#crows too but not quite as often

[eskumii]

❝ TROPHY WIFE ❞ — yandere!uzui tengen/wives + you're his first wife

SYNOPSIS: suppose you're uzui tengen's very first wife, the one that slipped through the cracks of your unwanted arranged marriage with him. along with your disappearance went his heart, and now you must bear the consequences of a man who loves his wife far beyond her understanding—so much so that he would kill for her, die for her, and do anything to make her stay. — navi.

WORD COUNT: 5.7k

NOTES: mdni! (cw: non-con) this is an arranged/forced marriage au. it's meant to be one-sided. it took me quite literally forever to finish this lol ,,

PAIRING: yandere!uzui tengen x wife!reader

CHARACTERS: uzui tengen (19-23), reader (18-22), suma (19), makio (20), hinatsuru (21)

I. TO BE WED

imagine being uzui tengen's very first wife.

your hand in marriage was promised to him by your parents, who owned a tax-collecting business that was often the target of hostility from the impoverished people of your hometown. tengen routinely passed through your village on demon slayer business, so your parents could always rest assured knowing he would take care of the violent stragglers that sometimes loitered outside.

ironically being poor themselves, they had little to offer the hashira as payment for his noble duties; well, that "little" didn't exclude you of course, their only daughter who's failed to find a husband far past the age of when other girls were normally wed. you're still young, fertile, and moderately attractive, but your strong disinterest in potential suitors often drove any chances of a wealthy marriage away.

however, after being introduced to tengen, the man you'll be forced to marry out of obligation, you begin to regret being so stubborn after all.

admittedly, tengen found you to be pretty plain at first. you're poor so you can't exactly dress flashy, and you come from a no-name family with little legacy. your parents swore up and down on your domestic efficiency—hardworking, great cook, a tame disposition—and, well, at least you're kind of cute, too. tengen is intrigued by your potential the most.

your parents force you to do whatever you can to get close to him. the truth is, though, you don't really have to do anything with the way he seeks you out himself. he often shows up at your door asking for you, and your parents have no qualms about dragging you out of your room to make you go out with him.

he takes you to the nicer parts of town and pays for dinner or buys you flowers and little trinkets from the shop vendors that line the streets. it doesn't help that the elderly people running the stands egg you on, saying things like "what a lovely young couple" or "your children would be so beautiful!" tengen simply smiles with ease, accepting their praise as if it's second nature. you get rather embarrassed by his shameless indulgence.

there's small talk but you find it incredibly stifling. tengen does a majority of the dialoguing but most of the time your dates get interrupted by his kasugai crow, who squawks at him whenever a demon shows up nearby. he always looks annoyed and promises to make it up to you, leaning down to pat your head like you're his pet dog or something. you hate it and him too, probably.

"i'll be back before you know it, darling," his smile is charming but not to you. "you'll stay right here for me, won't you?"

regardless of your somewhat obvious hesitance to accept his advances, tengen gets attached to you like it was meant to be. the idea of having a pretty little housewife for him to come home to after his draining missions becomes increasingly attractive, and the more time he spends with you, the more he sees the appeal of your being. it must be a miracle that no man has taken you as his wife yet; surely you were saving yourself for a man like him.

unfortunately, though, you don't want to marry tengen.

an arranged marriage? it's simply not the kind of life you envision for yourself. you aren't willing to bet the rest of your days on a man whom you have a slim chance of falling in love with, all for the sake of financial security. but what else can you do? your parents already made it very clear they would disown you if you refuse, and tengen is pressuring you to your death with his sweet words and annoyingly thoughtful presents. you're stuck.

eventually, the incessant nagging from your parents and weeks of endless courting from tengen sway you so sooner. you fold like a cheap hand fan and succumb to your fate, to a future you knew from the very beginning that you would come to despise.

he's the only suitor you have at this point. it's not like you have a choice. and the one choice you do have just so happens to be him, a man who is the nearest thing to a perfect match as you're ever gonna get. you should be happy. thankful. he'll give you the world if you just give him a chance.

at least, that's what he told you.

II. THE SOUND HASHIRA

your parents are so happy to send you off.

they're completely honored that their letdown of an only daughter is finally getting married—to a well-known and wealthy shinobi at that. it's the only time they've shown any pride in you, yet it really only leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

after your brief introduction to the head of tengen's clan, everything moves so quickly. just a couple weeks later, you're already signing a marriage contract in which you and tengen become official newlyweds. and before you know it, you're packing what little belongings you have to your name and moving in with him, begrudgingly and regretfully so.

the day you arrive, he shows you around his overwhelmingly gigantic residence; the courtyard full of cherry blossoms and koi ponds, the huge kitchen, and the bedroom where he'll eventually fully claim you. there's lots of other rooms too, but they're either empty or reserved for his weapons and training gear. he tries to hide it but he's obviously so over the moon that you're his wife now. he doesn't even notice your misery through his elated delusion of love.

in hindsight, you didn't realize how difficult it can be to share a space with someone you hardly know. you find everything awkward but tengen doesn't, like always. to him, you're so obedient and polite— such a good girl. you take whatever he gives you; kisses, hugs, subtle gropes here and there, and all of his sweet compliments and gifts. you don't argue with him or raise your voice, you fret over his injuries and make his favorite foods. you're observant, collected, and mature.

he didn't have a type before he met you—you're all he can ask for in a woman, really.

tengen is unexpectedly romantic. he constantly boasts about his strength and fighting skills in order to impress you, and he never stops mouthing off about how he'll prioritize you over himself. he puts consistent effort in getting to know you: what you like, don't like, your favorite color, and any other inkling of your personality that he can manage to wrestle out of you. he seems to have gotten the impression that you're shy or something.

flowers are a constant and you're spoiled with fancy, expensive kimonos and jewelry. had you married tengen under literally any other circumstance, you'd find his advances on you endearing but, unfortunately, he just comes off as clingy and unbearable. any woman would die to be in your place yet you can't even find it in you to want to be in your own place.

what do you think of him, though? well, he's handsome, you'll give him that. you don't deny the appeal of his good looks and flashy, fitted clothing. he's strong, established, and knows what he wants. despite your obvious distaste towards his gifts and grandiose personality, it's not to say you're ungrateful that the man you're stuck with is exceedingly well-off and capable of protecting you. you can't say he's a bad guy.

however, he's a moron.

he fell for you fast. a couple months have already passed since coming to live in his residence. tengen requests to have picnics whenever you go with him to visit his siblings' graves on his off days. of course you have no reason to refuse; as much as you dislike him, you're not heartless. they're important days, so you swallow your pride and pack a bento spread you know he'll like.

tengen will confide in you about the memories of his late siblings, his parents, and his life before becoming a hashira. it's a depressing and heavy weight to shoulder, but you still play your role of the loving, supportive wife with your lingering touches and comforting words. you use these outings as opportunities to gain his trust by being vulnerable.

except, this time, the effect you seem to have on tengen is magnified to the point of no return.

he pulls you into his lap and you're suddenly flush against his rock hard chest, trapped in a suffocating hug. you don't know what prompted his sudden affection; perhaps it was the warm atmosphere you crafted or the intimacy of the moment, but the way tengen holds you so close is telling. he's about to say something you've been dreading since the day you met him.

"i love you." tengen confesses, nuzzling his face into your neck and sighing as if he'd just released the weight of the world off of his shoulders.

you knew it. it's the first time he's ever said it to you and you'll never forget the wave of nausea that hit you as you glanced up to see him staring back at you expectantly. your heart is pumping out of your chest and your face is flustered—not because you're flattered but because you're ashamed. you feel his hands squeeze your shoulders, almost like a warning, and his grip begins to feel claustrophobic after your prolonged silence.

you have no choice but to reciprocate.

"...I love you too." your voice is quiet, hesitant, and tengen gently teases you about being shy when you refuse to look at him anymore. he's not right but it's true that lying invokes shame.

he almost seems overwhelmed by your response, as if he hadn't just nonverbally threatened it out of you. you don't dare to sneak even a glance at him. he tightens his embrace around you and goes back to burying his face abashedly into your neck, mumbling sweet words against your skin. his body wraps around you like a vice, trapping you in the prison that is his dreadful existence.

you decide, in that very moment, that there was nothing in the world you wanted to do more than run away.

III. A DIRE MISTAKE

one fateful day, you catch wind of the news that tengen is being assigned on a mission quite far away, somewhere down in the southwest. 

you're so lucked out that you thought it was a trap at first—a ploy to catch you in your undying desire to leave your husband for good. but when the day of departure arrives and tengen peppers your face with last minute kisses, you know for sure that there's no chance he's caught on to your resentment towards him, nor the plan of escape you've been devising all along.

your eyes are teary when tengen releases you from the last of his spine-crushing hugs and he cooes at your cute crying face. honestly, you're tearing up out of joy because your one and only chance to escape has literally fallen into your lap in a pleated handbasket, but you'll let him believe otherwise. you at least owe him the courtesy. 

you already know you don't stand a chance against tengen, at least physically. he can overpower you like nothing and he's so tall that he towers over you, constantly caging you between those muscled arms of his. there's almost nothing you could do against a man like him—well, unless you count poisoning, but you were above murder when it came to getting what you wanted. 

as soon as tengen passes through the looming gates of the residence and disappears down the winding road, you scramble to gather a few belongings before making your way out through the back. there's a twinge of fear that grips your gut but you press on, determined to put as much space between you and that wretched place you were expected to call home. 

the moment you escaped, you flipped your identity. chopped your hair off, powdered your face in white make-up, and wore headscarves wherever you went. you fled as far as your feet would take you, only stopping to rest in a small village when your aching body could take you no further. you hardly spoke to anyone and left nothing behind that could possibly be traced back to you or be used to pursue you. 

it's obvious you can't go back to your parents; they hated you when you lived with them, and they'd hate you more if you returned. they'd sell you out to tengen in two seconds flat, then ruthlessly shame you for running away from a marriage you wanted no part in. the only option left for you is to create a new life for yourself somewhere far, far away. 

and that's exactly what you do. you find a little town on the outskirts of the red light district, where business is booming and it's easy to disguise yourself beneath the constant foot traffic. you go undercover as a seamstress, working in a homely tailor shop under the supervision of the owners, who are a kind older couple that are quick to regard of you as one of their own. 

time marches on and the jarring memories of tengen do as well. you makes friends with the regulars that come by the store often. you've learned the valuable trade of mending clothing and sewing traditional patterns. you've even developed a crush on one of the men that come by often to repair his work uniform.

your life is finally the way you've always wanted it to be. 

meanwhile, tengen copes—barely. days pass. weeks. months. you're still yet to be found, even with the help of all the hashira and the shinobi of his clan. it's as if you disappeared off the face of the planet. he's completely devastated. did you run away because he was gone for so long? were you feeling neglected? did you just want his attention? surely you wouldn't just up and leave when he'd been so loving; he truly couldn't think of anything that would prompt such an extreme reaction. 

as expected, he doesn't come up with a justification for your disappearance. how could he? you could be dead by now with the amount of demon uprisings that have been happening lately. or you could even be halfway across the world right now, laughing at how easily you had fooled him. eventually, his sadness melts into anger. you may be gone now, but it won't be for long. 

wherever you are, he'll find you. 

IV. 'TIL DEATH DO HIM PART

in the following years, tengen's next three wives are chosen specifically by the head of his clan.

and, in the head of the clan's words: "the sound hashira's decision-making must be incredibly poor if he chose a wife who would dare flee from him." the statement only fans the flames of his growing wrath for you. 

however, his new wives—suma, makio, and hinatsuru—are all beautiful and talented kunoichi who admire him to their very cores. as ungrateful as it sounds, there isn't a day where tengen wishes one of them were you. they've worked so hard to try and fill the gaping hole in his existence that was left by you, but it hasn't really been working. he needs you.

they're kind, caring, nurturing and most of all, strong. they've trained all their lives to be kunoichi. he knows he shouldn't complain but they just don't cook like you, look like you... aren't you. of course he loves them, but he could never forget the way his heart shattered the day he returned home to find you nowhere in sight. your disappearance left him in utter shambles. did you ever think about that when you left? you're so unbelievably selfish—is that the kind of woman you turned out to be? 

his wives constantly question his lovesick behavior. tengen never hides anything from them; in fact, he'll sometimes go on long, borderline maniacal rambles about "the wife who got away." to suma, makio, and hinatsuru, you're an enigma that's broken the heart of their husband, and they're not sure what it was about you that makes him act this way. jealousy sparks—if there's a way to get you back to make tengen happy, they would do it, but maybe you're better off gone after all. 

and it's not like tengen didn't search for you. oh no, he looked everywhere within reason. his duties as a hashira kept him chained to his missions near the demon slayers' headquarters, but that never stopped him from interrogating people when he got the chance. any woman that looked even remotely similar to you was sure to be stopped in the middle of the street for further investigation. 

master kagaya is exceedingly understanding of the situation, and he bears obvious concern for his beloved sound hashira. while he's sympathetic of the loss of his wife—it's no matter to be taken lightly, of course—tengen must first be loyal to his occupation as a hashira, and that means going on missions in spite of his mourning. 

and his newest missions leads him to the red light district. 

so tengen goes. he knows his place when it comes to master kagaya, so he has no reason or authority to deny orders. regardless, it's a harrowing and tedious task. drunk concubines practically throw themselves into tengen's arms as he strolls past the many underground sex clubs that line the filthy streets. he has zero interest in any of the debauchery that goes on here, and he especially feels nothing when shoving them away from him with excessive force. 

he scours the area for anyplace that looks decent enough to step foot in, as well as a place where he won't get immediately harassed by ran through harlots. turning down a quieter side street where some storefronts have been shuttered, he happens upon a small seamstress shop sandwiched between two restaurants that look as if they've closed early for the evening. 

shrugging, tengen wearily thinks it's as good of a place as any to begin his intel gathering on the upper moons' whereabouts. he saunters towards the front entrance and a young woman dressed in traditional geisha wear passes him on the sparsely populated road, her wooden sandals clacking against the ground. he can't help but think her hair looked similar to yours and his heart twists painfully in his chest. 

tengen seems to be constantly haunted by the thought of you, forming an obsession in his mind that won't go away until he has you back. until he knows your safe, with him, just like you were meant to be. until he sees you. 

no, literally, tengen sees you, right in front of him. 

through the window of the upscale seamstress shop, he sees you conversing with a man at the front counter, laughing heartily at a joke he must have made. tengen quickly crouches beneath the display window to spy on you, his heart pounding out of his chest at the events that are currently unfolding. he must be mistaken. 

he peeks above the lip of the window to catch a glance and, sure enough, it is you. you're alive and well, almost glowing beneath the low, intimate lighting inside the shop. 

he finally found you! he can't believe it. the grin that's stretching across his face is so broad. he'd recognize your face anywhere, even if it's caked in geisha makeup and your hair elaborately styled. you’re beautiful and he’s captivated by your beauty just as he was the day that he met you. 

he's so unbelievably ecstatic with the way his hands are clamming up, his feet shuffling in the dirt and... 

what?

creeping over the ledge of the display window once again, tengen's eyes immediately grow dark. there's a man there. talking to you. his wife. 

in the midst of your conversation, your eyes absently float over to the window. it's there that your gaze clashes with his, and a blood-curdling look of terror overtakes your features. is that… tengen? 

there's a shift in the air. what happens next, tengen doesn't recall, but when he comes to there's blood on his hands and your hair is bundled up in his fist as he drags you past the threshold the of the shop’s entrance. he looks over his shoulder and on the floor, spread eagle, lies the man without his head. the scene is gruesome.

he killed him. 

tengen looks down at you with a solemn gaze. for some reason, he doesn't even care. the emotions running through him are almost too much to bear. do you know how much your disappearance has destroyed him? do you know how much he's suffered because of you? do you even care? 

he doesn't understand why you're crying. it seems like you were happy enough to whore around with other men in his absence. the thought drives him to the brink of insanity. how much longer do you plan on humiliating him? 

there's too much to be said. tengen's mouth is agape and he's so upset at you that he can't find the right words to express himself. instead, he collapses to the floor beside you and embraces you in his longing arms. he smells your hair and feels how your body shrinks against his—it's all exactly how it used to be. it's exactly as he remembered, as he dreamed of. 

and now, as tengen scoops you up into his arms to take you back home, another dream of his will be fulfilled tonight. he knows exactly what kind of punishment is befit for you. 

V. A JUST PUNISHMENT — (NSFW: NON-CON)

"tengen-sama! you're ba-" 

a woman with colored bangs and a ponytail attempts to greet tengen as he enters, but she's cut off by not only the expression on his face but also the strange, disheveled woman he's hauling behind him. 

he drags you across the cold, laminated wood floors into the bedroom by your hair and peels the delicate, silken layers of your yukata back, exposing soft flesh and ample curves. tengen is so starved of your touch—of your voice, your scent, you. he'll make you pay for what you put him through. he'll make you stay this time. 

you can't even fight back. you're so afraid of what's going to happen that your body refuses to move, to speak. and even if you could, there was no way you would win against a hashira, of all people. 

tengen starts by pushing you to your knees. when his hands begin the hasty work of undoing the belt of his kimono, you already know where this is going and it makes your stomach churn in volatile sickness. he eagerly slides his under pants down and from the top of its elastic band springs his semi-hard cock, which nearly hits you in the face. you gasp at the sheer size of it; that is not gonna fit inside of you.

"don't look at me like that, [name]. clearly i was too lenient with you back then. i should've disciplined you..." he trails off as he stares into your pleading eyes. he smiles but, in it, is no mercy.

"c'mon, baby. you'll be a good girl and open your mouth for me, won't you?" 

you refuse. no, you wouldn't even dream of it. you've never done anything sexual with a man before and you certainly aren't going to wi—

tengen suddenly reaches down and grabs ahold of your now tangled hair with one of his large hands. it takes barely any pressure before your mouth is pried open by the force of his fingers alone, and his now engorged cock head is being stuffed into your warm, unyielding mouth. 

you can only let out a choked cry at the vile intrusion. 

"that's it, baby, good girl.." he praises, stroking your head with his thumb as he slowly inches his pulsing cock down your throat. 

your screams are completely muffled. tengen begins to pick up the pace, letting your drool be the lubricant that allows his giant dick to slide in and out of your tight throat. it hurts so bad that you try to bite down and free yourself from this act of vulgarity, but tengen doesn't allow it. he instead tugs your head back by the grip he has on your hair, forces his cock all the way in, and holds you there until you decide to behave yourself. 

you can hardly breath. lewd, wet noises fill the room as tengen gags you almost to the point of unconsciousness. the vibrations from your screaming must have been making him feel good, though, because it takes just a few minutes before he's shuddering in orgasm as he bottoms out and cums, which you have no choice but to swallow. 

he pulls out of your mouth and you're mortified, but even more so when you see how he's still hard. his cock is covered in a thick layer of your saliva and his cum drips onto your exposed chest in globs that make you cringe in disgust. you think you're going to throw up. 

and you almost do, if it weren't for tengen picking you up from under your arms and tossing you onto the plush bedding. your legs are forced open and tengen slides his twitching cock against your pussy, slowly and teasingly. you begin to fight against him but he easily pins you down long enough to push his fat cock head into your tight pussy. 

tengen pounds you into the plush cushion of the futon all night long. you've given up struggling and crying, only mewling in pain as the brutish man stretches your virgin pussy wide. he ruthlessly kneads your breasts with his calloused palms and overstimulates your clit with his fingers until you cream and squirt repeatedly all over his dick. you can do nothing but lay there as he roughly moves your body into various positions and fills your womb with his seed—there's no way you won't be pregnant after this. 

all the pent up rage that tengen was forced to weather after your disappearance is released in that very room. he sounds like a crazy man with the way he lapses in and out of fits of rage where he's cursing at you with his hands around your throat, then slipping into pleasure induced "i love you's" as he dumps yet another load of cum deep inside of you. 

"h-how does it feel, my love?" he groans, reaching over to caress your flushed face. "mm, you sound so cute making those noises. lemme hear you scream, darling."

and oh, you sure do scream. for him to stop, to get off of you. that you've had enough. that you hate him. over and over again you scream, you cry, and you struggle, but it does you no good. he only seems to thrust faster the more you beg. is he getting off to your desperation? he must be by the way his cock pulses at any form of physical resistance from you. 

you thought it would never end. he's almost insatiable. your tears have long dried up—for the most part, anyway—but the skin on your face feels raw from tengen "lovingly" wiping all your tears and snot away while simultaneously pounding a you-shaped hole into the futon. you feel disgusting. you don't even have the strength to make a sound when he spanks you for the hundredth time, moaning heatedly about how you've been such a bad, bad girl. 

when it seems like he's finally spent, he doesn't pull out. instead, he collapses on top of you with his cock still twitching inside your sloppy, ruined cunt while drawing you in for an unreciprocated kiss. he whispers praises in your ear and gently strokes your face, cooing at how much you're trembling against his much larger form. 

"i should've done this a long time ago. maybe you wouldn't have left if i dumped my kids into you sooner." 

eventually, his softened cock slips out of you and a gush of warmth runs down your legs; you can already feel a soreness settling in your pelvis. tengen sighs contentedly at the sopping squelch that sounds when you snap your legs shut in order to roll as far away from him as possible. he roughly wraps a muscled arm around your waist and pulls you back towards him as soon as he sees your attempt to create distance. 

"i missed you so much, darling," tengen mumbles against your skin breathily, offering a soft smile. "did you enjoy your welcome back?" 

he's making fun of you. you refuse to even look at him. it's to be expected, really, he can't imagine how bad it must feel to think you actually got away from him as you lay in his arms once again, right where you belong. you need to learn your place; no wife of his will disrespect him like you did ever again. if you have to be an example of that, then so be it—youput this on yourself, after all. 

leaving you with a final kiss, he gets up, wraps a towel around his waist, and goes to let his other wives into the room to help clean you up (they've been waiting patiently ever since you showed up, curious about the woman who supposedly "stole tengen's heart," as he put it). you're still naked and exposed with tengen's cum leaking down your thighs but you don't even have the mental capacity to care anymore. all three of the girls look shocked at the state you're in, but they don't comment and rush to get you in the bath. 

they're all very pretty, of course. when you emerge from your haze of disorientation, you're left reeling at the fact that tengen had amassed three whole wives in light of your absence. well, not that you have any right to be surprised considering your short lived emotional affair. you're still in mourning over what had happened to him. 

regardless of your fragile state, the three women swarm you with questions that prod at your past: who you are, where you're from, and how you met tengen. you don't even have half the mind to reply. you can only stare at your tear-stricken reflection in the soapy water, ready to burst into tears yet again at the horrible predicament you've found yourself in. 

what can you do now? sit around and get bred by tengen? rot away in this dreadful house for the rest of your life? the other wives seem to catch onto your unresponsiveness after a couple dozen of their questions go ignored, so they sit quietly and gently wash you clean. they look genuinely worried for you—not that their pity will undo the damage that's already been done. 

makio will scrub your back and grumble about how jealous she is while suma and hinatsuru fret over the small bruises that are now beginning to form around your hips from tengen's manhandling. suma washes your hair next, commenting on how beautiful it is, while the other two move onto rinsing the soap from your body. they wrap you up in a fluffy towel when it's over, and a shiver wracks your spine when their hands guide you to another room, down the hall, with a clean bed ready for you to rest in. 

you don't really know who they are but since they're dressed like kunoichi, it's obvious that they don't share the same mindset you do, or were forced to be wed to tengen like you were. you can't ask them to help you escape from this hell, not a chance. 

even as you lay in the criminally comfortable futon with new silken pajamas, a cup of cold water at your side, and a warm blanket, sleep doesn't find you. 

and with tengen around, you're certain it never will. 

VI. A HAPPY EVER AFTER (EXTRA)

a few months later, your pregnancy symptoms are in full swing.

tengen is as protective as ever and the other wives have already grown attached to you despite your bitter and unforgiving attitude towards them. you learn quickly that they're all very... obsessive, constantly hovering over you and going to overbearing extremes to make sure you don't do anything that would physically strain yourself in any way.

hinatsuru and makio follow at your heels like guard dogs while suma takes charge of most of the cooking and cleaning. she keeps the peace most of the time and holds makio back when she's attempting to murder hinatsuru over something childish. you're never in the mood to talk to them, however, and they often try to bribe you with your favorite sweets (which is intel that they've gathered from tengen) in order to get you to participate in their activities.

unluckily for you, tengen had decided to completely retire from being a hashira following a particularily harrowing encounter with an upper moon demon (even after you tried to subtly guilt trip him into not doing so). he insisted that you and the baby were "more important." you know that it'd be difficult to escape with the other wives around but to add tengen on top of that makes it surely impossible. 

every morning, the dreadful man himself meets the four of you in the kitchen and will beam proudly at the sight of his adorable little harem. he goes down the line and gives affection to each of his wives individually, in the way they prefer, and saves you for last as you're his "greatest prize," or whatever he said. you're just completely exhausted and you resent them all from the deepest depths of your heart. the least you can do is make it obvious. 

tengen finds your rebellion adorable. everything about you is and even moreso now than when you left him all those years ago. he'll grab you by the jaw and force you into a quick one-sided kiss, pulling away with that fond smile of his. his fingers ghost over your swelling tummy but his very touch makes you feel so awfully sick. you'll roughly push him away and he's so out of his mind that he attributes your justified anger and moodiness to your "pregnancy hormones." regardless, he's happy. it's you who's going to bear his child. it's you who first said you loved him too. as long as you live, you're bound to him as his wife. nothing can come between a man and the woman he loves; uzui tengen certainly made sure of that, didn't he?

[ichorai]

i'm not made by design ; part two ; jaime lannister.

part one.

pairing ; jaime lannister x stark!reader (she/her pronouns)

synopsis ; wolves and lions tend not to be friends, much less lovers.

words ; 9.0k

themes ; heavy angst, action, fluff, (actual) enemies to lovers, slowburn

warnings / includes ; war/murder/injury, this part covers a few events from a feast for crows, politicking, mentions of incest/rape, foul language, animal cruelty, a lot of generally terrible things going on but what else can you expect from asoiaf, lots of dreams, jaime is a morally grey delight in this part yes, they are being HAUNTED by each other!

a/n ; wow, it's been a long time coming! ok i know this part is quite short and doesn't yet get to where you guys probably want to be, but tumblr has a max limit of 1k text blocks per post now (boo everyone throw tomatoes) so i'll be posting the rest of the story in smaller chunks! expect the third part to be coming soon, and i promise part three will start off exactly where you guys want it to be :) also if any of you can spot any sort of parallels in this part i will kiss you on the Mouth .

main masterlist. read on ao3!

The wintry breeze tousled the two young Stark girls’ hair, whispering frost into their ears. The horse the two were riding whickered as it galloped through the snow. Lyanna was exclaiming something, something lost to the wind, and you only held all the tighter to her from behind. 

“Lyanna, I want to get off!” you yelled, tugging at the furs draped over her. “Lyanna, let me off!”

Your older sister laughed some more. Not wickedly, but more out of fond amusement. She slowed the horse down to a languid canter, then to a trot, and led the stallion towards the shade of a tree. There was snow blanketing the branches and the grass which crunched beneath her weight as she swung down. She looked up at you with her large grey eyes, crinkled at the corners as she grinned boyishly. “Were you frightened?” 

You held your arms out for your sister to help you down. Only at eight years of age, you were still of short stature, and Lyanna had picked a rather tall horse. She had always been a voracious rider, even more so than all your brothers.

“I wasn’t frightened,” you indignantly replied as she wrapped her arms about your waist and pulled you down onto the ground. 

“Right.” She began to stroke the stallion’s mane, his hooves pawing at the snow. “Do you not trust me, then? Did you think I would ride us right off the edge of a cliff?”

“No,” you replied, scuffing your boots against the snow. “I don’t like riding from behind. I can’t see anything from back there.”

There was a moment of silence before Lyanna reached over to ruffle your hair—an action that both she and Benjen often did. Eddard and Brandon often spared you from such irritations, but being the youngest of the family, you were always doted on and hovered over and babied.

“I don’t trust you riding a horse as big as this, so I suppose we can walk back. It’s not too far.”

“Why can’t I just sit in front of you?”

Your sister stuck her tongue out at you. “We’ve got something in common, you know. What makes you think I like sitting behind?” When you glowered at her, she went on, “Let’s get a move on. Ned will complain that I’m stealing you away—especially since he’s just returned. He misses you. Your letters grow briefer and briefer, he tells me.”

You were none too happy about trudging through the snow, but you voiced no complaint and walked alongside your sister, who tugged at the horse’s reins to follow along. 

“He’s always going back and forth,” you said, a small frown marring your features. “I wish he would just stay home. The Eyrie couldn’t possibly compare to Winterfell.”

“You know him.” Lyanna’s dark hair was speckled with snowflakes as she turned to you. “Studious and dutiful as ever.” Her voice went an octave deeper and she pulled a mockingly somber expression in a startling resemblance to Ned. You let out a small laugh at that.

“Last time he visited, you were betrothed,” you said, your voice shrinking to a whisper.

The amusement died away from her eyes, turning stony. “Yes. Though I doubt it will be a fruitful union.”

There were a few more seconds of silence as you considered her words, not entirely sure why she would think so. Robert was loud and robust the few times you’ve met him, but you knew little else of Ned’s friend. 

“Do you think he’ll bring a wedding proposal for me this time?”

Lyanna’s features contorted with surprise. “Why? Do you want to be married?”

Your cheeks flushed with heat, despite the frost settling over your skin. “Well—if Father says I have to, then I will.”

“I didn’t ask about Father,” replied Lyanna. It was hard for her to believe that you were only eight sometimes. You always tried to act older than you actually were. “I asked about you.”

Winterfell grew larger and larger as the two of you drew nearer to the castle gates. Home.

“I don’t think I’d mind getting married,” you told your sister, eyes downcast and brows pulled together in thought. “As long as I get to stay in Winterfell. I never want to leave.”

Lyanna smiled, all teeth and cheek. “Wouldn’t that be a dream?” she sighed. 

The rest of the short journey was made in relative silence, and you left your sister and the tall stallion by the stables (not without her ruffling your hair one last time), and you dashed up to the castle chambers where you knew Ned would be.

He carried no proposals, only a few books he thought you would enjoy and a warm hug.

You awoke with a startled gasp, kicking at the thin blanket that laid over your form. It took you several moments to realize where you were. A boat. Rocking steadily, back and forth and back and forth. You rubbed at your sleepy eyes whilst drawing your knees up to your chest, still blinking away remnants of your dream.

Lyanna. Ned. Still young, still practically children. 

One of the tongueless little birds stood in the doorway. It was an ominous sight. Her eyes were large and unblinking, glinting like glass balls within her small head. In her hands was a wooden bowl, full of what looked to be a poultice of sorts. She drew nearer, and the heavy scent of honey and flowers reached your nose. 

“What is it?” you asked the child, a coil of pity winding in the pit of your stomach. You knew they couldn’t respond—Varys had stolen not only their youth, but their voices, too. “Is this food?”

A foreign delicacy of sorts, maybe? An Essosi dessert you weren’t familiar with, perhaps. It looked quite unappetizing, though you knew you had no room to complain.

The girl shook her head, then pointed to your hair, which was pulled back into a braid. You understood from just that, and nodded your thanks while accepting the bowl from her. This was hair dye, made from a blend of flowers and other substances you couldn’t name. You supposed it was a necessary precaution—you had an unmistakable Northern look to you, and would surely stick out like a sore thumb here down South. Dyeing your hair and cutting it short would help to somewhat conceal your identity. Short enough, and perhaps you could even be mistaken for a man, at least at a first quick glance. 

The little girl left a dagger and a small, rusty, hand-held mirror by your legs and disappeared from your cabin in complete silence, as if she was never there in the first place. They were like ghosts, this crew of children. Everything was so quiet all the time, with only your thoughts and the ocean waves to accompany you.

You unbraided your hair and shook it loose. Hair carried memories. Memories of Catelyn showing you how hair was done in the Riverlands, memories of Benjen tugging at your hair to tease you, memories of Jaime commenting on how your hair was a lovely shade of animal waste. That had been grumpily remarked earlier on, when you and Brienne were escorting him to King’s Landing. Before Locke and Roose Bolton and… Robb. 

You propped up the rust-spotted mirror against the wall and scooped up the dagger. The reflection that met you was only barely recognizable. You looked so tired. With a resigned sigh, you began to slice off your hair with the sharp blade. Handfuls fell to the ground. You sliced and sliced until your head felt light and your neck was bare. It’s never been this short before. If Benjen were here, you knew he would surely laugh at you. Brandon would comment that he never knew he had another brother. 

Yes, you thought. I can surely pass as a man if I wanted to. Though you certainly shared many features with your sister, you hadn’t the wild beauty Lyanna had. No, you were far plainer than her, colder and sharper than she was. Nothing worthy to note—though your father, quiet as a man he was, once told you that you looked the most like your mother out of all your siblings. That had made you feel more beautiful than anything. 

Plain was good, though. Plain meant no eyes would be drawn to you. 

You weren’t too sure what color your hair would turn with this dye. You lathered the thick paste over your newly-cut strands, massaging it into your scalp. Your nose twitched from the strong odor—not entirely unpleasant, but also wasn’t a delight breathing in.

As you rinsed your hands of the dye, your skin was left with a slight copperish stain. You stared at the color with sad eyes—would your hair turn out red like Cat’s? Like all your nephews and Sansa?

And, like a fool, you wondered if Jaime would like short, red hair. He wouldn’t care much, you found yourself thinking, perhaps wishfully so. Did you want him to care?

Two children brought you food—rations of dried meat and crusty bread. You wolfed half of it down and handed them the other half. Though they couldn’t speak, the children made for pleasant company. Or perhaps you were just lonely. It was hard to tell.

After eating, you rinsed out the hair dye and wrung the water out with a cloth over the edge of the ship. The cloth came away stained bright red. You retreated back into the cabin to look at the mirror. 

It was a shock to see your hair resemble Catelyn’s. It was darker than hers had been, but the auburn, orange-red sheen to your head was unmistakable. You looked like a Tully! You nearly laughed with amazement, but any sort of joy was short-lived, and you lapsed into more silence.

You laid on the rickety bed, thinking of Winterfell and your now-scattered family. Robb and Ned and Cat and the younglings Bran and Rickon might have been taken from you, but… you still had family left. Sansa and Arya could very well be scattered somewhere in the Seven Kingdoms, alive and breathing. Jon, at the Wall, as well. At least, you hoped. It’d been so long since your time sending letters to the young boy. Was he hurt that you stopped sending them so suddenly?

Tears pricked the corner of your eyes, and you drew your knees to your chest, willing yourself into a restless slumber.

Days came and went. The little children were growing more agitated, fluttering about the boat with wide eyes and quick feet. They tossed nets overboard into the water—masquerading the boat as a fishing vessel, you assumed. There were many ships out and about Blackwater Bay. Some carried banners of houses loyal to the crown, and others were bannerless. Pirates or fishermen, you couldn’t tell. 

So far, all other ships have passed by quietly. But the risk grew with each day. You knew Tywin and Cersei would likely order more fleets to be sent after you, Sansa, and Tyrion. The chances of you being found on water would grow each day—and you couldn’t risk becoming a prisoner again. Jaime wouldn’t be able to help you escape a second time, not with Cersei around.

At least on foot… you had somewhere to run. Being on sea left you nothing but water for miles on end. 

And so you told the silent children to let you off at the nearest fishing port. Some part of you wondered if they would object, but they stared at you with round, moon eyes and nodded. You didn’t know whether to thank or damn Varys. 

The ship docked in the dead of night, half a mile from Duskendale. One of the little children handed you a map and tapped at where they’d leave you. A pouch full of food rations, more dye, and other necessities was left on your cot. You thanked the child endlessly, who seemed not to hear your gratitude and scuttled away. You grabbed the pouch, the dagger, the bow and quiver full of arrows Varys had presumably left you, and slipped into a large cloak. 

Land felt like it was lurching beneath your feet once you stepped onto the pier. Your body was used to the swaying motions of the waters, and would take some time to adjust. You gingerly shook one of your booted feet. The children watched you disembark on wobbly legs, but you dared not wave back at them. 

Despite it being nighttime, the docks were busier than ever. Fishermen and merchants littered all over the shore, some selling products and entertainment and others working hard to gather more to sell before day broke. You steeled yourself with a deep breath, and made your way through the busy crowd. 

You began trekking your way North towards the Eyrie, the hood of your cloak pulled over your short, red hair.

It took nearly three weeks for you to reach the Crossroads. Nightfall was nearing when you strode in front of the inn, the sky a mirage of bleeding reds from the setting sun and moody greys from the rainclouds. The air smelled of mud and rusted metal. It was certainly no grand castle, but a modest bed was better than sleeping on the cold dirt you’ve been curled up on the past several days. There was a young girl and a dark-haired boy by the front that looked somewhat like your memory of Robert Baratheon twenty-some years ago. At first, the boy denied your request for shelter, but reluctantly clammed up once you offered him some gold, worth more than it ever could in times of war. The two let you pass with not a word more.

Greeting you inside was a ruckus of loud children. Parentless, you realized, as there were none to be seen within the inn’s walls. An inn full of orphans, you thought with a touch of sadness. In that regard you supposed you shared a similarity with all of them. 

Just as you slipped onto one of the creaking wooden stools to momentarily rest your weary feet, you overheard a voice. A familiar voice. Low and raspy and unmistakably—

Brienne, you thought, wide-eyed. But she wasn’t alone. A young boy was by her side, yes, that was Podrick, and an older man—a knight, by the looks of his armor, and an even older septon with grey hair and a hunched back. What a queer party Brienne was leading. She was supping on porridge and salted cod. 

The impulsive part of you wanted to call out for her and rush to her side, ask if she had found any sign of Sansa, or if she had made any progress on her quest. Instead, you drew in a deep breath, and stood from your stool to take a seat across from Podrick whilst Brienne was busy speaking to the knight. The young squire made a half-gasping, half-choking noise once his eyes raised from the cup he was draining to your cold eyes, recognizing you immediately. You discreetly lifted a finger to your lips to silence him. His eyes went moon-round and he nodded once. 

Brienne ignored the knight’s constant jabbering about lips and marriage and castles full of children, and turned to look at her squire in mild concern of him choking on a fish bone. But her eyes landed on you, and her mouth dropped open.

She was very near to bowing her head and saying, “My lady.” But she didn’t, knowing it would draw far too much attention, and stared at you with utter confusion plain over her features.

“Hello,” you said to her. “It has been a while, Brienne.”

“Do you know each other?” the knight bumped in. He spooned some porridge into his mouth.

“Brienne and I were childhood friends on Tarth,” you lied. “I was the son of a cook. A nobody in truth, but Brienne was kind enough to befriend me.”

Brienne was no good at lying, you knew this, but she nodded along to your story. 

The knight looked you over. “A little runt boy and a grand beast of a girl. The two of you must have been a sight.”

You could only offer him half a shrug at that.

“What brings you here?” Brienne carefully asked you. 

“Someone helped me leave,” you responded with equal caution. Avoiding the knight’s curious eyes, you leaned closer to Brienne. “Is there a place for us to speak with fewer naked children milling about?”

Being around Varys’ little birds for long enough taught you that children were oft smarter than they looked. Somewhere to your right, you saw one of the little orphan boys stick a nut inside his nostril. 

Brienne nodded and led you just outside, away from prying ears and eyes. There, you told her everything. From Tyrion’s trial, to Oberyn’s death, to Cersei demanding you to be locked up or killed (whichever suited her taste that day), to Jaime helping you escape, to the birds on the boat, to your journey here. In turn, Brienne told you of her lengthy journey and what she had found on the way. Mostly nothing, lots of war and skirmishes. Sandor Clegane was dead, but Arya had been with him soon before that… not Sansa. The thought of Arya somewhere out there alive, sparked dangerous hope within your chest.

“Varys says Sansa is in the Eyrie, masquerading as Baelish’s bastard daughter.” The thought revolted you. “But I do wonder if the Eyrie is a trap of sorts. I cannot trust Varys. He certainly is no friend of the Lannisters, but neither is he their enemy. For all I know, he may be conspiring with dragons and grumpkins.”

“Sansa would be safe with her Aunt Lysa there, right?” Brienne asked, though even she sounded doubtful of her own question.

“I can’t quite say,” you said, brows furrowed. “Lysa is an unpredictable woman. Frightened and secluded is never a good combination of characteristics. Even so, I doubt Sansa would make her way home up North without being intercepted. It wouldn’t hurt to check the Vale first.”

Brienne nodded solemnly. “We can make our way first thing in the morning. For now, you must rest, my lady. You must be exhausted.”

The sudden reminder of the limitations of your body made your knees wobble. The past few days had you running on little else than adrenaline, fear, and meager portions of salted foods. 

“I missed you, Brienne,” you whispered, looking up at her. “I fear trusted friends are few and far in between in these times.” Not that you ever had many friends to begin with. Everyone had always been so afraid of you—something Brienne could relate to.

 The term friend dusted pink over Brienne’s large, crooked nose and broad, freckled cheekbones. She was certainly not pretty, not by a long shot, but that was of no matter to you. She was the most beautiful blessing you could have possibly encountered—your chances of survival and finding Sansa were far better with Brienne by your side.

“I missed you, as well,” Brienne managed to choke out after many moments of stunned silence. She had never been good with niceties. “Podrick has been company enough, but the boy is young and easily frightened.”

“I’m frightened, too,” you admitted. “One would be a fool not to be, with enemies at every turn. Young, however, is a trait I have long outgrown.”

Brienne looked up at the night sky. “Youth was a curse on me. I always looked older than I was.”

“Me, as well,” you mused with a thoughtful hum. Memories of the lords and ladies living at Winterfell’s court whispering behind your back… sending you strange looks of distant pity… veering far out of your way in fear of you… it weighed heavy on you, especially in your younger years. “My anger has aged me a decade, I think.”

Before Brienne could respond, there came a commotion of noise. Men on horses, their hooves schlocking through mud and puddles. Instinctively, you drew the cowl of your hood up over your head. They are armed, these men, you thought with grim unease. And there were many of them, just above half a dozen. Far too many for you and Brienne to take alone.

Brienne drew in a sharp breath at the sight of them and unsheathed Oathkeeper. She stepped in front of you before you could even begin to react. The biggest man of the party was so hefty that his beaten horse buckled and shook beneath the sheer force of his weight. His pale face was torn and wept with pus and blood. But Brienne’s eyes were drawn to his snarling helm—with its dull metal nose and sharp teeth of steel. It was the Hound’s property but the man wearing it was certainly no Hound.

The sky grew darker and the storm clouds thundered up above. The young girl that had greeted you into the inn had slammed the door open, now holding a crossbow. Whatever she was screaming was lost to the rain and thunder. 

“Loose a quarrel at me and I’ll shove that crossbow up your cunt and fuck you with it. Then I’ll pop your fucking eyes out and make you eat them,” raged the man, his voice nearly as loud as the booming in the sky. Your chest rose and fell in silence as you slowly reached behind you to unsling your bow. 

“Leave her be,” called out Brienne, drawing their attention. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The outlaws laughed and chortled at that. One japed about fucking horses before fucking her. The rest of their words were unintelligible to you as you focused on drawing an arrow without pulling too much attention to yourself. It proved to be a difficult task when there were seven pairs of eyes trained on Brienne, and, consequently, you, as well.

Brienne said something you couldn’t catch, leaving the man with the helm fuming. He charged forward through the mud. Brienne shuffled away from you—she needed the man to come to her, but not to get too close to you. You were her priority now.

A song of steel screeched through the rain-torn wind as their swords clashed. Brienne managed to cut through the rags of his tunic and slash a gaping hole in his cheap chainmail just before she just barely evaded his swinging axe. The man was screaming expletives at her—whore, bitch, freak. 

You nocked the arrow with not a second thought.

Then the drawstring was split in two and you were left with a useless bow. One of the outlaws had made his way to you whilst you were concentrating on the man with the helm—and broke your favored weapon. 

“Shhh,” he crooned as he laid the cold, wet blade of the knife he used to cut your bow against your throat. “Enjoy and watch the show, boy.” He must have thought you were one of the orphans that lived here—and not much of a threat, considering he pulled the knife away from you and made a show of pointing it towards Brienne and her attacker. “It’s not every day you see a woman like her battle a man like him.”

You nodded, playing along. You still had the dagger you used to cut your hair tucked against your hip. It was a touch too dull for your liking, but it would have to do for now. You had no other choice. With the man’s eyes drawn back to their messy duel, you drew its blade and drove it forth, straight into throat. His arms flailed for a second before clawing at your face and chest. Pain bloomed over your skin. If you were bleeding, you couldn’t feel it—not with all the rain pouring over you. You savagely tore the dagger out from his throat and drove it through his chest again and again and again. From your peripheral vision, you could see Brienne parry over and over, stab this way and that—and finally skewer her longsword straight through him until its pointy end protruded out his back.

You continued stabbing the man until he fell to the ground in a limp, bloodied heap. Even then you didn’t stop—straddling his waist and bringing the dagger down in furious strokes. It occurred to you that the other men would be upon Brienne a second too late—when you swung around, she was swarmed by the rest of them. 

“Eddard!” she called, immediately halting you in your assault on the long-dead outlaw. It took you a moment to realize that she was addressing you, not wanting to call out your actual name. “Run! Run, now!”

Two of the outlaws were coming towards you.

“Brienne!” you yelled just as one of them sliced a cut through her shoulder she couldn’t properly roll away from. The rest of your protests caught in your throat when you watched one of them—one with wild eyes that had irises too small and teeth filed sharp—dive forward onto Brienne, sending her crashing to the ground. He bit a chunk of her face right off. 

More men surrounded her. Punching, kicking, and slicing at your friend. No, you couldn’t see her anymore, where is she? Get up, Brienne, get up…

“GO!” you could hear her muffled voice scream. “NED, GO!”

No, no, no…

But if you stayed, you would be dead, as well. One of the outlaws made a grab for you, but you danced back. If not for the two slipping on the watery mud the very next second, you would have been dead.

With your heart beating in your throat, you turned on your heel and fled.

What was a kingsguard without his king? Jaime hadn’t been happy to be sent off to the Riverlands again—his place was beside Tommen. The boy-king with a golden crown sitting atop his golden curls. Cersei had insisted on him leaving, however. She’d grown more restless, more paranoid, more snappy since their father’s death. Lancel, his fool of a cousin, was now a religious fanatic who seemed to be intent on fasting until he passed from starvation, and had confessed his sins of lying with Cersei. Apparently he was not the only one. The Kettleblack brothers, the court fools, and hells, even serving girls, if word of mouth was to be trusted. 

He felt a fool for ever loving her. And now she had kicked him out of the castle and away from his duty like one would a dirty mongrel.

Let her run the kingdom to ruin. See if I care.

Jaime wearily pulled at his face. That was the problem—he did care, and he knew he did. Cersei on the throne would mean little good for anybody. Not for his little brother, not for Brienne, not for you. He hoped you were safe, wherever you were.

The knight with one hand had had a long day, even though it was not yet nightfall. He had spoken to the Blackfish, Brynden Tully, in hopes of making some sort of negotiation. Perhaps goad him into a duel of single-combat and spare everyone of the grueling boredom that came with a slow siege. Expectedly, the wind-beaten lord took none of the bait and retreated back into his castle. Then, he had a short, but explosive council meeting with a few of the riverlords. They squabbled over each other like mindless birds over a piece of half-baked bread. Jaime couldn’t help but wonder what his father would do in his shoes, but was quick to relinquish such a thought. Tywin Lannister would never be in this position in the first place. And he was dead, which was perhaps the more important bit. After the council, he paid a visit to Ryman Frey, who was preoccupied fucking some whore who called herself a Queen. He had the big oaf dismissed for wasting so much time and resources, then named his son, Edwyn, command of the siege. He ordered young Edwyn to tell his great-grandsire, Walder Frey, to release all the prisoners for the crown. There was no undoing the Red Wedding, but he could, at the very least, attempt to rectify the troubles it left in its wake.

And now—now Jaime had one more person to visit.

It was his aunt, Genna Lannister, who had urged Jaime to do something about the sullen man with the noose loosely wrapped around his throat. In his state, he posed no danger physically. As a symbol, however, Edmure Tully, was a great danger to the cause. His cause? Jaime wasn’t entirely sure what he was fighting for anymore. It certainly didn’t feel like he was protecting Tommen from all these leagues away from him. His golden hand felt so very heavy strapped onto his stump—why did he still bother carrying it around?

Ilyn Payne made quick work of cutting Edmure Tully down from the wooden gallows he was perched upon. His hair, scraggly and red, hung in limp clumps over his dirtied, bloody face. Eyes deep blue, heavy with exhaustion. Jaime couldn’t help but think of Robb Stark at the sight of him. Gods, they looked alike.

Jaime had Edmure pulled through the tents and mass of Freys and other rivermen alike. One japed about a fish on a leash. A young man holding an instrument was amongst the throng of stares, and he ordered the singer to follow, and the lad obediently did. Onto a ferry they went, where the vessel would carry them to Tumblestone.

“Why?” Edmure has croaked, gripping weakly onto Jaime’s arm. 

“Consider it a wedding gift,” Jaime replied. 

The Tully eyed him warily. “A wedding gift?”

“I’ve heard your wife is pretty. She’d have to be, for the two of you to be abed whilst your sister and king were being murdered.” Jaime gave him a wry look. 

“I never knew. There were musicians outside the bedchamber, I couldn’t…”

“I’m sure Lady Roslin made for a grand distraction, as well.”

At the crass insinuation, however truthful, Edmure frowned and pulled away from the knight. “They made her do it. She had little say in the matter. Roslin never wanted any of it to happen. She wept the entire night, but I thought…”

“You thought it was your rampant manhood that swayed her to tears? It’s a sight any woman would weep to, I’m sure.”

Edmure hung his head. “She is carrying my child.”

Your child or your death? Jaime thought, but tastefully decided not to say it out loud. Not yet. Instead, he asked, “Your king-nephew, Robb. Did he ever speak of his aunt before his end?”

Edmure lifted his gaze to the kingslayer at that. “The Bitter Wolf?” He thought for a moment, eyes distant. “No. She was hardly ever brought up. Robb didn’t like to speak of her. Not after her betrayal with your freedom. If he did speak of her, it would’ve been with Catelyn.”

“Who is now dead,” Jaime dryly said.

“Yes,” Edmured replied, letting his gaze drift down to the waters. 

“Much help you are.”

“Where is she now? The Bitter Wolf.” 

Jaime saw no point in lying to him. “I don’t know.”

The rest of the ferry trip was spent in silence.

Once at his pavilion, Jaime dismissed Ilyn, but kept the singer around. He ordered the servants there to boil bathwater for the honored guest, and had clean garments brought to him, along with warm food and sweet wine. Edmure still couldn’t quite comprehend why exactly Jaime Lannister was being so courteous, but couldn’t deny himself the pleasure of cleanliness. He clambered into the tub and started scrubbing the grime off his skin.

Jaime pulled up a chair to sit beside him. “After you’re clean and your belly is full, you will be escorted to Riverrun. What happens after that is up to you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t,” said Jaime. “Your uncle is old. Valiant, admittedly, but his best years are behind him. He has no wife to grieve for him, nor children to succeed him. A good death is the most the Blackfish can wish for. You, however, have many years remaining to you. You are the rightful heir to House Tully, not him. Your uncle serves you, by law. Riverrun’s fate is in your hands.”

Edmure blinked at him. “I don’t…”

“Understand, I presume? All that time with a rope around your neck must have strangled you of all your wits.” Jaime was growing impatient. “You must yield the castle. Yield, and nobody dies. The smallfolk will be allowed to leave in peace, or they may serve Lord Emmon and his lady-wife, my aunt. Ser Brynden will be allowed to take the black and join the Night’s Watch, with as many of the garrison that choose to join. You, as well. The Wall is in dire need of more hands, I’ve heard. If that is not to your tastes, you may go to Casterly Rock as my captive and enjoy all the comforts and courtesy that befits a hostage of your rank. Your wife may join you. If your sire is a boy, he will serve House Lannister as a squire. Once he comes of age, he is welcome to earn his knighthood, along with some lands I will bestow upon him. If Roslin bears you a daughter, she will be well dowered until she is old enough to wed a fitting lord. You may be granted parole, even, once the war is done. All this only if you yield the castle.”

The water steamed and sloshed in the tub as Edmure gingerly shifted about. “And if I will not yield?”

The servants and squires were all listening. The singer watched the two speak with wide eyes. No matter. Let them all hear it.

“You’ve seen our numbers, Edmure. The ladders, the towers, the trebuchets, the rams. If I speak the command, my cousin will bridge your moat and break your gate. Blood will spill. Hundreds will die, most being your own people. Your former bannermen will be the first wave of attackers, so you will start your day by killing fathers, brothers, and sons of men who died for you at the Twins. The second wave will be Freys, and there are plenty of them to spare. My westermen will be the third once your archers are exhausted of arrows and your knights so weary their blades will no longer lift from the ground. The castle will fall, and all inside will be put to the sword. Your livestock will be butchered. Your river will rot with corpses. Your godswood will fall. Your keeps and inventories will burn.” Jaime swallowed as he said the next words. It was true that he did not actually mean to do it, but a threat was a threat, and words are wind. “Your wife may have the child before any of this. You’ll want the babe, I presume. I can send him to you once he’s born. With a trebuchet.”

There came a lengthy silence. Edmure was still in the bath. All the servants and squires stared in horror. 

Genna had told him earlier that he was not his father’s son. Tyrion was more Tywin’s than he could ever dream to be. Would her mind change if she had heard his speech? Was this what Tywin would have done? 

“I could climb out of this tub and kill you right as you are, Kingslayer,” said Edmure, once he finally regained his wits about him.

“You could try,” Jaime calmly replied. The man made no move, so Jaime pushed himself back to his feet. “Enjoy your food. Singer, play for our guest while he eats. You know the song, I trust.”

“The one about rain? Yes, my lord, I know it.”

Edmure’s head swiveled between the singer and Jaime. “No. I don’t want him. Get him away from me.” The tub water sloshed some more. 

“Why, it’s just a song, Lord Tully,” said Jaime, feigning innocence. “His voice couldn’t be that bad.”

The knight left his pavilion with the beginnings of Rains of Castamere playing faintly behind him.

The inns you came across the road were growing sparse. Many had been torched, ransacked, abandoned, or torn down. War left much of the Riverlands in ruins. Though you were none too happy about the state of the lands, pillaged, empty villages meant there would be fewer people loitering about, which was all the better for you.

You had managed to outrun the outlaws through the cover of the storm and ruins. It was only when the rain cleared away did you let yourself sit down and silently cry for Brienne. None deserved a fate like that. She was so undeniably good, more honorable than any other man you’ve ever met—and yet her face was torn apart and now she was dead.

Eventually, you made it out of the Riverlands and began to travel along the high road up to the Eyrie. It was the safest option to get there—the mountains were hardly on the table to walk through on your own, considering it was likely running amok with clansmen and thieves of all sorts. Even on the high road, the terrain was far more mountainous than the relatively-level grounds of the riverlands, and the incline noticeably steeper. You were traveling at a much slower pace than before, growing ragged and tired with shorter distances. 

On the third day on the narrow pathway towards the Bloody Gate, you came across two men on a cart. Merchants, perhaps. You spied the stacked wine casks in the back of the cart, wondering if they were empty. Surely they must be, you thought. The Vale is not likely to make any wine of their own, not with mountains as sheer as theirs. 

As their cart slowly rolled by, being pulled by braying donkeys, you overheard one of the men say, “A singer, it’s said!”

“A singer?” the other merchant echoed.

“Yes, a singer! They say he shoved Lady Arryn right off a mountain.” 

Lady Arryn? Your ears perked up at that. Did they mean Lysa?

He glanced at his companion dubiously. “I heard she threw herself out the door once she confessed her love to him.”

“That’s nonsense, have you seen the way she grips that sickly whelp of hers? She would never throw herself to her death whilst little Robin lives.”

That confirmed it. Lysa is dead?

“If I had a son like that, I’d do the very same,” he grumbled.

“Wait! Good sers!” you exclaimed, turning back to hurry after the cart. The donkeys whined protest as they were pulled to a slow stop. They both glanced back at you with wide, curious eyes.

“Sers?” The one with mousy brown hair piped up with a laugh lodged in his throat. “We are no knights.”

“Apologies, it’s a habit now, I fear. I simply wanted to know—” You stopped in your tracks. “What were you saying about Lady Arryn?”

“She’s dead, she is,” the older of the two merchants told you. His nose was crooked in three different places. “Out the Moon Door—or off the mountain—she flew.”

You stared at them for a moment, trying to gauge whether they were being serious or not. Tall tales such as this were not uncommon amongst the lowborn. “And who now rules in her stead?”

“Little Lord Robin is young still—”

“And far too sickly!”

“—Until he comes of age, Lord Petyr Baelish is Lord of the Vale.”

Littlefinger. The realization dawned on you with great unease as you recalled his infatuation with your good-sister and his alliances with the crown. Lannister crowns. This was no good… no good at all…

“Thank you,” you told the merchants. “That’s good to know.”

“Where are you off to?” said the younger one.

“Runestone,” you lied. “I have family there.” 

That seemed to appease them well enough. The one with brown hair waved farewell as he set the donkeys back into motion. You silently thanked the Gods for coming across decent men. You watched the cart of wine caskets descend down the path.

Now what? You could hardly stroll straight into the Vale now—not with the threat of Littlefinger handing you right back into Cersei’s mad hands. Should you even trust these rumors, though? Perhaps the septon at the Bloody Gate could clarify the situation for you. Surely he would tell you the truth. But getting there would take weeks, and you certainly didn’t have that sort of time. If word of Littlefinger’s rule in the Eyrie was true, you would be wasting even more time doubling back to escape. And if he heard of your presence in the Vale there was no telling what he would do… have you locked up and sent to Cersei in a cage? 

But what about Sansa? Your heart shattered at the thought of leaving her alone at the Eyrie with Baelish. You had to be smart about this. Even if Sansa was in the Vale, and if you managed to get to her, and if you could whisk her out of the castle undetected, there was nowhere for the two of you to go that would be safe. Sansa wouldn’t last a fortnight out in the wilderness. Gods forbid, but perhaps it was best for her to stay in the Eyrie until you managed to find a stronghold that would keep her safe and protected. 

Then again, she could just as likely be elsewhere in Westeros. Arya, too. Gods, you wished Brienne was with you. You could still see the blood spurting from her face, her screams cracking through the thunderous air. 

Damn you, Jaime. You should have come with me, you said to yourself, knowing it was a foolish chain of thought. He wouldn’t be much help, anyway. All he did when we traveled together was complain and find new ways to irritate me. 

You lingered on the path for a few more moments. Then, you frustratedly gestured to nobody, made a noise of displeasure, and turned to follow after the wine merchants. 

Back to the Riverlands you went.

Riverrun was now taken, but at a great cost. Brynden the Blackfish had escaped. All thanks to Jaime’s carelessness and Edmure’s wit. This would never have happened if Tywin was around, Jaime couldn’t help but lament. It was no wonder his aunt Genna told him he was nothing like his father. 

He was a fool, and his father knew it.

After a series of threats to both Edmure and his wife, the Tully lord managed to sullenly tell him what he knew of the Blackfish’s whereabouts. Which, to Jaime’s dismay, was very little. 

“He swam away,” Edmure had told him. He had the very same blue eyes as Catelyn did, as well as Robb. The very same look of loathing in them, as well. There was a time when you looked at him like that. “The Water Gate’s portcullis was raised. Not enough to be noticed, only three feet or so. My uncle is a strong swimmer. He pulled himself beneath the spikes and I can only assume the current helped him from there.”

Damn it all.

Jaime had hounds and hunters on the prowl for the Blackfish, but he had little hope of catching him. And Edmure was to be heading west the following morning. Jaime was glad to be rid of him, though he worried that the man would slip through the guards he would be traveling with. The knight wasn’t too keen on hunting for the Tully a third time.

News of Ryman Frey’s death was brought to him by young Edwyn, the former’s son. Hanged, apparently, by a band of outlaws nearby Fairmarket, which was boldly close by. Thoros, or Dondarrion, or this mysterious Stoneheart woman. There was little to do about the matter now—Jaime ordered more guards posted and that was that. 

That night, he practiced his shoddy, left-handed swordsmanship with the silent Ilyn Payne. He managed to last a grand total of three hours before giving into his cramping muscles’ begs for a rest. Afterwards, he poured the both of them cups full of Hoster Tully’s wine, and told Payne of how he used to kiss his sister when they were children. It was innocent at first, until it wasn’t. It felt nice being able to freely tell someone of everything knowing he couldn’t possibly relay such information to anybody else—Payne’s lack of a tongue ironically made Jaime chattier than ever. 

“Tyrion once told me that whores oft avoid kissing their patrons. They’ll fuck you until your legs fall off, he said, but they keep their lips far from yours. It’s what separates work from real romance. I wonder if my sister ever kissed Kettleblack.” Jaime thought for a long moment. “I kissed the Bitter Wolf.”

Payne spared him no reaction.

“She was crying.” Jaime took a sip of wine, leaving out the fact that he had shed a tear or two. “Not because of the kiss, though. I hope not, at least. I’m not that bad of a kisser. Cersei never cried when we kissed.” Though, after he said that, he realized basing his assumptions around Cersei wasn’t a particularly smart thing to do. You and Cersei were many leagues apart from one another.

Payne drained his cup and gestured for Jaime to refill it.

As he did, Jaime went on. “If not for Tyrion’s reckless call for a trial by combat, I would have married her. The Bitter Wolf. We would be at Casterly Rock, and Tyrion would be at the Wall, and my father would still be alive, and my son would sit the Iron Throne, and all would be well. Or not. Cersei would make matters difficult. I doubt Y/N would be pleased about her predicament, either, come to think of it.”

He decided to change the subject back to Kettleblack when Payne’s silence stretched for a little while longer.

“It would be ill-fitting to slay mine own Sworn Brother. I should geld him and send him to the Wall—make up for Tyrion’s loss in some way. He’s been to the Wall, perhaps he had no taste for returning. It’s bloody cold there, I’ve heard. Of course, if I were to lay a hand on Osmund, there would be his brothers to consider, as well. Brothers can be dangerous. Aegon the Unworthy had Ser Terrence Toyne dismembered into pieces after finding him abed with his mistress, and forced her to watch. Toyne’s brothers tried to kill the King for it, though their plans were ultimately foiled by the Dragonknight. It’s written in the White Book. All of it, including every knightly deed and chivalrous act. It doesn’t tell me what to do with Cersei, though.”

Ilyn dragged a finger across his scarred throat.

“No,” Jaime said. “Tommen has already lost a brother, and the man he thinks is his father. If his mother were to die by my hand, he would hate me for it. I’m sure his sweet little wife would use that hatred to her benefit, as well.”

An ugly smile stretched at Ilyn’s thin lips. Jaime misliked the crude gleam in his eye. 

“You talk too much,” Jaime told the mute.

The next night, Jaime found himself in Hoster Tully’s solar, looking over a map, wondering where the Blackfish could have gone. Many of his hunters had returned that morning, torn and bleeding. Direwolves, they had told him. A monstrous pack with a large she-wolf leading them. He wondered if that could have been the wolf that had mauled Joffrey what had felt like a lifetime ago. 

In consequence, Jaime couldn’t help but wonder about you. Did the direwolves like you at all? He strained his mind to remember, but couldn’t seem to recall. It confused him when his chest constricted at the thought of forgetting you.

The war was practically won. Dragonstone was taken, and Storm’s End would be very soon. Stannis was welcome to the cold fruits of the Wall—if Roose Bolton hadn’t already destroyed him. And the Riverlands were successfully taken without Jaime ever having to raise a sword against neither Stark nor Tully. All in all, he was to be content.

But where did that place you? Once everything calmed down, what would happen to you? To Sansa, who surely deserved no harm that would come to her? She was just a young girl and you… you were far from the paragon of innocence, to be certain, but surely he could have Tommen pardon you for any of your crimes. Your crimes being allegiance to your own nephew, which Jaime could hardly fault you for.

Then again, Cersei was the problem. There was no chance she would sit idly by and let you live. Once he returned to King’s Landing, he had to find a way to whisk Tommen from her crutches before he would turn as corrupt as Joffrey. A new council full of abled men would be in order, as well. 

More and more days passed. Jaime had the entire Tully garrison safely released from their keep, which displeased his Aunt Genna greatly, but Jaime was intent on letting them go. There was little harm they could do when they were scattered, weaponless, and hungry.

 He dreamed of Cersei most nights. Of her golden hair, which then molded into golden hands. In his dreams, he always had two hands. Sometimes touching her, stroking her, holding her—dreamy memories of old. Sometimes he was strangling her, which he certainly had never done before.

Other nights he dreamed of Brienne. Her big, brutish face red with rage and exhaustion. She would swing Oathkeeper at his neck and he awoke just before his head rolled off his shoulders.

Some of the nights, however scarce they were, were far more precious. He dreamt of you, your hair freckled with snow, your eyes alight as you watched children play beneath you. He was in Winterfell, he realized, and with a shocked start looked back down at the children. His? No. They were your nieces and nephews, of course. Their faces were a blur, but their red hair was unmistakable. Save for the littlest girl and the bastard boy. Snow, Jaime remembered. 

“We should have one,” your dream-self said to him, so serious that Jaime wondered if it was actually you standing there in front of him. “A little wolf-lion.”

Did Jaime want that? Would they have golden hair like his? Like Joffrey, Myrcella, and Tommen? But how could he have another child when he was never a father to the ones he already had? It felt wrong to even consider it. Dishonorable. Any romantic notion of a normal life with you was quickly dashed.

“I know we can’t,” you continued on before he could respond. “They’re all dead.” You gestured down to the Starklings. “And I’ll be joining them soon. But it’s a nice thought, isn’t it?”

“No—” he said, reaching out to you, but you had already faded into a blur.

Not all of his dreams with you were as bleak. Once he was abed with you, and another time he was bound by rope as you pointed an arrow at his forehead while he cackled maniacally. 

A week after releasing the last of the garrison, Jaime woke up with a start after dreaming about a cloaked figure that looked eerily similar to Cersei, though he knew it wasn’t her. His mother spoke soft riddles, where Cersei would bark harsh insults. He couldn’t quite tell which he favored. He threw the covers off him with his stump.

The room was frigid. The hearth’s warmth had waned away and the windows had been left pushed open when he fell asleep. In the darkness, Jaime made his way to close the shutters, but his foot touched against a wetness on the ground. Blood had been his first thought, but blood would not be so cold. Rain, perhaps, but he would have heard the sound of pattering coming from outside.

Jaime drew the damp curtains apart, letting the moonlight stream through. Moonlight and snow. Down below, the yard was spotting with white, growing thicker and thicker in the minutes he watched. After a moment, he even began to see his breath misting in front of him.

Winter is here, he thought. Marching south, and our granaries are half empty.

He watched the snow fall, and stood there thinking of you. It irked him that you haunted his every thought. Nonetheless, he hoped you were warm, wherever you were. If he was as fanatically religious as his dear coz Lancel, he would have even prayed for your safety.

When morning dawned, Riverrun’s maester came to pay him a visit. He was pallid-faced and shaking.

“I know,” Jaime said, glancing at the bound letter in the old man’s quivering hands. “The Citadel has sent a white raven. Winter has come.”

“No, my lord,” said Maester Vyman. “The bird came from King’s Landing. Forgive me, I took the liberty to open it, I did not know it was meant for your eyes…”

Jaime took the letter and sat by the window to read. It was Qyburn’s hurried hand, but he knew it to be Cersei’s fevered words. 

Come at once. Help me. Save me. I need you now as I have never needed you before. I love you. I love you. I love you. Come at once.

“Does my lord wish to answer?” asked Vyman, hovering by the door.

A snowflake landed on the letter. He was reminded of the snowflakes in your hair, in his dream. It was quick to melt, blurring the inked words and streaking down the paper. 

Jaime rolled the paper back as tight as he could with his one hand, and handed it back to the maester. “No,” he said. “Put this in the fire.”

[slowd1ving]

KILLER ・゜゜MOZE NSFW

"All you are to me is a bleak obsession I am the mark intent on burning the street How many times can I ask you? How many days can I go without you?" Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs, even if the pair in question is a homicidal crow and a brokenhearted cryptologist. art by @ ma_mori74 on x!!! moze can we honestly e date? you’re so beautiful. You always make me laugh, you always make me smile. You literally make me want to become a better person I really enjoy every moment we spend together. My time has no value unless its spent with you. I tell everyone of my irls how awesome you are. Thank you for being you. (joke) (not really) this was kinda rushed so :3 errr consider this like part 3 of tales of a disgruntled corvid pairing: moze + male reader warnings: nsfw, male reader, mentions of blood/death/violence, alcohol consumption, jealousy wc: 4.5k  

HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST ・゜・NAVIGATION

Hǎoshì chéng shuāng. 好事成双. Good things come in pairs. 

Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on time—everyone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives. 

Moze’s good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that don’t need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building. 

The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often. 

Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantify—but to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance he’s been allotted. 

One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiu’s food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued it’s only by his own volition that he’s slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiu’s hands seeped green with pungent herbs. 

Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afresh—never one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guards—he quite liked the nondescript studio. It’s a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. He’s read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time. 

Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition. 

Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it might’ve been him there. 

Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiao’s eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disaster—an omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alas—

“Sure,” you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. “S’long as he pays rent.”

Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It can’t possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your house—an assassin, at that. You aren’t a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?

Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartment—still expecting him to vehemently shake his head. 

He signed the damned contract, and that was that.

“What’s got you sighing?” Jiaoqiu eyes him from where he’s pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and he’s suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morning—rippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. “I thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?”

Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries to—but it’s not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiu’s sentence. “Somehow.” 

“Right! Your dearest partner—” Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Moze’s eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. “—took pity on you, didn’t he?”

“Maybe.” The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itself—because why the hell did you agree to Feixiao’s request?

“Curious?” Of course he’s curious. 

“It’s not much of a surprise, really,” the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. “Poor thing’s probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he would’ve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiao’s mouth at that point.”

The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell. 

“Wow, I thought you would’ve known. Guess what’s said at Qiu’er’s stays there too.” Jiaoqiu’s golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didn’t know. No, Moze isn’t currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. “Woah, don’t break those.”

The fox eyes the crow warily. “Seriously. Cool it.”

Eight: you’re still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really can’t catch a break from bad men. 

“That includes you, you know,” Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. “You don’t have a chance, so don’t even try.”

“The hell are you talking about?” For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume he’s affronted at Jiaoqiu’s response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those who’ve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that it’s unnoticeable. But these aren’t things the assassin really takes stock of. 

For a brief moment, Jiaoqiu’s friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? “...Okay.”

And that is how the tall man—hunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too cold—first learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, it’s a chance to digest this information he’s learnt. 

But he doesn’t care. 

He doesn’t. 

・゜゜

A painful month passes for Moze. 

There’s nothing else to describe it—psychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate him—two arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does. 

He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. There’s a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on you—a long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. He’s never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger  in the case of a borisin’s especially sharp senses—but he’s never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, it’s usually irritatedly—not like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth. 

Shit. He doesn’t quite know why his heart speeds up. 

The second thing he notices is that every week or so, there’s a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missions—a darker imprint just about peeking above the material. 

He’s not an idiot. He can put two and two together. 

The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is covered—but what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin. 

He doesn’t particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too. 

・゜゜

It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break. 

There’s a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnut—if you had to describe it—with the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that. 

“Don’t spill it,” the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You don’t shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)—you don’t even glance his way. 

“I feel like that was a redundant warning,” you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. It’s sweeter than it would’ve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. “Were you hoping I’d jump?”

“Yes.” Short. To the point. Laconic. That’s how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, and you still haven’t done the dishes.”

“It’s your turn,” he adds, because he likes seeing how this man’s expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your head—for it means Moze has won this little encounter. It’s all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason. 

“You suck.” Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face above—he doesn’t move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like you’re blowing him a kiss more than anything.

“And you need to clean and go to sleep before you’re late,” he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. He’d say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarbone—like some stupid fucking trophy. “Like you always are.”

“I’m never late, A-ze,” you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear you’re not drunk—so clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasn’t worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. “You’re just up stupid early.”

He goes silent, in the way he does when you’re right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfully—recovering far too quickly for his liking. 

“A-ze.” Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons. 

It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more. 

“What, you don’t hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping you’d turn tail and leave,” you sigh, theatrically despondent—much like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good. 

So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if that’ll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front. 

“Maybe you just like calling me that,” he breathes. There’s a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows he’s got a point, knows when he’s right. It’s unconscious—he’s far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you. 

“I do,” you murmur. “Bet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.”

“So you like me?” There’s an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by ‘day’, he’s glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you stand—practically nose to nose with the man in front of you.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,” you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skin—mingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. “It’s pity.”

“Pity?” he sneers. “Like how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? That’s not pitiful?”

“Like I said—” your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. “—don’t get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.”

His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means he’s feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away. 

He’s never been more thankful for his unwavering voice. 

“Don’t give bones to starving dogs,” he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. “They’ll bite.”

Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor. 

“So you’re a dog, now?” Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. There’s a strange sort of hunger in your gaze. 

He’s never seen it before. 

“No, it was proverbial—” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “—you know?”

“Just as desperate as one,” you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, it’s no wonder he flinches—and you stare at him, unimpressed. “If I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?”

“Hah—who would believe you?” It’s true, not many people would—but alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you. 

“Jiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.” And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different person—flushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. He’s staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips. 

“Don’t talk about him right now.”

And so, you don’t. 

・゜゜

This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene. 

Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isn’t a position he thought he’d ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higher—larynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been. 

You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But there’s also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lip—acrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste. 

When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesn’t need aid to feel that buzz). 

Languorous. That’s how he’d describe it—for it seems you only ever work lazily. There’s no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. There’s no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. There’s no hurry—but Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow. 

“Do you—do you even know what you’re doing?” he mocks, like he isn’t currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts. 

“Do I?” you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darkness—spot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of. 

“Do you have any experiences to compare it to?” you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point. 

No, that’s right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence. 

You’re harsh as winter. 

No, cruel.

Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistband—palming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your hand—fingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and he’s sure you can feel his own—pulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment. 

Or two. 

He’s inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen. 

Fucking his hand has never felt like this. 

As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. He’s breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his release—wet patch a testament to his sin. 

Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing. 

But he forgets how cruel you are. 

One final sweet kiss later—nails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheek—and you pull away with a lazy smile. 

“Go to sleep.” The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. “We’ve got a mission tomorrow, remember?”

Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. “And I still have to do the dishes, remember?”

He’s left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigid—but nothing could be as cold as what just occurred. 

What the hell? 

He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock. 

What the hell?

Seriously, there’s something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet. 

What the hell?

Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Moze’s fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously. 

The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?

・゜゜

All actions have consequences. 

That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange. 

The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You don’t speak of that evening, and neither does he—face flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)—but it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood. 

Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense. 

The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage. 

This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. It’s only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, he’s excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night. 

“A-ze. What do you want?” 

That’s the golden question—what snaps him out of the trance—and makes him realise he’s practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness. 

He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmur—but talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where he’s appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you. 

His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. “A-ze.” And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation. 

His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like you’ll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke. 

“Need you.” It’s not a plea—the rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. “Haven’t I behaved?”

He’s so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. He’s desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couch—too hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please. 

Pliant beneath your hands, it’s not exactly the longest time until he’s gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons. 

He’s so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.

It’s because he’s so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. You’ve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, he’s sucking you right in—paying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips. 

What a mess. 

Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He can’t even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when you’re so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. It’s not like you’re any better; each time you look down there’s that frothy ring that strings you two together. 

Emotionally, it’s also quite the mayhem. You don’t particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in them—a sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even now—pupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavily—he’s staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him. 

Fuck. 

“Come on, you—ah—can do better than that,” he taunts. As though he doesn’t look completely fucked-out, as though there aren’t tears leaking from his foggy eyes. You’re not sure where he gets his audaciousness from. 

He’s beautiful. 

“This is why no one likes you,” you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks. 

“Yeah?” he grins. “What does that say about you?”

“That I’m a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,” you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though it’s only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your back—marking you up just as much as you’ve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words. 

Well. 

You suppose you’ve always been drawn to the pathetic ones. 

・゜゜

[obae-me]

Human Things that Confuse the Non-Humans

I've seen a lot of headcanons on my feed recently that are all about demonic traits and things that seem to scare or facinate MC, but what about the opposite? So I was wondering what sort of typical human things might either unsettle the non-humans, confuse them, or enchant them in some way.

Most of these are based off of personal heasdcanons I already have, so it's very self indulgent.

If ya'll have any other ideas, feel free to share, I'd love to hear them.

Also not proof read cuz I'm writing this at like 5 am due to sleep issues.

------

Circadian Rythem. I've always wanted to bring up how I headcanon that the Devildom doesn't even follow a 24 hour schedule, since the 24 hour thing is entirely based around the sun, and since they don't have a sun, it makes sense that days would follow some other set rule (I always think that Devildom days are much much longer, hence why MC is caught so many times in canon just taking naps wherever even when Belphie is not around), but that's a headcanon for another time. Anyways, I think the fact that Humans almost need to follow a certain sleeping schedule would totally confuse the demons. Demons only really sleep to stay at their strongest, it's not as vital to them. And the fact that humans can die if they don't get the proper sleep? Totally freaks them out. If MC ever pulls an all-nighter, they all think they're one foot in the grave. Having Solomon and MC getting naturally sleepy more often than the non-humans do might seem pretty adorable at times though.

The fact that human hair does indeed shed. I don't personally think demon or angelic hair would, I feel like hair is something they can change at will within reason (There is a chat with Mammon about him getting his haircut, but he said he was going to change it, so I like to think he made it grow back instantly and cut it like normal again). So I like to think that MC or Solomon leaving strands of hair behind is shocking, because the non-humans only ever associated that trait with animals, but they also find it weirdly cute in a way. The demons and angels do try to ask to comb or brush Solomon's and/or MC's hair from time to time. They feel like they're helping.

Being able to roll (curl? Fold?) your tongue. I think it would be hilarious if despite the millions of other things demons and angels can do, none of them can roll their tongues. And then they get confused too when they discover that not every human can do it either, just certain ones. Solomon can do it and treats it like a party trick.

Allergies. I don't know if it's said in Canon anywhere that demons and angels can have allergies...I hope not because (as much as it sucks) it would make sense for it to just be a human thing. Just the concept entirely would have the non-human's heads spin. What do you mean certain things can just have your body essentially attack itself? And it's different for every human? It can be quite literally anything? (The non-humans would absolutely have a heart attack if they knew about mine)

Human mimicry. I think we as humans just have a natural instinct to mimic or repeat certain things. It's a lot more noticeable with internet culture and memes and references and things, but I think a very human thing to do is repeat or mock things we come into contact with. For example, if we hear an animal noise, we try to repeat it like we're talking to it. If we see something in a weird position, we might try to pose like it, etc. We try to relate to things, which is why personification is so prominent in everything we do. (Like how some of us tell wobbily objects to stay or loud machines to shut up) The non-humans think this is very cute. They don't really do that. The closest thing they might relate to is a current trend, but those pass by rather quickly. Mammon probably thinks we're almost like a bunch of crows.

Emotional control/suppression. Hear me out. It's well known in canon that the brothers blow up easily. They'll fight someone over miniscule things. Even Lucifer, who says he prides himself on his control, loses his temper quite often. And Mammon, while seemingly the best at controlling anger, is very open about all his other emotions. The only two demons that clearly have the best control overall are Barbatos and Diavolo who are the two most powerful demons in the Devildom. It probably takes so much energy and power to keep themselves in check. We hardly ever see that dark aura around them if at all in the game, which seems to give the two this unspoken common respect. As for angels, it was already mentioned once that the angels do have magical methods forcibly controlling emotions, and despite that, I'm sure it takes ages of training and practice to get to the level of "patient perfection" they're supposed to exhibit. Now, humans aren't perfect, and of course, there's a lot of nuance to this like mental illness I won't get into, but generally speaking, we quickly learn how to regulate our emotions or how to supress them for society's sake. At the very least, when we get angry we dont suddenly get surrounded by a dark shadow or shift into a different form. And I like to think this terrifies the non-humans to a degree. They don't know when humans are angry or upset until it's blatantly obvious. They already are off-put by Solomon because they never really know what he's up to. And what if it's not even because he's doing "weird" things, what if it's just because he seems to be so calm all the time and no one knows how to read him? None of them know how to read human body language. There's no aura to see, no puffed up wings, no glowing eyes, no whipping tails. Humans can just...stand there, sometimes with a blank expression, sometimes just staring. It can give even the stronger willed beings the creeps. Bonus points if MC is great at masking too. You mean humans can just...take extreme emotions and tuck them away for later? I'm sure that's an absolutely wild concept. Most of the non-humans are just not capable of that kind of control. Albeit its not always the healthiest option, but just the fact that humans have the willpower to just sometimes choose or force themselves not to feel at all is Barbatos level intimidating.

[strlvvr]

my best friend’s brother (is the one for me) - part two

part two!! i’m so excited for this series guys

word count: 945 words

read part one here !

⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚ ୭ৎ ⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚ ⋆｡˚

all i’ve been able to think about is the interaction between me and matt. the way he whispered in my ear, the hand on my back, the way he played with my hair, how he got up to “go to the bathroom”. i knew exactly why he had to get up. it was kinda hard to ignore honestly.

“i’m going to bed, you coming?” nick asked me as he was getting up and putting his blanket away.

“no, i’m not too tired yet,” i moved over on the couch a bit to grab my drink, trying to ignore matt’s stare.

“well i’m gonna go to my room for the night.” chris said, also putting away his blanket and grabbing his drink, heading down the stairs to his room.

me and matt stayed quiet for a couple more minutes, just watching whatever was on after the crow. 

“just us now…” matt said quietly, grabbing the remote to put something else on. he decided on inception, another one of my favorite movies, which he knew.

“2010 was leo’s best year for movies,” i moved to face matt to debate with him over this.

“oh yeah? and why’s that?” matt asked with a smile. this is a topic we discuss often.

“well he had inception AND shutter island come out that year. arguably two of his best movies.” he just watched as i ranted about leo dicaprio and just movies in general. chiming in with yeahs and acknowledgments, but letting me talk. i swear for a second, i almost saw a look of love in his eyes. 

i quickly dismissed the thought and let myself get lost in the movie after my rant. i moved over to back over to matt, missing the comfort of being in his arms. he gladly pulled me into him and we sat like that for most of the movie, only moving to grab more snacks or our drinks.  

as the movie started ending, i felt matt’s breathing get slower, subtle snores leaving his mouth. i looked around and saw the mess left by nick and chris and sighed, knowing we had to clean it up. i started to get up to get a start on the cleaning, but matt, half asleep, pulled me back down, mumbling something i didn’t quite hear. 

“mmm stay here.” he grumbled, tightening his grip on my waist.

“matt, we have to clean up the garbage..” i whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear me and let go. unfortunately he did and loosened his grip, letting me get up. he slowly got up, grabbing the candy wrappers around him and followed me towards the kitchen.

“nick’s probably asleep already.” he pointed out, grabbing more garbage from the table. 

“yeah..” i put away our blankets and fixed up the couch.

“you can always come sleep with me.” he said quietly, watching me walk around the living room to find the remote. “it’s over there,” he pointed to where we had just been sitting. 

i chuckled, grabbing the remote and turning the tv off. 

“i think i might take you up on the offer,” i said, searching for any sign of regret on his face, finding none.

he put the last piece of garbage away and started walking to his room, stopping and looking back to see if i was following him. once i grabbed our phones, i headed toward him and his room.

no matter how many times i’ve slept in here, it always feels awkward at first. he always points out how i sleep better in his bed, and i always blame it on how comfy his bed is, even though it has nothing to do with his bed but everything to do with him. 

he walked over to the bed, pulling back the blankets and getting in. i stayed put by the door, just watching him awkwardly.

“are you just gonna stand there all night?” he questioned me, pulling the blanket off the other side of the bed for me.

“i was thinking about it,” i walked over to my side and got in, immediately being met with the softness of his blanket and the smell of his cologne. i grabbed his remote to put on some random show. we debated on a couple before deciding on family guy. staying on our respected sides while intently watching the show we’ve both seen hundreds of times, not daring to move closer to each other. as if we weren’t just cuddling on the couch and falling asleep together out there. 

it was different in his bed though. almost like it was too intimate to cuddle in a bed. we wouldn’t dare take that step in our friendship, even if we would wake up like that anyway. the more tired i got, the less i cared. i moved closer to him, feeling him do the same. he put his arm out, signaling for me to lay on him. none of us said anything, we stayed watching the tv. there was an understanding between us that it was a comfortable silence.

‘this is normal, there’s nothing deeper to this. just two friends cuddling and watching tv.’ i thought, feeling him play with my hair and rub the leg i snuck onto him. i was trying to ignore the flutter in my stomach with every move of his thumb on my thigh and pushing away all the thoughts that snuck into my mind. 

slowly i started to fall asleep in matt’s arms. right before i fell asleep, i felt him reach for the remote to turn off his tv.

“goodnight baby.” he whispered, before kissing the top of my head and falling asleep himself.

tag list:

@beersangel @whoseyouare @wh0schl0 @st7rnioioss @slutsformatt @h3arts4harry

[biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer]

That's right, as soon as I saw you receiving questions again I came flying.

As always and should never be missed first, I hope you are well and I love your writing as much as you love Geo.

Ehem, could you please write (if you have time) how you think the cast would confess their love to the MC/reader?

💙Thank you for your attention and this probably has errors due to the translator.

Devoted (All x MC/Reader - Confession HCs)

I'm feeding you all well tonight. >:]

This is 3000 fucking words.

T.W.: Some of these (especially Sol) have more mentions of sexual activity than others.

- Signed by biggest-geo-oogami-enjoyer

Devoted: being devoted to something means being focused on that particular thing almost exclusively.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

When it comes to you, Sol’s got no other feelings other than pure veneration and an obsessive, all-consuming love (and lust). 

He does plan to confess, but he wants to be certain you’re showing signs — definite signs — that you’re into him. Even if it’s just physical attraction, even if all you want from him is his body; he’ll take it, you can use him however you want, he won’t mind.

Sol’s going to be extremely cautious when it comes to ensuring you remain as his, he wants you to have eyes only on him, even you looking at someone else with adoration, especially a very certain Jericho-fucking-Ichabod, he’s going to lose his shit. Only maybe Hyugo will survive being annihilated, solely due to Sol tolerating him enough (and the fact they both have an iron-clad grip over each other when it comes to blackmail <3).

Sol, after befriending you, will probably have to forcefully clamp his mouth shut every time he says anything to you, this man is so perverted when it comes to you that he can never let his guard down.

When you start hanging out with him (and Hyugo), he’s going to try and get you to like him through his more teasing side, one with snark and sass galore. He also never hesitates to get into fist fights for you, so that’s an awesome bonus.

As he hoped, you became quite fond of the facade he’d upkept for you, anytime you blushed he’d have to tug his shirt down and clench his thighs together just to hide his raging boner. 

May or may not vanish at least thrice each time just to jack off to you. Even Hyugo is a bit concerned with how frequently he vanishes to the restroom. 

Anyway, Sol’s going to try and get you to become solely dependent on him, he can’t afford you having other people, other insignificant people interfering with his master bation plan to get you to be his.

He’ll definitely take advantage of the fact people are going missing to ‘take care of’ Crowe'; then he’ll stalk back into your bedroom and fuck himself into your sheets. Again. And Again. He’d then look over your sleeping form, resist the carnal urge to take you right then and there, and decide he’s gonna do it.

By the stage he confesses, he’s become your main source of comfort after ‘poor’ Crowe vanished, and he will 110% abuse that power. 

Will confess ‘by accident’, and he’ll immediately try to gauge your reaction, making sure to casually play it off as best as possible, his face beet red like his cock, considering how often it’s hard because of you.

If, no, when you blush, you’ll look down (either from shyness or astonishment) and you will notice.

Someone. Is. Very. Painfully. Disturbingly. Hard. 

You’re also fairly certain it's not you.

You’ll probably just blankly stare at the outline, with Sol trying to hide it.

Then you bite his cock off <333

You also better reciprocate, because he’s just gonna lunge at you.

Will basically asphyxiate you with how much he kisses you. <3

Like mans doesn’t care he’s too overjoyed with how his fantasy, his dream of being with you is finally, painstakingly, becoming reality.

Hyugo would probably not even know he had a thing for you until he was taking a shower one night. Then it hits him like an anvil and he’s a mix of embarrassment and panic.

Embarrassment because…oh no…he’s gonna have to evade you like the plague to not become a hot stuttering mess. And panic? Well; he has people from all social classes, all corners of the earth after his head (no not that head, smh y’all are vile).

Will then proceed to do the opposite of evading you, mans wants your attention too much.

He’s usually very good with controlling his facial expressions, but if he likes you, he's just going to be red-faced 24/7.

Ends up wearing a face mask just to hopefully cover the furious blush that usurps his face whenever you wave to him.

Like Sol, wants to be absolutely certain that you like him back before he confesses, mans is gonna be preparing the shit out of everything.

Will probably try to steal more of your attention and often ensures he’s gone more often; for absence makes the heart grow fonder, does it not?

Hyugo is definitely more touchy if he likes someone, maybe he’ll try to make one of those funky over-the-top handshakes with you.

Anyway, if, in the span of however much time you’ve both got left until graduation, Hyugo will probably become a pestilence in your mind. All logic and reason, all cognition and wit is slowly being eaten away by thoughts of cyan tresses and firmament eyes.

When he confesses, it’ll be purposeful, at least, he hopes it will be. He’ll invite you to either a park or beach, and his aim to to confess under the shroud of darkness.

He’ll probably be too afraid to face you and state his feelings, he’s paranoid he’ll look stupid. 

When the words leave his pretty lips, you just sit. Half of you is convinced this is a trick of the mind, until you ask…“What?”

He’s terribly ashamed at this point, literally any response will freak him out.

You’ll have to yank his arm and either squeeze him and his dick or smash your lips onto his, gripping the nape of his neck like your life depends on it.

It may or may not end up in more.

His eyes might even become waterfalls from the relief and sheer peace he feels to be here. For once in his life he doesn’t feel uneasy or trepidant. 

Which means you’ll have to make him cry from pleasure instead. <333

Brit will probably figure out she likes you after she realises she’s been stalking your socials for the past few months. She’ll then be appalled at how she even got this attached to anyone at all.

She’s going to be quite bold at the start, especially if she thinks what she has is a small crush, to which you’ll probably have her bluntly telling you you’re hot or something. (You’ll be spending the days deciphering whether that was sarcasm or not).

She’ll be dragging you shopping and for coffee dates as time goes by and if you’re up for it, you both go out to get mani-pedis and facials. This girl (and Geo) know the best cosmetic places in the city, they used to share locations with each other for better haircare and eyeliner products.

She also defends you from bullies. If you’re the shy type, she will be throwing metal trays and food at all the shitbiscuits who dare to speak a crude word against you.

Will eventually realise, after genuinely getting to know you, that she does in fact hold genuine emotional attachment to you. She then proceeds to panic. (mood)

This girl, while confident, is extremely worried about the opinions of people whom she cares for. She doesn’t want to be on eggshells when around you, so she may end up avoiding you.

Overtime, you too had become attached to Brit, and gained a lot of respect for all the shit she gets put through all the time; so her doing this affects you a lot.

She’ll snap if you get another girl best friend (that’s not Jess), and will become more annoyed in general if you ignore her.

This girl is terrified of rejection, but she’ll end up so riled up that she’ll blatantly admit she likes you and not elaborate.

You both eventually decide to deal with this like the wise adults you are, and talk it out. She’ll definitely be extremely embarrassed about sharing her feelings, and will hide her face in her manicured hands to conceal the blush on her face.

It’s okay you both end up holding hands and (almost) kissing.

I say almost because Brittney went to order more coffee (totally not from anything to do with you noo).

Y’all have monthly shopping sprees and spa sessions now; and hang out at one-another’s places to do each others’ hair and gossip.

Jess is going to be one of the less obvious when it comes to being into you.

Girlypop essentially will do whatever you want, she’s much more shy when it comes to actually speaking her mind, you’ll have to coax her into feeling comfortable enough with you to speak her mind.

Will blush if you compliment her.

She will definitely ramble about you to her online friends (she’s got a blog so she’s gonna have some friends lmfao).

Is going to be slightly more outspoken around you, as in, will actually have a conversation with you. Not to say she’s incapable, she just often needs to mentally sift through everyone she meets to determine whether they’re assholes or not.

She will definitely ask for external advice on how to court you, but ends up being too afraid to actually attempt it (mood).

Is 110% going to ask the others for any signs that you like her, especially Brittney.

Will be the type to just text online all the time, she feels more free behind a screen.

Will probably buy you a gift out of nowhere, will be smiling with pure adoration if you like it (you do).

Girl is too shy to ask you out, so she’ll probably just have to end up being asked directly if she likes you, or if you confess first. Either way the answer will be yes, albeit if you do the former she’ll be way more hesitant.

When you hug her (and with consent kiss her forehead), she’ll faint.

You’ll be worried if you killed her.

It’s okay she saw heaven right beforehand.

When y’all both get over the initial shock, she’s going to hug you again. Probably won’t let go for a while, until the post-confession clarity kicks in and she panics.

You’ll have to cup her face and tell her you’re not upset at all.

And you both end up just warmly embracing for the next hour or so.

Geo’s absolutely abominable when it comes to feelings; especially romantic ones.

He would be the type to suspect something was up, but he’d dismiss anything that even remotely resembles emotional attachment.

He knows how cold he may come off as, and he’s content with you avoiding him like the plague. 

Alas, you don’t; in fact, you try to talk to him more frequently.

He’s the type to be silently judging everyone you talk to now, he’s nitpicking at them, mentally elevating himself as a better match, a better variant for you.

He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it, and neither do you. His face is as blank as Hyugo’s attendance roll.

He isn’t a fan of nicknames, but he’ll reluctantly like- *cough* allow you to call him ‘Geode’. The glee on your face made his heart seize up.

He’s definitely going to use his status to remove people from your life whom he deems as pests; whether that be bullies (if he doesn’t get them hospitalised first), toxic friends or other people who like you.

Geo’d be quite possessive, not to the extent where he thinks he owns you, but he’d definitely be eyemurdering anyone who can’t keep their hands off you. Worst part is he can’t stop them (unless you ask for help, then he 110% will), without looking a tad suspish.

Will be the type to hope you ask to hang out, and/or bribe a teacher of any class that you’re both in to make you guys a duo in whatever assignment is up next. Any excuse to be near you is a good one.

Will just ‘happen upon’ a snack you like and buys it for you.

Will be subconsciously trying to deny he likes you, but after a while, after being near you for as long as he has. Hell, the fact he chose to override his logic to be near you is enough reason for him to silently decide that, yes, he did like you.

Was he going to admit it? Absolutely not.

He cannot afford to get rejected, after all. He wants to be sure you like him back. He’ll even allow Brittney to find out if it means a higher chance of being with you.

But his method would be slow, subtle courting; buying you either food or cosmetics or whatever makes you happy. 

The joy in your eyes makes him softly smile each time (when you’re not looking).

Brittney will probably hint at it on his behalf tbh, and after a while, you notice he isn’t cracking. 

Which means you’re gonna have to do it.

Thankfully you possess a basic amount of common sense to ask him out in private, to which he does a double take, purely confused; which is fucking hilarious, because he never makes any genuine expressions other than annoyance or disdain (and the rare smile).

So you tell him you have a thing for him, and he’s just staring into your soul, before he briefly winces (he pinched himself y’all), and quietly stares.

When he softly affirms how he feels the same way, it’s as if all the hostility had been drained from his stoicism, left only with a calm, disciplined contentedness.

You’ve given Geo’s grey, monotonous life a stroke of colour, one that left his bland, monotonous existence behind, because now, he had a purpose. A genuine, heartfelt purpose.

And you’d never know just how grateful he was to have you.

Crowe will probably realise he likes you a while before he confesses.

I feel like he’d be similar to Sol in the secretly-obsessive category, but he’s much better at hiding it.

He’d focus on trying to make you as comfortable as possible with him, offering you study notes, tutoring sessions, free coffee…just trying to treat you as much as possible without making it too obvious what his goal is.

Basically just tries to be a backbone that you can fall back on when you need it. And let me tell you, he’s a fucking good one.

He is probably going to try and maintain normalcy between you two, slowly alternating between loving and politeness, he wants to determine whether he can even be with you.

Definitely will be giving romantic innuendos the longer his feelings for you fester, they don’t seem to be weakening at all for him. In fact, they’re getting stronger with time, like a good wine.

He’ll probably lightly flirt with you as well, and if you blush or, even better, flirt back? Man is gonna be thinking about that for the next month.

Crowe is going to be more protective over you with time, especially when you both hang out. He wants to ensure you’re safe and comfortable, no matter the circumstances.

You’re gonna feel very secure around him.

Will probably test the waters after a while and ask for your hand –in marriage– because it’s ‘cold’.

You (I’m assuming) oblige, and overtime it becomes a normal thing for you both (teehee).

Will confess to you while holding your hand as well. You stop feeling cold for a while from how warm you feel.

If the mood strikes, y’all may even partake in the act known as ‘kissing’.

You both will be struggling to not smile for a long time after that.

Deryl will be oblivious that he likes you for a while. Until he isn’t. Which will be a few months at least.

When he does though, he’ll treat you the same as when he did before, extremely friendly, massive foodie and great support system.

Although with you he feels a more soulful bond, he wants to be seen as a source of shelter and safety for you; more so than for the others.

He’ll be keeping his feelings in for a long time though, he doesn’t want to make things awkward with you.

Will want to share snacks with you, food is his love language. Y’all are gonna be going places and consuming everything.

You both are so going to arcades to gamble on who pays for snacks-

He’s a sporty guy, so he’d invite you to his sports shows (all of them, even the ones that are private af). If you went he’d actually cry tears of joy.

His way of expressing his love would mostly be through affirmation and physical touch. He’d be hugging you 24/7 if he could (and was given consent ofc).

Also uses his reputation and overall build to essentially threaten potential bullies to fuck off. He’s strong af and is very capable of coming out of a fight much less hurt than whoever chose to screw with him. He’ll be much more unmerciful if said people were hurting you.

Over time, he’d accept he has feelings for you and that they may not be reciprocated, but if he gets a feeling — either from you or from a snide comment of Brittney’s — that you like him? He’ll just man up and tell himself that he’s gonna confess.

So he does, as he’s walking you home one night (cause…we’re literally hot shit; people wanna steal us all the time), and when you both get to your residence, he gently takes your wrist and awkwardly asks if you can allow him a moment.

When he states his feelings, red-faced and all, he’s completely accepted they might not be reciprocated. 

So when you grin and tell him you feel the same? And you’re not kidding?

My guy just stands there, monotone, for about a moment, before his face becomes as radiant as the sun.

He’s literally so happy he could die.

Will bounce in his skin.

Anyway y’all end up on your couch eating Sour Patch Kids while watching a shitty movie and commenting on how dumb it is.

Truly the experience of all time.

It gets even better when you both end up falling asleep on each other (after Deryl tires himself out…I’ll leave that to your imaginations <3).

[davidtennantgenderenvy]

On David Tennant and Aging

So, I’ve seen a lot of posts in response to Tumblr users’ habit of affectionately calling their favorite middle aged dudes “old men”, David Tennant in particular, saying things like “clearly you’ve never met an actual old person”, “omg you talk about these guys like they’re 80”, “please be normal about people aging”, etc. And on one hand, all of these statements are objectively right and true! But as someone who’s always been really fascinated by and found a lot of beauty in getting older (which I’ve explored in some of my writing on A03 because nobody else is going to do it for me), I’d like to provide a bit more nuance on how I think this label applies to David in particular.

David, obviously, in literal terms, is not “old”, at least not to me- I don’t personally consider people old until they get past 60. 52 is middle aged, simple as that. And yet, when I see David stuck with the “old man” label, it still somehow feels weirdly right, for a number of reasons.

It annoys me so much when people say David “hasn’t aged a day since Doctor Who”, because, well…

He clearly has. A lot. He’s got forehead creases, deep crows’ feet and eyebags, and I think that post-Fourteen we’re gonna see him rocking the grey temples a LOT more. He also has the voice of an older man now, his upper range is still there but the default is much more deep and rich, with a gravelly, rumbling quality that just goes straight through you. I personally think Broadchurch was when David finally started to embrace looking his age- Alec Hardy just wouldn’t have been served by Ten’s fresh-faced boyishness.

Obviously, these are the kinds of changes you’d expect any 52-year-old man to have, but something about David just makes it all seem a bit more… intense? The expressiveness of his face combined with his almost gaunt frame makes his wrinkles very prominent, and when he works his voice to its emotional extremes, his lower register can sound positively ancient, to devastating effect.

David, I think, is someone with an old soul- I don’t think he could be as good as he is at playing ancient characters like Crowley and The Doctor if he weren’t. He has lived so many lives, given so much of himself to so many characters, often incredibly tragic ones, and I think it wears on him. David also has five kids. FIVE. Do you know how exhausting it is to be one of the hardest working actors alive and be a present, loving father to even ONE child? But David somehow does it anyway! Nowadays I see him and my heart breaks because he looks so tired, so weary and fragile. But he’s all the more beautiful for it to me because I know that that is because he is kind. He’s a deeply empathetic person who feels and lives to the absolute fullest, and that story is written so clearly on his face, along with every other story he has ever been a part of.

There’s other things about David that make the label endearingly fitting- his utter hopelessness when it comes to technology, for instance. And he’s just got that warm, wise, grandpa energy too sometimes- look at that above Fourteen picture and tell me I’m wrong!

I once showed my friend who’d only seen David in Doctor Who and Harry Potter a picture of David from Around The World in 80 Days. It was a particularly emotional scene, and his face had just the most beautiful expression of compassion and sadness, every wrinkle on full display. And she said, in a less than complimentary fashion, “he looks so old!” Which, of course, offended me quite a bit at first. But to me, referring to David as old almost feels like a badge of honor, something he’s earned by living fully and selflessly, working hard and being wise and compassionate beyond his years. I think David himself is secretly more than a little insecure about the fact that he’s getting older. There’s sadness behind every jovially self-depreciating remark he’s made about his age in the past year, particularly in comparing himself to Ncuti Gatwa. I know how much David struggles with his impostor syndrome and how people perceive him, and I can clearly see in his eyes the fear of being discarded, the anxiety he feels about if he’ll still be as loved as he was back in 2007 now that he’s closer in age to King Lear than he is to Romeo. So I hope David knows it’s a privilege to watch him grow older, to watch his soul and talents deepen with the crinkles around his eyes. If I, in my silly goofy tumblr girl-ness, call David Tennant an old man, it’s because it’s a label that suits him beautifully- even if it isn’t TECHNICALLY an accurate one yet.

[amsgrey]

take it slow

Kaz Brekker x Fem! reader

request:

hi love!! could you please do a Kaz Brekker x reader where the reader helps Kaz cut his hair?? maybe it’s super hard for Kaz to do it himself for some reason and he finally lets reader help. they take it really slow tho so kaz is comfortable. thanks 🥰🥰

warnings: not proof-read, canon typical violence, talking of gambling, a whole lot of angsty fluff, Kaz working through his skin aversion/phobia, switches a lot between the reader's pov and Kaz's, I tried to be fancy with the wiring but its meh, mid ending

You sighed, looking out over the bustling tables and colourful clothes that made up the Crow Club. Pigeons and regulars crowd the tables to avoid the pouring rain beyond the doors. Nights like this were freezing, the Ketterdam cold had a way of finding the cracks in buildings. Seeping into homes and putting out fires. Whenever it would get too bad, the Crow Club would get busier. Kaz carefully built the club to be enticing, it was hard to leave the comfort of warmth with weather like tonight.

You were in charge tonight, a steep task seeming the steady stream of people entering the club. Kaz had locked himself in his room at the slat, the last job the crows had gone on went south. Kaz took a bullet to the arm, effectively losing his strength for the foreseeable future. It had made him sourer than usual, he had chewed Jesper out for being careless and letting the job go south.

You looked over at the gunslinger now, sitting at a table with Wylan, the latter trying to stop too much money from being squandered. You had promised to stake him for the night, to make up for the way Kaz had treated him, it was the least you could do. Even so, you still felt the gnaw of guilt watching him at the table. You weren't a fan of gambling, at least not the kind Jesper was. He liked the thrill of the unknown, but he never knew when to stop. At least Wylan was with him now, supervising to be sure Jesper had a good time but not so much that he would regret it.

Nina and Matthias were here tonight as well, they hardly ever stayed around the club, but tonight Nina had convinced Matthias to have a drink and enjoy the night. Inej had been with them at the start of the night but had since slunk off to do what she did best. You hoped Kaz hadn't sent her on any errands tonight, you worried the spider might just get washed off her perch if she was. The steep gables of Ketterdam were treacherous on a clear day, they would be lethal tonight.

You were startled when a shout echoed around the room, the man it came from was clearly unhappy with his hand. He stood from his seat and grabbed the dealer by his collar, shaking and shouting in his face. You rolled your eyes, men who lost at the tables often blamed the dealers for their misfortune. The man yelling had silenced the club, everyone watching as Keeg pushed his way over to the man. Fighting and violence were not allowed in the Crow Club, if you had an issue you took it outside. You watched from the stairs as Keeg seized the man and hauled him away from the tables, tossing him outside into the rain with a terse warning not to stick around. The room was bustling again before the doors even closed.

You climbed down the stairs and headed to where Matthias and Nina were sitting, comfortably tucked into one of the quieter corners of the club. Nina lit up when she saw you, as she always did.

'Are you here to join us?" She asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside her.

You shook your head, "Have you seen Kaz tonight?"

Nina rolled her eyes, "I offered to help him with his arm but he refused." She crossed her arms, "Quite rudely, actually."

You offered her a small smile that felt fake, "Sounds like Kaz."

Nina waved her hand dismissively, taking a sip of her drink.

You turned to look back over the club, knowing you should be focused on the events that transpired here, but being unable to stop your mind wander back to the attic of the slat.

Kaz was not the easiest person to love but you did so anyway. Last night you had tried to offer him comfort, but he had lashed out and left you feeling stupid. You knew he had regretted his words, the moment he said them his eyes gave away his shock. Kaz was all sharp lines and harshness, he had boarded his heart up with cruel words and violent ways. You knew that he would not change at the drop of a hat, but you saw the good in him. The good he spent years burying so deep he couldn't find it himself. So you stayed patient, you gave him space when he needed it. Cautious not to smother him or hasten him when he was not ready. He would let you in, piece by piece until all his walls were gone, and he felt safe with you.

In the last few months since getting closer, Kaz had let you past his defences. He quietly told you small details about himself. How he had grown up outside of Lij, on a farm he had left behind after his father's death. How he was always fascinated with sleight of hand - magic - even as he outgrew childhood. He had even slowly told you about his brother. Only small things, like how he had been 5 years older and had died not long after they came to Ketterdam. You could see how hard it was for him to share those small things, watch him fight with himself about if he should tell you. So in turn, you told him about your own quietly kept secrets. It was a strange transaction, but you could feel the bond between you both strengthening the more you shared in the quiet of Kaz's room.

Nina pulled you from your trance with a hand on your arm, she drew your attention back to the present. You turned to look at her, knowing already she could feel how your heart was racing with worry.

"You should go try again," She said, squeezing your hand.

"I'm meant to be closing."

"We can do it," Matthias replied, "Jesper and Wylan will help."

You looked over to where Wylan and Jesper were, they seemed to feel your eyes on them and they turned and offered smiles.

"Go," Nina urged again, "Before I change my mind and cozy up in bed."

You hugged your friend tight, thanking her and asking her to pass on thanks to Wylan and Jesper.

You forced yourself out the doors before you could dwell too much more on it. Keeg waved you off, letting you know he would keep watch as you were gone.

You shoved your hands into your pockets as you walked, keeping your head down to avoid the rain as much as possible. You walked as quickly as you could, sticking to the side of buildings to avoid getting drenched in the downpour.

As you crossed over the bridge a few blocks away from the slat, Inej fell into step beside you. You were used to the Suli girl appearing at your side, if It were anyone else you would get startled, but Inej was always a comforting presence. Sometimes you felt like she was a saint, the way she watched over you and the crows. You told her this often, reminding her of how appreciative you were to have a friend like her around.

"Kaz hasn't sent you on any jobs tonight has he?"

Inej shook her head, "No."

You let out a breathy laugh, "Then why were you jumping across the rooftops?"

You knew the answer.

"I feel at home on the roofs, it's my own Ketterdam."

You hummed, taking in her answer. Inej told you about the time she spent training on the highwire as a child, how she loved the feeling of being free so high off the ground. She was brave and unwavering like that and you admired her greatly for it.

As you came up on the Slat, Inej disappeared back into the shadows of the night. She would return to the club, or retire to her room, but she enjoyed climbing her way across Ketterdam and you were happy to let her do so.

The slat was mostly quiet when you entered. Anika and a few other Dregs were drinking and conversing quietly as if not to disturb anyone. You knew it was to not bother Kaz. Although Dirtyhands had put in a lot of effort and money into making the slat warm and dry, voices still carried. Most nights you could hear conversations from the bottom floor all the way in Kaz's attic, it was how you knew whenever Jesper got back. He was loud enough to be heard all over the slat.

You started your climb up the stairs, watching your rain-soaked boots take each step with certainty. Although you climbed these stairs multiple times a day, you still felt as if you might trip down them. They were narrow and steep, a recipe for disaster when the rain made your shoes slippery.

Three floors up, you stopped in your room. It was hardly a room and more of a closet, fitting your cot and dresser and not much else. You truly didn't mind, you were right next door to Inej and you only ever came to your room to sleep or change.

You kicked off your boots and stripped off your socks, replacing them quickly with a dry pair to keep your feet warm. You shrugged off your jacket and hung it on the door handle , with any luck it would dry before you would need it again tomorrow. You slipped out of the room and headed back to the stairs to Kaz's room.

Your feet made no sound as you climbed the steps, the silence of your movements allowing you to listen for Kaz in his room. Most of the time you would hear him shuffling through papers, but tonight there was little noise coming from behind the door. As you reached up to knock you prayed he wasn't sleeping.

"Yes?"

You cracked open the door, surprised to find Kaz wasn't sitting at his desk but standing in front of the small mirror in the corner of the room. He had scissors in his good hand, the other shakingly brushing back his hair from his face.

You had noticed how Kaz's hair had gotten much longer lately. The dark strands often blocking his eyes. You knew it drove him crazy, he hated having his hair in his eyes, but he had been too busy to fix it for now.

Kaz shared how he cut his own hair not long ago, you remembered the conversation vividly. He had caught his reflection in the mirror as he washed his hands in the small basin, asking you if you liked his hair.

You had been surprised, Kaz never cared for what others thought of his appearance. You told him the truth, that you loved his hair. Loved how he took time to cut it and try to style it, to you it showed his quiet care. When you asked why he was suddenly concerned, he mentioned how Nina had teased him about it once. It had been a harmless comment, but to him brought back the fact that he feared others touch so much he couldn't bare to let someone else cut it. So it looked rough, uneven in some parts and sometimes much shorter than he intended. You offered to help him when he was ready, but he had yet to take you up on the offer.

"Kaz," You sighed, taking a tentative step forward as if not to startle him. "You should be resting."

Kaz just frowned at his reflection.

His hands were shaking, you noticed. His right hand with the scissors shook so subtly that you might have missed It if you weren't looking. His other hand gripped tight to the side of the basin, as he fought the pain that throbbed down his bicep.

"I can't stand it anymore," Kaz growled, glaring at the hair that kept flopping in his face.

You chuckled, watching the man glower at his reflection with all his barrel brutality.

Crossing the room towards him, you held out your hand, "Let me help."

Kaz stared at your hand like it was foreign. You waited patiently as he had an internal battle. You felt a pang of sympathy when you watched a look of longing pass over Kaz's face. He wanted to let you help, he wanted nothing more than to feel your hands running through his hair with the tender care you always held. But the waters were always there, right below him. If he let you help, they might just swallow him whole.

Finally, Kaz resigned the scissors to you with a sigh.

You smiled at him, "We'll take it slowly." You promised, "If it gets too much, tell me and we’ll stop."

Kaz nodded.

He watched you in the mirror as you stood behind him, assessing what he had already done and what you would do. You knew he liked it a certain way, you spent enough time staring at him to memorize how it always looked. You made eye contact with Kaz in the mirror.

"Ready?"

Kaz nodded, taking in a deep breath.

You ran your hand through his hair, combing it back off his face with your fingers. You could almost feel how Kaz relaxed, his tense shoulders falling just a little. You took it as a good sign, continuing to gently pull his hair away from his face and start cutting.

It was slow going, you paused every few minutes to remind Kaz to breathe and release the tension in his muscles. You had no intention of making him suffer through his flashbacks alone. So you muttered reassuring words, offering to take a longer break or to step back for a moment as he processed. Kaz would shake his head, refusing to let you move away in case he would never feel you close again.

Your body was so warm he could feel it through the shirt on his back. You were always comforting and warm like a fire on a cold day. Kaz sometimes felt himself leaning into the feeling, leaning into you. Getting close to someone after so many years of pushing everyone away was terrifying for him. But he was determined to work through it, to be worthy of the gentleness and care you bestowed on him.

When you were done, you ran your fingers through his hair one last time. Your fingertips brushed against the skin on the back of his neck. Typically, the feeling would repulse him, send him spiralling into the frigid waves, but now he felt warmth grow from where you touched. He let out a sigh, revelling in the peace that he felt at that moment. It had been so long since skin-on-skin contact had made him feel something other than repulsion, he had almost forgotten what it was like.

You stepped back, placing the scissors on the desk and giving him space. You were buzzing with emotions and you feared they might just burst out of you if you stayed too close.

The room was silent, the only sound coming from you and Kaz's quiet breaths. You could feel your heart beating erratically, it pulsated through your body as you tried to steady it. Kaz was staring at your handiwork in the mirror, his hands running through it and feeling how it reacted. After a few tense moments, he turned to you, the smallest of smiles on his lips.

Kaz's smiles were hard to earn. Often, it felt like his only facial expression was the stern frown he always wore. But every now and again, in the safety of these four walls, his eyes would relax and his lips pull upwards.

The first time Kaz had smiled at you, you had felt drunk. You could live in that moment for a million years and never grow sick of it. His smile was so gentle, it warmed you from the inside out. You searched for that feeling everywhere, but it only ever came when Kaz smiled.

You felt hopelessly lovesick now, staring into the eyes of the bastard of the barrel. He was so different within these walls, still sarcastic and ill-tempered at times, but also gentle and caring. When he allowed himself the chance to feel safe, you could see the little boy from Lij who loved magic and games.

"Thank you."

You could only just hear the words over the roar of your heartbeat, offering Kaz a tight-lipped smile and a wave of your hand.

"It's no problem."

You both stayed silent for a little longer, looking everywhere but at each other. You were brimming with butterflies, the same giddy feeling you got when you had your first crush.

Kaz stood from his perch, slowly limping over to you. You waited as he did so, worried a move might break the spell that overcame you both. You fiddled with your fingers, trying to calm the thoughts racing through your mind.

Kaz reached out a gloved hand, holding your hand to stop your anxious habit. You had held his hand before, mostly when he wore his gloves so that he wouldn't get too overwhelmed, but it always made you feel safe. The most dangerous man in all of Ketterdam was not dirtyhands here, he was Kaz, gentle and loving.

You watched silently as Kaz pulled his hand away and slipped his gloves off. You knew that he preferred to take things slowly, he needed to take things slowly. You were in no rush, you had all the time in the world for the man before you.

Kaz's hands were still shaky, trembling ever so slightly as he reached for you again. He slowly raised his good hand to your face, hesitating before making contact. His eyes held a question, asking kindly for your permission. You accepted with a small nod, unable to help the tiny smile on your lips. Kaz's hand was colder than you were expecting as he cupped your cheek, you were sure he would be able to feel how hot you were. His slender fingers sat against your jawline, his thumb feathering across your cheekbone, like he was exploring your face. You subconsciously leaned into his hand, closing your eyes and letting a sigh slip from your lips. You could live here forever, in this safety and warmth, tucked away from the prying eyes of Ketterdam.

Kaz took a shaky breath in and you pulled away, startled that you might have pushed him too far. He only smiled, taking a small step forward and keeping his hand on your cheek. You could feel his breath on your skin now, the ghosting of his fingers. It almost felt like a dream. Kaz leaned in a little closer, your foreheads almost touching. His eyes flickered from your lips to your eyes and back.

Kaz wanted nothing more than to close the gap between you and press his lips to yours. You were so warm, your face tucked into his hand like it was made to be held by him. Your breath tickled his skin, it reminded him how you were here, alive. Saints, if he could just lean forward and-

All at once the water was snatching him under. The feeling of your skin turning cold and deathly. He lurched back, holding in his gags of disgust as the freezing waters overtook him.

"Kaz?"

He fell backwards, scrambling to put space between you both as he choked on the waters.

You could only watch as Kaz scrambled away from you, unable to do anything to stop him. He pulled himself as far away from you as he could, becoming a mess of shaking and shuddering breaths. He was panicking, the anxiety and fear clearly written across his features. It hurt, you wanted to help him but you feared you might only make it worse.

You knew you wouldn't be able to leave him in such a state, hyperventilating on the floor of his room. So you slowly lowered yourself to the ground, a good meter away from him to not suffocate him.

"I'm here, Kaz," You said softly, watching over him, "You're safe."

He took another few shuddering breaths, but they were slower than the last. You took it as a sign to keep going.

"Take it slow," You spoke just above a whisper, "I'm not going anywhere."

You stayed a safe distance away as Kaz calmed down, watching over him and offering quiet reassurances as he slowly came to himself. When the panic was gone from his eyes, it was replaced with guilt. You knew how hard it was for Kaz to touch skin, you didn't know exactly why, but you didn't mind taking things slow for him.

You cut Kaz before he could say he was sorry, "It's okay."

Kaz reached for his gloves and shoved them on, "It's not."

You shuffled a little closer, "Kaz." The boy looked up at you with his dark eyes, "Truly, it's alright. I will wait for you. If it takes days, weeks or years, I will be here."

Kaz's eyes were glossy, you had never seen him cry but perhaps this was the closest he ever got.

"You, Kaz Brekker, are worth waiting for."

Kaz looked down, "Rietveld."

It caught you entirely off guard, "What?"

Kaz slowly lifted his eyes to yours, "My real name is Kaz Rietveld."

Your face burst into a bright grin, "Well, Kaz Rietveld, it's nice to meet you."

[merakiui]

crow & goat in courtship.

yandere!rollo flamme x (female) reader cw: yandere, nsfw, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, dub-con, coercion, religious symbolism/imagery, mentions of pregnancy, implied breeding kink, obsession, alcohol/intoxication, slight codependency, non-consensual touching/groping, au in which you attend classes at nbc instead of nrc under rollo's supervision note - the crow is always on call.

i. “but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed. then, after desire has conceived, it gives birth to sin; and sin, when it is full-grown, gives birth to death” (james 1:14-15).

Rollo answers on the third ring.

He always does—claims it’s polite to answer after three chimes just as it’s right to knock thrice before entering a residence. He’s stubborn in his ways, a crow bound by routine, only ever doing things in threes. Habitual to a fault, strictly so. You are similar in that regard; you find solace in the familiarity of predictable patterns. The relief that stems from knowing what will come next—in being prepared for all manner of events even if you haven’t yet reached the first.

But then you also like fun, and the best sort of fun is often had with a disregard for habit. Disorder and spontaneity. Throwing all caution to the wind. Trusting in the arms of the crow who will catch you, the carefree goat, when you fall.

“Good evening,” he mutters into the phone, his voice sounding so close despite the distance between you and him. “It’s rather late. Is there a specific reason you’re calling?”

“Rollo! Hey! Hiii,” you drawl, grinning like a fool. You stagger through the door into the chilly, starless night, your heels slipping on cracked, frozen pavement. “Whoa!” You stumble against the railing with a carefree giggle. “Almost lost my footing!”

There’s a stalling silence on his end. And then, with a deep inhale, he asks evenly, “Have you gone out?”

“Mm. Yeah. Went out to celebrate with some friends.”

“Some friends?”

“Like one or two…or a whole house full of ’em.”

“(Name).”

“What?” When he doesn’t reply, you laugh. Not because it’s humorous or embarrassing, but to merely fill the silent gap. “What? Roro, you’re sho stern. Don’t lecture me!”

“So you’ve been drinking.”

“What?! No!” With an offended scoff, you shake your head even though he’s not here to witness it. “You know NBC’s no-booze rule. I’m not gonna get caught—won’t get caught.”

“You slurred your speech and called me ‘Roro’—both in the same sentence, mind you.”

“So what? Rollo, Roro. Tomato, potato.”

“It’s to-may-to, to-mah-to. And—” he exhales an exhausted breath— “Never mind. That’s besides the point. Why, pray tell, have you called me at midnight?”

“Why’re you up at midnight?”

“I could ask the same of you.”

“Not fair! I asked first!”

“Not quite.” There’s a smile in his voice when he speaks next. “If I were to visit your room right now—knock on the door and wait there—would you let me in?”

“Yeaaah,” you start to say, only to catch yourself halfway in the trap. “No!”

“No?”

“No…thank you. No visitors tonight. S’late and I gotta study for tomorrow’s exam.”

“And a party will somehow aid in that endeavor? (Name), you do realize you’ve spun one too many lies and now you’re woefully entangled.”

“Less poetry and more picking me up.”

“Ah, so that’s what this is about.”  

“Rollo, please be nice,” you whine, your lips twisting into a pout. “S’cold and I didn’t bring a jacket and I’m kinda-maybe-sorta a little…”

“A little…?” he encourages, and you can just envision that self-satisfied smirk of his.

“A little-drunk-but-also-not-really-drunk-but-also-totally-drunk,” you hastily admit in a string of syllables. Snowfall swirls around you, and you grasp the bannister to prevent yourself from falling over. “Oh, it’s snowing.”

“I can see perfectly clear from my window. Beautiful, is it not?”

“So stop being an obtuse dick and come get me before I freeze!”

“Should that come to pass, you may just rival the Righteous Judge at the entrance. I’ll be sure to polish you every month.”

“I’m gonna kill you. I’m gonna poison your coffee and watch you drink it, and then we’ll see who’s stiffer than a statue. It’ll be you—in death, y’know!”

“Will you now?”

“If you don’t pick me up, yeah!”

There’s the distinct sound of shuffling. You hear crisp pages turning and then a book closing before the rustling of fabrics invades your keen ears. You picture your responsible friend pacing around his room as he dresses himself for the weather.

“Very well,” he says after a moment, ever the composed gentleman. “Send me the address.”

“You’re the best. Love you lots. Thank you! Thank you!” You press your lips together to mimic obnoxious kissing sounds, which elicits a huff of amusement from him. “It’s not a far walk. Promise.”

“Stay on the phone with me. I’ll be there shortly. And don’t go anywhere.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

“You do realize sneaking out is against the rules, yes?”

“Aaand here comes the lecture. Gimme a break. Can’t a girl celebrate her birthday in peace?”

You drag your hand over your mouth and wipe sticky wine residue away. In the process, you smear black lipstick. Dark like night, like a crow’s inky feathers, it leaves your once-flawless appearance in disarray.

“There are much better ways to celebrate. Did I not say I’d take you into town this weekend and we could celebrate then?”

“That’s so far from now.”

“It’s three days away, (Name).”

“Still too far.”

“Don’t expect me to provide cover if you get caught.”

“And you can just leave campus whenever you please?”

“This is different.”

“Yeah?” You giggle into the speaker, warm and fuzzy and endlessly entertained. It’s enough of a distraction to keep winter from seeping into your marrow. “How so?”

“This is official Student Council business.”

“Really?” you ask with an impressed whistle. 

“Indeed. On account of my being President, it’s only natural I punish students who conduct themselves poorly. Shall we review your list of infractions and decide on a suitable penalty together?”

“I’d rather we not.”

“Oh, but I insist. Perhaps our discussion and the cold will sober you and teach you a valuable lesson about integrity.”

With an exaggerated sigh, you lower onto the step to await his arrival. The icy stone digs harshly into your rear, which is hardly covered by your too-short dress. It’s definitely not fingertip length or weather-appropriate. You shiver and stuff your hand into the pocket of your cropped sweater. You should take shelter inside, where it’s plenty cozy and inviting, but your inflated pride disagrees. Retreating to the warmth after you’ve already bid farewell would be foolish. At least, that’s what the alcohol in your system is telling you.

So the goat endures the cold, for it knows that that is all that awaits it as the crow closes in.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m an academic criminal. Get on with it, President Flamme.”

“Let’s see. You’ve disobeyed campus curfew, snuck out on a school night, attended a party when your grades could use improvement, neglected your studies, drank carelessly, called the one person who can and will punish you for this and the aforementioned…”

The sound of crunching snow pierces the air then, and you look up in time to see Rollo approaching. He’s dressed in a long woolen overcoat with a scarf twined around his throat and a hat pulled down over his ears. He smirks at you from where he stands on the pavement, cutting the call and sliding his phone into his pocket. Tilting his head at you, he pulls another coat from under his arm and offers it to you.

“And you’re dressed for your death.”

“Okay, that one’s personal.”

Rolling your eyes, you rise on unsteady legs. He meets you at the stairs, climbing two of them to help you into the coat. It’s an embrace more welcoming than that of a lover’s, so soft and comfortable that it immediately rejuvenates your weary skeleton. It smells like Rollo, too—like coffee and weathered pages in an old book. You hum your approval, snuggling into the fluffy fabric. He’s plopping his hat on your head next, tugging it so far down that you almost slip on the slick stoop. Like he always has, ever since he first met you, he catches you. 

“Hello to you, too.”

You blink back at him. “Yeah, thanks. I owe you.”

“Let me see your hands.”

He takes them in his, runs his thumbs over the tops, and then procures mittens from his pockets. You watch him slide both over your hands, rubbing them together briefly to generate heat at a faster rate. Your body sways, gaze unfocused. He’s just about to unwind his scarf from his shoulders when you reach out to stop him.

“I’m good. This is enough.”

“You’ll catch your death—”

“And you won’t in just a coat and scarf? At least let me give you your hat back.”

He shakes his head, holding his hand up in objection. “You’ve been out in this weather longer. It’s only fair. But, really, did you have to wait out here? Couldn’t you have gone inside?”

“My pride’s on the line.”

Rollo’s unamused stare cuts through you. “You won’t have much pride left if you’re encased in ice.”

“Then we’d best get moving. Campus awaits!”

You wrap your arm around him, clinging out of instinct. Rollo peers at the proximity, his lips upturned in a covert half-smile, and his arm snakes slowly around your waist in return. You don’t notice this, for you’re too busy dragging your feet through the snow while he acts as a helpful crutch, stable in a way you just aren’t. Not right now, at least.

But then the goat is never stable enough to survive the inevitable—the swift, sacrificial blade that befalls and beheads, leaving gory spatters to run red and visceral in the wake of the end.

You’ve never known, and you never will. How could you when he’s been nothing but cordial? A clean slate. Admirable guidance. A helpful friend. Your only friend.

The crow descends in three knocks. He lets himself in regardless of whether you wish to have him as a guest. He is unwanted and feared, the very foundation of death and destruction, and he has set his beady eyes on you—the goat.

It’s common knowledge that you cannot pray away the crow. He persists, as always, quiet even when his wings beat against his sleek, feathered body like the loudest war drums. And the caw—the dreadful caw! It’s a most disturbing cry, one that pierces through the dark like jarring slivers of light in shadow. Or a butcher’s blade through flesh, sawing through sinew to get to brilliant bone beneath. The hoarse call of Death’s crows—they circle in a murder, swooping down to meet you as harbingers of malevolence.

Rollo has always strived to lead a virtuous existence defined by a rigidly righteous moral compass. In the gloomy pits of misery and hatred, where he festers in a bundle of tar-colored feathers, he does not hope for sunshine. He no longer knows the uplifting ebullience of life’s greatest miracles. Because there is no miracle in death or tragedy. Because there is no happiness to be found in a doomed hand, every card showcasing Death and its many forms. Not for him. Never for him.

But then, amidst the despair and despondency, each all-consuming, a goat fell into his lap.

A divine offering to the crow, who is so far from divinity himself, can only mean one thing. It is neither conciliatory nor a reward.

It is a sacrifice.

But then the City of Flowers adores its goats—reveres them for all that they are. Goats are cherished, not sacrificed. But to drag a nameless, magicless goat from the grounds of its far-off, inconceivable pasture—is that not the cruelest form of sacrifice? To drop this goat into the equitable embrace of the crow—is that not the sweetest gift? Generous yet unfair. Plucked right from the folds of another heaven.

The mortal coil can be callous, which is precisely why the crow is permitted to exist in impartiality. Death does not care for who you were in life and who you will be in the next, and the crow only ever oversees finales. Never beginnings. Much like a deity does not care for what good you can do if you do not first adore them in copious adequacy.

The crow carries with him a most fearsome knell—the chime of judgment, to be delivered right on time like an execution staged for noon.

All throughout life, you can plan for the crow and all that he shall deliver, and still you will never be fully prepared to greet him. He brings misfortune bundled in baskets woven from the bones of sacrifices past. In holy scripture, it is the goat who is punished most often—who is slaughtered at the altar, who is arranged as peace to quell the torrential fury of the deity, who is made to suffer at the hands of those hoping to avoid damnation or godly wrath, who is meant to shoulder the blame when no one else wants to. Favors have been bought with the blood of the goat, its head nestled amidst verdant grasses, pure forevermore even when it is dyed carmine. It appeases and pleases.

So it’s just—religiously so—that the crow takes the goat for himself, strips it bare, and proves to the prying eyes in heaven that the greatest sin is more than lustful temptation.

For the crow—for Rollo—the heaviest sin, a vile, cursed burden from his very first breath—it is existence itself.

And only the blood of a pure goat can wash away such filth—can cleanse what has been rotting within. The goat can make a garden out of the crow—bring life and love to its barren insides regardless of however fleeting its presence may be. It is within this garden—within the softest, fertile soil—where the crow shall sow the most special seeds.

You cross the bridge with Rollo, your laughter filling the cloudy sky as you recall all manner of amusing stories from the past few hours. Drinking games paired with drunken gossip. Delicious wines and snacks. A party with an energy so lively it could rival the city’s annual festivals. Even though he doesn’t seem outwardly pleased to hear any of it, he listens well and occasionally stops to steady you before you can topple over the railing into the water below. Your heels clack against smooth, frosted stone, and the wind whips at your face, each snowflake biting and vicious. Noble Bell’s vast campus waits just beyond the wrought iron gate, standing proud and backdropped by the night.

“You think anyone’s up?” you ask, curling your fingers into his arm as he guides you through.

Rollo eases the gate shut. “They might if they hear you. It would be best to keep quiet.”

You pantomime zipping your lips and discarding a nonexistent key. He quirks a small smile at that and then hurries you along. Nights are always peaceful at Noble Bell. The halls are desolate and quiet, devoid of all signs of student life. Your and Rollo’s shoes click in unison as you walk through the hall and past the courtyard. You gaze at the arched openings, counting each one as they become fainter with the growing distance.

Your breath materializes in front of you when you sigh. “I’m so sleepy. I wanna go to bed for a thousand years.”

“You’ll miss your exam if you do that,” he chides, tutting. “And every other exam that will follow.”

“That’s the point!” Your voice bounces off the walls, returning to you in a reverberating echo. Cringing under Rollo’s disapproving glower, you speak softer. “Oops. Sorry.”

“Just how much have you had to drink? You can hardly walk straight without leaning on me for support.” He narrows his eyes, his lecherous gaze crawling down to your bare legs. “Not that I mind…”

His words don’t reach you, for they’re swallowed in a howling gale as it sweeps across the courtyard. You spy the dormitories then, each one looking more like gingerbread covered in confectioners’ sugar instead of buildings dusted with snow. Your eyelids droop while you cross the distance to reach your designated building, your every movement feeling slower than molten molasses, and by the time you’re actually inside the dorm—Rollo’s shushed you more than once—you’re yearning for the warmth of your bed.

So it’s bewildering when, rather than your own room, you stop at Rollo’s instead.

He opens the door and steps inside with you in tow. You keep your mouth shut, too tipsy to think coherently. After he clicks the lamp on, which leaves the room awash in soft shades of amber, he shrugs his coat off, draping it over a nearby chair. You drag yourself over to his bed and flop down, squeezing your eyes shut to block out both the light and your spinning surroundings. Rollo doesn’t say anything, but you hear him shuffling about his room, crossing to close and lock the door before walking back towards you. The mattress dips under his weight, and you feel nimble fingers working to undo the buttons on your coat.

“Can I sleep here tonight?” you ask, cracking your eyes open just as he’s pulling the coat from your person.

Rollo folds it neatly and sets it aside. “You’re practically melting into my bed already. It would be quite the undertaking to make the walk back to your room at this hour.”

“So considerate,” you tease, grinning up at him. Sleep stretches your expression into something dazed, and you yawn loudly. “Then I’m gonna sleep here. Wake me up before class.”

You almost drift off, but those frigid fingers are moving to tug you out of your sweater next. They crawl across your bare shoulders like a spider on a web.

“You really are something,” he marvels, glancing at your body sprawled beneath him. “To brave the cold in such thin material…”

“Stupid choice. I know.”

“It appears we’re in agreement.”

“Shut up,” you snap back with a weak laugh. “You’re no better, showing up so cozy and then giving everything to me.”

Rollo memorizes the way the form-fitting dress hugs your figure. He inhales a shaky breath and brings his hands back to his sides. Your chest is right here. So close. So frustratingly close.

He can’t indulge. He really shouldn’t. It’s unbecoming to show such unfair favorability when he’s meant to remain impartial. Death should not lust for the beauty of life because it only knows endings—or the beginnings of ghostly eternity. The crow should not allow himself to be swept up in tumultuous temptation.

And the goat is the only friend he’s known—the only one who understands the crow, if only by a few meager slivers. But someday the goat will know.

Rollo swallows his inhibitions, beating his urges away with a stick. He’s not one for rash decisions; he’s meticulous and thoughtful. He would never take such a risk—would never nosedive into a crude confession. He’s plotted it in his diary, but it’s never come to fruition. He restrains himself because he must. Because it’s the polite and proper thing to do when caught up in courtship. Because if he opens his torso and allows you to poke around inside, you’ll find that he is not the friend you’ve known for all these months.

He is a fiend, devilishly so, wearing the hide of a goat to put the real one at ease.

Warring with rationality, he slides away from you and intends to recover at his desk. He’ll scrawl all of the things he wishes to do to you in there and that will be enough. That will help clear his head of the intoxicating fog that settles whenever he’s with you in private. But then he’s reaching to untie the canopy draped over his bed, each corner undone within seconds. The sheer curtains fall in thin layers, confining the both of you to this island in the middle of a barren sea. It’s darker in here, dimly lit by the faint glow of the lamp outside.

You blink up at him, owlish.

“You…” He stops himself, shakes his head, and turns away. Hastily, he fishes his handkerchief from his pocket. With this enclosed propinquity, he can smell your perfume. It’s spiced and flowery—alluring and adorable all at once—and it assaults both his nose and mind. “You should sleep. It’s late.”

This is for the best. The crow is only meant to look after the goat, remain unaffected even in the face of lustful, fateful sacrifice.

But you’re here. You’re splayed like a spill, perfectly imperfect, and your shoulders are a canvas coveting kisses. He clutches his handkerchief in a white-knuckled fist.

“Mm, okay. Night…”

“Yes… Yes, good night,” he mumbles, lowering his handkerchief. He swallows thickly.

This is for the best.

But even though he thinks this, his arm is stretching out. Closer. Closer. So close, until his hand is hovering just above your chest. He’s so close.

When will he ever have another chance as fortuitous as this?

His hand closes around your breast and he squeezes it experimentally. It’s soft when his fingers dig in gently, depressing with the pressure of his digits. Rollo’s green hues flick to your face. Your eyes are shut, and soft snores slip from your parted lips. He glimpses your chest again and, with the utmost care, slides your dress down to free your breasts. They’re mostly bare, save for the heart-shaped pasties covering your nipples. Rollo heaves a disbelieving sigh.

“Promiscuous,” he mutters, plucking the edge of the first adhesive and peeling it away to reveal the perky nipple beneath. You look so soft, so clean, so pure… What was he even worried about? No one’s had you before. He’s sure of it.

He’s about to remove the other heart when your voice freezes him.

“What…are you doing?”

He holds your gaze. It’s tense for a moment, unspoken accusations brewing between the both of you.

“A massage,” he blurts, but there isn’t a hint of haste in his tone. He suspected this outcome when he chose to traverse the line of right and wrong—and ultimately sided with the former. Because to him it’s right, even if it’s wrong. He knows what will soon follow: disgust and detestation.

Instead, you giggle. It’s sleepy and silly-sounding, but it’s also light and lively.

You catch his hand in yours and drag it back to your chest. “If you wanted to touch, just ask,” you murmur, your words slurring. “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

You’re not just perfect and pure. You’re everything.

Yes, it’s the alcohol blurring your brain and the intimacy of being trapped in a quiet, comfortable space such as this one that allows you to desire him. Would it be the same if you were sober? He can’t quite say, but he doesn’t wish to know. This is enough. This is paradise.

He kneads slow, steady motions into your breast, and you watch from where you’re lying on the bed. His other hand slithers between your legs to search for your clothed clit. Your breath hitches just as his fingers brush it, and he presses in, rubbing with his index. Your arm falls over your face, and your chest rises with every breath.

“How does it feel?” he asks, rolling your nipple between chilly digits.

“Not enough,” you bemoan, curling your fingers into a fist. “S’not enough…”

“How fascinating. I suppose cheap wine truly does turn you into a pute.”

“No… Was definitely expensive. The fancy kind.”

“Was it now?” He circles your clit, predatory and shark-like, his eyes alight with glee. “You say that, but look at the state it’s left you in. Utterly disheveled.”

“That’s because of—” you gasp, your voice rising in pitch— “because of you…”

His heart hammers in his chest, a resounding, pounding melody.

The City of Flowers treasures its goats, and the crow loves his fiercely even though he shouldn’t.

“Did you enjoy drinking yourself foolish and indulging in debauchery?” His fingers dance along your inner thigh, hooking around the hem of your underwear. “Was it a fun celebration?”

You lower your arm to glare halfheartedly at him. “Someone sounds jealous.”

“More so disappointed, mon chou chou,” he coos, sugary, sickeningly sweet. “Someone could have taken advantage of you. Someone could have tainted you with magic.” His lip curls up into a nasty sneer. It lingers for a moment before fading into something calm. He gazes at you, oddly tender. “That didn’t happen, though, yes?”

You shake your head and flinch when he drags your panties down. Dewy strings of your slick come away with it, and you shudder at your newfound nudity. He hums approvingly and drags his finger through the wet patch staining your panties. Driven by libertine compulsion, he stretches viscous strands of your essence between two fingers.

Your eyes find his deceitful greens once more. Silence sparks between the both of you, quickly broken by your exhalation. Rollo kneels before you, taking in the sight of you as your face wavers through the stages of consideration. Upon arriving at your conclusion, you sit up slightly and shuck your dress over your head. And then you’re lying back, shaking your panties from off your ankle, and wrapping your legs around his waist to draw him in closer. 

You grin, coquettish. “Why not search for yourself if you’re so worried, Mr. Student Council President?”

There’s no turning back. Not that he ever would. Not when the goat’s given him the signal. The blade doesn’t fall, but he does.

And this is better than dreams and erotica. This is real.

He surges forward to fit his lips against yours. Sloppy and inexperienced, he molds himself to your body. You tug him against you, your hands working to undress him. Clothes and shoes are cast aside between open-mouthed kisses, torn off half-buttoned and ripped away from soles. You breathe him in, gasping into his mouth. Translucent strings of saliva connect your mouths when you part, soon broken when you lean in for a chaste peck.

“You’re okay,” he says, the words practically bleeding onto your own tongue with how close he is. “Still as pure as the day I first met you.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“The best thing.”

His third and fourth fingers prod at the depths of your pussy, pressing inwards. Shallow at first. He watches your face unblinkingly, burning every pleasured contortion into his brain, and slides his thumb along your clit. Your breathing staggers, coming in quick huffs, and you grab at the bedsheets to steady yourself. Rollo works you open on those fingers, curling and scissoring in equal measure. The slick squelches join in the salacious symphony you’re currently producing. Every sigh and groan come together in perfect harmony. You’re a heavenly harp, and he’s plucking your strings like an expert musician.

“Tonight is unforgivable,” he adds, and you blink through blissful tears to view him. “Folly is the worst distraction.”

“Then be stupid with me,” you joke, running your hands over his shoulders. He’s so cold. “Warm yourself with me.”

And he will because he’s always wanted to. He’s desired it. Craved it. Coveted it. Thought of nothing else for days and days, each delusion so cyclical it often felt tangible.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispers, sliding his other hand up your hip and towards your rib. He traces the path of where it lies beneath layers of flesh before pressing down to feel it. “So beautiful…”

Your hand glides into his, fingers twining like silken thread around a spool. A lopsided smile lifts your lips, and you preen under him. “Yeah? Am I really?”

“I wouldn’t lie about the obvious…” Your walls hug his fingers tighter then, and a shiver electrifies your nerves. He hums again, quite pleased. “Oh, did you like that?”

“I did. Very much.”

Lashes fluttering against your cheekbones, your head thrown back in ecstasy ever-mounting, you render him ensorcelled. Like a prized Renaissance nude, a goat laid to sacrifice in the crow’s nest, you are beatific. Divinely so.

“Allow me to reiterate then.” He hastens his pace, pumping his fingers relentlessly. You tamp down a shameless moan. “You’re exquisitely beddable. A work of art. Enchanting. Une belle femme.”

You’re nearing the edge—very gradually, but not quite—and so it’s devastating when he slips his fingers out, each one thoroughly coated in you. They shimmer in the dim light, reminding you of where they had previously been.

“Put it back in,” you beg with wide, glossy eyes. “C’mon… Please don’t stop now. Was so close. So close and—”

Your complaints are curbed when you follow his hand as it moves to wrap around his half-hard cock. He strokes himself thrice, using your slick as lube, until his cock is curving up against his stomach. You stare at him; he stares right back.

And then you realize he intends to go all the way.

“Wait, Rol…lo… S’not my safe day,” you say, shifting away. Whether impatiently or anxiously, he can’t tell, but he can certainly guess. Your world spins once, a dizzying blur, before it promptly clears. In the very center of your vision, as he’s always been, Rollo remains. “S’not safe…”

He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling with levity. “I know.”

He’s kept track, dutiful like always.

You attempt to crawl out from under him, but he stops you. Your stomach churns.

“I’ll pull out in time,” he promises, rubbing soothing circles into your plush hips.

Even with the alcohol still buzzing through your system, you aren’t convinced. “N-No, really, we should stop here…”

“You’ll feel so good. Come now, aren’t we nearly there already?”

Rollo lifts your legs onto his shoulders. You squirm with more determination this time, but his fingers dig into your thighs. With a startled squeak, you sink into the mattress, cowed into submission.

“We… We can’t.”

“Why not?” The smooth, soft head of his cock prods curiously at your pussy.

You chew your lip, admitting in a meek tone, “I… I could get p-pregnant…”

“Pregnant,” he parrots, tasting the word as if it’s a delicacy he has yet to sample. His cock twitches. “Pregnant…”

“So… So that’s why…”

“Do you not want children?”

“I… Well… Now is kinda…”

He presses onwards, sinking in slowly. Your breath hitches; your heart stumbles. The intrusion is not entirely unwanted, for your slick, snug walls cling to his shape, and you almost give in to bodily inclination. But it doesn’t feel right. You’re scared. No matter how naturally your body reacts, you don’t want this.

“Rollo, wait—”

“It would be a wonderful thing—to see you rounded with my children.” Rollo props himself on either side of you, his body pinned to yours in sinful, sweaty connection. He exhales a deep breath, restraining himself as he pushes deeper. Patience is a virtue, after all. Your expression tightens with discomfort, and so he peppers your face with placatory kisses. “To see you grow in and—mmh—out of the most flattering maternity wear. To behold every change that blesses this beautiful body of yours… To see you swell with my love, filthy as it may be. Ah, but pregnancy is just as messy… Nevertheless, it shall be a special bond for us—a sacred vow, if you will. We are connected here—” he punctuates this point by slotting the rest of his length inside, and your legs involuntarily close around him to keep him there— “and soon here when life develops within.”

One hand splays across your stomach to pat it with fondness. You choke on your helpless whimper when he rocks his hips once, experimenting with the movement. It’s awkward, but it reminds you that he’s inside. So close to your womb that in just a few more thrusts he might—

“No… No, please… Rollo, you have to—oh—have to pull out. Please pull out. Don’t wanna get pregnant…”

“Oh, but you would be so beautiful.” He breathes you in, savoring sex and floral fragrance. “If I’m allowed one miracle—just one for all the anguish I’ve endured—let it be this.”

You know not of what anguish he speaks, for he’s never verbalized it, but even so it can’t possibly be so agonizing that it would warrant such invasion.

The vise-like hold your velvety walls have on his cock is deliciously addictive. He groans while he ruts into you, his eyelids fluttering. He could be animalistic and cruel in his movements—ravish you as if the world is faced with annihilation and this is his final hour—but instead he settles for exploratory leisure. His hand fits into yours and he squeezes it gently. A feeble protest builds in your throat and so he swallows it with a hungry kiss, his mouth molding against yours.

Your nails dig into his shoulders when he draws back and slides in again, filling you deeper than before. You breathe between kisses, panting and licking into his mouth in even intervals. He does much the same, anchored to you in a way that is both temporary and yet so permanent.

The world narrows down to this single sliver of space, enclosed in a canopy. And in it, laid bare and fertile, the goat is sacrificed to the crow. Death cannot reach either one here. There is only the promise of new life, thrust upon the goat all at once.

You don’t have the willpower to object, for you’ve already found yourself entrapped, so instead you cry. Tears track down your cheeks; your mascara runs with it. Ruined. So, too, is your pitch-black lipstick, smeared along the edges of your lips and printed onto Rollo’s porcelain skin.

Rollo’s hips stutter to a halt and he holds you against him when he spills thick and hot inside. Nothing is wasted; it’s all emptied deep within. If you’re lucky, it won’t take. But if some mischievous fertility goddess has cursed you, you’ll wake nauseous in the coming weeks.

If you have anything worth praying for, it’s the former.

The both of you are panting in the aftermath, but only one is coming down from his glorious high. You remain unsatisfied, your peak not yet breached. Rollo rolls his hips once more for good measure before easing out. You crumple into the wrinkled sheets, frigid and still as a statue. Carved empty and hollow, yet stuffed with sin.

The crow has come. Though this time the gift of tragedy is something between boon and curse.

— — —

The curtains are drawn to let in sunlight. It filters in through frosted glass, each pane stamped with snow, and it blinds you the moment you try to open your eyes. You twist and turn in bed, feeling heavy with hangover. A splitting ache cracks your head in half, and you groan loudly.

“Fuckin’ hell,” you hiss, digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. “This sucks…”

You force yourself to wake after two more minutes of rolling around. Groaning once more, you sit up in bed. The canopy has been tied back in place, and when you glance sidelong at Rollo’s desk you notice something. A glass of water and a plate are waiting for you, seeming more enticing by the second. You throw the covers off, realize you’re nude seconds later, and promptly snatch them back. They’re wrapped around you like a comforting cloak. You stagger out of bed to check the contents. Two croissants, a single orange, a dollop of strawberry marmalade, and two tablets are arranged on the plate.

Hangover medicine, you realize, lifting one up to scrutinize it.

You peer around the room. It’s empty. And then you see the clock. It’s a little past noon.

“Oh,” you mumble, lowering into the chair. You clutch the blanket closer. “Rollo must be in class.”

Amidst the piercing migraine, which you quickly resolve by throwing your head back to swallow both tablets in a single gulp of water, two things occur to you. You’re in Rollo’s room. Naked. In Rollo’s room. Surely you must have spent the night after you returned from the party. Why are you naked?

But more importantly…

“Shit! My exam!” The excitement doesn’t help your current state, and you slouch in your seat, even more exhausted than before. “I completely missed it… Rollo’s gonna kill me.”

You scrub the sleep from your eyes and reach for a croissant, content with giving up. You don’t want to endure the walk of shame from Rollo’s room to yours. If anyone were to catch you, they’d certainly be left wondering.

As you nibble on the croissant, admiring the way Rollo’s arranged the contents of his room, you spot the edge of something beneath the plate. Perplexed, you push it aside to reveal a note. Penned in Rollo’s effortlessly pretty script, it reads:

I’ll forgive your transgression just this once if you’ll forgive mine. For now, get some rest. I’ve left breakfast here. Stay for however long you’d like.

You scowl at his attempt of ‘breakfast,’ and your stomach rumbles in dissatisfaction.

“Right?” you say to your stomach, clicking your tongue. “If anything, this is hardly a snack.”

But you’re grateful for his efforts. He cares. He always has. From the very first day you found yourself in this world, he cared.

While you peel the orange, pondering foggy recollections of last night, you begin to realize just how sticky you feel. As if someone’s slobbered all over you and left it to dry. The feeling persists between your thighs.

You pause momentarily, overcome with an uncanny sense of panic as you piece the puzzle together. The still-forming picture does not look good.

“Shit…” you whisper, haunted with a fragmented timeline. “What the hell did we do last night?”

You know. The deep, dark part of your brain knows, but you don’t want to confront it. Because Rollo wouldn’t, right? He couldn’t. He’s always done what’s best for you, so he wouldn’t.

Right?

[sillygoofyqueer]

Bing-ge getting super sparkly/shiny jewelry with magical abilities and the wives are like “Ooh, could this be for me?” only, nah. It’s actually to lure in his future husband. Go away. XD

Ahhh! Shen Yuan making a safe haven for crows is a wonderful idea! Demonic crows or yao, whether they’ve cultivated human form or not, are all welcome! Regular crows too!

Since I love teacher Shen Yuan, of course he teaches all the younger ones too. Just because they spend half their time as birds doesn’t mean they can’t get an education!

The human half of his family are probably from some tiny village who gave offerings to the local crow demons and unintentionally became friends (crows being protective of their people and all). Their village is startlingly safe thanks to crows mobbing anyone who dares try to mess with them! There might be other half-crow kiddos running around too, thanks to the good relations. Shen Yuan tutors the village kids too of course!

(Tiny bit of angst, but Bing-ge burns with envy if he finds out! This half-demon friendly town was here the whole time?!)

This is adorable, Shen Yuan seeing these young children and just being like "...students." Sometimes, if the human children are extra lucky, he'll take them on flights as long as they have 'necessary payment' (usually a cool looking rock and proof that they've done their chores). It's impossible to find Shen Yuan without at least one crow perched on his shoulder or in his hair, unless he's going on - what the others describe as - dangerous escapades to nab cool stuff from Bing-ge's palace, in which he will know and stop anyone who tries to follow him because he's a dumbass with no self-preservation skills, not them! It takes him a startlingly long time to figure out that Bing-ge is leaving things for him on purpose, and he is undeniably shocked when he finds out. He eventually finally takes it as a form of courtship due to other demons' and humans' instance that it probably is. After doing research on crows courting one another, did you know that the males feed the females?? And sing to them?? SO, I immediately thought of the idea of Shen Yuan trying to reciprocate the courting (because he would never be so silly as to reject the emperor, no one in their right mind would) by randomly appearing in Bing-ge's room (much to Bing-ge's delight and confusion) and singing sweetly before feeding a willing emperor apple slices or some shit until Bing-ge reciprocates and feeds him in response and Shen Yuan just pauses and goes "hang on, am I the wife?" and immediately takes to the role without any thought. ("Why would Bing-ge be the wife, how foolish of me!") When Bing-ge finds out about the village that accepts half demons, of course he's a little upset! Why couldn't he have this sort of comfort and love in his life? Why did he have to suffer all this time?? Then he goes to this village so that Shen Yuan can show off his nest to the emperor (sign of trust?) and is immediately hit with the "I want to be here forever" train.

Also, the more you think about it, the funnier it gets actually lmao. He just shows up with these gorgeous trinkets and jewellery and sometimes even clothes (shiny embroidery of course), and they vanish and the wives are all like "where the actual hell are they going? Who do we even complain about??" and it could be like a background thing where the wives all get jealous of each other when there's actually just this bird guy who comes over quite often and started by stealing shit while dropping off helpful things. Imagine how strange that must be for the wives. "Ugh, [wife's name here] is taking all the attention away from us!!", "Really? I thought it was [other wife's name]." Meanwhile, there's just one wife (Liu Mingyuan most likely) who just knows and she doesn't tell anyone, content to watch as chaos ensues while the bird man and Luo Bing-ge fall deeper in love with one another, and the gifts get more elaborate each time. {part three! Part one, part two, part four, part five, part six, part seven!!}

[kiame-sama]

Omega Marechi (Yandere!Upper-Moons x Omega!Reader x Yandere!Muzan)

Warnings; yandere, multiple yandere, stalking, mention of violence, mention of social imbalance, my abo au (less than 1000 omegas world wide and omegas are a commodity of sorts), omega reader, abo social ladder, abo societal structure, unfair situations, instinct manipulation, kidnapping, threat of murder, blood, violence, mention of human consumption, demons, female bodied reader, female reader pronouns (let me know if y'all want a male version).

(It's a personal headcannon of mine that omegas are short & chubby, so very soft and squishy)

(Also, let me know if y'all want a continuation of this, I have a certain idea involving stockades I have been interested in trying out)

~~~~~~~~

Deep within the winding surfaces and ever changing interior of a fortress wreathed in darkness, demons began to gather. Though they were few in number, each demon had their own impressive strengths and abilities that set them apart from the many other members of their brood. Even with their combined presence and strength, their master stood above them in every way possible.

The king of demons, he who sired every other demon, stood watching his upper ranked generals as they gathered beneath him. Short dark hair seemed to swallow all light in the inky abyssal color, bright red eyes glinting like lit lanterns on the darkest of nights. His fair skin unblemished and so smooth it could be mistaken for the marble of a true artisan's finest work. Truly a vision of a true apex alpha with the beauty of a divine being.

The six generals that gathered were supposed to be without company and solely focused on their sire, yet one was not alone. Next to the top general of the king's army was a large rectangular box shape that was draped in heavy fabrics to conceal what may be held within. The fabrics seemed to be soaked in a heavy perfume mixed with the hint of an unusually appealing scent that taunted the senses.

"What have you brought, Kokushibou?"

The deep and commanding voice of the demon king rumbled out with a tint of curiosity in his tone. Where he expected quite a bit from his upper moons, even he had to admit that the actions of his top general were odd. It was not often that the upper moons did something that surprised him- and usually was met with a swift reprimand- but his curiosity had been peaked by the abnormal behavior.

Without saying a word, Kokushibou gripped the heavy fabric and quickly pulled it away, revealing what had been concealed. Beneath the cloth lay an iron cage- much like what an exotic beast would be transported in- with blankets lining the bottom of the cage for cushion. The cage itself wasn't very interesting when compared to what lay within.

Laying bound in the iron cage was a woman, her (h/c) locks strewn around her head and her (s/c) flesh looked incredibly plush and no doubt was soft to the touch. A delicate and fine silk kimono wrapped around her bound form, even that which held her was made of the expensive materials. Her eyes were covered in a long silk ribbon, mouth held shut by an intricate golden muzzle, her arms cuffed together with similarly intricate cuffs in front of her and lower legs cuffed together.

A woman- no matter how decorated- wasn't much to crow about, but the pungent scent that had been smothered by the perfumes was now free and quickly reached those nearby. There was a visible change in the way the other upper moons stood, their nostrils flaring and eyes fixed on the soft woman as they contemplated what she was. The scent reached Muzan last, but he knew immediately what was being presented to him, though he could scantly believe what his senses were telling him.

"No," Douma started, his multi colored eyes wide in disbelief, "that's impossible. Omegas aren't real! It must be a trick."

"Looks real to me. Smells real too. Actually," Akaza sniffed, looking curiously at the bound female, "she smells like a marechi."

A soft whimper came from within the cage, the female inside moving and seemingly trying to pull away from her binds. The muzzle secured on her kept her from speaking and muffled her sounds as she responded to the voices around her. Blindly she turned her head towards the sound of Akaza speaking, seemingly trying to understand where she was and who she was with.

"She was being transported as cargo on a train. From her scent, it was made clear to me that she is an Omega and a marechi. She has no mating marks present on her body. The humans transporting her were on their way to deliver her to slayers, a gift from a small village of fools."

Muzan silently descended from where he had been standing above the upper moons, approaching the cage curiously. The other demons watched in interest as their sire crouched, observing the bound female that had been presented to him. He had not encountered an omega, even in his long life, so seeing such a rare and unusual being in a cage was surreal. Truly, he had thought omegas were just another myth created by humans.

He reached a finger between the bars, his sharp nail gently scraping over the exposed neck of the omega. Naturally, she responded with a fearful sound at the feeling of something sharp against her neck, trying to writhe away from the sensation. The obvious fear was accompanied by an intense scent that prodded at their minds to defend the soft woman from whatever may be causing her distress.

Muzan observed the struggling of the delicacy he had been presented with, red eyes gleaming and unwavering. After a moment of simply watching the omega struggle, he reached his hands forward to grip the cage bars. With one flex, the metal groaned beneath his hands, crumpling like sand and bending out of shape. One of his hands held the cage still as he ripped the bar off of the cage, pulling out several more until he could access the omega.

The loud sound of the metal bending and crushing had clearly upset the omega who let out a muffled scream into the muzzle, body twisting and writhing to escape the frightening sound and its source. Another scream escaped her as one of Muazan's hands gripped the back of the her kimono, dragging her out of the remnants of the cage. A sharp scent made him freeze, the taunting ambrosia of marechi blood filled his nostrils as he moved to examine the omega.

Sitting on her cheek was the smallest of cuts, blood slowly beading along the line of the slice. Within the second Muzan noticed the small injury, a greedy mouth formed along his hand. The elongated tongue quickly stretching out and slowly laving over the gathered blood with an apparent groan of satisfaction rumbling in his chest from the taste.

His pleasured sound only seemed to frighten the omega more, whimpering out and beginning to cry from the terror. It was understandable, she had been in the cage for an unknown time and now was listening to the sound of an unknown assailant flavor her blood. With a quick motion the blindfold was pulled away, revealing (e/c) eyes that were filled with delicate tears and horror.

Her gaze became fixed on the bright red eyes of the predator in front of her, body falling completely still. Much like the way an injured fawn would freeze upon seeing the open jaws of a bear. The body of the soft omega seemed to curl in on itself, as if she were trying to seem as small as possible all without looking away.

He lifted his free hand towards her and gripped her ornate metal muzzle despite her frightened sounds and slow shaking of her head back and forth. She cringed and closed her eyes tightly as his hand gripped the clasp of the muzzle that held it on.

For a moment, things seemed to stand still in baited anticipation of what the demon king would do next. All upper moons keenly awaited their sire's next move as it would determine the fate of the omega they all were interested in. Wanting to get their hands on her if he allowed her to live, or wanting a piece of her if he chose to consume her.

A soft click of metal could be heard in the profound silence as the clasp of the muzzle was disconnected.

~~0~~

You warily watched the frightening man remove the muzzle you wore, seeing how hungrily he looked at you the entire time. He seemed to be contemplating you, much like many others would when first coming into contact with you. The man- or monster, would be more accurate- suddenly grinned, hand gripping your neck and slowly lifting you up.

Even with how you struggled, the man seemed to have no problem holding you until he was fully standing. His expression became more fierce as the veins in his face became more pronounced, tongue slowly dragging over his lips. After a moment he lowered you so your feet were on the ground, no longer holding you off the ground but still holding you in place.

"You are a truly unfortunate human. Luckily for you, I intend to keep you for the time being. You staying alive or not will be determined by your actions."

~~~~~~~~

You had been taken to a large ornate bed that no doubt belonged to the demonic alpha that broke your chains but left your cuffs. From the way he stared at you, you felt like you were being appraised much in the way one would appraise a meal. A yelp escaping your lips as you were thrown down on the soft surface.

In seconds you felt the silk that held your clothing together rip open, the ornate kimono falling open. Your body was completely left exposed to the intense gaze of the man, you had been dressed for meeting several new mates who were top members of the demon slayers. Instead it seemed the demons found you and decided to keep you for the time being.

Part of you was terrified to fight back as you didn't wish to anger the demon that took you to bed. Based off of his scent, you knew you were dealing with an alpha of great strength and willpower. The alpha himself seeming to be above other alphas that you had caught the scents of whenever one would pass through your village. He was clearly the one others answered to as they had gotten out of his way rather quickly when he decided to drag you to his chambers.

You tried to keep your thighs pressed together to give yourself some kind of protection, but the demon was quick to pry them open. His gaze was intense and you felt your body warm in response to how he stared at your exposed figure. A whimper from you seemed to break the trance he was in as his eyes flicked up to look at you for several seconds.

"And still, you are afraid. Tell me, Omega, did the humans you lived amongst even give you a name, or have you always been Omega?"

"My name," you struggled to keep the fear out of your voice as you answered the alpha demon, "it's (Y/n), (L/n)(Y/n)."

"(Y/n)? I am Kibutsuji Muzan, king of demons. You have gained my attention, (Y/n), quite dangerous indeed. I expect you to be an obedient omega, understand?"

"Ye-yes, I understand, Alpha."

"Good."

You whined softly as one of his hands came up to palm your soft chest as if appraising it like fruit. His bright red eyes gleaming in interest as he observed you trying to sit still for him and let him continue what he wanted. Clearly you were a high tier omega as you were so obedient and did exactly what the alpha told you to do.

The village you grew up in must have trained you to be a good omega, taking the word of an alpha as law. In any case, he was quite pleased to have such a treasure in his grasp. He vaguely considered keeping the omega for himself, but he knew the way the upper moons stared, even Akaza showed clear interest.

An omega would certainly be a unique reward and incentive to push the upper moons further. Beyond just that, using the unique human omega sent could throw off the slayers in such a way there would be no one left to stand against the demon king.

[sharpedgedfool]

I've ended up doing a full character sheet for each of the season's, I'll probably do the fairies grouped up together as they're not as detailed but this was fun!

Some more extensive lore under the cut!

So the seasons are all personified as these four spirits. They're not considered fae they're more like deities, the fae have their own courts separate but they pay respect to the seasons as they pass - Winter is the season with the least amount of fae present as most of the fairies are spring-born and die before winter and reincarnate every spring again, a select few fae stay alive through winter but their court is rather elusive. Winter is rarely seen in person, and so they are quite mysterious. Most of what people and fae alike know of Winter are only rumours passed around - they are often described to be cold, violent and deadly due to the amount of battles waged over wintertime.

Although Winter is necessary for the other seasons to thrive, they are often targeted by people attempting to kill Winter to save loved ones dying of the cold. They take no pleasure in it, but they've became accustomed to fighting those desperate enough to try, sometimes fighting armies off by themselves. Animal-patron-fae see the benefits of these battles first, the predator animals feed off the remains of the fallen and prey animals are less likely to be targeted in turn. Plant-patron-fae see more prey animals feeding off the berries in spring so they at least have a passive understanding of the events.

Those who know Winter, or know them by their name 'Black Ice', know they deeply care for animals, and do their best to not disturb those hiding away in hibernation and often enjoys the company of the more active animals. They often ride their Stag around in the snow, the two of them are almost inseparable. Wolves, crows and foxes tend to follow them around in case they slay someone and they can pick at the scraps, but they've secretly thrown snowballs around for them when they're playing. Winter fae like mistletoe or holly sometimes pay respect and offer gifts, but Winter doesn't partake in their festivities - they feel like they shouldn't celebrate when many are suffering in his presence.

Winter refuses to abandon their duty and takes pride in their role in the lifecycle, they know the importance of their season, but they are constantly in a state of grief witnessing more death than life. They know most of the people waging war against them aren't trying to take over the season's power (Summer is mostly targeted for this reason, as they're considered a 'good' season and people want their power and position) instead the attackers truly believe they're doing a good thing and are just foolish not malicious. Despite sympathising with them, Winter won't give them mercy or let their guard down, lest they do manage to kill them and throw off everything.

If they were to die, it is unlikely anyone would want to take up the mantle of winter due to it's hated reputation, but a cruel person could use winter to do untold damage and kill Autumn or Spring in the process - even Summer might falter if their heart were too cold to be burned. They knew the previous spirit of Winter when they were mortal. They had grown close, but she was fatally wounded in a battle against a grieving lover and she couldn't bring herself to strike back. The lover escaped unscathed, and Black Ice found her dying in the snow. In her final moments they promised to take her place and protect what she could not. They love the winter with all their heart, but they still struggle to see the beauty in the season, they still see her blood in the snow.

Winter is the eldest season of the current four, but holds great respect for all his three peers - he has never met Summer but trusts they are more than capable. He isn't talkative, and is quite clinical. They arrive and leave punctually and without much conversation with the other seasons, unlike the other three who often enjoy each others company for a few days before moving on.

[bump1nthen1ght]

Silver and Gold (M!Siren!Reader x M!Pirate Captain)

Pairing: Male!Flirty!Siren!Reader x Male!Pirate Captain

Genre: Pirates, Flirting, First Meetings

Word Count: 2570 words

Warnings: N/A

Summary: For living a life in a sailor’s death trap, you think you’d be used to handsome pirate captains, rushing headlong into adventure. But something about today’s quarry seems different.

Request May I request a flirty male! siren! reader with a male gruff pirate captain? I'll leave the details up to you! Love your works by the way, take all the dang time you need. :3

A/N: Alright now THIS one should be accurate to the request lolol. You guys get a two for one special!

Life in the Dragon’s Teeth was shockingly boring.

Its reputation is infamous, the majority of sailors being sensible enough to leave it well enough alone. Of the people who dared to enter most were young and braggadocious sailors looking to prove their worth, who often made for quite boring sport. They always thought they were somehow better than siren magic, that pure belief could beat an enchantment powerful enough to literally make men wantonly fall to their deaths.

Bo-ring.

You think, watching one such ship entering into the gorge, men lined up the sides like pigs ready for slaughter. Your ravenous siblings all leap for the chances, hiding behind treacherous rocks or laying alluringly on outcrops, all ready for a taste. Despite the ship you all sank just one week ago, their bellies never seem to fill.

You however, have grown tired of this. Too easy, too monotonous. Maybe it’s time you finally spread your fins and leave the gorge, head into open water and explore the seas. Would be much more interesting than this, that's for sure.

You roll back over on your fins as the siren’s begin to sing, a haunting chorus bouncing off the chasm as the ship deftly avoids the rocks. Rolling your eyes, you daydream about the Great Barrier Reef, wondering if it’s as magnificent as they say.

But then-

“Ugh, come on!” A particularly voracious sister of yours hum to a tune of discontent, harshing her usually sweet melody. “I’m hungry! Why is this taking so long?”

“I don’t know.” A more rational brother of yours whispers, just loud enough for you to hear from your outcrop. “They should be overboard by now.”

That’s enough to have you turning over, eyes lazily sweeping over the ship, now deep in the Dragon’s Teeth. To your surprise, every sailor still seems hard at work, keeping mindful of the edges of the ships, but fulfilling their duties. Even the watchman at the crow’s nest, isolated as they are, stays perched and at the ready, looking over at your beckoning family with nervous yet un-enchanted eyes.

Now this is new.

You slide down a mossy outcrop, slipping in between the confused masses of your siblings, whose songs grow more and more discordant. Some have even swam up to the sides, clawing at the bows and preening like young pups. Still, the sailors ignore them, not paying any mind.

For a whole ship to be free of a whole horde of siren’s is a shocking thing, a terrifying thing, a wonderful new thing. You have to know more, so you crawl along the rocks, exploring the entire hull with watching eyes. 

Is there some boon they’ve brought with them? Did they find a witch and ask for safe passage? Has Poseidon himself blessed their voyage?

You wander from man to man, trying to find a hint of any wills breaking. But while curious eyes occasionally steal a glance at your siblings, curiosity is its reason, not compulsion. Any who dare get a sharp retort from the man at the helm, though they hardly deem to notice.

It’s then you realize, all these men are deadly silent. Not a peep between them, not even shouting orders. Except the helmsman, all the others silently following a preapproved pattern, a routine.

Oh, and what a helmsman he is.

It's easy to see how much better dressed he is than his men, a crimson coat that falls to his knees, closed by several belts and buckles over a ruffle white shirt. Gold studs decorate up and down his ears yet he is sparsely decorated elsewhere. Long black hair peppered with gray is tied in a low ponytail, healthy and silky despite a life at sea. His beard is less maintained, more scraggly, split apart by the occasional scar across his jaw. His boots are polished leath, not a scratch or stain on them, and his trousers are well fitted. Especially across his buttocks, which you take the time to appreciate.

The other thing that catches your eyes are his hands. Hands which swiftly attend to the wheel, in fact are tied to the rudders. His breathing is labored slightly, his cheeks darkened from focused exertion. Still, he keeps his eyes straight, shouting loudly to a young third mate who dares to ean over the side of the ship. The man ignores him, up until the captain kicks at a nearby can into the man's leg, shocking him to attention.

Oh, I see.

Seems you’ve found yourself an interesting prey.

—

Royce felt like a fool.

All his life he’s been a pragmatic man. Where other Captains gambled, brawled, and squandered their lives in stupid feats of bravado, he had always kept a level head. Sure, he’s a pirate and knew to have some fun, but he always did so with care.

He had weighed his options heavily before deciding on the Dragon’s Keep. It wasn’t easy, nor without risk, but the quickness of the route and the assurances of his men had convinced him. His plan would allow them to reach their next port in half the time, beating out any other rival crews to what was rumored to be an excellent bounty. He had even concocted a plan to ensure casualties would be at a minimum, scrounging for texts and stories about the fabled place to be best prepared.

But he had just been so goddamned curious.

“Cotton in the ears, huh?” 

A melodic voice knocks Royce out of his focus, thanking the gods for his resilience and not flinching at the site of the siren, now hoisted up the side of his ship. He thanks his foresight in tying his hands to the wheel, knowing that even without a song, the siren could easily lure him to his death.

“It’s a good plan, surprised you’re the first to think of it. There’s always a risk of course, that we’d be louder, but it seems they’ve packed those eardrums full.” The siren drags a clawed hand across the railing. The siren has a more human disguise, fins and teeth and scales all out to show. It does not make him any less alluring. 

Glowing yellow-green eyes dance up and down the captain’s form, a black tongue wetting the siren’s lips.

“So why not you, Captain?” The title drips out of the siren’s mouth like honey, his beck arching as he relaxes along the railing, precariously balancing his weight yet not a care in the world. “Is it supposed to be a challenge, a test of your willpower?” Sharp eyes dart to his tied hands “Or just plain ego?”

Royce takes a deep breath, meeting the beast’s gaze. He is a proud man, maybe too proud, but he’s not stupid.

“I am an example for my men, siren. I cannot be bested by a simple song.”

“Hmm, a likely story.” The siren sits upright, tail now swung over and onto the ship. He leans forward, a gleeful look in his eyes. “You are doing rather well. Most men would have torn their arms clean off by now.” A heat lingers over Royce’s arms, the siren’s gaze covetous. “It would’ve been a shame, they seem like very nice arms indeed.”

Royce tries not to feel flattered. These are games, that is all.

“I have faced many challenges in my life. None of them have claimed me yet.”

Royce keeps the details to a minimum. He’s content that he’s able to keep his composure this much, the siren testing his strength.

The siren’s laugh is as frightening as it is charming.

“Ah, so ego it is. Though you seem smarter than other idiots who have tried it before.” The siren goes back to his tied hands, to his tense posture. “And far more handsome. Awfully bold, coming into a territory like this looking like that.”

Royce scoffs. 

“Are you here only to play with you food, beast? Or do you find joy in plying me with compliments instead of singing?”

“Ooh, some sass! Good to know your words are as sharp as your sword, Captain.” The siren licks his lips. “And that jawline. My, my, I think you put even my kind to shame.”

Royce rolls his eyes, only making the siren laugh more. It seems that this Siren is less interested in eating him and more in entertaining himself.

“I have to ask, most others who pass through here are looking for a fight. A chance to prove themselves. You seem rather content on passing through, your men as well. Why come through this place?”

Royce stays quiet, thinking over any potential danger in revealing his plans to siren. If anything, nothing could be more dangerous than the position he is in now.

“It’s the quickest route. My men seemed up to the challenge, and so was I. We’re pirates, it’d be unbefitting for us to cower away from the riskier route.”

The siren nods. “True, true. Still, quite a risk indeed.” The siren flashes a smile full of glittering fangs.

The ship rocks, several of his men thrown to their knees as a stray rock scrapes against its side. The siren rocks with the waves, easily keeping his balance.

Royce grits his teeth. Is that what this was? A distraction? But the siren seems disquieted, slightly annoyed.

“Gah, fucking ridiculous that lot. So gluttonous.” The siren leans over, hissing an angry song. Royce almost wishes for the cotton, but finds no compulsing rhythm.

The ship stops rocking, the sound of rushing water as sirens fall to the wayside. The cacophonous songs fall to the side, though some still linger, waiting for a fortunate accident to occur.

“This place you're going to, will it have adventure?”

Royce raises his eyebrow.

“One would hope. Treasure too.”

The Siren’s smile is giddy, almost like a child.

“Then it’d be a shame if you got stuck here, then.”

The siren leans over the side, raising his hand, pointing to the portside.

“You’ll want to turn 20 degrees. There's a hidden outcrop that will cut through your hull.”

Royce grits his teeth, but follows the siren’s instructions. The ship sails smoothly, barely rocking.

“Now 10 degrees.”

  Royce turns again, just missing another jagged set of rocks. Sirens hiss in the water, Royce’s companion hissing back.

“Seems dangerous, betraying your own kind like this.”

“Bah, they’ll survive. They’re not even hungry, just peckish.”

The siren eyes him up and down again.

“Though you have me absolutely ravenous, Captain.”

Royce focuses on the wheel, hoping the siren doesn’t see his ears tips turn red.

—

This is definitely the most fun you’ve had in the while.

The Captains is as cunning as he is handsome, deft hands talented with the wheel. He peppers in anecdotes from his times at sea, a casual tone for such riveting stories.

In between instructions you take the time to eye him up more, those thick thighs and that strong back. You weren’t lying, he does put some sirens to shame.

“You’ll want to avoid those.” You point toward a deceptive spot of calm water. “The area alone sank an entire Navy Ship once. We feasted for weeks, though the meat was less than exemplary.”

“With only military rations, I’d imagine they aren’t very tasty.”

“Exactly! Gods, you’d think I’d be the only siren with taste around here.”

You see the faintest of a smirk from The Captain, which he quickly stomps away. He shares your dark sense of humor, quite fitting. You’ll get a laugh out of him yet. “15 degrees, starboard-side.”

The Captain follows with ease, your directions trustworthy by now. The crew still seem wary, unaware of the conversation due to the cotton in their ears, but they continue their work. Either their trust in their captain is strong, or they're too terrified to disobey in such treacherous waters.

The sun has begun to peak through, the end of the gorge insight. Your mind is slightly conflicted. A sadness, that the most interesting person you’ve met will soon be on his way. A glee, that this might be your best chance to leave the Teeth and explore the world.

The Captain clears his throat.

“It’s got its ups and downs, pirate life. Plenty of boring days, plenty of dangerous ones, plenty in betweens.” The Captain’s eyes stay on the horizon, safety so close for him and his crew. You smile.

“Would this be one of the ups, or one of the downs?” You wave to the jagged rocks, to the hungry eyes that linger from the water.

“I’m still undecided.”

You and your arm on the railing, watching the tides front the gorge clash with the ones outside.

“Still, it’s better than the same thing everyday. I think that's why most men go to sea, for the adventure, the undiscovered.”

Your eyes must be sparkling, minds filled with whales, sea turtles, with sunken ships and glorious battles.

The sun now speckles the hull of the ship, men visibly relaxing as the bow breaches the Dragon’s Teeth and splashes into safe waters. No one removes the cotton from their ears, however, still aware of your presence.

“I must thank you for your service, siren. I do not think we would’ve made it through unscathed if not for you.”

“____, It’s ____.” You say, eyes still on the wide ocean, on all the possibilities.

The Captain smiles, a familiar longing in your eyes.

“And it’s no problem. I think you’ve helped me more than you know.”

You whisper, heart thrumming. 

“You could join us, you know.” That has you whipping around, eyes wide. “I think you’ve proven yourself more than trustworthy. Besides, it would be helpful to have someone as powerful as you aboard.”

Your heart rises, bubbling up with excitement. But the fearful gaze of the rest of the crew still stings on your back, hackles raised.

“I think I’m gonna go out on my own for a while.” You hum, tapping your claws against wood. “See the world, really prove myself.”

The Captain keeps the quiet, nodding along silently. 

You sigh. Just a couple of hours with this man and you’re already melancholy to leave. For shame, ___, don’t you know better?

“Well, it’s a big ocean, Captain. But I’m sure we’ll see each other again.” You ready yourself on the rail, sitting upright and pivoting your tail to the outside of the ship. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be especially hungry next time.”

The Captain smirks, clicking his teeth.

“I’ll put up a hell of a fight, ___.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will-”

“Royce, the name’s Royce. Captain Royce.”

You smile, scaly cheeks glittering like diamonds in the sun.

“Until we meet again, Captain Royce.”

You give him a wink, eyeing up that gorgeous body of his one last time, and jump tail first into the ocean.

His ship fades into the sun as you swim away, hopeful that you’ll bump into it again one day. A day when you’re more worldly, have more adventurous stories to share.

You eye up the reef, several sirens slinking away, discontent with their food stolen. Whatever, they’ll get over it.

Your older sister might be a little upset about your abrupt departure, but she’ll get over that too. After all, she often leaves to visit that pirate paramour of hers, so what's the big difference?

Hell, maybe next time, you’ll come back with one of your own.

[obey-me-disaster]

A/N: I'm reposting this cause the tags didn't work the first time <3

Demon brothers x gn!MC

Demon brothers x MC that info-dumps about their familiars

Lucifer

Whenever he feels like the two of you haven't spent enough time together due to his work, he invites you into his office to hang out. He enjoys hearing you talk excitedly about your passions while he does paperwork.

He can't say he has too much of an interest in peacocks, but he loves hearing you talk about the things you love, so he'll let you talk until you've had your fill.

"So peacocks apparently peacocks feathers are covered in tiny crystal-like structures that reflect different wavelengths of light depending on how they're spaced."

"Also, since only male peacocks have the large train of feathers, do you think it played a role in them being your familiars? Since you're the avatar of pride and all of that."

"That's quite the theory you've got there, but I'm afraid I don't know how true it actually is."

"Still, I would love to hear more facts that you have, I can see from the expression on your face that you're dying to do so"

"And before you ask, yes, my feathers have the crystal-like structures, you can have a closer look if you would like"

His ego does grow quite a bit every time you go into one or your rants since he can tell you're talking so much about peacock cause they are his familiars.

He will probably buy you something peacock inspired to give you during one of your info-dumps.

God forbid you start gushing about his familiars in front of Diavolo. The prince will see it as a way to talk even more about Lucifer, and the former isn't sure how much he can deal with that.

Mammon

He has a pretty good base knowledge about crows. Out of all of his brothers, he probably works with his familiars the most. It's canon that he literally uses them to spy on people and gather information.

Still, there are a lot of things he might not know. And even if he knew, he would die before telling you to stop talking.

"Your crows are so cute, did you know that they are considered some of the world's smartest birds?"

"Of course they are! They're the Great Mammon's familiars after all"

"They are also known to gossip with their peers and hold grudges"

"I am well aware of that fact, more often than not they tell me the latest gossip in Devildom"

He would let you hang out with his crows in order to learn more about them.

I also have the headcanon that he can talk with them, so he would literally be a translator for you and the crows

"Feel free to ask them anything, I will translate whatever they say!"

Is pretty smug about the fact that you are so interested in his familiars, even so when you interact with them. He might even give you some accessories made out of his familiars' feathers(of course, feathers that have fallen on their own)

Leviathan

Bold of you to assume he doesn't know already everything there is about snakes already, he is literally one!

"Levi, did you know that snakes can smell with their tongues and a good amount of them have shit eyesight?"

"Henry the 1st used to have a bad eyesight!! They also don't really stop growing. This is more obvious with Devildom snakes tho"

He would honestly be really touched by your eagerness to learn and tell him about snakes since he is pretty much one. He sees it as you being interested in him on a whole new level and gets really excited when you info-dump about them.

Leviathan, on the verge of crying internally "They actually care about me!"

NB! Levi would actually really appreciate it tho. His demon form is that of a snake and he also got a pet snake, so any new info is more than welcome. Especially about how to deal with shedding.

"MC, you've got to help me! You know a lot about snakes, so could you tell me why my tail feels so itchy???"

Satan

Your info-dump session about unicorns is pretty much a 'is it true that they actually do that??' kind of thing

He still touched about you wanting to learn more about his familiars so he is always willing to answear any and all of your questions. He might even take you to see some of them.

"Is it true that unicorns can use magic with their horn?"

"Saying they can cast magic is far stretched. They have some abilities specific to their kind that can be used with or without the horn."

Cats on the other hand? Doesn't matter if he already know whatever fact you want to tell him, he is always more than happy to discuss about them.

Hell, he might be the one info-dumping about cats before you get the chance to do so.

"Did you know that cats can have up to 100 different vocalizations? Dogs only have like 10"

"They are also believed to be the only mammal who doesn't taste sweetness, which I find unfortunate. Still, they truly are amazing creatures"

More often than not Solomon is dragged in the conversations too due to the 'Cat' group chat that three of you have. Not like he minds, he loves cats too.

Asmodeus

He lets you info-dump about scorpions while he does your hair/nails/helps you with you skin care.

"Is you info-dumping about my familiars your way of telling me that you love me~"

Your self care sessions are also info-dump sessions, so you kill two birds with one stone.

"Did you know that scorpions are capable of dissolving their pray from the inside out. They also glow under ultraviolet light??"

"It's only natural that my familiars would be able to do this, they are my familiars after all ♡. Maybe I should use some make up the glows in the dark"

Since you've started to info-dump about his familiars to him, his outfits/nails/accessories have started to have a scorpion motif to them quite often

He also tells you one of the facts you've told him before while he shows off his scorpion inspired accesories. It's his way of showing that he listens to your rants.

"Scorpions can do that, can't they? Remember when you told me this last night?"

Beelzebub

He doesn't really know a lot about his familiars but he has an odd fondness about them. He can't really bring himself to kill them, tho flies tend to leave him alone anyway.

He thinks is really sweet that you know so much about those little guys, so he is always happy to sit and listen to you.

If you feel like info-dumping about flies, feel free to do it whenever you like. He is raiding the fridge? You can help him carry some of the food while you tell him more about his familiars. He is working out? He can hear loud and clear. He might not be the most responsive during some of those moments but he is always listening to you.

He is aware that out of all of his brothers, his familiar is not the cutest or the coolest one, so when you start talking about it, he can't help but feel really loved.

"Beel, did you know that flies can taste food using their feet?"

"It would be pretty usefull to know how food would taste just by touching, not like I would care if the food would taste bad, I would still eat it"

"Also, due to their eyes being compound they can also see behind their back. They actually have a 360° field of view"

"I also have that in my demon form, it came in handy a lot of times"

"YOU HAVE WHAT?!"

Belphegor

Lying on the attic bed while facing the ceiling "Shouldn't your familiar be a bull instead of a cow, since you're a guy and all of that?"

"Just shut up and cuddle me.."

While he thinks cows look comfy enough to take a nap, he does not care about them. But he care about you, so he is more than willing to cuddle up with you while you info-dump.

"Cows are actually pretty nice, they can spend about 10 hours a day lying down and they can also sleep while standing...are you even listening to me...?"

Belphegor, looking on the verge of falling asleep "hmm? Yeah I'm listening.."

Despite looking like he is one second from falling asleep or even downright sleeping, he actually listens to you. He can pay attention to things even in his sleep, how do you think he has really high grades at RAD? so he is listening to all of the cow facts you're telling him.

Anytime you doubt that he has been listening, he will tell you a fact that you've told him in the past to show that he was in fact listening.

"Cows can sleep while standing, right? You're the one who told me, so you should know. Now get closer, I want to use your lap as a pillow."

If you dare to do any kind of jokes about him being a cowboy, he will kick out of the bed.

[vikkirosko]

Okay, I have an idea: Alastor, Striker, Blitzo, Sir Pentius and Andrealphus with Reader, who's from Royal Elite, but have quite different personality: kind, peaceful (although not afraid of fighting if it's the only choice), never shows elitism or prejudice towards others, willing to help others. Bonus if Reader very loves various animals.

Headcanons White crow among the elite

📻 Alastor x Reader 🎙

Alastor was familiar with unusual sinners. The aristocracy of Hell had nothing to do with him, just like with other sinners. You were the exception. You and Alastor met by chance. You literally bumped into each other on the street and, as it turned out, you had to go in one direction, so a conversation ensued between you. He quickly realized that you weren't a sinner, and that you were most likely an aristocrat

You turned out to be not what Alastor thought. You reminded him of Charlie in some way, except that you were more realistic than she was. You were a kind, sincere person. You judged people by their actions, not by their ancestry or social status. You knew many aristocrats who had high status, but they were cruel, rude and arrogant. It seemed funny to Alastor that the difference between sinners and aristocrats who were born in Hell was not that big, and your words confirmed it

You often visited a hotel where you and Alastor could talk in peace. He saw how you communicated with others with a kind, sincere smile. You liked being in such a pleasant, warm atmosphere, and Alastor liked the fact that he had the opportunity to communicate with you more often, thanks to the fact that you started coming to help at the hotel

Alastor was interested in learning more about you. You didn't look like him, but that didn't mean he didn't like talking to you. Your friendly nature helped him relax, knowing that you weren't hiding any motives. You were just there for Alastor, even though he thought you were too kind for someone who was born and raised in Hell, but he still felt comfortable and calm around you

🐍Sir Pentious x Reader 🎩

Sir Pentious knew that there were aristocrats in Hell. He did not meet them personally, because those who belonged to the aristocracy of Hell usually did not associate with sinners. When he met you, he was sure that you were just as much a sinner as he was. He liked talking to you and you always listened to his stories about his inventions

He found out that you were an aristocrat when you offered to provide him with a laboratory in your house. When you came to your house, he was really shocked. You told him that you were an aristocrat and you really didn't want to hide it from him, but you liked talking to him so much that you were afraid that he wouldn't want to talk to you anymore. Looking at you, he wouldn't think you were an aristocrat, but not in a bad way

You continued to communicate and sometimes you told him about how you attended various events that you were forced to go to as an aristocrat. According to your stories, he realized that the aristocrats were not the most pleasant to communicate with. You had visitors several times and he heard them talking to you. When he heard that they were rude to you, he wanted to intervene, but you always asked him not to do it, fearing that he might be harmed

When he started living at the hotel, he told you about it and you began to visit him there often. You were always welcome at the hotel, and Sir Pentious was especially pleased. He liked you, even though he hadn't decided to tell you about it yet. But you were both in Hell and you had more than enough time

😈 Blitzø x Reader 🐴

Blitzø did not like working with aristocrats, but worked with them when they paid good money. It was during his work that he met you. You weren't his client, but you were at the same party where he worked as a bodyguard. Blitzø heard how the other guests spoke rudely about you while you stood quietly on the sidelines. You obviously heard what was being said about you, but you didn't say anything until they started openly insulting Blitzø. He wanted to answer them, but you intervened, firmly saying that they had no right to condemn him

He came to you soon after. Perhaps if it had been someone else, you would have called security, but you remembered him and greeted him with a friendly smile, telling him that if he decided to come next time, he could use the door. He was surprised that you invited him to come back if he wanted to. There was no hint of compliance with social statuses in your communication, and Blitzø felt comfortable while communicating with you

You were surprisingly kind and you completely ignored your differences in social status. You didn't hide your communication from others and didn't come up with excuses. Blitzø couldn't help but notice that he liked it. He enjoyed spending time with you and enjoyed talking to you. Sometimes you talked about animals. You loved animals and you liked taking care of them, and he was happy to talk to you about horses, which he liked so much

He never thought that through work he would get to know someone like you. Maybe he liked you more than he was willing to admit. He would like to spend more time with you, and the fact that you could actually go on real dates without fear of being judged by others. You have never allowed statuses and other people's evil words to interfere with you and your happiness

🦚 Andrealphus x Reader ❄️

Andrealphus found out about you from his sister Stella. She sometimes told him about an aristocrat who greatly annoyed her with his character. Andrealphus was sure that his sister was exaggerating, but when you met in person, he realized that you really were not like other aristocrats. You were kind to others, you treated others as equals and judged others by their actions. Looking at you, he understood why his sister, who was so different from you, was angry

You were kind and attentive to others and Stella often tried to hurt you with words, but to her disappointment, you did not pay attention to her words. Andrealphus was wondering what you really were like, so he started chatting with you. He told his sister that he would find out something about you so that she could use it, but he didn't really plan on doing it. The more you talked, the more he realized that your kindness and sincerity made him fall in love with you

Andrealphus often invited you to various events, but only when you were in quieter places did you become more calm. You told him that you loved animals and that you would rather spend time in silence than attending another social event. You were like a breath of fresh air. You were sincere and real, which is why you stood out so much from the rest

Andrealphus had big plans. He already imagined what his sister's face would be like when he told her that he had decided to make you part of their family. It may not happen as quickly as he would like, because he has not yet told you about his feelings, but he was sure that it would happen

🐍 Striker x Reader 👢

Striker didn't like aristocrats. He often worked for them and saw how arrogant, selfish and cruel they could be towards others. That's why when he arrived at a meeting with the head of an aristocratic family, he was sure that this would be another murder order, but this time it was different. He was hired to be the bodyguard of the heir to the head of the family. He was supposed to be your bodyguard. At first, Striker thought it was just the whim of a spoiled aristocrat, but when you met in person, he was surprised. You were very different in character not only from your parent, but also from other aristocrats he met

Unlike other aristocrats, you were kind and considerate towards others. At first, Striker thought it was just a mask, however, watching you, he saw how you helped the servants in the manor, you treated them as equals and during the events you stood apart from the rest. Striker has heard other aristocrats say nasty things about you because you behaved inappropriately for an aristocrat. You were too kind, you judged others by their actions and not by their background. Striker couldn't believe that an aristocrat like you could exist. Even towards him, an assassin, you were friendly and caring, bringing him snacks, knowing that he worked hard and you were grateful to him for that

You and Striker began to communicate often. You felt comfortable and calm around him. He didn't tell you the details of his work, but he did tell you about the places he visited. You listened to his stories with a smile, and sometimes you shared with him dreams of starting a new life on a farm, taking care of animals and living a quiet life, away from intrigues and scandals. You both knew that your dreams were destined to remain dreams, but Striker wanted to take you to one of the farms he once visited so that at least for a short time you could be happy

Striker understood that he had romantic feelings for you. He had never felt this way about a person he had a working relationship with before, but he wasn't going to leave you. It wasn't just his job, but the fact that he didn't want to leave. Striker wanted to take you to the farm to see your happy smile and tell you about his feelings. He didn't know what you would say, but he was determined to confess his love to you

[somehow-a-human]

Whose POV is it anyway?

An Introduction

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

Cracking down on the storytelling of Good Omens season 2 through the lens of a changing narrator.

If you haven't read this interview with Good Omens cinematographer Gavin Finney, and you're interested in the fantastic dedication and detail that went into this TV show, definitely give it a read. Not only is it lovely, but Neil also posted the article with a caption mentioning that it's got so many secrets in it. Obviously that made me take a closer look.

I have already gone into a fair bit of detail about the different Lens Filters that Finney mentions in the article in a separate post and I will be referring to them quite a bit so if you aren't familiar with them I would suggest reading that first!

This first post is going to cover the basics of changing narrator/POV's and I'll be writing additional posts for separate episodes/minisodes/scenes since there's obviously way too much to cover in a single go. So shall we take our first look?

It's no secret that something's a *bit weird* with season two, and there are SO many theories about it. I love to read speculation, metas, theories, and opinions, it's definitely fun but my personal ideas align more with the idea that we're simply being shown the events of season 2 through the memories of multiple narrators, different POV's, and it slightly skews the story, sometimes within one continuous scene.

I am also a sucker for a good multiple timeline theory but that isn't this post.

Lens Filters

As I stated above, I wrote a post about each of these individual filters earlier. What I didn't go into in that post was speculation about the filters. While I think they're pretty straightforward, especially the filter for hell (Black Pro-Mist ((BPM)), I think the other two have a bit more room for speculation.

Bronze Glimmer Glass

BGG was described by Finney as being used for 'bookshop scenes', but after S2 back numerous times and paying as much attention as I could to the lighting and colouring of the scenes, I think this is generally true but not always true. There are times when bookshop scenes seem to use a different filter, and other locations also seem to be shot with the BGG filter as well. I think BGG aligns with Aziraphale's POV. Or if Not Aziraphale, an outside-of-Crowley narrator? Based on the scenes (which we'll specifically get into in other posts) which BGG seems to be used, context clues, character behavior, etc, I think BGG clues us in that we're seeing, if you will, through Aziraphale's eyes.

Black Diffusion FX

BDFX was described as being used for 'Crowley's present day storyline' and fuck me, that's not ominous or weirdly phrased at all Mr. Finney! This filter definitely aligns with Crowley. Most of the time he's separate from Aziraphale it seems that this is the filter being used, and certain scenes switch filters mid-scene when he begins to go off on snarky Crowley-centric commentary.

Catch-22 & Herzog

The books on Gabriels bookshelf, great books obviously, but I think books that are also meant to give us context about the story. Pride and Prejudice is a love story about making snap judgements on someone's character, and coming to recognize somebody might be good despite their title or appearance. The Crow Road is a story about life, death, love, morality, mystery, and God. 1984 details the tragedy of Julia and Winston's attempt at falling in love while living under in a police state. You see my point?

That's why I wanted to touch a bit more on Catch-22 and Herzog specifically when talking about the possibility of changing narrators/POV's in Good Omens 2.

Catch-22 frequently switches narrator and the events described are often not necessarily sequential. This way you're getting information about previous scenes as the story continues, so while you're reading the book you're forming a more complete image of the events as the story continues from different characters POV's and iterations of the story. Sound relevant?

Herzog is the other book I wanted to talk about. To be fair I haven't read Herzog in full like I have Catch-22 but I pulled out my copy to reference and flip through a bit to remind myself. Herzog unlike Catch-22 doesn't switch narrators but the narration by the main character, Herzog himself, switches between first and third person throughout. When he is narrating through his letters, you get a deeper look at his thought processes and emotions. It also relies on flashbacks to bring context to the life of Herzog.

While these books touch on other elements that are relevant to the Good Omens story, namely Yossarian's relationship and views of God in Catch-22, the way these stories are told intrigued me for this context.

Crowley's Hair

Yeah I'm gonna mention the hair, because I think the hair is linked. Crowley's shorter sideburns, trimmed mutton chops in the 1827 flashback, and shorter Job wig seem to be clearly aligned with the BDFX filter/Crowley's POV as far as I can tell. I don't know if this means it's just another way to denote POV, but it seems way too consistent not to mention it. The longer sideburns, fuller mutton chops, and longer Job wig all match up with Aziraphale's POV or the BGG filter. My thoughts here are that his hair is another hint of who may be relaying the information to us, AKA is it internal or external. I am making my best guesses though and there are still some situations that I feel less sure about. For example, when Aziraphale takes the Bentley to Edinburgh and Crowley is in the Bookshop with Jim his sideburns are long, is it because he's remembering these scenes unreliably? Is Aziraphale imagining the events? Is it because Jim is present? A brief fluttering thought I toy with from time to time is the fact that in the before-the-beginning scene they are long, and what that means in context of the rest of the season.

S2 Promo Posters

Finally this set of season 2 promo posters showing the characters thoughtfully considering scenes in their heads just gives me a lot of these POV vibes.

I'm planning on doing individual posts for specific scenes, episodes, and minisodes that require detailed breakdowns. I'll update this list with links as the posts are finished!

POV "Your 'Something's Wrong' Voice"

POV a Trip to Hell and a 25 Lazarii Miracle

POV a Companion to Owls

POV The Dirty Donkey & I think I Found a *Clue*!

POV Bodysnatchers & Cosplaying a bookseller

POV 1941

POV The Ball

POV The End?

Whose POV is it Anyway - a Conclusion