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maximoffsgirl · 4 months ago

Text

Felis

summary: Wanda Maximoff had a well-known reputation for barely tolerating humanity— well, except for you. That much was obvious. What wasn’t so obvious was the Wanda only you got, the Wanda who took you to secret late-night dates spent under the stars, where it was just You, her and the constellations. But now, meeting face to face with the misfortune of having to share you, will Wanda be able to survive nosy adults - known as the World's mighty heroes- that want to "take her girlfriend away"?

warnings: Established but new relationship, late night car drives, make outs, Slight alcohol consumption, Wanda being an emo black cat and cute, Jealousy and Possessiveness (W to R), otherwise I think there's none, but please let me know!

not proofread

author's note: to the anon who requested this, I hope this is what you were thinking about❤️ (I'm sorry it took sooooo long, i hope it was worth the wait)

words count: 7.905

The room buzzed with a relaxed, lively energy, the kind that paired perfectly with the faint chill creeping in from the late hour. Unfortunately for Wanda, your animated conversation with Yelena seemed destined to stretch into eternity—or at least until the yawning hours of the morning. And, according to Wanda’s resolve, it was already late enough for her to contemplate the sweet relief of her bed.

You threw your head back in laughter, your carefree joy radiating through the room as you sipped your drink. Every now and then, your gaze flicked toward Wanda, scanning for her familiar figure. When you spotted her lingering at the edge of a small demilune table, you gestured for her to come closer. But she just pointed toward the couch where the rest of your friends were perched, and you nodded, giving her a quiet, reassuring smile.

Your friends had practically staged an intervention to convince you to bring Wanda to your group’s monthly reunion. Sure, she’d bumped into some of them before—an impromptu chat here, an accidental coffee shop encounter there, maybe a party or two—but being submerged in the full, unfiltered chaos of your entire friend group was a whole different beast.

It wasn’t that Wanda didn’t like them or that they didn’t like her. They got along quite well, and to Wanda’s surprise, they actually had some interesting things to talk about and fun stories to share. The problem was just… people.

Even if your group was as friendly and easygoing as they came, they were still people. And that didn’t make them any less exhausting.

Wanda handled it all as the night stretched on. Polite conversations, a few strategically timed smiles, more small talk than she could ever count. She kept her drink alcohol-free, making sure to stay in condition to drive both of you back. But a woman can only handle so much. She quickly found her brief moments of relief by sneaking off to the bathroom, where she’d check her phone—just long enough to catch her breath before re-entering the chaos. When that didn’t suffice, she’d quietly gravitate toward you, slipping her hand gently around your waist. It wasn’t to draw attention or interrupt; just a quiet connection, a grounding touch that offered her comfort without taking too much of your focus, letting her steal a few moments of peace before braving the crowd again.

At some point, she even got roped into a game with two boys named Billy and Tommy, her competitive streak sparking a few rare grins. But soon enough, the buzz of social interaction began to drain her reserves. By the time you and Yelena’s gossiping marathon was winding down, Wanda had settled into her default role as the quiet observer, her emerald eyes trailing you across the room like a moth drawn to its flame.

When you finally made your way back to her, you leaned in to press a kiss just behind her ear, instantly switching her attention to a more interesting subject: you.

Wanda’s focus shifted instantly, her gaze snapping to you as quickly as her hand placement now, a possessive grip on your thigh. She had long stopped pretending to listen to Kate Bishop’s rambling. The words coming from Kate’s mouth were nothing compared to the sight of you. Your skirt, the way it clung to your skin despite the cold, was far more interesting than… well, she really had no idea what that girl was saying.

It didn’t take one with powers to be able to read your girlfriend. Wanda’s forest-green eyes, though soft and subtle, practically screamed, Please, let’s go home. Her social battery was drained down to fumes, and the longing for the quiet solitude of her own space was undeniable.

When you leaned closer and murmured, “You’re ready to go. Aren’t you?” your words were laced with humor, teasing her indirectly for her lack of love for people. The spark in her eyes flared to life, a silent but emphatic yes. With a quiet chuckle, you nodded, rising from your seat and signaling the end of the night.

Both of you offered your goodbyes to the group, earning a chorus of exaggerated complaints about how the night was still young—even though the clock had struck 2 AM half an hour ago. You smiled apologetically, tossing out an excuse about needing to get up early, even if everyone knew it was only half true. Wanda appeared beside you just in time, draping her leather jacket over your shoulders—because, naturally, you hadn’t thought to bring one yourself.

A few quick waves later, you were stepping out into the crisp night air, Wanda’s hand finding its place on your lower back, gently steering you toward the car. You glanced up at her, smiling softly, and her lips curved into a smirk before she leaned in, stealing a quick kiss. Your surprised giggle encouraged her, and she peppered your lips with more playful pecks all the way to the car. Once there, she opened the door for you, her touch lingering as you settled into the passenger seat.

The drive home was nothing unusual for Wanda, though her mind wandered. If it were up to her, you’d be spending the night at the tower, wrapped up in her until morning. But she knew better—your schedule was packed, and persuasion, no matter how charming, wouldn’t change your mind. Believe her, she’d tried before, and you were infuriatingly stubborn.

“I’ll pick you up at 7 PM then,” she said as you unbuckle your seatbelt, her tone firm with a touch of affection.

“Okay, but text me when you’re leaving the tower,” you replied, grabbing your purse.

Wanda hummed her agreement, though her focus had already shifted. Her fingers trailed teasingly along your thigh, drawing your attention back to her. You tilted your head, leaning slightly against the seat as you flushed under her gaze. Without hesitation, Wanda’s hand moved to the back of your neck, pulling you into a kiss that was far more intense than you’d expected. A quiet moan escaped you, caught off guard by the heat of it.

That sound was all it took for Wanda to tug you into her lap, her hands firm on your hips, drawing you closer with every second. One hand wandered upward, settling confidently on your neck as the kiss deepened. When you finally broke apart, breathless and grinning, you murmured, “I need to go hooome.”

Wanda’s response was a low murmur against your neck, followed by a series of distracting kisses. “And?” her tone lazy and unbothered, her lips never straying far from your skin created goosebumps all over your body. The sheer audacity of it made you groan, tilting your head back. You knew what she was doing.

You giggled softly, shaking your head at her antics, the warmth of the moment lingering between you. Placing your hands gently on her shoulders, you immediately drew Wanda’s attention. Before she could dive back toward your neck, you leaned in, pressing a light peck to her lips, halting her progress.

“As much as I love this, and as much as I love you. I really, really need to go.”

Well, that wasn’t what she was expecting at all. Her expression softened as she let her hand wander, her thumb tracing slow, deliberate strokes along your hip. Brushing her other thumb against your skin with an affectionate rhythm as her eyes met yours.

“But you’ll stay tomorrow at the tower,” she said, and you knew better than to take that as anything other than an affirmation.

Either way, you nodded, a faint smile curving your lips at her certainty. The two of you lingered in each other’s arms for a while longer, chatting about silly, inconsequential things, along with Wanda’s now-and-then complaints about people, in general.

Maybe it was because Wanda grew up with only her brother by her side, her world small and quiet, that adjusting to life with far more people than she’d ever anticipated felt like stepping into chaos. It explained a lot about her demeanor—your girlfriend was, without a doubt, the definition of a black cat. From her emo wardrobe to her piercingly observant nature, right down to that deadly tilt of her head, she carried an air of mystery and quiet defiance that was entirely her own.

A mystery that she was letting you slowly resolve.

But as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end. Wanda walked you to your door, her hand resting snugly against your lower back, and stole one last kiss for the night. Alright, she stole three kisses… maybe four before she said goodbye.

--- 07:13 PM, Saturday.

Wanda knew countless ways to show you love. She absolutely hated those five love language quizzes. But took every possible quiz known to mankind, because it made you happy. To her, there was no point in defining her love when her goal was simple: to love you in every imaginable way known to humanity.

Take words of affirmation—Wanda had mastered them. Sometimes she’d leave you anonymous notes tucked in unexpected places, filled with songs, poems, or plain “I love yous” scribbled all over the paper. Of course, those notes often came paired with flowers, seamlessly tying into her “gift-giving” love language.

Or she would whisper sweet things in your ear, maybe after fucking you into the mattress to a point that your legs simply decided against working; or during a cozy cuddle session, that she was so overwhelmed to the thought of loving you that expressing what her heart felt was the only way to breathe.

But Wanda had her personal ranking system, and in her imaginary list, the “best love language of all time” title went to a combination of three: acts of service, quality time, and physical touch. It might seem odd if you thought about it. Because as much as she loved her brother and cherished the company of the team, Wanda Maximoff was known as the ultimate lone wolf; who cherished her independence and had always preferred her space. But who now, lived for your presence.

The once-solitary soul found herself missing you in your absence, casually touching you whenever you were close, and pouting—yes, pouting—when you weren’t. She’d found herself wanting to do anything and everything for you, from tying your shoelaces to painting your nails, actions that spoke volumes without a single word.

And tonight, you realized she’d be using all three in full force the moment you shut your front door. Wanda leaned against her car casually, exuding an effortless confidence that made it look like she owned the world. Her combat boots gave her a slightly taller stance, her short black skirt was just enough to drive you insane, and her crimson lace corset hugged her waist with a perfection that could make statues weep.

Topping it all off was her signature leather jacket, the one both of you knew would end up draped over your shoulders by the end of the night, as it always did.

She greeted you with a sweet pet name, her tone soft as she guided you to the passenger seat. Then, as soon as she got in, she kissed you—a teasing, gentle press of her lips that left your lipstick intact but made your heart flutter in the way only Wanda could.

Too wonderstruck by Wanda’s presence to notice at first, it wasn’t until you glanced around the car that something seemed off. A frown slowly crept onto your face as you noticed the unfamiliar vehicle: a pickup truck you were certain Wanda didn’t own.

“This is not your car,” you stated, turning to her with a puzzled look, silently asking for an explanation.

“It’s Clint’s. And I’ll say no more because it’s part of your surprise,” she replied with a sly smirk, clearly enjoying your confusion.

She tried to steer your attention elsewhere, initiating a conversation about anything but cars or dates. Soon enough, the two of you were caught up in the comfort of your usual rhythm. Wanda shared new stories about the team and Pietro that you hadn’t heard before, and you found yourself revealing snippets of your life before her, the kind of details you didn’t usually think to share but felt natural with her.

Of course, curiosity got the best of you, as it always did. You tried again, your tone playfully insistent. “Where are we going?” But Wanda wasn’t budging.

“I’m not saying. You’ll just have to sit there and look pretty,” her smile only making you more curious.

Resigning to the mystery for now, you shifted your focus to the little comforts inside the car. You picked the music—your shared playlist, the one you’d made together late at night before you’d even started dating—and absentmindedly played with the rings on Wanda’s right hand, the same hand that rested comfortably on your thigh.

The conversation, once again, changed to random facts, half-formed ideas, and musings stories that hadn’t come up before. But neither of you cared; every small discovery about each other felt like another thread tying you closer together.

Then the car slowed. Wanda stopped near a gate, grabbing a set of keys and tapping your leg as she stepped out. It wasn’t until she walked toward the gate—a sophisticated, intricately designed one—that your curiosity turned into full-blown amusement.

When she returned, you tilted your head at her with a half-smile, your curiosity now brimming. “Wanda… what is that?”

She giggled, looking up dramatically as if in thought, before you poked her side, your need to know finally winning out.

“I was talking to Clint about taking you on a date, like that movie we watched. But I didn’t have a place, and the park just wasn’t it. So, welcome to Anthony Stark’s country house,” she said casually.

Your eyes widened in disbelief, a startled laugh escaping you as you processed her words. “Stark?! How?”

If it had been Clint offering, it would’ve made more sense. He was practically Wanda’s surrogate father figure, even if she refused to admit it. But Tony? That was a different story.

“He offered,” she said with a shrug. “Said it’s a family property he barely uses. I wasn’t going to take him up on it, but Barton called me out. And, well… it’s for you.”

Her voice softened on the last words, and she looked away, parking the car near a tree. Even in the dim light, you could see the faint blush dusting her cheeks, a blush too strong to go unnoticed.

Your chest tightened with emotion, and you reached out to her, feeling overwhelmed by the gesture. Wanda Maximoff, the girl who claimed she didn’t need anyone, had gone through all this trouble just to give you something special.

“You’re too good,” you murmured, the words spilling out unfiltered, your heart feeling fuller than ever.

Wanda’s smile was a perfect blend of shyness and confidence, like she knew exactly what she was doing but still couldn’t quite believe she was pulling it off. She parked the car under the shelter of a sprawling tree, its branches reaching out like they were trying to touch the stars. And oh, the stars—countless, glittering, and impossibly bright against the deep blue canvas of the night sky.

You stepped out of the car, immediately captivated by the celestial display, your head tilting back, trying to watch it closely. You turned, ready to gush to Wanda about how breathtaking it all was, but your words caught in your throat. She wasn’t there.

Your eyes darted around, and there she was—Wanda, already moving with purpose, shutting the backseat door and making her way to the truck bed. Curiosity piqued, you followed, your footsteps crunching softly on the gravel.

What was she up to now? Your mind raced, but nothing could have prepared you for what you saw next.

The truck bed looked like a scene straight from a rom-com, but this was real, and it was all yours. Blankets and pillows were spread out neatly, candles flickered softly, and a few containers sat nearby, hinting at snacks waiting to be discovered. There was also a wooden board, though you didn’t know what it was for yet.

And then, of course, there was Wanda. She sat on the edge of the truck bed, her dark brown hair catching the soft candlelight, her eyes shining with a mix of mischief and warmth. She stood there, effortlessly magnetic and, but her smile? always sweet.

Suddenly, the constellations above you felt insignificant, obsolete.

Why gaze at distant stars when the most radiant being in the universe was standing right in front of you? And then, like a quiet ripple in your memory, you thought back to the first time you saw Wanda.

It was a Friday night, and you were out with your friends after a long week. The local club was packed, as it always was on weekends, but the drinks were good enough to make the crowd bearable. You weren’t there for anything in particular—just to unwind, sip on a drink, and enjoy the company of your closest friends. The music pulsed through the room, and you found yourself laughing, dancing, and letting the night carry you along. That’s when you noticed her, in the middle of it all.

Her hair tied up in a ponytail, wearing a sleek black short skirt and tall boots that added an air of elegance to her presence. There was something about her—the way she carried herself, the way she seemed to glow even in the dim light of the club—that made it impossible to look away. Your first thought was that she reminded you of a constellation. Hard to find, but impossible not to search for it.

Astronomers might say that constellations are only hard to find if you don't know what you're searching for; you didn’t know much about stars—you could barely find the three stars of the Orion Belt—but spotting her in that crowded room felt as natural as finding the constellation Cassiopeia.

But as far as looking goes, you didn’t approach her. You wanted to, but the moment never felt right. By the time you gathered the courage, she was gone, disappearing into the night like the stars fading at dawn. And there goes your North Star…

Later, after you’d been talking for a couple of weeks, Wanda confessed something that surprised you. She had noticed you that night too. In fact, she had stared at you the whole night. To the point where Pietro - her twin brother, who practically forced her out of her room that night - teased her about the intense and long stares she was giving you, saying you would soo call the cops on her ass if she continued to look like a creep.

But she didn’t care. She was drawn to you, too busy admiring you.

That is, until she saw Kate - your overly affectionate, completely wasted friend - throw her arms around your shoulders and drag you onto the dance floor. Wanda spent the rest of the night pouting like a child, downing a few more shots, and probably plotting Kate’s demise.

Now, standing here with her, the stars above seem dim in comparison. Wanda is luminous, magnetic, and real—not some distant, untouchable light in the sky. And in this moment, no constellation could ever come close to her.

There was once a constellation named Felis. Created by a French astronomer in 1799 who felt sorry that there wasn’t a cat among the constellations (though that was not entirely true, because the constellation Lynx was formed by another astronomer in 1687). The constellation could be found between the constellations of Antlia and Hydra, a small cluster of stars meant to honor the elegance and mystery of a feline.

You chuckled at the cat-loving astronomer, amused by their dedication to carving out a place for a cat in the vast night sky. But at the same time, you couldn’t blame him when you, yourself, would create a constellation for Wanda. A cat, as well, because she more than half of the time took pride in her black cat personality.

When finding yourself sad on the news that the Felis constellation has become obsolete, you decided that Wanda Maximoff would be your new Felis. Something you never got the courage to mention to her, but a silly nickname that found its way into your diary every single time you wrote about her

So as you stared at the woman in front you, your brain short-circuited. Though it always did when “Wanda Maximoff” was involved. The first thought that popped into your head was, “I’ll never get over her if we ever break up.” Because how could you? Who else would go to such lengths to make you feel like the center of the universe?

You pouted at her, your face a mix of disbelief and awe. No words came out—just a soft, overwhelmed exhale. The kind of exhale that comes when you realize just how loved you are.

“Wands…” you finally managed, your voice barely above a whisper.

Wanda’s smile widened, and she patted the space beside her, a silent invitation. “You’re just going to stand there like a dork or will you join your girlfriend?” she teased, her tone light but her eyes full of affection.

Girlfriend. That word never fails to make your heart skip a beat. You giggled, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside, and quickly climbed into the truck bed. You settled onto the blanket, draping another one over your legs as Wanda handed it to you.

“This is… wow,” you said, still taking it all in—the stars, the candles, the tree, her. “I mean… you are wow.” Wanda chuckled, the sound warm and low, and leaned in to press a kiss to your cheek before pulling you closer.

The night unfolded in the most perfect way. You lay there together, staring up at the stars, trying to spot the Orion’s Belt as Wanda tried to explain to you how easy it was to find it - you called her crazy right after. The sound of a nearby river added a soothing soundtrack to the moment, its gentle babble mingling with the occasional rustle of leaves. At one point, you gasped, noticing the strings of light bulbs hanging from the tree above. They cast a soft, golden glow, and you realized that’s where the light had been coming from all along.

After a while, Wanda’s gaze shifted from the stars to you. She had this habit of staring, and while it used to make you blush furiously, you’d grown to find it endearing. You stared back, holding her gaze as long as you could, until the intensity became too much and you had to look away, a shy smile tugging at your lips.

“Are you hungry?” Wanda asked, breaking the silence out of sudden, another habit she had.

“Right now? Hmm, not really,” you replied, though your stomach might have disagreed if it weren’t so busy being distracted by the romance of it all.

Wanda nodded, but then, she quickly slid off the truck bed and disappeared toward the backseat. You frowned, curious, and watched as she reappeared with a bottle of wine and two glasses; the wooden board now serving as a perfectly sized table for two. She balanced it between you two, one leg on your side and the other on hers, and then, like some kind of romantic magician, produced two drawing books and a set of crayons.

“What is happening right now?” you asked, half-laughing, as she handed you a half-glass of wine. She poured herself a glass of water, explaining that she’d be the designated driver tonight, as it usually happened. After all, someone had to sneak you both back into the tower and find the way to her room without raising suspicion.

You took a sip of the wine, the rich flavor warming you from the inside out, and glanced at the drawing book in your lap. “So… are we having an art night under the stars?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

And it was exactly that. Wanda had planned a cozy little coloring and drawing session just for the two of you. You leaned partially against her, finding the most comfortable position possible, and your cheeks warmed up when she casually draped her leather jacket over your shoulders. She made sure to tuck the blanket snugly around your waist, making sure that you stayed warm and cozy. You silently thanked her with a shower of soft kisses, making her giggle as she playfully tried to wiggle away—though you both knew she wasn’t actually trying to escape.

Just when you thought she couldn't possibly outdo herself, she hit you with the ultimate surprise: a container of your favorite cookies. Yes, your favorite cookies. Freshly baked. Homemade. You stared at her, eyes practically glistening, and the look you gave her in that moment was so full of love that Wanda was convinced she could die happy, right then and there.

And so, the two of you stayed like that for hours—though it felt like mere minutes. Coloring, talking, kissing, eating, just loving

At some point in the night, when your wine glass had been emptied, with not a single drop to be found and the cookies had long since disappeared, you noticed Wanda giving you a look. That look. You couldn’t pinpoint what was happening inside her head at that moment: after all, you haven't yet got the time to figure out the meaning behind Wanda Maximoff’s indecipherable gazes. And that woman had an entire collection of unreadable expressions.

You weren’t the only one who noticed, though. A lot of people thought Wanda was “cold” or “distant” because of the way she carried herself—her infamous resting bitch face and her preference for not engaging in unnecessary small talk. But you knew better.

You wished people could see Wanda through your eyes. See how thoughtful she was, how much effort she put into the things and people she loved. But at the same time, there was a selfish part of you that liked keeping this version of Wanda all to yourself. You liked having this Wanda just for you. For your eyes to see, your heart to hold, and yours to have..

Especially now, when she was looking at you like that - a “that” that you didn’t even know what it meant or how you could begin to describe it -, her fingers idly tracing up and down your neck, a habit she had picked up a few weeks ago.

“I have another thing for you,” she murmured, her voice so quiet it felt like speaking any louder would disturb the peaceful bubble you had built around yourselves.

“Wanda…” You groaned, though the smile stretching across your face completely betrayed your attempt at scolding her. “You’re spoiling me too much.”

She just shook her head, a smirk playing at the edge of her lips; the red lipstick now smeared on her glass.

You giggled as she helped you hop off the truck bed, steadying you with a firm but gentle grip. But when she led you to the car and opened the backseat door for you, you couldn’t help but frown in confusion.

Settling into the seat, you looked up at her, curiosity swimming in your eyes. Wanda simply closed the door behind her, a small smirk playing on her lips. You didn’t have much time to admire her, though, because in the next moment, you realized you were trapped. Wanda had you against the door, your back somehow comfortably resting against it as she crawled closer and closer to you, until she was hovering over you, her body caging you in.

You turned your head to the side, blushing under the weight of her full and undivided attention. But Wanda wasn’t having any of that. She reached out and gently grabbed your chin, supporting herself with her other arm as she leaned in closer.

“What? You’re too shy to look at me?” she teased, her face carrying a curious expression, though her voice betrayed her with a mock tone. “You didn’t even drink that much wine.”

You smiled, shaking your head slightly. “I had enough,” you replied, your voice soft but playful, an intense blush quickly growing on your cheeks. Wanda’s smirk grew wider, and she raised her eyebrows at you, humming in acknowledgment.

Her thumb traced a slow, deliberate path from your chin to your jaw, then down your neck, before returning to where it began. Finally, she moved her thumb to your lips, tracing your bottom lip gently. The touch was feather-light, sending a shiver down your spine.

As she leaned down, it became clear that Wanda just wanted to kiss you right there in the back seat - that’s what she had stored for you there. You smiled up at her, your cheeks burning with a scarlet red shade as you looped your arms around her shoulders, gently pulling her closer. Wanda smiled back, her lips brushing against yours in a way that was soft and teasing, her quiet laugh escaping as she playfully poked your sides.

You kissed her lightly, quick little pecks that made her grin, but Wanda wasn’t satisfied with just that. She cupped your cheek, her touch warm and steady, and paused for a moment, her eyes holding yours - you could lose yourself in her eyes, the soft green piercing into yours with a tenderness so profound it felt almost unbearable, an intensity that seemed to pull at the very core of your being, leaving you breathless and exposed.

She leaned in, and the kiss started slow—gentle, almost hesitant, like she was savoring the feel of your lips against hers. It was sweet, unhurried, and you felt yourself melting into her, your fingers lightly threading through her hair. But the pace changed, the kiss growing more urgent, more intense. Wanda’s hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, her fingers tangling in your hair as she pulled you closer. Her other arm tightened around your waist, holding you firmly against her. The softness gave way to something hotter, hungrier, her lips parting as the kiss turned breathless, consuming.

You stayed there, kissing, for what felt like an eternity—minutes, hours, it didn’t matter as long as Wanda was with you. You could only focus on the way her lips moved against yours, soft and sure at first, then growing deeper, more insistent. Her tongue brushed against yours, sending a shiver down your spine as she reached down to grab your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Your fingers tangled in her hair, gripping lightly as if to anchor yourself, but it only seemed to spur her on.

Every now and then, the kiss would break, just for a moment, as one of you pressed a wandering kiss to the corner of the other’s mouth, or along their jaw, or to the soft spot just below their ear, or just a playful bite at their bottom lip.

Her lips trailed down your neck, her teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you gasp, and you could feel her smile against you before she returned to your lips, hungry and demanding, exploring and claiming, as if she couldn’t get enough of you. And you couldn’t get enough of her.

You stayed like that, kissing, touching, completely lost in each other. The world outside the car seemed to fade into the background, and all that mattered was her—the way her hands held you like you were something precious, the way her lips moved against yours with a quiet intensity that made your heart race.

The night stretched on, neither of you noticing the passage of time, too wrapped up in each other’s embrace to give the rest of the world a second thought. But the moment was interrupted when Wanda’s phone slipped from the seat and hit the car floor with a loud thud. The sound startled you both, and you broke the kiss, laughing as you craned your necks to see where the phone had landed.

When Wanda picked it up, you gasped at the screen—3:45 AM glared back at you. “Oh my god… I had no idea it was that late,” you said, hiding your face in the crook of her neck.

Wanda chuckled softly, the vibration of her laughter against your skin making you smile. Her free hand found its way to your hair, fingers casually twirling a strand or scratching gently at your scalp in a way that made you melt.

After a few minutes like that, you reluctantly pulled away, insisting that the two of you should pack up and head home. Wanda groaned, complaining about how she never wanted to leave, but she eventually caved, giving in to your logic.

Soon enough, everything was packed and ready to go.

The drive back to the tower was peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected. You never knew a a relationship could be so intense and sweet at the same time. Wanda’s hand rested on your thigh most of the time, her fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns just for the comfort that the action offered. The shared playlist playing softly in the background once again, filling the occasional silences that didn’t really need to be filled.

Sleep was already tugging at both of you, soft yawns escaping more frequently as Wanda drove. But maybe it was the music—one of your favorite songs had come on—or the way her fingers were laced with yours, your index finger idly playing with the rings on her hand, that kept you from drifting off completely.

You sighed, the idea of finally getting the sleep you so desperately graved feeling just out of reach.

“What was that for, sweet girl?” Wanda asked gently, her hand already resting on your thigh giving it a light poke.

“I was so sleepy, but now I don’t think I can sleep at all,” you complained, pouting up at her. Wanda chuckled at your dramatics, reaching over to grab the garage remote from the car door.

“We’ll find your sleep, my love. Don’t worry,” she reassured you, her voice soft and teasing.

You couldn’t help but laugh, nodding along to her words even though you weren’t entirely convinced.

Now, here’s where things started to get a little tricky. It was well past 4 AM, and the two of you were trying to sneak into the tower as quietly as possible. But there were two problems: 1) some of the Avengers, like Steve Rogers, were known to be up before the sun, and 2) others, like Natasha Romanoff and Bucky Barnes, seemed to have a sixth sense for every single movement in the tower, even when they were supposedly asleep.

As much as Wanda loved her teammates—her ugh, she’d have to admit it—found family, she wasn’t exactly in the mood for a full interrogation about why she was coming back so late, why she looked like she’d been “attacked by a bear” (messy clothes, wild hair, and all), or why her girlfriend looked equally disheveled. So, she did her best to walk as lightly as possible, her footsteps barely making a sound.

But, for some reason, the absurdity of the situation had both of you stifling laughter.

It all went downhill when her jacket, which was still lazily draped over your shoulders, slipped off. The zipper hit the floor with a loud clink, echoing through the quiet hallway like a gong. You promised yourself you wouldn’t laugh. You really did. But the sight of your usually cool, collected, and slightly emo girlfriend tiptoeing through the tower like a spy on a mission just to get away from nosy adults was too much. The contrast between her usual nonchalant demeanor and the sheer ridiculousness of the moment had you biting your lip to keep from bursting out laughing.

Wanda shot you a look, half exasperated, half amused, as she quickly scooped up the jacket. “You’re not helping,” she whispered, though the smile tugging at her lips betrayed her.

“I’m trying!” you whispered back, your shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter. Wanda rolled her eyes, though the smile on her face gave her away. She held your hand tightly, quietly dragging you down the hallway as if you were on some top-secret mission.

When a door near her room clicked open, Wanda quickened her pace, pulling you along with her. You couldn’t help but giggle at her exaggerated urgency, even though you knew it was completely unnecessary.

She practically yanked you into her room, instantly closing the door behind you. You immediately threw yourself onto her bed, burying your face in the pillows to muffle your laughter. Wanda stood there, arms crossed, looking completely unamused—though she was trying so hard not to laugh.

Once the laughter finally died down, you rummaged through her drawer and pulled out one of her oversized shirts to wear as pajamas. The familiar comfort of her clothes wrapped around you, and you felt the pull of sleep creeping back in. You and Wanda stood side by side in the bathroom, lazily brushing your teeth, the quiet hum of the tower settling around you.

Wanda finished first, and before you could even ask her to stay with you, she hugged you from behind, resting her chin on your shoulder. She let out a long, dramatic sigh, as if the weight of the world had just been lifted off her shoulders. You couldn’t help but smile, leaning back into her for a moment before finishing up. You kissed the side of her face as you set your toothbrush next to hers—a small but meaningful gesture that made your heart swell.

It was your turn to sigh when you finally curled up in Wanda’s arms, her soft blankets draped over you both. Your arms wrapped around each other, and for a moment, you just lay there, breathing in the quiet comfort of being together.

You shared a conversation that might’ve lasted three minutes—less maybe. As one of you finally dozed off, and the other followed soon after, finally giving in to the exhaustion of the night. You smiled in your sleep, somewhat feeling the steady rise and fall of Wanda’s chest and the warmth of her arms around you, pulling you into the deepest, most peaceful sleep you’d had in a while.

Before you started dating, Wanda had quickly noticed your insatiable curiosity. You were always asking her questions—about her life, her thoughts, her experiences—and she found it endearing. You’d dive into every little detail she shared, researching things she mentioned just so you could come back with more to talk about. It was cute, the way you were so eager to know every part of her.

So, it wasn’t a surprise to Wanda when she woke up to find you standing in the middle of her room, intently studying the little photo mural she had near her study table. She watched you for a moment, shifting on the bed to get more comfortable as you analyzed every corner of her space.

You’d been in her room a few times before, but most of those visits had been in the dark—escaping from a party she’d convinced you to attend, too caught up in kissing and taking each other’s clothes to notice the little details. Now, in the soft morning light, you were finally taking it all in: the guitar leaning against the wall, the painting supplies tucked neatly next to her wardrobe, the little trinkets scattered across her shelves.

“You’re very nosy, you know,” Wanda said, her voice soft but teasing, breaking the silence.

“Hm?” You turned to face her, a smile spreading across your face despite the faint pink tinting your cheeks. You hadn’t expected her to be awake.

Wanda grinned at your slightly embarrassed expression, propping herself up on one elbow as she watched you. “You’re being nosy,” she repeated, her tone playful.

“That’s a love language, you know,” you shot back, walking over to the bed with a smirk.

“What? Stalking?” she quipped, raising an eyebrow to tease you further. You nodded, climbing onto the bed beside her. “Yes. It means I like you.”

She let out a fake, dramatic gasp, clutching her chest as if wounded. “Like me?! And here I was thinking you loved me.”

You laughed, leaning in to kiss her cheek, then her nose—which made her scrunch it up in that adorable way you absolutely adored—before finally pressing a soft peck to her lips. Wanda smiled, her hands instinctively finding your waist as you settled into her lap.

“So, you’re nosy, a stalker, and a thief?” she teased, her eyes scanning you from head to toe. She made no effort to hide the fact that she was checking you out, her gaze lingering on the way her gray sweatpants and black tank top hung loosely on your frame. Even your damp hair smelled like her shampoo.

“You knew all of that before you started dating me,” you fired back, grinning sweetly at her

Wanda chuckled, her hands moving to your hips as she gently swayed you from side to side, her touch playful and affectionate.

“I can’t run away now, hm?” Wanda teased, arching her eyebrows at you with that playful smirk you loved so much.

You quickly shook your head, grinning from ear to ear. “Nooo, no! You can’t,” you replied, leaning in to kiss her again, as if to seal the deal.

Before Wanda could fire back with another quip, a slightly robotic voice interrupted the moment. It was Jarvis, the ever-helpful A.I. that seemed to know everything happening in the Avengers Tower.

“Miss Maximoff, you have been requested in the kitchen for breakfast. Miss Y/L/N as well,”

You blinked, surprised. “They know I’m here?” you asked, turning to Wanda with wide eyes. Wanda shrugged, her expression a mix of amusement and nonchalance.

It didn’t take long before the two of you were heading to the kitchen—after Wanda’s whole morning routine, of course, and a few (okay, maybe more than a few) kisses in between.

You were kind of used to walking around the tower by now—not enough to feel completely at ease wandering alone in the massive building, but enough to find your way to Wanda’s room, the gym, and the garden without getting lost.

But here’s the thing: even though you were somewhat familiar with the place, you’d never been in a room with all of the Avengers at once. Sure, after Wanda dragged you to one of Stark’s infamous parties, you’d met a few of them. There was Clint, who somehow always gave off “cool dad” vibes. Natasha, who you still couldn’t figure out—did she hate you, or was she just like that with everyone? (Wanda assured you it was the latter.) And, of course, Tony Stark himself, the party host. You’d exchanged polite smiles with a few others, but that was about it.

Being in a room with all of them, casually having breakfast? That was an entirely different beast.

You expressed your nerves to Wanda as the two of you walked down the hallway, your fingers tightening around hers. “What if I say something stupid? Or, I don’t know, spill coffee on Captain America?” you whispered, only half-joking.

Wanda chuckled, squeezing your hand reassuringly. “You’ll be fine,” she said, her voice calm and steady. “They’re just people. And besides, you’ve already survived a Stark party. This is nothing.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, but the way Wanda laced her fingers with yours and gave you that soft, encouraging smile made it a little easier to breathe. Still, as you approached the kitchen, you couldn’t help but feel like you were walking into a lion’s den.

But right now, as you sat at the table with a cup of coffee poured by Tony Stark himself, a stack of pancakes offered by Bruce Banner, and an excessive amount of chocolate syrup drizzled over your plate by none other than the God of Thunder, Wanda found herself feeling increasingly uneasy.

Everything was about you. They wanted to monopolize your time, your attention, your breakfast. They bombarded you with questions: about your life before Wanda, your life with Wanda, your thoughts on global warming, and even your theories on what lies beyond a rainbow. They wanted to know every single little thing about you, it was like they’d collectively decided you were the most fascinating person in the world, and Wanda couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

She tried, though. Oh, she tried. She crossed her arms, pouting like a child, and reached for you every chance she got—your thigh, your arm, your waist, your hands—but every time she managed to steal even the tiniest bit of your attention, someone else would jump in with a question or a story or a joke.

For heaven’s sake, you were her girlfriend. You were in the tower because of her, to have breakfast with her. And now it was all about them.

Even Natasha, who had always been hard to read, seemed to have taken a sudden liking to you. She poured you more coffee, for crying out loud! And Bucky—ugh, don’t even get Wanda started on Bucky—the man who had been silent all breakfasts until the present day, suddenly became way too curious about your life. Wanda made a mental note to hide his fake arm later.

When Sam teased Wanda about “losing her girlfriend to the team,” her eyes flickered red, jealousy flaring up like a wildfire. Sam laughed, clearly getting the reaction he wanted, but he quickly assured her he was just joking. It didn’t help. Wanda gave up on her nearly finished breakfast and decided to keep both hands firmly on your upper arm, as if claiming you back.

But even that wasn’t enough. After a few more minutes of watching you laugh and chat with everyone, Wanda had had it. She stood up abruptly, sighing heavily.

“The questionnaire time is over,” she announced, her voice loud and clear. “If you’ll excuse me, she’ll spend her time alone with me now. Because she’s my girlfriend.”

Her jealous tone made you chuckle, but you didn’t argue. You waved goodbye to the table as Wanda dragged you down the hallway, her grip firm but not unkind. Before you even made it to her room, Wanda had you pinned against the wall in a dimly lit hallway—somewhere you were pretty sure you’d never been before.

She kissed you like her life depended on it, her hands gripping your waist as if to remind you who you belonged to. You smiled into the kiss, knowing full well this was her way of reclaiming you.

“I can’t believe they took all of my breakfast time,” she complained between sweet, lingering pecks on your lips.

“You know I’m all yours,” you smirked, trying not to laugh at the adorable jealousy she couldn’t quite hide.

She nodded, burying her face in your neck, her arms tightening around you. “Mine,” she muttered, her voice muffled but firm.

But as possessive as she was, Wanda couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of happiness underneath it all. She hadn’t planned on introducing you to her found family like this—not so early in your relationship—but seeing how easily you fit in, how naturally you charmed everyone, made her heart swell. You had a way of making her feel comfortable, of making her feel like she belonged, even in her own chaotic world.

As she’d watched you at the table, your lips smudged with chocolate syrup and your hand lazily wrapped around your coffee cup, she realized something: she could never, ever let you go.

How could she, when you made her feel like a perfect, solved puzzle—like everything in her life finally made sense?

Because when she was with you, she didn't care if things made sense, they always did if she had you by her side.

✄╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌╌

thanks for reading!! I hope you enjoyed it💌

#mcu #wanda maximoff #marvel #elizabeth olsen #wanda #wanda imagine #emo wanda #wanda x reader #emo wanda x reader #emo wanda x yn #emo wanda imagine #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x yn #wanda x you #wanda maximoff x you #wanda marvel #wanda maximoff imagine

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fear-is-truth · 6 months ago

Text

𝜗ϱ fiancé! + husband! 𝓟𝐀𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝓑𝐀𝐓𝐄𝐌𝐀𝐍 hc

tags — fem!reader﹒sfw + nsfw headcanons﹒violent fantasies﹒infidelity

a/n: i would like to thank anon for requesting this and credit to dear bow anon for helping out !!

one night, as you both rode in a cab on the way to dinner, patrick takes off his walkman and suddenly asked, “have you ever thought about getting married?” his tone was casual, but his body language betrayed his tension—the tightening of his grip on his leather gloves, the unnecessary way he adjusted his tie. when you turned to him, surprised, he waved it off almost immediately. for the rest of the ride, he ignored you, listening to his walkman.

full fic : the perfect girl

weeks later, the topic re-emerged. it was a quiet morning after sex—patrick lay beside you in his perfectly starched egyptian sheets, sunlight streaming in through the windows. “would you ever consider marrying me?” he asked abruptly. the question startled you—again. you blinked at him, unsure if you’d heard correctly. “marry you?” patrick shifted slightly, propping himself up on an elbow. his face was unreadable, though his jaw tightened slightly. “yes. i’d assume it’s a reasonable consideration,” he said, as though the idea had been entirely logical. your heart fluttered despite the lack of romance in his delivery. “yes, patrick,” you said after a moment, a small smile tugging at your lips. “i would.”

full fic : patrick’s proposal

patrick wasted no time. the next day, he presented you with a ring: an 18k rose gold cartier panthère ring, encrusted with diamond accents.

smutty drabble: jerking him off

pre-nuptial agreements (obviously)

meticulously plans every detail of your engagement and future wedding. the venue must be the right blend of modern elegance and exclusivity, the guest list is capped at “only the most important people,” and the floral arrangements must feature imported orchids flown in from singapore. no compromises.

scrutinized every decision down to the smallest detail: the font on the invitations (garamond, elegant but understated), the centerpiece arrangements (white roses only, no filler flowers), and champagne (dom pérignon, chilled to exactly 45 degrees).

patrick donned a pair of ray-ban wayfarers as the two of you arrived at the reception venue (the pierre hotel), stepping out of the rolls-royce.

your wedding dress was custom-designed at dior’s paris atelier. it was a minimalist masterpiece: a structured bodice with a square neckline, flowing into a clean, floor-length skirt with a cathedral-length train. the fabric was italian silk-mikado with a soft sheen, the epitome of elegance. no lace, no unnecessary frills—patrick deemed them “garish.” the veil was long and simple, edged with the thinnest line of swarovski crystals for just a hint of sparkle.

patrick wore a bespoke zegna tuxedo, black with peak lapels, tailored to absolute perfection. the cuffs of his shirt bore subtle platinum cufflinks engraved with your initials and the wedding date. he spent an obscene amount of time choosing the exact shade of black for the tie.

patrick stole quick glances at you, a flicker of irritation shadowing his eyes at the slight asymmetry of your smile. he stewed in his own perfectionist hell, a seething internal monologue growing increasingly deranged.

the bridal portraits was complete nightmare. after making the photographer redo them six damn times—he still found fault. he had scrutinised the angle of your neck, the curve of your jaw, the flicker of light in your eyes. in his eyes, the photos should’ve been magazine-perfect. anything less was sacrilege!

his vows were an unsettling, almost surreal monologue. a strange, disjointed stream of poetic nihilism, peppered with bizarrely intellectual references. sprinkled in lines from fromm’s the art of loving, twisting them into cryptic confessions that left everyone unsure whether he was being sincere or just… pretentious patrick.

the reception unfolded in an impossibly sleek manhattan venue. a cavernous, glass-walled space filled with patrick’s circle of high-powered cronies, along with stick-thin models who seemed more at ease snorting cocaine in dark corners than nibbling on the overpriced amuse-bouches.

the waitstaff darted around the room, terrified to stumble into discussions about stock portfolios, yacht repairs, or debates over which luxury rehab center had the best cold-press juice cleanse. conversations were a mix of shallow ambition and transactional networking.

the dining experience was an exercise in culinary pretension. dry-aged wagyu steaks with precise marbling, delicate beluga caviar that was more a statement of wealth than taste, and desserts that were too decadent (and high in calories) to exist. everything was paired with wine that cost more than most people’s annual mortgage.

the cake was a towering six-tier masterpiece from sylvia weinstock, adorned with sugar flowers so intricate they looked real. each layer featured a different flavour, from vanilla-bean sponge to passionfruit mousse.

only dom pérignon vintage 1985 was served—patrick had insisted on it. the bottles were presented on silver trays by impeccably dressed waitstaff, with glasses refilled before guests could even think about asking. patrick spent weeks debating between this and krug clos du mesnil but ultimately decided the former “sent the right message.”

during the ceremony, patrick’s bored mind slipped into violent fantasies. he imagined choking out the priest with his necktie and chopping up his groomsmen like sashimi.

despite being invited out of obligation, evelyn didn’t show. patrick hadn’t mentioned her absence until much later, casually remarking, “it was better this way.” he didn’t dwell on her, but jane—his secretary and a guest at the wedding—looked quietly heartbroken for some reason.

dancing was beneath patrick. instead, he lingered by the bar, a martini glass filled with a pristine, artful concoction he hadn’t ordered but took anyway because it fit perfectly in his hand. he’d observed the guests, mentally doing fit checks.

after the night wound down, patrick would lie naked in your hotel suite, staring at the ceiling with an unsettling stillness. his jaw clenched as his thoughts spiraled. not about the wedding itself—that was a calculated performance he’d mastered. no, he was questioning the tie. the damn zegna tie. why hadn’t he gone with the brioni?

insists you accompany him to every social gathering, but not because he wants your company. you’re his accessory, his proof of a successful relationship. he spends the evening flaunting you on his arm, introducing you to people who matter to him (read: people whose opinions validate him), and correcting your behavior if he deems it less than perfect.

his morning routine is sacred, and by extension, you’re expected to have one too. patrick buys you a shelf’s worth of high-end skincare products and insists you use them exactly as prescribed.

takes immense interest in your wardrobe. if something looks even remotely outdated or “cheap,” he’ll whisk you through fifth avenue, steering you toward hermès or dior

has a habit of buying you extravagant gifts after every argument—designer bags, clothes and jewelry. “i thought this might cheer you up,” he says, like he didn’t just shatter your nerves an hour earlier.

morning sex is first thing when you both wake up, right before his meticulously scheduled workout—his body at its peak energy. once finished, he’d kiss your forehead and disappear into the bathroom for his grooming routine.

insists on watching the patty winters show and sit you both in front of the television. you often have no choice but to endure his running commentary.

patrick has a love-hate relationship with grocery shopping. he claims it’s beneath him, but when he goes, he micromanages the process to an extreme degree—reading labels, debating brands, and spending 20 minutes in the imported cheese aisle.

your wedding photos are framed in the living room, carefully arranged in a symmetrical layout. patrick often stares at them as he works out.

his idea of romance sometimes verged on the grotesque. one evening, he decided the two of you should watch the texas chainsaw massacre together. he ends up fucking you into the couch as he enjoys the music.

not the type to be overly vulnerable, but in the privacy of your bedroom, he’d occasionally let down his guard. pillow talk with patrick is a mix of unnervingly sharp observations and random musings. he’ll ramble about the fisher account, dissect music lyrics in great detail, or comment on global events with an eerie detachment.

occasionally, he’d break the stream of words with a sudden, “you’re listening, aren’t you?”

patrick hates surprises—unless they’re from him. when your coworkers once threw you a small birthday party, he was visibly irritated the entire evening. “it was tacky,” he said flatly on the drive home. “you deserve better.”

he got you reservations at dorsia, a perfectly chosen gift (think chanel jewelry or a bvlgari clutch), and a bouquet of flowers with handwritten note that’s short, formal, and oddly impersonal: “to another year of excellence—patrick.”

patrick rarely laughs, but when he does, it’s usually at something dark or absurd. once, you tripped over a stack of magazines he left by the couch and groaned in pain. his response? a sharp, startled laugh, followed by an unconvincing, “…are you okay?”

he adores the opera—not so much for the art but for the prestige it carries. he’ll plan elaborate evenings at the metropolitan opera house, ensuring both of you were impeccably dressed. he wore a brioni tuxedo, while he’d insist on you wearing a custom-made gown from carolina herrera or oscar de la renta.

despite his outward sophistication, his attention drifted from the stage to you. hand resting lightly on your thigh, fingers tracing small circles through the fabric of your dress.

he’s absolutely neurotic about cleanliness. he’ll never leave a glass on the counter without a coaster and can’t stand an unmade bed.

hates clutter and will occasionally “edit” your belongings—quietly throwing out things he deems unnecessary, like old magazines or sentimental knickknacks, without consulting you.

micromanages household tasks. he critiques the way you load the dishwasher, fold laundry, or even stack the fridge. “this is inefficient,” he’ll say, rearranging items while you stand there, biting your tongue.

patrick has an affinity for the ritual of lighting cigars. he’ll let you hold the match for him occasionally, but only if you did it exactly right.

would only agree to a pet under duress, and even then, it would have to be something sleek and purebred. when you suggest something more practical, like a rescue, he’s visibly horrified.

when you finally get the pet, patrick is immediately jealous of the attention you give it. if the cat / dog sits on your lap during movie night, he’ll stare at it with naked dislike. “i don’t understand why you let it do that,”

patrick has an odd relationship with your pet. he’ll complain about it incessantly—“it sheds everywhere,” “it’s always underfoot”—but despite his constant bitching, you’ve caught him talking to the pet on more than one occasion. “she likes you more than me,” he mumbles bitterly. the pet tilts its head, oblivious, which irritates him further. after taking another sip of scotch, he nudges it away with his foot—not enough to hurt it in your presence.

but the true ugliness of patrick’s jealousy comes out when you’re not looking. he’ll straight up kick the poor thing or lock it out from your bedroom.

doesn’t officially cheat, but he indulges in frequent encounters with sex workers—usually in secluded, high-end hotels. these encounters, hidden from you, are his way of dealing with his violent fantasies.

afterwards, he comes back to you, his demeanor completely unaffected. he doesn’t apologize, doesn’t act like anything has changed—because, in his mind, it hasn’t. you’re still his. you always will be.

when he’s bored, he’ll ask you to try on outfits—sometimes just a simple dress, but mostly it’s something risqué. he watches you from the other side of the room with that detached gaze, silently critiquing your appearance. “it’s not quite right,” he’ll say, before giving you another outfit to try on like you’re his personal doll.

full fic : leather & lace

while patrick doesn’t outright admit his dependence on you, it’s clear in the small moments. if you’re gone for too long, he’ll call, his tone petulant as he demands your whereabouts, as though your absence disrupts his routine.

at age 27, patrick doesn’t yet feel the need to rush into parenthood, but there are times, especially while having sex, that he considers the possibility. it’s an idea that briefly excites him, but he quickly dismisses it with a wry smile, preferring the idea of you and him maintaining an image of “perfection” without the messiness of raising a child.

though you’ve never spoken about the future in concrete terms, patrick assumes you’ll always be by his side, forever wrapped in his controlling, perfectionist bubble. he doesn’t see any reason why you’d want to leave; after all, why would you when you have everything?

#patrick bateman x reader #patrick bateman #patrick bateman smut #patrick bateman fanfic #patrick bateman imagine #patrick bateman x female reader #patrick bateman x y/n #patrick bateman x you #american psycho #slasher smut #slasher x reader #slashers x reader #slasher headcanons #slasher fanfic #christian bale #christian bale x reader #slasher fic #slasher fanfiction

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duskvsdawn · 2 months ago

Note

27: the first sleep over and 35 “you’re a bottom” together for Kaelix por favor 😔🫶🏽

≫ A/N: Hewwo my favorite anon! I will think of something cool to write for you! I should add that anon messaged me to give some extra details for this fic, so that's why it goes the way it goes!

CW: reader is female, reader is in Niji EN, smut, Kaelix starts as a bottom, but he eventually turns the tables on you and now you're the bottom oops, reader gets choked out and she cums because of it

Art credits.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

If you like my works, please like, comment and reblog! It is much appreciated ❤ And if you really enjoyed it, please follow me so you can be kept up to date on future uploads! Please do not re-upload, translate, or use for AI training.

You're such a bottom

Kaelix and you had been collabing a lot lately, having lots of fun and throwing flirty remarks at each other, your fans noticed. The tension between the two of you was palpable, and you were diving in really deep with the flirting and teasing. Your fans didn't mind this in the slightest, because if they weren't busy shipping him with Zeal, they were busy shipping him with you.

But little did your fans know that the two of you had been dating for a little bit already. The company didn't know (you think?), but you didn't want to tell your fans either. Maybe at some point, but definitely not now. The two of you would be having your very first sleepover in a few days, and you were so incredibly giddy about it, but Kaelix was just as giddy about it.

So, the day came when Kaelix came to visit you. The taxi dropped him and all his suitcases off at your place. Steadying his breathing and his heartbeat, he eventually rang your doorbell. You happily opened the door and almost worked him to the ground with how forcefully happy your hug was. Kaelix gently cupped your face in his hands and left a heated kiss on your lips. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to do this, reader." Your boyfriend said in between kisses, softly and lovingly leaning his forehead against yours, a smile on his face. "Me too, baby. Me too," you said as a happy sigh left your mouth. The two of you cuddled some more on the doorstep before you eventually invited him inside. Kaelix was taking in his surroundings, admiring your modern-looking home. Your home mostly had monochrome-looking furniture, but some blasts of colour would be seen here and there with the pillows on your couch, your shelf with plushies and also a shelf with nendoroids. The bouncer found this home so fitting for you, a mix between reserved and playful, just like yourself.

The two of you would be lazing around in your home for the upcoming days, since the both of you told your fans you would be meeting up together and there would be no streams because of it. Obviously, your fans were suspicious about it, but neither of you cared much about that. After you helped Kaelix unpack his suitcases, you made some snacks and you both plopped down on the couch to listen to some music while eating.

Dinner time came, and both of you decided to cook together, since you had already bought lots of food for the upcoming days. You weren't sure on what to make at first, but you eventually decided to make some puff pastry snacks filled with ground beef and lots of veggies and cheese. While they were in the oven, you were chilling on the couch, cuddling and just generally being happy about finally being with each other.

After dinner, the two of you decided to go to bed early, but obviously not for sleeping reasons. You ended up on top of your boyfriend, both of you naked by now and exploring each other's bodies. It was so nice to finally touch his skin and kiss his lips. "What do you want to do?" you whispered into Kaelix's ear. Kaelix didn't have to think about that for long. "Ride, me, pretty girl," he replied, and you were happy to oblige.

You slowly let yourself sink down on his cock, letting out a long, low moan at the feeling of finally having him inside of you. He was so big, though, so you took some time to adjust to his size. After you took some time to let his cock mold your walls, you started a brutal pace, placing your hands on his chest to have extra leverage. The longer you bounced on his cock, the more your boyfriend whimpered and whined, and the more his grip on your hips increased. The sounds he let out were so cute to you, and you wanted this to last forever, so you edged him over and over again.

"You're such a bottom. So incredibly adorable under me like this," you said with a confident smirk, your pace not relenting as one of your hands moved towards his nipple to lightly tug on it. Your boyfriend hated to admit it, but you being in control turned him on immensely. He wanted to turn the tables on you so bad, but he couldn't manage to do that just yet, so you edged him one more time. And with that, he had had enough. He shot up to wrap his arms around you so he could force you onto your back, getting in between your legs as he did so.

"Hah- I'm the bottom, huh?" the bouncer said as he set just as brutal a pace as you did before. He was trying his best to not whimper as much, but you just felt so incredible to him that he couldn't help it. You wrapped your legs tightly around his hips, making your hips meet his with every thrust. One of his hands slid up your body and halted at your neck, wondering if he should do this or not. But when he saw your blissful expression, he knew he had to. He lightly squeezed your neck, but not hard enough to actually choke you. The pressure on your neck made your eyes roll back into your head, and the pleasure was that much more intense.

"Fuck baby, I'm so close. Gonna cum inside, yeah?" your boyfriend almost squeaked, so overwhelmed with pleasure. You nodded your head, mouthing a "yes", finding it a bit hard to talk with his hand around your neck and the pleasure just being too much. You could feel yourself getting so close, too, and your boyfriend was determined to get you there with him. He kept up with the pace, squeezing just a little bit harder. Drool was starting to slip out of the corner of your mouth as you were getting closer and closer and closer- With a silent scream, you squirted all over your boyfriend's cock, him following soon after, letting his head fall back and a loud moan leaving his mouth.

All that edging had exhausted both of you so much, but that was definitely the most intense orgasm you've ever had. You were struggling hard to catch your breath, looking down at the mess you made of your bed. Your boyfriend knew you wouldn't be comfortable sleeping in a wet bed, so the two of you got off the bed to change out the sheets, throw them in the laundry to take care of those later, and then plop down on the bed again. You hugged Kaelix close, a satisfied sigh leaving your lips as you laid your head on his chest. The bouncer lazily wrapped an arm around you, and with a smile on his face, he kissed the top of your head. In that moment, both of you felt a combination of happiness and satisfaction from the overwhelming sex the two of you had just had. For now, you were going to sleep. But you were definitely going to fuck him more in the upcoming days he would be staying with you.

#meli writes #nijisanji en #nijisanji #nijisanji smut #nijisanji x reader #kaelix debonair #kaelix debonair smut #kaelix debonair x reader #by the beat #by the beat smut #by the beat x reader #request #meli's prompt list #i love this anon so much i would move the entire world for them #nijisanji en x reader #nijisanji en smut

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olderthannetfic · 6 months ago

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Actually, sorry, nevermind with the pro ship stuff ! Did my research and I'm more informed abt it :) you dont need to post either of the asks I sent abt it (and I'm lowkey scared if coming across as a close minded purist prude whose disillusioned about being by one.)..either way ty!

*giggling*

The reality is that any new, viral thing from thirty seconds ago spreads easily on TikTok, most especially misinformation. Instagram is another pretty terrible platform just in terms of algorithms and how it's run. I wouldn't expect the prevailing understanding of such-and-such from within one bubble on either to necessarily be well informed.

The concept of "antis" under that name is pretty new, and the concept of "proshippers" is even newer. It has always meant "not antis". Some people have started mutating it to be about specific dark content, but it was always supposed to be about opposing censorship-happy idiots.

I don't find incestuous ships any freakier than other common fantasies people have. Same with adult/minor ships. You're seeing them in a distinct category because they upset you in particular. The feelings are fine, but they don't actually mean that these kinks are darker than all the other ones antis go after.

I know you think someone will be able to interpret "proshippers DNI" as "only the actually bad people should stay away", but that simply isn't what's going to happen. First, DNIs are moronic. Curating your online space means that you need to be the one blocking and avoiding. You can't ask random strangers, possibly your enemies, to do it for you. Second, people are going to have all kinds of opinions on which content is Bad Enough to count even assuming they share a similar definition of 'proshipper'.

This kind of "Well, we all know what the Bad Stuff is" attitude tends to have a chilling effect on a space. People are all paranoid that their kinks might count and self-censor far beyond what the person who said it expected.

Honestly, aside from the constant misuse of the terms, my assumption is that public proshippers on Instagram and TikTok are mostly into extreme things because anyone less extreme wouldn't have the balls to be public. The amount of death and rape threats from antis wouldn't be worth it.

As for my "rules", I don't have any. This is my personal tumblr, but since I leave anon on, people send me lots of things. I post most of them, but I get so many now, that I'll sometimes cut off a topic that has dragged on boringly. I usually don't post the threats I get unless they're funny and I want to mock them.

Re teens in fandom, I got into fandom at 13 on Usenet and set about reading all of the freakiest porn available. I read far worse stuff outside of fandom. I was curious, as many people that age are. It never did me any harm, and it won't do any harm to current 13-year-olds to read dark shit.

The people who get fucked up already have a lack of decent mentors in their offline life, are reading things as self harm, are actually being harmed by the social side of fandom where they've found some creep for horny roleplay, are the subject of a public hate campaign, etc. That sucks, but it's not something I can control or that will get better if we exclude them from fandom.

Teens would be better protected by their parents removing TikTok from their phones than by anything to do with fandom. Its short form makes it ideal for poorly fact-checked soundbites that sound good on the surface but discourage critical thinking or nuanced engagement with a topic. Youtube et al. are also cesspits, but TikTok has elevated predatory algorithms and viral misinformation to a whole new level.

Now back to rewatching miniminuteman. Hahaha.

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facefullofsadness · 1 year ago

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HII SORRY IDK IF REQS R ON OR OFF BUT CAN I REQ GUITARIST DOM NEIGHBOUR YUNJIN X NERD SUB Y/N (FEM)

first of all, yes reqs are open dw. second, ANON IM OBSESSED WITH THIS CONCEPT GRRR FOAMING AT THE MOUTH

content - dom guitarist neighbor!yunjin x nerd sub!y/n (written like "studious nerd" not "loser nerd" like in the sakura fic), smut (rough sex, fingering, choking, degradation, mommy kink, edging)

wc - 1652

a/n - ffos stop writing rockstar!yunjin smut challenge (difficulty: impossible). and when I do a rockstar!au series w a bunch of diff idols just fucking y/n brainless, then what? bc look at the material, rockstar winter, giselle, hanni, yunjin, wendy, phew, I'm dizzy.

all you want to do is study or relax, but yunjin has her own agenda.

I imagine you're some kind of stem or pre-med major where ur head is always buried in books, trying to study and memorize and re-memorize and review all this fucking material. ur always preoccupied with your studies that when u finally get that moment to rest, you really bask in the peace of silence after a long day.

but of course, you can never have good things. bc as soon as you lay back on your couch, ur favorite snack next to you and putting your comfort show on the tv, you hear music blasting from your neighbor. the melody u conclude being an arctic monkeys song (taste jennifer! listen to do I wanna know for immersion :)) which you would enjoy on any other day, if not for the fact that you were trying to relax and NOT feel the vibrations of the electric guitar from next door. that being said, this neighbor had been practicing music EVERY DAY for the past few weeks.

it drove u insane. you have never tried to confront ur neighbor bc you hoped they would stop on their own (maybe due to social anxiety too but that's neither here nor there), but after WEEKS of this perpetual migraine, you had no choice.

building up the courage to walk over to their door and proceeding to practically pound on it, music louder now that you were outside their apartment. you were fully prepared to go ape-shit on the menace that had been tormenting your serenity for so long. but you didn't prepare for them to be hot?!

the music stopping after 3 rounds of your aggressive knocking and finally a red-haired sexy ass woman swung open the door fully, guitar slung on her back and tatted arms crossed, wearing black tattered clothes, the woman towering over you as she leaned forward, looking up at her eyebrow and septum piercings.

you gulped nervously, not expecting such a sight, the ginger raising an eyebrow at you curiously.

"what do you want?" she'd ask annoyedly.

her tone pissed you off and snapped u out of your trance, "for you to lower your music or stop playing."

bold, she thought.

"why should I?" the woman leaned against her door frame, a smirk tugging at her lips.

you huff out frustratingly, "because you've been blasting your music for the past few weeks and I'm sick and tired of it, it gives me a headache and you have no respect."

she scoffs, "aw, is my princess missing out on her beauty sleep?"

you close ur eyes and sigh, regaining urself so you wouldn't blow up, then looking up at the girl's eyes, "can you PLEASE lower the music at least?"

the ginger uncrosses her arms and leans forward again, one hand on the door frame and another gesturing at you, "do I get anything in return for being such a good girl for you?"

u feel chills go down your spine at her words and your cheeks heat up. the sound of her deep chuckle makes you look away.

"fuck you're cute, what's your name?" she tilts her head to the side.

"y-y/n."

"I've never seen you around y/n. you're telling me I've been living next to an absolute babe for the past few months and I didn't know? can't be having that."

your eyes dart anywhere else before you clear your throat, "anyway, thank you, I'll get going now."

"ah, ah, ah, not so fast y/n-ie. I haven't even told you my name yet!" you feel a hand snatch your wrist and pull you back, your body falling into hers.

you look up at the red-haired neighbor, "it's yunjin, jennifer to friends, but you can moan mommy to me."

you scream internally and feel your heartbeat racing. it'd be so fucking cringe to hear it if anyone else said it, but something about the way jen held you and looked at you like her next meal made your lower stomach feel on fire.

"do you wanna know how talented guitarists are with their fingers?" her naughty half-lidded gaze trailed the features of your face, looking so innocent to her, with your large black framed glasses and wide eyes.

"you're disgusting and a pervert miss jennifer," you say, trying to cover up your attraction to her and the situation (failing btw).

you try to pull away from her grasp, her strong hands gripping your arms tighter and holding you close, her face coming closer to yours, "oh please, don't lie and tell me you don't wanna fuck me."

"you really don't have any respect do you?"

"and where was your respect? came pounding on my door, demanding whatever bullshit you just said, didn't even ask me for my name miss neighbor!" a cocky smile spreading on yunjin's face.

"well I apologize but it should be common sense to not blast your music for the entire 5th floor to hear," you roll your eyes, crossing your arms in her hold.

"you look even better when you're angry, maybe I should piss you off some more."

god she pissed you off so much, it's unfortunate the girl was really fucking hot.

"I'm not pissed," you lied.

"no? what are you then? horny?" the audacity really.

you roll your eyes, "can I go?"

jen gives you an annoyingly smug expression and shakes her head left to right before pulling you into her place, shutting the door behind you, and pinning you to it.

"you may not be horny, which I don't believe, but I am now."

her grip leaves your arms and trails your sides. you let out a heavy sigh but try to hold your composure.

"hm? you're not pushing me away? does that mean I'm right?"

she chuckles lowly next to your ear, her greedy hands slipping under your sweatshirt and rubbing the skin.

"sh-shut up," you mumble, turning your head away from her face in your neck, her mouth leaving hot breaths and wet kisses across it.

her calloused fingertips tap against your waist and travel higher, "no bra? was your intention to get fucked so I could change my mind?"

she's so vulgar, like it gives you the ick, but she feels so good, you ignore the bullshit spilling from her lips.

she feels up your stomach and places each hand on your boobs, kneading them eagerly and breathing hard on your neck. you bite your lip to prevent any noise from escaping your mouth. you knew it was wrong, you knew it was dirty, but you knew it felt too good to wanna stop.

"c'mon princess, let it out for me," yunjin would whisper against your skin, her thumbs circling your hard nipples.

your hands clutch her bare shoulders as you feel her smile against your jaw. you struggle hard to hold back a whine as she pushes you into the door using her warm body.

"I have nothing to let out for you," lying again.

"I guess I just have to tear it out from you then," the guitarist says before taking her hands out from under your sweatshirt and grabbing you by the thighs, lifting you up and carrying you to her room.

your body falls against the plush mattress and you watch as the woman slings her guitar off her shoulders, crawling on the bed towards you.

"you may be able to resist how good it feels now, but not after I have my way with you... I won't be the one making so much noise after all."

oh and she truly kept her word.

yunjin's right hand fingers were plunged deep inside your pussy, thrusting in and out at unfathomable speed, while her left hand fingers were in your mouth, shoving them down your throat and making you gag.

your shorts and panties were somewhere lost in her room and if your vision wasn't blurred with tears, you swear your clothes hang from one of the guitars she had displayed on the wall. you sat with your legs wide open on jen's lap, your back against the headboard for stability, tongue sticking out so her fingers can reach deeper into your mouth.

all you could make out were the choking noises coming from your throat and muffled moaning conjoined with it. your cunt was on fire due to the pace at which her digits were ramming into you. your eyes were rolled back and your thighs trembled.

"you sick fuck, you're really enjoying this you know? I know you are, I know you love how rough I'm treating you. who would've known some lowly nerd like you would be into such freaky shit."

she'd pull the fingers in your throat out which caused you to release a deep groan, but return her hand to your neck, squeezing and pinning you against the headboard.

"m-mommy..." you'd desperately whimper out.

a sick chuckle leaves her throat hearing you call her the title she mentioned earlier.

"you may be a whore but you're good at following directions, aren't you princess?" she sinisterly smiles at your fucked out expression, pulling her fingers all the way out to slam them in again, using four digits to plunge into your gushing cunt.

your vision blurs completely as you feel your high coming quick. your back arches off of the wall and your body melts into yunjin's hold.

"cumming already? so sensitive, I don't wanna end it yet," she immediately retracts her hand from your pulsing core.

you whine desperately at the loss of contact and jennifer's grip on your neck tightens.

"listen here little slut, I barely even started. you're going to hold out until I have my way with you, got it?"

let's just say you're not the neighbor making the noise complaints in the next few hours (days? weeks? yunjin realllyyyy liked you).

a/n - guitarists' finger dexterity is no joke (I play guitar so someone plsss hmu :.) aka huh yunjin hit my line im begging you)

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fir-fireweed · 3 months ago

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I was re reading the current Cantata demo (gotta refresh my memory of it every once in a while 😤) and a thought got stuck in my head

Of how if Evelyn didn't think of inviting us to sneak out, if there wasn't a dance to invite in the first place, if she took just longer to reach our house, if she could not manage to convince us to leave (at the option we disagree to go)...

The MC would have been another life taken, and in the option of her taking too long to reach us, she could even have gotten caught in the crossfire;;

It's honestly a bone chilling thought

Ok, y’all need to stop reading over my shoulder while I’m writing this. 😅

You’re absolutely right, anon, and the MC has similiar thoughts in the next chapter. Events came together just right to ensure your survival, but they could easily have gone all wrong.

Thank you for rereading the demo! The next chapter is nearly complete. I have one more scene to write and some coding bugs to work out, but we’re close!

#interactive fiction #writing #twine if #cantata #if wip #ask me anything

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runningfrom2am · 1 year ago

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requiem // prologue

summary: according to coriolanus snow, his best friend had the most beautiful voice in all of panem. she had been training her whole life constantly to get where she was; being up for a residency at the most elite opera house in all of panem. singing was her passion. her true love; and when that got stripped from her in a second, his world became a whole lot quieter. he loathed every minute of it.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 0.8k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: opera singer!mentor!reader (blink and you'll miss it), she's kind of a prodigy!! p cool imo, mute!reader, bestfriend!coryo, friends to lovers trope ooo, mentions of graphic violence early on (particularly the prologue) but after that it's pretty safe, depictions of ptsd/trauma, mental illness and minor suicidal ideation but at least she's not entirely alone, descriptions of minor medical treatments and use of medication.

a/n: hi! welcome to the prologue for requiem!! just a taste to set things up :) sorry !!

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist // pinterest board

'Are you coming to the zoo after class?' The note Coryo slid in front of you asks. You look up at him and nod, before taking your pen and scribbling underneath his penwork on the same page, sliding it back as your teacher went on and on about things you had already studied and knew by heart.

'Walk together?'

Now it's his turn to nod, meeting your gaze with a smile.

You hadn't had the chance to meet your tribute yet, but Coryo's idea to go and greet his tribute was very smart. You admired it- he was brave to do that, but something deep in the back of your chest made you uneasy about it. Regardless, you and several of your classmates would make the trip after school to go greet them, bring them food, and get to know them as much as you could. You part ways with him once you arrive, planning to walk home together later.

"Valkyrie?" You call out, scanning the tributes trapped in the cage to try and pinpoint her. You see her when her head turns at the name and you smile, waving her over. "My name is Y/N. I'll be your mentor."

She doesn't say anything as she stops in front of you, giving you a death glare that could give you chills. She looked strong. It was good, she'll do well in the games. "It's nice to meet you," you continue. "My job is to help you however I can. So anything you need or want, I'm your girl. Just say the word."

Her cold stare doesn't falter, but you try not to let your discomfort show. You need her to trust you, that was Coryo's best advice, so you would do all you could to take it. "Are you hungry? You must be. I brought you some food." You don't wait for a response that you know isn't coming, digging in your bag already.

"It's my favorite, but I do hope you like it." You hum, pulling out a container with some crackers and honey, and a lemon to cut up and put in your water bottles. "Care to sit?" You offer, already sitting down yourself, kneeling in front of the bars. You smile when she obliges, matching your posture across from you.

"I'm a singer, and honey is really good for the throat." You explain, hoping that she'll begin to trust you if she knows you a little better. "It's a nice bonus that it tastes good, too. I'm not supposed to have sugar, but I think honey is the next best thing." You open the container, trying not to expose the shakiness in your hands as you grab the small bowl of honey and a knife to spread it, but this fails drastically when you accidentally drop it and it falls past the bars just out of your reach.

"Oh, gosh- I'm just so clumsy, would you mind passing that to me?" You ask, trying to reach for it anyway. You grin when she reaches out for it, picking it up by the handle. "Thank you..." You tell her, leaning closer to grab it from her hand. Something in her eyes shifts so fast you have no chance to really pick up on it before she grabs your hair with her other hand and pulls you back into the bars.

You scream, adrenaline pumping through your veins in an instant as you try and pull yourself away but it's too late and your screams are silenced by the blade of the knife against your throat.

Your eyes go wide as she lets you go, hands coming up to your neck out of instinct and when you pull one away it's warm and covered in red. Blood. Your own blood. You're choking, trying to breathe but the air feels sticky as you fall back. "Y/N! Y/N? Hey, look at me. Look at me!" Your best friend cries out, suddenly in front of you with his arms at your sides, lowering you carefully to the ground.

You stare up at him, hands still clasped over your neck which he matches with his own, doing his best to try and stop the bleeding. "Help! Somebody, help!" He shouts, turning and hoping help is coming as your heartbeat drums behind your ears.

Several gunshots ring out, echoing in the back of your head as you stare up at the sky and Coryo drops down on top of you, likely trying to dodge the bullets. You don't know where they were going- and you don't care.

You try and speak but no sound is coming out, just the sickening gurgle of your own blood replacing the smoothness of your voice. You know it's really not good when your vision starts to blur, the last thing you see being Coryo's panicked expression as he looks over you, desperately yelling at you to stay awake and for someone to please, please help.

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

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astro-nomaly · 2 months ago

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Hemlock Sugar Rush (Greenflower)

...listen I hyperfixated.

This takes place vaguely in the pocket of time Wu is missing in the time stream but that doesn't actually matter it's just an excuse for Lloyd to live alone. I was gonna include a Brad POV, but this is 7k, so fuck that noise.

@mother-spore-missa @highbookwormofthecentury @flirty-anon @ren-cerati (idk if you like greenflower but here's some greenflower lmao) @gre3n-bl0ssom

CW: stalking (Lloyd is into it), dark romance (actually romantic as Lloyd is into it), possessive and obsessive behavior, references to past non-consensual stalking, freak4freak behavior these two are batshit crazy. Oh and they make out at the end if that squicks you out. Not like graphic tho 🤷‍♀️

Content under the cut. I wrote this in a day and only spell-checked so don't expect poetry

Hemlock Sugar Rush

Lloyd Garmadon, the Green-sometimes-Golden Ninja whenever it's convenient, Chosen One, World Savior like five times over — no need to thank him — and grandson of technically God with a Capital G but it's chill don't even worry about it, has a stalker.

Out of context, this wouldn't even be that weird. See, Lloyd is a pretty big deal (as per the reasons listed above), and he's had multiple small-time stalkers over the years since becoming the Green-sometimes-Gold-but-usually-Green-for-simplicity's-sake Ninja. More than a few overly obsessive hero-worshipers, Pythor when the snake was skulking around trying to sap his powers, a really weird religious fanatic, the list goes on. He's not even the only one! Kai has his share of obsessive fangirls that haunt his Chirp like ghouls, Nya has a really weird public image, Cole and Jay have both been stalked online, and Zane deals with fanatics obsessed with the rise of artificial intelligence and robot uprisings on the regular.

When you're a hero ninja group that keeps saving the world, you tend to work up an audience. And sometimes that audience gets weird. Lloyd's learned to accept it. Kai has always been pissed about Lloyd's stalkers in particular, but he's protective over Lloyd when it comes to everything. They never go very far anyways, aside from Pythor but that slimy bastard doesn't count because he was an actual supervillain. Lloyd and the others always manage to either dissuade or arrest stalkers. It's not a pleasant ordeal, but it is a manageable one.

However, this stalking is not 'out of context'. This is a very unusual stalking.

For one, they're good. They're so good, in fact, that Lloyd can never trace anything back to them. Never a hair or lint out of place. So good, in fact, that for a while, Lloyd didn't even know they existed.

Best he can figure, his stalker has been around for a very long time. Other stalkers/obsessive fans/religious fanatics are usually pretty sloppy. They take pictures with their shutter sound on, they like and save every single social media post in rapid-fire succession, hell, some of them are bold enough to try sending DM's. They're easy to trace and easy to deal with.

But this stalker is really, really good. It's been a few months since Uncle Wu's disappearance into the time stream, a few months of Lloyd operating in Ninjago City alone save for Pixal's help in city surveillance and keeping an eye on the others. He'd moved deeper into the city to better keep an eye on criminal activity. Pixal had convinced (re: threatened) the mayor into paying for the over-the-top high-rise Lloyd lived in. Personally, even though he really shouldn't feel this way, Lloyd thinks a fancy penthouse is the least this city could give him after all these years.

It's been an adjustment, for sure. He isn't used to living on his own, even though Pixal invades his smart-fridge (he really doesn't know why his fridge has a built-in facetime function) on the daily to check in. But he likes it anyways. The independence is nice, even if he does get terribly lonely most days.

Well. He did, until his stalker slipped up.

Again — they're crazy good. From what he's figured out, they've been stalking him for potentially years at this point, and nobody ever noticed. It was a bit of a terrifying notion at first. Either they've gotten bold now that most of his family is split up around the world, or they've gotten obsessive to the point of foregoing their usual caution. Because someone doesn't evade the senses of six superhuman ninja without a healthy amount of caution.

The first sign was his window. It was a little creaky, and the apartment being so high, nobody had done maintenance on the exterior for a long time. It kind of annoyed him, but he didn't really care to fix it, especially not after long nights spent fighting crime. One day, after a particularly exhausting drug bust, he'd stumbled into his room and found his window wasn't creaking anymore. He'd shrugged it off and gone to bed, assuming Pixal had done it.

But a few days later, when he thought to ask, she denied any involvement with genuine confusion. It had irked him, but he'd ignored it. Maybe it had just stopped creaking on its own.

But then things got more and more suspicious.

His gi always had less bloodstains in the morning than he swore they had the night before. His candles never burned out. His bike never needed fuel. His fridge was always stocked with the good caffeinated tea, even though he didn't buy it and Pixal swore up and down that she didn't know he even liked that stuff.

At first, he could brush it off. He had misremembered the fight. He had fantastic candles. His bike used insanely efficient fuel, approved by Pixal, Zane, Jay, and Nya. Somebody else on the team was buying the tea for him online.

But things kept stacking up. Things he couldn't call coincidence, or luck, or chance. His plants were watered, their pots rotated so they faced the sun. That couldn't be Pix — she was never physically in the apartment. She took to possessing his TV and fridge instead, and her pixies stayed at the base to help her out with repairs and mechanical work. There were vegetables he didn't buy in his fridge, and his cabinets were more organized.

Whenever he received a genuine picture or gift from a fan on the street, it was shredded to hell the next morning.

It should freak him out. It should make him nervous, and paranoid, and running to his siblings for help. His stalkers have never been this bad before. They've never broken into his house and been close enough to clean his gi without him knowing.

Instead, he likes it.

That's weird, right? He's still just seventeen. He feels like an adult these days. Kai and the others used to say that he wasn't because he 'didn't have a real job' but neither did they, and being the Ninja counted as a real job now that the mayor was actually paying them for it. He didn't pay bills either, but that was because he had a fifth-grade education and never learned algebra. Still, he's seventeen, which makes him technically a minor. For all he knows, this is some sick freak of a pedophile, or another religious fanatic that knows way too much about his heritage.

But he's still excited. Ignoring all the reasons that's a horrible thing to feel about a stalker that can break into his penthouse without Pixal noticing, this person makes him feel exhilarated. Because lately, they've been leaving clues.

Little things. Things you'd have to be a ninja to pick out. Footprints in the grass next to his bike. Flower petals scattered a little too far from their pots to have fallen there naturally. Once, even the smudge of a fingerprint against the counter.

Once, a sticky note.

It was taped to his nightstand. He'd woken up that morning, none the wiser to the person who'd apparently been inside his room while he slept, and found a little green sticky note with cutesy heart doodles and flowers drawn in glittery gel pen. He'd felt real, genuine fear for a tense few minutes, struggling to breathe past the panic of somebody skulking around his room in the dead of night. But once he'd calmed down, he felt excitement replace the anxiety. Someone had broken into his room — and they'd left him doodles.

He'd placed the note back where he found it and continued his day like it never happened. A few mornings later, another sticky note came. This one had a more detailed drawing. Lloyd had hesitated, his total of three brain cells yelling at him to stop being stupid, before he'd left his own little note on the picture in thin pen strokes: what's this flower called?

He didn't get a written response — he never did. But the next morning, he woke up to a printed article about Morning Glories. He'd done a little digging online, and found that they apparently symbolized infatuation. That alone should've made him panic. Instead, he'd sat in his chair, staring at the screen, and blushed like an idiot.

So… he'd sent something back. His own little sticky note with a crude, traced doodle of a Queen of the Night desert flower.

His stalker had been overjoyed, if the twenty (yes, literally, he'd counted) little notes filled to the brim with hearts and doodles and Morning Glories wrapped around Queen of the Nights were anything to go by. And again, like an idiot, he'd blushed and resisted the urge to giggle when he woke up to them all scattered across his room.

Look. Here's the thing — Lloyd had never been a very independent person. As a kid, he'd felt completely isolated in Darkley's. When he was kicked out, he latched onto the first 'friends' he could find, and they turned out to be rotten assholes. Then he had the ninja to latch onto, and the first time he was separated from them it was because he'd been kidnapped and held in a cage in the middle of the damn desert, then almost died in a volcano. He's grown up since then, but the experience made him pretty clingy to his siblings. This was the first time in years that he's been truly independent of them. Being so attached to his siblings, and between all the world-saving, he's never exactly found any room for external relationships. Sure, he kept kind-of in contact with Skylor, but she was Kai's girlfriend. Didn't really count. Lloyd didn't have anybody who he could call his.

But now, there was someone he had all to himself. The adrenaline rush was like a sugar high. Maybe that's why he keeps it secret from Pix — selfishly, stupidly, he wants to hoard this person that draws him flowers and hearts on sticky notes.

So he does. Pixal checks in often, but not often enough to notice. Lloyd tells her all is well, he's getting on fine, criminal activity is manageable. At night, he researches a new flower to trace for his secret stalker, and leaves the sticky note by his bed.

He could leave it literally anywhere else. Pixal respects his privacy enough to not enable security cameras — which Lloyd really should do, but somehow that feels like cheating, and he has a feeling his stalker would get around them anyway — so he could leave the notes anywhere in his apartment and the stalker would find them. Why he encourages them to tiptoe around his room, he has no idea. He doesn't stay up for them, or set up cameras or tripwires or alarms. He lets them come. For some insane reason, he trusts this person not to kill him in his sleep.

One day, he thinks to ask a few questions. So he prints out a nice little photo of Borage — bluntness and directness — and asks, what's your name?

He sets it carefully on his vanity — listen, he needs some form of self-care and Pixal says he needs to do something other than play video games in his limited free time — and goes to sleep with adrenaline in his stomach.

He wakes up to a miniature sea of notes taped to his mirror. Incomplete lines go over every tiny square, completely incomprehensible. So Lloyd makes himself toast — he has the good bread, which he doesn't remember buying — and sets to work decoding. Eventually, he figures out it's a puzzle. Rearranged, the notes form a large flower. He scans the pile for some kind of clue as to what flower it is, and finds the answer on the back of his own note from the night before. In deep, blood-red ink, are the words red Camellia.

He's embarrassed to admit he rushed to his computer for the answer. Almanac, Red Camellia: "You’re a flame in my heart". A hot blush had eclipsed his face that morning, followed by a rabbit hole of searches that include, but are not limited to:

What to do if my stalker is in love with me

Does red camellia mean they're in love with you

What to do if I'm in love with my stalker

How to know you're in love

Is consensual stalking a thing

…it was a weird morning.

They continue to play this dangerous game. Lloyd knows it's dangerous — how many times had he been told, as an oblivious kid, that feeding into this kind of stuff would only make the delusions and obsessions worse? He's knows it's incredibly dangerous. This person knows he's the Green Ninja — his identity isn't exactly a secret — and they seem to know literally everything else about him. They could hurt him with that knowledge.

But that's just the thing: they don't.

This person does seem to know absolutely everything about him, and it's so enticing. They know what brand of tea he likes. They know he sleeps in socks, because he needs to be as warm as possible while cocooned in his nest-like bed, and his socks are always miraculously warm when he gets home. They know he likes to play DVDs over streaming, and they're always tidy and unscratched.

So he doesn't do anything. He encourages it, even. Because there is something so close to a sugar rush about this dangerous game.

And Lloyd has always had an insatiable sweet tooth. His stalker knows it, too, because he begins waking up to chocolate chip pancakes. It's an excellent way to start the day, next to a fresh vase of white clovers — think of me.

They know so much about him that they only get him female flowers, because they know his overly sensitive nose can't handle pollen. They also know exactly what kind of allergy meds actually work on his insane metabolism.

He adores it. There is someone in the world who knows him so deeply they pay attention to the gender of the flowers they buy. Before this started, Lloyd didn't even know flowers had genders.

Maybe it's his weird, fucked up childhood that's made him find this behavior, which is genuinely atrocious in every sense of the word, endearing and exciting. He can't help it. The secrets he hides from Pix, the way he dodges questions during video calls with the others, the back-and-forth of messages and flowers… it's sweet. The adrenaline is like molten sugar and honeyed pixie sticks. It's caramel nougats and tart truffles. Soon, it's Fennel (flattery) and Fern (magic, fascination, secret bonds of love) and Gardenias (you’re lovely, secret love).

It's utterly intoxicating. Lloyd soon decides that, among the Ferns and Gardenias and Fennel that his admirer leaves him, he needs to start leaving gifts. In a frenzy, he abandons his usual routine of Saturday mornings — going to the park and breathing in fresh, non-acrid crime air and enticing ducks to jump in his hands, just because he can — and stays home to research 'candy language'.

…it doesn't go well. Apparently, 'candy language' means 'how to say chocolate in Sanskrit'. Which. Not exactly helpful to his weird stalker obsession. So instead, he goes out of his way to find those corny little candy hearts that have equally corny sayings on them like 'be mine' and 'only you'. He knows he's caught his stalker's attention by breaking routine, because they know every second of it by now, he's sure of it.

He doesn't think the candies are very good, but he leaves them next to the sticky note on his dresser anyways, with a little Morning Glory doodled on the paper. It's crude and he doubts anyone could identify the drawing as said flower, but he trusts in his scarily intelligent stalker to piece it together.

And so they do. The next morning, there is a brand new gift: a book. Lloyd, curious, opens to the first page. There is a flattened red Salvia — forever mine — between the pages and delicate words scrawled in gold ink. For you to read on Friday.

Their handwriting is the same as the only other note they ever wrote actual words on, the Camellia, but what really makes his heart pound is the 'Friday'. On Friday evenings, he stays up late to read because on Saturdays, he sleeps in before going to the park.

Nya once told him something she'd read somewhere: 'to be loved is to be seen'. She said that's how Jay made her feel — seen. Was this it? To be seen, as he was?

What does it matter if he's seen through his window, or the lens of a hidden camera?

He sets the book down, reverently, and leaves it there until he stumbles back home after another night of fighting crime with Pixal's assistance. He slips on fuzzy socks that are always warm, and drinks tea that he didn't buy, and doesn't bother going to the AC to change the temperature because he knows it's already set to perfect. He plops into bed, and opens the book.

It's delicious. Page after page is filled with fiction he never thought he'd be interested in. Stories about flowers that carve into your ribcages and sit there for eternity until you cough up thorns. Vines that hold you down until they can kiss you. Deadly nightshade and belladonna that turns your skin black and blue with bruised touches.

The best part is, as always, the flowers. After the third flower name he finds scrawled in the corner, he digs up his laptop and spends the night decoding. Yellow roses — jealousy — tell Lloyd that his stalker is jealous of the characters who confess to each other. Heliotrope — eternal love and devotion — tell him that his admirer thinks the character is pathetic compared to what they could do for Lloyd.

It's inane and absurd for Lloyd to think he can read the mind of who is probably a dangerous sociopath, but he doesn't care. There is someone in the world who has chased after him for possibly years, who knows him better than anybody, it seems, and who is eternally, deeply, helplessly in love with him.

He can't bear it much longer. It dawns on him how unfair their situation is. His stalker knows him inside and out, but all Lloyd can glean is gleaned from flowers pressed between book pages and gifted in glass vases. All his information is born from an almanac.

He grows them, this time. In between exchanging truffles and nougats and mints for Lady's Slippers — capricious beauty — and blue Salvias — I think of you — he grows flowers of his own. He has bought many plants from stores that he keeps on windows and shelves to make his home lighter and fuller in the absence of his siblings, and his stalker takes better care of them than he did. But this is a secret of his own.

He doesn't know if he can hide it from them, but he tries. First, he does his damnedest to find every single sign of surveillance. He puts tape on his computer cameras, peers into every corner, hell he checks the legs of his couch. He finds a few microscopic cameras, which should really freak him out but don't, and leaves them where they are.

He doesn't need to remove the cameras. He just needs to know how to find them.

His stalker knows he's up to something. They send him botanical horrors strife with mystery, and Columbines that mean curiosity in the most devoted sense. He sends them cherry-filled chocolate and a candy heart that says XOXO.

He finds his blind spot. He hopes they trust him enough not to fill it. He grows his own flower in between botanical horrors and crime fighting and sporadic bouquets that put every simple lily and petunia to shame.

Pixal notices his sporadic behavior. She asks him what's happened. He smiles and says that he's made a new friend, is all, and she tells him she's happy. Pixal is easy like that. They've gotten closer over these months that the other Ninja have been gone, but she doesn't feel the need to push into every facet of his life.

Why does he like it when his stalker does?

Maybe because they already know. He knows by now that they've had to have been following him for years now. There's something sweetly exhilarating about that — being trailed by an obsessive flower without ever noticing. Are they nightshade? Belladonna? Foxglove, Lily of the Valley?

He wants to know how sweet those flowers are. Will they taste like honey on his tongue, or pixie stix? Pocky, or sour patches?

There is someone who knows him inside and out, and he wants desperately to meet them. To hear from their own lips what they think of him.

He writes this on a sticky note, next to a heart that says 'don't be shy, be my valentine', which is horrendously cheesy and not half as elegant as his stalker's beautiful flower language. 'Who are you? Why do you love me?'

They send back a bouquet. It sits in a glimmering emerald green vase with gold rim, bursting with color. Daffodils for generosity, Gladiolus for heroism, Orchids and Irises for beauty, and Panda Lilies for loyalty, devotion, and secret love.

They send no sign of who they are. But the confession is enough to make his heart race, his cheeks flame, and his skin crawl with hot fireflies.

He must be really, really messed up to like being stalked and having his house broken into. This person is cooking him food, and he just eats it! They could do anything they wanted to him. He doesn't care. Because they both know.

Lloyd could end this as easily as they could. Lloyd could power up his ethereal element and wipe them from the face of the planet as easily as they could slip foxglove into his oatmeal. Lloyd could have twenty high-tech lasers pointed at them before they stepped foot inside as easily as they could slit his throat.

It's a game. A game of passing notes like high schoolers, and of Lloyd changing the passcode to his front door every week, and delving into the hidden messages in between forest rot and poison love. In between growing secret flowers.

Finally, finally, after three months of the exhilarating back and forth, something happens.

It was a long night. Some gun-trading organization had set themselves up big, and Pix was busy on the other side of town with a shitshow of a monorail wreck, so Lloyd went in alone. He wasn't shot, but he was kicked around.

He leans his forehead against the cool metal of the elevator as it hums, dutifully raising him to his apartment. At least at the end of the day he has a penthouse with a personal gym to go home to. Perks of saving the world five times over.

He stumbles across the short carpeted hall, probably dripping blood from a still-broken nose, and rocks against his door. He fumbles with the passcode, but the door is already slightly ajar. Nerves buzz in his head. That's not right. He locked it, he was sure of it.

He breathes out slowly, silently, through his mouth. He doesn't bother pulling his mask up — his nose protests the idea, and whoever's in here must know whose apartment they're inside. He silently prays that he really did just leave the door open, but he knows he didn't.

He slips inside, perfectly silent, exactly as his uncle and father trained him. The lights are off. He inhales through his nose, as deeply as he can without aggravating it too much. His apartment smelled normal… no. More flowery. Like the plants he stuffed into every available corner had grown in intensity. His pointed ears flicked. There was a grinding noise, coming from the kitchen. A garbage disposal?

He slinks down the hall, quiet as a cat. The disposal grows louder.

There is a person in his kitchen. Lloyd holds his breath, watching them with green eyes like crescent moon slits in the dark. Their silhouette is dark and featureless, but they appear incensed. They're violently shoving something down the garbage disposal, swearing to themself. They're a few inches taller than Lloyd is, not very thin but not very bulky. Muscle built from regular exercise like jogging and physical labor. Not a gym rat, but no slouch. From the way they hold themself, they don't seem like they'd be good in a fight. Their center of gravity is off, and their twitchiness isn't a good sign.

Lloyd sniffs the air. More of that scent. It's achingly familiar. The stranger's swears grow minutely louder, and he makes out "I'll hunt them down and shove hemlock down their eye sockets" before he intervenes.

"What are you doing in my kitchen?"

They freeze. Lloyd holds a glimmering sphere of pulsing green energy, his element more than willing to burst. The eerie green light scatters through the room, illuminating the contours of the intruder's face. A boy with tan brown skin, an angular face, and soft brown hair. It's not shoulder-length like Lloyd's, just long enough to curl around the nape of his neck.

His eyes widen. Those are brown too, a honey color like toffee. The intruder rips out what he was shoving down the garbage disposal — a bouquet of roses.

"Fuck," he whispered. His voice wasn't very deep, wasn't very light. It was low from his whisper, carrying more weight than to be expected of such soft sounds. "I almost forgot how quiet you are."

Lloyd steps forward, jaw set. "Who are you? Why are you in my apartment?"

The stranger's jaw ticks irritably. They hold up the tattered bouquet. "Really, Lloyd?" He whispers. It startles Lloyd to be referred to by his first name. The intruder's eyes grow manic, filled with rage. "I don't mind the gifts. Really, I don't! A charm bracelet, a beaded necklace, stick figures and macaroni art — it's adorable, seriously. How much your fans love you." Fans? Lloyd's face begins to flush on reflex. The intruder's lips quirk, but his eyes don't lose their manic sheen. "You deserve the recognition, the fame, the accolades. You deserve it all and more. I love how much you love their gifts. But this?!" They shake the roses. Broken petals flutter to the floor. "ROSES?! A Sunflower, a Carnation, hell, even Ivy! But red ROSES?!"

He's begun stalking toward Lloyd, blood red petals trailing in his furious wake. Lloyd finds himself backing up. "You accepted roses," the intruder spits, "from a stranger! Roses! How could you?!"

He's betrayed, Lloyd realizes. Betrayed by Lloyd's actions. This afternoon, before heading out for the night again, Lloyd had happened upon a fan. A girl around his age who had shyly given him one, before rushing off stammering and blushing. He hadn't kept the roses out of some kind of requited love.

And now, he's pissed off his stalker.

Lloyd bares his teeth, thin fangs glinting from the ball of green light glistening around his fingertips. "Back up, man," he threatens.

He doesn't. Faster than Lloyd can blinks, he whips out a thick white cloth from his pocket and lunges forward. Lloyd dodges to the side, but his assailant just smirks when he does. Before he has time to question it, vines are erupting around his feet and entangling his legs. He stumbles, and the intruder takes the chance to press the cloth against his mouth and nose. He reflexively sucks in a breath, and then he's gone.

He wakes slowly. The lights are on — the warm lamps, not the overhead fluorescent fixtures. The room smells of his abundance of flowers — no roses — and food. He groans, shaking his head as he sits further up.

He's propped up against the arm rest of his couch, a pillow pushed snugly behind him and a blanket he didn't own yesterday over his legs. He notices that his hands and forearms are bound together with soft ribbons of felt and silk. His mouth isn't gagged.

"You're awake," a soft voice says behind him. He turns to find the intruder with wide honey eyes filled to the brim with devotion and excitement. Similar excitement curls in his stomach.

He's been knocked out and tied up, and he wants to- what? Make out with the guy who did it?

"I knew you would be," his stalker babbles reverently, wrapping around the back of the couch to set a plate on the coffee table. "I had to up the dosage for your metabolism, but I made sure it was exactly right. I know exactly how much you can take. And I patched you up. I'll kill whoever did that to you." He's leaned in, now, breath hot and soft against Lloyd's face. He blinks. Turns to the plate.

"Is… that food?"

His stalker nods excitedly. "Yes! I know you've had a poor night. And I hate that you keep eating cup noodles for dinner — they make you lethargic. Here," he offers a forkful of pork chop to Lloyd, right up to his lips. Lloyd raises a brow.

"You're… going to feed me?"

"Yes."

"Why should I trust anything you cook?" Lloyd asks skeptically. It's a test. His stalker's eyes glint dangerously. Lloyd is quickly finding that he likes that dangerous look. After so many years of being a ninja, he's attracted to danger like a magnet to the north pole.

"If I wanted to kill you," his stalker whispers, leaning in, "I'd use Hemlock in your hibiscus tea. I'd put Nightshade in your toffee. I'd melt down Oleander and turn it into candle wax, and I'd put Aconitum in your air purifier." He lifts the fork again with a smile. The insane sheen in his eyes hasn't disappeared. "Please don't think I'd insult you like that."

Lloyd opens his mouth and accepts the food. He hums, swallowing. "It's good," he murmurs. His stalker's eyes light up in excitement, pride glowing in every feature.

"I know," they whisper frantically, "I used your favorite seasonings. I know everything about you, darling." Lloyd's heart skips a beat. Darling. So hopelessly romantic.

What's romantic about drugging and tying him up? About watching him through windows and hidden cameras? Everything, Lloyd thinks dreamily, drinking in every feature of the boy in front of him. He has a birth mark under his right eye. A small, faded scar on his cheekbone.

"Mm," Lloyd hums, letting the stalker feed him another bite. "I don't think I've told you how much I like your cooking before."

His eyes shine again, a proud grin overtaking his features. "I know you do," he speaks. He says everything quickly, like he can't wait to get the words out. "I know what your favorite dessert is, your favorite pasta and bread and tea- here," he presents Lloyd with a glass cup of hibiscus tea and straw. "For you."

He takes a sip. It's perfect. "Honey?"

"A drizzle," his stalker whispers reverently, "Just how you like it. I even know your coffee order, Lloyd. Your real one, not the one you let the barista keep mixing up. Want me to kill her for you? No, of course not, you're more noble than that." The stalker sighs dreamily, leaning in even closer. Lloyd couldn't avoid his eyes if he tried. "I love that about you, Azalea."

Lloyd's heart sings. He licks his lips, and doesn't miss how his stalker stares. "Azalea?"

"The mind-altering honey," his stalker responds. "Perfect. One of a kind. Wrong color, though I've been working on that."

"You breed plants?"

"You noticed!" His stalker exclaims, laughing. "Of course you did! You're so much smarter than anyone knows. That's how I knew you'd know, you know. About me. You figured it all out so fast. You're like a drug."

Lloyd knows what he means. This entire interaction has him feeling high as a sugar rush, liquid honey in his veins and starbursts in his eyes. He breathes in shakily. Not because he's scared, even though he should be screaming for Pixal by now. He's alight with nerves, prickling his skin with goosebumps.

"This wasn't how I had our first meeting planned," his stalker says quietly. "I was going to be more romantic. A meet-cute."

"Meet-cute?" Lloyd breathes, exhilarated.

"Yeah. I know you like the romance-y tropes," his stalker says, completely genuine. He's right. A little part of Lloyd, kept tucked away by duty and his overly complicated life, wants to be swept off his feet. "I'd bump into you on the sidewalk. I'd fall, but not really — I'd be faking it. You would help me up, apologize. Expect me to recognize you," he speaks at a dizzying pace in short, choppy sentences, breathless. "But I wouldn't. I'd ask for your name, and you'd tell me, brace for it- but I'd say nice to meet you, and-"

Lloyd realizes he's been tensing in anticipation. His stalker looks at him, devotion clear on his face. "I'm so angry at you," he confesses, hands wrapping around Lloyd's immobile one. He tenses, but his stalker just lowers his head until his forehead presses against Lloyd's knuckles. He shivers from the touch.

This is real. This is very, very real. How devoted is he, Lloyd wonders in an almost drunken haze. He wants to push it. See how far this boy will go.

"Why?" He murmurs innocently. His stalker glares up at him from under his thick brown bangs.

"Roses. Red. Roses. How could you?" His stalker gets up, but he doesn't get off. It's becoming very clear that this boy has no concept of personal space. He straddles Lloyd, arms caging him in. Lloyd lets him. It's exciting. The stalker snarls, but not at Lloyd — at the roses. "I'm better than roses. I know I am. I'd never send you roses."

"I thought red roses meant love?"

"They're pathetic!" His stalker exclaims, rising to the bait easily. "They're mediocre, basic, mainstream — everyone uses roses! There's no thought behind them! Who could give you Morning Glories in every color of your eyes? Who could know only white Hyacinths describe how lovely you are? I'm better than roses!"

Lloyd smirks at him. "I know."

He didn't keep the roses out of some kind of requited love. At least, not for his poor fan.

His stalker's eyes widen. Then he grins, with all his predatory teeth. "Of course," he whispers, laughing under his breath. "You're so much smarter than anybody gives you credit for." He brushes a hand under Lloyd's blonde hair, so softly. Lloyd has never appreciated being treated as delicate, but this isn't that. This is raw obsession. "You knew I'd be mad, didn't you? You kept the roses to make me mad."

Lloyd leans forward, lips brushing against soft brown skin so lightly they might as well not have touched at all. But his stalker stiffens and swallows thickly. "So what if I did?" He whispers. "Maybe I'm tired of this. Maybe I wanted to know as much about you as you know about me."

"I've been following you your entire life," his stalker says, "you could never catch up."

"My entire life?" Lloyd arches a brow. He scans his stalker's face. It's vaguely familiar. "Who are you?"

He laughs. He gets off of Lloyd, which is something he secretly mourns, and stabs into the food. Lloyd takes the bite while he talks. "I've been following you so long. At first I stayed online. Every video, every picture… it was never enough. I collected all your merch, you know. I've been waiting for this for so long."

Lloyd swallows. "How did you do that with the vines? How have you been in my room without waking me up?" He's hungry for the answers to their game.

"I've been breeding plants for years," his stalker says. "I have one for every occasion. As for the second part…" he waves the white cloth Lloyd was suffocated with. "Little bit of this. Small dosages, of course, and only at night."

Lloyd blinks. "I'd have smelled that."

"Not if I added it to your air fresheners and candles slowly over several weeks," his stalker responds smugly. Lloyd's eyes widen. Of course. His nose was too sensitive not to pick up on sudden smells, but… "You naturally filter out smells," his stalker says easily, like they're discussing the weather, "if they're familiar enough. And you have so many scented candles, it was easy to disguise my mix until you got used to it. It helps with the nightmares, doesn't it?"

Lavender and poppies. He smelled it every single night. Fuck, he thought it was his detergent!

"Well played," Lloyd admits. His stalker's eyes light up, practically glowing with obsession.

Is it bad that Lloyd likes it? Someone is so obsessed with him they went through the trouble of Pavlov-ing him with lavender and poppies. If a bouquet of roses is romantic, this is downright swoon-worthy.

His stalker brushes a knuckle over Lloyd's cheek fondly. "So pretty," he murmurs. "You have markings… your powers? It's the one thing I can't figure out."

"Maybe," Lloyd responds quietly. "I don't know either."

His stalker sighs. "I had it all planned out so well," he moaned, "a meet-cute. You'd be so excited to have found someone who didn't know you. No expectations. We'd text for three days, and we'd both flirt but you'd wait for me to make the first move… you're insecure like that," his voice is wistful and dreamlike, like he's sucked them both into a fantasy. "You shouldn't be. You're perfect." Lloyd blushes, squirming. He wants his hands free.

That's just the thing, though. He could get free easily. They both know it. He could topple this stranger in a second, blast his face off without breaking a sweat. That's the allure.

For whatever reason, Lloyd is in love with danger and fear. It's a result of falling from crashing ships and dancing around vengestone blades, of being possessed and kidnapped and stabbed and strangled. Danger is the one thing he knows intimately, and this danger in front of him is so enticing he feels high on it. A sugar rush. He is in love with the sugar rush of danger, and the boy before him is a skydive right into it.

They both know Lloyd can get free. They both like it.

"Then what?" Lloyd breathes. He wants to hear more of this fantastical date.

"I would take you to the movies," his stalker says, "I planned it perfectly. Opening night: a slasher comedy. You like scary movies, but you're jumpy. So naturally, you would grab my arm. We'd share a popcorn bucket, and I'd reach in whenever you did so our fingers brush."

It's so romantic Lloyd wants to bite something. The amount of detail, the precise planning… this isn't a stalker that wants to stare at him forever like a doll, or keep him stationary in a basement. This isn't a stalker with delusions and no sense that he's a person. This is a stalker that wants to stare at him forever like something divine. Who wants to keep him inside his ribcage so they can share a heart.

His heart pounds.

"I'd walk you home," his stalker says softly, "and you'd invite me to stay." He's right, Lloyd would. "You'd feel bad for making me stay on the couch, so I'd say we should both camp out and sleep on the couch together. You would agree, and we'd spend the night talking. Reminiscing. Catching up."

Lloyd tilts his head. "Reminiscing?"

His stalker's eyes sparkle. "Of course. You remember me, don't you?"

Lloyd searches his face. There is a distant tug of familiarity. Not to the face — to the plants. He slowly shakes his head. "I… no…"

His stalker holds his hands in both of his own. "Brad," he whispers desperately, "Brad Tudabone."

A boy taller than him. A boy with blood on his angry fists. A boy who hit him first, yes, but then hit anybody else who dared touch him three times as hard. A boy who was nice to him, and got so horribly defensive and protective that he broke bones for him. Foxglove in secret, nightshade in the shadows, oleander in private. In the soups of Lloyd's bullies, and black mold in the shadows of the teacher's quarters.

"Brad," Lloyd whispers reverently, eyes lighting up in recognition. "From Darkley's."

"I knew it!" Brad exclaims, beaming. "I knew you'd say that!"

Lloyd laughs breathlessly. A distant past so old he hasn't thought of it for years. "How long?" Lloyd asks. "How long have you been in love with me?"

"Forever," Brad says, pressing a numb kiss to his knuckles. Lloyd's face burns, and he fights back a childish giggle. "You were perfect from day one. I've been so obsessed with you… nothing is ever enough. The first person who was nice to me… you were like the sun, Jessamine."

"Jessamine?"

"The twining vine," Brad answers. "Beautiful. One flower is enough to kill a man."

"I've been growing you something," Lloyd confesses, lurching forward, "in the blind spot."

Brad smiles. "I know. I know everything about you."

"Do you know what I'm growing?"

"Not yet." It's a promise.

"Hydrangea."

Gratitude for being understood

"Perfect," Brad whispers frantically. "FSM, you're so fucking perfect. I wanted to wait until I was done. I would've been done with it-"

"With what?"

"Ornithogalum. The Star of Bethlehem," he whispered, cupping Lloyd's cheek. "Toxic. One of a kind. Could kill a grown man with ease." He isn't talking about the flower. "So dangerous. So beautiful. For you, darling."

Lloyd breaks the bindings and flings his hands around Brad's neck. His lips taste like poison in the best way. Gardenia, Forget-Me-Nots, Honeysuckle and red camellia and salvia in the best way.

Mine. Mine mine mine, says Brad's mouth against his, whispering reverently. He's been cornered in his apartment for months, stalked by a predator armed to the teeth in poison. A predator who lied in wait until his protective family vanished and he got comfortable alone.

He loves it. Someone who wants him so fiercely, with such devotion, to wait years and years just for the chance to fake a meet-cute?

Roses would never be enough. There is only the sugar rush of a boy made of hemlock and nightshade, draped in jessamine and red salvia falling from lips made of camellia.

"Yarrow," Lloyd whispers between frantic kisses, pressed into the couch as he tastes the honeysuckle on Brad's tongue. "Yarrow."

"I'll ruin you," Brad says suddenly, lifting his head and staring down at Lloyd with frankly really fucking hot intensity, "for anybody else. You're mine. I'll kill anyone who thinks about taking you from me, got it?"

Lloyd nods and pulls him back down. "Yarrow. Everlasting love."

Lloyd Garmadon has a stalker who leaves him poison and thorns and the most beautiful flowers in the world. Roses would never be enough. Only yarrow and hydrangea and obsessive red salvia.

#lego ninjago #ninjago #lloyd garmadon #brad tudabone #ninjago au #???#snippet #ninjago fanfiction #greenflowershipping #ninjago greenflower #forgivenshipping #stalker au #stalking fantasy #flower language #my fanfiction #they make out at the end if that grosses you out #this is the weirdest greenflower i've ever written

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