#runts writing corner

[prythianpages]

A Light That Never Goes Out | Azriel

Azriel x Rhysand's sister (reader) | The aftermath of Azriel kissing you in front of everyone in the Court of Nightmares.

warnings: angry Rhys, angry High Lord, brief mention of Tamsand, mating bond snapping

word count: roughly 3K, around 3.5K if you read the bonus scene

a/n: This is a part two to this but can be read as a stand alone. I had fun writing this but I worry this sounded better in my head. I was tempted to turn this into a crack fic bc of this trending tiktok sound.

Azriel kisses you, consequences be damned. His hand slides from yours to the nape of your neck, drawing you closer. You kiss him back with the same intensity, years of longing and love pouring into this single moment. Your mind and thoughts tangling with his, the bond between you surging with emotion. Desire and hope. He’s still in disbelief that tonight was the first night he told you he loved you.

But in truth, Azriel had been telling you all along—in every glance, every touch, every kiss that held more than words ever could.

Azriel’s shadows recoil as the two of you pull apart, breathless. The Court of Nightmares had faded away, the two of you lost in each other. It’s just you and him, as it is meant to be…Until the distinctive footsteps of your father approaching echoes throughout the ballroom. Your eyes are wide, too many emotions swirling within their depths. 

But Azriel is relieved that regret is not one of them.

“Azriel.”

The High Lord’s voice is calm and collected but the fury flickering in his violet eyes is unmistakable. He stands no more than two feet away, the authority radiating from him as cold as it is absolute. Beside him, Rhysand watches, his expression unreadable. 

Your father lifts a hand, wisps of darkness and starlight spilling from his fingertips. The orchestra resumes under the silent command and driven by some invisible force, the guests resume dancing and drinking. As if nothing had happened. 

“Come with me,” your father says, his tone leaving no room for argument. His command is directed solely at Azriel. “I’d like to have a word.”

 You try to hold on to Azriel, to keep him close, but he slips his fingers from yours, bowing his head in quiet submission to your father. Without another word, he follows after him. And though his command had been directed solely at Azriel, the weight of the situation falls on the both of you. 

So you step forward, determined to follow after them. But just as you step outside the ballroom, Rhysand grasps your arm, forcing you to a stop.

“You stupid, foolish…,” his voice trails off in frustration. “What have you done?”

You spin on him, eyes flashing with anger as you yank your arm out of his hold. “What have I done? What about what have you done? Planning marriage alliances behind my back? Like I’m some pawn on your chessboard?”

Rhysand’s gaze softens for a brief moment. “Y/n, I–”

“No.” You interrupt sharply, starlight beginning to swirl from the fingertip you point at him. You don’t want to hear his excuse, whatever justification he thinks will make this right. Out of the corner of your eye, you see Cassian and Mor making their way toward you, slipping through the dancing couples and out of the ballroom. 

The starlight seeping from your fingertip glows brighter, ready and poised to attack. However, it’s your words you speak into his mind that make the blow instead.

“You know, if you love that runt from Spring so much, why don’t you marry him yourself?”

Rhysand’s eyes widen, his brows furrowing as the meaning of your words hit him. The revelation that you know his secret. Where he’d sneak off to some nights. Why the scent of crisp rain and earth lingered on him when he’d return. You and Azriel had pieced it together after Cassian had mentioned that his book on Illyrian training and methods suddenly went missing. Given your secret, you and Azriel had kept that information to yourselves, waiting for the moment Rhysand would feel comfortable to tell you himself. 

It takes him a moment to regain his composure, for his gaze to harden again. His lips curl into a snarl–a warning.  “Y/n.”

He leans in forward but you take a step back and winnow away, only one thing on your mind. Finding Azriel.

**

The walk to the High Lord’s private office in the Court of Nightmares is silent but the sense of foreboding is nearly deafening. Azriel is tense, his shadows quiet and burrowing into his leathers. Too many possibilities and consequences storm through his mind, each one more damning than the last.

Does he regret kissing you in front of everyone? No.

That kiss was the first honest, uninhibited thing he’d allowed himself to do in years. It was freeing, exhilarating to be able to show everyone, especially the sons of Spring and Autumn that you were his and he was yours. He could face death for this—for touching the High Lord’s daughter. For kissing you so openly, so brazenly, in front of the entire court.

But why? Why should it be so wrong for him to love you? Because of his birth? The scars of his past that marked him as unworthy? He’s served loyally. Bled for this court.Tortured for this court. 

He’s watched from the shadows as lords and sons, full of false charm, have circled you like vultures, eyeing you as nothing more than a prize to be claimed.  And yet, when he—who knows you, who cherishes you—shows his love, it is considered a crime.

It isn’t fair. But Azriel has never been afforded fairness. 

The heavy doors to the High Lord's office swing open with a wave of his hand, and Azriel steps inside. The air is thick with tension, and every muscle in his body tightens. The High Lord gestures for him to sit, but Azriel bows his head, respectfully declining. Standing feels safer. Less vulnerable. He wonders if his refusal will anger the High Lord further, but the single shadow curling at his ear reports no rising fury.

He can feel the weight of the High Lord’s gaze—it’s heavy, scrutinizing, like the cold press of a blade against his skin. He keeps his eyes forward, even though his heart pounds in his chest. If there’s punishment to be had, Azriel will accept it.

The High Lord moves to his desk, positioned beneath an oculus, where moonlight spills through and dances across his features. He gazes up at the starlit sky as if searching for answers—or perhaps, waiting.

“Normally, this is the part where people like you should be begging for forgiveness, for a way to rectify your mistake.”

Azriel’s jaw tightens. “I haven’t made a mistake.”

“No?” The High Lord’s gaze snaps back to him, piercing as if he could peel away Azriel’s very skin to lay bare his soul. Azriel wonders, for a brief moment, if your daemati powers had been inherited from your father. Could the High Lord see into his mind, his thoughts? Have kept this power to himself all these years as a secret weapon? 

“You sound so sure of yourself,” the High Lord continues, his tone sharpening. “Tell me, how long has this... affair been going on?”

“For decades.” Azriel admits, knowing that there was no use in lying. The truth was already written in the way he kissed you, in the way he looked at you as you broke away from the kiss.

“For decades?” The High Lord repeats, his expression darkening, violet eyes narrowing. “You took my daughter’s first dance tonight of all nights.”

Azriel’s silence says everything. Both of them aware that Azriel had taken more than dances, more than a kiss.

“You’ve taken her innocence. You’ve ruined her…” The High Lord continues to seethe in that cool, unnerving tone.

Azriel’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for his dagger. Not to defend himself, but because it’s his only comfort in moments like these.

But this is not a battle to be fought with daggers or swords. This is a battle of love, of politics, of status. One he’s had no training for yet one he’s willing to fight. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fight against all odds.

“Whether she marries Spring or Autumn, she will become a lady of the highest esteem and forge a strong alliance with my court. Laden with all the riches and wonders only a High Lord can offer. What can you offer? You don’t even have a proper last name to give her, Shadowsinger.”

Azriel swallows thickly, the weight and shame of his low-born status crashing into him like the violent current of Illyria’s river. It feels like he’s sinking under it, drowning in it. He knows he can’t offer you what any son of Spring or Autumn could. He had reminded you of that—again and again. 

It’s as if you can feel his doubts creeping back in, the poison of guilt and worthlessness seeping in. Your presence—soft, warm, and steady—enters his mind. You bring forth the memory you had shared with him moments ago on the dance floor again.

“I can’t give you much,” his voice had dropped to a whisper, barely a rasp as he leaned his forehead against yours. His nose brushed against yours, his lips hovering just over your own. “But I can give you everything I have.”

“That’s all I’ll ever need,” you had replied, the words echoing now in his mind, like an antidote to the venom of doubt. That’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all I’ll ever need, that’s all—

“I asked you a question, Azriel.” The High Lord’s sharp voice cut through the memory, yanking him back to the cold, oppressive reality of the Court of Nightmares. “What can you offer in exchange for my daughter?”

Azriel’s knees buckle beneath him before he even realizes it. He drops to the floor, bowing his head low. His shadows stir, swirling around him in a frenzy, urging him to stand. To stop him.

“My life.”

“Your life,” The High Lord muses. He lets out a dark, humorless chuckle. “You love my daughter enough to give your life for her?”

“Yes,” Azriel says, his voice firm and steady, even as his shadows coil tighter around his arms, trying to pull him back from this path. But he stays rooted to the floor. His life, his soul—it all belongs to you anyway. What was it worth, if not to protect you? To be yours?

The High Lord’s eyes narrow as he studies the swirling shadows, dark and restless, wrapping themselves around Azriel’s form. Shadowsingers are rare. Their power is precious. They can see and hear things others can’t. The only known living one kneels before him now. 

Despite his low born status, the Shadowsinger had also proved himself a formidable, Illyrian warrior. A Carynthian. It’s why he appointed Azriel as the Night Court’s spymaster.  

And now this powerful and strong male is offering his life.

To have a Shadowsinger as his spymaster is rare, a gift in itself. To have Azriel’s loyalty, his strength, his skills bound by magic for life. A weapon of mass destruction, at his beck and call. No room for betrayal, no worry over him leaving his court for another.

 All in exchange for your hand in marriage? 

Now, that sounds like a deal.

He lets out a thoughtful hum, voicing his consideration. He could give Azriel a title, raise him from his bastard status. At his will, darkness begins to rise from the floor. The power of the bargain hovers in the air between them, ready to etch itself into both their skins. 

 Azriel finally lifts his head, meeting the High Lord’s eyes with no fear. Only the light of determination. He is willing to give his life to your father if that’s what it takes to be by your side. 

The cloud of darkness begins to separate, its dark tendrils moving toward him, the binding magic poised to seal his fate, to chain him to this bargain for the rest of his life.

But before it can touch his skin, before the deal can be made, a bright light erupts in the room. A sharp hiss escapes the darkness as it recoils, retreating back into the shadows where it had come from. Azriel’s own shadows seem to shudder in relief.

Both Azriel and the High Lord’s heads snap toward the source of the light. You stand at the doors, your eyes wide and brimming with unshed tears, your hands glowing with pure, raging starlight.

“No!” you cry, the word trembling on your lips as you step forward, the glow around you growing even brighter. 

Your eyes lock with Azriel’s and something tightens in his chest, crawling up his rib cage. It’s sharp and breathtaking. His hand grabs at his chest and yours does the same. 

”He will not be your slave,” you say, turning to your father with the same determination flashing in your eyes. “There has to be another way.”

The High Lord’s features morph into a scowl. “Another way? My star, he is a bastard—”

“I love him!” 

That tightening in his chest finally snaps and Azriel’s breath catches. He feels that light in your eyes, perfectly reflecting the one in his. It sears into his soul, as fierce and unrelenting as the starlight glowing from your hands.

Your father doesn’t notice the shift in the air, the change in Azriel’s posture, in his chest. Or in yours.

“You think that means anything?” 

Azriel’s shadows whisper a warning into his ears, of an oncoming raging darkness. Different but similar to the High Lord’s. He barely hears his shadows, too focused on you, on the bond thrumming between you. His mind is consumed with you. 

Mate. Mate. Mate.

“You and mother—” you begin.

“Do you think your mother and I love each other?” The High Lord interrupts sharply, his voice cold and cutting. He breaks out into a laugh.

Azriel snaps out of his trance. Anger flares within him at the shock, the devastation that takes over your features. He watches as you shrink back slightly, his instincts roaring to protect you from any harm, whether verbal or otherwise. 

Because he’s your mate. Because he loves you.

 “You think I would marry your mother, a low born seamstress by choice? What your mother and I have is different. It’s complicated. A special bond.  One that gave me Rhysand and you and–”

A sound like thunder crashes through the room, reverberating off the stone walls as darkness swells in every corner. One moment, Azriel is on his knees. The next, he’s slamming into the cold marble floor, the force of Rhysand’s power pinning him down. Tendrils of Rhysand’s darkness coil around Azriel’s form, fighting with the shadows that instinctively rise to defend him.

“How long?” Rhysand's violet eyes blaze as they burn into Azriel.

“And I am beginning to think you both are nuisances to my existence rather than gifts...” The High Lord mutters followed by an exhausted sigh.

“How long have you been fucking my sister?” His words are a snarl as he slams Azriel harder into the floor, advancing toward him with clenched fists.

“Rhysand!” You let out a cry, rushing to the two males to separate them.

Your brother whips around, his anger igniting into something fiercer at the sight of you. “Stay out of this!” he snaps, his hand raising. He’s too angry, too heated. So much that he doesn't even notice the force of darkness he aims your way.

Rhysand’s magic hits you hard, knocking the breath from your lungs. A choked gasp escapes as you stumble backward, struggling to keep your footing. A burst of bright sapphire explodes from each of Azriel’s siphons, a deep and low growl rumbling from his chest. He breaks free from Rhysand’s magic, standing to his feet. His wings flare behind him, shadows swirling like a storm.

The look in his hazel eyes is nothing short of feral, dark and ancient, a fierce and possessive glint that makes Rhysand falter and surprise flash across the High Lord’s features.

You fall to the ground with a thud, palms scraping against the stone and pain flaring in your hands. Rhysand turns toward you, the anger that had been simmering in his violet gaze immediately dissolving into guilt and regret. “Y/n, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t touch her.” Azriel growls, standing in between you and your brother, his shadows forming in an additional protective barrier. Some shadows flutter toward you, helping you stand and bringing you to Azriel’s side. Your hand instinctively seeks Azriel’s, fingers curling into his and you squeeze it, letting him know you’re alright. 

“By the Cauldron…” the High Lord’s voice comes out in a low murmur, his gaze darting between you and Azriel. His eyes narrow as he finally notices the subtle shift in the air, in your scents. The scent of a bond. 

“You two are mates,” he says, tone laced with resignation. Because even he, a High Lord, is not above going against The Cauldron.

It feels like a punch to the gut for Rhysand. His best friend and his sister. Fate’s inevitable design had been right under his nose all along. “What?” Rhysand breathes in shock, chest still heaving from the exertion of his magic.

Azriel’s hand tightens around yours. His gaze softens as he turns to you, the fierce protectiveness from earlier easing into something gentler. And when your eyes meet again, it’s there—the unmistakable light of the mating bond. It shines bright and steady between you. Just like your love for each other does.

 A light that never goes out.

bonus scene

Once the shock of the bond had worn off, the High Lord excused himself, muttering about damage control. “Spring will be the hardest to deal with,” he had said.

Rhysand’s body tensed as his eyes found yours. But you’d only given him a small, reassuring smile. Though it is something you would like to talk about, his secret would remain safe with you.

Your father would soon announce the bond to the Court of Nightmares, already making plans for a grand mating ceremony. You’d much rather have something private, intimate. But a public celebration seemed like a small price to pay for the lifetime you’d get to spend beside the male you loved.

Rhysand turned his gaze back to Azriel, his expression still unreadable. “You never answered my question,” he said, voice calm but edged with something darker. “How long?”

Azriel hesitated before answering, unlike the way he had with the High Lord. This was his best friend standing in front of him. The one he grew up and trained along with, survived the brutality of the Blood Rite with. Rhysand was like a brother to him and he went behind his back for years.

 “A decade.”

“A decade?” Rhysand blinks in surprise. 

A whole decade of secrecy. Of Azriel sneaking around with his little sister. It all made sense now. Why Azriel became more reserved, more private. Why Azriel no longer indulged himself with the pleasures of the females at Rita’s or the Illyrian camps like he and Cassian did. Why you spent more time at the Moonstone palace, instead of the House of Wind, where you had grown up and been raised by a handful of Priestesses. It hadn’t been to learn about the politics of the courts but to be closer to Azriel.

And then, with no warning, Rhysand swings.

The hit lands squarely on Azriel’s jaw, so swift and unexpected that neither you nor Azriel’s shadows had seen it coming. Azriel takes the blow without protest, silently commanding his shadows to stand their ground and not fight back. 

“Rhys!” you snapped, your brows furrowing into a scowl. 

Rhysand huffs, shaking out his hand from the impact. “That’s for going behind my back,” he says. He pauses for a second and then, he lets out a low chuckle. Full of disbelief and relief.

“I’m still angry at both of you,” Rhysand admits, and Azriel lowers his head, bracing for more. “Not because it’s you—though I’ll admit, seeing you together is... strange. But because you kept it from me for so long, putting both of your lives at risk.”

Then Rhysand’s voice softens, his gaze following. “But I’m glad it’s you.”

Azriel lifts his head back up in surprise as Rhysand holds out his hand.

 “You’re a good male, Azriel. Better than most. And I know you’ll protect her. Love her in a way no one else can.”

Azriel stares at Rhysand’s outstretched hand before finally clasping it, the tension between them easing. Your chest warms at your brother’s sincerity.

The sound of footsteps, heavy and hurried, echo through the stone walls. They grow louder with each passing second and moments later, Cassian and Mor appear at the entrance of your father’s study. Cassian braces himself against the doorframe and Mor leans on him, their chests rising and falling rapidly.

It’s clear they’re winded from the endless stairs they must’ve taken to reach the floor of your father’s private study. It was located between the Court of Nightmares and Moonstone Palace, warded so that only those of his bloodline could winnow directly inside.

Their eyes dart between the three of you. 

“What did we miss?”

a/n: hope you enjoyed! here’s a little HC (idk what to call it?) of Rhys’s sis & Az if you’re curious 💙

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human @mrsjna, @adventure-awaits13, @lorosette

fic tag: @noisyinfluencerstrawberry, @tothestarsandwhateverend, @tulipbite, @kylaisra, @stressed-reader

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push and pull // feitan portor

tw ⇢ hate fucking, kinda rivals to lovers, mentions of violence and injuries, sexual tension, grinding, fingering, biting, cunnilingus, squirting, unprotected sex, dirty talk, cum-eating, implied voyeurism, rough sex, manhandling, overstimulation, feitan spanks you once

wc ⇢ 8.7k

a/n: this man is so difficult to write for 💀

The dimly lit hideout reeked of stale blood and smoke, the dank air carrying the weight of countless atrocities committed within its walls. In one corner, you and Feitan squared off, teeth bared and murder in your eyes.

"You son of a bitch," you snarled, fists clenched so tightly your nails bit into your palms. "That was my kill."

Feitan scoffed, his expression one of utter disdain. "Tch. As if a pathetic worm like you deserves the honor." His lips curled in a sneer. "I was putting that fool out of his misery before you botched the job...again."

A vein throbbed in your temple as you took a threatening step forward. "I'll show you who's pathetic, you arrogant little shit."

Before either of you could strike, a massive figure inserted itself between you, Nobunaga's broad chest blocking your path. "Enough!" he bellowed, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "Unless you want Chrollo brought into this, I suggest you two back off."

You and Feitan held each other's glare for a beat longer before grudgingly disengaging. As you turned away, Feitan spat a glob of phlegm that landed disturbingly close to your feet.

"This isn't over," he promised, voice laced with quiet menace.

Grinding your teeth, you fought the urge to whirl back around and rip Feitan's throat out with your bare hands. The only thing staying your hand was the unspoken rule against infighting - a rule that both of you constantly tested the limits of.

"One of these days..." you trailed off meaningfully.

Feitan's lip curled in a feral grin. "I can't wait."

As he slunk off into the shadows, you turned your frustrated glower on Nobunaga. The samurai met your look with an impassive stare.

"You two need to get your shit together," he stated bluntly. "These pissing contests are getting old."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Nobunaga raised a hand, cutting you off.

"I don't want to hear it. Take that shit outside if you must, but if you compromise one more mission with your bullshit, Chrollo will have both your heads."

Fuming silently, you could only nod in grudging agreement. Everyone in the Troupe knew better than to risk incurring their leader's wrath.

As Nobunaga wandered off, you allowed some of the tension to bleed from your shoulders with a weary sigh. Your eyes drifted to the corner where Feitan had disappeared, cold hatred settling into the pit of your stomach.

The next few days were a tense affair, the air thick with animosity every time you and Feitan occupied the same space. You traded insults and thinly veiled threats like volleys, each one more creatively vicious than the last.

"I heard the bakery down the street got a new shipment of rat poison," Feitan would muse idly, his dark eyes glittering. "I could slip some into your dinner if you'd like to try it."

You responded with a saccharine smile. "Why thank you, that's so considerate. But I ate rat poison for breakfast...your severed head on a platter is what I'm really craving."

The other Spiders quickly learned to give you both a wide berth during these escalating verbal sparring matches. Only Machi seemed unperturbed, rolling her eyes at your juvenile antics with a disdainful sniff.

The tension finally reached a breaking point a week later during a routine mission. Tasked with shaking down a local merchant for unpaid tribute, you and Feitan bickered the entire way over the most effective interrogation methods.

"If you so much as look at him wrong, I'll string you up by your entrails," Feitan hissed as you approached the target's store.

You barked out a harsh laugh. "As if I need pointers from an edgy little runt like you. I'll make this idiot squeal like a stuck pig while you watch and learn, shrimp."

The ensuing encounter quickly devolved into a pissing contest between the two of you over who could dole out the most creatively brutal threats and violence. By the time Pakunoda and Nobunaga arrived to collect you, the merchant was a blubbering, bloodied mess - the money long forgotten.

"This is the third time this month you idiots have fouled up a simple job," Pakunoda stated, her voice laced with barely restrained fury. "I've had enough of your bullshit."

Before either of you could react, her ability slammed into you both with the force of a typhoon. You slumped to the ground, mind wiped utterly blank as she extracted your memories of the incident.

When you came to a few moments later, Feitan was already lurching to his feet with a groan. You shot him a venomous glare, to which he responded by spitting a thick gobbet of blood at your feet.

"Starting to think you actually enjoy getting knocked around like that," you sneered, struggling to stand.

Feitan's eyes flashed with murderous rage. "Why you little-"

"ENOUGH!" Pakunoda's shout shook the room. "The next time you two sabotage a mission with your idiocy, I'll make sure you never remember your own names again. Am I making myself clear?"

You clenched your jaw but nodded stiffly. As much as you hated to admit it, the woman's threatening ability terrified you on a primal level.

In the ensuing silence, you cut your gaze towards Feitan, his chest heaving with each ragged breath. A thin trickle of blood seeped from the corner of his mouth, crimson stark against his pallid skin.

Despite your blinding loathing for the cocky little bastard, you couldn't deny the dark flicker of something else that stirred within you at the sight. You quickly smothered it beneath your ire.

One day, you vowed silently. One day, this powder keg would finally ignite.

The hideout was unnervingly quiet when the rest of the Troupe returned that evening. An eerie hush had settled over the dingy space, the kind of stillness that made the hairs on the back of one's neck prickle with unease.

As the group ventured deeper inside, the first drops of blood became visible - dark splatters marring the concrete floor. Nobunaga tensed, hand straying towards the sword slung across his back as they followed the grisly trail around a corner.

What they found then pulled them all up short, eyes widening in a mixture of shock and disgust. You and Feitan were in the center of the room, a tangled heap of flailing limbs and bloodied violence.

A feral snarl ripped from Feitan's throat as he tried in vain to dislodge you from where you'd pinned his smaller frame. In the struggle, his shirt had been shredded, exposing a mottled tapestry of dark bruises across his sinewy torso.

You weren't faring much better. Your face was a ruined mess - eyes swollen, lip split and gushing, vivid bite marks scoring your throat and shoulders. Despite the beating, you clung to him like a rabid animal, hands scrabbling for purchase to finish him.

"You crazy bitch!" Feitan's harsh pants turned your name into a vicious slur as he bucked and thrashed.

In response, you drove your elbow towards his face with sickening force, not caring that his head snapped back hard enough to crack against the floor. Bloodied spittle flecked his cheek as you leaned in close, lips peeling back in a manic snarl of your own.

"That all you got, runt?" You wheezed out a breathless laugh, nails gouging deep furrows into Feitan's straining throat. "I was hoping for more of a fight before I killed you."

A guttural growl bubbled up from Feitan's chest as his hips snapped upwards with bruising force, momentarily dislodging you. The two of you rolled, a flurry of grappling limbs and tattered clothing, each desperately struggling for the upper hand to deliver the killstroke.

It was Machi who finally intervened, upper lip curled in a sneer of revulsion. With a deft flick of her nen threads, she sliced through the melee and bound you both - Feitan hog-tied and you lashed spread-eagle to the floor.

"Enough of this depraved idiocy," she bit out, dark eyes flickering with disgust. "You're both lucky we don't slit your throats here and now for such weakness."

Feitan strained furiously against his bonds, deathly pale except for the mottled mess of his ruined face. His gaze swung wildly between you and the other Spiders, feral and uncomprehending.

You simply laid there, chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. Spitting out a thick gobbet of blood, you turned your head slowly until your battered gaze met Feitan's. A dark, unreadable look passed between you both - something haunted and turbulent flickering behind the hatred and violence.

If the rest of the Troupe noticed, they said nothing. Gathering themselves, they began to disperse - leaving the two of you alone in the wreckage until Chrollo could decide your punishment.

Chrollo's expression was utterly impassive as he surveyed the two of you - bruised, battered shells of your former selves after that vicious brawl. His lips quirked ever so slightly as he took in your defiant glares, eyes flickering with loathing.

"You two have become a liability," he stated, voice devoid of inflection. "Your pathetic inability to control yourselves nearly compromised everything we've built."

You opened your mouth to protest, but Chrollo raised a slender hand, effectively silencing you.

"Normally, I would have Pakunoda wipe your memories clean and be done with it." His eyes bored into you, glacial and unrelenting. "However, I have another task that requires your...unique talents."

Feitan made a rude noise of derision from where he sat slumped against the wall. You shot him a withering glare before turning an expectant look back towards your leader.

"You will attend the DeMario charity gala in two weeks' time," Chrollo continued calmly. "Posing as a wealthy couple, you'll insinuate yourselves into the inner circles and extract information from Marcello Randazzo - rumored to be a prolific collector of rare antiquities."

The implication hung heavy in the air for a beat before the weight of it slammed into you full force. Your mouth fell open in disbelief as you turned an incredulous look on Feitan, who was already visibly bristling with outrage.

"You can't be serious," you sputtered, temper flaring hot and bright. "There's no way in hell I'm playing make-believe as that bastard's lover!"

"Over my dead body." Feitan's low, raspy voice was laced with venom. "I'd sooner claw my own eyes out than be seen on that bitch's arm."

Chrollo's eyes flashed warningly and you felt the slightest prickle of his powerful aura washing over you, a silent threat. "You'll do as I command. Unless you'd both prefer to follow the fate of the hostages we collected from that ill-advised debt collection?"

He let the unspoken threat hang in the air for a long moment before continuing.

"I'm sure Marcello's information is worth playing along for an evening. Unless you'd prefer some...permanent disciplinary actions?"

You and Feitan held each other's murderous look for a moment longer before grudgingly turning your gazes away in submission. As much as you despised each other, neither of you were foolish enough to legitimately cross Chrollo.

"I expect you'll both conduct yourselves with aplomb and professionalism befitting our reputation," your leader stated flatly. "Any further disruptions or unbecoming behavior, and I'll have Pakunoda take away more than just your memories of the gala."

With that ominous warning, he swept from the room, leaving you and Feitan alone to simmer in your mutual resentment and disgust.

Seconds ticked by, taut with palpable tension, before you finally broke the silence with a contemptuous sneer.

"I hope you know how to dance, Portor," you bit out acidly. "I have a strong urge to grind my heel into those stumpy little feet of yours."

Feitan's eyes slitted with murderous promise as he levered himself upright with a pained grunt.

"Keep dreaming," he shot back caustically. "I'll be counting the minutes until I can slit that pretty throat of yours without consequence."

As your vicious glares clashed and held, it was abundantly clear that this mission posing as lovers would be anything but smooth sailing. For both your sakes, you could only hope the inevitable storm wouldn't capsize everything you'd built.

The ornate dressing room was suffused with tension as thick as the heavy perfume hanging in the air. You sat rigidly before the gilded vanity, jaw clenched tight as Machi deftly styled your hair into an elegant updo.

"Would you relax?" The girl's voice held a hint of irritation. "You're as wound up as a clockspring."

You shot her a venomous look in the mirror's reflection. "Forgive me if I'm not exactly eager to play Ken and Barbie with that sadistic little gnome."

A snort of muffled laughter came from the chaise where Shizuku and Pakunoda were laid out, idly inspecting their phone screens. You pivoted to fix them with a withering glare.

"Something amusing?"

Shizuku shook her head quickly, eyes widening innocently even as her lips twitched with suppressed mirth. Pakunoda simply arched one sculpted brow in a look of infinite disdain.

"Must you be so crass?" The blonde's dulcet tones somehow managed to sound derisive. "This is an important mission, not some childish game."

"Tell that to our 'esteemed leader'," you bit out acidly, making air-quotes. "Playing dress-up as Feitan's loving wife is about the sickest joke I've ever heard."

Machi made a soft noise of disgust as she speared another jeweled hairpin into place. "You're both behaving like petulant children. This is simply a job - nothing more. The sooner you and Feitan stop acting like lovesick buffoons, the smoother this night will go."

Her reprimand struck a nerve and you opened your mouth to deliver a biting retort when a sharp rap at the door cut you off. A moment later, Feitan slipped into the room, looking equal parts irritated and sheepish in his elegant tuxedo and slicked-back hair.

Your breath caught momentarily in your throat as you took in his appearance. Despite the permanent scowl etched onto his features, he cleaned up...well. The fine charcoal suit hugged the lean lines of his muscled frame in a way that should have been illegal.

Just as quickly, you smothered the errant thought, sneering at him in disdain. "Well, well, if it isn't Feitan Portor himself, dressed up like someone finally house-trained him."

Feitan's eyes flashed and he opened his mouth - no doubt to deliver a scathing rebuttal - when Machi smoothly interjected.

"Enough, you two." She leveled you both with a quelling look. "The car is ready, so I suggest you get your acts together before I tie you both up in nen threads to keep you in line."

An ominous threat given her prowess with her sadistic ability. You bit back the retort burning on your tongue and forced yourself to take a steadying breath. God, this night was going to be interminable.

Rising fluidly, you smoothed your hands down the shimmering fabric of your evening gown, subtly reveling in the way Feitan's eyes automatically tracked the movement before flicking away. Feeling petty, you allowed your lips to curve into a taunting smirk.

"Well, shall we, dear?" You crooned the endearment like a slur, watching his jaw tense infinitesimally. "I can already smell the misery wafting from those uppity pricks just waiting to be robbed blind."

Feitan's look could have curdled milk, but he extended his arm stiffly all the same. As you entwined yours through the crook of his elbow, his fingertips brushed feather-light against the bare skin of your back, raising gooseflesh in their wake.

"Lead the way, wife" he bit out with obvious distaste. "Try not to embarrass me too terribly in front of the marks."

Your derisive laughter was a caustic thing as you allowed him to escort you towards the exit.

"Oh Feitan, we're way past embarrassing at this point. I'd say this night is primed to be a total shitshow."

His dark chuckle echoed yours as you departed the dressing room - a soft, shared sound that somehow managed to sound equal parts threatening and thrilling.

The sleek town car purred to a stop before the opulent entranceway, and you took a steadying breath before allowing Feitan to assist you out onto the crimson carpet. Despite the months of rigorous training and countless assignments in your bloody career, you couldn't deny the flutters of trepidation in your stomach.

This was it - the moment to see if you two idiotic sadists could pull off playing a loving couple without slitting each other's throats.

Feitan's hand was firm at your elbow as you ascended the grand staircase, his expression locked in a rictus of forced neutrality. Up close, you could make out the barest hint of cologne wafting from him - something earthy and sophisticated that shouldn't have appealed, yet had your throat tightening oddly all the same.

Then you were sweeping through the arched doors and into the spectacle of the ballroom itself. A dazzling kaleidoscope of glittering crystal and jewel-toned decor assaulted the senses. The hum of cultured chatter and tinkling laughter washed over you as you took in the crowd of Yorknew's social elite, all decked in their finest attire.

You felt Feitan tense almost imperceptibly beside you before he was smoothly taking the lead, guiding you further into the fray with a proprietary hand at the small of your bare back. A shiver traced your spine at the contact, though from revulsion or something else, you couldn't say.

"Try not to look so much like a viper about to strike, dear," he murmured against your ear, voice a surprising low rumble. "We're supposed to be the picture of marital bliss, remember?"

You bit back the instinctive need to elbow him in the throat, instead pasting on a sickly-sweet smile.

"Of course, darling. Though with how titillating you look in that dashing suit, I may have trouble keeping my hands off you in public."

His lips quirked in a mockery of a grin, even as his dark eyes remained flat and assessing. For all his bravado, Feitan was firmly in killer-mode, scanning the ballroom with cold calculation.

Playing along, you looped one arm through his, allowing your free hand to roam almost territorially over the fine material of his jacket as you began to mingle with the other revelers. With each new cluster of mark- ahem, guest you engaged, you felt yourself relaxing infinitesimally into the role of the devoted wife on her husband's arm. Feitan too, seemed to warm to the act, his featherlight touches and heated murmurs just skirting the line between play-acting and something darker, more authentic.

It wasn't until you were deep in conversation with one of Randazzo's alleged underbosses that the illusion flickered momentarily. Leaning in conspiratorially, you relayed the crucial details you'd extracted about the mobster's dealings in the black market antiquities trade. But when you glanced up to share a weighted look with your "husband", you found Feitan's gaze was distinctly...elsewhere.

Following his stare, you bit back an irritated hiss at the realization that his attention had been utterly diverted by the low neckline of your evening gown, eyes firmly trained on the swell of exposed cleavage. His tongue darted out to wet his lips unconsciously as he drank in the view.

"Feitan!" You hissed out the side of your mouth, snapping your fingers to regain his focus. "Are you listening, or are my tits really that mesmerizing?"

He startled, gaze snapping guiltily upwards as you fixed him with a heated glare. For a beat, Feitan seemed utterly nonplussed, caught completely off-guard in a rare moment of distracted...appreciation? Honesty? His eyes were wide and molten in a way you'd never seen before - utterly disarming.

Then the mask slammed back into place with a nearly audible click, and he simply arched one brow in response.

"My apologies, dear. You were saying?"

And just like that, you were speaking to the most dangerous man in the room once again, cold and brutally efficient. Swallowing hard, you relayed the rest of the intel automatically, even as something restless took up residence beneath your breastbone - an odd, disquieting feeling sparked by that split-second glimpse of whatever it was you'd seen flickering behind Feitan's eyes.

As you continued to circulate through the crowd and ply your roles, you found yourself stealing sidelong glances at your diminutive partner more frequently than was wise. Each time, it was to find him in typical form - lethal focus etched across his features, not a hair out of place or a single tell to betray...whatever it was you'd witnessed earlier.

The grand ballroom seemed to bleed into a hazy blur around you as the waltz began, the opening strains of the orchestra swelling through the cavernous space. Feitan's hand found your waist with surprising gentleness, pulling you into the first steps of the dance.

For a long moment, you simply stared at each other, the newfound proximity seeming to crackle with a charge you refused to put a name to. Up close like this, you could make out the faintest dusting of freckles across the sharp planes of his cheekbones, the dark fan of his lashes. Little details you'd never noticed - or never allowed yourself to notice until now.

"I must say, dear wife," he murmured, voice a dark rumble that shivered across your skin. "You clean up rather nicely for a miserable little gutter rat."

You arched one brow coolly, refusing to be baited even as you moved seamlessly with him across the floor. "I'm surprised you can recognize 'nice' through that perverse little killer's lens of yours, darling husband."

His lips quirked in a semblance of a grin, though it held no mirth - only the same lingering malice that seemed to follow you both like a sickly perfume.

"The better to watch every tantalizing inch of you with, my vicious little vixen." His grip tightened fractionally at your waist, fingertips brushing bare skin. "Perhaps I'll have to stake my claim more...thoroughly later."

You scoffed loudly, allowing your palm to roam down the firm plane of his chest as you spun in seamlessly for the next figure.

"Trying to whisper sweet nothings won't get you far, darling. I've heard more creative threats from preschoolers."

Feitan simply hummed deep in his throat, a rough sound that inexplicably raised the fine hairs along the back of your neck. His gaze, when you met it again, had taken on a dark, hooded quality that had heat pooling low in your belly despite yourself.

"Say what you will, wife," he practically purred, dipping you in a slow, lingering arc that brought your bodies into sinful alignment. "We both know those pretty little lips were made for better uses than childish barbs."

His thumb caressed your chin with barely-there tenderness as he pulled you upright again, scorching your skin like a brand. For an endless second, you simply swayed there in silence, chests brushing with every stuttering inhale, caught in the molten undertow of his stare.

Dimly, you registered the buzz of an alarmed voice echoing over the sound system, followed by the unmistakable wail of police sirens dopplering towards the estate. Masks began slipping as guests registered the threat, panic seeping into the ballroom like a tenuous haze.

In that moment, time seemed to splinter apart kaleidoscopically, stretching and scattering until all that remained was the unnameable thing gripping your heart in its stifling vise. You turned back to Feitan, already anticipating the vicious string of threats ready to tumble from his lips as your covers were blown apart.

But there was no anger simmering in those unfathomable depths this time - only a searing sort of intensity that pinned you in place, ignited something low and precarious in your core that you didn't dare put a name to. His fingers were still ghosting across the curve of your jaw, a scorching benediction that somehow managed to convey both possession and worship in the same toxic mix.

You watched, utterly transfixed, as he leaned in with aching slowness, lips brushing the softest whisper against the thrumming pulse at your throat. Then he simply held there, breath searing like a brand, driving ragged splinters of sensation rocketing through your body.

"Run," he rasped, the barest brushing of sound against your superheated skin.

Just like that, the spell was shattered, reality cleaving back into your field of vision as distant shouts and shattering crystal rent the atmosphere. Feitan's fingers slipped from your skin, leaving a throbbing ache of loss in their wake as he pivoted and simply vanished through the thickening crowd.

Blinking dazedly, you found your limbs unlocking woodenly as you staggered into motion, following the only directive that seemed to make sense as the ballroom descended into pandemonium. One foot in front of the other as your heart jackhammered double-time in your ribcage, coursing with an unfamiliar feeling that felt a hell of a lot like it was tearing you apart from the inside.

Run. The word seemed to echo inside your skull as you fled through the service exit, a ghost's refrain. Though from what - the explosion of chaos around you or the cataclysm blooming deep within, you weren't entirely sure.

All you knew was that you would never be the same after this night. How could you when Feitan had irrevocably annihilated every fragile barrier you'd constructed between you, leaving your entire world shifted on its axis?

The dank alleyway reeked of rot and piss as you slammed Feitan against the filthy brickwork, fingers snarling in the lapels of his once-pristine tuxedo. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the split in his brow, vivid crimson against his pallid features.

"This is all your fault, you arrogant little prick!" The words tore from your throat in a guttural snarl as you shook him viciously. "If you could stop eye-fucking me long enough to focus for two goddamn seconds-"

"My fault?" He cut you off with a wheezing laugh, still managing to look utterly derisive despite the position you had him pinned in. "If your whorish little act wasn't so shameless and distracting-"

You drew back a fist, fully prepared to break his smug nose, when a peel of distant sirens had you both freezing. After a momentary standoff, you released him with a disgusted shove, wiping a trembling hand across your sweat-slicked brow as you struggled to leash your spiraling temper.

"Forget it, we need to move. Our exit is compromised."

Feitan sneered at you as he straightened his jacket with a dismissive tug, refusing to acknowledge he was just as rattled. His gaze took on a faraway look for a split second before he gave a tight nod.

"Chrollo sent a new set of coordinates. There's a safe house two blocks west."

You fell into step beside him, moving at a clipped pace that matched the jackhammer pounding of your pulse. Every few steps, your shoulders would brush with the barest whisper of contact, reigniting a phantom echo of the way he'd felt pressed against you on the dance floor.

The memory had you grinding your teeth hard enough to make the hinges creak, riling the sickly ribbon of confusion currently squirming through your gut. What the hell had happened back there? One minute you were shredding each other with barbs as natural as breathing, the next...

You shook your head sharply, refusing to dwell on the hunger that had momentarily flickered in Feitan's gaze. Or the way your entire body had sung in response, every nerve alight like a livewire about to detonate. It was nothing - a fleeting second of insanity brought on by the adrenaline and heightened circumstance. An anomaly, meaningless in the grand scheme of your...whatever the hell this sick alliance was.

Shoving the errant thoughts aside, you pushed forward into the overgrown lot Feitan indicated, trampling a wavering path through the weeds towards a squat, nondescript building. Not a word was exchanged as he disarmed the security system and led you inside to the dingy, compact space that would be your shelter for the foreseeable future.

You grimaced as you took in the sparse furnishings and musty odor. "Fucking fantastic."

Feitan simply grunted, dropping his suit jacket over the back of a battered recliner as he began divesting himself of weapons and gear. Only when he reached the buttons on his shirt did he pause, shadows obscuring his expression as he cut you a sidelong glance.

"I'd offer to let you shower first but..."

But there was only one visible door that presumably led to a solitary bathroom. You pinched the bridge of your nose, already feeling the first tendrils of an stress-migraine coiling behind your eyes.

"Just get on with it before I decide to gut you and bleed out in the tub like a fucking woman scorned."

A bark of laughter punched from Feitan at the morbid joke before he could smother it. You blinked at him, oddly thrown by the genuine amusement glinting in his obsidian stare for a fleeting second. Then the moment passed, and he simply shrugged out of the soiled dress shirt, turning to disappear through the doorway without further comment.

You were left standing in the middle of the ramshackle living area, keenly aware of the steady drip of blood tracking from your split knuckles to patter on the cracked vinyl floor. With measured inhales, you attempted to shunt the chaos of the evening into a small, containable box to be unpacked later. Feitan was right, getting cleaned up would be the priority for now. After that...

Well, you'd just have to sort through this tangled web you'd woven like adults. And if violence and bloodshed was the only way to sever the noose cinching around your sanity, so be it. At least that path you understood - that was stable, solid ground to walk upon with him.

This... whatever it was brewing between you like a virulent sickness, was far more lethal.

The pipes clanked and groaned as you twisted the tarnished shower knobs, filling the cramped bathroom with a humid, enveloping steam. Grimacing, you peeled off the tattered remnants of your evening gown, letting the ruined silk puddle at your feet.

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the warped mirror above the chipped porcelain sink - hair lank and makeup ravaged, vivid bruises already darkening along your ribs from your rough tumble during the escape. More telling, however, were the faint indents marring the swell of your breast, pressed there by Feitan's fingertips in the ballroom like brands seared into your very being.

A violent shudder ripped through you at the visceral recollection, every nerve ending rekindling with phantom echoes of his scorching touch. Slamming your palm against the mirror, you shattered the refracted image into a thousand fractals, each one reflecting back the turmoil roiling in your expression.

With a ragged exhale, you shed the rest of your undergarments and stepped beneath the mercifully scalding spray, welcoming the harsh sting across your battered skin. Anything to dull the incessant buzzing beneath, the molten licks of pure confusion that had you splaying one palm over your lower abdomen in a futile gesture.

After several long, steadying minutes, you finally felt coherent thought filtering back, shunting the chaos into submission - at least for now. Grabbing a towel, you twisted it around your body and yanked open the bathroom door, striding back into the main room with a cloud of steam billowing in your wake.

Feitan stood in the cramped kitchenette, spine taut as a bowstring as he doctored the split over his brow with clumsy, one-handed stitches. At your abrupt entrance, his shoulders twitched and rolled almost imperceptibly, head swiveling to face you with narrowed eyes.

"About time," he groused, voice sandpaper rough. "I was starting to think you'd drowned yourself in there to avoid facing the cosmic fuckup you-"

Whatever insult he'd been ready to deploy withered and died as his obsidian gaze dropped lower, raking over the exposed expanse of damp skin visible beneath your precariously knotted towel with undisguised hunger. His throat bobbed convulsively as he swallowed hard, suddenly looking anywhere but at you.

"Dammit," he snarled after a strained pause, teeth snapping the crass endearment like a viper's strike. "A little warning about parading around like that would be appreciated."

Despite the multiple layers of ice coating his tone, you detected the barest wobble crack along its surface - an infinitesimal tremor betraying the struggle to maintain his sangfroid. A meandering lick of validation bloomed through you at having caught him so thoroughly off-guard, splitting your lips in a mocking moue.

"What, am I making Lord Feitan flustered?" You stalked forward challengingly, towel slipping lower with every predatory step to bare more glistening skin. "Seems your vaunted self-control has sprung a rather conspicuous leak, husband."

His nostrils flared minutely at the poisonous endearment, fingers tightening around the bloodied gauze until his knuckles shone bone-white. Yet, his stare remained steadfastly fixed above your collarbones, the muscle in his jaw twitching erratically.

"Keep pushing, wife ," he bit out in a strained rasp. "You're cruising for a brutality you're ill-equipped to face tonight."

The unveiled threat landed square in your solar plexus, simultaneously shunting your reckless desire to poke the caged beast and stoking a deeper, infinitely more terrifying burn low in your belly. You felt yourself sway forward of its own volition, every instinct honed on a whetstone of fear and adrenaline screaming at you to retreat, to reassert the fragile barriers before they were obliterated entirely.

Yet you held your ground, searching Feitan's expression for any flicker of the same wounded animality you felt ricocheting through your own veins, your towel slipping another infinitesimal fraction down your sternum in the process. His eyes followed the movement with searing intensity before snapping back up, something dark and unfurling igniting in those obsidian depths.

"Bring it, husband," you heard yourself hissing recklessly. "I'll shove those brutalities so far up your sadistic little ass, you'll be regurgitating blood and teeth for a month."

You could have sworn his pupils blew wide at that, flaring with undisguised relish before he was lunging for you, movements a blur of untamed violence. If you'd hoped to provoke him, to unleash whatever it was roiling between you into the light, you were rewarded a thousand fold.

His hands were iron manacles around your biceps, slamming you back against the grease-stained counter as his lithe body caged yours with arching menace. You crashed together like colliding celestial bodies - unstoppable force meeting immovable object in a maelstrom of jagged breaths and stifling heat.

"Should've kept your mouth shut, dear," he growled against the hammering pulse in your throat. Each consonant scorched like a brand, igniting detonations of raw sensation you were powerless to withstand. "Now you get to take exactly what's coming to you."

His hips rolled into yours with bruising force, crushing your lower bodies together as his teeth sank into the juncture of your neck and shoulder hard enough to reave a harsh gasp from you. Not quite a bite, but a vicious promise all the same - a precursor to the violence he was poised to inflict that would leave no question as to whom you belonged.

You were suddenly lightheaded, nerves blazing white-hot as your body responded viscerally to his provocation. Mortification, anger, arousal - every emotion flooded your senses in a dizzying, inextricable miasma until you couldn't be sure what you felt any longer. Only that you burned feverishly from within, every cell straining towards the brutal inevitability of Feitan's next calculated strike.

When it came, your world whited out entirely, the resounding concussion off the counter rattling you down to your very marrow. There was no pain, only a discordant ringing and an unbearable pressure centered below your diaphragm. A sustained, broken noise reverberated in the cramped space that you belatedly recognized as your own ruined voice.

Feitan remained locked against you with grim triumph, the pads of his fingers leaving livid crescents in your flesh as he drank in your total debasement and undoing. When he leaned in next, you were certain without a shadow of a doubt that anything left unraveled between you would be torn asunder in the next breath.

You glared at Feitan from your sprawled position on the floor, chest heaving as you swiped the back of your hand across your split lip. A thin rivulet of blood trailed from the corner of his mouth as well, stark against his pallid skin.

"You're going to pay for that, you sadistic little bastard," you growled, levering yourself upright with your elbows.

Feitan simply arched one brow mockingly, his tongue darting out to lave at the crimson seeping from his busted lip. The sight of it, so obscene yet undeniably magnetic, had molten anger roiling through your veins anew.

"I'd like to see you try, bitch," he taunted in that raspy timbre that somehow managed to sound both threatening and profoundly unsettling. "Unless you plan on crying for Chrollo to intervene again?"

You were across the room in a blur, your towel slipping loose as you tackled him with bruising force. Feitan met your violence with feral glee, hands snarling in your sodden hair as you grappled viciously. The two of you crashed and rolled, trading blow for stinging blow in a whirlwind of flailing limbs.

At some point, your towel had come undone entirely, the terrycloth puddle abandoned on the floor as your bare skin met Feitan's sweat-slicked torso. Yet neither of you registered the complete state of undress, too singularly focused on the vicious undulations of your battle.

Finally, you managed to pin him beneath you, knees caging his hips as you fought to trap his wiry arms. Feitan thrashed and strained, every sinewy muscle corded to breaking as he bowed against your weight in a futile attempt to dislodge you.

Then, all at once, something within the atmosphere shifted - a subtle charge bleeding the rage from the air in a dizzying spiral. You both stilled as one, harsh pants reverberating between your sweat-sheened forms as you registered your tangled states. Feitan's gaze was hooded, pupils blown wide as they raked over every inch of your exposed, vulnerable flesh with undisguised hunger.

Belatedly, you realized your fingers were fisted in the sweat-damp fabric of his tank top, straining the material to translucence and leaving very little to the imagination. Your lips parted on a ragged inhale as Feitan's hips canted up in a subconscious grind, the blatant ridge of his cock catching you square between your bodies.

Time seemed to slow to a viscous crawl then, the world narrowing to the minuscule space between your labored breaths. Feitan's lashes fluttered once, twice, before his eyes slitted back open - dark pools of naked wanting that had you arching into him before conscious thought could intervene.

His mouth was searing, branding yours with a ferocity that stole the air from your lungs. Yet you returned his onslaught with equal desperation, all nails and teeth as you clutched him tighter against your naked body. There was no preamble, no gentle exploration - only the wild, unrestrained explosion of every unspoken want and need as you finally surrendered to the maelstrom.

Your fingers found the hem of his tank top, tearing it upward impatiently. Feitan's muscles rippled beneath your fingertips as you ran them reverently across every scarred inch of his chest and abdomen. When you flicked a teasing thumb across one hardened nipple, he hissed into your mouth, bucking up hard.

"Fuck," he swore, breaking the kiss with a ragged gasp. His fingers were tangled in your hair, holding you steady as his other hand skimmed up your bare flank. "If I'd known what a devious little whore you were, I'd have fucked you over every surface in that ballroom ages ago."

You arched one brow mockingly. "Is that so? Or would you have been too busy eye-fucking me to notice?"

The words left your lips in a breathless, taunting rush, and suddenly you were on your back again, the wind knocked from your lungs as Feitan pinned you against the floor with an animalistic snarl. He looked wild, utterly disheveled as his hips canted hard between your thighs.

"Perhaps I would have fucked that smart mouth of yours right there in the middle of the dance floor, wife," he practically purred, eyes gleaming as he rocked harder. "Would have had everyone watching how thoroughly I owned you."

Heat bloomed through your lower body at the vivid imagery, even as a traitorous moan slipped past your lips. Feitan smirked, a smug, victorious expression that had you surging up to catch his bottom lip between your teeth. He groaned, heady and deep, as you bit down, blood mingling on your tongues.

Then, abruptly, he was wrenching free, leaving you sprawled against the cracked tile. Before you could recover, his palm was wrapping around your ankle, yanking you across the floor like a ragdoll. Your fingers clawed at the ground, scrambling for purchase as you were dragged inexorably towards the couch.

The rough material was cold and abrasive against your skin as he flipped you over, yanking your ass into the air. Then his hands were spreading your thighs wide, and he was sinking his teeth into the tender flesh at the crease of your hip. You whimpered, hips grinding back against him mindlessly as your nails tore into the worn fabric.

His fingers were rough, merciless as they probed at your entrance, slicking through the evidence of your arousal. A choked moan slipped free at the sensation, back bowing as your spine arched involuntarily.

"Oh, look at how wet and desperate my vicious little whore is," Feitan crooned, two fingers curling inside you as his thumb circled your clit. "This what you've been aching for, wife?"

He punctuated the taunt by leaning in and biting the swell of your ass, sending a violent shudder through your core. Your fingers tangled in the frayed throw, the fibers ripping under your grip.

"Go fuck yourself," you bit out, hips canting back against him.

A sharp crack rang out as Feitan brought his palm down on your ass, a livid welt flaring across your skin. The sudden pain had you hissing, a curse rising on the tip of your tongue before it died as a third finger was shoved roughly inside you.

"Careful what you wish for," Feitan murmured, a hint of danger lacing his tone as his fingers thrust into you at a brutal pace. "I'd be more than happy to oblige, since you're such a cock-hungry little whore."

His words sent an undefinable pang through your core, your muscles clenching around him in a visceral response. He chuckled darkly, withdrawing his fingers with a final, lewd curl. You heard the jangle of his belt, the rustle of clothing being discarded, and then he was dragging the thick head of his cock through your folds.

"Please," the word escaped in a hoarse, pleading breath, the last vestiges of your pride crumbling away.

Feitan paused, his entire body stilling. A long, tense moment passed, the only sound between you two the rasp of your combined, ragged breathing. Then, slowly, his palms slid over the curve of your hips, thumbs hooking along the crest of your ass as he spread you wider.

"As you wish, dear wife," he replied in a strained whisper.

His first thrust was a violent thing, driving straight to the hilt in one harsh, relentless motion. You keened, fingers tearing deeper into the couch as the pain-pleasure of the stretch burned through every nerve ending.

Then, without pause, Feitan was fucking you in earnest, hips snapping forward with savage, staccato motions. Every inch of you was alight, electrified by the feel of him, the sound of his low, guttural grunts as he ravaged you.

You felt the tension mounting within, coiling low in your belly and spreading through every extremity like liquid fire. When Feitan's thumb ghosted against the tight ring of your ass, a violent spasm rocked you, a choked sob tearing free.

"You like that?" He practically growled, the pad of his thumb teasing the sensitive rim with a wicked rhythm that matched his thrusts. "Such a filthy little thing, you'll take it wherever I decide to shove it, won't you?"

Before you could even respond, the digit was pushing inside, sinking into your ass and stretching the tight muscle in a way that had tears spilling down your cheeks. Everything was too much, too overwhelming, the twin intrusions setting off a detonation of sensations that had you seeing stars.

You came hard, an uncontrolled explosive gush of liquid spraying all over the couch. Feitan moaned, an obscene, animalistic sound that had another aftershock wracking your entire body.

"Fuck, yes," he snarled, fingers digging bruises into your hips as he fucked you through the orgasm. "Soak me, whore. Mark me with every fucking inch of this tight little cunt."

His thumb twisted in tandem with his thrusts, stretching the ring of muscle to an almost-painful extent. It was too much, too fast, but every sensation felt dialed up to an eleven, leaving you helpless to do anything but ride the wave of his brutal pleasure.

When you came again, the scream ripped from your throat was a broken, fractured thing, a desperate, primal noise that Feitan seemed to revel in. You sagged against the couch, trembling uncontrollably as another rush of liquid coated his cock and thighs.

"God, that's it," Feitan hissed, sounding utterly undone. "Fuck, look at you, soaking and gushing all over me."

His fingers tangled in your hair, yanking your head back sharply as his hips lost their rhythm. Then, without warning, his thumb was withdrawing, his grip shifting from your hair to your chin, wrenching your neck around.

Your eyes widened at the sight, the utter wreckage of him reflected back - flushed and wild-eyed, with his lips glistening and swollen from your earlier kisses. He was the very definition of unhinged, an untamed beast unleashed at last, and you'd never been more turned on in your life.

He kissed you again then, tongue plundering your mouth with a feral intensity that stole the breath from your lungs. You felt him throb and twitch, his moans becoming more frenzied, more broken. Then, with a final, brutal thrust, he was spilling inside you, the molten heat of his cum a brand marking you deep within.

You were barely able to catch your breath before Feitan was pulling out, rolling you onto your back and yanking your thighs over his shoulders. Your vision blurred for a moment, mind utterly uncomprehending, before the realization dawned - Feitan was burying his face between your thighs, his tongue plunging into the depths of your core to lap at the mess he'd left behind.

Sensation overload had you screaming, back bowing off the couch as another violent, full-body tremor ripped through you. Yet he refused to relent, his tongue relentless, his fingers joining the onslaught as they plunged into your abused hole to stroke at your oversensitive walls.

A third gush of liquid coated his fingers, and he was moaning, utterly shameless, against your pussy as he drank from you ravenously. The sound of him, debauched and unhinged, was too much, your nerves already rubbed raw.

You tried to push him away, the sensations too intense, too overwhelming. Yet Feitan simply growled, a muffled warning, his teeth closing on the hood of your clit. A sob wracked you, the overstimulation bordering on exquisite pain.

Then, he was sucking, tongue swirling and teasing and driving you mad. It was all too much, yet you couldn't pull away, couldn't escape the relentless tide he'd unleashed. When he slid a finger into your ass, the coil snapped, a white-hot, blinding rush that had you convulsing and screaming in his hold.

He worked you through the orgasm, his tongue gentling until the aftershocks had faded and you were left utterly wrecked, limbs quivering and mind completely obliterated.

When Feitan finally emerged, licking his lips like a self-satisfied cat, his expression was one of utter, smug satisfaction. You were barely able to form a coherent thought, much less an insult, so instead you settled for glaring at him weakly, trying to channel every ounce of disdain and irritation into your glare.

Feitan simply shrugged, an infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. "Don't look at me like that, dear wife. You started this."

You attempted a scathing retort, but only a ragged, garbled sound escaped as you realized the extent of your destruction. The couch was absolutely drenched, rivulets of liquid and cum leaking over the cushions in a vulgar display.

Feitan followed your line of sight, the smirk twisting into a lewd grin. "And to think, we've only just begun."

Before you could even begin to comprehend the implication, he was pulling you to your feet, scooping you over his shoulder in a fireman's hold. The next thing you knew, you were being dropped on the bed, bouncing against the sheets as he stalked after you.

"Now, wife, why don't we continue our honeymoon a bit longer?"

The dim of the Phantom Troupe's hideout greeted you and Feitan like a physical force as you stepped through the threshold. Raucous laughter and jeering whistles erupted the moment you appeared, drawing mortified flushes to both your cheeks.

"Well, well, if it isn't the newlyweds!" Nobunaga's booming voice cut through the catcalls as he swaggered over, a salacious grin splitting his weathered features. "Gotta say, I didn't peg you two for the kinky honeymoon suite types."

"I must admit, your performance was rather...enlightening," Chrollo interjected, the barest hint of a smirk playing across his lips as he leveled you with a weighted look.

You felt your face heat even further at the implication. Feitan shot you a murderous glare, clearly placing the blame squarely on your shoulders for this humiliation.

"You've got to be kidding me," he snarled through gritted teeth as understanding dawned.

"We had cameras installed to monitor your location," Machi confirmed with a longsuffering sigh. "For safety purposes. Though I don't think any of us expected...that level of disclosure."

Uvogin guffawed loudly, slapping his knee. "You mean you weren't hoping for some free live entertainment, Machi?"

The teasing and raucous laughter continued to swell around you as the rest of the Spiders utterly failed to contain their amusement at yours and Feitan's expense. Even the typically unflappable Pakunoda had a glint of mirth dancing in her eyes.

"I can assure you, the footage was quite...comprehensive," Chrollo offered blandly, making no effort to hide his satisfaction at your escalating mortification. "There were no details left to the imagination."

You sputtered incoherently, torn between the urge to burst into flames on the spot and throttling every last one of these voyeuristic savages with your bare hands. Feitan, meanwhile, looked two seconds from detonating entirely.

"You lecherous band of voyeurs!" he exploded, visibly shaking with rage as he whirled to face you. "And you! How did you not notice the goddamn cameras?!"

Seizing the opportunity to redirect even a fraction of the blame, you met his fury head-on.

"How did I not notice?! If you hadn't been too busy eye-fucking me at every turn like a horny mutt, maybe we both would have paid more attention to our surroundings!"

The argument quickly devolved into your typical vicious back-and-forth, insults and profanities flying as the Troupe howled with laughter around you. Eventually, you both stormed off in a cloud of barely restrained violence, hurling threats over your shoulders at the jeering pack of depraved hyenas.

As the sounds of your bickering faded down the corridor, Chrollo's smooth baritone carried after you with a hint of dark amusement.

"Do try and be more discreet next time, you two...unless you're intentionally putting on a show for us."

[crushribbons]

𝖇𝖎𝖗𝖉𝖎𝖊, 𝖕𝖙. 𝖛

summary: Sebastian Sallow should have been a Ravenclaw. (series masterlist)

cw: 6.7k words, career-and-life-choices-related angst, SMUT (18+ ONLY), unprotected af sex, fingering, oral (m. receiving), questionable behavior if he doesn't have a breeding kink, not the ending you deserve but the ending you're gonna get, fem!oc/reader. requests open.

a/n: i'm so blown away by the love for this series. thank you for all the support and kindness you've shown!! unfortunately for everyone, i suck at endings :/ xx laney

“Come on, Seb! If we get there early, we might see the Bloody Baron run Peeves through with his sword again!” the sixth-year trotting past him called over his shoulder as he joined the throng queuing at the Slytherin common room door. Sebastian laughed and waved him on, promising to be down in a minute. Wish I could remember that kid’s name. Oh, well, no sense learning it now. 

Not now, on the night of his final Hogwarts end-of-year feast. When he’d first arrived at Hogwarts, he hadn’t been any taller than the runt who was currently getting trampled through the door by the gargantuan Gerald Gillooly. He turned his head away from them and caught sight of himself in the aged and spotty floor-length mirror that was at the top of the staircase he stood on. He was surprised not to see that runty little first-year who’d quietly begged his sister to hold his hand while they watched their peers get sorted by a smelly old hat. He had cleared six feet over a year ago without stopping, and the man who blinked back at him looked older and more haggard than he felt. Perhaps that came with the territory when you’d done what he’d done. 

This thought made him pause, one foot in mid-air ready to step down the stairs and join his classmates. What if he was aging more rapidly because of what he’d done to his uncle? Could the guilt he was carrying around, though he had thought it absolved, be etching itself into the lines on his forehead and the corner of his eyes? Would Anne have had something to say about the dark circles under his eyes? His shoulders sagged a little at the thought, although a sad smile tugged at his lips when he noticed how broad they had gotten. His Slytherin robes were beginning to pull at the ankles and wrists, but Sebastian never could justify a flighty purchase like robe tailoring when there was so little time left to wear them. 

So little time. Months left at Hogwarts had dwindled down to a few weeks, and his counseling meeting the previous Monday with his head of house had solidified the warbling jelly of nerves in his gut.

“So, Mr. Sallow.” Professor Ronen had leaned across his desk, gloved hands crossed beneath his chin. “The purpose of this meeting is to discuss your ambitions outside of your Hogwarts education, as your graduation date is nearing. And, as we belong to the noble house of Salazar Slytherin, ambition is everything. Now, what age are you?”

“Nineteen next month, sir.”

“Excellent.” The Charms professor scribbled on the roll of parchment in front of him. “And what were your highest N.E.W.T. results?”

“Charms and Defense Against the Dark Arts, sir.” 

Ronen was ecstatic. “Ah!” He rubbed his hands together and looked at Sebastian with a special glint in his dark eyes. “And what career do you plan to pursue with such skills?”

Uh…

Truth be told, Sebastian had never been able to visualize a career that appealed to him. Lack of ambition, never. But lack of clarity for that ambition? Absolutely. He asked too many questions, over-thought each decision when it had come time to write owls to the Ministry and inquire about job postings. It had paralyzed him to this point, worry about choosing incorrectly and being stuck with a profession he detested gnawing at him from morning ‘till evening. 

Then, as always, she’d been there. Curled up at his feet and happily plotting the layout of her desk in the Department of Mysteries. And maybe whatever the future held wasn’t that nerve-wracking.

“You don’t even know if you’ll have a desk,” Seb had murmured on a rainy night in the Undercroft after his meeting with Ronen, running his hand through her hair while she doodled on the back of an old History of Magic essay and Ominis softly dictated a letter on the other side of the fireplace. She had looked up at him with those great big eyes and laughed.

“Good point. But come on, wouldn’t the Department of Mysteries be perfect for my little Ravenclaw drop-out? It’s all questions, all day.”

“You could stand working with me all day, every day?”

“Another good point.” She twisted her face up and stuck her tongue out at him. I love you. Say it, tell her, tell her now!

Time was definitely running short, for more than landing a career. 

The rest of April, after they’d done something resembling kissing outside the Three Broomsticks, had been…stiff. Tense. They both still refused to acknowledge their rampant attraction to one another, and Sebastian didn’t know how much longer he could take this. To make matters worse, Ominis kept being very pragmatic about the whole situation.

“Is it a good idea to be with a woman who is as equally stubborn as yourself?” he had asked Seb after being debriefed on the events of that fateful evening in Hogsmeade. Sebastian had rolled his eyes.

“Rolling my eyes,” he narrated absently, and Ominis sighed. 

“Sure, don’t listen to me, an objective outsider and the only one in this whole situation who isn’t acting based on pure, insane passion. What could I know?”

“She’s not stubborn about everything,” Sebastian let slip with a grin, the image of her legs locking around his hips and the sound of her moans filling every available inch of space in his brain. He realized his mistake when Ominis’ eyebrows dropped and tried to recover. “We get along fine. It’s just this one, stupid thing.”

“If you care for her so much, why won’t you just end this and ask her to dinner?” Ominis inquired. Damn that logic of his.

“Well, because,” Sebastian dead-panned. “Then I won’t have won.”

“I hope she curses you when you finally break down.”

And now it was the final night of the school year, of all his school years, and Sebastian found himself clutching his heart through a low-burning panic attack as he made his way to the common room entrance. His legs were on autopilot as he climbed through it and trailed a few meters behind the rest of his chattering and excited schoolmates. Each of his fingers sported a vicious hangnail by the time he entered the Great Hall, hardly paying attention to the enchanted galaxies and shooting stars streaking across its deep indigo ceiling. 

Why hadn’t he given his post-educational plans more consideration before now? The thought had produced so much anxiety within him that he’d been quite content to put a stopper in it until now, but now the anxiety reared its head with a vengeance and snapped and coiled dangerously inside him. 

Sebastian stopped at the end of the Slytherin table and glanced down its length. This was last night that he would be shoveling down its scrumptious food without a second thought; it seemed like a childish ingratitude now that he was facing the prospect of growing and catching all his sustenance over the summer, alone. 

The only available seat was next to Ominis, whose hand was planted firmly on the bench next to him to reserve it. Sebastian stumbled over and dropped into it. 

“Don’t sound so happy to be here,” Ominis muttered, passing the large plate of roast to his right and missing Grace Pinch-Smedley’s hands by a good distance. She smiled graciously at Sebastian and grasped the platter away from Ominis, who grunted in thanks. Despite the delightful-looking spread, Sebastian found himself unable to put anything on his plate.

“Psst.” Someone pinched the back of his elbow and he yanked it away on instinct, whipping around to catch the offender. She was sitting directly behind him at the table opposite, her back already facing him once more by the time he turned around. “Last night, birdie. Got a job picked yet?” she muttered over her shoulder, low enough so only he could hear as he strained his neck towards her.

His heart hammered. Why did she have to be the one to ask? “No, that blasted crystal ball only showed me winning the Quidditch World Cup in ten years, and I’ve no idea what that meant.”

“Oh, unknowable universe,” she sighed. Sebastian noticed that she had a black ribbon in her hair for the occasion. He slipped a finger into one of the loops and felt it.

“This is nice.” 

“Well, there you go! I hear Gladrags is hiring right now.”

Sebastian scowled. “Stop, please,” he muttered, turning his body away from her and feeling a little bad about it at the same time. She twisted herself around and grabbed at his sleeve again.

“Hey, it was a joke! You’re going to be fine, Seb.” She set her fork down fully and flipped her legs over the other side of the bench so she could tickle his back. Sebastian buried the reluctant grin on his face in a long gulp of water.

There was so much mingling and getting up to yell over people among the four house tables that no one paid them any mind as she continued running her fingers, distracted, up and down his back. Since this whole mess had begun, there’d been entirely too many casual, unspoken touches that set his mind reeling while he tried to figure out just what this woman was to him and how she felt about it all. But he didn’t even have the bandwidth to feel the usual level of arousal that her touch always conjured. “Come on, birdie, look at me,” she said, and Sebastian heard the tone in her voice as it dropped an octave that meant she wanted the teasing to pause temporarily. 

He turned to face her fully, and the look of pity (and, was that an ounce of longing he saw in those endless eyes?) carved into her mouth made him want to eat his robes. 

“I know things have been…” She glanced around the Great Hall, apparently hoping to find the perfect words written across the walls in floating candles. “Strange. With us.” She was floundering, and pleading with Sebastian to understand what she meant, but he couldn’t find it within himself to help her. He just stared, impassive and paralyzed by all things he’d neglected in his stupid, selfish youth. “But, they don’t have to be.”

She sucked in a deep breath, then jerked her head in Ominis’ direction, where the Gaunt had been slyly turning his ear towards their conversation. “Bugger off,” she hissed at him, and he snorted.

“The first time you two have been interesting in months and now you don’t want to keep me apprised,” he grumbled. But he turned his attention back to his plate and to the very inventive discussion about what Professor Black got up to in the summer holidays. Sebastian waited, still staring blankly at her, for her to reboard her train of thought. 

“Stop looking at me like I’ve got horns sprouting out of my forehead, first of all,” she began, and Sebastian blushed, dropping his eyes. “Look. What if I stayed at Feldcroft, just for the summer, and we worked on finding something you love to do for work, and get the cottage looking presentable. Then, you could sell it to that sweet, old couple down the road from you, the ones who wanted it for their daughter and her new husband. And you can move to London with Ominis and me, and we can just…figure it all out. In our own time.”

One of the few things Sebastian hated about himself was that when he was thinking of something to say, the rudest answer usually supplied itself first. “Wow, you’ve put a lot of thought into this.” “I’ve had to, because you haven’t!” she immediately spat back, poking him in the chest hard with her pointer finger. “I know it seems like a terrifying void out there–” She motioned outside the walls of the castle that still kept them safe and warm for one more night, “–but there’s so much time to do whatever you want–”

He cut her off, his hands fisting into his hair in frustration. “Whatever I want! I’ve no idea what I want!” he cried, accidentally jostling the student sitting on the other side of him with his long limbs as he rose to his feet. 

“Where are you going?” she asked. She stood and followed him, weaving through the crowd of chatting kids. Part of him wanted her to, and the other part didn’t. Where he usually found solace from his anxiousness with her, tonight he found only more push to confront it. Her plan was good. No, it was wonderful; the thought of living with her for the first few months of their adult lives and having her to help him find his passion? It sounded like heaven on earth. 

And apart from the appeal of her career counseling, sharing a living space with her might also provide some easy lubricant to the other plans he was working on. The plans that involved visiting her in her dreams again, for however long it took, in hopes of pushing her to the brink of sexual frustration and forcing her to confess her feelings to him. The book Legilimency and the Dreamer had been stuffed in his nightstand, collecting dust for the past few weeks while N.E.W.T. studying took up every spare waking and sleeping moment he had. But he had every intention of stealing it from the school (“It’s a dangerous book, really,” he had reasoned when the disapproving glare of Madam Pince appeared in his mind at the idea) and taking it with him when he left. It had been too easy, too good, too fucking wonderful poking around her subconscious that he longed to be back inside it. And her, as well.

He cut a sharp left turn away from the Slytherin table and past the distracted gazes of the professors, who were looking just as giddy, if not more, than their students that the summer holiday was imminent. He pounded up the staircase tucked at the back of the hall and hoped he wouldn’t hear any footsteps behind him. He just needed it to be quiet, just for a minute, so he could clear his head of everything and calm down.

When he reached the dust-covered storeroom at the top of the stairs, he let out a sigh. Then the candles on the unlit candelabra next to him blazed to life and a tiny scream jumped out of him.

“Will you talk to me now?” she demanded, her hands on her hips and her wand clutched loosely in one of them when he caught sight of her. 

“You have an extraordinarily light tread.”

“Thank you.” She sniffed and threw her hair over her shoulders like he’d just called her beautiful. Maybe he had. At this point, his brain was such a stew of anxiety and panic that he couldn’t trust a word out of his own mouth. 

Sebastian made his way over to some crates that had been stacked in a corner, dust cloths covering a few of them, and plopped down on one. She watched him, and her expression softened when she saw the way his chest was pumping air in short gasps. “Seb,” she said, jogging across the room and kneeling in front of him, between his legs. Her hands slid up to his face, and her voice suddenly lost all its tough-loving edge. “Hey, hey. Everything’s going to be alright.” “And what if it isn’t?” he choked. The future encroached on him with its talons outstretched, and his vision swirled a little. Air couldn’t reach his lungs quickly enough. “What if I choose wrong, and I have to spend the rest of the life I traded my sister’s for on NOTHING?” He was shouting now, he was sure of it, but the din floating up the stairs from the Great Hall covered it. When he glanced at the woman holding his face for the first time, he saw her lips had parted in shock.

She swallowed. “I didn’t know…I didn’t know that was why you were so scared.” Sebastian knew it was his own fault; he had swept his uncle’s and Anne’s death under the rug and rolled the rug up so tightly that he sometimes forgot about it himself. 

“I don’t like to talk about it.”

“I know,” she whispered. Her thumb stroked his cheek. "But you didn't trade anything for your life, sweet boy. It's yours alone. To do what you want with." The candlelight was twisting weird, dancing figures over her pretty face as she gazed up at him. Why are we always here? He thought. Always here, always close, but never anywhere further. Then she cleared her throat. “So, how about it? Let me stay with you and…figure it out.”

Yes, please, just stay forever. “I don’t know,” his double-crossing mouth said. “What if we can’t sell the cottage? And what about Ominis, in London? He’ll need you there. And what if I still–”

“Oh, see, you’re asking all the wrong questions, baby bird.” She forced him to look at her, her hands clamped down, hard, on either side of his neck. “What do you want to do? Answer me, don’t think.” 

“I want to be with you.” For Merlin’s goddamned sake, it slipped out so easily once he finally got out of his own way. Her eyes rounded, and he half-expected her to whoop out a victory cry. He had lost, given in, quit their stupid little game. Her arms were around his neck and she was kissing him before he had a chance to realize what he’d even said. 

A broken sob of relief passed between their mouths, unclear where it had come from. Her lips were wonderful and soft, better than the dream. It was all better than the dream, he realized: the scent of her filling up his nose and the very real weight of her pressing desperately close to him while they sucked down air in the few reluctant seconds they would break apart for. 

As she shrugged off her robes and lifted her leg to scoot onto his lap, the full severity of how stupid he was hit him squarely in the face. He had been dancing around her, wasting his time with little fantasies and dreams, and why? When he dug his hand into the flesh just below her ass, hoping to confirm this was all really happening, she moaned, dulcet and a little irked, and bit his bottom lip. 

“Fuck,” he laughed, after she had relinquished it with a satisfying smack against his teeth. “Didn’t expect that.” She pulled herself off of him and sat back on her heels while still straddling him. 

“Thank Christ you finally gave in,” she was muttering under her breath. Her fingers worked into the knot of his tie and she grunted in frustration, her hips inadvertently rocking against his cock and making blood flow out of his head and into his lap. “I was thinking of slipping you some veritaserum. I’ve been going mad.”

Sebastian groaned. “You’ve been going mad? I think my hair’s falling out.”

She gave a satisfied grunt as the tie fell loose around his neck, and she pulled him by both ends of it back to her lips. Every pent up ounce of stress and anxiety was rapidly pouring out of him as they kissed with fury, their tongues licking against each other and driving Sebastian wild. She pressed her lips to the spot on his neck where his jaw and ear met, and he discovered with a whimper that would have embarrassed him three months ago that it was his sweet spot. He begged her to do it again (“Shit, please, there again, baby,” was about as eloquent as he could manage) and she obliged with fervor. Her teeth sunk into the spot, pressure and delicious pain getting him harder by the second.

He grabbed her hand and showed her what she was doing to him, and it made her abandon her efforts on marking his neck to say, “God, is that all for me?”

“Who else?” She licked her lips and swallowed, seeming impressed as she stroked him up and down. She swore.

“Seb, this has been ridiculous.”

“Yes, it has,” he agreed, already irritated that now he had actually tasted her, nothing else would ever be as sweet. “But you won.” 

A grin that would have looked more at home on his own mischievous face spread across her lips before he kissed it away once more. “I did, didn’t I?” she said with a small quiver of triumph and pride in her voice as she pulled back to look at him. He was well aware that he probably looked ridiculous, hair pushed askew by her fingers and his gaze stupid and lovestruck. “Every minute of torture since I saw you in that stupid towel–” She punctuated the last word by pushing his robes off his shoulders and throwing them on the ground behind them, “–totally worth it. Every assignment I missed, every class I couldn’t concentrate in, all of those fucking dreams…”

Sebastian’s heart skipped two beats. “DreamS?” he inquired, frantic, while she was tugging off her grey, woolen tights. He emphasized the “s”, barely daring to believe that she could have had more than one without his influence. Had it really been this easy the whole time? Had she been eating herself alive like he had since, what had she said? That stupid towel? 

Since then? Why on earth had he bothered planting little seeds in her mind about being with him? The idea had taken root long before he’d even made his little nighttime excursion. God, this woman would never stop surprising him.

She huffed. “Yes, asshole, dreams. Too many dreams.”

“What kind of dreams?” He couldn’t help teasing her, not even now. When she sat back down in his lap with her tights removed, her core made contact with his cock and they both swallowed back moans at the sensation. Sebastian could feel how wet she was, even through his trousers. Wet and warm. And real. 

“Want me to show you, birdie?”

“Oh, fuck, yes,” he breathed, looking up at her like a supplicant at the altar. There was a fuzzy glow emanating from all around her, and he wondered briefly if it was the candle-lit room or if she was part-deity, about to lead him through the “pearly gates” he’d heard her mention before. She leaned down and kissed him, her fingertips grazing his jaw. Their lips fought a little bit before he had to smile and she won, yet again, her tongue sliding against his. She tasted perfect.

“Did you have cherry tart for dessert?” he asked when she broke apart and pressed her forehead to his. In spite of their already-compromising position, she blushed and nodded. “Well,” Sebastian continued, his hands moving down her waist and thighs to flip up the front of her skirt. “I never got to have mine.” His voice was husky and broken, but he couldn’t care. 

His fingers found purchase on the hem of her underwear. They skimmed over the lace there and they both gave up on trying to be cool and groaned. “Yeah, you were there,” she sighed with a slight choke as he ran one finger up her covered slit and pushed against her clit. “You touched me like that.” Sebastian applied more pressure and rubbed in light circles, and in what felt like seconds, she was circling her hips and grinding against his hand, just like she’d been so close to doing in the Three Broomsticks. 

He decided he’d burn the entire castle to the ground before he let them be interrupted again, though.

Her arms were around his neck once more, hanging on for dear life while she pushed against him and chased down the orgasm that, if her huffy moans and whines were any indication, was looming near. Sebastian had tasted true power before and hated himself for not hating it, but never anything quite as potent as the weight of the woman he loved pressing to his chest and begging him to touch her, to really touch her. He slipped his hand inside the lacy scrap covering her heat without any break in his motions on her clit, and she cried, “Fuck, Bash!”

Sebastian moaned a curse out into his bitten lip and held it between his teeth while he slid one finger into her with the utmost ease. He had only ever heard her call him that once before, during a tense Slytherin/Gryffindor match on the Quidditch field. He’d flown past the stands where she had been clutching the edge of the box, squinting into the blinding sunlight to try and locate the bludger that had been dead set on de-brooming him, just long enough to hear her scream, “Fuckin’ kill ‘em, Bash!” and the fire in her voice had almost done the bludger’s job and knocked him clean out of the air.

She was soaking through her underwear, and the feeling of it pressed against his aching cock was getting him drunk. He pumped the finger upward and watched her shake and chase it back down with her hips. Perfect, he thought, utterly perfect. The idea that nothing would ever be able to compare to that dream seemed ridiculous now, when the real thing hovered over his lap. “I’ve had dreams about you, too, you know.”

“Is that so?” A smug smile flashed across her lips before it vanished in favor of a fucked out scream as he inserted another finger that stretched her even further.

“Mmhm. Awful ones.”

“Like what?” Words were becoming harder for her to gasp out. Sebastian increased the speed of his hand and twisted the fingers inside her so they were brushing against her walls in just the right way.

“I fucked you senseless into my bed.” You braggart idiot. “And I couldn’t think about anything else for a goddamned week. You sounded so fucking sweet, calling me ‘birdie’, and so tight around my cock. I never wanted to wake up.” She shuddered and cried out, driving her hips downward and coming all over his fingers. The peacock in him preened, wondering if the secretly shared memory had been what pushed her over the edge. Her orgasm was so powerful that, when he pulled his fingers away and slipped them into his mouth before she had a chance to protest, he saw a dark stain left on the lap of his trousers. He groaned around his fingers and tipped her chin down with his free hand so she could see the mess she’d made. 

She moaned a feeble, “M’sorry,” when she saw the spot she’d left, shocking Sebastian so much that he used the hand holding her chin to swat her, barely making contact, across her cheek and glared. 

“That is the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” he growled, holding her in place until she nodded with a whimper and acknowledged it. “I never want to hear you say sorry for anything that gorgeous again.”

If sneaking into her dreams had been wrong of him, he couldn’t imagine that this was any sort of punishment for it.

She grumbled, “You smacked me.” Sebastian snorted.

“Barely.”

“Yes, and therein lies the problem.” He swore as his slacks tightened even more across his lap, and she giggled, wiggling her hips. He bucked into her, trying not to dig his thumbs into her waist too hard but unwilling to let her move from the perfect position he had her in. “Is that your wand?” she inquired. Her lips were pursed as she held in more laughter. “Or are you just pleased to see me?” 

The filter that usually stopped Sebastian from speaking everything on his mind had left him quite alone for the evening. “I’m always pleased to see you. I swear, everything you do gets me so hard,” he said unabashedly. Based on the furious reddening of her cheeks, it seemed she could dish it out but not take it. 

She freed herself from his hands and dropped to her knees again, in front of his spread legs, but this time, there was no pretense of comforting him. Sharp fingernails ran up his thighs while she looked at him from beneath her lashes and inquired, “My turn now?” Sebastian wondered if he’d accidentally ingested a few drops of felix felicis at some point. 

“If you’d like,” he replied, smarmy and satisfied. He leaned back against the stacked crates behind him and spread his legs wider, watching her eye him as if she’d never seen anything better. When she unbuttoned his trousers and pulled him free of them and his underwear, his breath caught for a minute. He hoped it wasn’t disappointing to her.

“God in heaven. How am I meant to take this?” So not disappointed, then. The look on her face was closer to hunger, and Sebastian felt precum leaking out of his throbbing length when she wrapped her soft hands around it and gave a few experimental tugs. “I’ve never done this before,” she admitted, though without embarrassment. “Never knew a man who deserved it.”

“I’ve never had it done,” Sebastian said, “but what you’re doing there feels fucking fantastic.” He sighed in bliss as she stroked him faster. “So, what did I do to be the first one deserving of your beautiful mouth?” he asked, intending to sound very suave but instead eeking out the question with a slight choke. Her thumb swiped over the tip of his cock and he whined. 

She hmphed, concentrating hard. “You mean besides torturing me for a month because you’re too stubborn to tell a girl you fancy her?” He had to give her a sheepish smirk, which she rolled her eyes at. 

When she sank her mouth down around him and he felt the warmth envelope his length, Sebastian mewled. Head thrown back and his fingers clenching against her scalp, he groaned and sighed as she worked her tongue and lips against him. “Sh-shit, wow,” he whined. His composure left him completely. She felt indescribable, but it frustrated him to not be able to form words and tell her. His stomach contorted and flexed, and he stretched his long legs out, letting her steady the free hand that wasn’t jerking him on his thigh.

She pulled off his cock with a pop and looked up at him. “You’re like velvet,” she said, eyes wide, starving. Sebastian took her face in his hand and selfishly prayed that when he died, he’d still be able to take her with him, wherever he ended up. Now that he had her, there wasn’t anything living or dead that he would let separate them.

Such maudlin fantasies manifested themself in the room in the form of Sebastian muttering dumbly, “Sit on it, fuck, please, I need to feel you.” 

“I’m not done here.” She dipped her neck again and licked up the length of him, and the sight and sensation almost broke his resolve, but he managed to pull her off of him by her hair, which made her squawk indignantly. But when he tugged her into his lap and kissed her again, their combined tastes mingling between them on their lips and tongues, her protestations died down.

She dug her fingers into his shirt, then realized he was still wearing a shirt. “Take this off,” she ordered, but as usual, took matters into her own hands and began unbuttoning it, pausing after each button to press kisses to the patches of skin that were revealed when she did so. Her lips left burns behind. When the shirt was finally open, she pulled it off him. 

“My turn now?” he asked, cocking his head to one side and grinning. 

Her uniform and his cast aside on the floor, the two looked at each other for a long while, although the feeling of their cores pressing, bare, together, had them softly panting and grinding. Sebastian laid his forehead against hers. 

“Is…is this real? I mean, is it?” he breathed. He didn’t know what he meant but she did, and she nodded, her lips pressed like she was trying to stop herself from saying something. 

“I’m not letting you fly away that easily.” She kissed up his neck while he smiled. 

“Your little birdie.”

“Yes,” she gasped when his hands landed on her ass and he rolled her hips over his still painfully hard dick. Her clit brushed against the base of it and they both cried out. Sebastian had never felt anything so good, so right.

Her fingers wrapped around the back of his neck, then paused. She frowned.

“What?”

“God, Seb…when was the last time you had your hair cut?” His smile was almost predatory. One month and thirteen days.

“Hmm. I guess it has been awhile. No good?” he asked, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He could feel her fingers twirling the locks at the base of his neck, and she unconsciously ground against him even harder. 

“Very good,” she groaned and threw herself forward so their chests were flush and they were kissing so deep that they had to share air. “You look fucking sinful. Whenever you come back to school with it like that I…” She trailed off, suddenly bashful, as if she wasn’t naked in his arms.

Sebastian thought he might be glowing. “I’ll never cut it again, darling,” he swore. “Just for you.”

The feast in the Great Hall, his nerves about graduation, the murky uncertainty that faced him after Hogwarts, all of it was gone as he helped her lift her hips and legs enough to line up his cock with her entrance. She sank down onto him and they cried out together, her slapping at his chest as she tried to relax around the thickness and him biting down on the inside of his mouth so hard it drew blood as he tried not to come then and there. Shivering, she wiggled her hips side to side while she became acclimated to his size. “Shitshitshit.” Sebastian gritted his teeth. “You’re really tight, wow. You feel…you feel so g-good.”

Her eyes flew to his, and he struggled further to not burst when he saw how flushed and hot she was. She was still steadying herself with a hand pressed against his chest. “S-sorry,” she said, “You’re–you better not fucking gloat about this, Sallow, but you’re the biggest…ugh.” She dropped her head to his shoulder in embarrassment, but Sebastian was beaming. Was he, now? His ego puffed up at the thought. It really didn’t need to hear that. 

“I’ll be gentle, I promise.” “Why don’t I believe you?”

He showed her his canines. His other half, his better half. She knew him too well. “Because how could I possibly? Look at you, you’re a goddamn vision.” She really did look like a goddess on top of him, taking him so well and clutching him like she never wanted to be torn away from him. Then, she squirmed, and his cock somehow hardened further inside her, until the pain and pleasure of it was almost blinding him. “Fuck, you’re warming my cock so well, darling. Can I move?” 

A whimper of assent and a hurried nod almost set him on his course, but he decided in that moment that there was one more thing requiring attention before he could really take her like he wanted to. He placed both hands on either side of her face and kissed her, slower and softer and sweeter than any yet, and said, “I love you.”

He expected a gasp, a cry of disgust, a puzzled look, something from her that would be an appropriate response to his wholly inappropriate confession, but all she said was, “I love you too, Seb.” 

“Alright,” came the dopey response. She giggled and adopted a deep monotone to make fun of him.

“Alright.” They kissed again, and it felt like everything that had been upside down in Sebastian’s mind turned right side up. “I love you so much, my little birdie. I love your curiosity and your chirping. Promise you’ll let me stay with you until–”

“You think I’ll ever let you leave?” He cut her off, incredulous. “My home is ours now. And what’s the rush to sell?” A grin spread across her face as she watched one take over his. “Quite like the idea of a little privacy for the next few months.” He snapped his hips up, just once, and a shriek tore out of her throat. Her cunt was so slick and hot, he had to bite the wound he’d opened in his mouth again to not shout. “Ominis is far too light of a sleeper for how often I plan on making you scream my name.” 

She began chasing his thrusts in earnest, picking up their pace and riding him until her legs were shaking. He hit her limit with every movement, and his abdomen flexed with the effort of fucking up into her the way he was. Their mingled panting and the slap of her ass against his lap were the only sounds filling the storage room, their own private concert for an audience of each other. When her tired legs couldn’t hold her anymore, she begged him, “Harder!” and Sebastian obliged happily by wrapping one arm around her waist and tilting her backwards so he could brace his free hand against the crate beneath him and rail her. A silencing charm would not have been amiss, he vaguely thought, as she cried through her enthusiasm for him. “Fuck, Seb, Seb!” she sobbed. “Please, just please!”

She hadn’t fallen in love with him because he never teased her, he reasoned, so he couldn’t resist a cheeky, “Please what?”, although his own climax was so close that it came out in a pathetic little huff. She was an angel above him, her hair framing her face like a halo and her back arched right where her wings would be. His desire to make her come first was the only thing stopping him from spilling into her. The question plaguing his mind for years finally answered, he was pleased. “So, you do cry when you come. I fucked myself a thousand times thinking about how perfect it must sound.” 

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she slammed her hips down on his cock one last time and he gave three tiny thrusts inside her. His fingers flew to her clit and rubbed it through the searing orgasm washing through her, her cunt spasming around him and pulling him up to the peak as well. She wept and he breathed, "Little birdie fucking loves you,” and they both came together, him pumping his seed into her with labored pants and her greedily taking it in. 

She huffed, “I want all of it,” and he moaned, hoarse and scratching. Cum was leaking out of her as he slowed down, his arm still supporting her as she slumped against him. Their combined mess covered their legs, and the sticky sight almost had Sebastian hardening inside her once more. 

For several minutes, neither said anything. The chatter from the Great Hall had died down significantly. They laid together on the crate and played idly with each other, Sebastian’s fingers kneading the flesh below her ass and hers drawing light shapes over his chest. The air was heavy. It felt as though someone ought to say, “What now?” but neither of them wanted to. It didn’t matter, anyway. “What now?” was never going to be a concern of Sebastian’s again. The drive to ask questions, to wonder, to worry. It was all gone. Settled and soothed by something that curled itself around his heart and laid there, comfortably heavy.

“Come to bed,” he murmured, his eyes drifting open and shut, as if they were playing house in Feldcroft already, and not under strict instructions for one more night to sleep in separate dormitories. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure the other boys would love that.”

“They don’t hear anything.” Sebastian’s orgasmic haze made everything swirl and swim. He yawned. “Even when you kicked me out of that dream.” His fingertips ghosted over her bare back, toying with the ends of her hair as she lay curled into him. He didn’t realize his mistake until she said, dangerous and low,

“Even when I what?”

series masterlist

blog masterlist

[ssaeri]

for your eyes only

☆ tags: elliott x gn!reader, elliott and farmer are married, he writes love poems for his spouse and is told to monetize them, oh boy is he not happy about that ☆

You pat your pig's backside encouragingly and coo as it digs its snout into the ground, unearthing yet another truffle that you add to your basket. Can't believe you were worried about this one being the runt of its litter—it's quickly proving to be one of the fastest learners, taking to truffle hunting like a duck to water. It'll do just fine with the rest of the adult pigs.

Taking care of the farm by yourself has always been a gargantuan task, but as the years go by, everything grows bigger—the coops, the barns, the ponds, the crops, the expectations—and exhaustion wears you down to the bone. You sigh and push to your feet, ready to head into the nearest coop to collect more eggs. Collect animal products, drop them into churning machines, harvest and sell. It feels like the cycle never ends. Against your neck, the small mermaid's pendant slides on its chain, another reminder of your absent husband. An extra pair of helping hands made the daily work light; you wonder if it's selfish to ask him to stay home more often.

"I know, I know," you say to your angry chickens once you open the door. You miss your husband, but these girls like to remind you that they miss him more. "He'll be home soon. Bear with me, okay?"

After giving each of them pats on the head, a motion they accept with reluctance, you dig around the hay for eggs. The large chicken and dinosaur eggs are easy to spot, but for the delicate duck eggs, you prod every corner with your fingers until you come across something warm and smooth. You push away your hens as they peck at your hands. The ducks are fine with you. The chickens, however...how in the world did Elliott win them over?

Outside, your dog barks. A single warning to the intruder before the tone shifts into excitement. Someone familiar, then. Maybe Marnie is stopping by to give you some hay like she mentioned last night. With winter approaching, any addition to your reserves is appreciated, and you're already wiping your hands on your overalls to greet her.

"Hey, Marnie! I'm just in here—"

You stop in your tracks when the visitor raises his head, though he's not exactly a visitor. Elliott smiles as you draw close, ignoring the horde of chickens now lining the fence for his attention. Their wings flap, clucking loudly as they hit each other.

"Good morning, my love," he says over the noise, as if it really is the start to a normal day. His thumb reaches out to rub at a dirt smudge on your cheek. "Have you eaten yet?"

"Just some leftovers and coffee," you reply, dazed. Your husband tends to have that effect, and after two weeks apart, you feel it more than ever. You lean into his touch, comforting against your wind-blown skin. "I thought you were coming home tomorrow?"

"I decided to come back early. The office didn't need me today, anyway."

"You should've messaged me! I would've picked you up at the train station," you say. Behind him sits his traveling suitcase, the wheels speckled with mud from being dragged through the road. He steps in front of it. "Why don't you go get unpacked? I'll be done soon."

He leans his elbows onto the fence, tilting his head until his fiery hair spills over one shoulder. "You're rather quick to dismiss my presence. If I didn't know better, I'd say that you're unhappy to see me," he says, though his words hold no accusation. It's merely a way to boost his ego when you reassure him. After all, you practically radiate by his side. "Would you like me to help?"

You glance at the dress shoes, the slacks, the spotless cardigan that he's already shrugging off to reveal a clean pressed button-down. Not exactly farm-friendly attire. "No, I'll be alright by myself."

"I could go change really quickly," he offers in a suspicious rush.

You search his expression then, and underneath the joy of being back, there's...something. You squint, unable to make it out. Sure, he must've missed you, but this feels like it runs deeper than that. When you give him a nod, he hurries towards the house, your dog chasing and barking at his heels. True to his word, he's back in minutes.

The chickens are much more cooperative now, and you roll your eyes at how they parade around your husband. They even hop around the coop, showing him where they've hidden their eggs from your intrusive searching.

"Thank you, dearies," he says to the hens. You swear they swoon.

"A real heart breaker," you deadpan. "Have you told them you're married?"

He chuckles, taking your hand as you move into the barns next door. While you lay out new hay on the feeding bench, he unhooks the stools and milk pails and sets them on either side of the door. It's hard to believe that just a few months ago he barely knew how to approach your animals, let alone help you with the chores.

He whistles lowly, and the first cow trudges to his station, ready to be milked. You get settled at your own station. One of the newer goats skids to the front of the line, eager to be let outside. It's not quiet in the barn—it never is, not with twelve grown animals waiting for their turn—but when you call Elliott's name, he looks at you. His ponytail needs to be retied.

"So why'd you come home early?" The young adult goats don't have much milk, just enough for a small container. You pat its hind leg, and it runs into the crisp autumn air with an excited bleat.

"I missed the atmosphere of our farm. The fresh air of the valley is good for my creative soul, unlike the bustle of Zuzu City."

You only raise your eyebrows, and he sighs from your all-knowing gaze.

"You read me a little too well, my love."

"I sure hope so, after all this time together. Did something happen at the office?"

Since the release of his last collection of short stories, he's been invited to the city more often for author-related events. This latest stint, running a series of writing workshops in partnership with Zuzu University and the local community, was organized by his agent in hopes of bigger opportunities. Maybe even a guest lecturer contract, they've said on more than one occasion, though Elliott refuses to be apart from you for too long.

Elliott gives another sigh. "Something like that. I just...it was admittedly negligence on my part. I was in the middle of writing you another letter when someone required my presence down the hall. I thought that it'd be a quick matter, so I didn't clear my desk. But apparently one of the secretaries came looking for me while I was out."

"Did they read...?" You wrinkle your nose, knowing how private Elliott is about his unpolished work. He's even more private about what he writes for your eyes only. "I'm sure they were embarrassed."

"That's what bothers me the most! She had the audacity to bring it up in front of everyone when we had a meeting, even quoted a few lines—"

The cow groans as he moves particularly rough. He gives it an apologetic scratch under the chin.

"So for the past two days, everyone has been trying to talk me into releasing a collection of love poems, which I would have no issues with if it didn't stem from such a personal...I mean, the poems were addressed to my muse, and when I explained that it was you, they said that was even better. Something about how the romance will really sell." He frowns. "I like being able to support myself—contribute to our funds, you know—with my writing, but it's not...a commodity. I'm allowed to make art for the sake of making art."

His forehead is furrowed, and you would reach out to ease the frustration if your hands weren't busy.

"What's your plan now?"

He scoffs. "There's no plan regarding that. I completely refuse. It's quite insulting, in fact, the idea that I'd put my love on display for a paycheck."

It's relieving, you have to admit. Even after getting a taste of success, your husband remains the same person you said your vows to. The same romantic who holds you in such high esteem. There's so many emotions—namely affection—swirling in your chest, but you're not the writer so all you manage is a simple Okay.

"Okay," you say again for good measure, but he must understand you because his expression smooths. "So what do you want for lunch?"

[tinydefector]

*jumps in again* i love how you write and im starting to feel like a bother to request some more😭 but but if you don't mind, ultra magnus x gn! reader where he's scolding them for being reckless and sneak off to go meteor surfing with Rodimus. He's not mad, just worried sick for em then reader just storms off and he didn't bother to chase after em, wanting to give them space.

Later, he bumped into Megatron and had a lil chat when Megs pointed out how Magnus is treating reader like his kid(sparkling). Mags denies it but then later connects the dot, like "omg, he's kinda right" que to him went off to find reader which in their room, distracting themselves with some work and he apologize for yelling and vice versa with reader for sneaking out.

Also, if you want, you can add like a bonus bit at the end where Mags praise reader for the excellent report they turned in and reader accidentally say "thanks dad" make it worse if some bot was around when they said that *cough* roddy *cough*

RULES OF PARENTING

Took me longer than expected to write this out.

Platonic/ Parent and child with Ultra Magnus and Cybertronian Reader. Slight hints to Megatron x Ultra Magnus as a treat.

Other information I decided to write the reader as an Outlier but their ability, form and everything else is left up for the reader to decided themself. Other than the fact they are the youngsters on ship and smaller than the larger bots nothing else is stated.

Word count: 3k

Warnings: none

Request and ask open, read pinned post

Ultra Magnus Masterlist

______________________

laughter comes from around the corner, Rodimus and his friend bolt through the ship. "Keep up Rods!" The younger bot yells out. Their hoverboard is servo while they both bolt towards the shipping bay. It wasn't often the two got the opportunity to go asteroid surfing.

Rodimus hurries after, pushing his engines to keep pace through the twisting ship corridors. His intake splits in a fierce grin.

"Hey, wait up!" he calls back, At the threshold they transform, Rodimus jumps onto his board, taking off into the asteroid field. "Alright runt, you asked for it!" Blue optics glint with loving malice. "First to finish a loop and back wins! Loser takes the others reports."

He peels out with a throaty roar, engine howling, not waiting for the start. Cheating? Maybe, but racing was war, and all was fair in love and circuits blown! Let the games begin.

"Your on Roddy!" They shout back at Rodimus before taking a leap out onto their hoverboard. "Wooooooohhhhhoooo" the shout out. They both tear out of the shipping bay on their hoverboard, darting nimbly between support struts like a razorwing on the hunt. Their wild grin is audible even without comlink.

Rodimus bellows a rival cry, engine snarling as he rockets through the asteroids in a shower of blue sparks. Every sensor hones to the night-shadowed chase before him, picking out the board's glints between outcroppings as their rider zig-zags across the field like liquid mercury. Shouts of challenge fly between them over the comms, goading fierce competition.

Adrenaline sings in Rodimus' lines as he closes the gap, swerving within reach, laughter falls from the two as they race and chase each other. Two kindred spirits living utterly within the moment, simply living for the speed and freedom the stars grant.

From the command centre, Megatron observes the asteroid field feed with keen optic. Movement on the edges draws his gaze - two familiar signatures darting nimbly amid the tumbling rocks, weaving hazardous loops and stunts with the heedless abandon of youth.

A low growl rumbles in his powerful frame at their recklessness and endangerment. But watching closer, caught by flickering motions on the monitor, even his hardened spark must soften.

Laughter crackles through the open commlines as they toss chunks at each other in joyful battle, dancing dangerously along the rim. It sparks memories of ages past, when he himself was prone to such reckless ventures in the mines.

He returns grimly to his charts. But the ghost of a smile still plays about unyielding faceplates, echoing wild laughter across the stars. The loud steps of Ultra Magnus making his way towards command has megatron debating. "Rodimus, I'd recommend you both make your way back to ship, less you want Magnus to lecture you again" He calls out, trying to make sure Ultra Magnus doesn't catch them.

Through the open comm, Rodimus and the other bot share a look of mingled dread and mischief at Megatron's ominous warning. Their daredevil games come with risks.

"Slag it, it's Mags," hisses Rodimus. "We better scram before he throws the book at us!"

Their laughter follows, swerving nimbly aside as Rodimus roars past in a spray of grit. "Like he ever lets us have any fun! Race you back, slowpoke!" With that taunt, they gun their board, kicking up plumes of dust under newly ignited thrusters.

Rodimus snarls a challenge, punching his engine into overdrive to give chase. Though his massive frame handles with ungraceful power, the Captain drives with a fearless intensity rivalled only by Megatron himself in his glory days. "You're on!" He shouts at them.

From the bridge, Megatron watches their mad dash with a derisive snort. Fools to the last, but at least they snatched excitement where they found it, consequences be damned. A trait he can almost respect, Rodimus is a wild sparked bot and the young bot wasn't much better taking after the Prime as if they were batch mates. But Rodimus was fiery protective of them and that's all Megatron could ask.

As Magnus walks in he glitches out when he sees the two bots bolt across the asteroids on hoverboards. Magnus' commanding boom fills their comm channels, causing them both to flinch. "By Primus What are you two doing!, Do you understand the danger you are putting yourself in, not to mention protocol!" He shouts

"That sounds like Big Mags alright," chuckles Rodimus, danger-circuits alight. He guns his engine recklessly, tempting providence with stunts that wring pained static from Magnus' voice.

Beside him, the other bot is all bravado, doing tricks that ought to terminate mere mortals. "Lighten up Mags, we're just having fun!, Megatron's providing supervision" Their laugh is wildly carefree as they swerve through spiralling space debris, back to the shipping bay.

Magnus' reply is a wordless warp of wrath and protocols violated. On the bridge, Megatron observes with sardonic amusement.

Their elated whoops echo into the sullen ship as the two bots land, laughter is passed between them both, they knew they were in for a lecture but neither of them could really care at that moment. They both make their way through the ship.

Megatron watches as Magnus starts having a meltdown, seeing the smaller bot out in the asteroids.

From the command deck, Megatron observes Magnus' escalating tirade with sardonic amusement.

The security director paces like a caged turbofox, field frothing with protocol violations as he excoriates Rodimus and his cohort.

"Reckless endangerment of themselves! Disregard for safety protocols!, I expect this from Rodimus but not from them!" Magnus huffs, massive hands clenching and unclenching. His plating vibrates with barely contained voltage.

Megatron's red optics follow the scene with cynical mirth. It seems some things never change, no matter the millennia - law-bound enforcers and daredevil upstarts will always clash.

He cuts off Magnus' tirade oft. "Let the youngsters play. A little uncontrolled chaos now and then builds character. They aren't causing any harm, primus knows they could be doing worse things, circuit boosters, waging wars" His chuckles.

When Rodimus and the young bot make their way through the halls Megatron and Ultra Magnus are making their way towards them. And Rodimus decides to tease them over getting in trouble.

"Well well, look who's in trouble now," he rumbles, teasingly as he nudges the other bot. One massive hand snakes out to gently tweak an audial fin, eliciting a stubbornly stifled giggle.

They try to swat him off, armour fluffing out in a mock display of aggression. "Back off toaster, you're one to talk!" But their field reflects only playful antagonism toward their mismatched partner in crime.

Rodimus laughs, low and smooth. "Oh, I'm not the one Magnus has his pelts in a twist over. You're the lawbreaker here, delinquent." He buffs their chevron condescendingly with a knuckle plate. 

Magnus' grumbles as moves closer. The younger of the two delinquents makes a startled peep, ducking behind Rodimus for scant protection. Their field sparks with mischief and apprehension in equal measure.

Rodimus' engine rumbles a chuckle. "Face your punishment like a mech, squirt. I'll see you in the brig... cause i know thats where im heading" And with that, he steps aside, leaving the young to the Security Director's.

"Rodimus you sell out!" They hiss, Rodimus takes off running before transforming and disappearing around the corner.

Magnus begins going off over both their stupidity and the danger that they had put themselves in.

"Rodimus! When i catch you!" Magnus bellows, at the retreating autobot. His field boils with tightly restrained indignation.

The younger spreads their servos innocently, though poorly banked fires still smoulder behind their smug optics. "What? I was just having a little fun."

"Fun? You call endangering yourself and flouting safety protocols fun?".

"Do you have any idea the liability you've incurred with your selfish stunts?" Magnus huffes, he's not angry just disappointed.

"We were just blowing off some steam. No harm done" they try to defend themself, it was harder when Rodimus wasn't here to back them up.

Magnus optics bulging. "The rules exist to protect life! One mistaken twist could've terminated you both. Do you not understand that" He looms over them, servos gripping their shoulder plating. "Explain yourself. What do you have to say for putting yourself in harms way like that, this is something i expect from Rodimus but you, im drawing a line, no more hoverboard"

"Magnus I'm not a sparkling!, I can have fun, you can't just take my board!." The huff out in anger, "we didn't do anything bad, we just went asteroid surfing, what's the big deal!, Megatron was watching the whole time!" They shout stopping their pedes on the ground as they squint at the enforcer. Magnus' jaw works soundlessly, circuitry spluttering at such blatant insubordination.

Megatron's low rumble cuts through the charging tension.  "Easy there, scraplet. Magnus they are right they aren't sparkling, let them enjoy their youth" he states trying to calm down the situation.

"That is NOT the point!" Magnus hisses through clenched denta, glowering down at the insolent youngster. But the outliers field remains resolute, tiny hands fisted on hip joints. A sigh like rupturing turbines escapes Megatron where he observes, unseen, from command. Stubborn fools the both of them.

Magnus flashes incandescent, but dares not defy a direct order. With stiff, grinding steps, he departs, field boiling.

Only the younger bot and Megatron remain.  "Rules exist to guide, not imprison. Life's greatest lessons often arise from...bending them, on occasion. Try not to give Magnus a spark attack please" Megatron states while standing waiting for them to walk with him.

"I know Megs but he's been up my Tailpipe over everything I do, reports not being right, having fun, primus I can't even hang out with Rodimus without him getting grumbly at me, 'don't do that, don't do this, no you can't go out on this planet it's too dangerous ' he's not my Sire! "  They hiss out in anger, plating rattling lightly from pent up frustration.

Megatron chuckled. He strides the corridor in heavy, purposeful pauldrons, field enveloping smaller frame protectively. "Take it from one who knows - authority stems more from fear, you're the youngest on board, it's only natural that older mech's will try and protect you. Though I do believe Magnus does need to take a step back"

Red optics regard the young mech keenly. "Stand tall. Pursue your passions . And should he overstep, remind him in no uncertain terms who you are. Your strong sparked"

He crouches fluidly before them , digit gentle as steel beneath a chin. "You were made for greatness, little one. Never forget, don't let him stifle your youth, but try not to make him short circuit" A ferocious grin spreads across their face before they take off down the halls.

Ultra Magnus sits in his office, the enforcer's helm is pressed to his servos as he lets out a groan, he has overstepped.

Megatron's mass fills the security office like encroaching gloom, eclipsing what little light permeates the sparse, regulation-bound space. Magnus senses the ex warlord's intrusive field and looks up wearily through digits.  

"What do you want, Megatron?" The enforcer's usually stalwart voice holds only exhaustion. Heavy pedes carry Megatron before the desk, where he looms over Magnus imperiously. Yet when he speaks, his tone resembles dark mirth more than threat.

"Come now, Director. Is one impudent youngster truly more than you can handle?" Crimson optics gleam with sardonic amusement. "Your methods lack finesse. Rebellious sparks respond better to understanding than oppression."

Magnus' field flares defensively. "With respect, keeping order is rather outside your expertise. Some of us prioritise crew safety over spectacle."

One of Megatron's digits raises Magnus' chin, forcing optic contact. "Order through fear is a leash, not leadership. True power stems from willing allegiance, not force alone. It took me along time to learn that Ambus"

"Energon for thought. Now if you'll excuse me, I have more orders I need to read through to make sure Swerve isn't trying to order EnerGULP or Biofuel to try and fake as Energex " he states while beginning to type away on the data pad.

"Megatron, they are reckless and going to get themself off-lined or worse" Magnus tried to argue back.

"Ambus you'd be rather harsh to them, they are young, I'm aware of that, but you're treating them as if they are your sparkling" Megatron states. As the enforcer's optics go wide Megatron stifles a chuckle.

Magnus meets Megatron's scarlet gaze with quiet defiance. "My role is keeping order on this ship, not coddling delinquents." 

"Yet it seems you have been coddling one rather too much, they are at that stage, if you keep a lock and chain on them they are going to rebel,be glad it's only Rodimus, Tailgate and Drift they tend to be with. Would you rather they be around DJD" Megatron asked with a raised optic.

"Absolutely Not!" Magus shouts.

"My point stands Ambus, perhaps spend some time with them, learn what they enjoy doing, they are rebelling because they don't have the option, they are stuck in a ship with nothing to do, they see Rodimus as friend, batch mate." are his parting words. Magnus watches Megatron's departing form with troubled optics and churning processor. His counsel, however cryptic, raises discomfiting points...

With a heavy ex-vent, Magnus pulls up files on the youngsters in question. The youngest and Rodimus - one a scrappy outlier, the other a wild spark flouting authority at every turn a prime. Opposites yet drawn together like magnets. Why was he so invested in protecting this little outlier

They young outlier sits in their suite, sulking. After the fight with Magnus they had decided it was easier just not being around other bots, they had shot Rodimus a quick message stating that they wanted to be left alone for the rest of the cycle.

They fidget with their data pad huffing in annoyance as they try to fill out their reports.

When the doors open and they see Magnus they grumble. "What do you want?"

Magnus stands silent in the doorway, emanating not wrath but uncertainty. His field broadcasts a cautious olive branch amid pulsing regret. "May I enter?" His tone holds none of the usual stern command, 

When they shrug off tired assent, Magnus steps within cautiously, a massive frame filling the space.

Optics rove the bare walls and solitary form, glimpsing an existence circumscribed not by choice but necessity. His tanks churn anew. How had he failed to see the cages, invisible yet profound, binding errant sparks aboard this vessel?

Gingerly Magnus lowers himself to one knee, meeting their averted gaze evenly. "I came to apologise," he rumbles slowly. "My conduct toward you and Rodimus has been...regrettable, I'm sorry."  

The young outlier watches guardedly, searching that earnest regard for signs of tyranny or deceit. Magnus also acknowledges his protectiveness and worry over the younger cybertronian.

A sigh escapes Magnus' vents, massive shoulders slumping. "You must understand, my role demands ensuring all under my protection remain safe and functional."

"Then why do you treat me differently?" They shoot back. Magnus goes quiet for a moment. His optics hold a gentle light as they find the younger bots. " When I see you, youthful audacity, venturing into dangers I endured long ago...it stirs memories best left buried. I watch the war wipe out so many sparklings,  outliers taken and used for war"

His field pulses rueful ghosts of harsher times. "I never meant to curb your spirit, only shield you from hard lessons learned too soon." Massive fingers lightly brush an audial fin in a gesture both paternal and penitent.

"Perhaps...I allowed duty to eclipse my function as guardian to all aboard." A bittersweet smile tugs at plating. "Megatron, of all mechs, said i needed to step back"  

Optics meet in earnest appeal. "If you'll permit it, I wish to walk a new path, try and be better, it won't stop my worry but you don't deserve to be caged ." His field pulses only patience, regret and stubborn care worn soft by wisdom's dawning light. Care for the future of this young bot.

"I know I'm a young spark, but I'm not a sparkling Ultra Magnus, I know I'm the youngest on ship but I'm not a sparkling " they states quietly. The two sit beside each other.

Magnus nods solemnly, settling beside the young mech and curling his field around their smaller frame protectively.

"You are right. I treated you as one much younger, when your spark burns as fiercely as any aboard." A massive hand rests gently on a plated shoulder.

His gaze holds Tiny's earnestly. "From this moment, consider me not a jailer but guardian here to ensure your path remains lighted, not bar it. To advise and shelter, if you'll have me, I... I will try not to short circuit over your dangerous activity." A beat of silence as understanding passes unspoken between them. Then Magnus offers a small, indulgent smile.

"I've much to learn as well, little one. I'm sorry, I have been as Rodimus calls it a stick in the mud" he states and it makes the younger burst out laughing.

"Can you help me with these reports, I'm struggling with understanding what you want, the words keep moving around and I just don't understand" they state while holding out the data pad. Magnus leans in closer slowly reading over everything before trying to break it down for the outlier.

Things are peaceful for once between them, he helps with the small things and realises a lot in that time. But when he does eventually leave he catches a small slip up from them. "Thanks Sire" they call out, it makes him stiffen but a smile crosses his face as he leaves, he wouldn't tell anyone how it made him feel. 

[vodika-vibes]

Hehehehehe

2nd request:

Love oo

Jango (thats for you) , undersea, and hurt/comfort.

POW

Summary: The Tritones, merfolk with fishtails, and the Cecaelia, octupi merfolk, have been at war for centuries. Battling for land and prestige and the right to rule the oceans. The Haliae, the sea nymphs, have always sided with the Tritones, while the Chordates, merfolk with eel heritage, have always sided with Cecaelia. You are a Chordate, recently conscripted to the war effort, and captured by a Tritone War Party. And now, you’re little more than a prisoner of war. At least your jailer isn’t cruel.

Pairing: Pre-Jango Fett x Reader

Word Count: 2669

Prompt: Undersea AU/Mermaid AU

Warnings: None

Tagging: @trixie2023 @n0vqni

A/N: So this took me all morning to write because I kept getting distracted. I hope you like it though!

“Dinner,” You scrunch up your nose as the night warden pushes a plate of kelp and some other leafy foods into your cell. You uncurl from where you were settled on your tail in the corner, and move the short distance to the place, absently lifting the greens to look for food you can actually eat.

You’re people are carnivores.

Obligate carnivores, even. You couldn’t digest this stuff if you tried.

But it seems like the Tritones seem to think that you can change your nature if you try hard enough.

Just one more reason why there will never be peace between the two sides.

“Being picky again, eel?”

You cast your gaze towards him, “It’s not being picky,” You counter flatly, the language of the Tritones awkward and clunky on your tongue, especially when compared to the more musical language of your own people. “I’m incapable of digesting this. Which I know that you know because I’ve told you multiple times.”

The guard opens his mouth to say something, only to stop when the door at the end of the hallway swings open, and a dark skinned Tritone swims down the hall.

“Prince Jango!” The guard snaps to attention, and you roll your eyes as you swim back to your corner. “What brings you down to the dungeons at this time of day?”

Prince Jango peers into your cell, and then at the plate of food sitting on the small table, before he looks back at the guard. “I’m ensuring that our guest isn’t being mistreated.”

“We would never!” The Guard genuinely sounds offended.

“Which is why you’re giving her food that she can’t eat?” The Prince asks with an arched brow.

The Guard pauses, “She might like it-”

Jango sighs, “You realize that this isn’t a question of like, right? Her people, genuinely, can’t digest plants. Their stomachs are meant for it.” He opens the cell door with his key, and swims in to take the plate, “Bring her a proper meal.”

“Ah…yes, my Prince.” The Guard bows and takes the plate before he swims away.

Jango turns his gaze to you, “I apologize for that.”

You wave your hand, dismissing his concerns, “It’s hardly the first time a Tritone or a Haliae have tried to make me more palatable for them.” You swim closer to the door, and then make a face. From the top of your head to the tip of your tail, you stand at almost 11 feet long. 

You can go from one corner of the cell to the opposite corner, and still have some of your tail coiled. These cells were not made for a Chordate…heck, you’re not even that long! You’re the runt in your family.

Jango is quiet for a moment, his dark eyes lingering on the way that your tail is still coiled in the corner, “Would you like to stretch your tail properly?”

You blink at him, “Is that allowed?”

He chuckles, “I am the Crowned Prince of Atlantis. Of course it’s allowed.”

You tilt your head, “You do know that I can swim faster than you, right?”

He just grins at you, “I’m not worried about you running off. After all, you didn’t even try to avoid the War Party.”

“You’re not wrong, but you don’t have to say it.” 

His grin widens, and he opens the cell door again, motioning for you to follow him.

You follow him through the winding halls, and you’re grateful that he seems to be doing his best to avoid large groups of people. You already get treated like an exhibit at the museum, and your temper is slightly more foul than it should be, given your situation.

“Here we are,” Jango comes to a stop in a massive reef that his family has been cultivating for generations. It’s a rather well known reef, even people in your people's territory have heard of it.

You swim a little bit away from Jango and stretch out properly.

Once you’ve managed to work the kinks out of your back and tail, you settle onto the soft sand and flip your tail so you’re able to look at the underside. You’ve been carefully monitoring a sore that appeared several days ago, though it doesn’t seem to be healing. 

“...you’re hurt.” Jango swims up behind you, his gaze lingering on the sore, “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I didn’t think anyone would care,” You reply honestly. 

Jango frowns, though you have the feeling that he’s more upset at the situation than you, and he digs through one of his pouches to hand you a small pouch. “Here, this is kolto. It should help heal it.”

You stare at him for a long moment, and then slowly take the pack from his hand, “...thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Jango settles onto the sand next to you and watches you tend to your own injury with ease, “You’ve done this before.”

It’s not a question, so far as you can tell, but it also seems like he’s making a peace offering, so you continue the conversation. “I have a pair of older twin brothers,” You reply, “And we fought a lot.”

“About what?”

“Oh, silly little things. You know what kids are like. My brothers would call me a name, and I’d call them a name, and it’d just keep escalating until it became physical.”

Jango laughs, “Sounds like me and my friends growing up.”

You shrug, “Kids are kids all over. And mom and dad refused to patch us up after the first time, unless a bone was broken, so we had to learn to take care of ourselves.”

“That sounds…mean of them.”

You laugh softly, “Not really. They’re big proponents of us suffering the consequences of our own actions. I think we turned out alright.”

“I honestly don’t know much about your people,” Jango admits, “Only what they teach us in school.”

“They probably tell you about the battles only then.” You finish treating your tail and start drawing little circles in the sand, “It’s dumb, this whole war.”

“Aren’t you a soldier?” Jango asks with an amused smile.

“I was conscripted, just like every other one of my people.”

Jango’s smile fades, “What do you mean?”

You sigh, “The population numbers for the Cecaelia people aren't very high. To bolster their forces, they turned to the Chordates. We have a much higher population number.”

“But you aren’t volunteers?” Jango asks.

“No. Mandatory conscription for all Chordates who are healthy enough.” You shrug, “We’re big, strong, and intimidating. It’s no wonder that the Cecaelia would want us. Not to mention, we’re not exactly welcome in Atlantis-”

Jango frowns, but he doesn’t argue against it.

You both know that you’re right.

“I’ll change that, when I’m King.”

You laugh, “No. You won’t.”

He looks offended, “You don’t think I will?”

“I don’t.”

“...I suppose you have cause to believe that.” He says with a sigh, “It’s not fair how your people are treated though.”

“You get used to it.”

Jango opens his mouth to say something else, but stops when his father’s second approaches. “Montross.”

“Prince Jango, there’s been a development. There is to be a POW exchange. The eel girl for one of our generals.” Montross turns his steely gaze onto you, and you meet it, unafraid. “Follow me, girl.”

“Alright,” Lazily, almost unconcerned, you lift from the ground and swim over to him. A small smirk crosses your face when he tightens his grip on his spear.

He might have larger muscles, but you tower over him, and you know that you’re stronger than he is. 

He’s aware of it too.

You don’t look back at Jango as you follow him out of the reef. There’s no point, odds are, you’re never going to see him again. You’re just eager to get into the darker lands of your people.

You also hope that they’re not trading anyone important for you.

It’s been six months since you were a prisoner of war and, you suppose, your imprisonment did come with something of a silver lining. You were immediately relieved from duty, and allowed to return to your family’s farm.

To return to your parents and your brothers. 

The fact that you had lost so much weight, and that your tail had been injured, meant that you were a good prop to parade in front of the masses, to show how monstrous the delicate and pretty Tritones and Haliae are. 

The Queen even had a speech written for you, wherein the details of your imprisonment were greatly embellished. You had to give a couple of interviews, one from the hospital where you were being treated for malnourishment, and then you were sent home with a very nice severance package, as well as an agreement that you wouldn’t tell anyone the truth.

Not that you ever would.

The severance package was very helpful to your family, and it’s not like you have many friends who aren’t related to you. And they already know the truth.

The Chordates are no strangers to lying to the people in charge, after all.

Honestly, you’re just glad to be home. To be able to trade in your battle trident for the much more familiar hunting spears, and to trade in the heavy metal armor for the lighter cloth that allow you to move, unseen, even through shallower water.

Your oldest brother flings his arm over your shoulder, early one morning as you finish putting food out for your family's herd of comb jellies. “Are you joining the twins when they go hunting?” He asks as he hoists an empty feed bag over his shoulder.

“That hadn’t been my intention,” You reply as you open a new feed bag and pour it on the sand, “You know what they’re like when someone invites themselves along on their hunting trips.”

“They haven’t asked, because they’re terrified that you’re going to vanish again.”

“Terrified? Van and Len?” You ask, skeptically, “I highly doubt that.”

He laughs, “You don’t believe me? Go and ask them yourself.”

“Fine, but only if you take over the rest of my chores.”

“Deal.” He pushes you towards the shed where the twins keep their hunting gear, and then turns, whistling, to tend to the animals. 

You swim over to the shed and peek in the open door. The twins, long and broad, are bent over their table, and they look delighted when they see you.

“You will join us, yes?” Van asks.

“We put the finishing touches on your spear.” Len adds as he presses your spear, which had shattered before you were conscripted, into your hands. It’s only the blade, with some of the handle left, making it more of a dagger than anything else.

“You really want me to come with you?”

“Of course we do.” Len beams at you as he tosses you your cloak, “As soon as you’re ready, we’re heading to the hunting grounds.”

You squint at him suspiciously, but tie your cloak around your neck and strap your spear to your hip, “Well, I’m ready-”

Quickly, very quickly, the twins usher you away from the shed and to the kelp forest that leads to the hunting grounds. Knowing them, they have their minds set on catching the largest of the deep sea fish, and bringing it home for mother to prepare.

It’s roughly three hours later, when the three of you stumble on something that you absolutely shouldn’t.

“Is that a Tritones War Party?” Van asks his twin as the three of you hide in the shadows of an outcropping. 

“It is, but…look.” You gesture to something that caught your eye, “Those are holy men and women. Look at their clothing.”

The twins glance at you, and then peer back at the War Party. Len scoffs, “She’s right. Look at the weapons. Why are the Tritones holy men attacking a Tritones war party?”

“Infighting?” Van asks, “Would only be good for us.”

“What d’ya think?” Len asks you.

You tilt your head, “The Tritones over there. That’s Montross, he’s King Jaster’s right hand. It looks like the Holy Men are answering to him.”

“Would make sense, I suppose. Who are they attacking, though?”

You move a little ways out of the shadow, to get a better look, and you exhale sharply. “The Tritones in the middle there, the one with the blue tail-”

“Yeah?”

“That’s the crowned prince of Atlantis.” You say flatly.

The twins are completely silent for a moment, their gazes locked on what they were seeing, “You know, I have heard a rumor that King Jaster was murdered-” Len muses.

“So killing the new king is, what, a coup? Supported by the holy men?” Van asks.

“Perhaps.” Len agrees, “Not our problem either way.”

You’re quiet for a moment, “I think we should save him.”

Identical eyes turn to look at you in disbelief. “Why?” Van asks, aghast.

You turn your thoughtful gaze away from Jango and to the twins, “I don’t know about you, but I’m rather tired of our cousins being sent off to die in a war.”

“Of course we are,” Len says, “But we can’t chang-” He stops mid-sentence, and then turns a calculating gaze towards the injured king, “We can work with that.”

It takes Van a moment before he understands where his twin’s thought process went, and then his gaze turns calculating as well. “We’ll have to save him first,” He notes.

“Well,” You murmur thoughtfully, “They are trespassing on our hunting grounds.” Twin pairs of eyes turn to you, and unholy glee crosses their faces. You’d feel guilty, if you weren’t sure that you had the exact same look on your face. 

“You collect the king,” Len orders you, “We’re going to have some fun.” The twins vanish into the dark, disappearing with such skill that even you have a hard time tracking them through the kelp.

You wait until you hear the first scream, and then you move, easing through the kelp cautiously, until you reach where Jango is laying. “You seem to be having a hard time,” You say lightly as you cut his bindings and then pull him into the kelp. 

“You…what?” Jango blinks at the back of your head as you easily propel him through the kelp. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing. This is my family’s land.” You reply, “My brothers are dealing with the people who are hunting you.”

“Oh.”

You keep pulling him until you’re safely outside the kelp forest, and back on the farm, “Here, you’ll be safe here.”

Jango looks around, and then turns his gaze back to you, “Why are you helping me?” He asks quietly.

“Well,” You pause, “It’s not wholly to be a good person,” You admit.

“I didn’t think it was,” Jango replies wryly, “So why did you help me.”

“Well, you’re a king without a kingdom, based on what I just saw. And my people are so tired of being sent to war to die for people who see us as little more than canon fodder.”

“So…you help me and I help you?”

“Pretty much.”

“I suppose that’s not a bad deal,” he murmurs, “Who do I have to talk to?”

You smile at him, “My grandfather.”

“Can you take me to him?” Jango asks.

“That is the plan, yes.” You reply cheerfully as you turn to lead him deeper into the village. 

You already have over a dozen plans and backup plans forming in your mind. And you know that your brothers and your extended family will also have plans forming as they realize exactly what opportunity they have in front of them.

You’d almost pity Jango, if you didn’t know that this was going to work out in his best interest. And yours.

A sly little smile crosses your face.

It’s time to change the game that your people have been playing for generations. This time it’ll be more in your favor.

[goodlucktai]

could you write a kid sanji fic like you did with luffy?? like sanji gets whammied with a devil fruit n gets turned back tk his germa years or something??

x

Sanji wakes up in the infirmary. He lies there for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling. The room is cool and comfortable, a fan blowing gently in the corner and a door wedged open to let in a breeze rich with the salty, briny tang of the sea. 

Something about it seems strange. He knows that this is the infirmary, recognizes it somehow, even though it doesn’t look the way it’s supposed to. The last time he was sent to the ship’s medical room, it was barely more than an out-of-the-way broom closet, manned by a grizzly old bear who made it clear he didn’t have time for clumsy trainees and their second-degree burns. There certainly wasn’t room for a proper bed, and if there was, Sanji wouldn’t have been tucked into it so carefully. 

Was the wood in The Orbit always this color? he wonders, eyes drifting to stare at the wall nearest his bed. Rich, almost red, each finished plank as smooth as glass. 

“Oh,” a voice says, “you’re awake!” 

Sanji is very used to strangers. The Orbit is a cruise ship, ferrying hundreds of different customers across the Blues every day. But he’s never seen a person like this before. 

It’s a little reindeer, in a pink and blue hat and a fluffy white hoodie with a sheep printed on the front. They hop down from their chair and cross the room to him in an enthusiastic clatter of hooves. Sanji is a runt, according to most of the crewmen on The Orbit and all of his former siblings, but this reindeer is even smaller than him, by almost a foot.

Did they hire a new doctor?

“How are you feeling?” they ask earnestly. “All your labs came back okay and your vitals are strong, but I’m worried you might be coming down with a fever. And I think you were having some bad dreams.” 

Sanji blinks, still half-asleep, and decides to humor the little creature. “I feel okay.”

“Good! Let me get you some water and take your temperature again. Then I’ll let the captain in to see you.”

“The captain? Why does he want to see me?” It occurs to him, belatedly, that he might be in trouble. Sanji sits up fast, ignoring the way it makes his head spin, and cries out, “I didn’t mean to!”

The reindeer turns with an insulated water bottle in their tiny hands, brow furrowed beneath their fur. “Didn’t mean to what?”

“I don’t—whatever I did. It was an accident. I can still work.” Don’t send me back. Don’t make me go. He’s frozen with a familiar terror, one he has done his best to outrun but will never outgrow. 

He knows it’s silly. He boarded the ship on Cozia and told everyone who asked that he was an orphan. If they decided to go through all the trouble of bringing him home, instead of just kicking him off at the next port, then that would still be leagues away from where Germa Kingdom usually resides in North Blue. They can’t send him back because they don’t know where he’s actually from. No one will ever, ever know. Sanji will never tell. 

But he’s afraid anyway. 

“You’re not doing anything until I say so,” the reindeer says firmly. “Doctor’s orders! Luffy only wants to see you because he’s worried about you! He’ll say it’s ‘cause he misses your food, but that’s not true. Well, it is true, but it’s not the only thing he misses.” 

Sanji isn’t sure he followed all of that, but the reindeer seems pretty certain that the captain isn’t going to storm in here and shout at Sanji or fire him. It’s enough that Sanji is able to release his death-grip on the blanket and accept the water bottle that gets shoved insistently towards him. 

Luffy? he wants to ask. The captain of The Orbit is called Chas. And Sanji is only a trainee in the kitchens, hardly allowed to do more than shadow the seasoned chefs. When he does cook, it's for himself, and maybe sometimes the mice that live in the underbelly of the ship. He can’t think of any reason why the captain—or anybody, really—would miss Sanji’s food. 

Luffy. The name settles inside of him like the first swallow of warm soup on a blustery winter day. He doesn’t understand it, but he presses his hands to his chest and tries to hold onto it. 

When the reindeer is satisfied that Sanji’s sufficiently hydrated and his temperature is normal, they say, “Okay, you wait right here while I go get him. Is there anything you need? Are you hungry?”

Still a little nervous, Sanji shakes his head quickly.

The reindeer makes a dubious “hmmmm” noise like they’re not convinced but they don’t want to argue. They pull the door open the rest of the way and disappear out of it, calling for someone at the top of their lungs.

There’s a lot of noise out there. Sanji tilts his head, trying to listen. He can hear music and laughter. Then he hears the thunder of feet approaching the infirmary at a breakneck pace, and he barely has any time to get scared before a beaming face appears in the doorway. 

Oh, that’s Luffy. Sanji knows it’s him right away. He doesn’t know how he knows. It’s the warm soup feeling again. 

“SANJI!” the familiar stranger exclaims, bursting inside with wild enthusiasm, like there’s something very wonderful waiting in the medbay somewhere. Sanji is sure there isn’t—it’s just him in here. 

But Luffy bounces right onto the bed, sitting cross-legged on top of the soft blankets so that he and Sanji are eye-to-eye. 

“Chopper said you woke up! You’ve been asleep for ages. How do you feel?”

“Okay,” Sanji says carefully. Luffy definitely isn’t Captain Chas. So this definitely isn’t the infirmary on The Orbit after all. He must be somewhere else. But how did he get here? And how do they know his name?

“You look okay,” the older boy agrees, leaning in like he’ll be able to tell it’s true just by getting a good look at Sanji’s face. “But there’s no way you’re not hungry! You missed dinner and breakfast and lunch!”

Twisting the blanket in his lap, Sanji says, “I’m really okay.” Judge used to send him away without dinner all the time, for any little thing. It was a punishment Sanji actually preferred, because it was the only one that didn’t leave him bruised or bleeding. Hunger pains are like an old friend to him. 

“Nope,” Luffy says suddenly, and leans forward and scoops Sanji right out of the bed. “There’s not a ton of rules on my ship, but the ones we do have are super important. And this rule even belongs to you—no skipping meals, shitheads!” 

He adopts a low, slightly husky drawl for that last part, like he’s imitating someone. Sanji is too preoccupied with being picked up, clutching at Luffy’s shoulder and the front of his shirt, to wonder much about that.

“Put me down, please,” he blurts, barely clinging to the manners that were sometimes his only saving grace in Vinsmoke Castle, even though he really wants to flail and shout and kick until he’s dropped or tossed away. Bigger people make him nervous. Bigger people grabbing him makes him nearly black out with fear. 

But Luffy just laughs, and it’s a warm, ringing sound. He doesn’t seem like he’s going to listen. And it’s actually not that frightening, after all, being held up by him.  

“Can’t,” he declares. “Chopper said you weren’t allowed to get up, which means I have to carry you.” 

“The reindeer said you were the captain,” Sanji says suspiciously.

“I am the captain. That means I’m not the doctor, or the shipwright, or the navigator, or the cook. I can’t do any of those things that my nakama can do, that’s why they’re so important. That’s why what Chopper says goes!” 

He tosses Sanji up playfully and catches him, the way Sanji has seen guests do with their children sometimes. Luffy’s not big and burly like the deckhands on The Orbit are, but he’s strong. His slim arms feel safe. 

Outside, Sanji has to squint through the late afternoon sunlight, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. They’re on the second story of a grand ship deck, coming down the stairs at a brisk clip.

From their seat on a rope swing, the reindeer themself wails, “Luffy! I said he had to stay in bed!” 

“Huh? I didn’t hear that part,” Luffy calls back blithely, everything he just told Sanji about listening to his crewmates tossed out on its ear. “We need food! Nami, the fridge!” 

“Yes, yes,” a tangerine-haired woman says, sounding put-upon. She folds the paper she’s reading and sets it aside. When her eyes fall on Sanji, she smiles in a way that transforms her whole face. “Hi, there. Iva said you’d be a little confused until the hormones wore off. Do you know me?”

Sanji doesn’t know Iva and he doesn’t know what hormones she’s talking about, but he likes her smile. Everyone on the deck is smiling at him, like they’re happy to see him. He doesn’t understand. No one has been happy to see him since his mom died. 

Behind the tangerine-haired woman, there’s a skeleton in a feather boa, strumming absently on a guitar. The bare skull where his face should be is wearing a rictus grin and heart-shaped sunglasses. 

It should be a frightening thing to see. Instead, it simply makes everything else make perfect sense. 

Oh, Sanji realizes, the worry and confusion in his heart finally settling. This is a dream. 

“Guess not,” the woman is saying to a man with a long nose and lots of curly dark hair piled up in a bun, since Sanji never answered her. 

“It’s only temporary,” the man replies earnestly, though he sounds a little anxious himself. “We’ll have him back to normal before you know it!”

“We’d better,” a green-haired man says dryly. “If Franky cooks for us again, I may throw myself overboard.”

“Oy! I make boats, not fancy five-course dinners!” 

“I can,” Sanji starts to say, forgetting himself. He stops abruptly, covering his mouth with one hand, but it’s too late. Everyone’s already looking at him again. But if it’s a dream, and they’re all dream people, then they won’t mind if he talks out of turn. Testing the waters, he continues carefully, “I can make dinner.”

“You can?” Chopper, the reindeer, asks like it’s some amazing feat. “But you’re so little! You already knew how to cook when you were this little?”

“I’m almost nine,” Sanji says importantly. “That’s practically almost a teenager. That’s almost grown-up.”

“Almost, almost, almost,” a tall woman with a curtain of shimmery black hair murmurs, her voice rich with laughter and openly affectionate. 

“Naaamiii,” Luffy whines, unlike Judge or Chas or any other authority figure Sanji has ever met. “Fridge!”

“Well, get a move on then!” she says, turning him by the shoulders and propelling him forward to one of the doors by the stairs. A bunch of the others start to follow, but a sharp look from the green-haired man causes them to stay behind and glare mulishly at him instead. 

Even Nami doesn’t linger after unlocking the fridge. She swipes a snack from inside, something in a delicate little crystal dessert cup, then tousles Luffy’s hair playfully, then touches Sanji’s cheek like she’d like to tell him something, but doesn’t know how to make him understand. Then she goes, the galley door swinging shut behind her. 

Luffy sits Sanji down on the counter and stands back with his hands on his hips. 

“I may not be a cook, but my brothers and I grew up by ourselves most of the time and we didn’t always have someone around to make meals for us,” he declares. “Before Ace went away, he made sure I wouldn’t starve. There’s like three whole things I know how to make really well! So Sanji can tell me what to do, and I’ll do it. What should we cook?”

The name Ace causes a tender pang in Sanji’s chest that he doesn’t understand. It makes him want to check on Luffy and make sure he’s okay, even though he’s standing right in front of Sanji, beaming ear to ear. 

He kicks his dangling feet back and forth, glancing around the big kitchen, with its spotless counters and hand-stitched dish towels and the pink apron hanging from one of the cabinet handles. It’s a kitchen that belongs in a home. 

He looks back up at Luffy. 

“What was your favorite thing to cook with your brothers?”

Barbecued alligator isn’t a viable option for half a dozen reasons, but there’s dark meat chicken in the fridge that will make a neat substitution. Luffy is hapless but enthusiastic. Sanji doesn’t actually trust him with an open flame so once the chicken is seasoned it goes in a big dish to bake in the commercial-sized oven. 

The entire kitchen is messy somehow even though they didn’t even use the whole thing. Sanji’s face hurts from smiling. 

“I hope you like it,” he says, twisting the dial on a funny tomato-shaped timer. “But you don’t have to eat it if it’s bad.”

Luffy boosts himself up to sit on the counter beside Sanji. Lifting a big bowl of fresh fruits into his lap, he picks out a lychee and begins peeling it with deft fingers.

“Sanji is amazing,” he says plainly. “He’s the best cook in all the Blues and the whole Grand Line. He made a cake so yummy that it stopped a crazy rampage once. I’m really glad he’s mine.”

Reaching over, he takes Sanji’s hand. It’s small and fragile in Luffy’s grasp, and covered in scars, but the young captain doesn’t say anything about any of that.

He puts the peeled lychee in Sanji’s palm, a perfect shining little moon. 

“Sanji can’t make anything bad,” Luffy says, utterly certain. “His hands are good.”

It has to be a dream. Most people only get one big miracle in their lives, if they’re lucky, and Sanji had his already—the chance to run to freedom, granted to him by his sister in an uncharacteristic act of kindness he still doesn’t understand.

There’s no way a place like this could really exist, full of people who smile warmly at Sanji and touch him without hurting him, who worry about him when he’s sick and miss him while he’s gone. 

Sanji hopes he remembers all of it when he wakes up. 

For now he mumbles shyly, “Can we cook together some more?” 

‘Together’ ends up meaning together-with-everybody as the rest of the crew refuses to be left out for much longer. Even the green-haired man slinks inside the dining hall eventually. He doesn’t help at all with the tricky lemon blueberry icebox cake that Usopp stubbornly insisted on, but he gamely tastes whatever gets pushed his way. The kitchen becomes even more of a mess than it was before, and there’s flour everywhere and sticky blueberry sauce all over Sanji’s hands, but he hasn’t laughed this much since he was little. Since he could still run off to mom’s room and climb into her big soft bed and curl up with her arms around him, while she told him stories that made the world seem like a smaller, kinder place. 

These people don’t make the world seem smaller. They make it seem huge. And Sanji isn’t afraid of it. He doesn’t want to hide. He wants to see the whole thing. 

He wants them to be there when he finds All Blue. He thinks maybe he can really, actually find it, if all of them come with him. 

(Two nights later, Sanji wakes up overheated and extremely cramped in a bunk not built for two grown men. He bites back a groan at what feels like the remains of a bad hangover and cranes his neck to see who is sprawled out over him like an inconvenient blanket. 

Of course it’s his captain, the overgrown kid snoring away with his arms tucked around Sanji’s middle. 

Little shit, he thinks, beginning the careful process of extracting himself. He manages to slip out of bed without waking the younger boy up, scowling without real ire at the shameless way Luffy stretches out in his sleep to fully commandeer the whole bunk. Did he have a bad dream? Sanji wonders a second later. 

He untangles the blanket and covers his captain with it properly. Lighting a cigarette, a brief flicker of fire in the dark quarters, Sanji lingers just long enough to push a hand through Luffy’s hair. 

Whatever happened, it’s nothing a good meal won’t fix.)

[gilverrwrites]

Hi! Here I am with a Black Mask request 🖤. Could you write something where someone is threatening towards the reader and Roman gets protective about it?

Possessive Roman is great too but I wanna see this man go full protective mode!

You don't have to be sorry, Sweetheart.

Black Mask/Reader, 1.8K words

Request Info || Masterlist || Ko-Fi 

Rubbing my hands together like a hungry little racoon being fed. I forgot how feral this man makes me. I took me a while to find my Black Mask head space again, but my Roman is almost always based on an amalgamation of his 60-2000s-ish comic appearances, for reference. Oh and the mask, that does NOT come off. 🖤

Roman doesn't take kindly to an ex employee affronting you, after leaving you alone in a bar. Rated: 18+

CWs: Swearing, blood, spit, threats of violence, actual violence, and some more violence, switchblade, derogatory names: bitch, petnames: sweetheart, failure to wear seatbelts (- please don’t do that irl), protective Roman, somewhat possessive Roman, unhealthy relationship/toxic dynamics.

Please remember: You are stronger than your fears and doubts

Roman Sionis is no stranger to getting his hands dirty. In fact, anyone who’d worked close enough with him, himself included could tell you that Roman thrills in dirty work. However, there are some essential jobs that even Roman won’t touch. When these errands come up, there’s only one place to go to find a runt with morals low enough to get it done.

Noonan’s is the worst bar in Gotham, at least in your opinion. Roman didn’t seem to care much for it either. In fact, the first time you’d accompanied him on a business meeting there he’s told you; “This place is dicey at the best of times. Anyone touches you, says anything to you, so much as fuckin’ looks at you the wrong way, you come get me, alright, Sweetheart? I’ll set 'em straight.” And hadn’t let you leave his side until you’d sworn to come find him at the first sign of trouble.

Usually, you didn’t run into any real problems during the scarce amount of times you’d been there. Roman would conduct his dealings in a function room out back while you tried to keep to yourself. Most people knew who you were, who you were with, and were smart enough to keep to themselves. Nursing a drink in a dark corner typically didn’t draw any more issues than a few side-ways looks. Looks that didn’t seem worth mentioning to Roman. You love him, but he knows how to make a scene, and a scary one at that. It isn’t always worth the fuss. Usually.

It seems somebody was feeling unusually gutsy today. From the moment you’d entered, a familiar face had been watching you. You didn’t know their name, honestly, you likely couldn’t name a single person in this place. But you knew a lot of their faces, Noonan’s always seemed to draw the same crowd of washed-up and bitter ex-goons. Moments after Roman had taken his leave, your watcher approached, tripping over drunken feet until he was close enough to slam his drink onto your table, splashing you with beer in the process.

“Hey, you.” He leans over, pointing a finger in your face, far too close for comfort.

Careful to avoid elevating the situation you remain as still as possible, only moving your eyes in order to get a better look at him. Up close you can see smatterings of scars, and tattoos. He’s clearly tried to pay his dues with a lot of Gotham’s crime bosses and villains. A question mark, a penguin, a black skull.

“Yes, may I help?” You ask cordially, offering a smile.

“You’re Sionis’ bitch ain’t ya?” He slurs as he speaks, spit dripping onto his chin, and ricocheting towards you. “I got a bone to pick with that asshole.”

“Well, I’m afraid he’s busy.” You’d tried to be amicable but now your hospitable tone is gone, replaced with as much nonchalant venom as you can muster. “And his ‘bitch’ doesn’t want to talk to you.”  

“I don’t give a shit what you want.” He bangs a fist against the table. Luckily, you’d seen it coming and had had the foresight to grab your drink. But whoever this fucker was, had not. More of the amber liquid spills out onto the table. “That bastard fucked with the wrong guy when he laid me off. Do you know who I am?”

Do you know who he is? No, and you relay that information by staring at him with a pointedly blank glare.

“I said, do you know who I FUCKING AM?” Spit fires from his lips, hitting your face, you feel your already simmering blood begin to boil with each drop. “I’m. Henry. FUCKING Byrne.”

“Good for you, ‘Henry fucking Byrne’ but…” You shouldn’t say it, you know you’ll only provoke him, but he’s on your last nerve. “I. don’t. FUCKING. care.”

“You don’t care, I don’t bleeding care, I don’t care who cares! But he’s gonna care…” Your comment has set him into a long, drunken, incomprehensible ramble, you presume the ‘he’ in reference is Roman, but all other thoughts are cancelled out by the sight of Henry removing a switchblade from his back pocket. As he leans in closer, pointing the blade in your direction, the gravity of the situation sets in. If you don’t act soon, you might just meet your maker in fucking Noonan’s. Tragic. “He’s gonna fucking care when I wreck his bitch.”

Searching for a defence, an exit route, anything, your eyes dart around the bar, quickly locating your salvation.

His pristinely tailored suit highlights him amongst the crowd, the waxy polish of his mask glowing under the dingy low-handling lights. He advances with confident, assertive strides. Instant relief floods through you, followed by a completely different brand of panic.

Relieved to know that you’re almost certainly safe, panicked by the thought of whatever mess he’s about to make.

Despite the tap of Roman’s shoes and your obvious stare, Henry is too wrapped up in his own anger and babblings to notice the impending danger. Like a frantic school of fish being advanced upon by a shark.

He doesn’t deserve your kindness, but you offer it anyway, sliding your chair back, out of his reach as you shout; “Roman, don’t.”

“I just wanna talk.” He spits, holding both hands up, feigning innocence, showing that he’s unarmed. As if he needed a weapon to be dangerous. It’s a lie, you both know it.

Alerted to Roman's presence, Henry begins to turn but is stopped by a leather-clad hand fixing to the soft spot on the back of his head. With rapid force, he’s pushed face-first against the table. Once, twice, three times. Blood is pouring from his nose, mixing with the already murky puddles of spilt beer. Stray chunks of what you can only assume are broken teeth jump with every collision.

Henry’s knife clatters against the floor, narrowly missing your foot. You grab it, holding tight.

“Roman stop.” You say, certain you’re no longer at risk. “He’s had enough!”

Roman's brown eyes bore into you as he slows, gripping tight to your almost attacker's neck, guiding him back into a standing position.

“Do you think you’ve had enough?” He asks through gritted teeth.

“Yes, yes sir. I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Henry’s already slurred speech is muffled even more by his own fluids.

“Oh, you’re sorry.” Roman mocks, his neck is red with rage, his mask creaks as he juts his jaw back and forth, a habit you’ve learned is a calming mechanism, something he’d picked up since getting his pacemaker fitted. It isn’t working. “See ‘sorry’ isn’t gonna cut it, you need to be taught a lesson.”

Using his free hand, Roman reached over to you, pulling the switchblade from your clutching fingers.

“Cause you see, when you mess with what’s mine, you mess with me.” Tension hangs thick in the air, every patron is watching, waiting to see how this unfolds, what the infamous Black Mask will do next. “And nobody messes with me.”

“Roman.” You warn, standing and placing your hand on Roman's shoulder, gently tugging at him, urging him to cool off.

“Fine, I’m gonna let you go.” Henry’s face hits the table one last time with a hard smack, followed by the sickening crunch of his own blade being stabbed through his hand, pinning him to the table. “But be grateful, and know that if I see your face anywhere near us again, I won’t be so gentle.”

All eyes remain on you both as you turn to leave. Roman doesn’t care. He firmly wraps a hand around your upper arm, leading you between tables, past the bar, and toward the door.

“Let that be a lesson to all of you.” He chides the onlookers in one last display of warning, before making his exit.

The time passes in a blur as Roman guides you outside, summons the car, herds you inside, and informs the driver to take you home, all the while his hands never leave your form, but once the car starts running time rapidly slows.

You sit together on the back seat, in silence. Roman is not traditionally expressive, for obvious reasons, but you’ve been together long enough to pick up on his emotional tells. He’s rolling his jaw again, and flexing his hand in and out of a fist shape, trying to cool off, trying to prevent himself from snapping at you.

In an effort to help soothe his anger you manoeuvre closer, until your sides brush together. You move to place your hand on his chest, but he grips your wrist, denying you.

“What did I say?” He isn’t yelling, but there’s still an anger to his tone, and a hardness in his eyes that you’re not accustomed to being on the receiving end of. Before you can respond he continues; “I told you, if anything happens, you come get me. What was that?”

“I know, I know, but I’m fine.” You reassure, nudging your arm until he releases you. “I’m sorry, I thought I could handle him, but it just escalated so quickly.”

His look softens, never able to stay mad at you for long. He lets your hand fall against the soft fabric of his blazer. In a quick, practiced motion he lifts your legs up and over his own, positioning you into a cradled position. Removing his gloves before resting one hand on your lower back, and the other on your thigh where he strokes his hand in slow circles.

“You don’t have to be sorry, sweetheart, just promise me, next time you sense trouble, you come to me.”

It would be easy to lie to him, to make an impossible promise, he tells white lies all the time. But you know he values your honesty, he has expectations for you that he does not hold himself to, you’re the light to his darkness. “If I can, I will, I promise, but it’s not always that simple Roman. I’ve got to defend myself sometimes.”

He lets you talk, but he’s shaking his head, disagreeing before you can finish. 

“This isn’t up for discussion.” He speaks in the gentlest tone, a voice that is reserved for your ears only. “I know you’ve had to look out for yourself in the past, but you’re mine now, and always. You don’t have to do that anymore.”

Your back hits the plush upholstery of the car seat, contrasting with the hard wood of Roman’s mask pushing against your lips. You welcome the familiar mahogany smell, the taste of spice that invades your senses. Kisses from Roman are never gentle, they’re harsh and cold against your skin, no matter how gently he runs his hands along your body.

When he’s satisfied, he pulls away, just enough to get a good view of your face, to look into your eyes. The coolness of his forehead presses to yours.

“Nobody is more important to me than you.” His voice is sharp and gritty. He holds you just a little bit tighter. “I’d burn this city to the ground before I let anything happen to you.”

[thelampisaflashlight]

Mission Imp-Possible

[Although we're still three hours shy of the poll's conclusion, I couldn't resist writing this any longer, so, here it is. Swiss babysits some of the imps for an afternoon, it goes about as well as can be expected.] Below the cut.

Swiss would like to know whose idea this was so he can personally thank them, with his fists perhaps, for the headache of a task he's about to waste his day away with.

He has to watch the imps.

Not all of them, just the smaller ones; Cirrus, Dew, Rain, and Sunshine.

But that was still half the pack of the chaotic little runts, and Swiss can already feel the tension building behind his eyes the moment he opens his door and sees the pet carrier sitting there waiting for him.

Crouching down to look inside, Swiss locks eyes with the smallest of the lot; Dew.

Yes, Dew had named his imp after himself, the others had, too, to be fair, but Dew's imp had a special nickname to differentiate him from the ghoul himself.

Dewdles.

Fucking.

Dewdles.

In appearance, he's sort of like a cross between a hairless cat and a rabbit, with little mismatched horns and glowing spots where his magic emanates from his body.

Much like his master, Dewdles is a hybrid, though it was hard to say what his secondary element is, because it's certainly not fire.

He's water and... something else.

Quintessence, maybe, but no one is really sure.

He's a bit like a male calico in that sense.

Rare.

Dewdles is the least of Swiss' concern out of the lot though.

Unlike Dewdrop himself, Dewdles is well behaved, but he needs a lot of attention or he'll become all wet eyed and lethargic...

It's a little heartbreaking to see, and Swiss would rather not, so Dewdles is probably going to spend most of his visit on his lap or close by.

Out of the four of them, he's most concerned with Rain's imp.

Drizzle.

Somehow that name is worse than Dewdles, but Swiss can't quite parse why.

Drizzle is... in a word?

Slippery.

He's pure water, meaning his body has the consistency of one of those water tube toys; All flop and wiggle, and, if Swiss didn't no better, no bones whatsoever.

Drizzle is wrapped around Dewdles protectively, although if you ask Swiss, it looks more like he's about to suffocate the little guy and eat him as a snake might.

"He would never." Rain had assured him one evening when he'd seen Drizzle pick Dewdles up off the couch with his mouth and carried him off to snuggle in an overturned cardboard box in the corner, "...At least I hope not."

Rain was quick to clarify that he was joking, but it had taken a great deal of self restraint to keep himself from getting up rescuing the little imp.

A confused chirp from inside the carrier draws Swiss' attention to Sunflower, Sunshine's imp, who was just as small as Dewdles, if not a bit smaller -her large batlike wings and ears gave her a bit more mass- but it was hard to tell unless they were side by side.

Sunflower is a menace, too, largely because she can fly.

Yeah, apparently some imps can do that, though Sunflower seems more inclined to cling and climb, preferring to make others carry her than having to exert energy flying from place to place.

Still, he's a bit worried about her getting on top of or behind something and getting stuck should she decide to do so.

She probably won't.

He hopes.

And lastly, the small wisp of cloud in the very back of the carrier, glaring at him like an angry little lamb, is... Cirrus Jr.

Swiss can mock the others' naming skills all he wants, but, really?

Cirrus Jr.?

He knows better than to laugh about it to Cirrus' face though.

Cirrus Jr. is, quite possibly, the angriest little imp Swiss has yet to encounter.

She's a bit like one of those puffy lap dogs.

Pomeranians.

She bites like one at least.

Swiss assesses the little collective in front of him and then, sighing, takes the carrier inside his room, carefully shutting the door and latching it... because, yeah, the little assholes can work doorknobs.

There's not much imps can't do if they put their walnut sized brains to it, but, much like cats, they don't really have the ability to think things through beyond having the thought, "I've done the thing, now what?"

If they did, Swiss thinks the church would be sending them on the first bus back to Hell, but they don't, and, frankly, that much is apparent based on the little outfit Dewdles has on when he pulls him from the carrier.

Swiss has to pause looking at the pink, rhinestone embroidered shirt and attached tulle skirt, turning Dewdles' entire body in his hand to read the writing on the back.

"Grandpa's Princess." Swiss reads aloud, flipping Dewdles around to meet his gaze.

"Copia bought this for you, didn't he?"

Dewdles croaks at him, giving him a wide-eyed stare, his little two toed paws swimming uselessly in the air.

It's cute.

Swiss sets him down on the ground, watching him waddle along, unsteady on land in spite of being amphibious.

Drizzle lets himself out of the carrier once he sees Dewdles roaming around freely, sidling up beside the smaller imp, bumping against him gently.

Around his long, long neck is a little bow that matches the tulle on Dewdles' skirt.

Swiss hums and shrugs at the pair and turns back to see Sunflower crawling along the floor, looking around warily before slinking over to climb his knee.

"What are you doing?" he asks, feeling her little claws dig into his jeans as she pulls herself up onto his thigh.

She squeaks at him.

Carefully, Swiss extends his hand to her, letting her climb on before resting her on his shoulder.

Probably the only high place he trusts her to be while under his supervision.

Unlike Dewdles and Drizzle, she doesn't have any sort of accessories, probably because they would impede her ability to fly in one way or another, but as far as Swiss is concerned, she's adorable enough without them.

Truthfully, Swiss finds all of the imps impossibly cute... he just.

He just has trouble being around them.

He's not sure why really.

He's not allergic, and he's not afraid of the per se.

He just...

There's some mental hang up that makes it hard for him to understand them.

Even though they can make little noises and communicate quite well, they're very difficult creatures to read, especially for Swiss, and he isn't sure why.

He's been around other animals, other people, but imps?

Imps are weird.

Or maybe he's weird?

It doesn't really matter, it just means Swiss has to pour more energy into figuring out what they want, and sometimes he doesn't have it.

Today, though, he's fine.

He thinks so at least.

Although as he stares down Cirrus Jr., who has yet to leave the carrier, he can't help but feel a little out of his element, and as a multi-ghoul that's certainly an accomplishment in and of itself.

But he decides that, if he has to, or rather, because he wants to, that he's going to get the fluffy ball of rage to like him, even just a little bit.

Glancing over at Dewdles and Drizzle wobbling and sniffing around his room in tandem, and checking on Sunflower where she rests on his shoulder -receiving a mirthful squeak when he pokes the top of her head- Swiss offers his free hand to Cirrus Jr.

She sniffs once.

Twice.

And promptly trots over to the door.

Ouch.

He'd kind of expected that outcome, he's just glad her decision didn't involve sinking her teeth into his hand.

Again.

For the millionth time.

Swiss sighs and shifts to a proper sitting position on the floor, sliding the carrier over to retrieve a bag from the back.

It's a little baggy of treats and other things the imps might want, like toys or...

"Is that another dress?" Swiss pulls out another little costume from the bag; An imp version of their current uniform, complete with little booties.

It's too big to be for Dewdles though, and Swiss has never seen Drizzle wear anything apart from the occasional collar, so whose...

Cirrus Jr.

Swiss looks between the imp and the aloof cloud sat staring at his door.

There's even a little cape.

Yeah, no, this is going on that imp right now.

"Little demon~" Swiss singsongs, tapping his nails on the ground to draw Cirrus Jr.'s attention.

She glares at him.

"Wanna play dress up? Huh?"

There's a flicker of... something... in the imp's eyes.

Swiss thinks for a moment.

"Wanna look like your mama? Huh? Do ya?"

Cirrus Jr. tilts her head and whines.

Her little tail moving ever so slightly.

"Who wants to look like a badass~?"

Tiny hooves click on the ground enthusiastically and come to paw at his shins.

"...Holy shit."

The ordeal of getting a tiny, tiny wisp of cloud into a full on costume takes Swiss a full ten minutes, if only because the outfit is, like anything commissioned by the church these days... incredibly layered and detailed.

"They sprung for real buckles and zippers and not just velcro, huh?" Swiss muses once he finishes tying the laces on Cirrus Jr.'s boots.

"I take anything I ever said about Dewdles being spoiled. You. You are spoiled." he says, scratching behind Cirrus Jr.'s ears, making her wiggle about and roll, "Yes you are, yes you are..."

"Mrrp."

Swiss shivers when he feels a wet, slimy mitt touch his pant leg.

Drizzle has, apparently, grown bored of following Dewdles around and has decided a nap is in order.

The only problem is, Swiss doesn't want a soggy, mucus covered imp in his lap right now.

"No."

If they were outside or in the pool, maybe, but the idea of his lounge pants getting crusted in snot in the process?

Not ideal.

"Noo..."

He doesn't get much of a choice in the matter when Drizzle opens his mouth, yawning widely to expose his practically toothless maw, and all but slides onto him.

"...Okay."

Swiss looks to see where Dewdles has gone without his buddy, and finds him...

Scaling the side of his bookshelf?!

"Dewdles, please-"

"Whrrr..."

"Please, bud."

"Mrrp, mrrr..."

Swiss tries to rise up from his place on the floor, but when he does...

"Mrrp!" Drizzle digs his claws into Swiss's thighs, hanging off of him and hissing irritably as his bed is taken away from him.

"Drizzle!"

"SQUEEEEE-"

All movement in the room stops as Sunflower cries.

Shrill and loud.

Directly into Swiss' ear.

Okay.

Okay, okay, okay.

Yeah, this is too much for Swiss to handle.

Why did the others think he could handle this??

He can't handle it.

He really can't.

He needs help.

Help.

"Stop."

Out from under the bed, shaking off a disturbing cloud of dust, comes Swiss' own imp.

Seldom seen or heard by anyone, even Swiss.

It doesn't have a name, Swiss hadn't wanted to name it to begin with, because it's...

"Behave."

It's weirdly intelligent, alright?

Swiss knows imps are good at mimicking sounds they hear.

But his imp is... it's weird.

It's like Mountain's imp.

Cursed in some way.

But different from the rest.

Even Mounty's imp has the excuse of belonging to, well, Mounty, to explain its odd behavior.

But his imp?

That thing scares him.

And the fact that it was sleeping under his bed this whole time?

It's no wonder he has so much trouble sleeping alone in his room at night.

His imp is shaped like a dog, but wrong.

Like someone tried to draw the animal from memory and made it flesh, with horns atop its narrow head and spines along its tail...

"Behave." it repeats, not to the imps but to...

Him?

Swiss points at himself and the imp just nods before slipping backwards under the bed, black eyes never leaving him.

"Sleeping."

Right.

Gathering up the imps back into the carrier, Swiss slowly flees the room, apologizing for waking the... the whatever the fuck is living under his bed, and heads down the hallway.

He sets up in the common room instead.

"...Right, so that was fucking terrifying." he says after letting the imps back out again, holding Dewdles and Cirrus' Jr. on his chest like a lifeline for his sanity.

Drizzle has curled up on the chair across from the couch, the one Rain likes, and is asleep.

And Sunflower is...

Hanging from the ceiling fan upsidedown.

Fantastic.

It's not on at least.

"Why are you torturing me?" Swiss whines, getting a mix of squeaks and chirps in response.

"You're all stressing me out."

"Mrrp."

"Squeak."

"Chirp."

"Snore."

Swiss lifts his head.

"Drizzle did you just say 'snore' instead of actually snoring?"

Drizzle chuffs at him lightly, sticking out his long, blue, froglike tongue at him.

"...If I didn't know Rain would be mad at me for losing you, I would throw you in the lake so fast-"

Drizzle raises his ears at that.

"I'm NOT throwing you in the lake."

Ears down.

"Mrrp."

Dewdles frees himself from Swiss' grip and drops down onto the floor, trotting over to the chair.

"Meep?"

Drizzle snakes his head down and grabs Dewdles off the floor, nestling him beside him.

They stare at Swiss disapprovingly together.

Swiss could be mad.

But then again, they are still dressed up like little matching nerds, so he just sticks his tongue out at Drizzle and turns his attention to Cirrus Jr., who has taken to sleepily purring at full volume against him.

Swiss yawns.

"The others better get back soon."

It doesn't take long for Swiss to drift off, feeling Cirrus Jr. go deadweight on top of him provides just the right amount of pressure for his body to relax, and the even breathing of Dewdles and Drizzle sleeping provides a nice bit of ambient white noise...

Sunflower chatters at him lightly from her perch, wrapping her wings around herself, taking the others cue and closing her eyes as well...

"Swiss?"

A hand jostles him awake.

He's not sure how long it's been, but when he goes to open his eyes he...

He can't see shit.

He brings a hand to his face and startles when he feels something soft and squishy resting there.

"Meep."

Ah.

Dewdles.

The imp flops off of his face when he rises, rubbing his eyes.

Rain is standing over him, Drizzle already having wrapped himself around his shoulders, "The imps wear you out?"

Swiss shakes his hand, stretching and yawning.

"Not at all, man..."

He looks around.

Cirrus Jr. is still asleep between his feet, and Sunflower is...

He feels something move on top of his head, in his hair.

"Can you...?"

He gestures to where Sunflower has tangled her feet into his curls.

"Mn." Rain carefully untangles the imp from Swiss' hair, letting her dangle from his index finger, "Were they all good? Five imps is a lot to take care of at one time..."

"Yeah, yeah, five is-" Swiss pauses, "I was only watching four imps."

"Oh, uh..."

"What?"

"Your imp...?" Rain gestures over the back of the couch.

Swiss peeks over the edge.

Laying firmly against the back of the couch, in an awkward sploot is his imp.

His imp followed him out to the common room.

Seriosuly?

"Fuck."

"Swiss Miss doesn't usually leave your room, I'm surprised."

Swiss looks at Rain.

"Swiss... Swiss Miss?"

"Oh, we also call him Marshmallow sometimes, or Chunky Butt, because he begs for food like crazy in the morning..." Rain hums, "You didn't know that?"

"I didn't know it even had a name."

Rain blinks at him.

"Don't judge me, I don't like imps!"

Rain gestures at the pile of imps surrounding him.

"They like me, not the other way around!"

Dewdles pats his face with his tiny paw.

Placating.

"...You don't count. You're practically a rat."

"Mrrp."

"Rats are cool."

"Mrr, mrr..."

Rain snorts, "Says the man talking to one like that."

Swiss flushes, embarrassed.

"Shut."

[foxdemon-loser]

okok

when the gang first started hanging out Johnny looked like, yk, Johnny. All scared and confused, and like a runt. TwoBit and Dally knows that’s just how Johnny is. Pony picked up on it pretty quickly too.

Darry, Steve and Soda however, think differently. Getting all protective of him when Two or Dally roughhouse with him. Johnnys confused, but thinks it’s funny.

do what you will

ohhhhh i love this

drabble:

summary: Two-Bit and Dally are roughhousing with Johnny and Ponyboy, Darry scolds them for it and Johnny and Pony are left confused

“Get back here you little shit!”

Dallas called out jokingly to Johnny, who just stole a pack of cigarettes from him as a prank, Ponyboy running too, Johnny and Ponyboy are laughing their asses off while Dallas speeds off after them in the park, Two-Bit holding a beer bottle in his hands and watching them run about, Two-Bit hollers, “Get ‘em Dally!” and laughs. Ponyboy, being the track runner, gets off easy, Johnny ain’t so lucky, and Dallas tackles him to the floor, wrestling the pack off him, not trying to hurt him of course, it’s all in good fun. Dallas grins, holding the pack of cigs triumphantly, Johnny lying in the grass, panting and laughing. Darry, watching in the corner, goes over, he folds his arms and pulls Dallas by the scruff of his neck off Johnny, “What’re you doing?! he barks at Dallas, who frowns. “We’re only playin’ man, i didn’t hurt ‘im, ain’t that right Johnny?” Dallas looks at Johnny, who’s still lying in the grass, Johnny looks at Darry and laughs, “I’m alright Dar. We’re only playin’, i ain’t a kid anymore, man.”

Darry sighs, helping Johnny up, “Aight, aight i hear ya, just be more careful alright?” Then Darry looks at Ponyboy, “And what’ve i told ya about stealin’?”

“Aw Darry it was just a prank!”

Dallas snickers and holds the pack of cigarettes, Two-Bit walks over and puts an arm around Dally

“Hey, Pony aint stealin’ it if Dallas’s got it.”

That earned a chuckle from Dallas and a small snort from Darry.

this was fun to write

reqs open!

[littledollll]

You’re so kind honestly I can’t wait to read part two.

What I keep thinking about since reading is:

Lucifer keeps his little a secret not wanting to out them about it. However not all the demons are so pleased about an angel running around that they can’t torture. One of them manage to upset the angel somehow and his angel slips into little space as a coping mechanism. Lucifer is then torn between comforting his little and caring for them in their state and punishing the demon who upset their angel. ~shy anon

Sweet little angel

(Pt. 2 to “Little angel”)

Lucifer Morningstar x little!angel!reader

Warnings: angsty but with comfort, description of violence, threats, Very very small reader, non/semi-verbal reader, crying, anxiety, very angry Lucifer, and very soft Lucifer with Reader

A/n: GAH I LOVE THIS SM thank you shy anon for giving me writing inspo, I need more little r with Lucifer in my life I’m so happy rn stop

Having Lucifer as your partner, and caregiver was better than anything you could’ve ever imagined. Things only got better since the day they found out about your regression, they confessed how happy it made them, how it would wipe away all their worries when they took care of you. You were precious to them in so many ways, but as much as they’d love to show you off to the whole realm they knew what came with being an angel in hell.

Despite their warnings you refused to be always locked up in the castle, so they complied with joining you on walks around the realm and visiting different places they’ve mentioned before to you. Nobody would dare approach you as you walked along side their ruler. You’d get harsh looks and the ocasional snarl or growl your way, which Lucifer would quickly punish with a simple wave of their hand the demon would be out of sight, to where you didn’t want nor need to know.

You wanted so badly to be able to walk those paths alone once, not because you didn’t enjoy Lucifer’s company but just because you wanted that sense of independence, like you didn’t need to always be protected. You requested to start going on walks with lower ranks, at first the demons were cautious, careful of the fact Lucifer could just be around the corner, the same attitude as always continued those days, they’d lose a hand by Mazikeen’s command.

They got brave after that. With the rare times you’d leave without Lucifer they knew only Mazikeen was there to look after you, they started getting chatty. “God gave them the runt of the litter” said a demon as you passed by, you ignored them. “we’ll get you alone some day” this one seemed to follow behind you. “You’ll regret ever stepping foot out of that castle, can’t go out without a guard, what? are you too weak?” And finally. “What is an angel if not a chew toy for us to tear apart.” The way that demon didn’t even see you as a being, how he was just waiting. Anxiously anticipating the day they’d finally get you. A chew toy he said.

You wanted to cry. You wanted to run into Lucifer’s arms and feel safe again. You grabbed Mazikeens wrist, your voice barely above a whisper as you tried so hard not to breakdown, you could feel yourself slipping. “I wana go home..” Mazikeen was the only one who knew, being Lucifer’s right hand meant trust and undying loyalty. She swore to keep you safe the second Lucifer confessed how they felt for you, and she swore to keep your secret the minute you confided in her enough to tell her. Lucifer would put their life in Mazikeens hands, that was enough said, you could trust her aswell.

She proved herself when in a matter of seconds you were safely back home, in your room and sat on your bed, while she busied herself with summoning Lucifer to you. You made no effort to move from your bed as you hugged one of your stuffies tightly and just cried. What was taking them so long?

Lucifer was explained everything once they met with Mazikeen, they were torn, that demon deserved to be punished, by their own hand, the demon would learn a whole new meaning of pain, they’d do it publicly, Lucifer decided, the demon would be used as an example to show what happens to those who even attempt to hurt you. Then be sent to eternal suffering, purgatory, for so much as looking at you wrong.

Lucifer heard your cries, and then their mind was made up, the demon would be taken care of later. For now, they had a much more important little one to focus on. Lucifer never liked to see you cry, sometimes you’d just be pouty or fussy, that happens to every little, but knowing it was caused by one of their subjects filled them with wrath, wrath that had to be pushed down for now. It wasn’t more important than you, and they couldn’t risk scaring you.

You practically jumped into their arms, stuffie in hand, the second they walked through that door. “My sweet angel.. what have they done to you.” You just cried more. “Thank you Mazikeen, we will discuss this later, you are dismissed.” Mazikeen only nodded and left. Lucifer made their way back to bed, arms wrapped around you tight as their hand soothed your back. Sure you’ve cried before but never had they seen you so distraught, and also, so small. You couldn’t get a word out as your cries were replaced with sniffles and you clung to them like your life depended on it.

Truly, Lucifer was at a loss, you’ve never regressed so small before, and nothing like this had ever happened, if you were big they’d openly admit the demon was going to be punished, but saying that to you right now would do no good. So they settled for comforting you, they let you cling to them and cry until all that could be heard was your struggled breathing and sniffling, then they held you even tighter. After a few minutes of silence they concluded they should probably say something, anything really, an apology was the first thing to leave their mouth.

“I’m sorry, my sweet little angel. I’m so sorry.” They took a deep breath hugging you close to their chest. Sure they were angry, but they were mostly heartbroken, to think their home, what was supposed to be your home as well caused you so much harm. Maybe it was just words this time, but what would happen if you were alone, or if more than one demon decided to target you, or you slipped before you could get away?

Their mind ran rampant before your small voice and hand over their heart brought them back. “fast.” you stated as a fact. You do that a lot when you’re small, they always found it so adorable. Lucifer only nodded. “Are you alright, tiny?” You shook your head burying it into their chest again. “Tiny hurts” yeah. Heartbroken was the word of the day. “Luci’s going to make sure that demon isn’t mean again okay? I won’t let you get hurt, tiny.” You held up your pinky looking up with teary eyes. This time they immediately laced their own with yours and kissed your hand.

“I pinky promise, my little love, nobody’s going to hurt you again.” your breathing was mostly getting back to normal and your sniffles stopped, you nodded and shuffled up. “What’s wrong, tiny?” You gently grabbed their face and gave them a little smile. You let out a little “Mwah!” as you have them a kiss on the forehead and handed them your stuffie. “Well thank you, little one, what’s that for?” They said as they hugged the stuffed animal close. You placed your hand back on their heart. “luci hurts” Lucifer sighed, a smile on their face as they replied. “Well I’m all cured now, thanks to you. What did I ever do to deserve such a sweet little angel?”

[marc--chilton]

hey, i’m usually not into mgv stuff because it squicks me very quickly but the way you write it is really cool and interesting! i read your post about house and wilson ending up having a pup because he partially blamed house for not being a parent yet (and also both of them have secretly wanted it for years), and that’s the exact type of risky and angsty that i could see them going with (especially with like, the initial feelings of rejection and wrongness because it would take them a while to get the romantic stuff going on). however, as a lighter but not any less insane counterpart, i want to know your thoughts on them ending up with a pup because of one of their stupid bets where they both secretly hope for that outcome. and then when the results of the bet are in they have separate crises about it <3

aww!!! i'm glad you're having an unexpectedly good time here <33

HONESTLY...... them ending up with a pup because of a bet or a prank is as feasible. like wilson makes a passing comment about his childlessness, house starts half-jokingly theorizing that with all the sleeping around wilson does, he should have had at least one runt by now so the fact he doesn't is probably because "your sperm gives up just like you do with every relationship."

"i don't 'give up' in every relationship."

"you don't. not with me." and house thinks about that for a second. gets this glint in his eye that foretells wilson that he's about to hear something worth institutionalizing for. "we're going run a test."

"i'm not giving you a sperm sample, house."

"good, i prefer the old fashioned way anyway."

"i'm going to regret asking but..... how?"

"my next heat. i'll stop taking birth control, we're gonna go discovery channel, hump each other raw, and if i don't come out of it knocked up, we'll know where the problem lies: in your balls. and i'll get to make fun of you forever. and if i do, then congratulations."

wilson's gone scarlet at the thought of breeding his best friend but still manages to snark back, "like you're in pupping prime yourself!"

and house just glances down at himself -- middle-aged body, bum leg, cane -- and shrugs, not quite looking back at him when he replies simply, "i've been pregnant at worse times."

the infarction. stacy. he'd been thinking about it in the back of his mind but wilson still reels back on hearing house bring it up. he can count on one hand how many times house has talked about it, and wilson still has no clue how to navigate that minefield even after all these years.

but house just chirps, "see ya in my bed in three weeks!" and staggers back to his own office. wilson's face is hot when he puts it in his hands, miffed and drained and purring in the back of his throat and giddy with anticipation.

house, for his part, does his best in the time between their conversation and doing the test to ignore the instinct-riddled corner of his brain that intercepts every other thought at random points of the day, an excited reminder of gonna have a pup! alpha's pup! will they look like him? hope so. he'll take good care of us.

[yourpsychosomatic]

Whines & Whimpers

Kinktober Prompt #11 — CBT bottom!chan x top!reader Warnings: CBT, degradation, some bondage, Master/pet dynamic, anal fingering

on ao3 here!

You finally get to have a relaxing day off with someone you’ve been eyeing, and rightfully so; schedules have been hectic for the both of you and you just met this beefcake puff of a man off an adult dating app, each of you eager to see the other for the first time after weeks of trying to make plans.

(Plus the amount of back ‘n’ forth banter that grew into flirting and 18+ descriptions was…. let’s just say you could write a book.)

It was a wednesday afternoon, not that it matters, but in retrospect of tonight’s turn of events, you want to remember this day as if it was your last memory.

His forehead was already shiny with a sheen of sweat, a couple drops slowly beading, running down into his hair — and you hadn’t even fingered him yet. His arms — god damn, his arms — were tied behind him above his head, to the headboard, and the way they flexed any time you touched him made you want to cut all the ties and let him throw you around. …. But that wasn’t in tonight’s plans, let’s file that away for later. Today was a day for him — Bang Chan was his name and you definitely wouldn’t forget a name like that.

You rake your nails down his inner thighs and his whole body cowers, thighs quivering, whimpering past the rag stuffed into his mouth. He was oh so receptive, so submissive and pliant….

“Oh? You like that, pet? Does it feel good when I scratch up your skin?? Do you wanna bleed for me, would you?” A few more times your nails scratch his thighs, his toes curling, tugging on his restraints as his cock twitches in neglect. Chan’s cheeks tinge pink in embarrassment because oh god, he wants to say yes so bad, he wants to agree and be such a good pet for you but the rag in his mouth was preventing that — it was one of the rules, he can’t spit it out. Instead, he nods quickly in response, hips bucking against your palms.

Bad move.

You smirk and it all too quickly turns into a dark grin, cooing in mockery and shoving his pelvis back down onto the mattress.

“Gooooooddd boy, such a good boy~ Who’s my good boy?” Chan wasn’t really prepared for the praise to come with your hand whipping across his length, yelping into the cloth as you slap his dick a few more times. You pinch the foreskin together up and around his tip, waiting for his writhing to slow, his breathing to settle before opening your fingers and swatting just the tip this time. “Such a useless slut, pleasured by my abuse alone, you’re so fucking filthy.”

You use the other hand to squeeze Chan’s balls in a vice grip, sliding your fingers softly and ever so gently over the angry reddened head as he starts to writhe again. You watch, gaze a predatory smug, as his chest rises and falls with every pant, eyes squeezed shut.

Tsk, that won’t do either. You frown and flick his sack, his legs twitching in response.

“Open your eyes, pup. I wanna see them. Open.”

You swat his balls on the last word and he whines in protest, peeling them open as his brows knit together, glancing down at your hands warily.

“Good boy. Stay still, now.”

Chan’s soft panting fills the room as you pluck the slim nylon rope from between your legs, gingerly yet firmly wrapping it around his girth and sack. You tighten it ever so slightly and tie it with a cute little bow on top, humming softly as you work. The pup whines again, shortly, giving the bondage a confused once-over as you open one of the many packets on the bed and pull a condom over your finger. The runt knew very well what was in tonight’s plans, but it was as if all thought, all memory, had been wiped clean out of his skull with the harshest bleach. Doe eyes trailed up to your face, questioning sounds barely heard coming from the corners of his mouth.

As soon as Chan’s brain connects the dots, those chocolate brown eyes flood with recognition and lust and the endless whimpering starts up, staring with a fervor down at your hand. Very much like a puppy in the way that he wriggles in the bondage, tugging on his wrists, twisting and raising his hips towards that singular wrapped finger, eager, excited….

“No. Down.”

You frown again and smack his balls, jabbing your nails into the darkened red flesh to stop his hips and he concedes, shivering, quaking with need. A few dollops of lube later and you’re running the condom-laced finger around Chan’s rim, rubbing the liquid around generously. Your nails are still digging into his poor sack, and with even more pressure, yet the pup had relaxed so far down into the bed that he was crooning, sounding almost as if he were crying, trying his best to keep his eyes open for you.

But when your finger slips inside he can’t help himself. Eyes instantly roll back in his head, lids fluttering and closing in the softest bliss — if he didn’t have the cloth in his mouth his deep-set moans would be reverberating off the walls, echoing in your ears.

He should have known the bliss wouldn’t last very long, but it surely wasn’t his fault… he was distracted.

“What did I say…. you know better.”

A twist to his nuts left him squeaking, eyes flying open wide as he drools ever more into the rag, but he doesn’t try to close his thighs. In fact, he’s attempting to spread them more, asking with as much of a pleading look as he can muster, muscles in his arms seizing against the rope, whining like a bitch in heat.

“Shut the fuck up, stupid mutt. Would you rather I twist your balls all night long? Turn you into a seedless waste? And just who would you get to breed, then? Because it certainly wouldn’t be your Master.”

Chan quiets himself (though not without a bit of effort) and rests his head back against the few pillows propping him up, heaving a silent sigh as you work your finger around. The soft moans come back to the forefront as you press down and circle his prostate, neglecting his shaft again in favor of trailing your nails lightly across his lower stomach.

It was in slow moments like these where you loved to watch how submissives moved, how they writhed for you under your strong palms, what you did to them that made them arc into your touch — it gave you so much power and satisfaction knowing you could mold someone so large into the smallest pet.

And it seems as though Bang Chan was becoming your favorite.

[saetoru]

MINI BREAK !!

i feel like every time i announce a break it so dramatic lolllll but anyway finals are around the corner so i’m taking a bit of a writing break so i will be not active on here for a few weeks. asks are off for now !! mwah 💋 kisses to liddol my runts and good luck to anyone taking finals and make sure you drink ur damn water 🔫

regular pinned post

[sparrowsage]

The Warehouse: Digging Up Old Memories

Buckle up, because this piece is something. I really enjoyed writing this piece, even if it is a giant emotional show lol. A huge shoutout and thanks to @flowersarefreetherapy for giving me the general idea for this piece! I hope I did it justice! And thank you to @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, and @whumpcereal for cheering me on as always!

HEED THE WARNINGS FOR THIS ONE!!!

TW: Minor whump (Jayden is 14), head injury, threatened noncon drugging, implied noncon (off screen), threatened noncon, mentions of past noncon and torture, implied future noncon, character death (off screen), suicidal thoughts, adult character referred to as 'boy', adult language, heavy grieving ((If I missed anything, please tell me and I'll add it!))

“No, I’m sick of doing this shit!” Jayden yelled, stepping back from Logan as the Keeper moved in closer, towering over the teen. “You never stay true to your word! I can’t let you stand by and hurt Sparrow after I’ve done everything you’ve asked me to do!” 

Sparrow stared at the two of them, wide-eyed as fear grabbed hold of him. Sure, Sparrow’s challenged the Keeper’s here plenty of times, but that was because whatever ended up happening would happen to him. Jayden fighting back like this? All for his sake? It was thoughtful, but he couldn’t handle the wrath of the Keepers. 

Logan backed Jayden up against the wall, his hand shooting forward to the kid’s neck, taking hold of his throat in a tight grip just shy of suffocating him. 

“I’d be real careful about your choice here, boy. That piece of shit over there doesn’t deserve a hero, let alone a scrawny one such as yourself. Everyone always comes to the realization that they can’t escape this fate, one way or another. It’s easier for the both of you if you just follow my orders. So what’ll it be, pretty boy? Are you going to show me and the bastard here how much of a good listener you are and suck me off or are you going to continue your little defiant act thinking you can best me?” 

Jayden’s hands were around the Keeper’s wrist, doing his best to try and scratch Logan in an attempt to get the hand off his neck, but it wasn’t working. He was too weak. At the question, Jayden stared right back at Logan, his expression sharp enough to cut diamonds. 

“Jayden, please-,” Sparrow tried, on the verge of getting up from his spot against the wall by the door. Logan had told him to stay put and that if he moved, he’d force Sparrow to watch the worst Showing he’d ever put Jayden through. 

“Shut up, runt,” Logan growled, his head turning slightly in Sparrow’s direction. “He has to make this decision on his own.” 

There was silence for a couple seconds and Sparrow could feel the anger rolling off the both of them in waves. 

“You and this whole place can go rot in hell. I’m not following another one of your stupid orders just because you think you deserve respect,” Jayden finally spat, bracing himself against the wall before kicking his foot out, his heel landing a direct hit to Logan’s crotch. 

The Keeper could hardly brace himself before Jayden’s foot connected with his crotch, Logan doubling over for a moment, his hand never leaving Jayden’s throat, before a loud, angry scream erupted out of his mouth. 

In a fluid motion, Logan used all the strength he could muster and lifted Jayden by his neck and threw him to the left over by his desk. Sparrow watched on in horror as he saw the fear and terror flash across Jayden’s eyes as he went flying before the back of the teen’s head connected with the sharp corner of Logan’s desk. He crumpled to the floor as Logan doubled over again, letting out small groans of pain. 

“Jayden!” Sparrow shouted, his body jerking momentarily as he went to get up, but remembered Logan’s threat from earlier, causing him to stay in place. 

He wasn’t getting up and there was blood leaking out onto the floor. Sparrow couldn’t tell if he was breathing. 

“Jayden, get up!” he cried out, Sparrow’s whole body frozen in fear. 

“Shut the fuck up!” Logan yelled, his head turning sharply to look at Sparrow. 

“No, please, he’s not getting up!” Sparrow pleaded, his fists white with how tight they were balled up. “Please, I’ll do whatever the fuck you want, just take him to the medical ward, please!” 

Logan chuckled slightly as he was finally able to stand up straight again. “Oh, you think a bit of pleading will convince me to get him treated? As if. The little shit deserved it, thinking he could fight back like that. Besides, you stupid mutts always seem to recover. He’ll be fine come tomorrow.” 

Instead of continuing on with what he had planned, Logan gave one last look to Jayden and Sparrow before deciding to leave his office. There’d be time to do things with them later. 

Sparrow let out a snarl as Logan passed him to leave, waiting for the door to shut before he rushed over to Jayden, his hands hovering over his body, afraid that a single touch would make his friend crumble into dust. 

#####

“No, you have to let me stay with him!” Sparrow shouted, desperately trying to fight his way out of Josh’s grip on him. “Let me go!” 

“You’re scheduled for a Showing and there’s no way you’re missing it,” Josh growled, his grip seeming to get tighter the more Sparrow fought. “He’ll be fine and you’ll get to go back to the main room and see him once the Showing is over.” 

“No, he needs me to stay with him since you fuckers won’t take him to the medical ward! Let go of me!” 

Josh stopped trying to drag Sparrow forward and out of Logan’s office, instead pulling him in close with an iron tight grip on both his wrists. Their faces were mere inches apart and Sparrow could feel the warmth of his breath. “I won’t hesitate to inject you full of muscle relaxers, boy. You know as much as I do that you’ll do anything to fight back during these things, so do you really want to give up being able to move all because you want to sit by your little friend?” 

Sparrow’s body froze at the threat, his eyes going wide for a moment. Josh was right, he couldn’t go through a Showing drugged up like that. He’d have no control (not that he did during Showings) over anything. He couldn’t get injected with that stuff. 

Josh smirked as Sparrow stayed still, finally continuing towards the door to the office. “That’s what I thought. Once it’s over, you’ll be able to spend as much time with the little runt as you want.” 

#####

Sparrow wasn’t proud of the Showing he just went through. It had to have been the most compliant he’s ever been during one, but he didn’t want it to be dragged out. His only thought and priority was getting back to Jayden to make sure he was okay. 

Josh had been surprised with how compliant he had been, as was the audience that showed up to watch. It was utterly embarrassing, but he didn’t care enough to not do it. He would have been the most compliant pet in the entire facility if it had meant getting out of that Showroom faster. 

Once the Showing was done, Josh walked him back to the main hallway before leaving him there to do his own thing. The moment Josh left him, Sparrow started running to the main rooms, his heart rate picking up as he tried to get to the room as fast as he could. 

Sparrow was almost certain Logan would have moved him out of his office during the Showing, so the most logical place to put him would be one of the main rooms. That, or Jayden had woken up and Logan kicked him out of his office and he made his way to their spot in one of the main rooms. If Sparrow didn’t see him in there, he wasn’t sure what he’d do. 

When Sparrow finally made it to the doorway that led into the main room he and Jayden usually ended up in, he scanned the entire room, trying desperately to locate his friend. His anxiety was starting to climb with each face he saw, none of them being the young teen before his eyes landed on a figure in the corner where Jayden and him sat most of the time. 

He was there, sitting in his normal spot, looking completely fine. Jayden was waiting for him. 

Sparrow did his best to make it over to the back corner of the room, nearly tripping over several pets as they tried to sleep or just pass time, not even bothering to let out any kind of apology before making it over to his friend. 

“Jayden!” he called out, falling to his knees in front of his friend before embracing the teen in a tight hug. 

“You’re okay! You’re okay, you’re okay, you’re okay,” he said, his voice going quiet as he spoke, letting things sink in. His friend was okay, he was alive and that was all Sparrow cared about. 

“Of course I’m okay. Do you really think a bump on the head would keep me down?” Jayden joked, hugging Sparrow back. 

Sparrow pulled back slightly, his hands still on Jayden’s shoulders, afraid that if he let go, Jayden would disappear. “It’s just - you collapsed once your head hit the desk, a-and Logan refused to bring you to the medical ward, and then I was dragged off for a Showin-”

“Sparrow,” Jayden interrupted, his voice a bit firm, “I’m alright, I promise. I can’t die that easily. Besides, we promised each other we’d find a way to escape this place some day. I can’t go back on my word, now can I?” 

Sparrow wiped at his eyes, tears starting to form. “I’m just happy you’re okay. And you’re right, we are going to escape this place one day. Just please don’t go pissing off any more Keeper’s. Leave that to me, I can handle it.” 

Just then, the entire main room started to fade out, a black abyss surrounding the two of them. Sparrow didn’t even notice, his entire focus was on his friend. 

Jayden looked at Sparrow with a soft smile, his head slightly tilted to the side.

“I know you can. That fighting spirit is what’s giving me hope that you’ll be able to make it out of here alive. If you hold onto that, you’ll be able to escape. Just keep fighting. For the both of us.” 

Sparrow faltered a bit at that. “W-wait, what do you mean by that? We’re going to get out of here together.” 

Jayden didn’t answer, continuing to give Sparrow that soft, warm smile that he cherished so much as he slowly faded away. Before Jayden was completely gone, Sparrow reached forward, trying to grab hold of him before he fully disappeared, leaving Sparrow alone in the dark abyss.  

#####

Sparrow woke with a jump, jolting up from his spot on the floor of Damon’s office. Looking around the dark and empty room, Sparrow couldn’t see Jayden and was a bit confused, but mostly worried. 

Where was he? Jayden had just been in front of him a second ago. He wanted that back, he needed it back. 

The more he woke up though, the more things finally started to settle in. 

Four days ago, he had been brought back to the Warehouse from his two week stay at Volkov’s island, having gone through his ‘welcome home’ Showing yesterday. Two months ago, Damon had been put in charge of training him, starting up a brand new hell for him to navigate on his own. Five years ago, the Keeper’s gave up trying to train him because he was deemed a lost cause and couldn’t be trained, instead just using him as a free-for-all and overall enjoying causing him pain, discomfort and humiliation. Seven years ago was when he had watched Logan give his one and only friend a death blow and then later finding out that Jayden had died all alone while he was in a Showing Josh forced him to go through, unable to be with him in his final moments to make him feel safe and loved. 

As reality came crashing back, Sparrow couldn’t help the gut wrenching sob that erupted out of his throat, the pet clutching his hands close to his chest as he curled into himself. 

Ever since it happened, Sparrow had done all he could to repress that memory to the point that he couldn’t remember it at all. All he chose to remember was that Jayden died. Everything else, how it happened, the look of fear and terror right before his head connected with the desk, how much he tried to fight back as Josh dragged him off to the Showing, Logan’s fucking taunting once he finally told Sparrow what they did with Jayden after he died, he wanted to forget and never remember. 

He had no idea why the memory resurfaced. It had been so long ago, yet now he could remember every detail clearly, as if he were reliving it in full. It was the worst pain he has ever felt and would probably ever feel. And what made it worse was that his head went and twisted the events, giving him the false hope that Jayden was alive and fine. But Sparrow could never see him again. 

After a couple more minutes, Sparrow wiped the tears from his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. It had to have been close to morning, if he had to guess, and Damon would be here soon to put him through another day of hell. If the Keeper walked in and saw him crying or saw the evidence that he had been crying, Sparrow would never hear the end of it. 

Before he could put a cap on his emotions, he felt another sob bubble up from his chest and before he could stop himself, he reared his fist back, sending it straight towards the wall beside him. The wall stayed intact but Sparrow let out a loud shout before biting his tongue, cradling his hand. 

Why couldn’t one of these guys have killed him too? Why couldn’t he have had the peace that his friend had? All he wanted was to be with Jayden again, because he was the only one that made this place bearable. His smile and laugh lifted his spirits no matter how he felt and his presence made Sparrow feel safe, even though there wasn’t a single thing either of them could do when the Keepers came for them. If he didn’t have that, if he didn’t have him here, there wasn’t much of a point to keep fighting. 

The pain that now pulsed from his bleeding and possibly broken hand acted as an anchor to the real world for him and Sparrow was able to stop the tears from falling, taking in a couple deep breaths before he felt like himself again. Damon would probably point out his hand when he came in later, but right now, Sparrow didn’t care. If Damon was overly concerned about it, he’d get it looked at because unlike Logan, Damon wasn’t going to sit by and have a wound that looked serious enough unchecked. Sparrow had no doubt that the Keeper wouldn't let him die before he himself molded Sparrow into the perfect pet. 

Taglist: @mannerofwhump, @honey-is-mesi, @painful-pooch, @whumperfully, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @flowersarefreetherapy, @goronska, @blueyellow8green, @oddsconvert, @darkthingshappen, @whumpcereal (if you want to be added, let me know!)

[edwinspaynes]

give us those Thomas hcs please! he is high school era me fr

YEAHHHH OKAY Alexa cue Hey Stephen

Some of these are just Funny and Cute things that I want to have happened while others have canon basis

Thomas followed Alastair all over the school. A LOT. To the point that Matthew was calling him a little marble that rolls wherever Alastair is. He's standing in the corner of the room talking at Alastair after Clive dies, and they're the only two people there. It seems to me that Alastair did notice Thomas, and per Cassie, Thomas was one of the four people Alastair liked pre-ChoG (along with Cordelia, Sona, and the redhead). But "I didn't see you" and "you were just some boy" make me think that Alastair was like "okay this runt is following me around again but he's kinda sweet and a little earnest and is nice to me so. I like him" and just rolled with that. But Thomas was gone. Totally smitten with Cupid's arrow. And cue all sorts of opportunities for funny interactions.

Thomas keeping his journal about his daily activities and referring to Alastair only as "A". You know, to protect his privacy in case the metaphorical pink glittery lock is broken.

The journal also includes some bad early childhood poems about Alastair.

Thomas's internal monologue was basically the same now and then, though back then it was more innocent and just lacked the horniness. It was just the wholesome bits (that are still copious).

Thomas constantly tries to converse with Alastair and sometimes succeeds. When they talk, it's the highlight of both of their day even if they're not friends.

Thomas has dreams about kissing Alastair regularly. If you want more of this you can check out @vwritesaus fic what's in a kiss. Literally my comfort fic i read it like every week.

Thomas doodles "Mr. Thomas Lightwood" in his journal while thinking about Alastair. Alastair finds it and is largely confused why he's doodling his own name, but hey, alright.

He's also definitely doodled their wedding invitation.

Thomas does things like trip over his own feet and fall up the stairs when Alastair appears. Alastair doesn't get why but finds it endearing.

Not really a headcanon, but Thomas liked Alastair's teasing because he thought it was bold and daring. Matthew notes this in CLS, but I think it's why Thomas loves him so much. He respects it.

After a while, Alastair picking on Thomas becomes something of a joke between them. "Pipsqueak" is a good natured nickname.

Thomas and Alastair get paired up for a project once. They divide the questions in half and copy each other's answers because Alastair "isnt going to talk to the likes of him." But they sit together in a companionable silence the entire time and it's very comfortable, 0% awkward, and neither of them understand why they're so at peace. (I might write this fic sooner rather than later.)

Alastair primarily targets Thomas because he's friends with James, but he also does so to protect him from worse bullying/abuse at the hands of his vile friends of yesteryear. This may or may not be subconscious.