#fear the walking dead image

[dailycrippledcharacters]

Wendell Rabinowitz (Fear the Walking Dead)

[Image Description: Wendell, a black man in a wheelchair, holds a large gun. He is wearing a gray hat, gray coat, and gray gloves. His hair is short and hidden by the hat. He is looking offscreen. Behind him, a white woman aims a fun above his head. In the background is a barbed wire fence and several buildings. End ID.]

Wendell is paralyzed and uses a wheelchair.

✨Wendell is played by a disabled actor!✨

[bandgie]

Just Once - Say Yes

werewolf!Chan x fem!reader

warnings! MDNI 18+, biting, very slight blood mentions, PIV, no protection, rut, knotting, fingering, nipple play, reader says it hurts once, breeding mentions, monsterfucking? (I could have done more)

notes! you know im down bad when I get wet from just seeing images of chan like what the fuck?

2.5k words

Chan knows he’s not supposed to be here, yet, that’s exactly where he is. It’s almost as if he’s not in control of his body and in a way he’s not. Your scent fills his nose even through the shut door of your bedroom. You’re sleeping, he figures. He can hear your steady, slow breaths and the gentle snores. 

His feet are planted, head resting on the wooden door as he groans. Chan wants so desperately to wake you up. To softly knock on your door until you answer in the dead of the night. Maybe seeing you will satiate his thirst. Just a glance at your figure can help him - it will be enough, but he’s not thinking rationally right now. He can’t. Not when his rut is at an all-time high. Chan is on top of his suppressors, but his breeding period and the full moon makes for an unbearable combo. 

He knows you will answer no matter how late it is. Chan can easily imagine you opening the door, dazed and confused. He would tell you he’s having a hard time by himself, tell you that he desperately needs your help.

Or maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all. He could just grab your plush hips and pull you into a kiss. Maybe you’d mumble sleepy questions, squeak when his hands find the fat of your ass, but you’d let him. He knows you would. 

That’s why he has to leave. Now. His cock throbs just thinking about how pliant you are for him. He tells himself that he’ll be satisfied with his hand or his fleshight which makes a shitty substitute. Chan knows breeding a human during such an intense time would be too much, too rough for them. As much as his body and wolf beg for you, that sliver of humanity is intact.

So he whines, quiet and high. Chan wills his legs to move, stepping back until he’s no longer pressed against your door. The floorboards creak under his feet with every step. He swears they’re telling him to go back, to bang on your door and pump you until he’s sure you’re knocked up. He really has lost it, convinced that the wood beneath is telling him to screw you.

Unbelievable. 

He’s too busy laughing and fighting with himself to hear you slip out of bed. Chan misses your quiet feet treading to your bedroom door, slowly opening it as you adjust your eyes in the dark. 

“Channie?”

The floorboards must be cursed to sound like you or maybe his rut is just that bad. He tried to brush off your call as him going insane, but the hair on his neck stands and the smell of you is so much stronger. Chan doesn’t want to turn around for your sake. His composure will break and he doesn’t want to imagine what you look like right now. 

“What are you doing out here?” You sound so tired barely coming out of your slumber. Chan doesn’t sense any fear from you, not even worry. You’re far too sleepy to feel anything beyond confusion. The trust you have for your lover, even if he is half beast, is endearing. It makes his heart swell and his stomach turn. He can’t tell if your love for him is naive or pure. Perhaps both.

He’s going to tell you that he’s okay. He just had a bad dream and needed to walk around the house for a bit. It’s not uncommon to see your boyfriend wandering the house late at night; you know how difficult it is for him to sleep. Chan was going to tell you, but he felt your hand wrap around his bicep. You gently tug him until he faces you and what a mistake that is. You’re dressed in a shirt much too big for you, his shirt. It barely goes past your ass and your pebbled nipples poke through the fabric. Your eyes are squinted, lips swollen from sleep. Chan’s eyes are captivated by your human beauty when you say, “Channie, is everything okay?”

No, everything is not okay. Chan’s been fucking into his hand for hours pretending it’s you - he’s knotted into his toy countless times. When he did get the stupid courage to go to your door, he backed away. It’s even worse now his cock is leaking being so close to you.

You should have stayed sleeping.

His strong arms wrap around your torso, pulling you in. There’s no time to question him when Chan presses his lips against yours. Your lover is usually gentle during kisses. He takes time to cup your cheek, to tilt his head so your mouths can better align. If he was really into it, he would suck on your bottom lip only to bite it until you gasped.

He doesn’t kiss you like that now, not even in the slightest. His hands cup your ass just as he imagined. They knead and dig into your flesh, pressing you flush against his crotch. His lips are rough and messy. Your teeth clash almost animalistically and he hears you whine into the kiss. Chan can’t tell if you're whining due to the neediness from his mouth or cock. He knows you can feel his stiffness against your leg. 

Your dainty hands find his chest to gently push at it. Chan’s usually good at reading the room, knowing what to do and when to do it. But this isn’t your Channie. He can’t even feel your fists when he keeps shoving his tongue down your throat. The taste of you is addicting. All he wants to do is feel you from the inside out. To have every part of him connected with you in the most primal way. 

It’s not until you whimper again that he notices. Chan sucks harshly on your tongue before he pulls away with a string of saliva connecting your mouths. His eyes are dazed when he looks at your features. Your face is flushed and your eyes are wide. If you were still asleep before, you’re wide awake now. Chan can tell you’re trying to come up with what to say, but you already know. You can feel his boner on your thigh, you can see the glow in his eyes, and the fact that his body seems thicker, denser. Chan has only let you see him during the end of his rut. He’ll lock himself in his room for days until he’s ready to socialize. You could always hear him on the other side though. How the slick sounds of whatever he’s using are surely filled with cum. If you pressed your ear against the frame, you could hear him softly calling out your name. You wanted to see him so bad. No matter how many times you asked, Chan would turn you down. It’s too dangerous, he’d said. I don't want to hurt you.

But that Chan is nowhere to be found. Instead, you’re faced with the very wolf he’s tried so desperately to keep you from. 

“Sorry,” he already knows what trouble you’ll be in tonight. “Hurts so bad. I can’t take it.” Chan grinds his cock to show you. “Just one knot. Just one I promise.” Ah, a promise. You both know how much Chan loves keeping his promises, but this is one he doesn’t know you’re hoping he’ll break. 

He doesn’t even know why he’s asking. He doesn’t think stopping is possible at this point, but he’d try. Chan is already trying to ignore how his lips ache for yours and stop thinking about how perfectly your body molds into his, but you hold on to him tighter. 

Chan doesn’t hear you say yes with how loud his blood drums in his ears, but he does see you nod. The sultry look in your eyes will do you more harm than good. He doesn't ask twice, doesn’t think twice. He smashes his lips against yours again, walking you back to your room without caring how you trip over your own feet. 

You feel the bed on the back of your knees and Chan rips himself from the kiss. He pushes you on the mattress, quickly crawling over you as one of his hands lifts the shirt to your shoulder. You gasp at how quickly he’s moving. His hot mouth is already latched onto your nipple while his hand dips past your underwear. 

By some magic, you’re already wet. Chan only plays with your clit for seconds before dripping his thick fingers into your heat. Squeals and wet pumps fill the room. Your back arches when he bites on your nipple, tugging the bud and letting go before doing it all over again. Bruises are already forming on your breast and Chan is eager to make your other match. His slick fingers pull from your pussy to tug your underwear down instead.

Your panties hang from one ankle, legs wide as Chan settles between them. The entrance of your cunt slightly gapes from his fingers. No time is wasted as he shrugs his boxers off, eyes never leaving your core. You almost want to close your legs from his staring, but you would miss the view of his cock springing free. 

“Oh shit,” you gawk at his size. Chan’s always been thick, a fat head that always stretches you out just right. But this - this is massive. His rut must make everything bigger. Even the knot that sits at the base of his cock seems triple in size. “Channie, I don’t think- there’s no way in hell you can fit.”

But he’s already stroking himself. Your worries fall on deaf ears when his fat tip touches your clit. He moans at the feeling of your lips around him. He presses his cock so that it grinds against your flesh hard. Your mouth falls open, gaze dropping so you can see him rock against your pussy. 

You think you could cum just like this. His engorged cock provides the perfect veins and ridges for stimulation. Still, your cunt clenches pathetically around nothing. Curiosity is a dangerous thing. It makes you think about what it would feel like to have his raw cock in you. Chan can tell you’re ready for it when you start grinding back, tilting your hips so his tip catches your entrance. 

It’s going to fit - he’ll make sure. Even if you cry and beg for him to slow down, he knows your body will break for him.

And it does just that with the first intrusion. The swell of his cock easily slides into you with a few inches following before he meets the inevitable resistance of your tight cunt. You whine, hands finding purchase on the pillow beneath you. It doesn't hurt, not in the slightest, but you can feel the pressure. Your walls clench and squeeze his girth until he forces himself to pull an inch out.

“Baby, shit,” he breathes. Chan attempts to gain composure through controlled inhales and exhales. “Why are you always so tight?”

Before you can even think about answering his rhetorical question, he thrusts himself deeper. Chan follows his breath, using his airflow as a metronome. In, out, in, out. Deeper, inch by inch, before he sees his knot come to contact with your cunt. 

He’s trying, really trying not to just pin your hands down by your sides and fuck his hips into you. Instead, he keeps his hands at your thighs, but he’s not sure if that’s any better. Chan’s claws dig into your tender flesh leaving marks that nearly split your skin. It must hurt with how hard he’s gripping you but your eyes roll to the back of your head with every thrust. 

Just like he thought, you’re so good to him. Even with your pretty whines and whimpers, you’re still such a good girl for your Channie.

Such a good girl.

It gets to him: your flushed cheeks, your bouncing tits, the moans that tumble from your swollen lips, and how your hands have moved from the pillow to try and grasp onto him instead. You must want more, he reasons. You must with the cream he sees coating his length every time he pulls out. You must with how you’re chanting his name, nearly sobbing it. 

You must with how you make his knot ache, begging to already shove its way inside you and spill. 

Chan can imagine it, he can taste it. It’s such a strong need that he growls, his sharp canines showing from his lips pulled back into an animalistic snarl. Saliva drips down his teeth when he thinks about biting you. Leaving marks on your neck that will only help hold you down while his knot finds its place in your womb. You hardly notice the droll seeping your tummy, too caught up with how harshly Chan is fucking into you.

You do, however, feel how his hips change pace. They get harder, sloppier as if he’s trying to shove that god-forsaken knot into you. 

“Channie!” It’s half-panicked and half-breathless. “Wait! That’s not - hng! I can’t-”

“You can,” he snarls. “And I will.”

Now you can see his teeth that clamp down so hard that his drool is tinted with pink. This is the first time you’ve seen him for what he truly is - a beast. A monster in its purest form with eyes that seem to glow, pitch-black nails that will surely leave marks for weeks, and canines you know can shred you in a second. 

Even with all of that, you know that this man - this wolf - is Channie. Your Channie.

So you don’t whine against him anymore. You don’t try to escape him when he lays his head in between your shoulder and neck to sink his teeth into. You embrace the bite, fully expecting unbearable pain, but instead, it’s blinded by the stretch of his knot in you.

Pleasure and pain intertwine, unable to separate from each other when Chan completely surrounds you. But your body reacts before your brain can. You let out a yelp and scratch your dull nails down his sculpted back. Chan moans into your neck at the feeling, shoving his hips impossibly deeper just to feel you do it again. 

“Sh-shit! Channie! Hurts…” but he doesn’t see your eyes roll to the back of your head at the feeling of his seed pumping into you. 

Chan doesn’t reply, can’t reply with how he’s pulled his teeth from you and begun licking your wounds. But he knows. His balls tense and release with every spurt of cum he gives you and you whimper with every pump. 

He’ll apologize in the morning; pamper you and make sure that you’re well rested. He’ll make sure to take care of you real good, especially with the chance of you giving him pups. 

Fuck. He can’t think like that. His cock jumps at the thought and he swears his knot swells all over again. Chan inhales your human scent, reminding him that you’re his priority no matter how much his rut makes him needy to breed. But even in his frenzy state, he doesn’t dare to tell you knotting can last up to 30 minutes.

[m1ckeyb3rry]

Series Synopsis: When the husband you’ve never met returns from the war you’ve never understood, he comes bearing a strange and inexplicable gift — a prince in chains who he refuses to kill.

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Mydei x F!Reader

Chapter Word Count: 10.2k

Content Warnings: pls check the masterlist there is. a lot. and i’m not retyping all of that LOL

A/N: I AM SOO SCARED TO POST THIS NGL LMAOAO like i said in the warnings i literally. have not played amphoreus yet. idek anything about mydei SDKJH i am so worried i will disappoint everyone who's expressed interest in reading this HAHA i was also. not expecting anyone to do that tbh. BUT thank you all for your kind words on the masterlist and i hope this lives up to expectations at least a bit!!

You spent the day of your wedding with a man made of marble — a stand-in for your new husband, who was off fighting in a war of the kind which had neither cause nor, seemingly, end. The statue was carved in his image and sneered down at you as you whispered to it, swearing vows of duty and obedience and docility, but, in spite or maybe because of its detached lifelessness, you found its presence to be a kindness. What did it say of your husband, that you preferred the company of that dead stone to him? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little. 

He is a generous man, the servants assured you, giggling amongst themselves, exchanging knowing looks as they dragged you into the foreign palace where you would spend the rest of your days. You will want for nothing.

It was draftier than your home, the wind bouncing off of the white walls and nipping at you skin. You spent your time buried under seven-and-twenty layers of furs and fabrics, lying in an unfamiliar bed and flinching away from the shadows upon the ceiling. This was an idle and dull way to waste away your existence, and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything else, trapped in the mire of waiting and waiting for your husband’s return.

He came back in the third month, which was as auspicious as anything. They loved that number here, you had come to find: three, the symbol of fortune and fate, of magic and mischief, of power and punishment. Three vows sworn; three blessings granted; three months passed before you finally met the man you had married.

There was much fanfare about his arrival. When you peered out of the window, you saw that the streets were stuffed to the bursting with throngs of people shoving one another around, hissing and biting as they craned their necks. At first it surprised you — was he truly so loved here, even when he was elsewhere despised? — but then you realized that it was not your husband upon his charger that they were all lined up to meet. Rather, it was the procession following him which captured their interests, the spoils of war which he displayed with a juvenile, worthless pride.

A triad of elephants covered in finely wrought armor, their heads hung low and resigned, their plodding walks spiritless and lame. A herd of sheep with silver wool, dotting the dark cobblestones like a cluster of stars, stumbling along at the prodding of a soldier-turned-shepherd. A wagon filled with spears and swords, ostensibly once neatly stacked, now a matted mess of steel and bronze. Vases carried in the arms of the younger men, overflowing with coins that trailed after them like breadcrumbs, snatched up by the most daring of the onlookers, who did not fear rebuke. And, finally, in a place so honorable it could only have been mocking—

“Lady,” a soft voice said. You drew your coat tighter around you, although today was, by all accounts, warm for the season, and pretended like you did not hear the girl. She sighed and then tugged on your arm insistently; perhaps it was improper, but there wasn’t anyone who would chide her for it. “You have been summoned by his majesty.”

Hadn’t you known this would happen eventually? Hadn’t you expected it? You had had your time to come to terms with it, which was more than most got, and so there was no excuse for the reluctance which choked your throat and stilled your footsteps. This was your duty, this was what you had sworn, and so — and so you could not hesitate.

“Lady…” the girl said with another sigh. You pretended to be all-consumed with the action of closing the curtains, your back to her as you struggled to force a smile onto your face. When you deemed your expression acceptable, you spun around and nodded at her.

“It will not do to keep him waiting,” you said, motioning for her to lead the way. She did so without complaint, perhaps relieved that you were not giving her further trouble; even now, the servants did not know what to think of you, could not quite fathom what category of being you were. Some were fond of you, but most treated you with a careful distrust that you could not blame them for, even though you sometimes wanted to.

The grand entrance hall of the palace opened to the mouth of the road, which swelled out into a sprawling courtyard. Its centerpiece was an enormous fountain which sprayed a fine, cool mist into the air no matter the time of year, and it was by this fountain that you waited, wringing your hands as your husband drew nearer and nearer. Belatedly, you thought that you should try to conceal your distress, but there was nothing to be done about it now. The best you could do was say, if you were asked, that it was simply the joy of a bride faced with the prospect of a reunion with her beloved. Nobody would question that, although then again, nobody questioned you very much in general, so it was doubtful that you’d even have to use the quick excuse.

Your husband’s warhorse was a sprightly, slender beast, its coat the dappled grey of royalty, its face pretty and dished in the way of the Eastern breeds. When it paused in front of you, it shoved its black muzzle into your shoulder, nearly knocking you down, and then it stomped its hoof when your husband tightened the reins, pulling it back before dismounting and handing it off to a waiting stableboy. 

“My apologies, dear lady,” he said, bowing before you with as much gallantry as you had been told he possessed. His voice was gentle and amused, his face even more handsome in flesh than it had been in stone; you should’ve, by all rights, felt pleased. You were married to this man. You belonged to him. How many women wished to be in your place? Yet all you could muster was fear, throttling and all-consuming. He was beautiful in the way of a snake, and you knew without knowing that he was poised, in some way, to strike.

“It is alright,” you said, disguising the tremble of your voice with a broad, false grin. “I am glad to finally make your acquaintance…my lord.”

The address was unfamiliar on your tongue. What would your younger self, that girl who had never known subservience nor strife, say if she saw you ducking your head in defeated compliance? How she would laugh! How she would pity you! My lord. But he was exactly that.

“The sentiment is returned in full,” he said, and then he extended his arms in a grand, sweeping motion. “Indeed, to celebrate this momentous occasion, I have arranged for you a gift!”

“A gift?” you repeated. Certainly, you had asked for no such thing, and you did not have the time to school your face into neutrality, naked surprise flashing across it. Your husband chuckled at the sight, nodding at you.

“I have brought the finest of plunders for you, dear lady,” he said, and your stomach twisted into knots at the familiarity with which he spoke to you, as if you were affable lovers instead of strangers. “Even your father’s treasures, vast and bountiful as they may be, cannot compare to this!”

The mention of your father stabbed at your heart, and hidden in the folds of your coat, you clenched your fists. Your father, the richest man in the world…and yet your husband dared compare his meager gift to that? You wanted to spit in his face that for your third birthday, your father had gifted you a villa made of gold, the walls inlaid with gemstones and painted with flowers. Indeed, you might’ve goaded him in such a way if you had the capabilities, but then you noticed what the army-men were bringing forth and your mouth suddenly refused to move.

It was the prisoner, the one kept in a place of honor by your husband and his soldiers, the one who the entire empire had ridiculed as he had been paraded through it like a champion hound. He was tall, towering over the army-men flanking him, and although his eyes drooped nearly shut, there was a heat to his demeanor, a severe, ferocious anger which shone through his exhaustion. He seemed like more of a half-tamed jungle cat than a man, and indeed when he halted before you, you half-expected him to snarl, to bare bloody fangs and lunge at your throat with fingers like claws, like swords, tearing through your neck as if it were paper.

“When he’s like this, you almost forget what a monster he can be,” your husband mused, reaching out and flicking the man on the forehead with a snicker. “Isn’t he all but lovely? Oh, don’t worry, dear lady, he can’t do anything to you. He’s under the influence of a sleeping draught at the moment, and anyways, those chains are thrice-blessed. It’s perfectly safe.”

The chains he spoke of were as gold as the man’s hair, looping around his wrists and forearms, curling over the red marks emblazoned on his shimmering skin, weaving in between his legs and around his torso. They were sturdy and gleamed with the power of their three blessings, and although you still understood little about this strange place with its strange power, you could tell that it would take a great force, greater than was possessed by any mere man or deity, to break them.

“He’s the prince of Kremnos,” your husband said when your shock stretched on. “A right beast, I’ll say. We almost fell to his efforts, but in the end, we bested him — as you can see. What do you think? Do you like him?”

“He’s — it’s — horrible,” you said, your skin crawling the longer and longer you stared at the prince, your words a jumble, your head spinning. You wanted to be anywhere but in this courtyard, in front of this fallen man, who was kept alive for — for what? For amusement? For play? As a gift?

“Isn’t he?” your husband said, patting you on the shoulder with a grim smile. “And now he is yours.”

The thrice-blessed chains flashed in the sun, and you shook your head, both in refusal and to clear your vision of the blinding, searing spots they left in it.

“I have no need of a prisoner,” you said, and although your tone remained ever-muted, you spoke as cuttingly as you could manage to. “What will I do with him? Why do you torture him so? You bested him; if he was as fierce an opponent as you claim, then the least you owe him is a death with dignity. Kill him and be done with the matter. Why have you brought him all this way? I don’t want him.”

“He will die, eventually,” my husband said. “I shall execute him myself when it comes to it, but the time is not yet right. I don’t expect you to understand such matters, and neither should you trouble yourself with doing so…but know this, dear lady: you cannot give back a gift once it has been freely given. You can do what you’d like with him now that he is yours, but you cannot refuse him. Perhaps that is how affairs were conducted in your backwards land, but here it is not so.”

You wanted my land, you longed to say. You took me from my father and wed me to a statue in search of it. And still you call it backward? But you could not, so instead, you turned away — away from the prince, who was close to crumpling and only remained standing out of sheer will, and away from your husband, who beamed as if he had done something great or wonderful.

“I will retire now,” you said. Do not follow me. This remained implied, unsaid, but a fool your husband was not, and so he only hummed in agreement.

“Be well, dear lady,” he said. “My messengers have told me that you are having difficulties adjusting to the climate here. I shall be sure to pray for your feeble constitution.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you said, stiffly, primly. It scratched like bile and you hated every minute of it, but you had no recourse for the matter, so you swallowed it down, as you always did and always would.

“And what of the prisoner?” he said. “Shall I send him to a jail? Do you think he is better suited for deprivation or pain?”

They meant to make him shatter, to methodically yank him apart until he faced death with the dull eyes and swayed back of an over-aged broodmare. You supposed to them it was meaningless — why should they show consideration or kindness to a man who would never show them the same? — but you were no warmonger, and that apathy did not cling to you yet. The prince was a beast born of sun, a wild, vicious creature, and if he really was slated to die, then you wanted him to meet his end as just that, nothing less. 

“Leave him be,” you said. “Treat him as well as you are able.”

“He would’ve killed me,” your husband said, a low note of warning in his voice. You shrank into the safety of your clothes, as if they were a shield against his vexation.

“But instead you will kill him,” you said. “So how does it matter? You said I could do as I like; well, this is what pleases me. Don’t prolong this anymore than necessary.”

You darted back into the palace without waiting to hear his answer, your jaw burning and your footsteps heavy against the mosaic floor as you ran all of the way to your chambers and slammed the door shut behind you.

For three days and three nights you did not leave your room, taking all your meals in seclusion, refusing any visitors that might attempt entry. You could not help it; the thought of seeing your husband or any of the soldiers made you want to weep — you! Who never wept, even as a baby! So you claimed that you were terribly unwell, that you could not stand for fear of collapse, and that managed to ward away your husband without incurring his wrath, even though it was only a temporary solution.

As the sun set on the fourth day, there was a knock on your door, and you were about to call out that you had no interest in conversation when someone hissed through the crack in the entrance: “Lady, I come not on your husband’s behalf but another’s. There is trouble, and you must attend to it.”

“What?” you said, scrambling to your feet, crouching by the entrance, pressing your ear to the wooden door without opening it. “Who is this? Who are you? Speak plainly, so that we may understand one another!”

There was a shuffling sound, and then an exhale. You worried with the collar of your shirt as you waited for them to continue, your arms pulled tightly around yourself, your brows furrowing together as you chewed on your lower lip.

“The prince of Kremnos,” they whispered. “He calls for you.”

“Are they mistreating him?” you said, straightening and flinging the door open. “The prince, are they — hello?”

The hallway was devoid of life. You peered down it, craning your neck this way and that, but it was placid, showing no signs of having been disturbed. Shutting the door slowly, you leaned against it, holding your head in your hands. Was this place driving you to insanity, then? And if it was, then why could you not have thought of something more pleasant than summons from a prisoner — prisoner!

Wasn’t it your duty to make sure your husband had held good on his word? The prisoner was yours, though the notion of ownership sent unpleasant shivers down your spine and didn’t feel quite right — perhaps a better way to think of it, then, was responsibility. He was your responsibility, and maybe the strange vision had been nothing more than a reminder of what you owed the man.

You waited until it was midnight, when you could be certain that your husband would not rise from his slumber at the sound of your activity, and then you donned a pair of slippers and a cloak, throwing the hood on and retreating into the billowing depths of the fabric, so that your face was obscured from prying eyes. Of course, there would not be very many of those, not at such a late hour, but you did not want to risk even one person recognizing you and reporting back to your husband, whose reaction to this escapade you could not foretell.

Although you were not so familiar with the palace’s layout, as you had never spent much time exploring it, most constructions of this nature followed a similar plan, and you had grown up in exactly such a grand, sweeping home, so you found the doorway to the cellar in record time. As the palace had no towers, the cellar was the only logical option for the keeping of such a dangerous prisoner, and you had no doubt in your mind that this was where you would find the prince, if he was still somewhere that you could find him.

The half-moon was your only witness as you fumbled with the lock, trying every key in your possession until one finally slotted into place and turned. Wincing as the door heaved open with a profound creak, you yanked it shut behind you quickly, without ceremony, lighting a small candle and using it to guide your way down the dark stairs, rushing so that you were out of sight in case someone came to investigate.

You did not know how long you walked for, but eventually the stairway ended, giving way to cool, damp earth. The must of uncut stone permeated the thick, heavy air, and the adjustment of your eyes to the surrounding blackness was slow, the pain of it only alleviated somewhat by the little candle’s valiant flame.

“Come to toss scraps at me?” The voice was rumbling and low; in spite of its weakness, you could hear a sneer in it, a disdain in the rough baritone. “You needn’t try again. Like I told you, I won’t eat your trash.”

“No,” you said. “I’ve brought nothing with me.”

There was a brief pause, and then: “You sound different than the others.”

“This tongue is foreign to me, as it is to you,” you said. “I cannot speak it in the same way as those who were born here. Verily I have been instructed in the art since I was but a child, for my father must have known in that manner of his what would eventually become of me, but I will never lay claim to it the way that a native of this empire would.”

“You’re his wife.” Chains clanked, the harsh drag of metal against stone reverberating in the cellar, and then you felt more than saw his looming countenance, filling what you had mistakenly believed upon arrival to be an empty room. Swinging your candle before you so that it was close to your heart, you gasped when it reflected in a pair of eyes glaring at you from mere paces away, the irises possessing a hollow and impossible brilliance in the way a pair of fading embers might. 

The chains now only encircled his left leg, binding him to the wall but leaving him otherwise free to move as he liked within the length of his confines. He had been stripped of armament and adornment alike, his mane of hair tangled and falling lank about his broad shoulders, yet for all of these injustices, you had no doubt in your mind that he was anything but a prince. He had a dignity to him, a hard-won pride to the straightness of his back and the firmness of his gaze; before you could chase it away, the thought came to you that there was far more intrinsic nobility to this man than there was even your husband.

“I suppose that I am,” you said.

“Have you come to gloat about your craven lord’s cowardly victory, then?” he said. The chains were pulled taut, so he could come no closer to you than he already was — you were sure of this, but you were still a slave to your instincts, which urged you farther and farther from him with every second. He watched you go with some measure of delight, like he was relishing in this power which you had inadvertently gifted him, and when you skittered to a stop, he huffed. “There is nothing to be proud of, and you look a fool for suggesting there might be.”

“I was just…” you trailed off, because it suddenly felt entirely absurd to suggest that you were inquiring after his wellbeing. What did it mean, the wellbeing of a doomed man? What reason would he have to believe your intentions? “What is your name?”

“My name?” he said with a brittle, incredulous laugh that rapidly descended into a cough. “Why? Do you wish to curse your husband with it? Does your language not have gods you can swear on?”

“You’re sickly,” you said, frowning and ignoring his jabs.

“You have torn me from the sun and chained me in this dingy room, and yet you have the gall to be surprised by that?” he said, scoffing. “You’re more of an idiot than that husband of yours.”

“I did no such thing!” you said. The defiance took you by surprise. You had forgotten what it felt like to defy someone, to disagree and resist their words, to feel alive with resentment and bad-temper. “I didn’t wish for this. I didn’t wish to keep you here anymore than you wished to be kept!”

“Is that so?” he said, and then he grinned at you, but it was less of a smile and more of a threat. “Then free me.”

“What?” you said.

“If you don’t want me, then free me,” he said.

“You’ll kill me if I do,” you said uneasily, shifting from foot to foot. 

“I give you my word that I will spare you,” he said, placing a solemn hand over his heart. 

“Not the others?” you said.

He did not respond, which in and of itself was a response. It was one you shouldn’t have liked as much as you did, but in truth the prospect of such a slaughter made your fingers twitch towards him. Only for a moment, and immediately, you shoved your hands behind your back, but it was too late — he had seen, and he raised his eyebrows at you in return.

“Well, anyways, it doesn’t matter,” you said hastily, hoping to distract him before he could comment on the treason. “I couldn’t free you even if I wanted to. Your chains are thrice-blessed. I didn’t know what that meant until recently, but now that I do, I understand why you have been kept without even a permanent guard.”

“Blessings,” he said, rolling his eyes. “Don’t tell me you put genuine stock into that drivel.”

“Perhaps the gods of other lands have forsaken their subjects, but this empire is known as the birthplace of every divine act, and so deities still sometimes glance upon its people and offer up their favor. Thrice-blessed chains are one such offering, for they are in fact more like contracts than they truly are chains,” you said. When he did not interrupt you with any snide remarks, you were emboldened to continue. “They can restrain anything, even a god, but this strength comes at a cost: they are conditional. If their captive can understand this condition and meet it, they will crumble into dust, but until then, the chains remain unbreakable.”

“What is it?” he said insistently, reaching out his hands like he was going to grab you and shake the answer out. He fell short, grasping at empty air, his muscles straining against the chains which, true to legend, did not falter. “This condition. Whatever it is, I will do it. You only need to tell me and I will do it!”

“I don’t know,” you said. His lip curled, and you shook your head frantically. “No, no, I’m telling you the truth, I really don’t know! Only the wielder and the gods he prayed to can know for certain. The conditions are decided arbitrarily, without trend or reason. It could be anything from singing a song to moving a mountain! At least, that’s what I’ve gathered from the little I’ve read on the topic.”

“The wielder — your husband, then? That’s easy enough. Bid him to tell you, and then relay to me his answer,” he said.

“Easy enough? Not in the slightest. He would just as soon do your bidding as he would mine,” you said. The prince squinted at you, and evidently he must’ve determined that you were serious, for he broke into that awful laugh again, the one that must’ve once been handsome and full-bodied but now was little more than a rattling plea for air. 

“You are pitiful,” he said. “I thought that you must be some great, fearsome empress, as wicked as your husband, but you are just a frightened mouse of a girl. You would not survive a day in Kremnos, you know. It would crush you.”

Duty. Obedience. Docility. They were branded onto you, swirling letters that you had unwittingly carved into yourself with every wedding vow you spoke, and you could not escape them any more than the prince could escape his chains. If only you could argue with him, tell him that once upon a time, you had been someone unrecognizable from who you were now…but already, you had tested their limits. Your tongue was frozen in your mouth, refusing to move in anything but accordance with your oaths, and so you only clasped your hands together.

“If you say it is so, then it really must be the case,” you said. “Farewell, prince of Kremnos.”

“Farewell,” he said, but it was clear he did not mean it. “Dear lady.”

“Don’t call me that,” you said, recognizing the provocation for what it was. “You are not my husband, nor do I wish for you to be.”

“Then what should I refer to you as?” he said. “Your excellency? Your grace? Your most exalted highness? Your holiness, the saint of the realm?”

“Here, I am only known as lady,” you said quietly. “But I bore a different name before. I cannot…I cannot say it anymore, but if you ever come to know of it by other means, then please call me as such.”

Morning brought with it a freezing palm pressed to your brow. It startled you to consciousness both because of its temperature and its temerity, for you could not fathom who had dared to enter your room without your permission, and while you were asleep, at that! In the haze of your sleep-addled mind, a rebuke rose to your lips, but then someone clicked their tongue and you fell silent even as you clambered to a more alert state.

“Your fever has finally broken, dear lady! You do not know how overjoyed I am to hear it,” your husband said, helping you into a sitting position, one hand cradling the back of your neck and the other holding up a glass. You blinked, trying to clear the fog from your vision, swallowing down the water he poured down your throat without objection.

“Fever?” you said.

“The ailment you have been suffering from,” he said. “I was told it was a fever of some sorts. I bore it quietly, the prospect of your malaise, but today I could not stop myself from checking on you. I had some dreams of playing the nurse, but here you are, entirely well! Such a miraculous recovery.”

His grandiose words masked suspicion with affection, but he did not make any further accusations, for just as you had sworn to heed him, so too had he promised to trust you. His vows had been made to a portrait of yours, as well as written in pig’s-blood and sent to you in a sealed envelope. You could recall them with perfect clarity, the way the stench of iron clung to the parchment as you unfolded it and rang your fingers over the lines, which were grouped in stanzas of three. 

Trust. Favor. Companionship.

You spent the entire day with your husband, although you had neither the desire nor the will for it. You hardly ever had the desire or the will to do anything, of course, not nowadays, but this was the worst of all, because your husband was not just a reminder but the very reason for everything which had happened to you. Still, you could not refuse, so you trotted along at his side, motionless as he showed you off to his officers, his advisors, and even, at one point, his cousin, who could not be less interested in you if he tried.

“Brother,” he said boredly, for indeed he and your husband were the only children of their respective fathers, and so were more like siblings than anything, “you have better things to be doing than showing off a woman who doesn’t bear showing off in the first place.”

“Are you saying that she is somehow deficient?” your husband said, swelling up with righteous indignation. Anyone else might’ve lost their head for the statement, especially given how blandly he had said it, but his cousin was above reproach, being the only person he really loved.

“I’m saying that she looks ill with misery,” his cousin said, and then he sighed, returning to his book. “I’m not so sure the lady has recovered from her illness. You ought to be more cautious with her, that’s all.”

His cousin was younger and handsomer than he, and as the two of you walked away, you thought that you would not have minded marrying him as much. Though perhaps this was a paradox — after all, if he had taken you in the manner that your husband had, then you would have hated him, too. It was your lot in life, then; always you would detest whoever you wed, whoever stole your freedom in that way and bound you to them with the cruel ropes of matrimony.

The hall where you took your dinner was like an enormous cavern, so large that you felt like your voice might echo if you spoke. You and your husband were the only ones in it, which heightened the effect, and every clank of his silverware against his porcelain dishes resounded in your ears like discordant bells.

“My prisoner,” you said after a long time had passed wherein the two of you discussed nothing. Your voice was dry with disuse, and you pushed the food on your plate around without attempting to eat, although it was all appetizing and you were certainly hungry.

“What?” your husband said, covering his mouth with his hand as he chewed.

“My prisoner,” you said, clearing your throat but keeping your gaze trained firmly on your food. “The prince of Kremnos. Is he well?”

“You’re asking after his health?” your husband said with a chuckle. When you did not laugh or otherwise indicate that you were joking, he frowned at you. “You needn’t fret. As you requested, I am treating him as well as I am able. Far better than he deserves.”

The image of the prince, chained and kept in darkness, the only sound his persistent cough and unsteady breathing, given scraps for sustenance and mice for company, flashed across your mind. 

“I wish to see him,” you said. There was a warning in the back of your head — duty, obedience, docility — but you ignored it as best as you could, stabbing oversharp fingernails into your thighs, hard enough to draw blood and distract you from the dangerous line you tread. “My lord, I wish to see the prince and ensure that he is alright with my own eyes.”

At this your husband did not even pretend to humor you. He burst into a raucous fit of cackles, his fork and knife clattering to the table, his eyes watering at the corners. You waited for him to stop, picking your own cutlery up in vain before setting it down and folding your hands in your lap.

“No,” he said. “I am afraid that I cannot allow that, dear lady.”

“You cannot—” you began, but it was too much, you had stepped over that precarious boundary, and now you were frozen. Gulping, you counted to five before continuing. “He is mine. He is mine, you said it yourself, so why — can’t — I — see — him?”

Each word dug into you like gravel, and you knew that you had lost this argument before you could even attempt to have it. How could you ever win? When you had sworn thrice over that you would be tractable, how could you ever try to be anything else? Your intentions did not matter as much as the execution, not to the number three and the power it lent this empire.

“How obstinate,” your husband said, appraising you with a new eye. “I am sorry, dear lady, but as my cousin said, you are still weak. It will do you no good to be faced with such a base creature. You can see him again on the day of his execution.”

“Yes,” you said through gritted teeth, which was not as much as you wanted to do but was as much as you could, at present, manage. “Might I be excused?”

“Excused? You haven’t eaten anything,” he said, pointing at your plate. True to his word, it was untouched, and you picked it up, holding it close to your chest as you stood. 

“My stomach is protesting,” you said. “I will take it to my room and eat it later. If it pleases you.”

“Very well,” he said, waving at you. “I shall pray for your health, dear lady. Sleep as late as you’d like tomorrow, but once you are awake, I implore you to join me in my preparations. There is a grand celebration in the afternoon, as a marker of our victory against Kremnos, and I have been summoned to speak; if you could muster some words as well, it might hearten the people and warm them to you.”

“Yes, my lord,” you said. “I shall think of something.”

“See to it that you do,” he said, watching you with an unreadable expression on his face as you left, your footsteps growing faster and faster until you were all but racing to your room, your head spinning and palms clammy like you had gotten away with some great crime. 

Tonight, there were no strange voices beckoning you, but that did not stop you from staying awake far past the moon’s rise, waiting until it hung over the clocktower before picking your way back to the cellar, your heart pounding as you crept back down those dark, endless stairs, an actual lantern in one hand and your plate in the other.

The prince was still there. You had half-expected him to have disappeared, to have turned out to be some figment of your imagination, but he was leaning against the wall, his arms folded over his chest and his lips pursed as he watched the light of your lantern approach. When he realized it was you, his eyes narrowed, and he tucked his chin to his chest in what you could only assume was a stubborn display of the meager strength he had left.

“I brought food for you,” you said, setting the lantern on the last stair and presenting the plate before you. “Please eat it.”

“What do you think I am?” he said. “Some kind of a dog, such that I am eager for  you to foist your refuse on me? Hardly. Take it and leave me at once.”

“You’ll waste away,” you said. “You are only doing yourself a disservice! This is my own dinner, which I have gone without so that I could bring it to you. Does that make it easier to stomach?”

“Shall I sit on the floor, then, and eat it with my hands?” he said with a disparaging smile. “Will that amuse you? Is that why you’ve come? I heard your husband, you know. ‘Do what you’d like with him now that he is yours.’ How joyless your life must be, to think that this is what you entertain yourself with!”

“It is joyless,” you bit back, and your eyes widened at the freedom of the declaration. “It is! But you are not my — you are not some kind of amusement, I resent that you — I even spoke against my husband for you, and you say that! Fine, then. Starve, you thoughtless simpleton! Starve and die for all the good it’ll do me!”

You turned on your heel and stomped towards the stairs with the graceless irascibility of a child, not even sparing a glance over your shoulder at the prince. He was quiet, but you knew from the heavy weight of his stare on your back that there was something like turmoil brewing in his mind, a turmoil which weakened your resolve with every step you took away from him.

It was to your credit that you made it all of the way to where the lantern was sitting before you wavered, your stride shortening until you halted in place. Scrunching up your face, wondering when you had developed this love for punishment, for strife and conflict, you allowed your shoulders to sag in acceptance.

“Dispose of this before anyone comes to see you,” you said, shoving the plate into his hands before he could protest. “I suppose it matters little how you do it, but you must, or else I will be convicted of treason, and where will that leave us? Imprisoned side by side and left to rot together.”

He did not respond until you were almost out of earshot entirely, and then he coughed. You could not tell whether it was to capture your attention or to clear his voice of any residual hesitance; regardless, he accomplished both objectives, as you lingered for a moment longer than you would’ve.

“Ten,” he said. “That’s how many times I could’ve killed you in the time you’ve been here. But I—”

You continued walking before you could hear the rest of it.

You woke up the next day in better spirits than you had in some time, and in fact when a servant announced that you had a visitor, you opened the door with a new vigor. Upon realizing that the man in front of you was not your husband but rather his cousin, you thought that you might die from the glee of it all. Taking his arm, you allowed him to escort you to where the imperial contingent was setting up for the festival, at a grand stage which took up most of the square and was already laden with visitors at its base.

“It is a relief to see you recovering so well,” your husband’s cousin said. “The rumors in the palace are that you’ve contracted some illness of the chronic variety; in truth I believed them, especially after our meeting yesterday, but today I see that you have been revitalized. Did you rest well last night, then? I heard that you did not eat your dinner, but you must’ve taken it in your room, yes?”

You had done neither of those things, and his questioning did make you pause. What was the cause of your good mood? You had gone to sleep for only a short time, without much of anything in your stomach, and your situation had not improved any, so why did you feel, even if only marginally, as if you were something like yourself again?

“I suppose it must be something like love,” he mused, without waiting for your answer. 

“Ah, pardon?” you said, startled from the winding turns and byways of your thoughts at the strange declaration.

“To think that even a day in your husband’s presence has cured you to such an extent,” he explained. “Surely it is love? I cannot think of any other name for it…but I apologize! It is not my place to inquire, nor to speculate. I trust you will not tell my cousin about this?”

He had, in the taken-aback blink of your eyes and the pinch of your brow, found what he was seeking: a demure shyness which he could only comprehend as a lack of affection. You knew, then, that you had passed the test of the man, who had not believed any more than your husband that you were truly ill.

“I will take your leave,” he said, and then his palm clamped down on your shoulder. “But I trust you know this: however much you may love your husband, he is a difficult man to be loved by in return. If ever you are in search of solace…there are places you may turn to, dear lady.”

“What did he say to you?” your husband said, appearing at your side with his expression arranged into something like a frown. “I could not hear. Was he bothering you? I am sorry if he was. He has always been headstrong.”

“He was not bothering me,” you said, incapable of lying to your husband with any great skill but remaining certain that it was absolutely imperative you did not divulge his cousin’s secrets to him. “We spoke as family members might.”

If he recognized your evasive language, he did not comment on it. Instead, he stroked his chin in thought, and then he directed his attention towards the stage, where one of his generals was beckoning him — and, by extension, you.

The sun hung high in the sky as you ascended to the podium, though its rays did not dare touch you, disguised in your husband’s shadow as you were. Your vows tied more than your tongue, after all; your entire being, everything but your heart and your mind, were trained and twisted into the picture of submission, and soon those, too, would fall, leaving you a husk which could do nothing but nod and follow along.

Your husband did not need to start with any address. His mere presence was enough to silence the gathered empire, every single onlooker leaning towards the stage in eager anticipation of his words. From your vantage point, it was like the swell of a tide, crushing and suffocating, inescapable in its overwhelming intensity, but where you withdrew, your husband brightened at the weight, lifting his head and squaring his shoulders.

“Mydeimos,” he said, over-enunciating every syllable. The word, unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, had a rhythmic, marching cadence, more suited to a battle-cry than a formal declaration, and it seemed you were not alone in your thinking, for it had all the effect of one on the crowd.

A heckling clamor burst from them, the individual words indecipherable but for brief snippets. Demon. Monster. Warmonger. Kill. Curse. Blood. Kill. Kill. Kill! Your husband waited for them to quiet of their own volition, and only then did he venture to continue, this time with a wide, beaming grin.

“Mydeimos has fallen. The prince of terrors is no more!” he shouted, raising his fist in the air to thunderous applause. “Without him to lead the army, Kremnos will surely follow suit. Their lands will be ours within the year, of this much I assure you! Our empire will soon be the most prosperous in all the world. Even the great lands of the Southern Sea will pale in comparison!”

Your heart twinged at the mention of the Southern Sea. You could envision it even now, the streaks of salt left on the cliffs where the water lapped at them, the ripples in the placid blue where the balmy winds skimmed along the surface, the moon-white sand as it clung to the crevices of your feet and hands.

When you were younger, your father would take you on his boat and dip his fingers into it, urging you to do the same. You would ask him why and he would answer, always with a laugh or a smile: of all the jewels in my treasury, my darling, the Southern Sea is the second-loveliest. Then you would ask him which could be the first, if even the sea was not its equal, and he’d press his damp hands to your cheeks and kiss your hair and say you, my darling, you and only you.

“What a horrible thing he was,” your husband said. “Mydeimos. That wretched excuse of a man…the world is all the better now that he is locked away. I watched him — watched him, good citizens, with my own eyes — tear out a man’s heart with naught but his nails and teeth! Even now I can imagine it…the tips of his canines dark with pierced flesh…bits of entrails coating his fingers…the heart still beating in his palms…he looked the proper part of a devil, and I was certain that I had died and found damnation!

“But as I said, he is no more. Our army prevailed, as we always have, and as we always will; I made Mydeimos beg for mercy with my sword at his throat and my foot upon his inhuman heart, and then I dragged him back so that all of you could see what he has been relegated to — a chained puppy, given to my dear lady as a pet and kept as a servant until the day of his execution.

“For the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!”

Your husband concluded his speech and pulled you forward simultaneously, with a great flourish which invited praise and drew attention to you both. You swallowed, your mind racing at breakneck speed, far too quickly for you to make any sense of the things you were saying until you were saying them.

“I have not seen the prince of Kremnos — Mydeimos — since the day that he was brought to me,” you said. The applause that had begun faded as soon as the soft words sparkled into existence, and the many eyes of the audience blurred together until you could pretend like you were alone, like you were speaking to nothing but small, bright stones reflecting your own sentiments. “But as my lord husband said, he was proud. I feel as though I have never seen a man prouder. Even after his loss, he remained proud. Even with nothing else left, he clung to that pride, that assurance…I remember thinking to myself that it was, in its own way, admirable. That he was admirable.”

Your husband’s arm around your waist grew tighter with unspoken warning, though it needn’t have. You had said all that you wanted, all that you could, and now there was nothing left but the judgement of the collective.

“Lady!” someone shouted, the singular soul brave enough to speak. She was a woman — you wondered if this was what bolstered her confidence, a perceived kinship between the two of you for that fact alone. “Do you fear the prince?”

“No,” you said, and although you had meant it only as a vague and empty placation, you were surprised to find that it rang true. You were not afraid of him, and it wasn’t his chains or his infirmity which caused this emotion to surge in you; rather, it was what he had told you last night, that declaration he had made with the utmost of seriousness, which you had not even allowed him to complete. “I am not. He cannot harm me.”

You knew your words would be interpreted as faith in your husband and the empire, and furthermore that this misinterpretation would curry favor with your subjects and your lord alike, so you did nothing to correct it. Yet you would know, and would hold close to your heart the knowing, that it was not your husband who you held faith in: it was Mydeimos, the prince of Kremnos, who might’ve killed you ten times over but had instead let you live.

“You have much to improve in terms of your orating,” your husband said coldly as the three of you — him, his cousin, and yourself — returned to the palace.

“I thought her speech was excellent,” his cousin said, shooting you a sly smile behind his back. “Very concise, and of a good style. It’s a gift to be able to convey meaning so succinctly. You ought to nurture it.”

“She certainly conveyed a meaning,” your husband said. “It remains to be said what value that meaning truly holds.”

“Is that for you to decide? Ah, brother, don’t be a curmudgeon, I am only teasing you! You spent so much of our childhood poking fun at me, so how can you fault me for paying you back in kind?” his cousin said.

“You need some lessons in respect,” your husband said, but without any real bite behind it. His cousin snickered before sobering, shifting his weight toward you.

“Will you take your dinner in your chambers again, lady?” he said. You nodded.

“If it does not offend,” you said. 

“Do as you please,” your husband said. “Though I expect you’ll do that anyways, sworn to me or not. Isn’t that right, dear lady?”

You couldn’t think of any response which would be satisfactory, so you said nothing, allowing the two of them to escort you to your room, where you waited with bated breath until the night fell and you could return to the cellar.

The entire way down the stairs, you turned the name over in your mind, polishing it in the way waves polished driftwood, battering it with incessant worry until it shone, uncanny and unrecognizable. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. Mydeimos. The prince of terrors. The man who had torn a heart out with his teeth. What did it say of you, that you were making your way to exactly such a knave? With trepidation, of course, but what did it say that you were still doing it anyways? Perhaps very much, or perhaps very little.

“There is an odd pattern to your footsteps,” he said before you could even greet him. He stood as he always did, prepared for a battle that he would never again see. “Or perhaps it is your breathing, or something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” you said, putting your lantern and the dinner down in the space between you both. “I walk and breathe as I always have, as others do.”

“I know you,” he said, disgust mingling with the barest traces of awe in his tone. “The door to this cellar opens frequently. All manner of men come to visit me, to mock me from their places at the bottom of the stairs, lambasting me from the safety of their distance. I recognize few, and  I remember fewer — nor do I have any great desire to — but when it is you, I know. From your very step, from the very creak of the door, I know. I cannot understand how or why, but I know.”

“My husband told me your name,” you said after a pause, when it became clear he was not expecting a reaction from you. Motioning towards the food in a gesture you hoped he took to kindly, you continued: “I did not ask him, but he mentioned it in passing, so naturally now I know it.”

“I see,” he said, and although his gaze flicked towards the ground, he did not move. You remembered, then, what else your husband had said in that speech of his, the vainglorious words echoing in your ears: for the surest way to kill a Kremnoan is to destroy their pride, and the prince of terrors has more pride than most, so we must endeavor to strip him of it, systematically and fastidiously, until even a child can cut him down!

“Mydeimos,” you said, and then you sat on the floor, which was made of a cold stone that shot chills down the backs of your legs. Resting your elbows atop your thighs and your chin in your hands, you blinked up at him. “That is what he called you. ‘The prince of terrors.’”

“How unimaginative,” he said, and you suppressed a shudder at his glare, which was baleful and acute as it settled upon you. “My-deimos. Many-terrors. Yes, that is my name, though that ridiculous nickname is of his own invention. The Kremnoans would laugh if they heard it.”

“He said that he watched you tear out a man’s heart with your nails,” you said, and then you glanced at his lips, simultaneously and unconsciously wetting your own with the tip of your tongue. “And your teeth.”

He bared those very teeth, white and glinting, in a barking laugh — as much an expression of warning as it was humor. “My teeth! Your husband is one for fiction.”

“And — and he spoke of how he defeated you,” you said. At this, anything resembling mirth vanished from Mydeimos, and he grew curiously immobile — you almost thought that you had frightened him into the grips of memory, but then you realized that he was not frozen as much as he was waiting.

“Did he?” he said. “And what did your husband say of my defeat, dear lady?”

“He  made you beg for mercy with his sword at your throat and his foot upon your inhuman — upon your heart,” you said, correcting yourself for the slip of the tongue, finding no merit in telling him about that particular detail. “And then he dragged you back here.”

The longer Mydeimos remained silent, the shallower your breaths became, a cold fist forming around your heart and squeezing, the muscles in your arms and legs contracting, protesting their inactivity. You needed to run. If you were wiser, if you had anything resembling self-preservation, you would run, would flee and hope that you were fast enough to make it to the stairs before he pounced. 

You supposed you lacked both wisdom and self-preservation in spades, for you remained on the floor, peering up at him and praying that he could not read your mind, could not comprehend the depths of your thoughts.

“So that is his story,” he said. “I should’ve known he wouldn’t tell his people the truth.”

“He made it up,” you said rhetorically.

“You don’t sound surprised,” he noted.

“It is not — it is not —” You gnawed on the inside of your cheek, trying to come up with some way to circumvent your wedding vows, some way you could impress upon him what you were trying to say. “When we were wed, it was said that I loved him madly and completely, that I bawled to my father until he allowed me to come here.”

“Then it is not his first time dabbling in such falsehoods,” Mydeimos completed. When you nodded, he snorted. “You cannot speak ill of him, can you? Is it magic?”

“In the way of this land,” you said with a shrug.

“What an emperor,” he said. “So he can neither bed his wife nor win his battles without the use of tricks and obfuscation? Where I come from, they have a word for those like that, but as it is foul, I will not trouble you with hearing it.”

“What do you mean?” you said. “Ah, not by the foul word…that is, what tricks do you refer to? If the story he told is inaccurate, then how did he really defeat you? For surely he must have, or else you would not be here.”

“He did not defeat me,” he said. “Believe it or not, but that is the truth.”

“How?” you pressed, for you had already eschewed wisdom once and did not mind doing so again.

For a moment, it was as if the sun shone down upon him again. You saw him as he was on the day he met you, or perhaps even before — the prince of Kremnos, sleek and powerful and indomitable, red marks blooming in place of the scars he would never receive, eyes ablaze in his hollow face, hair as wild and untamed as his spirit.

“He surrendered,” Mydeimos said, scowling. “Our numbers were smaller, but Kremnoans have never cared for things like odds. We were winning, indubitably we were winning, and your husband knew it as well as we did. They attacked us in our own territory, fought us with our own weapons…how could we have lost? We would’ve wiped them out, but your husband and his men raised their white flags, and so we ceased to attack them.

“I went to parley with them, to negotiate the terms of their surrender. In a show of goodwill, I agreed to your husband’s request to come unaccompanied. His men were exhausted, and I found it honorable that he was putting their wellbeing first, so I ignored my instincts and the warnings of my advisors, going forth alone, leaving my armor and weapons as I was instructed to.

“That was my mistake. I should never have expected honor from a serpent, whose nature it is to bite. The surrender was a ploy; I was met by hordes of guards, each with a spear pointed at my heart. Even then, I fought. Do not think I met my end willingly, dear lady — I fought and killed as many men as he threw at me. I could’ve killed them all, I would’ve killed them all, but right as I was about to, he threw these chains at me from the corner where he hid. It should not have worked, his aim and the strength behind it were both lacking, but it was as if the metal had a mind of its own, and before I knew it I was bound.”

“As I told you, they are thrice-blessed,” you said. “Divine. They long to fulfill their purpose, and will do anything to that end. If it defies the laws of nature, well, what are those laws compared to the ones who wrote them? Those men were only a distraction. Once my husband received these chains, there was nothing which could’ve changed your fate.”

“What sort of a god favors a man who feigns surrender?” Mydeimos said. “What kind of deity loves perfidy?”

“I have often asked myself the same questions,” you admitted, half-expecting yourself to be unable and closing your eyes in relief when you weren't. “Why is it that he is the one they champion? What justice is there in that? He must have been a saint in his past life, to be treated as he is. A saint, or a martyr, or something like that. Something wonderful to the point of deserving so many miracles in this next iteration of his.”

You chose your speech carefully, injecting as much resentment into it as was needed to convey to the prince what you really meant, but not enough that you seized up into inaction. Not enough that you strained against the hold that your vows held over you.

You heard him exhale, and at this, you allowed your eyes to flutter open once more, peeking up at him and immediately wishing you hadn’t.

Whatever had briefly rallied in him, whatever fervor and fire he had briefly regained…it was gone. It was gone, leaving him fractured and bereft, forlorn instead of fearsome, prisoner instead of prince. Your husband had done that to him. Your husband had destroyed him, as he had destroyed you, and it was this reflection of your own fate which tore at you the most.

Breaking off a piece of bread, you dipped it in the long-cooled sauce pooled in the corner of the plate, and, without a word, held it out to him. He eyed it suspiciously, and for a moment you thought he might refuse it. The beginnings of an argument bubbled to the surface, but it never had the chance to take shape — before your lips could so much as part, he knelt across from you and took your proffered hand by the wrist.

Holding it in place, his thumb digging into your pulse like a reminder that he didn’t want this, didn’t want to accept your help, he used his free hand to swipe the bread from your palm. Then, his brows heavy, low over his eyes with mistrust and reluctance, he shoved it into his mouth and ate it.

taglist (comment/send an ask to be added): @mikashisus @ivana013-blog @mizukiqr @shehrazadekey @simp-simp-no-mi @reapersan @casualgalaxystrawberry @secretive3amramenmaker [if your tag does not show up in grey, that means tumblr had an issue with it, sorry! sometimes it does that sadly]

[graphicpolicy]

Weekly Preview! Comics, Graphic Novels, Manga, oh my!

Weekly Preview! Comics, Graphic Novels, Manga, oh my! See what's coming to GPTV! #comics #comicbooks #graphicnovel #manga

There are a lot of comics coming out every week to be covered. Check out some of what we’ll be reviewing and this is only the beginning! This week’s reviews include: Fear of a Red Planet #4 (AfterShock) Science Comics: Electricity (First Second) Squire & Knight Vol. 1 (First Second) Survival Scout: Lost in the Mountains (Roaring Brook Press) Not pictured: Frank Miller Presents: Pandora #5…

[gojossugarcandy]

To say your life has changed would be a huge understatement. In under the span of one week, you had found yourself a boyfriend and were already living together.

Ciaran was not only your boyfriend, but also a vampire. A very jealous, possessive, insecure and obsessed vampire.

Society always warns the younger generation to be wary of bad people. Nonchalance was the key to a healthy relationship and what not. Of course, being the youngster you are, you ignored all of those and were rather happy to have someone obsess over you.

It gave off a feeling of superiority.

But things quickly changed, a month in your relationship and you were already tired of it. And thus, you let your intrusive mind make a fatal decision for you.

Visiting your ex's birthday party. Without telling Ciaran.

You were sure had you informed him about this he would whine and start crying, these acts always had your savior complex kicking in. And he knew it.

It was the first week of new year, everyone at the party was giddy, excited and super drunk already. That everyone also included you.

Your number of drinks kept on going up and up along with those dirty eye contacts and stare downs with and to your ex.

He licked the cake from his fingers so seductively, it made your drunken brain want to ruin him right then and there.

And the consequences, well, you could blame it on your drunken mind. Or excuse it with 'I confused his face for my boyfriend' or so.

But halfway in those bedroom kisses, the window had flung open, with a cold breeze forcing its way inside.

And a man soon appeared there, the vibes he gave off were eerie.

Looking into his red irises, suddenly, a flashback occurred to you.

"Hey, you promise you won't leave me?" asked a certain red-eyed creature.

"No, never!" replied, a voice full of young love.

"Promise you won't lay eyes on any other men?"

"No, i would never, not when i have such a cute boyfriend"

"And what if you do?" Asked the boy, insecurely.

"Then, you can eat me up" said, his beloved, before jumping on him with a poor imitation of a monster's roar.

Both were laughing, the room was dark, with curtains blocking the sun's rays but the world still seemed pink and rosy to those two amateurs.

Fear, terror, horror took over you as you start backing away into a corner.

Your ex tried to punch the intruder only to be met with a swipe of his sharp nails.

Your ex started struggling on the floor, blood sputtered out of his wounds like a fountain.

And soon, his body stopped moving.

Your ex was now dead.

The heart-broken vampire, started walking slowly, his sobs a bit muffled out due to the party noises from the floor below.

"You killed him" you whispered, as your knees start buckling.

Your attention went to his nearing face, it had tears flowing out of his beautiful eyes.

And you felt the breath in your lungs knocked out of you as you were suddenly pinned to the wall, sharp nails digging into your shoulder.

"Why? Was I not enough?" a soft voice asked the inevitable question.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I-I don't know what got over me" You start shaking as fear completely takes over your mind, tears forming in your eyes, body shivering - due to cold or fear or both, who knows?

"It's fine, you said i could eat you, if you ever betrayed me" he said, as he gave you a big smile, a creepy one.

"Nonononono-" before you could even stop him, a pair of sharp canines sank into your flesh.

It was followed by a mouth latching itself to that spot and blood being sucked

and sucked

and sucked out of it.

A while later, there lay in the room of birthday boy, the body of birthday boy and a lovely young lady who had decided not to heed the warning, the advice of elders. And an unhumanly creature, crying, staring at his now dead beloved.

"It's Okay

It's Okay

It's Okay

It's Okay

It's Okay

It's Okay! I'm Okay!! Because This Is What You Wanted!!!"

______________________________________________________________

@meo-eiru The image up there belongs to her. I really admire, adore, worship, words are not enough! creators like these as they draw such good drawing with their imaginations! Like damnnnnn! and then there is me. A person who likes drawing but is a huge failure. (I swear, my human faces look like monkeys😂🤣😂🤣) Anyway, seeing the image, I had like a context for it. I don't know if this is good or not. My previous stories are trash because I, like, had no motivation to write but just wanted to. But this one fanart fired my imagination up and I just started writing.

[breesperez139]

DC x DP Prompt #7

The Dragon has Three Heads

After their High King was crowned, he was taken in by the Ancients. He was a child with continuously growing power forced to bear the weight of the Infinite Realms and in need of guidance, who better to advise him than the almighty Ancients themselves?

At first, none could decide on who would take their young king in. Not because he was unwanted, but because he was. The Ancients nearly sent the Realms to war with their myriad of reasons and excuses as to why they should be the only ones to take the ghost child in as their own.

In the end, the Ancients came to the agreement of split custody. They would all adopt their little king, but the consequences were dire and unprecedented. With so many powerful beings claiming an even more powerful being as their own child, their little one’s power increased to an all time high nearly breaking the mortal body he resided in.

Every being dead and alive could feel the birth of a new primordial being born. Primordials, beings even more powerful than Ancients, were an extinct species. Any who existed would eventually fade into their domains and lose their sentience for all of existence.

But the Ancients did not want this. They did not want this end for their child. They would not allow it.

Instead, they planned. They traveled different worlds and planets, spreading tales of the Great King Phantom. The epithets they gave him were grand and they would not leave until their work was finished. Their child would be revered, feared, and most importantly, he would be remembered and sentient and alive.

Belief is a powerful tool. Powerful enough to keep Gods immortal, and Primordials from fading. So long as the mortals believed the Primordials were still walking among them, their child would never die. He might not understand why he had to visit his worshippers every few years, but it is for his own good.

Then came two more. Not quite Primordials, but they were certainly on their way. The girl was made in their child’s own image, a mirror. The boy was their child but different. From the moment he appeared, he was no longer outside of time, but outside of space itself.

And with them, came the human female. She was a fierce warrior. Headstrong and bold and so very protective of their little ones. She too became theirs. She too became their child. Yet she was too mortal, too fragile. They could not let this stand.

So they spread tales and created myths. Anything to ascend their mortal daughter into godhood and keep their immortal children alive. So came the legend of the Dragon. The legend of their children.

The Dragon has three heads

Jasmine, their little dragon. Three heads, one for each of her siblings. One head for each mouth she had to feed. One head for each mouth she had to teach. One head for each mouth she had to protect. Three heads for the three children she had to raise as a mere child herself.

And like a dragon, she persevered. Like a dragon, she fought with passion and power and pride. With the strength and determination of a dragon because in truth, she is a dragon. Born by fire, kissed by fire, loved by fire. None could deny the dragon blood running through her veins.

One to be a murderer who will unleash death

Daniel, their little destroyer. He who creates destruction and chaos with every step he takes. He who embodies rage and despair, love and fury, grief and sorrow. His emotions high and potent when it comes to those he loves, as well as those he hates. Having lost everyone he held so dearly, it is not a wonder as to why he is so ruthless and possessive over the family he has now.

One to be a monarch whose crown will weigh heavy

Danyal, their little savior. The assassin prince destined to defeat the tyrant and rule them for all of eternity. The boy king destined to lead and protect them for all of eternity. The holy emperor destined to ensure peace and prosperity spread throughout the Infinite Realms for all of eternity. The perfect and omnipotent God meant to be praised and worshipped for all of eternity.

And One to be mad whose ideas will change history

Danielle, their little wanderer. She who broke free from the unknowing chains that shackled her. She who bent and molded reality, forcefully rewriting the ancient laws. She who bowed to no man, no ideal, no predestined fate as she roamed and reshaped worlds. The little princess would create what she wanted, transform what she wanted, change what she wanted and none could stop her. Not when she was evolution itself.

[roanofarcc]

PRACTICE LESSONS (LOTTIE’S VERSION)

pairing: lottie matthews x fem!reader ~ requested

summary:  it's okay to kiss your best friends if 1) it's strictly for practice and 2) if no real feelings are involved. easier said than done. 

warnings:  believed unrequited feelings, the name brandon (derogatory - sorry to any brandons out there) kissing, suggestive towards the end but nothing explicit!

word count. 1.8k || masterlist

Brandon Mills was a preppy asshole who grew up across the street from the Matthews. He was the kind of boy who had never been told no. His daddy fed him money on a silver spoon, his family’s hefty donations to the school placed him as a bigshot on the baseball team, his devilishly handsome good looks caused every girl to swoon when he passed by them in the hall, and his stupid charm let him off the hook at every turn. 

Despite the Matthew’s carefulness not to let anyone get too close to their family in fear they’d discover their daughter was far from perfect, the Mills were the closest. That meant Brandon always had Lottie on his radar, stalking her like some kind of brown-eyed prey until she was ‘cool’ enough to be with him. Clinching the state title put the Yellowjackets’ soccer team on everyone’s radar, but Brandon was more than ready to swoop in and pick Lottie up like some kind of white knight. 

You wanted him dead. 

Not really. That was a bit extreme, but you often imagined him tripping during baseball practice, breaking his ankle, and getting benched alongside his ego. 

“Hello? Are you even listening?” Lottie’s voice cut through your twisted fantasy, forcing you to refocus as she stood in front of you with two dresses in her hands. 

“Sorry,” you said, leaning back on your elbows on her plush bed. Lottie’s room was spacious and decorated with little objects that screamed ‘Lottie’ while the rest was picked out by her mother. Her bed was always made and smelled like lavender. “What are my options, again?” 

Lottie shook the two dresses and eyed them along with you. “The pink is more ‘me’ but Brandon complimented my blue sweater the other day, which makes me think he likes the color blue.” 

You held back a scoff. Brandon would have complimented Lottie no matter what color she wore; that hardly mattered when Lottie was the one behind the clothes. It would be absurd not to think she looked good in anything she tried on. Yet, you knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. 

“The pink one,” you replied. 

She smiled and turned back to her walk-in closet to change and finish getting ready. You collapsed back on her bed with a quiet huff, your brain assaulting you with images of Brandon holding her hand while they walked, sharing candy at the movies, and kissing each other goodbye when the night concluded, while you sat alone in your bedroom, trying not to feel so bitter about it. 

With your luck, they’d graduate from high school and get married, and you’d have to be the maid of honor standing opposite Brandon and his groomsmen, all in pressed suits with stupid smirks on their faces. What could you say, though? No, Lottie, don’t go out with the proclaimed ‘hottest’ boy in our grade because I don’t want you to. Yeah, that would be totally logical. 

“Can you help me with my hair?” Lottie asked, returning to you in her pink dress. She looked as beautiful as she always did, even without effort. “It’s doing that weird thing again.” She sat down beside you and handed you a comb and some hairpins. You kneeled behind her, running the comb carefully through her hair as you twisted it into the updo she always asked you to do for game days at school, when they got to show off their uniforms and be showered in praise from students and staff who were ecstatic about finally having a team worth cheering for. 

Once you were done, your fingers lingered on her shoulder, wishing you had some excuse to make her ditch her date and stay with you. 

“Oh man,” she sighed, and you dropped your hand, scooting back beside her. “I’m starting to get nervous.” 

“He’s the one who should be nervous,” you countered. 

Lottie shook her head, a light laugh falling from her glossy lips. “Please, this is Brandon we’re talking about. He’s, like, as cliche as high school boys get. I don’t even know why he suddenly asked me out of all people.” 

You eyed her, confused. “Because you’re Lottie Matthews.” 

A shy smile graced Lottie’s face in the glow of her bedroom lights. “You have to say that,” she said. “Because you’re my friend.” 

“It’s true, though. He’s the one who should consider himself lucky. Not the other way around.” 

There was a growing nervousness on Lottie’s face, and she channeled it into her hands, twisting them around in her lap. “He’s gone a million dates,” she said quietly. “I haven’t. I haven’t even…” Lottie trailed off, closing her eyes for a brief moment. 

You reached out, giving her anxious hands a squeeze. “You haven’t what?” you asked quietly. 

She peeled her eyes back open to look at you. “It’s embarrassing,” she groaned. “I haven’t even had my first kiss yet. What if I’m really bad and he tells everyone at school on Monday? I don’t wanna be some pariah who no one wants to date because they think I’m a prude or a bad kisser or something.” 

You knew that Lottie hadn’t had her first kiss yet; she was your best friend after all, and those were the kinds of things you shared. She was the first person you told when you had yours; a knocking of teeth after the middle school dance with some kid you were set with. It wasn’t anything magical, just a milestone you got over with. 

“If he spreads that stupid rumor, I’ll totally kick his ass,” you said. “But I doubt you’ll be bad, it’s not hard.” 

Lottie rolled her lips into her mouth, her face scrunching up slightly as she thought about something. Then, when an idea struck her, her brown eyes widened with a suddenness that caught you off guard. She turned her body towards yours and grabbed your thighs as if she needed to get your undivided attention, as if it wasn’t always on her. 

“Could you help me?” she asked. 

Her fingers curled around the fabric of your jeans, making your brain fuzzy and swimming in confusion. “Help you with what?” 

“Kissing! You know what you’re doing. Maybe you could, you know, make sure I’m not a total loser when it comes to it.” 

Surprise flooded your body, turning your blood hot. Your face felt on fire by the mere idea of kissing Lottie. “W-What?” 

She scooted impossibly close to you, lips pulled in a pout, and pretty eyes pooled with a mix of pleading and desperation. “Please,” she said, dragging out the word. “That way, my first kiss is technically out of the way, and I’ll know what I’m doing, at least somewhat.” 

You weren’t sure if you were dreaming or having a nightmare. This was Lottie, your best friend, asking to kiss you. And your first thought was how much you wanted to. It surprised you, how much you wanted to, actually, you had to bite your lip to stop yourself from automatically agreeing. There was a sourness in your gut that mixed with eagerness. Lottie didn’t really want to kiss you; she wanted to practice for Brandon. She wanted to get her first kiss out of the way to shake the nerves; it had nothing to do with you. 

You were also surprised by how much that sucked. Yet, gazing at Lottie so close to you, you knew it’d be impossible to say no. You could almost never say no to her, not when she really wanted something. 

You swallowed the bitterness and excitement, burying it out of reach for the moment, something you’d deal with later. “O-Okay,” you agreed. 

Lottie’s face lit up, as bright as the moon. “Okay!” she repeated, letting go of your thighs and unsure where she should place them. You gently grasped her wrists and placed her hands on your shoulders before you grasped her waist. Sitting on the bed, your legs were pressed against each other, and your skin on fire under where she held.

“Just, um, relax,” you instructed, your voice just above a whisper. Lottie nodded, watching you so intently. You tilted your head slightly, and she mimicked your movement, leaning in even closer but painfully slow. Your heart was beating so violently in your chest, you feared she’d be able to hear it, and you’d give yourself away. 

The moment your lips connected, her arms around your neck instinctively pulled you closer, and your fingers squeezed her hips. Lottie’s lips were soft and sticky from her lip gloss. They tasted like cherries and a dream come true. With your eyes closed and head spinning, you let yourself pretend like the kiss wasn’t simply practice. Maybe it was selfish to pretend it was more, but you couldn’t help yourself. It was Lottie, pretty and wondrous Lottie in her little pink dress with her legs pressed against yours and lips on yours. 

Maybe you should have pulled away and called it a night, let her run off with Brandon, and resort to daydreaming of that moment for the rest of your life while she fell for someone else. But you couldn’t get yourself to and Lottie wasn’t pulling away yet either. So, you deepened the kiss and her lips parted in surprise. Instead of unwinding her arms from around your neck, she pulled you closer, your noses bumping together, but that didn’t deter either of you. 

Your tongue swiped against her lower lip, tasting cherries and bliss. Your lungs started to burn as you kissed Lottie feverishly, forcing you to finally pull away for air. 

She let out a shuddered breath, not taking her eyes off of you. 

The dream was broken as you realized that was it. One practice kiss and she’d soon be leaving. A weight pressed down on your chest as you let go of her hips and ducked your head sheepishly before clearing your throat. 

“I think you’ll be just fine,” you whispered. 

Lottie said nothing, her face unreadable and her lip gloss smeared slightly. Then, she smiled, a breathy laugh falling from her lips. She lurched forward so suddenly you didn’t have time to react before her lips were on yours again. It was your turn to gasp in surprise, and Lottie wasted no time copying your actions from before, exploring your mouth with her tongue like she had made out a million times before. 

If Lottie was anything, it was a quick learner. 

She gripped your shoulders and pushed you back against the bed, slotting her legs between yours. You let your hands roam up from her waist, sliding up her ribs. Lottie kissed you hard, with a kind of hunger. It made your head spin as a small moan fell from your lips. 

“Lot,” you breathed out, and she pulled away, hovering above you. “What about Brandon?” 

With lips swollen and face flushed, Lottie laughed. “Screw Brandon.” 

You laughed too before you pulled her down for another kiss, the date long forgotten that evening.

[madaqueue]

SUCK HIS...GLOCK?!

the sensationalized bullshit around some dangerous serial killer tormenting the city is honestly pathetic. so no, you don't see the point in changing your routine, because you aren't a coward like everyone else. that is, until one wrong turn brings you face to face with him.

pairing: serial killer!toji x f!reader

themes/content: dark content (gunplay, dubcon). smut. petnames (pretty, doll, slut), mentions of past murders, teasing, reader is kind of mean to toji lmao, begging, licking/deepthroating a gun, oral (m!receiving). 18+, MDNI (wk: 2.0k)

a/n: i would match his freak (he would literally kill me) (also sorry this title is so stupid but it made me laugh hahahaha)

quintober masterlist | sign up form

“There’s a serial killer on the loose!”

Everyday for the past week the message had been drilled into your mind - every news station, every text from your parents, every thought from the general public seemed to vibrate in sheer terror at the mere idea of some illusive murderer. And yet, you can’t help but roll your eyes at the theatrics.

A serial killer, seriously?

You thought everyone outgrew this overdramatic bullshit when they turned thirteen or something. The fact that not even fully grown adults dared to go outside out of fear just solidified how truly pathetic everyone had become.

So, you take the opportunity for what it is, boots echoing along the empty streets as you enjoy a barren town. Dead leaves blow along the sidewalk in front of you, scurrying out of your path. It’s a nice day, you think, the breeze tickling your skin and the sun warm despite the autumn chill settling in. Of course you weren’t going to miss it, your footsteps falling louder and more determined with each step.

Because you weren’t a coward.

A particularly cold wind brushes past you, the muscles in your legs shivering on instinct. Reaching into your jacket to check the time, you find your pockets empty save for a few hair ties and a small wad of cash. The image of your phone resting on your kitchen counter flashes across your memory for a moment as you silently grumble at your own forgetfulness.

But it’s no matter, you’ll just head straight home. Everything will be fine, you reassure yourself in an effort to shove down the growing nervousness in your stomach.

Rounding the corner, your vision catches an alleyway you’ve seen a few times on walks home with friends. Surely, that would get you home even faster, a real stroke of fate. Your feet stall for a second as you gaze down it, the darkness of surrounding buildings casting a haunting shadow. Taking a steadying breath, you will yourself forward.

Because you aren’t a coward.

Shoving your hands further into the worn material of your pockets, your shoes land heavily on the uneven cobblestone. A water droplet falls on your shoulder from one of the broken pipes overhead, and you grimace. This town gets shittier every year. That pit in your stomach is back, but sheer determination carries you onward.

Because you aren’t afraid.

In an instant, the sigh that had been building in your lungs is forced out as your cheek is shoved into the crumbling brick lining the alley.

Rough hands encircle your wrists, pinning them against your back.

The weight of someone much larger presses into you from behind.

“What’s a pretty little thing like you doin’ walkin’ all by yourself?” His voice is almost impossibly low, carrying the teasing lilt of thunder before lightning. “Haven’t you heard there’s a serial killer running around?”

The rock in your stomach lodges in your throat as he laughs, hot puffs of air hitting your neck.

Trying to gauge your odds, you crane your head to get a view of him, roughly scraping your skin against the reddened clay. Just as your eyes manage to catch the dark cloth of his shirt, something presses to your forehead.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, doll,” he preempts. The gun in his hand trails lower, landing between your eyes, the cool metal making you shudder. “I would hate to have to hurt ya.”

Your mouth is dry as ideas course through your mind, running through scenarios to escape this fucked up situation you’ve found yourself in. “I-I have money! You can have it, if you let me go!”

He just chuckles again, and you swear you see a glimpse of a scar at the corner of his lips, adding it to a mental note of anything to help you identify him later. “Oh sweetheart, you can’t actually think I’m doing this for the money, do you?”

Your thoughts stall for a moment. “B-but…but why then…?”

Leaning towards you, his face is now only inches from your own. The scent of tobacco lingers on his breath. “Because I like to see the fear in someone’s eyes when they know they’re gonna die.”

You can’t stop the smirk spreading across your lips. You know it’s stupid - you shouldn’t taunt the fucking murderer holding a gun to your head - but you almost want to laugh.

“Seriously?” Your throat is scratchy as you stifle a chuckle. “That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?”

This time, he doesn’t stop you when you turn to face him.

“What, are you making eye contact with every single person you kill? You have a fucking gun, dude - are you really sitting there, this close, waiting for them to die? Or is that just some line you say to make people afraid, to try and make them beg for mercy?”

That scar shifts as his mouth twitches. Just as he inhales to respond, you continue.

“Oh, I get it! I bet that’s what you get off on, right? The begging?”

His eyebrows quirk, adjusting his position so green eyes stare back at you, mischief dancing behind them. “What if it is? Are you gonna beg me not to kill you if I tell ya that’s what it takes?”

The silver of his gun catches in the flickering sun as your gaze falls upon it. You look to it, then to him, then back to it.

Now, you know what it really takes to get you out of this. Because at the end of the day, he’s just some guy who got a weapon and a bit too much confidence. Sure, maybe he killed those people, but it’s only because they were too stupid to figure it out.

Men like him don’t want some pathetic little bug to crush under their shoe. If he did, he would’ve shot you already.

He wants someone to tell him ‘no,’ to shove around his ego a little. Someone to play with him.

Oh, and you’ll play.

Because you, unlike all those other scared little babies, aren’t a coward.

“I don’t have to fucking beg.”

Green eyes shine like poison as they watch your movements - your neck tilting, lips parting, tongue poking between them. Licking a slow stripe up the barrel of his gun, the taste of metal and dirt coats your senses.

When you reach the top, he lets out a groan, one that morphs into a breathy laugh.

“Well, isn’t today just my lucky day.” His scar delves into the creases of his mouth as he smirks. “Wonder what good deed I did to be rewarded with such a pretty little slut.”

Fucking pathetic.

You want to laugh at him, the predictability - it’s almost overused at this point, you think. The scary serial killer who just wants to get his dick wet, you’re practically quaking in your boots.

But instead of pointing out how boring his whole cliche is, you allow your eyelashes to flutter closed, taking the chamber further past your lips.

It’s cool against the heat of your mouth, tracing the crevices of it with your tongue.

You wonder if this is actually what he used to kill all those people - it almost tastes too clean to be a true murder weapon. Like he ran it through the mud on his way here to try and make his little act seem all the more convincing. Clearly, it didn’t work.

From behind, you feel something poke into your ass. Something hard. Using his weight to push you further into the bricks, his hips grind against you, his growing cock dragging along the curves of your body.

You gasp reflexively at the sensation, eyes shooting open only to be met with his locked on your face, dark hair falling over his forehead.

“Some fuckin’ mouth on you, heh.” It’s like you can watch the gears turning in his mind. “Let’s see what else it can do.”

Sensation begins returning to your wrists when they’re released from his bruising grip. It takes nothing more than a heavy palm on your head for you to land on your knees, rubble shifting beneath your jeans.

All too predictable.

With your newly freed hands, you make quick work of undoing his belt, tugging his waistband down to reveal his cock. It’s thick, flushed and hot in the cold autumn air.

From this angle, you can see the way he sparkles against the sky. Excitement vibrates his nerves as he leans forward, resting a forearm along the brick above your head. The muzzle’s cold metal presses into your temple, but it barely even phases you at this point, melting into the warmth of your skin.

You lick your lips at the way he twitches, watching you drag your palms up his thighs. One hand slowly wraps around his base as you place his tip between your lips, and the man above you moans.

You almost, almost, let a giggle slip.

Isn’t he supposed to be the one threatening to kill you?

And now, you’ve literally got his balls in one hand, the pistol in his fist dropped to his side.

Fucking hell, is this really all it took?

Some serial killer.

You continue pumping his length as you lightly lick the precum pooling along his slit, letting the salty taste linger on your tastebuds. Whatever, you’ll do what you have to do to get out of this.

But it’s not a crime to have a little fun with him, right?

Your tongue swirls around his tip before you take him further, pushing past the ring of muscles lining your throat. He lets out a choked gasp of, “Fuck,” and the rasp in his voice almost makes your pussy clench. Almost.

Taking him deeper and deeper, you can tell he’s getting close from the way he’s starting to thrust his hips forward, little by little.

But now, it’s your turn to play with him.

Pulling your mouth away, you admire the way his cock bounces as he whines at the loss of your warmth.

This time, you don’t stifle your smirk.

The palm wrapped around his base continues stroking him slowly, almost too slowly.

“W-what the fuck do you think yer-”

“Beg.”

His parted lips nearly fold into a frown, eyebrows furrowed in some mix of confusion and frustration. But you didn’t stutter.

“C’mon now, mister ‘serial killer.’ If you wanna cum, you know what you’ve gotta do.”

Sliding up and down his base, you pump him in pace with his ragged breaths.

Between his ribs, his heart races. “Y’know I could fucking kill you.”

And your eyes glimmer, your pace slowing. A silent challenge.

But you won’t.

He tosses his head back, the muscles in his thick neck contracting as he swallows.

“F-fucking - fine. Jesus, fine, whatever.”

Shifting your weight, your thighs rub together in excitement. The silver of his gun flashes as he raises it to his head, scratching the back of his scalp with the muzzle in an attempt to diffuse the growing tension inside him.

“Make me finish already, doll.”

“Aww,” you coo, squeezing his heavy balls in your free hand. A shiver runs up his spine. “That’s not exactly asking, now is it?”

He hides his pleasure behind annoyance as he groans. “Just - fucking, make me cum already.” You bat your eyelashes at him, and he grumbles something under his breath. “Please.”

“See, was that so hard?” you hum, pleased. “Even serial killers can have some manners.”

Taking him back into your mouth, you trace the veins of his shaft with your tongue, just as you did with the barrel of his gun. Each ridge, following its path up and down.

Something metal clammors onto the ground behind you, but you pay it little mind. Two hands wrap around your head, holding you in place.

“Fuck, just like that,” he moans. “Fuckin’ take it.”

His balls twitch as he releases into you, hot liquid pouring down your throat.

As you swallow, the palms on your scalp release their tension. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you wipe the spit from the corners of your mouth.

He rubs his face with his forearm, a smirk plastered across his lips, that cute little scar decorating the corner. Beside you, something reflective catches your eye - his gun, laying abandoned on the ground.

Some fucking serial killer.

[whateveriwant]

Can you please do Task force 141 finding out they’re having quintuplets! I’d imagine that they wouldn’t plan to have that many….at least not all at once 🧍‍♀️

Ghost

When the technician points out the five distinct dots on the ultrasound, he immediately goes dead silent

I mean, he's always pretty quiet anyway, but this is like quiet quiet

He doesn't utter a single word for the rest of the appointment, nor on the ride back home for that matter

This has you more concerned than you care to admit because you know that, not that long ago, he didn't think he'd ever have (much less want) kids of his own some day

So now that he's learned he's about to have five? You can't imagine what's going through his mind right now

It isn't until you're walking through the front door that you're being stopped with a gentle hand tugging on your wrist

You turn to look at him and, without a word, he drops to his knees before you, rolling up the bottom of your shirt to expose your belly

He'll press the softest of kisses just beside your navel, before looking up at you with expressive eyes that convey the foremost thought in his head: Thank you

Soap

Nearly shits a brick the moment the words leave the technician's mouth

All the color swiftly drains from his face and he has to sit down before he keels over right in the middle of the office

It's not so much fear that has him going paper white but pure shock at hearing the unexpected (yet not unhappy) news

While you'd already discussed having a big family together one day, you didn't think you'd get it done in one fell swoop

However, maybe you should've seen it coming since you both come from families that have had multiples

The possibility of this happening was decently high, so in a way, you're not all that surprised by the revelation

Once he's composed himself and is a little less ghostly pale in the face, he's eagerly requesting the technician to print out an excessive number of copies of the ultrasound

Why? Well, he's gotta send them to everyone, of course! His family, your family, all the lads at work. Hell, maybe your neighbor Charlie would like one too. Better print several just in case

Gaz

"C– Come again?" He thinks he misheard the technician at first

However, even hearing it a second time, he has to stand up, round the bed, and get about an inch away from the monitor to confirm for himself

It's almost comical the way his eyes widen at the screen, darting around the black and white image like he can't comprehend what he's seeing

It'll take some coaxing to get him back in his seat, and as he does, you hear him mumbling to himself – something about nappies, never sleeping again, and *shudders* University

At some point, out of the corner of your eye, you see him messing with his hands

He's putting his palm in front of his own stomach then drawing it about a foot or two away, as if trying to visualize the size your belly is destined to grow

Even when you get back home, it's like reality hasn't fully hit him yet

It's not until you find him at 2am looking up double decker prams that you realize it's finally starting to sink in, and he's more than ready for the challenge ahead

Price

Seems awfully calm when the technician breaks the news to you two

Based on his reaction – a light smile and mere "Oh, that's wonderful" – you'd think he'd just been informed of the weather or something

To be honest, his reaction (or lack thereof) is a little disarming, but you don't comment on it until you're buckling up in the car, mentioning his seeming total lack of nerves about the future

He chuckles and jokes that he already has to look after three big kids at work. What's five little ones at home to compare?

Though you think you can see what he's getting at, his cool-headedness about it all still has you in a bit of a tizzy

Is he not even a little surprised by the news? After all, it's not every day that people fall pregnant with quintuplets

At your question, he smiles and leans to press a bristly kiss to the back of your hand. When he pulls back, he's smirking, giving you the smuggest look you've ever seen from a man

"Told you I've got strong swimmers, love"

[tartarusknight]

Steve had this habit, a habit which most of the party were annoyed by. They understood it, God did they understand. But after everything was over and the Upside Down was gone for good, it kept happening. Months and months of daily calls. Just Steve checking in and asking them about their day.

Mike hadn't understood why he was on the list of names Steve would call, but if he didn't pick up the phone, there would be a knock on the door within the hour. And Steve, sometimes followed by Robin, would stop by like he was that important to them. Once, it had been on their way to work, and Steve had only locked eyes with him and raised an eyebrow. Mike just flipped him off and continued reading his comic.

Dustin had told him it was Steve's way of coping, and Lucas had turned the calls into workouts with the older teen. Will had just gone a little red and nodded along. El smiled and told Mike about the tips for hair care she got. Max just rolled her eyes and said that Steve had taken to stopping by with food most days.

Steve would be there. He was always there. It was annoying, but it was a constant. Maybe that's why Mike laid awake as the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight. Normally, he could fall asleep within minutes, a habit he had inherited from his dad. But he could bring himself to sleep as his phone didn't ring. As the walkie stayed silent. As the door remained untouched, no knock to be heard.

And it was stupid. Because Mike didn't want Steve to call him every day just to ask him if he was okay. It made him feel like a kid. It reminded Mike of his mom, but even his mom wasn't that bad. No, no one really did that for Mike. No one checked in day after day even as he remained uncaring towards them. No one but Steve.

Until now...

Mike watched the clock as it passed midnight, and his stomach twisted into knots. Fear bubbled up, and he pictured Steve getting into a fight he couldn't walk away from. He pictured a car crash so great that Steve was unable to reach for the walkie he carried with him everywhere. He pictured the worst- the Upside Down still around. The demogorgon coming up and dragging Steve into that hellpit.

Mike was up and pulling on a warm sweatshirt before those images were fully formed. He crawled out his window and down the roof, not too unlike the way Steve had done to visit Nancy. It left him already out of breath by the time he climbed on his bike. But that didn't stop him. He pushed off the ground, biking as fast as he could towards Loch Nora.

The cold air hot his face, and the road seemed to go on forever, but Mike didn't stop. He couldn't stop. Not until Steve's place was in view.

Mike tossed his bike uncarringly onto the pavement before slamming his fist into the Harrington's nice door. He didn't let up. He couldn't as an image of Steve dead in his own pool floated in his mind.

However, then the door was opening. Steve stood there, looking like he hadn't been asleep either. A smear of white powder on his cheek and a hollowness in his eyes. But still, something eased in Mike the same time Steve lost some of that weight in his shoulders as well. "You- you didn't-" Mike started, still out of breath. "Call. Why didn't you- call?" He gasped and Steve looked at him with a weird expression.

"You- What?" Steve questioned, sounding lost.

Mike crossed his arms, "I- you can't just stop!" He gasped out, and Steve's brow furrowed.

"But you don't like it when I do? I annoy you," he tries to point out, and Mike huffs.

"God, of course you annoy me! You track our days more intensly than my mom, and you always make dumb jokes, and I hate that I find them funny! You always call when I'm in the middle of something, and you make it easy to stay on the phone! You are always there like some weird older brother that I never asked for!" Mike shouts and Steve's eyes are wide.

"You don't have to stay around or call, but you do! You do, and you actually care. Like when you call and ask me if I'm okay, it feels like you care, and I don't understand why! I don't get you! I didn't ask you to care about me, but even when you were dating Nancy, you cared! You took Holly and me to get ice cream even though Nancy had to study! You give me and my friends rides everywhere! You care!" Mike throws his hands up in the air.

He glares at the older teen, "You care so much that I stupidly care about you! I care enough to come and check on you because when you didn't call, all I could think was that you were like dead or something," Mike snaps and takes a step back. "But you're obviously fine so-" and he wants to run suddenly. To run from the way Steve's eyes are filled with tears or the stupid words he just told the older teen.

Steve runs a hand through his hair, tugging slightly. "Mike, I stopped because I didn't think you wanted me to. You always acted like I was your least favorite person in the world and I guess I just- I didn't feel like it was fair to force you to put up with me just because I can't handle not knowing if you were okay." Steve said, and it didn't sound like the normal Steve. He sounded tired and nervous. He sounded like someone had finally beaten him

Mike bites his lip and tastes salt like he had been crying. Or maybe he still was. He crosses his arms like he can shield himself from this conversation. "But now you don't care enough to keep calling?"

Steve rubbed his face, a sigh shaking his whole body as he did. "I still care, kid."

Mike scoffs, "You didn't call."

Steve drops his hands to his sides. "Just come inside. It's too late for you to bike home. I'll call your place and leave a message." Steve says, his voice sounding close to tears. Mike is stiff when he lets Steve pull him inside.

They are quiet as Steve guides him towards the kitchen. The kitchen that has music playing softly and smelling like a bake sale. He blinks as he steps into the room and spots cookies cooling on a rack and a pie stilling uncooked on the counter. The top crust is sitting on the counter next to it. There's a smell of something in the oven, and Mike states at all of it in confusion.

"I bake when I can't relax," Steve admits, and Mike glances over at him. "I still care, and I was trying to give you space. I was trying not to crowd you, so I just," and he waves his hand around the mess everywhere. The smear of white on his cheek now makes sense.

Mike hugged himself, "I don't- I don't mind the calls." He whispered, and it got a snort from Steve.

He looked over at Mike, "I kinda got that from your speech."

They stood there in silence for another moment before Steve moved to finish putting his pie together. "I know that we aren't close or anything. But I care, it's not just the Upside Down making me anxious, it's just that-" and Steve went quiet. "I went overboard, I get it. But now I just- I can't stop." He admits, and Mike hates how upset Steve sounds. How guilty he sounds.

"I fall asleep easier knowing that if someone wasn't okay, we'd know because of you. It's like you take all the stress from me just by being around." He says, and Steve's eyes are wide. "Maybe we just do a sound off every night so you don't have to play phone tag all day." He shrugs, and Steve wrinkles his nose.

"I don't really get how to use the walkie. Like Dustin tried to show me, but he got distracted and started talking about radio waves and well..." Steve mimed it going over his head.

Mike snorted to hide how much that terrified him. The thought of something bad happening and Steve not being able to respond. But he pushed it away as Steve looked at him as if waiting for Mike to tease him. "That's fair. We did modify them, so they worked better. It's not as simple as your average walkie. I can show you," he offered, and Steve's face split into a grin.

"Cool, want to help me finish this so I can put it in the fridge until tomorrow? Then you can teach me the ways," Steve says, going all dramatic, proving to Mike he'd been spending too much time with Eddie. Mike groaned but came over only for Steve to shove him to the sink to wash his hands.

Steve showed him what to do, and Mike was glad to have Steve around. Because sure Steve's habit was annoying, and sometimes it interfered with Mike's plans, but it was nice too. Steve was nice. And that was something Mike ever believed would happen. But as Steve joked that Mike should not become a baker, he was nice. Like the way Mike was nice to Holly or how Nancy was nice to him. He was part of the family, annoyingly nice habits and all.

[yestrday]

— BLUSH BLUSH ! anemo | hydro | geo | pyro

⤷ yan! hybrid! neuvillette, diluc, thoma, bennett, gaming, lyney

summary ! a connection to fire doesn't ultimately mean hot-headed, but these hybrids are equally passionate in their love for you. like a moth to a flame, you are taken in by their warmth, not noticing when the heat starts to sear.

content ! overprotectiveness; mentions of múrder; mention of breaking your limbs

notes ! oh and there's neuvillette too ig

for such a hybrid of his nature, the way you encountered NEUVILLETTE was entirely… ordinary. you were just out on a walk with zhongli to the village below after offering to run some errands. it was purely out of the desire to stretch your legs instead of being cramped in that manor, but that decision had led you to encounter one of the rarest beings alive… scooping water out of the nearby river and tasting it. you had gawked at him, eyes darting from the river to the sediments floating in his… wine glass? silently, he made a toast to you and sipped from the water. “earthy,” he had said, with all the refinement of a wine connoisseur. 

you had been ecstatic when NEUVILLETTE introduced himself to you as a dragon hybrid, making that the fourth of the mythical hybrids you’ve met so far. zhongli was less than pleased, pursing his lips and choosing to say one or two curt greetings for the sake of basic politeness. you’re not as dense as the others make you out to be, but even if you were, anyone could tell that something was going on between the two hybrids. the way they exchange glances, human eyes turning into territorial slits for a few seconds before going back to normal as they entertain you… yeah, something’s up. 

NEUVILLETTE had already caught wind of a benevolent young master who had one too many hybrids under their roof, so he had no qualms about introducing himself as a hybrid to you. something about you had already captivated him first-hand. perhaps it’s your eyes, filled with the naivete of a sheltered child but unafraid of knowing the curiosities of the world. or maybe it’s how your expression turned to that of glee when he introduced himself as a hybrid, overjoyed rather than fearful of his mythical status. when you walked him back to your manor, it was clear how well you took care of your hybrids with the way they greeted you warmly and clung to your side. … perhaps, this was the peaceful harmony between humans and hybrids that he had always longed to see.

except the longer he stayed in your manor, the more he could sense that something sinister was brewing underneath the surface. it didn’t come from the human housestaff or the human… you. you, who was as fallible as any human, was not the cause of this unease he was feeling. the more he observed your hybrids, the more he unraveled the image of this so-called found family. some of them touch you far too inappropriately for human standards, others sway you with carefully crafted words laced with sweet smiles, and gentle tones, and there are the occasional slip-ins to your drink and food when you glance away. all this he watches from afar, still too estranged from the others to make any comment about it. he realizes that rather than a house made for them, this was a cage they had created to be yours.

he had ought to bring this up with you, about the things they do to you. NEUVILLETTE could not see any of their actions as anything other than a strange displacement of obsession and it was only just that you become aware of it, if you hadn’t already. but one day you were called to your father’s in the city, and a week later you had come back looking a little blank and dead. your eyes were puffy from crying too much yet you forced yourself to smile (albeit shakily and weakly) whenever the hybrids had asked about your welfare. aether led you back to your room, shooting them all a glance before they all shared the same knowing glance and dispersed. it was only later that he realized the precarious position you were born into, with a father who could care less and high society’s eyes on you.

NEUVILLETTE is soft and gentle when he handles you. he speaks in that firm yet endearing voice, gentlemanly in all his conduct, and not once seeming to take advantage of you. he’s part of the education team, teaching you about language arts and sometimes even judicial subjects that would aid you should you ever step back into high society. those subjects are there for you to use for your own… agenda, but NEUVILLETTE doesn’t exactly have the heart to raise you to be a conniving manipulator, so he quietly leaves that to ayato. 

NEUVILLETTE hasn’t felt a strong desire for anything in his long, long life, but that has changed ever since had met you. one smile from you was enough to break down the walls that had been built up over the centuries, enough to make him want you. to have you wrapped in his embrace, to hold your hands in his, to wipe away the tears caused by the harsh society you were born in. he wants to treat you gently, believe him, but it’s so hard to do when instincts are creeping up on him— to bruise your wrist whenever you try to let go, to trap you in this manor to protect you, to have so prettily dolled up in the treasures of the world that you’d never want to go anywhere else… 

… but having you here right now, laughing at the cream on his nose, is more than enough. the hybrids do well to protect you and he does his best too. he hopes that this domestic bliss with you all will never end and that those monstrous instincts that want to… do things to you… will forever be kept in the dark.

RELATIONSHIPS: zhongli is a bit more fearful of him than he lets on, but the territorial instinct within him always tries to rile up neuvillette whenever they meet. neuvi isn’t one to lose to another dragon so easily. but on a lighter note, he enjoys tea time with wriothesley and aether and advises the younger hybrids whenever they need it.

DILUC is a peregrine falcon who has been skulking in the shadows of city life ever since he escaped from his previous owner. aether had come across him while he was on one of his stakeouts and after seeing the horrible state the hybrid was in, invited him to your manor. for the first weeks, he was obviously apprehensive, but seeing how well the hybrids were being taken care of, eased up you over time.

DILUC lives a relatively quiet life in your manor, helping out in the kitchen or going out on patrols whenever needed. he’s quite famous among the hybrids and servants for his bartending skills, and when the night calls for it he can be found stirring behind the counter to entertain some of the more liquor-inclined hybrids. venti is one of his usual patriots, strumming on his lyre for the entire manor. DILUC is a bit fearful of serving you alcoholic drinks, especially in a manor full of hybrids ready to pounce on you at any time, so when you order one he tends to leave out the alcohol and just let the placebo effect run its course.

one of the strongest from your non-mythical hybrids, he gets pestered by the others to clean up their messes. he looks irritated and will scold them for their incompetence, but he cleans up after them nonetheless. sometimes, you can catch him sparring with the younger hybrids as he instructs them on their posture and strategy. his words are harsh, but you can tell by how he pats their head and how fondly he thinks of them.

when it comes to you, however, DILUC noticeably becomes softer. he speaks to you softly rather than grumpily, and you often find yourself blushing with how tender he treats you sometimes. he’s quite patient with your mistakes and is happy to guide you through them. there’s nothing more he wants than to see you grow into a splendid and pure person, untouched by the corruption of society. he wishes that your eyes will stay the same, naive and innocent, that you won’t ever have to be burdened by your status as heir. alas, he knows that it’s nothing more than wishful thinking.

he’s taught himself how to suppress his hybrid traits, feeling nothing but distaste for them as they were the one thing his previous owner coveted so much. his wings were nothing more than a symbol of his inferiority, the natural chirps that’d come with his speech embarrassing, and his animal form a vulnerability that could be easily targeted. indeed, he’s been living most of his days as a human rather than a hybrid, but that couldn’t possibly be healthy for him. you try to encourage him to let himself go, and although he’s long forgotten how to turn back into his animal form or chirp, he sometimes lets his wings unfurl whenever he’s alone with you. he finds comfort in how your gentle hands preen and pet his feathers— so careful and tender, unlike his previous master.

should you stay inside the manor for the rest of your life, DILUC would be more than pleased. he’s ready to let everything go just for the sake of simple domesticity with you and the others. literally no red flags will be popping up because he’s satisfied with sheltering you from the dangers of the outside world. however, such an outcome is unlikely, and you taking up your father’s seat is the more likely scenario here. in that case, DILUC cannot help but swear to be by your side forever, watching over you and making sure that you do not go to the deep end.

danger lurks in every corner and DILUC just might go insane watching you teeter on such a perilous situation. he might consider dragging you away from that life and force you back into the safety of your manor. you don’t need to do all that, right? you don’t actually need to run the company by yourself— that’s what your hybrids are here for! he’s on his knees, begging you to come back to a life of safety. you can dress up fancy once in a while, and enjoy yourself at those galas, but you’ll be less of an owner and more than a face. who cares, really? being a puppet doesn’t sound all that bad, not when you’ll be dolled up and pampered and cared for for the rest of your life.

RELATIONSHIPS: kaeya and venti are always badgering him for another drink, which he icily ignores. he’s a bit of a lone wolf, but with the rest of your security team, their silent camaraderie allows them to carry out missions in the dark and protect you whilst lurking in the shadows.

it was by pure coincidence that you guys found THOMA. the handsome gentleman who’s always been helping out the villagers has always greeted you with a smile and offered to eat chicken skewers whenever you stopped by to visit and hence has been one of the things you looked forward to whenever you visited the village. whilst on a trip to the village with ayato, he took one look at the blonde man and with a coy smile greeted him like they were old friends. which they probably were, because ever since that day THOMA has been a part of your hybrid family as your resident dogboy.

THOMA seems to be able to do it all! the servants love him for his help around the house and his cheerful and easygoing personality. sometimes he’s cooking with the chefs, other times he’s scrubbing the tiles with the maids, or he’s trimming the garden with the gardeners. you often fret that maybe he’s pushing himself too hard, but he always laughs it off and assures you that he loves what he does. you don’t quite get the appeal, but he’ll distract your worries with a dessert that he’s whipped up just for you. 

ayato doesn’t usually command him but whenever he does, THOMA is quick to follow. you don’t quite exactly know their past relationship, other than the fact that ayato was his superior, but THOMA says that ayato isn’t as bossy as he used to be. perhaps it’s because you’re the master of this house already. you don’t have to worry about making conflicting commands with ayato (because ayato would ensure that he’s lovingly brainwashed you enough to always agree with him), but if he ever does prioritize ayato’s commands, it’s only for your own good.

it puzzles you a lot, but THOMA seems to enjoy serving others, most especially you. he is happiest whenever he sees your delighted face at waking up to a platter of your favorite food for breakfast. he finds comfort in brushing your hair and weaving flowers in between the strands. whenever you’re sad, it is his utmost pleasure to poof into his dog form and curl up into your lap, letting you stroke his golden fur as you sob your feelings out. he wants nothing more than to treat you right, to be there by your side as you try to navigate the world and its complex intricacies.

he’s fiercely loyal to you and the hybrids, so much so that he’s blinded by it. he does not care about whether or not you have done something wrong; it will always be the outsiders who need to be eliminated. THOMA is a different person whenever he finds out that a subordinate of yours has betrayed you. he can’t even fathom it. who in their right mind would betray you? what is there about you to drag through the mud? THOMA only views it as a mere clean-up whenever he kills off one of the bastards. were it not for the blood that’s been carelessly splattered on his clothes, no one could even guess that your smiling gentleman had killed someone.

THOMA is a selfless and devout worshipper, and he gives everything that he is to you. should you proceed on inheriting your right, he will do everything in his power to spread your influence and good name. ayato usually calls on him whenever you need something special done, simply because of his vast network of connections. you’re a bit frightened when THOMA casually mentions an assassin he knows. he reassures you though, that this is all for your good! he says it so gently, as if he doesn’t have his fingers in multiple dangerous resources.

on a more domestic issue, THOMA has a guilty pleasure of seeing you sick. he knows it’s bad to wish harm upon someone as sweet and dear as you, but it fills him with such sick pleasure to be the one to look after your vulnerable state. he dotes on you a lot more, and if you weren’t so sick you could see the sweet obsession on his face as he wipes your sweat away. he thinks of asking one of the more science-y hybrids to slip a little something into your food now and then (he knows they’re more than willing to. hell, he knows they’ve already been doing that), but he thinks better of it. he loves you more when you’re smiling, sitting side by side with him without a care in the world.

RELATIONSHIPS: thoma is friends with everyone, even the villagers down below! if he’s not by your side, he’s at ayato’s, indulging him in his eccentric whimsies and often being the victim of his pranks. aether is often pestering him to rest, so when he’s not doing any chores, he’s often found taking a nap in the garden in his fluffy dog form.

you found BENNETT injured and alone outside of your house one day and you, already used to this song and dance, hurriedly ran with the bunny in your arms to the first aid kit. the poor thing had small nicks and scars all over its body, ash-gray fur matted with dried blood and mud. it took a lot of days for the bunny to recover enough to wake up, but when it did, it was already bounding with limitless energy and a sunny disposition. upon seeing you again, it bounded up to you, and with a poof!, BENNETT’s boyish grin greeted you in his hybrid form. “thanks for helping me out! i’m bennett, mind letting me stay here?”

how could you not say no to that charming smile? you found out that BENNETT had been abandoned by his previous owner after the unluckiness he had brought them— termites in their walls, couch eaten by moths, etc.— which seemed like a cruel joke because they had explicitly bought him for luck. you also realize that BENNETT finds some shame in his whole animal form, finding its scarred appearance ugly, and he often flattens his ears against his head to hide the cuts. he wishes that he could take a fully human form but alas, it seems that he’s still not skilled enough to reach that level.

BENNETT really tries his best but whatever he does seems to end up in failure. he doesn’t let this get him down though! he believes that eventually, he’ll run out of his unluck and be able to live a normal life. of course, this still spells trouble for everyone around him, so servants don’t usually ask him to do anything. he’s understanding of it, but it does make him a bit glum. thankfully, you’re here to cheer him up! making him run errands to the village shouldn’t trigger too much of his unluckiness… right?

he’s really touch starved, but he’s afraid to be near you let alone touch you. although he knows it's irrational, he can’t help but be paranoid that maybe just touching you is enough for his bad luck to rub off on you. you’ve already been kind enough to take in a mess like him, so he doesn’t want to make things worse by affecting you of all people. your sincerity and concern are enough to have him falling all over again for you, but when you catch him off guard and scratch his floppy ears, he melts into a contented puddle and into your touch.

BENNETT gets needier the more affection and touch you shower him with, but he tries his best to distance himself (though he fails). your kind eyes have been his only saving grace in a world where he was born to be sold and abandoned and the cycle repeated. you, who are so different from his sneering masters who saw him as nothing more than a pesky hybrid, have given him reason to power through all the pain he’s been feeling. whenever he does something successful, he gets all quiet and squirmy as he awaits your praise. when he doesn’t get it, he’s sent into a spiral of gloom and self-doubt.

should there be a dangerous mission that needs to be executed, the best candidate for the job is BENNETT who will do his utmost to make the job succeed no matter what. it doesn’t matter if his bad luck is getting in his way— he has to finish the job so he can make you happy. even though he’s wrapped up in bandages and suffering near-fatal injuries, he shoots you a thumbs-up and a happy grin as guilt settles in your heart. it’s painful, but what is a little pain compared to helping you succeed and rise to the top?

all of his motivations are spurred by the need to be acknowledged by you and to stay by your side. he’s already used up his luck in finding you, and he doesn’t want that to run out anytime soon. a deep fear encompasses his whole being; a fear that one day you might abandon him like the rest of them. but that won’t happen! because BENNETT sucks up whatever life throws his way, fatal or not, and continues to charge forward. if he makes himself useful, then surely you’ll still allow him to stay by your side, no?

RELATIONSHIPS: a hybrid on the younger side, he’s often playing with razor and the other youngins. since the hybrids all have their own unique dispositions, no one’s quite bothered by the disastrous aftereffects that his unluckiness brings. he’s often sparring with kaeya as he learns how to fight from him.

when GAMING first arrived, he gave everyone quite a fright. it was a peaceful day out, only for it to be ruined by one of the maids screaming. when you rushed out to see what was going on, you were greeted by a lion cub yawning on a big warm rock, unbothered by the stares directed at it. peeking one eye open, it finally saw the pairs of eyes on him until it met yours and with a grin (the maids shrieked again, mistaking it for bared fangs), he jumps from the rock and poofs into his hybrid form. a cute boy with twitching ears and sparkling eyes gazed up at you with an eager look on his face.

you all warmed up to the lion cub pretty quickly. GAMING was both cheerful and calm, and overall a pleasant boy to hang around with. you heard that he’s made fast friends with the villagers downhill and every time he comes back he always brings treats to share with everyone. to you, he personally sees to it that you eat the little treats he brings home. you think he likes to watch you eat, with how earnestly his eyes follow your hands’ every move and the excited wagging of his tail as he watches your expression. you try to feed him too, but he insists that you eat it because he bought it just for you.

he’s so charismatic and sincere that you find yourself blushing at the simplest of his actions. like when you walked into the hybrids taste testing the head chef’s newest treat, he quickly offered up a spoon for you to eat from. as he eagerly awaits you to eat from the spoon, you start blushing with how close GAMING is to your face and coupled with his earnest expression as well. the other hybrids drill into the back of his head with his deathly stare, so much so that the head chef decides to nope out of the situation and escape into the next room. he’s just a natural gentleman, you suppose, though it does attract some irked glances your way. 

however, he’s not as composed when it’s your turn to shower him with affection. one time, you decided that it was nice enough weather to eat your teacakes outside. not one to pass up on snacks, GAMING quickly took you up on the offer to accompany you and your mind suddenly thought of taking revenge on him by teasing him with a teacake. it took a long time for him to realize, but when he finally processes the slowly closing gap between you and him, he makes a startled yelp and scrambles back. you sit back, amused at his steaming face and panicked eyes, before laughing at his expression and finally handing him the snack. your giggles continued to ring throught the garden as he very adorably pouted and whined you to not surprise him like that.

GAMING is very overprotective of you. understandably so, since you are the naive heir of a multmillionaire company squirreled away in the boonies who’s never experienced the real world. he has no problem killing off outsiders— he’s got no emotional attachment to them, so he slices through them quickly and easy like knife and butter. but he’s at a loss when you hurt yourself. it’s a given that you might get overexcited when you’re let out into the outside world, but sometimes that makes you a little bit reckless. his eyes widen and his breaths go uneven when he spots the bloody scrape on your knee, but he swallows it down and quickly tends to it like a good big brother. he scolds you lightly, but there is something… unsteady… underneath that brotherly smile.

the more you move up to the world, the more at odds he is with himself. he realizes more and more that it’s becoming nigh impossible for him to protect you. soon, the world’s eyes will be on you, and there will be no place for an insignificant beast like him to insert himself in. he argues with the other hybrids to stop this, to stop you, because sooner or later all this money and fame will kill you. others empathize with him, then others support your rise. GAMING grows more unstable as he watches you put yourself in more and more dangerous situations all for the sake of duty.

there are more powerful hybrids in this house, so GAMING can’t possibly act on his wishes, but he prays that he can just break that leg of yours or leave you incapacitated enough that you are unable to inherit your rights. it’s your father, isn’t it? shackling you down with a life you never asked for. he wishes that you’d never have to live a life so burdened by the decisions of your father, that you’d continue eating dimsum and cakes with him and the others like before. but all he can do is join the fight to protect you, the only thing he can do as a humble beast.

RELATIONSHIPS: gaming is often spotted enjoying snacks with chongyun and xingqiu or taking out the other security team members to a nice food stall in the village. because aether is a cat, he often asks him for tips on how to fight, believing that he could learn from a stronger feline. he is also often seen staring wide-eyed at zhongli and getting shy when the mythical dragon greets him.

LYNEY approaches you on one of your visits to your father’s building, with a charming smile on his face and endless magic tricks to entertain you with. you are quickly drawn in by his charisma, but when you’re held back by a frowning and apprehensive aether, you decide to behave yourself. aether is often never wrong in his assumptions about people, and perhaps there is more to the friendly boy than meets the eye. LYNEY, however, plays the pity card, slightly raising his hat and showing off the pair of twitching cat ears on his head. he puts it down and pleads his case— a hybrid on the runaway from his abusive owner. you gasp and aether falters, and after enough pleading with him, you’ve added another catboy to your collection of hybrids.

half of the house is torn about LYNEY. the more naive ones welcome him into the fray, eager to have another hybrid and harem member to play with. meanwhile, the wiser ones can sense that something is… off about him. none of them have definite proof to back up their suspicions, so none of them bother to tell you. if you’re perceptive, you can sense how on edge they are, but if you’re not then you’re also easily taken in by him as well. no one can deny that LYNEY treats you like you ought to be treated— delicate yet playful, serving you like you’re royalty and him the servant.

although LYNEY treats you like a friend, there are times when he feels immeasurably distant from you. you often catch sight of his darkened gaze directed at you, but when you ask him what’s wrong, he just shakes his head and forces a smile. you think that his eyes look at you with some sort of sadness, but you never push it. you ask the other hybrids if they know LYNEY well, and though they regale you with tales of his magic and friendliness, they never say anything more than that. you wish that he’d come to find his manor as his home… though when you bring this up to neuvillette, he just shakes his head and pats you. “some things just cannot be replaced,” he says, and you wonder if the magician had left something behind at his old place.

when he got this job, LYNEY thought that it would be an easy one. a spoiled rich kid with numerous hybrids at their every call… it sounded just like the slavers he abhorred so much. his apprehension was shattered when he met you in the building lobby, fiercely protected by aether like you were some sort of precious treasure. he recalled the way your eyes widened in compassion upon hearing his story and his conflicted feelings only grew stronger when he entered your home and was surprised at how… happy everyone was. all the hybrids he’d seen, including himself, were miserable. they could be lucky enough to not get an abusive owner, but that didn’t change that they were essentially slaves. here, however, everyone was free. the only thing that tethered them to this place is because they wanted to be with you.

ever since he’s stepped into this manor, it’s been lies upon lies upon lies. LYNEY never really lets himself get too close to the others, and he’s also well aware of the way the more guarded ones look at him. when it comes to you, however, he wishes that he didn’t have to wear such a facade. if it’s you… then maybe you’d accept him, madness and all. instead, he continues to feed you half-truths— his past abuse, his loneliness, the loss of his siblings— and delights in the affection he receives. he can’t get enough of your attention, even if it is directed towards a half-fiction version of him. but he curls up in your lap nevertheless, purring contentedly as you pet him and ease wallow in the bitterness of his life.

… he thought it’d be easy, but LYNEY thinks this is the hardest mission he’s been ever given. the knife is already pressed to your throat, so what’s stopping him from slitting it? his hands can’t budge, and guilt and desire only overwhelm him as he watches your sleeping face. you’ve given him more love than he deserves, and he can’t seem to get enough of it. you’re so gullible and naive, falling for his tricks and lies, feeding him information that could lead to your downfall… what could you possibly do when he leaks everything? right… that’s right… your entire life depends on him. that night, he curls up to your bed, pressing kisses to your cheek and whispering all the betrayals he’s done to you. he’s still torn about whether to continue lying or to bare his entire soul to you, but either way, you’ll still be the captivating thing he’s laid his eyes on.

RELATIONSHIPS: the moment freminet arrives, he’s ecstatic. aside from his usual magic shows and entertainment, he never sticks around the others for far too long. he’s only spending time with freminet and you, though he and aether have a quiet solidarity as cat hybrids.

[unknownplane]

The Court Jester Part 4

Yandere Batfam x GN Reader

Pt. 1, Pt. 2, Pt. 3

Waking up (Y/N)'s head felt fuzzy. Somehow, they felt constricted even though they could move. Looking around, they found themselves in a large room. The bed felt as if it was encasing them. They felt themselves looking for their weapon. Not being able to find it, they get up and start looking around the room.

The room was blank, as if it was a canvas waiting to be painted. It irritated them. 'Where the fuck am I? The last thing I can remember was... oh fuck. Dads gonna be soo pissed! I never got him his drink!'. (Y/N) frantically began looking for a way out realizing they were asked to get something for there dad. They went to the door and found it locked.

Just as they were going to open the other door in the room, the locked door burst open. Bruce Wayne flung himself into the room. "My baby! You're awake! God, what did that monster do to you?" Bruce questioned as he got closer to (Y/N). As soon as he got close enough (Y/N) tripped him and forced him into the ground. "Where am I?! The fuck have you done with my dad?!" (Y/N) yelled. "No need to be hostile kid. We just saved your ass." Jason stated walking into the room. Amused that Bruce had been caught off guard by your violence. Bruce suddenly got out of the hold as (Y/N)s attention shifted to Jason and held their hands behind their back. "You bitch! The fuck are you doing! Let me go!" (Y/N) screamed with struggling in his hold. "No (Y/N), we just got you back, and we are going to help you get better." Bruce stated in a firm tone. "I don't need fixing you limp dick son of a bitch! My dad molded me in his image and I'm perfect because of that!" (Y/N) howled. "I think my dear sibling needs some alone time." Jason said. Bruce nodded his head and let go of (Y/N) and left the room. "Just so you know (Y/N) because, even though you are fucked, and I still love you the Joker is dead." Jason professed before he left the room and locked the door.

"No, he's lying. He can't die. He always comes back." (Y/N) whispered and unknowingly started crying. They began to throw themselves around the room, trying to find a way out, and ultimately broke an arm. It took an hour before it eventually healed. Their mental state making it more difficult to heal.

About an hour later, Damian entered the room with a change of clothes. He fought with his sibling for this opportunity to talk with (Y/N) and was going to take advantage of the situation. "Hello, sibling. I have brought you a change of clothes as the ones you are currently wearing are covering in blood and dirt. I hope we can get on better terms during your stay here." Damian spoke calmly, as if he was talking to a terrified animal. "Ah, if it isn't the other basterd child of Bruce Wayne. Tell me how does it feels to know that if your nepotism wasn't taken into account, you would be just another pawn in Al Ghuls game. Stupid and replacable." (Y/N) spoke in a knowing tone. No anger in sight, only a smirk on their face.

They have watched the bat family for years. They knew all the ways to get under their skin and prod where it hurt most.

Damian's face fell into a look of shock. (Y/N)'s words hurt in a way he had not felt since he first came to the manor. He felt the fear of being useless and replaceable. He dropped the clothes and left the room with a mortified face as (Y/N) started to laugh manically.

After Damian left the room, the Joker seemed to appear before them. As if a god. "My dear child, I am dead now, but soon I will find someone to take over. And when that is over, I will find you, and we will make the bat regret taking you away from me. My darling child." The Joker claimed. (Y/N) find with joy began shaking their head rapidly in agreement. "Of course, dad! They'll never know what hit em!" (Y/N) said and started laughing.

-----------------‐-----------------------------

In the batcave

"Their mental capacity seems to be dwindling. They've begun hallucinating. The best course of action would be to start over. I would recommend you get in contact with Martain Manhunter." Tim told Bruce after watching you on the screen. Tim had been watching you since the moment you were brought home. There was something comforting about knowing exactly where you were at all times, no matter what. "Let's wait another day. We don't know what repercussions there might be for doing this to them. If it would even work. You saw what happened with their arm. Their healing ability could stop it from even working!" Stephanie argued, not wanting to lose anymore of you. A broken you was still a masterpiece in her eyes. It showed everyone your hardships and would be used as a reminder to them about how they affected you and your life. No matter how rough you were, you and she didn't want to lose you again. "We'll wait one more day. If they continue to break down like this, we will have no other choice." Bruce stated. "But for now, we will just have to wait and see"

-------------------------------------------------------

Hey guys, sorry for the wait. College has been kicking my ass and Comp has been making me not want to write anything. Hope you enjoy it! Remember, I am always looking for ways to improve.

@cooki3dough @asillysimp @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @redkarmakai @horror-lover-69 @bat1212 @wisefuncherryblossom @chericia @vannessa-boo @resident-cryptid @staarflower @sirenetheblogger @definitely-not-sammie @lovebug-apple

[pukefactory]

sprout x reader who is awkward and likes to scream. hear me out! sprout says something flirty and reader is just standing there awkwardly. turns around. runs away. not even a minute later you can hear extremely loud and giddy screaming. please and thank you. *slides you three cents and half a burger*

Oh my god, I got my three cents back and half a burger—truly, divine intervention!

‎♡‧₊˚✧ CLOCKED OUT ✧˚₊‧♡

𖦹 Summary: Sprout accidentally makes you a bit too flustered

𖦹 Character(s): Sprout Seedly (Dandy’s World)

𖦹 Reader pronouns: Not Specified

𖦹 Genre: Short story, Fluff, SFW

𖦹 Word Count: 444

𖦹 Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

𖦹 Image Credits: Qwelver

It starts like any other day. You and Sprout are walking together, his scarf shifting slightly with each step as he rambles about a new baking project he’s been working on with Cosmo. You’re listening—sort of—but mostly, you’re hyper-aware of how close he’s standing. Close enough that if you moved even slightly, your arms might brush. Not that it means anything. Probably.

You’re not exactly good at… handling things like this. Social interaction. People. Or Sprout specifically—because he has this way of saying things so bluntly, so casually, that your brain short-circuits every time.

And then, he does it.

“Y’know,” he says, glancing at you with that usual no-nonsense expression, “you’re kinda cute when you get all awkward like that.”

Silence. The air freezes. You malfunction.

Your entire body locks up as you stare at him, wide-eyed and unblinking. Your brain is screaming, but your mouth refuses to cooperate. The words take a full five seconds to register.

Sprout raises a brow, half confused, half concerned. “Hey, you good?”

You turn. You run. Full sprint. No words. No explanation. Just immediate escape. Fight-or-flight response at full capacity.

You don’t even make it ten steps before—

“AAAAAHHHHHHHH—!!”

A piercing scream echoes through the entire area, but not one of fear. Not one of distress. Just pure, unfiltered, giddy chaos.

Sprout stops dead in his tracks, blinking as the sound of your delighted shrieking rings through the empty halls of Gardenview, bouncing off the walls like some kind of siren.

“…What.”

He doesn’t move, just listens as your voice continues echoing in the distance. Then—silence. A pause. And suddenly—

“HE CALLED ME CUTE!!”

Another scream. Louder this time. Probably scaring off any signs of life nearby.

Sprout drags a hand down his face, trying (and failing) to fight off the warmth creeping up his neck. “Oh my Stars,” he mutters, exasperated. “You’re actually ridiculous, haha…”

He debates going after you. Decides against it. He’ll wait.

Sure enough, not even a minute later, you come sprinting back at full speed, skidding to a dramatic stop in front of him, completely breathless and visibly trying to compose yourself.

He crosses his arms, looking both smug and flustered. “You done?”

“…Maybe.” You wheeze, breathing heavily, sweat dripping down your heated face.

He stares. You stare back. The silence stretches for an unbearable second before you make the mistake of remembering why you ran in the first place.

Your face turns scarlet.

Sprout sighs. “You’re just gonna run again, aren’t you?”

Your eye twitches.

And then you turn. You run.

Somewhere in the distance—

“AAAAAAAAHHHHHH—!!”

Sprout groans, tugging his scarf up over his face. “This is my life now, huh.”

[emoboybrony]

Ill admit ive never been that into laurence (any his variations really) but something has been really bothering me since rewatching parts of MCD.

What really caught my attention about MCD Laurence is that he starts out as this well adjusted, loyal knightly and charming guy- and then after he becomes a shadow knight you just see this slow decay of him. Like hes slowly losing parts of himself and its causing him to become more and more unstable to the point where by the end of season 2 hes honestly kind of terrfying.

And ALOT of that is reflected with how his relationship with aphmau starts to shift. He goes from this sweet, suave and honestly pretty silly personality, to being so obsessive and vindictive towards her.

Theres this one scene, at the end of ep 95 S2, where aphmau has just essentially seen a ghostly image of aaron and is really shaken up by it. Laurence comes to sit with her and ask her about it. And at first, it genuinely seems like hes just trying to get her to open up so he can support her. But then it quickly spirals into him demanding to know why she cares about aaron so much and why shes greiving so hard for him, like its a problem. He becomes so aggressive and condensending to the point where Garroth has to intervene and he walks off.

In this moment you see how far hes really fallen, he goes from semingly reasuring and gentle, and by the end of it hes disrepecting a dead man, who gave his life to save both his brother and supposed love of his life, who he travelled and fought along side with for months, who close to the end of his life was taking care of an orphan (something he comlimented in aphmau), and hes thowing all of that out the window because hes taken Aphmau's attention, due to the fact he fucking died.

After that happens, aphmau has a conversation woth vlyad where he basically tells her that laurence has to accept what he is and go to the nether or else hes gonna go insane, and that the only reason he came back is because hes "chasing a fantasy". Aphmau responds by suggesting they get cadenza over so that he can be with family, and vlyad says she can do what she wants but implies its pretty much inevitable that laurence is going to hit a breaking point. And hes completely right.

Before laurence even gets to speak to cadenza, he eavesdrops on the conversation where aphamu reveals shes pregnant, and just immediately peaces out, out of fear that hes going to MURDER HER.

Not to mention that in that conversation, cadenza herself tells aphmau not to tell laurence because shes scared of how he would react. He has gotten so unstable that his own sister, who loves him more than anything, can recognise that he is a danger to some degree and shes RIGHT.

All this paints a stark contrast, the laurence we first met vs the man he has now become. Its tragic because its this inevitable downfall brought on by an act that was completely selfless, him sacrificing himself that got him turned into a shadow knight in the first place.

Even this is eventually tainted, his selfless act becomes a selfish one as he seems to cling to aphmau's love and affection as an emotional crutch. Aphmau obviously loves and cares for him deeply, but not in an explicitly romantic/sexual way. And if she doesnt love him the way he wants, then why is he suffering through this? Why did he bother to sacrafice himself at all if theres no reward? Its honestly horrifying how pretty much everyone who loved and respected him, makes what should be incredibly out of place predictions on him, but they always end up being right except for aphmau. She cant accept that hes changing and theres nothing she or anyone else can do change that. Its gut wrenching.

This all lead me to beileve that i didnt give enough credit to his character. I love this. This is the type off tragic story telling im here for. Theres so much more to this character than i ever expected.

Heres the thing.

Why the fuck do laurence's biggest fans seem to just completely disregard this? If you believed a good portion of the fandom, laurence is just this sauve uwu sad boy who was unfairly rejected and ignored by a woman who demamded the world from him.

Im dead serious, i saw people saying that laurence "deserved better than aphmau", that he deserved someone who recognised the sacrafice he made. Which like- there is so much to unpack there.

First of all, aphmau did recognise his sacrafice, she did love him and try to support him in the best way she could, even when literally everyone around her was saying it was a lost cause. She did everything she could for that man and forgave so much of what he did while struggling with the calling and she got nothing but shit for it.

Second of all, no the fuck he doesnt?? As illustrated in the examples above he did not respect Aphmau's boundaries. He did not respect her feelings. And by the end, he didnt even respect her bodily autonomy. Lets be honest here, he basically abandoned everyone he apprantly "loved", because bro tapped it before he could. She loved him so much, but because he wanted something she wasnt willing or able to provide, that being explicitly romantic and sexual attention, he just didnt see it. To try and argue that hes the real victim here, is in the same vain of "nice guys finish last". Him being kind, compassionate and selfless- shouldnt be reliant on whether or not this woman will fuck him or not. That is an insanely misogynistic way of thinking.

But most important to me in the context of this analysis- what is there to like about laurence with this interpretation? What possibly sets him apart from the gazillion other brunette pretty anime bois? Am i to gay for this? Is there something im not seeing?

I understand fanon can wildly divert from canon, and i understand that alot of this is probably down to the fact that i find dissecting and critiquing canon more intresting than reinventing it through fanon. Im locked into the Baldurs gate 3 fandom and i had the same experience there (laurence fangirls got NOTHING on Astarion girlies). But both experiences have left me with the same question- what draws you to a character, when all you do is boil them down to their most generic aspects?

I find Laurence intresting cause we are seeing this man crash out and become a monster in real time. And i dont see how he is worth even an honourable mention, when you take that away.

What is there left to be compelled to?

[it-was-summer]

... And Fall In Love Whenever You Can.

A/N: This fic genuinely had me tearing up as I wrote it. Therefore, it shall hold a sweet place in my heart. As a kid, I used to say, "If something makes you feel, then it is good." I still believe that today. If it makes you happy, sad, flustered, ANYTHING! To feel something while reading is such a beautiful reaction to media. I often cry at movies, I cry when I read romance novels, I cry when I read poetry, and I laugh when I do, too. I hope you enjoy it, and I hope you feel something, Em <3 (I also apologize for vanishing; I got sick, and it made me feel brain fog)

Link to the Ao3: ... And Fall In Love Whenever You Can Link to the: Yee olde masterlist Tags: Grief support group, mention of death(s), loss of romantic partners, struggling with mental health, tears, the rise and fall that is nonlinear healing, fear of forgetting a loved one, falling in love after tragedy, Spencer sounds like he had therapy, Maeve mentioned, guns mentioned, she/her pronouns for reader used at like one point, Reader's POV for the most part, Reader is in extreme denial and feels guilty, a secret other thing??, lightly proofread tehe!

Genre: Light Angst, Some? Hurt/Comfort, Fluff! Pairing: Season10! Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Plot: Meeting Spencer at a grief support meeting might be the best and the worst thing to ever happen to you- but it's all relative in the eyes of love.

Word Count: 9,791

You were pacing a dimly lit parking lot outside of the funeral home. It had been eleven months, two weeks, and three days since Alexander’s death. The grief meetings occurred every third Wednesday, and everyone was lovely enough. You just couldn’t find it in yourself to go inside this particular Wednesday. Because it was on this date, two years ago, Alexander had gotten on one knee at the aquarium and asked you to marry him. It was two years ago that you had said yes, not knowing that a little over a year from then, he’d be dead. 

Your feet kept making strides to the double door entryway, only to slow to a stop when your hands reached the door’s push handle. Then, you’d shake your head and turn around to circle the parking lot once more. With your luck, the meeting would be over before you even got the courage to go inside. 

A groan escapes your throat as you firmly put your hands on your hips, tilting your head to the Summer sky. “I’m sorry,” Your voice is raw, barely a whisper as you struggle to keep yourself from crying. You knew everyone said not to keep it in, to express your grief freely. It minimized stress. At least, that’s what the grief counselors say. 

The worst part was no longer knowing who you were apologizing to— yourself or Alexander. 

You were walking around one of the parking lot’s street lamps when you saw someone standing at the doors, frozen in place. It was like watching a mirror of yourself—rigid shoulders, twitching hands, shaking head. 

You approach the man slowly, your image warped in the reflection of the glass doors. He turns to face you before you can speak, and he looks like you did eleven months ago. His eyes have dark circles around them, tinted with a red water-line and dull cheeks. That doesn’t stop you from gracing him with a gentle smile, “Are you going inside?” 

His eyes meet yours for a second, looking away to glance back at the doors. “I’m not sure.” His voice is quiet, scared. He sounds like he is still on the fence. You nod, drawing your lips into a tiny line as you drop your hands to your sides. “Are you?” He asks, stepping out of the way for you. 

You feel your mouth open to say you are going inside, but the words never come. Instead, you shake your head side-to-side timidly. “I’m not sure either,” You laugh out feebly. He nods, a dull smile gracing his delicate features for a millisecond before looking off with a forlorn expression. 

“I was thinking about walking around the parking lot again… to try to gain the confidence to go inside. You’re,” you pause, wondering if it's a good idea to offer the man an invitation, “You’re welcome to join me if you’d like.” 

The man looks at you again, his eyes widening for a second. You’re sure he’s about to decline, return to his car, and drive away, but he nods. You feel yourself smiling. It’s a little subdued, but it’s real. You mouth a silent ‘okay’ as you move your hands to your pant pockets, stepping away from the doors with this mourning stranger. You figured you didn’t have to talk if he didn’t want to, so everything was quiet as the two of you slowly walked around the large parking lot. 

Eventually, your quiet stranger speaks, “Thank you,” 

You shrug a little, sniffling, “It’s daunting, especially the first meeting.” 

He frowns a little, watching your eyes flit over to him and then back to the night sky. “That obvious?” 

“Only a little, but that’s not a bad thing.” Your voice is gentle as your feet slow to a stop, a light smile appearing on your face as you stare into the night. Spencer tilts his head to look at the stars, silently hoping that what makes you smile will make him smile, too. “Do you see her yet?” You ask, voice like honey. 

He feels like crying as he says, “No,” He doesn’t even know who you’re looking at. 

Your right hand is coming out of your coat pocket as you point to Cassiopeia slowly, tracing the stars with your index finger. “Cassiopeia, she’s a little low right now, but in a few months, she’ll get higher. You see her?”

And Spencer does. He feels his body relax, just for a moment. “I do.” He feels himself smiling a little at the sky, and the feeling feels almost foreign. His gaze falls back to you as you stuff your right-hand pack into your pocket, “I’m– I didn’t introduce myself earlier. I’m Spencer.” 

“That’s alright; I didn’t introduce myself either,” you sigh before you tell him your name. He nods at your response and follows you once your feet start moving again. 

“Have you—” He motions to the funeral home in the distance, “ever been inside?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m a funeral home grief support group regular.” You joke lightly, though the soft chuckle you let out sounds like a sad one. 

He nods, nervously adjusting the beige cardigan on his chest. “Is everyone—I mean—” He draws his lips closed as he tries to gather his thoughts. “Do you like it?” 

Your feet slow for a second as you think about it. Sure, everyone was friendly, and the support was more helpful than harmful. But did you like it? You give him a little nod when you answer, “Yeah, it’s been nice. Less,” You tilt your head slowly like you’re choosing your words carefully. “Less Lonely.” 

Spencer lets out a relieved-sounding sigh as he mutters a gentle “Right.” 

“I just,” You swallow carefully, “I’m having a hard time going in today. My fiancé proposed two years ago today. I just— I mean everyone inside knows, I just,” You trail off for a second, sniffling lightly as a cool breeze brushes against your watering eyes. “It doesn’t matter.” 

Spencer didn’t know what to say to that. With Maeve, he had barely met her in person before she was murdered in front of him— the future pulled out from under him. Nowadays, he spends his time rereading books, remembering conversations on the phone, and mourning her silently in his apartment. Sometimes, he didn’t know which would be worse: losing her when he did or ten years down the line. Nonetheless, there is no Maeve to help him answer that question. 

He struggles to find the words for a second before he nods, slow and unsure of himself, “It matters.” 

You grin at how scared he sounds, the sound of a man holding on to the memory of a face that keeps fading away in his mind. “I know,” you can feel the ghost of the engagement ring on your left hand, a ring that now lies in a coffin. 

As the two of you get close to the building once more, you ask, “Are you going to go in?” 

Spencer swallows hard, the knot in his throat making it difficult for him to breathe. “Maybe next meeting,” 

You nod, “Me too.” You stare at your car in the distance before you feel yourself standing in the parking lot with Spencer— unmoving. “I know it’s not a lot, and I know that I can’t help that much, but,” You pull your phone out of your pocket, opening the keypad cautiously before holding it out to him. “If you ever want to talk about it, or anything really, I’d be happy to talk with you.” 

Normally, Spencer would decline such a kind gesture. He would thank you, drive home, and find solace in something familiar. His fingers twitch lightly as he reaches out for your phone, staring down at the keypad for a second before he puts in his number. He doesn’t know why he wants to talk with you. He thinks it’s because talking with a stranger about Maeve seemed less daunting than talking about it with his coworkers— his friends. You barely know him, and that makes your offer seem safe. No preconceived notions, pity, or gentle promises of being there for him, just a stranger talking to another stranger. 

Two weeks go by like usual— no text from your stranger named Spencer, coffee for one at the café that was Alexander’s favorite, taking his mom to dinner on Thursdays, and so on. Sometimes, the days blur into a muddled painting filled with muted tones, and you try your hardest to remember when everything had a vibrant hue.

Most days are easy, easier than most, at least. It’s not that you forget about him. You remember him when you see a couple holding hands or golden retrievers going for walks, you think about him with everything you see, and it feels good to remember him. You’re happy to have known him so well, loved him so deeply. But all the love inside you has nowhere to go, so you go to his grave on Saturdays, hoping you can pour all the love in your heart onto a tombstone with his name on it. It never works, of course, but it helps. 

You're running late this particular Saturday morning. You have two coffees in hand—one of which always goes untouched—and you’re stuck on the metro. That’s when you see him again, your stranger sitting in the fluorescents of the railcar. 

Pushing through a small crowd, you approach him, slowly taking the empty seat next to him. Spencer doesn’t look up at first, his eyes glued to the book in his hands. That is until you’re leaning over to him to say a small “Hello,” 

He jumps at the sound, head snapping to look at you with wide eyes. He doesn’t know why he’s so surprised you remember him, but he is. “Hello,” 

Your eyes meet his, “Do you remember me? I-I’m sorry I shouldn’t have invaded–”

“No! I mean, yes, I remember you. You’re not invading my space. You’re fine.” 

You let out a relieved sigh, looking away from him for a second to look down at the cups in your hands. His eyes follow your gaze, and he offers you a shy smile, “Are you meeting someone?” Small talk was never his strong suit. 

You look at him, eyes lingering on his polite smile. “Oh,” you laugh like it's funny. “No, it's just me.” Spencer gives you a confused look, and you quickly answer his silent question. “I visit Alex’s grave. He loved black coffee. It was the most unsettling thing about him.” 

Spencer doesn’t know how you’re smiling so wide as you say it. How could you talk about someone you lost and smile so wide talking about them? Would he smile like that one day? Would he even have things to smile about, or would what-ifs haunt him until the day he dies?

You find that you hate the silence that follows, the lack of sound creeping over your skin, making you itch to say something more. “I’ve always liked cemeteries too, so bonus, I guess.” 

That gets you a sharp laugh, “You’ve always liked cemeteries?” Spencer’s eyes seem slightly brighter now, less red than two weeks ago, and they’re laser-focused on you. 

You happily nod, “Always thought they were beautiful. It’s a creation of love, a way for your love for someone to live on.”

“Not sure everyone thinks about them that way,” 

“Well, I guess they wouldn’t, and that’s alright with me.” You hum softly as the intercom announces in a static-filled voice that the railcar will be moving soon. “It’s quieter that way.”

Spencer glances towards the intercom for a second before turning back to you, “I suppose you’re right— about the quiet thing, not sure I agree with always liking them.” And he’s smiling at you, a real smile. 

You feel yourself smiling back, wide as ever, “What’s your opinion on cemeteries then?” 

“I’d like to say I don’t have an opinion on them, but if I had to form one, I would say they’re…” He trails off for a second, thinking about it more now. He laughs for a second, “Well, I suppose I find them rather serene.” 

Your eyebrows raise for a second as you study him. How he seems to be relaxing in the conversation, and you can’t help but consider extending him an invitation to your weekly visit with Alexander. The longer you stare at him, the more you think the worst he can say is no, so you ask. “Would you like to join me?” 

Spencer reels back slightly at the invitation; it feels intimate, yet he doesn’t want to say no. He wants to see what you see, to understand your mind, “I–” He looks away for a second, staring at the still-opened book in his lap. “If you’ll have me.” 

Once you are on the street, you hum lightly while walking beside him. Spencer doesn’t seem to mind very much, his fingers fiddling with the edges of his book that now resides closed in his hand at his side. He’s nervous for some reason. He doesn’t understand why you invited him, nor why he said yes. He thinks maybe he should announce that he has other plans, turn on his heel, and book it in the other direction. 

But when the two of you tread closer to the cemetery gates, you start talking again. “I hope you don’t find it strange that I invited you. It’s been a little under a year– well, a year next week– and I know it might seem weird, but I’d like to think he’s happy about me having a new friend.” 

He knows it is a coping mechanism, and he knows Alexander cannot feel anything anymore. Spencer’s a man of science, but hearing you say that makes him feel at ease. His shoulders unwind slowly, “He sounded like a nice person,” 

You let out a playful hum, “Sometimes. If he didn’t like you, he made it pretty obvious.” You pause for a second, glancing over at Spencer. “He was tall, kind of like you, and nerdy. But he was so funny; no one knew how funny he could be. They never listened hard enough, you know? I hated that people would talk over him in a crowd. To me, he was the only person worth listening to.” 

Spencer finds him smiling at that, following you as you take a left. He sees that you're smiling, too, and when the two of you get to his grave, you’re still smiling. You let out a happy sigh as you talk, introducing Spencer as “Your new friend.”

For a while, you tell him stories—memories from when Alexander was still alive—and he finds he doesn’t mind listening to them. He sees them as a great distraction from his lack of happy stories with Maeve. You’re laughing a little as you tell him of the time that Alexander’s mother wouldn’t stop sending him a massive, bulk-sized trail mix every time she sent him a care package in college. He had so many bags that they lived under his bed for the better part of four years. 

“Did he even like trail mix?” 

“Honestly? Yes, but he only liked the chocolate and peanuts. It would just be massive bags with an abundance of raisins inside.” You shake your head a little as you stand next to Spencer. 

Spencer lets out a slightly amused hum. His mind keeps going over how good you are with everything. You talk about Alexander openly. You don’t hold your feelings back. You smile so wide, even when you look at his headstone. He wants to know your secret— some secret to grief that he has yet to uncover.

His mouth opens briefly, closing quickly as he shifts his weight awkwardly beside you. He sucks in a nervous breath as he tries to muster up the courage to speak. “How do–” He sighs heavily, “I mean, I’m sure you struggle–” He licks his lips nervously, your eyes meeting his slowly. “When does it stop hurting?” 

You’re silent for a second, your soft smile fading as you stare at him. He’s scared that maybe that’s the wrong question to ask as he watches you turn your head to look down at Alexander’s grave. He is about to apologize when you whisper, “It feels different now.” 

Spencer’s mouth snaps shut as he waits for more, his eyes scanning your side profile slowly for some sort of sign that you’re uncomfortable. “Last year, it just felt like–” A pause, your free hand rising to your chest slowly. “It felt like someone had plunged a dull knife into my chest and left me for dead.” 

Spencer’s chest tightened for a second, his own heart feeling painfully dull as he listened to you. 

“But, I’m not the one who died. Alex did. I was so angry— disappointed that he had the nerve to leave me when we were about to start the next chapter of our lives together. I had–have– all this love inside my heart for him, and he’s gone. It took me a long time to understand that, to be okay with it.”

Your words catch in your throat, and you clear your throat quickly. The familiar burn of tears threatens to build in your eyes as you force yourself to look at Alexander’s grave. “He was so kind, and once I got past that feeling,” your voice sounded thick. “Life kept going, and so did I. He wouldn’t have wanted me to stop living my life. When you love someone, you only want them to be happy– with or without you.” 

You sniffle lightly, relaxing your shoulders slightly, “It never stops hurting, I guess, but days get better. I’m happy that I got to be a part of his life. I find some comfort in that. Somewhere, in the story of him, I’m there.” Eventually, you find the courage to look over at Spencer. When your eyes meet his, you find that he’s staring at you with a compassionate expression. You can see the understanding in his eyes. You swallow hard, pushing the emotional lump down your throat. 

“It does get better.” You whisper, your voice warm. 

Spencer nods quickly, mouthing a little ‘I know’ before his eyes trail away from you for a second. A cool breeze passes between the two of you when he says, “Just needed the reminder,” 

The next time you see him, it’s the third Wednesday of the month, and he sits right next to you. You find yourself smiling a little when he does, nudging his shoulder playfully as more people fill the space. He scoffs playfully, the silent gesture letting you know he’s happy you’re here. 

The meeting passes like usual: New members share their stories, grief counselors hand out business cards with their phone numbers, recurring members offer kind sentiments, and then, just near the end, your seat partner stands up. 

Your eyes widen for a second as you watch Spencer stand, his eyes laser-focused ahead as people turn to look at him. You watch how his Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows. A shaky breath leaves him as he tries his hardest to start talking. His hands flex for a second, pressing against his pants to wipe off what you can only assume is sweat. 

He stutters for a second, his confidence creeping away from him. You’re surprised when he turns his head to look at you. His breathing steadies as he watches you. “I’ve been having difficulties sleeping again. After,” His hands move a little as he speaks, his eyes periodically looking towards the rest of the group before trailing back over to you, “I just– I used to have a hard time sleeping, and lately, it’s been happening again. Every time I sleep, I see her, and I feel so–” He used to dream of her after her death, dreamt of touching her, but these were different. Dreams that constantly left him waking up feeling devastatingly alone. 

He shakes his head a little, “It’s been seven months, and I keep dreaming of everything that could have been.”  

The confession is met with comfortable silence and sympathetic looks, but not from you. You’re nodding, an encouraging smile spreading across your face. For some reason, he likes that better. “I don’t like leaving her when I wake up.” The admission feels like a weight lifting off his chest when he says it. 

There’s a pause of silence before he sits down, unsure of what else to say besides his admission. As one of the counselors begins to talk to Spencer, he finds himself listening intensely. Seven months, and he’s finally willing to take some much-needed advice. 

After that month’s meeting, Spencer has back-to-back cases. He’s keen on keeping in contact with you, which you’ve said he doesn’t have to do if he doesn’t want to, but he insists. He likes having someone to update, a friend waiting to see him when he’s free. 

The next time he’s free, it’s a rare Saturday. He’s been awake since five and can’t seem to go back to sleep. He does keep dreaming of Maeve, but they’re a little different now. This time, he was in a cemetery with you. It was freezing, the kind of cold where you could see your breath, and you were laughing about something when the two of you bumped into her. Maeve’s not angry. She just laughs and glances at Spencer before hugging you. You hug her right back and say something– and that’s when he wakes up. 

Spencer doesn’t like the feelings that stir inside him with that dream: confusion, curiosity, sadness, something else. The feeling is warm, tinged with an overcoat of sorrow, and he finds himself needing a good distraction. 

However, reading isn’t helping, nor is the crossword. So eventually, he finds himself getting ready to go out for the day in the search of a good distraction that will get his mind off his dream.

He doesn’t know why he thinks about the cemetery where Alex’s grave is on his way to get coffee that day, but he does. A part of him feels that a nice walk will do him good, so, coffee in hand, he finds himself walking… then taking the subway… then ending up in front of Alex’s grave… alone. 

Spencer’s lips slightly pout when he sees no coffee cup on the headstone. He knows that you have yet to visit your late fiancé today. He doesn’t exactly know why he’s visiting your late fiancé today; without you, it feels… strange. 

The longer Spencer stares at the letters etched in stone, the more he feels a realization dawn on him. He feels guilty… guilty for dreaming of you, guilty for craving your warmth right now, and guilty for a million different little reasons. 

Spencer feels his lips part for a second, a sigh escaping his lungs, before he whispers, “I’m a mess. " He knows he’s talking to thin air, but he feels lighter, admitting it to himself. 

“I don’t know what I’m feeling. All I know is that I shouldn’t be, and it won’t do anyone any good, and secretly I think–” He sucks in a cold breath of air, “Secretly, I think I don’t deserve it.” The grave is silent, of course, but Spencer smiles anyway. 

For a while, he thought his future had passed him by. A brief image graced his vision before leaving him blind. He can see now. He sees that he still has things to do, goals to accomplish, people to meet. Then he’s walking away. 

Two meetings and four coffee ‘dates’ later, you’re rocking back and forth on the balls of your feet as you watch Spencer laugh over something with one of the grief counselors. It’s a strange feeling to see him laugh so openly. It's heartwarming if you’re being honest. It’s hard to explain it, and the feeling is too intense– too raw. It’s a feeling you dimly remember, and suddenly, you’re nauseous. 

You have a crush, which is incredibly laughable because you’re an adult. The last time you had a crush on someone was three years ago, Alexander. This almost feels cruel. The longer you stare at him, the more real it becomes. 

Spencer catches your eye for a second and excuses himself from the conversation in his polite Spencer way. When he reaches you, he smiles warmly: “Somebody’s all smiles.” You hum with a playful roll of your eyes. 

Spencer pouts for a second, good-natured and playful, as he mutters a little, “When did smiling become a crime?” 

“It isn’t. I’m just being observant, and you have a nice smile.” You try to keep your voice calm and level, but he seems to catch on anyway. Spencer’s eyes seem laser-focused on you, studying you carefully. Internally, you’re beginning to pray that his profiling skills fail to notice the classic signs: your sweaty palms, wandering gaze, and too-tense shoulders. 

And if he does notice… you hope he doesn’t say anything. That’s not Spencer’s way, and you know it. “Everything okay?”  

You nod quickly, “I’m good, sorry, I was just thinking about… bills.” You know he catches the lie the second you say it; you can see it in his amused smile. 

“Bills?” 

“Bills.” 

“I’m not sure I like this story you’re going with, but if you’re sticking to it, I won’t pry.” 

You nod, letting your shoulders relax as you sling your bag over your shoulder. “Thank you,” 

“I was thinking,” Spencer starts as he grabs his messenger bag, following you out. “We could get dinner together Friday night.” 

“Why?” Your tone is a little flatter than you’d like it to be as Spencer walks you to your car. You'll admit the idea of being alone with him is nice, but the admission feels strange— still too raw, surreal. 

“Because…” He trails off slowly, hoping to find a better reason than it being because he wants to have dinner with you, but the longer he sits with the ideas, the more he feels like you’ll turn down his idea. He feels self-preservation take over, and for the first time (and what he hopes is the only time), he lies to you. “My teammates are having a get-together.” 

“Oh!” You say as the two of you reach your car. “And you want me to meet them or?” The idea seems less daunting. Yes, Spencer and you had been to get coffee together, but that was just coffee. Dinner seemed too intimate, but dinner with friends? Now, that was less scary. 

“Yeah! Yes, I think it’d be nice!’ Spencer’s voice cracks slightly before nervously clearing his throat in a weak attempt to control the anxiety that creeps into his tone. “Would you… like to meet them?” 

You’re leaning against your car door, and the air smells sharp with the promise of snow, and Spencer’s sure you’ll decline. You grin, nodding slightly, “Sure, I mean, it’s just dinner with friends. What time Friday?” Your arms fold over your chest, pulling your coat closer to your body.

“Six.” He doesn’t know how his fake dinner has a time, but he’s surprised at how easy it is to come up with one. “Nothing fancy. I’ll, um, text you the address.” 

You watch him for a second, trying to read him the way he reads you. His voice seems higher in pitch, and his eyes keep glancing at yours. You chalk it up to him being nervous. The combination of two groups already frying his nerves before it even happens. “Can’t wait. See you Friday.” 

Spencer stuffs his freezing hands in his pockets as he watches you enter your car and drive off. Then, the panic sets in. 

He’s tailing Derek desperately, “Listen, I know it’s rushed, but–” 

“I don’t see why you can’t just text her the address and ask her out. Straightforward.” Derek says as he takes the left towards Penelope’s office. “Or you could say we canceled and make it just the two of you.” 

“Considering I already lied to her once, I’d rather not lie twice. And–” He fumbles with his words for a short second. “It’s not a date. I just thought she thought it was one, and I panicked.” 

“What’s wrong with it being a date?” Derek asks, knocking on the door gently before entering Penelope’s office. 

“Date?” Penelope echoes back as she turns in her chair. 

Spencer holds out a hand defensively, “It wouldn’t— it’s complicated! Please say yes. You’re the first person I’ve asked.” 

“Asked what? Am I going to be asked?” Penelope chirps as Derek hands her a coffee. 

“Pretty boy here,” Derek motioned to Spencer with a light wave, “Lied to one of his ladies. Invited her to a team dinner that doesn’t exist.”

“A team dinner would be fun! With a new addition, too!” Penelope said with a sip of her coffee. “When?” 

“Friday,” Spencer mumbles, avoiding her gaze. 

“Friday, as in, tomorrow Friday?” She sucks in a breath of air, “Spencer…” 

He frowns and mouths a little, ‘I know’. He looks at them, pleading, “Please, even if it’s just the two of you…” He trails off slowly, watching Penelope and Derek share a look. 

“I’ll text the rest of the group.” 

“Not the whole story,” Spencer adds as Penelope pulls out her phone. “Please.”

“I’m already doing you one favor, boy genius.” 

Spencer is surprised at how many of his team members agree to dinner. JJ, Penelope, and Derek all promise to bring their respective partners. Rossi and Hotch politely decline, but given his sudden plans, he doesn’t blame them. 

However, by the time five-thirty rolls around, he can see that he’s been played. The first text comes from JJ, claiming that Henry is sick and that she can’t make it. Derek follows, saying that he accidentally double-booked and cannot cancel his reservation with Savannah. He can feel himself sending a silent prayer to Penelope before she, too, is texting him to cancel. 

So now, he stands outside the restaurant in a long brown trench coat and purple scarf tied tight around his neck. When you arrive, adorned with a cream sweater and rosy cheeks, you ask him the inevitable: “Where’s the team?” 

Spencer's throat tightens as he answers, “They’ve canceled, so it’ll be just us if that’s alright with you?” 

He can see your smile falter momentarily before you nod, “That’s fine, another time.” You shiver a little, glancing towards the restaurant. “Should we…?” Spencer, silently elated that you aren’t leaving, nods and hurriedly rushes over to open the door for you. 

Once seated, you are greeted by a slightly uncomfortable awkward silence. You’re sure that it will soon resolve itself, but Spencer seems too lost in his thoughts, and it becomes clear that if you want this long silence to end, you’ll have to speak first.

“I’m sorry every–”

“Do you–” 

The two of you stare at each other briefly before laughing softly. Spencer’s eyes crinkle a little when he’s laughing, a feature you seem to be adoring silently before he says, “I’m sorry that everyone canceled.”

You push out a little breath, your gaze falling to the menu on the table. “That’s okay, I’m sure everyone has busy lives.” You shrug a bit before glancing up at him, “I do have a question for you, though,” You watch as Spencer’s back straightens, and he gives you a small smile as the ‘go ahead.’ 

You flatten out the front of your sweater nervously, “Do you think it’s weird that I was supposed to meet your friends— the team?” 

Spencer gives you a slightly confused look before you quickly add, “I don’t think it is, but I was talking to my coworker about tonight, and she said it seemed like an excuse for a date. Then I explained it, and she called it weird, and I don’t know—Do you think it’s weird?” 

Spencer can feel his cheeks heating up against his will, and his head shakes from side to side, “No! No, it’s not weird.” he pauses, thinking about it for a second. “Well, maybe a little. But not for you, for me. You’ve never expressed an intense interest in meeting them, but they mentioned bringing someone, and I thought—” He motions to you with a shaky hand, “Thought you’d be a good person to bring to dinner. You’re lovely, and my friend, and I—”  he feels the rest of his words die in his throat. He wants to tell you that he wants the team to meet you. He wants everyone to see how wonderful and kind you are. 

He feels his mouth dry, realizing he wants you to meet the team now. He wants a third party to witness your calming effect on him, and, most importantly, he wants them to like you because he likes you. 

A slow ringing grows in his ears at the full realization of his feelings for you. Your smile, usually calming, has his heart leaping in his chest. He finds himself leaning closer when you say, “I didn’t think it was weird either,” 

Spencer lets out a little huff of relief, “Good, that’s good.” His heart was beating fast in his chest. He knew he had feelings for you but was unaware of how deep they ran. 

“Though I will say, it is strange that they all canceled.” 

He feels awful lying to you. He can count two lies now and doesn’t want to tell a third. “Yeah, I can’t explain that one. They all did it at the last minute. I’m sorry.” 

“I don’t mind, though I was scared this was all a set-up for a date.” You laugh as if it’s the silliest idea you’ve heard. 

Spencer can feel his heart in his throat, his breathing quickening slightly. “Would it be bad if it was?” he can’t stop the words from spilling out, his eyes widening at his sentence.

Your surprised face stares back at his, breathless as you look at him. You’re about to say something when the waitress comes by to take your order. You manage a slight, polite smile as you order before you’re staring off at Spencer. His nervous eyes flicker between the waitress and you as he orders quickly. 

When she’s gone, you stare at each other with bated breath. You draw in a slow, calming breath when you say, “I don’t know,” 

“You don’t… know?” 

“I just, I haven’t thought about—” You pause, knowing it’s a lie. “I have—” You correct gently before you let out a frustrated sigh. “I thought we were friends.” Your voice cracks slightly. 

Spencer draws his head back at that, “We are friends. We are. I didn't know if you ever thought about—” He doesn’t know what he’s saying. What is he aiming for here?  

“Anyone dating you would be lucky, Spencer.” You say, sweet and gentle. You don’t know how to save this situation. Your love for Alexander will always be in your heart, strong and genuine, but… looking at the man across from you. 

You watch his fingers nervously trace patterns on the glass of water in front of him, how he’s looking at you with such a sweet expression. You just didn’t think this would happen to you. You were sure that Alex was it. He was all you would ever know— you had resigned yourself to it. 

Would you be a bad person if you fell in love again? After everything, it feels… selfish, dirty, wrong, terrifying. “I’m not sure I’m your best option.”  Is what you settle on. 

Your heart silently breaks as you watch Spencer’s face fall. His nervous fingers slow their movements until he whispers a sad, “Right.” There’s a pause, like he’s deciding what to do next. He then nods, like he’s coming to terms with something. 

“Right, I’m not saying I’m looking–” His brown eyes scan your face, “I’m not even sure I want something like that. I don’t know why it sounded like I was. I just want you to know that I—” He swallows thickly, “I like being your friend.” 

“Me too! I like being your friend, too.” 

“Good!”

“Great!”

His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “So we’re on the same page?”

“Same chapter and everything.” 

Spencer lets out a huff of a laugh at that, nodding slowly. 

The rest of the dinner seems normal; the interaction from earlier seems to be brushed under the rug, and you’re grateful it is. However, the topic kept worming its way into your train of thought. The nagging thought of ‘What if…’. 

It's not a terribly horrible idea to date Spencer. If you were honest with yourself, you had thought about it before—not obsessively, just in passing. A little whisper of an idea, lovely and new. It was nice to fantasize about love, but it was just a fantasy. You had a great love, and you were grateful. 

Wanting more than that was greedy. 

After dinner, Spencer insisted on walking you home. He wouldn’t listen to a single one of your protests and simply convinced you with a firm, “I’ve seen what happens to people when they go off alone late at night,” 

The reminder made you readily accept his company on the cold December night. Walking by his side, watching how your feet started to sync in step, your mind began to wander. What did a date even feel like? It had been so long since you’ve had a date… you weren’t even sure you would know if you were on one unless it was explicitly said. 

The thought makes you chuckle, earning the interest of one Doctor Spencer Reid. “What’s on your giggling mind?” 

“Nothing,” You sigh, glancing over at him. “I was just thinking about how long it's been since I’ve been on a date. I don’t even think I would know if I was on a date if I was on one. Someone would have to sit me down and explain it to me,” 

Spencer’s lips quirk upwards at the idea, listening to you. The sweet look he’s giving you is not lost on you as you continue to ramble, “I mean, I’m not even sure I remember the last time I tried to look for a date.” 

“Care to take a guess?” 

“Uhm,” You draw out the sound as you think, your tongue wetting your lips. “Six months ago, maybe, kind of, sort of?” 

Spencer’s clever mind quickly realizes that this failed dating experience happened a month before he met you, and then he notes that it also happened ten months after Alexander’s death. “And.. What do you mean by that? How does someone, kind of, sort of, maybe look for a date?” 

You roll your eyes, “It wasn’t really my idea. My friends convinced me to go on some dating apps, and I tried!” You laugh lightly, “Well. I pretended to try. I just didn’t like it. It wasn’t what I expected.” 

“What were you expecting?” 

Your feet falter momentarily before finding their pace next to Spencer again, “Something from a Nora Ephron movie, maybe? Something like You’ve got Mail.” As you say it, you see the strange look on Spencer’s face, and it makes you grin. “It’s a romantic comedy.” 

He mouths a soft ‘oh’ and feels awkward because he still doesn’t know what you mean. You’re quick to explain, “It just means I had high expectations. Alexander and I were friends for a while before we,” You trail off before you wave the sentence off with your hand. “I just didn’t like it. Felt too forced.” 

Spencer understands that part, slowly taking a left with you. “Haven’t tried that yet.” 

“I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

He grins and nods, “What do you recommend?” His curious mind was getting the better of him. His left hand slipped out of his coat as he waited for your answer, his knuckles dangerously close to yours. 

“In a world seemingly becoming increasingly dependent on technology for everything? I’d recommend shooting your shot with every pretty stranger you see.” It's a joke, but the idea of Spencer asking for the numbers of every pretty person in DC made your chest feel strangely tight— a light reminder that your crush was still going strong. And you’ve already turned him down.

“I’m not sure you’ve been paying close attention to me these past four months,” He jokes lightly. 

“Oh, trust me, I have been.” The words tumble out before you can stop yourself, and you can feel your cheeks growing impossibly hot. 

Spencer’s quick to tease, “You have been?” 

You nod, trying to act like it's nothing but friendly, but your nervous breathing might give you away. You take a steady breath, happy to think that if he sees red on your cheeks, you can blame it on the cold weather. 

Instead, he slows to a stop just steps away from your apartment complex. You stop, turning to look at him, and when you see him, all composure leaves you with one little glance. Spencer’s ears are red, his hazel eyes glued to yours, and his hands nervously fidget with his long purple scarf. 

He draws in his lower lip nervously, his brow furrowing in the way that lets you know he’s meditating on something in that beautiful brain of his. His hands move as he begins to talk, “I have been too,” 

With that, you feel all the air knocked out of you, and your trembling fingers hide in your pockets. You’re not sure what he wants you to say or do. It feels like a confession, making your heart pound in your chest. His sweet eyes study you, “I’m not sure what I—” He steps closer. 

“Not sure what I want. All I know is that I feel something—” He makes a weird motion with his hands like he’s trying to shape his feelings with his hands. “Hopeful? I don’t know! I just,” 

“I know.” You rasp out, nodding quickly. “I know.” You repeat it because you do know. You know what he’s feeling, that dangerous feeling of tentative hope, the sense that something is beginning again. The world shifting into focus and becoming colorful again. 

Spencer’s gaze softens as that, and then the two of you just stare at each other for a moment. Guilt seemed to creep into your chest, invading your heart the longer you stared into those pleading brown eyes. Some part of you wanted to give it a shot, take him in your arms, and just let go. The stubborn part of you couldn’t let go of what you once knew. 

What would you say to your friends— or worse, Alexander’s family? Thinking about being happy with someone else again felt like a betrayal. 

Spencer could see the shift in your demeanor, the way your eyes glossed over with emotion, your back rigid, and he knew you weren’t ready. The feelings you were feeling were ones he wrestled with weeks ago after visiting Alexander’s grave. “I visited his grave without you a few times.”

 Your brows knit together at that, stuttering gently as you manage a soft “Why?” 

“I felt guilty about how I feel about you. I thought visiting his grave would make me back down, but it didn’t. I visited Maeve’s grave and thought about my feelings there too. She would have liked you.” 

“Spencer, don’t–”

“You told me once that he would’ve wanted you to be happy with or without him. Why can’t you let yourself be happy? I know it’s uncharted territory; it is for me, too, and he knows you don’t love him any less–” 

“You didn’t even know him!” 

Spencer's lips draw into a tight line at that. You can’t stop yourself before saying, “You don’t understand the love I had for him. It was different from how you felt about Maeve. It was special.” 

Your breathing is heavy, and you're trying to stop yourself from crying. The second you say it, you regret it. Your rigid posture slacks, and you step towards him quickly, but he steps back once you get closer. 

“You don’t get to say that,” his voice is colder, his eyes cast down to his hands. Then he takes a sharp breath and looks up at you; his warm hazel gaze turns cold. “My love for her was just as special as yours was for Alexander. I can see that, even if you can’t. But at least I can see when something exceptional is right in front of me. Unlike you, I didn’t want it to slip through my fingers again.” 

Your mouth feels dry as you try to respond, anger and guilt fighting an internal war inside you before Spencer turns on his heel and says, “Goodnight,” 

The snow starts again as you watch him walk away, blinking flakes out of your lashes, cheeks red from the tears falling as you watch him disappear around the corner. 

The conversation is still fresh in your mind at dinner with Alexander’s mom Tuesday night. She lives just outside the city in Maryland, so whenever she made her way into the city, you made it a point to meet up. 

She watches the way you’re staring at your sandwich. The intense look you’re giving the meal almost makes her laugh. “Don’t be upset with the club. We can always get you another sandwich, dear.” 

You raise your head slightly at that and let out a nervous laugh, “No, the sandwich is fine. I’m just thinking. I’m sorry, Shannon.”

Shannon lets out an understanding hum, waving you off with a simple flick of her wrist as you apologize. “Is it work?” 

You give her an easy smile, “Ah, no. It’s… confusing and probably boring; don’t worry about it.” She gives you a little look that says, ‘Come on, really?’ and it makes your smile widen. 

“When you retire, everything is confusing and boring, so lay it on me.” 

“Shannon, please, I promise you don—” 

“I will make you pay for this meal; do not force my hand.” 

“I am paying?” 

“Exactly. Now tell me what’s on your mind.” 

You slump in your seat and nod in defeat. “Alright, well,” you wet your lips nervously, trying to figure out the best way to tell her. “You remember last time I mentioned that I had that friend from the group? The genius—Spencer.” 

Shannon nods, motioning for you to keep going slowly, “Well, lately, he and I have become aware of some feelings for each other, and I–” You can feel your legs trembling, “He just doesn’t get it. I can’t do that to Alex or you. He just doesn’t understand—” 

“Sweetheart, slow down.” She held up a hand, an amused look on her face as you rambled at the speed of light. “Start over.” 

You let out a little huff, trying to calm your growing nerves. You roll your shoulders back, gaining some composure, “I have feelings for him, and I thought it was just a passing crush, but now it’s getting so messy. And he told me that he has feelings for me too, but I told him off, and we haven’t talked in four days– which would be fine if we didn’t fight, but we did— and I don’t know.” 

“You don’t know?” 

“He’s really sweet and great, but I just… I keep thinking about my love for Alex and don’t want to let go of him.” Your voice gets quiet with the admission. “I’m happy loving just him, only him.” Your voice shakes lightly, forcing your gaze down, your eyes filling with tears. 

You hated telling her this— hated telling her that your stupid heart found itself attached to someone other than her son. You mentally prepare yourself for something, anything, yet you still cringe when you feel her hand rest on yours. 

“He’s dead–”

“I know–”

“No, listen,” Shannon says sternly, watching as you lift your gaze to meet hers. “He’s dead. Every day, I have to remind myself he’s dead. I know you do, too.” She frowns for a second before she gives you a weak smile. “But, you? You’re alive. You’ve experienced a loss no one should have to experience at your age, and yet here you are. Would he be ecstatic over you falling in love with someone else? Not quite, but I know my son. He wouldn’t want you to be alone. Or worse, unhappy.” 

You blink away tears, your bottom lip trembling, “I don’t want to forget him,” 

“Who said you’re going to?” Shannon jokes lightly, giving your hand a light squeeze. After a moment, she whispers, “Knowing Alex, he probably sent Spencer your way.” 

You laugh at the idea, but the sound dissolves into a little sob, “He would.” 

Shannon brightens momentarily, “He was always jealous of how good you were at trivia night. Maybe he wanted someone to beat you for once?” 

“Spencer can!” You laugh harder than you should, but you can’t help it. You picture Alex’s face, joking about how you have too much useless knowledge in your brain. 

As your laughter dies away, a wave of anxiety rolls over you. “I was awful to him last Friday.” 

“Then make it up to him,” 

After much deliberation, you knew you would, or at least, you would die trying. The next meeting was in two weeks, which seemed too far out. After three texts, two calls, and one voicemail, you decided to go to him. 

You had been to Spencer’s apartment once before and were sure it was on this block… maybe. It was early Saturday morning, and you could only hope he would look out his window and see you pacing the sidewalk. 

But an hour passed, and the cold wind forced you into a coffee shop down the block. Shivering as you waited for your coffee, you glanced at the unread texts you sent him one last time before stuffing your phone back into your pocket. 

Clearly, he didn’t want to see you, much less talk to you. You chewed on your bottom lip, lost in thought until you resolved that seeing him at the next meeting would have to do if he didn’t text you back before then. 

And so, two weeks and no texts back later, you sat in your usual foldable seat and waited. But he never showed. Your eyes watched the doors patiently, and you counted every last participant, thinking that the next one had to be Spencer. 

But they weren’t. He was nowhere to be found. You had sat on your feelings for him for weeks, sat on with nasty comments and behavior for two weeks, and found yourself still waiting. He didn’t have to attend every meeting, but you felt even more desperate than before. Hating the feeling, you left halfway through.

It wasn’t like you could force him to talk to or forgive you. But it hurt knowing just how much you had hurt him. Were you being selfish for wanting a chance to confess to him again? Was it selfish how you looked for him in every crowd? 

The unfortunate reality of your pain was that you were so scared of falling in love again that you pushed love away before it could even touch you. You found yourself driving to Alex’s grave that night. It was out of your way, but you didn’t want to go home just to wait by the phone again. 

After parking in a nearby parking lot, you found yourself standing in the middle of a very dark, isolated cemetery. If Spencer were here, he would say how dangerous this was, maybe even throw in a statistic just to solidify his point. 

You smile, eyes adjusting in the moonlight as you look down at your dead lover’s grave. You crouch, touching a bouquet of almost-dead flowers at the foot of his grave. “Was I bad at this with you, too?” Your fingers trace the brittle petals of a dying rose. 

You can hear the crunching of gravel and slush approaching you, and a part of you freezes. As the sound gets closer, you can hear panting, your head turning cautiously to look for your rapidly approaching company. 

When you see the silhouette of a man not too far down the trail, you tense. How stupid were you to be in a secluded area in the middle of the night? You curse under your breath and stay crouched, hoping it’s just a late-night jogger passing through and that he won’t see you if you stay low. 

Your eyes stay on the figure, and you mentally go over possible escape plans when you see it— a messenger bag. What kind of serial killer or jogger wears a messenger bag? Your tense shoulders briefly relax for a second at the thought. 

Then, a hint of moonlight illuminates your huffing stranger— messy brown hair and a crooked tie. You stand, “Spencer?” You say his name when he approaches you, the moonlight letting you get a glimpse of his soft eyes for a moment. “What are you… How’d you know I’d be here? What are you doing here?” 

“You weren’t at the meeting,” He huffs, leaning over to rest his palms on his knees. 

“I–” You scoff, slightly amused. “I left early. Did you show up?” 

“No,” he admits, his tone becoming sharper as he catches his breath. “No, I–” he hesitates for a moment, “I saw your car on my way home, and I got worried, and I–” He roughly drags a hand through his curls, “You shouldn’t be in isolated places like this late at night.” 

Your shocked expression melts, and your lips quirk into a slight smile. Spencer sees this and responds sharply, “I’m being serious!”

You hold up both hands, “I know, I—” You sigh, a slight chuckle following the sound before you say, “I knew you were going to say that. I could hear your voice when I parked across the street.” 

“Maybe you should listen to it sometime,” 

You nod, and then a moment of cold silence follows. The two of you stare at each other for a long moment before you feel your lips moving against your will, “You never called,” 

Spencer can feel his heartbeat quicken, “Wasn’t aware I had to.” 

“You didn’t have to. I just would have–” You cut yourself off, nervously licking your lips. “I wanted you to.” 

Spencer stays quiet before he replies with a soft “I’m sorry,” 

You find your smile returning as you shake your head, “That’s my line,” 

He lets a little chuckle at that, ready to tell you it’s okay, when you quickly add, “I’m sorry for how I acted three weeks ago. I shouldn’t have been so cruel or close-minded, and I should have been honest with you about my feelings. I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry for implying your love for Maeve wasn’t special. Oh, Spencer,” You let out a heartbroken sigh, “I feel terrible. I was such a bad friend, and these past few weeks, all I’ve wanted to do is make it up to you.” 

You can feel the tears threatening to fill your vision, your cheeks burning in the cold as you let out a meek, “Tell me there’s something I can do to make it up to you,” 

Spencer can see your pleading eyes in the moonlight, and his chest tightens at the sight. Ignoring your calls and texts wasn’t easy, but he was convinced that it was the right thing to do. You weren’t ready to move on, and neither was he— not completely, but he didn’t want to try with anyone else. He only wanted to try with you. 

He swallows thickly when he says a sweet “You’ve already done it,” Then you’re beaming at him, and he’s right back where he was three weeks ago. As you dry your misting eyes, he softly confesses, “I watched You’ve Got Mail.” He pauses, smiling lightly when you give him a surprised look through your tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, so I–” He nervously moved his hands as he talked, “I watched any Romcom that I could get my hands on because I—” 

You smile as he trails off, his hands twisting together in that nervous way that tells you he’s scared to say the rest of his sentence— he’s too afraid to say he missed you. “Me too,” You confess, “I missed you, too.”

He nods, a grin on his face as he looks at you. He can feel his confession rising in his throat, his lips moving awkwardly as he tries to gain the confidence to confess to you again. 

But, before he can say anything, you’re speaking, “I don’t know if you still feel the same as you did three weeks ago, but I–” You swallow hard, clearing your throat softly. Your hands move with you as you speak, the cold making them feel slightly stiff. “For the longest time, I couldn’t imagine myself happy with anyone other than Alex.” You blow out a sigh, glancing back at his tombstone. “I thought one great love was enough— I only deserved one. I was happy with that, and I felt lucky for it.” 

You can feel yourself trembling, and you don’t know if it’s the cold or your nerves getting the better of you; nonetheless, you keep going, “But lately, I’ve been thinking— hoping really— that you’re the expectation.” You squeeze your eyes tight at that last bit, trying to calm your breathing as you wait for his response. 

“If anyone deserves more than one great love, it’s you.” Spencer’s voice sounds closer, soft. 

When you open your eyes, you realize he is closer, inches from you. You gaze up at him, giving him a light smile when he whispers, “We can take it slower,” 

“I like slower.” 

He laughs and nods, “Me too,” he holds out a cold hand for you to take, “Let me walk you to your car?” 

You stare at his palm, watching your cold fingers intertwine with his. The sensation makes the tips of your fingers buzz with anticipation. You feel his hand gives yours a slight squeeze before guiding you to the parking lot across the street. 

It’s not the last time you walk side-by-side, holding hands in the middle of the cold East Coast winter, and he’s determined to make sure it’s not your last. 

And whenever anyone asks how the two of you met, Spencer lets you tell the story, his hand slipping into yours as you say, “Well, it’s a bit of a long story.”

[viilan]

i’m just thinking of a danny phantom x dc au where reader is phantom and is bruce bio kid, but with a side of yandere batfamily just image.

tw: death mention, ig?

reader is gender neutral !!

* You know the universe where dan exist and how he came to exist? what if that happens. what if you couldn’t stop them dying one by one, or perhaps it was just the family, anyway, you have to move. don’t ask me how you feel out your bruce kid, but you are shipped out there

* despite being phantom, a superhero. you still fear what your future hold. you heard of bruce wayne and his family, many different thing and you don’t know what to think

* you just hope he was nice

* your first day to the mansion was fucking awful. you were pick up by a private jet which was cool, and bruce wayne was ,, nice but every attempt of conversation fell flat, he was more focus on the computer and you couldn’t figure out what he was looking at.

* when you left the plane, the whole place was covered by press which put you on edge. bruce just look at you, pulling you close. “keep your head down and walk fast, ( reader ).” before brisk walking you to a car.

* “alfred, tell me what happened.” he spoked, not even focus on how mindblogging that was.

* the butler, who you assume was alfred start to drive. “everything been fixed, i’m sure you should focus on your certain task instead of that.” you watch as bruce stiffen slightly and he look at you, regret flashing against his face.

* “i’m sorry about that, (y/n). it been a hectic day.”

* you couldn’t rest the urge to scoff, looking at him with a unamused expression.

* “i had a urgent matter to trend to,” he explained, clearly choosing his word ever so carefully. you shifted, a sour taste in your mouth. “it fine.” you murmured.

* bruce look at you with a expression you couldn’t read. “enough of that, how are you feeling, after everything-“

* “i’m as fine as i could be, with the whole dead family thing,” you said. , he just look at you with a expression you couldn’t decipher. “i guess we have that in common.” you tried to joke, watching as his face sour and you tense.

* “shit, fuck. i’m sorry- i didn’t mean- like that.” you mention. rubbing a hand over your face. a deep red covering your face. “i guess i shouldn’t be a comedian, huh?” you wonder what jazz would say if you were in your shoes, she probably would make him cry.

* the drive back was silent after that, despite your awkward rambling, you just choose to be quiet after a fifth apology, looking outside the window. you inched closer. curious about your new home, you could sense the ectoplasm, this could be fun at least, you could put your energy into fighting and maybe meet the batman.

* the door open and you jump back, looking up at a older man who give you a smile. “we’re here.” bruce slide out with ease and you fumble after him, tired beyond word could describe.

* you let them lead, barely being able to step into the door before your ghost sense went off, you look around. not spotting anything out of the usual but your hair stand on end.

* “let me take your bag,” the old man spoke, you flinch, grip tighten before you realize and hand them over. “oh, uh thank you..”

* “alfred, i’m the house butler, young master.” he smile at you, it didn’t put you on ease. “show her around when i tend to this.” bruce spoke, not even sparing you a glance.

* “… i fucked up with that dead family comment; didn’t i?” you asked, passing a glance to alfred, who only crack a smile. “let me lead you to your room, i’m sure you want to rest.” he lead you down hallways, it seem like a maze. “if you have any request, let me know.” he spoked. “i will leave you be to unpacked.”

* you give him a smile, forced but he took it to leave. you look around the room curiously, it was quite big and spacious. void of life. you grabbed your bags and dump them on the bed. looking over your small collection of things from home. everything else was gone, destroy in the fire or seized by the government. you were glad you destroy whatever you could which was almost everything.

* your things mostly consisted of the other things. you had some of jazz notebooks, her stupid bear. you have some of their clothes, blueprints and some weapons. the fenton thermos was broken and you need to fix it just in case. tears burn at your eyes and you sniffle softly. “how the fuck am im gonna do this?” you whispered, gathering up the blueprint and weapons, sniffing as you went to find a hiding spot, you found a spot in the wall, using your power to put them away before you sit down, tears pouring down your face.

* you never felt so alone.

[ please please tell me if you want more because i crave attention and need people to share my ideas withs ]