#i admittedly just wanted to use green and nothing but green

[scrimblyscrorblo]

Poe in his uniform, I wanted to mess around with colours cuz my poor poor markers TT

[imaginedisish]

Liquid Smooth (Logan Howlett x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Started writing this last night...sooo happy you guys wanted a sex pollen fic! Hope it lives up to everyone's expectations! This one is (obviously) inspired by "Liquid Smooth," by Mitski. ENJOY!

Summary: A simple mission deep in a forest alone with Logan quickly gets out of hand when you just have to go and pick a flower...

Warnings: 18+ EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT MINORS DNI! Dry humping, Oral (f!receiving), Fingering, Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), Sex Pollen (so dub!con just to be safe, but not really), Multiple orgasms, Porn Without Plot...literally, implied!age gap, cursing, friends to lovers, fem!reader/afab!reader, probably some grammatical errors, I think that's it.

Word Count: 3,797 muahaha

“I don’t need a goddamn babysitter,” you murmur as Logan thumbs through the controls of the X-Jet. “Could’ve done this by myself.” 

Logan scoffs. “I’m not your babysitter, princess.” You roll your eyes at the nickname Logan has specially reserved just for you. “Charles said we’d be safer going together. He knows you can handle yourself.”

The X-Jet cruises effortlessly through the clouds. The air is still today. Calm. You and Logan are on your way to get some sort of flower that Charles claims to have extensive healing properties. It’s an easy mission. No fighting. No violence. You’re unlikely to have to use your powers at all. And yet, you’ve been paired with Logan. 

It wouldn’t be a problem if you weren’t—admittedly—a little into him. Or rather, pining after him. There’s just something about the sarcasm that’s always thick in his voice; the way he squeezes himself into those thin beaters. How he’s always so self-assured, so thoroughly convinced he’s right. You just can’t help it. You want him. But he isn’t yours, and he probably never will be. He’s a little older—well, a lot, considering he’s been around forever. And you know it’s safer not to make attachments—not to fall in love.

Unfortunately, it’s a little too late for that. 

But having him here with you now, alone, with no buffers…it’s overwhelming. You can smell him—that mix of tobacco and pine and musk and him. He’s suddenly everywhere, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You watch as his long fingers press different buttons, his hands gripping the steering wheel, adjusting thrusters. You stare at those fingers for far too long, your thoughts drifting to what else he can do with them. You think about him curling them deep inside you, stretching you open and—

“Everything okay?” You snap your head to face Logan, swallowing harshly as his voice pulls you back to reality. 

You force a smile, nodding. “Yep!” You say, overcompensating just a bit. “All good,” you lie. You close your eyes, trying to push thoughts of Logan out of your head, denying the heat growing between your legs.

“Good, because we’re almost there,” Logan says, the X-Jet descending carefully. You look out the window to see the trees below. There’s a lake in the distance, but that’s it. No civilization, no houses—no one. It’s empty, peaceful. 

“We’re really in the middle of nowhere, huh?” You say, glancing at Logan. 

His eyes meet yours and he smiles. Warmth blooms in your heart at the sight. “My kind of place,” he says back. The X-Jet descends further as you approach a clear spread of grass to land on just ahead. 

This is, in fact, not your kind of place. The humidity creeps up your back and settles under your skin. The forest is overgrown and impossible to navigate. You let Logan slice through the plant life with his claws, swiping back and forth whenever something gets in your way.

You haven’t been walking for long, but you’re already done. Perhaps Charles was right; a partner is not the worst idea on a mission like this. 

You can see the flower just ahead—yellow petals and a long, green, viny stem. It glows brightly even under the dense forest canopy. “Semper in tenebris lux,” Charles had said; there is always light in darkness. And he was right. The flower illuminates everything in its path. Next to it, you can see a pretty, lavender-colored flower. You stop in your tracks, letting Logan wander ahead as you crouch down to stroke the purple petals. 

“Charles didn’t say anything about not taking other flowers too, right?” You call out, watching as Logan swipes carefully at the stem of the yellow flower. He holds the dainty stem in his large hands as he walks back over to you. 

“No, he didn’t. But you should be careful. It could be poisonous or—”

You ignore Logan, picking the flower anyway. You hold it up to your nose and breathe in. It’s sweet and fragrant. You twist the stem and realize the flower is sticky with sap and pollen. Your twist shakes some of the pollen up, and it lands all over your face. 

“Shit,” you mutter, wiping it away. A gust of wind sweeps through the forest, knocking the flower out of your hand and spreading more of its pollen in the air. You can feel it in your nostrils, getting caught in your throat.

Logan furrows his brows as the pollen falls to the ground. “What the fuck did you do?”

You roll your eyes. “All I did was pick a flower!” You lift your hands, feigning innocence. “I’m sure it’s nothing.” You stand up, glancing once at the yellow flower in Logan’s hands and then back at Logan. “It’s pretty.”

He parts his lips, his stare focused on you. “Yeah, it is.” There’s something else in that stare, in those words. Like maybe he isn’t only talking about the flower. You shove those thoughts down as you turn around and walk back to the jet.

Your steps are suddenly very heavy. You scratch at your shoulder. Heat blooms in your chest, your stomach, across your face. You’re irritated and overheated and itchy. Your breath grows heavier and rougher with every step. 

Logan notices immediately. He stops, grabbing your arm. You can’t control the way you lean into his touch, nor the way you’re craving more. “Hey,” he soothes, eyes searching your face. “Are you okay?” There’s a hint of panic in his voice. 

You swallow harshly, nodding. Your throat feels thick, your skin tight and oppressive. “’M’fine,” you mumble. 

“Quit lying. I can tell something’s wrong,” Logan demands. You open your mouth to persuade him otherwise, but he doesn’t give you the chance, his grip tightening around your arm. “Your skin is on fucking fire, princess. What did you do?” He cocks his head, sniffing as he furrows his brows. His voice is darker now, slower as his eyes widen. “What the fuck did you do?”

You take in a sharp breath. And that’s when you feel it, the ache between your thighs, the slick arousal soaking through your panties. The realization smacks you in the face. For a moment, you’re clear-headed, but still terrified. The pollen. That goddamn, fucking pollen. “Logan, look, I think that purple flower had some—"

He cuts you off as he yanks your arm, tugging you towards the ship. “We need to get you back to the jet, okay?”

“Oh, I am so fucked,” you cry. You know you only have a few seconds left before the effects really kick in. “L-Logan,” you stutter, almost moaning as your core burns stronger with need. “T-the pollen was everywhere. What if you got some too?” 

He ignores you, handing you the yellow flower you came here for in the first place. He sweeps one hand under your legs and keeps the other at your back as he lifts you in his arms—bridal style. You can feel his heart beating in his chest. You lean into him again, searching for relief. Wetness pools between your legs. You have never felt this needy before. Your desire hurts, burns, scorches you. You rut your hips, clenching down around nothing. 

“S-stop doing that,” Logan spits, restrained and quiet. 

“C-can’t,” you whine. “It hurts, Logan. It hurts so fucking bad. How come you aren’t like this too?”

He pulls you tighter to his chest. “I feel a little something, but that might just…”

You tilt your head up to look at him. He works his jaw, that perfect jaw. You want to bite it, to bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Might just be what?” You ask, tentatively brushing your lips against the hollow of his throat. 

“Nothing, just—fuck,” he groans as you press soft, open-mouthed kisses all around his neck now. “Don’t do that, princess. You don’t want this.”

“But I do, Logan,” you beg. The ramp to the jet lowers as you and Logan approach. “N-need you.” You bury your face into his shoulder, breathing him in. “Need y-you all the time.” The confession slips easily from your lips. 

Logan’s eyes widen as he walks up the ramp and into the ship. It lifts and seals shut behind him. “You don’t mean that, sweetheart. Let’s just get you back to the mansion as quickly as possible, yeah?”

He places you down on the seat next to him, taking the flower from your hands and putting it in the jar Charles had given you. The leather cold at your back almost feels good, almost relieving—until you realize Logan is no longer holding you, touching you. You reach out towards him, grabbing his arms, pulling him back in. “Don’t go,” you plead, nails digging into his biceps. Your body is on fire. Everything is unbearably painful. “Please,” you whimper. “Need you so fucking bad, just you.” 

“Fuck,” Logan curses. “I am not taking advantage of you. I am not doing this.” He stands, freeing himself from your grasp and walking over to the pilot’s chair. “I’m getting you back to the mansion and we’re going to fix this, okay?”

But that’s not good enough for you. You stand up and walk over to Logan. Your steps are shaky, your legs trembling. Your chest heaves, your heart beating rapidly. You climb into Logan’s lap, straddling him, one leg on either side. “Logan, I can’t fucking wait,” you cry, grinding down onto his lap. The pressure feels delicious.  He grabs your hips, stilling you, forcing you in place. And that’s when you feel it: his erection, hard underneath your core. “This isn’t you. You don’t really want this, don’t really want m—”

“It is me,” you protest, squirming against his hold. “Logan, I’ve wanted you for months. I-I was thinking about you t-touching me the whole way here.” You remember the way his fingers dexterously pushed all the right buttons. Need courses through you like a river, and as Logan’s hold on your hips softens, you grind down into his lap, against his erection. “S-so good,” you cry out. 

His hands are still on your hips, but now he’s guiding you, rocking you against his cock. “J-just this though, okay?” 

You hum, pressing your forehead to his, rolling your hips faster. The relief is like heaven. His arms wrap around your back, his fingers trailing up and down soothingly. Logan ruts into you, his erection straining against his jeans. You can feel yourself getting closer, but the pain, the need, it’s all still the same. 

“Logan, it’s not gonna be enough,” you whisper, his lips ghosting yours. “N-need more. Hurts so bad.”

He presses a chaste kiss to your lips, like he’s scared to truly touch you. But he wants to consume your pain, to take it away, to feel it for you. You can see it written across his face, in the way his cock throbs against your swollen clit, how he snaps his hips into yours. 

“I know, princess,” he coos, his hands like fire on your back. Your walls contract around nothing, begging for something to hold onto, to feel something sink deep inside. “Gonna take care of you.” He kisses you again, with more vigor this time, more passion. “I’ve got you, darlin’.”

You moan into his mouth. His composure is slipping, disintegrating with every roll, every rock of your hips against his. His cock notches against your clit, sending a jolt of pleasure up the base of your spine. He hikes your shirt up, the cold air hitting your overheated skin. “F-feels good,” you stammer. You’re almost there, almost hitting that peak. “S-so close.”

“I know, pretty girl,” he soothes. “Let go for me, know you can do it.” 

You moan his name, your orgasm crashing into you like a crescendo. You know you’re soaking through your clothes, and probably onto Logan’s too. He’s still rutting against you, giving you more. He knows it’s not going to be enough, and he’s right. Need builds back up just as quickly as you found your release. 

 “Lo…” you trail off, looking up at him under lust-filled eyes. You swallow harshly, squirming in his lap helplessly. “G-gotta have you.” 

He presses his forehead to yours. He works his jaw, parting his lips. “Y-you meant it when you said you wanted me before this?” But he already knows the answer. He knows you wouldn’t lie to him about that, not even now. 

“Yes,” you whine, pulling him closer. He tugs your shirt all the way over your head and picks you up, hands firmly gripping your ass. “Still gonna want you after this, too.”

He curses under his breath as he places you down in the pilot’s chair. He’s frenzied and frantic as he hooks his thumbs into your pants and panties, yanking them down your legs and casting them to the side. 

He spreads your legs with the palms of his hands, his thumbs brushing soft circles into your inner thighs. He’s kneeling, looking up at you. Your breath catches in your throat as his face settles between your legs. 

“Could smell you before, pretty girl,” he husks, his breath fanning over your clit. “Wanted this so fucking bad.” He doesn’t keep you waiting, licking a long stripe through your folds and up to your clit. “Knew you’d taste perfect. Pretty fucking pussy.” 

You throw your head back as his lips latch onto your clit, sucking harshly. He slips one hand across your back, keeping you close. His free hand climbs up your thigh, fingers exploring your folds as his tongue flits across your swollen bud. He spreads your arousal, prodding against your entrance before shoving two fingers deep inside you. “Logan!” You cry out, your walls clenching around him. He’s stretching you out, his fingers dragging inside you. He pulls out and plunges back in. He isn’t taking his time, isn’t teasing. He’s giving you what you need, pump after pump. 

You look down at him, his face buried in your cunt, consuming you, swallowing you whole like a starving man. He’s lost inside you, lapping at you with unwavering hunger and desire. His tongue swirls around your clit, his teeth grazing ever so slightly. You moan his name again, and he hums against you, the vibrations of his bassy voice rocking through your body. He’s wrecking you, but it feels so goddamn good. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he goads you along. He’s adding a third finger now, and you suck him in. You’d take anything he gives you, anything at all. “Doing so good for me, taking it so well.” 

He sucks roughly, your walls clenching around him at the feeling. “Yeah?” He grunts, sucking again. “You like that? Feels good?” 

“Y-yes,” you stammer, stumbling over that one simple word. “S-so fucking good.” 

“I know, beautiful,” he groans, nipping at your clit in between his rough sucks. “Gonna make that hurt go away, okay?” His voice is like honey, sugar; it’s sweet, addictive. “You just gotta come for me again, can you do that?” His tongue strokes your clit, his fingers pumping faster now. 

You nod your head emphatically, pleasure surging as you near your peak. “Yeah, I-I can,” you huff. 

Logan smiles against your cunt between rough laps. “I know you can, sweetheart.” His fingers scissor inside you, deeper than before. He takes your clit between his lips again, sucking hard. 

And that’s all it takes—you’re screaming his name, coming undone, unraveling underneath him. The release is even better than the first, more full, more complete. Logan thrusts in and out a few more times before slowly pulling his fingers from your cunt. He licks one more long stripe through your folds and looks up into your eyes. 

For a moment, the fire inside has been quenched. You feel clear, levelheaded. But it doesn’t last long. “Fuck,” you moan, your head hitting against the headrest of the chair. The fire is back, spreading across your stomach, your chest. “Logan,” you whimper. “I n-need more.”

“It’s okay, pretty girl,” he coos, taking you back up into his arms. He hoists you out of the seat, his hands finding your ass, squeezing softly. You wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you across the jet, setting you down on a storage container. 

You bring your hands up to his biceps. “Need you this time, Lo,” you choke, stroking up and down his arms as the heat builds painfully between your thighs. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, eyes searching yours. 

“Always wanted you, always sure,” you whisper, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. 

His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Wanted you too,” he husks. “But I wanted it to be different, to—” You cut him off. “Just want you. It’s okay like this. I promise.” You grind against him, his erection still straining inside the denim of his jeans. 

He takes the hint, and quickly unbuckles his belt, casting the leather to the metal floor with a clunk. He’s unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans, shoving them down his legs, and lining himself up with your entrance. You push your hips forward, giving him better access. His other hand pushes your bra above your breasts, exposing you completely to him. 

With one hand on his cock and one squeezing your tits gently, he thrusts himself into you. He’s so deep—down to the hilt—stretching you out and working you open. He groans, flicking your nipple with his thumb, his lips at the shell of your ear. “So fucking beautiful,” he whispers, sending a chill down your spine, quenching that fire inside. “So warm, so tight.” He pulls out and plunges back in again, filling you up. 

“Lo,” you whine. “More.”

“I know,” he growls, his hips snapping into yours, bottoming out with every thrust. “Gonna take care of you, pretty girl.” He squeezes your tits once more before sliding his hand down your body and slipping between where the two of you connect. His fingers find your clit, drawing rough circles around the bud. “That feel good, beautiful?” 

“Y-yes, Logan, so fucking good,” you cry out as he rocks into you. His other hand grips your hip tightly, holding you in place. You hope there’s a bruise there later—proof that he touched you, proof that he fucked into you like the world was ending. 

His cock rubs against your walls, your muscles contracting around him, sucking him in deeper. “Squeezing me so good, sweetheart,” he praises, his lips crashing down onto yours, swallowing your moans. He’s taking all of you, hard and fast. You can feel him twitching inside you, throbbing with the same need you feel pulsing through your veins. 

Logan kisses your jaw, and then just underneath, biting down on your pulse point. You arch your back, your chest meeting his. The contact is delicious, the friction a necessity. He thrusts into you faster now, doing his all to satiate your every need. He’s getting you there, pump after pump, hitting that sweet spot inside you every time. 

It’s working. You can feel yourself slipping again, melting. “Logan,” you hum, too fucked out to say anything other than his name. That beautiful name, like a song in the air, a gentle prayer, a holy ghost. He’s all you need—all you’ve ever needed. 

Your walls contract, squeezing him tightly. “Fuck,” he mutters. You know he’s close too. He strokes your clit, circling roughly. “Come on, pretty girl. You can do it, let me get you there again.” 

“Lo,” you cry, your eyes fluttering open and shut as he fucks into you, rutting his hips, plunging deeper still. It’s all too much. You can feel the pleasure drumming inside you, coming to a head. 

Logan loosens his grip on your hip and slides his hand behind your back, pulling you into his chest. You rest your forehead against his. “Come on my cock, princess, let go.” And you do. You’d do anything for him. You moan as your orgasm tears through you. It’s all blinding white heat, liquid smooth, pleasure wracking your body. 

Logan curses under his breath, close behind. He pulses inside you once, and then he’s coming undone. Your arms wrap around his back, keeping him close, letting him know it’s okay to finish inside. He fills you up, whispering praises in your ear as you both come down from your high. Such a good fucking girl. Did so good for me. So fucking good. Perfect little pussy.

He’s still inside you, pumping slowly as you ride out your orgasm. His fingers let go of your clit, his hands running up your back and tugging you closer to him. He slowly pulls out, keeping you tight against his chest. 

“Are you okay?” He whispers against the shell of your ear. You take a deep breath, waiting for the heat to build again, waiting for that need to surge every cell of your being. But there’s nothing. Your nerves are suddenly quiet—silent. 

“I-I think it’s over,” you stutter, still nervous that maybe it’s not. He keeps you there, holding you tightly, ready to start again if necessary. 

After a few minutes, you let yourself relax. It’s not coming back. It’s over. 

Logan presses a chaste kiss to the side of your head. “I’ve still got you. Not going anywhere.” Your heart rate has finally slowed down. The heat is gone. You feel comfortable in your skin again. You take a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper into Logan’s chest. 

“Nothing to be sorry for, princess,” Logan reassures, his voice gentle and soft. “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

You nod against him, but you still feel a sting in your heart. You need to make him know that you meant what you said—need him to know exactly how you feel. You swallow nervously, ready to bite the bullet. 

“Logan,” you breathe. “I-I meant everything I said. It wasn’t just the pollen.” You pull yourself from his chest, looking up at him. “I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted you…” you trail off. “S-still need you now. Nothing’s changed.” 

He smiles down at you, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. “I know, darlin’,” he husks. “I wanted you before, and I still do, too.” 

“I know you wanted it to be different. I know it wasn’t—” But he cuts you off, his lips capturing yours, quieting your anxious rambles. “We’ll have other chances. Other times to do it the way I want.” He smirks, running his hands up and down your back. 

Other chances. Other times. More. More. More. “Yeah?” You ask. 

“Yeah, princess.”

tags: @wolviesgirl @dojacatswink @dilf420 @spiderset @pleasantlycrazyworld @imwithyoutiltheendofthelinebucky @y-ns-things

[zhongrin]

honey, can you…. un-sick me please?

© zhongrin | 2023  ✼  no repost・translations・plagiarism of any kind・ai data mining. rebloggers get a free cup of tea ♡

✼ characters ┈ zhongli, al haitham, wriothesley, neuvillette, diluc

✼ tags ┈ gn!reader, fluff, crack, 'puppy' nickname used (wriothesley), you’re sick but nothing life-threatening (common cold/flu/fever), they’re all just so soggy for you

✼ a/n ┈ i did change my formatting recently, yes. i like this one better methinks hehe

ꜱᴘᴇᴄɪᴀʟ ᴍᴇɴᴜ (ꜱᴇʀɪᴇꜱ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ) ✼ ᴏᴜʀ ꜰᴜʟʟ ᴍᴇɴᴜ (ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ)  ✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ)

“dear, i assure you, the ‘passing on the sickness by kissing’ method has never been proven to work... ah, please don’t give me such downtrodden eyes, you know i cannot help but give in when you look so saddened…”

zhongli was ever so patient with your whininess, clinginess, and overall annoying (your words, not his) self when you were sick with this kind of fever. he personally thought it was adorable, the way you insisted on following him around, asking to be pampered and spoiled in such a vulnerable moment…

… and boy, did he spoil you rotten.

though his mortal vessel is incapable of catching mortal diseases, he had seen the ever-evolving medical treatments throughout the millenia to know that your request to ‘kiss me so i can heal faster’ was meant to go unfulfilled. but how could he refuse you when you look so cute? he sighed fondly and ended up peppering you with kisses all over your flushed face, a gentle smile curling his lips when you giggled and clung to him even tighter in response.

anything to soothe his treasure.

“you’re delirious. go back to bed.”

your boyfriend might sound blunt and mean, yet the way he cradled your sickly self carefully and the gentleness in which he tucked you back into bed behind the blankets was everything but uncaring. al haitham was as complex as the books he read, but if you were thorough enough, you would be able to see the worried lines creasing his eyebrows and the turmoil behind his usually impassive green eyes fringed with bright terracotta lines.

al haitham became a mirror of his grandma ever since your body proceeded to shut down on you. he would make you soup and helped you eat it when you couldn’t muster the energy to do it yourself, and he fussed over you in his own way. admittedly, he had secretly sneaked in some herbs - grown with the help of his dendro vision - into said soup, which he read would aid you in your recovery… but that was a secret he shall keep to himself.

wriothesley looked torn between wanting to laugh at you or being incredibly worried if the fever was affecting you too much. he opted to shake his head with a chuckle and hoisted you up into his arms before tucking you back to bed despite your feeble protests.

“sigewinne told you to take plenty of rest, remember? you’ll get ‘un-sick’ed soon enough if you just listen to her, you silly puppy.”

your whines and pouts did nothing to convince him otherwise. your beloved seemed intent to keep you on the bed. he was very much tempted to threaten you with a promise to cuff yourself to the bed if you keep being stubborn, but he decided not to. instead, he stayed by your bedside like a loyal hound until the medicine kicked in and you fell into a deep slumber.

“let's have a picnic under the sun when you recover, yeah? but for now, let me just guard you while you're at your most vulnerable, sweetheart.”

neuvillette, the infamously aloof and diligent iudex, was anything but austere when it came to you. one might say he takes his role as your husband more seriously than his role as the chief of justice - and considering his accomplishments as the latter, it was an understatement to say that he excelled as your lover.

the day you got sick, rain fell throughout fontaine, persistent and seemingly neverending. it mattered not if it was just a common cold. you might as well be on your deathbed judging from the saddened gaze of your dearest’s sharp eyes and the way he was calling upon all doctors in fontaine to check up on you. even when you tried to lighten up his somber mood with your words, he merely grasped your hands tighter and brought them to his forehead, silently vowing to do all he could to make you healthy again.

“it is maddening that i do not have the power to heal humans, but rest assured that i will ensure that you can recover in the fastest and most efficient way possible, my love.”

the only time master diluc would be present in the kitchen is when 1) it’s a special day to you or the both of you, or 2) you’re cooking, or 3) you’re sick.

and currently, you’ve fallen ill from your recent adventure of dancing in the rain with your beloved. it was an addition into the romantic moments which the two of you would no doubt engrave in your hearts, yet while his pyro vision had subconsciously kept your lover’s body temperature from droppimg, it failed to do the same to you - hence why you were left with a bad case of flu and sore throat.

still, being sick while being diluc’s lover had its perks: for one, there were the maids who would take a good care of you, and they were always so considerate of your needs, especially when you were in this condition. but the best part would have to be your devoted red haired man doting after you like an overly attached falcon, personally taking it upon himself to nurse you back to full health. he was ever so patient with you, chuckling when you babble nonsensically, brain fogged and loose-lipped.

“yes, dear. i shall take it upon myself to ‘un-sick’ you. now, it’s time for your medicine. i’ll help you sit up... my love, don’t make that face… i promise to give you a forehead kiss if you finish the medicine.”

✼ ᴍᴇᴍʙᴇʀꜱʜɪᴘ (ᴛᴀɢʟɪꜱᴛ) ┈ @abyssmal-skies | @hamdehlesmis | @depressivecomforts | @sunnshineflxwer | @yuutasbabe | @queen-belial | @stygianoir | @silentmoths | @niktwazny303 | @dustofthedailylife | @marina-and-the-memes | @mixed-kester | @lordbugs | @anonymousficreader | @shizunxie | @ansy-tea | @irethepotato | @sassy-cat-in-town | @syrenkitsune | @smokipoki | @cakeboxie | @crystalflygeo | @ciexuvia | @illaasya | @celestewritestoomuch | @pams-comfortzone | @spidermanluvr444 | @ourstrawberryclouds | @ryuryuryuyurboat

[after-witch]

The Driven Snow [Yandere Coriolanus Snow x Reader]

Title: The Driven Snow [Yandere Coriolanus Snow x Reader]

Synopsis: You're a District 2 school graduate who comes to the Capitol with her father before the 11th Hunger Games. You don't expect to meet anyone kind, especially not someone named Coriolanus Snow who offers you his arm, his smile, and treats in secret. 

Word Count: 5270

notes: yandere, abusive relationship, non-graphic descriptions of torture and death (not against reader); uses a mixture of book and movie canon

The Capitol was not as dazzling as your father described it but then, he had seen it before the war. Though perhaps it was your own bitterness that made you ignore the signs of returning prosperity that sets it above everywhere else.

The repaired elaborate buildings, the fresh pungent smell of plaster and paint. The cars pumping exhaust fumes into the air. The low rumble of garbage trucks that pick up bright green garbage cans, some of which are actually teeming with plastic trash bags. Such waste was unheard of, even in the oh-so-loyal District 2, where only the lowest of the low find themselves starving.

Although not-starving didn’t mean that everything was plentiful. 

You, though, were lucky enough to avoid the lima bean heavy diet that some of your classmates (now former--graduation was months ago) lived on. Or were you? The meat that graced your family’s dinner table, the pats of butter on toast, were all courtesy of your father’s  immense talent in building creative weapons that allowed the Capitol to stamp out every last bit of rebellion in the Districts. That allowed them to regain control. That allowed them to create the Hunger Games.

Which is why you were in the Capitol now. Oh, not to participate in them. Your father’s status in District 2 had seen to that; it would be a scandal if the name of his beloved daughter were to ever be pulled. 

You were there because your father had been given a lucrative contract, one that was sure to cement your family’s wealth for generations: a contract to build high-tech weapons for the Hunger Games themselves. 

They would still be killing. But on a much smaller scale, you supposed, than the weapons your father designed during the war. 

Still. Blood was blood. And if it had to be spilled, well, there was nothing you could do about it except hope they died quickly. Especially the ones from District 2.

Last year’s Games’ had been awful enough. Your family had watched the Games on a modest television set in the privacy of your living room, sent courtesy of the Capitol. 

You wondered if you would ever get the sight of Marcus’ battered, bloated face from your mind; if you would ever unhear the way his body thumped to the ground when that girl had killed him, out of mercy. If you would ever stop imagining what it must have felt like in those last moments.

But it wasn’t all horror. You’d liked Lucy Gray well enough, even though she was from 12. She had a wild way of dressing and the singing--it was practically theatrical, compared to what you’d heard about the previous games. 

Maybe that was why your father got this contract: theatrics. Maybe the games would be more dramatic from now on. Maybe they wanted tributes like Lucy Gray, who sang and spit and poisoned her way to Victory. It was strange, really, that there’d been hardly any talk of her since her win. 

“Father?” You asked, quietly as you could. 

Both of you were standing in the foyer of the grand university in the Capitol. The outside was still a little ravaged, but inside, it was perfectly lovely. Walls lined with books--perhaps some of them were fake--and marble floors and marble busts dotting the sight lines.

“Mm?” He replied, eyes scanning over his clipboard. He flips it, here and there.

“I was just thinking. About last year’s games. About Lucy Gray, and how the Games--”

Your father rounded on you, eyes suddenly serious and blazing.

“Quiet. Weren’t you paying attention on the way here?” Admittedly, you were not. You’d been daydreaming about what you might do now that you were done with school. There was no university in District 2, and your father hadn’t even mentioned a job. “You’re not supposed to mention--”

“Not supposed to mention whom? Ah, ah, ah. Lucy Gray Baird?” called a voice, almost in sing-song.

Your father stood up stiff, and the life seemed to drain from his face.

Both of you look towards the sound of the voice, and now it’s your turn to stiffen. The voice came from a woman standing in the doorway of the very office that your father was waiting to enter. She was wearing an elaborate jacket made of what looked like rainbow snake scales. Her hair was gray and curly. She had, you realized, two different colored eyes. 

Your father swallowed, and you could see the apple of it bob up and down. It made you think, abruptly, of suckling pigs. 

“Dr. Gaul,” he said, in a voice far too tight to be relaxed. “I apologize for my daughter’s insubordination, I assure you, she meant no--”

Dr. Gaul waved her hands at him and approached you. 

“Did you like last year’s games?” She didn’t look angry. No, she looked delighted.

“I…” It was your turn to swallow, your turn to feel that tightness. “It-it was the first time I’ve watched them, ma’am.” You want to ask this woman: do you think I liked watching someone from my District 2 so horribly? Or any District, really? Did I like it? 

Her smile grew wider. 

“I’m glad. You’ll be watching them every year from now on, I hope. We have big plans.” Her eyebrows raised high. “Big changes. Thanks to men like your father.” She glanced at him and you saw disdain flicker across her gaze. 

And then another door opened, and you heard the sound of polished shoes on the marble floor. Dr. Gaul’s attention dropped away from you like you were nothing at all. She turned to meet the sound of these footsteps, and you did too.

It was a young man. Probably your age, you thought, with light blonde hair and eyes that your mother would have described as “baby blue.” He didn’t look at you, or your father. But that was nothing new. You’d only been in the Capitol for 2 days, and you’d already gotten used to being treated as lesser than. Though, at least, you were not so far down on the food chain that you lost your tongue. 

“Ah, my protege,” said Dr. Gaul, giving the young man a grin. The smile on her face almost looked warm, which was somehow far more terrifying than her manic smile from earlier. “Ever the earnest student. Aren’t you supposed to be enjoying the day off, Mr. Snow?”

The young man, this “Snow,” chuckled and lowered his gaze. “I couldn’t stay away once I heard you were discussing some of the new prototypes for this year’s games.” 

He finally looked at your father, and then at you. But only briefly.

“Can I assume that this is…?”

Dr. Gaul nodded.

“Yes. My little designer from District 2. And his daughter.” Her voice dropped a few octaves when she referred to you. She probably didn’t want you here, you thought. You weren’t supposed to come, but your father had begged the Capitol for a pass; it would probably be your only chance to see it, he said, so you may as well take advantage of the chance.

Snow nodded to your father. It was a surprising gesture, almost respectful. But cold, too, like it was done from necessity rather than anything else. 

Your father stammered a bit and nodded back, and you felt shame begin to creep into your bones. It wasn’t fair, to be lesser-than. But weren’t others lesser-than you in your own District, where you ate better food and never worried that your name would get picked, that your blood would be spilled?

Everyone 

But when Snow turned to you, he smiled. It gave him dimples. 

It was the first kind smile anyone in the Capitol gave you. 

“My name is Coriolanus Snow. I doubt you’ve heard of me, but if Dr. Gaul’s teachings have anything to say about it, perhaps one day you’ll know me as a Gamemaker.” 

You didn’t know what to say. Congratulations, one day you’ll be coordinating Games that kill people? Instead,  you gave your name, voice squeakier than you meant it. But it was fitting, you supposed. Here, you were a mouse, hoping you would get a bite of cheese and make it home unpoisoned. 

Dr. Gaul’s face seemed to react slowly, as if she couldn’t decide what she thought about his words or your interaction, but a small smile grew on it, eventually. “I do have high hopes for you, Mr. Snow. Now, shall we?”

She gestured for your father to follow, face once again impassive with a sprinkle of disdain, as she led the two of them into her office.

Snow gave you a smile and a nod before he left.

You waved, stupidly.

Your father didn’t even look back.

--

I’m dead. I’m dead. I might as well be dead.

Your heartbeat kept time with your racing thoughts as you went up and down corridors, begging your shoes to be silent, wishing your breath would catch and stop coming out in terrible pants.

You were lost. You weren’t where you were supposed to be. If someone found you, if the wrong person found you, they would think you were running, trying to get lost in the Capitol; they’d think  you were a rebel. They’d shoot you.

Just when you thought you might collapse and die from your own nervous exhaustion, you heard the most wonderful sound in the world.

Your name.

It was only the moment after that you realized it didn’t come from your father’s mouth, but the lips of--what his name--Coriolanus Snow. The young man who was a Gamemaker-in-training, or so your father said. But that’s all he would say. He kept tight about anything that went on behind closed doors. 

But this Coriolanus Snow smiled at you, and didn’t look at you like you were some kind of insect he might want to pin on a board, and so when you whirled around to look at him you were smiling.

Ah--for a moment. For just a moment, you saw his muscles tense. You saw the expression on his face falter in worry. Like he thought he was about to miss a step on a staircase, and corrected himself; like he thought you were a wolf and you were only somebody’s dog, off their leash. 

But it wasn’t too surprising. You knew most people in the Capitol thought anyone from the Districts wanted to rip out their throats. 

Well, the worry was mutual. Except in your case, you were forced to walk around with the living proof of that worry--all those “Avoxes,” they called them. Without tongues, without freedom. 

But you swallow all that. Because he smiled at you. Because maybe it wouldn’t hurt to make a friend. Especially right now.

“I’m--I’m lost,” you tell him, giving a shaky smile. “I was waiting for my father, but you see, I got to thinking, and I started to wander around and now I’m… well. I don’t know where I am, actually.”

His smile wasn’t very deep, was it? It was like the gloss of paint on the outside of the Capitol buildings. Pretty to look at, but there must be more underneath.

You expected him to lead you right back to where you’re supposed to be.

Instead, he asked you something.

“What were you thinking about?

You couldn’t tell him. Could you? But something about 

“About… the Games.”

You don’t tell him that you were thinking about Lucy Gray and all those snakes, and the way that Dr. Gaul’s outfit that first day made you think of them. Because your father had slapped you across the face when you got back to your lodgings that night, and told you to never, ever bring up Lucy Gray Baird or the 10th Games unless you were directly asked. And you would probably never be asked. 

Coriolanus gave a little snort through his nose. You liked it. It was nice to know that even Capitol people could seem a little dorky.

“They aren’t for another 3 months. Are you that eager to see them?”

You didn’t know what expression you made, exactly. It was so instinctive and fast that you didn’t have time to control it. 

You only knew that it made him shake his head and offer you a sympathetic look.  

“I apologize. That was rude, wasn’t it?” 

And then he did a strange thing.

He offered you his arm. 

Like you were Capitol, like you were a real person, and not some visiting District wench walking on the coattails of her arms-dealing father. 

“Let me walk you back to the waiting area.”

And the stranger thing?

You took it.

--

You and your father were quickly moved into a small apartment within the university, once it became clear that he would be staying in the Capitol through the duration of the Games. It was best, he said, because ordinary people in the Capitol didn’t really want to see new faces from the Districts mingling around unless their tongue had been cut out first. It made them nervous. The rebel bombings, and all that.

You didn’t mind, because it meant you didn’t have to be flanked by Peacekeepers on the streets. 

And, well.

You got to see Coriolanus more often. Sometimes he greeted you, sometimes he didn’t. He did it less often when Dr. Gaul was there,  unless she was talking to your father and it gave him an opportunity.

He asked you things, too, when he caught you walking back to your father’s little apartment. Like what you did back home. What you liked to do. Whether you went to school, and what you planned to do now that you have graduated. 

This morning, he caught you drawing while you waited in a chair outside Dr. Gaul’s office. Sometimes you waited there--you would admit to no one that it was to catch a glimpse of the kindest person you’d met in the Capitol--and other times you stayed in your temporary home.

“What are you drawing?” He asked. But he had a way of speaking that you’d quickly clocked into. He can make a demand sound like a polite little question. Oh, he wasn’t mean about it, but it reminded you of the way your father talked to his underlings back in District 2. On his home turf, he was far smoother than he was here, where his voice stammered and sweat beaded on his neck.

So you handed it over, even though, to your greatest embarrassment, you’d drawn… him.

“Why me?” He had a smile on his lips. His smiles were nice. Kind. The kindest you’d seen since you came here. But they always felt like that fresh coat of paint; like you didn’t know what he really meant by them, and that was how he liked it. 

“You’re… important,” is all you could come up with. You felt small, then. He would dismiss and probably never want to talk to you again. What a stupid answer from a stupid girl. 

But he just smiled. It was like paint peeling a little.  You could see underneath that he liked what you said, although you weren’t exactly sure why. And his expression tightened up so quickly, protecting what you’d seen, that you weren’t entirely sure if it was real or not. 

“I’m just a humble student at this university. Not so important. Not yet.”

--

You were really going to die, now. This wasn’t some panicked imagination gone wrong, some flight of fancy that took a wrong turn.

A pair of stony-faced Peacekeepers had walked up to where you sat in the waiting area near Dr. Gaul’s office and ordered you to come with them.

You asked to talk to your father. They said no. You asked where you were going. They yanked you up. 

And now they were leading you down hallways that you’d never seen before, where there weren’t even Avoxes roaming the halls with brooms and dustpans. 

They didn’t even answer, just spun around and walked back the way they came. You pushed the door open reluctantly--what the hell was going to be on the other side?--and it was--it was--

It was Coriolanus. Standing there in a nice suit, eyes downcast on a book. Until the door creaked and he looked up.

“What--why did you bring me here? Did I do something wrong?” The thought went through you, that perhaps this had all been a test, to see if you were loyal to the Capitol and he’d found you wanting.

“No,” he said, simply enough. He set the book down and gestured for you to step inside. You did, because what else were you going to do, in some strange room in a Capitol University where you’d been forcibly brought by Peacekeepers.

Snow studied your face. Your eyes darted around, from him, to the room, to the door. 

“I wanted to see you,” he said, a little softer. “In private.” 

“Me?” You furrowed your eyebrows. “But… why?”

He smiled. “Come now, you’re a smart girl, even if you aren’t in university.” 

You really didn’t know. Not at first. But then you watched the way his expression softened, and you remembered it, or glimpses of it, that he’d given you before. When he complimented your drawing. When he said your name. When he escorted you back from the maze of hallways. And his smiles, all his smiles, although you were never sure how much they meant coming from home. 

He took a step closer. You didn’t dare step back. You weren’t sure if you wanted to step back, but it didn’t matter, either way.

He pressed his lips to yours and took your first kiss, in a secluded little study in the heart of the Capitol University. 

--

Your days became routine, although the routine was strictly forbidden and could have probably gotten you executed or at best, gotten you a one-way ticket to a tasteless existence.

You wake up. You stay in your apartment.  You wait for the Peacekeepers. You get summoned here and there, always private rooms, secret rooms, rooms out of the way. You meet Snow--Coriolanus, he said, call him that--and you talk (well, mostly him) and kiss and sometimes a little bit more. He gives you gifts. Trinkets, necklaces that you can only wear under your shirt. Food, flaky pastries made with mountains of sugar, sandwiches made with cream and cucumber. 

But how much longer could it go on? The Games were going to start soon. As soon as they were over, you were going back to your District. There would be no more meetings, no more kisses. No more wondering how far he wanted to go or why he liked you or even if he even liked you as anything more than someone to keep him busy. 

You didn’t dare talk about the Games, but you did talk about this. In the kindest way you knew how for such a sensitive subject. 

“I’ll miss you,” you told Coriolanus after one meeting, when you’re both sitting on a sofa and he’s got your fingers tightly wound in his. He squeezed them tight.

“Miss me?” 

“After the Games,” you clarified. “We’re being sent home right after.”

He squeezed your fingers until it hurt a little. Then he looked up at you. To see if you would say something? Or did he not know how strong he was?

“Oh, that. I can arrange for you to stay.”

Your chest began to feel sick.

“Stay? In the Capitol?” You were torn about Coriolanus, but you didn’t want to stay here. You couldn’t. 

“Yes,” he said, as if it was the simplest answer in the world. “You wouldn’t be the first person from the District granted such an extreme privilege. I’m sure I could--”

“But I don’t know if I want to stay.” 

His gaze narrowed and you felt your stomach clench. He looked at the necklace you’d pulled out as soon as the door was shut, at your lips where a dollop of strawberry cream still rested. 

“I treat you so well, and you don’t know if you want to stay with me?”

His voice was calm, and that scared you. It would have been better if he flew off the handle.

Instead, he simply stood up and gently sent you out the door, and called the Peacekeepers to bring you back to your apartment.

--

Every night for the last week, you have cried yourself to sleep. Because every day for the last week, Coriolanus Snow has not sent for you. Not even once.

What if he told someone? What if you got sent back early, and your father was shamed? What if they broke his contract? Or--worse, worse, worse. There were so many worse things than merely being sent back to District 2.

And then he sent for you, and it was the longest walk of your life, though it was no farther than any of the times you’ve been escorted to your secret meetings.

This time, when you pushed open the door, Coriolanus was not alone. 

There was an Avox in the room. 

It was someone from District 2.

You didn’t know her. Not personally. But you saw her, before. She worked in one of the munitions factories and you watched her walk to work from your classroom window sometimes. Then she stopped showing up, and you thought perhaps she got married. 

That delusion was shattered the moment you saw her, eyes downcast to the floor, wearing a simple gray tunic. 

It’s not until Coriolanus tells you to hurry up and come in that you’re able to move. Even then, you weren’t sure how your body did it; how your arms managed to gain the mobility to shut the door, to twist the lock; how your legs moved, one foot in front of the other, until you were standing stiffly in front of him.

The Avox--you wish you knew her name, but she couldn’t give it to you now, even if you asked--moved seamlessly to a table set up nearby. There was tea and sweets. The sort of thing that you and Coriolanus had been enjoying together for the past few weeks. The sort of thing that you were sure would sit sour in your stomach, now. 

The cup shook in your hands when she handed it to you, and your tears dripped right into the tea.

Coriolanus glanced at the Avox and waved his hand. She left obediently. She would never tell the secret she witnessed in his room, that much was certain.

And then he looked back at you.

“Don’t cry,” he said. Soft but firm. A command, not a coo. “You shouldn’t cry here, in the Capitol. You should be grateful to be here. You should be grateful that I’ve arranged all this for you.”

“I am,” you whispered. 

“Then show me that you are.”

And you did. 

You said what he wanted and looked to him to show you how he wanted you to act, and did just that. You didn’t argue, even to lightly banter. You kissed him and nodded along when he told you about how things would be after the Games, when he had arranged for you to stay.

All you had to do was keep him happy until the Games were over, and then you could go home. 

Bitterly, all of this made you realize just how much of your father is in you; he knew how to appease the Capitol. You could do the same with Coriolanus Snow. At least until the Games were over. Just keep him happy until the Games were done and the blood was spilled, and you would go home. 

They wouldn’t let him keep you here after the games. You were sure of that. You’d overheard some of Dr. Gaul’s assistants murmuring how glad they would be to send the District profiteers like your father home once the Games were over. And you? You’re just his useless daughter, an appendage he brought like an unwelcome suitcase. Why would you be allowed to stay?

--

The Games were over. The winner was from District 1. 

You were going home any day now. Just as soon as your father finished tinkering with the designs, gave his notes on improvements that might be made for next year.

The thought gave you a delightful bounce in your step. It was like having a pat of sweet butter in your shoe on a day when you needed good luck-- District 2 superstition, although the strict rationing meant most people didn’t have even a pat to slip into their shoes anymore.

The sweetness didn’t even disappear when the Peacekeepers showed up to bring you to Snow. It was going to be a bittersweet farewell, you were sure. He might be angry. But you would kiss him and tell him that there was nothing he could do, and how sorry you were not to be able to stay, but that was how things had to be.

Except they didn’t bring you down a maze of corridors that led to a secluded room.

They brought you right into Dr. Gaul’s office.

Breakfast threatened to evacuate your stomach with every step. Not just because of nerves, but because of what you saw. Rows of experiments in glass tubes; some of them move. You walk by a room with a half-open door that showed someone strapped to a gurney, face contorted in a silent scream as they fought against restraints. You almost did lose breakfast, then.

But somehow you made it to the desk of Dr. Gaul without a dribble of vomit to show for it.

The Peacekeepers left with no fanfare and you stood there, ramrod straight. Did she know? Was she going to tell you that you were going to be strapped to one of those gurneys, now?

“I’m keenly aware,” she said, keeping her hands primly folded, “on how much you’ve enthralled my star pupil.”

Toast. That’s what will come up first, you thought . The toast.

“I don’t know what you mean, ma’am.” Your voice was so thin and tinny that you didn’t even believe yourself.

And then the prim facade cracked, and Dr. Gaul threw her head back and grinned.

“You really think I don’t know everything that goes on within these walls?  I know every time one of my lab assistants runs into the bathroom to throw up after a particularly nasty experiment. I know every time one of our university professors sneaks into a closet to down a vial of morphling with a student. And I certainly know when my newest protege is having an adorable little District girl brought to him for… canoodling.”

You weren’t even embarrassed. No.  You just felt terrified to the bone. You only hoped that you’d be killed, shot against a wall, instead of made into an Avox. Let there be some mercy in this world. 

”He’s asked to keep you, you know.” Her voice was low, almost a drawl. She tapped her fingers on her desk rhythmically.

“My Coriolanus Snow wants a bird of his own.” Her smile turned darker. “Not a songbird, though. Oh, no. I think he’s had enough of those.”

Her gaze bored into yours, each color magnified by her intense expression. “I think if I let him have his pretty caged bird, he’ll be happy. He’s more productive if he’s happy.” She smiled. “I like productivity. It keeps the Games more interesting.”

She looked you over one more time, and then waved you away.

“I’ve granted his request. You’ll be staying here indefinitely, courtesy of one Mr. Snow. Your father has already been told.” 

You were wrong.

It was not the toast that came up first, but the sweet butter you’d patted on top.

--

You still had your tongue, but you felt as though it was useless, stuck to the roof of your mouth, as Coriolanus fussed over your outfit. Or rather, as he directed an Avox to fuss over it for you. He could afford his own personal servant, now, he told you. He’d almost flinched after he said now, and you didn’t dare press him on it. Had he not been able to afford one before?

“We can’t walk arm-in-arm in public,” he said, walking around you, making sure the outfit was just-right. “But you can stand by me if I stop and direct you forward.” He reached over and fixed one of your buttons. “Don’t speak to anyone unless I’ve told you to, or they speak to you first. Always address someone older as ‘sir,’ or ‘ma’am.” He pointed at your hair, and the Avox began to fuss with it, eventually covering it in a colorful wrap that Coriolanus said was popular right now. “Address someone our age by the last name and Mr. or Ms.”

When he was satisfied with your appearance, he sent the Avox away. You liked it better that way, it was one last reminder of the horrors in the Capitol, even for someone “privileged” like you.  You’d only been without your father for 3 days, but you felt like your nerves were continually on fire. You wanted to go home. You wanted your family. You wanted out of this place.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

For now, you were still living in the small university apartment the Capitol had given your father. Coriolanus insisted on it, until he could figure out how to move you into his own sprawling apartment that he shared with his cousin, Tigris (who, at least, genuinely sounded lovely) and his grandmother, Grandma’am. She was the sticking point, or so you were told, with a thin smile. She hated Districts, and she ought to, he said. They killed her son. His father. 

She would hate you, too. Even if Coriolanus wanted you enough to make you stay with him; wanted you enough to keep you. But for how long? And would he change his mind, if you couldn’t fit in? 

He said your name, and you snapped yourself out of your thoughts. He held you by your shoulders. Gently. Like one would an unruly child that hadn’t yet learned that there were such things as salad forks and dinner forks, as polite conversation and etiquette. 

You got the feeling you wouldn’t have long to learn all of those things and more, to make him happy.

“Remember,” he said. “You’re District. You’re here because the Capitol has recognized that your loyalty can benefit us in some way. Be grateful.”

“I am,” you said, reflectively.

“Be happy..”

“I am,” you said again, your chest hitching.

He smiled at you. Was it real or not real? 

You smiled back, regardless. And he liked that, evidently, because he leaned forward and kissed you. Then he scrutinized your face and wiped at your lips with his thumb--the kiss had smeared your lipstick. 

“Good.” 

He gestured towards the open doorway. This time, he didn’t take your arm. There would be too many people lingering in the university hallways, all making their way to the soiree held to celebrate the end of this year’s Games and discuss what improvements might be made for the next year. 

You dutifully walked behind him, just like he said. And you would do exactly what he said in all respects. You would stay quiet unless you were spoken to, you would certainly never bring up anything confrontational or controversial, and you would make a good impression. You would be a loyal, grateful District citizen who was given the opportunity of a lifetime thanks to the graciousness of Coriolanus Snow. 

Of course you would. 

Your life depended on it. 

[coralinnii]

Hello! If u dont remember me I'm the person that requested the villainess au Trey x reader from a long time ago, just wanna drop in and say I really look forward to your works and hope you have a great day/night/time! Sorry for bothering you if this message ends up being a bother

‧₊˚✧ Being Reincarnated into a New World as the Bad Guy‧₊˚✧

feat: Trey

genre: slow burn, coworkers-to-something more

note: no pronouns were used for reader, reader is implied to be old enough to work, mentions of poisoning and assassination attempts, reader is somewhat emotionally constipated.

extra note: While Trey is not quite in-character as I would like, he is supposed to be younger than his canon version, so I wanted him to be more unsure and inexperienced than his future self.

I did it, I finally got this done. Praise me (don't)

Being Reincarnated as the Bad Guy aka Villain/ess AU masterlist

You don’t get paid enough for this nonsense. No, you seriously don’t.

One minute you were finally getting off a particularly bad shift at work, only to be in this strange world you don’t recognize…as a low-ranking servant to the bloody royal family!

The rules, the standards, the pretentious nobles you have to smile in fear of having your neck sliced…where’s OSHA when you need them?

At least your coworkers were decent and you’re not in charge of anything too major like waiting on the Queen or her son, unlike that young aide-in-training you see running up and down the palace…poor Sir Clover.

Not your problem, though

…Until a couple of greedy noblemen forced a vial of poison into your hands, promising you a grand reward of money and status for your compliance. They wanted you to spike the drink of the crown prince’s closest aide-in-training so they could plant their own men by his side.

With your best service smile on, you handed back the vial back.

“No ❤️”

When they try to threaten you, you kindly remind them that if they plan to drag you in the mud, you’re not above pulling them along with you.

“If I’m going down, I’m dragging everyone with me.”

Once that was over, you wanted to cleanse yourself from this ugly conspiracy. You were way too busy worrying about your own neck, and you assumed that Sir Clover was cautious over his own safety that you, a mere worker bee, have nothing to contribute.

However, you do notice that the young green-haired man seems to prioritize others over himself, and the lights to his room are often still lit until late into the night. An honest young man burdened with responsibilities; his defenses may not always be on guard…

Ugghh, what a pain in the-

“Um, excuse me?” You looked to the tall nobleman trying to capture your attention.

“Yes, Sir Clover?”

“Were you originally scheduled to work today?”

You held your urge to click your tongue. Of course, Trey would be aware of at least who was scheduled to wait on Prince Riddle and him. What an annoyingly conscientious man.

“My colleague was feeling unwell so I offered to take her place for today. I apologize for not informing you beforehand.” You bowed politely which made the bespectacled man a little flustered.

“No, I’m grateful she could take a rest. Thank you for taking up the role but please let us know next time so we can offer some medical help if needed.”

That wouldn’t be necessary, you thought as you nodded regardless. Your coworker wasn’t really sick in any way but she was more than happy to switch schedules with you.

Many of the servants are under the impression that you harbored a crush on the admittedly cute aide-in-training since you were caught glancing at his direction more often than usual. It wouldn't be surprising if your “crush” in question is also aware of the gossip, which leads to his tenseness around you. Be it kindness or hesitance, Sir Clover chose not to reprimand you for doing as you please.

“What a pain, but I guess it works in my favor anyway.”

A knock rang through the room and with Riddle’s permission, an anxious maid came in with a tray carrying a tea set, confusing everyone in the room.

It’s not time for afternoon tea yet.

“What is the meaning of this?” For someone so young, Riddle’s sharp tone ran a deadly chill down everyone’s back. “Afternoon tea is not for another 13 minutes.”

The maid stuttered in fear, the tea set clattering slightly in her hands. “T-The servants thought that His Highness and Sir C-Clover have been working tirelessly today and perhaps some tea could help.”

You had too much of a survival instinct to dare look at the prince but the silence and building heat in the air was evidence enough that the thought was not appreciative.

Trey was quick to clear the tension with an awkward cough and a smile. “Thank you, I could use some.”

At his words, you dutifully proceeded to reach for the set when the maid hastily pulled it away from you.

Strange

“I-I can do it. Please excuse me” Without sparing a glance towards you, the maid quickly set the tray down on a nearby table and worked to pour a cup.

You’ve seen this maid only a few times. She was a new addition to the roster, too new to approach the royal family but here she was. She hadn't even learned how to properly hold the pot which was noticeable to everyone but was ignored (at the behest of Trey’s wordless plea) due to assumed inexperience.

“She’s so nervous but here she is, so adamant about serving some damn tea…”

A suffocating feeling rising in your throat, you watched with trepidation as the maid walked towards Trey while holding the teacup almost too preciously.

“Eek!” The maid shrieked when your hand squeezed her wrist in an unforgiving grip. She turned to question you but your glare kept her silent.

Trey looked at you with confusion, but your attention kept on the shaking maid and the teacup. With your other hand, you reach for your silver brooch given as part of your uniform to symbolize you as a person of the royal family.

The confusion in Trey’s eyes turned to disbelief when he watched your silver brooch become a damning color as you dipped the silver into the tea.

The broken maid would have crumbled completely onto the pristine floor if not for your hand still on her wrist. While she seemed to be a bumbling mess begging for her life, you couldn’t risk her making a run for it.

You don’t get paid enough for this nonsense.

”So, it was a plan to replace me…permanently.”

You stood silently in front of the solemn man in his office. After arresting her, it was easy to extract information from the maid and prince Riddle is gathering evidence for their act of treason, including your own interrogation.

“You are the trusted aide-to-be of the prince that cannot be bribed. You’re considered an obstacle.” You bowed your head. “I apologize for not speaking out sooner but if it were just my words without evidence, I could have my tongue removed for accusing nobility.”

If it was just you, then you wouldn’t be as confident. But to think that those corrupted nobles managed to convince someone else to do their dirty work. They were desperate and now that there was an attempt, the higher authorities have to take action.

“I shouldn’t feel bad for that maid…why should I for the choice she made…” you could still feel the sensation of that woman’s shaking body in the hand that held her. You don’t like it.

“Ha, you really don’t sugarcoat your words.” Trey’s voice pulled you back as he tried to laugh but his young body felt too heavy to put his whole heart into it.

But it’s finally over. The poisoning failed and those stupid noble scums were on Prince Riddle’s hit-list. That feeling of guilt that ate at your heart could finally rest in peace…right?

Even when he was the victim of all this, Trey was still sitting in his office in charge of investigating his own assassination attempt, on top of his usual duties in assisting the Royal family.

“Thank you for your time,” he even dares to smile kindly at you with dark circles under his warm eyes. “If you could, please call over the head staff to plan on interrogating the rest of the servants.”

“No.”

“N-No?”

“I won’t be doing that. I could ask the head staff to leave his schedule open if needed or if he could handle it with the guards since that’s his f*cking job,” You stared right into Trey’s eyes which widened in surprise. “For now, I humbly suggest Sir Clover to take a rest in his room or to work on something other than your assassination case.”

You didn’t wait for your stunned employer to reply as you bowed politely once more. “If there is nothing else, I shall take my leave.”

You moved away, making your way to the door before pausing. You glanced back at the young man in such a large office and your consciousness felt heavy. Your body was physically no older than Trey or Riddle but the weight on their shoulders was immeasurable, too much for either of them to handle on their own.

“Sir Clover,” you refused to look him in the eyes, “if you ever need anything…I’m willing to assist however I can.”

Immediately regretting your embarrassing words, you quickly added “but during work hours only!” before hastily leaving the office.

A shame really, since you missed the way Trey let out a genuine laugh after so long.

[death---dealer]

How would Noa react to human reader on her period? I’m currently on mine and got this thought!

It's like you and i are the same person bc im on mine too ( The first time in like three years, im SUFFERING, ) Let's get self-indulgent. YOLO.

READ AT YOUR OWN RISK. READ THE PROMPT ABOVE AND MAKE THE CHOICE IF YOU ARE OKAY WITH THIS CONTENT, OTHERWISE, PLEASE DO NOT READ. Ty ty.

Due to the environment and stress of living in the society you were placed in, your period was admittedly not regular though you tried your best to keep track of it. It got lost from time to time and you were left unsure when it would rear its ugly head back in. Sometimes, it was remarkably early by a few weeks, sometimes, it was at least a month late.

Your first period while with the Clan? You had nothing prepared. Nothing to ease your bleeding, nothing to ease yourself into some semblance of comfort. You quite frankly go into a small panic. You don’t know who to talk to - there’s no humans here, and Apes don’t bleed and have symptoms like Humans do. 

Oh my god avoiding Noa for the few days out of embarrassment - How do you even begin to explain to him?

Don’t think for a moment that Noa doesn’t know something is going on. The boy has an acute sense of smell. The roll of your pheromones, how they hit him and stuck around like a fog around his head,  how they adjusted ever so slightly a few days before you began ignoring him? Noted. You’re more hungry than usual - going for seconds at the evening meal. Nothing savory though - you stocked up on fruits and berries and just explained to him that the sweetness was more up your alley. He’d mention that maybe you should have some meat to balance but the absolute daggers you gave him caused him to never bring it up again. Noted. The pull to your emotions, like you were swinging from a branch, back and forth not able to teether yourself to one? You began crying one day with him next to you while watching the Baby Apes play with each other. The next moment, you were snapping at him for even looking at you. Noted. The subtle shift in your body? Becoming a bit more reserved , you often kept your hands in front of your chest, blocking him from looking at you fully? Maybe, he even notices when your arms grazed your chest that you flinched - Tender breasts. Noted. Heightened mating the last few days? Oh, absolutely noted. Not as tired as you though - Noa noticed you getting more tired during the middle of the day, asking him a few days before your period actually hit if you could go take a nap while he went with Soona and Anaya to fish. Noted.

You go to Soona and Dar in hopes that maybe you can talk to them about it and actually have them understand. You’re too embarrassed to bring this up to Noa and you doubted that he’d understand at all. Noa does show up mid-conversation though- You had been talking to Soona and Dar about something from his perspective. He doesn’t take much time to notice that, letting his green eyes rest on you for a moment longer but the tone of the voice you’re using with his Mother and Soona? Quite, hushed, like you had a secret. Noa has to admit that he’s a tiny bit intrigued and he lingers, trying to pick apart the conversation despite his brain telling him not to, that it was obviously a private matter. But… The other side of him bargained and he wondered what secret you could have that you wouldn’t want him to know about. After all, you had been avoiding him for a few days and he needed to know why if that’s what you were talking to Dar and Soona about. Admittedly, as you explained to them what was happening  ( Soona and Dar ) they were more confused than you initially wanted them to be with your vague words, having to go into more detail and explain - Which was not on your bingo-card at all. You were unsure of what words/phrases they were going to understand so you had to transverse carefully around the subject. You felt like you were going to cry from embarrassment before a look of understanding flashed from Dar.  ~*So, from listening to the conversation he was not supposed to be a part of, Noa gathered only a few things: you were going through something that affected females? Hence, why you went to Soona and Dar. You were embarrassed to talk to Noa about it, it must have been pretty contentious. And went through this consistently, albeit not regularly? It was a sign of Echo maturity, your body coming into its own. On a consistent basis? Noa was confused. How does your body do that?

Oh my god Noa asking you about it. The blood rushing to your face as he mentions that he had heard you talking to his Mother and Soona. Your first instinct is to get defensive. You cross your arms in front of your chest, pretty adamant in telling him that there was nothing going on. Noa retaliates in defense of himself and says, “I… just want to know why… you… Are ignoring me.” The spacing of his words gives away that he was being careful to choose what he told you. Irrational anger bubbled to surface and you just snapped, “I’m on my period! Okay? I already talked to Dar and Soona about it and now you’re at my throat? Period! Is that a good enough answer for you!? It’s not always about you Noa!” You storm off, leaving the Ape bewildered. You eventually do return an hour or so later, this time, incredibly apologetic with tears in your eyes as you’re muttering to him through a flood of tears, telling him all about what was happening and how you were feeling. Your cramps, the headache that wouldn’t go away, your insatiable need to eat everything insight, the pure driven desire you had to be both angry and sad at the same time. You even went as far as to tell him that you were indeed bleeding -Something Noa didn't have the heart to tell you that he was aware of. Remember that acute sense of smell? He noticed it. He noticed it the last few days, figuring you would bring it up when you were ready. Noa pulls you into him, lightly pressing his forehead against yours. He’s still not 100% on the details but… He hated to see you cry. Hated to see you angry as well. He tells you that it’s okay, to calm down and that it’ll all be okay.  Those swinging emotions he recalled from a few days before your period? Yeah, they happen during as well and you flew off the handle. “I am calm! What makes you think I’m not?” You groaned, pulling away from him, “I’m going to lay down.” He just watches wordlessly as you walk away; wondering what he said that was so offensive.

He definitely begins to track it with fever though; just another thing for him to notice about you,  and he really did his best to be accommodating despite not fully understanding the reason why you went through it. He would tell you when he knew it was coming, something that you actually came to gratefully accept because the mutiny that was your body made it hard to track yourself.

Uhm hello? Noa bringing you an herbal drink that the Elders swore by to help with mild pain in the body. Usually, it was Apes that had joint problems from age, or some from injury, but the drink did help ease your headache and cramps to a semi-bearable state.

He scours the dinner for the most sweet berries and fruits. Noa is able to tell from look and feel which ones would be more welcomed by you and he’s always so diligent to bring you two bowls. One for now, one for later.

OHHhhh my god Noa resting his hands on your stomach when you’re tangled in the nest together. He can sense the discomfort you’re in. You had tossed and turned almost the entire night, keeping the two of you awake. Now that it was dusk, you felt more at ease as he placed a hand on the lower part of your abdomen and groaned at the pleasure of feeling his heated skin.  ~*Definitely becomes more of a coping action that Noa works around. If Noa senses you’re feeling either nauseated or in pain, he’s rather quick to pull you into him and ease it the best he can. Favorite position? You’re laying on your side and he is spooning you from behind. Hands on your lower stomach, lightly at first but more intense if you’re craving more pressure and heat from him. He’s noticed you like to fall asleep like that. And he’s more than willing to oblige. 

Ah god the forehead touches when you have a headache? Someone sedate me. ~* He really gets into it and will wrap his hands around your head, his fingers almost meeting at the back of your neck. The heat from his hands feels absolutely euphoric against your temples as he pulls you towards him. You fall lax against him and ultimately let Noa pull you into his lap. Hands run from the back of your neck down to your lower back. He’ll place tender touches there too, knowing that lower back pain was also common.

[airas-story]

Simple Gifts

“Here.” Stephen thrust the small package at Tony. He’d been debating with himself for the last three weeks. First about whether to get Tony something or not. Colonel Rhodes had assured him that Tony never expected anything from his friends, given how hard Tony could be to shop for—Stephen didn’t exactly want to stick himself in the friend category, anyways, even if he’d yet to make any sort of move. Then, when he’d finally decided to bite the bullet and do it, he’d had to decide what in the world he was supposed to give someone who had essentially everything.

Tony stared down at the package for a long moment, brow furrowed in bemusement, but he took the package. “What is it?”

Stephen would have thought that was obvious. “Your birthday present, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Tony repeated. “People don’t get me presents,” he said the words as though Stephen should know better. “I’m kind of hard to shop for.”

“Trust me,” Stephen said. “I’m well aware of that.”

Tony eyed him for a long moment, then shrugged before carefully unwrapping the present. Stephen almost wished he’d just rip the wrapping paper off and get it over with, but Tony was apparently being contrary—even unknowingly—because he seemed to have decided that he was going to finish with a perfect thing of wrapping paper.

It seemed to take forever for Tony to unwrap the present, prying open the box carefully. He froze.

Stephen bit his lip. Had this been a bad idea? Vishanti, this had been a bad idea. He shouldn’t have gotten anything. Or if he had, he should have gotten something normal.

“What is it?” Tony asked.

“They’re spells,” Stephen explained. He moved closer, slipping into Tony’s space. “Here, dump them out.”

Tony carefully tilted the box; the three spells fell out into his hand, connected by a thin chain that could be hooked around Tony’s wrist. Stephen had contained each spell in a small containment unit, about the size of a standard dice.

The green and silver metal square was wrapped around the orange spells, seemingly contained by glass, though that was an illusion rather than a reality.

Stephen picked up the chain, settling it on his own hand. He pointed at the first one on the right. “This spell is a spell of invisibility. It’s not an entirely impressive piece of magic, but it will last about ten minutes and can be applied five times.” He pointed at the second spell, on the left. “This one is a mild levitation spell. You probably won’t need it often, with the suit, but it’ll last about five minutes and can be used five times as well.”

Tony looked up at him, the expression on his face difficult to read. “And the last one?”

Stephen rubbed a thumb over the spell in the middle. “This is a shield charm, it should withstand all but the most powerful of spells. It can be used twice.” He’d had to decide what was more important, a heavy-duty shield spell that could only be used a few times, or a light-weight shield spell that had a higher number of applications. Knowing Tony, though, if someone was going to go after him, they’d go after him with the worst they had. “I’ve charmed the container on this one so that I can re-apply the spell once they’ve been used.” The others would vanish once they’d fulfilled their purpose, but this one…

It had been a tricky bit of magic, but well worth it. The others he could replace based off what Tony wanted—if he did ever want more—but this one… well, shielding Tony… Protecting him... There was nothing Stephen would replace that with.

Tony examined him for a moment. Stephen tried not to let his anxiety show. “Is this… all right?” He knew that Tony had some reservations about magic, still, but Stephen… well, it was what he had to give.

And admittedly, once the idea had occurred to him, Stephen hadn’t been able to stop. The idea of being able to provide Tony with magical protection had been unrelenting.

Tony bit his lip, then nodded. He held out his wrist. “Want to do the honors?”

Stephen smiled, relief filling him. He wrapped the chain around Tony’s wrist and then used a quick spell to do the latch. “Only you can take it off,” he said. “Or me,” he acknowledged. “Since it’s my magic, but for all intents and purposes, just you.”

Tony shook his hand a little. There was a faint clink of the spells knocking into each other. It looked innocuous, like a simple charm bracelet—though admittedly, one that wasn’t entirely Tony’s style—certainly not like a minor magical relic.

“How much work did this take you?” Tony asked.

Stephen shrugged. Several weeks worth, but he didn’t want to admit that. “Not much.”

Tony nodded, looking down at his bracelet. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Stephen said. “I want you to be safe.”

Tony’s smile was soft. “I don’t think I’ve ever been safer.” He paused, considering Stephen for a long moment. A small smile crossed his lips and then he was pressing up. The kiss came, soft and gentle, pressed against Stephen’s cheek.

Stephen felt a flush rush over him; he was sure his cheeks were bright red. So, yes, maybe Stephen hadn't been entirely inconspicuous about his feelings. Tony’s kiss made Stephen think he wasn’t entirely alone in that, though.

“Happy Birthday, Tony.”

[porcelain-siscon]

Humans don't look up.

At my height, it is a requirement. my sister, who I continue to refer to as despite her protests, stands thirty-nine centimeters taller than me. To make eye contact with her, something else she protests, I have to look at an eleven degree angle if I am two meters away. If I am asked to get something from a shelf, I have to look up to see things that are eye level for most people.

Humans don't look up, but dolls do.

I've never seen Antares, I never even had the chance. Deneb has been gone for so long that it feels almost mythological. But Regulus I remember. I remember pointing and saying "it's gone," only to be swiftly punished by my sister for speaking out of turn. I wonder if she remembered that moment the next time.

It was Aldebaran. Just like Regulus, there was a sudden shimmer before turning a piercing blue that lasted for but an instant. It was green for seconds after that, then yellow, then orange, then red, fading into nothing. "It's gone," I said again, speaking out of turn for the first time in near fourteen years.

I wasn't punished this time, so perhaps she did remember. This time she asked me what was gone.

"Aldebaran."

Humans don't tend to look up. Dolls always do.

This time we both did.

I familiarized myself with astronomy shortly after the disappearance of Regulus. This was behind my sister's back, always being careful to put books back into place, to carefully roll charts back up, to do as much calculation internally as I could, which is admittedly very little. I smuggled away paper and writing implements while forgoing precision tools, relying instead on the precision of the craftsmanship of my own body. There were only two points of data to work with, but I had a perfect understanding of time.

It was a clear night only a bit more than twenty-two years later. I knew my math was correct, though I did not know if my hypothesis was. I pointed upward, directly at Capella. My sister paid no attention, even as I spoke out of turn in an attempt to draw her eye.

It was to no avail. I watched as Capella flashed a brilliant blue, then faded to green, then yellow, then orange, slowly fading to blackness as the other two did.

"Capella is gone, sister."

She looked at me with the same hatred she always did when I referred to her like that, but I could see the way her anger gave way to a sort of scientific curiosity that she had whenever she was working. She asked me what happened, I explained to her the way the stars became glorious, only to fade to nothing over the course of mere seconds. I told her that I knew it was going to happen. She asked me how I knew. I told her that I was confirming a hypothesis.

She did not speak to me again for slightly more than six years.

"Which one this time, then?" she finally asked, on a cold, clear night. I pointed up towards Arcturus and told her it would be that one, in approximately two and a half hours. We waited in silence as I continued to point.

I counted down when we reached the ten second mark.

I wonder if that's why she looked at what happened to the star with sadness rather than fear. I wondered why I feared her more than the approaching darkness, even after all her punishments.

There was much discussion in scientific and arcane communities to try and discern what was happening, but I was not privy to listen in, only reading what I could in published works without my sister noticing. Pollux, Fomalhaut and Vega in the same year, Altair, then Procyon. All of them suffered the same fate. My sister cloistered herself away in her atelier most of the time, only speaking to me when she wanted an update on when the next vanishing would be.

She didn't watch Sirius vanish with me.

I felt more lonely without the stars than I did without her attention. Even if all she ever did was punish me or experiment on me, use me as an assistant, she was still my sister and I loved her dearly, even if I resented all of that.

But the stars were always there for me.

Because dolls have to look up.

[tkaulitzlvr]

Hi! :3

I had an idea for a request

I thought of a tom x reader loosely based on "Hungover you"

like him and reader being best friends and somewhere along the line they spend a night together, but decide to forget it for the sake of their friendship (maybe they were a little drunk ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ who knows)

then many years later they're still friends but they realise that they really love each other

even if you don't write this i wanted to tell you i think your writing is amazing! don't feel pressured to make content, I'm sure all of your followers don't mind waiting for your fics because they are really amazing!

aa sorry for the long text! <3

IT’S YOU - T. KAULITZ

synopsis: they say feelings change with time, but yours couldn’t have stayed closer to the same. it has been three years since you hooked up with tom, and despite your promise to forget about it for the sake of your friendship, you can’t ignore the way you feel anymore.

content: smut (kinda) & fluff

a/n: thankyou soo much!! i put a christmas twist on this because i realised i haven’t made an xmas fic yet i hope that’s okay! pls be patient w me bc apparently i should spend every hour of every day writing fics according to some people… just to be clear this is a hobby and nothing more. i don’t get paid for this LMAOO sometimes i don’t want to write and that’s okay - most people are really understanding so thank you for that, but on a more positive note merry christmas i hope u all have a happy holidays!!!💗

the faint smell of gingerbread teases my senses, mind beyond overstimulated with the incomprehensible blur of conversations around me - the amount of alcohol in my system clearly not helping. every inch of the living room is pasted with the not so subtle reminder of the festive season: warm lights casting their glow across the walls, garlands decorated with small red and green baubles, though the most obvious sign sits in the corner of the room. adorned with baubles in every colour possible, with tinsel (quite messily) stretched across its dark green branches, multi-coloured lights twinkling dimly around it, reminding me why i love this time of year so much.

the chaos of the annual christmas party that had become tradition over the years never became something that i had gotten used to, the dull buzz in my stomach (admittedly from the alcohol too) never going away as i watch my surroundings, friends laughing obnoxiously loudly whilst their hands tear away the intricately decorated paper, revealing their presents.

“and this one is for you.” tom says, snapping me out of my daze as he reaches underneath the tree from where he sits beside me, returning with a small box in his hands. he passes it over to me, a proud smile on his face as i study the wrapping. a red bow placed messily on top, the wrapping paper creased at the sides, the tape used to hold it in place hanging off.

“did you wrap this?” i stifle a laugh, remembering how terrible my best friend is at anything remotely technical, not wanting to hurt his feelings.

“yeah, why?” he seems genuinely proud, and i decide to give him that sense of fulfilment, ignoring that a child probably could have done a better job.

“nothing, nothing. it’s great.” i return my eyes to the present, hands moving to tear away the paper. tom’s eyes remain glued onto me, excitedly awaiting my reaction. i open the box inside, revealing a gold necklace, a small locket in its centre. my mouth falls open, fingers carefully lifting the jewellery from its box, eyes studying it in awe before i turn my attention to tom.

“are you kidding me? it’s beautiful, oh my god!”

an even wider smile rests on his face at my reaction, his leg bobbing up and down nervously. he gestures to the locket as i turn my attention back to it, thumb clicking it open. tom and i. the picture in the centre shows tom and i, far younger, far more innocent than we are now. cheesy grins plastered on our faces, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders as we look into the camera, wrapped up in our huge winter coats - standard for the weather in germany.

“i don’t even know what to say i- thank you.” i smile, reaching over and wrapping my arms around his frame. he seems taken aback, though soon returns the gesture, his arms resting on my upper back, hand patting it slowly.

“you’re welcome. i hope you like it.” he offers me a warm smile as we pull away, soon turning his eyes toward the rest of the room, watching as bill unwraps his present from georg.

hours have passed, and even if i tried, i don’t think i could come close to counting the amount of drinks i’ve had. i am beyond tipsy, swaying my head to the cheesy christmas songs that play from the tv whilst attempting to sing the lyrics - failing miserably as my voice comes out slurred and inaudible.

“you sound terrible.” tom’s voice, just as slurred as my own, causes me to stop my singing, turning to face him as he sits beside me, finishing off the remainder of whatever drink he has in his glass.

“thanks.” i mumble, grabbing the glass from his hands and shoving the last few drops down my throat, no longer flinching at its bitter taste. the room seems to become emptier, friends either leaving or finding a bedroom upstairs to sleep in, the darkness from outside reminding me that it is probably the early hours of the morning.

“they’re no fun.” i roll my eyes, pointing to the final few people walking out of the room tiredly, leaving tom and i alone. he hums in agreement as i reach forward, grabbing the half-empty bottle of vodka on the coffee table and pouring it into my mouth, taking a few large swigs. the faint burning in the back of my throat quickly subsides, prompting me to drink some more.

“lets play a game.” tom says from beside me, a loud giggle leaving my mouth at his sudden request.

“a game? what are we twelve?” i laugh, shaking my head and taking another drink, swirling the liquid that is still in the bottle around. “what game?”

“i don’t know, truth or dare?” he shrugs his shoulders, clearly not thinking straight. though i am in no position to judge him, the two of us too intoxicated to be able to think rationally.

“there’s only two of us though. that’s gonna be pretty fucking boring, don’t you think?”

he doesn’t respond, only shrugging his shoulders once again, prompting me to give in. i sit cross legged opposite him, signalling for him to go first.

“truth or dare?”

“hmmm….truth.” i mumble drunkenly, laughing to myself as my body sways to the side a little, almost falling completely off of the couch and onto the hard wood floor. he pauses, a mischievous smirk tugging at his lips as he appears to think as deeply as his intoxicated state allows him to, his eyebrows raising as he finally thinks of an idea.

“have you ever had a crush on anyone at this party?” he asks, leaning forward and resting his head in his hands, chuckling quietly to himself.

“bill, like four years ago.” i shrug nonchalantly, taking another swig from the bottle. if i were even remotely sober, i would have come up with some completely unbelievable lie, though the alcohol gives me the sudden confidence to confess, this a secret which i had silently vowed to take to the grave - until now.

“my brother? are you kidding?” his laughter is much louder this time, the room filled with it as he clutches his chest, eyes squeezing shut. at one point, i swear i see tears fall down his cheeks, my hand reaching to swat his chest, the effort pathetic as the alcohol appears to take away every ounce of physical strength.

we continue the game for another thirty minutes, the questions becoming more senseless as time passes, the dares even more abnormal as i sit with my small mini skirt off of my body and on the ground somewhere, tom now shirtless. the sober versions of ourselves would be watching in pure shame, though in the moment, this is the funniest thing we have ever done, drunken laughter pouring from our lips at every word that we say.

“your turn.” tom begins. “truth or dare?”

“dare.”

i expect him to think deeply about what to do, about ways to humiliate me in the worst way possible, taking advantage of the fact that he is in control, possessing the ability to make me do whatever his heart desires. but not only is he much quicker this time, his mind seemingly made up the second i had uttered the four letter word, his reply is one that i could never had been prepared for. though my drunken state brushes it off, unable to question, let alone refuse his demand.

“i dare you…to kiss me.”

i giggle quietly at his statement, widening my eyes in forged surprise and tucking my hair behind my ears, tom’s lips curved into a soft smirk as i slowly shuffle toward him. my legs wrap around his waist, arms wrapping loosely around his neck as his own rest around my waist. our faces are inches apart, small chuckles still leaving our lips as i situate myself comfortably, losing my balance and falling forward, my body collapsing onto his chest.

“whoops.” i mumble, bursting into laughter as tom does the same, trying to pick me back up as his hands place themselves onto my shoulders, pushing me upward so that i sit on his lap once again. though once i regain my balance, the small smile that rests on tom’s lips soon disappears, the laughter replaced by a heavy silence, thick with unexpected tension. his hands rest more firmly on my waist now, face seeming to get closer and closer to my own, so close that his breath fans onto my face, lips ghosting just below my nose.

his eyes look into mine, darkened and filled with lust, almost questioning whether he should make the move. the alcohol is still in charge, still the thing that fuels both tom’s and my own decision making, but behind the drunkenness, i see the real tom, and somewhere amidst the blur of alcohol and lust, i can tell that he is fighting with himself. though after a few seconds, the decision is made, seemingly with little debate as he pushes his lips onto mine harshly, taking my bottom lip between his teeth. the kiss is sloppy, messy, irrational, everything that it should be, fuelled by alcohol and unforeseen desire. but whether it is the bottle of vodka i had just drank talking, or the genuine need that only grows as each second passes, it feels right.

and tom’s actions show that he feels the same way. from our clothes being impatiently pulled off of our bodies, lips tangled in a heated mess, to his dick being inside me, something within me tells me that this should be happening, even if our drunken state is the cause.

“fuck…you feel so good.” he groans from above me, maintaining a steady pace, his words still slurred. sweat lines his body, starting at his forehead, his dreads resting on his shoulders, trailing down to his torso. and as i watch him move in and out of me, i take a second to admire his body - his skin, biceps, the way each muscle flexes slightly when he thrusts into me, my mind wondering how it had taken me this long to realise how hot he is. sure, i had known that he was attractive, his overly obsessive fans made that clear enough, but it had taken him being totally naked on top of me to realise that they have been right this entire time, and god, i want nothing more than this moment to last forever.

“i’m getting close.” he mumbles from above me, his head moving to rest in the crook of my neck, placing rough kisses there as his tongue moves across the skin in place of his mouth. when his dick begins to twitch inside of me, i soon realise that it can’t last forever, that in a few minutes, or when the alcohol wares off, we will have to go back to normal, to act like he didn’t just fuck me - his best friend of over ten years.

his head returns from my shoulder, a loud groan escaping his lips as i feel him shoot his cum inside of me, his eyes squeezing shut, lips slightly parted as he curses under his breath. and it doesn’t take long for my own release to follow, the loud moan that sounds from the back of my throat muffled by tom’s lips as he presses them onto my own, mumbling a quick ‘shhh’ against me. he rides out our highs, pulling out after a minute and collapsing on top of me, tired and breathless. we lay in silence, tom occasionally pressing quick kisses onto my shoulder, our bodies completely spent.

despite how little we speak about it, that night stays clear in my memory, able to remember it like it was yesterday, even though today marks three years since we did something that should have changed our friendship forever. sure, it was awkward for a little while after, but after the mutual decision to put it behind us ‘for the sake of our friendship’, blaming it purely on the alcohol, we had moved on, maintaining our close bond that had existed since we were kids. it seemed to special to ruin, too important to destroy for the sake of the possibility of falling in love, knowing that it would be too risky to pursue something, the small yet very real chance that it wouldn’t work out holding the ability to ruin our friendship forever.

but god, i would be stupid to deny the way my heart tugs at its strings whenever i see him, whenever i hug him in a way that is strictly platonic, wondering if somewhere he feels the same way as i do.

“you okay?” a voice snaps me out of my train of thought, my head turning to its source as tom’s brown eyes look into my own, a small smile on his face. i quickly nod my head, turning away and focusing on gustav as he takes a present from under the tree, flashing me a smile once he realises that it is from me.

tom doesn’t give in though, his voice interrupting my own from beside me as i am in the process of listening to gustav, a smile on his face whilst he thanks me for his gift.

“you sure?” tom asks, his voice low and uncertain, expression bordering confused when i forge a smile, reassuring him that i am fine, knowing that i am far from it, the reminder that three years ago things were so different still acting as a raw wound, despite how easily tom had seemed to get over it.

“no you’re not. come on.” he takes my hand, guiding me out of the room as i turn around, hoping that nobody had noticed, sighing in relief when i realise that they are all immersed in their own conversations. tom guides me into the kitchen, moving me so that my body is against the counter, his own in front of me, stopping me from leaving.

“what are you doing? the party is out there, bill was about to open the gift i got for him.” i furrow my eyebrows, attempting to leave the kitchen, though tom’s hand is quick to place itself on my wrist gently, pulling me back to rest against the counter.

“i can tell when you’re not okay. something is bothering you. what’s wrong?” his voice is much more serious this time, no longer holding that playful tone that it had before.

i sigh, breaking eye contact and staring at the ground, fingers reaching to play with the material of my christmas sweater, trying anything to distract myself from the tears that begin to pool at my waterline. i know that i can’t escape from this now, becoming aware that even if i attempt to lie, tom will see right through it.

“come on, you can talk to me you know? i’m your best friend-”

“that’s the fucking problem.” i mumble, silently cursing myself the second the words leave my mouth, praying that they were quiet enough for tom to not understand them. though when his eyebrows furrow, head tilting to the side, i quickly realise that he got every word. his mouth opens to speak, only for a few seconds as he closes it again, mind working faster than it ever has before, working to think of a response.

“what do you mean?” he asks eventually, my eyes meeting his own. his gaze softens when he registers the tears that fall down my cheeks. he reaches forward, his arms trying to wrap around my frame and pull me into a hug, though i refuse his embrace, not able to handle the emotional torture of another hug, knowing that it will never mean anything more than means of comfort, rather than an act of affection out of love. his eyebrows furrow in confusion when i push him away gently, his tongue moving outward to swipe against his lip ring, fingers adjusting the bandana that adorns his jet black braids - the one thing that is different about him since that day.

“why do you act like nothing happened?” i ask, my voice low and weak, eyes finally finding the courage to meet his own. he stays silent, knowing exactly what i am talking about without even mentioning it directly. because no matter how much we act like it never happened, i know that both of us will never be able to forget it, even if he acts like he has. i take his silence as i sign to continue, taking the opportunity to get this off of my chest. “you act like that night never happened, and it fucking infuriates me. you speak to me, you look at me, you hug me, but it’s not the same anymore. you can try and act like you don’t remember it, but i fucking can’t. i can’t sit back anymore and act normal around you knowing that we did it. and then you stand here and call me your fucking friend. it kills me that you don’t even care, that it means nothing at all to you-”

he cuts me off, though not with his voice. not with a quick remark, not with a reminder that we are just friends, that we can never be anything more; but with his lips, pressing them to my own. they are soft, just as i had remembered them, the coldness of his lip ring just as addictive as it had been the first time. and though it only lasts a few seconds before he pulls away, it still ignites that spark within me that had been lifeless since we had promised to forget about what had happened. his forehead rests against mine, hands pulling my body against his own as he wraps his arms around my waist.

“who said that i don’t care about what happened, hm?” his face remains inches away from mine, his hands reaching upward to wipe the tears that rest on my cheeks. he doesn’t pull back, instead pressing my body against his once again. “i think about it, all the time. and every single time, i think about what could have happened if we didn’t push it aside, if we actually acted on it. but then i remind myself that you didn’t want that, and i can’t lose you. so i just decided to not speak about it. but don’t think for a second that i forgot.”

i stay silent, unsure of what to say, trying to fathom what his confession truly means. is he saying that he feels the same way, or was the kiss out of pity, one to stop the tears that continue to fall?

“what are you saying?” i whisper, pursing my lips and looking at the floor, breaking eye contact once again. though it is only short lived, my eyes soon returning to look at his own as he lifts my face up, his hands now resting on either side of it.

“i’m saying that i don’t want to be just your best friend anymore. i don’t think my heart can handle that.”

my eyes widen, mouth opening to speak, finding myself at a loss for words as no sound escapes. once again, tom’s actions seem to speak louder than any words would have been able to, his arms scooping me up as he kisses me once again. it is gentler this time, lacking the lust behind that it had the first time we had kissed. it holds much more meaning behind it than just drunken desire. this time, it carries the silent promise of every single thing that i have ever wanted since that night - love.

“you know…i wasn’t totally shitfaced when i asked you to kiss me that night.” he says once he pulls away, a playful smile now tugging on his lips. i shake my head, pulling him by his shirt and kissing him once again. he smiles into the kiss, quickly reciprocating as he moves his lips against my own.

“oh my god.”

i quickly push tom away, his lips pink and swollen as he turns around, my eyes widening once i see bill standing in the doorway of the kitchen with some empty plates in either hand. his mouth is wide open, body standing completely still in shock.

“i’ll just…leave these here.” he quickly says, rushing toward the sink and practically throwing the plates in there, shooting me a quick glance before leaving.

i look upward at tom, who seems to be unfazed by the situation, his thumb reaching upward to swipe at the lipgloss that had stained his lips. he meets my gaze, shrugging his shoulders and wrapping his arm around me, pulling my body to rest against his own, our chests together.

“at least we don’t have to figure out a way to tell everybody else. bill would have told them all by now.”

requests are open! keep sending them in!!

[lloydskywalkers]

Imperium's Worst-Compensated Wage Worker

Or the perils of minimum wage, brought to you by the Good Empress Beatrix. (fighting writer's block with this admittedly silly and very much non-canon oneshot. like it could technically happen around season one? if the writers acknowledged the oni/dragon thing again? but in the meantime i thought it'd be funny.)

Not that Dyne’s opinion has any genuine bearing upon the Good Empress Beatrix’s decisions, much less Dr. LaRow’s often intense (and as he’s recently learned, morally bankrupt) dedication to powering Imperium, but the latest dragon they’ve hauled into the lab is…strange. 

Primarily because it is not, in fact, a dragon. 

“Oh, it’s a dragon alright,” Dr. LaRow says. “Well, partly. You should take the time to dig into Ninjago’s myths and history, if you have the chance, it’s all very fascinating. The genealogy alone is a mess.”

The dragon(?) makes a dry sound. Dyne risks glancing at the figure imprisoned in the golden barrier. They look rather bored, all things considered. You’d almost think that they were the one observing an imprisoned Dr. LaRow, instead of the other way around.

They also look nothing like a dragon. 

“Isn’t that right?” Dr. LaRow grins at the figure. “You’ll have to tell me about this supposed Oni part of your heritage. Your history books are fairly uninformative. That is, if you’re able to talk after I’ve started draining you.”

The prisoner simply smiles back, their teeth a little too sharp to be normal. Dyne feels his skin crawl as unnaturally green eyes rove over the lab. They land on him for only a beat, but it’s long enough to leave Dyne feel like he’s been lasered through. 

He feels he should probably give Dr. LaRow’s “not human” diagnosis a bit more credit. 

Unfortunately, Dyne also has the sinking feeling that Dr. LaRow is messing with something she absolutely, a hundred percent, should not be. Like those terrible movies his friend used to screen in private, where the witless explorers ignore every warning and awake an ancient evil that melts the flesh from their faces. 

That’s what those eyes feel like — a flesh-melting stare of green. 

“You could always save me the trouble and start talking now.” Dr. LaRow makes a mockery of knocking her fist against the barrier. “Did you bite your tongue? You were so loud when they brought you in.”

The person — dragon, dragon, he needs this job — stares at the ceiling long-sufferingly. 

“Hm.” Dr. LaRow clicks her tongue. “We’ll see how quiet you are after we start taking that power of yours.”

That one’s enough to prompt Dyne to speak up. He’s been having enough of a crisis over the reality that they drain living dragons down here. Draining the drag— alright, prisoner — is an entirely new crisis just waiting for him.

“Excuse me, great Dr. LaRow,” he says, sweating. “The prisoner — are we sure it’s safe to drain it like we do the dragons? They aren’t exactly…the same.”

“Safe?” Dr. LaRow’s eyebrows shoot up. “Tell me, guard. Are you here to ask questions?”

Dyne wisely holds his tongue. Dr. LaRow nods in satisfaction. 

“It’s a dragon, alright. My energy sensors are never wrong!”

Dyne wants to question if her sensors might have a bad day every once in a while, but he also likes living in relative peace. 

It simply doesn’t make sense. The prisoner doesn’t look a thing like the other dragons. Of course, they also don’t look entirely human, features too-sharp and eyes too-bright, but the tousled blond hair and tanned skin, now darkened in blood and bruises from the scuffle, could pass for any other Imperium citizen. 

There’s also a distinct lack of wings, or scales, or actual draconic characteristics of any sort. 

“And they tell me there’s quite a bit we can get out of you,” Dr. LaRow tells the prisoner.

The prisoner’s brow furrows, the action pulling at the bruising gash at their right temple enough that a new stream of blood traces down their cheek. Their expression twitches, but they continue to hold Dr. LaRow’s stare. 

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Dr. LaRow grins widely. 

_____

As they reach the twenty-four hour mark since the prisoner’s capture, Dr. LaRow is most certainly not enjoying this. 

“—unbelievable, what useless imp decided to short out the entire draining system, the wiring’s in shambles—”

Dyne watches as Dr. LaRow storms around the lab, fuming as she tosses through tools. He holds his blaster close to his chest, as if it will protect both him and his job from her wrath.

From the corner of his eye, he can spot a disturbingly smug grin creeping up the prisoner’s face. Dyne wonders if it was less a useless imp who shorted out the wiring and more a supposed dragon. 

He’s also elected to abandon calling them a dragon altogether. He’s likely to start laughing if he does, and Dyne is clinging to his sanity enough as it is. 

Dr. LaRow finally slams her fist against the control panel, cursing. With a look as if someone’s made her swallow a lemon, she keys in a complicated string of numbers on the control panel, the barrier around the prisoner shuddering as the floor creaks. The prisoner looks mildly concerned, but as it ends as soon as it began, they retreat to their look of utter apathy once again. 

“It’s your lucky day,” she grits out at the prisoner. “Looks like we’ll give you some time to catch your breath before we draining you.”

The prisoner simply crosses their legs, clasping their hands in their lap as they stare at the ceiling.

“In the meantime,” Dr. LaRow huffs, swiping at her data pad. “I may as well get what I can out of you. I’m not as used to working with subjects who can talk back, so this is an interesting experience for us both.”

The prisoner says nothing, their eyes glazing over as they continue staring at the ceiling, as if Dr. LaRow’s existence is as interesting as dirt. Dyne has to applaud their nerve — Dr. LaRow looks as if she’s about to pop a vein.

“You know, while I was researching your backwater realm’s history, I came across a good deal about a Green Ninja,” she tries. “I suppose it’d be an obvious assumption, simply because you prefer one color. But I do wonder.”

“If you’ve stuck me in here for being part-dragon,” the prisoner finally sighs. “You probably know enough.” 

“So you admit it,” Dr. LaRow smiles in triumph. “You’re one of your realm’s guardians. The lead one, if I’m correct.”

The prisoner’s eyes roll briefly back in their head, and they return to saying nothing. 

Dr. LaRow grits her teeth, smile growing tight. “Such a fun little color-coded group. When you run dry, I’ll move onto them next. I can start with the blue one, or the red one—”

“Don’t.” The prisoner’s voice cracks across the lab, louder and colder than anything else they’ve said. For the first time since the guards dragged them in, a truly vicious anger burns in their eyes. “Don’t you dare touch them.”

“Hmm, is that a sore spot?” Dr. LaRow seems thrilled, typing at her pad. “Interesting, interesting.”

The prisoner bares their teeth, looking for the first time somewhat like the dragon they’re supposed to be. And perhaps Dyne is just overtired, or he’s bought a little too much into the myths from Ninjago Dr. LaRow’s been having them all comb through, but the lab suddenly feels much smaller, as if the air’s being compressed. His skin prickles, hair standing on end again, and his flight or fight reaction kicks up about twenty notches. 

If Dyne didn’t know that running would probably end in Dr. LaRow feeding him to an actual dragon to silence him, he’d be booking it out of the lab already.

The prisoner glares at Dr. LaRow for a moment longer, eyes turning a violent green — then they jerk back, expression contorting. Dyne lets out a quiet, shaky breath as he finds himself breathing easy again. 

Dr. LaRow smirks as the prisoner glares at the shimmering floor beneath their feet in consternation, the clinical metal pulling back to reveal ugly, roughly-constructed black stone shot through with streaks of yellow. 

“I was hoping that dealer wasn’t upselling me,” she says, tapping at her data pad cheerfully. “That stone cost us quite a bit.”

A string of muttered curses escapes the prisoner’s mouth. 

“—do people keep getting their hands on this like it’s buy-one-get-one-free at the mall, it isn’t that common—”

“Though it will be annoying,” Dr. LaRow’s expression sours again. “Having to admit that Rapton scrounged up something useful for once.”

As the prisoner now looks like they’re planning a particularly violent list of future murders in their head, Dyne takes a careful, measured step back and tries to pretend he’s invisible. 

_____

Dyne considers himself a decent person. Most times, he sleeps just fine at night with the knowledge that he’s done his best to live a moral and upstanding life as a good citizen under the Good Empress Beatrix. 

And until now, he’s been perfectly content in his position as a guard of Imperium. Helping safeguard their great empire and its citizens is a noble duty, one he takes great pride in. 

This was all before he got moved down to the labs for being “a remarkably wise and clearheaded individual” — which he’s now learned is code for “knows how to keep his mouth shut”. 

Three days in to the new position, and two days into having taken what’s definitely not a dragon in for draining, all of that is crashing down around his head.

“There we go,” Dr. LaRow adjusts her glasses, smiling as the row of monitors flicker back to life. “All back online and ready to go. I should probably invest in more of that stone, just in case…”

The prisoner shoots her a particularly rude gesture from behind the glowing barrier. They look a little worse for wear today, the bruising at their temple having turned an ugly, mottled purple. The dark circles beneath their eyes nearly match it shade for shade, and a portion of their blond hair is crusted with dried blood. 

It must hurt, though you’d never know it, from the prisoner’s increasingly heated glares.

Dyne swallows. He knows very well that forcibly draining the life force out of any being is bad. He knows it’s even worse to stand by and watch the life force get drained out of a person who’s noticeably younger than he is.

He also knows that he’s going to end up with Dr. LaRow’s socket wrench through his skull if he tries to protest. Which leaves him at a bit of an impasse. 

“You’re making a mistake,” the prisoner speaks up quietly, as Dr. LaRow preps the system.

“Oh, I really don’t think I am,” she says. “You’re going to help me power Imperium for the better, you know? Well, I suppose you wouldn’t know too much about all this, coming from a backwater realm like you do.”

“What, this?” The prisoner waves their hand at the glowing barrier. “No, no, I’m familiar. Been there, done that. Last time I was in an exploding plane, it was a lot more exciting.”

Dyne’s eyebrows shoot up despite himself. As if sensing his curiosity, the prisoner’s eyes flick to him, their mouth twitching. 

Dr. LaRow makes an irritated sound. 

“Keep an eye on it, alright? I need you to make sure it doesn’t keel over dead or anything,” Dr. LaRow instructs him, acknowledging to Dyne for the first time in…well. Perhaps it’s better if he doesn’t think about that.

Sanity hanging on by a thread, and all.

“You could at least say keep an eye on him,” the prisoner mutters. “I am a person. With a name, if anyone cares.”

They — he, Dyne corrects, because he does have some semblance of a conscience — looks irritated, but in a very exhausted way, as if he’s been in this particular situation enough times to find it boring. 

Dr. LaRow smiles tightly. “Let’s see how that nerve of yours holds up now, shall we?” She twists the dial with a savage kind of enthusiasm.

To his credit, the prisoner manages to mask any reaction as first, only tensing up as the golden barriers surge to life. He’s bitten his lip, but otherwise he seems just as unruffled as he’s been.

Then Dr. LaRow triples the intensity, and the prisoner crumples forward, barely catching himself on his hands as he shudders in pain. 

“Oh, not cool,” he wheezes, fingernails digging into the floor. “Ow, hell—”

“There we go,” Dr. LaRow says, her glasses glinting in the golden light as she studies the readings gleefully. “See that, mildly competent guard? It’s as dragon as they get. We can power a whole block with this!”

“Wonderful,” the prisoner rasps, fingernails now biting into his arms as he steels himself against the obvious pain. “Getting used as — a literal battery — no-ow, ow, ow. Powering — small kitchen appliances — that’s me.” 

Dr. LaRow clicks her tongue. “I don’t suppose you’d want to rate your discomfort on a scale from one to ten?” she says sweetly. “It’s important that all my subjects feel they have a voice.”

“Two — out of ten,” the prisoner gasps. “Overlord — did it better. Get on his — level, and we’ll talk.”

“Overlord,” Dr. LaRow says, tapping at her data pad. “I’ll have to track him down next.”

Absently, she twists the dial a level higher. Dyne cringes. 

The prisoner bangs his head against the floor, his cursing muffled. 

“Hmm, we aren’t getting as much out of you now,” Dr. LaRow mutters, tapping at her data pad. “Maybe you have a lower limit than most dragons.”

“Hope you choke,” comes the seething response. “Gonna — bite you, when they…break me out…”

“Break you out? Our security is the most advanced in all the realms,” Dr. LaRow laughs. “We’re more than prepared for any threat that would try to free you.”

Despite the clear pain the prisoner’s in, his lips twitch.

“Not prepared for Nya,” he mutters, before cutting off in a strangled swear as Dr. LaRow ups the intensity yet another level. 

Dyne resist the urge to bury his face in his hands. 

Oh, he’s most certainly developing another six crises after this. 

He knew he should’ve just applied for garden maintenance.  

_____

A little over forty-eight hours in, Dyne decides he can only take so much without doing anything. 

Dr. LaRow went ahead and tossed the prisoner in one of the holding cells after draining what she could, called away by Empress Beatrix for what’s likely not anything good, and probably something incredibly destructive and morally bankrupt. 

She’s also neglected to give the prisoner any kind of hydration. If he were actually a dragon, this might not be as much of a problem, only two days in. But considering Dyne’s very logical assumption that he isn’t, it could prove a somewhat deadly problem. 

So with Dr. LaRow stuck catering to Empress Beatrix’s every whim for the rest of the day, Dyne feels somewhat confident in his decision. 

One water bottle never led to an entire prison break, did it? 

The prisoner stares at the bottle Dyne’s shoved through the barrier opening, brow furrowed.

“It’s not poisoned,” Dyne says, quickly. “Or drugged, or anything. I wouldn’t — that’d be stupid.”

The prisoner’s mouth quirks. 

“Thanks,” he says, taking the bottle. His voice is a little raspy, but much softer now that he isn’t violently cursing out Dr. LaRow. 

He proceeds to tear the top off and chug the entire thing. 

“I can, ah, bring more,” Dyne says, slightly horrified. “I should’ve grabbed another.”

“Mmh, no worries,” the prisoner says, polishing off the bottle. He glances at Dyne.  

 “I guess you probably couldn’t smuggle food in,” he says, visibly wilting and pretending he isn’t. 

Dyne shifts, at war with himself. 

Well, a packaged snack bar never led to an entire prison break either, did it?

“Oh, fank eff-ess-em.” The prisoner barely takes time to breathe as he devours the bar. “Owe you one for d’at.”

“It’s the least I can do,” Dyne says, before abruptly remembering he’s supposed to be an intimidating guard. It’s the prisoner’s fault, for acting so weirdly casual about being imprisoned. 

“Nah, people don’t really think about this part often,” the prisoner says. “They lock you up and assume you’ll just survive without eating or drinking anything. I mean, if you’re gonna rant about how you need my strength all day, at least make sure I have any, and I’m not like, a corpse by day six, you know?”

Dyne adds weirdly friendly toward obvious enemies to the list.

“Anyways, thank you,” the prisoner finishes off the last of the ration bar, looking far more at ease. “It must be a pain, working under that doctor all the time.”

“I am fortunate to have such a trusted position in the great workings of Imperium,” Dyne recites on instinct. “Helping Dr. LaRow detain prisoners such as yourself is a…it’s a…”

The prisoner raises an eyebrow. 

Dyne deflates. 

“Yeah, maybe work on your elevator pitch there.” 

“Apologies, prisoner.” 

“Y’know, I do have a name,” the prisoner sighs.

Dyne winces. “Oh, yes. Well, obviously. What…is it?”

He smirks. “I’ll tell you when I’m out of here.”

“Ah.” Dyne isn’t sure how to respond to that one.

“No offense, I just don’t know how much you know, and I don’t wanna risk it. I kinda have a bad track record with people out to get me.” 

“No, that’s…I don’t blame you,” Dyne says, staring at his boots. “Considering the situation.”

The bars between them loom dramatically. Dyne begins his seventh moral crisis. 

The prisoner eyes him, almost curious. The expression looks far more at ease on his face than the glares he’s been routinely sending Dr. LaRow’s way. It also makes him look a good deal younger, which does absolutely nothing for Dyne as he begins his eighth crisis of crippling guilt. 

“Hey,” the prisoner says. “Have you guys heard of Starfarer here?”

_____

At five in the morning on day four, Dyne finds himself listening intently as the prisoner tells him about the time a realm came to life as an eldritch tentacle monster of doom and tried to swallow Ninjago — or something like that, the prisoner keeps getting fairly heated talking about this one, so the finer details are lost — when they’re interrupted by the distant, muffled sound of an explosion. 

Dyne goes tense, grabbing for his blaster. His first thought is that it’s simply Dr. LaRow having a mid-morning experiential mishap, as those are fairly normal.

The screeching alarm that goes off, followed by the distinct sound of screaming, dashes those hopes. 

“Are we under attack?” Dyne mutters faintly. “No one attacks Imperium.”

The prisoner smiles, stretching back in the cell. “Tell that to Kai.”

“Who is Kai?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the prisoner waves his hand. “Just stay back near me, okay? Definitely clear of the doors. And uh, try not to look like you had a big part in this.”

“But I did have a big part of this,” Dyne says, weakly.

The prisoner shrugs. “Those snack bars were killer. You can have a pass.”

“I don’t think I—”

“You sneaking, underhanded little animal!”

Dr. LaRow bursts into the lab, glasses askew and hair a frizzled mess. She jabs her finger toward the prisoner, seething. “You led them right to us!”

“Hey, animal kinda crosses a line,” the prisoner frowns. 

“How did you contact them!” She bangs her fist against the barrier. “How did you let them in!”

“I didn’t do anything,” the prisoner says. “I’ve been sitting here, nice and behaved, in this stupid cell.”

“Then how—”

Another explosion rocks the building, this one much closer. 

The prisoner cups his chin in his hand, grinning at Dr. LaRow. “Say, when you were doing all that research on me,” he says. “You didn’t happen to dig any deeper into the other, highly powerful ninja, did you?”

“Of course I did,” she snaps. “And I’ll be sure to drain them dry once I’ve disposed of you.”

“Uh-huh.” The prisoner looks entirely unconcerned. “You didn’t study enough, I guess.” 

The doors slide open with a hiss, and an Imperium guard enters the lab. 

A completely normal event on any given day, save for several noticeable things. For starters, there’s no reason for a guard of that level to be entering the cell area, unless Dr. LaRow had signaled an emergency — which is most certainly happening outside the lab, but not inside it.

That, or Dyne’s being replaced. Which he’s heard nothing about.

For another, the guard moves with far more purpose than any other guard he’s seen, taking decisive strides toward them with an intensity that rings alarm bells in Dyne’s head.

And for a final thing, with little decorum, the guard proceeds to freeze the doors shut solid, freeze the security cameras, and freeze Dr. LaRow’s feet firmly to the ground. 

In a panic, Dyne brings his blaster up, only to be halted by a sharp look from the prisoner. 

“Don’t,” he says. “You’ll lose.” 

As the guard shimmers, the black and golds of the Imperium armor melting away to reveal the snow white of a ninja gi, Dyne drops his blaster and takes a step back. 

He enjoys living immensely. That’s all. 

“Zane,” the prisoner breathes, his expression collapsing in relief. 

“I apologize for the delay,” the white ninja says, his own face creased in worry as he maneuvers past a frothing Dr. LaRow, who’s tugging furiously at her frozen shoes. “We were waylaid by Imperium’s forces.”

The prisoner shakes his head. “Is everyone alright?”

“That is a far better question for you,” the white ninja says, tapping something on the control pad. The golden barrier sparks, then erodes entirely away. “But no one was harmed. I simply determined that I alone would be most efficient choice to rescue you, as any efforts from Kai or Nya were likely to end in significant attention and potential loss of life.”

The prisoner stumbles forward the minute the barrier vanishes, all but collapsing against the white ninja, who moves even quicker to catch him. 

“Watch out, the floor in there’s Vengestone,” he mutters. 

“Your head is bleeding.” The white ninja’s hand flutters at the prisoner’s temple, his other hand wrapped firmly around his back.  

“S’not that bad.”

“You’re severely exhausted and your blood sugar levels are alarmingly low,” the ninja continues, voice growing colder. 

“Zane.”

“You’ve bitten through your lip again. And—”

“Zane. Not here.”

There’s a tight sigh. 

“You are also in dire need of a shower.”

“Rude,” the prisoner scowls. “You try living in a cage and coming out with great hair.”

 “—why haven’t you shot them already, you useless imbecile—!”

Dyne takes a leaf from the ninja’s book and tunes Dr. LaRow out entirely. 

“Um, I don’t mean to interrupt,” he says, quietly. “But we should probably move if the building’s exploding?”

“The building is in no danger,” the white ninja says, still fussing over the prisoner’s head. “We would never put Lloyd’s safety at risk like that.”

“Remember that next training session,” the prisoner snorts. “I’m guessing the explosions are Kai?”

“He’s incinerating their forces in what could be generously called a diversion,” the white ninja says, lips twitching. “Arin and Sora were enthusiastic about helping.”

“Of course they were.” 

 The prisoner pulls back, wobbling briefly on his feet as he brushes imaginary dirt from his gi and stretches. 

“Don’t hurt that one,” he nods in Dyne’s direction. “He’s pretty chill.”

The white ninja’s glare could freeze him dead. “He was guarding you. He helped them torture you.”

“That’s a little dramatic,” the prisoner frowns. “They were just trying to drain my power again.”

“Which still counts as torture.”

“Technically, it’s like, wildly unethical capitalism?”

 Their conversation is interrupted as a wrench comes hurtling toward their heads. The white ninja bats it away as if it were a mere fly. 

Dr. LaRow, now down her shoes and having made a mad dash for the elevator, looks possibly more furious than the time an intern spilled coffee on her favorite lab coat. 

The transparent elevator doors slide closed just in time to block the sharp projectile of ice that would’ve likely taken her head off. 

“You know what? Good riddance,” Dr. LaRow spits, already keying in the security code. “That thing isn’t worth the trouble.”

The white ninja’s expression turns flat. “That thing has a name, and he happens to be worth far more than—”

“Zane,” the prisoner murmurs. 

The white ninja cuts off with a huff. The ice forming at his hand sputters out as the elevator drops, taking Dr. LaRow with it. 

“Kai instructed me to punch the face in of whoever took your captive,” he says, disappointed. “I would’ve liked to fulfill that particular request.”

 “I’m sure we’ll get another chance.” The prisoner — now a prisoner no longer, come to think of it — turns to stare at Dyne with too-green eyes, and he feels a bit as if someone’s drilling through his head again. 

“My name, by the way,” he says. “Is Lloyd.”

Raisin a trembling hand, he waves, replying, “Dyne.”

Lloyd’s mouth pulls in a half-smile, then he jerks his head. “I’d clear out if I were you,” he says. “I don’t think LaRow’s caught up on what happens when you use energy that’s heavily Oni-contaminated in a system built for dragons.”

Dyne blinks. The white ninja looks concerned. “What do you mean?”

“Well, considering you’re looking at power from two totally opposite beings who exist to fight each other—”

“That was not what I meant, I was referring to the implications they actually drained your energy successfully, which should not be—”

“—if you try to use both energies at once, I don’t think it’s gonna—”

The lights flicker. Before any of them can react, the room rocks dangerously, sending Dyne sprawling as an explosion goes off with a shattering screech a few rooms over. 

“—turn out too well,” Lloyd finishes, weakly. 

_____

In the end, Dyne finds himself following Lloyd and the other ninja out of the labs. He then quickly finds himself socked in the face by a grappling hook, and narrowly avoiding the furious fists of a pink-haired girl that looks vaguely familiar.

“I got him! Did’ja see that?”

“Lemme go, we’ve gotta avenge Lloyd—”

“Lloyd requested that he not be harmed, Sora,” the white ninja sighs, holding back the seething girl. 

“That was a nice hit, though,” Lloyd says, smiling at the dark-haired boy responsible for the bruise forming on Dyne’s face. “You’re getting better at quick reactions.”

The boy’s smile dims as he takes in the now-spectacular mess of green and yellow bruising on Lloyd’s face. 

“Kai’s gonna murder some people, I think.”

“Yeah, on that note,” Lloyd glances at Dyne, giving him a rueful smile. “You probably want to get out of here. For your own good, and all.”

Dyne opens his mouth, only to yelp as something else in the lab behind them explodes. 

“And, uh, sorry for losing you your job?” Lloyd makes a face. “Next time, maybe go for something a little less…”

“Morally corrupt? Totally evil? Cruel and inhumane?”

“He gets it, Sora,” Lloyd sighs. 

“We will be leaving now,” the white ninja cuts in, eyes narrowed on the growing crowd of Imperium guards a street over. “If we’re to pick up Kai and Wyldfyre before we leave, we’d better be quick.”

“Got it.” Lloyd gives Dyne a final, bright smile. “Thanks for the snacks! Good luck on the job hunt.”

The pink-haired girl glares daggers at him, while the dark-haired boy makes a very obvious we’re watching you gesture with his fingers. 

“Enjoy your life,” the white ninja says. “Please keep in mind that you only kept it thanks to Lloyd.”

And with that ominous statement, the ninja take off running. 

As he watches them disappear, Dyne carefully removes his Imperium-issued helmet, and lets out a long, shaky sigh. 

Maybe there’s a job opening in the Realm of Madness. 

He’ll bet they don’t require eight-page resumés there. 

[comfortless]

hi angel! i have to tell you that ‘All That You Don’t Want’ was incredible- such a lovely, sweet tale! i keep revisiting it! would you consider writing a second part? or even a role reversal?

Roach Head

lich! König x fem necromancer! reader

content/warnings: 18+. minors do not interact. abduction, injury, mentions of insects (reader is the world’s worst necromancer), forced proximity, pining, violence/regicide, major character death, questionable morality, fluff, smut, a lil angst.

notes: i am so sorry you have had to wait so long, anon. ): though… i doubt that i will ever write a continuation of ATYDW, take this sickly sweet… (almost) role reversal, instead!

wc: 6.7k.

It’s an odd thing that, after finally having the blindfold removed, the first thing you notice are the cobblestones beneath your bleeding palms. Not a single one is in disarray; not cracked or crumbling from being used as any other common footpath. No, each stone is in it’s place, lain complete with not a single splintering crack or a sharpness to it from being broken. All pristine and smooth beneath your stinging scrapes.

Just like the cobbles, the air feels untouched here. There’s no stink of manure or spoiled food from the cramped streets of the inner kingdom. There are no roars of fighting men nor the baying of beasts, a lack of giggling women batting their eyelashes to lure those with jingling pouches of coins into brothels. You can’t even detect a breeze. Twisting onto your side, your eyes catch on the extending limbs of sturdy trees, and oddly… not a single leaf flutters or moves. The air is still.

There is only the absence of everything.

You should think it a blessing after your abduction, after being thrust into the back of a dusty carriage drawn by two massive horses.

You could almost swear you had seen the devil in their dark eyes, hellfire deep in those dark pits and you had known assuredly they would be chauffeuring you straight into the darkest circle of Hell. That was, until a thick, rigid cloth was tied around your head, forcing you into complete darkness. Your assailants had done well to bind you and leave your aching body only capable of wracking with sobs against the hard wood at the bottom. Every jolt of the wagon had caused you to flinch, to scramble as best you could, resulting in an array of bruises and your still bleeding hands from fighting at the ropes.

There had never even been a chance to fight back; you never even saw them. Even now as you raise your throbbing head to glance about, there’s no sign of the men that have left you here, in this silent place. Your heart almost seizes in your chest when you realize you can no longer even hear the cantering and whinnying of those dark, stoic horses.

You know that nothing good comes from silence.

It’s one of the first things that you came to learn as a fledgling witch. Quiet rarely ever bodes well. The prey animals in the wood all scurry to hide amongst fallen leaves and well-packed nests the very moment that a predator draws near, and you, still green with your admittedly lackluster talent in reanimating were little more than a fawn in the eyes of any beast.

A groan leaves your parted lips as you force yourself to your knees, ignoring the incessant sting of bruises and how your vision blots from even the barest of exertion. Your binds must have been cut free when you were abandoned here, you realize, as you twist around to crawl.

That’s when you see it— the glory of what lies before you.

Rather than being dumped into some desolate street for the vultures to find and pick apart like any common carrion, the men with their frightening steeds had left you at the steps leading up to a beautiful castle of sorts. The stone bricks and marbled towers above you, spirals of darkened blue shingles descended into gilded turrets, the rampart casting a shadow over all that settles beneath. There’s a flag there, too, positioned just outside of the wooden door leading into the heart of it all. The rich, blue fabric is torn in places, the tassels frayed, bare white thread visible near the paling center making the crest practically invisible.

Something draws you to it, that singular rotting thing in this bright, sterile void. Your feet move quicker than your thoughts as you pad up toward the flag, eyelids squinting as your palm dances over the canvas. The strangest thing happens as you finally make out what remains of a wolf’s head amongst the rips and splintering threads— the wooden door begins to move. It’s not one of those fancy, well crafted ones with those mechanisms you couldn’t fathom in the King’s keep, this one has to be pulled open from the inside.

You watch, lips pursed as the door continues to slowly creek open until finally, you can make out the small courtyard beyond it. A fountain, long since dried up sits at its center, and even with what you imagine must be little care in such a desolate place, the plants are all in bloom; petals of vivid blues and gentle purples fill your vision.

Amongst them, stands a shadow of the purest black, from the opaque veil shrouding his head to the soles of his boots. The cloak he wears is heavy, finely stitched with that very same blue crest embroidered into its chest, the stitching in equal disarray as the flag adorning the stone wall.

You’ve seen specters before. They haunt the kingdom in every nook, crawling over the tops of buildings, invading your dreams with threats of what will come to you if you don’t reanimate something, give them any body to inhabit and puppet so that they might just have a taste of the pleasures of being human once more. Greedy, malevolent things that make you feel ill from a mere glimpse.

This one is entirely an unknown.

He does not crawl from your gaze with the gait of a wary spider, he stands rigid, daring even as those eyes like sapphire lock onto your form. Not a word is uttered between the two of you, yet you feel a pull, one that curls at the bones tucked into the flesh of your legs, pushing and pulling you past the threshold as though an unseen dog were nipping at your heels. You don’t fight it. Your bare feet cross over smooth stone and your stare remains wistful on the figure until he simply strolls away.

That’s it. That’s all it takes before you’re snapped out of your trance and the wooden door swings heavy and violent behind you, closing and locking without a hand to guide it. Then it’s back to the nothingness, the silence.

You should be very, very afraid. In a panic, even as your hands flatten over the wood and you realize that there are no handles from inside at all. You are entirely trapped here, short of finding a way to carve through it or climb up the rampart and risk snapping every limb on your descent. Thing is— you are not afraid, at least not enough to do anything so rash.

A calm settles here, electric and tickling as it feathers unseen through the cool air.

You stay in that courtyard for a long time, admiring every flower and shrub, some you recognize and others you do not. The empty fountain is not empty at all; you find that the marble ring is filled to the brim with riches— gold coins, shimmering stones, all twinkling beneath the yellow glow of the sun overhead.

Inside of the castle is more or less the same, each corridor bathed in the glow of soft candlelight, highlighting paintings in gilded frames that must have taken months to complete, treasures you have only ever heard of seated on polished wood and fine metals. Like walking through a dream. Though your hands itch to pocket something, anything to take back with you when you find the will to escape, to free yourself from the reality of your little shack at the corner of the market that you share with a dozen other witchlings, you don’t touch anything at all.

Following a branch to your right, vast and equally laden with treasures, eyes darting from one shiny thing to the next until the tightly woven, ornate rugs beneath the soles of your feet wind to an end and you instead find your footing on smooth stone tiles.

You find yourself in the throne room, where the specter sits, lofty yet misplaced upon the soft, rolling velvet. That pull, like a lead drawn too tight, pivots you forward, one foot before the other until you’re kneeling at his feet. The figure remains still, watching you with that somber, unrelenting stare even as you reach up to take his gloved hand into your own, kissing along each knuckle until the hand coated in blackened leather moves to cup your face.

This is no king, you know it in your very bones. The dark veil stained by teardrops tells you everything, of a life trodden by deceit and pain untold.

“I know what you are, hündchen.”

The voice startles you, a rasp, alive only in the way that fire lives, crackling and swaying with each lilt. You must have flinched back, the spell weaved around you broken with all of the subtlety of a lightening strike, your elbows dig almost painfully into the rough tiles below, eyes locked to the veil.

Your own voice doesn’t come for a time. When it does, it comes tight; meek and quivering, almost absent entirely as though your own body refuses to bring a ripple to the quiet that has engulfed you.

“Why have you brought me here?”

The feeling that curls up in the hollow spaces within your chest when this enigma pulls you to your feet with a sudden curl of his hand over your wrist feels familiar. It’s not unlike how you felt when accidentally resurrecting that old mantis found dried beneath your bed. It had attempted to chew through your hand, but being so small it hardly seemed a threat, just offensively waving it’s front legs at you until you scooped the critter up and locked it up tight in an old trunk. Some strange tide of wonder, and it takes a moment for you to push it down enough to realize that… the specter is still stood before you, his grip still tight, not saying a word.

Why it brings a swell of warmth to your face should have you questioning your taste in men rather than what he may or may not have done.

“Sorry, I just—“

“You are hurt, hündchen.” He interrupts, turning your wrist over to inspect the flecks of dried blood littering your palm. It’s not the worst injury you’ve ever had, in fact, you had very nearly forgotten it even existed— just a few scrapes from a rope tied far too tight.

You shake your head, biting back that surge of… something, that furry something that crawls from the fluttering organ behind your ribcage and down into the pits of your stomach. That feeling is also familiar, you felt it the first time you laid eyes on that pompous, boy-man serving as heir to the throne in the castle, at least, until he turned his head to look at you and your ilk with thinly veiled disgust.

If the specter sees scum before him, the veil does well to conceal it.

His eyes seem to only light up the more he appraised you, rubbing his thumb over your scrape with such a gentle touch that a shiver rips down your spine.

“I see…”

He guides your wrist back down to your side, delicately trails his fingertips up to your shoulder and… that’s it before he draws away and steps right past you. That’s all the touch you’re given and you find yourself, humiliatingly yearning for it. There should be nothing but contempt scraping at your skull and yet you feel treacherously endeared by this strange, strange faceless man living in this lonely castle.

The risk of this being some bewildering trap weighs heavy on your mind; you’re far more intelligent than some scrappy undead insect, begging to be tossed into a dusty crate, after all. You had heard of the way other lands treated necromancers: shunning them, chasing them from villages, and in far more dreadful cases— leading them to kneel before a headsman for decapitation.

You center yourself, force your mind to conjure up any evidence of some magical foul play only to be left with the knowledge that these feelings are entirely your own.

This man does not have the sticky aura of one dripping magic from his palms like thick globs of honey. He seems almost vacant, devoid of even anything making him human, while you stand transfixed and lacking even the sensible reaction of fear.

You can only find comfort in his gentle hand, in his stare like an unholy flame.

So, when he guides you to what is to be your dwelling you mouth does not part to argue. You’re led to a room larger than the entirety of the cluttered home you shared with the other witchlings. Everything within is worth more than even you, and something about it stings, sharp and sudden like ant’s venom seeping into skin.

From the canopy bed, draped over with thick velvet curtains to protect from the chill of a winter’s night to the neatly polished wood of varying furniture, it all feels so rich— so foreign.

“You didn’t have to prepare all of this for me… I don’t even… why am I here?” You’re rambling, searching every corner of the room with a flitting gaze as if some small patch of dust will provide you with the answers.

Your specter only laughs as he nudges you towards the bed, now your bed, the motion only sending another question to the forefront of your mind.

Were you bought? Meant to warm some peculiar stranger’s bed without even the grace of having the knowledge to prepare?

Perhaps your concerns should have drifted as to why you were not entirely opposed.

“Sleep.”

The simple command leaves you stifled entirely, all confusion and tentative excitement dispelled in an instant.

He wants nothing from you, only to extend a foreign cup spilling over with generosity to one who would not admit it was ever even needed.

You find yourself nodding your head, unaccustomed to the kindness of a forgotten thing like him. In truth, you’re unused to anything but bickering between the other ladies in the witch’s house, the cobwebs stretching without end caking the ceiling, the scuttle of crawling legs over your flesh as you pulled your threadbare blanket over your body to shield you from the cold. From stark poverty to this… it claws at your eyes, steels your mind— man or ghost, it mattered not; your heart sang while your mouth remains pressed into a stiff line.

When he leaves you, your body cloaked in the softest gown you’ve ever worn, burrowed beneath sheets of the finest silk, that unknown thing in your heart seems to spill over, rushing through your veins like honeyed wine.

You dream through the eyes of someone else that night.

A woman kneels at your feet with tears in her dark eyes. She hasn’t slept, the thick, dark patches just above where her cheeks rise make it evident, and she’s pleading with the you who is not you; this woman tells you that she wishes to go home, that she could never be a part of what you are or are not.

Even in dreaming you feel your jaw tighten, sure that your nails have splintered from the shooting pain in your fingertips as your hands tighten over the hard wood of your seat. The not you speaks for you, his voice coming warbled and distant. You can not make out the words, but seeing how this pleading woman’s face seems to morph into an expression of terror, you’re grateful to not know what’s been said.

Nothing becomes of her. You watch as she strolls away, unharmed. This other you, however, is. It’s the tingling of so many unseen legs parading through your chest; spiders in a downward course to burrow in the shadow of your belly. The discomfort rings out as you feel this body rise from its seat, out to the courtyard with a fountain. The flowing water subsided the clambering of spider limbs inside, just enough for this body to pull a ring from its pocket and cast it down into the clear water.

You watch the ring seat itself at the marble bottom, the gentle flow of water causing small ripples to crest over that tiny band of silver until you wake.

Confusion twists itself into curiosity as you free yourself from the sheets, padding out of your room still only adorned in the thin, white fabric of the gown. Morning light filtering through each window of the castle carves a path where the candles have long since been blown out. The only darkness here is with your captor, all tall and shadowy, and you find yourself considering the fact that perhaps you’ve been sucked down into some strange afterlife, one where you and this specter would remain in a silent stasis for all time. You find that you don’t entirely hate the idea, either.

Most of the rooms in the castle are dull. It’s not that there isn’t plenty to look at, but a cluttering of what’s expected, all gold and ornate, only proves to bore you. There is little mystery to be found in riches.

None of it is of importance, anyway. It’s him you’re seeking out, and oddly enough, you find your specter in the courtyard staring down at the cluttered fountain. He shifts in place as you take to his side, fingers curling into loose fists momentarily before he offers you a small greeting by way of running a hand along the back of your neck, petting you as though you truly were only a puppy.

You shiver beneath that warm touch, seem to melt against him before collecting yourself enough to straighten up.

“I did not sleep well,” he says quietly, the look in his eyes tells you that he dreamt through your own. He had seen the decay and filth of the king’s city, perhaps even those angry, little things that you brought back to bite and sting and pinch.

“I didn’t either.”

You recognize that faint, strange smell when you move just a step closer to him, like dust and forgotten things. Not quite rot, but similar, a comfort for you as it’s all your fate has ever allowed for you to know. Yet, this is not one of your reanimations. Only a man.

A man, only, like you; touched by the rot.

The realization crosses your face by way of a widened glance, a sharp intake of breath. It stings again when he turns away from you, drops his hand back to his side.

“Will you walk with me, hündchen?”

“Sure.”

It’s no less strange pacing along at his side than roaming about the castle with no idea where he is. The specter still feels worlds away, even as your arm brushes over his, your fingers occasionally ghosting over his gloved hand. While the vivid blue of globe thistles and hydrangeas entertains your vision, that patient stare of his remains trained on you, even as the quiet settles over the garden once again.

In a way, you feel as though you’re being courted, even as the questions remain scurried and fluttering in your mind. The ghost, the man, whoever he is, refuses to sate that curiosity of yours even as you bring it up to him again. Why? He only responds in an almost boyish laugh that pulls at your heart, infuriating and delightful all the same.

You share a meal, something you’ve no idea how he managed to scrounge together or had the time to prepare at all. He’s been at your side all morning, yet the fruit pastries and tea are served warm as you seat yourself across from him at some grand, oak table. That sparked tingle of magic does not feather off of him as it does with your sisters, but you know without a doubt that he must have it. You glower at him a bit, lips pursed and brow pinched as he sips at his tea, not beneath but through the fabric of his black veil.

“You will have to explain what’s going on at some point,” you huff, pushing your plate away as if to make a show of it. No more accepting his gifts, even if your stomach growls in protest. “Especially if you’re trying to court me.”

It’s cute how wide his eyes go at that, his cup of tea nearly slipping from his hand. The surprise wears off almost immediately, his eyes narrowing in what you imagine must be amusement as you’re left feeling a bit humiliated. Your gaze flits over to the candles adorning the table as you nervously drum your fingers against the lap of your dress.

“Court you?”

“The gown, the walk, the food… is that not what this is?”

“Nein, hündchen…” He pauses to sigh, setting the cup against the table with a dull thud. “It’s better that I did not.”

You think to question him further, but hold back the words bubbling in your throat, sullenly picking at the food on your plate instead. It feels like courtship, would look like courtship to anyone else, but then again… you’ve never quite experienced it for yourself, either. You’re no noble lady, and it feels a bit silly to imagine yourself roaming a place like this with him as your suitor. For all you know, he could be some king from a neighboring kingdom, only offering you respite out of pity after falling from that wagon.

More likely, all of this is just some strange dreaming.

When your lunch is thoroughly picked apart on your plate, the cup emptied, you shift out of your seat and offer him a curt little bow of your head and move towards the door.

— — —

Your days are filled with him— the drab specter you’ve taken to calling König, King, simple and befitting a name as you can give to one without one. No one else lives here, at least that you can see. Not even the rats or scuttling insects you were used to dare to take up residence within this castle. Yet, you remain taken care of and well-fed. You walk at his side every morning and part ways after minimal conversation in the evening. It’s so simple yet odd it almost makes you feel uneasy.

The dreams remain through the eyes of another. Some are combat, and you don’t care for those, looking down to see blood on steel and settling with the odd sense of guilt that you’ve killed someone, even when the you who is not you does not seem to pause. In fact, he often laughs in those dreams, drinks his wine from a golden goblet while he polishes the thick mace in his lap, trousers stained with blood that is not his own.

Others are dreadfully dull. You watch as knights with long swords and silver plates circle around you, your muffled voice shouting demands of what you can only imagine must be tactics and plans for a war you would only ever be apart of in the late hour with your eyes closed.

Your unease nearly doubles on the fourth night, when you wake with a start, pulled from a dream where you see that same woman from the first wailing over a bloodied corpse to find König looming over where you rest. The curtains of your bed parted with what little moonlight filtering inside bathing him in an unearthly, bluish glow. As usual, he doesn’t breathe a word, only stares as you slowly peel back your sheet to sit up and face him fully.

“Is something wrong?,” you ask in a whisper, rubbing your palms against your eyes as you force yourself to pull through the haze of sleep.

“Du bist schön wenn du schläfst,” he hums. “Even having a nightmare.”

“You said you were not courting me.”

“I’m not, hündchen.”

He offers you a hand that you readily accept, hardly having time to marvel over just how cold his skin feels without his glove before you find your cheek pressed to a broad chest. Your breath catches in your throat, heart hammering with the urgency of a cricket’s song.

“You didn’t sleep well either?”

“Nein.”

“Maybe we could sleep together?,” you offer with a laugh that sounds stiff even to your own ears.

You expect some other quip about the status of your peculiar relationship, not a sigh, not the way König gently lowers you back into bed and climbs in to follow, not at your side, but rested with his head over the swell of your breasts. You’re almost certain your rib cage will bruise by the pounding in your chest this infatuation burdens you with.

He hums contentedly at the contact, props his chin up on the valley between your breasts.

“Warm,” he murmurs.

You reach to pull the blanket over you both without a word, staring up at the velvet curtain as you try to force yourself into a state of calm indifference.

It lasts for all of a single breath; König shifts, stroking over the fabric of your gown, bunching over your hip. His touch makes you shiver, too cold, as though he doesn’t have any body heat at all. Your arm settles over the expanse of his back, pulling him just a tad closer as you relax into the feather-stuffed mattress.

“Ja… I like this.”

“I do too...”

So, you sleep, so intertwined with one another that your body heat melts away the frigid touch of his own flesh with no discernment for where you end and he begins. Your dreams are absent in his presence, replaced by a solace you’ve never known as a comfortable stillness settles over you both.

When morning comes, an unhurried sun casting a dull glow through the arched window in the room, you’re pleasantly surprised to find him still here. You’ve shifted in the lack of dreaming, finding your positions opposite to when sleep had taken its hold; your head rests on König’s chest now, comfortably slow. He doesn’t feel as cold, though…

König does not breathe.

You hurriedly rise, throwing the covers off of you both and shove at him with a panicked urgency, desperately searching for any sort of reaction from him to ensure he hasn’t passed away in his sleep.

It’s not a corpse’s silence that you’re met with but an annoyed huff of breath as he grabs at your wrists and tugs you back down.

“Was..?” Your specter only sounds annoyed as he gazed down at you, keeping your trembling hands steady in his unyielding grip.

“You weren’t breathing! I thought…” You trail off, the words catching in your throat as you realize just how ridiculous that you sound. Of course he wasn’t dead. Even if he were a reanimation, no magic in the entirety of this kingdom would allow him to retain so much of his soul.

König only laughs at that, closes you in an embrace that sets your pulse racing again as he carefully maneuvers you below him. When he had become so familiar mattered not, you wouldn’t dare to complain. It’s achingly comfortable, brings a sigh from your parted lips as you fall back into that perfect, placid state of contentment.

“Hündchen… you worry too much,” he huffs, caging you in as he relaxes with his face pressed back to the divot between your breasts. “So many questions… too many concerns, ja?”

“I would not fret so much if you would just explain a few things.”

“Geduld.”

Though you do pout, make a show of your irritation by exhaling heavily, his tone harbors a calm finality. You’re not so sure that any reasoning for all of this would matter much at all anymore; whether it be a dream or some gentle corner of an afterlife you’ve found yourself tucked within, you only find that you never wish for it to end.

— — —

This dream is worse than any before it.

You feel your vessel’s emotions tenfold; a clamor of disquiet and rage, vicious and searing. The air is still and silent but heavy with the scent of iron. From the blurred view that you’re granted, the shapes of cadavers are easy enough to tell, all lain twisted in glistening pools of their own blood.

Your vessel isn’t moving, though you will your thoughts to encourage him to do so, he remains in place, a pillar destined to topple.

You don’t want to see it, yet waking eludes you.

The sounds of hurried footsteps fill the quiet, a shout to your right that you do not even have the capability to turn towards. Cursed are hissed, warbled and unfamiliar, only recognized by their venom. You know that this is the end, a brutal, grisly one for your counterpart and for these dreams in their entirety.

When wicked steel carves it’s way into your vessel’s middle, you feel how tightly he clenched his jaw to bite back a howl of agony, take the subdued, shooting pain spreading through him as though it were your own. Try as you might, you can not wake; forced to be a voyeur to this stranger that you’ve grown fond of’s gruesome demise.

The vessel’s head is tugged forward, forced to kneel at the feet of the brute who has buried a dagger into his side. A sneer paints the man’s face as your counterpart’s veil is thrown away, and you recognize it— that same shroud of black, stained with imagined tears as it falls to a small heap onto a bloodstained floor.

König.

You wake with a start in a haze of utter confusion, catching your breath as the truth of it all crawls down to settle someplace within you. A cold sweat settles over your skin, bringing with it the rise of slight goose pimples and an incessant tremble.

The specter is just as you had suspected in that brief moment between bonding and sleep, dead and long-forgotten; a corpse made man again. This isn’t some silent kingdom, but a well-preserved crypt.

It hurts.

You wash your face in the water of the small basin at the corner of the room, change from your bed gown into a dress of a drab gray. Even to yourself, mourning a truth that’s been glaring you in the face since your arrival feels misplaced and odd, but that horrible sadness does not subside.

At least, not until you pry your door open to find König waiting just on the other side. He cocks his head at you, gaze softening in a silent understanding as your hand is fitted into his own.

The morning walk is less quiet this morning, a single dove could be heard cooing, hidden beneath the green of some sprawling alder’s leaves. König speaks to, explains some without giving all away. He tells you what he can remember, the details of his failed courting of the foreign princess with dark eyes and a petrified stare, the plot against him that dwindled out into a curse that’s left him here, but never an estimate for how long.

You listen in a perplexed silence, clutching his hand just a bit tighter as each questioning cobweb is swept away with a low voice droning out a story better left untold.

When he finishes, with your free hand sifting it’s fingers through the petals adorning a hydrangea shrub, you think to tell him one simple truth: “I can’t bring you back.”

It startles you when he suddenly pulls you in, resting his chin atop your head and curling those broad arms over your shoulders. The embrace is tight, a certain desperation in his touch as though he almost fears the thought of you pulling away. Strange from a man you now knew had not even feared his own death.

“Nein. I just want to be understood.”

And you do understand, perfectly, as only one also touched by the rot could.

— — —

There’s never a night that you don’t find yourself asleep with König mere centimeters away, if there is any gap between at all, anymore. He feigns his breath until you’re fast asleep, takes to playing human enough to not worry you any further, even after you explain that it doesn’t, not any longer. Always, you wake to his head buried against your chest, listening to the fragile beating of your heart until you stir to wake him. Your hands rove over his veil, but never question what he hides beneath it. You already know without seeing— the wicked, sprawling scar from where his head was once wrenched from his body.

A necromancer and a lich, of all things. If the bards in the King’s city were to ever know, your story would be passed from tavern to tavern until it became little more than the stuff of myth.

The thought occurs to you when you wake, huffing a drowsy little giggle as you repeat your morning ritual, fingertips grazing over the dark fabric obscuring König’s face until heavy eyelids languidly part to focus his attention on that mirthful expression painted across your face.

“I have changed my mind,” he declares some moments later as he nuzzles in the divide between your neck and shoulder, unhurried and gentle as he always seems to be with you.

“Hm?”

“I will court you.” A statement that would make most with a better grasp on the disparity between what’s living and dead flinch back in horror. Though, where most would consider corruption, you only take it as further confirmation to your mutual devotion.

“You already have been.”

He falls silent at that for a moment, trailing a cold path of chaste kisses along your jaw, lazy and soft to a point you can feel the grin beneath his hood.

Finally, he hums in agreement.

“Then I should have you, hm?”

He drags a palm down your thigh to your knee, the pad of his thumb bunching up the fabric of your gown as he presses against you, tracing small circles.

Your mouth feels dry when you part your lips to speak once more. The words falter, engulfed in a far more desperate flame; someplace far off, in the back of your mind you can hear them echo, bouncing from cavern walls.

“Hündchen..,” he rasps quietly. Maybe he’s thought it too, that this should be far more innocent, but the way he furiously tugs your undergarments down to your ankles belies his interest far more than some ideal, ancient telling of courtship would ever allow.

“You want to..?”

König laughs, whether it’s at your words or the surprise on your face, you didn’t know. Despite your nudity, he doesn’t look at you down there, his eyes remain locked on your face. There’s something wild and uncanny about them, something bordering on madness. His breathing is heavier, as if he’s fighting back the urge to bury his head in your cunt and breathe you in, and you’re almost certain that after all of your yearning he could bring you to ruin from a puff of breath alone.

He echoes your question with barely contained amusement, until you breathe out your consent. You sound just uncertain enough to prompt him to pull away briefly, raising up to look you in the eyes as his own narrow in search of any signs of apprehension. Finding none, a heavy palm meets your chest to push you to lie down in full as his head dives between your thighs without hesitation.

The feeling of a wide tongue slipping over your slit prompts an immediate reaction— a sharp cry that has you slamming your palm over your mouth in an effort to not break the peace settled over this place.

Every lick is slow and deliberate, a far cry from enough stimulation to properly get you off. It’s as if he’s doing this to prepare you rather than bring you to ruin. His tongue thrusts into you at a languid pace, fucking you open with heady muscle rather than the cold touch of his fingers. For that you’re grateful, but it just isn’t enough.

König huffs another chuckle against your sex when you whine and buck your hips, desperately searching for a friction that just isn’t being supplied. His hands press against your hips to hold you in place, the pads of his thumbs circling against your abdomen as he tries to set you at ease.

“Be patient,” he mumbles as he raises his head, bottom lip slowly raking over the hood of your aching clit. You find it difficult to comply, but in a way you feel fortunate to even experience this much. Who else could say that they were being fucked by the tongue of a titan and be believed? His lips close around your sensitive bud, tongue languidly circling over it, kissing you there as gently as he can manage. The very moment a moan is pulled from you, breaking the silence of his concentration he tears back to lick far further down than you were prepared for, before climbing over you instead of allowing you a release.

The taste of you lingers on his tongue when your face is pushed beneath the veil, an urgent probing as he thrusts the muscle into your waiting mouth, sampling the mixture of your saliva and slick. A palm is splayed over your thigh, forcing you to open yourself to him despite the strain.

He proves he’s less patient than he pretends to be; that’s all of the preparation that you get.

A breath later you feel yourself speared open, the girth of his tip slipping into you with involuntary resistance. Your gasp is met with a keening groan from his open mouth, quickly stifled as he bites into the side of your neck. Each thrust is shallow, the head of his cock spreading you meticulously until you’re nearly in tears from your own impatience. His body temperature is far cooler than your own, and you feel as if you’re more of a mess than you’ve ever been prior as his own precum mixes with the arousal already freely dribbling past your swollen labia.

You kick your leg out, force your hips in a different angle to push him in deeper only to have his grip tighten and his teeth dig into your flesh. Again and again, until you’re a babbling mess beneath him.

“König… please..,” You manage to choke out, voice small and barely audible over the obscene sounds pulled from the wetness of your cunt.

Immediately, your pleading is answered with a slam of his hips, the thick cock forced to its hilt inside of your pulsing walls. König’s head lolls back, his free hand curling over your hip as he grunts. He isn’t making love to you, but fucking into you like a man possessed. A palm fitted over your mouth wouldn’t silence the obscene sounds of sex, nor the bed creaking beneath your combined weight as he pumps into you; each drag is pure rapture as he fills you entirely.

The repetitive spearing of your sweet spot brings you to a near-painful orgasm, trembling cunt only sucking him in further with each pulsing wave of bliss. The quiet is forgotten entirely as you whine out your praises between wanton moans and breathy cries.

He kisses you, proper and sweet when he comes. The thickness of his seed floods you, spilling out onto the sheets below as he fucks it back into you, his pace never slowing until the throbbing of his cock comes to an abrupt end.

The hand holding your leg in place retreats to gently brush your cheek, his thumb grazing beneath your eye until you reach for his wrist to pull it down to kiss over his palm. He returns your kisses with a breathy laugh before pressing his forehead to your own, kissing from the tip of your nose down to your chin.

“I do understand,” you whisper against cool flesh.

“Ja… because you were made for me.”

You don’t disagree.

This morning is the first you’ve caught sight of a breeze, gently pushing at the curtains lining the bed, the first you’ve heard of any semblance of life beyond yourself. When your eyelids flutter shut, relaxation prying away any residual tension, you almost think you can hear the pounding of a second heart— one you can only think to wish together with your own.

[songforeddiemunson]

Haunting in Blackwood Hollow

An Eddie Munson x F!Reader Miniseries

Series Summary: It’s the year 1991. Eddie and reader check into a rented house in the Appalachian woods, joined by Nancy, Jonathan, Steve, and Robin. Unfortunately for our gang, things in Blackwood Hollow are never as they appear.

Tropes: established relationship, Jonathan x Nancy, no mention of the events from ST, smut, comedy, fluff, scares, bit of whump (but nothing too crazy)

Series Warnings: Swearing, drinking and weed use, sexual and scary situations, minors please DNI.

Chapter One: Steve's Big Mistake

Chapter warnings: naughty language, mentions of drinking, weed use. This is largely setting the scene babes. Author's Note: Submission for @stcreators Event 5: Dynamics Submission for @somnambulic-thing, @allthingsjoeq, and @bettyfrommars event: strangerprompts (#14) {Okay so I took a bit of liberty with the prompt, but that's just how my brain wanted to do it! You know how that goes. ;) }

Word Count: ~2K

You swore under your breath as the taxi pulled away, leaving you staring at the monstrosity you were meant to be staying in for the weekend.

“This is the last time I leave that jackass in charge of anything,” you muttered, prompting a snort from Eddie, who stood beside you.

You liked Steve. Loved him even, in the way that friends that have known each other for years did, who’d seen each other at their worst, thick as thieves, none of that ‘will they or won’t they’ shit, especially after you started seeing Eddie. But in that moment, you could strangle him.

Most of your group of friends had scattered to the four corners of the country, so when you all received your invitations to Joyce Byers’ and Jim Hopper’s wedding in the Smoky Mountains, you decided to rent a whole house instead of getting hotel rooms. Correction: Steve came up with the idea to rent a house, and admittedly it was a good plan. It would likely be cheaper to pool your resources, and you could all hang out in the common areas and catch up.

And then you saw the house.

It was a stereotype in peeling paint and dilapidated wood. The porch was creaky and appeared to be on the verge of collapse. Gnarled old vines and weeds encroached from every direction; you thought maybe it had been landscaped last sometime in the 1960s. A broken old fountain sat on the front lawn, with a scummy green puddle of rainwater gathered at the bottom, and there was a broken gate that hung loose on its hinges near the drive.

Eddie tilted his head in a manner reminiscent of a terrier as he surveyed the old structure. “I think it looks kinda cool, like that house in IT. The house on Neibolt Street, remember?”

You blinked at your paramour. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend the weekend in a house like that. It’s one thing to read about it in a spooky story, it’s another thing to actually sleep there.” He had the good grace to laugh at that sentiment.

“Fair enough,” he conceded.

Of all the houses in Asheville, Tennessee, THIS is the one he chooses? You thought bitterly as you made your way up the walkway toward the porch, stepping carefully on the worn wood and looking for nails that could be lying in wait to impale your foot.

You had no idea if anyone else had already arrived, and whether you were supposed to knock or just walk in. You had decided to try the former, but your knuckles hadn’t had a chance to make contact with the wood before the door was whipped open, revealing a clearly exasperated Robin.

“Omigosh you’re here!” she cried joyfully as she threw her arms around you. You let your weekend bag drop to the porch as you reciprocated the hug.

“Robin! I’m so glad to see you!” you cooed as you gave her a good squeeze then released her. “But what the hell is this house?”

“Right?! I feel like it’s right out of a Scoobie Doo episode or something. Talk about creepy. Eddie! Hi!”

“I’ve seen worse,” a deeper voice intoned from out of eyesight, shortly before Steve stepped into the foyer.

“Steve! It’s lovely to see you, but what the fuck?” you scolded.

Steve’s expression was so sheepish that you couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“I know, I know,” he moaned, before putting his face in his hands.

“Come here and hug me, loser. I haven’t seen you in almost two years and you’re gonna make me sleep in the house from Amityville Horror?”

“Hey now,” Robin countered, “The Amityville Horror house was waaay nicer than this.”

“True. Eddie said it looked like the house from IT.”

“Oooh yes! That fits,” Robin said.

“What’s that? It?” Steve asked, never one to embrace pop culture.

You hugged Steve despite wanting to hurt him a little bit. “Nevermind. So what were you thinking with this house?”

“Okay so in my defense the pictures were much nicer in the Want Ad, and in black and white. I didn’t realize it was going to be so…”

“Shabby?” you offered while Robin said “terrifying” at the same time.

“Yeah,” Steve said with a shrug.

Eddie chuckled as he hugged his friends by way of greeting.  “Alright well, as long as the bed is clean, I don't really care,” he said. “This one is scared of spiders,” he said, gesturing toward you. 

“I am not, you are!” you yelled.

“I am NOT afraid of spiders,” Eddie replied defensively. “It’s those fucking centipede things with all the legs. I hate those things.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m sure there are plenty of things in this house to trigger all our phobias.”

The interior was a little less gloomy than its exterior, but that wasn’t saying much. The common room in which you were standing was decorated in 50 year-old wallpaper that was peeling and yellowing. The floors were hard wood but hadn’t been refinished since the wallpaper was installed, and the dusty old upholstery was flat and worn around the edges. 

“Where are we sleeping, anyway?”

“There’s three bedrooms, one with a queen and two with a pair of singles. I figured we could draw straws or someth–”

“Dibs on the queen!” Eddie shouted.

“Eddie, we have to–” you began.

“Nah babe. We’re a couple, and we got here first. You snooze, you lose.”

“I think that’s fair,” Robin said with a shrug.

“Nancy and Jonathan won’t love that,” Steve said. “But you can fight it out amongst yourselves. I’m staying out of it. Looks like you’re bunking with me, Robin.”

“I don’t care, as long as you don’t snore.”

Nancy and Jonathan arrived about an hour later, and while they weren’t thrilled to be relegated to a pair of twin beds, they conceded that Eddie did in fact call dibs.

“I feel like we’re eighteen again,” Nancy laughed as she explored the kitchen for a clean glass for water. “Calling dibs and bunking up together. Feels like old times.”

“It does,” you agreed from where you were leaning against the counter. “I don’t know if I would use any of the dishes in this house though.”

“I might just make a store run, get some solo cups and paper plates,” she said as she put one grimy glass back in the cupboard with a look of distaste. “Any requests?”

“Oooh, cheez-its, snapple peach tea, pizza pretzel combos…”

“PBR,” Eddie contributed as he sidled up next to you and bent to give you a quick peck on the lips.

“Well of course,” Nancy said with a smile. “Can’t forget the beer.”

Robin poked her head into the room. “Grab a couple of pizzas! I’ll give you cash.”

You all pitched in for the snacks and sent Nancy on her way as the sun began its descent behind the trees. The rest of you gathered in the living room to figure out what to do for the night.

“Care for a toke?” Eddie asked, as he held up a joint he pulled from his jacket and set it alight.

“Yessss,” Jonathan replied with enthusiasm, leaning forward to pinch the little joint between his fingers.

“That didn’t take long,” Steve said with a roll of his eyes.

“Lighten up, Harrington,” Jonathan said in a fragrant plume of exhalation, stifling a cough. “You could probably use this more than the rest of us. You’re too wound up.” 

“It’s true Steve, why are you always so stressed out?” you asked, taking a pull from the joint.

“I don’t know, I just feel like I’m the responsible one–” he began, but was cut off by a chorus of jeers and naysaying.

“You think you’re the responsible one, but everyone knows it’s Nancy,” Robin said, laughing.

“Yeah man, like…the King Steve days are over, you can stop trying so hard,” Eddie added with a grin.

“Okay, okay, I get it…” Steve said, accepting his ribbing with a modicum of grace. His voice trailed off, however, as his attention was pulled in another direction. “Hey what’s that?”

“What?” you and Jonathan asked at the same time, following his gaze. 

“It’s on top of that bookshelf…” he began, already getting up and walking toward it. He had to stand on the tips of his toes to reach it, and pulled it down, unleashing a cloud of dust and grime.

“What is it?” Eddie asked.

Steve brushed the dust off the cover before looking up at you with wide eyes. 

“It’s a ouija board,” he said.

“Oh shit,” Eddie said, laughing. "You can't be serious."

“What! No, no thank you!” Robin yelled.

“I dunno man, you might want to put that back and pretend you never saw it,” Jonathan added with a smirk.

“What, nah, that stuff isn’t real,” you said.

“No, it’s not,” Steve agreed. “It’s just a silly game.”

“If it’s just a silly game,” Eddie taunted, "why don’t we take it for a spin?”

“Oh man, no, don’t give him any ideas,” Robin piped in with her trademarked ‘mile-a-minute’ cadence. “Did you see the movie Witchboard? Well I did, and I didn’t sleep for a week afterward. Too scary for me. And it’s kinda weird that that thing just shows up in the spookiest house I’ve ever seen, and we’re in the middle of nowhere and…”

“What’s Witchboard?” Steve asked.

“Dude, watch a movie…” Eddie moaned while Jonathan doubled-over laughing.

Steve laid the box down on the coffee table. “Well, just because there was a movie about these things doesn’t make them real. The Princess Bride isn’t exactly real either.”

Eddie gasped with mock incredulity. “It’s NOT?”

“Have fun NOT storming the castle I guess,” Jonathan tried to say without laughing, which came out as a choked squeal.

“Inconceivable!” you yelled, making the entire room erupt in hearty laughter and dispelling some of the unease that had grown since the discovery of the ouija board.

“Jesus guys, are you that stoned already?” Steve asked with a smile.

“Eddie only buys the good stuff,” you said.

“Zero to zooted within three hits, or your money back,” Eddie said before taking another pull from the joint.

“Good to know,” Steve said sarcastically. “So are you guys gonna play with this thing or not?”

“Fine fine,” you said. “Eddie, let’s do this.”

He agreed, and you sat on the floor on either side of the coffee table. You opened the box, took out its contents, and each placed the index finger of your right hand gently on the planchette. You sat silent for a moment, not doing or saying anything, unsure of where to begin.

“Uhhhh,” Eddie said before dissolving into giggles.

“Ask it something!” Robin whispered, leaning forward in her excitement.

“Okay, uh…” you began, pausing to think. “Is there anybody here with us right now?”

It seemed like the entire room held its breath with anticipation.

“Is there anyone here in this house?” you repeated.

The silence ticked onward.

“Well this is thrilling,” Jonathan said with a snort.

“Give it a minute,” Steve said.

“Thought you didn’t believe in this stuff, Stevarino,” Eddie teased.

“I don’t, but–”

You thought you felt the planchette move ever so slightly. 

“Wait!” you gasped. “Did you feel that?”

“No, wait. Maybe?” Eddie whispered.

You sat motionless for a beat, but nothing happened. You began to think that it was your imagination when…

….suddenly the front door banged open with a loud smash, and every single person in the room screamed like a banshee.

“Jesus, guys!” Nancy said as she struggled to hold several brown paper grocery bags. “A little help here?”

“Oh fuck, sorry babe,” Jonathan said, and the rest of you sheepishly got up to help, leaving the ouija board on the table. You bustled into the kitchen to put things away and pop open cans of beer, laughing about the silly jump scare you’d all just shared.

What none of you saw, however, was the planchette on the ouija board slide over to ‘hello.’

To Be Continued...

Sorry this one is short, but I needed to get it out. More is coming! As always, comments and reblogs are the lifeblood of every fic writer!

PART TWO MASTERLIST

[darlingshane]

Something Crazy

Pairing: Michael Berzatto x F!Reader

Summary: On Natalie's wedding day, life takes an unexpected turn when you learn that your former crush, Michael, might be interested in you.

Content/Warnings: 18+, Explicit, Smut, P in V, Vanilla, Alcohol, Eating, Fluff, Crack, Pet Names, Kissing, Dancing.

Word Count: 4,6k

— You can read below or at AO3.

Today is the big day for your best friend Natalie. She's marrying her long-time boyfriend, Pete, and you've come back to Chicago for only two days to celebrate this lifetime milestone with them.

They've picked a perfect Saturday in the middle of spring to celebrate their union. Flowers are in full bloom, gardens are lush green, wind has calmed, welcoming a balmy weather to allow having a wedding ceremony outdoors.

Bright Sun rays slip like gold ribbons through the sheer fabric of the curtains as you carefully hang Natalie's gown and remove the garment bag. It's a simple but stunning empire dress, strapless, with lace and pearls adorning the corset. Though you've never fantasized about your own wedding before, as your hand slides softly along the skirt, you can't help but imagine yourself as a giddy bride, wearing that same dress.

Tying the knot is not on top of your list right now. Settling with someone? That's more likely to happen. But there's nothing like being chosen as the maid of honor, especially if you're single, to find yourself trapped in that Disney daydream of getting to meet your prince charming and live happily ever after. Hopefully, that unwelcome, sudden longing will vanish after a few drinks at the reception. Until then, your top priority is making sure your best friend's special day is as magical as she planned.

You're in the designated dressing room of the hotel with the rest of the bride's party laughing, sipping rosé, telling stories while the beautician works against the clock, getting all four of you primped and ready.

While you help Natalie get into her dress, Gigi comes back with a tray of pastries to soak the alcohol before anyone gets too drunk.

“You guys gotta see Mikey. He's so fucking hot I could die. I've never seen him all dressed up and clean like that,” she announces loudly, going around the room like a whirling handing croissants and muffins. “I swear to god his pants are so tight, it’s like looking into an x-ray photograph… you can see everything. And I mean everything,” Gigi stares at you, raising an eyebrow, while you stuff part of a croissant into your mouth.

“Ew, that's my brother,” Natalie frowns in disgust.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you say after swallowing part of your pastry.

“She's looking at you like that because, as we all recall, it was you who had a crush on him for the longest time,” the bride sharply indicates.

“She's got a point, babe.”

“I was like fifteen,” your tone pitches a little higher, as if you were still that age. “Why do you always have to bring that up?”

“Cause let's be honest, you were hung up on him for way longer than you said, and your face still lights up every time you see him. Why can't you just admit you're still love-struck?”

You open your mouth to counter her accusation, but words refuse to come out. You can't even lie for dear life cause admittedly, as fucking annoying as they are, they're also right. Michael was one of those crushes that was hard to shake off. Your friends quickly jumped from one infatuation to another, but you pinned for Sugar's cooler, slightly older brother for longer than you should have. And that's probably the reason every time all your friends get together, they use that embarrassing piece of information to tease you. Even if you ever wanted to forget, they'll never let you.

The last time you saw Michael in person was a few weeks ago for only a few minutes when you came to help Natalie with the last details of the wedding and barely exchanged a couple of words. You moved to Detroit for work three years ago, and the few times you've come back here, you haven't crossed paths with him that often. The soon-to-be married couple also forgo the rehearsal dinner altogether to save money, so you didn't get a chance to see him before the ceremony.

“All I'm saying is if you wanna take a stab at that, this is the perfect time. He's single, he has great hair, he's wearing a dope suit, and did I mention hot?” Gigi keeps cajoling. “Hell, I'll hit that, If you don't. So better act fast.”

“He always had great hair,” Samira agrees, downing the rest of her wine.

“And he asked about you the other day when I showed him the pics of our trip,” Sugar adds.

“Oh,” you try not to sound too pleased, cause you doubt he ever paid any attention to you. Why would he start now?

“Yeah, he was definitely checking you out, and loved that video of you at the karaoke bar,” Samira chimes in as she pours another glass.

“Okay, you're making that up. No more wine for you, missy,” you promptly snatch the bottle from your friend and put it away while they all laugh. “Wait… he saw the video of me singing?”

“Uh-hm.”

You file that information for later and once you are all dressed up, you hand Natalie a stunning bouquet of roses before leaving the room.

“Thanks,” she grabs your arm for a second as Gigi and Samira head out. “Sorry for making fun of you… again. You know we love you and that we just want the best for you.”

“I know,” you mumble timidly.

“Sweetie, you don't need my permission, but if you wanted to ask Michael out, it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. He'd be lucky to have someone like you.”

“Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because… You've always been like a sister to me, and part of me wanted him to see how amazing you are, so I kept telling him about you. I showed him photos and videos, hoping that he would. And he did! He really loved that one of you vibing to TLC. Thought you were funny.”

“You told him, didn't you?”

“I plead the fifth.”

“I'd stab you if you weren't about to get married,” your serious tone makes her snort.

“Look, you’re not dating anyone. He’s not dating anyone… I could ask him if he's interested before Gigi swipes him up.”

“Nat,” you sigh into a heavy pause, looking into her clear blue eyes. “We’re not in school anymore, you don’t have to play matchmaker. And it's your day! The last thing on my mind is hooking up with someone. Let alone your brother. So drop it.”

“Just saying. It could really be a wedding present for me if you two were to…” you scowl at her, which makes her leave that thought unfinished.

“Okay, that's gross, let’s get you married, so I can kill you right after.”

“Alright, alright. I promise I won’t mention it again.”

In your lavender dress and matching heels, you wait for your cue as the wedding starts. The quartet starts playing. Once the officiant and the groom are in position, groomsmen, and bridesmaids walk down the aisle in pairs. You line up with the bridesmaids by the floral arch on the side of the bride in the lush garden and watch as Natalie walks down the aisle, escorted by both brothers, Carmen and Michael.

She looks radiant, but your stare darts slightly to your former crush. He’s dressed in a dark suit and royal blue shirt, no tie. His fluffy hair pushed back, shining under the sun like black licorice. His features are sharply defined as usual, but there's definitely a certain glow around him that makes him look more handsome than you remember.

Credit where credit's due, Gigi was right. They all were. He still manages to stir those intense feelings and butterflies in your stomach that you thought gone when your eyes meet for a split second as they get closer to the altar. There's also a glimpse of a smile in his lips, directed at you. Or so it looks like. Maybe you're making it up in the chaotic mess that is your mind.

Carmy and Michael kiss either side of Natalie's face when they reach the altar, and then they take their seats on the first row as she stands face to face with Pete.

The quartet stops playing, the officiant starts speaking, and you aim your focus to the ceremony.

Once Natalie and Pete are pronounced husband and wife, there's a time dedicated to take a few pictures of the wedding party in that very same garden before losing the natural light.

Despite promising she was going to let it go, your now-married friend insists on making sure you and Michael end up in several pictures together.

“Mmm… Marcus, is it?” you shake hands with him, pretending to have forgotten his name.

“Michael,” his grip is firm around your hand.

“Oh, sorry, Mario. I have a terrible memory.”

“Don't be cute. I know you remember,” he scoffs, amused, linking one arm around your waist per the photographer's instructions.

You swallow, nervously placing your hand on his firm back, trying to keep your cool. As the photographer takes a series of snapshots, Michael starts humming a familiar song. No scrubs. The one you sang in that famous video your friends filmed.

You press your lips together, and pretend you're not hearing it. It seems like they've all been scheming together against you, or in your favor. You're not sure. You know Sugar wouldn't do anything to make you uncomfortable, but this is getting ridiculous.

“Save me a dance later, would you?” he requests with a wink once the photoshoot session is over.

“I can't, Mitchell. I've already promised that to one of the groomsmen,” lie.

“You're gonna keep that bit the rest of the day?”

You shrug your shoulders, “it's not up to me, Marley.”

“Alright, come find me when you grow up.”

He presses his lips in a tight smile and walks away, leaving you dwelling in that awkwardness that washes over you, and wondering if he's messing with you or if he's suddenly into you. Those are good questions that you can't leave unanswered. If there's a chance that Michael Berzatto likes you, and that's a big IF, you really need to find out. The ball is in your court now. The question is… Do you want to throw it back?

The party moves to the banquet room in the hotel. There's plenty of food, drinks, music, and people in the room, but none of it can't distract you from the presence of Michael. This isn't how you expected to spend the day of your friend's wedding. And it's really going to bother you if you don't at least try to have a nice conversation with him. This is probably your last chance, so right after your heartfelt toast, you wipe your tears, throw back some liquid courage to walk up to his table.

He's nursing a glass of scotch, watching people on the dance floor, when you quietly take the empty chair besides him.

“No Richie today?” you break the ice.

“Oh, you remember his name but not mine?”

“Get over yourself, Michael. You know, I always got a little awkward when I was nervous. And unfortunately, it still happens.”

“Think you're doing pretty good right now.”

“Had a little help,” you tilt your glass in his direction.

“Well, I'm glad you decided to join me,” he nods and points at the bar where Richie is conversing animatedly with your friend Gigi. “I had to convince Sugar to invite him. Hope he behaves for my sake.”

“Oh no, you're a dead man. Nothing good is gonna come out of that.”

“How so?”

“They're both insane, divorced and desperate. That's a dangerous cocktail nobody wants to drink,” you point out.

“Yeah, you're right. I guess I didn't really think it through.”

“You're screwed, Berzatto,” you take a sip of your glass and turn your eyes from the bar to Michael. “You know I was just joshing earlier, right? It surprised me that you were so… Direct.”

“Men aren't usually direct with you?”

“No, I guess I haven’t been very lucky in that department… Or maybe I’m just a bitch with unreachable standards that scares away any potential suitors.”

“That would explain a lot.”

“Gee, thanks!”

“I’m kidding. I’m sure your standards are reasonable. And I don’t think you’re a bitch if that helps.”

“Yet you’re wondering why I came here alone?”

“Not really. I didn't bring a date, either.”

“Yeah? Why is that?”

“I dunno. Maybe I have really high standards, too,” he winks casually at you, knocking you out of your game.

You should have come prepared for this, but you never thought in a million years that Michael Berzatto would ever show any interest in you.

Still trying to figure out if you're picking up the right signals from him, you prop your elbows on the table and let out a sigh as he presses the rim of his glass to his mouth to take a swig.

You bite your lip and watch the guests swaying animatedly on the dance floor.

“So. Do you wanna dance?” he softly taps one of your arms.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, why?”

“Did your sister put you up to this?”

“Why would she?”

“Don't play dumb. I used to have the biggest crush on you, and if you didn't notice, I'm sure your Sugar has told you.”

His lips draw a lopsided smile. “She might have mentioned something a while ago, but she didn't put me up to this, I swear. This is all me. I only asked you for a dance. I didn't ask you to marry me.”

“I suppose a dance wouldn’t be that bad.”

“I'll take that,” he throws back the rest of his drink in one gulp, stands up, offering his hand up to you, “shall we?”

You were hoping to have some more time to prepare, but his sharp conviction is something you can’t reject. That’s part of Michael Berzatto’s appeal. He’s always been such a bold and outgoing guy, it's daunting. It’s good to see that hasn’t changed at all. The only thing that’s different is that now he’s wasting his charms on you.

With some apprehension, you follow his steps into the dance floor. There’s a mid-tempo song playing that you don’t recognize that makes you forget altogether how to move your body. So you just stand there, three feet away from him, like a deer caught in headlights, bobbing your head, avoiding his eyes.

Michael stares at you, slightly entertained by how uncomfortable you look right now, and throws you a lifeline by stepping closer, picking up your hands and placing them on his shoulders.

“What are you so afraid of, sweetheart?” he asks, planting his palms on your waist, guiding you slowly to move with him.

“I'm afraid that I'm not a very good dancer.”

“I doubt that.”

“Wait till I step on you,” you subconsciously look down at your feet.

“Follow my lead. You'll be fine.”

“Okay, Johnny Castle, but don't make me mambo, salsa, waltz… Or anything that requires taking my feet off the ground.”

“Who the hell is Johnny Castle?”

“Patrick Swayze? Dirty Dancing?” you question, as if it was the most outrageous thing that he hadn’t heard about that film.

“I’m more of a Road House kinda guy.” Of course, he is. “Was that another crush of yours?”

“Oh, big time!”

“Ok, got it, nothing fancy, we're just swaying. See?” His hands guide your body to move side to side, but it's impossible not to feel a little clumsy in your steps.

“Hey, what do you think of Pete?” He asks, using his head to point at the newly-weds.

“Uhh,” you glance to the side to see Pete wrapping an arm around Natalie, “he can be a total douche sometimes, but he's always sweet to her. I guess that's what matters. Why? What do you think about him?”

“Words out of my mouth.”

“Michael?” You glance up to his deep dark eyes.

“Yeah?”

“Be honest, why did you want to dance with me?”

“Do I really need to spell it out for you?”

Your lips pull up on the sides as your head nods.

“Cause I wanted to dance with the prettiest girl I've ever met.”

If this is a dream, you don't wanna wake up to find out that this was just a concoction of your mind. It's not. It feels real. If you weren't holding onto him, you'd fall to your knees after hearing his words roll past his beautiful lips.

There are so many questions you wanna ask, but you can only sigh, and smile wider under the sweet glow of his brown eyes fixed on you.

“You really think that I’m that pretty or interesting?” your mouth opens after a pregnant pause, at the same time the song switches to something incredibly romantic.

“I've always thought that. It just took me a while to realize it.”

“God, you have the perfect answer to everything. That's really annoying.”

“I don't. I swear. You just caught me in a good mood.”

“I don't remember you ever being in a bad mood.”

“I have my moments. Trust me.”

He unexpectedly picks one of your hands from his shoulder, lifts it in the air to have you spinning ungracefully under his elbow before quickly wrapping his opposite arm around your waist to dip you. He grins at the shocked expression on your face for a second before bringing your body upright.

“Please, don't do that again,” you brace your hands to his chest right after.

“Why? That was perfect, sweetheart,” he laughs, “Johnny Castle would be proud.”

Your lips curl softly, letting your palms tentatively slide on his blazer until they're caught on the warm surface of his neck.

“Am I making you nervous?” he dares to ask, knowing pretty much that he's driving you crazy.

“A little,” a lot, actually.

He whispers, – sorry – as you run your fingers at the hair at his nape. You observe up close how he licks his lips, noticing his hands clutching harder to your waist. His head leans closer, and you draw a breath, preparing yourself for having his lips colliding against yours. It feels like the world stops spinning for a second and just about when he's about to kiss you something, someone in this case, crashes against your back making you lose your balance. Michael anchors you to the floor quickly before you can fall, as a slurred-drunk voice apologizes at your back.

“Fucking idiot,” Michael mutters and checks on you, “you okay, sweetheart?”

You're not. The spell is broken, and your dress suddenly feels cold and wet from the drink that was spilled along your hip.

You excuse yourself, and rush out of the dance floor, so you can clean yourself up.

There’s a big surprise in the nearest bathroom you find, and that is your friend Gigi making out with Richie with such passion, they don't even notice you opening and quickly closing the door.

The tiny glimpse that you caught of Richie propping your friend on the sink and sliding his hands under her skirt makes your jaw almost fall to the floor. You wish you could erase that from your memory immediately, but at least it has made you forget momentarily about your dress.

When you turn around, you’re faced with Michael again. You ran out so fast you didn’t notice him following behind.

“What’s wrong?”

“Richie and Gigi,” smacking your lips, you point with your thumb to the door with no further explanation.

“Wow, they didn’t waste any time.”

“That's the thing about weddings. They make people do crazy things.”

“Tell me about it,” Michael looks down for a beat, licks his lips, and steps closer.

He holds your chin between his fingers, tilting your head up. As he leans to capture your mouth, you flinch, “what are you doing?”

“Something crazy,” the corners of his mouth quirk up, making another move, and you jerk your face a second time in reflex. It’s not that you don't wanna kiss him, you absolutely do. You just need another moment to process it.

“Damn, girl. Can you just stay still, so I can kiss you already?” He demands without an ounce of entitlement. Just driven by the desire to taste your lips.

“Alright, okay… just give me a second,” you yield to his craving, letting him slowly guide you, so your back is pressed against the wall.

There’s no escape now, this is the moment you’ve dreamed with many moons ago that seemed like a pipe dream back then. All those thoughts vanish the moment his lips are pressed against yours firmly, before letting them bounce a couple of times together. His alcohol-tainted breath mixes with yours as his lips part wider. He captures your lower lip with a light suck, followed by the tip of his tongue shamelessly drawing the curve of your mouth. It's deliciously sexy and sweet and everything in between. You close your eyes and follow his lead, opening your mouth and letting him slot his lips against yours. His tongue invades past your teeth without resistance. It challenges you to kiss him back. It takes you a moment to respond, but soon enough, you're fully immersed in the depth of his mouth, taking the reins of the kiss.

You haven't been kissed like this in a while. Maybe ever.

When your mouths separate, you realize your hands are anchored to his back, and he's fully pressed against you. His lips are covered in your saliva and vice versa.

“I'm going to change my dress,” you sigh, giving him a little push, so you can put yourself together.

“Oh… Okay,” there's a hint of disappointment in his tone.

You clear your throat and harness an ounce of confidence to ask, “do you wanna come? I might need some help. The zipper is a little tricky in this thing.”

Right.

His expression turns on a dime, eyes wide open, white edge teeth showing behind his slightly parted lips. Speechless by the implication of your proposal, he cleans his lips on his palm before responding, “I… sure.”

Proud of yourself for taking a gamble and hitting the jackpot, you go back inside the banquet hall first to collect your purse from the table and then head up to the elevators with him following closely behind.

A palm lands at the small of your back while you press the button. The anticipation makes your stomach flutter wilder than ever. Who would have thought you'd be taking Michael to your room on this day? It feels surreal. Absolutely bananas.

You don't say a word during the elevator ride up to the fourth floor.

When you reach your door, you notice his palms framing your hips from behind. His touch makes your pulse tremble while using the key card. It takes you a couple of tries to open the door.

There's a strange force, an electricity buzzing, that grows more powerful the second you're inside.

You hit the light switch, drop your purse on the chair and turn to face him.

Following that unstoppable whim, you place your palms on his chest and push back his blazer. He shrugs it off as you move to undo the few buttons he's fastened. Your fingers tremor anxiously as you uncover his defined torso. You want to stick out your tongue and trace those two lines forming a V oh his abdomen that leads to the outline of his cock behind the tight fabric of his dress slacks. It’s too bold of a move for you right now, so you let your fingers do your bidding.

When your hands reach his belt, they proceed to unbuckle it under the lust-filled shadow of that flame of his gaze that could scorch the surface of the earth if he wanted to in a second.

He’s already half hard when you unzip his fly, and that's as far as he allows you to go. Michael's dying to touch you, to undress you and fuck you. He quickly turns you around, making you gasp, and finds the zipper of your dress. Your skin rises into goosebumps when he pulls the tab down. He nibbles at the crook of your neck, pushing the top of your dress down to your waist. You shimmy your legs out of it as his hands invite themselves to your skin.

His all hands and mouth around you as he removes your strapless bra and guides you to lay down on the bed.

The fire that lights up his eyes sears through yours as he slips out of his unbuttoned shirt. He then props a knee on the bed, hovering over you, and lowers his head to kiss your stomach. His tongue darts out and draws a circle around your navel. Your head falls back on the mattress, as he leaves a trail of wet kisses up your torso. He nibbles once more at your neck, increasing your arousal up to eleven.

“Michael, please,” you groan as he presses himself between your legs, grinding slowly behind layers of fabric, coaxing your juices to stain your underwear and growing himself a hard-rock erection that can barely be held by his boxers.

Lifting lifts his head, he props himself on his elbows, and surveys the tortured expression on your face as his hips keep relentlessly moving.

“Fuck, you're goddamn gorgeous, baby,” he exhales, proceeding to swiftly rid you off your panties, and pushing his pants and underwear down.

He drives his hardness inside you with great care, pushing inch after inch of that monumental erection that stretches your slicked walls. You close your eyes as he experiments with his thrusting, molding your opening to its generous size.

“Is this how you imagined this?” he pants against the corner of your mouth.

“No. This is better… Much, much better,” you purr, palming his ass, encouraging him to move faster.

If you had a free hand, you'd pinch yourself to check if this is really happening right now. It still blows your mind thinking that Michael Berzatto is deeply buried inside you, wanting you, claiming every cell of your body for his enjoyment. You gladly surrender to his desires as the cadence of his hips drive you into madness. As much as you try to contain your moans, he does everything in his hand to force every moan, curse, and breath to fly out past your teeth.

He slams into you with passion, bites your skin, grips your tits, devours your mouth, setting every inch ablaze. It’s as mind-blowing as it is fast, but he earns himself a good squeeze of your walls when he brings you to orgasm. He comes undone just merely a second after, releasing a wild grunt that ripples all over your skin, and pouring all his warm seed into the depths of your pussy, having his hips jerking erratically until he’s spilled every drop.

His cum sticks to your walls as he rolls to the side of the mattress with a grunt. Your head is spinning out of its usual axis, overtaken by that powerful boost of endorphins, and your lungs struggle for a deep breath.

For a long minute, you both stare at the ceiling while you regain your breath.

When he composes himself, he turns to the side to look at you, sweetly letting one of his fingers brush your cheek, “do you wanna do this again tomorrow?”

“Can't. I'm leaving, remember?”

“Right.”

“But you can stay the night if you want. And repeat later. And maybe one more time even later. Would you like that?”

“I'd love to, sweetheart.”

[nymphetamineroach]

MINORS DNI 18+ Content

Top!F!Reader x Bottom!Rook Hunt

Requested from this prompt list: #108

His beauty cannot be understated; with silky golden tresses that frame a deceivingly delicate face. Normally such pallid skin would be an indicator of sickness, but on him? It's as if his beauty glows from the inside out - a blinding radiance that you can't look away from. His lips adorn a smile that is casual, but tempting, as if he knows you're drinking in every drop of his practiced charm. Striking black eyeliner only enhances his lashes, part of you hoping they were fake because of how envious you felt at their fullness. Finally, you meet his eyes, a soft purple that you swear sometimes shimmers with magic---

Wait, purple?

"Rook, please stop..." You huff, sitting up from where you were draped across his feather-down pillows.

The hunter looks up at you from between your thighs, eyes wide in shock. "Mon amour," he says as he lovingly runs his hands up your body until he is able to cup your face, "Are you hurt? Was that too rough?"

You shake your head, placing your hands over his, and nuzzling your face into his palm. Despite the creeps that Rook gives his fellow students, and admittedly, the ones he gave you when you first met him; he's nothing if not an insanely loyal and caring lover. He's swept you off your feet, both literally and metaphorically, more times than you can count.

It was hard sometimes, because his loyally extended to others beyond you too.

"I'm okay, it's just..." It feels even more shameful to admit it, so instead you look back to where the wallpaper is peeled, not-so-successfully hiding his shrine to his first paramours, "I can't concentrate with Vil staring at me like that."

He barks out a laugh, but you swiftly press your hand to his mouth, his giggles muffled against your skin.

"You're laughing at me?? Traitor!" You hiss.

Rook does what Rook wants, which, in this moment, meant licking the palm of your hand. You yank it away, but he is faster, taking hold of your hand so he can press a sickeningly sweet kiss to your knuckles.

"He is ethereal, non? I can't blame you for your wandering eyes," he teases, trailing kisses up your arm.

"They weren't wandering, they were distracted!" You defend, "I'm here because I want to fuck you."

Rook falters, lips still pressed to your arm. You card your free hand through his hair, gently scratching down the side of his head until you're able to trace your fingers along his jaw. You hold his chin, guiding him too look at you with the adorably deep blush that covers his cheeks.

"Still not used to me saying such vulgar things?" You ask with a smirk.

Never once has your lover regretted switching dorms; you've listened to every story and know how happy he is here. That being said, sometimes he needed to let go, to indulge in the down-and-dirty side that had originally placed him in Savanaclaw. It never hurt to be reminded of where you came from.

"I know you were trying to help me relax," you say, thumb brushing against his chin, watching as he tries to swallow down his butterflies, "But I think you know where you belong."

With a nod from Rook, both of you shift until you're in a much more familiar position. You straddle his hips, rolling your bare cunt against his cock, his lips parted in a breathless moan. Any thoughts of Vil vanish as you take him in; His hair is splayed wildly against the pillow. Perfect smoky eyeshadow accentuates his dazzling green eyes, his lips pink from kisses and lip gloss.

"You look so good like this, mon amour," You whisper, placing your hands on his chest, "You always look so good under me."

"And I think you look fucking hot when you're on top of me."

You bark out a laugh.

[death---dealer]

Noa x Human ! Reader Imagines - Part Three.

well its about dang time em geez ive been working with these ideas for a hot minute.

PART ONE. PART TWO. Fandom: ( Kingdom of the ) Planet of the Apes. Pairing: Noa x Human ! Reader. Rating: T. ( Just for safe measure. Some mentions of sensual actions. )

Meeting Dar formally. ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

“Would you… Like to join… for a meal?”

Simple enough question and you beamed at the prospect. It wasn’t like you didn't share meals with him. You often found yourself encased in Anaya’s presence when the sun began to dip in the sky, signaling to the Clan that communal dinner was mere minutes away.

The assortment of berries, freshly roasted fish with seeds, and sometimes even apples, green and red, always left Anaya in a good mood, his arm holding onto your shoulders and dragging you along as he urged you to come with him to sit with Soona and Noa instead of sitting in pensive ‘Echo silence’ he had dubbed it. The trio had become a quartet in the blink of an eye, and your usual spot was rested between Soona and Noa, having to take the force of the male Ape next to you when he swatted away Anaya from stealing any of his food.

The next words to fall out of his mouth were that of explanation, “No, no.” You stopped moving your hands against the twine you were using for a necklace and looked over at him with a doe-like expression, like he had just caught you in his grasp on the hunt, “I--- With… Mother?”

The stare Noa was getting from your direction was… Undetectable as far as emotions went. It was like you had gone and turned into the most brittle form of metal, scoured from the depths of the Echo Ruins. A clean slate, but speckled with moss and rust from years upon years of exposure to the elements. He knew how to read you in most instances, but right now, you were giving him nothing to work with as you thought about the posed question he just presented you with. You eyes were widened, he got that. That often meant surprise, shock. Your lips were semi-parted and Noa lingered on the plump and soft-looking nature of them. Your brows were smoothed, no indicative to him of the previously mentioned emotions. It’s like you were frozen before you finally managed to belt.

“You want me to join you and your mom for dinner?”

Nodding in response to your put together question, Noa thanked the highest elders in the sky that you were able to formulate what he was beckoning. How was he, as the Leader of his Clan, proud and endowed with much knowledge ( that he still admittedly had to learn about ), ask an Echo… to join his Mother, who was undoubtedly the most weighty presence in Noa’s life, to share a meal? In fact, he had spent nearly the entire day thinking about and finally just rested and tried to grapple with the idea that asking you instead of throwing you into it would be the better option from his very selective plate of offerings.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t met her - In fact, you and she shared many conversations in passing, one of the more important being when she questioned you as Noa expected she would when he offered you to stay with the Clan. She figured, in all her wisdom and adoration for her only child, that you were not a threat and you were granted the ability and flexibility within the community to do things. She even taught you how to summon Eagle Sun when Noa wasn’t around to make the bid for his bird. But this? To share an actual meal? Something incredibly theological to the Eagle Clan, was a terrifying thought.

Just because she didn't see you as a previous threat did not by proxy mean that she liked your presence. Maybe, she just tolerated it because it’s what Noa chose. You tried to tell yourself that time and time again, almost afraid of the Matriarchy.

“What… if she doesn’t like me?”

--

You were ultimately left with that question still at the tip of your tongue as Noa had told you that it wasn’t something you needed to stress or worry about. As reassuring as his words were, as soft and gentle as he grasped at your shoulders to tear you away from the inner workings of your anxious mind, you still found yourself lingering on it as you feet trailed you along the dirt path of the village, directly towards the sweeping bonfire that captured your attention.

Smaller fires rested to the side, used for roasting the seeds and the meat caught by either Eagles or the Apes themselves. Trying to focus on something other then the usual gait of Noa, bi-pedal and directing you with his body, you found it difficult when he moved with such ease, like this… Wasn’t an issue. That you eating with his Mother was not a big deal.

Your mind was racing.

What if… she found your eating weird? I mean, it was. You thought to yourself with raised eyebrows and stepped over a small rock that would have otherwise left you on the floor had it not been for Noa and your steps mirroring his to an exact tee. It was weird by association because you were the only Echo around, only one to join them ever for a meal. You tore your food apart before eating with your hands, Apes… did not.

They ripped, almost in a very hypnotic way, with their teeth and it left you feeling almost numb when you had seen Noa do it for the first time seated next to him. He was aggressive, canines digging into the flesh of a fish and tearing without reserve. You felt grossed out at first, turning away but you couldn’t stop yourself from gawking at the nature of which his jaws moved with such power and force.

What if… Oh no, you grumbled inside of your head, what if you needed to commence in small talk? You had no adequate training as far as Chimp etiquette. What did they like to talk about? Well, you supposed you could always resort to the Eagles. After all, her Husband had so diligently spent his life, and her life when they got married, taking care of them. She knew things about them that even Noa didn't know.

Bumping into Noa’s back, you gasped as you came into reality once again. Not even realizing that you had been so in-depth with introspection, you caught a brief look from the Leader of the Clan before he directed his gaze, asking you to silently follow, to his Mother. So elegantly seated on the ground in front of the sweep of the bonfire, the flames flapped the blue threaded shawl over her shoulders. It looked like wool - and it looked incredibly comfortable as she watched you come around her son, who was gesturing with one hand a place for you to sit.

Smiling at her, the nerves fluttered around the back of your head like tiny butterflies as you drew your body down onto the ground, cross-legged and watched with baited interest as Noa sat - not next to you, not next to his Mother, but in front of the two of you so all three of your bodies created a triangle, good for communication with speak and sign.

“Echo,” Noa said to his Mother while advertently signing along to his phrases, “Is called (Name).”

You tried to see the nature of the sign he used for your name, if there was even one. The motion was towards you and then towards his chest, his heart. You blinked at that, transfixed but maybe it was the light playing tricks on your eyes.

He introduced you, the fluttering of insects that you felt crawling in your head only magnified at the sound of your name from Noa. It was rare, but you liked the sound.

“(Name).” Two times? You felt like you were going to fall backwards as you looked over at his Mother with kind eyes. At least, that’s how you hoped they looked. There was no clear way to tell as the blaze of the fire surged against you, giving you a good means to cover the redden nature of your cheeks as she looked right back at you.

It was easy to see where Noa got his intense stare from. And the cartoon-heart shaped nose. And the freckles that lined along her and her son's brow bones. All things passed to Moa, proudly, you hoped as he was impeccable all around. Especially to the eyes.

“This is… my mother,” He shuffled on his feet in a crouched position towards her and then towards you, “Dar.”

It felt like you were being watched with intense scrutiny. Was your back straight enough? Did she care if it was? Were you being too forthcoming by sitting cross legged, like you were familiar with her? It was obvious in the way that Noa moved next to you, his shoulder barely grazing yours for a fleeting moment, that the tense nature of the introduction finally hit him and he had an inkling now as to why you were worried about his Mother liking you. A bowl was suddenly placed in front of you. By Dar. Her movements were svelte, almost undetectable in your flurried anxious haze.

“So glad,” She started and gave you a smile. You felt a weight off your shoulders at that, like you could finally breathe, “That Noa find someone… To hold him to the ground.”

Noa scoffed at that, looking at his Mother with eyes that said ‘what’s that supposed to mean?’

She just looked at him, grasping the back of his head and bringing it forward so they were kissing brows. As quickly as it happened, they broke apart and she clarified, “So much like his Father.” You laughed under your breath as Noa began shifting on his feet again, obviously embarrassed that his Mother was going into this, “Always, head in the clouds. Like Eagle. You,” she gestured towards you with a pointed finger, “Keep him on the ground. For all of us.”

Riding Horseback. ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

From the moment that Noa grasped your forearm and hoisted you upwards to sit on the back of his horse, it felt like your heart was sitting very precariously against your lower esophagus. No matter how many times you tried to swallow it down, it lingered and it preserved and only seemed to cause more discomfort when you attempted to breathe but caught it stuck in your throat. By all means, you were more than capable of riding alone. You had done it many a-time using Soona’s horse who had a lesser temperament than Anaya’s. Like owner, like horse, you laughed at that inside of your head, setting your hands down on the saddle behind you that held you back in position, along the thickened twine that was used to hold provisions to the rear of the animal. 

You lifted and adjusted yourself for comfort in the straddling position and shuffled forwards a bit so the semi-circle opening from your spread-legs was resting closer to Noa’s tailbone. He shifted in front of you, the broad movements of his shoulders leaving you even more breathless than the journey it took to get you to sit behind him. Grasping your right leg in his large hand that could surely take the entire circumference of your calf in one grasp if he truly wanted, he helped you position it properly before mirroring the action on the other side. Your bones of your legs felt like they were on fire, and he had only grazed them through the fabric of your fading cargo pants. 

You were somewhat jealous at how simple it looked for Noa, the way his muscular legs bent around the shaft of his horse and tucked into the sides, the way his fingers held onto the reins so delicately, but with such underlining power. All captivating and done with ease, it left you almost in a trance. You had to shake yourself out of it with the remembrance that he had been riding since he was a child, the idea of him and Anaya absolutely going crazy in their young youth on horseback admittedly a bit comical inside of your head, especially when you thought about the reaction it would have garnered from Soona. Now- just because you were able to ride the horse did not equate to being able to ride them well. Surely you were better on your feet and Noa knew this, even though your feet sometimes faltered and you stumbled. He didn't watch those moments, he knew it would only cause you embarrassment if he gawked at you falling on your face. Noa always found that a bit strange - the premise of embarrassment being such a contention with you but he let it slide, deducing it to that simple notion of ‘Echo Behavior’.

‘Good?’ Noa had signed to you with his one free hand, and turned his head so he could see you from his periphery. His other hand pulled back the reins to get his horse friend into position to take off. 

You staggered against him from the movement and drew your arms around his tapered waist, playing with the fur under your fingers as you did so, almost outlining the muscles that you knew were buried underneath with unspoken carnal want that was forbidden to both of you, at least, that’s what you told yourself. That’s what Noa told himself but it just drenched the moments when you were close with tooth-rotting sweetness, like someone had poured honey all over them. 

Noa didn't mind at all - in fact the tickling sensation was more than adequate for the Ape and he found himself perked with almost primal pleasure at how you slid right against him, chest to his back. You placed your hands straight to his chest, palms down against it. 

His fur hadn’t thickened yet for the winter months that were coming, it was easier here to feel the rip of his tendons under your touch. He swore his heart jumped a bit, curious if you were able to feel that against the pads of your fingers but you were quick to flee, moving away from that position, wildly dangerous on its own and even more so when you were on horseback and Noa was unable to look around at you to deduce your emotions from your face. Instead, you found your hands now cupped around him like a loop and placed them gently by the satchel he had tied around his hips for stability once you started moving. Fluttering your eyes forward towards the lush landscape that sat in front of you. The greens blended into the gold of the sun rising against the horizon. Like Noa’s eyes, they were in a fierce battle of dominance between the coloring, but as the sun continued its rise, you knew that the grassy green would come out on top and all you wanted to do was feel it against your bare back in the most deletable pose, like you were naked before Noa in a grassy meadow. Your destination? You were unsure, Noa was taking you to some place he had sought refuge from when he was on the hunt to find his Clan when they had been taken. 

The notions of Raka fluttered in your mind, that Humanity and Apes had once lived side by side, you wanted to know more about that. About what he had found there, the remnants of humanity, so scared and faded. The remnants of a past you didn't want back, how could you think that when you were so placed so perfectly against the Eagle Clan’s leader. Placing your face between his shoulder blades for a moment and drenching yourself with his fur along your cheeks, you drew a deep breath in and shut your eyes. His smell eradicated your senses and left them all numb. The delicious vine smell that clung to the very tips of his fur all the way down to the Earth and how it would feel against your bare toes that rested beneath the upper layers of essence. 

You clenched him tighter, crushing your breasts against his back in anticipation. Noa looking down at your hands, small and bare of any fur or scars, so snug against his waist with some flurry of satisfaction. You nodded against his back, turning your head to the side so you could rest against him like a pillow.  Noa had told you the journey was long, but worth it, which meant you were going to be positioned against him for hours at a time to make the trek. With one gesture of his hand, Noa urged his horse forward, almost relishing in the small gasp and subdued tightening of your grasp as the two of you set off towards the rising sun.

Watching the Sunset. ●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・○・●・

The pure strength of a Chimpanzee became abundantly clear the moment you mounted Noa’s back. He barely faltered at the sensation of your weight against him, the only time he shifted outside of the norm was when he noticed how tightly your legs were drawn shut around his waist, how soft your arms were around his neck, a grazing connection happening when you set forth that motion and he could still feel it against his fur lined cheek.

It wasn’t much of a complaint that cause him to ruffle beneath you, just the fact that you were so near to him. Your very core, given the circumstance of your position, was resting against his mid-back as he helped hike you onto the broader nature of his torso. A shiver tore down your body as you placed your face near to his, like you were inside of his body as a secondary pilot. Your chest crushed against his back, near the sloop of his shoulder blades, your breath encasing his senses as your heart beat accelerated, felt even though the thickness of his fur and your jacket. 

 The climb upwards itself was always a ride, feeling the shift of Noa’s muscles under your forearms as he swung and captured his body along with yours, catapulting it off rusted beams and grown out trees. It was a skill he possessed very well; to climb without knowing where his next grip point would be. You figured all Apes had that innate instinct, but seeing it so close, seeing the actions of his hands grasping for air and then settling for a grip point, the tendons themselves of his fingers flaring with each hold… You focused on that as you embarked upwards, afraid to look down at how far he was taking you into the heavens. If he was ever nervous to carry you, it never showed on Noa’s face or movements. 

As soon as it began though, the Chimp who had given you a ride planted his spread out toes along a sturdy concrete roof. It was secure under him, no falling for either of you. He dipped his body into a crouch, a courtesy to you so you could slide off of him in the most practical, not meant to be pretty, manner. Your shirt rose against his fur, catching all the right spots on your way down that you were both blessed with just a fleeting seconds worth of your bare skin hitting against the very tips of his dark brown fur. You fluttered at that, dangling your feet before pushing your weight off Noa with a small ‘thud’ to the ground below accompanied by a rather yummy ‘uff’ from your mouth that Noa ate up.  At first, in your haze to get situated so far off the ground, you thought it was a tree. The green lush of Mother Earth took back what was hers, all the way into the blue sky as toppling sky-scrapers reminded everyone of a time long ago. “What are we doing?” You asked him softly, watching as he hunched onto all fours and was urging to follow him. ‘Up here?’ You asked again in sign, this one a little different in phrasing as your signing was rudimentary at its best.  Noa just scoffed at your impatience, signing at you to just wait, and that he was taking you to see was more than worth the wait. So typical of Echo to want to know where they are going before they go, always ruins surprises, he thought to himself with a chuffed laugh in your direction as he crawled himself up a fallen beam that was angled upwards, resting against an embankment of another level of the building you were on. 

Graciously, he held a hand out for you to take and helped you with the beam, one of your hands grasping at the side of it so you didn't teeter on your unbalanced legs trying to follow his movements before Noa yanked on the arm he had held securely in his fur lined hand. He grunted as he hoisted you, more aggressive than either of you realized until you came barreling right into him, your chests meeting, his arm instinctually grasping at your waist before you crunched your knees to stop yourself from completely taking both of your bodies down by force of momentum.

That only lasted a second as you looked at him with widened eyes, still smacked together, his mouth forming an ‘O’ shape as he hooted out of laughter at the reaction he got from you. 

Scared. Senseless? Never with Noa. Out of your mind for being so far up the ground and one slip of your hand, or even his, was going to end in your impending doom as you fell to the ground below? Oh yeah. 

You brushed off him and muttered a small, ‘I could have died’ as your fingers trailed along his own, twirling around the calloused pads and detailing them with your grasp, searching for more leniency, more yearning brooding right at the end of your fingertips. Your words must have struck him as even funnier as his head tilted backwards with a huff and ragged mouth breathing, indicative of amusement. Noa raised his free hand and gave you a rather grasping ‘dramatic’ with his fingers in response to your statement. You tried to give your eyes a rest from the feast that was the Ape in front of you, but the expression across Noa’s face was drawing you in as you chuckled alongside him. Still entracing your hand in his, the only part of the previous actions that made it to survive, you weren’t begging yourself to take away from the embrace as Noa led in front of you, past fallen debris, past overgrown tree leaves that would rival you in size, up, up, up. The only distance between the two of you being that of your bent in arm, extending into his own as he trailed forward bi-pedal now. Less than two feet, you figured, was lingering between you and you could smell his essence wafting off him with each swift move of his shoulders. You soaked it in selfishly, enjoying the bounce of his fur with his movements, how it caught the light from broken shells in the ruins around you as it drifted between appearing black and appearing honey-soaked brown. A giggle bubbled to the surface of your lips as he tugged a bit harder, the excitement of what he was pulling you towards coming to a bittersweet end as you two rounded one more corner. “Noa, you’re going to rip my… arm… off…” You came to a dead stop. Feet unable to move forward, your eyes widened at the scene in front of you. If only you had the proper words to describe to Noa what you were seeing, what the two of you were experiencing. You had the feeling that you were going to chatter about this to him for days on end once he got you back on solid ground.  Beyond the valley of where the Eagle Clan had made its refuge decades upon decades ago, spanning so many generations, beyond the flushed nature of the greened landscape that was kissed by grass, shrubs of variety, trees and flowers… Was a vast panorama of blue, splattered against the backdrop of the sun as it began its routine descent in the sky.

The sky itself was holding onto the last remnants of soft pastel azure, speckled deliciously with whitened clouds that reminded you of the white feathers the Eagles would shed once they came to age. Swiftly, right before your eyes, the Heavens dove into the greater beauty of fluffy clouds with tingles of orange and pink clinging to the edges, more vivid in the center of them as the Earth above turned from the regular day into a set. The sky, alight now with purple near the horizon, flirting against the brisk of the blue you could see, pink enthralled the capsulated lid above the sun itself. Your lips parted. Noa, as much as he wanted to see what you were seeing, was unable to tear his hazel gaze from you. He had found this place by accident on a personal search for what Raka’s words meant, a journey of self-reflection he took once the Clan was back to some normalcy after what happened. You swallowed gently, trying to find words but there were none to describe this. Feeling a prickling at the corner of your eyes, you moved away from Noa. One step at a time was taken, Noa watching with haze as you shifted away from him as if you wanted to become one with the sun itself.

He held his arm out for you in case you slid your feet against something slick, in case you came too close to the edge and he needed to pull you back in but you stopped, inches away from the ledge. A few pebbles of concrete bursted from the weight, trickling downwards in a spiral.  The blue you were seeing… right along the curve of the Earth... It was the ocean, it had to be. There was no way… That it wasn’t. The laps you were seeing, crisped with a white top as they hit into each other, were waves. You could swear that the smell of sea-salt hit your nostrils, but that could have just been wishful thinking. 

A gasp escaped your lips when a tear slid down your cheek. Noa rounded you, coming to stand beside you on your right side. He was sure you had seen his movements, but just in case, to make himself known to you as you admired the beauty set before you by his truly, the side of his hand delicately placed itself against the smoother nature of the side of yours. “Noa, I---” You were grappling for something to say, instead you just gawked in amazement. Another shift occurred, the sun dripping itself away along the ripple of the blue. The sky was lit up now with more of a purple hazed tone with underwashing of midnight navy and some delectations of pink if you were really focusing.  “You,” He was looking at the side of your face with devotion, eyes flickering from the softening of your eyebrows, to the curl of your lips as you backed into a smile of sorts, trying to ignore the tears that exploded on your tongue as a result, “You like… Where Noa brought you?”

“I’ve… I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.” You tried to get that pushed out of your mouth before you were put under the hypnotic state of the sunset again.

“You… are…” Noa whispered more to himself as you gave him a locking of the eyes for a moment with a tearful grin to thank him for bringing you here before you looked back forward to savor everything that your eyes had been blessed with.

Everything else to you faded away, your hand having realized that he was so near, went to grasp his fingers into your own to relish the moment. Inappropriate? Maybe. Did you care? Not anymore. You wanted to share this with him, and only him. Noa’s eyes dropped from the stare he had on the side of your face, down to your hand, snuggled into his own as he muttered so gently, you could have sworn it was murmured into the shell of your ear in a second of sparred intimacy. “So… beautiful.”

[marisol-000]

Clipped Birds Don't Fly

I've decided to not take ao3 going down as a sign and post this anyways ❤

Magpie Au by @dyad-tmesis! Jekyll and Hyde are separate in this one. Everyone knows about Hyde’s wings, but very few know about Jekyll’s.

<ao3 link>

It was a day like any other when Jasper walked into Doctor Jekyll -Henry's office. Birds were singing, flowers were blooming, and Sinnet blew something up for the second time that day.

The were-boy had been hanging out in Rachel’s kitchen, dangling his legs and trying to look interested in what the day-manager was saying.

“-and that's the last time I let those two ‘help out’! I mean honestly you’d think they were children but I’d think even children would know not to use the same gloves for dishes you use to carry hazardous materials around!” she huffed, chopping some veggies with a bit too much force.

Jasper wasn't quite as sure but knew better than to disagree with someone holding a large knife.

“And on top of all the new dishes we need to buy I still need Doctor Jay to approve this week's meal plan, in case that wretch Frankenstein has any dietary restrictions, Ooh if I could get my hands on her-”

At this Jasper straightened up, his ears perking. “I could ask him if you need!”

It wasn't that he didn't like Rachel, or her stories, but it always felt awkward to be in a room with someone and not be working. Especially when they were. If she wouldn't let him help cook then he could certainly run a small errand or two! And admittedly he wouldn't mind an escape from her tirades…he still liked her though! (Not like-like, well, yes like-like but not not like-like)

She looked back, blinking. “Oh? If you're sure. You don't have to if you're tired, I know I couldn't sleep in the same room as all those creatures of yours.”

“Ha, I grew up on a farm miss Rachel, at this point I doubt I could sleep without them. And just one list won’t take long!” he begged.

She considered it for a moment, looking a bit put-out. “Hrmm. Fine, I can't say no to those puppy-dog-eyes. But you need to repeat exactly what I say, got it?”

Jasper grinned and nodded rapidly.

He walked in without knocking. A stupid mistake in hindsight. He knew better than most how important privacy could be to a person, but while juggling the list of ingredients Rachel told him and their expected costs it just slipped his mind.

To say he was startled would be an understatement.

Jasper pushed open the heavy wood door to see Edward Hyde. He'd heard all about the man from Rachel and the other lodgers. A wild and intense party guy who didn't fit well with the society's image, leading many to speculate on why Jekyll hired him in the first place.

Some speculations were a bit more… scandalous than others, while some claimed they absolutely hated each other. He didn't really believe them all, nor did he want to think about his boss that way thank-you-very-much, but it did make him curious to meet the so-called ‘spirit of London at night’.

True to the stories he had bushy straw hair and bright green eyes, and of course a small pair of golden wings sprouting from his back. Bird-like and alive.

And Henry Jekyll stood over them with the largest pair of scissors Jasper had ever seen.

For a moment time seemed to slow down, Jekyll lowered the scissors, big things made of heavy metal, to the base of one of Hyde's wings.

Jasper had never seen the wings before, (a warbler maybe? Or some kind of parrot? he felt numb), as he'd never met the man they were attached to, but he'd seen feathers lying around the society. Even been shown some Rachel had secretly held on to. And the fluffy gold feathers matched the wings before him.

But all he could see was red.

Without a thought he lunged forward snarling with a force he hadn't known he was capable of. Eyes locked on the man who saved him from being arrested, he could practically feel his fur emerging, begging his nails to grow into claws.

Nothing happened as Jekyll snapped his eyes up at the growl, just now realizing he was there. The were-boy pushed forward regardless, he was stronger than the doctor. With or without a transformation.

A shout, his vision was cut off by a blur of yellow. Real claws in the form of dark talons swiped at his face.

He clashed with the man-bird-guy. Feeling a bit bad about it, he shoved him to the side to get to Jekyll. Or tried to. Edward Hyde held onto his arm like a lifeline, kicking what he could and even swiping at the boy's hair.

Jasper held off the black talons, and a gold wing that smacked him repeatedly on the head. The assistant was surprisingly strong for being so small. His hat went flying and his shaggy hair danced in his eyes in the small gusts.

Panicked arms cast out for something to grab onto. As bad as it felt to do Jasper grabbed Hyde’s other wing and pulled. The cryptozoologist knew birds’ wings were often stronger than they looked, and was experiencing it firsthand. He muttered something adjacent to an apology as he swung both himself and the avian around. Wincing at his cry of pain and cussing.

Once more throwing the man off he darts forward and lunges at the frozen doctor. Talons pull him back by his sweater to start the fight anew.

After some more tousling Jasper is pulled from the opposite direction, the were-boy yanked by his shirt collar. Away from Hyde who simply hisses and raises a wing in warning instead of following.

Jasper realized he couldn't see Jekyll behind Hyde anymore, and chanced a glance away to look behind himself. Of course, there was only one person it could be.

“How could you?!?” he howled, struggling in his grasp. He could barely believe this was happening, even if Henry didn't like Hyde, like the lodgers said, he wouldn't do something like this would he? What could the man possibly have done to deserve his wings being taken away?

“How could- what?! Mr. Kaylock I demand to know why you felt the need to attack my assistant!”

Hyde hopped back and landed in a crouch on the large desk behind him. “Yeah, I haven't even threatened you with the shovel talk yet!”

“You were trying to cut his wings off, I saw you!”

Jekyll's eyes went wide and brows creased with concern. The hand holding him fumbled and loosened. “What? I would never!”

As the boy whipped around, he paused, “Wait… you weren't?”

“Of course not! Goodness is that what you were so worked up about?” Jekyll sighed, running a hand through his brown (auburn?) locks. “Edward’s wing was snared. I was trying to untangle it.”

Jasper blinked, “You were?” For the first time he looked closely at Hyde's wing, the one that hadn't extended properly the whole fight, the one that wasn't currently being held up in a defensive position with the other.

There, wrapped tightly around the feathered appendage, was a thin wire. Jumbled up and twisted around like a cat stuck in yarn. He watched in shock for a moment as the wing twitched against the cord, pushing uncomfortably against the metal web.

The man himself looked equally as uncomfortable, and maybe a bit embarrassed.

“You see, Mr. Hyde got himself tangled in a clothing wire during his excursion, god knows how, and I was simply removing it from his wing.”

“Did not! It was a fight I tell you! With some very bad guys!” Hyde cried, waving his arms around. His free wing puffing up in protest.

Jekyll rolled his eyes, “Ah yes, a fight, my apologies.”

Jasper felt himself calming down, heart still racing but slower now. “Oh…I, yeah that makes more sense, ha… But-but wait, the scissors?”

It seemed to be Jekyll’s turn to look sheepish, “Well, I figured there was no pressing need to return it. I tried to undo it myself but it’s quite stuck on there. Not to mention Edward’s notorious for not sitting still.”

Jasper thinks about this, slowly relaxing his stance. Hyde watches him skeptically, lowering his wing in turn.

Suddenly Jasper’s shoulders slumped as low as they can, a sigh of air exiting with a whoosh. “Thank goodness. I don't know what I’d do if that were me. If I had wings and had to lose them like that. It’d be like cutting off my tail.”

Hyde snickered, “Didn’t know you cared so much about little ol’ me.”

He looked up immediately, “Of course! I mean, not you specifically, but, no one should have to lose parts of themself like that. Even if you don't like it, it's still part of you. It still IS you. And cutting it out or hiding it is like hiding part of yourself. If you got rid of your wings you wouldn't be the same you anymore.”

Something in Henry’s eyes softened.

“I must say Jasper I’m quite impressed with your resolve, it’s nice to know you wouldn't hesitate to stop someone you thought was causing harm. Even if it happened to be me!” Henry smiled, something almost like pride in his eyes.

“Ha, um, well,” Jasper blushed at the praise, rubbing the back of his head. “It’s nothing really, I…I…” Jasper froze dead, eyes wide as he realized what just happened. “I JUST TRIED TO ATTACK YOU OH MY GOSH I'M SO SORRY!!!!!!”

Later on Jasper has to embarrassedly explain what happened to Rachel, then, even more embarrassingly go back and give Henry the list XD

---

You're out of your mind if you think Rachel wouldn't throw hands with Frankenstein. Unlike the others she didn't grow up reading about and looking up to her; and if you think she's gonna stand for some ungrateful house guest punching her friend unprovoked you've got another thing coming. That being said, she wouldn't want to trigger any allergies on accident or go against any religion-related food preferences. Though mostly it’s in case it interferes w her medicine.

Fun fact the scissors Jekyll’s holding here are the ones in the sketch where he's cutting Edward's hair. They're just so big why did he use those ToT

The sketch I did that inspired all this!