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cordeliawhohung · 3 months

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Thoroughfare

interwoven; maledicted || ao3

Simon "Ghost" Riley x fem!Reader

Undone fibers and tissue — you are Simon’s magnum opus. The greatest mess he’s ever created.

cw: fucked up soulmate!au, dub-con, smut, alcohol, forced breeding kink, dacryphilia, implied kidnapping, implied baby trapping, simon is a little insane, bound by dreams and memories trope, reader is hyperfeminine

In his dreams, Simon rips you apart with bare hands and teeth.

Sinew and fibers undone, iron on his lips, flesh filling the chasm of his belly. Fingernails grow short and bloodied as he delicately picks apart every inch of you that the universe reveals to him. Easy as tearing through wrapping paper. You are a gift. The only glimpse of light that can make it through the depths; the suffocating layers of earth and soil he’s buried under.

At first, he is convinced you are just like any other dream. A figment of his imagination. You appear after he kills Roba, with his skin still slick with the viscera of the men he had slaughtered in the name of revenge. A fine thing to look at. Soft — softer than him — with untainted eyes. A gaze not stained by death and horror. His first dream of you is the first time in a long while that he sleeps through the night without a nightmare. Domestic. You smile and laugh for the entire dream. Gentle. An angel.

It is not your only appearance. Somehow, Simon is lucky enough to be blessed with weekly dreams of you, if not more. He dreams of warm tea, and hands smaller than his wrapping around a cup. He dreams of bright smiles and flowing dresses. Of liquor sweeter than he’d ever order. A chaste kiss with a stranger. Expert fingers typing at an office keyboard. A scraped knee from missing the landing to your apartment.

You have become his only solace in a world that wants nothing more than to smother him. Crush him and grind him up until there’s nothing left of him — a red paste to feed the worms. For once, he gets to look at the world and enjoy it in ignorance, just as you do. Soak up the beauty of it without glancing over his shoulder. Smell the roses and not worry about pricking his fingers. He sleeps, so he can dream of you; his strange little visitor.

It isn’t until a few years after your sneaky arrival into his mind that he entertains the fact that you exist in the conscious plane. Something living and breathing. A tangible being. This revelation invades his mind when he dreams of you in front of your vanity, skin clean and fresh from the shower that still wets your skin. A perfect canvas for the makeup you paint yourself with when you go out with friends.

If he were conscious, his pupils would swallow his irises at the way the wand of your gloss drags across your lips. His thumb would twitch, wanting to replace it, to feel your breath against his skin. Warm him up until he melts. A dripping mess to pool on the floor and ruin that lovely, pristine blouse.

Goosebumps ripple over your exposed skin halfway through your routine, and you freeze, fingers still gripping your applicator. The features in your face harden — growing cold as if you’ve seen a ghost — before relaxing as your eyes find yourself in the mirror. Your lips press together, then split open to speak.

“Do you dream of me too, Simon?”

He wakes with a start. Thick sweat coating his bare chest, scars angry and searing, heart throbbing against his ribs. It’s impossible to tell if it’s fear or infatuation that has his blood singing the way it is, reverberating through tight veins and arteries like a gushing river. He doesn’t care to attempt to differentiate the two feelings. In his mind, they’re both the same; they both feel like impending death. Instead, he keeps his eyes glued on the cigarette-yellowed ceiling above him as he tries to recall the way your lips moved when you said his name.

There is not a religious or superstitious bone in Simon’s body. He has seen the brutal truth that if there is some superior power holding the cards, they certainly haven’t cared enough to lend him a hand. But he believes in you. In your existence. He believes there is a heat that dwells underneath your skin that will sear away everything that ails him. A softness to you that counteracts his puffy scars and calloused hands. A sweetness that he wants to siphon out of you and devour whole.

All he has to do is find you.

It’s an impossible task when he’s usually on the other side of the planet. Heavy gunpowder, disgusting residue, the recoil of his 1911 in the palm of his hand. Simon is the antithesis of you. Sharp where you are gentle, bitter where you are sweet. He thinks that’s why he’s so drawn to you, polar opposites pulling to one another until they crash and burn; superheated sugar melting and blazing through his skin until all he can think about is the pain and you.

Your voice speaking his name rings loud and clear on his ears as he drags himself through the threshold of his flat. He wonders if you would say his name in real life just as sweetly as you did in his dream. Dead on his feet, he hasn’t slept in a proper bed in weeks, and the plush mattress almost feels foreign against the ache in his back. Usually he knows better than to try and sleep fresh off of deployment. High anxiety and fried nerves force him to toss and turn for a majority of the night, reliving the feeling of gore soaking the threads of his uniform and gloves.

Countless weeks of long nights have meant there’s been no time for him to sleep, and if he can’t sleep, then he can’t see you. Whether you know it or not, you’ve become his anchor. His gift. The one thing he can focus on that brings him pleasure instead of pain. So he forces his eyes shut and —

He hates what he sees.

Fresh, unclaimed skin glistening in the faint lighting of a stranger's room — your skin, that soft and beautiful flesh he dreams of every night — you’re in perfect view of a man he doesn’t recognize. Synthetically sweet moans pour from your lips as this stranger — this son of a bitch, this bastard — lazily pumps his cock into you. Even in his unconscious state, Simon can feel the unbridled rage ignite in his chest, flames licking up the cells of his heart until it’s nothing but embers and charcoal.

Who the hell is fucking his girl?

Even from an outsider's perspective, he can tell the sex is terrible. Knees bent awkwardly, heels in the mattress as you lay on your back, hands pawing at your own tits for some sort of stimulation as this man fucks you with the slowest speed Simon has ever seen in his life. There’s no friction. No build up of pressure to get you to keen and whine. Your moans born of pity quickly drown in your flings own euphoria as he whines, cock half buried in your cunt.

He’s finished already.

An unsatisfied but cleverly covered moan leaves your lips as your fling carefully holds onto the condom as he pulls out of you, being courteous enough to not spill. (It’s the least he can do, saying as how he obviously couldn’t make you come). He quickly ties it off, having already caught his breath (he hadn’t worked that hard anyway. Not nearly as hard as you deserve) before he smiles at you with a sigh.

Then there’s the awkward conversation. A terminal lack of chemistry. Polite laughter and reassurances fall from your lips, rehearsed so well it’s almost painful. Too thoughtful for your own good for someone who couldn’t even consider you in such an intimate exchange. A smile swells in the apples of your cheeks as your partner excuses himself to shower, to rid himself of any evidence of you on his body, like he refuses to bask in what little glory he was able to pull out of you.

Metal squeaks, and the water heater sputters to life. You lie alone in that bed, half spun, yearning to grow tighter. Simon should have seen it coming — your hands slipping between your legs. It’s only natural for the pads of your fingers to dip and toy with the furious, worked up flesh of your clit. There is nothing leisure about it. No teasing yourself — no, everything you do is expertly done.

Now, it’s an actual task to keep quiet, to not moan and groan as you fuck yourself open on the three fingers you hastily shove inside of yourself while your other hand works at your clit. You’re a better solo performer than you were with that stranger — that motherfucker, that transgressor — and it doesn’t take long at all before your eyes are fluttering shut. The steady rise and fall of your chest heaves with your breaths as you pulse and writhe around your own fingers. You stay like that for as long as you’re willing to risk until you quickly wipe the lingering wetness on your fingers into your thighs before —

Simon stirs, cock painfully hard, straining against his boxers, throbbing. It’s normal for him to sweat when he wakes up from dreams, but not like this. Sticky, thick, heavy; his want taints him to the point of ruin. Seeps from his pores where it soaks into his bedsheets. He grunts as he props his body up on his pillows, heedy desire too heavy on his body.

There is not a single speck of shame to be found inside his conscience as he yanks the band of his boxers past the crest of his hips. He wastes no time wrapping his hand around himself, blood pulsing through the veins of his cock, searing his hand with each stroke. Unlike you, with your desperate, quick fingers and unrestrained desire to get yourself off, Simon teases himself. Thumbs over the raging nerves in the head of his cock, lazily bucks into his own hand, squeezes just as hard as he thinks your cunt would.

You. You. Christ, you’re all he can think about. All he dreams about. Haunting him like the grass stains on his uniform or the echo of a gunshot in a small room. Deafening. All consuming.

It’s only fair that he consumes you back.

He imagines what it would be like to undo you. Watch your eyes glaze over until you’re nothing but a content, mindless thing. He wonders if you’d cry trying to take his cock for the first time. There’s a certain girth to him that your lover certainly doesn’t have, and he thinks he’d enjoy the brine of your tears. Salty. The only thing on you that isn’t sickeningly sweet. Something that can match his abrasiveness.

“I dream of ya. All the fuckin’ time,” Simon hisses. Fatigue coats his vocal chords with thick gravel, rumbling deep in his chest as he groans. Glossy lips around his cock, hands rubbing at the length of him that you can’t reach — he craves it. Imagines it so vividly he can almost taste the sex in the air of his stale, hardly lived-in bedroom. “Dream of you fuckin’ other men. Dream of how I could do it better. You’d like that, yeah?”

Umber eyes peer through the darkness and land on the vague, fuzzy outline of his body. Wide hips, meaty hands, pulsing cock — he hopes you’ll be able to see it when you sleep. He wants you to wake up with that same burning want that you’ve bequeathed to him.

“Sweet thing, so soft, arent’cha? I know you. Know what you need. Sweet girls like you always need it rough. Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ll get you askin’ for it. Have you on your goddamn knees beggin’ for me.”

Simon doesn’t make a show of it when he comes. There’s no need to overperform for you. He just makes sure to take in every detail. The steady dribble of cum that slides down his cock into the unruly hair at the base, the angry protruding veins, his own hitched breath and panting. He stares, and stares, and stares until he starts to go soft.

“Hope you dream of this tonight, sweetheart,” he purrs.

That’s the only name he calls you by. Sweetheart. Whispers it to the void in the morning when he pulls himself out of bed just before dawn. Asks if his scars turn you on as he lazily shaves his face in the mirror. Mutters wish me luck, sweetheart with a gun in hand, and the sound of roaring plane engines drowning his voice out.

You leave him treats. Luring a dog with a still wet bone. Twirling in the mirror in cute outfits he craves to tear through with a knife. Popping your lips in the mirror after applying a fresh layer of gloss. Your fingers in your cunt after another failed hookup.

He kills a mercenary in Mexico and wonders if the shade of his blood would look good on your lips. Wants that same shade to stain the base of his cock in smeared lipstick and spit. He sees the bright, piercing pink of brain matter and he thinks about your tongue — what it would look like lulling out of your mouth as you moan. Simon expertly weaves the destructive nature of his hands with your delicate existence until you are nothing but a corrupted glitch in his mind. His cherished gift he can’t help but ruin because it’s the only thing he knows how to do.

There are some nights when mere thoughts and dreams of you alone aren’t enough to quell the tempest that makes his hands itch with the urge to shred and devour. It’s an easy affliction to satiate on the field when he’s got a knife in his hand. It’s significantly harder when he’s on his third week on leave and he hasn’t heard the death rattle of an enemy — his favorite song. While you are mouthwatering, you aren’t quite tangible enough to pick apart the way his fingers yearn to do so, so he wanders to someplace a bit more stimulating.

Terminus. The end of the line. He always finds his way back to this bar one way or another. Never to drink, oddly enough. There’s always going to be the rough parts of him he refuses to uncover; the rigid scars on his skin, and the sharpness of his teeth. A thick balaclava always covers anything that would give him away as the blood thirsty devil he so desperately attempts to suppress. No, he never goes to Terminus to order a pint and sit in some dark, sour corner of the building while all other patrons crowd around the dart boards or billiard tables. Simon goes to Terminus because it’s a close walk from his rental, and they sell Kentucky bourbon by the bottle.

A heavy wave of heat hits him as soon as he enters the building, but he doesn’t even stumble as he makes a beeline for the counter. Friday night brings a thick crowd with bodies that pulse and dance to their own tunes as liquor courses through their body and rids them of all the pain and filth of the week. He’s waiting for longer than usual as the bartender — a man who Simon reckons is about as old as the establishment itself — zips between customers as they stumble along and order more poison to cure their pain. Normally, he doesn’t show up on a weekend; he knows better than that, but he’s drowning in a special kind of storm tonight.

Simon is a patient man. He has to be, with his line of work. Relentless in his endeavor to beat his enemy to the mark. Yet, even a man as stoic and persevering as Simon gets antsy when his back is towards the entrance. Door swinging open and closed, allowing the slightest summer breeze to waft through the tight room. The urge to glance over his shoulder and assess every inch of that room haunts him, but he ignores the itch underneath his skin.

Instead, he focuses on the sounds. The idle chatter of guests as they slip throughout the room, crawling over the establishment like insects. Thick wood splintering as tiny needles drive tip first into the dart board to his left. Laughter and heavy accents, shitty jokes, clinking glass, hoppy beer, body odor, dense nicotine —

A giggle.

Simon Riley never freezes, but he does the first time his ears are graced with your voice outside of his dreams. He’s in limbo. A terrible purgatory that makes his ears ring as his dark eyes scan the bar with the skill of a bloodthirsty dog. Deadly. Efficient. Your blood sings to him, and he follows the song until he finds you leaning against the wooden wall next to a billiards table. You’re watching some nameless freaks play a game as you sip on some fruity drink through a straw.

Dark, mid-rise jeans sit satisfyingly low on your hips, and the flesh on your stomach is poorly covered by a thin tank top that doesn’t want to roll past your ribcage. You’re melting, sugar sweet sweat coating your chest, caramelizing deliciously on your skin. Cute, dainty, dull, teeth flash as you giggle again, laughing as some poor sod misses an easy pocket.

He wants to run his tongue along your neck, lick up that nectar glinting in the dim lights before ruining you. Fingers twitch in time with his pulse as his heart beats harder now than it ever has in any other moment — if he doesn’t move soon, it’ll rip free from his chest and run off without him.

He didn’t even have to track you down. Like a true gift, you fell right into his lap.

“The usual?”

The ancient bar hand grabs Simon’s attention and pulls him back to earth with a swift yank on his leash. Sharp eyes shoot back at him — seemingly annoyed he was pulled out of his daydream — before they soften and he huffs. The man looks impatient, irritated that he’s taking up his valuable time during such a busy night.

“Bourbon. Angel’s Envy. Neat,” he responds.

Bewildered, the bartender shrugs as he slinks off to get Simon’s drink, and the moment the glass is in his hand he tosses a few quid on the counter before stalking off into the crowd. He approaches you from the side, though he’s certain you wouldn’t notice him if he came from a more direct route. He waits for everyone to crowd the table, waits for you to be shoved to the back, content against the wall, drink in hand — ripe for the picking.

You don’t flinch when his hand wraps around your waist, thick pads of his fingers digging into the tender flesh of your waist. He wants to grin at that fact — like you already know that you belong to him — but he doesn’t. Cold. Collected. You look up at him with glinting eyes that quickly grow wide with recognition. The beginning of his name forms on your glossy lips, but doesn’t quite roll off of your tongue.

“Been lookin’ for you everywhere, sweetheart,” he says, voice a harsh whisper.

Your eyes flutter, enticing and sweet, like you’re trying to blink sand from your eyes. “I… I didn’t think you actually existed,” you admit.

He raises a brow, and it dances underneath his mask in a challenge. “Yeah? Is that why you asked if I dreamed of you, too? Were just takin’ the piss outta me?”

“No- well, I mean… I had a feeling. That you existed,” you say, laugh hissing between your teeth as your gaze drops.

Melting already, and he’s hardly got his hands on you.

Amber liquid swirls in the glass in Simon’s hand as he holds it out for you to take. You look at it with cautious eyes, teeth sinking into your lip before you look back at him.

“This is… this is insane, isn’t it? I mean, you’re real. And I’m real.” You swallow thickly, skin heating as his thumb slides underneath the hem of your tank top. “So everything I saw… was real? Your work, you- you’re in the military? You’ve seen me at my most… open. I’ve watched you… you know… And, uhm… I don’t know what…”

He smirks, breath pushing out of his lungs, fanning across your face even through the fabric of his balaclava. “I told you, didn’t I? I know you. I know what you need, sweetheart.”

You have no time to answer before he’s raising the glass of bourbon up to your lips, and there’s no choice but to drink. Simon tips the glass, and you let the liquor wash over your tongue. He chuckles at the face you make — it’s too brash for something as sweet as you — yet you swallow every last drop. A thin bead sits on your bottom lip, threatening to dribble down your chin, and he uses the knuckle of his index finger to wipe it clean.

“I know what you need, and you know what I want,” he continues, head tilting to the side — a predator sizing up his prey. “Let’s not draw this out any longer, yeah?”

Once the door of Simon’s apartment is shut and locked behind him, he’s got your back against the wall. Exposed flesh of your arms pinned beside your head, moans muffled by his lips on yours. Despite the bourbon, he can still taste the mixed drink you were nursing before; syrupy sweet. So fitting. His fingers release your hands before they’re ghosting down the center of your chest, tracing your sternum with professional precision. If he presses any harder, he’ll tear through skin and bone, sink into your blood, into the muscle of your heart, fresh ichor coating his hand with a delicious treat.

Instead, he yanks your tank top up to your collar bones before pulling down the hem of your bra. Your tits fall free with a gasp from your heaving lungs, and he sinks his teeth into his prize. Bite after bite. Sweet as a peach, just like he knew you would be, and you bruise just as easily as one too. You whimper as he marks you, sharp canines staking claim with pressure harsh enough to draw blood. If it’s too much for you, you don’t say anything.

You try to return the favor. Palm of your hands pressed against the firm, thick muscle of his chest, pawing at him, trying to feel him through his clothes. You’re not intimidated by the scars that paint his skin, or the roughness of his character. He’s always been like this for as long as you’ve known him, and you’re very familiar with Simon Riley.

So you trust him completely as he yanks you down the entryway and toward the kitchen. It’s implicit. In your nature. Soft, pliable. Bending. And it’s in his nature. Rough. Demanding. Forceful — your lower back collides with the counter where Simon usually prepares his meals, and he’s aggressive when he unzips your jeans and pushes them past your hips.

“You’ve been dreaming of this too. I know you have.” Simon grunts as he turns you around, hip bones pressing against the unforgiving countertop as his clothed cock grinds against your bare ass. You try not to wince at the sting of the corner cutting into your thin skin. “Every night. Been watchin’ me just as long as I’ve been watchin’ you. My gift. My sweet fuckin’ angel.”

Though he assured you that he would have you on your knees begging for him, Simon doesn’t have the time to waste. He crouches down, face level with your ass as he spreads the meat of your thighs apart as far as they’ll go with your jeans restricting your knees. There’s no hesitation as he dives in, tongue lapping at your hole, saliva mixing with your wetness. Muscles tense, throat constricts, and heat courses as you bend forward, elbows resting on the counter to give him better access.

Searing heat builds in your cunt as his tongue explores around your clit. It’s messy, hardly put together. Like a dog that can’t keep the food in his mouth as he’s chewing.

He wants to stay there forever, lapping at you like the bad dog he is, but he can’t. There’s an incessant pressure building inside of him, broiling, threatening to melt you in the very palm of his hands if he’s not quick. So he pulls away, still aching for you, and spits a thick glob of saliva on you for good measure before standing tall behind you.

Metal grinds together as he unzips his jeans, and your own ears perk up at the sound. “Do you have protection?” you pant. “I’ve got a few rubbers in my bag if- hey- Simon!”

Flesh burns and stretches as Simon bullies himself into you. It steals the air from your lungs as he presses, and presses, and presses, until there’s nothing left of him that you haven’t swallowed whole. It’s easy. Slick. He forces you open, giving you no choice but to give in. A strained whine leaves your lips as he rocks his hips, thick cock splitting you apart, legs too restricted to even give him more room inside of you.

“Don’t worry ‘bout that,” he grunts, hands pulling you back against his chest by your shoulders. “We already confirmed, I know what you need, and you know what I want, yeah?”

Your mind blanks the moment his thrusts bear weight. So full, then void, and then spilling. It racks your nerves, renders them fuzzy, bogged down with too much syrup that you can’t move fast enough through the stickiness to connect the dots. Gooey. Soft like taffy. You stretch and pull for him as his relentless pace renders you as a puddle in his hands.

You know what I want.

You know what you need. A good fuck. That’s why you’re here to begin with, isn’t it? To make love to the man who’s been haunting your dreams with gore and violence. To fall into the gravity of him that you couldn’t escape even if you tried. You thought you knew what he wanted. Same as you. To fuck the girl who’s been giving him a toothache from the sweetness of her voice. But now? As he’s grunting in your ear, hands pawing at your tits, fingers gripping your throat?

Now, you’re not so sure.

Still, the pleasure rips through you with a demanding ache you can’t ignore. So needy and worked up from the neglect of your failed love life and array of shitty partners, he feels you start to unwind. Melt and separate as your moans fall free — pleasant and the only filling thing he’s had in his entire life. Your face contorts from the intensity of it all, diaphragm spasming as you hiccup and cry, fresh and hot tears streaming down your face.

Simon coos and coddles, fingers reaching for your jaw as he turns your face to the side. Hot breath tickles the fresh streaks on your cheeks as he chuckles, patronizing.

“Cryin’ sweetheart?” he asks; a question he already knows the answer to.

His tongue lies flat against your skin as you whimper, and he licks your tears like it’s fresh bourbon from the cask. He prepares himself for the salt, the addicting brine, but it doesn’t hit him. Even as you’re being torn apart, flesh pinched free from bone in his hands, you’re just as sweet as you always are.

“S-Simon, please,” you babble, face trying to wrench free from his tongue.

“Is there a damn thing on you that doesn’t taste this good? You’re a fuckin’ mess and still… could live off of you forever,” he promises into the raw skin of your cheek.

There’s a few more minutes of nonstop, demanding thrusts from Simon before the pressure snaps and floods around you. You come with a sob, eyes screwing shut as his cock continues its assault — that demanding rhythm that saps you for everything you’re worth. Liquid. Mush. Bone with the marrow sucked free. Undone fibers and tissue — you are Simon’s magnum opus. The greatest mess he’s ever created.

He finishes not too long after you in a fury of thrusts and a growl you can feel rumbling in his chest. It leaves you raw. Muscles tingling and dancing underneath your skin. Body spent. Eyes blurring with tears. He keeps himself plugged inside of you, grip slowly becoming loose as he trails kisses along the side of your neck — like he only acknowledges how fragile you are after he’s done breaking you.

“Sweet angel,” he whispers, cock twitching inside of you as he speaks. “Let’s clean you up.”

You wake up in his bed the next morning with the window open and the birds attempting to chirp over the sound of car engines and city white noise. Soiled clothes cling to your skin, cum staining your panties and the insides of your thighs from the two other rounds Simon insisted on going for. You’re spent. Licked clean until your sugary crust dissolved, and now you’re nothing but a bare, gooey center. Sheets stick to your body as you sit up, body yearning to stretch, only for a tattooed arm to yank you back onto the mattress.

You’re face to face with Simon, and your muscles are too mushy to argue with him. His fingers trace your makeup-stained face. Old mascara sitting in the creases of your eyes from heavy tears, glitter from your lip gloss seeping into your chin and cheeks. He adores it. A beautiful mess — the only chaos he can create that is still worth loving.

But you’ve been here long enough.

“Morning,” you greet, voice faint. He does nothing but hum in response. “If uh… I can shower and maybe borrow your clothes, I can head home here soon. Get out of your hair.”

“Not happening,” he replies, voice so sharp you flinch.

You clear your throat in a poor attempt to regain your composure. “Well, uh. We should probably head to the pharmacy. The morning after pill would be a good idea considering-”

You’re silenced by his hand gently grazing your cheek. He looks human lying there next to you, half of his face smushed into a pillow. Almost. There’s something wrong with his eyes. A darkness lurking there that you hadn’t noticed before. Or had you just forced yourself to be blind to it? You watch him with wide eyes as his gaze narrows, a seething question burning on his tongue.

“The fuck do you think this is, sweetheart?” You swallow, and it feels like razors tear you apart the whole way down your throat. “Dreamin’ of each other? I’ve been craving you for fucking years. Think this is all just a coincidence? Think this was all for one good fuck?”

“You… don’t seem like the type of man to be superstitious,” you admit.

His glare undos you as the muscles in his jaw tense. He leans up, towering over you as you lay under him, face mere inches from yours as his upper lip fights back a snarl.

“We’re in this for the long run, sweetheart,” he says as if he’s staking a claim. “I’ll get you nice and fat with my kid if you aren’t already, and I’ll take good care of the both of you. Protect you. Make sure I never have to dream about you again because you’ll always be right here.”

“That’s crazy, you’re speaking nonsense,” you say, “I-I hardly know you.”

“We’ll go down to the registrar's office,” he continues as if you never even spoke in the first place. “Next month you’ll be my wife and we’ll make good on the mess our minds have been making of each other for the last few years.”

Palpable fear plagues your body, forcing your bottom lip to quiver as you shake your head at his utter nonsense. This… this is insane. He’s insane. But weren’t you aware of that much? How many men have you watched him kill? How often have you watched him wash the blood from his gloves, or claw out of an early grave? Heard him chuckle as a man groveled and sobbed, begging to be let go, just for him to skewer him with his knife anyway?

What else did you expect from a man you met at Terminus?

While Simon dreamed the good dreams — the fair dreams of sweet smiles and smooth liquor — you’ve been the antithesis of him. You’ve had the nightmares, the sweats, the anxiety. Every single image you ever saw of his life had been a warning. A siren screaming for you to run. A premonition of the trained hunter that’s been on your savory scent for years. And still, you fell right into his trap as if you weren’t taught the exact way to wiggle out of it.

“What else have these dreams been for, sweetheart? I’ve been huntin’ you for years. Not lettin’ you go now just ‘cause you’ve got cold feet.”

Teeth embedded in flesh, now all you can do is squirm as Simon’s lips press against yours. He no longer needs to dream of ripping you apart. Flesh from bone, sinew shredding and snapping. Now, he can do that all from the comfort of his bed as he devours you — his lovely wife — soul and all.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost x reader smut #fucked up soulmate!au #cod smut #f!reader

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woodland-gremlin · 6 months

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Ancestor's Fury AU

( Inspired by @glow-in-the-dark-death and @vixen-uchiha )

The Infinite Realms are, well, Infinite. They are the doorway between dimensions and contain every after life. This includes the Krypton one.

When Danny learned that the Infinite realms contained the afterlife for aliens he didn’t stop gushing about it to Jazz for days. He was awestruck. Not everyone would stop to talk to this excited child, especially when they don’t know that he is the King, but some would, like the Kryptons. They were quite happy to talk to the boy king, especially when they could get updates on the last of their kind in the Living Realm. When they learned about the Anti-Ecto Acts and the role the Justice league and the last of their living had in it they were angry and confused. To learn about why the Justice League didn't do anything about the Acts they traveled into the Living Realm to find out. This is how they found out about how Superman treats Superboy.

When Danny first told them about Superboy they threw a party, after all they gained a new family member. Look at the baby, isn’t he adorable?! Traveling to the Living Realm and finding out he was a clone didn’t change that fact. Learning how Superman treats him for being a clone however opens the floodgates of their fury. They were already weary because of the inaction with the Anti-Ecto Acts and now he is calling the baby an “it”! Not happening on their watch.

Then they remember the boy king. The one who brought this to their attention in the first place and who has a clone he treats as family. So they decided to bring this to his attention.

Danny, when he learns of this, is furious. He knows what it is like to be cloned by your worst enemy in an attempt to replace you, but that is on the fruitloop who cloned you not the child who was dragged into their scheme and is as much of a victim as you are. He could never treat Ellie the way Superdouche does. For Ancients sake he was barely a teenager when it happened and yet he handled it better than a full grown adult superhero (not that he should be called that after what he has done).

In conclusion no one is happy with the news, especially Ellie. She is furious with how her fellow clone is treated and is definitely planning Superasses demise, though silver lining, clone buddy!

All of this leads to Danny putting a blacklist on Superman. No one from the realms can help him and are welcome to beat him up as long as no one else gets hurt. So when the JL Dark gets called to help because Superman keeps getting targeted by supernatural beings they refuse and explain the black listing. The JL then bullies John Constintine into summoning the Ghost King, who is his nephew, not that they know that, to retract the blacklisting.

Danny: Yeah no, can’t help you there. The ghosts hunting you down are not very happy with your parenting, and neither am I for that matter.

Superman: ??? I don’t have a son.

Danny: *sarcastically* So the kid running around with the moniker Superboy is someone else’s Krypton kid? Sorry, didn’t know there was another Krypton that survived the destruction of their planet.

Superman: It’s a clone, not my son.

Danny: *pissed* He is not an it! You may not consider him your son but the ghosts of Krypton do. Your parents thought the Kents raised you better than that.

Meanwhile, elsewhere:

Ellie: *tackles Superboy* Clone Buddy!!

Superboy: *surprised Pikachu face*

#danny phantom #dcu #dcxdp #dp + dc #dp x dc crossover #danny fenton #conner kent #superboy #ghost king danny #danielle “danni” phantom is called ellie #ancestor's fury au #superman #clones #ellie phantom #danni phantom

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benjinotes · 5 days

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𝐃𝐑𝐔𝐗𝐘 — jacaerys velaryon

PAIRING. jacaerys velaryon x fem reader SUMMARY. while trying to escape the arranged marriage, you meet your betrothed, who turns out not to be as terrifying as your father suggest. WARNINGS. spicy but no actual smut. family issues. mostly daddy issues. fluff. no war au. rhaenyra is the queen. kissing. arranged marriage. jace and reader are in their 20s. N/A. after 2 weeks, i finally finished this! english is not my first language so be understanding. 8K+ words.

requested! -> masterlist

The fierce late spring sun blazed through the narrow gaps in the heavy curtains, its relentless rays searing your skin with persistent, vexing heat. You drummed your fingers impatiently on the rough wooden table in the meeting hall, trying to hide your frustration and nervousness as you listened to the whispered conversations among the gathered people drifting through the room.

Still, the serenity of Casterly Rock, though comforting, did little to ease your anxiety. The constant whispering of those around you seeped irritatingly into your ears, while their watchful eyes remained fixed on you. Not only were you subjected to relentless scrutiny, but you had your future laid bare for everyone to judge and comment on as they wished, which was frustrating to say the least.

What was most exasperating was the fact that no one dared to speak to you directly. Instead, all you received were discreet nods and brief looks of pity and some form of solidarity, as if these gestures were carefully calculated not to deepen the anguish you already felt at the prospect of marrying the eldest son of the Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen.

The name of that woman was met with reverence. As a queen who openly defied patriarchal traditions, her strength and ambition embodied the very essence of legends. She was known for making tough decisions without hesitation, placing duty and power above all else. To some, she was a visionary; to others, a tyrant. Yet no one, not even your father, could deny her cunning and ability to manipulate the political landscape to her advantage, always steering her destiny with unyielding control.

Marrying the son of the queen Rhaenyra meant joining a lineage forged in fire and blood, a dynasty accustomed to winning at any cost. The thought sent a chill down your spine, knowing you were about to become part of something so vast and merciless.

The air in the room grew heavier as the whispers faded into silence, and although there was plenty of air around you, it felt as though you were drowning. Your fists were clenched in your lap as reality slowly seeped through your body, tightening its grip on your heart. Across the table, your father, Lord Lannister, sat silently, his eyes fixed on you with a cold, relentless gaze. The barely perceptible warmth that had once lingered in his stare was now completely replaced by a biting chill, making you lower your head and shift your eyes to your hands in an attempt to escape the penetrating judgment that surrounded you.

You felt sullied, but more than that, you felt utterly lost.

You couldn't understand why your father was looking at you with such severity, especially when he was the one who had arranged your betrothal to the crown prince. It was even more perplexing to realize that he had made this arrangement behind your back, fully aware of the ominous rumors circulating through the stone corridors of Casterly Rock-rumors depicting Jacaerys Velaryon as a man of ruthless ambition, a volatile temperament, and a sense of duty that often bordered on cruelty.

The rumors your father shared about the crown prince were disturbing, to say the least. Though you had never met him personally, you had heard from your father and the other lords about his boundless ambition and unpredictable temperament. It was said that he was a man whose sense of duty often veered into harshness, driven by a calculated pursuit of power that sacrificed compassion and humanity for his goals, exactly like his mother, and the idea of marrying someone so dedicated to conquest and control only heightened your apprehension.

Nevertheless, the decision your father made left you stunned. How could he, who always claimed to act in your best interest, force you into such a cruel and desperate position? How could he send you to face someone whose reputation for cruelty he himself had helped to spread?

You couldn’t understand how the father you had trusted so deeply could impose such a harsh and merciless future on you. He wasn’t perfect, but you had hoped he would at least fulfill his role and be a good father. Yet, he proved you wrong.

The weight of betrayal and helplessness was overwhelming. The silence that enveloped the room seemed to amplify your sense of being trapped in a situation not of your making. Every distant whisper and glance now felt like a direct assault, heightening your feeling of isolation.

The reality of your predicament pressed down on you, making the silence almost unbearable. You could feel the tension in the room, thick and suffocating, as if the very walls were closing in, leaving you nowhere to turn.

When one of the lords shifted in his seat, the sound startled you, causing you to flinch. Unable to meet his questioning gaze, you kept your eyes on your lap, trying to memorize the gold and red patterns on your dress, struggling to ignore the constant, gnawing presence of scrutiny.

And even without the whispers, the weight of every gaze felt tangible, as if silent condemnations hung in the air. Your father's unwavering, cold stare only deepened your sense of betrayal, making you feel small and insignificant in an atmosphere that already felt suffocating and heavy.

After a few minutes, as if finally sensing that the moment—or perhaps you—had reached its limit, your father moved abruptly in his chair, letting the sun beam shine into his eyes, making him complain slightly. This small disturbance was enough to shift the attention of everyone in the room, who turned their gazes from you to Lord Lannister with a mix of curiosity and subtle apprehension.

"Leave us." He ordered after a few seconds, cutting through the oppressive silence that had settled in with a sharp, commanding tone. He didn't even spare a glance at the others in the room; his furrowed brows and the rigid, unyielding posture made it abundantly clear that he wasn't about to entertain any questions or objections. His mere presence commanded immediate obedience, and no one dared to challenge him. No one would be foolish enough to challenge Lord Lannister in his own home.

Biting your lip anxiously, you kept your gaze fixed on your lap, tracing your finger over the small lions in the dress’s pattern. As the lords began to rise, their footsteps echoed off the stone floor, their murmurs—now almost audible—starting up again as they moved toward the exit. Yet, you kept your head lowered, focusing on steadying your breath and straining to catch the distant sounds of the wind outside, desperately trying to fend off the anxiety gripping your insides.

As the lords' footsteps faded, the weight of the moment seemed to grow heavier with each passing second. The sense of being on the brink of a life-altering decision was overwhelming. You felt isolated, powerless to change the course of events, and faced with an almost tangible sense of the unknown pressing against your chest.

When the last lord left and the heavy doors shut, their echo reverberated through the stone walls like a warning. With only you and your father left, the room felt like it was closing in. The air was thick with the tension that hadn't faded with the others' departure. The silence that followed wasn't comforting; it was a suffocating weight, pressing on your chest and making it harder to breathe, pushing you to steady yourself in a struggle to regain control.

Looking up, you met your father's unyielding gaze. He watched you with cold, judgmental detachment as you anxiously bit your lip, and the icy intensity of his stare on your nervous behavior made you release your lower lip as a shiver ran down your spine. His rigid posture, assessing you with merciless precision, made it seem as though he didn't see his daughter but merely a pawn in a ruthless game of power, to be moved regardless of what it meant for you.

The feeling of betrayal cut deep, though you had long stopped expecting anything different.

Then, shattering the oppressive silence in the room, your father rose from his seat and began to walk toward you. Each step echoed with a weight that seemed to reverberate through the very walls, his boots hitting the floor with such force that they nearly drowned out the frantic beating of your heart.

Stopping in front of you, your dad scratched his throat lightly, prompting you to take a deep, pouty breath. You turned to him, your expression a mix of confusion and hurt, causing him to wrinkle his nose slightly. He lifted his chin with a smug air, his cold gaze unwavering.

"If you are awaiting an apology," he began, his voice edged with disdain, "you may as well abandon the expectation now." You struggled to maintain your composure, fighting the urge to glance at the opulent decorations on the wall for any distraction from the harshness of his stare.

Of course, an apology would never come from him; you hadn’t held any hope for it.

Fixing his gaze on your fingers, nervously tracing patterns on the fabric of your red dress, your father rubbed his forehead in irritation. For a brief moment, a flicker of doubt seemed to soften his stern expression.

"I did what was necessary," he spoke again, his voice carrying a rare touch of gentleness, aware that your silence was unyielding, but despite his softer tone, the firmness and gravity in his words remained unchanged. "You are a woman, and above all, a Lannister; marrying into greatness or being part of it is in your blood.”

His declaration felt like a crushing defeat, and the bitterness in your mouth made it hard to tell whether the weight of his words or your own desolation was more oppressive. Noticing your head once again bow in defeat, his gaze grew even colder. His eyes, which had offered a hint of softness, briefly fixed on the golden paintings on the walls of the room, as if seeking distraction from the sentimental conversations he disliked. However, the coldness in his gaze remained unchanged, almost as if he wanted to reinforce the possibly unhappy future he had laid out for you.

Lord Lannister took a step back and lightly adjusted his clothes, noting that you were clearly not going to speak. You nearly sighed with relief as you saw his shadow move slightly away from the table.

“You may find this difficult now, daughter,” he said again, the sound of his boots echoing as they entered your ears along with his sharp voice. Yet, your heart seemed to skip a beat when he called you "daughter." “But in time, you will understand that this was for the best. What you are about to do is part of something much greater, something beyond what you can see right now.” He continued, and you bit your lip once more, unable to lift your gaze from the fabric of your dress.

The marriage, your father’s indifferent treatment of it, and the daunting reality of becoming the future queen consort and mother to the future ruler of Westeros felt like a weight too great to bear. For a fleeting instant, you wondered if your betrothed had faced a similar turmoil when he first heard the news. But you swiftly dismissed such thoughts, haunted by the tales of his ruthless nature. Too afraid to have a second thought.

Lord Lannister took another step toward the door, his cloak trailing like a dark shadow over the cold stone floor. “Make your preparations,” he instructed, and you glanced up just enough to see him open the door, his back resolute, his gaze unfeeling. “In a few days, you will depart for Dragonstone.” With a final, authoritative word, he closed the door behind him, the sound resonating through the walls and making your heart ache.

Finally left alone in the room, you curled into yourself, drawing your knees tightly to your chest. With your head bowed, the tears you had kept at bay for so long finally began to fall.

The weather was not pleasant in Kings Landing.

For three interminable weeks since your arrival at the Red Keep, the skies had remained perpetually overcast, and the relentless rain had not ceased for even a moment.

Wish as you might, it was peculiar to say the least—despite this being your first visit to the Capital, you had always been told by merchants and villagers that the Capital’s weather was milder than that of the Westerlands, though its people were more arrogant and petty. Yet, to your chagrin, you found both claims to be mistaken.

You had not had the opportunity to meet many people within the Red Keep. Your interactions were limited to a few servants who, unlike those in your own household, extended a measure of respect towards you. You also encountered some nobles who, despite their aloof demeanor and occasional condescension, chose to withhold their judgments and refrain from speaking of you in whispers.

On the other side , your betrothed's family proved to be a pleasantly unexpected surprise. Although you had met them, their treatment of you was surprising. Despite your initial reservations, you found yourself genuinely appreciating their demeanor more than you had anticipated.

His younger brothers were charming and exhibited a genuine warmth towards you. Whenever you exchanged words with them, your heart would quicken at the thought of having such affectionate and adorable siblings like Lucerys, Joffrey, and, of course, the little twins, who, despite their tender age and limited speech, were always eager to play with you.

In contrast, when you arrived at the fortress, his cousins, Rhaena and Baela, made a strong impression. They were the first to greet you, guiding you through the stone corridors with ease and engaging you in lighthearted gossip. Their linked arms and gentle smiles created a welcoming atmosphere, helping you to feel more at ease amidst the grandeur of the fortress.

The impression left by the Queen and King consort was notably different. Their presence conveyed undeniable authority, and their demeanor naturally inspired a sense of apprehension. This reflected some of the rumors you had heard about them. Despite this, their treatment of you was unexpectedly kind, providing a surprising degree of comfort amidst the formality and gravity of their status.

Yet you had not had the opportunity to meet your future husband. Despite your attempts to learn about him, the family that had welcomed you so warmly consistently avoided any discussion of his person. Whenever his name arose, they quickly changed the subject, a practice that only heightened your unease. This persistent evasion led you to ponder whether the rumors of his alleged cruelty might indeed have some truth to them.

You hoped that this was the reason you now stood before the towering wall, your wedding cross firmly clutched in your hand, after hastening through the dimly lit corridors of the Red Keep. It seemed as though the cross might offer the comfort and strength that your heart so desperately yearned for.

However, though the cross afforded you a measure of solace, the imposing wall before you offered nothing but a stark contrast. With a deep breath, you resolved to go ahead, turning with determination toward the tree beside you, intent on scaling it to reach the other side.

And even though doubts about your decision were increasingly overtaking your thoughts, your pride would not permit you to retreat. Not in that moment.

Taking tentative steps toward the tree, you hesitated, adjusting the cross around your neck one last time. With a deep breath, you lifted your dress and began to climb the tree awkwardly, nervously watching your feet as you ascended.

Truth be told, you had never engaged in anything of the sort before. While you had observed your older brothers undertaking various daring exploits, your own experiences were vastly different. Forever engrossed in books or strolling through the gardens of your home, you had never ventured into their adventurous pursuits, and even despite your yearning to join them, they consistently excluded you, insisting that girls lacked the courage for such undertakings.

Yet here you were, clambering up the tree with hasty but clumsy efforts, striving to escape a grim destiny after being sold as a mere pawn by your own father. So absorbed were you in your plight that you failed to perceive a pair of brown eyes drawing near, observing you with a hint of quiet amusement.

You could already see the sea on the other side of the wall and feel the sudden wind hit your flushed face gently. For a moment, you were so distracted that you barely noticed your foot that was now stepping lightly on the back of your dress, and before you could realize anything, you lost your balance.

Just as you began to fall, strong arms seized you mid-descent, pulling you back before calamity could strike. The stranger had moved with startling swiftness, and before you could fully grasp what had transpired, you found yourself securely held in his embrace, your feet barely brushing the ground.

His hold was firm yet gentle, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to still, as did your breath. You looked up, startled, and met a pair of amused yet strangely beguiling brown eyes, close enough for you to discern an indescribable color within them. A faint smile played upon his lips as he aided you in regaining your balance, watching intently as you dusted the hem of your red skirt; his expression still touched with quiet amusement.

Still, you couldn’t help but notice how strikingly handsome the young man was.

You opened your mouth to offer your thanks, but the stranger interjected with smooth courtesy. “It seems the tree bears you no favor, my lady,” he remarked, his voice tinged with refined irony. As you took a step back, his gaze remained unwavering, and he continued with an air of gentle provocation, “May I inquire what grand quest compelled you to seek what lies beyond the wall?”

You blinked in embarrassment, your fingers instinctively gripping the cross around your neck, unwilling to disclose the harsh reality of your future. Meanwhile, the stranger's lips curled into a subtle smile as he noted your reaction, though you remained unaware of his quiet amusement.

It was a rare sight to see a lady in such haste, particularly when she was his betrothed.

“So?” He inquired with a casual tone, a hint of mockery in his voice as he observed the flush of annoyance rising to your cheeks.

Raising your chin, you tried to meet his gaze with composure, though you faltered slightly when he remained unmoved. “I do not see how this is any of your concern, my lord,” you finally said, irritation clear in your voice as you tightened your grip on the cross. Jacaerys, upon hearing your words, tilted his head back and laughed heartily, leaving you bewildered; his evident satisfaction seemed to grow with the sharpness of your response.

Jacaerys had not anticipated that his betrothed would be so defensive, yet he could not deny that he was intrigued by the tone of your voice. “It appears,” he began, his voice taking on a measured curiosity as he studied your face and felt his own heartbeat quicken while he noticed how the wind gently tousled your hair, “that you possess a spirit I had not expected. This surely bodes well for our future encounters.” He attempted to flirt, clearing his throat slightly to hide a smile when he saw your confused expression directed at him.

You clearly did not grasp the meaning behind his words, nor did you have any desire to understand his intentions. The day had already been fraught with mishaps—first, you had narrowly escaped injury from a fall, and now you found yourself in the garden of your betrothed’s castle, unwittingly admiring the presence of a man you had thought was a stranger.

Sweat dampened your palms, and your heart pounded heavily. For a moment, you thought you were enduring the torment of sinners, and a wave of shame overtook you.

Perhaps this was a divine punishment from the Seven for daring to flee the fate that had been decreed for you.

"What do you intend by that?" you inquired, releasing your wedding cross and lightly folding your arms in front of your chest. Jacaerys had to exercise considerable self-discipline to refrain from briefly casting his gaze upon your bosom. You’re too pretty, too hot to be true. You are far too beautiful, too captivating, for reality to bear.

“Me? Nothing at all, my lady. Save for the fact that I had not expected to meet my betrothed under such... curious circumstances,” the prince replied with a casual air, his voice tinged with wry amusement, as though the matter were of no import. The moment his words reached your ears, your breath stilled, a sudden wave of disbelief washing over you—he must surely be toying with you.

Your hand rose once more to the cross at your neck, fingers trembling as your gaze fell upon him, and there, hanging from his throat, gleamed a matching cross. Your heart, before steady, now raced with a force that echoed through your very being.

Before you stood none other than the crowned prince, a man whose reputation, stained by dark tales and bloodshed, echoed throughout the Westerlands, and even worse, the man destined to become your future lord and husband. To deepen your dismay, you had made a spectacle of yourself in a vain attempt to escape the impending marriage set for the following week. It felt as though some celestial force took cruel delight in your misfortune.

Jacaerys let out a soft chuckle, his gaze still filled with amusement as it lingered upon you. His eyes drifted to your neck, now flushed with embarrassment, yet he remained silent, merely folding his arms across his chest and waiting for you to break the silence.

You blinked slowly, striving to fully grasp the weight of the revelation you had just received. As the truth settled within you, your eyes widened in surprise. Releasing the cross from around your neck, you performed a courteous bow, murmuring, “I—I deeply apologize, my prince.” You shut your eyes tightly, bracing yourself for the anticipated reprimand or punishment. Instead, you felt a gentle touch on your hand, and when you finally dared to look up, you met your betrothed’s gaze, now softened with unexpected tenderness. He drew you gently to your feet and brought you close to him.

“Apologies are not needed, my lady,” he said with sincere warmth, drawing closer in a way that might have seemed improper were it not for your betrothal. Yet he cared little for such formalities, his heart quickening as the soft scent of you reached his nostrils.

"Besides, I must confess that this first encounter was quite unexpected." He paused, his gaze softening as he regarded your startled expression and parted lips. "Yet, it is most gratifying," he concluded with a sincere smile. Noting your visible discomfort, his smile softened into a tender frown, and he took a step back to afford you more space.

Jacaerys was well aware of Lord Lannister’s disdain for him, and he had no illusions about the sentiment being mutual. He knew of the cruel rumors Lord Lannister spread about his true nature—rumors that, though largely unfounded, were completely absurd and far from the truth of his character. It was no secret, despite Lord Lannister’s attempts at discretion, that the man harbored a deep-seated loathing for the Westerlands.

The fact that you had been sent to him, despite your evident fear, only served to deepen the prince’s dislike for the man. What sort of father would cast his daughter away when he had spent a lifetime cultivating her fears?

He was aware of your fear; upon his return from travels, his first action was to inquire about your well-being from his mother and cousins. Their accounts were unwavering: you feared the union and, indeed, feared him. This knowledge weighed heavily on him. He had been pledged to you not as a source of dread but as your protector, meant to soothe your anxieties, not to heighten them. The thought of causing you such discomfort was nearly unbearable to him.

“So you vow you will not harm me?” You asked after a few moments, your voice trembling with uncertainty. Seeing him shake his head in denial, you took a hesitant step toward your bethrothed.

The prince did not seem so cruel up close; indeed, he appeared rather charming—too charming.

Jacaerys moved closer to you as he saw your posture visibly relax, his cold hand quickly resting on the curve of your neck while his thumb gently caressed your throat. This made your cheeks flush furiously, and you instinctively leaned into his touch. “I am prepared to offer you all my love” he confessed, his voice low yet gentle, sending a shiver through you and deepening your blush. “And I hope you will do the same.” He admitted, and without realizing it, you took another step toward him.

“What if I cannot?” you dared to ask in a hushed tone, feeling his fingers gently trace the cross upon your neck.

He smiled, lowering his head close to your neck, his lips brushing against your skin as he placed a soft kiss, causing you to bite your lip in response. “If you cannot bring yourself to love me, even just a little,” he murmured against your skin, his cool breath stirring a shiver within you, “then I suggest you hate me entirely.” He concluded with one final, lingering kiss near your wedding cross.

Stepping back with deliberate grace, Jacaerys turned away, casting one final glance over his shoulder. He left you standing alone in the midst of the garden, your heart racing.

And though you might not yet admit it, the urge to flee had waned, and in its place, a budding resolve to love him began to grow within you.

The next few days passed quickly.

Amidst the whirlwind of preparations for your union with Prince Jacaerys Velaryon and the steady arrival of lords from across Westeros, time slipped away like sand through your fingers. So absorbed were you in the endless tasks and the moments shared with your betrothed and his family that you barely noticed a full week had passed since that fateful, improper encounter, and the thought of fleeing King's Landing had quietly drifted from your mind.

In truth, thoughts of home were the furthest from your mind. Since that inescapable encounter with your betrothed, he had made it a point and effort to be by your side in every spare moment both of you had.

Jacaerys proved ever thoughtful, ever watchful, always a step ahead to anticipate your every need; his hand extended before you could even ask. Though his temper seemed quick in the few council meetings you had witnessed, the patience he reserved for you was a tenderness unlike any other, a quiet devotion that made your heart soften with each passing day.

Now, as his gentle hand held yours and he led you through the halls, you couldn't help but feel silly for believing your father's harsh words. Nothing your father had said seemed true. How could he be the monster you'd feared when his every glance was so full of tenderness, making your heart flutter and warmth spread through your chest?

He was kind, and none who genuinely knew him could contest that.

“Do not be so fearful,” he encouraged, casting a reassuring glance over his shoulder as you nervously bit your lower lip. “Come now, Vermax means you no harm,” he promised, his gaze softening as it fell upon the small cross hanging from your neck.

“Jace, I am quite uncertain about this,” you murmured softly, your heart pounding with a fervor you could not wholly place—whether due to the warmth of his touch upon your hand or the prospect of meeting a dragon. Either way, a flush of heat crept upon you, warming your cheeks with apprehension.

Your future lord husband halted suddenly, causing you to stumble and lightly press against his chest, the wedding cross grazing gently against your forehead. As you looked up, you found yourself caught in the depths of his warm, hazel eyes, which regarded you with their usual blend of tenderness and amusement.

“There is no need for fear,” Jacaerys said softly, his voice laced with gentle charm as he spoke your name. His hand cupped your face, and his thumb caressed your cheek soothingly. “Vermax is loyal to me and tends to favor those I hold dear.” He added, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his touch and his endearing words made a rosy blush rise to your cheeks.

With a tremulous sigh, you acquiesced, unaware of the pleased glint in his eyes. “Very well, I place my trust on you,” you declared with earnest and apprehensive commit. Before further words could be spoken, Jacaerys gently took your arm, guiding you towards the dragon pit, where soon the majestic form of Vermax appeared.

The dragon lay majestically upon a bed of straw and scattered bones, and you instinctively grasped the prince’s arm, a gesture that seemed to please him. The dragon’s emerald scales gleamed softly in the dim light, and as its eyes opened, they fixed upon you and Jacaerys. The heir greeted the beast with a small smile, which prompted the dragon to respond with a gentle, approving rumble, causing Jacaerys’s smile to broaden even further.

You observed Jacaerys reluctantly extricate himself from your embrace, casting you an apologetic glance as he approached the great beast. He murmured softly in an unfamiliar tongue, his voice a soothing murmur against the backdrop of the dragon’s deep, rumbling breaths. The massive creature turned its head to regard you with a curious gaze, causing you to hold your breath in trepidation.

He was too big for a young dragon.

“Wait a moment,” Jacaerys said gently, stepping closer as he beckoned Vermax to advance. The dragon’s enormous head lowered in response, yet Jacaerys’s gaze, filled with warmth and reassurance, remained steadily upon you. You instinctively touched the cross around your neck, striving to steady your breath as Vermax approached. Jacaerys’s hand gave your arm a brief, reassuring squeeze. “He possesses a loyalty grand as his size.” He murmured softly, his voice imbued with a calming reassurance.

As Vermax drew closer, you instinctively sought out Jacaery’s hand, finding solace in his steadfast presence. He tightened his grip reassuringly, his own heart echoing the intensity of the moment, and his touch provided a grounding comfort amid the dragon’s grandeur. “There is no need for fear,” he murmured in a quiet tone, his gaze tender as he observed you. “He's gentle, despite his appearance.” You took a hesitant step forward, your heart racing as Vermax’s large, watchful eyes met yours.

You swallowed hard at the sight.

Your betrothed’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, offering silent encouragement. Yet he could not help but cast a quick glance at the neckline of your dress and the way you clutched the small cross, shaking his head to clear the indecent thoughts that had entered his mind. “He is not so different from me,” he said almost abruptly, trying to dispel the images from his mind while meeting your apprehensive and fearful gaze. “Gentler than the tales might suggest.” Hearing this, you let out a soft laugh despite the situation, recognizing the subtle hint in his sentence.

Jace couldn’t help but feel relieved when he heard your small laughter.

He let out a soft, reassuring chuckle, his grip on your hand tightening to anchor you to the moment, and you instinctively returned the squeeze. Vermax, now only a few steps away, lowered his massive head, his watchful eyes observing you once again both with a serene curiosity as though acknowledging the connection forming between you and his rider. He seemed too smart for a giant beast.

Jacaerys stepped closer to the dragon, gently drawing you by his side. His voice, steady and tinged with pride, broke the silence. “See? He is at ease with you.” His gaze shifted back to you, a warm smile playing on his lips. “You have nothing to fear.” He said softly, his eyes never leaving yours as you once again focused on the young dragon.

As you drew nearer, the warm breath of the dragon stirred the air, causing a shiver to run down your spine. Yet, with Jace by your side, you felt a sense of calm. His hand, still holding yours, provided constant reassurance, and you could feel his thumb tracing gentle, reassuring circles on your skin.

As you approach the dragon, its warm breath stirred a gentle, soothing breeze against your face, heightening your anticipation. Drawing a deep breath, you extended your trembling hand towards the dragon, your fingers brushing against the cool, smooth scales of its vast snout. The texture is both unfamiliar and captivating, the dragon’s scales feeling like a blend of polished stone and supple leather beneath your touch.

You could almost hear Jacaerys holding his breath behind you.

Vermax remained still, his large eyes half-closing as if acknowledging your gesture, his steady, rhythmic breath resonating through the chamber. When he closed his eyes and leaned into your touch, you widened your own eyes in wonder, your mouth slightly agape as you glanced back at Jace, who struggled to stifle a chuckle.

“By the Seven!” you exclaimed, blinking slowly. “I did it!” you nearly shouted, gripping your betrothed’s hand tightly, which drew a hearty, amused laugh from him in response to your delight.

“I told you,” he murmured softly amidst his laughter, squeezing your hand reassuringly. His eyes, twinkling with both amusement and something more profound, regarded you with tender warmth.

As you and your betrothed made your way back to the castle, your hands remained intertwined, a detail neither of you seemed to notice amidst the comfort you found in each other's presence. The corridors of the castle, bathed in the soft light of flickering torches, seemed to contract, leaving just the two of you in your own world. The only sounds were the gentle rhythm of your breathing, the passage of time unnoticed, and the cool air that lightly brushed against your faces.

Jacaerys, however, could not help but steal occasional glances at you, as if he were trying to memorize every detail of your face and form. His eyes lingered on the neckline of your dress, the softness of your lips, and the small cross around your neck—the emblem of the union to come tomorrow. For a brief moment, he reached with his free hand to touch the cross, feeling a warm flutter in his chest as his fingers brushed the delicate metal.

The prince blinked slowly, his heart pounding with anticipation at the thought of the wedding to come. He could hardly contain his eagerness.

“I must say,” Jacaerys spoke gently, finding any excuse to linger near you as you stood by your chamber door. “You’ve been a delight in the dragon pit, especially considering it’s your first encounter with dragons.” He chided himself internally for the awkwardness of his words, yet his smile remained tender and sincere, his eyes reflecting genuine admiration.

You blushed and blinked slowly, a touch of bewilderment in your eyes, though your heart raced at his tentative praise.

“I am glad to have shared the experience with you,” you replied sincerely, noticing how he swallowed hard, as if wrestling with an unspoken urgency and desire.

Little did you realize, Jacaerys’s heart ached with a longing as deep as the ancient woods. The thought of waiting until tomorrow to share your first kiss at the altar felt like an eternity of torment. He yearned to taste the sweetness of your lips in a moment that was uniquely yours, far from the prying eyes of the court. Perhaps that was merely seeking any excuse to close the distance between you, his heart aching to turn his longing into a cherished reality.

Regardless, Jacaerys drew closer, his hand gently releasing yours to rest upon your neck. As his thumb softly caressed your throat, a wave of memories from the past week washed over you, bringing a delicate flush to your cheeks. Despite your growing shyness, you stood still, your breath mingling with his as he leaned in. “There is something I have longed to do,” he murmured, his voice low and filled with a yearning tenderness. “I need this, I need you.”

Before you could utter a word, his lips met yours in a fervent kiss, tongues entwining and teeth brushing lightly. The world around you seemed to dissolve, leaving only the sensation of his warmth and the pressing desire of the kiss you shared. You felt his fingers pressing firmly against your throat and his hand gently grasping the small cross around your neck, and you swiftly mirrored the action, drawing him closer as the kiss deepened.

Jacaerys's heart beat in unison with yours, the kiss growing more intense, and both of you felt a growing warmth as the passion heightened. Yet neither of you cared, too lost in the taste of each other's mouths to think of anything else.

When at last he pulled away, his breath was heavy, his eyes searching yours with a tender yearning that made your heart race.

“Thank you for another amazing day.” He whispered, his voice soft and full of affection, as though the words themselves were a caress. He lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss to your neck, his lips lingering there, sending a shiver through you. Your breath caught, and you bit your swollen lip, every part of you longing for his touch once more.

“I can hardly wait for being completely yours,” he murmured, stepping back slowly, as though reluctant to part from you. His hand fell from yours only when necessary, and you turned toward your chamber door, heart still fluttering. As you crossed the threshold, you glanced back to see him standing there, a soft, private smile touching his lips.

You could hardly wait to be his, too.

The atmosphere was filled with warmth.

At the great table laid out for both your families, Jacaerys beheld you from across the room, his gaze alight with a tender affection. His smile conveyed the warmth and admiration he felt, as if he were savoring the very sight of you amidst the grandeur of the feast.

The vows of your union had been spoken mere hours past, and though he had already basked in the wondrous sight of you in your bridal attire, Jace could not help but be entranced by you. His eyes roamed over you, captivated by how the gown clung to your form, as if shaped by divine hands. You appeared as if sculpted by the gods themselves.

It took all of Jacaery’s self-control not to kiss you as he had the night before or to press his lips to your neck and savor the softness of your skin. He was also haunted by the countless times he had anxiously clutched that cross, now missing from both of your necks.

Yet, though the cross that once adorned both your necks was no longer present, the crown prince could not stifle his smile. The torchlight danced upon your fingers, casting a radiant gleam on the ring that now symbolized your union. It was a silent proclamation of your bond, mirrored by the way he placed his hand upon the table, a reminder that declared his heart and soul belonged to you.

Jacaerys still recalled the first time he beheld you, some three years past, on the day of his mother’s coronation. He remembered your father’s countenance darkening with displeasure as the crown was set upon his mother’s brow. Yet, more vividly, he recalled you: the timid maiden who sought to retreat from the prying gazes of the court.

He still remembered how, towards the end of the coronation feast, you had quietly slipped away to the garden. He had followed you from a distance, drawn by a curiosity he scarcely understood. From the shadows, he had observed as the moonlight cast a gentle glow upon your face. In that moment, seeing you bathe in such soft radiance, he felt his heart race with fervor he had never known before. However, he was too afraid to speak to you.

When the queen spoke of the union between you and him, Jacaerys had been taken aback too surprise to say a word, yet he was far from opposed. Indeed, his heart had nearly leapt from his chest upon learning that the bond between both of you was to be secured.

He was glad for the marriage, and from the smile his mother, Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen, bestowed upon him, he could see that she, too, was delighted by his joy.

Turning his gaze away from the gathered company, Jacaerys furrowed his brow in concern. When he looked back and found you missing from view, he felt a pang of worry. Yet his anxiety was swiftly eased when he noticed you slipping through the crowd of lords and saw the door ajar. A soft chuckle escaped him as he ignored the glances, and he followed your retreating form toward the door.

The prince followed after you, his footsteps resounding against the cold stone walls, mingling with the fading echoes of the banquet's revelry. His mind stilled when you glanced back, gifting him a playful smile that stirred something deep within him, urging him to quicken his stride. But before his hand could reach yours, you took off, lifting the delicate fabric of your wedding gown as you ran, leaving Jacaerys momentarily stunned. But it took him only a heartbeat to recover before he surged forward, chasing after you with determination.

Both of your laughs, now distant from the fading echoes of the banquet, echoed through the castle halls. As you and Jacaerys raced through the corridors, your hearts pounded and your breaths came in quick bursts, the joyous sound of your chase reverberating through the echoing stone halls.

You swiftly reached the garden, the cool night air embracing you as you stepped outside. Yet, before you could proceed to the heart of the garden, Jacaerys closed the distance, his hands gently resting on your waist. His touch sent a shiver through you, eliciting one more merry laugh from your lips.

His playful gaze met yours with a mischievous glint, and you placed your hands upon his chest, feeling his heart beat as strongly as, or perhaps even more than, your own. His breath brushed gently against your face.

“Do you intend to run from me all night long, my love?” Jacaerys inquired softly, his voice tender as he sighed deeply, feeling your chest press against his. You merely blinked, slightly surprised by his affectionate term, but a smile still blossomed on your lips.

You tilted your head gently, a faint blush rising to your cheeks, while your eyes shyly averted from his. “Perhaps I enjoy being pursued by you,” you teased, though Jacaerys saw the truth in your words.

He was certain you would be his ruin, but he was ready to embrace it willingly.

“Good for you, because I am willing to follow you everywhere you go,” he whispered softly. Your heart fluttered, and for a moment, you felt foolish for ever believing the tales your father had spun about your lord husband. In his embrace, you discovered warmth and protection unlike anything you had known before.

Jacaerys was all that your father was not: respectful, honest, a man of virtue and loyalty. For a fleeting moment, you were moved to seek forgiveness from the gods for your attempt to flee days earlier. To wed Jacaerys now seemed a divine blessing, and despite the brevity of your time together, you felt assured that the future ahead would be bright with him by your side.

You raised a hand to smooth a stray curl from his brow, feeling him lean into your touch. “I’m not sure I could ever escape you,” you said, meeting his gaze with a playful glimmer. “Even if I tried.”

Jacaerys chuckled softly. “And indeed, you made quite an effort, did you not, lady wife?” His teasing tone brought a delicate blush to your cheeks. As you lowered your hand, his laughter subsided, and he regarded you with a more subdued, yet still playful, expression. “Are you upset with me, my love?” he inquired, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You bit your lip, striving to conceal the flush of embarrassment and the laughter bubbling within you. Yet, despite your best efforts, a laugh escaped, echoing through the garden. Your husband looked upon you with wonder and delight, soon joining in your laughter.

Neither you nor Jacaerys knew how long your laughter had lasted, but when it finally subsided, he pressed his forehead to yours. A smile lingered on his lips, growing even wider as you rubbed your body against his as he gently tightened his embrace around your waist.

You could burn in that moment.

“You cannot fathom how long I have yearned for this union,” he confessed with a soft sigh. You held your breath, reluctant to disturb the moment. “You know not how deeply I wish to continue loving you,” he continued, his eyes still closed, as if he lacked the courage to speak those words while gazing into your eyes.

Your mind seemed to cloud, and your heart pounded against his chest. “Do you love me?” was all that escaped your lips. The moment the words were spoken, you felt a pang of foolishness for your sudden question.

Yet, he just chuckled a little dryly.

“If I do love you?” Jacaerys asked, his eyes opening slowly to reveal a depth of feeling that made it impossible for you to look away. “My heart is yours,” he said, his voice soft. “If you command it to still, it shall obey; if you tell it to depart, it will go. Whatever you ask of it, it shall do. Every part of me belongs to you, for you to guide as you wish.”

He paused, his gaze earnest as he searched for the right words. “To say ‘I love you’ hardly captures it; my soul is wholly and desperately yours.”

You blinked slowly, deeply touched by his words, oblivious to the almost desperate look he wore as he searched your face for any sign of doubt or hesitation.

Overwhelmed by the intensity of his confession, you leaned in and sealed your lips with his. This kiss was unlike the passionate embrace you had shared the previous night; it was imbued with a tender and soft love that transcended mere desire. It was so right, so warm, that Jacaerys felt as though he might dissolve into your embrace, just as you felt you could in his.

He could feel that you were beginning to love him, and he cherished every second of that kiss.

As you slowly withdrew from the embarace, you felt his hands once again gently encircling your throat, his thumb tenderly caressing your neck. His eyes remained fixed upon you, brimming with a love so profound that it quickened the heartbeat of anyone who beheld it.

“I desire that my soul be wholly consumed by yours,” you declared softly, watching as his eyes widened in astonishment and his grip around your throat tightened ever so slightly.

“What are you trying to say?” Jacaerys asked, though he already knew the answer. His voice was rough yet soft, and his eyes darkened as his breath quickened. "Are you certain, my love?" he inquired, even though it was clear that this was his deepest longing in that moment and had been since he first beheld you.

“Lead me to our chambers husband.” you commanded with unwavering certainty, pressing yourself closer to him as if seeking to become one.

Jacaerys leaned in to place a tender, slightly lingering kiss upon your neck, a smile gracing his lips. “What my lady wife desires,” he murmured softly against your delicate skin, “she shall have.”

And you definitely did.

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wandasaura · 6 months

Text

WHAT DID I SAY

summary — the four times you fucked up and called your doms by the wrong name

warning(s) — college au, fuck-buddy relationships, marijuana use, alcohol consumption, face slapping, spitting, biting, body writing, restraints, spreader bars, mentions of branding, semi nipple torture, hickies, shotgunning, choking, butt plugs, spanking, ass biting, pussy slapping, doggy style, strap-on usage, cum-filled strap, fingering, oral, overstimulation, edging, orgasm denial, degradation, praise, daddy kink, mommy kink, captain kink, sir kink, literal filth, men/minors dni

authors note — first little headcanon/oneshot for know my place! hope you enjoy my little college stoners who fuck like rabbits. can totally be read seperate from the au!

know my place

♥️⊹ ˚ . 18+, men/minors dni ⁺ 𓈒 ꒰💌꒱ ♡ ･ mommy maximoff ✧

Maria –

The wine is warm beside Maria’s bed. The bottle of Prosecco momentarily forgotten about as a symphony engages beneath the darkness of night and blankets. It’s not often that Maria pulls the blankets overtop of herself as she works to unravel the intricate knots and coils in your belly, but she’s chosen tonight to share the beauty of your body with only herself and the silicone toy secured around her hips. Your moans are muffled by her skin, teeth embedded into her shoulder as she rocks the strap-on into you harshly, the bulbous head dancing along your cervix with every third stroke. She’s practiced in this tango, an expert in knowing your body, but the wine has impacted your reception to her actions, and as she pulls the strap out of you almost completely only to thrust back into you quick and harsh, a name leaves your lips that isn’t her own.

Maria has never been soft with you in moments of time where some part of her body is buried within yours. She’s rough, and assertive, and entirely domineering as she splits you open and gives you only as much pleasure as she’s willing. With Maria, you’re never in charge. The cards are held tightly in her ironclad grasp and you’ve learned better than to try and guess that she’s holding. The wine however, has severely impacted your judgment. You’ve engaged in this dance for months now; been left with the bruises and aches of her touch for days afterward, and yet you’re disoriented enough to cry out for Wanda as she drills your sopping cunt so perfectly.

“Mommy!” The title slips off your lips before you can search for the correct term that’s filed away in a section of your brain labeled ‘Masha’. Maria has never been Mommy, in fact, she’s always turned her nose up at the title and joked that Wanda’s entirely too harsh to be called something so maternal, and she’s less than amused when the five letter name falls onto her shoulders as she works to unravel you completely.

Her hips stutter to a stationary position, the silicone dildo fastened around her hips deep within your pleasure soaked core, but unmoving and unwilling to start again. There’s a moment of silence that passes between the both of you; Maria’s eyes are hard, slitted and dark as she stares down at you in a drunken haze, brain struggling to process what you’ve just let slip. Your eyes are wide, light and soft as you meet her stare and attempt to win her forgiveness without seeing the repercussions of your actions. You were a fool to call her Mommy, but you were an idiot to think she’d let it go so simply.

The silence that had fallen over you ended abruptly, replaced by the echoing sound of a sharp slap meeting your cheek and bouncing through the air before you’d had a chance to process the pain at all. Your head snapped to the side, your unharmed cheek pressing against her pillowcases that smell somewhat of smoke and vanilla. Your eyes pinch closed, anticipating the next hit that will land against your heated skin, but it never comes. Maria’s hand tangled into your hair instead, pulling your head back until your neck is craned and the expanse of your sensitive skin is exposed enough for her teeth and tongue to mark.

“What’s my fucking name?” Her hips snap into yours with each word that she mutters against your neck, sharp bites and sensitive stings encasing your body in a delectable buzz of pleasure and possessiveness. You’ll bear these marks for days to come, indentations of her teeth and patches of purple from her lips adorning your skin that can’t be easily hidden with makeup or your longest turtleneck. Everyone who looks at you will know that you’d found yourself beneath a warm body and had been helpless to their assault, but only you’ll know that it was Maria Hill who had been your intimate attacker. Each lovebite that she presses into your skin is a subtle claim. You’re not Wanda’s in this moment, you’re not Natasha or Carol’s either, you’re entirely Maria’s and she’s reminding you of such as her hips drive hard against your own and the silicone strap that’s coated in your arousal attempts to bruise your cervix in the most addictively painful way. Each strong thrust sends you reeling farther into bliss, but she’s waiting for an answer and you’re not getting anything more until she hears you call her the right name. In her opinion, she’s being entirely lenient with you, there are a plethora of ways she can go about reminding you who you belong to, and yet your wrists remain unbound and your breasts remain unmarked by the leather of her favorite flogger that’s just an arms distance away. “Whats my fucking name, slut? Or do I need to carve it into you? How pretty would you be with my name on your thigh; ruined for anyone else who even tries to get between these legs? My little slut forever.”

A strangled moan falls into the air as Maria sinks her teeth into the skin of your neck just beneath your ear, and your hands that have remained at your sides throughout this entire exchange shoot up to scratch at her back, blood bubbling to the surface as you spare to ounce of lightness to your touch. She’s marked you, now she’ll bear your marks for days to come. “S-Sir!”

Maria hums, satisfied with your answer, but unwilling to forgive you completely. Her hips continue to pound into you until she reaches her high, thighs quivering as she moans in pure delight until she’s too sensitive to continue on with her ministrations. The strap-on leaves your entrance quickly, your overstimulated and sensitive walls pleading for it to stay, but Maria’s done for the night, and she’s decided that you are too. She reaches for the abandoned glass of wine, taking a sip smugly as she straddles your hips, damp toy splayed across your naked belly as your chest heaves and you look up at her pleadingly.

“You’ll get to cum when I don’t have to remind you who I am.”

Natasha –

Natasha’s hips continue to rock into you even as she leans forward and captures your lips between hers. The room is filled with a thin layer of smoke, the scents of weed and sex entangling together and yet it's somehow entirely Natasha as you lay beneath her, willing to take whatever she wants to give you. Your head is fuzzy, filled with only thoughts of her and the lightness that the bud had brought over your senses. Her body is warm as her naked chest presses against yours, already marked by her passionate kisses and bites that will linger for days to come in secret. Her pupils are blown wide, a combination of her lust and the joint she’s rolled skillfully. Her fingers are educated in the art of many things, but unraveling you is one of her most prized hobbies. Her lungs are filled with smoke from the last drag she’s taken, and as the seconds linger on with her lips still pressed firmly to yours, unmoving but eager to claim you intimately, she exhales into your open mouth and forces you to take the smoke that she fills it with. It burns as you inhale, slipping down your throat smoothly and filling your own lungs, but it’s pleasant and you greedily allow her to continue until all that remains is an empty kiss that was once filled with weed. The smoke trails out in wispy strands of white and gray, and they dance between your faces until the open space claims it and the visual is gone.

When she pulls away, there’s a devilish smirk on her lips that even another drag can’t erase entirely. She raises the joint to her lips again, eyes fluttering closed as she sits back on her heels, the cum-filled strap she borrows from Carol still buried within your walls and yet agonizingly still as she lets her head fall back in contentment. The cloud of milky white smoke that settles around her is entirely erotic, almost a halo of intoxication above her head, but there’s hardly a second for you to admire how ethereal she looks in this state before she presses into you firmly and resumes her rocking. Her pace is punishing albeit shallow, the tip of the strap-on hitting your perfect spot so softly it feels like butterfly sings batting against your skin, but she’s ruthless with her speed and the quick motions of her hips are enough to have you gripping at the sheets and looping your legs around her waist to draw her in deeper.

Natasha laughs smugly at the sight of you so fried and desperate. She raises the joint to your lips with one hand, encouraging you to take a hit before her other hand wraps loosely around your neck. She doesn’t apply any pressure as you take a long drag, eyes fluttering closed as you involuntarily shiver at the taste lingering on your tongue, but the presence of her grip is enough to have your hips bucking into hers.

“F-fuck sir!” You cry out when she obliges with your silent request and begins to thrust deeper into your core, the head of the toy pounding right against your sensitive spot with practiced ease as your head falls back against the pillows and your lips release the joint. A cough falls off your lips as you moan around the smoke in your lungs, eyes becoming watery from the burning sting, but you have no time to recover from the hit before Natasha’s hand is tightening around your neck and her hips are setting into you faster and harder.

Her lips purse as she collects spit on the tip of her tongue, letting it fall against your flush cheek before she smears it down your neck, fingers that are still holding the lit join trailing across the expanse of your sensitive and worked over skin. She’s playing with fire now, quite literally, smearing her spit across your chest until she finds a home at your pebbled nipple and pinches roughly, but you have no ounce of self-preservation in your body as you watch the lit joint fall closer and closer to the marked skin of your chest as she tightened her grip on your neck and leans cynically close to your face. Her eyes are dark, clouded with lust and intoxication. Her hips have set a punishing pace and each time she drives the head of the strap into your g-spot your vision goes white with pleasure.

“That’s not my fucking name. Are you really that much of a slut that you’re thinking about Masha as I’m fucking you. We can get Masha if you’d like, I’m sure she’d love to watch as I fuck you into my mattress until the only words you know how to say are Daddy please. I’m sure she’d love to lay between these legs and watch my cum spill out of you before I push it right back in and plug you up. Fucking whore. Is Daddy fucking you too good? Is that little brain so overwhelmed with pleasure that you don’t even know who’s fucking you?” Natasha lightens her grip on your nipple, bringing the joint back up to her lips before she drops it into the ashtray on her bedside table and grips the dildo, throwing her head back as her thrusts become choppy. “I bet you’d let anyone fuck this cunt. All you want is to cum. Fuck!” She curses as she drops her body against yours, lips capturing yours in a bruising kiss as she squeezes the shaft tightly, cum spurting against your walls and marking them with a milky whiteness. “Cum with me. Fuck!”

With her permission, the coil in your belly finally snaps, and you arch into her touch as she rides out her own orgasm, the cum slipping down your legs and coating your inner thighs and her sheets. “Fuck Daddy!”

“Good girl. Scream my name. Let Masha hear how good I’m making you feel.”

Wanda –

When Wanda invited you over to fuck, you’d anticipated something quick. What you hadn’t expected, was for her to bind your wrists to her headboard and force your legs apart with her recently purchased spreader bar. You’d been at her mercy for hours now, writhing on the bed beneath her as she took her time working you up. First it had been her fingers that dared to ruin you, the ringed digits slipping between your folds and teasing your clit and entrance until you were dripping onto the bed sheets and pleading with her to give you something more. She’d agreed easily, not even putting up a fight to prove her dominance over you. Those skilled fingers had turned into a skilled tongue. The hot muscle pressed against your clit, lapped at your entrance and slurped up the damp arousal that glistened beneath the moonlight that bled into the room from the open window. She was relentless in her teasing, and as overstimulated as you were beneath her touch, you were equally as frustrated. She’d been at it for hours, bringing you just close enough to taste the sweet relief of your orgasm before she pulled away and began the process all over again. You’d cursed her out six times since she started, and each time she merely chuckled against your core and slapped her palm down harshly against your cunt, sure to let her fingers brush against your clit for merely a second before it was gone and her tongue soothed the ache but brought nothing more.

Your hands itched to tangle into her hair, and yet each time you reached for her you remembered how she’d so intricately bound you to the headboard with the softest rope in her collection. Your hips bucked upward as she pulled away again, your entrance clenching around nothing as your clit throbbed and protested. A broken cry fell off your lips as you shook your head frantically, needing her back on you and relieving the intense ache that she had single handedly created. Her lips and chin glistened with your arousal as she smirked down at you, the vibrating egg between her legs working her up to an orgasm you could only beg for.

A whine rippled through your chest before it tumbled into the room, the words you’d been chanting for hours mangled and wrong as they came spiraling out fast and strung together. “Captain! P-Please!” Wanda growled lowly at the slip, her eyes dark and sinister as she leaned forward to grab your jaw and force your eyes on her.

“What did you call me?” Despite how she articulated every syllable in the sentence, she wasn’t really looking for you to respond to her. In a swift motion, she’d reached across the bed to grab the panties that she’d pulled from your legs when you’d first joined her in the bedroom, and shoved them into your mouth. The balled up fabric was damp and uncomfortable as it sat on your tongue, but despite how hard you strained to force them away from your mouth, you couldn’t get them out with your arms bound and her body restricting your movements.

Your eyes tracked her movements as she fumbled around in the drawers of her bedside table, thighs straddling your waist as she leaned forward and subsequently rocked the vibrating egg farther into her tight channel. She trembled in pleasure, but everything about her was always so perfectly kept that it was hardly noticeable to anyone who wasn’t you. Her rustling had lasted mere seconds before a black marker that had been used weeks prior to mark up a project poster now in her grip and uncapped. You had no idea what she planned to do with it, but there wasn’t any way for you to ask if you wanted to. You were helpless to watch as she slid down your body and dragged the inky tip across the skin of your breasts before moving downward.

You gasped when the cold tip of the marker dragged across the skin right above your mound, thick black letters that you had to strain your neck to read lingering on your skin only to be gone when you washed your body of her touch later that night. ‘Mommy’s Slut’, was written just above your cunt, but Wanda wasn’t satisfied in stopping there. She dragged the felt tip across the inside of your thigh, holding your legs still as they wiggled away from the ticklish sensations she provoked. A thick arrow pointed straight at your weeping entrance, and Wanda was cruel enough to write, ‘cum slut’ at the tip of the arrow. A cry fell off your lips when she threw the marker onto the floor, and returned to her position between your legs. Her mouth was cruel as it worked you up to the edge, but unlike the times prior, she hadn’t stopped when you’d begun to wriggle around as an indication of your approaching orgasm. You fell over the cliffside in bliss, but that had only lasted long enough for your orgasm to crash over you and then she was gone, forcing you to ride it out with no further stimulation.

A harsh slap met your sensitive cunt when you finally stilled on her bed, teary eyed and desperate for something more as you stared up at her with wide pleading eyes. Wanda wasn’t willing to comply however, and instead of satisfying you fully, she trailed harsh bites up your torso and between the valley of your breasts before her lips, still glistening with your arousal, found a home against yours. The dainty pink panties with a frail little bow on the waistband still between your teeth and properly wet from your saliva, but she hadn’t trailed so close to your face to kiss you. Instead, she settled her harsh glare on you, a sinister smile curling the edges of her lips upward as she let a damp finger stroke across your cheekbones, “I guess Mommy has to remind you of who you belong to. We’ll see if you deserve to cum in a few days.”

Carol –

The buttplug is an added sensation that Carol uses to her advantage as she works to unravel you completely before you both have to leave for class. You’re not new to butt plugs, Maria’s quite the fan of them, but you’re new to them with Carol and the ways that she likes to toy with your stimulated body. You're on all fours in the center of her bed, knees sinking into the mattress as your hands grasp and twist at the comforter, absolutely desperate for relief that’s been slowly building beneath the surface. Her fingers are buried deep into your core, curling into your g-spot and massaging your velvet walls with pride. Her tongue circles the plug in your ass teasingly, and every couple of minutes when you least expect it, she presses against the base of the plug in tandem with her harsher thrusts before she scissors you open.

Carol smirks against your ass as she sinks her teeth into your left cheek, her hand slapping down on you right just as she flicks her thumb over your clit. A muffled moan falls off of your lips as you bury your face into the comforter, your hips rocking back on their own accord as you attempt to chase after her touch, a strangled cry of, “Daddy more!”, vibrating your cheek as you twist your head to rest your cheek against the comforter and stare back at her.

Carol is relatively unbothered by your slip of her title, but she doesn’t let it go entirely, not that you’re aware yet. Her fingers work into you easily, her thumb rubbing harsher, tighter circles around your clit until you're spasming on the bed. She smirks against the globe of your ass, her thumb pressing firmly against the plug with the hand that’s not buried between your thighs. “That’s not my name Princess and you know that.” Carol says smugly, grinding her hips down onto the edge of the bed as she chases her own relief, knowing there’s not enough time in the ten minutes she has left with you to reverse your position and have you go down on her.

“Captain!” You cry out sharply, reaching your hand back to grasp onto Carol’s as the coil builds in your belly almost unbearably. The engineering major merely smirks, digging her teeth into your ass a final time before she encourages you to spill around her fingers. That’s all it takes for you to cave and tremble as she continues to scissor you open and curl her fingers into your cunt, but as quickly as your orgasm comes, she’s pulling away and throwing your clothes at your head. “You’re really going to go to class like that?” You question her, laying dazing on her bed as you twist onto your back and watch her run a baby wipe between her legs before she’s wiggling into a pair of fresh panties and reaching for her pants.

“Yes, and so are you. Get up. That plug doesn’t come out until I take it out.” She says in the most unphased tone, reaching for the crewneck that’s been laying across her desk chair for days, not even bothering to reach for the bra that’s only inches away.

“W-What?” Your eyes go wide as you sit up in bed, wincing slightly at the pressure in your ass as the plug presses against the inner parts of you sweetly, ropes of pleasure shooting through your core.

“You didn’t think I’d let you off that easily, did you, Princess?” Carol merely winks before she’s flying out of the room, shouting that you have three minutes to meet her in the car before she leaves without you and makes you walk to class.

2K notes · View notes

drippingviolets3 · 2 years

Note

(Sorry for the SUPER long paragraph)

PLEASE!!! ONE DATE CHAPTER WITH VIVEKA,, ITS 4aM AND ALL I CAN THINK ANOUT IS HER HAVING A ROMAN NOSE AND BEJNG ALBINO,, anyway i’ve been thinking,, what if satan and lucifart were like,, idk just them trying to spend time with Viveka,, i feel like satan would catch her interest with his cool mannerisms and intelligence even if it’s for like two minutes,, oh my god i’m just imagining passive aggressive satan towards mc because he’s trying to impress Viveka and her shutting it down right away and the rest of the very itty bitty respect for him shrivelling away,, blowing into the cold wind,, and they take her sick rabbit Yew with them on the sick epic date (not actual date because the relationship hasn’t happened yet) maybe going to hang out at Madam Screams and RUNNING INTO LUCIFER WHO WAS DOING ERRANDS?!?!!? And BOOM he tries impressing her with HIS mannerisms and intelligence and its just the first scenario again and it’s so goofy i’m sorry it’s 4am and i am so,, the brain rot is happening

You mad fucking genius YES OFJSKWNFONSLMFLSM

I honestly started b.s-ing a chapter because like, it’s been months and I REALLY need to focus on feeding my OM followers (sorry yall, danganronpa and Genshin have taken over my head 😭) but THIS. IS. PERFECT.

It isn’t moving too fast into the plot and can build up (or in Mc and the brother’s cases, down) relationships and I get a chance to maybe dump some Viveka lore-

Also, Lucifart is golden 😂

#violetta’s rambles #obey me attempted replaced mc au #obey me attempted replacement au #obey me viveka #obey me au #obey me #I GOT WRITING INSPO LETS GOOOO-

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after-witch · 7 months

Text

Check Out Time is Eleven [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Check Out Time is 11 [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You're invited to a hotel for a warm meal and a place to sleep by a mysterious stranger. Soulmate AU.

Word count: 7100ish

notes: yandere, kidnapping, mentions of drugging, a really useless and non-philosophical reference to My Dinner with Andre

The red thread on his finger loses slack for the very first time in his life, and for the smallest of moments, Chrollo Lucilfer forgets himself. His steps falter, expensive, stolen shoes nearly scuffing on the sidewalk, and a startled breath quivers through his chest. His mouth gapes, ever so slightly.

In surprise.

In trepidation.

In realization.

The red thread was, had always been, attached to you. His soulmate. Whoever you were. The gentle tugging of the thread meant that after years of fruitless searching, you were finally somewhere nearby, close enough to reach. Probably, given the tautness of the thread, even within walking distance.

How lucky for him.

How unfortunate for you.

You were finally discovered. You were finally within his grasp, fingers itching, warm satisfaction blooming through his skin. How often had he ruminated over the fact that you had yet to belong to him? How often had he wondered what you would look like, how you would feel under his touch? And what you might do to him when he had you in person? Would he find himself changed, however slightly, as the others in the Troupe had been? Or would he mold you with his own presence, looming over you like a shadow?

The mere thought of you is enough to get his heart racing, bring a bead of sweat to his neck. It was so unlike him, and wasn’t that a thrill?

And then, just like that, the moment is over. He recollects himself and his mouth closes and his mind whirs back into focused gear.

He needed to find you, first thing. The rest of the logistics could come later.

His eyes track the movements of the thread, and without missing a beat, he turns on his heels to follow the direction of the movement. It was possible--no, highly probable--that you were close enough to reach on foot. Within the city, certainly, and he didn’t mind the exercise.

As he continues to walk, the cold gleam of the business district turning into rows of glitzy restaurants and downtown attractions, he’s glad that you weren’t too close. It gives him more time to think about what he wants to do with you.

The Troupe members that had already found their soulmates--and Chrollo feels a surge of pride in his chest, counting himself among them now, fulfilled in that goal--had taken on different approaches.

Some merely kidnapped their soulmates and kept them in secure locations. Simple, effective in terms of security, but that would ensure it would take him a long time to win you over. And he knows that he will do just that, eventually, no matter how he decides to keep you. Others took their time, attempting to strike up something of an ordinary relationship before revealing their knowledge of the red thread, and persuading their soul mates to come with them for safety (and romance)’s sake. Surely the more appealing of the two options, but it did come with the downside of expended time and energy.

What he would do with you depended on so many factors. Did you live in some stationary location, or were you prone to travel? What did you do for a living? Were you already in a relationship, some inferior partnership with someone who could never appreciate you the way that he could, as your only soulmate?

All of these questions circle heavily in his mind as he walks, following the thread that was becoming tighter and tighter between the pair of you. The ritzy downtown buildings were now gone, replaced by rows of old buildings that had seen better days. In place of fine dining were small cafes and diners that practically exuded grease, laundromats with blinking signs, and the occasional busted out window. The scores of people walking, gabbing, waving around fancy handbags were replaced by only the occasional person walking with clear destinations in mind, eyes in front.

As the thread becomes even tighter, it leads him down an alley that most people would have surely avoided. But he doesn’t worry about the glances of the people leaning up against heavy exit doors, or the people crouching on the ground with needles against their arms. He thinks about you. Will he find you here, perhaps, curled up in the arms of a drug dealer pumping you full of toxic chemicals that flushed you with endorphins and heat? Or you might be on the other side of the needle, pocketing cash and going on your merry way?

But, no. Perhaps not. Instead of leading him further into the den of seedy dealings, the thread brings him away, feet crunching on broken bottles, towards some type of fenced-in parking lot. Or it had been a parking lot, once

From a short distance through the metal fence, he can see burning barrels, tents, carts. The smells of cooking grills waft over, greasy foods, easy to cook outdoors. It wasn’t a new sight, in this city or otherwise. Chrollo had seen worse. Had lived worse.

And then, there--at the end of the red thread that weaved in between one of the fence’s metal honeycombs: you.

He sees you for the first time and knows, with a burning intensity that threatens to knock him over, that he needs you. He needs you now. He needs you always. You have something that he lacks and perhaps possessing you will give it to him.

Is this what the others felt, when they first saw their soulmates? Or is it something unique to you and him? Some unfathomable bond that has shaken him to his core? Not for long, of course, never for long. He regains his senses within moments and catalogs the feeling away for later analysis.

It’s you that he focuses on, now. And the fact he will have you, as soon as he decides on the where, when, and how. He wouldn’t be the leader of the Phantom Troupe if he wasn’t skilled at taking what he wanted.

Today what he wants is not a gallery of paintings or a rare gruesome artifact, but a person.

You.

What to make of you?

You’re standing in front of one of the burning barrels, rubbing your hands together. They look red and chapped, even from his vintage point. Behind you is a shopping cart filled with odds and ends. On the side nearest the fire, you had clearly laid out clothes over the edge of the cart--wet ones, from rain or maybe you’d had the opportunity to wash them. Your current ensemble is a simple hodgepodge. Clearly, you wore whatever was cleanest, whatever was warmest, whatever you could find.

He remembers such a living.

You appear to be on the outskirts, avoiding the groups scattered around the encampment. No one approaches you and you don’t approach them. A loner… by choice, or not? You wouldn’t be alone for long, if it wasn’t by choice, and in time you might be grateful for it. If it was by choice, well, there were ways to tame feral cats.

It doesn’t take much analysis to decide what to do with you, to decide how best to approach things. He’s glad that he wore something casual today. Just some simple slacks and a nice sweater. If he was overdressed, it might be more difficult. Not that he couldn’t manage it, but he enjoys advantages when he can get them.

With no hesitation, he walks through one of the ragged gaps in the metal fence and begins to approach you.

Your head jerks towards him the moment that his steps become even remotely close. He doesn’t mind. It’s only natural, especially for someone who has been living the way you surely have. There’s a tugging somewhere inside him--memory of himself and connection with you.

He smiles, not broadly, but in a way meant to disarm.

“Hello,” he says, stopping a few feet away from you.

You stiffen.

“I’m Chrollo,” he continues. His voice is undisturbed and calm. As if he was meeting you on a sunny afternoon in the park while you were both buying ice cream from the same cart. That might have been a more charming meeting, he muses, but this one can work to his advantage just as easily. “Won’t you tell me your name?”

You snatch your hands back from the barrel and step, refusing to turn your back to him, behind your cart.

“None of your business,” you say.

And oh, he thinks, it would be heaven if he could somehow bottle the first time he hears your voice and listen to it on demand. But he supposes, he has the rest of his life--and yours--to hear you speak.

“That’s all right.” He gestures towards you, the cart, your life. “I see you are in need.” You frown at him, but he continues. “How would you like to go somewhere warm?”

Your lip pulls back in a sneer and you move yourself on the other side of the cart.

“I don’t do that. Fuck off.”

Ah. You thought he wanted you to--well. It wouldn’t be the first time people took advantage of others in less fortunate situations. There had been enough of that in Meteor City.

“No, nothing like that,” he says, voice going soft. “I should have clarified. I’m a… missionary of sorts. I look for people in need and offer what help I can give. I’d like to buy you a hotel room for the week.” He notices your wary expression. “Or even the day, if that would be more comfortable for you. Somewhere you can get some safe sleep, a shower, something to eat. I wouldn’t even be there.”

He recognizes the look on your face all too well. Wariness. Suspicion. The face of someone who knows that people are tricky and greedy and cruel. That people will take things that they haven’t earned. Oh, yes-- he knows all of that so well, from both sides.

And he also knows how to get your guard to drop enough for him to accomplish his goal. Sure, mistrust is essential in an environment like this. But mistrust can always be overpowered when there’s something essential within reach. Like comfort. Or food. A warm place to stay, even if it’s just for a few hours. A private bathroom, a toilet, a tub.

“I don’t know,” you say, finally, having given him the appropriate stare down.

He nods his head.

“I understand. I would feel wary myself, in your position. It’s perfectly reasonable.” It is more than reasonable, he thinks, but you don’t need to know that. You just need to believe that coming with him will be worth your while, worth ignoring what he’s sure is a growing pit in your stomach.

“What I would like to do is accompany you to a hotel where I often book rooms for those in need. It’s a private room, of course. And I will pay for your meals.” He sees the gears turning in your mind at the promise of a bed. The promise of food. “I have my own room in the hotel, but it’s on a different floor, and I won’t have to see you at all,” he adds, and this is how he will make you step over that cautionary line. “I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable. Everything is pre-paid on my card, of course, and you’re free to order whatever you’d like. What do you say?”

He lets his words hang in the air, wafting like smoke from the nearby barrels.

You wet your lips. You glance around at the people around you. A few of them have taken notice of Chrollo, perhaps as a mark, perhaps more; but he pays them no mind. He could kill them in a fraction of a second and whisk you out of here just as easily, if he needs to… But he hopes it will not come to that.

“All right,” you say suddenly, softly. “If… you’re just going to give me a room and feed me, then all right.”

Chrollo smiles. It is, he thinks, perhaps close to a genuine one.

“Wonderful. Follow me, if you please.”

The hotel is expensive, but thankfully not terribly ostentatious. Chrollo would hate to put you off by throwing you into some gilded lion’s den. But the hotel is more reserved, classy. Comfort and luxury without any of the ridiculous trappings that often come with them.

Chrollo does bring you with him to the front desk, if only to reduce the chances that the security will kick you out for looking out of place. And you do look out of place, but perhaps that’s for the better. It will make you appreciate what he’s going to do for you more, won’t it?

You’re quiet all the while, but that’s to be expected. You only hold tight to your backpack, where everything you hold dear has been crammed, and let him do the talking. A reservation is easily made under the guise that only you are to know the room number--you certainly don’t need to know that he’ll swing back and reserve the connected room next door--and the key is given without fanfare from the polite desk clerk who gives you curious glances but nothing more.

Chrollo walks you to the elevator, ever the gentleman, and hands you the key. You stare at it. The uncertain expression on your face is unbelievably precious, he thinks. He hopes he can see more of it before it inevitably morphs into shock and anger and fear.

“Would you like some new clothing?” Chrollo asks, after he pushes the button on the elevator for you. “I can have some sent up from the hotel’s boutique. I’ll tell the front desk, so they can give the concierge the room number. Ah, and I’ll need to know your size, if you’re willing to give it.”

“You want to buy me clothes?”

You almost splutter out the words, and he has to restrain himself from kissing you right then and there. You are terribly cute, and there’s a slight disturbing tinge to how much he finds everything about you enticing so quickly. The way you furrow your eyebrows at his question. The slight look of embarrassment, the twitch of your lips.

He needs you so much, and he’s only known you for a few moments.

You tell him your size, then glance at him before staring at the glossy metallic doors. “Um, I need something warm. No useless stuff.” Your head gestures back towards the hotel lobby, where a few women are walking on the arm of male companions, dressed in sleeveless dresses and likely heading for the restaurant.

“Of course.” Chrollo does not tell you that he can envision you wearing all sorts of useless things in the future his mind is creating, brick by brick. You would look heavenly in something strapless, something slinky. Something that hangs off your shoulders. He would drape a fine wrap over them, were you behaving enough to go out with him--no one else but him will be privy to such delicacies.

For now, though, he resolves to send you the clothes he knows you want. Things will be a little more seamless if your guard isn’t entirely raised.

The elevator doors open.

Chrollo steps aside, and gestures for you to enter.

“This is where I take my leave. I will let the restaurant host know your name, and you can order whatever you’d like. It’s on my card. Please, don’t feel the need to hold back.”

You take a step inside the elevator and ah, there it is. Just the slightest hesitation. The slightest jerk of your head as you look back at him. Do you feel bad, leaving him in a lurch when he’s giving you charity? Do you feel beholden to him in some way?

“I guess it’s okay if we share a meal. You’re paying for it, anyway. It’d be awkward otherwise.” You stare down at the elevator carpet as you say the words, and Chrollo realizes that he’s perhaps misjudged the gesture. Your sense of shame, maybe, outweighs your desire to be rid of him and his potential alternative motives for assisting you.

That might come in handy.

He nods, as you turn around and make brief eye contact with him.

“Well, then. How about we meet here in 5 hours for dinner? I can send something dressy to your room, if you’d like.”

You shrug your shoulders as the doors close, which is as good as assent in his view. The string on his finger rises with the elevator, but now there is no fear that he’ll lose you. The string, something which had been maddening in its slackness for so long, is now something of a treasure itself. A little leash, keeping you to him, wherever you go.

Which, for now, is your hotel room--meaning he needs to get moving. He won’t pick anything too flashy out from the boutique; something modest, something simple. There are delicate steps to take to avoid making you feel ashamed without offending your sense of dignity all in one go.

Thankfully--for you and himself--he’s attuned to such needs.

5 hours. That would give you enough time to take a shower or bath, to change into the fresh clothing he’ll send up, to take a nap. Perhaps you’ll stare out the hotel window at the view or curl up in the bed, rolling on the fresh sheets.

Five hours would give you time to freshen up and relax, yes. And it would give him enough time to get hold of Shalnark and procure anything he needs to make your removal from the hotel as smooth as possible.

The shower is running again. He doesn’t blame you. He remembers days where a hot shower was a luxury beyond imagining.

He keeps his side pressed against the door connecting your rooms--not that you know he is on the other side with a key to yours, of course--and holds back a contended sigh as he watches the red string on his finger twirl and shift with your every movement.

What are you thinking about? He wonders. Are you thinking about how long it’s been since you had a hot shower? Are you thinking about slipping the shampoo bottles into your backpack?

Perhaps more inviting… are you thinking about him?

He knows what’s on his mind, and has been for the last few hours now. You.

What were you like, deep down, underneath your layers and justifiably guarded stance? Maybe you liked to read, maybe you once had a dream of being a dancer before life went to hell, maybe you were shy, maybe you liked to get drunk and sing your favorite songs at full volume.

What would you be like, once you were fully his?

What do you look like, underneath all of your clothing? What has nature and nurture shown fit to bestow upon you, your skin, all those secret places you keep hidden?

The thread bobbles again. Are you stepping out of the shower soon, or still scrubbing yourself? You’re so vulnerable, naked and unawares, just a few feet away from him. The water running is a delicious sound to his ears, because he knows that you’re underneath it.

He imagines what you might look like naked. He imagines what sounds you might make, underneath him, gasping and--

Oh, but he’s getting ahead of himself. He smiles and shakes his head at the rush. He should slow down, yes. Slow down and savor it all.

He clenches both of his hands. In one is the duplicate key, in the other is a syringe. Both go into opposite pockets, awaiting their respective time to shine.

The dress that arrives at your door with a prim knock from a porter is not quite what you expected--which is a relief. You expected the stranger to send up something ridiculous. Something slinky and glittering, maybe with only a half shoulder.

But instead it’s a simple dress with a flared skirt, all made from dark blue fabric. The sleeves are elbow length, the neckline isn’t too low, and there’s a matching black belt to go with it. He’s even sent up a pair of nylons, which are something you haven’t worn since you were a little kid, desperately trying to mimic your mother’s fancy outfits.

He also--and maybe this is overkill--sent up a few pairs of shoes in different sizes, along with a transcribed note instructing you to call the front desk if none of them fit, or simply wear your own shoes if you are uncomfortable with it.

This stranger--Chrollo--is awfully accommodating. And kind. And considerate.

Which is exactly why, when the dress is on and your nylon-clad feet are resting in the shoes easiest to run in, you tuck your switchblade into one of the dress pockets for safekeeping.

Maybe he is just kind. Or he’s one of those people that makes themselves feel better by occasionally being charitable; he’s harboring some sort of guilt that can be alleviated, however temporarily, by buying a person a sandwich or two.

But maybe he’s not. You’ve known people who have been hurt or killed or sometimes worse by so-called charitable people. People that lure you in with showers and hotels, meals and clothing. People that slit your throat before or after they have their way with you.

Life was dark and life was shit, and you weren’t born yesterday. If this stranger had any nefarious intentions, you certainly weren’t going to walk into them like a bleating lamb.

And yet, and yet… some part of you wanted to believe he had good intentions. You’re not sure why, exactly. You weren’t the type to look on the bright side or always see the good in people--or at least, you hadn’t been that way since childhood. Yet something about this Chrollo made you hope that he was a good person. That you’d have a nice conversation and he wouldn’t do anything more than give you a nice afternoon and a place to sleep comfortably for a bit.

It was an almost primal feeling, which made it all the more stranger. Your gut feelings usually told you something like: this place is dangerous, this guy’s probably got a gun, that alley’s too notorious to use as a shortcut.

Your gut didn’t give you silly notions, like wanting to trust someone, hoping they would talk to you during dinner, wondering if they’d be pleasant to be around for longer.

At least, not before today.

“And the lady will have the cailles aux raisins.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Quail,” Chrollo says, allowing the waiter to take the leather-bound menu from his hands. As if your issue was with the choice of food--okay, you didn’t know what it meant, but still--and not that he ordered for you. “Stuffed with shallots, grapes, liver, and ah, I believe, some cognac, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s correct, sir,” the waiter says, not giving you a second glance--you didn’t even get a menu, which irked you, but considering you had nothing to pay with and perhaps the hotel staff knew it, it was a practical snub.

Your lips twist into a frown, although you suppose you can’t complain. The dish does sound good. Not that you’ve ever had quail. But it can’t be that different from chicken. Or duck. You had duck, once, as a kid. Your mother brought you to a hotel just like this for a Mother’s Day brunch and you sat at a table with an embroidered cloth and wore a pair of your mother’s white gloves, so that you would look extra fancy.

“I apologize,” Chrollo tells you. “I should have asked your preference first.” The strangest part is how sincere he sounds, like he really didn’t want to offend you. Like he actually might be interested in what you want to eat. Part of you can appreciate that, and part of you wants to finger the handle of your knife inside your pocket.

“It’s fine.” You shrug it all off. Because you can, and you choose to--but also because you’re famished and the smells wafting from the other tables is enough to make your stomach growl. “People usually don’t order things like this for me, anyway. If they do give me anything.”

Chrollo tilts his head slightly, looking at you like a particularly interesting painting on a wall. “No?”

You smile thinly. “Nope. I’m lucky if I get someone’s leftover fries from a fast food shop.”

“What a shame.” He places both hands on the table, clasping his fingers together. His gaze bores into yours. You look away, briefly, but find yourself wanting to look back. How odd. “I’m sure,” he begins, talking slowly, measuring out his words, “that must be demoralizing--to be treated as lesser-than.”

You can’t help the snort that comes out your nose, or the quick words that follow. “Yeah? And what would you know about that?” Your eyes rake over his outfit, your mind whirls over how much money he’s spent on you alone, as if it was nothing. A drop in the bucket. Some rich man playing with his money. Or daddy’s money, depending on the circumstance.

Of course, you expect him to get offended. You expect him to call you ungrateful and cancel the order and ship you out of here like yesterday’s trash. It wouldn’t be the first time someone has gotten angry that you didn’t play into their savior fantasies. Your muscles even prep to stand, your face goes stony, ready to block the anger that he’ll throw your way.

Only... none of that happens.

His face looks--it’s hard to describe, really. It’s almost like it glitches for a moment, and you see something you weren’t meant to see. You’re not even sure if he realizes it. And then his expression gets so remote and so quiet. He looks away from you for perhaps the first time, looking instead, at his hands.

“I know a lot about that, actually.”

It’s not offense in his expression but… sympathy? No, that’s not it either. You know “sympathy face” like the back of your hand, for all the good it does you.

It’s empathy. Trace, but there. A shared experience between you. Maybe that’s why you’ve felt inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt all day. Why you went with him in the first place, hunger pangs aside.

“So you’ve been…” You begin, but is there a need to finish. He’s been homeless, or something like it. Downtrodden. On the bottom.

He nods.

“Sorry.” The word comes out blurted but soft. Well, I’m an asshole, you think.

He smiles at you, a soft, thin thing--almost like a gloss that covers up his previous expression. “No, don’t be. You had no way of knowing, dear.”

Dear.

The word hangs between you silently, as if it’s being dangled on some sort of invisible string. He opens his mouth slightly--maybe to apologize--but shuts it when you don’t say anything. Instead, he simply blinks, and watches you.

Perhaps a minute ago you might have bristled at the nickname, might have sought to cut it right down, in fact. But for now, you brush it aside. He’s being nice--he knows what you’re going through. And sure, there’s some sort of guilt relief in his actions, but it’s not coming from the place of a rich man making himself feel better. It’s coming, you think, from a place of not just knowing where you’ve been but having been there himself.

Before either of you can speak, the waiter returns with your appetizer and despite the guilt in your gut, your hunger practically sings at the sight of the plate of bread and butter. It’s fancy bread, already cut, gleaming with what smells like garlic butter spread over the top.

The flavored butter is shaped like a rose and it’s only after you childishly dip your bread right into it and take a loud, chewy bite of the delicious goodness that you realize you’ve committed a faux-pas. There’s a tiny butter knife on the plate, obviously meant to delicately smear the butter onto your bread. And here you are, gnawing on the piece like some sort of medieval peasant during a bad harvest.

A pang of shame tingles over you. It’s a silly kind of shame--inconsequential, really. Who cares how you eat bread at some hotel you’ll never step foot in again in your life? But it lingers terribly. Until Chrollo picks up a piece of brand and dips it right into the butter, too, taking a chewy bite with far less graciousness than you imagined with his sophisticated appearance.

“It’s good, isn’t it?” He asks, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

You smile. You almost-snort. And the shame dissipates like ice crystals on a sunny day, as you and Chrollo both finish off the appetizer. He lets you eat more without saying a word, which you appreciate.

There’s a lot to appreciate about him, really. He’s been kind. He hasn’t been terribly condescending, dinner order notwithstanding. And he seems to know how to approach you with actual empathy and not just the sticky, coddling sympathy that most people do.

And you won’t lie--he is nice to look at. He even smells nice, but with the amount of money he had to spend on the clothing he sent up to your room, he can likely afford to buy expensive cologne.

If he notices you staring, he says nothing. Instead, he half-closes his eyes and appears to be deep in thought. Over… you? Or dinner?

He hums a bit under his breath, and you realize: it’s the music. It’s a delicate song being played by a small group of musicians set up on a stage in the corner. It’s familiar… your brain strives to catch up with your ears.

“You like this song?” You ask, because the silence has stretched too long, and the bread is now gone.

Chrollo opens his eyes and regards you with a sober smile. “Yes.” He pauses, then. “It’s--”

“Elgar's Chanson de matin,” you blurt, before he can. “I know it.”

His eyes widen, just a tad. Enough to show that he’s curious. A funny bit of pride thrums through you. It can be retribution for the quail earlier, you decide.

“You’re familiar with his work?”

You feel your cheeks heat up, even though you don’t get the sense that he asked to be cruel. He seems actually interested. Like he wants to know you. It’s nice, and confusing, and a little startling.

You nod, wishing there was more bread to break up the conversation. “What, you think someone like me can’t be interested in classical music?

“Of course not.” He answers swiftly, resolutely.

He reaches his hand towards yours and grasps it before you can think to pull away. It seems silly to yank your hand out of his, so you don’t. Even if the way he looks down at your interlocked fingers makes goosebumps dance up your arm.

His expression is so strange. He looks… lonely. And desperate. And relieved. But why?

Both of your gazes meet for one electric moment and for that moment, you feel like he sees you. And you see him. Not as clearly. But you see something inside him that is not quite on the surface. Something which does make you pull away, but not with distaste. You withdraw your hand from his slowly, like he’s a wild animal that you don’t want to startle.

The waiter, impeccable timing as ever, arrives with the main courses just as your hand makes its way into your lap.

And just like that, the spell is broken. Ripples of water dash whatever it was between you, and he’s speaking charmingly to the waiter, who appears swiftly again with a glass of champagne for each of you. You weren’t intending to drink, but maybe it wouldn’t hurt. It could calm your nerves.

Neither of you talk much for the rest of dinner. It’s not tense, exactly, but you can tell there’s something in the air. Questions unspoken, maybe, or just an awkwardness between two strangers who seem to both understand and misunderstand each other in equal measure.

The hotel’s restaurant begins to thin out after your main courses are taken away. A dessert menu is brought, and Chrollo orders a simple slice of cake for both of you.

Real vanilla bean frosting is on your lips when you ask your question. Quiet, but with most of the other guests gone, he has no trouble hearing it.

“So you were… homeless, before?”

You’re not sure why you need to know this. To confirm that he’s not some rich boy playing with his father’s money? To see how much he can really understand you? Maybe the champagne went to your head. You don’t normally drink, it wouldn’t be impossible.

His fork stalls as the question comes out. He glances up at you and there’s nothing offended or hurt in his eyes. He seems to weigh his answer before he gives it. It doesn’t really surprise you; he could be just as mistrustful of you as you are of him, couldn’t he?

“Something like that.” He rests his fork on his plate. “I suppose you are trying to decide just how much I can sympathize with your… situation.”

Heat floods your cheeks, and you’re grateful the water brought another glass of champagne that you can sip from to loosen the tightness in your chest.

If he notices your flushed countenance, he doesn’t remark on it. You like him better for it. He continues speaking, looking at you with a measured expression. Like before, his words come slowly and carefully, given to you with something akin to grace.

“Our situations were not exactly similar. I don’t find it terribly useful to compare them. Better in some ways, worse in others. Like anything.”

“Better?” You dab at your mouth with a napkin.

“Ah.” He seems to weigh his next words with even more scrutiny before he decides on them. “I had something you didn’t, which surely benefited me.”

“Which was?”

There’s something wistful in his voice now. It makes you lean forward over the table. With most of the other guests gone, it feels strange to talk so openly about clearly delicate matters. Chrollo mimics your lean, and while he doesn’t take your hands across the table into his, you get the feeling he’d like to, if you let him.

“Companionship,” he says simply. The word settles in the air like a brick that seems to land right on your chest. You blink and feel the beginnings of tears in your eyes. You really did have too much champagne, and this is all getting to be a lot. You start to lean backward when he speaks again.

“Aren’t you lonely?”

“No,” you lie. The shock of the question does make you lean back fully. Then, to be spiteful. “Are you?”

He doesn’t answer. He only looks down at his hands and the empty spot where yours used to be, and then back at you.

Nothing more is said on the matter. He pays for the meal and leaves a nice fat tip for the waiter--who has, you think, been lurking nearby either to witness your drama or to make sure no one swipes his tip from the table--before escorting you back to the elevators.

Shame slams back into you while you’re standing in front of the elevator doors.

“I’m sorry.” Sure, he asked it first, but fuck--you hate being rude. If you were rude. It was hard to tell how Chrollo felt about anything. The champagne making your head fuzzy doesn’t help. Not at all.

He tilts his head a little. “What for?”

Your eyebrows furrow together. “You know, for asking… for being…” You wave your hands around a little. It’s too hard to put into words. You’re tired, you feel out of sorts, and you’re tipsy bordering on drunk. You can give yourself some forgiveness in a lack of coherency in this matter, at least.

Chrollo regards you for a moment before he shakes his head, scoffing a little as he smiles.

“For being yourself? Or at least showing some small part of it to me? I don’t mind.” He holds out his arm and you, unsteady champagne fuzz in your head, take it. “I’ll escort you to your room, if that’s all right. I don’t feel comfortable letting you go there alone.”

You should tell him that you’ll be fine. You should. But the champagne in your brain and the way you feel drawn to him--however slightly--makes “should” fly out the window. So you nod and let him lead you into the elevator, where the ride up makes you dizzy enough that Chrollo has to steady you carefully, and you mumble out another apology.

He only chuckles a little and helps you walk out of the elevator without stumbling over the threshold. Your room is just down the hall and he keeps a steady grip on you the whole way, even though you’ve told yourself that you won’t stumble anymore. It feels weird, to have someone so close to you; to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his skin.

It feels weird, yes, but giddy too. He is handsome. And he did buy you dinner. And clothes. And he’s not as shitty as you thought he might be at first. The way he ate the bread in solidarity with you earlier--you can’t forget that, can you? It was… cute, even. If someone like Chrollo could be called cute.

Is it the champagne, the newness of this stranger-but-not-entirely, the rich disarmament that comes with a full stomach and freshly washed face? All of the above? Whatever it is, it’s got you thinking too much about Chrollo as he gently takes the key from your hand and opens your hotel room door.

A gentleman, he only sees you just inside before taking his leave, promising to meet you for breakfast in the morning--if you’d like.

You would like, you tell him, and the door shuts and locks swiftly afterwards. Chrollo’s cologne lingers in the air, or maybe it rubbed off on you from all the steadying he had to do.

The hotel room is just as you left it. Clean and pristine, smelling vaguely of lemon. Your duffel bags and personal belongings are shoved in the corner. Maybe you’ll try to read one of your books tonight, before you sleep? It would be the first time you read on an actual bed in ages. Maybe you could even call for room service? A little midnight snack? It’s not like Chrollo would mind, or at least, he probably wouldn’t. It’d be something small anyway, nothing wild.

Unless you wanted a bubbly nightcap.

Full of ideas, you take your giddy champagne self back to the bathroom to change into pajamas that he sent up earlier, humming Elgar’s Chanson, thinking about bread and quail and… Chrollo. The knife in your dress pocket gets left on the bathroom counter. It was silly to bring it, now that you think about it.

Still humming, you flop on the bed and grab the menu for room service. It wouldn’t hurt to order some extra dessert. And another glass of champagne. Maybe two…

You’re so out of sorts that at no point for the rest of the night, before your weary head hits the soft pillow, do you stop to wonder how Chrollo knew your room number.

There are few things Chrollo truly regrets in his life. One of them, he knows, will be that he couldn’t plant himself in this town for a few months in order to properly court you; to introduce you, gradually, to the concept of nen. To the knowledge that you were his soul mate.

But it can’t be helped. He has to leave tomorrow night, come hell or high water. And he certainly won’t let you drown here a moment longer. It’s for your sake. You’ll come to realize that eventually, just as you will--in time--come to forgive him for what he must do.

You’ll no doubt regret letting down your barriers in the morning. But if you hadn’t been so keen to trust in someone, to trust in him, then he wouldn’t have gotten to see something of the real you underneath all of that built-up survival instinct. And didn’t you see something of him, too? He thinks you did. Just a moment, a spark, but it was there.

You sweet thing. He could hear you humming through the door earlier; heard you order room service (champagne and desserts) and he regretted not having Shalnark swoop in during dinner to set up some security cameras.

The key to your room feels heavy in his hand. On this side, he is simply himself, staring ahead as the red thread of his soulmate leads away from him. But once he turns it into the lock and quietly opens the door, there will be nothing between you but sleep.

He opens the door and relishes in the way the thread sags even further downward. If only you could have seen how beautiful the thread looked during dinner, all tangled up as he clasped your hand in his. That’s how the thread was meant to look. Not tight and taut and unforgiving.

You’re fast asleep when he silently enters the room and unlocks the deadbolt so that Shalnark can help him remove you from the premises. Curled up underneath the covers, you look like you’re in bliss. It’s likely the first restful sleep you’ve had in a long time. Months? Years?

How awful for you, to wake up tomorrow and realize that you’re no longer in the hotel bed. And that he’s the one to blame for it. How awful for him, too, to lose his grasp on the tentatively pleasant and revealing evening you had together. But he doesn’t think you’ll be empathetic on that matter. Not for a while, anyway.

He sits down on the bed next to you and it takes a considerable amount of self-control not to curl up against you. It’s not worth the risk of you waking, although the tranquilizer in his pocket could be jabbed into your thigh early, if need be.

Besides… you’ll have a lifetime of nights together after this.

There’s no need to rush what is finally his to keep forever.

#yandere chrollo #yandere hunter x hunter #chrollo x reader #yandere #yandere chrollo lucilfer #afterwitch writes

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kiame-sama · 13 days

Text

Humans Are Extinct (Yandere!TWST x Fem!Reader) Monster AU

Warnings; Several yanderes, platonic yanderes, romantic yanderes, yandere behavior, monster au, fem reader, no one starts off knowing reader is fem so they/them pronouns used, deranged behavior, spiders, driders, centaurs, unicorns, Nemean lions, werewolves, selkies, minotaurs, genies, nagas, magic, threats, panic,

~~~~~~~~

Nothing made sense anymore.

None of what you saw could have possibly been real, and even if it was, where did that leave you? The area was not familiar and you had gone through one of those mirrors to get where you were. Hopefully those... things... wouldn't think to look for you where you decided to hide out until you got a plan together. This was all provided you could think of a plan despite everything going on around you.

When you had woken up inside a coffin, the panic had set in so quickly. Since the very second that coffin spilled you out on the marble floors to the odd creatures that greeted you with unhindered curiosity, you were afraid and lost. Even now as impossible things had taken place, a thought echoed in your head from what one of the creatures had said.

I thought Humans were extinct?

Certainly a few of those you saw around you looked human, but most were some kind of creature or abominable hybrid. None of it made sense because creatures like this couldn't possibly exist, right? If that was true, you were suffering some kind of psychotic break. But if it wasn't true, if you could actually trust your eyes to tell you the truth, then you had something completely new to deal with.

Exhaustion hit you hard enough that you couldn't help but cuddle close to your stone companion and shelter, seeking comfort in the cold statue.

~•§•~

Eyes slowly flickered open in the dark, searching with sleep-hazed confusion at the oddly cramped surroundings. Attempting to lift your hands only made more confusion race through your mind as some kind of lid stopped you from completing the motion. The fog of sleep that had hung so heavy in your mind was now replaced with sharp awareness and clarity, throwing you into a state of panic as you realized you were trapped.

The dark container you found yourself in had you thrashing and desperate for freedom from your newfound confines. Your kicking and thrashing- painful against the lid of your container- managed to actually knock the top loose and slightly ajar. That bit of light from outside was the only encouragement your knowledge deprived brain needed to know it was doing the right thing by struggling. What you didn't expect was the feeling of this human-sized container pitching forward to spill you out unceremoniously on the ground.

The cold surface beneath you felt even colder on your soft face, wondering just where you were and why all of your memories leading up to that moment were just a blur. You didn't have long to spend on your musings before an unusual voice reached your ears, closer to a baritone than a tenor but still a masculine sounding tone.

"Oh my, I thought we had all of the students accounted for. Could it be I miscounted?"

You pushed yourself up with your hands to try and face whoever was speaking, seeing an oddly feathered man with dark black hair walking towards you. He wore a mask- or perhaps he truly had a beak- that made him look like a rather large corvid walking towards you. Despite his humanoid features, something in the back of your mind told you that this man was not what he appeared at first glance. Even his bright yellow eyes that shined from beneath the black mask seemed inhuman as they studied you intently.

"You certainly don't seem like one of the sudents I selected. I'm fairly sure I would remember someone odd... like you..?"

The man stopped in his tracks, regarding you strangely as if he were actually looking at you now. He certainly wasn't recognizeable to you and you had no sense of familiarity upon seeing him. Something about you must have caught the man's attention as he cocked his head to the side, crouching next to you and observing you keenly. Something about the way he moved was so bird-like you wondered if he was pretending to be some character or if there were actually something inhuman about him.

"I don't often need to ask this question, and I am very curious now what your answer will be, but what are you?"

That was certainly an odd question. You thought the answer would have been obvious, but something about the whole situation made you feel like what you were going through wasn't normal.

"Human..? Isn't everyone?"

There was a long moment of silence and it was in this silence you decided to look around now that your poor face stopped hurting from your abrupt meeting with the ground. You were in the center of a large room where what seemed to be dozens of coffins with various sizes and shapes floated around you. The container you came from was also a coffin and you could see where you had actually damaged the smooth wood with your desperate attempt at freedom.

Beyond the floating coffins- as surreal as they were- you noticed that you were not the only two present. Many others were standing around you, all in the same black, purple, and gold robes. All looking at you with unguarded curiosity. It was as you looked at these unusually robed people that you began to realize none of them looked particularly human. The more you searched, the clearer it became that none of those standing around you seemed to be fully human.

One of those standing there was a heartbreakingly beautiful bird-man with smooth complexion and flawless makeup darkening his lovely purple eyes. His fair blond hair woven with long feathers. Behind him was a long train of peacock feathers in iridescent colors that seemed all the more colorful beneath the flicking candlelight. As he noticed you glance at him, he seemed to almost puff out his chest in pride and the feather train behind him ruffled ever so slightly.

There was what you could only describe as a some kind of horned horse-man standing not too far from the bird-man. He had fiery red hair that complimented his smokey blue eyes, a prominent golden horn sat in the middle of his forehead with two long strands of hair framing the protrusion. His horse-half had pure white fur, the tail of the horse sporting the same flaming hair the human-half had. The hooves on the horse half were that same sparkling golden that made the hybrid almost seem regal in a way.

Even beyond the two oddities you saw more and more inhuman features on the beings standing around you. There was a light murmur of conversation humming through the air and that was when you caught something unusual.

"I thought humans were extinct?"

You were brought back to attention by the man in front of you clapping his hands as he stood back to full height. He had an unsettling smile playing on his lips and he regarded you the same way one would regard a lost puppy sitting, shivering from fear and cold at their door.

"You actually are a human, aren't you? How amazing! To think, a human just appeared at my College after centuries of one not even being sighted! How thrilling. This certainly is an unusual situation, and it is my duty as Headmage to safeguard such an endangered creature. Worry not, little human, you are safe here. Aren't I just the kindest?"

You felt like you had been dropped in some wretched nightmare that made no sense despite how desperately you searched for it. There was no such thing as horned horse men, or crow men, or peacock men! None of this was possibly happening because these things just didn't exist where you were from. Maybe as a child you had believed such lies, but as an adult you couldn't comprehend these creatures possibly existing. It was just madness.

It was as you were pulling yourself too your feet that another voice spoke up, this one a touch deeper than that of the Crow man.

"Merveilleux~ to see such a mythical being up close like this... Their beauty is absolutely stunning in such a captivating and exotic way, très bien!"

You saw the man speaking and felt a little confused when he was taller than many of those standing around him. As others moved to look at him you saw just what it was that gave him such height above the rest. It looked as if someone had taken the top half of a man and attached it to the body of a spider about where the face would be. The spider body itself was compact with black markings along the abdomen and long, spindly legs that seemed more than double the length of the body. Two prominent fangs sat curled at the front of the man, slightly obscured by his robes hanging over them, but you could see the faint sheen of venom on the pointed surface of the far too-large mandibles.

Something about seeing the handsome face and shining green eyes of the blond man paired with the monstrous spider-body that he was attached to made the world seem to spin and pitch beneath you. Though you had just managed to get to your feet you certainly didn't feel steady on them, but as the crow man reached out to steady you, you did the only thing you could think of and bolted. Your sudden flight from the situation made several others startle, and in the confusion you darted for what looked like an exit or portal out.

It had not been what you hoped it to be as you found yourself standing before a dark castle that seemed all the more intimidating compared to the monster filled room you just fled. Still, you could try to find somewhere in the castle to lay low, maybe even out on one of the balconies next to the many Gargoyles that overlooked the dour building. There had to be somewhere out of place enough for you to hide- or so you hoped- from the hybrid monsters that so happily decided to keep you despite not knowing a thing about you.

The slow wandering of halls with no opposition put you on edge, wondering if you just got lucky or if you hadn't seen anyone for a reason. Even as your footsteps quietly echoed in the dark halls, you remained vigilant in your quest to find somewhere out of the way.

Eventually that quest for somewhere safe led you to one of the many rooftops of the building. Your salvation came in the form of a recessed alcove that went further back than it appeared, facing away from the front of the castle. It wasn't much, but it was enough to keep you sheltered from the rather cold wind and make you feel concealed even among the rooftop.

With Gargoyles as your company and adrenaline quickly fading, you found yourself exhausted and in need of a rest. Despite how fast you seemed to have stumbled upon your hiding place, you could see it had actually been quite a distance you must have run. The portal far away on the other side of the enormous drawbridge that let you into the castle. Your energy was sapped and you were more than confused, but you couldn't fight the insistent pull of sleep on your frazzled mind forever.

~•§•~

The old crow Fae was still reeling from the absolute shock he had just gone through, but most would likely be feeling the same were they in his shoes. It simply was next to impossible, but an actual human was roaming the halls of Night Raven College. He himself had last seen a human more than half a millennia ago and they had since been declared extinct for several centuries. Seeing such a mythical being in the Hall of Mirrors was certainly unexpected and curious.

At first he believed they were a Selkie who had lost their fur, but the absolute lack of magic from them told him all he needed to know. Humans were the only non-magic species that had reached sentience in Twisted Wonderland, but this left them at a disadvantage as all other sentient species had magic and quickly out competed them. Some of the Naga and other beastman tribes even took to eating humans as a delicacy before they were declared extinct. Now Crowley had what was very possibly the first recorded human in centuries somewhere lost in his college.

The grants he could get to care for the human alone justified finding them and keeping them at Night Raven despite the fact they were not actually a student or member of the college. Even beyond just the money to keep such a rare specimen safe, he was going to get to see their magicless qualities first hand. It was always assumed that humans had some kind of innate abilities to make up for the fact that they didn't have magic. Their affable nature made them great at keeping the peace between strong personalities and powerful magic users. Though humans were technically at the bottom of the food chain as far as sentient species were concerned, Crowley could keep this one creature safe at Night Raven College.

All he needed to do now was find the wayward human and get them to settle down. Of course, there was still the question for where the human could possibly stay that would ensure their safety.

~•§•~

The dark haired prince walked through the somber halls of Diasomnia. Emerald eyes taking note of the ever familiar surroundings that made up his temporary home. The dour prince was looking to visit his beloved Gargoyles and figured now was as good a time as any. He had not been invited to the ceremony after all and he was not so rude as to show up without invitation and no good reason. Besides, it had been a while since he last visited his beloved statues.

As he made his usual rounds based on the age of the statue, the horned royal paused when greeted with an unfamiliar sight. Beneath one of the Gargoyles was someone soft and delicate looking. They were clearly not made of the same stone as the statues, but by all appearances the Gargoyles had borne a child of flesh and not stone. Perhaps Lilia would know where this odd little creature came from.

The prince was gentle removing the soft (s/c) being from beneath the statue, taking care to not wake the warm creature. His obsidian wings flared with contentment as he managed to extract the oddly delicate humanoid. Outwardly appearing, they almost seemed to be a selkie without fur, but their scent said otherwise. They were much softer than a siren or banshee which often had very taut skin. With renewed purpose, the thorn prince carried his new discovery to his own room, tucking the little being into his blankets. He would find somewhere else for the odd creature to stay after he conversed with Lilia. For now, he could leave the fragile being in the safety of his nest until he figured out what they were.

Perhaps he would crash the ceremony after all. Even if he wasn't invited, this was a good reason.

#kiame-sama #yandere #x reader #yandere x reader #reader insert #tw yandere #yandere twst #yandere monster #monster au #twst monster au #Humans are Extinct TWST AU

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