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kneelingshadowsalome · 1 year ago

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I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.

Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.

@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!

Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader Word count: 5 k oneshot Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3

EDIT: PART 2 HERE

The screams are the worst part.

They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.

Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...

And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.

Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.

Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.

You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.

Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place.

And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.

Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.

The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.

There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.

So, Theseus is dead...

So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.

Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.

You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.

You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)

And your luck is cursed.

The beast shifts.

You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.

“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay.

“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”

He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.

Don’t blow out the candle...

If you blow it out, you’ll die.

It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages.

So you still your breath and wait.

Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue.

And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox.

The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots.

The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.

“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom.

His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.

The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger.

He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…

“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.

And you believe every word he says.

Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.

A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.

Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?

Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.

“I know.”

Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.

But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious.

Why would you say that?

Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?

The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.

There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion.

There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass.

“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.

“...What?”

The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you.

“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”

His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.

He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.

“You think talking will save you, female?”

He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.

But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.

“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”

“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.

And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile.

Why would anyone want to stay here?

You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur?

Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…

“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”

You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you.

“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”

It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.

And the beast accepts.

“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly.

Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.

But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you.

“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.

“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”

He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.

Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?

“You’ll lead me to my father.”

His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.

And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears?

“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”

You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat.

Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to…

The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.

And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels.

Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.

He also wants to touch you.

A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.

He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats.

You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use.

Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?

“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want.

Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man.

“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”

He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone.

Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out.

“Priestess…?” He rasps.

“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”

He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.

“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”

He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand.

He wants you to guide him to his father.

To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.

The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.

“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”

“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”

You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years.

“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”

It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.

If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens.

“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”

His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you.

The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.

“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.

The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.

“Sound like a virgin…”

Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.

“Feel like a virgin, too.”

It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is.

No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.

But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh.

How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out.

You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.

And you’ve gone mad, surely.

You want to touch him too, just to test another theory.

Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.

He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand.

And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission.

Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm.

If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...

In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be.

“So do you, Bull of Crete...”

His gaze flickers.

The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.

It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.

He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…

“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”

You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.

“You must promise to be kind to me.”

“Kind...?”

“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”

Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.

“But... You smell like you want to fuck.”

Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.

“I don’t–How would you know that…?”

The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.

“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”

“That doesn’t mean I want to…”

He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.

You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick.

“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”

The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.

Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...

And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.

“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.

“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.”

You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.

You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.

“Lead the way, maiden.”

#könig x reader #könig x you #könig x fem reader #konig x reader #könig #könig cod #konig x you #cod konig

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audreyscribes · 8 months ago

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do you think Ariadne accepts Dionysus's children as hers too? She is very loyal to her husband, so I only see Castor, Pollux, Dakota and any other child born to Dionysus being automatically "adopted" by her too or "I'm going to mess with my husband (⁠ ⁠╹⁠▽⁠╹⁠ ⁠)" and claim his children as her right after him do the announcement (poor kid)

i.g:

Dionysus: this one is mine, don't worry *see the sign in the kid's head* ... My grape!

(they're both extremely cute together and the kids suffers with this)

Oh yeah, I can imagine that being the case. Between her and Dionysus when Ariadne was still mortal, apparently they had a lot of demigods; so in terms of demigod children, she probably understands this is just him being a god and still loves her greatly, so it’s just probably filling a need once in a while; why else we see only a literal handful of Dionysus demigods.

So yeah, I can imagine Ariadne accepting Dionysus’ demigods as her own in a way, much like Poseidon’s godly wife, Amphitrite, being very cool to his demigod children. Heck, Amphitrite made cookies for Percy! So it’s not out of the question.

Thus insert the amount of godly shenanigans just between this husband and wife that the Dionysus’ demigods are subjected to. It's also been confirmed by Percy that Ariadne has a strange sense of humour, so yeah I can see that scenario happening a few times, which is practically all the time

What’s also nice to know is that Ariadne is the Cretan Goddess of Labyrinth and Paths, right before she was absorbed into the Greek pantheon. So you can imagine there’s some connotations…afterall, if you’ve ever been in a Labyrinth before, you probably have gotten mad trying to get out…but most importantly, just imagine getting minor blessings or gifts from Ariadne, especially those that involve weaving because of her iconic magic ball of yarn, she is considered the goddess of weaving in a sense. Prepare to get a lot of blankets/quilts, sweaters and socks for Winter Solstice/Christmas from her. There’s also a stretch to say Ariadne is to connected to her roman counterpart, Libera, is a minor goddess of wine with chthonic attributes too, so like can you imagine seeing the floating grape floating above the kid’s heads, and people thinking oh Mr. D is straight up claiming them normally, and him inwardly sighing at his wife’s antics. So very, “MY GRAPE!”

It’ll be a very confusing but fun times ahead.

Thanks for the ask and I hope you have a nice day! ヾ(•ω•`)o

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hmslusitania · 7 months ago

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15 for timkon if you'd like! (“This is a lot, even for you.”)

“Oh boy,” Kon says, hesitating in the entryway to the microcave Tim’s claimed. When Steph and Cass had called him about it, he’d thought they were exaggerating. In Kon’s defence, Tim’s been on more than a few somewhat unhinged murderboard investigations in his life, and the girls’ claim that this is actually, truly, the most unsettling one he’s done, that he’s locked himself in a microcave and they’re not sure he’s been eating — and are absolutely sure he hasn’t been sleeping — had felt melodramatic in the way only Gothamites can get.

In reality, he thinks they might’ve undersold it.

“Uh, hey, buddy, whatcha doin’?” Kon asks, hovering over the piles of office document boxes that — jesus fuck, is that a LexCorp logo?

He finds Tim in the centre of the microcave next to the aforementioned murderboard, and then he kinda wishes he hadn’t. The focal image in the centre of Tim’s web of red yarn and blue yarn and green yarn and something that looks like yellow caution tape that’s been twisted into thread is… Kon.

Tim is hunched in gargoyle posture next to the murderboard, chewing on the wrong end of a pen while he stares at the board with eyes so far past unfocused and surrounded by such dark bags that Kon’s kinda a little surprised Tim hasn’t like… toppled over and passed out.

At the sound of Kon’s voice, Tim spins on the balls of his feet and hurls the pen from between his teeth at him. Kon rebuffs it with his TTK and when the pen clatters to some scattered manila folders on the cave floor, Tim frowns.

“You’re… real?” Tim asks, lifting an eyebrow to inspect him. When he talks, Kon can see the dark spot of ink on his tongue that really can’t be pleasant to taste.

“Please tell me you haven’t been hallucinating,” Kon requests, and immediately regrets it because he’s really not sure he wants the answer to that.

“Um, n—just like the squiggles in the corners of your eyes when you’re sleep dep—why are you here?” Tim asks.

“Well, this is, uh, kind of a lot, even for you?” Kon replies, and hovers closer to the one working electronic in the microcave besides the flickering overhead light: the coffee pot. There’s nothing but tarry sludge at the bottom of the pot which is definitely contributing to the acrid scent of the cave, alongside Tim’s general state of being.

“Oh,” Tim says, looking back at the murderboard and then to Kon again. He seems to finally register that the subject of his investigation is now in his personal space, because his eyes go wide in addition to glassy. “Oh.”

“Any chance you’ll tell me why I’m the subject of this, uh…” Kon trails off, gesturing at the murderboard. Tim doesn’t write his tacked-on notes in any sort of way Kon can read. It’s not actually shorthand, not the official version of it, but probably some hybrid system Tim’s developed on his own. Whether or not it’s legible to other Bats is anyone’s guess.

“Um,” Tim says, and falls off the balls of his feet to land hard on his ass on the desk where he’s been perched. Based on the way he rubs absently at his knees and rolls his ankles around, Kon gets the impression he’d been crouched like that for way too long. “You’ve been, uh, exhibiting some… uncharacteristic behaviours? For about ten months now, give or take.”

Kon blinks. “I have?”

“Yeah, your sense of humour’s shifted, because you keep finding me funnier than other people in our group,” Tim says. He reaches for the pen he’d had in his mouth, like he means to use it as a pointer stick, and remembers at the last second that he’d thrown it at Kon to test his realness. Kon picks it up and offers it to him. Tim thanks him with a distracted, dazed expression, and then points it at the red lines. “And, um, you’ve been agreeing with me more? So, like, I know you haven’t been replaced by Match this time, because that was all about him trying to argue with me and divide our team. Also, you keep looking at me more when you think I’m not looking, I had to run through so many hours of security tapes.”

Tim points to some pretty damning screen grabs of security footage from the Young Justice HQ that kind of make Kon want to die of embarrassment.

It kind of sucks that Tim is so smart that he’s noticed all of this, but has also completely failed to put it together.

“So, what’s your conclusion, detective?” Kon asks.

“I don’t… know,” Tim huffs, and rubs the heel of his hand into one of his eyes like it’s about to give up on him and he needs to fight it into submission. “And I can’t think of what happened ten months ago that would’ve started a change in behaviour or—”

“Can I give you a hint?” Kon asks, swallowing down the nerves it immediately gives him, just to offer.

Tim blinks. “Wait, you’re aware of the change in behaviour?”

“Yeah, Tim,” Kon says, only keeping himself from laughing at the consternation on Tim’s face by the skin of his teeth.

Tim looks between him and the murderboard, a deep frown on his face. “So what happened ten months ago?”

“Well, eleven months ago, you told us you’re bi,” Kon says. He folds his arms across his chest and tucks his hands under his biceps to keep Tim from noticing them shake with nerves. Not that Tim’s really in a state to notice anything at this point. “And it took me about a month to do some soul searching and figure out that I am, too?”

The furrow between Tim’s eyes gets just a little deeper, like he can’t make the math problem add up. “But… if that’s it, then why are you looking at me like…”

He trails off, staring at the board for an excruciating enough length of time that Kon seriously considers just flying away and hoping Tim’s so out of it that he won’t actually remember this conversation.

“Wait, you like me?” Tim asks, face fever-bright when he looks away from the board to stare at Kon instead.

“Only kind of, like, a lot?” Kon replies, balling his hands into fists under his arms.

“Oh,” Tim says, and finally, to Kon’s relief, his face smooths out into a smile. “Cool.”

And, mystery solved, he immediately loses power to all systems, and slumps into a deep sleep. When he starts to topple forward off the desk like a marionette with the strings cut, Kon swoops forward to catch him. There’s probably a bed somewhere in this microcave, but if there is, it’s completely buried by Tim’s boxes of files, and Kon doesn’t want to dig. He cradles Tim in his arms and carries him out of the cave into the uncharacteristically pleasant Gotham evening, and when Tim burrows closer into his chest and murmurs, “like you too,” Kon can only smile.

#kon-el #conner kent #tim drake #superboy #red robin #timkon #dc #the ghost ship scribbles

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s7toru · 7 months ago

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“so, you’re going then?”

gojo looks back at you, throwing the other end of his scarf around his neck. you’d told him christmas eve would be cold and though something like the weather would never be enough to kill him, you fear touching his body and finding it icy.

his smile is bright, all teeth. “of course! i have to.”

you curl your fingers into the bedsheets where they still radiate his warmth and it's almost enough to convince you this was any other morning, simply watching your lover leave for work. but if this was truly any other day, you would be sure of his return.

“you look like you have something to say.” he notices. “say it.”

“i don’t want you to go.”

your confession doesn’t shock him. “personal feelings?”

though it had taken you courage to speak your selfish request, gojo dismisses it with humour immediately. worry spins the frustration in your stomach into red hot anger, and then cools into realisation.

he’s just deflecting.

you push yourself up off the mattress and walk over, reaching out to fix the scarf loosely hung around his neck. this wasn't a bad omen, everything will be ok.

“you look silly.” you tell him instead.

“you’re the one that insisted i wear this. it’s bright red, sukuna’s gonna see me from a mile away.”

“it only looks silly because you didn’t tuck it in right.”

you make slow work of the scarf, intentionally playing with the loose yarn on both ends between your fingers, feeling the memories woven into the material.

when gojo was sealed, your days bled grey. there was very little you remember of that time, those droning nineteen days, barely living and barely awake. the school couldn’t contact you, the ringer on your phone not any louder than the rushing thoughts in your head. moving through each waking hour with insincere actions, dreading the return to your static apartment though it was no better than surrounding yourself with friends. how come they were here, but he wasn’t?

and when fate graced you with sleep, you could almost imagine the smell of him, the feeling of his hair between your fingertips, the soft kisses he’d leave about your sleeping face, his annoying giggle as you aroused slowly from your slumber. your eyes would open yet when you wiped the sleep from your eyes, there would be no one there.

“do you think you could tie my scarf any slower?” gojo remarks, eying your masterpiece. “i wonder if it’s possible.”

“babe.” you sigh, sliding your fingers down to the hem of his shirt, fiddling with the fabric. “please, can we be serious for a second?”

his hand comes up and pauses over yours, scratching you with his calluses. “i don’t think i have time to undress right now, i’ve got to save the world and everything.”

you pause, leveling him with a stare. “hey.”

“okay, sorry.” he gives you a lop-sided grin, observing the sight of you looking so small and unsure. you hesitate your gaze around his eyes, fearful in finding what’s there. “are you worried about me? you know you don’t have to be.”

“i wish i wasn’t, it’s clearly wasted on you.”

“don’t say that like it’s a bad thing, you can use that time to feel something else. like immense gratitude that i’m your boyfriend.”

“i just know your arrogance will be your downfall.”

“since when were you a fortune teller?” he reaches for your hand and traces the lines on your palm.

“gojo.”

dropping it immediately, he places his hands in the air. “ok! i’m serious now, i swear. god forbid i make a joke.”

your eyes crease as you frown.

gathering the strength to confront him, you pull your eyes to meet his, intending to scold him for being so relaxed when your pulse was pounding in your head, but his gaze was as empty as the abyss. the corners of his mouth trembles slightly, hand seeking comfort by wrapping around your waist and the cold of his skin shocks you. before you say anything, his smile lowers into something sadder.

the sight pushes you over the edge and whatever mental fortitude you built against the fierce currents of reality comes bursting apart, tumbling just to wash away and he catches you in his arms, holding you in an embrace that’s far too fragile to belong to the stronger sorcerer.

gojo breathes in the scent of you cradled in his arms, eyes squeezed tight to forever engrave this very moment in his memory. if he was to die, he’d like his last thought to be you.

your breath shakes against hurried gasps. “this isn’t fair, i can’t lose you again, you just came back to me.”

his arms hold you tighter, pressing you into his chest. “you’re not losing me again, i promise.”

“liar.” you whisper. sorrow molds into hatred, not at gojo, but at the cruelty of fate to mismatch your timelines such that they never meet for long. “liar! you’re walking to your death and you know it! you think i wasn’t there when you came back practically a walking zombie? you had half your face blown of, and to a non-sorcerer at that! this is the king of curses we’re talking about, you’re, i’m—!”

it might have been better if he argued, if he told you that you’re wrong, but his silence stops you.

“i can’t lose you too.” you finally admit. when you close your eyes, the scene where all four of you still remain mocks you from afar. one by one, you feel their red strings cut away from your own, forever out of reach. and though you stayed working in the shell of where those memories once took place, the eerie feeling that things will never be the same again clung like a persistent ache.

“you won’t.”

“liar.”

gojo’s breath tickles your skin as he exhales. “i’m sorry.”

“tell me i’m wrong.”

“you won’t believe me.”

your fingers dig into his clothes, enough to leave a mark. “tell me anyway.”

he kisses you on the top of your head. “i’ll be back.”

your reply comes through gritted teeth. “you promise?”

you feel him hum rather than hear it, ear pressed against his chest to listen to the erratic thumping of his heart.

“i have to go.” he kisses you again as if to lessen the punch to your stomach.

slowly, surely, you loosen your hold on him and pull away. the sudden lack of warmth is your first taste of his absence, and the smile he gives you is just as bittersweet. your hands find the ends of the scarf once more, looping it once and then once again around his neck, letting it hang loosely down the sides.

when gojo returns, his skin is just as cold, clammy even. you feel the slick of sweat as you wrap your arms around him, screaming your sorrows into the cavity in his chest. he’s still wearing that irritating smile on his face, the one you’ve woken up to so many times before, but the sound of his laughter is a memory you won’t relive again. his palms still spell out his love life, of a short passionate affection that forks suddenly, one line longer than the other and your fingers can still trace the calluses lining his hand. he’s as you remember, exactly as he was the morning he left you.

when gojo comes back to you, he’s still wearing red around his neck.

#gojo x reader #gojo x you #gojo satoru #jjk #jujutsu kaisen #gojo imagine #gojo angst #gojo drabble #gojo satoru x you #gojo satoru x reader #try not to include sashisu in a fic challenge impossible #even vaguely they will live on in my writing

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dkniade · 6 months ago

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Some misc fic recommendations!

Teyvat scholar, Venti (ft. Traveler)

“Excerpt from the book ‘Brand New Verses From The Bard of Bards’” by threading_in_dreams (@/a-yarn-of-purple-prose)

G, 838 words.

canon-typical fragmented publication, Teyvat scholars have fun but also suffer, Poetry, pretend this is a book you picked up in-game, Traveler/Venti if you squint

Pages from a book in which a historian ponders about scraps of poetry found buried under Windrise, and argues they're part of Barbatos canon.

Very fun if you like Venti’s Archon/human personas, poetry, and piecing together information from in-game books!

Aether & Paimon (ft. Zhongli)

“Those who share the memories” by liminalpsych (@/liminalpsych-in-teyvat)

G, 3225 words. Fluff and light angst.

Aether POV, scrapbooks, memories, canon complimant, Pre-4.0 update, Liyue Harbor

Stone erodes beneath the fickle breeze and relentless river. Plants wither to be born anew. A flame burns to smoke and ash, and water changes form so often that it forgets even itself. The wind tries hardest of all to forget, fleeing into the far corners of the world to outrun the sands of time.

In the void above, the stars bear lonely witness to mortal memory.

Or: Paimon gets Aether to help her make a scrapbook of their travels. Aether reflects on the weight of witnessing.

Scrapbooking summarizes experiences with many NPCs from World Quests and Archon Quests. This one is kind of structured like an in-game world quest!

Cyno, Diluc, Rosaria, Kaeya

“It’s Time To Duel!” by StrangeDiamond

G, 6,688 words, humour.

Genius Invokation TCG, misunderstandings

When Sumeru’s General Mahamatra shows up in Mondstadt, announcing his intention to duel the Cavalry Captain, misunderstandings ensue.

Humour from knights and vigilantes taking things too seriously

Childe/Lumine

“A meteor” by blood_orange_juice (@/blood-orange-juice)

G, 350 words, fluff, character study/analysis.

Childe POV, First Meetings, morbid fluff, morbid fluff should be a genre with these two

A white-clad figure carefully threads her way through the crowd below. She moves like flecks of sunlight on water, without bothering anyone. A sign of someone who is fun to fight and it draws his attention for a while.

Childe and Lumine's first meeting from Childe's POV. No plot, only vibes.

Shenhe & Xiao, Cloud Retainer & Shenhe

“Like a Pair of Hunting Birds” by yelp

T, 5881 words, hurt/comfort, character study.

found family, trauma, feral child Shenhe, feral ancient Xiao, good and bad ways to manage emotions

"These were granted to me by Cloud Retainer," Shenhe explains, touching the ropes that he appears to be studying. "They bind away my murderous tendencies, as well as human emotion. Two dangerous traits for an adeptus, or for one who walks among them."

Xiao comes a little closer, and circles her. Obligingly, she lifts her hair aside, so he can see the intricate knotwork on her back, and he exhales a sigh or a scoff.

"Shall I unbind you?"

Xiao/Lumine

“Skin Hunger” by Mythicamagic

T, 2635 words, hurt/comfort, romance.

insecurity, intrusive and self-deprecating thoughts, some descriptions of violence and gore, body worship, established relationship, non-sexual nudity

When immortals fall in love with each other, they have all the time in the world to explore their relationship; but first comes the insecurities. Xiaolumi oneshot.

Has fun parallels with their wings

familial Diluc & Kaeya, Adelinde, Klee, Lisa, Jean

“blinded by love” by li2

G, 6481 words, hurt/comfort, angst with happy ending.

Kaeya POV, unreliable narrator, misunderstandings, temporary invisibility, familial kiss, fluff, skinship & physical touch, sharing a bed

Diluc suddenly becomes unable to see Kaeya. Thinking it’s just Diluc’s usual hatred for him, Kaeya doesn't suspect anything wrong.

Kaeya’s POV for the first half hurts so much but the second half is sweet😭

Lumine, Paimon, familial Diluc & Kaeya

“Lamp Grass Guides You Home” by StrangeDiamond

Gen, 6387 words, fluff, light angst.

souvenirs. Chapter 2 has brief mentions of pain, starvation, and violence

After scrambling to cobble together a gift before their Jade Chamber visit, Lumine gets the idea to start collecting small gifts and souvenirs, so she'll always have something to give if she needs to.

Kaeya is the first one she goes to for advice, and he has a lot of good ideas for things she can collect and make, using Mondstadt's regional specialties. He even tells her about a certain souvenir he was once gifted - a charm made of Small Lamp Grass, encased in resin, that he unfortunately lost when he moved. There's a bit more to the story, Lumine learns, when she sets out to make one for him to replace it. There's history linked to the charm Kaeya lost . . . but there are also new memories to be made going forward.

A sweet one about making and receiving gifts

Zhongli/Venti, Venti & Diluc (ft. misc adventurers)

“I need to tell him (I can’t tell him)” by asingleqingxin

T, 1949 words, angst, major character death.

Venti POV, mentions Istaroth, set during Chapter 1 Act I’s Rite of Descension, Venti doesn’t know Zhongli faked his death, misunderstanding played for drama, grief, dissociation, Venti loses grip on time period briefly

Oh, that's not good news.

He needs to tell Morax.

...he can't tell Morax.

When the rumors about the Rite of Descension hit Mondstadt.

Angst and misunderstanding from the canon event written from Venti’s POV in Mondstadt

#dusk rambles #fic recs #Genshin impact #genshin fic #genshin fanfic #genshin impact fic #venti #aether #zhongli #cyno #Diluc #Kaeya #xiao #Lumine #xiaolumi #zhongven #Chilumi #q

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raineandsky · 1 year ago

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#86

Being a hero is stressful. That much is common knowledge. How a hero goes about unwinding from said stress is a mystery no one has yet figured out.

The hero settles in one of the little chairs in the circle. The man next to her gives her a light nudge. “Let’s see what you made this week, then.”

The hero reaches into her bag to show off her latest stress relief—a giant blanket, knitted in the downtime between jobs, sporting a rainbow of colours in bright streaks across its face. Everyone oohs and ahhs appropriately before the rest of the circle gets to showing off their own creations.

It’s been nice to have a place that isn’t entirely consumed by work, the hero thinks as she nods approvingly at someone’s mug cosy. No worrying about tomorrow, no wondering where the villains might be.

Her gaze flits to the next person in line to show something off, and her heart momentarily stops as she meets her eye. At least she doesn’t have to worry about the latter of her thoughts right now.

What the hell is the villain doing at the hero’s weekly knitting club?

“Go on,” the woman next to the villain prompts. The villain huffs and makes a show of it, but she pulls out a cardigan with a ghost of a pleased smirk.

The hero only realised why she’s so self-satisfied when she catches herself gaping in awe. The villain’s little cardigan is elaborate in pattern, swooping waves lining its shoulders. The yarns meld together in a perfect cacophony of colour. It’s amazing, more amazing than anything the hero could do.

The villain soaks in the praise with a humble nod before setting her gaze on the hero. It probably looks hopeful to anyone else, but the hero can see the glitter of arrogance in her eye. Go on, the villain’s practically saying, tell me how great I am.

“It’s nice,” the hero says through gritted teeth, and the villain’s smile turns humoured.

The hero can’t leave fast enough. Everyone else is packing their projects away. The hero’s blanket gets folded thankfully easily and she’s out the door before anyone can stop her.

Fine. A new project. Something to advance her skills and show the villain that she’s not the hot shit she thinks she is.

It takes all week. The hero holds her jumper up to show the group. The villain raises her eyebrows from across the circle.

“Inspired by another knitter here,” the hero says with what could almost be sarcasm, and the villain snorts a poorly contained laugh.

The villain shows off her creation. A pair of mittens, the patterns lacy and the colours bright. The hero scowls. Pissed doesn’t describe the feeling.

Next week. A layered scarf from the hero. The villain wins everyone’s affections with a tiny knitted elephant. “For my niece’s birthday,” the villain says innocently. “She loves them.”

Leaving is becoming more of a race with each passing week. “Keep trying,” the villain comments brightly before the hero can escape. “You’ve plenty of room to improve.”

The hero considers strangling the villain with her scarf.

The hero settles at her computer that evening with a scowl and a cup of hot chocolate, mentally prepared to prowl the internet for several hours for ideas on how to one-up the villain. It’s madness. She’s meant to be out there kicking the villain’s ass, and here she is trying to out-knit her.

It’s been three weeks, and she’s only just realising that her stress-relieving hobby is suddenly a lot more stress-inducing.

“Fuck,” she hisses outloud, and she momentarily considers the idea of knitting the word into a coaster for the villain too.

#creative writing #writblr #writers on tumblr #writing #writing community #heroes and villains #hero x villain #i cant lie broskis!!! work is tiring!!!#ive been working basically fukn above my job title (yes i will be making a big point of this to my boss) and every day im KNACKERED #weve been filmin some stuff for promotional stuff and tho my boss is like 'yea ill sort stuff :)' ive done ALL the planning #its been fun but itll be nice for this week to be over (affectionate)#and i know i say this a lot and it never happens but the queue is genuinely short rn and i am mostly coming home and staring at walls #so if it runs out and things end up a lil late sorry! im just tryna remember how to be human

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cattolino · 3 months ago

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polar.

pairing: lee felix x f reader. genre: nevermore au, fluff, strangers to friends to implied lovers. word count: 1.8K

Main characters are adapted from Wednesday Addams (psychic) and Enid Sinclair (werewolf) from the TV series Wednesday.

(this fic has a minho x reader version on my insta @cattoleeno)

“You sure she’ll wear it?”

“She’d look so pretty in this colour!”

“That’s not what I’m asking.”

March 14th meant White Day.

And White Day meant reciprocal gifts.

For the umpteenth time Felix peeked at the salmon-coloured knitted jumper folded neatly inside a bright yellow paper bag, its thin handles casting an indented red mark on the skin around his left wrist as the result of the length of time he’d been carrying it around the whole day.

Hyunjin usually found Felix’s flamboyant nature exciting given he shared similar qualities, but the siren was worried that day. His cerulean eyes dimmed down a little in a reflection of his concern.

All because her, the very person Felix was about to gift the vibrant jumper to, had a profound affection towards everything in grayscale, prone to dark, to the point that if one took a peek at her closet, they’d only see a bottomless abyss of a black hole. Maybe a small space for whites and greys. And Felix, on the contrary, wore everything but the dreary shades of black and white where it got to the point that if one took a peek at his closet, they’d only see rainbows and unicorns.

She was nearly unapproachable. Or she didn’t let herself appear approachable. The psychic had a disembodied stitched-together hand called Thing on her shoulder—that everyone thought was cool and terrifying at the same time—as a sort of pet, she was especially given a black and grey striped uniform instead of the standard violet that made her stand out, and she spoke deadpan humour that oftentimes drove away most people.

Meanwhile Felix loved to be approached. The tip of his platinum hair was highlighted pink and blue, his socks were always of bright colours, and his werewolf pointed nails were painted in pastels.

If their fashion preferences and general appearances couldn’t tell enough already, they were also the polar opposites in terms of personalities. She inclined towards a small group of friends and was appealed to macabre. While Felix favoured the company of many and loved sparkly, radiant things.

Hyunjin couldn’t entirely hold him down, regardless. Because even though Felix’s curiosity about her had already started since the first day he had been admitted to the boarding school where she had downright deadpanned his choice of colourful pullover, it had never grown past mere curiosity until a month prior, on Valentine’s day, when he’d seen her closely for the first time again in a long while.

Felix remembered that one February 14th so vividly.

How her black-and-grey school uniform made its premier appearance in his periphery. How the whole class had gone silent as she placed down a massive box of chocolate assortments on his desk. How her flat tone was music to his ears, “I don’t know what you like. Just eat them.” How the brief gaze of her mesmerizing, dark irises combusted fireworks in his chest. How the heavy treads of her black platform leather shoes as she strided outside were followed by strained titters from her peers in the hallway. How Thing that perched on her shoulder flirtatiously waved him goodbye seconds before the last strand of her hair disappeared in the hallway.

That day was the day Felix began to believe in love at first sight.

Hyunjin had been the inevitable victim of Felix’s unending wonderment about her cryptic presence ever since. The siren had had to deal with balls and balls of salmon pink yarn every time he paid the werewolf’s dorm a visit and watched him knitting endlessly. Hyunjin just hadn’t seen it coming that the jumper was meant to be given to her. In hindsight, Hyunjin would’ve taken part in sabotaging Felix’s craft, too anxious for the werewolf’s wellbeing should his hard work be outright rejected and should it break his heart.

After all she was allergic to colours. And Felix was but the presence of colours.

“Just curious though, why orange?”

Felix turned to Hyunjin with a dramatic gasp, pointing at the rainbow pullover he had on over the striped violet blazer with his forefinger, specifically at the muted orange on one of the sleeves. “This, is orange.”

He shoved the paper bag onto Hyunjin’s face right against the tip of his sharp nose, “and this, is salmon pink,” the werewolf gave his tongue a disappointed click, “I expect more from an artist like you, Hwang.”

“So, why salmon?” Hyunjin scoffed, emphasizing the last word, “no offense to your preferences, but your colours would look dreadful and horrid on her. I’m currently imagining it and…” the siren scrunched his nose, “nah.”

“I’m imagining it and she looks lovely!” Felix chirped, his sparkly blue eyes roaming dreamily over the dark ceiling of the hallways above.

The Botanical Sciences class she was attending was just around the corner. Hyunjin’s sharp irises scanned the students in groups who had just marched out of the class in case she moved past coincidentally. “Just be careful she’s not necessarily—”

The familiar severed hand crawled across the paving stone floor, avoiding a horde of leather shoes, before it reached Felix’s polished one. Thing’s fingers drummed against the vamp of his shoe gently, pleased to once again meet the happy little werewolf, before slithering back away to its legitimate owner.

Felix squeaked out her name at the sight of a group of three students having just walked out of the class. He darted towards his target in a black quilted sweater over the dark uniform.

“...nice to anyone.” Hyunjin sighed, opting to wait behind one of the corinthian columns. He was not particularly fond of the psychic’s presence, too bloodcurdling for his irradiant nuance, he thought.

Beside her was Jisung, her gorgon friend who always had a beanie on his head to hide his snake hair, and Chan, her extremely attractive vampire friend that had charmed twice as many as a siren could ever have with their singing.

As if the sweet chirp of her name that rolled off Felix’s tongue wasn’t a distressing alarm for her to run off, just like how she would’ve if it were anyone else that called her name with the same sugary tone, she turned and patiently watched the werewolf’s little jumps approaching. Thing had apparently crawled back up to its rightful place on her shoulder by the time Felix stood there before her.

However her face slightly contorted in question and mild disgust when a bright yellow paper bag was shoved onto her chest, the first time any colour more vibrant than the boring shades of black and white ever getting so close to her allergic skin. She sneaked a glance inside and thought it was an odd pink knitted jumper. She raised a brow at Felix without a word.

“White day!” His face beamed with a radiant grin and eyes sparkled in unfaltering enthusiasm as he exclaimed.

“I didn’t get the chance to thank you for the chocolate last Valentine’s but I hope you wouldn’t mind that I shared them with my classmates including my friend Hwang Hyunjin over there.” He pointed at the tall boy who was standing stiffly against a pillar and a little too far.

She hummed, “oh, the ugly man of the night.”

“People genuinely want to be with him. He rarely sings to attract them.” Felix defended.

“You’d be surprised.”

Thing dawdled into the paper bag and tugged at the jumper, rubbing the soft fabric between its forefinger and thumb. Its palm faced her briefly before turning back to the jumper in confusion, as if calculating whether or not the colour would suit her.

“It’s pink.” She announced.

“Salmon pink,” Felix corrected, “works great with black and dark grey like your wardrobe.” Then he nodded at the paper bag, “dark tones suit you best but I do honestly think you’d look amazing in vibrant colours as well. Just for the accent, you know.”

“Looks like a rainbow vomited here.” She deadpanned.

“Looks like something you’d take out of your own closet. You made this yourself?” Chan asked with a wide dimpled grin.

Felix looked his way, noticing how the vampire’s usual crimson irises glinted softer, “mhm!”

“Looks like it’s reciprocated then.” Jisung chimed in, draping an arm over her shoulders to which the latter dodged right away with a single shrug and a glare of warning.

“Of course!” Felix confirmed abruptly, making Chan and Jisung choke on their own spits, “where I come from reciprocating Valentine’s gifts we receive is a form of courtesy and gratitude. Though it seems like White Day isn’t commonly celebrated here.”

“Did you get any more Valentine’s gifts?” She inquired.

“Nope! But I—”

“Good.”

Felix glanced at the screen of his watch when his alarm for the next class went off, having realized the nick of time he had before Werewolf Reproduction class.

“Well, I hope you won’t throw it away,” he grinned, “just return it and tell me if you decide it’s too hideous for you, I’ll knit you a black one next time! Bye, Thing!”

Felix waved them goodbye and skipped his way back to Hyunjin who had been waiting anxiously out of earshot.

🍫🍫🍫

The next day Hyunjin was waiting at the entrance of the quad as usual. Felix’s striped blazer swirled in a gust of the spring wind at his sides as he was sprinting across the field from the dorm, a navy ribbon tying his hair in a half ponytail.

They were running late for the first class of the day.

“You slept in again did—” Hyunjin was about to drape a hand over his shoulder but halted suddenly, his grin faltering, mouth agape at something—or someone.

Felix followed his gaze. But it was as if the sun had just shone a few inches over his head, he beamed. His lips dramatically curled into a broad smile, his eyes sparkled and his chest swelled in pride.

She was wearing a salmon pink jumper.

Perhaps it was because she was always inexpressive that it was fairly easy to notice the light shade of crimson that uncharacteristically tinged her cheeks and ears as she was drawing near. Thing hopped off her shoulder and onto Felix’s platinum head at the proximity, its fingers tickling the crown of the werewolf’s head, making him giggle.

“It’s hideous. Make a black one.” She deadpanned as a matter of factly and walked away without waiting for Felix’s response, mingling with Chan and Jisung who were giggling in the hallway.

“You’re not returning it?” Felix half shouted.

She didn’t say or do anything.

And Felix grinned.

He couldn’t be any more amused and satisfied.

“She’s right.” Hyunjin nudged Felix in the arm, staring down at the werewolf with a sly glint in his cerulean eyes, “she indeed looks hideous. But anything to keep her wolf’s smile, I guess.”

#skz fictions #stray kids #skz imagines #stray kids imagines #skz lee felix #skz felix #skz scenarios #lee felix imagines

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