#OR THE WAY HES ONLY EVER BEEN PRAISED OR ACKNOWLEDGED FOR HIS INTELLIGENCE AND NOW HE CLINGS TO IT LIKE A LIFE RAFT

[sga-owns-my-soul]

no i can't come out today i'm too busy screaming about rodney mckay with my mutuals on tumblr you get it

[bi-writes]

the lamb experiment

a body is given. and it cannot be taken back.

pairing: ghost (+ tf141) x curvy!fem!reader word count: 6.3k summary: the 141 are not known for their pliancy. in an effort to take back control, they send a lamb to slaughter.

cw: (18+) mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!tf141, military criticism, unhealthy power dynamics, graphic descriptions of violence + gore + torture + murder, themes of dubcon (but reader is consenting), piv, cumplay, fear play, size kink, praise kink, curvy!reader with hair long enough to hold

You don't think you've ever been the object of anyone's affections, not really. Although you are blessed with many gifts, even physically, you do not see yourself that way when you look in the mirror. How you feel inside betrays you when you look in one, and instead of staring too long, you always turn away.

This time, you stare. Because her ass looks nice, and her skin looks soft, and her face isn't disagreeable.

This reflection almost terrifies you. In front of you lies a woman you do not know.

She looks good. Your clothes are a size too snug, and it squeezes all the parts of you that normally you attempt to hide. Your thighs, the cinch of your waist, every curve you cover up with your uniform normally is on display, and instead of your hair in a standard bun, it lays free. You are anything but the soldier you always see, and just when you think about running, there is a knock at the bathroom door.

You open it, straightening out your outfit, and you look down shyly when you see the face on the other side of the door.

"It's...a little tight," you say, tugging at the waistband of your pants, but the woman tuts, crossing her arms over her chest as she steps back to look you up and down.

"It's as it should be," she responds, very matter-of-fact. "Now follow me. Need to debrief before your flight."

Her name is Laswell. You have not been graced with any other name, and you suspect it is because she wants you to call her Laswell and nothing else. She is blunt and intelligent, and there is no room for anything but the truth with her. If you answer her with a lie, she waits until she hears what she knows is expected.

When you sit, she spreads a few files out in front of you. Four manila folders, three packed with documents and pictures, one with documents only. You reach for one, eyeing the labeled name.

MacTavish.

You open it, and you're overwhelmed with the information. You see a man with pretty blue eyes and a military history that would put your old squadron to shame. Flicking through the pages, there are numerous confirmed kills, no small list of disarmed explosives, reports written by others and himself that even at a quick glance exude something impressive, utmost intelligence and extensive knowledge. You take note of his unique hairstyle; shaved sides of his head and tuffs of dark waves that run down the middle. You acknowledge how much you like when it gets a little long, falling in curls over his forehead.

The next file is equally as large. You flip it over, and you tilt your head to the side when you see a picture of him. He isn't posing, but his stature is one of confidence, and he's gorgeous. A strong facial structure, dark eyes. He keeps his hair short, and his skin is dark, and as your eyes roam lower, you notice the strong muscles of his forearms as he grips a rifle. His skill sheet is no less impressive than his sergeant counterpart. He has been in so many dangerous situations, and he comes out with nothing but scratches; and he seems to be deadlier with nothing but his hands than any small firearm could be.

Kyle. It's fitting.

You look away from his pretty face to their commanding officer. There is a picture of him with the other two sergeants, and you notice how he stands taller than them, but just as broad, and you think military fatigues suit him well. He wears his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and you can see the expanse of his strong arms and his large hands, and you take note of his carefully sculpted beard and the hat he wears. When you flip through the history, you are overwhelmed with the amount of ops he carries under his belt. This man is a war machine. You suspect there is a number on his head somewhere, in some distant country, and it makes you shift in your seat when you realize this isn't someone easy to kill.

He does the killing. And that's all that matters to the Crown.

John. That is the one that has to matter most.

"He's the one who calls the shots." Laswell's voice cuts through your heavy thoughts. She takes the last folder and opens it for you, and immediately you notice the lack of photos here. "But this is the glue."

Ghost. That is the name that sits on the official documents, but there is a dirty sticky note pasted next to it with Laswell's chicken scratch.

Simon Riley.

"His name is redacted," she says simply. "And so is his face."

"He has no face?" You ask, and when you realize how you worded it, you think it a stupid sentence, but Laswell only stares.

"Not one that matters," she responds. You look back down at the documents. He is tall, and you observe that he's most skilled with a sniper rifle, although he doesn't lack confidence or efficacy in any other form of combat. Hand-to-hand, smaller firearms, rifles, he uses them all with a terrifying accuracy, and you pull the papers closer to you as you read more.

"The glue," you murmur, not quite understanding. "And what am I supposed to be?"

"The solvent. The hammer. Whatever the fuck I need you to be."

The thing that breaks it apart. The thing that tears. The thing that makes them bleed.

And so you lie. It is what you do, what you are taught. Laswell is good at it, and you are a fish to water with it. You lie until it comes as easy as breathing, you learn to pretend until it is all you know, and when you create your second life, it is easy because it is the only one Laswell tells you to know.

You are a soldier, and you do as you're told. When your orders are to forget who you were and become something else, you do it, because that is how it works. And you know what you are in Laswell's eyes--you are a weapon, and you gave your body to the state, and she can do what she pleases with it.

And you know, really, what she expects you to do.

It isn't spoken of. She never says it out loud. But when you study the files she gives you, you notice there are more details that what is necessary. You learn more about them, in ways that feel intimate, that feel secret.

That John's favorite color is red. That MacTavish likes a traditional meal. That Kyle has a sweet tooth and likes jazz. That Ghost downs two fingers of Kentucky bourbon to unwind.

They are things to help make them agreeable, you think, but agreeable in what way is up to you.

But red looks good in lace. You've been told the stomach is the way to the heart. Chocolate is supposed to be an aphrodisiac. And alcohol is the perfect enabler--and armed with this information, you will divide and conquer.

Break and tear apart. Separate. Sever the bond. That is your mission, that is what you've been told to do, and you will do it because that is what a good soldier does, and this is all you are.

Laswell's pet. Her pretty little soldier. The hammer to her nail, the bone for her dogs, the string that will mend the ones snapped by her own puppets.

She wants control, and she isn't stupid, and neither are you. When you look in the mirror again, you understand why she picked you. No matter how far her men stray, they cannot change what they are at their core.

Men.

And men are fickle.

You suspect, you hope, even these ones are. They are not gentle, and Laswell makes sure that you learn well why it is they need supervision. She shows you pictures, videos, eyewitness statements of their spiral into violence.

It's not that they weren't war criminals before, but they were her war criminals. Unsanctioned ops, sure, but they toed a line that was drawn for them. But then the red tape became too much, even if there wasn't very much of it for them.

They began to ignore orders. When they were told to stay put, a sergeant would slip off, and under the guise of protecting them, all four would end up in a firefight. And when this became a frequent excuse, they stopped coming up with them. They simply showed up in manila folders like the ones you held, enemy casualties sometimes in the hundreds, and they did not appear even when required.

Debriefing? Their connection was bad. A hearing in front of their superiors? They're on a mark, and they cannot move. And then it was just silence. The occasional response to real crisis, and then back underground, until all Laswell could get from them were limbs taken off the enemies they weren't allowed to kill just yet.

They knew how to disappear. They knew how to hide. They knew how to stay put, come back up overground, and then scurry back underneath where no one would find them.

But that wouldn't do. Not for the CIA, not for SAS, not for either of their governments who soon realized they had let loose a group of soldiers-turned-mercenaries who hold valuable secrets that could put their politicians at the forefront of Congressional hearings, NATO violations, and then in the right mess of breaking off relations with a numerous amount of countries they already held fragile relationships with.

The 141 is a liability. They need to be the ones pulling the reigns again, no matter the cost--and they tell Laswell to do it, and to spare no expense and to pull back the curtain on what she believes might be crossing even the lines she has drawn before, to go beyond it.

She draws this line around you. A circle, a fence, wrapping around you as she molds you into what she needs you to be. She is honest. Not always kind, but honest, and because she is, you want to succeed.

Finally, you can be of use. Finally, there is something that will give you purpose. Even if it hurts, even if it kills you, you want to give her what she needs, because it isn't fair.

You have already given them everything, and you have nothing to show for it. So you paint your face, and you zip up the tight pants, you lie and you learn and you listen, and when she tells you that they will not be gentle, all you reply is, "I won't be either."

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

You are wearing red when John sees you for the first time. It is in your hair, a bright red scarf that keeps it out of your face, and you know he looks right at you and not through you when your eyes meet.

When he eyes the open door of your room later that evening, you pretend not to notice his gaze when he drinks in the sight of you in red lingerie.

It is the first morning you are with them that Johnny wakes to the smell of something in the rec room. You stand there, at the stove, stirring a wooden spoon in a warm pot, and when he steps in, you turn to see him, and you smile. You exchange no words, but when you hold a tasting spoon out to him with a soft potato and a spoonful of wonderful broth, he can't help the way he closes his eyes. There's a beautiful woman cooking stovies in the rec room, and when he opens his eyes, you are looking right back at him.

And then it's the music that plays in the evening that catches Kyle's attention. They are trailing back to their rooms after drills, and he catches sight of you in your room, and he can hear Ella Fitzgerald, and when you look over your shoulder, he is there, and he doesn't shy away.

And then--fuck--it is so easy.

Wherever you go, they follow. Unconsciously, you suspect, but they do, and you live the lie, and it feels fucking euphoric. You know you've won when you run your knuckles down John's cheek for the first time, and he keens, nuzzling the side of his face into your hand and chasing after your touch.

They are animals. You watch them when you join them on ops, rifle in front of you as you follow them, and you keep a neutral face as you observe them wreak havoc. They kill and they maim, and they sleep like the dead at night, as if the heinous ways they kill do not bother them at all. John points, and Kyle pulls the trigger. John nods his head, and Johnny detonates, nothing but a dull reflection in those blue eyes. John clicks his teeth, and Ghost sweeps.

He sweeps, and he kills, and if it wasn't so fucking terrifying, you would have admired the way he did it. The elegance that he took on an entire room of moving targets, how he never let himself be pinned down in one spot. Whenever someone gets too close, he goes hand-to-hand, and it's fucking brutal the way he finishes them off. He keeps throwing knives in his boot, and they sink into eye sockets as if running through tender meat. He puts blades through their mouths and doesn't let them go until the light leaves their eyes.

You hate that it makes you warm. That there is something deep in your belly, that twists there, that tells you that you like it. When he turns around and meets your eyes, wringing the blade out of someone's neck and letting them drop on the floor at your feet, you don't flinch. You simply kick them to the side and step over them, and Ghost watches as you lick over your teeth as you pass by him.

Insatiable. Fucking hungry. He eyes the sway of your hips, and when he finds his next target, he uses his hands again just because he needs to feel flesh under his gloved hands, needs to tear it apart. And when he feels you watching him again, he grunts as he stands to his full height. He's a fucking bear, and you leave him with a hint of a smile before you turn the corner.

You are not sure if you are pretending that day.

They ravage, and then they go back to their beds, and they wash the blood from their clothes with ease--and the worst part of it all is that you do it, too. You come out of the same places that they do, and your face is splattered with their targets. Your jeans have flecks of brain matter, your hands are dirty with someone's singed flesh. When you finally stand in the light back at their base, all John does is sit you in front of the bathroom mirror and wipe at your face with a warm towel.

He tells you how good you've done. How special you are. How he has never seen a woman keep up with them so easily, fit into their pack like she was meant to be.

He says that you belong, but he doesn't say to who. You wonder, for a second, if he means that you belong to them all.

When you report back to Laswell, you tell her this. What you don't tell her is what you've had to do to gain this status. You don't tell her about the blood you spill. You don't tell her about the bodies you see or the men that lose their faces or how worked up the boys get after an op and how it takes them hours between your legs to lose the adrenaline.

You don't tell her this because this is for you. It's all for you.

They tell you things you aren't supposed to know. When you're in their beds, they talk, and you listen. Kyle tells you about the man they are keeping in the cellar. That he's been there for 29 days, and he hasn't said a word, but that Ghost will be next to speak to him, and he will talk then.

Kyle tells you that it is a mercy that Ghost hasn't visited him yet, but they are done playing nice. When he says this, you have the image of Ghost standing over a man who pulled a gun on you in your head, and you remember watching him with a sickening relief as he pressed his thumbs into the man's eye sockets and pushed they were nothing but squished matter. You squeeze your legs together; and this time, you don't feel bad about it.

Johnny begs for you, his bonnie lass, to keep close to him on the next op because you strayed too far today. He fucks you to make you say yes, his lips on your ear as he tells you to promise him that you'll do as he says, and that if you promise, he'll let you come. So you promise, and he fucks you boneless, and the next day, you are glued to his hip when you raid a foreign embassy for nothing but answers.

You know they know. They don't say it out loud, but you know that they all know where you go at night. One night, you are kneeling under John's desk, kissing the pearly tip of him before taking him down your throat for what feels like hours. The next, you are letting Kyle bend you over his desk, rattling it against the wall as he tells you how pretty you are. And in the morning, you are pressed against the shower wall, Johnny holding your wide hips in his hands as he fucks into you, begging you, bonnie, please--give it to me, tha's it, right there, ye can do it, good girl--

Good girl. That's what you are. You're a good girl, and you do as you're told. You smile, and you keen, and you give them big, soft eyes, and you let them have the illusion of control. Maybe they think they're pressuring you. Maybe they think they scare you. Maybe they think this is why you get on your knees for them or let them pool your pants at your ankles or allow them to have you whenever they want, but the reality is that you want it, and you need it, and this is working.

They don't even realize you've fucked them into submission because they're too busy showing off.

A domino effect. You expect them all to fall once you have the captain, but there is one chess piece that does not move willingly.

Ghost.

He is an unmovable object. He stands still and rigid, and he is a statue that refuses to be pushed or pulled in any direction but one he deems. Even in the middle of the nights, when you notice he is awake, he never joins you when you drink his favorite bourbon outside. He doesn't ask for a cigarette when you smoke one, even though you never actually take a puff of it. He passes by you, and he doesn't look at you, and you are invisible.

You want to be content with what you've accomplished, but it isn't enough.

This is the glue. He is the glue, and without him, everything falls apart, and you cannot fail. There isn't room for it. And maybe you feel bad for preying on the parts of Ghost that you think he prefers to keep hidden, but you need to catch him before he gets too far away.

A kitchen accident. A knife that plunges too deep, that draws blood and makes you cry. You are in the bathroom, tears coming down your face, blood in the sink, and your hands are shaking as you try and patch yourself up. You are loud enough to draw the attention of the lieutenant whose door is only just across the hall, and when he sees you there, he doesn't leave you.

One moment there is nothing, and the next, he is behind you, a pervasive warmth at your back, and you whimper when a gloved hand wraps around your injured hand. Wordlessly, he turns the faucet on, running your hand under the water, and you hiccup, looking away and breathing deeply.

He wraps your hand in his room. You sit on his bed, and he works to cover the wound, and you know he has done this before. Soothed another's tears, quieted soft cries, covered up cuts and bruises and things that will scar.

He kneels in front of you, and when he stands to his full height, you tip your head back to look up at him. You think you will meet a soft gaze, but he glares, and he seems angry. When you open your mouth to speak, he tsks, and your tip trembles as you close it.

"Y'can fool the others," he says lowly, finally. "But not me."

You frown, confused. When you sniffle, he snarls.

"I know why y'r here," he murmurs. "Isn't the first time Laswell has sent one of her little...toys."

You clench your jaw. For a moment, something envious rattles you. You aren't like anyone else. You are certain no one has accomplished what you have, that no one has gotten this close to rock the fucking boat or pet the beast. He doesn't get to demean the progress you've made like this, even if he's figured you out, because you aren't going anywhere.

Not until you get everything you need.

"Excuse me?"

"Y'r a spy. You're CIA's whore, and I don't like y'here, puttin' y'r bloody nose where it don't belong," he kneels, his voice low and gruff, and he reaches over and grips your chin hard. "Y'may have fooled them. In their fuckin' beds...in their heads--" He draws you closer, and you swallow. "But y'r not in mine."

You meet his eyes. They are dark, and they are meant to scare you, but the feeling that runs through you isn't one that terrifies you. He is a magnet--and you can feel the field of his presence, and it has you. This is supposed to be your show. They are men, and they are stupid, and you hate them, and Ghost should be eating out of the palm of your fucking manicured hand, but there he is, spitting against his mask, and it is you that aches to see what is underneath the cotton.

"So, little lamb..." Ghost rumbles, and it is with his entire chest that he speaks. "Wot is it you're here to do, eh?"

You shake your head, "N-Nothing. She...all she told me was that this was a joint operation...CIA and SAS--"

"Y'r on the piss, I know that," he hisses, clicking his teeth. "Joint operation," he laughs, but it is without humor. "Is that we're calling this now? Being barracks bunny for the 141?"

"Fuck you," you snap, shoving his hand off. "You're a fucking bastard, and if you think--"

"If I think wot, eh?" He stands, and you choke as he grips you by your throat, lifting you off of his bed and forcing you against the wall. You grip his wrist, but it is useless, because he's a brute, and you are nothing to him. He holds you there on your toes, and you grip him tighter, but he doesn't budge. Even digging your nails into him doesn't make him flinch. If anything, he seems amused. "Wot kind of trainin' she make y'do, eh? Did ya have to practice? Who'd y'shag to get y'r stripes?"

"Eat shit," you spit, and he snickers. There is fire in your eyes, venom on your tongue, you are a fighter, and when the world is so quiet, fighting feels good, and he knows this feeling well. He understands what it means to be nothing and then something, what it means to worthless and then useful in the eyes of government and government alone.

Because you are useful, but only to Laswell, and only as this, whatever this is. Whatever you are. Pet, prize, toy--it doesn't matter what the name is today, but it will stick tomorrow, and you wonder, sickeningly, if that is your destiny.

To be unknown. To be used. To be the property of what you do not know. To be given, to be taken, to not know and to be content with not knowing.

To accept it because it is still better than whatever you were before.

He sees this. He looks into your eyes, he breathes in, and he hums, and when his grip loosens just enough, you put your toes on the ground, and you lean in, and there you are.

One and the same. Bitten, chewed, spit out, two people who are products of their suffering and the culmination of their sheer fucking will to live, even if the living is miserable.

Maybe that is what it is. Maybe it's what's broken that will put you together. Ghost is the glue, you are the solvent, and you will make it so.

Because I can't fail, I can't do it, I won't go back, I can't go back--

"I'm here for me," you whisper. "I'm here for me, and no one else--" You gasp, and it isn't a lie, not really. You are here for you, this is for you, even if it is at the downfall of someone else. If you need to step on necks to get ahead, you will.

Ghost is the last piece. The last one you need to move. He is stuck, but now you know what it is you need to do, you know how to set the game into motion.

"Ghost," you breathe, and it's soft, it's quiet. You meet his eyes, and you lean close, and he feels your breath on the front of his mask. "It's not what you think."

"You're a lamb."

"I don't wanna be a lamb."

"It doesn't matter what y'want, y'are a lamb," he growls, and you whine, and he hums, and you can see the crinkle of his eyes, and you know he must be smiling. "Tha's wot y'are, and y'can't run away from tha'."

You blink, and he stares, and there is understanding. You are prey, and you belong, but you don't know where. But then you remember you are a soldier, and it isn't your job to know. Your job is to lie still and let them have you.

And to not tell my handler how much I like it.

"It's what they made me," you whisper, and when there are tears in the corner of your eyes, he is gentle. He smooths his hand down your throat, rubbing a thumb over your trembling lip, and you know that he understands you. "It's not what I wanted."

"It's never what we want," he murmurs. "Never."

You hold your breath when he cups your face with a big gloved hand. Dark eyes on soft ones, and you wonder what it would be like to have him. He doesn't keen the way John does, doesn't kneel the way Johnny kneels, doesn't follow and listen without objection the way that Kyle does. No, he's a brick wall, and you need to be what knocks him over. You need to shake the foundation, split it in two.

You need to sever the fucking bond and do your fucking job.

"So when can I have what I want?" You ask him softly. "When...when is it my turn?"

He tilts his head to the side, curious, and you slide your hands up his forearms, over the muscle of his biceps. He is everything you cannot have.

And he is everything that you suddenly realize you want.

Forbidden. Unrelenting. The oxygen to a raging fire. He isn't the glue, he's the catalyst to whatever the fuck you bring to the experiment, and even though you know this will be disaster, you want it. You want it so badly.

Destruction tastes so good. Control is victory. Sex is power, and you want him, you want this, you want him to have you, to own you, to make you see what he sees, because it will be familiar because you are the same.

"Y'r a soldier," he says lowly. "Not about what we want. 's about what they want."

"Fuck what they want," you groan, looking away, and then a few tears slip down your face. "Fuck what they do with us. If I die for them, they only tick some fucking statistic. It means nothing. So why can't I do what I want with the time I get before...before I'm just...before I'm nothing again?"

And there it is. The mirror you hold up. The common ground. The level playing field. The two paths that cross, this is it, I have it, I have it, I fucking have it, I have him, he's mine--

He kisses you. You don't get to see his face, but his lips are there, a precious amount of skin that you're blessed with seeing until your eyes are closing.

His bed is warm. He fills it well, the breadth of him almost too much for its size, but it doesn't matter because he fucks so well. He eats your cunt because he's hungry, your thighs on his shoulders shaking as he laps at your wet folds.

He does this different. John is soft and slow, Kyle takes his time, and Johnny is always eager and sloppy. But Ghost watches. He slides his tongue in soft motions, watching, and when your thighs twitch and shake, he does the motion again. He flattens his tongue and drags it, and when you whine and arch your back, he revels in the way you move. He drinks what you spill, he fucks you with his tongue, and this is different because this isn't just attraction.

There is something about him. Something underneath the layers he covers himself with, under the mask, something that you can see that others cannot even though he doesn't take those layers off.

You know this is true when he's inside of you. His mask hasn't come off, but his mouth is on your ear, and he groans, and he talks, and you feel like he spoils you this way. Ghost never talks. You wonder often if maybe he has a limited amount of words, and he never says more than he has to lest he runs out of them. His eyes speak, and it's more than enough, but now, he talks, and it is a gift, and now you know.

He cradles your head as he fucks you, and he kisses you until you can't breathe, and then when he talks, it takes everything in you not to beg for more.

"Such a nice cunt...'s so nice..."

"Fuck--y'feel me, luv? Right there--" And he presses his palm down on your stomach, and you cry when he grabs your face and forces you to look at him, because he's cruel and he's mean, but his cock feels so good--

And you think it can't get better, and you think he can't go any deeper, and then your thighs are wrapped around his waist, and he's leaning over you, and you think you're forgetting your name.

You forget yourself. You forget the reason you're here. It's so hard to think when you're not yourself, when your mind is in the stars, when everything feels far away and so close all at the same time. There is a place for him inside of you now, and you know that even though he will ruin you, even though he already has, you will never be rid of him.

You've severed the bond. You've made your own.

When he kisses you again, and when he grinds his hips down so nice that your clit aches, you know suddenly what it feels like to have real control. The feeling that Laswell chases, the feeling she wants so fucking badly that she's made your body a weapon, your cunt a tool, your brain the hivemind that will make her every wish come true, you understand now.

You will make the sky blue, the birds sing, but you did not realize the power you held until you had Simon "Ghost" Riley buried so deep in you, that you aren't sure you're even really here anymore.

You gnaw on his arm, your tongue tracing the tattoos there. You taste sweat, and you swallow it, and you go numb thinking about having more of him inside of you. You want to bite and eat and take as much of him that he will let you--no.

You will bite and eat and take as much of him that you want, because he's yours, and you get whatever you want.

Your fingers grasp the cotton of his mask, and your grip is enough to pull his lips off of you, and when your eyes meet, the gaze is different. He's desperate. For once, there is something disorderly there, and he pants, and he wants something from you, and finally you have something to give him.

You fuck it out of him. You lay him on his back and let him look at you, and you fuck him because it feels good, because you want it, too, because it's all that matters. You cry into his mouth, sob, "please--! please, please, please--"

And he tugs on your hair in response, guiding your hips as he loses his composure, "'ve got you...y'r mine...'s olright, yeah--nggghhh, fuck, luv, th's it..."

You do want it. You do need it. You need them, but you want Ghost the most, because he is the piece that does not move. He is not willing to do anything except for the sake of his pack. Ghost is impenetrable, even your pretty cunt isn't enough to change his mind, but that isn't what this is.

This is mercy. Ghost, he is the product of all of his misery. You, you are the result of every man to ever betray you, the outcome of your unwavering desire for revenge. You are the same, somehow, and he knows this, and that is why can't help himself. That is why Ghost is underneath you, that is why he bares his mouth to you and lets you lick into it and allows you to taste the forbidden fruit.

Because he thinks you are him, and he thinks you think so, too, and all he's ever wanted in his life is just for someone to see him the way he saw himself.

When he comes, he paints your cunt and fills you, and you collapse, your body on fire as you come down from a high that takes your breath away. His big hands cradle you against his chest, and you don't move, too afraid to let go, and he kisses your face when you whimper. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and when he pulls out, you gather it up on your fingers and suck. He groans, and he kisses you, and then he sinks back to his knees because he doesn't hear the ringing in his ears when his mouth is on your pretty pussy.

You're just a lamb, it's all you are. Handpicked by Laswell to head into the lion's den, a scarred animal that has no one to protect her, straight to slaughter.

He knows what it feels like. He knows what it feels like to be used and forgotten, to have nowhere to go, to be backed into a corner with no way out, and he pities you.

Ghost pities you because there is nothing behind your eyes except fear. But it's a lie. You're so good at it now. It's a lie, and you tell it so well, and you're warm inside. Not from taking the last moving piece, but from the satisfaction of knowing you have done what others cannot. What others never could.

It's late when you finally settle beside him. He leaves you when you ask for something to eat. You watch him slip clothes on haphazardly and leave, the door swinging shut behind him as he shuffles to get what you need.

To provide. To protect. To shield. Ghost is good at those things, you knew he would be. A man does not nurse a brother back to health without it, does not protect his mother and defy his father without being good at being a dog.

He's a good guard dog. And when he goes, and the door is closed, you smile because the dog is mine, all fucking mine--

You reach for your phone, and you pull up the only contact in it. You type a simple message, and then you send it, and for good measure, you shut the device off, tossing it into the pile of your discarded clothes.

>> we have joy.

You are good at pretending. You can tell a lie without blinking. You have been taught to be this thing, and you do it well, because you are a soldier, and this is your mission, and you cannot fail, and you didn't fail.

When you see Laswell again, many weeks later, she is not surprised to see you covering up with long sleeves and keeping your hair down. One tug on the collar of your shirt, and she gets glimpses of the love bites that have marked bruises all across your skin. She lets you go, tells you to sit, and she smirks.

You smile back this time.

Men are fickle. And they fucking deserve this.

"Good girl," she takes out another manila folder, but it's different this time. When you open it, you have schedules of upcoming ops, intel the boys are working, evidence of their reckless abandonment of order in favor of the chaotic success of getting the job done. You have seen this first hand, you know what they do and how they do it. But now there is another factor, another subject, right in the middle of it all. It is you.

Laswell takes a seat, spreading out the papers, and you meet her eyes. This time it's different. This is the truth, and you want to feel bad for your betrayal, but you don't. The fact of the matter is that you and Laswell, together in this room, have more power at your feet than you know what to do with.

A lamb to slaughter, and yet you sleep with the wolves.

"Alright," she says. "Now let's get to fucking work."

[odileeclipse]

In the Presence of Truth {"Sage of Truth" (SMC) x Reader} PT 9

<<<Previous Next>>>

You drummed your fingers against the edge of your notebook, staring at the corrections Shadow Milk Cookie had pointed out. You had already rewritten most of the problem areas, refining your explanations, filling in the missing steps. Soon, your work would be as polished as it could get. And then what? You swallowed, shifting in your chair as a thought that had been lingering in the back of your mind finally surfaced. “How many more of these do you think I’ll need?” Shadow Milk Cookie, seated across from you in his office, glanced up from his own work. His golden eyes flickered with quiet curiosity. “Clarify.” “These tutoring sessions,” you said, feigning nonchalance as you tapped your quill against the parchment. “At some point, I’ll be good enough on my own, right? So… how much longer before I don’t need them?” He regarded you carefully, setting his papers aside. “That is not a question I can answer definitively.” You huffed out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Of course not.” “Improvement is an ongoing process,” he continued, unbothered by your reaction. “It does not cease simply because one reaches a threshold of competency.” You nodded absently, but your mind had already started to drift. Of course, he was right he always was but that wasn’t really the heart of what you were asking. At some point, these tutoring sessions would end. At some point, you would stop meeting with him like this just the two of you, in the quiet of his office, surrounded by books and the faint scent of parchment and old ink. Your stomach twisted slightly. You had been struggling for so long that improvement felt like a distant dream, something to chase but never quite reach. And now? Now it was finally happening. You were getting better. He had acknowledged it himself, and though he would never coddle you with outright praise, you could tell he recognized your efforts.

But what happened when there was no more need for his guidance? Shadow Milk Cookie was a figure far beyond your reach in the academic world. He only taught high-level courses, ones you had little hope of qualifying for anytime soon. If not for these tutoring sessions, you would have had no reason to interact with him at all. And when they were over… you wouldn’t anymore. You shifted in your seat, the realization sitting uncomfortably in your chest. “I guess I was just wondering,” you murmured, eyes fixed on your notes, “when I’ll stop needing to come here at all.” Shadow Milk Cookie observed you for a moment before responding. “Is that what you desire?” You blinked, glancing up at him. Was it? You had dreaded tutoring at first dreaded the thought of being under the scrutiny of someone so renowned, someone so impossibly intelligent. And yet, now… Now, the thought of not being here felt strangely hollow. You forced a small smile, shrugging. “Well, all good things have to end eventually, right?” Shadow Milk Cookie studied you, his expression unreadable. Then, in a voice as composed as ever, he said, “Perhaps.” The single word lingered in the air between you, neither a confirmation nor a denial. And yet, something about the way he said it made your chest tighten just a little. You lowered your gaze back to your notebook. For now, at least, these sessions weren’t over yet. And you weren’t in such a hurry for them to be.

Your fingers curled slightly around the edge of your notebook, your gaze drifting from the pages to the scholar seated across from you. The warm glow of the enchanted lamps cast soft shadows across his desk, illuminating the meticulously arranged books and parchment. Shadow Milk Cookie, ever composed, was glancing over a separate manuscript perhaps something unrelated to your session, or perhaps some ancient text that only a mind like his could decipher with ease. You hesitated, staring at him for a moment longer than you should have. The words formed slowly, heavy on your tongue before you finally managed to voice them. “And… after all this,” you began, carefully, “would I still be allowed a fraction of your time?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s golden eyes lifted from his work, meeting yours with quiet intensity. His gaze was steady, not startled, not dismissive, just… observing. As if measuring the weight of your question before offering an answer. You quickly looked back down, fingers tightening around your notebook. “I know you’re busy,” you continued, keeping your voice level. “You’re a scholar, a mentor. There are plenty of students who actually belong in your classes, who actually need your time. I’m not-I mean, I wasn’t even supposed to have these sessions in the first place, so I get it. I just…” You exhaled slowly, feeling foolish for even asking. “I just wanted to know if when this is all over I’d still be able to come to you. Even if it’s just once in a while.”

There. You had said it. There was silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable but weighted. You forced yourself to look up again, only to find Shadow Milk Cookie regarding you with that same unreadable expression. When he finally spoke, his voice was as measured as ever. “It is true that I am often occupied.” Your stomach twisted slightly. “But,” he continued, his tone softer than before, “if you have need of guidance, I would not turn you away.” Your breath caught. It wasn’t a grand declaration. It wasn’t an invitation, nor was it a promise of time freely given. It was simply… an acknowledgment. A confirmation that, despite the inevitable end of these sessions, despite the divide between your standing and his, you would not be dismissed outright. It wasn’t everything. But it was enough. You swallowed, nodding. “Right. Of course. Thank you.” Shadow Milk Cookie inclined his head slightly before returning to his work, as if nothing had changed. But for you, something had. Because even when these sessions ended, even when the structure of weekly meetings and guided lessons fell away, there would still be a path back to him. Not as a student in need of tutoring but as a scholar seeking wisdom.

You carefully gathered your things, slipping your notebook into your bag as you rose from your seat. Shadow Milk Cookie had already turned his attention back to his manuscripts, his golden eyes scanning the delicate inked text with unwavering focus. You hesitated for just a moment before speaking. “…Thank you for your time.” He didn’t look up immediately, but he inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment. “Use it wisely.” You weren’t sure if he meant the knowledge he had shared with you or the time itself. Maybe both. Either way, you nodded, gripping your bag a little tighter as you made your way to the door. The cool brass handle was smooth beneath your fingers as you stepped out into the quiet corridors of the Scholars’ Wing. The moment the door shut behind you, you released a slow breath, as if shaking off the weight of the session. Not that it was a burden no, if anything, you felt lighter in some ways. More certain of your steps. But also… heavier in a way you couldn’t quite describe. You shook your head. No use lingering on it now. You had other things to focus on. Adjusting your bag, you set off toward the dining hall, your pace brisk. You hadn’t had the chance to chat with your friends earlier, and after spending so much time analyzing, correcting, and reevaluating, a little familiarity sounded nice. If you were lucky, Chai Latte, Hazelnut Biscotti, and Earl Grey would already be there, saving a seat for you. The halls of Blueberry Yogurt Academy carried their usual late-evening quiet, the kind that settled after most scholars had retreated to their dormitories or study halls. The faint glow of enchanted lanterns flickered along the walls, casting a soft, ethereal light as you made your way through the winding corridors. As you neared the grand entrance of the dining hall, the distant murmur of voices and clinking silverware greeted you. The warmth of the space seeped into your skin before you had even stepped inside, a stark contrast to the cool air of the Scholars’ Wing. And for a moment you allowed yourself to set aside formulas, calculations, and the lingering weight of scholarly expectations. For now, you just wanted to be with your friends.

Balancing your tray, you weaved through the bustling dining hall, the comforting aroma of warm, freshly prepared food lingering in the air. The glow of enchanted lanterns cast a golden hue over the long wooden tables, where groups of scholars sat in clusters, deep in conversation. Your eyes quickly found them Chai Latte, Hazelnut Biscotti, and Earl Grey, huddled together at your usual spot near the wide arched windows. The three of them were already deep in discussion, voices low but animated, leaning in as if exchanging some grand secret. Of course. They always ended up like this, discussing whatever academic gossip, theoretical debate, or absurd rumor had surfaced that day. It was tradition by now no matter how busy you all were, dinner was the time to reconnect. As you approached, Chai Latte Cookie spotted you first. Her ears perked up as she waved you over, a warm grin spreading across her face. “Oh, finally! We were starting to think Shadow Milk kidnapped you for extra lessons or something.” Hazelnut Biscotti chuckled, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Given the way you’ve been practically living in the Scholars’ Wing, I wouldn’t have been surprised.” Earl Grey, who had been sipping his tea with an unreadable expression, finally glanced up. “I assume it went well?” You set your tray down, sliding into the open seat between Chai Latte and Hazelnut Biscotti. “Define ‘well.’” Chai Latte smirked, resting her chin in her hand. “That bad, huh?” You exhaled, picking at your food absentmindedly. “It’s not that it was bad. I just…” You hesitated, unsure how to put the feeling into words. It was true that you were improving. Shadow Milk himself had acknowledged it. But the thought of your tutoring eventually coming to an end it lingered in the back of your mind, unwelcome and difficult to shake. Earl Grey studied you for a moment before setting his cup down with a soft clink. “Something on your mind?” You glanced down at your plate. “…Just thinking about how much longer I have left before I don’t need tutoring anymore.” For a second, there was silence. Then, Chai Latte hummed. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.” You sighed. “I mean, no. Obviously, it’s good that I’m getting better. I just…” You frowned, shifting uncomfortably. “I won’t really have a reason to see him after, will I?” The words felt strange coming out, but they were true.

Shadow Milk was a renowned scholar, an academic figure so highly regarded that students like you would never have had the opportunity to be taught by him under normal circumstances. He wasn’t a professor for general coursework; he lectured at the highest levels, among the greatest minds of the Academy. Once your tutoring ended, what reason would he have to spare time for you? Hazelnut Biscotti tapped a thoughtful finger against the table. “You could still ask for guidance,” he mused. “He hardly seems the type to refuse an earnest pursuit of knowledge.” Earl Grey nodded slightly. “It isn’t as though he’d suddenly forget you exist once your tutoring ends.” Chai Latte elbowed you lightly. “And hey, maybe you’ll impress him enough that he’ll let you take one of his classes someday.” You snorted. “Yeah, right. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” But despite your skepticism, their words eased something in your chest. Perhaps it wouldn’t be as simple as the end of tutoring, meaning the end of knowing him. Maybe there would still be a way a reason to stay in touch. For now, though, you shook your head, letting yourself settle into the warmth of your friends’ company. There would be plenty of time to figure things out later.

Chai Latte Cookie leaned in, eyes gleaming with barely-contained excitement as she dramatically whispered, “Alright, so you all won’t believe what I heard today.” Hazelnut Biscotti sighed, already adjusting his glasses. “Here we go…” Earl Grey, ever composed, simply lifted his teacup, the slightest raise of his brow the only indication that he was mildly intrigued. You smirked, propping your elbow on the table. “Alright, let’s hear it.” Chai Latte grinned, clearly reveling in the anticipation. “So, you know that second-year alchemy student, Chestnut Praline Cookie? The one with the horrifically unstable potions?” “The one who accidentally turned the entire east corridor into a swamp last semester?” Hazelnut Biscotti deadpanned. “That’s the one!” Chai Latte beamed. “Anyway, I heard from very reliable sources” “Meaning?” Earl Grey interjected smoothly. She waved him off. “Irrelevant! The point is, I heard that during today’s lab session, they were supposed to be brewing a simple fortification tonic, but” she paused for dramatic effect, looking at each of you before continuing, “they messed up the proportions so badly that instead of a tonic, they made an unstable crystallization compound. It reacted immediately, turned rock-solid inside the cauldron, and then exploded.” You blinked. “Wait. Exploded? Like, actually exploded?” “Like boom,” she confirmed, flinging her hands outward to emphasize the blast. “Whole classroom covered in glittery, indestructible shards of whatever-the-heck they created.” Hazelnut Biscotti groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How does this keep happening?” “I have no idea,” Chai Latte admitted, clearly enjoying herself. “But here’s the best part…they panicked and tried to neutralize it with a dissolving elixir, except they grabbed the wrong bottle and-” “Oh no,” you murmured, already sensing where this was going. “Oh yes,” she grinned. “It was a growth solution. The shards expanded. The entire back half of the classroom is apparently a crystalline forest now.”

You choked on your drink. Earl Grey, despite his usual impassive demeanor, actually sighed. “Professor Mulberry must be exhausted.” “Oh, definitely,” Chai Latte agreed. “I mean, they tried to undo it, but apparently the magic stabilized too fast, so now it’s… permanent.” You buried your face in your hands. “No way.” “Oh, yes way.” She was practically vibrating with amusement now. “The Headmaster had to step in, and his solution was to just leave it there. Apparently, it looks ‘aesthetically pleasing’ and they don’t want to risk another alchemy accident trying to remove it.” “I give it three weeks before it’s declared a ‘historical landmark of academic perseverance,’” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered. You snorted. “Honestly, it wouldn't be the weirdest thing this Academy has immortalized.” “Exactly!” Chai Latte gestured wildly. “That’s why I love this place. Any other academy would call that a disaster. Here? It’s just Tuesday.” Hazelnut Biscotti sighed heavily. “Remind me why I still have hope for the future of academia?” “Because deep down, you love the chaos,” Chai Latte teased. “You pretend to be the responsible one, but I see you, Biscotti. I see the way you actually enjoy our nonsense.” He shot her a flat look. “I tolerate your nonsense.” “You enable it.” “She’s not wrong,” Earl Grey added, casually taking another sip of tea. Hazelnut Biscotti exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “I should find new friends.” “No, you shouldn’t,” you said, nudging his arm with a grin. “You’d be miserable without us.” For all his grumbling, he didn’t argue. Chai Latte smirked, propping her chin in her hands. “See? This is why dinner is the best part of the day. Where else would you get quality entertainment and deep philosophical insights into the state of academia?” You chuckled, shaking your head. As much as you stressed over your studies, over the uncertainty of the future, moments like these made everything feel a little lighter. No matter what else happened, you had this this ridiculous, wonderful group of friends who made even the strangest days feel like home.

You leaned in slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips as you tapped your fingers against the table. “Alright, since we’re on the topic of unbelievable things, I have something, too.” Chai Latte Cookie perked up immediately, eyes sparkling with interest. “Oh? Do tell.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie arched a brow. “If this is about your last failed experiment” “It’s not,” you interjected quickly. “This one isn’t about me, thank you very much.” Earl Grey Cookie gestured lightly with his teacup. “Then by all means, enlighten us.” You glanced around conspiratorially, then lowered your voice. “So, I was cutting through the Academy gardens earlier today you know, taking the long way to clear my head-” “Procrastinating,” Hazelnut Biscotti muttered.

You ignored him. “when I saw something very interesting near the Moonvine Pavilion.” Chai Latte gasped. “Not the Moonvine Pavilion! You know everything that happens there is scandalous!” “Exactly,” you said, enjoying the dramatic effect. “So, I’m walking by, right? Just minding my own business. And then I see Professor Star Anise Cookie” Earl Grey blinked. “The Divination professor?” You nodded. “Yes, him. Mister ‘I Foresee All, Nothing Escapes My Gaze’ Star Anise Cookie.” You paused for effect, then leaned in closer. “Holding hands with Professor Frosted Clementine Cookie.” Chai Latte practically squealed, grabbing your arm. “WHAT?!” Hazelnut Biscotti’s spoon clattered against his saucer. “You must be mistaken.” “Oh, I am not mistaken,” you said, voice full of certainty. “They were standing real close, talking in hushed voices, and then clear as day he took her hand. And she blushed.” Earl Grey actually set his teacup down. “That… is unexpected.” “I know!” you said, grinning. “I always thought Professor Clementine was too icy for romance, but apparently-” “She’s been thawed,” Chai Latte finished dramatically. You cackled. “Exactly!” Hazelnut Biscotti groaned, rubbing his temples. “Stars above, why do we care about this?” “Because it’s deliciously interesting!” Chai Latte countered. “Think about it two esteemed professors, secret romance, destiny versus logic-” “Truly, a tale for the ages,” Earl Grey murmured, amused. Chai Latte turned back to you, grinning. “Okay, but what happened next? Did they notice you?”

You shook your head. “Nope. I stayed hidden behind the wisteria trellis.” Chai Latte gasped. “You spied?” “I observed.” “Same thing.” You rolled your eyes. “Anyway, I didn’t stick around too long, but I swear, they were lingering. Like, full-on ‘I-have-more-to-say-but-should-I-say-it’ lingering.” Chai Latte fanned herself dramatically. “Oh, this is juicy. I need to know what happens next.” “We all need to know what happens next,” Earl Grey said. Hazelnut Biscotti sighed, shaking his head. “You all are ridiculous.” “And yet,” you teased, “you’re still here listening.” He scowled, but said nothing. Chai Latte grinned. “This is why dinner is essential.” She looked around the table. “Academics? Stressful. Life? Chaotic. But gossip? Gossip keeps us alive.” You laughed, shaking your head. As much as you worried about the future, about your studies, about everything, moments like this reminded you that some things friendship, laughter, and a little bit of intrigue made it all worth it.

Chai Latte Cookie turned toward you with a sly grin, resting her chin in her hands. “Sooo… since we’re already talking about romance in the academic world…” You froze mid-bite. “...What about it?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie sighed, already sensing where this was going. “Chai.” “No, no, I have a valid question,” Chai Latte insisted, waving him off before turning her full attention back to you. “You’ve been spending an awful lot of time with the esteemed Sage of Truth lately.” Your stomach flipped. “That’s because he’s tutoring me.” “Oh, is that what we’re calling it?” she teased. “Yes,” you deadpanned. Earl Grey Cookie smirked slightly over the rim of his teacup. “You do talk about him quite often.” “That’s because he’s my tutor,” you repeated, heat creeping up your neck. “And because I have to. It’s academic.” Chai Latte hummed, clearly unconvinced. “Mmmhmm. But is it just academic?” You groaned. “Yes! What else would it be?” “Well, let’s think about it,” she mused, tapping her fingers against the table. “You spend hours together, he personally reviews your work, you get that look whenever you talk about him-” “What look?” you interjected defensively. Hazelnut Biscotti exhaled through his nose. “The one you’re making right now.” You covered your face with your hands. “I hate all of you.” Chai Latte cackled. “Oh, relax! I’m just saying, if you did develop a little scholar’s crush, it would be so poetic.”

“It would be pathetic,” you muttered. Earl Grey quirked a brow. “I don’t know. There’s a certain… tragic beauty in it. A scholar seeking wisdom from an untouchable figure, only to long for something far beyond mere knowledge.” Chai Latte gasped, clutching her heart. “Ohhh, that’s good. Forbidden academia love!” Hazelnut Biscotti groaned. “Don’t encourage them.” You shook your head aggressively. “No. Absolutely not. He’s a respected scholar, and I am…” You gestured vaguely. “Me.” “So?” Chai Latte shrugged. “All I’m saying is, you’re getting a lot of personal time with him, and if something were to happen-” “Nothing is happening,” you interrupted firmly. Chai Latte just smirked knowingly. “Mmmhmm.” You sighed, stabbing at your food with more force than necessary. “Can we talk about literally anything else?” “Oh, of course,” Chai Latte said sweetly, before shooting you one last teasing look. “But just so you know if you ever do need to talk about a certain someone, you can always confide in me.” You groaned again, but despite yourself, a tiny, conflicted part of you wondered If all good things must come to an end… would your time with him, too?

You leveled Chai Latte Cookie with the flattest stare you could muster. “I would be caught dead before anything like that happened.” Chai Latte giggled, undeterred. “Oh, would you now?” “Yes,” you said firmly. “And even if such a ridiculous thing were to happen, I wouldn’t tell you because I know you’d never let me live it down.” She gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like you’d struck her. “Me? Tease you? I would never!” Earl Grey Cookie raised an eyebrow at her. “You absolutely would.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nodded in agreement. “Without hesitation.” Chai Latte huffed. “Okay, maybe a little hesitation.” Then she grinned at you. “But only because I’d need time to craft the perfect response.” You groaned. “And that is exactly why you’ll never hear a word from me.” Chai Latte pouted. “Aw, c’mon! You can’t really expect me to believe you’ve never thought about it, even just a little.” “Nope.” You popped another bite of food into your mouth and chewed, staring blankly ahead as if the conversation had ended. She narrowed her eyes playfully. “You’re a terrible liar.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, voice perfectly monotone. Chai Latte leaned in. “I will crack you, you know.” You met her gaze, unblinking. “No, you won’t.”

A challenge sparked in her eyes, but before she could escalate further, Hazelnut Biscotti cleared his throat. “As entertaining as this is, some of us would like to enjoy our meal without listening to Chai interrogate our friend like a suspect in a crime novel.” Earl Grey nodded. “Besides, we wouldn’t want them to actually drop dead just to avoid answering.” Chai Latte sighed dramatically, leaning back in her chair. “Fine, fine. I’ll drop it.” You exhaled in relief. Finally, some peace. Then she smirked. “But if I ever hear a whisper of something happening, just know I will have my moment.” You rolled your eyes. “Duly noted.” Even so, you couldn’t help but feel a tiny prickle of unease. Not because she was onto something because she wasn’t…Right? Earl Grey Cookie set down his fork with a sigh, running a hand through his neatly combed hair. “As much as I enjoy listening to Chai torment you, I have my own set of troubles to air.” You glanced at him, thankful for the change in topic. “Oh? What’s got you sighing like that?” He exhaled again, dramatically this time. “Professor Mulberry Bark assigned another impossibly long analysis on pre-Astral Convergence enchantment theory. Again.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie winced. “Didn’t he just assign something similar last week?” “Yes. And the week before that. I am convinced he enjoys watching us suffer.” Earl Grey shook his head. “If I have to analyze another obscure spell construct with a name that’s longer than my lifespan, I might actually collapse.” Chai Latte Cookie snickered. “Well, at least you know what to expect. That’s something, right?” Earl Grey shot her a tired look. “That’s precisely the problem.” You chuckled but tilted your head when you noticed him studying you for a moment, like he was debating something. “What?” you asked. Earl Grey hesitated, then leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice. “I heard something about you earlier.” Your stomach twisted slightly. “...Should I be concerned?” He shrugged. “Not really. Just thought you should know. There’s been a little talk about how you’ve been spending a lot of time with the Sage of Truth.” Your heart nearly stopped. “...Oh.” Chai Latte Cookie practically lit up. “Ohhh?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie frowned. “That’s not surprising. They’ve been struggling in class. The Sage is their tutor. That’s normal.”

Earl Grey nodded. “Right, but, you know how the academy is. If you see a student spending too much time with a high-ranking scholar, people start making assumptions.” You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Let me guess someone thinks I’m dating him?” Chai Latte gasped. “Are you?” “No!” Hazelnut Biscotti gave you a reassuring pat on the back. “Don’t let it bother you. You know how people love to speculate about things that have nothing to do with them.” Earl Grey hummed. “Agreed. Just figured I’d give you a heads-up. It’s nothing serious, but it’s always better to be aware.” You sighed, slumping back in your chair. “Great. As if I didn’t have enough to deal with.” Chai Latte leaned in with a mischievous grin. “Well, if you ever do want to confirm or deny anything to the masses, I’d be happy to act as your spokesperson.” You shot her a glare. “I would rather let the rumors consume me whole.” She giggled. “Fair enough.”

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossed as you mulled over Earl Grey Cookie’s words. Try as you might to brush it off, the thought itched at you. It was one thing for idle rumors to float around, but another entirely if people were actually taking note of you specifically. You leaned forward, lowering your voice just slightly. “Do they know who I am?” Earl Grey Cookie regarded you carefully before answering. “Not exactly.” You tensed. “What do you mean, not exactly?” He took a slow sip of his tea, as if weighing his words. “No one’s mentioned your name outright not that I’ve heard, anyway. But people have noticed you.” Chai Latte Cookie’s ears practically perked up. “Ohhh? So they’re talking about the Sage of Truth’s mysterious pupil rather than our dear friend?” You groaned. “That’s not better.” Earl Grey chuckled. “It means you still have some anonymity. But if you keep showing up with him, that might not last long.” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie offered you a reassuring nod. “It’ll pass. The academy cycles through rumors like the seasons. By next week, they’ll be onto some other scandal about some other student.” Chai Latte Cookie wiggled her eyebrows. “Unless something happens that fuels the intrigue.” You shot her a warning glare. “You are not helping.” She grinned. “I know.” Still, you couldn’t shake the unease settling in your chest. The academy was full of whispers, and if you were becoming the subject of them… well. You weren’t sure how you felt about that. You frowned, still turning it over in your head. “But how would they even know?” you asked, skeptical. “The Scholar’s Wing is only for the best of the best. Everyone there is too busy with their studies to care about me.” Earl Grey Cookie gave you a knowing look. “You do realize that scholars gossip just as much as anyone else, right?” You blinked. “...No, they don’t.” Chai Latte Cookie snickered. “Oh, sweet, naive you.” She leaned in, resting her chin in her palm. “You think just because they’re studying complex theories and groundbreaking spells that they don’t have the time to notice a new face trailing after the Sage of Truth?” Hazelnut Biscotti Cookie nodded in agreement. “It’s a closed circle up there. Any change, no matter how small, is bound to be noticed.”

Your stomach twisted slightly. It wasn’t like you had expected to go completely unnoticed, but you hadn’t thought you’d stand out enough to be talked about. You had assumed you were nothing more than a passing presence just another struggling student seeking guidance. “So what exactly are they saying?” you asked, dreading the answer. Earl Grey took another slow sip of tea before replying, “Mostly just curiosity. Some are wondering why the Sage of Truth took on a student at all.” You shifted uncomfortably. “It’s not like that. He’s just helping me with my studies.” Chai Latte Cookie smirked. “Oh, we know that. But they don’t.” You groaned, dropping your head into your hands. This was the last thing you needed being a subject of curiosity among the scholars of the academy. It was hard enough trying to keep up with your studies without the weight of expectations or scrutiny. “Great,” you muttered. “Just what I needed. More reasons to embarrass myself.” Earl Grey Cookie gave you a reassuring pat on the back. “At least it’s just talk. Nothing malicious.” “Yet,” Chai Latte Cookie added with a playful grin. You shot her a glare. “Not helping.” She winked. “I know.” You knew she meant well attempting to lighten your mood.

Dinner had ended with laughter, the warm kind that settled in your chest and reminded you why you treasured these moments. No matter how exhausting the day had been, sitting among friends, sharing stories and teasing jabs, made the weight on your shoulders feel a little lighter. Even with Earl Grey’s quiet reminders of your newfound attention among the scholars, even with Chai Latte’s relentless teasing, even with the lingering ache of your tutoring session tonight, it had all felt manageable. For a little while, at least.

But now, alone in your dorm, the silence pressed in. You shut the door behind you, exhaling softly as you leaned against it. The room was dimly lit, the soft glow of your enchanted study lamp casting long shadows over your desk. Your books sat in neat stacks where you’d left them that morning, your notes still open from the frantic reviewing you’d done before class. It was strange walking back in after everything that had happened today, as if stepping into a space untouched by time. Like you had changed, but your room had stayed the same. You crossed the room and sat on the edge of your bed, rubbing your hands over your face. You had asked Shadow Milk Cookie if, after all this, you’d still be allowed a fraction of his time. Even now, the question sat heavy in your chest, the weight of it something you weren’t ready to unpack. Because the truth was You didn’t want this to end. You should. It was just tutoring. Just guidance. And eventually, you’d get better. You were getting better. You were fixing mistakes faster, answering questions with more confidence. And once you had proven you could stand on your own, you wouldn’t have any reason to sit across from him in his office, feeling the steady rhythm of his voice guiding you through your work. You swallowed, running a hand through your hair. For all the exhaustion, all the frustration, all the times you had felt like you weren’t good enough, there was something about his presence that settled you. He was direct, sometimes painfully so, but there was never malice behind his words. No mockery. No disappointment. Just… expectation. And when he expected something from you, it made you want to rise to meet it. What would it feel like when that was gone? You frowned, lying back against your pillow and staring at the ceiling. It wasn’t as if you had some grand claim to his time. He was a scholar of the highest caliber, someone who spent his days immersed in pursuits far beyond your reach. Eventually, he would move on to the next great pursuit, and you…You’d go back to being just another student at Blueberry Yogurt Academy. The thought left a strange hollowness in your chest. You shut your eyes and let out a slow breath. For now, at least, it wasn’t over yet. There were still problems to solve, still concepts to master. And as long as you still had those to cling to, you had a reason to be there to see him. You just wished it didn’t feel like something you’d have to let go of too soon.

Morning came far too quickly, the night passing in what felt like mere moments. You had tossed and turned more than you’d like to admit, thoughts looping endlessly in your head, yet somehow, the sunrise still managed to sneak up on you. Still, routine was routine. You got up, dressed, and made your way to breakfast, finding comfort in the familiar sounds of the dining hall the clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, the occasional burst of laughter from a particularly lively table. Your friends were already gathered in your usual spot, Chai Latte waving you over before launching into another enthusiastic recounting of last night’s gossip. You let the conversation wash over you, contributing here and there, but your mind was already half elsewhere. Lecture passed in its usual blur taking notes, trying to keep up, nodding along even when you weren’t sure if you fully grasped what was being said. But today, there was no office hours afterward. No quiet moment in Professor Almond Custard’s study. Today was a lab day. It wasn’t that lab worried you, exactly. It was necessary, practical, the kind of work that let you take theory and make it tangible. But something about it always felt daunting as if the moment you stepped into that room, everything you thought you understood would be tested under an unflinching lens. Mistakes were easy to make, and unlike a homework assignment where you could take your time correcting them, here, they were immediate. Unforgiving. Still, you steeled yourself as you made your way to the lab, tucking your notes under your arm. It would be fine. It had to be. At least there was something to look forward to after.

The laboratory was already buzzing with activity by the time you arrived, the steady hum of voices mixing with the occasional clang of glassware and the flickering glow of enchanted burners. The air carried the faint scent of alchemical reagents earthy, metallic, with an underlying sharpness that hinted at something volatile. At your shared workstation, Chai Latte Cookie was already setting up, adjusting the height of a distillation apparatus while glancing over the day’s experiment guidelines. She looked up when you approached, a knowing smirk playing at her lips. “Well, well, look who finally decided to join me in our noble pursuit of scientific progress,” she teased, flicking a stray strand of hair out of her face. “I was beginning to think you were going to ditch me.” You rolled your eyes as you set down your materials. “You’ve been here for, what, five minutes?” “Five minutes alone, which is practically an eternity when there’s no one to complain to about this absolute mess of instructions,” she sighed, tapping the alchemical guide on the table. “I swear, do they try to make these as convoluted as possible?” You pulled your copy of the instructions closer, skimming the details of today’s experiment. A multi-step reaction sequence designed to test your ability to control magical yields if done correctly, it would produce a shimmering, stable potion infused with starlight essence. If done incorrectly… well, you didn’t want to think about that. “It’s not that bad,” you said, though your confidence wavered as you tried to make sense of the notations. “We just have to be careful with the reagent additions. One mistake and the whole thing destabilizes.” “Right, no pressure at all,” Chai Latte muttered, pulling on her gloves. “Okay, genius, where do we start?” You took a breath, rolling up your sleeves. “Let’s take it one step at a time.” Despite the initial nerves, there was something grounding about working in tandem with her. The two of you had fallen into a familiar rhythm over the semesters passing instruments back and forth without needing to ask, watching each other’s work to catch any potential mistakes before they became disasters.

You and Chai Latte Cookie worked in quiet concentration, the only sounds between you being the measured clink of glassware and the soft bubbling of the mixture as it reacted to each new addition. The instructions required careful precision one misstep, and the starlight essence could either dissipate entirely or, worse, cause an unstable chain reaction.

Chai Latte handled the base mixture, combining the ethereal dew and powdered astralite while you carefully calibrated the enchanted heat rune beneath the flask. The potion had to remain within an exact temperature range for the essence to bind properly too hot, and the components would burn off; too cold, and they would crystallize before infusion.

“Alright, heat’s stable,” you murmured, adjusting the rune’s glow to maintain the proper balance. “How’s the solution looking?” Chai Latte squinted at the swirling liquid in the flask, giving it a slow stir. “I think it’s at the right consistency it’s got that whole ‘liquid moonlight’ vibe going on.” She stepped back slightly and gestured at the next reagent. “Your turn. Time to add the starlight essence.” You nodded, taking the small vial of softly glowing liquid in hand. According to the instructions, the essence had to be introduced in an incremental spiral pattern a slow, deliberate movement that would ensure even diffusion throughout the solution. Lifting the dropper, you steadied yourself, exhaling before carefully letting the essence fall into the potion in a spiraling motion. As the shimmering liquid made contact, the mixture pulsed with a faint, otherworldly glow. Chai Latte whistled. “Okay, that looks really cool.” You didn’t respond immediately, too focused on ensuring the reaction stabilized. A few more careful additions, a few more slow stirs, and then, finally, the glow settled into a deep, mesmerizing blue with flickers of silver threading through it like tiny stars suspended in liquid. Chai Latte leaned in, inspecting it closely. “I think we did it.” You studied the potion as well, double-checking the indicators from your notes. “Yeah… that looks right. No weird discoloration, no sudden temperature spikes…” You allowed yourself a breath of relief. “We actually pulled it off.”

Chai Latte grinned, nudging you lightly with her elbow. “See? Maybe all that tutoring is finally starting to pay off.” You gave her a halfhearted glare, but there was no real annoyance behind it. “Or maybe we’re just a good team.” “Obviously,” she said smugly, crossing her arms. “Now let’s just hope we don’t jinx ourselves. We still have to get it approved.” Right. The professor would be coming around soon to check everyone’s results. You took a final look at your work, double-checking for any overlooked mistakes. With the experiment successfully completed and approved, you packed up your station, cleaning up any stray residue while Chai Latte Cookie hummed to herself. By the time everything was put away, the weight of responsibility lifted ever so slightly. “Alright, that’s that,” Chai Latte announced, stretching her arms above her head. “And we’re free until our next class. Or, in your case, free until tutoring.” She shot you a knowing look. You rolled your eyes. “Yes, I know.” She grinned, leaning against the lab bench. “So, what’s the plan? Gonna go grab a snack before you spend the rest of your afternoon basking in the wisdom of The Sage of Truth?” Her voice took on an exaggerated, reverent tone. You gave her a dry look. “I was just thinking of walking around for a bit.” Chai Latte raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. By yourself?” “…Yes?” She huffed dramatically. “Fine, be mysterious. But don’t think I haven’t noticed how much time you’ve been spending in the Scholars’ Wing lately.” Your stomach twisted slightly, though you tried not to show it. “It’s tutoring,” you reminded her. “Tutoring,” she echoed, smirking. “Right, right. Well, don’t work yourself to death. I’ll see you at dinner later?” You nodded, and with a wave, Chai Latte Cookie disappeared down the hallway, leaving you standing in the now-empty lab. With still nearly an hour before your tutoring session, you had time to breathe, to wander. The idea of heading straight to the Scholars’ Wing so early felt… too much. Instead, you found yourself walking toward the academy gardens. The crisp afternoon air met you as you stepped outside, the scent of enchanted flora and old stone pathways filling your lungs. Your feet carried you forward on instinct, weaving through the familiar paths of the gardens, past the towering moonlit trees and the delicate, glimmering flowers that thrived under the academy’s protective enchantments. The place was quieter at this hour, most students still busy with their classes.

You let your mind wander. You had improved. That was undeniable. Shadow Milk Cookie had acknowledged as much himself. And yet, the closer you got to mastering your coursework, the more uneasy you felt. Because once you did what then? Would this all just… end? Would he simply nod, satisfied, and send you on your way? And then what? You’d go back to struggling through everything on your own? The thought of it left an odd hollowness in your chest. You sighed, rubbing your temples before shaking your head. You were overthinking again. For now, you still had today. You still had tutoring. You still had time. With that thought grounding you, you turned and began making your way toward the Scholars’ Wing. You hesitated at the doorway, one hand lightly gripping the frame as you took in the scene before you. The door to Shadow Milk Cookie’s office was slightly ajar, just enough for you to hear the unmistakable cadence of his voice measured, rich with knowledge, yet tinged with something… lighter. Amusement? You couldn’t make out every word, but the conversation was fluid, the way one spoke when deeply engaged in an exchange of ideas. He wasn’t alone. Another scholar, most likely. Someone of his caliber. Someone who belonged in this space. You shouldn’t feel so strange about it. And yet, you found yourself rooted to the spot, fingers tightening against the wood of the doorframe. You had always known, of course you had that he was a renowned scholar, well-respected, well-sought after. He didn’t just make time for you. Still, you’d never walked in on him mid-conversation before. You weren’t sure why that bothered you. The question now was whether you should make your presence known or wait. Logic told you it wasn’t a difficult decision. It wasn’t as if you were interrupting anything truly private. You had a scheduled session, after all. If he was too busy, he’d tell you. And yet, another part of you…the part that still struggled with being here, in his space, in his world hesitated. Would it be better to wait? To not intrude? You swallowed, debating your next move. You took a breath, steadied yourself, and knocked lightly against the door. The conversation inside paused for only a moment before Shadow Milk Cookie’s voice rang out, steady as ever. “Enter.” You pushed the door open, stepping inside. The atmosphere of the room shifted slightly not in a way that was obvious or outwardly hostile, but in a way that made you hyper-aware of your presence. Seated in the office, gathered around the central desk, were three other scholars. Two women and one man, all poised with an air of effortless intellect. Their robes were neatly arranged, their notes methodically placed before them. They belonged in this room, in this world of academia, their presence natural expected. And then there was you. Your gaze flickered between them briefly before settling on Shadow Milk Cookie. He remained as composed as ever, but you couldn’t ignore the way the three scholars regarded him. Their eyes, bright with admiration, held something deeper, something lingering beneath the surface adoration. It wasn’t surprising. Who wouldn’t look at him that way? You shifted your weight, suddenly feeling out of place. This wasn’t your space. You were just a struggling student, given the privilege of his time through necessity, not merit. “Ah,” Shadow Milk Cookie said, closing the tome in front of him. “Right on time.” That pulled you from your thoughts. You hesitated, then nodded, gripping your notebook a little tighter. “I yeah. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” The man among the three scholars tilted his head, eyes flickering over you in quiet assessment. “A student of yours, Sage of Truth?”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist. “Not quite,” Shadow Milk Cookie answered smoothly. “But an eager learner nonetheless.” You weren’t sure why, but that phrasing stung just a little. One of the women smiled, though there was something unreadable in her gaze. “How fortunate to receive such direct guidance.” You gave a small nod, unsure of what to say. Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you briefly before gesturing to the side of the room. “Take a seat. I will conclude here shortly.” You obeyed, moving to the seat he had indicated, but even as you sat down, the sense of displacement remained. They resumed their conversation something about magical theorem applications but your mind was elsewhere, thoughts caught on the undeniable truth. You were not like them. And maybe you never would be. As the three scholars rose from their seats, they exchanged their final words with Shadow Milk Cookie, their voices carrying a warmth that felt both familiar and distant. “Until next time, Sage,” one of the women said, her fingers ghosting over the edge of his desk before she stepped away. The other woman offered a gentle smile, her eyes lingering just a second too long. “Conversations with you are always illuminating.” The man gave a slow nod, expression composed but reverent. “Your insights remain unparalleled.” Then, with a final exchange of glances ones that seemed to hold something unspoken as they departed. You hadn’t meant to watch them so closely, but there was something in the way they carried themselves that you couldn’t ignore. Something in the way their voices softened when they spoke to him, in the way their gazes lingered just a breath longer than necessary. You shifted uncomfortably, staring at the door they had left through before glancing back at Shadow Milk Cookie. You had only caught fragments of their discussion snippets of terminology and references to studies far beyond your grasp. It had been like listening to a language you had only just begun to learn, the meaning slipping past you before you could latch onto anything concrete.

Still, what unsettled you wasn’t the academic distance between you and them. It was the way they looked at him. And the quiet realization that he was always surrounded by people like that. People who understood him. You hesitated before speaking, trying to keep your voice neutral. “…Were those your friends?” Shadow Milk Cookie, who had been straightening his desk, paused only briefly before resuming. “Colleagues.” The word was delivered so smoothly that it almost seemed rehearsed. You frowned slightly. “So, not friends?” He regarded you for a moment before answering. “Friendship, in academic circles, is often secondary to the pursuit of knowledge.” That was… not exactly an answer. You weren’t sure what you had been expecting, but something about his response sat strangely with you. Something about the way he had said it, as if dismissing the notion entirely. “…I see,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. You swallowed, gripping the strap of your bag a little tighter as you tried to gather your thoughts. “I… really saw how much they admire you,” you said, keeping your voice light, as if it was just an idle observation. Shadow Milk Cookie looked at you with mild curiosity, but he said nothing, waiting for you to continue. You let out a small breath, averting your gaze slightly. “They just… seemed so comfortable talking to you. Like they already knew exactly what you meant before you even finished a sentence.” There was something strange in the way those scholars had interacted with him and how naturally they seemed to fit into his world. You weren’t sure why it lingered in your mind so much, but the feeling sat heavy in your chest, unfamiliar and unwelcome. “I guess I just…” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully. “I don’t know why I feel this way, but… it kind of made me wonder if I’ll ever be able to understand you like that.” It was an uncomfortable thought; one you hadn’t fully grasped until you said it out loud. You had been learning, studying harder than ever, and yet somehow, today had made you feel like an outsider again. Like there was an invisible wall between you and him, between you and the world he truly belonged to. Shadow Milk Cookie was silent for a moment, his golden eyes steady as they regarded you. He didn’t immediately dismiss your feelings, nor did he rush to correct them. Then, with a measured tone, he finally spoke. “There are many paths to understanding,” he said. “Not all must be the same.” You met his gaze again, and though his expression remained composed, there was something deliberate in his words as if he was choosing them with care. He was not denying the gap that existed between you, nor was he pretending it wasn’t there. “I guess… I hadn’t thought about it like that,” you admitted. “But sometimes, it feels like no matter how much effort I put in, I’ll always be behind. Like I’m chasing after something I can’t quite grasp.” Shadow Milk Cookie considered this, his expression unreadable. “A scholar’s journey is not a race,” he said. “Nor is it a simple ascent. There will always be others who stand at different points along the path some ahead, some behind. But progress is not measured by where you stand in relation to them.”

You frowned slightly, tapping your fingers against the desk. “That makes sense, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s still a gap.” He nodded. “No, it does not. But gaps are meant to be bridged, not feared.” Something about the way he said it made you pause. He spoke as if the answer was so simple, so obvious like it wasn’t a question of whether you could catch up, but when. The thought settled strangely in your chest, a mixture of comfort and something you couldn’t quite name. You glanced down at your notes. The hesitation from earlier still lingered, but it no longer weighed as heavily as before. “I… guess I’ll just have to keep going, then.” Shadow Milk Cookie tilted his head slightly. “Was there ever any doubt?” You let out a quiet huff, shaking your head. “I don’t know. Maybe a little.” His lips quirked just slightly, an almost-smile, before he gestured toward your notebook. “Then let us ensure your doubts do not linger.” And just like that, the moment passed, leaving you with something new not quite confidence, but something close enough.

You cleared your throat, shifting slightly in your seat before sliding your notebook toward him. “Anyway,” you said, trying to sound casual, “I finished the assignment for Professor Almond Custard’s class. I think I did well on it.” Shadow Milk Cookie’s gaze flickered to the notebook, and he reached for it with his usual practiced ease. You watched as he scanned through your work, his expression remaining unreadable as his fingers ghosted over the lines of your calculations and explanations. You told yourself you weren’t waiting for his reaction but you were. A part of you hoped, maybe even expected, that this time, he’d simply nod in approval and move on. That he’d confirm what you were feeling that you had done well, that you had finally gotten it right. Shadow Milk Cookie turned the pages with practiced ease, his golden eyes scanning your work with a meticulous gaze. You tried to sit still, to keep yourself from fidgeting under the weight of his silence, but every second that passed made it harder. Then, finally, he set the notebook down and looked at you. “…Well done.” You blinked. “Wait, really?” He nodded once, fingers tapping lightly against the edge of the desk. “Your reasoning is clear, your calculations correct. The structure of your argument is sound. This is a marked improvement.” For a moment, you just stared at him, half-expecting some kind of ‘but’ to follow. When none came, a rush of relief, no, pride bloomed in your chest. “I actually got everything right?”

“Indeed.” You exhaled, barely resisting the urge to sag against the desk. “Finally.” Shadow Milk Cookie regarded you with something almost amused. “Did you expect otherwise?” “Honestly?” You huffed a small laugh. “Yeah.” His expression softened, just a little. “Doubt is natural. But in this instance, unnecessary.” He tapped the notebook again, deliberate. “You are capable. This work is proof of that.” It wasn’t an elaborate speech, nor was it overly sentimental but coming from him, it meant everything. You let out a breath, rolling your shoulders back. “I’ll take that as high praise.” “It is.” Your chest felt lighter than it had all day. You beamed brightly, laughter spilling from your lips pure, unrestrained, the kind that came from deep within your soul. Just knowing you had finally done something great, something without the need for corrections, overwhelmed your senses in the best way possible. “I can’t believe it,” you admitted between quiet chuckles, shaking your head as if that would make the moment feel more real. “No mistakes? Not even one?” Shadow Milk Cookie’s lips curved ever so slightly. “Had there been, I would have pointed them out.” You grinned, still riding the high of accomplishment. “Wow… I actually did it.” For the first time, you weren’t scrambling to make last-minute fixes, weren’t leaving his office weighed down by another list of errors to correct. It was strange, in a way like standing at the peak of a mountain you had been climbing for so long, unable to believe you had finally made it. Shadow Milk Cookie watched you, his gaze steady. “This is the result of your perseverance. Do not diminish it with disbelief.”

You paused, taking in his words. He was right. You had worked for this. You had earned it. You straightened, exhaling a breath that carried away the lingering doubt. “Then I’ll just say… thank you.” He inclined his head slightly. “No thanks are necessary. You have proven yourself through effort alone.” Still, you smiled, warmth filling your chest.

A/N no update tomorrow I won't have time to finish the chapter, but it'll be started and then finished+editing by hopefully Wednesday latest Thursday you might be asking yourself "Odile how do you get these chapters out so fast?" The simple answer: I'm hyper-fixated...+ It...'s break week and it was raining all day...My friends and I had to call it a day early cause it was pouring...so it gave me time to use the rest of my day to write and cook a good dinner etc...

Remember to follow and reblog for more bangers 😎😎😎🔥🔥🔥🔥

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[multifandumbmeg]

Anthony Lockwood is an emotional chameleon. He changes how he interacts with people to be what they want and need.

Think about how he acts with George. They bicker, they insult each other, they're not touchy-feely, but they get each other. They care about each other. Lockwood treats him like this because that's what George likes: blunt, to the point, back-and-forth banter and sarcasm. He doesn't treat George's neurodivergence or eccentricities as a fault like others, he casually accepts or even lauds them. He's the hands-off but there when you need him friend George needed.

Think about how he treats Lucy. She doesn't realize this is why, which is the cause of much of her internal fury, but he tries to be what she seems to want. Lockwood gives Lucy a huge amount of freedom, doesn't push her to open up, celebrates and accepts her gifts at face value (especially in the books) but in the show when she makes clear what she doesn't want, he apologizes and changes course. He becomes comfortable with her quickly and doesn't treat her differently because she's a girl- he knows she can handle herself and she's just another member of the household, no judgement for being messy or lazy or looking wrecked like the rest of them. He knows that she is closed off and resentful when people pity her or acknowledge her pain, so he shows his affection in subtler ways, like making her toast and tea. Giving her precious things that are part of his past as a show of trust and attempt at vulnerability. Frequently praising her, but only when she truly deserves it, because she wouldn't accept it otherwise. Constantly showing her how much her life is worth to him, no matter how much it drives her crazy. His relationship with Lucy changes as his romantic feelings for her grow, and it gets harder for him to mask how he actually feels and wants to act.

Now here's the controversial one: Lockwood does not show Holly favoritism, nor is a malicious, manipulative monster pitting two women against each other. Every single thing about how Lockwood treats Holly differently can be attributed to him knowing her past and trying to be what she needs. He is helping her. Lucy's internal monologue of intense jealousy is a matter of insecurity. She sees Lockwood's gentleness with Holly as him seeing her as a "real girl" and Lucy herself as "just one of the guys" - read, not a romantic prospect. But Lockwood makes it clear who he favors soon enough: when Lucy decides to leave, he offers to fire Holly immediately because he knows of their feud. It is Lucy he can't live without. Lockwood is, in a word, polite to Holly. He is kind and friendly towards her because her previous boss abused her, and she is traumatized in a fundamentally different way than Lucy. Whereas Lucy hardened but sees the agent life as all she can do, all she is worth, Holly is paralyzingly traumatized by agent work. Which is exactly why he takes her out on cases slowly, watches out for her, and does everything he can to rebuild her confidence. He gets onto to Lucy rather than Holly because 1) Lucy became hostile immediately and fully started their conflict, 2) as mentioned before, Holly is traumatized by an abusive, toxic prior work environment. He's trying to make her feel safe here, and 3) He's completely unaware of how Lucy sees this behavior as a personal slight because he fully respects Lucy as an equal, which he thinks is a compliment.

Also, I think George sees Lockwood's ever-changing personality as completely par for the course. As a fellow neurodivergent, he thinks this parade of masks is how everyone interacts, Lockwood's just good at it.

In conclusion, Lockwood is simply a kind kid with pretty damn high emotional intelligence, which is frankly remarkable considering how alone he's been. Anthony Lockwood tries to be whatever anyone else needs, because there was no one to be it for him.

[veilsofroses]

Mayuri Kurotsuchi x f!reader part 2

warnings: dissection process discussed, suggestive author’s note: mayuri is so interesting and fun to write for, definitely not your conventional kind of guy at all and i love it word count: 1.1k

part 1

︶︶꒷꒦︶꒦︶꒷︶︶

You somehow managed to avoid going under Captain Mayuri’s knife for the time you’ve been the 12th Division’s Fourth Seat. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t stare daggers into you every time you looked. Or that he wouldn’t continue to try to lure you into his lab every chance he got. 

Weirdly enough, though, you didn’t mind his strange antics. You actually looked forward to seeing what the new day brought in this game of cat and mouse you had going on. 

As for your work, your reputation continued to precede you and you met those expectations gracefully. Quickly enough, your knowledge proved to be a valuable asset to the institute and you became a favorite among the 12th Division members. 

Despite all this newfound attention, however, something still nagged at you. 

Captain Mayuri definitely wasn’t shy about his physical attraction to you. He alluded to “scrambling your insides” and made flirtatious remarks in the way a mad scientist who gets turned on by mad science would, “I can’t decide whether I should take you apart or preserve you whole.” You giggle to yourself at the memory. 

But.. sometimes you wished Mayuri would acknowledge your hard work more, your intelligence. His work was your biggest inspiration throughout your time at the academy, it was only natural you sought out his approval, but he hardly gave it. 

The other members warned you not to have high expectations of praise from him, he never would even if they found the cure for soul cancer. 

You sigh, you should really focus on what’s in front of you right now. 

Your hands work meticulously taking apart your new specimen—a menos grande hand that had been preserved before the rest of the body had vanished. 

You slide your scalpel along the side of the palm and around enough to open the skin. You grab forceps and pull the skin open revealing the inside of the palm. You’re about to grab pins to hold the skin open when you feel an immense spiritual pressure reveal itself behind you, causing you to yelp, dropping the pins on the table. 

“Did I frighten you?” you can hear his sly smile. 

You huff, regaining your composure and dusting yourself off. “Please don’t sneak up on me like that or else I might contaminate the specimen,” you say over your shoulder without turning around. 

His steps echo through the lab as he walks up beside you, his hands tucked in his sleeves. He shrugs, “Contaminated or not, no specimens ever go to waste,” he says lightly. 

You do everything not to roll your eyes. 

“You’re angry with me,” he states like it’s the most obvious observation about his latest experiment. Since the first day, he was able to read you easily so you shouldn’t be surprised. 

“What reason do I have to be angry with you?” You try your best to sound casual, you really don’t have a reason to be upset. 

You pick up the scalpel again, cutting a thin piece of muscle from the open palm and placing it on an empty microscope slide. 

You watched him from the corner of your eye as he watched you closely. He looked at you like he was trying to pick you apart just with his stare. You almost expected your limbs to start detaching themselves. 

After what felt like ages, he looks down at the open menos grande hand and spoke. “You know, I read all of your works from your academy days.”

You whip your head towards him, eyes wide. “Yes, all 237 of them,” he answers like he knew your next question. His gaze met yours. You desperately want to know what he thought of them. Of what he thought about that glimpse into your head. 

And like he heard your thoughts again, “Your mind is truly a force to be reckoned with. You brought up theories even I had never considered before, giving me a new lens to view from. You’re brilliant.” He still wore his signature flat smile, his face completely unreadable as he gave you the reassurance you had been praying for. 

Your eyes remain wide, mouth slightly agape. You’re speechless, so surprised he would ever actually admit that. 

“Did I say something strange? I thought you were already aware of the capabilities of your intelligence. Perhaps I am mistaken in my judgment?” 

You shake your head, shaking off your surprise and you look back down at the hand on the table, forceps in hand. 

“No, you’re not. I am aware of it.”

“But?” he pushes. 

“But you just never say anything. I suppose I just wasn’t sure you believed it,” you look down, smiling and shaking your head at how ridiculous you sound. 

Silence fills the space for a moment and you’re convinced he lost whatever faith he had in you. 

“For being so smart, you really are a dumb girl.” 

You turn your head to argue but he snakes his hand around your waist, you feel his long nails graze your back, pulling you into him tightly causing you to drop the forceps. 

Your face burns at his proximity but you meet his gaze. Your hands drop on his chest. His eyes hold a softness that you’ve never seen before. 

“Y/n.” No titles, no condescension. Your name rolls off his tongue like it was made for him to say. “Do I have to sing your praises for you to understand that you’ve become irreplaceable for me? Not only that disgustingly brilliant mind of yours but you. It’s become quite annoying how you take up my mind. Unfortunately, I’m sure that you are all you’d see if you dissected my brain and I’m quite tired of it.”

You’re trying to follow but can’t seem to tell if this is a confession or if you’re about to get fired. 

And your confusion must be written on your face because he deadpans, his eyebrow twitching in annoyance. 

“Stupid girl,” his hand roughly grabs your face and he crashes his lips into yours. You freeze, caught off guard by his surprisingly soft lips, but you finally melt into the kiss, returning it with the same intensity. 

After a moment, you both finally pull away. You feel his chest rise and fall heavily, his heart beating in his chest. 

“Based on your current breathing and heart rate, I’d say you like me,” you smirk. 

He simply grabs your waist and throws you over his shoulder, walking towards his lab, “I simply must get to the bottom of why I like you so much.” You giggle, kicking your feet and accepting your fate.

- - - - - - - tag: @stygianoir

[malvirala]

Pretend there's a whole fucked up Weskella valentines day answer to an ask here I can't get cause deleted blog u_u

A  momentary  flare  of  emotion   ━   an  expression  of  rage  that  wasn't  entirely  vicious  for  once.  Instead,  it  was  more  frustrated;  nervous,  self-conscious   ━    almost  human  for  all  it  was  worth.  She  sings  his  praises  in  that  rich,  velveteen  voice  of  hers,  strokes  his  ego  as  if  it  were  a  magnificent  animal   ━  worthy  of  the  praise  ━  of  the  idealization  afforded  to  it  by  its  enchanted  onlooker.  And  wasn't  it ?  He  is  as  close  to  a  god  as  anyone   ever  could  be  —  powerful,  influential,  invulnerable,  insatiable.  He  is  a  destroyer  with  the  aspirations  of  an  architect and  like  all  known  gods,  he  too  was  created  by  the  fears  and  fantasies  of  man.  

But  she  was  more  than  his  captive  audience.  They  had  been  partners and  equals  in  many  ways,  in  ways  he  thought  he  had  long  since  left  behind  with  his  humanity.  Indeed,  that  is  precisely  what  she  has  become  a  constant  reminder  of.  What  he  once  was  ━  of  what  he  could  never  be  again and of  what  he  had  surely  missed . . .  

Companionship.  True,  unity  with  another  living  soul  like  his  own and  now  here  she  stands  before  him  in  all  her  beauty  and  her  likeminded  glory  while  his  humanity  has  long  since  escaped  him.  He  is  a  shell,  all  that  was  once  inside  of  him  drained  away  and  replaced  with  something  new  that  only  just  fit  within  his  skin.  

But  it  remembered  these  things,  these  past  feelings and aspirations.  Perhaps  it  does  not  feel  them . . .  Not  in  the  same  way  he  once  had. . .  But  it  remembers  them  enough  to  react  almost  accordingly. 

He  acknowledges  her  as  she  places  herself  beside  him,  a  cool  interest  plastered  on  his  face  as  far  as  could  be  determined  from  the  obscurity  of  the  sunglasses  he  wears.  She's  bold.  So  very  bold.  It  brings  him  a  smile  of  sorts  as  he  contemplates  her  superficial  swagger.  All  he  would  have  to  do  was  reach  out,  wrap  his  hand  around  her  dainty  little  throat,  and  with  a  slight  squeeze,  he  could  crush  her  pretty  windpipe.  It  would  be  over  in  a  matter  of  seconds.  

Fortunately,  making  an  exquisite  corpse  out  of  her  wasn't  on  his  to-do  list,  but  herein  lied  his  problem.  She  was  moral.  He  was  a  monster.  But  did  the  technicalities  really  matter ?  She  was  worthwhile and she  was  enamored  with  him.  He'd  be  a  fool  not  to  try and embrace  this  in  some  way.  Certainly  he’s  not  trying  to  let  her  down  out  of  dislike,  no,  rather,  quite  the  opposite.  

❝ You  are  everything  you  say  you  are  and  more,  Excella.  Intelligent,  competent,  affluent,  and  of  course  beautiful.  You  needn't  fear  that  any  of  this  goes  unnoticed;  that  is  not  the  case.  The  problem  is... ❞  

He  stops  here. . .  his  eyes  falling  to  the  hand  she  had  dared  to  trail  over  his  chest  so  seductively  only  moments  before.  He's  returning  her  gesture,  his  gloved  hand  ghosting  over  her  knee and coming  to  land  atop  her  hand  in  an  equally  coy  seduction.  Losing  her  support  wasn't  ideal,  even  if  he  couldn't  stand  her,  although  he's  already  acknowledged  this  isn't  where  his  “problem”  lied. 

❝ I’m  afraid  I  am  far  less  of  a  man  than  you  think  I  am. ❞  He  admits,  though  it  nearly  pains  him,  the  sickening  vulnerability  of  it.  As  such  his  brows  furrow  faintly  with  the  confession.  She  sees  what  he  is  on  the  outside,  she  praises  him  as  a  god   but  does  she  truly  understand  what  he  is  on  the  inside ?  What  it  makes  him  capable  of ?  He  thinks  it  would  be  unfair  if  he  didn’t  at  least  warn  her.....

[yagamisdiary]

Amara, your ability to evoke emotions within your readers is truly impeccable. It takes a lot more talent and skill to do so than many might think. Your work and prowess as an author is one to be commended for sure.

One particularly tragic character is Ambrose. I’ve caught up on the story a while ago and ever since I simply just cannot stop thinking about the complexity of his character. Throughout the story, he came across as simply a womanizer who was too consumed by himself. However, his death gave me much to reflect on.

The tragedy of his character comes from the fact that he spent both his life and his death in internal suffering; he simply could not catch a break! As he was growing up he never stood out at all, he was never particularly good at many things and on top of that his siblings outshined him in many fashions. Elijah had his incredible intelligence and likeness as the future king, Kai had his humour and talent to succeed at practically everything and yn had her exceeding kindheartedness and healing abilities. Then there was Ambrose, who was always in a gray area. He was never anyone’s first thought. What he truly wanted deep down was acceptance from his family. He wanted to be seen, acknowledged, and to feel useful. This never came easy as he realized his parents would always be occupied with another one of his more prominent siblings. The realization that he would not get what he yearned for from his family caused him to develop a character that grabbed everyone’s attention in order to compensate for the attention he so badly both wanted and needed from his family. He found comfort in the temporary affectionate moments he shared with various princesses but the feelings were fleeting as it could just never quite fill that gap in his heart left by his treatment by his loved ones. It was like a leaking bucket.

That’s why he became so close to yn, out of everyone, she was the only one who could relate to his feelings of uselessness and being overlooked. When she was younger, yn’s method of bonding with Ambrose was through praise. When I first heard that I thought to myself how conceited he must have been. But now it signifies so much more— not only was she the only one who understood how he felt, but she actively worked to better his confidence and fill the void. She was an extension of himself, which is why he loved her the most out of all. This is why he made sure to incorporate her into his plan of redeeming himself. Just like he promised when they were kids, he would never leave her behind. He had his own twisted ways but in hindsight he actually did try to make her dream of healing the world and becoming a queen come true. The love he had for her was very profound and may slip past someone who doesn’t pay attention to the smaller details. Which is why his death just hurts so much more.

He spent the entirety of his life suffering internally. He finally executed a plan to redeem himself which ultimately failed in the long run, which is very sorrowful. But what’s more is that his death was spent suffering too. Yn occupied a very special place in his heart and he worked hard to get them both better opportunities. His last moments were spent coming to the realization that the one person who he truly loved above all else and sacrificed many things for stabbed him in the back, literally and figuratively. Furthermore he was scared. His mature external body had fooled people into thinking he was an adult, but deep down his severe conflicting emotions prevented him from developing past being a child. That’s what he was, a scared, hurt child trapped in the body of an adult. He spent his last moments feeling betrayal and fear. Now that I think about it, the reason he feared death was likely because he felt that if he died, he would no longer be able to attract attention and that eventually people would forget about him completely. :(

As I read on I can’t help but feel occasional guilt for the fate of Ambrose. He was mentally gone but part of me wonders what could’ve been if he hasn’t been killed, instead he was brought into therapy and treated. Ambrose lived and died in suffering, and spent his last efforts trying to obtain a better life for him and yn, which is why guilt arises whenever yn is enjoying herself, knowing that Ambrose should’ve been right by her side enjoying himself just as much.

wow wow wow let me just start off by saying I LOVEEEE WHEN PPL SEND ME CHARACTER ANALYSIS OF ONE OF MY CHARACTERS LIKE IM OBSESSED

you read him so well i’m honestly speechless! ambrose is one of my favorite characters in the book and in general. people sorta raise their eyebrow at me when i say that because well… you know

the truth is that ambrose’s faith was sealed from the very first chapter, i knew his path from the very start and knew how i wanted everything to go

as i continue to write his character, i found myself getting attached to him and dreading his impending doom that i knew was coming…

ppl either hate him or love him which i think is a truly undeniable sign of a complex character! he had such kind moments where you couldn’t help but love him, you almost hated loving him

and then there were moments where you would stop yourself and say, “why is he doing this? i just started to like him”

i have no additional comments or corrections to your post because honestly you READ TF OUTTA HIM LOL i mean everything was spot on it’s unreal

thank you so much for even taking the time out of ur day to not only read the story but to create and write out this analysis! i don’t think ppl see it from my pov but when i get simple messages about my stories or characters it’s definitely gives me motivation to continue & lets me know that my effort does not go unnoticed !! so again thank u so much 🫶🏼

also i’m so down to read ur character analysis for the other characters!

[merakiui]

Love me Not

yandere!riddle rosehearts x (female) reader cw: yandere, arranged marriage, unhealthy behaviors, strained/toxic relationship, obsession, brief description of minor blood/gore, abuse, captivity

Riddle Rosehearts entered your life at a time when both of you were of juvenile ages. He had mastered complicated magic that earned him his fair share of praise and envy from those who caught wind of his achievements. You often overheard mumblings of his talents from the impressed adults and curious children who surrounded you at social gatherings, all of them raving with fabricated gossip. Though Riddle himself rarely frequented these events to attest for his own skills, his mother and her illustrious namesake were more than enough evidence to provide a truthful basis to the stories told about her prodigious son.

And when the golden child did accompany her he was radiant light, so bright that every guest was a mere moth in comparison.

She crossed paths with your father one fateful day, took notice of the way you hid behind his legs like an innocent wallflower, and flashed you a practiced, motherly smile. When she bent down to greet you, a twinkle in her intelligent eyes, you were hesitant to grab her extended hand. Interacting with adults was not your forte, and you’d prefer to spend that time frolicking with your peers. Nevertheless, you were enchanted with the sharp edges her beauty boasted—an appearance so carefully cultivated you’d have to utilize a magnifying glass if you wished to find any flaw within her.

From rose-red lips, a deceptively poisonous inquiry fell: “Would you like to meet my son?”

Your hand had fit into hers, small and trembling, and she’d shook it firmly. Mirth crinkled her eyes, but the emotion itself did not seem to fit on her face. Her image reminded you of the many ladies you’d viewed in portraits: frigid and distant, a judge fraught with eternal disappointment, never to be pleased no matter how much you worked to attain her acknowledgment.

And yet here she was, peering at you rather than through you.

Perhaps a more accurate correction would be something along the lines of you entering Riddle’s life, unwillingly and unexpectedly. It had been covertly planned the moment his mother discovered you and took an interest in your quiet demeanor and expensive background. You must have shown some sort of promise in magic, academics, or the social sphere if one of the most esteemed magic doctors in all of the Queendom of Roses was extending a personal invitation for you and your father to visit her home and discuss whatever it was adults liked to talk about.

You know now that it was for the sake of betrothal—to pair you and Riddle together even though neither of you had ever met. With no say in the matter, you could only swallow your dreams of a storybook romance and accept the path that was being laid out, cobble by cobble.

Looking back on such a distant memory, you can faintly recall your father’s reaction to such a sudden offer. His lips had curled into what you assumed to be a courteous smile, and he addressed the beautiful woman standing before him with friendly reverence. It was decided then and there that you would be introduced to your first love, orchestrated by two adults snagging a glittering opportunity. Status and wealth were great influences in their decision, as well as your father’s profession as a scholar and current heir to a successful business, but at your age you had never truly considered the importance of such frivolous things. The only concerns in your life were coloring with broken crayons, losing your favorite toys, and eating foods that looked—and probably tasted—disgusting. You did not care for marriage or economics or confusing dramas unless it was for the sake of playing pretend, an exciting pastime you entertained often.

Riddle was, in your own perception, timid. A good-natured, compliant child who smiled when asked and put on an amiable act in the face of rare company, but still timid nonetheless. He had been trained well—a pampered hound trapped under the weight of a generational collar, obedience engraved into his very being. When his silver hues fell upon you, analyzing your anxious movements as you plucked at the lacy hem of your spring dress, the mundanity of routine fell away and a new fortune presented itself. Those dull hues grew wide and curious, but he had restrained himself from showing any other signs of his obvious intrigue, lest he face punishment for exercising human emotion.

The leash, though invisible, was unbearably short, and he was not permitted to do most things an average child could. At the time, you’d associated it with tragedy—a baffling impossibility in which you couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Riddle, dear, this is Mr. (Surname) and his daughter (Name). Mr. (Surname) is a very talented artisan and scholar. Most of your toys come from his shop.”

And yet despite what she claimed, you couldn’t see any toys strewn about or situated neatly on the shelves. Instead, thick textbooks were arranged according to genre, most of which were for educational purposes and would no doubt bore you to death should you flip through one. You caught yourself wondering where the storybooks were—the kind that involved tales of valiant knights and strong-willed royalty. Fantasy stories that were bright and had happy endings. In the eyes of a child, mathematics and history were not as appealing as true love’s kiss.

Riddle had blinked owlishly at your father, as if struggling to comprehend what this introduction meant, before nodding and going through the motions of a formal greeting—all the while his mother observed his every movement, pride reflected in her stern countenance.

Once greetings had been put to rest, Riddle’s mother instructed her son to show you around, waving the both of you off with a flick of her delicate wrist. It was to be, in her own words, a ‘tolerated respite from studying.’ You weren’t familiar with what she meant, but Riddle thanked her sincerely and gestured for you to follow him. Your fingers reached for your father’s sleeve, seeking comfort in his presence, but he grabbed your hand and squeezed it instead. He smiled down at you, his trademark it’ll be okay smile. And without any other option, you slid off of the couch and bounded after Riddle.

It was an awkward first meeting, in which neither of you knew how to truly start a conversation without interrupting the other. And that led to a tiresome cycle of I apologize, you go first and I insist, you first. Eventually, you had the idea to do what all adults did at parties: gossip. And that certainly halted all interjections.

“What do you think they’re talking about?”

He glanced down the hall, brows scrunched in thought. “I’m not sure, but it must be something important. Mama said you’ll be my bride one day.”

“That can’t be,” you said, waving the possibility of marriage aside with a scoff. “Maybe you’re in trouble.”

His face fell at the jest and he shook his head, cleared his throat, and said, “That’s impossible.”

A tiny smile sprouted on your lips while you gazed at the various paintings that hung on the walls. “What do you do for fun?”

“I study.”

“That’s it?”

“Am I... Am I meant to do more than that?”

“Of course!” You skipped down the hall, running your fingers along the cream-colored wallpaper as you went. Riddle followed behind you with meek steps. “You’re supposed to play and imagine all sorts of fun things! My friends and I like to pretend we’re saving each other from an evil queen.” You turned around to gauge his reaction. “You’ve played pretend before, haven’t you?”

“Um… How do you play pretend?”

“You use your imagination. Duh.” You pointed at one of the paintings. It was a bright landscape with sprawling hills and a quaint cottage. “You make something out of nothing. Like that house in the painting. Maybe it’s a secret base for spies and the reason it’s so isolated is because... Uh. Well—”

“Because it’s logical to keep to yourself when you have secrets?”

“I guess? But maybe it’s better to blend in. Maybe the spies are just good at hiding and don’t have any need for disguises.”

“Spies? No one lives in that house.”

“You don’t know that.”

He puffed his cheeks out at you. “I do know! It’s an abandoned house. There isn’t any yellow paint to indicate light, so therefore it’s empty.”

“It is not.”

“It is, too!”

“Not!”

“Yes, it is! Look with your eyes and you’ll see!”

This continued for another minute until you broke the unending banter with a giggle. Riddle paused mid-debate. A smile was beginning to blossom on his lips and it wasn’t long until he was laughing alongside you. When you clasped his hands in a firm hold and he mirrored your amusement, the first thorn embedded itself in your heart. It was hardly worth noticing, but it remained, silently sharp. And it would only grow sharper with every link added to the vine-like chain that connected you and Riddle.

“Let’s try again. This time, tell me what you see in that painting.”

“I see a garden of bluebells and, within it, a princess in a cottage.”

i. the first petal is plucked from the white rose: “she loves me.” to what extent does she love you? “a little, i’m certain.”

The neatly wrapped package fits into Trey’s outstretched hands. He stares at the pristine bow, brows raised, before stepping aside to allow you entry into the labyrinthine garden. You pass him gracefully, offering a tiny, close-lipped smile. Mischief shimmers in your eyes and the Vice Housewarden takes notice of it with a poorly concealed grimace. 

“Riddle has spent a lot of time preparing for your arrival,” he warns you, holding your gaze for a moment. Then he grins, charming as always, and adds, “He’ll be happy to see you.”

“I was hoping he wouldn’t bother.” You glance at the beautiful roses blooming on the perfectly trimmed hedges and reach for the lone white blossom amidst a sea of green and red. It’s torn from its stem seconds later and you listen to the sound of the bud snapping free with cruel satisfaction. “There we go. Just saved you from a beheading. You’re welcome.”

Trey inhales an exhausted breath, but he doesn’t release it. He knows better than to sigh in your presence. You’ve told him before that it hardly matters—that there should be no need for him to play damage control when you’re around—but he insists on doing it anyway. When the shredded petals scatter from your palm like trickling rain, he waves his magic pen so that they’re colored red. And then he follows after you as you venture deeper into the maze. 

A long table with a crisp, white tablecloth greets you when you emerge into the clearing, and chairs are positioned around it. Plates filled with various baked goods decorate the surface, tempting you with their sweet aroma. The scene has been yanked from one of your childhood storybooks and reprinted into reality. Save for Prince Less-Than-Charming, who sits at the head of the table with a permanent scowl, the tea party is, otherwise, a coveted nostalgia.

“You’ve outdone yourself,” you mutter, awestruck.

Trey chuckles. “This is nothing I can’t handle. But if you must compliment me, save it until after you’ve tried the tart. Riddle had me make your favorite.”

Your favorite, he says. It’s not actually your favorite. It’s Riddle’s, but you’ve never made that distinction clear. What Riddle enjoys, you enjoy. That’s how it’s always been and you suspect it will remain that way for the rest of your life.

Riddle’s youthful face is as sharp and stern as his mother’s, a trait only a true Rosehearts child could inherit, and his eyes are narrowed at the pocket watch clasped in his gloved hand. His gaze lifts when you walk down the length of the table and find your chair beside him. Before you seat yourself, you lower into a halfhearted curtsy and allow a polite smile to take up residence on your lips.

“You’re late.” He flicks his wrist at Trey, who departs without another word.

“Only fashionably,” you retort, smoothing the wrinkles in your skirt before sitting. Your legs cross at the ankles, fingers interlacing gently, and you keep your posture in check. “I almost didn’t come, but Father insisted on it—said your mother would complain endlessly if I refused to visit her golden child.”

He frowns, unimpressed. “You should know it’s common courtesy to visit loved ones when you have the time.”

But do I love you? you’re tempted to ask.

“My apologies. It’s a good thing I showed up this time.”

“This time,” he echoes, hands curling into fists as the memory resurfaces. You think he might break earlier than you were expecting, but to your surprise he clears his throat and adds, “Well, let’s hope this will prove to be an enjoyable afternoon.”

“We’ll see.”

At the very least, playing tea party with Riddle is far more tolerable than having to face his mother or argue with your father about the arrangement. You’re not sure why any of them put in the effort anymore. It’s pointless to force a bird with clipped wings to fly. Most of these meetings are for formality’s sake more than anything else. Neither you nor Riddle care much for the happenings in your lives. This is just an obligation—another rule that must be followed whether you like it or not.

As he fills your porcelain teacup, you observe your surroundings. Heartslabyul is charming with its extravagant color palette. Red is much too bold for someone of your tastes, but you’ll admit it complements the dorm’s theme. In the past you might have enjoyed seeing it so often—on flowers, on silverware, on clothes—but the hue has been forced onto you so many times that it’s become an eyesore. It doesn’t help that the color has bled into Riddle. He’s practically a walking splotch of red paint.

He sets the teapot down after he’s fixed himself a cup and you watch the steam rise and curl from the rosy liquid. The garden is far too peaceful for your liking. Other than the vibrant roses on the trees and shrubbery, the only other sign of life here appears to be you and Riddle. You can’t help but wonder what commands he gave to keep everyone out of the garden for this occasion. Perhaps you should have asked Trey for the details when he welcomed you.

"My mother has allowed the two of us to go on a weekend excursion,” Riddle announces around the rim of his teacup. It’s poised just at his lips as he examines your face for a reaction you have yet to give. 

"That’s impossible,” you eventually reply, tone clipped. “I doubt she would agree to something so...” You search for the right adjective as you sip at the warm beverage. Even though it has been sweetened with two sugar cubes, you can still taste the faintest hint of underlying bitterness. “Distracting.” 

“Regardless, it’s what she wants, and if she thinks it’s for the best…” He nods to himself. “This is not something you can weasel out of. I will not allow it.”

“It must be pretty important.” You lean back in your chair, disposing of your posture even when Riddle scoffs and reminds you to sit properly. You let the admonishment roll off your shoulders. “I assume my father had a hand in this?”

“Perhaps.” Another idle sip. He’s looking at you with an indistinguishable glint in his silver hues. “It’s meant to strengthen our bond.”

“We don’t have a bond.”

“Well, we must if we are to be wed one day. Honestly, do you ever listen?” He shakes his head in disapproval. “In any case, the getaway will span the weekend. I’m sure you can make time in your schedule for two days.”

“I don’t have much of a choice.” You tap your fingernail against the side of the cup. Riddle’s eye twitches and he opens his mouth to scold you. “Where exactly will we be going?”

“A private cabin.”

“Ah, I see how it is. She wants us to get accustomed to living together. A practice run of the future.”

“It’s sensible.”

“It’s annoying.”

Riddle sighs. “The fact still stands that you are my fiancée. There’s nothing I can do to change that.”

“You could—I don’t know—cancel the engagement? Tell your mother it’s not going to work out. Find someone you can actually love and tolerate. Or we could stop meeting like this and it might—”

“Enough.” His glare sends a lance of ice through your heart. “I will do no such thing. Our relationship is fine as it is.” Before he can work himself into a frenzy, Riddle lifts the lid off of a silver platter, revealing a delicious-looking strawberry tart. “Trey made it. I’m sure you’ll find it’s to your liking.”

Of course it is, you think, straightening up in your chair. I had to learn to like it for your sake.

He serves you a slice and you poke at the strawberry purée with the prongs of your fork. “What are your thoughts on it?”

Surprise dances on his face for a mere second before it melts away into indifference. Throwing him a bone every now and then is your speciality. Just when he thinks you’re in a nasty mood, spewing negativity like a fire-breathing dragon, you soften your tone and ask him for his opinion. Or you’ll tell him he looks handsome. Or you’ll praise him for his academic achievements. Sometimes it works wonders and sometimes it doesn’t. From the way a gentle smile graces his features, you’ve tamed him this time.

“It will be beneficial to our relationship.” It’s a practiced line; you recognize it at once because it’s a variation of what you’ve been using for years. It’s for the benefit of our families. The line that everyone hears when they ask about your betrothed—when they gush about just how lucky you are and lavish the both of you with hollow compliments. “No relationship is without its thorns. Perhaps a weekend in solitude can mend our distaste for one another.”

“Maybe.” You can’t possibly imagine Riddle’s mother orchestrating this. Your father might pull a stunt like this, but she would never let the idea come to fruition, not when it takes away from her son’s studies. And yet it’s already happening—on a precious weekend, no less. “Two days won’t be so terrible. What could go wrong?”

Riddle hums in both agreement and satisfaction. He’s cutting into his own slice of tart, happily savoring the taste of sweet strawberry. You mirror his actions, stabbing at a chunk and bringing it to your lips. As always, Trey’s baking is divine and you can’t help but melt alongside Riddle, enjoying the flavor for a brief moment. When the two of you eat in silence like this, everything is veiled in serene normalcy. The air is still in the garden, as if it wishes to relish in the comforting quiet alongside you, and Riddle’s thorns have been removed.

But like many instances in the past, you choose to disturb it.

“Do you remember when you collared me last time?” You clean cream from your fork slowly, like a spider creeping along its web, and gaze at Riddle. “You claimed I stole something and that according to the Queen of Hearts—rule fifty-three, if I remember correctly—all stolen items must be replaced.” 

“That’s right.” His eyes narrow. “I removed it after both parties thoroughly apologized. The matter was resolved, so I see no reason to return to old news.”

“That’s a shame.” You look for Trey among the bushes. “I had a gift prepared for you. It wouldn’t be very polite of me if I failed to adhere to the rules. I gave it to Trey, but I haven’t the faintest clue where he’s gone.”

“Is that so?” Riddle sighs and then adds, in a louder voice, “Trey.”

He’s walking over seconds later, the gift in his hands. You smile, pleased with the red stains that have bled into the white wrapping paper. Perhaps the color is good for one thing after all.

“I don’t think you would appreciate this gift,” he admits sheepishly, an odd look in his eyes. He’s getting better at this. You wonder if this will be a new record for him—if his guess is correct, that is. “Perhaps it would be best if—”

“The gift, Trey.” Riddle holds his hands out, impatience lining his tone. “I will not ask again.”

His eyes slide to yours and you nod encouragingly. “I’m merely returning what’s owed. There’s nothing dubious about that, is there, Trey?”

With a frown, Trey hands your gift off to Riddle, who observes the packaging with intense scrutiny. He clears space on the table for it before carefully pulling at the bow until it comes undone. You lean back in your seat, as if bracing for an impact that has yet to come, and watch as Riddle unwraps the present.

“It’s truly a shame your mother isn’t here. I’m sure this would have been her breaking point,” you mutter absently, tapping your manicured fingernail against the table.

Lying in the box amidst blood-stained, silky lace is a heart. Riddle stares at it, the lid of the box gripped tightly in his resolute hands.

Trey sucks in a tense breath. “I can assure you no harm was intended with this…joke.”

Your dearest fiancé remains silent, seemingly at a loss for words, before a delighted laugh spills from his lips. “I’ll admit it makes for a surprising show.” His smile is cruel and sharp, the thread not having snapped yet, as he turns his grey stare on you. “Tell me, (Name), what has prompted such a visceral display?”

“I’m just returning what I stole.”

“I see.” The lid is back on the gift, concealing the heart from view, and Riddle hands it off to Trey, shooing him away so that he may focus his attention on you. “I’m willing to overlook these slights for today, considering you’ve amused me with your foolish behavior. Although I must know—what was the purpose in doing this? Surely you’re not as impulsively thoughtless as I once assumed.”

“It doesn’t really matter anymore.” You push your plate away in disgust.

“It does matter.” He inhales sharply, holds his breath for a moment, and then releases it. His tone is softer this time, measured. “You have a reputation to uphold, as do I.”

“‘And you’re doing a poor job of it’ is what you want to say, right?”

“It’s a relief I won’t have to spell it out for you.” Riddle folds his arms over his chest. “Consider yourself lucky I’m willing to put up with your childish antics.”

“Childish?” you sputter, nearly losing your composure. Who is he to say such a thing when all these years the immature one has been him? “You know very well that I don’t care about reputations.”

“You should. If you are to carry the Rosehearts namesake and the reputation that is attached to it, you ought to act like one.”

“The last thing I want to inherit is your surname.” You rise from your seat. “If a pig’s heart isn’t enough to deter you, what will? What must I do to get you to hate me? To cancel the engagement? Tell me, Riddle. Tell me so that I can do it and be done with you.”

“Sit back down. I won’t entertain your tantrums.” 

"No.” It slips out before any other offending remarks can and the irritated look that flashes across Riddle’s face is so very pleasing to witness. In the past it might have frightened you and you’d have obeyed at once, but you’re no longer the timid girl who used to fear responsibilities and fierce rage. “No, I don’t think I will.”

“You’re being unreasonably insolent!” he snaps, porcelain face dyed in creeping red. He, too, rises out of his seat, a glower morphing his usually delicate features into something vicious. “I will not allow you to ruin yet another perfect tea party! It would be in your best interest to sit down before you lose your head.” Those last few words are hissed through grit teeth.

Part of you wants to snap at him like you’ve done in the past, but nothing substantial has ever come from it and you’re always left more unsatisfied than you were originally. It’s moments such as this one where you must remind yourself that a level head is better than one filled with hatred. Riddle’s temper is not something to trifle with, but you’ve found that poking a sleeping bear is an invigorating way to invite it to devour you. You can only dream of the day when you push him to shattering and he finally declares that the engagement is over—that he’s finished with this troubling act and the stress it puts on him. Unfortunately he’s yet to say anything related to that, so you’re left to sit shackled in your private birdcage, gloomy and alone. You never know what his true feelings are on the arrangement—whether he wants to cancel it or keep up this tiresome charade. You certainly want the former.

“My apologies, Riddle.”

He sneers. “If you were truly sorry, you would mean it. There is no sincerity in your eyes.”

"You’re right. That’s exactly why I won’t feel anything when I leave.”

“I forbid you from doing so! If you take one step out of these gardens—”

“This weekend trip is the last thing we’ll ever do together.” You look him in the eyes as you utter your next line, one that has been burning the tip of your tongue for years. “After that, I’m ending the engagement myself.”

Your skirt swishes in a swoop of ruffled linens, pristine fabric muddied with specks of blood, as you begin the brisk walk through the floral maze. Riddle’s high-pitched threats fall on deaf ears, as does the bomb that has finally detonated. You can already feel the phantom weight of the collar—can taste the bitterness of iron as you bite your tongue and await the reprimanding that’s in store for you. But in that moment you can’t bother with your worries because it’s so very freeing to crawl out of your rusted birdcage, wings spread wide. And once you survive this weekend you’ll finally be able to wash your hands of the infamous crimson stain.

You skip through Night Raven College’s grand campus, a wide grin splitting your lips and a celebratory hum rising in your throat.

I can handle two days.

ii. the second petal is plucked from the white rose: “she loves me not.” to what extent does she not love you? “a lot, i fear.”

The changes came with Riddle. Not all at once, thankfully, but they overwhelmed you as the years flew by. Your demeanor was the first to be modified. Your father instructed you to smile more—to be more open and approachable when you interacted with other children and adults. You weren’t meant to be seen as a shy, reserved child. When it came to the public, you were to put on a cheerful act so that they would see you as who you were being sculpted as: a joyous fiancée, a polite member of high society, and an acquiescent daughter. In private, when you were alone with your heavy thoughts, you were free to voice your complaints to the stuffed animals crowding your bed.

They listened with deaf ears, stitched lips unable to utter a single consolation.

Changes to your wardrobe were made next. Your spring dresses with cute, flowery accents and pastel colors were ripped from you by unforgiving hands and replaced with prim outfits that complemented Riddle’s color scheme. Dresses and skirts were to be knee-length and you could no longer play outside, lest you dirty your outfit and reputation with nature’s filth and rumors. White became a staple for you, courtesy of Riddle’s mother’s taste in demure fashion. She made sure to cultivate you as the white rose who would match Riddle’s red. And if anyone who garnered her disapproval invaded the garden in which the both of you flourished, she would ensure they never returned.

Most of your friends were snipped away, deemed worthless weeds by a gardener’s cruel shears. You met Riddle’s friends in secret—a polite boy named Trey and a mischievous cat who went by Che’nya. They were an enjoyable pair and Riddle was especially ecstatic to introduce you to them. But they weren’t your friends, much like how every aspect of your slowly evolving personality became increasingly unrecognizable with each day spent caged in a betrothal. 

One day, you spied your reflection in a hand mirror and came to a heartbreaking conclusion. You had become a byproduct of the criteria laid out for Riddle—a mere shadow doomed to cling to its creator, never straying too far. Silent and devoted, held captive in light and snuffed at dark.

When your mannerisms and outfits aligned with his, your diet was next on the chopping block. Your father, who used to treat you to your favorite pastry every Saturday morning, stopped giving you sweets altogether. He had said that sugar would only lead to health problems and that a good fiancée should follow in her future groom’s footsteps. Perhaps, if you read enough cookbooks and admired the photos of delicious baked goods, you might learn how to convert images into tangible foods for your own whimsy.

It didn’t bother you at first—that’s what you would think when you’d twist and turn in your bed at night, struggling with the same ever-present nightmare. There was no time to develop a fear of change because it was already happening to your identity, your way of life, and even your own thoughts. Eventually, mourning these changes wasn’t enough. You could resent the circumstances all you wanted, but nothing would resolve itself if you weren’t actively working towards a solution. Dedication and hard work are the things that earn you a place at the dinner table—a line you often heard your father recite. 

If they wouldn’t listen when you spoke their language—calm and elegant, always submissive—then you would shout until the fluffy clouds above could hear your desperation. And only then would change come. 

On the eve of your thirteenth birthday, rebellion sank its teeth into you. Thunderous rains poured, battering the windows in an angry torrent of glacial tears. You and Riddle stood in the doorway, thoroughly drenched and muddied, while his mother and your father stared in disbelief.

“Unbelievable…” she muttered, shaking her head. Your father placed a comforting hand on her arm, but she shook him off. “What is the meaning of this? Why are you so filthy?”

Riddle paled at her shrill cadence. “Mama, please forgive—”

“There was a bird. It had fallen from its nest and died. I wanted to give it a proper burial.”

“A burial? Good heavens, you’re a lady! Where have your manners gone?”

You gathered fistfuls of your soaked skirt, fighting the rush of flustered tears that sprung forth. You had heard that word a lot—lady. Whenever you did something remotely unsavory, you were deemed foul and dirty, as if raising your voice or failing to curtsy were things that could sully you. As if it would soak through the purity in your bones and taint the very marrow that resided there.

“I have manners! A good lady pays her respects, even if she wasn’t intimately acquainted with the deceased. That’s what anyone would do, r-right? It’s... It’s the proper way to act.”

“A lady would not carelessly touch the dead, lest she wishes to catch an illness, and she most certainly wouldn’t lower herself to the ground while it’s howling a gale!” Her gaze fell upon Riddle, a guillotine’s blade that cut him down before he could even attempt to argue your innocence. “And you! You are to be her groom one day. This sort of behavior is unbecoming of a young man. Recklessly entertaining foolish whims without having considered the consequences… I’ve taught you better than that, surely.”

You looked to Riddle for salvation, whispering, “Tell her we meant well. Please, Riddle. We didn’t expect it to start raining. Tell her that—”

“I apologize for my behavior. It was (Name)’s idea in the first place, but I will reflect on the consequences of my actions.” 

“What? N-No! We agreed to go out together! He said he’d help me dig the hole!”

Riddle’s expression morphed into one of shock. You felt the energy drain from your soul as he shook his head, fiery locks swishing wildly.

“That’s preposterous! I said no such thing!”

“But you did! You said—”

“That is enough.” His mother stepped between the both of you, an unyielding barricade you didn’t dare challenge. Her eyes were frosty, but her face had softened when she addressed your father, who could only look on in disappointment. “I believe this is where we must part ways. Thank you for the tea.”

“This isn’t fair! Wait, don’t go! Let me explain my side of the story!” Your father’s hand was on your shoulder, applying the slightest pressure. Don’t make anymore trouble for yourself. Your voice died in your throat and came out as a broken whisper seconds later. “You’re a liar…”

Riddle refused to meet your stare.

“I do hope that the next time we meet you have improved upon yourself as a proper lady,” Riddle’s mother said, displeasure clouding her visage. “I will not allow poor influences to disturb my Riddle.”

Poor influences. Proper lady. Improve upon yourself. You hated every word that slipped past her rosy lips. How could she shove all of the blame onto you when Riddle was equally at fault? How could your father listen to her and heed her admonishments when it was his own daughter she raved about? How dare he sit back in passive discomfort while you were the one being dragged from your seat at the table, locked away in a birdcage with a rotting slab of wood for a table. A place you would stay until you could muster a different approach.

Until you were Riddle’s carbon copy.

And you couldn’t stand that. More than death, more than punishments, more than undergoing grueling lessons spent in a lonesome study. 

“I hate you!” It burst out like an unrestrained shattering of glass, dagger-like in its ability to slice. “I hate you so much! You’re the worst! I never want to see you again!”

Riddle finally caught your dark glower and he held it. Tears crept into his eyes, but he rubbed them away at once. With an offended huff, his mother tugged him through the door into the night. It shut gently, as if she had enough courtesy to treat inanimate objects with care rather than another human being. The rains had finally ceased, leaving the windows spattered with droplets, and you sank to the floor.

Your father bent down to your level, but you couldn’t find it in yourself to address him. “You mustn’t do this again.” He then rose to his full height, stared at you for a moment longer, and departed, feigning ignorance to your sobs as they echoed in the dimly lit corridor. 

You did not have a grand celebration for your thirteenth birthday. One had never been planned and after your outburst one would never come. Instead, you were trapped in solitary confinement, sentenced to a full day of reflection without meals. There was no playing pretend in this instance and your stuffed animals couldn’t be there to comfort you. You faced the wall in all of its bland glory and waited for the hours to tick by.

When you emerged from your punishment, a silver birdcage was passed into your hands. Through the ornate bars, a tiny canary shuffled along its perch, yellow feathers rustling. You eyed the creature with disdain.

“Canaries prefer peace and quiet,” your father explained, holding a finger against his lips to further cement the suggestion not-so-subtly veiled as an order. “You should follow in their example.”

For however long you had that dreadful bird, it never once sang. It could only tilt its head at you, beady eyes pondering the nature of your soul, as if it couldn’t fathom the similarities between bird and girl.

iii. the third petal is plucked from the wilting rose: “he loves me.” to what extent does he love you? “passionately, you see.”

“It’s…nice.” The lackluster adjective is all you can manage when you observe the small cabin laid out before you, positioned in the center of a clearing and surrounded by clusters of flourishing bluebells. Maple trees close in on the building from all sides, successfully locking it in a wooden prison. The A-frame cabin isn’t old, but it certainly isn’t new either. You can’t quite put your finger on why you’re so apprehensive about its triangular design or the dark colors it has been painted, a stark contrast to the earthy tones of the forest.

“It’s quaint, wouldn’t you agree?” Riddle stands at your side, dressed in casual attire and admiring the cottage with a satisfaction befitting a painter gazing at his finished project. A breeze tousles his hair, invisible fingers raking through a garden of red, and you find yourself contemplating why you even bothered to come. 

“It has character,” you conclude.

Your grip tightens on the handle of your duffel bag. Riddle insisted he carry it for your sake, but you had rolled your eyes and lifted it from the ground to prove your capabilities. He didn’t press the matter further, but you did catch a scoff and a hushed mumbling. You are not a delicate lady; that much should be obvious by now. If Riddle wanted to be a mature gentleman, he would have ended things responsibly.

“I took the liberty of checking the forecast the night before and this weekend’s weather will be perfect. I’ve also planned plenty of activities for us. We have much to do.”

“Besides swatting at mosquitos all day, I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.” You stalk past him, beelining for the door. “Let’s get this weekend started. The sooner the better.”

Two days. Tolerate him for two days and I’ll be free. 

Accepting your temporary fate is the least you can do after everything that has happened. Looking back on the turbulent memories, you realize you were nothing more than a blank pattern just waiting to be sewn into something worthy of a gardener’s critical gaze. Had Riddle’s mother never taken up that needle, you would have remained as that shy wallflower, a pattern not yet stitched.

I will endure it. Two days is nothing compared to all that I’ve dealt with. 

Riddle appears at your side and unlocks the door. The silver key finds residence in his pocket while he holds the door open for you, a princely gesture that would have certainly won your favor if you weren’t already familiar with the darker facets of his personality. You utter your thanks despite your contrasting thoughts and step inside.

The interior is another world entirely, one in which you have yet to immerse yourself. The rustic floorboards and shuttered windows are charming in a stuck-in-the-forest way and the furniture has been arranged to fit within the small space. A compact kitchenette consisting of a granite countertop with a sink and a tiny refrigerator have been stuffed in the corner, and a few paces before that a sofa and an armchair are placed around a space where a television should be. In its place, a low coffee table sits. Board games and magazines have been thrown haphazardly on its surface, as if someone was in a hurry to clean up and couldn’t set aside time to organize them. Various landscape portraits are hanging crooked on the walls, displaying cold sceneries devoid of humanity. 

You glance at the winding staircase that leads up to a tiny loft, where a single bed is pushed up against the wall, just below a circular window, and frown. It isn’t the sort of comfort you seek when you envision a bedroom in a cottage, but it’s the best this place has to offer. If it comes down to it, you could choose to sleep on the sofa.

Beyond the sitting room-kitchenette hybrid, a thin hallway stretches and breaks off into two individual rooms, both of which are hidden behind closed doors. You can only assume one of them is the bathroom. As for the other, you have no clue of its contents and, frankly, you can’t be bothered to care. 

“So what’s on the agenda for today?” You drop your duffel bag on the chair and pivot to face him. “Should we go for a hike? Start a bonfire and roast marshmallows? Explore the forest?”

“Not yet.” He sets his suitcase beside the chair and walks further into the room, pausing to inspect the kitchen. “It’s nearly lunch. We should prepare something to eat and then we can follow the itinerary I wrote up.”

“All right. What would you like?” You move towards the fridge and open it to inspect its innards. “I’ll cook.”

“You can cook?”

“Can you?”

“I...can follow a recipe, so long as it’s accurate and quantitative.”

“Seeing as there aren’t any recipes at our disposal, I’ll cook.” You’re already pulling ingredients from the cool depths of the fridge, ignoring Riddle’s curious stare as it pins you to your spot. A carton of eggs is the first thing in your hands and you search it for an expiration date. When one can’t be found, you open the carton to analyze the eggs. Painted in bright variations of pink and red, each egg rests in its respective space. “I’m actually really good at it. I can also bake, but I’m nowhere near as good as Trey.”

His silence sets the hairs on the back of your neck on high alert. Riddle almost always has something to say, so to exist in a room with him and experience the peace that comes with his unmoving tongue is quite the rarity. Perhaps he’s ruminating or he simply sees no need to comment on useless information. Most of your conversations consist of biting remarks, hate-filled arguments that send the both of you spiraling towards an inevitable crash. You only ever know how to communicate through verbal disagreements, and talking without any hostility is almost foreign to you. 

“If there are enough ingredients, I’ll make a dessert for you.”

“Is that so?” At the mention of sweets, Riddle moves past you and reaches up to open a cupboard. Porcelain plates with swirling designs meet his gaze. “I’m not sure you’ll be able to find fresh strawberries, though. There aren’t any in the fridge.”

“The recipe doesn’t call for strawberries.” 

“Then how do you expect to bake a proper strawberry tart without one of its key ingredients?”

“I never said I liked strawberry tarts. I don’t even know how to make one.”

He blinks at you and for a while you hold his unreadable stare. Eventually he exhales noisily and says, “It seems we don’t know each other as well as I once thought.”

“No, we don’t.”

Despite the lack of expiration dates on every package you come across, you take your time preparing an adequate meal, sorting through what ingredients look fresh and what don’t. Oddly enough, everything looks and smells as it should: deceptively appetizing, so much so that it’s almost unnatural. Yet as you toss a salad with vibrant greens and spread sweet marmalade on perfectly toasted bread, you can’t help the unease that slithers through you. Even the boring casserole the oven births is flawless and filled with flavor when you sample a tiny slice. 

Curiously, you empty random ingredients in a bowl, place it in the warm oven, and set the timer. It doesn’t even take a full minute, but when you peer inside the oven and pull a perfectly edible dish out, an internal alarm resounds. Blaring and bright, it’s the clearest sign you can receive. 

“Something’s not right...”

“What is it?” Riddle peers down at you from above, his hands on the railing as he overlooks the kitchenette like a sovereign. How he heard your soft grunt of displeasure and its accompanying whisper is beyond you, and how he managed to move so soundlessly up the cast iron staircase is also a mystery.

“Nothing.” You gaze at the casserole and the side dishes with a frown. “Just thinking.”

“May I ask what occupies your thoughts?”

“You’ll think I’m foolish.”

“Depending on the context of your answer, I might.” An amused half-smile sprouts on his lips. “Well?”

“It’s nothing,” you insist. “I’m just a little surprised we’re sharing a meal together. That’s all.”

“It’s not that surprising.” He lifts his hands from the bannister and disappears within the loft. The rest of his words float down to you, suffocated in the small space. “You should get used to it. This is to be our future, after all.”

You have to restrain yourself from correcting him. It wouldn’t be fair if you spoiled the afternoon on account of your loose tongue, but you can’t help ruminating on your future when it’s spoken with a bold degree of certainty—as if you and Riddle have been attached at the hip all this time and are unable to separate, even when graduation wields scissors destined to snip young couples as if they’re nothing more than a paper chain. An eternity spent in a tiny house with Riddle as your husband sounds like torture in the rawest form. Although you doubt he’d want to live in a space like this one, the thought that he’d be living under the same roof as you regardless of the location is enough to churn your stomach until your insides have become butter. Perhaps you wouldn’t be so opposed to a life with him if the both of you had met under different circumstances and you weren’t forced into the same mold he had been produced from. Maybe then you might have felt a shred of love for him. 

Instead, the weight of a monstrous burden claws at your back, reminding you that every scar, visible or not, is a result of him and his mother.

It’s too quiet when you set the small table with plates and utensils. Even though this isn’t your best work, the entire meal looks like something from a cookbook. You’re not sure why you chose to cook a casserole when there were so many other options floating within your head. Perhaps you’re fond of the idea of throwing ingredients in a dish and watching them come together to make one delicious thing—a metaphor that doesn’t apply to you and your fiancé no matter how much sugar you empty into the vat.

Riddle cuts into it with precision, knife and fork held at a precise angle. You watch his mouth as it closes around a bite-sized morsel. For a moment you hold your breath, awaiting his noise of disgust or an insult to your cooking. All you receive is a widening of the eyes, which can mean numerous things as you’ve come to learn. 

“You really can cook,” he declares after a few tense moments of silence. “It’s delicious. Excellent work.”

You release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “Thank you. I’m pleased you like it.” You pierce a chunk of casserole, but the fork does not reach your lips. “Are you…happy here?”

He sips from a clear glass of water before replying, “Why do you ask?”

“We’re not happy when we’re together. It’s obvious we hate each other.”

“Our relationship wouldn’t be devoid of happiness if you weren’t so hellbent on making things difficult.” Riddle releases an exasperated breath. “Let’s start anew. I would like to spend this weekend cultivating a healthier relationship. You might not agree with my idea, but I would appreciate it if you could at least humor me before we end this betrothal.”

“All right… And how do you suppose we go about ‘starting anew,’ hm?”

“Tell me about yourself.” Before you can respond to the blunt demand, he adds, “I’m well-acquainted with the brash, ill-mannered girl sitting before me, but I’m quite certain that that’s not the real you.”

Like a beached fish, you open and shut your mouth in an attempt to string a single sentence together.

“You’re right,” you manage to mutter as you run your fork through the casserole lump, effectively dividing it into smaller chunks. Similar to a decaying flower, the food is drained of color immediately. “That isn’t me.”

He nods, as if expecting this, and waits patiently for you to continue.

“I don’t care much for performances. In fact, I hate being the center of attention. I only did that because I wanted to show you and your mother every ugly side of me. In doing so, I was hoping you’d call off the engagement because I wasn’t enough of a ‘proper lady’ for you.” You chuckle as you recall every misbehavior, small and large. “I promise I’m not as temperamental as you’ve been led to believe.”

“I assumed as much. My mother was and still is furious whenever she catches wind of your misdemeanors. I’ve had to talk her out of canceling our engagement for years now.”

“You talked to her?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” He stares at you, baffled. “I couldn’t let her make such an important decision for me. It is I who chooses whether or not to call off the engagement. Unfortunately, she hardly listened to my opinion on the matter. But you’ve remained my fiancée up until now, so perhaps my words had some influence. Or your father and his reputation swayed her.”

“Maybe... To be honest, I didn’t think you’d do that. She’s not easy to talk to.”

Riddle sighs around the rim of his glass. “Those manufactured sides you spoke of—I find it difficult to believe you could harbor an ugly side.”

“And what about you? Who is the real Riddle Rosehearts, the one beyond dormitory obligations and rules? Surely you’re not as strict as you act.”

He finally indulges in another sip, awkwardly glancing at anywhere that isn’t your face. His half-empty plate becomes more interesting than the topic at hand and you sense that he can’t quite muster a response. So you sidestep the subject with caution and move onto something equally terrible and distracting. 

“When I learned of your accident, I’ll admit I was worried. You could have seriously hurt yourself. I…didn’t tell you at the time because I was stubborn and I didn’t want to upset you, but I was relieved to hear of your recovery.”

At the recollection of his Overblot, Riddle’s expression twists into something sour and regretful. You think you see a hint of shame in his overcast hues, but you dismiss it before it can fray your heartstrings.

“I didn’t know you felt that way.” His voice is uncharacteristically hushed, and you don’t miss the pink that settles on his cheeks like shimmering stardust.

You stand up abruptly, your chair screeching against the floorboards. “It’s not an issue anymore, though.” You cross the short distance to the kitchenette and scrape your untouched lunch into the trash. You’re unable to see the bottom of the bin; it’s a dark, winding rabbit hole that seems to spiral infinitely. Peering into it, you wait to hear the food hit the bottom. A sound fails to reach your waiting ears. “I’ll...get started on dessert.”

Unspoken questions fester in the air; you can tell from how thick the tension is. But sharing your feelings and thoughts with Riddle in a civil setting is too much for your frazzled mind. You aren’t used to seeing this private side of him, where his behaviors are composed of the sweetest pastries and tooth-rotting sugar mice—satisfactory things that serve as a deceptive shroud. It’s as if he’s a doll who has been melted down, factory reset, and repaired in every possible way to alter his personality. 

You find yourself longing for the Riddle you grew to despise. It’s easier to face his wrath than it is tiptoeing around his kindness.

“What are you making?” His voice brings you back to reality, where you find him at your side as he sets the dirty dishes in the sink. They hardly touch the spotless basin before they return to how they once were, food residue washed away with invisible soap. “I’d like to offer my help, if you’ll accept it.”

“Just don’t get in the way.” You hold up a box containing the mix needed to make lemon squares. “It’s not from scratch, but this should suffice and it saves us some time to do other things.”

Riddle studies the nutrition label with narrowed eyes. “Very well.”

Surprisingly, his assistance proves useful. You would have thought he’d pose more of a disturbance as you weave about the small kitchen, reaching to preheat the oven and grabbing a mixing bowl and a whisk. Riddle stays out of your way and instead chooses to read the directions aloud while you gather the ingredients, dutifully making note of every portion needed from where he sits on a stool at the granite countertop.

While cracking eggs into the bowl and occasionally sneaking glances at your fiancé, whose attention is glued to the box as if he’s attempting to burn the recipe into his retinas, you wonder what will happen after the separation. Riddle will likely follow in his mother’s footsteps as a magic doctor and you’ll be free to pursue your own career, no longer pinioned by impossible standards. You might even indulge in the luxury of reconnecting with old friends as you turn a new page in your story, a fresh chapter devoid of the looming threat of marriage. 

If a wedding does exist in your future, you hope you can stand at the altar with someone humble and charming—someone who won’t hold their authority over your head or snap at you whenever you displease them. A person who could care less for rules and uptight commitments. Someone whose mother won’t forcibly paint you as a caricature of her son.

“(Name).”

“Huh? What? What’s going on?”

“The crust is finished.”

You set the bowl down and glance at the oven, the timer flashing zeros and repeating the same irritating ringing. Over and over. It rings and rings and rings.

“When... When did I put it in?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.” Riddle inhales an annoyed breath. “I’ve been trying to get through to you, but you’ve been so intent on whisking this entire time.”

“Oh. Sorry.” Awkwardly, you slip your hand into an oven mitten and lift the square-shaped pan out, admiring the way the crust has been baked to a perfect golden-brown. There are no indentations from where your fingers pushed and spread the crust. “Don’t you find it weird?”

“Weird?” Riddle stares at the crust you’ve set in front of him. “It looks perfectly fine to me.”

I don’t like this.

You glance at the sugar tin and then at the bowl, trapped in an internal debate with no clear choice. A long, unbroken silence stretches to the point of snapping, and you swallow every query that rises in your throat like bile. Despite only having baked the crust, the kitchenette is filled with a sickeningly sweet smell. It claws its way up your nostrils until every inhalation is unbearably saccharine.

With an exhale, you tip the lemon filling over the crust and watch as it spreads evenly. Riddle looks on, enthralled with your careful movements. Sensing his prying gaze, you quickly shut the oven, set the timer, and catch his stare just as it evades yours.

“Do we have to stay here for the whole weekend?”

“Of course we do. This is the last activity we’ll ever experience while betrothed. It would be a shame if you failed to enjoy it.” Riddle smiles, his fingertip tapping a quiet rhythm against the granite. “If it’s any consolation, this will be over before you know it. Think of it as a…minor inconvenience.”

He continues to tap, a repetition so grating that it’s almost as horrid as the angry, banshee-like screech of nails on a chalkboard. The timer ticks the seconds away too fast. The branches outside scrape at the windowpane, gnarled, wooden fingers scrabbling for a way inside. Your heart has never beat so fast before as fight or flight simmers, a trigger on a signal gun just waiting to be pulled. And when you look past Riddle, at the walls and the furniture and the floor, you find that it’s begun to peel and rot—moldy, discolored things that remind you of abandoned ruins, bloodless corpses, and putrescent bouquets.

You slam your hands on the countertop. “Enough!”

Riddle’s hand stills. His brow furrows and you can’t quite tell if his expression is mired in irritation or disbelief.

“S-Sorry…for raising my voice. I just need to lie down for a moment. It’s too…stuffy in here.” You force a laugh through grit teeth. “Really stuffy.”

This isn’t right. Something’s wrong. Really wrong. Very wrong. 

You swallow the lump in your throat.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

The timer releases a cheerful ding and your head snaps towards it. Your fingers curl into tight fists as you fight for control of your nerves, your heart hammering so fast you’re certain it’ll burst from your chest in an explosion of gore and bone fragments.

Riddle slides the oven mitten onto his hand—his eyes never leave you—as he takes the dish out and places it on the counter. You blink and a powdery dusting of icing sugar has been sprinkled over it.

“When it cools, we’ll divide it into pieces.”

“I’m not waiting that long.” You swipe a knife from a drawer and waste no time cutting a small sliver for yourself. It’s gooey and soft, a yellow lump, and you eat it despite how fiercely it burns your tongue. Your face scrunches with disgust. “It’s so tart!”

“That can’t be.” Plucking the knife from your hand, Riddle takes a serving for himself. Before putting it in his mouth, he blows on it delicately. Unlike your expression, his brightens with delight. “It’s very tasty, albeit overly sweet. Perhaps you were too generous with the amount of sugar you added.”

Once he spies the raw terror in your features, he flinches away. Unable to utter another word, you can only watch as an invisible blade slices through the dessert, cutting it into perfect squares.

You wish you’d paid more attention in your magical studies because, even if this is some obscure form of magic, there’s no explaining how sugar managed to get into the filling when you never added any to begin with.

iv. the fourth petal is plucked from the tainted rose, its petals drenched in slick crimson: “he loves me not.” to what extent does he not love you? “can such madness classify as love? if that is the case, then he does not possess love.”

Among the unique variations of toys your father had personally handcrafted, there was one he refused to showcase to the public. According to him it was a blight on his honor as a toymaker—something so sinfully regrettable that he forbade you from even mentioning it once you took notice of the panicked expressions he’d often wear when emerging from his workshop. You were never one to question your father. Before you met Riddle and his mother, he was kind and honest—a brilliant soul with a genuine passion for creation. He would permit you access to his workshop whenever he was in need of company and you’d sit and watch as his fingers pinched a paintbrush at an exact angle while he bestowed faces to dolls the size of your dainty palms.

Shortly after Riddle came into the picture, he stopped letting you into the workshop. There would be days in which he’d hole himself in there like a mole seeking cool soil, and you wouldn’t see him until he decided to come out for dinner. You learned how to cook and bake while he was absent—little things that were easy enough for a child to comprehend. Like assembling sandwiches or heating up leftovers. Truthfully, you considered yourself an outstanding chef despite the fact that you weren’t following any recipes. When you were older and could understand the components of the kitchen, you finally perused the family cookbook in search of easy recipes to hone your mastery.

It took plenty of trial and error, but you soon memorized how to cook your favorite dishes, a feat you’ve prided yourself on for years now.

Your father often thanked you for remaining as his daughter. You found it strange that he assumed you might leave him, but considering the fact that your mother disappeared without a trace one day his fears weren’t so misplaced. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he allowed his precious child to vanish in the same fashion her mother did. Perhaps that was why he was so eager to tie you to Riddle. Every obligation that came with a marriage would successfully snuff any thoughts of running away or eloping with a love he did not approve of. Not that you harbored any to begin with, but he was always afraid.

Afraid of abandonment. Afraid of letting you go. Afraid of barriers and divisions—of turmoil between father and daughter. Afraid of his creations.

Afraid of the very mind that birthed such art.

He never spoke of this project, and if you ever had the confidence to question him he would brush the topic aside with a dismissive wave of his hand. You had tried to sneak into his workshop with Riddle, who was just as curious as you were. What secrets could a toymaker possibly wish to keep hidden under lock and key? Surely it couldn’t have been anything dangerous. Though your attempts at playing spy were thwarted and you were ushered away with a stern reminder—never step foot in Papa’s workshop—your failure did not deter you. Riddle was quick to surrender. The idea of a scolding was not as appealing as the truth.

But you were not one to falter, even when the rules were as unforgiving as a guillotine’s sharpened blade.

He called it Wonderland. You learned this when you swiped the key from his study, crept through the hall at an ungodly hour of night, and slipped inside like a discreet shadow. The word had been scrawled into the painted wood with something sharp, every jagged letter reminiscent of distress. Sitting atop the base that had been carved with hatred so tangible you didn’t dare touch it was an A-frame dollhouse. When you shone your light onto it and spied the inky black paint that glistened in the illumination, fear sparked within you. 

Peering in through the circular window built into the arch, at the dull, monochromatic loft, you studied the plain wallpaper and the colorless bed. Yet there were no dolls in sight. Fueled with a sense of curiosity, you undid the latch and opened the dollhouse to view each half. A beautiful melody trickled out, hypnotic and lilting. It fluttered within your head like a swarm of butterflies, snuffing every other coherent thought that occurred. Inside was a fully stocked kitchenette and a living room, both equipped with perfect furniture and decor. Despite that, it was still so plain. You weren’t sure what it was that unnerved you, but perhaps it was the lack of character that knotted your stomach.

Or maybe it was the two rooms in the short hall, twin mysteries that had not yet been solved. The first door hid a standard bathroom with every amenity necessary. The other concealed an exact replica of your bedroom and it was the only area in the dollhouse that had personality and color. Bright, vivid color. You were almost relieved to see it, but that emotion soured the minute you saw the dolls.

They were undoubtedly crafted by your father’s hand, for every detail was exact. It must have taken him many painstaking hours to create them in accordance with the real versions. Lying on the floor, her face pressed into the carpet, was a girl in a blue dress and standing above her was a boy in red.

You reached inside and pulled them out for further analysis, nearly dropping them in shock. The dolls were perfect replicas of you and Riddle.

Wonderland was a strange title for such a dreary piece. There was no wonder to be found in a scene displaying cold, cruel captivity.

The melody quieted just as the workshop brightened with light and your father stood in the doorway, disapproval etched onto his face. As you were escorted from the room, you couldn’t decide if you’d unearthed a visceral secret or a foreboding tomb.

v. the fifth petal is plucked from the red rose: “she loves me.” to what extent does she love you? “not at all, but my heart is soaring with adoration and she is my rose who has been rid of improper petals, destined to sprout anew amongst the bluebells.”

There are no sounds in or out of the house that can possibly lull you back to sleep after you’ve awoken from your dreams. No chittering crickets, no hooting owls, no shush of the wind, and no ticking clocks. Even your labored breathing sounds faraway in the dull, monochrome loft.

I want to go home.

Rubbing at your eyes, you pat the empty space beside you on the bed. Confusion creeps through you when you sit up to view the vermilion spotlight that is cast by the circular window. 

“Riddle?” Your fingers curl around the bannister as you descend the stairs. You squint into the darkness. “Are you awake?”

Your only response is the hushed hum of a lullaby, a haunting sound that seeps into the room from down the thin hall. Steeling your nerves, you grip fistfuls of your skirt and tiptoe down the hall, flinching at every groaning floorboard. Exhaling a shaky breath, you stand before the door and listen to the muffled melody as it fights to pass through the wooden barrier.

With bated breath, you grasp the handle and slowly open the door. 

The melody cuts off abruptly and a yellowed light spills into the room. You’re standing in the center of your childhood bedroom. From the scratches on the bedpost to the stickers plastered on the headboard, to the colorful scribbles on the wallpaper to the toys aligned on the shelf, it is a carbon copy of your room. Horror roots you to your spot as you survey the room, searching for a flaw within the design in hopes of rousing yourself from this inconceivable nightmare.

And then you spy your reflection in the vanity mirror. The girl who returns your bewildered stare is dressed in a blue suspender skirt, a frilly, white blouse, and stockings. Fastened in her hair is a black headband, an accessory you’ve never once possessed. You approach the mirror cautiously, raising your hand to the glass. It’s not a hallucination. This is you. 

You don’t remember changing into this outfit. 

When you meander out of the room, filled to the brim with an apprehension so poisonous it almost shuts your nervous system down completely, you notice the room has changed. The paintings are no longer hanging crooked, the games and magazines have been straightened and stacked, and the furniture is simple and boring. As if a veil has been lifted, you finally see the cabin as what it is: your father’s abnormal pet project. 

You stumble down the impossibly long hall, nearly throwing yourself at the door once you’re within close proximity. It’s grown taller, a warped version of itself, and you struggle to twist the knob. As soon as you throw it open and step outside, you’re caught in the piercing sunlight. A garden of bluebells surrounds you and beyond that are artificial trees. When you turn your gaze skyward, you do not see an azure sky or cumulus clouds. A ceiling meets your dilated eyes. And then the bookshelves and an opulent bed. You whirl to face Riddle, who sits undisturbed at his desk. His pen waltzes across paper as he writes, humming a soft, soothing tune. He’s much larger than you, a giant above the tiny world you’re confined to, but he’s there. And he’s already noticed you.

“Illusory spells are not so complicated to master when the rose you’re pursuing is more fickle than textbook magic.” Riddle’s stony gaze petrifies you, but you can recognize the victorious glaze in those deceptive greys. “Neither are transformative spells. To change one’s size from large to small and vice-versa... That is also an easy feat for a mage of my level of expertise.” 

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve decided it would be much easier if we started living together now. Of course I still have classes to attend and dormitory obligations to fulfill, but I vow to spend every moment of my spare time with you.”

“Why?” You shake your head in disbelief. “You... No. No way. This is a joke, isn’t it? Some stupid rule about wearing blue or red or... Something with the flamingos, right? Did I break a rule? Is this a punishment? I have to live a shrunken life inside this weird dollhouse?”  

Riddle chuckles at your panicked babbling. “Not quite. In actuality, this is far from a jest.”

“Okay... Then what about the trip? We’re in your room when we should be in the forest. What’s going on with that?” 

“There was never a trip to begin with. We never even left my room.” He tilts his head at you, a calm smile playing at his lips. “As far as my mother knows, she believes you’ve run away from your responsibilities. And your father is pleased to know you’ll remain as my fiancée. Now no one can hinder our progress.”

You stand there, slack-jawed, and your eyes brim with hopeless tears. “Two days... All I had to do was survive two days and I’d never have to see you again. How dare you take my freedom? How dare you lie to me? How dare you act like this when you knew I was suffering the entire time?! You’re the worst! I hate you!”

“Surely you don’t mean that immature prattle.” He sighs at your vicious scowl. “Besides, throwing a tantrum won’t accomplish anything. It won’t return you to your original size. It won’t erase the fact that we’re meant to be.” 

“I can’t believe this... You’re just as crazy as your mother.” 

“I am not!” He slams a fist upon the table and the plastic forest shudders from the impact. You narrowly dodge a tree as it topples over. Riddle inhales a deep breath. “I am nothing like her. You are in no position to make such faulty accusations.”

You remain there on your hands and knees, staring daggers into the faux grass. “You hate me, too, don’t you? Why go to these insane lengths if you can’t stand me?”

“I don’t hate you. I’ve never hated you.” Riddle runs a hand through his hair, deflating like a balloon. “But you do. Hate me, I mean. I...don’t know what rules I should implement so that you’ll finally reciprocate. That’s why it’s important that I keep you here as a doll. When you’re unable to do much in such a small, fragile form, you’ll be compelled to live in harmony with me, as I’m the only one you’ll see. The only one who can change you back. It’ll happen eventually. We just need a little time.”

His heavy admission crushes you and the first few tears dampen the lawn. When you speak your voice comes out strangled and broken. “Why Wonderland? Why not use a prettier dollhouse if you’re going to keep me as a pocket treasure?” He evades your questioning stare, worrying his lip between his teeth. You feel your soul drain from your body, a ghostly apparition that was once composed of flowery dreams and glittery hopes. “What’s so special about my father’s work?”

“Wonderland is special. In an abstract way, that is.”

“What’s abstract?”

“Time.” He holds his magic pen out and you hesitate before crawling onto the crimson magestone. He lifts you out of Wonderland’s boundary and holds you up to meet his dark stare. “You’ve broken my heart more than once, as loath as I am to admit that.”

“You ruined my life. I don’t care if your heart is in shambles!” you spit. If you weren’t so small, you’d slap more than enough sense into him. But you aren’t, and all you can really do is put on your scariest face in an effort to sway his infatuation. “This is kidnapping. You realize that, right? Can an honors student commit such a heinous crime?”

“I’ve already come to terms with what I must do to ensure you’ll never leave.”

“And what’s that? What else could you possibly do, Riddle?”

He shakes you off of his pen and you fall the short distance onto his gloved palm, heart pounding as loudly as a war drum. “We’ll just have to find out, won’t we?” Smiling, he pats your head with a single finger. You stiffen under his touch. Just a little more pressure and he could crush your skull like an egg. Not that he’d ever entertain such violence. But despite that you can’t quite tell what he’d do to you if you refused his love, so you reach for his finger with trembling arms. His features soften when you embrace it. “I truly love you, (Name). This is for your own good, you see?”

Riddle Rosehearts is not as timid as you once assessed. His prowess as a mage outshines what little magic you could hope to cast, and when you compare yourself to him you are but the inky space that houses the glorious star.  

“After all, our perfect relationship can’t blossom in a day. We have much work to do and many rules to follow!”

And a star who has broken away from his own celestial shackles is a star on the verge of a grand, gruesome implosion.

[uncouth-the-fifth]

imagine damian and the reader at the wayne gala. he gets jealous when he sees her flirting with someone else. he ends up pulling her into a bathroom and fucking her in front of a mirror while saying that other person can’t treat her like he does

and that’s how the reader finds out damian has feelings for her. all this time he acted like he hates her because he’s in denial

Title: More Than They Ever Said

Paring: Robin!Damian (18+) / Canary!Reader

Tags/Warnings: semi-public sex, oral (f receiving), vaginal sex, bathroom sex, slight underage drinking (reader is like 20 lol), mentions of golf.

Word Count: 7150

Notes: sooooo.... this def evolved beyond a drabble lol. the way gala sex kills me every time 😭 I was a little mushy w Dami here bc I miss his sweet side. This also sounded a lot like goldenspecs12's request from Wattpad, so I hope you don't mind that I meshed the two together 😚 I leaned toward Damian liking the reader more than being in denial, but that’s the only thing I sacrificed between the two requests. This one is my fluffiest and most romantic yet 💖

"can I request Damian w a Queen reader, like she's Oliver and Dinah's child? say the reader is a hero but not very active, like she comes in when her parents can't. so when she and Damian meet, they hit it off. The main request is that they sneak away at a gala held by Oliver and the reader and Damian have sex."

Ask to be added to my taglist for future posts!

The party was more fun than you thought it would be.

Benefits were usually chalk-full of old, wealthy people that thought they made good conversationalists. The board members of Queen Industries were tired of Oliver trying to escape their claws, so you’d been recruited in his place. While your dad got to play minigolf in the penthouse’s massive party floor, you were confined to the lounge, playing up what an intelligent, capable business partner you’d be when you were CEO. Fellow businessmen gruffed about their plans with you while their wives cooed and drank, pinching your cheeks.

You thought that you’d hate it, but the attention and the praise was nice. It made you feel like you were helping your dad and your family’s company, which was constantly criticized and judged for it’s choice in CEO. Everyone called your father a lazy silver-spooned idiot, but he was one of the only men in Star City who actually cared. By the time you had Q.I’s biggest donors laughing out of their seats, Dinah’s hands slipped over your shoulders and you were kissed on the side of the face. Thank you, she mouthed, and your position as family support-beam was covered.

Since most of the benefit-goers were at least forty years your senior, you gravitated to your dad. From the penthouse’s upper balcony, you could see his friends circling around the tiny green mats they were using as a makeshift golf course. Usually, Ollie made sure his public persona’s aim was as garbage as his taste in drink was. But tonight, he played as Green Arrow, who never missed. Not once. Especially when it came to Bruce Wayne, who’s golf game was abysmal at best.

But like Oliver, Bruce was a new man tonight. It looked like he was ready to break out the batarangs any minute now. The two men were barely civil about the viciousness of their competition, and if the view of the game from the balcony was interesting, then from below it must’ve been the greatest show of fragile masculinity ever displayed. You had to make fun of them.

The only opening in the circle of men, who all had their hands on their chins as Bruce lined up his next shot, was by the floor-to-ceiling windows to one side of the game. Just one man stood there, hands in his pockets. You slid next to him, unbothered, and squinted at the game.

Everyone in the crowd was dead silent. Bruce was lining up his golf ball so it would roll into a mug a couple of feet away, so you helpfully provided, “A little to the left, Mr. Wayne.”

Your words overlapped with someone else’s. Where you had said Mr. Wayne, they had said Father. Then the man next to you was his son, but...

You would have never guessed it would be him.

Reasonably, you knew that Robin was Damian Wayne. Oliver could be a little loose-lipped at times, and by his judgment you’d been a teenager just a year ago - what could a twenty year old do to Batman’s secret identity? Not much.

Until you saw Robin without his mask.

Damian was achingly beautiful. He was your age, but he stood and talked like he was much older. There was an angle to his shoulder that made him seem astute and sexy. His eyes fixed on you when you spoke at the same time, and they were a surprising mossy color that jumped out against his tan skin, like plants flourishing out of rich soil. There was just enough blue in them to make him seem haunting. Any moment, you felt like he was going to corner you and whisper your future throatily in your ear.

Looking into them, those piercing eyes, for longer than a second made you want to blurt, “You’re much prettier without your mask.”

But that would expose his secret to every golf-loving idiot in earshot, so Oliver had been wrong. A twenty-year-old like you could do fatal damage to Batman’s secret identity, but for Damian, the short-tempered, snappish leader of the Teen Titans, you would risk anything.

Damian stared, and you stared. He squinted, wet his lips, then turned back to the game. This was your only acknowledgment that he recognised you. His voice was deeper, smoother, than you remember it. “Queen.”

You shifted in your shoes, almost laughing in shock. “...Wayne.”

The game grew boring and Damian didn’t say anything else, so you said nothing too, sneaking glances at him. The last time you’d spoken to Robin had been in costume, when he’d thanked you for assisting with a mission. He’d really been thanking you for standing up for him. You didn’t team up often with the Titans, but when you did, you found that they were unusually snappy and mean with their leader. Not necessary on purpose, but you could tell that Damian couldn’t take as many bites as he pretended to. Standing up for him had been a simple thing. The good thing to do. Now, with that look in his eyes, it almost felt like he still thought about it.

He must have, because the kiss you shared at the end of that mission had glowed with heat. To be fair, you both may have believed you were going to die (before the team pulled through and saved you), so it could’ve been a heat-of-the-moment thing. But this was Robin - if he didn't want to kiss you, he wouldn't. And yet he did.

You’d kissed. And the energy of that kiss lingered between you now, drawing you closer together, putting tiny smiles on your faces. He was cute. Cuter without that mask on.

You stood in the stupid golf silence, feeling foolish. Flirting with boys was much easier in fishnets. It didn’t help how fine Damian’s profile was. He had soft, feathery lashes that occasionally touched down on beauty marked cheeks. His lips were even fuller from the side, forever drawn in a curious line. And those eyes, when they caught yours and danced away again, were much too nice to hide behind a mask. You couldn’t get that thought out of your mind.

When Bruce finally made his move, you leaned in to whisper something to each other at the same time, accidentally knocking shoulders.

“I - apologies,” Damian flushed.

“Oh, um, my bad,” you rubbed awkwardly at the spot where you’d collided. “...You were going to say something?”

Damian’s eyes flicked to your fathers, then to you, unimpressed. He lowered his voice so only you could hear. “They’re awfully hypocritical, don’t you think? Father snaps at me everytime I use my skills in public, and yet he’s putting with perfect aim like it’s not the very same.”

Chuckling, you rolled your eyes and scooted closer, ducking your voice into the bubble between your bodies. “My dad’s the same way. Don’t aim in the house, he says, unless it’s him trying to beat Bruce Wayne.”

Your company’s shoulders turned sideways, leaning into you. His breath ghosted the hair on your neck, standing it on end, and again that silky voice sent tingles down your spine. Damian must change his voice as Robin, because he never spoke like this then. So huskily, so low.

He shook his head. “Unbelievable.”

You watched him. He watched you. You ran your tongue over your teeth, and Damian subtly adjusted his slacks from his pockets.

At the same time, you asked each other, “Would you like to get a drink?”

_

Your hiding place was a loveseat in the lounge, between more businessmen and their ditzy heirs. The bartender was your family’s, so he smiled and turned down your request for a drink, courtesy of your dad’s strictness. Luckily, he didn’t recognise Damian. You watched him order it at the bar, his rings catching the light, the muscle in his arms peeking out from under his blazer.

“I think he suspected I wasn’t of age, so he only gave me one.” He took the place next to you, propping his ankle on one knee and lounging out like a panther. Damian offered the cocktail to you, once he’d decided the coast was clear. It was a cute gesture. “Is that acceptable?”

You fished a five dollar bill out of your purse. “Only if you take this for paying. Don’t think I didn’t see you try and sneakily get that past me.”

Damian scrutinized the bill, then you, somehow managing to be a smartass without opening his mouth. Instead of thinking about how nice it would feel to kiss the slight crease between his brows, you traded hands with him so the bill was in his and the drink was in yours. The gentle brush of you palm to his knuckles put way too many butterflies in your belly.

You talked about everything and anything. About home, family life, your cities. The best of it was when Damian dipped his head so only you could hear him, keeping your secrets close and your bodies closer. This was the only way he talked about Robin, so you circled back to any vigilante subject you could think of just so Damian would keep purring into your ear like that. Better yet, he was smart. Talking to him was engaging, and within minutes he'd entranced you, so you sat there talking for more than an hour. Around you, the party rotated and went on.

At one point, you took a drink of the cocktail and passed it to him to share. Damian placed his lips right where yours had been, licking up the cocktail salt and gulping it down slow, adam’s apple bobbing, like it wasn’t the taste of the vodka he was savoring.

Eventually, your bliss was broken. Damian was called over to his father, again, to discuss business, and he left you with your remaining cocktail and the memory of that mission. You couldn’t find a reason to move from your seat. When you’d realized that you and Robin had been led into a trap on that mission, it’d been too late, and your efforts to escape became more and more futile. All you could do was pray the Titans got to you on time. Robin had offered you his glove as the walls closed in, and you’d watched up-close as he assumed you were both about to die. The fear in his eyes was strange - like it was familiar to him. At the same time, you cupped his neck and he held your upper back, and you’d kissed fervently, sweetly.

Damian had put his forehead to yours, and promised even as the trap shrunk around you, “You were excellent. More excellent than they ever said.”

In the big picture, it was a strange last remark to make, and afterwards you’d been too happy about surviving to think about it. But in the moment, you understood. You were understood. Somehow, Damian had reached into your soul and gouged out the words you’d been dying to hear, from your parents, from anyone, and uttered them to you with burning conviction. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe he meant it. Damian found you excellent. Someone, somewhere, didn’t think you were a failure.

Odd, how you’d never seen the face of the man you thought you’d die with (until now), and yet he saw you so easily. You watched him follow his father into the party crowd now, wondering. The Titans had saved you before you could ask what he’d meant. More importantly, before you could tell him the same. He was excellent.

_

Once you’d finished off your drink, you left it at the bar and grinned evilly at your family bartender. He rolled his eyes and slyly delivered you another, which, on your superhero schedule, would not have you drunk yet. Another heir to some big company was seated at your right, ignored by his father enough to look for some small talk with you.

He was one of the cute, nerdy types that were usually in awe of you. Girls, available girls, were typically rare at these kinds of parties, so he took you not having a boyfriend as permission to flirt with you. Unfortunately for him, your seat gave a perfect angle on Damian across the party floor. He was impressing the wives of Wayne business partners, who flocked around him like they’d flocked around you, pinching his cheeks. You could almost read their lips enough to guess what they were saying. What a handsome young man you are! Oh, Bruce must be so proud.

“...and then my father flipped over his kayak! Would you believe it? Two thousand dollars, thrown right in our family’s lake.” Your company snickered, howling at his own story.

You circled the rim of your glass, watching how Damian tried to teach some of the women phrases in Arabic. Unknown to them, they were some pretty funny swear words. It threw you into a bout of giggles, and the man next to you kept talking, spurred on by the noise.

The flock of hens around Damian receded, and his shoulders slouched in relief. That was cute, too. It wasn’t often that people understood how draining these parties were, but for people like you and Damian, it was a racetrack of endless, boring circles. Everything was a formality. Few things were genuine. Damian turned, and you caught his eye to let him know you were going to meet him. He nodded toward a side hall, his mouth a curious line again. If you looked at it long enough, it felt like a smile when he mouthed, escape?

Your company was still talking. He stopped when you grabbed his tie and planted a pity-kiss on his cheek, waving to him as you bounced away. “Sorry, kid. Not my type.”

_

You planned to bring Damian to the secluded balcony on the second floor to unwind, but instead, you were taken by the wrist and maneuvered into an empty powder room. It was colder than the steaming party air and smelled like champagne, with couches to sit on and mirrors to powder at. For a bathroom, the lights were warm and low. The noise of the party went quiet the instant the door was shut, like you and Damian had entered your own little world. No more circles. No more back and forth.

“Here,” Damian said, noting the mirrors. He tilted his head as he asked, like he was nervous, “Is this acceptable?”

“It is the ladies powder room, but I’ll give you a pass, since you’re cute.” You joked. Damian didn’t make a move to relax on one of the couches yet, hanging in front of you like there was more he wanted to say. There was more you wanted to say, too, but no good words came to mind.

But the silence wasn’t awkward. Again, Damian stared, and you stared. The glass he brought with him was set down. He put one fist on the counter beside the door, and like honey had been poured on your nerves, you realized how easy it would be for him to push you up against it. Kiss you senseless. Heat drooled off of him this close, and you wondered if he’d still lean in to whisper to you even if you were alone.

The lack of words drew to a point where something had to be said, anything, but his eyes felt so good on your skin and it was interesting to see him nervous. Something strange told you that Damian liked the silence, too.

You wet your lips with your tongue. Damian cleared his throat, and took a sip from his glass. “Was I interrupting something?”

“Between me and that guy?” You smiled gently, like you were reassuring him, and laughed to yourself. “Oh, man, you should’ve seen it, Damian. Poor kid really thought I was flirting with him. He’d totally convinced himself, it was hilarious.”

His profile was tense in the mirror, which you stole glances at to watch how the amber light played on his handsome skin. When Damian swallowed his drink, his throat rolled in the sexiest way, and immediately your mind fed you with visions of suckling, kissing, tonguing his neck.

“Why’d you ask?” Your eyes sparkled. Damian drew a step closer, and you used the opportunity to swipe a drop of alcohol from the corner of his lip with your thumb. “You jealous?”

It was the touch or the suggestion that made Damian pause. He didn’t stutter, but lagged over what to say, eyes vast and wanting as they raked over your face. “I don’t get jealous,” he clarified, “but… I do intend to be the only man to kiss you tonight.”

Damian’s hand took your chin. Your belly exploded with instant arousal, hitting you like a bullet of liquid lust. “You’re the only man who’s kissed me like that,” you whispered, taking his tie in hand. “I hope that’s always true.”

His voice had gone throaty. “May I kiss you again?”

Again, he reminded you.The two of you had kissed before, and it had been spectacular, terrifying, and excellent.

“Please,” you said, and Damian rushed to your aid.

Not a moment more was wasted. Curling his tie into your fist, you drew him in, slow and deep and wonderfully. Damian’s cologne hit you before his lips did, and both made your core throb for friction. Two broad hands slammed your hips into the door. His fingertips smoothed up the fabric of your dress, pressing you back and squeezing you in until you could feel his belt buckle against your belly. Damian was a sweet, magnetic kisser, chasing your lips like he was on a crusade to save them. Each time they met, he swam deeper. The point of his nose bumped against your cheek. You hummed your laugh against his lips, and Damian groaned as he pulled away, readjusting, twisting, testing the limits of the kiss. And you followed him at every step or more, revelling in his taste.

You didn’t want him to think you wanted the kiss to end, so you drew the hands braced under his blazer around his neck. Soon, that didn’t feel close enough, so you cupped each side of his face and pecked Damian until you were breathless. He brought you in until your arms were flat to his chest, the kiss almost vertical in its intensity.

He groaned when you parted, gasping and blinking just inches from your face. Your mouths were still connected by a thick string of drool, which hung until it split and clung to Damian’s chin and fell, marking a wet strip down into his collar. You panted, watching it go.

Damian left your waist to hold your wrists, keeping your hands around his face. He settled warmly into your touch, basking in it, and the pure enjoyment on his face made you smile. You wondered if anyone else had cared for him like this. If Damian had ever felt someone hold his face and treasure it. The thought gave you a strange urge, so you followed it.

You brought Damian’s brow level with your mouth and sweetly kissed his forehead. Then his nose bridge, then his temples. His face was so quickly warm that you giggled. In the most unsubtle way possible, Damian drew back his hips so you couldn’t feel the heat there, and closed his eyes, begging you to continue.

“I want you,” you whispered against his jaw.

Damian shivered. “You have me.”

You shifted one hand to his shoulder, giving yourself more room to nuzzle and kiss his neck. The line of drool was still there, so you cupped his skin and tilted his jaw up, and in one stroke, licked all the way to his earlobe. Damian’s moan poured from his mouth like a growing flood. You even felt his thighs press together between you, and pleasure tingled in your throat when he choked at the glide of your tongue.

He released your wrists, reached beside you, and locked the door with an audible click.

Then, Damian devoured you. Both hands hooked around your back, arching your chest into his, and finally, bringing his bulge between your hips. You clung to him for dear life, helpless as his teeth pressed into your neck like a vampire. Damian fed like one, too, suckling the skin there like he was starved. Your panties were so wet that you were desperate to get out of them, grinding your core against his.

Damian retreated, gasping. He licked the spit off of his lips and glared into your eyes. Bluntly, he said, “I want to eat you out.”

Once more, you kissed him, delirious with excitement. Your lungs burned for air, but your core burned harder for him. “Take off that suit and you can do whatever you want to me.”

His eyes gleamed. “I plan to.”

Quickly, you shoved your hands into his sleeves and pushed them off his shoulders, giving you a crisp glimpse at his carved shoulders. Damian's fingers blurred from button to button, but he saved the last for you on purpose. You worked in tandem and with little thought. If he could, Damian would steal a kiss, and you would bite his lip and chase him into more. When that last button was popped, his white button-down parted for a gorgeous plane of hard-earned muscle. His abs, ribs and pecs were pockmarked with scars, shrapnel marks and in some places, bullet holes. You stopped.

At your staring, Damian pressed his lips together.

“It's.. not appealing, I know,” he monotoned.

“No,” you disagreed, palming his stomach, “it’s impressive. All these do is show how strong you are, how long you've survived. You're so… built...” you didn't hide your thorough examination of him, “...I mean, we have to be to do what we do, but still… It suits you. It's sexy.”

You worried you'd ruined the moment with your babbling, but he glimmered under your praise. Damian brightened in the way only Damian could, smirking devilishly and towering over you like a supervillain.

“Sexy?” He pressed his naked chest into yours, whispering hotly in your ear. You could feel his silk tie pinned between you. “Does that mean I'm your type?”

You rolled your eyes. “Eavesdropper.”

“Temptress,” Damian replied, just as easily.

To claim your title, you found Damian's belt and pulled on it until the clasp gave. It made a satisfying whipping noise as you ripped it off of him, shouldered into his space to grab his waist in one hand, and cupped his throbbing boxers in the other. Damian's sigh came hoarsely and wanton from his mouth.

“Fuck me,” you demanded, grinning with delight.

Instead of wasting time on a response, Damian fell to his knees, a faithful worshipper. He did the gentlemanly thing and helped you kick off your heels. The tile was icy on your bare feet, but it only mattered until Damian ran his hands up your thighs. Sliding his fingers underneath the fabric, he bunched it up your middle, peering up at you smugly through his lashes. You could feel the debauchery of it - Damian, on his knees, tie hanging still from his neck, pinning you to the door. You, your legs spread and wanting.

Damian sucked in a breath. Your panties had an obvious wet patch, put there by him. He thumbed it carefully, watching your brows tense and your eyes close, basking in your initial whine. All of it enchanted him. You were soaking because of him, trembling because of him, marked because of him. There was not one place he would rather be than here.

Damian collected your sweetness and sampled the taste on his thumb, trapping it behind his smug smile. He ran his tongue over his teeth, spreading the flavor around his mouth, savoring it. As Damian rolled your underwear down your legs, his cock twitched in his open fly. You were beautiful. Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

“Put your leg over my shoulder,” Damian ordered, smirking, “I want to taste you.”

Warmth exploded in your cheeks. “G-go ahead.”

Gradually, you situated your leg across his back, pussy tensing at the touch of the cooler air. This didn't matter for long. Damian's warm lips nuzzled and kissed the thigh closest to him, painting messy reflective circles on your skin with his kiss. Even that made your legs tense wildly, so Damian shoving his wet, blazing tongue into the folds of you cunt pumped moan after moan from your mouth.

“Damian!” You yelped.

Oh, he definitely liked that. Damian pinched your ass and used his mouth so passionately that his head shook back and forth. He darted right for your clit, sucking it until his cheeks were hollow and humming smugly between your legs with every squeal. Parting your folds with one hand, Damian kissed your core just as dirtily as he'd kissed you. The dangerous glint in his eye never faded. He plunges his tongue inside you in earnest, slurping obscenely, purposefully. There's no need for Damian to shoot you cute looks or put on a show - his skill was the performance, because that skill was unbeatable. Your pussy was already tender, fucked nerveless by Damian's filthy mouth. He vibrated your cunt with a deep groan before he drew away, face dripping with slick like a pornstar’s.

“You're suitably wet,” he said, matter-of-factly, “would you like me to use my fingers?”

All the strength you had went into a weak, pleading nod.

Damian was polite enough to grant you your bearings first, letting you grip his hair and squeeze the counter before he resumes. You give him the sweetest, most precious whine when Damian licks you open again. He wisely starts with one finger and builds from there, earning you with pumps and curls of his digits. Damian's talents quickly become a currency, one that you exchange with mewls and pants of praise.

“So good,” you whine, “oh, fuck - fuck, just like that…”

Damian smirks between your legs, jamming his fingers faster into your sore pussy. Lust sizzles low in your gut, ramped up again and again by his thrusting. It’s so powerful that you roll and buck off the door, your hips in his face. You want him - want him more than you want anything.

“You're ravaging,” Damian hums between licks. His eyes are closed, but that only gives the way he touches you more meaning.

It’s so surprising from his mouth that your hold on his hair slips, setting Damian free. He pants, catching his breath, and it’s easily the sexiest thing you’ve ever seen in your life. The effort has slouched him from his knees to his calves, further spreading his legs and opening up the fly of his pants. A solid bulge has formed and spilled out there, straining to escape his briefs like an arm in a sling that’s too small, way too small, for someone of his size. Three of Damian’s fingers are still twisting inside of you.

Slowly, Damian tipped back his head and hung down, arranging himself beneath your cunt. “So beautiful.” His free hand splayed where your leg met your hip. “May I touch you?”

“I-I get it’s the gentleman thing to do, to - to keep asking, but fuck, Damian,” you cursed, “you can do whatever you want to me.”

Damian’s intense jade eyes were so dilated that you could barely make out the color. He dragged his cheek against your thigh, fingers still circling inside you, and grinned like a shark. It was probably a bad idea to give the heir to the Demon’s Head that much power over you.

His other hand squeezed your skin, slow to passionate, from your belly to your breasts beneath your dress. It’s clear by the way Damian looks at you that he loves what he sees. The texture of his veiny, calloused hands feels good on your waist and ass, dragging you closer to him. He chuckles when your back arches, when your nails press into his hands, his back muscles, throwing himself into his task. Damian’s nose prods your folds as he licks you clean, tongue dipping and sliding against your sore clit. It’s like he’s done this for you before, in this exact way. Though he utilizes his tongue the most, his lips too are brutal, matched perfectly to fit your pussy lips.

But that tongue - how Damian’s jaw isn’t tired, you don’t know. He parts your folds and latches onto your clit, flicking his tongue at superspeed until drool and cum bubbles from your sensitive core. Your back winds tighter at every vibrating lick, paralyzing the muscles in your legs with glorious pleasure. It’s so exquisite you start to melt to the floor like warm clay, only to be bolstered back up by Damian, both hands viciously squeezing your ass. He keeps going not for you, but himself, sucking down every last drop of your juices.

Shattered, you twist hopelessly into his mouth, chasing the strained feeling like it’s the last you’ll ever glimpse. “Fuck, fuck - D-Damian, ah…”

“Did it feel good when I made you cum?” He teases, “It certainly tastes good. All those filthy little noises you make for me…” Damian shakes his head at himself, like it’s too fantastic to indulge again. He leaves your clit with a satisfied kiss. “Beautiful.”

Once more, the words are surprising to hear from him. You always considered Damian the prude type, but here he is, on his knees for you, mouth and chin glittering with your juices while he teases you in low, sexy tones. At your surprised look, Damian has the gall to blush.

With his ring finger in his mouth, he ponders, “If a man has never said that to you before...” pop, “consider me surprised.”

“Never while finger-fucking me, at least,” you admited, legs still trembelling. “It was sweet. You… you meant that?”

It was hard to imagine Damian Wayne finding anything beautiful. Even you, who was pretty enamored with him, figured he would judge by quality or skill, not beauty. The words tasted new on his tongue.

Slowly, Damian stood and stretched, his shoulders tight after staying in the strange position for so long. Lifting his arms coincidentally let his waistband sit lower on his hips, flashing his green boxers your way while showing off the huge, carved muscles of his arms. Truly, Damian’s subtlety was unmatched. You didn’t mind his miniature bragging fest - not when he had so much to brag about. Eating you out had put an excited shimmer in his skin, so the gold-toned lights of the room reflected sexily off his sweat, already accenting his kissable tan.

“I did,” he told you, moving on to his sucking middle finger. His other hand played on your thigh, stroking it. “I’ve always been… drawn to you. Every mission we’ve had together. I have a profound feeling that we are very similar.”

You laughed. Not at what he said, but the timing of it. “Would you believe me if I said I felt the same way?”

Damian made a face like his heart was doing jumping jacks. “A few hours ago? No. But now…” he barricaded you against the door, first with his hands and then his hips, closed in so tightly that you had to look past your nose to meet his eyes. “Your crush is adorably obvious. I’m annoyed that I didn’t see it before.”

Your rounded your hands against Damian’s shoulders, then his tie. It twisted nicely around your fingers, silky and cold in comparison to your flushed skin. You were tempted to fix your dress, but nothing, not even the world ending, could make you leave this room.

“My crush is obvious? Damian, all you’ve done for the last two hours is sneak me drinks and imply how much easier it is to be around me.” You grinned, “What’d you say earlier? There you are, Queen. Finally, someone intelligent enough to speak to me.”

Damian shrugged. “It’s true. Your knowledge of bioluminescent ocean life is fascinating.”

“I can’t believe you said that after giving me head for ten minutes.”

“It’s actually been closer to twelve,” Damian smirked.

Playfully, you pinched Damian’s cheek, then pulled him by the tie into a starved, energetic kiss. He must’ve been praying for your permission to continue, because the plan he’d been forming is quickly put into action. You’re hugged, arms scooped under your back as you kiss him. Damian surrenders his mouth to a bit of revenge tonguing while undoing your dress. No amount of kissing will pull him from his task, but your hand is a special case - it smooths down the front of his boxers and Damian melts.

“Y/N,” he groans.

Damian petulantly resists the temptation to close his eyes, but your touch is soft and sweet, demanding him to yield. Your lips suckle on his neck and Damian’s knees buckle. If getting his mouth between your legs didn’t turn him on, then this will finish him for sure.

“I missed you. Kissing you.” You purr into his throat. “One could never be enough for me.”

Is this what it’s like to be wanted? Damian asked himself. The only possible answer thrilled him, and he found himself pouring even more passion into the kiss, into you, wanting to share that rush of affection. You respond to his every touch with vigor. Damian’s heart stalls each time your thumb strokes his face, each time the other strokes him through his slacks.

“Me either,” he rasped, and helped you out of your dress. His tone was shy, but his words held too much depth to be meaningless. I want a wealth of them. I always want to kiss you, was what he wanted to say, but Damian was too embarrassed to raise the words. This moment was too special to ruin with his hopeless romanticism. He kissed you again and again, and to his amazement, you kissed him right back.

“Fuck me,” you begged him between breaths. “Right here. I don’t care if we’re caught.”

I don’t care if we’re seen together. I want to be seen with you, I’m not ashamed of you.

Damian cupped your face and almost knocked you both over with the strength of his kiss. Nose-to-nose, eyes closed, he commanded, “Bend over the fucking counter.”

In a blink, Damian turned and there you were, open and waiting for him. The sink was hip-level, so the bend was nothing but perfect - Damian could fuck you from behind and watch your lust-blown reflection without issue. Your perfect pussy drooled leftover cum down your legs, making your sex shine in the light.

In the mirror, you watched Damian’s eyes darken in delight. His pupils followed the line of your ass to your back, appreciating it like an artist would, like he intended to paint you later and needed to memorize the greatest shapes of your figure. The marble was icy against your hard nipples, which Damian had exposed when he’d impatiently shoved down your bra. Now, he cupped one of your breasts as he bent over you, kissing and suckling his way down your back.

“Perfect,” Damian hissed.

Shyly pressing your butt back against him, you buried your face in your arms and bit your lip, waiting for him to open you up. Damian’s shadow came to hover over you, and in the mirror his eyes were vicious, pools of circling sharks. “Are you ready?”

“Mhm,” you nodded. “Take your time.”

Though you weren’t being sarcastic, Damian took it that way and pinched one cheek of your ass. “With you? I will.” Then, with the same smoothness, Damian asked, “Condom?”

“Pill,” you replied, and Damian nodded his approval.

His pants rustled as they fell down his legs. Where you couldn’t see, Damian committed the sight to memory - his cock in hand, your pussy spread open, all for him. You squeaked when his hot tip touched your cooling clit, and squeaked again when it glided down your pussy and tested your opening. He knew he’d found the way when you winced.

In an unsurprising moment of compassion (for those who truly knew him), Damian kissed the top of your head and offered you his hand. “Would you like to hold it while I…?”

You took his hand and squeezed it to your chest, squeezing him closer in the process, too. “Thank you. Go slow, for this part…”

Damian complied. His sweat-sticky chest hovered warmly over your back. Even if Damian was big, you were wetter than you’d ever been in your entire life - any pain would quickly slide into pleasure. He braced himself with a deep inhale, and a hot, sharp sensation told you that he’d entered you. Where you choked in a needy gasp, Damian poured out his version of a whimper. You both held it. Then, breath by breath, you were struck with the realization that you’d been dying to feel this for weeks, for months, and only now was that heat being satisfied. Damian’s tongue and fingers had come close, but this is what would cure that aching emptiness - his big, girthy cock.

The deathgrip you had on Damian’s hand loosened. “You look perfect,” he murmured into your hair, instantly making your core flutter. “Oh,” he chuckled filthily, “you like that? Funny, how badly that idiot at the bar wanted to be in my place right now…but it’s me who gets to pound into—”

“Damian,” you warned.

He smiled smugly against your neck. “Nothing.”

Dutifully, Damian withdrew his hips, taking all of the heat with him. When he rolled back in, a hot, tingling sensation roared over all of your senses, and you let the moan at the top of that tsunami loose. It was clear that he couldn’t fuck you like he wanted to with one hand fished down at your side, so he glued both to the base of your back and started to thrust in earnest.

“So full...” You mewled, and Damian became a human pile-driver.

Your head seemed to roll off your shoulders with every crazed, rhythmic slam, so you grabbed the faucet and held on for dear life. Every slap was so loud, so powerful, that you prayed this one random bathroom in the penthouse was soundproofed. Anyone walking past would know you were getting railed out of your mind. You tried to compensate by moaning and squeaking quietly, but with force came volume. It didn’t matter how silent you were, Damian’s hips, your ass, the squelch of him inside you - each noise filled the bathroom, echoing off the tile.

The only way you could think to describe him was filling. First, there was the hot, cinching tension of his hands fused to your waist. Then there was his cock, which begged to be squeezed more and more with every pass. You responded to each throb with a mighty clench, which bent Damian over you like an animal, gasping for breath. His balls were painted with your slick. The closer you came to orgasm together, the closer Damian came to you. His hands migrated to higher on your sides, then up by your shoulders, then around you, where Damian kissed your back and rubbed your belly while he made love to you. He talked more than he moaned. Your ear was filled with sweet nothings, with vicious promises of what he would do with a whole night alone with you.

Damian’s reflection was wild with lust. He met your eyes as he fucked you, whispering how beautiful you are, how good you take his dick. His deep green eyes were so dark you couldn’t make out the brown in them anymore. The long muscles on his arms drew taut with each thrust, making his biceps bulge and pin your hips to the sink. Soon enough, a bruise would form from the pressure. One of many treasures from tonight - you would be thinking about Damian in his crisp suit for months to come, and the mess he’d become with you now even longer. Your pleasure built and built and built, like a nail struck further into the ground with a hammer. A very, very big hammer.

“M’ cumming,” Damian husked, slowing his plowing to a sloppy glide. Even his endurance was spent, and you were glad he’d spent it all on you. “Where d’ you…?”

You braced your hands on the counter, then on one of Damian’s. Together, you smoothed his digits down your stomach and between your soft, abused folds. “Inside me, please, please please—” you begged him, “fuck, a-as deep as you can go.”

As a test of your flexibility, Damian turned in and kissed you. Just as he parted your lips with his tongue, he parted your folds with his fingertips, overriding your clit as his cock throbbed inside you to the hilt. He took the invitation as a command. Damian pressed in until you could feel his abs mold to your ass, then stuttered his hips in quick, agonized dips to get himself there. With his fingers and his cock putting stars in your eyes, you finished first.

The white marble counter fizzed in your vision, until all you could see was that powerful, endless white, humming in your mind’s eye. Still, Damian wasn’t finished yet. You bumped your temple against his chin and hummed, “Cum for me, baby… fuck, a-ah!”

Your pussy’s throb raced and raced until it spilled over, pulling Damian right under the current. One clench and he was done for, so the velvety, periodic squeeze of your cunt emptied his store. You hung there, spasming in unison, until that overwhelming heat spurted in a ring around Damian’s cock and flooded out of you. Only then did his fingers stop on your clit, and you settled warmly in each other's arms and tried to remember your names and who you were.

Damian pulled out, then snuggled back in. He would’ve been nervous any other time, but he’d just put his dick inside you, so a little instinctive cuddling could be forgiven. On shaky legs, you turned around and sunk into him. You could tell by how he was eyeing the sink that he was desperate to get clean again, so with one kiss (on the cheek), you set Damian loose.

In companionable silence, Damian cleaned up and you collected the clothes abandoned on the floor. Staring at the corner where you’d just had the best sex of your life put an embarassingly pleasant warmth in your chest. Interesting, how one terrifying moment could become something as special as this. Fascinating, how you’d felt like you’d known him all your life.

“You know… I think you’re excellent, too.” You told him, finishing off the knot for his tie.

Damian dipped his head to hide his smile, but something so bright was impossible to hide.

[bubblegumbeech]

Don’t Just Pass Me By Anymore

AO3

Phic Phight For @kawaiijohn ‘s prompt:

Dash is 100% convinced Wes Weston is Phantom and using Fenton as a scapegoat. Danny finds this hilarious, Wes finds this annoying, and Dash is infatuated.

Wes had a problem. His problem was tall, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a build like a football quarterback. Actually his problem was a football quarterback. The football quarterback for his school, who was standing in a faux casual pose next to Wes’ locker.

“I’m not interested,” Wes said, side stepping him and ignoring the fact that he needed to get his science book for the next class. He was sure it would be fine, they were probably going to get interrupted by a ghost attack or Fenton being weird again. “I’m already on the basketball team anyways.”

Once he made it to class and sat down he saw Fenton smirking at him, some no doubt obnoxious prank he’d pulled at some point hanging like a bucket of water over Wes’ head. 

Whatever.

He couldn’t hide forever. Wes may have given up the obvious evidence, Fenton was way too prepared for it and everyone just continued to think Wes ws crazy, but he was banking on a new plan now. Ghosts don’t age, ergo Fenton won’t age. They’re freshmen now, but once everyone was graduating and ghost boy was walking around the same as ever next to his fully adult peers… Well, they’ll see who gets the last laugh then.

Fenton rolled his eyes and went back to looking at the front of the classroom right as the teacher came in.

And then the ghost.

Two hours of Wes picking rubble out from his clothes later, he was getting increasingly annoyed that he spent an entire evidence-providing ghost fight stuck under the part of the roof that collapsed in the beginning. Fenton had even laughed hard enough to lift himself off his feet once Wes managed to drag his beat-to-hell body out from underneath it. 

“Phantom’s pretty cool huh,” an especially annoying voice said from behind Wes’ left shoulder. Wes slammed his locker shut, causing his new stalker to jump slightly before glaring with the most venom filled gaze he could. 

Dash blinked, an open and genuine expression on his face, like he was excited about something, or was trying to hint to Wes that he knew something. Wes ignored it and rolled his eyes. He really didn’t want to get involved with football players. They had few enough braincells to start with and the number only ever went down. 

He shifted his backpack onto his shoulders and turned to go towards the gym for practice. “Dash you know damn well I’m the only person in this school that actively hates Phantom, so if you’re here to pick a fight just know that basketball players don’t wear helmets or padding and I will start any argument with violence.”

Instead of getting offended that Wes insulted his hero, or mad at being brushed off, Dash actually smiled. SMILED. Like Wes had said something that would make him smile?

Was he losing his damn mind? 

“Just so we’re clear. I told you I hate Phantom, right?”

Dash nodded.

“I hate the guy you see as your hero… the one you don’t shut up about and idolize.”

Another nod, though this time his eyes were shining slightly, like Wes had just given him some kind of praise or acknowledgement instead of basically insulting his intelligence. Which was what Wes was actually going for.

He couldn’t handle this right now. 

Wes turned on his heel and walked away, wondering what the coach was feeding these guys and if Fenton’s obnoxious smirk from earlier had anything to do with this. 

The teddy bears were too much. One in his locker, one on his desk in each of his classes??? There was even one at the usual spot he ate lunch and tucked in amongst his basketball uniform.

Who even had that many teddy bears to menace Wes with anyways? 

No, Wes knew who was behind this.

“FENTON!” he shouted, walking into their shared class, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?!”

Fenton had the gall, the audacity to look surprised. The bastard must have been working on his shitty acting skills.

“Seriously?? Do you even get an allowance? How did you offered this many teddy bears you obnoxious jerk?” He strut into the room, closing in on Fenton’s desk so he could attempt to look menacingly over him. 

“Teddy bears?” Fenton asked before his eyes went wide with realization. He looked over at Dash in the corner of the room where he’d been sitting next to the other football players, and burst out laughing.

Curious, Wes followed his gaze and saw that Dash’s entire face and neck had gone beat red. Oh. Then the teddie bears…

Wes found himself blushing as well. Mortified that he’d been so insensitive to someone that wasn’t, well, Fenton. 

He stormed right back out of class. He needed to talk to Kyle about this. 

The bell rang. Right. Kyle could wait. 

Once class was done Wes noticed Dash leave the class first, practically well, dashing out of the room. 

He’d… catch him later.

Later was, as it turns out, at Dash’s locker, where Wes had been waiting for almost twenty minutes since the last bell rang. Because he wanted to nip this in the bud, and explain what happened. Not because he felt bad, or whatever. 

He saw Dash turn the corner, see him, and try to walk the other direction. If he thought he was being casual or subtle in any way he was sorely mistaken, and Wes was following after him with half an apology on his lips. 

“Dash wait,” Wes saw him freeze and turn around, something oddly nervous in his posture and Wes sighed. “Listen, about the teddy bears-”

“Yeah, they’re super lame huh. I mean, who likes teddy bears that much that they spend their allowance on them?”

Good question. Apparently the answer was standing in front of Wes right now though. “There’s nothing wrong with teddy bears-” he started.

“Really?” Dash’s eyes shined a little, it was starting to get to Wes’ head. Why did this guy care so much about what Wes thought of him? “You don’t think they’re girly or lame?”

“...No?”

“Ha! I knew you were a good guy!” Dash clasped his shoulder in what was probably meant to be a friendly footballer way of showing affection but was also probably going to leave a large bruise on Wes’ already easily bruised skin.

Wes subtly took a step back. “Listen, the only reason I was mad was cause I thought Fenton was pulling another one of those stupid pranks of his. If I’d known it was you…”

Actually. If he’d known it was Dash what would he have done? He wouldn’t have been tripping over himself to thank the guy or try and gift him something back. Especially not in comparison to how Dash clearly felt about his teddy bear collection. Wes’ brain stalled for a moment.

“Yeah Fen-turd is a little creep. He’s always doing something to ruin my day.”

Wait. “You don’t like Fenton.”

Dash shook his head. “No way dude! He’s always been a little creep. And between you and me,” he leaned in to whisper, “I think spending so much time in his parents basement did something to him, you know? Like, made him even creepier than he was before.”

Wes couldn’t believe his ears. “Like, mayb making him a ghost?” he tested the waters.

“Nah, like, making him something else. I don’t know. But man, if someone was also a ghost, and they were protecting the town and managed to keep it a secret from everyone? They’d be the coolest guy ever wouldn’t they?”

Was Dash trying to hint he had a crush on Fenton? Cause it sounded like Dash was trying to hint that he had a crush on Fenton and honestly Wes didn’t wanna hear about it.

“I actually think if a ghost is pretending to be human, they’re the lowest of the low. A pathetic attempt at trying to continue a life that’s long since abandoned them and putting everyone around them at risk. Especially if he uses his stupid powers to pick on poor innocent jocks that know exactly what’s happening but no one believes them.”

… And now Dash was crying. Great.

“You can’t say that about yourself man,” he said through a sniffle. “You’re doing your best.”

Wes deflated. Okay yeah, he was being a bit harsh on- wait. Himself?

“What do you mean-?”

Dash’s hands clamped over both of Wes’ shoulders this time, jolting him and adding even more bruises to the medley. “I’ll keep your secret bro!” he said before running off, the over dramatic melancholy from earlier a distant memory.

“I’m not keeping any secrets???” Wes shouted after him, “I want people to know he’s Phantom?”

“Sure you do buddy!” Dash said with a wink before disappearing around the corner, “I understand.”

Oh good. He understood. That made one of them. 

Wes was still trying to understand what happened the next day as he gingerly gathered each of the teddy bears so he could find a way to give them back to Dash. Who clearly cared an awful lot about them if the amount of care Wes saw in each of the bears’ worn and replaced stitchings meant anything at all. 

He looked at one of them, an older design with beady, black, marble eyes and saw the neat and careful darning over the more worn places of its face. It smelt nice too, not like newly laundered clothing, but pleasantly scented nonetheless. Wes placed it carefully in the bag.

The question remained, naturally. Why was Dash suddenly being so overly friendly with him? They’d barely spoken a word before this whole series of events, and other than hating Fenton specifically they didn’t really share any hobbies. 

And Wes hated Phantom, Dash’s hero. It didn’t make any sense at all. 

It had Fenton written all over it honestly but the last thing he wanted was to storm in and blame the little punk like he had last time. If it turned out Dash was just being weird cause he developed some kind of crush or something from watching him play basketball then he would feel like an even more insensitive jerk-

Wait. Back up. 

Did Dash have a crush on him?

Dash was easier to find this time, which made Wes think he had to have been hiding yesterday. An exceptional talent considering his sheer mass. Taking a deep breath, he headed over to him, bag of teddy bears in hand. 

“Hey, listen,” he said, carefully watching Dash’s expressions. He was… surprisingly sensitive. “You clearly care about these, and they have way more meaning for you then me. You shouldn’t give them to me.”

Handing them over, Wes watched as Dash forcefully gentled his hands and carried the bag less like it was filled with toys and more ike it had an actual child hidden inside. It wasn’t cute or heartwarming, and Wes didn’t blush thinking about his theory from earlier. 

“Thanks bro,” Dash said quietly, “I kinda went overboard huh?”

He was blushing and Wes had to fight back his own blush in response. “Yeah… A little. Next time, a card is fine?”

Nope, that was too embarrassing. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room. There was no way the most popular guy in school had a crush on him; this was definitely a Fenton thing.

By the time he hunted Fenton down he was clearly half dead from whatever escapade he’d performed as Phantom earlier. No time for pleasantries, or Wes’ usual threats, he stormed up to Fenton and said, “What the fuck did you do to Dash?”

Fenton blinked. “Nothing?”

Wes scoffed.

“Seriously Wes, you think mind control is part of my repertoire now? I have to overshadow someone to possess them and I’m not that good at acting.”

“You had to have done something. He’s … he’s acting weird!”

Fenton looked unimpressed. “Dash is always weird. He has a schedule for when and where its appropriate to bully people you know?”

“I don’t care, not my problem.” Wes pinched his nose. “Just. Why?”

“I’m not sure what you mean? If Dash is under some kind of wrong impression of you, hows that my fault?”

Wes exploded, “It’s always your fault! Everything is always your fault. You’re the reason we have a ghost problem, you’re the reason they attack the school and you’re the reason Dash is being weird. Admit it.”

Fenton’s eyes had grown cold. Wes took a step back. 

“Maybe,” he said in a low, threatening voice, “Some of us are just trying to survive high school. Maybe some of us like being left alone, and think its an easy solution to distract his two biggest frustrations with each other so he can pass his literature class midterm. Maybe if you learned how to mind your own business, you wouldn’t have pissed off the scariest thing in this school.”

His throat was dry, the menacing look in Fenton’s eyes different from their usual mischievous glint. Shit, had he pushed too far? Wes had never seen a ghost directly threaten someone’s life before, at least not a living person’s life. He had been fairly confident there was something stopping them, but was it only their whims?

Fenton leaned back and smiled, taking on a painfully false and cheerful demeanor. “Have fun with Dash!” he said before disappearing from view.

Wes waited for his heart to dislodge from his throat before heading home. 

He… needed some time to think.

The next day Wes found a letter in his locker. It was… sweet. 

Wes felt nauseous as he read it though. He didn’t know what Dash thought he found out about him, but it was probably a lie if Fenton was involved. And he hated living any kind of dishonesty. It was why he had tried so hard to expose Fenton for who he was. Honestly was always the best policy to Wes.

Finding Dash was easy that day too. He was playing catch in the hall with Kwan, the other big football player. He caught it easily as it soared above the other student’s heads, laughing and eyes bright. He got into position to throw it back and caught Wes’ eyes. He winked and tossed the ball in a perfectly graceful arc.

He was really handsome wasn’t he?

Wes felt his hands tighten around the letter.

    Sometimes heroes are the ones that need the most support!     I’ll support you however I can!! 

        -your biggest fan!

The next day was a weekend. He was talking to Kyle, trying to get his thoughts out and (against his better judgment) ask for some advice. 

“So you have a crush-”

Wes groaned into his hands. It was so stupid. Leave it to Wes to develop a crush on the most popular guy in school just cause he started giving him a bit of attention. 

Kyle continued, clearly holding back a laugh, “you have a crush on this guy and you think he only likes you because Fenton lied to him about something?”

“Yes.”

Shrugging, Kyle leaned back into the couch. “Seems like an easy solution, ask him what Fenton said. Get it cleared up and if he still likes you, he still likes you. If he doesn’t go from there.”

… he was right, unfortunately. 

He groaned into his hands again. He hated when Kyle was right.

“Hey Dash… Can we talk?” Wes asked the next time he caught his crush’s attention. 

“Yeah! What’s up bro?” he said, as enthusiastic and eager as always.

Wes bit his inner cheek, holding back from saying something too embarrassing too early on. Wow, this was so much harder now that he had, like, feelings about it. Why couldn’t Dash have continued to ignore him? Was that so much to ask?

Though, if he started doing that now Wes would probably break down entirely.

Not that he was hinging his heart on this somehow miraculously working out. Because he wasn’t. That would be something an idiot would do, and Wes wasn’t an idiot. 

“What do you-” no that didn’t sound right, he took a breath and tried again, “I think there’s been some kind of misunderstanding.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. What uh, why did you start being nice to me all of a sudden?”

Dash’s eyes went wide and he looked around, as if to check for prying eyes, and leaned close. “Cause I figured out your secret dude. It’s okay I won’t tell anyone.”

“My secret…” Wes felt his brain stall. “My secret.”

“Yeah!” Dash was smiling, “I get why you wanna throw people off by blaming Fenton. I can’t stand the guy either.”

OH. “You think I’m Phantom.”

“I won’t tell anyone!” 

“I-” Wes floundered for words, “How did you come to this conclusion?”

Dash blinked. “I-” frowning, he looked like he was starting to think more and more about it. Probably reliving the moment he’d made the (incredibly wrong and false) connection. “Fenton said…”

“Fenton, who hates you, and hates me somehow more?”

He nodded.

“I think he’s fucking with us,” Wes deadpanned. There were many things he was wiling to put up with for a puppy crush, pretending to be that obnoxious dead little punk wasn’t one of them.

It looked like Dash was on the same page for once though. “I’m gonna crush that little punk!”

Wes smiled. “Hold on, I think I’ve got a good idea.”

Just because he couldn’t get Dash to realize Phantom and Fenton were one and the same didn’t mean he couldn’t enlist his help in getting back at him for this whole fiasco. And if it could be used as an excuse to spend some more time with a particularly handsome blond? Well, that was for Wes to worry about.

It was a nice day at school the next day. Wes could barely contain his smile in fact. 

Fenton hadn’t been able to do anything to ruin it either, since he was acting as the Football team’s mascot for extra credit. And surely enjoying it as much as Wes expected. 

Which was not at all of course, since Dash and Kwan were given explicit and detailed instructions on how to get under his skin without actually doing enough to get into trouble. Stuff like tripping him during practice and tossing him the ball before saying ‘catch’. He also left plenty up to their own imagination. It was a beautiful little revenge plan Wes and Dash had cooked up to get back at Fenton for toying with their hearts like that.

He cackled out loud, startling a few of his classmates. It was a good day all in all, and nothing could ruin it. Not even Manson and Foley’s respective threatening glares. Sure, they’d probably get back at Wes eventually, Fenton especially seemed to be good at petty vindictive grudge matches. But that was for later Wes to deal with, Wes right now was perfectly content. 

And if he left a wrapped present in Dash’s locker, with an old worn teddy bear of his own…

Well, that was for him to worry about right? 

[dienamights]

Not Your Best Man | D.Kaminari

✎ Denki Kaminari was resentful of all the things Katsuki Bakugou has, the high hero ranks, the fame despite his demeaning behavior, his intelligence, and most importantly, you.

✎ Protagonists: Denki Kaminari x Fem!Reader

✎ Word count: 5.2K

✎ Category: Smut MDNI, angst

✎ Caution(!): Smut MDNI, swearing, denki is jealous, bakuhoe is an asshole, mommy kink, loss of control of quirk during sex, degradation, praise, oral (male!receiving), unprotected sex, orgasm denial to a certain point, mention of puking, doing denki dirty in so many ways and I’m sorry but I’m also… not sorry.

✎ Author’s notes: Hello! Hope everyone’s well! I’m here with @forrest-fern’s Seven Deadly Sins server Collab! I snatched Denki and chose Envy! I wasn’t able to get bakugou but you know damn well I’m squeezing his ass in there lmao (peep the banner you can see the boom boom boy) (shut up im not late shush)

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Her hair is piled up and back, showing more of her delicate yet strong features. Skin so flawless his hands feel bound when he wants to touch it, afraid of staining it with his fingertips, not deeming himself worthy to taint it. Eyes brought out beautifully with makeup products she knew how to work to make her look even more gorgeous than she already is. Lips perfectly coated in lipstick, always formed in the littlest smile, and he feels compelled to kiss the product off of them.

The dress is perfect, it sits on her body as if it has been made just for her. Its fabric folds hugging her figure, following her curves. It’s color is gorgeous against her skin with long sleeves that cover her arms, the backless dress shows skin that begs him, taunts him to touch it and to guide her along with him. The collar exposes enough shoulders that teases him to bite and mark up. It's tight skirt pooled till the floor with a slit up to her left thigh. She looks stunning and he couldn't stop but linger his eyes on her.

She looks as though she is an angel, in the form of the most beautiful girl on earth. Mesmerising eyes, so crystal clear that he could see rivers, oceans, the whole world through them. No flower, no goddess, not even Aphrodite could ever compare to her beauty. She has the body of a dancer, lithe, supple and oh so beautiful. With every step she takes, it looks as though she’s floating, and Denki only became more convinced that he had been around an angel for the majority of his life and he -regretfully- only was able to realize it a bit too late.

Regretfully, because she wasn’t his, isn’t his, will never be his. Not the measly unimportant groomsman. No, she is the best man’s, Katsuki Bakugou’s, meant to be his forever. 

Bakugou’s BakugousBakugousBakugous… Dammit

“I do.” 

An adorable little boy dressed in a black tuxedo walks up and hands Kirishima a ring. He slips it on Mina's finger. The pastor smiles and turns to Mina. She wears a strapless wedding gown with embroidery on her bodice. Rhinestones and pearl beads sewn on her gown. She wears a two-tier veil, with a matching crystal head-piece. She holds a French rose silk bouquet. Kirishima is stunning. He wears a black, single-breasted, satin tuxedo with a white-wing collar shirt.

The pastor repeats the question and receives the same reply. You watch her take his ring from a small girl dressed in pink and place it on his finger. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife." 

"You may now kiss your bride." He does so, placing his hands on her shoulders and pressing his lips against hers. The pastor holds up his hands, bringing the cheering crowd to their feet.

Kirishima and Mina leave the gazebo, arms linked, with huge smiles on their faces. The best man, maid of honor, and the groomsmen and bridesmaids follow suit, falling in behind them. They stop near the end of the walk, forming the start of the receiving line. 

The family and guests file down, pausing for hugs and kisses and congratulating the young couple. Mina then turns around and throws her bouquet of flowers behind her. The women collide with each other as they try to catch it. 

She cheers loud when the bouquet falls in your hands, and you giggle and wave it around, the women’s disappointed groans muffled in your ears when you catch the beautiful vermillions of your partner, oblivious to the golden specks that have been eyeing your every move since you stepped foot into the wedding.

“You could’ve been more obvious about wantin’ me to put a ring on your finger.” Katsuki chuckles against your ear, standing behind you with his hands on your hips, both of you looking at the newlyweds as they enter the reception with everyone awwing at them as they did their first dance as husband and wife.

The sun has set long ago, the full moon hanging and illuminating the area beautifully, the fairy lights and lamps circling the area, making the happy couple look absolutely glowing, and you smile at the scene from outside the dance floor.

“They fell in my hands ‘Suki.” you giggle, lacing your fingers between his, “Besides, you already did, didn’t you?” 

“Hmm,” his breath tickles your ear, fingers twisting your engagement ring around your ring finger, “was forced to, after all that whinin’ ‘bout wantin’ to settle down and not knowin’ when we’ll see each other when we’re goin’ on missions, and cherishin’ the lives-” he fakes a snore and rests his full weight on your back, both of you laughing as you tip forward and he catches you in time, placing his hand on your waist again and swaying with you as you see your friends happier than they ever were.

You look perfect, standing there holding each other, absolutely and utterly disgusting. Denki stares at you, fire spreading in his abdominal, his lungs constricting with every breath he takes the longer he looks at you. Swaying together, Katsuki’s lips pressing against your temple and you letting out the most beautiful laugh, Denki can’t help but clench the front of his shirt at the sight, wishing, hoping for nothing more than to be in his shoes, being the one lucky enough to be able to hold you that close, the one that has the privilege to hear your laugh, the one to make you laugh.

“Hey Denki,” He is snapped back to reality when Kirishima stands in front of him, blocking his view from the flawless couple. “H-hey Eiji! Congratulations bro, you’re finally a married man!” They hug, Denki’s eyes never leaving you while Katsuki twirls you to face him and peppers kisses across your face. “Thanks man! Hey sorry, could you get Bakugou for me real quick, we’re taking a few pictures with the best man and the maid of honor.”

“Right away, man of the hour.” 

Oh God, oh God, he isn’t ready to face you yet. You look too pretty, he doesn’t feel worthy to be in your presence, driven to bow down and ask for forgiveness for even breathing the same as yours. And yet, you smile upon his arrival, even letting go of Bakugou’s hand to wave him over, and you’re blessing him with your smile, giggles sounding like the singing of angels when he waves back excitedly.

“Hi!” you beam up at him the minute he’s close enough to be graced with your voice, “Where have you been, it’s like you were avoiding me all this time,” you pout for a second and Denki could swear he felt his heart skip multiple beats when your lips wobble and a smile makes it way back up at him.

“H-hey, ummm, Baku- uh.” he laughs at himself, trying to collect whatever dignity he has left. “Uh, Eiji is lookin’ for ya bro, something about a photoshoot with the maid of honor?” The groan Bakugou lets out is enough of a confirmation.

“Fuckin’ pain in my fuckin’ ass bitch” he grumbles, pressing his lips against your temple again, promising to come back after the ‘Motherfuckin’ bitch shoot’ is done. You only reply by squeezing his arm, a silent reassurance that you’ll be waiting for him when he gets back.

It's so revolting, the way he swears up and down, having the filthiest mouth with his words, not even respecting the beautiful goddess that tries to calm his nasty self down, he should be more considerate of you and your feelings, God he loathes the way he treats you. The way he mistreats you. 

You deserve to be treated so much better than that, the way Denki would, he’d downright kiss the ground you walk on, remind you every day that you’re the best thing that ever happened to him, the best goddamn thing to ever grace this earth.

Okay, you’re staring. God, has she been staring too? Denki, people always say you never shut up, use it to your advantage for once in your life.

Denki extends his arm to you, curses under his breath, wipes his sweaty palm against his pant leg before extending it again. "Would you like to dance?" You raise your eyebrows. "Would you like to dance?"

"Well, dancing is what a charming gentleman like myself would do.” He beames at the chuckle you let out. “Besides, you're beautiful and I want to show you off.” He pauses. “You know, while Bakugou is busy with his best man duties and all."

You smile, your pretty lips letting out a little giggle at his posture as he starts wiggling his fingers persuasively, and shake your head. "You know what? Yeah, I would like to dance."

Arm-in-arm, you and Denki head into the dance floor and step onto the wooden ground. You felt him move easily with you, agile and confident with the music as he takes the lead. His hands slowly yet surely reach to your lower back, but you shrug it off.

"Ah, expect tango music after this," he says. Eyes gleaming as they shift over to the DJ that nods in acknowledgement to him. He frowns when he sees your averted face, shifting your eyes away from his, observing, searching for him, your fiance, the person he wishes he could be, someone he could never be.

Denki trips over his words in an effort to regain your attention, “A-anyway, uh, um. Hey! Did you know that uh, t-tango is banned in other places of the world?" you raise your eyebrows. 

“Is it?”

 “Yeah, wanna know why?” 

“Didn’t expect you to know honestly.” He smiles as you laugh lightly, but something tugs at his heartstrings, its because you think of him as nothing but stupid brainless dunce face, depsite him entering and graduating one of the best hero courses in all of Japan, alongside you of all people, despite his hero work, the people he saves, the villains he captures, fuck. 

You don’t miss the way his face falls after your remark, an almost sour expression passing through before he clears his throat and looks behind your shoulder at basically nothing. “S-so,” you start, “Why was it banned?”

The blond’s eyes flicker over to you and soften at the way you’re cocking your head and smiling at him, despite him getting upset with you. What is he doing? He’s experiencing something straight out of his fantasies, having you pressed so close to him, dancing with him and smiling at him. No one else. 

“Oh, okay okay, so. It was considered the dance of the low-lifes at the worst places of society when it first emerged, and so the church banned it, because they said it had the music of the “immoral” factions of society”

“Oh? Why’s that.”

“It was considered an oversexualized dance. Portraying the sin and seduction of the Devil. It represents the Devil's nostalgia, his unrequited aspirations, loneliness, rejection, and misery. The longing of someone who will never fit in, who has never had love nor passion.” He takes a deep breath.  

“It's like sex, except with clothes on.”

 In a failed attempt to seduce you, he stumbles and steps on your heels. Earning a weak yelp from you as you back up from him.

It's okay, it's okay, he can fix this. Oh God the music stopped. Okay he gets to dance tango with you now and press you even more against him and hold you even closer, okay. God, are his hands always this sweaty?

The silence that follows the stopping of the music makes him panic, you’re so close, he just needs to reach out and hold you against him again. Press your tender body against his, let him pretend you’re his, pretend that he’s lucky enough to take you home with him. Help you take off your dress, press kisses against the curves of your body, make love to you all night.

Put all of that is cut short when he feels a daunting presence behind him, and he doesn’t need to turn around to know who it is. Because the way your face lights up at that presence is enough to stop his blood from pumping, enough for him to see only red, for him to dig his nails into the palm of his hands until he feels it piercing his skin.

“Hey,” the taunting voice of Katsuki Bakugou reminds him how beneath him he really is. “Yer havin fun with my girl.” it wasn’t a question. Despite that, in a desperate attempt to feel your touch one more time before you’re swept away by your big strong hero, that he would never be able to match to.

With trembling fingers, Denki grasps your hand and brings your knuckles close to his lips, eyes boring into each other while he kisses them, and you only grin in appreciation at his manners, doing the most adorable courtesy he has ever seen in his life, almost forgetting the looming presence of his former classmate.

Bakugou moves around Denki to reach you, and Kaminari knows at this point all hope is lost for you to dance with him, or better yet, have any interaction with him again for the entirety of the night. Katsuki held your hand with surprising firmness, caramel scent wafting through as you feel how sweaty his hands really are. 

“Are you warm?” You mumble, lacing your fingers through his when his reaction is to pull his hands away to wipe them at his pants. 

“No.” It's firm and it's rough, yet it isn’t directed at you. It’s directed to the other blond that surprisingly still hasn’t backed down and is still standing straight, eyeing how you two act as a couple, how he wishes you would hold his hand, ask him if he was warm, embrace all his insecurities.

As your fiance leads you back to the center of the dance floor. Hand starting at your waist but quickly slipping to grab a handful of your ass, chuckling when you squeal and slap his chest. Something wicked gleams in his eyes when the first tune of the violin starts playing, drifting with the harmony of the accordion.

“You and I both know that my knowledge of tango is as much as my knowledge for knitting, that’s right, nonexistent.”

“You know my body, don’t you?” he doesn’t wait for an answer. “Follow my lead, let your body do the talking.”

“You’re crazy.” yet you still laugh, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips as he pulls you impossibly close to him, raveling in the feeling of your chest pressed to his. You’re rolling your eyes a little at the way his smirk stretches when he pinches your butt, but you instantly shiver when he places his warm calloused hand within the cutout of your dress on your lower back, skin to skin. And just like your body is made to be molded against his, you place your arm over his shoulder while the other is engulfed in his. 

He steps close, too close, scandalously close. Pressing his cheek against your temple and only then meeting the eyes of Denki, that's when his smile drops, every playful act with you is gone. His magma filled eyes staring into the soul of the electrical hero.

Mine MineMineMine

Neither were stupid, Katsuki knows what Denki is doing, and Denki is well aware of Katsuki’s ability to piece shit together.

Denki is left lonesomely standing by the DJ, watching the way you two dance, the way Bakugou steps forward in your space and you stepping back to accommodate him. He seethes in his stance as you two rock on your feet, the way Bakugou handles your body with firmness and strength, yet softly watching you when you giggle at the way he spins your body effortlessly. Kaminari sees the way you let yourself be led, the way you trust Bakugou to handle you, hold you, care for you, in ways he could only hope for you to see him.

You are perfectly synchronized, almost fluid like, an extension of each other, like you had done this a million times before, practised day and night to perfect it. Bakugou takes his time twirling you across the room, seductively slow. Thighs brushing against each other with every stupid turn.

His body whispering commands to yours, daring it to misbehave, you step and lean and sway, every movement perfect and precise, like an intricate choreography that you have never learned, but your bodies remembering them. He dances with you the way he has sex—with exquisite control, infinite patience, and aggressive moves.

Huh, that's what Denki must have meant.

At that moment, your eyes catch him standing outside the dance floor, and you almost don’t recognize the man alone, filled by ugly emotions they couldn’t help but spill and show on his expression. Sour and hateful and just plain cruel looking.

Katsuki’s mouth curves in a lazy smile at how your brows furrow, spinning you in a vigorous turn so he’s the one facing him instead. You aren’t dense, you feel the eyes on you, well aware who they belong to as they burn through your back. He lowers his head, forcing you to look back up at him, your lips grazing against his, too close.

“Yer puttin’ on a show for your boy?” 

“A show- no you ass, weren’t you the one that wanted to dance?” you try to lean away to scold him -yes, middance- but the blond lowers further, until you think he’s trying to get you to shut up by kissing you. Suddenly he’s dipping you low, his face stays only a few inches away from yours, your back arching beautifully.

A static sound dwells on you, followed by the buzzing of electricity. The lights flicker and you instinctively grab at Katsuki, tightening your hold against his bicep, your eyes searching his when he doesn’t lift you back up, only to find him not even looking at you.

His fingers are tingling, tips wiggling as they shoot little sparks at the sight in front of him, his golden eyes illuminating in the momentary darkness as they clash with the magma filled rubies, challenging him, taunting him, mocking him.

MineMineMine

And when Denki accidentally short circuits the entire DJ booth, the dance hall instantly quiets, a blanket of silence weighing them down and daring someone to break it. And yet, Bakugou has other plans, of course.

Sneakily, he slides his hand down from your back to your knee, firmly grabbing your leg as his eyes meet yours before lifting it to his hip. Fingers slipping under your dress and grazing your upper thighs, sending goosebumps racing across your skin, not having the courage to break eye contact until you hear the gasp of a few of the attendees. Only then does he close the gap between to press his lips against yours, the little audience you collected clapping and cheering you along.

The whistling and cheering is loud enough for you to miss the sound of Denki’s fist slam against the table and the sobs wrecking him as he drags his feet away from the scene. 

BakugousBakugousBakugous

Sero grunts as he struggles to push the hotel room door open with Denki leaning his full weight on him. It takes him a couple of tries to finally get the drunk man on the bed, slapping his hands away as Denki tries to grab at and kiss the man. 

“C’moooon, Hantaaaaa, s’not like you don’ wanna, look atchu, you’re takin’ off m’clothes but you don’ wanna kiss me?”

“You ass, I’m taking off your shoes because you stepped in your own vomit.” 

The man gags, chugging the shoes in the trash can and helping his friend ease off of his suit jacket. “Yer a good man Hanta, say, you wanna be m’best man?” Sero laughs, shaking his head as he tries to help him lay on his stomach, “y’know, when I marry y/n.” 

The silence that follows is deafening, Sero not having the heart to talk when he catches the sound of Denki sniffing and burying his head in his pillow.

“I- “

“Jus’ leave me alone, Sero.”

And he does, the only confirmation of his solitude is the echoing click of the door’s lock as Sero leaves Denki to brew in his own self loathing.

It takes Denki a few minutes to collect himself, the nausea forcing him to take off his shirt and pants, lying down on his back to feel the cool air on his chest. He doesn’t realize he has his eyes closed until he snaps them open when he hears his door click close.

There you are, radiating, mesmerizing, you’re practically glowing, standing there by his door, adorned by your… nightgown? 

God, please don’t say you’re in the wrong room, please don’t say you’re in the wrong room.

“You sure you’re in the right room y/n?”

You don’t answer, you just simply, untie your robe. And Denki’s eyes practically bulge out when the silk robe slips right off of your shoulder and drops in a pile on the floor by your feet. He can’t look you in the eyes, he’s looking at every inch of exposed skin he can muster, committing every curve, every dip, every contour, every fucking thing to memory.

“You’re here, aren’t you?” that’s when he looks back up at your eyes -after shamelessly staring at your peaking nipples for a second too long - blinking twice at your words. He sits up with a struggle, “W-wait, what about Bakugou?”

“What about him?”

And honestly, that alone almost made him bust a nut.

You’re pushing at his chest until he lays back down, throwing your leg over his figure and straddling him. Instantly, he feels your warmth pressing against his strained length and his body shivers at the thumbing against it. 

“You’re so good to me Denki,” you breathe, fingers combing through his hair before you take a fistful of it and lightly tug, rolling your hips against his and relishing in the whines he lets out, slender fingers reaching for your thighs and grabbing handfuls, his eyes begging for you to do it again, and when you do, he throws his head back and moans.

“You treat me so well,” you pout, nails tracing his sweaty flushed chest, peppering kisses along it, moving up until you reach his ear, biting at it and giggling when he ruts his hips up against you. Feeling your slick dampen the front of his boxers as his leaky cock does the same. “So pretty for me” he whines again, eyes blown out and chest heaving at the feeling of being kissed by you, held by you, touched by you, hell, looked at by you.

“Fuck, again, ah- d-don’t stop, pleaseplease-”

“Use your words baby, wadda you want?” he thrashes against the bed when you grind your hips against his again, the tips of his fingers buzzing and twitching when you’re lowering yourself to press your chest against his face. 

“Fuck, wanna feel your pretty pussy, feel you squeeze my cock, please, just -ah, put it in.” it's all muffled from the spit collecting on tongue and the way he’s smothered by your tits but honestly he wouldn’t have it any other way.

His body refuses to move as you scoot lower, straddling his thigh and grinding your hips against it, wickedly smiling as he whines ‘nonono’ when you do, “m-my cock, my cock, please stop teasin’.” the tip of your finger traces the elastic of his boxers, giggling at the way his body jerks up and at the gasp he lets out when you snap it against his hip. Before gliding your finger against his strained cock, enjoying the way it twitches under your touch, feeling it harden against you.

You coo at him as you pull off his boxers, when you see that there is no initiation from him to move. The sight of his pretty cock with its fiery head welcoming you and you can’t help but grab at it. “Pretty boy all needy for me, hmm?” You give it a lick from the base to the tip, sucking on the head of his cock and feeling it twitch inside of your mouth, hollowing out your cheek and looking up to see the way his face flushes, his body illuminating with the crackling of the thunders around him, twitching his body before he breathes out a few times to calm himself down.

How is he so lucky? How is he blessed with having your lips wrapped around his cock, just looking at you is tightening a knot in his belly, and he can’t help but throw his head back and close his eyes in an effort to prolong his orgasm to feel even more of you.

He doesn't open his eyes until he feels a looming shadow on him, and that's when he catches sight of you again, the moon hitting your face, your glistening precum-covered lips smiling down at him.

“Want me to take care of you?” You tease, chuckling breathlessly as Denki feels your pussy on his cock, your slick covering it as you roll your hips and feel your pussy gush at the way his body shivers in ecstasy at your touch. “Yes! Please mommy ye-”

“Mommy?” Did he just say it out loud? “No, ah- fuck, no-no I didn’t say that I-” you don’t even let him talk, gyrating your hips again, covering his dick with your slick, without having your walls flutter around him just yet.

It takes a few teasing grinds of you against him to have him sobbing at this point, “m-mommy please just please! I wanna, ah” he thrashes when the tip of his leaky cock catches your clit, the lightnings he’s producing passing by his eyes and obscuring his blurry vision for a while, before he’s blessed with the sight of you beautifully arched on top of him. “In, in, wanna feel the pretty pussy, please please lemme feel the pretty pussy.” it's just meaningless babbling at this point, anything to get your walls tightening around his cock, all sensitive from being rubbed against you for god knows how long.

And when his head catches your cunt, he all but cries out at the way it clenches at the head, bucking his hips up to feel more of you. Wanting you to swallow him whole, take him all the way in. “Y’gonna just fuck into my pussy like that, hmm? Is that how you’re treatin’ mommy now?” “n-no! Ah, m’sorry pleaseplease, I just, you feel s’good, you’re s’tight aaah, wanna feel more, please I want more more more,” and he does. So, without a warning, you drop your hips and impale yourself on his cock, and for fuck’s sake all of what Denki saw what white for a few seconds, he could’ve sworn he heard a few angels singing, even.

“That what you want, hmm? Want her to take care of her pretty boy?” you pout mockingly, bouncing yourself on his lap as he tries to grab hold of your hips to guide you, but the way you’re jerking his body has his head dizzy and his sight swimming, the low buzzing of his quirk muffled by the wet slaps of your skin against his, your ass clapping against his thighs and he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget that sound, and he just settles for letting you please yourself with his cock, because if you’re gonna use him as a fucking dildo, then he wouldn’t fucking have it any other way.

Weakly snapping his hips upwards with the drops of your hips, Denki’s leg shake and it takes a few more times for his cock to fully seath itself in your tight walls for him to let go, feeling your pussy squeeze his cock for all his worth as your pants turn into whines, suddenly they’re very afar, almost like you’re underwater. Yet he’s the one feeling like his lungs are constricted when he hears the name you’re calling, and it isn’t his. “Ka- ahh- suki…”

Only then does Denki realize that you aren’t in his room, your discarded rope isn’t thrown haphazardly on the floor by the door, your slick isn’t covering his thigh or coating his dick, and the worst of all, your pussy isn’t the one that has been squeezing his cock, oh no.

It was his hand, those slender fingers wrapping around his softening cock, smeared with his cum. He lifts his hand in horror, disgust and shame eating him up, especially when his ears perk up at your sound.

“Fuck, Katsu- yesyesyes, right there, yes!” Whatever nausea he felt subsiding is coming back tenfold, burning his throat as he slaps his hand over his mouth, anything to stop himself from puking on himself.

“Ha, that what you want? Getting dicked down after havin’ fun with that fuckin’ dunce face.” The wet sounds of Bakugou’s hips slapping yours is almost making his ears bleed. “Havin’ that prick touchin’ ya like that. Fuckin’ slut, all of that to rile me up so I can fuck that tight lil pussy, that what you want?”

Denki doesn’t know what’s the last nail on the coffin, the absolute filth being spewed to you, tainting your angelic ears, that aren’t meant to hear anything but praises and confessions of love and gratitude, the fact that you’re squealing and moaning for him to fuck you even harder, or the fact that he’s listening to every squealching sound, every creak the bed made, every slam of the headboard against your shared wall, every breath, every moan, every scream, everything.

That's when Denki flings himself off of the bed and empties his stomach, right on the floor next to his bed, tears stinging his eyes as he tries to trick himself that it's because of the way his throat is burning and not because of the way his heart is shattering, feeling it wrenched from his chest and thrown on the floor, stepped on and spat on and just beaten to the point of no return.

Sniffing and lifting his head up, Denki can’t help but see red, his whole body crackling with newfound vigor, his whole body is numb, like his quirk is taking the lead, putting his consciousness on the back burner. He chuckles, despite you moaning out Katsuki’s name when you find your release, despite him calling yours as he finds his, despite hearing your giggles and the kisses he’s pressing against god knows where on your body, despite the tears streaming down his face.

The last thing Denki remembers before he lets his quirk take complete control over him, is the humming of energy, the fleeting blinding brightness, the shattering of the light bulbs all around him, the loud deafening bangs, almost like music to his ears and finally, the sound of you screeching in horror. 

Hope you like it! Kithes kithes

[aminiatureworld]

An Unexpected Rival

Characters: Childe, Scaramouche, Xiao, gn!reader

Word Count: 3,556

Warnings: Swearing

Premise: When thinking about fighting for the affections of someone, one normally imagines great declarations of love and promises of loyalty. But sometimes that’s not it. Sometimes it’s simply living with a being that hates you more than anything.

In which the reader’s pet hates their s/o

Author’s Note: I did give the pets names because I felt I couldn’t really refer to them as “your pet” the whole time. I also am not a pet owner. Still I hope you enjoy! 

Going to try non bullet pointed for a bit. We’ll see how it goes!

Childe

Honestly you didn’t know what to do.

Here you were, standing in the middle of the living room of your apartment, trying desperately not to laugh at the sight of your dog sitting directly on the chest of your much beleaguered partner.

You hadn’t really considered the consequences of introducing Childe to Lacey. I mean, how badly could the interactions be between the man you were convinced was your soulmate and the nicest golden retriever that had ever existed? If there was going to be issues you’d reasoned it would be on Childe’s side. So when your partner lit up at the mention of your fluffy child, you’d assumed all would be well.

Evidently that was not the case. You knew that Lacey could be clingy on occasion, but she’d really been making an effort these past few weeks. Knocking your partner out of the way when you two walked through the door together, refusing to stop walking when you two met up at a park or on the street, refusing to answer to Childe’s attempts at affection. It was almost impressive, the lengths Lacey was willing to go to establish her position as Number One Childe Hater – especially impressive considered the well-attested competition, including but not limited to a Fatui Harbinger.

Now you sprung into action as best you could, bottling up the giggles that threatened to erupt at any moment.

“Childe!” You exclaimed, walking closer. Lacey still refused to stand up, but her tail thumped excitedly against the floor, and she let out a short whine of appreciation. Unfazed by this cry for praise you sighed. “Lacey! Get up! Honestly, you’re not being a very good testament to your intelligence right now.”

Nudging her slightly you sighed with relief as the golden retriever sprang up, attacking your hands and face with kisses as you dragged Childe up to a sitting position. Childe at least seemed unfazed by the sudden attack, letting out a mere “oof”, and smiling a slightly embarrassed smile.

“I’m really sorry about this Childe.” You said, hands still batting away Lacey’s frantic activity as she attempted to get you to focus on her.

“It’s alright. Just, wow she’s a heavier girl than I expected.”

“Hopefully no squished organs?”

“Archons no! It’ll take more than this girl to fell me, don’t you worry.” Childe attempted to give Lacey a pet, but the dog that had just before been laying all over him now scampered out of the way, instead pawing at your back.

“Lacey! Stop being so rude! Urgh, and here I was hoping that you two would be somewhat settled before I went on my trip.”

You sighed, letting your head drop into the palms of your hand, not wanting to think about what might happen during the week and a half that Childe would be required to take care of Lacey. Would she even let him in the apartment to feed her? What about walks and the like? Were you going to come home to all our warfare? Childe seemed to understand your quickly dropping mood, placing a hand on your shoulder and rubbing small circles with his thumb, even as Lacey whined and began pawing at his arm.

“I promise it’ll be alright my dear. We’ll manage while you’re gone and who knows? Maybe by the time you get back we’ll be thick as thieves, and then you’ll be the one getting sat on.”

“Who knows.” You let out a burst of laughter. But even as you two shared this moment of levity your mind continued to spin its threads, dreading the days to come and what you’d be presented with the day you got back.

 “Alright, what’re we going to do.”

Childe stood in the foyer, hands on his hip, irritation in his heart. Lacey seemed to be mimicking the gesture, chest puffed out proudly as she stared the Harbinger down. They must’ve been standing like that for at least ten minutes, Childe thought to himself, ten minutes of staring and nothing yet done. It was beginning to grate on him, and were it not for the fact that you’d have to pay for damages, he was quite tempted to vault over the nearby furniture, if only so he could get to the kitchen and have this miserable showdown be over.

He didn’t dislike Lacey, no Childe didn’t think he could truly dislike any dog if he tried. He used to dream of owning a wolf pup, of flopping around in the snow with his companion, running as fast as he could and still being chased down with a crash, before being bombarded by affectionate pawing and kisses. These memories seemed quite silly when faced with the reality of caring for a dog however, and now he wanted only to bang his head against the wall, and maybe pass out from the exertion.

“I get that you love your owner.” He spoke again, how long had he been talking to this dog? “But I don’t think this is the way to win their heart.”

Lacey said nothing, simply narrowing her eyes and letting out a slightly hiss. Still Childe continued on.

“And like it or not you are going to have to eat eventually. So I suggest if you’re going to misbehave, that you should at least do it on a day when I’m not your primary caretaker.”

When there was still no movement from Lacey Childe sighed. That evening when he returned to his own apartment it was with the unfortunate knowledge that golden retriever bites hurt a lot more than he’d expected them too.

 It was storming, and the city of Liyue had transformed from a glistening city to one of mud and rusted iron. Childe swore under his breath as he pulled his coat closer around him, desperately trying to keep as dry as possible. Who knew if he’d be able to make it to your bedroom and grab one of his spare shirts with Lacey acting like he was a burglar instead of well known acquaintance? The song and dance between the two of them was grating. Feeding your golden retriever being nearly impossible, not to mention the times when Childe half dragged Lacey through the most half assed of walks. Really how could such a gentle spirit turn so stubborn so quickly? Childe didn’t know, all he knew was that the sooner you came home the sooner he could stop worry about being nipped at the heels.

The sight that met Childe at the entrance to your apartment was jarring. Instead of the usual irritated dog Childe was met with utter silence, and a stillness that betrayed the fact that not only was Lacey not in the hall, but she was also avoiding the kitchen and the living room.

“Lacey?” Childe called out, getting no answer but the whipping of wind and the rumble of thunder. “I swear if you managed to run off – Lacey!”

Going further down the hall Childe finally heard the sound of muffled whimpering. Walking into your bedroom he spied Lacey under the bed, eyes filled not with disdain, but with anxiety.

“Lacey, why in Teyvat are you here?”

There was no reply, until suddenly another clap of thunder shook the walls. Lacey let out a yelp and crawled under the bed a little more, flattening her head against the floor, although there was not much room left in that department. Childe stared at this for a second letting the pieces fall into place. He just couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that this was the same Lacey who so fearlessly guarded the apartment against his entrance every day.

This slight smugness was extinguished rather quickly though, instead replaced with a sense of pity, and the need to make this poor girl feel the least bit better.

“Hey, hey it’ll be alright.” Childe spoke softly. For a moment he left the room, but quickly he returned, towels and blankets in hand, praying that you wouldn’t mind that he messed up your closet a little bit.

“Let’s make a fort, shall we?”

Not waiting for any sort of acknowledgment Childe began to pile up the covers on your bed, making sure to lay down towels in case you were worried of shedding. At first Lacey did nothing much than scooch out enough to watch him, but within the next flash of lightning she was up and moving, diving under the makeshift fort and clambering around Childe, as if trying to find out if she could burrow through the Harbinger.

“I know, I know, it’s pretty scary out there, huh?” Childe ruffled Lacey’s head slightly. “But you’ll see, it’ll pass soon enough. And then we can go back to fighting, alright.”

Lacey let out a whine, but nevertheless began to settle down, lying down and once more resting her head on her paws.

“There’s a good girl.” Childe smiled softly. “You aren’t that bad you know. At least you aren’t that bad when you’re not trying to bite my leg off.”

Your surprise at the improvement in Childe-Lacey relations was somewhat immense when you returned. Though Childe refused to say what had managed to form such a bond between your disgruntled pet and him, only that he hoped you didn’t mind dog hair on your bed. Lacey, for her part, no longer tried to sit on your partner.

Even if she still pushed him out of the way when you came home.

 Scaramouche

Scaramouche could deal with a lot of things. He could deal with the fact that your parrot wouldn’t let the man within three feet of the parrot’s cage without attempting to bite his hands off. He could deal with the obnoxiously loud clicking whenever he got too close to you, and he could deal with fact that your parrot was fond of yelling random phrases at him in the most aggressive tone Scaramouche had ever heard. Scaramouche could deal with all of that. What he couldn’t deal with is what your parrot insisted on calling him, no matter how much time was spent saying: “Scaramouche. I am Scaramouche!”

“Electro boy? Really?”

“I’m sorry Scara,” you let out a giggle, “I didn’t know what your name was when I first saw you.”

Oh Scaramouche was sure of that, but did that really mean that Oliver had to call him solely by that title? It didn’t help that you must’ve referred to Scaramouche an awful lot as “Electro Boy” for it to be the name that stuck in Oliver’s mind. And regardless of how many times you used the title, it was one thing for you to use the nickname. It was quite another thing for Oliver to, since, unlike in your case, Oliver’s use of “Electro Boy” could be nothing but derogatory.

Scaramouche had long given up in wooing the errant parrot over. If they were to be mortal enemies, so be it. He’d dealt with that before.

“Oh Scaramouche, you must be joking!” You’d exclaimed when he’d revealed this train of thought, cupping his face in your hand and pressing affectionate kisses to his face. He’d let you do so, let you imagine that one day there might be a reconciliation. But in his heart he knew. Unless Oliver learned to stop with the name calling, Scaramouche would never forgive him for the insult.

“I wish you would write.” You whispered.

Pain skirted through Scaramouche’s face, but still he refused the promise that you needed. You knew that Scaramouche would never be able to have a normal relationship with you, that these trips were necessary, were a part of him that you’d never be able to wrench away. Still, the least he could do was promise to write. Without his writings, well how could you even be sure he was alive?

“I’m sorry.” Scaramouche whispered. Leaning in so your foreheads were touching he let out a sigh, warming your lips with his breath. “I cannot promise I will write. I wouldn’t like to break a promise to you.”

“I know.” You whispered back, shaking your head as much as you could. “Still, I’d almost rather a broken promise.”

“You wouldn’t. I know it would drive you mad.”

“Perhaps, but better than nothing?”

You two stood there, basking in silence. A familiar cry broke the reverie.

“Electro Boy! Electro Boy!” A series of clicks accompanied the sudden shriek. There was no better way to break the spell. Almost immediately Scaramouche pulled away. Walking towards the door he paused, turning around one more time.

“I’ll miss you.”

Those words washed over you, their owner having been carried away with the wind.

 Scaramouche hurried up the steps, anticipation keep his pace quick and his thoughts a jumble of fragments. The long mission he’d been sent on was finally over, and now he could think not of noisy soldiers, nor of the people who continually disappointed him, but of you. He couldn’t wait, every step on the staircase felt like an obstacle, something he must triumph against to reach you. Finally arriving at your door he barely paused, stepping this way and that as he opened the door before striding into the hallway as fast as he could.

“I’m home.” He called into the afternoon light. Almost immediately two things happened. One was that you leapt off your position on the couch, practically barreling yourself into his arms. The second was that Oliver began to screech, hopping from one foot to the other in an indecipherable dance.

“Scara, you’re home!” You cried, exclamation by the way you buried your face into his shoulder.

“Scara! Scara! Scaramouche!” Oliver echoed. The words made Scaramouche freeze up, taken aback as he was by their usage.

“What was that Oliver?” He called out, not altogether sure if the parrot would even reply to him. Scaramouche had really only referred to Oliver by name the first time he met him. After that you had to settle with “the bird” or “the noisemaker”. This time, however Scaramouche couldn’t help but use it. This was, after all, a matter of great importance.

“Scaramouche, Scaramouche, who’s a pretty bird?” Oliver tittered irreverently.

His tone was still somewhat sharp, Scaramouche never heard Oliver snap at you the way he did him, but nevertheless the words had struck a chord. Finding himself at a loss for words Scaramouche stared at you, trying to figure out what was going on.

“That’s probably my fault,” you laughed hesitantly, “I guess I was talking about you more than I thought. It’s only that, well I missed you an awful lot. And Oliver is my confidante, he always has been. So I guess I’ve just been talking a lot to him about you. I’ve really missed you…”

Scaramouche felt his heart soften. Leaning over he pressed a kiss to your forehead, much to the indignation of Oliver, who twittered away as normal. Still, it was better than it had been before. And, if Scaramouche could admit it to himself, he didn’t mind the idea of you pouring out to Oliver how much you missed him. It made him feel important, feel whole. And if your rude bird had helped at all, then Scaramouche could find it in him to respect Oliver, though only a little.

“I’m glad you thought of me.” He whispered to you. “And I’m glad you still had a confidante to talk to.”

And if the result was a parrot who no longer called him “Electro Boy”, then all the better.

 Xiao

Honestly Xiao couldn’t really see the appeal of pets. Something that was only cemented when he met your cat.

“And this is Honey.” You’d said softly, picking up the orange feline and cradling her in your arms. The cat made no sounds, instead it stared straight at Xiao, eyes narrow, gaze untrusting. Xiao was equally out of depths in this matter. What was he supposed to do? Pet it, presumably. Reaching out with hesitant fingers Xiao almost immediately pulled away, dodging an onslaught of clawing.

Ever since then there seemed to have been an odd hierarchy established, at least in Honey’s mind. She never let Xiao sit next to you, oh no, that would’ve been too generous. Instead Honey squeezed into the space between you two, no matter how small and wow was it small sometimes, meowing angrily as Xiao passed his arm over her head to hold your hand. Sometimes she’d try the tactic of walking all over you, lying on your lap, wrapping herself around your shoulders, and all the time glaring at Xiao as if he’d brought some sort of catastrophe on her for daring to try and get close to you.

“Your cat hates me.”

“She does not!” You exclaimed. “Honey doesn’t hate anyone! She just needs to get used to you.”

“She hates me. She thinks I’m beneath her.”

Xiao glared up at Honey, who was looming over the conversation via the bookshelf in your bedroom. Honey’s eyes narrowed and for a moment Xiao felt as if he’d somehow spilled the cat’s secrets. It wasn’t his fault that he knew what she was thinking. After all, hadn’t Xiao been like that for a time? An ornery soul who found most interactions beneath him? Who knew he’d be on the receiving end of that relationship someday. He certainly didn’t appreciate it now.

“You just need to get used to one another.” You continued to assure Xiao. “Honey’s a little bit possessive. It’s nothing personal. She’ll get over it.”

Well it’d been four weeks since that conversation and unfortunately Honey showed exactly zero signs of “getting over it”. Though perhaps she wasn’t clawing at him anymore, maybe because you’d actually scolded her for it, the gaze never left her eyes. The fact that she meowed loudly whenever Xiao made more contact than hand holding also didn’t help her case.

 Xiao sighed, staring at the sky as the sun began its descent beyond the peaks of Liyue. A cluster of trees ringed the back part of your house – trees apparently planted by your grandparents – and Xiao enjoyed perching in them to watch the sunset.

“At least here the cat will leave me alone.” He muttered.

It’d been a tiring day. Honey had been in a particularly bad mood – probably the result of Xiao staying the night – and the atmosphere in the house had become somehow so tense that Xiao figured taking a hike wouldn’t be a bad idea. Even if he found the whole exercise a bit demeaning.

“I’m losing to a cat.” Xiao called flatly out into the air. There was no reply of course, but he didn’t mind that. Imagine what his fellow adepti would think of him now, flailing around, trying to win the affections of a furball whose favorite pastime was being as irritating as possible.

Now Xiao heard a familiar yowl. Glancing down he spied Honey, hair standing on end, gripping a branch as if her life belonged to it. An old conversation rose to the front of his mind. Something about cats being able to go up trees very easily, but not so much down. What an idiotic creature, he thought to himself.

Still it’d be ill form to leave the poor idiot clutching onto the branch, so fighting his smugness as beset he could Xiao leaned over and attempted to wrench the cat from the branches. Honey let out a series of shrieks, claws digging into the bark, but eventually she relinquished and Xiao pulled her up onto his lap. Almost immediately she began pawing at his chest, meowing her indignancy.

“I know.” Xiao glared at the cat. “But they wouldn’t be very happy if you got stuck.”

As if to reply Honey narrowed her eyes, turning around to look at the skyline, rather than acknowledge the adeptus she was now laying on. Xiao hummed in response.

“You know things would be easier if you weren’t so aggressive.”

A meow in response.

“I don’t understand you. I don’t understand why you’re so territorial.”

Another meow.

“I suppose I’m like that. I also want them to myself. Things would be easier without you clawing at me. But they love you, and that’s what matters. I don’t know why but they do.”

Silence, perhaps Honey was insulted by the way Xiao spoke.

“I can’t say I’ll love you. But I’ll try to like you. As long as you try to like me.”

Silence again, but this time Xiao took it as an assent. Letting out a sigh he turned back towards the horizon, gaze drifting towards the peaks that Honey too was watching with interest. The night was alive with the soft chirps of insects, and a faint breeze ruffled Xiao hair, dancing through Honey’s fur. Xiao let out a sigh and, nemesis on his stomach, allowed himself a little rest.

You stared at the mismatched pair, a smile playing on your lips. How funny they looked, curled up together. Like two cats, one a panther, the other a tabby. And yet somehow the tabby was running the shots.

They look so peaceful, you mused to yourself, who knows what they might be like in the morning.

At the very least, you’d be sure to enquire about the nature of your partner’s conversation with your cat, something which had seemed very important to him.

[hlizr50]

Aggressive Affirmation

My first Elorcan fic, y'all. And it's smut.

It wasn't supposed to be smutty, but things escalated.

I'm not sorry.

Lorcan is sick and tired of Elide not acknowledging the incredible things that she has done. She doesn't give herself enough credit, doesn't see what she has to offer the home she hopes to rebuild. Lorcan encourages her to admit that she is intelligent, brave, and strong.

Read on AO3

Lorcan hadn’t even attempted to hide his wide grin when Elide had agreed to ride with him. It still surprised him that he could feel so carefree with her, so comfortable with letting his emotions dance across his features. But it was only for her. She had torn down every wall, crashed through every locked door, even faced death to earn his vulnerability. And he would pay it back in spades.

The midnight-haired beauty had rolled her eyes, still seemingly unaware of how her proximity to him could spark such an exuberant reaction. Lorcan found it difficult to understand how she didn’t presume she was the most incredible thing to have happened in the many years of his life, a strong woman in possession of near-bottomless bravery, fierce intelligence, and unbreakable dedication to the people and land she loved.

The journey would not be the longest they had together, though it would most certainly be the safest. Lorcan allowed himself to relax, as much as he could, and enjoy the feeling of the woman wrapped in his arms.

His wife.

The last time they had ridden like this he had been at death’s door, Elide urging the mount onward toward the keep at Anielle. What a relief it was to be with her now – to wrap his arms around her. As if to remind himself of what she felt like, his hand widened across her stomach, fingers stretching to feel as much of her as he could. Lorcan was pleased to find that her ribs were no longer so present below the tunic she wore, their time in Orynth slowly erasing the effects of months – perhaps years – of scarce food and near constant fear.

Soft strands, black as his own, brushed over his hands as he held Elide tighter against him. She turned her head, tilting her chin up to cast him a sidelong glance.

“What are you doing?” Her question was reflected in those fathomless eyes that he swore he could drown in. Lorcan grinned, dipping his chin to brush his lips over her forehead.

“Just thinking, wife,” he answered. “Of the last time we were on a horse like this, after you rode out into hell even when the mightiest of soldiers were retreating into that keep.” Elide’s lashes lowered as she looked away, as she often did when confronted with her own strength. “And how you thought up the plan that would defeat Erawan. And how you ran him through to keep him immobile so Yrene could finish him off.”

Silence was his only answer.

Lorcan sighed but let the quiet persist. His thumb traced back and forth over her abdomen, a motion that was meant to be soothing to her, but seemed to bring him comfort, as well. A spring breeze whispered past them, carrying the chirping of birds and the rustle of leaves on the trees lining the road. And echoing louder than any of the sounds of their journey was his wife’s silence.

“Elide.”

She didn’t answer, but she turned her head again and traced her fingers over his forearm.

“What’s wrong?” he prodded.

“Nothing,” she murmured, even as he felt her tense against his chest.

“You lie,” Lorcan crooned. “I know you better than I used to, Elide. You may be the cunning liar that thawed my cold heart, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to let it go. Tell me what’s bothering you.” His wife heaved a sigh, sagging into him.

“I am… anxious. About returning to Perranth,” she mumbled, turning her face forward again. His brows furrowed, lips pursing in confusion. Returning home, finding her queen, and rebuilding the city had been her aim as long as he’d known her – likely far longer.

“Tell me why.”

And just like that her back was straight again, shoulders tense, the small space between their bodies like a chasm. Lorcan’s eyes narrowed.

“Elide.”

Still she didn’t answer.

And judging from her reaction to his praise moments before, knowing her, Lorcan had a sneaking suspicion that he knew why she was hesitant. It grated against him, how little she thought of herself – how she refused to acknowledge her many feats of bravery and strength.

A snarl rumbled through his chest as he swung down from the saddle. He grabbed Elide before she had the chance to give a startled yelp and tossed her, gently, over his shoulder.

“Lorcan! What in the gods names are you doing?!” she shrieked. Ignoring her protest, he turned to their travel companions and dipped his chin.

“We’ll catch up,” he grumbled with a scowl before stalking off toward the tree line. This nonsense needed to end, sooner rather than later.

“Lorcan Lochan, you put me down this instant!”

His lips ticked up at his new surname, and he was glad she couldn’t see his amusement. He found a small clearing, a boulder jutting out of the grass. Schooling his features, he carried the still-grumbling woman to the rock, pulling her back over his shoulder and plopping her gently atop it.

“Why?” he demanded, eyes boring into her midnight pools that darkened with confusion. Lorcan released a frustrated sigh. “Why don’t you see your own worth, Elide?” He studied her with a frown as her eyes widened and her lips parted in a gasp.

“Lorcan?” she breathed. He ran a hand through hair that had become unruly in his less-than-graceful prowl into the woods. Then, taking a deep breath, he cupped her cheeks, allowing callused thumbs to graze over her high cheekbones.

“Do you think you’re strong, Elide?” Her eyes narrowed as she stared back at him, uncertainty painted across her pale features. Her answer, however, came quickly and assuredly – proof to the male that her belief was deep and unyielding.

“No.”

Lorcan flinched.

He lowered his gaze, doing all in his power to keep his breathing even. It was all he could do not to pace across the clearing in anger and frustration. “Elide-“

“I’m a cripple, Lorcan.” Her voice trembled slightly, and his eyes shot back to hers. They were hard. Uncompromising. As if her perceived weakness was just an unfortunate truth that she had come to terms with. Gods, it enraged him so – that she had practically been raised to believe that she had such little value. “I can barely walk, much less fight. I was a prisoner in my own home. For years. And after that I was little more than a slave. For ten years I was only allowed to live because someone else willed it. And in those ten years I did nothing for Perranth, for Terrasen. And what have I to offer now?” Lorcan cursed the shimmer of silver in her lashes as she pulled his hands away from her face and lowered her chin.

“I can’t even read, Lorcan,” she whispered wetly, her delicate hands clutching his. With a growl he pulled his hands away, fisting them in his hair as he, indeed, began stalking back and forth across the clearing. His ire was a living thing, writhing under his skin. What he would give to have her uncle in front of him now, so Lorcan could tear him apart like he deserved.

“Are you angry with me?”

The roaring in his head ceased in an instant, the timid question ringing clear as a bell through the heat boiling in his blood. He practically ran back to her, grabbing her face again.

“I’m not angry with you, love. Never. But it is absolutely infuriating that you believe it. That you have been made to believe it” Lorcan leaned pressed his forehead against hers. “You, Elide Lochan, are one of the strongest people I’ve ever known. I have fought beside fae and humans, men and women, the legendary and the ordinary. You are brave and strong and so incredibly clever.”

The lithe woman in his grasp opened her mouth to argue, but he pushed her chin back up.

“It…” He swallowed, realizing the vulnerability he was about to show. “It hurts me, Elide. When you just dismiss all the amazing things you’ve done. When you speak as if you have nothing to offer your queen, your home. When I found you, you were walking to Terrasen. And I have no doubt you would have made it. You picked up an axe against the Ilken. You rode out into the hell of Anielle in the face of certain death. You concocted the plan that defeated Erawan. Someone who is weak would not have done any of those things.”

Elide’s eyes bore into his, wide and shimmering. He leaned away, trailing his hands down her arms until he could link their fingers. Lorcan didn’t dare break that gaze, didn’t want to.

“Please. Please, try to acknowledge that. For me.”

“Well that’s not fair,” she laughed, tilting her head back. “Not when you put it that way.”

“I never said I would fight fair, wife,” Lorcan chuckled, then leaned in to capture her lips in a kiss, moaning when she immediately opened up to him. He explored her with his tongue – he would never get tired of her mouth on his.

Elide pulled back, breathing ragged. “We should probably get back,” she sighed. “They probably think we’re doing any number of questionable things.”

His large hands found her hips and tugged her to him, earning a startled giggle. “Well I would hate for them to be wrong.” He kissed her again, sliding his fingers below the band of her breeches. She gasped against his lips, and he snickered in response.

“Lorcan,” she hissed as his lips moved to her jaw, planting kisses up the sharp line. A murmured ‘mmmm’ was his only response as his fingers deftly unknotted the ties to her pants. “Lorcan, people will talk!”

“Let them talk.” His voice was like silk against the shell of her ear. “There is nothing wrong with a male wanting to pleasure his wife.” Elide’s hands fisted his hair, and he slid a hand between her legs to dip a finger into her. He felt her soft cry vibrate against his lips at her throat as his finger slid further, finding heat and wetness. “It would seem that your protests aren’t entirely heartfelt, Elide,” he purred against her neck, inserting a second finger.

“Oh Gods!” she panted. With a growl, he lifted his head and crushed his mouth over hers – a possessive, demanding kiss. He pistoned his fingers inside her, bringing the heels of his palm to rub against that sensitive bud. She mewled against his lips, and he pumped his fingers deeper as he swallowed every gasp and moan that lifted from her throat. Lorcan pulled back, watching Elide’s delicate flushed features lift and scrunch, reacting to the pleasure he was giving her. He wrapped his arm around her, supporting the small of her back with a hand that nearly spread the entire width of her body. When he brushed his callused thumb over that bundle of nerves, he felt her body tremor against him.

“How do you feel, wife?” he snickered, fingers never faltering. Her breathing became increasingly erratic, those little noises growing more frantic.

“Godsdammit,” she cried. He plunged his fingers as deep as they could go and held them there, then flicked his thumb across her again. Her hips bucked as she howled.

“If you want to cum, you will do as I say,” Lorcan growled, a feral grin spreading his lips. “Do you want to cum, Elide?” He wiggled his fingers inside her for emphasis.

“Yes! Gods, Lorcan,” she groaned. He started pumping inside her again, slowly and deliberately. He leaned in so his lips brushed right under her ear.

“Tell me that you are brave, Elide,” he crooned, continuing his ministrations.

“Wh-what?” Elide panted, pleasure and arousal clouding her comprehension of his request. He flicked his thumb over her again, her body convulsing.

“Tell. Me,” he demanded. He could feel her body shuddering around him, and he kept his rhythm slow and steady, drawing out her pleasure and forcing her to wait for her release.

“I- I’m brave!” Her voice cracked as her breath sawed in and out of her. “Lorcan!”

“Tell me you’re intelligent,” he murmured, pace increasing ever so slightly. Elide moaned, a guttural sound from her chest.

“I’m intelligent! Gods, please Lorcan,” she begged. Her fingers clung desperately to his shoulders, and he felt her trembling as she rode his hand.

“Tell me that you are strong, Elide.” His mouth dipped to the soft, sensitive skin below her ear, suckling there as he curled his fingers inside her. “Say it, love.”

“I- I… I am strong!” she gasped. Satisfaction rumbled through his chest. Her frantic pants surrounded him as he unleashed himself, long fingers pumping and thumb grinding into her most sensitive spot.

“Yes, you are. Now cum for me,” Lorcan groaned against her before lifting his head, watching his wife as she rode his fingers. A reverent smile graced his features as she finally found her release with a hoarse scream. Pulling her panting form against him he tucked her head under his chin, a hand stroking through her hair and over her back while he pulled his other hand away from between her thighs. “You are strong. You are beautiful. Perranth is lucky to have such a woman to lead them, and the world is fortunate that you saw fit to help save it. Never forget that.” He pressed his lips to her hair as he listened to her breathing return to normal.

“I love you, Lorcan Lochan.” Elide’s contented sigh vibrated against his chest, dainty fingers tracing soft paths over his stomach. How long had he lived, never knowing that happiness like this could exist for him?

“I love hearing that name. Knowing it’s mine.” Lorcan pushed her shoulders, gently pulling them apart so he could press a soft kiss to her lips. “I love you, Elida Lochan.” Reaching down, he tightened the laces to her breeches. He knew the rest of the ride probably wouldn’t be the most comfortable, and he cursed inwardly that he had been so impatient that he hadn’t at least thought that it would be better to just take them off. “We’ll find an inn tonight. Get you a proper bath. Get these clothes washed.”

A dusting of pink colored her cheeks, realization of why she would need those things heating her face. Lorcan chuckled and stood, letting a hand graze her jaw and tuck a lock of onyx silk behind her ear. “Come, wife,” he declared as he swept her up in his arms, cradling Elide against him as he started walking toward the road. She giggled, winding her arms around his neck and craning to plant a kiss on his cheek. Lorcan smiled down at her, grateful for the path that had led him to her. Grateful that their futures were forever intertwined.

��Let’s get you home, Lady of Perranth.”

Tag list: @tealnymph-writes @trashforazriel @secretlovelybeauty @meher-sumedha @imsointobooks @positivewitch @tanvee1231 @imwritingthesewords @camreadsum @vikingmagic33 @shisingh @gwynrielsupremacist @sagureads @katiebellf @deedz-thrillerkilller16 @sv0430

*NOTE* I used the tag list that I have used for all my other fanfic posts, but those have all been ACOTAR. If you would like to not be tagged in Throne of Glass or From Blood and Ash posts, please let me know. Otherwise, I will continue to use the same tag list for all of my fanfic posts!

[misslovasstuff]

Why Dazai is a complex character

We all know how hard it is to get in this man’s mind, right?

First, let’t take a look on what makes a character complex:

- Conflicted or contradictory motives - Change or grow as a result of the story’s actions - Decisions advance the story’s plot - Create conflict in the story’s plot or theme - Learn something about themselves

 It fits Dazai perfectly, right? Now let’s take them one by one.

1. Conflicted or contradictory motives

- to die/to find meaning/to save others/? What the audience is given to realize is that Dazai wants salvation through death. His desire to die comes with a shade of humor to hide how sad and tragic it really is. Other than that, one motive of his is the promise he made to his friend who died on his arms. You see it right? Dazai’s motives are contradictory because he saves people but can’t really save himself. Although Dazai is on the side of ‘good’ which is actually something that doesn’t really exist in BSD world because everything is more like in a gray area, his motives are more focused on others rather than himself. While on the mafia, his focus was on himself, his doom and suffering. That’s what made him so miserable. People aren’t sure whether Dazai has changed, and they question his conflicted motives. But in reality, it’s very simple. Dazai has no hidden motives other than the ones we already know. He’s not the type to aim for power and fortune. Dazai just wants a bit of happiness, he wants to answer questions that are impossible to answer. I’d like to quote a Dostoevsky saying:

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart. The really great men must, I think, have great sadness on earth.” ― Fyodor Dostoevsky, Crime and Punishment

2. Change or grow as a result of the story’s actions Dazai’s grow is something people fail to see. I’ve read thoughts on this matter and some claim that Dazai hasn’t changed at all. That is partly true.  Before Oda’s death, Dazai was not open to people (and still isn’t) but the difference stays on how he dealt with it. In the dark era, Dazai drowned himself in misery, seeing only darkness and claiming that this is how it always has been for him. Whilst in the time being, Dazai hides his misery behind a smile and happy facade. Bsck then, he made no attempt to change, nor did he tried to look things differently. Dazai was alone, completely. There were times he was surrounded by people he genuinely cared about, like Oda. Now, the thing is, without Oda, Dazai may have never gotten the development he got. Hardly would the things lead differently if Oda was still alive. With Oda, Dazai felt comfortable, not judges. He felt like he could open up with him because Oda would always listen to Dazai without joking around or judging him. That’s the reason why Odasaku was the only person that came close to understanding Dazai, because he was the only one Dazai opened up to. I believe that is becuase in reality, Dazai trusted Oda. We know how easily he can see through people. Perhaps, he saw in Oda that kindness and goodness that intrigued him. He saw such integrity and selflessness that made him lower his guard.  Their relationship was beautiful. They let aside the ranks and always had each other’s backs. Sometimes, between two people, it just clicks. It feels like you’ve known each other for a long time and you find yourself comfortable, you let yourself be. That’s how Dazai was. Maybe, the only thing that kept him happy, was his friendship with Odasaku and Ango. Because those were two people that accepted him the way he was, people who appreciated life and had dreams and goals, something that Dazai longs to have. When Odasaku died, Dazai’s hope died with him. Although extremely intelligent, Dazai is optimistic. He had hope that he’d find a solution to his problem, but Oda’s words shattered him.

Dazai did not cry. But you can tell that he’s ready to. Look at his face and tell me that that’s not the most devastating Dazai you have ever seen. His lip trembles and his eyes give away how hard it is for him, how hard it has always been. This is the moment that Dazai takes the decision to change, keeping the promise of his friend to become a good man and protect others.

3- Decisions advance the story’s plot Dazai is the one who comes up with brilliant strategies, but that’s not all of it. 

- He took Atsushi under his mentoring and hired him as an agent in the ADA.  Atsushi plays a very important role in almost every mission or situation that ADA is in.  If Atsushi wasn’t in the ADA, things might have gone completely different. - Dazai decided to join the good side. Yet again, if Dazai didn’t join the ADA, there would be no Atsushi, no shin-soukoku and probably the ADA would have already fallen due to the immense power the mafia would have with Dazai in it. More people would die, wars would destroy the city and things may have gotten to be worse. - The creation of shin-soukoku The plot goes around Atushi and Akutagawa as the new generation of the double black, a powerful duo brought together for the good of the city, to defeat the greater evil. Their mentor, who sees the potential in them better than everyone else, has forcefully made them work together, which had successful results. If Dazai didn’t make such decision, Atsushi and Akutagawa may had already killed each other. - Dazai decides almost any plan and strategy there is. He plays his cards well and the way he thinks and acts determine the aftermath.

4- Create conflict in the story’s plot or theme - Dazai’s a problematic character for a lot of reasons. He’s lazy, distracted, unbothered, mysterious and secretive. Sometimes, unwillingly he creates conflicts that sometimes as viewed lightly by the audience. Like the shin-soukoku conflict. A part why Aku hates Atsushi is because he is Dazai’s junior  and that he gets almost everything that he himself once desired. He gets praise and acknowledgment from Dazai. The latter, has not acknowledged Aku that way he wants to, but surely he has acknowledged him on his own way. Dazai made him part of the new double black and puts his trust in him and Atsushi. Dazai too believes in the quote that ‘only a diamond can polish a diamond’. Furthermore, we have the conflict between the mafia and the ADA. You may think that it’s not directly tied to Dazai, but he plays a major role. Having Dazai in the opposite team, makes it harder for the mafia to create successful operations. Not only Dazai’s intelligent and cunning, but he’s an ex-member himself which makes him even more of a threat to the mafia. His suicidal tendencies is the reason why he met Atsushi in the first place. So in a way, Dazai drives the plot of the story.

5- Learn something about themselves I believe that this is the point we are all looking forward to. Although we have already caught a glimpse of Dazai considering his worth as a human being in the Dead apple movie, but also in the manga countless times.

Just look at his expression. How his eyes close so peacefully when Atsushi claims that he does things that let him know that Daza’s a good guy (visiting graves and also in the end of the movie...)

Dazai sees himself rather harshly. He judges himself for his past and puts himself in constant misery. Maybe he doesn’t accept the fact that he’s a ‘good guy’, but he’s desperately trying to be.

Take a look to the following panel (chapter 50)

You can tell how much Dazai wants to help and this warms my heart so much.

“Yosano could heal me and I could help in the search”

 He clenches the sheet because of the frustration of not being able to help; that his ability is holding him back. 

HE’S BLAMING HIMSELF.

Like one would say that he’s injured, or that he was shot, but no. Dazai puts the blame on himself like he always does.

I’d like people to acknowledge Dazai’s growth because our boy is trying so hard. Dazai literally went from hell to salvation. He has already found his salvation but he hasn’t recognized that yet.

In conclusion, Dazai is the complex character we so much love. In the future, maybe we’ll be able to see him a bit more happy. Genuinely happy.

(sorry this was very sloppy but I hope you get the point)

[reidyoulikeabook]

Sometimes You Just Don’t Know the Answer

4 times you don’t know the answer, and the 1 time you do

This is the 2nd part to Personal Google! (You don’t have to read it to understand this, but it exists if you want to).

Ship: BAU!reader x Spencer Reid

Summary: You’d call yourself a pretty educated individual, and most people wouldn’t argue with that, given that you’re a member of the BAU at Quantico. There’s just something about your best friend Spencer Reid that gets you all tongue tied.

Warnings: Mentions of cases and case-typical violence, mentions of alcohol, Spencer and Reader being idiots again.

Word count: 3k

A/N: The feedback (in asks and the tag reblogs) for Personal Google was so lovely and encouraging and I am very grateful for it! I only made this account a few days ago and I’m already so glad I did :) I hope this is a satisfactory second part and, requests are open!

(This is the Reid I’m imagining here)

“What is up with you and Reid?” Emily’s volume is unmoderated at the best of times but right now it’s like she’s trying to alert the entirety of Virginia to your dating woes.

Dating woes might be a stretch, actually. Somehow, just her implication that something is happening between you and Spencer (even though it isn’t, unless you count two exhausted idiots falling asleep on each other and being too bashful to ever mention it again), is enough to get you feeling uncharacteristically shy.

“Nothing,” you shrug, “Well. I don’t know, honestly, nothing I guess? We haven’t spoken about that night.”

Emily’s eyes rake over you, and you can tell she’s waiting for you to continue.

“There’s nothing!” you object, “We just, it was accidental, we fell asleep because we were watching a documentary and we were tired and neither of us fell asleep on purpose.”

She laughs, dry and amused, “At this rate, you’ll be lucky to have sorted things out before you’re 50.”

You scowl, but it’s only because you know she’s right.

***

You don’t have much time to think about your situation with Spencer for a few weeks, considering the rate at which the cases come rolling in. This newest one arrives within about two days of the last one you’d just wrapped up. It’s actually kind of rude, you’ve decided, that the serial killers of America have decided to deny you two weekends in a row.

You’re briefed on the case quickly: four women have gone missing over the past 7 months from a small town in Ohio. There’s no distinct pattern that can be discerned among the victims, the oldest is 60 and white, the youngest is 23 and Asian-American. However, the first three have been found dead in the past two weeks, all within a mile of each other and all killed with the same MO: ligature strangulation.

“So we have no idea how he’s choosing them,” you say.

“No,” Hotch replies, with a sigh.

Meaning that this is probably going to take a while. Spencer senses the way you tense up a little as you absorb that fact. So he goes out of his way to sit next to you on the plane. Once the discussion about the case is done, he nudges you gently, “Did you bring a book?”

You shake your head, “I finished the one in my go-bag. Didn’t have a chance to replace it.”

“Would you like to read this with me?”

You place your hand on his wrist, gently turning it so you can see the cover, “Spencer this is written in Greek.”

“I can translate,” he says.

You move closer to him then, your head resting just against his plane seat and your chin almost jutting against his shoulder.

“Is this okay?”

He nods. The remaining 45 minutes of the flight are spent with him reading to you softly, adding in his own thoughts as he translates and sometimes going off on little tangents. By the time you land you’ve entirely forgotten about your ire with the case. You’re focused only on the characters he introduces you to, who are clearly in love even if they’re too stupid to see it, and the way his nose crinkles a little when he reaches a word with no direct English translation.

Whhat you don’t realise, is that you end up folding into him: head pressed against his chest. Somehow, neither of you notice how you naturally gravitate towards each other. Some pair of profilers.

--

Hotch sends you in different cars to the precinct, and you’re soon reminded of your frustration as you’re caught up in the hub-a-bub of the case. It’s not until you’re leaving the station, after a long and relatively fruitless briefing with the medical examiners and local PD, that you even have time to acknowledge Spencer properly again.

And even then, it’s only when Hotch says.

"You'll be sharing a room with Reid, alright?"

He’s only really asking as a formality. Nobody questions Hotch’s assignments for them. So why, then, do you feel yourself flush a little.

Why then, do you feel so embarassed replying, “Alright.”

***

There was nothing much to be nervous about with sharing a room, as it so happened. The past day and a half had been a whirlwind since the unsub had snatched a fifth victim. You’d been sleeping in shifts, making sure that some of you were awake at all times to keep working.

You were working on the geographical profile with Spencer, and had taken to driving around to look for landmarks at night, when there was nothing much else to do. There were maps but sometimes it helped just to get things embedded in your brain. And now, at 4am, you’re bursting into the conference room occupied by Spencer and Rossi, because you might just have got something.

"I have an idea,” you say, and before anybody can even respond you’re scribbling hurriedly on the whiteboard.

“Slow down kiddo,” Rossi laughs.

“Sorry I’m just,” you cut yourself off, slightly flustered and tapping your foot with frustration as you try to put the last pieces of it together, “Diana Matthews.”

“Yeah?” Spencer responds.

“She was the one who lived on Lakefield right?” Rossi asks.

Annoyingly, you can’t remember off rote. Spencer sees the pinch of frustration in your brow. He senses that you’re heading for the case file.

So, he answers, “Yeah 38 Lakefield Drive.”

Smiling gratefully at him, you breathe a sigh of relief, “There’s three different stores in the area for this local electronic repair company, Gladston Digital, in this area. Two of them aren’t accounted for on the maps because these are from last year, and one of the ones on Google is pinned to the wrong street, there are two Minister Avenues and one’s on the complete opposite side of town.”

Denoting the map with annotations as you go, you continue, “All of the victims had residences within a mile of one of the three stores. And we interviewed the area manager, Paul something, he manages all three stores. He came to speak to me and Hotch while we were scoping the area.”

“Inserting himself into the investigation,” Rossi notes, “Fits the profile. A stalker like that would want to remain an illusion of control.”

“I just need to get Garcia on the phone to see if it checks out.”

Spencer just watches, slightly in awe, as you make the phone call to Garcia. She manages to cross-reference bank statements and emails, showing that all five of the victims had taken something of theirs in for repair sometime in the year before their disappearance. And he feels something in his gut. Pride? Maybe. That’s certainly a part of it.

But there’s something else in there too. Your eyes meet his, with a flicker of recognition. He realises what it is then: marvel. Your brain works so fast, and that’s not novel to him, he knows you’re intelligent but there’s just something about how fast you manage to put it all together. You conjure something out of nothing, a link that he’d missed. And he’s reminded, again, that he has to try and keep up with you sometimes. He wonders if you know that.

Probably not, he thinks. You’re rambling down the phone and gesturing with your hands, in a way you may or may not have picked up from him, and all he can think is how you look so in your element. And beautiful.

He’s a little embarassed about how normal it feels for that last observation to pop into his head.

***

“To _____!” Prentiss cheers.

8pm has rolled around. Since your revelation 16 hours earlier, you managed to confirm your thinking, apprehend Paul Bader, and save the fifth victim. All in all, a pretty good days work. It’s not just down to you, but everyone’s singing your praises so loudly it’s making you a little embarassed.

Even Hotch sets a drink down in front of you, squeezing your shoulder, “Really good work today ____.”

Fair to say you’ve probably peaked there.

Spencer is sat to your left, sipping at a Mai Tai that you know is going to have him giggly in about an hours time.

“I wasn’t trying to keep you out before,” you tell him, “I was going to come and wake you up when I got back but you were in the conference room.”

He smiles, “I know. It was my shift to sleep.”

“Bet you’re paying for that now.”

“A little,” he chuckles, “It’s worth it.”

"I just didn’t want you to think I was hanging you out to dry. You know, to make myself look good,” you decide to press further: mostly just because the team has sung your praises and that kind of attention makes you shirk at the best of times. Let alone when you’re sat with the guy responsible for creating half the damn profile.

His eyebrows furrow. You worry for a minute about what he’s going to say, but then, “I would never think that about you. We’re a team.”

He squeezes your hand. Maybe that’s your favourite thing about Spencer, really. More than the fact he remembers to get your caffeine just how you like it, more than how gentle he is with just about everybody he encounters, more than his relentless enthusiasm for your questions about whatever pops into your mind. No, it’s his modesty. The way he doesn’t even think for a moment to be prideful or arrogant about his intelligence. He genuinely roots for you in every moment, you think.

“Are you okay?” he asks, “You seem a little..quiet.”

It wasn’t until he mentioned it that you realise you’d let your thoughts run away with you, “No. I’m good. Just thinking about how good of a teacher you are.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I think so. You’ve taught me. I didn’t know the first thing about geographical profiling when I got here two years ago. I could barely read a map,” you laugh, keeping your tone sincere, “You’re a really good teacher Spence. I feel like I learn so much from just being around you.”

“I often don’t give you much choice.”

You smile, “I wouldn’t want you to. Really. I’m always interested in everything you have to say. I think you know that. But I wanted to tell you anyway. So you’re sure.”

He’s incredibly grateful you get pulled into a conversation by Morgan, giving him a moment to process.

A lifetime of being insecure. Of feeling like nobody was interested in what he had to say but not being able to really control whether he said it anyway. All this time being insecure in himself, and you liked it. Complimented him on it, even. Considered him a teacher. He doesn’t think he could articulate, in any of the languages he speaks, the sense of peace that brings him.

-----

The Mai Tai’s do make him sleepy. Buzzed, but sleepy. After being bought rounds by Hotch, Morgan, and Spencer, you’re feeling exactly the same. It’s only 10:30pm by the time you decide to make your departure for the night. This is much to the chagrin of Emily, who lolls against Rossi’s side demanding that you stay.

“Some of us have been up since 4 this morning, breaking their backs to keep this country safe,” You tease, putting on a melodramatic air just for affect, “Besides, you’re going to regret this when you have to be up and back on the jet in the morning.”

“You will, especially since you still owe me that report,” Hotch teases, with a smile.

Emily rolls her eyes, “You two are no fun.”

She’s joking, goading you, but unfortunately for her you have a sleepy Spencer nuzzling against you which is a far more pressing matter to deal with.

“Come on Spence, let’s get you to bed,” You say, gently wiggling out from under him and offering him your hand.

He pouts at the momentary loss of contact. It’s subtle. You catch it though. He links his fingers through your own, holding your hand properly, and you try not to read into it too much. He’s tipsy. He’s tired.

Ignoring the deliberately obvious eyebrow-wiggling from Morgan, you make for the lift.

“You didn’t have to come to bed just for me,” Spencer says, “I feel bad for taking you away from the others. I’m not that drunk, I could get myself to bed.”

You shake your head, “I wanted to go to bed with you.”

His eyes snap to you, a grin playing on his lips.

“I mean, I wanted to go to bed. And we’re sharing a room. So I’m going to bed with you. As in we’re going to the place where bed is, together.”

He’s just enough tipsy to be confident enough to jest, “Sure.”

You roll your eyes, “You sound like Morgan.”

“What did Morgan say?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know exactly what Morgan always says whenever anybody goes off together.”

“That they’re having sex,” He giggles, tipsiness shining through again.

“Yes, Spence, that they’re having sex.”

“But we’re not.”

The elevator dings as you arrive at your floor, saving your brain from delving into the implications of what he’s just said. And whether that was a disappointed or netural tone.

He hasn’t let go of your hand. He walks to the door with you, still keeping your hand in his. It’s hard not to let yourself read into it now. How holding hands with him could be such a casual thing. Hard not to imagine walking through bookshops with him, one hand in yours and the other picking books off the shelf he thought you’d like. The domesticity of it sickens you.

Then he lets go to cross to the bed.

“Aren’t you gonna put your pyjama’s on?” You ask.

“I wasn’t gonna sleep yet,” he says, “I was gonna...”

He looks bashful, suddenly, self-consciously licking his lower lip, “I was gonna ask if maybe you wanted to watch something with me. You can pick. I always pick.”

“This an excuse to get me in bed with you again, Spence?” You tease, just past tipsy enough not to care that this is the first time you’ve even acknowledged that night.

"Yeah, the Pearl Harbour ruse doesn’t work twice,” he jokes.

You wish you could find the courage to tease him more. Unfortunately, the liquid courage seems to have run out, and the topic somehow feels too delicate to touch.. Instead, you change quickly into your pyjama’s. Together, you pick something to watch, settling down. You’re suddenly thankful for the single bed, the necessity to be cozied up against him as you watch. To feel his chest, every beat of his heart. You swear it’s beating fast. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking.

***

Just like last time, you wake up huddled against Spencer. Unlike last time, there’s no Emily banging the door down to drag you to the police station. No, it’s quiet.

You can’t see what time it is because there’s a Spencer between you and the clock. Your phone is in your back pocket but it’s hard to find any motivation whatsoever to move when you’re like this: face pressed into his chest, his head resting atop of yours so a single curl of his hair tickles your nose, his hand on your hip holding you against him.  

His eyelashes flutter, “Are you awake?”

“Yeah. I just woke up.”

He smiles, “Me too.”

“Looks like we did it again.”

“Looks like we did,” his voice is quiet.

“Do you want me to move? If I’m...I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

His free hand comes up to your chin, tipping it so you’re looking him directly in the eyes. His pupils are dilated. In the dim light it’s hard to place the look on his face exactly. But it’s soft.

"C-Can I kiss you?” the question spills quickly from his lips, like he’s afraid he’ll change his mind if he doesn’t get it out fast, “I just. I don’t know if that’s what you want too, I’ve just really-”

"Kiss me, Spence. Please kiss me.”

The smile on his face would have made you fall in love with him, if you weren’t already. And then he kisses you. Barely. Your lips are just grazing against one anothers. You tilt yourself upwards, towards him, giving him a better angle. Then he really kisses you, capturing your lips in his. It’s sweet, it’s soft, it’s...it’s everything. It’s everything, how his hands tangle themselves tentatively in your hair, how he kisses you so deeply, drinking you in.

His hand cups your cheek, then he’s pulling back, just a tiny bit, to mumble against your lips, “I’ve wanted to do this for so long.”

The only appropriate way you can think to verbalise your agreement, is closing the gap between your lips again. There’s an urgency to it this time. Your lips move quickly, passionately. He swipes his tongue across your lower lip and you let him in, your tongues delicately dancing together. He’s good. He’s good and you don’t even notice the morning breath or faint taste of rum, it’s just Spencer.

When you finally come apart, you’re out of breath.

“I didn’t think you’d ever do that,” you say, “I was worried I was reading this whole thing wrong.”

He frowns then, that little nose crinkle appearing again, “I thought I was too obvious.”

“So did I. Maybe it’s best if we don’t tell Hotch how bad we are at profiling each other. He might rethink his decision to take us on.”

He laughs, “Not being able to profile when somebody’s in love with you might be a cause for concern. There are several obvious phyical signs of love, including dilation of pupils when looking at the object of your affection, heart rate synchronisation.”

“How am I supposed to know if our heart rates have synchronised?”

He smiles. Pressing a finger to your lips, he dips his head in the small chasm between your two chests. In the silence, in the early morning quiet, in the absence of all distraction you can hear it. The steady thrum of your hearts, pounding away at identical paces. The sound that told you that some part of you had always known.

--------------

Tagslist: @takeyourleap-of-faith​​ @sassiest-politician​​ (let me know if you’d like to be added/removed from this list)

[perfectlywingedsilco]

An Invitation: Part Two (Silco x Mel drabble)

Part One AO3 Link

She was beautiful, of course. Councillor Medarda. With gorgeous features that melded well with the warmth of the evening sun. And her eyes that were the colour of seagrass swaying softly beneath grey waves held the light like rounded gemstones burnished by hand.

Silco enjoyed their meetings. The carefully observed formalities and the distance they always kept between them. It only made it more compelling to have her there just beyond his reach.

Her intelligence impressed him, as did her ambition. And he had known from their first meeting that hers was the hand that turned Talis' head to look in the direction of true progress.

There was a certain edge to her, like a blade that was being kept hidden just out of sight up a silk sleeve. And he watched for it now as they leaned towards each other ever so slightly while seated at the table.

'Tell me, does the food here suit you?' she was asking him in that pleasant, mannered way of hers. 'I would have sent for something to better please your palate, but I must admit I am not familiar with the dishes of Zaun.'

'We aren't known for our culinary culture,' he reassured her, 'so you've committed no wrong there, Councillor.'

'Then you will have to tell me what you are known for,' she said, 'as I wish to understand your ways. We are allies now, after all. And it would be to our mutual benefit to cultivate a better understanding of one another.'

She looked at him with a smile curving along her full lips, and Silco took his time acknowledging it. She was clearly in her element, artfully flaunting her confidence under the guise of her beauty. And he could tell she found him interesting, because he humoured her without ever letting it turn indulgent.

'Our needs have always been simpler than yours,' he began without taking his eyes off her. 'But there is an intensity to be found in their concentrated nature. It breeds a competitive spirit more than a complacent one. And our dreams aren't realised for pleasure, but to fulfill a purpose.'

'Hmm. I see. A nation of true survivors who understand the essence of life.'

'As do you, I’m sure,' he said, referring to her own Noxian background. 'Nothing initiates us more into the ways of the world than the sight of spilt blood.'

'I quite agree. Although we are always given the choice on whether to let it shape our visions for the future,' Councillor Medarda said. 

'And it's a choice you made wisely,' Silco replied to show her that he, too, could slip in flattery to catch her off-guard.

A flush of colour touched her cheeks as she recognised herself in his words. And Silco was pleased to see her soften under the pliant pressure of his praise.

'You have quite the way with words, Statesman,' she said, returning the focus back to him as she liked to do. ‘Ever the silver tongue to go with the golden touch. It is no wonder you were chosen to lead the new nation of Zaun.’

‘I was chosen by you, Councillor,’ he reminded her before superfluously adding, ‘and by your esteemed colleagues also.’

��Well, in that case, I can flatter myself in thinking I have good judgement, at least when it comes to choosing a suitable partner - for our trading needs, of course.’

‘Of course,’ agreed Silco, as he allowed her to redirect them to the more mundane discussions that were to be had.

Imports and exports. Inflation rates and fiscal policies. The economic downturn in Demacia and how it would impact the trade routes there.

Councillor Medarda handled all of it with grace. And by the time their meeting was drawing to a close, Silco almost regretted the flow of time that had seen their hour together pass with the ease of an unhindered current through smooth waters.

'It is always a pleasure discussing such matters with you, Statesman,' Councillor Medarda said while giving him one of her warmer smiles. 'Your opinions are quite astute. And I have a great appreciation for a mind such as yours.'

'The feeling is quite mutual,' Silco said as he caught her subtle look of expectation and obliged her by rising to his feet. 'Until next time then, Councillor.'

‘I look forward to it.’