#darwin said something

[cobbled-peach]

proposal(s)

aka: the four times Spencer thinks about proposing to you, and the one time he does

a/n: this is my first time writing/posting here pls be kind to me I just love him and I love books and I hope you love him and love books too !!!!! this hasn’t been edited much so apologies for sp mistakes cw: brief mention of sex, but nothing explicit. Fembau!reader. Lots of literature references (with books named at the end). I think this constitutes as fluff? Pre-prison Spencer, but no specific era. wc: 2.3k

darcy and elizabeth

The first time Spencer thinks about proposing to you, it’s the day you meet him.

The newest agent on the team. You’re emotionally intelligent in a way he can only dream of being.

You cradle a mug of coffee in your hands. His mug, which stuns Morgan into silence mid-sentence, his conversation with Garcia derailed by the sheer surprise of what he’s witnessing. Your mug had smashed thirty minutes earlier, an unfortunate casualty in the first-day desk unboxing. Spencer, seeing your disappointment, pulled a plain white mug from his top drawer, REID printed on the side.

He held it out tentatively. A peace offering. ‘Until you get a new one,’ he’d murmured, offering a small smile.

He’s always been wary of germs, but somehow didn’t care this time.

He watches your hands wrap around the mug. Soft, delicate, holding the item like its something precious. He wonders what it would be like to hold your hands himself. Then scolds the thought. Coworkers, Spencer.

You bring the cup up to your lips, humming in contentment after the first sip. Yor lipstick – or maybe lipgloss? He’s unsure of the correct term – leaves a gentle pink stain on the rim. He secretly hopes that it won’t wash off. He stares for a moment, and wonders, quite randomly, is this how Darcy felt when Elizabeth first touched his hand?

You set the mug down (Morgan still gaping in the background, like you’ve declared war on the Bureau’s hierarchy of personal property) and smile at him.

‘Thank you. Seriously. I desperately needed that caffeine.’

‘It’s not a problem. Did you know that caffeine sensitivity is actually inherited?’ A pause. To see if you’re listening. You are, and he suddenly wonders how appropriate it would be to stain his lips with your lipstick-lipgloss in a kiss. Not very, he concludes. ‘It’s all to do with polymorphisms in your enzymes. Its genetic; they tested it on twins.’

‘You sound well-versed in your coffee knowledge. A fellow connoisseur?’

‘I think the term “addict” is more fitting, actually. And I don’t know how much of my consumption is due to genetics over stress and lack of sleep.’

A laugh from you. He feels the sound in his chest and his stomach flips.

‘Good to know what’s in store for me,’ you tease.

‘Coffee addictions and sleepless nights,’ he replies. Then, hesitating. ‘Maybe I’ll let you use my high-quality espresso beans when it gets really bad.’

‘Literally marry me,’ you joke.

He almost says, I will.

He doesn’t, just stares at the mug like it holds the future.

2. the black cloud

The second time he thinks about proposing is your third-technically fourth date. (The first didn’t count, at least not to you. ‘You asked me to dinner to “celebrate closing the case,”’ you’d later said. ‘That’s not a date.’ He insisted that it was; he’d paid. You said so did JJ, once. Case closed.) They’re also technically not “dates” because dating within the team is prohibited, but Hotch showed some leniency.

Coffee in the park. A foolproof plan, not much room for error. He buys your drink, and you sip it beside him on the bench while he spews obscure facts about the tree you’re sitting under, intertwined with quotes from Ovid and Darwin. He offers to get you a refill as soon as you finish.

‘You haven’t even finished yours yet,’ you tell him.

‘I know. I can still get you a new one.’

‘Just drink your drink, Spencer.’ Accompanied by a fond smile.

You wander together. Conversation flows. He can’t quite explain why its so easy, why he feels so comfortable.

He’s puzzled by the anomaly, so he does what he does best: theorises. He’s been hypothesising for the past three-technically-four dates. Cross-referencing data points. He runs through the evidence, and draws the only viable conclusion:

Love.

Premature, maybe. But true.

You suggest dipping into a second-hand bookshop. He agrees eagerly, following you in like Orpheus descending. He’ll go anywhere, so long as he can find his way back to you. You disappear into your aisle; he into his. Mathematics, physics. The realm of science and fact. Only two minutes pass before you appear again, book clutched in your hand.

‘This is so you,’ you say.

It’s The Black Cloud. Fred Hoyle.

He blinks. Then again. Takes the book from your hand and turning it over like you’ve just handed him the world.

‘You’ve probably read it,’ you say. ‘But you’ve never mentioned it, and I know you like mid-century sci-fi.’

He has read it. Of course he has. But its not about the book. Its about you, thinking of him.

And you say it so casually. Like this isn’t the most intimate thing someone’s done for him.

‘You picked this out… for me?’

‘Yes.’

He turns it over again, shocked. He wants to hand you his heart, neatly wrapped in paper and ink.

‘Oh…’ he breathes out, the sound so quiet. He feels like he’s been winded, in the best way possible.

‘Not to your taste?’

‘No–’ he shakes his head. ‘No, its exactly to my taste. I think I have an older copy, but not this edition.’

‘Do you want it?’

‘Yes.’ The answer comes out before he even registers it. He does want the book. Not because he needs it, but because you picked it out for him.

You smile, gently take it back, and go to the register. He watches lamely, feels compelled to place a hand over his chest an steady his beating heart.

He thinks of Dante first catching sight of Beatrice. Of Gatsby staring across the bay. Of Gabriel and Bathsheba, paths destined to intertwine.

In the middle of the bookshop, he almost gets on one knee.

3. the hour of the star

The third time he thinks about proposing is directly after sex.

Not the first time, or the second. Somewhere in the quiet middle.

You’ve been officially together for six months. You transferred to a different department, and he asked the moment you were in your new office. (‘No interdepartmental fraternization,’ he’d quoted, followed by a nervous, ‘so, can you officially be my girlfriend now?’)

You’re both tangled beneath the sheets in your apartment, the place half his by default now. His toothbrush lives in the bathroom, his go-bag in the hallway, his own mug in your kitchen.

His copy of The Black Cloud lives on your bookshelf, annotated. He took it straight home, writing his thoughts in the margins, little notes to you. Fred Hoyle writes “There is a coherent plan to the universe” and beneath it, in Spencer’s barely legible font, is yes, and I think its you.

The book had been kept out of your sight for seven months, before he “sneakily” slipped it onto your shelf. “Sneakily,” because you watched every movement through the kitchen doorway. You’d read the whole thing that night, cried, and set to work annotating a book of your own for him.

The books are a love language themselves. If he could frame every annotated page on his wall, he would.

He’s reading aloud to you now.

It’s become a ritual. You, soft limbs and warm skin. Him, thumbing through whatever book is on the nightstand, voice a little hoarse. Sometimes it’s a play, sometimes poetry. Once, quantum physics (he didn’t take it personally when you instantly fell asleep to that).

Tonight, its Clarice Lispector. The Hour of the Star. Skin still flushed, he clears his throat and reads aloud, backed by your steady breaths. Each turn of a page is a pause in which he can press a kiss to your skin. Shoulder, cheek, temple. Wherever he can reach.

‘“Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad, because what is fully mature is very close to rotting.’” The sentence hangs in the air. Heavy. His voice stops, like he’s contemplating the words he’s just read.

You turn your head against his chest.

‘Everything okay?’

His quiet. Thinking, as always, a crease between his brows.

‘Mm.’ His arm shifts to wrap around your shoulders. ‘It’s just… interesting, isn’t it? How even the best things are fragile, maybe. Decaying.’

He doesn’t need to say “us” for you to catch what he’s referring to.

‘You think we’ll decay?’ you ask, propping yourself up on one elbow. He looks at your eyes, soft, unworried, and thinks again.

‘I think that… real things are vulnerable. We’re real. And I think that makes us susceptible.’ He hesitates, brushes some hair from your face absentmindedly. ‘Entropy. Everything tends towards disorder.’

‘Only if you don’t control it,’ you say. Factually incorrect, but he appreciates what you're saying.

And perhaps that’s it. Your unwavering faith. You’re a realist, not a romantic. Offering certainty in a world of disorder.

‘Decay isn’t death,’ you point out, continuing. ‘Its transformation, right? Compost to soil. Stars collapsing and becoming galaxies. Things can break and become something beautiful.’

His world shifts in that moment. He looks back at the line, reads it maybe 20 times in the span of five seconds.

‘We’re not going to rot, Spence.’

‘We’re not going to rot,’ he repeats. He knows it’s the truth as you press your lips to his chest, over his frantically beating heart. ‘Do you want me to keep going?’ he asks, lifting the book slightly.

‘Please.’

You adjust your position, curling into his side. He resumes his reading. He’s turning the page again when you mumble quietly.

‘We’re not going to rot, because I love you.’

Every syllable brands itself into his soul. He’s heard those three words before, but there’s something more to them in his context. He almost drops the book, catches I before it hits your head. He wants to tell you that you are his Eurydice, the person he’s always been trying to reach.

Instead, he says:

‘I love you, too.’

It falls easily. Inevitable, as always. No drama, no prelude. Just the truth, spoken to you many times before and many more to come.

He almost attaches a “marry me” to his words but instead kisses your hair and returns to the book. He’ll wait.

He already knows the ending will be worth it.

4. metamorphoses

The fourth time isn’t once. It’s every day.

You hand him coffee in the morning? Marry me.

You nurse him through a cold, unconcerned about coughing and sneezing, just wanting to be near to him? Here’s a ring fashioned out of Kleenex.

You coo over Henry in one of JJ’s photos? Let’s make one of our own. Just marry me first.

He asks Rossi for advice. (‘You’ve been married a lot, statistically speaking.’)

Garcia catches on quickly. Spencer Reid combined with search history is a concoction for whatever the opposite of “stealth” is. He looks at rings on his lunch break, tilting his computer screen like its classified information.

Pretty soon everyone knows. You remain oblivious – or pretend to be.

It’s simply a matter of when.

5. darcy and elizabeth

It’s a Tuesday. Raining.

Not a dramatic kind of rain. Unassuming. Soft and relentless, quietly soaking the world, a constant tap against the window of his apartment – now permanently shared with you.

He wonders if the rain is a piece of pathetic fallacy. A warning against his plans.

It’s four years to the day since he met you.

He had a plan. Of course he did. He was Spencer Reid. A riverside walk in the park. Take a picnic, surrounded by ducks. Bookmark a page in Much Ado About Nothing with the ring. But the weather has altered his plans, made him go off script.

But maybe that’s a good thing. Gentle touches and heartfelt gestures over big declarations, that’s what he’s always preferred. He just needs a moment.

You’re making coffee. Barefoot, hair damp from the rain that interrupted his plans. Wearing an old shirt of his effortlessly. A perfect picture of home. His home.

He stands in the doorway with a book in his hand. Pride and Prejudice. Not his favourite. Nowhere near his top ten. But it’s your favourite. You’ve worn it down with love, left your own story between the lines with annotations. And that makes it his favourite now, too.

His mismatched socks shift awkwardly on the floor.

‘Hi,’ he says, calling your attention.

You look up from the mugs with a pre-formed smile. Yours, a copy of the mug you’d smashed on your first day. His, the mug with your lipstick, now washed, but imprinted with you forever.

‘Hey,’ you respond. ‘Dry from the rain?’

He doesn’t respond. Crosses the kitchen and holds out the book. Why does it feel like a brick?

‘This is… mine?’ you say, unsure.

‘Yes,’ he confirms. ‘I added some annotations. For you.’

You open the cover. His handwriting – messy, familiar – sits below your own in black ink.

You know I am not very good with words. So, I thought I’d borrow someone else’s. Please turn to page 301.

He watches your breath hitch. Watches as you carefully flip the pages.

There’s a line. Circled not once, but many times over, holding the weight of what couldn’t be said with words.

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.”

Beside it, tentative but certain at the same time, his writing: but if you ever choose to be bound to someone, I hope it’s me.

He’s already on one knee when you glance up. Ring held out in his hand. A quiet promise, forged from the pages of books you’ve shared and the one you’ve written yourself.

Your hands are cradling his face. He’s crying. And you’re crying.

‘I will always choose you.’ Quiet, definitive. A fact.

He slips the ring on and kisses you. Pride and Prejudice lays open in the background. Page 301. A circled sentence. A note in the margins. A love undoubted.

hi I’m super awkward but I hope you enjoyed yippee!! I thought I’d quickly mention all the books I referenced/have implied references to because I love them all and if you like literature you should read them teehee (in order because I’m super sweet) (also I know darcy doesn’t touch her hand in the books pls don’t come for me <33) Pride and Prejudice, Jane Austen Metamorphosis, Ovid The Origin of Species, Charles Darwin The Black Cloud, Fred Hoyle The Divine Comedy, Dante The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald Far from the Madding Crowd, Thomas Hardy The Hour of the Star, Clarice Lispector Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare Hamlet, Shakespeare

[gurugirl]

[2] It's Good to Be King | mean king!harry

MAIN MASTERLIST

Series Summary: Harry, a handsome, but ill-mannered new king, bound by tradition, must select a queen, and against all expectations, he chooses Y/n, a street beggar. Now, Y/n finds herself caught between the gilded cage of royalty and the cold, harsh simplicity of her past, navigating a court shocked by her presence and a king who revels in the scandal of it all.

Note: Harry is mean/uncouth in this, though things do get better. He doesn't treat anyone around him with much respect at all. Expect to not like him much at first. Also, this is set in the 1800s England, and while not completely historically accurate, I did my best to keep it as accurate as possible.

Ch. 2 Word Count: 8,759

Ch. 2 Warning: genitalia rubbing (with some dirty talk), discrimination, manipulation and coercion, corruption kink, humiliation, jealousy

It's Good to Be King Masterlist

. .

Y/n had insisted that Phoebe leave the library to get some rest. It was the middle of the night and while her new friend (she refused to think of anyone as being her assistant because that was– well, it was preposterous) told her she wasn't tired, she could tell that the girl was.

"I'll be another hour and then off to bed myself. There's no reason for you to suffer."

"Madam, I'm not allowed to leave you alone to wander the castle. I could get into trouble."

Y/n placed the brand-new book down onto the table that she had in her hand. It was a book that contained drawings of anatomy (amongst other things) by a fellow named Charles Darwin. She imagined it might come in handy to help her understand the mechanics or even just the names of some of their— bits. She had no idea if the book was what she really needed or not but it looked promising.

"But you're so tired. Why can't he just keep watch?" She pointed at the guard who stood in the library's entryway.

Phoebe cleared her throat and looked toward the man. "Are you allowed to be alone with Her Majesty?"

Y/n let out a squawk at the way she was addressed. "Good heavens! Her Majesty? Please, madam is enough. Y/n would be even better."

"My apologies. If it suits you, I will address you as you please." She turned back toward the man. "Can you, George?"

"Yes. If she's only another hour, I'll see to it that she makes it to her room well."

"Thank you, sir," Phoebe said politely before looking toward Y/n. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please go on. I'll make haste and be off soon."

The library was gorgeous. It was almost magical. She rarely got her hands on any new books and often was left to read the same two she had in her possession over and over again. But the castle had the most decadent library in the world, she imagined.

Her issue was, though, that most of the books had nothing to do with intimacy or engaging in intercourse whatsoever, which she was in desperate need of. She could think of no other way to help prepare herself for the eventual poking she'd have to endure. The book on anatomy could be educational, though she was looking for something a little more risqué. But then she came across a weathered paper book with the sewn binding edges coming undone at the tops. The name Fanny alone harkened images of feeding the pussycat–if you will.

Fanny Hill.

She glanced at the guard on watch to ensure he hadn't seen the book she'd pulled from the case and her face heated as she opened up the first page. Her eyes widened at the full name of the book: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. Closing it quickly she tucked it under the new one and smiled.

It was exactly what she'd been searching for.

"Think I'm ready to go to my room now."

At night the castle was well-lit inside. She wondered how much fuel must have been used (and the cost!) to keep the large spaces bright the way they were. Oil lamps and burning fireplaces guided their path until she was at her doorway.

She didn't know the protocol for greeting or dismissing people but she bowed her head slightly and thanked the man before entering her room, the tall wooden door closing behind her with a heavy clank.

Her fire was freshly stoked and there was more fruit in a bowl on a side table with a glass pitcher of – water? She placed the books down on the table and lifted the pitcher to her nose to sniff. There was no scent. Had she been given fresh water to drink?

She wasted no time in pouring a bit into the heavy baluster glass on the tray next to the water. Lifting the rim to her mouth she took the smallest sip. Water! Pouring more into the cup she guzzled half the glass in one go.

Smiling to herself she placed the heavy glassware down and picked up her books along with an apple. She could get used to the luxuries of living in a castle. When she turned toward her bed she noted it was ready for her to climb into, the blankets turned down and her pillows all fluffed and sat in a row. Then there was the matter of the night dress draped over the bottom edge of the bed.

She looked down at the dress on her body and frowned. It was going to be quite the task to get it off, what with all the underthings tied tight around her middle and strapped over her chest.

Her outer frock wasn't too difficult to remove but she did wish Phoebe was there to help. She struggled a little with the fasteners and the bows and reached around the back to unpluck every tiny porcelain button. But when it was finally off she let out a sigh of relief.

Except she was not even halfway done. The ties and the clasps and the lace stays on the corset were impossible to work apart when she could hardly get her fingers properly aligned with the ribbing at her back.

She groaned in frustration and fell back into the bed, giving up at once. It was useless. She was going to be stuck wearing the uncomfortable things until morning when she could find Phoebe. Never again would she allow anyone to stick her into such garments. She'd rather walk around in the nude! Well, maybe not, but right then she certainly felt that way.

Y/n was used to the underthings she normally wore. They were easy to pull on and off as needed. Not the fancy, silky, ribbed garb that currently adorned her body. With a huff, she pushed herself up to sit and leaned into the feather pillows. At the very least, her bed was a soft heavenly thing. And the apple was juicy and crisp.

She found herself bored with the Darwin book but appreciated the graphics. Most of them were useless for her particular quest, though. It was the Fanny Hill book that had her back tingling and her breath caught a time or two. She'd lost track of the hours as she turned page after page of the filthy book and kept looking toward the door to make sure no one knew what she was doing.

Of course, as titillating as the book was, soon, she found herself unable to keep her eyes open and she fell asleep just like that, sitting over her blankets, apple core browning next to her knee, with the book opened to a scene with two females enjoying one another in a way Y/n had never once heard of before.

.

"Madam. Madam Y/n…"

She was jolted awake, her eyes pried open to see the kind face of her new friend Phoebe standing over her. Quickly closing the book in her lap she tucked it under the blanket and sat up.

"You poor thing," Phoebe spoke as she took the old apple core and placed it on the small table next to her bed. "You've kept your drawers and corset on all night. Here, let me help…"

The relief she felt when the terrible hard corset was peeled from her sides was immense. She moaned and inhaled a breath like she hadn't been able to breathe properly until just then.

"Oy, thank you. I never want to wear that again!"

Phoebe laughed. "We have to get you dressed for the king at some point today, madam. I'm afraid you've no choice when he calls for you."

She held her palms outward toward the girl and shook her head. "I will not wear that thing. I can't stand it!"

Y/n felt like a child throwing a fit but she'd never worn anything so uncomfortable in all her life. She had marks dug into the skin at her sides from the stiff ribbing and pleated fabric. Even then, touching the grooves in her skin, it hurt.

"I believe we—"

A heavy knock on the door had both young women turning toward the noise. Y/n pulled the fabric of the dress over her breasts as it opened and in stepped King Harry.

"Your Majesty," Phoebe said as she lowered her head.

Y/n took a step back toward her bed feeling hot embarrassment that the king was seeing her in such a state of undress. She looked away but the sting of his gaze on her bare arms and neck felt like fire singing her blood.

He sauntered casually into her room and placed himself in the chair near the table where the fire was slowly dying. "Continue as you were."

Phoebe looked at Y/n and darted her eyes toward the dress she'd crumpled up at her bosom and reached for her shoulder to have her turn her back. "Just the chemise then. It's much softer, and we'll put the dress on after. Yes?"

Y/n nodded turning her head to see the girl in her periphery. "Yes. Thank you."

"You needn't thank her. She's your assistant. You're the queen consort to be. Act it."

She lifted her arms up when Phoebe slid the chemise over her head and responded. "She's of the noble class, My Lord. I'm just a beggar. It's only right to speak to her with respect as—"

"Noble class… a beggar. Pish! The class system is a farce. Everyone in the kingdom will bow down to you and your family once you're crowned Queen. Respect is due where I demand it, not where the aristocracy thinks it belongs."

Phoebe pulled the bow at the back of the chemise around her waist before she bent and helped her out of her drawers that she'd been in all night. It felt good to air out a little and she was thankful that Phoebe had waited to help her out of her bottoms until the chemise was draped over her backside so she was hid from the king's searing gaze. The girl held the dress up and slid it over her head before helping her put her arms in. Y/n didn't quite understand what the king meant but she was intrigued by his words about the class system.

"My family. I need to let them know where I am and—"

"The boy you were with on the street yesterday has already sent word. Your family will be at the castle for dinner tonight. I'm sure they'll all be happier than a lark once they arrive. As long as they're well behaved they will get along here fine."

She was turned around as her friend quietly adjusted her dress and attached the collar. Now she could see him directly and her eyes must have deceived her because even though he was the most ill-mannered person she'd ever met, his face riveted the eyes. His brilliant complexion and well-turned jaw were of note. Even the hair on his head was attractive. She appreciated that he didn't wear his hair in the formal old way as most men of the upper classes did. He had a rebellious edge to him that was uncommon for royalty.

Yes, she had seen him up close (all of him) the evening before but it was as if she'd forgotten the fine, pleasing details of his features. It was difficult to think him so dashing when he was so rude. And the smile that drew up on his face as he looked her up and down from his spot in the chair made her palms sweat.

When he winked at her she looked away quickly. Handsome as he may be, he was awful. Just awful.

"Leave us. I need a moment alone with my new wife."

Y/n would have corrected him if he weren't the all-powerful king. She wasn't yet his wife but she knew there was little she could say to make him listen regardless.

Phoebe left the room, quiet as a cat and Y/n stood next to her bed, watching as her king stood and walked right up to her and grabbed her hips, turning her to her side as he looked her over. "This is better than yesterday, isn't it?"

Y/n looked down at her dress and where his hands were on her as she inhaled. "I think so. I dislike the corset."

"As do I. You've no need to wear all that. The kingdom will have to get used to the new method of things."

She was surprised that he agreed. Looking up at him as he turned her to face him, he plucked at her collar. "But this is a nuisance. Would you like it off?"

Nodding she reached up to touch the collar that had been tucked into the bosom of her dress and Harry reached in to untie the laces with deft fingers. She held her breath, frozen, as he quickly released the fabric and pulled it from the top all without grazing her breasts. She imagined he was going to make an advance but he kept his fingers respectfully away from her. Which was another surprise for her.

"There we are. How did you find your bed last night?" He glanced at her rumpled blankets and she followed his gaze. The indecent book she'd been reading was only partly tucked away and she knew it before it even happened, that he'd reach around her for it.

"Fanny Hill: Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure." He quirked a brow at her and licked his lips. "What's this?"

"A book." She reached for it but he held it away from her and grasped her wrist.

"Ah, ah, ah… I'm still looking at it." He pushed her hand back down to her side and kept his eyes on her like he was curious. "Tell me, can you read?"

She swallowed thickly. Yes, she could read but was it wise for him to know that? He likely preferred a wife that couldn't read which might explain why he chose her from the street. Most men liked their women without education. But, it would be difficult to hide that she couldn't read at all and she wouldn't want to pretend either, especially when she so enjoyed doing it when she could.

"A little." She compromised.

"And you found this in our library here?"

She nodded looking from the book to the king as he narrowed his eyes over the pages, flipping through them.

"I asked him if he was afraid of a lady, and with that took and carrying his hand to my breasts, I pressed it tenderly to them; they were now finely furnished, and raised in flesh so that panting with desire, they rose, and fell, in quick heaves, under his touch."

The king read a short passage, squinting up from the page at Y/n with a grin, and then continued as her face grew hot that he knew what she'd been reading.

"And now glancing my eyes towards that part of his dress which covered the essential object of enjoyment, I plainly discovered the swell and commotion there. I stole my hand upon his thighs, down one of which, I could both see and feel a stiff hard body, confined by his breeches, that my fingers could discover no end to: curious then and eager to unfold so alarming a mystery, playing as it were with his buttons, which were bursting ripe from the active force within…"

Y/n turned and covered her face. She could hardly believe he was reading out loud the same words she'd read in her bed that had her wiggling and tensing the slightest the night before.

"Did you enjoy reading this smut? Did it remind you of my own swell from last night?" His words were spoken very near to her ear as he stood behind her. She kept her face covered and shook her head no. A lie. She wasn't ready to admit to him all the strange emotions she'd gone through the night before. And certainly, she'd never let him know about the odd fantasy she'd had of him after reading certain bits in the book. Imagining Harry standing tall above her with his cock in her face made all the blood in her limbs race to her head.

She felt him place his hand on her hip. "You did like it. I could see it in your eyes. Do you know what I did when you left my chambers last night? Can you imagine what a man with a big swell under his breaches might do when he's all alone?"

Pulling her hands from her face she turned her head but didn't look at him directly. "You called someone in to help you with it?"

She was sure that was what he was going to say. He'd eluded to it the night before so it only made sense he'd find someone else to sate his desires when she wouldn't.

"Oh, you dim little girl. There was no one else I wanted for the task but you last night. My future wife…" he spoke the words close to her ear as ran a finger down her neck, still gripping her hip. "I had to deal with the undertaking all alone after your refusal. I've never had anyone deny my request as you did."

She pushed a shaky breath from her mouth as she closed her eyes. The sensation of his warm finger trailing the length of her neck up to her jaw and back down stimulated her blood, sending it to churn hotly under her flesh. His deep voice against the shell of her ear stoked a strange ache in the pit of her belly.

Strange… well, she understood the ache truth be told. Virgin, she may be, but innocent of feelings of lust, she was not. She recognized her body's natural reaction to her king but it confused her. Perhaps it was due to that book, stuffing all those improper ideas into her brain. Desire was something she'd known before but explaining the function was foreign. She'd never acted on desire before and now, she had to contend with a man who wanted her to act on his.

Her body, of its own accord, pushed back into his chest and she arched her neck into his touch. The pad of his finger drew lazy paths but soon was replaced by a moist warm and plush mouth. She pulled in a breathy gasp when she realized he was kissing her. But the feel of his solid form behind her, pressing his hips to her rear made her limbs nearly give out.

Harry grunted a laugh against her neck as he held her up with his arm wrapped around her front to keep her securely in place. "Do you like my mouth on you?"

Yes! She did and her pounding heart was proof of it. "No."

He laughed and squeezed her tighter into his chest as he ran his tongue along the space behind her ear. "You say no but your body says yes. Shall I release you? Or shall we continue?"

She didn't want him to stop but she couldn't possibly want it either. Could she? What was she to say? If she told him to stop then would he remove her from the castle and find another Queen? Then what of her family who was newly offered shelter and provisions by the king himself? She couldn't go and ruin it but if she said yes would he take what he wanted from her without permission? Would God smite her at once for her wayward acts?

"You are not yet my husband."

The rattled moan he let out as he pressed a warm kiss to her jaw, setting her skin to flame. "But you are mine. Yes?"

She looked at her unmade bed and down at his arm that was tight across her middle. She'd never felt such a longing to engage in her shameful needs as then. Even the night before, reading the sort of smut she'd read, she felt the pull of wanton thirst but resisted it still. With the king, though, his mouth smoothing against her skin, his body, hard, warm, granite, at her back, her soft bed beckoning, the vision seared into her memory of his member (a pretty one at that).

"Yes, my King. But it's indecent until God binds us."

"Not even God himself can stop us. You needn't deny yourself of base urges. We're all just animals, Y/n, seeking the same delicious release. Have you experienced it before? Felt the elation of your lust during climax and wetted your fingers when you got excited?"

She'd never been more embarrassed in her life. Shaking her head she grunted when he pulled at her and sat at the edge of her bed, bringing her with him to sit between his legs, her back to his chest. "Never? Not once?"

His hand bunched the fabric of her dress, slowly pulling at it, exposing her leg. "Never."

"Pity! It's one of life's finest pleasures. An indulgence you must know."He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and pressed his face next to hers as he looked down at her dress and the skin of her knee.

"We don't need to disgrace God for you to know such pleasure. You can remain a virgin still, until our wedding night."

She watched his large hand squeeze at her knee and drag slowly upward revealing her thigh inch by inch. "Would you like that? I can show you how good it feels. Give you something new to crave."

She was terrified and eager all at once. But the thought of ruining herself before she was wed and the stories she'd been told about how badly it would hurt had her unsure in her answer. "I'm… I'm scared. It hurts, doesn't it?"

"If you've never tried it, how would you know it hurts?"

"I heard my aunt telling her friend about it. They both agreed it was awful. Women's bodies aren't built to enjoy it. Only men can have pleasure in it. Otherwise, it's sinful. It's how God created us."

Harry chuckled and pulled at her to bring her further back into her bed, his breeches pulling up as he moved with her and leaned himself back, her body still against him and between his legs. "My little feather-brained girl… Well, maybe you're not so feather-brained as you can read, but you've been led astray. Let your king show you the truth so you can know the mountain of pleasure you're capable of. Yes?"

She felt so exposed. Without her drawers, she had nothing to hinder his hand from sliding up her thigh to her secret little tulip. It was something she rarely even touched herself for fear of betraying God and her own body. So to feel a man's hand on her flesh, hot and searching, it had her heart pounding so hard she thought it might crack through her chest.

"I'm… I feel faint…" She placed her hands on his forearms as he helped her spread her thighs apart.

"I swear I will do no more than make you feel like a queen right now. Let me show you how delicious it is. Or shall we stop?"

He tucked his chin over her shoulder to peek down at her as he pulled her dress and he could feel her wiggling into him. She was not well-versed in the truth of biological functions, but rather, as Harry understood it, had a deeply ingrained fear of God and Anglican Christian teachings. He was not shocked to know this, as the Church of England influenced most of the ongoings of society, especially the poor with its reprehensible practices that only hindered education and growth.

Poor thing.

"Let me see your hand," he spoke quietly, turning his arm to face his palm up. Y/n slid her palm into his and he slowly pushed her hand between her legs. "I'll show you how to do it yourself. Consider it a gift."

She felt his large, warm hand over the outside of hers as he nudged her fingertips into the soft fleshy inner parts of her thigh and guided her to her private quim, tucked away under layers of fabric. He couldn't see it but he could feel the heat radiating from it.

"Take your finger and touch. Give yourself a chance to explore."

Y/n inhaled shallowly as she did what he said. He squeezed her thigh, dangerously close to where her fingers were touching herself. She'd not touched it often. A quick rub to clean or to scratch, and maybe once or twice for curiosity's sake, but never like this.

It was warm and moist and fleshy bits moved and bent away from her touch with ease. Dragging her digit up and down she only grew bolder with her exploration knowing he couldn't see her and neither could anyone else. But the sensation of what she was doing didn't falter. She was keenly aware of the illicit act and that her king was dragging his fingers so close to where she was it made her feel fuzzy and hot.

"How does it feel? Describe it."

Closing her eyes, as if somehow that would hide her shame, she opened her mouth and did her best to tell him the way she felt under her fingertips. "Like a stiff jelly. Strange… A little moist. Warm crevice that folds and splits. It's… It's difficult to say…"

"That sounds about right to me. Bring your fingers upward, to the very top of that split. What's there?"

Drawing her fingers upward she pushed her labia apart and felt her hair scattered over the outer edges of her lips and inward to a fleshy fold. "It feels much the same. I can feel the hair there, and a soft thing at the center with none."

"Press that little merry bit gently. Small circles."

She already had been. Once her digit rubbed around the space she remembered her brief investigations from before. The tingle it sent throughout her groin felt connected to her inner turmoil.

"Yes."

He smiled as he ran his fingers along her inner thigh. "Yes? Yes, what?"

She gulped her saliva and nodded. "Yes… I feel it."

"You feel it. What do you feel?"

"It's just skin and gelatin."

"It's much more than that, little mouse. That's the key to your desire. The more you press her and play with her, the more you'll feel. She'll come alive underneath your fingers. Soon, you'll be able to juice her and she'll make a mess of your fingers but you won't want to stop."

"Juice her?" Y/n blinked in confusion.

"Yes. Like a citrus. She'll gush the better she feels."

It was already feeling like something so lascivious that she had to pause before she got carried away. It felt… well it was quite nice. But it was sinful.

"You've stopped, yet you have so much more to learn. If you continue you'll see what power you possess over your own body. You can reach the agony of bliss by persisting."

The agony of bliss. Y/n knew this phrase as a fake for women. To come to bliss from meddling with her bits or participating in amorous congress was impossible! Only men could be flooded with that kind of pleasure.

"It cannot be done. I'm sure of it," she whispered and turned her face in toward his, catching the outline of his face so close to hers.

"It can be done. Don't be stubborn. Allow yourself to find the truth. Would you like me to take over for you and show you?"

"But God—"

"No more talk of God. He's not here with us. He never was." Harry reached for her fingers and pushed them back against herself, circling slowly as he spoke. "I am the one here with you now. You will seek my presence, and you will acquiesce to my will."

Slowly, she let herself relax into him and laid her head back against his shoulder as he guided her movements. She wasn't ready to confess to anyone how delightful it felt. And the more he moved her fingers around the wetter she indeed got, just as he said she would.

Harry craned his neck over her shoulder, hoping to see her wetted queam but the fabric of her dress cost him a good view. He could however see her soft thighs spread and as he leaned outward and looked at her face saw pretty parted lips and closed eyes as her chest rose and fell patterned in lust. Then he heard the smallest whimper that had him quickening his fingers and staring at the side of her face in awe.

His own bits were enlightened by the heady wetness under his fingers and soon she slid her pelvis upward and she'd let go of her finger's movements in favor of grabbing onto his forearms to let him take over. He groaned when he had full access to her cunt-lips. And the little button he'd knocked into was swollen and slick.

"You have a delightful quim, Y/n. So warm and full of life, aren't you?"

She arched her back and panted as he slid lazy fingerprints to her sex. She hadn't felt anything like it but she was both thoroughly aroused and embarrassed. Even the wetness that leaked from her was audible as Harry moved his long fingers over her crevices.

When she gasped a breath he murmured against her ear���there's my good little mouse—and he pushed himself against her for his own relief. His cock was hard, and nudging it against her backside provided him with a bit of satisfied deliverance. His bride-to-be was stubborn but she was ripe. What a pleasure to have chosen her over anyone else. It was by chance that he had seen her the day before and now he was certain that he'd been right about his selection.

(When wasn't he right?)

And oh! Y/n was sure she would be sent straight to the pit of hell for all eternity but the sudden need to see it through and know the carnal pleasure King Harry promised, overwhelmed her existence. Nothing could stop the pull of her desire to climb the mountain's peak and throw herself down into the rough and unknown valley below. Dangerous it may be, but her new willingness to gaze into the depths and explore the truth burned in her stronger than any lake of hellfire could.

He rocked against her slowly and moaned as he worked her wetness. With one hand steady, gripping at her soft thigh to hold her open, he could feel her muscles straining, shaking as she humped toward his fingers. She liked it. He knew she would. Her skin was warm and her desperate inhalations turned into mumbled nonsense.

Oh! Oh my! Fooo… Hee ooohhh…

"I want to see you let go. Come into my hand, mouse," Harry's shaky breath against her face inferred to her that he was also aroused.

Everything in her body was aching and pulsing as she writhed into his fingers for more. Her soft pearl was coated in cream, the king's fingers smeared with accurate strokes around her quim and pressed into the knob of her pleasure as temptation slid through her tummy and seeped from her.

"You're going to crave a strumming from me like this every day. And once you let me show you what it feels like to have your insides pricked and your belly tickled with my staff you'll be begging me for it."

The limn of her vision turned red and spotty and rushing blood drummed in her ears, muffling the dirty things he said to her. She could not resist the pull of her orgasm as she let out a wobbled cry. Her whole body was beating and throbbing and her insides were molten, sweet jelly.

Harry tossed his head back and parted his lips in ecstasy as he rolled his hips up and down and finally, his vital spend coated the inside of his breeches. He pumped hotly against the fabric and squeezed at her skin in his release. He flushed hot as the girl in his arms moaned and slid into his hand.

Y/n had melted into him and her legs gave out, falling flat to the bed between his thighs as she closed her eyes. She felt like an explorer. Someone who'd discovered a coveted, secret treasure that no one else had ever known. When she felt Harry's mouth against her neck she smiled in satisfaction and relief.

The shocking realization that she was still in his arms in the castle and not struck down to ash by God was almost equal to the sensation of her orgasm. Why had God not taken action upon them? Flitting her eyes open she saw a drizzle of sunlight shining over her body and Harry's as they sat on her bed, as if the sun would still rise and the day would continue to tick on as normal. As if they hadn't just participated in something so vile.

But her feelings of narrow escape turned into shameful regret when she felt his hand brushing against her skin and he grunted behind her as he moved. She shot forward and turned to look at him and found his pleasant face all flushed and at ease. How could he be so casual?

"What have I done?" She spoke to herself as she climbed away from him and smoothed her dress down to cover her legs.

Harry draped his arms across the feathered pillows and watched her with an amused expression. "What is it now?"

She got to her feet and shook her head as she spun away from the vision of the handsome man spread out on the bed she'd just been in. "We've sinned! God will find his vengeance on us soon!"

He laughed and sat up. "Does it appear to you that God cares what we just did? You are still alive and well, mouse. And I am just as healthy and whole as before."

"That doesn't mean he won't repay us with his anger."

Getting off of her bed he pulled her back into his chest and grinned as he spoke quietly.

"You are no woman of virtue, Y/n. Do not pretend you didn't enjoy yourself. The only shame you should be feeling is that you have been led to believe that your pleasure is a sin. Soon, you'll be begging me for more."

She huffed as she jerked herself away from him and stepped toward the table with the pitcher of water, placing her palms down on the wood. She heard him walking away toward her door and glanced at him as he turned before opening it.

"I'll find Phoebe to bring you your breakfast. You still need plumping."

. .

His wife-to-be could read. Harry almost couldn't believe it but she had a book on her bed that she'd been reading (naughty little thing) and he tried not to show her how surprised he was by that revelation but he was quite taken aback. Thanks to The Enlightenment, it was becoming more common for women to read but the lower classes weren't educated in that way quite yet. In truth, he couldn't have been more pleased to learn that his little mouse had some brains after all.

The middle-class proletariats and the wealthy gentry would not agree that this was a good thing. Their Christian morals led them to believe that only those of rank should have the ability. Someone poverty-stricken with the skill wouldn't know how to control their urges and read the right things. They'd balk at a woman of poverty reading just as much as they'd soon balk at the idea of Y/n being their queen. He couldn't wait to introduce Y/n and her family to the public.

The Lord Mayor had only heard that Harry had found a wife, not who the girl was just yet. He smiled as he imagined the look on his face when he met her and the family at dinner. Of course, his council would be there as well and he knew they'd have a fit over it.

"Sir, Y/n's family has arrived. They have been shown their quarters, warm baths drawn, and wardrobes ready. Dinner will be served in one hour and a half," Fred spoke. "And Y/n… Well, it seems she's unhappy with the dressings she's been given. Something about the unmentionables being too tight. She refuses to wear the appropriate clothing."

"My wife may wear whatever she pleases. If she doesn't like the underdressings then she does not need them. Tell her assistant to stop trying to force her to comply or else I'll find her a new one."

Fred quietly left the sitting room where Harry was enjoying a warm fire and a stiff gin. He'd go and help Y/n dress himself if she wasn't so squeamish around him. Though, he did enjoy their morning tryst, he knew she'd need time to get used to her new setting.

"You!" Harry spotted a worker scurrying past the room and stood from his chair.

The young man stopped and looked at the king with wide eyes as if he were in trouble. He bowed his head quickly. "My Lord."

"Whatever task you've been given, forget it. Your new duty is to go into the library and find as many smut books as you can and have them delivered to the Rose Room before the end of the day."

The man nodded. "Yes, My Lord."

. .

Y/n was as shaky as a feather as she stepped into the Great Hall with Harry by her side. Her mother and father stood quickly, followed by her sisters, and then finally her grandmother. She noted they were all washed and wearing fine clothing. Her sisters wore big grins as her mother wobbled out a sob (the woman could tend to be a bit dramatic).

They'd never seen one another dressed so nicely before. It was a new world for all of them. Her grandmother had a large pearl pin in her hair and rouge on her cheeks. Her mother's linen yellow gown looked perfectly fitted for her. Y/n's father looked regal and influential in his dark blue tailcoat and silk cravat, while her sisters were adorned in colorful muslin with full skirts.

But Y/n… All eyes were on her as she walked toward the royal table, arm tucked into Harry's. Her extravagant velvet gown was a soft green color that matched the king's eyes. The ruffled bust was nearly draped from her shoulders, her neckline on display. The skirt of the dress was full (but not as full as it would have been if she'd worn the proper gear) and there were sewn-in patterns in the shape of vines and flowers in dark green. She was a vision.

Harry's chair was pulled out first and he sat at the head of the table as Y/n sat to his right. The long table was draped in white linen cloths, topped with silver and gold platters and plates, and crystal glassware. Lavish flower centerpieces were spaced out between the covered dishes and the room smelled divine.

There were seven men that sat with them, all scrutinizing the king's pick. They'd never heard the last name of her family as it was not common in high-class society. Which could only mean that the king had not selected advantageously.

"Y/l/n… Where does that name hail from?" One of the men spoke as the servers began to plate food for everyone.

"Does it matter?" Harry barked as he shot his gaze across the table to the man who spoke out of turn.

"Of course it does. The kingdom is relying on a favorable match. And to my eye, I do not suspect these people have any clue of the standard we must uphold. We must maintain—"

"You will keep quiet about your opinion, for it does not concern you who I marry or why."

"Your Majesty, with all due respect—"

"You too will not speak on this matter." Harry raised his voice at the other man who'd chimed in. "Let us enjoy our dinner, yes? No more talk of class or agreeable matches. I am the king and I have made my choice. I'm not interested in hearing your insignificant drivel."

Y/n's carving of meat was plated before her and she nearly gasped at the spectacle. She looked up at the man who'd served it and before he could step away to carve a portion for her father who sat to her right Harry stopped him.

"Give her twice as much as the rest of us, and the fat too."

Y/n looked at the king, down to her plate, and then back at him again. "Why? I can't possibly eat—"

"You need the fat. You have been underfed for too long."

"Enjoy it, dear. The king is right," her father spoke quietly to her.

She leaned forward and looked at her mother who sat on the other side of her father and reached across to take her mother's hand as she'd begun to cry. "Don't do that, Mother. There's no need for it."

Her mother inhaled a sob and nodded. "I know. I just can't believe this is happening to us. What did we do to find ourselves in such favor? And you!" She wobbled out a shallow cry. "Who knew you'd caught the king's eye? We didn't realize he'd been courting you!"

Harry chuckled and looked at Y/n as she tried to calm her mother while her plate was piled high with meat and roasted potato. Her sisters whispered amongst themselves, discussing their outfits and the jeweled pins in their hair as the Lord Mayor sighed in displeasure.

Y/n's family was a nightmare. They were unfit for such a designation and looking at all of them The Lord Mayor was sure they were as well behaved as street dogs. Her father began eating his food before the king even took a bite of his own, the mother was sobbing like a lunatic, tears falling onto her plate, and her sisters were whispering and giggling like they were playing child's games at the royal table.

He stood from his spot, his chair sliding back and he slammed his hands down onto the table. He was provoked to finally speak his peace. "This cannot go on! What a disgrace to Thornekeep to have these commoners assigned a place amongst royalty. I will not stand for this mockery! Your father—"

"My father is dead!" Harry stood from his chair and loudly spoke over the Lord Mayor's voice. "Sit down or leave at once! You will not insult these people or I will have your head!"

"You do not have that kind of power, yo—"

"The Bloody Code says I do and I will evoke it should you say another damned word against them. Leave! All of you!" Harry pointed toward the arched opening that would lead them from the Great Hall.

The council and Y/n's family all stood up quickly. "Not you. Just the blunderbusses who think themselves worthy of their titles," Harry spoke.

The men all mumbled unintelligible things under their breath as they left their untouched food on the table and scurried away in haste. When it was just Harry and Y/n's family at the table he smiled. "Please, enjoy your supper."

The king had to admit, he quite enjoyed the liveliness of the dinner once the council and Lord Mayor were gone. Y/n's family was not trained in the usual way of the upper classes and so their etiquette was unrefined at best. They slurped and laughed and chatted like they were at a pub. Even Y/n was a messy eater as he watched her once wipe her hands on the skirt of her dress. And halfway through, the young girls were chasing each other around the table and using the linens to play hide and seek underneath.

When the dinner was finished and the family had all left the table and were taken back to their quarters Y/n's chair was pulled from behind and she stood to take Harry's arm as she looked up at him before he led them out of the Great Hall. She spotted the guard who'd taken her to her room from the evening prior and greeted him kindly.

"Good afternoon, George." She smiled at the guard.

Harry stopped and looked at his guard and down to his queen-to-be. "Do you know one another?"

Y/n nodded looking from George back up to Harry. "Yes. Last night in the library. He stood guard."

"And how do you know his first name?"

"Phoebe called him by it."

Harry looked at his guard, releasing Y/n's arm as he stepped forward. "And what do you think of my wife-to-be? Dashing isn't she?"

George flicked his sight to Y/n before fixing it to Harry. "My Lord, she'll be suitable for the kingdom."

"No, she won't, which is why I picked her. But tell me. Did you see the books she selected?"

"No, sir."

Harry let his shoulders relax as he looked down at Y/n and pulled his arm around her back, clutching at her hip. "Your assistant introduced you to him? Why is that?"

She didn't understand the inquisition at first. "Because Phoebe was tired and I told her she could return to her room to rest. She asked George if he could help me back to my room after I was finished."

The edge of his mouth flitted up before it dropped back into place. "Is that so? You two were alone in the library?"

Y/n looked from George to Harry, suddenly realizing her error. "Well, only for a bit. I sent Phoebe away. It was quick. And then I went to my room. Nothing mo—"

"Did you invite him into your room as well?"

"No! Of course not!"

"Do not raise your voice at me," he snapped.

"Sorry," she whispered and looked downward.

"Did he touch you?"

"No, My Lord."

"I'd wager he wanted to. Isn't that right, George? Pretty thing such as this can be quite tempting when the night has come. Have yourself a good look at the future queen, then?"

"No, sir."

Harry looked at Y/n and she felt his cold demeanor pouring icy down her frame as he grasped the nape of her neck. "Why not have a gander now, George? Don't be timid. Go on. Look at her. The curve of her neck and soft cheeks arouse thoughts of youth and beauty. The way her chest rises heavily under such scrutiny is quite stimulating to the eye, is it not?"

Y/n swallowed and kept her sight forward on the silk flock wallpaper as Harry held her still. The moment was unpleasant with Harry scrutinizing and intimidating his guard. George remained silent as her heart rate ramped up wildly.

"You're not even looking at her. Why is that? Is it because you're only bold enough to glimpse at what's mine when I'm not in party? While I was sleeping in my chambers my wife-to-be was alone with the night guard. Look at her."

She tried to pry away from Harry's hold and scowled at him for his rough behavior with George. George hadn't done anything wrong at all and yet here the king was, berating him and acting like a foolish cracked twat.

The guard hesitantly looked at Y/n, keeping his eyes above the line of her neck as he remained silent.

"What do you see? Hmm?" Harry practically snarled.

"Sir, I see your bride-to-be."

"That's right. Mine. Your station will be with the front guards from now on. You are not to approach her or talk to her ever again. Do I make myself clear?"

"Do not punish him! He did nothing wrong!" Y/n balked and once again, tried pulling herself from Harry's grip.

Harry squinted down at her and scoffed. "If I say he did something wrong, then he did." He released her arm, making her tumble back a few steps as he looked at Phoebe. "Take her to her room. Do not let her come back out for the night."

"You're awful!" Y/n bellowed at him. She'd had such a wonderful dinner with her family and even began to feel warmth from the king as he'd stood up for her family with such fervour when they'd been insulted by the council.

Harry merely let out an annoyed laugh at her as he looked back at George. "Tell Niall he's been promoted to your position and send him here to set up. Go at once."

If there was one thing she'd learned about the king in her short time knowing him, it was that he both infuriated and confused her to her core. And there was the matter of the way he aroused her curiosity as well, but that was a thought for another day. Because at that moment, she wanted to strike his pretty face with her fist as hard as she could muster.

When Phoebe opened the door to her room she flung herself inside and began to pull at her dress as tears worked their way down her cheeks. "I hate him! I hate him!"

"He can be quite crude at times," Phoebe offered.

"He's awful! I will… I will…" She balled her fists and shrieked loudly as she bristled in anger. "I will not marry such a devil."

"Here, let me help you," Phoebe reached for her gown and worked the buttons at the back to allow her to finally pull it off, leaving her in only her chemise and drawers. "Better?"

Y/n nodded and rubbed at her face. "Yes, thank you." She breathed and sat down on the chair near her fireplace. "I need to be by myself, I think. Will you come back in an hour? Please?"

Phoebe smiled softly. "Of course. Whatever you like. I'll return in one hour."

The silence of the room surrounded her as she closed her eyes and laid back into the chair to breathe and to think. She wasn't used to the ways of the upper class and she certainly wasn't used to being bossed around as the king did to her and to everyone else. But, she could admit, she enjoyed the lavish things around her. Her bed in particular was of note.

She looked toward the perfectly made, pillowy cloud across the room and sat up quickly when she saw a basket on the floor next to it. She hadn't seen it before. Standing from the chair, she walked toward it, assessing the contents, and realized it was full of books!

Plucking one of the bindings up to inspect she inhaled softly when she realized what kind of book it was. Flipping through the pages she smiled and then looked down at the basket again and bent to see another book of smut and then another, and yet another.

She sat at the edge of her bed and stared toward her fireplace. There was no question to her who'd sent the books for her. Phoebe, could not only not read but wouldn't dare do such a thing. The only other person who knew about the smut book she'd gotten from the library was the same man she wished to give a thorough thrashing to.

The king, Harry Styles, had sent a basket of books to her room. And Y/n wasn't sure how that made her feel. She wanted to hold onto her rage for a while longer but as she pulled herself into her bed and opened up one of the books to read, she felt a sliver of her anger disintegrate. Perhaps things weren't perfect, but certainly, anyone would agree, it was much better than sitting out in the cold seeking small kindnesses from strangers who thought her no better than a street dog.

. .

NEXT

. .

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[magical-reid]

Between the Lines (Part 1)

Pairing: Eddie Munson x Shy!Reader

Genre: Slow Burn

Warning: This was originally going to be one part so I hope there's no weird cuts

Time Line: Season 4 Timeline (but Eddie gets a happy ending!)

Summary: When Eddie Munson pulls you out of your shell, neither of you expect it to mean everything—until Hawkins turns against him, and you’re the only one still by his side. Through the chaos of the Upside Down, near-misses, and a battle for survival, Eddie realizes he can’t lose you—and this time, he’s never letting go.

Word Count: 5.4K

Hawkins High’s cafeteria was a battlefield. Jocks and cheerleaders occupied the best real estate, their laughter bouncing off the walls, while the outcasts huddled in their usual places, dodging judgmental stares. You, however, had perfected the art of blending in—head down, nose in a book, quietly existing on the fringes where no one paid much attention.

Or at least, that’s how it used to be, until Eddie Munson had noticed you.

It started small. A few glances from across the room, his dark eyes flicking toward you whenever he was in the middle of an exaggerated monologue for Hellfire Club. Then came the nods in the hallway, casual, like he was acknowledging an old friend instead of someone who barely spoke.

You weren’t sure why.

Maybe it was because you sat behind him in English, quietly scribbling notes while he ignored assignments in favor of doodling song lyrics in the margins of his notebook. Maybe he saw you watching his campaign speeches in the cafeteria, not judging like the others but listening, even if you never had the courage to join.

Or maybe Eddie Munson was just the kind of person who noticed people that the rest of the world ignored.

“Y/N, right?”

Your brain short-circuited. Eddie was standing in front of you, talking to you.

You had been preparing to leave the library when he appeared like some chaotic apparition, rings glinting as he drummed his fingers on the table. The question was casual, like he wasn’t shattering your entire routine by acknowledging your existence.

“Uh—yeah.” Your voice came out quieter than you wanted, and you mentally kicked yourself.

Eddie grinned like you’d just said something hilarious. “Knew it. I don’t forget a face.”

That wasn’t true. You’d heard him confidently call Dustin “Darwin” once and insist Steve Harrington’s name was actually “Stan.” But you let it slide, because your brain was still stuck on the fact that Eddie Munson was talking to you.

“You’re in Ms. O’Donnell’s class with me,” he continued, rocking on his heels. “You always look like you wanna be anywhere else.”

You did. English was a nightmare when participation counted, and your voice never seemed to work properly when put on the spot. But you hadn’t realized Eddie noticed.

“I, uh—I like the books,” you admitted, gripping the strap of your bag. “Just… not the talking part.”

Eddie’s smile softened. “Yeah, that tracks.” He cocked his head, studying you in a way that made your stomach flip. “So, if you’re into books, what’s stopping you from joining Hellfire?”

You blinked. “What?”

“I see you watching,” Eddie said, smirking as he leaned in conspiratorially. “You think I wouldn’t notice? You’re always listening when I’m giving my grand, Shakespearean-level speeches in the cafeteria.”

Your face burned. Had you been that obvious?

Eddie’s grin widened at your reaction. “So, you like stories. You like fantasy. That tells me you’d probably love Dungeons & Dragons.” He paused, then added dramatically, “And yet, you never come sit with us. Tragic, really.”

You fiddled with the hem of your sweater, struggling to find words that wouldn’t make you sound ridiculous. You had thought about it. More than once. But joining Hellfire meant attention, meant speaking up, meant being looked at. And that terrified you.

Eddie seemed to sense your hesitation because his voice turned softer, teasing but not unkind. “Tell you what—I won’t force you. But if you ever get tired of being a background character, there’s a seat at the table for you.”

You swallowed hard.

A part of you wanted to say no, to retreat back into the safety of anonymity. But another part—the part that secretly loved fantasy worlds and the idea of being part of something—held onto Eddie’s words a little too tightly.

Because Eddie Munson had noticed you.

And maybe… just maybe… you wanted to be noticed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You thought maybe Eddie would forget.

People talked all the time—offhand invitations, casual offers that didn’t really mean anything. You figured that’s what his words had been in the library. A moment of whimsy, a fleeting thought from someone who didn’t actually expect you to take him up on it.

But Eddie Munson wasn’t most people.

So when Friday rolled around, when Hellfire Club took over the cafeteria for their weekly game, Eddie saw you.

You were sitting in your usual spot, book open but unread, fingers fidgeting with the worn edge of the page. You could hear them—the boisterous laughter, the dramatic voices, the excitement of a world unfolding in dice rolls and storytelling.

And then, his voice.

“Still in the background, huh?”

Your stomach flipped before you even looked up. Eddie was standing in front of you again, hands braced on the table, a smirk tugging at his lips.

You blinked, unsure what to say. You hadn’t expected him to follow up.

“Not even a little curious?” he pressed, tilting his head, his curls falling into his face.

You hesitated. Of course you were curious. But curiosity meant risk—meant walking into a world where you couldn’t just blend in, where you’d have to speak, to engage.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal debate, softened his approach. “Alright, new deal. No commitment, no pressure. Just come watch. Sit at the table, listen in. You don’t have to say a word.”

Your fingers tightened around your book.

It was a trap. A cleverly disguised one, because you knew Eddie wanted you to speak, to participate. But the offer was tempting. No pressure. Just watching.

You exhaled. “Just watching?”

Eddie grinned. “Scout’s honor.”

You seriously doubted Eddie Munson had ever been a Scout, but still…

You nodded.

His eyes lit up like you’d just agreed to marry him. “Hell yeah, okay—come on.”

Before you could second-guess yourself, Eddie grabbed your wrist, tugging you toward the Hellfire table. His rings were cold against your skin, his grip firm but not forceful, like he half-expected you to change your mind and run.

You didn’t.

Instead, you let him pull you into the chaos.

Dustin, Mike, Jeff, Gareth—faces you recognized but had never spoken to—glanced up in mild surprise as Eddie dragged you into a seat beside him. “Alright, gentlemen, we have a guest,” he announced, spreading his arms like he’d just unveiled a great prize.

Dustin looked delighted. “You recruited someone?”

“Not recruited,” Eddie corrected, slinging an arm over the back of your chair. You tensed at the proximity, and he must have noticed because his voice dropped into something softer. “Just watching tonight.”

The others accepted this without question, diving back into their game, and you found yourself quietly observing as their campaign unfolded. The excitement, the stakes, the way Eddie controlled the room with his voice alone.

And maybe, just maybe, you started to see what he saw.

Because for the first time in a long time, you weren’t just watching from the outside. You were there, included, and Eddie Munson had made sure of it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You hadn’t meant to come back.

Or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

But the next Friday, when Hellfire Club met again, you found yourself hovering just outside the cafeteria doors, heart hammering, fingers twisting in the fabric of your sweater. You weren’t sure why you were hesitating.

Eddie had invited you. No—more than that. He had wanted you there. And nothing bad had happened last time. No one had forced you to speak. No one had laughed at you.

So why were you so nervous?

You were debating whether to turn around and flee when—

“Well, well, well. Look who’s lurking.”

Your stomach flipped. You knew that voice.

Eddie.

He was leaning in the doorway like he’d been waiting for you, dark eyes filled with mischief, lips twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smirk—too warm for that.

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Eddie chuckled. “Y’know, for someone who’s really good at making herself invisible, you are terrible at sneaking.”

You huffed, heat creeping up your neck. “I wasn’t sneaking.”

His grin widened, like he was delighted to hear you defend yourself. “No? What were you doing then?”

You hesitated. “…Thinking about coming in.”

He tilted his head. “And what’s stopping you?”

You bit your lip. Everything. The usual anxieties, the weight of being seen, the fear of looking ridiculous. But saying that out loud felt impossible.

Eddie, as if sensing your internal war, took a step closer. Not enough to be overwhelming—just enough that his voice dropped into something softer, something meant just for you.

“You don’t have to be scared,” he said, his tone light but real. “It’s just a game. Just us nerds sitting around a table, rolling some dice. No stakes. No pressure.”

You wanted to believe that.

And yet—

“You’ll sit next to me again,” Eddie added, like it wasn’t a question but a promise. “I’ll help you if you want. And if it sucks, I’ll personally walk you out and never bother you about it again.”

Your heart clenched.

It was such an Eddie thing to say. Loud and dramatic and yet… sincere. Because he meant it.

And somehow, that was what made you move.

You swallowed hard, then nodded.

Eddie lit up like you’d just made his entire week. “That’s what I’m talking about. Come on, shy girl, time to throw you into the fire.”

He didn’t grab your wrist this time. Just walked beside you, slow enough that you could change your mind if you wanted.

You didn’t.

The guys greeted you like last time—Dustin practically beaming, Mike offering a nod, the others grinning like they had already accepted you as part of the background.

You liked that.

You sat down next to Eddie, your pulse still racing, fingers tightening around the hem of your sweater. The energy around the table was different tonight—higher stakes, more tension.

“Perfect timing,” Eddie declared as he sat down beside you. “We’re entering the final stretch of tonight’s campaign. And you—” he tapped a ringed finger on the table in front of you “—are going to roll for us.”

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“You heard me,” he said, like it was the simplest thing in the world. “One roll. No character sheet, no stats—just luck. Our fearless warrior here—” he gestured to Dustin “—is in a tight spot. He needs backup. So, we’ll leave his fate in the hands of the newcomer.”

Your palms started sweating. Everyone was watching. Waiting.

Eddie saw your hesitation and leaned in, voice just above a whisper. “You got this. Just pick up the die and let fate decide.”

You took a shaky breath. Then, before you could overthink it, you reached out and grabbed the twenty-sided die in front of you. It was cool in your palm, heavier than you expected.

You let it roll.

It bounced across the table, spinning, spinning—

Then landed.

A natural twenty.

The table exploded.

Dustin shot to his feet. “Are you kidding me? That was a critical hit!”

Mike groaned, throwing his hands up. “She’s got beginner’s luck!”

Even Jeff and Gareth were laughing, clapping their hands as Eddie threw his head back, cackling like a maniac. “Oh-ho-ho, I knew it! I knew you had it in you!”

You blinked at the die, then at Eddie. “…That was good, right?”

Eddie grinned so wide it was blinding. “Good? That was legendary.”

And for the first time that night—maybe even the first time ever—you felt it, the feeling like you belonged.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Something was wrong.

You felt it before you understood it—an unspoken shift in the air, like the entire town of Hawkins had been holding its breath. It started small. Missing posters appearing overnight, whispers of kids seeing things that weren’t there, an electricity in the air that made your skin prickle.

Then Chrissy Cunningham died.

And Eddie Munson disappeared.

You heard the rumors before you heard the truth.

Murder. Occult rituals. Hellfire Club being a satanic cult. The kind of garbage Hawkins thrived on, spinning stories to explain away the things it couldn’t understand.

But you knew Eddie.

You knew the boy who noticed people when no one else did, who made space for you at his table without asking for anything in return. The boy who smirked at your shyness but never mocked it, who pulled you into the fire without letting you burn.

And there was no way Eddie Munson was a murderer.

Which was why, when Dustin Henderson pulled you aside between classes, frantic and breathless, you didn’t hesitate.

“You trust Eddie, right?” he asked, gripping your arm, eyes darting around like someone might be listening.

“Of course,” you said, heart pounding. “Where is he?”

Dustin hesitated. Then, after a sharp exhale, he said, “Come with me.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Eddie was hiding in Reefer Rick’s boathouse.

Dustin, Lucas, and Max had already found him, but now it was a waiting game—figuring out what the hell was happening, what had killed Chrissy, and how to keep Eddie from getting thrown in jail for something he didn’t do.

You barely had time to process before you were climbing through a boatyard window, heart in your throat, stepping into the darkened boathouse where Eddie was pacing like a caged animal.

He looked different. Smaller, somehow. His usual bravado was missing, his eyes wide and darting like he was waiting for someone to kick down the door and drag him away.

But the moment he saw you, he froze.

“…Shy girl?”

Your chest ached at how raw his voice sounded. “Hey, Eddie.”

He blinked like he wasn’t sure if you were real. “What—why—?”

You stepped closer before you could second-guess yourself. “Dustin told me what happened. I don’t believe any of it.”

Eddie let out a shaky breath. His shoulders slumped, just slightly, like he’d been bracing for you to look at him differently.

“You should,” he said, voice hollow. “You didn’t see what I saw.”

He told you then.

About Chrissy. About the impossible, horrific way she died. About the thing that had killed her—something wrong, something that shouldn’t exist.

And you believed him.

Because this was Hawkins. And in Hawkins, monsters were real.

You sat down beside him, slow and careful, like approaching a spooked animal. He looked exhausted—shaken down to his bones.

“You’re not alone, Eddie,” you said softly. “We’re going to figure this out.”

Eddie let out a wet, breathy laugh. “Shit. Never thought you’d be the one telling me that.”

You smiled, just a little. “Guess you’re rubbing off on me.”

He looked at you then. Really looked at you. And for the first time since you walked in, something in his eyes steadied.

He swallowed hard. “…That a bad thing?”

Your pulse jumped.

You weren’t sure how to answer, but for the first time, you didn’t feel like running away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t leave, maybe you should have. Maybe it would’ve been safer to let the others handle this, to go home and pretend that Eddie Munson wasn’t sitting next to you in the dark, shaking from something that had shattered his entire world.

But you stayed.

You weren’t sure if it was because of the way he looked at you—wide-eyed and uncertain, like he was afraid you might vanish—or because, for once, you weren’t afraid to be seen.

Eddie had spent weeks pulling you out of your shell. Maybe it was your turn.

Outside, the others were whispering, trying to piece together what was happening to Hawkins. But in here, in this dimly lit boathouse where the air smelled like damp wood and old cigarettes, it was just you and Eddie.

He ran a hand through his tangled curls, exhaling sharply. “So, uh. What’s the verdict?”

You frowned. “On what?”

“Me,” he said, glancing at you sideways. His voice was forced light, a poor attempt at humor. “You sticking around because you believe me, or because you think I need a babysitter?”

Your chest ached at the way he said it. Like he was bracing for you to say the wrong thing.

So you answered carefully.

“I’m here because I want to be.”

Eddie went still.

His fingers curled against his knee, the rings glinting in the dim light. You had never seen him like this before—quiet. Uncertain. Eddie Munson filled spaces with his voice, his energy. But now, he just sat there, studying you like he wasn’t sure what to make of you.

“That’s new,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You swallowed hard. “What is?”

“You,” he said, tilting his head. “Not running. Not hiding.”

You hesitated. “You never let me.”

Eddie’s lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but for once, he didn’t. He just… watched you.

A strange, fragile thing settled between you. Something delicate, something that hadn’t been there before.

But before either of you could break it—

Thud.

You both jolted.

The noise came from the lake outside, something heavy moving through the water.

Dustin’s voice cut through the quiet. “Shit—guys, something’s out there.”

Eddie tensed beside you. His hand brushed yours—instinctive, unthinking—but it sent a jolt up your spine all the same.

You barely had time to process it before the world turned upside down.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The first thing you felt was Eddie’s hand gripping yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant touch, wasn’t careful—it was instinct, a desperate hold on to me as something big, something wrong, churned beneath the surface of the lake outside.

The others were scrambling, Dustin pulling at the tarp-covered windows, Max whispering a frantic what the hell was that? But all you could focus on was Eddie.

His fingers were locked around yours, cold from fear and the damp air, his rings pressing into your skin. You weren’t sure if he even realized he was holding onto you like that.

And you weren’t sure you wanted to let go.

Then the water exploded.

Jason Carver’s idiot friend—Patrick—had been out there, chasing after the other jocks. But now he was—lifted—yanked into the air like a puppet on invisible strings. His limbs snapped, his jaw wrenched open in a silent scream, and his eyes—

They caved in.

It was Chrissy all over again.

The second Patrick hit the water, Eddie yanked you back, shoving you behind him like he was the one protecting you. It was a ridiculous thought—what could either of you do against something like that?—but it made your throat tighten all the same.

Dustin swore. Lucas was shouting. And Eddie— Eddie was shaking.

His breathing had gone shallow, his entire body locked up. He looked like he was about to fall apart, like the walls were closing in on him.

And without thinking, without overanalyzing, you reached for him.

“Hey,” you whispered. Your fingers brushed his sleeve, just barely, but his head snapped toward you like you’d pulled him out of a dream.

His eyes found yours. Wild, frantic.

But yours were steady.

“You’re not alone,” you told him, voice firm despite the way your pulse was hammering. “We’ll figure this out. Together.”

For a second, he just stared at you.

Then, slowly, his breathing evened out. His fingers flexed like he wanted to hold onto you again, but he didn’t. Instead, he nodded.

And that was enough.

Dustin’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”

Eddie didn’t hesitate. He grabbed your wrist—not as frantic as before, but still firm, like he was making sure you were real—and pulled you toward the door.

And as the six of you ran into the night, you realized something:

This wasn’t just Eddie pulling you out of the shadows anymore.

This time, you were pulling him back, too.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t stop running until your lungs burned.

Dustin led the way, weaving through the trees like he’d done this a hundred times before, Max and Lucas close behind. But you barely noticed them—your entire world had shrunk to the feel of Eddie’s fingers wrapped around your wrist, his grip still tight like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers.

He only let go when you reached the edge of the forest, doubling over to catch his breath. His hands found his knees, his wild curls falling into his face, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

You wanted to say something—to do something—but before you could, Dustin spoke.

“We need to get Eddie somewhere safe,” he said, glancing over his shoulder like he expected half of Hawkins to come crashing through the trees. “It’s only a matter of time before the cops start combing the woods.”

Eddie let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Great. Just what I need. Another reason for the whole damn town to be out for my blood.”

Lucas frowned. “We could take him to my house. My parents aren’t home.”

Max shook her head. “Too risky. Carver and his goons probably already checked there.”

Dustin’s face lit up. “Steve’s house. His parents are home, but they’re clueless. He’s got a big basement—perfect for laying low.”

Eddie groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Harrington? Seriously?”

Dustin crossed his arms. “Dude, do you have better options?”

Eddie opened his mouth, then closed it. He had nothing.

You hesitated. You’d been quiet this whole time, still rattled by what had happened at the lake, but you couldn’t ignore the tension rolling off of Eddie in waves. He was still breathing too fast, still shifting like he was barely holding himself together.

And something about it hurt.

“…He shouldn’t be alone,” you said softly.

Eddie’s head snapped toward you.

You felt all four pairs of eyes on you, but you ignored them. Instead, you focused on Eddie, who was watching you like he wasn’t sure if he’d heard you right.

You swallowed hard, then pushed forward. “I mean—it’s just, you’ve been alone this whole time, right? Running. Hiding. And now you don’t have to.” Your fingers twisted in your sweater. “If we’re laying low, I can stay with you. Just until we figure things out.”

Eddie blinked, mouth slightly open, like his brain was buffering.

Dustin grinned. “That’s actually a great idea.”

Eddie made a strangled noise. “I—what—are you guys just making plans for me now?”

Lucas shrugged. “Yeah, pretty much.”

Max smirked. “Welcome to the club, Munson.”

Eddie threw his hands up in exasperation, muttering something under his breath, but when his eyes flicked back to you, something in them softened.

You weren’t sure if it was the way you’d said he shouldn’t be alone or the fact that you’d offered to stay, but something shifted between you.

And despite everything—despite the fear, the danger, the unknown—he gave a short, tired nod.

“Fine,” he grumbled. “But if Harrington tries to make me use his shampoo, I’m out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Steve Harrington’s basement was nicer than you expected.

It wasn’t dingy or unfinished like Eddie’s trailer—there was carpet, old furniture, and a couch that looked way too expensive to be shoved in a basement. But the best part? It was hidden.

Which meant Eddie could finally breathe.

You sat on the couch, knees pulled up to your chest as the others argued upstairs. Something about supplies, about Nancy and Robin meeting up with them later. You weren’t really listening.

Because Eddie was pacing again.

His fingers twitched at his sides, his rings catching the dim light. He’d been quiet ever since you got here, chewing his thumbnail, his movements jittery and restless.

You exhaled. “Eddie.”

He didn’t stop. “This is insane. I’m hiding in Steve Harrington’s basement. This is actually my life right now.”

You hesitated. “It won’t be forever.”

He let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You sure about that?”

No. You weren’t sure about anything.

But you hated seeing him like this.

So you did something you never would’ve done weeks ago.

You reached out and grabbed his hand.

Eddie froze.

His skin was warm, the metal of his rings cold against your fingers. You hadn’t really thought about it, hadn’t planned it—just acted on instinct, pulling him back to you the same way he had done for you.

His eyes snapped to yours, wide and startled.

You swallowed hard. “You’re not alone, Eddie.”

His breath hitched.

For a second, neither of you moved. Your fingers were still curled around his, but you didn’t pull away. And neither did he.

Then—slowly, carefully—his grip tightened.

Just barely. Just enough to hold on.

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “God. You really don’t scare easy, huh?”

You huffed a soft laugh. “I do. Just not around you.”

Eddie went still.

Something shifted. The air between you thickened, the weight of your words hanging there, unspoken but understood.

His fingers flexed against yours.

And then—

The basement door swung open.

You jumped, yanking your hand back as Steve clomped down the stairs, arms full of blankets. “Alright, Munson, you’re officially our problem now. Make yourself comfortable.”

Eddie didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just stood there, watching you like he was seeing you for the first time.

And something in your chest ached.

Because you both knew that something had changed.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t sleep.

Eddie didn’t, either.

The basement was quiet now—Dustin, Lucas, and Max had left, Steve had finally gone to bed, and the house above you was still. The only light came from a dim lamp in the corner, barely illuminating the space between you and Eddie.

He was sitting on the floor near the couch, leaning back against it, one knee bent, fingers twisting at his rings. You were curled up on the cushions, pretending to read a book you’d found on Steve’s shelf.

You weren’t actually reading it.

Because Eddie was acting weird.

Not loud, not animated, not filling the silence like usual. He was… watching you. Not constantly, not in an obvious way, but in these small, flickering glances, like he was trying to figure something out.

And it was killing you.

Finally, you broke the silence. “You’re staring.”

Eddie startled slightly, caught in the act. “Uh—what? No, I’m not.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He cleared his throat, shifting. “Okay, maybe I was. But only ‘cause I’m still trying to wrap my head around something.”

You hesitated. “What?”

His fingers drummed against his knee. He didn’t answer right away, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to say it out loud.

Then, finally—soft, careful—

“You stayed.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You could’ve left,” he said, watching you intently now. “Back at the boathouse. When you found out what I’d seen, what was happening—you could’ve run. Hell, most people would’ve. But you didn’t.”

Your throat tightened. “Neither did you.”

Eddie huffed a quiet laugh. “I didn’t really have a choice, sweetheart.”

The nickname sent something warm through you, but you ignored it. “That’s not true,” you said, voice softer now. “You could’ve run from us. Stayed hidden. But you didn’t. You let me find you.”

Eddie’s expression flickered. Like that hadn’t occurred to him.

Silence stretched between you. The air was thick, heavy with something unspoken.

Then, he exhaled.

“Shit,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. “This is weird, right? Like—weird weird?”

You frowned. “What is weird?”

He hesitated. Then—“Us.”

Your breath caught.

Eddie must’ve seen something in your face because he backtracked immediately, hands flailing. “Not weird bad! Just—not what I expected? Like, I thought I had you figured out—shy, quiet, probably wanted nothing to do with a guy like me—and then boom, you’re here, riding this whole nightmare out with me, and I’m just—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know. It’s messing with my head.”

Your heart was pounding.

Because you felt it too.

This thing between you. The way it had shifted, deepened. The way Eddie was looking at you now—not just like you were a surprise, but like he was seeing you differently.

Like he didn’t want you to be just another quiet observer in his life.

Like he wanted more.

You swallowed hard. “Eddie.”

He went very still.

You could feel the air shift again, thick and warm, something dangerous curling between you.

If you said something now, if you acknowledged it—

The line would be crossed.

But before you could open your mouth—

The phone upstairs rang.

Eddie jumped like he’d been electrocuted.

Then, almost immediately, he was on his feet, shaking off whatever had just happened like it hadn’t stolen the breath from both of you. “That’s probably Henderson. We should—uh—we should see what’s up.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

But as Eddie jogged up the stairs, leaving you standing there, hands curled into fists—

You knew that this wasn’t just in your head, and you knew that Eddie felt it too. And sooner or later, one of you would have to stop running from it.

Part 2

[hana-no-seiiki]

YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO FIGHT ME NOT F*CK ME!

yan! school grass (most handsome/perfect guy)/rival x crossdresser! male! reader x yan! friends - part one

tw/cw: mention of abusive parents (but not reader’s) and yandere themes. also your rival has some repressed sexual urges, he really needs to get laid or some head or something-

just read migi and dali and gahd NOW I WANNA WRITE A WHOLE CROSSDRESS /GENDERBENDER BL NOVEL IM IN HORRID ROTTING

Like I imagine this the best with stoic and/or tsun yans the best. You know those types that want to be perfect but only feels perfect when they’re with reader.

ive always loved these tropes as a kid, from mulan to that one tawog episode where darwin fell in love with fem! gumball and like this was even before i knew i wasnt cis but gahd AAAAAAA

also inspired by @moyazaika ‘s rival work. go read it!!

but anyways have the fic, lowercase intentional for first part to differentiate povs.

it was a dare given by your friend group earlier last weekend. wear the girls uniform and a wig for the entire month. it was easy to get the materials necessary for the most part. your mother had several wigs and was more than happy to style her son in feminine clothing. she was just amazing and supportive about your whims like that.

it didn’t take long for you to realize that no one recognized you in your new look.

the day started like many of your other ones at the school, you’d race your rival as the first one in class and whoever wins gets rights to a smug look on their face until the next thing you guys eventually compete on.

but unlike the crestfallen expression you expected — nay wanted — from that stupid pretty boy, you were greeted by what you could only described as complete bafflement.

“what?” despite having a different reaction from what you imagined, you managed to keep a composed appearance. “cat got your tongue?”

“ah. . .”

and that were the only words he said to you the entire day. nothing else. not a single groan of anger whenever you answered everything correctly, he didn’t even attempt at stopping you mid-way or disagree with you answer simply because he wanted to annoy you.

and so you couldn’t help it, as soon as the bell rang signalling lunch time you swiftly turned around to face him.

“are you alright?”

you inquired. not at all worried about his well-being at the slightest. you hated him with all your being after all and you didn’t make an effort to be soft with your tone either.

“h-huh?” he looked dazed. like his head had been in the clouds and you just yanked him down to ground.

your rival never got distracted.

“you—“ you reached out about to smack his face to keep him in check.

“if you’ll excuse me!” he smacked your hand out of the way, screeched at you, and then left in a hurry to who knows where.

nevermind that was definitely him. that silly brat hated it whenever you touched him. he must have just been having issues at home again or something.

Haoyu was trembling — shaking uncontrollably as his breaths turned more shallow by the second. His heart was pumping blood in places of his body where it shouldn’t have been in the middle of school hours. Sweat lined his entire skin and it didn’t help how the bathroom he rushed into had nothing to keep the temperature down.

Who were you?

You sat at his rival’s seat. That nasty kid that always got in his nerves. No one questioned the boy’s absence and he would have asked the teachers on what had happened if you didn’t suddenly take his breath away.

You were, ethereal. Otherworldy even. When he first saw you he was taken away by the way your hair moved in the wind (if only he knew . . .).

Still, he was far too distracted by [Y/N]’s absence to properly let the feeling simmer.

Then, all that went away when you reeled in his mind back at you again at class. You were incredible, capable, intelligent, and oh so perfect. But unlike that stupid child that usually sat in front of him, he did not feel an ounce of envy at all.

If only who could see your eyes as you spoke; the tone of your voice conveyed so much passion that he wanted to see in those beautiful (e/c) orbs.

And his prayers were granted by none other than the goddess that is you,

“Are you alright?”

Your voice? Oh your voice! Haoyu’s heard it already of course, but each new time you spoke it was like a whole new melody, a new piece that immediately turned into his favorite.

His mind was too fried with these thoughts, thoughts that his parents would no doubt beat out of him if they found out.

His feels the parts down there suddenly move. He wasn’t completely unfamiliar with the phenomenon. He wasn’t without his hormones after all. But this was the first time it ever reacted that way so strongly, like if he didn’t give it attention himself it’d explode.

“Mmph…”

And for the time in his entire life, Haoyu does something he knew his parents would definitely be disappointed if not livid about. A hand on his mouth, and another in his school uniform’s pants.

lunch time.

you usually spent those studying or preparing for the next class as hanging out with your friends always ended with you being too distracted to do schoolwork but today you had to show up with ‘proof’ that you went through with their dare.

“yiran ? yichen ?”

no response.

you sighed. as usual, the twins were late. what did you expect? those two would be caught dead before they could be early much less found in the library.

and so you spent the entire time reading,

unaware of the crowd that formed around you while you were busy studying.

[ugotnojamzzz]

Chapter 24

Genre: Mafia!au , Slowburn, Angst, Hurt, eventual smut, TW (it is a mafia!AU, after all)

Pairing: Mafia!Jungkook x reader

Wordcount: 3.9k

Masterlist

Chapter 23

—

Y/N woke up to the sensation of something digging into her spine.

She didn’t open her eyes.

Not yet.

The ache running through her body was too total for anything but real life. Her hip throbbed. Her throat was dry. Her limbs felt waterlogged, like they’d been left to soak overnight.

The dirt beneath her smelled like rot and ash. Her boots were still damp. Something—a mosquito, probably—buzzed near her temple and moved on.

She knew exactly where she was. And she hated it.

A bead of sweat slid down her ribcage.

Still, she didn’t move. Not until she heard it: the soft, deliberate rustling of something alive nearby.

She cracked one eye open.

A few feet away, crouched low in the underbrush, Jungkook was reaching into a cluster of bushes. His head was bowed, arm extended, fingers curling around something she couldn’t see yet. The line of his shoulders was relaxed. Focused.

He plucked something and drew it back to himself with surprising care.

When he turned, she saw what he was holding.

Small. Red. Shiny.

Berries.

A bunch of them, nestled in the cradle of his palm like an offering.

“Rise and shine,” he said, without looking at her. “Look what I just found.” He rose to his full height and turned to face her, arm outstretched. 

She squinted at the fruit, immediately recognizing the shiny, crimson skin, the dark stem. Her pulse ticked.

Shit.

He held them up like a proud toddler. “Breakfast is served,” he sounded almost cheerful. Poor guy.

She sat up slowly. Her muscles were lead. Her mouth was dry. Her stomach was eating itself.

She was starving.

So was he.

She stared at him. Then at the berries.

Belladonna. Deadly nightshade. A beginner-level hazard. Every kid trained north could identify it by shape alone. Glossy, red, pretty enough to trick fools. Two or three and you’d be convulsing, blood vessels popping in your eyes. Four or five? That’s goodbye forever.

She didn’t answer right away. Just watched as Jungkook bounced one berry in his palm.

She could stop him.

Or she could say nothing.

Just a breath of silence. A twitch of the eye. Let him seal his own fate.

It wouldn’t be quick. He’d choke on his own spit, his stomach cramping into knots, his pupils dilating as the world spun out of reach.

It would be slow and ugly. Satisfying. She wouldn’t have to lift a finger.

But—

As his hand lifted, as one berry touched his lips—

Slap.

Her palm hit his wrist hard, sending the berries scattering across the dirt.

“You absolute fucking idiot.”

He blinked. “Jesus. What the f—”

“You were about to swallow five milligrams of instant death. Do I need to draw you a diagram?”

He blinked down at the ruined berries, half-crushed in the soil. “I was what?”

“Poison,” she snapped. “Belladonna. You don’t recognize that?”

He rubbed his wrist. “I—no. It looked edible.”

She stared at him like she couldn’t believe her life.

“You don’t just put random stuff in your mouth because it looks edible, you moron.”

His mouth opened, then closed again.

“Christ’s sake,” she sighed, folding her arms, “maybe Darwin had a point, after all. You’re lucky I haven’t let natural selection take its course.”

He looked down at the mess on the ground, then back at her. 

There was a beat of quiet.

And then—unbelievably—he grinned.

She narrowed her eyes. “What.”

“Nothing,” he said. But he was still grinning.

“What is it, now?”

“Nothing. I just—“ he leaned back against a tree, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “I knew you wouldn’t kill me.”

She blinked.

His eyes gleamed, all wolfish amusement.

Her eyes narrowed into slits.

His smile widened slightly. “What? It’s true.”

“Fuck off,” she seethed.

“You were considering letting me eat them though, huh?” he said, sounding amused. “Letting me croak right here, curled in a fetal position, frothing at the mouth.”

Her silence was damning. His brow arched.

“That long pause before you stopped me? Yeah. I felt that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t flatter yourself. I just didn’t want your little tiger friends showing up, finding your bloated corpse, and deciding to blame your shitty survival skills on me.”

He pushed off the tree with a shrug. “Sure. Self-preservation. Makes sense.”

She started walking again. “Besides, poison’s for cowards. Snakes.”

He followed her. “You say that like you’ve got other plans for me.”

She looked over her shoulder, deadpan. “You say that like I don’t.”

That shut him up.

—

The jungle heat was relentless — sweat clung to Y/N’s spine, her boots squelched with every step, and leaves kept slapping her in the face like the trees had it out for her.

Another day of walking to God knows where. On the brighter side of things, Y/N had managed to find water for them to drink as well as some leaves they could chew on without choking to death. That made her over confident. And—also—gave her a reason to rant endlessly.

She ducked under a low branch, then swatted a mosquito from her neck with the flat of her hand. “Honestly, it’s a miracle you’ve survived this long.”

Jungkook said nothing.

She stepped over a root, nearly tripping. “You’ve got zero instinct. None. Like, genuinely—I’m beginning to think you were factory-grown in a lab with a gun stapled to your hand and nothing else.”

Still nothing.

“No spatial awareness, no plant recognition, no caution, no weather-reading—”

Jungkook kept walking ahead of her, silent, steady.

“Would you even have found clean water without me? No. Of course not. That’s ‘cause you were only trained in ‘Point, Shoot, Brood.’”

He still didn’t respond.

“Right,” she added with a grin. “I almost forgot I’m talking to a wall. The world’s grumpiest Swiss Army knife.”

He suddenly stopped dead in his tracks.

Y/N blinked, mid-rant. “What, did I strike a nerve?”

He turned.

Fast.

Gun raised.

Aimed—directly at her.

She froze.

No breath. No movement. No more punchline.

Her heart slammed up into her throat.

“Okay,” she said slowly, hands lifting just slightly in surrender, “I know I’m a pain in the ass, but there’s really no need to actually shoot m—”

“Duck,” Jungkook snapped, voice sharp.

“What?”

“Duck. Now.”

She dropped like a stone just as the shot rang out — a sharp crack that split the jungle silence like a whip. Birds exploded into flight overhead, screeching through the thick canopy.

Y/N hit the ground with a thud, mud squelching under her palms.

Silence followed.

Heart racing, she twisted around—and froze.

Some sort of large wildcat lay just feet behind where she’d been standing. Its lean, muscled body sprawled motionless in the undergrowth. A small pool of blood darkened the leaves beneath its twitching limbs.

Jungkook lowered his gun slowly. His jaw was tight. His expression unreadable.

And his chest—she only noticed now—was rising and falling fast.

Y/N swallowed hard. “…Okay. Um. Wow.”

Still kneeling, she glanced at the animal, then up at him again.

“You really—uh—could’ve just said ‘behind you,’ you know.”

Jungkook gave her a long look, then holstered his weapon.

“Like you would’ve listened,” he muttered.

She pushed herself to her feet, wiping dirt off her knees. 

Jungkook fully lowered the smoking barrel of his gun with a sharp exhale. His eyes scanned the trees before flicking back to her.

“Well,” she muttered, brushing a stray curl off her damp forehead, “I guess we’re having tiger for dinner.”

“Not a tiger,” Jungkook corrected absently, eyes still alert.

“I was being poetic,” she deadpanned.

He glanced at her, almost smiling. Almost. Then looked down at the creature, checking the shot. Right through the ribs.

“Still breathing. Barely,” he murmured.

It lay slumped across the underbrush, one paw twitching like it hadn’t caught up to the rest of its body. Its side rose and fell in shallow, erratic movements.

She stood frozen for a second, staring at it.

Then she crouched.

Slowly.

She didn’t say anything. Just reached out and dragged her hand, once, across the creature’s flank. Its fur was warm, impossibly soft beneath her dirty fingers. She let her palm rest there for just a breath.

Jungkook said nothing.

But she could feel his eyes on her. Watching. Waiting.

She exhaled through her nose. Then extended her hand—not toward the animal, but back over her shoulder.

Open palm. Fingers splayed.

She didn’t look at him.

But he knew what she wanted.

There was a pause.

A long one.

She could feel the weight of it. The choice. The risk.

He still had every reason not to trust her. A knife was never just a knife between a raven’s fingers. It was usually a threat. A promise.

But finally—she felt the cold handle press into her palm.

She closed her fingers around it without a word.

And when she turned her face slightly toward him, just enough for him to see her profile, he noticed something he didn’t expect—restraint. Not calculation. Not thrill.

Just the solemn quiet of someone about to do something awful because someone has to.

She leaned over the animal and murmured something. Nothing he could make out. Just soft sound. A farewell, maybe.

Then—

Clean. Precise. One swift movement of the blade.

The animal jerked once. Then went still for good.

Jungkook stood a few feet back, weight shifted to one hip, arms crossed tight, like he didn’t want to be affected. But something in his face was off. Not fear. Not pride. Just… the awareness that this version of her—the one who could touch death so gently—was not the version he’d been fighting with all these months.

He blinked once. Twice.

“You’re… disturbingly good at that,” he muttered, still standing beside her.

She shrugged. “Up north, this is the best case scenario.”

He gave her a wary side-eye. “What’s the worst?”

She looked him dead in the eye. “You don’t wanna know.”

Jungkook raised a brow. “So, you’ve done this before, then.”

“A few times,” she said. “Animals, mostly. Sometimes you don’t get to choose the menu.”

“…Don’t tell me this is some ‘I ate my first comrade at fourteen’ kinda story.”

She didn’t blink. “Fourteen’s a little late, don’t you think?”

He stiffened. Oh.

But suddenly, she cracked a grin. “Jesus fuck—no! No, I’ve never consumed human flesh, you absolute lunatic. What the hell do you think we are up there?”

“Well, I don’t know,” he said defensively. “You Park people are like myths to half the country. With your creepy border rituals. Blood oaths. Disappearances.”

She snorted. “Sure. But believe it or not, I draw the line at people stew.”

Jungkook didn’t laugh—but his posture relaxed a little. She could see it.

He let out a long, slow breath. “You’re not funny.”

She hummed, “I wouldn’t insult the woman holding the knife if I were you.”

He glanced down at the animal again. “Go on, then. Let’s see what you can do.”

Y/N sat back, blade glinting as she positioned it over the carcass. “The trick is precision. You don’t go in hacking like a lunatic. There’s a method to it. A craft. A body wants to come apart a certain way—you just have to respect it.”

He watched, saying nothing.

She continued, slicing through fur and sinew without so much as a flinch. “Rough hands make a mess. A clean cut feeds the next day whereas a butchered one brings nothing but flies.”

The jungle heat pressed in on them, thick and slow, but she didn’t falter.

Jungkook folded his arms. “Who taught you all this?”

“You live, you learn,” she said simply. “Or—well—I suppose, you die.”

Jungkook’s expression remained neutral, but his eyes didn’t stray from her hands. He expected her to flinch, maybe to gag. But she barely blinked.

“Start with the underside,” she murmured to herself, finding the rib line. “Avoid the stomach if you don’t want to get coated in bile.”

She drew the blade cleanly along the line. The cut was smooth. Precise.

He crouched closer, watching intently as she worked.

She made a second incision, separating the hide without slicing into the meat. Her hands were steady. Focused.

She went back to the body, muttering, “It’s an an art, really. A cut should always be clean. Clean means respect. Even a wild animal deserves that.”

Jungkook tilted his head. “You’re serious,” he said, doubtful.

“Dead serious,” she said without irony. “Precision matters. It’s about control. Intent. You don’t rip something apart if you can take it apart cleanly.”

The knife flashed in the filtered light. She sliced through sinew like silk.

“Besides,” she added with a faint smile, “you only make a mess when you’re emotional. And emotional people don’t last long.”

Jungkook didn’t respond. He just kept watching.

Not her hands anymore—her face. Focused. Confident. Unbothered by blood. And somehow… almost serene.

This was a side of her he hadn’t seen before. Not the sharp-tongued, caged raven. Not the arrogant heiress or bitter rival.

He swallowed something down and sat back on his heels.

The animal was nearly ready.

“You know,” she said as she wiped the blade on a patch of moss, “if I really wanted to, I could slit your throat with this instead.”

Jungkook arched a brow. “I know.”

A pause.

“I figured you’d wait until after dinner, though,” he shrugged, “fatten me up first.”

She smirked. “You know me well.”

—

By the time the fire was built, dusk had started folding itself into the edges of the jungle.

The air was thick. Sweet with sap and smoke. Every inch of Y/N’s body ached, but it was a good ache—a worked muscle. The meat hissed over the flames, giving off a smell that was wrong but promising.

They sat across from each other, their shadows flickering across dirt and tree bark.

Jungkook was cleaning his gun again—long, slow drags of cloth down steel. It was more habit than purpose. She could tell.

Y/N watched the fire.

Neither of them spoke.

The meat crackled. Fat hissed.

Jungkook shifted, leaned back on one hand. “Smells… edible.”

Y/N raised a brow. “That’s the line, I guess.”

He smirked faintly. “We’ve both eaten worse.”

She broke off a small piece, tore it with her teeth. Chewed.

Not amazing. But tender enough. Heavy with iron and smoke.

Jungkook watched her for a beat, then tried his. He made no comment. Which was his version of approval.

They sat like that a while—eating in silence, letting the fire do the talking.

They lapsed back into quiet, chewing and swallowing in rhythm with the frogs. The meat wasn’t awful—it was just the kind of food that reminded you how desperate you were. The kind that didn’t taste like much of anything except necessity.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Y/N muttered after a moment, “but right now I’d kill for one of those stupid roasts they serve at the mansion.”

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. It was strange hearing her refer to the Kim estate as a place to be missed, even remotely. “The ones that were dry as sand?”

“Exactly,” she said, sighing. “With those grainy potatoes. And the weird, sour jam. God. Heaven.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “Says a lot about where we are right now.”

“You’re telling me you wouldn’t trade this”—she held up the slightly charred meat—“for even just a bowl of that weird pink stew they used to serve on Thursdays?”

He looked over at her. “That was beetroot jjigae. It’s actually a regional thing. Southern provinces.”

She blinked. “That thing had a name?”

“Hey, don’t be all judgmental,” Jungkook smirked faintly. “It’s better when it’s done right. My mom—”

The moment the word left his mouth, he went still.

His expression did too. Just slightly. Like he wanted to shove the word back into his mouth and pretend it had never left.

Just for a second. Just a breath.

Y/N didn’t say anything. Didn’t react. Just tore off another piece of meat. Gave him the choice.

But she noticed the change in him. The slight pull at the corners of his mouth. The way his eyes dropped back to the fire like they’d betrayed him.

Then: “Hers was different,” he said. “Sweeter. Less vinegar. She used to serve it with these cold noodles on the side—chilled, with cucumber and a galleon of sesame oil.” He wasn’t performing now. Just remembering. Just speaking. “She used to make it when—”

He cut himself off. His gaze was cloudy.

Y/N didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

But the flames danced in her eyes like they were holding their breath.

“Your mom,” she said quietly, after a pause. “She, uh, she passed away when you were young, right?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His hands had gone still.

“Yeah.”

There was no elaboration. Just that single syllable, heavy as stone.

She didn’t press.

“She wasn’t well,” he said finally, voice low, eyes still on the fire, like the memories of a past life danced in the flames. “My mother.”

A pause. She didn’t interrupt.

“She used to cry at night. Loud. It was like something inside her was breaking and putting itself back together wrong.”

Y/N listened. Carefully. Not with pity. Not with wide-eyed horror. Just… presence.

“When she—people said it was a relief,” Jungkook added. His voice stayed level, but there was something underneath it now. Bitter. “Said she was better off. Said I was better off.”

“And—were you?” Y/N asked softly.

He didn’t answer. Just stared harder into the flames.

They both fell quiet again. The fire popped. The sound filled the silence, but he could feel her watching him.

“She was sick,” he muttered, like that excused it all, “that’s all.”

Y/N’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.” She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, really. Everything, possibly.

“It was a long time ago,” he shrugged once, the motion tight across his shoulders, and cleared his throat. “I was seven,” he added, “when I found her.”

She stared at him, breath caught.

Jungkook didn’t speak again after that.

He just kept his eyes on the fire, jaw tight, shoulders set like he was bracing for something. Like he wanted to fold himself small, vanish into the crackle of the flames.

Y/N didn’t move.

She could feel it—the way his posture had changed. Not defensive. Just… bare. Like he’d peeled back some layer of skin without meaning to and now he wasn’t sure how to hold himself. His eyes flicked to her once, fast, then back to the fire like he hadn’t meant it.

The silence grew taut again. She knew better than to speak too quickly. Knew the wound was still bleeding under his ribs, even if he’d stopped talking.

A story told too fast. A name dropped too casually. The silence after. The flinch in the muscles of his arm.

He hadn’t meant to say it all. And now he didn’t know what she would do with it.

Mock him? Pity him? Twist the knife?

She could. God knew she’d done worse.

But instead—

Instead, she decided to give something back.

Not to be generous. Or kind.

Moreso to be fair.

So he wouldn’t have to sit there feeling like the only raw thing left in the light.

Tit for tat.

She exhaled deeply.

“I was—eight,” she finally mumbled.

He looked up at her, taken aback.

But she looked past him, into the darkness.

“When my mom died,” she added with a clench of her jaw. “We were out, just the two of us, walking in the woods before dawn.” A chill ran through her, as though she could still feel the cold morning air on her skin. “Up north, when the fog is thick, you can’t see five feet in front of you,” she paused. “She told me to run when they came. So I did.”

A pause

“That was it.”

She kept her gaze fixed on the obscure tree line, her arms tightening around her knees.

She swallowed. “When I walked back to camp after my father found me, we saw her from a distance. The birds had already started gathering.”

He didn’t speak, and she didn’t meet his eyes.

“That’s how it goes where I’m from,” she added. “We don’t bury our dead. The ravens take care of it.”

Jungkook’s fingers flexed slightly. “I’m sorry.” He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for, really. Everything, possibly.

She finally looked at him, and there was a flicker of something else—something dark and distant—behind her eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “Me too.”

What she didn’t say, though, was that it was a lie.

Or more like a willful omission. She gave Jungkook the version the world knew. The version they could both live with.

He nodded once. Didn’t push. But something in his eyes flickered—because he knew what a real memory sounded like, and what a rehearsed one did.

Y/N had delivered it like a bedtime story.

Neat. Clean. Empty.

“Anyway,” she could still feel his eyes on her. “It’s all in the past. No point dwelling on it,” she added, too quickly.

Jungkook shifted. Didn’t speak. Let it hang there. That quiet, shared understanding between two people who had once sworn they couldn’t possibly have anything in common. Instead, he tossed another piece of kindling into the fire. The flames flared.

—

The fire had gone low. Just a glow in the dirt, snapping once in a while to remind them it was still alive.

Y/N sat with her legs outstreched, knife across her lap, eyes on the trees. The jungle never slept. It just changed shape in the dark.

She’d insisted on taking first shift this time. Not because she didn’t trust Jungkook—though she didn’t—but because sitting still and staring at the dark felt easier than closing her eyes and seeing things she didn’t want to see. 

Beside her, Jungkook had passed out fast. Typical. 

 She hadn’t meant to glance over.

But she did.

He looked…

She didn’t have a word for it.

She ripped her gaze away fast.

Stupid.

He shifted in his sleep.

And a second later, she felt it: the brush of an arm against her leg. Not intentional. Not groping. Just… there—draped loosely across the top of her thigh, his hand slack with sleep.

Her entire body went still.

Her breath stalled. Her fingers closed around the hilt of the knife.

A reflex.

For one white-hot second, she considered it—really considered it—slicing clean across the tendon, ending the contact before it meant anything at all.

Because it didn’t.

It couldn’t.

But his hand was warm. His skin against hers buzzed like a warning. Her thigh ached from the tension of not moving.

When she looked down—really looked—his face was peaceful. Not brooding. Not vulnerable. Just… quiet. For once.

Like the ghosts had gone silent for a while.

Y/N let out a breath through her nose. Long. Tired.

She didn’t move his arm.

She didn’t relax either.

Just sat there. Awake. Blade across her lap. Heart pounding too loud in her ears.

The fire crackled once, and she whispered to the trees, more to herself than anyone:

“This doesn’t mean anything.”

—

—

Hope you liked it!! Gimme all the feedback, babes. What do you think???

—

Chapter 25

Masterlist

Taglist

@princess-sunshyn

@loumin908

@mageprincess7

@drunkzseok

@kelsyx33

@jjk970901

@sydneygal3107

@icravebooks

@kokoandkookie

@ukndtwme

@jungshaking

@bjoriis

[palskippah]

Hi!

The other day I read this post by froppygurl talking about the infantilization of Ballister's character and one person commented on how there's nearly no art of Ambrosius in drag.

>And I remembered that I had these from Halloween that I didn't finish on time so I just abandoned them there dhfjdh but posting them for the lack of Ambrosius in drag drawings pipipi

(Plus a few tiny drawings under the cut that I've drawn of Ambrosius either in a dress or in heels)

>By the way, he's dressed as the back-up dancers in this Shakira's music video, since it was a thing this Halloween on TikTok and many guys dressed as 'las de la intuición' 🗣️ (also yeah, he's missing the purple wig jdfkdf he'll put it on later, don't worry)

>These women 🫦:

(Also when I drew him and Ballister I thought of this picture of Darwin 😭 couldn't really imitate it tho, I have a hard time drawing characters in heels djkdf)

>The ladies are wearing small heels, but I said no bro, thigh-length boots for Ambrosius or nothing 🗣️

>Also I sorta had drawn it from memory, and had forgotten that the shirt was untucked but that way you see more waist so I just left it like that 😔

-Also, on TikTok there's this guy (Andrés something something, he's mexican if I'm not mistaken) that tries on very high heels, and in one video he was trying on a pair and doing stuff like jumping, trotting and sweeping the floor sjdks

>Drew this thing like three months ago bc that guy reminds me of Ambrosius:

*Barre* = *Sweeps*

-Also got this thing from a TikTok video based over those Gravity Falls' credits where they marry the goat and Waddle (That one that sings goat and the pig wooo 🗣️🗣️) (Well in Spanish is something like long live love woooo 🗣️🗣️)

-Oh also I had been thinking about manicure, so, headcanon that Ballister bites his nails short, but Ambrosius gets that kind of manicure that makes nails look 'natural' but shiny and very well-cared for 🗣️ (those sort of nails are so pretty) (also sorry, projecting what I do onto Ballister, I don't even clip my nails off, I just bite them when they get too long and burden me. They smooth in their own with the days sjkdsj)

That's it 🧍 my humble contribution wa, hopefully will draw more stuff like this in the future sjkdsd

[madame-lentil]

Make Me a Monster~

An Ygor x reader fic

-Major smut! Minors DNI!

-5.2k words

-originally posted in AO3

Notes:

Hello, you delightful freaks!🥀

I have not written any piece of fanfiction in over three years, so I hope this turned out okay! Ignore the fact that I switch between past to present tense for the first half of the work... The hyperfixation on Ygor is just too strong for me to resist... also this is literally so freaky aaah like plz don’t judge me toooo harshly for this!

The title of the piece is based on the song "Make Me a Monster" by World's First Cinema. It's very good, so I would definitely give it a listen!

Also, a small reminder: Do not harass any of the Ygor actors at the Universal parks. They are just people doing their jobs, so please don't be weird to them! Remember, roaming actors are a privilege, so don't take their presence for granted!

All that being said, I hope you enjoy!

I packed as quickly as I could when I received Victoria Frankenstein’s urgent letter. Scrawled in ink were words sealing her doom- Darkmoore’s doom. Frantic blotches marred the fair parchment, along with sinister burns on the edges. Something was amiss. I knew it. I clamored about my abode, snatching potions and liniments off shelves and heavy occult volumes from beneath layers of dust. I packed only the essentials: wooden stakes, holy water, and silver bullets for my aging pistol. Before I opened my door to the madness awaiting me, I grabbed my cloak, letting the threadbare fabric drape across my shoulders. With a swish, I was gone. Maybe I should have looked back once more, for I had no inkling of the world I was about to enter. All I knew was the messy writing that stated,

Dracula has escaped the manor.

It was true, Dracula (amongst many other fiendish creatures of the night) had broken free of their torment rings nestled within the basement of Frankenstein Manor. Victoria explained it quickly before she ushered me up a flight of creaky stairs to a drafty guest room. Apparently, her henchman would be attending to me shortly… Now, I sit in this dimly-lit hovel, swimming in anxiety about what in Darwin’s name I should do about this conundrum. I lift my hefty bag onto the simple wooden desk I’m sitting at. Within this bag are all of my tools- both intellectual and physical- for hunting monsters. I palm a small leather-bound journal and flip through its aged pages gingerly. Ah, my mentor’s field notes. He always knew the right things to do in an emergency, so maybe I should take a leaf from the pages of Van Helsing, right? Of course, I forgot to mention that my old teacher was in fact him- famed monster hunter of Europe, and the man that brought Dracula to his knees! But, as for me, I am only a humble ex-student of his, trying as I may to carry out his legacy, even if it is daunting. Soon, my eyes land upon a page entitled Vampires: Stakes, Sunlight, and Sorcery. What Not to Do When Encountering a Nosferatu. Before I could read on, an unseen fist pounded at my door. An electric shock rippled through my body.

“God, a little bit jumpy for a monster hunter, aren’t ya?” My inner monologue chastised me.

“Coming!” I hoarsely yelled.

I opened the heavy door to a strange little man, who was standing awkwardly a few mere inches away from the threshold. He was an odd but undeniably handsome-looking fellow. Large, circular goggles obscured his eyes from view, which would have been covered by his mop of raven hair anyway. A stained leather apron draped over his lanky frame and loose-fitting (and remarkably stained, I might add) shirt. Perhaps I was ogling for too long, as his thickly accented voice broke the silence harshly.

“You are the monster hunter, yes?”

I regained my bearings. “Oh! Yes! Of course! I am (y/n). And you are?”

“I am Ygor. I tend to Victoria’s every need around the manor, and I have been assigned to help you, too, yes?” He stood up straighter as he spoke, attempting to project an air of confidence.

“It’s… a pleasure to meet you, Ygor.” I tested out the syllables of his name on my tongue. “Now I was going to ask you… Well, someone, anyone really…” I stammered, “If I could perhaps get a tour of the manor if it isn’t too much trouble, of course. And perhaps a look around Darkmoore couldn’t hurt either?” I found myself running over my own words. So much for looking like a confident monster slayer in front of Victoria’s lackey.

“Ah! Ygor will show you! No trouble! No trouble at all! Come! We mustn’t have our resident creature-killer be all jumbly-mumbly around town, can we?” Ygor started bounding down the stairs with each word. I swiftly followed, snagging my cloak on the way out.

“So you knew Van Helsing, right?” The man inquired when I breathlessly caught up to him.

“Knew him? I studied under him. He taught me everything he knew! I just hope I can fix your little problem here on my own.” I replied.

“On your own? Nah, you have Ygor to help, of course!” He nudged my shoulder like an old friend. I was flattered by his offer of help, but I could tell he didn’t exactly know what he was getting into. Without wanting to burst his bubble, I veered the subject slightly.

“So why can’t Victoria recapture the beasts herself? She seemed pretty frantic in her letter, and even when I got here. Is she…”

Before I could finish, I was cut off by Ygor.

“She is tending to the broken torment rings. Darkmoore needs her for protection. She cannot put herself in the amount of danger that you or I find ourselves in.”

“So we’re just expendables to her, then?” I state, feeling slightly offended.

“No! We are just smaller parts of a bigger plan. Ah! Here we are!” Ygor unfurls his arms in front of the hulking behemoth of a front door. “Are you ready to see the village?”

I nod, and we descend onto the cobblestoned streets of the dilapidated town called Darkmoore.

The full moon casts a milky blue light on the rain-moistened roofs of the village. The manor stands hulking and intimidating behind us, providing a mysterious backdrop to our quick jaunt. The town is remarkably quiet and still; windows are shuttered, and doors are locked. The only sound is the click of our heels on the makeshift road beneath our feet. The misty moonlight plays off of Ygor’s strong features, highlighting the angles of his jaw and cheekbones. He notices my glances at him and steals a quick one at me, sporting a lopsided grin. In this light, I would say he even looks handsome.

God, what has come over me? I scarcely even know the guy, and now I’m fantasizing about him in the moonlight?

I choose to refocus my attention to the ear-splitting silence that pervades the place. It seems even the crickets have abandoned this godforsaken settlement. Before I can comment on the hush, a rip-roaring gush of merriment comes streaming out of a nearby building. A rugged, bearded man comes stumbling out the door with a mug of ale in hand, singing some ballad in a language that has scarcely touched my ears.

“That would be The Burning Blade. It got lit on fire, then poof! Everyone wants to go get drunkies at the place that didn’t burn down! Something with the villagers trying to ‘reclaim from the monsters…’ Ygor doesn’t know.” The raven-haired man gestured to the building. I noted that it has been converted from an old windmill. Strange. But I suppose if you live in a town like Darkmoore, you’ve got to use what you’re given.

“You know, Doctor Victoria saved it from burning down! But all the thanks she gets is all these stupid people blaming her for whenever someone gets disemboweled by a werewolf! Like hello! That was the lycanthrope’s fault, not her’s!” Ygor rambles. I’m starting to like the strange way in which he speaks.

“How did she stop it from burning down?” I ask, genuinely interested.

“I tell you later, yeah?” He dashes the conversation with a terse tone. Strange, it seems as though he is hiding something from me. I brush it off, however. Why worry about something so seemingly trivial?

“Well, it certainly seems like an… interesting place,” I remark.

“If it wasn’t crawling with hounds. Sad excuses for monster hunters. Not good ones, like you.”

Was that a compliment? I couldn’t exactly tell. Either way, it would be a small kindness that would not go unappreciated.

“Onward! I must show you the cemetery!” Ygor points his glove-adorned hand beyond a ring of mist hovering just before the forest tree line.

“Do you ever take those gloves off?” I playfully tug at the tips of one of his fingers. Okay. Don’t get too bold. You don’t want to get distracted. I thought to myself.

“Eh… right now is not so good. I got hurt a little,” Ygor replied sheepishly, bringing his gloved hand to his chest.

“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to pry, I just-”

“Ygor messed up a little at his job, is all. And sometimes the doctor gets angry. It’s really only just a scratch! Not as bad as it usually is!” He cheerily cried, obviously trying to hide the fact that he was upset.

“Doctor Victoria …hurts you?” I gently took his gloved hand, careful not to disturb the marred flesh underneath it.

He shuddered, not accustomed to the gentle touch of another human being. “Only a little bit. Only when Ygor deserves it.”

“Ygor, listen to me. I don’t think anyone deserves to be hurt. And for the record, I think you’re doing a great job.” My words obviously affected him. His legs started shaking, and he threw his head back in frustration. “Now, can I remove your gloves and have a look?”

He reluctantly nodded. I gingerly slid each finger out until the rubber hit the soft ground with a whomp. His hands were indeed a mess. Not only were they covered in calluses from his toil, but his palms were mangled with red cuts that sprawled outwards in a lightning-bolt formation.

I traced his wounds gently until he hissed in discomfort.

“I’m sorry!” I recoiled my hands from his.

“No, it feels nice.” He uttered, gently brushing my fingers with his. “No one has ever been this kind to Ygor.”

I fished a spare liniment out of my satchel with my free hand.

“Here. This should help.” I rubbed a blob of it onto his palms, instantly eliciting a small groan from him.

“Th-thank you, (y/n).” He breathed.

“Don’t even mention it. Here, take this.” I pushed the salve into the front pocket of his apron. “For future use. You’ll need it more than I.”

“How can Ygor repay you?” He asked, looking like a lost puppy.

“You don’t have to repay me, silly. Now come, let’s go look at that graveyard.” I slowly reach for his hand and bring it up to my lips. Keeping eye contact with the man, I plant a small kiss on each of his knuckles. His body starts to tremble. Ygor shakily brings his hand up to cup my cheek, gaining confidence as he traces my lips with his thumb.

“(Y/n), you are so beautiful…” he breathes.

He leans in, almost connecting his lips to mine, until a harsh howl cuts through the underbrush. I stiffen. I hadn’t even grabbed a weapon before I left! I silently cursed myself for being so unprepared. I look at Ygor desperately.

“Run.”

The next moments were a blur of blackened sky and verdant greenery whizzing by as we ran for cover, only to find solace in the aforementioned cemetery. Ygor and I crouched beneath a sizable tombstone, barely letting our labored breaths escape our lips. I listened for the approach of the howling beast; however, the night was as still as can be. No crickets. No wind. No ruckus from the Burning Blade. All seemed serene and safe. But of course, I knew better. Van Helsing warned that werewolves are known to silently stalk their prey before attacking. If this creature caught a glimpse of us, we were most definitely its new meal. I glanced at Ygor beside me, his chest rising and falling erratically. He slowly turned his neck, his goggle-clad eyes landing on mine.

“Is he gone?” He half-whispers.

This was the wrong move. Suddenly, a rustle emanates from the opposite end of the graveyard.

“Nope.” I curtly reply. “Stay as still as possible.” I attempt to speak without moving my lips- Ygor gets the message. Our backs are flush against the chilly tombstone of some unlucky soul who probably died too soon or too slowly. Ygor’s trembling hand expertly finds mine in the dark. I feel a sliver of safety with his presence by my side, even if it is simply a placebo. The disturbance in the tall grass grows louder with every passing second. This beast was just moments away from tearing out both of our hearts with his cruel fangs. The full moon shone bright and blue above the stars until the hulking leviathan form of the werewolf ascended from the grass, greedily dominating my entire field of vision. With an ear-splitting howl, the monster reared on its haunches, preparing to deliver death to us both. I braced myself, silently cursing my eagerness to leave the safety of the manor. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the death blow… but it didn’t come. I squinted my eyes open to see none other than Ygor, lunging in front of me, putting his frail body in harm's way to protect me. The gigantic wolf took a swipe at him, which he clumsily parried with his arm. I moved to pull Ygor away from the wicked being, hooking my arms around his middle and yanking him backwards, just swift enough to avoid a claw to the mid-section. The werewolf hunkered down in the greenery, rearing to make its final pounce.

“Come away, foul vermin! We will hunt another night!” A booming, heavily accented voice echoed through the night.

The werewolf collected itself and ran off into the forest, leaving Ygor shivering in my arms, gushing blood from his arm.

“D-Dracula?” Ygor whimpered.

Ah. That’s who the voice belonged to.

“Dracula? What? He was just here?” I was flabbergasted. To be in such close proximity to two monsters that needed capturing… well, let’s just say I wasn’t doing very well at my job.

“Y-yeah. That’s the guy.” His voice trembled before he collapsed into me with a thunk.

I finally released him from my iron grasp just to gently nudge him to the side so I could catch my breath again. I noted a sizable amount of blood that had soiled my velvet dress, then I noticed what the culprit of the sanguine fluid was. Ygor’s arm had been viciously ripped open by the wolf and was losing blood at an alarming rate.

Ygor must have noticed my concerned expression when he weakly joked, “Hey, I’m used to it.” Brandishing a shaky thumbs-up.

“Let’s get you back to the manor, huh? It looks like you could use some stitches. A lot of stitches.” I pulled him up off the sacred ground, then offered my arm in assurance. He took it carefully, and we began our long stroll back to Frankenstein Manor.

Ygor spilled onto a metal gurney in the bowels of the manor. He had woozily led me down yet another set of treacherous stairs to an intimidating laboratory that housed everything one may need for an experiment. However, there would be no experiments tonight. All I had to do was fix Ygor up before he lost enough blood to be unfit for even Dracula to drain. The disheveled man was gushing blood onto the table, yet he remained incredibly collected.

“Where do you keep your thread? Do you have needles?” I frantically flitted around the room, almost pulling drawers off their hinges to find what I needed.

“Second drawer down next to that skeleton over there.” Ygor weakly directed.

I made a beeline to collect the suture-ware, along with a cloth and a bowl of clean water. I placed the goods onto a metal cart and tried to regain my composure as I wheeled it over to him- at least for Ygor’s sake. He sat stiffly upright, clutching the bloodstained fabric of his once white tunic.

“Relax. It’s okay.” I gently pushed my hand to his chest so that he reclined onto the harsh gurney. He slowly melted into my touch and obliged, “I’m going to fix you up, okay? There is really nothing to worry about…” I mused as I threaded the medical string into the eye of the needle. I gazed at his form until a realization dawned on me.

I am going to have to remove his shirt.

For medical purposes, of course.

“Ygor?” I tentatively asked.

“Yes?” He groaned.

“May I…” I gestured to his sleeve. “Remove this?”

“Oh, this? My shirt? My- yeah. Whatever you need to do, doctor.” He stammered. Maybe it was the loss of blood. Or maybe he was getting nervous.

The remaining blood that rushed in his veins rose to his cheeks, painting them a rosy red.

I cautiously grasped the front of his apron as I lifted it over his head. The shirt underneath was held together with a few mismatched buttons that had certainly been repurposed over time. I began undoing the very top one. My knuckles brushed his Adam's apple as a tremor racked his body. I move downwards carefully, expertly unraveling each piece that held the fabric together, the fabric that was shielding his visage from my gaze. I reached the lowermost buttons, although they were seemingly tucked into his trousers. I lifted my gaze to his, silently asking permission to unbuckle his pants so I could access the rest of his shirt. He gave a small nod. I worked quickly, not wanting to linger on this area for too long and make him uncomfortable. However, I felt an undeniable heat building in the pit of my stomach when I brushed the crotch of his pants. I was soon able to extract the shirt and fully unbutton it.

“Okay. I’m going to take this off for you. Let me know if anything hurts, alright?” I breathe, running my hands over his shoulders, grasping at the only threads of restraint I had left.

“You could never hurt Ygor, y/n,” he sighed, leaning closer in to nudge against my neck. “If you carved me up and beat me every day, I don’t think it would hurt. I would thank you for whatever you did to me.” His strong hand crept up my frame, finding purchase just underneath my breasts.

“Please, stitch me up so I can show you how much I care for you.” He pleaded with wide eyes (or what I can imagine was the case behind his nebulous goggles).

It didn’t take much more encouragement than that for me to begin my work. I slipped his garment off to reveal his toned chest, where the milky skin was punctuated with sprawling constellations of scars, reaching far and wide like rivers on a map.

“See? I told you I’m used to it,” Ygor joked with a half-smile. “I always get stitched back up!”

“Does it still… hurt?” I inquired as I wet the cloth and began to clean his ghastly injury.

“Of course it does. But Ygor doesn’t mind.” His tone turned dark.

I prepared the needle and thread and held it at the base of his forearm.

“Ready?” I pricked his skin as he emitted a delighted groan.

“Very much.”

Each suture seemed to elicit a pleasurable response from Ygor. The more blood that was being replenished in his body, the more electric he seemed to become. Jolts of energy coursed through him whenever the needle pierced his flesh. Just as I was about to tie my seventh or so suture, he yanked his arm away.

“Hey! I’m not finished with that!’ I griped.

“Ygor thinks you should maybe switch position. It doesn’t seem like you have the right… How would you say? Vantage point to correctly stitch me up.” Ygor mused, holding his arm just out of my reach.

“And what would you suggest would be the best ‘vantage point’ to do this?” I asked cockily.

“Just come up here.” He motioned to the gurney on which he lay astride.

“I don’t know if there’s room for us both on there.” I became bashful. Was he implying what I think he was implying?

“Just crawl onto Ygor’s lap, yes? Don’t be scared.” His tone was much huskier than what I was used to.

I obeyed, because what the hell? Who was I to refuse this monstrously handsome lab assistant who so vehemently wanted me?

I slowly slunk onto his frame, stopping at the unbuckled crotch of his pants. His breathing grew heavier as I sank down to perch atop him.

“That’s it, you delightful freak.” He praised. “Now, take your needle and thread and see how much better this is.”

“What medical book did you read this in?” I asked playfully as I resumed my stitching.

“Don’t worry about it, just focus on how Ygor feels beneath you, yes?”

Oh god, yes.

As I worked on his arm, his other hand slithered up my thigh, causing me to falter.

“Ygor…” I sighed.

“What is it, my lab rat?” He purred.

“Please, Ygor, I need you so badly.” My words tumbled out of my mouth before I could control them.

“Soon, my darling. But just focus for now.” His hand left my thigh and traveled upwards to cup my breast. My breath hitched as he started kneading the tender flesh between his lithe fingers.

I was almost done with the sutures. I just needed to hold on for a few small moments before I could give into him.

“Am I distracting you?” He breathed innocently as he located my nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

“N-no…” I trailed off.

“Well, then Ygor should do a better job, then, yeah?” He rose so his lips brushed my neck, planting gentle kisses on my sensitive flesh. I just had one more stitch to go. I could do this. Ygor held me still with the strength residing in one hand so he could access the perfect spot on my neck to defile. I sighed as I cut the final thread on his arm and pulled back.

“Finished,” I stated breathlessly.

“Good little lab rat. Now, please, let Ygor thank you for everything you’ve done for him.”

In a flash, he flipped me onto my back, my spine stinging from the cold material of the gurney. Ygor stood before me, flexing his freshly seamed arm.

“Good work.” He nodded.

He looked like Michelangelo’s David, except marred with stitches and scars galore. But his imperfections were glorious and gorgeous to me. I wanted to lap up every drop of blood that flooded the table beneath me just to taste all of him. I was yearning to consume him, both in flesh and sanguine substances. Ygor lifted his orb-like goggles from his eyes, squinting at the electric light of the lab. He sported two mismatched irises- one blue, the other green. Remarkable.

“Ygor doesn’t want these to get in the way…” He admitted, tossing the eyewear onto the stone floor.

“Ygor, please…” A small moan escaped my lips as I pressed myself into the gurney.

The man noticed my neediness and slunk onto the edge of the metal, anchoring his palms on my hips.

“Allow me?” He hooked his hands around the clasp of my belt.

“Just take it off. All of it.” God, I was so desperate.

Ygor made quick work of my belt, then allowed his fingers to roam across the crushed velvet of my bodice. He was trying to extend the moment for as long as he could handle; however, I could tell he was reaching his breaking point. He yanked the buttons of my blouse apart, causing them to bounce onto the floor in a giddy waltz.

“Ygor will replace those later.” He said hurriedly.

He then migrated down to my skirt, reverently sliding it down my thighs and leaving it in a massive pool at my ankles. I lay before him, only my brassiere and panties shielding my most intimate parts. Heat pooled at my core at the mere thought of him touching me again. Ygor palmed himself through his trousers, visibly aroused.

“You are gorgeous.” He groaned as his eyes roamed my form.

“You’re perfect,” I replied.

He shed his pants in a flash, revealing his hard cock, already leaking precum. He gave it a couple of hard strokes before allowing a strangled moan to fall from his lips.

“Do you- do you see what you do to Ygor? How hard I am for you?” He maneuvered himself to meet my lips, our noses brushing. “Let me please you. I’ll be so good for you- do whatever you want.” He rasped. So eager, so perfect.

“You’re gonna be good for me, Ygor?” I tug experimentally on the back of his raven-toned hair.

“Yes. Yes! Just tell me what to do!” He melted into my touch.

“Why don’t I show you?” A wave of boldness washed over me as I pushed him southwards so that he was hovering over my pussy.

“Why don’t you put that pretty little mouth to work?” I commanded.

He gazed up at me with those crystalline eyes, and I was done for. He ripped my undergarments off and plunged his tongue into me, working it as his nose bumped against my clit, sending me spiraling, unravelling at the hands (or tongue, I suppose) of Doctor Victoria’s strange assistant. I tangled my hands in his mop of hair, and his ministrations only intensified. I allowed a moan to rack my body, and I could feel Ygor grinning beneath me.

“G-good boy.” I could barely even form the words.

I could hear what sounded like words from Ygor, but they came out as incoherent babbles. I pushed him back just slightly, and the man was a mess. His pupils were dilated into shiny black discs, and his mouth was slick with my arousal.

“What was that? Use your words, pet.” I stroked his chin gently.

“C-can Ygor… touch himself?” He sheepishly inquired.

I marinated on this for a brief moment, until a newfound sense of dominance took hold.

“No. You cannot. Not until you make me cum. I don’t want you spent just yet.”

“Yes! Yes, of course! Thank you, ma’am.” He nuzzled against my thigh, planting a sloppy kiss on the skin. I could tell he was straining, his cock red and full. But I liked this side of Ygor, so ready to please.

He resumed his attention to my clit. I knew I wouldn’t last much longer at this rate. With a few more swipes of his tongue, I felt an orgasmic storm rain across my flesh. I clamped my thighs down on his poor head as his hands grasped at me desperately.

“F-Fuck Ygor, you make me feel so good!” I cried out.

Ygor emerged from between my legs, a dopey grin painting his slick features.

“Can I touch myself now, please?” He tentatively pleaded.

“Yes, you can. You’ve been so good for me.” I purred. He palmed himself and began to rub his fingertip over his swollen head.

“Wait!” I commanded. He immediately ceased, awaiting my next words.

Perhaps I would have a little fun with him tonight. I was on a total power trip, but that’s what he wanted, right?

“Remember when you said that you would thank me if I … cut you up and beat you?” I recalled our conversation from earlier in the night.

“Y-Yes. You could do anything to Ygor, and I would like it very much.” He replied, eager as ever.

“Then you can touch yourself, but only if I can… hurt you a little bit while you do it. Would you like that?”

“Yes. Yes, I would love that. Ygor likes it when things hurt.” He admitted, excitement seeping into his tone.

“What would you like me to use?” I scanned the lab, looking for something that could cause a little prick of pleasurable pain.

“Top cabinet on the right side. Victoria sometimes uses it on me.” Ygor muttered, a hint of shame edging into his words.

Within said cabinet was a sturdy leather riding crop. Oh. Oh.

“Ygor would never tell her that I kind of like it…”

“You want me to use this on you?” I confirmed.

“More than anything.” He gasped.

“Then be a good boy and touch yourself, then,” I commanded as I approached his trembling frame.

I slid the crop against his cheek, caressing him like a lover. He shivered into it, slowly stroking himself.

Crack!

I brought the crop down onto his back forcefully.

“Thank you!” He gulped as he increased his pace.

I dragged it down the front of his chest, tracing the lines of his scars.

“So pretty,” I praised. “So good, so eager to please me.”

“Y-yes, always. I’ll do whatever you say.” Ygor fumbled for his words as strangled moans gushed from his lips.

I cracked the riding crop against his thigh, which elicited a jolt from the man.

“Thank you!” So, he was going to thank me whenever I whipped him… interesting.

“So obedient.” I laughed as I hit him again.

He expressed his gratitude once more. His pretty dick was threatening to burst at this point, his head thrown back in ecstasy as he stroked himself into oblivion.

“Again, please. Ygor is so close…” He begged.

“You’re going to have to do a little better than that, okay?” I teased the tip of his cock with the crop.

“Puh-please Ygor needs to cum so bad! I will only cum for you. You make me feel so guh-good! Please, please, I’ll do anything!” He babbled.

That was certainly good enough. I cracked the flat side of the crop against his weeping manhood as he came with enough force to knock him to the ground. He lay squirming there for a few moments, his ejaculation painting his stomach a milky white color. I approached him and knelt down to his level, petting his hair.

“You did so well for me. Are you okay?” I cooed.

“Better than ever.” Ygor rasped.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” I stated.

“Thank you.” He allowed his brilliant eyes to close and his tongue to loll out of his pretty lips.

I crawled so that I was facing his cum-stained stomach, and experimentally dragged my tongue across one of his more prominent scars, licking it clean. His eyes shot open in shock.

“You really don’t have to do that, if you don’t want to…” He added.

“I want to. I just want to taste you, Ygor. That’s all. I want to make you feel good.” I resumed cleaning him with my tongue.

“God, where have you been all my life?” He gibbered as his eyes fluttered closed once more.

I didn’t answer, because I didn’t truly have one. All I knew was that I was with him now, and that was all that mattered. The ridges of his sutures from injuries past were a unique texture on my taste buds, so I continued to clean him- to worship his flesh that had been so cruelly ripped apart time and again. I finished and licked my lips with a smack. I curled up next to him on the unforgiving floor of the laboratory. Hunting the monsters could wait, at least until tomorrow. I had all I needed here.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly,” I muttered as I carded my hand through his hair.

“Like I said, you could cut me all the way up, and I’d thank you for it.” Ygor sighed contentedly as he wrapped his lovingly sutured arm around me.

[snowseasonmademe]

okay guys, last segment of my family (sisters and mom) rate our football crushes. i asked my big sister what she thinks of them and this is what she said:

jude: “i’ve seen him too much. he’s alright i guess”.

jobe: “he looks better put together than jude”.

aurelien: “he looks like he has swag. he looks cool”.

jules: “why is he wearing the same boots i used to wear at twin peaks? he kinda reminds me of j.cole”.

omar: “he’s cute. he looks cool to hang out with”.

noni: “looks like a new york drill rapper. he’s not american?”.

levi: “basic light skin man. not impressed”.

alejandro: “he looks interesting. like he’s mixed something cool”.

cama: “he looks really cool. i like his hair”.

vini: “i feel bad he gets a lot of racial abuse😕“.

virgil: “i love his signature slick back😛”.

trent: “he looks arrogant. he’s the one with the transfer drama right? yeah no.

darwin: “he looks like he’s from new york too. they all look american to me”.

kylian: “i don’t like the way he looks. wait? he has a twin?” (she was looking at the pic of him with a wax figure lol).

loïc: “another basic light skin man. he’s cute though”.

wilo: “i like him. he’s cute. he looks like he disciplines his kids” (she thought the mascot was his child lollll she doesn’t watch football btw).

ibou: “oh he looks nice! he looks like he should be in the nfl”

max verstappen: “no”.

lewis: “im tired of seeing him”.

lando: “he’s a trumpy right?”.

charles leclerc: “he’s pretty…….🙂”

[thegoldencontracts]

hello!! this is my first request!! can u write azul saving reader from drowning and gets angry at them out of worry? not realizing that he confessed to them just now until it sinks in?

Hiii sorry this took so long! This concept is sooo good, hope I managed to do it justice aughhh

Because-!

Summary: Azul saves you after you fall into the Octavinelle pool. You're just hoping he doesn't expect repayment- Wait, why is he so upset?

Notes: There isn't much focus on the feeling of drowning, but there's still some. Anyways, hope you enjoy! Also, credit for the divider here!

If a Darwin award existed, you were really one of the prime candidates to win it, it seemed.

You'd fallen into a pool. Actually, that was fairly normal. There was a very real risk of people falling into pools, that was why most public pools hired life-guards.

Octavinelle's pool, however, didn't abide by that policy, and so there was no one around as you'd fallen in. The panic was setting in at a rapid pace.

You couldn't breathe. Water was filling up your lungs, and you couldn't even cry out for help, and you couldn't breathe-

A splash. Someone was in the pool. Were they- here to save you?

They were approaching - closer, and closer. But you didn't get to see whether they saved you or not, because before they could even get near you, your vision went dark.

You woke up. That was good. Were you- in the afterlife or something? The silver-haired boy above you did seem angelically pretty, after all...

"You're awake."

You felt your face heat up. Nevermind. You were very much alive, and that guy you just called pretty was, in fact, Azul Ashengrotto, Octavinelle Housewarden, your crush, and maybe your friend. The jury was still out on that one. Azul never really admitted his friendships, but he gave you free stuff, so that was probably a good sign.

Would this be free, though? Even with Azul's "no free lunch" mentality, this seemed a bit too far.

"So," you started, voice hoarse. "Do you, uh, need something."

Azul looked at you for a second, expression all too void of emotion. Then, he spoke.

"What exactly were you thinking?" He demanded. "Approaching the pool in spite of your lack of ability to swim is the height of foolishness! If you truly wanted to come here, you should've simply asked me to accompany you!"

An uncharacteristically enraged Azul yelling at you was definitely- something to wake up to.

"I almost died- dude-"

"Precisely!" Azul said, eyes still burning with rage. "Were I not there, you wouldn't-"

He sighed.

"Don't do something so foolish again."

That was it? Azul Ashengrotto, not even expecting repayment? Weird.

"Listen," you said. "It's awesome that you care, but I can handle myself. I've learned my lesson."

"You quite nearly died," Azul said through grit teeth. "What if that happens once more, without me there? You'd die! And even if it weren't for my love for you, I simply cannot have-"

He cut himself off at the realization of what he'd just said. You took a second to process it too. Azul- liked you?

The universe had taken pity on you! Your crush liked you back!

"I- er, forgive me," he said, turning away his head in shame. "I suppose I got a tad carried away. Please, just allow me to accompany you the next time you come here."

"Why don't you also accompany me on a date sometime?" You said, before you could stop yourself. Azul looked at you in shock for a second, before clearing his throat.

"Are you being serious about this invitation?"

You nodded.

"Dead serious."

"Then," he said. "I'd love to accompany you."

And though you could sense he still had a lot more chastising to you, that you hadn't yet escaped scolding, nor the physical consequences of almost drowning, you couldn't help but feel oddly warm inside.

It seemed you'd found a silver lining here.

[piastrispastries]

Ok for the wrapped writing thing, 78? 👀

ok so this got away from me a little bit but song number 78 on my wrapped was fallout by catfish and the bottlemen! send me an ask with a number from 1-100 and i'll write a drabble based on what song it is on my spotify wrapped!

word count: 1356

In Year 6, Oscar had skipped school two days in a row. 

There’d been a book report on Charles Darwin due, and he hadn’t written a single word. Every time he thought about walking into his classroom that morning and explaining himself to Ms. Andersen, he felt stomach-churningly sick. She'd never been anything less than understanding about him missing a day for this or that karting race, but when he thought out their imaginary conversation about the missing assignment, he felt the urge to run as far away as he could. 

So on the day that the book report was due, he'd gotten up and left the house to walk to school just like he did every day, and when he'd reached the school gates, he'd just kept walking. 

He'd taken a left onto the street where one of the boys he played cricket with in the park lived, then a right onto the street with the park, then around the park a few times, then another right, and so on, until he'd figured enough time had passed that his mom had left for work and he could go back home. 

He kept telling himself that he'd write the report as soon as he got home, so that he could go into school the next day with it in hand, like nothing had happened, but when he sat himself down at the kitchen table to do it, he'd felt like the walls were closing in around him. So the next day, he'd done the same thing, walking straight past the school gates, and hoping that the repetitive motion of his steps would eventually drown out the rushing sounds in his head. 

The jig was up when his mum had gotten home from work that day, since Ms. Andersen had called her to ask if he was okay, but sometimes he wonders how long he could have kept going with that routine, whether he’d have kept skipping school for weeks on end just to avoid a conversation about a book report. Swiping away a call from Carlos for the third time that day, he thinks he definitely could have. 

He knows, objectively, that he’s overreacting to the interview quote. Carlos was just being Carlos—loyal, supportive, and giving the expected answer to avoid creating any distracting drama. He’d been asked a question about Lando, and naturally, he'd backed his friend. Oscar probably could have guessed how he’d answer, word for word. But hearing Carlos casually, without hesitation, say that he'd "back Lando to win out" in a potential WDC fight between him and Oscar had done something to him. Something that felt like a punch to the stomach, the kind that didn't knock the air out of you immediately but lingered, the pain gnawing at your insides.

Oscar had tried to brush it off, but the words kept echoing in his mind: I’d back Lando. Of course Carlos would. They were friends. Close ones. And they’d been friends for much longer than Oscar and Carlos had been sneaking around. 

Their relationship wasn’t anything serious—just a handful of late-night texts, a few stolen moments after races, something casual that neither of them had ever bothered to define. Oscar had never asked Carlos for more; the idea of it made his stomach twist—of asking for something that Carlos probably didn’t even want. So he let the feelings sit in the back corner of his mind, and went along with the easy banter and late-night conversations that never ventured too far into anything serious.

And he’s been good at acting casual so far. But it was something about the way Carlos had said it, so easily and so matter-of-fact. The words had lodged themselves into the spaces between Oscar’s ribs, poking at the fleshy parts of him any time he moved around. The feeling of being second-best, of being invisible under the bright lights of Lando’s shadow, crept up on him. The familiar, bitter taste of being overlooked.

He could practically hear Carlos’s voice from the interview now, the words ringing louder than they ever had in the sterile media room: "I’d back Lando to win out in that fight. He’s always had an edge in race craft, and I know he’s got more fight in him than he did last year."

Oscar doesn’t even bother swiping away when Carlos calls again, the screen lighting up with his name, and instead leans back in his chair as it keeps ringing. He remembers the feeling of walking past the school all those years ago, avoiding the thing that kept tying his stomach in knots. The moment where he had to face the fact that he wasn’t enough to make it all work on his own.

And he’s doing the same thing now, but his mum isn’t here to force him to write the report and apologize to his teacher.

He can almost hear the conversation that would happen if he picked up the phone. The gentle reassurance from Carlos, the apologetic tone he'd adopt, even though Oscar knows he’s probably slightly bewildered by the scale of Oscar’s reaction. But the truth is, Oscar can’t quite shake the sense that Carlos has made up his mind. That the decision of who to prioritize has already been made, and there’s nothing he can do to change it.

It’s a weird thing, this sense of never being first choice, not deserving preferential pitstop strategy or a moment of hesitation before being voted against, no matter how hard you try.

With a long breath, Oscar finally answers the call, the tension in his chest thick. "Yeah?"

Carlos's voice is already apologetic, soft, like he’s walking on eggshells. "Oscar, listen, I didn’t mean—"

"I know," Oscar interrupts, thumbing at a hangnail on his middle finger. "I know you didn’t mean anything by it, Carlos, but it's hard not to hear what you said and feel like... well, like I don’t matter as much as Lando does."

There’s a long silence on the other end. And then, quieter than usual, Carlos speaks. "You do matter, Oscar. You matter to me."

Oscar leans forward, screwing his eyes shut. "But did you only say what you did because it was asked in the media conference? Would you have answered differently if Caco or Teto asked you?"

The question hangs in the air, thick and uncomfortable. He can feel the weight of it pressing down on both of them. But it’s not an answer he’s really looking for. Not anymore. It’s just that he can’t help but ask, can't stop himself from wondering where he fits in the narrative that’s being built around the three of them.

But Carlos doesn’t answer right away. Instead, there’s a pause, and then the quiet admission. "I didn’t think about it like that. I’ll make it right. I’ll clear things up with the press—"

"I don’t need you to clear anything up," Oscar interrupts again, a bit harsher this time. "I just... I don’t want to feel like I’m the second choice. Like I’m the one you can overlook and then apologize to."

The line goes silent for a beat too long, and Oscar wonders if this is where it all falls apart. If Carlos is going to throw in the towel, decide that he has enough going on without Oscar further complicating his life.

But then Carlos’s voice breaks through, softer now. "You’re not a second choice, Oscar. You’re not. It’s just… it’s complicated sometimes. With Lando and me, with everything. But you’re not a second choice. At all."

Oscar exhales slowly, the tension in his shoulders loosening, even though he knows things aren’t magically fixed with just those words. But maybe, for now, it’s enough to hear that. Maybe it’s enough just to know Carlos doesn’t mean to hurt him—even if it still stings.

"I get it," Oscar says finally, his voice quiet. "I get it." For the first time in days, the ache in his chest doesn’t feel so sharp. He can live with that.

"Come by my room later?" Oscar asks, his voice steady now.

"Yeah," Carlos replies. "I’ll be there."

[alexsummerz]

Chapter 1: First Bonds, First Threats

here's the first chapter guys ;) same as before english is not my first language so sorry if there's any mistakes and pls share me ur feedbacks :p

First Bonds, First Threats

Asha followed Charles and Erik through the hallways of a large building that seemed to belong to the CIA. She could already hear distant echoes of voices and laughter growing louder as they approached.

As they reached the door at the end of the corridor, Charles glanced at her reassuringly. "Ready?"

"I guess so," she replied, giving a vague nod.

Upon entering the room, she immediately noticed a group of young people around her age who, at first glance, seemed "normal". But in reality, everyone in this room was a mutant. And she couldn’t help but wonder what was their mutations.

Charles stepped into the center of the room with his usual kind demeanor. "My young friends, I’d like to introduce you to Asha Suryavanshi."

No one seemed particularly shocked by her arrival. They had all been gathered here in the same way.

"Asha, these are your peers. You’ll have plenty of time to get to know each other." Charles exchanged a final glance with Erik before adding, "We have things to attend to. We’ll leave you all to it."

With that, Erik and Charles quickly left, leaving Asha alone with the group.

She immediately felt the weight of curious stares on her. They were probably wondering what she could do, just as she had wondered about them moments ago. But she wasn’t exactly eager to get to that part of the conversation.

She cast a quick glance around the room they were in. Music was playing in the background, half-empty glasses were scattered around, and from the looks of it, the others had already started bonding. She had the distinct feeling of being an outsider.

Before she could say anything, a young blonde woman with bright eyes approached her with a warm smile.

"Hey! I’m Raven!" she said enthusiastically, before adding with a knowing look, "And don’t worry, we all seem a bit intimidating at first, but we’re actually pretty cool."

Asha let out a small laugh.

"You’re not that intimidating... but we’ll see about the cool part."

"I like her already!" Sean exclaimed, laughing at her remark.

Asha, unaccustomed to this kind of warmth, had to make a considerable effort just to get those few words out.

Raven gestured for her to sit on the couch. Asha gave a small nod and took a seat, staying slightly withdrawn but taking in everyone around her. She observed them carefully. Sean, always ready with a joke. Darwin, observant and laid-back. Angel, wary yet attentive. Hank, sitting next to Raven, seemingly preoccupied with his notes. And finally, Alex Summers—leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching the scene with amusement.

"So, Asha," Sean began, leaning toward her. "We’ve been picking code names for ourselves here. Got any ideas for yours?"

She raised an eyebrow but didn’t respond immediately.

Meanwhile, the others took turns explaining the origins of their chosen names, showing off their powers in the process; shattering windows, decapitating statues, shape-shifting.

For a brief moment, Asha almost felt comfortable in this setting. Surrounded by people like her, the atmosphere felt oddly familiar.

But even then, a sense of isolation lingered deep inside her.

She wasn’t like the others. Not really. What she had inside her wasn’t meant to be seen.

Lost in her thoughts, she barely noticed when the inevitable moment arrived.

Alex Summers approached her, smirking. "Alright, your turn. Show us what you got."

Asha leaned back slightly, crossing her arms, a knot tightening in her stomach.

"No thanks. I’m not interested in showing off my ‘gift.’"

Alex raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Why not? We all did. What’s stopping you? Even I—"

"I said no."

Her tone sharpened, and her gaze turned cold.

"What’s with the gloves, then?" he insisted.

She locked eyes with him.

"None of your damn business."

Just as Alex was about to say something else, Hank cut in.

"Alex, stop. She doesn’t have to if she doesn’t want to."

The blond raised an eyebrow before muttering sarcastically, "Whatever you say, Bozo."

Asha rolled her eyes. What an asshole.

She glanced at Hank, silently thanking him.

The others, though intrigued, didn’t press further. The conversation quickly resumed, and soon, laughter filled the room again. The young mutants were drinking, dancing, and enjoying a rare moment of lightness in their otherwise chaotic lives.

But Darwin, ever observant, suddenly froze.

"What the hell was that?"

Boom.

A loud thud echoed from the roof.

Like something; or multiple things; had just slammed against it.

The noise repeated, growing in frequency and intensity.

Everyone turned toward the massive window; formerly intact, before Sean had gotten involved; and saw a nightmarish figure outside.

A man with red skin and a devil-like appearance was grabbing CIA guards, teleporting them away in flashes of crimson smoke; only for their screams to follow a moment later as their bodies fell from the sky, crashing violently onto the ground.

"What the actual fuck?" Sean choked out.

Before anyone could react, two massive tornadoes tore through the CIA troops.

And behind them, another man in a sharp suit approached calmly.

Asha felt a chill run down her spine as the two figures closed in on them.

Maybe I should’ve never come here.

Now, the devil himself and goddamn weatherman were after them.

Suddenly, an explosion shook the facility, sending tremors through the walls.

Fear and panic took hold of everyone. The group instinctively huddled together.

From behind the door, they heard a desperate voice yell:

"The mutants are just behind this door! Please; spare us! We’re normal!"

A loud crash followed.

Then… silence.

The group stood frozen as the two intruders stopped moving as well, waiting.

Then, the door swung open violently, revealing a man.

Not just any man.

Sebastian Shaw.

He scanned the room with sharp eyes, then smiled with false sympathy before speaking.

"This world will never accept you, my children," he said smoothly. "Why fight for them when you could join me? Rule this world, as mutants, as kings and queens."

A tense silence followed.

Then, Angel stepped forward.

"Angel, no…" Darwin whispered.

But she didn’t listen.

She walked straight to Shaw.

The others were visibly disappointed.

But deep down, each of them knew the weight of their own lives. They understood the rejection she must have felt, and why she choosed to follow him.

Darwin took a deep breath, exchanging a quick glance with Alex before stepping forward as well.

"You’re right," he said, moving closer to Shaw.

Confusion flickered across everyone’s faces; until, at the last second, he shouted:

"Alex, NOW!"

Alex unleashed an energy blast straight at Shaw, and Darwin shielded Angel behind him.

But Shaw absorbed the attack effortlessly.

He smirked.

"Adapt to this."

And then; he unleashed the absorbed energy into Darwin.

Right before their horrified eyes, Darwin disintegrated into ashes.

Nobody could do anything.

Asha’s breath hitched. The sight of Darwin’s charred remains triggered something inside her.

Too familiar. Too painful.

She turned away, unable to face the reality of it.

And then; Alex lunged at Shaw in blind rage.

One of Shaw’s men grabbed him instantly.

The young woman, hearing the struggle and refusing to watch another person turn to ashes before her, tried to intervene, grabbing the man’s jacket. But he immediately spun around, his hands closing around her throat, strangling her.

"Let's finish this. We need to leave," Shaw said coldly.

Asha gasped for air. Her heart pounded so hard it echoed in her temples, drowning out the sounds around her. Her attacker's fingers tightened around her throat, unyielding, preventing her from breathing. Her body fought instinctively, struggling to break free, but the man was too strong.

She felt panic rising, consuming every inch of her being. Her breath became short, erratic. Her lungs burned; but it wasn’t just from the lack of oxygen. Something else was awakening within her. A heat. A deep rumble at the core of her being.

An old anger. Long suppressed.

Fragments of memories shattered in her mind.

The suffocating heat of a summer afternoon. A familiar scream.

The stench of burning flesh. Her own trembling hands, covered in ash.

No. Not again. Not here.

But her body refused to obey.

The heat inside her swelled, spreading through her limbs. Her muscles tensed as her skin hummed under the pressure. The dim light of the room seemed to bend and refract around her, a golden halo flickering at the edges of her vision.

She knew what was coming.

A final shudder of agony coursed through her, and with trembling fingers, she grasped the edges of her gloves.

She ripped the leather off in one sharp motion.

Her bare palms met the man’s skin.

The scream that followed ripped through the air.

The man froze, his face twisting in pure, incomprehensible agony. Then, his entire body stiffened, consumed by an unbearable pain. The heat surged into his veins, igniting every cell, reducing his body to something raw and incandescent. His skin blackened in an instant, cracked, then crumbled into a pile of smoldering dust.

A single heartbeat later, there was nothing left.

Asha staggered backward, her breath rasping through her lungs. Her hands trembled, golden embers still flickering across her fingertips before slowly fading away. She took a step back. Then another.

Her legs nearly gave out beneath her.

A crushing silence fell over the room.

Every pair of eyes was on her.

A lump formed in her throat. Slowly, she lowered her gaze to her hands.

They had taken another life.

A bitter taste rose in her mouth.

I should have run.

She swallowed hard, forcing herself to look at the others.

The silence was palpable. But there was more than just fear in their expressions.

There was confusion. And shock.

Her gaze met Alex’s.

He said nothing. But didn’t look afraid.

Like he was trying to figure something out.

Her voice, rough and almost broken, finally cut through the silence:

"How’s that for a demonstration?"

No one answered.

Asha felt her head spin. She stumbled back and sank into a chair, overwhelmed by everything.

Shaw had used the chaos to disappear.

Panting, shaken by the commotion, it was at that moment that Charles and Erik finally returned, horror evident on their faces.

Charles, visibly disturbed, wanted to send everyone home. But Erik immediately protested.

"If Shaw has his army, we need ours."

Alex straightened, voice firm. "We’ve got nowhere else to go anyway."

Asha didn’t say a word.

But deep down, she agreed with him.

And so, the group set out for Xavier’s mansion.

[uhhlifeig]

Slasher - October 15 - word count: 659 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus wasn’t entirely sure how it had happened, but somehow, they’d all ended up sitting on the worn, sagging couch in Sirius’s flat, a questionable horror movie blaring from the TV. 

James was halfway through explaining his newest strategy for the next international Quidditch match to Lily (who, to her credit, looked like she was trying to care).

On the other end of the couch, Regulus was squished between Barty and Evan, who were bickering over whether or not cheap Slasher-esque movies were an acceptable form of cinema.

“They’re all just mindless gore,” Evan argued, leaning over Regulus, who looked like he regretted his life choices. “There’s no substance, no actual plot.”

“There’s a plot! You’re just not cultured enough to understand the subtle nuances,” Barty shot back.

Remus raised an eyebrow. “Subtle nuances? Of what? A masked guy running around with a chainsaw?”

“Exactly,” Barty said.

“Right. Because nothing screams ‘nuance’ like blood splatters and screaming teenagers.”

“You just don’t get it, Moony,” Sirius chimed in, smirking. “The horror genre is a refined art form, perfectly balancing suspense, tension, and, of course, a healthy dose of irrational decision-making.”

Remus gave him a deadpan look. “Right. Because when I think of the word ‘refined,’ I definitely think of chainsaws and hockey masks.”

Sirius grinned. “I knew you’d see it my way.”

“Really?” Regulus muttered a beat later, glaring at the screen. “Of all the directions she could’ve gone, she chooses to run toward the guy with a chainsaw?”

“Darwinism at its finest,” Remus said dryly.

“Just once,” James piped up, “I’d like to see someone in one of these movies actually do something smart. You know, like, not investigate the creepy noise in the basement?”

Lily nodded. “Or, you know, call the police? Why is that never an option?”

“Because,” the dog animagus said, “where’s the fun in that? It’s more entertaining to watch them make terrible decisions.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “You would think that.”

The movie continued to spiral into absurdity, with the remaining characters making one terrible decision after another. 

Evan, at some point, had fallen asleep on Regulus’s shoulder, and Barty looked about three seconds away from jumping into the screen to show the villain how to kill people properly.

And then the power went out.

The TV screen went dark, and the room was plunged into pitch blackness. Remus felt Sirius tense beside him.

“Oh, great,” James said. “I can’t wait for the part where we all die horribly in our own horror film. I’d, uh, get jumped and forget my wand somewhere- the couch, maybe- speaking of, where are our wands? And, um, Sirius would fall out of an open window because he ran into it and the curtains were down, and, er, Regulus, you’d drown, because you still can’t swim-”

“Potter, shut up,” Regulus grumbled. “No one’s dying.”

“Not yet,” Barty added helpfully.

“Can you not?”

Sirius shifted beside Remus, and even in the dark, Remus could practically hear the wheels turning in his head. 

“Y’know, Moons, this is exactly how those movies start.”

“You are not the final person, Sirius. Don’t even try.”

Sirius gasped dramatically. “How dare you!”

Lily snorted. “Sirius, no offense, but you’d be the first one dead.”

“Excuse me? I’d like to think I have at least enough survival skills to outlast James.”

“True, true. He’d be the first one dead.”

“Oi! I have excellent survival instincts, Lils!”

“Like the time you tried to sneak into Snape’s room and ended up falling into a pit of garbage?” Remus asked innocently.

“That was one time!”

“And the time you set the kitchen on fire while boiling water?”

James crossed his arms, pouting. “I’ve improved since then.”

Lily patted his shoulder. “Sure you have, dear.”

The lights flickered back on, revealing Peter holding a whole lot of wands. 

“Why’d you guys all leave your wands in the kitchen? Idiots. Oh, and Remus, how you you use the spinny-wavey thingy?”

[resfrio]

TABULA RASA

Worm / Disco Elysium Crossover

CHAPTER 2

“YOU START A MAYBE CULT”

You walked out of the convenience store with a bag full of canned food, salty crackers and a water bottle, which you quickly stuffed into your backpack. 

Your wallet was considerably lighter.

DR. HEARTACHE — Not very conducive to a healthy diet, but you are effectively homeless, food that won't go bad and is easy to eat on the go is for the best.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — Doesn't matter what gruel it is, as long as it fuels the body. Find somewhere safe to eat, girl.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM [Challenging: Failure] — The Glass Window said the hospital was on the edge between ‘The Docks’ and ‘Downtown’. Extrapolating from that and judging by our steps and the time that has already passed by, we're likely around… uh… Maybe New York? 

For real?

EFFICIENCY PROTOCOL — [Appearing from out of nowhere] Foolish. Let's look up the map of this town on the phone. 

Suddenly, you remember you did steal a phone a while ago…

EFFICIENCY PROTOCOL [Easy: Success] — [Impatiently snatch phone away again] Type in the search bar… Zoom out… Ha. Easy. Alright, here we are: 

Jan 4, 2011 

21:48 pm

 Battery: 37% 

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — Well, I could've just told you that, you know. 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Medium: Success] — [Ranting] The Boardwalk is a district in Brockton Bay, running north-to-south along the beach, east of the Docks. The Boardwalk is one of the main tourist destinations in the city, it's considered the heart of it and, due to that, considered quite safe. Unlike near the hospital, the police or, rather, enforcers there are quite quick to handle shoplifters. 

The Docks, on the other hand, are mostly in a state of neglect perpetuated by Brockton Bay's downtrodden economy. Numerous buildings in the Docks lack electrical power, though this being said, it has a reputation for its high homeless reputation due to its many abandoned warehouses and apartments serving as shelters. 

Well. 

It didn't sound like a very hard choice for you. 

JACOB — Indeed, you heard the gal. Easy choice. Avoid the Boardwalk because we're broke bitches, and slowly make our way further into the Docks district till we find a nice warehouse to set up shop at. 

THE WINGED ONE — This also has the upside of The Boardwalk having more police presence, which translates to more opportunities for us to get caught for either escaping the hospital, assaulting a security guard, or robbing a thrift store. 

DR. HEARTACHE — You know, when put it like that, you're a bit uncomfortable at the quantity of crimes you've committed within a few hours of being conscious. 

Indeed. 

Somehow, you felt like you'd gone from a respectable amnesiac orphan girl to an amnesiac underage hobo thug within a single day…

Using the phone map, you slowly but steadily made your way deeper into the Docks.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Trivial: Success] — Despite trying our best to keep our head down and ignore anything else happening around us… It's impossible to ignore that we have passed by no less than 60 spray painted signs of something called « ABB » and at least 5 saying « NAZIS OUT!!! »  

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Challenging: Failure] — [Start rant] Nazism is a form of fascism, with disdain for liberal democracy and the parliamentary system. Its beliefs include support for dictatorship, fervent antisemitism, anti-communism, anti-Slavism, anti-Romani sentiment, scientific racism, white supremacy, Nordicism, social Darwinism, homophobia, ableism, and the use of eugenics.

ABB, meanwhile, is the acronym for the Allman Brothers Band, it was an American rock band formed in Jacksonville, Florida, in 1969. Its founding members were brothers Duane Allman (slide guitar, lead guitar) and Gregg Allman (vocals, keyboards), as well as Dickey Betts (lead guitar, vocals), Berry Oakley (bass), Butch Trucks (drums), and Jai Johanny "Jaimoe" Johanson (drums). Subsequently based in Macon, Georgia, they incorporated elements of blues, jazz and country music and their live shows featured jam band-style improvisation and instrumentals.

EVERYONE — [ … ]

So… What did that have to do with the Nazis, again? 

How was it connected?

Why did a rock band have so much beef with Nazis? 

THE WINGED ONE [Medium: Success] — [Smug] It's clear they were communists.

How? In what way? 

You stop under a street-light out of sheer bewilderment, looking up at the sky as though it might deliver the answers.

THE WINGED ONE — [Preening] The messaging is layered. Symbolic. Dialectical.

JACOB — [Wide-eyed] You’re full of shit and that's coming from me. 

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — I’ve seen fanfic essays on Dumblr with better citations.

You wondered what Dumblr even was.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — [Punching the table] Excuse you, dialectical materialism has nothing to do with—

THE WINGED ONE — [Serene, in that terrifyingly confident way] It’s obvious if you simply apply inductive reasoning. First, there’s the juxtaposition of ABB and anti-Nazi graffiti. Opposition is proximity. Correlation. Tension. That which is contested must have weight. Second, the Allman Brothers Band promoted improvisational sound structures. Non-conformist. Anti-structure. You know what else opposes rigid hierarchy? Communism. It's all about communism, Taylor.

GHOST IN THE MACHINE — That’s not— No. No, that’s not how any of this works.

THE WINGED ONE [Trivial: Success] — [Gleefully pedantic] It is simple. Consider the semiotic layering — “Nazis out” implies a reactionary presence. The ABB is juxtaposed with this graffiti, therefore they are likely the ideological opposite. Reaction begets opposition. Thus, communists. Q.E.D.

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM [Trivial: Failure] — Okay… what?

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — I dunno, sounds kind of metal. Graffiti communists jamming out with southern rock while fighting literal Nazis? I'd watch that movie.

You are very confused now.

At first, you had thought they were gangsters. From what you vaguely remembered, gangs did that too, no? 

Sell drugs and fight each other at night… Didn't they?

FUTURE ROADKILL — Pfft. They sell drugs. Drugs are freedom. Ergo… libertarians. Wait, fuck, no—anarchists? Damn, Capitalists? What were we fucking talking about again? 

GHOST IN THE MACHINE [Medium: Success] — [Nearly sobbing in tears] Actually, new data suggests the ABB stands for ‘Azn Bad Boys’, a local gang with links to—

You hear them before you see them—low laughter, shuffling boots, the click-clack of a butterfly knife being flipped for fun.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Challenging success] —  Ambush imminent. Three signatures. Two in front. One flanking left. Improvised melee weapons, unknown armaments.

You pivot.

Three guys. Early twenties. Red, white and green bandanas, gang ink barely concealed beneath hoodies and sleeveless jackets. One swings a pipe idly like it’s an extension of his arm. Another, lean and twitchy, flips his knife with practiced indifference. The last one just cracks his knuckles. You can already smell the sweat and stale cigarette stink wafting off them.

Those colors were the same ones used in the ABB graffiti stuff.

The pipe man moves his pipe around menacingly before addressing you: 

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “Yo, lil’ girl. Hand over the bag and the phone. Maybe the jacket too. No need for anyone to get hurt tonight.”

DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “Nice backpack” 

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — Such cliché robber lines. If you're going to become a thug, why not add some je ne sais quoi and spice it up? Failing grade at creativity. 

DR. HEARTACHE — [Concerned] Try talking. De-escalate. Show submission. There's no need to—

SPITEFUL COWARD — NO, LET'S FUCKING PUNCH THEM INSTEAD, YOU IDIOT!! 

THE WINGED ONE — [Aloof] No. No, wait. This is a moment of dialectical revelation. These are the proletariat. We must seize this opportunity to radicalize them.

You were a mere underage amnesiac girl, the fact that you could somehow escape out of the hospital and procure food and clothing within a few hours without being arrested is enough to be commended.

Now that you're being robbed and being advised all sorts of ways, you panic, and so, you go with the last advice you heard: 

YOU —  “Hold on,” you say, raising both hands, bag still slung over your shoulder. “You guys… ABB, right? Azn Bad Boys?”

SKELETON KING [Medium: Success] — Our heart-rate is normalized. Relaxed shoulders, posture that belies you're open to discussion and not violence. You're in control, little lady. 

You make sure to say the right name instead of the name of the southern maybe communist rock band you spent a solid five minutes hearing an argument about.

SNEERING KNIFE THUG — “Yeah, and?” 

THE WINGED ONE [Medium: Success] — [Triumphant] Perfect. Begin the thesis: their gang is a nascent revolutionary cell. You must appeal to their collective class consciousness.

YOU — “Cool. That’s actually why I wanted to talk to you. I think we might be on the same page.”

They blink at you with a distinctly owlish expression.

YOU — “You see,” you say, very seriously, “the capitalist system has failed you. It’s failed all of us. ABB, at its core, isn’t just about turf or drugs. It’s about… opposition to fascism. I saw the graffiti.”

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — [Sputtering laughter] Oh my god. You're doing it. You're actually doing it.

JACOB [Challenging: Success] — [Silken, snake-slick] Yes, lean in. Twist the tone, slippery like an eel in oil. Sell them the story they didn’t know they needed.

YOU — “I think you guys are actually fighting for the people. You know? You’re organizing. Building a power base. Challenging institutional authority. That's pretty much… textbook revolutionary theory.”

UNORIGINAL PIPE GUY — The pipe guy stares. “Wait, are you saying we’re, like… revolutionaries?”

THE WINGED ONE [Easy: Success] — Push the contradiction. Glorify the cause.

YOU — “Yes,” you say with complete conviction. “Absolutely. You’re redistributing wealth. You’re seizing control of the means of production. I mean, what are drugs if not a decentralized economic system?”

FUTURE ROADKILL — HAHAHA WHAT THE FUCK YEAH FREE MARKET BABY I KNEW WE WERE GENIUSES

They’re thrown off. Confused. You can see the doubt forming.

NO LONGER SNEERING KNIFE GUY — “...Yo, is she for real?” he asks, glancing at the others. “Like, we’re communists now?”

Too late to consider the consequences of turning thugs into communist revolutionaries.

YOU — “Consider,” you say, “that what you’re doing—robbing me for canned beans and bottled water—isn’t survival. It’s a symptom. A product. You’re not predators. You’re casualties.”

NO LONGER DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “Is she high?” 

You continue undeterred. 

YOU — “You think the ABB is a gang? No. It’s proto-revolutionary. An unfocused expression of proletarian rage. But you’ve been misled. You’ve become instruments of false consciousness.”

You take another step forward. No fear. Only fervor. This isn’t a fight—it’s a movement.

YOU — “You aren’t criminals,” you say. “You’re revolutionaries who’ve forgotten your cause. You don’t need to rob me—you need to seize the means of production.”

JACOB [Medium: Success] — [Rubbing hands like a fly] Now, girl. Hit them where it hurts. Their pride.

YOU — “ABB,” you say, pointing to the nearest graffiti tag on the wall behind them. “Do you even know what that could mean?”

They stare.

YOU — “Anti-Bourgeois Battalion.” You say triumphantly. 

THE WINGED ONE [Godlike: Success] — [Triumphant chorus] We baptize them in dialectic fire. Watch as they are born anew, crimson-eyed and red-starred.

You can feel it working. Confusion turning to hesitation. Hesitation to doubt. Doubt into curiosity. A delicate chain reaction of dumb teenage disillusion.

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “Shit, that’s kinda tight.”

NO LONGER DEADPAN WEAPONLESS THUG — “So, like, we should unionize?”

NO LONGER SNEERING KNIFE THUG — “Wait, we got means of production?”

YOU — “Not yet,” you say. “But you could. Start small. Neighborhood gardens. Mutual aid. Solidarity networks. Scare off Empire Eighty-Eight. Burn the middleman. Own your own supply chain.”

You didn't even know what the Empire Eighty-Eight was, but it felt right to mention it.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — [Disgust] What is happening.

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — She’s charisma-bombing gang members with revolutionary fanfic! You wouldn't know anything about it, you brute.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — Yeah baby, we just converted a mugging into a Marxist study circle.

You lower your voice, solemn now, sacred.

YOU — “Violence against the people? That’s a tool of the oppressors. Violence for the people? That’s history.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

UNORIGINAL PIPE THUG — “...Yo, what’s your name?”

You don't know whether it's actually a good idea to give your actual name to your newly converted cell. 

YOU — “Taylor,” you say. “Taylor… uh, Du Bois”

Where did that fake last name even come from? 

 REVOLUTIONARY KNIFE THUG — “Hell yeah. We’re gonna tell the others. This is some real shit.”

REVOLUTIONARY WEAPONLESS THUG — “Thanks for opening my eyes, now I truly know why I hate the Empire, fucking fascists” 

REVOLUTIONARY PIPE THUG — “See you soon, comrade. Take care” 

They retreat. One raises a fist. You raise yours back.

They vanish into the night, discussing whether it’s praxis to still sell weed or if that counts as reinforcing capitalist models of scarcity.

You’re alone again.

DR. HEARTACHE — …That could have gone much, much worse… Though I don't know… if what just happened is any better in the long run…

THE WINGED ONE — Today, we sowed seeds. Tomorrow, we reap the revolt.

DRAGON OF KYŪSHU — We should have just beat them up, for fuck's sake. 

You walk for what feels like an hour after the encounter—still faintly vibrating with adrenaline, or maybe ideological fervor. Maybe both. You can’t tell if you’ve just recruited a gang or founded a cult.

THE WINGED ONE — [Content] They called us comrade. That’s praxis.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — I give it three days before they form a worker's council and get shot by the cops. Still, solid effort. Ten out of ten.

You snort at that, but otherwise keep waking, not keen on potentially having to start another debate with more thugs.

You find it halfway through a back alley. A warehouse, two stories tall, windows boarded up or shattered, roof mostly intact save for one collapsed section far on the east end. The front loading bay’s doors are partially ajar, rusted and groaning with every shift of the wind. The sign on the chain-link fence once read “Coastal Textile Logistics,” but now just says “Stie Lg s.”

You slip through.

Inside, the air is still. Musty. Cold.

You sweep the room with your eyes.

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Medium: Success] — Three exits. One above, through the ceiling. One behind a collapsed filing cabinet. One is the way we came. No other signs of occupancy. One raccoon in the rafters.

DR. HEARTACHE — The air is cold. Bitterly so. Cement and mold and salt hang thick in the air. But… it’s dry. And out of sight. That’s something.

YOU — “Okay,” you murmur, “better than nothing.”

You claim a corner beneath the half-collapsed metal staircase leading up to the long-abandoned offices. Less wind here. Broken crates and burlap rolls. There’s even a filthy couch cushion that looks only moderately cursed.

SELF-DECEIVING TRAITOR — Don't even think about it. 

CONNAISSEUR OF THE FIRMAMENT [Trivial: Success] — The ceiling above this corner appears stable. Minimal snow ingress probability. Hm. Awful thermal mass potential.

You sit. Hug your knees. The concrete leeches warmth from your bones like a vampire.

THE WINGED ONE — Shelter is step one. Now, aesthetic revolution.

JACOB — [Laugh] You want her to feng shui a bombed-out husk?

THE WINGED ONE — Why not? Reclaim the space. Domesticate entropy—

AN ENGLISH PROFESSOR — You all have had way too much fun tonight. What you need is to domesticate the burlap sacks and put it underneath, then put the hospital blanket over that, it should help with staving off a bit of the cold from the floor. 

Yawning, you take heed of the advice, carefully positioning your backpack so that you can hug the side stuffed full of clothes instead of metal cans once you are ready to sleep.

You sit. You unpack.

One can of beans. One can of tuna. Crackers. Water.

A spork you don't even remember taking.

Truly, a dinner of champions.

SELF-CONFIDENT NIHILIST — Congratulations, Queen of the Bums! Long may she starve!

You glare at the ceiling at that remark and roll your eyes in only half-serious annoyment. 

LITTLE OWL — We used to have dinner at a table. Remember? Mommy made chicken soup. You tried to hold the hot bowl and spilled it on your arm. You cried harder about wasting the soup than the scalding hot drops.

You don’t remember, maybe only the briefest flash of a memory's whisper. But your arm aches anyway.

DR. HEARTACHE — It’s okay. Focus on now. One step at a time.

Somewhere far off, a siren wails.

But not here.

Here, there's only the sound of the wind in the rafters, the rustle of your breath, and the subtle murmurs of a crowd that lives only in your head.

You lean back against the wall, the corrugated metal cool against your spine, and close your eyes.

The quiet doesn’t last.

EARTH BET [Medium: Success] — Listen.

There's that voice again.

A voice that sounds like it comes from both anywhere and nowhere, clinging to you like tar and feeling like a centipede gnawing at your cochlea. 

YOU — “Who even are you… ”

EARTH BET — This is a sick city. The alleys run red with broken teeth and blood thick with amphetamines. Twenty-seven muggings tonight. Five stabbings. One death. She bled out behind a shuttered convenience store while the clerk inside turned up the volume on his TV. Didn’t want to get involved.

You open your eyes. The shadows don’t shift, but something else does. Not quite fearful. Not quite cold. Something primal. Something's watching.

EARTH BET —  Tonight, four people bled into the gutter by Lord Street. A deal gone wrong. Wrong name, wrong time. The cops won’t show. But the rats did.

DR. HEARTACHE — …This isn’t just decay. It’s despair.

EARTH BET — Barbed wire curls like smiles around the bones of factories. In the sewers, bodies float. You won’t read about them. No one files reports for the vanished. Especially not the ones no one wanted to begin with.

You can suddenly see flashes of what the voice is describing, making you clutch your head and wonder what's happening to you.

YOU — “Is this… supposed to happen?” 

SMARTEST PERSON IN THE ROOM — You’re being psychically menaced by the anthropomorphic embodiment of urban malaise. Totally normal. Definitely not a symptom of anything.

EARTH BET — [Whispering like a lover behind your ear] The Empire slaughters in basements. ABB sells hectasy in baggies. Coil plots. Heroes turn blind eyes, caught in PR meetings and funding deadlines. The PRT built their headquarters high to avoid the rot. But they breathe it in still. Everyone does.

You didn't know any of those organizations. Couldn't have.

You wrap your arms around your knees. Not because you're scared.

Because the voice makes you feel small.

Like the floor is the back of something ancient and half-asleep, and you're just a fleck on its spine.

EARTH BET — You’re not the first who tried to change it. You won’t be the last. But you are here. Now. And that matters.

You whisper into your arms.

YOU — “What do I do?”

No reply. Only the shifting groan of steel and stone settling into night.

EARTH BET  [Trivial: Success] — You listen. You learn. And when the time comes…

A pause. A breath.

EARTH BET — You strike.

Then—

Silence.

Only wind.

Only dust.

You blink.

Still alone. Still cold.

But now, your heart beats in time with the concrete.

And somewhere, the city watches you back.

After a while, you start getting sleepy, and so, you do, with the same thought reverberating inside your skull: 

“The world is alive. And it wants revolution.”

Author Note:

Deranged amnesiac girl escapes the psych ward, assaults an innocent security guard, raids a thrift store and starts a revolutionary cult of personality. She then illegally squats and eats her stolen-money bought dinner. More at 10. 

Taylor: *loses memories and proceeds to restart her life from scratch because of her ingrained-to-the-bones fear of trusting other people* 

Lacey, next day in the hospital: WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU MEAN SHE BROKE OUT OF YOUR PSYCH WARD!? 

Also, I wonder if it's clearer now which voice is the main driver behind Earth-Bet's dialogue. It shouldn't be pointed out, but The Winged One and Jacob are such shit-stirrers that if they claimed second place, nobody would dare claim first, don't take the mugging scene too seriously (but maybe remember it for future purposes)

I had this chapter done already but there was a celebration in my country after I was done with exams (first half ;-;), so I was busy going to the grocery store and cooking. Sorry!

[leviscolwill]

moonlight, sunrise

pairing: trent alexander arnold x fem!reader

summary: after trent's first time captaining his boyhood club, you can't help showing him your appreciation [wc: ~700]

contents: tooth rotting fluff, established relationship, captain trent ‼️, food mention, not proofread yet 🏃‍♀️

note: needed to write a little something for my boy <3

now playing: moonlight sunrise by twice (ready to be)

you were absolutely stoked when darwin scored a late goal for your team, winning newcastle 2-1. during all the game, your thoughts went to your boyfriend, who captained his team after van dijk got red carded. you knew how much his boyhood club meant to him and how much he adored it, so being vice captain was a huge honour. after the final whistle, you grabbed your phone to send him a quick text; "congrats on today's win my captain !! can't wait to celebrate with you tonight xx". you knew he wouldn't answer right away so you got up to prepare trent's surprise.

you put on your favourite playlist, and searched for everything you needed to make some pizzas, from the dough to the toppings, you had everything you needed. trent loved your pizzas, you weren't the best cook around but it was the one dish you could never miss.

you tried shaping the dough into little hearts, colouring them with bright red tomato sauce. your addiction to 'good pizza great pizza' helped you create the best pizza with trent's favourite toppings.

while you were finishing the last couple mini pizzas, you felt someone hug you from behind.

"they look so good, you really outdone yourself with these." you heard trent's voice in your ears.

"no ! they were supposed to be a surprise... please pretend you never saw this." you say in a disappointed tone, you must have been too distracted by your music to hear trent coming home.

"alright, alright. can i help you with the last one at least ?"

"of course not, you can't help making your own gift." you refused, but trent wouldn't take no for an answer. he placed the toppings to form a smiley face on the heart pizza. you snapped a quick picture of your masterpiece before putting it in the oven.

your boyfriend set up the table while you lit up some scented candles. these kinds of evenings were your favourites. the evenings when your boyfriend's was just yours, not the media's or the fans'. just trent, just yours.

trent was taken aback when you hugged his back, resting your head on his shoulder.

"you know i'm proud of you, right ? you did great today mister liverpool captain."

"i think you might have mentioned that a couple of times. thank you for believing in me pretty girl." he pressed a kiss on your lips before getting the pizzas out of the oven.

you ate your pizzas in front of a movie trent picked, of course, under the covers you brought to your living room, intently listing to each other's comments as silly as they might have been.

quickly enough, you fell asleep and felt trent's arms carrying you to your shared bedroom.

"where are we going ?" you asked him in a sleepy voice, even though you already knew the answer.

"to bed ratatouille."

"don't compare me to a rat." you huffed in disapproval of his newfound nickname for you.

"you're the rat that makes the best pizzas in the whole world."

you both cuddled up under your covers, and you felt tiredness get the best of you, trent must have felt it as well.

"goodnight, i love you." he said pressing a kiss on your cheek, after turning off the lights.

"i love you too, sleep well my captain."

trent's light strokes on your arm and his slow breathing lulled you to sleep swiftly. these were really your favourite nights, in the company of your favourite boy.

[mierins]

what hand shelters? what hand slays? // gojo x reader; playlist (in progress)

On Halloween, you're ready to face the worst, but you thought 'the worst' would just be the noisy crowds of tourists. A few hours later, you're standing in a puddle of blood and guts in the 5th level basement of Shibuya Station, holding the love of your past life in a cursed box that fits in the palm of your hand.

Gojo Satoru x Reader M for Violence DM or Comment to be added to the taglist!

darwinism // halsey

you all know something that I don't, you all learned something that I fear I'll never know

beautiful dreamer // lola kirke

gone are the cares of life’s busy throng, beautiful dreamer, awake unto me!

ta'maral'ailen (web of destiny) // lorne balfe

remember the words, speak those yet unheard: we're what remains

cosmic love // florence + the machine

and in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat, I tried to find the sound

a tear in space (airlock) // glass animals

ooh, too late, my love, you blew me into stardust, ooh, but I made it, just dangling like a thread from ya

ela ela // marina satti

you talk inside my head, you said we'll meet again, I forget your scent, and I stay up all night

[wordsfromthymouth]

Fancy A Game?

𓇬 this series is a collection of one shots about conversations that Charles and Erik have during their chess games 𓇬

♟ Chapter 1 : Not what I thought

𓇬 Erik and Charles discuss when they learned to play chess, Erik learns more about Charles’s childhood. This takes place sometime during first class, before their public beach divorce 𓇬

warnings: none. word count: 2.1k

“How old were you when you first played?” Charles asked suddenly, causing Erik to look up from the board. It was Erik’s turn, and he’d been entirely focused on deciding his next move, having not said a word in what felt like ages. He didn’t reply, but his gaze narrowed in a way that Charles could only describe as suspicious. 

While most people would buckle in the silence when confronted with Erik’s intense stare, Charles was completely unfazed. He leaned back in his seat, taking a sip from his scotch glass, and let his question hang in the air. 

Of course, if he really wanted to, he could’ve just plucked the answer from Erik’s mind as easily as one would card through the index of a book, but Erik was a very private person. Even with something as harmless as answering a question, Charles liked to give him the choice to offer up information, regardless of how long it took.

It was their own personal mind game, an unstoppable force meeting an immovable object. Charles would wait for the answer; Erik would eventually give it. After a few moments, Erik sighed loudly. 

“Are you really curious, or are you merely trying to distract me?” he asked, making Charles laugh lightly. 

“Curiosity, mostly. If I wanted you distracted, I wouldn’t bother with words; I’ve got much better tricks, my friend,” he said definitively, and before Erik could question his meaning, a mental image was pushed in his direction. 

It was a rather humorous scene of Sean and Alex wrestling out on the lawn, with Hank and Darwin standing nearby watching. Erik recalled the moment from a few days before. He and Charles had been sitting outside on the veranda; from there they could see the rowdy group, and they were both watching the spectacle with amusement. 

Sean was losing, and in a last-ditch effort to win, or at the very least get Alex off his back, he whistled. A sharp, grating screech. It wasn’t anywhere close to how loud he could be, of course, but it was more than enough to have Alex recoil away, covering his ears and swearing loudly. Hank and Darwin did the same. 

When that memory faded, it was replaced by another; this time it was of Raven and Angel. They were dancing around in the kitchen to a song on the record player. They were in their pyjamas and more than a little drunk. Erik could see Charles sat at the kitchen table with his own drink, laughing and singing along, cheeks tinged pink from the alcohol. 

It was then that Hank poked his head into the room, and both girls squealed with excitement, whisking over to him to grab a hand. He stuttered out a weak protest, but it did nothing to slow them down as they pulled him to the centre of the room to dance. He stood there looking mortified at first, but with some guidance and encouraging words, eventually Hank was moving along with the music. His moves were stiff and still a little awkward, but he was smiling from ear to ear. 

After a few moments, that scene also faded away, and the next one that bubbled up in Erik’s head took him by surprise. It was of himself, but he looked very different. He was smiling; gone was the usual tense posture he held and the unease in his face. He looked younger, happier—it was a far cry from his usual dower appearance. The whole image was cast in warm, bright light, but there was no discernible setting. He couldn’t recall a memory of that moment; perhaps this was how Charles viewed him? 

He realized after a few seconds that he had indeed gotten distracted, just as Charles said he would, and he somewhat bashfully shook off the thoughts, focusing his attention back on the question at hand. 

“I was young, perhaps seven or eight. My father taught me to play.” 

“Did you enjoy it?” Charles pressed on; Erik shook his head. 

“No, not at first. He was very good, and I was rather terrible. I’d leave the table frustrated and defeated more often than not.” He said, admittedly. Charles grinned, a flash of brilliant white teeth; in his mind he pictured a smaller version of Erik, red-faced and pouting over his loss. 

Looking back at his grown friend now and seeing the ever-present grimace on his face during their games (especially when he was losing), it seemed nothing had changed, and he began to laugh aloud at the fact. 

Erik watched Charles laugh at his expense, amused. The image Charles had conjured up filled his own mind now, and with it feelings of joy and humour that were not his own washed over him in waves. 

Sometimes Charles projected more than he intended to, especially when he was relaxed or drunk, but Erik didn’t mind. To him, Charles’s ability was as natural as another sense, and he enjoyed the fact the mind reader was able to share it so freely, and while he didn’t dare join in on the laugh, he couldn’t help the way his lips twitched into a smirk. Somehow, Charles always managed to crack the carefully constructed mask he wore. 

“I’m glad you find that amusing,” Erik said dryly, using the opportunity of Charles being distracted to finally make his move. A pawn inched forward on the board, in range of one of Charles’s bishops, and that was enough to snap his attention back to the game. He stifled his laughter and sat up, shifting forward until his elbows rested on his knees; he looked down to study the new layout. 

“Well, he moulded you into a fine opponent. I’m sure you would’ve surpassed him had you had the chance, and he’d be very proud,” he said quietly, looking back up at Erik. Charles was nothing but genuine, and his way with words stripped away any defences Erik had at the best of times. 

“You might be right about that,” Erik considered, though he wouldn’t give anything to do with his father too much thought. It was late, he’d had a healthy amount to drink, and that combination could easily make his thoughts grow dark. He sighed, mentally pushing any creeping thoughts away before they could take hold. Levelling with Charles’s gaze, he gave him a knowing grin.

“Though, he also might’ve also scolded me on the futility of playing chess with a mind reader,” he said pointedly, and Charles could only smile at the fact. They sat quietly for a few minutes; Charles studied the board, and Erik watched carefully, trying to guess his next move. 

“You know…” Charles began, his eyes remaining fixed on the pieces, “My father kept a chess set in his study. Very old, beautifully intricate. When I was a boy, I begged him to teach me to play—of course, he never had the time. Forbade me from even touching it.” He said offhandedly, as if he were remarking about something as plain as the weather. Although his tone didn’t give anything away, Erik didn’t miss the way his face fell as he spoke. Charles continued, unaware of the way Erik was now watching him carefully. 

“Truth is, I never cared much for the game; I just thought it would get him to spend more time with me. Silly, really.” He laughed, halfheartedly. He was smiling again, but this time it was sad, his blue eyes glossy, and something twisted in Erik’s chest uncomfortably. 

He’d often jest at Charles for his decadent mansion and comfortable upbringing, because when compared to Erik, he had a much better childhood on paper. Many times he’d shared stories of his younger days, summers spent at the beach, going to the pictures, cricket matches—the list went on. But this was not like those stories; it was different.

For the first time, Erik saw Charles not as a spoiled child with far too much time on his hands than he knew what to do with, but as a solemn, isolated little boy. Desperate to be seen and heard by those around him, and painfully rejected. Erik had been fortunate enough to have had parents who loved him, but Charles’s would often forget he even existed. His only company was the maids and butlers whenever they could spare a moment of their time. 

How lonely it must’ve felt to have had the whole world at your fingertips and no one to share it with. Erik deigned to think about the times Charles spoke of Christmases’ spent alone at the mansion while his parents went skiing in the Alps. He seemed so unbothered when he mentioned it, but looking back now, Erik realized he’d just not been paying close enough attention. Charles had been upset by his own confession then too, but his carefree and charming nature made it hard to tell sometimes. That deep-rooted feeling of abandonment stayed with him after all these years. 

It was no surprise he jumped at the chance of welcoming Raven into the family when she showed up in his kitchen one night. His aloof parents were easy enough to convince; they barely acknowledged the son they had, and it took minimal effort to tweak their minds into believing they had a daughter too. 

For Charles, their mission of gathering mutants was not about finding those with the most strength and power; instead, he found those most in need. Outcasts, loners, people who needed a place to be accepted. Erik shared this value, but it didn’t stop him from teasing Charles and referring to his habit of taking in the troubled as a penchant for strays. Raven, Angel, Alex, even Erik himself, but now he realized it was much deeper than that. Charles created his own family, and he had every intention of letting it grow so no one felt alone, like he did. 

That realization had changed his view of Charles drastically, in mere minutes. It was jarring in a way, and it had Erik looking down at the floor, unsure of his next words. Charles could see the knit in Erik’s brow and sensed the mood he’d created with sharing his story. The conflicted emotions Erik was emanating were lapping at the edges of his own mind, and that would not do. He cleared his throat, and Erik looked back up at him. 

“It wasn’t all bad; eventually my governess took pity on me,” he said, reaching over to take up the nearly empty bottle of scotch they’d been nursing. He poured some into Erik’s glass before emptying the rest into his own. 

“You see, she gifted me my own set when I turned nine, right around the time I developed my powers, coincidentally.” His tone was much brighter now, any trace of sadness in his face gone, and Erik relaxed back into his seat, feeling more at ease. 

“So you’re saying you’ve always had an unfair advantage?” he asked, his tone laced with humour. Charles smirked mischievously. 

“Of course, by then I had no need for anyone to teach me; I could win without even trying. I’d just hear their next move in their minds and play against it. The maids all thought I’d developed some brilliant method of cheating; it caused such a stir in the house I actually had to start learning how to lose!” He laughed, picking up his bishop and moving it across the board. Erik let out an amused huff at that, looking down to see where Charles placed his piece. 

“And you’ve still yet to learn that lesson, it seems, seeing as you beat me every time.” Erik sighed, knocking over his own king with a flick of his finger, having realized that Charles had him at checkmate. 

“Better luck next time, my friend,” Charles said warmly, which was followed by a yawn. He finished the last sip of his scotch and lounged back in his chair once more, looking tired and just about ready to nod off. Erik’s eyes were getting heavy, and he figured he probably looked the same. A glance at the clock said it was well past midnight. 

“As long as you can read minds…” Erik began, rubbing his eyes, “Luck is not improving my chances.” 

“Perhaps not,” Charles mused, watching Erik stand. He fiddled with his now empty glass, fighting back the urge to yawn again, while Erik finished off his own drink before setting it down on the table. 

“Goodnight then, my friend,” Charles said as Erik moved for the door. A hand reached out to lightly touch Charles’ shoulder as he passed. 

“Go to sleep, Charles,” Erik murmured. Charles watched him go, smiling to himself, before finally getting up and retiring for the night.