I've Always Wanted Another Daniel Fic From You Dude, You Write His Characters So Well

I've always wanted another Daniel fic from you dude, you write his characters so well😍

𝙧𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙚𝙯𝙫𝙤𝙪𝙨 | helmut zemo x reader

@radmerrmaid requested a drabble with zemo and enemies to lovers. what happened is a whole oneshot. don't ask me how.

word count: 4.3k

warnings: DUBCON SMUT, enemies to lovers/hate sex, rough sex including hair pulling, degradation and name calling, restraint, a slap, and overstimulation, touchstarved reader, unspecified age gap, very mild violence (hand-to-hand combat and a mention of a previous gunshot wound), kidnapping, soft!dark zemo?

"It must drive you crazy," he purred, wrapping his fingers carefully around the crystal glass before picking it up. "Seeing me like this."

He smirked around his sip of bourbon— at least you figured it was bourbon— as you tried to keep a poker face. You didn't like the idea of being seen as crazy at all, let alone because of him. "Like what?" you pressed instead of admitting to it.

"Free," he shrugged. "Out of that cage you worked so hard to keep me in."

"Getting you there was my job," you corrected with a frown. "If keeping you there was mine, too... you'd still be in it."

He laughed lightly, if briefly, and shook his head. "Still so prideful. You're young, and you have something to prove."

"I have nothing to prove to you," you asserted, shifting your weight on your hips— it was sort of uncomfortable to keep standing, but it felt wrong to take a seat even though he'd offered you one when you entered. It seemed like a sign of trust. Not that he should be surprised by you acting aloof, when he'd offered to meet you here without even explaining why.

"No, not to me," he agreed, setting the glass down again and taking one step closer to you. "To your friends at the CIA."

He seemed to emphasize every letter of the acronym, a playful condescension in his tone. "Friends is a funny way to say it," you rolled your eyes, "like I do what I do because I want to be popular, and not because I want to keep the world safe."

"Safe from me," he added, "the evil terrorist. Right?"

You ignored his question, not really wanting to dignify it with an answer— or start some spiel about how you don't really believe in evil people, just actions that merit punishment, bla bla bla...

"Yet, you couldn't keep yourself safe from me," he went on, raising one eyebrow as he examined you. "Or, you can't. Here you are— alone, as I asked."

Obviously, you had tried to imagine some way you could have back-up for this, even just tell someone where you were going. But this was Zemo's turf, and he had eyes and ears all over the city... he would know if you tried to turn this into a sting. Instead, you only hoped to gain some sort of information tonight that you could use to track him down when he tried to run again.

"You're more trusting than I suspected," he smirked, gaze darkening a bit. "Or, more desperate."

"Maybe the right word is 'curious'," you proposed. "Clearly, you have something to discuss with me."

"I do," he nodded. "A question to ask you-- one I feel only you can answer."

You waited for him to ask it, but even just the way he sucked in a sharp breath made you realize he was going to bore you with some preamble first— just like him, really..

"You see, after evading you so many times—"

"Narrowly," you interjected.

"Maybe some times," he shrugged, smiling, "other times, I think I had plenty of room. But that's besides the point... the point is, here I am. I've probably bested you for the last time—"

"That's not—"

"Ah ah, no interrupting, please," he scolded gently. "I know you know that if I can keep a low profile here, your organization has no hope of getting me back. I simply have too many resources, and your superiors know my risk is relatively low. No?"

Again, you refused to answer, but the way you crossed your arms tighter and glanced away seemed to serve as enough of an agreement.

"So that's it— I'm free. It should be so simple," he sighed. "So, why am I disappointed?"

You furrowed your brows, staring at him in confusion. You were waiting for him to say something to give context to that, but he didn't— he only waited for your response with an earnest look. "Why... are you asking me that?" you wondered.

"Because you're the person who knows me best."

You'd never thought of it like that, and it was such a jarring idea that you began to shake your head almost instantly. "No, that... that doesn't seem right..."

"I figured you would take pride in it," Zemo grinned. "You tracked me for years, studied me, learned my habits... I had to do the same to escape you. I must know you better than anyone else."

"That's ridiculous," you scoffed. "What are you trying to say?"

"I just hoped you could tell me why I feel this way— why I feel so wrong about never seeing you again."

Your chest tightened. You couldn't bear to meet his gaze; your stomach felt sick and strange and you just wanted to run out of there, but what good would that do? You needed him to tell you something you could use, one last chance to catch him before it was too late.

"If I didn't know you so well, and hate you so much," he went on, "I wouldn't have the energy to keep running. And me? I'm your biggest case. Sometimes you act like I'm your only case. What is it about me, that you need to win against me so badly?"

"It's not you," you insisted instantly, "it's me— it's who I am."

"Maybe that's how it started," he suggested, "but you can't spend so long hunting someone without becoming a little obsessed with them— trust me, I would know."

You grimaced at him. "You— you can't be serious."

"Who will you be without me to chase?" he pressed anyways, matching some of your anger as he stepped closer again— almost too close. "Without this... passion, between us?"

"Don't step any closer," you warned.

"Or what?" he challenged. "No weapons, no soldiers— it's just the two of us here."

He stepped up again, nearly pressed against you, and you couldn't let him get away with that... you had to prove you meant what you said. You weren't armed, and you knew he wasn't someone you wanted to go up against hand-to-hand... but at the same time, it was one thing you'd always secretly wished for. A chance to wage this war the way it should be, the way it had always been: personal.

You stepped back at the same time as you swung your fist, giving yourself just enough room to gain momentum— but you weren't quite fast enough, and he blocked you. From then on it was fast, instinctual: he was stronger but you were quicker, and on the offensive.

You never quite landed a hit, but neither did he— which felt like a good sign, until you realized he wasn't really giving it his all. Dodging and blocking, yes, but he wasn't trying to win, just keep you at bay.

"Come on!" you yelled in frustration as you finally got in a kick to his chest, forcing him to stumble back and nearly fall. "What are you doing, pitying me?"

"Hardly," he wheezed, a little affected by the hit, which made you smirk. "But I don't want to hurt you."

"Please," you rolled your eyes, putting your fists up and stabilizing your posture. "If we're going to do this, let's do it right."

He came at you, and finally, there it was... his real strength. That passion he'd been talking about, you could feel it.

Both of you were flushed and panting, exhilarated by the sport of it all. Unfortunately, right as you thought you'd found your moment— the weak spot in his form— it was a trap. When you moved in closer, he grabbed you and spun you around, holding your back against his chest so tight that you struggled to breathe.

But he didn't shove you down, didn't put you in a chokehold, didn't even threaten you or gloat about pinning you. Instead, he only held you tighter, and soothed you with a gentle 'shh' in your ear when you tried to squirm out of his grasp.

"Wh-what are you doing?" you whispered, your whole body shaking as he ran his tongue up your neck.

"If it's curiosity that brought you here," he purred in response, "I can satisfy that."

"You can't be fffucking serious," you hissed, though a moan tainted your words as one of his hands ran down your body, the other still effortlessly holding you still.

"I know you so well," he went on, a deep growl in his voice as your eyes fell shut. "I know how lonely you must be. That's one of the things we share."

His hand was heavy and warm against your leg, even through your pants— and it was moving higher, petting your inner thigh as you shivered.  Though your mind longed to resist him, your body was desperate for any affection; because he was right, you were lonely.  You couldn’t think of the last time someone had touched you like this, and yet you remembered it didn’t usually feel this good.  His touch was precise and careful and teasing— not too awkward but not too cocky.  And the heat of him wrapped around you, his hot breath on your shoulder, his wider form encompassing you… how could it feel so good?

“And I know you’ve thought about this,” he added.  “That’s something we share, too.”

He couldn’t know that— he might be rich and resourceful, but he wasn’t omniscient.  If you were any more logical in that moment, you would’ve realized he was just guessing and denied it.  But his teeth brushing over your pulse didn’t exactly provoke your critical thinking skills.  “Fuck, I— fuck,” you choked out instead, shuddering when he chuckled proudly.

“You might hate me, draga, but you need me,” he explained.  “Your mind needs me, just as much as your body does.”

Something about the way his fingers traced up your side, teasing your breast before pulling away right before getting to anything too exciting… it seemed to bring you back to reality, at least partially.  You absolutely couldn’t do this— you couldn’t let him do this.  “G-get off me,” you choked out, struggling against him again.

“That’s what you want?” he taunted.

“Get the fuck off me!” you yelped.

“Make me,” he challenged.

Bringing your foot down hard on top of his, he winced and you managed to break away, spinning around and shoving him back— he actually lost his balance that time, falling to the floor.  You were ready to deliver a firm and swift kick between his legs, but rolled over and grabbed your leg while it was up, bringing you down to the floor with him.

He laughed breathlessly, sounding a little frustrated, as you flailed for purchase against the floor— only for him to grab your wrists and pin you down, positioning himself over you with a grin.  His hair was shaken out of its style, hanging around his face which was flushed from exertion.  “You keep me on my toes, I’ll give you that,” he offered.  You tried to writhe again but he had you properly trapped now, with absolutely no way out.

“You wouldn’t,” you sneered incredulously.

“Wouldn’t what, dear?”

“You wouldn’t force yourself on me,” you completed.

He seemed a little surprised, hanging his head and shaking it.  “Oh,” he breathed, “no, I wouldn’t.”

A little relieved, you started to catch your breath.

“I don’t need to.”

He brought his lips down to yours suddenly— the collision was almost too rough, and yet it was the only thing that made sense for the two of you.  You groaned in protest yet submitted instantly, opening your mouth wide for his desperate and dominating kiss.

Your back arched up off the floor, and his weight seemed to sink down on top of you in response.  Though you hated yourself for it, you spread your legs a bit, just enough for him to rest his hips between— and fuck, you could feel it.  The hard, throbbing heat, you could feel it pressed against you and the most horrible moan was nearly lost to his lips.

He hummed back proudly, running his hands over your body, kissing you faster.

You were gasping for breath when he broke away, which only worsened when he latched onto your neck.  “God, I hate you,” you blurted out, just to remind you both that if this was going to happen, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

“You hate me for all those times I embarrassed you?” he assumed, hands holding your waist and starting to slide up your shirt.  “For when I eluded you, wasted your time, made a fool of you?”

“And that time you shot me.”

“I winged you,” he corrected— like that was any better.

He tugged your shirt up and you raised your arms, letting him slip it off; he spotted the scar right away, a line across your arm just under your shoulder.  He cooed for a second before kissing it softly— too gentle a moment for you to let lie.  You shoved his jacket back next, helping him slip it off his shoulders before pulling him down to kiss you again.

Your sports bra had a clasp in the front, it was a bit unique in that way, yet he had no trouble with it.  Freeing your chest, he of course had to tease you a bit more— instead of groping your waiting breasts right away, he guided your arms down from where they held onto the back of his neck, lifting you up from the floor a bit so you could slide the garment off and toss it away.  

When you laid back down, the floor was cold, but the hiss you let out was more a response to him rocking his hips against you, teasing you through these stupid remaining clothes.  “You know why I hate you?” he returned as he started to unbutton your pants, even though you’d entirely forgotten that last part of the conversation.

Before he answered the question, he yanked your pants and underwear down to your thighs— and swiftly got his own out of the way.  Your heart raced; you weren’t totally convinced this was really happening, not until he pushed into you in one painfully sudden thrust.  You cried out, yet he took no mercy on you.  He was ruthless, in fact.

Choking on your broken cries, you arched up off the floor again as he hammered into you, rage and relief and desperation evident in every movement.  He had to hold your legs tightly just to keep you from sliding across the floor, which only ensured you took every stroke as deep as it could go— which was already too fucking deep.

“Say it,” he ordered, “tell me why I hate you.”

“I caught you,” you said— but you knew that would just make him angrier.  Maybe that was kind of the idea.

Stopping just long enough to tug your pants the rest of the way off— and leaving you naked while he was still mostly dressed— he descended over you and looked right at you, far too close, with a rageful stare.

“You trapped me,” he corrected gruffly.  “You played dirty.”

Before you had a chance to retort that all’s fair in love and war, he started to pound into you… harder and meaner than ever.  You didn’t surprise yourself by crying out, considering how intense and nearly painful the feeling was, but you were a little confused that the word you said was a needy yes!

"Those years in prison," he snarled, "you could barely call it living, life in that place— you put me there. I thought every day about how you put me there."

He yanked your hair, making you whine loudly and exposing your neck for his lips and teeth to explore freely.  

Finally, a hand latched onto your chest— a hot palm encompassing your breast and skilled fingers pinching lightly at your nipple.  You couldn’t believe how composed he was through all this— in many ways, he wasn’t, but he seemed to be deliberate with every way he touched you and that was far more togetherness than you had.

You weren’t together at all, actually… something about the heat of the moment, the way your body responded to him, the way he glared at you… you could already feel tension building inside you.  It wouldn’t be long, not if he kept going like this.

“I thought about you every fucking day, draga— that you were free, and I was trapped in that cell,” he growled.  “You missed it, didn’t you?  Chasing me.”

When you didn’t answer, he struck you across the face with the back of his hand; the shock of it made your walls clench on him, or at least you could blame it on that, but you had no way to explain the way you moaned a moment later.

He moved even faster, a sickening wet sound echoing through the room which you hated to acknowledge was your own body.  “The worse I am to you, the wetter you get,” he noticed, smiling for just a moment.  “What a filthy whore you are.”

“F-fuck you,” you stammered roughly.

“Actually, why don’t you?” he offered, grabbing you by the hips and rolling both of you over until he was on his back and you were straddling him.  “Show me how bad you need it.”

As much as you wanted to not do what he told you, your hips were already moving— your body was on its own mission now, desperate for pleasure and friction and heat.  Desperate for anything he would give.  You whimpered as you grinded down on him, feeling his cock go so much deeper than you imagined was possible.  “God,” you sobbed, tossing your head back and trying not to picture the way he must have been looking at you then.

His hands moved all over you, up your thighs and over your breasts, even wrapping around your neck once though they didn’t put on enough pressure to really choke you.  “Pretty girl,” he praised darkly, making chills dance over your skin.

But when his hands settled on your hips, trying to guide you the way he wanted, you’d had enough; you grabbed him at the wrists and leaned forward, pinning his hands beside his head.  He smirked up at you at first, but when you bounced your hips up and down while hovering over him, his eyes fell shut and he let out a deep groan.  “I’m close,” you panted sharply.

“You can make yourself come like this?” he realized, sounding a little impressed.  He opened his eyes and lifted his head for a moment to get a better look at you, before almost instantly giving up again and dropping his head back to the floor with a moan.  “Fine, take it— just take what you need, draga.”

You held tighter to his wrists, mostly to keep yourself stable, and you felt his own hands ball into fists as you bounced faster.  “Oh god, oh god, oh god— yes!” you yelped, legs quivering as it struck you.  It seemed to come and go so quickly, perhaps because your strength gave out halfway through and you felt weak and paralyzed.  It had been ages since you’d felt pleasure like that… actually you weren’t sure you’d ever felt pleasure like that, at least not so much all at once.

If only he were satisfied by that.  With your grip weakened, he easily pulled his hands away to wrap his arms around you, holding you tightly and bucking his hips up into you rapidly.

“Fuck, wait, s-slow down,” you panted, whining weakly as he shook his head against the crook of your neck.

“I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he purred.  “I won’t be able to slow down at all until you’re full of come, draga.  I want you dripping.”

You were all numb and limp now, so raw and sensitive inside— he put you on your back again and didn’t struggle at all to pull another orgasm from you.  The third, though, was a little more hard fought: he rubbed your clit with an almost painful amount of pressure, watching through dark eyes and with a sneering grin as you screamed and shivered.

“Not too loud, darling,” he warned, “the people in the streets might hear you, the window’s still open—”

“Fuck!” you shouted, high-pitched and shaky, and he covered your mouth with his other hand as he laid on you with a growl.

“Just one more, then I’ll fill you,” he promised.  “I only need to feel you come one more time.  You want a rest, don’t you?”

You nodded weakly, biting down on your shaking lip.

“Then give me what I want.”

Your final cry was stuttered and helpless, every final ounce of energy in your body being taken from you by the final forced peak of ecstasy.  But it wasn’t until you sighed out his name, barely audible under your breath, that he groaned against your neck and pumped himself deep inside you— every drop, leaving you full to the brim and then some.  

You didn’t even have the strength to hold onto him, but he held you far too tightly as if to make up for it, and didn’t let you go for quite some time.

It had only gotten darker and colder out, and the draft through the window eventually danced over your sweat-slickened skin.  When you shivered under him, Helmut lazily reached up to the couch nearby, pulling a throw blanket off of it and wrapping you both up in its soft embrace.  You sighed with relief from both the cold air and the hard floor, not even realizing you were falling asleep. 

Even when you woke up, you didn’t really notice that you’d been asleep— except that Helmut was gone, and the fireplace was going.  Sitting up as little as you could get away with to look for him— since moving at all was quite a task given how tired you were— you heard him coming around the corner and turned back to look at him.

He was in a robe now, and carrying two crystal glasses of water.  He smiled at you as he sat back down on the floor, laying beside you on the blanket and handing you your glass.  “Figured you would need this soon enough,” he explained with a soft voice as you sipped carefully at the water.  You weren’t really ready to talk to him yet, but you wanted to thank him for the water, so you just nodded and hoped that would get the point across.

The silence was probably only awkward for you— he seemed totally at peace, getting through most of his drink before setting it down on the floor and cuddling up to you again with a contented sigh.

You quietly drank the water, staring forward at the crackling fire, hardly believing where you were.  It actually sounded sort of romantic on paper: a dashing and wealthy older man, a penthouse apartment in a foreign city, a fire, a blanket, a crystal glass…

If it weren’t for the wanted terrorist, it might make for a good little fantasy.

Yet, you set your glass aside and laid back down with him.  He slipped an arm around you, holding your shoulder and petting it with his thumb, even kissing the side of your forehead sweetly.  “I don’t understand how you can… be like that,” you whispered, glancing down at his arm crossed over your chest.

“Not everyone is so afraid of their feelings as you are,” he countered, and you snorted a little.

“I’m not afraid of my feelings,” you denied half-heartedly.

“You’re afraid of me, then?” he wondered.

“Not… quite…” you murmured your answer, not even sure yourself what you felt.  “I mean, I drank the water, so—”

“I wondered if you would,” he laughed, “but I’m glad you did.”

“I mean, only half the glass, technically,” you noticed.

“Oh, don’t worry, you’ve had enough,” he shrugged.

“Enough?” you chuckled.  “After that, half a glass of water is hardly enough.  I won’t be recovered until I have a protein-heavy meal and probably a couple painkillers— if I wanna, you know, sit or jog or whatever in the next few days.”

“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment,” he chuckled, “but I didn’t mean enough to recuperate.  I meant enough for you to sleep until we get there.”

“...what?” you asked, turning over your shoulder with knitted brows to look at him.

“If even you know where you’re going, you might find a way to get out is all,” he explained flippantly.

“What… what are you…?” you started, shaking your head— but it didn’t shake off that funny feeling, that heaviness in your head.

“You see, I did think about you every day in my cell,” he went on, “and I thought about how, someday, I would lock you away— so you’d know how it feels, to be a prisoner.”

Whimpering as realization dawned, you sat up quickly to try to fight whatever was in that water… but it only seemed to make it worse, spots forming in your vision like when you stand up too fast— except they didn’t fade, just multiplied.

“I’ll treat you much better than I was, though,” he assured, “in fact, I think you’ll be better off than you were before… you’ll be mine, draga.  No one else will ever see you again.”

You tried to speak but it wasn’t really coming together— you tried to push him away but you only limply held onto him, looking up at his eerily blank expression with your fading vision.  As it all turned to black, he caught your head before it hit the floor, cradling it rather tenderly before kissing your cheek.

“Now,” he whispered to you, though you couldn’t possibly hear it, “let’s get you cleaned up— the plane is waiting to take you to our new home.”

Hi,

Today I came across a fic called The Blood of Eden that was written by Shesjustanothergeek and noticed that it was very similar to your lucifer Aemond fic.

I read it and yeah, there are some lines that I have in mine but I think they took enough liberties that made it their own. They didn't copy paste so it's not that big a deal

I'll allow it, it's better than mine anyway lmao. Thanks for letting me know though

AHHHH THANK YOU SO MUCH I LOVE IT

"Niflheim" - Orpheus!Osferth x Eurydice!Reader

a/n: request from @ultraintrovertedgryffindor for orpheus!osferth combined with a request from @connorsui for osferth x childhood friend/princess reader ❤️

Summary: Osferth and you are childhood sweethearts, torn away from each other by circumstance. But this time, Osferth takes fate into his own hands.

Word Count: 5,205

Rating: 18+, MDNI

TW: afab reader, she/her pronouns, profanity, innuendo, character death, mentions of severe illness, p in v sex, fingering, breeding kink

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the The Last Kingdom characters nor do I claim to own them. I do not own any of the images used nor do I claim to own them.

Comments, likes, and reblogs are never required but are immensely appreciated ❤️

You and Osferth were never meant to meet. He is the bastard son of a king, his father’s secret shame, sent away to become a monk in Mercia. You, on the other hand, are a princess, the daughter of King Æthelwulf and younger sister of Prince Æthelred. The monastery’s gardens border those of the castle’s, however, and one day Osferth hears the sweetest voice, singing a little tune. Six years old at the time, he follows the voice, curious as to what he will find.

“Lavender’s green, dilly dilly, lavender’s blue. You must love me, dilly dilly, for I love you.”

Osferth approaches you hesitantly, blue eyes wide with wonder as he listens to you sing, captivated by your voice and presence. You hear a twig snap and jump up, grabbing the wooden sword by your side, waving it in front of you. You seem to be around his age, he thinks,  an inch or two shorter than him at most. He is slightly frightened by the sudden movement of your sword, your demand to know who’s there, but he realizes by the little crown on your head that you are the princess. He bows quickly, giving you a shy smile.

You frown at the strange boy, crossing your arms expectantly, “Why are you doing that? And why are you wearing those robes?”

He clears his throat nervously before speaking, “My name is Osferth. I… This is the uniform of my order of monks.”

Osferth feels rather self-conscious as you eye him up and down before you shake your head and declare, “You’re a little boy. You can’t be a monk. They’re all old and fat.’

He is surprised by your words but quickly explains, “Oh, well I am only a monk in name. Really, I work for the older monks. Carrying heavy things, preparing things.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes going wide in recognition, “I suppose I am only a princess in name. My brother gets to do all the fun things.”

Osferth chuckles slightly at your response, taking a seat beside you on the bench when you pat the spot next to you, “What kind of fun things do you want to do that you are not allowed?”

“I want to ride my horse and fight Danes,” you state boldly, without any hesitation.

Osferth looks at you intently, impressed by your spirit, “You sound like a warrior! Have you ridden a horse already?”

“No,” you frown sadly, the sight making his chest ache for some reason not quite yet known to him, “They say I am too small. Have you, Osferth?”

He nods proudly, puffing out his chest in an effort to impress you, “Yes, I have indeed, Princess. It is an incredible feeling, sitting up there.”

“Wow,” you breathe, gazing at him starry-eyed, Osferth’s cheeks flushing at the way you look at him, “That is amazing! A warrior monk!”

He shakes his head, grinning and scratching the back of his neck, “I suppose being a little brave is necessary to defend God’s kingdom.”

You nod before asking him, “How old are you?”

“I am nearly seven,” he tells you happily, eyeing the doll and wooden sword you clutch to your chest, “How old are you?”

“I am six and a half,” you say proudly, “My brother is the prince of Mercia and one day he will be king,” you pause before adding, knitting your brows together, “But not today, because Papa is still alive.”

Osferth stares at you in awe. Your life is so different to his. You are so much more important than him, one of the most important people in the country, and you are not even seven years old. He smiles at the doll you hold to your chest, pointing toward it.

“And what is your doll’s name, my lady? Is she a princess as well?”

You shake your head vehemently, “Absolutely not! She is a knight!”

Osferth smirks slightly before laughing, “I apologize. I did not mean to assume. Can I ask her name? If she is a knight, surely she must have an impressive name.”

“Her name is Lagertha,” you inform him, hugging the doll tightly.

He smiles at you, finding you entirely fascinating, “And your sword? Who is that for?”

“Me! Who else would it be for?”

Osferth laughs again under his breath, “But who are you going to fight, Lady?”

“Everyone!”

He stares at you with amused surprise, “Everyone, you say? That is a lot of work. What if someone manages to take your sword away from you? What will you do then?”

“Then I’ll use my hands!”

Osferth grins as you ball your hands into fists, punching the air. You are a very determined and brave girl, with great confidence in yourself. He watches as you calm yourself and sit down, telling him your name.

“I do not have many friends,” you say sadly, looking up at him with your sweet, innocent eyes.

His heart breaks for you, how lonely you must be, just as he is, “I am sorry, Princess. Would you like me to be your friend?”

He is taken by surprise when you throw your arms around him and embrace him, tackling him to the ground in your enthusiasm, “You are my best friend now, alright?”

Osferth hugs you back just as tightly and nods, “You are my best friend too, Princess.”

The two of you grow up together, growing closer and closer as the years go by. When you are both twelve years old, on an afternoon like any other, you go to have your lunch with Osferth in the gardens. You turn to him, a curious expression on your face.

“Osferth? Can I ask you something?”

He looks at you, nodding, “Of course. Anything.”

You glance around, making sure you two are completely alone before whispering, “Is King Alfred your father? Æthelred told me as much but I wanted to know the truth from you.”

Osferth is caught off guard by your question, expression turning somber as he nods, “He is. I am a bastard. He sent me here to be in the care of the monks.”

He’s surprised at the angered expression on your face, “Why will he not care for you? Fathers are meant to care for their children! What a horrid man!”

He stares at you intensely, expression remaining morose. You are right. A parent is meant to care for their child. He feels angry at the thought that his father does not accept him, that he shows no interest in his existence.

“He did not want an illegitimate child. He told my mother that I was the Devil’s spawn and the result of their weakness.”

You scoff, “That makes him the Devil then. What an idiot.”

Osferth bursts into laughter at your words, “You are right. As always, Princess. How can I argue with the smartest lady in England?”

“You cannot. You are the farthest thing from a Devil spawn,” you say, eating your lunch, “And King Alfred is stupid. I heard he shits blood.”

Osferth chokes on his water, wiping his mouth before bursting into laughter again, “Who told you that? That may count as treason, Princess!”

“Æthelred told me,” you say smugly, “He knows everything about everyone. And it cannot be treason if it is true.” Osferth smiles gently as you continue to eat, listening as you chatter away, “Anyway, I think you would make a better prince than Edward ever would. He is rather annoying. Æthelred says I will have to marry him one day. I would rather become a nun.”

Osferth snickers, “You can come and live with me at the monastery. I will be your personal monk and take care of you. But,” he grins, “I do not think you really want to be a nun. You are too bold for that. You will be an Empress.”

You smile brightly, “If I am an Empress, I will marry you and you will be the Emperor. We will ride our horses into battle together.”

Osferth’s ears go red at the thought of marrying you. He has never thought of marriage or anything of the sort, being a monk, but you are so pretty and your body is so warm next to his that he cannot help but think it would be wonderful to marry you. 

And he notices for the first time how your eyes seem to sparkle in the afternoon sun.

By the time the two of you are sixteen, Osferth is fully aware of the depth of his feelings for you. He watches as you run over to him, looking beautiful as ever, eyes dancing with excitement as you yell his name.

“Osferth, you will never believe who I met!”

He leans against the wall and looks at you with interest, “Who?”

“Lord Uhtred,” you whisper, “He is back!”

Osferth’s eyes go wide with surprise, “You did? Where is he? Where did you meet him? It must have been very exciting!”

“He came to the castle to give my brother and Æthelflæd his congratulations on their wedding. Oh, Osferth, you should have seen him, he is just as impressive as everyone says!” You pause before wrinkling your nose, “He is a bit old though.”

Osferth grins at your comment, “Well, he is indeed a bit older than us, but that means he is more experienced in battle.”

You hum, acknowledging his words before continuing to ramble, “I met his men too. An Irishman named Finan and a Dane named Sihtric. They were both quite handsome, especially the Dane.” Osferth bites back the jealousy gnawing away at him as you continue speaking, “Oh, but it was awful, Osferth, Sihtric barely even looked at me! He just stared at the floor. I even plaited my hair!”

Osferth laughs slightly at how serious you seem, “Perhaps he thought you were too pretty and could not look you in the eyes because he felt so shy.”

“Does that mean you think I’m ugly? You always look me in the eyes,” you retort sassily.

He smiles at you warmly, “Of course I do not think you are ugly. I like looking at you. And your lovely plaited hair.”

You giggle as he moves closer, doing a little twirl to show off your hairstyle, “Do you like it? Æthelflæd weaved some flowers into it,” you pause before grumbling, “Not that Sihtric cared.”

“You look beautiful,” Osferth mumbles, almost shyly, “Perhaps this Sihtric did not know enough about flower weaving to notice your hair. He is probably thinking about how to win a battle or things like that.”

“I quite prefer men like you who notice my hair,” you grouse, “A lady’s hair is very important to her.”

Osferth nods, biting back a smile as he asks, “Would you like to know something you have that I very much like about you, Princess?” You nod eagerly, and he clears his throat, face going red as he speaks, “I like your smile very much. Your eyes seem to shine when you smile and your voice becomes even more lovely.” He pauses, lowering his voice, “Would you smile for me? Would you make your Emperor happy?”

You laugh at him, completely delighted, “I cannot believe you still remember that! Emperor and Empress. We were only children.”

Osferth’s heart warms at seeing your beautiful smile and he laughs in return, “It was a long time ago, yes, but I cherish that memory.” He takes your hand in his, your soft skin brushing against his, gazing into each other’s eyes as he whispers, “You have been my best friend for years, and yet, I find myself craving more.”

You bite your lip, barely able to hold back your giddy smile at his words before you ask, “Do you want to kiss me, my sweet Emperor?”

Osferth feels his breath quicken but responds with a nod, his breath catching in his throat, “I would like that very much, my beautiful Empress.”

He waits with bated breath as you stand on your toes, gently pressing your lips to his in the sweetest, most chaste of kisses. His heart beats like a drum in his chest as he kisses you back, hands cupping your face tenderly. You only pull apart when you hear one of your ladies in waiting calling you back in for supper. You give Osferth a kiss on the cheek before sprinting back to the castle.

A few days later, you are taken entirely by surprise when Osferth tells you that he is leaving with Lord Uhtred, intent on accompanying him on his adventures.

“W-what?” you ask, voice quivering ever so slightly.

He nods, averting his gaze, “Yes… There is no place for me anywhere, Princess. If I do this, I will have a chance to make a name for myself. To be more than the king’s bastard son. I need to change my destiny. To see what life is like outside of these monastery walls.”

You stare at him before nodding slowly, “Well, goodbye then,” you say, pulling away from him and crossing your arms.

Osferth’s expression grows sad as he rests a hand on your shoulder, worried that you are upset with him, “Goodbye? Is that all you have to say to me? I have been your best friend all this time and you do not even look sad that I am leaving…” His voice cracks slightly as he questions, “Do you not care about me? The way you refuse to look at me makes me feel guilty, as if I have done something wrong.”

“I do not mean to make you feel guilty Osferth,” you say, turning away and turning your nose up, “Do as you like. When you return, you shall likely find me a married woman.”

Osferth is surprised at how quickly the mood between the two of you has changed. His stare is intense and he pauses before speaking.

“A married woman?” Osferth questions, both confused and jealous, “Please tell me… To whom will you be married, Princess?”

“Prince Edward, your half-brother,” you inform him primly, “The king and my brother both desire the match. And since you will not even be here, I have no reason to resist their wishes any longer.”

Osferth watches as you stride off, frozen in place for a moment before he takes off running after you. You are supposed to be his Empress, not his brother’s wife!

“I cannot believe you would marry Prince Edward! He does not deserve you! He is not worthy of your smile, your laugh, your love. You cannot marry him!” Osferth declares passionately.

You frown, “You ought to leave. I am sure Lord Uhtred is waiting for you.”

Your words sting and he swallows back the tears that threaten to spill, “I do not want Edward to get your beautiful smile. It is mine. You are my Empress…”

“Just go, Osferth,” you say, looking at him sadly, “Go on your adventures and leave me in peace. Do not write to me and do not expect to find me waiting for you.”

He watches you run back into the castle, covering your face and letting out a heartbreaking sob. Osferth sinks to his knees, feeling completely heartbroken and utterly lost.

Several years later, when you and Osferth are both grown, twenty years of age, he returns to you. He left a pretty girl behind, but now he finds you a grown woman, more beautiful than any creature he has ever seen in his life, more beautiful than he remembered you in his dreams. You greet him, Uhtred, Sihtric, and Finan with a kind smile.

“My lords.”

He feels his cheeks flush as he admires you, seeing that you are standing beside his half-brother as his betrothed, a sharp pang in his chest at the sight. He stares at you intently, breath catching in his throat when you speak to him.

“You are much taller than I remember, Osferth.”

His eyes light up at your smile and it is difficult to keep his composure. He has to remind himself he cannot talk to you the way he used to, that you are a lady betrothed now. He must be respectful.

“Thank you, Princess.”

You excuse yourself from the room, giving Osferth a meaningful look, communicating without words that you wish for him to follow you. He does so without hesitation, finding himself in the gardens where you two met all those years ago. He admires the sight of you on that bench, where he first spoke to you, moving to sit beside you.

“This place will always be special to me.”

“To me as well,” you smile at him.

Osferth inhales sharply before cutting to the chase and asking, “Are you really marrying my brother?”

You sigh before replying, “I am supposed to.”

Osferth swallows thickly, “You… Why?”

“I am a princess. He is a prince,” you say quietly, averting your gaze, “It has all been arranged. A way to further strengthen the ties between the kingdoms.”

Osferth shakes his head angrily, “You should be able to marry the man you choose. Not one who was chosen for you by your arseling brother. Surely you can refuse?”

You look at him, your lashes fluttering as you speak, “In an ideal world… I would be yours.”

“And in this cruel reality?” Osferth whispers, desperation in his eyes as he pulls you into his arms, “Will you run away with me?”

Your eyes go wide in surprise, “W-what?”

“Run away with me,” he says, shocked at his own words before realizing this could be his last chance, “Leave this castle, the court. Be with me. Be free.”

It is a crazy idea. He knows this. But you have never once seemed satisfied with this life, with your decisions being made for you.

“But what of your plans to become a monk?”

“I do not want to be a monk. It was chosen for me. What I choose is you. I will always choose you,” Osferth says, confidence growing, “I would take you to Coccham. We would marry. We would have children. Everything we ever wanted. My Empress, I…” He looks you in the eyes, taking your face in his hands, “I love you. I do not have much, but I love you. And I will make you happy, I swear it.”

He knows his words may seem naive, but they are true. You look up at him, smiling sweetly.

“Kiss me again. Like you did all those years ago,” you request softly.

Osferth does not hesitate, his arms wrapping around your waist as he presses his lips to yours, submitting to his desire for you. The kiss is passionate and loving, an affirmation of the way the two of you feel about each other, bound by the love you have always shared and always will.

“I will go to Coccham with you,” you whisper when the two of you part, “I will marry you. How could I not?”

You take to the road with Osferth, Uhtred, and the others that very night, packing a small bag of your belongings and ready to begin your new life with your love. Uhtred has watched you grow into a young woman before his eyes and feels an almost fatherly sort of affection for you as he watches you and Osferth, Finan and Sihtric teasing you as brothers would.

You ride for several days, but you take ill on the road, a horrible fever overtaking you. By the time you reach Coccham, you need to be carried to bed by Osferth. He lays you down gently as Uhtred’s wife, Gisela, rushes to get blankets to warm you. Osferth’s hand rests on your face and he kisses your feverish brow, wanting to soothe your pain. He hears you cough, a terrifying rattling sound that shakes him to his core. He prepares hot tea for you every day, reading to you from the Bible, some of your favorite Psalms to soothe you. Uhtred suggests that they take you back to Winchester, that perhaps the healers there may be of more help, but Osferth knows you would never survive the journey.

You hold his hand weakly, coughing hard, “Osferth, I…”

He looks at you, his heart in his throat as he kneels by your bedside, “My love? What is it?”

Osferth cradles your face in his hands, watching as your eyes shut and you breathe your last. He shakes his head frantically.

“No… No… My love, no!”

He holds your face in his hands, gently shaking you awake, growing more and more frantic as he screams for help, kissing your cheeks, your lips, feeling that your body has already begun to grow cold. He cannot bear the thought of losing you, his true love.

After a while, Finan points out the obvious, tears in his eyes. That you will need a proper burial. Osferth bursts into tears, sobbing hysterically and shaking his head.

“Come back to me, please!”

He holds your body close, refusing to let anyone near you, begging you not to leave him.

And that is when Sihtric offers a solution. Unorthodox, yes. Blasphemous, certainly. He suggests that, if Osferth is willing to pledge fealty to the Norse gods, that he may be able to convince Loki and his wife, Sigyn, to return you from Niflheim to the land of the living. Osferth nods fervently, immediately agreeing to the idea. He will give anything in the world if it means that you will wake. He will risk everything.

The journey to the gate between Midgard and Niflheim is far, and the road is treacherous. But Osferth braves it. He travels to the ends of the earth, refusing to give up on his quest to get you back. It takes days, weeks, maybe even months before he reaches the realm of Loki. Time has ceased to have meaning ever since your death.

Osferth reaches Loki and Sigyn’s throne room, dark but beautiful, prostrating himself at the gods’ feet, begging for mercy. Begging for you.

“Ask me your favor, mortal,” comes Loki’s silvery voice.

Osferth gazes up at him and Sigyn before speaking, “I ask you to return my love to the land of the living. She has died before her due time and I will give anything to have her back.”

Loki chuckles, shaking his head, “Your lady is one of the dead now, mortal. One of my servants. Why would I ever return her?”

Osferth looks down at the ground, his jaw setting in determination before he meets the god’s gaze once more without fear, seemingly impressing the deity, “I love her. More than anything in the world. I know I can make her happy. I will pay any price to have her back.”

Before Loki can refuse, he sees that Sigyn is moved by Osferth’s declarations of love. She fixes her husband with a sharp glare and Loki lets out a sigh before turning to Osferth.

“I will send your lady up after you, through the Niflheim gate. But,” he warns, “You must not look back at her until you have crossed back into Midgard. If you do not trust me and look back to see if she is there, she will be lost to you forever.”

Osferth nods in agreement, bowing again and accepting Loki’s terms. He takes a deep breath and turns to begin the arduous journey back to Midgard, wanting nothing more than to see you again, to hold you in his arms and kiss you.

As he walks, he hears your voice calling to him and smiles, nearly turning to face you before remembering Loki’s words. Your cries grow more desperate.

“Osferth, help me…”

His face goes pale. Everything in his body screams at him to turn around and save you, but he remains steadfast. He keeps moving forward, not looking back, his body trembling at hearing the sound of you in pain and suffering.

“Osferth, please…”

He hears you let out that low, rattling cough. The one you did just before you died. He feels tears pool in his eyes, mouth going dry, but he continues.

“I will make it. I can make it.”

The cries fade and a voice sobs as if in pain, but still he walks. He walks and walks until he reaches Midgard, hearing the Niflheim gate close behind him. He immediately turns to look now that he has held up his end of the deal, but you? You are nowhere to be found. His face twists in despair. Has this all been some cruel trick? Did Loki play him like a fool, dangling his dream of a future with you before his eyes and snatching it away? He is ready to go back for you once more but he feels a gentle hand on his shoulder.

He turns around slowly, seeing you, your face glowing with visible happiness as you greet him, “My Emperor.”

“My love,” Osferth whispers in shock before pulling you into his arms, embracing you tightly. His lips find yours, desperate and passionate to confirm that you are here, standing beside him.

You giggle as he spins you around, peppering kisses all over your face, “Osferth, put me down!”

He chuckles and shakes his head, “No, I missed you so much. I thought you were lost to me forever.” He sets you down, resting his forehead against yours, gazing into your eyes, “I love you. I love you, I love you.”

Osferth kisses you once more, hearing you murmur, “I love you so much. I want to marry you, have a family with you, grow old with you.”

He nods in agreement, smiling at you, “Let us marry. As soon as Lord Uhtred allows us to do so. I cannot imagine life without you.”

When the two of you reach Coccham, you let out a yelp of surprise when Uhtred, Finan, and Sihtric race to shower you in brotherly hugs, Gisela coming to you as well to kiss your brow and embrace you tightly, “Perhaps I shall try dying more often…”

Osferth smiles at how everyone greets you, with so much love. It warms his heart. Uhtred immediately announces that he will begin preparations for the marriage, that the two of you need not worry about a thing, that he and Gisela will take care of absolutely everything. Sihtric suggests that the two of you go somewhere special to celebrate your reunion, giving Osferth a knowing smirk. Osferth blushes and nods, taking you by the hand.

It is a long ride, but you two do not care as you reach that very garden where you met all those years ago. You sit on that same bench, your head resting on his shoulder as you watch the sun begin to set, the sky coming alive with its pink and yellow hues.

“I remember the day we first spoke here. All those years ago,” you sigh.”

Osferth presses a kiss to your forehead, smiling softly, “Destiny brought us together. We have always belonged to each other from the moment we met. It is you and me, forever and always.”

“Forever and always, my Emperor,” you agree, kissing his cheek and letting your lips linger against his skin before you tease, “Osferth… Must we wait for the wedding night to…” You trail off suggestively, giving him a cheeky smile, “Enjoy each other?”

Osferth thinks for a moment, blushing before he breaks into a wide smile, “No, I do not wish to wait a moment longer.”

You giggle, throwing your arms around him and tackling him to the ground in your enthusiasm, much as you did the first time you met, “My Emperor.”

“My Empress,” Osferth whispers as you kiss him passionately, “I need you. I need you so badly, my love.”

You make quick work of his robes, tossing them aside, the moon now rising in the sky, illuminating his pale skin. You kiss every freckle, every inch of exposed skin before taking his cock into your mouth, gazing into those blue eyes of his all the while, admiring how handsome he looks as his face twists in pleasure. You hollow your cheeks, cupping his stones as you bring your beloved closer and closer to his peak, nearly choking on his length before he pulls you close to him, shaking his head.

“I… I wish to spill myself inside you,” he whispers, almost shyly.

You nod, grinding your hips against his thigh, wetness pooling between your thighs.  Osferth practically rips your dress from your body, desperate to see you in all your splendor. The moonlight makes you look almost ethereal, bare before him in this garden, your place. His hand snakes between your thighs, slowly stroking your cunt, gasping at how wet you already are. He gently pushes two fingers inside of you, grinning at the gasp you let out, pumping them slowly, loving the subtle bounce of your breasts as you grind your hips down against his hand.

He feels you squeeze tight around him, reaching your peak with a gasp of his name. And when the two of you join your bodies, he gazes up at you in wonder as you sink down onto his cock. You let out a soft moan, just staying there for a long moment. The two of you gaze into each other’s eyes before your lips meet in a tender yet passionate kiss. You begin rolling your hips against his while Osferth’s hands grasp at your arse, squeezing your flesh, kneading it between his hands.

“I can’t wait to see you with child,” he admits, “Your belly round. Everyone will know that you are mine. My Empress. My love.”

“Yes, my Emperor,” you murmur, mewling as his cockhead brushes against your sweet spot, “Oh, Osferth…”

“I feel close, my love, let me spill myself inside of you,” he pleads.

You nod, squeezing around him tighter than you thought possible, his hips bucking up wildly against yours, admiring you as your face twists in ecstasy. You feel his fingers move to touch your pearl, gently rubbing it with the pads of his fingers. He feels your walls flutter around him, sees the way your lips part, and knows that you like it and so he continues. He feels his peak getting closer and closer, sitting up to take one of your breasts in his mouth, holding your hips in place when he feels you begin to tire, instead, rutting up against you like some sort of feral beast.

You reach your peak, moaning his name as he continues suckling at your breast, his cock still bullying against your walls until he lets out a shuddering, raspy moan of your name, spilling his seed deep inside you. The two of you fall backward onto the grass, breathing heavily as you gaze up at the stars. He brings your hand to his lips and turns to face you, holding you close.

“I love you, my Empress,” Osferth whispers, kissing you gently.

“And I love you, my Emperor.”

You two stay like that for a long while, gazing up at the stars, exchanging soft kisses, before you finally decide to begin your return to Coccham.

To your home.

Together.

Holy FUCK. Queen shit. You're amazing. This was so fuckin well written, seriously. I know something awful must've happened to that boy to make him the way he is, and you wrote out those reasonings so well I consider it canon now

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing: Ettore (High Life) x f!reader (physical attributes such as large breasts and alternative appearance described) Warnings: DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT. Mentions of child neglect, prostitution, substance abuse, death, murder. Dark and obsessive behaviour, attempted sexual assault, sub/dom dynamics, male masturbation, smut. Word count: ~3.7k

Summary: Ettore is used to having to take women by force - it's how he ended up on death row, and now a suicide mission in outer space. However, when a fellow crew member catches his eye and becomes the object of his twisted fantasies, he soon learns that the touch of a woman feels more satisfying when he's made to work for it. Based on this request.

Author's note: For @orcaunionleader. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Ettore screws his eyes shut. Strapped into the seat of the spaceship as it hurtles upwards, plunged suddenly into darkness when the lights fail, he feels trapped. It must have been twenty years, at least, since he has felt so vulnerable.

His earliest memory is sobbing as he is shut in the cupboard, the pitch blackness terrifying and too much to bear, but the sight of what he sees when he bursts out is so much worse.

The man on top of his mother, the noises they’re making, he feels strange, a combination of wanting to watch but also a churning in his tummy that makes him feel unwell. He retreats back into the dark, closing the door and hugs his knees to his chest until it all goes quiet again. 

Ettore soon learns it is better to enter a room head first - if he is able to see exactly what is happening then he knows quickly whether it’s safe to come out, or whether he needs to retreat. Not placing his entire body in the way reduces the likelihood of being grabbed, hit, shouted at.

There’s a different man each time, and every time they leave there’s always money on the bedside table of the small studio flat, and his mother is asleep. It’s then that he crawls into bed beside her, cuddling into her warmth, tracing his fingers over the marks that litter her inner elbow creases.

He doesn’t recall his mother ever having hugged him, when she is still like this is the only time he is able to get close to her, and he wraps his arms around her until the rumbling in his stomach gets too much to bear. He is always hungry.

His bare feet crunch against spilled Rice Krispies on the dirty kitchenette floor. Sometimes there is bread to eat, if he picks around the mold, sometimes there isn’t. He sees through the window that there is a place across the road that his mother goes to every few days. She always comes back with glass bottles that clink against each other in the plastic bag, but sometimes there is bread, and less often there are Rice Krispies. He likes those, though he often spills them.

The hunger pangs in his stomach grow so bad he begins to cry. His mother no longer feels warm when he cuddles against her. He is not sure when she last woke up, why she won’t wake up now. Maybe she is just really tired.

He can see the place where she goes to get food from the window, it is not very far, perhaps she’ll wake up by the time he gets back, and so he wanders out of the flat, not closing the door behind him, and walks across the road.

Ettore’s eyes light up the moment he sees the familiar blue box of Rice Krispies, clutching it tightly in both hands. It’s only then that he looks up into the horrified face of the woman standing over him, unable to comprehend why she’s looking at him like that, as she takes in the sight of the malnourished, barefoot child before her, wearing only a t-shirt and a dirty nappy.

There are a flurry of adults around him after that, and he’s taken to live somewhere else. He never sees his mother again. He hears the phrase “non verbal” used a lot, and learns that someone of his age should be able to speak. He doesn’t know how to, and so slowly he is taught how to communicate with words.

Even when Ettore has mastered the power of speech, he prefers not to use it. He finds watching people is far better than talking to them. Most people tend to talk a lot even when they have nothing to say. He prefers the quiet.

There are lots of other children his age at the facility he’s placed in, but slowly they leave, one by one, when adults come to look around. He never leaves though, he supposes it has something to do with the way he has overheard the staff describe his eyes as “haunted” and how strange it is that he has no interest in playing. Grown ups don’t want to share their homes with children that aren’t happy. Ettore doesn’t feel he has much at all to be happy about, when he curls his lips into a smile it feels strange against his face.

As Ettore grows older, he learns of what actually happened to him. His mother had been a heroin addict, she had prostituted herself to fund her habit, and he had been a victim of her extreme neglect. She had died of an overdose and he had laid beside her body for days, until his own hunger had gotten the better of him and he’d wandered into the local corner shop in search of food. He feels nothing upon finding this out, if anything he yearns for the simpler time of huddling against the warmth of his mother as she’d slept off her fix. No one will touch him now, he craves physical contact but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s placed into a foster home when he’s a teenager, though it is a placement that’s short lived. The woman has a daughter, she’s a similar age to Ettore and he longs for her touch. He knows all too well from the way that she squirms under the intensity of his gaze and leaves the room whenever they are alone together that the feeling is not reciprocated.

To Ettore it does not matter. He always waited until his mother was asleep before cuddling her, he reasons that he can simply do the same here. And he does just that; waiting until night falls and the house is quiet, he sneaks into her room, laying down upon the bed beside her.

He breathes in deeply, a delicate floral scent filling his nostrils as he runs the tip of his nose over the softness of her hair. His fingertips creep beneath her pyjama top, and he exhales a shaky breath at how silky smooth her skin feels to touch.

It’s then that she wakes up and lets out a loud scream, he topples from the bed, startled by her outburst and her mother rushes into the room. That is Ettore’s first and only foster care placement, another term is now used to describe him; “maladaptive”.

But he takes away a valuable lesson from the situation - if he wishes to touch a woman then he needs to ensure she stays asleep.

He watches couples with resentment, knowing that no woman will ever kiss or caress him with any semblance of love, not willingly anyway. Women don’t want men that are haunted and maladaptive, but that’s fine with Ettore. If it’s not freely given then he knows precisely how to take it.

Ettore preys upon those that are fumbling with their keys in the lock as they try to return home, women under the influence who spend just a little too long on their phones while trying to get a cab, and the ones that walk hurriedly towards their cars in empty, darkened parking garages.

He moves slowly, carefully, his body only moving in sync with where his head is looking once he’s certain of the target he’s selected. He is unhurried in his movements, and so he goes utterly undetected until it’s too late.

It starts as simply knocking them out and then using their bodies however he sees fit, but it  rapidly escalates when he accidentally kills one of them, it happens twice more before he’s finally apprehended.

He doesn’t try to fight it, pleads guilty in court and is sent to prison. Even with good behaviour, his sentence is such that he’ll be elderly before he’s ever free. But any opportunity for eventual freedom is snuffed out when he gets into a scuffle with another prisoner.

Threats of solitary confinement hang heavily over him as he’s dragged away, and something inside of him snaps. He won’t go back to being locked away in the dark, he can’t. So he lashes out, and as he’s stomping upon the guard’s head he is reminded of the crunching of Rice Krispies beneath his feet from when he was a child.

The death penalty doesn’t exist within the United Kingdom’s judicial system, but he knows he’s being served a death sentence when he is given the news that he has been assigned to board a spaceship with other prisoners on a mission to extract alternative energy from a black hole. There is no coming back from that, he’s not foolish enough to believe otherwise, yet he readily accepts it. There is no other alternative for him, truthfully, there never has been.

When the lights eventually flicker back on and they are alerted they can unfasten their seatbelts, Ettore finally opens his eyes, looking at the prisoners that are seated around him. He’s surprised and intrigued to find there are women as well as men on board. He hasn’t encountered a woman since being sent to prison.

The scrubs they are given to wear are baggy and conceal much of their bodies, so to his disappointment he is unable to admire the feminine curves of the women on board - except one. She is shorter than he is, the remnants of a long since faded colour adorns the ends of her hair. Both her arms are full sleeved with tattoos. He wants to tear away her uniform and see what other artwork decorates her flesh. If he were a normal person, he’d strike up a conversation and ask, but Ettore is not one for words, so he simply stares, watching her every movement as a silent storm builds inside of him.

Though she is slenderly built, he can clearly see the way the baggy top half of her clothing curves over the ample swell of her breasts. His eyes linger there whenever he passes her in the corridor, picturing what it would be like to run his hands over them and squeeze their softness.

It’s these thoughts that are the cause of his every visit to The Box, the ship’s masturbatory aid. It’s used gratuitously by all crew mates, as sexual conduct between prisoners is prohibited on board, so he spills over his knuckles every chance he gets, imagining it’s inside of her. Would she claw at his shoulders and slap at him to get away, or simply lay still and take it?

Occasionally he deposits a sample into a plastic cup, taken away by Dibs, a supposed doctor on board who seems to be the main authority figure. She never fully explains what is to be done with his specimens, but once he has taken the reward he’s provided afterwards - usually a sedative - he cannot find it in himself to care.

He has heard whispers that she is conducting fertility experiments on the ship, attempting to artificially inseminate the female inmates. If that’s the case, he is thankful that his involvement is far less invasive than theirs must be, but ultimately it’s not his problem. He keeps to himself, ever watchful of those around him.

At least there is structure and routine; he goes to sleep and wakes up at the same time each day, participates in mandatory exercise regimes, eats regular meals and is assigned maintenance work duty.

Getting to know his own schedule means becoming familiar with other people’s, and that includes her’s. There is a sense of both excitement and comfort in knowing exactly where she is and exactly what she’s doing at all times.

The first time he encounters her coming out of the Box, he’s struck by how beautiful she is, pupils dilated, skin glowing with a light sheen of perspiration, her lips slightly parted as she attempts to calm her breathing. The heady aroma of her arousal lingers faintly as he goes in after her and he has never come harder in his life than he does on that day. He makes a point to go in after her every day after that.

If she were any other woman and these were any other circumstances, he’d have forced himself upon her by now, but they are in a confined space together and there’s no way for him to act upon his urges without there being almost immediate consequences for it. Every day it feels as though a coil inside of him is wound tighter, and every day he is left wondering if that will be the day when it finally snaps and he brings everything crashing down for both of them.

Despite his internalised conflict, she seems utterly unperplexed by him, which is confusing for Ettore. He is used to women regarding him with unease and disgust, so for her to be completely unphased by his presence is disarming. She is a criminal too though, he reasons, and for her to have been served what is effectively a death sentence she must have done something terrible. The thought makes her all the more alluring to him.

He is on cleaning duty today, tasked with scrubbing down the shower tiles. He enters the showers slowly, deliberately, unable to hear water running, so assumes that there’s no one in there.

But then he spots her, her hair wet and sticking to her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts just about visible. She hasn’t seen him, yet. His eyes roam slowly over the greyscale body art that adorns her arms and thighs, wondering if there's more hidden beneath the towel that clings to her svelte figure. 

Absent-mindedly his fingers move over the triangular motif that's tattooed on his right forearm; though the scar is no longer visible he still feels the indentations of teeth. If he closes his eyes he still remembers the way that girl had fought, biting into his flesh as he'd wrapped his arm around her throat. He can never recall their faces, but he remembers the marks they left upon him - each one now covered by the same tattoo - a target so that he never forgets - a slash of a broken bottle against his bicep, acrylic nails gouging into his neck. They're never quite strong enough, though they fight to the end. He wonders if her ink serves the purpose of covering or reminding, what sinister deeds have led her down a path of such finality. He intends to find out.

Her head snaps up to look at him and he sucks in a harsh breath as she makes eye contact with him. She doesn’t scream or shy away, simply returns his unblinking stare and his fingers flex at his sides, mouth running dry as he considers whether he’ll need to silence her or not.

“Like what you see?” She whispers, letting the towel fall slowly away.

Ettore remains unblinking, though he feels shaken to his core on the inside. He drinks in the sight of her bare flesh, her full rounded breasts, the dip of her waist, her curvaceous hips, feeling his cock twitch in his scrubs.

What the fuck is she playing at?

“Fuckin’ cock tease,” he spits out, before turning and walking away to the Box.

He reaches his peak embarrassingly quickly, brow furrowed and jaw slack as sweat rolls down his temples.

Once the feeling of euphoria has worn off it is replaced by anger and confusion. Had she been trying to get him into trouble? Did she actually want him? Was she making a mockery of him?

His mood darkens at the thought and as his mind races after lights out that night, unable to find sleep. He slips out of his bunk and walks slowly, silently, along the corridor towards her cell.

He can see the outline of her body beneath the covers, and is suddenly unsure of what he came here to do. Torn between wanting to lunge for her, grab her by the throat and make her pay for her earlier indiscretion, or simply slip beneath the covers beside her and allow his hands to roam freely, he stands and does nothing, watching her.

“Come inside, if you want,” she calls out quietly to him in the darkness, making him startle, “bunkmates are all sleeping.”

Ettore hesitates, remaining rooted to the spot, unable to believe that a woman is actually inviting him into her space, that she wants to be near him.

“You gonna pussy out again like you did earlier?” She questions playfully.

He feels embarrassment flush his cheeks and allows it to propel him forward, over the threshold, into her space. He won’t let a woman get the better of him.

She shuffles back against the wall, lifting the blanket and patting the space beside her.

He hasn’t laid beside a woman since the night he was kicked out of his foster placement for getting into bed with the host’s teenage daughter, the only other times before that were when he huddled beside his passed out mother.

Ettore swallows thickly, not wanting to show weakness and quickly slips in beside her.

She smells of the ship’s standard issue soap, yet somehow on her flesh it has an utterly different scent, it’s sweet and intoxicating and has him longing to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He inhales deeply, feeling himself grow hard from her proximity and the warmth of her soft skin against his bare torso.

Apparently she feels it too, as she eagerly snakes a hand between them, palming at him through his shorts. 

A woman has never touched him like that before, not willingly. Usually he’s the one in control. It feels too much, too fast, bile rises in his throat and he jerks away from her, stalking silently back to his own cell, shame blooming hot and heavy in his chest as he feels tears burn beneath his eyelids.

What the fuck was that?

For the first time in Ettore’s life a woman had wanted to touch him, and he’d freaked out and run away. Does she not realise what he could do to her, what he’s capable of? He is supposed to inspire fear, not lust.

He wants to storm back to her cell and smash her head against the wall. She’s made him feel weak, inferior, yet despite that he can’t shake the feeling of her hand between his legs.

Unable to help himself, he waits for her as she exits the Box the next day, the telltale signs of her having just climaxed etched all over her features as she steps out. Her expression hardens when she sees him, rolling her eyes and side stepping him, until he grabs her wrist, stopping her from going anywhere.

“Let go of me, Ettore,” she says threateningly.

“How d’you know my name?” He asks, pulling her close so he can stare down into her eyes.

She smirks. “You’re not the only one that can skulk around the ship finding things out. Dibs left your file out the last time she had me up on the table, so I snooped. I know your name, your blood type, your sperm count–”

“Do you know what I’m serving time for?” He narrows his eyes as he asks this.

“No, I figure if we’re gonna explore whatever this is,” she gestures between them, “it’s better we don’t know that about each other.”

Ettore scoffs, quirking his lips as he eyes her carefully. “And what is this?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Clearly you’re not comfortable letting me touch you…yet. So how about you touch me instead?”

He keeps a neutral expression, despite the surprise he feels once again that a woman would willingly let him touch her. “How would that work?”

“You’re about to use the Box, right? Take me in. Touch me while you touch yourself.”

Her words send an aching pulse straight to his balls and he nods, walking into the Box, not checking to see if she’s following. He knows she will be.

“Take it off, take it all off,” he orders quietly, gesturing to her clothes.

She pulls off her top and slips off her bottoms and his gaze rakes appreciatively over her form, only this time his hand slides into his trousers as he does so, his hand wrapping around his steadily hardening length.

Her lips are parted, eyes wide as she stares up at him, her breathing almost matching the intensity of his. Tentatively he leans down, inhaling her scent. The sweetness fills his nostrils and something inside of him snaps.

Pulling his erection free, he moves his fist over it in quick, aggressive strokes, biting at her pulsepoint, before moving his lips downwards towards her tits, pressing his face into their soft warmth, mouthing at them without restraint.

True to her word, she doesn’t touch him, keeping her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, though he can tell she is desperate to reach for him, her breaths erratic as she arches into his touch.

His stomach muscles contract, pressure building at the base of his spine as droplets of pre-cum help to guide his rapid, successive jerks of his cock.

Reaching between her legs, he groans at feeling how wet she is, a combination of her previous orgasm and how aroused she is from what’s currently happening between them.

He buries his face in her chest, sinking two fingers inside of her. There is no scratching, no slapping, no disassociating. She is soft and pliant against him, willing, and as often as he has fantasised about taking her by force, this feels better than anything he has ever experienced previously, better than anything he could have imagined.

As the pressure reaches its apex and he finally climaxes with a groan and a shudder, releasing white hot ropes of his seed across her lower belly, she reaches up with shaky, tentative hands to gently run her fingers through his hair.

“Good boy,” she coos, “did so well for me.”

He sighs, leaning over her, resting his head against the wall behind her. Next time he wants to sink inside of her, to feel what it’s like to be touched, wanted, needed. Because as haunted and maladapted as he is, as he opens his eyes and stares into hers he sees that she is too. Her darkness plays well with his, and in a cold and sterile environment Ettore has finally found the warmth he’s always craved.

Just needed you to know that your Bobby Jones "Hole in One" fic lives rent free in my brain. "My Roman Empire" type of deal.

omfg that is mighty high praise thank you so much❤❤❤

𝐀𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐬 𝐎𝐟 𝐄𝐝𝐞𝐧

didn't really wanna write this in the first place, considering my faith, but ugh it was too good of an idea to resist😅

Summary: Aemond was always God's favorite creation, that is, until He made you.

Warnings: SMUT (MINORS DNI), ROUGH NONCON, Lucifer!Aemond x Eve!Reader (does this count as monster fucking?), a whole lotta blasphemy going on here, guilt, degradation, humiliation, corruption, taste of the forbidden fruit (aka oral, m!receiving), painful loss of virginity, blood, creampie, Aemond is very very mean

word count | 2.4k🤙🏻

As soon as Aemond was created, he knew he was made for greatness.

Aemond was the most beautiful out of all of the angels, the most beloved and cherished. God put a lot of effort into sculpting him out of the finest materials, making him appear ethereal, almost as much as Him. It shouldn’t have been much of a shock when some of the angels preferred his company to God’s, telling him how much better he could run things, what things he could achieve if the Creator simply…ceased to exist.

Aemond tried, and Aemond failed, forcing God’s hand to banish him and his fallen angels from paradise, making Aemond lose his eye in the process. He refused to bow down and blindly obey what claimed to be a superior being than everything else, and he was thrown into Hell for wanting his own independence.

Aemond grew bitter and angry, what kind of Father did that to his beloved creation? 

He vowed from then on that he’d try to spurn his Creator at every moment he could, devoting himself to make God have a perpetual headache as revenge. He’d destroy anything and everything He loved and wanted to protect, burn Heaven’s gates to the fucking ground. 

So when Aemond saw God had made such fragile little toys to roam what he called Earth, he took every opportunity to maim and kill each creature. But that only made God create beings that could take care of said creatures.

Aemond and his demons could only laugh at the smooth skinned being that God created out of dust. Dust, he thought derisively, how inferior this so-called human is compared to me to be made out of something so quaint.

Aemond attempted to push all sorts of dangerous thoughts into the human’s head, wanting the man to destroy and self-destruct, but all he managed to get through was the feeling of loneliness.

Then, in response to the human man’s loneliness, God created a similar being to keep this human company; you, whose beauty almost matched Aemond’s, and he suddenly came to the realization that he wasn’t God’s favorite anymore.

God didn’t walk with Adam as much as he did with you, little Eve, doting on you and granting you whatever you wished without you even having to ask. No, no, no, this won’t do, Aemond thought maliciously, only he could be God’s favorite. No…Aemond had to ruin you.

Watching you and Adam live in blissful ignorance, speaking and being in the presence of the Lord, boiled his blood, hotter than he had ever felt before. But one silver lining, the Tree of Knowledge.

God told you and Adam that you could eat from any tree or plant you wished, just never the Tree of Knowledge for you would surely die. Aemond smirked to himself as he devised his plan. He would make damn sure one of you would eat the forbidden fruit.

Aemond came to you when you were by yourself, disguising himself in the appearance of a serpent, the only form he could take in your presence, which irked him, but he’d make do.

You eyed the serpent carefully, watching as it slithered across the grass towards you, seemingly just watching you as you worked in the garden…until it started to speak.

“Did God really say you must not eat from any tree in the garden?” The serpent spoke.

“We may eat fruit from the trees in the garden, but the Lord God did say, you must not eat fruit from the tree that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will die.” You answered hesitantly, still very confused why a snake was speaking to you like it was a man. But a part of you were intrigued, his voice was soft and alluring; entranced, you had to listen to what it had to say.

The serpent seemed to scoff. “Surely you will not die.” The serpent climbed up the tree, taking a bite from the lowest hanging fruit, a loud gasp eliciting from your own lips as you saw the being swallow and didn’t immediately fall dead. “See? Who is He to tell you what you can and can’t do, hm? Aren’t you supposed to be free?”

A sinking feeling formed in the pit of your stomach, feelings of rage and betrayal encompassing you. “I-I…I am free! You have forgotten your place, beast!” You snapped, “The Lord God loves us and wants the best for us. He must have a reason!”

“You think everything is perfect, silly girl?” The serpent giggled, circling around you like the predator he was, eyeing your naked form, finding a reluctant feeling of gratefulness that God chose your features so well. “There’s so much wonder here right in front of your eyes, all you have to do is simply take a bite of the fruit.”

You shook your head defiantly. “No. He said we’d die. Why would He lie?”

“Because, if you eat from the tree, your eyes will be opened for what the world really is. You’ll understand right from wrong. You will be like Him. Consider, for just a second, if God truly loved you, He wouldn’t keep all this knowledge from you, right? Why would He keep something so simple from someone so innocent? Maybe He wants it all for Himself because He doesn’t think you deserve to feel all the joys He feels, that you’ll never feel. Ask yourself, why does He give you less when He takes more? How being free is being locked inside this place? Maybe you're weak or a mistake or too emotional. Maybe you're not good enough for His world, maybe you never were…”

Aemond could see the hesitance slowly leave your face, finally considering what he was saying to be the truth. Yes, little Eve, eat. “He’ll never know, sweet little lamb. I’ll never tell, you have my word. You deserve to know, you deserve to be free.”

The serpent’s poisonous words penetrated into your mind, making your mouth water from just the thought of finally eating from the forbidden tree. You had to admit, the tree was pleasant to the eye, the fruit it bore looked so delectable, like water on a hot day, maybe it would have always come to this? If not now, then definitely later.

You picked the same piece of fruit the serpent had bit into before, the skin of the fruit so soft and ripe, you were practically drooling as you brought it to your lips, taking a considerable bite.

As soon as the sweet yet bitter flavor hit your tongue, it felt like all the walls came down and the heavens opened. It was the best thing you had ever tasted in your life, the taste almost making you moan aloud. And you weren’t dead, in fact, you had never felt more alive. But your skin prickled at the breeze hitting your skin, and you realized you were naked. How long have you been naked? And the serpent was no longer with you, instead, a tall figure stood in front of you now, transformed as soon as the fruit traveled down your throat.

Unlike the serpent, the being in front of you was too beautiful to be any sort of beast, or human for that matter. You teared up instantly, the sight being too amazing for your human mind to comprehend. “Who…who…?” Was all you could get out.

“I am called many names, little lamb. Lucifer, Satan, Devil, Father of Lies, and much more…but you may call me Aemond.”

Your stomach dropped, the fruit sitting in your stomach like a heavy stone, burning from the inside out; you wanted to vomit. What have you done? You almost screamed when he grabbed you by your hips and pulled you close to him, your chest touching his, your breasts pressed uncomfortably against the leather of his clothing.

“You just had to give into temptation, didn’t you? You just had to taste it.” The Devil disapproved mockingly, an evil grin decorating his face, making his visage all the more menacing.

“You…you deceived me!” You sobbed, “You lied! You-!”

“Ah, ah, ah, can’t claim yourself to be innocent now, little girl. Now, the trust is broken. How will your God ever love you now?” He purred, licking up your free flowing tears from your cheeks and moaning at the salty taste. You tried to pull away, but he was too strong, holding your head in place, his fingers digging into your skin, once never blemished nor tainted now marked by the beast. “Shh, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Besides, I’ve got something else for you to taste.”

You begged for him to stop as he forced you on your knees, the grassy floor that once felt so soft now cutting up your flesh, itching and burning. “Please, don’t do this to me!”

Aemond only snickered, “Poor girl, you have no idea how evil this world really is, huh? This is just a taste of what’s to come. Be grateful this is all I want…for now.” Aemond forced your mouth open, squeezing your cheeks together and forcing his fingers into your mouth, choking you until he replaced them with his cock. “Ah, such a sweet, innocent, unused mouth. Adam never made you do this, hm?”

You couldn’t force back your tears, copiously flowing down your cheeks along with the drool on your chin. The head of his cock kept hitting the back of your throat over and over, you gagged and almost vomited until he gave you a breather, pulling back and looking over your tear stained face with a sickening awe. “So pretty…prettier than me, I must admit.” His eyes darkened in jealousy. “That bastard can’t possibly love you more than me once I’m finished with you.”

In one swift movement, Aemond had you on all fours, shoving your face into the ground, dirt and grass covering the side of your face uncomfortably. You screamed as he shoved his cock inside you in one thrust, filling and stretching you almost impossibly wide. The pain had your ears ringing and vision going white, sweat beading out of every pore in your skin as he forced you to take all of him. “Fuck, so tight. Did Adam never take you to bed? I figured as much, such prudish creatures. Don’t worry, my sweet little lamb, I’ll break you in for him.”

As if you thought the pain couldn’t get any worse, his brutal thrusts had you sobbing, the amount of tears you shed causing the soil to turn into mud beneath you, grass getting underneath your fingernails with how hard you were holding on to keep yourself from passing out. “S-Stop, please, mercy!” You begged.

“Mercy?” He growled. “I’ve begged for mercy too many times to count, I never received any. Neither shall you. Now shut up and take my cock like a good little lamb.”

“God…please…make this end…” You whispered into the ground, only to get a mocking laugh in return.

“He can’t save you now.”

Aemond’s thrusts were wild, trying to make it as painful for you as possible, watching your blood drip down your inner thighs and making a little puddle on the ground, staining the grass. But along with the blood, an almost white fluid made a ring around the base of his cock. “Oh, starting to enjoy this now, are you?” He grinned evilly, gripping your hair to pull you back against his chest, his other hand reaching around to hold your neck.

As much as you hated to admit it, yes. The pain slowly went away, all that was left was an achy pressure in the pit of your stomach, a burning that seemed to grow in intensity with every harsh thrust he made. “S-Stop…”

Aemond hummed in disapproval. “Why do you resist the pleasure you feel? Give in to sin and you can have anything you want in the world.”

“No…” You said to yourself. “No!”

Aemond chuckled. “So defiant, I like that. Makes it more fun to break you.”

You gasped as Aemond reached down to rub circles around a spot you didn’t even know existed, the sensation overwhelming but you didn’t want it to stop, though you’d never admit this. It made the pressure in your stomach only grow faster, moans escaping you and getting louder the more he touched you. “What’s happening?” You cried, panicking.

“You’re about to reach your peak, little lamb. You’re about to feel one of the most pleasurable of sins, and all because of me.”

“No, stop! Don’t make me, please!” 

But it was too late, you reached the point of no return. It felt like you were going to die, the feeling was so intense, your whole body convulsing and spasming around Aemond’s cock. And with it, a dark feeling overtaking you. 

You groaned loudly, an almost growling noise, as you reached your peak, your eyes rolling to the back of your head, only to come back as black voids. There was no white in your eyes nor color, just darkness. Your fingernails pushed out, being replaced with claws. Your canines fell out, being replaced with fangs. A brutal ache in your skull had you crying out, blood dripping down your face as a horn on either side of your head grew from beneath your skin.

“Yes, dark little lamb, give in to me.” Aemond cooed, and for the first time, you listened to him.

Aemond flipped you onto your back, looking down at you in a mocking admiration, grinning as your skin grayed and veins went red, beginning to resemble one of his demons.

He was taken by surprise as you flipped him onto his back with a shocking amount of power, shoving his cock back inside you and began to ride him violently. “There she is, there’s my fallen angel.” He groaned as his cock began to pulse, your walls squeezing him just right as you made yourself come around him as many times as you could, the feeling addicting to you now. “Fuck, do you want my seed, little Eve?”

“Don’t call me that.” You growled, scratching up his chest with your new claws, drawing copious amounts of blood, your now forked tongue lapping up the red fluid. The added pain made Aemond reach his peak quickly, his cum filling you to the brim. With one more cry, you sprouted dark wings, fluttering softly but just enough it brought you to your feet. 

Aemond stood up with a grin, watching as his cum dripped down your shaky legs, mixing with your blood. “You’re mine now, understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Hm, now what shall I call you, if not Eve?” You pondered his question for a brief moment, before ultimately deciding your new name and your new fate.

“Lilith.”

hey y'all, thought i'd post a little something something for Valentine's Day. I wrote the first half of this months ago and then i got a boyfriend and stopped writing but i really liked this idea and decided to finish it. Hope you enjoyed!