#but then i ended up liking them so much i inked and colored them . again solely w the intention of them being mockups

[strifeworks]

day one: secrets

[nereidprinc3ss]

strange perfections

in which spencer reid and fem!reader meet by accident at a coffee shop. and then they keep meeting there. they've really got to stop meeting like this. (no, seriously. hotch is pissed.) / do you believe me now? bonus chapter!

series masterlist

fluff! warnings/tags: meet cute:) some dark humor, romantically inexperienced reader, spencer reid graduated from caltech, mit, and the derek morgan school of rizz a/n: this can absolutely be read as a standalone BUT it was written as a prologue for my series do you believe me now? to explain how spencer and r met! completely optional, if you're only here for the smut no worries! reading this bonus chapter might make the next chapter better though as it contains discussions of how they met:) anyway, I LOVE YOU!! let me know if you like this silly little random thing! kisses

The café door opens again. A blustery wind raises goosebumps on your arms and makes your bones ache again. You look up at the latest intruder—a hobbling elderly man in a newsboy cap and a knit red scarf. 

Stupid scarf, you think. 

Stupid door. 

Stupid wind. 

Your mug is empty, and the table you’re sitting at is sort of sticky and rickety, and there are so many papers in front of you that you wonder why the hell you thought it’d be a good idea to print the PDF out and annotate it that way instead of just doing it on your laptop like a normal person in the 21st century. Nothing is going right today. It’s the third café you’ve tried in the past few weeks as you attempt to find some place that feels homey, lucky, but this one just feels… inconvenient. 

You look at the stack of papers and sigh. 

Stupid Lord Byron. 

Stupid cafe. 

Usually, cafés are relatively quiet and peaceful—a refuge for the overworked to bask in the luxury of quiet jazz and the smell of dark roast as they continue to overwork themselves. This particular establishment, however, today hosts a group of teenagers—presumably playing hooky—who have commandeered a big booth in the back and keep walking right past your table because apparently they couldn’t have just ordered their drinks at once and they all have to do it separately and loudly. 

One of them has an incredibly irritating, gratingly pubescent laugh, and they think everything is hilarious. This whole situation is unbearable. 

Just as you’re gearing up to go, of course the fucking door opens again. This time, it’s accompanied by a particularly strong gust. 

Strong enough that Lord Byron doesn’t stand a chance. 

Your printed copy of his works blows off the table, at first page by painstakingly annotated page and then before you can even process it, all at once. 

Yeah. This is definitely not your lucky café. 

As you curse and go to stand up, you run into one of those dumb kids. His huge ceramic mug goes flying, careening against the edge of your table and completely splattering you and all your stuff in 16 liquid ounces of scalding espresso and milk. 

It’s silent for a second, save for a few drips from the puddle on your table to the floor, before the kid is apologizing profusely and turning red as a tomato. You can’t even respond—you look down at your ruined favorite sweater, and then around at the pages of Byron littered with color-coded sticky notes, overflowing with angry and purposeful red ink that you spent so much time on, scattered all over the floor. 

Eventually the boy catches on that you’re not going to forgive him and he skitters away, back to his friends, who whisper and giggle profusely. Only a few of them get up to start gathering the fallen pages with you. Several other patrons end up helping as well, so the sheets of paper are gathered and returned into your sticky hands fairly quickly. You thank each person without looking up as they hand you their respective stack. All you want is to get out of here. 

“Here—I’m really sorry about this,” someone says—a tenor-ish male voice, distinctly sympathetic as he holds out a rather larger stack of papers than anyone else had bothered to pick up. 

“I’ll live,” you sigh, straightening up. “But thank… you.”

The man standing in front of you is the kind of man who makes you want to untuck your hair from its usual spot behind your ears, and to stand up straighter, and to try and not stare even though you want his attention. He’s gloriously beautiful in a way that repels and attracts you. He’s the type of man who wouldn’t have given you the time of day in high school and probably wouldn’t now. Instantly you feel both insecure and reduced to a former version of you who would simper and fawn over boys who wanted nothing to do with her. You feel like going to the other side of the café and sitting in the best light and staring out the window poetically and hoping he’s looking at you. 

“On the one hand, I feel bad for being the person who opened the door and let the wind in. On the other… I feel compelled to say at least they’re not covered in coffee like the rest of your table is?”

You laugh vacantly, a second too late, positively coveting the awkward smile on his angular face. Then you make eye contact, and his eyes are so the opposite of angular—they’re huge and inviting and the warmest golden-brown you’ve ever seen, and they’re looking right back at you—and you have to look down. Fuck. You hate when you do that. 

Think of something normal to say!

“Yeah, true. Now I just have to reorder 264 pages. That… that don’t have page numbers.”

You shuffle through the papers. They are hopelessly scrambled. Your heart sinks just a bit.

“Um… I might actually be able to help with that, if you want?”

You frown, glancing up. What kind of sex trafficking ploy is this?

“That’s okay. Might be easier with just one person.”

He laughs—it’s similarly awkward, similarly endearing. 

“Do you mind letting me just… try? It’ll only take a minute.”

Only take a minute? Is this beautiful man deranged? Why are the hot ones always crazy?

But, perhaps because you’re a pushover who can’t stand up to people, much less beautiful people, much less beautiful men who are paying you undue attention, you find yourself giving in. You hold the stack out. 

“Sure. Give it your best shot. I’ll be impressed if you can even figure out what page one is.”

He’s already flipping through the papers with a drawn brow, walking away with them, and barely looking over his shoulder as he mutters, “I have Byron memorized. It shouldn’t be too difficult.”

You follow him, because hello, he has all your annotations. He’s definitely insane, you think, as he sits down at a table and starts rapidly sorting the sheets into separate piles. 

All you can do is stand awkwardly behind him as he stacks papers seemingly at random, barely glancing at them before deciding where they go. 

Maybe a minute, maybe a few go by, each of which have you progressively more flabbergasted, before he’s tapping the edges of a stack of paper on the table and standing, handing them to you with his lips pressed into a thin pleasant line. There’s almost a glow about him—like he couldn’t be more in his comfort zone. 

“There you go. Should be in order now.” You sport a frown bordering on a grimace as you take the stack and flip through it a bit. Sure enough, it seems that everything is in order. You keep looking between the man in front of you and the papers, incredulous as you wait for something to be in the wrong spot. 

“How did you do that?” 

His cheeks turn slightly pink. 

“I know Byron really well. I know how each passage ends and begins so I put them together like puzzle pieces.”

“How did you read that fast?”

“Uh. I’m a speed-reader?”

You scoff, taking another look through the stack. 

“I think that may be underselling it.” A thought occurs to you as you’re grazing over one of your longer annotations—full of expletives and strong opinions. “Oh, god. You didn’t… you didn’t read my notes?”

The man’s eyebrows raise as if he was waiting for you to mention that and he smiles like he doesn’t quite know how to break it to you gently. 

“Maybe a few,” he eventually decides, laughing under his breath. “I appreciated the commentary on his relationship with Augusta. It was… colorful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks as you mumble. 

“Yeah, I had a hard time appreciating the romantic poems. They’re less cute when there’s like a fifty percent chance he’s writing about his sister.”

“Half sister,” he corrects. You give him a look. 

“Does that make it better?”

“… no,” he realizes. “Not even a little bit.”

You laugh, relieved that his face looks as warm as yours feels. 

“Well… thank you, for the help,” you say after a silent second. 

“Of course. Sorry, again. I, um—I hope your day gets better?”

“Yeah, well. I feel like statistically it has to, right? It’s kind of a low bar.”

He smiles, a perfect, perfect smile, and gives you a little wave as he leaves. Without coffee. Checking the clock on the wall, you realize it’s approaching one in the afternoon. If he’d been here on his lunch break, he sacrificed it to organize your stupid Byron texts. You smile to yourself. 

He was totally in love with me. 

And he can’t prove me wrong because I’ll probably never see him again. 

All things considered—this coffee shop does seem pretty lucky. Maybe you’ll stick with it for a while. 

The next time you see the mysterious sexy speed reader is four days later—though you’ve been here every day since. He catches your eye right as he walks in, and his brows jump in pleasant recognition. You smile. He smiles back, before going up to the counter and ordering a coffee with a ludicrous amount of sugar in it. 

I should take note for when I make him his coffee in the mornings, you think to yourself, and then you snort at your own delusions, shaking your head at your book. Obviously you’re not that divorced from reality, but you’ll entertain the fantasy forever until one of you stops showing up to this café. 

What you’re absolutely not expecting is for him to walk up to your table with his to-go cup. 

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi!”

Jesus. Tone it down, girl scout. 

He gestures to your stack of papers: now secured in a three ring binder. The cup says Spencer. 

Spencer. Spencer. 

It feels important. 

“I see you’ve upgraded.”

“Yes! Yes, I did,” you laugh self-consciously, still struggling to meet his eyes. “Thank you for the help the other day. I would still be sorting through all of this if it weren’t for that, so… yeah. Thanks.”

“Of course! I’m glad I could be of use.”

“Spence!” Someone calls from the cafe door. You both look up to see a stunning blonde beckoning him away. 

Ah. Naturally. The girlfriend who is one trillion times prettier than you. 

Spence. 

Reality sets in. 

“Coming!” He replies, with all the eager compliance of a child, before turning back to you. “Um… well… I’ll see you?”

It’s an awkward way to say goodbye to a stranger, but you suddenly don’t care enough to dwell. Instead you nod once, less enthusiastic now that you know he has a 10 waiting for him on the sidewalk. 

“I am a creature of habit.”

Another wave as he walks away. 

The two disappear from the doorway, but the perpetual breeze seems to carry a snatched bit of conversation your way. 

“Who was that?” 

“Uh… I don’t actually know.”

Yeah. Reality definitely sets in. 

Over the next few days, you break your café streak. Life is busy. There’s not always time to artfully ponder Romantic poetry and drink a six dollar coffee while waiting around for certain people to show up. 

Okay, so… maybe it has more to do with him than you’re letting on. But you’re not going to do that thing you do again, where you become limerently obsessed with a man you don’t know and who is way out of your league just because you can’t form an actual attachment to anyone to save your life. Besides, you remind yourself; we probably wouldn’t be compatible anyway. He’s probably a huge loser. Or secretly a douche. Or chews with his mouth open. Obviously nobody that attractive can also have a good personality. 

Not to mention he has a girlfriend. That should put you off, too.

But you hadn’t been lying when you’d proclaimed to be a creature of habit—you return to the café once you feel sufficiently detached from this Spencer character. 

He’s there. Of course he’s there. Why had you been expecting for him to not be there? It’s not like he was a figment of your imagination. 

This time he’s accompanied by a different blonde woman—a bespectacled blonde with a big floral headband and a patterned dress and a red cardigan and tights and heels that look self-injurious. She’s quite eye-catching; you want to keep looking at her, but you seem to draw her attention, too. Her big eyes widen minutely and briefly you wonder if you’re supposed to know her, but certainly you’d remember meeting a person like that. She doesn’t seem easily forgettable. Both of you look to Spencer at the same time, who’s looking between you with an almost panicked expression. 

“Oh! Th—” the woman whispers, cutting herself off when she realizes how loud she’s being in the otherwise silent establishment. “Ah! Okay, right. Never mind.”

 Spencer sighs. You want to laugh, but you’re baffled by the whole thing. So you go back to reading. 

Ten minutes later, they draw your attention once more. 

“Go, go ahead! It’s more problematic for you to be late than me. I’ll be like, thirty seconds tops.”

You don’t look up as Spencer leaves the café—but are you supposed to gather that these two eccentric individuals are coworkers? And what of the first blonde woman, who you’d presumed to be his girlfriend? Where is she?

While you’re wondering all of this, the new blonde teeters her way over to your table. 

“Hi!” She says pleasantly, waving a purple-tipped hand and wearing the biggest grin. 

“Uh… hi?”

“I’m Penelope. You’ve met my friend Spencer. He just left.”

“Oh—sort of,” you smile weakly, closing your book. “Not formally. I didn’t know his name.”

That’s a lie, but maybe feigning non-chalance will make it real. 

“Well, I just wanted to come over and say I love your bag. And your jewelry and your coat. I love your whole look. I bet you’re a really cool person.”

“Um—thank you!” You perk up, smiling genuinely now. The compliment warms you—you didn’t think your look was all that interesting today. “You too. I love your outfit.”

“Great! You’re—you’re great. This is good information. Um… just out of, like, sheer curiosity, could I get your name, age, and occupation? Oh—and your zodiac sign?”

What kind of convoluted sex trafficking ploy—

“Garcia!”

Spencer is at the doorway again, looking adorably miffed. 

Adorable? Get a grip. 

“Wh—I’m just making a new friend! Is friendship illegal, now?”

“This is the kind of friend-making that gets you a restraining order,” he urges. 

You look up at Penelope Garcia, enamored by their whole dynamic. They clearly care for each other, despite the squabbling. What kind of job do they have where they talk to each other like this?

“It’s fine,” you smile, introducing yourself to her.

“That is such a good name!” She says, and you’re getting the sense she’s kind of always this enthusiastic. “So now we know each other’s names—we should probably definitely be friends, right?”

“Yeah! Um, definitely!”

“Yes? Oh my god! I love this! Okay, um—we work at Quantico, so, we’re like, 10 minutes away—but this is better than the coffee shop that’s closest to the building, so we come here all the time. Usually it’s just us and five grouchy old men, which makes this is really exciting.”

“Quantico… that’s the FBI academy, right?”

“Other stuff, too,” she nods, still smiley. 

Oh! Cool. So they’re FBI agents. 

So that’s cool. 

You’re cool with that. 

Her phone starts ringing—she locks eyes with Spencer. 

“Hotch?”

“Ooh, we are in trouble,” Penelope sing-songs, leaning down to write her number on your notebook without asking. Not that you mind, of course. She adds a little heart and a smiley face next to her name before capping your pen and toddling away. “Bye, new friend!” She calls over her shoulder, waving goodbye with just her fingers. 

“Bye,” you manage, though it’s probably too quiet. 

Spencer flattens his mouth into an approximation of a smile and waves again. 

You accidentally find yourself mirroring his goodbye, facial expression and all. Fuck. You hope he doesn’t notice. You hope he doesn’t read into it. 

Nah. Boys are dumb. 

You text Penelope later that afternoon—a simple greeting so that she can save your number—and then you forget about it. 

It’s not until five days go by without sign of any of them—the two blondes, Spencer, this mysterious and foreboding Hotch figure—that you start to seriously question your sanity. Did they drop off the face of the planet, or what?

But of course, just as you’re sitting at your usual table, Spencer walks in. Alone. 

He sees you immediately, but instead of the wave you’d come to expect, he immediately flushes, looks down at his shoes and hurries into the small lunch-rush line. 

Weird.

You corner him at the coffee bar, where he’s adding more sugar to his coffee. How are his teeth so nice if he does this to himself every single day?

“Hey,” you say, affecting casual confidence as you bus your empty mug. “… Spencer, right?”

It’s comical how you’re pretending you haven’t turned that name over and looked at it from every angle hundreds of times since the first time you heard it. 

He nods, only glancing up at you as he stirs. To your surprise, he knows your name, too. When you give him an odd look, he smiles almost apologetically, finally looking at your face for longer than half a second. 

“I heard you introducing yourself to Penelope. Sorry if that’s…”

“No, no! Is she around, today? I texted her last week, but she never responded...”

“Today is operating system update day, so I don’t even really have a way of knowing if she’s alive in her office.” It’s funny to him, but you just smile, baffled. He notices your silence and catches on, scrambling to explain himself. “She’s our tech analyst. There are 243 computers in our building and she has to update them all remotely, which requires getting every agent to agree to not touch their computer at the same time for an hour or so.”

“Oh… does the FBI not have, like… an IT guy, or something?”

He laughs again—the way his eyes crinkle when he does it makes you a little breathless. 

“You should say that to her. I think you would become her favorite person.”

It’s hard not to smile when he’s smiling because of you—however indirectly that may be. Quickly you realize you’ve both been standing in front of the coffee bar for too long. 

“Alright, well… tell her good luck, for me?”

“I would, but I’ve been kicked out for an hour while she does the updates.”

Your brow furrows and you laugh. 

“From the whole building? You just can’t keep your hands off your computer for an hour?”

“Not if I want to do my job, no. And I am kind of obsessive about my job. I’ve been the reason she had to start the whole process over again before and I’d rather not be that person again.”

You say it before you can think too hard. 

“Well, if you have an hour to kill… there’s an open seat at my table? No pressure, obviously.”

And that was the first of thousands of hours you would come to spend with Spencer Reid. 

After that, it sort of becomes a regular thing. He comes almost every day—except for occasional week or so long stretches, which you have discovered are a part of his absolutely fucking insane job—and sits with you, sometimes with Penelope, once with the other blonde, JJ, who you’ve since deduced is not his girlfriend, most often alone. Usually he can’t spare more than ten minutes, but he begins pushing it, little by little, until thirty minutes go by and you think surely his boss (the great and all-powerful Hotchner) must be beginning to notice. 

One day, during your usual lunchtime rendezvous, his phone rings. He talks right on through it, like it’s not happening.

It ceases. And then it starts again. 

Your head drops to your shoulder, something like pity or regret softening your features. He catches your eye and melts slightly, mid-sentence—like he knows you’re about to tell him to be responsible. 

“Do you think you should…”

His hands drop from where they’d been enthusiastically positioned mid-air. 

“They’ll be fine if I’m late from lunch one time. I’m usually more punctual than any of them.”

You roll your lip between your teeth—it’s not that you want to tell him to go; in fact, those delusions you’ve been harboring about your future life together are only getting worse with each inexplicable minute he entertains your company. 

But his job is important. 

“What if you have a case?”

“Then I would have gotten more calls from more people by now.”

Your head tips back as you laugh lightly at his unwavering insistence.   

“I’m flattered that you so enjoy my company that much. But I can’t with good conscience keep taking up your work hours like this.”

As the laughter fades, he just… watches you, lips slightly parted, eyes intense but not entirely present. 

“You’re probably right,” he finally breathes. “Maybe… you should start taking up my other hours, instead?”

Spencer Reid, you unexpected charmer. 

You balk.

“Like… we would hang out? At a different time of day? Not here?”

“Those are the basic premises, yes,” he chuckles, nodding affably. “I’ve never actually seen you anywhere else. For all I know you could be a ghost eternally tethered to this building.”

“Where would this hanging out take place?”

Fuck, you’re totally being weird. His brow knits. 

“I don’t know. Where else do people hang out?”

He’s not genuinely asking you, he’s gently turning you in the right direction. You charge forward blindly. 

“Restaurants.”

There’s that pretty smile of his again, the one that makes all the thoughts drain from your head like cold bathwater. Though, there’s a sort of mischievous edge to it now that you haven't seen before.

“That’s certainly an option. If I asked you to hang out with me at a restaurant... would you say yes?”

You look down. God, your face feels warm. 

“Would you be asking me out on a date? In this hypothetical scenario that we’ve constructed, I mean.”

Spencer seems to think about it for a moment, which fills you with unexpected panic. When you look back up anxiously, he has the same smile on his face, but his eyes are a little softer now. 

“I would.” 

More panic sets in—just a bit. But you don’t let what is undoubtedly a tidal wave of anxiety break through the emotional guard-dam. Keep it together. This is a good thing. This is what you wanted. 

Unfortunately, you are perhaps more transparent than you’d realized. Spencer begins to look slightly worried, leaning forward in his chair. 

“You don’t have to say yes. I know we don’t know each other very well, I just—”

“No!” You find yourself assuring him, though you curse yourself because you kind of want to know what he was going to say. “I would say yes. I’ve just, um—god,” you laugh gustily, self-consciously. “Sorry I’m being so weird. I’m out of my depth. Nobody’s asked me on a date before. I don’t really know the etiquette.”

Spencer chuckles. 

“You’re doing great. Don’t worry about it.”

Not, what?

Not, you’ve never been on a date before?

Not, that’s crazy, or that’s weird, or how have you gone your whole life without being asked out?

With the implication being, you’re odd. Different. Maybe not in a good way. 

He says none of that. 

“But I should probably actually ask you, huh?” His cheeks turn pink as his laughter is redirected inwards. 

“Sounds like a good first step.”

Spencer is still smiling as he says your name and it sounds so good from his mouth. It makes you sound so real. 

“Will you go on a date with me?”

Butterflies in your stomach doesn't begin to brush what you're experiencing—your entire abdominal cavity is like a Monarch sanctuary.

“I’d love to.”

He seems genuinely relieved as he beams, slumping back in his chair. 

“Oh, thank god. I was so nervous you’d say no. I never do that. Thank you for not saying no. Not that you couldn’t have said no—it would have been completely fine and obviously within your rights to—”

His phone rings again. Both of you are relieved that he was interrupted—but admittedly you thought his rambling was super cute. 

“I should—”

“You definitely need to go.”

“Yeah,” he agrees with a still-breathless smile. “Um—what’s your number?”

You look around fruitlessly for pen and paper. 

“I don’t—”

“Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

He’s so weird. 

A breeze hits your skin as he opens the door. You’re already writing your wedding vows in the back of your mind as you watch him go. 

-

part four

[imjustreadinglmao]

Biscuits and Flowers 💐

Eris x Reader one shot

Summary: You want to surprise Eris but he’s stressed out and accidentally rejects you.

Warnings: angsty, hurt reader, slight miscommunication, work stress (High Lord Eris is working hard)

A/N: this ain’t shit… but Eris is still my baby

Word count: 1,4k

You were nervous as you walked into the Forrest House, your stomach fluttering as you made your way up to Eris’s office.

Since he became High Lord, a lot had changed.

You could finally hear children laughing and playing out on the streets.

Musicians were putting on shows for everyone to hear.

The land itself seemed to thrive. Trees grew taller than before, their leaves a more vibrant color.

Only the High Lord himself, you noticed, was more stressed and agitated than ever.

While out on a hunt last week, he told you how most of his nights were spent awake, plagued by his own thoughts and worries.

That’s when you decided that he needed something to put him in a better mood.

So you asked Elain to help you bake his favorite biscuits as a surprise.

On your way to the Forrest House, you also picked some lovely wildflowers, hoping they would bring a smile to his face.

And you had another important mission today…You wanted to ask him out on a date.

You two had been toeing around each other for a while now, but you were always too shy to say anything.

So today, after you gave him the gifts, you promised yourself, and Elain, you would ask him.

As you knocked on his office door, you remembered what Elain said to you: “That man is absolutely smitten with you. There is no world in which he would say no.”

You took a deep breath, pushed the door handle down, and stepped in.

Eris sat at his desk, his eyes so focused on the reports in front of him that he didn’t even notice you stepping into the room.

You walked over to him, flowers in one hand and a box filled with biscuits in the other.

A small smile played on your lips.

Everything will be fine, you thought.

Finally, as you halted in front of his desk, his head snapped up.

“Y/N, I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?”

You let out a laugh and looked down, getting even more nervous with his gaze now fixed on you.

“Well, I am successful then. I know you’ve been so overwhelmed lately, so I wanted to surprise you.”

You held up the box and flowers to show him.

“I baked the biscuits you like so much. Oh, and I also got you some flowers.”

In the process of setting them down, you accidentally knocked over a candle.

The wax was now everywhere: on his papers and pens, the books and notebooks, even on his ink pad at the far end of the oak desk.

Your hands flew out to set the candle upright again, wax still pouring from it.

“Gods, I am so sorry, Eris. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

You looked at him, tears threatening to build because of how embarrassed you were.

Eris just stared at the ruined papers, hours of work probably gone to waste now.

You picked up one of the papers, wanting to wipe the wax off it. “Here, let me see if I can—”

“No.” Eris took the paper out of your hand. “Just leave it. It’s fine.”

But it wasn’t fine. Eris was lying, he couldn’t even look at you.

You came here to cheer him up, and instead, you somehow managed to add more stress to his day.

And now you were standing in the middle of his office, shoulders slumped, guilt written all over your face.

“This wasn’t how I imagined this surprise to go.” You cringed, Eris still not looking at you.

“I didn’t want to cause you more stress. I can help you rewrite everything. And then maybe after that we can have dinner? I can make the tarts you like so much and—”

“Stop.” You flinched at his harsh tone.

“Just stop.” Eris shook his head in annoyance and sighed. “You’re making everything worse with your rambling.”

Your fingers began to tremble, and you quickly shoved them in the pockets of your dress so he wouldn’t see.

He had every right to be mad. And he also had every right to reject your dinner offer.

You almost expected him to say no, even before you destroyed half a day’s work with your mishap.

Hel, you didn’t even know if he saw you as any more than a good friend.

Sure, you were around each other often, thanks to your friendship with Elain and Lucien, but that didn’t mean he had to like you.

You must have misread the signs. Gods, this was beyond embarrassing.

He probably hated you now.

Tears gathered in your eyes. You looked up at the ceiling, refusing to let them drop.

You would cry later in the safety of your room, but not like this and surely not in front of him.

That would just make matters worse.

“You can leave now.” Eris’s voice broke you from your thoughts. You looked down again, amber eyes meeting yours.

His face was unreadable, detached even. As if his body was here but his mind elsewhere.

He made no attempt to say anything else, so you turned and walked out the door, leaving the biscuits and flowers on his desk.

As you walked back to your room, you didn’t stop to greet the servants or the other librarians.

The thoughts in your head were simply too loud to acknowledge anything else.

It wasn’t until you curled up on your bed that they finally stopped racing.

—————————

A knock sounded on Eris’s office door. Without waiting for a reply, the door opened and Lucien poked his head in.

“I didn’t think you would be here.”

Lucien closed the heavy oak door behind him and sauntered up to where Eris was sitting.

“Elain said you would already be gone by now.”

Eris looked up from where he was writing, his eyebrows furrowed. “And where exactly would I be if not here?”

Arms crossed and hip propped against the desk, Lucien replied, “Oh, I don’t know… maybe at dinner with a certain librarian?”

Eris just looked at him, mouth slightly agape, a clueless expression on his face.

“I know she was here and brought you these.”

Lucien held up the gifts you left for Eris.

“And you’re still working, so I’m assuming you said no?”

Eris was standing now, the reports before him completely forgotten. “What do you mean I said no?”

“Wait… she didn’t ask you?!” It was Lucien’s turn to act confused.

“I swear to the Mother, Lucien. If you don’t tell me right now what exactly is happening, I’m going to find methods to make you talk.”

Lucien held up his hands in surrender.

“I’ll tell you, no need to get all violent.”

He chuckled and continued,

“Y/N mentioned she was going to surprise you to cheer you up. I also overheard Y/N telling my mate that she wanted to invite you to dinner. I figured she’d asked you today, but maybe I misheard.”

Eris’s eyes were wide.

“She was going to ask me what?” he asked, hands digging into the wooden desk.

“She wanted to invite you to dinner. Just you and her.”

After a few seconds of silence, Lucien added, “like a date… I presume.”

At that, Eris went unrecognizably still.

Then he rounded the table and strode to the door, swinging it open with so much force that it crashed into the wall.

Lucien could only mutter a confused, “Where are you-” before Eris was out the door and down the hall.

Finding your room was easy. Eris had been there often enough to know the way.

He was running now, servants and nobles alike turning their heads and giving him confused looks.

But Eris couldn’t care less.

His priority was getting to you and explaining himself, plus a lot of begging for a second chance.

He slowed down and came to a stop in front of your room.

Right as he lifted his fist to knock, he heard Elain’s voice through the door.

“It’s going to be okay. This will pass.”

“You should have seen his face, Elain. I made such a fool of myself by even asking him. I shouldn’t be surprised that he rejected my offer. I basically ruined his entire day with my stupidity.”

Eris’s heart sank at that. He had been so stressed about the reports that he didn’t even hear you say anything.

The only thing he remembered was you stepping in to the office.

And then wax was pouring all over the documents and his mind just… left.

If he hadn’t dissociated, he would’ve- he would’ve said yes.

How could he not? You were the smartest, funniest and most beautiful fae he had ever laid eyes upon.

You were a ray of sunshine in his life, always brightening up his day.

And now you were in your room, crying because of him, and he could do nothing except stand there and listen to your muffled sobs.

A/N: don’t worry, they have their happy ever after. Eris finds her the next day. He apologises over and over again, takes her out to dinner and they have five beautiful children. 

[4unnyr0se]

Could we get an nsfw with hinata shoyo (28) 😙

❥ que linda | shoyo hinata

warnings: timeskip! hinata, brazil! hinata, fem! reader, unprotected sex, ts! hinata has a massive dick bc i said so, male masturbation, couch sex, pining, he whimpers so much you guys, hinata speaks portuguese because i said so, cunnilingus, virgin! hinata, virginity loss, he lowkey rich asf, not proofread

MDNI | 18+ content

word count -> 4.3k

a/n: this work was loosely inspired by pin-k-ink's "mania". any plot relations are coincidental. please read her writing, it's good!

happy 28th birthday hinata!! short king

Shoyo Hinata was homesick, incredibly so. Being on a very popular Brazilian volleyball team was worth it: the beach, the sand, the fame, the paycheck. Hinata had fun; there was absolutely no doubt about it. He loved his teammates and hanging out with Oikawa on the beach but longed for Miyagi. He longed for the serene countryside. He longed for his friends who had gone on to other prospects. Sure, some of them stuck around, like Daichi and Sugawara, and he missed them too. But there was one person he missed that Hinata practically craved.

You and Hinata grew close during high school, especially during the third year. You and Yachi were co-managers of the volleyball team, and things went incredibly smoothly. Karasuno went to nationals each year until Hinata and the rest of the third year graduated. Because you were a manager, you worked with Kageyama and Hinata on their quick attacks. In contrast, Yachi worked with Tsukishima and Yamaguchi (Yachi was the only one who could handle Tsukishima’s attitude; she grew up when Kiyoko left.) Hinata loved that you were his manager because he had a little crush on you. You were one of the few people who didn’t underestimate him because of his height, nor made fun of him for not being the sharpest knife in the drawer. He would often stare at you for extended periods as you gave the beginning-of-practice briefing, admiring every aspect of your face. The color of your eyes, the way you styled your hair. To Hinata, you were perfection. He only wished he asked you out during high school before he was scouted by the Black Jackals; that was one of his few regrets from his school days. 

Soon enough, once the volleyball season in Brazil ended, he had much spare time. Sure, there was practice and things to do for publicity and media, but he could do that whenever he wanted. Hinata decided to book a flight back to Miyagi the first chance he got, arranging to stay at a hotel just outside the central part of the city. It was a two-week trip with a round ticket back to Brazil, which was just enough time to ensure he would see you at least once. He would visit his other friends, obviously. It would be cruel of him not to. But Hinata did have a favorite, and it was you. Pretty, perfect, beautiful you. He couldn’t wait to get off the plane and tell you he was in town. He just couldn’t.

Hinata flopped onto his hotel bed, breathing in the fresh linen scent. He missed the smell of Miyagi, how it almost always smelled like freshly cut grass. The windows were wide open, and the summertime crickets and cicadas filled an otherwise silent room. He adorned a massive smile, taking off his shirt to let his body breathe. He didn’t have your number; no one on Karasuno’s previous register had it, not since the Nishinoya incident. Yachi had it, but she was no doubt asleep. Well, there was always Instagram direct message. He had a lot of followers (mostly crazy fan girls), and his messages were constantly flooded. He opted to use his secret personal account, which boasted a very proud 23 followers. Hinata searched for your name, found your profile, and hit the message button.

He bit down on his lip, his calloused thumbs hovering over the keypad. How should he type this? He didn’t want to come off as too desperate, even though he wanted to see you again so badly he felt like a heroin addict. The little profile circle taunted him, proudly displaying your happy, smiling face and achingly perfect lips. 

The opposite hitter shrugged his shoulders and hastily typed out a message, adding cute little smiley face emojis. Hinata groaned as he sent the message, shutting off his phone. What if you thought it was weird that he wanted to meet up so soon? Or even worse, what if you had a boyfriend? Not that he wanted to try anything, right? That would be stupid. It’s not like he wants you under him, moans escaping your pretty mouth as he thrusts in and out of your perfect pussy, claiming you as his all night long��right? He wasn’t a pervert, no way. He just wanted you to be his and only his, his hickeys decorating your neck…fuck. Hinata gazed down at his pants, rolling his eyes in annoyance as he saw the newly-formed tent in his grew sweats. 

“Eh, it’ll go away in a bit,” he mumbled, rolling over to check his phone. His heart stopped in his chest once he saw your name appear on his screen. Holy shit.

Your reply was short and sweet, telling him to come for lunch tomorrow. You told him your address and even added a cute little heart emoji. Were you trying to fucking kill him? Hinata shut off his phone again and breathed out, the tent in his sweats growing painfully harder by the second. He wishes he could show you how you made him feel, what you did to him, and his virgin cock.

Yeah, he was a virgin. He just didn’t have time to fool around that much. Volleyball took up much of his time and obligatory social events like media conferences and charity work. He got close once. But she stopped when he told her that he was a virgin. Maybe you would be more forgiving. You were always so kind.

Hinata pulled down his sweats along with his boxers, his cock eagerly springing out and slapping against this bare chest. He shivered as his hand wrapped around the base of his shaft, slowly pumping up and down. His hazelnut brown eyes were squeezed shut as he imagined his hand was yours, all tiny and dainty, pumping up and down on his shaft. How your thumb would rub the tip of his cock, that tongue of yours giving him the tiniest little kitten licks before returning to fucking your fist. Fuck, would his cock even be able to fit in that cute palm of yours?

A deep moan left his chapped lips as he found himself propped up against the wooden headboard, desperately fisting his cock. Precum oozed out of the tip and coated his shaft, the lubrication making it all the more sweet. His mind was clouded with the thought of your pussy slamming down on his length over and over again, the greedy cunt taking his fat cock so well. He wondered if you would flutter around him, how deep you would let him fuck you.

“Fuck, just like that baby,” Hinata moaned, his cock thrusting into his hand impossibly fast. His orgasm would hit any second now. “Fucking this pussy ‘cus it’s mine, yeah? My fuckin’ pussy, my girl,” he bit down on his bottom lip. “Did ya think that since I’ma virgin, I can’t fuck you good? Y’thought wrong, pretty baby-oh fuck.” Hinata’s breath caught in his throat as his cum covered his hand and shaft, glistening in the light of the hotel.  “Shit.”

He grabbed a tissue from the nightstand and cleaned himself off, tossing the spent tissue in the waste basket nearby. “I gotta work on lasting longer…” he mumbled, growing sleepy as nirvana slowly overtook him. He laid his head on the fluffy pillow, setting his alarm for the next morning. He slept with his mostly unpacked bags, eager for what tomorrow would hold. 

That alarm was the prettiest thing Hinata would ever hear because it meant that today was the day he could finally go to your house and see you. He practically jumped out of bed, plastering a huge smile on his freckled face. He wore a simple outfit, mainly because that was all he could hastily back on such an in-the-heat-of-the-moment decision. A black compression shirt with jeans was simple. He grew fond of the compression style when Boktuo showed it during his time on the Black Jackals. Hinata had to admit: he looked damn good in black. Especially since the shirt showed off the abs he worked so hard on building. He donned designer sunglasses and took the elevator downstairs, whistling a happy tune like in some old 1950s bubbly cartoon.

He enjoyed the stroll from the hotel to the town where you lived, waving to those who recognized him from his time spent on the Black Jackals. A few tweens asked for a picture, which he happily agreed to. Hinata loved meeting and interacting with his fans when they weren’t desperate fangirls just trying to get into his pants. They flattered him, but he couldn’t sleep with his fans. That was Oikawa’s business. 

The sun beamed down on his broad shoulders as he finally entered your neighborhood, practically skipping along the burning hot pavement. In retrospect, he should have worn something other than cheap flip-flops. He didn’t care. He was too damn happy to see you again. He would walk across a desert barefoot if it meant he could hang out with you, even if only for five minutes. After a bit, Hinata turned the corner to where your townhouse was. It was quaint and tiny, with a well-kept lawn and a little garden with various colorful flowers under the window. The marigolds caught his eye in particular, mainly because they weren’t native to Japan. He wondered if they were expensive or if someone bought them for you. Hinata tched at the sight of the yellow flowers, growing strangely annoyed at them. He could spoil you more than any man ever could.

Walking up the steps, he felt the nervous sensation of butterflies filling his stomach. He knew you would be so welcoming and open to him—you always have been. It was one of the several things he liked, no, loved about you. His calloused and tanned hand knocked on the beautifully painted wooden door, his foot tapping nervously on the concrete steps that led up to it. 

All his worries vanished instantly once he saw your gorgeous face poke out from behind the door, offering him a bright and welcoming smile. “Oh my god, Shoyo! It’s been so long, come on in!” you laughed, wrapping him in a tight embrace. Hinata’s hands found the small of your back, gently caressing the thin fabric of your baby tee. “I missed you,” you softly spoke, squeezing his muscular torso with all your might.

After a bit, Hinata pulled away from the hug, finding the sun blaring on his back a welcome but annoying presence. You led him inside and ushered him to sit on your couch, ensuring everything was right. “Oh, did you want something to drink? I know you walked here. I’m sorry. I should have just called a cab…” you rubbed your temple, mumbling swear words under your breath as you waltzed into your kitchen. “Shoyo, honey, do you want lemonade or ginger ale? I also have diet sodas!”

Hinata choked on nothing as you called him honey, covering it up with a cough. “U-uh, lemonade is fine! Thanks!” he massaged his throat, the tips of his ears turning faintly pink. Shit, if you were gonna keep calling him sweet words all day, it would only be a matter of time until he was pinning your hands above your head and making you see stars. At least, that’s what he hoped to achieve. He didn’t want just anyone to be his first. He wanted it to be you.

He thanked you for the lemonade, admiring the taste, and brought the cup to his lips. “Oh wow, this is really good. What brand is it?”

“Oh, I made it myself,” you smiled crookedly.

“Even better,” Hinata winked, unaware of what he was doing. “It’s been so long since I’ve had good lemonade, you know? Don’t get me wrong, their drinks in Brazil are amazing, but nothing can ever really beat lemonade.”

“What’s Brazil like?” you innocently asked, scooting further down the couch closer to Hinata. “I haven’t left the country.”

Hinata set the glass of lemonade on the coffee table. “Oh, it’s beautiful. It’s so tropical and lovely, and the locals love me. But that’s just because I play for their team,” he chuckled. “The language was tough to learn at first, but I eventually got the hang of it.”

“I’ll bet. Portuguese sounds like a hard language to learn,” you cross your arms over your chest, inadvertently pushing your breasts together. The baby tee you wore was cut just right to show off a bit of your cleavage, which drove Hinata wild. He would have pounced on you if he had been more immature and ripped that shirt clean. He could always buy you a new one. 

“It’s actually kind of pretty,” he smiled, tapping his fingers against the couch.

“Can you say something in Portuguese?” your eyes sparkle with curiosity, leaning towards Hinata. “Pretty please? I wanna know what it sounds like.”

Fuck. You looked so damn pretty like that, so eager for him. Hinata paused for a moment, opening his mouth. “Eu acho você incrivelmente linda. Você me deixa louco.” Hinata smirked to himself. It was the perfect plan. He could say whatever he wanted, and you would have no idea what it meant.

“What does that mean?” you tilted your head to the side, your hair falling out of its braid. 

Hinata reached for your braid and pushed the loose strands behind your ear. “Uh, it means I like your shirt.” he nodded in mock assurance. 

“Oh wow, that’s a pretty long sentence for just a compliment,” you took a sip of your lemonade, leaving lipgloss on the glass brim. “I guess it’s just a different language. Can you say something else?”

Hinata nodded and subtly wrapped his arm around your shoulder. “Uh, this is a traditional Brazilian custom for when you’re seeing someone for the first time in a while.” he glanced down at your eyes, wanting to swim in them.

“Eu preciso te foder,” he mumbled in a low tone. “Tenho desejado que você seja meu primeiro desde nosso terceiro ano.” his thumb brushed across your lower lip.

“Shoyo…?” you questioned, looking up at him with confused eyes. “You’re acting different…did something happen in Brazil?”

Hinata shook his head. “Nothing bad happened to me,” he pulled his thumb away. “I just matured, I guess.”

“And you got taller,” you squeaked, paying extra attention to how his compression shirt showed off his toned and muscular body. “A-and, uh, more buff. Your girlfriend must be lucky.” your voice trailed off, your eyes deciding to focus on the lemonade glasses. 

Hinata shook his head. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I didn’t want one when I played during the season. My coach says it would be a bad idea.” his eyes never left your blushing face. “So, I guess we’re both single.”

“I guess so,”

He thought for a moment. “Do you want to know what I just said in Portuguese?” he heard you mumble in agreement. “I said,” he bent down to reach your ear level. “I need to fuck you. I’ve wanted you to be my first since our third year.”

Your pupils blew out as his words reverberated in your ears, your thighs squeezing together. Was this the same Shoyo Hinata that you went to high school with? “Shoyo,” you breathed, gasping slightly as he quickly pulled you into his lap.

“Please,” he whispered, lazily trailing kissed down your cheek and onto your neck. “You don’t know how badly I missed you, pretty girl.” he stopped his wet kisses, squeezing your hips. “Didn’t stop thinking about you for a second. You’re always on my mind.”

“Fuck, Shoyo,” you wrapped your arms around his neck, pushing your chest against his own. “Have you really been thinking about me like that?”

“You have no fucking idea,” he moaned into your neck, nipping at your flesh. “I fucked my fist to the thought of you so many times. I can’t even get off unless I imagine it’s you.” he groaned as you ground down onto his lap. His lips brushed against yours, aching to taste that gloss. “Please, be my first. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

You shuddered. “Okay,” 

Hinata’s eyes roared with a passionate fire as he claimed your lips instantly, the kiss being wild and untamed. You gasped, parting your lips, allowing Hinata’s tongue to delve inside your mouth, happily exploring every inch shamelessly. His hands wandered down to your ass. Any restraint he had melted away as he took a nice handful of your ass, squeezing it roughly. Your hands found purchase in his unkempt red hair, tugging on any curl you could manage.

He groaned into your mouth, slapping your ass shamelessly. “Fuck, keep doing that,” he commanded, biting down mercilessly on those perfectly plump lips. You whined in agreement, tugging harshly on one strand near the crown of his head. He trailed sloppy, wet kisses down your neck until he found the spot that made you squeal so nicely. His teeth sank onto the skin, sucking it like a starving vampire until an ugly purple bruise began to bloom. 

His hands picked you off of his lap and threw you to the other side of the wide couch, his muscular body quickly crowding around you as his lips crashed against yours once more in a scorching, desperate onslaught. “Please,” he whimpered against your lips. “Please let me fuck you, baby. I gotta know how it feels.” his hands slipped past the hem of your leggings, massaging your clothed core. “D’ya want me to do something down here, hm? Tell me what y’want, please. Lemme make you feel good.”

“Shoyo,” you kissed his cheek, bucking your hips onto his palm. “Can y’finger me, please? Wan’ feel your tongue.”

Holy fuck, Hinata could cum just from your words. He eagerly nodded and pulled his hand from your core, the slightest hint of slick on his fingertips. “Take that shit off right now,” he demanded, his cock painfully hard underneath his jeans. 

You scrambled off of the couch, tossing your leggings and panties aside. Fuck, you were wearing pretty orange ones today, too. Did you plan that? He wondered if your bra was orange as well. “And take that top off. Lemme see those tits.” 

His hands reached up and ripped your shirt off, exposing your pretty orange bra for him. Hell yes, he was right. “Shit,” Hinata groaned, biting down on his lower lip. “Now, the bra, please. I wanna see my pretty girl's tits.”

You giggled in response, unclasping your bra from behind. It dropped to the floor, revealing you in all of your naked glory. You sat back on the couch and spread your legs, propping yourself up with your elbows. The sight of your glistening heat drove Hinata mad, he just had to get a taste.

“I wanna see you too,” you begged, your eyes sparkling. “I wanna see what all that time in Brazil turned you into.”

He happily obliged, taking a moment to remove his compression shirt and jeans. They were tossed aside on the coffee table, making a mess. Hinata proudly displayed himself for you, tan lines, and everything. He was sculpted like a Greek god, and the freckles across his body added to his beauty. “D’ya like what you see?” he flexed his bicep.

“So fucking much,” you felt yourself get wetter at the sight. “Please, Shoyo, c’mere and make me feel good with your tongue. I-I can teach you if you want.”

“Fucking please,” Hinata groaned, kneeling between your legs while using his strong arms to hold them apart. “You’re fucking dripping for me, y’know that? Did you want this as badly as I did, pretty girl?” he kissed your inner thigh.

You nodded. “Yeah, so fucking much. D’ya know how to eat pussy?”

“I did once,” Hinata spoke against your other thigh, kissing it. “I was really good at it for a virgin.”

“Shoyo,” you whimpered. “Stop talking now and eat my pussy.”

“Yes, ma’am, whatever you want,” his cock twitched in his boxers. Did he like being told what to do? He buried his face in between your legs, eagerly lapping at your folds. He flattened his tongue so expertly that it was apparent he had done this more than once. His tongue made rapid zig-zagging motions across your fold, stopping to happily suck at your clit. Your hands again flung to his hair, the orange curls nestling between your fingers.

“Shoyo, fuck!” you cried, arching your back into the couch.

“Fuck baby, if you say my name like that, I’m gonna cum in my boxers,” he mumbled into your pussy, snickering as you let out another pornographic moan. Hinata became frenzied, lapping and sucking and licking at anything he could. He began spelling his name with the tip of his tongue, which he knew you liked because you came on his tongue moments after he finished spelling ‘S-H-O-Y-O.’

“Fuck,” his mouth glistened with your release. He tugged his boxers down to his ankles, letting his throbbing cock smack against his hard abs. “Do you have a condom?”

“N-no,” you shook, still coming down from your high.

“Can I fuck you without one? I’ll buy you the morning-after pill,” he was so desperate he was shaking. Holy fuck, it was finally happening. He was about to lose his virginity to you. 

“Fuck, Shoyo!” you whined in annoyance. “Just fuck me already, we can talk about this after!”

Hell, he didn’t need to be told that twice. His hands caged you into his body, your legs being pushed up against your chest. The throbbing tip of his cock prodded at your entrance, precum leaking from the tip. Hinata hissed as he pushed himself in, relishing in how your pussy tried so hard to take his massive girth. “Holy shit, you’re so fucking tight. M-maybe I, fuck, maybe I should have fingered you or something.”

“You’re so fucking huge,” you whimpered, your hands scratching at his toned back as you struggled to take his size. “Holy fuck, you’ve been concealing that monster for how long?”

“For a while, baby,” he sighed as he finally bottomed out, his cockhead brushing against your cervix. “Fuck, I can’t hold back. I’m sorry, pretty girl,” Hinata hooked your legs under his arms and pulled his cock almost out before slamming it back inside you again, earning a delicious shriek of pleasure from your lips. 

“So. Fucking. Tight.” he punctuated his words with a thrust, his balls slapping against the cleft of your ass as he drilled his length into you. The front of his thighs met the back of yours over and over again, creating a beautiful melody. “‘Been wanting this f’so fucking long, oh my God.” his head was tossed back, nostrils flaring each time your gummy walls sucked him deeper inside. 

Your entire body was trembling as Hinata used you like a human fleshlight, ruining your cunt for anyone else for a while. Was he really a virgin, or did he fuck like this because he had too much energy? Your hair created the perfect messy halo above your head, your mouth slightly agape with the constant wanton moans being ripped from your chest. 

His blazing brown eyes landed at the sight of your bouncing tits, his hand roughly grabbing one. His thumb ran over the pert nipple, squeezing it. “There are my fuckin’ tits, m’gonna mark them later.”

Hinata choked back a whimper as he was on the ledge of his climax, his hips moving like they had a mind of their own. His breathing was erratic, chest falling up and down as his cock twitched deep inside your cunt. “Shit, m’gonna fucking cum inside of you. Take it all, fucking take it.” he let out a strangled gasp as he painted your walls white with his seed, gasping sharply. 

“Oh fuck,” his head was thrown back, his hips slowly fucking the rest of his orgasm into you. “Oh my god,” Hinata’s face was so incredibly flushed, the baby hairs sticking to his forehead. 

The opposite hitter let go of your legs and collapsed on top of you, nuzzling his face into your neck. “Y’okay?” he grumbled, squeezing your breast. 

“I’m fine, Shoyo,” you breathed out, still recovering. “That was fucking incredible. Were you lying to me about being a virgin?” you raised an eyebrow in suspicion. 

“Nuh-uh,” he kissed your neck. “I was a virgin until five seconds ago. Sorry for not lasting as long as you wanted me to.”

“I actually liked it,” you rubbed his bicep. “Some guys keep going for so long that eventually it becomes painful. It only really hurt when you shoved yourself into me.”

“Sorry about that,” Hinata reached up to kiss your lips. “I was just really excited, that’s all. You know I flew here just for you, right?”

Your heart softened. “Aw, really? You missed me that much?”

He nodded. “Of course I did. I missed you ever since our last day of high school.”

“You’re such a sweetheart,” you kissed his cheek. “Hey…d’ya wanna stay with me while you’re in town instead of that crappy hotel?”

“Could I really?” his pupils were blown out. 

“Yeah, don’t be silly.” 

“I’ll go back there and get my things!” Hinata practically jumped off the couch, scrambling to get his clothes on. “Oh, uh, I’ll also get you the morning-after pill.” he chuckled, stumbling as he put his flip-flop on. 

“You’re such a dork,” you grabbed a random throw blanket and bundled yourself up, resting on a throw pillow. “But you’re cute, so it’s okay.”

“I’m your dork now,” he flashed you a smile. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Don’t miss me too much!” he walked out the door, smiling. 

Suddenly, Hinata didn’t seem so homesick anymore.

[deadhands69]

Something More [than a hangover]

Katsuki Bakugo x gn reader

MDNI + eventual smut/afab

Setting: fuckboy!Bakugo, mid-time skip, Senior Year of College. Reader did not attend UA high, just joined for university. Enemies to lovers (with a lot in between.)

Warnings, etc: series contains eventual smut, slight angst, light violence/injuries, mentions of drinking/intoxication, swearing.

part 1 - this is part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - part 6 - part 7 - part 8

“Oh my god, what was I thinking,” you grumble into Jiro’s bed. You’d been lying there face down for twenty minutes after waking up, remembering your night, and stumbling down the hall to her dorm.

“It’s not that bad, right?” she reassures you, lightly untangling the knots in your hair with her fingers. “I’ve known him since high school. He definitely takes things too far sometimes, but he can be a good friend. He seems to have changed a lot in some ways since then though. But still, it’s not like you did anything with him…?”

“I don’t think so…” you trail off, “I think I’d remember that.”

Last night. You remember being in a closet with Katsuki Bakugo, which for some reason unknown to you now, you enjoyed more than you should have. You remember drinking with him, talking all night, and - that’s about where your memory ends. Checking your texts, it looks like you wanted to kiss him. Did you? You’d remember that right? 

Then there’s the photo you sent Mina and Jiro. Blurry and underexposed but you could definitely make out the situation. His arm around you as you lean into his neck, glossy eyes half closed but focused on him. His huge smile as he leans into you. You looked close. A wave of nausea hit again, sending you running to her bathroom. 

It’s Katsuki Bakugo, what the fuck were you thinking?

After pulling your hair back, Jiro leaves to grab you a cup of water. 

“Hey, uh,” she hesitantly starts, “maybe not the best timing but Bakugo just texted you to make sure you’re still on for the library today.” 

“Ughh I do not want to deal with him,” your voice echoes through the bathroom.

“I can tell him you need to reschedule?”

“No, it’s fine. I’ll have to meet up with him eventually. Might as well rip the bandaid off.”

An hour later, you’d showered as well as you could after taking off your bandages (or what was left of them, it looked like you snagged them in the brush on the walk home.) The cold water helped the nausea and some of the pain. Dehydration made the remaining burns feel much worse so you try to drink as much water as you can keep down. Your raw and slightly blistered skin looks brutal but it’ll be better when you can visit Recovery Girl again on Monday. A few tylenol for your headache and pain, that was about all you could do for now.

Choosing an outfit, you put on basically what he made you change out of last night - skinny jeans and a huge hoodie, this time with cute sneakers in your favorite color. No makeup today, you throw on some oversized sunglasses instead. Grabbing an extra cup of coffee and your backpack, you head to the library.

Bakugo is already there. Leaning against a pillar, looking way too put together for the amount you saw him drink last night. 

“Aww, you look great,” he says sarcastically as you half drag yourself to meet him.

“Ughh. How are you alive right now?” you groan back.

“I threw up twice, ate a lot, and slept it off. Looks like you didn’t.” 

No words come to mind so you flip him off.

“You’re sweet when you’re hungover, this will be so fun,” he gestures towards the entrance, “come on, I already reserved a study room.”

In spite of being an asshole, he proceeds to hold doors for you.

The study room is small but quiet. There’s enough room for the two of you to sit on one side of the table with the notes and writings you’ve done on each other’s quirks, it’s not much. Each of the pages is crinkled from some combination of being passed back and forth between being on the receiving end of outbursts. Various colors of ink have crossed out each other’s writing, adding corrections. At least the quirk descriptions are done. You’d love to say the rest has been easier to work on in person but an hour and a half has dragged by without much progress. Still hungover, you wish you would have stayed in bed.

His phone sits on the table, buzzing with a new message. Glancing down, you notice five unchecked messages from three different girls' names.

You laugh and he silences his phone before setting it back on the table, this time face-down.

“Didn’t learn from last night, huh?”

“Eh, I dealt with it this morning when she was sober. Plus, it was an isolated incident,” he grumbles while you notice the tips of his ears turning red.

“Sure it was. Well,” you continue, ”when it happens next time, and I’m sure it will, I won’t be so nice and let you in my hiding spot.”

“Oh, your spot? Because if I remember correctly, I got there first. And I let you stay.”

“Aren’t you sooo sweet,” you lay on the phony niceness, batting your eyelashes at him before he throws it back.

“I really am,” his fake smile makes your heart flutter. 

What. The. Fuck. 

Back to our regularly scheduled sarcasm.

“Is that so? I’ll bet your mom must be really proud of you.” 

“She is,” he asserts, “really. My mom is so fucking proud of me. Want me to call her and ask?” He picks his phone up to start dialing and you swear she’s saved as ‘Hag.’

“No, I take your word for it.”

 Part of you is curious who raised the monster next to you, but most of you would like to be out of this room as fast as possible to figure your shit out. You really can’t tell if you’re annoyed, disgusted, or trying to flirt with him. All of the feelings blur together into one big mess while you helplessly watch your own reactions. You need to get through this.

Pulling your pen from behind your ear and grabbing one of the papers in front of you, you get back to work.

“So,” you begin before rolling your sleeves up, “right here you said your quirk works with...” but you realize quickly that your words fall on deaf ears. He’s staring at your arms, seeing your damaged skin for the first time. Awkwardly, you move to cover your wrists again before he grabs your hands to stop you. His mouth opens to speak but the words don’t come. Licking his lips, he tries again.

“I- uh, fuck,” he squeezes your hands a bit harder, “I really meant it when I said I’m sorry. I owe you. More than opening doors and walking you places and stuff.”  

Recovery Girl is convinced you’ll make a full recovery with minimal scarring. You don’t say this though, staring at your hands in his instead. There’s nothing romantic about the way he’s holding onto you. More desperate and uncomfortable, but you can’t say the closeness doesn’t do something as his huge fists completely engulf your own. It leaves you speechless.  

“I uhm…” you pull your hands away from his and pause to think.

You can’t let yourself get this distracted by him. He’s Katsuki Bakugo, your natural enemy. And on top of that, how long will he be nice to make-up for hurting you before he goes back to being his asshole self? If you let him get under your skin too much, you won’t be able to handle that when the time comes. 

“I know why you’re being nice,” you start, “but two days ago you were being a total dick to me. I appreciate you trying to make up for everything, but it feels more confusing than friendly.”

“Two days ago, you weren’t exactly nice to me either. I know we never really became friends,” he hesitates for a moment and you cringe thinking of how you slapped him, “but you don’t know why I’m doing this.”

“Go on.”

“Yeah, at first it’s because I felt bad, but Racoon Eyes and Shitty Hair said we have a lot in common. And they’re right. I’m trying to be nicer because I don’t absolutely hate being around you, you’re kind of cool when you’re not going off on me.” 

“You do deserve it sometimes,” you add.

Bakugo says nothing, instead he just nods. Sucking on the inside of his lip, he considers your comment before continuing, “If you don’t wanna be my friend it’s fine, just fucking say it,” you stare silently and he continues, “but with the way you’re acting I think that’s what you want too. And even if it’s not, we still have to find some way to work together because we have all this shit to do,” he says gesturing to the table of scribbled notes. 

That’s it.

“Wait,” you nearly whisper while reviewing the papers in front of you, “no, that’s totally it.”

“Uh, care to explain?” he furrows his brows at you, his vivid eyes searching your face for an answer.

“That’s why this has been so hard to finish. We’ve never worked together. I know what your quirk does but every time I’ve ever seen it, we’ve been so busy trying to beat each other we don’t actually have time to observe. We need to work together.”

The rest of the hour went by quickly, mostly planning where and when to meet next. ‘Where’ was easy. You want to train together and the forest near campus works great. ‘When’ was harder. It has to be after you’re healed but before a huge storm rolls in early on Tuesday. Bakugo is leaving today to visit family and won’t be back until Monday afternoon anyways, so it has to be that night. You think you can sleep enough to recover after your appointment. You hope you can, at least. Parting ways at the library doors, you agree to text him Monday when you wake up. 

On the walk back, you consider the last few days. Your biggest enemy now wants something like a friendship. A chill runs down your spine when the winter wind picks up, blowing air straight through your hoodie - making you wish you’d worn more layers. You walk faster. 

Can you even be friends with Bakugo? Bickering with him has been a lot more fun without a bite under your words, but it almost feels too flirtatious considering who’s on the other end. And, as much as you hate to admit it, he’s hot. Too hot for his own stupid good. 

You nearly trip over a curb in a rush to get back to your dorm.

Fuck, you need to sleep.

part 3

m.list

[minkieater]

spiderhead → yj

tattoo artist!yeonjun x fem!reader

smut mdni, cheating, alcohol consumption, toxic relationship wc. ~6k

the buzz from tattoo guns spread across the room as if there were a swarm of bees  — the shop was busy today. yeonjun’s mouth tasted of tobacco and menthol, his favorite combination, his index and middle fingers stained with the scent from years of use. he rain a hand through his hair, feeling the ends tickle his neck, before burying both hands in the soft, fleece lined pocket of his hoodie. 

he made his way over to his station, checking his tools, cleaning up the area so he could prepare for his next client. the steps whirled in his head as they always did when he fixed his area: wash his hands, put gloves on, sterilize his tools, cover his equipment, disinfect all surfaces. he loved this part, the organization, having everything accessible to make his art easier to complete. 

god, yeonjun loved his fucking job. just the plain idea of him drawing and coloring on people’s bodies, having his art stay there forever, it was magical to him. yeonjun knew in high school that he wanted to be a tattoo artist — he bought a shitty tattoo gun online, spent his weekends drunk in beomgyu’s basement leaving wonky doodles on his friends in places no one would ever see. at parties, people would beg him to whip out the tattoo gun, implore him to etch small designs on their skin on the big leather couch in soobin’s parents’ house. 

those nights turned into lonely ones spent in his bedroom, cross hatching lines into fake skin on his desk, shading with pointillism in designs he’d seen on pinterest, smoke from his lit joint dancing into the air of his bedroom. he had a year long apprenticeship at a tattoo shop in the middle of brooklyn when he turned nineteen, he tried college for a year when he graduated high school but quickly realized it just wasn’t for him. now, four years later, he was thriving: he was booked, he was busy, he was a real fucking tattoo artist and made real fucking money. 

he grabbed his phone to check the time before he started disinfecting, only five more minutes before his client was supposed to show. he scrolled his lock screen, eyes thinning when he read the notifications. 

v: did u turn the lights off before u left v: if my electric bill is high again just know you’re paying that shit

his lips pulled into a line, thumbs moving a mile a minute. 

yj: yes i turned them off yj: u dont have to remind me every single day 

he locked his phone and set it face down on the counter that ran along the back of the shop, packed cabinets filled with saran wrap, disinfectant and ink caps underneath. he shook his head, irritation flooding his thoughts, he’d left the lights on one time and now he’ll never hear the end of it. 

well over a year now, together but still not quite official — on and off but pretty much living together, yeonjun has spent more time in your bushwick apartment than he has at his own downtown. granted the shop was closer to your apartment than his own, but he’s always liked your apartment more, anyway. tall ceilings, funky art, maps and concert posters on the walls, a unique touch to your living space with your red lacquered kitchen cabinets and dark wood accents where his own looked cheesy and cheap in comparison.

two bedrooms, one full bathroom and a separate room just for the television and couch, yeonjun thought you were fucking loaded when he first stepped foot in your apartment. it had to be your parents paying your bills, or maybe you were a nepo baby – this is new york, after all – but as your relationship grew and he learned more about your occupation, how much you truly made between high commission and tips, he’d never thought a hairstylist could make so much fucking money. 

both of you in your careers, working full time with the public, both creative people that spend their days creating art that lives on people’s bodies. your canvases were humans, walking, breathing pieces of scrap paper that you drew on, painted on, poked, cut, shaded. the two of you related to one another too much in too many areas, on too many levels, so many conversations about people and their critiques, their wishes, their families, their stories. if you and yeonjun could do anything, it was talk. 

you’d met on your twenty first birthday, a little over a month after yeonjun’s twenty second. you and your girl friends and coworkers he later learned circled up on the dance floor with you in the middle, rolling your hips to the beat of the song, head tipped back in a drunken haze and a cocktail in your hand. he eyed you from the bar, thinking nothing of it other than the fact that you were a drunk twenty one year old about to be obnoxiously loud in his ear all night. he sipped his glass of whiskey, neat, tattooed fingers wrapping around the glass that dripped sweat onto his palm. 

the bar was hot, too hot for the outfit he had on — oversized black hoodie with the hood over his head, black pants, boots on his feet. he was dressed for early november in new york, layered to fight off the chill of brooklyn, not for whatever the hell was going on in his favorite bar. 

you approached him first, slurring over your words, tucking your hair behind your ear which was already tucked. you batted your eyelashes, your eyes glossed over in intoxication — yeonjun was not biting, he wasn’t interested in the slightest. he gave you a tight lipped smile, clinked his glass with your own and turned his attention away from you, a small gesture to say what you’re looking for is not me, keep it moving.

but when you strolled into his shop two weeks later as a walk-in and yeonjun had a cancellation, only then was he taking the bait, the bait you had no idea you were dangling from a hook right in front of his own two eyes. you didn’t seem to recall your interaction on your birthday, you didn’t seem to recognize yeonjun at all and that only made him curious.

you asked for a ruler along your index finger, two lines to show the public what two inches really is. he laughed at that, a small puff of amusement leaving his perfect plump lips just as the words left yours. 

“is that stupid?” you asked, head cocked to the side, eyebrows furrowed in question but your eyes wide and he swore he could see them shine as you looked up to him. he was taken then, from just that one look in your eyes – he knew he was in trouble.

“not at all,” he said as she shook his head, smile still dancing on his cheeks, “it’s funny, i’ll take you back.” 

you sat down on the bench, yeonjun went searching for a ruler in the cabinets lining the back of the shop. you spoke mindlessly about your job as he searched, immediately telling him a story about a client you had a few days ago who wanted a balayage and not highlights but they couldn’t decipher between the two — they insisted on highlights when what they were describing was clearly a balayage. you spoke with such enthusiasm, your mouth running a mile a minute, words spilling from your lips just as fast as you thought them. 

yeonjun had no idea what you were talking about but he knew you were adorable — much different from when you first tried to pick him up at that bar. your eyes are bright, words controlled, movements sharp and alert. what did stay the same was the confidence, your outward extrovertedness made it so yeonjun didn’t have to say much, just nodding and listening to your little story as he tried his best to keep his head on straight. 

“finger tattoos don’t last as long as they do on other parts of the body,” he interrupted as your story ended, finally pulling a small red plastic ruler from the cabinet to his left. 

you shrug, “i figured as much, my hands are in water a lot, too.” 

yeonjun sucked a breath in through his teeth, “that makes it even worse.” 

“so what, i have to come back and get it touched up, then? big deal,” your hands came up at your sides, shrugging altogether, “as long as you still work here when i have to get it touched up then it’s fine.” 

“already commending my work when i haven’t even done the tattoo yet?” yeonjun wears a lazy, teasing smile as he sits down on his stool, grabbing the arm rest for you to lay your forearm on. 

“who said i was talking about the tattoo?” yeonjun’s eyes shot up at you who was already wearing a smirk, his lips parted ever so slightly. he immediately cracked a smile, shaking his head as he looked back down to your hand. 

“that’s crazy,” he mumbled under his breath as he put the ruler up to your finger, then grabbed his pen from his tray to mark the inches. maybe you did know — maybe you were purposely dangling the bait, or maybe the two of you just had the same amount of interest in each other. maybe there was no bait to begin with.

“i don’t think it's crazy,” he didn’t expect you to hear him or respond, but it seems you don’t have a filter of any kind as you keep going, “you’re hot, i’m hot, we have a lot in common already.” 

“we have a lot in common?” he raised an eyebrow, looking up to you again after marking the second inch, he grabbed a different pen to mark the eighths. 

“we’re both creative, both work with the public, we have picky people as clients, have to listen to unrealistic expectations, both work in careers that aren’t super common — not common, maybe abnormal? or maybe i’m trying to say we can be abnormal because our careers aren’t super judgemental? appearance wise, i guess, whatever, anyways, we also both know how to talk to people, i can keep going…”

“so all we have in common are our careers?” he’s still playing along as he finishes marking out the lines, “how does that look?”

“looks good to me,” you say after a quick glance, barely an inspection of your finger, “pretty much, but our careers teach us a lot about ourselves. oh! and we can do art trades, i’ll do your hair and you give me tattoos.” 

“are you bribing me or pimping yourself out?” the corner of his mouth lifts into a smirk, and the smile that paints itself on your face feigns innocence, he’d save that look for his sketchbook later tonight.

“maybe a little bit of both. are either of them working?” you cocked your head to the side again, swinging the feet that hung from the bench ever so slightly, careful not to kick anything in front of you. yeonjun had to reel himself in.

yeonjun had to be honest — with himself, and you — it started working the moment you stepped into the shop. you had no visible tattoos, a casual outfit on, sweatpants and a tee shirt that left just a sliver of skin between the hems of your clothes. your hair was done but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, you didn’t seem like anything special off first glance– in fact, you seemed the exact opposite of his type, the girls he usually went for. yeonjun was just as confused with himself as he was enamored by you. 

“i don’t know, i think you might have to try a lil’ harder,” he faked a deciding face, eyebrows scrunched as he moved back in his stool, ushering for you to stand up. he looked at your finger from all angles, analyzing it as you stood to the side, lifting your hands, flexing your fingers as you stood. he was happy with his sketch, his outline, he was more then prepared to freehand a couple lines. 

“you should let me try harder over some drinks if the tattoo comes out good,” your eyes were trained on your hand as you followed his instructions, moving your hands into every position he asked for. 

yeonjun laughed at that, “if the tattoo comes out good? what, am i the one picking you up now?” 

you shrugged as he ushered you to sit back down, “you might be, i’m trying to find out.”

he nodded with his lips pursed, folded into a frown that wasn’t exuding any sort of negative reaction, more impressed than anything. “fair game.”

your tattoo came out flawless, the lines he free handed onto your finger came out straight, perfect in thickness. as easy as it seemed, you knew the talent it took, the patience and a steady hand needed for such precision. after you paid, tipping him generously, your flirting returned with vengeance.

“i think we hit it off if i’m being honest,” you smiled, showing all of your teeth to the black haired man behind the counter, “do you have anyone else after me?” 

he shook his head, “you’re my last, i had a cancellation.”

“oh my god– do you believe in fate? yeonjun, i think that’s what this is, i’m being so serious,” your eyes were wide, eyebrows shot up, smile wide. excitement bled from you, your veins, you were nothing but honest. so shameless, not a thought in your pretty little head that he’d reject you – he wasn’t sure if you’d care if he did. 

he laughed, something he seemed to do too much during your entire service, his head hanging low in front of him before he picked it back up, looking at you who was already staring expectantly at him. “i don’t, but maybe if we go get drinks you can change my mind.”

you raised your fists, “i’ve won.”

the bar was halfway to your apartment, almost smack ass between the tattoo shop and your place. you’d been there before with your girlfriends, once or twice since your birthday – you could finally join in on the fun. yeonjun was dressed in all black, you’d soon come to find out he was always dressed in all black, and he never looked like he got enough sleep. you seemed so bright next to him, with your hair and your clothes and the plush keychains attached to your purse. you looked like total opposites, when you knew you had much more in common than what meets the eye.  

that one night bled into the next year of your lives – something he was not expecting after your first interaction. it’s not like he’s never had a client try to bag him before, but something about you was different, it drove him insane that he couldn’t put a finger on it. he was used to playing games, always the winner, never the loser. he was used to confusion, being stuck in the inbetween, the gray area that sometimes came with relationships, or lack thereof. with you it was so straight forward, a slippery slope, not a hole he dug himself into but instead a well, one full of water, full of life. he never wanted to stop drinking from it, gulp after gulp, chugging until he was so full he thought he might spill over. 

the spilling didn’t come until six and a half months in. your first two months were every man’s wet dream – he had every inch of you, every fistful of perpetually iron-curled hair, every corner of plush skin burned to memory – on every surface of your apartment and his. 

in yeonjun’s past relationships, he never seemed to be the problem. if anything, he was the victim.

small fights to massive blown out arguments over petty shit, staying out too late with his coworkers at his favorite bar to beomgyu stealing him for a night out clubbing, missed texts and phone calls to going MIA for three days. yeonjun never seemed to understand what the issue was – petty arguments were never his thing, he’d rather stay silent than give into whatever the fuck his current plaything was yelling about this time. so what if he stayed out too late with his coworkers? he still came home. there’s no harm in a night out clubbing with his boys, she didn’t even know about the girl that was grinding against his dick all night, or the other one that had her lipstick smeared across his lips in the corner of the dark club. he went MIA for three days because his phone was dead, not because he had her number blocked. it was ridiculous, really, the things women would try and pin on him – yeonjun never seemed to think he was the issue at all. 

the thought never crossed yeonjun’s brain that these behaviors were learned, or that he could teach them to anyone else. he never thought that his pretty, bright eyed new girlfriend would turn into a different version of himself – if she did, he’d be grateful, he thought himself pretty fucking cool – yeonjun never thought any of his behaviors were bad, but when yeonjun got a taste of his own medicine he knew he met his match. 

he showed up at your apartment past midnight, drunk off his ass, clothes oozing whiskey, weed and burberry her. he let himself in with his key, the one you gave him after three months in, the one you told him to use whenever he wanted. he called out your name, searching from room to room, but you were nowhere to be found. he’d never shown up to an empty apartment, there’s never been a lack of you, cuddled up in a fuzzy robe, either under your duvet or sitting on the couch watching reruns of your favorite drama. yeonjun was confused, his dazed head couldn’t think up a proper reason for your absence, he decided to do what he absolutely fucking hated to be done to him. 

he called you about thirty six times, texted you about forty two times. he also left four voicemails, not one of them nice. 

he sat there on your couch – after a much needed shower, a bottle of water and a change of clothes you kept for him in your bottom drawer, he sobered up real quick. he felt more level headed, but he couldn’t ignore the anger that began to grow, a pit that sat heavy in his stomach: where the fuck were you? who were you with? 

you damn near fell into the room an hour later, keys falling to the floor after you ripped them out of the door. you giggled to yourself, your heels in your hands, fingers curled into the heel of your black pumps. the strapless, sparkly scrap of fabric he could barely call a dress was crooked, your hair that was always purposely styled to perfection was a mess, your red lipstick was smudged down your chin. yeonjun’s seen this scene before, he’s done it, he’s lived it.

“who fucked you?” were the first words that left his mouth as he stood in the living room, oversized black clothes hanging off his frame like hade’s robes. the breath that left his nostrils was hot, burning his cupid’s bow, his jaw locked with his usually plump lips scrunched to a thin line. 

you laughed – you fucking laughed. “you’re a fucking psychopath, junie. i just came back from a night with the girls!”

yeonjun was not buying it – he stepped closer. the stench of alcohol was masked by dior sauvage, a smell he knew too well, a smell that drifted past him as you nearly pushed him out of your way. yeonjun was dumbfounded and raging, his eyebrows furrowed together, his hands held out in front of him like he didn’t know what to do with them. 

his girl, his only girl – well, other than the girl he made out with earlier – he couldn’t fathom the thought of someone else’s hands on you, being so close to you that you came home smelling like him. he followed you to the bathroom.

you were already stripped down bare – no bra and no panties to be seen on the pile on the floor with that thin scrap of fabric, yeonjun couldn’t collect his thoughts fast enough, his rage was creeping up his spine, sitting in his stomach like food poisoning, threatening to come out whether he wanted it to or not.

“you’re lying,” was all he could get out as you brushed through your hair, putting it in a tight knot atop your head, a small smile still sitting on your cheeks. he didn’t sound angry enough, his voice wasn’t stable, his feelings weren’t enough to give his voice ground to stand on. 

“no i’m not,” you said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, like your words were the honest to god truth. you turned to him, your best innocent look paired with that award winning smile, “wanna shower with me? or did you already when you came home from the club?”

yeonjun had a full body reaction, his eyebrows furrowed and his face scrunched up in disbelief and shock, for just a moment there he thought he might be insane. did he make that up? was the dior he smelled just remnants from being with beomgyu earlier? no, no he showered, that was all you. he was not insane. he stepped closer. 

the smell of a shower he’d taken just an hour ago filled the room, the body wash that you always used was the only scent he could decipher. he took a breath, “you fucked someone.”

“i think you might still be drunk, baby,” you wore a fake pout, raising your right hand to run your thumb across his bottom lip, “happy anniversary, by the way. six months!”

that was the start of everything – his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend was buried somewhere, six feet deep in wet soil, replaced with something akin to a fucking monster. when yeonjun first met you, you had told him you had so much in common, yeonjun didn’t believe it, didn’t see it. he thought the two of you were polar fucking opposites, yet he liked you anyway, liked that you introduced him to a new type of relationship. while yeonjun spent six months subconsciously teaching you his own behaviors, you spent the time purposely teaching him quite a few of your own. 

goodmorning texts to goodnight texts to facetime – yeonjun never did any of that shit before. yeonjun has never bought a single person a bouquet of flowers in his entire life. yet here you stood, his pretty little bright eyed girlfriend, in the middle of your salon surrounded by a herd of your coworkers with a bouquet signed ‘your junie <3 love you baby!’

his friends called him whipped, a simp, a cuck, every name in the fucking book because yeonjun adored you, and it was painfully obvious. you’d come to beomgyu’s garage, parading around in a mini skirt and your tiny little purse that yeonjun was sure only had lip gloss inside, getting him beers from the fridge and cracking them open, handing them to him with a smile and sitting straight on your throne: his lap. his friends adored you too, they couldn’t figure out what you saw in yeonjun – with his dark clothes, heavy tattoos that covered his body, bags under his eyes, black hair and too much metal through holes in his face. his friends were constantly flirting with you, getting you whatever you needed, they were the ones cracking beers and serving them to you, yet you were doing it for yeonjun. 

yeonjun was filled with pride, he loved it. a trophy they could look at but never touch. he’d never had this type of relationship before, someone so obsessed with him, someone willing to wait on him hand and foot, he slipped deeper and deeper into an emotion he’d never experienced before without even realizing it. 

the day he did realize it, that was when the true fun began, because while he was unconsciously slipping, swimming deeper into that well, you stood at the top, holding the rope, pulling bucket by bucket out of the well with that award winning, innocent smile etched into your skin. 

you weren’t kidding when you said you’d do art trades, even his coworkers knew your face by now, taehyun two stations down always offered his services when you sat down on yeonjun’s bench. you giggled and flipped your hair, saying why would i do that when my boyfriend’s a better artist than you?

god, yeonjun loved to hear those words leave your lips. it was a bit the two of you did, taehyun acted as if he was shot through the heart, a poisoned arrow slipping straight through his skin, and yeonjun could hear the sweet melody of your giggle through the shop. yeonjun has filled up one of your arms by now and half of the other– a garden, flowers, bees, butterflies, tattoos that were so undoubtedly you he couldn’t even make fun of you for them. he wouldn’t expect you to have anything else.

his favorite, though, was the YJ right above your hip. it was in yeonjun’s own handwriting, a doodle he marked on your skin for life, late at night after too many drinks – it was like he was in high school again. that was four months in. 

that night, yeonjun felt the closest thing to his entire world caving in on him – he needed to go. he stared at the scribble on your hip while his face was buried between your thighs, you were writhing above him, hands buried in his hair, you always looked so fucking gorgeous like that. instead of being focused on you, determined to push you over the edge like usual, yeonjun’s head was clouded – hazy. he wondered how a person he’d met by chance just a few months ago could become so important, so detrimental to his life, he feared he would be a shell of himself if you ever chose to leave him.

it terrified him. he’d never felt this way about anyone before.

before that night, your relationship was golden – yeonjun was something out of a dream, a hero, the prince in your story, you were convinced you’d spend your life with him. he was honest, he was smart, he told you everything that he had wrapped up in his complex, dark brain, and you accepted every word that came from his mouth, every thought that popped into his head.

when he left that night, hours after shoving a twelve gauge needle in your skin with ink the color of his hair, you didn’t stress. you woke with a panic, of course, where the hell did your boyfriend go? but after twelve hours of no response, a trip to his shop, a night spent in his favorite bar, hours bent over your ikea bed frame, you knew what this was. you recognized this fear, you saw straight through him, yeonjun wasn’t as masked as he thought himself out to be. you’d shared too much, you knew too much about one another for yeonjun to be anything but transparent. 

you paid attention. late nights, coming home smelling like another woman’s perfume, earrings that fell from his pocket when you did laundry, long and short pink and blonde and brown pieces of hair found around every inch of your apartment – you looked at the tattoo that sat above your hip, you knew there was no one else for you in the world. if yeonjun wanted to play the game, you’d play it too, you’d play it better. 

the first three or four or twenty two times you did it – yeonjun didn’t notice. you even sent him home in one of yeonjun’s tees, one of his favorites, one that you successfully convinced yeonjun he left at his own apartment. when he couldn’t find it there, it wasn’t your issue anymore – with half of your wardrobe in two different places, you’re bound to lose a shirt or two. 

it was only when you got sloppy, when you wanted him to notice, that he did. two months in, six and a half months after your relationship began, he’d caught you and you were so fucking close to convincing him that he didn’t. 

“we’re fucking done,” he was seething as you stepped out of the shower, wrapping a plush beige towel around your torso, no effort needed to keep yourself calm. 

“why’s that?” you continued to feign innocence, stepping in front of the mirror to start applying your skincare, not even glancing at the man who stood next to you, his hands balled into fists. 

“i know you fucked someone tonight,” his voice was stern, it was hideous on him. you loved the cool, calm yeonjun better – you loved your yeonjun, the one you spent endless nights with, looking through his sketchbook, where he showed you all of his doodles, his drawings, when he let himself be the most vulnerable. “there’s no use in denying it, v.”

“and what have you been doing for the past two months, yeonjun?” your head snapped to look at him, your voice matching his, cadence slipping into something more harsh, laying yourself bare for him. you supposed your time was up. his mouth opened and closed. 

“great,” his head dropped, low, sarcastic laughter slipping from his lips, “you fuck someone and blame it on me? project your cheating onto me?”

“there’s no use denying it, jun. have you talked to beomgyu? maybe you should ask him what he did after he dropped you off.”

you physically watched his face turn red – ears hot, crimson bubbling up from his chest to his throat to his face – you had to stop yourself from smiling. he stormed out, slamming the door behind him, and you slept like a baby. freshly fucked, coming down from a solid drunk, you felt brand new. 

it was a week before you saw him again – honestly, you were shocked it took that long. that gorgeous, long black hair that curled around his ears, peeked from the hem of his hoodie, you longed to touch it, feel it between your fingers. he looked like he hadn’t slept since the last time he saw you, his bags sat heavy, dark, in your entryway, key in hand. you wanted to take care of him, wanted him to get a good night’s rest – next to you. 

you sat on your couch, not a muscle to be moved in his direction, the two of you just stared at each other from across the room. moments went by, you’re sure maybe a full minute, then he was pacing towards you. 

“hello?” you asked in disbelief and concern before he was pulling you up by your wrists, smashing his lips against yours. his lips tasted of whiskey, neat, cigarette smoke, menthol. you thought maybe you were addicted to tobacco too from the way his mouth felt euphoric against yours, an old friend you’d missed. it’s only been a week but it could’ve been a year for all you knew. 

“you’re mine, you know that?” he’d asked between kisses, his mouth swallowing yours, his tongue stealing the words you couldn’t begin to think let alone speak. instead you nodded into his lips, fingers tangling in his hair, body forcing itself into his, you missed him. you missed his smell, his touch, the feeling of him against you, you missed everything. you never wanted to part from him again. 

he had you split open on the couch as he knelt on the floor, head between your thighs again, eyes trained on the YJ that sat on your hip. he hadn’t seen it in a week, his brand on you, his initials that were inked into your skin for the rest of your life – he missed being between your legs, missed tasting you, missed taking everything you had to fucking offer. he missed you, his other half, the monster he created, his comfort, his home.

yeonjun would be lying if he said he was willing to part ways with you, but he’d also be lying if he said he was willing to acknowledge to the full extent of what he felt for you. yeonjun felt betrayed, played, messed with, like you snuck into his brain and plucked every single thought out of his head and fucking warped it. god, he loved you. he was so scared.

he told you as he barreled into you, fucking you like he hated you, whispering those words in a choked breath over and over into the shell of your ear. he couldn’t believe he was admitting it, couldn’t believe he was saying those three little words – you’re different, you’re everything. he loved you.

the months to follow were dancing right on the edge, together, but not quite. apart, but were you ever really apart? every night, wrapped in your sheets or his sheets – always someone’s sheets, always together. you never discussed sleeping with beomgyu, yeonjun never brought it up again, he looked back at that moment in his head and all he saw was weakness, a time where he let you slip away – let you get away from him. you never spoke of it, but it was always there, between the two of you like a wall. 

that wall that stood between you was tall and rock solid, unlike the glass doors to yeonjun’s head, yeonjun’s thoughts, that wall of his was unbreakable – even when he came home smelling like burberry her again no argument in the world could pry that night out of him again.

you knew better this time than to try with beomgyu again, he hadn’t reached out since the night yeonjun left your apartment, you knew better than to try with anyone. instead of fighting fire with fire, you got distant, you spoke less, you asked less, you tried less. you became the ghost of his pretty, bright eyed girlfriend, one that had been to hell and back, one that learned from her mistakes. you became a reflection of yeonjun. 

yeonjun checked his phone after his client, only two hours had gone by, surprisingly enough. it was a solid first session for his client’s leg sleeve, but his bones were aching, his eyes sore from being focused for so long.

v: you left the fucking lights on

[miguelhugger2099]

Punk!Miguel who’s proud of his tattoos. At least most of them. He has some professionally done and others were stick and pokes from when him and Gabriel were younger.

Punk!Miguel who watches you with a smile when you touch up and down his arm. He hides the shivers down his spine when your perfectly manicured pink and green nails rake across the art decorated on him.

“What’s this one?” You poke at a terrible done smiley face, it was a little blobbed but barely noticeable with the much nicer ones done around it.

“One of the first tries my brother did on me when he was starting out.”

“And you kept it?” You tilt your head with a scrunch of your nose. Miguel laughs.

“Sentimental value.”

You scoff. “No way.”

“Yeah, way.” He takes your hands and pulls you closer, lugging you forward onto his lap where you belonged. Getting yourself comfortable you placed your hands on his chest.

“Are you just gonna have them on your arms?” You ask, tugging down his shirt for a peek at any new ones. Miguel smirks and stops your peeking by tsking and shaking his head—a knowing look on his face.

“Course not but tattoos cost money, babe.”

“You should get one of me.” You pout your lips, crossing your arms that makes you seem snobbish.

“What? Like get one of your face?” He laughs and leans back on his hands.

“No! Like—I dunno! Something sentimental about…me?” You look away, feeling the prickling embarrassment crawling up your neck. “Never mind!”

“Oh, so you want to be on my body, huh?” He teases, taking your hand and sliding it under his tank top to feel his warm stomach, faint dips of abs.

“You know what I mean!” You whine, feeling frozen with him holding your hand in place. He can’t help but find you adorable. Letting go of your hand to come around your waist as he leans up again, one hand coming down to cup your ass. He swallows your squeak with a kiss, unable to stop himself from biting into your sweetness.

Punk!Miguel who—even if he teased you about it—actually adored the idea of having a tattoo of you on him.

Punk!Miguel who thought day and night of what could represent you. Flowers he felt was done often, your name was cute but basic and anything else could very well be mistaken for something else. He wanted something that was obviously you.

Punk!Miguel who was rearranging his room again, bustling through various boxes for some spring cleaning.

Punk!Miguel who found his box of memories from when you two first began dating. It had been filled with all your gifts and letters you’d given him—every last piece saved securely in the corner of his room.

He smiles as he opens the box up again. Some pieces of papers falling out and the little broken keychain you got to match with him until it snapped when he accidentally sat on it.

He sits at his desk, flipping through the pages and tiny plushies you’ve given him. His heart swelling at the swirls in your writing with blue ink—the bunny pen you always wrote with.

The smile on his face continues as he reads through your words of love for him—words that you often found too difficult to say. He slams his forehead on the desk, blush coating his cheeks and ears while he groans loudly.

Each letter you’d given him ended with a print of your kiss mark at the very bottom. Some of it was a matte red, others was a faint glitter stain, but most of it was a soft pinkish color. The kind that was glossy and gave you just enough color that it looked tinted and natural.

His finger grazes the mark, an idea popping in his head.

Punk!Miguel who goes to a tattoo shop he was very well acquainted with, with an artist he knew extra well.

He slams his arm on the counter where a man was behind it, sucking on a lollipop and doodling in his sketchbook. The guy raises an annoyed brow.

“Do you have any space open for a walk-in client?” Miguel asks with a smirk.

“I don’t have space for annoying ones.” He sighs and puts his drawing pad away.

“I have money this time, Gabri. Plus, family discount.”

Punk!Miguel who is both afraid and excited to show you what he’s done to himself. He feels his heart hammering while he preps himself to show you. He’d done the aftercare as precisely as possible, taking extra care of it because this was no ordinary tattoo.

Punk!Miguel that lets you take off his shirt when he tells you he’s gotten a tattoo of you.

Punk!Miguel who smiles with amusement when you gasp and hit his arm that you were joking before! That tattooing is a permanent thing! He tells you that he knows.

His heart stills when you eyes land on his chest. On his left side, where his heart would be was your kiss mark. Just like the ones you left on the letters you used to give him.

You touch your lips subconsciously, your other set of fingers hovering over his lifted skin. You look up for permission and he nods, brining himself closer.

You marvel at the piece of work that replicated your lips. “Oh, Miguel…” You sigh, blinking back tears.

“Are you getting emotional?”

“No!”

He brings you to his chest in a tight hug, your hand still resting beside your kiss mark now permanently etched on his person—a permanent reminder that he is yours and that he loves you.

[houserautha]

These Destined Ends

Part Eleven

Summary: Jessica fulfilled the wishes of the Bene Gesserits to produce a daughter. You’re now burdened with the task of not only marrying the na-Baron, but also bearing his child — the Kwisatz Haderach. Will you take your fate into your own hands? Or will it always belong to those who control you?

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x F!Reader

Word Count: 3.4k

Warnings: you stabbed him and now you handcuff him, blood play, wound play, the events in this part are probably not hygienic or realistic but my thots took over, you both cry, mentions of killing/death, brief depiction of killing

A/N: I would like to add that reader and Feyd have such a toxic relationship but god do I love it so much (also the writing god possessed me and made it possible for this to be published now instead of tonight, god bless)

You push the dagger in to its handle.

It comes back slick with blood.

You use it to quickly unlatch your bindings, then shift aside as Feyd falls onto the bed beside you. Without thinking, you place a knee on either side of his waist and set to inspecting your work — the cut is deep, weeping ink-colored blood. A depraved part of you wants him to suffer, to feel pain as unimaginably deep as you did. And you do not want him to clot quickly.

Feyd’s hand ghosts over the wound. Blood spills onto his alabaster skin, the bedsheets, on the leg of your pant nestled into his side. And all the while he gazes up at you endearingly, face noticeably paler, blood coming to gather at the corner of his lips. You lean forward to kiss him and lap up the droplets of blood, he groans; you’re pressing your entire weight into him, into the wound.

“I want you to hurt,” you whisper against his mouth. You put your fingers to the wound, Feyd shifting uncomfortably as your nails bite into the recently torn flesh. Beneath you, his cock stirs, and in response you dig your fingers in deeper.

His flesh is warm. Wet.

“Fuck,” Feyd mutters.

“I want to hurt you and you’re enjoying it,” you sneer at him, “perhaps I should just stop. Chain you up to the bed, see how you like it. Leave you to bleed out alone.”

He doesn’t reply. There’s a flicker of recognition in his eyes — he knows that he’s supposed to atone for his family’s crime, play his part in your twisted battle of wits, but there’s no denying his swelling, twitching cock, eager to make contact between your legs. He grimaces as you remove your hand, breath expelling in shaky bursts.

Feyd watches you reclaim the cuff, hook it around his wrist and then do the same with the cuff on the other side of the bed that Wyn hadn’t bothered to attach. You secure both cuffs so that his hands are pinned above his head. He looks infuriatingly gorgeous like this, blood wetting his skin and your hands, muscles tensed and pain spasming his handsome features.

You grind against him and his hips buck.

“Fuck,” he says again.

You lose yourself, slightly, at the sight of him like this, and you’re entangled between vengeance and desire. The urge to maim him paired with the dreadful urge you have to ride him.

Why couldn’t you do both?

You rake your nails down his chest, creating trails of angry welts from sternum to navel. His breath quickens. Blood pools near the site of the wound and you drag your fingers through it.

“Interesting. You bleed just like the rest of us, Feyd-Rautha.”

“Do you want another taste?”

He inhales sharply. You’ve angrily pressed your palm into the wound, resenting him for reminding you of your transgressions. You growl, “You won’t find humor in this when I’m done with you.”

Fingers bloodied, you put them to his plush bottom lip — fuck, his lips drove you wild — and down his chin, the column of his throat, over the welts you’ve created. He writhes. You unbuckle his pants and, without any trace of kindness, tear them from his narrow hips. Feyd whimpers as the sudden movement prompts a gush of blood, and you grin at the reaping of your effort. He glares.

You scoop more blood like a painter from its palette. His cock is standing to attention, arched backward slightly, flushed and threaded with pulsing veins. Starting at his swollen head, you trace your fingers up and down, coating him thoroughly with his own blood. It takes several applications before you’re satisfied. An entirely addictive sounds escapes him when you fist the base of his shaft and start pumping, the slickness of the blood easing your work.

You stroke him over and over, varying your pace as not to guide him to orgasm. He rallies against you, straining at the cuffs. Although you can’t see it, you feel him dig his heels into the mattress in an effort to gain purchase, anything to channel the desire unfurling inside him. And all the while you watch him, fascinated, bleeding profusely yet so eager for your touch.

The mighty Feyd-Rautha, champion of Giedi Prime, shuddering and moaning beneath you, pre-cum leaking from the slit of his cock. It draws heat to your core. With his hands over his head, his mobility is limited, and you use this to your advantage: maintaining a steady pace on his cock with one hand while the other explores his body, dipping down to cup his balls, trace his thighs, then back up to tease his taunt nipples and the wound in his side. Feyd cries out, eyes rolling back and hips snapping.

You revoke your hand. He’s practically shivering now, undoubtedly torn between pain and pleasure. You climb carefully off his lap. Feyd’s gaze burns into you as you strip off your clothes until you’re standing only in your panties.

“This should only hurt a little,” you tell him. The muscles in his stomach jump and flicker as you resume your kneeling position, this time decidedly higher.

Your clit is aching for friction, so much so that you grind your center into him, right over the wound. He grunts in pain with each roll of your pelvis, seeking out your pleasure while you aggravate the place where the dagger had slid in, breasts pushing outwards. You can see it on his face, what he would do if he could use his mouth on you, his hands, but the pain is too great. Tears spring to his eyes as he fights the crashing waves of agony while you ride his wound.

“It’s not enough,” you utter, mostly to yourself, “it’s not enough.” Not enough pain.

You slide back down his body, reclaim his cock, then notch its head at your entrance. You’re slick with your own desire, and his blood, and you have to fend off his bucking hips to prevent him from penetrating you. The sensation of him gives you shivers, racing up and down your body.

You brace your quivering thighs and sink down on top of him. Feyd howls as your walls clamp down, taking him in one swift movement. You can’t help it — your head lulls back and your body bows, gripped by a wave of unbelievable pleasure. He fills you up so neatly, so fully, that you’re in despair when you pull away, then plunge back down with even more force. It reminds you of the throne room, how you had wrested the power from him. But you were na-Baron and na-Baroness before, this equates to something much more primal, raw, two blood-soaked fighters in an arena of your own making.

You ride him to completion, cuming on his cock twice before he finally musters the words, “Enough. You’ve got your punishment. Now let me fuck my wife.”

You pause with him still seated deep inside you.

“I don’t think I’ve yet reached the depths of your pain,” you tell him in reply.

Feyd’s eyes flash. “No weapons can maim me as entirely as having you naked in front of me and without the use of my hands to touch you. There will be no show of blood for how you’ve tormented me. No physical measure. Let me fuck you now so that we may be equals again.”

Seconds after you unlatch the cuffs, Feyd is on you. He all but attacks you, mouth hungrily searching yours, hands grabbing at your body. Effortlessly he flips you onto your back, blood gushing from him. He wavers, probably from loss of blood, before burying himself inside you. You cry out, wringing pleasure from him with each thrust, the feel of his hands more rewarding than anything without them. He’s on every surface of you — pressing kisses down your neck, your breasts, pulling each nipple into his mouth and giving them a lewd suckle. His hands grab the backs of your thighs, your ass, pin your hips to the bed so that you can’t move.

“You. Are. Mine,” he grunts with each thrust. His voice is wreathed with anger. Possession.

Heartache.

You can’t even begin to examine this before he spears you even faster, with more vigor, words slurring together with impassion. “You are mine, jewel. I thought you dead. I thought you taken from me. But no one can take you from me. No one. You don’t even possess that ability. I am the keeper of your life.”

He’s becoming more and more incensed, his pace growing sloppy and unpredictable. You feel a wetness by your neck and you realize that it’s not blood causing it but rather a furious outpouring of tears from your husband, his jaw clenched and brows furrowed in concentration.

“Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.” Thrust. “Mine.”

You cling to him, hold him the only way you know how, with your legs wrapped around his waist and your nails down his back. It’s as if you’re trying to merge into one being, take this man as part of your own flesh and, in addition, make his sorrows and pain yours. You taste the salt of your own tears as you both rise and crest like waves against one another, finally not opponents in a war that you can’t win but allies in a surmountable battle.

Feyd cums first, but you follow quickly after. Pulsing and shuddering, he cries into your neck as he fills you with his seed, clutching your body to him just as tightly. Both of you are gasping for air from the exertion, the tears, the culmination of your pleasures being chased down in such a heightened state. Feyd withdraws from you. He allows one hand to press against his wound protectively, but then surprises you by placing his bloodied handprint on your breast.

Above your heart.

“You are mine,” he says, “and I am yours.”

Hot water pours down you in rivulets, interrupted only by Feyd’s hands as he washes your body. Crimson water swirls down the drain. You take turns silently scrubbing the blood from each other and swapping stolen kisses, Feyd wincing each time the water makes contact with the wound. You start to form some semblance of an apology but Feyd silences you with a formidable look. “It was necessary,” he tells you.

The bloodied sheets and discarded clothes are much harder to rid of. And there’s no saying what Doctor Wyn was thinking when you told her that Feyd now demanded her attention, what she thought when she saw the horrible wound etched into his side. But, to her credit, she never asked any questions, and you never gave her any answers.

You could see why Feyd hired her.

And when someone wasn’t aggravating the wound, it healed much faster. Feyd refused any ointment that would erase the scar, however, which you knew he would. He kept every scar from every fight like badges of honor. You knew most of them well by now, and had your fair amount of contributions. And although you never explicitly discussed what happened between you two that day, you felt it between you like a tether, binding you together in a way that even you had no words to describe.

And that’s why you stall the Baron’s wish to seek an audience with you. You won’t go without Feyd.

He’s stubbornly vague about everything, too, claiming that it would make more sense to wait to hear everything unfold at once. You’ve missed too much while self-contained and now feel eager to return, to start the plot against Feyd’s uncle.

“I have my ideas,” he says one day when you’re begging him incessantly, “but first hear what the Baron says, make your own judgements. Revenge does not happen overnight.”

This irritates you, but you ultimately oblige.

Finally the day comes for your visit with the Baron, and you make sure to wear your best dress. Instead of the usual monochrome Harkonnen colors you’ve chosen a bright red, a thin fabric that clings to your figure. Feyd’s lips twitch when he sees you.

“You wear red to invoke the ire of the bull.”

“The Baron is no bull,” you retort. You think back to your grandfather’s legacy, of the dark eyes of the bull staring at you while you sat at the table on Arrakis. And while the Baron was not a bull, you were determined to have his head anyway.

Feyd grabs your hand, feathers his lips over your knuckles. “You look exceptional.”

You smile at him. “Let’s see what your uncle has to say.”

You made it a condition of the meeting not to be held in the throne room — you didn’t like the imbalance of power. Besides, you weren’t a lowly citizen come to collect their stipend, you were the na-Baroness, bound to the na-Baron in a bond that transcended the intricacies of power. You were no longer two beings but one, a formidable union. And as you sneak a glimpse of Feyd before you enter the dining room, you’re only emboldened by the resolve you see in his face; he is a fine partner to have in battle, indeed.

The doors open and his hand brushes yours once, a subtle indication of his fealty to you.

Your chin is raised and your stride confident as you approach the table. “A meal then, between family,” the Baron had said when you declined his offer to meet at the throne room. You notice that neither the Baron nor Rabban stand when you enter, which digs under your skin like a splinter.

“Don’t spare your na-Baroness with your pleasantries,” Feyd rasps darkly.

“This is not a political endeavor,” the Baron replies. If he realizes just how agitated his nephew is, he doesn’t show it. “Sit, sit. We dine together finally. I am only too glad to…catch up.”

It’s difficult to keep your composure neutral. Here before you is the man who orchestrated your family’s deaths, the one who carried them out. Hatred burns inside you.

You take your seat, Feyd beside you.

“We’ve already had our catching up, haven’t we, brother?” Rabban’s gaze is cutting.

Feyd just stares evenly back at him. “I remember.”

Rabban grins triumphantly. “And I’m glad to see that you’re healing well.” Before you can inquire about this — was Rabban the cause of the scar across his face? — the former turns his attention to you. “It is my dear sister-in-law that I need to reunite with. Isn’t that right?”

“Need is a strong word,” you retort. “I was under the impression I didn’t have much choice.”

“Oh, how you wound with your words as well as the blade,” Rabban replies, feigning insult.

“You seem to know quite a lot about blades, Rabban. Is that how you dealt the deaths of my family?”

Rabban sneers. The Baron holds up a large hand, his voice punishing, “That’s enough.”

“I’ve only just started,” you bite back.

“Brother, temper your wife,” Rabban says. “She speculates that which she has no knowledge of.”

You open your mouth to reply, outraged, but Feyd beats you to the punch. “My wife will do and say as she pleases. You should just be grateful that she hasn’t slit your throat yet.”

“There will be no deaths today,” the Baron warns.

“Because you’ve had your fill of them?” You counter. Under the table, your fingers form claws.

“Let me give you the truth, na-Baroness, so that you might stop leveling accusations,” the Baron replies coolly. “You are new to the Harkonnen so I may forgive you this once. You were not born as we were. That being said, we were the original defenders of Arrakis. It is our planet. And as you know we will do whatever it takes to defend our own.”

You can’t help it. You snort. Is that what he was doing when he cajoled his young nephew? Put more darkness in him than necessary?

“With the help of the Emperor, we were able to reclaim Arrakis. We tried to give House Atreides the option of conceding but they staunchly refused. We did only what we had to do.”

Your eyes narrow. “The Emperor aided you?”

This, you knew, but you wanted to hear an explanation from his own mouth.

“We both had certain…lofty aspirations…that the other could provide. It was a rational exchange,” the Baron says, as if talking about expanding trade routes instead of lives. “The Emperor was fearful of your father and his power. Now he has to worry no more.”

Conversation subsides as servants place food in front of you, some kind of bird drenched in a sickly colored sauce. The only person to touch it is the Baron, who savagely devours it without any use of utensils.

“You lie,” you finally say. “My father had no intentions of usurping the Emperor as you claim.”

“The Emperor is a…fickle man. He knows his own weaknesses. I cannot blame him for his fear.”

“And why did he partner with you?” You ask. “What did you gain from this?”

“Arrakis,” the Baron answers simply.

“You said that you both had aspirations that the other could provide,” Feyd presses, taking the words from your mouth. “You eliminate the House Atreides for the Emperor, but you are not the sole benefactor of Arrakis. You must know that I would rather perish than take orders from you.”

The Baron wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I suppose the news will come out sooner or later. Rabban?”

News? What news?

Rabban grins at you and Feyd. “The princess Irulan and I are engaged to be married.”

Shock seizes you and keeps you from forming any sort of response. The Emperor gave his eldest daughter to Rabban? Thoughts race through your mind. Not only did that mean the Baron had his influence in Arrakis but now the entire Known Universe as well. Dread fills you. How had anyone allowed this to happen?

“That’s not the congratulations I was expecting,” Rabban continues, clearly pleased with himself.

Feyd’s fist strikes the table, causing the silverware to rattle. “You gave me Arrakis over my brother, but now you secure him as Emperor? What are you playing at, uncle?”

“Your brother is willing to…follow my orders, as you so eloquently said. His loyalty deserves recognition.”

“This is a grave error,” Feyd snarls.

“Jealous, are we?” Rabban asks, drawing the attention back to him. “This could’ve all been avoided if you’d only accepted my offer,” he says to you, then Feyd, “and then you could’ve been in my position, heir apparent to the Empire.”

Feyd shoots to his feet. “I should’ve killed you when I had the chance.”

“Boys,” the Baron snaps, intervening what you are certain would’ve been a death match, “everything is now in place. Feyd-Rautha will rule Arrakis and its coveted spice; Rabban, the Empire. Instead of fighting you should be celebrating the fortune of the Harkonnens.”

Silence descends.

This was worse than you imagined. The Baron had manipulated everyone here to get what he wanted. It was he who would profit from the marriages he forged for his nephews.

“Now, Feyd-Rautha, you must put aside your envy. You and the na-Baroness are required to return to Arrakis in a fortnight.”

It feels as if someone has poured ice water down your spine. “What?”

“You think you can rule from Giedi Prime?” The Baron asks, bemused.

“Fine.” Feyd looks to you but no one else. “We are done here.”

You want to challenge him, to remain where you are and root out more truth, but to do so would to humiliate him. You avoid the eyes of the Baron and Rabban as you pick up the skirt of your dress and follow after him dutifully.

The doors slam shut behind you with a resounding thud.

As you search for something to say, Feyd screams, visceral and terrifying. In a blind fury, he cuts down the two closest servants with his dagger, their blood splattering the ground as their bodies slump to the floor. His shoulders heave, dagger gripped tightly in his grasp, and he whirls on you wildly as you approach.

“Do not give them the satisfaction,” you whisper urgently to him, grabbing his face. Your touch soothes him ever so slightly. “Their time will come but first we must consider how to proceed, formulate a plan that will leave them in their graves. They will not go unpunished.”

The dagger clatters to the ground as Feyd finally releases it.

“I will not rest until then,” he swears.

You rock up on your toes and press your forehead to his, holding him to you. “Neither shall I.”

Part Twelve

Taglist:

@moonsoulk @heartarianagran @torchbearerkyle @unicoreads @taleah @mamawiggers1980 @jovialeggsbailiffsoul @harkonnin @avidreader73 @unicorntrooper @beebeechaos @kamcrazy123 @wo-ming-bai @m-indkiller @kpopnstarwars @dacreshoney @stopeatread @the-na-baroness @therealslimshady-1

[bitebitekxll]

Kinktober ‘24 || Day 4

NSFW || MDNI

feet | double penetration | nipple play

Zhongli x gender neutral!reader

Notes: Fun fact, this was the first nsfw thing I EVER wrote. (Also yes day 2 is still fighting with me leave me alone)

Masterlist . Kink list

The conversation happened late one night in his apartment above the funeral parlour. Both of you were a few cups deep in the Osmanthus Wine Zhongli always kept stocked, likely the only reason you even ended up on this topic in the first place.

“Didn’t you used to be the God of War, or something?” you asked him, lazily sprawled across his bed.

Zhongli sat prim and proper in his desk chair with only the light blush dusting his cheeks giving away his inebriation. “Indeed I was,” he replied, eyes half lidded as he propped his cheek on his fist. For a man so composed, seeing the slightest loss of said composure looked almost scandalous. Even the way his jacket and waistcoat was removed, tie loosened and hanging low, made him look completely undressed. “And in some ways, I suppose some parts of me always will be.”

“But… you’re so tame.” You lifted your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “I don’t think anyone would believe a god of war has the demeanour of a retired old man.”

“I am a retired old man.” He chuckled, watching you intently. “But I was not always like this. I believe what you’re picturing is how I was in my youth.”

During the archon war, he did not say. But you heard it nonetheless.

Curiously, you rolled over on your stomach, keeping your head up so you could get a better look at him. “So what were you like back then? Feral? Hotheaded? Ravaging anyone you came across?”

“In more ways than one,” Zhongli muttered, and you were sure you had misheard him.

Did he just—

Was he implying—

Blinking, you sat up, hopelessly fascinated by the turn this conversation was taking. Whether it was the alcohol or a stroke of insanity, Zhongli acted like what he had said was perfectly par for the course. Testing the waters, you decided to be as blunt as possible, to see if it would snap him out of the nonchalance or if his confession was truly a calculated one.

“So the old man knows how to fuck,” you said. “Gotta admit, I didn’t expect that.”

If anything, his low chuckle grew more devious. Hiding a smirk behind his palm, he gave you an almost smug look. “When you have lived for as long as I have… there’s not much you haven’t experienced.”

Okay, he was definitely drunker than he looked. But then again, so were you if you were encouraging this madness.

“What exactly do those experiences include?”

“…would you like a demonstration?”

Fuckkkk. What the hell was happening?

Before you could even begin to process, he stood up and began walking towards you. Gloved fingers tracing down the buttons of his shirt, he began undoing them as he loomed over where you sat on the bed. Hardly believing your luck that he was actually going through with this, you shuffled back to make room for him to crawl over you, eagerly assisting him with the rest of his shirt.

If you thought he was undressed before, now he was positively debauched. His open shirt hung from his broad frame, revealing tanned skin and the rippling muscles from millennia of physical training. Peeking out from the shoulders were black scales, and you knew the coloring would extend down under his sleeves to the rest of his arms, inked with those elegant golden patterns he kept hidden: a sign of his divinity he couldn’t hide even like this.

As his head ducked down, lips angling to meet yours, you couldn’t help reaching out to feel, to place your palms against the hard planes of his chest, gliding across the smooth skin. And then, as your touch gravitated to the dusky brown peaks of his nipples, thumbs absentmindedly brushing over the buds, Zhongli jerked back.

His body jolted like a current had passed through it, the sound ripped from his throat deep and guttural and obscene. His head had fallen back, the long expanse of his throat and trembling Adam's apple free for your eyes to feast on.

“What..?” He panted, head lolling to the side as he tried to turn his gaze back to you. “What did you just..?”

Fascinated by the reaction, you lightly brushed it again— just one this time —only to have him cry out once more. “Was this not included in your experience?” You asked, grinning slyly. “You’ve never had your nipples touched?”

“My—” You didn’t let him finish, twisting them this time. Zhongli grunted, hips bucking harshly as he doubled over. The hands he had placed on your shoulders were the only thing keeping him from falling into you entirely. “But this form… I’m not a woman…” He spoke in between his struggles for air, face pinched like the pleasure he was feeling was painful.

“Is that what you think? That only women feel good from this?” As if to prove your point, you pressed down on one of his nipples, rubbing circles on it with the pad of your thumb. Finally collapsing, his head fell onto your shoulder, unable to hold himself up as his body writhed with the sensations you were administering. “Plenty of men find it enjoyable to be touched here. And you seem especially—” You meanly flicked one of the hardened buds, causing him to sputter, choking at the intensity of the feeling. “—sensitive.”

It was heady, having this powerful man, this god who’s lifespan was incomprehensible to your mortal mind, fall apart so beautifully in your lap. All he could do was cling to you while his body wracked with pleasure, helpless as you played with his nipples, an unrelenting and merciless attack.

“Can’t—” He groaned, breath picking up even more as he started muttering in your ear. “You need to stop, or I’ll— ‘M gonna—”

Instead of stopping, you had a better idea. Pushing him slightly, just so he was upright again in front of you, you met Zhongli’s lust-drunk (and regular drunk) gaze with your own wicked one. Without warning, you pressed your lips to his nipple, sealing them around the peak, and sucked.

You had no idea it was possible for Zhongli’s rich, dulcet tones to get so high. He mewled, clinging to your arms so tightly you felt the pricks of his claws through your clothes— they must have extended through the material of his gloves, as out of it as he was. Tremors ran through him as his hips snapped forward and he came, chanting your name under his breath. Slumping into you once again, he let himself try to catch his breath as you released his abused nipples from your torture. Snaking your arms around his waist, you held him tight to your chest, already planning your next move.

You were nowhere near done with him; the two of you were in for quite a fun night.

[koolades-world]

Hello, I'm looking for some angst.

I would like to order an extra harsh reality of

"The brothers will pick their sister over Mc if given a chance"

And some side dish of "The undertables having to fight for Mc"

Thanksiiee!!

hi!! Sorry I took so long to get to this but I was so looking forward to writing this when I got it! slight mentions at nsfw but nothing is described or really directly talked about. also spoilers for lesson 16 and also also long!! much longer than I anticipated

everything I write turns into Satan pieces somehow lol

Took inspo from Harry Potter, specifically Tom Riddle’s diary in the Chamber of Secrets (don't @ me used to be a huge hp fan)

update: part two is out and can be found here :)

the dance of the haunted (part one)

It all started with a simple trip to the second hand bookstore. Satan always invited Mc, so they were together. He needed a hand carrying back his purchases sometimes and they always went someone to eat afterwards, Satan’s treat as he could never imagine asking Mc to pay.

They bookstore they visited today was a usual for them. It was close enough to walk, but far enough to avoid running into his brothers. Satan knew Mc really enjoyed old cookbooks and worn fantasy books. They also often searched for children’s books to read to local demon children as part of a school club. While he was initially concerned with them coming into contact with a cursed book, he grew more comfortable after seeing their magical ability and that they always carried an enchanted talisman that Solomon gifted them for that purpose.

Mc was over in the nature section, flipping through a book about creatures in the 3rd ring of hell. Satan found himself in the tomes section again. He, as usual, found himself rooting through the very back trying to uncover hidden gems. He was about to pick up a book he thought Mc might like to flip through it, when he froze. Just a sliver of this book was in his vision, but he already felt the magic oozing from it. It's a wonder he didn't sense it sooner. He put the other book in a hurry and pulled out the book from the back.

It was unlabeled, with a faded green cover and a golden ribbon attached to the spine. It marked a page close to the beginning. The magic radiating from it didn't seem bad in any way. It actually seemed quite positive. He was able to place it quickly after he felt the ribbon sticking out the bottom of the book.

This was most certainly a book infused with an angelic blessing at the very least, but how in the world had this ended up in a second hand book store in the Devildom, of all places. He flipped it over, looking for anything to go off of, but found nothing but a cursive golden letter L etched on the bottom right corner. He was a little afraid to open it, giving that it was in the hands of an angel at some point. After thinking it over, if anything happened to him, Mc would help him as soon as they noticed something amiss. Thanks to the pact, it would be almost instantly.

With the thought of Mc, he slowly opened the book. On the first page and on the inside of the front cover was handwriting that seemed oddly familiar. He struggled to read the words on the page at first due to the sense of familiarity. He suddenly got deja vu, as if he had held this book before. He closed his eyes for a moment to stop the world from spinning. When he reopened them, he felt like crying, and yet, he still wasn't sure why. Once he finally read what was written, he understood why.

On the inside cover, it read "Property of Lilith Morningstar" and near the bottom in large writing was a messy scrawl he recognized as Mammon's handwriting. It said "mammon waz here" with a little drawing of himself sticking his tongue out. A heart in a different color of ink enclosed the message and drawing. On the first page was a note seemingly from Lucifer. Satan would recognize his handwriting anywhere. It was a heartfelt message from Lucifer to Lilith, saying that he hoped the gift reached her well, and that he missed and loved her.

He closed the book for a second and suddenly felt faint. He sat on the floor, holding his head in his hands. He thought about what he had just read for a moment. The book that he had somehow found, maybe by chance or fate, belonged to his brother's late sister. It was a gift from Lucifer to Lilith while he was away. He realized that's probably why he felt his emotions raging. The Lucifer in him recognized the book, since he had seemingly picked it out himself to give to his sister. How had this ended up in a second hand bookstore? He theorized maybe it had been made in the Devildom and Lucifer had purchased it during one of his trips. But, angel Lucifer would have never done that. He was disgusted by the mere thought of even having to go down at the time, so the thought of him browsing shops was out of the question. Deciding to come back to that thought later, he decided to quickly flip through it, just to see what it was.

As he reopened the book, new waves of magic hit him. He didn't recognize them, but they felt as familiar as his brothers. He guessed their magic was also somehow within this book. But since it was all angelic magic, everything having to do with this book happened before the fall, before he even existed. Much to his dismay, everything beyond the first page was blank. He closed and opened it a few times, but nothing happened. He guessed it might be locked by magic in some way. The thought of trying to magically pry it open scared him again. He was a demon through and through, and since this was blessed by angels, he had no clue what might happen to him if he tried. He was certain whoever blessed this book did not accommodate for whatever he was, but he thought it to be unwise to test the limits.

"Satan. What are you doing on the floor?" Mc walked up to him, holding a few books in their arms.

"Oh, just looking at book on the bottom shelf. I got tired of crouching." He quickly placed the green book down on top of a stack of his other books.

"I get that. Just wanted to let you know I'm ready to be done when you are. Don't rush for me." They turned to walk away, but Satan stopped them.

"I'm done too. I was finishing up." He moved to get up. Mc turned back around to look at him.

"I made great timing then! Here, I'll carry some of these for you." They grabbed the first few books off his stack. He felt his stomach lurch when they touched the green book. He couldn't help but feel nervous with them handling the book, although he wasn't sure why. He didn't want to say anything about it to them, and again, he didn't know why. For now, maybe it was best he kept this to himself anyways. Mc’s expression didn't change and they continued to pile on the books until the green one was in the middle. There was nothing special about that book to them.

"Thank you." Satan made himself say. He picked up the remaining books and they proceeded to the check out together. Today, an older demon worked the register. She was familiar with the pair and had a soft spot for Mc.

"Is that everything for today?" She asked them as she counted the books. Between the two of them, they had thirteen books. Satan handed the demon the needed amount of grim, and waved them on their way. Satan insisted on carrying the bag of books home, since this time there wasn’t too many.

"Let's stop at a café on our way home. I'm dying for something warm to drink right now." Mc grabbed Satan's hand and pulled him in the direction they wanted to go in. He smiled and allowed himself to be dragged off. While they were enjoying coffee together, he was able to temporally forget about the book he had discovered. All of his thoughts were about Mc for the time being.

When they arrived home together, Mc loudly announced that they were there. Mammon came running to greet them. "Mc! I got somethin' for ya! Ya gotta come with me right now!" He grabbed both of the hands and began to pull them away.

"Thank you for the coffee and books, Satan. Tell me about what you bought at dinner tonight." They looked back at him before looking at Mammon again.

"I will. I'll drop off your books in your room. I had a great time." He lifted a hand at them, as a goodbye.

"Mc!" Mammon began to whine.

"Yes, yes. Let's go now." Mammon took off with Mc in tow, leaving Satan stewing in his thoughts again. He went back to his room with all of the books. The other books he had picked out were no longer interesting compared to the Lilith book. However, he didn't want to mess with it while his brothers were awake. The last thing he wanted was them finding out. While he felt bad keeping it from them, something in him was telling him not to show it to them yet. He had promised Mc he would tell them about the books he picked out. The only one he wanted to read was the one about cats. He could easily talk about it to Mc anyways, without having to worry about the Lilith book crossing his mind.

He read until it was time for dinner. Today, it was Asmo’s turn to cook. He was actually a pretty good cook, probably the best in the house. It always turned out well and was plated gorgeous on top of that. He came to the dinner table with the book he hand been reading, still reading. He took his seat across from Mc, not looking up just yet.

“Hey, is that one of the new books?” Satan looked over his book and saw Mc peering at him.

“Yes, actually. It’s a cat book! Cats are the best.” He happily pointed to the picture of a cat on the front. As they ate, the conversation began to drift away from books, and onto something that Satan thought was irrelevant. He tried to go back to reading, but found himself reading the same lines over and over again. His thoughts had reverted to the little green book sitting in a pile of books on his bed. He has buried it, just in case someone happened to walk in.

As Mc mediated yet another argument between Levi and Mammon, he couldn’t find it in himself to silently seethe and glare at his brothers as he usually did. He blankly stared at his book, picking at his food. He was stuck wondering why the book didn’t say anything. He planned what he would do once he got back to his room. He knew he had a book of protective spells somewhere in the house that he might use to protect himself before attempting to interact with the book more.

“Satan. Is everything alright?” Lucifer placed a hand on his shoulder, catching him off guard. The table was basically empty now, much to his surprise. It was only Beel, Belphie and himself still seated. Beel was still eating and Belphie was passed out next to him.

“Nothing is wrong.” Satan snapped back after a moment.

“Alright. Please don’t forget do the dishes.” Lucifer retraced his hand, and with one final, unreadable look at Satan, left the room. He was unsure about how to feel about Lucifer noticing something was amiss. He snapped his book shut. He wasn’t really reading it in the first place. He put the book down on the kitchen counter and began absentmindedly doing the dishes. He was lost in though about the book currently buried underneath about twenty other books on his bed.

He finished in record time. He grabbed his cat book, figuring Beel could wash his own dish once he was done. He retreated to his room. He was released to find everything just as he left it. He dug up the green book from his pile, placing all the other books on the floor for the time being. He sat at his desk, running his hands over the cover. Under his little desk lamp, it seemed to sparkle in a way that he hasn’t previously noticed. Once he opened it, he was greeted with what he has seen earlier that day. But, to his surprise, there was more beyond that.

Most of the pages in the front of the book curled from usage. At the top of each page, was a note of the date. Below this, was a diary entry of sorts. Sometimes, it was just a to-do list, or a recipe. Others, he found Lilith’s accounts of her day to day life. He decided to start at the beginning, reading the first ever entry. He hoped to gain a little context of what exactly this journal was and how it worked.

Lilith had written on the first page after the note from Lucifer about how he has sent her this journal while on a trip to the Devildom, stating it was made by a human according to the tag on the outside of the journal. He enchanted it himself to only allow her to see the contents of this journal.

Satan paused his reading for a moment. If it has been enchanted to only allow Lilith to read the journal, how was he able to read it just now? He wasn’t close to her. They never knew each other. As he flipped to the next page to hopefully skim it for context of any kind, the words in front of him began to fade. The ink retracted into the page, from the last letter she had written, to the first. He wasn’t sure what he could do to prevent this, so he just quickly read what he could. The next page was something about how Belphie had wanted to take a look at it and something about Beel. Once he got there, the words has begun to erase themselves. He watched helplessly as everything disappeared. Soon, he was just stuck with the plain book he had discovered that afternoon, and the cover no longer shimmered.

He sighed, flipping through it again. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for. He was about to check out the back cover again when he heard his door being pushed open.

“Satan! Thought I would find you here.” Mc greeted him.

“It’s my room. What did you expect?” He shut the book in a hurry.

“Well, I can just as often find you in the library.” They approached him, touching his face. They outlined his jaw and smoothed his cheeks with their thumbs. He reached for their wrists, touching them with an imploring look.

“What’s the matter?” He petted their hair. They sat down in his lap and placed their head on his shoulder. He couldn’t help but worry that the journal was right in their view now, but he hugged them close nonetheless.

“I just feel lonely.” They sighed and buried their face in his neck.

“Really? After all that time you spent with Mammon?” He laughed a little at their predicament.

“Don’t laugh! It’s not the same as when I’m with you.” They pouted and puffed their cheeks out. He chuckled a little more at the cute face they made at him.

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop. What can I do for you, my beloved?” He could get lost in their eyes.

“Give me affection! Just kisses will do.” They pointed to their forehead. Satan smiled at them, amused.

“As you wish.” He began to pepper their face in kisses. As Mc grew more needy, the more he satisfied them. One thing led to another, as they ended up in Satan’s bed. They stayed together for the rest of the night, the journal long forgotten.

Early the next morning, after their night of passion, Satan awoke abruptly. He looked around. He was in his own room, but his clothes were scattered around the room. A shirt was hanging by a thread off a tall pile of books. Mc was asleep next to him, their arms wrapped around him. His lamp light was still on. He reached over as far as he could to reach the off switch. Before he could hit it, he saw the journal. He glanced back at Mc. He didn’t want to wake them, but he felt the urge to open it. He reached out to touch it, and as soon as he did, he noticed it began to shimmer like it had before. He was amazed. He quickly flipped as best as he could to a random page with one hand. He could see lots of writing. He shut it again, taking his hands off of it. It remained shimmery.

He decided not to flip through it now, since he wasn’t exactly in the best frame of mind to at the moment. Instead, he noted the time; 4:03 am. Once he woke up, he would check it again to get a rough idea of how long it would stay open for since earlier, he wasn’t sure how long it had been open for. He finally shut the lamp off and let the book flutter closed. He took his mind off the book, and laid back down. He tucked an arm around Mc as best he could without waking them, and drifted back to sleep.

He awoke for the second time that day. Everything was essentially the same as it was earlier except for the time and the noise outside his door. Mc was still asleep next to him, griping him tightly. It was 8:24 am now, and he could hear Lucifer pacing around past his door in the hall. He didn't make any noise. The last thing he wanted was to see his ugly mug first thing in the morning. Because of this, he decided not to leave him room just yet, but he also didn't want to open the journal either. He would, however, check if it was still "open" or readable. He flickered on his little desk lamp again, and was greeted with the shimmery cover. He didn't want to touch it, because he was almost certain he was able to set it off that morning. Once he was able to think clearer, he would revisit that.

Instead, he grabbed the first book he could get his hands on and began to read. He wasn't sure how long he was there, just reading, but eventually he felt Mc begin to stir. “Good morning, sleepyhead.” Satan greeted the bleary eyed person snuggled into his side.

“Good morning love. How long was I asleep?” They yawned, making no move to sit up. Neither of them were dressed at the moment anyways.

“A decent amount. Longer than I did anyways.” He shrugged, placing the book facedown on his desk, over the journal.

“Thanks for not waking me. You wouldn’t guess how many times Mammon or Asmo have woken me up way too early. Granted, it’s usually on accident. Asmo with his skincare and Mammon with… I don’t actually know.” Mc rolled on to their side to look at Satan better, throwing one of their arms over his torso. He felt himself growing shy under their sleepy gaze. He knew he wasn't the only one graced with that privilege, but the way they looked at him made him feel so special. He would give them every star in the sky if they asked.

“That makes me all the more grateful that they don’t dare enter my room. Makes it quite the sanctuary, don’t you think?” Satan chuckled.

“Mmm, yes.” They yawned again.

“What do you want to eat for breakfast, sweetheart? Or is it too soon to think about that?” He asked.

“Give me a few more minutes and then I’ll find an answer for you.” Mc closed their eyes again, potentially going back to sleep. He used that time to reflect. His thoughts grew a little grim as he let them wander. That journal kept finding it's way into his mind. How had he been able to find that? What were the chances of that happening? Maybe it would have made a little more sense if one of his brothers had found the book instead, since part of them seemed to linger between the lines. He was a different story, though. The magic within must had been much more powerful than he anticipated.

Even as he turned his head to the side to look at the book again, he saw the pages glimmer in the light that didn't exist. Something seemed... wrong. He hadn't noticed it before, maybe due to the excitement of simply finding it. The circumstances of which he found it in too was bizarre. As a powerful demon, he should have noticed the angelic energy as soon as he entered the book store. He dwelled on this idea. Perhaps last night's activities had had an affect on it. He coughed a little, covering up his embarrassment from the invisible audience. As he thought more, it really made no sense that he just happened to find it. Had it been planted there for him specifically, or was it the journal itself? Just what did this book know? He did consider himself exceptional, but not nearly as much as his brothers. Their story was far more interesting than his own. He was just the consequence of their actions. Whatever the case with this book, he felt the urge to get to the bottom of it, despite the creeping dread in his gut.

He spent the next few days of his reading time picking though every page of the journal. He was able to learn so much about his brothers' days in the Celestial Realm, far more than they had ever bothered to tell him. Perhaps they thought speaking about it might bother him. Whatever the case, he found it strange to refer to them as angels. Lilith wrote lots about the twins and Asmo. She wrote less about the older brothers but it was clear they were just as important to her. He had know Asmo was the Jewel of the Heavens, but the way Lilith described him made him sound like the most amazing thing the world had ever seen. The more and more he read, the more he saw the similarities between himself and her. He too considered Asmo a trusted confidant, and a close friend of his. He too found himself sneaking off with Belphie for mischievous reasons, or spending time with Beel for his quiet, comforting presence. He began to realize how difficult losing her might have been for them. In the past, he knew it was a sore subject, especially among the youngest, but now he could really feel their pain as Lilith wrote about their daily misadventures. What they missed. Would they exchange him for her if given the chance? He shook this thought off, not liking the implications it might have.

Her innocence was painted clearly for him on each page, yet, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. He checked the book again and again for traces of demonic magic but found nothing. The strangest part was that he couldn't even find his own. There was traces of various angels, most of which he didn't recognize, likely from the far gone past. The journal continued to puzzle him.

As time passed, the entries grew more and more chaotic. From her new lover, to the growing tensions between Lucifer and their father. They grew shorter and less carefree. Even her handwriting differed. She seemed to understand the gravity of what she had done. He knew this is when the Celestial War was about to begin. Her last entry was about her lover, again about how enchanting she found them, and how one day she hoped to spend the rest of her life with him, no matter what. He paused for a moment, realizing this entry was written likely days, or even hours before he was born. After that entry, the pages were blank. There were some pages with stray pen marks, but that's all he was able to uncover. He knew the ending to this story. The silence told it all. He sat for a while, reflecting again about everything he had seen. As he was thinking, words began to appear on the page in front of him, in the same handwriting and ink color as he had seen in the entire journal. It was Lilith's. Satan paused. He could tell the journal held magical properties, but this was not something he expected to happen.

"Hello? Anyone there?" The words appeared suddenly. He continued staring at the page until more words appeared. "You can say something you know. Ink will do." Satan began to look around for a writing utensil at these words. Once he found one, he began to pen a response.

"Hello. Are you Lilith?" He wrote down underneath the previous words. He got his own response quickly.

"Yes, I am! How'd you know that?" Satan paused again, about to write more, but was cut off as Lilith began to write more. "Haha! Just kidding. This is my journal. My name is in it. It would be weird if this wasn't me. Who are you, by the way? I don't think I've ever had a visitor." Right away, Satan thought Lilith reminded him of Asmo. He was probably like this when he was an angel.

He stopped before bringing his pen down to the page again. He was unsure on how to introduce himself. During his visit to the past, he went by Sully, which was the stupidest name in his opinion. But, he also didn't want to lie to her. Would it be wrong to tell her his story, and what happened after the war? "My name is Satan. Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too! That's a pretty cool name. Interesting for sure." She wrote.

"I don't want to scare you away, but I want to make this clear as to not deceive you." He wanted to tell her the truth. He felt like she deserved to know. After all, he had always felt like she was supposed to be in his place. She even wrote in green.

"Oh, tell away then. I'm all ears. I won't judge, unless you're about to confess some sort of sin to me!" She wrote, most likely jokingly. That made him a little nervous at first, but he continued with the original plan anyways. Maybe this was his way of healing, somehow. He felt better after getting everything out. He told her almost everything. He omitted the part where Belphie murdered Mc. He didn't want to be the one to tell her, anyways. It felt wrong to tell her that her death had driven him to such an extreme. She stayed mostly silent, chiming in with a few questions and stray blots of ink on the pages near his writing, as if she was resting her pen on the page.

"I hope that wasn't too much to take in at once. Much has happened." Satan was still a nervous. He really hoped she wouldn't hate him. He was just the messenger. After all, without her, he wouldn't even exist.

"I won't lie, it was overwhelming at first. But, I'm happy to hear my brothers are doing well without me. It's comforting to know that they have you and Mc now." Lilith drew a little heart next to her message.

"Glad to hear. Sorry to leave so abruptly, but I agreed to meet Mc for an outing shortly, so I will see myself out." He wasn't lying. He had agreed to meet Mc, but it wasn't for another two hour.

"Alright. Have fun! Talk to you later." With that, everything she had said sunk into the page and left no trace behind.

"Goodbye." His words also disappeared. Just like that, their entire conversation was gone. He shut the book. He was glad she didn't object. He wasn't sure why he felt the need to leave early. He felt a little bad leaving her to stew in the information dump, if she actually existed beyond the book being open. Everything about the book confused him. Looking back at it, maybe he made a rash decision. Maybe he shouldn't have info dumped to her like that.

He decided to forget that for now to enjoy his time with Mc. They had an event to attend, and he had to get ready anyways. Later that night, he came back to the journal in order to study it. He opted not to talk to Lilith just yet. The sick feeling in his stomach had returned. Something was wrong with this journal, very wrong. It made no sense, even after chatting to her. She seemed sweet enough, but that wasn't enough to dispel that gross, nauseating feeling. He just couldn't place his finger on what. He felt as if he was losing his mind checking over and over again, for something, anything. But, he found absolutely nothing.

Eventually he got to the point where he was determining if he should burn it or not. He regretted even talking to her in the first place. He wasn't sure why, but he grew uneasy even having Mc in the same house as the journal. Somehow, it felt as if he was talking to someone else, as in not the Lilith who made the original entries. He placed the journal back on his desk, underneath his latest book finds, leaving to find Mc. He eventually found them by the door, putting their shoes on.

"Hey Satan. Good to see you!" They looked up at him.

"Hi, Mc. Where are you going?" He was relieved they were leaving the house.

"Purgatory Hall. I was invited over to play some games. Sol's idea." They began searching for their jacket. Satan noticed it hidden behind Lucifer's big overcoat. He grabbed it, and helped them put it on, thinking hard. "Aww thank you. You didn't have to do that." They beamed at him.

"I wanted to, it's no trouble." He paused for a moment, then continued. "Hey, do you think it's possible that I could come with you. I don't even have to play these games if that's an issue, I just want to be with you." He would feel even better if he was able to be with them, and get away from that journal for a while.

"Oh, of course! I'm sure they would love to have you. Besides, I've basically always got one of you brothers attached to me, they might find it weird if I showed up without one." Mc laughed. "I thought you were planning to read tonight, since I've been taking up almost all of your nights for the past week. Did something happen?" They seemed concerned, looking into his eyes.

"Thank you. Really, I can put off reading again. All time spent with you is precious. It's hard to be away from you, you should know. You're simply enchanting." He took their hand and spun them into his arms.

"Alright, if you say so! We should get going if we want to be on time. I can let them know if you need a little time to get ready?" Mc giggled, buying his excuse. They might have seen though him, but was glad they chose not to say anything.

"I just need my shoes and coat as well. I wouldn't want to hold you up, anyways." He only let Mc go in favor of getting ready. "You know, I'm honestly surprised you aren't already bringing Mammon or Asmo." He told them.

"Me too, actually. Asmo was busy, and Mammon was too distracted with his car repairs to pay attention to what I was saying earlier. I was almost held back by Belphie too. But, I'm here now and I get to spend this time with you." They stood beside him as he tied his shoes and shrugged on his jacket. As the two of them made their way to Purgatory Hall, Mc held his hand so tightly and gazed at him so tenderly, he was almost convinced they were the only thing in the world.

When they arrived, they had plenty of fun. Solomon had arranged a collection of games to play as a group that were randomly decided by drawing slips of paper. To nobody's surprise, Solomon and Mc ended up winning most of them because they were human games. Satan forgot all about the journal. That is, until, he received a phone call in the middle of one of their games. Mc was draped over him with their arms around his neck, also curious about who might be calling them at a time like this. It was Lucifer.

"I told them we were heading out. What could he need?" Mc reached for the phone but Satan stopped them.

"If the call is for me, it's probably to yell at me or something. I don't want you to be on the receiving end of that." Satan rolled his eyes, and brought the phone to his ear, planning to brush off anything he said. He was really only answering because Simeon was in the room, who would answer it for him.

"Come home. Now. You have explaining to do." Lucifer growled through the phone. At first, Satan wasn't worried. He got ominous calls from his older brother like this all the time.

"What is it?" He sighed. Mc laughed a little, causing him to smile. The others began to chat among themselves while he was on the phone. This was normal.

"You know exactly what this is about. On your desk in your room. Underneath three books. Your keys on the left. The pen you used on the right." Satan froze. The smile left his face. Lucifer always sounded serious, but this was one of the few times he sounded like he was about to rip his throat out. He had found the journal. Mc didn't hear what he said, somehow, but noticed his change in demeanor.

"What's the matter, 'Tan?" Mc brushed some hair off his forehead.

"Nothing, my love. Don't worry about it. It's the usual nonsense." He moved the phone away from his ear for the moment, and then back once he was done speaking.

"Let me speak to Mc. I want them home too. Now." The tone Lucifer used to dangerous. Satan knew that was unwise. He didn't know what his plan was, but he didn't trust him at all.

"No. I will come home, but I'm not bringing Mc. I will not needlessly involve them. This will stay between us." Satan began to grow angry. He couldn't help it. Typical Lucifer, complicating matters.

"If you don't come right now, I'll drag you both back personally." Satan knew he wasn't kidding. None of his threats were empty.

"Fine. Have it your way. We'll be home shortly." Satan hung up before Lucifer could respond. By now, the entire room was staring at him. He looked totally different than he had before. He was tense, his rage obvious.

"Are we leaving? What's the matter? Did something happen?" Mc looked at him, concerned.

"I'm heading home to take care of something, but you're staying here. I promise it's nothing serious." He lied through his teeth. He didn't know why Lucifer wanted Mc there, but he knew it couldn't be good. The journal was bad news, and they were involved in no way.

"Are you sure? Lucifer said he wanted me there, right? You know how good I am at sorting out issues in your family. I really don't mind, if that's the issues." They squeezed him a little. They were so caring. Too caring.

"I'm sure. I won't act out or anything. He's probably mad about chores or something. I wonder if Mammon sold his underwear while it was my turn to do laundry again." Satan smiled. They cracked a small smile back.

"Alright. Keep me updated. I'll be waiting for you." Mc pressed a kiss to his forehead before climbing off of him.

"Simeon, before I go, can I have a quick word?" Simeon, who was comforting Luke, turned at the sound of his name.

"Of course." Simeon stood up, gesturing for Mc to take his seat next to Solomon. Luke was seated on the floor between them. Mc looked worried, but moved regardless. Solomon looked around the room, studying everyone's expressions. Simeon walked with Satan to the entry way. "What's the matter?" He asked, holding out Satan's coat for him.

"I want you to place a blessing on this building. Do not let any demon in under any circumstance. Including me. I don't care what they say. I don't have time to explain, but something is very wrong at the House of Lamentation and I don't want a single one of my brothers near Mc." He shoved his shoes on as he spoke. He hastily put on his jacket and turned to look at Simeon one last time.

"I don't know what could be wrong, but I trust you. Mc is safe in mine and Solomon's hands." Simeon let his hands fall to his sides, opening the door for Satan. He watched as he took off running in the opposite direction of the House of Lamentation. He could only stare and wait for him to be a good distance away, before shutting the door. He went back to the living room to find Mc hugging Luke, Solomon with a hand on Luke's shoulder.

"Solomon." Simeon said the sorcerer's name. He stood up and walked over to him. "Satan didn't tell me what the matter was, but I need you to do a quick check of the house to make sure nobody but us is in here. Satan requested I bless the house to keep his brothers out." The expression on both of their faces was grim.

"Of course." Solomon shut his eyes and waved his hand. Once he reopened them, Simeon knew he had completed the check. "Nobody but the four of us are here."

"Thank you. Normally I would ask Luke to help me perform the blessing, but I would prefer to leave him alone for now. Will you accompany me?" Solomon nodded. Simeon led him away, leaving the room together, leaving Mc and Luke along together on the sofa in the once full room.

"What's wrong, Mc?" Luke asked them. For once, they had no clue how to respond to the boy.

"I'm not sure. Simeon might know more, but for now, we just have to wait. In the meantime, do you wanna play some more of the games?" Mc hoped to take his mind of the ordeal.

"I don't really feel like it, sorry." He sighed, worried. He had always had concerns about Mc living with demons and them seemed to be coming to fruition.

"That's alright. Do you want to watching something maybe? Simeon made cookies that are cooling in the kitchen, right? We can get those." Mc tried again to get him in better spirits.

"Let's wait for Simeon and Solomon to get back. They might be worried if they return and we're gone." Luke admitted.

"Good point. I'll turn on a movie for now. What do you want to watch?" Mc got up, leaving Luke in their spot.

"Anything." He usually had more to say. Mc could tell Luke was very worried.

"Alright." Mc went through the various dvds Solomon had stored away near the tv. After finding one they liked, they put it on. The two of them watched this movie together since there was nothing better to do. Eventually, Simeon and Solomon returned with said cookies. Rather than sit on the free couch, they all sat together. They could all tell Luke was worried. The desserts remained untouched.

"I have a surprise that I think you'll like, Luke." Solomon spoke up. Luke picked up his head. "I was told that Mc could stay the night, so we can have a big sleepover together. Does that sound good?" Luke perked up.

"Oh, good. That sounds great! I don't want to send Mc back to those icky demons. Where are we sleeping?" Luke sounded excited, making the rest of the room smile.

“We can stay in my room.” Solomon watched as the little angel jumped out of the cuddle pile and ran to gather pillows and blankets.

“It’s nice to see him happy again. I honestly think he might be more concerned than me.” Mc sighed, reaching for a cookie.

“If we knew what was wrong, we would tell you. I just know Satan asked me to place a blessing on the house.” Simeon explains.

"I figured. It's fine. We just need to hope for the best..." Mc stares at the cookie, thinking about Satan and what he might be doing right now. They just hoped he was safe.

ty for putting up with me and not putting out anything for so long... and sorry for the cliffhanger lol. really wanted this out but a. not sure how much longer it will take and b. not sure what I want the ending to be yet! lol

part two soon hopefully sorry to anon for taking so long!!!!

[holdinbacksecrets]

uninhibited (and drunk) voicemails from seventeen

forever sending gratitude and love to j @un-love for helping assign these

seungcheol: “i watched you tonight with another man. he held your hand and kissed your forehead. he drank your tea first to check the temperature. he made you laugh. for real. i know because you covered your mouth, still feeling insecure about how far it opens when the reaction can’t be avoided—when the something said was so funny it surprised you. you’re wearing red. your arms were exposed for a while, and i felt my eyes prick with tears at the sight of more tattoos on your skin. ones i didn’t know about. maybe ones you mentioned when they were still just possibilities in your head. not once did i think i wouldn’t see them actualized. not once did i imagine another man’s fingers brushing the ink through the motion of draping his jacket around your shoulders.”

jeonghan: “i’m at home and alone, and it’s wrong to call you. it’s so unfair to call you. i didn’t know how to tell you that the wanting is scary. that the way we love each other is impossible—not for a second do i believe it’s possible to have again, and i’m fucking afraid, probably because i know how much you’ve grown. the thought of letting you down leaves a sour taste, and i’m trying not to be so fucking afraid.”

joshua: “i’m sobering up now, sitting on my mom’s back porch. earlier, i was trying to describe the color of your hair. the best i could come up with was blue frosting like the cupcakes she made for my 10th birthday party. isn’t that outrageous? embarrassing? in my head was a poem, but the alcohol released the silliest set of words i could’ve possibly used to describe a part of you.”

jun: “everything is weird. everyone is strange to me today except for you. i’m drunk. i lost my shoes at some point in the night i think. i can’t recognize anyone around me. their voices don’t sound familiar. i wish you were here. i wish you’d tell me this is miserable for you too; it’s not worth it anymore. would you tell me the truth if i asked? sorry. what a stupid question. i don’t know anyone more honest.”

soonyoung: “i should’ve watched you all day more often. i dream about that. i wanted to, but something always had my attention or interrupted its focus on you. i’m laying here with my eyes closed, imagining all the moments i did watch and wondering if every single one pieced together could consume an entire day.”

wonwoo: “is it ok that i still have your spare key? i’d like to believe it’s something you’d ask to get back, but i wonder if that call isn’t worth making. if the idea of seeing me makes you anxious. but you trust me. out of everyone to still have access to your home, it’s ok that it’s me. i feel sad thinking about it.”

jihoon: “you baked cookies. i froze half of them. there’s one left, and i’m debating whether or not to eat it today. it’s freezing outside, and any view through my window is ruined by the snow. it feels like the perfect night for a cookie with what’s left of my second americano like i can risk losing sleep, but what will be left from you if i give in? everything else feels lifeless—it’s been so long since you’ve touch the clothes and read the books.”

seokmin: “i’m going to a wedding tomorrow. your old neighbor is getting married, and i thought about so many things when he sent me the invitation. i thought he was in love with you for the longest time. remember that? it took me months to admit. then he told me he’s just protective, and i realized there are so many people who see us and care without us ever knowing. so i wondered about a what if between us… what if our paths crossing was shallow and they never intertwined? what if you were just a woman in the grocery store who i’d see once in a while if the timing was right? how long would i think about you before forgetting your face, before forgetting i ever saw you? unless i never would and end up talking about you in my old age to adult children who only know i loved their mother.”

mingyu: “is it ok to call you in the middle of the night? you told me i could. years have passed since that conversation. *laughs* is it strange to think about us back then? how we started on a park bench, basically dated for two years on a park bench. i still think about how your approach to reach me gave away your feelings. you started poised, avoiding eye contact. then it became goofy looks and confident strides before calling my name and skipping to singing the song stuck in your head while you ran to me. i can’t help but wonder what would it look like now?”

minghao: “if you listen to this voicemail, can you tell me what you want? whatever comes to mind after hearing the question. from something small to something weird and the the thing you believe is better left unsaid as if i’d judge the answer, but i won’t. i have no reason to judge you. all i have is curiosity and love and hope for your every day, every want, every touch, every song you sing, every picture you hang, and every night spent barefoot on the balcony- i want to marry you.”

seungkwan: “there’s something on my mind. i’ve wanted to tell you all day. i thought about it at breakfast and started texting you before my manager called and interrupted. so here it is: i used to not understand how tired you’d be with me around. i thought i was boring you for the longest time until i visited my sisters. they exchanged a knowing smile before telling me you’re completely comfortable, that you feel safe enough to slip into the kind of vulnerability that only sleepiness and sleep allow, with your guard lowered, and your heart open. i appreciate how much of you i’ve seen, how deeply i know you—knew you… know you? hmm…”

hansol: “are you traveling? i hope you’re traveling. i know it’s something you promised to do at the start of your 26th year. where did you go? … are you taking lots of pictures? … how does the moon look? that’s your souvenir: the moon in the sky a thousand miles away from home. when you told me the moon thing, i realized i knew nothing about you, and i wanted to know everything.”

chan: “you were in the audience tonight? i didn’t… i wasn’t… thank you for coming. i mailed a ticket, but it was returned to sender. *clears throat* you’re the only person i couldn’t shake wanting to be there. do you know what i mean? people from our pasts we wish could still be present, especially for things they witnessed in early stages. i could shake off all the other absences… old friends, a mentor, but you… *sigh* no way.”

[bamboobooshark]

YOUR WADE WILSON X READER STUFF IS SO PERFECT OMG IM EATING IT UP FRFR

WADE WILSON X READER

‧₊ ᵎᵎ 🍒 ⋅ ˚✮ DOODLES : 580 WRDS

<RATING: PG-13, SOME LANGUAGE>

A/N : HI ANON TYSM FOR THE COMPLIMENT!!! I really am greatful that you and many others have enjoyed my Wade content so much. Also, hey, so could you possibly guess what happens in this? Could youuuu? It’s about Wade being curious about your self-drawn “tattoos”. I swear it’ll make more sense when you read it!!!

You’re lounging around in your bed like you have been all day. Wade lies next to you while playing some random game on his phone. It’s pretty quiet; the only noises in the room are you and Wade’s breathing and his game. His breaths are more quick and sharp, while yours are shallow and slow. He groans loudly and whines as per usual. “I died again, babe! Can you believe it?” he asks dramatically as he puts his phone down on his nightstand. You crack a small smile that only convinces him to continue. He makes his way to lay his head on your stomach, never ceasing his whining. “Why don’t you care? Why won’t you coddle me like I deserve?” he pouts, putting on his usual act when he wants attention. Wade’s efforts succeed when you let out a soft chuckle and move your arm down to rub his textured chest gently. He lets out an unnecessarily loud sigh before letting his eyes gently close. “Better?” you ask with a smile. "Oh, you bet your ass this is better,” he confirms while leaning into you more by the second.

When Wade opens up his eyes, he stares at your arm in confusion, then up at you. He looks back and forth between them a few times before questioning you. “What’s up with the ink all over your arms, pumpkin? You mapping out some tattoos you wanna get?” You shrug in response. “I just got bored earlier. They’re nothing really,” you tell him sheepishly, slightly embarrassed that he’s so focused on them. His fingers gently trace the set marks on your skin with an intrigued look in his eyes. You feel your cheeks warm more; he’s rarely this careful and quiet with you. You’re so used to him squeezing, pinching, and sometimes gently biting you. His fingers continue to trace the lines as if he were drawing them himself. His hand moves to hold your forearm to get a better look at the doodles. He lets out a curious ‘hmm’ while squinting at your arm. “Oh,” he exclaims while smiling. “These would be really fun to color in,” he says in a tone that begs you to let him. You nod in agreement to his suggestion. “I guess it wouldn’t hurt,” you sigh to him, and he smiles so hard you see his teeth showing.

Wade stays intrigued for the next few hours with coloring on your stick, trying his best to stay inside the lines because, according to him, if you’re going to allow him to color your “sacred silken skin,” then he should at least try to make it look nice. He bites his bottom lip into his mouth and hums for a moment. “Why did you make this one so detailed?” he grunts. “I don’t know. I told you I was just bored. I didn’t expect to end up with you trying to color in every little doodle,” you chuckled while watching him work inside the lines. “You better make these easier to color next time you draw all over yourself,” he mumbles while pouting. “Do you ever stop complaining?” you ask him as a joke. He gasps and squeezes your forearm a bit. “Will you ever stop giving me reasons to complain?” he sasses back. You widen your eyes as you realize he makes a good argument. “Whatever,” you groan in response. He chuckles sweetly as he finishes coloring in the doodle he’d been fussing about, moving on to the next one.

[pochipop]

＃MYSTIC MESSENGER !! ♡ — A LITTLE LITTLE MORE LOVE.

#. synopsis! — sweet gestures from them to you .

#. characters! — hyun (zen), jumin, saeyoung (707), yoosung, jaehee .

#. warnings! — none .

#. others! — navigation & masterlist .

#. a/n! — back in the mm pit because it's summer and it's time for my annual redownload <3 i've also been thinking about opening a discord, so if anyone has thoughts on that, i'd love to hear them! PLUS, i played the free demo for this indie otome-esque game on steam called homicipher, and i am begging for the release of the first chapter, idk if any of you have played it, but i am way too addicted for having only played like half an hour of it. anyway lolol, enjoy!!

＃ HYUN (ZEN) !! ♡

Hyun, who buys bouquets of flowers every now and again on his way back home from rehearsals. He does his best to match the colors to your needs, —yellow on sad days in hopes they might lift your spirits, blue when you’re frustrated so that it might calm you down, etc.. They always smell so sweet, and you cherish them deeply. They always live longer than they typically should as a result of how well you care for them, and he loves to see the bashful smile tug at your lips as you accept them gracefully, even if you always tell him that he “really shouldn’t have” or that he “didn’t have to.” He does it because he loves you, and he thinks someone as beautiful as you should be presented with something just as gorgeous every now and again (even if he admittedly thinks you’re worlds prettier than flowers could ever be.)

＃ JUMIN !! ♡

Jumin, who writes little notes on the corner of the napkins he rests your coffee or tea on each morning, delicate and elegant handwriting in black ink sinking so perfectly into the ivory material. They’re never the same, always a different expression of his love or his admiration. You like to tear them off and keep them safe in a little box, and you open it up to read them when you’ve had a hard day or when you’re just not feeling your best. He always tells you that you don’t have to keep them, that he won’t be offended if you simply toss them away after you’ve read them and they’ve made you smile, —but you can never bring yourself to do it.

＃ SAEYOUNG (707) !! ♡

Saeyoung, who folds little origamis for you when he gets the chance and leaves them somewhere around for you to find. It started with a tiny paper star he was folding for the heck of it, but you liked it so much that he decided to do it again, and again, and again. So now you have a neat little stash of different animals, shapes, and otherwise cool-looking creations (all of which have silly, blank expressions drawn onto them as faces that really add a sweetness to their personality.) You like to sit and fiddle with them every now and again, just to feel the sharp edges of the crane’s beak against your fingertips or to split the little heart apart and see the “i love you <3” written on the inside.

＃ YOOSUNG !! ♡

Yoosung, who buys sticky notes for his studies but ends up using most of them to leave you little notes with cute messages and silly doodles. He likes to think this is a better usage for them, especially when he watches you spot one out of the corner of his eye, and you hold it in your hands like it’s some kind of love-stricken poetry from a wordsmith he knows he’ll never be. They might be simple and straightforward, but there’s not much room for stanzas of prose on these little post-its, and reminders that you’re doing a good job or that you look cute are so much more than enough.

＃ JAEHEE !! ♡

Jaehee, who bakes you little desserts for you to eat when you get home, often heart-shaped or dusted in romantic colors, —always in your favorite flavors. Cookies with little jam hearts in the center, cupcakes with heart sprinkles and a cream just to your liking filling up the inside; each and every one made with so much love that you can practically taste it on your tongue. There’s no one else she’d rather bake for, and no one else she’d rather spend the rest of her days with. Sometimes words are hard to come by, and she worries she won’t always get it right, but when you kiss her on the cheek before taking a bite of her treats, well. . . She thinks things will be alright anyway.

[thatonecrookedsmile]

I decided to finally color and post this thing I made a few months ago since we're getting close to BATDR's anniversary.

Consider this a fun concept based on a few things at the very least,or a Headcanon Based On Nothing At All at most. The "basis" for this comes from the fact that the Keepers' body and head are some kind of suit, with the zipper and "lens" being the most notable details of this. Which I found interesting.

Now,could the fact that they look like suits just be a side effect of them being offshots of the Machine? Yeah,yes it could. At the end of the day,the fact that they look like that can only be summed up as "they were created that way". Wilson just accidentally created cool-looking OCs. I doubt we'll get any kind of lore drop for the Keepers in the future beyond what we already know about them (but I could always be wrong).

The moment of inspiration that led me to do these sketches was when I was reading FTB and I was thinking about Gent and their experiments for a bit. The Keepers ended up getting into those thoughts at some point,which resulted in me doing… this!

So,yeah,what if the Keepers, before the Dark Revival,were old GENT containment suits?

Essentially,in my head,when JDS closed its doors,Gent continued the ink experiments in its own workshop,and the suits above were worn by the company's scientists while conducting some of these experiments. While we don't know what else the guys at Gent were doing beyond what we saw in BATDR and FTB,I don't think it's far-fetched to say that not even their scientists would want to touch the damned ink,which,as we know,is best kept away from. So,the suits are used.

In 1952,the workshop was condemned and closed. Eventually,the location and by extension - the technologies,the experiments and things like the suits - ended up in the Ink Realm. Fast forward to 72/73,the whole thing about Wilson finding out and taking control of the Cycle happens. When it came to creating his own "guards" to help with his plans in the Cycle,I guess he just. Took stuff from the Gent workshop like the suits and other stuff like gears and pipes,threw it all through the Ink Machine and uhhhhhhh,boom,the Keepers are created.

Again,I wouldn't take this as a serious theory/speculation,and as said,more as ideas and concepts based on so little that I decided to put on paper. (Might as well consider all of this potential AU stuff)

Additional stuff:

- I didn't make the outlines and the helmet's lens glow in the first 2 sketches because I realized that it wouldn't make much sense in the suits? The Keepers,sure,make sense,but for the suits themselves? Not so much. So I left them "switched off",with the exception of the third sketch,done at the time when I hadn't thought about this detail any further.

- The idea for the fourth sketch,the gas mask,came to me while looking at reference images of real-life hazmat suits. I thought it might be intriguing to have Gent scientists wear these masks under their suits,so I sketched it out to get a better idea. The mask itself was based on one of the scrapped Keeper designs, the ones that had the more "alien" feel to them. I don't know if it would fit inside the Keeper suit,but it's still something I wanted to consider.

I also like this whole concept of the suits for two other reasons. First, it gives the Keepers an origin that predates Wilson and the Dark Revival. Second, reusing old Gent suits to create his own guards isn't that far-fetched for a man whose entire rise to power within the studio and plan to overthrow the Ink Demon has depended on the work (and existence) of others to come to fruition. So that wouldn't be so absurd.

Also,here's 2 bonus sketches. The second one has nothing to do with what I've said so far, it's just something I was playing around with at the time.

[yuri-is-online]

...so you just threw this beautiful idea of Fyuuture kid, and left me with a brainrot? Especially after you answered one ask with i quote "he loves his parent so much and was really fighting it to keep it together when he saw them alive again" end of the quote. WHAT DO YOU MEAN AGAIN? WHAT? HOW?

ask 1 and ask 2

Oh 👉👈? I wasn't expecting to get an ask about this au ever again actually, but I am so glad you did, I like it a lot. I mentioned Fire Emblem Awakening in the first ask I got about it but for those of you who haven't played the game, the plot features the children of your army traveling back in time to try and prevent the end of the world. That's more or less what happened in the fyuuture kid au, at least in my first draft... I always end up associating the "future kid meets their parents" trope with either FE: Awakening or I guess Golden Sun? Which I think is the name of the jrpg where something similar happens idk I just like there being a reason for the kid to need to meet their parents.

In my original draft of the au, Yuu was told by Crowley there was no way home for them, so they settled down with Yutu's father and started building a life together. This turned out to not be true, as the Magical Marshall's office began investigating the overblots that happened while Yuu was in school and came to the conclusion Yuu had something to do with them; so they were secretly arrested, cursed to forget everything about Twisted Wonderland, and sent home. The curse was meant to trigger every time Yuu vaguely remembered their time in the otherworld, with the idea their brain would prevent them from thinking about it after a while. They would have justified it, if anyone had been there to ask, by saying Yuu wouldn't know they were missing anything and would be able to live a happy life. When Yutu was born that made that outcome impossible, but the Marshal's office didn't think to check if Yuu was pregnant...

Shortly after they did that though strange things started happening. Monster attacks got more frequent, blot levels started rising, not to extremes immediately but still enough to be concerning. Reports of a strange, abyssal magic using beast, started pouring in to S.T.Y.X. suspiciously close to Grim's description. While Yuu was busy trying to put their life back together in their world, Twisted Wonderland slowly began to fall apart drowning under an ink colored sky. The overblot phantoms they fought come back and begin hunting in their respective homelands, and rumor has it they can turn certain mages into their thralls...

The curse slowly eats away at Yuu's brain, every time they see something that reminds them of their friends, their time at NRC, every time Yutu does something that would make them think about how much he takes after his dad, they feel a great deal of physical pain and temporarily lose the ability to function. It's killing them, and no doctor or specialist can figure out the cause, so Yutu just has to sit there and watch his parent slowly die and not be able to do anything about it. I was uncertain of where exactly I wanted Yuu to die in the story, but it always was around when Yutu gets isekaid to NRC, either before and he had to leave them behind or after when they both get to go home finally! But Yuu doesn't completely make it, they're able to have one moment of peace with their son and Professor Crewel before passing on.

Yutu's dad changes depending on who you want it to be of course, as does whether they met before he and his friends decided to go back in time to prevent this version of the future from ever happening, but his feelings about Yuu never changes. Yutu really admires his parent, he did even before he learned about them facing down overblots! They were really close and the more he learned about their curse, the more responsible he felt for their death. He's very determined to keep Yuu alive and safe in Twisted Wonderland in this timeline, even if it costs him his life.

His opinion on his dad really changes depending on who it is and what he learns about them. Like can you imagine learning your dad was known for being obsessed with teeth and no he had no intention of being a dentist? Clown behavior 💀💀💀 His friends were all ocs I made but never really developed... I do remember that one was a younger sibling of Kalim's (who could be his aunt if you like Kalim and absolutely embraces that role), her retainer, Crewel's son who also sees himself as Yutu's uncle (the feeling isn't mutual) because he is old enough to sort of remember Yuu and thinks of them as a sibling, and a random oc I based off of the kid from Up for no reason other than I like the movie. They also came back in time, but only Yutu ended up in the right place, just like fire emblem awakening.

idk I should probably do something with it. like writing the reactions for the other dorms...

[twst-drabbles]

Azul 27

Summary: Azul finally decided to let you see his sea form. You've been wanting to touch him in this form like this for a while.

(This turned out longer than I thought. Was going to keep this short but oh well, I like spoiling him occasionally.)

"What if, one day in the very very far off future, I decided to show you my other form? Of course, it's not as if I'm ever going to show you… but, if I do, what will you do?"

Usually questions like that are accompanied by that usual, irritating smug look on Azul's face, like he had the clairvoyance needed to see all the little things that go on in your head, but it wasn't there that day. Well, it was there, it was just a different variety of smug. A fake smug. Like his attempt to toy with you ended up exposing a part of himself, to himself, that even he wasn't aware of.

Azul is horribly easy to read once one gets to truly know him.

So, on that day, you responded with, "Hmm, probably cherish every part of you."

He choked and you laughed as you set his hat straight, and then Azul never brought up that question, or that day up again.

Until now, that is.

You have seen Azul in his sea form, but it was under circumstances too dangerous for you get a good look at. Or properly enjoy. That and when someone is under overblot, all their colors just get more ashy, like they were dunked in a pool of ink and not properly washed out.

Azul is still gray, but there's this purple, almost indigo undertone to it that gives him more life compared to back then. His tentacles writhed uncomfortably on the floor, and Azul looked ready to curl up somewhere and hide from the world.

"Well?" Azul pouted, "Are you going to just stand there with the door wide open?"

It's weird to think that all people under the sea are usually naked, and that they're comfortable with it. You can't help but wonder how long it took to adjust to full clothing. It couldn't have been a comfortable adjustment. And yet here Azul is, trying to cover himself like a human would, in a form that works best naked.

You closed the door and brushed your fingers against the tentacle that was ready to lock the room for you.

"Wait--" Azul shivered, hand slapping over his face to hide the blood rushing to his cheeks. "Don't just touch me out of nowhere!"

You put your hands up, smiling. "Sorry, sorry."

It felt… just about what you expected to be honest. Fleshy, but there's a firmness to it that felt nice.

Azul retreated his tentacles back to himself, but he didn't turn away from you. His arms were stiff at his sides as his eyes look at anywhere but you.

So, as per usual, you took the first step. "Mind if I touch your face?"

Best to start off with something easy, something familiar.

"…You… you may."

Besides, you can never waste an opportunity to make his face go soft like this.

Azul's head practically brushed against the ceiling. He had to both sit and bend down just to have your hands reach his face.

"It really is weird how magic can hide so much of your mass," you said after a quick peck on his lips.

Azul didn't give a verbal reply. He just made a noise under his throat.

You gave another kiss, on his left cheek. "Mind if I can feel your extra limbs?"

Azul made the same noise, louder, behind a clenched jaw.

"Is that a no?" You soothed a palm over the back of his neck, playing with the little hairs on them. You're fine with just seeing. At least now you know how his colors actually looked.

"You… may." He sighed into your neck, clutching at your shirt. His tentacles rose from the ground and lazily brushed against your legs.

You caressed a thumb over the glittery freckles of his hips. "You can stop me at any time, alright?"

Azul hummed.

You tapped against one of his lilac suction cups, liking their almost swollen appearance. Almost reminded you of bubbles. Your every touch made Azul twitch, but he didn't say or do anything about it as you continued to touch.

Azul's breath transformed into a shivering sigh when you trailed from the thin end of his tentacle, to the plump base, and to the gills flaring below his torso.

"Was that too much?" You asked, amused as you continued to touch his waist.

Azul slid his palms over your waist, turned his head, and kissed your neck.

"No," you lightly chuckled, carding through Azul's hair, "I guess not."

You guided his head and laid your lips on his.