#crows curse chapter one | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

lay-z · 1 month ago

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cotton candy clouds | 7

Synopsis: Due to his rank, status, and many combat achievements, Lieutenant Riley is assigned an emotional support hybrid by the brass; whether he likes it or not.

Pairing: handler!Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x dog!hybrid!fem!Reader

Warnings/Info: 18+ MDNI | Reader is a purebred Samoyed (dog)hybrid. Despite ears, tails, and their adapted nature/instincts/personalities, hybrids have human features. | bimbo!Reader; hypersexuality; slow-burnish; heavy smut; tw: past (sexual) abuse/manipulation; cussing; fluff/domesticity; humour; angst; hurt/comfort; eventual romance; strangers to lovers; dub-con elements (Mind the warnings for each chapter!)

☁ ccc; masterlist

Despite the already late time on what should be just a lazy Sunday evening, Simon did find Price in his office—working on reports and preparing for the upcoming week, as expected.

A non-existent private life is a common occurrence shared among the squadron, after all.

Another grey plume of cigar smoke curls upwards from the captain’s lips only to dissolve and add to the already thick, hazy air around the office.

“I assume you haven’t read her file, then, like I’d told ya to?”

Simon tightens his fingers around the heavy, black folder on his lap, giving a slow shake of his head. “Didn’t deem it necessary,” he answers curtly. “Didn’t plan to keep ‘er around anyway.”

Price rolls his eyes, crow’s feet appearing in the corners with an amused, tight-lipped smile, and Simon clenches his jaw under the cloth of his mask, biting back a curse while the handlership contract he’d signed just the day before yesterday, rests in front of him on his superior’s desk—practically glowing, though not like a beacon of hope but a great mistake with a spotlight thrown on, here to mock and taunt him for his stupidity in the heat of the moment.

“But she’s yours now, Simon. You’re her handler for the next six months.” He clicks his tongue, eyebrows furrowing in thought as he does notice how his Lieutenant’s eyes widen imperceptibly. “You didn’t read the contract either, did’ya?”

Simon huffs sharply, shifts uncomfortably on the chair in front of the large desk that Price is sitting behind. He shouldn’t have signed it in hindsight—and he curses himself and Johnny for letting the Scotsman agitate him badly enough to sign the bloody contract.

“Six months.” Simon repeats evenly, like an already dead man learning about his death sentence.

“Aye, six months of probation period. There will be an evaluation of you both after that before it’s decided if the… handlership can continue in that constellation.”

There is a moment of silence where Simon is reeling internally—onyx pupils flickering in thought behind a façade of indifference that his Captain can easily see through, despite the balaclava secured in place.

“What about missions?” Christ, Simon bloody hopes he’ll get deployed on an op—a long one at that. “M’ not gonna take ‘er with us. No fuckin’ way.” You’re not made for warzones, not supposed to witness that kind of hardship after what you have already obviously been through. Too bloody soft, too delicate, too bloody precious.

Price shrugs as he sorts through his report papers; his next answer so blatant, it makes Simon’s blood simmer. “She’ll stay in custody of another K9 hybrid handler here on base.”

And that makes him bristle. “Whot?” He raises an eyebrow behind his mask. The thought of one of the K9 unit handlers taking care of you in his absence leaves a strangely tight feeling in his chest. His right leg begins to bounce with queasiness, the urge to pace becomes too real. Negative, he wants to say. Declined.

“Make her stay at the bloody dog compound, tha’it?”

The captain raises a bushy brow, picks up his cigar from the ashtray, and pick up on the sudden restlessness emanating from the man in front of him, too.

“Aye, so? Wouldn’t be wrong for her to be around other dog hybrids, innit?”

Simon snorts humourlessly. Now Price is just taunting him―again. They both know the K9 hybrids; have seen them in action, during training, how they interact with each other. All males, all… bloody starving for action, for something to sink their canines into and rip apart.

Fuck, no! Over my cold, dead body!—is what he wants to say, though “Yes, sir.” is what he replies instead.

“Does she...” Price clears his throat, keeping his eyes trained on the papers and Simon fixes him with a glare, already aware of where the sentence is going. “Negative,” he chimes in curtly, straightening his shoulders as if to brace himself for an argument. “She doesn’t know.”

Price hums, meeting the familiar glare with his own stoic blues. “And you’re not planning to share it with her, I assume? Could be helpful.” He shrugs his broad shoulders, adding: “Eye-opening.”

Simon narrows his eyes at the older male who likes to slip into some father-figure role every chance he gets. “Yeah, right.” He averts his gaze, looks at his hands instead, still clutching your file. “Dunno why I should tell her–”

“Kinship,” Price blurts out, earning a rare, rumbling growl from the man sitting in front of his desk. “Jus’ saying.” The captain shrugs, picks up his cigar from the ashtray; the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

After having the talk with Price, Simon doesn’t steer towards home right away but instead roams the base in the eerie early hours of the night, going through his pack of smokes like a bag of cheap candy until his throat hurts and his coughing breaths fog up the chilly, moist air around him.

And Simon tries to ignore the strange ball of anxiety that has lodged itself hotly into the pit of his stomach when he makes his way back to the private apartment complex eventually—the picture of your sad and fearful face when he’d left you so abruptly is still fresh in his mind, only adding to the immense guilt he’s already feeling.

He finds himself standing stock-still in front of his apartment door for minutes on end like a bloody coward; hands clenching and unclenching at his sides—too empty, too fidgety for a highly-trained and experienced sniper like him and yet he can’t help how nervous he’s feeling. The weight of your file tucked into the inside of his jacket only adds to the tightness inside his chest.

Come on, Simon, you bloody fucking coward. She only knows you had a bloody wank, not that you were thinking of her! It’s natural. It’s nothing. It’s—It’s fucking disgusting! Pathetic! You’re pathetic, mate! Are you fucking daft? What the fuck were you thinking?!

Simon squeezes his eyes shut hard enough until he sees white dots dancing and fluttering in front of his closed eyelids. Holding his breath, he finally shoves the key into the lock and twists it on autopilot before pushing the door open at once.

He’s met with that familiar darkness and quiet he always finds whenever he returns home, though this time it makes him feel anxious rather than welcomed. It shouldn’t be like this, not anymore at least.

Slowly exhaling the breath he’s been holding, Simon closes the door with a quiet click before locking it and toeing his boots off as a precaution to prevent himself from making another quick escape if things get messy again. Coward, he keeps thinking like a mantra, coward coward coward coward—

Consumed by his own dark cloud of thoughts, it takes Simon a moment as he walks further into his apartment before he becomes aware of the soft steady whimpering and sniffles coming from his bedroom, and while his first instinct is to flee, he pushes through his initial reaction, he keeps his balaclava in place and shifts into his perfectly crafted Ghost mindset ―always facing his fears head on.

He’d hoped you would’ve simply gone to bed by now.

The sight that greets him makes his heart drop into a pit in his stomach, makes his breath stutter harshly and his quivering hands clench into tight fists to keep himself grounded.

You’re a wreck. Beautiful, illuminated by the soft yellowy glow of his bedside lamp, but still a mess. Hair as tousled as the fur on your dog ears, pulled flat against your skull in submission, eyes puffy, nose snotty. But you’re not simply sad, no. You’re obviously terrified, and it breaks his heart.

You weep harder when you notice his presence looming in the doorframe, desperately trying to muffle your sounds how he used to do as a child so his father wouldn’t hear him cry, and Simon’s chest heaves with another sharp inhale when you suddenly scramble onto your knees on his bed, dress rucking up to your waist, body trembling as you get into position, presenting your rear to him with your tail tucked between your thighs and your face pressed into the mattress in a way that would most certainly make him blush furiously in any other scenario than this one―until he realizes that you’re awaiting a punishment.

And suddenly, every uncomfortable emotion Simon is currently experiencing turns into something he knows well, something he can handle and function under―blazing wrath.

Not towards you, though. Never directed at you.

He’d gladly kill, no, tear anyone apart whoever caused you such harm and anguish.

With a sudden wave of confidence and a swift motion, Simon pulls off his mask and speaks your name so softly, it borders on a term of endearment that surprises even himself. You flinch as if he’d just smacked you, which makes him flinch in return, so he repeats your name even quieter, like a gentle caress, desperate to coax you out of your fearful state, and he nearly breathes a sigh of relief, when your sweet ears do finally twitch and perk up some.

“Whot’re you doin’, lass?” he asks, not knowing what else to say before he takes a cautious step towards his bed. The fact that he must say his next words out loud make him feel like he gurgled acid in his mouth: “Christ, I’m–I’m not gonna hurt ya.”

That makes your tail relax the slightest bit, ears perking up more with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“I’d never hurt you.”

His hand trembles even harder as he reaches out to you tentatively and unsure, fingers hovering over the small of your back while his neck begins to flush and sweat and his heart nearly bursts out of his chest with anxious thuds. It’d be so much easier if you were in danger; perhaps drowning and he could simply pull you above surface―literally―instead of whatever it is he’s trying to achieve now.

He’s saved people before; dragged fellow comrades out of lines of fire and into safety by the scruff of their fatigues, barked words of encouragement at them to snap them out of their shock, or used his sheer size to intimidate some drunk blokes at a pub into submission before they could start any trouble, but this?

This is new. It’s raw and delicate. And utterly terrifying.

When his hand finally connects with your bare skin in what is supposed to be a gesture of comfort and reassurance, you gasp in unison with him, and he swiftly pulls his hand back as if burned.

It’s enough to make you peek at him, though, and Simon marks it down as a success.

“N-No?” You squeak, blinking up at him with those teary doe-eyes of yours. He gives a curt nod, a determined one. “Never.”

Your eyes narrow briefly and there is something in your look that makes Simon aware of a deeper cleverness and suspicion hidden behind your own perfectly crafted mask of bimbofication. You know as well as he does that there are more ways than physical to hurt someone, and he knows that you both know that he’s lying.

“Never intentionally.” He adds, and that he means with all his cold, dead heart.

There’s a tense pause before you finally release a long, shuddering breath and your body seems to melt into the mattress, limbs giving out underneath you while he takes a step backwards to give you both space.

“Sit.” Simon orders eventually, his voice yet firm and carrying a slight tone of reluctance that shows just how much he doesn’t want to have this conversation with you, though he knows it’s necessary at this point forward. “We need to talk,” he makes a vague gesture in the air, “about all o’this.”

Of course, you do as he says, hastily wiping at your puffy eyes and wet cheeks while he waits until you get settled on the bed. Simon remains standing, needing the right stance and high ground to feel in control of himself in this moment, nipping the urge to cradle you up in his arms and never letting go until you’re fine right in the bud.

“I read some of yer file an’… had a talk with Cap’n Price,” he begins, clearing his scratchy throat, “and now I have a couple of things we need to talk about, sweet’art. Think ya can work with me ‘ere?”

“O-Of course, Simon.” Your ears perk up fully as you nod obediently, eyes sparkling with renewed interest as if he just hung the moon for you, and it makes his chest feel all warm and tight in a way he doesn’t mind so much anymore.

#cotton candy clouds #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #hybrid au #cod #cod hybrid au #ghost x reader #cod x reader #cod smut #simon riley smut #reader insert #hybrid!reader #handler!ghost #simon riley x you #ghost x you

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kooppss · 3 days ago

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No Big Deal

Sexy Disasters With Feelings masterlist

You were doing so well pretending that night didn’t happen—until Jungkook showed up with a new piercing and a smug smile that ruined everything. Now you’re spiraling, trying to convince yourself this still doesn’t mean anything.

warnings: sex, cursing, mentions of drunk behavior.

word count: 4.2k

a/n: Okay so… it only took me two months (fuck. Is it really been this long?!) and five existential crises to finish this chapter. It’s chaotic, it’s horny—and I really hope you enjoy it. If you’re still here reading, thank you. I was honestly a little nervous about this one, so your likes, reblogs, and little comments mean the world to me. See you in the next chapter (hopefully sooner than two months..)

Now, I've thought it through Crawlin' back to you

You’ve been doing your best to avoid Jungkook for a couple of days now.

Which is hard, considering you live together.

But after that night—after the stunt you pulled in your kitchen, and on the couch, and then again in his bed—you’ve spent the entire time you’ve been home hiding out in your room, alternating between dying of embarrassment and fantasizing about digging a hole and climbing inside it forever.

You told him you were sorry. Multiple times.

He said it was fine.

“You were cute.”

You want to die.

Eventually, once again, hunger wins the war against shame. The apartment is quiet. Maybe he went out. Maybe he’s—

And then you see him.

In the kitchen. Shirt loose. Hair is a little damp. And something glinting above his eye. You stop mid-step. What the hell. Your brain short-circuits. Is that—

“You pierced your face?”

Jungkook turns to face you fully slowly. His eyes flick to yours. For a second, he looks startled. And then he looks smug.

“Not my face. Just the brow.”

Your brain probably stops functioning because you don’t feel like you have control over your mouth anymore.

“Why?” you ask like it's a legitimate question.

“Why not?” he asks with a smile and tilts his head.

It’s small, silver, subtle little dots above his right eye— why does it affect you so much?

What are you? A crow? Attracted to shiny objects?

Weren’t you over your emo-boys phase in middle school?

It shouldn’t be allowed.

He shouldn’t be allowed.

You hate him.

You hate how unfairly hot he looks. You hate how much worse it makes everything. As if it wasn’t already humiliating enough to have tried to undress him with your teeth that night.

“You’re staring,” he says, voice low and smug.

“No, I’m not,” you lie, horribly, like someone caught mid-crime.

His smirk deepens.

“You sure? You’ve been looking at me like that since I turned around.”

“Like what?” you ask, annoyed. You fucking hate him.

“Like you’re about to do something.”

You cross your arms. You try to look unimpressed. You are not even slightly successful.

“I just didn’t think you were the piercing type,” you mutter.

Jungkook steps closer.

Just a little.

“I didn’t think you were the piercing type,” he says with a pleased smirk.

“You don’t know me,” you say like he offended you, even though you didn’t know you’re the piercing type.

“And you obviously don’t know me,” he says, pleased. But there’s something gentle behind his words. A meaning he tries to deliver, and you miss catching.

His eyes sparkle like he’s about to say something dangerous. Something you’ll think about later, in the dark, alone.

But all he does is reach past you to grab the peanut butter from the cabinet.

“You want toast?” he asks, completely unbothered.

You blink at him, caught in the whiplash of that voice and that stupid piercing and the way your stomach growls.

“Yeah,” you say as casually as possible. “Sure.”

You sit down waiting for your toast. You try not to look at him.

But you do.

Oh, no.

You’re so fucked.

He brings you the toast a few minutes later, plate in one hand, mug of tea in the other. He doesn’t say anything as he sets them down in front of you. Just moves like it’s the most normal thing in the world, like you didn’t basically try to seduce him and fail a few nights ago.

Like his eyebrow isn’t now a monumental event in your life.

You eye the toast. “You put Nutella on it?”

He shrugs, sliding into the chair across from you. “You always want something sweet when you’re pissed. Figured it might help.”

“I’m not pissed,” You say, sounding pissed.

“Okay,” he says simply, “So what are you?”

“I-I’m–”

You hate him.

“Urghhh, you’re so annoying!”

He giggles like he finds your meltdown amusing.

You chew your toast unnecessarily aggressively.

Neither of you says anything after that. You both just chew on your toast and sip from your tea.

The silence isn’t exactly uncomfortable, but it’s heavy. Something is sitting in the air between you—unspoken, obvious. Like both of you are waiting for someone to address this.

Jungkook’s watching you.

You try to ignore it.

You fail.

“You didn’t have to take care of me that night,” you mutter eventually, eyes on your plate. “I was acting like a drunk, horny idiot.”

“I mean,” he says with a soft chuckle, “you were.”

You shoot him a glare. He holds up both hands in surrender, still grinning. “But I didn’t mind.”

You roll your eyes. “You minded a little.”

He tilts his head. “Only because I didn’t want you to regret it.”

You pause.

You don’t look up.

“I wouldn’t have,” you say quietly.

Jungkook goes still.

You feel it in the air more than you see it.

You finally meet his eyes.

It’s subtle, but something shifts between you—like the conversation just took a step off a ledge, and now you’re both in danger.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. His voice is quieter now. The smugness is still there.

“Then why’d you say it should be a one-time thing?”

You should have seen this one coming from miles away.

You should have known this is what he’s going to say.

It’s not like it’s the first time he teases or challenges this statement.

He’ll use any chance you give him.

“Because I meant it,” you say while chewing, trying to deliver nonchalant, but fail.

“Meant?” he asks with raised brows.

“Because I mean it,” you try to fix the mistake.

He’s watching you again, but not smug this time. Soft. Curious. A little disbelieving of the bulshit you say.

“You know I think about it too, right?” he says, like it’s obvious.

You scoff, taking another bite of toast. Trying to defuse whatever he’s doing. “Congrats to me. You think about the sex we had. That’s not exactly groundbreaking.”

He chuckles, unfazed. “Didn’t say it was.”

“I’m just saying,” you go on, eyes fixed on your plate, “We just did it one time, and that’s it. It was good. My drunk self tried to do it again. And that’s it, it doesn’t have to mean anything. ”

“Doesn’t have to,” he repeats slowly. “But what if it does?”

You freeze for half a second. Then recover with a small shrug, like he said something about the weather.

“I mean…” You take a sip of tea. “You’re not exactly the ‘meaningful’ type.”

His eyebrows lift, amused. “Wow.”

You meet his eyes for a second, then look away. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.”

He twists his lips. “You kind of did.”

You sigh, setting your cup down. “I just meant… You’re you. You flirt with everyone. You’re hot and you know it, and I’m not stupid.”

Jungkook tilts his head, watching you a little too closely.

“So what, you thought that night was just about sex for me?” “I wasn’t just being nice the other night,” he adds. “When I said it was better if we didn’t–”

“Isn’t it always just about sex with you?” you say before he continues.

“I liked being with you,” he says quietly. “It’s not like my whole purpose in life is to fuck you.”

It’s weird. The crude words with the gentle voice. You scoff, trying to brush it off.

“Sure.”

“I’m serious. You're nice, and fun, and funny.” He continues and smirks, “And I always like defeating you.”

“Shut up,” you try not to smile, and you toss the little crust from your toast at him.

He smiles.

“I didn’t want to have sex with you like that because I didn’t want to ruin this.”

You cock a brow, “To ruin what?”

“This,” he gestures between the two of you.

“Us.”

You blink at him. The word hangs in the air, too loud and too soft at the same time.

“Us?” you repeat, voice flat—like you’re not letting it land the way he wants to.

He nods once, slow. Sure.

You look away, start fidgeting with your mug. “There’s no us, Jungkook.”

He doesn’t react. Not visibly.

“I mean,” you continue, forcing a light tone, “we’re just roommates. Friends, maybe. Occasionally… disastrous.”

“Right,” he says, too casually. But there’s something tight in his voice now. Something he’s reining in.

So you stand up and gather your dishes. “Thanks for the toast.”

He doesn’t answer at first.

Then, as you’re rinsing the plate at the sink, he says, “You always do this.”

Your hands pause under the water.

“Do what?” you ask, careful.

“Try to run away when something is about to happen.”

There is roughness in his voice. Yet, he says it differently. He doesn’t sound hurt, or pained. It’s something else. Something raw and electric.

Before you manage to process that you’ve heard this before– seen this mask, this persona– you hear the chair slide on the floor as Jungkook stands up.

He comes to stand behind you, almost touching, but not really.

He lowers his head, lips ghosting your ear. You can feel his breath fanning on your cheek.

“Do you really want to run away?”

You try to swallow the lump in your throat.

You want to say something. But you can’t find words.

Do you want to push him away? Or do you want to pull him closer?

You don’t know anymore.

And you can’t blame alcohol this time.

“I know this is all you think about from the moment you enter the room.”

You hate that he’s not wrong.

“You’re not as hard to read as you’d like to think.”

He sounds so smug that it infuriates you.

Yet, you don’t move, don’t deny.

He reaches his hand past your waist and closes the faucet. You blink a few times. You didn’t even notice the water still running on your hands.

He rests his hand on your waist, like it’s natural, like it belongs there. It’s warm and heavy. And it dizzies you.

“Do you still mean it?”

“W-what..?” You’re not sure if it’s really unclear or if it’s him obscuring your mind.

“That we should be a one-time thing.”

He says and lands a soft kiss behind your ear.

“I-I-wh–” you mumble incoherently.

And the bastard chuckles, dark and low, “I see.”

You should say something.

Anything.

But your mouth has forgotten how to form words.

His lips are still close. You can feel the echo of that kiss behind your ear.

His hand hasn’t moved from your waist. If anything, his grip tightens—just slightly. A silent question.

You don’t answer.

Not with words.

But without consciousness, your body reacts. Suddenly, your back pressed to his front.

Was he pressing closer to you, or were you leaning back into him?

You don’t know.

And you’re not sure that you care at the moment. All you can feel is a fire and a need building to an almost unbearable height.

He hears your answer.

You feel him exhale, slow. Controlled. And then he isn’t.

His free hand rises, fingers brushing your hair aside, exposing more of your neck.

He leans in again, slower this time.

His lips press to the skin just below your jaw.

Then lower.

Then lower again.

Each kiss burns.

Your breath hitches.

You’re still frozen, your hands gripping the edge of the sink like it’s the only thing anchoring you from fainting.

Then his voice, low and right against your skin.

“Tell me to stop.”

But he knows you won’t.

You can’t.

Instead, your head tips just slightly to the side—an invitation you don’t want to speak out loud.

He pulls you back from the counter, turns you in his arms.

Your eyes meet, and everything in his is fire and restraint. Lust and fear. You don’t know what he’s scared of. You don’t want to know.

“This doesn’t have to mean anything,” he says, repeating your words back to you—but his tone makes it clear he knows they’re bullshit.

And maybe that’s why it makes your stomach flip.

You answer him by gripping the front of his shirt and pulling him down to kiss you.

This time, it’s different. It’s not tentative or fueled by alcohol. It’s sharp and sure and deep.

He groans into your mouth and walks you backward, toward his room, like he’s known this was coming. Like he’s been waiting for you to finally cave.

Maybe you also knew.

“This time I’m doing this properly,” he murmurs between kisses.

You don’t know what he means, but you’re about to find out.

You pull back just slightly, enough to look at him, breathless.

“You’re way too smug right now.”

He grins, cocky and infuriating, “What, can’t a guy be smug when he’s proven right?”

You blink at him, “Proven right?”

He leans closer, “Knew it wasn’t gonna be a one-time thing.”

You roll your eyes, “God, you’re such an asshole.”

He smiles wider, returning to kiss you as he says between your lips, “Maybe.”

You’re in his room, and he starts to pull your shirt over your head. The stupid smile is still on his face.

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

He hums against your jaw, and he trails down the side of your neck, “I told you. I knew you’d come around.”

You scoff, “I didn’t come around. I just—”

He gives a wet kiss behind your ear. One that sends a shiver down your spine, and he leans back. Eyes meeting yours, dark and lustful, but glinting with mischief.

“You just what?” he asks with a smirk.

“You’re insufferable.”

He returns his lips to the skin of your neck, hands hot and certain on your waist as he leads you towards the bed.

You stumble back until the backs of your knees hit the mattress, and you sit, breath hitching, thighs slightly parted. He looks down at you with dark eyes and a crooked one-sided grin. Like he’s plotting something. Your demise, maybe.

He drops to his knees.

You blink at him, startled.

He smirks up at you.

His hands glide up your bare thighs, spreading them gently, and he leans forward, kissing the inside of your knee.

He kisses higher.

And higher.

Until your breath is ragged and your spine is arching and your fingers are gripping the sheets.

He looks up at you, more gentle this time. Less like a predator, and more like… like.. A lover boy?

Your answer is a shaky exhale and a hand in his hair, tugging just enough to make him grin.

“Lean back for me,” he commands, but it’s soft and breathless.

And you obey, starting to lean back slowly.

Before you fully lie on your back, he tugs your shirt, “Wait.”

You help him pull the shirt over your head. He puts his palm flatly on your bare stomach, eyes big and unblinking, taking in your bare top.

He pushes slightly, but you resist, “You too.” You say weakly, your mouth dry.

“Gladly,” he smiles and pulls the shirt with one swift motion.

He returns his hand to your lower stomach, pushing you a bit. And you comply, lying on his bed, legs dangling over the edge.

His hand goes to the waistband of your shorts, and he starts to pull them down with your panties, slow. Very slow.

Your breath hitches as the air hits your skin. Cool against the heat.

Jungkook’s eyes stay locked on yours for a beat too long as he slides the fabric down your legs.

As if to say this isn’t just sex, and you know it.

He drops your clothes to the floor and runs his hands slowly up the insides of your thighs again, fingers dragging, teasing, warm. His palms settle at your hips.

You look at him, and he looks at where his hands are touching.

You catch the glimmer of his new piercing, and a shiver goes down your spine.

He notices, and he lifts his eyes to see you looking at him before you avert your gaze.

You expect him to say something stupid, something cocky and so very him.

But he doesn’t.

He dips his head, moving your right leg slightly above his shoulder.

Oh, shit.

His mouth is on you, and his tongue is warm, slow. Like he has all the time in the world to savor this moment, and he plans to take every second of it.

Your hips jolt, and his hands tighten on your thighs, holding you steady, grounding you with a soft groan against your skin.

You’re already panting, gripping the sheets, breath breaking.

He doesn't say anything. Just keep going. Keep devouring, like you’re his favorite thing.

You moan louder when he flicks his tongue just right—when he sucks at the spot that’s already making your vision blur.

He pulls back for a split second, looking up at you with a wet mouth and hooded eyes.

And when he goes back in, he slides his hand as well.

He doesn’t go in yet, he just lets his fingers be there, linger at your entrance. Let them be coated with slick as he puts a little pressure, moving them gently around.

He starts pushing them in, not all the way at first. He starts shallow and goes deeper with each few thrusts, like he’s testing, like he’s studying where he should stop.

And he finds the spot easily. As if he already knows.

He notices right away that he’s got it.

And then he starts being serious.

He puts work and intentions into his movements.

Fuck.

You can barely breathe.

Every muscle in your body is on fire, straining toward him. Your hips buck again—helplessly—and Jungkook just hums against you, sounding entirely too satisfied with himself.

Or just satisfied.

That piercing glint again as he glances up, catching your eyes with a mix of focus and cockiness.

"You good?" he asks with a raspy voice, lips brushing against your thigh.

You can only nod, frantic, barely able to form words. His fingers curl inside you again, and your mouth drops open in a silent cry.

He keeps going, steady and sure, unrelenting in the way he’s touching you like he already knows your body better than you do.

You’re unraveling.

Fast.

And you hate him for it.

And you need him for it.

You reach for him blindly, fist curling in his hair, not sure what you’re trying to do.

But apparently, Jungkook knows what you need because his mouth is back on you.

Your head flops back onto the bed, breath stuttering.

His name slips from your lips, quiet, broken.

He hears it. You know he does. Because his grip on your thigh tightens, his pace shifts, and suddenly it’s all too much.

Your hand is still tangled in his hair. You grip harder, pulling without direction. Your thighs start to shake.

“Fuck—K-kook,” you gasp.

You don’t know if you want him to stop or never stop.

He keeps going, steady and relentless, fingers curling perfectly in time with his mouth, pushing you closer, deeper.

Your spine lifts off the mattress. Your breath catches.

And then you break.

It hits hard, like a snap. It rips through you in pulses, your thighs clamping around his head as you gasp his name again.

Louder this time.

Your fingers dig into his hair and shoulder, and anything you can reach.

You’re vaguely aware of your own sounds, too raw, too real, but you’re too far gone to stop them.

He keeps going through it, holding you down with strong hands. He doesn’t stop until you're twitching, oversensitive.

When he finally pulls back, his face is flushed, his hair a mess, strands stick to his glistening forehead, his lips slick, and that piercing catches the light again.

He looks wrecked.

You are wrecked.

You cover your face with one arm, breath still jagged, skin buzzing.

You feel him laugh against your thigh, quiet, smug.

He moves back, dragging his palms down your legs before letting go completely. You hear the mattress creak as he sits beside you, his breathing just as uneven.

You’re still staring at the ceiling, still trying to remember how to exist inside your own body.

Your legs feel like jelly. Your face is burning.

You let your arm drop just enough to peek at him. He’s looking at you like he just won something.

Like he knew exactly how this would go.

He reaches out, gently brushes a strand of hair from your sweaty face.

“Lie down prettily for me, babe.”

Then he stands, shoving down his sweats and boxers in one motion.

With one stride, he’s at the nightstand, pulling a condom from the drawer.

He tears the foil open, but before slipping it on, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You good?” he asks with a sweet smile..

You blink, realize you’re staring. Frozen in place. It snaps you out of it.

“Ye—” Your voice catches. You clear your throat. “Yeah.”

You shift across the bed, lying back properly now, and seconds later, he’s crawling over you.

You meet his eyes, and he dips his head for a kiss.

He guides himself in, and while your mouths are still connected, he pushes in slowly.

You groan against each other’s lips when he bottoms out, fully seated inside you.

He lifts his head, just enough to look down at you as he begins to move—slow, deep, steady.

And fuck, this feels good.

No—but like, too good.

You’re moaning. Gasping.

He just got in there.

What is going on?

He picks up the pace slightly. Nothing wild, just a steady rhythm.

But nothing about you feels steady.

You grab at his shoulders, arms winding around him like you’re trying to stay grounded.

You pull him closer, bury your face in his neck. Trying—failing—to muffle the sounds coming out of you.

This can’t be real.

This shouldn’t be happening.

You’re close. Way too fast.

It hasn’t even been two minutes. You’re almost sure.

Fuck.

You bite his shoulder—hard—desperate to hold it in, to hold yourself together.

But it doesn’t work.

It crashes over you, sudden and sharp.

You’re shaking.

Your whole body pulses around him. You feel your walls clench around him, hard.

You can barely breathe.

This never happened to you.

Not like this.

Not this fast.

What kind of sorcery is he doing?

What kind of spell did he put on you? Put on that dick?

Jungkook doesn’t slow. That same rhythm carries on—only faltering for a second as he presses a single kiss to your shoulder.

He shifts, one hand braced beside your head, the other grabbing your thigh to tilt your hips.

He picks up the pace. Louder now.

His hands are everywhere. One moment, he grabs a boob, fingers closing around your nipple, then squeezing the flesh. Another moment, his hand on your jaw, pulling you into a kiss. Then he settles back on your thigh, giving himself a better position to go deeper.

Your hands also wander. You feel the muscles of his back working under the hot sticky skin. You try to hold onto his biceps, but your fingers can barely wrap around half of it. You go to his thigh, sliding over to grope his ass.

Everything about him feels good.

And it still feels too good, even through the sensitivity. Even through the aftershocks.

His movements turn sloppy. Thrusts losing rhythm. Both of you moaning like you’ve lost any shame.

Maybe there wasn’t much to begin with.

And with a forceful final thrust, he buries himself deep.

“F-fuck.”

You can feel him twitch inside of you, and you feel yourself pulse against him.

With a loud grunt, he crushes back onto you. Sweaty, hot skin stuck to each other.

He’s still jerking, his body still tense, and he breaths quickly.

It takes both of you a few long minutes to calm down.

He pulls himself out of you with a grunt, plopping by your side, making your body jump off the mattress a little.

He’s rolling off the condom, tossing it towards–what you hope is– a trash can near his bed.

He lies back with a sigh.

And you can feel his gaze on you.

You scowl. “Stop looking at me like that.”

You sneak a look at him.

He smirks, unfazed. “Like what?”

You look back at the ceiling, “Like you’re so fucking proud of yourself.”

You feel him shrug, way too casual.

“You seemed to like it.”

You sit up slightly, groaning, you look down at him, “I hate you.”

He grins wider, “I know.”

You pull the sheet up over your chest and flop back down, pretending like this was no big deal.

Like it didn’t just wreck you from the inside out.

Like this was just sex.

Just really, really good sex.

And maybe it was.

Maybe that’s all it is.

You don’t look at him again.

But you feel his arm wrapping around you.

Holding you in place.

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#No Big Deal #Sexy Disasters with feelings #sdwf #jungkook #jungkook fic #jungkook x reader #jungkook smut

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ginnsbaker · 4 months ago

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All Of Your Pieces (19 - Exile)

Chapter Summary: You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 5.6k+ | Chapter Tags: Slight angst, hurt/comfort

A/N: Whew! Another update in less than a week. Don't get used to it ;) I do have a pleasant surprise at the end of this chapter :P Also, very off topic: I'm so proud of our homegrown talent, tennis player Alex Eala. Doesn't matter if she's unable to beat world #2 later, I'm so damn proud of her! // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The pounding on your door jolted you awake. You groaned, burying your face deeper into the pillow, but the knocking only grew louder. Relentless. Annoyingly insistent.

“Y/N!” Natasha’s voice came from the otherside, impatient, the crowing roosters doing nothing to drown her out. “Open up!”

With a muffled curse, you kicked the blanket off and stumbled to the door, still half-asleep and not caring that you were barely dressed. “What the hell, Nat?” you muttered, reaching for the handle. “It’s too early for this.”

Yanking the door open, you were ready to unleash a tirade—only to find Wanda standing beside Natasha, already dressed and a little red-faced. Whatever you meant to say died in your throat, your hand subconsciously moving to your chest to cover yourself.

“What’s happening?” you asked, blinking between them.

Natasha crossed her arms, smirking at your half-naked state. Wanda’s turned the other way, out of respect, of course, and well—

“Steve finally called. Get dressed.”

It took a moment for the words to register. “Steve called? What did he—”

“Get. Dressed,” Natasha interrupted, emphasizing each word as she turned on her heel and started walking down the hallway.

You glanced at Wanda, who hadn’t said anything yet. “Good morning,” you greeted softly. She shifted slightly under your scrutiny, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. “You should hurry,” she said softly before following Natasha out.

You nodded and closed the door, quickly throwing on whatever you could find. Your mind raced as you moved, trying to piece together what could’ve happened. If Steve was calling now, it meant something had changed—and probably not for the better.

When you stepped back out into the hall, Wanda and Natasha were waiting for you. Wanda’s eyes lingered on you briefly before she looked away. Natasha was already heading toward the exit, her pace brisk.

“Come on,” she called over her shoulder. “We don’t have all day.”

—

The burner phone lay in the center of a small, round table, right out in the open of a practically empty café. A few early risers drifted in and out, some grabbing coffee to start their day, others hurrying to catch a bus or a train. Outside, a tram rattled by on its tracks, and the scent of fresh bread drifted out from a bakery down the street. It felt like an ordinary morning in an ordinary city, but you knew better. Everything was balanced on a knife’s edge, and the four of you sat scattered around the table—close enough to show unity, distant enough not to draw too much attention.

For weeks, the four of you had been stuck in this strange holding pattern, drifting from apartment to apartment somewhere in Europe. Nothing here felt like home, and yet you couldn’t say with certainty that it wouldn’t have to be, at least for a while. You’d scrounged for intel, picked up rumors, listened for coded radio transmissions. The lack of progress had gotten under your skin. No one said it, but you all knew it; staying still for too long was dangerous.

Steve had given an exact time to call, and all of you watched the seconds tick closer to the moment he’d promised.

Until, finally, the burner phone buzzed to life.

It was Natasha who snatched the phone up and answered, putting it on speaker but setting the volume so low, only trained ears would be able to hear from it. “Steve.”

“Nat. Everyone there?”

“We’re here,” she said, her eyes darting briefly to the three expectant faces around her. “What’s the situation?”

“I’ll get straight to it,” Steve said. “We’ve regrouped enough people to make a plan, but things are still fragile. Bucky’s safe. He’s in Wakanda, and Shuri’s working on helping him. He’s making progress.”

“Wakanda,” Sam repeated quietly. “Why aren’t we all in Wakanda? It’s got the tech, the resources—hell, it sounds like the safest place for us right now.”

Steve sighed on the other end. “It’s not that simple. T’Challa’s already taken a huge risk harboring Bucky. If we all show up, we’ll draw too much attention to Wakanda. That can’t happen.

“Listen—I know this isn’t what you want to hear, but we need to lay low. The Sokovia Accords are in full effect, and we’re all wanted. We can’t operate the way we used to.”

No one so much as shifted at the news. Deep down, you’d expected this, but hearing it out loud just made it more real.

“Here’s the thing,” Steve continued, “we can’t operate like we used to. And, for an indefinite time, we won’t be able to go home without being arrested. Legally, we can’t do our duty. Maybe it’s time we hang up the cape—for now, at least. Live like normal people. Find some happiness where we can. If something big happens—something we are needed for—we’ll be there. But until then, protect yourselves first. This is your chance to… to live.”

A silence fell. You expected a plan, a rendezvous, something, but not this: a call to stand down and embrace normalcy. After a moment, Steve said his goodbye and the line went quiet with an abrupt finality.

You looked at Natasha. “What exactly are we supposed to do now?”

She set the phone down, her expression resigned. “You heard him. We’re dismissed from duty. We can live anywhere we want. We’re on our own. If there’s something you’ve always wanted—an ordinary job, a hobby, something you never got the chance to pursue—this is it.”

You stared at her, waiting for the punchline. A normal life. After everything that happened, was that even possible?

Sam got up first. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, as if he’d made up his mind the moment Steve stopped talking. “Where are you going?” you asked softly.

He gave you a wry smile. “Wakanda. Steve might be saying all the right things to keep us from following him, but knowing him? He won’t be taking any time off. He’s too stubborn, too damn noble. He’s not dragging us further into this mess because he thinks it’s the right thing to do, but I know him. He’ll need backup for whatever he’s planning.”

He was probably right. Steve had never been one to truly walk away, and deep down, all of you knew it. But the instinct to follow him, to fall in line like before, wasn’t there anymore. You glanced at Wanda from the corner of your eye, hoping for a clue that she might feel the same way as Sam, but she only kept looking down at her lap.

“Take care, Sam,” you said, unsure what else to say.

He grinned, giving you a playful salute before nodding to Natasha. “See you around, folks.”

It felt like a farewell that went beyond Steve and Sam. Natasha pulled out a few bills and placed them on the table, and something like dread settled in your chest. Without thinking, you put a hand on her arm, as if that could stop her from leaving too.

Natasha offered you a sad, knowing smile. “I’ve got things of my own to take care of, Y/N. But I’ll check in. You know I can’t let you out of my sight for too long—you’re trouble.”

She glanced at Wanda, who sat there like a statue pretending to be a person, hands clasped around a cup of coffee she wasn’t going to drink, her phone glowing with some useless distraction she wasn’t really looking at.

“You good, Maximoff?” Natasha asked.

Wanda forced a smile. “I’ll be fine,” she said, and the lie just sat there between the three of you, stinking up the cafe.

Natasha sighed, pushed her chair back, and gave you a quick tilt of her head toward the door. “Walk with me,” she said, already on her feet.

You followed, leaving Wanda alone at the table. She stopped near the restrooms, and you noticed the faint smell of bleach and coffee grounds. When she turned to face you, she wore that familiar look—the one she always had right before saying something you probably didn’t want to hear.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Natasha said. She meant Wanda. “She’s fragile. More fragile than she thinks.”

You nodded, swallowing hard. “I know.”

“No, you don’t.” Her voice hardened. “She’s the one most affected by all this. Lagos. The Accords. Vision. If she breaks, it won’t be small. It’ll take everything down with her.”

You wanted to tell her you’d take care of it, that you’d keep Wanda in one piece, but the truth was, you weren’t sure where to start.

“You don’t blame her for Lagos?” you asked instead, your voice cracking just a little.

Natasha’s laugh was cold, humorless. “Blame? No. But you’re not blind to what she can do. She doesn’t need blame. She needs someone to keep her from drowning in it.”

You nodded again. “I’ll watch her. I’ll make sure she’s okay.”

Natasha gave you a look, the kind that said, I hope you mean that, because if you don’t, I’m coming back for both of you. She patted your shoulder, almost mockingly.

“Call me if anything changes,” you said, pushing her hand away.

“Sure,” she replied, and then she was gone.

You walked back to the table, the space Natasha left behind feeling like a crater. Wanda looked up at you, her eyes searching yours, but not long enough to find anything. “She’s leaving too, isn’t she?” she asked, her voice flat, drained.

“Yeah,” you said, sinking into your chair.

Wanda nodded, like that explained everything, like people leaving was the only thing she truly understood anymore. She glanced down at her phone, but she wasn’t scrolling this time. She just held it, gripping it and staring at a wallpaper of what looked like a city covered in snow.

“Where’s that?” you asked, nodding toward her phone.

Wanda immediately deposited it facedown on the table. “Sokovia,” she said softly. “At least… what it was before Ultron.”

Sokovia, a place that didn’t exist anymore except on a digital wallpaper and inside her head. You remembered the news footage, the images of destruction on every network, people whispering that it was like the world was falling apart piece by piece. Now it existed only in a snapshot, a memory so distant it might as well have been some dream you both shared and forgot until now.

You were fugitives, that was the word people used. Criminals, outlaws, call it what you wanted. The point was you couldn’t go home. The United States was off-limits, for obvious reasons. And Wanda couldn’t go back to Sokovia because there was no Sokovia to go back to. She was as homeless as you were, as rootless as an old stump yanked out of the earth.

You realized that’s what you both were now: orphans again. You could call it freedom, call it a fresh start, pretend it was anything other than what it was.

But it sucked.

It sucked like a vacuum hole in the universe, pulling in every last ounce of consolation you tried to salvage.

There were only two of you now. What happens then?

Wanda pushed back her chair suddenly, the sound scraping against the floor. You blinked, startled out of your thoughts as she stood.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

She grabbed her phone and slid it into her pocket without meeting your eyes. “You heard them. We’re free to leave.”

“To leave?” you repeated, your breath coming in gasps as you tried to catch up.

“Back to the hotel. I’m packing my things.”

A dumb question hovered on your tongue—Pack them and then what?—but you already knew how pathetic it would sound. She stood there, hands at her sides, looking as if she might bolt at any second. You wondered if she was waiting for you to protest, to say something that could change her mind, something that might tether both of you to this flimsy refuge of a café.

But what could you say? For the first time, the weight of being “free” weighed more than any chain. And freedom, in its very core, meant going off in your own directions and pretending it wasn’t terrifying.

“Right,” you said, voice thin. “Of course.”

That was it, then. You could follow her and hope your presence wasn’t another burden, or you could let her walk away and watch the frangible thread between you stretch thinner and thinner until it snapped.

You looked down at the overturned phone on the table, Sokovia trapped inside it, and thought, This is what’s left of us: old ghosts and borrowed time.

—

Following Wanda out of Valencia wasn’t as easy as you’d expected. Keeping your distance meant relying on old-fashioned methods—no GPS, no tracking devices—anything that might risk being intercepted. It made the task slower, harder, and far more nerve-wracking.

You could’ve just asked to go with her. But you didn’t know how to ask. And honestly, you were more afraid she’d say no.

Wanda didn’t make it easy, either. The first day, you almost lost her twice. She moved like she was on a strict schedule. You followed her on foot at first, blending into the steady trickle of tourists and sleepy locals making their way through narrow lanes. She’d pause at a corner bakery, pretend to study the display of pastries, then slip down a side passage that led to a different part of the city—like she was testing you, daring you to keep up. You hung back at each corner, counting to ten under your breath, imagining the worst: Interpol agents appearing out of every corner of the street, or maybe even Iron Man himself, coming to deliver you to the authorities himself.

By late afternoon, Wanda boarded a train heading north, and so did you—two cars down, far enough that she wouldn’t see you if she glanced over her shoulder. The train clattered through towns and countryside, the Spanish sun bleeding into a moody gray as you crossed into France. You’d half-expected her to notice you by now, to turn around and say something like, Why are you here? But she didn’t. She kept her eyes on the passing scenery or on her phone.

By the time you reached Paris, the city was dark and alive in a way that felt too blaring for someone on the run. Wanda didn’t stay for long, just long enough to grab a coffee and switch trains. You stayed in her shadow, moving when she moved, stopping when she stopped, and it wasn’t until London that she finally slowed down.

Wanda drifted through the alleys with a kind of restless purpose, like she didn’t know exactly where she was going but couldn’t bring herself to stop. Eventually, she led you to a small, weathered hotel on a quiet street, its faded sign a relic of better days.

You hung back, leaning against the wall across the street, pretending to check your watch as she checked in. Her suitcase rolled behind her, the door clicking shut as she disappeared inside. For a moment, you thought about letting it end there. She’d made her choice—she was free to leave. You weren’t supposed to follow her, weren’t supposed to hold her back.

But even if Natasha hadn’t told you to keep Wanda in sight, you knew you’d still be here, unable to pull yourself away. And that was the crux of the problem lately: you just couldn’t leave Wanda alone.

An hour passed, maybe more, and you were still there, slouched against the crumbling wall across from the hotel, feeling ridiculous. A one-person stakeout for someone who didn’t even know you were watching. Wanda hadn’t left her room, and for all you knew, she’d fallen asleep—or worse, she was sitting by the window, watching you make a fool of yourself out here.

You sighed, shoving your hands deep into your pockets. This was pitiful, even for you. Standing around like some washed-up private eye with no case to solve. You glanced down the street and spotted the neon glow of a pub sign.

Finally, with a sigh, you pushed off the wall and headed for the pub. If Wanda wasn’t going anywhere tonight, then neither were you—not far, anyway. And if you were going to keep this vigil up, you might as well kill the time inside with something stronger than boredom.

The pub was appropriately poorly lit. You slid onto a stool at the bar, nodding to the bartender as he came over. “Whiskey,” you said.

The first glass went down easy, smooth and burning in all the right ways. It dulled the hundred thoughts in your head, but it wasn’t enough. So you ordered another. And another.

Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, you started trying to figure out what the hell you were even doing here. What was the plan? Were you supposed to tail Wanda forever, like some overzealous babysitter? What did living even look like now—for you, for her?

In your haze, Steve’s words floated back to you. This is your chance to live. Great advice, except it didn’t come with instructions for people who didn’t know how to do that anymore. It was such a foreign concept, that he might as well have advised you to live outside the planet.

And Wanda… God, Wanda. Nothing had gone her way in what felt like forever. Sokovia. Her brother. Being an Avenger. Vision.

You stared into your glass, swirling the meager amount of alcohol you’ve left in there. The truth, the ugly truth, was that you didn’t know how to help her. And that was all you cared about right now—helping Wanda.

So you drank. And with every sip, the world blurred a little more, and the questions you couldn’t answer faded into the haze.

—

You woke up to a splitting headache and the taste of old whiskey on your tongue. Your eyes struggled to adjust to the thin light bleeding through mismatched curtains, and the first thing you noticed was that this definitely wasn’t your hotel room.

Not that it mattered much—you couldn’t recall booking one in the first place.

You were lying on a lumpy couch, one cushion half-slid to the floor, and a blanket that unduly smelled like laundry detergent draped over you. By the stiffness in your neck and the fuzz in your brain, you guessed it was morning—unfortunately.

You tried to remember how you got here, but that memory was wrapped in cotton and drenched in whiskey. Something about a pub, something about Wanda…

“You caused quite a scene last night.”

Wanda’s voice.

You looked over to see her standing by a small window, arms crossed. She didn’t smile. If anything, her mouth was a tight line, her eyes narrowed. She didn’t exactly look angry—just disappointed in a way that made you want to crawl under the throw pillows and die.

Wanda tilted her head, arms crossed. “You remember last night?”

You blinked at her, pushing up to a sitting position and holding your throbbing head. You remembered going into the pub. You cleared your throat, tested the waters: “I… might’ve had a little too much.”

Wanda let out a humorless laugh, so subtle you almost missed it. “You were bragging to everyone that you were an Avenger on the run.”

Your stomach lurched. You’d done what? “I was… what?”

“Don’t worry, everyone was too drunk to take you seriously. Half of them were telling stories about being secret princes or rock stars. I think one old guy claimed he was dating the Queen. But you… you really went for it.”

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I didn’t—”

She held up a hand, stopping you. “It’s fine. We’re safe. You just got lucky this time.” Her gaze darted to the window, checking the street beyond. It was quiet out there, no sirens, no S.W.A.T. teams rappelling down. Just a quiet morning in this nowhere part of town.

You rubbed at your face, feeling shame and headache wrestling for dominance in your head. Last night, after you’d realized Wanda wasn’t going anywhere, you decided to kill time by getting drunk off your ass. And because fate had a sense of humor, she’d found you this way—hungover, pathetic, big mouth running off about being a wanted fugitive.

Wanda peeled herself from the window, turned, and leveled her eyes at you.

“Why were you following me?”

She looked worn out, rings under her eyes, hair slightly askew, as if she’d barely slept. You wondered if she’d stayed up all night, pacing this tiny room, working up the nerve to confront you.

You exhaled, rubbing at the bridge of your nose. Your hangover pulsed dully, and you tried to think of how to say what you needed to say. “I… don’t want to do this freedom thing alone.” You swallowed. “And I do enjoy your company, Wanda. You’re—well, you’re my friend. At least, I’d like to think so.”

At that, Wanda snorted, a short, derisive sound. “My friend?” she repeated, as if trying the word on for size. “You’re sure it has nothing to do with what Natasha told you? About keeping an eye on me?”

Your blood chilled. You didn’t think Wanda knew about that conversation—Nat had pulled you aside, quiet and careful. But here she was, calling you out. You realized that, of course, Wanda would’ve picked up on it. She wasn’t just anyone; she noticed things, felt things, that most people overlooked.

She could always read people if she wanted to, in quite the literal sense.

“I—” You started, but your throat closed up. What could you say? That yes, Nat had asked you to watch her, but you would’ve done it anyway? That you actually cared?

“I don’t need a babysitter,” she said. “If that’s why you’re here, if that’s the only reason you think I need you around, you’re wrong.”

“Wanda, I—Nat asked me to look after you because she cares. I care. We all know you’re capable of handling yourself, but she—”

“But she’s worried I’ll lose control, right?” Wanda chuckled humorlessly. “I’m giving you until evening. Find somewhere else to go.”

Your heart sank, and you didn’t bother hiding it. “Wanda, please—”

“Don’t.” She straightened from the wall, her posture rigid, her chin lifted. “I’m going. Don’t be here when I get back.”

—

You did what she asked—at least, you disappeared from her immediate vicinity. It was easy to take her warning seriously; you’d seen Wanda upset before and knew the potential fallout. But leaving didn’t mean you abandoned the idea of watching over her. You just got smarter about it.

But before you left her room, you made sure to plant something more subtle than your honest intentions. That morning, while Wanda was telling you off, you’d slipped the tracker—a thin, wiry filament not much thicker than a hair—into the inner pocket of her jacket. The one draped over the couch where you’d snored away your idiotic hangover. Insurance, you told yourself. For her safety. That’s what you kept saying in your head, anyway.

You spent most of the day drifting through London like you’d never been here before—because, in some ways, you really hadn’t. You’d only been to this city twice before, and both times it was strictly business, in-and-out missions. So, you did the most stereotypically touristy thing possible: you signed up for a walking tour.

A bright-eyed guide waved a little Union Jack flag like a wand, leading a huddle of strangers through winding streets, pointing out statues and centuries-old plaques. You listened with half an ear, feigning interest in the city’s folklore, the grand architecture, the queen’s guards, all of it. You even snapped some pictures and asked a stranger to take your picture next to a red telephone box. The day was, admittedly, a little perfect—eventful in a good way. Not to mention, it felt safer than just pacing around, waiting for Wanda to make her next move.

You checked the screen as the walking tour disbanded outside a souvenir shop. The little tracker you’d slipped into Wanda’s jacket the other night showed her location edging into an area of the city you knew only by reputation. You pocketed your phone, excused yourself from the group, and headed in that direction.

—

The closer you got, the less the streets looked like London’s postcard image. Trash littered the sidewalks, and everything looked treacherous at best. But you knew better than to take appearances at face value.

You stuck to the main road until you were a few blocks away, then ducked into an alley to pull out your phone again. Wanda’s blip had settled near an abandoned warehouse, two stories of cracked windows and half-torn posters clinging to the brick.

You hovered near a boarded-up doorway, scanning your surroundings. A pair of men smoking behind a dumpster looked up briefly, but they didn’t seem interested in you. You waited, steadying your breath, making sure no one was following you.

Finally, you spotted movement near the far side of the warehouse. A man in a threadbare coat emerged from the shadows, glancing around nervously. You craned your neck for a better view and spotted Wanda already there, arms folded tightly across her chest.

They exchanged a few words you couldn’t quite catch, no matter how hard you strained to listen. But judging by their expressions, it didn’t look friendly. Wanda’s shoulders were squared, her stance assured rather than defensive. Whatever was going on, she clearly wasn’t afraid. You’ve noticed the man’s hand kept drifting toward his pocket, his movements jerky and uneven, like he was building up to something.

It was suspicious, because you’ve seen this behavior countless times, and it didn’t lead to anything pretty. But you held back, telling yourself—She’s fine. She’s Wanda Maximoff. She can handle herself.

Then it happened, and instinct swallowed logic whole. The man lunged forward slightly, his hand diving into his coat pocket. He’s going for a gun, your brain screamed before you even registered why. You weren’t sure if Wanda had clocked it yet, but you couldn’t risk waiting to find out.

You vaulted over a low stack of crates, crossing the distance in seconds. By the time the man caught sight of you, it was too late—your fist connected with his jaw. He stumbled back, cursing, but reached again for his pocket. You grabbed his arm, twisted it behind his back, and drove him down onto the cracked pavement. A cry tore from his throat as you slammed him against the ground.

“Stop!” Wanda shouted. But her cry fell on deaf ears as you swung your arm again. The dull crack of bone against knuckles reverberated in your ears as the man groaned and flailed weakly against you.

That’s when you felt it—the force wrapping around your torso, securing you in place like invisible chains. Your arms stiffened, your chest froze mid-breath. You couldn’t move even when you tried to with all your strength.

The man stumbled away from you, gasping and clutching his chest. His face was ghostly pale, his knees buckling slightly. With trembling fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out—

Not a gun.

An envelope.

Crumpled and fat with cash. He held it up like a white flag, shaking so badly you thought he might drop it. You got it then—she was working. Contracting. Bodyguarding. Or whatever job paid her that kind of money. You couldn’t exactly blame her. Tony had frozen everyone’s bank accounts—everyone on Steve’s side—in a calculated effort to isolate you and force you out of hiding.

It was only a matter of time before your own funds dried up. And when they did, you’d be in the same boat, doing the same kind of work Wanda was doing. You had underground connections if you needed them, a way to scrape together cash, but you’d rather not. You didn’t want that for yourself—and you sure as hell didn’t want it for Wanda.

Wanda took the envelope, her eyes hard as she examined it. “Is this the full amount?” she demanded. The man nodded like a bobblehead, wiping a trail of blood from his split lip.

“Leave. And don’t say a word to your boss about this.”

The man, still clutching his side where your fist had landed, nodded frantically. “I won’t,” he stammered. “I swear, I won’t.”

“Good,” Wanda snapped. She stepped aside, just enough to give him space to scramble away.

The moment he was gone, Wanda spun to face you, her expression murderous.

“What the hell was that?” she hissed, nostrils flaring.

You rubbed at your neck, still feeling the phantom grip of her magic, but mostly the embarrassment of having gotten it wrong. “He looked like he was pulling a gun, Wanda. I wasn’t going to stand there and wait to find out.”

She shoved you. Not hard, just enough to sting and to make you realize how fast things could escalate. “You think I can’t take care of myself without you lurking around?”

“I think you’re hurting. And I think you’re making shitty decisions because you feel cornered. I’m just trying to help,” you said.

“You call tailing me through the city and grabbing my arm help?” Her voice rose. “I told you to leave. To get lost. I don’t need you.”

Together—well, not so much so, because Wanda made it clear she wanted nothing to do with you—you slipped into a back street, walking fast, silent and angry. She led the way, and you followed. You always followed.

You stayed a few paces behind her as she stomped through back streets, her fists clenched, her spine rigid. She never once looked back to see if you were still there. She didn’t have to; she could feel you trailing her, the same way she always seemed to sense every other presence around her.

A cold drizzle fell, prickling your skin as you followed Wanda back to her hotel—even though she’d warned you off for the hundredth time. By the time you reached the hallway, Wanda was fiddling with her key, body tense, shoulders drawn up near her ears.

“Go away,” she said without turning around. She fit the key into the lock with unnecessary force, and the door gave a tired creak when it swung open. She hurried inside and just when you were about to step in, Wanda tried to slam the door in your face, but you shoved your arm through the gap, wedging your shoulder against the splintering wood frame. The hinge groaned in protest.

“Get out,” she snarled. “Don’t make me hurt you. I don’t need Natasha’s living, breathing surveillance on me. You will leave me alone.”

Her voice shook with anger, but her eyes were something else—hurt, or maybe fear of what she might do. You held the door, straining against her strength, feeling the faint trace of her power sparking off her skin. “Wanda, listen to me,” you said through clenched teeth, “I’m not here because of Nat.”

She pushed harder, and you nearly lost your balance, but you refused to budge. “I said,” Wanda growled, “leave me alone. Now.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you fired back, breath catching in your throat. “Not even if Natasha had never asked me to look after you.”

That gave her pause—just enough for you to force the door fully open. She stumbled backward, eyes blazing with fury. “Then why?”

You hesitated, mouth going dry. You’d pictured this moment, but never with so much hostility, never in a dingy hotel room with the rain pounding against the window outside. Wanda’s chest rose and fell with each shaky breath, her hair a tangle around her face, droplets of water still clinging to her jacket. She looked ready to unleash hell.

And maybe you deserved it.

She opened her mouth again, ready to launch into another tirade, but you don’t let her. This was the moment. If you lied or said the wrong thing, you’d lose her completely—you knew it.

“Because I regret lying to you,” you said, forcing each word out. “That night… that night when I told you I didn’t like you—”

This was it. “I was only being half-truthful when I said that. I didn’t just like you, Wanda. Because I—”

And she cut you off, just like you’d cut her off in so many fights before. “Because you love me?”

It sounded both like a statement of fact and a challenge. She was testing you to see if you’d deny it again—

“Yes,” you said. It rang loud and true. “Because I love you.”

Then Wanda lunged forward, twisting her hand in your jacket. It could’ve been an attack, but it wasn’t. She grabbed you by the collar and yanked you into the room, letting the door slam behind you.

“You realize how stupid this is?”

You barely got out a nod before she tugged you again, lips crashing against yours in a desperate, angry kiss. Your mind short-circuited. You tasted her fury, the salt of fear in the corner of your mouths, the hunger neither of you could deny. She shoved you against the door, and your hands found her waist, sliding under her jacket.

“This is insane,” she muttered, lips ghosting against your jaw. “We’re insane.”

“Yeah,” you panted, mouth brushing over her ear. “But right now… I don’t care.”

She didn’t either. Judging by the way she pulled you in, pressed her hips against yours, slid her hands around your neck, she definitely didn’t care. She broke away to breathe, her forehead pressed to yours. “I hate that you followed me,” she murmured. “I hate that I still need you here, after everything.”

You swallowed hard. “You don’t have to need me,” you said. “Just want me.”

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naristrawbz · 4 days ago

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Tidebound ☠

Chapter One

PirateOt8AU x F!Reader/original character

-In a fractured, salt-soaked world ruled by magic and machines, the feared pirate crew of the HalaVeil sails in search of a myth, a cursed potion known as Luminaer, said to be the only cure for a deadly affliction slowly killing one of their own.

When they cross paths with their most hated rivals, the Blackeyes, the crew demands revenge… and receives a strange girl instead.

You.

Betrayed. Bruised. Bound.

They call you Curse; a liar, a threat, a scapegoat. But as the storm deepens and the curse tightens its grip, it becomes clear: you might be the key to everything. Or the end of them all.

And in the eyes of a crew that trusts no one… you’ll have to survive long enough to prove which.-

Genre: PirateAU, Angst, Slow burn, Enemies to ??, OT8

Warnings: violence, death, swearing, fighting, drugging, angst (lmk if i missed anything)

Word count: 3.2k (i promise they'll be longer in future chapters!)

Taglist: open!

Masterlist > Previous > Next

Before there were pirates, there were gods. Not kind ones. Not ones who wept for man. They lived in the depths- in salt and pressure and silence. They fed on secrets. And they hated liars most of all. The old ones say the sea once held a voice. A chorus, even, the Abyssian Wives, sirens who sang truth into the bones of the world. But truth has always been dangerous. And man has always tried to steal it.

So the Wives drowned themselves, willingly One by one, dragging kingdoms with them. And when the last of them fell, she cursed the ocean with her final breath.

“Let all who chase immortality be claimed by it. Let the liars rot.”

The waters changed after that. Ships vanished between one tide and the next. Storms brewed in minutes. Sailors began waking with glowing eyes. And the word “Tideborn” was whispered like a warning. Some could see the future. Some could warp it. Others… could never lie again. Not without bleeding for it.

Then came the pirates. Not to beg the sea, but to take from it.

They built iron-clad monsters that ran on stormcores and salvaged tech. They called themselves kings, gods, devils.

But one name rose above all.

The HalaVeil.

Eight men. No master. No mercy. Only a curse ahead of them, and a storm always at their back.

They sail not for gold, but for a myth. A potion that doesn’t exist. A cure that demands a soul. A lie that just might save one of their own, if it doesn’t damn the rest. The sea remembers. And it always takes back what it’s owed.

The HalaVeil didn’t glide through the water, it tore through it. The sea bent beneath its keel like it feared the name carved into its hull. Metal and driftwood fused together with glowing scars, sails stitched with symbols from a language long dead. The wind screamed across the deck, dragging ropes and salt through the air like ghost fingers.

From the crow’s nest, Jongho squinted into the grey-blue horizon. His eyes gleamed pale for a heartbeat , and then dulled again.

“Storm in thirty,” he called down. “Big one. Hungry.”

Below, Seonghwa didn’t flinch. He stood near the wheel, hands behind his back, expression unreadable.

“We’ll go around.”

Behind him, Mingi scoffed. “You’re no fun.”

Seonghwa gave no reply, which, in Mingi’s experience, usually meant death glare pending.

Somewhere below deck, Yunho tightened a new bandage around his own shoulder. He hissed at the sting, but didn’t stop. Cuts healed fast, but not if you ignored them. Especially not with his gift — or his curse, depending on the day. Footsteps echoed above. A blur of movement. Wooyoung landed beside the main mast, swinging down like a shadow loosed from its tether.

“The merchant ship’s empty,” he announced. “Clean sweep. Food, cores, a few antique storm charts. And…” - he held up a flask - “...something that might kill us.”

“Just drink it,” Mingi muttered. “You’ve eaten worse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

At the helm, Hongjoong said nothing. He gripped the wheel with gloved hands, his dark coat snapped by the wind, his expression carved from ice. When he was quiet this long, no one interrupted. Unless they wanted to lose something.

He finally spoke without turning.

“Siltshore.”

Yeosang, perched on a crate not far from the port railing, blinked. “No.”

“Seconded,” Yunho added, stepping into view. “You said we’d never go back there.”

“I changed my mind.”

“That’s not how this works,” San growled, spinning one of his blades in his hand. “We nearly died the last time.”

“And we will again,” Yeosang said coldly, “if you keep trusting liars.”

“Then maybe your power should’ve told us who was lying, Scout,” San shot back.

Wooyoung raised both hands between them. “Okay, okay. Everyone take a breath and maybe punch something inanimate.”

“Or punch Yeosang,” Mingi offered.

“Or shut up,” Seonghwa added.

“Enough.” Hongjoong let go of the wheel and turned, dark eyes raking over them all like he was taking inventory of strengths, of weaknesses, of who would die first if he chose wrong.

“We’re going to Siltshore,” he repeated. “Because the Blackeyes were seen there. And if we’re going to find anything good… we need to follow every ghost, every rumor, and every lie.”

Yeosang went still.

“You think they know something,” he said quietly.

“I think someone's hiding something from me,” Hongjoong replied. “And I’m going to kill whoever it is.”

Above them, thunder cracked. The sea rose. And far below, beneath rusted ruins and salt-bleached bones, something ancient turned its head.

The HalaVeil cut through the night like a scar across dark silk.

In the distance, Siltshore glowed, not golden like most ports, but flickering blue and red, like dying neon. A city built on bones and water. The closer they sailed, the more the air changed: metallic, chemical, thick with salt and smoke. The kind of place where sailors went to disappear, and some of them did.

On deck, tension clung like damp air.

"Thirty clicks until shore,” Jongho called from above, voice sharp. “We’re drifting too fast.”

“I know,” Seonghwa muttered from the wheel, fingers tight on the spokes. “The currents are wrong here.”

“They’re always wrong here,” Yeosang said quietly, gaze fixed on the distant glow. “It’s not the tide.”

San slammed his sword into its sheath with more force than necessary. “Maybe we just don’t go in like idiots this time.”

“Why ruin the tradition?” Wooyoung leaned over the railing, upside down, feet hooked casually on the ropes. “I’m sure there’s some local crime boss dying to stab me again.”

“You laughed when he stabbed you,” Yunho pointed out, adjusting the strap of his medkit. “You thanked him.”

“I did. He was cute.”

“Do you ever take anything seriously?” Mingi asked from where he was packing a bag full of explosives and storm cores.

Wooyoung flipped upright. “Nope.”

“Great,” Mingi muttered, shoving a smoke canister in with a bit too much force. “We’re definitely surviving this.”

From the captain’s quarters, Hongjoong finally emerged, coat donned, hair pulled back, expression unreadable.

“You’re packing too much,” he told Mingi.

“I’m packing exactly enough,” Mingi shot back.

Hongjoong ignored him. “We go in quiet. No blood unless I say. We get the contact, get what we need, and leave.”

“And if someone recognizes us?” Seonghwa asked without looking up.

Hongjoong’s mouth twitched. “Then we burn the city.”

A silence passed over the deck.

Yunho stepped in, trying to pull the tension back down. “We’re not here to pick fights, remember? Just whispers. I’ll stay close to Yeosang. If anyone tries to lie, he’ll hear it.”

“Only if you stop being louder than the liars,” Yeosang muttered under his breath.

“What was that?” Yunho raised an eyebrow.

“I said I’ll do my best,” Yeosang said, deadpan.

Wooyoung grinned. “He’s getting sassier. I like this timeline.”

Hongjoong cut them off with a single look. “We dock at midnight. I want the crew split into three.”

He tapped the map on the crate beside him.

“Seonghwa, Mingi, and Jongho — you take the east end. The stormcore black markets.”

“Mmm, my favorite kind of illegal,” Mingi hummed.

“San, Yeosang, and Yunho — stay near the central run. Get information. Stay clean.”

“I always stay clean,” San said, running a blade across his palm with a glint in his eyes.

“And I’m heading west,” Hongjoong finished. “Wooyoung’s with me.”

“Oh?” Wooyoung perked up. “Because I’m your favorite?”

“Because you lie the best.”

The crew scattered to prep: blades sharpened, cloaks donned, runes stitched into collars and cuffs. Saltbinding charms were passed around, cracked glass beads on corded string, meant to ward off curses or misdirection. No one knew if they actually worked, but wearing one was better than not. In the shared quarters, Yeosang sat on the edge of his bunk, fingers twitching.

“You okay?” Yunho asked, tightening the last strap on his gear.

Yeosang didn’t look at him. “This place feels wrong.”

“It always feels wrong.”

“No,” Yeosang said slowly. “It feels… watching.”

Yunho’s brow furrowed. “What do you hear?”

Yeosang shook his head. “Nothing. That’s the problem.”

Across the room, San grunted. “If anything does happen, I’m stabbing first and asking questions never.”

“You’re so romantic,” Wooyoung called from the hallway.

“Go choke on your illusions.”

“Gladly.”

By the time the HalaVeil reached the edge of Siltshore’s radius, the water beneath them had changed, thicker, darker, almost heavy. The ship groaned, wood creaking unnaturally. A shiver passed through them all, quiet, collective. Even Hongjoong paused as he stepped onto the landing deck, one gloved hand brushing against the railing like he was listening to the ship breathe.

“We’re being watched,” Seonghwa said, softly.

“No,” Hongjoong replied. “We’re being expected.”

Siltshore reeked of rust and rain.

The port was built like a trap, spiraling alleys, twisted bridges, dripping signs in every language, half of them glowing, half of them flickering. It rained even when the sky was clear. Salt clung to everything. So did blood. The HalaVeil’s crew didn’t exactly blend in. But they didn’t need to. Not here.

Seonghwa, Mingi and Jongho scouted out first.

They moved like wolves in a field of mice.

The stormcore market was tucked into the broken belly of an old sea-fort, surrounded by makeshift stalls and armed guards with rusted weapons. But no one questioned them when Seonghwa stepped through the gates first, tall, composed, and silent as a blade.

“Mouths shut. Eyes open,” he ordered. He didn’t raise his voice. He never needed to.

Mingi trailed a step behind, eyes already scanning for weak spots in the guards’ armor. “You want quiet theft or loud boom?”

“Neither,” Seonghwa replied. “Yet.”

Jongho watched everything- every twitch of the merchants, every shadow shift. His vision flickered briefly, the future humming at the edge of his skull.

“I see two outcomes,” he muttered. “One where we walk away. One where Mingi gets shot.”

“Which one’s more fun?” Mingi grinned.

At the core stall, the merchant tried to haggle.

“These are top grade. No pirate scum discount.”

Seonghwa didn’t blink. “You’ll hand them over.”

“Not unless you want your ribs electrified.”

Mingi leaned close, voice all sugar. “You ever see a man implode from the inside? No? Want a demonstration?”

The merchant paled. Five minutes later, they walked away with every stormcore on the table.

San, Yunho and Yeosang went in the east direction. This part of the town is said to be the more gritty end. No one stays out here past dark. The central run of Siltshore was louder, music, bodies, blood. Smoke curled from incense burners and weapon stalls. Everything was for sale. Especially people. San moved like he owned the place. He shouldered past market goers, knocked over a table, stole fruit without paying. The locals scowled, until they recognized him. Then they ran.

Yunho stayed closer to Yeosang, keeping a protective radius. “We’re not here to kill anyone.”

“Speak for yourself,” San muttered.

Yeosang paused at a charm stall. A small girl offered him a saltbinding necklace.

“It keeps the ghosts out,” she whispered.

He tilted his head. “Does it?”

She nodded, solemn. He handed her a silver chip anyway, and then turned away before anyone could see the tremor in his hands.

In the tavern, their contact was drunk and twitchy.

“There’s no potion,” he slurred. “Just stories. And death.”

Yeosang’s gaze sharpened. His power surged a chill like iron in his mouth. Yeosang drinks his mead to soothe his nerves, looking down and seeing a fizz inside his cup.

“He’s lying,” he said.

San was already pulling out his blade. “I’ll make him bleed the truth.”

“Wait,” Yunho said.

But it was too late. None of the locals look over at the commotion. It's just the norm there.

Hongjoong and Wooyoung went a different direction. They didn’t sneak. They strolled.

The western end of Siltshore was quieter, darker. All shadows and echoes. Perfect for people who wanted to disappear. Wooyoung leaned against a doorframe, smiling too easily at a passing courier. “Do you know who we are?”

“No,” the man stammered.

“Good.” Wooyoung’s smile widened. “Tell your boss we’re here anyway.”

Inside the smokehouse, Hongjoong stood over the map table, speaking to no one, fingers tracing routes no one else saw.

“You’re pushing too hard,” Wooyoung said softly.

“I’m not pushing hard enough,” Hongjoong replied. “Every second we waste…”

“Yeosang’s fine.”

“Not yet. But he won’t be for long.”

As they left, Wooyoung stopped to rob a smuggler blind while smiling into his face. Hongjoong didn’t stop him. He didn’t stop him when he broke the man’s kneecap either.

“Message delivery fee,” Wooyoung said, brushing blood off his boot.

Eventually, the crew finishes their pillaging, only just to further add fear to their name. They regrouped near the edges of Siltshore just before midnight. Heavy with supplies. Heavier with silence.

“Anything useful?” Seonghwa asked.

“Plenty,” Hongjoong said. “But not enough.”

Yeosang swayed slightly on his feet.

Yunho caught his elbow. “You okay?”

Yeosang blinked once. “I’m fine.”

But he wasn’t.

And by the next hour, they would all know.

The dock should’ve been quiet.

The HalaVeil crew moved like ghosts, returning from their split missions, boots echoing against warped wood and rain-slick stone. Siltshore slept, or pretended to. The city never truly rested. Not with the kind of things that crawled its underbelly. Yeosang lagged behind. At first, no one said anything. He always lingered. Always looked back at shadows as if they whispered to him. But this time, it was different. He was paler. Eyes sunken. Movements sluggish, like walking through water.

Yunho stepped closer, whispering, “Still with us?”

Yeosang blinked slowly. “My head hurts.”

“Sleep it off when we’re off this dock.”

Yeosang nodded faintly , and said nothing else.

On deck, Seonghwa was locking down the course map while Mingi counted what they stole. Wooyoung hummed as he cleaned his bloodied blade with someone’s stolen shirt.

San was sharpening his own weapons again, faster than necessary.

“Something’s wrong with him,” San said aloud, eyes locked on Yeosang as he climbed aboard.

“No shit,” Wooyoung muttered. “He looks like a drowned ghost.”

Yunho shot him a glare. “Not helping.”

“We should move,” Seonghwa called. “Wind’s changed. Storm’s building. I want us gone in ten.”

But Yeosang didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at his own hand.

“…it was the drink,” he whispered.

Hongjoong turned sharply. “What?”

Yeosang’s voice cracked, barely audible. “The merchant. The contact. He gave me something after we talked. Said it would help clear the noise.”

“And you drank it?” San barked.

“I didn’t… mean to... I-I didn't want to” Yeosang looked dazed, voice breaking apart like glass. “It tasted like salt and iron. Then it turned green.”

“Green,” Yunho repeated, tone flat with dread. “Shit.”

The crew went still.

Everyone knew what green meant in Siltshore. Especially when it came from a man known for selling truth-warding potions. It wasn’t a gift. It was a curse. And it was working.

Yeosang’s lie detection, his entire power, had been corrupted.

“Who was the man?” Hongjoong demanded. “What did he look like?”

Yeosang’s brow furrowed. “Tall. Gold rings. Left hand tattooed. Smelled like clove smoke.”

A long silence.

Then Jongho, up in the nest, called out: “Captain. Starboard side.”

The crew turned.

Docked across from them, as if summoned by the storm itself, was a sleek black ship. Torn sails. Rusted teeth welded into the side of the hull. And on the prow stood a man.

Smirking. Leaning on a cane he didn’t need. Wearing gold rings. Smoke curling from his mouth. The Captain of the Blackeyes.

“Permission to kill him,” San growled.

“Seconded,” Mingi said without looking up.

“No.” Hongjoong’s voice was quiet. Cold. “Not yet.”

“What’s the plan?” Seonghwa asked.

“We board.”

“They’ll run the second they see us.”

“Then we make them bleed first.”

Yeosang took a shaky breath and turned to Hongjoong.

“Whatever he gave me… it’s killing me, isn’t it?”

Hongjoong stared at him for a long, brutal moment. His mind ran ahead, calculating symptoms, duration, trajectory. And then, finally, his answer:

“Yes.”

The attack was silent. Then it wasn’t.

Jongho fired the first shot, a flashbomb arcing over the dock and exploding mid-air. Light shattered the fog. Shouts followed. Blades sang.

The HalaVeil crew hit the Blackeyes like a storm no one predicted.

San was first to leap across the plank, landing with a crack of steel and boot. His blade sank into the nearest crewman without hesitation. He kicked the body aside.

“Where is he?” he snarled.

Wooyoung followed next, a flicker of illusion trailing behind him like a second skin. One Blackeyes gunner raised their weapon, and found themselves stabbing their own hallucination instead.

“Oops,” Wooyoung whispered, slashing their throat. “Wrong reality.”

Mingi hurled an explosive at the mast. Fire surged upward, catching the rigging.

“You said no full burn!” Yunho shouted.

“I didn’t!” Mingi yelled back over the roar. “I only said maybe partial!”

Seonghwa moved like a ghost, clean and surgical. His blade was silent, but his eyes burned. The sea whipped around the ship unnaturally, tilting the deck in ATEEZ’s favor.

Hongjoong walked into the chaos with his blade sheathed, expression unreadable. He didn’t need to fight, not with his crew plugged into his mind. They were synced. Every swing. Every breath. It hurt like hell, but the results were flawless.

Yeosang, barely standing, stayed behind with Jongho. His eyes were glassy.

“They’re lying again,” he whispered, even as blood trickled from his nose. “They’re all lying.”

The Blackeyes screamed. They weren’t prepared. They weren’t good enough.

Men dropped. Steel clanged. Blood spilled across the deck like oil.

And finally, finally - a voice cried out.

“STOP!”

The fighting slowed. A thin, weaselly man, the first mate, stumbled forward, arms raised, face streaked with ash and fear.

“We call for parley!”

Hongjoong stepped forward, face unreadable. “Now you want peace.”

“We’re sorry—about the curse. We didn’t know..” Lies.

“You knew enough to stand there and watch him suffer,” San growled.

“We’re not the ones who cast it!” More lies. the man cried. “But we know someone who can help!”

The crew froze.

That’s when The Blackeyes captain stepped forward. Sickening grin. Gold rings. Clove smoke. Eyes like rotten oil.

“We’ve got a… guest. One of ours. Used to be, anyway.”

He jerked a thumb toward the lower deck.

“Bit of a freak. Knows things. We didn’t trust her. But maybe you will.”

A pause.

“She knows where the curse came from. And maybe how to end it.”

Hongjoong’s head tilted slightly. Yunho looked at Yeosang. He was swaying. San looked at Seonghwa. He gave the faintest nod.

“Bring her out,” Hongjoong said.

You were dragged. Wrists bound. Face bruised. Eyes wild with panic. You kicked. Fought. Screamed.

“Let go of me! I didn’t do anything!”

“Shut her up,” the Blackeyes’ captain snapped. “You want a cure or not?”

You struggled harder.

“I don’t know anything! They’re lying-!”

Mingi stepped forward, rage flaring.

“I say we gut their captain and take her anyway.”

“No,” Hongjoong said coldly. “If she’s cursed him, she dies slow.”

You spat blood. “I didn’t-”

Your voice cut off as a fist slammed into the side of your head.

You crumpled.

Out cold.

Silence fell over the dock.

The Blackeyes backed away, dragging their dead, leaving their wounded.

Hongjoong watched them leave.

Then turned to your unconscious body.

“Bring her aboard,” he said.

(any errors/mistakes pls let me know!)

130 notes · View notes

happysnowseal · 1 year ago

Text

Deals and Desires (final)

Sylus x OC | Midnight Stealth!AU

genre: smut, lil’ comedy, enemies to enemies who fuck

rating: explicit

description: You fail to find the brooch within 24 hours, so the twins suggest you offer Sylus something else in return for getting into the auction—your body. Turns out, your desires are aligned, no matter how twisted they seem.

word count: 8.8k

warnings: IMPROPER use of Evol, tentacle smut, “rope” bondage, lore from Midnight Stealth and the two chapters we meet Sylus (duh), Luke and Kieran being instigators, mentions of hentai, OC’s turned on by Sylus and his Evol and is conflicted, rough sex, breast play, fingering, oral sex (male and female receiving), double penetration, unprotected sex (this is fiction), standing 69, mirror sex, sneaky sex, electrostimulation, cum eating, multiple rounds.

a/n: IT IS DONE. IT IS HERE! I made a post saying imagine Sylus manipulating his Evol into tentacles to fuck OC with… and voila! This was born. I incorporated a lot of the game dialogue/events but also put my own spin on it. Asks, comments, and reblogs are much appreciated! 💌

You must be sick in the head.

Ever since you witnessed those black-red tendrils dissipate the man in black who abducted you into nothing but mere crimson specks, something strange awoke in you. Witnessing such a cruel death shouldn’t pique your curiosity, but beneath your horrified expression was a deep fascination for the leader of Onychinus’ powers. Not that you’d ever tell him.

A simple flick of the wrist or snap of the fingers is all it takes to summon those menacing black-red tendrils. The powerful mist would coil your vulnerable body, manipulate it, bind it—all for his intentions of resonating with you.

However, as the shopkeeper had stated, you can’t resonate with him. On a subconscious level, you’re rejecting him, scared of him, or disgusted by him. So you wonder: is it possible to fear him yet desire him also?

When Sylus proposed a deal that would aid you in your quest for the Aether Core, you couldn’t resist. You had twenty-four hours to find a brooch he had hidden somewhere in Onychinus’ base. Yet despite searching every nook and cranny, you came up short of nothing.

The first time Sylus caught you, he was reading a book on the couch. His calm demeanor didn’t match his appearance, which screamed sin. The gold-rimmed glasses on his face matched a gentlemanly scholar's, but his body was adorned in a lavish red robe, with a V-line low enough to expose his toned pecs. Seriously, who was he showing off for?

“Get out.”

Once you were caught snooping, the same black-red mist formed make-shift handcuffs that bound your wrists. You groaned, dwelling on your loss.

The second time he caught you was when he was dusting his shelves, his back toward you. He was no longer in his robe, having changed into a black dress shirt and matching slacks. Without sparing you a glance, one word left his lips.

“Leave.”

The black-red tendrils were back around your wrists and you whined. “Ugh… I was caught again…”

Third time’s the charm, right? You had your gun loaded and after cocking it, you said to yourself, “This time for sure, I’ll…”

A pair of black slippers showed up in your peripheral and you slowly looked up to see the same, steeled expression in those crimson eyes and that cursed red robe again. It was like a second skin on him at this point. He let out a weighted sigh, which diminished your confidence.

“... I know. I’ll go now,” you said, defeated. He didn’t use his Evol this time, and you’re at war with yourself as to why you even noticed. Or why it mattered so much.

The last time Sylus caught you was the worst. He was in the shower, so you seized the chance to search his bedroom. Desperate, you even sunk to the low level of animal abuse when you shook Mephisto, his crow with mechanical wings, like a piggy bank for answers.

That’s when Sylus turned off the water and panic struck you, so you hid. There was a small window of opportunity to escape, but a phone call came in, deterring your plans. He answered, you eavesdropped, and when things were getting juicy, he noticed your presence and chuckled.

“Mr. Sylus?” the man on the call said.

“It’s nothing. Just a stray cat who happened to barge in.”

This time Sylus not only apprehended you by the wrists, he lifted you in the air as black-red mist swirled around his left hand. The call ends as he sets you down on the bed, and you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Not because you failed, but because you didn’t want to face the humiliation of how his Evol brought back a certain spark you thought fizzled out.

Sylus’ back was turned, selecting a record before placing it on his record player.

“Have I underestimated your determination or overestimated your intellect?” he asked. You stared at your bound wrists, trying to ignore the shiver that ran down your spine.

“You’re the one who suggested a deal. But here you are making things difficult—” you said, fiddling with your thumbs. He approached you, a stern look flashing across his sharp features.

“You’ll have to work harder.”

He grabbed one of your wrists, and red sirens went off in your head. Your mind raced a mile a minute, wondering what his intentions were as he dragged you off the bed. You commanded him to let go, and he obliged, but only after he shoved you out of his room.

“Leave,” he said, his head gesturing to your right, “I’m going to bed.”

At least he kicked Mephisto out too, so you didn’t have to face the loss alone.

Which brings you to the present. You’re scribbling doodles of the bastard as an outlet for your anger, making the stylish choice of adding devil horns on top of his head.

It’s bad enough you’ve been trapped in Onychinus’s base for who knows how long. The man who’s held you captive should be your worst enemy, yet every encounter ignites an inferno in the pit of your stomach. Try as you may, but the dark thoughts you shove in the back of your mind are bubbling to the surface. If anything could anchor you back to reality, it’d be this—remember the mission.

You were to get into the auction to find the Aether core, which you can’t do without his help. But you couldn’t find that stupid brooch, so you’re back to square one. You scrawl over the sketch of Sylus, the pressure harsh enough that the paper threatens to tear until only a tornado of black ink is left.

“You’re pulling your hair out over this, huh?” Kieran says, sitting atop a table with his back towards you. He looks over his shoulder, so his voice will reach better. “If you want to do something, maybe we can help you.”

“What do you mean?” you ask, casting the notebook aside.

“If you want to conquer our boss’s heart, you’ll have to use a different approach,” Luke says, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m not trying to conquer his heart. He’s trying to conquer mine if anything,” you retort, folding your arms across your chest as you stand. Luke pulls a book from underneath the table and slides it across in your direction. You walk over, pick it up, and drop it just as quickly like it was a ticking time bomb. “What the fuck?!”

“Strike when he’s off-guard!” the twins chorus with Kieran leaning forward as Luke makes claws with his hands.

“Yeah, I suppose anyone who receives a hentai novel would be caught off-guard! What’s wrong with you two?!” You have to tear yourself away from looking at the erotic cover, depicting an anime girl being fucked by black tentacles belonging to what seems to be a demonic being. He had it all: horns atop his head, ebony eyes, endless tendrils, and a smokin’ hot bod like Sy—wait. No. Don’t look at it anymore. Even sparing it another glance feels like corruption and sin.

Luke chuckles, taking the explicit material back and flipping it open to a specific page. “For some people, they get bored once they have everything. So only those who dare to challenge their authority can catch their interest,” he reads.

Kieran’s sharp memory allows him to quote the story without having it in his hands. "When you're dealing with such a person, you bow down and submit or take them out in one go."

“What are you on about?” you ask, exasperated they’re quoting the pornography like it’s a holy scripture. Luke shuts the book and slides it towards you again, but you grimace like it’ll taint your soul.

“If you don’t want to conquer his heart, perhaps it’d be smarter if you conquer his… desires.”

“If you bow down and submit, maybe our Boss will have a change of heart and help you get into the auction. I mean, no one’s ever offered him their body,” Kieran adds. Your hands fall to your side, balling into fists until your knuckles turn white.

“I’d rather take him out in one go,” you say through gritted teeth. It’s not like you haven’t tried. However, the crazy bastard used you to shoot himself in the chest and you haven’t been the same since. Man thinks he has regenerative healing properties and he’s all that. Pfft. “You two are insane if you think being promiscuous is the solution.”

“In the end, Boss wants to resonate with you. You don’t have to like him, but your body can. Think about it,” Kieran insists, tilting his chin down slightly. The mask he wore shields his face, but you can imagine the impish grin from his inflection. “There’s nothing more intimate than spending a night together.”

“Read the comic,” Luke says, and you can tell from his tone he’s smirking despite the matching mask on his face. “Maybe you’ll find it enjoyable.”

“N-No. This is insanity. You’re telling me your Boss wants to fuck someone with his Evol as… tentacles?”

“Now you see why no one’s ever offered their body,” Kieran says matter-of-factly.

“This is stupid,” you mutter, clasping a hand to your forehead. “I’d rather die than fuck Sylus.”

“She might die even if she does fuck Sylus.” Kieran’s quick to elbow his brother in the side, and your heart is lodged in your throat, beating so loudly like it’s about to burst. He’s right. You could. You’ve seen what his Evol could do to a person.

But you’ve also thought about what it could do for a person. For you.

“Just… think about it,” Kieran says, his voice gentle like he’s coaxing a kitten out of its hiding spot. “If you give our Boss his ultimate desire, I’m sure he’ll do the same for you. You’ve never once thought about him in such a way? You’re not a tad bit curious?”

Luke and Kieran were treading dangerous waters. These two instigators somehow burrowed into your subconscious, forcing you to come face-to-face with your depravity.

You roll your eyes to maintain aloofness, but the book ends up in your possession seconds later. “I’m taking this for research. You’re sure this belongs to him?”

“Absolutely!” they chorus and you’re not sure hearing double aids their credibility.

“Boss is least guarded when he’s sleeping,” Kieran informs. Aren’t we all?

“You only have one shot,” Luke says, emphasizing his point by sticking up his forefinger. “Don’t waste this chance. Just do it!” He gives you a supportive fist pump and you peer down at the lewd book cover again.

What choice did you have? The twins presented a rather salacious solution, but Sylus was your only means of getting into the auction. As Luke said, if you can’t conquer his heart, perhaps you can conquer his desires.

No matter how twisted.

Three hours later…

Time slips away from you as you’re engrossed in your “research.” Not only was it full of filth, but the plot (if you can even call it that), was eerily similar to your situation. The girl on the cover was a demon hunter who fucks a demon to get him to do what she needs. Every drawing is breathtaking, detailed, and graphic. The way his tentacles bent her body to his will, the various positions, how it slithered around her body—it awoke the same feelings you had the night you met Sylus.

The dialogue instilled shame, lust, and more than enough sexual tension to charge a lightning storm. You had to pause every few pages, fanning your face until your cheeks cooled enough to continue. An earthquake couldn’t pry this masterpiece from your grasp and you were determined to finish it.

Once you’re done, you slam the book shut. You take a deep breath, regaining a sense of clarity when a realization dawns on you.

This was why Sylus’s Evol fascinated you. How every time he manipulated your body, a surge of adrenaline coursed through your body until your heart nearly gave out. You indeed feared him; everyone did. But fear was a mask you’ve clung onto so desperately to disguise the dark truth.

Sylus could’ve killed you at any time, but he chose not to. Sure, he has ulterior motives, but the control he has over his power is undeniably sexy, and knowing he can’t kill you meant you had control over him too.

You’ve hidden your desires under revulsion and endless banter when maybe he was right. You’re two kindred spirits, who are more alike than you want to admit. Someone created this book to satisfy the same urges you’ve been depriving yourself of and if Sylus indulged in these fantasies, then you’re not insane for wanting the same thing.

You’ve made up your mind.

If you offer your body to Sylus, it’s a win-win. You’ll get into the auction and you no longer have to feel ashamed about wanting him.

For the mission of course.

You head to Sylus’s bedroom, standing outside the wooden double doors. A pair of Evol-sealing handcuffs are in your possession, courtesy of the twins. You place them in your back pocket and rest your hands on the gold handles, giving yourself a mental pep-talk.

All or nothing!

You turn the handles and march in, seeing Sylus sleeping in his canopy bed with his back against the plush headboard instead of the mattress.

Is he a vampire? Eh. Red eyes, white hair, gorgeous—might as well be.

Climbing onto the bed gently, you watch his chest heave, his breathing evident but it’s so light that you’re tempted to press your ear against his chest to ensure he’s alive.

“Sylus… Sylus?” you say, confirming his dormant status. A soft chuckle escapes you as you whip out the handcuffs, lifting his wrist and attaching it to the golden vintage bed frame. “This is what you get.”

Now that he’s immobile, you can’t help your feasting eyes from ogling his exposed skin. That red robe was both a curse and a blessing, a warning of caution, yet you choose to ignore it. You hover your finger above his abdomen, contemplating whether to make contact when a hand snatches your wrist, lifting it to eye level.

“Showing up uninvited at this hour… Want me to tell you a bedtime story?” he says before tossing your wrist aside. You place both hands on either side of his head and his eyes slightly widen, but he remains composed. This would be a lot easier if you straddled him, but patience was a virtue.

“These handcuffs nullify a person’s Evol for an hour,” you declare. He stares at the restraints, his face devoid of emotion before settling his attention back on you. “No matter how powerful you are, you’re helpless as of now.”

“Really?” he asks, the corner of his lips hinting at a small smile. It’s subtle and leaves as soon as it comes. “What do you plan to do then since I’ve become your prey?”

You remove your hands and lean back to sit on your knees. “You’re going to listen to my counteroffer.”

To your surprise, he nods like he has nothing better to do. Maybe the cuffs weren’t necessary. “I’m intrigued. Continue.”

Clasping your hands together, you clear your throat like you had prepared a speech when in reality, your brain is scrambled. What are you supposed to say?

Hey Sylus, do you want to fuck and use your Evol on me like tentacles? It’ll help us resonate!

You might as well put a big fat sticker on your head that says “FREE $.99! FUCK NOW!” and get it over with.

“I’m getting bored,” he states, stirring you from disorganized thoughts. You press your lips into a thin line, mustering whatever courage you have left.

“Look… from the beginning, you trapped me here, forced me to resonate with you, and even said ‘we’re the same’...” You wet your lips out of habit to calm your nerves, and he doesn’t miss it. “I couldn’t find the brooch in time and need your help to get into the auction. And you want to be able to resonate with me. So…”

“Get to the point.”

“I’m offering you my body for the night,” you blurt out. He raises an eyebrow and his usually calm demeanor breaks for the first time as a flicker of confusion dances across his face. You would take pride in that, but his face quickly morphs, so you jump out of bed with your hands up, worried he’d deny you. “Hold on. Let me explain.”

Not like he had a choice. The fact he was handcuffed eludes you for a moment, but once you remember, it eases the tension in your shoulders. He waits for you to continue, the smug look on his face not helping to ease your nerves.

“I don’t like you and you don’t like me. But you want to resonate with me, so if we sleep together, maybe… I’ll hate you less. Besides, we have similar desires. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

His eyes glint a haunting crimson from the golden glow of his night lamp. “Do tell. How do I look at you?”

Your knees almost buckle from his deep, smooth voice. “Like… Like… you hate me.”

“Astonishing misunderstanding. Yet somehow you’ve concluded this means we should sleep together?”

You might as well die of embarrassment. “If it’s for the mission, I can detach my personal feelings. We do this and there’s a chance I’ll be able to resonate with you better. After all, what’s more intimate than spending the night together? It’ll work unless… you’re inadequate in bed.”

It’s brief, but you’re sure Sylus clenches his jaw as his lips press into a slight frown, his eyes narrowed on you with laser-like focus. You turn away from him, smacking your cheek like a spanking for being stupid enough to question Onychinus’ leader’s skills in bed.

“Are you done?”

You whip your head around. “Um… yes.”

An exasperated sigh escapes him. “You say you failed to locate the brooch, but your twenty-four hours aren’t up yet. There’s still time.”

You place one hand on your hip while the other waves him off, dismissing his words. “I’ve searched everywhere already!”

“Everywhere. But not everyone.”

The light bulb in your head goes off and you’re back by Sylus’ side on the bed, holding your palm out like an entitled brat.

“Where’s the brooch?”

His smile reaches his eyes and he gestures his free hand across the expanse of his body top to bottom. “Help yourself.”

“Don’t mind if I do.”

You run your fingers along the black lapels on his robe, checking the inside layer first. The fabric is silky smooth to the touch, but you’re distracted by how hot his skin is on the back of your fingers. No brooch though.

Next, you check the outside of the lapels and sure enough, you feel a hard, circular object. Pulling it out, you see the crow brooch with a lustrous ruby in the center. You giggle with glee.

“Do you really think I hate you?” he questions.

“Now it doesn’t matter at all. I won!”

“Deals have conditions and my condition wasn’t met. The offer has expired already.”

“But you said…”

Shit. The handcuffs on Sylus start to glow red, similar to how blacksmiths heat materials in a furnace. The metal soon melts, allowing your once prey to become the predator.

Your attempts to escape are futile, given Sylus’ quick speed, and you’re thrown onto the bed. He hovers over you and your fight-or-flight instincts kick in as you throw a punch, but he catches your wrist and pins it down without batting an eye.

“You’re pretty good at running away.”

“Let me go. I already have the brooch.” He pins your other hand down, enveloping his large hand over your clenched fist.

“I told you. My offer has expired already, so the real question is… when does yours?”

Sylus is staring down at you with crazed, crimson eyes as the sound of your heartbeat rings in your ears. His hands are warm, too warm. Like they’ll burn you alive or maybe that’s your body heat rising exponentially from how close he was. His scent wafts over you, filling your nose with pleasant notes of cardamom and something herbal, which soothes your nerves and helps you rediscover your voice.

“I… I…”

“Use your words.”

“I only made you that counteroffer because I thought I failed. The brooch has been found. Who cares about the rules? You’re the leader of the N109 Zone. You break them all the time.”

“Careful, sweetheart. My patience is running thin. I’m only keeping you around because you’re still useful. And…” He squeezes your fist like he wants to pry it open. A warning. “I truly enjoy seeing my little prey struggle.” He brings your enclosed fist in front of his chest. “Especially when it thinks it can get away from me. Now tell me… what similar desires do we share?”

Okay. Maybe if you scream loud enough, Mephisto will fly in and—

“Answer me.”

Who were you kidding, Mephisto would sell you out in a heartbeat. That damn crow better not have seen you reading pornography. And those twins… they better start counting their days.

You pull your lower lip under your front teeth, hoping to seal your answer shut for good. But Sylus’ right eye glows red, and you writhe underneath him, turning your head to the side. His Aether Core will reveal your deepest desires if you make eye contact.

Sylus grabs your chin and forces you to look at him, probing into your subconscious and witnessing all your shameful thoughts. Eerie voices fill your mind, their murmurs are difficult to understand, but the pain they bring is borderline unbearable—an unfortunate side effect of Sylus’ intrusion. Once the glow in his eye fades, you feel like yourself again. But the twisted smile on his face let you know things were far from over.

“So that’s what you mean by shared desires… You want me to use my Evol on you. No… you want me to fuck you with it.”

“That’s not true! Luke and Kieran—”

He runs his thumb across your lips, an effective solution for your yapping mouth. “Such improper use of an Evol could have devastating consequences. You are too gullible, kitten.”

Damn it. Those two…!

“Don’t call me that,” you bite back.

“Oh? You have quite the mouth on you today. First, you make a big show of offering your body to me and now you don’t have the guts to tell me exactly how you want me to take you?” He leans closer, his lips ghosting above your own with the slightest touch. “Confess your true desires, [Y/N].”

“N-No. The twins set me up.”

“That book may not belong to me, but I assure you… my desires are all my own. And they align with yours. All you have to do is confess.”

He doesn’t move and prolongs eye contact to where you feel stifled, trapped, and heated in places you shouldn’t. The leader of the N109 Zone doesn’t play around and knows what he wants and the means to get it. But you like challenging him. You like being challenged by him too.

You stay quiet because giving in too easily is what he wants.

“That look in your eyes… Are you trying to seduce me?” You form what you believe is a scowl, but it results in another teasing smirk. “As long as you have desires, there will always be deals to make. So what will it be?”

“I want to get into the auction,” you say, uttering the same script to maintain a semblance of professionalism. “That’s all.”

He sees the brooch jutting out from the space between your forefinger and thumb, easily able to lift it from you. “Don’t move.”

To your surprise, he pins it on your shirt and sits on the edge of the bed. You sit up and lean on your elbows, tilting your head at his sudden behavior change.

“Technically, you did find the brooch. I won’t go back on what I promised you.”

“Wait, that’s it?”

“You sound rather disappointed.” He gets up, and you follow suit off the bed like a lost kitten. “If getting into the auction is all you desire, consider it done. You can leave now.”

His back is facing you, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s disappointed too. You fidget with the brooch, running your thumb across the smooth jewel. Without thinking, your hand latches onto his like a magnetic force. Sylus spins around, glowering as you intertwine your fingers through his.

“Let me resonate with you.”

“So brash… you’re getting more and more interesting.”

He entertains you and utilizes his Evol, the black-red mist wrapping around his forearm like sprouting vines as he brings your entwined hands up to eye level. He closes his eyes as more mist envelops where you two are connected, and you watch with bated breath as scarlet specks float inward.

Devour him… he’s yours. He’s right there before your very eyes.

Those eerie voices are back, and you’re strangely compelled to heed their words. An ivory glow shines where your palms meet before an explosive burst of energy emerges, a spiral of lethal scarlet and radiant white from your combined powers. Sylus opens his eyes and lets go of your hand, allowing ivory flakes to cascade down like confetti.

“It’s a shame. But not a surprise.”

“We can try again. Let’s—”

“I admire your tenacity, kitten. But I think we’ve had enough excitement for one night.”

Your insides feel like an unattended kettle, whistling from immense frustration and on the verge of exploding. You can’t leave now. Not after he gave you what you wanted. There is a thing called give-and-take, and you’re not one to only take. The guilt would eat you alive.

“I don’t want to owe you. Here,” you grab both his hands, “one more time.”

Sylus lifts his arms and pins you against the nearest wall with hands above your head. Your breath is knocked out of you when your back collides with it, the impact causing the lamp to nearly topple over. His glare is murderous and your sick mind dared to find it incredibly attractive.

“Your stubbornness is what’s going to get you killed someday,” he warns. You see him lean back and remove his hold over you, but when you try to move, you feel restrained. His powers; they’re bounding you. “Is this what you want? For me to use my Evol on you?”

“Isn’t that what you want? I don’t want to owe you,” you repeat. “So I’m ready for whatever’s going on here. You can… use me for the night.” The last part was barely above a whisper, but Sylus’ hum as he folds his arms across his chest lets you know he heard you.

“Do you know what you’re requesting, little one? My Evol is dangerous,” You feel the restraints tighten and they only stop when you yelp in pain. “Yet it’s almost like you welcome it. Even if it hurts. Do you like it when it hurts?”

The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife, so you kick in his direction with all your might. Hunter instincts, if you will. But the black-red tendrils around your ankle make you sweat as he lowers your leg without breaking eye contact, pinning both ankles to the wall.

“Feisty kitten thinks she’s a tiger now, huh?”

“Why don’t you get on with it already?” you snap, impatient. Sylus grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks until your lips pucker like a fish.

“What makes you think I won��t kill you?” Like his razor-sharp words, you feel something akin to a collar around your neck. It prickles your skin while restricting the flow of oxygen to your lungs and you gasp like you’re trying desperately not to drown. You feel light-headed, but his Evol takes mercy on you and grants you enough air to breathe, though you know it comes with the price of answering his question.

“Because you would’ve done so already,” you answer, though your voice is shaky. Sylus nods, as if satisfied with your reply.

“Do you trust me?”

“No.”

“Clever girl.” The praise sounds delicious rolling off his tongue. “One final question.” He releases your face and bends down to meet your eye level. “Do you desire me?”

Having been inside your head, the answer was obvious. He’s looking for confirmation, a verbal confession to make whatever feelings you have for him tangible. The man is a walking red flag, and you’re about to wave a white one in surrender.

“If I don’t?” you question, challenging his authority one last time.

“Then I’ll release you.”

“And if I do?”

“Then… I hope you’ll allow me to have you. All of you. Deal?”

A beat passes and you gulp, your head saying no, but your body and heart screaming, “Yes.”

His hand comes up to caress your face, almost lovingly. “Yes, what?”

“I desire you.”

Sylus gives you a full smile, the corners of his eyes creasing. “You’re aware of the risks, right? With the snap of my fingers, I can tear things to shreds,” He carries out the action and as promised, his robe is shredded to bits of black and red confetti. Your eyes trail down his well-developed abdominal muscles and pronounced V-line until they settle on… “Enjoying the view?”

His teasing lilt reminds you to close your gaping jaw. Hell yeah, you’re enjoying the view. Not only was this man well over six feet, his body rivaled that of a Greek God, and he was blessed with a massive cock too? Of course. Things had to be proportionate.

“I… you… that robe was expensive, wasn’t it?” That was quite possibly the lamest response you could’ve come up with.

“It seems like the little kitten is distracted. Probably needs a toy to keep her occupied.” Sylus flicks his fingers, commanding the whirl of black-red mist to rip your clothes and you shriek in surprise. The brooch falls to the floor with a soft clink, and he picks it up, gently putting it on his nightstand. His attention returns to you and your exposed body, and you take pride in how his cock throbs at the sight. “So she likes lace. Pretty.”

You bite back a scream when a black tendril with cracks of glowing red light slithers up your body in between the valley of your breasts, tearing your bra right off. Another one coils around your thigh before it rips your panties off too. The appendages seem to multiply, wrapping your body in an intricate pattern similar to shibari. There’s no pain and they feel smooth, cooling your heated skin.

“I can manipulate things at will with the flick of a wrist. My powers are pure energy meant for destruction, and you’re here wanting to use them for pleasure.”

He leans close to your ear and nibbles the shell of it. The sensation tickles, but you’re too tense to move a muscle. His voice is husky as he whispers, “I could kill you right now. It’d be so easy…”

You hold your breath when he leans back enough to scan your face, relishing the turmoil in your eyes. “I-I trust that you won’t.”

“You know…” His index finger travels alongside your neck, then to your breast, tracing your areola in circular motions. “As soon as my Evol makes contact with anyone, people would die almost instantly and experience the most excruciating pain.”

He’s now rolling your nipple in between his forefinger and thumb, pinching it enough to hurt and elicit a whine from you. “S-Sylus…”

“But that’s not the case with you. Do you know the violence it took to become this gentle?”

You don’t know why your heart swells, but his words were sweeter than any confession. “Thank you…”

His eyes widen slightly and he stops his actions, tilting your chin up instead. “Say that again.”

“Th-Thank you… for being gentle with me.”

He closes his eyes and shudders like your gracious manners sent waves of pleasure throughout his body. A sharp inhale comes, and then he’s staring deep into your eyes like he could see your soul.

“What a good girl you are thanking me… but I must warn you. I meant what I said about having all of you. You’re not the only one with fantasies, [Y/N]. And mine are anything but gentle.”

“I can take it.”

He gives you a half-smile. “Is that so?”

“You doubt me?”

“No. But I think you might underestimate me. After all… I’m possibly ‘inadequate’ in bed.”

Shit. Maybe you shouldn’t have challenged him. But your bratty nature couldn’t leave you well enough alone. “Prove me wrong.”

Sylus’ resolve crumbles and he holds the side of your face as his lips meet yours for the first time. His pressure is gentle like he doesn’t want to scare you off, and once you two find rhythm, he deepens the kiss and you moan as the taste of cinnamon overcomes you. Spicy, very much like him.

His tongue prods its way through once your body relaxes, sliding across your own, the action far more lewd than romantic. He groans and carefully takes your bottom lip in between his teeth, pulling back in the most sexy manner. You moan and he swallows it, kissing you again with more fervor as his hands explore your body.

First, he traces your curves and trails down until his hands cup your ass, squeezing the soft flesh. Then he brings them back up, kneading your breasts and you mewl at how rough he handled them. Eventually, the kiss breaks, leaving a thin trail of saliva that connects your lips until it eventually severs.

“Beautiful…”

One word and you’re all heart-eyes for the man as heat rushes to your cheeks. If he wanted to tease you for it, he restrains himself and takes a nipple into his mouth, sucking harshly before releasing it with an audible pop. His tongue pokes out, swirling around the bud while his hand tends to the other. Your back arches involuntarily, but you’re quickly reminded of your immobility, which causes more arousal to drip down your thighs.

Sylus stops messing with your pert nipples to suck harshly between the valley of your breasts, inevitably leaving a nasty hickey. He pushes them together and then lets go, loving how they jiggle.

“I wonder…” he muses, taking two fingers to tease your folds. “Oh… you’re so wet and I haven’t even put them in yet.”

You squeeze your eyes when he inserts them in slowly, your slick making the transition smooth as he stretches you out. “Fuck… Sylus, please.”

“What? Are my fingers not enough?” He stills and the lack of movement frustrates you to no end. You want to thrash around, but you’re still glued to the wall.

“N-No. Please… please move them.”

“You beg so prettily,” He pulls them out and begins fingering you at a snail’s pace. “But it’s not enough. You can do better.”

“Please!” you exclaim. “I need more…”

“God, you’re dripping on my hand and I haven’t done much.” He moves faster, his fingers knuckle deep and curling in spots that have you clenching hard. It’s like he’s coaxing out more of your essence with each stroke and then challenges you with a third finger. “Does it feel good?”

You can hardly respond with how stuffed you feel, your lust insatiable as he speeds up.

“Yes? No? Maybe so?” he asks, amused by your struggle.

“Y-Yes… good… so good…”

Your pussy is making obscene noises and you’re feeling a warmth building in your abdomen, especially when Sylus kisses your neck. His lips are scorching hot, almost searing as if you were being branded. You submit and let him mark you, focusing on the pressure within as your high is approaching. He uses his free hand to hold yours, interlocking your fingers together.

“Fuck!” you shout, feeling like you couldn’t breathe fast enough to keep up with his bruising pace. “I’m going to come, I—”

He seals your words with another kiss, and your scream is muffled when your orgasm hits you like a gunshot. It’s brutal and intense, causing you to see stars for what feels like the longest minute of your life.

At the same time, your interlocked palms glow bright red and ivory. Unlike before, this explosion caused a surge of power to pass through his bedroom like shockwaves, destroying most things that came into contact. The roar is deafening, but all you can focus on is Sylus and how good he made you feel.

“Come back to me.”

You don’t realize when he stopped kissing you. Or when he removed his fingers. Or when you stopped being pinned to the wall. Sylus is holding you up and when you see how his eyes softened for the concern for your well-being, you’re smitten.

“I’m okay…”

His demeanor shifts, the change so sudden that it is like a phone going from light mode to dark mode. The man manipulates your body with his Evol and throws you onto the bed without a second thought. Black-red mist envelops your body again, this time cuffing your wrists in front. Tendrils wrap around each breast, your torso, and your neck, constricting tightly until you resemble a beautifully decorated present.

Sylus joins you on the bed, settling in between your thighs as he lies on his stomach as if he were a sniper. He has his Evol pry them wider, so your pussy is exposed for his feasting eyes. His arms are secured under your thighs, an extra precaution to hold you in place.

That’s when an untimely knock comes.

“Boss? Is everything alright?”

“We heard a loud crash!”

Damn it. Luke and Kieran have impeccable timing. And the way the corners of Sylus’ lips tug into a smirk instills panic in you.

“Answer them. Make it convincing,” Sylus whispers. You watch as he dips down until his white hair is all you can see. His lips latch onto your lower ones and you’re choked up, trying not to moan too loudly as he tastes you.

“We’re… We’re fine!” you exclaim, though your breathy tone is far from convincing. Sylus grunts in disapproval at your poor performance, and the vibrations are a suitable punishment. “Sylus and I have are having a disagree—ah!—ment.”

Fuck, why does he have to lick your clit right at that moment?!

“Oh no, you two are fighting?” Kieran asks, his voice cracking slightly from his concern.

“Give up, [Y/N]! Our boss is relentless!” Luke adds with a faint snicker. Tell me about it.

Sylus continues to give you kitten licks before licking a long stripe across your labia folds. You’re bucking your hips because you want more, but you’re also trying to close your thighs to escape the pleasure. It’s no use when you’re restrained and have no choice but to let him eat you out to his heart’s content. It’s when he inserts a finger to join in his salacious tongue that your eyes are rolling to the back of your head.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you breathe. “Sylus, if you keep going… they’ll hear me.”

“Then I suggest you stay quiet. What would your colleagues say if they knew the best hunter in Linkon is lusting over the leader of Onychinus?”

“I’m-I’m not!”

“Keep telling yourself that, sweetie,” He gives you a short break to clean your juices off his fingers, sucking them like they were a popsicle. “And oh how sweet you are, indeed.”

“Don’t kill each other!” the twins chorus. Sylus chuckles and shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb.

“Leave us,” he demands. “We have ways of… negotiating. Even if it takes all night…”

There’s some shuffling before you hear their footsteps recede down the hallway until silence remains.

“That was mean,” you whine. He tilts his head, swiping his upper lip with his tongue ever so slowly.

“You think that was mean? Oh… you underestimate me.”

He rises from your thighs and kneels on the bed, but his large frame still towers over you. “Wait, I—”

A snap of his fingers seals your mouth shut. You see the crimson specks floating around your mouth and protest, but they’re reduced to muffled squeals.

“Like I said before… you have quite the mouth on you today.”

Your eyes enlarge when you see a black-red tentacle rise from between your thighs. It sparks at the tip, which transforms into a cock-head to simulate a human penis. It’s not too thick, but it still makes your heart beat erratically.

Sylus takes both your hands and squeezes the right one first. “If you want me to keep going, squeeze your right hand,” He squeezes the left one next. “If it’s too much and you want me to stop, squeeze your left.”

His thoughtfulness brings those butterflies back. You squeeze your right hand and he nods, commanding the tentacle to run its tip up and down your folds. It brushes your clit every so often, which makes you sigh in pleasure. Then it enters you slowly, your arousal making things run smoothly.

It penetrates you about six inches deep before pulling out halfway, only to slam back into you with greater force. Your cries are muffled, but Sylus can tell you’re enjoying yourself by how your eyes roll back. The appendage thrusts into you at a maddening pace, your body rocking back and forth from the notion, and Sylus enjoys seeing the erotic sight of your tits bouncing. The tendrils around your breasts constrict while smaller ones branch off, wrapping around your nipples and teasing them too.

The make-shift gag around your mouth converts into another cock-head tentacle, forcing its way in so you’re sucking it off. Sylus groans at the beautiful sight of you submitting to it so willingly.

“You’re so pretty when you submit… I can’t imagine how sexy you’ll look when I take you,” he praises.

So many parts of you are being stimulated and you’re sure you’ll come again soon with how each thrust, both in your pussy and mouth, speeds up. It’s almost like they were losing control, taking you with them. It’s not until you feel a small spark from below that you yelp.

The sensation was like static electricity that you get if you rub your feet on a carpet. Not life-threatening, but a nuisance that stings for a brief second.

“My Evol is energy manipulation… that energy is hard to control sometimes…” Sylus says in a low voice. “It might even shock you.”

You can’t hear much over the squelching noises from your pussy and mouth as the tentacles work into you, hungrily, greedily, until the build-up from below is enough to cause your whole body to shake involuntarily. Your orgasm approaches and then is heightened when a small jolt of electricity shocks your clit.

The tentacle in your mouth removes itself, so you can scream until your voice gives out. The other one leaves your pussy once you stop shaking, and you are still on the bed, catching your breath. However, you feel something warm and wet on your stomach, so you lift your head enough to see spurts of cum leaking from Sylus’ cock.

His hands are still holding your own. Did he come from simply watching you?

“I’m not going to apologize,” he says without a hint of remorse. “You excite me.”

You’re flattered, truly. Especially when his cock is still erect, almost angry with need by how much it throbs. You wonder if it’s painful.

The mist around your wrists vanishes, but your body is dragged off the bed to the opposite side of the room, where Sylus’ grand wall mirror reaches the ceiling. You’re suspended in front of it and he wraps his arm around your waist from behind, twirling your hair with his other hand.

“Do you know how irresistible you are? Such temptation… that’s why I’m taking my time,” He takes his finger, swipes across your stomach, and gathers enough cum to coat his digit before lifting it to your mouth. “Open.”

You obey and he lets you taste himself, the action so wicked. So dominating. So sexy. His cum is salty and slightly bitter, but addictive.

“Good girl. Are you ready for what’s next?”

“Yes.”

His Evol controls your limbs and suddenly, you’re flipped upside-down with Sylus’ cock in front of your lips while your pussy is facing his. Your legs are wrapped around his neck and you’re taken aback at the extreme position.

“I’ve always thought Standing 69’s would be… enthralling. Always wanted to try it.”

The blood rushing to your head blurs your focus and your adrenaline spikes at the thought of possibly falling. But Sylus’ powers are strong and you’ve yet to see them falter. As if he can read your thoughts, he says, “Don’t worry, kitten. Rest assured I won’t drop you on your pretty little head.”

“It’s still scary…”

“I know. But isn’t that what makes it thrilling?” He pulls you closer by placing his hands on your ass, placing a chaste kiss on your cunt. “The sooner you finish, the sooner I’ll have you right-side up.”

Another challenge you can’t back down from. You take Sylus’ cock in your mouth and it reaches the back of your throat quickly from its impressive length. It’s also thicker in girth than the tentacle you sucked off earlier, which makes you gag.

Sylus throws his head back, panting from how soft and warm your mouth feels. He snaps his fingers to release your wrists, allowing your hands to find purchase on the back of his thighs.

“If it becomes too much, squeeze twice.”

You respond by bobbing your head up and down, which earns a sharp inhale from him. He isn’t one to fall behind, so he indulges in your sopping cunt like a glutton, moaning and grunting into it like an animal. Meanwhile, you relax your jaw so it becomes easier to adjust to his size, swirling your tongue as you maneuver up and down.

Your eyes shift to the mirror, seeing your compromised position and lewd actions. You barely recognize yourself or Sylus for that matter. He’s so engrossed in eating you out that his eyes are closed like he’s enjoying heaven on Earth. It pushes you to work harder, keeping up with his pace.

Right before Sylus is about to reach his peak, you hear another snap. He stops eating you out and you feel something bumpy rub itself against your pussy. Then Sylus’ fingers spread your ass cheeks and you feel it probing around your other hole.

Your mouth stills and your eyes widen at the sight of a black-red tendril that’s now ribbed at the tip. It slowly enters, stretching you to take each ribbed section, simulating the action of being fucked repeatedly. Sylus is back at work, inserting his tongue into your vagina in hopes it’ll distract you from the burn, but it only makes you clench harder.

“Relax…” he reminds you before diving back in again. He’s bucking his hips to remind you to continue, and you do your best as saliva pools so much that it drips down near your eyes. Everything feels too much, too tight, especially when the tentacle starts fucking your asshole. The ribbed texture only adds to the intensity and hits spots that border pain and pleasure.

Sylus’ hips begin to stutter and you’re seconds away from passing out from the light-headedness. Fortunately, he finishes in your mouth, the thick viscosity of his cum coating your throat while you orgasm for the third time tonight.

The noises he lets out are feral and if you had the chance, you’d record them so you could get off to them another night. You feel the pressure in your ass disappear and as promised, you’re right-side up again, but your limbs feel like jelly. Sylus wraps his arm around your waist, his hold secure as he flashes you a satisfied grin.

“Open.” You’re still in a daze, but the command gets through to you and you show him your mouth. When he sees you have swallowed, he hums in approval. “You really do hold up your end of the bargain. I suppose I’ll finally give you what you want.”

He grabs your hand and places it on his dick, which is slippery from your saliva. He’s still semi-erect but a few strokes is all it takes to get him up and running again. The man’s a beast and refuses to be in a cage.

Guiding you to the bed, he lays down first on the mattress, his hands clasped behind his head as he rests on a pillow. In the blink of an eye, you’re suspended over him, the black-red mist parting your thighs and slowly lowering you until your pussy barely grazes his tip. Your wrists are bound behind your back now and you’re like a puppet, bent to his will.

“What do you desire, Kitten?”

“You,” you beg. “Please.”

“You wish for me to take you raw?”

You’re nodding like your life depended on it. “Yes.”

“You wish for me to use you?”

“To your heart’s content.”

He says nothing else and sinks you onto his fat cock, and despite the many sessions he’s used to prep you, there’s still a slight burn from how much he stretches you. It feels incredible as he bottoms out, knocking the breath out of both of you.

“Oh god…” you say, trembling from how full you feel. “You’re so big…”

“And you’re so tight. It’s like your pussy doesn’t want to let go of me. So greedy.”

The mist controls your pliant body, helping you bounce up and down without pausing for a break. Sylus does a jazz hands motion with the widest grin on his face.

“Look, kitten. No hands.”

You almost growl at his cheap jokes, but his throbbing cock deters you from your thoughts, almost impaling you from its brute force. Sylus reaches out and pulls you so your chest meets his, his arm hooked around your back to hold you in place, giving you a short moment of reprieve.

“Raise your head,” he commands. You feel so drained, but you force yourself to do it and he gives you a quick smooch. “I need you to relax.”

The ribbed tentacle is back and you feel it gliding in between your ass cheeks, prodding your rim every so often like it’s mischievous.

“S-Sylus, it’ll be too much,” you say.

“You can handle it. But let me know now if you want to stop.”

You bite your lower lip, considering his words. “No. Don’t stop.”

“That’s my girl…” The tendril pushes into your asshole, taking its time as each ribbed section feels like a repeated attack, pushing the limits of your body. You’re utterly stuffed once it’s in as far as Sylus allows and you feel his cock throb in your sore pussy.

Sylus jerks his hips first and then the tentacle joins as they pump in and out of you, alternating and becoming more violent. You’re biting down in the juncture between his neck and shoulder to steady yourself, and he lets out a strained fuck, yes, thrusting up into you so hard that you sob, tears pricking your eye.

Just when you think there aren’t any surprises left, a second tentacle sneaks around to your lips, seizing its opportunity to enter when you gasp. It gags you and now all three of your holes are being used and abused, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. The stimulation is overwhelming, the pressure bottling, your pussy squeezing Sylus’ like a vice—you’re both not going to last much longer.

“That’s it, that’s it—fuck, I adore you,” he pants, closing his eyes and focusing his energy to give you his all. The tendril occupying your mouth releases you, allowing the mantra of Sylus’ name to fall from your lips as euphoria greets you.

You’ve come many times tonight, but this one saturates you in overwhelming pain and pleasure. Everything is sore and you can’t stop seeing four of everything until Sylus lifts you by the hips, coming on his stomach and not inside you. You collapse onto his chest when the mist dissipates, the two of you catching your breath.

There isn’t enough money in the world to convince you to move, not after what you’ve experienced. Yet something lifts you off Sylus and you’re about to cry again.

“No, no more…”

“Hush now,” The mist positions you in Sylus’ arms bridal-styled as he gets off the bed, his strong arms securing you. “We’re going to the bathroom to clean ourselves up. You’re staying with me for the night.”

You nuzzle into his embrace like a kitten, and a fond smile rests on his face.

“Okay.”

A/N: You made it to the end! Yipee! Thank you for giving my writing a chance. PLEASE let me know if you enjoyed. 🌹

#sylus smut #sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus x reader #lads sylus #sylus x you #sylus qin #my writing #lads smut #lnds sylus

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legendofmorons · 1 month ago

Text

Written in the stars (forever on loop) chapter thirteen - who is she? (a misty memory)

Pairing: poly! Chain x reader, Wind & reader

Rating: T

Summary: while everyone manages to spot the town a mishap with magic dungeon leads to you entering the dungeon alone with only a dazed Hyrule for company.

(Aka: Wind's both psychic and tempting fate, Legend is screaming internally, some fae lore, and Time has a Repression Canyon. You and Hyrule are not doing well become Hyrule is under the influence of something. No one is having a good time right now, except for Dark, who is currently off screen and being dramatic.)

Warnings: cursing, grief, hypnotism/ mind control, Time's Repression Canyon (TM),

Other: If I missed anything please let me know.

Previous masterlist next

This chapter contains descriptions of mind control/ hypnosis. If you would like to read this story but skip this chapter a summary instead you can find it here.

-------

"Maybe we should split up," Hyrule suggests as your group walks.

"No," you say in perfect sync with Four.

"Why not?" Hyrule asks.

You just stare at him.

Is he being serious right now?

"You are injured, (Y/n) was recently singled out by the Shadow, and Wild has most of our food supply. Splitting up with no plan or destination is not a good idea," Four says as he crosses his arms.

Wild stops, gaze narrowing at something in the distance, "What is that?"

"Looks like a dungeon?" Hyrule offers faintly, almost lost in his own mind.

"We don't have to do the dungeon, do we?" You ask hesitantly.

"I'm sure we're fine," Four says. "There's no shadow there as far as I can tell."

"We should still head towards it. It's the first identifiable thing we've seen," Hyrule's says.

You don't like how much sense he makes.

Dungeons, while a staple for the Zelda franchise, are a pain in the butt. Even the shrines that are sort of mini-dungeons are a pain.

There's the dread of having to do a dungeon for real even though the boys say you probably won't need to.

At least it's probably a forest temple. Those are usually the first dungeon in the games and are a little easier puzzle wise to help you get the hang of it.

You walk forward with Wild at your side while Four and Hyrule follow. The air lightens with each step now that you all have a destination of sorts.

Spooky and Epona walk on either side of you and Wild.

The birds in the trees sing and crow happily, a constant that sets you at ease. After all, animals go silent when there's predators nearby.

"Do you know anything about dungeons?" Wild asks you as you walk along the trail.

That's a trap of a question if you've ever heard one... but it isn't meant to be.

"Some," you say after a moment. You aren't ready to try explaining the video game thing or the memory things, and you don't know if you ever will be.

"Like what?" Hyrule asks, his eyes lingering on you.

Oh, he always did match your curiosity, didn't he?

(They all do, but some of them hide it better.)

The thought about matching curiosity seems correct and yet wells up from the part of you that the dreams and memories come from.

"There's lots of puzzles, and a lot of times, there's a tool to get," you say with a half shrug.

"There's also usually a boss," Hyrule adds helpfully, coming back to awareness.

Whatever the traveler was thinking about seems to have let him go.

"That sounds right," you nod along.

Wild shakes his head, "Bosses are awful."

"Would you rate it zero out of ten?" You ask.

The words come out of your mouth with little thought, and you aren't sure why they come out either. Unfortunately, you can't take it back.

"Negative four," Four says before he stops to think about it. "Wait - no pun or joke intended."

"I believe you," you say easily, "Bosses sound awful."

"You should have seen thunderblight," Wild says with a tone that implies a story he isn't ready to tell.

With the knowledge that you have seen thunderblight as well as the knowledge that you shouldn't say that, you just offer a sympathetic smile. "Sounds like a tough fight."

Wild snorts. "It was."

"Do you have dungeons in your world?" Hyrule asks.

"Not like yours. Our dungeons are more like prisons?" You trying to explain.

"Like jail?" Four asks.

"Yes."

"Strange," Hyrule says.

You smile a little, "I guess it probably is."

Conversation peters out as you continue to trek towards the dungeon.

You can't say why exactly you feel you're going to be doing the dungeon, but you have the ever sinking feeling you will be completing the thing.

The presence of both the males with you and the two animals is the best solace you have. The comfort of knowing that not only are you not alone but that you are surrounded by your boys is addicting.

Your boys... they are your boys.

They are so undeniably your boys, and yet they aren't.

You remember things about them that you could only know from living a loving relationship with them, but you don't know their last names or favorite colors.

You know what their hands feel like in your own.

You know what kissing them feels like.

The feeling of their arms around you as they tell you they're going to protect you is burnt into your soul, apparently in a literal sense.

For all of that, you don't know how they like their coffee or their favorite scent for soaps.

Your mind spirals until you find yourself before the dungeon.

It's not a dungeon you recognize off the top of your head.

The large step pyramid is over taken by vibrant flora and fauna with carvings of vines and triangles alike. It's definitely a forest temple, then.

"Is that a town?" Hyrule asks as he points towards the left, but he sounds as if in a daze.

Maybe it's exhaustion?

You turn and look over, squinting. "Maybe?"

"Two of us could go see while two stay here just in case the others show up?" Hyrule offers."

"That's not the worst plan," Wild muses. "But it still has us splitting up,"you frown.

"We have a plan and destination this time," Four says as he looks the group over. "Wild and I could scope out the potential town while you and Hyrule stay here."

There's the urge to argue against staying here, but in reality, you can't come up with a good reason not to. Hyrule has a hurt ankle, and you don't have the practice to both scope a town out and to wrangle a panther.

"If you're sure," you say because you don't want him to feel as if you are ignoring him.

Four looks at you, eyes the same - almost purple - they usually are when they look at you.

(They used to be a constant silvery gray color, but now they have flecks of four different colors and switch between the dominant hue. A consequence of the foursword?)

"We're sure," Four says.

"We'll be fast," Wild says with a tight smile.

"Just be safe," you tell him.

"We will," Wild says.

("Just - just be safe," you tell the young man with the long hair.

He takes your hands in his, smiling soft and sad. "I still have to show you those sunsets, I'll be back.")

Four and Wild head towards what is hopefully a town. Their figures shrink against the horizon as they move away.

Hopefully, nothing goes wrong.

As if the universe heard your a low grinding sound, the dungeon behind you gives makes you hiss out a curse. That can't be any good.

It's fine.

This is fine.

The sliding cicle door seems to be opening.

"That's... ominous," Hyrule manages weakly, eyes lingering once again on your frame with a strange glint.

"Just don't go in," you say tightly, "Something is really wrong here."

"Yeah..." He frowns, voice strange as he looks to the dungeon.

The air feels like it is trying to eat you alive now.

Spooky growls at the dungeon as they get between the dungeon and you.

Epona won't look at it.

Hyrule is swaying, looking more and more dazed by the second.

"Hyrule?" You ask.

"Hm?" He asks, leaning towards the dungeon.

"Hyrule, what's going on?"

"Don't you hear it?" He asks.

You have just enough time to think the words 'oh shit' before things go wrong, and Hyrule stumbles through the opening of the dungeon as if in a trance.

"Stay here, you two," you say as you follow after Hyrule.

It's a horrible plan.

You know this as soon as your feet move, but he is already hurt and almost in a trance.

You can't just let him wander in alone.

Even the time it might take to catch up to Wild and Four could spell disaster for Hyrule.

As soon as you clear the doorway, the dungeon door rolls shut at a terrifying speed.

The large rolling stone circle that is the door looks too heavy to move, and when you try to open it anyway, you find it weighs more than anyone can move without magic.

Great.

You turn and find Hyrule standing a few steps in front of you as he sways, humming as if he isn't aware he is making sound. The tune is a much slower and half haunting version of the fairy fountain music.

The air feels even worse inside the dungeon.

Hungrier.

You close the distance between you and Hyrule.

All right, you guess you're doing the dungeon.

This is fine.

You have the practical of puzzles, at least...

Oh boy...

-------

Legend walks through the grassy plains as he and his two companions head towards the town with a sense of dread. He dosen’t know what is wrong, only that something is.

He can't help but wonder over your safety.

Who are you with?

Are you alone?

What is he going to do if you die again? You -

You aren't his.

Not the way he remembers and craves.

You are on a lifetime where you don't actually know him.

How is he to tell a different Link you died?

You aren't dead, though.

Legend can't stand the thought.

He needs you to live.

He'll keep his emotions as his problem.

You don't remember him.

You aren't his (Y/n)... but you are.

This whole thing makes his head spin. His main goal with you - this version of you that isn't on the same reincarnation he is - is to follow your lead with whatever form of relationship you want.

Legend sighs heavily as he fiddles with the ring that he never takes off. (The ring that was once going to be your ring...)

He just needs to get his head on straight. That's all.

Legend can do this.

"Do you think anyone else is already there?" Wind asks from the right.

"I don't know," Warriors sighs.

"Where else would they go? I haven't seen anything but this town," Legend says with his most even tone.

His anxiety dosen’t have to spill all over everyone else.

Wind rolls his eyes. "I hope you're right."

"I just have a bad feeling about this," Legend says with a sigh.

"How bad can it be? We're in a place with little to no monsters," Wind shakes his head.

Legend could just shake the sailor; you never ask that. That is just asking fate to come in and wreck things.

Warriors shakes his head, "We don't know where the others ended up."

Wind sighs, "You both need more faith in them."

"I have plenty of faith," Legend says primly, "I just also know everyone in the group is a magnet for trouble."

"What do you think is going to happen? It's not like dungeons can force you to enter them and then disappear until you complete them," Wind rolls his eyes.

Legend's eye twitches. He has to bite back the urge to physically shake Wind. You never ever tenpt fate like that. Especially not after asking 'how bad can it be?'.

"I'll take your word for it," Warriors says with a frown.

Legend just focuses on walking to the town. He is not dealing with this.

He is focusing so hard on that that when he hears the sharp, demanding meow of Spooky, he almost screams.

"Spooky?" Wind asks, frowning, "What are you doing here?"

Spooky meows again, tail lashing as they stare down Legend.

They don't stare at Wind.

They don't stare at Warriors.

Spooky stares right at Legend, as if demanding his attention.

"Where's (Y/n)?" Legend asks slowly.

He feels absolutely ridiculous asking a cat about this, but the cat seems to know something.

The cat seems to wat him to do something.

Spooky turns and starts running towards a spot past the town.

"Are we supposed to follow them?" Wind asks.

Legend dosen’t bother with thinking, "Yes. Come on."

The veteran surges forwards with the aid of his Pegasus boots. He knows Warriors and Wind are both following him.

Legend knows Warriors is unusually fast even among the heroes, so he trusts the captain to keep up and help Wind.

Legend can't believe he's chasing down a preadator.

Spooky runs through the area, ignoring rocks and trees and grass alike. They have a mission as they run.

Spooky stops at the main treeline of the forest, where the only notable thing is an incredibly large faerie circle of strange mushrooms.

Legend skids to a stop, looking around and finding no trace of you.

"Where are they?" Legend asks as he looks to Spooky.

Spooky yowls at the mushrooms circle, pacing back and forth between Legend and the circle. Their hackles are raising. Their ears are pinning back.

Legend grips his sword and grits his teeth.

Spooky does not seem to look at Legend. They seem to be challenging the mushroom circle itself.

Legend is safe enough. Legend is not actively being threatened.

Warriors and Wind skid to a stop and Legend's side.

"Where's (Y/n)? Why's Spooky so mad?" Wind asks as he steps forward to check on the panther.

Spooky growls, nudging Wind backward to create space between the sailor and the mushroom circle.

Legend can't argue with that.

The mushroom circle feels wrong.

Faeries are not all good or all evil. They are like humans. They have the ability for both, and the individual can be a mic of either.

But the magic itself that makes the faerie circle feels like fear and hunger alike.

Like nightmares and thorns.

Like a Venus fly trap starving for food.

"I don't know, but I don't think we're going to like the answer," Legend grits out.

"Why did Spooky bring us here?" Wind frowns. "I don't understand."

"It's a faerie circle," Warriors says, "And an unusually large one at that. It feels... malicious."

"That's a nice description," Legend huffs.

"So... you think the circle has (Y/n)?" Wind asks softly.

"I don't know."

"We couldn't go in?" Wind offers.

"No," Warriors says. "We can't. Not without having a solid plan."

Legend starts looking around. They need answers.

They need help.

They need Hyrule, because the resident Faerie will have the best idea of how to handle things.

Not everyone knows Hyrule is part fae, but Legend does, and Legend really needs his brother's help.

"I really don't like this," Warriors says. "We should find the others."

"And leave? What if (y/n) comes out and needs help?" Legend asks.

"Well-" Warriors starts only to be cut off by a loud whinny.

The sound of fast hoodbeats sound as what is presumably Epona rushes forward.

"LEGEND!" Wild calls breathlessly as he runs after the horse.

Legend turns, finding that all the others outside his group are running towards him... all the others except you and Hyrule.

"Did you see the temple?!" Wild demands.

"Temple?" Wind asks incredulously, "There's no temple."

"Yes, there was," Wild chokes out.

Four curses sharply before he says, "They went in."

"They weren't supposed to!" Wild snaps.

"The locals said the place lures you in," Sky tries to soothe.

"Wait - What is going on?" Legend demands.

"Hyrule and (Y/n) went into some magic place that only exists sometimes," Wild explains as he wave shis hands around.

"Easy now, cub," Twilight soothes as best he can as he sets a hand on Wild's shoulder. "Ya can't go s'plainin' like a cucoo with its head cut off."

"What does the temple have to do with the faerie circle?" Warriors asks tightly.

"Bad things," Wild hisses.

"Everybody, take a moment and pull yourselves together," Time cuts in with an authority that Legend clings to for the moment. "Once you're all calmer, I'll explain. Until then, you have to trust Hyrule and (Y/n)."

Legend is ready to pull his hair out. He grips the edge of his cap as well as his hair, tugging.

It isn't about trusting you and Hyrule. It's about needing you to both be safe and alive.

-------

Hyrule walks forward with little thought, his mind fogging over at the sound of his honeybee's voice calling for him.

"Link? Where are you? I'm scared and you promised to protect me!" You call to him.

Hyrule makes a soft sound.

He's failing you!

Someone walks at his side, but that dosen’t matter.

There's the sound of grinding behind him.

Distantly, Hyrule has just enough sense to think 'that's not good'.

The room Hyrule walks through has a walkway of mossy stones with tall pillars of craved wood. Magic hangs in the air.

The magic feels so weird.

A hand grabs his wrist, and your voice cuts through the haze again, louder and more insistent. "Hyrule!"

He blinks, looking to you with wide eyes. You're right here, so why did your voice sound so far away before?

"Link, please!" Your voice calls from far away despite Hyrule staring at your face.

Your mouth does not move.

Something is very, very wrong, and whatever it is has your voice.

Wait...

You aren't his honeybee.

The other voice has to be his honeybee!

Hyrule isn't sure what you're doing here. Aren't you usually with Sky and Wind?

"Hyrule, I need you to help me," you say to him tightly.

Your eyes are a little wide.

Your grip on his wrist boarders on desperate and bruising.

You are not his honeybee, but you look ready to run. You share a face with his lost love, but you are also someone who isn't part of the fight of good vs. evil, and you need his help.

"What's wrong?" Hyrule asks as he watches your face.

You swallow hard, "Hyrule, you went into the dungeon!"

"What dungeon?" Hyrule asks.

"What - Hyrule, we're in a dungeon. Your ankle is still busted, and the door just sealed!" You tell him with half desperate fear and half disbelief.

Hyrule frowns, trying to make sense of your words. The entire situation feels far away.

Come to think of it... the air feels like a dungeon and fae magic.... strange.

"LINK!" Calls his honeybee from wherever they are.

They're in the dungeon!

"Why are you in here?" Hyrule asks you as the haze starts to creep back in.

You tug his wrist to get his attention, "I followed you in. Why did you go in?"

"You followed me?"

"Yes."

"Why?" He asks, utterly unsure.

You have no ties to his honeybee despite the many similarities, and you are not a hero. You're lovely and all but he doesn't understand.

"You're going into a dungeon in a daze with a busted ankle, I wasn't going to let you be alone and get hurt," you say as if the answer is obvious.

"Oh. That's sweet of you," Hyrule says.

"It's- Hyrule. We need to leave," you say firmly, stepping back and gently tugging his wrist with you.

"Leave?" He echoes, squinting behind you. "There's no door."

"What?!" You demand as you whip around.

He watches as you realize that there is, in fact, no door.

"Oh fuck," you manage as you turn back to him. "That's bad. A minute ago it was just too heavy... I was hoping you had something... and now it's gone?!"

The sound of your voice is the clearest thing for him but the words sound as if he is bobbing in and out of water.

"We have to go forward. That's where my honey bee's voice is," he says as he steps towards the direction where he hears the voice when it speaks.

You just stare at him with a strange mix of horror and sympathy. "I don't think - Hyrule, I haven't heard a voice besides yours."

"You will," Hyrule says, unsure why he says it or even what it means.

He starts walking down the path with the columns on either side.

Your hand still holds his wrist, and you follow him.

"NO! LINK HELP!" His honeybee calls from further within the building.

Hyrule starts to run, dragging you along as he rushes forward.

All he has to do is get to his honeybee.

There's nothing too hard about that -

You yank him against a wall with a hiss of his name.

Hyrule's back hits the wall with a thump just as an arrow whizzes by. If he were still running down the path, it would have hit his head.

Where did that come from?

You're getting better at this adventure thing, he decides. He should tell you that later.

You move your hand off his wrist and instead lace your fingers through his.

The fog in his mind continues to thicken until all Hyrule knows is your hand in his and the terror in his honeybee's voice.

There are rooms and torches.

Moss and stones.

None of it matters.

Any time you jerk him somewhere, he registers there is a threat but not where or what it is.

He hopes that when you meet his honeybee, you like them.

There's still a faint nagging at the back of his kind that something is wrong and that he needs to focus on you and not the voice he can't see the source of.

He ignores the nagging feeling.

-------

Time is not looking forward to telling anyone about the dreaded temple that is now missing with only the faerie circle as a marker it exists. He is actually hoping not to have to tell them.

Of course, you go into the thing.

Of course, Hyrule is with you on a bad ankle.

Why wouldn't that be what's happening?

He takes a slow, steadying breath. He can do this.

Wild still looks ready to fall into a tizzy with Four staring into the distance and through everyone...

None of the others looks ready to listen.

Time dosen’t know how long they have to wait.

He dosen’t know how long it will take for you and Hyrule to come out.

(Because you will come out. There is no other option. That can not lose you or Hyrule.)

"Can I start?" Time asks.

He hopes desperately for you to jump out and yell surprise or for someone to tell him not to explain.

"Sure," Legend says stiffly.

"I can't say who went in first or why, but after talking to the locals, this temple is known for luring in the grieving and testing them. If they fail, they die," Time says slow and steady.

He focuses on the bark pattern of a tree ten or so feet away. If he focuses on the bark pattern, he dosen’t have to acknowledge the words that come out of his own mouth.

"What?!" Warriors demands.

"The temple is run by a fae who enjoys feeding on misery," Time sighs.

He hates that.

Time hates that this is yet another story where the faerie is the villain. He hates that the fae get such an overwhelmingly bad rep because some of them are bad.

So many of them are good but no one speaks of them.

"We need to get them out," Sky says as evenly as he can. "There should be a way..."

"Not a real one," Legend hisses.

"Like I said... we just have to trust them to come out," Time says even as his heart shatters.

"They'll be fine," Wind says with a conviction that so few ever get to have.

Time takes a deep breath, a slow inhale through his nose and an even slower exhale. He shouldn't argue.

He can't afford tobsew the seeds of doubt and fear into the group.

He can't water the doubts and fears they already have.

"They aren't in it alone," Time decides, the words are weak as soon as he says them, but everyone looks to him anyway.

Legend just sighs. "There's that..."

"I still don't understand," Four says with a far away llooks. His eyes stare at his own boots. "(Y/n) was nervous about the idea of going into the dungeon at all... why did they go in?"

Time can't help the relief that you at least have the sense to be weary of the place. That dosen’t change that you are currently in it, but you might pay better attention.

"I don't know... but Epona came running after us not too long after we hit town," Wild sighs heavily, voice high and tight in a way that betrays barley restraining terror.

"Spooky got us," Warriors says softer, "Seeing them without (Y/n) was absolutely terrifying."

Time is just grateful Epona is the one who came to fetch his group.

(Though the urgency in her body and the way she bit and pulled and whinnied at them until the followed her is still rather heart wrenching.)

"Ya heard Time, we jus' gotta trust 'em," Twilight says as calmly as he can.

Pride swells in Time's chest. His boy is coming so far as a leader.

"Where just worried," Sky says as he looks around. "We trust them, but (Y/n) hasn't faced a dungeon before."

"Not to mention Hyrule's ankle," Wild says immediately.

"His ankle?" Legend asks lowly.

"He's fine. It's just sprained," Four says firmly.

"We should focus on getting potions and supplies now so when they come out, we can help them," Time says.

He can't afford to let the boys spiral. He can't let fear over take them.

Time needs to distract them.

"That's a good idea," Sky says, quick to jump on the distraction.

"Twilight, Wild, why don't you stock up on meat? Warriors and Wind, you should go to town and get anything Wild says we need for meals. Legend, Sky, you go and get potions and any other medicine you see," Time says, trying to put the groups together as best he can. "Four, you and I will set up camp."

The others all grumble but pair off to do as he asks.

Setting up camp is routine now, something that Time is grateful for.

A temporary stone circle for the fire pit along with a perimeter check are both easy enough to ensure.

The only issue is that Time can't ignore the magic the mushroom circle radiates.

All he can do is wait, but Time hates waiting.

He just has to keep it together for the others. He can't fall apart because they need him.

Time takes every negative emotion he has about the current situation and shoves it into his patented repression canyon before promptly deciding that he will simply deal with the emotions never.

He has things to do.

-------

Taglist - @danyzta @vrsin @silver-the-pendejo @tulip-does-stuff @justanotherweeb666 @yourlocaltreesimp @blueberrysungie @victoryssong23 @shu-leepy @sleepifonlyigoti @sour-patch-delight @phlying-squirrel @pumpkincitrus @krys0210 @theregoeskittykat @fuckingfaraway @doodle-with-rhy @luxreader @chaos-inperson @justacommonwriter @time-shardz @ships-lover @theforgottenheros @clementine0068 @sinbehavior

#misty writes #linked universe x reader #lu written in the stars au #lu written in the stars (forever on loop) au #written in the stars au

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wings-of-ink · 17 days ago

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Fun News!

Hey gang!

Just wanted to share something cool and a bit spontaneous on my part - I hadn't even expected it.

We'll be getting a little more art in July!

It won't be character portraits, but all of your curse marks are being done by a professional (not just me with whatever I can scrape off of Canva). There may be some improvements to a couple of them that I've always felt a little 'meh' about. Also being done, is the game logo of the two halves of the suns (which happens to be the emblems for the gods, Hayat and Casimir, together in case you did not know).

I always wanted to do this but did not realize I'd be able to do it this year. The same artist who did our fabulous character art is on the case again! Subscribers at the Crow and Raven Tiers will get first looks before they're shared publicly.

Since you're here, how about some progress updates and info?

-The entirety of God-Cursed is up to 600k words!!!

-Chapter 6 continues to shape up nicely, another large section has been completed bringing the word total to 111k.

-Fun fact: One of Duri's moments plus the optional sexual content is 54 pages typed between all variations. Once I realized that, I had to take a moment of silence.

-The next project sample will be for "Daddy was a Killer." I have a start on it right now, just 2k words so far. I don't know when it will be ready for subscribers, likely after Chapter 6 is out.

-July's Crow Tier lineup will feature world lore, which will include some history of the nomadic group the MC's grandmother hailed from.

-July's Raven Tier can expect 4 short spicy stories. One spicy short will feature Aster for his first appearance in the extras. The lineup for the other 3 is being decided with voting on Patreon/Ko-fi. Oswin has pretty well declared victory for the second slot. Zahn is coming in hot for the next and there is currently a tie between Rune and Duri for the final slot.

That's all for now! Take care! ^_^

#god cursed if #gc if art

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gnohomotho · 6 months ago

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Just a game 𓂃۶ৎ

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Pairing: Hwang In-ho / Front Man x fem!reader

Summary: Just you, your wannabe boyfriend, and the start of an encounter that will change your life. With one phone buzz. Slow burn, but we get there. You are being very cared for. In his own sweet way.

Warnings: Mainly a beginning of something more, mentions of stalking and spying, some rude language, mentions of doctors and blatant violation of the ethical codex. Please have fun! Responsibly.

Link to next chapter: Part 2

"I'd like that very much."

The voice of your companion echoes through the room, flaps against the wall and hits you in the face. It jumps on empty hospital chairs, the doctor's desk, all white and plastic, as dull as whatever the words are dancing on your eardrums with.

You brush your hair behind your ear. All too aware of how mannquine-like and empty the face in front of you looks. Your own head is reverberating. Your lips purse.

"I wouldn't."

The chair under you doesn't move. You wish it would. Carry you away on its little legs. You wonder how chairs could graze freely on some kind of chair-free plane, free from the shackles of architecture---you hear the doctor's words again, and you hear yourself thank them, apologize, plan to take the errant papers and leave the door open behind you. Always planning. Always going away.

"What? Y/N, I...what? Let's talk abou this. Please, stop acting like this! Don't do this to me."

The voice is broken, and you truly do try to care beyond wondering about a chair's natural habitat. Truth be told, all you manage instead of a grand exit is silence. You stand up - silently. You thank the doctor - silently. And you walk out of the door, muttering some native curse words under your breath and pondering whether vending machines truly are as deadly as the statistics say. He made it about himself, again, you think to yourself.

"I can't believe you...no, wait, I fucking can."

You're tired. You feel violated. You would like to crawl into a bed, had you had a safe one to do in. Hug a cat, if you had one. Hug a crow, if you could. Anything.

You mumble to yourself in hushes as you finger the coffee machine, knowing whatever it serves up will just make you feel sick. Your companion is catching up. A tall, imposing kind of boy. Not that it mattered. You never did find pretty boys pretty.

"Boy," you think to yourself. A boy. A boy who can't get his toy to work, and now he's wasted all those friendship tokens and used up all his faces on you, you ungrateful little...

"Y/N, look, what the hell---I really tried, I went all this way, I took you here, I'm just trying to help!"

He really did sound like a little boy tearing at his mother's skirt. His dark black hair fell into his forehead, his neat sweater leaning a bit to the left. You notice his lips and wonder, whatever possessed you to even begin to think of a future with them?

"Help. You wanted to help yourself. Fix your little broken toy and have something to fuck. Did it get tiring? Pretending to care?"

The coffee machine whirred in what you hoped was something of an agreement. You turn around and face the man, boy, whatnot, and try to look put together. Some old couples begin to notice the commotion. An old lady with a dog in her purse is not doing a very good job of looking disinterested in what, ironically, resembles a lover's quarrel.

"Wow, that's low. Y/N. I was there every time. I did so much for you, you didn't have to ask."

"You insisted. You didn't listen to any 'no thank you'. You dragged me here. Every time. Promising you..."

Your lips twist a little in disgust, but mostly, you don't feel anything anymore.

"Promising you love me, with that big "but" of yours. Well, good thing we have it on paper now - I can't love and I can't fuck, I suppose you've bet on the wrong horse - losing in game and losing in love. Fancy that."

God damn it, not the tears, not the tears, you feel your eyes glisten and your stomach tighten. Hair falls from behind your ear, shielding your face. A tear rolls down.

"There's nothing wrong with me, nothing that you could fix by blunt forcing it. I was so stupid, it's my fault. Really truly my fault. I thought...I thought for a moment it could be something it obviously never could...It was never your responsibility to try or to fix anything, and I was so incredibly naive to think you'd adjust pace to something you obviously have no interest in if you can't violate it in a matter of minutes."

Slug and salt. Fire and gasoline. Lungs and carbon monoxide. That's what you are, you think. You don't realise nor would you know, that the whole time, someone was watching you. Someone noticed the way you held your stomach the entire time you spoke, as if shielding and soothing something vulnerable and tender. The way your eyes shone when you stood your ground. The way your pupils seemed to beckon a new visitor with glimpses of a world beyond this one with its unimaginative hospital corridors and dull white waiting rooms. He watched your legs as you held yourself up, seeing the coffee machine did half the work. He watched them buckle a little bit and you adjust. Your tights reflected the light, just as you did. His eyes trailed up to your skirt, your hands, your waist. Your hands, he found those most beautiful. They spoke with you. They had the fingers of a piano player and the fervour of a boxer losing a match.

Now they rested on your stomach again, shielding. Your body closed off once more. Your voice became more monotone. He could gather from the hushed whispers that this wasn't your boyfriend nor husband, but in a place like this - perhaps an ex? Or soon to be, he smiled the most innocent of hidden smiles before resuming a neutral, dignified expression. A baby's father? You did rest your hand on your stomach quite a bit...but the conversation you had in front of him wasn't enough. Now he was intrigued.

The way your lips pursed and remained a tad open when you thought of what to say, the way your eyes narrowed and your mouth made a perfect tiny shape when you found your words. Things you'd never think about yourself, oh, he was intrigued.

Intrigued by the girl with the long fingers and the gentle touch. The girl with fire in her eyes that draws you into the depths of a frozen river in the middle of the night and never makes you wish to leave.

How convenient was it that some people have the power to pull a few strings and Waltz into the very same doctor's office you walked out of and Waltz straight out again with your full medical records.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

You were walking home when your phone buzzed. You thought you blocked your ex-companion, you checked the messages and yes - his communication, circular and either blaming you or himself were still safely stored in the same blocked folder. No, this was an uknown number that you couldn't even see.

"Seriously?"

You sigh into the cold evening air and adjust your stance for a better look at the phone screen. An odd, jittery, almost chilly feeling envelops you and you shiver - that sensation of being watched washes around you and touches your skin. Going up and down your arms and calves. Stopping at your chest. You look around, but there is only dusk, cold, melted snow. A few lights from other houses. A streetlamp here and there. Nobody. You lean your head into the phone again, stepping away from the road you were walking on.

"How are you feeling, Y/N?"

The chill shot through your calves straight into your stomach and through your ribs to your head. It's him again, just a different number, of course. Oldest trick in the book. You wonder if you should reply, but think better of giving him further attention. Just as you put your phone away, it buzzes again.

"You seem cold."

You turn your head and scan every single shape around you, chills shaking your body as you do. This wasn't funny. This was so far from funny you are actively wondering where you left your pepperspray and whether or not setting a match to your deodorant would do the trick, should it come to it.

"I'm fine, leave me alone, stop texting me from other numbers, I know it's you." You quickly type trying to watch the surroundings more than the screen. It buzzes almost immediately back at you.

"I'm not him. And you seem cold. Tights and a skirt in your condition, walking alone in the dark and the snow. It isn't very wise, is it?"

Although text messages don't convey tone, you can feel the patronising air and boundary tear emanating from your screen. You hurry your legs to get out and back home as fast as you can.

"Please don't run in your condition. I wouldn't want you to hurt yourself."

"Fuck off." You whisper and break into a sprint. You don't hear steps or running behind you, you don't hear cars or anything but the sounds of the night. But a calm shrill sound does break the silence the moment you stop to catch your breath - that familiar buzz. Almost at home, almost--

"And please, if you may be so kind, don't dissobey me."

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

In-ho wasn't omnipotent nor could he predict your movements, listen in on your thoughts, or stalk you without issue.

He knew he'd lose you if he gave himself away. He knew he'd scare you if he revealed all he knew and he was enough of a gentleman to understand the basics of what constitutes harrassment and stalking.

In-ho was also in control. Always in control. Of people, of power, of his surroundings, of the entire games. And of course. Of himself. And if he wasn't, if he started to slip, he would relinquish that control by any means neccessary.

As he told himself now, it's nothing. Just a game. Just a bit of back-and-forth and fun. He's not enamoured, he's simply interested.

It's not attraction, it's a need to study.

It's not need, want, feeling - no, it is cold, simple fascination and control.

Cat and mouse. Nothing more.

And he's comfortable in this role, of course. Watching a player from up top, sipping his drink of choice. This is exactly the same. But why does it feel...odd?

His heart. Racing. His hands. Typing. Erasing. Typing. Oh, he wants to show you he knows everything. He wants to show you the plans he is hatching for you. He wants to take you from the cold street and grab you - so tight your breath and heart belong to him, even as you struggle.

He wants to make you yearn for his gloved touch more than the cold air outside yearns for your warmth, and he wants to hear you beg for a brush of his skin.

For his caress.

Perhaps he's indulged in his drink of choice too fervently, as of late. Perhaps the way the last games are going is pushing him to erratic decisions.

He sinks back into his chair and the confine of his mind.

His own body against yours, leaving you nowhere to run. For you to instinctively shield yourself again, as you did in front of the coffee machine, just so he can catch your wrist and hold it down, exposing you to him, defenseless and his.

He wants you to yearn for it. Shiver. Fear. Need. Beg.

He wants those beautiful, deep eyes to gaze up into his and drown.

#squid game #squid game fanfic #squid game x you #squid game x y/n #hwang in ho #hwang in ho x reader #in-ho x y/n #the front man x reader #the front man x you #player 001 #player 001 x reader #in ho x reader #in ho squid game #in ho #my writing #fanfiction #squid game imagine #hwang inho #inho x you

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cursedcola · 2 years ago

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Prompt: "Will You Marry Me?" - Proposal Headcannons Characters: Everyone :) Part(s): Heartslabyul, Savanaclaw, Octavinelle, Scarabia, Pomefiore, Ignihyde(here!), Diasomnia(Pt.1)(Pt.2) Fandom: Twisted Wonderland Warning(s): The relationship is kinda toxic because it's Idia and I have to be realistic - but it gets better as you read. Just know that there are themes of miscommunication, self-sabotage, self-neglect, and insecurity in both Idia and the MC. I gave him some character growth at least and some maturation to the character. Note: All Ignihyde has is Idia so I gave his piece some extra love(super long. Like, this isn't even considered a headcannon set anymore. I really went overboard, I'm so sorry). Not proofread for grammar since I'm a bit lazy right now. Also, I haven't finished his chapter in game because I'm too weak (seriously wtf is up with these fights). I know the plot mostly but forgive me if there's an inaccuracy in a reference

Idia had it made during his youth - and deep down he knows it despite all his complaining. He knows that he won the introvert lottery. For three years he was able to live in a reclusive dorm room with no expectations beyond showing up to class (via a tablet of all things) and doing his work. Sure, he had to return home at some point and deal with that hot mess...but it was a displaced problem. One to be dealt with whenever. As a full-time 'student' he had junk food readily available, his brother down the hall, all the games and tech he needed, and somehow managed to land himself a loving partner despite his quirks.

The Ramshackle prefect - someone he initially wanted nothing to do with. Chaos seemed to follow their every move and Idia wanted no part of it. He never expected to come within a twenty-foot radius of them without force.

For the record, force indeed was used. Unfortunately they had a nasty habit of being nosy. Very 'main character complex' of them, if you ask him.

Yet it worked in his favor. Their stubbornness and intrusive ways wormed a place in his stone-cold heart. It fueled his ego much to everyone's chagrin. Out of everyone - princes, busy bodies, future doctors and the literal fish mafia - you picked him. The noob cursed to lose all his 50/50s and rot in bluelight. Idia seriously questions your tastes, but hey! He beat the normies and that's all he cares about.

Well, at least that's how he phrases it. Underneath that god-tier ego is an inferiority complex that he tries to keep down for your benefit. Something about your mood dipping by 20% when he talks trash? He'd need Ortho to run another test on that. Just to be safe.

Unfortunately, he still can't reign it in all the way. Victories can be temporary and who's he to say that your relationship isn't a one-shot story? Nothing worthwhile is ever that simple. Good games always get sequels...so the question lingers, will he still be a main character in yours?

When Idia graduates, he fully expects for you to walk out of his life. He returns to S.T.Y.X and leaves NRC to fulfill his role back home. You have no reason to care about him when he's no longer nearby. Life isn't like an isekai manga. You won't wait for him - no, you'll get a taste for how life is without him and indulge. Slowly you'll stop texting him, calling him, playing games with him - well, he'll do it first! He refuses to be the second male lead that gets dumped when you finally find your prince. That's for chumps.

He'd rather you just up and leave this world! At least then he wouldn't be in this pitiful situation...but he's seen that crow's shitty work ethic. You're stuck.

Idia's scared to say the least. One could say that his self sabotage was in action before your relationship even began. Old habits die hard, and no one could stop his spiral. Not even Ortho. Idia left his little brother behind as well. The boy sent him off with a smile, promising to take good care of you in his big brother's stead. After all, you both were in the same year.

It's not surprising that he reverts to his old ways. A hard battle is even more difficult to win when you don't have the motivation to fight it in the first place. Idia loses his drive...and in turn his already negative outlook grows worse.

Needless to say, Idia ... neglects you.

Your relationship has always been more of an 80:20 than a 50:50 - with him taking more than he ever gave. You always set aside time and made sure he was comfortable. You respected his anxieties and dealt with his temper on more than one occasion. His jealousy. You indulged his hobbies, always tried to include him in on activities with your friends (even though he rarely ever accepted), wore your heart on your sleeve and always took the lead. You were always too good to be true.

Two years. Two years with him at S.T.Y.X and you at NRC. Not a day passed where you did not text him or call. Not a week passed where you did not video-chat or play a game with him. You made time. You checked in. Told him stories about your life an friends. Ortho often would send him recordings and clips as well. During vacations you'd make plans to see him and always invited him to come to campus for events. Even though he never accepted, you still always offered. Throughout it all he kept you at a distance, yet unable to fully let you go at the same time. He needed you to do it. He needed his inner thoughts to shut up and to have someone else to blame.

You. You. You. When would you stop? Why weren't you tired of him yet? On a good day he can be frustrating, so how were you not mad when he was physically trying to make you hate him? Were you waiting until graduation to drop the bomb on him that you'd leave for good? On another's arm or back to your world?

Imagine his surprise when neither happened. On the dawn after Ortho's graduation ceremony, Idia came out of his cave to greet him at the S.T.Y.X entrance. He would no longer be as lonely, and perhaps without Ortho around, you'd finally put distance between yourself and the Shroud family. All would be as it should.

He did not expect to see you at the gate as well. Ortho flew up to him with a bright grin and twirl in the air - babbling on and on about how he arranged for you to come work as a research assistant in the lab. After all, you had an extensive knowledge of blot as well as field experience. It was a win-win situation for the company and your relationship! You could now be a happy family! Isn't that just amazing?

"It was extremally difficult to keep this a surprise!...Brother?" Ortho halts mid-rant, his receptors going haywire, "Brother, your heartrate has increased and your temperature is dropping below stable levels. You must regulate your breathing pattern!"

White noise rang like television static in Idia's eardrum. He watched you thank one of the guards while handing off your suitcase. His pulse increased and mind went under water. How long had it been since you were together longterm? You looked different. More mature. Meanwhile he was still the same - physically and emotionally. Still the pasty shut-in with dark eyebags and energy drinks running through his veins instead of blood. He wasn't used to seeing you in person. How should he react? Should he hug you? Do you want him to? That's weird. He hasn't held you in a while - yeah, it would be creepy. Does he even deserve to? What made you want to work here anyways?! You could have gone anywhere. ANYWHERE. - Shit. You're looking this way. What should he do?! aHH! You're walking over!

He does what he knows best. Shuts down. You receive a disgraceful greeting. No affection. Not even a smile.

Idia's brow furrows at your approach and he buries his hands deep into the pockets of his lab-coat. When you lean in to kiss his cheek, he catches you by the forearms and holds you in place. "Since when were you going to work here? You do remember what S.T.Y.X is in charge of, right? Once you're in, there's no going back. Are you a masochist or something?" Ah. There goes the heartfelt reunion. Being home did bring out a more harsh and cut-throat side of him after all.

Despite his poor treatment, you don't react upset. Now the relationship has now become something of a 90 : 10. He knows you have no reason to come here other than for Ortho and himself. You really are an Otome protagonist, jeez. Willing to do all that for him? Giving up your future and friends just to be at his side...dammit. Don't give him hopes! Don't undo all the work he's put in to survive without you! Stop welcoming misfortune for his sake! You're stupid. Stupidstupidstupid .... man he loves that stupidity. Gods he missed it.

Shit. Not even an hour in and he's reverting.

You don't realize it but you're heading straight for a bad ending. He does though. He's read the guides and played more visual novels than he can count. As a pro, he needs to steer you off this villainy ending and towards the true route.

After all ... what was that one saying? Heroes will sacrifice you for the world, while Villans will sacrifice the world for you? He heard it from some normie bookworm...but it seems fitting right now.

Idia's no hero. He'll destroy his world if it means you get to be happy. Not that he had much of one to begin with. You...gave him a life beyond fiction while all he's offered is a curse. Literally and figuratively. Its time he returned what he so greedily stole. He'll make you move on through force.

The months are slow and difficult. Despite being nearby, Idia only ever seeks you out for work-related reasons. Even then he is very cold and dismissive . He also does not turn you away when you take the initiative. Just like old times, you linger around his room and prod him for attention. He wants you to leave, but also doesn't want to be cruel. So, he maintains this impassive position and lets you do whatever you please. Yet the situation is scarily similar to how you both were at NRC. Except instead of using his past as an excuse, he now uses your work dynamic to enable his noncommittal ways.

There really is only so much one person can take. After Idia left NRC, you pinned his switch in behavior on the lifestyle change and distance separating you both. You knew Idia would be someone you had to work hard for when you started to date, and so the situation was one you viewed as an obstacle to overcome. The solution was simple - you would go to S.T.Y.X and prove to him that you were willing to make it work. Without the physical distance, you hoped that he would let you in again. That you wouldn't have to hear reassurances from his brother anymore, and instead hear his feelings from his own mouth instead. Then you both could work out the details together in time. Seeing him reject you at first was discouraging, but you did not let it rest there. Perhaps he needed time and to get used to your presence in his home. After all, these were new waters. You would be patient. You would prove yourself capable.

Life becomes a time capsule. As the days went by, a bitter feeling grew in your stomach. Why wouldn't he laugh? Why wouldn't he look in your eyes anymore? Why is he retreating even further? What were you doing wrong? How could you fix it? Is it you? Your performance in the lab is outstanding according to your supervisors, and your work friends seem to find you agreeable enough. Can't he see that you've adjusted well and are happy here? There's nothing to worry about. How else can you prove yourself?

These thoughts plague your mind to an extend that Ortho felt the need to preform psychiatric evaluation. You dismissed his concerns with a long list of things about your new home that make you happy - including him. It pacifies his panic and somehow mitigates your own as well.

Until one fateful day, when you decided to take your lunch early and overheard a conversation between two senior S.T.Y.X employees

"Isn't the boss' partner kind of pitiful?" One technician spoke in a hush whisper, taking a bite from her salad, "He doesn't give them the time of day. I can't believe they've stuck around this long. Screw the job, I would have been out after the first week," "Shhh! Quit gossiping, it's bad. Especially about the one who pays our bills," The other scolds. "I know....but isn't it just sad. They're clearly being taken advantage of. I can't help but feel sorry" "It's not just you...to tell the truth, I had no clue Director Idia had a partner up until recently. If anything, I thought he disliked Assistant MC and kept them around for Director Ortho's sake. Imagine my shock..." They both snicker at the notion. "Yeah. I give them a few more months...maybe a year. Despite being smart in the lab, they clearly can't read the room:

It was the last straw. Like ice water being dunked over your head after a hot shower. The lunch pale in your grasp suddenly felt like it weighed ten times heavier, and a cold sweat dripped down your back. They were right. He didn't want you here. It was time to move on or else you'll just be living out an endless loop. Nothing has changed since your youth aside from the location. No matter how long you wait, no matter how much effort and time you offer ... the relationship is doomed to fail. You gave him everything...and it was time to stop waiting. To stop expecting and hoping. Time to accept reality.

Your lunch goes discarded in a nearby bin and your shift abandoned. You would not work another second for S.T.Y.X despite the facility not being the source of your anguish. Your shoes clack loudly against the tile flooring as you speed-walk to Idia's office, where he was lazily reviewing data on a recent experiment. His phone set off to the side with some automated gatcha daily playing.

You use your 'special' pass (curtesy of ortho) to get in. The metal door swings out as you march inside and turn off his screen without asking.

"H-h'-hey! What are you-" He shrieks and turns in his chair. "We need to talk" "Can't it wait until later? I'm busy working, if you can't tell" "No" Your tone is demanding. Definite. You all but yank the badge from around your neck and drop it in his lap. In that motion, he knew. Your eyes scrunch tight and teeth grind together. He was prepared for this. For you to lash out and yell at him for your suffering. Make him the bad guy in your story and finally beat the game for good. Not for you to deflate. Not for the glassy, disappointed stain on your eyes. Or the shallow breaths as you calm yourself - not letting your emotions frighten him like a spooked cat. "I'm quitting," "S.T.Y.X? You know you can't just quit. There's a process," He refutes, lazily pushing his chair back with an anxious fidget. "Not just S.T.Y.X...I'm quitting us. I can't do this anymore," "Oh. Alright. Let me get the paperwork," "Alright?" You whisper, gaping at him "...just alright? That's all you have to say to me? Not even 'why' ?" He pauses typing on a holographic keyboard, cocking an eyebrow at the question. "What? You want me to beg you to stay or something like that? We're not in an anime," His words die out at the end, and had it not been for your disbelief you would have caught the note of sadness in them, "you want to go? Then go. I warned you about this place" "No...you warned me about the facility. It's not the facility I have a problem with. I actually like it here" "So it's me then, huh? I warned you about that too," He grumbles and continues to type, "I'm not whatever it is that you saw in me. It's your fault for sticking it out this long. I knew this was how it would end from the start" A silence follows aside from the occasional noise from his computer. That's it. The nail in the coffin. You finally realized the truth. He was no good for you. He couldn't be 'fixed'. With an approving chime, he finally has all the departure paperwork pulled up for you to sign. "Alright. Sign these and I'll get you an escort," He holds out a tablet in pen without looking from his computer. You don't take it. "Hello? I said - " he turns to face you, irritated "....here" Silent tears stream down your cheeks and pool at the tip of your chin, dripping to the tile below. Wide eyes lock in his general direction. Your hands tremble slightly at your sides, as if your mind was thousands of miles away. His heart breaks. "You never even gave us a chance, did you?" He says nothing. "It wasn't about 'making it work' for you. It was always a matter of 'how long'. You've been waiting for me to leave you, all this time?" It wasn't a question. "All this time, I've been trying to prove myself. I've been thinking that I did something wrong...that I needed to be better" the word stings your tongue and seems to strike him, " but I was never even close to enough" we were never enough

With languid movements, you take the pen from him and sign the papers. You would not hide your sadness. Your grief. Your pain for a relationship that was never actually one. For a battle that only had one party fighting.

He lets you go, the metal door swinging shut and rattling him to his core. Idia's hands shake as he tries to return to his work. They tremble over the holographic keyboard, making his blue nails look like moving neon streaks in the air.

He had always thought you ere just being kind. That your self-sacrificing nature was natural, and that someone else was more deserving of it. He failed to consider the possibility that all the things you did...you did for him alone. You did out of the same anxieties and fears he felt.

In a way, you both were at fault. He led himself down a self-fulfilling prophecy - letting his anxieties and what-ifs become reality. And you? You thought everything could be fixed with time. With sacrifice. That eventually he would grow. You both were plants, one overwatered and the other left parched in the sun.

He did get one thing right. This was defiantly a bad end. Just not in the way he originally believed...

Somehow, life becomes worse than before you arrived at S.T.Y.X. At least when you were around, people did see him more out of his office or room. Seeing him revert to his previous ways without so much as an inkling of sadness for losing you....yeah, it did not look good. Worse than people not even knowing you were his partner at first. After your departure, rumors began to spread that you had finally snapped. The pity felt for you morphed into judgement towards his character. Others saw him as a heartless recluse, and the pity was extended to Ortho of all things. If Idia could toss out a loyal partner of years, what about the little robot? Perhaps despite all the gossip, the others at S.T.Y.X did not fully believe that he would let you leave so easily. That he wasn't as detached as the Shroud name dictates.

Little do they know that he's become a shadow of his former self. He can't even act self-depreciative. Pleasantries don't hit like they used to. Having you at a distance...well, was still considered as being with you. Now that you're never coming back, it's harder. Everything reminds him of you. Your favorite snacks are still stocked in the cafeteria, and there are blankets in his room that still have your scent. Occasionally a file will pop up with your work in it while he's doing reviews...and then there's Ortho. When you left, he was crushed. He pestered Idia for days - the security cameras giving him full knowledge of what happened. Yet no matter what the robot said about the situation, Idia didn't want to hear it. Eventually he took away Ortho's access data to his personal spaces.

That didn't stop the bot from talking through the door and spamming his brother's inboxes. Despite cutting off contact with his big brother, you still spoke to Ortho regularly. He refused to let his big brother lose all connection to you, and updated him on your well-being. Regardless of what Idia said, hearing about you made a difference. At first it increases his anxiety and drops his mood...but every time, like a scheduled delay, his serotonin levels will spike. Be it from a clip of your voice, a picture, or even just the mention of your name.

"Brother! I just finished a call with MC. Today they decided to adopt a cat! Would you like to see a picture?" His computer beeps with an incoming missive. Idia clicks it, and the screen displays a photo of you with a small white kitten in your arms. "They've decided to name it Grimm Jr. From what I heard, the predecessor was not pleased to be 'replaced,' as he calls it" Ortho laughs from the other side of the door, but Idia is too focused on the image on his screen. The curve in your smile and the way you gently cradle the kitten. You seem...happy. Much better than how he is doing. He fails to hear the door beep, granting access, neither the bot fly up next to him to look at the picture. "Big brother, why don't you apologize to MC? They would listen," Idia startles, clutching his chest as his hair flairs cherry red for a brief moment. He swivels in his chair and closes the image quickly. "I'm not apologizing for nothing. It's not like I miss them or anything. My life's great without having a normie relationship to manage" "Your body language suggests that you are lying" Ortho states, his eyes squinting cheekily. Idia hunches over, glaring at his keyboard and fiddling with his sleeves, "It's not like they'd want to see me anyways. I blew it. Only an idiot would forgive what I did," "That's not true! MC loves you!" Idia glares at him from the corner of his eye, "Yeah? They look pretty happy without me. They were miserable here" "Because you purposefully made them miserable! You are very smart brother, but even I understand emotions better than you and I am an artificial lifeform!" "Then what should I do, Ortho? Go beg them to take me back like some cringe sitcom?!" "Yes!" Idia blanches at the thought, but doesn't entirely dismiss it. Ortho glares holes into his head, causing Idia to shrink into his chair. "You are always afraid, brother. You lost them to your fears once...do you want to regret that? Are you really satisfied with pictures and stories? Why deny yourself wonderful things! We are not trapped anymore!"

Ortho leaves him with one piece of information - an apartment address. He sends it to all of Idia's emails and even somehow makes it the background of his tablet. He can't change it or take it off.

He stares at it long and hard. Searches the place up and even uses virtual reality to scope out the building. While perhaps a bit creepy...he hacks the security cameras and watches feed of you coming and going over the past moths. Some days you look perfectly well, and others you look worse for wear. If he went...would you even want to see him? Would you let him in? Kick him out? Is he willing to even try? What if you already moved on...no, Ortho wouldn't set him up for that if he knew you were happy with someone else.

Idia leaves S.T.Y.X for the first time in months. His request for leave shocks other employees. Yet he's gone the moment it's approved, afraid that he'll lose his edge if he thinks too long on it.

He finds himself at the door of a middle-class apartment in the Kingdom of Roses. Second floor, third door to the left, just like he memorized. He knows its yours from the ribbons tied on the doorknob, themed after one of your favorite animes. One he introduced to you...

In his hands is a small box of candies - a peace offering, just in case you want to kill him on sight.

His boney knuckles wrap around the doorknocker and thwack it three times. Sweat pools in his palms and he jolts away. The seconds like hours as his painted nails dig crescents into his palms. The door opens. "Hi, how can I -" You pause mid-sentence, your mouth going dry. Grimm Jr. snuggled in one of your arms while the other holds the door open, "I-idia?" "T-that's my name," He grimaces, looking anywhere but at you. "What are you doing here?" His tongue feels heavy and the tips of his hair fade to a pale orange. He studders and fumbles with the box of candies, holding them out to you with a grimace. "I wanted to see you...urk. I hope that's not weird! Can ... I come in?" You eye the box in thought, before reaching out to take it and opening the door further. It was a start.

You hear him out - through the stuttering and the self-depreciative comments that he hastily retracts. This isn't just about him. It's about you and everything else in-between. Shockingly enough, you agree to give him a second chance. It wasn't entirely his fault after all ... and you did still love him. Although now there are ground rules. You would not be returning to S.T.Y.X. You've finally created a stable home for yourself and have a life in this new city. You have a career, friends, and a life that doesn't include him. You need the individuality. You would no longer try to morph yourself for him or be placid. If he wanted to spend time with you, he would have to leave S.T.Y.X and come stay at your apartment. You would no longer be the one always reaching out, he would have to start showing initiative and making time for you. You would see how things progress from that point. He was not a child, and you would not beg for basic needs to be met anymore. Words would not be enough, you need actions. It was time for 50 : 50.

Weirdly enough, he agrees to all your rules without a single complaint. Not a normie comment or slang filled statement leaves his lips. He's still that nerdy dork you fell in love with at heart, but these 'normie' things? Well, Idia's accepted that he wants those things. As much as it is difficult for him to admit, they only grossed him out so much before because he always believed they were unattainable

He's true to his word. He calls you every day, first thing when he wakes up (in the late afternoon. He still is a hermit at heart). At first it made him anxious, and he'd hover over the contact for fifteen minutes before dialing. Yet it soon became easy, with his heart only beating fast from happiness. He takes the weekends off and comes to spend them at your apartments. Sometimes he brings Ortho and it becomes a sleepover with games - and at some point you start inviting your other heartslabyul friends from back in the day too. Eventually you do come around the compound again. It's awkward to say the least, considering how you left. Yet at the same time, it's a breath of fresh air. The others are shocked to see him out of his office, and he eats IN THE CAFETERIA. Woah. He calls you by your name and not 'assistant' when in public. Homie scares some people. That's what he does. He gives you a special watch for your anniversary. It's paired with on he has and solar powered, so you can contact him at any time. As a natural born worry-wart, he can't help but worry for your safety. Since watching the appartment CCTV is 'creepy,' he just asks that you wear the watch if you're going out anywhere. It won't die and with the click of a button he'll be alerted. In exchange, you can use it to contact him whenever you want. He'll always get back instantly since it might be an emergency. The watch is also directly linked to Ortho's system, so you can contact him as well. Who needs Cortana when you have Ortho?

For the first time, Idia feels secure in a relationship. He can't count Ortho since the boy is technically his creation. Ortho would always be there...and now? Idia's confident you will too.

Does that mean you should get married? Isn't that the next step in all this?

Well....shit (pleasant connotation)

He never would have tinkered with this idea before considering his 'family'. Who the hell in their right mind would marry a Shroud? A fool. Are you a fool? Maybe.

It's late evening on a Sunday night when you're both walking home together after hitting up a local diner for hearty eats. Wow. Look at him. On a date. So weird...pshh.

Idia walks at your side, forcing his pace to match yours. Not everyone is graced with his long stickman legs. His hands are buried deep in his hoodie and his posture is slightly slouched. Classic scary dog privilege for a nighttime walk - well, if his hair didn't scream valentine's day pink to the world. Although no one else has flaming hair other than the Shroud family, so he doubts anyone would interrupt.

You decide to take the long path home and through a nearby park. The night was still young for nightowls such as yourselves, and fresh air was always crisp at this hour.

Along that path you decide to stop at a cement bench by some vending machines and chill out for a bit. Despite having just ate, Idia gets you each a can of coffee.

He'd be leaving to go back to S.T.Y.X tomorrow. Like he does every Sunday. His gaze drifts to the watch on your wrist and thinks about adding some new features - maybe video chat? So he can see you throughout the day. He wonders what you'll be up to while he's stuck in the lab. Maybe you'll go shopping, or play a new game. Maybe you'll try out a new recipe or take Grimm Jr. out to play. He wishes he could see you during the week.

Ah. You're talking. He should probably tune in or you'll get mad at him. Why's it so hard to focus? He hasn't felt this uneasy in a while...

Why is he having these kinds of thoughts? It's weird.

"You okay? You seem a little spaced," You pull him from his thoughts, a concerned crease wrinkling your temple. "Eh. It's nothing. Just not looking forward to the week," he chuckles weakly. "I know that feeling. It's always a bummer when you dip. Not to sound clingy or anything" His golden hues spark for a moment, a pale pink dusting his cheeks as he whips his head to look at you.

"W-wait - really? I was just thinking the same thing...." "You were?" "Yeah. It's...kind of weird without you. Everything's emptier. Wow. That was pretty cringe. Sorry." He grimaces, internally screaming and knowing that this was going to replay when he tried to sleep later. You tilt your head at him, a slight frown on the cusp of your lip. Something tickles at his fingers and he looks down to see you lace your hand with his. "I miss you too," your words are soft. Genuine. He feels his neck grow hot, the pink glow radiating off him betraying him. Idia looks between your interlaced fingers and the drink in his hand. There...wouldn't ever be a 'right' time for this. Would there? You've waited long enough. He pulls his hand away and pops the soda tab off with deft hands.

"Hey..." he twiddles with the soda tab in his hands, "on a scale of 1-10, how are my odds of getting a yes?" "A 'yes' to what?" "To this, " he sighs through his nose, holding the tab out towards you with a shaking hand, "will you marry me?"

{A soda tab from canned coffee. Not the most charming offering, and it barely fits around your pinky finger. Yet, Idia's always been impulsive at his core. Had he not acted in the moment, he likely would have ran countless possibilities over and over in his mind. While not your forever ring, the tab will remain a sentimental piece}

{Idia is not a man with a keen eye fore jewelry - but he knows quality. Combine his eye for perfection with his craftsmanship and behold - a ring made from purified blot. The center gem is a piece of magestone in it's most refined state. The band is titanium and there are small sapphires along the molding. Since he would be wearing a matching band, Idia decided to keep the design simple. He prefers functionality over all. Yet he does want you to feel proud of his handiwork, so he includes vintage molding on your band only. He wears a smooth black band on his ring finger, and never removes it}

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst scenarios #twst imagines #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia shroud #twst idia #IM DEAD #THIS TOOK FOUR HOURS #I LEGIT WAS NOT PLANNING TO WRITE ALL THIS #MY HANDS

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rikas-musings · 28 days ago

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RECLAMATION OF THE DAMNED ˚₊‧꒰ა ☆ ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

DIRECTORY

variant! mark x reader

SYNOPSIS: in your world, nothing is particularly wrong; there are no superheroes, but you do get to mindlessly indulge in shows and books. in fact, you're a casual fan of the show invincible. today, you’re perusing an old article about a haunted place when you stumble upon a house that's definitely out of the ordinary, and despite the absolute gloom that emits from the place, you can’t help but go in. what you don’t expect is encountering powers beyond that of your world. somehow, within the hour, your fate finds itself intertwining with that of mark grayson. but the real question is: can you save him?

WARNINGS: creepy town/off-putting vibes, you literally die, and descriptions of said death, blood mentions, that's all!

A/N : a silly little chapter, i had a few ideas on how this would go, but this is what i ended up with, sorry for the slow burn, i can't help but build tension...is this too short? too long? please let me know i'm lowkey losing it

CHAPTER ONE: CURSED

You’d arrived at the town of Hornnewle a few hours ago, and the train was slow but scenic. Pulling out your phone, you huffed at the walk from here to the town’s library. You’d already checked in at your motel, which was slightly rundown, but the town itself had a sort of charm. It wasn’t exactly charming in a touristy way; something heavier hung in the air. You watched as crows gathered by the streetlights, beaks twisted at an unseen force.

Must have found something shiny.

The town looked like a snapshot of a horror film, paused mid-breath. Victorian buildings lined the misty streets, which reminded you of Gotham City from the comics. You snorted a bit at the thought. Somehow, the weather was warm, but the city seemed slightly shrouded in darkness. You admired the weird charm and happily walked towards your destination. It was getting closer and closer until you saw the wooden sign hanging from the building. It bore a gothic style font, and looked as if it had never been replaced in the past fifty years.

You opened the creaky door, and the bell rang loudly. Your digits ran through your hair, startled, you tried to make yourself smaller. A woman who looked to be in her 70s made eye contact with you, and her wrinkled face offered you a small smile. You gave her a nod and hurried inside, light on your feet. You gripped your satchel and mouth parted to speak— the library, however, had other plans. You looked around in awe at the rustic place. A warm, red carpeted floor, walls littered with books, and the smell of incense and books filled your nose.

“Feels like home, right? I figure you’re not from here.” She begins, offering her hand up for a greeting. Your fingers hesitantly move towards hers, giving her a handshake feeling the cool metal from her ring touch your skin.

“How’d you guess?” You sheepishly smile. Her orbs run up and down your form, surveying you, not just observing.

“I’ve lived here long enough to know everyone in the town,” She chuckles, and you watch her pink lips curl up sweetly. “So I know a new face when I see one!” she shrugs. She looks to be average height, and her skin is a pale colour, her gray hair falling in loose strands surrounding her clavicle.

“Well, I need some help finding a book, I’m doing some research…” You start, you cannot exactly reveal the true nature of your visit, because you do technically intend to trespass on barred land. You pretend to be in thought and furrow your brows.

“I’m doing a research project for school about the haunted place here called Maledictus.” You query with your hand on your chin.

Her face scrunches at your request.

“You came all the way here for that book?” She confirms. Her eyes glaze over ever so slightly, you notice and shift in your spot.

“That place is barred in this town, though I imagine if you researched, you already know that, it is the only book on the matter, despite having a past reputation in the province.” She thinks and meets your eyes before sighing,

She nods her head towards an aisle in the back.

“It's on the back wall. I hope you do well on your research project.” She smiled, twisting the ring on her finger. You notice an insignia on it and squint at it before nodding and heading to the back wall.

Dragging your digits against the spines of the books lining the walls, reverence settles itself into your chest. You wished you could capture this moment in a painting, seal it away, and never drown in the feeling of loneliness again. Your fingers stop once they hit the book you’ve been searching for. A giddy feeling bubbles up in your chest, and you push it down gently.

Grabbing the book, you step to the front of the store, the lady's eyes settle onto you, and she smiles, waving you farewell. You leave the mystic library with a huff as you run towards the nearest cafe you can find. The feeling of the book grasped between your fingers, blooming a feeling in your chest again, you don’t push it down this time.

Your digits greedily prod at the book as you find a seat to settle into. Your skin is digging into the gaps between the wood seat, but you haven’t a care in the world.

As you iris’s skim over the pages, your first order of business is seeking the location of the Maledictus. You read through a few words of warning, all things you’ve read before, nothing seemingly out of the ordinary.

There it is.

The location, just on the outskirts of the main square, threaded deep into the forest, like a secret waiting to be revealed. You hum in contentment, scratching at the nape of your neck. You rise to your feet, slightly tender from the walking you’ve been doing. You loosely mapped out the path in your head and decided to persevere before it gets too dark.

Your boots crunch into the sticks and leaves on the path to the forest, it has a cavernous aspect to it that you find oddly comforting. You continue skimming through the pages, trying to detect any mentions of relics and such. You bite your lip in focus as you walk, the book perched in your hands. You stop in your tracks as you finally find something.

Relics! You hold back a shit-eating grin before humming in contentment and trekking forward. The photos are faded, but clear enough to make out minor details; there are many, they look dipped in gold, edges faded from standing the test of time. Ornate details catch your eye, carved neatly into them. Some pots, some rings and more. Before you know it, you’ve reached the point in the book where it details each—

You’re cut off by the sound of your head crashing into a tree. You grunt in pain, the book shielding your sternum from the same fate as your head—you cradle your head in response, feeling for any sign of blood. You had not paid any mind to the world around you as you ventured deeper into the forest—that was a mistake. You took a second to survey your surroundings, and that’s when you saw it.

The building was tenebrous, gloomy like death encapsulated. It stood tall in the forest; a copious amount of cautious tape surrounded the exterior, in your head, it was practically ushering you inside.

It was a deep shade of brown, a fractured sort of building, oozing miasma. It loomed above you, with a mansion-like stature. You hesitated before shutting the book in your grip, jaw tightening in eagerness to trespass. You tucked the book gently into your satchel before your digits tapped the caution tape. You threaded yourself through the tape like a needle, eventually landing in front of the door.

“That’s enough hesitating, I’m heading inside.” You mused.

The door creaked open, as a rickety groan escaped the hinges. It was surprisingly orderly. As much as a place this ancient could be. It had rickety flooring, sure, but it held a timeless design inside. You took note of the cracked cornices and cobwebs; no matter how decent it was, it was still ancient. With it came a must in the air—a scent that felt decrepit, but also as if someone had inhabited this place recently. Like something or someone had been here.

That made the corners of your mouth twitch.

Your eyes raked over your surroundings as you stepped further into the place, shutting the door behind you. It’s you and a dwelling etched in time and memories, said to bear a curse. You wouldn’t trade that for anything else. You spent your time delicately surveying the place, picking up items that matched the photographs in the book you had tucked away. It felt precious, a secret only you got to keep.

Not long after, you found your feet heading towards the billowing staircase, your fingers nimbly traced over the cracked wood as you made your way deeper into the stilled mansion. A darkness loomed around you, but you were no stranger to feelings like those. When you reached the top of the creaky steps, you made your way into a room on the far left of the gloomy hallway.

Your breath hitched in your throat when you entered. The room reeked of age, old, rotted pages from a book and decaying flowers. The floorboards screaming beneath your feet, the sound thrumming in your eardrum like a warning. You pressed onwards into the large room, eyes landing on the stained mullions, the curtains drawn back as if inviting a fresh breath into the carcass of a room.

That’s when something glinted from the corner of your eye, it pulled your gaze like a magnet. Your feet padded across the room, measuring your steps as you went to grasp it, ignoring everything in your stomach that twisted and furled at the creaking in the floorboard.

You grasped it—before—

C R E A K

The floor crooned beneath you and gave out, your weight pulling you down, crashing through the rotted ceiling of the floors beneath you. A sickening feeling churned in your stomach as you fell through not one, not two, but five dark stories. Your life flashed before your eyes as you desperately clawed at the stale air for something to hold onto, but to no avail. The splinters from the decayed board sharply dig into your skin as you fall.

Your body then smashed onto what felt like solid concrete, nearly bouncing from the impact, your head collided with the ground with a deafening crack, your eyes watering as your breath dies in your throat. You feel warmth seeping out of your head, you’re sure it’s your blood, leaking from your cracked skull, you feel panic rise in your chest, your heart humming at a pace far too fast to be normal.

Your eyes wander down weakly to the relic in your hand. It looks untouched from the fall, pristine and shiny still. It looks like an angel, wings delicately curved in on itself. Your eyes wander around it, and you notice something carved into it.

An insignia, huh, that looks just like the one the librarian had on her ring.

The thought fades away as you feel the sudden urge to sleep, your body is heavy and lies in a pool of your blood, you swear you can see the relic in your hand glow before your eyes droop shut, for eternity.

For some odd reason, you feel yourself waking up in a field of green grass, as fresh as could be. A TV was placed in the middle of the field, which was extremely out of place. Your eyebrows scrunch as the sun's rays dilate across your skin.

The TV flickers on, and you watch as the channel plays—

Invincible?

A voice suddenly sounds from behind you.

“Why hello there, it seems you’ve made it.”

Made it?

Where?

TAGLIST: @lalana1703 @lilacoaks @thatoneraeder @heiankyonoeiyuukun @decadentrebelkitten

#invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #yandere mark grayson #sinister mark #sinister!mark x reader #☆invincible #variant mark x reader #mark variant x reader #fanfic #mohawk mark x reader #no goggles mark #viltrumite mark x reader #☆reclamation of the damned #☆series

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florencemtrash · 1 year ago

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The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Chapter Eleven

Azriel x Day Court Librarian Reader

Summary: Y/n's clairvoyance is a gift from the Mother, but it feels more like a curse. With the power to gain knowledge through touch alone, Y/n holes herself up in The Alcove and hopes her powers and parentage will remain a secret. But things will change after the Summer Solstice ball and a chance encounter with a certain Shadowsinger.

Warnings: None. Gwyn and Y/n bond over books. Azriel and Y/n get even closer — this had me kicking my feet and screaming internally and externally

The Shadowsinger & The Inkbird: Masterlist

Masterlist of Masterlists

Rhysand’s training sessions always started with him sliding over ten objects: a book, a piece of jewelry, an article of clothing — anything he could find with meaning for you to discern.

“This one is Mor’s.” You held the red satin box in your hands. Two months ago you would have only been able to tell him who it belonged to. Maybe nothing at all. The meaning held by the object was weak. The jewelry too new. Unworn. But now you could harness your power with more precision, like you’d finally been handed an image of the puzzle you were trying to complete so you knew what to look for. “You bought it two months ago at Cizero’s as a Winter Solstice gift.”

“And what is it exactly?”

The box was still closed.

You pushed your power forward, imagining light slipping in through the seam of the box. An image flashed in your mind. It was blurry, but held onto its form long enough for you to make it out.

“Drop earrings. Rubies,” you said with a straight back before dropping the box into Rhysand’s open palm.

He smirked and clicked it open. Gold banded rubies hung from the backing like bloody tears, each drop separated by a diamond that flashed brighter than the stars in the ever darkening sky.

You dared to smile, staring at the jewelry with a level of satisfaction you hadn’t felt since being handed top marks as an apprentice.

“Very nicely done.”

The box disappeared back into his desk beside a glimmering gemstone the size of your fist wrapped in tissue paper.

It’s probably for Amren. You thought to yourself. Azriel told you she loved shiny things and hoarded her treasures like a crow. Hence why she’d yet to return from Summer with Varian.

You moved on to the next portion of your exercises. With a feather light touch, Rhysand laid his hands on your palms, your wrists, your forearm, your shoulders. He moved up and down your body, waiting a minute for you to control yourself before touching the next flash of exposed skin. It was still difficult to completely contain your power, but you were getting better at moving it around your body. When he reached for your hands, you slid the magic up to your chest. When he reached for your knees, it moved down to your ankles. It was a delicate dance, like the curling of ocean water away from the shore or the splitting of a river around a stone.

You did what you could to experience the touches with a clinical detachment and Rhysand did as well. He was careful. He stopped the moment you let out a gasp of surprise at the feeling of warm skin pressed against your own and there wasn’t an ounce of judgement written in his beautiful features when you trembled beneath his touch.

“Take your time,” he said encouragingly.

For him, touch was a necessary part of life. He always had an arm slung over Cassian’s shoulders or wrapped around Feyre’s waist. He fell asleep with his mate pressed against him and he walked around the River House with Nyx on his shoulders and Velaria curled up in his arms. But there were also mornings when he’d wake up in a cold sweat, the feeling of Amarantha’s red-tipped nails dragging down his chest like she wanted to take more from him than just his body. Those were the days Feyre knew to give him his space.

“Take all the time that you need.”

Rhys stepped away. You steadied your breath and took time to record your progress in the journal you kept close by. Although there was no true way to quantify your learning, your Day Court training never left you and you wrote down what little could be put into words — for posterity’s sake. Then maybe the next Clairvoyant the Mother willed into existence would have an easier time navigating this than you.

Gwyn found you squirreled away in your usual reading room, back bowed over a flurry of books and note pages like a reed in the wind. You reached for the mug on the desk only to find it disappointingly empty. Unlike the River House, the Library did not fuel your caffeine addiction with reckless abandon.

She floated over, abandoning the cart of books she’d been tasked with returning that night. Her legs were throbbing from the split squats Cassian had coached her through that evening, and she was desperate for a break.

“Some light reading, I see?” she teased, sinking into the seat across from you.

You looked up, eyes red-rimmed and swollen. It took a few moments for Gwyn’s shape to come into focus.

“What?” The word slurred coming out of your mouth.

She tapped the ever growing pile of papers beside you. Your manuscript: 120 hand-written pages and counting. When the book became too frustrating to handle, you abandoned it in exchange for another productive task. Even if the 120 pages you’d reproduced were utter garbage.

You groaned, forehead slamming against the wood with a clatter. Thoughts of white blood cells, lymphatic vessels, and innate and acquired immunity knotted in your brain like the world’s worst game of cat’s cradle.

Gwyn would have found it amusing if she didn’t know just how much time you spent within the mountain. You’d effectively been adopted by the priestesses. Lurking here and there like a cat coming in from the cold. And you were just as disapproving as a stray. Gwyn would often catch you among the stacks, mumbling about the disorganization and how you couldn’t work in such paltry conditions.

“Cauldron boil me, I’m sorry for asking.” Gwyn raised her hands in surrender.

You let out a great, heaving sigh. “It’s not you.”

“Oh I know it’s not me. You look like you’ve been dragged through a gutter.”

You blinked wearily at the lovely priestess.

“A very clean, well-managed gutter.” She grinned. Her skin shone, reflecting the pale, fuzzy moonlight that filtered through the window above and doused the library in a silver sheen.

“Thank you, Gwyn.”

“Anytime.” She drummed her nails against the table, the beat of it almost sending you to sleep. “How long have you been here today?” she asked with concern.

“I don’t know. What time is it?”

“After midnight.”

“Oh.”

“How long?” Gwyn repeated and you dragged a hand down your face.

“Seven hours? Give or take?” Your stomach growled.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.”

Gwyn grabbed you by the end of your robes, tugging you up several floors and down an unfamiliar hallway until you stopped in front of a teal-blue tapestry. Selkies, sirens, and water nymphs dove in and out of rippling waters highlighted by iridescent beads. She flung it to the side and pressed her hand against the bare stone. The slab sank into the wall and then slid open to reveal a cream-colored room adorned with bundles of babies' breath.

“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to the neatly made bed. You swayed dangerously on your feet.

“I’m really fine. I didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Sit. Down.” She cut you with a lethal gaze Nesta would be proud of.

You snapped your mouth shut, shuffled across the carpeted floor, and sank into the queen-sized bed. You played with the ties of your robe wrapping them around your finger, then unwrapping them, then wrapping them again.

King Tiberion, third of the Nachmanian line, born Aschieron Cambria Nostrus Tiberion Dalgna to Effel Taul and foreign-born…

Found dead at a young three-hundred-and-ninety-two years of age at the hands of her brother. Spell cleaver or not, Ingrid…

Something like a lock and a key. Magic that’s perfectly complementary might be afforded the unique ability to seal… and break… gods I’m tired…

There have only been seven recorded Shadowsingers in history: Lovania Vallant born 895 in the age of Alders (see ref. 18992HBG Carstairs), Gherald Dashiv born 1459 in the age of —

Gwyn snapped her fingers in front of you, pulling your mind out of the hurricane of thoughts. You were a strange creature. You spoke little, moved about the Library as quiet as a mouse, and you had an interesting habit of running your fingers along every book on the shelf. Back and forth, back and forth you’d run along before jerking to a stop like one of the books had caught you at the end of a fishing lure.

“Are you ok?”

“I’m fine,” you repeated.

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“Some would say that’s a good thing. It would make me incredibly trustworthy, at least when it comes to responding to things. I’d be terrible at keeping secrets, unless I was very careful about how I went about things. You know how it is. With the things.”

Gwyn huffed with silent laughter and opened one of the cabinets in her small, makeshift kitchen. “Eat.” She commanded again and you were too slow to catch the sleeve of biscuits she tossed in your direction. It bounced off your forehead and landed in your lap. “I’ll be right back with something more substantial.”

The door shut with a puff of air and you were left to chew on the chocolate and orange biscuits in silence.

Gwyn’s room faced the city and you saw the lamplights burning through the windows that had been cut into the mountain rock, mimicking the stars that twinkled overhead like salt poured onto black glass.

Cream satin sheets caught the moonlight until it glowed and you had the sudden urge to tip back and fall into oblivion. You could work for a long while, so long as you didn’t sit still long enough for the exhaustion to catch up to you — which you were doing now.

You shoved another biscuit in your mouth, now almost halfway through the sleeve. It helped settle the hollowness in your stomach so you could pick yourself up and move over to the bookshelf.

Bodice ripper, bodice ripper, murder mystery, bodice ripper, romantic comedy, found family adventure, spy thriller, bod—

Your face went red. Damn.

The priestess chose that moment to return to her room carrying a tray laden with bread, orange slices, and a thick mushroom stew leftover from dinner. She froze, pale cheeks turning a dusty rose as you silently pushed the book back onto the shelf.

“Dragon-born? Really?” You shoved a burning spoonful of stew in your mouth and drowned the stale crust of bread, waiting for it to get sufficiently soggy enough you could chew it.

Gwyn groaned and buried her face in her pillows. “It was a phase.”

“Must have been a very long phase. You have the whole series and I know it took her thirty years to write them all.”

Her head shot up. “How do you know?”

“I read the first book.”

You sat up straighter, back pressed up against the closet that housed her daily robes, ceremonial garb, training gear, and Valkyrie armour.

“So how can you judge me?!”

“It makes no anatomical sense, Gwyn!” You threw your hands up in the air. “She’s four feet shorter than him. He’d sooner tear her in half before giving her any pleasure, and I’m not talking about his claws.”

The priestess scoffed. “Have some imagination, Y/n.”

You huffed and pulled out a notebook from your ample pockets. You both spent the next thirty minutes going through hastily drawn sketches that would have disappointed Feyre to no end testing out your imaginative capabilities. Gwyn couldn’t stop smiling at you as you moved your hands through the air with animated fervor. Half of what you said didn’t make sense, but she would blame it on your sleep deprivation.

You had Gwyn in stitches. The female hung off the bed, red-brown hair brushing the ground as she gasped for breath. You looked like you were sitting on the ceiling, black robes pooled around your knees like shadows.

That sobered Gwyn up a bit. It was a real shame she liked you as much as she did. It made it harder for her to stay mad at Azriel.

And as if you read her mind, you asked, “Why don’t you come around to the River House?”

“What?” She wasn’t laughing anymore.

“Why don’t you come to the River House?” You asked again. “You’re close friends with Nesta. You’re part of the Inner Circle. You have a guest room there, but I haven’t seen you at the house.”

“Do you even spend enough time at the River House to know?”

“Yes.”

Gwyn sighed and straightened up, folding her legs neatly beneath her on the bed. “Some… Some things happened a couple years ago. I won’t bore you with the details and I don’t know if I even have the right to tell you everything, but it’s colored the way the Inner Circle works now.”

“The details are the most important part,” you murmured, “I wish I had more details. Then maybe I wouldn’t feel like such a stranger in that house.”

“You’re not a stranger,” Gwyn reassured you. “Is that why you spend so much time here?” she asked with genuine curiosity.

“Yes and no. It feels closer to home here. Even if your lack of organization has made my job ten times more difficult. I don’t see why you haven’t adopted any kind of classification system. It’s a small library. It would be very easy to implement.” You sighed and rubbed your eyes. Gods, you were tired. The feeling came and went in waves. “I shouldn’t complain though, everyone has been incredibly kind and welcoming. Especially Azriel.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself, fingers fluttering against your shoulders. You tucked your chin into your elbows and tried not to think about that glorious night of sleep with only Azriel and his shadows. Waking up with his chest rising and falling on the floor beside you.

You were falling for him and you knew it. Gods did you know it. Or maybe you could convince yourself you weren’t falling yet, but it was a steady march to the cliff’s edge and you weren’t stopping anytime soon.

Gwyn felt her heart stutter. “Oh? He’s usually so… quiet and… reserved.”

You thought about it for a long while.

“I don’t think he’s nearly as quiet as everyone believes him to be,” you said thoughtfully, “I think he just speaks in his own way.”

You were right about Godswood and The Gallows.

The letter arrived on your desk early in the morning.

The Bookkeeper, Taunum Hyst, was found trying to burn books in the western greenwoods along with some texts from Argot’s. He fought back against the guards sent to retrieve him, but he didn’t know what he was doing. Even now he’s confused and adamant that the last three weeks have been a blur. There’s a daemati at work here. Someone other than Henna. Rhysand knows, if he hasn’t already told you.

I’ve sent a translated folktale in old Bauldish and Common, and another in Demnyon along with the others you asked for. They might be worth looking into to help with the book. I hope you’re enjoying your stay at the Night Court. Happy hunting and stay safe.

~ Helion

You were right.

You dropped the letter, hands coming up to your mouth as you took in a deep, shaky breath. You knew Taunum Hyst. You could picture his salt-grey braids and coal-black skin. He’d helped perform the funeral rites for your mother. Hell he’d managed to make you laugh that terrible day.

Your stomach turned. If there truly was another daemati left in the Day Court that could help explain the killings. Either the Librarians could have died trying to keep the knowledge in their minds safe, or the daemati had made them kill themselves before moving onto their next victim. You didn’t know which was more tragic.

The clock rang eleven bells and you hastily folded up the paper, dropping it into the box along with the rest of your father’s letters.

“I think this might be the first time you’ve ever been late,” Rhysand said with an amused smirk. He leaned against the doorway to his office, ankles crossed over one another. Did that male ever stand normally?

“It is the first time.”

“Of course you would know that.”

You smirked, pushing open the door to find—

“Azriel?”

The Shadowsinger stood with his hands neatly folded behind his back. “Y/n?”

“Cassian!” The Lord of Bloodshed leapt in front of his brother, arms spread wide. “I’m also here. Nesta couldn’t make it with Valkyrie training.”

Feyre rolled her eyes with affection. She reached for Rhysand’s hand without thinking and he accepted with barely a glance. They were two magnets, always pulled towards one another in space.

“What’s going on?” You glanced back and forth between them all. It had always been just you and Rhysand during these lessons.

“I thought it would be good to start practicing with other people when it comes to physical touch,” Rhysand explained. Azriel’s nostrils flared. “You’re getting comfortable with me, which I’m happy about. But I want you to get comfortable with everyone else too.”

You told me you wanted another debrief about the Mortal Lands. Azriel was loath to admit that just the thought of touching your hand was making his heart race like a schoolboy.

And I do. Rhysand said rather smugly, as if he already knew Azriel was freaking out inside. But I also know you wouldn’t have agreed to this if I asked you ahead of time. It’s amusing to see you like this, brother. Have you forgotten how to touch a female? His violet eyes glittered with mischief.

Azriel swallowed, eyes trained on you as you mulled over Rhysand’s comment and nodded. You wanted to be comfortable too. Comfortable in your body. Comfortable with other people touching you.

You thought of what it might feel like to have Azriel’s hand tucked beneath your chin, not just his shadows, and shivered.

Azriel nearly choked when you started undoing the ties of your robes. The gold embroidered fabric slipped off your shoulders in a soft hush that had Azriel going rigid. You wore traditional Night Court fashion beneath your Librarian robes — a tight black shirt revealed the gentle curves of your arms, the cut of your collarbones against your chest, the thin band of flesh around your stomach; a breezy skirt with slits cut into the sides that revealed flashes of your thighs with every movement you made.

Feyre, Rhysand, and Cassian all shared looks, nearly bursting out laughing at the way Azriel’s shadows were in flight around him. A swarm of bees buzzing and murmuring about how beautiful you looked.

Azriel had seen many fae in his time in various states of undress. He’d seen males and females in the Court of Nightmares parade about in scraps of silk and lace. He’d taken countless lovers to bed. Bodies were something he knew well. Something he knew intimately. But he had never felt so flustered as he did looking at you like this. He thought his heart might just burst in his chest.

Cassian elbowed Azriel in the ribs when you weren’t looking and one of Azriel’s shadows looped around his ponytail and pulled.

“Ow.” Cassian rubbed the back of his head with a grin. “Rude.”

You felt rather ridiculous standing in the center of the room with your arms and legs stretched out to the side.

“Right arm,” Rhysand called out.

Cassian bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet, fists held loose by his sides with the lightness of a male a quarter of his size.

You squinted. Is he… is he about to punch me?

Cassian read the alarm on your face and grinned, hitting you with a tap gentler than rainfall.

You snorted, but felt nothing. Perfect.

You had to be grateful for Cassian’s light-heartedness. He had the worry melting off your shoulders. With every limb that Rhys called out, Cassian would do a little dance before punching you or kicking you. At one point he even faked a blow to your face, spinning up to you before leaping into the air and shooting out his right leg. You didn’t flinch as his boot swung an inch away from your face. You could smell the rubber soles of his boots.

“You missed,” you teased.

Cassian pouted, turning around to walk back to the wall now that he was finished with his piece. Azriel looked ready to tear his head off his body.

You’re lucky you missed. Azriel’s eyes screamed across the room. You’d be a dead man if you hurt her.

Cassian winked and blew him a kiss.

Feyre was next. You practiced brushing against her like you would do in a crowded street complete with the obligatory fumbling of apologies.

“Oh good heavens.” Feyre fanned her face like the old, upper-class women in her village used to do and laid on that sickly sweet accent they all had. “I’m so dreadfully sorry.” — They never were.

She shook your hand and touched your shoulders and looped her arm around your waist. That was the part that had you worried. You slid your power away from every inch of your skin, wrapped it up like a secret, and held it deepin your chest.

“Good.” Rhysand smiled and Cassian punched the air.

You breathed deeply and gave a small bow like you’d just finished a performance. But there was still one person you were meant to touch today, and they made you the most nervous of all.

Azriel stepped forward, a picture of calm. Inside, he was raging like a storm. He kept his hands firmly grasped behind his back, wings pressed so tightly he felt his shoulders start to ache.

You took a step forward as well, tilting your head back to look at him. You felt the grip on your power falter when he held out his hand palm up like he was asking you for a dance. Months ago at the Summer Solstice ball you’d been approached by a number of males hoping for a song with their hands at your waist and at your shoulder. The prospect of that kind of touch had terrified you then, and it still terrified you now but for different reasons. Because this time, you wanted it.

You wanted him.

You gently slid your hand into his, feeling the scars roll beneath your soft skin like the mountains that surrounded Velaris. Your breath caught in your throat, but before Azriel could rip his hand away you held on and squeezed reassuringly.

You’d read hundreds, if not thousands, of romance novels in your time. You’d consumed them with a ravenous hunger, surviving on them when real touch felt like a hopeless dream and the loneliness became too much to bear. And in nearly every single one of them, the first touch between lovers was described as an explosion of color. A dangerous shaking of the world down to its foundations. A cataclysmic event.

But you were surprised to find that they were wrong. They were all wrong. Azriel wasn’t destroying anything. He was mending.

It felt like a re-centering. The shifting of a leaning tower so it stood upright again.

A blissful silence.

Azriel cradled your hand in his, thumbs smoothing over your knuckles. He couldn’t help what he did next, couldn’t have stopped himself even if Helion stood at his back with murder in his eyes.

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of your hand with such reverence, such tenderness, that you swore your heart was glowing in your chest.

“Why don’t you try a hug, Y/n?” Rhysand suggested when Azriel had straightened. “If you want.”

You looked down at your feet where shadows swarmed, and then up at Azriel.

“What do you say, Y/n?” Azriel murmured softly. His words were for you and you only. “Where would you have me touch you?” His hazel eyes caught the light before scattering into a thousand brilliant colors.

Wordlessly you ran your fingers down his arms, tracing the shape of the muscle beneath the leather. You held his hands and gently led them up to your waist, gasping when he made contact. His warm fingers brushed the exposed skin of your waist before sliding around to your back.

You balanced on the tips of your toes, looping your arms around his neck before resting your face in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. He smelled like leather and the mountains. Wind and rain and nightfall coalescing into something so uniquely him you could pick him out in a room of thousands with your eyes closed.

It started out as a loose, misshapen thing, your hands and his arms searching for the right grip to hold your bodies together. But once you found it, you were lost.

Azriel wrapped his arms around your back and waist, hands splayed out like he was absorbing you into him. And you were no better. You buried your face in his neck, lips pressed up against the curve of his throat so you could feel the rhythmic rush of blood through his veins.

He refused to be the first to let go. The roof could cave in. The floor could drop out from beneath your feet. He would not let you go.

Your tears started out slow, coupled by ragged, shallow breaths.

“I’ve got you, Y/n,” Azriel whispered. “I’ve got you.”

How long had it been since you’d been held like this? A hundred years? Two hundred? You thought you’d learned to live without it, but now that it was yours you didn’t think you’d ever, ever be able to give it up. You were at the cliff’s edge now and without an ounce of hesitation you flung yourself over and into the abyss.

With Azriel, controlling your powers didn’t seem like such a difficult thing. Later that evening when you lay in bed staring up at the ceiling, you realized you hadn’t been thinking of control at all.

<- Previous Chapter Next Chapter ->

______________

Author's Note:

Y'all... THEY FINALLY TOUCHED EACH OTHER! And not only that, BUT HE KISSED HER HAND!!! And! They fucking HUGGED!!!!

#azriel x reader #azriel x reader slow burn #azriel x y/n #azriel x you #the shadowsinger and the inkbird

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crowsofdarkness · 6 months ago

Text

A Fight For Darkness: Chapter Two

-gif not mine. credit to owners-

Pairings: Eric Draven(Bill Skarsgard) x Female!Reader.

Content Warnings: language, violence, mentions of murder, mentions of taking own life, black mail, blood, smoking, drinking, mentions of drug use, arranged marriage, 18+ smut that I will mention at the beginning of the chapter.

Summary: An unknown text and a list full of questions for what happened to your sister leads you down to the underground fight ring that belongs to none other than Eric Draven, The Crow. Once he captures your eyes with his, the web you were desperate to untangle suddenly tightens.

Authors Note: This is not cannon to The Crow(2024). Shelly nor her and Eric's love story exist in this series. Eric does have his fast ability to heal thought. Tags are open for this series as well!

A Fight For Darkness Masterlist

“I’m only going to ask one more time, Y/N. How the hell did you get into the club tonight?”

Eric’s voice fell on my deaf ears as I continued to stare straight ahead at the peeling paint on the wall, almost in a near catatonic state. My body couldn’t move no matter how hard I tried; not even my toes that were still covered in blood since I kicked them off before my run from those two men.

I blinked before gazing up towards Eric, who was leaning against the door of the room with his arms crossed over his bare chest. Even in my current state, I looked over the variety of weird tattoos that covered his skin and could feel something inside of me twinge with disgust.

No, not disgust. Something new for me.

Arousal?

Typically I wasn't attracted to those kinds of men, my type more on the preppier side. The ones that wore polos and spent their Sunday afternoons at the golf course.

So why was I currently staring at the hard v-line of his hips, practically drooling over this man? This stranger?

It’s the shock, I told myself. It had to be the shock of the last ten minutes. I’m not thinking clearly.

I racked my brain trying to think of an excuse, not wanting to give him the real reason why I was here tonight all the while trying to prove my innocence that I had nothing to do with the two dead bodies in that room.

One with a slit throat and the other with a bullet hole in their head.

Blinking away those images, I ran a dry tongue over my lips and let out a staggering breath.

“I was looking for someone,” I did my best to ignore how shaky my voice sounded.

Eric raised a brow. “Who?”

“No one of importance,” my eyes flicked down at my hands, stained with blood.

I began scratching away at it, opening to rid myself of what I saw.

“How’d you get in tonight?” Eric continued to lean against the door. “I haven’t set out any new invitations in months and this is the first time I’ve seen you here.”

“Wait,” I looked up at him. “This is your place?”

“Don’t change the subject. How did you get an invite?” Eric asked again through thin slits of his eyes.

“Uh,” I began rubbing my palms on my bare thighs, hoping maybe that action would wipe away the dry blood. “Someone sent it to me.”

It wasn’t a complete lie.

I was still telling the truth while not divulging too much into my true motives for showing up tonight. That should keep Eric happy enough to let me go.

“Who?” His deep voice questioned.

Shit.

“I don’t know,” I sighed, still rubbing my palms on my thighs.

Up and down.

Up.

Down.

Just as Eric was about to ask yet another question, there was a rapid knocking on the door.

“Not now!” He called back.

“Boss! You need to come see this!” A worried voice said.

Eric grumbled a spew of curses under his breath before taking three wide strides over towards me, yanking my body off of the couch. His grip on my elbow was fierce, his fingers digging into my skin.

“What are you doing?” I demanded, my heart nearly bursting out of my chest in fear so I dug my feet into the ground. “Let me go!”

“I don’t know who you are or why you were here in the first place. Do you really think I’d let you walk around my club unsupervised?” Eric whirled his head towards me with dark eyes. “For all I know, you could have killed those two people.”

“I didn’t!” I said, shaking my head violently with wide eyes. “I promise! I just walked into the room by accident. I was trying to find the way out!”

Eric cocked his head to the side with an assessing gaze. It lingered over my face for longer than I deemed necessary yet when his eyes watched the way my throat bobbed, something fluttered deep within my gut.

“Was that before or after you killed someone?”

Before I could protest again, someone pounded on the door causing Eric to continue dragging me out of the room. It was so fast, I hadn't had time to see if the man that was leading us through the now empty fight club was the same man I’d run into before; the one that was chasing me.

People were working on cleaning up the fight cage, scrubbing out the blood from the mat, while others were sweeping up the trash that littered the floor. It felt sticky under my bare feet and internally I cringed at how gross this entire place was.

Surely there was no way my sister would be involved in some place like this.

The second we stepped, well more like Eric dragged me through the threshold of the room, I took in sight of the two dead bodies now in better light. My stomach dropped out of my ass and bile rising in my throat.

It was so much worse than I thought.

The woman who had her throat slit also had bruises covering her body while the man on the floor not only had the bullet hole in his head but all of his fingertips were cut off.

“Oh god,” I ripped myself from Eric's grasp to hunch over on my knees, emptying my stomach all over the floor.

Eric made a noise that sounded a mix between disgust and annoyance as he watched me continue to lose my stomach contents. Eventually when all I could throw up was air, he let out a sigh.

“I’m going to guess that you didn’t kill these two.”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand before slowly rising back to full height. “What gave it away?”

Something like a smile pulled at his lips but he refused to let it show and instead, motioned towards the two bodies behind me.

“Do you know them?”

Refusing to look, I shook my head. “No. I’ve never seen them before. I stumbled in here when I was looking for the way out.”

“Did anyone see you in here?” Eric asked.

My lips parted but I hesitated, not knowing if it was a good idea to let him know.

“Don’t bother lying. When you barged into my office it looked like you were running from something,” he noted.

Letting out a shaky breath, I nodded. “Two guys but I didn’t get a good look at their faces because of how dark it was in here. The only light that was one was the one above the bed.”

Now, there was a brighter light on, illuminating the entire space.

Eric scratched at his bare chest, staring at me for a long moment, and I felt myself becoming small underneath his intense gaze. But it wasn’t only that. I found myself feeling that unknown feeling again, like earlier. Something fluttered low in my gut, a warmth spreading through my veins, and I shifted on my bare feet when they stuck to the nasty floor.

He must have noticed how not only gross I looked but the mess surrounding us as well because he turned to one of the guys in the room with us; one of his guards.

“Did we get an I.D on these two?”

The shorter one nodded towards the girl. “Some hooker.”

I sliced my eyes into him. “That’s not nice.”

“If you expect me to care about some drugged up hooker, you’re fucking crazy,” the guard took a step towards me.

Eric was quick to step in his path, blocking him from me. “Watch it, Greg.”

The guard, Greg, clenched his jaw. “You don’t know who this broad is, Eric. She shows up in your office covered in blood. For all we know, she could have killed these two.”

“Did you not see me throw up all over the place?” I pointed to the ground.

“That doesn’t mean-.”

Greg began but Eric held up a hand to silence him, the muscles in his back tensing.

“Who is the guy?” He asked, changing the subject.

“That’s where shit gets interesting,” Greg ran a hand over his jaw. “Alexi Sokolov.”

Eric somehow even went more tense in the shoulders as his head snapped over towards me. “You’ve never seen these two before?”

“I already told you, no,” I shook my head with narrowed eyes. “Should I?”

“Alexi is, well was the leader of the Russian mob here in the city. He frequented my fight club a few times,” Eric ran a hand through his short hair. “And that doesnt help narrow down the list on who killed these two.”

My blood ran cold and skin clammy as I thought back to the two men I ran from. Could I have stumbled into something more than just a simple murder while looking for my sister? Could the Russians be involved in my sister's disappearance?

The task of finding my sister was becoming more daunting and I suddenly questioned if I could do it on my own.

“I need to get out of here,” I muttered more so to myself.

I made it all of two steps before Eric’s large frame blocked the doorway.

“You’re not leaving until I know for a fact you’re not linked to these two,” he crossed his arms over his chest.

Scolding myself for letting my gaze linger on his thick arms, I narrowed my eyes up at him.

“I already told you. I don’t know them,” I said through gritted teeth.

“Until my guys finish running a background check on you, you’re not going anywhere. Especially like that,” Eric nodded towards the dried blood covering me.

“Did you say you’re running a background check on me?” I nearly yelled.

He shrugged. “I don’t know you and you still won’t tell me how you got in tonight. So you could save us all the trouble and just tell the truth.”

“Are you going to let me go if I do?”

Even though my head was held high and eyes were narrowed at him, my voice shook with undeniable fear.

Eric’s eyes raked over my body, a smug smile on his face. “Depends on what you tell me.”

Gnawing on my bottom lip, I glanced around the room at Eric’s guards who were busy cleaning up; dragging the bodies away and scrubbing the floor with bleach. The severity of what exactly happened tonight was beginning to bury itself deep inside of my bones, the fear making me sick to my stomach again. I could feel the bile rising in my throat again so I swallowed a few times in an effort to keep it down.

“I don’t know you,” I finally spoke while looking back at Eric. “How do I know you won’t kill me?”

“If I wanted to, you would have been dropped dead on the floor the second you stepped foot into my office,” Eric answered without an ounce of remorse.

I blinked, mouth agape. “You-you kill people?”

Eric stood unmoving in front of me, a thick wall of muscles, and his silence was the answer to my question. My palms began to sweat and I took a step away from him, all the blood draining from my veins.

“I’m leaving,” my voice was meek.

“No you’re not. Not until you tell me what you were doing in my club,” Eric grunted.

Not even giving me more than a few seconds, his grip was tight around my elbow as he all but dragged me out of the room and towards his office.

“Let me go!” I yelled while digging my heels into the ground.

“And have you run off? I don’t think so,” Eric snorted.

As we neared his office, he was about to toss me inside when someone else appeared in the doorway making Eric curse and putting me behind him. Due to his height, I couldn’t see over his shoulder so I peered around his shoulder to see a leggy blonde leaning against the doorframe, dark red lips pulled up in a smile.

“There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you for our celebratory fuck because of your win tonight!”

I internally frowned at the feeling that festered low in my gut. It was unfamiliar but began to burn when she took a step towards Eric, which in turn made him take one away, bringing me along with him.

“How’d you get in, Lindsey? I have you blacklisted ” He said, voice clipped.

The blonde rolled her eyes. “I can’t believe you blacklisted me over a misunderstanding.”

“A misunderstanding?” Eric’s shoulders tensed. “I caught you snooping through my computer and you proceeded to lie to me when I confronted you about it.”

“You think you saw me,” Lindsey held up a finger.

“I have you on video surveillance,” he replied bluntly.

That seemed to shut her up as Lindsey crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, I wanted to see you. So what do you say when we head back to my place?”

Eric’s grip had loosened around my elbow while he was talking so I took it as my opportunity to quietly slip away, doing my best to ignore the stupid and annoying feeling stabbing my gut.

Why the hell was I jealous? I had no right to be. I didn’t know her or Eric.

I only made it a few steps before Eric’s hand shot out to grab at the nape of my neck, yanking me back to him.

“Nice try,” he breathed against the shell of my ear.

“You seem busy,” I said, ignoring the way my body ignited with a blaze from his grip on the back of my neck. “I don’t want to get in the way of your booty call.”

Something flickered in his dark eyes. “Are you jealous? Want me to bend you over and fuck your tight cunt instead?”

I swallowed thickly when my core ached at his vulgar words. Never in my life had a man talked to me this way before. So why was I so turned on by it?

“You’re disgusting,” I tried to fight against him which only made him tighten his grip on the back of my neck, yanking me towards his chest.

I glanced up at him with my best pissed off expression as nipples brushed over his bare chest through the thin material of my dress. I bit the inside of my cheek at how good it felt, not wanting to let the moan slip from my clenched lips.

“You didn’t say no,” he said with a smirk.

“Did you want to?” I blurted.

What the fuck? Why did I ask him that? I didn’t care to know if he wanted to fuck me or not.

Eric’s eyes flicked up and down over my body again. “Tempting. I must say, the dried blood on your skin is making my cock hard.”

“Can I please go home? I just want to leave,” I begged quietly, changing the subject away from the images of him bending over.

Truth be told, I was exhausted. I had no idea what time it was and wanted nothing more than to crawl into my bed in hopes of forgetting everything that happened. Also, the earlier revelation that Eric may have killed people made me want to run far away, never looking back.

“Stop fucking asking that,” he muttered under his breath while dragging me back towards his office where Lindsey continued to lean against the doorway; her eyes flaring when she noticed me.

“Who’s this?”

“Get the fuck out of here, Lindsey,” Eric demanded and wrenched her out of the way.

Her protests were hushed by him slamming the door in her face before he swung on his heels, pointing a finger at his couch.

“Sit.”

“Fuck you,” I snarled.

Something flickered in Eric’s eyes as his upper lip twitched but instead of saying anything, he forced me to sit on the couch ignoring my protests.

Like previously, I sat on the couch while he sat on the edge of the coffee table in front of me. His thighs were spread wide on either side of my closed legs, almost as if he was blocking me in. Eric was still shirtless and I forced myself to keep my eyes on his, not wanting to get caught taking in the sight of his abs.

He doesn't have a six pack. That man has an eight pack.

Scolding my inner thoughts, I played with the ends of my dirty dress.

“So,” Eric’s deep voice broke through the quiet. “How did you get an invite to my fight club?”

I chewed on the inside of my cheek, contemplating whether or not to lie to him but knew that in the end, the only way I was getting out of here was giving Eric what he wanted.

Not everything.

“Uh,” I cleared my throat while sitting up straighter. “Some unknown number texted me with the address and a picture of a bloody crow.”

Eric hummed. “The Bloody Crow invite. Only specific people on the list get that invite.”

“Do you think you could figure out who sent it?” I asked.

“The list is over two hundred people long.”

Not knowing what to say, I nodded. I’d been curious as to who sent me the text earlier today. There were only two people who knew about my search for my sister and that was my dad who was dead; he killed himself shortly after my sister went missing so unless he was contacting me from beyond the grave, it wasn't him. The other was the detective assigned to my sister's case and something told me he wouldn’t be sending me somewhere where I could find out more info about the case than him.

“Why did you come here tonight?” Eric asked.

I hesitated for a beat, not knowing if I could trust him with my search. But maybe if I gave him a little bit of information, he could point me in the right direction.

“My sister,” I said.

“I don’t have any female fighters.”

I shook my head with a sigh. “No, she’s missing. Has been for the last six months and I’ve been looking for answers.”

Eric’s left brow rose. “Isn’t that a job for the police?”

I snorted. “The police haven’t done shit. They gave up after a month. Everytime I try to get updates, I’m directed to voicemail after voicemail of cops who could care less. So it’s up to me to find out where she is.”

“What makes you think she’s still alive?”

My heart sank at Eric’s words. I knew there was always the possibility that my sister would be dead, especially with how long she’s been missing, but I refused to think that. I would find her and when I did, she would be alive.

“I don’t,” I answered honestly. “But I’m not going to stop looking for her.”

“You think she came here?” Eric asked.

I let out a long sigh before easing back into the couch. “I doubt it. Illegal underground fighting rings wasn’t something she was into.”

“Who said I run an illegal establishment?” He asked with a mock hurt tone but then his face turned serious. “Do you have a picture of her? Maybe I can recognize her.”

My knee brushed up against his, a surge of static flowing through me, but I ignored it.

“How can I trust you? You could lie to me just to throw me off course,” I said with furrowed brows. “I don’t even know you.”

Eric scratched at the tattoos on his chest and shrugged. “That’s right, you don’t. And I don’t know you. But you stumbled into my fightclub. Someone sent you an invite for a reason. Which means one of two things. Either it wasn’t meant for you or I have a mole inside my club.”

“The text said I could find answers for my missing sister here so I think it was meant for me.”

“Well, then it looks like I have a mole,” Eric’s jaw clenched, a vein on the side of his forehead prominent with a deep shade of purple.

I motioned to my purse that was still on the table next to Eric. “I have a picture of her in my wallet.”

Once he rifled through my purse to find the picture, he stared at it for a long moment before shaking his head.

“I’ve never seen her before.”

“I’m starting to think this was a dead end. Whoever sent me that text did it to throw me off,” I said.

Silence fell between us, our deep breathing echoing in the room, and I took in the sight of Eric’s office. It wasn’t big by any means, just a desk with a chair, a couch, and a punching bag in the corner. There was a closed door behind the desk to which I assumed was a closet.

A rough knock sounded on the main door to his office and Eric called over his shoulder. “Come in!”

One of his guards peered his head inside, hesitating when he saw me sitting on the couch. Eric noticed but instead of kicking me out, he nodded towards the guard urging him on.

“Uh, boss. We reviewed the tapes and we got something.”

“What did you find?” Eric asked while rising to his feet.

I didn’t bother to move, only slink further deep into the couch.

“Ms. Y/L/N was telling the truth. She came alone and as soon as she saw you fighting in the cage, she tried to leave but ended up in the room with the two bodies. She was in there less than two minutes, not enough time to kill them.”

“Told you,” I grumbled under my breath while crossing my arms over my chest.

Eric glanced down at me. “Did I disgust you that much during my fight?”

No, not you.

“I don’t like violence,” I stated with a shrug.

He hummed before looking back at his guard. “What else did you find out?”

“Whoever the two guys that caught here weren’t that slick. While they were chasing her, they ran into direct sight of the cameras. We got a good look at their faces.”

“And?”

The guard shifted on his feet before running a hand over his face. “It’s bad.”

“Worse than the head of the Russian mob being murdered in my club?” Eric retorted back.

“Worse like they are Roeg’s men.”

A slew of curses fell from Eric’s mouth as he rested his hands low on his hips, the black gym shorts he still wore from his fight hanging even lower. He began pacing the length of his office and I watched with slight fear in my eyes, heart beating rapidly.

“Who’s Roeg?” I dared ask.

Eric ignored me, turning back to his guard. “How sure are we that they got a good look at, Y/N?”

“They didn’t get a good look at me,” I said. “The room was dark.”

“Are you positive?” He directed towards me.

My lips parted to speak but quickly I snapped them shut when I realized I wasn’t entirely sure if those two men actually saw me or not.

Running a hand through his hair, Eric went over towards the other door in his office and opened it, pulling out a hoodie and a pair of sweats; him obviously keeping extra clothes in there. He tossed them to me with a pointed finger.

“Get dressed. Leave your bloody clothes here so we can burn them.”

“Why?” My voice shook as I held the clothes to my chest. “What are you going to do?”

“Are we clear?” Eric asked his guard.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “We did a full sweep of the building and the grounds outside. Roeg’s men are nowhere in sight. Jackson is reviewing the tapes from the backdoor to see how they got in.”

“Send me the footage as soon as you get it,” Eric said and then grabbed a shirt from the closet, throwing it on. “Didn’t I tell you to get dressed?”

I slowly stood from the couch, still holding the hoodie and sweats close to my chest. “Why? What’s going on?”

“You’re leaving. Go home and never come back here.”

Eric’s words should have elated me, finally being able to go home, yet I continued to stand in front of him unmoving. Something in those bright eyes gave way that he was keeping secrets.

Instead of arguing, I let out a long sigh and nodded. “Trust me, you’ll never see me here again.”

“Good. You can get dressed in here and one of my guards will walk you to your car.”

He walked towards the open door of his office, muttering something to the guard, but my voice called after him.

“What am I supposed to do if one of those guys shows up again?”

Eric paused for a moment, contemplating something in his mind, before stalking back over to his desk and ripped open a drawer.

“If something happens, call me,” he handed me a card with his number on it but held it back before I could grab it. “This doesn’t mean you can text me asking me what I’m doing or what my favorite color is.”

Narrowing my eyes, I snatched the card from his hand. “Trust me, Eric. You’re not even my type.”

Liar.

Ignoring the voice in my head yet again, I held his gaze for a solid three breaths before he let out an amused noise and turned swiftly on his heels, hating right in the doorway.

“A piece of advice?” Eric called over his shoulder. “Stop looking into your sister's disappearance. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

#eric draven #bill skarsgard fanfiction #bill skarsgard smut #bill skarsgard fics #bill skarsgard one shot #bill skarsgard series #bill skarsgard x reader #bill skarsgard x you #bill skarsgard x y/n #bill skarsgard x yn #eric draven 2024 #eric draven x reader #eric draven smut

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yanderecrazysie · 2 years ago

Text

Twisted Zoo (Prologue)

Summary: You’re a brand new zookeeper at The Halfling Zoo- a place where half-animals live in captivity. Your job is simple- feed them and study them. Your main worry is that one of the more dangerous halflings might kill you.

Unfortunately, that may become the least of your worries.

WARNINGS: none for now

Note: This is based on the stories of a keeper reader with the octotrio by @ashensgrotto and @merakiui except I decided to take it a step further and include all the dorms. I know that a lot of these animals don’t fit them perfectly, but I did the best I could. I left out Ortho because he has no age and he looks really young so… no.

All characters are aged up, since there will be mature themes in future parts.

Also, I can’t promise I’ll finish this. I suck at finishing stories.

Chapter One here

—----------------------

“Pleased to meet you Mr. Crowley.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Ms. (Y/n)!”

You smiled up at your new boss, taking in his eccentric appearance- everything from his crow feather-lined cape, to his sparkling suit, to his top hat, and to the black bird mask that covered half his face.

That name suits him.

“Now, you’re mainly a researcher, but you will also be assisting with some of the general chores, such as feeding the animals,” Mr. Crowley explained what you already knew.

“That’s alright,” you said, smiling brightly, “That will allow me to observe even more of their behaviors.”

You were fresh out of college and ready to face The Halfling Zoo. There was plenty of debate whether it was okay to treat half-humans as animals and keep them in a zoo, but it was convenient for you. You didn’t have to travel the world to attempt to study animals from afar through a camera lens.

“You will be supervising the lion and hyena exhibit, the wolf exhibit, the panther and tiger exhibit, the bird exhibits, the reptile house, and the aquarium,” Mr. Crowley explained.

“Wait, did you mean to say the lions and hyenas are together? And the panthers and tigers? Or did I misunderstand?” you asked, confused.

“They are bonded groups, so it would be wrong to separate them,” Crowley explained, “Halflings don’t always act like their animal counterparts.”

You nodded, cursing yourself internally. You had learned that on your first day at college! How could I be so stupid to forget about the bonds different Halfling species make?

“Follow me,” Mr. Crowley’s voice broke through your thoughts, “I’ll show you around.”

The two of you left the cramped office in the main staff building and headed out onto the guests’ paths. You could see a few families walking by- less than usual, since it was nearing closing time. It felt as though the sky was growing darker by the minute as the sun made its way down the horizon, beautiful orange and pink clouds lighting its path.

You almost immediately arrived at the lion and hyena exhibit. It was a huge enclosure, the terrain so detailed that you felt as though you had stepped straight into an African savannah. In fact, you could even feel the heat emanating from the ground itself.

“We keep it as hot as their home naturally is,” Mr. Crowley explained, reading your thoughts, “They’re happy here- it’s home with no need to hunt to survive.”

You nodded, but inside you wondered if that was really true or not. Were they really happier in a giant cage on display for humans than they were in Africa? You couldn’t imagine feeling that way.

Mr. Crowley pointed out a big rock where a pride of lions had gathered, “On top of that rock is the top dog- er, cat, I mean. The king of the jungle.”

Upon closer inspection, and a lot more eye strain, you could make out a figure lying on the top of the large rock. It was a Lion Halfling, with tan skin and thick, dark mane of brown hair that fell to his shoulders, except for the braids in front of his face, which were even longer. You could just make out the lion’s ears on top of his head and the lion’s tail draped over the rock’s side.

“And those are the hyenas,” Mr. Crowley supplied, pointing to the edge of the enclosure, “They’re used to aggressive females, so the males might be a little jumpy around you.”

You remembered reading about that in school, but it was amazing to see all the Halflings in person. You couldn’t help but feel excited to study them up close. Imagine if you made a big discovery that no one else had ever discovered about Halflings! After all, there were a lot of unknowns about them.

“Onto the wolf exhibit!” Mr. Crowley said in a sing-song voice.

The enclosure was right across the way from the lions and hyenas, but it had a completely different feel. The air was cooler when you walked up to the giant forest. Through the trees, it was difficult to actually see any wolf halflings. You thought you saw a flash of white, but it was too quick to tell.

“Yes, well, this exhibit is pretty quiet during the day,” the zoo director said awkwardly, “They’ll be out tonight, howling at the moon and whatnot.”

“Wolves don’t actually howl at the moon,” you helpfully supplied, “They howl to communicate with other wolves.”

Mr. Crowley stared at you for a moment and you wondered if you had annoyed him, until he grinned widely, “Such a knowledgeable new researcher!”

You smiled at the compliment, a little embarrassed as the two of you headed for the panther and tiger exhibit. You were surprised to see it alive with Halflings, all of them staring back at the two of you with narrowed eyes.

“There’s two black panthers,” Mr. Crowley pointed them out, “and two albino tigers. The four of them are as thick as thieves.”

You cautiously waved at them, but they merely turned away and disappeared into the jungle enclosure. You wondered if they were somehow curious to see you, or if they always did this to guests.

“Next, the bird exhibits!” Mr. Crowley led the way to the aviary. He pointed out Halflings left and right in the closely-packed enclosures, “A parrot, three albino peacocks, two flamingos, an owl, and a raven. You’ll get to know them well, since they’re mostly all very friendly. Except the peacocks are a little cocky.”

You giggled a little and waved to all the birds. It was a futile effort, because, save for the owl halfling, they were all fast asleep. The owl halfling stayed on his perch, wings tucked around his body, his bespectacled face scrutinizing you. Not in a rude way, just sort of deciding what you were.

You followed Mr. Crowley into a heated building with a glass wall on one side. You peered through the glass wall and immediately spotted the Boa Constrictor Halfling lying against the wall. Human until the torso, which then winded into a snake tail.

“Don’t be fooled!” Mr. Crowley said, “There is more than one snake in that exhibit. See if you can spot it.”

You looked at every angle, struggling to spot anything different. Then, a part of the sand moved and two gray eyes glared back at you.

“A Viper Halfling, right?” you said in awe, “Aren’t those venomous?”

“Ah, yes, well,” Mr. Crowley stuttered a little, “Don’t get bitten.”

You stared at him for a moment before it sunk in. All of these animals, except the birds, were extremely dangerous! And you were going to go into their enclosures to study and feed them? Were you insane?

You pushed down the panic and took a deep breath. This is what you signed up for. You probably already waived all your rights away anyway. You hadn’t looked at the fine print of your contracts, of course.

You noticed another tank on the other side of the room and walked up to it. You couldn’t see anything inside this one, but Mr. Crowley was quick to explain, “There’s a salamander in this one. A beautiful electric blue, but extremely shy.”

You peered inside, trying to catch a glance of blue, but you couldn’t see a thing.

“Lastly, the aquarium,” Mr. Crowley clapped his hands together, as though to bring you back to reality.

The aquarium was a huge glass tank where visitors could go down the stairs and see inside. The two of you walked by it, and saw very little signs of life.

“You’ll probably see the eel twins a bit. They’re a little shy at first, but Floyd is pretty playful. The octopus, on the other hand, rarely leaves his cave. He’ll venture out to eat, but that’s about it. We should have made that damn thing see-through, but it’s too late now.”

You were glad it was a normal cave, and not transparent like the glass. The Octopus Halfling probably felt safe inside it. It wouldn’t be fair to rob him of that simple pleasure.

“That’s the end of your tour, young lady,” Mr. Crowley said cheerfully, “You start bright and early tomorrow, have a long lunch break, then leave late at night. Are you sure you’re ready to do this?”

He looked down at you with a hint of nervousness, as though he expected you to say “no”. But you were determined and excited to explore what your classes had trained you for. Real life application.

“I’m ready!”

Note: So, some of the animals are obvious, but I’m wondering what you all think the others are?

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland

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gav-san · 27 days ago

Text

A Vintage Bouquet Chapter 6

Main Masterlist Here

One Piece Masterlist

A Vintage Bouquet Masterlist

Chapter Title: The Unwelcome Homcoming Length: 8.5 K+

Previous/Next

By the time Mihawk’s ship cuts through the mist toward Kuraigana Island, he’s convinced of two things:

The first is that he should have annulled that damn marriage already. The second is that he shouldn’t have bothered coming at all.

The crows don’t even scatter when he docks. Ominous. They just look at him like, Oh, so you’re back. Bold.

He tightens his coat and steps off the boat with the gait of a man deeply suspicious of everything, especially domestic progress. The castle looms ahead, dark and brooding as ever. The vines seem thicker. The air carries the scent of ash, mead, and poorly ventilated rage.

The cliffs still howled. The forest still creaked with cursed energy and, very likely, undead squirrels.

But the vibes?

Good.

And that alone was a red flag the size of a marine battleship.

Trellises stood proud and green. The paths were cleared, and something edible was cooking, which amounted to a declaration of war or a trap on this island. Possibly both.

And the castle?

Still gothic. Still miserable. Still entirely too tall and dramatic.

But someone had scrubbed it within an inch of its cursed little life.

Cracked windows had been patched with waxed cloth and reinforced with iron bands. The main doors no longer looked like they screamed when pushed. The vines weren’t just climbing the gates now, no, they were shaped. Tended. Curated. Claimed.

It was offensive.

This place was never supposed to feel lived in.

He reaches the threshold and pauses. The doorknob is clean. Shined. There’s a wreath. Of lavender. And thorns.

Lavender and thorns. Of course.

It was still gothic and miserable, but someone had scrubbed it within an inch of its life. Cracked windows had been patched with waxed cloth and iron reinforcements. The vines weren’t just climbing the gates now; they were shaped. Tended. Curated. Claimed.

It was offensive.

He stepped back and circled the entire place, refusing to enter through the front door like some sort of fool who deserved to fall into a trap. No—he’d face his resident witch like a man, or at least from behind, in a position of strategic advantage.

He tromped into the courtyard, shoulders squared, surveying the grounds like a warlord discovering his fortress had been redecorated with “feminine revenge.”

There were flower beds now. Organized ones. The broken gargoyle head he’d left as a conversation piece had been turned into a planter. His old training dummy had been converted into a scarecrow and now wore one of his coats. His favorite coat.

A clothesline strung from turret to tower fluttered with fabric. Clean fabric. Someone had done laundry. Voluntarily. On Kuraigana.

And behind him, the vineyard rustled.

He didn’t turn immediately. That would imply fear. Instead, he reached for his sword with the slow, deliberate motion of a man unsure if he was about to be tackled or impaled.

The rustling stopped.

A rooster crowed.

A rooster. On his island.

He hadn’t brought a rooster. He had barely brought food.

It strutted across the courtyard like it paid taxes and owned the deed to the east wing. One eye fixed on Mihawk like it knew, as if it had personally survived three duels and a turf war. Its tail feathers gleamed. Its comb was styled.

From across the path, a lone mandrill met Mihawk’s gaze. They stared at one another for a long, loaded second. Then the mandrill grunted, slow and deliberate, and slammed the back gate shut.

Locked it.

With a vine-woven latch. Twisted like a smug little wreath.

Mihawk stared.

Then tried the latch.

It held.

He had to force it open with the quiet, seething dignity of a man trying not to be outplayed by a primate with floristry skills.

Not a word was spoken. Just the soft clack of sword hilt meeting latch and the creak of the gate yielding to a former Warlord of the Sea.

Somewhere in the back of the garden, he heard laughter. Light, unbothered, followed by a pop of a cork and what could only be described as a cackle of victorious domesticity.

The air smelled like rosemary and smugness.

He put a hand on his sword and muttered to himself, “I leave for one year and she invents civilization.”

He was going to need a drink.

And possibly… a battle plan.

He stormed into the courtyard, every step a quiet threat, the coattails of his long silence dragging behind him like smoke.

Three mandrills were sunbathing.

One was brushing its fur with a tortoiseshell comb he distinctly remembered locking in the guest room drawer. The one labeled PRIVATE. DO NOT TOUCH. OR ELSE.

They saw him.

Paused.

Then nodded once, like regulars acknowledging the bartender.

And went back to lounging.

No fear. No deference. Not even a theatrical shriek.

Just the lazy serenity of beasts who now lived under different management.

It wasn’t that Mihawk had been dethroned.

No.

It was worse.

He had been forgotten.

Erased from his own island’s power structure like a redundant footnote. The mandrills were no longer under his command. They were in a homeowners' association now. The rooster was probably the treasurer.

The one with the comb adjusted its posture and continued brushing with slow, luxurious strokes, like it was preparing for a date or a diplomatic gala.

Another yawned.

The third rolled over onto its back and, to Mihawk’s horror, was wearing his reading glasses.

He stared.

It blinked.

He blinked back.

Then it pointed toward the garden like a disinterested usher at a doomed wedding. As if to say, She’s out back. Try not to bleed on the basil.

Mihawk didn’t trust the muscles in his jaw to behave. He ground his teeth like a man chewing rocks and turned toward the indicated path.

It was lined. With herbs. Labeled. In her handwriting.

The Dark Castle of Kuraigana now had garden markers, a functional pantry system, and a defensive poultry unit.

His eye twitched.

The biggest of the mandrills—scarred, battle-worn, and with the kind of dead-eyed wisdom only gained by surviving both duels and tea parties—met Mihawk’s gaze.

The look it gave him?

Was the same expression a seasoned pub bouncer might give an unwanted drunk at closing time.

Tolerant. Mildly annoyed. He was fully prepared to end things if he breathed on the begonias without permission.

It was a power shift. A quiet coup. And Mihawk wasn’t sure if the mandrill was about to challenge him or ask him to make a reservation next time.

And then…

Half-shielded by hedges and a suspiciously well-maintained trellis, you emerged from the side of the garden. Barefoot. Smirking. Carrying a basket of what appeared to be freshly harvested vegetables, because, of course, you dared to cultivate crops on his haunted murder island.

You had twigs in your hair and one of his shirts rolled at the sleeves, a knife on your hip, and a smear of something across your cheek that might have been dirt or the remains of a recent victory. Hair pulled back with a ribbon that had, impossibly, been embroidered. Embroidered. On Kuraigana.

You stood differently now. Confident. Grounded. Rooted, like the damn sage bush that was growing suspiciously close to where he used to keep his spare coffin.

You barked orders like you owned the courtyard.

Like you ran the island.

Like you weren’t the woman he’d left here as a bureaucratic oversight in a dress.

You looked like someone the mandrills reported to, like someone the island reported to.

And then—

You spotted him.

There were a lot of ways Mihawk had calculated this meeting could go.

What you actually did? Not on the chart.

You didn’t slow down.

Didn’t blink.

You didn’t even acknowledge the world’s greatest swordsman, as if he were anything more than a speed bump in your morning.

You strode past him with the supreme confidence of a woman who’d turned war into irrigation, tamed wild mandrills with passive-aggressive chore charts, and built a functioning economy out of spite, guano, and sheer estrogen.

Your basket swung at your hip. Your expression was beatific.

Smug. Victorious.

Like this was your courtyard.

Your mandrills.

Your deranged, feathered cult.

“Ah,” you called, sweet as fresh poison. Then, chipper as the sunrise, you tilted your head. He opened his mouth, but you weren’t finished, and cut him off. .

Mihawk opened his mouth to speak.

Unfortunately for him, you weren’t done.

“Welcome home, jackass.”

He blinked. Once. Slowly.

Behind him, a mandrill sipped daintily from a teacup that it definitely stole from his study.

Somewhere to the left, a rooster flapped its tiny red cape like punctuation.

Mihawk did not speak.

He had, astonishingly, nothing to say.

No retort.

No monologue.

No sword.

Just the dawning inkling that he might not rule this island anymore.

He squinted, slowly, at the basket. At your shirt. The faint scent of lavender and smugness wafting off you like a battle standard. It smelled like soap. And revolution.

You stopped just short of him and blinked up sweetly.

“Something wrong?” you asked, in the same tone one might use to offer a guest a drink. Or a shovel to dig their own grave.

He stared for a long moment, expression unreadable.

Then, with deadly calm, he said,

“…Why is the rooster wearing a cape?”

You smiled wider. “Because he’s the mayor now.”

He closed his eyes.

And saw the end of the world.

When he reopened them—after an eye roll so powerful it might’ve shaved years off his life—you didn’t flinch.

You handed off the basket to a passing mandrill like a regional manager delegating lunch duties. Then turned back, clipboard tucked under your arm like it came with executive authority.

And had the audacity to look bored.

Like he was inconveniencing you.

It was, objectively, worse than mockery. And, admittedly, might be deserved.

He had expected you to be alive. Barely. Maybe whispering to ghosts. Gnawing on moss and stubbornness. Mud under your nails and a wild glint in your eye, ready to bite anything that looked like taxes.

What he had not expected was order. Structure. A functioning hierarchy made of spite and stolen silverware. Or a rooster with its own cape watching him like it was running inventory on his sins.

He had left a wreckage.

And returned to a republic.

He had not expected a functioning rainwater system.

Or a swept courtyard.

Or a shovel by the door, clean, sharpened, and gleaming like it had opinions about his place in the world.

Your dress was now neatly mended. Probably with that cursed little sewing kit Shanks had smuggled in, claiming you would end up wrapped in leaves otherwise.

You had a belt pouch. A knife holster.

And, most damning of all, a clipboard. A formal log of things done. And things to do. In ink. With dates. Possibly color-coded.

Mihawk, master of solitude, monarch of minimalism, destroyer of emotional depth, stared at you and realized he no longer owned this island. At best, he had visitation rights.

And even that was pending mayoral approval.

Then, flat as stale tea, you asked, “When will you be leaving?”

You said it like he was a mildew problem you had almost gotten rid of.

He stared.

You stared back.

Silence followed. The kind usually reserved for ancient curses and alliances built on spite.

He sighed and crossed his arms.

“So. You’re alive.”

You went still.

“Nice of you to notice,” you said, still holding the clipboard. “I figured you had died. Or worse, sent more lentils.”

“You weren’t meant to last.”

The air visibly bristled.

“I noticed.”

A mandrill dropped from the roof behind you like a coconut of judgment. It crossed its arms. It did not blink. It radiated the posture of a bouncer at a very exclusive tavern called Not Your Island Anymore.

Mihawk’s eye narrowed.

“I didn’t authorize modifications.”

“I wasn't about to swim an ocean to ask.”

A pause.

“There is plumbing.”

“Thanks to your red-haired menace of a friend. Turns out one of his crewmates can solder copper without setting himself on fire. Useful skill.”

Mihawk’s eyes narrowed. “Did you flirt with him?”

You turned. Slowly.

Looked at him like he had sprouted a second sword from his forehead and tried to name it after your mother.

“No. He flirted at me. And the primates. I gave him a repair list.”

Mihawk said nothing.

But his jaw clicked once.

Subtle. Sharp. Like a trap resetting.

You arched a brow. “What? You annoyed at a man who electrocuted himself twice trying to fix a pump?”

He didn’t answer.

You shrugged. “The mandrills flirted back. He lost.” Behind you, one of them flexed. Another blew a kiss.

Mihawk cleared his throat and glanced toward the castle. “Is that smoke?”

“I cook now,” you said.

He blinked.

“God help us.”

You stared at him.

Flat. Deadpan. Utterly betrayed.

“I survived a winter with no roof, three floods, and a rooster-led coup, and your first instinct is to insult my cooking?”

He opened his mouth.

You cut him off.

“I am divine with root vegetables. The mandrills wept.”

One of them nodded solemnly from a nearby tree, and another clutched its chest like it was reliving the flavor profile.

Mihawk glanced between you and your simian hype squad, clearly recalculating.

“…Voluntarily?”

Your eyes narrowed.

“I have a rotating menu, a functioning spice rack, and emotional range. Yes. Voluntarily.”

Something in the kitchen exploded behind you. You didn’t flinch. Behind you, the rooster crowed. Triumphant. Regal. A war cry wrapped in feathers and executive privilege.

Mihawk looked back at you.

“I want my coat returned.”

You raised a brow.

“It’s on the scarecrow.”

“I noticed.”

“You’ll have to take it up with the vineyard union.”

A beat passed. He blinked again.

“You made a union?”

“No,” you said. “They did. I just handle the paperwork.”

You held up the clipboard like it was holy scripture.

And he knew, in that moment, with a deep and prophetic certainty, that if he stayed here one more day, the mandrills would assign him chores.

And you would supervise.

Something screamed in the woods. Probably a bird. Possibly a ghost. Definitely not his problem anymore, you were now the queen of the castle. Another mandrill arrived and dropped a squash at your feet like tribute. You didn’t react. Just nodded once and marked something on your clipboard with a little flourish that irritated him in a way he could not name but absolutely felt in his molars.

He looked at you. Really looked.

No assumptions. No tactical reports. No bureaucratic distance.

You were feral. But composed. Furious. But functioning.

And still his wife. Technically. Legally. Cosmically. Inconveniently.

“…We’ll speak inside,” he said at last. The words came out stiff, dragging behind his teeth like a reluctant prisoner.

“No.” You didn’t look up. “ We won’t.”

He frowned. “Excuse me?”

“But if you go inside,” you continued, flipping the page, “you’ll need to take off your boots.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I just mopped. If you track mud across my floors, I will make you lick them clean.”

Silence fell again.

A breeze rolled through the vineyard. One of the mandrills raised an eyebrow like he would absolutely pay to see it happen. Another popped a grape in his mouth and leaned in, interested. There was a pause long enough for a squirrel to consider starting a family. And then name all its children after dominant power plays.

You finally looked up.

“Dinner is at seven,” you said, in a voice so dry it could sharpen blades. “If you’re not here, you eat cold. I’m not heating stew twice.”

Then you turned.

Back to the barrel of grapes. Back to your clipboard. Back to your vineyard, your mayoral rooster, and your extremely organized regime of animal governance.

You had dismissed him.

With your back.

Then you turned on your heel with imperial efficiency, clipboard in hand, two mandrills flanking you like emotionally unstable palace guards with unpaid overtime and a personal grudge against swords.

The rest of the mandrills fell in behind you like judgmental bridesmaids. Marching in sync. Eyes narrowed. Tails tense. You disappeared into the castle like a storm with a chore list.

As if he weren’t the most feared swordsman alive. As if he were just a houseguest with muddy boots and too many questions.

He stood there a moment longer, unsure whether to fight you or offer to do the dishes.

A mandrill behind him sipped tea. The rooster crowed again.

Mihawk sighed through his teeth.

Quietly. With restraint. The kind usually reserved for hostage negotiations or very slow-moving disasters.

And Mihawk— for the first time in a very long time— considered the unfamiliar weight of consequences.

He moved forward to the door, only to be stopped by a small mandrill with its arms crossed.

He snarled at Mihawk’s boots. Another snapped rubber gloves over its massive hands. Slowly. Menacingly.

Somewhere, a broom was unsheathed.

Mihawk stared at the door.

Then at his boots.

Then, finally, at the rooster, who tilted its head in pity. A slow, solemn nod. The kind reserved for men about to make peace with their mistakes.

Mihawk stood in the courtyard of his own castle, feeling distinctly like a trespasser in a kingdom now run by grapes, monkeys, and a woman holding a clipboard like it was a divine edict.

He stared after you. Watched the sway of your determined march. The straight line of command behind you. The sparkle of righteous domestic tyranny in the air.

He had fought warlords. Beast pirates. Armadas.

But this?

Madness.

And for the first time in years, he was no longer the apex predator on this island.

Against his better judgment… he began untying his boots.

One lace at a time.

You, apparently serious about wanting his imminent departure, gave him what he thought he wanted: silence.

Not shouting. Not lectures. Not even disdain.

Just… distance.

The kind of silence that echoed with precision. That rang louder than cannon fire. That said everything and nothing, while leaving the world’s greatest swordsman utterly, completely unequipped to deal with a cold shoulder.

You spoke to the mandrills.

You spoke to the barrels.

You even spoke to the sourdough starter on the windowsill like it was a promising recruit who had recently shown leadership potential.

But not to him.

Dracule Mihawk—Warlord of the Sea, former Marine Hunter, Invincible in Duel—was being systematically outmaneuvered by a woman with a kerchief, a clipboard, and a strategic lack of acknowledgement.

He pouted.

The mandrills ignored him.

You ignored him harder.

It drove him insane.

Not a dramatic, sword-wielding, shirtless-on-the-cliffside kind of insane.

No.

A slow, psychological unraveling. A quiet descent into the kind of madness that made him reorganize his dusty bookshelf in passive-aggressive alphabetical chaos because you hadn’t stepped foot in his tower.

At one point, he passed you in the hallway. You stepped neatly to the side. Gave a small, polite nod. As if yielding to a decorative suit of armor. One that squeaked slightly when it turned.

Mihawk stopped. Stared. Turned around like he had just been stabbed by etiquette.

“That’s it?” he asked.

You glanced over your shoulder. One eyebrow lifted. Casual. Sharp. Pitying.

“…I acknowledged your presence, don’t I?”

“Barely.”

“Correct.”And you walked away.

Mihawk remained in the hallway for a full minute, struggling with the unwelcome realization that his feelings were, in fact, feeling hurt.

Betrayal. Confusion. The sharp sting of being treated like a decorative object rather than the gothic menace he clearly was.

He sat in the dusty library with your newest wine, hunched over a chair that was slightly too small and therefore offensive, glowering at a vine that had climbed in through the window and was somehow thriving despite his mood.

He fed the fire. Aggressively. Too many logs. All at once. He made eye contact with the flames like they had personally wronged him.

He drank the wine.

Loud sips. Unnecessary spoon tapping. A glass slammed just enough to convey emotional unrest without damaging the porcelain.

Dammit.

Dammit all to hell.

It was excellent wine.

It would be even better if it sat for a few more years.

Apparently, you had more than just survival to boost your ego at this point because not even he could critique the wine.

He was furious.

And to his own disgust, he started seeking you out.

Once, he dramatically opened his coat in the middle of the hallway, flared it like a bat, and lingered just long enough for you to look up.

You did not.

You walked past him with two jars of pickled radishes and a perfectly neutral expression.

It was the most humiliating thing that had ever happened to him.

And he once lost a duel to a man who called his finishing move “Red-Haired Whirlwind of Justice.”

He scowled into his wine, sulking with the righteous gloom of a man who had not been properly acknowledged since breakfast.

Somewhere in the courtyard, a mandrill was playing the lute. The rooster was overseeing vineyard operations.

And Mihawk was spiraling in a library whose hall now smelled faintly of lavender and cinnamon.

Eventually, he reached a breaking point and appeared in the kitchen doorway like a thundercloud in tailored black, muttering from the shadows with the grim gravitas of a man who had tried everything short of interpretive dance.

“So we’re doing this.”

You didn’t look up. “Doing what?”

“This. Pettiness.”

“Oh, I’m not petty,” you replied sweetly, slicing something with devastating efficiency. “I simply don’t acknowledge minor diplomatic errors in real time.”

“Minor—” he started, voice rising.

You turned a page on your clipboard. The movement was crisp. Precise. Lethal.

He made a sound that could only be described as a wounded growl, muffled by pride and the lingering sting of emotional rejection. He looked like a man who had just lost an argument to a spreadsheet.

And somewhere deep in the castle, the sound of fresh bread rising echoed like a victory drum.

You still didn’t look at him.

But you smiled.

A tiniest little twitch at the corner of your mouth.

The mandrill nearest the stove adjusted the oven temperature with reverence. The rooster strutted past the open window and crowed once. Just once.

It was, without question, a declaration of triumph.

And Mihawk, Warlord of the Sea, dark prince of precision, stared at your back like it held all the answers to a battle he had already lost.

Later, standing in the half-cleared hall beneath unfamiliar curtains—curtains, who let you near curtains—and the faint, traitorous smell of bread, Mihawk leaned against the cold stone wall and scowled into the middle distance.

The floors did look very clean, and it irritated him.

Polished. Gleaming. Mocking.

He could see his reflection, and it looked just as betrayed as he felt.

It was supposed to be an experiment.

Drop a noblewoman into a hostile, crumbling ruin.

Let her fail. Let her realize she wasn’t suited for his world. Let her leave.

Instead, you had built a functioning kingdom out of pisswater, fungus, and pure indignation. You had tamed the mandrills. Conquered the wine cellar. Reorganized his storage system and installed labels—God forbid.

And now the pantry sparkled with structure. The halls smelled like bread and lavender.

The rooster had a schedule.

Mihawk exhaled sharply, as if trying to physically expel his regret from his lungs.

He could hear you upstairs now, arguing with one of the mandrills like it was your sous-chef, not a creature known for biting pirates in half.

“No, Rude Bastard, the sugarcane mash goes on the right. That’s the table wine rack, not the hooch corner.”

Mihawk ran a hand down his face.

He felt the full weight of his own decisions. And that’s when his Den Den Mushi rang.

He stared at it. The snail blinked back, far too cheerful for a creature about to be flung into the sea.

He answered it with the grace of a man long overdue for divine punishment.

“So,” Came Shanks’ voice, already smug enough to curdle milk, “How’s the wife?”

Mihawk said nothing.

“Do not call me again,” Mihawk said darkly. “Or I will hunt you down.”

Upstairs, something crashed. A moment later, your voice rang out, sharp and furious:

“That is not where the corks go!”

There was a snort on the other end. “Mihawk. Buddy. Hawk-eyes. Greatest Swordsman Alive. I just—I need you to know, from the depths of my soul, this is the happiest day of my life.”

Mihawk’s silence deepened into something ancient and withering.

The Den Den Mushi narrowed its eyes in emotional solidarity as if even the snail was tired of Shanks’ voice.

“You’re never going to live this down,” Shanks continued cheerfully. “Ever. I’m going to tell Benn. I’m going to tell Doflamingo. I’m going to have it engraved on a plaque.”

Mihawk ended the call.

Slowly, Quietly.

With the energy of a man pulling the pin on a grenade and setting it down like fine china.

Then he picked up the Den Den Mushi.

Placed it in a drawer.

And locked it.

In the silence that followed, he looked around at his fortress-turned-vineyard-turned-sentient-home-run-by-feral-winemaking-aristocrat.

Mihawk closed his eyes and exhaled like a man facing execution.

His castle, once brooding, cobwebbed, and morale-repelling, now had curtains. Curtains. In burgundy.

There was bread cooling on the windowsill. A stew pot hanging over the hearth. The dust was gone. Every speck. Someone had fixed the hinges on the upstairs armory door. He was reasonably certain the swords had been polished. Possibly even alphabetized. How?

A rooster—the mayor—strolling past the window in a cape.

He closed his eyes. And whispered to no one in particular,

The worst part was that it was livable.

Warm.

It smelled like rosemary and fresh linen.

Which meant he could no longer, in good faith, call it a fortress. Or a ruin. Or a tactical fallback point for the emotionally unavailable.

Now it was a home.

And he was being domesticated. By proximity. By silence. By a curtain rod.

Mihawk stalked into his wing. The one that held the tallest tower, locked doors, and a hallway no one else had ever dared clean. He stood there, scowling at the far wall like it had personally betrayed him.

He hated this. He hated that you had survived. That you had adapted. Hated that you had exceeded every cruel metric he had ever dropped on your shoulders. And done so with terrifying brilliance.

He hated that you were still pretty. And now, just to spite him, maddeningly competent. You had taken his exile and turned it into territory.

Worse.

You had met the standard for appeal, that he didn’t even know he still possessed. Then surpassed them. Without his permission, you were desirable, and frankly, that was offensive.

He poured a glass of wine. Your wine. Which he hated because it was phenomenal.

Then, with the exhaustion of a man fully aware he had lost a war without ever drawing his blade, he muttered:

“I should have left her in the convent.”

Outside, the mandrills howled like they had heard every word.

He drank.

Glared at the window.

And in the peaceful glow of his freshly laundered homestead, Dracule Mihawk sulked.

You had to go.

He tried to be clever about it.

Subtle, even.

Calculated, like everything else.

Dracule Mihawk, Warlord of the Sea, greatest swordsman alive, picture of icy detachment, descended into the courtyard one morning with the air of a man who definitely was not plotting a strategic extraction behind every word.

You were elbow-deep in grapevines.

Skirt tied at the knee.

Fingers stained dark from pruning.

Your hair was pinned up in a haphazard knot, streaked with flour and defiance. Beside you, a clipboard lay in the grass, scrawled with harvest notes in neat, militant rows.

Rude Bastard lounged nearby.

He chewed on a ladle he had stolen from the kitchen, as if he owned the building and several of its legal rights.

Mihawk cleared his throat.

Called your name.

You did not look up.

“Uh-huh?”

“You’ve… done…well here,” he said carefully, as if dragging the compliment from a pit lined with swords and pride.

“I know.”

His eye twitched.

“And it occurs to me,” he continued, slower now, “that perhaps this environment is beneath your talents.”

That made you pause.

You turned, brows raised, arms braced on the vines like they held you back from a calculated lunge.

“Is that an insult,” you asked, voice calm but pointed, “or a compliment wrapped in guilt?”

“A recommendation,” he replied. The words came out like surrender from a man who knew he had already been outflanked. “I’ve arranged a transport ship. You’d be better served… somewhere with refined tools. Real cellars. A population above single digits that can talk.”

The earth sighed.

“I have mandrills.” You said, returning to work.

“You have emotional blackmail with fur.” He said, sharper.

“I’m not leaving.” You retorted.

“You should.”

“I’m not.”

“There’s hot water and plumbing elsewhere.” He stated, grinding his molars.

“I fixed the plumbing in my quarters, you elegant bastard.” You smirked. “So I’m not leaving.”

“You will, even if I have to throw you over my shoulder and take you there myself.” He sharply retorted.

You both stared at each other.

The mandrills stopped pretending to work.

One froze mid-sweep. Another slowly lowered a basket of grapes. The rooster, perched on a barrel, tilted its head like it was witnessing a royal divorce.

You straightened.

Wiped your hands on your apron.

Crossed your arms.

“No.”

He blinked.

“No?” he repeated, like a man unfamiliar with hearing that from anything still breathing.

“No,” you said again, voice sharper. “This is my home. These grapes are mine. You’ve been gone for over a year, and frankly? You should have stayed gone.”

He blinked again.

No words. Just quiet, surgical offense.

You turned your back like the conversation had ended, because to you, it had.

Mihawk stood there a moment longer.

The wind caught the edge of his coat like a final insult. Somewhere nearby, a mandrill sneezed, and no one dared comment. And for once, the greatest swordsman alive had absolutely nothing to say. He just strode away, pride burned. He could not speak to you for the rest of the day.

He regrouped.

Silently.

With the kind of rigid, dignified poise only achievable by a man internally screaming into a velvet pillow.

He soothed his ego with practiced calm.

This was his home.

His land.

His fortress.

His name on the deed, carved into ancient stone, possibly in blood. Surely that still meant something. Surely, his authority had not been replaced by clipboards, curated vineyards, and a rooster with provincial jurisdiction.

He would reset the tone. Reassert himself.

Like a gentleman.

Like a conqueror.

Like a man who had not been verbally slapped across a grape trellis, in front of a sentient wine commune.

He found you again the next morning.

Lower vineyard. Just after sunrise. The air was crisp, and birdsong echoed softly over the hill. Mist curled around the rows of grapevines like a painting in motion. Dew clung to the vines like silver thread. The air smelled of earth, sap, and something richer—something stubborn. Like blooming defiance.

You were barefoot again.

Ankle-deep in dark volcanic soil, humming under your breath as you moved from vine to vine, unknowingly lovely in your concentration. Your fingers brushed the leaves with a reverence that looked almost holy to Mihawk’s growing irritation.

A mandrill trailed you dutifully, dragging a crate of shears and twine like a loyal foot soldier on a sacred campaign.

Mihawk stood at the edge of the field, arms crossed, jaw set.

Silent. Watching.

You didn’t look at him.

Of course you didn’t.

Your hair was tied back with that now-familiar kerchief, and your apron was stained with soil, juice, and pride. But underneath was the softness of a lady—a noblewoman with a strange talent who deserved better than to hide in his ghost castle and its strange denizens.

You hummed louder.

He stepped forward.

“I spoke rashly yesterday.”

You kept walking.

You paused only to inspect a budding vine, carefully tucking a leaf into place.

Like it mattered more than whatever he was saying.

Like it had earned your attention.

Mihawk felt something shift in his chest.

Something small. Something quiet. Something deeply, deeply uncomfortable. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was control.

Maybe it was losing.

“I misjudged you,” he said.

That made you pause.

Slowly—very slowly—you turned.

One brow lifted like a drawbridge.

Eyes cool. Voice colder.

“I know.”

Silence stretched between you.

The mandrill beside you began dramatically pruning a weed with all the performance of a stage actor who believed this scene was about him.

“I thought you’d break,” Mihawk admitted.

“I did,” you said, flat and unflinching. “And then I got over it. Unlike some people sulking in the library and stealing wine bottles before they are ready.”

He didn’t rise to the bait.

Though his brow did twitch.

You stepped closer, wiping your hands on your apron.

“So unless this is about the cork press,” you said, tone firm, “it can wait. I’m negotiating with a vine that thinks it’s smarter than me.”

“It’s time for you to go.” He stated firmly.

That made you stop.

You turned slowly, and the tail of the kerchief slipped over one shoulder.

Your face unreadable.

“Go?”

“You’ve proved your point,” he said.

“You survived. Excelled, even. Congratulations.”

He gestured toward the sea. His voice was calm. Neutral. Weaponized.

“I’ve arranged for the local wine vendor in the area to take you in. I’ve arranged payment for your services and then some.”

You paused, as if considering it.

“No.”

He sucked in a breath.

Stubborn wench.

“This is not a request.”

“Oh.”

You stepped toe-to-toe with him. Voice calm. Steady. Entirely done with him. Like you were asking someone to pass the salt.

“Then let me try again.” You smiled at the much taller warlord. “Fuck off.”

Mihawk’s brow twitched so hard it nearly qualified as Morse code.

“I’m offering you a return to civilization. Money, power, rational conversation—”

“I am civilization now,” you snapped. “I am god here! Do you even know what this soil is? Volcanic. Rare. Fertile. Alive. This vineyard is mine—and it’s working.”

He opened his mouth.

Didn’t get far.

“I am making good wine, you arrogant son of a bitch. Great wine. Wine with memory and teeth and something to say. Wine grown out of blood and ash and spite. And you think I will gladly walk away from that just because you finally remembered I exist?”

Your chin lifted, jaw set, eyes alight. You stood there like the hill itself might rise behind you in solidarity.

“I’m not a mistake for you, or any man, to just dismiss! I am fermenting Kurigana Red into legacy. I will make a wine so good that even you will cry.”

The mandrill behind you dropped its shears in awe. The rooster choked on its crow. A grape fell dramatically off the vine.

Lightning cracked somewhere behind the hills.

Of course it did.

Mihawk felt his mouth fall open, just a sliver. Slowly. Like he was trying to decide whether to kiss you or file for territorial surrender.

He looked down at you, jaw tight, lips pressed into a thin line.

You glared back, unblinking.

Behind you, another mandrill appeared, sharpening a stick with a rock, the picture of jungle diplomacy.

Mihawk exhaled through his nose.

Sharp. Controlled. Offended in seven languages.

“You’re a pain in the ass.”

“And you’re still an asshole,” you said coolly, already turning back to the vines. “Now move. You’re in my sunlight. My grapes need it more than you.”

The insult hung in the air like incense.

Floral. Lingering. Disrespectful. He felt the visceral need to grab that foolish little neck of yours and commit some form of violence; homicide or a kiss.

Mihawk shifted. Took one step too close.

The mandrills moved.

One picked up a rake. Another tightened its gardening gloves with ominous focus. Rude Bastard donned a hat he had definitely stolen from Mihawk’s closet and adjusted it like a general preparing for a siege.

They surrounded him with the kind of calm that only came from a group who had absolutely coordinated this in advance.

One mandrill gestured toward the shoe rack.

Another pointed at the compost pile.

A third began humming what sounded suspiciously like a funeral dirge played on pan flute. Radiating the energy of overworked security guards who had absolutely been briefed on his nonsense.

Mihawk raised one brow.

The mandrill closest to him raised its back.

Mihawk let out a sound. It was not quite a sigh, not quite a growl. But something low and guttural, born of pure existential frustration.

He had, for a moment, genuinely considered it. Marching in. Sword drawn. Reestablishing dominance with the kind of precision violence that earned him his title.

Letting the mandrills remember who taught them.

Letting you remember who owned this place first.

But then you kneeled and patted a baby mandrill like a good boy. Your apron smudged with flour, hair pulled back, face flushed from midday heat, eyes bright with the kind of dangerous calm that didn’t need a sword to cut him in half.

And something twisted in his chest.

Not rage.

Not irritation.

Not even territorial impulse.

Attraction.

Stupid. Undeniable. All-consuming.

And the fact that he wanted you right then—amid roasted tubers, clipboard authority, and monkey bureaucracy—was so catastrophically undignified that Mihawk physically stepped back.

He stood down.

Not because he couldn’t win.

But because he realized—Somewhere between the clipboard, the chaos, and your basil-stained apron—He had already lost.

The standoff dissolved like mist.

You didn’t even realize what had almost occurred.

You were too busy pruning a vine with the intensity of a woman who had already conquered this land and would absolutely defend it again.

Mihawk stared at the vineyard.

Then at you.

Then, at the rooster, who had turned around to show him its cape.

He muttered something dark and possibly ancient under his breath.

He stood in the vineyard, cloak tugged by the sea breeze, the air thick with salt and stubborn grape leaves. His eye swept the thriving rows, volcanic soil tamed, trellises held by twine and spite.

He hated that it was good.

That it worked.

That you hadn’t just survived, you had thrived like mildew in holy water.

To make you leave would mean ripping it all out. Burning roots. Wasting vines smarter than most pirates.

And Mihawk, for all his faults, did not ruin good wine.

He exhaled. Quiet. Measured.

It was the sound of surrender, disguised as strategy.

“…Fine.”

You blinked. “What?”

“I said, fine,” he snapped. “You stay.”

You beamed.

Radiant. Smug. Vindicated.

“Wow. I’ll put that on the label. ‘Survived Mihawk’s Ego—A Bold Red.’”

The rooster crowed twice.

He glared. “Do not put my name on a label.”

“No promises.”

He turned, half-expecting the mandrill guard to start slow clapping.

Instead, one held up a tiny chalkboard that read:

Step 1: Acceptance. Step 2: Shovel.

Another mandrill solemnly offered him a dry stick, as if to say ‘for support, weird sword-man’.

“Since you’re clearly going to hang around,” you said, wiping your hands on your apron and striding toward the next row, “you might as well be useful.”

Mihawk froze. “Useful?”

You handed him a shovel.

He stared at it like you had offered him a damp sock full of moral obligation.

“You have arms. And precision,” you said sweetly. “Two qualities my assistants lack.”

Rude Bastard—your main enforcer—picked up a second shovel, gave Mihawk a slow up-and-down look, then nodded once.

As if saying, ‘don’t embarrass yourself in front of the vines’.

A third mandrill began sketching something on parchment. Mihawk glanced at it.

It was titled:

Grading Rubric: Mihawk’s Dirt Performance.

“I have slain kings,” Mihawk spat out.

“And now you’ll aerate soil.” You chimed, “Gently. Or I’ll assign you to manure duty.”

Still, he didn’t move.

Rude Bastard flexed.

The parchment mandrill wrote: Attitude: C-minus.

Mihawk took the shovel and stabbed it into the dirt like it had insulted his honor. The soil gave way, perfectly turned, because of course it did.

Even his spite was precise.

You smiled like the sun. “Good. Also, if you turn over one more root than necessary, I will throw a bucket at your head.”

“Then you’ll be wasting good wine.”

“And you’ll be wasting good grapes if you don’t start digging, dear.”

He said nothing.

But he dug.

And from the nearby hill, one mandrill rang a tiny ceremonial bell.

A second held up a banner made of stitched-together apron scraps.

It read: Welcome. You Work Here Now.

The plan was simple.

Make him miserable enough to leave.

You didn’t want blood. You wanted withdrawal. The quiet retreat of a man too proud to admit the vines had won. So you weaponized the only things he couldn’t fight:

Domestic inconvenience and mandrill morale.

It started small.

He was assigned the worst row. Full of creeping bindweed, ants, and one deeply cursed scarecrow that looked like it had been built by ghosts. The mandrills pretended to help but mostly stared at him like unpaid supervisors. One took notes. Loudly.

You swapped out the wine he liked for the experimental batch with “character.” It tasted like tannins, heartbreak, and judgment.

Then you ‘accidentally’ put his coat on the laundry line where it was promptly pooped on by a crow.

Mihawk said nothing, but he started sharpening things more aggressively.

You labeled all the cellar doors with wildly inconsistent signage so he’d have to open every single one to find what he was looking for. A mandrill rearranged them nightly.

Still, he didn’t leave.

One morning, you found him glaring at a spiderweb. When asked, he said it “looked at him funny.”

The mandrills began holding silent judgment circles in the rafters during meal prep. One wore a tiny Mihawk replica hat. You weren’t sure where it got from. You didn’t ask. The mandrills were stylish that way. You focused on the most important things: Harassing the single human man who’d harassed you silently for so long.

Mihawk’s stew was never hot. His serving of fresh bread was always just gone.

It was war.

And he still didn’t go.

Because for all your petty tactics, chore assignments and deliberate mislabeling of spice jars (he salted his tea once), Mihawk refused to lose. Not to mandrills. Not to curtain rods. And absolutely not to you.

He didn’t sleep well. He brooded in the vineyard at dawn. He muttered to himself about trellis angles and correct pruning technique.

And you caught him one night—covered in dirt, half-feral—petting Rude Bastard like a traumatized camp comrade.

You knew then: you were going to need to be much, much worse.

The morning began with sabotage, as usual.

You’d rerouted Mihawk’s coffee grounds into a decoy barrel labeled “premium mulch.” He drank half a mug before realizing it tasted like despair and lemon rind.

He glared at you.

You smiled.

By noon, the compost pile had mysteriously grown three feet taller, directly next to his favorite reading bench. You’d also scheduled a “Mandatory Vineyard Morale Stretching Hour,” which involved a whistle, two mandrills in capes, and you shouting yoga instructions over a drumbeat. Mihawk refused to participate, but Rude Bastard kept pushing his sword out of reach every time he tried to leave.

You were winning.

Until the cannonball hit the outer wall.

Stone rumbled. Vines trembled. A mandrill screamed.

You froze, then rushed to the front gates. Only to find a low-tier pirate crew disembarking from their ship with all the confidence of men who didn’t know what a bad idea looked like.

Mihawk walked leisurely next to you.

“Well, well,” the captain called, clearly drunk on cheap rum and dumber than his own boots. “Looks like someone made themselves cozy. Thought we’d poke around. Maybe help ourselves to some women—”

Mihawk stepped forward with a shovel.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in under five minutes, half the crew was in the sea, their ship was on fire, and the other half had become part of the mulch program.

You stood there, apron still on, arms crossed. A little stunned. A little impressed.

(You were actually wondering how a one-man army hadn’t decapitated you yet for your own crimes against him.)

Because holy shit.

He moved like a ghost story—like someone had told Death to wear a cape and get theatrical about it. You saw steel flash only once. The rest was just screams and consequences.

One pirate had tried to beg. Past tense.

The flames were licking up the ship’s mast like even the wood knew better than to be associated.

And Mihawk? He was adjusting his cuff.

Not a wrinkle. Not a drop of blood.

You, meanwhile, had dirt on your face and a ladle in your pocket. And your brain, bless it, decided this was the time to replay every moment you’d ever called him “grandpa vampire” to his face.

Oh God. You had harassed this man. Regularly. Sarcastically. With conviction.

You mocked his coat. You mocked his hat. One time, you told him he had “the aura of a dramatic librarian.”

And yet here you were. Still breathing.

He turned toward you, just slightly, and you froze like a roach caught in the lantern light of divine judgment.

“You didn’t use the big sword. Just a shovel,” you said, because there was nothing else you could say. Words had left you for dead, same as the pirates.

Mihawk’s gaze drifted lazily down. To the soot on your apron. The singed edge of your sleeve. The body-shaped crater in the gravel where some man had achieved terminal velocity via blunt force horticulture.

“…Yes,” he replied. “They didn’t deserve Yoru.”

You assumed Yoru was the sword. The big one. The one you used to hang your laundry from when you were feeling brave.

He said it with the same tone a sommelier might use to decline serving wine to raccoons.

Your hand shook when you laughed. Just once. Short. Nervous.

A mandrill crossed out a sign that said ‘Mihawk: No Use’ to say ‘Mihawk: One Use.”

You weren’t sure if it was fear, adrenaline, or something far, far worse:

Respect.

Which was frankly alarming, because five minutes ago you’d been calling him a discount Dracula with anger issues.

Clearing your throat, you mumbled, “I’ll get the broom.”

“For what?”

You gestured at what used to be people. “Cleanup?”

He raised a brow. “The crows will handle it.”

And with that, he turned back toward the house like he hadn’t just committed aggravated landscaping.

You stared after him. Still clutching your apron. Still unsure if you lived with a man or a walking natural disaster.

You didn’t put extra rocks in his boots the next morning either, but you still labeled his tea drawer “Emotional Weakness” after he criticized your cooking.

It wasn’t peace.

But it was the closest you two had ever come to one.

And you still mostly despised him.

Mihawk stayed.

Not because he wanted to.

Not because he liked it.

But because leaving would mean you’d win.

And Dracule Mihawk, Warlord of the Sea, World’s Greatest Swordsman, Patron Saint of Brooding, would rather be force-fed warm lentils by mandrills than lose an argument to a barefoot vintner with a clipboard and an attitude. Especially one that Shanks kept tabs on.

So he stayed.

A month passed.

The stalemate held.

He didn’t kill you, and you continued to harass him, just because you could.

You assigned him chores under the guise of “infrastructure preservation.” He retaliated by alphabetizing your fermenting jars in ancient Elbaf runes. You relocated his reading chair to the chicken coop. He replaced your corkscrew with a tiny, ornamental dagger.

The mandrills began placing bets.

One afternoon, after a particularly vicious silent standoff involving your prized vine shears and his refusal to mop the entryway, Mihawk cracked. He stood in the middle of the kitchen, arms crossed, cloak dusted with flour from a sabotage trap involving a mislabelled bag of wheat, his dignity, and your refusal to let him have fresh bread.

You hummed, sitting at the table with the last slice of bread.

“I have supplies incoming from Karai Bari Island,” he said coldly. “Salt, wheat, imported spices, and real coffee.”

You looked up from your dough, eyes narrowing.

“Congratulations.”

He huffed.

“I’ll trade it with you, you stubborn woman. You can acquire half the cargo.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And what do you want in return?”

He looked you dead in the eye.

“A week. Of peace.”

You almost laughed. “Define peace.”

“No surprise yoga. No mandatory chore wheels. No mandrills leaving fruit in my boots. No labeling the privy.”

You tapped your chin, considering. “What about light sarcasm and open disdain?”

He hesitated. “…Tolerable. So long as it doesn’t involve signage.”

You wiped your hands on your apron. Extended one.

“Deal.”

He sighed, taking a long look before grabbing your wrist with two fingers.

Both shook on it like diplomats ending a war. Neither of you smiled.

Later that night, he found a fresh loaf of bread waiting on the counter. Still warm.

And on the crust, scored with perfect clarity, were the words: Spite Loaf – kneaded with resentment.

He ate it anyway.

With butter.

And said nothing.

He got his week of peace, but he also got bombarded with endless, overly enthusiastic questions like, "Surely the sea misses its scariest predator?" and "You should go scare the marines—y'know, for morale."

The summons that finally sent him away arrived via Den Den Mushi.

It blinked at Mihawk from the kitchen windowsill, nestled between your sourdough starter and a bowl of aggressively ripe pears.

The snail gave a little cough. “Urgent directive. Warlord Dracule Mihawk. Mandatory strategic briefing. Attendance required. Formal cloak requested. No goats.”

Mihawk narrowed his eyes. “I don’t own goats.”

You strolled in, wiped your hands on a tea towel, and replied coolly, “You do now. Her name is Lady Baahbara, and she ate my shoe.”

He hung up on the snail.

You arched a brow. “What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“Did it sound like you’re legally required to attend a summit of your peers and can’t possibly stay here playing vineyard butler anymore?”

He didn’t answer.

You leaned closer. “Did it sound like you have responsibilities outside terrorizing my storage system and reorganizing my herb racks by ‘emotional resonance’?”

“It was a courtesy invitation,” Mihawk said flatly, retrieving his coat with all the grace of a man pretending this wasn’t his first real social obligation in weeks.

You nodded, very serious. “Of course. A courtesy invitation with a marine seal, a threat of revocation, and ‘attendance required’ spoken four times. Totally optional.”

He ignored you. Walked toward the door.

“Don’t forget your goat,” you added sweetly.

He paused.

Turned.

“I will be gone for two weeks,” he said. “When I return, I expect the castle to be intact, the mandrills to be sober, and the herb rack to remain untouched.”

You saluted with a spoon. “Absolutely. You have my word.”

He left. The door slammed dramatically.

Five seconds later, the mandrills burst into the kitchen armed with party streamers and a barrel of fermented apple cider.

You lifted a cup. “Alright, team. He’s gone. We’ve got forty-eight hours and a goat to move into his closet.”

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