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gravehags · 4 months

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satan baby

Pairing: Cardinal Copia x f!Reader (Curator!Reader)

Rating: Teen

Tags: yule with the papas, secondo and terzo fighting over caroling, gift giving, and maybe...kissing

Words: 1,877

Summary: It's the most wonderful time of the year.

a/n: it's been a while my children. eat up and merry christmas to those who celebrate. a little present from me to you.

~~~

“This is Secret Santa, you’re only supposed to get a gift for one person,” you sigh, currently inundated with a pile of presents on your lap and by your feet. “What’s all this?”

“Correction, bella, this is Secret Satan where you get as many gifts for whomever you like, sì? And you’re our star this year.”

Terzo smiles warmly at you as you fidget with the fabric of your festive dark green velvet skirt. You’ve all gathered in the Papas’ private living room, the mantle of the roaring fireplace positively bedecked with greenery and a massive tree opposite. A couple weeks ago you and Copia were put in charge of creating the orange garland, a not insignificant task given the height and breadth of the noble fir. Speaking of Copia, he is sitting in a deep leather armchair, stroking his mustache thoughtfully and giving you a funny look. When you give him an exaggerated wink his lips curl into a smile and his eyes dart away as his cheeks flush.

“Another cup, signorina?”

Primo is currently standing next to the hot plate on the side table, stirring the large cauldron of mulled wine. You really shouldn’t, you already are feeling a little woozy and warm but what the hell. Christmas, right? Or Yule, rather. You nod eagerly and Primo doles out a hefty amount of the dark liquid into a mug with little rats on it, passing it to Secondo who passes it to you as Terzo hands you yet another gift to open. So far you’ve unwrapped a beautiful homemade perfume from Primo and a garnet jewelry set which you are sure is quite old and quite expensive from Terzo. Copia still clings to the small present on his lap that bears a tag with your name on it, unwilling to see it in your hands just yet. One of these presents alone would be more than enough to dazzle you but the Papas insist on spoiling you. Who are you to object?

“This one is from me,” Secondo says, smiling slightly sinisterly over the rim of his mug.

“Ominous, but okay,” you say as you unwrap the box with caution. When you gingerly open the lid and see what’s inside, you let out an undignified screech. Primo, Terzo, and Copia exchange alarmed expressions as you reach in and lift the stuffed creature from its confines to marvel at it. It’s positively hideous - a large round potato-like head, red vestments, even a glittering pectoral grucifix. You’re beaming.

“Is that supposed to be me?” Copia says, outraged and red-faced.

“He’s perfect,” you coo, holding him against you in a tight hug. “Look at his stupid little face!”

“Ah, sì, he looks just like you,” Terzo says with a grin.

“He–it–looks nothing like me. No mustache. No sideburns. Eyes are all wrong!”

“He’s beautiful,” you say, cradling the monstrosity in your arms with all the grace of Mary. “Thank you Secondo.”

“I made him myself, you know.”

“A man of many talents!”

“A man of many war crimes,” Copia growls from his spot, flinging himself backwards in his chair and crossing his arms.

“Don’t speak about our son that way!” you cry, pressing your palms to the ears of the small stuffed man.

“Our son?” Copia cocks his head with interest and the brothers all look at you in silence.

“Y-yes. He looks - mostly - like you and I am his mother. Therefore we are his parents. So step up.”

When you reach out to hand the stuffed cardinal to the real thing, he sighs and takes it in his hands.

“He is infernal,” Copia says, placing him sitting up on his lap. “But I accept him as mine.” The sight makes you scramble for your phone to take as many pictures as possible.

“What a beautiful family moment,” Terzo says, wiping a fake tear from his cheek. “Copia, I think you’re the only one left who hasn’t exchanged presents!”

Handing the doll back to you he hesitates to reach for the gift still in his lap. Primo, ever wise, interrupts to ask if anyone wants dessert while you reach down and grab the present you’ve brought for Copia. Terzo and Secondo haul themselves up with much grumbling and follow Primo out of the room to help.

“I thought you said you were only bringing a present for one person? Primo was who you drew, sì?”

“Yeah I know but,” you scoot your chair closer to him, “you’re special. You’ve been on my side since day one. I couldn’t not get you something. You mean too much to me.”

Copia blushes the fiercest shade of red you’ve seen yet as you hand him the heavy package.

“Grazie, cara mia,” he says quietly, mismatched eyes boring earnestly into yours.

“Don’t thank me yet, you haven’t opened it.”

With a smile he begins unwrapping the festive paper. When he finishes and sees what is inside his heart jumps.

“Dolcezza,” he breathes and you blush just as fiercely as him at the nickname, “this is wonderful.”

It had taken you a lot of time and a lot of money (worth every cent as far as you are concerned) to locate an antique facsimile of William Blake’s art. Admittedly, you had used a lot of the Ministry’s excellent resources to find it but all the effort was worth it for this moment. When Copia looks up at you, you swear there are tears in his eyes.

“I have never before received a gift such as this, cara. Thank you.”

When you reach out and cover his gloved hand with yours and squeeze firmly, it’s as if his whole body sinks into itself. Softly, he picks up your hand and brings it to his lips - a sweet echo of his action from the first day you met. It takes everything within you not to knock all the items out of Copia’s lap and climb in it yourself. In all honesty, you’re moments away from doing just that when the Papas return to the room with much clamor. Your heart sinks as Copia drops your hand and clears his throat, and you return to your chair from your half-risen position. When Copia looks at you and points to the small box next to him, you mouth the words “later” with a smile before accepting a comically large slice of yule log from Secondo. The rest of the evening is relatively quiet apart from the dueling rendition of “Carol of the Bells” that Secondo and Terzo fight over while Primo sleeps contentedly in his comfy armchair. When the Papas begin loudly arguing in Italian you signal to Copia and begin gathering your things in a large brown bag. Without a word the two of you slip out the door and when you hear a crash and Primo’s deep bellow ringing out you skitter away down the hall.

“Looks like we made it out just in time,” you giggle as the two of you finally slow.

“Eh, sì, it always ends like this,” Copia says with a huff and an eye roll, “they can’t help themselves.”

Copia is unaware of where he is standing but oh, you certainly are. This looks like a perfect place to stop.

“Not trying to be pushy but I think you were going to give me something?” you say, cocking your head and setting down your bag.

“Ah…yes,” he sets down the book you gifted him and thrusts out his hand with the fastidiously wrapped present within it. “For you.”

You take the gift and open it delicately and slowly and see him chew on his bottom lip slightly.

“If you don’t like it I–”

“Hush,” you say simply as you open the box. Inside, resting on dark red velvet is a simple and small golden grucifix on a delicate matching chain.

“You always wanted to be a part of the Ministry,” he says quietly, fussing with his gloves, “and I hope this lets you know that we accept you. We’ve always accepted you. I–”

You remain silent as you set down the box and put the necklace on while Copia watches. When you finish your hands don’t return to your sides but rather come up to cradle the Cardinal’s cheeks. He’s frozen as you stand just like this, thumbs brushing against his sideburns and a look on your face that he doesn’t think he has the capacity to describe. Your cheeks positively glow, your eyes seem lit from within and your lips are curled into a soft smile. They part momentarily for you to take a deep, steadying breath - inhale, exhale - before you lean forwards and gently place your lips on his. The ground shifts beneath him, the world is spinning as the fingers of your right hand begin to slide along his jaw and you tilt your head. You hesitate only for a moment, pulling back slightly before Copia grabs you insistently by the back of the head and pushes his lips back against yours. He tastes of mulling spices and his mustache tickles your upper lip, as you always knew it would. When you finally need to catch your breath he barely relinquishes his grip on you, making you laugh and kiss his chin.

“Why,” he whispers, thumb running against your cheekbone. “Why me?”

You lean forward and rest your head against his chest, close enough to hear the thud of his heart.

“It was always you,” you murmur, wrapping your arms around his waist and stroking his back. “Always. From the moment you kissed my hand the day I was hired to the moment you comforted me when I was sad and lonely. From the moment you shared your rats with me. From the moment you put me to bed when I was drunk. All of it, Copia. All of you. That’s why.”

When you pull back to look at him, there’s definitely no mistaking the tears in his eyes this time and when he frantically pulls you in for another kiss, you can feel the wetness on your own cheeks. When you pull away with a giggle he looks concerned.

“Amore mio, what is it?”

You point upwards to the healthy sprig of mistletoe hanging from the rafter.

“You had no idea did you,” you say with a grin, chin resting on his sternum.

“Who would? Who could even see that and in the dark I–” his words cut off as you gasp from the short sharp smack to your ass.

“Copia! Not in front of our child!” you chastise, reaching into the bag and pulling out the accursed doll.

“Ugh, I had forgotten about him,” Copia grouses as you take it and peck him on the cheek with it.

“What should we name him?” you muse, adjusting the doll’s pellegrina.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something suitably horrific,” he smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead which you lean into eagerly. “Until then…shall I, eh, walk you back to your rooms?”

“Please,” and with one last long, lingering kiss with the odd cardinal doll squished between the two of you, you pick up your bag and continue the long walk back to your cozy bed with the Satanic cardinal you hoped would soon be in it.

#cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x f!reader #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia #the band ghost #the band ghost fic #rachel writes

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daze4all · 27 days

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HSR Happy Anniversary Gift Drabbles-Not Alone in this Universe- Found Family!Astral Express Crew

Invitation Code: GU8T0T3A6N

youtube

1. Imagine you board the Astral express...for the anniversary as new trailblazer! Found Family! Astral Express 2. Imagine MC!Trailblazer x Genshin Impact! MC! Traveller Reader Meet Drabble TBA 3. Dating Scenarios Astral express Guys Dan Heng, caelus, Welt Dating Scenarios TBA

Intro: Happy Anniversary Honkai Star Rail where will our trail take us next? Found Family! Astral Express x Reader Platonic Fluff 1. Stelleron/Aeon! Reader x MC!Traiblazer -No Longer a Newbie- Loufu- MC! & reader Bond over similar unknown origins... 2. Veteran! Gamer! Welt - Shall I Show you How it is Done?- Penacony- Old man shows off seniority and skillz 3. Bodyguard! Dragon! Dan Heng! x Reader- Keeping Warm in the Cold- Belobog- Only one room trope, heat, sleeping together..

Background: (Reader a stelleron, secret aeon, somone who has a 6th sense of other worlds like trailblazer, or with amnesia or missing memories) boards the express so caelus is no longer the newbie and they get together and figure out this strange world together and thier origins)

Intro

Pom Pom is happy you are here as he toddles back and forth with balloons and a cake balanced precariously on the tray. Everyone bedecked in the room with streamers with banners to welcome you.

"Am I really home? " you venture tremously.

After decades of searching for family and a home, you had found it with the Astral Express family. Tears welled up in your eyes as they accepted you without a past or future as one of their own.

A trailblazer among the stars.

Everyone is welcome to the express no matter their past or future Mother! Himeko hummed, welcoming, sweet, and gentle.

"Let's take a picture to commemorate" Middle kid! March cheers camera ready

"I brought the cake!" Cheers. Chaotic! Trailblazer Caelus

"Don't you dare smash it on someone's face like last time" warns Older Brother! Dan Heng watching trash raccoon trailblazer carefully ready to defend any victims of cake slinging.

"I'll cut it to make sure everyone gets there for share" Father!Welt says holding the knife aloft as both his glasses and the knife gleam ominously causing everyone to shrink away worriedly "

"Who wants the first piece? Oi why is everyone backing away? "miffed Father! Welt adjusts his glasses.

"I do~! Both Middle!March and Youngest! Trailblazer rush over to quarrel over who gets cake first but decide by deadly game of rock paper scissors as Older Sibling! Dan Heng sighs and faces palms in the corner. The parents chuckle and everyone is eager to happily munch on cake.

"Ah but first blow out the candles new trailblazer!" invited Mom! Himeko warmly as she lights them with her fire path powers to the oohs and ahhs of everyone on the Express.

"One

TWO

THREE!"

"Welcome to the Astral Express family!"

Happy anniversary/birthday trailblazers~! It's been a fun wild ride and I look forward to our trailblazing adventures ahead.

To the stars and beyond!

Or do you want to join another way and date one of the crew? Upcoming: One-shots for dating the express guys during travels

Also shamelessly for those who return or join the Trailblaze since I'm doing this free advertising for fun here's my code~

Also, feel free to friend me as need the credits to build my characters ~ plus fun chats over who to simp for lol !

Invitation Code: GU8T0T3A6N

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queen-mabs-revenge · 1 year

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If you don't mind me asking, what is this Late Late Toy Show you've been posting about? It looks wild.

how do i begin to explain the late late toy show?

ok as someone who didn't grow up with it, i'll give it my best shot. it's ostensibly a big variety show that's meant to show off the new hit toys of the year and give parents a bit of a hint as to what the kiddos might want, especially when said kiddos are hopped up on chocolate and pointing at the tv when smth their little sugar blitzed hearts desire shows up.

but in reality....it's the host ryan tubridy bedecked in increasingly heinous sweaters (and the occasional fursuit) absolutely unhinged - pupils the size of dinner plates - from minute one at the most manic pace you've ever seen in your life.

either the most heartwarming, the most chaotic, or the most savage kids around alternating between making the audience cry and then ruthlessly bullying ryan with the gleeful malice only a child can wield. children performing talents in clips that will 100% be shown to future prospective partners in 10-15 years. kids meet their celebrity idols, big huge life-changing gifts are given, and there's one for everyone in the audience as well!

50% of the toys don't work, the other 50% are kind of inconsequential to the real star of the show which is the absolute unhinged energy that is fed into by millions of people in ireland and around the world releasing a year's worth of crushing anxiety into sadistically cheering on a grown man absolutely losing his mind over the course of the entire fever dream.

true culture, tbh.

#lolol kind of eurovision energy but like.....more chaotically sinister #late late toy show #the late late toy show #haha stealing one of my own old posts but i genuinely am not able to brain tonight #it is what it is 😅

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multi-fan-dom-madness · 5 months

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Wrapped Up in You - Echo x reader

Clone Life Day Fic Exchange 2023

Summary: You invite the Batch to spend Life Day with you, and Echo is grateful for the opportunity. Prompt: "Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater? It smells like you."

Warnings: This work is SFW but my blog is 18+. fluff fluff fluff, TBB!Echo, pining, friends to lovers (implied), Crosshair being Crosshair, mentions of Fives.

Word Count: 3.1k

This fic is a Life Day gift for @ladysongmaster! I hope you enjoy! <3 Much thanks to @cloneficgiftexchange for hosting this event! Shout out to @stars-n-spice & @dystopicjumpsuit for the banners <3

Echo sighs, cradling the warm cup of spiced hot chocolate to his chest. It’s not often that the squad gets shore leave, let alone during the holiday season, so he’s determined to enjoy this particular leave as much as possible. Leaning against the wall in your small apartment, Echo silently surveys the scene before him, the ghost of a smile touching his features.

As soon as you’d found out your favorite squad would be on shore leave for Life Day, you made them promise to spend at least a few hours with you to celebrate. Echo’s heart swells at the memory of that holocall, the way you’d put your hands on your hips, head cocked to the side with that determined look in your eyes that could cow even Marshall Commander Cody. Of course the Batch had said yes, we’ll be there; of course Echo was the first to agree.

And he was glad for the chance to spend some time with you, even in a group setting. You’d decorated your entire apartment: scented pinecones hanging from festive ribbon, garland of popped corn, gently twinkling string lights arched over windows and doorways. In the corner of the room, dominating the scene, a fresh fir sits wrapped in warm yellow lights and golden bows, bedecked with shiny baubles of varying designs. A few presents sit wrapped neatly beneath the trees lowest boughs. Crooning softly over the radio, instrumental music lilts through the air. Cooking meat and baked goods fill his nostrils.

Tying it all together, though, is you. Dressed in an overly large knit sweater as red as the Batch’s armor, you’re a vision. Echo’s mouth runs dry when you glance across the room, your smile brightening when your gazes meet. Whatever Hunter’s saying to you seems to go in one ear and out the other as the two of you stare.

And then the moment shatters as the oven beeps. Breaking away from both Echo’s gaze and Hunter’s conversation, you hurry to the kitchen, disappearing from view.

“Stare any harder, and she just might catch fire, reg.” Crosshair’s voice is thick with sarcasm, the once-derogatory nickname now familiar and familial. He perches on the edge of the armchair nearby.

Echo rolls his eyes, taking a sip of hot chocolate to compose his thoughts. He’s relatively certain all his squad knows about his feelings, but Crosshair is the only one who’s broached the subject with him before.

“Dunno what you’re talking about,” Echo finally grumbles.

Crosshair scoffs. “You really are a di’kut, you know that?”

“Be that as it may.” With a pointed glare at his squadmate, Echo jabs his scomp in Crosshair’s direction. “I know that look, Crosshair. Don’t even think about it.”

Raising one thin eyebrow, Crosshair merely regards Echo with a faint smirk, gnawing on an ever-present toothpick. “Just saying, reg.”

“Just saying what?” you chime in.

Echo glances up, startled. Your eyes sparkle with curiosity as you approach, having caught the tail end of their conversation. Tucked under one of your arms are oven mitts, decorated with little boughs of holly, and in your other hand you cradle a tray of cookies, crescent moons of dough filled with fruit jam.

“How good you look in that sweater, dollface,” Crosshair drawls, smirk widening as Echo’s scomp whirs, his agitation bleeding into his neural interface.

Your teeth catch your bottom lip as you duck your head. “I’ve had it for ages. One of my favorites.”

“Well,” Cross says, standing to his full height, tugging the sleeves of his black turtleneck down, “it suits you. Isn’t that right, Ech’ika?”

Emotions clash and war within Echo. Irritation flares hot and angry at Crosshair’s goading—but it is immediately soothed by the balm of curiosity and wonder as you turn your gaze on Echo, eyes wide and...hopeful? What irks him even more is that Cross isn’t wrong: the sweater may be oversized, but it still drapes over your form in a flattering way, the knit fabric soft and cozy.

“Y-Yeah,” he says. Di’kut, he kicks himself mentally. “Uh, brings out your eyes.”

“Thanks,” you say. Then, as if suddenly remembering you’re carrying a platter of baked goods, you hold out the tray. “Oh, um, cookie? This is my grandmother’s recipe. I’ve got apricot, cherry, and blueberry ones.”

Crosshair plucks a blueberry crescent cookie from the tray, popping it in his mouth before slinking off, an entirely too smug look plastered to his face. Echo glances around for somewhere to set his mug; he’s shattered ceramic on his scomp arm before, the durasteel casing a smidge stronger than most mugs, and he doesn’t care to make too much of a fool of himself in front of you tonight.

“Oh, here,” you mumble. Balancing the cookie tray on one hand, you hold out your other for the mug.

With a small smile, Echo hands it over. He’s not sure he’s ever had apricot, but he knows he likes cherries, so he selects one of the morsels with dark red filling. He tries not to be self-conscious about the way you watch him expectantly, eyes trained on the movement of his hand as he brings the cookie to his mouth. The dough is surprisingly flaky, just sweet enough to really accentuate the deeper, woodier flavor of the cherry. Humming in delight, Echo smiles at you around his full mouth.

“You like it?” you ask, smiling in return.

He nods. Once his mouth is clear, he says, “Very good. Family recipe, you said?”

Ducking your head again, you nod. “Yeah, my gramma. She, uh, made these every year for Life Day. I still haven’t quite mastered her chocolate chip recipe yet, though.”

“I’m sure you’ll get it,” he says. “And I’m always happy to try out the experiments.”

“Is that right?” you ask.

A small quirk of your lips draws his eyes down to them for a fleeting heartbeat. He quickly looks away, catching sight of Tech building an accurate-to-scale gingerbread model of the Jedi Temple and Wrecker painting a new decal on his armor. Swallowing thickly, Echo takes a steadying breath. Maker, he went through ARC training; he can hold a conversation with his crush. Right?

“If you want me to, that is,” he says quickly.

Your gentle laugh stirs his heart, affection and cuteness aggression pulsing in him. “In that case,” you say, “I’ll be sure to hang on to some whenever you’re on leave.”

“Good,” he says, then clears his throat. “I mean, right, thank you. I can take that back now.”

With a smile you hand back his mug, the ceramic warm from more than just the liquid contents now. Echo forces himself to take several deep breaths, the comforting scents of cinnamon, fruit, and something else, something...sweeter, filling him and easing his embarrassment.

“Dinner’ll be done soon,” you say as you scoot past the armchair towards the others.

After dinner, Echo helps you clean up, though you insist on doing it all yourself. Not that you put up much resistance, not with how Wrecker praises your excellent cooking skills and even Tech is admiring the different flavor combinations, cataloging the recipes in his datapad. Hunter gives a knowing look as Echo scoops up what dishes he can; Echo studiously ignores his sergeant.

“You can put those on the counter there,” you say as you point to an empty space next to you. “Thank the Maker for dishwashers, because if there’s one thing I loathe about cooking, it’s the dishes.”

“And yet you wanted to do this on your own,” Echo teases. His belly is full, fuller than it’s been in a long time, and he feels warm. Fuzzy. Sated. Well, for the most part.

“Force of habit,” you muse.

He lingers in the kitchen, trying to fool himself into believing it’s so he can be nearby to help more, but in reality, he doesn’t want to leave your presence yet. Watching you bustle around the small kitchen, humming to yourself, entranced by the way the red sweater bunches at your elbows, Echo sighs. The war has been so far from his mind tonight, a fact he’s grateful for; but with the night’s activities beginning to wind down, his thoughts return to the incessant rhythm of hyperspace, fight droids, restock, hyperspace, fight droids...

“Echo?” Your soft voice startles him out of his reverie.

“Sorry, what?”

You gesture with wide arms at the now (mostly) clean kitchen. “We can go back to the others now.”

“Oh, right.” He follows you out of the kitchen, back to the living room. Wrecker has Crosshair in a headlock, while Hunter looks on in silent amusement. Tech still sits at the dining table, typing away on his ’pad.

When Hunter notices you return, he sits up straighter, clearing his throat. “Wrecker. Drop him.”

“Aw, alright.” Releasing Crosshair, Wrecker shoves him to the edge of the couch, then beams up at you. “This has been a great Life Day, thank you so much.”

“You’re most welcome,” you say with a warm smile. “I couldn’t not spoil my boys on a holiday like this.”

Something stirs in Echo’s chest at the way you refer to them as your boys. Kriff, would you be willing to have him be yours, truly yours?

“Speaking of spoiling!” You clap your hands together. “I have some gifts for you all.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Hunter says.

“I wanted to,” you say simply.

As you rifle through the wrapped presents beneath the decorated tree, Echo ushers Tech over to the couch, ignoring the man’s protests about needing to finish his notes. Gently pushing Tech down into the empty cushion between Wrecker and Crosshair, Echo remains standing near the arm of the couch.

You pass out small boxes to each of them. “It’s not much, but...”

Echo almost regrets that he has to rip through the paper to get to the gift inside, because you clearly took your time wrapping these, the folds crisp and precise, the black and red plaid design seeming to repeat seamlessly to infinity with how neatly you’d cut it. He savors the feel of the paper in his hand for a moment, and, out of curiosity, flips over the gift tag on top.

His heart skips a beat. In your handwriting, the tag simply reads: “To Echo. From, your favorite nat-born ♥️”. A quick glance over his brothers’ shoulders reveals none of theirs have a heart drawn next to your signature.

Carefully avoiding your gaze, he finally tears the paper off, then slips the lid off the box. Inside, nestled amongst tissue paper, rests a small charm: a domino. More than that, he realizes: five dark impressions mark the charm. Echo’s breath catches.

“It’s...” He can’t find the words, or even the thoughts, to express the overwhelming rush of emotions crashing through him. Melancholy, affection, reminiscence, appreciation: it all blends together. When he looks up and meets your gaze, he finds your brow pinched in worry.

“Do you like it?” you ask.

He can only nod.

“Oh! A li’l bomb!” Wrecker’s laugh booms through your small apartment. “This one’s goin’ on my blaster.”

“Great idea, Wreck,” Hunter says, holding up a tiny skull charm, a genuine smile on his face. “Might attach this to my knife.”

Tech has already secured his charm—a tiny datapad—to his actual datapad. “This is remarkably thoughtful. Thank you.”

“I made them myself,” you admit.

Even Crosshair’s eyebrows shoot up at that, and Echo watches as the prickly sniper carefully lifts the small bullseye charm to eye level.

“Good work,” Crosshair says.

Echo sighs. It’s as close to a ‘thank you’ as Crosshair can manage without combusting, he supposes.

“What’s yours, Echo?” Hunter asks.

“It’s a, uh, domino,” he says. He leaves it in the box; this is his gift, and he doesn’t want to share it just yet. “For my twin.”

Hunter’s eyes soften in understanding before he looks back to you. “You really outdid yourself, meshl’a. I’m just sorry we didn’t bring anything for you.”

You hum, finally looking away from Echo. “Spending time with you has been a gift enough.”

He silently excuses himself to the ’fresher, head still swimming with emotions. Ensuring the door locks, he flips the light on, chuckling to himself at the Life Day tree soap dispenser you’ve invested in for the small space. Splashing some water onto his face, the cold shocks his brain into resetting. Emotions subsiding, Echo pats his face dry, then, meeting his reflection’s gaze, gives himself a silent nod of encouragement.

The apartment is strangely quiet when he emerges. Peering around the corner into the living room, Echo is surprised to find it empty save for you. You’re curled up on the couch, cradling a mug between both hands, gazing at the tree.

“Where’d the others go?” he asks.

Your gaze flits to him without startling, a smile touching your features. “Back to the barracks.”

“Without me,” he says, voice monotone.

Humming noncommittally, you shrug with one shoulder. “Do you need to go, too?”

“I...” He hesitates. Technically, being on leave, he doesn’t have to report in for another two standard rotations. He doesn’t want to intrude on your space any longer than he already has, but stars, you look so beautiful like this, calm, relaxed, comfortable. He can’t resist the desire to stay. “No.”

“Good, because I have one more thing I want to give you,” you say. Setting your mug on the coffee table, you step around it with practiced ease, your gaze never leaving his. Echo can’t help the way his lips part in surprise as you wrap your arms around him. Your body heat seeps through the thin material of his shirt to envelope him like a blanket. For a moment, he stiffens, and you almost pull away.

But his brain catches up with his body before you can. Arm sliding around your shoulders, he tugs you firmly against himself. You’re soft against his body, not to mention the sweater, and he sighs, eyes sliding shut. He buries his face into the crook of your neck. Inhaling your scent, he finally identifies what he’s been smelling whenever you’re near: spiced vanilla. Heady and warm, the scent fills his entire being, carrying him up into the stratosphere, floating on clouds.

“Where’d this come from?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin.

“Maybe this is my selfish gift to myself,” you say with a light chuckle. “Realized I—we—haven’t hugged despite being friends for so long. And I suddenly couldn’t go another day without doing this.”

Heart hammering in his ribcage, Echo gently pulls back to meet your gaze. Biting your lower lip, your eyelids flutter as you peer up at him. Stars, he could count your eyelashes from this proximity, get lost in the texture of your irises, marooned in the harbor of your sweet scent. When his eyes drop to your lips, a glint of gold catches his attention. Further down, around your throat on a delicate golden chain, a second domino tile rests just below the dip of your collarbone, resting on the scoop of the sweater’s neckline. A double blank domino.

“I hope it’s okay,” you breathe.

“Beautiful,” Echo murmurs. “Just like you.”

You capture his lips in a soft, tentative kiss. Fingers trembling where he brushes them over your cheekbone, Echo meets your desire, your passion, with equal fervor. His heart plummets and soars simultaneously, every nerve alight.

In the morning, after stretching out his muscles and eating a simple but delicious breakfast, he drops a kiss to the crown of your head. You recline on the armchair, holonovel in one hand, looking so at peace that he wishes he could stay. But Tech had comm’d him at first light, requesting his assistance with the ship, so he had to get back.

“Will you come back before you ship out again?” you ask, standing to follow him to the door.

He gives you a shy smile. “Only if you come see us off.”

“Am I even allowed on base?” you ask, surprise in your voice.

“Probably not,” he shrugs. “But we don’t exactly follow rules. I think an exception can be made this one time.”

His stomach thrills with butterflies at the soft, pleasant sound of your laugh. Pressing his lips to yours once more, he reaches blindly for the coat rack he knows resides by the front door, where he stashed his jacket last night after arriving.

His fingers close around empty air.

With a frown, he pulls back, and sure enough, the coat rack is completely empty. Eyes narrowing in suspicion, he takes a deep, steadying breath and counts to five before turning back to you. Confusion paints your expression.

“Didn’t you—”

“Yes.” He grinds his teeth. “Crosshair.”

One hand pressing to your mouth, you stifle a smile but can’t keep it from scrunching your eyes. “It’s too cold for you to walk back without a jacket.”

A thought occurs to him, and the words leave his mouth before he even has time to process them. “Would it be alright if I borrowed your sweater?”

The look of surprise that overtakes your features is adorable, which makes the burning embarrassment that settles in his stomach worthwhile. All he can do is watch as you rush back to your bedroom, and return a moment later carrying the thick, oversized sweater you wore last night. Eyes sparkling, you silently help Echo into the comfortable garment, making sure his scomp doesn’t pierce through the woven fabric.

Looking down at himself, Echo finds that he quite likes the way that the sweater, so large and cozy-looking on you, fits him so perfectly. And, as he inhales to calm himself down fully, he’s greeted by the wonderful scent you wore last night.

He hums. “It smells like you.”

You duck your head, shuffling your feet, an abashed grin on your face. “Something to remember me by, then.”

“Like I could forget you.”

“You can’t say things like that when you have to leave,” you say with a teasing smile. Resting one hand on his chest, you lean up and kiss him sweetly. “Go, before I change my mind and keep you here.”

Echo hums. “Oh no, what a threat.”

“Go.” You gently push on him. “I expect that sweater back before you leave.”

“Of course, cyar’ika.” He opens the door, giving you one last fond look. “See you soon.”

And if, when Echo returns to the Marauder, he “accidentally” misplaces Crosshair’s pack of toothpicks, well, that’s his own business.

#tbb echo x reader #echo x reader #echo x f!reader #cloneficgiftexchange #the bad batch x reader #wrapped up in you #tbb x reader #rhiwrites

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vagabond-umlaut · 1 year

Text

THE LOVE CONFESSION THAT NEVER HAPPENED

▸ TEEN!GOJO SATORU X TEEN!FEM!READER; FLUFF WITH A PINCH OF ANGST; THIS FIC IS NOT CANON TO THE SERIES WE'RE THE SUMMER TO OUR WINTER RAIN!!!!; READER MIGHT BE A BIT OOC!!!! ▸ READER'S CLAN NAME & CURSED TECHNIQUE ARE REVEALED IN THIS. ANY & ALL SIMILARITIES TO ANOTHER'S READER/OC IS PURELY UNINTENTIONAL AND COINCIDENTAL. I SWEAR I DIDN'T PLAGIARIZE IT. ALSO, I'M UTTERLY AWFUL AT FINDING JAPANESE TERMS OF ENDEARMENT, DESPITE GOOGLING. SORRY :((

▸ THIS IS FOR THE AWESOME @heresan WHO NEVER FAILS TO SPOIL ME WITH HER ASK. ILYSM TINA! <333 ▸ WARNING: BRIEF MENTION OF A HIT-AND-RUN CASE & INFIDELITY IN ONE LINE [SATORU & READER ARE NOT INVOLVED, DW] ▸ AS ALWAYS, THE GIF, DIVIDER & CHARACTERS USED AIN'T MINE. PLS DON'T PLAGIARIZE, TRANSLATE OR REPOST THIS. ENJOY READING! ❤️

The stars are but mere fireflies to the sun that is the Kojima household tonight.

Bedecked in bright lights and a thousand and one paper lanterns, the palatial grounds of the property exude a brilliance, the likes of which the guests claim to have never been seen before, their awestruck voices drawing a polite smile from your grandmother (though the pride in her ancient eyes is unmistakable, you note).

You move your eyes away from your clan matriarch and let them rove over those around you – and their glowing selves – rendered more luminous by their expensive fabrics, sparkling jewels, and gleaming smiles.

Oh, what a couple of scraps of paper can do to one’s self, you muse silently, glancing at the woman batting her eyelashes at your cousin – the former the same one who was convicted in a hit-and-run case a year or two back, though now, with a Louis Vuitton dress hanging off her frame, no one, except you, perhaps, remembers on seeing her the innocent blood she wiped off her hands, all thanks to her wealth.

Not wanting to mar this celebratory evening with such dark thoughts, you shift your gaze to tonight’s centre of attention: the older of your two brothers, Takeshi and his fiancée Sara, your lips turning upwards into a small smile on seeing how dazzling they look beside each other – how beautiful, how well-suited, how happy, how… very artificial they look beside each other.

As artificial as the thousand and one paper lanterns your grandmother’s so proud of.

As artificial as your guests’ smiles - too-white, too-wide, too-thin.

As artificial as the compliments you can hear that woman shower upon the wife of the man she was attempting to seduce not too long ago.

Your smile disappears to give way to a frown, as you take in the falsity around you.

And a leaden weight lodges itself in your chest, right where your heart should be, when your eyes again meet the sight of your brother and your childhood friend smiling at the photographer – while your ears hear the wails of anguish, the snarls of contempt and the sighs of wistfulness –a cacophony of abandoned dreams and stifled desires emanating from the two souls soon to be joined in holy matrimony, two weeks from today.

Your mother says marriage is one of, if not the happiest event in a person’s life.

Oh Mom! If only you could hear what I can now…

Placing your empty glass of mojito mocktail on the grass near you, you lean back against a tree and close your eyes to soothe the throbbing pain in your temples – one which always happens after you’ve been amid too many people for too long a time, much to your great discomfort.

Sighing loudly, you move to lie down on the grass when the sounds of an approaching pair of footsteps reach you, soon joined by a boisterous yell of “Aha! There’s the woman of my dreams I’ve been searching for so long!”

“Hello to you too, Satoru,” You say, turning to the side and propping yourself up on an elbow, your eyes now open. “Didn’t think you would make it to the party.”

Gojo flops down beside you with an exaggerated pout.

“Oh, come on, Momo-chan. Think a bit higher of me, will you? Of course, I would make it to the party. My best friend’s brother’s getting engaged today. How on earth could I ever miss it?”

“And since when have you and Takeshi been on such good terms, hm? That you’re willing to leave your comfortable life at school to attend a party filled with clan elders for an entire evening?” You ask him, an eyebrow raised, unwilling to buy into his rubbish explanation.

Gojo chuckles. “Oh, it’s not Takeshi I’m here for today,” He says softly, shuffling closer to you until your sides are almost touching, “It’s you.”

You open your mouth, ready with a snarky reply, when his expression makes you stop – the words you were planning to say, now lost in your throat, as you look at his unusually earnest face.

“Satoru?” Your voice comes out as a shaky whisper, reasons behind which you cannot fathom for the love of your life.

(It’s ’cause he’s so close to you, silly! A part of your brain whispers – the same one which had made you call Gojo handsome, out of all the damned things you could say to him – that day you first saw him in his Jujutsu Tech uniform – much to your utter bewilderment and embarrassment.)

You clear your throat and repeat yourself loudly, “Hey, Satoru?”

“Hm?” Gojo moves even closer to you when you call his name and places a hand on your cheek, the warmth of it making a wonderful contrast with your cold skin that chilly autumn night.

“Do-” You hesitate, as an odd (warm? bubbly?) feeling creeps into your chest, but ultimately your concern for the eerie way his eyes seem to shine at you outweighs that weird feeling, and you ask, “Do you have a fever, Satoru? You don’t really look okay there.”

Gojo blinks, his unusual expression soon overtaken by a stupefied one as you continue to peer up at him, frowning.

“Satoru,” You shake him gently, after a few seconds of him staring at you. “Hey! Gojo!”

That seems to shake him out of his stupor, as he quickly removes his hand away from your cheek and scoots away, his face reddening with each passing moment.

“N-no, no. I’m okay. Totally okay,” He mumbles, “There’s no need to worry. I’m perfectly fine.”

But you know the white-haired shaman way better than that.

You sit up and move closer to him and place your palm on his forehead, the other palm on your own forehead. “Now, lie still and let me check your temperature.”

“Your skin’s warm… But not so warm for you to have a fever,” You say after a while, still frowning down at your friend whose head you have now placed in your lap, “But your face looks awfully red. And your eyes too seem weird. And,” Pausing, you place your hand on the kimono over his heart, remembering a person’s pulse rate is said to speak volumes about their health, and gasp.

“My goodness, Toru! What the hell happened to you? Your heart is beating really fast! Are you-”

A finger to your lips stops your outburst, and within the next moment, you find yourself crushed to his chest, his arms holding you in a vice-like grip and his nose muzzling into your hair.

“Toru, you’re not really okay, are you?” You ask, tilting your head up at him, the slight tremor in your voice inaudible to all except you – and Gojo too, perhaps, judging by the way you notice him smirk a little at you, before it slips into an indecipherable twitch of his lips.

“No, I’m not okay,” He answers above you, his arms around you tightening a touch. “I’m really, really not okay.”

You crane your neck upwards to fully look at him and brush the pads of your thumbs over the skin under his eyes. “Then why did you come here tonight, you idiot? You should have stayed back in your dorms and taken rest,” You scold him, concerned eyes sweeping over his appearance.

Gently removing your hand from his face to intertwine his fingers with yours, Gojo leans closer to your face and whispers, every breath he exhales hitting your face like a little puff of smoke in the cold, “But I couldn’t stay back in my dorms tonight, Momo-chan – Not when I know the medicine to my treatment is here.”

It takes a while for his words to register themselves in your brain.

And when they do, you can’t help but let out a small gasp (the same time as that portion of your brain lets out a small squeal in joy).

“Are you-” You begin but stop yourself from speaking any further, your trust in your oratory skills having plummeted to an all-time low, and choose instead to focus on his electric blue eyes as the slew of nervous mutterings, which had been lost in the background of your mind until now, slowly turns intelligible.

Was that too much for her?

Am I going to get rejected?

Well, shit, she’s going to reject me.

Oh wait – did she even understand me?

My Momo-chan can be really dense at times – though she’s cute too then – like really, really cute!

But no, seriously – was I too roundabout for her? Or should I have confessed to her directly?

Oh no, she’s looking at me right now. Is she angry? Is she disappointed? Is she horrified?

Oh no, that’d be the worst – if she’s horrified.

Calm down, Satoru. Calm down. Take a breath in and think straight. Panicking won’t help you now.

But I’m too much in love with Momo-chan to even think straight.

Damn it, damn it, just damn it.

I should have just listened to Suguru and written her a love letter or something.

“Love letters are really beautiful, Toru-chan,” Reaching up a hand, you tuck some of his unkempt hair behind his ear – while a giggle erupts from you at the way his face changes from being lovestruck (and not fever-stricken, you realise, relieved) to horrified to the most apprehensive you’ve ever seen him – and you add with a grin, “But this confession is the most beautiful of them all. I love it.”

Gojo blinks. “So does that mean…” He trails off, an unsure yet hopeful look in his eyes.

Sliding your hand down to his cheek and keeping it there, you reply, “Yeah, I guess it does mean so, Toru-chan.”

A moment passes in pin drop silence between the two – the only sounds being the distant chatter of the party and the occasional wind blowing through the trees – before a wide grin breaks out across Gojo’s face, its absolute natural radiance banishing the darkness around you in a way a billion suns could never do – your grandmother’s flimsy paper lanterns or your vain guests’ mountains of gold and gems nothing but tiny specks of dust to the constellation of stars his joy reveals to you.

And in that instant, as Gojo presses a sweet kiss to your forehead and wraps his arms around you, excitedly describing the new dessert café he discovered on his last mission and the matcha eclairs you just can’t not try – you swear to yourself that you will do anything to keep that blinding beauty of his smile unharmed – even throw away your life, if that’s what it takes.

[I'M LOW-KEY ASHAMED OF THIS LMAOOO]

▸ MASTERLIST

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x you #satoru x reader #satoru x you #jjk x reader #jjk x you #gojo fluff #gojo angst #gojo fic #gojo satoru #jjk fluff #jjk angst #jjk fic #jjk fanfic #jjk #kit posts 📝

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nesta-is-my-queen · 1 month

Text

Mini fanfic I wrote of Mama Archeron’s origin story. About a secret hidden deep in her bones, carried in her soul.

A price paid with her name, her blood, and her daughters.

—

Trigger warning: caesarean section, blood, and medical trauma

***

Aradia Archeron knew she was dying. Rotting away from some wretched human plague that eroded her mortal body. Typhus the healer had said, before scuttling away, a rag pressed tightly over her mouth. It was the same sickness that brought the realm to it’s knees and turned once sprawling cities into graveyards.

Her death had been foretold to her on a night as dark and grim as this one. She thought then too she would die. But a voice inside her, one gentle and kind, said, “not yet, not yet.” So she pushed and pushed, blood spilling out of her.

Nesta had slipped out of her, graceful as a dancer, Elain had been birthed gentle and quiet as a fawn. But this one, this one was undoing, the one that would break her. This one was clawing her way out of the womb as if angry at being held in captivity for nine months. Unlike the first two, this one was the daughter that would finally end everything for her.

The corners of the room darkened and she felt the room spinning. The ripping pain between her legs began to fade. “Not yet, not yet.” The voice urged. But she was so tired, and her eyes were so heavy from the weight of it all, so she succumbed to the darkness as the midwife began to cut.

“Aradia.” Who was calling her voice?

“Aradia.” They sounded so insistent. But what could be so important when she was drifting off into the embrace of her subconscious.

“Aradia! Listen to me!” The voice pressed on. Gone was the gentleness, the sweetness, replaced by a voice made of iron and shields, that pierced through the darkness like an arrow.

“Aradia it is time to pay the price.” After all these years, she had thought—no wished—that the promise wasn’t real. The bargain—no the curse—was part of some distant nightmare.

Her mother had always told her she was destined for greatness. That it was in her blood. That her ancestors hailed from a fae-human king and witch queen from another era. Another world.

At first she didn’t believe her. She refused to listen to such nonsense. She would leave such fairytales for the children of the blessed. She had always considered herself clever enough to spot lies.

But then she began to see things and hear things that had her caught between pockets of space and time. She had seen a vision of three fae females, each one more beautiful and cunning than the other. A vision of a city cloaked in starlight. A castle wreathed in roses and a pool that looked as if it were made up of the stars in the sky. She thought she was going mad. So she went to find the only people with whom she might acquire answers, the insipid wretches themselves—the children of the blessed.

The woman before her was draped in gauzy blue robes, bedecked in silver bangles that chimed as she walked. She arranged her face in a way that made her look both virtuous and pious. She was exactly the type of woman Aradia hated.

“What brings you here child?” The woman said, her voice low and shushed as if in constant prayer.

“I need to see the fae.” She demanded. She wondered if she looked insane. Her hair was a mess, she hadn’t bothered to braid it or bathe in days. Her clothes were sweaty and damp. Her family had once been wealthy and respected, but their blue blood only got them so far. They had lost their money, squandered it on trying to keep up with high society, but did not have the acumen to retain their small fortune. All that remained was the family estate, to be fought over by her siblings and uncles, and an acre of ironwood trees.

It was her mother’s wish for her to marry well, so she had introduced her to society at the young age of sixteen, hoping to ensnare a Duke or a Prince with her beauty. No such thing had happened. They had seen right through her and her out-of-season gowns, her satin—not silk—ribbons, her lack of jewels, and her hair plaited into a simple coronet, not an elaborate spiralling concoction like the ladies of the court wore. She had never felt so exposed—so lost. She promised herself she would never be humiliated like that again. And now here she was, dressed in unwashed rags, looking half crazed, begging for help from the children of the blessed. How the mighty have fallen she mused to herself.

“We do not allow just anyone to see the fae.” The priestess before her said, her voice ringing like chimes in the wind.

“I have money.” Aradia said, handing the woman a fistful of coins.

“The fae have no need for your mortal money.” She replied, imperious and graceful all at once.

“Then tell me—tell me what to do.” She pleaded.

—

Aradia didn’t know where she was. The priestess had blindfolded her and brought her to an ancient sanctuary. The building was made of carved stone, with statues of ancient gods long forgotten. Glittering whirls and markings littered the ceiling, giving the appearance of stars trapped in stone.

Rows and rows of acolytes were lying prostrate on the ground, in silent prayer. Before them stood a fae female, imperious and beautiful as the ones she had seen in her visions. She was tall and slender, her blonde hair fell in waves, framing her angular face that looked as if it too was carved of stone. Her eyes were a piercing blue that looked as if they could see her very soul.

“It has been an age since I have seen one of your kind.” The female breathed.

“Who are you?” Aradia said, meeting that females gaze. She would not allow herself to be intimidated or shamed by the likes of the children of the blessed—let alone the fae.

“I am high priestess of Vallahan, but you child—you may call me Ianthe.” She said, her voice resounding through the cave, even though she remained unnaturally still.

”Tell me child what is it your heart desires most.”

She paused for a second, reflecting on all she could ask for and all she knew of the fae and their wicked ways. Riches could come and go, beauty was fleeting. She wanted legacy—true and lasting power. Something that would carry weight, something even a fae priestess could not twist and turn against her.

”Greatness.” She whispered. “Greatness.”

—

The rest of the night was blur. She barely remembered all the sweet promises and lovely words the priestess has bestowed upon her. She had expected treachery, not kindness, from someone like Ianthe. Instead she received blessings of good fortune, healthy children, and a handsome husband. All in exchange for a drop of her blood.

Her blood.

Ianthe had slit her palm with an iron dagger and she watched her blood trickle down, filling the silver chalice Ianthe was clutching. Her blood swirled and bubbled until it turned blue.

The air around them thickened. The burnt offering and spices stung her nose. It was stifling and hot, so close to the flame lit upon the stone alter.

“The iron brings out what is carried in your blood. A bloodline so old I had long thought it lost to history.” Ianthe murmured as she dumped the contents into the fire. As soon as her blood, her life force, touched it, the flames turned silver. The high priestess’s eyes rolled back as they burned with that same sterling fire, her jaw hanging slack, her mouth agape as a voice that was not hers rang out.

“You shall have three daughters, an heir, a spare, and a sacrifice.” The voice told her.

She felt the blood rushing from her face, the thought of one of her daughters destined to be a sacrifice, like some lamb to the slaughter.

“No—not my daughter. Anything but my daughter.” She cried out.

“Child—it is already written in the stars.” The voice crooned.

“You need not worry child. The mother shall take care of her. Shall take care of all of her children.”

The silver fire seemed to grow and stretch, enveloping both of them in flame and plunging them both into an icy darkness that could only be described as a an endless void. She thought she was dying as her veins turned to ice. As a cold so bitter and a darkness so deep swallowed her. Was this death? Was this the end?

The voice made of swords and shields scraped against her mind, “we will return for what is ours. What is owed to us.”

Then everything came rushing back all at once as everything around her came into focus. And that horrible silver fire and endless void was gone.

Ianthe blinked. Her eyes now a deep shade of cerulean, radiant and cruel all at once as she gathered herself. “Come now.” She drawled as she swished past Aradia, as she placed a golden amulet in her palm. “This belongs to you.”

“Your eldest shall be queen, the spare shall be a beauty, and the youngest, a sacrifice and saviour of all.”

Then she had the children of the blessed drape her in silver jewellery and fine silk robes. “You must be given a queens farewell.” Ianthe said, in that clairvoyant voice, offering the smallest slivers of kindness. Kindness that Aradia seldom received. So she did not know that this—that this was far from kindness.

This was a curse. Her undoing.

“But what about my visions?” She asked, voice quiet.

“Let the iron mingle with your blood and they will cease to happen. The dagger is yours to keep.”

—

She had all but forgotten the prophecy and the visions. Cutting herself with the iron dagger had become a small mercy for her. It was like a drug she became addicted to. Years had passed since she had a vision and she seldom needed the blade, but there was something hypnotizing in watching her red blood bloom across her pale skin and then turn into blue rivulets. There something beautiful about the pain she felt, when she was so used to feeling nothing at all.

But now—now she could not make the pain go away. As she soaked her birthing bed in blood. Red blood. Her dagger nowhere to be seen. She was going to die. This would be her end. Just another woman dying while birthing a new life.

She screamed and screamed until she had nothing but a raw burning in her throat left. The midwife already cut her open to get the babe out of her stomach. The child came out silent and limp, she heard someone mutter, “too late.” While she lay there struggling to breathe, slipping in and out of darkness.

She felt herself being pulled, as if her very soul was being sucked out from her body. The room beneath began to wane, as if she was an observer looking down from the heavens.

“It is time to give us what is owed” a voice thundered, it was that same voice of steel and swords that she had heard all those years ago.

“What is it you want?” She whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“The girl.”

“No! Let her live!” She pleaded, desperate for a sign of life, for the kicking and punching she had felt throughout her pregnancy, for the fire that had burned through her during her labour.

“What would you give us in exchange?” The voice scraped at her mind, as if made of knives, slowly cleaving her consciousness.

“Anything.”

The half formed glittering figure seemed to balk, as if weighing her words. “Long ago, your ancestors promised us a sacrifice. A life in payment for their sins. The price was their name—their life.” The glittering figure paused. Blinking. As if assessing her target—her prey. “Will you pay the price? Give us what is owed?”

“Yes.” The words tumbled from her pale lips. Quiet and muffled, for the effort to speak was too great at this point. The stuffy room seemed to swallow her and the form of the midwife seemed to blur and stretch before everything turned completely dark.

“Yes.” She repeated. Unsure if the voice heard her.

“Say it. Say your name. To seal your fate.”

“Aradia Archeron?”

“Not your married name. But your true name. The one that runs through your blood. The one that cursed and condemned us. The one that broke its promise to us all those years ago. We have not forgotten… And in time, you too shall pay the ultimate price. And so shall those who carry it in their bones—with iron and blood. But not yet. Not yet.”

“Aradia Havalliard.” She whispered, weak and desperate, clawing to the last clutches of life, as even her breathing became rattled and heavy.

“It’sss a bargain. Daughter of no one. Heir of bastards. Mother of the sacrifice.” The voice stated. Aradia could have sworn she heard the faint sound of laughter coming from the figure, but it sounded like swords clashing against eachother.

Suddenly she was hurtling back and her pain was gone. All except for a burning feeling that spread across her right palm, as the form of a golden arrow singed itself into her skin, directly over where the iron blade had cut her all those years ago.

A wail broke through the silence as the blood soaked sheets were hastily stripped and replaced with new ones. Somehow the bleeding had stopped and the midwife muttered something about a miracle. A fat, crying babe was shoved in her arms, kicking and punching at the air.

”What is her name?”

She looked down at that perfect form held against her bosom, hoping that it was all some horrible dream, a terrible nightmare she would soon forget.

“Feyre.” Her saviour. Her sacrifice. Her undoing.

#nesta acotar #pro nesta #nesta #nesta archeron #feyre archeron #feyre acotar #elain archeron #archeron sisters #acotar #acosf #ianthe acotar #fanfic #sjm universe #sjm books #sjmaas #sjm #sjm fandom #maasverse #fantasy

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justforbooks · 6 days

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Christina Hendricks

The star of Good Girls discusses Mad Men, sexual harassment and squaring her glamorous reputation with her ‘weird, goofy’ personality

Christina Hendricks appears on our video call with the most dramatic backdrop. Art deco gold peacocks bedeck a black wall, making her look, as she has so often in her career, a bit too good to be human. Perfectly poised, perfectly framed, perfectly lit, she is more like a dreamy vision of what humans look like. “I, erm, like your wall,” I say, pointlessly. She flashes a smile, as if to say: “Obviously.”

We are here primarily to discuss the comedy-drama series Good Girls, the fourth season of which will resume in the US this month after a midseason break. The elevator pitch would be Breaking Bad for girls: three suburban women, each hovering on the edge of bankruptcy, unite to embark on a life of cack-handed crime, only to discover they are good at it. The ensemble – Hendricks, Mae Whitman, who plays her sister, and Retta, their friend – works strikingly well, their pacey comic rapport instilling a sense of perpetual motion. You just can’t imagine Good Girls ending. Every time a plot line seems to be reaching its climax, something worse – and funnier – happens.

“It’s funny you say that, because originally, when I read the pilot script, I thought: ‘I love this, but I can’t imagine this being more than one episode,’” says Hendricks. “It felt like it finished itself.” She is unsentimental about it. Hendricks wasn’t looking for a new show – “I was happy doing films, taking my time” – but went into it with her eyes open. It is a network drama, for NBC – it is shown on Netflix in the UK – so producers are always aware that “it’s going into every house in the US on a Thursday or a Sunday and a family is watching it. They’re much more careful about numbers and advertisers and people being offended or not getting it. A cable show is much more: ‘We trust this creator – they’re a visionary.’”

It has a conventional tone – however dark the material, it is handled very lightly. Yet you can’t help but notice some hard-boiled social commentary from the off – if it weren’t for the bracingly callous US health system, the generation of wage-stagnation casualties and the patriarchy, none of the characters would have gone anywhere near a supermarket heist. More than Breaking Bad, it reminds me of Roseanne and the golden age of US mainstream comedy, when you could be poor on TV without that being a breach of good taste.

The 48-year-old has been a household name for almost 15 years, thanks to Mad Men. She was born in Tennessee, where her mother was a psychologist and her father worked for the Forest Service, and educated in Oregon and then Idaho. She didn’t have time for formal acting training; by the time she was 18, her modelling career had taken off. Later, when she had a manager, she took acting lessons: “I did that for almost a year and a half and put auditions on ice. Then I was watching a film – I don’t even remember what film it was or who was in it – and I thought: ‘I’m ready. I can do this.’” She has the most insistent work ethic; as she describes her life’s trajectory, she notes diligently the jobs she had while she was at high school, at a hair salon and a menswear shop.

In 2007, she appeared as Joan Holloway in Mad Men. She played the role for the next eight years, her character growing around the depth she brought to it, until by season seven she was almost the central part. In the early 2010s, Hendricks was talked about constantly, although she says the original focal points of obsession were the male characters: “Men started dressing like Don Draper and Roger Sterling. Suits came back in, skinny ties came back in. It took three to four seasons and then all of a sudden people wanted us [the female stars] on magazines. We were like: ‘This is strange – we’ve been doing this for a while.’”

Hendricks, along with January Jones, who played Betty Draper, came to represent so much. There was a great deal of rumination on their physicality, Jones as elegant as an afghan hound, Hendricks like the pin-up painted on the side of a bomber. What did it mean, people asked, that in the middle of the 20th century there were multiple ideals of the female form, whereas in the 21st century there was only one? How did that complicate the perception of gender equality as a steady march towards the light? Thousands of column inches went on that question – but, from the actor’s perspective, it was an annoying distraction. “There certainly was a time when we were very critically acclaimed, and getting a lot of attention for our very good work and our very hard work, and everyone just wanted to ask me about my bra again. There are only two sentences to say about a bra,” she says.

The signal impression the show left was of an ensemble at the peak of its creativity: actors, writers and the creator, Matthew Weiner, working in almost telepathic unison. It won the Emmy for outstanding drama series four times in a row, but the more notable year was 2012, when it was nominated for 17 Emmys (and didn’t win any of them). The take-home was: everyone involved with this is absolutely brilliant.

That harmonious picture was blurred two years after the show ended, when one of the former writers, Kater Gordon, accused Weiner of sexual harassment. Marti Noxon, a consulting producer on Mad Men, concurred that Weiner had created a toxic environment and said that he was an “‘emotional terrorist’ who will badger, seduce and even tantrum in an attempt to get his needs met”.

Hendricks takes this head on, in a considered, straightforward manner. “My relationship with Matt was in no way toxic,” she says. “I don’t discount anyone’s experience if I wasn’t there to see it, but that wasn’t my experience. Was he a perfectionist, was he tough, did he expect a lot? Yes. And he would say that in a second. We were hard on each other.”

It is impossible, from this distance, to adjudicate on Weiner’s character, but Hendricks’s response reveals something of hers. The easiest response in this situation, and the one 90% of actors give, is: “No comment.” Hendricks is always collected, never evasive, doesn’t gabble. She reminds me powerfully of Joan Holloway – and I am sorry to say it, because she insists throughout: “I’m an actress. I am completely not Joan. Not in any way. I wish I was more like Joan.”

I wonder if, while we were all fixating on Joan’s bras and whether or not, in the asinine words of Lynne Featherstone, the UK’s equalities minister in 2010, she represented a “curvy role model”, the audience was responding to Joan’s deeper life lesson – that self-possession is 9/10ths of the law.

What Hendricks emphatically doesn’t do is minimise the existence of sexism and sexual harassment in the industry: “Boy, do you think anyone in the entertainment industry comes out unscathed and not objectified? I don’t know one musician or one model or one actor who has escaped that. I have had moments – not on Mad Men; on other things – where people have tried to take advantage of me, use my body in a way I wasn’t comfortable with, persuade me or coerce me or professionally shame me: ‘If you took your work seriously, you would do this …’

“Maybe it was my modelling background, but I knew to immediately get on the phone and go: ‘Uh oh, trouble,’” she says. “That’s where it’s very much a job. We need to talk to the producers and handle this professionally.”

Yet, at the same time, she is defensive of her industry. “It gets a lot of attention because people know who we are. I’m sure there’s a casting couch at the bank down the street, I’m sure the same thing happens in management consultancy, but people don’t know who the management consultants are.”

Modelling always sounds like a harsh environment – predatory photographers vying with stringent agents to give everyone a complex about their thighs and stop them eating carbs. But that is not how Hendricks describes it at all. Her career sounds like one out of an 80s Judy annual: innocent and hearty, good for pin money and travel opportunities. “I think I was lucky – I didn’t start when I was 14. When I was about 18 or 19, I went to Japan for the first time, I went to Italy. We’d be lots of girls, sharing a house, and I sort of became the den mother. I’d make everyone egg salad sandwiches and Greek salads, going into this mother hen role.”

That is what they say about being taken hostage: if you want to survive, choose someone to look after. “Oh,” she says, coolly. “I wouldn’t consider being a model as being a hostage.”

She was only ever medium-successful, she insists – an “unusual and quirky” hire, rather than the slam-dunk face of everything. About as far as it went was that she never had to get another job to supplement her income. Probably the most famous image of that era in which she was involved was the poster for American Beauty. Two models were in the frame, so they took a photo of the stomach and the hands of each. In the end, they used Hendricks’s hand on the other model’s stomach. It sounds like a clunky metaphor, but it is true.

During this period, she moved to London with a friend, for the hell of it, living in a flat on Gloucester Road, “surviving on cider and hummus”. It is a glimpse of the oddball she says she was growing up, the outsider as whom she is rarely cast. This has been the story of her CV. “Early on in my career, I would get auditions and I would call my manager and say: ‘I would never cast me in this – she’s a cheerleader, she’s a bimbo. Can I audition for the other one, the weird doctor?’ And they’d be like: ‘No, they saw your picture.’ And I started realising that people didn’t see the weird, goofy me that I saw.”

She made the jump from modelling to acting via adverts, with what looks like fairytale ease. In fact, it was “a lot of pounding the pavement and showing up for auditions and getting rejected – and learning, as a young woman, to not take that personally”. By the late 90s, she was the face of ultimate female confidence, the woman who drinks Johnnie Walker and doesn’t need a chauffeur (these are two ads, not one for drink-driving). “I always thought of modelling as freeze-frame acting. It felt like a scene, and I still consider it that way. There are so many technical things that I think people don’t notice. They see you playing dress-up.”

From the commercials, she learned “how to hit a mark, how to memorise a line”, but acting wasn’t novel. She had been doing community theatre since the age of 10, and grew up expecting an alternative life, supplementing an art-house existence any which way. She never amplifies her creative urges. She is much happier talking about professionalism and graft, but that is strategic more than anything else. “I am incredibly emotional and I take things very personally. But I’ve learned to be a little bit of a politician and a little bit of a producer along the way. As a female actor, the easy go-to is: ‘She was emotional, she was hysterical.’ It can be a million other people’s fault, but it’s easy to point your finger at an emotional artist. So, I realised: if I’m going to be taken seriously, I need to have professional perspective and I can cry about it to my friends later.”

Yet she cares deeply about creativity, as is clear when she talks about Mad Men. “It may eclipse anything I ever did. And, if it does, it was a good one and I’m proud of it,” she says. “I got to bring who I was as a woman. I think I learned some of how to be a woman from Joan. No one would give a shit about me if it wasn’t for that show. I’d still be doing good work, but no one would have found me. If that’s the best thing I ever do, it was pretty good.”

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punk-in-docs · 1 year

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I am OBSESSED with your Prince Paul series. I've been reading and re-reading them. I can only hope there's more coming! Like I'd love to see them dealing with the wedding preparations, all the related stress and Catherine being Catherine. Or the first time they say LOVE? Or the first time they see each other nekkid? Or, or, or, anything!! I just love your writing sooooo muuuuuch. (I am also getting inspired to write fan fic or your fan fic, if that's okay???)

🥀 And The Stars Sighed In Unison 🥀

Authors Note: That’s more than ok my love. I’m so flattered! That’s amazing. I’m so humbled the muse has struck you as a consequence of my foolish little words. So here I give you in no particular order; Wedding day planning. Stag party drunken naughtiness, and in general the excitement of the big day. Hope it meets the mark-

TW: m receiving oral, PIV , dirty talk, clit slapping, much flirting, naughty ren-dez-vous, little dirty in places I mean, c’mon now, it’s Paul x Tsarevna. Don’t be expecting saintly behavior from them (or me) now.

The Palace shimmers. These snake pit halls and cloaking walls, that will never really be home to you, are teaming with bliss. Air full of it. Perched on the precipice of your marital joy.

A royal wedding in December. Anticipation hangs heavy indeed. Heavier than the clouds above distended with snow.

You’ll be married in that snow, Catherine says. Bedecked in white and silver. Because that’s the way things were done here; most babes here learned to keep warm before they learned how to walk.

Lavish affair like no other. It will be ripe with nobility. Snow studded, crept with frost. How appropriate-

The great ballroom is packed with flowers. Crammed to choking. Quite literally. Stuffing the space with pollen and nectar. Outside the trees are thinned brittle with cold. Basked in snow. Icicles on the windows. Inside it’s like there’s been a second sunny waft of spring.

Catherine wanted silver and white inside here. Everything wearing ice. Staining these great baroque halls. A nice occasion that will perhaps wipe through the rusted blood smears, and gloss over her treachery for daring to rob this heaving sow of a country from a man.

Dark walls hung with garlands of scented white flowers, tender tendrils of creamy sweet peas, tulips, and roses. Strung with thick cream ribbons. The best silverware being polished by the servants to a high shine. Flowers wait in vases. The glassware winks like far off stars from the ice smooth linen tables.

You walk obediently alongside her, when she tuts and snaps her fingers at a maid and shoved a poorly polished candlestick back at her, to have it done again.

Her predator eyes on the prowl, nasty tongue in step with it; she never missed a single thing. Countess and you, by her side.

“Do it again. And get it right, or I will have you whipped.” She cuts low. It’s terrifying how calm she is with wintry rage.

Fuck the frost. Catherine’s demeanour bit more than frost could ever dare.

You’re too busy marvelling at the flowers. You’ve never seen the like. Not in the scrappy leaky roofed Manor House you call home in Rostov. This whole environment was groaning with imperial snobbery at a whole new gilded level. Bloated with pomp and circumstance.

Every touch is artful. The flowers, the candles, the feast that’s been planned. Four boozy fruit cakes with hand crafted marzipan icing. Eight types of wine. Shipped from Portugal and France. Vodka unloaded by the barrel full - naturally.

Roast pigs turned on the spits for main, with marjoram, apple and cognac sauce. Haunches of deeply red venison with stewed blackberries and rosemary. The kitchens are fired up night and day for this. The maids on a strict rotation to clean and ready the halls to a gleaming spectacle.

Your dress, Paul’s robes. One of a kind and being worked on by no less than ten dressmakers and tailors, each. It’s all truly beautiful, and mad. And you are struggling to believe - to comprehend - these efforts are being ground to the bone, to satisfy the tune of your own wedding day.

Eyes turned to the ceiling where the flowers are being strung up. Five strands meeting in the gathered centre of the ballroom. Floors being soapy scrubbed and polished to a mirror shine. Every step reflected back. Observed.

This circus court would be watching keenly in attendance. Which makes you want to gouge your eyes out with one of those very spotless fish knives, or a bouillon spoon. Whatever’s closer.

The wedding that is but two precious angst filled days away.

You’ll cease to be a Voronsky. From now on, you’re to be known as the Tsarevna. You turned your nose up when someone tried to call you princess. They quickly found better words in odes to your sharp displeasure.

Call me that again and I will cut your tongue off.

Yes, Tsarevna.

Catherine turns her attention back to you, as you wander along the tables. Drinking in the madness and the beauty.

The Countess is with you and she’s nattering guest lists of who’ve confirmed attendance, at you.

Royal protocol and what that dictates for the drowning numbers of nobles and the statute of those invited to your ceremony.

People will travel in from all over Europe for this. Brave the snow. Nobility came flocking from every corner to pick at the nuptials. Faff over the bride. Congratulate the groom. Throw toasts and hurl wishes. Gorge on the finery.

Then the Countess suddenly sucks air through her teeth seeing a certain princely name appear on her page.

“That will prove tricky-“ She remarks like a vixen, when she comes to the certain name of a royal Swede.

The one who left here jilted, several weeks back.

Catherine is not amused.

“I’m not dancing on eggshells for the ego of one swede. Let the prick come see her happiness. Be done with it.”

You smuggle a secret smile to yourself as you drape your fingertips over the petal of a dainty sweet pea in one of the table arrangements. Fragrance of it so sickly.

“He’s recently engaged, so I’m told. That flame is well and truly doused, I assure you.” You tell.

It never even began to flicker, you think.

“On your side, it may.” Catherine suggests with a pithy smirk. She saw how taken the boy was with you.

“My eyes wander to no other.” You smile at your Empress in law. “And the Countess tells me he was quite struck with that Petrovka girl.”

“Cuntstruck I said. Petrovka had her legs behind her ears since the day she joined court. And she’s sawdust for brains” The Countess took sordid detail in revealing.

Catherine sneered. “Better he found his easy prize. Left us with our Russian gem.” She walks up to you and lays her hand softly on your arm.

You’re not stupid. You know Catherine had her hand on the rudder of your early courtship for far longer than she pretended too.

And well, there’s certainly a great deal more than sawdust between your ears. There’s blade angles of femininity, blazing gunpowder wit, deep unending pools of ideas and intelligence in swathes. Cunning too, some diplomacy, and fistful upon fistfuls of hardy bravery.

“I’m very proud to see you take all this on. My dear. Many would envy you. But do not forget that the task placed ahead is a great one.” Empress reminds you.

“Must run in the family. Rising to greatness.” You answer. Petting her hand with your own. Her draconic red smile widens. Eyes wrinkle pinched at the corners in glee.

“I do enjoy you so.” She chuckles as she pats your hand like you’re one of her little perching obedient dogs. “How do you like the flowers?”

“Divine.” You remark as you wander your eyes around the huge room.

“We can have no less than. Cause people will fucking talk and bitch. They do nothing else when they come to a royal wedding. They want their flawless show of it all and they’ll pick pick pick at it like starved crows.” She comments. Inspecting a polished wine glass.

“You must recall your own.” You ask her as you dance your fingers over a place setting. Gold leaf on the China. Sapphire leaf accents.

“Short, swift. Painless. Much the same to be said for the wedding night.” She mocked. The countess cackled.

Charming.

“Do we need to give you any instruction on the matter?” The Countess winked at you. Dry chuckle as she attended her lists.

“I think I’ve gleaned enough by now. My new lady in waiting, is most vivacious in her manner of stories.” You concede. Lady Dimitrova was as unstinting to talking about sex, as she was formidable. Both were high measures indeed.

“One dare say they contain a prick of truth.” You add in a way that makes them both leer laughter.

“The veritable picture of a modest blushing bride.” The Countess remarks. Preening in delight at you.

“I heartily concur.” Interjects a voice you know all too well.

You turn your head and see none other than your beautiful intended drawing near,

Four male figures darken the golden horizon of this grand room. Paul and his usual party of scurrying sycophants and paper-pushing bureaucrats. Pillars by his side. Minister Panin, stout General Abramov, and a weedy bespectacled civil servant by the name of Berensky.

Paul wanders over to greet you with his party in tow. His arms clasped behind his back. Draped today in his glass green coat, accented with carmine-red. The clack of his boots joins in the wedding hubbub rioting noisily around you.

The red slash of a royal order dangling jewels and honour around his neck and the sea blue silk of his sash running from shoulder to hip. You like it when he’s all shiny and preening in ceremonial garb. Coiffed soldier. Sword swinging at his side all golden. He looks so pristine.

Only you grin because this was the same shiny and polished prince, who had spat in your cunt this very morning, and fucked you as if he were a beast. He went hard. It was bliss.

Handprints blazing their sting on your ass. Bruises on your thighs. Getting you dopey and all cock drunk before you had to scurry on back to your chambers.

Sustaining the false illusion that you’d spent the night there, and not sat on his cock, sobbing his name to kingdom come - as you then did.

Every slam of his hips into you was a fiery agony cracking across your skin - and oh, how it made the pleasure burn that much sweeter.

It’s so decadent a memory it’s got you wet at the mere sight of him. The glide of your chemise and dress on your raw ass cheeks has been a tender and delicious reminder all morning.

And no one needs to know that the cute silky lilac ribbon tied around your neck, dainty sweet, is actually there concealing fingertip bruises, churning to the colour of ripe mulberries.

“How well your bride looks. Does she not? Tsarevich?” The Countess beams at Paul. “All this wedding joy has cast such a lovely glow to her expression.”

“It has indeed. May I please request that you impart even more of it onto her. It becomes her quite dearly.” Paul charms.

“Radiant and pretty as ever.” He added. Overloading you with sickly sugar words. Churning honey off his silver tongue.

He’d said that this morning too. How pretty you look. Especially with his hand viced around your throat, til eyes fluttered, and you nearly passed out.

Catherine looks like she wants to roll her eyes back in her head and come back when this conversation has shifted elsewhere.

“I was warned by my mother that flattery was the infantry of negotiation.” You narrow your eyes playfully. Nothing slips you by. You’re too sharp to let it.

“As a military man, I do have much appreciation for such a diplomatic resource. Gets us out a lot of scrapes.” He explains.

“What cheek.” You surmise.

“Paul.” Catherine bites in her usual tone she reserved for him.

“I would make my goodbyes to your fiancée were I you. For soon we’re going to steal her away and lock her out your sight, until you’re walking to that altar.”

“And I believe, the men of court have planned a similar merry making event in your bachelor celebration.” She tilts her head and rakes her sherry eyes over Minister Panin. In the way she does that drags and curdles blood if anyone dares disagree.

The Minister leaps to words. “Of course. Empress.”

“Get to it. We have the dressmakers final fitting in half an hour, petal.” Catherine waves her hands at you. A warning.

She drifts away as does the Countess. Just enough edge to her sandpaper words to incite action.

Paul strides closer. Plucks a white sweet pea from out the table arrangement vases, and hands it over to you in offering.

“To match that bloom in your cheeks. Though it can seldom be rivalled by anything sweeter.” He smiles. Perhaps giddy. Totally enraptured by you, that was for sure.

Like he’s some stupid peasant boy gifting the girl he’s wooing, a simple picked flower. It’s actually quite fucking sweet of him. Simple things sometimes.

You pluck it out his hand, lift it up to inhale the sickle sweetness off its giving petals.

“You quote a sonnet at me, my love, I will have to go and be sick in the closest corner.” You warn with flirt traced on your lips.

He smiles back. It’s all doe eyed flirt. “Shall I compare thee to a summers day?”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” You threaten nicely.

“Look like the innocent flower, But be the serpent under.” He decided instead.

“Much more me, you have to concede.” You state.

You step closer and lean across to peck a sweet kiss on his cheek. Such paltry stuffy affection, but it’s all you can show at present.

His chest bounces with a sudden intake of air. That darkly lustful hunger seizing his eyes. You’re the same. One whiff of his shaving foam cologne and the gut clenching nearness, and you feel slick as ever between your legs.

“I shall see you at the altar then.” You decide when you pull back. Twiddling the flower between your fingertips. Swirling the petals.

Oh no you fucking won’t.

You imperceptibly jerk your head to the doors leading back to the royal chambers. Your eyes flick across and then back to him so suavely it’s like butter wouldn’t even dare melt on your tongue.

“You will.” He answers. Following your gesture.

“Good day. Gentleman.” You say loudly. Turning to his companions. Inclining your head to them. And then him.

“Tsarevich.” You smirk. Running the flower petals across your lips. Saying his full title like a sultry purr like some empty headed courtesan. All wide open legs and easiness.

You twirl on your heel and crossing away to another part of the room.

He watches the delicious drag of your blue skirts sweep the polished floors. All those silken vines laid on cobalt, crowded with plump pink roses on your bodice. The teasing slip of your perfume leaving notes of peaches and orchid musk in your wake. The way your coiled hair lays down the back of your neck. Bounces when you glide away.

“Darya.” You call out to your maid.

She stands to attention with a nodded bob of her linen clothed head. Hands folded serenely behind her back. Walnut eyes whip to you.

“Perhaps some tea in my rooms before the dressmaker comes.” You request.

“Yes my Lady.” And she scurries away to do your bidding. You walk across the room and busy yourself talking to another group of maidens about the flowers.

Paul turns and drifts back to the men accompanying him. Minister Panin says how well you look with the upcoming joy of the nuptials. You sparkle with it. Paul agrees.

They walk along and discuss more treaties and the current state of the affairs in Kyrol.

You watch from the corners of your eyes as him and his entourage leave the room. You smirk.

Leaving it a few moments as you gaze at said buckets of flowers before you decide to depart the room also. Darya returns from laying the tray of tea in your chambers.

“Please inform the Empress I will be on time for the dressmaker.” You beam as you sway to the doors.

She steps to scamper after you. You call back without turning around.

“Unaccompanied, Darya. Go and have some cake or something.” Waft of your hand. You instruct her. Knowing full well you just left her floundering in what to do next.

She notices there’s definitely a sway in your step as you stride away, and out along the echoing gilded halls. She goes and finds something else to do. Keep busy.

You step one foot through the doors leading to the royal chambers. And suddenly arms are snatching you around the waist.

Tugged out the doorway and off path into the snug concealed by the edge of the doors.

“Oh you fucker-“ Is the gasped outburst he’s torn from you in surprise. You told him to go wait for you. You didn’t know he was going to pounce.

“Such an elegant mouth.” He croons. Before kissing you like he’s not taken any single ounce of air since he saw you last.

He walks you back in quick step, shoves your hips painfully up against a table. Clatters the candlesticks stood on it. Hands on your bodice. Smoothing your silk back. Plump lips sweet and hot, seeking yours.

Smothered to him in a hungry slamming kiss. Messy sloppy. When you break away with a moan and the parting sound of wet meeting lips.

“I have a dagger in my garter, careful sneaking up on me, or else I’ll use it.” You threaten with a silky purr.

He paws your ass over your blue skirts crudely to make you squeak.

“I am more than aware of your dangerous inclinations. Should you like to plunge it into my back or my heart, beloved?“ He offers. Eyeing up your lush mouth again. The long doe flick of those carob colour lashes. Fuck, he’s pretty.

You smirk, sharp like rose thorns, all angles and gleaming. You’re so terrifyingly beautiful. So Russian in that regard. You like when others think you dangerous - it means they have grasped the right impression of you.

“Throat. Dear heart. I always, always, go for the throat.” You whisper all flirtily as you lean in and kiss the corner of his pouting mouth.

He finds your mouth again with his. It didn’t take more than a nudge and he’s on you. You whine into his mouth. You wrap your hand around his back. The table scrapes against the floor with a loud scuff. His hips rut to yours.

“Any chance we’ll be caught? What of your guards?” You ask. Desperately gulping for air as he kisses your neck and makes your toes curl in your beautiful shoes.

“Dismissed.” He sighs into a kiss under your ear.

“So you have a few moments?” You seek.

“Yes. Why?” He grunts.

“Because you’re going to spend them inside me.” You fist the front of his jacket and medals bite your palm. You snag your lower lip between your teeth in a positively filthy grin.

You yank him, stumble him in his shiny boots, to an even more discreet corner. Hidden by large waterfalls of draperies. Shadows drawn in baroque arches from the side of a great branching candelabra.

You claw your your skirts into gathered silk fistfuls. Bunched in your hands. Face the grazing threads of the tapestry clad wall. Arch your back. Jut your hips. Pussy just throbbing for the bliss of his touch.

He pasted his body to you, enclosed, and his hand snuck under your skirts. Lips perched at the shell of your ear. He hums all pleased when he finds you sticky wet. Silky and slipping over his fingers. Plump lips grazed between his fingertips.

“Are you still sore from our session last night?” He cooed all low. Cupping you crudely, and enjoying the way you tipped your head back. Pushing into his hand for more.

Your hair catching in his lips. He kisses your neck so sweetly. It belies the way he’s grabbing at your cunt like you’re some common street wench he’d pay pennies for.

That little split of pain - you’re such a drooling whore for it and he certainly knows how to give it. Knows when to knock his hips rougher and truly start to rearrange your guts. Knows when his words need to come out nastier, when he needs to grab and spank, and when to still his hand.

Paul rips at the falls of his own breeches. Messed up all those neat gold buttons. Theres your good toy soldier.

There’s the wonderful sting where he palms your ass as he crushes right up to you. His cock finding purchase to slide into your cunt with one breaching snap of his hips. You whine. He sighs. Your fingernails dig into the threaded wall. Snag on the fabric.

God, your pussy is gorgeous. Like wet velvet or warm satin. Or silky creamy peaches and butter sunshine. All good glorious things when he pushes deep into you.

“Fuck, my love, you’re incredible. You feel incredible. Holy god.”

“Don’t let the Patriarch hear you. He’ll have you in that chapel on your knees til you’re black and blue.” You sigh smartly.

Your hand reaches between you to rub slow pressing circles on your swelling clit. It makes his thrusts come harder because you’re throbbing tighter, fist tight, around the girthy drive of him.

“I can’t wait two days. Can’t fucking wait that long to have you again.” He babbles. Cuntstruck by you already.

You huff a laugh. “Mmm. Give me that over a dry sonnet any day.” You plead.

“I can’t go long without you. I walk through my day listening to treatises and proclamations. Yet all I can concentrate on is how you taste, and kiss, and, ugh fuck, how I just want to pin you to the bed with your ankles behind your ears...” He growls with a particularly knocking thrust that makes stars skip on your skin and your belly.

His praise and need cracked a heat over your throbbing hard nipples. Nestled in your stays, swaying and chafing when he fucks.

He tore a shocked gasp right out your mouth when he starts even harder punching thrusts and then bites your neck. Hard.

“More marks a ribbon can’t hide, hmm?” You remark archly. Turning your head to the side. Coaxing out that spit of spoilt fire you adore.

He pulls back and sees the purple-red of blood rushing into the crescents of his teeth marks, welted deep in your skin.

“They’ll look beautiful on our wedding day.” He huffs against your ear.

“Fucker-“ you grin and tip your head back and a loud, a too loud, moan, slid out your throat before you could stop it. Ran away from you.

It haunts the room. Haunts you. Echoing. Humiliating you with mocking. He makes you produce noises like an unbidden harlot.

Paul slams a hand over your mouth. Wet lips kissing your ear as he speaks. “Keep rubbing your cunt. I may not have the time I want to fuck you endlessly. But you will cum over my cock and be thankful for it. Do you hear me?”

Oh you could kiss him.

You nod like a demon is gripping your glass bones and you’ll shatter with it soon.

He felt how those words made you clutch down on him. Pussy choking his cock. Like you never wanted to let him leave.

Swallow him up and keep going til you have all of him. Sinking. Despair. A man whose love struck and who cannot ignore the ocean even as it’s drowning him alive. You are too knotted in everything. Tangled and twisted up inside him with that vital string.

He takes you fast and hard and he doesn’t let up for even a damn second. Perfect boy, he knows exactly what you needed.

Your little gasping cries. His grunts. The smack of hips and skin. The clutch of his palm on your handful hip. The dainty clack of your shoes on the floors. Unable to think about anything but chasing that fiery gut punch of pleasure.

“You like it when I give you orders…hmm” He huffs out suddenly. A statement as opposed to a question. Spoilt mouth at your jawbone. He takes his hand from your mouth to require an answer.

“Only sometimes.” You reply. Mouth slipping into an oval shape. Browns drawn. Searing liquid heat slaps and sloshes low in your gut. Spilling from you and dripping along his cock.

He pierced you so deep it’s like he’s prodding at the back of your throat. Prick of tears is looming in your eyes from this feral fuck.

“You love it when I say nasty filth as I fuck you deep? About how I want to to tie your hands to my bedposts, like a tamed wild thing, keep you edged for hours til you beg to finally cum. To rut you like I loathe you.”

As he whispers to you, his hand drifts and joins yours over your clit. He urges your hand out the way and gives your soaking pussy an open handed tap, that leaves you reeling. Clit stinging.

Your animalistic moan eats into his palm all slippery. Your eyes flutter in your head.

“Or is it you prefer my sweetness? How I would drag you to the edge of the bed, and feast on your cunt for days? Lick you so slow and tender, digging my tongue in you, call you by loving names, hold your thighs open and eat, until you flood my mouth.”

Another moan of yours sinks into his hand. It’s over your mouth once more. It sounds suspiciously like the warbled shape of his name. He tempers you with another little slap that makes you lurch.

He hums against your neck as pleasure begins to bend, and dip, and take him too. Drawing the same opium daze out of him. The ludicrously loud wet squelch of your cunt is signifying your climax is bearing down fast, also.

He buries his mouth in your shoulder as his strokes get harder and faster. Crumpling your body into the wall before you both. Strands of thread plucking under your nails. White knuckles. Drooling in his hand.

He’s cursing, spewing out filthy whispers and groans, because you get so crushing tight when you’re about to cum. Doesn’t relinquish his hand clamped on your mouth. Nor your clit. He’s pinching it and rolling under fingertips and you’re going mindless. Brain wiping out.

“Yes my love. That’s it. That’s it- fuck.” He pants as he feels you spasm and snap down on him.

Scream bitten in his palm. Spurt of your release slicking his cock, rolling down the tight sac of his balls too. He pounds even harder to chase his own release, and tears bite the corner of your eyes. Cock piercing somewhere so deep inside you it’s fiery bliss. Punching a spot that just makes your whole gut melt.

He sinks deep and thrusts hard. Fucking the hard beast of his orgasm so far inside you. You’re held up, back pasted to his chest as you’re licked entirely in sweat and sagging to the wall with a blissed out sigh. Muggy wet across his palm. Cries melt into his skin.

Your nails bite into his coated arm. The other snagging the tapestry. He takes his hand away and his lips retrace your ear. Indulging himself in the last few spasms of your climax as it fizzes away. Slowly dripping the evidence of the encounter down the insides of your thighs, and his.

“Fuck me-“ You rasp out. Voice still laced with pleasure. Airy and dancing on a laugh too. An unbelievable one. He loves it when you go all gooey and soft. It’s so unlike your usual hard as steel state.

“There’s not going to be a room in this palace we’re going to leave unsullied is there?” He asks you.

“I highly doubt it.” You preen. Lower lip caught between your teeth as he finished petting gentle circles around your clit. Cupping your whole peachy shape in his hand. The short fuzz of your curls nestling against the arc of his palm.

“Now I really feel like I should be in church. On my knees. Praying our shared sins away to the Patriarch.” He said. Ghosting his plump lips down your ear.

“You’ll need to be on your knees for eternity for marrying the likes of me.”

“I don’t plan on atoning for anything regarding you. Tsarevna.” He insists as he scoops you in.

Kisses you once before he pulls back. You fight to right your clothes. Feeling him slip further and further down your legs. You fix your skirts. He rights his breeches. And hastily does up all those buttons.

“Enjoy your stag merrymaking.” You offer with a sly grin. “Try not to get carried away with your rutting in those remaining hours of singledom.” You tease, with flirt skated on your voice.

You thumb the corner of his mouth where he’s all spit wet. Looking at you like you’re every sort of devilish temptation he’s been warned to resist.

“Although if you share this gorgeous cock with any of those painted whores. I will have to punish you.” You sharpen your already pointed eyes at him.

“I think my sore head tomorrow will be punishment enough.” He skims his hands over your back. Settling in the slope of you there.

“Good boy.” You wrinkle his coat where you grab it in a fist and drag him in for a kiss. Devouring and sloppy kiss that makes sparks shoot to your knees and throb your veins.

When you’re done with him you rudely pull away and he stumbles. Kiss drunk. It makes you grin.

You slink away. A long straight walk along the corridor, aiming in the direction of your rooms. Best you snap to action before his mother sends someone to root you out.

He watches every step as you leave him aching, heart pounding war drums in his chest for more, blood fired. He wants you again as he admires the sway of your hips that was definitely deliberate.

“I do so enjoy the length of these hallways.” He calls in flirt after you.

You cross your hands behind your back and turn over your shoulder and smoulder at him.

“Careful. Tsarevich. I’m a taken woman.” You purr at him. Laughing as you glide away. Biting your lip.

“So I’ve heard.” He calls at your retreat.

He’s so drunk. He’s so beyond drunk he doesn’t think he’s ever felt a sensation like this before. Such a loss of faculties and control.

His head is swimming. A whirling drag that doesn’t keep up where he moves. When he turns his eyes it’s all blurred distortion.

Gorky kept pressing drinks to his hands. Abramov made rousing toast after toast which ended in all the men breaking into jeers, and slamming their emptied vodka glasses on the floor to the tune of his name.

The room is spinning endlessly. There’s bawdy chorus singing of a lewd folk song. The painted whores and their shrill laughter raising to brush the gold ceiling. He watched Count Orlov across the room perch one on his knee. Her dress was petal pink. Undone at the low bodice. Lips cherry red. He stuffed his hand up her skirts as she nibbled on his ear.

They kept smirking at him all night. The ladies. Some of them draped themselves across his lap. He shuffled away and the men roared laughter.

“Saving yourself for that firecracker of a Voronsky you’ve won?” Lord Petrova asks, slurring.

Paul won’t say that actually, yes, it’s something along those lines. He drinks til there’s nothing left in his glass.

“Enjoy the warm cunt of that plump Italian whore before you’re shackled to that fiesty bitch.” He barks out. Paul eyes him tiredly.

“Fetch me another drink, why don’t you.” Paul requested. Shoving his glass at the foul mouthed lord.

“That thing between your Tsarevna’s legs probably bites.” The man claps his shoulder and cackles as he walks away. Stopping to place an open handed slap on the ass of a whore stood drinking with his fellow nobles.

Paul glares. He gets this jagged feeling of protectiveness in his gut. Wants to stroppily tell him to fuck off and that your cunt is heaven and a fat oaf like him could never be so lucky.

Some are dancing to the sharp chirp of music. The air sways with songs. All of the men are as gone on drink as he is. It’s a riot of Russian revelry.

Lord Dymov stumbled up, smirked and clasped Paul’s very unsteady hand as he poured a great shaking glug of vodka into it. Spilled half over his lap and hand.

He tips it down his neck. Warmth fizzes low in his belly. His limbs feel too small and slick and he’s aching for sleep.

And you- he does so ache after thoughts of you. He’s laying back staring at the swirled gilding on the ceiling. How it fractures into patterns; into jewels and precious swirling white and gold. Like gem studded crowns and butter yellow autumn leaves twirling off the trees.

He doesn’t realise he’s speaking, a stream of words just dribbling out his mouth of how lucky he feels, how he’s going to be married. He’s going to have a wife. He’s going to have make heirs and spares, and all of this terrifying icy Russia will be writ into his future. Just like his father before him.

Gorky comes and hauls him up. “Come on my friend. I’d say you need your bed.”

“I need my wife.” Paul slurred with a thick and fat feeling tongue.

“She’s not your wife yet.” Gorky told him. Paul slurred something, snuffled, into his shoulder Gorky didn’t catch it.

He tries to stand. It’s like a newborn deer - knock kneed and incredibly ungainly - in his nice shiny soled boots over glass shards that crunch and crack under his weight. The floor is littered with broken glass from all the toasts.

It’s early by their standards. The party will continue on without its Prince. Slings an arm around his shoulder and dips to lever him off the chaise he’s sprawled on. Wig askew. Coat all rumpled. Vodka stained hands and mouth. They trip and stagger out the hall and along to the Tsarevich’s rooms.

Gorky hauls him through the doors and clumsily drops him on the bed. Discards the wig. Yanks off his boots. Off with the coat too. Leaves him sprawled on the mattress in his shirt and breeches.

“Sweet dreams, dear groom.” He sing-songs as he slipped out the pocket doors. Paul thinks he raised his hand to wave. He can’t be sure. His arms won’t follow his brains directions anymore. There’s fluffy-stuffy cotton where his limbs once were.

He sinks into the bed. The warm, lushness of his luxury bed. Stares at the heavy drape of canopy. It’s crushing sapphire blue weighing down his vision. Drowning him like the sea would. A sea of vodka. That sounded nice. That sounded like his salty, entirely alcohol laced bloodstream at the moment.

A slow knock rams against the inside of his very muzzy head.

He tells the door to go away.

“I don’t want to be disturbed.” Comes melting out his mouth off his tongue with the slowness of hot sticky honey.

The door opens anyway. It closes. He struggled to sit up on his elbows. Slanting vision tipping all over the place shows him the stretch of the door.

And you-

Stood there in a swathing lilac dressing gown. Hair loose. Silk ribbon tied around your neck. You’re stood there looking like some sainted angel whose walked right out a stained glass window in the church.

Botticelli’s Venus climbing out her shell and the waves. Skin stroked in candlelight like a glowing Raphael. La fornarina. La velata.

Paul finds his woolly tongue. “Tsarevna.” He nods his head. Belly erupting into a tangled hot jungle of his feelings for you. The drink seems to have amplified their intensity. His heart could crawl up these very walls it crashes so loud like waves in the cage of his chest.

You look at him with a mild expression of amusement. But there’s warmth there, too. A stunning amount.

“I take it your evening was pleasant?” You ask.

He nods. Taking in the state of your gown.

“Shouldn’t you have….more on?” He asks disguising a drunken hiccup in the middle of his sentence. His voice dips with it.

When he thinks about you walking through the palace for the guards to see you like that, he wants to go and have their eyes put out with a poker.

You smirk. He watches it curl up one side of your mouth. He thinks he hears harps.

“I was just thinking about all that bachelor fun you’d be having tonight.” You say as you reach for the sides of your gown. And slowly open them. Dropping your one item of clothing to the floor.

Paul’s eyes don’t know where to rest on your entirely naked body that you’re offering up to him.

Your nipples are hard. He watches the quake of your plump thighs where you move. The c-bout of your hip to waist.

You’re walking, padding slow, big cat slow, towards the end of the bed. Predator hunger glimmers sharp in your eyes.

“I wanted to make sure that you didn’t spend all night writhing under a painted whore. When you could spend all night under me instead.” You beam brightly.

“Did I make you envious?” He asks in sheer alarm in those big brown eyes. Like he’s looking for the matching puzzle pieces.

You narrow your eyes. Tilt your head. “Maybe a little. I told you. I’m a bitch and I don’t care for sharing my husband-to-be.”

“I didn’t go near them.” He insists boldly.

“Aren’t you sweet.” You coo.

Paul’s certain his tongue has shrivelled to dust. It’s taken his brain with it. And every drop of blood in his body rushed, beating to somewhere entirely south of his head.

You stand right between his legs. Kneeling yourself onto the floor. Soft antique rug catching your knees. Trailing fingers up his thighs.

You rip open his breeches. He squirms. His lungs cease to function. It’s like he’s breathing in claggy sand.

“May I suck your cock, my darling?” You ask with a genuine panthers grin.

He actually shivers when you ruck the clothing down his hips. Freeing that gorgeous cock laying flushed with blood up against his thigh. Head already leaking for you - shiny even in the dozy gold low light.

His mouth falls open when you suck him deep into your mouth. You twirl your tongue around around the swollen pink tip like the taste of him is your favourite thing in the world. It is. You moan at the heat of him. At that taste.

You suck him deep. An obscene gargle where he jams into your mouth. You’re flushed with pride when he bucks off the bed. He cant control himself. He’s humming and squirming from that strong hungry suction.

You pull off him. Lap the head with kitten licks. Then swallow him again. Tears prick your eyes when you relax enough to nudge him right down.

You flick your eyes up at him through your lashes. Lips glossy red. Eyes vibrant and watering with each slide and glug that comes so lewdly out your mouth. Your nose brushing against the short sweat-damp curls of his groin.

He’s jammed his fingers into your pretty hair. He can’t contain himself. He’s a mess.

Laying back on this bed and just sloppily fucking his hips up into your face. Calling for god in every way he knows how. Praying and stumbling, cursing.

“Oh my love. Your mouth, you’re so- better than any whore- even better cause you’re all mine. Christ.”

You pull back off him with a pop before he can spill into you. He follows your pull back with a thrust of his hips. Looking at you with shining puppy puddles for eyes.

You grip him by the base and lick a hot stripe right up him. Collecting one last taste.

You climb onto him and straddle his waist. Run your nails right up his chest. Digging in just a little - for fun.

“I did think you might want to fuck a Voronsky. One last time.” You purr. Sitting on his thighs. Your eyes gleam, it looks wicked. Snake eyes sharp. Sly smile.

He’s definitely fucked.

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mochie85 · 1 year

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Mischief and Miracles

One-Shot Masterlist Complete Masterlist Secret Santa Masterlist

Summary: Loki has a special surprise for you. A/N: This is part of @fictive-sl0th Secret Santa Collection. Thank you love for setting this up. I'm sorry I went over the word limit. Word Count: 2k Pairing: Loki x Female Reader Warnings: Fluff, Angst, implied smut. Dividers by: @firefly-graphics

“Where are we going, my love?” you asked Loki following his footprints on the crisp clean snow.

“Would you stop trying to guess and let me surprise you?” he sighed stopping to reach back for your hand as he led you quietly through the thick woods.

“I bet I could make you tell me,” you pulled him back towards you and wrapped your arms around his waist, trailing soft kisses on the exposed parts of his jawline. You giggled as his hands squeezed your behind, hoisting you up as you kicked snow drifts from your boots.

“I know you can, you vixen. But you don’t want to ruin your surprise, do you? Come on. We’re almost there.”

He carried you forward. Your legs wrapped around his waist as your hands played with the scarf on the back of his neck. His greedy eyes never left yours. His smirk trying to tempt you to break your stare first.

“Can you even see where you’re going?” you teased him.

“I don’t need to, we’re here,” he smiled as he set you down. You turned around to see a clear dome-shaped tent nestled into the thick trees. The falling snow had covered the roof and piled onto the sides of the structure leaving a perfect 360˚ makeshift window of the outside forest.

Inside the tent glowed warm yellow light, inviting you from the cold. You could see through the window that there was a makeshift bed, bedecked with fluffy sheets and pillows, plaid blankets and cushions. Next to the bed was a low table decorated with small Christmas ornaments and candles. There were stacks of books and a serving tray of hot cocoa and candy canes all waiting to be devoured.

“Loki…” you started, reaching out to him.

“Do you like it? I’m sorry it’s not the grand cabin I would’ve conjured for you.” He felt a little embarrassed about it now. How could a measly tent ever compare to the grand lodge that you had pictured in your dreams? The ones he sees you crooning over whenever you see those romantic Christmas movies on television.

“I promise, my love, as soon as these shackles come off, I will shower you in luxury befitting an empress,” he stated. You looked down at his wrists, thin bangles of vibranium and technology melded together to tamper his magic. They would stay on as a reminder until Loki could prove that he was no longer a menace to society.

“That never mattered love. I don’t care to be an empress. I only care to be the woman you call, yours,” you wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him into a passionate kiss.

You drew on his upper lip as he inhaled your sweet fragrance. Both of you moaned as your hands formed vices around each other. “It’s magical already. I love it. Thank you.” You whispered to his swelling lips.

“Come. I’ll show you inside.” Loki hurried you along the snowy path. Once inside, you were surprised to feel how warm it was. How the light from inside the tent, made the outside world vanish, and it was just you and your love, together in the woods.

Both of you lay in bed, your leg over his. His arm stroked your back as he held you close to his chest. His other hand held a book of Asgardian epics that he recited in his native tongue.

You couldn’t understand a word he said, but you didn’t need to. You could feel the growl of his deep baritone voice in his chest as he spoke. The vibration comforted you and made you snuggle up closer to him.

After a while, the last rays of twilight had left and Loki turned down the intensity of the lights around you. Your eyes adjusted as you looked up at the now clear tent and saw the brilliance of stars dusting the night sky.

“I have one more thing for you,” he whispered. His voice was as quiet as the snowfall.

“Loki!” you chided. “This was everything already. I can’t accept any more.”

“I know. But I wanted to.” He moved to leave your warmth and picked up something underneath the low table. You sat up to receive a small black box wrapped in an emerald bow.

Once you took the bow off, you opened the latch and a small figure skater began to twirl around. “A music box?!” you gasped. The small box began to chime Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas. “Loki…” You looked up to see his beautiful eyes staring back at you.

“It’s for your bracelet. The one your mother gave you when she passed. I know you’re reluctant to take it off because you’re scared you would lose it. Now, you have a place to secure it whenever you need to,” he explained. “And it’s playing your favorite Christmas song too. It made me think of you when I saw it. So, I had to purchase it for you.”

The world got blurry. The sweetness of his thoughts and actions made you cry outright. “I can’t accept this,” you sobbed.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

“I do, Loki. It’s such a beautiful present. But…”

“Then please keep it.” He wrapped his hands around yours, holding the box. You watched the skater turn around as the song tinkled in the air around you.

“Ok.” You smiled and gave him a chaste kiss on his lips as a thank you. “I have something for you too.” You placed the music box carefully on the table, letting the sweet notes continue to play.

You rushed back to him from your backpack at the entrance and handed him a cloth-wrapped present. “Darling, you didn’t have to get me anything.” He smiled as he excitedly unwrapped your present. You giggled at his little act, knowing full well he loves receiving presents.

As soon as he unwrapped it, his eyes glazed over and his mouth opened to a small wonder. The black leather sheath was handcrafted and formed to fit his daggers perfectly. The blue sapphire adorning the front clasp matched his favorite daggers, the ones that Frigga had given him as a teenager. “It matches your daggers, see.” You pointed the blue stone out to him. “And it comes with a matching harness, so you can wear your daggers all the time. No doubt making everyone in the tower nervous around you,” you laughed. “Oh, the havoc you’ll cause.”

“My sweet girl,” he started. His eyes began to water as he tried to hold them in. “I shall treasure it forever. Thank you.” He kissed you on your lips and he held on to you tightly.

“Come on then. Let’s see your daggers, I wanna see if they fit.” You said as you pulled away from him.

“We can’t darling.”

“Why not? Don’t tell me you left it at the compound. You never go anywhere without them. Are they in your backpack? I’ll go get…” You stood up to retrieve them.

“No, they’re not in my backpack,” he said evenly, pulling you back down. “My empress. My darling girl.” He cooed as he secured you in his arms. You straddle him and wrapped your arms around his neck. He placed his head on the crook of your shoulder. “I do not have those daggers anymore.”

“Why not?” you asked pulling away from him. “Those were your favorite. They were a gift from your mother.”

Loki nodded and smiled, “I traded them. For something far more valuable,” he confessed. He took your hands away from his neck and held onto them, kissing your fingers. “Where is your bracelet?” he asked abruptly. He noticed it missing when his fingers traced your wrist.

You looked into his eyes as realization dawned on you. “I don’t have it anymore. I traded it for something far more valuable,” you whispered, echoing his words.

“Silly girl, and what could be more valuable than…” the single tear that fell on your cheek was telling. Loki knew what had happened. “You traded your bracelet for my sheath?”

“And you traded your daggers for my music box.” You cried even more. The gate that had held back your tears opened as a stream ran down your face and a hiccup began in your chest. “We can still return it. I’ll exchange my music box so you can get your daggers back.”

“Don’t you dare!” Loki said sternly.

“But Loki, it was from your mother.”

“And your bracelet was from your mother too.”

“So we keep the gifts that are useless to us?”

“No. We keep the gifts as a sign of the sacrifice we were both willing to make for each other. I have many daggers, my love. I will still be able to use your thoughtful gift. And every time you open your music box, I hope you will think of me. It will only be a matter of time before I get these dampening fetters off my wrist. And I will be able to fill that music box with all the bracelets and jewelry your heart desires.” He promised as he wiped the tears away from your face. You laughed at the thought.

“I don’t need them, Loki. Just you. Just like this.” You stayed in his arms. Content in your own little bubble as the snow continued to fall outside.

“I love you, dear heart, Happy Yuletide,” he whispered in your ear.

“And I love you, Loki. Merry Christmas.”

The first rays of dawn woke you first. You had slept comfortably inside the bubble tent. Laying in Loki’s arms as snow fell from the heavens. Your music box had stopped playing in the middle of the night, the small figure skater holding her pose. Loki’s sheath laying next to it.

You smiled to see that his daggers did fit the snug casing. The sapphire adorning the end of the handle matched perfectly with the small sapphires embedded into the cover.

Wait.

“Loki, wake up,” you pushed his shoulder aggressively.

“Oh, my sweet, sweet girl. You are insatiable! Even gods need respite.” He hummed. His early morning voice was tinged with sleep and arousal.

“Get up, Loki!”

“Only if you promise to do that thing with your tongue again,” he bargained, his voice still half asleep and his eyes still closed.

“I think someone’s been in our tent.” That sentence made him sit up faster and more alert. You gathered the blanket around you, covering your bare form. Loki got up as he wrapped a spare blanket around himself and looked around. The morning light was just trickling in through the branches. But otherwise, nothing had been amiss.

You pointed towards his dagger on the table, “Love, your daggers are back.” Loki came to examine his scabbard and was surprised to find that his dagger had returned. He pulled them out and examined them carefully, feeling the weight and balance. He searched for his mother’s initials on the base of the blade and found them etched along with his.

Curious, he reached for your music box and his eyes grew even wider. “Darling…” he murmured as he handed it to you. Inside was your tennis bracelet from your mother. The dainty piece shone brightly under the new morning light.

“How is this possible? Did you get your powers back?” you asked aloud. Loki lifted his arms towards you, showing you the thin vibranium bangle still adorning his wrists.

“Did anyone know about your gift?” Loki asked, his mind working through all the possibilities.

“Tony!” You yelled out. “I asked Tony to help me find a local pawn shop so I can sell my bracelet. He helped me get top dollar for it too.” You laughed, shaking your head.

“Stark helped me find the antique store where I traded my daggers and found your music box,” he said stretching back onto the makeshift bed on the ground. “That little scoundrel. I didn’t know he had any mischief in him.”

“That still doesn’t explain how it got inside the tent?” You said laying your chin on top of his shoulder. You looked into each other’s eyes as you both came to the same conclusion.

“Scott!” “Lang!”

A/N: I hope you liked this @gigglingtigger, Happy Holidays. Her words were Candy Cane, Footprints, and Unwrapped

@alexs1200 @a-witch-with-words @athalialaufeyson @britishserpent @cakesandtom @coldnique @crimson25 @el-zef @goldencherriess @holdmytesseract @holymultiplefandomsbatman @huntress-artemiss @ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @immersed-in-mischief @kats72 @kellatron55 @kkdvkyya @ladyofthestayingpower @lokidbadguy @lokiprompts @lokisasgardianvampirequeen @lokisgoodgirl @lokisninerealms @lokischambermaid @loopsisloops @lucylaufeyson3 @luvlady-writes @michelleleewise @mischief2sarawr @muddyorbsblr @nopenottodayson @one-oblivious-nerd @ozymdias @peaches1958 @peachyjinx @salempoe @sarahscribbles @sarawr-reads @silverfire475 @springdandelixn @starktowerrooftop @tallseaweed @theaudacitytowrite @thedistractedagglomeration

#secret santa #holiday fic #loki fanfic #loki fluff #loki fluff holiday fic #loki laufeyson #loki fandom #loki x reader #loki x you #tom hiddleston fanfic #Spotify #christmas fic #loki fanfiction #loki

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adracat · 8 months

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Notrette: The Mother of Abominations, Queen of Heaven and Space

"This is the Mystery of Babylon, the Mother of Abominations, and this is the mystery of her adulteries, for she hath yielded up herself to everything that liveth, and hath become a partaker in its mystery. And because she hath made her self the servant of each, therefore is she become the mistress of all. Not as yet canst thou comprehend her glory.

Beautiful art thou, O Babylon, and desirable, for thou hast given thyself to everything that liveth, and thy weakness hath subdued their strength. For in that union thou didst understand. Therefore art thou called Understanding, O Babylon, Lady of the Night!" — The Vision and the Voice (12th Aethyr)

Thelema is an esoteric and occult philosophy founded by Aleister Crowley. That name may be familiar to those who've read any of my gwitch hermeticism posts. Thelema draws heavily from ancient mythology, among Greek/Egyptian in particular, and the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn. Alchemy, astrology, and geomancy are among the crafts they practiced. Thelema asserts following one's True Will is the path to self-realization and fulfillment, gaining the Great Work or Magnum Opus. See my posts here for more on this.

Babalon is the Great Mother. She is Nott and Nuit; the Night. She is the Whore of Babylon that reins the Beast of Revelation. She is the Bride of Chaos, the primal light of the soul and where life began. She is Mother Earth, Gaia, in her most fertile sense. She is Lilith (etymology-'female night being/demon') the fell consort to Samael. Notrette is indicated by her name, derived from Nott the Norse personification of Night, and taken epithet Anesidora (Demeter, Pandora, and Gaia) to be Babalon.

And I believe in one Earth, the Mother of us all, and in one Womb wherein all men are begotten, and wherein they shall rest, Mystery of Mystery, in Her name BABALON— Gnostic creed

We never see her in the show, save one image. What is there speaks plenty to her place as this occult figure. And perhaps her link to Prospera most of all.

Bride of Samael

Prospera is unmistakably the Great Deciever. Her name before Vanadis' fall was Elnora, which means Shining One. The same as Lucifer, the morning star. It matches the name of Dellingr, Nott's husband in norse myth. However, Delling is a red herring and perhaps the slight change in name is intentional. Prospera is the true Satan, who fell from grace and now rebels against God. Considering Dominicus and Delling are both coded with divine authority, this seems to be the point. If Notrette is Anesidora, then Prospera is Phosphoros. In my Prospera analysis, I noted she's bedecked in Hecate symbolism. One of Hecate's epithets is Phosphoros, light-bringer, signifying Hecate, Diana, and Eos/Aurora; goddess of the dawn. Another parallel with Nott's mythic husband. Phosphoros/EOSphoros is the greek name of the morning star. Perseis, another Hecate epithet is synonymous with Perdition. The name Satan took after falling. She has also cast aside her original shining name to be Prospera

The planet Venus is historically 'morning star', one of the wandering stars in astrology, and Elnora is similarly coded with Venus parallel. Consider the sign Pisces, which is Venus and her son Eros fleeing to safety. (The Prologue events) The events of episode 17 onward easily fit Venus' role in the story of Eros and Psyche.

Crowley asserts Babalon and the biblical Scarlet Woman are separate and the latter enacts the will of the former. Prospera wreaking her havoc on Earth and Space is certainly fitting with Aerial as the Beast of Revelation.

So how does this relate to Notrette? Because she is the Bride of Samael/Satan, Lilith, who rebelled against Adam and was banished from the Garden of Eden. As Babalon/Babylon, she is the mother of harlots and revels in adultery. We already know Quiet Zero was her project. She is a gifted geneticist and the only person explicitly fiddling with biometric code... The Mother of Abominations can easily apply to Aerial and replichildren. Something we already suspected, but seems confirmed. She is indeed the Angrboda to Prospera's Loki. After all, in the Tempest Caliban is the child of the Devil and a witch.

Consider fell Lilith, the first wife of man who was formed from the same clay as Adam and unleashed horrors upon humanity. This tale mirrors Pandora, another Anesidora. The first woman in Greek mythology molded by clay who unleashes horrors from her jar. Mothers of Abominations both. Some occultists view Lilith as a former agricultural and fertility goddess like Demeter. Anesidora is Satan's bride, Lilith.

Potnia (Mistress), an epithet of Demeter, can also be taken as indicative of the great Idolatress

Queen Nuit

The highest deity of Thelema is Nuit. She is the naked Great Mother dressed in the stars. She is infinite space and infinite possibilities. They name her Our Lady of the Stars, Queen of Space and Queen of Heaven. Greek Nyx, Norse Nott, and Egyptian Nut are all her names. Her consort is Hadit, the embodiment of causality; '"the flame that burns in every heart of man, and in the core of every star." And causality is the method to which Prospera works her curses upon the cast.

Notrette is metaphorically a queen before her death. Married to psuedo king Delling, she is the G-Witch Queen of Heaven and Space. Her name hard placing her as Nott just drives the point home.

Daughter of Babalon

But casting aside speculation, well-founded as it is imo, let's take a look at her canonical child; Miorine. Thelema also speaks of her and cements Notrette's true identity.

And this palace is nothing but the body of a woman, proud and delicate, and beyond imagination fair. She is like a child of twelve years old. She has very deep eyelids, and long lashes. Her eyes are closed, or nearly closed. It is impossible to say anything about her. She is naked; her whole body is covered with fine gold hairs, that are the electric flames which are the spears of mighty and terrible Angels whose breastplates are the scales of her skin. And the hair of her head, that flows down to her feet, is the very light of God himself. Of all the glories beheld by the Seer in the Aethyrs, there is not one which is worthy to be compared with her littlest finger-nail. For although he may not partake of the Aethyr, without the ceremonial preparations, even the beholding of this Aethyr from afar is like the par taking of all the former Aethyrs.

The Seer is lost in wonder, which is Peace.

And the ring of the horizon above her is a company of glorious Archangels with joined hands, that stand and sing: This is the daughter of BABALON the Beautiful, that she hath borne unto the Father of All. And unto all hath she borne her.

This is the Daughter of the King. This is the Virgin of Eternity. This is she that the Holy One hath wrested from the Giant Time, and the prize of them that have overcome Space. This is she that is set upon the Throne of Understanding. Holy, Holy, Holy is her name, not to be spoken among men. For Kore they have called her, and Malkah, and Betulah, and Persephone.— The Book of Thoth, Aleister Crowley

In the show she is given Kore/Persephone symbolism as explored in my Miorine analysis. As the daughter of a Demeter it felt fitting, but it's now doubly significant. The Hebrew words Malkah and Betulah mean 'Queen' and 'Virgin' respectively.

With this wealth of context, I can't help but wish Notrette made a full appearance. Yet I understand both production meddling and perhaps symbolic intent may have led to her remaining unseen. Babalon is Mystery. And her glory cannot be comprehended.

#Mio your mom was a scary lady #And probably screwing Devil mommy #You have bitten into the fruit of forbidden knowledge #Notrette's tomatoes #g witch #g witch spoilers #gundam witch from mercury #notrette rembran #prospera mercury #miorine rembran #analysis and speculation

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thebadgerclan · 1 year

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Divine

Pairing: Aleksander Morozova x reader

Summary: Aleksander believes you are divine--akin to a Saint...

Aleksander had been alive long enough to not believe in Saints. He knew that “Sankta Lizabeta” was truly Elizaveta Belsky, a Fabrikator whose power was kept hidden, that “Sankt Grigori” was just a talented Heartrender, and that “Sankt Ilya” was nothing more than a power hungry fool who destroyed everyone and everything he loved. But of thousands of people Aleksander had met in his lifetime, there was only one person who he considered a Saint, a true, living Saint. You, his wife of nearly three centuries.

When you possessed power such as Aleksander’s, you saw what others called divine as power. Extreme power, yes, but power nonetheless. But you, you were truly divine, there was simply no other explanation. Aleksander had loved the Book of Saints he’d had as a child, the illustrations of the holy men and women rendered in stunning color making him think he might just believe in Saints. And then he’d met you, and he knew that you were divine.

As the Grisha grew more powerful and secure, Aleksander watched you flourish. Your power had always been great, but it was the other things, the small things, you did that made your husband want to worship at your feet. As long as he’d known you, you’d gone out of your way to help others; helping a local village with their harvest, volunteering at hospitals, and similar things. People rallied behind you, which was extraordinarily helpful when the Second Army was being formed, and you proved to be an excellent leader.

Aleksander was not a pious man, but when he saw you knelt before a Grisha child, happily listening to whatever they had to say or arguing your point before the King’s council, he felt the urge to fall to his knees before you and cross himself. And on several occasions, he did. You’d been seated at your vanity the first time he’d done it, and to say you’d been taken off guard was an understatement.

One second, Aleksander was fastening his kefta, the next, he was knelt at your feet, your hands in his. “Sweet Y/N,” he’d whispered in Old Ravkan, the syllables lilting together like a melody. “I will worship you until we are dust on the wind. I will venerate you for the rest of my life, I will love you until the end of time. Moya lyubov, I love you more than there are stars in the sky.” His declarations always followed a similar theme; expressing his undying love for you and vowing to adore and venerate you always.

Decades later, when Aleksander had taken the throne and made you Queen, he began petitioning to make you a Saint. The Church was resistant, of course they were but after nearly a century of King Aleksander’s persistence, they caved. Their condition, however, was that your Sainthood would only be granted after your death, as they’d learned the dangers of a living Saint with Sankta Alina.

It took three more centuries, during which Aleksander loved you deeply, venerated you endlessly, and worshiped you freely, for you to earn your Sainthood. The Kerch, tired of neutrality, invaded, and as you always had, you defended your people. It didn’t matter that you were the Queen, you charged into battle at the front of your troops, fighting with everything you had until the very end. An extension of the Fold now laid on the shores of Os Kervo, a result of your husband’s grief and rage. You died in his arms, the press of his lips still felt on yours as you closed your eyes. The shadows there writhed angrily, feeling their creator’s grief as their own.

The chapel had been built on the edge of the new Fold, but to call it a chapel was almost inappropriate. A cathedral was more accurate: the ceiling was high and arced, the walls bedecked in gold and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Nothing less would be appropriate for Queen Y/N. Your funeral was held there, though your ashes were returned to the Little Palace and added to the wall. Behind the altar resided your portrait: Sankta Y/N, The Royal Saint, Y/N the Good, Y/N the just, Y/N the merciful, Y/N the beloved.

You were depicted just as the Saints in that book nearly a thousand years ago: vibrant color, a serene expression, and a golden halo around your head. Aleksander tried to go on, he tried to reign, to be the King Ravka needed, but the hole in heart was too large, the grief was too much. So he abdicated and appointed Dmitri, his closest and most trusted advisor, to the throne.

Aleksander relocated to Os Kervo, residing in the monastery dedicated to the Chapel of Sankta Y/N. He did not enter the religious life, but he did spend his days in prayer, speaking to you, his beloved, darling, cherished wife. When the day finally came that Aleksander rejoined the Making At The Heart Of The World, he was given the same opulent funeral you’d received, parts of his remains were placed in the crypt alongside yours, and the remainder of his ashes were sent to the Little Palace to reside with yours.

He’d promised that he would worship you until he was dust on the wind, and he had; he’d promised that he would venerate you for the rest of his life, and he had; and he’d said he would love you for the rest of time, and he would. Aleksander was afraid of what came next, after more than one thousand years of life, but the sight that greeted him in the afterlife assuaged all of his fears. “Hi, Sasha.”

#aleksander morozova #shadow and bone #the darkling x reader #general kirigan x reader #shadow and bone fanfiction

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daze4all · 5 months

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AU Pirate! Blade x Reader - Split the Spoils of Pirate Booty. Fairytale AU! Honkai Star Rail Series

Part of Fairytale Series Below

Vampire! Dan Heng : Just a Sip?

Werewolf Jing Yuan: Scent Me Plz~

Pirate! Blade : Walk the Plank & bringing the booty

AU Pirate! Blade x Reader - Split the Spoils of Pirate Booty

Some Extra spice: Think Ghost ship from Pirate of the Caribbean?

Bound and gagged you struggle atop a mound of treasure stashed upon the ship's creaking wooden floors. The pirate crew surrounded you from all sides and cackled at your predicament as a captive.

The golden coins had been plundered from the merchant ship you had been traveling on and now you were part of the booty on the pirate ship you were now stuck on.

To be split among the crew you thought with a shiver as fear and adrenaline from a fight or flight urge jolted down your spine

“Quiet. Crew!” Commanded Captain! Blade. A hush falls upon the crew as heavy footfalls announce the presence of Captain! Blade bedecked in a red and dark navy blue military coat over white pants.

He’s handsome you think with surprise at his fine features among such a motley lot before you shake yourself with the thought but he is still a pirate that made my ship sink…

What they would do with you next?. You are forced to stand by two crew members. You fight helplessly wrenching free for a moment but bump into the tall captain blade who has the way blocked. Not like there is anywhere to escape on a pirate ship out at sea.

He stops you with his sword tipping your chin up with his sword. You notice looking up at him that he also had on a high-brimmed black captain hat with a red plume and an eyepatch on one eye.

“Stop squirming on the ship, or I’ll make you walk the plank” Pirate captain! Blade growls as he pulls you back by your hair. Your head arched back to expose your throat in a threat with his blade kissing your neck as you kneel bound on the ship's wooden floor.

“ Or shall I be forced to discipline you another way?” he whispered in your ear. Tipping your face to meet his blaring red and gold eyes.

“ Crew, split up the rest of the booty this one though is my own” Said Captain! Blade sees something he likes in the fire reflected in your own eye. He harumphs ignoring your muffled protests before he drags you bound and stumbling off. Then decieded your struggle are too much trouble and hoists you up before slinging you over his shoulder then kicks open the captain's office cabin door and closes the door.

Inside, he throws you on the desk trinkets tumbling off his desk, and has his dirty way with you ~

A/N ….I cant quite write smut yet. I’d rather write stuff that is consensual for my first smut. Lol sorry. Use your imagination ppl.

Damn not sure I’m who to be what but here are some more costume prompt ideas: pirate, mummy/pharaoh, zombie, vampire , werewolf, merman

According to the original Video it should be Pirate Dan Heng, Werewolf! Jing Yuan buuuut

I Mixed it up for fun so did : Vampire! Dan Heng , Werewolf Jing Yuan, Pirate! Blade

Next Up Red Riding Hood: Yandere! Werewolf! Jing Yuan x Red Riding Hood! Reader/ Stelle written You 2nd person so up to you

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Stelle X Honkai Star Guys

Synopsis: Stelle falls for Honkai star rail guys and has romantic encounters in classic fairytales with a twist or meets monsters that aren’t so monstrous after all in alternate universes or on trailblazer train travels. Can also be read as reader.

Wish upon star you may meet your prince charming or the monster your meant to be with~

The Little Mermaid Dan Heng x stelle

Vampire! Dan Heng X Stelle continuation.

Prince/ Knight! Gepard Rapunzel maybe

Host Club AU Reader Dan Heng, Blade

Kink Warnings: AU, Biting kink, yandere, feral bois, beserkers , cuddles, spicy suggestions, dirty talk , rutting, chills & Thrills, spooky Halloween antics, guys getting way to close no boundaries here, spicy predator-prey dynamics. Power – Play

#Pirate! Blade HSR #honkai star rail #hsr blade #male yandere x reader #yandere imagines #honkai star rail imagines #honkai star rail x reader #male yandere #yandere blade #blade x reader #blade honkai star rail #yandere jing yuan #honkai star rail jing yuan #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #hsr jing yuan

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sicutpuella · 10 months

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Desiderium [Tom Riddle x Original Character]

Chapter 1: nuit de février

In the outskirts of Provence, France, on a February evening in the year 1951, an air of enchantment permeated the countryside. Nestled amidst the rolling hills, a grand chateau stood as a beacon of refinement and grandeur. Adorned in exquisite finery, every detail meticulously attended to, the sprawling estate emanated an aura of timeless elegance. As dusk descended upon the land, casting a golden hue upon the snow-covered landscape, the chateau's lights shimmered with a radiance that rivaled the celestial stars above. Their warm glow cascaded through the windows, casting a spell of enchantment upon all who beheld the spectacle.

The atmosphere was filled with anticipation as carriages, resplendent in their regal splendor, made their stately procession towards the chateau's entrance. Each arrival added to the symphony of murmured conversations and tinkling laughter that echoed through the frosty air. The gardens, too, had not been spared from the touch of whimsical enchantment. The carefully manicured flora, bedecked with delicate frost and a dusting of snow, created a magical tableau. Twinkling lights were carefully woven amidst the branches of ancient trees, casting a soft, ethereal glow that danced in harmony with the falling snowflakes.

Within the chateau's walls, guests mingled amidst opulent salons adorned with gilded tapestries and magnificent chandeliers. Laughter, tinged with the echoes of clinking glasses, filled the air as conversations flowed like a melodic symphony of shared stories and whispered secrets.

In this grand setting, the evening unfolded with a grace befitting the majesty of the surroundings. The guests, their attire a tapestry of refined elegance, moved through the chateau's halls with an air of sophistication and charm. The soft notes of a grand piano accompanied their every step, lending an ethereal soundtrack to the festivities.

As the night wore on, the allure of the chateau's splendor captivated all who beheld it. The snowflakes continued their gentle descent, weaving a veil of enchantment over the landscape. The grandeur of the scene, the delicate interplay of light and snow, whispered of timeless beauty and the promise of unforgettable memories.

And so, in this idyllic setting on that fateful February evening, the grand chateau stood as a testament to the power of elegance and refinement. Its magnificence, embellished by the softly falling snow and the twinkle of a thousand lights, created an ethereal world where dreams and reality intertwined, casting a spell upon all who had the privilege to partake in its grandeur.

From the depths of a carriage emerged a vision of elegance and poise. As the door swung open, a woman alighted with grace, her every movement imbued with an innate sense of refinement. Cascading down her back, her crimson tresses were styled with meticulous care, their lustrous waves framing a countenance of ethereal beauty.

Clad in a gown of regal allure, she wore a shade of dark royal blue that enveloped her form with a beguiling charm. The neckline of her evening attire ascended gracefully, drawing attention to her slender, swan-like neck that held an air of elegance and grace. The absence of sleeves allowed her long and graceful arms to be exposed, captivating the onlookers with their sheer loveliness. A white-fur cover-up adorned her shoulders, adding a touch of luxurious warmth to the ensemble. Her attire, though modest, possessed a subtle sensuality that hinted at the allure lying just beneath the surface. The back of her gown, tastefully revealed, offered a glimpse of her radiant skin, evoking a sense of both mystery and desire. The delicate balance struck between modesty and allure painted her as a woman of refined taste and captivating beauty.

The woman's features were a testament to her natural loveliness. Her makeup, light and delicately applied, enhanced rather than masked her inherent grace. Her electric blue eyes, the very windows to her soul, shimmered with a blend of nervousness and charm, captivating all who had the privilege of meeting her gaze. Her every expression, every flutter of her lashes, conveyed a delicate vulnerability that only served to enhance her appeal.

Amidst the grandeur and opulence that surrounded her, she stood, radiating a captivating aura that drew admiring glances from all who beheld her presence. Though there lingered a hint of nervousness, a touch of awkwardness in her demeanor, it only served to accentuate her natural beauty, making her all the more endearing.

As the noble and revered Domitius Rosier caught sight of his daughter entering the grand halls, his eyes alight with unmistakable delight. His commanding presence, tall and dignified, matched her own in stature, for she stood only a few inches shorter than her esteemed father. A man of striking countenance, his features exuded an undeniable allure. His light-blonde hair, touched with traces of silver, framed a visage that had weathered the passing years with grace, further enhancing his handsomeness and charm. With an ethereal bone structure and an air of regality, he stood as a testament to the timeless appeal of his lineage.

"Ah, Claudia, my beloved daughter!" Domitius voice carried a note of sheer elation as he greeted her. His eyes, mirroring the mesmerizing electric blue hue of her own, twinkled with paternal pride and unbridled joy. Eagerly, he closed the distance between them, his arms outstretched in anticipation of their long-awaited reunion.

"Father! How I've longed for this moment!" Claudia's voice, filled with warmth and affection, rang out as she embraced him tenderly. The bond between them was undeniable, a testament to the profound love they shared as father and daughter. In that embrace, time seemed to stand still, and the grand chateau faded into the background, leaving only the cherished connection between them.

Their reunion was a symphony of love and joy, their voices intertwining in laughter and heartfelt conversation. As they moved gracefully through the opulent halls of the chateau, their shared happiness permeated the air, casting a radiant glow upon all who witnessed their familial bond. The grand chateau, with its resplendent décor and majestic ambiance, became the backdrop to a cherished moment between a father and his daughter. Amidst the flickering candlelight and the whispers of enchantment, their love and connection shone brightly, a beacon of warmth and tenderness in a world filled with fleeting moments.

“At least, you weren’t late!” Domitius gently teases his daughter.

"I am honored to be present for this joyous occasion, Father," Claudia replied, her voice filled with a mixture of excitement and anticipation. She glanced around the room, taking in the sight of the esteemed guests and the palpable aura of importance that surrounded them. Tonight was not just any ordinary wedding; it was a gathering of influential figures, where political allegiances were forged and strengthened.

Domitius chuckled softly, his voice tinged with amusement. "Ah, my dear Claudia, punctuality is indeed a virtue that runs deep in our bloodline. I am glad you have inherited that trait from me." His eyes sparkled with affection as he placed a hand on her arm, guiding her through the bustling crowd. "But it is not just punctuality that makes this evening special. It is the union of two great families, the intertwining of destinies, and the forging of alliances that will shape the course of our future."

As they strolled along the gilded corridors, their steps echoing softly against the marbled floor, Claudia listened intently to her father's words. His wisdom and guidance had always been a beacon in her life, grounding her amidst the tumultuous storms that came with their esteemed name.

"Father, I cannot help but feel a mixture of excitement and… dread," Claudia confessed, her voice tinged with vulnerability.

Domitius’ gaze softened, and he placed a hand on her cheek, a gesture filled with paternal reassurance. "My dear Claudia, you have always been a source of pride for me. Your strength and intelligence shine brightly, and I have no doubt that you will carry our family's legacy with honor. But remember, my child, that even in the face of great responsibilities, you must never lose sight of your own happiness and fulfillment. Your heart should guide you as much as your intellect."

Claudia nodded, absorbing her father's words of wisdom. She understood the delicate balance between duty and personal desires, and she vowed to find harmony within herself. The burden of their name may be weighty, but she refused to let it overshadow her own dreams and aspirations.

"Thank you, Father," she whispered, her voice filled with gratitude. "Your guidance and unwavering support mean the world to me."

Domitius smiled warmly, his eyes shimmering with love. "You are my greatest joy, Claudia. Remember that, always."

Among the sea of esteemed guests, Claudia Rosier stood tall and regal, her crimson gown accentuating her elegant stature. Her eyes shimmered with a mixture of excitement and curiosity as she observed the gathering. This was not merely a social affair; it was a convergence of power and influence, where alliances were forged and secrets exchanged beneath the guise of polite conversation.

As she made her way through the grand hall, Claudia's gaze alighted upon the familiar faces of Ministry members, seasoned politicians, and influential figures of pureblood society. The room seemed to come alive with the whispered conversations and laughter of those who held the keys to power. It was a world she had been born into, a world where connections and lineage held great sway.

Her eyes briefly met those of Armand Malfoy, a figure of great importance within the pureblood circles. The intensity in his gaze spoke volumes, a silent acknowledgment of their shared heritage and the intricate web of blood ties that bound their families together. Claudia couldn't help but wonder about the complexities that lay beneath the surface, the unspoken alliances and unbreakable loyalties that governed their world.

Amidst the sea of influential guests, Claudia's attention was caught by the presence of rich old purebloods. They exude an air of privilege and entitlement, their names etched into the annals of pureblood history. Their wrinkled faces and weathered hands spoke of a lifetime spent in pursuit of power and wealth, their very presence a testament to the enduring legacy of their bloodlines.

As she gracefully moved through the crowd, Claudia engaged in polite conversation with acquaintances and family friends. She spoke with eloquence and confidence, her intelligence and charm evident in every word she uttered. Yet, beneath her composed facade, there was a flicker of restlessness, a longing to make her mark on a world that often felt suffocating in its traditions and expectations.

She observed her father, conversing effortlessly with influential figures. His commanding presence and charisma commanded respect, his words holding weight and authority. Claudia couldn't help but feel a swell of pride, knowing that she was his daughter, a reflection of his legacy and the aspirations he had instilled within

As they moved through the grand hall, the whispered conversations and admiring glances followed in their wake. Claudia's crimson tresses, her regal bearing, and the air of sophistication that enveloped her drew the attention of many. Yet, beneath the surface, she was aware of the expectations placed upon her, the burden of her family's legacy. It was a world where appearances were everything, and Claudia knew she had to navigate the treacherous waters with finesse and tact.

As Domitius led her further into the heart of the festivities, Claudia steeled herself for the challenges that lay ahead. She knew that within this grand gathering, there were alliances to be forged, secrets to be discovered, and ambitions to be pursued. The evening promised more than just a celebration of love; it was an arena where power, influence, and destiny converged.

As they approached the heart of the gathering, Claudia's eyes alighted upon the bride and groom.

In the grand ballroom of the opulent estate, the wedding of Allectus Rosier and Lucretia Black was a spectacle that had been meticulously orchestrated. It was a union not solely born out of love, but a strategic alliance between two prominent pureblood families. The Rosiers and the Blacks, both esteemed and powerful, sought to strengthen their ties and preserve their ancient lineage.

In the opulent ballroom, Allectus Rosier stood amidst the gathering, his presence commanding attention. The flickering candlelight accentuated the chiseled features of his face, casting shadows that only heightened the allure of his masculine beauty. His deep-set, electric blue eyes sparkled with a mischievous glint, inviting those who dared to meet his gaze into a world of mystery and intrigue.

As he moved with a grace and confidence that bespoke his noble lineage, Allectus drew the attention of all in his path. His impeccable sense of style, showcased through his tailored attire, bespoke a man who understood the power of appearance and how it could captivate the minds and hearts of those around him. With every step he took, the whispers of admiration followed, like the gentle rustle of silk against marble.

Beside him, Lucretia, resplendent in her wedding gown, exuded an ethereal grace that complemented Allectus's commanding presence. Her long black hair cascaded down her back, cascading like a waterfall of obsidian, and her dark eyes held a hint of mystery. While her beauty was undeniable, it was the underlying knowledge that this union was forged for the preservation of bloodlines that cast a veil of complexity over her delicate features.

The guests marveled at the sight before them, marveling at the union of two individuals whose physical beauty seemed divinely ordained. But hidden beneath the façade of this arranged marriage, were the intricacies of their familial obligations and societal expectations. It was a delicate dance, where duty and desire intertwined, and the future of two great houses hung in the balance.

As the ceremony progressed, the solemn vows were exchanged, sealing the union of Allectus Rosier and Lucretia Black.

The grandeur of the reception hall was ablaze with the glittering chandeliers and the lively chatter of the esteemed guests. Claudia, beaming with pride for her brother's successful nuptials, made her way through the crowd to congratulate him. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she playfully teased Allectus, her beloved sibling.

"Congratulations, dear brother! You managed to look decent tonight, finally," Claudia jested, her voice laced with affectionate banter. She held her brother's arm and leaned in closer, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "And Lucretia, my dear sister-in-law, you look absolutely splendid. I hope you have a stash of potions to counteract any potential headaches from dealing with him," she teased, a playful smile adorning her lips.

As Claudia exchanged pleasantries with her family, a familiar voice cut through the air. Turning her head swiftly, she beheld her cousin, Abraxas Malfoy, his presence commanded attention, his poise and demeanor oozing with aristocratic elegance.

The soft glow of the chandeliers played upon Abraxas' bright white-blond hair, each strand meticulously arranged to perfection. Not a strand dared to be out of place, for it knew its role in accentuating his otherworldly features. His sharp, piercing gaze, like the blade of a silver rapier, met Claudia's eyes with an unwavering intensity.

With a smile that danced upon her lips, Claudia stepped forward to greet her cousin. The warmth in her eyes was mirrored in her voice as she extended her hand in greeting. "Ah, Abraxas, it is a pleasure to see you again," she said, her words carrying a genuine warmth and affection.

Abraxas, ever the epitome of refinement, reciprocated her greeting with a nod, acknowledging her presence. His pale, icy-blue eyes met hers.

She extended her hand towards Abraxas, a gesture of kinship and shared heritage. The group of pureblood friends surrounding him, including Mulciber, Nott, Lestrange, and others, exuded an air of sophistication and privilege, much like Claudia and her brother.

However, as her gaze swept the room, Claudia's eyes locked onto a figure that sent a chill down her spine. Tom Riddle, a man of enigmatic allure, stood apart from the revelry, his presence both captivating and unnerving. The room seemed to darken ever so slightly as Claudia's gaze met his piercing eyes.

Claudia's eyes couldn't help but be drawn to him, as if he possessed an invisible pull that captivated her gaze. It wasn't just his striking appearance that caught her attention, but the way he carried himself with an air of confidence and intelligence. Tom Riddle seemed to possess an otherworldly charm, his features perfectly chiseled and his movements graceful.

His dark, curly hair framed his face in a way that accentuated his piercing, intelligent eyes. The slight curl at the ends of his locks added a touch of effortless elegance. His cheekbones were sculpted, giving his face a refined and aristocratic look. There was an enigmatic quality about him that left Claudia intrigued, as if there were depths of complexity hidden beneath his attractive exterior.

As Tom Riddle moved through the crowd, conversing with various guests, Claudia couldn't help but notice how effortlessly he commanded attention and respect. His words were articulate and thoughtful, drawing people in with his wit and charm. It seemed that even her brother, Allectus, and her cousin, Abraxas Malfoy, both known for their own good looks, paled in comparison to Tom Riddle's magnetic presence.

Claudia's curiosity grew, and she found herself longing to engage in conversation with this enigmatic figure. She observed the way he carried himself, the way he made others feel important and valued. It was as if he possessed a charisma that extended beyond mere physical appearance, captivating the hearts and minds of those around him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Abraxas noticed how his cousin Claudia seemed to stiffen up a bit upon seeing Tom.

“Ah! Lest we not forget your little show back when you were what… 11?” Allectus chimed in, a mischievous glint in his eyes. The mention of that particular memory elicited a brief flashback in Claudia's mind, transporting her back to her first year at Hogwarts.

She could vividly recall the scene in the Slytherin common room, bathed in the dim glow of the firelight, where Tom Marvolo Riddle, then a sixth-year prefect, had been surrounded by a crowd of admirers. The Slytherin Quidditch team, basking in the glory of their recent victory, had flocked around him like moths to a flame. Claudia, a wide-eyed first-year filled with youthful infatuation, had watched from a distance, her heart aflutter with anticipation.

Summoning her courage, she approached him, her delicate footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor. In her hand, she clutched a folded piece of parchment, its edges slightly creased from her anxious grip. In that moment, the world seemed to fade away, leaving only her and the enigmatic figure of Tom Riddle before her. Her heart raced, her palms grew clammy, but her determination propelled her forward.

"Hello, Tom Riddle!" she had exclaimed, her voice quivering yet filled with a resolute innocence that belied her tender age. The room fell silent, every eye fixed upon the brave young girl who dared to express her affections so openly.

"I am Claudia," she continued, her words tumbling out in a rush, like a cascade of pearls from a broken necklace. "I know that you and my brother, Allectus, are good friends, but I... I cannot help myself, Tom Riddle. My heart beats faster whenever you are near. I like you, Tom Riddle. I like you more than treacle tart, more than sugar, more than the finest chocolates from Honeydukes! I like you with every fiber of my being!"

The common room held its breath, the air pregnant with anticipation. Claudia's cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, her doe-like eyes shining with a mixture of vulnerability and hope. Her innocent declaration of love hung in the air, as fragile and delicate as a butterfly's wings.

Tom Riddle, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, regarded her with a mixture of surprise and gentleness. He placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her body, as if she had been touched by magic itself. His voice, like the soft whisper of the wind through the trees, was warm and reassuring. "Claudia, I must commend you for your sheer courage and honesty. Your feelings are not unappreciated, but I fear I cannot return them in the same manner. Please do not take this the wrong way. You possess incredible qualities that will undoubtedly captivate someone worthy of your love."

Though Claudia's heart sank at his words, she admired his response, understanding the truth in his gentle rejection. Tom had handled her confession with grace and compassion, preserving her dignity and shielding her from the potential ridicule of their peers.

"Thank you, Tom Riddle," she whispered, her voice filled with a bittersweet acceptance. "I appreciate your honesty and value our friendship above all else. Let us continue to support one another, as fellow Slytherins and as friends."

Tom's gaze softened, his eyes reflecting a fleeting glimpse of regret. "Claudia, you are a remarkable young witch. Never doubt your worth or the impact you can make in this world. Your bravery and resilience will take you far. Remember, love comes in many forms and at different times. The right person will appreciate the extraordinary person you are."

With those words, he gently released his hold on her shoulder, allowing her to retreat from the center of attention.

Claudia, now standing amidst the glamorous wedding celebration, smiled softly at the memory. How young and innocent she had been, captivated by Tom Riddle's allure even then. But time had passed, and Claudia understood that. She shook off the reverie, returning her attention to her teasing cousin and brother. "Oh, hush, you two!" Claudia replied with a playful pout. "That was ages ago, and we were but children. Let us focus on celebrating Allectus and Lucretia's joyous union tonight."

“Ah, Claudia, dear cousin, you never fail to provide us with delightful memories!” Abraxas chuckled, his bright blonde hair cascading around his face like a halo. He exchanged a knowing glance with Allectus, their eyes gleaming with mischief.

Allectus, a mischievous smile playing on his lips, added, "Indeed, Claudia, we must commend your courage. Confessing your undying affection for Tom Riddle in front of the entire Slytherin house! A moment that shall forever be etched in our memories."

Nott and Lestrange, who had been standing nearby, couldn't resist joining in on the teasing. Nott, his voice dripping with sarcasm, remarked, "Oh, Claudia, how fortunate we were to witness such a heartfelt declaration of love! I dare say it rivaled the most dramatic scenes in plays."

Lestrange, his eyes twinkling with amusement, interjected, "Indeed! I shall never forget the stunned silence that followed your confession. It was as if the very air held its breath in anticipation of Tom Riddle's response." Claudia, though initially taken aback by their teasing, soon found herself joining in the mirth. "Oh, do cease your mockery, my dear companions!" she playfully retorted.

As the bustling crowd began to simmer down, Claudia found herself seated beside her cousin, Abraxas. They exchanged warm smiles, their conversation a testament to the enduring bond shared between them.

"I've heard you're working with the Ministry of Wizarding Law Enforcement now!" Abraxas exclaimed, genuine pride gleaming in his eyes. He was delighted to see Claudia flourishing in her professional life, ascending the ranks of the magical world. Claudia's cheeks flushed with a rosy hue, her modesty shining through despite her accomplishments.

"And I've heard you and your wife have been blessed with a pregnancy!" Claudia's voice rang out, her eyes sparkling with genuine joy. The news of their impending parenthood had reached her ears through the whispered gossip of high society, and she could not contain her excitement.

Abraxas, ever the astute conversationalist, skillfully redirected the topic, a playful glint in his eyes. "Ah, don't change the subject, dear cousin," he quipped, a sly smile playing upon his lips. "But yes, we have indeed been blessed with the gift of a child.”

Claudia's attention returned to the matter at hand, a graceful smile gracing her features. "Oh, it's nothing extraordinary," she replied, her voice a melodious blend of humility and pride. "Recently, I have been entrusted with a significant role in the Ministry, tasked with the creation and refinement of laws concerning magical artifacts.”

Abraxas nodded approvingly, acknowledging her accomplishments. "Ah, the intricate world of legislation and governance," he remarked, his voice laced with admiration. "I have always known that your intellect and tenacity would lead you to great heights.”

Before she could delve deeper into her recent ventures, she was interrupted by the familiar voice that had once stirred her soul. It was Tom Riddle, the enigmatic figure whose presence had ignited a flame within her young heart. His entrance, marked by an aura of charm and confidence, drew the attention of all who were fortunate enough to witness it.

"My, my, my... Claudia Rosier," he spoke, his voice laced with a hint of amusement and genuine admiration. "It has been far too long since our paths last crossed, and yet, in that time, you have accomplished so much. I must offer my sincerest congratulations."

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