#even if the details elude him for a while

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 5 (20th Sep)

Here with me — @lotrweek

All of Rohan stood at the ready in and around Edoras, eager to behold their new king. Everything was prepared and cautiously measured. Banners, flags, food, drink. Hardly any flowers or garlands, but that did not matter to them. The Rohirrim wore their shiniest armour or most fancy dress, their blond heads plaited and adorned with the most intriguing hairstyles for whomever was foreign to Rohirric customs. And there were many who attended from outside the kingdom too.

As Éomer insisted, he would first pay tribute to the funeral mounds of his predecessors, then climb the capital while mounted on his horse, solemnly making his way through his people up to the Golden Hall and his throne, where the crown would be placed upon his brow by his sister. A simple ceremony, despite the symbolism behind it. He was a man of simple taste, like most of his kin. There was no wish for any luxurious display typical of Gondorian events, even though Aragorn’s coronation did impress him greatly.

Éowyn was waiting outside Meduseld by Faramir’s side, dressed in her most formal gown. She nervously fidgeted with the trimming of her sleeve, casting several glances towards the city. She could merely catch a tiny glimpse of the Barrowfield, so crowded were the steps to the Hall. But there was nobody to be seen by the graves. No silhouette, no cloak, nothing.

She let out yet another sigh and flattened her cuff again, realising that she messed it up by tweaking it. Her nerves were getting the best of her.

‘He is late,’ she murmured. ‘I saw that he was clothed on time, so why is he late?’

A hand cupped her shoulder, alleviating some of the weight that she placed upon them.

‘My lady, do not fret so much,’ Faramir whispered to her in his honeyed voice she had learnt to cherish. ‘It is not unusual for ceremonies to run late, either in Rohan or Gondor, I am sure. Whatever is keeping him from the ceremony must be justified.’

Éowyn nibbled on her lower lip, absent-mindedly covering his hand with her own. The warmth of his skin temporarily soothed her, but she could not prevent the whirlwind of possibilities to take over her mind. What if her brother was ill? What if something crucial was missing? What if the blade of his sword had not been polished well enough for his taste? What if he was injured? What if the preparations for the ceremony now seemed too dull to him, and he preferred a Gondorian celebration? What if somebody snuck inside and attacked him?

Another look thrown towards the mounds. Another answerless inquiry.

She shook her head and tugged at her skirt.

‘I must check on him. I just want to make sure that he is alright.’

Before Faramir could seize her hand and hold her back to comfort her, she stormed towards the doors and nodded at the guards to open them. Inside the hall, there were only servants and maids arranging the last details for the coronation, bringing in benches and setting up pelts upon them, as well as on the throne itself. Banners were hung from the lofty arches, bearing the colours of the realm and Éomer’s arms. The mere sight brought some balm to her heart. She could already tell that her brother would be loved by all, as he deserved to be.

But that relied on his presence at the coronation, which was still uncertain. Where could he be? Éowyn searched the kitchens first, wondering whether her brother would feel peckish if he felt anything as nervous as she did. None of the kitchen staff had seen him.

Then, she moved her quest to the King’s Quarters, inspecting the office, the archives, but he kept eluding her. So, as her last resort, she gathered up her skirts and ran towards the royal quarters. As beads of sweat manifested on her forehead and trapped the few flyaway hairs detaching from her hairdo, she nearly sprinted down the corridor to reach Éomer’s door.

When she stood there, she softly knocked but earned no response. Frustrated and stressed from the delay, her fist slammed harder against the wood. Nothing. Yet she would not accept it. She instantly forced the door open and scanned the room. A sniffle from behind the bed caught her attention. She snapped her head towards the source of the noise and followed it.

Huddled up on the floor with his back pressed to the bedframe, Éomer was painfully pressing his knees up to his chest, despite the stiffness of his ceremonial armour. Tears stained his reddened cheek and drowned his unfocused eyes. He looked an utter mess, right when he should not.

Éowyn sank to the floor by his side and held him by the shoulders, trying to bring him to look into her eyes as they bore into him.

‘Éomer, what is happening?’ she whimpered helplessly, taken aback by the alarming sight. ‘Everybody is awaiting your arrival.’

He roughly wiped his cheek, not bothering to look at his sister — or perhaps he felt too ashamed to do it — and sniffed again.

‘I cannot do it, Wyn.’

Her brow furrowed. She could not imagine how her brother, renowned for his bravery and strength of will, would yield to the promise of the throne. Now that their family had been robbed from them, she was most likely the living person who knew him best, and she never had seen him in such a state since the passing of their parents.

She sat down beside him and nudged him with her shoulder.

‘Why is that, Mer?’

He gathered himself up, regaining enough strength to explain his anguish when words so fleeted him. Despite his state, he sensed the urge to spare her from the harshness of what tormented him, in the same way that he had sought to protect her ever since she was born. But there was not much that he could hide from her now. She had eyes, and it was about time that he stopped infantilising her. She had proven herself worthy of the greatest honours; he could no longer confine her to the image of a helpless child.

As if she had ever been that.

‘I never meant for any of this to happen,’ he sighed. ‘Théodred’s passing, the war, our uncle’s passing… I was never educated to become king. I was never taught state affairs. I am a soldier. That is all I have ever been. What legitimacy do I have as a king? I deserve none of it.’

‘Mer…’

Éowyn wrapped her arms around him and laid her head on his shoulder. Oh, how it pained her to see him in such a state. Her thumb traced soft lines on his arm at a soothing pace, helping him relax by the minute.

‘You are underestimating yourself,’ she murmured. ‘You have much to learn, as does every king accessing the throne, but that does not mean that you do not know anything. You were a prince once, before our uncle became king. You received the education of a prince by your old tutor. Surely Théodred spoke to you about some things he learnt. You two were close.’

‘He did, but what legitimacy does it give me?’

‘The blood of the royal house of Rohan flows through your veins as it does through mine. You have spent your youth, your whole life defending the realm. You are a war hero. How would you not be the ruler that our kingdom needs?’

Éomer scoffed and planted a brief kiss on her forearm, clinging to it.

‘We have hardly had any time to mourn Théoden and Théodred. Everything happened so fast… My heart is still aching.’

‘War brought much torment to our family and continues to do so even now that it is over. Do not keep the pain at bay. Embrace it, but acknowledge your duty as well, Éomer. Today is yours to seize as our new king. You can grieve for as long as you need to once the crown has been placed on your head.’

‘Will it not alter my capacities to carry on my responsibilities?’

She shook her head and shifted closer to him. This time, their eyes met, and for the first time since everything went dark for them both, they saw the child within themselves and the other. Two children, almost left to their own devices, alone against a hostile world that threatened to annihilate everything they knew and held dear.

For a long time, they only had each other. Théoden and Théodred, as much as they cherished them, hardly understood the extent of their loss. For years they hid their pain to keep up with their uncle and cousin and accommodate themselves into the new roles bestowed upon them. And when Gríma planted his rotten fangs under the king’s skin and poisoned him, the siblings were alone against the world again.

And they would always find each other in the end. Despite Éomer’s banishment, despite Éowyn’s narrow escape from death.

Éowyn tightened her grip around her older brother. She had too often overlooked the simplicity of a fraternal embrace, words of encouragement towards each other. They mattered now. More than ever.

‘You will be a just king, Éomer. I just know it. And I believe in you.’

‘But…’

Tears flooded his eyes anew and spilled onto his beard as he let out a gasped and trembled.

‘But you will not see any of it. You will not be around. I am about to lose you too,’ he wept.

‘Lose me?’

He shrugged and clutched her arm.

‘You are leaving for Gondor. You will settle down there, build a family and a life there. Will I even see you again?’

Éowyn’s eyes widened at his words. Never had she imagined that she had caused part of his strife. She had been elated about her engagement, which was to be announced later on during the celebrations, but she had no clue that Éomer would resent it in any way.

Her thumb wiped away his tears.

‘You are not losing me, Mer, nor will you ever. My marriage will never come in the way of our bond, I promise you that. I will visit as often as I am able, and you will know your nieces or nephews. They will know your name and your face, and their eyes will light up with joy whenever your name is mentioned. I will make sure of that. Besides, you will always be welcome in our home.’

‘Do you really mean that?’

She laughed and ran a hand through his hair to tame the knots that he had created by clutching tresses of it when nobody was looking.

‘Of course I do! You are my brother, Mer, and I do not want a life where you are estranged.’

‘Mh.’

At last, he allowed himself to smile, despite the brevity of the display. She grinned and kissed his cheek.

‘I will always be with you,’ she intoned. ‘Today especially. I am here with you, and I have no desire to turn away.’

Éomer sighed and held her against his heart.

‘Here. With me. Alright. Perhaps I can do this.’

They parted and stared at each other for a few seconds, before chuckling together. She stood up and held out her hand.

‘Come on. Your people are waiting.’

He took it without thinking and allowed her to straighten up his appearance. Before they walked out the door, he halted her with a hand on her back.

‘Before we go…’

She looked up at him expectantly, wondering what he had to say. He was never one for emotional or affectionate displays. Éomer inhaled deeply and smiled at his little sister.

‘You look beautiful today. And you will be the most gorgeous bride in history. And I love you.’

[yanderenightmare]

All For One

TW: nsfw, noncon, yandere, captive reader, mind deterioration

fem reader

All For One has a habit of subjugating you for his own pleasure. 

It’s a game he likes to play—quite like chess, only… you start off with a single pawn, and you don’t know any of the rules. And he’s been world champion ten years in a row. And he plays dirty.

Tonight, he’s dressed you up in a costume. Not any old Halloween costume, but a slutty one. Not a playboy bunny or a maid, nor a schoolgirl—this was worse—a sleazy rendition of your old hero uniform.

You’d barely recognized the faintly familiar design when he first laid it out on the bed for you. Silly and naïve, you thought his games of derision would end when you finally offered your submission, but that was a fool’s thought. What fun were you if not proof of his undying victory—a reminder, a trophy, a relic?

It’s beyond degrading. Tight and revealing. Less than an actual costume, it was more something one would wear in the bedroom, cosplaying for some fantasy starring an overly sexualized you. Only God knows where he’d gotten it from.

Your steel armor, once with the dignity of a knight, had instead been swapped out for a silly silver bikini—the shimmery fabric tacky and cheap, allowing your nipples to peak forth. Covering it was a top and a skirt made up of silver chains, which only further mocked the appearance of chainmail—looking more like the jewelry a stripper might wear.

He’d forgone your helmet, boots, and sword entirely. Truly, if it weren’t for the detailing of the pattern making the fabric vaguely resemble plated armor, it wouldn’t have been much different from any other set of lingerie.

And still, it’s just similar enough to make it sting.

“Look at you...” he jeers, his voice sodden with taunt—carmine stare faded and gleeful, thoroughly enjoying it. “What a sight for sore eyes.”

He stands behind you in the mirror, holding you delicately by the hips, intimately close, dressed in another one of his black suits, fully clothed in devastating contrast to you. His smile curls as he roams your ill-covered body, kissed with the flush of chagrin, leering at you in the reflection—his voice slithering right by your ear.

“Though I can’t say I remember it being quite so revealing, can you?” he jokes, running his hands up and down your waist, fiddling some with the intricacies—metal daintily clinking and clangoring. “No, there’s something else that’s different...”

You feel so humiliated, so small—as if he could hold you up by the scruff of your neck with ease. It isn’t just a feeling—you’re well aware that he most likely could.

“Why yes, of course…” he hums with delayed realization—you know he’s faking for anticipation, chittering while wrapping his thick arms around your tiny midsection, giving you a firm squeeze. “You’ve lost all muscle.”

It’s a painful truth. You don’t know how many months it’s been. Perhaps a year has passed already, maybe even more. He keeps you well aware of his triumph in the outside world, but time still eludes you.

You’d tried maintaining it in the beginning, even after he’d taken your quirk. You’d been vigilant, keeping up your workout regimens just as religiously as before. But you couldn’t pick what you ate, nor when—and he’d only feed you cake. It wasn’t long before all your hard-earned muscles had melted away like popsicle syrup off the stick, licked and lapped right up by the man holding you.

“Mmh, yes…” he murmurs gratingly while swaying you back against him, lips pressing against your ear. “And it’s left you oh-so-soft.”

His bulbous crotch slots against your upper ass, resting there as it grows fatter and warm—a sign of his enjoyment. The weight of him makes you feel all but paper-thin.

His voice rasps now. “If I were to give you your quirk back, I wager you wouldn’t even be able to use it anymore—it would sooner rip your poor limbs apart.”

It’s beyond cruel to suggest—as if disgracing your old costume wasn’t enough torment already. You bite your lip, gnaw it harshly—don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t let him see you cry.

“Isn’t that just fascinating?” He gives your earlobe a gentle bite, and the whimper in your throat springs free like prey out of hiding.

A sniffle shortly followed—along the dribble of the night’s very first tears. Your diminished spirit has made you all too prone to cry as if there’s nothing else for you to do but indulge in the small comfort it gives.

“Oh, sweetie—don’t weep over prowess long since lost. It was never enough to challenge me anyway,” he coos, as if consoling you—swaying your smaller brittle body back against his looming chest, a cage that seemed to swallow you whole.

Steering your jaw, he holds your face still before the mirror, unable to look away as the tears dribble down your sorry cheeks—he smears them further with a kiss.

“The world would chew you up as you are now, fragile like glass.” The grin curling his lips makes you resemble prey caught on a predator’s teeth—you can’t help but shiver at the sight of it. You wish he wouldn’t toy with you like food and just kill you already. “Mark my words, hero—the belly of the beast would not grant you as much comfort as I do.”

His other hand slips down to cup your mound—firmly, with a squeeze that has you curl yourself back against him as he presses two tough fingerpads into your clothed clit, rubbing it tightly enough to make your thighs shake.

“You’re better off like this,” he grunts, snickers at how your weak hands clutch the sleeve of his suit, curling the fabric in your palms until your knuckles whiten—watching the furrow further crease between your cinched brows as you try and bite back your pathetic little sounds even as more tears come tumbling down your swollen cheeks. “Mh, my pretty plaything.”

He makes you continue to look at yourself as he simply slides the panty to the side of your cunt. Encouraging you to place your hands flat against the mirror as he bends you forward, then to step back and stand atop his dress shoes.

“Don’t be shy now,” he makes sure to tell you. “You’re as light and negligible as a feather.”

He parts his feet and yours along with them, spreading your thighs enough to accommodate the fat heat he soon slides between them. Rigid and veiny, it competes with the size of your forearm—so thick that when he slaps it up against your slit, your knees buckle from the impact.

His chuckles rumble across your body like an earthquake. You only realize how much it makes you shake when he encloses your hip in his big hand, steadying you. Holding you still as he drags his engorged cockhead through your lips, catching your clit before resting on your entrance.

You’re so sore from prior nights—countless hours locked in this room with his visits the only thing keeping you company—everything has yet to forgive you for the wreckage those visits leave behind. Your sorry little puss rues and dreads another defeat now as he sinks inside the comfort of your battered walls, one unyielding inch at a time. 

You wince and tense, shoulders bracing, and yet he pushes deeper, sliding you down his shaft until you rest at the hilt of his base, kneading the tip into your gummy womb, giving it a deep kiss that bulges out from your poor belly.

The sight in the mirror is morbid, even more so than the feeling—the way he molds your insides to fit him, to cater and house his length and size. 

“Ah—just perfect, isn’t it, hero?” he purrs, chest resting heavily upon your spine while dwarfing both your hips in a firm grip, chin-stubble scraping along your neck as his voice comes out hot against your ear, “Obedience suits you so well, don’t you agree?”

Your knees buckle once he starts the heavy pace—slowly pounding into you from behind, dragging out and pushing deep in womb-robbing thrusts. You pant from the toll of it, feeling your muscles give—too tired and too broken to continue acting tough. He’s the only reason you’re left upright on your feet—keeping you standing with just his hold on your haunches. It seems like nothing to him, though it feels like the weight of the world to you.

“It’s only a shame it had to come with all these scars.” He clicks his tongue, eyes raking across your body as it takes him, resting on each mark disrupting the otherwise milk-smooth skin. “If only you’d accepted your place sooner.”

The ember burning within you is all but a piece of cooling charcoal now. You feel it diminish every day, leaving you even thinner than before.

“But then again, I quite enjoy you like this—littered with my battle scars from your toes up to your crown. It’s rather intimate, isn’t it?” he hums with a smile. “Proof of all the times I could’ve quashed you beneath my foot like a pitiful bug but decided to spare you. Teach you how to worship like the weak ought to.”

There was a time when you still humored the thought of killing him, even with your quirk taken from you. You thought, in your foolishness, that being this close to him must garner an opportunity, any, however slim, just enough for you to take advantage and finish what you vowed to end so long ago.

Now, you almost don’t care anymore. The world had moved on without you, and there was nothing more you could do about it.

You realize your promise had been as cheap as this outfit.

“The greater the fall, the sweeter the surrender, isn’t that right?” he states. “Doesn’t it feel good to finally accept your place in the world, hero?”

You can only nod your head and agree.

♡ BOKU NO HERO ACADEMIA masterlist

[lucysarah-c]

Hange introduced them. Y/N had been taken on as a PhD student under Hange's research team at the university. As an exchange student, she didn't know many people. Hange, ever the connector, quickly introduced them. The reason for the introduction eluded Y/N, but she didn’t give it much thought. Hange was an outgoing extrovert, and Y/N concluded that this was just part of their role as Levi’s extroverted friend.

It didn’t take long for Y/N and Levi to become more than just acquaintances who met at Hange's birthday party. Y/N didn’t make much fuss about it; Levi was a couple of years older than her, had graduated with honors, and was in a much better financial position than a PhD student. He also fucked like a beast, an important detail.

They didn’t talk much about their arrangement; it developed organically. Y/N would tell her friends that they were just two adults getting to know each other, enjoying the sweaty, steamy encounters in the meantime. While Y/N hadn’t been to many frat parties, she quickly concluded that if she and Levi ever parted ways from their purely physical arrangement, it would be hard to find someone who could do half of what he did.

It was obvious that Hange was aware of this, as they didn’t even try to hide it. Y/N sometimes wished Hange would be a bit less enthusiastic about knowing her personal life, or at least try to maintain a certain level of professionalism.

Levi was very reserved about his personal life, even though they usually met at his house. Overall, he was a calm, dedicated, and pleasant addition to her life. She brought him an expensive tea brand as a gift for all the times he had driven her home, even when it wasn’t necessary.

That day, Levi had come back from a business trip and had invited her over. They had a couple of glasses of wine that he brought from his trip. She was riding him over their clothes, the friction delicious as she gyrated her hips slowly. His hands gripped and raised her shirt slightly, kneading the skin under his fingers as he kissed her collarbones and descended to leave hickeys between her breasts.

The outline of his hardening cock on the side of his trousers was delicious against her covered folds, promising more but giving just the right amount of friction to drive her crazy. Her head was thrown back as one hand rested on his knee and the other on his shoulder for leverage. She softly gasped his name as he undid each little button before unclipping her bra from behind to finally raise it and suck and play with her nipples.

"Ah—Levi!" she moaned, and it was obvious by the way his hands gripped her ass that he had been needy, wishing to come back to her.

"Did that cute little pussy of yours miss my cock inside it?" he groaned with a smirk in his tone.

"Ah—" she was about to reply, but a playful snap on her ass made her jolt. Not painful enough to be uncomfortable but with enough strength. Then she froze in place, her whole body tensed.

Levi must have sensed the change in her attitude because his face, which was buried between her tits, parted and looked up at her. His lips still had a bit of saliva connected to her nipple. "You ok?"

She straightened up, feeling uncomfortable. "I—uh—I need to use the bathroom," she muttered before raising herself from his lap.

"Ah… sure, under the stairs, you know where it is," Levi replied, but she was already walking there and closing the door behind her. Her absence made him uneasy; he began to wonder if he had crossed a line unknowingly as he straightened his posture in his seat and locked eyes on the bathroom door.

"Shit—" she cursed under her breath as she realized what had happened. There was a clear red stain on her underwear. Her period had come early, at the worst possible time. They had been teasing each other about what they would do once he came back from his trip. She paced around the small guest bathroom, unsure. "I left him with his cock hard on the couch…"

There was no real reason for her to feel so ashamed or anxious. She should just tell him and promise to make it up to him later. They were both adults; he should understand.

Two subtle knocks at the door interrupted her thoughts. "Y/N, you ok in there?"

"Yes! I—uh," why was it so hard to say? Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Could you bring me my purse, please?"

She expected to hear Levi’s footsteps on the polished wood floor, but instead, he replied almost immediately, "If you need tampons or pads, there’s a basket with them on top of the toilet."

Turning around slowly, she saw the basket with a collection of different feminine hygiene products. Initially, she wondered why she had never noticed them. As she grabbed one, she couldn’t help but smile softly. It was a rather cute gesture. 'How many girls do you bring over that you have this?'

Quickly shaking off the thought, she reminded herself that they didn’t have that type of relationship, so he was free to do as he pleased, even if the idea spread inside her like boiling jealousy. 'He's a great catch… only you are the idiot thinking he doesn’t have others.'

She came out of the restroom, feeling how the mood had shifted to something uncomfortable—or maybe that was just her perception. Levi was casually putting away the snacks and glasses they had used, cleaning up. He looked at her from the corner of his eye as he continued washing the dishes. "You still need your purse?"

"No, thank you," she quickly replied, feeling like she was wasting oxygen. The moment made her reconsider if casual relationships were for her. She felt as if, by not delivering the sex they both agreed on, she was just annoying him with her presence. They could still have sex if he was into it, but she wasn’t feeling it. The cramps were starting to kick in too. "I’ll get going."

Levi, drying his hands, looked back at her slightly confused. "I was about to offer we order something to eat since I came back and still need to do the grocery shopping," he explained, surprising her deeply. "But if you want to go, I can drive you. It’s not too late; I could still go to the supermarket."

He seemed so unfazed, unbothered.

"I’ll take an Uber; it’s fine," she insisted. "I don’t want to be a bother."

Levi, who was unloading the dishwasher, paused. "I’m inviting you, moron. If you were a bother, I wouldn’t be offering for you to stay."

The plan seemed lovely: staying in his big cozy house outside the city because Levi insisted downtown and all its noise annoyed him, eating something tasty, having him spoil her rotten. It seemed too good to be true. The next words slipped out without intention, revealing her thoughts.

"We don’t have that type of relationship."

It dropped like a bomb. The silence was overwhelming, feeling like it lasted hours. Levi put the final dish away, his fingers lingering on the countertop door a bit longer. His lips pressed together, and from the outside, he appeared as stoic as ever.

"We could… if you want."

Adult relationships can be so complicated. Both looked at each other. "If you know what I mean," was implied by both their expressions. It felt so ridiculous, as if junior high relationships were easier than this. "Not to sound too needy, too desperate, set too many rules, be too insistent."

A smile crept onto her face, and she felt like a little girl with a crush. "I think I do."

He tried to wash off the enthusiasm. "Great, so… choose what you want to eat, and I’ll give you my card."

"You choose what to watch?" she asked as she took her phone out to select dinner.

"Yeah, sure."

Later, cuddling in bed and watching a cheesy Netflix show that made them wonder who funded such a production but continued watching because there was nothing better on, she had a question. Levi’s cat purred between his legs as she rested her head on his right shoulder.

"Why do you have all those pads in your bathroom?" she asked, genuinely curious.

Levi looked back at her momentarily before calmly saying, "Isabel, she's… like my little sister. I adopted her when she was little." He began to explain but realized it was hard to tell the complete story without some details. "Her friends and she, in middle school, would start to get their periods and be too ashamed to ask me for pads or tampons. So, I decided to set up a basket so they could grab what they needed. Over time, it became a routine."

"Wait," she sat up straight, "she lives here? What if she sees us?"

"Chill, she’s at college. She’s in her first year."

"Aww, well, it seems like you were a 'cool mom,'" she joked, making a Mean Girls reference.

Levi grimaced uneasily and then admitted, almost ashamed, "Not really… but I promised a friend that I would give her more freedom."

"Oh…"

(I don't know what this is, I just got an idea and decided to write it. That's all)

Link to my masterlist and my other works if you feel like checking them out. Tags!: @nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @angelofthor @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @l3visthighs @hum4n-wr3ckag3 @hannieslovebot @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 @levisfavoriteteashop @katestrophes @levistealeaf @an-ever-angry-bi @youre-ackermine @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @trashblackrainbow @flxrartsstuff @katharinasdiaryy @kikarouflames @levisecretgfblog @searriously @blackdxggr @ackermanswifee @abiatackerman @braunsbabe @moonchild-12345 @levicansteponme Wanna join my tag list? Here!

[blackhairedjjun]

late night returns - c.yj

pairing: choi yeonjun x gn reader | genre / tropes: angst with a happy ending, actor!yeonjun x non-celebrity!reader, exes to lovers | word count: 855 | warnings: mentions of being stalked (by tabloids)

part of my 300 followers event (event masterlist)

prompt - OVER?: after a mutually reluctant (and unwanted but necessary) break-up, the sender calls/visits the receiver and tells them that they’re still in love with them. (requested by @seolis-world)

author's notes: seoli!! this ended up longer than planned, nag-enjoy ako masyado haha. your trope choice allowed me to bring out my celebrity!yj x non-celebrity!reader thoughts, which are some of my favorite hcs to think about! (also actor!yj after seeing the behind the scenes of the minisode 3 trailer haha) i hope you like this!

‘Love Like Hydrangeas’ Star Choi Yeonjun Stuns in New Red Carpet Photos “Like a Fairytale Prince”: Netizens React to Viral Photos of Choi Yeonjun

you sigh as you read the social media headlines on your phone. yeonjun does look like a fairytale prince, and you admire the embroidered details of his dark suit while zooming in on the latest batch of photos from his new movie premiere. a heaviness settles over you while you scroll through photo after photo, remembering the first time he showed you that same suit weeks before: “i look handsome, right?” he asked you, and when you said yes, he let out a soft laugh that filled your heart to bursting.

that moment in his apartment feels like a lifetime ago, and all it took was one leaked image of the two of you from a tabloid photographer making the rounds on fansites. yeonjun’s agency went overtime trying to do damage control, and it was a miracle that your identity was never revealed. but once the storm settled down, you and yeonjun sat down not in his room but at the agency office. the two of you needed to break up, you both agreed, for your safety and his 一 and with a lingering embrace and one last kiss, you left.

tears prick at your eyes and you toss the phone back to your nightstand; the clock there reads 2:16 am. you cocoon yourself in your blankets, turn to your side, and shut your eyes. you want to sleep, because at least in your dreams you can escape from reality for a little while. yet the more you wish for sleep to come to you, the more it eludes you, and the restlessness only grows worse as you turn from side to side in your bed over and over again.

buzz!

you jolt up at the sound of your apartment doorbell. you have no idea who the hell is calling for you in the middle of the night, but at least it distracts you from your restlessness.

you open the door a crack. “who’s th一”

it takes a second for you to recognize the tall man in a dark hoodie standing in front of you. the dimness makes it hard to see his figure or his features, until you realize that they look all too familiar...

you immediately you throw the door open and sink into yeonjun’s arms. you sob into his chest, your body shuddering from the force of your tears, and he holds you even more tightly as his own tears stream down his face.

“i missed you,” he says, his voice hoarse. you haven’t heard the sound of his voice in weeks, and it only makes you cry even harder.

eventually your sobs calm down to quieter tears, and when you let go of yeonjun you can still see the tear tracks running from his eyes. with your hands still in his, you tug him inside the warmth of your apartment, and there he pulls you into his embrace once more.

“how did you...” you begin, your voice muffled into his hoodie.

“i snuck out.”

“you shouldn’t have...”

yeonjun kisses the top of your head once, then twice, then again and again. his kisses are feather-light and you sigh at his touch. “i love you,” he murmurs into your hair. “i n-never stopped loving you. i don’t一 i can’t do any of this without you. i miss you so much...”

your arms are around his waist and you give it a gentle squeeze. he rubs circles down your back and you hum. his touch sends waves of calm through your body, the heaviness you once carried slowly leaving you.

you recall the red carpet photos you were just looking at and your bliss is interrupted by a million questions. does anyone else know that he’s here? what happens when his agency finds out? or when his fans find out? are you really getting back together or does he just miss you? how would you even navigate the tabloids, the endless stream of gossip? you try to bury yourself even more in yeonjun’s arms but he doesn’t miss the quickening of your heartbeat.

your thoughts are interrupted by another kiss on your head. yeonjun moves you to the foot of your bed and cradles you as you both sit there, a hand making its way through the tangle of your hair. your arms perch around his neck and you nuzzle into him.

“i’ll protect you, okay?” he says. his voice is quiet yet solemn like a prayer. “i can’t... i can’t lose you again.”

you pull away to meet his gaze and you see the same shine in his eyes that you always loved. he gazes at you with such tenderness, and behind his firm words you see the affection that underlies them. he needs you, and you need him just as much too.

“i love you too, jjunie... please don’t leave me.”

“i promise i won’t.”

you still don’t have the answers to your questions, but you’d rather leave then unanswered than have yeonjun leave you again.

[hyvyinjie]

JUST LIKE A DREAM.

TW! manga spoilers.

bittersweet! wistful.

t. muichiro x gn. reader.

HE FOUND HIMSELF ENSNARED IN THE RAPTUROUS EMBRACE OF A PLAIN, UNADORNED NOTEBOOK. its pristine pages beckoning him to whisper tantalizing secrets.

seating himself in the seiza style-his limbs folded gracefully—he wielded a quill like a maestro's baton, while his other hand languidly cradled his cheek-a solitary pillar of repose in the vast expanse of contemplation.

with a sigh of resignation, he embarked upon the wondrous dance between ink and parchment.

...hey.

he paused, his countenance adorned with a mask of impassivity, concealing a tempest of thoughts within.

why, he mused, did he feel compelled to extend his greetings to a humble sheet of paper?

yet, a flicker of ephemeral memory flickered through the corridors of his mind—a faint echo that whispered of customs and courtesies, of beginnings and origins.

though he found himself adrift in the enigma of it all, he yielded to the notion that a simple "hello" would serve as the key to unlock the labyrinth of his newfound routine.

anyways..

that butterfly lady gave me this.

i don't know why, she just did.

he blinked, his brows ascending with a subtle grace, as a revelation had alighted upon his consciousness like a silken butterfly.

i don't know why, she just did.

actually, i do.

she gave me this because she said that journaling..

it'd help me with my memories somehow.

if i recall correctly..she told me to write down anything i figured is worth noting, saying it'll help me 'treasure' it or something.

as he neared the culmination of his literary pilgrimage, he sighed yet again, his breath a gentle zephyr that whispered secrets to the dull room.

whatever. it doesn't matter.

the final words dripped like honey from his quill, an offering to the vast expanse of time and oblivion. yet, even as he penned the denouement of his day, a knowing knowledge clung to his intellect—one he had unfortunately grown accustomed to.

i'll forget about this, anyways.

on the contrary—to his own astonishment—he found himself ensnared within the confines of familiarity, as if destiny had conspired to recreate the tableau of days past.

an unexpected sense of accomplishment fluttered within his being, though he nonchalantly brushed it aside, for its allure held no sway over his seemingly impassive demeanor.

wow.

this again.

never thought i'd actually come back to this.

i guess that person was just so weird that i instantly went here subconsciously.

and yet—a query lingered, teasing the fringes of his consciousness.

how did he manage to recall the precise location where this artifact had been bestowed? his gaze faltered, searching the surroundings with an air of detachment, even as his countenance remained stoic and unyielding.

alas, pondering the intricacies of remembrance proved an exercise in futility.

the answer—it seemed—resided in the glorious mist of poorly scrapped away details.

in reality, for—in a moment of abandon-he had actually just left this vessel exposed upon the very table that bore witness to its initial unveiling.

with that profound comprehension nestled in the recesses of his clouded mind, he simply blinked before returning to the task of diligently jotting down the words he had momentarily paused, delicately inscribing the words that had eluded him mere seconds ago—fully aware that they would soon inevitably slip from his memory.

a pensive cloud descended upon his countenance, casting a shadow upon the dainty tapestry of his thoughts.

his brows, like twin sentinels of vexation, furrowed once more, mirroring the tumultuous musings that swirled within the depths of his mind.

speaking of which, what's their deal anyways?

he simultaneously pondered, his memory a fragmented mosaic that teased the edges of his recollection. who exactly was this vexing interloper that had managed to impede upon his path? the tendrils of remembrance danced just beyond his grasp, tantalizingly close yet frustratingly distant.

bothersome brat getting in the way like that.

the realization dawned, an ember of understanding amidst the haze. it seemed that this individual, by the mere virtue of their skills, bore the mark of a fellow demon slayer. though their intentions remained obscured, he acknowledged that their presence, even as an ally, posed an inconvenience.

yet, he couldn't help but acknowledge that the situation would have been far more dire had they been an unsuspecting civilian thrust into the fray.

"had I not intervened, you would've gotten hit instead."

the echo of their words reverberated within his mind like a daunting scene, conjuring a vivid portrait of their visage. a flicker of irritation danced in his eye, an involuntary twitch that betrayed his lingering frustration.

at least that weirdo refrained from whining and coercing me into helping them seek the aid of that butterfly lady.

even still—a veil of perplexity settled upon his thoughts, shrouding his mind in a haze of bewilderment. the actions of that imbecile confounded him, defying all logic and reason. how dare they insinuate that he lacked the agility to evade the blow? and even if he hadn't, was it not just another day, with the ebb and flow of danger an ever-present companion?

furthermore, the question lingered like a specter; why did they possess such fervent concern, enough to willingly absorb the impact intended for him? a cynical frown danced upon his lips, for he harbored a deep-seated suspicion that their motivations were rooted in a desire to don the mantle of heroism.

ordinarily, such trifling matters would have been dismissed with a mere shrug, relegated to the realm of inconsequential distractions.

and yet, that singular event, like a pebble tossed into a still pond, sent ripples coursing through the depths of his being. it stirred a dormant fire within him, kindling a smoldering embers of annoyance that refused to be extinguished.

the enigma of their actions gnawed at his consciousness, an incessant itch that demanded his attention. why did their interference provoke such a visceral reaction? what lay beneath the surface of his irritation? the answers eluded him, concealed in the murk of his own introspection.

eventually, a flicker of relief danced upon his countenance, as if a gentle breeze had brushed away the creases of consternation etched upon his features. for, in this fortuitous moment, salvation arrived in the form of ginko, his loyal companion, his assigned kasugai crow.

entering the room through the open window with a graceful flutter of ebony wings, the avian harbinger announced his imminent departure towards yet another mission, a clarion call that whisked away the tendrils of disquietude that had begun to take hold.

had he been pondering for that long?

he blinked, extending a hand adorned with purposeful gentleness, he bestowed upon ginko a few aimless caresses to the sleek feathers that adorned the crow's head. a momentary respite amidst the chaos, a fleeting connection between two souls bonded by the trials of their shared endeavors.

and then, with a seamless transition, his expression reverted back to its stoic neutrality, a mask of detachment that shielded the depths of his thoughts.

his gaze, once adrift and almost forgotten, refocused upon the near-forgotten notebook that lay before him—its pages, blank with very few words but brimming with the promise of untold tales, unlike before—it now beckoned him with an irresistible allure. who’s to say that this encounter, this outpouring of his thoughts upon its parchment, would be his last? the question lingered, suspended in the air, as if the notebook itself whispered of secrets yet untold.

however—a hint of exasperation tinged his thoughts once more, a testament to the minutes squandered upon this wearisome endeavor. the weight of time wasted settled upon his shoulders like an oppressive burden, threatening to drown him in a sea of regret. had that butterfly lady bestowed this upon him merely as a means to pass the hours in such a pitiful manner?

what’s with everyone pissing him off lately? a disapproving click of his tongue resounded, accompanied by an inward huff of frustration, as if to dismiss such thoughts as inconsequential.

yet, even as he brushed aside the notion, a lingering seed of doubt remained. the origins of this diversion, this seemingly trivial pastime, stirred a restlessness within him. but he swiftly quelled the rising tide of contemplation, for there were matters of greater import to attend to.

with a languid motion, his hand lazily fell back to his side, a symbol of resignation to the inevitability of his next mission.

ginko—ever attentive—observed his movements with unwavering focus through her beady eyes.

as he rose to his feet and walked away without a word, she hastened to follow, a silent guardian ensuring he treaded the correct path this time.

perchance, had he paid greater heed—he would have discerned the inadvertent significance he ascribed to that encounter.

possibly, if he could decipher his emotions amidst the shroud of negativity, he would come to comprehend the profound influence this ostensibly unavailing—or so he perceives it to be—undertaking continues to hold within the recesses of his hazy recollections.

a sense of weariness pervaded his being, his form slouched over the table in an exhausted posture. his arm, draped atop the surface, cradled his lower face in a gesture of weary surrender.

heavy-lidded eyes, devoid of their usual sharpness, stared blankly at the notebook before him, its pages a repository of familiarity and untapped potential.

his restless fingers found solace in the quill, an instrument of creation and expression. yet, instead of purposeful strokes, they engaged in aimless fiddling, a subconscious act of seeking comfort in the familiar. the quill danced between his fingertips, its weight and texture grounding him in the present moment.

as time trickled by, his hand slowly maneuvered with deliberate relaxation.

the quill hovered mere inches above the pristine expanse of the paper, its poised tip a conduit for the thoughts that swirled within his mind. the ink droplets within the quill began to fall, each one a testament to the passage of time and the stillness that enveloped him.

then, with a leisurely descent—the quill found its mark upon the page, leaving behind a trail of ink as he transcribed the words that lingered in his thoughts. beginning another silent conversation between the depths of his mind and the blankness of the paper.

if i had known that i’d be assigned with that idiot on the mission, i wouldn’t have even waited for their arrival.

eh. i guess they were somewhat useful..for baiting the demon.

the words upon the page bore the unmistakable mark of apathy, as if they had been woven with little to no effort. lines connected words haphazardly, yet he remained unperturbed by their disarray.

a mere blink was his response to the warm embrace of the rising sun's rays streaming through the window, causing him to momentarily shield his eyes. his lids fluttered, adjusting to the light.

shifting slightly, he raised his head, casting a glance towards the window. the sight of the morning's arrival beckoned his attention, a gentle reminder of the passing hours that had slipped away unnoticed.

would you look at that... it's morning already, and i haven't even managed a wink of sleep yet.

a yawn escaped his lips, an involuntary reflex brought forth by the weariness that engulfed him.

craning his head to the right, he raised a hand, fingers reaching out to massage the tense muscles at the back of his neck. the physical sensation provided a fleeting respite from the mental strain that weighed upon him.

tearing his gaze away from the luminous frame of light, his attention returned to the page before him.

the letters—now seemingly slid onto the page without care—formed words that appeared smudged or messy. yet, his response was one of detached observation, his eyes trailing along the inked lines as if merely skimming their surface. his mind adrift in a sea of fatigue and contemplation.

a wistful breath escaped his lips, carrying with it a tinge of reflection. to think that in the end, he found himself aiding them, joining forces with those he once regarded with a mix of skepticism and reservation. vague memories of their coordination and shared battles flickered in his mind, a testament to their surprising competence.

irony hung in the air, as he ever-so begrudgingly acknowledged the decency of their skill, granting them the credit they deserved.

but to say that he still harbored a grudge would be an overstatement. time had a way of blurring the sharp edges of resentment, softening the sting of past grievances.

he had moved on—or at least strived to do so—simply because he no longer wished to expend mental energy on such affairs.

of course, the reasoning behind their initial encounter still eluded him. the circumstances that had brought them together remained shrouded in mystery, a puzzle piece that refused to fit neatly into the larger picture.

yet, despite this lack of understanding, he had chosen to extend his assistance.

it was a matter of reciprocity, an unspoken agreement that demanded the return of the favor. they had aided him, and so he, in turn, had done the same.

but let it be known that his actions were certainly not born out of deliberate intention. it wasn't a calculated decision to seek their gratitude or favor. no, he had been driven solely by his sense of duty, a commitment to vanquish the demon that had threatened their lives. their expressions of gratitude that followed were—in his perception—unwarranted and unnecessary.

don’t get him wrong, it wasn't a matter of rejecting their appreciation out of disdain or arrogance. it was simply a matter of perspective. he saw his actions as obligations fulfilled, his purpose aligned with the task at hand. the gratitude they offered was an unexpected byproduct, an outcome that held little significance in the grand scheme of his mission.

unbeknownst to him—his head gradually dipped lower, a subtle surrender to the weight of exhaustion. his eyes, utterly heavy with weariness, would occasionally flutter open, a futile effort to rouse himself from the encroaching grasp of sleep.

but little did he know, there existed a vast realm of his true intentions beneath the surface of his consciousness, waiting to be explored, waiting to unveil its secrets—a landscape of an undiscovered reality and hidden depths lay dormant, longing to be discovered.

yet, in his current state, he remained oblivious to the elusive wonders that lay within.

oblivious to the possibilities that awaited him, he continued to battle the encroaching embrace of sleep, unaware of the treasures that could be unearthed once he relinquished his conscious hold.

but perhaps, in due time, the mist would lift, and he would come to realize the vastness that lay hidden within, embracing the unknown with open arms and truly delving into the depths, and alas reaching a benevolent understanding of his own subconscious.

soon enough, he found himself absentmindedly twirling a petal between his fingers as he entered the room. his focus remained fixated on the delicate blossom even as his hand closed the door behind him, and even as he made his way towards the mirror.

gradually, he lifted his gaze, his eyes settling on the flower crown adorning his head. the sakura petals, masterfully intertwined, caught his attention, their beauty captivating his senses.

with an almost contemplative look, he then raised the petal he held to eye-level, keenly studying its intricate details.

of all people, who would have thought he'd be adorning something as whimsical as this? it seemed that over time, through some inexplicable force, he had found himself repeatedly crossing paths with an individual he had once deemed a nuisance.

bizzarely, he discovered that he often engaged in small conversations with them—or rather—they spoke while he found himself lost in his own thoughts as usual, staring at the wispy clouds.

however, that habit of his had not lasted long with them.

he recalled a time when he unexpectedly began sparing a not-so discreet glance for the person who stood beside him, whilst internally pursuing his own musings while they carried on with their activities.

perhaps it was because he secretly wished for their presence to vanish? he had made his feelings abundantly clear, even voicing his desire to be rid of them. yet, they stubbornly persisted, undeterred by his dismissive attitude.

and so, he had resigned himself to their constant presence, reluctantly accepting the fact that they would be a part of his daily life.

today, it was he who stumbled upon them—a reversal of their usual encounters.

he couldn't help but note the uncharacteristic silence that enveloped them, a departure from their usual chatter.

enveloped in a realm of heightened intrigue, his inquisitive spirit awakened. his gaze, like a wandering star, was drawn to the focal point that held their rapt fascination.

with an arched ascent, his eyebrows mirrored his amazement. majestically poised, a resplendent tapestry unfolded before him—a bountiful cherry blossom tree, its branches bedecked in resplendent blooms. the sakura petals—akin to balletic maestros—pirouetted gracefully through the air, composing a symphony of ethereal enchantment.

in that instant, he comprehended the rationale behind their entranced stare. the vision of the grand cherry blossom tree, its delicate petals dancing with elegance, possessed an irresistible charm that surpassed his customary indifference. it stood as a tableau of organic marvel, another spectacle capable of evoking a latent response within him, even if he had not fully embraced it until now.

blinking in a manner reminiscent of an owl, he returned to the present moment.

ultilizing both hands, he delicately removed the flower crown from his head. unusually, he handled it with an exceptional tenderness, treating it as though it were a fragile treasure he was determined to preserve with utmost care.

however, inexplicably, he decided to place it adjacent to his notebook. then, his attention shifted back to the petal he had held throughout the entire process, and a subtle downturn of his lips coupled with a slight furrowing of his brows betrayed his disappointment.

the petal appeared slightly crumpled... perhaps he should have focused on it first before removing the crown?

his head instinctively tilted as he contemplated the past. unbeknownst to him, the fact that he was investing such reflection into a... gift—as they had claimed it to be—went entirely unnoticed.

an idea flickered to life within the recesses of his mind, though it may not have been grand in scale.

with a sense of purpose, he resolved to safeguard this newfound notion within the pages of his trusty notebook instead of just noting them down much like the previous, yet now said to be countless of times he did so. it wasn't that he had no intention of exploring the idea further; rather, he held a silly belief that by preserving the delicate petal within its confines, he would be able to summon fragments of today's events whenever he cast his gaze upon it.

it was, undoubtedly, a risky endeavor.

the transience of memory and the fragility of moments made such attempts at preservation inherently uncertain. yet, undeterred by the potential pitfalls, he was determined to give it a try.

there was a spark of hope that momentarily alighted within his ever-so dull eyes as he carefully placed the petal between the pages, allowing it to find its place amidst the inked words and scribbled thoughts.

in his mind, the notebook was like a vessel of recollection, the doorway through which he could access the essence of that particular day.

with each passing glance, he believed he would be transported back to the sights, sounds, and emotions that had colored his experience. it was a belief steeped in a touch of magic, a genuine desire to capture the essence of fleeting moments and keep them alive in some tangible form.

of course, he understood the inherent risk of such an endeavor. memories could be fickle, subject to the passage of time and the distortions of perception—that he knew all too well, yet, he couldn't resist the allure of the notion, the tantalizing prospect of preserving a piece of today's events within the pages of his notebook.

thus, he closed the notebook—sealing the petal within its protective embrace. only time would reveal whether his whimsical idea would bear fruit. but for now, he carried a glimmer of anticipation, a belief that perhaps, just perhaps, he had found a way to capture the essence of the present and carry it with him into the future.

one day, on the verge of departing for the swordsmith village, he found himself casting a final glance around his room.

as his eyes scanned the space, they landed upon a particular object resting undisturbed on the table, alongside a vibrant, circular rosy crown. yet, his gaze lingered upon the sight of the flowers, a momentary pause in his preparations.

was there something he was forgetting?

he brushed off the thought, convincing himself that it was nothing of importance.

or was it?

perhaps a faint inkling nagged at the back of his mind, suggesting that there was more to it than he initially believed.

without realizing it—he was drawn across the room, his steps guided by an unseen force.

he found himself crouching down near the designated area, his hand reaching out to flip through the pages of his notebook. however, his action was halted as his eyes caught sight of a roseate petal nestled within the notebook's pages.

curiosity sparked within him, and he raised an eyebrow as he gingerly plucked the petal from its sanctuary. absentmindedly, he twirled it between his fingers, a gesture that felt oddly familiar, inducing a sense of déjà vu.

but where had he witnessed such a scene before?

as he pondered, a realization dawned upon him. It wasn't a memory of witnessing someone else engage in this action; rather, it was he himself who had performed it.

a surge of recollection washed over him, memories resurfacing from the depths of his mind. the twirling of the petal, the sensation between his fingertips—these were gestures he had made before, though their significance had slipped from his conscious grasp.

In that singular moment, the forgotten fragments of his own past intertwined with the present, weaving together a tapestry of connections that transcended time.

recognition dawned upon him with a sudden clarity. it was from that day—the day where a sensation so tender and poignant stirred within him, almost like a bittersweet ache, evoking a warmth that eluded his understanding, leaving him unable to grasp its true essence.

the memory resurfaced, vivid and potent, as he held the petal in his hand. it was a symbol—a relic that carried the weight of a significant moment, a moment that had shaped him in ways he had yet to fully comprehend.

as his gaze shifted between the delicate petal and the floral circlet, he couldn't help but acknowledge their significance. they were gifts, given to him by that same person whose presence had once been a source of annoyance, but had since become intertwined with his life in ways he never anticipated.

a subtle flicker of a smile danced across his features, fleeting yet unmistakable.

it was a ghost of a smile, evoking a sense of warmth and nostalgia. just like that very same day, beneath the sakura tree.

after a few more contemplative moments, he gently placed the petal back within the pages of his notebook. it was an act imbued with a renewed sense of curiosity and introspection.

as he carefully tucked it away, he recognized that this petal held more than just a fragment of his present—it also served as a tether to his past.

standing up, he straightened his attire, smoothing out the wrinkles that had formed during his moment of reflection.

leaving the room behind, he stepped forward, his footsteps carrying him away from the familiar and towards the villa—yet, as he ventured forth, he carried with him the knowledge that within the depths of his own experiences, there were secrets waiting to be unveiled. these hidden truths, veiled within the recesses of his own identity, held the potential to guide him closer to understanding who he truly was.

muichiro’s brows knit together, his eyes narrowing slightly as he winced, perusing the passages he had penned not long ago—but in that period, he found himself at the nadir of his existence, akin to a vessel housing an empty soul, where the flicker of life seemed to wane within him.

immersed in the depths of his own written words, a wave of self-critique washed over him. the realization of his perceived deficiencies bore down heavily upon his psyche.

was my prose truly so lackluster?

his countenance contorted into a visage of melancholic discontent. he couldn't help but introspect on his conduct and acknowledge the impoliteness he had exhibited. it pained him to recognize the echoes of his late twin brother within himself, bearing the burden of both his loss, and their shared flaws.

a tinge of remorse lingered as he ran a hand through his hair, grappling with the repercussions of his actions.

yet, amidst the remorse, his spirits gradually ascended as he reminisced on a separate recollection—the instant when he emerged from his coma, their unwavering presence by his side.

that memory bestowed a glimmer of solace, softening his somber expression. they had been dumbfounded, incapable of containing their emotions upon witnessing his awakening.

in that fleeting moment, they had clung to him fervently, as if he were their vital lifeline. though their embrace—much to his dismay—had swiftly slackened upon realizing his frailty, the impact of their initial response eternally etched in his consciousness.

reflecting upon that juncture, a smile graced his lips. he held no remorse for his instinctive reaction to embrace them, despite his own corporeal anguish.

a gentle flush tinged his cheeks as he sensed that familiar flutter in his heart, impelling him to tilt his head inquisitively.

“that feeling again...” he mused—this time, aloud—as he rose a hand to the region where his heartbeat, almost amplifying with its errancies—resided. his gaze descended, fixated upon that enigmatic yet captivating feeling. curiously pirouetted in his eyes, a pure and guileless yearning for comprehension.

he contemplated the prospect of unraveling the enigma at the butterfly mansion, where he might unearth the veracity behind this inexplicable sensation.

maybe, it was naught but a lingering malady, an unseen affliction that had eluded his awareness. he mulled over the displeasing notion, recognizing the imperative to illuminate the puzzle that lay dormant within him.

little did he fathom the profundity of what lay ahead, the intricate tapestry of emotions and connections that awaited him.

if only he comprehended the significance of that flutter in his heart, the profound impact it would wield upon his odyssey.

several weeks had elapsed, and once more he found himself clutching his notebook, as if it were an extension of his being.

resting against the wall, he clasped the item firmly in his grasp, his gaze wandering towards the window as he settled into a seated position. with his knees drawn up to his chest, they formed an improvised tabletop, providing a stable surface for him to write on.

the room was bathed in the spill of moonlight, bestowing upon it a tranquil luminescence that infused the scene with ethereal allure. positioned at the precipice of the empty page, his quill poised like a delicate dancer, he sensed a surge of anticipation welling within him.

it had been a while since he had last visited the notebook, let alone written in it.

initially, this realization held a tinge of sadness. however, he began to view it as a form of success—a testament to his growth and progress—he no longer needed the notebook as a vessel for his memories, as he had learned to hold them within himself without the fear of them dispersing from his mind.

although he had been reluctant to let go of the notebook in the beginning, fearing that he would regress to his former self, he gradually grew accustomed to relying less on its pages. this change was thanks to a certain someone who had provided him with remarkable encouragement and support along the way.

speaking of that someone..

a gentle smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he reminisced about the unfolding events.

at long last, he had mustered the courage to convey his heartfelt gratitude to them for rescuing him on that fateful day of their initial encounter. in retrospect, he finally recognized how his own negativity had obscured the fact that his concern and guilt had driven his actions, leading to harm befalling their well-being.

with the weight of unexpressed appreciation lifted from his shoulders, a profound sense of contentment and relief settled within him.

it felt really good.

and relieving too. i’m glad to finally be able to appreciate them properly now.

the words resonated within him, echoing the profound impact this newfound expression of gratitude had on his relationship with them as he lowered his quill onto the waiting page, he began to write, capturing the essence of his gratitude in ink. the words flowed freely, a testament to his newfound ability to express his appreciation and to cherish the moments that had led him to this point.

in that quiet room, with the moon as his witness, he continued to write, allowing his emotions to spill onto the pages, creating a tangible record of his gratitude and the growth he had achieved.

naturally, he expressed his gratitude to shinobu as well, for she was the catalyst that set the entire endeavor in motion.

however, he couldn't deny that his experience with that particular individual had left a deeper impact on him, resonating within his being in a way that he couldn't easily dismiss.

we made origami today.

was if their first time? i wouldn’t believe it at all if they said yes, they did amazing.

the corners of his mouth lifted even further, a radiant smile spreading across his face. pride swelled within his chest as he reminisced about the moment when he, much like they had done beneath the sakura tree during the day—left his creations with them as a souvenir—a heartfelt gift.

his eyes fluttered, lids half-lowered, as his smile softened. the memory of their laughter resonated in his ears, a joyful sound that echoed through his mind. it was a honeyed melody, harmonious and timeless, etched into his memories like a cherished tune he would never grow tired of.

in that moment, he felt a deep sense of connection and shared happiness. the blossoming of their laughter and their appreciation had filled him with a profound sense of fulfillment.

i made them laugh, their smile truly is adorable.

i want them to stay happy.

an undeniably childish wish.

..i wanna be the reason they do.

a selfish, yet reasonable desire.

i could just say it outright, but...

his thoughts trailed off, contemplating the words he longed to express.

his heart swelled with a mixture of emotions, and yet, there was a hesitancy that held him back. the idea of openly conveying his yearning to be their source of joy brought forth an inexplicable feeling, a blend of anticipation and seldom vulnerability.

with a heavy sigh, he leaned his head back, seeking a moment of respite.

however, to his dismay—he misjudged the distance and inadvertently hit the wall with more force than intended. the impact elicited a wince and a deadpan expression as a wave of discomfort washed over him.

“ouch..”

rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, he closed one eye, gritting his teeth in response to the pain. regret filled his thoughts as he berated himself for not considering the consequences of his actions.

"just why didn't I take that into consideration?" he muttered, a tinge of frustration evident in his mellow voice.

it was a momentary lapse, a reminder of the fallibility that resided within him. the physical discomfort mirrored the emotional unease he felt, a reminder that expressing his feelings came with its own set of risks and uncertainties.

no, he had abandoned his initial notion of visiting the butterfly mansion to have his ‘condition’ assessed. as due to being one of the hashiras, it was now his duty to train the lower-ranked individuals, aiming to help them awaken their own marks while enhancing their abilities.

in essence, he found himself devoid of the time needed to pursue his plan. although it was indeed a missed opportunity, he chose not to dwell on it excessively.

besides, none of his attributes seemed to have weakened, so he simply disregarded the occasional peculiar sensation blooming in his chest whenever thoughts of them arose, dismissing it as a mere figment of his imagination—a hallucination.

he let out a resigned breath, a sense of acceptance washing over him. his hand fell back to his side, but as he blinked, his gaze followed a petal as it slipped out of his notebook's grasp, gracefully descending onto the floor beside him.

his mouth formed a small "o" of surprise, his eyebrows raised in curiosity. he blinked thrice, processing the unexpected turn of events. however, his features soon softened, morphing into a tender expression as he retrieved the fallen petal.

solicitously cradling the delicate leaf between his fingers, he twirled it once more, marveling at its beauty. the petal really did hold a certain allure, captivating his attention and stirring memories within him.

"it’s as beautiful as i remember..” he whispered softly, a touch of nostalgia coloring his voice. in that simple petal, he found a reflection of past beauty, a reminder of moments that had touched his soul.

as he held the petal, he couldn't help but reflect on the transient nature of beauty and the fleeting nature of time. just like the petal, moments of beauty come and go, leaving only memories behind. yet, in that fleeting beauty, there is a sense of profound appreciation and wonder.

while the world could be cruel, he yearned to bask in the fragments of ephemeral glory and find joy in the fleeting moments. he’s now understood that life was a continuous stream of passing experiences, and he made a conscious effort to cherish each and every memory that crossed his path.

in the midst of this realization, an idea sparked in his mind—a realization that he had never written about the day beneath the sakura tree.

how had he overlooked such a profound and cherished memory?

a surge of exhilaration and eager anticipation flowed through him as he envisioned immortalizing that extraordinary day within the sacred confines of his notebook. the memory, a veritable trove of exquisite beauty, served as a poignant emblem of life's fleeting nature and the timeless significance of shared experiences.

with a determined resolve, he opened the notebook to a fresh page, his quill poised to bring the memory to life through ink. the sakura tree, with its delicate blossoms fluttering in the breeze, held a significant place in his heart. it was a sanctuary of beauty, a haven where he had experienced a profound connection with another soul—with them.

….

as the final words pirouetted gracefully upon the page, he tenderly closed his eyes, his velvety lashes caressing his cheek in a delicate dance. in this ephemeral interlude, he granted himself a stolen breath, a cherished opportunity to savor the essence of the memory once more. the day spent beneath the resplendent sakura tree had been etched with profound artistry upon the sanctums of his heart, and now, like a cherished relic, it had found its eternal dwelling within the cradle of his notebook's pages.

a contented smile graced his visage as he delicately sealed the notebook shut, its once blank canvases now adorned with fragments of his existence—a treasury of treasured recollections.

on that day, they looked exactly like a dream—all i’ve wanted, all i’ve ever needed.

the parchment succumbed to the deluge of your cascading tears, becoming drenched and sodden, as if thirstily drinking in the sorrow that overflowed from your heart. with a poignant gaze, you traversed the final passage, each word a painful reminder of the bittersweet victory that had come at the cost of his absence.

weariness weighed heavily upon your eyes, threatening to seal them shut, yearning for respite from the harsh grip of reality. your trembling lips contorted, caught in a delicate dance between joy and sorrow, forming a wistful smile that held the essence of longing. in the sanctuary of your other hand, cradled with tender reverence, lay the very petal you had once bestowed upon him. under the caress of the sun's gentle rays, it gleamed like an iridescent gem, casting a luminous glow that illuminated your tears, turning them into shimmering crystals of anguish.

geto, one of the many sentinel who had witnessed the entwined trial of your beloved and tanjiro, could offer naught but a humble bow, his head lowered in utmost deference. he understood the futility of his desire to provide solace through an embrace, recognizing the unfathomable depths of the pain that gripped your soul. as you clung tightly to the notebook he had dutifully delivered, he stood as a silent witness to your inconsolable sorrow.

in the realm of young love, tragedy often unfolds with a poetic grace.

like a tapestry woven from wisps of a dream, your intertwined forms swayed in the breeze, as if caught in the ethereal embrace of destiny. and as the wind whispered its gentle secrets through the tendrils of your existence, the memory, forever enshrined, would reside as an indelible impression within the chambers of your collective memories, transcending the boundaries of time and spanning an unfathomable infinity.

[coralinnii]

❋ If you are a villain, then let me be your accomplice ❋

feat: Lilia genre: mild hurt/comfort, slow burn romance note: sequel to reincarnated into a new world as the bad guy AU Lilia ver, no pronouns used, Lilia is depicted as his older appearance with long hair, human!reader, mentions of minor injuries unintentionally inflicted on reader, 1.6k word count 

I liivvveee! For now, anyway. I still have my job projects and finals are upon me but I finally found some time to myself so I hope you enjoy another addition to the Villain/ess!series. I might end up failing a class but I know it’s not the end of the world for me and I really enjoyed the class so I wouldn’t mind retaking the class.

Yeaa...this did not end up as domestic fluff

WARNING: This part has kinda hard-to-read topics regarding children and childrearing. Sometimes parents, guardians, caretakers and/or other children accidentally get injured by a child and the child doesn’t know how to get over that. We never want to blame the child for these mistakes but we want to make sure they can learn to avoid such mistakes again. This is an odd case since these are fictional non-human characters and some people can view Lilia as too harsh or see MC/reader as too lenient. I’ve seen parents approach this concern differently and honestly to me, the next course of action is never easy to figure out without truly discussing with the child and those involved.  I'm not saying whose method is right or wrong, I just wrote what would be the best course of action in this scenario. You might have your own opinions or approaches. Read at your own risk

A lot has happened since your first visit to the Vanrouge household. Lilia surprised you by taking both of you into his home, protecting you while helping to raise the young Yung. He offered a room to the small dragon and one for yourself (though Yung still prefers to sleep in your bed with you). 

Speaking of Yung, he was still wary of Lilia and his servants, choosing to hide himself in your embrace or behind your legs. He refused to speak to anyone and if he needed something, he would whisper into your ears and being the pampering type, you would oblige. 

“Dear me, he seems to have really imprinted himself on you” Lilia chuckled casually but then he quickly hardened his gaze and the conversation turned more serious. “However, if he does not grow out from this phase, he may end up unable to control his dragon side and hurt himself or you” 

This worries you as you know due your knowledge from your previous life that Yung will grow to be very powerful but he fell victim to his own strength and destroyed himself with his power. 

Distressed, you begged Lilia to give his guidance as the former guardian of the Dragon King and with a playful smile, he gave an offer to you. 

“Very well, I will be his guide. But as a fair trade of service, why don’t you become my attendant? This would occupy your time and perhaps young Yung could use this to be a little more independent?” 

And thus began Yung’s days of torture as your new job constantly took precious time from him by Lilia. Yung can no longer ask for walks with you because you’re needed to look over some paperwork with the duke. Nights where you would lull him to sleep were getting less and less as Lilia requested your assistance in looking over some schedule details before the new day. And even when Yung gets to hang out with you, Lilia would almost always be there to monopolize your attention. 

At first, you decided to trust the young(?) duke and his tactics since you did come to him for his guidance anyway. Despite the rather playful demeanor he seems to have, Lilia seemed so confident to you and assured you time and time again that this is a rite of passage of sorts for fae like him and Yung since powerful beings like them must learn self-control before anything else. 

But self-control continues to elude Yung and it wasn’t long before the cute little dragon decided enough was enough.

“Wuv is mine! Mister duke go away!” 

To the best of his ability, Yung wrapped his short arms around your waist as he screamed at the duke. If Yung was any normal child, his growth would have been unprecedented as he was already walking (to chase after you and Lilia) and speaking fairly comprehensible sentences (to yell at Lilia). But as a fae, this was a typical growth spurt, quickly growing stronger and bigger than a typical human to ensure his survival. His physical strength was more obvious to you right now as the young child was unintentionally tightening his grip on you which started to hurt. 

“Yung, l-love” you tried to speak but it came out as a short gasp as the small fae ignored your call. His hands, while small, kept digging through your clothes and into your skin which made you wince slightly. You tried other means of grabbing the young one’s attention but all was moot as all of Yung’s focus zeroed in on Lilia alone, his eyes glowing a slightly menacing color and a glare reminiscent of a dragon ready to defend his territory.

“Sigh…you are still a foolish child” 

In an instant, the pain in your sides lessened as you found yourself in the arms of the duke instead of Yung’s hold. Both you and Yung were shocked by this sudden change of the situation. How did neither of you notice Lilia as he somehow managed to rip you out from the young dragon’s grip without his notice or harming you in the process? 

“Are these the skills of an experienced fae?” 

After looking over you for any major injuries, Lilia sighed again with slight disappointment, reminiscent of a father figure upset with a child that nearly broke something precious. “How can you protect your treasure when you can’t even protect them from yourself?” 

Following Lilia’s previous line of sight, Yung’s heart sank when he saw the torn fabric of your outfit. With his extraordinary senses, he caught glimpses of red lines across your skin through the ripped clothing. He instinctively reached out his small hand to you but saw his nails were longer and sharper, like talons of a dragon. 

He hurt you. He hurt you. He hurt you. 

Yung broke into tears as those words cycled in his head, haunting him for his crime. You were instinctively pushing yourself from Lilia by the sound of his cries, running to enclose your arms around the poor fae child, holding him while softly giving words of comfort. 

“Love, I’m alright. It was an accident, I know that” 

 But Yung continued to sob and he apologized profusely, his voice getting sore from his cries. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Lilia stood still behind you, watching silently as you continued to console your child, wiping Yung’s tears and holding his small, shaking hands. 

Night came and Lilia visited you in your room once the family doctor was done tending to your scratches. The head of the manor immediately called for the doctor but you refused to show your injuries while Yung was still panicking over the incident. It was only when Yung calmed down and stayed with him until he fell asleep in his room. You kept your smile as you downplayed your wounds, not letting Yung blame himself.

When Lilia entered your room with your permission, he shocked you as he said something unexpected. 

“I’m sorry.” He even bowed his head to you, showing the sincerity of his words.

You replied with confusion in your voice. “Pardon? What for?” 

“I expected that Yung was getting possessive of you but I didn’t think that you would get this hurt in my attempt to distance you two. I should have intervened sooner” 

Lilia held this guilt throughout the day, ashamed that he roped you into his little test for the dragon fae. He knew raising a powerful fae will be a rough journey, taking his experience from caring for Malleus. But if Lilia were the one to get hurt, it would be but a scratch that would heal in an instant. Whatever Yung would do, Lilia can handle it with ease. 

But you weren’t fae. You were a human that bleed at the lightest touch from his kind, that break much too easily, and perish much too soon. 

“You should leave this manor” Lilia stated with an uncharacteristically serious tone. “I will find a comfortable inn for you to stay in and provide other essentials until you can find another living situation to your liking” 

“Wait a minute!” You jumped from your seat, your mind thrown for a loop. “I can’t just leave, what will happen to Yung? It'll break his heart! I didn’t mean to inconvenience your grace and your plans but I’ll be care-“ 

“Do you not understand the dangers of your situation?” Lilia’s tone was ice cold. “You nearly bled from what Yung thought was a childish hug. What if he were to get angry one day and suddenly knock you unconscious? He is not a mere human child but a fae, and a strong one as well. You are a human that may die by his own hands” 

Silence filled your room as the weight of Lilia's words sink in.

You won’t lie, Yung’s nails were painful and your wounds still sting even after treatment. In the story from your past memories, Yung’s power will be on par with the current Dragon King, with the power to move mountains and call upon flames that would leave nothing in its path. Yung will continue to grow stronger and nothing you, a powerless human, can do that will be able to stop him. 

But still… 

“I stayed silent because I didn't know what would be good for Yung. But damn it, I love that child! As long as he needs me, I’ll be there for him” you locked eyes with the long-haired fae with determination. “He’ll become stronger, but he wouldn't hurt others. He is a happy, kind child"

"And how will you ensure that?"

"I will be there to make sure he stays that way” you made a bold choice, but you're confident in this. You were confident in your little Yung that he will go against his ending in that story nonsense of your previous world.

Crossing your arms, you made another bold comment.

“Besides…you still agreed to guide him. So, this will be a team effort” You were testing your luck but you assumed that should anything like today happen again, then you could always hide behind the great general Vanrouge. That's a team, right? Being able to depend on them during tough patches?

But Lilia stayed quiet and chose to simply match your stare with his. It was intimidating to have such an attractive man look at you with such intensity but you held your ground. You puffed out your chest and refused to look away from Lilia’s admittedly beautiful ruby-coloured eyes. 

Then…Lilia giggled. 

“Lilia, the renowned general…giggled….and it was so cute?!” 

You were taken aback when you saw a soft smile crept onto Lilia’s lips, so different from his mischievous grin whenever he scares you from behind during work or the confident smirk when he wins a round of a card game that you introduced to him from your original world. You were upset, offended even that he would giggle at your proud proclamation to care for Yung. But wow, he was really attractive doing so.

Not noticing your conflicted expression (or choosing to ignore it), Lilia placed a hand on your head, closer to your forehead, then moved slowly to caress your head. His touch was so gentle, careful not to scratch you or add unnecessary pressure. 

“He’s good at holding back his strength” you thought, only having heard the stories of the unbeatable general. Lilia is a playful man but his power is impressive even among other fae so this gentle side of him was a pleasant surprise to you.

“Goodness gracious, I wonder if this is where Yung gets his audaciousness from?” Lilia had a shine in his eyes as he kept his gaze on you, almost as though he was captivated by what he saw. “I look forward to your cooperation then, teammate”

[manicpixiefelix]

head, heart, hand. {Felix Catton/Reader/Oliver Quick}

Part 23.

Summary: A conversation between you and Oliver as you both try to distract yourselves from thinking about the day behind, and the night ahead.

{ masterpost }

Need to Know: They/Them. Explicitly NB Reader. FWB!Reader/Felix. Reader is from a well off family but has pretty much been adopted by the Cattons.

A/N: 2957 words. i split the henrys dinner into two parts because the dinner itself was very different tonally to the conversation with oliver that needed to be had i think. this part is sfw but the next part Will Definitely Not Be :) also im putting more gratuitous shakespeare mentions because i love characters pointing out their own narrative parallels. i feed off of the lovely comments y'all leave, so if you have any thoughts you'd like to share, i always love to hear them!

TAGLIST IN COMMENTS!! // TAGLIST ALWAYS OPEN ! (just message or comment to be added)

----

No matter what you wore, these formal events made you feel like you were choking.

Oliver finds you in the shared bathroom a few hours before dinner began, already dressed and agitatedly fussing with your collar in the mirror. Spotting him in the reflection, your scowl doesn't clear, but you do start vocalising the thoughts that had been running through your head.

"Lady Daphne has three children, all under fifteen."

"What?" Oliver, still looking entirely casual in sharp contrast to you, leans against the sink, watching you with interest.

"Tonight; the woman next to you who isn't Ven, she has three children under fifteen, their names are -" squeezing your eyes closed tightly, willing yourself to remember, you swear with frustration as the children's names elude you. You'd managed to find and memorise Henry of Suffolk's children's names - Henry Jr and Charlotte - but you're again feeling like it's not enough. Your collar feels too tight.

Unbuttoning your top button for what must be the fifth time in the past half hour of your indecision, you groan with frustration.

"Are you okay?" Oliver asks carefully, to which you try and waive off his concern. Clearly, it doesn't work, considering he's making his way over to you to rest a gentle hand on your shoulder.

"I'm fine, it's fine," you tried again, though it still comes out with clear irritation. Closing your eyes again you try and calm yourself enough to focus, "I saw their names the other night in my notes, I know this," you hissed under your breath, "Lady Daphne and Lord Henry; he's Sir James' godson and his own sons are named..." you wrinkled your nose, braced against the counter, "they're fucking French names, I know this!"

"Are Lady Daphne and Lord Henry French?" Oliver asks.

"No, they're just pretentious," you bit out, though suddenly it came to you, "Regis, Gabriel, and Louis." A grin lights up your face at that; the tension leaves you for the moment in the wake of your small victory. You feel like you can breathe again. Oliver gives you a hesitant smile, at least glad to see you're feeling better for having finally remembered. Breathing a relief sigh, you turn to him properly, "how are you, Ollie?"

"Should I remember Regis, Gabriel, and Louis at dinner?" He asks with faint hesitancy. You shrugged.

"I'm sure it couldn't hurt," logically you knew your own anxious preparations were often too detailed for what the night would actually require, but if you had information that could help ease Oliver into this world to which he was unaccustomed, you'd offer whatever you could to make him feel prepared.

But when he asks if you want to stay with him while he gets himself ready for the evening, you still find yourself hesitating.

Farleigh had found you that afternoon as you'd been coming back in from your gardening; he looked more than a little irritated, but refused to explain his mood. There was something unusually guarded about him at the time, something almost bordering on reproachful in the way he looked at you.

As your heart sank with realisation, you tried to find a way to explain to him everything that had happened between you, Felix, and Oliver. The tricky part of it all would most certainly be reassuring him that you believed him entirely, while also figuring out a way to explain why you'd given Oliver another chance despite knowing he was lying to you and Felix. There was no way you'd be able to explain yourself in this moment, and Farleigh seemed to realise this too.

"If you have something to say to me," Farleigh told you tersely, glancing over his shoulder where you could both hear Felix chattering loudly to Oliver down another corridor, "if you can bare to tear yourself away from your darling, little Iago," he spits, and you sighed deeply, expression clearly showing your disappointment, which Farleigh paid no mind to, standing to his full height and fixing his cool gaze upon you, "you know where I'll be."

So now, here you were, after almost an hour trying and failing to distract yourself by skimming through Shakespeare's Othello since Farleigh's latest cruel nickname for Oliver had reminded you of it, you'd decided to bite the bullet and get yourself ready. Really you should head over to Farleigh's room and sort things out with him, talk everything through and smooth it all over, but Oliver looks so helpless at the mere thought of what tonight would require. You tell yourself you can always talk to Farleigh later.

The afternoon eases itself into early evening with far less tension than the middle of the day had brought with it. Simply being in Oliver's company does wonders for your nerves. Even if talk between you is limited, the silence is not uncomfortable; Oliver gets himself ready, and you continue to skim the play while splayed out on Oliver's bed, and the duvet that used to be yours, easing each other's anxieties in quiet parallel.

You're looking for a quote you half remember from when you'd studied the play back in high school, a line that would be all too fitting of an offer to Farleigh when you saw him next, picking up on his allusion while trying to assure him you weren't just blindly believing Oliver over him - there.

I am not merry; but I do beguile The thing I am, by seeming otherwise.

You keep the text open on the bedspread before you as Oliver asks you questions about the unspoken scripts that you all must follow throughout the night. There's something like vindication that wells up within you when you realise how easy you find it to talk him through them.

"Do you always wear suits to these things?" Oliver asks carefully in the intimate moment in which you stand before him, doing up the cuffs of his dress shirt.

"The Henrys dinners? Yes," you nod, nimble fingers dancing against the fabric by his wrist. An amused smile makes it's way across your lips as you explain without even really thinking, "the first and last time I wore a cocktail dress to a Henrys dinner I made one of them, Henry Rochester I think, very uncomfortable," you smirked at the memory, and though Oliver's glad to see you're more smug rather than uncomfortable about the memory, he still doesn't quite seem to understand why.

"Because you're...?"

"Technically yes," you huffed a laugh, letting go of the first cuff to do the second, "because he now gets hard thinking about me in a dress and he doesn't know how to feel about it, and I don't want to deal with that." For a moment, the words simmer in the air between you both, and you finish up with the second cuff, stepping back with a pleased little smile. Oliver, however, still seems to be confused, and finally you acquiesce, giving him the final piece of the story;

"It was a very nice dress, Henry was just so bloody wasted he forgot I was the one wearing it when he couldn't see my face when he walked in on Fi and I in the wine cellar decided to stick around and watch with his dick in his hand," you shook your head dismissively at the memory, rolling your eyes but still grinning, "which isn't our fault, it's our wine cellar, he's the one getting drunk and going for a roam on someone else's estate."

It startles a laugh out of Oliver, the sound bright and sharp as his hand comes up reflexively to cover his mouth. Your expression scrunches up, pleased at the sound. In the few moments that follow, you straighten out Oliver's collar as he's giggling to himself, watching you from behind his hand with warmth and something almost adoring.

"I should show you some time," you wet your lips, crossing your arms as you gave him a leering look over, your intentions obvious. Oliver flushes a little, smiling under your gaze.

"The dress?"

"The wine cellar," you corrected, making Oliver laugh once more.

"You sure you're not going to get me drunk and brick me in down there?" He asked, and your eyebrows rose at the unexpected reference to Poe's Cask of Amontillado. At your obvious surprise, Oliver gives a half smile, reminding you that you'd left a book of Poe's work in the drawer by his bed. He'd read it? You're not sure why you're so touched by that, but you are.

"If we end up drunk in the wine cellar, I promise I won't be leaving you alone down there," there's a surprising amount of affection in your voice for what is ultimately some pretty on the nose flirting, but Oliver seems to appreciate it nonetheless.

When you return from your own room with a pair of cufflinks for him, however, his expression is pensive as he's sitting on the edge of the bed, flicking through the copy of Othello you'd left there.

"Thought my party had something to do with the Midsummer Night's Dream one," he says with faint confusion. You've already got the line you'd found earlier memorised, so you're not concerned that he's flicking through, losing your page in the process.

"No, it is, it's just Farleigh -" except you really don't want to tell Oliver exactly what Farleigh had called him, had implied about him with a single, derisive nickname alone. Iago. You shrugged, "he just said something earlier that reminded me of it is all." Then, sitting down beside him, you shoot for a smile, "what are you up to now; tie?"

For a long few moments, Oliver gives you this utterly unreadable expression. You wonder if he knows the play; if he did, he could almost definitely make an educated guess about what Farleigh's comment may have been, especially given the very recent circumstances. Even if you don't know exactly how Oliver would react to something like that, you're not exactly eager to find out.

The moment thankfully does pass without further comment on the play, with Oliver instead standing and heading to the full length mirror by the wardrobe.

"Is your family helping Felix's with paying for Farleigh's uni and stuff?" Oliver asks with genuine curiosity in his voice as he glances at you in the mirror's reflection.

"What?" The question seems to come out of nowhere, and your reaction is entirely genuine.

"I just wondered if that was, you know, part of the reason he was so loyal to you," Oliver shrugged, though there's something almost apologetic in his eyes, "and, I guess, why you knew you could trust him to be so loyal?"

How did he even know the Cattons were helping with Farleigh's education? Your suspicions were with Elspeth, whom you loved despite how much of a gossip she always was, but Oliver admits that Felix had told him about how he and Farleigh were cousins, and Sir James' guilt over his semi-estranged sister, all the way back at Oxford. Ah, makes sense. Part of it was probably to explain why Farleigh was always hanging around them despite his obvious distaste for Oliver. It takes you a beat to compose your thoughts; knowing both Oliver, and Farleigh, you had to be deliberately sure of whatever information you shared in this moment.

"I'd give Farleigh anything if he asked," you admitted, wearing a faint, sad little smile as you recall how coldly he'd looked at you earlier that day, "but he never has," you shook your head, "not about something like that at least. Why?"

Looking over at the mirror, you see Oliver with his tie done up, looking at you in the reflection as though you're a puzzle he's desperately attempting to solve. But, when you smile, he returns the look in kind.

"I think this might just be one of those times where I have to remember you telling me there's more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in my philosophy," Oliver says with a wry smile, and you can't help but laugh at the memory of your first proper conversation with him about your friendship with Farleigh on one of Oxford's many rooves.

"Farleigh is simply one of my best friends; I don't begrudge him his pride, it's part of who he is, and I love who he is," with your warm laughter, the mood in the room has lightened considerably, and you finally stand. Wrapping your arms around Oliver from behind, perching your chin on his shoulder, you take in the sight of you both in the mirror.

"You know, I think you'd look so beautiful in a dress if you ever wanted to wear one," you tell Oliver idly, handing over the box with the little, golden cufflinks that you'd been fidgeting with on the bed.

"Beautiful enough to give an old man a sexuality crisis?" He asked with a blithe grin, pulling out of your grip if only to make his way to the cupboard where his jacket had been hung.

"Oh, undoubtably," you don't even hesitate, sitting yourself in the arm chair by the window, watching him once more.

"Don't know if I could start with a cocktail dress," he says, gazing at himself in the mirror with a pleasantly thoughtful look in his eyes as he genuinely considers the idea. Then, "I think I trust you with this more than I trust me," he gives a suddenly self conscious chuckle, ducking his gaze, fidgeting with the collar of the jacket he was still holding.

"You don't have to start anywhere if you don't want," you assured him faintly, but Oliver's smile is so damn affectionate.

"It's fuckin' impossible to describe the kind of effect you have," he tells you, shaking his head, "if you say I'd look beautiful, all I know is that I think I want to look beautiful, just so long as it's you who's looking at me."

"I feel very lucky sometimes," you give an endeared hum at his words, grinning to yourself, "my beautiful boys." Oliver, jacket now on, freezes. He's turning a delightful shade of red at that, looking like he was trying and failing to fight off a pleased grin. Finally, he meets your gaze in the mirror, "would you let me put together a costume for you, for your birthday?"

"What?"

"It's a costume party after all, could I put together a costume for you? Not a cocktail dress, I promise," you teased, and Oliver finally turned back to you, regarding you with nothing but love and affection.

"You know, sometimes I still can't believe you give me the time of day," the words almost seem to surprise him as they leave his lips. Something in your chest tightens, and you pause, once again caught off guard by Oliver Quick. There's a sweetness to the way he speaks that has butterflies fluttering so strangely in your stomach, "you're so..." he turns the words over in his mind, looking for the correct one, before he finally settles, "you're a dream," he says simply, "I don't think you don't get enough credit."

His words fill the sudden silence of the early evening as he steps towards you, cufflinks in hand, offering them as a silent request for assistance. You agree without even thinking.

In the back of your mind, you hear Farleigh calling Oliver Iago, but you can't bring yourself to care. Yes, Oliver spent enough time around you, observing you, talking to you, being in your space, that he knows exactly what to say and how to say it to endear himself to you. Clearly he's genuinely fond of you, but it's not often he gives you a compliment like this. Everything always so deliberate.

But it feels so fucking good to have someone put in the effort for you, someone other than Felix. Felix had always known how you worked, what songs to sing to make you dance if the whim ever struck him. It almost overwhelms you to realise that Oliver had learned how to hum along to the quiet song your heart sings too.

You wonder if you should tell Oliver that he doesn't need to try and manipulate his way into your life, that you'd already made a place for him here, all he had to do was ask to stay.

"I keep giving you the time of day because I'm very, very vain," you can't bring yourself to face his sincerity with any of your own, or you think you may either start crying, or possibly jump his bones, and it's too close to dinner for either. Instead, you grin from ear to ear, teasing tone letting him know how clearly you were joking, as you fixed the first cufflink to his jacket's sleeve, "and you keep saying lovely things about me."

"Lucky for me then that I don't think I'll ever run out of lovely things to say about you," you'd forgotten just how well Oliver could flirt when he really wanted to. Eyes bright and smile brighter, you can see mischief sparkling in his eyes when you look up, meeting his gaze. You love this boy so much it feels like it hurts at times like this.

"Think that means I should keep you very close by, at all times."

"Very few places I'd rather be, sweetheart."

That beautiful bastard knew exactly what he was doing to you.

Later, out of this space, out of this moment, out of Oliver's arms, you could go back to worrying about the night, about all the lies oscillating around your whole situation, about Felix and Farleigh and Venetia. Later, you'll find yourself thinking that Farleigh may have had far more of a point with Othello than you'd first realised when you read 'one that loved not too wisely, but too well' before you put the text back on the shelf.

Later.

Right now, you let Oliver pull you in for a kiss.

[tinydefector]

Till all are one

The fic I did for the poll I did a few days ago because I wanted to make some angst for optimus.

I will do another poll in the future, and my poll fics are mainly going to be my own ideas for characters outside of the request.

Word count: 3k

Warning: fluffy, angst, death of reader

Optimus Prime x Human

Optimus prime Masterlist

____________

Soft eyes watch Optimus from a distance as he sits outside helm tilted towards the stars, blue optics glowing in the darkness of night, the deep whirl and clicking of his mechanic can be heard.

Optimus' optical sensors slowly dimmed offline as weighted thoughts drifted through his mind. The stars above shone as they had on that distant world so long ago, yet their familiar patterns could not dull the ache in his spark. 

Their steps crunch the dirt and grass as they walk to join him, not wanting to alarm him they call out. "Can't sleep?" His audials detected soft footfalls nearby, Turning. He was unsurprised to find his small human friend joined him under the night sky. The human ask while moving to sit on the bolder beside Optimus, and they shoot him a soft smile. "What's on your mind, Optimus?" The familiar face drew the faintest smile across his own face as he rumbled softly, "Rest eludes me, it seems."

Gazing once more to the glittering heavens, he vented slowly. "Cybertron. My home. So much has changed since last I walked her metallic plains and gazed upon the gleaming Towers of Iacon. I never thought such little time on earth would make me miss home so much. I miss my mentor. " Memories flickered of mentors, friends, comrades, all lost to vorns of conflict. 

"Codexa," he said quietly, almost to himself. "My teacher, my guide. I find myself wondering if I honour her teachings as I should or have strayed too far down my own path." His optics glowed faintly as ages-old lessons warred with the grim demands of war. Some burdens, it seemed, even starlight could not lift, nor ease his aching spark.

Their eyes linger on him for a moment. "Your mentor? I don't think I've ever heard you talk about a mentor, I thought you bots were just kinda built ready to fight, " they state while watching him. They watch the way his optics flicker to different stars. He looks tired, almost sad.

Optimus glanced down at his companion, realizing he'd never spoken to them of his earlier life. "It is true most Cybertronians are functionally programmed from the moment of sparking," he rumbled quietly. "But for those who aspired to roles beyond the norm, mentorship was invaluable." 

Memories of those long-ago days surfaced once more as he spoke. "Codexa was an archivist, one who chronicled our world's history and shared knowledge with all who sought it. When I expressed interest in governance and diplomacy, she took me as her protégé and taught me much of what it means to lead. She taught me so much"

A smile ghosted his faceplates as small details came back to him. "She had a way with words. She believed the surest path to peace was understanding other perspectives. Some days, i wonder if that's the reason she became one with Cybertron. " His tone grew distant. 

"Without her guidance, i wouldn't be who I am today, I fear many mistakes were made during the war, made by my own hands . All I can do now is try to follow the wisdom she instilled." His optics rose once more to the stars, as if searching for answers among their eternal patterns.

"What was she like?, she sounds rather sweet if your her protege."

Optimus vented softly at the memory of her. "Codexa possessed a kind and patient spark. Nothing gave her greater joy than helping others, whether through sharing knowledge or lending an audio in times of need."

A faint smile warmed his stoic features. "She was taller than most Archivists, with plating the shining silver-blue of circuitry filaments. And her optics... like pools of molten mercury, taking in all yet revealing little of her own depths. She had a way of listening with her entire being."

"She was taller than you?" They ask with a tilted head.

"She was much taller than me. I only reached the top of her chassis." he chuckles softly. His gaze grew distant as scenes from long ago played across his memory files. "Codexa saw value in all. It grieved her to see our world so divide." 

Slowly, Optimus turned to them. Venting softly, "I miss her a lot. But taking her teachings to spark helps, but i miss her voice. However dark it may sometimes seem, she always knew how to solve things."

They move slowly, hoping from the rock to his knee plating, pulling themself up as they stand there, hands moving to press softly against his faceplate. "You can't change the past Optimus, learn from it, don't repeat it. Humans sadly haven't learnt that, we are on the verge of another war between ourselves too. So all I can say is, once the war for your planet is over, help others learn from the mistakes you made. You can't grow without mistakes" they state while smiling at him softly. It makes Optimus spark clench, they reminded him to much of so many their wisdom of Codexa, love for what they did reminded him of senator Shockwave and their spirit and drive reminded him of Megatron from before the war.

Optimus' optics glowed warmly as small hands offered what comfort they could against the ache of loss and regret. He lifted a great servo, cradling their slight form with utmost care.

"You speak wisdom far beyond your years, little one. My kind would do well to heed such counsel one day." His rumbling voice held an edge of solemn promise. "When at last this long war ends, i would be honoured to show you Cybertron as you have earth." He states softly, Gazing down at their upturned face, Optimus saw reflections of dear ones lost but never forgotten Codexa's compassion, Shockwave's vision of unity, Megatron's original desire to lift all from oppression. And he took comfort, knowing such virtues lived on through those who carried them in spark, no matter the shell. 

"Thank you," he said softly. The two lay together on the dry grass as they looked up at the stars together. "You see that cluster of stars, that's the southern Cross, and that one there is Leo major, and Leo minor," they state while slowly pointing out different consolations. Optimus listened intently as small fingers traced constellations across the sweeping tapestry above. Though his database contained information on Earth's night skies, somehow, the guided tour felt different, more intimate.

"Fascinating," he rumbled softly. "The patterns you organics can discern amongst them is similar to our own." Slowly, his arm rose, a single digit extended to gently point. "And that collection there - if I am not mistaken, you call it Orion. Its placement near your winter skies is fitting."  His voice, though deep, held a gentle warmth matched in the faint bluish glow emanating from his massive frame. Looking down at his small companion, he vented softly.

"Yea, that Orion belt didn't think you would know that one," they giggle as they lay their head against his chassis. Listening to the soft lure of his spark, a soft rumble of laughter emanated from Optimus' chest as he looked down at their silly delight. "Indeed, that particular constellation carries significance beyond mere astronomical fact," he said, tone warming with fond memory.

"When first I underwent the Ceremony of Namegiving as an initiate in the Halls of Iacon, Codexa guided my attention there, to the mighty hunter eternally aiming bow across the galaxy." One massive finger drew graceful lines to connect the three bright stars. 

His optics dimmed briefly in solemn remembrance of his dear mentor and the young innocence of those long-ago days. But gazing once more to the stars, he continued gently, "So in a sense I know the great hunter well, Orion was my namesake and guide, my first gift from Codexa.” Their eyes widen, and their mouth opens slightly in shock before they utter lightly. "She named you, Orion?" They ask ever so softly while looking up into his optics.

Optimus gazed down at the small form nestled against his chestplates, surprise and gentle understanding in his optics. "Indeed, Orion Pax was the name given me by Codexa on the orn of my emergence, as is Cybertronian tradition," he replied in a quiet rumble. 

His massive digits moved to tenderly cradle their slighter form, radiating comfort. "It has been many stellar cycles since I walked under that designation. But some part of that young archivist's spark remains within this frame, however changed by war and duty."

"Hunter of peace, how fitting," they hum softly, listening to the gentle pulse of his spark.

"Indeed," he rumbled softly. "Codexa saw potential where others did not." Optics gazing skyward once more, he traced with one finger the outline of that eternal hunter taking aim. "Perhaps in naming me Orion, she sensed her teachings would carry through the stellar cycles - that I would become not only a warrior, but a guardian of peace, a seeker of understanding among all peoples."  

Venting softly, his field radiated quietly. "It is a legacy I strive to honour through each choice and action. However, the tides of war may seem to turn."

"Orion, I believe in you, I know its not much from a human, but I know some day you'll get to see Cybertron in her glory once again, maybe not the same but you'll get to go home one day I can feel it in my bones" they hum softly.

Optimus' optics glowed with gratitude at the simple yet earnest words of support from his dear friend. "Your faith means more to this old warrior than you can know," he rumbled softly. 

Massive fingers traced gentle patterns against their back as his field radiated warmth. "Through vorns of conflict, it has often been the courage and compassion of smaller souls." he leans down and presses a soft kiss to their forehead. Gazing once more to the starry sky stretching peacefully and eternal above, he vented quietly. "Some stellar cycles, the dream of Cybertron healed, seem remote as those distant lights. But you give me hope."

Slowly, a hint of smile tipped his stoic faceplates. "And perhaps, when that orn comes to pass swiftly, you and yours shall witness its splendour of my own planet”

their prediction was true. He had made it back to Cybertron. New Cybertron. Yet it left him feeling hollow. That memory plays over in his mind often. Their smile, eyes filled with so much hope, hope for a world they never got to see. So close yet so far away. He holds their cold body as he walks the long trails to the heart of Cybertron. To where Codexa and the shines of others he had lost.

Each silent footfall fell heavy as the aged mechanism whined as they carried Optimus through the gleaming, unfamiliar canyons of New Cybertron. Though his optics beheld grandeur rebuilt from eons of ruin, within only emptiness echoed. 

He reached the sanctuary composed of monument and memorial. Gently, with infinite care and sorrow, Optimus laid his precious burden at the base beside so many others given in sacrifice. Small fingers, long since stilled.

He knelt beside the slight form, optics dimming as memory files surged forth - of shared worlds beneath starlight, and dreams of a peace finally wrested from madness and conflict. His digits gently trace their face.

"Orion, you have come to visit me"

Codexa's voice echoes glitchy but her form doesn't move from its spot.

Orion started gently at the familiar voice resonating through the crystalline sanctuary. Turning, he beheld Codexa's shimmering form slowly coalescing from the connecting filaments, her energy signature merging into a luminous projection.

"Codexa," he replied softly, optics glowing with warmth and ache of remembered joys mingled with the vorns past. Slowly, he knelt before her luminous presence, great head bowed in respect and sorrowful remembrance.

"It has been long indeed since last we spoke," he continued gently. Lifting his gaze once more, hints of bittersweet smile ghosted his stoic faceplates. "I come only to pay respects to you and those whose lights have rejoined the Allspark, leaving this someone dear to me."

"Who do you lay with me?"

She asked softly over the figure being laid before her, the human who had passed before getting to see Cybertron in her glory.

"A dear friend who saw me through darkness you could not imagine, they mean more to me than i can put into words," rumbled Optimus gently. "One whose brief spark brought light to this weary warrior when all seemed lost, i wish they got to see Cybertron, but now this is the best i can offer them."

With infinite care and sorrow, he reached to cradle the small still form in massive servos, gazing upon stilled features. Turning optics of fading glow upward once more, he continued softly, "This one gave hope in hours where none seemed possible, helped this old soldier recall why your lessons must never fade, you would have enjoyed talking with them."

Venting softly, memory files surged of innocence resting secure in his palm so long ago. " their heart was young, within a beat of courage to out shine stars. Now decay has claimed what war and time could not. But their light, as yours, have been a gift to me"

Optimus bowed his head. His mentor's tall frame was barely more than flickering lines of code now, held intact solely by the crystal lattice connecting aged components. But through the still-functioning optics' dim glow, he sensed her familiar soothing energy fields reach out to envelop his own in quiet solace. 

"I will guard them as I have many before"

Beside Codexa's resting place, the severed halves of Senator Shockwave plating also lay shrouded by millennia, their vibrancy lost to the eons but memory intact within Optimus' archives.

Reaching out briefly to caress a crumbling digit in farewell, Optimus turned last to the slight form now cradled into eternal recharge among these guardians of his spark. Small and fragile in death as in life. Venting softly, he spoke words meant for audials long since fallen silent. "Until all are one. Rest now, beloved friends" 

His optics glowed with promise as he finished his solemn duty, then rose and turned to walk on, as always, beneath the stars shining endlessly on.

"Thank you, Carrier," he calls softly.

_________

Taglist: @angelxcvxc

[defectivevillain]

this broken design, ch16

pairing: Hannibal Lecter/Reader

summary: That familiar analytical gleam in your eyes lives in Hannibal’s mind as he sinks his teeth into his prey. Despite your departure hours ago, Hannibal sees you sitting across from him at the table. Dining alone has never bothered him; yet, right now, he can’t help but desire your company—your scintillating conversation, your sharp wit, your clever smirk. Indeed, his table feels uncharacteristically empty. Hannibal stares at the chair across from him—the same chair he’s grown accustomed to seeing you sit at—and takes another bite. Flavor explodes on his tongue, yet you are what dominates his thoughts.

Your experience in criminal profiling means that you've met a wide variety of people from all different walks of life. You've stared down hardened criminals and fought for your life against people hellbent on killing you. Even so, something about the FBI's new target, the Chesapeake Ripper, seems to elude you.

Then you meet Hannibal Lecter: an enigmatic jigsaw of a man with jagged corners and misshapen pieces.

Fortunately, you've always been rather good at puzzles.

read from the beginning here.

ao3 version | Spotify playlist

some of this chapter is born out of me realizing, as i read The Red Dragon, that i essentially limited Alana’s presence in this fic to that one rather tumultuous interaction, instead of expanding on her potential as both a strong, intelligent side character and a friend to the reader. Hopefully this makes up for that a little bit. Alana’s pretty cool. I sort of lost sight of that.

warnings: negative self talk, suicidal ideation/thoughts, panic attack, hyperventilation, derealization, canon-typical blood, violence, & gore

The darkness swirling around you is relentless in its writhing, distorting and jerking you around in its shadowed grasp. For a while, you’re content to let the shadows take control. You float in an endless abyss. Memories flit before your eyes, just long enough for you to reach out to try to grab them. They never stay long enough, flickering and disintegrating before you get the chance to grasp them and dissect every miniscule detail. 

Stay awake, says a whisper itching at your skin. 

You take a deep breath. The next time you blink, you find yourself standing in a far too familiar place. Hannibal’s kitchen is quiet—eerily so, you think as your footsteps echo against the floors. There is hardly a sign of life on these countertops, hardly a stain or sprinkling of powder to assure you this place has ever been used. There is a single light boring down on the back of your head: a spotlight. You swallow hard and step to the side in an attempt to escape the light, only to find Hannibal’s rolodex sitting in the middle of the brightness. Your business card sits on top, displaying your name, phone number, email address, office location at headquarters, birthplace, height, weight, eye color, age, and any other demographic information you could possibly imagine. The font is tiny, yet you can read it with ease. Feeling a sudden urge to touch, you grab the business card and let it lie flat in your palm. There’s a tear in the corner, you realize. Frowning, you move to touch it, only for the tear to extend further down the flimsy material. Crimson dots appear on the white background, swirling and twisting until there’s blood collecting on your fingertips. You look down, only to realize that the dark red stains have permeated the fabric of your shirt. Puddles are gathering at your feet, marking your footsteps with every movement you make. The card melts into the blood gathered in your hands, and you’re left holding the tattered remains of your identity. 

Stay awake.  

You blink again. Abel Gideon is peering at you from behind the bars of his interrogation cell. “You have Lecter on a leash, don’t you?” Gideon remarks with a laugh. You huff a laugh under your breath. The thought amuses you, for reasons you cannot quite discern at the moment. “A very long leash, but a leash nonetheless.”  Your hands tremble at your sides and you restlessly shift your balance from one foot to the other. Gideon’s gaze is knowing and it pins you to the ground. 

Stay alive.  

A blink. You’re standing in the doorway of your office at headquarters. Everything is as you left it, save for your chair, which has an inhabitant. Franklyn Froideveaux stares at you with empty eye sockets and a gaping maw.  Blood slips down his gaunt frame, leaving murky red-brown streaks down his cheeks and around the cavity of his chest. You blink and his skin turns a murky yellowish green from decay. 

“See?” Garret Jacob Hobbs croons from over your shoulder. You can feel the smile on his face, feel his breath hitting your neck and provoking a deep nausea in your gut. 

Another blink. Blood slips hotly down your fingers as you stand in a dimly lit hallway. Your skin feels lit with flames and the knife in your hand gleams a sickening crimson. You want to release the weapon from your grip, but your fingers are locked around the blade with unshakeable force. The smell of death and decay wafting through the enclosed space makes your stomach turn. None of these sensations are powerful enough to rip your attention away from the corpse at your feet. 

“Killing must feel good to God, too,” Hannibal remarks with a hum, hands behind his back as he regards Abel Gideon’s form. There is a mildly intrigued expression on his face as he studies the body, before looking back to you with eerily crimson eyes. As he pivots, bloodstained antlers stretch from his perfectly coiffed hair. They disappear in a moment—a trick of the light. His voice is dark and airy all at once. “And are we not created in his image?” You swallow past the nausea building in your chest. Time stretches on with terrible slowness. His gaze is flaying you apart. “Don’t you want God To want you?” He asks softly.1 

“See?” Stay awake. Stay alive.  

Darkness, then light. “To the Ripper, understanding is love,” Hannibal says, a flicker of a smile settling on his lips. His hands are folded and he leans forward. Your chairs are close enough to force you to knock knees with him, but Hannibal doesn’t seem bothered by the prospect. “You are the first person to see through his façade, through the layers of his mask.” His skin looks strangely patterned, as if it's made of ceramic. You reach out to grasp his face, to yank off his mask, only for Hannibal to catch your wrist and hold it in a tight grip. Suddenly, your chair is tipping backwards precariously, lurching further into the abyss. You try to reach out and grab onto something, but Hannibal’s hold is the only thing that keeps you tethered. The void crawls up your skin mockingly, waiting to drag you into its umbra. Your momentum is slipping backwards and you’re filled with an unsettling anticipation. Contrary to your expectations, Hannibal’s grip remains strong. You look at him. The Ripper looks back, a bloodstained smile on his lips. You feel his fingers trace the edges of your skin with a mocking gentleness, before you’re falling backward into the darkness again.

You slip out of the darkness and bolt up, only to find yourself in a painfully bright room. You can’t quite stop the gasp that comes from your lips, nor can you suppress the urge to look around frantically, searching for the signs that this is a dream. The incessant pain in your abdomen is a harsh reality check. You look down at the area, only to find meticulously wrapped bandages covering your lower torso. Your upper forearm stings from the IV burrowing under your skin. 

“Hey,” a voice says. You squint in the bright light, waiting for the blurred figure in front of you to sharpen. It’s a nurse—the same one who helped you the last time you were wounded. She holds her hands out in a placating gesture. “It’s okay. You’re okay. You were just dreaming.” Her eyebrows are furrowed in concern, a sentiment you feel you don’t deserve. 

You bite back your questions—knowing the answers are clinging to the blinding white walls around you. The nurse asks you several questions about your symptoms and your pain level, before departing with the promise that she will return soon. 

The events that transpired in Hannibal’s office cling to your skin with fervency. Your abdomen burns, especially when you remember that Hannibal inflicted the wound. You shouldn’t feel betrayed. You shouldn’t be afforded the privilege of being betrayed, not when you knew Hannibal Lecter’s nature since that night you sleepwalked out into the middle of the street. 

Even so… you enjoyed being in Hannibal’s presence. You enjoyed the song and dance you had gotten so accustomed to playing. You spent so long spectating the game that you forgot your role in it. You were a pawn, and nothing more. The thought displeases you. With each passing second, the ugly feeling in your chest grows and swells within the confines of your rib cage. It’s getting to be too much. 

There is no one to sit at your bedside this time. When she returns, the nurse pointedly does not mention your husband. You don’t have the heart to tell her that your “husband” was the same person who stabbed you, or that your husband was never really your husband in the first place. She seems to understand anyway. Pity is hidden beneath the kind smile on her face. You stop making eye contact with her. 

Lying in this hospital bed is a lonely existence, dominated by a constant state of pain (at worst) or mild discomfort (at best). The only interaction you get is from the nurse herself. You get the feeling she’d be a good listener, but your tongue feels ironed to the roof of mouth and your conversations quickly morph into anecdotes about her life. You’re grateful for the small kindness—for the prospect of being treated like a human being, despite it all.  These small moments of humanity push you to keep going, even amidst the several voices crooning in your ears about your cruelty.

You don’t expect any visitors. Indeed, your first visitor is entirely unexpected. When you’re first told that someone wishes to speak to you, you think of Beverly, Jack Crawford… hell, even Freddie Lounds. You certainly don’t foresee Alana Bloom walking through the door, a gentle, reserved expression on her face. Seeing her brightens your day, and her presence reminds you that you’re not entirely alone. You welcome the thought. 

“Alana,” you greet her, your voice rather raspy. You cough to clear your throat. “How are you?” You ask. 

“I should be asking you that,” she responds with a wry smile. She stands at the end of your bed, before walking to the side. Alana regards the lonely chair at your bedside, before placing her hands on the back. She looks well—albeit a little tired. “I’m good. And you?”

“I’ve been better,” you decide to respond honestly. There’s no point in lying to Alana—she used to be your psychiatrist, your girlfriend. She would be able to see through your dishonesty anyway. Sure enough, Alana seems to appreciate your honesty, because her eyes momentarily widen before she moves to sit down. Seeing her sit in that chair makes your stomach turn. When you blink, you see Hannibal sitting there—lithe frame effortlessly arranged, tupperware in hand. You rub your eyes roughly, dispelling the image to the recesses of your memory. Alana was courteous enough to visit you—the least you can do is acknowledge her presence, instead of imagining her as someone else. 

For a moment, you stare at Alana. A mundane sense of envy strikes you, but it’s fleeting. You don’t deserve to be envious of her good health and safe wellbeing. Your own hubris is the reason why you’re currently confined to this cot. You look at her for a moment longer, before letting your eyes rest on the plain walls around you. You can feel Alana staring at you with concern. Instead of acknowledging that sentiment, you let the first question on your mind pass through your lips. “Where’s Jack?”

Alana is silent for a few seconds. Is it a difficult question? You don’t think so, yet Alana almost seems to falter. Eventually, she must manage to find the words. “Busy, as I’m sure you can imagine,” she evidently settles for saying. Upon closer examination, her hands are clasped in her lap—whitened knuckles betraying her otherwise tranquil image. Alana’s next words are quiet yet firm. “He’s tracking Hannibal—the Chesapeake Ripper.”

You inhale slowly. Somehow, hearing her say that cements the reality of it all. Everyone knows Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper. It’s not just you anymore. You bring up an arm slowly, before tilting your head down and pinching the bridge of your nose. Somehow, it is this statement that reminds you of the pounding sensation behind your eyes and the aching clustered around your temple.

“Are you alright?” Alana asks, lips twitching into a slight frown. 

“Yes,” you respond flatly. Your answer sounds devoid of emotion and purpose. 

“Are you sure?” Alana persists. You don’t have the heart to lie to her twice in a row. 

“...No.” You acquiesce. You rub a hand over your face, feeling rather small in this hospital bed. The sheets are slightly scratchy and the weight of them feels constricting, rather than comforting. You’ve never felt so small. 

“I’m sorry,” Alana sighs. She seems entirely sincere and it almost makes you want to scream. You don’t deserve her sympathy. “I know you two were close. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.” That statement is incredibly reassuring, despite the frenzy you had worked yourself into surrounding Alana. When you reflect on the events of the past months, you realize that you have few allies and even fewer true friends. One of those true friends is sitting right next to you. 

“Thank you,” you nod. Guilt stirs in your chest as you stare at your old psychiatrist and ex-girlfriend. Every time you’ve seen her since she kissed you, you’ve purposefully cut conversation short. Somehow, the thought feels silly to you now. Perhaps almost dying a second time does that to a person. You stare at Alana for a moment. She looks well put together, as always. “Alana?”

“Yes?” She questions patiently. That’s another thing you envy about her—her unwavering compassion, her unflinching patience. You could stand to learn a few things from her, you think. 

“I’m sorry,” you remark. The sentiment has been dancing on the tip of your tongue for the past several weeks, yet you never got the chance to verbalize it. Life has been a whirlwind lately. You’ve been so caught up in everything swirling around in your mind that you never paused to think about those around you, or how they were affected by the recent turn of events. “For…” You break off, unable to articulate it. You settle for a vague hand gesture. Alana seems to understand anyways, as her eyes momentarily widen before comprehension passes over her face. 

“Don’t apologize,” Alana is quick to say, nothing but sincerity written in the lines of her shoulders. Her eyes look slightly glassy for the briefest of moments, before she shakes her head and looks at you once more. “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I’m sorry for kissing you without warning.”

You nod in acknowledgement. Silence descends upon the brisk air, leaving the two of you to your thoughts. You’re not content to let this overbearing tension rule over your conversation. You clench your fists slightly, filled with renewed resolve. You stare at Alana for a few seconds, until she notices your gaze and returns it. “Friends?” You ask, extending a hand towards her.

“Friends,” Alana responds with a smile, rising from her chair to meet your outstretched hand. Your handshake is short but reassuring. It’s enough to convince you that there are no hard feelings between the two of you. Alana fills you in on some of what’s happened since your admittance to the hospital; mostly, though, the two of you talk about the small things. You know Alana is trying to give you some semblance of normalcy. You appreciate the effort, you really do… but you’re not sure you’re capable of pretending everything’s okay. Furthermore, the small things seem inconsequential—now that you’re entrenched in the middle of everything. Even so, you make sure to thank her before she leaves. You don’t know how you would have coped without seeing a familiar face. Alana smiles and promises to be back soon. 

As you expect, Alana doesn’t turn up the next day. You certainly don’t expect her to stop by, since you know she’s always rather busy.  Ultimately, you come to the conclusion that you want nothing more than to be out of this hospital. Even worse… apparently, the stunt you pulled with Beverly during your past hospital visit did not go over well. You’re firmly reminded to avoid any attempts at an early release. You’re too tired and embarrassed to argue. You don’t have anything better to do than rot in this hospital room, anyway. Besides, you’re certain you’ll be met with some unpleasant reminders of Hannibal as you get home. You think you have a few cardigans in your closet that you meant to give back to him. The thought sends a bolt of nervous excitement through you, and you have to actively talk yourself down that precarious ledge. 

Alana does visit the day after. Beverly turns up the day after that and gives you several hugs. After that, at least one of your friends—Alana or Beverly— visits every day, which you’re extremely grateful for. You’re certain you’d go absolutely stir crazy in this hospital bed if you didn’t have anyone for company. Your conversations are typically fun and refreshing, like light breezes of summer air. Sometimes, though, you’re bogged down by your memories. Sometimes, you’re forced to remember the corpses you left in your wake. 

Even with Alana and Beverly visiting, you’re given more than enough alone time to contemplate everything. You have ample time to pick apart Hannibal’s actions and discern his true motivations. So, when Jack Crawford finally visits, his shoulders drawn tight with stress, you’re prepared to recount that night to him. Jack is insistent on the fact that you don’t have to speak about anything you don’t want to, but you know the offer is more for pretense than anything else. He needs this information, needs to understand the Ripper’s past actions and how they govern his future.  With that in mind, you wave off his concern and tell him about your late night meeting with Hannibal.

Jack is silent throughout, never once interrupting you or reacting in a manner other than an affirmative nod. It’s very characteristic of your boss; you think that you would have been unsettled if he responded with heightened or dramatic emotions. Jack’s cool composure is an anchor that you quickly latch on to. 

“He wanted you alive,” Jack states, once you’re finished explaining everything. He says this with frightening assuredness. His utter conviction surprises you, prompting you to ask how he knows that. 

Of course, you certainly considered that same possibility yourself, but it feels more real when you hear it from Jack. “The stab wound wasn’t fatal,” he points out. His gaze falls to the edge of your abdomen. The bandages feel extremely constricting. You wonder if they need to be changed soon. “It easily could’ve been. The Ripper is a skilled killer—he wouldn’t have missed unless he wanted to.” You take a shuddering breath in. 

“He’s toying with us,” you manage to agree. Your hands fidget restlessly along the rough blanket thrown over your form. You feel restless once more. 

“He’s toying with you,” Jack supplies. There is no room for argument in his voice. He doesn’t look restless, afraid, or frustrated. Not for the first time, you wish you had Jack’s control and constitution. However, you know Jack well enough to see the signs of tension in his clenched fist and drawn lips. “Taunting you, and the rest of us, by proxy.” That statement in particular sets everything in stone. Your theories are no longer just theories—they are unobjectionable facts. 

“Jack.” you remark, trying to push the words past the dread settling on your tongue. 

“Yes?” Jack asks, patient and restless all at once. You’re choking on the words. It’s such a simple sentence, yet so dangerous of an admission. If you told the truth—confided in Jack about how you suspected Hannibal the moment you met him, and grew to realize that he is the Ripper—you would certainly lose your job, not to mention all of Jack’s trust. 

Selfish, your victims croon. Your psyche nods in agreement. It’s truly selfish of you not to provide Jack with your utmost honesty. You’re doing a disservice to every person Hannibal has ever killed, every waking moment the team spent hunting for the Chesapeake Ripper. You wasted so much time, so much space. 

“I-” You try to continue. I knew. I knew and I did nothing. I am complicit in his crimes. Tears are slipping down your cheeks. You’re a rotten excuse for a human being. You don’t deserve to be alive. Why hadn’t Hannibal just finished the job? It’s cruel, almost. He allowed his other victims the mercy of death, yet he left you alive. You will forever be scarred—both by Hannibal’s knife and by the bone-deep knowledge that your silence made you an accomplice to his crimes. 

Breathing is suddenly a far more arduous task. Your lungs burn and your throat feels as if it’s closing in on you. Your vision is extremely sharp and your shaking hands are drawn with harsh lines and even harsher edges. The world around you is suddenly rendered immensely inconsequential. The beeping of the machines at your bedside, Jack’s steady breaths, the traces of conversation slipping in from the hallway… It all fails in comparison to the chimes of the grandfather clock in your mind. You dig your fingernails into your skin, desperate for unspoken confirmation that you aren’t dreaming.

At this point, you’re panting. Drool falls from the sides of your mouth and hits the scratchy blanket. Every nerve in your body feels as if it’s on fire. You’re a puppet cut loose from the puppeteer’s careful hand, yet you’re still strung together with wooden bones and durable string. You bring your hand to your chest and try to breathe, but the more you try, the harsher and more rushed your attempts become.  

“Agent.” There’s a hand on your shoulder. It’s enough pressure to make you feel as if you’re melding with the thin mattress below you, sinking into the floor and the shadows. For a moment, you can see Hannibal looking down at you in your mind’s eye, a contentious expression on his face as he lets you fall to the darkness below.  “Breathe.” Jack grabs your hand and brings it to the inside of his wrist. His pulse beats steadily beneath your fingertips and you latch onto the rhythm.  Jack begins counting, prompting you to breathe in time with him. You’re not sure how long it takes you to clear your airways—you just know that, at some point, Jack migrated from where he stood at the end of your bed to the side of the bed. 

“Jack,” you try again. Your lips part but nothing slips out. It’s such a simple confession—a mere few words, yet you can’t utter them. 

“Agent,” Jack interjects, before you can choke on the words you don’t want to say. His expression has returned to a combination of rigidity and anticipation. You know what Jack will say before he says it. “Can I trust you to handle this case? Do I need to remove you from this case? ” He doesn’t say that last part, but you hear it anyway. You take a deep breath and rub a hand over your face. Your eyes burn from all the tears you shed. 

“I can handle it,” you assure him. 

“You’re close to all this,” Jack remarks. He gets up from where he had been sitting and walks back to stand behind the edge of the bed. His gaze meets yours, but you know he isn’t really looking at you. That expression on his face means Jack is looking through his options, puzzling out the future in his head. You wait for him to refocus. “You know I don’t typically assign agents with personal investments in cases… But, you’ve been on this case for a long time. You know the Ripper better than anyone else does, whether you want to admit it or not.”

You stare at Jack silently, daring him to take you off the case. You know that your words will fail you here, so you hope your conviction shows through in your eyes. Jack stares back and, for a long moment, you’re both trapped in silence. Eventually, Jack seems to ascertain that you think yourself capable. He takes a deep breath. 

“In terms of the Ripper, we currently have a unit determining his whereabouts,” Jack begins. “The Ripper—Lecter—covered his tracks very well. The last time he was seen was…”

“When he stabbed me,” you say for him. 

“Yes,” Jack confirms. “As you know, Lecter is proficient at leaving behind very little—if any—evidence.” You nod, thinking back to all the crime scenes he created. There was hardly any evidence left behind. Hannibal was always meticulous and careful in his crimes. 

“He only leaves clues when he wants to,” you continue. “He is not so kind hearted as to leave us clues for the hell of it, or because he slipped up. He doesn’t make mistakes.”

“We found very little in his office,” Jack concedes with a sharp nod. He pinches the bridge of his nose. Stress seems to tighten the line of his shoulders. “We did manage to find several concealed weapons, upon closer examination.”

“He stabbed me with a knife that was disguised as an antler on a deer sculpture,” you recall flatly. The thought makes your side flare up with pain again. “I shouldn’t have gone to his office. I should’ve come to you first. I knew, and yet…”

“Frankly, Agent, that is not my concern,” Jack states matter of factly. “The past is the past. If I were to dissect every minute mistake we’ve made along the course of this investigation, we’d never be able to proceed.”

“True,” you answer. You still don’t think Jack has truly comprehended the implications of what you just said. You knew Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper long before that night. After all, you didn’t explicitly state when you first discovered the identity of the Ripper. Of course, you suppose it is also likely that Jack was able to intuit that from your response. If that were the case, you can’t help but wonder why he hasn’t kicked you off this case or fired you. 

You know it’s best for you to drop this particular line of questioning, so you do. For the duration of Jack’s visit, he debriefs you on what the team has deduced so far—both in terms of his current location and where he’ll go next. After an hour passes, however, your luck runs out. Your nurse enters the room and promptly shoos Jack out, claiming that you need time to rest. She is entirely impervious to his objections, even when he tries to pull rank on her. You’re rather impressed. Jack manages to get a last remark in, before the nurse can guide him out of the room. 

“Lecter will turn up soon enough,” your boss states. With that, Jack departs. His cryptic remark leaves you with a lot to think about. You spend the rest of your hospital stay grappling with the implications of that statement, with the implications of Hannibal deciding not to kill you. You’re released from the hospital a week later with a troubled conscience and another scar to add to your collection. 

Somehow, news of your battle with Hannibal has reached the press, Jack tells you as he drives you home in the dead of night. Ultimately, Jack decided it would be best to get you home during a time when most people are sleeping. You’re grateful for his foresight, because when you return home, there are no flashing cameras or microphones shoved in your face. You thank Jack for the ride and he nods, sending you one final unreadable look before driving away. 

When you unlock your front door and swing the door open, you’re surprised to find that your house appears the same as when you left it. You close the door behind you and take in everything before you. Dust is beginning to collect on the shelves and surfaces—the space desperately needs a dedicated cleaning, but you know you don’t have the energy just yet. Right now, you’re content to cautiously walk to your closet and grab clothes. Despite the fact that Jack brought you a pair of old trainee clothes to change into when he arrived, you know you need a good shower to feel clean. The lukewarm water sliding down your skin is rejuvenating, but it doesn’t wipe away the dirt of your sins. You step out of the shower with clean skin and a muddy conscience. Drying off and putting on your clothes is an annoying affair, but you manage. 

After your shower, it’s safe to say that you’re entirely lost. You don’t know what to do next. You need to eat, you remember. Unfortunately, your fridge is pretty much empty. You sigh and survey the space that you call home. It doesn’t feel familiar, despite the knowledge that it’s been yours for several years. These are all your belongings, yet it feels as if you’re standing in a stranger’s shoes. You look around the room, pausing when your eye catches on a scrap of newspaper. The TattleCrime article from before rests innocuously on the kitchen counter. You walk towards it immediately, as if possessed. 

Criminally Insane. You stare at the photos featured in the article. The second photo—the one of the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane—led you to realize that Frederick Chilton had been kidnapped. The first picture… It unsettles you. There are hints of the dark circles under your eyes that you now possess, but there’s also an unspoken confidence in your posture in the photo. You choke on a laugh, running your fingers along the rough newspaper. 

It’s a miracle you’re still alive. Well, it certainly feels that way… but you know your survival can’t be put down to mere fate. Inexplicably, Hannibal did not aim to kill you. You contemplate what would’ve happened if he had aimed that way. You would have died in that office, certainly. Would you be free of this terrifying helplessness, this aching despair?

You manage to tear your eyes away from the article. After a moment of thought, you stuff it in a drawer—hoping you will never need to look at it again. Unsurprisingly, you still feel incredibly restless. You begin pacing slowly around the room, desperate for something to do. Perhaps this urge to do something is indicative of a deeper sentiment. 

The cicadas buzz from the trees outside. You’re suddenly struck with a perplexing urge to step outside. You follow that urge and walk mechanically to your front door. Maybe someone is on your porch. You peek through the peephole, unsurprised to find no one there. After a second’s contemplation, you step out onto your porch, letting your arms rest against the railing.  

The brisk night air doesn’t help your worsening mental state. You still feel numb, empty. Nothing feels real anymore. As you look out at your driveway, at the other houses lining your street, you’re hit with an immense sonder.2 How did you end up in this situation? How did you end up here, staring out at the suburbia around you and wishing you could take on the life of another person—someone who isn’t desensitized to blood, gore, violence, and murder?

You don’t know where to go from here. Your feelings are a dizzying combination of remorse, regret, and contempt—combined with an unhealthy amount of wishful thinking. You raise your arms and put your head in your hands for a moment. Succumbing to darkness has never felt so comforting and terrifying at the same time.

“Lecter will return soon enough.” Jack had said. There was a certainty in his voice in that moment—a sincerity that was surely unfounded. He was making a prediction and nothing more. Yet… the conviction in his tone made it seem as if he knew the Ripper’s next move. Surely, Hannibal hasn’t grown so predictable. Surely, he will continue to elude capture for as long as he wishes. 

A car’s headlights reach your vision, and you watch as it slowly cruises down your street. There is a certain nonchalance to the way it slowly rises on the horizon. You frown, wondering what this person is doing driving down your street at such a late hour. Perhaps it’s a neighbor. You continue to watch warily. For a moment, you swear it seems as if the car’s slowing as it approaches. Surely that can’t be the case. It’s too dark to make out the details of the car—let alone the driver. You settle for staring in silence as it moves along. Within the blink of an eye, the vehicle moves past your driveway and into the dark expanse enveloping the space past your street. You exhale in relief, just realizing that your breath had hitched during the car’s brief stint in front of your house. 

Why were you nervous? What were you expecting? You don’t want to acknowledge the answers to those questions—those solutions will only bring more problems. You shake your head. Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper, and everyone knows. There should be nothing to be afraid of, except for a single thought that never seems to leave you. He will return for you, a voice whispers against the wind. He wants to finish the job.  

You’ve never gotten so close to a case before. You almost wish you could travel back in time, to the first time you locked eyes with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. In that moment, you hadn’t been able to rationalize the intense foreboding and trepidation that seemed to crawl up your skin as he stared back at you. You had no true grasp of the danger you would soon experience, the lives you would soon take. When did you stop trusting your instincts? Your intuition is part of the reason why you’re such a successful criminal profiler, yet you were more than willing to entirely ignore it. 

A chill hits your skin, but it’s not from the brisk breeze of night air that gently rustles your clothes. The unsettling feeling comes from the car in your driveway, the bright headlights illuminating the woody forest behind your house. Were you so lost in thought that you neglected to notice someone approaching your driveway? You squint and take a step closer to the driveway, wavering on the edge of your porch. The car looks familiar, and that realization nearly pitches you off the porch and careening to the ground below. The driver turns the car off and swings the door open with taunting slowness. A roaring sound fills your ears. 

“Hannibal,” you remark. The driver closes the door and takes a step forward, close enough to the porch that the light hits their face and reveals familiar angled features. His lip is bleeding and there are droplets of blood scattered about his face. His clothing is ever so slightly rumpled. Other than that, Hannibal appears at ease. The Ripper looks at you, and utters your name in response. 

You don’t know what to do, what to say. Your hands clutch the railing in front of you with enough force to send bolts of pain through your fingers. It feels as if your heart is racing faster than humanly possible. You’re reminded of the pain in your abdomen, the scar slicing dangerously close to your eye. You clench a fist at your side and walk down the steps of your porch, before turning and moving to stand at a strategic distance from Hannibal: close enough to see his face, far enough to have an illusion of control and safety. 

The night is still. If it weren’t for your unexpected visitor, you might take solace in the tranquility of the midnight sky. Now, the stars seem to wink at you in warning. When Hannibal speaks, you nearly convince yourself that you imagine it. “I have evaded capture for long enough.” An ugly, foolish sort of hope settles in your chest. You try to push it away.

“You’re… surrendering,” you remark cautiously, waiting for him to dispel that notion. The Ripper does nothing of the sort. Instead, Hannibal stares at you, making strangely heated eye contact with you as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a knife. The moonlight briefly hits the metal, causing it to glimmer mockingly. Your stomach turns. The moon’s warm glow reveals more than just a shimmer—there are murky brown stains on the blade. You recognize the splatters as dried blood and your skin crawls. Hannibal is holding the very same knife he stabbed you with. He maneuvers it expertly, holding the blade and extending the handle towards you. Everything about this moment feels like a trap, but you willingly reach out and take the proffered knife, fastening it at your belt.

After a stretch of time in which neither of you elect to say anything, you decide that Hannibal must be telling the truth. Eyes locked on the man, you fumble around in your pocket for your phone and pull it out, dialing the only number you have memorized. Your intended recipient answers before two seconds pass. “Jack,” you say, your gaze still firmly fixed on the Ripper. 

“Agent,” Jack responds. Hannibal is staring at you with intense scrutiny, evidently attempting to decipher what Jack is saying to you. That recognition causes you to pause for a moment. At your hesitation, Jack’s voice takes on a concerned yet impatient tone. “What is it?”

“I have him,” you say, vaguely satisfied that your voice sounds clear and composed despite the emotional rollercoaster you’ve been subjected to. “The Ripper. He’s in my driveway.”

Jack’s end of the line is quiet. You know it must be nearly impossible to believe. You look at Hannibal and then look back at the phone, realizing what you need to do. Taking a deep breath, you bring a shaky hand up and press the speaker button. Despite every instinct in your body screaming at you, you take a small step forward—and another—until Hannibal is close enough to the phone. For a moment, he stares down at the device pensively. Then, in the blink of an eye, he grabs your wrist and tugs you closer—evidently to get to the phone. You glare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice. 

“Hello, Jack,” Hannibal remarks, voice laced with amusement as he grasps your hand— the phone, you tell yourself—with unshakeable strength.  Despite the severity of the situation, you can’t do anything but roll your eyes at his chosen greeting. It seems Hannibal’s dramatics know no bounds. Even when his very freedom is threatened, he will continue to wear his carved mask of politeness and elegance. You try to listen for Jack’s response. There’s still silence on the other end—Jack is probably dispatching a unit as you speak. You’re sure Jack himself will be on his way before long. 

Indeed, Jack confirms that a team is on the way. He hangs up and your phone screen fades to black. Despite the call’s termination, Hannibal is still holding your wrist. “Can I have my hand back?” You ask wryly. You try to shake his grip off and pull away, but he doesn’t budge. Your heart is racing as you try to find an escape. Hannibal doesn’t seem keen to let go, instead looking at you with mild amusement written all over his face. It doesn’t take you long to come up with an idea. You attempt to shake off his grip once more, knowing it will not work. The moment you try to pull your wrist back, you take advantage of the momentum and aim a harsh kick just above his knee. Per your expectations, he doesn’t anticipate the attack and is forced to fall down to a kneeling position to avoid falling over. You lock eyes with him and tear his grip off.

Hannibal looks up at you on bended knee, entirely silent. You begin to realize just what you’ve done—you just disrespected him. You were the epitome of the rudeness Hannibal abhors. You swallow. If you weren’t dead before, you’re certainly dead now. The Ripper is still silent, before tilting his head down to hide his face. Fuck, you’ve really done it this time. You feel yourself taking an instinctual half step backwards, and you’re moments away from turning on your heel and running when you hear an odd sound. 

Hannibal is laughing, you realize. It’s a far cry from the typical gesture of joy you’d associate with laughter, but his amusement is still evident. He brings his head up once more and regards you with interest. “You never fail to surprise me,” he remarks amiably, getting to his feet and pushing the dust from his pant leg with a quick swiping motion. Hannibal doesn’t give your threat any consideration, instead simply regarding you with that same eerie look you’ve grown to associate with his full attention. 

Your hand twitches to grab the bloodstained knife at your side. You imagine yourself plunging the blade into Hannibal’s side, watching his smirk falter and his victorious expression crumple. The vindictive thought thrills you for a second, before you come back to yourself and feel immense revulsion and disgust. Hannibal almost seems to sense the mental gymnastics you're going through, as an intrigued expression flickers across his face before it’s gone in a flash. 

Truthfully, you don’t know how long you stand there—across from Hannibal, staring him down as he stares you down, prey regarding predator—until Jack arrives. It feels like an eternity. Time seems to entirely stop during those moments. Somehow, the quiet is more informative than a conversation ever could be. You don’t need words—not when you can see the tight line drawn across Hannibal’s shoulders, the persistence in his gaze. 

Even eternity must come to an end, though. Police sirens blink in the distance, drawing you away from your thoughts. You watch as several police cars find their way to your driveway. Jack sits in the passenger seat of the car at the front, and he’s quick to step out of the car. S.W.A.T. officers swarm out of the cars, weapons pointed at Hannibal. There is a horrible tension settling in the air, thick enough to make your breaths occur just a little faster.

Despite the exorbitant amount of fully-armed S.W.A.T officers, you’re still afraid. Hannibal is closest to you. If he wanted to, he could kill you—even with so many people present. You don’t doubt his strength or agility. These recognitions leave your heart drumming in your chest at an incessantly quick rhythm. You glance over at Jack and he nods, holding a hand up to the officers and walking towards you. 

“Doctor Lecter,” Jack remarks. Even now, he is incredibly composed. You latch onto his composure and try to emulate it,  though you know it won’t look convincing enough. The headlights from the cars are blinding and you turn your head, giving your burning eyes a brief reprieve. 

“Jack,” Hannibal responds, his hands raised in the air in surrender. The Ripper is indeed powerless, yet the gesture looks mocking. A few officers step closer and surround Hannibal, who kneels down with his arms still raised high. “You finally caught the Chesapeake Ripper.” His hands move to rest behind his head. 

Jack stares at the killer with an indecipherable expression. “You surrendered.”

“I want you to know exactly where I am,” Hannibal responds to Jack. After that remark, his head turns and dread rises in your chest as you realize he’s looking towards you. His eyes are glittering in the moonlight. “And where you can always find me.” You’re frozen, limbs locked as his crimson eyes pierce through you. 

Vaguely, you hear Jack order for Hannibal to be placed in his car. The officers pull Hannibal up from his knees and escort him to the police car. The Ripper’s gaze is locked on you until he enters the vehicle. Jack remains where he stands, sending you a look. You incline your head slightly, to wordlessly encourage him to leave you. Jack seems hesitant to do so, but his sense of responsibility must win out, because he walks back towards the car. You still feel as if you’re being watched, and you get the feeling Hannibal is staring at you from behind the dark tinted glass. The police car slowly reverses out of your driveway, before heading down your street and eventually out of sight. 

You purse your lips, before walking back up the steps to your porch. Everything seemed to have happened far too fast. In the blink of an eye, you’re left to stand alone, with nothing but your conflicting feelings of grief, anger, and remorse for company.  Memories burrow their way under your skin. Each breath is a testament to your own cruelty. 

Inexplicably, you reach up to touch the jagged scar cutting down your face. Your fingertips brush against the marred skin and you jolt. Your abdomen burns in remembrance. Hannibal Lecter has given you the quiet evenings, the comfortable silence settling in the air, and the thrill of an attentive, burning gaze that sends warm embers dancing up your skin.

But he has taken so much more from you in return.

Gone is the gentle caress of a hand on your cheek and the comfort of having unquestionable support. Gone is the hard-won feeling of being truly seen for who you are. Gone is the excitement, the anticipation of knowing that your companion can never truly be predicted. All of it is gone. 

You look up at the moon glimmering in the dark night sky. You idly wonder if Hannibal sees it too. It’s a foolish thought. His cell likely won’t have windows. He has probably been confined to four walls of cement, a metal toilet, and a thin, dingy mattress on a cold metal frame. There is no hope for someone like Hannibal—he will earn several life sentences and spend his entire life in that cage. You have to wonder: why? Why would he surrender?

It was a tactical surrender—that much you know for certain. Hannibal could easily have spent the rest of his life moving from place to place, taking on new identity after new identity. He could have spent however long he wanted, camouflaged but free. 

Freedom. Maybe that’s the answer. After all, that kind of aggressive mimicry is not necessarily freedom. Hannibal Lecter values being an enigma. The mystery that surrounds him, in part, relies on his reputation. Life spent in hiding isn’t really life at all. Even someone like Hannibal—someone with arguably everything to lose—would understand that sentiment. 

You exhale slowly, watching as your puff of breath fades into the air. You suppose Hannibal’s statement may have carried some truth. You will always know where to find him; you won’t be able to bury the memory of him next to the other skeletons in your closet and leave him to rot. Whenever your psyche falters, Hannibal will be there—imprisoned within your mind palace, gathering strength and lying in wait. 

Your phone rings in your pocket. You pull it out, momentarily surprised by the time displayed. It’s getting late. You hadn’t realized how long you spent lost in thought. When you answer, your voice sounds unfamiliar to your ears. 

“Crawford,” Jack clarifies, cutting right to the chase, “We got him.” There is no further explanation needed. 

“We got him, Jack,” you echo. The recognition sounds hollow, empty. Your gaze is pulled towards your driveway once more. Jack’s voice reaches your ears, but you can’t discern what he’s saying over the ringing in your ears. 

Hannibal Lecter is behind bars now, yet you’re the one who feels trapped. You’re a prisoner—trapped in a cage of your own broken design.

1. Dracula by Bram Stoker

2. Sonder refers to the feeling of realization that everyone, including strangers and passersby, have lives just as complex and vivid as your own.

Sorry if the intro parts were confusing. I wanted to *try* to write it in a way that showed how weird and unusual dreams can really be, especially after traumatic events.The mind is infinitely powerful, able to conjure up a new reality at a moment’s notice. I liked the idea of the reader drowning in a whirlpool of their own mind’s creation—as they fight to get back to reality. (also, I found the word “umbra,” which is apparently used to describe the shadow created by an eclipse. I think that’s cool as hell, so I included it.) Dream logic never quite makes sense and can be extremely convoluted, which is why the intro is a messy assortment of memories with no clear beginning or end.

Y’all seemed to like my rationalization for the previous chapter, so I’ll include some similar notes for this chapter if you’re interested:

Hannibal’s surrender in this chapter is very much calculated. He realizes that he’s no longer free—since the FBI are onto him. There is a sort of cruelty in the life he would have to lead, as his “freedom” would include lots of mental effort, relocating, and subterfuge. Hannibal likely weighs his options, and decides between a life of constant stealth and relocation, and a life behind bars. It’s reasonable to assume that he also would have realized that his status as the Chesapeake Ripper would grant him special privileges as a prisoner—he’s aware of how much the Ripper has dominated the cultural zeitgeist and knows he will be able to use that notoriety to his advantage in captivity.

Of course, Hannibal also knows how to best dominate your thoughts: by remaining in one place. As he mentions, you will always know where he is and where to find him. You will not have to track him down by following the calculated clues he leaves behind—rather, you will constantly have to live with the underlying knowledge that Hannibal is accessible at any and every moment. In this case, Hannibal’s surrender is quite a tactical and manipulative move. He truly chooses to go to prison. It would be unsettling to know that the Ripper was on the loose, yes. But, the Ripper has been on the loose and free for several years already. On the other hand, it would be downright disturbing to know that Hannibal’s presence in prison is a willful choice—one that can be taken back at any moment. That can easily manifest a constant lingering fear in the back of the reader’s mind, in addition to an eternal desire to pin down exactly why Hannibal is remaining captive, chained. The chessmaster is willingly surrendering, but the game is far from over.

And now… Act 1 of this story is complete! 

Never fear, Hannibal will return in Act 2! As for the other characters… Well, you’ll have to wait and see. ;) I will say that Act Two embraces some elements of The Red Dragon and Silence of the Lambs. Don’t worry, though—you don’t need to have read either of them. :3

Here’s a scrap for your efforts! (*throws you this unused dialogue like a scruffy middle-aged man with grey hair and a scratchy quarter-zip throws a piece of raw beef to the wolves outside his cabin*) This was one of the MANY options I had considered (but never used) for the big reveal:

“How long have you known?” Hannibal asks. “From the moment you invited me into your home,” you answer. There’s silence for a dreadful moment. “And you stayed.” “I did.” “Why?” “I like talking to you, I enjoy your company.… Does one really need a reason to keep the company of another?” You finish. A beat of quiet. “... I suppose not,” Hannibal acquiesces.

Act 2 will be posted as the second part of this series. Here's the link to the AO3 series: these jagged scars. I'll also post it over here on Tumblr. :)

Thank you so so so much for all the support! Your likes, comments, and reblogs keep me going! <33333

taglist 🖤: @its-ares @tobbotobbs @xrisdoesntexist @gr1mmac3 @tiredstarcerberuslamb @yourlocalratwriter @kingkoku @kahuunknown @atlas-king1 @pendragon-writes @slipknotcentury @cryinersaved @the-ultimate-librarian @starre-eyes @pendragon-writes @peterparkeeperer @gayschlatt69

[slickchickchocolatier]

hey reinaa this req is def something 🫣🫣

so like heethan and reader like live together and reader isnt feeling well, and she slept in like a skimpy nightdress so her tits and ass are out (idek how to start it) anyways heethans cooking her breakfast like eggs or something and cvms in it 😭😭 then hes like feeding it to her while stroking her head n shit and asking her if she likes it, and shes like yes (obviously) and is completely oblivious to it then smut or whatever

thank uu if u do this

”Tell me…how does it taste?”

warnings: so if you read the prompt…yeah, consumption of bodily fluids in not such a traditional manner lol. But it’s quite juicy. Implications of rough smut, smut described in subtle detail, unprotected sex (implied) and yeah…think that’s it. ;)

Stretching out the aches from last night’s session, the opening between your thighs sting with a sense of looseness throbbing mercilessly. A reminder of what your beloved fiancé had put you through, all for the sake of pleasure, pain, and love. Hard love. 

…………….

“Look at me. I said look…”

“Mmmmm…..nnnnngh!”

“That’s right…shhh….take it like I showed you…like how I trained you to.”

“Mmmm….mmmmph!!”

“Watch me…watch me….fuck….going deeper….”

……………

The vague images of Heeseung and Ethan swapping out, taking turns as they stuck their thumb in your mouth, while the remainder of their digits hooked your chin as they forced you to look their way, were all like still images in a memory drive. Heeseung pulled, thrusted, and swallowed your moans with his kisses while Ethan pushed, pumped, and slurped the drool from your mouth. You squabble aimlessly, putting forth whatever strength you had to get just the tiniest bit of distance, all to ease up the tension of his throbbing cock as he made himself fit; filling you entirely. 

You wondered for a moment, as your warm feet touch the flooring—cooled by the brisk morning temperature of near freezing, would it even be possible for you to be considered an exceptional candidate for a partner and wife, if something has happened to Heeseung and he was no longer around? Not that that wouldn’t happen, you knew that your thoughts were strictly hypothetical, yet it was a valid thought. Because the man had taken you so many times since the beginning, and has delightfully feasted and punctured your flesh, to the point that despite never experiencing pregnancy or childbirth, not yet, you wondered if your womanhood was beyond dignified. Heeseung was a stallion of all sorts, his momentum, size, and pace was unmatchable, and there was no way that any man wouldn’t be able to tell that you had been ravished. Good thing that Heeseung, and Ethan, has both claimed you for life—and that no matter how many times you both engage in the heat of sexual passion, they remarked how it always felt as good as the first time, why wouldn't they? With all that length and girth, they barely fit and required you to be extra moist in order for them to punch it in. This all further convinced you tha if ever you were without them, surely you’d be doomed to remain single forever. 

Heeseung wasn’t in bed, you sat over the edge, taking your time to adjust your body and to get ready. Still nude, you figured you should start the day off with a warm shower, but suddenly, the door opens, and there he was. 

“Hey, good morning pretty. Did you sleep okay?”

“Yes. You?” You chuckle, when he was rough and hard with his love, he was intense and passionate, sexy and dominating. Yet when he was calm and all honey, he was sweet and the love was a different type than the one he eludes at night. It was a soft, delicate love, one that was admiring and caring. 

“Good. I made you breakfast.”

You looked at him somewhat wide eyed, Heeseung, much less his Ethan side, never dabbled into the art of cuisine creation. They admitted openly and yet, here they were, with Heeseung’s dashing smirk and Ethan’s dark gaze, they split the shred body 50/50 as they presented you a plate of messily scrambled eggs, semi-burnt toast—with jelly sloppily drooling over the edge of the crust, and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, with pulp staining the rim of the glass. You smiled, even though the plate had a humorous display, you knew he did his best. 

“Oh my gosh, you cooked for me?” You smiled gleefully as you looked up, to which the man before you nodded in silence and even had a faint of bashful sense in his countenance. “I tried.” He calmly states, clearing his throat as his deep voice spoke modestly in response to your grateful reaction. 

“Baaaaabe, thank you! I’m going to eat ever last bite.”

“I hoped you would.” His words were sharp, deep, and somewhat quiet as he pressed out the response under a breath. You didn’t catch it. 

“What was that babe?” 

“Oh nothing. Just talking to myself. Let me know how it tastes.”

You took a bite of the eggs, and tossed the fluffed texture around as you savored the taste. “You seasoned the eggs?” You chuckled as you rolled your tongue, taking in the semi-pungent saltiness as you swallowed. He smiles as his eyes widen with an expressive sense of delight. 

“I did, do you like it?”

“I do.” You nodded politely. It was a bit saltier than what you preferred but it was the first time the man has ever stepped foot in the kitchen to cook, you weren’t going to discourage him, besides…a little salt does good for the body. 

He takes a seat next to you, takes the fork from you hands and places his free palm on the back of your head. Initially you looked at him curiously, but the moment you witnessed him sternly looking at the plate, forking a cluster of eggs, and bringing it to your face, you smiled adorably as you opened to take in the bite. He smirks and chuckles, placing a kiss on your cheek as he continues to feed you every last morsel. “Does my baby like it?”

You nod. “Mmhmm.”

“Good girl.”

…………….

Earlier…

He woke up before the sun has a chance to kiss the moon to sleep. Prior to getting out of bed, he looks down and admires his sleeping beauty. “Damn she’s pretty…” he whispers to himself. How lucky is he to have you? Well, the truth was, he wasn’t lucky, just smart. Smart enough to know that he had to get you, from the very first moment he laid eyes on you, and he planned, lied, and deceived in order to accomplish his goal….he got you. 

His member begins to harden at the sight of you, and as much as he was tempted to get at you again, he knew that after last night, he has to give you some time to catch up on your rest. You’re such a trooper, always taking him and his Ethan side without complaint, pleasing them as you took one after the other, allowing them to take turns as they pumped you up with every bit of juice they had to give. Yes, you’re such a good girl. A good, and pretty little girl. 

Always the one to show his dying love for you, Heeseung heads into the kitchen. He didn’t know what item from which in order to cook, thank goodness for YouTube. 

With the toaster ticking, and the eggs sizzling in butter, he plays around the yolk and whites, zoning out as the image of your face from last night makes him grow. You always looked so helpless, whenever he’s fucking you, and God….does he love it. 

With his thoughts triggered, an idea pops in mind. You were his…you belong to him. Even if you had wanted to leave, he knew that that was not how you truly felt, you both are in love and he claimed you the moment he laid eyes on you. You will always be under his thumb, his beautiful flower, his delicate princess…only his. 

Since he’s claimed you in more ways than one, why not expand it and introduce another manner in ‘claiming’ you? 

Grabbing onto the base, with the image of your teary face bumping up and down as he thrusted into you repeatedly the night prior, he strokes his member. God…he was so close to shutting everything off, rushing up the stairs so he could fuck you in your sleep. He was tempted, but he maintained some sense of control as he continued to stroke and thrust his palm, going faster and faster as he groans until finally… 

“Fuuuuuuuck…!” He whispers under a harsh breath, chest deeply heaving as his nostrils flare. He leans over, palm gripping the edge of the counter as he catches his breath, gasping for air. Decorating the eggs, he unleashes every last bit of what he could draft up since last night, and felt satisfied at the result. Stirring the eggs, he turns off the stove and slides it all on a plate. Adding the other ingredients, he organizes the breakfast tray and brings it up. He’ll be so happy to see you take him in, in a way that you’re not used to taking him, but it’s just as good. Besides…

“You know pretty baby, a little salt does good for the body.”

Perm Taglist:

@enheene , aiden2001 , heeseung-min , lathan1510 , rayofsunshineeee , @hoyeonheeseung , @rayofsunshineeee , @yohanabanana , @sunoosrightbuttcheek , @jaeneohee , @icydawon , @silcry , @iamliacamila , @nikstrange , @enheene ; @nuriicata

[missredherring]

For A Good Time Call... Tommy

Tommy Miller x Fat!F!Reader

Rating: R

Word Count: 3k.

Warnings: smoking. bad date and sex(off screen).

Contents: pwp. strangers to lovers. fingering. dirty talk. one butt smack. protected piv sex.

Summary: He doesn’t do anything else for a moment, just takes you in, blowing out smoke through his nose in a steady stream. You guess this is to let you have the chance to change your mind and leave, only a smoke shared between you and nothing more. It’s nice, but there’s no way you’re letting him go now. With your free hand you slip your fingers behind his belt buckle, grinning when the muscles of his stomach jump at the touch of your cold fingers, and tug him to you with the thing.

A/N: This is entirely the fault of that photoshoot with Gabriel Luna. Hot damn. This is the first part of a 3 part series. It isn't my main writing focus right now and will be worked on whenever the horny horny inspiration strikes.

Thank you so much to @boliv-jenta and @prolix-yuy for beta reading!

Part One - Part Two - Part Three

You see it scrawled on the side of the bar’s bathroom stall while you're cleaning up from a disappointing fuck. There's a hint of wetness between your legs, but nowhere near the amount there should be if he'd been any good. 

It catches your eye as you lean back and take a deep breath.

"For a good time call..." 

The sentence is left hanging, but a few names and numbers fill in the space around it. The names "Joel" and "Tommy" have a truly teen-worthy amount of hearts around them. There's even a nicely veined cock shooting cum over a dripping pussy. It is beautifully artistic and there’s even some cross hatching in the shading. 

You shiver as the night air envelopes you. The temperature had dropped while you were inside, and while it had been a little chilly when you’d stepped out only wearing your dress, now it’s downright cold. Being fat helps with the issue of bringing a coat on a night out, but it only goes so far. Your nipples pebble, goosebumps raising on your arms, and you let out a scoff when the fucking air does what your lousy date couldn’t.

Do you even want to try again tonight, or just go home? You get your phone out and swipe through to your apps, staring at them and playing a game of this or that. Uber or Tinder, sleep or the chance of someone else getting you off. You’re about to just close your eyes and pick one when you hear cursing off to the side. Glancing up you see a large figure hunched over. His hands are up around his mouth, cupping the end of an unlit cigarette as he tries to get his lighter to work. You watch him for a few seconds, listening to the winding of the friction wheel and his muttered curses as fire continues to elude him. 

“Hey,” you call over to him. “I’ll trade you a light for a cig.”

He straightens up and squints at you through the dark. There are more lights here than other side alleys, but they make the shadows even deeper. It’s a moody contrast that casts darkness over his face and body, making his white shirt glow. He shifts his weight on his back foot and looks you up and down. You don’t try to disguise the way your thighs jiggle with each step, or how the strap of your purse bisects your breasts, pulling the fabric taut over them to emphasize their movement, free of the bra you left at home. 

"Is that a good trade on my end?" he asks, interest and a southern drawl in his voice.

"It is if you wanna smoke that and not just look at it." You nod to his cigarette.

Up close you can make out more details: a thin white t-shirt tucked into dark wash jeans, covered by a coat with a fluffy sherpa lining. A silver belt buckle sits on his waist and matches his silver necklace laying on his chest. You follow the chain up, bringing your attention to his thick neck and the wild black curls that cover the back of it. His hair is just short enough to keep from calling it shaggy. He’s even got a neat mustache, goatee, and a little patch of hair right under his full bottom lip. On any other guy the whole look would be too much, but damnit does he look fucking gorgeous. 

He nods and you put your phone away when you fish out the little book of matches you’d swiped from the bar before leaving. 

It only takes two strikes for the match to light and then he’s leaning over you, cupping your hands now with his to protect the flame from any stray breeze. He inhales and the burning end of his cigarette flares. The light of the small flame illuminates his face and you find that his dark eyes are watching you. Gorgeous man. He takes the cigarette from between his lips and offers it to you.

“This’s m’last one, but I don’t mind sharin’ with a pretty lady,” he says, pursing his lips to the side and blowing a stream of smoke away from you. You feel the damp spots from his mouth on the filter when you put it between your lips. 

The opportunity to spend time with a pretty man soothes any annoyance at missing out on a full smoke, so you turn and mirror the way he’s leaning up against the wall.

“I saw you in the bar earlier, with your date,” he says. “I’m guessing it didn’t go well?”

You roll your eyes and give him a telling look. “Yep. Conversation was shit and he left me high and dry after he got what he wanted.”

“That ain’t right. Y’should never leave a lady wantin’.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m Tommy, by the way.”

You give him your name along with the cigarette and when he smiles at you laughter lines bloom around his eyes. Fuck.

The cigarette passes between you, each polite enough not to let it burn too much before handing it back, and his eyes watch your mouth as you smoke. You’re not any better: slipping your fingers around his more than necessary to give him the cigarette and admiring how his broad chest moves as his lungs expand.

The combined cold in the air and the wall behind you is enough to make you shiver, your hand trembling as you hold out the cigarette. Tommy takes it and bites it between his teeth so gently that there’s only the shallow suggestion of an indent on the filter. Another shiver creeps over you, your nipples tightening at the thought of one of them between his teeth instead. 

“My ma’d kick my ass if she knew how long it took me to offer you my coat.” He mumbles when you hesitate, too caught up in the sudden vision of your tit in his mouth and the answering clench of lust in your gut. Thankfully your own manners kick in and take over.

"Won't you be cold?" you ask even as you shimmy into the coat. The sherpa feels a little scratchy on your bare skin, but the hem hugs your hips in just the right way and the transferred body heat feels so good. 

"Want to make another trade?" he asks, getting closer. Your eyebrows raise: he's already given you the coat. 

"For what?" God, you hope it’s sex. 

"Body heat," he says. 

“Fuck. Yes.” 

The cigarette is almost down to the filter now and Tommy offers you the last of it. You take it, keeping eye contact with him as you try to inhale quickly, sharply, as to only burn a little more and leave him with the cigarette’s dying breath. It’s tucked between your pointer and middle finger when you hand it over, but he doesn’t take it. Instead he holds your wrist so gently in his big hand and brings your hand to his mouth. His breath is warm as it brushes over the sensitive skin of your inner wrist before the inhale. His lips curl around the filter and his mustache brushes over your finger.

One last flare and it’s finished, the little light passing between you extinguished. You let it drop and with a twist of his boot, Tommy grinds it into the asphalt. The movement brings him that much closer and you only remember he still has your hand when he brings it up again, this time to the back of his neck. A squeeze tells you to keep it there, so you do, eagerly tangling your hand in his hair. You can tell there’s a bit of product in it, but it’s still soft and thick. Perfect for pulling. 

He doesn’t do anything else for a moment, just takes you in, blowing out smoke through his nose in a steady stream. You guess this is to let you have the chance to change your mind and leave, only a smoke shared between you and nothing more. It’s nice, but there’s no way you’re letting him go now. With your free hand you slip your fingers behind his belt buckle, grinning when the muscles of his stomach jump at the touch of your cold fingers, and tug him to you. 

“Shit,” he says, and kisses you.

Kissing is great, it can be anything and everything you want. Another form of communication to bring people together in better understanding, but you don’t want that tonight. And you tell him so with your impatient tongue and the sharp points of your teeth. You devour him with long licks, small nips, and gulping breaths. 

Bless him, Tommy doesn’t hesitate either. His hands are on your body doing a fine job of warming you up under his coat. He grips your hips and you’re pleased when he doesn’t skip over the rolls of your sides, kneading and pressing his fingers in as he brings them up to your breasts. He moans into your mouth when he cups them and only feels hard nipples pressing into his palm under the thin fabric of your dress. You give a good squeeze of his hair, tugging at the roots just a little, and are rewarded with another moan. He catches a nipple between his fingers, gives a squeeze of his own, and you give the moan right back. Another thing passing between you in the cool air of the night. 

Another bruising kiss, tongues sliding together, sloppy and eager, before you let your hands explore. No matter where you touch, he’s all muscles under hot skin. Down from his neck to his shoulders, and over the curve of his shoulder with a drag of your nails. There’s a suggestion of softness at his stomach, a hint of roundness at his hips, and you dig your fingers into them, delight and desire shooting along your nerves when he bucks and presses into your touch again and again. 

Tommy tears his mouth away from yours, his bottom lip caught in between your teeth. 

“That asshole left you hungry for cock, huh, baby? That why you’re tryna take a bite outta me?” he says, taking in lungfuls of air. Knowing you’re the cause of his heaving chest is just another rush. 

"Are you gonna do what he couldn't and get me off? Or do I need to find someone else? You gotta brother? Think he could fuck me right?" you ask, only half joking. He’s right: you’re hot and hungry and not going home disappointed tonight. 

"Don't ask him. He already acts like he has the weight of the world on his shoulders." He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head.

"I just want to know if they'll take the weight of my thighs." You move his hands from your chest to the dimpled skin of your thighs, exposed by the short hem of your dress. His hot hands burn as they travel up and follow the hemline around to cup your wide ass and squeeze. 

"I can handle you just fine," He groans when he slips a hand between your legs to palm your mound and finds that you aren't wearing any underwear. His fingers swipe through your lips, making you tilt your hips to chase them. "See? Feels like you're gettin' nice and wet for me."

"Shut up and make me come, Tommy." 

"Yes, ma'am."

Tommy knows when to get to work, you’ll say that for him. He’s completely focused on you: the way your hips roll into his touch, the way your expression shifts when he changes angles, the noises you don’t bother to swallow when he switches the rhythm of his stroking fingers. It’s so good, and just what you wanted tonight. He nuzzles under your chin, tilting your head back to give him better access to your neck and leaves sucking kisses there on his way to your chest. 

A quick tap of his boot against your shoes has you widening your stance for him. “That’s it, baby,” he says, and uses his free hand to scoop your heavy breasts out of the dress, the neckline keeping them pressed together. 

He’s biting at them now with quick nips of his teeth, following the stings with swipes of his flattened tongue. Paired with rolls of his thumb and a thrust of his fingers, your muscles tighten and your orgasm is so close, you can taste it, lingering on your tongue with the taste of Tommy and tobacco. 

“Fuck. Just like that, Tommy. Don’t stop. Don’t stop.” 

He doesn’t. He doesn’t stop and you’re coming all over his hand, clutching his fingers as you ride out your orgasm. But you know your body better than anyone else and keep going. It’s right there, hidden in the waves of aftershock. 

“Don’t stop,” you say again, letting go of his torso to reach back up for his head. He comes willingly, mouth open and tongue ready for you as you pull him down for a kiss. You cover his hand, still inside you, with your own and press your fingers in with his own, moaning at the stretch and thrusting your hips again. Just a little more, your thumb circling your clit just right, and you come again. 

“Christ, Christ,” Tommy pants. “My fingers ain’t enough for you, are they? You need my cock too?” He’s crowding you into the wall now, no more room between you. His hot body feels like it’s on fire where it’s pressed against you. 

“I want it,” you say, nodding and knocking your forehead into his. “Are you gonna be good for me and give it to me, Tommy?”

“Fuck. Yes.” He echoes you with a grin. You kiss him again because you can and push at his chest, laughing when he stumbles back. Shrugging off his coat enough to take your purse from around your torso - if he’s as good with his dick as he is his fingers, you don’t want the distraction of it bouncing on you - you pluck out the small bottle of lube and a condom before letting it drop between you and the wall. 

Tommy looks up from where he’s wrestling with his belt buckle at the noise and whistles. “What else you got in there?”

“Necessities.” You nod to his crotch where a nice bulge is pressing against his zipper. “You need a hand?” 

“I’ll take two if you can spare ‘em.” He’s in your space again, caging you with his arms and tilting his hips up for your easy access. You tuck the condom and lube in one of his front pockets to free both hands and make quick work of his belt buckle and the fly of his jeans. His dick twitches in his boxers when it’s exposed to the cool air and you swallow at the patch of wet material sticking to what must be the head. Two dainty fingers slip under the elastic and pull the last barrier down. You can’t stop the pleased hum that vibrates through your chest as his dick springs out. Gorgeous cock for a gorgeous man. 

Tommy hisses through his teeth when your chilled fingers circle his dick, your warm palm cradling the hand as you explore the soft skin and veins there. Even his public hair is just right; dark and curling against the base and his balls. You press against him, your chest to his, kissing the underside of his jaw as you play with him. He lets you do what you want, good man that he is, and rolls his head around his neck once, before stopping your hand.

“If y’keep that up I’m gonna come, and I want to be inside you so bad.” He says, fishing out the lube and condom from his pocket and pushing his jeans and boxers further down his thighs. The muscles there bunch and if you didn’t also want his dick inside you’d be on your knees, biting and sucking there too. 

With deft hands he rolls the condom on, squirts a generous amount of lube on his dick, and spreads it with quick, efficient strokes. Usually these practical details of sex slow down the action, but not with Tommy. His eyes are burning into you, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip and swiping over the red marks already showing up from your teeth. He’s breathing faster, anticipation kicking his pulse up so you can see it thudding in his neck even in the low light of the alley. 

“How d’you want it, hm?” he asks, eyes heavy on you, waiting for your word. You want him bad and you want it good, so you turn around and tug up the tight skirt of your dress. It goes easily, giving up the futile fight of staying down your thighs and bunching up at your waist, exposing your entire ass and dripping pussy to him and anyone who bothers to look in your direction. 

“Fuck,” he curses, gripping the base of his dick and pressing you into the wall. “Wait, just–” He reaches around your neck to flip up the collar of his coat on the side of your face that’s close to the wall. Your cheek is cushioned by the sherpa and won’t scrape on the concrete if you get too close. The gesture melts your heart and you’re an entire sopping mess; heart, pussy, and everything in between. 

Between the lube and your cum it’s a damn slip-and-slide between your legs. You don’t help by wiggling around and he ends up laughing into your shoulder while swatting at a buttcheek and clamping a big hand on your bigger hips. 

He lines up, pushes in, and the stretch is so good. You use the wall for support and push back against him, helping him to get as deep as he can. His other hand lifts your belly, settling over your mound, and circling your clit.

“A little slower, yea,” you sigh out. “Just like that, Tommy.” 

It’s another trade between you: thrusting desire and lust back and forth between you, building up your pleasure until it spills over, uncontrollable, delicious, and just what you wanted, what you needed. 

He’s covering you when he comes, his chest pressed to your back, both of his hands on your hips so he can get as deep as possible in the tight squeeze of your pussy. He buries his face in your neck, nuzzling between the soft skin there and the sherpa. His breath is hot and wet and the moans and grunts he’s pouring out there are so sweet they make you clench down harder on him, swiveling your pelvis around and back for just a little more. 

“One more,” he says catching his breath, and you think maybe you said the last part out loud, but he continues. “One more trade?”

“Yea?” you say, arching your neck back to catch his earlobe in your teeth. He shudders and presses harder into you. You can feel the muscles in his thighs on the back of your own, jumping and shaking from his efforts.

“The rest of the night, a hot shower - something to eat,” Tommy says, moving his hands from your hips. His palms are calloused and feel good on your skin as he strokes your belly and takes a breast in one, easing the strain as they hang from you. He holds you to him while the aftershocks roll through you both. “For whatever else you got in that purse.” 

You turn your face to him so your lips brush when you answer him. “Fuck. Yes.” 

[haitani-bruvz]

FAMILY AFFAIRS

Chapter 3

First Meetings: Mikey

previous part

Shinichiro x Reader, Mikey x Reader, Izana x Reader

DARK CONTENT!!! MDNI READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.

Chapter preview: Introduction part 3 of 3. Reader's first time meeting Mikey.

Series TW: Yandere, smut, murder, noncon/dubcon, drugging, kidnapping, pseudo-incest (reader is considered a sibling but not blood-related), physical abuse, emotional abuse, mentions of child abuse and neglectful parents, ages of characters are shifted around a bit (Shin is younger)

July 25th, 1998 No amount of caution could have prepared you for the blazing fire that was Manjiro Sano.

The sun beamed down warmly as you found yourself once again at the local 7/11, a familiar destination since meeting Shinichiro just a couple of weeks prior. It had become a tradition of sorts, as he had been visiting almost every day, taking you out for various adventures, both alone and with Izana. In the past week, you had explored new places, shared laughter, and made memories you were sure would last forever. As you walked together, savoring the cold treats he purchased, a sense of anticipation filled your heart, wondering what exciting stories Shinichiro had in store for you this time.

His voice echoed in your mind as you recalled his stories, the teen often boasting about his remarkable fighting skills and the numerous bike enthusiasts who sought his expertise. While you weren't foolish enough to blindly believe his words, especially if the countless bruises littering his body and Izana's teasing callouts were anything to go by, you couldn't help but be captivated by his ambitions. He spoke with confidence, painting a picture of a future where he would open his own motorcycle shop- a place that would be a safe haven for delinquents and outcasts of every shape and form.

But despite the charm in his spirited narratives, a sense of unease crept into you.

Darkness was hidden beneath the surface, an unsettling feeling that lingered within. Shinichiro, who had always been accepting and kind, seemed to be holding back more and more with every interaction. There were moments when his eyes seemed distant, as if he was purposefully concealing certain details, hints of shadows lurking in his tales.

The very thought perplexed you, for he had always been open and forthcoming. Yet subtle clues in his demeanor whispered of secrets. Confusion washed over you as you questioned your own instincts. Why did you feel this discomfort, this uneasiness, when everything between the two of you had been nothing short of genuine warmth and friendship?

Being with the teen had Shadows dancing at the edge of your consciousness, teasing you with half-formed memories that refused to fully materialize. For instance, you had never touched a motorcycle before meeting Shin, let alone ridden one, so why did the weight of the helmet and the scent of the rubber feel so familiar? Why had you known exactly where to place your hands and feet?

And it wasn't like it was an isolated experience either- an invisible thread connected him and Izana, binding them together in shared secrets that eluded your grasp.

Since Shinichiro started visiting more frequently and your relationship grew, Izana's restlessness intensified. His already short temper seemed to shrink even further, lashing out at anyone within a 6-foot radius. Finding a mere five minutes of solitude became a rare luxury as Izana's grip tightened around your throat, dictating your every move with an iron hand. Even Kakucho, who was usually lax on the 'rules' when Izana wasn't around, took the new role of personal guardian extremely seriously. The only reason you found yourself on this ice cream outing today was because the tanned boy insisted on your absence from the orphanage, claiming that he had personal matters that he didn't want you in attendance for. Despite the challenges and secrecy that surrounded him, you couldn't help but love and be profoundly grateful for his presence in your life. Through it all, he had been a fiercely loyal and caring friend, offering protection and support when you needed it most.

You often speculated on what his life might have been like before the orphanage. Did his parents die like yours and Kaku's did? Was he abandoned like some of the other kids were? Whatever happened, you know his reluctance to speak about it only further fed into your belief that it was his pain that forged the protective shield around him. It was easy to convince yourself that his overbearing nature stemmed from a place of genuine concern and care. After all, it was only natural for someone who had experienced loss to be fiercely protective over those they held dear. With each passing day, you couldn't help but construct a narrative that lent understanding to Izana's behavior, almost as if his undisclosed past justified his actions in the present. In doing so, you unknowingly excused the uneasiness you sometimes felt, seeking solace in the belief that his intentions were pure and his overprotectiveness was a testament to his love for you.

Lost in thought, your attention only snaps back to reality when Shinichiro calls your name a second time. Raising your gaze, you become aware of how long you've been staring blankly at your spoon. Offering him an apologetic smile, you silently hope that he didn't catch onto your deep distraction.

"Sorry, what did you say?" You ask him, trying to sound as casual as possible.

A small smile tugged at the corners of Shinichiro's lips as he spoke, his eyes filled with anticipation. "Well, my birthday is coming up in a couple of days, and I wanted to know if you'd like to come over to my house for dinner. It's going to be a small gathering, just my grandpa and a few others," he explained, a hopeful tone in his voice.

You felt a flutter of excitement in your chest at the invitation, realizing that it would be your first time attending a real birthday party. It was a chance to be a part of Shinichiro's special day, to share in the warmth and celebration of his family, something you never got to experience in your own home.

"I'd love to come, Shin-nii! Thank you for inviting me," you replied, a huge smile brightening your face.

But then, Shinichiro's expression shifted slightly, a shadow of hesitance crossing his face. "There's something you should know, though," he said, his voice taking on a tone of concern. "Izana… well, I'm sure you've noticed that he's not very comfortable around people he doesn't know. It stresses him out, and I don't want him to feel uneasy during the meal." He paused for a moment, turning his gaze to search your expression before continuing, "That's why I think it's best if we keep it a secret from him."

Conflicting emotions stirred within you. On one hand, you understood where Shin was coming from. His genuine concern for Izana was apparent; He knew the boy much longer than you had, and you didn't want him to feel overwhelmed or forced into a situation that made him uncomfortable. But on the other hand, a small part of you questioned the true intentions behind Shinichiro's request. Was it solely for Izana's well-being, or was something else hidden beneath the surface? He never had seemed to have a problem bringing Izana around others before,so what made this time so different…?

Your mind raced with thoughts and doubts, unsure of the best course of action. You looked at Shinichiro, searching for answers in his face, but found only sympathy and determination.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" you hesitantly voiced your concerns. "I think Izana could relax and have fun if we were there with him. Me and Kaku could maybe help if…" you trailed off before speaking again, "I don't want him to think that he isn't fun to be around."

Shinichiro's eyes held yours, his gaze unwavering. "He has his own way of handling things, (Y/N). I just thought it would be better for everyone if we kept this separate from him. It's not that I don't want him to be there, but sometimes… sometimes it's easier to avoid unnecessary conflicts," he explained, his words carrying a weight you couldn't quite grasp.

You slowly nodded as you took in his words.

Gratefulness filled Shinichiro's smile as he responded, "Thank you, (Y/N). I knew I could count on you. It means a lot to me, and I promise you'll have a great time, my grandpa makes a mean Hayashi rice!."

August 1st, 1998

The days leading up to Shinichiro's birthday had flown by, and you had successfully kept the secret hidden from Izana and Kakucho. Surprisingly, it hadn't been as challenging as you had initially expected. Both boys were serving some form of punishment following your last outing with Shin, and the two were kept separate from the rest of the kids. You didn't know the specifics, but apparently, they had snuck out and gotten into some trouble with a few middle school kids.

As for Shinichiro, you hadn't seen much of him either since that eventful day. However, a brief encounter occurred when he visited the orphanage workers to discuss Izana's current situation. During that fleeting moment, Shinichiro approached you and explained that Izana and Kaku would be on what the orphanage referred to as 'isolation' for the next two weeks. Additionally, Shinichiro mentioned that he, too, wouldn't be around as frequently due to pressing matters that required his attention at home with his grandpa. Nevertheless, he reassured you that he would be present on his birthday to pick you up and take you to his house.

The news of Izana and Kaku's isolation, along with Shinichiro's temporary absence, left a void within the familiar dynamics of your interactions. The orphanage felt eerily quiet without their presence, and it made you realize just how much you had grown accustomed to their company. Though uncertain about the exact nature of their punishment, you couldn't help but hope that the two boys would learn and grow from this experience.

During these rare moments of solitude, you devoted yourself to creating a special gift for Shinichiro. It was a keychain with the letters "S&S" for Shinichiro Sano, messily intertwined with beads and string. You envisioned it as the emblem for his future motorcycle shop, hoping to tease him about how it was far cooler than the corny name he had initially chosen, "Black Dragon Bikes." A smirk tugged at the corners of your lips as you imagined his reaction to the playful jab.

As the day of Shinichiro's birthday arrived, a mix of anticipation and nervousness fluttered in your chest. You stood by the window, watching for his arrival. The gift was safely tucked away in your pocket, ready to be presented to him. Thoughts swirled through your mind, wondering if he would like it, if it would be meaningful enough.

Moments later, you saw Shinichiro approaching, a wide smile stretching across his face. He exuded an air of excitement, and your heart swelled in response. Stepping outside to greet him, you held out the carefully crafted keychain, the metal gleaming in the soft sunlight.

"Happy birthday, Shin-nii," your voice shyly uttered as you extended your hand, presenting the carefully crafted gift. "I made this for you. The 'S&S' can be a logo for your motorcycle shop, way cooler than 'Black Dragon Bikes,' don't you think?" A playful glimmer danced in your eyes as you teased him, awaiting his reaction to your light-hearted jab.

A wide smile spread across Shinichiro's face as he accepted the gift, his eyes lighting up with appreciation. "Thank you, (Y/N). This is amazing," he said, his voice filled with gratitude. "And hey, don't be too hard on Black Dragon Bikes. It has its own charm, you know?" He chuckled, gently nudging your shoulder playfully. "But you're right, 'S&S' has a certain ring to it. Maybe I should consider rebranding in the future."

The playful banter between you and Shinichiro always brought a sense of warmth and comfort. It was moments like these that reminded you of the genuine connection you shared. You couldn't help but feel a surge of happiness, knowing that your small gesture had brought him joy on his special day.

Just as you were about to climb onto his bike, a movement caught your eye. Glancing up towards the second-floor window of the orphanage, your heart skipped a beat. There, partially concealed behind the glass, was Kakucho's scarred eye, watching you intently. A jolt of unease ran down your spine as a wave of realization washed over you.

Your gazes met just as the engine roared to life, and in that fleeting moment, the weight of the secrets you were hiding from Izana and Kakucho crashed back into your consciousness. Doubts and questions flooded your mind, and a wave of guilt washed over you. Were you betraying the trust and bond you had with both Izana and Kakucho? The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air, and you couldn't shake the unease that settled within you.

Shinichiro, unaware of the silent exchange between you and Kakucho, revved the engine of his motorcycle, breaking the tension that had settled upon you. His voice carried a hint of excitement as he called out to you, "Ready to go?" Swallowing hard, you forced a smile and nodded. Pushing aside the unease that had taken hold of you, you climbed onto the back of the bike, wrapping your arms around Shinichiro's waist.

The ride to Shinichiro's house was a short one, lasting only about 30 minutes, but it felt much longer as your anxious thoughts consumed your mind. As the wind rushed past you, you couldn't help but wonder if Kakucho had somehow found out about your secret rendezvous with Shinichiro. What would he say to Izana? Would he be disappointed in you? And what about Izana himself? Would he be angry or hurt by your actions?

As Shinichiro and you arrived at his house, the motorcycle's engine cut off, casting a hush over the surroundings. Shinichiro took the lead, his steps confident and familiar, while you followed closely behind. Approaching the front door, subtle signs of a well-lived home caught your attention. Your gaze wandered, taking note of the pairs of shoes neatly arranged near the entrance. Among them were larger shoes that undoubtedly belonged to Shinichiro's grandpa, a reminder of the elder's presence in the household. But what caught your attention were the smaller pairs of shoes, seemingly for kids your age.

The weathered welcome mat greeted you as you crossed the threshold into Shinichiro's world. Guiding you inside, Shinichiro steered you through his living room, "Please have a seat on the couch," Shinichiro gestured, his voice warm and inviting. "I'll just park and lock my bike. I won't be long."

As you settled onto the couch, the tantalizing aroma of savory food wafted through the air, hinting at the delicious meal being prepared in the kitchen. However, your attention remained fixated on the impending conversation with Izana.

"I just hope he isn't mad at me," you thought, your fingers nervously tugging at the loose threads on your t-shirt. The uncertainty gnawed at your thoughts as you anxiously awaited Shinichiro's return from locking up his motorcycle. The seconds felt like an eternity as your mind raced with possibilities and apprehensions.

Interrupted by the sound of a throat being cleared, your attention snapped to the source of the disturbance.

Approaching you with a serious expression was a young boy, his short blonde hair contrasting with his striking black eyes that closely resembled Shinichiro's.

The boy wasted no time sizing you up, approaching you with a question that caught you off guard.

"You're new," he said, his tone challenging. "You here to fight me?"

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, you found yourself momentarily at a loss for words. People at the orphanage had often avoided you due to Izana's intimidating presence, so this direct interaction was unfamiliar territory.

Before you could respond, Shinichiro entered the room, swiftly diffusing the tension. "Hey, what did I tell you about picking fights with people?" he scolded the blonde boy, playfully tapping the back of his head. "This is YN, a friend from the orphanage. YN, this is my little brother, Manjiro."

The revelation that Shinichiro had an actual little brother left you momentarily stunned.

The blonde let out a hum, suddenly very invested in your presence.

'Orphanage?" he eyed you suspiciously before continuing, "So do you know Iz-",

Shinichiro quickly interrupted him, shooting him a warning look.

"Don't even start."

It sent a shiver down your spine, but Shinichiro quickly shifted his demeanor, offering you a reassuring smile. Manjiro pouted at the interruption but agreed to put the challenge aside. He extended his hand to you, addressing you as "yn-chan" and requesting you to call him Mikey instead.

He's always like that with new people," Shinichiro explained, ruffling your hair reassuringly. "Don't take it personally. Grandpa should be back with Emma soon, so why don't you two go play and get to know each other better? We'll have that Hayashi I promised when they're here."

With a nod of agreement, you allowed Mikey to drag you to his room. He informed you that Emma was their little sister and that although she was 'kind of a weirdo' (Mikey's words, not yours), she was cool. He enthusiastically shared stories about a toy plane Shinichiro had given him and his adventures with his friends, promising to introduce you to them in the future. While you were interested in meeting his friends, you weren't so sure about this Baji kid. Mikey's stories didn't paint him as the friendliest, and you had a feeling Izana wouldn't approve of you befriending someone who seemed to have an even shorter fuse than he had.

Mikey's enthusiasm was infectious as he bounced on his toes, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Come on, YN! Let's have a little spar. I want to show you how strong I am and how I can protect you!" You hesitated, recalling Shinichiro's warning not to engage in any fights. Besides, you weren't exactly the most skilled fighter, and the idea of going up against someone as energetic as Mikey seemed daunting. "I don't know Mikey, Shinichiro said no fighting," you replied, trying to reason with him. But Mikey's persistence knew no bounds. He continued to urge you, his determination shining through. "Aw, come on! Just a friendly little match. It'll be fun, I promise!" he insisted.

Reluctantly, you gave in, unable to resist his infectious spirit. "Alright, just a friendly spar," you conceded, realizing that Mikey wouldn't let it go until you agreed.

The two of you found a suitable spot in his room, preparing yourselves for the impromptu match. You took a deep breath, trying to focus on your limited combat skills. However, before you even had a chance to gather your bearings, Mikey sprang into action. His speed was astonishing as he swiftly closed the distance between you. Within moments, he had pinned you down, his laughter filling the air. "Gotcha!" he exclaimed, his playful grin widening before suddenly stilling.

You couldn't help but laugh along with him, realizing just how quick and agile Mikey truly was. Despite being caught off guard, you couldn't deny the excitement of the friendly tussle. "Okay, okay, you win," you admitted, acknowledging his victory and waiting for him to move so you could get up.

A few tense moments lingered as Mikey continued to hold you down, his grip tightening with each passing second. You tried to break free by wiggling underneath him, hoping to alleviate the pressure but his hold remained strong.

"Okay, Mikey, you're strong," you uttered, your voice laced with a hint of desperation. "Now, let me up. I don't want to play this anymore."

But his gaze remained fixated, almost vacant, as if he couldn't hear your pleas. It sent a shiver down your spine, the fear slowly creeping in. You felt trapped, uncertain of what was happening and how to make it stop. Just as panic started to rise within you, you heard Shinichiro's voice calling from downstairs. "Mikey, YN, come down! Emma and Grandpa are here!"

The sound of Shinichiro's voice seemed to break the hold over Mikey. His expression shifted, returning to the mischievous boy you had come to know. He grinned and shrugged as if attempting to play off his previous behavior. "Heh, just messing with you, YN-chan. Let's go meet Emma and Grandpa!" he said, his voice lighthearted once again.

As the day progressed and you spent more time with Mikey, his company grew more enjoyable. His humor and kindness were endearing, and he proved himself to be a skilled teaser, constantly poking fun at Shinichiro just as much, if not more, than Izana did. The room was taken aback when he surprised everyone by offering you the last slice of cake, a gesture he had never made, according to their Grandpa.

Yet, beneath the surface of his cheerful demeanor, a nagging feeling tugged at the back of your mind. There was an underlying darkness, an unsettling presence that seemed to emanate from Mikey. While he assured you that the earlier sparring incident was all in good fun, a part of you couldn't shake off the fear it had instilled. It was as if he wasn't entirely himself during that moment, and it left you on edge.

Spending time with Mikey throughout the day, you couldn't help but draw comparisons between him and Izana. While Izana had an intimidating presence and a fierce determination to shield you from harm, Mikey possessed a different kind of charm. He shared the same striking black eyes as Shinichiro, which brought a sense of familiarity and comfort, but there was something in the depth of Mikey's gaze that reminded you of Izana. It was as if a flicker of intensity and underlying darkness lurked behind those eyes, hinting at a complexity that mirrored Izana's enigmatic persona.

It intrigued you how Mikey could possess Shinichiro's lightheartedness yet harbor a depth reminiscent of Izana. It was a unique blend of contrasting qualities that made him even more intriguing. His playful nature and mischievous spark were juxtaposed with the hint of an untamed spirit and an unwavering determination. It became evident that he was deeply connected to Shinichiro and, as his little brother, must have inherited some of the qualities that made Shinichiro so cool in your eyes. If Shinichiro trusted and cared for Mikey, perhaps befriending him wouldn't be a mistake. After all, Shinichiro had become a significant part of your life, and his judgment now held weight in your decision-making process. You found solace in the fact that Mikey, being related to Shinichiro, had the potential to be a reliable ally and friend.

As these thoughts swirled in your mind, you decided to give Mikey a chance. Despite the nagging feeling of something hidden beneath his cheerful facade, you acknowledged that everyone had their complexities. Just like Izana, Mikey might have his own struggles and dark moments, but that didn't mean he couldn't be a good person or a true friend.

If only you had realized that comparing others to Izana as a measure of goodness was a flawed approach, perhaps you could have protected yourself from the impending dangers that awaited you.

a/n: I hope you all enjoyed it! Sorry for the long wait, life has been so crazy lately. New chapter is already in the works so please wait for it <3

TAGS @wildartist @rosemary108233 @devils-blackrose @teesissy @jcrml @soushswag @inurmom00 @spookychaossuit @shinslover @stalkergirl512 @miyuaditt @lurvelybones @kthyyxz @missanonymous1999 @kokonoiscoconut @ang3liclov3ly @josuke8 @bunn1rabb1t @gata-preta08 @chocomori @whyulyinggurl @Imbiafandbored @kazusbby @jcrml @the-grimm-writer @tamaki-jiki-reblogs @kookieszme @Berriesandcrem @bloobewy @thetruepair @madness-puppy @spookychaossuit @caramelcandescence @pongster @lostsomewhereinthegarden @k1nkyshoto @luno-614 @a-cult-leader @imbiafandbored @lovlessbish @kenmasbimbo @hnmashji @valeriinee @mel-star636 @mikeyaki

Please comment or message me to be tagged 💚💚

[hisui-dreamer]

ode to the enigmatic hunter

Pairing: Rook Hunt x gn!reader

Synopsis: you loved him, loved the way he saw the world

Tags: drabble, fluff, slightly poetic hehe, reader is a simp for rook

Word count: 609

Notes: happy birthday rook!! thank you for being very nice comedic relief while also being stalkerly creepy 👍

Masterlist

Your lover is an enigma wrapped in beauty, a captivating soul with an insatiable passion for all things aesthetically pleasing. With his flamboyance and sociable demeanour, he is a whirlwind of fascination, a tempest of curiosity that sweeps you off your feet. Much like a skilled hunter meticulously studying his prey, he applies the same precision to whatever captures his fancy in the moment. His infectious fixation on beauty becomes a shared journey, and you discover yourself falling profoundly in love with his unique perspective—an outlook that transforms the world into a canvas of endless wonders waiting to be explored.

Your lover’s observant nature is a finely tuned instrument, playing the silent notes of the world around him with unparalleled precision. It's as if he possesses a unique set of lenses, each crafted to capture the nuances and subtleties that elude the casual observer. Whether he's navigating a crowded room or engaging in a one-on-one conversation, his perceptive gaze seems to penetrate beyond the surface, unravelling the intricacies of human behaviour and emotion. His ability to discern the unspoken, to read between the lines, is an art form, turning every interaction into a canvas where he paints the silent stories that others may overlook. In his world, every detail holds significance, and his keen awareness transforms the mundane into a tapestry of meaning and connection.

Your lover is a man who finds joy in illuminating others but shies away from the spotlight cast upon himself. He possesses an extraordinary gift for lavishing praise upon others with an ease that seems second nature. His words flow like a cascade of admiration, painting those around him with compliments that reflect his genuine appreciation for their unique qualities. However, when the spotlight turns towards him, he endearingly transforms into a master of deflection. He becomes a humble curator of compliments, skilfully redirecting the conversation back to others. It's as if the artistry of his own being, though deserving of admiration, is a canvas he'd rather leave unadorned, allowing others to bask in the glow of his compliments while he remains comfortably in the shadows. Nevertheless, in the quiet moments shared between you two, engaging in a delightful exchange of compliments, both trying to out-compliment the other, there's an undeniable bliss on his face that warms your heart.

Your lover stands as a pillar of reliability in the tumultuous tapestry of life. Behind the flamboyant exterior and enigmatic allure lies a steadfast commitment to those he holds dear. His reliability is not just a matter of punctuality or dependability in mundane tasks, but a deeper, more profound assurance that he is unwavering in his support. When challenges arise, he is the anchor that provides stability, his genuine intentions shining through in every action. Whether it's the subtle observations that showcase his attentiveness or the sincere inquiries that reflect his genuine concern, his reliability stems from an authenticity that forms the foundation of his character. In a world filled with uncertainties, your lover emerges as a constant, a reliable force that you can always count on.

You love the unwavering intensity of his life's pursuits, a fervour that remains undiminished even in the face of others labelling his eccentricities as peculiar. Despite the judgments cast by those who perceive his uniqueness as unconventional, he steadfastly follows the path his heart dictates. It's in the way he observes the world, the way he engages with it, and the secrets he holds close. As you explore the depths of his character, you find yourself enchanted by the mystery and captivated by the genuine intentions that lie beneath.

Your lover, is none other than Rook Hunt.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

[devilevlls]

hello cool writer. can I humbly request a sfw but very very angst (if possible) Barbatos fic with this?

-"This could either save us or ruin everything."

has too much hurt/no comfort potentional lol. sorry if its too specific but maybe bad ending for mc? :)

Hello!! Thank you for the request, I hope you enjoy 💚

This could either save us or ruin everything⭑.ᐟ´-

Gender-Neutral MC༘ ⋆｡˚

They couldn't help but admire Barbatos—his form, his presence, everything about him made their heart ache with longing. Perhaps they were lovesick, they mused, their gaze lingering on the majestic demon as he moved with effortless grace.

But they knew it was almost impossible to be by his side. Barbatos was someone so powerful, so meaningful, while they were just a mere human, transient and insignificant in comparison.

For a fleeting moment, they allowed their mind to speak out loud, the words tumbling forth with a vulnerability they couldn't suppress.

"Barbatos," they whispered, their voice barely a breath against the weight of uncertainty that hung in the air. "Do you ever wish things could be different? That we could defy fate and carve out our own path together?"

They waited, holding their breath as if afraid of the answer, knowing that the truth could either shatter their fragile hope or breathe new life into their wildest dreams. “No, I wouldn’t change a thing. Why do you ask, MC?” He speaks calmly.

"I wish we had a timeline where we could end up together. Life is so cruel," MC murmured, their gaze fixed on the swirling depths of their tea, as if seeking solace in its dark embrace.

"Soulmates are destined to meet, not be together, my darling," Barbatos replied, his voice tinged with a melancholy that mirrored MC's own. With a gentle smile, he poured another cup of tea, his tail swaying in a silent rhythm of understanding.

"But… what if we could escape? To another reality?" MC's voice trembled with desperation, their fingers tracing the delicate patterns of the teacup in search of answers that eluded them.

"This could either save us or ruin everything. Timelines aren't clear and definitive, they are blurry, risky, and things could change with the smallest of details," Barbatos explained, his gaze meeting MC's with a depth of understanding that spoke of lifetimes spent in quiet contemplation. He moved to sit beside them, offering a sense of comfort that transcended the boundaries of time and space.

"Please, drink it. I made it especially for you," Barbatos said softly, his hand resting on MC's, a silent promise woven into the fabric of their shared sorrow. He didn’t seem bothered. Maybe that’s what being completely powerful meant. There was no logic for an immortal being like him to worry about such thing, so useless, so… meaningless.

And as they sipped their tea together, the bitter taste of inevitability mingled with the sweet warmth of companionship, reminding them that even in a world where soulmates were destined to part, the bond they shared would endure, a beacon of light in the endless expanse of time.

Drabble prompts you can use in your requests!

[midgardian-witch]

Blame It On The Moon

Jack has been distantly lately. A dangerous encounter in the woods shows you how much affection Jack and his wolf side really have for you.

tags: pining | monsterfucking | dub-con (everyone is into it but the circumstances are a bit iffy) | cunnilingus | afab!reader (no pronouns used) | penetration (p in v) | friends to lovers | body horror (werewolf transformation is described but not too detailed) | bad Spanish (because I am too shy to ask people for help)

ships: Jack Russell/afab!Reader

word count: 5.9k

AO3

Jack had been distant as of late. You had blamed it on the moon at first. Time had slowly creeped toward the dreaded full moon. The few days surrounding it always had him a bit cagey. You'd been traveling with Jack and Ted for so long identifying their moods had become second nature. Ted's humming and grunts got easier to interpret day by day. Even reading Jack had become easier, even though he hides his wolfish traits rather well. At this point you could figure out the current moon phase just by watching your werewolf companion for a while. 

So while you had blamed his strange behavior on the moon at first something is gnawing at the back of your mind. The way Jack hastily excused himself from your presence whenever you joined him and Ted for coffee or how when you'd wake up in the middle of the night - startled by the sound of an animal stepping on a particularly loud twig - you'd find neither hide nor hair of the werewolf. It all started to feel more and more like Jack was actively avoiding you. The why eluded you though. You had become good friends with the werewolf since you had joined him and Ted. Or so you thought at least. Had you done something to upset him? You'd talk to him and ask but every time you tried he'd made a quick exit. 

You slump down on a tree stump with a sigh. The rustling of foliage and a worried sounding grumbling alerts you to Ted's presence. You shake your head and wave him off. 

"Don't worry about it, Ted. I'm just overreacting." Or so you hope. 

The creature sits down next to you, raising an arm and offering a hug. You smile at him, grateful for his empathy and lean into the embrace. You take a deep breath and mumble a quiet thanks as he gives your body a soft squeeze. Even though Ted could look terrifying at first glance you know what a gentle being he truly is. Especially in times like this when emotions run high he’s like a calming balm for your soul. 

A few moments pass before you lean back from the embrace. Ted's big red eyes look at you in his very own version of the puppy dog eyes. A small laugh escapes you and you nod. 

"Yes, that helped. I feel a lot better already. Thank you, Ted."

Ted answers you with a pleased hum. His gaze drifts from your face to something behind you. You turn around to see what caught your friend's attention when you see Jack standing a few paces away, frozen in place. His mouth hangs open slightly as if he tried to say something but forgot what he wanted to say immediately after. He looks at you and for the first time since your very first meeting you can't pinpoint what emotion is going through his head. 

The look on his face is something you hadn't seen before. He almost looks angry? Disappointed? You're not quite sure and yet whatever this emotion is it's making you even more worried given his latest tendency to flee the scene whenever you were present. You take a step closer, unsure whether your presence is wanted or not. 

"Jack, are you alright? I haven't seen you around much lately. Did something happen?" 

Better to be blunt than struggle with subtlety and unnecessary niceties if you want to get behind what is going on with your friend. With every step you take, Jack's posture seems to stiffen even more, shoulders tense and jaw locked. You stop a few paces away from Jack, tilting your head quizzically. The man in front of you just stares at you, seemingly not having heard a thing you said while at the same time seeming keenly aware of your movements. 

"Jack?" 

You take another tentative step and like a scared rabbit he suddenly bolts. At the spot in which mere seconds ago your friend and companion stood is not even a Jack-shaped dust cloud left. You see him vanish back into the woods as you let out a frustrated sigh. So much for talking things over. 

You turn back to Ted who looks at you with his red glowing eyes and you suddenly feel pitied. Ted humms mournfully, his gaze drifting back to where Jack fled into the forest. 

"I don't know what I did for him to run from me like I have the plague", you mumble under your breath as you kick a defenseless stone in front of your feet. You only get a thoughtful grunt from Ted this time. 

"Or am I just overreacting? Is it just some new werewolf quirk he gets when the moon is getting fuller?"

Your thoughts tumble around like each one is a loose item in a desk drawer. Why would he react like this now? He'd been nervous or a bit jumpy in earlier moon cycles but never like this. Or at least not since you had joined the small group that was Ted and Jack. 

Ted's thoughtful rumble doesn't give you any more insight on Jack's strange behavior. You sit back down next to him and bury your face in your hands, letting out another frustrated sigh. 

"So you think it's just because there is a full moon tonight and he doesn't want to be close and potentially hurt me?" 

You don't turn to Ted as you question his reasoning, instead you look up and watch as the sun is starting to slowly set over the horizon. This whole situation, the worrying and uncertainty, made your head spin. You're rubbing the bridge of your nose to stave off the beginnings of a headache. 

Ted hums in affirmation and you choose to trust his judgment. He knew Jack longer than you did after all. And yet that answer did nothing to stop the nervous flutter in your stomach. Maybe you really were overthinking things. Jack was a kind and thoughtful man, it made sense for him to want to keep you safe, however strange it may seem. His protectiveness was one of the traits you admired in him. More than admired even. 

It's been a few weeks since you realized that your feelings towards Jack were more than just those one would have for a platonic friend. He made you feel safe and cared for regardless of the circumstances. You were in the woods in the middle of nowhere and yet you had never felt safer. Ted had a big part in that too but with Jack things were different. While Ted had become a great friend you didn't wake up from dreams of you two kissing tenderly under a starlit sky. But with Jack? You'd lost count of how often you wake up from dreaming about your lips pressing against his, hands combing through his unruly hair. 

All of this makes the distance he has inadvertently put between the two of you hurt even more. Did he know? Could werewolves sense things like that? Crushes? They say wolves can smell fear, was it the same for other emotions? Could he hear the way your heart beat faster whenever you got too close? Is that why Jack is staying away? Maybe he just wants to let you down easy but is too nice to tell you to your face that he is not interested in you. Not in that way. Just as a friend.

You shake your head as you let out another groan of frustration. No, you would not let yourself go down that train of thought. Your crush on Jack was bad enough but you would not put words in his mouth like that. You'd have to just ask him, talk to him about it. Somehow. When he doesn't just run away again. 

You look back at Ted, his red eyes studying you carefully. "I'll talk to him about that after the full moon. I've been safe before without him avoiding me for days on end. There needs to be a better solution."

You stand up and walk over to the small tent you and Jack used for shelter when the three of you were traveling - though at this point it hadn't been used by Jack in a while. A part of you is grateful for that especially since you've developed more than platonic feelings for the werewolf. Sleeping in the same tent as the man you have a crush on was dangerous territory. 

You enter the tent with one goal in mind: finding a distraction. Jack wouldn't be back before the morning at this rate and you'd rather not be alone with your thoughts at this time. You remember that there was a deck of cards around here somewhere. Roping Ted into playing a few rounds with you before it was time to retire for the night should keep your mind off of Jack for the time being. 

Digging around your belongings you come across something you hadn't seen in a while. From between Jack's things you recognize a soft piece of fabric - a scarf you had lent Jack early on when you decided to travel with the strange duo. Another security measure, or so the werewolf had explained, something to remember you by - to remember your scent - should you ever come across the wolf. Next to it you find sturdy iron chains, a bit on the older side but still functional. They were the chains Jack used to keep himself locked up and tied down at a full moon. 

Wait. 

What were the chains doing here when it was already starting to get dark and Jack was who-knows-where alone in the woods? A shiver runs down your spine. Jack wouldn't be this careless, not if there wasn't something bigger at play. 

You gather up your scarf and the iron chains, the card deck you came here for completely forgotten, and leave the tent. The chains rattle in your arms as you return to Ted's side. He gives you a questioning groan, head tilted to the side, as you stuff the heavy chains into your backpack and tie your scarf around your neck. 

"Jack left these and it's already getting dark. I have no idea how he could forget them but I have to get them to him before we have a werewolf wandering the woods. What if there are people camping? What if some hiker decided to go out at night for whatever-the-fuck. What if-"

What if he hurts someone innocent? Jack would never be able to live with himself after that. 

You close your bag with shaking hands, heart racing like you just ran a marathon. Putting on your backpack you take one last look at Ted. 

"I have to find him. I'll be fine. Just stay here in case he comes back before I find him."

Ted just nods, knowing once you had made up your mind he couldn't do much to dissuade you. With a soft hum he asks you to be safe and you give him a smile that you hope comes across as confident before you make your way into the woods. 

You're nervous, walking through the thick foliage, tall, sturdy trees obscuring most of the last rays of sunlight that fight their way over the horizon. You try to focus your senses on finding Jack, the sound of careful footsteps, the sight of a figure moving through the bushes or just the eerie feeling of someone being nearby, anything. But all you feel is your heart threatening to beat out of your chest, all you hear is your own quickened breath. What if you're too late? 

In desperation you start calling his name, your voice getting more and more panicked each time. After what feels like hours of walking but could have only been a few minutes of almost screaming yourself hoarse you finally hear the answering call of your own name. You stop in your tracks, eyes frantically searching for the source of the voice, Jack's voice. At a distance you see a figure move towards you. You call out his name again and the figure moves faster. Finally you see him fully, Jack closing in on you, his face a mirror of your own panic. 

"What are you doing here? The sun is almost down! You can't be here, it's too dangerous!"

You nod, completely agreeing, as you take off your backpack and open it, showing him the thick iron chains inside. 

"I am aware of that, thank you. But I couldn't let you be out here alone without these."

You pull the chains out of the bag and hold them out towards him. His face lights up in recognition before his brows furrow. He looks guilty. 

"I- I completely forgot. Dios mio, thank you. I just-" 

He takes the chains and looks around as if he suddenly realized he was lost. His eyes find the thick trunk of a tree nearby and he walks towards it. Jack takes a few rounds around the tree, inspecting it and giving it a small nod when he deems it suitable. He turns back to you, still a guilty look on his face as he asks: "Would you-? Could you- uh. Help me with this?" 

He must have done this so many times before and yet he stands before you like a lost child. Your heart squeezes uncomfortably in your chest as you nod and follow him to the tree. Carefully you wrap the iron chains around the tree and Jack, securing him to it like a hostage in one of those countless Robin Hood movies. You worry about hurting Jack but he guides you through the motions, telling you how tight the chains should be in order to hold him back. 

Your hands feel like they are burning after you are done - from the cold or the strain to them you don't know. You take a step back and look at the man in front of you. A quiet part in the back of your mind suggests that now is the time to make Jack talk, now that he can't run away again, but you push that voice back. By the thickness of the tree crowns you can't say how much daylight you have left and the wolf would certainly not be able to answer your questions. 

"You should leave."

You can tell he is trying to sound stern and yet his eyes betray him, pleading for you to heed his words. You take a moment to just look at him. You won't lie and say you aren't curious about the other him, the wolf. But that curiosity is overshadowed by a very different emotion. 

You don't want him to be alone. 

It's silly maybe. Staying here would be dangerous for you. No one can predict if Jack will still recognize you when he turns or if the chains, old as they are, would even hold tonight. But you have seen the aftermath enough to know that whatever happens on the full moon it drains Jack. Hurts him in ways that no blade nor bullet can. And you don't want him to go through that alone. 

Your pondering is disturbed by groans of pain. Jack is writhing against the chains, body shaking violently. Your eyes widen as you look up and only see a bit of silvery light shining through the leaves. 

The full moon had risen. 

Jack's groans of pain turn into inhuman growling. You watch as his limbs shift, claws and fur growing. It's hard to avert your gaze from this gruesome sight, your eyes linger while your mind tells you to run. And yet you are frozen in place, by shock or by fear is unclear and irrelevant. Time slows down as you watch the figure in front of you strain against the chains, growling like a cornered animal. He doesn't even seem to notice you anymore. 

"J-Jack?" 

Immediately his eyes are on yours. 

Oh. 

You'd have thought his eyes would look different but they are still Jack's. Still the same beautiful brown-green. Time slows down as the two of you just stare into each other's eyes and you feel like you can't breathe. 

Getting closer would be a horrible idea. Terrible. Absolutely stupid. 

As you try and talk yourself out of doing something that could get you seriously hurt or worse killed the wolfman starts to sniff the air around himself. A soft whine takes you by surprise. His eyes had become impossibly large, pupils dilated to leave nothing but black. He keeps panting and sniffing and whining, looking at you with the one thing you would have expected from Jack but not the wolf: puppy dog eyes. 

You blink as if it would change the scene in front of you. Maybe you hit your head on your way here or maybe you stumbled and this is a dream or hallucination. 

The surrealism of the situation gives you the courage to step forward, closer to the werewolf tied to a tree. You are only a few paces away before Jack starts to struggle against the chains again, growling and snarling angrily. You flinch and step back again. As you leave his proximity the wolf starts to whine again, looking at you with big, round eyes, pleading. Your first thought is that he wants to be free from those chains. Who wouldn't be after all? Nobody wants to be held against their will. 

You take another careful step forward, repeating this strange dance of two steps forward, one step back - all the time never breaking eye contact with the wolf. Each time you come closer Jack fights harder against his restraints. Each time you step back he starts whining and whimpering like a dog begging for treats. 

You just hope he doesn't see you as the treat. 

Repeating this song and dance multiple times you are now about an arm's length away from Jack. He is still straining and fighting against the chains but it doesn't scare you as much as it did but a few minutes ago. Slowly, carefully you raise your hand. Jack's eyes look away from yours for the first time - eager to watch your hand, head tilted towards it, eagerly taking in your scent. You swallow hard hoping against hope that if anyone saw you they would blame the heat in your cheeks on the cold. Your fingers softly brush against Jack's cheek and you feel his fur for the first time. You're in awe, your hand hovering next to his face. You'd never thought his fur would feel this soft. 

A rumbling startles you out of your thoughts and it takes you a moment to figure out the source of the sound. You can feel Jack rubbing his face against your hand, softly growling, almost like a purr, as he eagerly chases your touch. You can't quite stop the nervous laugh that forces its way out of your lungs. You resume your petting and the content rumbling sound gets louder, echoing in the empty forest. 

"Is that it? You want to be petted?" 

You don't really expect an answer but you feel like you can't just stay quiet around Jack, even if he isn't the best conversationalist at the moment. His mouth is hanging open, panting loudly, allowing you a closer look at his sharp fangs. The werewolf gives another whine, not content with just rubbing his cheek against the palm of your hand anymore. He drags his tongue along the inside of your wrist leaving a damp stripe of saliva in its wake. You gasp, embarrassed by the unbidden thoughts of how that tongue would feel in other places. 

Hesitantly you take a step back, needing the physical distance to compose yourself. You ignore the disgruntled growling of the werewolf and close your eyes, taking a deep breath. This was a bad idea. Jack isn't in his right mind and you shouldn't take advantage of that. Not to mention that the wolf in front of you may seem somewhat harmless now but that could change any second. You should leave and find Jack again in the morning to untie him. Or tell Ted where to find him. 

A metallic groan disrupts your thoughts and when you open your eyes again you see Jack pulling at his chains. You take another startled step back as the werewolf breaks his restraints, metal bending and breaking under his inhuman strength. 

In a flash he is on you, your body crashing into the ground. Your back hits the earth and you gasp, pain shooting up your spine. As you look up you see right into those stunning eyes that held you captivated only moments ago. Jack kneels over you, his whole body trapping you underneath him. He bends over, nuzzling into your neck. You hear nothing but his hot breath and your own heart pounding in your ears. You keep completely still, afraid that any small move could be the wrong one and thus your last. You were never afraid of Jack but the wolf had you terrified. You flinch involuntarily as you feel his wicked tongue against your neck, sharp canines dragging softly against your skin. Heat curls in your abdomen as you gasp out his name. The rumble in his chest vibrates through you as his body crowds yours. There is no space, no air left between the two of you as Jack rubs his face against your neck, claws against your sides and his hips sliding against your legs. 

It feels like your mind is made out of static as you feel the drag of his sizable erection against your thighs. You were afraid the wolf was seeing you as a treat to devour - you didn't know how right and wrong you were before now. 

"J-Jack! Oh God", you gasp as the werewolf keeps grinding down on you frantically. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, fingers digging into the dark fur, pulling him even closer. With a pleased rumble he paws at your clothes, eager to get them off, to expose more and more of your skin. His claws rip through your clothes, the fabric tearing apart like tissue paper. You shiver at the contrast between the heat radiating off of Jack and the cool night breeze, goosebumps prickling over your skin. Jack drags his tongue from your neck over your collarbone to the swell of your chest. Your nipples stiffen with Jack's proximity and the low temperature of everything but yourself and the werewolf currently bent over you. 

He huffs against your bare skin, his tongue swirling around your peaked nipples. With a choked off moan you squirm beneath Jack. He holds you down with his sheer mass, his hips still grinding against you. You can feel the heat of his hard cock through the fabric of your pants. 

"F-fuck! Jack please-" 

You don't even know if he understands you, how much Jack there is left in this creature but you can't help yourself. Desperate for more, you tighten your grip on his fur and try to guide his head lower. The werewolf offers no resistance, only a questioning hum as he traces the path downward with his tongue. Once his face is right above your clothed pussy he inhales deeply, taking in the scent of your arousal that is evident to him even through your clothing. His whole body shudders and all air leaves his lungs with a dark growl. 

You flinch at the sound, your sex-addled mind clearing as you are once again aware of who and especially what you are currently laying under. This was dangerous. What are you even doing? You can't just have sex with Jack while he is under the influence of the full moon. This was a glaring consent issue. What if he doesn't want you like that? What if the wolf would actually try to eat you? What if-

You are violently pulled out of your thoughts by your pants being ripped apart by two clawed hands and dragged off of your body. With a surprised yelp you try and scramble backwards but the wolf is faster. His claws dig into the soft flesh of your thighs much more gently than you could have anticipated. Once again you feel like you are pinned down like a butterfly in a display case. 

Jack spreads your legs apart, his face so close to your core with only the thin fabric of your underwear covering you. You watch him and try your best to stay still. His tongue runs along the already soaked fabric of your panties. You gasp and your hips involuntarily cant upwards, desperately seeking more friction. Jack repeats the motion with a satisfied growl before you feel his fangs against your skin. 

Your heart is pounding in your ears, both terrified and aroused by the sharp glide of his canines so close to your sensitive cunt. With one sharp tug on the flimsy fabric the wolf tears your underwear apart with his teeth. You can feel the cold air against your wet folds and instinctively try to cross your legs but you are stopped by Jack still hunched between your thighs. 

Quickly the freezing forest breeze is replaced by the hot panting of the werewolf, his face hovering over your glistening cunt. Another satisfied rumble vibrates through his chest before his flexible tongue slides between your wet folds in long, firm strokes. Your whole body shudders as his tongue circles your sensitive clit, a choked off moan falling from your lips. You tighten your grip on his fur, desperately clinging to him for support. 

Slowly, like rolling waves, you feel your orgasm approaching. At once it rushes over you, your whole body shaking with its intensity. Your breath shudders as the last waves of your orgasm ripple through your body and your arms fall weakly to your sides. For a moment you forget the surreal situation you are in and just enjoy the afterglow of such an intense climax. 

You can feel Jack’s hot breath against your sensitive sex. He climbs over you once more, caging you in under his broad form, his throbbing cock lying heavy against your abdomen. Jack slowly drags his cock down between your legs, rubbing teasingly between your folds. You gasp at the feeling and look up. His dark eyes seem to devour you, like the feast he just made of your pussy wasn't enough to sate him.

Mind still buzzing with the afterglow of your orgasm you blearily watch Jack’s canine face. It takes you a moment to recognize the question in the wolf's eyes. You're stunned for a second with the realization that even when turned into this beast that he so fears, Jack would never force himself on you. Not trusting yourself to get the words out you nod instead. The wolf's pleased rumble fills your ears and you feel the blunt pressure of his cock against your entrance soon after. 

Even with how wet you are, especially after your recent orgasm, you can feel the stretch of Jack's impressive girth entering you. He pushes inside you slowly, much slower than you'd expect from the werewolf. You gasp, his size more than you'd ever felt. Jack halts his movements and lets out a soft, almost worried sounding whine. You take deep breaths, squeezing your eyes closed and try to relax around his uncomfortable size. 

“I’m alright. Just- just give me a moment,” you force the words out between your lips. Your face is twisted in pain, not too much to overwhelm you but enough to make your breath shudder. Suddenly you feel Jack's nose and cheek rub against yours, his apologetic whimpers filling your ears. He's trying to soothe you or maybe apologize - you're not sure. Your eyes blink open and with shaky hands you reach out to grasp his face gently. 

It's difficult to read Jack's facial expressions like this, his wolfish features distorting the soft smiles or raised eyebrows you're so used to from Jack. The only thing unchanged by his transformation are his eyes, still so expressive even under the influence of the full moon. You take deep breaths, trying to calm your mind and relax. Jack rubs his cheek against yours, whimpering softly in your ear. “It’s ok. I know you don’t want to hurt me,” you try to soothe him, your fingers playing with his fur. 

It takes you a few moments until you feel ready to continue. “You can move now. But slowly,” you tell him softly, your hands still buried in his fur, “Please.” He nods in understanding and the werewolf slowly starts moving his hips. You feel his massive cock drag against your slick walls, the pain his size and girth had caused you turning gradually into pleasure. Jack trembles over you, the need to just mindlessly plow into you slowly growing stronger than his restraint. As he bottoms out you shudder, your drawn out moan echoing through the forest. Jack stays unmoving inside you, his head buried in your neck, panting heavily into your ear. You can feel his cock pulse inside your pussy and you instinctively clench around him. With a deep growl his hips stutter and you gasp. 

“Move oh god please move,” you beg. Jack doesn’t leave you waiting and at once he starts really fucking into you. His clawed hands hold your hips tightly and leave you unable to move as he buries his cock in you again and again. It’s maddening feeling him so deep inside of you, feeling him everywhere. The werewolf responds to every flutter of your cunt, to every sound spilling from your lips, growling and fucking you faster and harder. The last thought you have is that you won’t be able to walk in the morning and then he hits that spot inside of you that makes your mind go blank. Your eyes roll into the back of your head and you let out an ungodly moan. You can’t think, all you know is the feeling of his massive cock splitting you open and the inhuman wolfman using fucking you like a human-sized fleshlight. It’s absolute bliss and you let yourself fall into the pleasure he gives you. You’re babbling something; you can hear your voice but you don’t know what you’re saying but he seems to understand, huffing and puffing in response. He lifts your hips and the angle makes you cry out even louder. The slick sound of his cock plowing into you is obscene but you don’t care. You’re getting closer and closer to your second orgasm, your fingers digging almost painfully into his fur, urging him on until a particularly hard thrust makes you see stars and pushes you over the edge. It’s too much, the pleasure overwhelming you as everything goes dark and you lose consciousness.  

The first thing you notice when you come to yourself is the hard ground under you and the heavy weight on top of you. You open your eyes and the sunlight spilling through the leaves makes you squint. How long were you out? If the sun was already out then-

The weight on top of you shifts and you hear Jack grumble. Not the wolf but Jack. A very human, very naked Jack lays on you, his head on your chest. You freeze when you feel him slowly rouse from his sleep. Panic rises in your chest. What would you tell him? Did he remember what happened last night? Your spiraling thoughts grind to a halt when Jack’s eyes, heavy with sleep, find yours. His brow furrows as he mumbles your name. Realization dawns on his face and you can’t do anything but watch, anything you could say to him stuck in your throat. But where you expect embarrassment or disgust you only find terror. “Oh no, what did I do?” he whispers to himself. “Jack, I-” He sits up and the missing weight on you feels wrong. His eyes scan your body, taking in your ripped clothing. “Did I hurt you? Ay Dios, what did I do?” “Jack,” you try to pull his attention towards you, voice raised, “You did nothing wrong. You didn’t hurt me.” His eyes find yours trying to catch you in a lie but he finds only the truth. His shoulders slump with a deep sigh. 

You stay quiet before Jack breaks the silence. “Why did you stay with me? You could have died!” He is still frowning but you can hear the anger in his voice. “I wanted to help! I-,” you explain as you sit up and try to cover yourself with the bits and pieces of clothing you are left with, “The wolf, he wanted me to stay. He didn’t attack me.” Jack swallows around the lump in his throat, pointedly not looking at you when you cover up to give you some privacy. “It’s a beast. You should have run. You should have-” “He didn’t attack me, Jack. He likes me.” A faint blush creeps on his face. “Likes you? I don’t think that describes quite what happened here,” he mumbles sheepishly. 

Jack carefully sneaks a peek at you, not so subtly checking for injuries again. “Are you sure you aren’t hurt?” He sounds so worried and it breaks your heart. “I’m alright. A bit sore maybe but no injuries.” Jack clears his throat awkwardly, “Sore? Oh dear. I am so sorry. I didn’t- I mean, I wasn’t-” Gently you put your hand on his shoulder. “It’s ok. You weren’t in control. I know you don’t like me like that,” you reassure him, the words leaving a bittersweet taste in your mouth. He looks at you like you’re speaking in tongues. “You don’t…mi vida, I thought I was pretty obvious,” he says, embarrassment clear in his voice. You blink at him in confusion. “What do you mean?” Jack swallows hard and turns towards you fully. “I like you. Very much. I mean, I am attracted to you,” he sighs, rubbing his face, “The closer the full moon gets the harder it is to hide my feelings. I was close to ripping Ted apart yesterday just because he gave you a hug. It’s maddening.” 

Your heart races, heat spreading through your cheeks. “You- You mean that you-” “I’m in love with you. And I know this is the worst timing and I really didn’t want our first time to be like this,” he motions around him. Your heart feels heavy and light at the same time. “I love you too, Jack.” He smiles at you, a big toothy grin that makes you smile too. “I’m glad. I didn’t think you did. That’s why I tried to hide it.” You nod in understanding given that you did pretty much the same. You tell him as much as you lean in closer, resting your head on his shoulder. 

You don’t know how long you stay like this, the sun rising further and the forest waking around you. It’s only when you gather your things and make your way back to camp, careful of any hikers catching you in the nude that you turn to Jack and ask: “How do we tell Ted?” Jack laughs, shaking his head. “I have a feeling he already knows, mi vida.”

[goldfades]

i desperately need 🧊 with trevor….

GIRL ANGSTY TREVOR WILL BE THE END OF MY EXISTENCE also lowkey gives off 'right where you left me' vibes HAAHAHAHA

trevor sat slouched in a booth at the far end of the bar, where no one was. it was empty ─ no one really wants to be drinking at a bar on a tuesday at 5 pm. but there he was, drinking from the now luke-warm beer he had order two and half hours ago.

the dimly lit bar provided trevor with a shroud of anonymity, a temporary escape from the relentless demands of his life. the ruthless comments from critics and the harsh comments from his 'fans' had seemingly gotten him. his eyes bore the weight of unspoken burdens, hidden behind a disheveled mop of hair. the low hum of conversations and clinking glasses seemed distant, as if they were occurring in another world ─ trevor was seemingly in his own.

each sip of the lukewarm beer carried a bitter reminder of all that had gone wrong. it wasn't just the taste that soured his mood; it was the flavor of regret that lingered on his tongue. he had made choices, hard choices, and they had taken a toll on him, just like everyone had warned him.

the bartender glanced his way, a silent question in their eyes, but trevor waved them off. he wanted to be alone in his misery, if only for a little while longer. in the solitude of the empty booth, he pondered the path he had chosen and wondered if it was worth the price he had paid.

his mind kept replaying every moment of the last night he had with you: his beautiful, amazing, supportive girlfriend. even if it was almost eight months ago, the burn had seemingly left a mark.

trevor's thoughts had been on relentless loop since it happened, like a never-ending highlight reel of that fateful night. he could still smell your sweet familiar perfume, the one you had worn since high school, and he could hear the soft, understanding tone of your voice. it was as if you were right there with him, in that dimly lit bar, even though he knew you were miles away.

but there was one thing that eluded him, one detail he couldn't quite grasp no matter how hard he tried: the exact look of your face. iy was slipping away from his memory, fading like a distant dream, and that hurt more than anything else. losing your face, your smile, the way your eyes lit up when you were happy ─ it was as if a part of him was vanishing along with those memories.

he realized that it was truly over. it wasn't just a breakup; it was the slow elimination of everything that had once defined his world. trevor's heart ached with the weight of that realization, and he took another sip of his now lukewarm beer, trying to drown out the pain that threatened to consume him.

the last night of their relationship haunted trevor like a ghost in the shadows. it had been the night that shattered everything they had built together since high school, the culmination of a slow, painful unraveling. and he knew it was his fault, too.

he replayed that night in his mind like a broken record, dissecting every word, every gesture, every mistake. the way they had argued, the harsh words exchanged like daggers, the tears that had stained both their cheeks ─ it was all etched into his memory with agonizing clarity.

he had pushed too hard, let his own insecurities and frustrations drive a wedge between them. in that moment, it had felt like the right thing to do, like a necessary release of pent-up tension. but now, as he sat alone in that empty bar, he realized the devastating consequences of his actions.

the weight of regret pressed down on him, and he knew that there was no going back. he had lost the love of his life, the person who had been his rock, his confidant, his everything. and it was a loss that cut deeper than anything he had ever experienced.

he didn't feel like himself with you ─ it was always "y/n and trevor," an inseparable pair, a team that felt destined for greatness. they had dreams together, plans for a future that included a loving family with two boys and a girl (so that they could protect their sister, like he and griffin had always done with ava), two cats and a dog, and a big house filled with even bigger hearts.

but now, as he sat in that dimly lit bar, all those dreams felt like distant memories from another lifetime. he had watched them crumble, one by one, under the weight of his own mistakes and poor choices. the life they had imagined together had slipped through his fingers like grains of sand, leaving only a sense of emptiness in its wake.

in those long and agonizing eight months, trevor tried to fill the void you left in his life with anything and everything he could find. it didn't matter how many girls he met, how much money he made, or how successful he became in the sport he had once sworn to love with all his heart. none of it brought him any real happiness or contentment like you once had.

he had been led astray by the misguided notions of others, who had convinced him that success in his career, fame, and the thrill of one-night stands were what he truly wanted. but now, as he navigated the wreckage of his heart, he realized the painful truth. they were either envious of what he had lost or utterly clueless about how it felt like to be truly in love.

as he stared at the bottom of his glass, the truth hit him like a ton of bricks. how could anyone in their right mind choose a one-night stand over the love of their life? the person they had planned to build a future with, the one who would bear their children, the one they wanted to grow old with ─ you had been his rock, his everything. and he had let it slip through his fingers, foolishly thinking that there was something better out there. now, all he had left were regrets and the painful knowledge that he had made the biggest mistake of his life with even bigger consequences. his eyes stung with unshed tears as he stared down at the now empty glass and he finally let them fall. each teardrop held the weight of his regrets, each one a testament to the love he had let slip through his fingers.

in that moment, he allowed himself to grieve for the love he had lost, for the future that would never be, and for the pain he had inflicted upon himself.

in the cold solitude of that dimly lit bar, he understood that he had gambled away the most precious thing he had ever known (and will ever know), and now he was left with nothing but the bitter taste of regret.