Fantasy Maiden Scrolls

30, female, england. I’m a sucker for toxic men

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

Chasing the Limelight - Jason Ritchie x Fem!Reader

A/N: As a BIG fan of the books, and less of a fan of the film, I really like Jason's character. I've enejoyed building a ltitle backstory for him in my head, and this is the result!

Synopsis: Jason has always craved fame and notority. He lives for the limelight and never stops chasing his next brig break. But when he meets you, you have no idea who he is, and Jason is determined to make a good impression

Jason Ritchie knew exactly when things had started to go downhill in his career. First, it was the catastrophic shoulder injury that ended his boxing career in one swing. But he’d done okay for himself after that, for a while at least. He’d still been young, and he’d been lined up for every TV panel appearance, reality TV spot and sports segment going. For a while after his boxing career ended, Jason had been flying high. But then he hit 40. The requests to appear on late night TV shows dwindled, he was no longer picked for reality TV stints, and his name vanished from the tabloids seemingly overnight. Somehow, Jason Ritchie went from boxing legend sex-God to a washed up nobody.

Sure, he still dated his fair share of models and still had a steady stream of appearances at charity events and on sports podcasts. But he missed the limelight, the buzz that came with people screaming his name as he exited a limo. All he could get these days were Christmas pantomimes and an advert for ibuprofen gel. A company had even approached him for a hair dye advert, and that was when Jason really knew he’d hit rock bottom. He couldn’t even secure a stint on Celebrity Big Brother, for fucks sake, and they’d take anyone.

He had no issue getting women, thank God, but he realised the only girls interested in him were budding influencers or models, only using him to climb their way to the top. Jason told himself he didn’t mind; he was helping their careers and getting a little company and social media exposure out of it. But inside, he felt hollow.

Jason was ashamed, but terrified to admit it. As the money dried up, so did he confidence, but he clung to the fame he’d once had, taking any and every job thrown to him just so he could stay relevant. He’d even started an Instagram account, flogging his fitness regime to strangers on the internet. And despite the crippling sense of failure he felt every time he looked in the mirror, his dad was still so damn proud.

To Ron Ritchie, there was no one better than his son. In Ron’s eyes, Jason could do no wrong. But if only his dad knew how far he’d sunk, what shady deals he’d been a part of just to keep his head above water. To Jason, image was everything, and if he wasn’t kitted out in the latest fashion, eating at the most expensive restaurants, then he wasn’t living life. He was still papped from time to time, and Jason always ensured he looked his best. His grooming and wardrobe budget wasn’t cheap, and Jason was quickly running out of money. Still, there were whispers of a stint on Strictly, so all hope wasn’t lost yet.

He enjoyed visiting his dad, standing centre-stage as Ron boasted about his son’s career. For those brief moments, Jason felt like a someone again. He was headed to Coopers Chase that day for lunch, eager to be surrounded by people, even though half the residents had no idea who he was.

He went to check in at reception, but the usual middle-aged man who sat half asleep at the desk wasn’t there. Instead, you were sat in the seat, your eyes focused on the computer screen in front of you as you chewed your lower lip absentmindedly. You were stunning, so perfectly beautiful, and the way your teeth grazed your lip had Jason internally groaning. You didn’t look up as he approached, so engrossed in the task at hand.

Jason cleared his throat and put on his best smile. His teeth had been professionally whitened just the other day, all part of an Instagram ad for a London-based dentist and he was excited to show them off. “Hi,” he grinned, hitting you with his signature smouldering look. It never failed him before, and yet when you looked up at him, your face was a complete blank.

“Hello,” you said, remaining professional, but Jason caught the quizzical look in your eye. Maybe you were in shock, maybe you were so stunned that Jason Ritchie stood before you that you didn’t know what to say. “How are you?” he asked, undeterred by your underwhelming response. “I’m fine,” you said slowly. “Are you here to see one of the residents? Or, if you’re looking for the Halford Hall Spa, you need to head back out onto the road and make a right. Lots of people get it mixed up with this place.”

Dear god, Jason realised. You had no idea who he was. For the first time in his life, he was lost for words. His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out.

“Sir?” you asked, your features contorting into panic. “Are you ok? Oh God, are you having a stroke? How many fingers am I holding up?” You held up 3 fingers with one hand, your other hand touching him lightly on his arm. Despite the shock he was in, Jason still felt a zing of electricity when you touched him.

“There he is! There’s my boy!” Ron’s voice was loud and unmistakable, booming through the grand entrance hall. You both turned to look at him, and the relief on your face was palpable. “I see you’ve met my son,” Ron beamed, “the famous boxer”. Ron held up his hands, positioning himself in a fighting stance and shadow-boxing Jason. Usually, he’d indulge his dad, put on a show for whoever was watching, but you were still staring blankly at him. You smiled politely, and asked Jason to sign the visitors register. “Don’t worry, son,” Ron said, leading Jason to the dining hall. “she’s new here. She’ll know who you are soon enough.”

While Jason was at lunch, you googled the so-called famous boxer. Up popped a score of Daily Mail articles about his past boxing career, TV stints and a very public breakup with a member of some noughties girl band. You found his Instagram, and had a nosey through his posts, mostly shirtless gym videos and recipe ideas. You’d never been much into sports, especially not boxing, but you had to admit that Jason was hot. A little full of himself if his introduction and social media posts were anything to go by, but still nice to look at.

An hour or so later, Jason and Ron reemerged, and Ron ambled up to your desk. “I was just explaining to my boy that you’re the new receptionist and activities co-ordinator here. What do you say you sign Jase here up to teach some self-defence classes? Maybe do a Q&A with the residents?”

“Oh,” you exclaimed, looking between the two men. “I’m not sure…” Coopers Chase residents were more into puzzles and book clubs than boxing, but you saw the pleading look in Ron’s eyes and backed down.  You’d only been here a month, but you had a soft spot for the old rogue already. “I mean, I’m not sure we have any availability this week. But maybe next week?” You wrote down your email address and handed it to Jason, promising to mock up some posters to put around the complex. You supposed one session couldn’t hurt.

Jason left Coopers Chase that afternoon with a spring in his step. it hadn’t taken much persuading to ask his dad to suggest the boxing classes. Maybe he could even get some footage for an Instagram reel while he was at it; his agent was always on at him to get “organic” content. All in all, it would be a win-win. Exposure for him, some lessons for the residents, and more chance for you to get to know him.

Jason couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this way, so excited at the prospect of seeing someone again. Sure, your first meeting hadn’t gone well. But next time, he’d make sure he made a stellar impression.

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

As a big fan of Jim Chee, and Embry Call being my teenage crush, I have a fic idea in mind that blends two of my favourite fictional men:

What if Jim Chee was a werewolf, along with Joe and other characters. They protect their home from monsters that stalk the night, but when he meets you, his fated mate, it’s a battle between protecting his home and you, the one he loves.

Would you read this fic?

Yes

No

Voting ended onMay 29, 2025

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

Amongst the Shadows - Azriel x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: You’ve spent your entire life enslaved Under the Mountain. But when you’re freed and brought to Velaris, you capture the attention of Azriel. But the two of you are broken souls, both of you deeming yourselves too damaged to ever feel love.

A/N: I’m only on book 3, but I couldn’t resist writing about Azriel. I love him so much. I also found the fan art on Pinterest and am trying to find the original creators. Once I do, I will give them credit. If anyone knows who originally made the images, please let me know!!!

You’d been born Under the Mountain. The daughter of two human slaves, captured by Amarantha and her band of nightmarish goons, you and your family had been forced into a life of servitude. You’d never seen the outside world, had never seen the tiny village your parents had lived in before they’d been captured. Your mother used to tell you stories of their quaint little cottage with the tiny garden and rickety roof. You’d tried to so hard to picture what it would have looked like, but when all you’d ever known was darkness and death, it was near impossible to conjure up images of beauty.

You’d been 12 when you’d watched your parents die, forced to kneel and stare wide-eyed as Amarantha ripped them limb from limb simply because she was bored. You were sure the same fate awaited you, that one day you too would be torn to shreds for the amusement of others.

But you hadn’t counted on Rhysand, hadn’t hadn’t known that he’d been watching you from the shadows, protecting you since the day you were born. He hadn’t been able to save your mother and father, but he’d saved you. Whenever Amarantha needed to let loose, he would divert her anger, set her upon another unlucky soul. You weren’t sure why Rhysand took pity on you, why he deemed you worthy of saving. The day Amarantha died, you’d been running through the darkened halls, desperately searching for an exit you weren’t even sure had existed. It had been Rhysand who’d grabbed you, transporting you from the dark, dank caves of Under the Mountain, to the beautiful wide-open skies of Velaris.

You’d been granted your own apartment right in the centre of town, with an unlimited flow of money to spend on whatever your heart desired. The freedom you’d spent your whole life dreaming of had finally been given to you, and yet you couldn’t bring yourself to feel happiness.

You were a human in a world of fae, so different to everyone else who walked beside you. Your mortal life was nothing but a blip to them, and when your skin wrinkled, when your irises went milky with age, none of them would remember you.

You’d spent weeks aimlessly wandering the streets of Velaris, taking in the sights, sounds and smells that came with freedom. You’d been so preoccupied that you hadn’t noticed the man who watched you, the Illyrian warrior who blended so seamlessly into the shadows.

Azriel knew the moment he set eyes on you that you were special. Everything about you was pure beauty, your essence entwining itself around his soul. He could see how scared you were; a rabbit ensnared in a hunters trap. He wanted to tell you that you didn’t need to be afraid, that you were safe and he would ensure your safety for the rest of your life. You seemed so fragile, so delicate and mild, as if a gust of wind could break you.

“You should go to her,” Rhysand had told him one night. “Stop hiding in the shadows, my friend. You could both do with some happiness.”

But Azriel couldn’t bring himself to make his presence known. Your life had been nothing but death and fear, and Azriel’s world had been marred by much of the same. You needed a ray of sunshine in your life, not the darkness that surrounded him.

So he stayed in the shadows, your silent protector as you explored your new home. Azriel knew your mortal life would not last long, and it made his heart ache. If he’d been a different man, if he’d been Cassian or Rhysand, he’d have made your fleeting life so full of light and love. But Azriel wasn’t his brothers, and he knew he couldn’t give you what you needed. Even if he could, he was fairly certain you wouldn’t accept his affection.

So the broken shadowsinger watched the equally broken human, two souls so ravaged by the cruelty of the world that they felt sure they’d never find happiness. If only they took a moment to look, they’d see that happiness was right in front of them.

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

It’s Just Business - Julius McCabe x Fem!Reader

Synopsis: Julius McCabe uses others to get what he wants. At first, you’re just a means to an end, until he realises just how badly he wants you. But relationships make a man weak, and he finds himself torn.

He’d had many names throughout his life; Francis Xavier Quinn, Julius McCabe and so many others he barely remembered the name his parents had picked when he was born. Not that he cared much; his parents were both high as a kite the day he came into the world, and they’d been high as a kite the day he’d ended their miserable lives. He was almost sure the name they’d given him was something nonsensical, some random word they found on the back of a cigarette packet, or maybe the name of some washed up musician they listened to as they shot their veins up with heroin.

He knew from an early age he could only count on himself, and that suited him just fine. It made him stronger, smarter, more ruthless. He had no problem taking what he wanted from others; after all, if he didn’t, someone else would. He used fear, coerce and control to get what he desired, using people like the puppets they were before discarding them in the dirt. He was successful, rich beyond his wildest dream and with the snap of his finger he could have whatever he wanted. But it was never enough for him, he was always craving more. No matter how much he took from others, his empire never felt complete.

He was feared equally by his employees and victims, grown men cowering before his feet as they begged for their lives. They were pathetic, barely worth the energy it took to pull the trigger that ended their existence, and he never once lost sleep over those he murdered.

Sometimes however, a softer approach was needed to get what he wanted. He’d never been one to bother with emotions, he never stayed with anyone long enough to connect. He knew that some men could be swayed into a business deal by something as simple as a pretty face and soft, supple skin. That was where you came in.

He’d met you while you were waitressing at some dive bar in Ohio, the stress of the world mounted on your pretty little shoulders. You were up to your eyes in credit card debt, and your landlord was threatening to evict you due to unpaid rent. Your lowlife boyfriend gambled and drank your hard-earned money away, and he knew you wouldn’t be able to refuse the offer he made you.

“One small job,” he smiled as you served him another beer, your bright, innocent eyes so filled with curiosity at the handsome, chiseled stranger. “I’ll make you more money in one week than you’d make in a year.”

It was an offer you simply couldn’t refuse, and so you joined him on his next job. He dressed you in designer outfits, had you dripping in diamonds and draped over some conglomerates lap as you schmoozed him. You’d never been a good flirt, but your target didn’t seem to notice through the haze of whiskey and cocaine. You knew what you were doing was wrong, but the cheques your handsome business partner handed you was more than enough to keep you coming back.

For a while, the arrangement worked, but soon he found himself despising the men who did nothing to earn your attention. He watched in disgust as their fat, rubbery fingers caressed your curves while you smiled sweetly and lit their cigars. He listened to you laugh at their terrible jokes, mop the sweat from their clammy brow and trail your finger across their fleshy jowls. He knew your business relationship was over the day he dressed you in a custom red Dior dress. The fabric clung to you, accentuating your breasts in a way that made his cock ache in his Armani suit. This was the kind of shit that made men weak, that distracted them and left their empires open to others. He couldn’t afford to lose what he’d worked so hard to achieve.

“We’re done here,” he growled, throwing you your coat and a wad of cash. “Get the fuck out.”

He didn’t want to explain why he’d cut you out, didn’t want you to know that his body ached for you in a way it never had. That night, instead of using you to get secure a deal with a Russian gun runner, he threatened his wife, watching with deadpan eyes as his adversary pissed himself while he begged for her life. He didn’t listen to the man’s pleas, shooting her before his very eyes.

You’d riled him up, gotten under his skin in a way no one had before. You’d awoken desires he’d worked hard to keep hidden, had ingrained yourself on the very fabric of his brain.

He wanted to make you pay for making him weak, to fuck you until you screamed his name and then leave you high and dry. He wanted to make tears run down your pretty face as he fucked your throat, wanted to tie you down and punish you for making him feel.

He turned up to your apartment with the intention of teaching you a lesson, but instead found you arguing with your piece of shit boyfriend on the street outside. He’d been so sure you’d left him, but you were weaker than he’d thought. But as he listened to the man who was supposed to love you, as he heard him hurl insults at you, his anger shifted.

He was no longer angry with you, but with the man who dared to think he could treat you like dirt. He followed your boyfriend all the way to the bar, hiding in the shadows until he stumbled out at closing time. It had been so easy to kill him, his knife slicing through his neck like butter. He left him bleeding out on the street behind a dumpster, just like the trash he was.

As for you, he needed more time. He couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to fuck you, or kill you for making him feel.

But whatever he decided, he’d get you in the end. He always got what he wanted.

[fantastymaidenscrolls]

Through the Walls - Brahms Heelshire x Fem!Reader

It’s been a hot minute since I saw the movie, but it randomly popped into my head the other day and I couldn’t help but write something

Synopsis: Both you and Brahms are desperately seeking the love neither of you have ever felt. When you’re hired to take care of his doll, he can’t help but watch you through the walls.

Brahms had only ever seen you through the walls. Between the brick, plaster and wooden foundations, he watched you from his confined prison, the most ethereal of all the angels. He could smell your perfume as you wondered through the house, a rich floral tone that attached itself to his senses and ingrained itself upon his brain.

You were perfect; so beautiful and intelligent, and so full of compassion. He’d spied the books you liked to read piled neatly on your bedside table, 19th century novels filled with exquisite tales of romance. He wished he could love you like Mr Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennet, but no one could ever love him. Not even his own parents did; it was why they’d confined him to the walls of their house, choosing to love a porcelain doll instead of the broken man their son had become.

The fire had ravaged him, both his body and soul, leaving nothing behind but the shell of a boy who just wanted to be loved.

He could tell you just wanted to be loved too. He could see the loneliness etched into your perfect features, the long lonely nights you lay awake in your bed staring at the ceiling, silent tears falling from your perfect eyes. You’d been so desperate for this job, desperate to escape a world that had been so cruel to you. You hadn’t even questioned the elderly couple when they’d requested you looked after a doll. For the first time in your life, you’d found solace, a place of peace. You cared for the doll the way you wished someone would care for you. You loved it, talked to it, told it your deepest secrets. You didn’t know that you were telling Brahms too, didn’t know that the man the doll was modelled on hid behind the walls of your bedroom, listening as you voiced your troubles to a silent room.

You were out shopping when he finally got the courage to enter your room. He touched your things, ran his fingers over the delicate silk fabric of your nightdress. He sprayed your perfume on to his own tattered clothes, inhaling the scent that ignited his deepest desires. He went through your drawers and wardrobe, caressing your clothes and lingerie with the tenderness he wished he could touch you with. When he came across a pair of red lace underwear, he couldn’t help himself, pocketing the delicate garment before slipping back into the walls.

He clasped your underwear in his hands that night as he watched you sleep, trailing the soft fabric over his scarred face. They smelled like you, and Brahms couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t quell the rising arousal that pressed against his trousers.

His hand enveloped his aching cock, his fist pumping his shaft until he came with a whimpering cry. He’d made such a mess of your red underwear, his thick, sticky seed coating the lace, but he couldn’t help it. He wondered if you’d heard him, your body stirring ever so slightly when he cried out in ecstasy.

He whispered your name as he stroked himself again, his first orgasm not enough to quench his thirst for you.

His parents had hired you to ease their guilt, to take care of the doll they’d had made in Brahms’ likeness. It had never occurred to them that their son would take such a liking to you, that you would provide the love they’d never been able to give. As he settled down in the crawlspace next to your bed, imagining he was lying on your soft mattress instead of hard concrete, his couldn’t help but smile. For the first time their lives, his parents had done something good for him.

They’d given him you.