable enough that time. It’s just a “what if”. If Gojo asked him to stay or if Geto asked him to come with him (to the horror of the jujutsu society if they became a tag team of villains).

Well... That’s all folks..... ಥ_ಥ

Also.. It’s cute that Geto and Megumi’s cursed techniques involve manipulating curses and shikigamis and Gojo and Yuuji are raw power stuff and they’re the two ‘strongest’ of each side of the coin and by that I mean Sukuna the King of Curses but details details...

BONUS!

Gege and his way of bringing your dead friend back to life and back to your life.

#it is currently 2:47 am and satosugu sad hours is every hour #jjk manga spoilers #jujutsu kaisen #satosugu #geto suguru #gojo satoru #itadori yūji #fushiguro megumi #itafushi #fushiita #brain juice for satosugu and fushiita #brainrot

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fedzkun · 3 years

Text

Villain Hunt Arc Meta: All For One’s Horrific Guide to Methodically Breaking Down Your Local OFA Holder

Ft. Turning the ‘Overpoweredness’ of OFA into a Setback, and AFO’s Successful Manipulations Of Midoriya Izuku

In which I also give AFO too much credit for all the pain he’s probably caused, and theorize that his plans to break Izuku actually started getting enacted even before he’d escaped Tartarus.

(A.k.a. me loving the angst because this is really good angst writing, but also hating it because the manga doesn’t come with a Angst with A Happy Ending tag unless you count Izuku’s ‘this is the story of how I became the greatest hero’ which isn’t really a guarantee of happiness )

So. What an arc! In the span of ten chapters (starting from the end of the War arc) Hori delivered a full-on Villain-looking, Vigilante Midoriya Izuku. Congratulations, Horikoshi, for finally introducing Akatani Mikumo!

The fast pacing and lack of breather panels are so fitting for this arc truly. AFO never gave them a moment’s rest. Yes, from henceforth as he’d promised... It’s always going to be his turn.

Izuku is making amazing progress with unlocking the full power of One For All. In his words, his abilities might as well already be on par with what a healthier All Might could do, and with no recoil to boot. Plus, there’s only one last quirk to unlock. For villain fights, I don’t think we need to worry about him losing, or him breaking anymore bones at this time.

Which, some might argue, makes Izuku too ‘OP.’

To start with, I want to talk first about the ‘overpoweredness’ of the One For All quirk. It’s a wonderful quirk truly, having inspired and amazed so many because of its sheer power. Used well, it could grant instant victories and restore the people’s wavering faith to the heroes. Because with a quirk like that on your side, everything’s going to be alright, right? There’s always gonna be that bit of hope that something is still strong enough to stand against the looming evil...right?

Yeah. That’s what the people who’d lived under All Might’s Era of Peace thought so too. History repeats.

OFA’s ‘OP-ness’ is both a great blessing and a great burden.

Here are some points on how the narrative has made OFA's 'overpoweredness' a setback:

1. All For One—that bastard—exploits the urge that comes with OFA. Just as ‘AFO the quirk’s’ goal is to steal OFA, OFA’s job is to defeat AFO, and Izuku is sacrificing himself to its cause.

Here’s another thing I want to point out: The conclusion that the heroes drew about AFO planning to capture Midoriya Izuku alive? In rereading, I’m starting to believe it’s nothing but a mere assumption of his plans. Aside from the deal made with Lady Nagant—of which I think AFO didn’t take seriously anyway and set her up for failure— (and while we as readers are already aware of his true intentions to wear Izuku down) it’s weird that nowhere had AFO directly mentioned to Izuku that he’s going to kidnap him and take his quirk from him.

2. OFA made Izuku so brilliant (e.g. Pros and former Pros alike going “This kid...”) that they really can't help but place all their hopes on him. Sighs. In an ideal world, this would be a dream come true of Izuku getting his due credit for all his heroic achievements Pro heroes have started to do to Izuku what they’ve done all their lives to All Might--which is to put him on the pedestal, while they fall back to cover him like guards/safety net. Hence, falling back to the One Pillar Model mindset.

3. OFA makes Izuku untouchable, not only to the villains, but also to his allies. Prime material to reinforce isolation. And if Izuku doesn't want to be caught, he won't make it easy for either side.

4. OFA IS SUS AF, OKAY? What are the Holders doing?! While gaining access to them makes it easier and convenient to have personal trainers in handling OFA, the vestiges prove to add a lot to Izuku’s mental load. If they’d allowed Izuku to come to the point of being caked with blood and filth, they’re not doing very well at guiding him. Realize that most of their arc interactions with Izuku is Quirk Talk. They, of all people, should know how AFO’s machinations work! Hey First, for the love of god, warn Izuku! He’s showing so many signs of being manipulated that you should be picking up on. please /sobs ;;

Tbf, like, I’m pretty sure that the Holders haven’t been as mentally okay either, which would feed into Izuku’s current mindset.

Now that the setbacks have been listed, let’s dive in to AFO’s plans to toy with Midoriya Izuku.

PHASE 1: Pre-Tartarus Breakout

Speaking of OFA being sus, there’s something that has been niggling at the back of my mind.

All For One basically tells Izuku: “You were my main interest that entire time I was in prison”. So, to pass the time in Tartarus (since he can’t use any(?) of his quirks), AFO has been doing nothing but apparently daydreaming and designing a personal hell for the Ninth Holder during that entire period. HOWEVER, it also made me wonder…

…Even before he’d broken out, had AFO made any moves at all in enacting his plans to break Izuku?

Yeah?

And here’s the kicker: he says that before Blackwhip bursted out.

AFO is a master manipulator. Assuming that Izuku doesn’t have any latent AFO quirk (for whatever reason *coughs* maybe dfo if you're a believer) or that Quirk Singularity has anything to do with it, what is the trigger to Izuku suddenly having access to Blackwhip?

I’d argue that it is All For One himself.

Why? What’s his goal? If you notice during the Joint Training arc, Izuku is feeling pretty confident about his progress. He’s rather happy and feeling blessed, and he is making leaps and bounds with base power OFA.

AFO can’t have that. He can’t allow the Ninth Holder to become too emotionally stable, or else he’d have a stronger will. So by somehow activating Blackwhip, AFO makes Izuku feel like he hasn’t made any progress with his quirk at all. During the evaluations, Izuku mentions that he still needs a lot to work on, and while not all of it is visible, with the way he behaves, it’s pretty evident that his self-confidence has taken a rather large hit.

But, wait! If AFO had tampered with OFA during the JT arc, paving the way to unlocking the rest (like he’d also done during the War arc when he tried to ‘steal’ it then), then wouldn’t AFO be sabotaging himself since he’d be making Izuku a more formidable opponent?

Sure. Except that the quirks inside OFA are mostly useless when it comes to the mental part of the fighting. The only thing they’re useful for is for the current Holder to be able to play keep-away in the physical realm. And AFO could easily just find counters for those through his work on Tomura.

You know how else the situation becomes advantageous for AFO? With every quirk unlocked, Izuku’s goalposts keep on getting away from him, and Izuku will always feel like he isn’t ready or prepared enough. Izuku will push and push himself to master OFA to its fullest, to become more powerful, at the cost of his mental/emotional stability and physical wellbeing as he wears himself down.

And every time Izuku grew more powerful, and became more ‘OP,’ he is burdened with all the aforementioned setbacks that came with it. He could be the most powerful person in the world, but it’s all for naught if he doesn’t take care of himself. This plan is both a high risk and high reward on AFO’s part, and as of the moment, with a bloody Izuku staggering all over, AFO is visibly reaping these high rewards.

PHASE 2: Post-Tartarus Breakout

He’s going to toy with Izuku until Izuku fucking breaks. What follows is his series of actions that instills the desired responses from Midoriya Izuku. Let’s see how the master manipulator plays this game of chess, shall we?

Izuku’s plan: Reach out to villains and try to save them.

AFO’s counter: Kill off those who turn their back against villainy and/or acknowledge Izuku as a true hero.

Izuku’s resulting response: Stop reaching out to villains. Gain an instant victory and move on.

After all, what do you get when you block a hero from showing sympathy? You get an unfeeling living weapon.

---

Izuku’s plan: Work with the top pro heroes to bring down AFO.

AFO’s counter: Make plans that will serve to highlight how the top pros are just slowing Izuku down. (e.g. Making moves while it’s raining, so as to divide them, but also to bring out No. 1 Hero Endeavor’s "slowness" in the rain. Nope, I don’t think that’s a throwaway line at all.)

Izuku’s resulting response: Grows more reckless, often leading the charge.

---

Izuku’s plan: Track AFO down.

AFO’s counter: Lead them to dead-ends. Or when they do supposedly reach something, endanger them.

Izuku’s resulting response: His tunnel vision worsens, as he grows more desperate.

---

Izuku’s plan: All Might following him around is okay since it would help All Might from worrying so much, and Izuku could simultaneously keep an eye on and protect All Might.

AFO’s counters: There are a lot to really fuck with this bond, damn you AFO.

Taint that passing the torch memory of ‘You’re Next.’

Declare that All Might no longer interests him. Liar. He outright stated before that he’s one for keeping a grudge

Send another assassin to Izuku [Underlying Message: You yourself are a walking danger zone to those whom you dearly care for.]

Izuku’s resulting response:

Interpret that memory of ‘You’re Next’ as taking up the position of being AFO’s shiny new plaything, and therefore supposedly sparing All Might from the torment (Unfortunately, making Izuku push AM away is just part of the torment ;A;)

Think that AM is no longer in the direct line of fire as long as AFO focuses on Izuku

Finally, push his last line of morale support away, and completely isolate himself.

Btw, I wonder how All Might feels about Izuku using Nana's quirk to get away from him.

---

The suffering doesn’t end.

Izuku’s plan: Save people.

AFO’s counters: (possibly offscreen) Send more villains and assassins to torment Izuku some more with the knowledge that he can’t save them. Sending villains out also puts innocents in danger.

Izuku’s resulting response: He won’t stop for anything. He won’t sleep, won’t eat, won’t slow down. He will always do his best to save as long as someone is in danger.

His body will keep on moving and moving and MOVING on its own.

--- All For One is very effective as a supervillain. He has managed to make the heroes think that his only goal is to capture Izuku alive for his quirk. He has Izuku right where he wants him: dancing to his tune at the palm of his hand, utterly toyed with, left with no escape in sight.

Psychologically vaulted.

PHASE 3

And so, if Izuku is being manipulated to drive himself further and further into self-destruction, what then is there left for All For One to do?

So much more. Because, my god, I think AFO has mastered the art of traumatizing the OFA Holders.

All For One once told All Might, “I will destroy all that you’ve protected.” And boy, is he delivering. He's definitely not done with AM btw.

First, he destroys All Might's image. And he is manipulating Izuku to drive himself to that point. To looking into his absolute worst.

And when that point arrives, AFO will hammer the final nail home.

Something like...

BEHOLD

JAPAN’S SYMBOL OF PEACE.

And oh, how it'll hurt. To see All Might's pride and joy be flaunted about as looking nothing like a hero to the masses, for him to be so utterly humiliated.

"See what I did to All Might's successor."

AFO will be banking upon the possibility that the angry masses will not want to be saved by whom they're tricked into viewing as someone that's the cause of all the pain. Izuku might have the willpower to stay true to his resolve, but with him on the verge of total breakdown, what would happen when he is shunned by the very people he is trying to help?

I once wrote a post about how the current events seem to be a bastardization of Izuku's wildest fantasies: he's working with the top pros, he has the most powerful quirk, and he's working with All Might (whom technically acts as a sidekick to him rn).

AFO has warped all that into a never-ending nightmare. And Izuku...

Izuku is really in need of saving.

Last thoughts:

Let me just say that it shouldn't be a competition about who gets to get through to Izuku. Right now, he’s gonna need all the help he can get, and it can’t be delivered by only one or two people. Saving Izuku is going to be a team effort, a solid support system that sees Izuku as their classmate/friend/student/actual person that they care about. And there’s sufficient space for that.

More hands reaching out means more chances to catch him if he falls.

#bnha #bnha 317 #bnha manga #bnha analysis #bnha meta #all for one #afo #midoriya izuku #all might #toshinori yagi

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gotnofucks · 4 years

Text

What’s Your Escape

Pairing: dark!Sherlock Holmes x Reader

Summary: Sherlock could never resist a mystery, especially not one as deliciously wrapped as you.

Words: 4.5k

Warnings: Non-con/dub-con, smut, harassment, jealousy, 18+ ONLY

A/N: Spoilers for Enola Holmes

MASTERLIST

+++++

It was your duty to make sure that the young miss could escape quietly. You put extra padding on her shoes and made sure the mud outside the window was spongy. She would need something strong and long to climb down from here, so you sew together a few old curtains to make a rope and put them in the chest in her room. If she follows the plan, she will leave, and none will be the wiser. You hoped she would make it back before noon, or you’d have to answer the masters of the house why their sister was missing.

You liked living here before the brothers returned. Things used to be fun at the Holmes ancestral manor before Mycroft and Sherlock returned after their mother’s disappearance. You would have thought they will leave after bringing back Enola under their roof, but they seemed to have reconnected with their roots and to your displeasure stayed.

Eudoria Holmes had hired you as a second housekeeper after Mrs. Lane started getting up in the years. Or well, that’s the story she told everyone else. Eudoria had rescued you from a life of abject poverty, brought you to her estate and given you a roof and work. She saw in you a fire that she claimed would light the way for many women to come. You had trained with Enola since childhood under her mother’s direction, but you were more mentally skilled. While Enola could jujitsu her way out of a situation, you could read a person, manipulate them into letting you go. Together, you both made the best team.

Everything changed when Eudoria disappeared. You knew one of you had to stay here to keep an eye on the Holmes brothers, so you helped Enola escape while you stayed. You didn’t think anyone would suspect you had a hand in her daring getaway, but then you hadn’t met Sherlock Holmes before. Since the morning Enola was missing, his eyes followed you like a bloodhound’s to meat. You could feel them, the weight of his gaze heavy on you. If you would look up and catch him, he would get an irritable look on his face, like he’s stuck trying to undo a knot for a while.

You were glad when he left the Holmes Manor for London to search for his sister soon enough. His looks made you antsy and you had to bite your tongue on various occasions to set him straight. For years you had lived unrestrained with Eudoria, and suddenly being thrust back into your duties as a housekeeper proved to be more difficult than ever. More so now that Enola was back as Sherlock’s ward.

Things could have gone back to normal for it seemed Sherlock was more liberal than Mycroft when it came to their sister. Yet, he was a man of society. Intelligent as he may think her to be, he was still of the mind that she must marry a suitable gentleman, after which she could frolic wherever she wished. It fell on you to help Enola escape the Manor, to go away for a few precious hours at night to spread her wings and breath freely. You’d been doing so for nearly a month and every night your exploits had gone without a hitch.

You’d just seen her down the curtain rope, waving to her from the window as she climbed atop her bicycle and rode away into the dark. You sighed, wishing you could perhaps go too. But you owed a great debt to both the Holmes woman, and you would continue to serve them as long as they would desire.

“Would you like me to help you climb down?” Said a voice behind you and you turned suddenly, clutching the windowsill to support yourself. Sherlock leaned against the doorframe, his curls slightly mussed.

“Mr. Holmes” You breathed, heart hammering unevenly in your chest. Your first thought was that your secret was out, and Enola would be made to marry a stupid man while you’ll be thrown on the streets. He walked languidly towards you, wearing a robe that stretched over his bulky frame. For a man so huge, he carried himself with a lot of grace. Stopping a few feet from you, his eyes followed the rope that dangled out the window and a smile tugged at his lips.

“I’d wondered why she looked so tired every day, and why you spent so much time doing her laundry. The mud must be difficult to get off, hmm?” He asked, his hand pulling out his pipe from his pocket that he deftly lit and popped in his mouth.

You didn’t answer him, watching him, deciphering him. He was a mystery to you because he was so open. Unlike others he didn’t wear a mask of polite diplomacy, his disdain for things was expressed in no uncertain terms and he rarely bothered hiding his true thoughts. While you could outsmart a liar, talk a stupid person into doing what you want without them realizing, you had a hard time reading Sherlock Holmes. He had little need to lie unless it was for a case and he was certainly not stupid.

He stared at you for a long time, smoke drifting from his pipe while you refused to cower under his gaze. His lips twitched in amusement, eyes raking over your form before finding yours and he took a step forward.

“You are good at hiding I must say. Almost perfect in fact, but these eyes, they give you away. Your tongue drips with honey while your eyes burn with fire and ice. If someone knows where to look, your game will be over before it begins.”

“And what are you looking for Mr. Holmes?” You asked.

He set his pipe down before coming close enough to brush his front against yours. You stiffened slightly, feeling his hand going around your waist.

“I’m looking for a reason.” He whispered, his hand catching hold of the rope behind you as he started pulling. You stayed between him and the window ledge, staring into his eyes, his knuckles grazing your back occasionally until he pulled in the entire rope. Letting it fall on the ground, he almost bumped into you when he leaned forward to shut the windowpanes behind you. His breath was on your face and you resisted the urge to dash away from him.

“You need to leave” You said at last. Sherlock shook his head, arms resting on either side of you now. He breathed deeply, taking you in. His blue eyes, one with the slightest tinge of brown gleamed at you. Only a faint light came from the candlestand in the corner now that the windows were closed, and you saw reflected in his eyes an emotion you were entirely unfamiliar with. Desire.

He leaned forward, his one errant curl tickling your forehead and you felt his breath on your mouth. Your hands shot out, pushing against his chest.

“Leave, now.” You said, sharp and commanding.

“Make me”

You gulped, the intimacy of a man not something you were used to. He was too large to even think of physically getting away. You must, like he said, make him go away.

“I can’t get you to leave, but if you stand at the end of the hall, I can convince you to come to me.”

His eyes lit with intrigue, a most sensual smile tugging at his lips. You were doing what he loved the most. Playing a game.

“And what if you cannot?” He asked. You met his eyes head on, not an ounce of fear in yours.

“Then you can have what you so clearly want.”

You could almost call his grin boyish, an excitement taking over his features as he finally pushed away from you. He cocked his head at you, appraising you as his tongue darted out to wet his lips. He nodded, turned around and walked out of the door and stood at the end of the hall. He spread his arms as if to say, your move.

Your feet carried you across the room, measured stride that gave away nothing.

“I think the deal was for you to make me come to you.” Sherlock remarked as he saw you walking forward.

“It is” You stated before quickly taking hold of the door and pulling it shut. You had a brief glimpse of the shock on his face, then heard his feet thundering as he ran towards you but by then you had locked the door and rested against it.

His fists hit the wood and for a moment you were convinced he would break it down. But then you heard his chuckle, like he was proud to have been played as such.

“I’ll come back for you” He said aloud, and his feet retreated while you sank down on the floor. Your heart was loud in your ears and hands slightly trembling. Maybe its time you brushed up on your jujitsu.

+++++

Sherlock let Enola leave every night, giving no impression he knew what she was up to during the day. She was far too happy (and sleepy) to give it much thought and the days went by as normal. Or well, maybe not for you.

If you thought he was looking at you before, it was nothing as compared to now. He was everywhere, watching you from the corners when you cooked and cleaned. You were glad for other people’s presence in the Manor, for you feared being alone with him. Each night, the moment Enola climbed down you would shut the door to her room, sleeping there. You couldn’t risk making the journey across to your own chambers. That was a risk you weren’t willing to take.

“Mr. Kennedy would be over for dinner tonight. Make the necessary arrangements” Mycroft told you at breakfast. You nodded, dreading the extra hours of cooking you’ll have to do. Thank god Mrs. Lane was still well enough to bear most of the burden. Sherlock’s eyes as usual were on you and you wondered how no one noticed.

“Do you still have mother’s favorite infusion?” He asked you and you nodded. Eudoria will not be happy with them taking liberties with her stuff, but you weren’t about to argue. “Get me some, please.”

“Of course, Mr. Holmes” You sped away, grateful to be away from his company. You always loved the storeroom where Eudoria kept her infusions. A sweet smell of herbs along with polish permeated the air and it warmed you from within. You tinkered with the numerous jars that littered the shelves, dust coating them for they haven’t been touched in months. You were rummaging in one of the upper shelves when you heard the door behind you shut and you turned to see Sherlock turning the key to lock it.

“Are you done running away from me?” He asked, putting the key in his jacket. The room was just a small storeroom, crammed with different knickknacks everywhere. Sherlock’s body seemed to take all the space in the room, and you felt claustrophobic. He only needed to take another step to close the distance between you and you stumbled into the shelf behind you, jars clinking against each other.

“What do you want?” You asked, feeling both irritated and anxious.

“You’re smart enough to figure that out by now.” He said and took that step forward, bringing you chest to chest. You wished you’d worn a corset which would have provided an extra layer of protection. All your training with Eudoria had not prepared you for her son. He smelled like the pipe he smoked and the rich musk of ink and parchment. You tried not to breath too deeply.

“Mr. Holmes, this is most inappropriate.” You chided and he breathed out a laugh. His face neared yours and his eyes held yours in a way that you couldn’t look away if you wanted to.

“You intrigue me like no other. The restraint you have…You’re a burning match and I keep creeping closer and though you threaten to burn me you’d much rather smother your flame. Why?”

His words heated you, a tingling starting in your belly as you shook from the force of him. His finger raised slowly, very slowly to your cheek and you turned your face right before he could touch.

“How will you get out this time? What’s your escape?”

He was so smug and amused you very nearly growled at him. Your eyes took in the room, trying to see how you can get out of here. He was blocking the only exit with the key in his jacket. As established previously, physically fighting him was not an option. You thought about it and finally turned to look at him.

“I propose a challenge” You said, and he grinned like it was just what he was waiting for. “You hide that key anywhere in this room while I shut my eyes. If I find it, you let me leave.”

He leaned even closer, close enough for his nose to graze your head.

“And what if you don’t?”

“Then you can have what you so clearly want.”

He pulled back and produced a handkerchief from his pocket that he offered to tie on your eyes. You took it and did it yourself. You’d rather he not touch you at all. You could hear the shuffling of his feat, slight movements to your left and then the clinking sound of metal hitting an object. He gave you the go ahead and you took off the blindfold.

You looked around carefully, examining every surface and box and jar. Your keen eyes judging what was moved from its position. One glass jar to the far right caught your eye and you almost went to pick it up before you stopped. You titled your head, looking at Sherlock who seemed to be observing you most intently. To his surprise, you stepped towards him and placed a hand on his chest, moving it until you reached the pocket in the inner lining of his jacket and found the key.

His eyes were wide, both aroused and impressed.

“How?” He asked and you smiled a little at his fascination.

“I almost went for the jar, that was the only one with fingerprints marking the dust layer. But then I noticed your jacket which had dust stain too. You dropped the key in there but put it back in your pocket, not wiping your dusty hands.” You explained.

His arms caged you before you could blink, holding your body to his and mouth at your ear.

“No, you said you’d let me leave!” You protested. His warmth was seeping inside you, smell overpowering your nostrils and you pushed.

“I have never wanted a woman more in my life. I’ll let you leave, but only because I know I will have you. Go now before I am tempted more than ever.” He released you and you unlocked the door, stumbling outside and running away without looking back.

+++++

Two months, that’s how long you held him off with the power of your brain alone. He would corner you and you would play a game of wits. Every time you had escaped, sometimes narrowly, but it all changed this night.

You didn’t know what was happening until Sherlock almost drove his fork into the tabletop. He was positively seething, eyes glaring at Mycroft’s colleague who was over for dinner. It was not until he turned those eyes on you did you understand what had him on edge. Mr. Shephardson had referred to you as ‘my dear’ and ‘sweet girl’ multiple times now, and with each new endearment Sherlock’s fist clenched harder until you worried he’ll dig his fingers in his own palm.

You shrugged away his glare and continued serving, smiling at the man old enough to be your father. It was not like you cloud go, just turn away and leave, it was your job to be kind and serve the guests. It was one of the longest dinners of your life, one that left you utterly uncomfortable and confused. The guests departed and you were left alone to clean the table. You had just started stacking the plates together when Sherlock marched towards you, a frown marring his handsome face.

“Ten minutes, my room. Don’t make me drag you” He warned and went away as quickly as he had come. You shivered slightly and moved your hands faster, collecting the dishes, and putting them in the kitchen for a wash. You had no idea what he wanted, but he was angry enough that you wouldn’t push his boundaries. You wiped the table next, legs jittery as you knew time was running out. Finally, you rearranged the chairs and put away your apron before climbing the stairs to make you way towards Sherlock’s room. You were halfway up when he came thundering down himself, almost colliding with you.

“I was just –” You started speaking but he cut you off by lifting you in his arms and making his way up. You bounced in his arms as he climbed the steps, his jaw clenched in anger.

“I told you I’ll drag you myself if you don’t make it on time.” He snarled and you were too shocked to make a noise until you were in his rooms and the door was shut and locked behind you. You had to admit you were afraid of him then, his chest heaving in anger as a vein pulsed in his temple. He stalked towards you, removing his jacket as he came and you nervously moved back.

“Mr. Holmes please –”

He cut you off again, voice sharp and so commanding your knees knocked together.

“Say my name. Now”

You gaped at him, unsure what was happening. Here you thought it would be another tedious game between you two, but the mischievous glint had disappeared from his eyes. They were dark like a thundering sky, boiling over with rolling clouds.

“Say my fucking name now!”

“Sherlock!” You yelped, your eyes wildly looking for a way out. He was not himself. This is not the man you wanted to be left alone with for even a minute. But he had different ideas and he crowded you against the wall, assuming his favorite position in front of you with his arms acting as a cage.

“Say it again.” He ordered right in your face, voice dark and slow.

“Sherlock” You whispered and saw some of his anger leave him. One of his hands reach out to tangle in your hair and pulled you forward, your lips a hairsbreadth away from his when you started struggling. “No, no Sherlock. Please don’t” you pleaded.

He was so close you could make out every detail of his face, you could taste his breath on your tongue.

“You had a jolly time smiling at that man tonight, yes?” He seethed and you shook your head. You didn’t know he’d get so angry and jealous.

“It is my job” You argued and his arm tightened around you, squeezing until you were sure you’d be bruised tomorrow.

“I am your job!” He said and pushed away from you. “Name your challenge. Tell me how you’ll escape from me today.”

From the look on his face, you didn’t think he’d let you leave anywhere. Your eyes shifted from one place to another, wondering what you could do to get away from here. Fear permeated the air, making you lightheaded. You finally spotted his small safe hidden in the corner of the room.

“If I can open that safe you let me leave.”

“And if you don’t?”

You gulped audibly before answering. It was a question frequently asked and just as frequently answered.

“Then you can have what you so clearly want”

He smiled a satisfactory smile, moving away to sit on his bed. You forced your legs to move, inspecting every inch of the safe. It was small in size, golden in colour and had a very distinctive keyhole. You surmised that the key must also be golden, small going by the size of the safe and if you looked at the keyhole carefully, it must be sleek too to fit inside.

You made a mental tally of where he could keep the key in the room. But before that, you thought about what Sherlock Holmes would keep in a safe. It must be very valuable going by how expensive the safe itself looked, and if it were valuable then he would not just leave the key laying around in his room. He had only just returned to the manor after a long absence, things had changed behind him. He was once again living with his brother who he hardly trusted. There was only one logical place he would keep the key then.

“Please stand up” You said to him and he did, coming to stand before you. You tried not to look in his eyes as you scanned his body, thinking where he might have put the key because you were sure it was on his person. He had removed his jacket, leaving him in his shirt and pants. You took in every part of him and finally plucked the pen from his pocket. On its cap was a golden clip that you broke away and took with triumph towards the safe.

You inserted the clip into the keyhole, and it entered smoothly and your grin widened. You threw a smug look at Sherlock over your shoulder and turned it, but it didn’t move. Frowning, you put more force into it and tried to turn it. It stayed stuck.

His laughter made you freeze, and you let the clip fall from your hands. You faced him ashen faced, eyes wide and fearful. He took his time coming to you, victory sparking in his eyes. You corrected your posture, hoping you have wiped away every ounce of fear from your face. You weren’t about to let him gloat over you.

“I’ve told you before, you can hide very well but your eyes are your undoing. You can’t hide your heart from me when it shines so bright from behind your eyes.”

His hand took yours and slowly slid it down his chest until it rested on his buckle.

“Right before your eyes, had you been daring enough to see.” He said and you saw on his belt buckle a golden key. You looked at him and saw heat in his eyes, heat and desire that scared you more than anything. You left behind your rational thinking and made a run for it, rattling his door before he came behind you and hauled you up by your waist, throwing your body on his bed.

“You can’t break the rules of the game. When you won, I let you leave, now that I won, I’ll take what I want.”

He climbed over you, straddling your lower half as his hands sank in your hair and finally pulled you into a kiss. His lips folded over yours, kneading yours gently before his tongue probed inside to taste you. You wiggled in his hold, his passion burning you as you tried to come to terms with the situation. He was not brutal in his ministrations and coaxed a response from you, your lips moving against his on their own. You let out a soft moan, which made him sag against you.

“I’ve waited so long to have you, to have you burn me in your fire. Tell me why, for I can’t figure it out. Tell me why you suppress the storm that I know howls inside you.”

His eyes were open, urging you to talk about a part of you that you buried under layers. His let his fingers massage your head, and you sobbed. Even pinned under him, held down with his weight, his words were heavier to bear. He wanted a reason. Your reason. Right now, in the position you were in, with your heart thumping away in your chest, you couldn’t keep it in.

“If I go out to live my life, your sister can’t live hers. I owe everything to her and Eudoria, and if I have to sacrifice all my dreams to make hers come true, I’ll do it over and over again.”

His lips were on yours before you were even done, hands working to rid you of your dress. You resisted, a protest on your tongue.

“Please, don’t. I can’t, not this way.” You beg and he pulls away but only to discard his own shirt.

“I will not wait any longer. I will make you mine, I’ll have you tonight. No questions asked.”

How he managed to remove the dress from your squirming body you didn’t know but you lay before him more exposed than any man or even woman had ever seen you. Parts of you hidden under layers of cloth for years had become bare before his gaze and he revered them with his hands and mouth. Your back arched once his mouth sucked on your nipple, causing a deep heat to pool between your thighs. You squeezed your legs closed but he pried them apart, his already huge body looking ginormous as he nestled between them.

“I am going to taste you and I will claim you. It will happen, no matter what.”

He made good on his promise, bringing you incomprehensible pleasure with his tongue on your most sensitive region, making slurping noises that could make a street woman blush. You don’t remember when you ceased struggling, when your hands pulled instead of pushed. You panted for him, ached for him.

When he entered you, it was a pain the likes of which you had never experienced before. The stretch was uncomfortable, your legs trembling as you cried. Sherlock shushed you, promising it will be better soon. With every thrust the pain lessened and when he started teasing the nub between your legs you finally moved past the pain to focus on the pleasure. You were sobbing in need, begging him for something you didn’t even know what. He knew. He saw in your eyes what your mouth couldn’t say and gave you what your body desired.

You shattered below him, falling apart in a million pieces and he gathered you back into his arms, putting you together one kiss at a time. He was nearing his limit, hips pumping into you and your eyes rolled.

“After tonight, no more escaping. You’ll be mine, completely.” He vowed and you felt the warmth of his seed fill you. You lay beneath him, sweaty and battered, tear stained face anguished at what just happened.

Sherlock pressed kisses along your throat and chest, marking you.

“You never have to smother your flames from now one. You can burn as bright as you want, you can soar as high as you want. I will make all your dreams come true. You won’t just be a housekeeper. You’ll be the mistress of this Manor. I’m going to keep you, forever.”

+++++

taglist :

@shooting-star-love @what-is-your-wish @stanmysoul @sweeterthanthis

#dark!sherlock x reader #sherlock holmes x reader #dark!sherlock holmes x reader #sherlock x reader #enola holmes #henry cavill x reader #dark!henry cavill x reader

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fandom-go-round · 3 years

Text

Eyes Like Stars: Oberon x Reader

This is the 1000+ Follow Giveaway! Thank you for being patient with this and I hope everyone enjoys

Warnings: Reader Dealing with Mental Health By Ignoring it, Implied Mental Health Issues, Spoilers for Fate Grand Order Lostbelt 6, Oberon Lying like the Liar he is, Oberon might be a little OOC

It’s easy to say that you’re busy all of the time but that’s not quite it. Yes, you have your duties to fulfill in Chaldea and emergencies pop up that need to be delt with. The more honest answer is to say that you keep yourself busy on purpose. If you have things to do, you don’t have time to focus on what’s happening in the outside world. Or your family. Or your friends. Or the fact you don’t think you can ever go back to normal. Doing things makes you feel better and it keeps you moving forward.

This, of course, means that your Servants make it their mission to get you to relax. It’s a push and pull that some have been doing for a long time and Oberon had noticed it right away. Not that he’s been trying to notice of course. He doesn’t like being here but if he can’t leave, he might as well find something entertaining to pass the time. And, as much as he hates to admit it, you’re the most entertaining thing in Chaldea.

He can say, with no hesitation, that you work way too much. Oberon isn’t a fan of honest anything and watching you work yourself to the bone drives him crazy. It’s not like he cares, of course it’s not that. He just gets so bored watching you run from place to place, he wants to throw you off. He wants you to stop doing tasks and focus on something fun. It’s not because he cares though. Not at all. Not that he wants you to pay attention to him.

That’s what Oberon keeps telling himself as he watches you in the cafeteria, head buried in some kind of report. Mash is talking about something and you nod along, handing her the report before turning back to your dinner. Which, he notes to himself, has been sitting on the table for at least an hour and is probably cold. He smirks when you take a bite and makes a face; that’s what you get for being so nice to everyone else.

He watches as the cafeteria begins to clear out, food served and Servants retreating for the night. You stay at your table, dinner forgotten again as Gawain comes up to ask you something. It’s not the bags under your eyes that upset Oberon. You’re not that important in his life. He’s just curious to see when you’re going to pass out and if it’s going to be in your soup.

“Master!” You jerk at the call, turning to smile to Nursery Rhyme and Jack as they run over to you. Gawain quickly makes his exit, telling you to have a good night as he goes. Your focus is completely on the kids now and Oberon would think it was sweet if you were less annoying. Sleep should be your only priority but instead you’re talking to the kids now.

“You want a story?” He only tuned back into the conversation when your voice rose, preoccupied with watching the red archer clean in the kitchen. He had been scolding the cat berserker and Oberon was content to watch the omelet on the stove go into flames. Not his magic, not at all. He’s snickering when your voice breaks through the drama, turning to see the kids looking at you with wide eyes.

“Please Master? Just one before bed?” Nursery Rhyme’s hands are clasped in front of her face and Jack nods by her side, their eyes wide.

“Please please please?” Jack’s whining seems to be your downfall, a sigh coming from your mouth even as you smile.

“I guess I can do one story for the night.” The kids cheer at your words and begin to dance around you. This is when Oberon finally comes over to you, smiling and setting a hand on your shoulder.

“That sounds perfect. Let’s do it Master.” You jump at his touch and his words, turning to give him a confused look. Oberon doesn’t let you argue, helping you up and following after the impatient children. You try to turn towards the smoking kitchen but he doesn’t let you stop, ignoring the half glare you send him.

“What’s going on over there? Was it you” He laughs at your question, giving your cheek a quick pinch.

“How rude Master, and after I decided to help you out.” The dry look that you give him makes him smile, snickering to himself.

“I never asked for your help. And since when do you like stories?” He shrugs at your question, focusing on how the kids have led you to their room. They don’t hesitate to invite you both in, jumping onto bed and snuggling under the covers. Oberon takes a look around the room, letting you negotiate the bookshelf for a story.

“Are you going to help?” Nursery Rhyme’s question makes him turn and he smiles, going to stand over your shoulder.

“Of course. That’s why I’m here after all.” You shoot him another look and he laughs, grabbing another chair to sit next to you. It’s fun to read with you, Oberon will admit that. You get so into it, making voices and getting input from the kids. He makes himself a nuisance, chiming in with wrong lines and asking silly questions but the kids eat it up. You look annoyed but its fond and he grins when he sees that he’s made you smile.

The kids insist on another story and Oberon steps in, letting you take a back seat. He half watches as you begin to fall asleep, head bobbing against your chest. The kids are already out like a light but he keeps reading until your breathing evens out.

He doesn’t want to carry you back. No way. He just doesn’t want to get in trouble when the others figure out that you’re not in your room. It has nothing to do with how soft your face is and how you snuggle into him. Nothing at all.

Oberon tucks you in and watches you sleep for a moment before leaving. Better to go before he decides he wants to keep you. Damn Master, being so interesting. Such a pain. He smiles to himself, closing the door and vowing to keep an eye on you. He’s not going to let the most interesting thing in this place get away now.

#fate imagine #fgo imagines #oberon x reader #fgo oberon x reader #Fate Grand Order #Fate series #fgo oberon #fate imagines

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