#like they were all just standing there in a line. looking at the dragon skeleton | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

yeojaa · 4 years

Text

( NEVER LET YOU GO. )

You do things without thought, making impulse decisions that’d make Freud proud. Sometimes they pay off, sometimes they don’t.

(or: Jeon Jungkook’s just as impulsive as you.)

pairing. tattoo artist!jjk x f!reader.

genre + rating. slice of life fluff, light smut. explicit (but only at the end).

tags / warnings. mentions of heavily tattooed!JK, casual drinking, tender lovemakin’, JK with the bad jokes, honestly just him being funny and chill like that one guy you never get over...

wc. 7.6k.

beta reader(s). @hobi-gif, @papillonsgf, and @yeoldontknow 💛 ty for always indulging me and most importantly, supporting me when i begin to spiral. 🤠

author note. i got this idea into my head one evening in the shower and now... it is this. it’s not your usual bad boy tattoooist!JK fic but i hope you enjoy regardless. as always, feedback means a lot!

You and forethought aren’t close friends. You really aren’t even distant cousins, or part of the same family tree. You consider it a stranger, wave loftily as it passes you by, squinting like you can’t properly make out what it is. Careful consideration? Thoughtful patience? None of that exists for you. At least, not when you really, really want something.

It’s what has you here now, bumbling your way into the tattoo shop like a newborn baby bird.

You wonder how it must look, whether the shop assistant is used to this. Random girl shows up on a Sunday afternoon looking like a fish out of water, eager yet afraid. By how she greets you - with a curious stare and not quite a smile - you’re sure she is.

“Do you take walk-ins?”

You’d meant to make an appointment. Had sat for hours on the shop’s Instagram page, combing through the residents’ portfolios, trying to decide who to reach out to. When you’d finally decided, you’d realised books were a thing and most of them were closed. (Just your luck.)

Still, it never hurt to try, right?

“Everyone’s fully booked.” The girl sounds bored, apathetic yet genial. (You don’t blame her.) By the way her stare swings over you, it feels like a dismissal. You’re ready to admit defeat - head half-bowed, words draped over your tongue. “But our apprentice might be able to squeeze you in.”

An apprentice? Well— that’s not exactly what you’d been hoping for, but this shop is reputable. Well-known. Considered one of the best in the city. Surely their apprentice would be fine. Just less seasoned, not as experienced.

You all but snap your neck nodding along, gratitude tumbling out in the form of awkward laughter. “That’d be great!”

The girl passes you off with a nod of her head, gesturing down the hall. “Last room on the left. His name’s Jungkook. His schedule says he’s all clear, but maybe knock before you go in.” It’s not the sunniest smile you’ve ever received, but the small thing she offers helps with the nerves. Stills them beneath your skin as you do as you’re told.

“Jungkook?” There’s not really anywhere to knock, every wall neatly frosted glass and no doors in sight. (You had passed a few folding screens but otherwise, it’s open concept, each room offering a glimpse into the artist who works inside.) It feels too disruptive to tap your knuckles on one glass pane, lest it interrupt someone else.

(His studio is minimally decorated but inviting: one big cabinet; two of those typical IKEA shelves in the 4x4 grid that every new homeowner and their mother have; and a shop table, upon which a black backpack sits. Various plants dress the room - both hanging from the ceiling and along the window - and Polaroids string over walls, held aloft by twine. A Roomba sits by itself in a corner and the tattoo bed dominates most of the space, positioned closer to the dividing wall; one teeny tiny rolling chair sits beside it. There’s a bench on your left, with a pair of Birkenstocks tucked beneath. All in all, very homey. Reminiscent of your own apartment.)

Hidden behind the bed, crouched low to the ground beside the cabinet, is a head of dark hair that speaks, drawing your attention from studying the cozy space. “Oh?”

You’re not expecting the face that turns to you, all big doe eyes and the sweetest dimples.

For a moment, you forget what you’re here for. Why you’re standing in the empty door frame, staring down at the guy like you’ve spent your entire life secluded and have no idea how to speak.

The longer you’re quiet, the more his concern seems to grow, single brow disappearing into his inky fringe. It hangs in his vision at certain angles, shields the brightness of his stare with each turn of his chin. “Are you okay?” He’s even risen - stopped what he was doing - so he can see you more clearly, without any obstruction in the way. Good for him, but worse for you.

He’s so cute. Were you prepared to look like an uncertain idiot in front of this… angel?

“Y-yeah.” You manage after what feels like forever, sweeping your nerves under the rug that sits on the floor, separates the sole of his sneakers from hard concrete. “Um— I was told you might have some time? For, uh, a walk-in?”

(Why’re you stuttering? You’re never shy. Or rather, you’re not this nervous mess. People have always called you an extrovert, outgoing as hell, a social butterfly.)

(You aren’t those things but you appreciate the sentiment nonetheless.)

“Oh!” Realisation dawns across his features, throws his kind smile into greater relief, and you have to actively tell yourself not to stare, tearing your gaze away to focus on the wall of stencils past his shoulder. He moves into motion then, stepping around the bed to meet you still rooted in the doorway. “Yeah, I’ve got time. Come in.” Up close like this - there’s only maybe two feet between you - you can make out the little scar on his cheek; the tiny beauty mark below his bottom lip; each individual lash that frames his Bambi eyes and flutters when he blinks. “I probably can’t draw you anything new right now but I’ve got some flash, if you’re interested?”

Even if you weren’t interested, you don’t think you’d say no. You were always a sucker for a cute boy and this Jungkook? He was that. In spades.

“Sure.”

“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He’s retreating back into the room, moving to grab his iPad off the far table. It’s balanced on his arm when he swivels to you, prominent front teeth on full display. “I’ve got a pretty big selection.”

When he drops onto the bench - a wayward vine above his head tickling his cheek - he gestures to the spot beside him. This time, you don’t stare for a stupid amount of time, instead taking up the seat without hesitation.

“So—” He’s swiping through the photo library with his Apple Pen. You’re sure there are pretty sketches on the screen - you just can’t focus on them, too preoccupied by the artwork that crawls across his hand and into the sleeve of his oversized, well-worn shirt. It’s an intricate chrysanthemum, impossibly well-shaded with bold colours that demand attention and stand out over his fair complexion; it creeps halfway up the back of his hand to tickle over his knuckles. He notes your attention with a quiet chuckle, fingers wiggling. The ink moves, flows, ripples with the motion, before his hand relaxes, knuckles unravelling as he offers the limb to you and your curiosity. “Do you like it?”

“It’s incredible.” It really is. You’ve never seen anything like it, as if a painting has been done across his skin, laid in watercolour rather than tattoo ink. “Did it hurt?”

(You almost want to hit yourself for the stupid question. Of course it did. It’s a hand tattoo.)

Jungkook only laughs again, doesn’t hold it against you despite the verbal barrage you’re faced with internally. “Like crazy, but it was worth it. This was my first tattoo and all the rest have just sort of been—” He shrugs, fabric of his shirt bunching around his collar.

“A piece of cake?” You can only imagine.

“Exactly.”

You nod thoughtfully, as if that means anything to you. (It doesn’t. You’re bare as a baby’s bottom, blemish free save for the occasional hellish pimple and the scar you have from surgery on your hand when you broke parts of it in sixth grade.)

If he can tell you’re talking out of your ass, he says nothing, redirecting your attention back to the iPad propped on his lap. “Do any of these interest you?” He’s resumed scrolling, swiping carefully through pages of flash. There are assorted floral pieces (plum stems, lily stalks, fully bloomed mums) and various skeletons (what looks like a deer, a dragon, a wolf). They’re mostly blackwork with fine lines and heavy contrast, so wonderfully detailed you spend too much time studying one piece before he’s flipping to the next.

“That one.” It catches your eye more than the others have. Likely because it’s one of the few pieces in colour, soft hues spilling over neat lines. A pretty little cat with a braided collar, big golden bell centered beneath its head, unravelling petals sweeping around it.

“You like cats?”

You do. “She looks like mine.”

“It’s settled.” He beams then, rising so quickly you’re startled; you watch as he moves around the space with decisive steps, putting your plan into motion. A paper is pulled seemingly out of nowhere, laid on a wooden clipboard and offered with a blue ballpoint pen. “If you can fill all of this out, I can get the stencil ready.”

Well, that was easy. Somehow, you’d thought it’d be more complicated, a ton of back and forth and yes and no. You can’t deny you’re nervous, staring down at the consent form.

(It doesn’t mean you read it any more than you normally would, though. You gloss over all the points, making note of what you’re agreeing to without really considering any of it. You’ve wanted a tattoo for most of your life. There’s really no going back now.)

(You just hope it turns out like you want - that you’re not just being blindsided by a sudden superficial crush and a lack of critical thought.)

“I think I’m done,” you mumble, slashing the date into the paper with gusto.

“Do you have your ID?” You’ve got it ready for him when he returns to take both it and the form. “I’m just going to make copies and then we can discuss more.”

He’s gone with that same smile, disappearing back the way you’d come.

Alone, the nerves set in. You’re actually doing this. Getting a tattoo. Putting something permanent on your body. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once, shaking your hands in your lap. Maybe you should’ve eaten more before you’d come. (You’d woken up late - had only shoved two pieces of raisin pinwheel bread into your mouth before you’d made up your mind about this.)

(But had you really made up your mind? Was this going to be it? It feels mostly like yes, though the repetitive thud of your toe against concrete seems to indicate otherwise. It’s as if you’re tapping out something in morse, telling yourself—)

“Okay!” Jungkook’s back before you know it, driver’s license returned to you along with an unsealed envelope. You eye it curiously. “A copy of your form and an aftercare sheet.”

He’s really thought of everything. Or the shop has. Either way, you appreciate that when you’re not so sure, caught somewhere between giddily excited and vaguely worried, as if someone’s pulled a weight off your shoulders, taken on some of the burden of this spontaneous choice.

“So, where do you want it?” It’s like he has a one track mind, utterly focused on the task at hand. (Probably a good thing, given you’re about to voluntarily let him needle your poor skin.)

You hadn’t thought about that. You’d always liked the idea of a back of the arm tattoo, positioned somewhere along your tricep so it could be seen while turned away. “My arm?”

“Upper? Forearm?” There’s not an ounce of annoyance or exasperation or anything else negative. He’s just genuinely curious, peering over his shoulder at you.

“Tricep area, I think? Would that look good?”

“If you like it, it will.” Then he grins - beams so bright you half expect the sun to come zooming out of his mouth - and laughs, a funny little cackle that makes you do the same. “I’m kidding. That was cheesy. But I’m sure it’ll look fine. We can try laying it down first, so you get an idea?”

“That sounds good.” A lot better than endless years of regret for poor placement.

“You’ll, uh— need to take your shirt off though.”

It’s then you realise your mistake: wearing a turtleneck. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes, then another, and he smiles so kindly you wonder what your expression must look like. Sour, like you’d sucked fresh lemon? Awkward, as if you’d never worn anything less than double layers before (a proud Never Nude)?

“If you’re uncomfortable, we can reschedule. Or I can put a divider up so you don’t have to worry about being seen from outside. Whatever you’d prefer.”

The longer you stay quiet - a seemingly common occurrence today - the closer his brows furrow, preparations coming to a standstill. You can tell he’s not trying to rush you, politely waiting for an answer with transfer paper in one hand and scissors in the other.

(If only he could peek into your brain, see the whole reason you’re hesitating is because you can’t quite remember which bra you’re wearing, whether it’s the slinky black one that offers absolutely zero support or the lacy blue one with the cute detailing and practically see-through cups.)

(Did it really matter either way? He was probably desensitized.)

“It’s fine.” You find the confidence somehow, nodding firmly. Jungkook’s still studying you carefully, though. Waiting as you strip your purse off your shoulder and reach for the hem of your sweater. It feels funny in your fingers, more like steel wool than sheep’s.

One breath. Two.

You fold your turtleneck neatly, laying it beside your bag and turning back to face him. “All right. Let’s do this.”

“So, which arm?” He’s close now - crossed to you in two strides of his long legs - and holds up the stencil.

Your right rises, fingers wiggling as if to say hello.

He lays the design down, pats it into place with deft fingers. You don’t realise the breath you’re holding until he pulls the sticky paper away, leaving neat line work in its wake.

“Oh.” It slips out of its own accord, almost a whisper as you stare at the design in the mirror. “It’s so pretty.”

There’s pride in his eyes as he stares with you, bounces his gaze between it and your face. “Thanks.” He lets you linger, peering thoughtfully at your reflection before speaking, casually hopeful. “What do you think?”

“This is it. Right here.”

Maybe he’d fist pump, if he were any less cool. As it stands, he simply nods, cheeks round like fresh baked bread, nose scrunched with glee.

“All right. We’ll shave you down and get started. You like the colours, right?” Once again, he’s buzzing around the room, gathering up all his materials and snapping black gloves on once everything is laid out upon his cart. It’s heavily stickered, covered in video game vinyls and anime mattes. (You recognise a handful of them, make a note to ask him where he got them from.) He pats the tissue papered bed top when you make no movement toward him. “Hop on up. Face down, if that’s okay.”

You do as he says, climbing atop with minimal grace. It takes you a bit of adjusting to get comfortable, folding your left arm under your head and allowing your right to simply dangle, uncertain of where it should be.

“You’re sparkly.”

“What?” You’d misheard that, right?

“Your skin. You’re sparkling.” He sounds a little in awe, surprised as wetness spills across your arm, the edge of a razor following closely thereafter.

“Oh.” Heat creeps over your cheeks, slinks all the way up into your roots and has you chuckling awkwardly. “It’s my soap.”

“Sparkle soap?” Whether he’s just making conversation or genuinely curious, you’re not sure. He does seem delighted by the fact, though, as if he’s never seen a girl covered in glitter before. (Which, fair.)

“It’s this specialty holiday soap. It has pigment in it.”

“That’s cool.” He’s laying the stencil down again, smoothing it over your now-hairless arm. “It smells nice.”

Obviously, you agree. It’s honey and citrus, brightly fragrant but not overpowering, lingering on your clothes like the subtle golden glitter does. Still, you flush, heat crossing from a casual day under the sun to burning-on-the-stove hot. “Thanks.”

“Was that weird? I hope not.”

“No, you’re fine.”

He hums a tiny noise, something that sounds like understanding and appreciation all at once.

Then the buzzing starts - a steady, inescapable brrrrrrrrr - and he’s gripping your arm, steady yet gentle. “Ready?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. Hearing the noise makes it seem scary, has your entire body tensing up like Pavlov’s dog. Your honesty can’t be helped, a nervous giggle chased off your tongue. “I think so.”

“I think so too.”

By the time you’re done - a good almost five hours later, your arm stinging so bad you wonder why you’d ever sat down in the first place - you’d fallen asleep twice, started drooling on your other arm once, and really, really have to pee.

“All right—”“ The incessant buzzing stops. Liquid spills where the pain centres, followed by rougher paper towel. “You are finished.”

(You might be imagining it, but he sounds about as relieved as you. Maybe because you’d been sitting for hours on hours, turning down his offer for a break because you just wanted to get it done and therefore forcing him to do the same.)

“Can I see?” You don’t want to leap to your feet - feel a bit too lightheaded for that - but you’re bouncing with excitement, the thrumming in your arm intensified when you shift to catch a better look at Jungkook’s face.

“Yeah, go ahead. Just be careful - you might be a bit—”

He’s right. You nearly topple over the moment you stand, none-too-gently rolling off the edge of the bed and barely landing safely on your feet. It’s only his close proximity that prevents you from falling to your knees, one degloved hand darting out to steady you.

“Careful!” It’s politely reproachful, coloured soft with worry.

“Sorry, sorry.” You seize the edge of the bed, gripping tight as you wait for everything to settle, the lightheadedness to recede. Everything straightens out quickly enough. “Got up too quickly.”

“Do you need a snack?” He’s already up, moving faster than you, rummaging through the cabinet against the far wall. “I’ve got seaweed and Choco Boys and shrimp chips and—”

You can’t help but laugh, hobbling to the mirror to inspect your new piece of art. “I’m fine.” That, and you’re too occupied with the ink that now sits embedded beneath your skin, a flurry of lovely colour and impressive line work.

“Choco Boys it is then.” The familiar yellow package is thrust toward you, a pack of his own already ripped open. Mushroom-shaped treats are tossed into his open mouth, lips curling around chocolate and his next words, “it’ll help with your sugar levels.”

A thank you comes, fingers curling around the snacks, but you’re still in deep, so focused on the lovely hue that bleeds over your skin, marks up previously unblemished flesh and holds your attention. It’s better than you could’ve possibly imagined, a piece of artwork forever yours. It makes you giddy as you stare at it - almost reach for it, but stop when you catch the alarmed widening of Jungkook’s eyes.

“You like?”

“I love.” You’d stare at it for hours, if you could. Likely will, once you get home, sitting in front of the mirror like a zombie. “Thank you so, so much.”

The brunet beams as he polishes off the last of his Choco Boys, tossing his dark hair back with a flick of his head. Triumph rolls off him in palpable waves, sitting pretty in the lines by his eyes, the scrunching around his nose. Seeing how it blooms in his stare is like a straight endorphin shot, as if you’ve done more than just be the canvas he’s laid all his hard work into. “It was a pleasure.”

It’s a whole month later - enough time for the piece to heal - before you decide you want another one. It’s not as spontaneous as the first time, instead led with an Instagram direct message to @jeonink. (You half expect him not to answer; you’re utterly delighted when he responds not five minutes later.)

Maybe it’s fate or maybe it’s luck that has him with availability the same day you reach out, bringing you back to the studio three hours after you’ve messaged him.

He’s just as cute as before, black baseball cap pulled low over his ears, silver-lined ears twinkling beneath the shop lights.

“So, what’re you thinking?”

Truthfully, you hadn’t done much thinking. Just like before, you’d decided you wanted a tattoo and, well, the rest had been history. You figured you’d let him have free reign, given how happy you were with your first piece. “A sleeve?”

That surprises him. His whole face lights up, eyes wide, mouth rounding curiously. “Like, a full sleeve?” It’s not necessarily a no - more of an are you sure? he hides between the syllables.

“I think so.”

He nods slowly, knowingly, arms folded over his chest, expression suddenly unreadable. “You caught the itch.”

Your own features twist, brows shooting high. “The what?”

“The tattoo itch,” he clarifies with a laugh, the sound sweeping your concern away like the sea. “People say once you get one, you get addicted to the feeling.” He’s extending both arms to you now, hands palm up. For a moment, you’re note sure what he’s doing. (In actuality, you’re distracted by the fact that he’s in a tee, muscle cording his limbs, undulating as he turns his arms over.) “I got bit by it when I lived in Japan. It’s actually what got me into tattooing myself.”

You remember what he’d said last time - how he’d spent a handful of years overseas, working in restaurants after having followed his last partner there. He’d shared lots about his life, giving you the Sparknotes version while you’d ground enamel to fine dust.

“I guess I have the itch then.”

“Guess you do.”

Your dream comes to life in four excruciating sessions. It’s some of the worst pain you’ve ever endured (you’re never going to get an elbow tattoo ever again) but you’d do it all again in a heartbeat, utterly in love with the mural that now lives on your skin. A peony caps your shoulder while one runs halfway up your bicep. Another takes up the entirety of your forearm. There’s a darling little bird and delicately inked koi. It’s breathtaking, greater than anything you could have dreamt up.

You’ve been staring at it for at least three minutes now, tracing over the freshly laid colour with a tender touch. You’re grateful for the SecondSkin, the clear bandage that wraps everything up and keeps it safe from your over eager hands.

“You did it.” Jungkook’s grinning at you, feet kicked up where he sits, his usual bag of Choco Boys balanced in his lap. “Big girl.”

From anyone else, it might sound condescending - might rub you the wrong way and have you glaring daggers. Instead, you take it in stride, beaming at him from your seat. He’s been there with you every step of the way, been there for every hour (seventeen over three months, to be exact) you’ve dedicated to finishing this beauty up. Tease you as he might, you know he really is proud of you.

“You mean we did it,” you return, giddy like a child.

“Ah, right.” The chocolate-covered snack he’s devouring goes crunch crunch crunch before he speaks, mouth still full, eyes crinkled. “I guess I did do all the work.”

“Hey! Screw you!” You’re glowering at him, middle finger raised in defiance.

(How curious that your relationship has grown like this, turned from tattoo artist and client to what feels like more. It probably makes sense, given the long hours you’ve spent together, the support he’s had to offer each time the pain has gotten this side of too much, chattering your teeth and dizzying your head. Solidarity in pain and all that.)

(You really had tapped out once, when he’d crept his gun into the ditch of your elbow. You’d asked him whether it’d hurt beforehand and he’d only laughed, shrugged off the question and continued with the careful shading to your inner arm. That in itself had hurt like a biiitch; you hadn’t thought it could get worse.)

(You’d been mistaken.)

“Am I wrong?” He drawls, full of laughter and that big dumb smile of his you’ve grown accustomed to. It eats up his cheeks and disappears his eyes, makes it hard to be mad at him when he looks so sweet.

“Yes, you are.” You’ve got absolutely nothing to back it up, but who cares. This is the sort of banter the two of you have developed, like two old friends forced to spend too much time together. (Not that you’d complain. You’ve loved hearing his stories, all the tales he regales you with whenever you’re in his chair.)

A snort is his answer, the full roll of his eyes over-exaggerated and playful. “You’re lucky we’re all finished or I’d sneak in an ugly fish somewhere on your arm.”

You think he’s kidding - know he takes too much pride in his work to do that.

Still, you stick your tongue out, hopping down from the bed with your freshly inked arm, hands clapping together in celebration. “You wouldn’t dare.” You’re confident, crossing to the bench to tug your flannel on, careful of the dull pain that throbs beneath the thin medical dressing.

“Wouldn’t I? I’m leaving anyway.”

You’re ready to call him out for it, insist he would never ruin the sanctity of his profession in such a way, when you realise the words he’s spoken, the casual tidbit he’s just dropped like it’s nothing.

“Leaving?”

(Is it you or do you sound disappointed? You can’t dwell on it for long, worried you’ll miss his explanation. Had he mentioned it previously? Slipped it in when you’d been delirious from pain? No, you would’ve remembered that. You swear you would’ve.)

“I’m moving to Tokyo.” How he’s so casual, you have absolutely no idea. You suppose it’s not a big deal for him - he’s not from here anyway. Home is back in Korea, the place he’d spent most of his life before moving to Japan and then here, just two years ago. (God, your memory is good. If only you’d retained knowledge like this when you were in school.) “My flight’s next weekend.”

Your face must be hilarious because Jungkook’s laughing, cackling like the evil villain in an anime.

“Gonna miss me?”

Would it be inappropriate to say yes? Because you will, you realise the moment he’s posed the question. You’ve grown to consider him a friend, someone who you send random memes to on Instagram (usually pertaining to #tattooartistproblems or one of your shared hobbies, like video games and finding the best noodle soup restaurant in the city).

You go for the safe bet, answering with a question of your own. “Are you gonna miss me?”

“I’ll miss your restaurant recs,” he answers, offering honesty to your reticence. “You can still send me funny photos though.”

You can’t help your laugh, the tiny quirk of your mouth into a smile. “I guess you’re right. Will you still be tattooing?” It’s an innocent enough question - you really do want to know. You can’t imagine going to anyone else, even if it means you’ll be shelling out an absurd amount of money for a plane ticket.

“Yep, new shop.” Something twinkles in his stare, has him giddy as he rises to his feet, tossing his empty packet of snacks into the trash bin. “Actually, where I got most of mine done.” You understand it then - that it’s a move of faith. He’s finally come full circle. You’re unbelievably happy for him, brimming with delight to mirror his pride.

But you’re still going to give him a little bit of a hard time because you have to. It wouldn’t feel right otherwise. “Whoa, big shot.”

“I am actually,” he sniffs, raking an ink-strewn hand through his hair. It’s longer now than it was when you met him, curling over the tops of his ears, hanging in his eyes at every turn. “You’ll be lucky if I remember you when I’m famous.”

“Famously lame, maybe,” you tease, slipping your bag over your shoulder. You busy yourself pulling your keys from the interior pocket, checking your phone as if you’re ready to go. It’s only when you’re standing in the hallway - you have no real intention of departing like this and he knows that, considering you haven’t paid yet - when you level him with a half-formed smirk. “But I guess I should take you for a drink?”

His hoodie is on before you know it, yanked over his head and tugged into place as he joins you. It’s become your regular routine - leaving together after your sessions, a perk of always booking the last slot he has available. (Not that you relied on that, but simply because your work schedule didn’t really allow for anything else.) “Obviously.”

Jeon Jungkook is a talented artist, a dedicated snacker, a lover of the colour black. You discover, sitting on the patio of the nearby bar, that he’s also really, really good at holding his liquor.

(Not that he’d ever indicated otherwise.)

“Do you think you’ll get anything else done?” He’s on his sixth pint, casually leaned back in his chair as he picks at the fries you’d ordered but that he seems perfectly happy to help himself to. (Payback for all the times he’s forced snacks on you maybe?) “Like, a face tattoo?”

You scoff at the question as if greatly offended. “You think I’d get a face tattoo?”

While a little glazed in the eyes, you can tell he’s altogether coherent, grinning across the table at you. “Hey, I don’t judge. You like making surprise decisions, so I wouldn’t be surprised.”

Okay, so he’s got you there. Used your own impulsive history against you. “I would never.”

“If you change your mind, do I get first dibs?”

“Dibs on what? Tattooing me?”

He nods as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world. “Duh.”

You can only roll your eyes, tossing a wayward burnt fry end at him. “Yes, Kook, you get first dibs on ruining my face.”

His expression twists, mouth shaping around words he’s keeping caged behind his teeth. There’s something he isn’t saying, a comeback he’s chosen to lock up. You wonder what it is.

“Hey - nothing wrong with face tattoos.”

“Really?” You’re leaning forward, a clear challenge written across your face. “Then why don’t you have one?” He has a million others as it is: a hand, nearly the entirety of both arms, his chest, his shoulders, one of his legs. (You haven’t seen them all in person but you have seen them online, memorialised on his Instagram feed.)

“And hide all this?” One inked hand is gesturing toward his own face, gesticulating wildly as if that’ll drive his point further home. “I would never.”

“That’s what I said!”

It doesn’t matter to him, not when he’s fully sober and most certainly not now, when he’s slightly buzzed, eyes glossier than usual. “But I’m cuter. It’d be a shame if it were me. You…” The way he trails off is suggestive, indicative of something mocking and mean. (Except it’s never cruel - far too friendly and soft to ever hurt your feelings.) “—not so much.”

Another fry hits him right between the eyes and then another disappears into the hood of his sweater, lost to the black fabric that bunches up around his neck and hides the flush he’s been battling since you two got to the bar an hour ago.

“Don’t be rude!”

He beams at you then, so unnecessarily endearing you can only throw one more piece at him.

“I’m kidding.” You knew that already but pretend to ignore the pseudo-apology, choosing instead to polish off the last of your now-cold fries. A bad choice, you realise when he continues, surprising you with the words that come out of his liquor-laden mouth so much so that you almost choke. “You’re actually pretty cute.”

(So what if you’ve sort of maybe been waiting to hear them? Wondering if the tiny crush you’d developed was in some way reciprocated?)

(Not that this meant it was. Only that you perhaps weren’t alone in thinking he was the most lovable - and somehow simultaneously hot - person you’d ever met. It’s almost rewarding to know the long hours together hadn’t left him unscathed.)

“You all good?” The look on his face is worse than that smile he usually offers, instead a devilish smirk that makes him look like Satan himself.

Were you? You’re not sure.

“I can’t believe you just said that.”

“Really? You can’t?” You’re not sure what that means, whether you’re simply reading too far into it. But then he’s dragging his bottom lip through his teeth, head cocked curiously. It’s a bait, you realise—and one you’ll gladly take.

“Should I have expected it?”

Shoulders hike, rising up around his ears. “I thought I made it sort of obvious.”

Had he? Thinking back on it, you can’t really recall. Of course, he’d always been friendly, indulging you in your pursuit of body art, sketching up the loveliest things you’d never even think to dream of; accepting your distracting Instagram messages without complaint, always tossing you a like or some sort of acknowledgement no matter what you’d send (and you’d send some random, random stuff). Chatting with him daily had just become the norm, conversation flowing freely whenever you’d pop in for your next session.

But that was just because he was a nice guy - or so you’d thought. You realise now how wrong you’d been, too occupied with your own crush to notice his (if it could be called that).

“You like me,” you hum, surprisingly nonchalant despite the little pitter patter in your chest, the flutter of your heart within your ribcage.

“I think you’re cute,” he retorts, though there’s no real weight to his rebuff. The two statements are really one and the same and you’re giddy with the knowledge, absolutely tickled pink.

Except for the fact that he’s leaving, fully prepared to start a new life in another city in just one week. The irony isn’t lost on you, like fate’s laughing even as she offers you this little crumb. (You feel like Oliver Twist, frankly.)

“Same difference.”

He huffs - you’re reminded of how adorable he is when he does that - and downs the lukewarm remainder of his beer. “I take it back.”

“No, you don’t.” Where the confidence comes from, who knows. You grip it tight with both hands though, hold it snugly as you level him with a stare that has his own unwavering. It’s almost as if you’re caught in a staring match, a battle of unspoken wits.

It drags on longer than it should, just the two of you locked to each other with nowhere to go.

Then he does the last thing you expect: shoves his chair aside and leans across the table, stealing a kiss and returning to his seat, all in the span of time it takes you to blink.

(His lips are so soft. A little chapped, a tiny bit dry, but soft - deceptively delicate. Bitter, touched with sea salt and something else distinctly him. French fries and beer and his Chapstick.)

(For the briefest moment, you wonder whether you’d just imagined it - if your imagination had truly gotten the best of you and you’ve absolutely lost your mind.)

“You just kissed me.” It seems like you’ve found your new favourite hobby of just repeating things, giving live play-by-plays like an awkward narrator in a romcom.

“Yeah, so?”

“You’re leaving.” Speaking the words into existence feels bad; you see the way his eyes tighten, the subtle sobering of his expression even while he tries to keep his cool.

“I am.” At least he’s realistic. It saves you from any uncertainty, keeping the what-ifs at bay.

You suppose it means you have nothing to lose.

“Do it again.”

And Jungkook does - over and over, sinking the taste of him almost as deeply as ink, offering a piece of himself you want to keep for just as long.

It takes you longer to add to your collection of art, nearly four whole years before you decide what you want next. (It’s a back piece this time - a full body suit from your shoulders down past your ass. Another cat, dressed in traditional Japanese clothing and surrounded by flowers. An ode to your first tattoo, to the one that had started it all.)

(You’re not sure you’re ready for the pain, though.)

“Lay down,” the artist instructs, back turned to you, busy preparing his materials. You’d stripped down while he was occupied, discarded all your clothes to the allocated basket and stood quietly in anticipation.

You do as he says, dropping atop the tattoo bed with a quiet oof. The stencil has already been laid, the entire outline ready to be inked into your skin. You can’t deny you’re more than a little nervous. It’s been years since you’d last gotten anything done, uninterested in finding a new artist since Jungkook had left.

(Which he had, exactly as he’d intended, gone on a 6 AM flight that you’d driven him to, teary-eyed and embarrassed. He’d laughed at you standing outside of the departure gate, his suitcase at his side, arms wrapped around your shoulders. You’d refused to show your face, burying it instead into the warmth of his neck, into the familiar scent of him that was going away for who knows how long.

“Stop being a baby,” he’d said, smothering you in kisses, the full weight of his laughter palpable through your close proximity. It'd rumbled out of his chest all the way into yours, finding a home behind your ribcage, right alongside where your heart fluttered, shaded blue and sad.

“Stop being mean,” you’d countered, petulant like a child.

It couldn’t be helped. You’d had only one week with him - one glorious, chaotic week filled with eating too much junk, rewatching your favourite animes, and generally making up for all the lost time you’d never even known there was. As amazing as it’d been, it still hadn’t prepared you for the goodbye.

That was your fault, though. You’d wrongly entertained the idea that maybe things would work out, that he’d change his mind or ask to take it - whatever you had, that is - with him, keep it going somehow. He hadn’t.)

“Do you have a preference where I start?” You’re unbothered, hair loosely knotted over your shoulder. Ready for the session to start - ready to feel the familiar sting again. (You’re proud of that. It might have taken you years and years but here you were, tackling something huge.)

“Nope.”

“Sounds good.”

The buzzing begins and pressure lands upon the small of your back, a gloved hand laid over the centre of your spine. You remind yourself to breathe in, out, focus on something other than the pain that fizzles over your skin and then ebbs into tenderness. Where he’s started - just above the fattiest part of your butt - isn’t too bad. Tolerable and yielding.

You can do this.

Your back aches in a different way than you’d anticipated, soreness buzzing beneath inflamed skin and making it uncomfortable to move around. It’s not any worse than your arm had been - the lines along your spine had felt comparable to that of your elbow - but it’s fresh, not dulled by years like your sleeve now was.

The artist is stripping his gloves off, your back neatly covered and the bed stripped of its original tissue paper. He’s leaned against the sink, onigiri held in his now-free hands, nibbling at the edge of the rice ball as you turn this way and that in the mirror. “You did good.”

You’re still undressed, admiring the linework from different angles, shimmying closer to your reflection to catch the lighter inking that makes up the undefined edges of the various florals. Something tells you that you should be shy - eager to redress after spending nearly five hours naked in the secluded studio - but you don’t care. Your back is quickly becoming a masterpiece, something that might as well be hung in the halls of the Louvre. You’re in love with it.

“Thanks.”

You mean thank you for his compliment but also for all his hard work, the long hours he’s put into bringing this beauty to life. It means so much - like progressing to the next level.

Which, you suppose it is. This is a fresh start for you. A new beginning in a new city.

“Proud of you,” he hums, suddenly close, broad palms searing heat over your hips. He’s careful to avoid the edge of the bandage that wraps your back and holds you delicately, like fine china or the most precious jewel in the world, lips sweet against your temple.

You meet his eyes in the mirror - the same sweet doe-eyed stare from five years ago. A little darker now, aged by the hand of time but endlessly kind, shining beneath the overhead lights.

“Proud of you,” you chirp, identical smiles spreading over your faces.

Jungkook’s having none of it though, bratty as usual. “Proud of us.”

You suppose you can settle for that. You really are proud of the two of you - for how far you’ve made it and all the obstacles you’ve overcome. From the first few weeks of sadness, all the melancholy that’d set in when he’d left, to exactly one month after, when he’d called you in the middle of the night, drunk and stumbling home.

(It’d been infuriating at the time - incoherent and foolish as he was - but it’d bloomed something between you, something neither of you could ignore.)

Four years of miserable long distance had become this: a love that's brought you back to his side, to a city you’re unfamiliar with but that he calls home; to a city that never sleeps, loud with pachinko machines and some of the best food you’ve ever had; to the place you’ve been missing every minute you were apart.

You’d never thought you would move for someone, uproot your entire life for a relationship, but he’d changed that. Made it worth it in ways you had never considered. Convinced you more and more with each trip you’d taken, two visits twice a year, for a measly two weeks at a time.

“Should we head home?” He means your physical home - the apartment the two of you had decided on in Roppongi, the one you haven’t seen yet, that he’s had to move into all by himself. It’s not quite as nice as the home in his arms.

You say yes anyway.

“I’m so talented.” The words come entirely too whole for your liking, loud somewhere above your head.

“Are you serious?” You’re levelling your boyfriend with the most incredulous look, whole face scrunched up, hands fisted into his dark sheets. It’s uncomfortable at this angle - kinking your neck as you look over your shoulder - but you really can’t believe he’s just said that. He’s knelt between your legs, knees spread wide around his own, his hand halfway up your back and tracking heat over your spine.

Somehow, he has the audacity to look surprised. “What?”

“You’re really patting yourself on the back right now?” Now, when he should be pounding you into oblivion, working that big fat cock of his through your fluttering walls, making you moan his name into his pillows like it’s his only job?

(It truthfully could be. You’d rank his skills in the bedroom on par with his skills in the studio.)

“Oh.” All at once, he’s the devil - sin personified. Or would be, if he didn’t somehow still look infuriatingly cute.

The gentle touch turns bruising, heel of his palm pressed hard into the tender notches of your spine. “You don’t like when I admire my own work?” Asked as he shifts behind you, length dragging out of your dripping cunt to gently tap against your aching clit. The head of it glides through your folds, mercilessly teasing but never slipping back in, never filling you whole like you need. (Because you really do need it. You haven’t seen him in six months, left to your own devices - literally.) It feels like heaven and hell, too good and not nearly enough all at once.

“Kook,” you snap. Try to, anyway, his name far too whiny and breathless to hold any real weight.

“I’m just admiring you, sweetheart.” He’s dragging the hand over your back, tracing all the lines he’s embedded into your skin. They make up his favourite piece, inked permanently into his favourite canvas. A testament to his hard work, his dedication, his love.

Any other time, you might not care. Here and now, after not having felt his touch in what feels like forever, you’re burning from the inside out, a million volts of electricity tripping your circuits. When you speak, it’s more a plea than a reprimand, uttered so sweetly you know he can’t deny you. “Admire me later.”

“I’ve missed you” is his only answer, punctuated by a fluid roll of his hips, the heavy press of his cock back into your dripping cunt. “I’ve missed this,” he breathes out, sinking all the way in, so slow you can feel every ridge and vein as he fills you.

“Missed you too,” you parrot back, a little delirious now that you’ve gotten what you want.

Now that he’s right where he should be - with you.

tag list. @neverthefirstchoice @youwannabelostandnotbefound @snackhobi @codeinebelle @xjoonchildx

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yandere-wishes · 3 years

Text

A Story Told In Maybes {Part #1}

🗡️Yandere! Enma Yuuken x reader

🗡️Summary: Enma Yuuken lives on the fine line between "Hero" and "Villain" but his story will never end in a "happily ever after" or a "tragically ever after" it will only end in Maybe...

🗡 Edited by the amazing @tealyjade-libran

🗡️ Alternative title: How many times can Genie use "Damn" in a story...

Maybe in some other world, they could have been lovers

Imagine that...

picture it as vividly as a fresh stab wound to your heart. Sketch the vision of a red waterfall carrying away your life.

Now picture two people. A young man and woman, sitting on a park bench, holding hands and laughing, inching closer and closer.

Imagine love, happiness, tranquility...

But those things only exist in fairy tales. And his life was most certainly not a fairy tale.

They were foreigners, outsiders, aliens. Banished into a strange land were twisted fairy tales, roamed the earth. Where magic and mischief came as naturally to the inhabitants as breathing. Where nothing mattered, because nothing was. Everything is and thus it isn't. Nothing made sense, and sometimes, in some rare moments of stolen repose, Enma Yuuken was scared that nothing would ever make sense again.

All of it, every microscopic thing about this 'new world' was wrong, abnormal, twisted.

Everything except his traveling companion. Another lost soul as disjointed and out of place as he was. Another ghost trying to survive in this matrix of a so-called reality.

There was no shock initially, no surprise in not being the only normal creature to be transported to this bizarre world. Enma knew full well that he wasn't special in any way. Another foreigner being here was one of the few things that actually made sense.

But as the old expression goes, everything comes at a price.

Someone else just like him being here, being stuck in this nightmare, made sense. Yet the price of logic was a thread of hysteria that had woven itself deep within his battered heart. A maddening sense that gripped his lungs, robbing them of breath. That picked off pieces from his tattered mind, replacing them with clear cutout thoughts of her. It was always only her.

His companion in this broken world just had to be you. A frail, naïve little girl with no sense about her. Some pretty-girl protagonist straight out of the pages of Shojo Beats. The kind of girl who finds her happily ever after no matter where the hell she is.

Yet he did not have that luxury, his life was dictated by a series of maybes and could bes. He was a secondary character at best, a background shadow at worst. With no purpose other than smiling and waving. And listening to the protagonist weep about their love-driven woes.

Some days, when the dreary bell chimed for the last time, when the students marched back to the solitude of their dorms, Enma would wander around the halls, squirming in his own misery. Pondering why, oh why of all the people, in all the towns, in all the worlds, did you have to be the one to wind up in this grim land along with him.

Why fate always had to be so cruel, so domineering, thinking it knew better than the people whose miserable lives it toyed with. He wanted to be your lover, your prince, yours. But what would a guy, who doesn’t even belong in this backward world, have to offer some heroine-type sweetheart?

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

The Ramshackle’s flickering porch light glows in the distance. Like a dying star beckoning him to a destroyed paradise. He knows what's waiting for him behind the worn door. He knows you'll be there standing by the cracked dinner table, laying out days-old sandwiches for dinner, while Grimm rangles with an expired can of tuna. He knows you'll smile with tears in your doe-like eyes as you retell the fables of your endeavors. Telling him in great detail how the so-called king of beasts overpowered you in the school garden. How the King of poisons stole yet another kiss. The tales go on and on. Never-ending, never stopping, never giving him the chance to scavenge the fragments of his shattered heart.

You play your role so damn well. You know how to be the damsel in distress, the poor thing in need of saving. It's repulsive, disgusting...but only because he doesn't know how to be the hero that you need.

If he was being honest -something he rarely did nowadays- Those "prefects" were the root of all his problems. They were the evil that made this dark world an endless horror. They'd been the ones to drive him into the "caring older brother" role. They had twisted his hand, leading him to the role of the "side-hero" like a lamb to the slaughter. Made him into a prince charming in a world that ate princes alive and spat them out once more.

They had sealed his fate with a few insults and loaded threats. With just a few longing stares overflowing with lust and envy. They were villains, in a world that celebrated sinners. A world that cheered when the dragon steals the princess and rejoices when the evil king sits upon his skeleton throne. They were villains in every dreadful sense of the damn word.

It's hard to be in love when all odds are against you.

When your fate binds you into one role with no way out.

Like a rabbit hole made of quicksand. It dragged him deeper and deeper into intimate madness.

Maybe in some fair world, those leeching villains could keep their greedy blood-drenched hands off of you.

Maybe in a world where the sun never dies, you could bring yourself to love him.

Maybe he could have been the love interest, maybe, maybe, maybe.

It's always only MAYBE!

🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️🗡️

"Welcome home Nii-san,"

It's a sweet greeting that ties his guts into ribbons. His hands grow damp as his heavy eyes stare into yours. His lips curl into a painted smile, shielding you from the pain that's clawing in his stomach.

"Hi..(Y/n)"

His voice cracks and croaks like a dying frog. His lips feel abnormally dry and his eyes sting as if they've been pierced by diamond daggers. His steps are heavy as he plops down in his seat. The weight of his worries pulled him down harder than gravity ever could. He watches you through tried, restless orbs. Watches as you waltz over to your seat and sit down with the half grace of some future queen to be. It's bitter, dreadful, leaving a sickly toxin-like taste in his mouth. The mere thought that someday one of those, sinners, will take your hand and drag you to some kingdom far far away makes Enma want to claw his brain out with his bare nails.

Enma's focus shifts over from his traveling companion to the silver-coated fireball licking his paws. Grimm's teal eyes scan him nervously before he offers a nervous smile, a rarity for the narcissistic cat. He's usually so talkative, so boasting, there was never a moment of tranquility with that cat around...

It takes a moment. A steel coated moment before the gears in Enma's head begin to turn. Before he can place his finger on the heavy abnormality weighing down the atmosphere. His nerves jolt to life, leaving a freezing sweat behind their trail. The room is spinning like a ballroom floor. Something's off, something big and obvious and hidden and...

Maybe...

"So..."

It's your sweet voice that breaks the tension creeping into the air. Melodic and luscious just like the sensation of a blissful dream. The room freezes in its tracks. The heavy atmosphere melts away like a cube of ice. Normality has one foot through the door. Behind it, hope and tranquility peek their heads through the tiny gap.

Maybe just maybe everything is alright. Maybe it's just him, his stress and anxiety are starting to play cruel jokes on his wonder mind. Maybe he's just going mad. Yeah, that's the sanest conclusion to draw from all this.

Enma cranes his neck to the side to get a better view of your face. Distress is scribbled all over your skin, like pristine razor cuts. You shift around in your seat, clawing at your uniform skirt as if the midnight black fabric is cutting off your circulation. Your fingers nudge the entrance to your pocket fiddling with something he can't quite make out.

His voice is low, shaky, as he replies. The unusualness of the situation has him on edge. Nervous to the bitter bone. Maybe he was wrong, maybe his nerves were right to be wary of whatever this was. This uncertainty permeated the air-tight room.

"What is it?"

Slowly you drag out a white envelope flooded seven times over from your pocket. You stretch out your hand placing it in between his fingers. Enma throws a passive look at the note, his nose wrinkled up at the familiar scent that pervaded from the paper.

"What's this?"

It was rhetorical, asked out of dull, morbid courtesy. This time he didn't bother looking at you, in fear of seeing you look -lord forbids- gleeful.

"A love letter, Grimm found it in our locker after class."

There was a pause, lengthy, nerve-wracking, heart wrenching. Yuuken could hear the way your breath hitched in your throat, he could almost feel the excitement radiate off your body.

"Can you believe it Nii-san? Someone actually left me a love letter!"

It hurt it really did, this time his heart didn't shatter. It simply broke, in two or three or maybe four. Who knows, who cares. They had escalated from simple harassment and unsightly displays of public affection to leaving you love letters. How ungodly, how absurd, how brave...

He laments, eyes tracing over the fog of his breath as it wafts through the musty room. He wants to rip that damned piece of paper, shred it into millions so the words become ineligible, so you'll never read those horrible words again. So you'll forget that some damn fool other than him can actually love you. But he doesn't, he has too much self restraint and too much respect for his dear "little sister" to actually do it.

His arm stretches over the table, skin illuminated by the dying candle on the center. He places the letter back safely in between your fingers. His eyes meet yours for only the second time that night. He takes in your face, Committing every piece of it to his miserable memory. The heartily glow in your crystal eyes, the faint schoolgirl smile dancing across your lips, the rose blush kissing your cheeks, the way the candle illuminates your skin, wrapping in a sparkling glow like the princess from those tales of old. You're mesmerizing in every way, it would be reasonable for other men to notice your elegance. No wonder those "prefects" were drawn to you so naturally like moths to a golden flame.

"Who sent it?"

His voice comes out like a block of ice, shielding away any and all his stray emotions. He doesn't want to know how doleful he is, he just can't have you taking pity on him.

Your smile fades ever so slightly, your brows draw closer. Confusion is etched on your face. You haven't got a clue.

"Well...I'm not sure, but they did say to meet them at the school gates when the clock chimes twelve."

Oh, joy, another fairy tale reference. It's comedic how fairy tales have begun to dictate his life. Everywhere he turns there's a grim tale awaiting him. Yuuken spares a quick glance at the crooked clock hanging by a loose thread. It’s a minute to midnight.

"I should come with you"

It's not a request but you take it as so.

"No need to bother, I'll take Grimm, he could use the walk. He's starting to bulk up a bit"

"HEY! The great Grimm-Sama doesn't "Bulk up" He only gets more powerful!"

Before the older male can protest, you're already halfway out the door. Grimm scurrying to follow you on all fours like a pesky rat. The door slams on your way out, leaving Yuuken alone with his morbid screeching thoughts.

There goes the only good thing in his life. Into the arms of another.

For a second he contemplates leaving you to fate, after all, who's he to disobey fate, go against whoever orchestrates this universe. But it's only a second, short lived and quickly died.

Maybe he's a hero.

Maybe he's a Prince Charming.

Maybe he's a villain.

Maybe he's just some honorary older brother looking out for his kid sister.

Maybe, just maybe, he's your future lover;

and he'll be damned if he lets you slip out of hands.

Enma's quick to grab his old practice blade from the overstuffed closet. It's not much, but it's all he has from the normal world, from his world.

The door grates for the last time that night as he steps out into the cold midnight air. The stars blink in some sort of secret tongue, either warning him or encouraging him, he doesn't know. Nor does he truly care, for Enma Yuuken is done letting life and fate and villains decree his meaningless life. Here and now that's where he'll make his stand, he'll save you. Kiss you. Love you. Marry you. You, You, YOU

But there's still one nagging thought that screams inside his head as he dashes for the school gates. This world worships villains, prays at their feet, and hands them death and destruction on golden plates. And he's no villains, he's some sort of upside-down, in-between. Rotting alone in the border between Hero and Villain. By law of society, he's a reject, a useless foreigner, an alien, an outsider.

and MAYBE he's already too late...

Who wrote the love letter? Was it the head of the savanaclaw dorm or maybe the head of the heartslabyul dorm ? Maybe it’s the ever mysterious Tsunotarou...

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empires-recap · 3 years

Text

Shubble Episode 17 Recap

Link: Empires SMP #17 | XORNOTH SHOWED ME THE FUTURE OF EMPIRES | Shubble

Runtime: 23:19 (2319! We’ve got a 2319! Sorry I’m a nerd I’ll leave)

Date of Release: September 14th, 2021

Other Players Featured: Xornoth (No captions in video, translation provided), fWhip

Note: The way Shubble does Empires is her videos are typically stream highlights. As someone who actively watches Shubble’s streams, some extra context may be provided in italics. Chat will be referred to as such. Cross outs will be my personal commentary.

Intro and Revenge Arc: Shubble opens the video by talking about how she want’s to get revenge on Joey and Sausage. Joey is obvious since he killed her because of Xornoth. She also blames the Creeper death of her original parrot to Joey. She does later show the replacement parrot later. She wants revenge on Sausage because of his instrumental role in killing the dragon and freeing Xornoth. She wears the angry wolf head as a disguise/mask so as not to be recognized. She doesn’t want to do anything drastic this time, just a warning. She believes all people are beyond saving, except maybe Joey. After arriving at Joey’s base with the dark oak signs she made, she realizes they’re too dark and heads off to find some glow squid ink sacs to make it more readable. At Joey’s she also sees hers and fWhip’s head on the wall.

Xornoth Logs on - After getting the sacs she heads to her skeleton spawner to repair her elytra so she can fly to Joey and Sausage’s (girl please put Unbreaking III on it it would help SO much.). As she gets out of the minecart she see the chat message that Xornoth has logged on just as it begins to fade. She become even more scared when she realizes it is only her and Xornoth online.

<Xornoth> >:)

<ShubbleYT> go away

As she leaves the mine, she finds the path up blocked by stone. Xornoth’s head pops out as she breaks ground. He also puts lava down at the entrance which she blocks with cobble. She digs a side path that links to a nearby pond and Xornoth looks at her as she swims up. There is some eye contact before he disappears. She gets defensive as a tentacle wraps around her castle. The ground then begins to die, more tentacles sprout up in front of her, and the sky grows dark with a storm. She heads down to the fairy circle, Lord of Mars and Lord of Saturn in tow. Shubble is blinded and she and Xornoth exchange words (his responses below). She wonders what else he wants now that the dragon is destroyed. He wants destruction and, besides what she has seen, there is plenty more to come. She replies that they are going to defeat him, if they can get all the kingdoms together against him. Gem helpfully /s replies in chat “no we’re deffo gonna sit back and take it” She blames him for Joey and partly sausage, who Xornoth says was already corrupted before he arrived. She says they found a way to cure it, but Xornoth reminds her that that was when he wasn’t at full power. He then calls her out for not protecting her kindom, attacking her golems and poisoning Lord of Saturn. She mounts the Mother Wolf, Lady Sun, and warns Xornoth to not come closer. He says she can’t do anything, none of them can do anything, and kills Lord of Mars (o7). She vows that Xornoth that he will pay, calling herself the angriest wolf spirit of them all.

The Temptations: The grass is restored, but Shubble thinks it was only a glimpse of what he can do. Xornoth then appears in front of her, but quickly disappears before he can do anything. She says that she was going to get revenge, but she knows now that’s only going to fuel him more. He appears by the Mother Wolf and Shubble rushes to protect her. She stakes claim to the land while riding her, calling it her forest. He then appears on her castle, which makes Shubble call him a horrible leader whose only friends he bullied. He denies it, saying they simply chose the side that will win. She counters saying that they were corrupted and that they wouldn’t choose him if they had free will. Xornoth tries tests that theory, temporarily gifting her with regeneration, strength, and resistance. He shows her the power she could wield by allowing her to one-shot a zombie (it was originally a villager who spawned, but Shubble refused since he was an innocent man), and playing into her need to protect her people and kingdom. She seems a little swayed, but stands firm. She says that a leader earns the respect of their people and she won’t loose sight of it because of the power he gifted her. She then calls him out for what he is: a sad, sad spirit that lost who keeps being reborn angrier and angrier because no one really loves you so you make them fear you. He then says wonders why he needs love when he can do this.

<ShubbleYT> fell out of the world

The Warnings: Shubble finally gets the time to dig a grave for Lord of Mars, who valiantly fought by her side. But she admits that Xornoth was right and that Joey and Sausage are running rampant and need to be reminded that there will be consequences of their own actions. She leaves a message in front of Joey’s Fire Temple and Sausage’s Dark Tower: You have angered the forest dwelling spirits. Repent or you’ll face the consequences - Wolf Spirit. She then lights both up with glow ink sacs and red dye. She also thinks of an idea of her becoming the wolf spirit, combining her spirit with Lord of the Moon’s to become a hybrid to be better fit to lead her people and her wolves. The next day, she logs on and finds these crystal or portal things floating above her base.

Mushroom House Build and Ending: She spends most of the rest of the video building a mushroom house for her people, using the same base design from her coven house from X Life SMP by Dad’s Guide on YouTube. She builds it accidentally right next to one of the tentacles, picking away at it as needed with her hands before it disappears entirely about halfway through. Any corruption went into the corruption box at her base. There is a point where she died from landing too hard with her elytra, which lands her at spawn since the loft bed at her base is considered obstructed. She tries to run back but takes enough damage especially with the lack of food not regenerating her health that she dies again by falling on a stalagmite. fWhip, who was lurking in stream quickly logs on to help get her stuff back since he thinks she died at his base. He was taking the bins out irl and missed the first death. She then finishes the build’s exterior and ends the video by saying how much she loves this server and this village and her builds and that she never wants to loose it.

Xornoth Translation (? = unsure) (Any break ups of dialogue are done because someone talked between speech, does not include video cuts)

“Hiya”

“Hi” (x2)

“I want destruction”

“You’ll see there’s plenty”

“[laughter] I’d like to see you try.”

“Well that involves you all working together, which you CANT.”

“That man [Sausage] was already corrupted before I showed up.”

“It’s cute you think that will work. You cured it [the corruption] before I was at full power.”

“There’s not much brain between you all.”

“Look at you, cowering in a circle in a hole. Hastier? to defend your own empire. Just like you wouldn’t defend you’re own people.” (The amount of times I listened to this line and only heard Tastier is more than I’d like to admit.)

“You sure?”

“Your Empire’s citizens have some hearts too”

“Your wolves’ hearts will crush easily in my fist enough.”

“That poor? little puppy can’t do anything to me now. You can’t come together to defend your own empires, let alone each other’s.”

“And [Lord of] Mars will pay for it.”

“Mars is dead.”

“I’m sure you don’t say.”

~~~

“They joined the side that will win.”

“The side that gives them POWER.”

“You sure you don’t want the power?”

“You could be unstoppable. Never lose your home again.”

“Why would I take your home if you’re working with me?”

“I can give you something to punch.”

“No, but you can punch this.”

“Fine. Look, 1 hit. You can crush your enemies in your fist. Never be bullied again. No one would ever make fun of your height.”

“People would fear you, people would BOW DOWN to you. Isn’t that what you want … as a ruler?”

“Fear, love. All the same. Gets the job done.”

“Who needs love when I can do this?”

#empires smp #empiressmp #empires recap #shubble recap #xornoth feautured #xornoth translation #fwhip featured #shubble episode 17

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baubabble · 4 years

Text

“Subtle Differences” Final Part - Hotch x F!Reader

PART I PART II

Summary: You and the rest of the team head to take down the Unsub as the search for the killer and Allison Wilson comes to a close. You and Hotch team up to take the loft, having each other’s backs. With all the unresolved tension between the two of you, will you finally make the first move? Or will he? Final Part of Subtle Differences.

Word Count: 4064

Warning: CM Violence, Blood

Song I Wrote To: “Next To Me” by Imagine Dragons

Note: Thank you all for sticking with me on this one! I was only planning on making this a one-shot, but I had too much to say! My next CM work is going to be Reid x Reader and will be just one part, but I have other ideas too. REQUESTS ARE OPEN.

-------

Standing in the locker room of the SPD, you struggled with your bulletproof vest.

Frustrated, you tore it off and started again. “Let me.” Hotch’s soft voice reached your ears as he walked up behind you. You let go of the straps and he tightened the vest around your torso. You could feel his breath on the back of your neck as he fastened the velcro straps, his hands pressing along your stomach and shoulders.

Hotch trailed his hand down your spine and you let your eyes close at his touch. He then rested his forehead against the back of your head, closing his eyes as he took a moment to be calm. Slowly, you reached your hand towards him and after hesitating for a second, you grabbed his hand in yours and intertwined your fingers with his.

This was the most physical contact you had had with him. You stayed like that and something felt so intimate of just being in each other’s space. You could hear his breathing and feel the way he leaned into your back. This was much more than just a few gazes or smiles on the odd occasion.

Aaron was touching you as if he had been waiting to do it for a while. Maybe it was because you were about to put yourself into the line of fire or because he was finally willing to take a step in your direction. Whatever it was, you were drinking it in.

Moving your hair off your neck, he flattened the last strap, letting his hands linger on your shoulders for a moment as he pressed his nose into your hair. Delicate fingers traced the skin at the top of your spine and you shuddered beneath his touch.

Neither of you said anything as you stilled in your small moment.

Eventually, Aaron released your hand and leaned back. “Are you okay?” he asked and at the worry in his voice, you turned around to face him.

He was already outfitted in his vest, his earpiece hanging around his neck while his sidearm sat on his hip as always. He looked down at you with concern in those beautiful eyes of his. In that silent locker room, all you wanted to do was hold his face between your hands, but you had a job to do.

“I’m fine,” you assured him.

“Are you sure? If you need more time, I can have you run communications from here,” he said. You gave him a small smile, fighting to keep your hands at your sides.

“Aaron,” you breathed and his eyes locked onto yours, nearly taking your breath away entirely, “I’m okay. I promise.” Hotch nodded and then handed you an earpiece.

“Alright,” he said, smoothing his hands down your arms before stepping away. “Let’s go. You’re riding with me.”

————

Following Aaron out to the SUVs you placed your earpiece into your ear and double-checked your weapon. Morgan, Emily, JJ, and Perotta were taking one SUV, while you, Rossi, Reid, and Hotch took the other. Sliding in next to Spencer, you pushed up your sleeves and caught a glimpse of the scar that now permanently marked your arm. Spencer was watching you, but you ignored him as Hotch started the engine and began driving towards Belltown.

On the way there, Garcia called the entire team. “Okay, superheroes,” she said in greeting, “I have the 411 on our guy. Alan Rhett, thirty-two-years-old, born in Spokane and moved to the big city only a couple years ago. He’s worked for Ground Express for the past six months and before that never really held a steady job.”

“What else?” JJ asked.

“Well, this guy is smart and by smart, I mean crazy smart! He holds two degrees, one in art history and the other in structural engineering. I wouldn’t put it past him to have his place enforced with some kind of fancy doodads,” said Garcia.

“I hate when they’re smart,” Rossi said and you smirked.

“Garcia, is there any history with a woman in his life?” Reid asked.

“Definitely, my tall friend,” Penelope said. “When Alan was seven, his mother went missing for almost two weeks. It turned out that she had fallen into a vat of chemicals at the factory that she worked at. It ended up preserving her body until the foreman found her a week and half after she died. Yikes, it says she drowned in the stuff.”

“Well, there’s the stressor,” you said. “But what was the trigger? It couldn’t have just been that one painting.”

“From the medical reports I am seeing, it looks like after his mother died, dad just shoved him onto his grandmother who wasn’t the nicest of people. She blamed Alan for his mother’s death and even abused him at times. Oh god, she used to burn him with hot candle wax,” Garcia said.

“Garcia, what happened to the grandmother?” Hotch asked.

“One second,” Penelope said, “oh, she died one week before Mason Walker was killed.”

“There’s the trigger,” Spencer said.

“When we get on scene,” Hotch began, “Dave and Prentiss, I want you to take the Westside while Morgan and Perotta take the East. JJ and Reid take the back. (Y/L/N) and I are going to go through the front. Our priority is finding Allison. There is a good chance she is still alive.”

“One more thing,” Garcia said. “It seems there is a firearm registered in the unsub’s name and according to his bank records, he bought ammo for it just before Mason’s abduction.”

“He won’t hesitate to shoot his way out,” Morgan reminded everyone.

“Which makes him that much more dangerous,” said Hotch. “Everyone needs to be vigilant and remember this usub is smart and is unhinged.”

“Stay safe and come home,” Garcia said.

“Always,” Rossi said and then you arrived at the loft.

————

The team split up into the designated teams and after speaking with SWAT and Perotta’s men, you entered the building.

The loft was a solitary unit on an abandoned street. Everything else around it was either torn down or foreclosed. You kept close to Hotch as you two entered the front of the building. SWAT officers took the side corridors as you and Aaron moved into the main building.

Keeping your guns up, you had his back, keeping the both of you safe as you cleared each room. At the end of the main hallway, a pair of double doors stood ajar. You ran ahead, bracing your hand on the door handle. You waited for Hotch’s signal. He kept his gun balanced and then nodded to you.

With a swift pull, the door opened and Hotch rushed in. You followed close by, ready to cover him at all costs. However, when you both entered the secondary hallway, it was empty of threat. Though, something else had made you both pause. “What the hell…” you whispered as you slowly lowered your gun.

The dark corridor was speckled with electric torches that created an eerie glow. The walls were painted a dark charcoal color and dripping down every inch of them was thick, red wax. The same wax that Rhett had covered his victims in.

“Do you think he considers this art?” You asked Hotch as you began walking again.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Aaron said, keeping away from the wax. The entire scene looked like something out of a horror movie. You suddenly felt very closed in as if the walls were moving toward you. Swallowing thickly, you tried to stay focused as you followed him.

At the end of the hallway, there was another door. Light was coming from the crack at the bottom and you could smell something...putrid. You and Hotch moved towards it. Aaron’s face was full of determination as he scanned your surroundings. The rest of your team were speaking in your ears, explaining that they were clearing rooms.

The two of you had stayed silent since entering the wax-filled hallway. Pressing your ear against the door, you tried to hear anything that would indicate what was on the other side, but nothing was reading through the thick wood. You shook your head at Hotch. You then tried the doorknob and it didn’t budge. Stepping back, you gave Aaron some room. He braced himself and then with a sharp kick of his right leg, the door gave way and Aaron rushed forward.

The next moment moved in slow motion. As soon as the door flew open, you had a split second to react. Reaching out, you grabbed Hotch before he even realized why you were doing it. Dropping your weapon, you took hold of his arm and pulled him backwards into you. He stumbled but held onto you as you steadied him.

You were flush against him as you gripped him tight. He was breathing heavily, as were you, as you stared at one another. Your breath mingled with his as you tried to keep your heart rate under control. You failed miserably. His eyes were on yours as if he was drinking you in and for a fraction of a second, his gaze turned to your lips that were slightly parted.

You wanted to enjoy the moment, but the air hit your nose and it was near acidic. Breaking the gaze, you looked to your left and your mouth fell open. “Hotch…” you whispered. You reached up and took hold of his chin, turning his face towards the open doorway.

Confused, he fully turned and saw what had you shocked. On the other side of the door, the ground was nonexistent. The floor was dug out significantly and now resembled a very deep Olympic-sized swimming pool. The red wax-filled this room as well and at the bottom of the pit were four skeletons and two other bodies that were well beyond recognition. All six sets of remains had been coated in the unsub’s signature blend of wax and clay.

“Morgan and I were right,” you whispered in horror, “he’s been doing this for a while.” Hotch shook his head in disgust as he looked around the hallway behind you when he spotted something the two of you had missed.

“There,” he said, gesturing to another door that was ajar just to the right of the mass grave you now stood above. Hotch leaned down and grabbed your gun, placing it in your hand. “Are you with me?”

“Always,” you said without hesitation, and then the two of you disappeared through the door as the smell of death and decay followed after you into the darkness.

———

The rest of the hallways were void of the horror show from the first.

Whatever the building had been before Rhett had taken it as his home, it definitely wasn’t usually inhabited by people. Rats scurried at your feet and you fought the urge to shoot every single one. Pushing through the final set of doors, you met up with Rossi and Prentiss who had entered from the other side.

“Anything?” Prentiss asked.

“We have more bodies,” Hotch explained. “He’s been doing this for longer than we thought.” Prentiss grimaced and then a muffled cry drew your attention followed by a crash. All four of you ran towards the sound that came from behind a partition at the far side of the room. Rossi and Hotch tossed it aside and there, lying on a surgical table, was Allison Wilson. A funnel was placed into her mouth as she was strapped down and fighting her restraints.

You ran to her side, pulling the contraption out of her throat as Emily released her bonds. Allison was crying as you held onto her. “It’s okay, Allison, we’re the FBI,” you told her, helping her sit up.

“Thank you, thank you,” she sobbed.

“Where is he?” Hotch asked. Allison pointed to a stairwell.

“Roof,” she croaked out. “He has a gun.” Prentiss took hold of Allison, calling for medics while Rossi urged you and Hotch to go after the unsub while he secured the scene. You and Aaron raced for the stairwell.

“Rhett is heading to the roof,” Hotch said to the others over the coms.

“On our way,” JJ said back. You took the stairs two at a time as you prepared yourselves for what you were running into. Breaking through the roof access door, you were immediately met with gunfire. You and Aaron dove for cover behind the air conditioning unit, hitting the ground hard.

“You okay?” Aaron asked, checking you over. You nodded and then rolled to the other side, ready to fire back as needed. You took calming breaths as the phantom shots were now very much real. Aaron gestured for you to flank Rhett from the left and you move silently along the roof.

“Alan Rhett!” Hotch yelled. “It’s over! We found your other victims and we have Allison!”

“You have nothing!” Rhett yelled back.

“We also have Terry Owens!” you said. “Remember him? The man you tortured?”

“He was a coward. They all are!”

“Who is ‘they’, Alan?” you asked.

“Everyone!” he shouted and you peeked around the corner and saw Rhett was waving his gun back and forth, trying to target you and Hotch. His hands were covered in the wax and his eyes were wild.

“How did you get the women to cooperate, Alan?” Hotch asked. “Did you threaten them?”

“It was easy,” Rhett said with a laugh. “I knew where they lived with their precious families.” You cringed at his words. His ruse was simple, threaten the victims’ family and you’ll get them to do anything. It was textbook. “Doesn’t matter. They were going to leave their families anyways!”

“Like your mother left you?” Hotch asked, getting to his feet and moving to be in Rhett’s line of sight. You followed his movements on the other side of the unsub.

“Shut up!” Rhett yelled. “Don’t talk about her!”

“It was an accident, Alan,” you said as he looked wildly at you. “She didn’t leave you on purpose.”

“She did! They all do!”

“Is that why you kill the women the way you do? To preserve them as art?” you asked, taking a couple of steps closer to him.

“(Y/N),” Hotch warned, but you ignored him.

“You wanted them to be beautiful and for them to be eternal like paintings. Right?” Rhett was nodding. “I saw your work downstairs. It was very nice,” you said, trying to find a thread to pull on.

“You think so?” he asked, his gaze falling on you as if he wasn’t quite looking at you.

“Yes, Alan,” you said. “You are a true artist. Why don’t you put the gun down and you can show me more?” Rhett was smiling at you now, but his gun never wavered.

“They were my best work,” he said. “I worked so hard on them, but I never did seem to be able to get them just right.” Hotch moved in closer as you faced down the killer. “You know what? You would be so perfect,” Rhett said before turning his gun on you. You didn’t have time to react as a gunshot echoed around you.

However, when it was over and you checked yourself, there wasn’t a scratch on you. Instead, Rhett lay on the ground with a single bullet hole in his forehead as Hotch stood with his gun raised, breathing hard. “Hotch!” Morgan’s voice came as he, JJ, Perotta, and Reid came running across the roof from the Southside.

“We’re okay!” Hotch yelled back. Morgan reached you first, grabbing your arm.

“I’m okay,” you promised him. He then went to check on Hotch as Reid and JJ went to you. “Son of a bitch was gonna shoot me,” you said.

“You seem to be making that a habit,” Spencer said, giving you a hug. “Let’s try to break that, okay?”

“Yeah, Doc,” you said, squeezing him back. “I like that idea a lot.”

------

Once you were back on the street, you went to find Allison.

You got there just as the medics were loading her into the ambulance. Emily was with her, holding her hand the whole time. The ringing of the gunshot was still fresh in your mind, but you were slowly calming down as everything was coming to a close. The killer was dead, Allison was safe, and now you had the opportunity to give closure to even more families from the victims you found on the first floor.

“Not a bad first case back,” Rossi said as he joined you.

“If you say so,” you said with a shrug. Rossi pulled you into his side and you rested your head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“For what?” he asked.

“For being you,” you said simply. Rossi squeezed you tighter.

“Any time, kid.”

Spotting Perotta, you excused yourself and headed over to the detective.

“Detective Perotta,” you greeted. He turned to you with a smile.

“Good work, Agent (Y/L/N),” he said. “I can’t thank you and your team enough. I can’t even imagine what would have happened if he had continued.”

“You would have caught him eventually,” you assured him.

“More people would have died without the BAU and for that, I am grateful for your help,” he said and then offered his hand. You took it, shaking it twice.

“Good luck with everything, Perotta,” you said and then turned to go. As you headed to the SUVs, you caught sight of Aaron as he spoke with the police chief. Your eyes met his and you smiled at him. He gave you his signature smirk and nodded. Ducking your head, you got in the car and let all the tension in your body sink into the leather seats. You were ready to go home.

-------

You were the first one on the jet.

You sat in your seat, leaning back as you waited for the rest of the team. When the door opened, you expected to see Emily or Spencer, but instead, it Aaron and he was alone. “Hey,” you greeted, sitting up straighter. Hotch placed his bag down and then joined you, sitting next to you in the plush chairs. “Where is everyone?”

“They’re on their way,” he said, peeling off his jacket and laying it over the back of his seat. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I just needed a moment alone, you know? Collect my thoughts,” you said and he nodded.

“How are you really?” he asked with a knowing look. You sighed, unable to resist him, especially when he looked at you with those wonderful eyes of his.

“I’m still a bit shaken,” you admit.

“I figured,” Aaron said softly. The two of you just sat there for a moment, listening to the pilot doing his pre-checks and you were reminded of the moment in the locker room. It now seemed like a lifetime ago rather than just this afternoon. Aaron had never been so...open with you. You longed for his touch now. Even if it was something as subtle as tucking a piece of hair behind your ear. The thought alone made your skin feel as if it was on fire. “You did well today,” he complimented, taking you out of your thoughts.

“So did you,” you said.

“I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and then his fingers trailed along the scar that spanned along your arm. His touch felt like electricity as he moved back and forth.

“Thank you, Aaron,” you said softly. “Thank you for having my back today.” His fingers stilled on your arm and then they moved towards your hand. His movements were methodical and he was taking his time just as he had earlier at the precinct.

“We make a good team, don’t we?” he asked, looking at you from under his lashes. Just as you had before, you rotated your hand and laced your fingers with his.

“Yeah, we do,” you said and then swallowed thickly. Aaron’s thumb began rubbing circles along the back of your hand and then he slowly lifted his other hand to your cheek. You didn’t breathe as he moved in closer. Aaron pressed his nose against yours, tilting your head up so he could get a better angle, and then, he kissed you.

It was as if fireworks were going off inside your head, replacing the barrage of gunfire with bright colors. Aaron kissed you with a tenderness you didn’t even know he was capable of. His hand left yours and came up to cup the other side of your face. Instead of fire, all you felt was warmth as Aaron Hotchner held you. You kissed him back with as much emotion as you could muster at that moment.

Eventually, he pulled back and his warm breath cascaded over your lips. Leaning his forehead against yours, he smiled. “It’s about time that happened,” you said with a smile of your own. Aaron chuckled, leaning back slightly, but keeping his hands on the sides of your neck.

“I’d have done it sooner if I had picked up on your...subtleties,” he said, his thumbs rubbing against your skin. You tilted your head to the side slightly, looking up at him.

“And I thought you were a profiler,” you teased. Aaron raised a brow, leaning in again.

“Funny,” he said, “I thought the same thing about you.” His lips met yours again and this kiss was anything but tender. Hotch gripped you tighter as he kissed you with a fierceness only he had. You gripped him by the shoulders, pulling him even closer to you. Aaron nudged your lips apart as he explored your mouth further, savoring the way the two of you just fit perfectly together. Your hands crawled up his neck, fingers cascading through his dark hair.

You had imagined many times what it would feel like to be kissed by Aaron Hotchner, but nothing had prepared you for the real thing. He was gentle and passionate and every move he made had you sinking into him further. It was the best kind of high you had ever experienced.

When you both had to breathe, you pulled back, and with kiss-swollen lips, you pecked him once more. “So, does this mean that I pass my eval?” you asked with a smirk. Aaron rolled his eyes.

“It was never in question, (Y/N),” he admitted, “I just needed an excuse to be close to you.”

“Weren’t very subtle about it, Aaron,” you teased.

“I knew you’d catch on eventually,” he said with a smile. Aaron kissed you again until he heard the team approaching and then he pulled back with a sigh. “How long do you think we have before they all figure it out?” he asked.

“Rossi already knows,” you said, leaning away from him.

“Does he?” Aaron asked, amused.

“Apparently, I am a lot easier to read than I first thought,” you said with a shrug. Aaron reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, letting his touch linger before pulling away.

“On the contrary, I find you very difficult to read.”

“Is that so?” you asked, intrigued. He nodded.

“However, I am very much looking forward to learning how.” You smiled at his words just as the team boarded, talking animatedly. The two of you smoothed your shirts and hair before anyone noticed anything, but Dave had caught you immediately. Rossi winked at the both of you and you thought you would die of embarrassment right there, but then, you felt a warm hand on your leg. Hotch gripped your thigh, rubbing it soothingly and you felt calmer already.

The rest of the team followed Rossi onto the jet, completely oblivious to what had just transpired onboard. Rossi sat across from you and Hotch so you could be close to one another just in case another member of the team caught something. You would have liked at least the next six hours to be just about you and Hotch and hopefully, they would be.

Leaning back in your seat, Hotch kept his hand on you at all times and as you flew across the country, light began to shine through the small breaks in the window shudders and at that moment, you had never felt more at peace.

“Sunrise is the reminder that we can start new beginning all over again." - Rupal Asodaria

#Criminal Minds #Cm #cm imagines #CM Season 7 #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotch x reader #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner #Hotch imagine #hotch #hotch x reader #bau reader #baubabble #BAU #reader insert #profiler reader

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sondepoch · 4 years

Text

Dance (Diavolo x Reader)

Of all the arts, dance is the most wonderful. And of all the entertainers that Lord Diavolo has seen in his time on the throne, you know that you will be the one to capture his interest. The art of dance is simply too beautiful, and you are simply too good at it. But while Diavolo doubtlessly appreciates your skill, he seems to be developing an interest in something else: you.

~Oneshot

MASTERLIST

It's about the movement. The hips as they trace the most exotic of shapes; the hands as they push and pull like the tides; the back as it arches over a bridge of emotion.

It's about the expression. The eyes as they lock with every viewer; the breathing as it falls in line with the beat; the sultry smiles as they disappear quicker than they arrive.

It's about the energy. The flames of passion that burn inside; the overwhelming zeal that overcomes all exhaustion; the eternal spirit of vivacity that never truly stops.

Dance.

Your eyes burn with passion at the very word, a sudden itch to break out into movement overwhelming your senses. But this is not the time for that. You keep your body perfectly still as you walk forward, each step taken so gracefully that it looks like you're floating.

"You are nervous," Barbatos comments, halting before the door that will doubtlessly lead you to the demon lord. He glances back at you from the corner of his eye.

To the ordinary observer, his face is perfectly placid: not a drop of emotion anywhere on the flawless skin. But you are a dancer, trained in the art of expression. Even he cannot hide the soft affection that lurks in the deep greens of his eyes.

"I am," You respond. "But only because I have not yet begun."

The edges of his lips curve upward at that, and Barbatos pushes open the door leading inside the hall. It's almost entirely empty, sparsely decorated with the skulls of various animals, and on another occasion, you might stop to marvel at them—but not right now. After all, why would you look at the bones of the dead when something much more magnificent and very much alive stands right in front of you?

Your eyes purposefully rise from the butler's shoulder, stealing a glance at the demon lord that you've seen so many sculptures of.

He is even more majestic in the flesh.

Lord Diavolo's presence is overwhelming. You can feel his gaze on you as you train your eyes on the floor, respectfully bowing as low as you can manage. It's a practiced move, one your body learned to perfection when you were just a child, but you can't help but think that bowing has never been more important in your life than now.

"Rise," Lord Diavolo orders, his deep voice filling the hall. It almost sounds like music, you think, quietly realizing that it would be the most whole sound you've ever danced to. Beautiful, rich music.

"Look at me."

You raise your eyes.

Millennia of training have made it such that your neutral face truly is expressionless, all your emotion reserved for when your body breaks forth into dance. But it's never been more difficult to keep a still face than now, as you try to hide your awe. The prince's eyes are unlike anything you've ever seen: burning a brilliant orange, bright as amber but dipped in bronze all the same, two intense suns that seem to light up the room when you look into them.

The eyes of a king.

You maintain your neutral expression, not failing to recognize the way the demon lord stares at you for longer than is necessary, likely trying to make you uncomfortable. But you know that it's simply a ruse to see if you will break, as the many who have come before you.

You remain still, unflinching as the prince observes you.

If what Barbatos has told you is true, then this is the moment where the prince makes his first decision: whether to give you a chance or not. It is an honor to entertain the demon lord, acting king of the Devildom. Only one in a thousand make it past this threshold, and many of your childhood teachers had been turned away by this man's father, told that their hearts were too weak to properly hold the demon lord's interest.

But after a moment, Lord Diavolo's eyes lose the cold, calculating look that attempts to see into the soul you've hidden away so carefully, and the oranges fade into a softer shade, one of acceptance and anticipation.

"Dance."

The first test is passed.

The moment the word falls from the prince's lips, the sound of his command is replaced by the jingle of the bells laced around your feet.

You see his eyes widen, evidently not having noticed that they were even there in the first place—though that's more a testament to your personal skill than the demon lord's own attention to detail.

Where you had once held your feet perfectly steady, letting them practically melt into the ground as you walked and hid the presence of the chimes that wrap around your ankles, you now set them free, embracing the movement that you yearned for not five minutes ago. Your legs jump and lift and kick and spin, every motion accompanied by a particular sound that forms the rhythm to which your arms move. You close your eyes, allowing your feet to fall into a new beat, one that is eternally changing, as is fit for someone who wishes to eternally entertain a prince.

You forget the fear you had when entering this room—why were you nervous in the first place? Of all the arts, dance is the most wonderful. And of all the entertainers that Lord Diavolo has seen in his time on the throne, you know you will be the one to capture his interest. For even if he does not care for the personality you have hidden away, it is impossible to lose interest in the art of dance. Particularly, your dance.

A confident smile springs to your lips as you lock eyes with the demon lord. He hides his expressions well, even better than Barbatos. But none can hide from a dancer. You are one with expression, and only the dead can keep secrets from you. The silent wonder in Lord Diavolo's eyes as he watches your body move sets your insides afire with bliss, heart blazing with euphoria.

You turn your body, breaking eye contact with the prince in favor of returning your attention to your dance. You do not move to a routine, or any preset motions that inhibit your ability to be free. No, the dance you perform for Lord Diavolo is unlike one the world has ever seen. Unlike one you have ever seen.

It is a dance fit for a king: masterful, unique, and utterly irreplicable.

Your clothes move perfectly around you, a second skin that adds flourish to your movements. You utilize every fabric on your body to enhance your dance. Nothing is wasted; nothing is forgotten. Even the single earring that dangles from your left ear is purposeful, moving to the beat as your neck arches.

Perfection.

A hand thrust outward raises the white silk draped around your shoulders up, and it falls delicately as your arm withdraws, only for the same process to repeat on your other arm. All the while, the loose fabric of your pants fills with air, lifting and dropping to make you look less like a demon and more like a magnificent dove, flapping your wings in the most mesmerizing dance Lord Diavolo has ever seen.

You spin, relishing in the way the tips of your hair fly up as you do so. The single earring on your left ear dangles dangerously, and you can tell that Lord Diavolo is waiting for it to fall, waiting for you to make a mistake that will compel him to send you out of his throne room, yet the pearl only taunts him, swaying like a pendulum as your body arches seductively.

No.

You pull yourself back, drawing your body into a spin to cover up what would have been a move far too bold for someone of your stature, returning your dance to the quick jumps and deft movements that flaunt your agility, continuing on in that fashion.

By the time the hour has ended, there are droplets of sweat running down your face, falling onto the stone floor that your bare feet never touch for too long.

But you're far from tired.

Every movement is exhilarating, muscles only burning brighter with need as you flex them and withdraw, every fiber of your being longing to do more.

But Lord Diavolo stops you.

"Enough."

The word rings loudly in the room, and the chime of the bells around your ankles isn't heard once after his order falls upon your ears, your body instantly moving to obey as you spin into a bow, low on one knee as you touch the floor with your hands and keep your eyes closed.

You don't need to look at the prince to know that he is still entirely enraptured by your performance.

"Barbatos, let us leave. It is time for the student council meeting."

You keep your gaze pointed at the ground to avoid any potential offense to the demon lord, not daring to take so much as a heavy breath in his presence. The sound of receding footsteps ends with the slam of a door, and you stay looking at the ground for a little while longer, before you consider it safe to raise your head.

Stunning, you think, gazing at the throne where the demon lord sat, watching you. Truly a throne fit for a king.

You glance around the room, eyes darting from skeleton to skeleton. At the front, on the right side and closest to the prince's throne, is the skull of a dragon. It's immense, easily double your height and twice as long, and it almost makes you wish you were older, so that you might have seen one of these magnificent creatures in the flesh.

Next to the dragon skull is the head of what you can only imagine to be a sea serpent, from the winding neck that has partially broken off. Behind that is the infamous Kraken, and further behind are a series of small unicorns—you know from your history lessons that those are the bones of the last ones to walk the hells—and you're just about to glance at the skulls on the other side when the sound of a door opening falls upon your ears.

You quickly turn your head back to the ground, staring forward with your usual unreadable mask adorned.

"I saw that," A voice calls, somewhat mischievous. And the laid-back inflection of the words confirms that the man is alone, and you spring to your feet, dropping your mask of composure.

"Barbatos!" You exclaim, turning around with a wide grin. The tension you had in your shoulders when you both were entering is now gone, and nothing restrains your usual cheer. You run over to him, the bells on your feet jingling with every step, and throw your arms around his neck, nearly tackling him to the floor.

"Easy," He murmurs into your ear, still reserved compared to you, but you can see a slight twinkle in his eyes as he holds you. "Lord Diavolo instructed me to see you back to your quarters. He seems to be worried that you tired yourself out earlier."

"Didn't you tell him that—"

"Of course I informed him that you would never tire so easily. But the prince has never had a dancer for his entertainer, so he did not believe me."

You chuckle at that, understanding where Lord Diavolo is coming from. Perhaps, when you were younger, you might have been tired after a full hour of nonstop movement. But now? You often practice from early morning till late night, challenging yourself to never leave your feet on the ground for more than a few seconds at a time for as long as there are demons up and about.

"And did the prince say anything else?" You ask quietly, following Barbatos as he leads you out of the room. "Like…" You swallow, bashfully turning away.

"Do you really need to hear it?" Barbatos lets out a low chuckle, pausing in his footsteps to look back at you. "If you must know, yes, Lord Diavolo has requested to see you tomorrow as well."

"Yes!" You shout, jumping. Glee washes over you like a tidal wave, encompassing all your senses as you ignore every thought of propriety to wrap Barbatos in another crushing hug, causing him to momentarily stagger as you cling to him like a koala.

"Cease this. You are heavy enough as is, and those bells on your feet add far too much weight. Gods know how you manage to walk in those," He mutters, pushing you away from him as he leads you to what you imagine must be your chambers.

But even as he feigns a look of displeasure, you can see the way Barbatos suppresses a smile at your antics, and when he catches you staring at him, he turns his face away altogether, knowing that you can see past his facade.

"Anyway," He coughs, using a key to unlock a stony door located close to the throne room. "This will be your room. You will only be staying in here if Lord Diavolo explicitly tells you to rest or if there are guests in the throne room. Otherwise, you will be expected to remain in the throne room at all times, just as you had remained when we left."

You nod your head, following along.

"Make sure that you are ready at a moment's notice to entertain Lord Diavolo. There will be times when he will call for you, and you will not be prepared. Should such a thing happen, drop everything immediately and go to him. He will know if you keep him waiting, and he will replace you instantly should you be insolent enough to do so."

Barbatos's tone is sharp, his instructions painfully meticulous and to-the-point as he continues to fill your ears with explanations of how to behave around the prince, how to act when in the presence of others, how to conduct yourself while in the palace.

"And remember," He tells you, voice slightly softer. "Do your best, but should you make any mistake, come to me. No matter what, I will fix it." The demon brings a hand to your cheek, forcing you to meet his uncharacteristically gentle eyes. "There are no lengths I won't go to for the sake of your happiness."

"I know, Barbatos." You wrap him into a hug. "You've proven that."

***

Diavolo is quick to learn the extent of your capabilities.

The first day, where he had you dance for an hour and then sent you to your room to rest? That was a one-time thing. On the second day, he crossed his arms in front of you and ordered you with that bellowing voice of his to "Dance," and so you did. Only that time, he did not stop you. Nor did he take his eyes off of you. From morning to evening, you danced for him, transitioning from a high-paced rhythm to a slow ballet in the middle to even a human-style dance at the end, which seemed to hold him particularly enthralled.

Only when the demon called Lucifer came in to speak with him did he permit you to take a temporary break, but his eyes lit up when he saw the grace with which you fell to your knees, quickly realizing that despite having danced for hours, you still had energy in you.

Since then, he hasn't held back in the slightest, ordering you to dance in every spare moment he has.

Barbatos tells you that it's a good thing, that it means you've managed to give him something to look forward to in his otherwise boring life. That you've blessed his immortal curse with your presence, and he's finally found something he can enjoy.

Yet the longer you dance for Lord Diavolo, the more his eyes take the shape of a predator.

"Dance," He orders you today, not hiding the way his eyes skirt over your body, lingering on the spots of exposed skin. It makes you shudder, the way he gazes at you as if you're a feast—and yet it sets your senses aflame all the same, and when your feet begin moving, the dance you perform is more sensual than anything you've ever shown this man.

You close your eyes purposefully, drawing in a sharp breath that you make certain Diavolo can hear as you arch your back, leaning back until your hair sweeps the floor, before pushing upward and using the momentum to pull you into a spin.

As your body turns, though, your eyes drop from Diavolo and you catch the gaze of Barbatos as he stares at you in shock, never having seen you move so suggestively.

Your eyes widen momentarily, and for a moment, you almost worry that you'll fall off-beat, but then Barbatos's expression is masked and you force yourself to complete the turn, propelling your leg forward as you fall in rhythm and try to transition the dance into something more light. More childish. More appropriate.

"Stop," Lord Diavolo orders. You spin into a bow once more, one knee on the ground as you stare at the stones on your feet, wondering whether the demon lord saw how you almost slipped up.

For the first time since you began dancing for him, your body feels tense with fear as you try to calm the sick feeling in your stomach.

"Leave us, Barbatos."

There's a moment of hesitation—and you can almost sense Barbatos's immediate fury at the prince's words for making such a cruel command. For forcing him to leave the room, for forcing him to leave you alone to handle the prince's whims. And yet, the demon butler can do nothing but obey, and you hear his footsteps trail out of the room, punctuated by the sound of a door closing with such gentleness that you can sense the resentful mockery behind the gesture.

"Rise. And speak. Does having Barbatos here disturb you?" The demon lord's sharp gaze bores into you as you rise to stand in a single, fluid motion. The man's expression is something between disdain and indifference, and you realize that you have no clue what he is thinking—and that the truth will have to suffice.

"No, my lord."

"You looked at Barbatos and changed your dance. Why?"

You remain silent for a moment, a single millisecond of hesitation that Lord Diavolo recognizes. Your mask only crumbled for a second, but that was all he needed.

His face flashes with amusement.

"Ah. You did not wish for your brother to see you perform such movements."

You keep your face still, perfectly expressionless as Lord Diavolo lets out a throaty chuckle. Genuine amusement seems to appear on his features. For the first time, you're relieved for your utterly unreadable face, because you know that if not for it, you would be blushing in embarrassment at having compromised your dance for such a foolish reason, and the demon lord would only laugh louder at your state.

"Very well. Your heart was in the correct place. You dance for me, not him. It is not fitting for Barbatos to bear witness to what you wish to present to my eyes." The prince stares at you thoughtfully, studying your blank face. "Would it please you if he remains out of the room in the future?"

"I am pleased by whatever my lord would prefer."

"How boring," He comments, though his eyes are filled with amusement. For the first time, he looks at you as if you are more than a body moving and dancing to his will, seeing that there is indeed a person inside.

But he does not forget why you are here.

"Dance," He commands.

And without your brother staring at your back, you don't restrain any of your charm as your movements resume, slow and sensual.

You dance late into the night, the purple silks around you flying brilliantly as you make your movements as big as possible, flaunting your confidence as every movement falls into place. The jut of your hips, the batting of your eyes, the smirk on your lips. It's all intentional, and though the game you're playing is a dangerous one, it's one that Lord Diavolo seems to enjoy, for he keeps you by his side longer than he ever has before.

When he finally instructs you to stop, his instructions are clear: "Tell your brother he will not be joining us from now on."

But the words that follow ring louder in your mind, accelerating the beating of your heart in a way that exercise has never done.

"And when you come dance for me tomorrow, I want you to dance for me the same way you just did."

***

Barbatos's scowl the next morning is unlike anything you've ever seen before.

Unlike the usual mornings, where he comes to your room and helps you adorn the traditional garb of demon dancers while casually talking to you, today, he remains dead silent as he pulls the black fabric over your shoulders.

He's still putting forth his best effort to help you, tying the finishing knot with more skill than you've ever managed to procure, but the air around him is angry as he works, and you can tell that he resents the idea of you dancing for Lord Diavolo without him there to make sure that you're not being taken advantage of.

"Don't be mad," You tell him when he steps back, crossing his arms and leaving you to tie the string of bells around your feet. "There's nothing either of us can do."

Silence.

"Barbatos!"

You groan when you look up to see his body angled away from you, mouth set in a firm frown. You finish tying the bells around your first foot and move on to the second.

"You can be awfully stubborn, do you know that?"

More silence.

You internally roll your eyes, rushing to finish tying the knot before you stand, testing that both sets of bells are equally tight around your legs.

But more importantly—

You step forward to wrap Barbatos in a tight hug from behind, making sure that he can feel every emotion in your body as you squeeze him. "I'll be fine," You tell him. "You've taught me how to look after myself."

There's not much time left after that, given that Lord Diavolo can never be kept waiting, but just as you're about to exit the room, Barbatos grabs your arm.

"Be careful," He warns. "Don't do anything too suggestive, and don't—"

You place a finger to your big brother's lips, silencing him instantly. "I won't."

"If he makes you uncomfortable, call my name and I will be there instantly." He clasps your hands, his solemn expression especially heavy. "Promise me."

You sigh softly at his overprotectiveness, running a hand through his dark green hair. "I trust you, Barbatos." You pull back. "But I also trust Lord Diavolo."

Before he can say another word to you, you pull away from his grasp and set yourself in a brisk walk, rushing to make your way to the throne room.

As you've been doing for nearly a month now, you enter without a word and move forward, taking steps so delicate that the bells on your feet are still as you silently glide to your usual spot.

You haven't even bowed by the time Lord Diavolo has started speaking, the same word—dance—rolling off his lips. He says it so smoothly that you feel he was born to say it, born to command you to captivate him for all eternity.

The word still lights your blood with the same fire it did before, and your lips curve upward as you drag your leg out and draw a circle with it, leaning forward and pulling your body dangerously close to Lord Diavolo's for a single moment before withdrawing.

That's a dangerous game you're playing, he seems to say with his devilish smile. But for once, you aren't forced to maintain a blank mask as you boldly gaze upon the king. No, the dance has set you free, and all your emotions come rushing to the surface of your face in the name of expression, including the wicked smirk that tells the prince you want to play this game.

"Stop," Lord Diavolo orders, and though you're surprised, you fall to a bow as usual.

"Rise." You do.

"Come forward." Two steps.

"More." Two more steps.

"Closer." One step.

The prince pauses, studying the distance between the two of you. There's hardly any, now, and if you reach your arm forward, you can actually touch him for how close his body is to yours.

He leans back in his chair, resting his chin on his elbow as he studies you up close, taking his time to look over your features.

Panic surfaces in the back of your mind, suddenly understanding that this is how the prince means to play.

"Dance," He orders, now confident that he has won.

And while you are now restricted in your movements, limited to how far you can push yourself, you move to tell him no, he has not won. Because the caged bird sings loudest, and now, with no distance to sully it, the song of the bells on your feet rings clearer than the prince has ever heard.

***

Black? Or White?

It's a simple question, but a dilemma all the same, and you cross your arms as you stand in your underwear, debating which pajamas you should wear to sleep.

The black is softer, you reason with yourself. But the white fits better.

You hold the different shirts against your body, checking how you look in the mirror in case it has any answers that will end your internal crisis.

Alas, your reflection seems to be no help to you, and you groan, tossing both sets of clothes onto the floor as you flop onto your bed, wondering if you'll simply sleep in your underwear instead.

Your pondering is cut short when a burning sensation fills your heart: something warm, fuzzy, and incredibly royal as it pulsates throughout the rest of your body.

The prince, you realize instantly, not quite sure how you know that this is him calling, but there isn't a trace of doubt in your mind. The prince is summoning you.

Blindly grabbing the shirt closest to you (which so happens to be the black one), you fumble with the buttons, trying to undo them so that you can pull the fabric over your head and look at least semi-decent when you run to the throne room to answer his summons. But just as your fingers have undone the first button, Barbatos's words to you when you first arrived ring out in your ears.

There will be times when he will call for you, and you will not be prepared. Should such a thing happen, drop everything immediately and go to him. He will know if you keep him waiting, and he will replace you instantly should you be insolent enough to do so.

You drop the shirt, glancing down at your body. Your most private bits are covered up by underwear, but…

No. You shake your head, yanking the door open and breaking out into a jog to arrive in the throne room before Lord Diavolo realizes that you were about to keep him waiting. There's no point in going back now.

You force your face to remain blank as you pull open the door, internally relieved that you didn't run into Barbatos along the way, and Lord Diavolo's eyes light up the moment he sees you. It is late now, and whatever filter the prince usually has is gone as he rests his chin on his fist, expression bright as ever.

"Ah! I was concerned that you might not have sensed my magic, but it appears you have." He smiles at you, eyes looking almost kind as they remain trained on your face. "I see you were in a bit of a predicament before arriving here."

His gaze flits down, and you suddenly realize that he knew you were changing even when he summoned you. The mischievous smile on his face says it all.

"You no longer need to await my order to speak in my presence," He informs you. "I wish to hear your thoughts. How do you feel about being here before me?"

"It is the highest honor, my lord."

"Diavolo," He corrects, clicking his tongue.

"Pardon?"

"Call me Diavolo."

"I see. Then, Diavolo…" You test the word on your tongue, not missing the way the demon lord's ears perk up when you say his name. "It is the highest honor to serve you."

"Even if you're in this state of dress? Without those bells on your feet?" He is amused with your attempted indifference to the situation, you can tell. No doubt, he recognizes that this is just a facade and that you're dying on the inside. But nonetheless, you find a response for him.

"A dancer can dance in anything," You declare. "The garb I usually wear is one that enhances the visual appeal of a specific style of movements. There are dances that complement these clothes as well, my lo—Diavolo."

The demon smiles at your correction, but he sees through your words.

"You are a very composed person," He comments. "Tell me, my royal dancer, why do you pretend like you have no emotions?"

A taunting question. Lord Diavolo may appear relaxed and comfortable, but his mind is sharp as ever.

The game the two of you play never stops. Whether you are simply speaking or are dancing, there is the eternal toying with each other, testing each other to see how far the other will go.

"A dancer must save their emotions for dance," You respond.

Dance, and the ones they love.

Your natural smile will only reveal itself to two people: your brother, and whoever may capture your heart.

"Do you like having your emotions surface as you dance?" Diavolo asks, his eyes never leaving yours.

"I love it."

"I see," He leans back in his chair. "Then," He begins, and you already know what comes next.

"Dance."

***

He's trying to crack your shell, you realize.

He's trying to make you show expression outside of when you dance.

And, if you're honest, Diavolo is doing a damn good job of it.

You have to fight your body with all your might to suppress a blush, but it takes nearly all your energy, and you almost begin to worry about what will happen when you have to dance later.

"Are you uncomfortable?" Diavolo asks, and although he has the biggest grin on his face, you suspect that he will release you if you tell him you are.

But a ridiculous mix of stubbornness and actually wanting to remain on his lap compels you to shake your head, holding your body even stiffer as he settles a hand over the side of your waist, effectively caging you in.

"You don't seem very comfortable," He murmurs, almost pouting. "Relax."

You force your muscles to lose a bit of tension, though it's nearly impossible when you realize, once again, that you're literally sitting on the lap of the prince of hell.

"Tell me about your childhood," Diavolo begins. "We have some time before Barbatos expects that guests will arrive. And I expect you already know everything about me. So tell me. What was it like, growing up with Barbatos?"

You do relax a little bit at that, noting the childish grin that Diavolo wears as he not-so-subtly asks you if you have any embarrassing stories of your older brother. Alas, you have to shake your head and deny the prince any answers.

"Barbatos and I were only together for a few centuries before we split apart. I left to study dance when I turned two-hundred."

"Impressive," Diavolo mutters, eyes lighting up as he imagines all that time spent training in a single art. "Did you always know you wanted to pursue dance?"

You nod your head, a small smile forming on your lips.

Expression!

Something screams at the back of your mind, reprimanding you for losing the facade of inexpression that dancers are expected to adorn when they step into their garb, but you can't bring yourself to turn your face blank as Diavolo looks at you so hopefully, and you simply opt to answer his question and leave the soft smile on your face.

You win this one, Diavolo.

"Not always. I thought I would grow up training in sorcery and magic, like Barbatos. But I was never as skilled like he was, and my only gift seemed to be the ability to dance."

Diavolo nods his head, leaning further back in his throne. Meanwhile, you make yourself comfortable in his lap, squirming lightly on his thighs before your bottom is rested more comfortably atop them.

"My family didn't want me to pursue dance. They argued that it had no future. That I would be dropped into the lowest rungs of society. But Barbatos believed in me, and he personally helped find me an instructor and paid for all my lessons until I could finally make a living out of it." You smile, remembering how he, quite literally, changed the course of your life. "He's done so much for me, just so that I could be happy. I owe him everything."

Diavolo remains quiet, his eyes seeing you but not quite seeing you as he gazes at your (h/c) hair, one side streaked with the telltale patch of teal that both you and your brother share.

"Barbatos is a good man," The prince decides. "And an even better brother, it would seem."

You smile, slightly proud of your brother for having earned the praise of the demon lord of hell. You open your mouth to respond, but before a sound can leave your lips, a knock echoes through the hall.

"Come in," Diavolo calls, and it opens, revealing the very man you were both talking about.

"The guests have—" He breaks off in the middle of his sentence, eyes narrowing the moment he sees you seated so willingly on Diavolo's lap. The temperature in the room seems to drop by ten degrees. When Barbatos begins speaking again, he doesn't bother hiding the raw fury in his words, only further emphasized by their shortness. "The guests have arrived. They will be in this room shortly."

"Wonderful," Diavolo responds, not reacting at all to the barely concealed growl at the end of Barbatos's words. "Send them in."

You watch as your brother nods curtly, closing the door with far more force than is necessary, and you sigh internally. You would never be bold enough to act so callously around Diavolo, but the man seems like he was almost expecting this, and he only sighs when the echo of the door slam has faded.

"And Barbatos is awfully overprotective of you," Diavolo mutters, a pout forming on his face. "I expect he'll be yelling at me later tonight.

"Yelling at you?" You gasp, never having realized that Barbatos would dare reprimand the prince.

Diavolo nods his head. "Wish me luck," He mutters, using both his hands to lift you by the waist off his lap. He sets you down right next to him, a silent stay there implied as guests begin to file in.

The second they lay their eyes upon you, whispers begin to fill the air.

"Look at that clothing! I've never seen anything like it! What kind of dance do you think they are going to show us?"

"Oh, how exotic! They look positively ravishing! I could just scoop them up and eat them!"

"Why do you think the prince chose to bring his entertainer out? Do you think he might keep this one?"

You don your emotionless facade once more, steeling yourself to help you ignore the rumors that the demons are doing an awful job of whispering. Diavolo glances at you from the corner of his eye every now and then, but you hold your face neutral, and he relaxes once he sees that you can manage yourself.

"My lord!" A noble cries, approaching the throne. The man bows and rises, greeting the prince. "So, the rumors are true! This dancer has caught your interest!"

You ignore the noble and remain facing forward, watching those around you. For a moment, you make eye contact with Barbatos, but neither you nor he has the luxury of letting your emotions surface right now, so the conversation he doubtlessly wants to have with you will have to wait for later.

"Dance for us, child!" The noble looks at you expectantly, eyes bright but foolish, and you have to hide your irritation. You ignore him entirely, staring forward blankly.

He frowns at your disobedience. "What are you waiting for? Dance!"

"They only dance for me," Diavolo interrupts smoothly, the words sharp as a knife as he smiles at the noble who dared command his personal dancer.

He looks at you. A single glance, and that's all it takes to prepare you for his next word.

"Dance."

And you do, effortlessly hypnotizing the entire room the moment you begin moving.

But not once do you meet the eyes of the audience. No, just as Diavolo said earlier: you only dance for him. The watching eyes all around are nothing to you. Not even distractions. You dip your head low, raising your gaze on the upbeat as a smile spreads across your features.

All you care about is him.

And he knows it.

***

You've still yet to decide what you like most about living the palace.

Is it the fact that, at last, you can see your brother and enjoy his presence daily? Is it the fact that you no longer need to worry about food or bills? Is it the fact you are able to do what you love all day, every day, for the most important demon in the world?

No, you think to yourself.

It's the showers.

You hum quietly, turning the faucet off as you reach for a towel. It's soft and fluffy against your skin, and you momentarily wonder if you like the towels better than the showers, but no, you decide that your favorite thing about the palace is still the former.

Not bothering to dry your wet hair, you wrap the towel around your figure and step out of the bathroom into your chambers, glancing around for the clothes you laid out.

Gray, you note, glancing at the faded color of the silken garments laid across your bed.

You run your hand over them, savoring the cool softness of the fabric, and you're just about to pull the shirt over your head when a familiar sense of magic beats through your body.

Oh no.

You bite your lip, realizing your predicament.

Diavolo is summoning you, a summons which you technically must answer immediately and without a moment's hesitation.

But all you're wearing is a towel.

You reach your hand forward for the cotton underwear you had laid out. Surely just wearing those won't count as disobedience to the crown, right?

Alas, fate is not on your side. Because the moment your fingers graze over the cotton, the sensation in your heart grows overwhelming, and then you know Diavolo wants you in front of him and now.

Praying that Barbatos doesn't run into you in the halls, you clutch the towel and sprint to the throne room with as much grace as you can muster, stepping inside with a look of pure concern written on your face.

"What's wrong?" Diavolo asks from the other end of the room. As usual, he wears that Cheshire-like smirk, and you once more realize that he was all too aware of your predicament when he summoned you.

"...Nothing," You finally mumble in response, averting your eyes.

"You know, if I were the type of person to jump to conclusions, I might think that you're embarrassed to be here in front of me in only a towel." Diavolo's words are teasing. Truthful, but teasing.

"You know, if I were the type of person to jump to conclusions, I might just think that you consciously summoned me while I was changing so that you could see me naked."

"Oh no," Diavolo responds, licking his lips. "That's a fact, love."

And suddenly, the confidence you had from before is gone, and you're left nothing but a blushing mess as you awkwardly try not to look Diavolo in the eye.

What happened to that emotionless facade? You wonder, only realizing now that you've begun to show your emotions to Diavolo. And that you've grown worse at hiding them.

What kind of dancer can't hide their emotions? You ask inwardly, and suddenly, your internal question becomes a challenge, and you force yourself to be confident. To be bold, to be sexy. You are a dancer, and it is in your nature to be able to become anything and everything in an instant: hiding a blush is trivial compared to the training you've been through.

Your hand flies to the part of the towel where it's tucked in, the only thing holding it up, but you tap it dangerously.

"So," You begin, an unconfident confidence taking over your senses as you stare at Diavolo. "Are you saying you want me to take this off?"

Diavolo's eyes raise at your offer, evidently not having expected you to respond so boldly to his earlier comments.

He studies your face, your so-obviously forced look of confidence as you resolutely stand in front of him, about to strip when he knows that you're completely nude underneath.

"Do not push yourself," He warns, but then you've taken his words as a challenge, and you rip the towel off your body, discarding it in a hasty throw away from your body.

For a moment, as the cold air hits your privates, you do regret your decision. You feel exposed. Vulnerable. Weak.

But then, you raise your eyes from the floor and you look up at Diavolo—and the way he stares at your body fills you with true confidence. His eyes are hungry as they skirt over every spot, hovering a bit longer over his favorite places, and you can see the way his muscles strain as he consciously restrains himself from moving to touch your body.

His mouth is partially open, and you can hear the quiet breath that leaves his mouth as his breath hitches, and then he's also looking back up at you with worry, concerned that you've pushed yourself too far for his sake and that he's made you uncomfortable. But the confidence you didn't have before now flows through your veins as you return his gaze, your eyes locked to each other in a way that screams desire.

"Can you—" Diavolo clears his throat, hearing how quiet his words were at first. But even when he begins speaking once more, his words are gentle. He's no longer commanding, but is asking. "Can you dance like this?"

You nod your head slowly, already imagining all the ways you can take advantage of your nudity to execute moves that would otherwise look ridiculous.

"I can."

"Then," He opens his mouth to say the word, but before he can even begin, your body has begun moving, and the sound is caught in his throat as he simply stares, utterly captivated by every movement, every bounce, every sway.

He's left frozen as he stares at your figure, dancing without any clothing or jewelry to distract him from your natural perfection. And in this moment, Diavolo is truly spellbound by the spell that is you, unable to move an inch as you single-handedly move enough for the both of you.

***

Barbatos always knows more than he lets on.

When you were a kid, he knew you wanted to learn dance even before you did. When you were older, he always seemed to pop up whenever you found yourself yearning for him. And even now, you're certain that he's aware of more than he's telling you, as he unfolds the brilliant blue silk in his hands and prepares to drape it around your shoulders.

"...You don't have anything to say to me?" You finally ask, raising a suspicious eyebrow. It's been over a week, now, and he hasn't said a single word about finding you seated on Diavolo's lap that one time. And you're quite certain that he has his suspicions about you dancing nude for the prince.

"Not at all," He responds, fastening the blue to your armlet. He turns around, inspecting your jewelry box, flashing you a cryptic smile. "Why? Should I be concerned?"

His smile remains subtle as he continues flitting through your earrings, lifting two—a topaz and a sapphire—and comparing them to the color of your garb before handing you the dangling sapphire, which you slip into your ear.

He walks behind you as you examine your figure in the mirror, pulling bits of cloth here and there until you look like a proper dancer, ethereal as you are refined.

You study Barbatos's expression. He's wearing his usual, enigmatic smile, but you don't detect any anger or upset in his eyes. If anything, his steps are lighter than usual, and he seems unbearably pleased as he begins walking you to the throne room, not seeming to care at all that he saw you sitting on the demon lord's lap not one week ago.

"Are you sure you don't have anything to say to me?" You call when he begins to walk away, the demon already three steps away from you. "Anything at all?" You bite your lip. You want him to chew you out, ask you about it, or even sulk angrily as he tends to do from time to time—you just want him to acknowledge what happened, or at least tell you why he's so okay with it.

"Follow your heart," The demon calls back, not even looking at you as he continues walking away.

The words make you blink, seemingly coming out of absolutely nowhere with zero context, and your face scrunches up as you try to figure out why in hell he would say something so random.

And as much as you want to chase after him to find out what in hell he means, you have a duty here, and your brother will have to wait.

Stupid Barbatos and his endless riddles.

"Diavolo?" You call, opening the door.

He isn't seated at his throne, but a quick scan of the room reveals that he's standing inside the mouth of the dragon skull, staring at the structure around him. He nods at you when you arrive, his usual smile overtaking his features as you walk forward.

"Join me," He calls out to you, offering his hand. You take it, letting him intertwine his fingers with yours. "When my father came to this room, he sat on this skull as a throne. Do you see that spot, at the top of the dragon's head, where it's slightly flat?" He points, and you nod. "Right there. Every day. I used to think it was the most uncomfortable thing in the world, but I suppose my father sat in it not because of the comfort, but because of the beauty, no?"

You take a step forward, marveling at the fossil now that you can see it up close.

"It is beautiful."

"Would you like to stand on it?" He asks, leaning his weight on one bone. "Stand on the place my father used to use as a throne?"

"No!" You decline swiftly, understanding that of all things, it would hardly be appropriate for the prince's entertainer to stand in what was used to be a sacred throne. But Diavolo must see the glimmer of hope in your eyes, because a second later he's muttering 'nonsense' under his breath and is lifting you onto the skull, holding you until you've managed to stabilize yourself on what you imagine must have been the dragon's snout.

"Oh my goodness," You gasp out loud, clutching the bone for support as you climb higher at Diavolo's encouragement.

"Be careful," He warns, but millennia of dance has taught you footwork too well for you to land in a weak foothold, and before long, you're at the top, even beyond where the throne supposedly was.

"Diavolo!" You gasp, laughing merrily. "Look! I'm—I'm—"

"I know," He says, a warm smile spreading across his face as he looks up at you, stepping back. "Do you think—" He breaks off, shaking his head. "No, never mind."

"What is it, Diavolo?"

He hesitates, staring at the bony skeleton you're standing on, but at the sight of your pleading eyes, he yields. "Do you think you could dance on that skeleton?"

You glance around. There are holes, and definite spaces that you'll need to jump over, but that's the nature of dance, is it not?

Your beaming smile answers his question, and Diavolo has to hold a hand up to stop you.

"Just for a few minutes, alright? I don't want to risk you injuring yourself, so come down quickly. But…" He trails off, sheepish eyes darting back down to the skeleton before they return to your figure.

"Dance."

And with that single order, the bells on your feet are brought to life once more, swinging and stepping as you practically fly over the dragon's spine. You jump back and forth, from side to side, stepping over hollows, bending your back over points, going as far as to do a front flip that lands you on the edge of the dragon's eye socket.

You detect a flicker of concern in Diavolo's eyes every now and then, but you don't doubt yourself. It's an unusual platform, but you're in control.

Step to step, your arm doesn't cut the air as it moves, but rather the air makes way for your arm and your limbs simply follow, your body swinging gracefully like an acrobat as you recall the centuries you spent working with master gymnasts, building upper body strength to pull your body through spins and twists that now make Diavolo gasp as you perform them for him.

But you don't forget his initial order, to not get carried away and to only go for a few minutes, so you continue making your way down the skull, dancing and jumping, reaching and pulling, until you swing out of the jaws of the dragon, landing perfectly in Diavolo's arms just as you planned.

Laughter spills from your lips on instinct as he holds you, and you realize that there's a slight blush on your face from how muscular the demon lord's arms are as he practically hugs you, but you savor the feeling.

"That looked far more reckless than I had anticipated," Diavolo confesses, though there's a reluctant smile on his lips. "But you seemed to enjoy yourself."

"That was wonderful," You respond, grinning as he sets your feet on the ground and releases you. But the earlier movement has your body itching for more, and you interlace your fingers with Diavolo's, subtly pushing him back into his throne.

"Say it," You tell him, cheeks flushed. From exercise or the hug, you don't know. All you're aware of is the overwhelming desire to keep moving.

"Dance," He whispers, sending the word to you like a kiss as he leans forward in his throne to watch you.

And you dance.

***

Barbatos insists on dressing you in red today.

"It's a beautiful color," He says as his excuse when you confront him, and while he's absolutely right on that front, you can't help but suspect that there's an ulterior motive that he has.

Trying to convince yourself that you're just overthinking things in your head, you watch as he selects a ruby for your earring, an expensive gift he had given you many millennia ago. The red gem has been carved into the shape of a stunning rose, something you usually wouldn't risk dancing in, but Barbatos insists on it as he fusses over your outfit, pulling cloths and fabrics into place with more effort than you've ever directed toward yourself.

"You look good," He finally comments, and though the words hardly count as praise, you know that Barbatos means them with all his heart.

"Thank you," You respond, opening the door. "Now, will you tell me what the special occasion is?"

But Barbatos shakes his head, maintaining the ruse that there is no 'special occasion.'

You suppress an urge to roll your eyes as you lead the way to Diavolo's throne room, thinking that if Barbatos was going to prepare you for something, he could have at least been a bit more subtle about it.

This morning, he had marched into your room nearly an hour early, ordering you to bathe and shampoo your hair with a handful of expensive soaps he handed to you. He answered no questions, frowning when you began asking too many, and threatened to withhold dessert from you if you continued to pester him. He then proceeded to dress you in your finest red garb, complementing it with black rather than another darker shade of red, and went as far as to dab perfume at your skin.

"I am not dumb," You blurt, once you're at the throne room door.

"You are not," Barbatos agrees, nodding.

"I know something is up," You clarify.

"As was my intention," Barbatos quips back, that aggravating smile back on his face. But before you can say another word, he silences you with a finger to your lips. "Just go along with it, will you?"

He hesitates, looking awkward and extremely uncomfortable for a moment, but then he sighs and seems to groan to himself, stepping forward as he awkwardly pulls his arms around you.

A hug, you realize, blinking. This is supposed to be a hug.

And it's perhaps the first one Barbatos has initiated in your entire lifetime together.

You hold back your gasp as you return his embrace, pressing his body close to yours and helping him out as you smile. And he pulls back, eyebrows furrowed just the slightest.

"Be safe, alright?" He seems to have an internal struggle for a moment, but one side wins out, and when he looks at you next, his eyes are soft. "I will always care for you."

You're about to respond, about to say something equally heartfelt and sweet, when a rush of magic bursts in your chest, and you have to clutch your brother's shoulders for support.

He calls out your name in a panicked breath, eyebrows furrowed as he looks down at you, and you laugh.

"My apologies," You smile bashfully. "I am still not quite used to the sensation of Diavolo summoning me. It's overwhelming, every time." You glance toward the door. "I suppose I should…"

Barbatos nods, flashing you another rare smile before turning around.

You push open the door to the throne room.

“Diavolo?” You call, glancing around.

He's not on his throne. Nor is he standing in the dragon skull. Nor is he standing in the skull of any other creature, or anywhere else in the room.

The magic in your heart beats once more, stronger this time, and you frown. This is doubtlessly the sensation of Diavolo calling you, so where is he? And why is he calling you if he's not here?

You're about to walk forward and take a better look around when the sensation nearly overwhelms you, your dancer's grace being the only thing that prevents you from stumbling onto the floor.

He's not here, you realize.

And just when you begin to wonder where he could be, you feel a weak tug on your heart, as if it's pulling you somewhere.

Follow your heart.

Barbatos had said that not long ago.

And like you've always done, you take his advice, following your heart out the throne room and down the hall. You attempt shouting Barbatos's name along the way for assistance, Diavolo's name spilling from your lips a little more often, but neither men respond, so you continue marching in the direction your heart pulls you, only stopping with you find yourself in front of a particularly majestic door.

You take a step back, taking in the full view of it.

Diavolo’s personal chambers.

Your breath hitches.

You wrap your fingers around the handle, hesitating to open it. There's no going back, either way. Should you turn back now, this opportunity will never arise again. But should you enter, your relationship with Diavolo will certainly change. After all, these are his personal chambers.

Follow your heart.

Except that your heart is no longer tugging you to or fro, not even weakly. You bite your lip, concern imprinted on your mind. You want Barbatos here, so your big brother can give you advice and tell you what to do. Or if you can't have him, you want Diavolo, so that he can laugh and make everything better and—

Oh.

Realization dawns in your eyes.

You want Diavolo.

And not just in the wholesome, friendly way. You want to be able to run your fingers along his muscles, to be able to play with his fiery red hair, to be able to look into those bright eyes until you can decide what shade of orange they are, never caring about what he'll think of you for staring so long.

You want Diavolo.

All hesitation deserting your body, those words echo through your mind. And you twist the golden handle down, opening the doors to the prince's private chambers and entering.

He lives like a king.

That's your first foolish thought, before the notion strikes you that with his father lying dormant, he is the acting king of the Devildom. And once your immediate stupor induced by the sheer lavishness of his quarters passes, a voice speaks.

"You came."

Your head turns to the source of the voice instantly, and you see a large bed pressed against the center of the wall on your left, the shape of a familiar figure still buried inside.

"You...summoned me," You say, trying to justify why you entered the prince's personal chambers. At the back of your mind, there is a moment of panic—you worry that this was a test, and you chose wrong by entering—but Diavolo's next words reveal that it is quite the opposite.

"I have summoned many entertainers to this room, but none have ever dared step inside. You are the first," Diavolo says, but then he corrects himself: "You are the only."

Your fingers twitch at your sides when he says that, the possessive tone in his voice not lost upon you.

"It is my honor," You say, instantly bowing your head.

"No." You raise your eyebrows the slightest, eyes focused on the blankets as Diavolo's figure emerges from beneath them, sitting up. He looks princely as ever: dignified and royal as he exposes his bare upper body to you for the first time. "It is your destiny."

Your heart swells at that, a rush of pride coming to the forefront of your mind as you understand the prince's words. Destiny, you think. Something so intangible but so undeniably there. You shoot Diavolo a questioning look, quietly wondering whether he means the words in a literal or metaphorical sense, whether he's chosen you for his destiny or you truly are fated to be with him, and he smiles. Opening his mouth, a single comment slips from his mouth, and that's all you need to know for the answer to your question.

"Barbatos."

Of course.

If there is one person in the world who would know something so utterly lifechanging and shocking, it would be him.

Suddenly, your brother's strange actions over these past few weeks become understandable: the transition from concerned to confident, irate to pleased, protective to accepting. Even his actions this morning flit through your mind, and they take a different shade in your memories when you realize, for the first time, that he has donned you in the colors of Diavolo: red and blank.

Destiny, you think, eyes widening at the realization. Barbatos knew yours, and then Diavolo learned it, and now you understand it, too.

The moment the fact dawns on you, the silence grows weighted. Air filled with tension, too thick for even a knife to slice through it. You stare at Diavolo with round eyes, the sudden pressure of the moment not lost on you as you try to sort out your thoughts.

An amused smile breaks out on the demon lord's face at your evident confusion, and you realize—with a curse directed inward—that you've once again abandoned the expressionless mask of a dancer. But as Diavolo continues to gaze at you, you find yourself frozen, entirely unable to hide anything away as he stares into your soul.

He smiles.

"Come."

An order, one that your body heeds on instinct.

Yet, as you move to obey, it's different. You don't force yourself to tread so that the bells on your feet are silent, to wear a blank face to save your expressions for later, to stare at the ground when you want to gaze upon the prince. No, as you obey this final order of Diavolo's, you are no longer hiding behind forced grace—you reveal you, in all your natural elegance and wonder.

The bells on your feet tinkle softly as you move, and your body sets itself into a natural rhythm that makes the gentle jingles sound perfectly continuous, and it's like a musical trance wraps around the room as you approach the bed.

Normally, you would stop at least eight feet from the king, awaiting his inevitable orders to further approach. Six feet, if you're feeling brave. But now, emboldened by the prince's earlier words of destiny, you hold back nothing as you stride forward, stopping only when you are less than even a hand's length away from the prince, and he is so close that you can cup his cheek.

The moment you stop moving, the trance is broken—the music of the bells on your feet quieting. But where one moment ends, another begins, and Diavolo pulls you into an entirely different state of captivation.

The prince looks up at you from his spot on the edge of the bed, never breaking eye contact as he takes your smaller hand in his. And though you've certainly done much more with him, having sat on his lap and danced completely nude for him, nothing has ever felt so intimate.

"Even destiny is nothing before the power of a king. If you do not wish for this, nothing will be forced upon you." Diavolo raises his eyebrows gently, and you realize that he is giving you a choice. That though you two are fated to be together, he will still honor your decision, no matter what it may be.

But truly, did you not give him your answer the moment you decided to enter this room?

Your heart swells with warmth. With warmth and affection and desire as you gaze upon this prince, who, by all rights, can take anything he pleases, and still chooses to give you a choice in the matter. And it's in this state, when you're so overwhelmed by love that any words that might leave your lips fall short of your throat and you opt to answer Diavolo's question with action, leaning forward with such certainty that there leaves no room for further doubt.

I want to be with you.

You say the words in the way you kiss him, pressing your lips against his slowly but surely, showing him just how much you want this. It's a second before he responds, but the moment he understands your answer, he holds nothing back.

A hand comes up to your hair, better angling your face down at his, and a warmth enters your mouth as Diavolo deepens the kiss. Mind already growing clouded with lust from this simple action, you steady yourself by laying a hand against Diavolo's chest, the muscles impossible hard as you hold yourself up.

But the action is entirely unnecessary, because moments later, Diavolo has you pulled into his lap, the bells on your feet jingling at the movement.

The sudden sound prompts both of you to withdraw for a moment, and you glance at your feet, the nine rows of bells which trail from low on your ankle to low on your calf.

"I can take them off—" You try to say, but Diavolo silences you with a kiss, flipping your bodies over in an elegant spin so that you are underneath him. The bells clatter against each other once more, but when the sound fades, so does the last of Diavolo's restraint.

You glance upward, and the look Diavolo gives you is nothing short of a starved man, desperately holding himself back while he studies your body laid out beneath him oh-so-temptingly.

"Don't make me wait any longer," He murmurs, and you feel his hips press against yours, the fire in his eyes fueled not just by desire but by true need, and you can't hold back your grin as he sucks in a sharp breath when you experimentally roll your body against his. But his earlier muttering does not go forgotten, and with one more body roll, you throw an arm around his neck and collide his lips with yours in a hungry meeting of lust long overdue.

"You're perfect," Diavolo whispers breathlessly between kisses, fingers deftly unclasping the red silk that hides your shoulders.

"And you," You try to respond, but the combination of Diavolo's overwhelming presence and his intoxicating touch has you feeling high, and those end up being the final coherent words you stutter out as the prince throws the clothing to the floor, leaning back to study your exposed form.

His eyes widen and his breath hitches, and the hand on your waist twitches as he studies the skin he's already begun to litter with hickeys.

You look up at him, not missing the way he seems to be devouring you with his eyes, memorizing the image of your body splayed out before him.

His left thumb hooks the soft fabric of your pants, pulling experimentally, delighting in the softness of the skin there. He glances upward at you, eyes slightly wide as his mouth spreads into a grin, realizing that this is actually about to happen.

"May I have this dance?" He jokes, tugging on the elastic fabric experimentally.

The breathless nod you give him is all he needs, and then his lips are on yours and you lost track of where his hands are, just aware of the fabric being stripped from your body until your bodies are pressed flush against each other.

You close your eyes, savoring the sensation of Diavolo as he takes control, guiding you through the passion with a gentle but sure hand.

And for the first time, you dance together.

MASTERLIST

Word count: 11.2k

Notes: so when i had this idea i was like okay ill make it a series and each new interaction will just be a new chapter but then i got excited and wrote the whole thing in one night and i didnt wanna make you guys wait so yeah heres hopefully the longest oneshot ill write

Comment & Like

Thank you for reading <3

I do not own the rights to Obey Me! or any of the characters within it.

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reddus-sideblog · 3 years

Text

Pathfinder Update

Today’s session was a little slow, everyone kinda talked a lot, and here’s the rundown, after the cut

So, we planned out our departure from Idle Crag, Tisiphone, Kii, Nik, and young Valka would acquire the artefact, the “Stormbreaker”, that Captain Lora’a Valka used to control the weather around his ship (a part of his prolific nature as a renowned pirate), that had been taken from his ship by the Port Authority of Idle Crag Meanwhile, Ivan, our new “companion” and his men, would set off fire works to cover our “work” if things got messy, while Captain Valka would get his crew to get the ship ready to sail. So hopefully we’d get the Stormbreaker outta the Port Authority contraband warehouse and be setting sail right away.

Captain Valka also entreated Nik to help him reacquire some of his lost merchandise (drugs), so that he could save face with his trade partner Prince Hekate. Prince Hekate is the one partially sponsoring Valka’s potion shop in Bostadt, using it as a front to move his merchandise (drugs). Finding this out Kii said “It would seem Prince Hekate has his fingers in a lot of pies”. Both Valka brothers blushed, as their dealings with the Prince were not simply business, and you know how catboys are.

As this was the last time we’d be on dry land for some time, the group made some last minute preparations. Tisi took Valka aside and talked with him a bit as they went to the Valka Tinctures carriage, to grab a few things. While alone with Lora’sae Miss Tisiphone remarked how while his brother was easy on the eyes (Lora’sae took this as a roundabout way of Tisiphone hitting on him, because he is the most conceited catfolk ever) he truly was scum, and for all of Lora’sae’s faults, he was probably a lot better than all of his other brothers.

Lora’sae explains to Tisiphone that the names of his brothers are sequential, and that his people have rather little regard for the males of their families (with him and his brother’s names being the name of their mother combined with a number, Lora’a, Lora’to, Lora’li, and Lora’sae being one, two, three, and four of Lora Valka, literally). Tis was a bit taken aback by the catfolk’s culture, remarking how it was so cruel, and Valka didn’t disagree. Tisiphone told him in turn that her and her sisters were named after spirits of righteous vengeance from some old myth (Valka thought it was quite appropriate given the nature of the Eriny sisters).

Tisiphone also remarked how, for the time being, they were allies, but come the lot of them returning to dry land she might reconsider their, so far, congenial relationship with young Valka’s brother as she was quite sure Lora’a had a price on his head. Lora’sae was rather perturbed by this, and tried to convince Tisiphone that his brother really wasn’t all that bad, which only made Tisi reply that she’d be keeping a closer eye on him. At any rate Tisiphone took the last shoulder cannon that was leftover along with her Twin Orb.

So the time came for Nik Kii, Valka, and Tisiphone to get a hold of the Stormbreaker. They looked over the building, and Tisiphone and Kii took the back entrance, picking the lock while Nik and Valka made a case for coming to the contraband warehouse, saying that that BASTARD BROTHER OF HIS stole things belonging to him, and he needed to see if they were in the warehouse. Somehow this worked, and on the way in Kii made Tisiphone and herself invisible, which helped a fair bit. Valka made his way through the warehouse, picking his way through things and making his way to the high security lockup section. At the entrance was an ornery dwarf keymaster who really didn’t believe Valka’s story, and started being even less believing when Valka couldn’t produce any documents to support his claims. Tisi, now having made her way around behind the catboy and the tiefling, cocked her rifle. Valka knew that sound, and tried a bit harder to convince the dwarf of his case before Tisiphone got impatient. Unfortunately these negotiations were taking too long and Tisi just shot the keymaster. Then Kii stabbed him, and then Valka threw a bomb at him. The dwarf keymaster was thrown off the raised platform that led into the lock up area. He was downed, but not necessarily dead. Tisiphone then spun about and emptied her carbine into one of the other guards, hitting him four times and murdering him immediately. The other guards gave up quite quickly.

Kii and Valka were a bit taken aback by Tisiphone’s ruthlessness, and Valka stabilized the dwarf while she looked about for the Stormbreaker. Nik looked about for Captain Valka’s stolen loot and merchandise. Eventually, the group found the Stormbreaker, which turns out to be a device forged in the shape of a skeleton, which is seemingly sentient? (A second for sentient magic artefacts, actually, the first being that magic book boy who escaped from the Mage’s Guild that we tried to hunt down as a bounty, which ended up falling through). And so the group ran to Captain Lora’a’s ship with the Stormbreaker in tow (he folded up into a portable shape and Nik carried him), with Ivan and his men following suit quite quickly as well.

With Stormbreaker posing like an Arch-Vile from DOOM at the prow of Captain Valka’s ship the clouds split and the wind suddenly swelled in the ship’s sails and we were swept away onto the open ocean, with a vertical column of clear sky above us, and a dark halo of a tropical storm all about us as the storm headed inland.

The trip...is taking two weeks at full speed. Halfway through this journey Tisiphone had cleaned her guns a dozen times, Nik had gotten tired of working out, Kii had gotten bored of pretending to be a pirate and had resorted to using her magic for spritely pranks, while both of the Valkas had nearly nearly run out of the Captain’s supply of booze. At this point Ivan seeks a private audience with the Captain who kicks Valka out of the cabin. Kii, ever the curious and interested sylph, makes herself invisible and flies into the cabin’s window. Ivan speaks with Captain Valka and reveals that the island they are sailing for is a former Velakan prison colony, now a Pragian prison colony. Jodd the Butcher is flying to island to free a prisoner, who would certainly sound important if a dragon rider is flying all the way there to get him. Kii, invisible still, stands up, and interrupts Ivan, drawing her rapier, questioning Ivan further on who exactly he is.

Ivan wastes no time and partially disrobes, and starts undoing his bandages to reveal that not only is he not Joshua Graham levels of crispy like we kind of all assumed, but rather that he is ACTUALLY COMPLETELY INVISIBLE. He unsheathes his sword and touches it to Kii’s blade. Captain Valka, meanwhile, is kind of checked out, and mostly finishing what little of the liquor his younger brother hadn’t yet. Ivan tells Miss Kii that she certainly isn’t the only one who can go about unseen, and they both depart.

Kii tells Tisi, Valka, and Nik what she heard and saw, and asks Tisiphone if she can talk alone with her. Tisi gathers up her gun kit and comes with her, and Kii dimension doors them up to the crow’s nest and they tell the watchman to buzz off for a little bit. Kii confides in Tisiphone, telling her that she may not exactly be the only remaining member of the Velakan noble line, there was a legitimate heir, the son of the king and queen, who disappeared soon time after the Pragian takeover. She wonders if this prisoner that the dragon rider is coming for is him, and if they’re on the wrong side of this, and what Ivan plans exactly were.

Lora’sae, meanwhile, came to see his brother once more, practically begging him not to hold out on the booze, reminding him of how annoying he was when he was intelligible and not entirely sauced. Eventually Captain Valka acquiesced, letting Lora’sae in, and revealing a second secret stash of alcohol (Lora’sae had found the first one). The Valkas got to talking about their other siblings, and apparently they were still alive, and out in the world. Lora’li was last heard of in the Western kingdoms, living his life as an “entertainer” and “exotic dancer” out, which Lora’a had heard from Prince Hekate, so, the implications of Hekate gathering “experience” with the Valkas purposely is...plausible. As for Lora’to he was last heard of leading some of the Northwards invasion that Pragia was performing out of Velakor into the Southerlands (of course a fucking Valka is responsible for that disaster...). Lora’a said, though, that he was a bit proud of Lora’sae, as he was actually doing something for the Valka Tinctures company after it’s ignominious end, wasn’t being a whore for royalty, or leading in such murderous ventures as himself or Lora’to.

“If I ever meet them (the other Valka brothers), what should I tell them about you?”

“Tell them whatever you want… It’s not like you’d listen to me.”

“I’ll tell them… you’re doing a good job.”

Young Valka tears up and the brothers hug.

Why do we keep ending on wholesome Valka brother moments?

#thank you Adam for the exact quote with the Valka brothers

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itstheendofthegoddamnworld · 4 years

Text

Lamia Boyfriend: Xanthorus

Anon Ask: Hi There! I have a small request too, if I may! Maybe a story about a jungle researcher and a Naga/Lamia. Maybe the researcher stumbled into the den.

Male monster x human reader [Gender Neutral] - Modern Au

Death-or-Glory

"Are you sure?" Your closest worker and friend, Sebastian had placed his concern, "We don't even know where it will take us."

The caves acted like crypts within a cavernous descent, the rocks had been slicked in a substance that didn't even seem from a bacteria from this world, the descent meant to be hidden from all from the outside world.

"Which is why I think discovering for ourselves will be a revolutionary discovery." You had smiled, the hard helmet you were strapping over your short locks, the drops of water fell and trickled down like teardrops from your eyes.

Your decision to down was meant for research: as light decreases the further you go down, the size and complexity of plant life also reduces. The research into finding in three regions of the caves where plants have developed and adapted to allow them to live in low-light conditions were remarkable, and that was where you found yourself most often.

Your small team usually came down with you, but for the first time, you had decided that for the best, it would be easier to descent with rope and climbing equipment first.

You had given the man reassurance with a smile, "If I get scared, you know the drill."

"Pull you up before you chicken out? That isn't like you, chère." He had grinned, gathering the rope as you attached yourself to it, hauling yourself to hover just over the ledge.

When you looked down, the drop below seemed maybe 40ft, the walls had stretched and opened in the shape of a twisted mouth, filled with jagged teeth that littered around the bottom and around the edges.

You gave Sebastian the thumbs up as he and the others of your travels kept an eye on the rope in the pulley system as you slowly made your way over the ledge until your legs were below and couldn't reach for the end.

The rush of cold air hit you square in the face, your dangling body swayed as you recoiled to a harsh halt, a shuffle of feet above you raced closer to you when you looked up.

"You good?" Your voice bounced over the high mighty walls with its many teeth, your fear bubbling slowly like you were being hovered a boiling pot.

"The line got stuck, hang tight." Seb's head popped over the edge as he disappeared quickly over. "Cool, I'll just... you know, stay here." You joked sourly, your eyes roaming as your beacon gave little to no light in helping you see.

The cave to the bottom narrowed into a hole, but what that lied below was concealed with darkness. Another jolt came as the ring of the pulley lunged you to drop a few inches, your voice coming out in a yelp, your grip on the rope shaking. "Seb!"

"Merde—shit, are you okay? You're not hurt?" Sebastian rambled instantly in distress.

"No, apart from giving me a heart attack, I’m fine." You muttered, trying to calm your nerves as you calmed your breathing as best as you could. I'm not dying here today, no, I will not.

The cold rush of air that came out through the jagged opening brought you to swing over the opening, your nerves seeming to never simmer down. "Anything?"

"The line may get stuck again, but it's been free so you can go down further- just, be careful."

"Of course, thanks for letting me know." You replied, and bit by bit, you inched yourself further down, the bottom seemed to never want to reach you. The cold was harsh and your skin prickled up with your hairs, the realisation of knowing that if you were to get stuck again, you wouldn't be any closer to them but closer to the bottom, making it harder to get back up.

"Stop." Your fear bubbled over when you shouted out, the rope had halted a second later but quivered as you dropped further down compared to the first time. "What's wrong?" Seb questioned concerned.

"I... I'm sorry, it's-- I can't do this. Pull me up, I'm getting bad vibes from this."

"But you're almost halfway." Sebastian called back through the abyss, "Are you sure?"

"Please, I-- for crying out loud, please Seb!"

He didn't have to reply further from that, the screeching of the metal was deafening as you were pulled just an inch higher until there was a brash outcry of the pulley that made you realise something was wrong. Your body fell as you screamed out in a shriek, your body jolted to a harsh stop as your body was still swinging, your body - like a ragdoll - hit the side of the wall, your helmet almost fell out you as you could hear the cries of panic at your name being shouted out along the rock walls.

Your head was stinging as if your mind had been a bell and was being rung, the mild reaction to adrenaline-pumping too late as you braced yourself as you swung into the other wall, your limp body spinning.

"The rope!-- the fucking rope!" Your name was called over and over as you registered something was off, the terror in Sebastian's voice could be heard as he kept trying to get you to answer with the call of your name.

I don't want to die, please, no, not like this, oh, God. You shook yourself with some and sense as you looked up just in time, the dwindling amount of time to react brought you to come to a grim realisation as you found yourself not being able to save yourself or be saved. The rope you had been held up from snapped when the pulley couldn't rewind it back up, taking it down with you.

The last thing you remembered was how the void engulfed you and all left was endless darkness.

You could only imagine how you landed wouldn’t be safe for you when you came around, the startling lack of light made you panic in believing you had been taken to a completely different place. I am not dead, and I do not know how I am still breathing. Your head pounded but your body was in overdrive to keep you alive and conscious, where you stabilised yourself as best as you could.

The four corners of the walls were oily and sodden in a substance, you couldn’t imagine what it was, and when you rummaged through your bag to find a torch, something was dripping heavily down your helmet that wasn’t water.

The flashlight fluttered to life and in front of you, you lurched back with a startled yelp, looking into the sunken sockets of a long-dead skeleton. It wasn’t anything you could recognise that could’ve been an animal from the surface - with its long body and head as big as a coach - you questioned what could’ve killed something so big.

You touched at its large skull, looking over the spiked and blackened teeth were what you imagined a dragon would look if they had existed. Whatever killed this thing could still be around, lurking.

Your flashlight picked up something along the back of the large ribs of the skeleton, the flash of merlot that slunk heavily in the shadows, where you caught the back of its body; slicked and deeply scaled.

“Oh shit.” You braced yourself against the wall behind you, or what you had believed had been the wall, your back coming into contact with something smooth and oddly cold. You jumped back in your spot, twisting to come face to face with a tall towering silhouette standing so close behind you; its eyes the only thing you could see through the shadows.

You dared not shine your torch of the creature as you were stiff with fear as to what it could’ve been. What had rendered you speechless was the disembodied voice that had suddenly declared out to you. “Leave this place. Now.”

“Fucking— holy shit… how’d—oh, God, no, please! I’m not a threat, don’t hurt me!” You panicked, spinning around to try and hide behind the skeleton’s ribs, thinking that whatever and wherever they were, they couldn’t see you. “Please, I beg you.”

“You’re one of them, how do I know you won’t hurt me?” Their voice was laced heavily in an accentuated drawl that you could just about understand, shuddering at how their voice travelled through and everyone around you at once.

You squinted in the darkness, rubbing your eyes in disbelief. “What?”

Whatever was standing in front of you, leant backwards away from you, it’s height still unsure to you. “You’re not the first human to travel down here and you won’t be the last. Leave, I warn you.”

You tried to look up, but even when you tried to find the cavern you fell through was a nightmare- it seemingly disappeared out of your sight when you shone your torch upwards.

The creature let out a low growl, pushing itself off on the rock, scratching it hauntingly. “What is that thing? It’s too bright. Turn it off.”

You looked back down to your torch, pointing to the base of their figure, unexpectantly taken back when you saw the thick deep red coiled scales appear once more when they hit your light. “What are you?”

The voice didn’t respond to you, and you took the initiative and bravery to lift the torch upwards, where you had nearly dropped it. The coils of a red-burnt copper came into your view, and in the light, they shone like hundreds of lit candles, the summerish hue that burnt so bright. The scales continued to travel up and were connected drastically with a human torso, blended from hard smooth scales to rough skin, the head of a man with a large triangular head in view.

His face and features resembled more of a snake than man, the forked tongue that flickered and tasted the air was long and sharp so were his eyes, the embers of bright emeralds.

He was hairless on top of his head and on the rest of his body: the sleek physique of him was everything and nothing you had ever seen in your life, the cogs in your head spinning at the possibilities of research and questions that were spurting through your mind at a 100mph.

“Woah—I,” you stuttered over your words, careful yet excited like a wide-eyed child to not know when to shut up, “you’re… you’re-“

He hissed at you lowly, slinking back as he tried to hide as much of him from your flashlight, his cat-like eyes dilating with growing frustration. ”This place does not belong to you and I will not tell you again. Leave at once.”

“I would, but I can’t. My line was caught and I fell down here.” You took a sudden step back when he looked to lunge at you, your fears of him sticking his fangs into you and feasting on you were not as bad when a long claw came to touch at the top of your helmet, mesmerised by how it clanked with his long nail. You flinched when you saw his nails, trying to keep your eyes off of them. “What are you then?”

“You humans like to call us Lamias, but it has been a long while since I saw one of my kind.” He shrugged indifferently as if not fazed by it, but you couldn’t help but see the grim smile that enhanced his curved face. “Xanthorus is my name. You may as well know it as you’ll be here for a while.”

You told you his, with the Lamia seemingly not showing any attention in acknowledging it.

His long nimble fingers came to touch at the top of your head once more, gazing at it with some curiosity. “That fall, if it didn’t knock any sense out of you, may have hurt you, I will have a look at you to make sure you’re not injured.”

You nodded, slowly trailing behind the slinking Lamia as he took the course through the narrow and darkened cave passages with ease, you were having more trouble trying to keep up with him. When you finally got to a clearing that seemed to be the area he slept in, he was shifting through things that he kept, his attention narrowly concentrated with the serious look on his face.

You thought it was rather cute with how he stuck his tongue out when he concentrated, but that was all gone when he finally pulled out some gauzes and unnecessary salves. He signalled you to remove your helmet, your protests soon bubbling over. “I’m not that injured.”

“Maybe that fall did knock some sense out of you,” Xanthorus rolled his eyes indifferently as if he was dealing with a child than a grown adult, “remove that, so we can be done with this.”

You grumbled your last complaints but complied silently, throwing your helmet to your lap as he inspected any bumps or bruises all over your head, keeping the pressure light and gentle. Although for his serious nature, he was rather tender and delicate when it came to working at you, as if he enjoyed treating people.

“You have a talent for this kind of stuff?” You asked after some time, mainly quietly watching him work as discreetly as possible. You met his prying gaze, his eyes wavering to look off. “I have been rather unlucky to meet some rather grumbly Lamia in my time.”

“I thought you said it had been a while since you last saw one?”

“I did,” he coolly replied, “but for my own siblings? They were all bigger and brutish than me, my brothers mainly, but they were always getting me into fights.”

“Ah, the diplomat rather than brute, I see.” You murmured, earning a low rumble from his chest, a chortle, to say the least. “What about humans? Do they always enjoy seeking misfortune in dark caves?”

“It’s part of my job,” You responded with a playful snort, earning an interesting look from him, absorbed by your career and words. “I check to see how plant life changes the further you go down in caves.”

The Lamia snorted wryly. “You enjoy looking at plants? I thought humans would enjoy more boorish things.”

“Some of us, maybe. But we’re not all alike, I’m afraid.” You smiled to him nervously, the small laugh you let out not helping when you were under his intense stare. “Guess the labels aren’t true.”

“No, I’d assume not, most of you are more intent in having things that aren’t yours.” Xanthorus calmly spoke, and when you looked to the back of his arm, you couldn’t help but gape at the long fading scar that was as long as your leg. Your hand came to impulsively trace at the raised skin, feeling how he practically jumped out of his skin, but he didn’t withdraw from you. “Did a human do that to you?”

He didn’t answer at first, his own hand coming to hover over the skin as he looked at his with a frown from his face, his eyes fixated on it. “Sometimes, people hate something they cannot understand.”

You stared at him as he finally wrapped the gauze around your head, packing and tidying his things away. “I’m sorry that they did that to you, some of us can be real dicks.”

Xanthorus’ body rumbled with the soft unnoticeable snort come from his flat nose, rolling his eyes as he looked away from you momentarily before you had seen. “Not all of them.”

He had gestured to the rest of his cave, the area was tightly packed now with the two of you inside, but the walls seemed cooling and it brought in a decent draft as you settled in the place you would have to get used to for a couple of days. “Pick your side to sleep on, don’t change your mind last second either.”

“What if I get cold?” You pouted.

“Then I pray to whatever Gods are out there that they have blessed you with thick skin.” He retorted: his jape light and not as rude as you thought he would be to you. He seemed sulkier and mildly bothered at some situations, but he was harmless overall.

I would rather be in the arms of a harmless Lamia than one who would want me dead in a flash. You gulped, settling in for the rest of what you could believe was the day, speaking as much as you could to Xanthorus about his life and get as many answers from him before he got too irritated.

By night, he was coiled around himself with his tail wrapped tightly around him, leaving you to tend to yourself as you froze to death, your teeth chattering nonstop.

That might’ve been the beginning of it all, as halfway through the night, the Lamia had unravelled himself and silently wrapped his tail like a high crimson wall around you, keeping his distance whilst his eyes remained close.

You wanted to believe that it had been an accident, but in your mind, you believed he knew he had done it to get you to shut up.

The next few days were gruelling at first, and it left you more frustrated and down at your situation, never believing you would be rescued by your team no matter how much you told Xanthorus they would come and get you. The first week rolled past and you finally accepted that your fate was sealed to remain here with no way in knowing whether you would get out and see the surface ever again.

Your flashlight died after two days, leaving you to fend with natural firelight or flares you had spare in your bag you carried. The water bottle and bars you had would last but thankfully there was natural water lying around where you could refill, and Xanthorus always hunted at night – on creatures you weren’t sure on, but it would suffice you enough.

By the fifth day, you grew bored with doing nothing, finally using your skills in navigating and climbing to use to try and get around the caves, having to keep telling Xanthorus that you wouldn’t injure yourself, even though he was adamant in knowing you would do. It took a few quarrels and japes for him to quieten and after having courage and confidence pumped into you, you used the little equipment you had on you to travel around and climb.

It took that second day of climbing to finally get you seriously hurt.

“Do I seriously need to tell you why I thought this was a stupid idea?” The Lamia was situated in slithering back and forth in what a human would see as pacing, his mouth trained in spitting out the frustrations he had to endure whilst you were sat on the rock opposite him, watching him in silence, collecting at the blood dripping down your arm with a spare t-shirt.

The cut was practically a clean slice though the back of your arm when you had accidentally slipped and got it scraped against a rough part of the rock, getting the Lamia to scurry up it to collect you before you could even call for him, where he carried you in the crook of his arm back to the main part of his cave to patch you up, not before ranting and lecturing you in your recklessness.

“I mean, I knew humans could be reckless, but never before, have I seen a clumsy fall like yours.” His words were mean and honestly cruel, but he was spitting up facts to you. You had dealt with falls before, all because in the past you hadn’t been paying attention and pushed your body into overdoing something and thus, hurting yourself, but not as bad as this. You were lucky you hadn’t taken your arm clean off, or worse, struck a nerve.

That nerve mixed in with having to practically babysit you must’ve been frustrating Xanthorus more and more until finally, he had to snap at your lack of responsibility and irresponsibility. You had to deal with the ramblings of Sebastian before, and it was suddenly dwelling on you that it was making you look incompetent to even know how to survive without being a complete idiot.

He was mid-rant as your recklessness when a wrack of a warbled sob cut him off, his large head twisting to see you with your head in your hands, guarding your eyes as you soaked your palms with your bloody fingers and tears, your sobs seemingly getting louder the more you let out a choked snivel.

You were expecting to hear a scoff and ramble for your tears, instead, being surprised by the feel of two hands coming to wrap at your wrists and pulling your hands away for you to open your eyes.

When you did, Xanthorus was stooped before you but still at a high enough height to only come up to his shoulders, his face in a constant look of guilt. When he said your name, it was softly spoken, delicate like he was dealing with fragile glass.

He didn’t say much else as he collected the dampened t-shirt stained with your blood and dabbed at your wound, holding it there to stem the flow, silently working as you continued to cry softly to yourself before it was only small sniffles.

When you looked up when he had done his best in stitching you up and bandaging everything, his green eyes were trained on you, the guilt still present. “I’m sorry, ‘Thorus.” You mumbled pitifully, wiping at your eyes. “I am useless.”

“No, you’re not. You’re far from it, just… please, watch out for things before you do anything? You’re capable, but I don’t want things like this happening again.” He slowly replied, stroking his fingers up and down over your bandages, drawling, “I’m sorry I made you cry, I just want you to not harm yourself again. You’re so small, delicate, and I want to make sure you don’t do anything rash.”

You silently listened to his words in marvel, watching how his composure seemingly crumpled before you. “I’m sorry--- you’re smart enough to not need to listen to a stupid old thing like me, you should be up there.” He chuckled musical, the curves of his mouth lifting upwards, and it was truly beautiful to see.

“I’ll try,” you promised sheepishly, twiddling your thumbs timidly, your cheeks darkening. “I’ll try not going into places like a boorish man.”

“No, you’re far too comely than boorish.” He smiled softly, coughing awkwardly to collect himself. “Just promise me you’ll be a bit more careful?”

You nodded, leaning up to kiss the smooth curve of his cheek, watching how his face lit up and his face insincerely tried to lean forward closer to you before he had the chance when you leant back. “Just for you, Xanthorus.”

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asunshinepuff · 4 years

Text

Secrets of the Darkened Seas

🧜🏻‍♀️ Hello! Welcome to chapter three! Please please please give a like and follow to my co-author and best friend Luna ( @ladynightmare913 ) because this story would not be where it’s at without her help!

She’s incredible and deserves so much credit for working on this alongside me cause she works so hard. And I feel horrible that she isn’t getting the credit deserves.

Especially since this chapter includes some of her own ocs in addition to my own! There’s a lot of new faces to join us! All credit for creation goes to each other for our respective characters because we’ve both worked so hard to create our ocs and I wouldn’t dare want to take credit away from her.

As always, a reminder that there is some lore included within this, however, it will be explained over time so no worries. There’s no mention of lore for right now.

The Included lore on different types of merfolk will be taken from the book “The Secret World of Mermaids” by Francine Rose. We will not take credit for it’s writing. It’s a childhood book of mine that I adore dearly and sincerely think you should all check out!

Also! Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list so that you don’t miss a new chapter!

Anyways, that’s about it. I hope you enjoy!

If you’ve missed any chapters here’s the link to the masterlist for this story Secrets of the Darkened Seas 🧜🏻‍♀️

Small warning at the start here, there is a minor character death included in this chapter.

Chapter 3: A Sea of Fireworks

Three years passed as The Dragon’s Pearl sailed the seven seas. There had been many fierce battles and grand adventures as Remus learned the ways of the sword from both Captain Hua and First mate Sandoval. During the past few years, Remus found a particular fondness for literature that grew further than when he was younger. Along the way, there have been many new companions to join the shipmates, and the secrets of a certain young man were revealed. A year on his own at sea taught Remus many things, but he couldn’t help but miss the company of those upon The Dragons’ Pearl.

Now at seventeen summers old, the once young boy has grown into a fine young man.

Under the sea, there was a mythical creature with bright shimmering amber scales, varying in shades of accent tones from the top of his tail, to his fluke. The moonlight breached the surface of the darkened sea, the light reflected off of his amber eyes, as if they began to shine and glow under the moon’s pale beauty. His medium length tawny colored hair flowed around him in the cool waters. The mer turned down before his arms moved forwards as he dived down deeper into the sea. The deeper he went, the darker it became.

As he reached the seafloor, he swam at a leisurely pace, brushing a clawed hand against the seagrass. Looking up, the seagrass became littered with life, crabs, small, fish, seahorses, an octopus, and coral. He chuckled to himself as the fish scattered when he swam near them, a green sea turtle by his side seemed to follow him, wherever he went. It had felt too long since he had last been in the sea.

Remus’ head turned sharply upwards as he picked up the sound of a muffled screeching noise coming from the surface. Then a muted bang before a flash of scattered gold light. With a strong flick of his tail, the floor beneath him vanished from sight as he neared the surface.

Breaching from the water, he looks up to the familiar ship with concern, “Opal! What’s happening?!” He yells up to the deck.

In an instant, a tall beautiful greek woman, around the age of twenty-three, with long light brown hair, hazel green eyes, lightly tanned skin peered over the railing of the deck to respond. She was dressed in a sea-blue off the shoulder long-sleeved shirt that was tucked into her light brown pants, with a black corset vest on top, and black boots. At her hip was a wide sword with a dark blue sheath, and its hilt had the detailing of a trident.

“Min-Jun received a letter! We have to make port in Portland! The Blacks and Greyback were spotted off the coast of Dorset!” She lowers the rope ladder and opens the small gate, “Get your tail up here!”

Remus catches the ladder with ease and pulls himself up onto it, “What’s the sudden hurry? We’re currently off the coast of Dorset ourselves.” He comments, looking back up to his friend.

“Quinn’s family lives in Portland, he thinks they’ll be going after them!” Opal replies, tossing down a blanket for Remus to dry his scales with.

Remus winces as the blanket lands upon his head, frowning as it blocks his view. Pulling the soft cloth from his head, he sets to work on drying himself and his scales, “But why would they go after his family?” He yells out.

Opal pauses, a somber look upon her face as she watches Remus make his way up the rope ladder with his two legs, scales now nowhere to be seen. She shakes her head as he reaches the deck, “I don’t know. But I think something’s wrong.”

Two-quarters of an hour pass with The Dragon’s Pearl sailing at full speed to Portland. The sea seemed to be at their side that night, the sound of cannon fire reached the members of the crew. The lifeboats were lowered with First mate Sandoval and Remus inside one of the boats.

Remus’ eyes widened when he saw the pitch-black sails of The Ophiuchus which could barely be seen from a distance. The ship’s colors had a black flag with a white skull with a snake coming out of an eye socket. The Blacks. The ancient pirate ship passed down from generation to generation of Blacks. Rumors and tales continuously traveled from sailors aboard many ships about the family, the ship gaining the nickname of Grimmauld amongst the gossiping sailors. Remus had heard many tales himself in the past.

The Blacks were ruthless in their pliage for gold, leaving no survivors. There were tales of The Ophiuchus battling The Dragon’s Pearl when Captain Orion Black attempted to steal the other Captain’s ship. Although Captain Hua was young, he forced the Blacks to flee when their ship suffered too much damage. The Captain of The Dragon’s Pearl had given them a warning years ago that should he ever see them again, he would kill the Captain of The Ophiuchus.

The boats reached the docks before everyone ran up to the small town of Portland. Quinn cut down any pirate who foolishly stood in his way. Remus followed close behind, sword drawn at the ready, and cut down any pirate who tried to go after Quinn whilst the man’s back was turned. Remus had grown used to the occasional battle, but hardly ever were the stakes this high. Opal and Captain Hua had stayed on the ship with a skeleton crew, while the other sailors joined Remus and Quinn to shore.

Remus stopped in his tracks when one of the pirates was running straight for him. With the sword in his hand, Remus quickly stabbed the pirate in the abdomen before pulling his sword free and running to catch up with Quinn. Who was running up a hill towards the Lighthouse faster than Remus had ever seen the man move.

Up close the lighthouse was rather beautiful for its old age, time had been kind to it, yet the years have clearly made their marks all throughout the house. The lighthouse more than likely had many stories to tell. Standing tall with red and white patterns, a small quaint cottage at the base of the lighthouse became visible as Remus neared the property. The house was alight with shadows dancing across the windows as pirates breached the door, the sound of clanging swords could be heard coming from inside the house. Quinn cut down pirates until he finally managed to enter the house.

Quinn’s eyes widened as he surveyed the state of the house, there were countless pirates from both the Black’s and Greyback’s sailors engaged in sword fights. There was hardly a break as he entered the fray of battle, cutting down unsuspecting men from behind and never letting his guard down.

A middle-aged woman with black hair tied into a messy bun, bright brown eyes, fair skin, and rosy lips gripped the rapier in her hand tightly as she slashed down another pirate. She twirled expertly, her white nightgown and dark robe twirling with her, to dodge a blow from another pirate before she stabs them, she pulls the sword free before she raises it to the man who just entered the cottage, freezing as her eyes widen in surprise. “Quinn!” She exclaimed before her eyes darted to a pirate behind him who began to stir awake.

He smiles at the exclamation before following her line of sight, turning behind him he sees the pirate that began to stir awake. Flipping the hilt of his sword in hand, he stabs the newly conscious pirate in the chest before turning back to the woman, “Mother are you alright?” He looked over the cottage, objects just laying scatter on the floor before he looked back to his mother.

“I’m perfectly alright, it’s your father I’m worried about, that blasted Greyback cornered him to the basement!” The woman turned her gaze to the young man who just reached the door, quickly assessing him before offering him a small nod. “And you must be Remus.”

Remus nods in return, “I am. How did you-” He cuts himself off as the answer was obvious and gives his First mate a pointed look, “Quinn. You’ve told them about me haven’t you?”

“Remus. Who do you take me for? Of course, I did.” Quinn mirrors the same pointed look back, “How else do you think Min-Jun and I were able to help you as a child?” He looks back to his mother, “We better move quickly. Hopefully, father is using the basement to his advantage.”

“Quinn, this is your father, of course, he is.” The woman turns to a door that leads to a staircase to the basement. Quickly lifting her skirt the woman rushed down the stairs.

The three rush down the stairs and into the large dimly lit basement, which could only be described as a very large study with storage. Bookshelves lined the walls and the shelves themselves were stacked with a variety of mythical things one would only believe to be within the tales. Color bottles and vials littered the shelves of the room, various plants were in every corner of the room. In the center of the basement, a large man with a cutlass scoured the room with a harsh glare for the man who was hiding.

The man wielding the cutlass was large, nearly the height of Min-Jun and Quinn, he had a vicious looking face, with very long matted grey hair in dreads, a scar going across his right eye, the iris pale compared to its twin which was pitch black. His left ear had a gold hoop earring, his teeth were visible as he sneered at others who interrupted his dual.

Remus’ eyes could only widen as he looked upon the large man, his breathing quickening and grip tightening on his sword. Every part of him grew defensive and fearful, his instincts screaming at him to get out. To run. He’s heard of this man before, Fenrir Greyback, a notorious and ruthless hunter of mers alike, capturing and selling mers for profit, or simply to just experiment on them. Other times he’d simply slaughter any merfolk he could find.

Greyback’s knuckles looked raw and battered with blood as he gripped his weapon tightly, his long yellowish nails were easily spotted as his right hand pressed against his chest, a wound with fresh blood seeping through his grey shirt. “This isn’t over.” He snarled before he ran out the basement door.

Hidden behind a bookcase, was a middle-aged man with tousled red-brown hair with long bangs parted to the left, light-colored skin, and blue eyes. He wore a simple navy blue shirt underneath a grey robe, light brown pants, and dark brown boots. Eyes trained as he watched the burly man closely, sword drawn at the ready to continue the duel. He made no motion to move as Greyback snarled in warning, back pressed flush against the wood until he could hear the pounding footsteps a safe distance away.

Relaxing marginally, he exits his retreat behind the bookcase and sighs, “That man is repulsive.” He mutters under his breath.

“You’re not wrong about that father.” Quinn chuckles as he gently pats his father’s shoulder.

“Why would Greyback come all the way out here? Why would he attack you?” Remus looked at the older man.

“Probably because my husband has something he wants.” The older woman looks to her husband. “Are you alright?”

The older man looks to his wife and nods, “I’m alright. If anything Greyback’s in much worse shape. That wound is going to leave quite a scar if untreated.”

“What was he after?” Remus looked between the older couple.

“Something no one should know exists.” The woman looked around the room. Muttering under her breath at the state of the room. “But rumors are a powerful thing, especially when they hold truths.”

“And especially if it makes you incredibly well known in the nautical world.” The man continued with a sigh. Moving aside his robe, he pulls free a rather thick leather book from an inner pocket and looks down at it. “He’d be a fool to think I’d just leave it lying about.”

Remus’ eyes looked over the leather book. At first glance, it was nothing out of the ordinary, but Remus knew better than to judge a book by its cover. It was what’s inside the book that Greyback took a slash to the chest in order to obtain. And failed. Whatever information that was contained inside the book was important. Why else would such a siege upon this small home occur? Enough to bring both Greyback and the Blacks themselves here.

“This book is the only one in existence.” The woman looked at Remus as she stood beside her husband. “It’s about your kind.” Gently taking the book from her husbands’ hands, she holds the book to Remus. “My husband wrote everything he learned about the magical creatures of the sea.” She smiles as she encourages Remus to take the book.

“About my kind…” He repeats at a whisper before a realization comes to mind, amber eyes widening at the thought, “That’s why he wanted the book. To hunt more merfolk.” A cold shudder runs down his spine at the thought of Greyback getting his hands upon this book. No wonder the older man fought to protect it with his life. Mers alike would be in even more danger than in the past. And after seeing the man in person, Remus felt as though the rumors didn’t give any accurate insight as to how gruesome the pirate actually appeared, and the snarling tone of his voice would most likely echo in his mind for days.

At the older man’s nod in confirmation, he looked back at him. “How long have you been working on this?” Remus asked as he took the book, with careful hands.

“Many years. I was a bit younger than you when I first started writing the beginning pages.”

Remus looks down to the worn leather book and opens to a well-kept page, Fantastic Nautical Creatures, by Newt Scamander. Remus’ eyes widen at the title and familiar name, pausing mid-turn of a page. Wait. Remus looks at Quinn with wide eyes, before he looks back to the older couple.

“You’re Newt Scamander,” He looks to the woman, “And you’re Porpetina Scamander!”

“Please, call me Tina dear.” She rubs Remus’ arm in a comforting manner.

Remus looks to Quinn, an unreadable expression upon his face. Quinn had called them mother and father. That means… “You’re their son?!”

“Quinton Scamander is my real name,” Quinn answered with a simple shrug. “Sandoval was the first thing I could come up with when you asked for my name. I’m not exactly used to keeping an alias.” He looks at his parents. “Why couldn’t you have just kept it at Quinn?”

“And leave the Scamander tradition of giving horrible names? I couldn’t possibly.” Tina chuckled.

“Oh, you wound me, mother. What a way to keep tradition.” Quinn replies with a wince.

“It’s not like my family did any better.” Tina retorts just as the sound of cannon fire boomed, echoing throughout the basement. Tensing, everyone turned their heads to the back door, and with a nod from Newt, they exited the damaged basement and headed to the cliffs.

As the group ran back towards the shoreline, Remus could see The Dragon’s Pearl exchanging cannon fire with The Ophiuchus. The ships both suffered blows from the other, only the Dragon’s Pearl wasn’t on fire. And what appeared to be Min-Jun, swinging on a rope, from the Ophiuchus back to the Dragon’s Pearl.

Quinn only groaned at the sight. “And he gives me lectures about swinging from a rope.” Hypocrite. “Why are you like this…” He mumbled under his breath.

Tina and Newt only chuckled as their son scowled at the captain. They ran to the docks just as the Ophiuchus began to make their retreat, and the Dragon’s Pearl making its way to the loading docks. Opal was the first rush down to welcome Quinn and Remus back.

Quinn had a strange feeling, one that he couldn’t place as he looked over Opal. Relieved that the woman wasn’t injured in the crossfire, although he was well aware that she could easily handle herself. “Ti synévi?” What happened? he had asked.

“To shorten it: Min-Jun snuck onto Greyback’s ship and found two gorgónes. Mermaids. Brought them back to The Dragon’s Pearl, then snuck onto the Ophiuchus, rescued the second Black heir and brought him back as well.” Opal said with a shake of her head, “How that was possible, I have no idea.”

“Sounds about right,” Newt replied with a chuckle.

The older couple looked at their son, who had never told them he learned and spoke greek. Newt and Tina looked at each other before sharing a knowing smile. Tina looked to the woman with the greek accent. “I’m Tina Scamander, Quinn’s mother. I wonder why my dear son would fail to mention a lovely lady such as yourself in his letters?” She turns her head slowly to glare at Quinn, who found the sea far more interesting at the moment. Tina looked back to the young woman. “What is your name dear?”

Opal watched Quinn’s gaze quickly turn to the sea in embarrassment. Oh this awkward man. She fought the urge to tease the poor man, there was time to mess with him another time. Not in front of his parents. She smiled as she looked at Tina. “Opal Teresi. It’s nice to meet you.”

Remus looked to Quinn with a teasing smirk, “Really? You mention me in your letters but not Opal?”

“Shut. Up.” Quinn says with wide eyes that seemed to promise pain with an unnaturally wide smile.

“You’ll have to write to me dear, Quinn hardly ever writes what’s going on in his life. I have to rely on Min-Jun for that.” She tsks she pats Opal’s hand affectionately.

“I will,” Opal replies with a nod.

“May I see them?” Newt asks the young woman. “The mermaids.”

The young woman pauses for a moment and looks to Newt, “They’re terrified, so please. If there’s any way you could help.”

“Maybe I can get them to calm down?” Remus suggests looking to Opal and Newt.

“That may be for the best.” Opal agrees, “We better hurry, Min-Jun wants to leave as soon as possible. Before the Blacks notice their son is missing.”

Opal leads the group to the cabins, walking past many doors until they finally stop at one door with a circular window. Remus peered inside and froze when a pair of glaring eyes locked to his. Inside the room, there was a tall beautiful Asian woman with wet long dark brown hair, brown eyes, fair skin, and bright red lips. She looked to be about Opal’s age. Her tail was a dazzling array of soft blue scales that looked like misshapen spots, with white scales as the base, her fluke was nearly a translucent shimmery white. Her skin was pale, her arms were wrapped tightly around the smaller mer. Her tail coiled around them protectively. Remus nearly gasped. The mermaid only clutched the child tighter, her glare never leaving Remus’ face.

The mer in her arms was tiny. A child, who couldn’t have been older than four. The mer child had short soft silky black hair that was in disarray, brown eyes, light sun-kissed skin. The child clung tightly to the older mermaid's neck, their tail had pale teal and shimmery white scales with the same patterns as the older mermaid, safely tucked under her arms. The mer child’s shoulders were shaking, pearls littered the blankets beneath them. Tears. They sat alone in the room, laying on top of a few spare blankets for the cabin beds.

Remus’ gaze was pulled away at the sound of running footsteps, a sailor running past them in haste, to the infirmary. On impulse, Remus followed the sailor as they walked through the door.

There Min-Jun sat on a chair, looming over a deathly still figure, his face pale. Min-Jun was holding the still figure’s hand.

Remus gulped, scared to find out who the figure was. “Who…”

Min-Jun looked up to see Remus. With pained eyes he looked back down to the figure. Gently putting the cold hand to rest on their chest.

“Ethan’s dead.”

Tag List: (Let me know if you wish to be added!)

@whataboutmyfries

@sunflowerfox87

@spookypotato

#wolfstar #remus lupin #sirius black #remus x sirius #quinn scamander #min-jun hua #opal teresi #newt scamander #tina goldstein #minor character death #mysterious mers #orion black #fenrir greyback #asunshinepuff ocs #ladynightmare ocs #our ocs #pirate captian #pirate and mermaid au

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withoutmonsters · 4 years

Text

Maybe I’m Too Young (to Keep Good Love from Going Wrong)

tags: implied/referenced child abuse, implied/referenced child neglect, a little bit of period typical homophobia, pining, so much pining, post s2, pre-s3

link to ao3

The broccoli sizzled when it hit the hot oil. Steve grabbed a wooden spoon and stirred it, getting all nice and coated in oil, before turning back to his cutting board and finishing chopping the florets. He hummed as he did, a Tears for Fears song that he had heard on the radio on the ride home. The sound of knuckles against a window startled him, and he whipped around. Through the cutout on the wall and the sliding glass doors, Steve could see Billy, smirking like a cat who got the cream and looking like a supermodel. Steve cursed him for surprising him, but crossed out of the kitchen and the living room.

He pulled open the door, glaring a bit. “What the fuck, Hargrove?”

Billy smirked. “What, pretty boy? It’s seven, you should’ve been expecting me.”

Steve glanced at the clock. It was, indeed, seven. “That doesn’t give you carte blanche to just startle me out of nowhere, dick.”

Billy raised an eyebrow. “You do realize that your door was locked and I couldn’t get in, right? I wasn’t trying to startle you.”

Steve huffed, not bothering to give a reply. He knew Billy was right, as Billy was in most things, but that didn’t mean that he liked to admit it.

His friendship with Billy was a strange one. It was made up of equal parts aggression and secrecy. There were so many unspoken words between them that sometimes it felt like it was choking Steve, but he was never going to admit that, especially to Billy. He didn’t know a lot about the other boy, but he treasured what he did know. Like that Billy liked eating vegetables with his meat. If there wasn’t something green on his plate, he’d grumble about it until Steve found some. Steve knew that Billy was constantly licking him lips because they were always chapped. He knew that Billy had three freckles stretched across the expanse of his carotid artery on his neck, lined up like Orion’s Belt. He knew that Billy chewed on his cuticles and that his knuckles were constantly bleeding, not because of fights but because he was perpetually working on the Camaro. He knew that Billy liked his coffee so sweet that it puckered Steve’s lips when he tried it and that Billy would always wear the same three shirts over and over and over again. Steve learned that Billy tied his shoes incredibly tight and would always wrap himself up in about four layers of blankets if he came even remotely close to a bed.

The things that Steve didn’t know about Billy were, somehow, much more than what he did. They seemed to fill up the space around Billy, flooding the air and expanding like some sort of invisible gas. Steve choked on Billy’s secrets sometimes, when Billy showed up at 2 am, battered and hurt and looking like he just lost a fight against a grizzly. Those were the times when Steve had so many words and yet none at all, when he felt like he would suffocate on the lack of his reassurances. Billy never asked for them. All Billy asked for, the first time and all the times since, was a bathroom sink to spread out the first aid supplies he kept in his car. The first time Steve had volunteered his own supplies, Billy had pushed him away until Steve got in his face, eyes locked and mouth hardened in an unforgiving line. He had pulled the same expression he pulled when the party decided to go off and do something so incredibly stupid like venture into demodog infested tunnels just because their friend was in danger. He had worn the authority of his borrowed paternal status, like a mantle on his shoulders, chin held high and head canted like a crown rested on it, and Billy had given in, slumping like Atlas under the weight of the world, bags under his eyes and breath in his chest and he looked, for a moment, like a child, young and sad and so tired that Steve had wanted to wrap him up like a lost kitten and never let him go.

It had only been for a moment. Because the next was ruined with Billy’s words spilling from his mouth, because you could never forget that this was Billy Hargrove, a perpetual snake spewing poison, aggressive and angry and so on fire that sometimes it took Steve’s breath away. Billy burned like a bonfire; he was always so alive, like no one else Steve had ever known. Steve’s life had been a ceaseless suburbia, gray days bleeding into dark nights, and he hadn’t realized how much of it he had missed until Billy had blazed into the school parking lot, Scorpions on blast and an engine roaring like some kind of animal. It was like, through his whole life, Steve had been dreaming, lucid eyes wandering under closed lids, with flashes of decisions that usually ended up with him gripping a bat impaled with nails and waiting for a monster straight out of Dante’s ninth circle coming for him with shark teeth and a flower-petal face and in those moments, he wished with all his ardent heart that he’d lived differently, that he’d changed and loved and hoped and wanted but he never could find the energy to lift a finger when all was said and done and he’d gone home, bruised and tired and feeling a few centuries too old for his body. When it was all over, all Steve was good for was sleeping. Sleeping and waiting like some dragon, sitting on his trove with nostrils open and eyes closed.

And then Billy had been there, looking like a predator, and something had awoken in Steve, flaring to life in his chest and blazing a path through his mind until all he could see was Billy Hargrove, bedroom eyes and his sneer curling his lips. That was all, some nights. All Steve dreamed was Billy’s voice sliding through his ears, Billy’s eyes giving him so many mixed signals that they made cocktails in his lungs, gasping and burning and slurring until all Steve felt was an overwhelming exasperation with himself and the boy across from him. And some nights it was a blank panic that blacked out his vision until Billy found him like that, bruised and hurt but still concerned, because under all his hatred, he was just a boy with too big a heart. On those nights, it was Billy taking care of Steve, even if he was limping like a stray dog, like a broken machine. Steve would cling to him because he was real, because he was firm muscle grounded on strong legs attached to feet firmly planted to the ground and Steve felt like he would float away if he didn’t hold on hold tight to Billy’s biceps until he was sobbing crying breaking in his living room with all the lights blazing through the doors and then Billy would scoop him up and sit with him until early morning, when Steve was sleeping the exhausted sleep of a small child and Billy needed to get home before Neil decided that he had more of a problem than normal with Billy’s nocturnal habits.

This was the friendship that these two boys shared, stolen affections under the table, eyes locked and smirks exchanged and elaborate rituals concocted so that they could share one soft moment, because Hawkins didn’t like boys who dared to be soft; because Hawkins would punish boys who dared to be soft.

Nobody knew—not even Nancy, who was, arguably, still Steve’s best friend despite the breakup. He wasn’t doing too well with friends these days, to be honest. He had ditched Tommy and Carol when he’d started dating Nancy, and he didn’t really regret it until it was late in the day and Tommy was still throwing him those glances that were at once hateful and longing, like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted Steve to be the scum in the storm drains or the king of the school. It was those days that Steve pushed Billy extra hard, meeting him glare-for-glare and shove-for-shove. Because he didn’t want to see those eyes watching hm from across the court, a sneer and tears in the same expression. He didn’t want to see Tommy, the boy who he’d loved and hated in equal measure since he was five years old and starting kindergarten.

And Billy was a nice distraction. A great one, in fact, from everything in his life. From demodogs and gates and girls with too-wise eyes that cut through the armor that Steve wore to the deep dark hole inside of him that ate up all his love, until he was an empty husk and everyone who’d ever made an effort to be his friend was standing six feet away, the same distance a coffin took up. But with Billy, the coffin was already there. Six feet of emotional distance, at all times. Enough space to shove a coffin, skeleton rotting through the body and all, placed like armor, because for Billy, anything that was living was potential to be hurt, and that meant weakness. And Billy wasn’t weak. Didn’t let himself be weak. Steve found it exhausting sometimes, the self-possession that Billy held. He kept it aloft, all the time, in rain or sun, through even his most deranged moments. At first, Steve thought he was wildly uncontrolled, a newborn colt kicking out at whatever he could reach, even if that was the life-giving mare right next to him. But the night at the Byers’ had made something painfully apparent: no, Billy wasn’t out of control. He was always, always in control, even if he was bashing his head into Steve’s like he didn’t care if he got a concussion. He knew everyone’s movements three steps ahead, and took the time to consider all of them and then make his own move; and most of the time, it was the worst move he could’ve made, designed specifically to hurt the most. He drove everyone away, with the careful precision of a surgeon overlaid by the brute force of a battering ram. It was distinctly Billy: strong and destructive and so completely unstoppable.

Billy leaned against the counter, blue eyes taking in too much as Steve fumbled with the broccoli florets. Steve’s nanny had taught him to cook in middle school. She had let him lurk in the kitchen as she moved about like a graceful ghost, hands quick and clever, eyes focused. Steve had asked to help one day, because the nights when she cooked were the closest he had gotten to family dinners in years, and she gave him a smile and showed him. When she was officially unemployed by the Harringtons, Steve kept in touch with her, receiving recipes weekly from her. It was something that endlessly fascinated Billy for some reason, Steve’s ability to cook. The first time he’d stayed for dinner, his eyes had been pinned to Steve the whole night. Steve had shifted, awkward under his stare, wondering if it would always be like that.

Steve added the broccoli heads, stirring until they were coated. After he was done with the broccoli, Steve added the chicken, cut up into bite sized pieces, to brown. Billy went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, silently offering to get one for Steve, too. Steve shook his head, motioning to the bottle of wine that he had opened when he started cooking dinner.

Billy’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “Bougie wine mom,” he joked, voice gently teasing, and Steve wrinkled his nose at him.

They sat down to dinner in comfortable silence, forks clinking against plates and the sounds of chewing the only conversation. Steve didn’t mind; in fact, he enjoyed nights like these, where Billy was quietly soft, more focused on his own inner narrative than what is going on around him. The first few nights like this, Billy had swung between awkward and aggressive, until they had actually sat down to eat food and then Billy had dug in like a starving dog and suddenly the bubble of awkward dancing around each other was popped and it felt like they had been doing this since they were children.

“Damn,” Billy had muttered. “This is really good, Harrington.”

Steve’s cooking skills had spawned a slew of mom jokes from him, as well, but Steve weathered them good-naturedly because when Billy was teasing him about his cooking, he wasn’t flirting. And that was sort of the goal, for these nights. To avoid flirting with Billy Hargrove, because it was becoming more and more apparent that Steve was beginning to like him too much for his own good.

And he couldn’t like Billy, because liking Billy meant wanting Billy and if it was one thing that Steve knew for certain, it was that wanting Billy would kill him. It wouldn’t be the demodogs, it wouldn’t be the Mind Flayer—hell, it wouldn’t even be the snowy roads in the middle of bumfuck-nowhere, Indiana, that never got salted after a storm and were always perilous to drive. No, it would be the sheer wanting of Billy Hargrove.

And Steve couldn’t say he didn’t look forward to that day, but he also wasn’t the one who relished pain like Billy. He couldn’t laugh through a punch; he couldn’t make it seem like it was simultaneously all a big joke and deathly-serious at the same time. Steve didn’t like pain despite the number of fights he lost.

But Billy—Billy was the kind of pain he kept poking at. In the early mornings when the sun hadn’t quite risen yet, in the dark of night when the maws of the Demogorgon ate up his dreams, in the bright daylight at school when Steve could see Billy’s face all to clearly, he poked at it. It felt a little like a sore tooth; he could walk on it, chew with it, move with it, but it wasn’t comfortable.

Billy finished all the food on his plate in record time and got up to get more. Steve watched him go, thinking about how that broad back was always turned to him, even when Billy was walking toward him, and it hurt something deep inside of him, but he wouldn’t say anything.

There was nothing to say. There was food to eat, and a hungry boy to feed, and perhaps some bruises to tend. What there was not something between them. Steve could survive this strange friendship with Billy, but he couldn't survive love.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #steve harrington #stranger things #season 2 #post season 2 #implied/referenced child abuse #implied/referenced child neglect

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blaiddydbrokeit · 4 years

Text

Family (Garm and Lloyd centric, domestic fluff drabble)

“My son… Look at you…so grown up, and yet so painfully thin...”

Lloyd couldn’t stop himself from a weak chuckle. Of course he would say that. He shrugged like it was no big deal.

Wrong move.

Garmadon gripped his shoulders, letting out a shuddering sigh before his lips tug up into a rather scheming smile. “I’m going to make you your favorite dumplings and fill you up until you’re no longer a skeleton.”

No one had heard such a line spoken so threateningly before. And yet the atmosphere was so light and humorous. The battle was won. They could rest a little now. Garmadon picks up his exhausted son, and the wacky little group heads back indoors. Repairs to the monastery would come later.

Lloyd didn’t remember much of what happened next though. One moment, he had been reveling in his father’s arms, finally alive and good-hearted, and the next he was waking up from murky darkness in his own bed, covered in layers of fleecy blankets.

His heart begins to skip a beat as sweat forms on his skin. Was all of it a dream? Were the Oni even defeated, or ever came to Ninjago to begin with? Is his father- Is he even-

A warm scent breaks him out of his questioning thoughts, and his heart reflexively settles at its familiarity. Noodles in shrimp broth. The wafting fragrance was spreading from the kitchen in the monastery. Lloyd couldn't help but follow the familiar scent all the way to its source, slow on his shaking legs (seriously how long has he been out)?

As he enters the kitchen, Garmadon notices him, and Lloyd froze like a child caught doing something naughty. However he gives off carefree laughs at his reaction. "Hungry, aren't you?"

A deep growl from Lloyd’s stomach was the only response he could give.

Garmadon laughs as he begins to serve up the meal. He sits the blonde boy at the table, and gently places down an enormous bowl, steaming hot and full of delicious looking noodles, topped with a generous pile of dumplings and shrimps. As if Garmadon hadn't already gone over the top with the portions, he slides another plate full of pan-fried potstickers.

Lloyd grimaced at the spread of food before him. Did his father really think he could stomach this much food? He doubted even Cole could.

Garmadon placed his still warm hand on Lloyd's shoulder and asked, in concern: "Lloyd? Why aren't you eating? You need some nourishment."

Lloyd relaxed slightly at the warmth, picking up his cutlery, his hands trembling ever so slightly. He stirs the noodles hesitantly with the chopsticks and begins to eat.

Almost like a trance he'd suddenly been lapsed into, the nostalgic and authentic taste of his father's absolutely divine cooking overwhelmed his senses. Overcome with emotions; Lloyd did not realize he had picked up the bowl, scarfing down the contents as though he hadn't eaten in weeks. When he finally lowers the bowl in a bid for breath, he comes to the realization he had unknowingly emptied the entire bowl.

"Oh…" he groaned, stifling a little burp.

"My, you really are starved. Here, the potstickers should help fill you a little more" Garmadon warmly remarked as he shifted the dishes so that the plate of potstickers were in full view and reach of Lloyd. Lloyd was already so full, and yet somehow, something was compelling him to practically inhale the entire plate worth of potstickers anyway. One bite was all it took to make his decision for him, the irresistable taste urging for more. Slowly but surely, the plate was emptied.

He'd finished all the food prepared for him! Lloyd leaned back in the chair, completely and utterly stuffed. He felt so bloated, his stomach full, warm and heavy with food. Resting a hand on his slightly bloated belly, he sighed in relief and contentment. His father only looks on in mild amusement and surprise. "Goodness, what an appetite! I suppose I'll have to make your next meals just as hearty then!"

Lloyd couldn’t help it. He teared up, a wave of emotion coursing through his soul. “I missed you…” he whispered.

Garmadon reached over, placing a hand gently on his son’s own. “I’m here now…”

The pair had returned to Lloyd's room, the elderly man bundling the youthful blonde back into blankets in bed with a firm insistence on rest. Lloyd, for once, felt sleepy as he drifted off to sleep, warm both inside and out, the last thing he knew before his eyes shut was his father's dry calloused hand gently patting his back.

The next few days felt like an absurd flurry of events. The gate was being repaired, the debris had to be cleared and the lamps replaced. A mural was being plotted upon the yard's walls, a depiction of the legacy of the big found family. And yet, even with so much to be done, Garmadon had somehow found the time to cook up a storm, feasts fit for gods in enourmously generous portions that found its way into Lloyd's stomach. The young boy quickly found himself much hungrier - the anticipation of food made so lovingly by his own father. He ate with vigor and voracity unrivaled, an appetite of inhuman proportions.

Garmadon could not be a prouder father. Lloyd had saved him time and again, and to be able to express his love for the teenager through his cooking that seemed to trigger such eagerness in his son, only steeled his resolve to nurse his dearest only child back to the pink of health. Lloyd was still awfully thin, undeniably, but it was clear to all who passed by that the adolescent was beginning to regain a healthier complexion. He just needed more rest, and a bigger abundance of rich heavy meals - plenty of meat and proteins. The oni and dragon blood in Lloyd would hopefully respond readily to the avalanche of nutrients that was to flood his body.

Three meals a day with everyone else quickly grew to include several extra private meals - just Lloyd and Garmadon, the former packing delicious food away most impressively, and the latter cooking just as impressively and accompanying the conversations. It had been a little over a month since the battle, the mural well under way. But the walls were not the only things that began to flush with vibrance. Lloyd had visibly begun to fill out, thriving under the ample love of Garmadon. The fair-haired young man no longer looked sickly pale, a dusting of rose over his cheeks bringing life and color into his face. It was a most precious sight.

The days of peace since the victory against the Oni still felt foreign and strange to everyone in the monastery - for once, there was no one to be fighting, no plans to be rushing. It was all a time of quiet serenity well-deserved. And it was just exactly what Lloyd needed. Having his needs met - a loving parent, a surplus of delicious meals to nourish him, and a lack of constant stress had certainly helped his rest. What had been nights of tossing and turning within nightmares he had to face alone had become long bouts of untroubled slumber. It wasn't long before everyone was pleasantly surprised - for the first time, Lloyd looked relaxed, laughing cheerfully, carefree and genuine. He was running about with the energy he had seemed to lack more and more over the years, his eyes shining with cheeky excitement and vitality. Almost like the child he never got to be.

The liveliness within the Monastery only seemed to grow with his recovery. More time was spent as a family, whether it was in the kitchen learning to cook with his father and Zane, or standing out in the yard eagerly chattering the night away while Kai manned the grill, serving up helpings of perfectly grilled meat with fiery flair that never failed to make eyes roll at his dramatic ways. The family was whole and together again, it was all they could have asked for.

It was almost in a blink of an eye when the Winter solstice came and went, as a new year drew ever nearer. One who saw Lloyd now would've hardly recognized him. No longer was the green ninja scrawny and sickly - no, he had a flourishing glow of health about him that could light up any room with his cheeriness, his now slightly podgy build showing the bounteous love that he received from his family. Garmadon had never dropped his hobby of cooking, and with the help of the ninja, found his new calling. He opened a restaurant that soon became well known for its homely atmosphere and its heartwarming dishes, a direct competitor to the major chain of Mister Chen Noodle House restaurants throughout Ninjago. Wu too, had found his peace in retirement, spending many a day in the monastery carefully calligraphing the chronicles of Ninjago's history.

After all this time... it seemed that the First Spinjitzu Master had finally given its protectors the happily ever after they deserved. Or has he?

#lloyd ninjago #lego ninjago #ninjago garmadon #ninjago au #ninjago fic #sen writes?

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manychocolatefactories · 4 years

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CatCF Dark Chocolate: Part 2, the tour

Willy Wonka and his factory:

For the Factory in this version, I wanted to give a feeling of the factories of the 19th century. Something between a place where a mad scientist would work and a steampunk fantasy. Willy Wonka himself is based on Jules Vernes.

Willy Wonka himself is a man with an "impressive beard", a solemn but kind air on his face, and an overall feeling of knowledge and wisdom. Wearing a thick and tight jacket, a black top hat and a dark green coat, his appearance actually gives mixed signals: his short hair is fluffy and shaggy, like a man of free spirit, of amusement and not much care, but his beard and mustache are neatly trimmed and cut, like any serious and respectable man. His hair is brown, chocolate-colored, but with touches of white and gray here and there. His eyes are kind and twinkling, but his mouth is a harsh thin line. He is the kind of man that will say the most extravagant things perfectly seriously, but treat serious and common business as a joke. Don't think however that is an extravagant or funny man. Again, he rather gives the feeling of a kind mad scientist.

As for the Factory itself, actually the locals, the people of the town over which the Factory looms, dislike it. Sure, the Factory is admired by people wordlwide - tourists come to see it, painters come to paint it, it is a landmark admired in foreign countries. But the locals do not like it at all. It is a tall, dark, cold and stern building, with no color of beauty, only locked doors, metallic fences, thick walls and high chimneys. The Factory does not employ anyone of the town, in fact no one ever saw the Factory workers arrive or leave. Wonka himself has never left his factory for decades now. Couple that with strange white silhouettes seen at the windows, and the ramblings of the local homeless man who apparently hates the Factory and keeps insulting it, and quickly a bad reputation was built for it. Adults believe Wonka is trying to hide a shameful secret, the kids tell tales of "the haunted chocolate factory"...

In fact, I wanted an air of creepiness for the Factory. I took back the original idea of Dahl that all the workers are regular humans dressed in white, and I pushed it a little further: they are basically so covered in white you can hardly see them anymore. They have white blouses and jackets, white gloves, white masks, white caps, white helmets... After each kid's demise, a mysterious poem is recitated (like in Dahl's original drafts), mysterious voices that could be eithe the worker's or something else... In fact, with each kid demise there is an element of sppokiness which may be the kid hallucinating out of fear, or not (Augustus in the river thinks something is tying to catch him or drag him down ; Wilbur and Rice in the dark hear and feel creepy things...). And Wonka himself keeps making ominous references to "selling your soul to the devil"...

But in truth the Factory isn't a death trap at all. Behind the scenes, the workers are just normal people with their own life and their usual office routines, and who happent to leave very discreetly the Factory. The Factory is also based a lot on the Menier chocolate factory, which is the "real-life" Wonka factory. I may speak more about it one day.

Anyway... now let's go on with the tour!

# The Labyrinth. Behind each entrance, before each exit of the Factory, is a labyrinth, a maze Wonka designed after the works of Penrose and Möbius. Only he and his workers know the way out of them. This is merely a security measure.

# The Edible Garden. For this garden, I wanted to insist on the idea of it being fake and artificial - Wonka didn't try to create a perfect replica of a landscape. This room doesn't even have any real sense in the Factory, it is merely a piece of art he created so that he could come in here to relax and mediate. There are no windows, all the lights come from spots on the far-away ceiling and the ground is grey stone (because Wonka is revolted at the idea of making grass out of candy, it would be too dirty). There are trees of hard caramel and mint candies, orchards where the fruits are made of gummy, lollipops shaped like flowers and numerous sculptures of sugar - none of this is to be eaten however. At the back of the garden, there is the Chocolate River. The River serves a double use: on one side, it is merely an aesthetic addition to the Edible Garden. On the other, it is a source of energy for the Factory - it used to be a water mill, and Wonka kept the ancient structures but replaced water with chocolate. As such, the production of chocolate actually helps create energy back - and the river ends with a series of different pipes, each one leading to a different room where the chocolate will be used.

This is where Augustus Pottle meets his demise. The competitive glutton tried to empty the river of its content, and fell into it. Sucked up by one of the glass pipes, he did a long travel through the tubes and pipes of the factory, which crushed and reshaped his fat into a cylindric body - before he fell into one of the boiling vats. There, the heat was enough to have all his fat melt, like in a super-intense sauna. Hopefully, he was rescued before being boiled alive - but Augustus left the factory as a mass of sagging, extra-skin, his wrinkled folds dragging on the ground, like a skeleton wearing a bride's dress made of human flesh.

# At the back of the Edible Garden, there is a long hallway that passes by a balcony. Said balcony allows one to see the "Mosaic room", a place where Wonka makes mosaics out of pralines - and since the room is really vast, he can make giant mosaics.

# The Vanilla Fudge Mountain. While it looks like a miniature mountain kept inside a giant room, this titanic hunk of vanilla fudge is actually a fragment taken out of the Honeylaya mountain range (located somewhere between the great Black Thunder chocolate mines, and the sugar marshes of the Sea of Marmelade). [References to the Himalaya, the Black Thunder coal mines, the Black Thunder chocolate bars, the Sea of Marmara and salt marshes ]. This room is basically a copy-cut of Dahl's deleted chapter of the same name, with workers breaking down the mountain, piling the fudge in wagons and then sending it to the Cutting and Pounding Room.

This is where Wilbur and Rice meet their demise. Unruly, and tired of having all their pranks and "fun" sabotaged by Wonka and Bertie Upside, they decide to ride the wagons. Of course, they are sent down the Cutting and Pounding Room - hopefully for them, Wonka has installed an intelligent wire strainer/net that can catch all impurities detected, to clean the fudge. So the kids are saved, right? Well the thing is that, while waiting on the wire strainer for someone to save them, the kids, bored and gluttonous, ended up eating all the fudge that fell down around them. They ate so much of it, that the machine ended up identifying them as "fudge" instead of "impurity" (since they were basically 80 percent fudge after their gorging Xp). So they where sent down in the Room, thrown on a conveyor belt... ready to be pound and cut into slices. The workers realized this of course and stopped the conveyor belt before the knifes - but the kids still got pounded. Wilbur, who was lying on his side when he got pounded, became tall and thin ; while Tommy, who was standing up, got pounded on the head and became small and large. In fact, when they got out of the Factory, their angry parents ended up mistaking one for another and going home with the wrong boy.

# After the Vanilla Fudge Mountain, the tour goes by another hallway, this one with numerous tall and colorful windows - stained glass made of sugar. Each window illustrates a famous chocolatier or candy-maker, but in the style of saints in churches. You have Philippe Suchard (the grandfather of Milka), Henry Isaac Rowntree (the maker of the Fruit Pastilles and Fruit Gums), the Menier family (the biggest chocolatiers of 19th century and first half of 20th century Europe, and distant relatives of Wonka) ; the Murrie family (creators of Hersheys) and the Mars famly (bheind the Mars bars, the M&Ms, the Snickers and the Milky Ways). "All families" Wonla notes with an air of sadness. Indeed, Wonka always wanted a family - or rather at this point in his life he regrets to not have a family and an heir, isolated that he is in his factory.

# Inventing Room number 3. There are numerous "Inventing Rooms" in the Factory, dedicated to developping, inventing, testing, studying products or just do crash tests. The number 3 is clustered with huge, squat and heavy dark machines, with vats, cauldrons and ovens, and all sorts of other structures dragon-like due to the steam and fire they spill out. It quite a grim and sinister place, but it is also where Wonka tests his most fantastic inventions, like the Rainbow Drops, the Luminous Lollies or the Three-Course Meal Gum.

As you guess, this is where Violet Beauregard will meet her demise. I set myself a rule to avoid all blueberry transformations when dealing with the demises of the Violets, so here I rather use the tomato soup: after chewing (not only did Violet took the gum due to her "talent" but also because she misheard Wonka and thought it was a "tasting" room), her face becomes red and chubby, her skin smooth and glossy, her cheeks puff out, her nose bulges, her forehead bloats, her throat becomes big, her lips thick and her ears thin, pointy, green. Result? Her face looks like a mass of tomatoes. Tomatoes for cheeks, a tomato for a forehead, tomatoes instead of eyelids, a tomato for a nose and two for the lips... Think of the Arcimboldo paintings, how he made faces out of flowers and vegetables. It is the same thing here. And while her parent is furious at first, they end up actually realizing it might be for the better - because now she is truly unique and attention-attracting, and that's what her parents always wanted...

# Follows a long hallway with a series of different rooms: two are taken from the original book, the Fizzy Lifting Drinks and the Squares that Look Round. One I changed slightly: the Chocolate Milk Room, where Wonka keeps special cows that have a chocolate-flavored milk.

# The Heating Room. A room taken from Dahl's deleted chapter "The Warming Candy Room".

This Heating Room looks like the negine room of a submarine or a freighter, filled with turbines, pistons, pipes, wheels and pressure gauges. This is where Wonka creates all of his heat-related products: hot ice-creams to fight chilling days, hot ice-cubes to give back warmth to a cold drink, and finally the warming candies (see the original deleted chapter). Marvin Prune, absolutely outraged by what he perceives as Wonka breaking all laws of science and physics, tries to prove that he is a quack by stuffing himself with handfuls of warming candies. Which results in him over-heating: he becomes red, sweaty, thirsty, removes all of his clothes (save for his underwears) and screams to death.

Wonka will have him put in the freezer, and also covered regularly in water, to avoid him drying up to death or combust. But even as he is leaving the factory, he is still red, sweaty, steamy and in underwears - the falling snow melting as it touches him.

# The Nut Room. Another classic piece of the original factory that I wanted to reinvent. Basically, here the kids do not visit the Nut Room proper, but the Under-Nut Room, or Sub-Nut Room. You've got the Nut Room where the white-clad workers separate good nuts from bad nuts Then the "bad" batch is then in this under-room, where trained squirrels will sniff out any potential "good nut" the workers may have missed. All the nuts are on a conveyor belt, that is getting then thrown down a chute.

Of course, Elvira Salt meets her demise here by trying to take one of the squirrels by force, resulting in a squirrel attack. However, the squirrels do not push her down the chute. Rather, she climbs on the conveyor belt to avoid them and has her fur stuck in the belt. She could have escaped if she had let go of it, but she refused to let it go, so she fell down the chute... and Wonka cannot remember if this particular chute leads to the compost vat he uses to grow his fruits, vegetales and berries - or to the furnace...

But don't worry, she actually falls down in the compost. Elvira will leave the factory extremely dirty, unbearably stinky, so much not even an entire week of baths and showers can remove it, and probably with one or two diseases, but alive.

# The Television Room. I did not had time to clearly prepare this one, but it will be where Michael (Mike) T-V meets his demise. Discovering he can go inside television, he is more happy to oblige, and is absolutely thrilled to be in his favorite shows. But as soon as he leaves the television, he realizes that he is now as small as a television character! No bigger than the screen! He will be sent back to his home, now only able to play with his toys and figurines, the only things at his doll-like size.

# The Molding Room

This room is also taken back from Dahl's original draft. Basically, it is where Wonka creates many of his chocolate sculptures - he has an entire zoo of chocolate animals, and very recently created a machine able to form men, women and children out of chocolate. And this is also where Bertie Upside will meet his demise.

You may be wondering: Bertie? What has he done wrong? He is kind, gentle, generous, perfect. He helped Charlie on numerous occasions, he stopped the mischief of the brats... Isn't he a good kid?

HE IS NOT. Grandpa Georges was right all along: if he appears better than the others, it means that he twice as worse.

Bertie Upside truly has a heart of gold. Which means a heart of cold and hard metal, not of flesh.

Bertie Upside is a psychopath, a sociopath, an evil little boy. Sure he knows how to put on a nice and gentle facade, but it is just manipulation. If he is orphaned, it is because he killed his own parents, and now that he is left alone with Charlie (Wonka being busy elsewhere), Bertie will try to kill him, just for fun, by putting him in the "Chocolate Boy" mould so that he would be smothered in a chocolate statue.

However (I have to admit this part is a bit blurry), Charlie will resist and Bertie will end up thrown inside another moulding machine... A piñata-creating machine. When Bertie will get out of the machine, he will still be a living boy... but now with a flesh as fragile as papier-mâché, and insides filled with candies. Now he is really a sweet kid inside as he is outside. And he will have to be really gentle... if he doesn't want to break.

And of course after that Charlie gets the factory, as it turns out that Wonka was looking for an heir with this tour. Happy end!

Now, as I mentionned a poem forms itself through the story, rhymes being added after each kid's demise (an idea originally taken from Dahl's first drafts of the story). It goes like this:

"Nine little children, in the garden they went,

But one fell, and then they were eight."

"Eight little children, an unruly mix,

Two rode to Chicago, and then they were six."

"Six little children went into a room as busy as a hive,

But one did not listen carefully, and then they were five."

"Five little children, less and less at every door,

One had a fever and then they were four."

"Four little children saw squirrels down the tree,

One fell down the squirrel hole, and then they were three."

"Three little children, and none are new,

One went to play and then they were two."

"Two little children, we are soon to be done,

One got his trickandtreat, and then there was one."

"One little children, everything he won,

He lived ever happily, and now we are done."

#charlie and the chocolate factory #catcf #willy wonka #wonka factory #tour #dark chocolate #demise #veruca salt #augustus gloop #violet beauregarde #mike teavee #charlie bucket #bertie upside #marvin prune #tommy troutbeck #wilbur rice

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