#and so many others this cast is STACKED

[quitecontrarytv]

I got a review copy of Stray Gods: The Roleplaying Musical and made a video about my thoughts on it!!

[collectingthestars]

y'all should definitely watch this docuseries, i'm so serious

[dimension-20-every-introduction]

Everyone Introduced in Dimension 20′s A Court of Fey and Flowers episode 1

[baeshijima]

— hsr men in a royalty au

INCLUDES : blade ; dan heng ; gepard ; jing yuan ; luocha ; sampo + gn!reader

A/N : what started off as a duke!blade word vomit became a hsr royalty au brain dump. sighs. also once again pushing my knight!reader agenda bc the lack of royalty aus with knight!reader is criminal.

genshin ver.

imagine you're the personal guard for emperor!jing yuan, picked by his hand when he was still just a mere crown prince learning the ropes of what it meant to rule an empire. in truth, there's not much for you to do other than stand close behind when in public settings or indulge in his whimsical nature when in private and within the confines of the palace walls. in spite of that, you can't help but to wonder whether it's necessary to be his partner when he practises ballroom dances, despite never actually dancing in the banquets. well, who are you to question your duties, right?

there is no destination without a journey; jing yuan would know this best. having been thrust onto a pedestal from young, he's witnessed more types of people than he can count on his fingers: those who act nice in order to gain, those whose eyes cannot hide their contempt, those who are kind out of fear, those who act on behalf of others, those who hold respect without ulterior motives... he has seen them all. his view of the world grew dull, the predictability of those around him bringing only disappointment to the young heir. the days passed in a blur with nothing of note, other than a lingering emptiness which kept him awake at night and a passion which only emerges when sparring with his instructor. and so when he was told it was time to choose a personal knight after countless assassination attempts, he trudged through the halls with poise ingrained into his stride and a blank gaze reflecting his thoughts. but when he arrived at the training grounds to oversee the potential candidates his attention was immediately seized by another, his usually stagnant heart thundering. for the first time in his life, jing yuan discovered what it meant to want something as he watched you strike your training sword against your opponent, his world bursting into colours he never knew existed before then.

jing yuan sometimes finds himself envying those who can dance without care at banquets. he has an image to maintain in front of his people while you tend to be a stickler for this kind of thing, often refusing a dance in favour of maintaining your post. he supposes it's fine if you're both together, despite the numerous times he's imagined what it would be like to dance with you in front of everyone, as opposed to the privacy of the palace under the guise of “not becoming rusty”. but as he casts his gaze over to where you rest, having fallen asleep after a particularly thrilling game of starchess with your body tucked within the protective embrace of his ever-dutiful lion, he finds himself engraving moments like these into his memory and filing them away to look back on when nights to himself become a little too lonely for his liking. it's one of the many sides to you which only jing yuan has been privy to; one of which he takes immense pride in and vows to shelter from the danger which lurks around every corner.

(he will never let you know how your bright eyes is what set his once monotonous life ablaze in colour all those years ago — the aloof crown prince utterly besotted with a starry-eyed rookie knight. he will also never let slip how he still thinks back on the warmth he felt when you took his trembling, slumped form in your arms after he fought his stricken teacher all those years ago, the aftereffects of your touch still lingering on his skin even to this day.)

despite being duty-bound beside the impish emperor, there are times where you, too, are in need of some peace away from his scheming mind and watchful eyes. in these moments, you find yourself finding respite within the royal library built into the palace, a stack of books typically used as your makeshift pillow. and even if librarian!dan heng gives you a death stare from his designated place, you know he appreciates your company when he drapes a blanket over your shoulders and replaces the book pile with a cushion or two. although, you can’t shake off the feeling you’ve seen him from somewhere before…

for as long as he can remember, dan heng has always been on the run. from what? he’s not even sure anymore; it has been that long. it is but a mere shadow, a phantom which haunts him under the glowing sun and the gleaming moon. he can run — run until his body is weak and heavy with fatigue — but he can never hide, for it follows close behind and lurks around unseen corners. as unnerving as it may be, he has grown used to the chilling gaze and staying on edge. after all, no matter how far he runs, no matter how hard he tries to blend in, there is no escaping a shadow. maybe that is why he felt a churning sensation stir in his gut when he first met the emperor to discuss his newly appointed position as the librarian, whose gaze held an unfamiliar sheen of conflict veiled behind an amiable disposition upon making eye contact. amidst the eyes of the sun held a glint of familiarity, one which dan heng couldn’t put his finger on the longer he dwelled on the thought.

dan heng didn’t know what to expect when he first met you; you, the personal guard handpicked by jing yuan himself. with all the duties he’s sure keeps you busy, it wouldn’t surprise him if he never met you past the glimpses he catches here and there when in official spaces. perhaps that is why it came as such a surprise when you stumbled into the library one day, all bleary-eyed and attempting to stifle your yawns, and he could only watch in a daze as you pulled out a random set of books from the shelves, plop yourself down at the nearest table, set the books on the surface and slam your head atop the pile, your soft snores filling the once-quiet room. dan heng wasn’t sure how long he sat there staring at you for, but it was long enough to wake you up and inform you of the library’s closing hour when the day’s hues bled into the night. what he thought would be a one-time thing soon became a regular occurrence — a routine — and he has become accustomed to your unceremonious visits and wonderful laughter and draping the blanket he now keeps under his desk over your slumbering form and admiring your peaceful expression over the rim of his novel. it’s come to a point where he can no longer imagine a life without it; without you.

(sometimes he wonders whether you enjoy the time spent with him as much as he does with you, in which he cannot help but to compare himself to the emperor you have pledged your life and devoted your loyalty to. amidst those thoughts, dan heng finds himself hoping you would favour him over the shine of the empire’s revered sun.)

royal guard captain!gepard is someone you have always admired, ever since you were just a rookie knight trying to prove your worth amongst a sea of prodigal candidates like him. he is kind as he is strong, a formidable ally and a terrifying foe. however, you can't help but wonder whether you’ve done something to offend him, what with the way he sometimes avoids you if you happen to bump into each other amidst the palace grounds and speedwalks in the opposite direction with hasty apologies trailing behind him.

the landau dukedom. it is known for its military prowess and defending the borders, but infamous for the strict duke landau. as well-respected he may be by the nobles of the court, gepard only knows a strict man more like a superior than a father. it wouldn’t be a lie to say duke landau was just that; a superior — a teacher, one who viewed his children as either heir candidates or a foundation to bolster the territory’s military power. while it may be a strict method, the respect gepard holds for his father is undeniable, feuling his desire to make him proud and carry out his teaching in the name of the honourable landau duchy. he stuck to harsh training regimens, endured countless trials of tactics and wit, witnessed his elder sister begin to refute against their father’s suffocating hold upon returning from the academy, watched as she left the duchy to have control over her own life with a promise to keep in touch with him and their youngest sister. these moments were fleeting, passing in a blur until he entered the ranks of the elite, eventually promoted to captain as he remained steadfast in defending the borders.

it took gepard countless sleepless nights tossing and turning in his bed and a highly amused serval laughing at his predicament to finally understand his feelings for you. love was an unfamiliar concept to him. he knew of camaraderie between fellow knights (which was what he assumed he felt for you, but just a bit more… intense?) and familial bonds between family, so this new experience of his heart palpitating, hands clamming up, words stuck in his throat and an incessant heat clinging to his cheeks was unfamiliar, thus his avoidance. though that didn’t sit well with him, as a longing ache only seemed to replace it instead. and so, despite the apparent awkward flair his body language carried, gepard decided to follow his heart when it came to matters pertaining to you. he quickly came to discover your likes and dislikes, your miniscule habits when practising swordsmanship, the subtle cues you display when uncomfortable, the smile you showed upon seeing something you liked and the grin you displayed upon besting him in a duel. they were all segments which made up the very being you are, and the pieces which fit within his heart to establish this newfound love he holds for you.

(as your direct superior there are many things he notices when watching from the sidelines. among many, the one which stands out are the eyes which follow you — some gaze at you with envy, others regard you with awe, but there are a few which regard you in the same adoration he does. love and jealousy were never something gepard thought he would experience; not until he met you.)

with your role as one of the empire’s royal knights and the emperor’s personal guard, it comes as no surprise to be inflicted with injuries of varying severities. as a result, you are well-acquainted with royal physician!luocha through your numerous visits. you’ve come to find his pleasant visuals and soothing voice does wonders to heal your fatigue, even if he does tend to go a little overboard in his lectures when you come to him with less-than-fine wounds.

being able to wield elements and being able to use divine powers are two different things; one is widely accepted, the other is not. at least, that’s the case in the xianzhou empire. those born with the ability to use divine powers have fled into hiding, unwilling to be outcasted — or worse, executed — for being afflicted with the cursed power of the divinity. as such, having lived the majority of his life in concealment, luocha is no stranger to hiding his abilities. curse or blessing, it’s an irrevocable part of him. still, he didn’t want to stop helping others the way the nature of his powers could. and so he resorted to learning medicine. he soon became a renowned travelling doctor sought after for his vast knowledge, all of which garnered the attention of the emperor when he stopped by in the capital and was offered the position of royal physician. with little drawbacks, handsome pay, and a grand place to stay without needing to be on the run, luocha accepted and became the sole royal physician of the empire.

there was very little luocha found himself to be afraid of. with no one but himself to rely on, he’s crossed many bridges on his own without care. there was no need for such sentiment in survival. or so he thought. in all his years, luocha doesn’t think there was anything more terrifying than the day you were rushed in by a frantic jing yuan, your complexion sickly and covered in sweat and breathing laboured. as it turned out, you were poisoned, having drank it in place of jing yuan upon sensing something suspicious. he doesn’t recall anything making his heart drop as quickly as the situation then had, his mind blank yet frantic as he forced the panic-stricken emperor out of the infirmary and laid you on one of the beds. your symptoms were dire, he noted, and there was nothing in the cabinets suited for this kind of quick-acting poison. your condition was worsening, a pained furrow of your brows and haggard appearance being clear indicators. a bright glow then illuminated the room, and luocha came to the belated realisation he had used his abilities for the first time since concealing them, for the thought of losing you was far more torturous than his will to hide his abilities.

(there was no thought to the act, just sheer desperation to not let you die. it took him a long few days to realise that, all of which were spent looking after you by your bedside. he never spoke of how he cured you when you asked, eyes bleary with confusion on how you’re still alive, instead choosing to keep it to himself as he chided you for being so reckless. you will never know of the inner turmoil he endured, even praying to a deity he never once believed in to ensure your safety. should you sustain more severe afflictions, luocha has no qualms using his abilities again — if it means you live, he will make an exception.)

thinking about duke!blade, whose… less than pleasant disposition does little to help refute the fearful rumours surrounding his name. you've met him a handful of times when he visits the palace under jing yuan's summon or catching him at the odd banquet or two, and even back when he used to train with jing yuan before his visits suddenly ceased. even so, you find yourself doubting those rumours, especially when he seems to wear an expression akin to peace more often than he does of one resembling disdain.

the cold duke remains an enigma to those around him — even those who work under him. is it due to his quiet hostility? or is it perhaps something no one knows, such as a secret known only to him, his butler, his family physician, and the emperor? a curse; one of immortality where his soul is torn to shreds only to be stitched anew before he can succumb to the paradise known as death. it's a never-ending cycle, one which causes him to no longer track the days when they all feel the same. the days out on leading monster subjugations and expeditions are just a temporary means of escape — an outlet for his pent up frustrations to let loose without worry. no one knows what truly goes on in his mind, only ever witnessing or hearing tales of his brutal yet awe-inspiring deeds on the blood-soaked battlefields, and the origin of his adopted alias: blade. his true name evades him, having been discarded the moment he lost his humanity.

he has always noticed you. it was hard not to when the favour you received was blatantly obvious, even from when you were just a fledgling knight and he the young heir of his duchy. there weren’t many opportunities for him to talk to you, what with the way jing yuan always seemed to divert his attention back to their instructor when noticing his wandering gaze to your distant figure, and even more so after the curse struck him full-force and he stopped visiting altogether outside of summons and banquets. it wasn’t until he returned from a monster subjugation as the sole survivor did he first properly meet you. with his mind torn and body regenerating itself, he failed to notice someone rush towards him, an unfamiliar warmth encompassing his bleeding torso as his conscience began to fade. an unfamiliar ceiling and an unfamiliar room was what greeted him when he awoke, but a warmth he registered as familiar gripped his calloused hand. what met his gaze then was your dozing figure, your head smushed against the duvet beside his leg with even breaths giving way to your unconscious state. his typically chaotic mind was silent as he stared at you. it was an odd feeling, one which elicited a sharp inhale when you shifted in place, your grip on his hand loosening as you sought out a more comfortable position, before exhaling in relief when you resumed your rest. it was an odd feeling, but it wasn’t unpleasant. and, for the first time in his life, blade experienced what it meant to be at peace.

(while he never spoke of that incident to you again other than a brief thanks for giving him (unnecessary) medical attention, he found himself drifting towards you more frequently — whether it be conversing with you during those bothersome banquets, stretching out the time you escort him before he enters jing yuan’s office-slash-meeting room, sharing specialties from his territory during garden strolls, or even requesting you to spar with him. the victory from either side is sweet, but the strained expression he catches from notable figures is even sweeter.)

amongst the many you’re acquainted with, merchant!sampo is the one you’re most on edge around in spite of the years you have known each other for. it’s not that he’s a bad guy, but there’s something about his easy smile and ever-searching eyes and his words that always seem to form into something people want to hear which all seem… off. well, maybe you’re reading too much into his demeanour. after all, if he truly did have sinister intentions, you’re sure he would have acted on them by now — he’s had plenty of time to.

there’s a certain level of cunning one must have in order to survive. whether that be wits, deceit, getting one’s hands dirty, it doesn’t matter. they are all just a means to an end, after all. sampo has long since tread on the path of deceit, a game of cat and mouse with unassuming clients and authorities. but business is business, and what better way to make use of that than exploitation? disguised in a bar known as “masked fools” mapped across the globe sits a wealth of knowledge, hidden behind a secret code only known by those who covet wealth or revenge. it’s a fun pastime; the information-slash-mercenary guild receives money, the client has their request done. sampo quickly discovered playing the unassuming fool in front of the target only for them to discover they were the fool all along to be exhilarating. it was a rush like no other, even more so when he mastered the art of disguise and blended in with the crowd, building connections and biding his time as the airheaded merchant.

sampo admits, he was a tad hasty in his judgement of you. just a little. well, when compared to the ever-imposing figure of the royal guard captain chasing him down when he makes his weekly medicinal run for the palace’s physician, you weren’t all that impressionable at first glance. maybe it was the way you passively regarded him before walking off which led him to that belief, or perhaps it was the unassuming expression you always carried despite being the famed personal guard of the emperor. whatever the case, he was wrong. he realised that when his balance was tilted, back flush against the grass with your body pinning him down. the tip of your sword was against his throat and your eyes burned so brightly when asking what he was doing sneaking around a forbidden area to outsiders. he doesn’t remember what he said or did in response; all he does remember is the adrenaline rushing through his veins at the stern countenance you bestowed upon him. unconventional as it may have been, sampo thought you were the most breathtaking in that moment, a wondrous sight for his heart which only knew of cunning and deceit.

(it would be no lie to say money talks. in his line of business, it does all the talking. the only exception, sampo discovered, was when an ignorant fool attempted to hire him and have you… removed, to put it lightly. sampo couldn’t help the laugh which escaped him at the expression on the man’s face after his carefree refusal, a sound which ceased as he pointed his weapon to the man’s throat and demanded he spill the identity of the one who sent him. after all, a mere small-fry like him doesn’t have the ability to even dream of hiring someone against you — mercenary or assassin.)

if you enjoyed this, then reblogs with/or comments are greatly appreciated !! <33

[clockwayswrites]

Like Betta Fish Do - Part 29

WC 2500, Masterpost

A Press of the Button:

An Exclusive Interview with Jason Wayne and Danny Nightingale Following the Infamous New Years Eve Choice

By Clark Kent

“I’m going to throw up.”

I’m sure that I wasn’t supposed to overhear that; it’s not exactly an auspicious start to an interview. Here inside of Wayne Manor’s stately halls the noise of the crowd of press outside of the gate has fallen away and the words from the other side of the door are clear. The voice isn’t one that I recognize, so I place it as the young man at the center of the event: Daniel Nightingale.

“Danny, please, I’ve never liked Daniel,” he’ll introduce himself to me once I’m inside the sitting room. Jason Todd is at his boyfriend’s side, looming like an avenging angel. Or, since we’re in Gotham, a very large bat.

When I was assigned the interview, I hadn’t been sure where it would be held. As readers may know, Jason Todd hasn’t lived at the Manor since his miraculous return from the dead. There were, as he said, too many memories in the Manor for him to return. At the time he had still been struggling to overcome the unfortunate amnesia that he had suffered during his brutal abduction as a teenager.

Whatever trauma is still lingering, it’s clear that both young men are taking comfort being in the manor. The proverbial wagons have been circled inside of the family home. Even cleaned up the sitting room shows signs of a rotation cast of family keeping the pair company: a plethora of blankets, stacked board games, feel-good food, and, of all things, a plush trilobite.

As we take our seats, Danny leans unconsciously into Jason’s space like a flower to the sun. His nerves are clear in the way that his fingers fidget restlessly with the edge of his sleeves. The red sweater is far too large for him and hangs off of one thin shoulder. I have to guess that it’s Jason’s sweater and worn today for comfort. I doubt anyone could blame Danny seeking comfort wherever he can find it.

Less than a week ago Danny was abducted from the Wayne’s New Years Eve party by a Gotham villain known as Two Face. The villain came into being after Harvey Dent, a district attorney in Gotham, was traumatically exposed to a toxic chemical. (More about Two Face can be read in the article ‘A Flip of a Coin’.) Danny had been taken off site while a handful of party goers were strapped to an explosive device.

Presented with the horrifying choice between his boyfriend or his father and youngest brother, Jason had pressed the red button connected to Danny’s trap.

Danny Nightingale had been electrocuted to death.

And survived.

It’s the perfect sort of awful story to capture the attention of the public and press alike, and it’s the reason that I’m at Wayne Manor now.

Hoping to make Danny feel more settled, I start off with some pleasantries before going in with a soft question. How is he doing with all the attention that the event has been getting? It must be overwhelming.

Danny glances towards the front of the house where outside lies the front yard, the protective gate, and the press. “It is. I feel like I’m still getting used to living in a city as big as Gotham, so all of this suddenly… yeah, it’s a lot.”

Danny grew up in a much smaller city in central Illinois called Amity Park. He moved to Gotham in the late summer of last year to continue his education at Gotham University. It’s a change that he describes as good, even as overwhelming as it is.

“Gotham has been surprisingly easy to fall in love with. I can see why Gothamites are so protective of the city,” Danny explains with the first hint of a smile on his face that I’ve seen since I came through the doors.

When I ask him if he hopes to stay in Gotham long term, Danny glances at Jason and blushes faintly. “I’d like to, if I can find work. There’s a lot here worth staying for and the city is just part of that.”

The words cause the first blush I’ve seen on Jason’s cheeks since he was new to the Wayne family and a little overwhelmed himself. Clearly Jason is one of the things worth staying for.

We talk a little about how Danny likes the Wayne family. He admits that he’s still getting to know them. He’d only been introduced to most of the family at the end of last year, right before finals. Already, though, there are stories to be told about board games and good food. Beyond the Waynes, Danny has someone else very important in Gotham.

“Your sister is in town, isn’t she?” I ask. “I imagine having her here during this has been nice.”

“It is. I was actually supposed to go and see her after New Years, but obviously…” Danny clears his throat and Jason takes one of Danny’s hands in his. Danny instantly relaxes into Jason’s side. “But yeah, having her here is really nice.”

“I take it you two are close then?”

“She was my anchor growing up,” Danny says with a little smile that’s tinged with sadness. “I wish she hadn’t had to be. Now that I’m older I know how unfair that was to her, but I’m so lucky that she did. She could so easily resent me for it, but she doesn’t at all. It makes it really easy to love her.”

“Not that it’s hard,” Jason adds with a chuckle. “I think her and Dick have already made an oldest sibling club and Damian thinks both Nightingales hung the moon, I swear.”

“Speaking of Nightingale, that isn’t your original last name, is it?”

It’s been an item of note in the recent write ups on Danny that both of the siblings had changed their last name to Nightingale from their birth name of Fenton. Their parents, doctors both, still go by Fenton. In Gotham, at least, the Doctor Fentons would be described as mad scientists. The so-called ‘ectobiologists’ have made their life a study of ghosts. In Amity Park, ‘the most haunted town in America’, they’re just part of the atmosphere.

Danny sighs and glances away. “No. Jazz and I both changed our last names when we turned eighteen. Jazz had wanted me to change it and go with her when she turned eighteen, but she had this great scholarship for college and she’d taken care of me enough. I couldn’t put that on her too, so I refused to until I was eighteen.”

“So you didn’t actually emancipate yourself?”

“Nope. One day late for that. But I moved out the same day I changed my name.”

“How did your parents take that?”

A wry smile twists Danny’s lips. “They didn’t notice until months later when the lab had gotten too dirty.”

“The lab?”

“It was one of my chores to clean it; another thing that I get was messed up now that I’m older and away from there. We, um, think that it was my exposure to all those chemicals that made me a meta.”

By all accounts, Danny’s meta status is how he survived the electrocution. It’s a label that he looks slightly uncomfortable with.

“It’s not that I mind being a meta,” he’s quick to assure me. “It’s just that… what actually made me one was an accident in the lab. I was electrocuted.” He raises his left arm up. The overly large red sleeve pools down to reveal a branching network of faint silver scars tracing his skin. “It’s hard right now to think back to it, after what happened. I really didn’t know if I would survive… either time. I’m lucky that all I have are scars.”

“But you thought that you might survive.”

“I did,” Danny says with a little shrug. He seems almost at ease with that question, unlike Jason.

Jason has to take a moment to press a kiss to Danny’s temple.

“After the first time I was electrocuted,” Danny explains, “I became a little more resistant to electricity— little shocks and things. It’s not like I ever tested it out with anything big. I guess it was just a feeling I had.”

When I ask Danny if he’s alright to talk about the night of the party he looks stressed by the idea but still gives a little nod. As he points out, it is why I’m there.

“I was getting some fresh air,” Danny explains. He’s picking at the sweater again. “The night was really lovely, but it’s just not the sort of thing I’m used to, you know? So I just wanted a moment to gather myself. I guess… I guess they were already watching me, because they knocked me out before I even really knew they were there.

“I woke up strapped to a metal chair. They’d taken my shoes and socks off. I couldn't understand why, but then,” Danny has to pause here and take a moment. Jason pulls him closer. “Then I noticed that my feet were in water and there was a wire in the water too. The wire wasn’t live but it’s… I mean it wasn’t hard to put it all together.”

“That must have been terrifying.”

“Yeah.” Danny looks over at the windows and the gray winter day beyond them. “I didn’t know who had taken me or why. I could hear some people close, talking about waiting for a signal, but it wasn’t much. When my eyes adjusted I could see a camera on a tripod and a laptop. I didn’t know what was going on, not until it turned on.

“Two Face was on it. I guess you know I’m not a native Gothamite that it took me a moment to recognize him,” Danny said with a weak laugh. “He explained what he was doing.”

I ask Danny what his first thought was when hearing the plan.

“Worry for Jason. Which I know sounds insane, but I guess… I guess I had already accepted the circumstance I was in. I just didn’t want Jason to have to go through that choice.”

“And then Jason was on the screen.”

“Yeah.”

“Jason, what were you feeling at seeing Danny on the television?”

“What do you think?” Jason asks, frustration lacing through his voice. “I was pissed off. I was scared. I was… I hated myself.”

“Why?”

“Because Danny was only in that situation because he was dating a Wayne. Because he was dating me. And there he was, a few seconds from death, bleeding, and… and telling me that he loved me.”

While Danny sounds almost detached talking about it, possibly a coping mechanism, Jason sounds like every wound is still fresh. It paints a terrifying picture of what it’s like to be the one to die versus the one who presses the button.

I turn back to Danny. “You said something to Jason in the video after that. There's been a great deal of debate about your words. Do you feel alright discussing them.”

Danny nods. I read out the quote: You know what you have to do, don’t you?

“Danny, what did you mean?”

“That Jason had to press my button,” Danny says with surprising ease. It’s clear that the order was one that he still stands by.

I ask about that certainty.

Danny gives a little shrug. He tucks himself back further under Jason’s arm, but I'm certain that the move is more for Jason’s comfort. “It was me or a group of other people. That would have been enough. I would never put myself first like that, but then you add in Damian and Bruce being part of that group? I couldn’t ask Jason to choose me over his family and Jason knows I wouldn’t.”

What about the chance of survival?

“Jason and I had talked about my accident before. Death… it’s something we both get, you know? So we both knew that there could be a chance of me surviving, but there was never any guarantee.”

“Are you going on record that you told Jason to press the button, knowing it could kill you?”

“Absolutely.”

And how did that insistence make Jason feel? Right then it seems all Jason can do is curl up around Danny, as if he can shield him from the past.

“Fucking horrible. Danny just looked at the whole situation and made the choice for me. I don’t know, maybe I should think that was freeing, but I still had to press the button.”

I point out that he could have made the other choice and he just shakes his head. “And make Danny live with that? He had made his choice. He didn’t want to trade his life for theirs. I hated it, but what sort of person would I have been if I didn’t let Danny take control of his own life? I knew I wouldn’t be able to live with either choice, so at least… at least I could listen to Danny.”

So Jason had pressed the button, Danny had been electrocuted (he refused to speak on the experience), and Jason had attacked Two Face. The man had ended up with a broken jaw and fractures in the orbital rim. It was while Jason had been sobbing in his father’s arms that they had gotten the word from one of Gotham’s local heroes: Danny was still alive.

“What did I feel? Hope,” Jason said with an almost despairing laugh. “I don’t… hope and I don't do well these days, but I felt hope. I don’t know if I believed it until I was actually holding his hands.”

“I was a little out of it when they got there,” Danny admits, which seems more than fair considering everyone else would have been dead. “But I’m so grateful to Nightwing and the paramedics taking care of me and letting me see Jason before the hospital. I really… I really needed him right then.”

And now?

“I’d like to say that I’m alright, but,” Danny shrugs, “it’s a lot to go through. But I know I’ll be alright. Jason and his family are amazing and I have Jazz here. I’ll keep healing, physically and mentally, and so will Jason. I know the internet has a lot to say about it all, but I think they need to understand that this turned out the best way that it could have.”

Jason kisses Danny’s temple again with a slight smile. He seems to be in agreement with everything his boyfriend said.

“I suppose I have just one more question,” I say after a moment of looking over my notes. “Why do you call Danny ‘fish’?”

I don’t get an answer, but maybe hearing those two able to laugh so soon after such a traumatic event is better than a story.

---

AN: *flops dramatically* darlings, this chapter is finally done! Thank you to @chromatographic and @mokulule for cheer/beta reading for me. This one was really hard to write since it's out of the normal style wise for me, but it felt like the best way to tell the story right there.

I hope you enjoy it!

I no longer tag, you can subscribe at the masterpost!

[emoangel44]

The thing I've always loved most about aa4 is how much darker the tone is than the rest of the series in a way that isn't just edgy for the sake of it, but subverts your expectations from the original 3 games in a really interesting way. The trilogy was built upon the trust Phoenix had in others, and it was something we as players could almost always feel certain in. AA4 flips this on its head and makes it so Apollo effectively can't trust anyone but himself.

Your mentor, who the in the trilogy was a paragon of wisdom you could always turn to no matter what, gets revealed to be the culprit and sent to jail in the first trial and by the end of the game his list of crimes has stacked high but you still have so few answers on why he did any of it.

Your boss, the goofy protagonist of the trilogy, is now inexplicably a washed-up, disgraced, cheating poker player with an implied drinking problem who seemingly found a new hobby in evidence forgery and jury rigging.

He has a codependent relationship with his daughter, your assistant, who usually is a completely innocent and hapless victim of circumstance. She sees herself as the provider for the house and will help her father cheat at poker, or forge evidence, or guilt trip the poor attorney they knowingly screwed of out of a job into working for them for dirt cheap.

The detective, the only other returning main character, a previous assistant, is completely changed since we last saw her. In the trilogy she was chipper and bright despite the hardships she faced, and now she's unfriendly and burned out, turned bitter by the world. The scene we're first properly introduced to her in Apollo genuinely spends several minutes thinking his boss is making him bribe her with cocaine.

Every single defendant is a criminal guilty of something other than what they're charged for. Each case centers around an underground black-market poker ring, a mafia family and medical malpractice, a smuggling ring, and a family of forgers and an incredibly shady troupe of magicians. The one thing all of these people have in common is that none of them will tell you literally anything about what's happening, half of them clearly reveling in being as big of cryptic assholes as possible.

The only person who doesn't fit this description is, for once, the prosecutor. Usually your biggest obstacle and the most morally corrupt of the main cast, he's the only person who's both 100% on the side of truth and on the same page as you for the entire game. He's just as clueless as you, being used nothing more than a chess piece just like you are.

But the truly masterful thing about AA4 is how morally grey it is. These characters aren't just one note villains. They're not even villains at all. Most of them aren't even malicious.

Your boss, for all the low levels he stoops to, is underneath it all the same guy he's always been, doing everything he can to bring a criminal to justice and protect his family. Your assistant is a sweet girl who truly cares about you, she's just prioritizing herself and her fathers safety before anything else. The detective is the same passionate and kind woman under everything else. The rest of the defendants are genuinely well-meaning young people who got involved in shady stuff they didn't fully understand.

The game is filled with good people trying to make the best of bad circumstances. The game has just as many fun moments as the original trilogy. For all it's rough appearance, the game has a similar heart. For every unanswered question or unrighted wrong, there's a smile or a hope for a better future. For every bad action, there's usually someone trying their best behind it. The game is melancholic and dark, but isn't afraid to let good shine through. It knows there's no shadows without the light.

[updownlately]

i like shiny things (but i'd marry you with paper rings)

randomly thinking about esme morgan and how she made bracelets for the engwnt during their down time and just picturing a reader x alessia where r does origami when they're anxious or in between games. idk if anyone's written this idea before so mb if it's repetitive (i feel like i read an origami-reader fic before but i believe it was with jessie fleming x r) not a fic, not a blurb, just an idea/storyline :) fun fact: an instagram reel prompted this 😅 | alessia russo x reader

~~~

like imagine the first time alessia walks into your shared hotel room to see a handful of paper cranes of different colours laid across the bed, your tongue poking out slightly, eyebrows furrowed as you had a website open on your phone showing you how to make a dragon.

and you're so concentrated you don't hear alessia come in, you just fiddle with the paper and let out a huff when you realize you have to unwind the folds you just did.

it's only when she clears her throat at you, still standing near the door that you snap out of what you're doing, eyes going wide, the dinosaur that looks more like a worm flying out of your hands.

and you'd look at her with an embarrassed look, quickly gathering the seven or so different paper cranes, bringing them towards your lap in a futile attempt to hide em, as alessia would watch you with a fond smile on her face.

or can we talk about how she'd quietly get you more origami paper the next time she goes out with the girls to explore the city, shyly coming back with a fresh pack of origami sheets, this time in pastel colours, shades you absolutely adored.

the way she'd enter the room anxiously, thumb playing with the ring on her finger as she'd hide the package behind her with her other hand, shoulder's curled in, skittish smile on her face.

how you'd wave her in, a huge smile on her face, not suspecting a thing as you chatted with your mother on the phone.

she'd maybe sit on the edge of the bed, a few feet away from you, the papers still hidden as you'd talk animatedly on the phone for a couple more minutes.

it's during that time that alessia would cast her gaze across the room, taking in how many different little paper creations, varying from flowers to cranes to butterflies to shapes like stars and hearts littered the room, smiling tenderly to herself.

and when you'd finish up the call, looking over at the blonde with a large grin on your face you'd already be excited by her mere presence, your golden retriever personality making itself known.

that grin would only grow wider as she would shuffle closer to you, the origami sheets still miraculously hidden (not hard to do really since all your focus was on alessia, your eyes nearly in the shape of a heart) and she'd give you a gentle kiss on your forehead and then lips, before pulling back shyly, the words quiet as they left her.

'i got you a little something...'

you'd tilt your head in question, a singular eyebrow raising as you'd finally notice how her other arm was somewhat awkwardly positioned behind her.

and you'd kind of tense up into a sitting position, concerned at what it could be.

'relax, it's nothing crazy, just a small little item i've been meaning to grab for you'

the words would be gentle, with a slight teasing lilt.

and she'd carefully present you the origami sheets, placing them on the sheet between you two, biting her lip nervously as she'd wait for a reaction.

your eyebrows would scrunch up immediately, hands reaching out to grab the plastic package, examining it as your jaw would drop in a pleasant mix of shock and joy.

and the way your eyes would widen as you'd read the text on around the item, the words 'origami paper' written clear as day, your heart feeling so full, warmth coursing through your veins as you'd realize that alessia had noticed your stack was running out, even going as far as to get them in colours you loved.

the papers would gently be thrown to the side as everything would click, you launching yourself at the blonde, arms coming to immediately wrap around her shoulders and neck as you'd bury your face in her neck.

your excited 'thank you' would be muffled with how tightly you were hugging her, your grin from earlier returning, only now it was nearly twice the size.

the blonde would chuckle gently at your delighted state, hugging you back with just as much enthusiasm, placing a gentle kiss to your temple just before you'd pull back, nearly shaking with elation.

placing a few loving kisses onto her lips you'd mumble another thank you in between them, pulling away once your couldn't contain your excitement.

and you'd rip into the new packaging, old papers be damned because your girlfriend got you these and they were immediately, undoubtedly the better papers now.

and eventually, as it would become time to check out of the hotel a few days later, alessia would find herself once again standing in the middle of the room, this time the whole room nearly taken over by butterflies, dragons (which you now finally mastered), toads, cranes, rabbits, stars, hearts, chains, and like twenty other things, some in various colours of the rainbow, and more than half of them made of the pastel origami sheets. (it was clear to see you had a favourite, evident by the way nearly half the pastel paper had already been used).

and then can we talk about how maybe you both would be coming back from a really tiring game, the whole engwnt sat on the bus, the two of you choosing to sit closer to the middle-front-ish area, alessia knowing you preferred the peace and quiet as you'd fold paper and calm down from the exhilarating events of the game.

so you'd sit there, a pair of wired earbuds shared between you two as the paper pad would be precariously balancing on your thighs, rattling with every bump and uneven surface of the road.

alessia would be sat beside you, watching you with a lovestruck face as you'd continue to do fold after fold, making something new this time, what it was, alessia didn't know, you wanting to surprise her.

what she did notice however was that you had two pieces of paper out, one that was her favourite colour, and one that was your favourite colour- surely that couldn't be a coincidence, right?

and as teammates saw you back at your usual task, very much accustomed to your tendency to relax by creating little items, they let you be, a few gently requesting you for a rabbit or dragon (stanway nearly begging you to make her dinosaur, pestering you until you had finally agreed with a quiet 'later' with a fond eye roll).

you'd been very much focused since though, head nodding along to the music, the familiar 'furrowed eyebrows' look on your face, tip of your tongue peeking out as you did meticulous fold after fold, tilting your body ever so slightly so alessia couldn't make out exactly what you were creating.

it was only when you were done, two small heart rings resting in the palm of your hand, one each in your and alessia's favourite colour, did you turn around, a bashful smile on your face as you hid the two papers in a loosely closed fist.

quickly scanning to make sure no one was watching, your fear of being teased for your sappiness emerging, your leg shook with nervous energy as you realized the coast was clear.

'i made you- us- i made us paper rings in our favourite colours.'

the words would come out slightly rushed, a soft blush coming to coat your cheeks as alessia's eyes widened in joyful shock,

'i'll get you a proper one eventually, this is just a promise of that in the meantime...'

and alessia would shrug at your words, a lovesick smile crossing her face as she'd examine the heart-shaped ring intently, absolutely adoring the way it rested on her hand, loving it more than any other jewellery she owned simply because it was made by you.

and placing the ring-clad hand up to rest on your cheek, the blonde would nudge you to look at her, bringing your faces close as she'd place a gentle but loving kiss on your lips, pulling back only a few centimetres as sky blue eyes would meet yours, her next words a whispered secret between you, eliciting twin smiles, lovestruck looks crossing both of your faces.

'as long as it's you i'm marrying, i'd happily do it with paper rings.'

[quickandsilvers]

The Spy Who Loved Me

Peter Maximoff x fem!reader

Summary: Getting stuck in an elevator with a world-renowned Xman wasn’t on your 1984 bingo card. Guess you’ll just have to watch the hours tick by on Peter Maximoff’s ‘aces as fuck’ scooby doo watch. Ruh roh.

Warnings: a few sexual innuendos, awkward Peter (what’s new?), pining and flirting blah blah blah

Word Count: 6604

Taglist: @kaismanwich @evpeters87 @pretzel-bunnie @icannot3 @bluerthanvelvet444

——————————————————————————

Autumn, 1983. 9:32 PM.

As the amber glow of the sun casted its final rays upon the skyscrapers of New York, nightlife was in its full swing. With bustling crowds congregating inside bars and nightclubs, the thunderous bass of pulsating music infiltrated the streets, cranked up to a volume that would cause most to go prematurely deaf. It was both exhilarating and overwhelming.

And yet here you were in one of New York’s many Federal Bureau’s, swamped up in piles upon piles of paperwork, empty coffee cups and inkless biros.

The irony was not lost on you; your version of nightlife was much less enthralling than the lively congregation outside. The vibrant atmosphere was in sharp contrast to the monotony offices of the government building, where the only sounds that accompanied your sleepless nights were the tapping of keyboard keys and the rustle of pages turning as you pored over the endless stream of reports assigned to your person. It involved much more papercuts and sleep-deprived hours of endless jotting down and thinking galore.

Oh, so much thinking. Why couldn’t criminals make your life easier and be a bit dumber, huh?

Your limbs felt leaden with fatigue as you stepped onto the elevator on your floor, clutching papers in your hands tightly. The day had been painstakingly drawn-out, and yet you still had more grueling hours of paperwork waiting to be completed. Shifting awkwardly, you bundle the stack of paper in your hands into one arm, using the other to strain forward and press your floor number. Stepping back with a relieved sigh, you rest against the cool elevator wall for a few moments of much-needed peace.

The lift in your precinct was relatively new, a far cry from the ancient clunkers that polluted much of New York. It was constructed with a considerable amount of precautions and safety features after the Pentagon debacle back in 1973.

News broke out about a group of mutants slipping past security and breaking out the most dangerous mutant extremist known to man: Erik Lensherr. Aka Magneto. Aka totally-terrifying-and-would-definitely-make-you-barf-out-if-you-ever-saw-him-in-person.

Since the television broadcast of that day had instilled copious amounts of fear and paranoia for government safety and security, all federal structures had been fortified beyond necessity.

You’d argue that it was rather pointless though, considering the fact that the main culprit of the offense was now a bigshot, crime-fighting, golden retriever-esque Xman, who spent his days teaching total babes how to play Mrs. Pacman in the arcade. His felon days were over, exclusive of the frequent petty theft misdemeanors you found yourself documenting more times than you could count.

That’s right, you. Of all people, you were assigned the job to file all reported items Peter Maximoff had got his speedy hands on. From road signs to whole arcade machines, you were left documenting his shenanigans night and day, feeling as though you were one binder away from being put in a straight jacket.

You would be lying if you said you expected this task, working for a major federal agency, no less. Petty theft crimes were most often dealt with by the numerous police precincts in the city, however the government decided that the renowned speedster was a different story and needed to be dealt with “efficiently.”

Hah. Efficiently, your ass.

You mourned the times you could’ve simply been doing nothing at home instead of sending out forms for the speedster to sign for his pardoning. After all, it wasn’t like you could take any further action against someone who frequently saved the world from total destruction. The forms were only a mere slap on the wrist to the Xman, and moral condemnation had no effect on someone who had the freedom to act as he saw fit.

But that wasn’t your problem. Atleast, not for the next 48 hours. If you really cracked down, you could knock these forms out in a few hours, having the rest of your weekend dedicated to rotting on your couch, trying to get through as many seinfeld seasons as possible until your dreaded return back to work. A night in with sitcoms and unhealthy, borderline radioactive takeaways was all you needed right now.

You patiently wait for the doors to move, sealing your work week to a close in its mechanical grasp. Just as they begin to whirr shut, a blurred hand sticks through the gap, waving up and down rapidly for the sensors to detect its presence. They begin to open once again, and your eyes laid upon a broken-legged man. He possessed a bizarre pair of crutches adorned in stickers, and not to mention a peculiar taste in fashion. In fact, he practically blended in with the elevator walls, somewhat like a chameleon.

Peter Maximoff. Quicksilver. Hero to all. A royal pain in your ass. You were probably holding several of his reports in your hands right now.

Was he trying to haunt you wherever you go? If so, he’s doing a damn good job at it.

You gawk as he hobbles in, seemingly unaware of your existence as he leans up against the back wall, leaving his crutches standing up beside him. With a motorola dynatac in his hand, Peter’s eyes crinkle in amusement as he grins into his cellphone.

“Look Scotty, pick a side, dude. Yer get mad when i use Charles’ card at kohl’s…yes use.. I don’t fuckin’ leech off of it!..., but yer also get mad when I try cookin’ fer myself fer once!” He waits impatiently for a second, shifting the phone between his cheek and shoulder as he balances back onto his crutches.

Peter sighs after a long pause, “I know I left the stove on, but what can my impaired self do in that situation? What else do yer want me to say?” Peter rolled his eyes, albeit grinning. “..C’mon, It wasn't that bad, it was just a lil’ flare up! Ororo handled the blaze, and it was nothin’ compared to jeans disaster in the danger room.”

Something about the way Peter spoke was so casually amusing. He always seemed unfazed by his life's predicaments - never really taking anything all that seriously. He was unapologetically himself and had this carefree attitude that you envied more than you'd like to admit.

Absent-mindedly sifting through your papers, you contemplate the situation, wondering what Peter could’ve possibly done to anger Cyclops to that extent. He seemed to have read your mind though, as he pfftbs, lolling his head back lazily onto the elevator wall.

“The cabinets aren’t that fucked up! Just because yer lead training sessions now doesn’t mean ya can boss me arou-“

CRASH!

The loud sound resonates around the small space as you jump, a few papers going awol and falling to your feet. You reach down immediately, scrambling to pick them up.

Peter flinched as his ear was pressed into the speaker; as a result, his phone began to slide down from his shoulder. He caught it with the side of his face, wide-eyed and neck craned in a way you can’t imagine is comfortable.

“...What was that?”

“The cabinets.” A gruff, new voice sounded from Peter’s phone, unimpressed and beyond fed up with his bullshit. Peter, throwing his head back, barked out something between a wheeze and a snort, clearly thriving off his buddies’ misery.

Reaching out, you stetch to grasp a rogue file that had fallen by the speedsters feet. Hearing his giggles subside, you look up to see a wide-eyed Peter. He leans against the wall to use a free hand, grabbing his phone as he glances at your position with cheeks dusted pink, perplexed.

Just then, you realise that you are face-level with his crotch. Zoinks.

You both remain in deadly silent prolonged eye contact at the altercation, and you can only assume that your complexion is equivalent to that of a tomato, only further adding to your humiliation. Squeaking a small ‘sorry’, you immediately turn away and stand up, returning to your claimed spot of the elevator with askew papers bundled in your arms. The speedster’s scent followed you as you retreated, almost enticing you closer as the aroma of sweet cinnamon and natural leather seized your senses, lingering around the room.

Peter took advantage of your avoidant gaze to sneak a glance at the hella cute girl he had been totally unaware of. He takes a mega quick glance at his super cool green and blue Scooby Doo watch. A nice pop of colour to his metallic ensemble. The time read 9:47.

Four minutes. Four long, long minutes that he had been ranting like a lunatic down his phone, without the knowledge that an ultra-hot babe was standing next to him, probably confused and now completely put-off by his antics.

Why was she lookin’ at his junk, anyways? Did he forget to zip his fly? His head whips down. Nope. Wait. Was he hard? His head whips down again. Nope. Not yet, atleast.

Huh. Guess some groupees are just hella intense.

Peter’s mind reeled back to a few minutes prior. He didn’t do anythin’ embarrassing, did he? You probably thought he was a mess.

Oh fuck, did he look like a mess?

A blurred hand moves to fix his untamed mane, but only messes it up further as he moves it out of his eyes and in opposing directions. An angered muffle sounds through the speaker and Peter brings it up to his mouth with a stutter.

“I- I gotta go, Wolvie!” He panics, watching your fingers as they attentively sift through your stack of papers. The voice on the other end protests immediately, making explicit threats to the speedster. The sound of creaking hinges and snapping wood made him wince. But hey, there wasn’t much that he could do now, other than get his ass handed to him upon his arrival at the mansion.

Peter cuffs his hand over the phone speaker and makes a muffled sound, feigning losing connection.

“My service must be cuttin’ out dude! Talk time is runnin’ out too!” Peter paused to make more sounds, really selling his story. “Sorry man, nothin’ I can do ‘bout that! Tell Charlie Brown I'm mega sorry and I'm comin’ as quick as a one-legged man can go!” He makes kissy noises down the phone, only further angering the shouting man on the other side.

You definitely thought he was a mess.

Peter hung up abruptly and swallowed, looking towards you with a sheepish grin and gesturing his Motorola towards you. “That guy, huh?” He scoffs awkwardly, somehow stuffing the brick of a phone halfway into his pocket before running a hand through his hair once more.

It’s funny, really. Despite the amount of groupees wanting him to sign every limb on their bodies, Peter never gets any better at this. The talking-to-women thing, that is. Not to toot his own horn or anything, but Peter considers himself a master of scribbling on polyester brassiere. It was always the same thing; the initials ‘QS’ with the tail shaped like a lightning bolt, and a first-class smiley face on the side.

You let out a breathy laugh, about to ask what exactly he had done to assault the communal kitchen in such a way, before you stop yourself. Despite the loud conversation, you weren’t sure if you should bring up a private phone call. Instead, you respond with a curt nod.

Peter liked your laugh. It was a breath of fresh air within the cramped elevator, and certainly sounded better than the obnoxious honks Scott emitted, sounding somewhat like a vehicle. He guessed that Scott’s laugh simply replicated his engineerical profession. If that was true, Peter thinks you must work alongside angels sent from heaven itself. Hell, he’d volunteer to be your magical harp in an instant. Would let you play with him anytime. Hah.

As Peter opened his mouth to speak, an abrupt jolt sent you wobbling back into the wall before he could get a word in. He lets out an involuntary ‘eh?’ in confusion as the phone in his pocket tumbles to the floor, the antenna snapping off. Another lurch of the elevator and it came to a halt, cutting out with an ear-splitting creak.

The elevator had not yet reached a point beyond the metal walls outside, where you could see out the large window panes. Panic surged through you as the confined space seemed to shrink further. The silence in the elevator was deafening, and the uncertainty of the situation only heightened your anxiety. You couldn't muster the courage to look up at the speedster, fearing his reaction to the predicament.

Finally, his voice broke the silence, its calmness providing perhaps a glimmer of reassurance.

“Huh. The elevator stopped.” He hums in a matter-of-factly tone. Okay, maybe not. What do you have on you to salvage? Maybe a scrunched up, expired airhead in the depths of your pockets? Would that get you through the night?

Using a sticker-adorned crutch to reach the panel, Peter abused the call button before pressing the ground floor, both controls ceasing to function.

“Yer gotta be shittin’ me, it's stuck!” He groans, a little more panicked now “Wolvie’s not gonna believe me! Fuck!”

You attempt to swallow your nerves, yet fail as you stare at your feet. Peter, however, seemed more worried about the reaction of his superior than the fact he was trapped in a confined space by heavily reinforced elevator doors. Doors that could keep you locked in here for the foreseeable future. Would that be so bad? You weren’t a die-hard Quicksilver fangirl to say the least, but the man certainly wasn’t half bad to look at. Oh, but you’d kill to be binging seinfeld right now.

Trailing your gaze back up, your eyebrows furrow as you bear witness to said man attempting to pry the elevator doors open. You watch on as Peter anchors his good foot onto the side of the door for leverage, all whilst reciting murmurs of self-motivational idioms. He releases a choked-off groan. You chalk it up to either his effort into opening the door or his injured leg supporting the rest of his body. Either way, the speedsters' attempts were fruitless.

For what seems like an eternity, you open and close your mouth much like a fish out of water, completely baffled at the sight before you. And maybe even more so baffled as you intently ogle the bulge of the speedster’s biceps through his jacket, contracting and straining from his efforts.

Okay, wow. Keep it profesh, dude. Don’t you hate this guy?

You clear your throat, preparing to pose a question. Peter immediately whips his head around to face you, remaining in the same awkward position as he relaxed into a lazy smirk, despite his red cheeks and heaving chest. He tilts his head to the side, kindly signaling you to say something.

“Are you sure it's broken?" You ask softly, your voice perhaps quieter than you expected it to be, "Have you tried the fire alarm or stop button?”

Silence followed for a moment, and you felt yourself tense up.

“ ‘course babe,” Peter answers, relaxing his hand for a second to rest it against the door. “But have no fear. Who needs a stupid fire alarm when you have me?” He graced you with an award-winning grin, jutting out a thumb to eagerly point to himself. You ease up a little, humming as a flash of light reflecting off his watch catches your eye. A grinning Scooby Doo stares back at you and you resist the urge to laugh, comparing the speedster more to Scooby’s miniature counterpart; Scrappy.

Another agonizing minute passes, and you continue to exchange glances as Peter occasionally looks over his shoulder towards you for reassurance. A smile lingered on his lips, it was warm, and you were tempted. Oh, so very tempted. Silence permeated the air as you stood there idly, and you couldn’t help but feel the need to inquire again.

With one final heave and the door moving not an inch, Peter stumbles back into the wall, a sigh of alleviation exiting his mouth as he relieves the pressure on his mending leg. With crimson cheeks he began to shrug off his metallic jacket, letting it drop to the floor next to him.

Peter’s gaze flickers up towards you guiltily, knowing that you were on edge in such a confined space and wanting to get out ASAP. You felt your heartstrings being tugged as he presses himself back into the wall, giving you as much space as possible in the cramped elevator. Somehow, you found that was the last thing you wanted.

Silence ensued again for a few moments too long. You felt a warmth in your face and looked away immediately, finding yourself swayed by a peculiar boyish charm.

You looked up as he blinked, silver eyelashes flickering in the overhead lights. Your heart leapt. Peter Maximoff had the charisma that many girls found hard to resist, and perhaps you were no different from any other groupee than you had thought.

“How long do you think we’ll be in here?” You manage to get out as his stare remains fixated on you.

“Until maintenance decides to do their job, I s’pose,” He responds with a chuckle, resting on the handrail behind him.

“Oh, okay,” You reply shortly, averting your eyes again as you copy his movements on your own handrail.

“I hope i'm not that terrible company, toots.” Peter strives to make a joke. It fell flat on its face however, as you only respond with a half-assed huff of laughter, running your hand through your hair worriedly.

“N-no, it’s not like that,” You assure, feeling slightly red. You see the corner of his eyes crinkle in your peripherals, a visible smile forming on his face.

“I’m sorry, I just feel a little claustrophobic right now,” You explain anxiously, watching the ceiling as if it were about to fall and seal your fate.

Peter’s smile faltered at your mental panic. “Hey, uh- it's okay, it's just a maintenance issue. The elevator’s not gonna fall er anythin’. There's like a.. bajillion failsafes, ya know?” He huffed another laugh, readjusting his crutches under his armpits. Your tension slightly eased as he acknowledged the tense circumstances, but you still couldn't shake off the nerves entirely. The sound of his voice brought an odd comfort, making you feel slightly less alone in this confined space.

“Hank was tellin’ me all about their mechanics on this long-ass drive to the Pentagon. Yer know the-'' You nod in confirmation, very familiar with the building “-yeah. We were there fer.. somethin’ totes legal and business related.” He swallows, grinning. You crack a knowing smile, showing the speedster that you knew exactly what he was talking about.

Peter focuses his attention towards his discarded silver jacket on the floor. Balancing on his crutches, he uses his good leg to splay the jacket out next to the back wall. He looks back up at you almost expectantly, grinning as you raise an eyebrow quizzically.

“D ’ya wanna sit? I don’t want yer hobbling around like me if we’re gonna be here fer a while.” He offers, gesturing his casted leg towards you with a playful scoff.

You accept, thanking him as he placed one of his crutches in the corner, using his free large hand to splay across the small of your back. He hobbled slightly as you shuffle backwards to slide down the wall. Gripping your shoulders for support, he shakily sits down next to you, legs splayed out as he rests his other crutch across his right thigh.

You flush at the newfound closeness, copying his stance as you stretch your legs out. In the process your foot kicks something solid, and you look back to see the motorola on the sleek metal floor, broken beyond repair. You feel almost guilty, despite doing nothing wrong.

“Sorry about your phone.” You say softly, giving the speedster a remorseful smile.

Peter returns with a genuine grin “It’s a-okay babe, don’t worry ‘bout it. I'll get Xavier ter buy me a new one” he waves you off nonchalantly “-a work-issued phone ‘er somethin’.”

“Shouldn't you be spending the professor’s money on something more worthwhile? A new kitchen, perhaps?” You tease, nudging the Xman’s shoulder with your own.

“Hand on heart, babe. Wasn't my fault!” Peter’s hand flies to the very right side of his body, the opposite end of where his vital organ actually was. “I was cookin’ fer the kiddos since they didn’t want ter go through with Hank’s taco tuesday night, bless ‘em, but it turns out i’m pretty inferior too.”

“Is it really that bad?” You ask, surprised “A man with six PhD’s can’t cook?”

Peter shudders, screwing his face up into a look of disgust as he lays a hand on top of your own, squeezing it as though he had undergone something traumatic. “His food is a mix of something bad and something.. even worse, babe. Hank’s too experimentative, ‘n that shit should stay in the lab. The man added eggplants to our enchiladas. Eggplants. How crazy is that?!”

You snort, throwing your head back in comfortable laughter as he giggled with you. “I mean, i’m a man that’ll eat anythin’ yer put in front of me. But that pairin’? C’mon!”

Snickering further, the thought of impending doom eased gradually out of your mind as you found yourself relaxing. Peter’s fingers drum against the back of your hand, instilling a calming flow as you focus on the rhythmic taps.

He clears his throat. “So uh- yer work here?” The speedster gestures to the ID hanging off your neck, your photo and FBI logo showing.

“Just your average desk jockey at the moment, but I'm training to be an espionage agent.” You nod after a brief pause “...hopefully.”

Peter caught your eye with a confused blink, tilting his head with a puzzled smile. You catch onto his perplexity, dumbing the definition down to much simpler terms. “A spy.”

He blinked again, this time in realisation. “That’s totally rad! Yer don’t look like one, though, so I was pretty confused. Thought yer were talkin’ ‘bout that snail food...”

“That’s escargot, Mr. Maximoff.” You snicker “And I'm sorry to burst your bubble, but we ‘spies’ aren't all wearing stilettos and gun holsters on our person.”

Peter grinned as his hand left yours to ruffle his hair, something you found him doing often. “Suit yerself. But if I was the bad guy and yer were in that getup, I’d let ya capture me in an instant.” The words rolled off his tongue so smoothly that you found yourself falling further into the figurative arms of his speedy grasp. “ ‘n scrap the ‘Mr. Maximoff’, babe. ‘M just Peter.”

A bright blush crept upon your face once more. You waved the speedster off dismissively, not used to having comments like that directed towards you, let alone by a man who belonged on the front cover of a People’s Sexiest Man Alive magazine.

“So, Peter,” You test out his name, enjoying the way it sounded as it left your mouth. He grinned dopily, liking it too. “Why are you here?”

Peter looks around to check the coast is clear before coercing you closer with two fingers, making a quick ‘c’mere’ motion. You oblige, his lips now inches from your ear and soft silvery hair brushing against your temple. “I could tell ya, but then I'd have to kill ya.” The soft whisper sent currents down your spine, and the speedster didn’t miss your shiver as he pulled back, winking.

Peter seemed to have sensed your flustered state, swiftly moving onto another topic. “Like actually though, yer an undercover spy. That’s sick!” Peter hyped you up.

You shrug dismissively “I-it’s not exactly like the films. I’m more of an investigator than what you’re thinking.. and I’m not out on the field much, if at all.”

“Damn, yer still gotta be a total whizz though, right? Ter work for a federal agency?” Peter questioned with a genuine intrigue in your profession, a dopey grin adorned on his lips.

You brush it off once more with a simple shrug and a giddy smile, albeit with a newfound warmth and pride in your heart at his interest. A pause prolongs throughout the cramped room as you lean your head back onto the wall, staring at the uncomfortable bright lights until your retinas are screaming for you to avert your gaze.

Peter put his hands behind his head, staring at his feet in thought. He cocked his head as he saw that his silver shoelaces had unraveled. Maybe he should've asked you to tie them whilst you were down there earlier, nuzzling and befriending his junk. He grinned, savoring the memory in his mind and preserving it in a metaphorical polythene sleeve, just like his beloved original mint-condition records at home.

Woah! Slow down there, Don Juan! This chick barely knows you!

A comfortable silence lingered in the air for a few moments more, before Peter gently nudged you with his shoulder, looking over at you whilst his head stood resting against the elevator wall.

“I could be yer Tiffany Case.”

You furrow your brows. What?

“Yunno, Diamonds are forever, ‘56? Sean Connery, Jill St. John? I could totally be yer main bond girl!” Peter reiterated, gesturing his hands in his hair like the bouffant style the woman was infamous for wearing.

You snort a true laugh at the thought, turning your head to face him. He was already looking at you, grinning at your reaction to his buffoonery.

“Shouldn’t it be the other way round?” You query. Peter shakes his head adamantly. “Nuh uh, Ms. Double agent. Besides, I'd totally rock it in a showy little corset dress, don’t cha think? The choker an’ all?” He quipped, seeming happily expectant for your answer.

You snort further and he gasped at you in mock offense, nudging you slightly with a half-hearted ‘hey!’, to which you shrug and state that you would be rather under-qualified for the job. Jumping out of moving cars and escaping the clutches of hungry alligators weren’t exactly your areas of expertise.

“Yer think? Ya more of a Velma, huh? It’s a-okay, ‘m flexible. I could be yer shaggy too, y’know?” Peter nudged you again, each contact of clothed skin sending bolts of electricity down your arm. You sensed that he was hinting at something, although very subtly, as he couldn’t flee if you shot him down. Like you ever would, that is.

“Oh please, you’d be scooby.. no, scrappy! The watch says it all.” You gesture. Peter raises his eyebrows, a flicker of astonishment in his eyes, surprised that you took the time to notice that little detail. Your remark wasn’t even a compliment, in fact it was meant to be taken as slander, but he paused for a moment as his heart thumped faster than usual, a little dazed.

The overhead elevator bulb flickered as Peter gazed at your face. He swore then he could see you in an entirely new light, in a way that had his hands going clammy and stomach leaping in a mix of excitement and anxiety.

Peter watched, transfixed as your tongue glided across your lower lip, moisturizing them as your hands fiddled with the ID badge hanging around your neck. He wanted to hear you speak again.

“I’m callin’ bullshit, babe. In every spy movie the powerful female lead always carries her gun in a thigh holster. That’s just how it goes!” He shrugs “I mean, the only exception was this chick I met in ‘83. But I didn’t check if she had one, scout’s honour! She’s Charles’ girl.”

He carelessly flung three fingers in the air, knocking off the goggles that were once cushioned on his head in the process. He guessed they were slung somewhere across the elevator as your eyes trailed their path, but Peter paid them no mind. He cleared his throat awkwardly to grasp your attention.

You pfft, “Maybe you need to lay off the 007 films for now, no one wears anything like that.”

Peter squints his eyes, as if checking your own for signs of lying. “Whaddaya say yer let me check sometime? Ya sure yer got no secret compartments anywhere? Can't be too safe as an Xman, huh?”

“I Wouldn't be a very good bond if I was conspiring against my main girl, would I?” You tease, matching his expression. You gesture to his t-shirt, “And I’d never harm an Earth, Wind and Fire supporter.”

Peter’s eyes lit up as he sat further upright now, grasping your hand tightly. “Yer like Earth, Wind and Fire?!” You grin at his giddiness, “Hell yeah! I saw them back in ‘79.”

He squeezed your hand in his, sighing contently as he ruffled his hair with the other. “I like ya taste, and yer currently holding the hand of an incredibly handsome and painfully humble man, so yer taste in this department ain't half bad either, babe.” He shot you a grin.

You hit him slightly in the chest at his unbridled cockiness, but still not wanting to let go of his hand, and neither did he. His grip stayed intertwined with yours in a stalemate, both of you unwilling to relinquish. His gaze was just as unwilling, staring you down much like a fox.

All Peter wanted to do was make you smile again. To see you laugh again. It hurled him into the midst of a typhoon, with a zero percent chance of survival. He was right in the epicenter, the eye of the storm.

In true Scorpions fashion? You were rockin’ his emotions around like a hurricane, sending him into a love-struck frenzy. I mean, come on! It’s the 21st night of September, cupid! Little early sending those arrows, ain’t it bud?

In his daze, Peter barely registered the sudden clunk of the elevator. Not until you yelped and sunk your nails into the skin of his hand did he register the movement of the steel floor, and he gripped onto you even tighter. Tight enough that it surely hurt, but you didn’t protest as you shifted yourself onto your knees, using the handrail above to lift yourself up. With the aid of your hands, Peter eased out of his seated position, careful to not put any unnecessary pressure on his leg.

The lights on the buttons flicker on as you watch gleefully, the floor number beginning to move from seven to five, getting closer to your stop at the third floor. Your claustrophobic nightmare had come to an abrupt halt. Peter felt a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, though. As glad as he was to get back to the mansion, he wanted to stay with you. To get to know you.

He needed to see you again.

With a silent curse, Peter cleared his throat, “Hey, uh, babe?” You turn around expectantly. No backing out now, casanova. “Feel free ter totally hurl me down this elevator shaft or whip out your concealed gun if I'm wrong but- and yer never know when ya might need an elevator buddy again… so…” Nervousness clearly oozed from every fibre of his being, shown by his clammy hands and averted gaze, every unanswered second feeling like an hour.

Your clear confusion sent him into a malfunctioning frenzy. He just wanted this over with, yet he couldn’t find the words.

“Ijustwantedtoknowificouldpossiblyyyyyyygetyournumbermaybeandwecouldgooutttonadatee?” A jumbled string of words flies out of his mouth like word vomit. That wasn’t very Peter Franks of him.

His question completely flew over your head, and Peter mistook your taken-aback stature as rejection and his heart plummeted into a sad, mushy mess. As a wise Roos Tarpals once said: ‘Yousa in big doo-doo dis time.’

Peter immediately back-tracked himself, trying to ease the gauche tension that was gradually becoming more prominent. “Whaaaat?! Whosa spaked dat?!” Yeah, that oughta do it. Nice one, jar jar binks.

“Woah! Slow down, Motormouth! Not everyone is a Gungan. Tell me again.” You exclaimed, bewildered. The silence was permeable as you were waiting expectantly. His mouth went dry. Ooh mooie mooie, was it too quick to say that he might be in love with you? You understood his references. You were perfect, and now the pressure to not mess up was inordinate.

Peter hadn't felt this anxious before. Not when he fought Apocalypse on his own. Not when his матушка had walked in on him watching something totally not PG13. Not even when he asked Crystal Amaquelin out in 8th grade, via note, only for her to laugh and share the heartfelt message around with her rather intimidating gaggle of giggling friends.

The entire school knew about it in less than an hour, even Peter’s Civics teacher, Mr. Rivera, of whom then placed the younger speedster next to his unrequited crush for the remainder of the year. Gee, doesn’t he owe him for that one.

Peter had grown since then. He had completely put it past him soon after he had once removed all traces of putty from the windows in Mr. Rivera’s classroom, only for every pane to fall one by one as his favourite teacher slammed the door behind him. It was golden, and Crystal laughed too. Psscht, not like Peter cared anyway…

Was the yelling and exclusion worth it? Absolutely. Peter still felt a little bad about the fine mama Maximoff was given, though.

But truly, he had grown. A real glow up, infact. He bet that Crystal Amaquelin would now jump at the chance to go out with him, with the soft silver hair all his groupees fawned over and those fuckass reading glasses he had now gleefully parted from. And not to mention the severe hayfever that had plagued his summers as a child, where he would spend his days walking down the school corridor with his red, watery eyes and running nose.

Awh hell, why was he torturing himself with the thoughts of his younger, dorkier past? You were in front of him, waiting, absentmindedly chewing the inside of your cheek. Or perhaps it was a nervous tic? Either way, he’s got a good chance of blowing this with you. Slim to none odds of coming out of this with an in-tact ego.

Peter repeats his words. Atleast, he thinks he does. It was like the muscles in his jaw seemed to be doing all the talking involuntarily. Pfft. Even his body was sick of him. So why was he trying his dregs of luck with you? It seemed like you have a good life ahead of you, without the speedster whizzing past and leaving a whirlwind of destruction in his wake.

Whatever he said, Peter hopes it was coherent this time. And by judging the look in your face… well.. actually, no. He has no idea what's going on in that pretty little head of yours, and to put it frankly, it’s killing him. Cause of death? Interaction with a female. Peter would’ve been sure of his untimely demise if it weren’t for the pounding sound of blood pumping through his head.

Mere seconds go by. To Peter, it’s hours. He needs to check you’re still functioning. Embarrassed, the speedster rubs the back of his head, awkwardly grinning at you. A few silent moments to many, he finally breaks the tension by maturely asking:

“You aiiight?”

Upon hearing no response from you and seeing your flushed cheeks, his grin grew even wider as he snickered.“Whew- So, I guess that means I’m still good lookin’ enough ter make the ladies blush, huh?"

Peter’s deflecting. He knows it, and so do you. The sense of rejection is crashing down on him like an array of polished oak cabinets. And he’s just about to conjure all the strength he had left to pry open those pesky mechanical doors open when-

“You got a pen?” At long last, a response. Granted, it wasn’t exactly the yes or no Peter was expecting, but a response nonetheless.

Patiently, you watch as Peter scrambles for the blue felt tip marker in his trouser pocket, the one he used to colour in the dope skateboard one of the kiddos drew on his cast. He sighed in relief as he found it, thrusting it towards you with an award-winning, yet uneasy smile.

You thank him as you flick the lid off, scrawling your number in the corner of one of your documents. It was hard to remember your digits as Peter’s gaze burned into you, along with the sound of his shallow breathing. Amidst the tension, you couldn’t help but detect a tingling, giddy feeling in your stomach, transporting you back to your days as a teenager. Mustering a shy grin, you hand both the marker and paper back to him. Peter took it like it was priceless, immediately memorizing your number in his head in fear that it would somehow disappear off the page.

Peter knew that his dreamlike half-hour had come to an end when the elevator pinged at the third floor, gliding open effortlessly as if those very same doors weren’t sending Peter into an early retirement from trying to force them open. You hum cordially as you break away from the claustrophobic room, stepping into the monotony office that you’ve never been so elated to see again. You turn around, watching the speedster press the ground floor number with the end of his crutch. “Not your stop?”

Peter grimaces, sighing exuberantly “Nah, still got another couple floors with the mystery machine.” He pats the wall as if it were an old friend. It reverberates with a loud echo, making him wince. Just then, the doors begin to shut before you interfere, wedging your foot in between them so they detect your presence. They open back up again.

“You’ll call me, won’t you? If you have time?”

“Fer you? Anything. That’s a promise.” Oh boy, Peter’s turning into a lovefool already.

You grin “Don’t go breaking any more cabinets, Shaggy.” Your foot slides away from the elevator.

“Who, lil’ ol’ me?” Peter gasps in mock offense “Like, sorry Velms, but that's a promise I can't keep, man.” You giggle and he grins triumphantly, watching as the doors begin to close and you wave goodbye, hollering one last thing to the speedster.

“I hope mystery incorporated doesn’t give you much trouble!” Clunk.

Once again, Peter is left alone with his thoughts, accompanied only by the sounds of the conveyance machinery whirring down to the ground floor. He uses this time to fumble for his walkman on his belt, trapping his hair underneath his over-ear headphones. With a click he presses the play button, just in time as the elevator doors ping open once more.

Readjusting his grip on his crutches, Peter hobbles out of the building, the sounds of Aerosmith’s ‘Love In An Elevator’ blaring at full volume. He glances down with a smirk at the piece of paper you gave to him, documented with his name and recent items he had swiped from a local record store; and jackpot! Your number, clear as day, scrawled onto it. Finally.

Peter knew his plan would work someday. He sorta had a knack for this spy thing. In truth, stopping that elevator was the best thing he’d done in a long while.

Shame about his phone though, that was the only thing that happened on accident. Ruh roh.

[loaksky]

— 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦

the lowdown — the one where you and neteyam are a sure thing. 

the who — neteyam x fem omatikaya!reader

the word count — 2.5k

the tags & warnings — none other than possible language! this is just really sappy & self-indulgent lmao, childhood bffs2l, both parties are so in love but SCARED.

the notes — based off of this request! got a lil carried away bc i love neteyam <3

masterlist

Everyone would argue that you and Neteyam are written in the stars. 

You two had been whispered about far before your coming of age, at the start of your youth when they’d notice that Neteyam was extra soft and you were extra shy. And it had been natural, really. He was the olo’eyktan’s son, and you were the sweet daughter of the olo’eyktan’s most cherished friend and dearest partner in crime. 

At first Neteyam had vehemently denied it, cheeks flushing at the mere mention of your name, but after many sweet moments, you’d grown so much on him, he couldn’t hide his fondness even if he tried. 

You were charming and resolved growing up, often times spending afternoons reading under the shade of leafy plants near the edge of the village. It’s the same spot Neteyam would pass on his journeys into the forest, unable to contain his smile as he sees the faint indent of where you’d lay outlined in the grass. 

You were an eager learner, going through lab materials and borrowed media from Norm and Max who’d visit the village every once in a while. You’d applied a lot of what you learned to your practice, training under Mo’at, Neytiri, and your mother in the chance that one day you’d lead the clan in their spiritual endeavors. 

It was one of the things that Neteyam admired most about you, your quiet drive. Your passion and your commitment to your craft. He couldn’t help it, couldn’t help but feed into it, into you. 

He’d hound the scientists in the lab for more content for you, would come back with stacks and stacks of books that would make your cheeks warm. And he’d hand bind you journals, fashion you utensils and smash various fruits and petals to a fine paste for you to compile your findings. 

There wasn’t a thing that Neteyam wouldn’t do for you, any lengths he wouldn’t travel just to see you beam up at him with that radiant smile. Neteyam could admit wholeheartedly that he was whipped. 

“Thanks, Teyam,” you’d say gently, arms winding around his waist in a crushing hug. “Appreciate you.” 

His breath would hitch and he’d just grin. 

It didn’t help that you were so achingly beautiful, made his throat bob every time a gleam of sun would refract over your dimpled cheeks. Made his cheeks warm and his body freeze when your skin, soft and smooth, would brush his in accidental touches. 

There was only one small little issue. 

It was a conversation he’d try and fail to have with you multiple times over the course of your adolescence and into your young adulthood. At first, it was unspoken, he was certain it was the two of you for life, but as you trained and passed your rite, the final piece to your coming of age was fast approaching; selecting someone to spend your time with. 

He was a year your senior and the rumor mill was alight with buzz. He hadn’t chosen someone on the night of his feast, had suspended the selection in favor of urging everyone that the timing wasn’t right. 

This didn’t deter a number of fine women from the village taking their chances, advance after gutsy advance that would always end with the sound declaration that he was already waiting for someone. 

That had only solidified the village’s theory about the two of you, that he was holding out for you, waiting until you chose him right back to claim you as his own. It was a sweet thing, most of them felt, would cast tender looks every time the two of you would interact under their watchful gazes. 

But you were a creature of habit, didn’t like being under such prying eyes, yet too nice to let it be known. Neteyam knew, though. Would steer clear of curious glances, would spend whatever free time he had soaking up every moment with you in the shield of the forest. 

He was a strong man with only one weakness: you. 

He’d thought he made himself clear with that, thought that everyone knew that you were spoken for and it was his mighty word, but he comes to find out that there are many young men who’ve been lingering, waiting for any opportunity. 

This much he notices when an especially buff warrior with a narrow waist and broad shoulders emerges from the outskirts and starts hanging around a little more often. 

Ku’aro, Neteyam thinks his name is. 

It had started off innocent, a small thanks for a healing session Mo’at and your mother let you lead when he hurt himself in a hunting party, but Neteyam knew better than to think that no other man would succumb to your charms. 

It continued with bundles of flowers, fruits, little trinkets Ku’aro would surprise you with when Neteyam had other responsibilities he had to tend to. And it wouldn’t have bothered him as much if he’d never seen the little gifts again, but you’re too sweet for your own good, displaying them on the same ledge in your tent.

They take up room next to every one of his thoughtful gestures and the thought of sharing your attention with another man makes him prickle with envy. 

But he could live with it if it made you happy, could push aside his pride and keep his irritation mum if the gift-giving was all it was. But now Ku’aro is starting to chisel into his time with you, stealing you away for walks through the forest, swims in the river. 

And it makes him absolutely seethe, makes him exceptionally angry every time you emerge from the brush with Ku’aro hot on your heels. His mind races and he can’t help the sick thought of you being with someone who isn’t him seep into every crevice of his brain. 

Had you two ever…kissed? You weren’t the type of girl, but things change and he’s not above admitting that he’s as jealous as they come. 

“Something wrong, Teyam?” you ask, looking up from your book. 

He’s sighed for the fourth time in the hour, fidgeting so uncomfortably that you’ve been rereading the same sentence for the past ten minutes because you can’t concentrate. 

His tense shoulders relax when he meets your viscous gaze, lips parting because the forest is darkening with the impending eclipse and you look so soft and glowy. 

He clears his throat. 

“No,” he coughs. “All good.” 

You don’t seem to buy it, head tilting as you inspect your friend carefully, book dog-eared and set off to the side as you shuffle nearer. 

The aroma of herbs and spice, the tang of petals, surrounds him as you press a hand to his forehead, the other to his chest. 

You have to feel it, the way his heart is pounding audaciously. 

“Your heart’s beating fast, Teyam,” you observe. “And you’re warm.” 

“S’just a little hot,” he swallows, hands circling your wrists to pry your touch away. 

You lean back on your haunches, still in his grasp as you peer up at his pinched expression. 

In all your years of closely orbiting the olo’eyktan’s son, you know that something weighs heavy on his mind. He bears a great burden regardless, but something is different this time around. 

“We’re friends, Teyam,” you say tenderly. He could literally melt. “You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

Of course he could, you’re the most understanding person he knows, the purest of hearts. But he doesn’t want to spook you, scare you into resignation by interrogating your budding relationship with Ku’aro. 

So he treads carefully. 

“Your selection feast is approaching,” he says breathily, blinking down at you. 

You mull over it for a moment, a smile spreading over your full lips. 

“It is,” you agree, pulling away to toy with your fingers.

A few prolonged lapses of silence pass before Neteyam continues to try and fill in the gaps. 

“Have you…” He shrugs. “…thought of someone yet?” 

Of course you had, you’d know it from the very beginning, no second thoughts needed. It had always been you and Neteyam since the beginning, thick as thieves. 

There have been many things you’ve been uncertain of growing up, but there’s one thing that you’re sure of, and it’s that Neteyam is your end game. 

“I have,” you hum simply. 

He waits with bated breath, eyes unblinking. 

You don’t continue and he’s opening his mouth to ask you to clarify, but the brush starts rustling and Ku’aro’s emerging. 

He wants to let out the most frustrated groan of disapproval when Ku’aro’s eyes light up. Wants to grill you more but knows that he’ll have to wait who knows how long before he can get you alone to press again. 

But what he doesn’t know is that the looming feast is your grand gesture, the occasion you’ve been mustering your courage for for years. You like to think it’s the least he deserves after years of his blatant displays of affection. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” Ku’aro asks, holding up a woven bag of what smells like spartan fruits. 

Your eyes flit to Neteyam’s and he can see the promise that lingers there as your hands squeezes his gently. 

“See you soon,” you say, collecting your things before standing to your feet. 

He knows you mean it, knows that you never make a promise that you can’t keep, but he can’t help the feeling of dread that coils tight in the pit of his stomach.

Ku’aro stands a little too close as you two walk through the forest, eating the spartan fruits that he’d picked before he sought you out. 

“I have to ask you something,” he says, after a pregnant pause. 

You turn just in time for him to nearly barrel into you, strong hands coming to right your stance. You stomach knots when you notice he’s close, eyes gentle and glowing as he gazes down at you. 

“Yeah?” you peep, body tense as his fingers skim your biceps, down your forearms and clasp your hands. 

You’d held hands with Neteyam countless times, had spent so much time in his space, that the touch of another isn’t lost on you, but this makes you feel queasy. 

You ease away. 

“I need to be courageous,” he says. “I know your selection feast is approaching and…” 

You know what he’s going to say. You’ve dreaded it this entire time, hoped that village gossip and the copious amounts of time you’d spend with Neteyam would be the glaringly obvious sign that you weren’t interested in anything beyond a friendship. 

“Ku’aro…” you sigh and his face falls a fraction. 

He’s already pieced it together in his head. 

“It really is him, huh?” 

He’d known. Of course he did. No one was blind to it, just wishful thinking on his part that maybe he could get you to see someone else. 

But your heart was locked up tight, an impenetrable fortress that refused to unravel for anyone but him. 

“I’m sorry,” you say apologetically, then add, “you have been very kind to me, and a woman will see your great heart one day, but it can’t be me.” 

His smile is sad, but he’s known it was a losing battle going in, worth a shot if anything.

His shoulders shake with a defeated laugh. 

“He’s a lucky ass,” he says, extending the remaining fruits to you. “My peace offering to him. I know he’s been boiling recently.” 

Your walk with Ku’aro couldn’t have been more than a hour, but Neteyam waits for what feels like an eternity. He’s lingering in the same spot you’d left him, spacing out as he paces, waiting for your arrival. 

His body goes rigid when he feels a pair of arms circle around his waist from behind, but relaxes when he wafts the familiar scent of herbs and spice. 

“Hi,” he whispers, voice hoarse from disuse. 

He turns to face you, brushing your hair behind your shoulders to get a good look at your face. And despite wracking his brain for the latter part of the hour you were gone, he tries to get a grip on his composure. 

“Have fun?” he asks, insides gooey as your face angles towards his, chin poking his chest as your eyes curve into crescents along with your smile. 

“Was okay,” you tell him. “He let me bring back the rest of the fruits.”

Neteyam resists an eyeroll. 

“Probably dry,” he remarks quietly and you can’t help the full laugh that leaves your lips at his snarky remark. 

You wanted to put it off until the night of the feast, but you can tell there’s an internal warfare that agonizes him. You were shy, not a fool, had known that he was waiting for any concrete evidence that you’d chosen him. 

And at first you thought it was obvious, could read him like one of your books. But you hadn’t realized that maybe you weren’t that easy to read, years of growing up learning how to remain composed for your potential role leaving you internalizing every feeling. 

“You asked me about my selection feast…” you trail off, making him shiver when you start drawing small shapes on his spine. 

“Uh huh,” he agrees shakily. 

“You’re curious, huh?” you ask. 

“You could say that,” he laughs, but you hear the twinge of uncertainty. 

It makes a ripple of sadness work through your veins. 

“Well…” you start. “I like someone. A lot.” 

The flame of hope flickering in his chest dances, the smile on your face an obvious tell. 

“Do you now?” 

He should’ve knew never to doubt you, should’ve known with the same ferocity as the other villagers that you two truly were written in the stars. 

You hum in agreement. 

“You gonna tell me about him?” he bites. 

You peel away from him, shy, even though you know that there isn’t a surer thing on the moon. You tilt your head, grin bashful as you clasp your hands behind your back and start pacing. 

“Well, the most important thing is that he is kind,” you say, pausing to think for a moment. “And he’s strong, a great warrior and very brave.” 

His chest pumps infinitesimally.

“I think he cares a lot about me,” you continue, then correct yourself, “I know he does. He is gracious and so thoughtful, never makes me second guess myself. He is my greatest supporter and makes me want to be a better person.” 

Neteyam’s smile is unbridled. 

“Most of all, he is my best friend,” you swallow, eyes searching his. “And while I love every person who has made me who I am today, nothing compares to how much I love him.” 

His breath hitches at the words, your first official declaration. 

“And it doesn’t help that he’s very, very, very handsome,” you add, standing before him.

Your eyes settle on the beadwork of his choker, too sheepish to meet his eyes as you brush non-existent debris off his shoulders. 

His fingers catch yours and you look up find that tears are welling in his eyes. 

“Teyam,” you coo, a watery laugh leaving your lips at that sight of the usually poised leader-in-training showing far more emotion than you’d seen in the lifetime you’ve known him.

“Don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he chuffs, head bending forward to rest on your shoulder. 

You want to tease him, ask him if he’ll say it back, but you already know. 

Everybody does. 

neng © 2023

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[sparkly-scales]

That's Mr. Dekarios to you Gale x Tav BG3

That's Mr. Dekarios to You

ObsidianRose96

Summary:

You twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you go to sit in the chair across from him. “Well, Gale- “Ah ah, that’s Mr. Dekarios to you.” He corrects. “Right. Mr. Dekarios. I apologize. It seems I find myself rather distracted when it comes to your class. “Oh? Distracted you say? And what seems to have you so distracted that you’re failing my class?” He gets up out of his chair and moves to stand beside you.   Tav decides to surprise Gale in his study but Gale has other ideas.

Notes:

The bad school girl/professor role play smut. Please enjoy this dumpster fire.

Work Text:

Night has fallen over Water Deep. You lean against the doorway of Gale's study, watching the newly titled professor as he works. He’s focused, meticulously looking down at each individual piece of parchment searching for wrong answers. He’s been grading papers for a couple of hours now, a tedious task that’s even more so when you have as many students as he does. You wonder if he’s ever going to take a break.

“I know you're there.” He says, not even bothering to look up from his current task. “Come in.” You slowly saunter over to his desk. His face is illuminated by light from a nearby brazier, casting hues of yellows and oranges on his fair colored skin. He looks rather handsome like this. You clear your throat in an attempt to get his attention. He lifts up his head from his grading. “Yes my- Oh. Oh my.” His lips tug into a wide grin as his eyes scan your body. You're completely nude as you stand before him, watching as he takes a moment to admire your nudity. Oh the thoughts that are going through his mind right now. He gathers up the stack of papers he’s been sorting through and tucks them away into a vacant drawer. He could get back to grading papers later. Now, he wanted nothing more than to indulge in his lovely, completely naked, wife. But how was he going to go about doing this? He’s quiet for a moment while he thinks and his silence starts to become a little worrying.

“Gale, is everything alright? We don’t have to if-

“Are you here to discuss your current grade, Mrs. Dekarios?” He says, suddenly.

You look at him, a bit confused. “I’m sorry, what?”

He folds his hands together as he keeps his eyes locked on you. Something mischievous flits behind those deep brown orbs of his as he continues.

“Your grade my dear. It seems you’ve been slacking when it comes to my class. You excel in every other subject except the one I happen to teach and your current grade is reflecting that. Why do you think that is?”

Oh? Oh! You see what he’s doing now. You never would have expected your husband to be the type that was into role playing. Everything was always so…vanilla, between the two of you. It’s not that you didn’t enjoy it when the two of you were intimate, this is just so unexpected. But not unwelcome. You twirl a strand of hair around your finger as you go to sit in the chair across from him.

“Well, Gale-

“Ah ah, that’s Mr. Dekarios to you.” He corrects.

“Right. Mr. Dekarios. I apologize. It seems I find myself rather distracted when it comes to your class.

“Oh? Distracted you say? And what seems to have you so distracted that you’re failing my class?” He gets up out of his chair and moves to stand beside you. You can’t help but notice that he’s now wielding a wooden ruler. When did he get that? And what was he planning on doing with it?

“I’m waiting, Mrs. Dekarios. And you’d better have a good explanation.” He says, snapping you back to reality. He lifts your chin with the ruler, forcing you to meet his eyes. They’re blazing with an unspoken desire, eagerly awaiting your answer.

“Well you see, there’s this very handsome classmate of mine who happens to sit in front of me. And I can't help but stare at him during your lectures.” You say. “It’s so hard to focus on what’s being said when he’s right there.”

“Is that so?” He leans down towards your ear, his beard tickling the shell of it as he asks, “Are my lessons that boring to you? “

Your lips tug into a devious grin. You were going to play your role beautifully.

“Oh yes. They’re incredibly boring. So much so that I can’t help but sit there and imagine being fucked by my fellow class mate.”

“Really now? What an interesting revelation.” He grabs your arm and guides you to stand, bending you over his desk. “Mulling over boys while I’m trying to teach you some of the most valuable information you could ever hope to learn? Unbelievable. And here I thought better of you Mrs. Dekarios. I think you need to be taught an entirely different lesson. One on the subject of discipline.”

“Oh, Mr. Dekarios, what could you possibly mean by that?” The ruler comes down onto your bare ass. Hard. You yelp in surprise, turning your head to face Gale. He has a smug look on his face, knowing you weren’t expecting it.

“Gale, did you just spank me?” The ruler comes down on you again, this time much harder.

“That’s Mr. Dekarios to you, young lady.” He says. He brings the ruler down on you again, and again, and again, relishing in the loud , pained cries that graced your lips. He’s relentless, not stopping until your skin is left red hot and stinging. He takes a moment to admire his work, impressed that you were able to withstand the pain for as long as you did. But now it was time to move on to something else. His cock was straining painfully against his trousers, begging to be released. Between the unexpected sight of you sauntering completely naked into his study and your willingness to play into his little fantasy, he found himself desperately needing more.

“You’re such a bad girl.” Say’s Gale, turning you to face him. His voice is different when he says this, dark and sultry, a tone you’ve yet to hear him use with you. It’s delectable and you can feel the insides of your thighs begin to dampen with your own desire. “Do you remember my lesson on how to cast mirror image or were you too busy longing for your classmate's cock to pay attention?”

You shake your head. “I’m going to have to go with the latter.”

“Then allow me to demonstrate.” He says the incantation for mirror image and a perfect copy of himself appears beside him.

“Hello again Mr. Dekarios. How may I be of assistance?”

“I have a very bad student of mine who needs to be disciplined. And I figured you could lend a hand.” He says, gesturing to you.

“Mr. Dekarios, I think you’ve indulged in a bit too much wine this evening. This is our wife, not one of your students.”

Gale leans over to the copy of himself and whispers in its ear. “I know that. I’m trying something new. Something sexual, just play along.”

“Oh. I see. That would explain why she’s naked. What would you like me to do?”

“Undress yourself.” Says Gale as he begins to take his ownclothes off. When he’s finished he sits down in the chair you were previously sitting in and pulls you into his lap. The copy of him gets down on his knees and settles between your legs, spreading them wide.

“My my Mrs. Dekarios. What do we have here?”

“I bet she’s sopping wet, isn’t she?” Asks Gale, moving his hands to grope both of your breasts.

“She is. Her arousal is quite evident. May I?”

“Do whatever you deem necessary.” Gale rolls one of your nipples between his fingers and you gasp, the sensation sending a jolt down your spine all the way down to your throbbing clit. “We need to remind her that she needs to focus on her teacher rather than some boy.”

Gale's copy moves his face towards your cunt and trails his tongue along your seam. This Gale wasn’t real but gods it sure felt like he was. You moan in satisfaction as his tongue slips between your folds, hitting all of your sweet spots as he laps up your decadent juices. He hums happily against you as the real Gale softly kisses your neck, continuing to grope your plush breasts and tease your nipples between his fingers.

“Do you think that boy could do something like this?” He asks. “I doubt he could elicit such beautiful sounds from you.”

You shake your head. “N-no Mr. Dekarios.”

“See? You don’t need some amateur wizard when you can have the master. You’ll pay attention to my lectures from now on, yes?” You nod but that isn’t good enough. He gives your nipple a harsh pinch. “I asked you a question, Mrs. Dekarios. Are you going to pay attention in my class from now on?”

“Yes! Yes, I’ll pay attention!”

“Good girl.” You hiss as Gale's counterpart swirls his tongue around your clit. Your body instinctively tires to wriggle away from the overstimulation but the real Gale holds you firmly in place.

“Make her cum for us.” He commands. “I want to hear her howl.”

“As you wish, Mr. Dekarios.” Gale's copy continues to lap at your clit while simultaneously slipping a couple of his fingers inside of you.

“Oh gods! Oh gods yes! Please finger fuck me!” You gasp at the sensation of being filled and devoured at the same time. He fulfils your request and thrusts his fingers in and out of you. The state of your arousal is made evident by the sounds that come from beneath you. Gale groans at the wet, squelching, noise your cunt is making, the lewd sound making his own need become more and more painful as he waits for you to reach your climax. He’s never been left wanting for this long before. Who knew arousal could physically hurt?

“Ah, Ah, I’m gonna cum! I’m gonna c-cum!” Your declaration is like the sweetest music to your husbands ears. Your thighs clench around his mirror images head as you reach your climax, crying out as the feeling of pure unbridled pleasure overtakes you, releasing yourself in your husbands counterparts mouth. The Gale between your legs makes an effort to clean you up, lapping away the wetness that was now dripping down your thighs.

“I’ve longed for the chance to have a taste of our lovely wife. I must say It’s better than I could have ever imagined.”

“Sweet like honey, is she not?”

“More like a rich brandy. But quite delicious all the same.” “

You’ve got good taste sir. Then again, you are me.” Says Gale. “Let’s switch shall we?” He moves you off of his lap and motions for you to get down onto the floor.

“I’m not quite finished with you yet Mrs. Dekarios. I believe I deserve some compensation for your disobedient behavior in my classroom. On your hands and knees.” You obediently do as you’re told. Gale's copy goes to sit in the chair and the real Gale positions himself behind you. You feel his rock hard erection pressing against your entrance. “Open your mouth.” He commands. You see where this is going.

Gale Dekarios, you kinky bastard!

You open, allowing Gale’s mirror image to shove himself into your mouth while your husband grabs you by the hips and slides into you from behind. What a sight to behold! You’re stuck in the middle of a Gale sandwich as you suck on ones cock and the other one fucks you from behind. It feels incredible! The Gale that sits in the chair entangles his fingers in your hair, gripping it as you take his cock in your hand, sliding your mouth up and down the shaft before engulfing him. You feel him shiver as you suck him off. You're such a good girl, making him moan as you pleasure him with your mouth. Could the real Gale feel this too since this was technically him? That’s something you’d have to ask him later on. The Gale behind you, the real Gale, was thrusting into you from behind and he was unusually rough, unyielding as he shoved himself in and out of your tight little cunt. He had never been this rough with you before and by gods it was a welcome change. It hurt a little, yes but the pleasure far outweighed the pain. Fuck, this was amazing and you let him know by the moans that escaped from you. This was going to have to become a more frequent occurrence in your bedroom affairs.

“You’re getting extra credit for this.” His voice is breathy as he says this. “That should bring your grade up to parr.”

“Hells, she deserves to have a passing grade for the rest of the semester.” Says Gale’s copy. "Such a good girl taking us both like this." 

You look up at the mirror image of Gale as you take him deeper in your mouth, worshipping his cock with your tongue. "Yes, that's it. So good. So, so good."  He shudders and grips your hair tighter and you brace yourself for what’s about to come. He spills his seed into your mouth and you swallow every last drop of it, relishing the sweet, salty taste of him. He lets out a satisfied sigh as he moves you off of his cock, taking a moment to catch his breath as he lies back in the chair. The real Gale isn’t quite finished with you yet, rocking himself into your hips as hard and as fast as he can. Gods, he’s so deep inside of you, you can feel his balls slapping the back of your cunt as he keeps up the pace. Your head falls back and your mid section begins to tighten as your walls clench around him. You let out another loud cry as you ride out yet another orgasm, the waves of pleasure overtake you as he thrusts into you a few more times before he himself reaches his climax. The warmth of his seed spreads inside of you as he finally comes to a stop. By the time it’s all done, he’s a sweaty mess resting on top of you. With a wave of his hand Gale dismisses his mirror image, leaving the two of you alone of the floor of the study.

“What was this all about?” You pant.

“What? Did you not enjoy it?” Gale asks.

“No, no, I did. I really really did. This is just…new.” You say.

“I just wanted to try something different. Astarion was telling me about some different ways we could try to spice things up a little bit. And when I saw you standing over my desk completely nude I decided to try one of them.”

“Astarion?”

“Yes. He’s here visiting from Baldur's Gate.”

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that. Astarion is here? In Water Deep?”

“In our guest bedroom.” Says Gale. “I was going to tell you he was here earlier but you were taking a nap and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Gale Dekarios! I walked right past the guest bedroom butt ass naked coming to your study! Not to mention the door is WIDE OPEN. You could have said something!”

“Don’t worry Darling, I didn’t see anything. But gods you are loud!” Astarion calls out from the guest room.

Your face turns the brightest shade red and Gale just boops you on the nose.

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-Down AU Part 98

Part 1 Part 97

It’s fucked up, but Steve’s never been happier. He’s not sure how much of it’s the drugs, and how much is the relief, but it sits like a weight on his chest that he never wants to shake off.

There’s a constant stream of visitors. Ms. Byers, who’s taken to cupping her cool hands around his face and kissing his forehead each time. Uncle Wayne, who’s calluses are starting to become as familiar as Edde’s to the skin of Steve’s palms.

Barbara and Carol, attached at the hip in a way he can’t parse. He doesn’t think he was gone that long. How did this happen? But he knows that flirty smile, knows what his best friend’s fingers trailing over Barbara’s shoulders means.

Tommy doesn’t come. It shouldn’t hurt, but – But. Something inside him tightens and contracts. It might just be his heart.

Jonathan and Nancy come together. Jonathan’s bubbling over with apologies, contrite in contrast to Nancy’s fuming.

“You should have called me,” she says, curly hair practically raising with the power of her ire. “I could have helped.”

From his seat by Steve’s side, Eddie huffs and puffs and barely holds back his yell. He doesn’t see the way her fists are curled, can’t see past the veneer of control that hides the worry behind it.

“I was possessed, Nance,” Steve replies, smiling up at her. His face hurts with all the smiling. “I didn’t even know who you were.”

She sputters and stalls while Jonathan stands beside her, shooting worried looks out of the corner of his eyes.

He can almost feel the hole they’d left in his brain. The shape of their outlines at high school parties and in line at the cafeteria. Nancy’s firmly raised hand, Jonathan’s slumped shoulders. It’s filled now.

He wants to fill it with more memories, so many that the bad ones just shake loose.

“Oh, alright,” she huffs, settling down on the other side of the bed, far away from Eddie’s twitching fingers. “But that won’t work as an excuse next time.”

The kids are easy; they come in a pile, stacking against each other in his room’s doorway until Dustin comes pouring in, everyone else after him. They all crowd onto his bed with no regard to his personal space. Even Mike slinks onto the end to sit with sullen shoulders and shining eyes. 

They’re like puppies, yapping over each other for his and Eddie’s attention. Will’s planning a new campaign, and his eyes light up when Steve agrees to play.

Chief Hopper comes next with a girl hiding behind his back, clutching onto the hanging lapel of his jacket. Her head peaks out behind him, curls springing wildly from her scalp as she smiles shyly at Steve. 

“I know you,” Steve says.

The chief huffs, as the beams, and says her part in their little play, “I found you.”

Steve shuffles up in his bed, not looking as he feels Eddie prop up pillows behind his back. He holds his arms out and open, waiting even as his muscles begin to strain. 

She shuffles out from behind Chief Hopper, head down as she climbs onto the edge of his bed, butting her forehead against his chest like a cat. He puts his arms around her, slow as he feels what he’s come to find out are burns of varying degrees. No one will tell him what they’re from, but Carol had looked especially shifty when she’d witnessed the bandages being changed. He elected not to ask.

The girl doesn’t put her own arms around him, just lets her hands settle into her own lap and leans in. 

“You really are a supergirl, huh?” Steve asks, reaching his hand up to play with her curls. His splinted finger knocks against her skull once before he holds it back as best he can. 

She leans back to beam up at him, eyes alight. “You can call me El”.

They probably both look stupid, smiling at each other, one of them all banged up, the other in what must be Chief Hopper’s cast-offs. 

Hopper clears his throat when the silence lingers. He stomps in his clunky work boots over to the seat beside Eddie and sinks down, almost reclining into it despite its straight back. Eddie curls away from him, glaring at the man like he’s got a live grenade. 

Or like he’s been searched for drugs before and doesn’t want the fuzz to be sniffing around. Steve laughs, loopy and pleased while they both look at him with the same furrowed brows and worried frowns.

“You alright, kid?” Hopper asks gruffly, reaching out to put his meaty hand on Steve’s shoulder.

Steve winces, feels the bandages pull until Hopper drops his hand. 

“Did you know she was real?” Steve asks, reaching out to pull one of El’s bounciest curls atop her head. It all goes straight and taught and then bounces back into place.

Hopper snorts. “Where do you think she’s been living?”

“Oh,” he replies. 

His brains clicking in his skull, weighed down by morphine and too much sleep, but when his gaze flickers around the room, he recognizes the awkward grimace on Eddie’s lips.

“You knew,” Steve accuses, finger pointed toward Eddie’s face, to emphasize who he’s accusing. His finger shakes unsteadily until Eddie snatches it out of the air and pops it into his own mouth to bite down. “Ow, what the fuck?”

Eddie’s dimples pop around it as he nibbles into the knuckle one more time before letting go with a suctioning pop. “Don’t be mad, Stevie,” he weedles, looking up at Steve through his lashes with wide, innocent eyes, even as his prominent dimples give away his amusement.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Steve’s slightly damp finger flicks Eddie’s nose until he hisses and snatches Steve’s hand to interlace their fingers with a shrug. “I thought it would be funny.”

It’s hard to hold a grudge when El giggles, light and airy as it breathes life into the room.

“He’s got you there, kid,” Hopper replies, reaching out again, this time to ruffle El’s hair. 

Steve huffs, “whatever, man,” but his lips are little traitors and they can’t stop from turning up at the corners. “See if I introduce you to the next superhero we meet.”

Eddie squeezes his hand, familiar callouses scraping against Steve’s palm. “You’ll introduce me, Stevie.” he replies. Steve closes his eyes as he feels warm lips on the back of his hand. “You love me too much.”

Steve closes his eyes against the feeling, still smiling even as his healing skin pulls, and his finger feels unwieldy and wrong, and his head aches and floats up toward the ceiling. 

Yeah, he really does. 

Taglist: @deany-baby @estrellami-1 @altocumulustranslucidus @evillittleguy @carlprocastinator1000 @hallucinatedjosten @goodolefashionedloverboi @newtstabber @lunabyrd @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @manda-panda-monium @disrespectedgoatman @finntheehumaneater @ive-been-bamboozled @harringrieve @grimmfitzz @is-emily-real @dontstealmycake @angeldreamsoffanfic @a-couchpotato @5ammi90 @mac-attack19 @genderless-spoon @kas-eddie-munson @louismeds @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @pansexuality-activated @ellietheasexylibrarian @nebulainajar @mightbeasleep @neonfruitbowl @beth--b @silenzioperso @best-selling-show @v3lv3tf0x @bookworm0690 @paintsplatteredandimperfect @wonderland-girl143-blog @nerdsconquerall @sharingisntkaren @canmargesimpson @bananahoneycomb @rainwaterapothecary @practicallybegging

Part 99

[corrodedcoffins-blog]

Out Of Your Comfort Zone

masterlist

note: the original ask said fantasy but i dont read fantasy at all, so i went with a silly little romance novel i loved, which i think still displays that opposite thing the anon wanted. so i hope this is okay!!

warnings: my writing while i'm high (rambling that can be disguised as descriptive writing)

word count: 1.2 k

♡ summary: During a bookstore date Y/n's taste in books gets Spencer out of his comfort zone.

♡ Spencer Reid x fem!reader

request ✓

Finally, Spencer had a weekend off, where there was no chance of a case coming in at the last minute. And it’s not like Y/n hated Spencer’s job, she knew he did a lot of good. But it was hard sometimes when they would go a few weeks without sleeping next to each other.

It was the perfect morning to their perfect day, they had just come from a local art exhibit pop-up/farmers market. It reminded Y/n of Notting Hill, of course from the movie but also from when she lived in London while studying abroad. But now the couple was off to the local bookstore, they had looked at the farmers market, but they were all travel books, the irony was not lost.

Them both loving books was what got them to the second date, their first being filled with a debate about ‘modern classics’ and what classifies them. A topic they both clearly had a lot of opinions on as it took up the whole date that they hadn’t asked all the first date questions, so they needed the second date.

Them both loving books was what got them to the second date, their first being filled with a debate about ‘modern classics’ and what classifies them. A topic they both clearly had a lot of opinions on as it took up the whole date that they hadn’t asked all the first date questions, so they needed the second date.

And though their taste in books were quite opposite, there was a small overlap that was home to Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, The Bell Jar, and many others. But that was Spencer’s main area, classics, Y/n only read the feminist classics.

So when they went to the bookshop, the two would split up until Spencer finished looking in his favourite sections, since he could read so much faster than the girl it took her about three times as long to look through the fiction section.

Spencer was making his way to her now, stopping to read the backs of a couple books that interested him, even picking one up to buy. He walked past the isles of the fiction and romance sections, finally coming to a halt at the ‘J’s where Y/n was now. She didn’t even register his presence, too wrapped up in reading the summary of the blue and yellow book in her hand.

Spencer didn’t want to startle the girl, so he walked past her, her eyes rising from the book in hand to look at who she thought was a random person just browsing the store like her, eyes lighting up when she sees it’s Spencer.

“Honey, what’d you find?” She questions, Spencer assumes it was a rhetorical question since she didn’t give him enough time before she cuts in grabbing the second book from the stack in his arms, “I was gonna suggest this one to you! A subscriber said it was really good!”

Y/n was a booktuber, when she told Spencer that he obviously had no idea what that was, but a simple explanation later and he was caught up. And after a year of dating, she finally mentioned him in a video when she was talking about ‘Normal People’ . It was one of the books they argued could be considered a modern classic on their first date. And she mentioned his taste in books and now her followers left recommendations for him in her

comments, mostly on instagram when she posted him from time to time.

“Yeah. I was really impressed with another book by this author, her description of the caste system in India and the impact it has mentally was so moving.” “I remember you reading that. I’m not good at reading those types of books, but I love when you tell me all about them.” Her soft words brought red to Spencer’s checks while he hid his hands around her waist.

Recovering from the girl’s flirting, even after a year he still reacted the same to her words, his head rose from the spot in her neck to look at the book she had been looking at when he found her.

“What did you find?” “Oh, I saw a girl say it was a good book in her review and I want to do a video on age gap books since so many people ask.” Pacing the books over to him when he signalled his hand forward for it, turning it over to read the front, ‘Part of Your Word’ by Abby Jimenez in large letters was written across the front. It wasn’t a fairly large book, it could take him maybe five minutes.

Y/n was now turned to read more titles, stopping at any that caught her eye. All the while, Spencer was stood of to the side reading. It had actually only taken the man four minutes when he checked his watch. Proud of himself, he looks up to see that his girlfriend was apparently watching him, for how long, he didn’t know.

With a smile on his face, he asks, “What?” “Spencer. Did you just read my book? Before I even bought it?” She replied with a hand going to her hip and a jokey tone. “Well, first of all, you aren’t buying it bec-” “Why was it bad?”

Y/n often spoke before thinking, causing her to cut off people, Spencer was used to it he thought it was cute and she always made it her mission to not interrupt when he was really passionate about a topic.

“Because, I’m buying.” “Hon, no you bought last time.” “I don’t mind.” “I do.”

Spencer moved on from this conversation, they both know how it will end. Spencer will in fact pay, Y/n will say he didn’t have to, Spencer would say he doesn’t mind, she’ll say she does mind, and they repeat it when they pay for lunch after the bookshop.

“But I did read it.” “Don’t spoil, but what did you think?” She had watched a couple booktok reviews on it so she knew it was a little spicy, something she knew Spencer didn’t read a lot of, if ever.

“I think it was good. I liked how they talked about family relationships and verbal abuse in relationships, I think it was done well and it brought a lot more sense of realism. And I liked the leads, I relate to Daniel more than I thought, his dedication to making things work.. I won’t spoil it for you but- um yeah. And I liked the setting.”

His words sent a loving smile to rest on the girl’s face, she loved nothing more than to hear Spencer talk. His voice was deep yet not at the same time, and his mannerisms were adorable to her. And hearing him actually read and enjoy a book from the romance section that was written in the last few decades, was a big step for him. He didn’t even know about Twilight when they met.

“I’m glad you like it.” She said, truthfully, “I’ll be sure to mention that in my video.” “You don’t have to.” “You just don’t want Penny to see the video and by extension Derek.”

Their conversation continued while they waited in line, holding each other's hand while Y/n looks up to speak. They were interrupted when it was then their turn, Spencer paying like he said he would, and again at lunch, much to the girl’s disapproval.

“You don’t have to pay.” “I don’t mind.” “I do.”

[xiofuu]

where you actively try to deny your love for the general as he chases for it.

art is by @/tecchen on twt | part one (?)

Where did this even start? When was it that your heart had decided to go against you and fall in love with the General?

No matter how many times you tried to tell yourself that this was just work, that you two were to be strictly work partners, your heart still yearned for more, wishing to be held with his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you closer as the both of you nap in the warmth that fell through the window and onto you both.

You shake your head at the thought, your face growing warmer as your heart betrays you more and more each day as General Jing Yuan's attendant, wandering through the Exalting Sanctum as you take a break from the endless amount of work, the moon high in the sky as a navy blue blanket is cast upon the island, highlighted with soft pinks in the sky as each building shines with their lanterns, the stone path shining a soft yellow with each step you take as you step onto the wooden boards of the elevated ground, their dark hues affected with light blue as you find an empty bench to sit on, your eyes wandering as you take in the calming feel of the night.

A soft sigh leaves your lips, your heart still pounding at the thought of the lazy General as you lean back against the bench, looking up at the night sky, stars crossing the sky as you think once more, your mind focused on too many things at once.

You couldn't love him. There wasn't a way for a work relationship such as yours to work out, you believed. From him being a General and being too busy with work (or so you excused) to you being his simple attendant, only there to work alongside him on his stacking paperwork as he makes plans for other things, his small smile of apology etched into your heart as your heart pounds again.

Though, maybe it wasn't even just that. You two had so much of your lives to live, that is what the curse of the Abundance gave. So what would make him choose you to stay with?

You sigh to yourself once more, trying to push these things down as you ignore the dull ache in your heart, thinking of the events that happened within just the last week.

It started with ignoring his messages. Watching as his messages change from a business-like tone and shifting into a more flirty one before you turn off your phone, silencing it as your ignore your warming face and your heart that thumped and bumped into the painful vines of hopelessness that had grown around your heart.

Then it was the calls. The ones where he would call to tell you to gather information before coming to his office, his voice softer, him barely grumbling into the phone as you can hear that he has just woken up. Aeons, you fell hard for this man.

Afterward, it was patching up his wounds. You knew it wasn't your job, it just...was too tempting for you. Your hands softly brushing against his bare muscular arm as you wrap the bandage around it, trying your best to ignore his eyes staring at you as your touch enchants him.

Even through all of that, it led to more and more and more, leaving your heart sore from just a day's work together. His unnecessary comments of you being beautiful, his teasing of your work habits, his soft smile, his sleeping figure, his everything!

So, you opted for the easy route.

"Ignoring" his messages, "missing" his calls, "mishearing" him, and it even got to the point where you had almost told him that you'd call another woman for him. Another woman to play with just as he had been doing to you this whole time so that you could let yourself drown in the paperwork, drown in this endless pit of sorrow as your tears of heartache filled the void within your heart you wished he could fill.

But of course, this was work. He only used to fool around years ago (you hope).

Your phone buzzes, shaking you out of your thoughts as it vibrates against your hand as you look toward it, finding that it's another message from Jing Yuan.

"Can you bring us more tea when you come back?" It said, a sigh falling through your lips as you click your phone off again, standing and stretching your arms above your head as you make your way back, knowing that he had too much tea within his office already and this was just a silly message to get you to come back.

There was nothing more you could simply do out here so far in the night as you make your way back, getting in the starskiff to start making your way to his office, dreading the long long hours your heart would beat with love and shake with heartbreak.

[nakachuchu]

Time to Eat | Denji (nsfw)

part one

SYNOPSIS: You make good on your promise to Denji.

READER: female

INCLUDES: (first time) cunnilingus, fingering, praise, female-focused, slight femdom, soft hair pulling

WORDS: 1112

WRITTEN: 11/29/2022

NOTE: This happens in a timeline where Makima does not exist. Also, I have never read the manga so if something does not make sense, then oops! There is a part two with Aki!

"Denji," you called out softly, drawing his attention to you. You leaned in and cupped your hands over his ear. "If you kill the Gun Devil, I'll let you eat it."

"Eat what?" he asked out loud, drawing the group's attention to the two of you.

You moved one hand and trailed a finger up and down his thigh, then grazed his cock through his pants. He went still, face turning red.

"Eat me out," you whispered.

Within a matter of seconds, he was running and bouncing off the walls, trying to kill the Gun Devil.

You found it rather amusing. When the promise of a woman's body was mentioned to Denji, he would stop at nothing to obtain it. You should applaud him, really.

"Y/N-san, you're not serious, are you?" Aki questioned.

You shrugged. "I don't see why not. A girl's gotta have fun sometimes."

Himeno threw an arm over your shoulders, drawing you in to rest the side of her head against yours. "You sly whore."

Aki had a distasteful look on his face and clicked his tongue before looking away. He didn't enjoy the thought of you selling your body away so that the Gun Devil could get eradicated.

The promise you made with Denji was on hold after he passed out after his battle with the Gun Devil. But when he woke up four days later, the first thing he thought of was your promise.

In the dead of night, you went over to his apartment — which was really Aki's apartment — since you didn't like many people knowing where you lived.

You weren't wearing the usual uniform that people saw you in at work, which made Denji even more nervous as you stood in the middle of his room with a tank top and jeans on. The moonlight was pouring in from the open window, casting the room in a brilliant dark blue.

He gulped from his place on the bed as you unzipped your jeans and pulled them down, kicking them off your feet and across the room.

"Move," you said.

He scrambled to get off the bed, twisting around the sheets and nearly smacking face-first into the floor.

You chuckled and crawled onto his bed, then stacked up his pillows to lean on them. You took off your panties and threw them at Denji, who immediately lunged for them. You were only wearing a tank top with no bra, and you had no intention of letting Denji touch your tits because that wasn't part of the deal.

You opened your legs and reached down to spread your pussy with your fingers. Denji's eyes widened and he crawled onto the bed, eyes trained on your pretty cunt.

"Have you ever done this before?" you asked.

He shook his head, unable to form words.

You tapped your clit with your finger. "You lick and suck here." Then, you slid your finger up and down, teasing the entrance of your pussy. "You can stick your tongue in here too or use your fingers. Got it?"

He nodded vigorously and hooked his arms around your thighs, bringing you close and tight to him as he leaned down to your wet pussy.

He could barely contain himself. His senses were going into overload. Even after your explanation, he still had no clue what he was doing.

He sniffed your pussy, making you wriggle around in embarrassment. It was a scent that was unlike any other.

He groaned. "You smelled so good."

He licked a stripe up your clit, making you shudder. And that one lick sent him into a frenzy. He was an absolute ravager on your clit.

Denji was sloppy and messy, slobbering all over your clit and pussy, but you took it as a compliment — a compliment that felt great.

He was devouring you as if you were his last meal on Earth, never taking breaks between his lips. He was dead focused on tasting you and making you feel good.

You loved watching him eat your pussy, tongue flicking up and down, side to side before his lips would attach to your puffy clit to suck on them.

Remembering what you said about fingers, he moved one arm back to stick a finger inside your wet cunt. He curled it, noticing how your body twitched in response.

He repeated the process of curling his finger inside of you while slobbering his tongue over your clit and sucking.

Your legs were quivering, and you threw your head back and closed your eyes to savor the moment. You could hear the sounds of Denji messily lapping up your juices, slurping and sucking like he had been dehydrated for days.

Denji’s eyes flicked up, zeroing in on your breasts. He could see your perky nipples through your thin tank top, and he swore they were begging to be released from the confines of your cotton tank top.

His other hand slithered up your stomach, and you opened your eyes to look down and pinch the back of his hand. He unlatched his mouth from your clit to scowl.

“Tits weren't part of the deal,” you murmured lazily. “No touching,” you said as you lifted your tank top.

Your tits bounced back and you teased Denji by fondling them, rolling your nipples between your fingers. He frowned but got back to work on your clit.

You moaned and began rocking your hips against his face, craving his hot and slender tongue.

Denji still couldn't believe he was losing his oral virginity to you. You were undeniably hot, and he wished he could take a photo of you from his angle: legs spread apart with gorgeous tits up ahead.

Your breath hitched. “Right there, Denji. Fuck, right there. Good boy.”

He immediately got a burst of energy, an invisible tail wagging eagerly behind him as he picked up the pace. He used one hand to push your thigh up and slid a second finger into your pussy, curling them against your slick walls.

Your back arched, hand shooting out to grip his hair as you rocked your hips against his face to ride out your orgasm.

“F-Fuck, good boy,” you moaned.

You knew he wouldn't stop if you didn't pull his face out from your pussy. You sat up and pulled him up by his hair, then leaned forward to kiss him.

Your tongue massaged his tongue, and when you pulled away, a string of your cream and saliva attached to your lips.

“That's for killing the Gun Devil,” you whispered. “Good job, Denji.”

Aki stood outside on the balcony with a cigarette between his fingers, an irked expression on his face.

[respectthepetty]

10 Anticipated BLs for 2024

Since I'm excited for ALL the GLs (Pluto, 23.5, Sunshine in the Wind, Chaser Game, Be Mine, y todo!), I'm making my list of the 10 BLs I'm excited for this year with brief reasons why I'm looking forward to them. In my normal fashion, I cheat my way into having more. All except one is Thai because Thailand loves to tease series three years in advance, then never make them, but I strongly believe these are coming:

The Next Prince

Zee continues to never play a poor person, and a trailer is supposed to drop in the first quarter of this year. I never knew there was so many fencers on BL Tumblr, so I'm looking forward to everyone's commentary on how well the characters poke with their sticks or whatever fencers do.

Jack & Joker: U Steal My Heart

It's a heist BL. It has YinWar. It has Prom x Mark. It has Bonz. It's Dee Hup House (we got beef). It's Director Tee and probably Cinematographer Jim. It might have color coding. There is not one thing I can find wrong with this series. It's perfect on paper, and I'm praying that translates well to the screen.

Spare Me Your Mercy

Like that lady in Titanic, I've been waiting 80 years for this series (give me a minute to cry about MaxTul), and it's finally near! I'm getting JJ & Tor in a Dr. Sammon piece, who I feel writes "Be Gay, Do Crime" very well, so I'll be forgiving any of these two gays' wrongs including murder, attempted murder, contemplating murder, and murdering each other in the bedroom (ahhhh!).

Wandee Goodday

Golf from The Eclipse is directing. It's about Muay Thai. It has an older doctor and a younger boxer who start off as bed friends (and I think one is actually a virgin). It has color coding. It has me already seated and waiting with popcorn, and I think it might be the first offering that will be delivered from GMMTV's 2024 lineup.

Sequels: Choco Milk Shake 2, Unintentional Love Story 2, My Doctor

Is Choco Milk Shake 2 gonna finally give me poly? Probably not, but I hope My Doctor brings the same heat the side couple did in Be Mine, Superstar, and the side couple getting the spotlight in Unintentional Love Story 2 will also make my side-couple-supremacy heart very happy this year.

Live in Love

It looks color coded. That's it. That's the reason. Keeping my expectations low because it might not get made since this is Thailand's favorite game.

Red Peafowl

The character reveals were absolute chaos, so I'm hoping that chaos transfers over to the actual series because it can either be a mess or a masterpiece, but it cannot be mediocre with Max, Cooheart, Boun, Mek, and Yacht as supports. Plus, it has color coding and a bird that is quickly becoming a Tumblr god.

Love Upon a Time

Even though it is a historical queer series, which means it could be sad, I think Domundi will keep the sass, so James' character won't be crying in the 1600s club but instead eating fruit seductively to encourage Net's character to put his homosexual skills into practice instead of simply theorizing about them, which is something I need more of. Plus, it has color coding.

Love Puzzle

This is one that might not get made because . . . Thailand. It's connected to Chains of Heart, but I don't care because the cast looks good and Poppy is gonna finally get to kiss a homie. If this doesn't get made, I will cry thug tears. It's 2024. Poppy deserves to kiss a man already.

My Stand-In

I don't understand the plot, but it doesn't matter because Pepzi and Khom are directing, and in case that means nothing, those were KinnPorsche's directors! Then, it has Up and Poom as the leads, plus a stacked supporting cast. I'm here. I'm queer. And I'm ready to be served.

Honorable Mention: Peaceful Property

It's about los espookys and features Tay and New. Will it be a QL? The streets are saying no, but all the characters are color coded, and all's I'm saying is what would be the point of color coding them if I ain't getting a BL main couple and a GL side couple? It's already canon to me.

Bonus: MosBank & JoongDunk

MosBank had like eighty projects announced for 2023, and I got NONE! Big Dragon 2, Big Dragon: The Movie, SunsetxVibes, where you at?! Y Journey: Stay Like a Local and Club Friday do not count. I don't want to watch their horror movie, but gosh darnit, if that comes out before everything else, I just might.

And I am a JoongDunk fan first, and a human second. Give my boys a gym BL already, GMMTV!

[agent-cupcake]

grimm

Pairing: Death (Puss in Boots: The Last Wish) x f!catgirl Reader

Synopsis: The series of unfortunate events and clichés that lead you to meeting a familiar nightmare in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon. It goes about as well as you'd expect.

Warnings: 18+, explicit smut w/ a nonhuman character (not a nonhuman cock though), noncon, death, violence

Tags: alternate universe, angst, size kink, object insertion, masochistic reader, praise (voice) kink, outdoor sex

Words: 18.5k

Notes: It's been a while, huh? Yes, today we are going to fuck the furry from a kids movie, I'm not sure if y'all are even surprised but. Anyway. On the one hand I'd say I feel shame but on the other they shouldn't have made him talk so sexy, which is not my fault. All the Spanish is from DeepL and context.reverso. Hopefully any mistakes aren't too bad and you don't find it too cringe, or you can manage to look past it for my sake.

Once upon a time there lived in an unassuming little corner of the world a man. A husband to a beautiful wife and a father of two lovely children. He was strange, perhaps, for the ears atop his head, and the vertical irises through which he looked, and the spry springiness of his limbs. Stranger too for his chosen lifestyle, a traveling merchant whose blood couldn’t get any lower. Ravi, sons and daughters of Bastet, relics of a bygone era. For all that he was strange, however, he was steadfast. Bolstered rather than weakened by the critical eye of other men, the unyielding cut of his silhouette and unshakable confidence made the man a lord in his own right. He had been here, and there, traveling wherever the wind called him, and always with certainty. If his chosen path was obstructed by a swath of trees, he would see the forest leveled before he so much as considered choosing a different route. A further measure of his determination, however, would prove that if he were told that those same obstructing trees were sacred, he would scorch the earth so thoroughly that not even ash dared remain beneath his boots when he trampled on the hallowed ground. 

One day, the man looked down to admire how far he had come throughout the years, to smile upon the many grand achievements he had stacked up along the way. But then, looking a little closer, he couldn’t help but notice how long his shadow had become. While he had been distracted, the sun made its arc above him, and now it was falling towards the horizon, casting him in ever dimming light. Taking with it, he thought, Ra’s blessing. He began to tally up all of the things he had been ignoring. A stiff back, sore joints, fatigue after a day of travel, a headache after a night of frivolity. He noticed that while his son had grown tall and strong, he had been shrinking. The lovely apple cheeks of his beloved wife had begun to dull, wrinkles forming around her eyes. This realization filled the man with a feeling he had never experienced before—uncertainty. And then, fear. 

Unable to face the dark, he vowed that he would not allow it, he would do whatever it took to escape such a terrible fate. Unbeknownst to him, this audacious belief invited the attention of a creature with a unique penchant for mischief and an appetite for fear. A wolf. He told the man that he could run, he could fight, he could rage, he could try to pull the sun back with all his might, but in his desperate frenzy to escape the night, he would only incur a great debt. An immeasurable bounty. One, perhaps, that would condemn not only him, but his family and the legacy he had created. A terrible fate.

“I do not fear you,” the man said. 

The wolf laughed. 

It was to be a chase, then. A hunt. The man ran, searching for something, anything, that would save him, traveling here and there with purpose, scouring the shadows, tracking down myth and rumor with a passion bordering mania. There had to be, he reasoned, a way to remain in Ra’s boundless glory. Circling ever nearer, the wolf harried his prey to the last. 

Until, on the lush outskirts of a certain small village, a small ravi family set up their wagon for the night. The woods swarmed with the sound of bugs, the early summer heat simmering back down into the cold dampness of spring nights. Haunting and dreamlike, echoing in the dark, signaling finality, a song. And then, a figure in the dark. A familiar face, a frightening foe. 

There, in the night, beneath the full moon, the hunt ended. Nowhere to go, nowhere to run, his obsession had taken him so completely that the only remaining recourse was a final fit of fury against the dying light. Perhaps, in those last moments, the man realized what a fool he had been. Too late. The wolf had grown bored of the game.

Horror of horrors, serendipity struck. A child who should have been tucked up tight in her bed, sheltered and safe from what lurked in the dark, grew bored of counting sheep. She hadn’t yet learned to fear the night, thinking her father to be playing a delightful trick. Creeping, quiet, curious, and ignorant to the cruelty of the dangerous unseen, she breached the forest’s uncanny shadows. Deeper, deeper, until she discovered the truth. Her father’s corpse hit the ground, his empty eyes never seeing her terror, his deaf ears never hearing her scream. 

The gray wolf bid her to run, and she did. It was inevitable that they should meet again. 

one chance.

Before that night, you never gave much thought to death, or luck, or malevolent forces, or tragedy. It was only when you were huffing, puffing, screaming for help, crying wolf, that true fear crept into your life. Once the door opened, it could not be closed. Although the monster was long gone, its shadow remained. 

And they said: you were lucky to have escaped. They said: ravi law, loose as it was, could not be counted on for satisfactory justice. They said: the murder could not have been committed by any of the simple townsfolk. They said: it would be a blight upon the poor ordinary people for the case to drag on and on. And so the crime was tried thus—your brother, suffering a fit of drunken rage, donned a mummer’s wolf mask and murdered your father. 

Not even a day passed before the so-called trial was held. The only building that could accommodate the gawkers and jury was the local barroom, a place that stank of old wood and fermentation. You didn't know the man acting as judge, you did not recognize any of the faces around you, only that they were indifferent, cold, and your brother's life rested in their callous hands. He sat near the front as the case was laid out for the gawkers, his face drawn and shadowed. Clapped in irons, his mouth covered to protect his jailors from his sharp ravi canines, ears as low as you’d ever seen them, looking not so much a man on trial than livestock on auction.

"You’re the daughter, are you not?” the judge called. It took you a moment to realize he meant you, his dull eyes signaling you out. 

Someone spat at your feet. 

“Filthy half breed."

"They’re incestuous, the father must have found them in the act."

“They’re both guilty.” 

“Go ahead. Run. No one escapes me.” 

The low whisper, practically a growl, made your ears twitch, your heartbeat racing as you scanned the faceless crowd with dry eyes, blinking fast to try and find the source of that terrible voice. But the faces were all human, drawn with cruelty and disgust, but human. 

The judge banged on the table, catching your attention. “Young lady! You witnessed the crime, yes?” 

You shook your head in rejection of the phantom voice and cleared your throat, breaking free of your mother’s grasp to stumble towards the judge. "Yessir," you said. "Yessir, I am… I-I did."

“Go on, then. We’ll hear your testimony.” 

It was difficult to breathe, the air was stuffy and hot, your skin too tight. You could feel the people watching you, the weight of their eyes.   

"You've got it all wrong, sir,” you said. “It-it wasn't him. He couldn't-"

"The facts only, if you please," the judge said, cutting you off. "Did you or did you not see the man who attacked you?”

Hot, heavy tears formed in your eyes, primed to travel the same salty tracks down your cheeks left by those before. Fear, pain, sadness, exhaustion, all of it compounded and ached within you. You didn’t want to remember. You didn’t want to think. But you had to.

"It was no man, sir," you said, your voice choked.

“Do you mean to tell me a woman killed your father?” 

“No sir, it was an… an evil spirit.” Behind you, people muttered and whispered with disbelief. Shock. Doubt. Anger. The judge's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. “He had the head of a jackal, or a-a a wolf. ” 

“A mask.” 

“No, sir. It was not a man.” You heard your mother’s scolding voice from behind you, and your brother raised his head to look at you with shock, but you ignored it all.

"I should hope I don’t need to remind you of the severity of these proceedings,” the judge said, his eyes narrowed into slits.

"I know what I saw,” you replied, your hands balled into tight fists at your side.

"Your testimony is that an evil spirit with the head of a wolf murdered your father and attacked you?" The judge clarified, not so much as pretending to believe you. The question pulled a bit of laughter from the crowd. Your mother grabbed at your arm to pull you back, but you refused to let her. Instead, you set your stance and jaw.

"Yessir." 

More laughter, as if there was anything humorous about this situation. 

“I know,” the judge said loudly, silencing the crowd with a wave of his hand. “I know that you’ve been through a terrible thing, and I am sorry about that. That’s no excuse, however, and I mean this, it is no excuse for you to lie. You might think you’re defending your brother, but anything less than the absolute truth only strengthens the case against him. And, if I’m to be completely honest, I find this behavior deeply troubling. Perhaps it is acceptable among your kind to believe in stories of evil spirits and the like, but it is not appropriate here. We’re a good, God fearing people.”

“This isn’t a story. I saw it,” you insisted, your throat swollen and the world blurring up with tears. “The beast might still be in the woods, if you just look-” 

“Look for the big bad wolf?” the judge asked, a bushy gray eyebrow rising high, inviting further discontent and disbelieving laughter from the people behind you. He sighed, once again calling for order and shaking his head. “It pains me greatly, you must understand, I want to be fair considering your circumstances, but this really is unacceptable. If you won’t testify against him, your father’s killer-” 

“I told you,” you insisted, a little louder.

“No, young lady. And I repeat—no. What you have done is insult me and the fine people of this town with your absurd heathen fiction,” he told you.

“That’s not-” 

“Your kind think you are above civilized law, but understand that we are giving your father the justice he, as a son of God, deserves by right. Your father brought fear and tragedy into the hearts of these people, and your scoundrel brother committed an unthinkable crime. There are those who don’t believe your brother is deserving of a trial at all, considering the substantial evidence against him. Indeed, this is a kindness I am extending to you and your mother. So, for the last time, I will not tolerate your pagan fiction. Do you understand?” 

“I do,” you said, although you could feel your confidence wavering, a shaky cold sweat beading up on the back of your neck, pooling acidically in your stomach. He wasn’t going to listen. He didn’t believe you. “But I haven’t lied, I know what I saw.” 

That caused an uproar, the people’s voices overlapping, a relentless and meaningless wave of noise. Demanding you be silenced, removed, executed. 

“That is enough,” the judge exclaimed, and you didn't know if he spoke to you or the people. “So far, I have disregarded accusations that you were complicit in your brother’s crime, but if you continue to behave in such a manner, I may have to reconsider. That is a charge of patricide, young lady. Do you not have enough decency to spare your mother the loss of another child?” 

You looked at him, really looked at him, overcome with a dizzyingly caustic rush of pain and disbelief at the injustice. He didn’t care if your brother was or was not guilty, or who had actually killed your father. To him, the death of a ravi man was meaningless, let alone two. Let alone three. He saw your eyes and ears and that was it. 

Trying to fight back the thick swell of fear and pain and anger, you breathed carefully in and out, staring straight up in an attempt to fight the tears.

“It wasn’t my brother,” you said, forcing the words from your mouth without inflection. "He would never, ever… he wouldn't."

“Did you,” the judge asked icily, bluntly, “or did you not see the face of the man who attacked you?” 

Red eyes, a long snout, a canine mouth full of deadly sharp teeth. A spirit attempting some approximation of the god of death with twin sickles in hand, trying to twist the kind shepherd’s image into one of terror, a creature wearing the face of evil itself. But the truth cowered away from something far more potent, shamefully grotesque. Self preservation.  

“No,” you said, realizing too late the damning significance of that answer, wanting to add more but not knowing what. When you looked your brother in the eye, you understood. And it didn’t matter what you said after that point. You were the girl who cried wolf.

 

two times questioned.

That night, a great storm blotted out the stars and made it impossible to see more than a few feet in front of yourself. You made off into the night with your meager possessions packed up in a sack and some vague idea of where to go in the back of your head, mostly memories of better times. Anywhere was better than the home for wayward girls you had been shuffled into, a place that was a charity in name only. 

Ultimately, you didn’t make it far, not even out of the city. There was no place in the world left for you, and you were afraid of the dark, and it was so, so cold. 

Falling to your knees at the side of the road, mud splattering you with the force of each raindrop, you cried. Sobbed, curling in on yourself, desperate to wish it all away, wailing louder than the winds could blow as if your misery would overcome nature itself. You tried not to cry much anymore, tried not to show your weakness, but now it all came flooding out. Agony deep enough to drown, heavy enough to crush. 

Until you heard a song beneath the gale. Impossible that it should reach you above the riotous storm, impossible that you should know its melody. Panic slushed through your veins in an instant, and you stumbled upright, ready to run from a danger you had so desperately tried to convince yourself didn’t exist. Red eyes and silver sickles and-

When you whirled around to run, you were not caught by a wolf, but by the man you could only think of as the prison warden. 

Caked with mud and soaked to the bone, he dragged you back to the home, and you let him, fearing what lurked in the darkness more than you feared the punishment your escape attempt would earn.

Although it wasn’t bright, the light blinded your glazed eyes. You slipped when he released you, but felt nothing when you fell, leaving a muddy smear upon the tiles. Your fingers, bleached of color, were numb to all sensation, slipping when you tried to support yourself. The cold burrowed into your very core. You shook. Violently, as if your soul itself trembled.  

Fear had kept it all locked up tight in your chest. Fear of your shame for crying wolf. Fear that if you gave breath to the creature that haunted your dreams, he would be made real. You told yourself that your father was murdered by a man in a mask, but the wolfman haunted you, the face of oblivion, that song and that laugh. 

Distantly, you became aware of a commotion, and then the headmistress appeared before you. A towel was forced into your clumsy hands by the same girl who helped you get to your ice-block feet, muttering something about drying off. You doubted a single towel would manage that feat, but you held fast onto the fabric with fingers you couldn’t feel. 

“Where in God’s name,” the headmistress demanded, haughty even in her dressing gown and curlers, “do you think you were going?” 

You hugged the towel to your chest, feeling the fluffy material grow heavy and limp from your embrace. Ruined by your touch. Shaking so hard your teeth clacked, the entire world jittered and hazed, your bones practically vibrating, tears and snot dripping down your face with the rainwater.

“I asked you a question,” she said, her tone a little more shrill. Anger smoldered in her voice, but your eyes found purchase only on the lacy hem of her nightcoat. Such fine lace would have been imported from the north, your father had sold more than his fair share of it. You owned several pretty dresses decorated with similar frills, once. A lifetime ago. A life that ended with one decisive slash of silver. “Where were you going? Running off with a boy?” 

Wide open fields of rippling golden wheat, smooth red cliff sides overlooking deep drops into the abyss, frothy blue waves licking pale sandy shores. Places you knew, places you had only heard about. Ravi weren’t meant to stay in one place, yours was a people of wanderlust and breeze. 

The lady stepped forward and slapped your cold, numb cheek. You stumbled, slipping back onto the floor. “You will answer when I ask you a question,” she said. “I will not repeat myself again.” 

“I wanted to see my mother,” you finally told her, your voice barely comprehensible from the way you were shaking, more tears welling up. The pain was there, was always there, and it burned hotter than the biting blue on your fingers and toes. 

“Oh, for the love of… you’re well on your way to joining her,” she said. “What in the world was I thinking, allowing you into my home…”

You stayed silent. There was no defense you could offer, no excuse you could provide. She sighed, annoyed. 

“I’ll decide your punishment in the morning. Assuming you don’t catch cold and die.” She laughed once, a short sound. “I should be so lucky.”

Die. Your sluggish brain was slow to process that word, churning it round and round in a swirl of equally unpleasant thoughts. When you breathed, the air rattled in your chest. Your mother made the same sound at the very end, as if death had already planted its seed in her body, slowly infecting her from the inside out. Fear had never come for her, not like with your father or brother. There was only vacuous ecstasy, the madman’s bliss of fever. When you pictured what she looked like, it was her hollow eyes staring into nothingness, her bones poking out beneath waxy skin in unnatural angles and blood bubbling upon dry lips. “I am going to see them soon,” she told you, smiling. It was the first time since your brother’s execution that she didn’t look at you with blame smoldering beneath her pained eyes. “We’ll be together, and it will be beautiful.” 

But it was not beautiful. 

Death was a hideous, terrible thing. Despair and empty eyes and rotting flesh without poetry or resolution. Blood dripping from curved blades, lives harvested without mercy, red eyes flashing with glee. A neck snapping and a body gone limp at the end of a rope. Agony in a small room that smelled of human waste and sickness. Death was not beautiful. 

three failures.

The other girls called you, among other things, murderer. 

“She pushed her.” 

“Her kind are all like that, thieves and murderers.” 

“Freaks.” 

The two of you were stuck cleaning windows, balanced precariously high up in the air. The platform got loose, teetering uncertainly two stories up. It could have just as easily been you rather than her, but it wasn’t. Of course you hadn’t pushed her, but who would believe the word of a ravi?  

And who would believe you when you told them of the shadow which greeted her down below? A monster you couldn’t believe in. The bastardized form of a benevolent god. The real murderer. 

They saw your fear as guilt. And that was that. Murderer. You hadn’t pushed her, that was a fact. But it was suspicious, wasn��t it? There was a pattern of death surrounding you. Punishment.  

Every night, you begged forgiveness, begged for freedom from the creature that haunted you. Bastet did not answer. Ra did not answer. Your prayers became pleas, and your pleas weakened into whimpers. Eventually, you stopped asking.

It followed you. Death, less an intangible concept than a lurking threat circling ever nearer, followed. Your father, your brother, your mother, other girls in the home. But not you, no matter how close you came. Accidents happened. Punishment became more and more brutal. Part of it was because of what you were, a belief that a beast could handle rougher treatment. Part of it was your attitude. Punishment. Live, but live in misery. Survive, but survive endless torment. And they said that you were lucky. The beatings were never deadly, although they should have been. The accidents were never fatal, although they could have been. You shouldn’t have survived, but you did. 

four minutes.

It was spring, then. The river beside the road gushed with newfound force, overeager after an especially snowy winter. Even the season of life and rebirth was ripe with violence and death. The scent of it seemed to cling permanently to your dirty clothes, cloying in the chill of night. You and three other girls from the charity house followed by the riverside on the way back to town, your faces dusty and feet heavy from a long day of work. There was, as it turned out, quite a bit of money in renting out orphans to satellite farm estates who could launder clothes, clean carpets, polish silver, and scrub cast iron. No money for you or the other girls, but money nonetheless. 

The three chatted as they walked in front of you, a conversation you tuned out. Long had you grown accustomed to walking behind them, ignored and withdrawn. Trailing behind like a shadow, an afterthought. In so-called polite society, that’s all ravi were. They—they with their round irises and human ears, with their unmarked faces and smooth canines—didn’t want you at their side. You understood things like that now, things you had been so blissfully unaware of in your childhood. 

You watched their worn-out shoes marching on in synchronized steps. Watched when they suddenly stopped, your eyes drawn up in confusion as they turned towards you with big smiles. 

"Those flowers are awfully nice, you should see if you can cross the river to pick some for us."

"I’d go myself, but your kind are more agile than real people, right?"

"The rocks make a perfect bridge for you to cross."

Requests from them, although you weren’t sure they could be called anything other than orders, weren’t abnormal. The only thing lower than an orphaned girl was an orphaned ravi girl. That was the way of it. Rather than forming a bond of solidarity, they emphasized what little status they had left by pushing you around. Surely there were similar flowers on this side of the river, but that wasn’t the point. 

Biting your lip, you looked at the rocks spanning the river’s violent course to the other side. It wasn’t much of a bridge. Attempting to cross was, at best, stupid. If you fell, you would be helplessly carried away by the water, thrashed about against the rocks. Dead, surely. But if you denied them, they would almost certainly do worse. Whisper words of your supposed misdeeds to the headmistress, spread lies that would earn you punishment. Malice gleamed in their empty, hollow eyes. 

"All right," you said, feigning indifference as you sized up the river. 

The girls smiled and tittered as you faced the river. The water roared. Nerves had your hands shaking, but you didn’t let them show.

With a big breath and a mental prayer to Bastet to steady your feet, you stepped onto the first rock. Beneath the worn sole of your boot, the rock was slippery. You set your jaw, going to take another step. 

Something knocked against your back. While it was a light touch, the surprise jolted your balance. 

Just like that, the rock slipped out from under you. An undignified squawk left your mouth, and your arms flailed around empty air desperately to regain your footing, but you couldn’t manage it. 

The water hit as hard as the ground might, immediately dragging you under. 

For a moment that seemed to consume forever entirely, animal panic. You inhaled a lungful of water, thrashing wildly. You tumbled sideways as the river dragged you along, hitting rocks on the way. You violently struggled against its unstoppable current in an attempt to get your head above the water. 

Unable to breathe, unable to orient yourself, you were as good as dead. 

Then you slammed against a rock. The agonizing impact gave you enough of a painful shock to find purchase against it, slicing your palms against the rough edges as you held fast against the water’s oppressive tow. Blindly, you managed to find which way was up and dragged yourself to it. And then you were vomiting river water, hacking it out of your lungs and desperately trying to suck in gasps of air.

Feeling as heavy and broken as a corpse, you managed to flop onto the bank, covering your entire front with mud, crawling through it to drag yourself out of the water completely. It was there that you came eye to eye with three familiar pairs of shoes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to bump into you.”

“I guess cats can swim after all.” 

“You’re lucky that rock was there, huh?” 

You coughed up more water, coughed until you were hacking up blood, wheezing and shuddering with bone-deep violence. There would be a terrible bruise on your stomach. But you were alive because of it. Pain, and life. Lucky you. 

five years.

Barely into your lanky teens and with nothing more than meager pocket change to live on, you made your final escape from the charity house and went west. The most recent beating was proof enough that if you stayed, you would die. The woman who stitched you up said you only narrowly avoided it this time. You knew a coffin was the sole eventuality waiting for you there. So you left. Despite the time spent there, you parted with no sentimentality for what you would be leaving behind, or excitement for what laid ahead. 

In a way, you were following your father’s example. His legacy. In his final days, you heard him muttering about the sun going down. Your brother whispered that he’d grown paranoid of his own death, that it was why your family never stayed in any place for too long. He was driven by a mean, feral fear and even aggression towards death, the cornered-rat instinct to defend your life at any cost, to protect the pitiful remains of existence as an animal would. You thought you understood. So you pressed against your bruises and exhaled slowly, accepting the pain as proof that you were still alive.

Dust kicked up a big cloud behind the wagon, baking beneath the heat of the sun. Although the world was alive with birds and bugs and the sound of hoofs on the road and wheels crunching over ground, you couldn’t empathize. Crusty from a night of fitful sleep, your eyes cringed away from the garish sunlight, your head pounding angrily. Pain and anxiety from your first night on your own kept you awake and, when you did manage a few hours of sleep, you had bad dreams. A fiction where your family was restored and you were all together again. Whole, untainted by horror and death. You woke up hollow and sick and empty, unalive but breathing. 

“Are those real?” the girl beside you asked, breaking you from your thoughts. She pointed at your ears, her eyes wide with curious innocence. You imagined that question had been building up for a while, ever since you hitched a ride on her father’s wagon to the nearest town, the two of you sitting in the back of the bed with your legs swinging over the passing road. She was very young, her round-cheeked smile missing a single tooth and bright colored ribbons in her hair. He was going to the next town over to sell goods from his farm.  

"Quinta!" her father scolded sharply. 

“It’s okay,” you said. It was better to be asked outright than to endure the side glances. “They’re real.” You tilted your head to show her. Quinta reached out to pet the fur, her chubby little hands cautious.

“What are you?” she asked, getting another stern look from her father over his shoulder. Not that you blamed her. He probably didn’t know either, ravi didn't often leave their small communities, and they were practically unheard of in this part of the world. Little wonder, some establishments wouldn’t so much as let you inside. It was a very positive mark on his character that he allowed you to ride on his wagon in the first place, most people wouldn’t. 

“I’m ravi.” 

She blinked. “Is that why you look like a cat?”

“I guess so.” 

Quinta considered that for a moment, staring at you unabashedly. It wasn’t just your ears that were different, otherwise you could have covered them up and avoided the scrutiny. With round eyes and vertical pupils, markings seemingly painted over your cheeks, you stood out regardless of what you did or where you went. Ravi were strangers to everyone, uprooted and adrift, low as the dust trailing beneath your feet. That fact hadn’t changed after you ran away from the charity house, you merely traded the title or orphan for that of vagrant. 

“My mom won’t let us keep cats, we only have a dog,” Quinta finally announced. “Do you like dogs?”  

You shrugged. 

“Are you afraid of them because of-” She put her hands over her head, mimicking your ears. 

“We are natural enemies,” you said, although the comment didn’t come across as the joke you intended. Perhaps because it wasn’t a joke. 

Quinta didn’t say anything, looking back at the passing road and her swinging feet. The warm air smelled like trees and dust and the stacks of straw piled up on the back of her father’s wagon. When the breeze blew, you got whiffs of the approaching town. Manure, cooking food, fire smoke, and that tangy, sweaty scent of so many people all crowded in one place. 

“Where are you going?” she asked. 

“Somewhere else.” 

“Oh.” 

You looked down, staring at the road. The sun beat down on your neck, sweat beading up on your hairline. You could hear the chorus of a small town’s buzzing crowds as the wagon pulled closer. 

“We’ll come back tomorrow,” Quinta said. “Will you come to our house? I bet you’ll like my dog, he’s really, really nice. My mom is there, you can meet her.” 

You smiled, feeling a sharp little pang at her sweet innocence. “Thank you, I’ll think about it.” 

“Oh, please say you will.” 

“Quinta, that’s enough,” her father chided. She frowned, but said nothing else. 

The wagon pulled to a stop where the animals could be hitched. You hopped off and stretched, looking around the town. You weren’t really sure where you would go next. Far away. As far as possible. 

“Thank you, sir,” you told the man, bowing politely.  

He nodded gruffly, and you knew you shouldn’t linger. Still, you couldn’t help but glance back at the sound of his heavy grunt. When he passed the wagon bed, Quinta jumped up onto his back, her arms wrapped tight around his neck. He was quick to rebuke her, scowling as he put her on the ground. That clearly hurt her feelings, turning away with a trembling lower lip and furrowed brows. You felt, for a terrible moment, a great pain in your chest. 

You wanted to tell her that he was just busy. Maybe he could be cold and stern, but that didn’t mean he didn’t love her. You wanted to tell her to love him while she could, that time was finite. Right then, you weren’t looking at a stranger and his daughter, but at a little girl with ears too big for her head and a man who waved at her from the driver’s seat with a sun-crinkled smile, a man who tweaked those fluffy ears with calloused fingers, and a man who kissed her forehead with paper-dry lips.

But then you blinked, sunblind and a little dizzy, and turned away from the scene. 

You thought of your father, love for him tender sweet and swelling in your chest, overwhelming. But quickly, always so quick, his smiling, twinkly eyes were emptied as his body fell to the ground, deprived of dignity in those final moments. And the monster turned from him to face you with a wild expression, a growl in its throat. He said you would meet again. The big bad wolf was not real, he was a masked madman, a creature of fiction. All the same, your anxious, cold gaze scanned the crowd of many faces around you. Haunted. Hunted. 

sixth sense.

Blisters covered your hands, and you couldn't stop coughing, your body seizing with fits of it. The tangy sour stench of smoke infected every pore of your body, saturated your lungs with its acrid excretions. Somehow, despite the horror of escaping a building as it burned down, you were alive. You had no idea what had woken you up, but it happened before anybody even noticed the fire. Others weren’t so lucky. The girl who slept every night two beds down from you, who was innocent, who had never done anything at all to you, was dead. 

"It's not your fault that you couldn’t get to her in time. You were lucky enough to get out with your life," you were told, an attempt at consolation. A lie. 

It was your fault. Your punishment. Your presence invited the flame to spark a blaze in the boarding house for working young women, and yet you had lived while someone else died. Above the sound of so many voices, of a chaos world attempting to fix such a tragedy, you could hear it. She screamed for as long as she was able, until her lungs were too coated in sooty black smoke to make a sound, until her flesh melted by the infernal heat. Other women boasted swaths of charred skin, blisters popping bright red and gruesome, bones broken from leaping out windows. Their lives would be ruined by this, by the sheer misfortune of being near you.

And as the flames licked the sky, you could have sworn you saw an inhuman face at the flickering orange edge where the light tapered into shadow, his eyes not so much reflecting the blaze as they were consuming the fire’s callous violence, soaking in the terror which mingled with the smoke. 

Then you blinked watery eyes, and the shadow was just a shadow. 

There was nothing for it, you left town as soon as you were well enough. Not soon enough, clearly. 

It was your fault, your punishment, but terribly, shamefully, you kept thinking, over and over and over, at least it wasn’t you. You breathed in air that still stank of the memory of murderous smoke and felt grateful that you would recover from this incident. 

That selfish drive was the crux of it all, the reason you could never allow yourself to move on. After so many years, most people would have found a way forward. They took their anguish in stride and did something with their life. But you didn’t. For you, there was no forgetting, and there was no moving on. You couldn’t be allowed happiness in a life others had been denied, a life that you hoarded so rabidly. Even cowards had to draw a line somewhere, didn’t they? No matter how miserable, you struggled to squeeze one more day out of the harsh world, to carve yourself another miserable hour, and then, crippled by pain and smoke and fear, felt a coward’s joy when facing tragedy because at least it wasn’t you.

Lucky, lucky, lucky you.

seven rainbow hues.

"Watch out!"

It happened so fast. That was the cliche, but the truth. Time did not wait for you to catch up in moments where survival came down to muscle memory. Panic and surprise cut up your perception in choppy little bits. One second you were walking down the road, you noticed a man beneath a falling beam and lunged, and then you were flat on your ass in the middle of a road, adrenaline spiking your heart rate and your entire body shaking with it. So little time had passed that the warning was still tangy in your mouth, the sound stifled by the echoing impact. 

Someone was shouting. Screaming.

Sitting up, little rocks grinding into your skinned palms, you looked at the fallen beam not even a foot away. Had you erred even a few inches to the right, you would have been, at the very least, catastrophically injured. Just like the man you tried to push out of the way. He was screaming. His leg was crushed.

But you were fine. Alive. 

People swarmed the man to free him from the beam while the world blurred extra bright, the colors of shock overloading your brain, dozens of different voices buzzing together. Someone asked if you were okay. You were. Of course you were. Alive. The carpenter jumped down from his ladder, finally getting the man out from under the beam. A gruesome mess had been made of his shin, bloody and broken. You only watched, a sort of cool numbness had taken the place of adrenaline. 

The man's leg was a ruin of flesh and bone, and your only injuries were a bruised tailbone and skinned palms. You should not have survived that. 

eight shots of moonshine. 

“He reared up real tall, howling like a beast, and that’s when I stuck him,” the hunter said, his expression animated as he recounted the story. It was, by your count, his ninth drink, and the fifth version of his story about how he fought, and escaped, the terrifying half-man-half-wolf beast—el hombre lobo, in the local dialect. It made sense that some cruel spark of fate would invite the subject matter wherever you happened to be, especially now. That’s the way these things always happened, wasn’t it? The world had a way of kicking you when you were down.

You listened to him with half an ear, staring at your chapped, cracked knuckles. Working as a laundress was not kind to your skin. Unfortunately, being ravi and having a limited skill set meant that simple labor was just about all you could get. So you did odd jobs and, once you had enough money, you would be on your way to the next place, and then the next, and the next. Passing through like a ghost, and then gone. Temporary. Just like this bar, this drink, this man and his story. Transient. 

“The sound he let out was deafening, and I mean that,” the hunter continued. “I’ve never heard anything like it, not in all my years.” 

“That’s not true,” you said loudly, pulling the story to a screeching halt before its predictable conclusion. You hadn’t meant to speak, but you did. If nothing else than to just make him stop. Details changed, but the ending was mostly the same each time. The creature put up a fight, but the hunter was stronger and smarter. Maybe he’d mention the bear trap again, how he watched the wolfman trying to gnaw off its own leg. And it wasn’t like you cared what some random drunk had to say. You didn’t, really. It was the alcohol, and the memories the alcohol was meant to be suppressing, and some misplaced well of fury crammed deep into your gut, unable to be reached or drained or expressed in any meaningful way. Or maybe it was something else, something less palatable. You had a way of testing people’s tempers. Pain was proof of purchase, after all. And you had paid more than your fair share. 

“What was that?” the hunter asked, glazed eyes surprisingly lucid when they landed on you, twinkling with an amused sort of incredulousness at being challenged. He had on a sweat stained red shirt and the ruddy complexion to match. Everyone around you was in similar states of drunken disrepair. So were you, for that matter—a shot of something hard and foul tasting past reasonable. Two shots away from having the energy to engage in this stupid argument, which was ridiculous considering you were the one to involve yourself in the first place. 

“That didn’t happen,” you said. The few people who had been paying attention in the first place laughed at you, but the hunter seemed intrigued, if irritated, by your attitude. 

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked.

“Do you expect us to believe you fought the big bad wolf?” Those words were old and mean, that of a horrible old man without a shred of mercy in his heart. 

Red-shirt’s eyes narrowed. A couple of the men laughed again, sending a few drunken jibes in your direction. 

“Is that what you’re supposed to be?” One of his friends called, gesturing at your ears, which twitched under his attention. 

“No, no. She’s one of those cat people. The eastern savages,” the man sitting next to you responded, roughly tweaking your ear. He’d made a few friendly comments in your direction throughout the night. And then a few less friendly ones as the liquor loosened his tongue. You winced and ducked away, scowling at him. He grinned. “Have you got any wares to sell us, gata? Or maybe you’re here to put on a show.” 

Another laugh, a playful wolf whistle.

“Ah, I understand. I was mistaken,” red-shirt allowed, a mean grin spreading across his face. “It was no wolfman after all. You ought to tell your pa to keep away from these parts. Next time I see him, he won’t get off so easy.” 

That drew a bigger laugh from the few people bothering to pay attention. A part of you hated him a little bit, hated him with a riotous, evil sort of passion. His ignorance, his audacity. You hated yourself more for not holding your tongue. 

“No, it was her ma,” another man chimed in. “Must have been in heat if she was so focused on you.” You felt a red hot flush rise to your cheeks at that, some uncomfortable mixture of embarrassment and anger. 

Needing to calm the impulse of rage, and kicking yourself for having spoken at all, you took a deep breath. 

“Aw, pobre gata, don’t be upset,” the man next to you said. Poor cat? He drew out the condescending pet name with a sugary sweetness, going for your ears again. You scooted back to avoid him, nearly falling from the alcohol-induced sway of the world. The men laughed again. “Where’re you going?” he asked. “They’re just teasing.”  

You licked your dry lips. You needed to leave, it wasn’t the sort of place you should have been hanging out in the first place. Part of you worried that he might try something. He looked hungry. Worse, part of you wondered if he would, wanted to stick around and find out what kind of situation you’d dug yourself into. Curiosity didn’t come from desire or lust, but from something darker, the impulse of deserved violence. Alcohol made it worse, made you think that maybe you could want it, that you might enjoy being roughed up and used in a vulgar game of intimacy. 

“Let me buy you another drink,” he offered. “I promise not to tease you.” 

You pursed your lips, and knew you would hate yourself later, and decided that it didn’t matter all that much anyway. “Okay.”

Hours later, you were sweaty, sour with alcohol but no longer drunk enough to tolerate the discomfort, and ultimately dissatisfied with the interaction as you stumbled through the quiet town back to the room you had been renting. The unpleasant scent of sex was all you could smell, it clung to your rumpled dress and messy hair. Evidence of your mistake. Despite being so forward, he hadn’t been what you hoped. Whenever you pulled back, he thought to coax you further with sweet words rather than rough hands. You’d have been better off trying to antagonize the man in the red shirt to get what you really wanted, not a quick upright with a man who wanted to slobber on your neck and call you beautiful.

Disgust, shame—a sickening feeling of wrong had you ducking into an alley, vomiting up a stomach full of bile and alcohol like a homeless wretch, shaking hard enough that your teeth clattered. Snot, stomach acid, and tears smeared against the side of the building when you pressed your fevered cheek against it, the material rough on your skin. But it was cool, and solid, and you were breathing. Alive. 

Miserable. Beautiful. That was your mother’s word. An ugly, ugly word. Your shoulders heaved with half-hearted sobs, your skin crawling and stomach twisting. You were alive because the only thing you feared more than the hideous pain of living was beautiful death, and that was the ugliest feeling you could possibly imagine. 

Eventually, you collected yourself, wiping your mouth and eyes, and completed your walk of shame, your thoughts lingering on el hombre lobo and the furious hollow in your chest, and the sort of hatred which begged violence and cried for pity. 

nine lives.

Afternoon faded into sunset as you walked, and you weren’t too concerned. If anything, you felt the same relaxing sense of relief you always felt when you left one place for another. 

No, you didn’t worry at all until twilight gave way to the rise of the moon. That’s when you stopped, frowning up at the sky. Either you were lost or you had severely misjudged the distance. Unfortunately, there was nothing to be done other than continue on and hope that you reached civilization soon. You pulled your cloak a little closer to fight off the chill, adjusting your bag uncomfortably. Summer was coming, but the air retained the cold damp newness of deep spring. 

And so you trundled along, reminding yourself over and over that it was okay. While possible, it wasn’t likely that anything would happen to you. 

Your anxiety wasn’t helped by the full moon. A morbid coincidence, and a mixed blessing. It was full that night. Illuminating your father’s twisted expression of fear, haloing the impossible beast looming above you, lighting your way when you ran, dying your blood into the color of ink. As always, it was a bit of mischief the universe was having at your expense. It shone the same steady pale silver, bleaching the world in imitation sunshine just like it always had, always did. 

A gentle breeze shook the tree canopy, the leaves shivering. Above them, the perfect velvet blue veil of sky was mostly undisturbed by clouds. The stars twinkled and winked, dulled slightly by the radiance of the moon. Bugs wailed and frogs sang their nighttime dirge, an unsettlingly miserable sound. No matter how uncomfortable the sun could be, blinding and revealing, the night was worse. It was the place where nightmares lived, after all. And the woods, the place where the big bad wolf hid. 

Right. These were the woods where the hunter claimed to have seen the wolfman those few weeks ago. A chill slithered down your spine at that realization. While it was most certainly a lie, in the dark, it troubled you. It frightened you. There were many things in the deep, dark woods to be afraid of. Hiding, lurking. 

Huffing with annoyance at your paranoia, you vigorously shook your head and focused on the path instead. Everything was fine, you just had to keep going. 

Seemingly out of nowhere, the wind began to blow a lot harder, catching the hem of your cloak and loose strands of hair, crawling beneath your clothes to make you shiver. At the same time, a shadow slowly closed in around you, a stray cloud covering up the moon. The sudden lack of light made the shadows darken significantly. Goosebumps crawled across your entire body in response to the windy chill, hairs standing on end and visceral discomfort lurching in your gut like a hook behind your belly button. Surrounded on all sides by darkness, stranded in the woods, you were completely and utterly vulnerable. 

Then it all—bugs, the frogs, and the wind—everything died. Not slowly, tapering off naturally, but all at once, as if a great dampener was suddenly pressed into the air. And that was strange, that was eerie, that was cause for fear, but the first whistled note shot straight into your core.

Trees were hungry things. They, with their thick wood and big bodies, had an appetite for sound. Echoes, however, were mischievous. They would rather play tricks than be eaten. Back and forth, from everywhere and nowhere, a tune you knew all too well danced amidst the silent forest. The notes jumped from one to the next in a song that should have been cheerful but wasn’t. You didn’t move. You felt like you couldn’t. Standing there, ears perked and twitching in search of any noise aside from the whistling, heart racing, cold sweat gathering on the nape of your neck, you suddenly knew, with an alarming degree of certainty, that you weren’t alone. 

Slowly, eyes watering from the sudden burst and disappearance of the wind, you looked up. 

The whistler, seeming not to notice you, was no more than a dozen feet ahead, a darker shadow amidst the void, a little off the edge of the clearing. Jarring surprise shot like lightning down your spine at the sight, at how close you were to somebody you hadn’t noticed, so powerful that you stumbled backward on pure instinct. But your foot landed on a mossy rock and the squishy material slid out from under your boot. You tried to find your balance, but you wound up overcorrecting, sending you forward instead. With a yelp and a loud thump, you tumbled onto the ground, landing hard on your elbows and knees. 

The song ended.  

“¿Tan deseosa estás de ser engullida?” the man asked, amused. You looked up, terrified, but without any moonlight to help you see, the most you could make out was the vague shape of a hooded figure leaning against a tree. 

Fear made your hands shaky, your body unwieldy and awkward. Scrambling, unsure if you should have been embarrassed or scared, you got up to your feet. At least you weren’t hurt.

“I-I don’t… no entiendo,” you said, wondering, hoping, fearing, unsure. At least it was just a man. That shouldn’t have been the consolation it was. It shouldn’t have been any consolation at all. 

“I asked if you needed any help,” he clarified in an accented voice, amused in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “I didn’t mean to scare you.” 

“I, um… I was just surprised, bu-but it’s okay,” you said, trying very hard to calm down. “I’m fine.” 

“Are you sure? I would hate for you to wind up like the last girl who got lost in the woods,” he said. You squinted into the dark, but you couldn’t see any details beyond a shadow. Covered moon or not, the dark was borderline unnatural. “She was gobbled up whole, her granny too. You’ve even got the red hood.” 

It took you a second to register that he was messing with you. Entertaining any sort of interaction was foolish, but you couldn’t help your nervous laugh, pulling your cloak closer. “Oh, yeah.” 

The stranger laughed in turn, forcefully friendly in a very uncomfortably stilted way. The sound sent a fresh shiver down your spine. “They don’t get very many people coming all the way out here to visit,” the man said. “Are you here to see family, gatita?”

Your ears twitched nervously. “Um… Excuse me?”

“Is that offensive? I can never remember what you beast types call yourselves. Ra… something.” 

“Ravi,” you said.

“That’s right. I’ve never been much of a cat person myself, but I can see the appeal. The big eyes, the fuzzy ears… Very cute.” He paused. “Hey, can you purr too?” 

You drew back, your awkward moment of uncertainty giving way to dread at the underlying danger of a question like that. While many people scorned you blindly, there were those with a particular taste for half-breeds. 

“I need to get going, it’s late,” you said slowly. You didn’t want to turn your back on him, and you had no idea how close you were to town, but anything was better than here. 

“Wait, before you go, I heard a story recently,” he said, unconcerned with your response. “It’s about your kind. Stop me if you’ve heard it before.”

“I don’t-” 

“Once upon a time,” he said, speaking as if you hadn’t, “a gato got it in his head that one life wasn’t enough for him. Even though he had everything he could ask for—a wife, two children, a successful career, he was proud. He didn’t see why he should have to abide by the same rules as everyone else. Of course, he was warned that it was a bad idea, but it became a… preoccupation of his. He traveled just about everywhere, certain that he could do what no one else had.”

The man paused, giving you a moment to register his words, to feel the slow drip of horror pooling in your stomach. 

“It didn’t work out for him, in the end. It never does.”

“Who are you?” you asked, although you had a feeling. A very strange, awful feeling. “How do you-”

“Do you know how it ends?” he asked, pushing away from the tree and standing up, stepping out of the shadows, only a few feet in front of you. Your eyes were better adjusted now, taking in as much light as possible. His hood fell back, letting you see the man in full. 

Only, he wasn’t a man. 

For a second, the ears on the top of his head made you think he was ravi too. But they were too small. Pointed. Distinctly canine.

Then the rest of it registered.  

He wasn’t a wolf standing on hind legs, or a person with wolf features, but some inhuman, impossible mix of the two. His long, toothy snout was distinct to a dolichocephalic skull. A beast. That’s what you would assume given all that thick gray fur, round eyes, and the pointy ears directly on top of the head. But somehow, despite all of that, something about his face registered as perfectly, sickeningly, uncannily human. 

And you knew him. You saw him in your nightmares, in the shadows, in the darkest places of your mind. No matter what resolve you had before that moment, all you wanted was to run. You needed to run. But fear, pure and distilled, paralyzed you.

“No? That’s fine, it’s just a story, after all,” he said, the words far too well articulated considering the wolf’s muzzle they were coming from, the shiny sharp teeth through which they were spoken. 

You opened your mouth to respond, and instead you whimpered as you exhaled.

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “You remember me, don’t you? I remember you. Although, you were a lot smaller back then. Who would’ve thought that you’d turn out to be such a looker?" He laughed at that, a stilted chuckle. When you didn’t respond, his demeanor dropped, darkened. “Your fear was intoxicating.”

 Leaning forward, he closed his eyes and sniffed at the air like a dog. You couldn’t do anything, your limbs refusing to move even though every cell in your body screamed at you to run. When he leaned back and exhaled, his lips pulled back in what was very distinctly a smile, an expression that should have been impossible for a wolf to make. 

“I’ve waited a long time to see you like this again, I worried that it would be disappointing,” he told you, red eyes opening. They were mad. His smile was mad. Dread overwhelmed your system. “But you smell even better than I remember.” 

He took a step forward. With a few unnerving exceptions, his body was human enough. Tall, broad shouldered, slightly hunched, wearing clothes like a person. His hands were almost like paws with pads and claws, but were articulated like your own—short one finger. He was no monster. He was a nightmare come to life. 

“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Surprised to see me?” 

“No,” you whispered, shaking your head. “No, you’re not… not real.”

You could see the excitement in his eyes as he licked his lips with a long tongue, another entirely animalistic motion. The perfect meld of human and wolf traits was fascinating. Sickening. Something that should not exist. 

You did nothing other than stare at him with wide eyes as he leaned in. And you did nothing as he raised his hand, dragging the claw in a butterfly kiss over your cheek. “You think?” he asked, the growl in his voice almost like a purr. 

That woke you out of your trance and you stumbled back, covering the skin which tingled from the very real touch.

He laughed and straightened out, but didn’t follow you. “It’s not safe to be out here so late. You never know what you’ll find lurking in the woods.”

You swallowed hard, your breathing picking up, the old well of fury cracking open just a little. There should have been more, but the fear was too intense, cold in your veins. “What are you?” you asked, barely audible. Frightened of the answer, but desperate to know. 

“Your father called me Anubis. That’s one of your gods, right?” 

“You are not a god,” you said, an objection because you couldn’t allow this nightmare, any degree of holy pedigree that you had feared for so long. There was doubt in your voice though, doubt you couldn’t stifle. 

“It depends on how you look at it,” he allowed. “But it’s true that I have no interest in being worshiped, and I certainly don’t want your faith. I prefer fear.” 

You swallowed hard, shaking your head in a hazy attempt to fight back the swelling tide of fear, to deny him that. “I'm not… not afraid of you, wolf."

That didn’t so much as make him blink. "You fear me more than you fear anything else."

"No! You killed my… my—I hate you."

“Sure you do."

“And because of you, my brother was…” You couldn’t finish the statement, your entire body nearly vibrating from the way you were shaking. “And then mm-my mother...” 

“Execution and, what was it, some kind of sickness?” The wolf clicked his tongue. “It’s a harsh world.” 

“You took them from me,” you said softly. “You took everything.” 

“Do you want revenge, gatita? You wouldn’t be the first.” 

The mocking tone of his voice was as bad as a slap across the face. Even if you wanted revenge, what fight could you possibly put up against an impossible creature like him? You flexed your hands and clasped them together, your breathing picking up with the confusion of old fury and sadness and fear. 

“I want to know why,” you finally said.

The wolf sighed, rolling his eyes in an exaggerated—and far too human—way as he continued to circle you. “Everybody thinks there’s a reason. There isn’t. Who lives, who dies, it’s all the same to me in the end. But there are those who… tempt fate. Although, I prefer to call it tempting death."

"You're saying that my father wanted to die? You're crazy,” you argued, your shoulders tensing in some form of defense. 

"He was especially tempting. His pride, his ego, his fear… I gave him several chances, and he chose to insult me over and over again.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “I may have gotten carried away. You can’t blame me for wanting some fun now and again."

Despite the relative warmth of the night, the air chilled whenever you inhaled, your skin raising with goosebumps. Something in your head clicked, the understanding you had been trying very hard not to acknowledge. 

"What are you?" you asked again, but you were thinking that you knew. Of course you knew, it was something you’d known for a long time. 

"You know who I am."

"Death," you whispered. 

“And you know all about tempting death, don't you? To be honest, I’m starting to lose my patience, gatita,” he practically whispered the pet name, leaning down behind you so the word brushed intimately against your ear, his breath disturbing the fine hairs and making them twitch. 

You yelped and jumped away, twisting around. All you could think about was how close all those teeth had been to your ears. Your neck. Death watched as you stumbled even further backwards, hitting a tree and falling against it. 

“Watching you survive things that would kill anybody else over and over, it’s unbearable. You throw yourself into danger like you’re trying to tease me.” Genuine irritation glowed in his eyes. Frustration. You shouldn’t have been able to see an emotion like that on such an inhuman face. 

You needed to run. Whether or not that was a good idea no longer mattered. Surely he wouldn’t follow you out of the woods, surely sanity would take his place once you were back among civilization, out of the moonlight’s pure lunacy. Your insides squeezed sickeningly. Your heart raced.

“Is it a cat thing? You inherited the ears, the eyes, and, what, the nine lives? I guess that skipped a generation,” Death mused, his demeanor shifting completely right back into amusement. “Or maybe it’s just dumb luck. What do you think, gatita—are you feeling lucky tonight?” 

Run. You needed to run. 

Death stepped forward. 

You had to run. 

Rather than get any closer to him to follow the trail, you rolled off of the tree to the side so you could escape into the trees, letting your pack drop to the ground to avail yourself of the extra weight. With your back to the wolf, you sprinted, not caring where it took you, only that it was as far away from him as possible.

Behind you, you heard him calling out to you. You heard him laughing. You gasped and choked for breath, your feet pounding against the forest floor, your streaming eyes blind to anything other than what was directly in front of you. Running, catching the sharp fingers of trees across your arms and face, stray logs and squishy moss and wet grass threatening to trip you with every step. All around, you could hear his laughter, echoing around amidst the trees and in your head. 

And for what? Your escape had been doomed from the start, nothing more than the animalistic instinct of prey. 

It really only made sense when you realized that Death stood directly in your path, a hulking shadow with red eyes. Your body jolted on instinct and you skittered into a hard stop, momentum pushing you forward while your feet tried to backtrack. 

“¿Dónde vas, gatita? Haven’t you heard that it’s dangerous to stray from the path?”

Thoughtlessly, you twisted around, but you were too slow. Or he was too fast. Grabbing a fistful of fabric from the back of your cloak, Death dragged you backwards. And then you were looking into a pair of bright red eyes, choking as your cloak’s tie tightened around your windpipe.

He growled as a wolf would, and you felt base terror in your very core. No matter how humanly he expressed emotion, his face was very decidedly that of a wolf, of a predator that you were naturally wired to fear. A rising surge of bile burned in your throat from running and all you could hear was your heartbeat, thundering ever faster. You choked out a yelp, lashing out however you could in a bid to get free. He easily avoided every attack you threw out, seemingly bored by the attempts, casually holding you at arms length. 

“What I really can’t stand,” he told you, his voice low and calm, “is how you waste it. Fighting so hard to stay alive, and for what? Nothing will be lost when I end it.”

“Shut up!” you cried, choking the words out through gritted teeth. You would live. Survive just like you always did. He considered that, licking his lips before irritation once more gave way to excitement.   

“Then again,” Death said, letting you down enough to stand on your toes, allowing you to take a breath. Oxygen hit you in a hard rush, you might have fallen over if he weren’t steadying you. “I’m in no rush.” 

“Let me go,” you demanded, your breathing ragged, your ears buzzing and ignorant of his words. 

Death smiled, his wolfish muzzle pulled back in an expression so human it bordered on obscene. His face was right to yours, you could practically count each of his deadly sharp teeth, see into the soulless depths of those evil eyes. 

“Your fear is positively mouthwatering. The poor little kitten is really terrified of el lobo feroz. That fear is the only thing that’s ever given your life purpose. If you think about it, I’m the only reason you keep going. It’s almost flattering.” He licked his lips again, considering you intently. “You don’t mind having some fun before I kill you, right?”

“No!” you screamed the word, but all it did was make his eyes flash with hunger. 

“I’m going to eat. You. Up.” 

Every muscle in your body went taut, seizing with a different sort of horror. That confounded curiosity to know what he intended, the disturbing impulse to tempt violence, was only heightened by the adrenaline in your system. You had no word for the dark feeling, for the disturbing impulse. Only disgust, swirling dark twisting up hot and low in your gut. With shaking hands, you finally managed to undo the tie around your neck, dropping out of your cloak and onto the ground. And then, before you could even stand up, you were running. 

This time, Death didn’t react. No laughter or jeering taunts followed your escape. Dampened beneath the rush of blood in your ears and your feet pounding on the forest floor, the woods were full of the normal sounds. Bugs and frogs and birds and the breeze. 

All the same, you knew that el lobo feroz wasn’t far behind. You knew that, and you knew you wouldn’t escape from  him. Not this time. But you couldn’t just stop. So you made your frantic flight through the trees, sprinting as fast as you could to escape a creature which existed in opposition to all that was sane or safe. Death himself. 

From behind you, in front of you, on both slides, all around, the lilting whistled tune finally began. Panic, bright red and raw, caused you to trip. There was a jolt when your foot caught on something, sending a little shockwave all up your body, then a lurch as gravity forced you down and momentum dragged you forward. For a moment, true weightlessness. And then you were skidding and somersaulting along the ground, skinning your hands and knees all over again before you collapsed, your chin painfully knocking against the ground when you completed your tumble. No pain registered, just numb confusion. You were breathing so hard your lungs burned, your tongue paper dry and sour. Despite the deafening sound of your heart beating and the wheezing rattle of air in your lungs, you could hear his song. 

Everything, everything hurt, but you forced yourself up, to shamble into the bushes, curling into a ball to wait. 

The song ended. 

Seconds—less than that, really—passed before anything happened. Then you heard him. He allowed you to hear him, your pursuer wasn’t concerned that you would manage to escape. He didn’t need to bother running after you, or disguise the noise of his approach. You squeezed your eyes shut until you heard heavy feet crunching through the grass and twigs right in front of you, peeking them open to watch a figure emerge from the darkness.

Death stopped to sniff the air like the predatory beast he appeared to be. You pressed both hands over your mouth and nose, your entire body shaking with the tension of staying stiffly still. For a moment, you hoped he would move on. You didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. 

“This has been fun,” he said conversationally, “but you’re not exactly the most challenging hunt. So, make this easier for yourself and come out, or make it more fun for me and stay put. Your choice, gatita.”  

Your sore, overworked body twitched, wanting to obey and spare yourself. But if he knew where you were, he wouldn’t be looking around randomly like he was, right? Unless this was another game and he was trying to trick you, to see how you’d respond to that threat. But he could be bluffing. You didn’t know, and that uncertainty kept you in place. 

Death chuckled ominously, leaving your line of sight. Somehow, that was worse than anything else, the nothingness of blind anticipation. 

For a fleeting moment, you hoped he had moved on after all.

“Did you really think you could hide from me?” Death asked. Behind you, above you. A short little scream ripped from your throat as he grabbed you by the hair, wrenching you upright so fast that your body went limp with dizziness, head spinning with terror and a fresh rush of energy. He kept you up by exchanging a fistful of hair for the front of your dress. “Me temo que no tiene suerte.”

Getting your bearings, you yelped, thrashing out of his grip. Death let you go too easily, causing you to stumble. You went down hard. This time, it did hurt. Your hands and knees were skinned raw. But still, you crawled. It wasn’t a choice, it was instinct.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” Death said, crouching down behind you. He laughed. “I’ve got a feeling that you will too.” 

“No—no.”

“You can’t lie to me. I can smell it. Fear mixed with desire… It's delicious. I can’t wait to have a taste.”

All you could do was grunt when he grabbed you by the waist, easily lifting you up and manhandling you onto your back. You fell with a heavy sound, dizzy all over again. 

“I’d say I was surprised, but… Well, I’m not,” Death said, straddling you. His legs were completely wrong. They bent like a man’s at the knee, but bent again with the backwards angle of a wolf’s legs, ending in a set of thick paws. His face was worse. He spoke with such vivid animation. It shouldn’t have been possible for a wolf’s face to emote like that, it shouldn’t have been possible that Death himself could look so gleeful, so excited. When you attempted to drag yourself away, he settled more of his weight on top of you. “This is how you like it, right? Rough. It makes you feel alive.” 

Even in your terrified panic, you knew what he was talking about. How long had he been watching you? How intently? Had you ever managed to escape from him, or were you just running around like a headless chicken, never knowing you were doomed? Furiously rejecting that, you bucked upward, bowing your back to throw him off. When that didn’t work, you grasped fistfuls of fabric from the front of his shirt to get leverage. 

Death growed low and grabbed your face, slamming your head against the ground, claws digging into the soft skin of your cheeks. He followed while you were still reeling, leaning down to talk directly into your ear. 

“Do you feel alive now, gatita?”

You whimpered, squeezing your eyes shut so you couldn’t see his frightening face. El lobo feroz. His nose was cold and leathery when it brushed your face as he pulled back, air ghosting across your cheek and making you whimper. Death laughed, sitting up. 

“The ears really are cute,” he told you, releasing your cheeks to take hold of your ear instead. The rough pads caught on the delicate skin, brushing the fur up in a way that made you shudder. He saw that, you could tell by the way his red eyes flashed, the way he licked his lips again. “Who knows, maybe you’ll change my mind about cats.”

“Stop it,” you said, covering your face in an attempt to find peace from this absurdity. He hadn’t broken skin with his claws, but your chin and palms were busted up, your cheeks latticed with shallow scrapes from the trees.

“I told you. You can’t hide from me,” Death said, his voice dragging with a growl. The threat was emphasized by the sudden cold edge dragging lightly against your neck. 

Stiffening, you lowered your hands, looking up at him with wet eyes—looking at the humanoid wolf claiming to be death, who had killed your father and ruined your life, who had haunted you every day since, whose mere shadow terrified you to your core, and once you came to grips with the unbelievability of what you saw, you had to contend with the knowledge that you were powerless to such a nightmare. Utterly, completely powerless.

Death groaned. Or hummed. Or growled. It was a happy sound, excited. “Está buena, gatita,” he told you, saying it like praise. “I don’t normally go for this sort of thing.” Casually, he nudged your chin upward before dragging the sickle down so the point caught beneath the neckline of your dress. “I shouldn’t. It’ll have to be our secret, hm?” 

Willful ignorance had done nothing for you thus far, but you still clung to it. He couldn’t be talking about what you thought he was. He couldn’t be that human. 

In a sharp movement, he pulled the sickle downward. Fabric ripped loudly in the quiet night. Yelping, you tried to pull the scraps back together, to cover yourself because that indignity was too far, wasn’t it? Nudity could mean nothing more than a prelude to violence to something like him, but it was different to you. 

Death growled in annoyance, pressing the weapon’s tip into the soft give of your stomach. 

“Hands off,” he told you. You didn’t move, and he pressed down. Not too much, just enough to break the skin, to draw blood. 

“Stop,” you said, clinging even more desperately to the front of your ruined bodice, “that hurts.”

 “I’ll keep going. To. The. Hilt.” Death drew out each word, pressing down with each word to make his point, the sickle’s edge disappearing into your skin. He meant it. Obey or suffer. 

Looking straight above at the uncaring night sky, you released your bodice. He chuckled as he pulled the weapon away. It might have been that sound, or the crushing disgust of being exposed. There was very little thought behind the way you lashed out, capitalizing on his moment of distraction as he readjusted himself. 

Your pathetic attempt at escaping the inevitable lacked any art or intelligence, only the final burst of energy that came from knowing you’d have no more chances after this. Death avoided your thrashing limbs, letting you wriggle your way upward, twisting around to try and crawl away. And then he drove the sickle into the ground right beside your hand, the blade only narrowly missing your fingers as he drove it into the dirt. You yelped, flinching away. Death used the moment to flip you around again, slamming the air out of your lungs.

"Delicious," he growled, curling over you to get at the exposed skin of your torso. Fabric that hadn’t been properly cut was torn away by his hands. Hands, paws. Human finger articulation and the thick pads of a dog’s feet, each tipped with dangerously long claws. They caught your skin, the rough pads like sandpaper on your sensitive flesh. Just as quickly as the fabric was out of the way, his nose replaced it, his hulking form hunching over your body. Each rapid inhale tickled your skin, pairing disturbingly with the cold of his nose. Unlike his hands, his tongue was soft, lapping up the blood he’d drawn on your stomach before he moved up. The uncanny mixture of sensations made you squirm. 

“Stop, stop now,” you said, jerking in uncoordinated little bursts beneath him more on instinct than rational thought. Fur filled the spaces between your fingers as you tried to push him off. He didn't react to you tugging on it, all it did was remind you of how bestial he was. The whole situation was terrifying, yes. But, more viscerally, it was gross. Deeply uncomfortable to feel his long, smooth tongue, to endure the threat of teeth as he moved up, to choke back disgust and terror as he passed over your nipples. “Stop,” you whined the word despite yourself, your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to separate from reality. Death chuckled, moving up across your flushed chest, to your neck, leaving you flushing bright red and slick with his saliva. 

“Impatient?” he asked, the words brushing over your fluttering pulse. “I’m not surprised. That’s fine.”

The waistband of your dress didn’t part as easily as the top. He worked from the other end instead, making a slit to tear the fabric up and expose your stockings and panties. Claws made short work of the thin, well worn cotton, carving shallow lines into your skin to strip you entirely. 

“Nn-no, what are you doing? Stop, st-” your words cut off with a heavy ‘umph’ when he pushed you back down. Death didn’t so much as look at you as he admired his handiwork, let alone respond to your plea.

“Just like I thought,” he said. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” 

“No,” you said, desperately shaking your head. All you could see was his sharp, sharp teeth, those deadly claws. And your body was electrified, covered with drool and chills and thrumming hot with blood. There was no way out of this, you couldn't even comprehend the pain he could cause. Out of options, you pushed down the remains of your skirt, attempting to close your legs. 

Claws dug into your thighs as Death forced them back open with a little growl, sparing you no indignity. The moon deprived you of the cover of darkness and it shouldn’t have been so embarrassing because he wasn’t a man, but it was. Just like he had with your torso, Death explored the exposed skin. The puffing brushes of air as he sniffed and licked along your thighs was humiliating and obscene on its own, nevermind when he nipped at the sensitive flesh to make you whimper, forcing you to contemplate the damage those teeth could do where you were most vulnerable. 

The thought of such agony had you try a final time to close your legs, only to have them spread even wider, giving you the perfect view of el lobo feroz with his muzzle pressed against your pussy, his long pink tongue lolling out to drag across your slit. It wasn’t the pain you anticipated, but it was just too strange, too surprising, too disturbing. Having the snout of a beast between your legs, regardless of the creature's perceived humanity, was enough to make you feel sick, twisted and filthy. 

“No, no, don’t,” you demanded shrilly, kicking in an attempt to displace him. Death growled, claws puncturing into your skin as he pushed your hips back down, peering up at you. His eyes didn’t reflect or catch the moonlight. They glowed. Empty. Evil.   

“Ten cuidado, gatita,” he warned. “Haven’t you ever been warned about getting in the way of a wolf and his meal?”

“Please,” you said, unable to comprehend that this could happen. That this would happen. “Please don’t… don’t. You can’t do this.”

“What are you going to do to stop me?” 

That was awful, too awful for words. Fight and risk more pain, or let it happen and… And what? What rational response could you possibly have to this other than disgust and despair? Maybe you should have been glad he wasn’t about to rip you to bloody shreds and feast on the remains, glad that you would be spared pain and immediate death, but that consolation felt terribly cheap when confronted with the equally unimaginable. 

“You can’t,” you said, your voice too high, terrified into a whine. “You’re not even… I mean it’s not like you can… like you’ll… you can…”

Death hummed in annoyance, you could feel the vibration of the sound. “Te voy a comer. Y luego te voy a coger,” he told you, the words easy like he was explaining something very simple which, considering you couldn’t understand them, only made it that much worse. “¿Está bien, gatita?”

“No,” you said. “No, I don’t…” Understand. Believe. Consent. 

Death laughed, arranging your legs into a more comfortable press towards your chest to make room for his hulking form. There was nothing you could do to make him stop. 

The pads of his fingers were painfully rough against your pussy’s outer lips, catching on the sensitive flesh as he parted them. His tongue, however, was softer than anything you’d ever felt, lapping at your entrance, up to your clit. You squirmed uncontrollably, locked in some limbo of disgust, discomfort, and embarrassment. 

You thought that if you just closed your eyes, if you just blocked it out, you could pretend that this wasn’t happening, but Death hummed out an animalistic growl, and his tongue was far too long and dexterous to be human, and his fur bristled against your thighs, and there was no way out. Already, your body was waking up to the stimulation. Responding. There was something wrong with you. You knew that, you’d known that for a long time, taking pleasure in beatings, wanting sex to be rougher and rougher, needing to be brutalized like it was an itch to be scratched. This was a new low, the grotesque indulgence of those most perverse.

Like you. 

“Please stop,” you whined, another plea to add to the string of ignored requests. Death made a sound you could feel more than hear. For reasons other than fear, you shuddered at the noise. 

With your clit acceptably swollen, your body twitching with every movement, his tongue slicked downward. Your hips jumped, legs closing and opening with surprise, but Death wasn’t deterred.

“No-oh,” you sounded so weak, your rejection coming out pathetic and breathy.  

Death made another growl-like sound, pushing you down flat with mean claws that poked fresh holes into your skin. You hadn’t been trying to escape, you just couldn’t stop from squirming as he tested the flinching muscles of your entrance. This was new, and different, and terrible, and foul. His tongue was soft and long and far too dexterous, pushing into you with a few hungry strokes. No human man could do that. It wasn’t physically possible. 

You whimpered, your head falling back in some vain attempt to block it all out. Escape wasn’t so easy. While his tongue lacked the pressure and weight of something solid, he attacked your g-spot with precision. Eating you out. Eating you. Given that long snout, it had to have been awkward, but that didn’t seem to deter him. And every time his head moved, his nose ground against your clit. He was probably watching you, watching you twitch and gasp and writhe helplessly, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of a wolf’s head between your legs like this would kill you, surely it would. 

Unbidden, you remembered telling the child Quinta that dogs were your natural enemy, and your penchant for seeking the companionship of those who promised animosity, and the wicked sort of sense it made that you would find yourself here, and you could only laugh at it all but the hysterical sound came out like a sob, and then a low groan, and then a sharp whine when Death pressed the rough pad of one of his fingers against your clit instead, dragging small little circles against it while his tongue continued to torment you. 

“No, no, no, no-” 

Whatever you were denying, it was pointless. Noise for the sake of it, words getting all tangled up with your choked moans and sobs and hiccups. The little addition of pain from the too rough texture on your clit was enough to give you what you really wanted, what you always ached for. 

Pleasure lurched in your core, your hips bucking wildly. Death growled again and it was mean. Aggressive. You seized up, mouth open wide as if for a scream, your feet planted so you could tilt your hips up for more. More pleasure, more pain. Disgust, shame, fear, all of it became white hot and foul, agonizingly sexy in the few moments where the high of orgasm negated the living nightmare between your legs.

And then you were coming down, hips jerking into the tongue of a wolf monster, the creature that had killed your father, Death himself, and you actually sobbed, shying away from his touch as little sparks of overstimulation promised something worse. Unable to escape in any material way, you covered your face. Tears, dirt, and blood smeared together on the feverish, sweaty skin, nearly suffocating as you panted.  

Death let you be and sat up, laughing. Laughing at you.

“That was faster than I expected.” 

Peeking out from between your fingers, you saw the way his muzzle was glistening before his tongue swiped it away, saw the way he was smiling as he mocked you. “Ah. Unh-no, I-”

Death leaned over you. You flinched away, but he only grabbed the sickle he’d driven into the ground beside you. Casually, he flicked the blade out. The cool metal winked in the moonlight. Although you were still trembling with the aftershocks of orgasm, you weren’t too far gone to feel a fresh wave of fear. Immediately, you curled in on yourself, covering as much of your vulnerability as possible. 

“You cower in fear, but I can taste your desire,” Death said, licking his lips. “It’s not half bad.” 

“Please just… just stop.” 

“I’m doing you a favor. You’re too tight.” 

Death didn’t elaborate on that, positioning the weapon’s hilt between your legs, pushing the flared base between your folds before you could figure out what was happening. Everything was wet with a mixture of saliva and your own arousal, slick enough for the weapon to press against your entrance. You figured it out then, but he pinned you in place with a hand on your stomach, claws pressing against the flinching skin. There was nothing you could really do to avoid it, and you didn’t dare close your legs around the blade itself. 

“This might hurt.”

“Stop, please stop, you can’t—” 

Death didn’t say anything, watching your expression as he pushed the weapon’s grip into you. To see such a sharp blade between your legs in any capacity was dizzying, and that was without the intensely physical pressure of its grip rubbing against your inner walls.

“I told you, didn’t I?” he asked. “To. The. Hilt.” With every word, he drove the weapon deeper, your body jerking with each movement. 

“Stop, just stop, please, take it…take it out.” 

“I’d do it myself, but,” Death said, holding up his off-hand, “I’m not so sure you’d like that.” His claws practically gleamed in the moonlight, and you knew exactly how rough the pads were. The idea of those inside of you was enough to make your insides wither, although all that really amounted to was your cunt tightening around the weapon. You grunted at the feeling, shook your head fast, panicked. 

“No! No,” you told him as coherently as you could. Your tongue was dry as bone, you choked on the grit. 

“Thought so,” he replied, pulling the sickle back only to slam it back in. 

The textured grip felt disturbingly good in some mad, broken way. His tongue had been so smooth and soft, but this was solid and firm, forcing itself into you. He used it like a tool, not bothering to simulate sex, twisting it this way and that, forcing your pussy open. Making room. You couldn’t help but writhe with each movement, your cunt tightening around the grip, hips tilting up as you were consumed by a confusing twist of disgust and need. Violence and pain were things you knew and understood. Familiarity had you dripping around the weapon, you could hear how wet you were, and his harsh motions only emphasized the vulgar sound.

“Not bad,” Death said, amused by the sight. You shut your eyes. “This weapon killed your father. It’s only fair that you should die by it too—una pequeña muerte.”

“Don’t,” you said, body going painfully tense with disgust, with hate, with fear. Death pulled the sickle out, pushing it back in with an ugly squelch, dragging a pained yelp from your mouth, and then a distinctly less pained one when he twisted it slightly. “No, no, I…”

Little death. You belatedly realized the implication of that. You’d already come once, it wasn’t nearly as difficult to build you up again. Especially not when he was being more deliberate with each thrust, when the sandpaper-rough texture of his finger nudged at your clit again. 

Nothing in particular set you off, maybe it was just the acceptance of sensation, the acknowledgement that it would buy you a few moments of madness from this unthinkable situation. Gasping, flushing, writhing like a creature possessed, you seized up, pleasure flushing through your system with a white-hot sort of frenzy. You didn’t think it could be compared to death, not really. You felt distinctly alive for a few seconds of shivering, wet heat. 

Until it ended, abruptly dropping you back in the middle of an unfathomable predicament. 

Death hummed as he stopped, letting you wilt back onto the ground, trembling and hot. “I prefer a fight, but-” Without much ceremony and a disgustingly wet shlick, Death pulled the weapon out of your pussy. “You put on quite the show, gatita. This is going to be good.” 

“What are you doing?” you asked, drawing your legs in, wincing at the feeling. Some part of you still rejected what was happening, what he was capable of doing. Of course that got a little harder to believe when he pushed his pants down. Was it flattering that a monster would be turned on by torturing you? You wanted to think that it couldn’t be, that you weren’t that depraved, but the part of your deepest self that stirred in reaction to the sight frightened you. It seemed that the human shape and build of his body carried over to his primary sex characteristics. It was sick that the revelation should be relieving, but at least you would be spared the particular grotesque indignity of inhuman genitalia. Maybe if you shut your eyes, if you blocked it all out, you could pretend that it was just a man raping you. 

Because that was so much better.

You weren’t even aware that you were trying to crawl away until he clicked his tongue, grabbing your waist to pull you back into place. The pads on his fingers were so rough, claws threatening to rip the sensitive flesh. He licked his lips with wolfish excitement. Fur brushed your bare skin. There was no way out of this, to escape el lobo feroz. Not mentally, not physically. 

You pressed your thighs together as tightly as you could, ignoring how slick they were.

“It’s too late for that,” he said, easily prying them apart. Fur brushed against your skin, but you were more concerned with the sight of his cock as it bobbed up before settling against your abdomen. 

Heavy. That was your first thought, right before the comparison between your body and his cock really settled in your feverish brain. The head alone was thick enough that you couldn’t fathom it getting past your entrance, let alone that you’d be able to take the rest. 

“No, no, no, you-you can’t do this,” you said, staring at his dick with a crawling sense of fear that had nothing to do with his inhumanity—in all regards—and everything to do with the size. “It won’t fit.” 

“You can accommodate new life,” he said, a hand going under his cock to press against your abdomen, right above your womb. “Let alone Death. You’ll be fine.” He said it like a joke, like it was amusing. He was sick. You were sick. This was…

When he moved, the slap of his dick on your abdomen was audible, punctuating a joke that wasn’t funny to begin with. Death clearly wasn’t concerned as he rearranged you, pushing your legs up and apart until your thighs screamed, his body bearing down against you for leverage. The unyielding press of his cock between your legs made you panic, but he had you utterly pinned. You couldn’t do anything other than feel it slide across the sensitive flesh, settling right against your entrance. You couldn’t do anything to stop this. Death grunted as he readjusted you, claws digging fresh lines into your flesh, and began to rock his hips forward. When you yelped, bucking up against him, the sharp points broke skin. It would be easy for him to rip you up with nothing more than those claws. 

“Quédate quieto,” he growled. You didn’t need to understand to be still.

So close like this, you realized that you could smell him. Not the stench of a dog, of wet fur or a poorly maintained pelt. Not the scent of a man either, familiar and human. Death smelled like a cool summer night, and torrential rain, and a river’s violent rapids, and acrid smoke, and the dry dust of an old road. Although it wasn’t entirely unpleasant in the way you might have expected of a wolf man, it made your stomach churn, doing nothing to help you relax as he continued to press the thick head of his cock against your pussy.

For a moment, you thought that it really was impossible, that you would be spared. That single second of relief was all it took for the head to pop past the initial barrier of muscle. Your mouth dropped open at the feeling. Surprise, maybe. Your legs were spread wide enough to mitigate some of the dragging pain as he forced himself a little deeper, just past the ridge. Death made a sound low in his chest, but all you could manage was stiff, cold shock. Surprise at how surreal it all was. But reality marched on all the same, with or without your comprehension. You weren’t sure what you expected it to feel like, but you would have been wrong anyway. Stretching, aching, too much, too much, too-

Grunting, he rolled his hips, pulling back just enough before thrusting deeper. Little by little, letting you adjust and relax ever so slightly before pulling back to go further. You whined each time, back arching, your pussy tightening around him. It was probably a protective measure, trying to keep him out, but it hurt, pulling a rumbly growl out of his throat, his hips pushing forward despite the painful resistance. 

“No more,” you got out, the words tight, pained. 

Muttering something under his breath, Death leaned back to let drool drip from his long tongue. It landed heavily where the two of you were joined, splatting with an unattractive slap onto the place where you were joined, onto your swollen clit. He laughed at your girlish yelp of surprise. 

You let your head fall back, your hands covering your face. They smelled like dirt and blood. At least the extra lubrication helped, and you knew your body was responding to this. Whether to protect itself or out of some truly disturbing reciprocation, your pussy was soaking his cock, making way for him as he rolled his hips back and forth. 

Deeper, further. You were going to split apart. 

“Stop, please,” you finally broke enough to beg, pressing against his stomach, ignoring the sickening feeling of fur beneath your hand. You were almost surprised when Death stopped, huffing hard. Worse, you were grateful.  

“Too much, gatita? And you were doing so well.”

A pathetic little whine tore from your throat when you looked down at the remaining few inches of cock between your straining pussy lips and his grotesque inhuman body, despairing at the sight. “I can’t,” you whimpered. “No more.” 

Death growled in frustration, claws digging painfully into your skin as he shifted back and forth a few times, trying to ease himself deeper. You could see the shadow of distension shifting across your abdomen as he did, proof of how deep inside of you he already was. But no matter how he rolled his hips, or twisted you around, there was no more room. 

“Stop,” you said, the word getting caught in your swollen throat, your body desperately straining to get away for fear that he’d just force it in.

Death stilled, exhaling hard to steady himself. It sounded like a growl. Your pussy unintentionally clenched hard around him at the noise. It hurt, the muscles unable to adjust to his size. The reaction had his breath catching, and that became a throaty laugh.

“Fine,” he said, finally dragging his hips back. It was what you wanted, but it still hurt, the stretch worsened by the way your pussy squeezed and pulsed around his length. Death stopped when only the head remained inside of you. “You just need to be broken in. That’s fine.” 

You looked, stricken, from the dizzying sight of his cock—now, at least partially, glistening with your own arousal—to the sickening expression of manic glee he wore. How could a canine face express such viscerally human emotions? 

And then, in the back of your empty, dizzy head—why was this happening?

“No more,” you begged, squeezing your eyes shut, your pussy trying to push him out despite the discomfort of it. Claws ripped into your skin when his grip had to tighten to keep you in place, his hips chasing yours as you tried so desperately to escape. It hurt all over again. Maybe not as bad, but now you knew what to anticipate. 

“It's better like this.” He stopped when he was as deep as he could go and you were grateful that he didn’t push it further, grateful that he was taking it slow. The stretching, pinching ache wasn’t any better, but it wasn’t worse either. “What is this… Two? Three inches?” You looked down, realizing that he was referring to how much of his cock couldn’t fit inside of you. It had to be more than that, although you were stuck on the sight of your pussy stretched around him. “By the end of the night, there won’t be anything keeping us apart. That’ll be… poetic, don’t you think?” 

It wasn’t fair that his voice should be that of a man, should be low and dripping with a villain’s dangerous charisma. All you could do was groan weakly, your breathing shallow. Despite what he said, there was nothing poetic to the sound of it. Slick, filthy, disgustingly wet. Every thrust punched a sharp noise out of you, although most of them were nothing more than heavy breaths. Death wasn’t very quiet either, making noises that fluctuated seamlessly between that of a man and that of a beast. 

“Hurts,” you whimpered in protest, willing him to slow down. He didn’t. 

“Good.” 

The single word, the cruelty of it and the accompanying set of a harsher pace, hurt in more ways than the physical. You couldn’t help but wail in despair, writhing with pain you couldn’t escape, unable to get away as he fucked you. Deeper and deeper, forcing you to stretch out to accommodate him. 

“You like the pain, right?” Death asked mockingly, his voice low enough to nearly get missed beneath the filthy squelch of each thrust. And all you could do was whimper. Did you like the pain? No, but there was a perverse satisfaction of justified destruction. You had no idea how he knew that.

“I don’t,” you said, needing to reject him. To reject all of this because otherwise you were afraid it would end like before, that you would give in. That you’d enjoy this. But it was too late. You couldn’t help your hips from twitching of their own volition, and a particularly sharp thrust pulled a surprised gasp from your open mouth. 

“Buena gatita,” he said in a low voice, half growl. The sound, the language, the speaker, none of it mattered because your body knew praise, and the kind that came with cruelty was what you craved in the sickest part of your brain. “Muy buena.” Your cunt fluttered weakly around him, your hips rolling upward to meet his next thrust. It hurt, and it felt good. 

As soon as you admitted that to yourself in any way, you were lost. A few more thrusts and you had to bite your lip to keep from moaning. There wasn’t a single place within you that wasn’t full of him, not in your head or your pussy or your chest. Consumed entirely by Death. 

Gods help you, you could hear the fresh wave of wet arousal your body provided with that awful thought, so eager to submit to his dominion. As if sensing that, he stilled, his cock buried deep into you. Your eyes opened unintentionally, confused by the sudden break.

“Well, well, would you look at that,” Death said as a way of explanation, self satisfied. You followed his eyes, looking at where the two of you were joined. There was nothing between, his pelvis flush between your legs, the fur matting with how wet everything was. You opened your mouth to say something, but nothing came out. His hips shifted and you could see the bump of distension, more pronounced now. “Like I said—poetic. All you’ve done for years is tease me and now-” He laughed. “Now you’re mine.”  

Death pulled back slowly, letting you see how much of his cock he’d forced your body to accept. It looked about as impossible as it felt, you couldn’t really comprehend it on any level other than the most base—sickening satisfaction. Ensuring you were still watching, his hips snapped forward. Once, twice, three times, making sure each thrust was solid and steady, filling you up entirely, the thick head of his cock brutalizing your cunt in a way no human man ever could. The battering against your cervix hurt in a profound, electric way, a way nobody had ever managed to hurt you.  

And you took it. Your mouth open dumbly, your head tipping back into the dirt, your body rolling with each movement.    

Even suffering such intimate, awful pain, you couldn’t deny your feeling of pleasure. Sublime friction, pressure in every place you needed it. And, to a dreadful degree, Death seemed to be aware of your reactions. Aware enough, at least, to take note when you couldn’t help but moan aloud, to exploit the angle that had you seeing stars. He grabbed you off the ground, forcing you to throw your arms around his neck. Like that, you were even more at his mercy. Full enough to split, you could understand the indulgence of size, of craving excess. Beautiful. Your boiling brain pulled that word out from its scattered nothingness, and it was beautiful. Repulsive, disturbing, grotesque, and beautiful.

“That’s right,” Death practically purred into your ear. “Look at how well you take it, you’d think you were made for this.” 

“Oh, gods, oh—please, I can’t, I…” You weren’t even sure what you were begging for, it was too late from the second he praised you, sending you spiraling, coming hard, your pussy squeezing his cock so hard it hurt, your fingers pulling hard at the fur on his neck. Death laughed breathlessly, not slowing down for even a second. You didn’t care. If it hurt, it felt good, an endless feedback loop of madness. 

Holding so close to him, you were more aware than ever of how terrifyingly powerful his body was. He could easily destroy you if he wanted. 

This was Death at his gentlest. 

Dizzy, reeling, hardly able to scrape together any coherent thought beyond that, all you felt at the realization was the vague veil of fear. Letting yourself get fucked by the big bad wolf. Coming on his cock, moaning like a whore for a being that shouldn’t exist in the middle of the woods beneath a full moon. 

His hips stuttered then, a groan catching on a growl in his chest. 

“Delicious,” he said. “Your fear, I could just…” Death didn’t finish that thought, or maybe you couldn’t hear it as his thrusts became well and truly punishing. Seeking his end like a man would. That was what you expected, in a distant way, but you didn’t expect that a mystical—mythical?—creature would ejaculate, only that you’d had enough encounters with men to know you shouldn’t let it happen. Not inside. Never inside, that was way too dangerous. 

“Nn-no-”  

He didn’t listen. You couldn’t escape, and you stopped caring after a moment because the heavy, carnal weight of him coming inside of you was enough to make you squeal, your pussy squeezing his cock, your body straining in an arch against his. You didn’t know if you were coming again or if it was just a continuation of the onslaught of stimulation that your brain couldn’t make rational sense of, but there was a sort of lunatic’s bliss in the feeling, in the agonizingly hellish ecstasy of pleasure. Of complete and utter excess. You could feel the rumbling vibrations of his growl, it entwined with the human groans. The two shouldn’t have suited one another, but your broken mind accepted both gleefully, losing yourself in the sound.  

After a few jerky, halting movements, Death released you. 

He was slow to pull out, which was probably a mercy. Even softening, his cock was painfully big, you couldn’t hold back your pained whimper when he pulled out. The absence was immediate, cold, and hollow. You wilted when he let you fall limp onto the ground, defeated. Deflated. Breathing as if you’d run a marathon, it was all you could do to keep it together, the gravity of all that happened setting in.  

Something landed on your naked, sweaty body. Scared, you opened your eyes. But it was fabric. A second passed before you realized it was your red cloak. The one you left behind to escape from him before. It felt like a lifetime ago. You gratefully used it to cover your nudity, glad for the moment to catch your breath with some dignity. 

“Ah, that was good,” Death said, satisfied, rolling his neck and shoulders. He’d already fixed his pants and retrieved his weapons. “The fun’s over now. For you, at least.”

“I don’t know… how to get back to the trail…” you said, wincing as you sat up and looked around. His cum dripped out of your gaping, sore pussy, sticky on your thighs. Vaguely, you wondered what sort of monsters would come from such a coupling, but you disregarded that thought just as quickly. If he was done, you needed to get away. Then again, you weren’t even sure if you could walk. 

“I wouldn’t worry about it.” 

Death’s less than friendly tone rolled over you like ice water. Slowly looking over at him, you exhaled a big, shuddery lungful of cool night air. He stood high above you, his looming figure blotting out the moon. Right then, he looked no different than he had all those years ago. Brilliant red eyes, gray fur, silver sickles. The big bad wolf in all his glory. 

“What?” 

Those bright red eyes held a different sort of intensity than before. Swirling, passionate madness without any of the ravenous hunger. “You know, I’ve been watching you ever since that night. Every time you narrowly escape death, and every time you get other people killed. But you know that, you’ve seen me. That’s why you run, thinking you can escape the inevitable. For whatever reason—luck, fate, the blessing of those gods you claim to believe in—your life has been spared over and over. And yet, you do nothing with it.”

There was malice in those words, a visceral sort of disgust that reflected what you so often felt for yourself. You considered trying to stand up, trying to run again. Fear thundered in your chest, urged you to escape as you always did. But, honestly, you didn’t think your legs could support your weight. No. You couldn’t run. You never had really managed to escape him anyway. 

“So, I thought, why does it matter if you die now or later—your life has no meaning. If I finish it now, you won’t be able to keep teasing me, and we’ll both have some peace.” 

“I don’t want to die,” you said, your voice hushed to hide the tears. 

Death looked down at you, and you wondered if it was disgust or pity you saw on his inhuman face. But then you realized, it was neither. His jewel bright eyes gleamed with glee, passion of a type you couldn’t understand, that belonged to something beyond the realm of what you could possibly comprehend. A living nightmare. 

“Your fear,” Death said, inhaling deeply as he took a step forward, his sickles in hand, “has the most intoxicating smell. I might even miss it.”