#fluffy has been with me through thick and thin and i will never replace them with anything else♥ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dreamcatcherrs · 2 years

Text

all too well; c!technoblade x reader

!PLEASE READ!

this is an incomplete story I started on last year, and I never managed to finish it and probably won’t as I find it hard to write for techno anymore. but I figured I wouldn’t let the stuff I wrote go completely to waste, so here you go :)

+ based on taylor swift’s “all too well” ten minute ver. but techno actually has a reason to be an asshole unlike jake :)

++ if you know the song, you already know it’s gonna be an angsty and fluffy mess

stepping through the door to his cabin you let out a sigh at the feeling of the sweet warmth of his home surrounding you, quickly closing the door behind you to prevent the cold air from crawling up your neck. the cold from the snowy biome he chose to live in was no joke.

a pair of arms snaked around you from behind, cold lips placing a chaste kiss to your cheek. you giggled.

"mmm, I’m thinking rabbit stew for dinner tonight, whaddya say?" you turned around to face him, swinging your arms over his shoulders with a smile on your face.

"that sounds wonderful." your lips met his, cold and a bit chapped, but soft nonetheless, pulling away shortly after. he pressed his lips into a thin line, blood flowing to his cheeks as the voices went crazy for you in his head. luckily, for him, you couldn’t hear them, or else he’d probably die. he shedded himself from his cape, your eyes lingering on him as he did so, admiring his effortless charm, wondering how you could ever be this lucky.

once shaking yourself out of your daze you reached for the red scarf around your neck, unwrapping it and letting it hang from the railing attached to the stairs along with your thick and wooly coat that protected your body from the icy air outside.

walking into the kitchen, techno was already chopping up the potatoes, white sleeves rolled up to his elbows and hair tied into a bun. the sight alone was breathtaking to you, and he didn’t even know it. you walked over to stand by his side, grabbing the carrots on the counter to start chopping them up. techno glanced at you without moving his head so you wouldn't notice, and you didn’t.

you didn’t notice.

you grunted as you failed at your second attempt of mounting the horse, your leg just not long enough to swing over the saddle. about to try for a third time, a pair of hands landed on your waist, making you halt your movements.

“here, let me help you.” the warmth of techno’s fingers melted through the material of your clothes. you felt your blood rush to your cheeks. you uttered out a small “thanks,” letting him lift you onto the horse with little power needed from you.

you grabbed a hold of the rope attached to the horse to lead and stop him, waiting for techno to get on his horse again, watching as he does so with ease.

“alright, let’s go.”

you wanted to go for a ride together in the forest a few miles away from the snowy cabin you were held up at most of the time, for a change of scenery, or just to spend some peace and quiet time together if you will.

techno turned his head to look at you, seeing if you’d found your way around on the horse, meaning for it to just be a quick glance. but when he saw how you smiled sweetly at the horse as you ran a gentle hand over his fur, he couldnt help but to admire you. your were so… kind-natured. innocent, sweet. completely different from him, yet here you were - his. his heart tugged in his chest as the voices in his head kept repeating compliments aimed towards you.

“techno!”

with a last minute jerk to the rope, techno just about managed to miss falling down the deep ravine one block away from him. he swallowed, looking over at you again as you giggled at him. he recollected himself, moving on ahead of you casually to look calm and collected.

you reached the woods, the snowy path you’d been following slowly disappearing and being replaced by the beautiful array of colours from the autumn leaves. your eyes widened at your colourful surroundings, not having been used to this type of biome since you got into a relationship with techno and stayed with him. and as much as you loved staying with techno in the snowy biome, you still missed what you were used to.

distracted by the scenery, you didn’t notice the creeper sneaking up on you from between the trees.

but your horse did.

kicking his front legs in the air, you screeched, holding on tight to the rope as your horse started running with full speed down the path and away from the creeper. away from techno. now was the time you really wished you knew more about riding a horse. you probably should've listened more when techno helped you learn.

your hair blew back from the powerful wind, eyes squinted as you tried your best to make your horse stop, but despite your effort, nothing seemed to work.

suddenly, a hard tug to the rope you were holding, and everything stood still again, no more cold wind. techno appeared on his horse beside you, pink braid messy from the wind blowing into his face and brows furrowed. he quickly got off his horse, keeping a hold on the rope as he approached you.

“come on, boy, it’s okay. that nerd is far gone.” you laughed a little at his choice of words, noticing a little gunpowder on his hand as he reached out to you. “you okay?” his eyes drooped, a sincere look crossing his face as you placed your hand in his. warm, as always.

“yeah, I’m good. y’know, just glad I didn’t die from that,” you smiled, letting him help you down. he rolled his eyes.

“maybe you're being a bit overdramatic. I don't think you could die from that.”

your brows furrowed, arms crossed over your chest. overdramatic?

he swallowed.

“I mean, y’know, you’re the lover of the blood god, I think you're too strong for such a weak death.”

you squinted your eyes at him and shot him a small glare. he shot you a lopsided smile, letting out a breath once you turned around to get on the horse again.

victory.

he watched you struggle mounting the horse again. “d’you need help with that?”

“no!”

“ah! this is you?”

you picked up the photo from the counter, just in time before he could snatch it away from you. you quickly held it to you, sending him a mischievous smirk as you looked at it. he sighed.

it was a picture from when he was little, barely taller than wilbur who stood beside him in the photo with his arm slung over his shoulders, little tommy peeking at the camera between the two brothers. you felt a pang in your chest as your eyes softened looking at the photo. techno had his long hair in a braid, hanging from his shoulder and down his chest, tusks peeking out from under his upper lip, glaring at will as he pulled him close, a bright smile on the brunettes face. techno’s glasses were the same, but the scar that usually ran down the middle of his eye was yet to be seen.

it was… so precious.

“aww, look at you tech! even back then you hair was in a — braid…”

you turned, looking at techno with a faltering smile, watching as his cheeks and ears glowed a bright red. he itched his neck, keeping his eyes glued to the ground.

“tech? you okay?” you reached out, gentle fingers pushing a strand of hair out of his face, same hand cupping his face to make him look at you. he did, eyes gloomy and brows upturned.

“they hate me.”

your face fell, breath hitching at his words. how could he say that?

“what? honey, they don’t hate you. you’re their brother-“

“brother? what kind of a brother am I, y/n? a good one? a brother who leaves his family behind? I would understand if they aren’t very fond of me.”

your lips parted, eyes open wide as you listened intently, observing his icy orbs.

techno didn’t mean to suddenly unload his emotional baggage on you, but you seeing that photo - it reminded him of why the ones he loved were not in his life anymore, and it reminded him that you might become an addition to that list. as a man known for control and power, he has little of that in his head. he has no idea if the voices are gonna betray him again like they’d once done before and leave you, abandon you. lose you. his fears were coming out, crawling out of his mouth in no words and-

he sobbed.

head landing on your shoulder, he hunched over and clung to your body, releasing the tears he hadn’t cried for so long, years, into your shoulder. you found it hard to take in his sudden outburst, not having ever seen this side of the piglin before.

you quickly shook off your own feelings, knowing that now was a time where you had to think of him and only him. you placed your hands on the back of his head, over his hair as you held him close to you, kissing his temple. looking down at the photo still in your hand, you wondered what kind of past he must’ve had to feel this way, to feel so… alone. even when he still had so many people who loved him.

“techno.” you managed to pull him slightly away from you, teary eyes staring into yours as you wiped his tears on his cheeks away. “tell me what happened.”

he sniffed, unbuttoning the top button to his shirt for air. “which part?”

“all of it.”

they deserve nothing. they’re merely just another peasant who’s gonna end up stabbing us in the back.

techno stared at you as you slept peacefully beside him, hand still resting on his bare chest. he swallowed, eyes clouded with darkness. he squeezed them shut to get the voices to stop.

do it now. while they’re weak, disadvantaged. one stab through the neck and we’re safe, free. alone.

techno shot up from the bed, panting and clutching a hand over his heart. he groaned, wiping the sweat off of his forehead, but to no avail - his whole body was completely covered.

he hadn’t even heard you stir awake, the only thing he’d been able to hear being the voices, murderous, merciless voices roaming his mind.

“techno, what’s wrong?” you asked, but received no response other than the loud breathing he was letting out as he heaved. “hey.” you placed a hand on his shoulder, to which he immediately flinched away from your touch, as if you’d burned him with your fingertips. he stared back at you with wide eyes, backing away from you on the bed. your slight feeling of worry turned into a feeling much worse.

“get away from me,” he panted, moving further away from you once he noticed you trying to get closer.

“techno what’s wrong? talk to me, please! I’m only trying to he-“

“please just get away from me, y/n…”

you gaped at him as he stood up from the bed, claws scraping his scalp as he held his head, facing the ground. he heaved, shoulders moving up and down to his breathing as it grew louder along with the voices. he grunted, placing a hand on the wall as if he couldn’t stand up straight.

ignoring his words, you stood from the bed too, finding his health and happiness much more important than whatever reason he had for asking you to stay away from him. your heart started beating faster, anxious about him. what was happening? why was he acting like this? you’d never seen this happen to him before, and you were too desperate to know what was going on in his head to listen to his desperate words.

you grabbed his forearm, trying to get him to turn to you, but as soon as you did, the air from your lungs left your body as he pushed you harshly against the wall. a cold feeling on your neck, and without being able to move you could feel the blade pressing into your skin, a drop of warm blood running down your neck from where the blade had broken skin. you stopped breathing, looking into his eyes as tears fell from yours. he was still heaving, eyes black and hot breath fanning your face as he showed off his tusks from his open mouth.

“I said get the fuck away from me,” he growled, eyes unrecognizable as they stared into yours. you whimpered, clenching your hand around the wrist holding the blade to your neck. your nails dug into his skin, not wanting to hurt him, but fearing that not doing so would end up getting you even more hurt. though nothing felt as painful as what you were feeling right now. this man- beast, before you was not techno. it couldn’t be…

you cried out his name, closing your eyes in fear of what would happen. and then, the pressure was removed from your neck, a shaky pair of arms embracing you as the clang of the blade hitting the floor surrounded the room.

“y/n I- the voices I can’t-“

you gasped for air, pushing him off of you with all of your power and sobbing as you looked at your lover, disbelief coursing through you. your bottom lip shook as you cried, shaky hands clinging to your own body in a way to try and cope with what just happened. blood was smeared on your neck from the cut he made with the blade, his soaked eyes widening at the sight. he huffed, heart sinking to the bottom of his stomach. what had he done? the one thing he’d ever wanted to do was protect you, and now he was the one hurting you. “y/n please, I’m so sorry. something took over me I- you know that I’d never try to hurt you, right?”

he inched slightly closer to you, tears that were forming in his eyes finally falling when you backed away from him in fear. you just cried harder at his words, smearing blood on your face when you placed your hands over your eyes, sobbing into your hands. words couldn’t explain how you felt - betrayal? shock? anger? sadness? none of them felt like the right word. all you knew was that you didn’t feel good.

and neither did techno.

he backed away from you, realizing that the only way for him to make you feel at least a little bit better, safer, was if you were far away from him. far, far away.

he was out of the bedroom before you had the chance to stop him, looking up from your wet hands to see him gone along with his red cape and sword. wide-eyed, you looked around the room, contemplating wether you should go after him or not. the man you loved, your soulmate. the man who just attacked you.

techno left hooveprints in the snow as he ran, away away away. as far as his legs would let him. he didn’t know what his mind could do now without his control. he didn’t know if he was capable of keeping you safe from himself. all he knew was that he could never hurt you again. not like this.

he reached the woods, huffing out a breath as he stopped by a tree to catch his breath. the need for oxygen in his lungs blocked out the sound of loud gallops coming his way.

you spotted his blood red cape, royal colour standing out from the dull trees. “come on, Carl. we’ve gotta get him,” you mumbled to yourself and the horse you were sat on, speeding up as you entered the forest. “tech!”

turning around with wide eyes, techno’s heart sped up as he saw you there, getting off the horse with ease. he took a step back. “y/n, please, I don’t wanna hurt you again,” he pleaded, holding his hand out to prevent you from coming closer to him.

you signed sadly, heart glowing with love so powerful that you swear he could see it through your skin. unfortunately, he couldn’t. so you needed to tell him, or else you were scared you’d never see him again.

“honey, please. let’s talk about this,” you stepped closer to him, attempting to get close to him without scaring him off. he didn’t step back this time. instead, he faced the ground, ears downturned in shame. he watched a tear fall from his eye and melt into the snow below him. “I know you’d never try to hurt me, tech.”

your hand was on his cold cheek now, lifting his head up to look at you. he did, tearful and pouty. it almost made you cry. you know he didn’t mean to hurt you, you could see it. but that just left you confused with what had happened. and something told you he was just as confused.

“please,” you begged, running your fingers through his hair. “I love you.” techno closed his eyes shut at your words, giving into your touch as he melted in your arms, crying softly into your shoulder. you let your tears fall silently as well, watching as the sun started rising in the horizon as you stood embracing your broken lover in the middle of the snowy woods.

he hadn’t answered you back then. he wished he’d been different.

your eyes lit up in excitement as you spotted a green and red figure from the window despite the blaring sun shining onto the snow, blinding you. you bursted out of the door, running towards the two men wearing barely any clothes. but you didn’t care. because he was back. techno was back, after a whole month since that night.

you threw your arms around him, crashing into his body. his usual warmth surrounded you. oh, how you’d missed that warmth. you shut your eyes, trying your hardest not to cry as the piglin embraced you back, bearing the same expression on his face as you did.

phil continued walking to the cabin, muttering a small “hey y/n” and then leaving you to it.

“you’re back earlier than expected,” you said, running a finger over his spine as you took him in.

“yeah… puffy said it seemed like I was getting better faster than we’d thought. so she sent me back,” he explained, monotone yet heart pounding incredibly hard for you.

you pulled away from him, cupping his face to get a look at him. he looked… calm. better. sending him to puffy’s therapy must’ve done something by the looks of it. but of course you couldn’t know since you hadn’t talked about it yet. but all you could think of right now was how much you’d missed him.

you placed your lips on his, kissing him gently to get used to his lips again. you’d missed his kisses, his presence, him him him. he kissed back, pulling your chest against his as he soothed his thumb over your chin. he tilted his head for a deeper angle, letting his tongue run across your bottom lip. you let him in, electricity shooting through your body, leaving you with a fuzzy feeling.

he pulled away and wrapped his red cape around you, resting his chin on your head. “I missed you so much, kid.”

and the words he spoke were true. he’d missed you so much that when he left you it felt like his lungs would collapse and his blood would run dry and like his whole body was shutting down. he loved you more than he’d ever thought he’d be capable of loving anyone or anything. like you were the sole purpose of his life, the end goal. you were everything to him.

and yet he had this feeling that he shouldn’t be with you. that he should stay far away from you, like you weren’t meant to be. it was draining and it was there with him whenever he thought of you or was in your presence - this breathtaking and anxious feeling ripping the love right out of his heart.

he squeezed you to him, kissing the top of your head. you smiled into his cape. “I missed you too. so much.”

#technoblade x reader #mcyt x reader #dream smp x reader #technoblade fanfic #c!technoblade x reader #c!technoblade #technoblade fluff #technoblade angst #technoblade imagine #dream smp imagine #dream smp fluff #dream smp technoblade #dream smp angst #dream smp fanfic #mcyt fanfic #mcyt fluff #mcyt angst #mcyt imagine

295 notes · View notes

whump-town · 3 years

Text

The Traveling T-Shirt

No Pairings

No Warnings

It's just Morgan's t-shirt traveling through the BAU one person and story at a time

It starts with a coffee spill in Seattle. With Aaron, startlingly enough.

Six days in the rain and it seemed even their cleanest, driest clothing was damp with the chill from the constant downpour. Though, six days on their feet with clothing they’d already worn at least twice that week on their backs, they looked more and more “rag-tag” as the hours bore on. Even Hotch had lost his cookie-cutter charm. His white t-shirt crumpled where it was typically pressed to perfection, not a wrinkle in sight. His hair wouldn’t stay gelled into the style he liked it in, leaving it fluffy and soft on the top of his head. He looked significantly less like SSA Aaron Hotchner and a lot more like Aaron.

Maybe he had lost SSA Hotchner somewhere along the days and victims because SSA Hotchner would never spill coffee on himself. But Aaron would and Aaron did.

Derek watched the whole thing take place, unable to take his eyes off of Hotch since the second that he walked in. Something about his tired zombie-like lurches just couldn’t break Derek’s curiosity and he had to know what would come out of Hotch’s current state. Despite the far-away look in Hotch’s gaze, the tired bags of discoloration under his eyes, Derek would not have predicted this as the outcome. Hotch is so out of it that all he can do is stare at the mess he’s created, glaring at the mess of coffee grounds across his less than pristine white dress shirt.

“Here,” Derek shakes his head, has to manually clear the fog occupying his brain. He pulls at the loose clump of napkins someone had left atop the coffee table for this exact situation, presses the mass into Hotch’s stomach. It feels akin to something else, distinctly deja-vu. Like he’s pressing into a wound, holding him together with nothing more than cheap napkins.

The physical contact brings Hotch back to the Earth and with a few blinks of his blood-shot eyes he sighs irritably and mumbles, “I don’t have any more clean shirts.”

Derek would argue the one he’s currently wearing is not clean either. It’s got a few dots of red expo marker on the left elbow where Reid bumped into him, rambling quickly about his map and the geographical profile. On the cuff of his right sleeve, there’s something brown or black which could be something from a pen or an expo marker or something else he’s just stuck his hand in. God knows what else is on this shirt.

Hotch puts his hand over Derek’s, holds the napkins himself. Derek pats his shoulder, “it’s alright, man. I’ll get you a shirt.”

They could go just about anywhere and just buy him a shirt. It could be some looney graphic t-shirt from the boy’s sections of some store down the street or another white dress shirt to replace the one he’s wearing but Derek just gets one of his. It’s a light grey, the color worn down by how frequently Derek wears it. Where it fits Derek snugly, hugs his chest and back tightly, it fits Hotch oddly. Displays to them all just how right they were in the assumptions they have held about how his recent divorce is affecting him.

He’s lost weight.

Too much.

One thin grey Hanes t-shirt can’t fight off the chill and overtop it, covering his visible bones, Dave throws him a sweater. He stays buried in that sweater and shirt all day, long into the night as they go hunting out in the streets with flashlights. Rain comes down heavy and thick.

Dave gets his sweater back. Folded neatly and smelling of the distinct fabric softener Hotch uses, it makes his whole office smell nice and Dave nearly can’t bring himself to wear the thing again. Doesn’t want the scent to fade, every inch of that sweater is now stitched together with something more.

The t-shirt gets left at the bottom of a drawer, to be discovered months from now.

Emily finds it six nights after Foyet left Hotch in Saint Sebastion’s hospital held together by sugrical staples and the stubborn will to live. All of his clothing has been hunted through, his shirt drawer is nearly empty. JJ and Penelope had undertaken the job of finding Hotch clothing for the hospital -- anything that he could just slip his arms into without having to lift them above his head. The only things left in his drawers are regular t-shirts and jeans, meaning Emily doesn’t have a whole lot to pick through right now.

She hadn’t anticipated this need and as much forethought as she put into staying the night was assuming Hotch would have clothes she could steal. She hadn’t really thought she’d be here tonight but she doesn’t think she can leave him alone. Doesn’t think it would be kind of her as his friend to see him like this and still choose to leave him for the night.

She decides on a thin grey shirt that she finds, turning her nose up to his university t-shirts (as if she’d wear those) and a pair of sweat pants on his floor that she thinks are clean or at least don’t smell bad. It’s not the best but she came unprepared and she’s not going to complain, both are comfortable even if the pants are giant on her.

To her surprise, he’s still fighting off his meds. Hazy brown eyes blink open when she steps back out into the living room, following her as she comes to the couch. She’s careful, even if she does it nonchalantly, as she moves his legs a little so that she can sit down beside him. He’s stretched across the couch, too big so he’s pinched up in places, but he doesn’t want to sleep in his room. Stubborn like a child being asked to take a nap -- “but I’m not tired”.

“T’as not my shirt,” he mumbles into his blanket. He’s got the heating blanket pulled up his nose, wrapped tightly around his shoulders and hands.

Emily looks down at it and frowns. “Well, then who the hell else’s is it?” She reaches for the TV remote on the coffee table, turning it on without waiting for his answer. Clearly, she doesn’t care who’s it is, she’s not taking it off now. His grunt, muffled by the blanket, means he doesn’t know and he doesn’t really care enough either to figure out who it is.

He doesn’t last much longer, falls asleep with her squishing him on the couch (though, arguably, he’s squishing her). She’ll brush off his timid embarrassment at having to need her around the next morning, for waking up in the middle of the night having to be held down. Sobbing incoherently about something, neither of them really sure what. Only calming down when she put his head in her lap, stroking his hair back until he fell back asleep. Which is how he wakes up, his head in her lap and his hand holding her’s hostage.

But she shrugs it off and says she only did it for the free shirt, “don’t worry about it.”

She keeps the shirt, uses it several more nights as they graduate from sleeping on the couch to him finally going back to his bed. To being mentally present enough again to fight her about taking meds, to walking her to the front door every night, and watching her leave.

She buries the shirt too. It feels too tight on her skin, wrong. She touches the material and remembers seeing him hysterical, writhing in pain, and unable to be comforted. Can smell the antiseptic from his skin. Can hear the doctor warning her about his heart. That shirt feels like losing her best friend but she can’t bring herself to get rid of it.

JJ uncovers it a year later (before Emily has done the unspeakable, the unimaginable, and died and come back to life). It’s a girls night gone wrong but not impossibly so.

“Just grab one of my shirts,” Emily says, still laughing.

JJ glares back at her. She’s covered in water from the sink -- Emily sprayed her with the faucet. It’s revenge, payback for the pasta sauce JJ swiped down her cheek.

“You two are devious,” Penelope insists, waving her fingers at them. She’s still chopping up mushrooms, trying to size them as best as she can so that they are spread evenly throughout the alfredo sauce. “Behave before you ruin the sauce and I have to tell Dave that I not only shared his recipe but that you two ruined it.”

JJ has to search for a shirt from Emily’s pajama drawer. She doesn’t want any of the old college shirts and certainly doesn’t want any of the dopey graphic t-shirts Emily is so partial to. She ends up on a grey shirt, worn and old and soft.

Emily knows the shirt the second the JJ comes out and it takes her a moment to hide and stifle the anxiety that its presence gives her. Hotch’s health is better, he’s got a routine down with the medication he’ll be taking for the rest of his life because of that attack, but he’s smiling again. It’s harder than it was before to win one out of him but he can do it, they happen.

“Which one-night stand is this?” JJ asks, plucking the shirt with her fingers and raising an eyebrow.

Emily shakes her head, clears her throat of the residual guilt, and smirks, “trust me, you don’t want to know.” Hotch would be mortified at the insinuation but it’s funny and what he doesn’t know (and what they don’t know) can’t hurt him. She’s sad to see the shirt go, it’s a door closed, but relieved of its burden she can breathe again. Feels Foyet leave her completely.

JJ goes unburdened.

That old shirt is a comfort. She nurses Henry through fevers in it. Uses its edge to wipe his tears from his face. It’s always at the top of her laundry basket, the first thing she puts on when she gets home from a rough case. Will isn’t sure where she got it from because he knows it’s not his. It’s not the first time JJ’s stolen someone else’s clothes (he’s picked up enough of them to know that Reid wears a size small, that dark shirts sized medium are Morgan, and that white t-shirts in a medium are Hotch’s). He thinks it’s cute, she’s been stealing his shirts for as long as he’s known her.

In October, the fall of the same year that Emily leaves for Interpol, JJ gets held up in a meeting with Hotch. Something to do the with Department of Justice and all she manages to get out over the phone is that she’s absolutely pissed and Reid can just faintly hear Hotch offering her a coffee before she thanks him and the line goes dead. Will is on night shift and he can’t come home. So Reid fills in, their impromptu babysitter for the night.

It’s fine, calm… for the most part.

Reid lasts about an hour and a half before he finds himself in need of a change of clothes. He’s got pumpkin all over him and his fun little idea to let Henry carve a baby pumpkin was obviously a bad idea. He just didn’t know that in advance. He’s watched Jack enough times to feel fully confident in his skills but the age gap between Henry and Jack is severe. There are a lot of developmental differences in children only two years apart in age, Reid was not prepared for that.

He feels weird about stealing a shirt but his own is soaked in pumpkin guts and Henry’s bathwater.

JJ doesn’t notice the shirt exchange. She just grins at the sight of Spencer and Henry curled up on the couch, Will sitting beside them eating popcorn while “It’s The Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” plays softly.

Three days later Morgan sees his shirt on the back of the couch. It’s been washed and is waiting to be returned to JJ but he knows damn well that it’s his. “How the hell did you find this?” Morgan asks, lifting it up. Reid had called him over to fix a leaking pipe (Reid is supposed to call his Super who has a mechanic who can do it but he’s too anxious for that) and Morgan was less than prepared to find his missing shirt.

Reid frowns, confused, “that’s JJ’s. I borrowed it Thursday night when I babysat.”

Morgan shakes his head, no this is his shirt. He’s sure of it. It’s been gone for years. He thought the washing machine ate it. He couldn't remember where else it would have gone off to. That or he left it in some hotel but here it is. Grey and worn and soft, it’s his.

He takes it to work in his go-bag and all but rolls his eyes into the back of his head when he watches Garcia stumble and drench herself in cold, left-over tea. He stands from his desk, sighing hard, “it’s alright, baby girl. I’ve got a shirt you can borrow.”

He’s never getting this shirt back.

#criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds #dererk morgan #aaron hotchner #emily prentiss #jennifer jareau #spencer reid #penelope garcia

165 notes · View notes

kaijime · 3 years

Text

picture perfect

includes. step-brother! hinata shoyo x f!reader

cw. step-cest, mentions of nudes, masturbation, blackmailing, toys [butt plug], fingering, use of pet name 'bunny', video recording, praise kink, vaginal penetration, creampie, theres a mirror?

wc. 2.1k

a/n. this is for @dilfhub's everything-cest collab, hope you like it!! also i might make a pt. 2 for this

hinata knows what you've been doing, the pictures you've been posting, and the videos you've been sharing for anyone to see, and he plans to use it for his own benefit.

tit started with atsumu showing him a picture of a girl online, 'some girl on onlyfans' he said, but as soon as hinata saw one picture, he was hooked on your body. he quickly asked atsumu for a link to your account because he couldn't get enough of you from just a few pictures.

that night when he finally arrived to his room he was eager to follow the link atsumu had sent him. he paid for the exclusive photos and delved into them.

the most recent one was a picture of a girl's body, posing in front of the mirror, a pastel pink bralette and thin, lacy panties adorned her figure. he could swear he recognized that phone case from somewhere, but he brushed it off as a casualty.

but as he scrolled through the gallery, he kept recognizing things from the background. a jewelry box, the bed sheets, some shoes on the floor.

and then it clicked in his mind.

your jewelry box, the one he'd seen you open thousands of times when he still lived in your parent's house. your bed sheets, he remembers the day you bought them, claiming this color would match your room aesthetic. your shoes, the one's he specifically remembered you wearing for your family reunion.

it was too specific to be a coincidence, but you wouldn't do this kind of thing, right? when he still lived in the house, you never seemed like that type of girl. you never invited any boys over, and you never wore such revealing clothes like the ones you wear in these pictures.

he's scrolled too far, and every single picture he's seen has only driven him to his position right now, cock in his hand, stroking himself to you. he didn't care if it was you anymore, he needs relief after seeing your body with those different poses, different underwear that made his mind run wild with thoughts of making you his.

but his hand around his cock isn't enough to satisfy him. now that he's convinced you took those photos of yourself, he only wants to be buried between your legs, he wants to see how much of his cock you can take before whining and pawing at his chest, moaning that its too much for you to handle.

as soon as he pictures you sprawled out on the bed beneath him, panting his name as he ruts into you, he's a goner. he cums quickly, thick ropes of his cum falling on his stomach and dripping down his toned body.

he makes a reminder to confront you about it the next time he sees you, which is conveniently right now as he stands in front of your bedroom door. now, he's not sure if he really wants to do this. what kind of step-brother would he be if he blackmailed his pretty little step-sister?

after spending the whole day with his family, he decides to stay at his old childhood house for the night, and the only thing he can think about is how pretty you'd look wearing the pretty lingerie set you wore in the last picture you posted. he knocks on the door once, twice, until he grows tired of waiting and opens the door, surprised to find out it was unlocked.

he doesn't know what he was expecting when he decided to open the door, but he certainly wasn't expecting to see you posing in front of the body length mirror, a frilly pair of panties adorning your hip and a lacy bra that barely covers anything. even though you're posing in the mirror, there are still other props sitting unused on your bed, bunny ears and a butt plug with a little fluff at the end, a bunny tail.

he stands on the door frame, not daring to move an inch as you stumble to cover yourself with a blanket. despite not moving much, he closes the door behind him and locks it, leaving you with a confused, blushing face.

you can practically feel your heart beating out of your chest in anticipation, waiting for his next move, too embarrassed to say anything yourself.

"you're beautiful" he mutters under his breath before slowly approaching you, caressing your arm and coaxing you to take off the blanket that covered you.

"what are you doing? y-you shouldn't-"

"i know what you were doing" he says, pulling the sheets from your hands and throwing you over his shoulder. he throws you on the bed and towers over you, reaching his hand over to find the bunny ears.

"were you planning on wearing these?" he asks, when he really thinks about it, you would look nice as his little bunny. he puts the ears on your head and runs his hand over your cheek, soft skin trembling under his touch. he could tell you were scared, yet you didn't put up a fight. "they'd look very nice on you"

he reaches over again, fidgeting with the little butt plug between his fingers. "you gonna take another picture in them?" he asks.

"wh-what are you talking about?" you ask, acting innocent to his accusations.

"don't lie to me" he says, flipping you over so you're laying on your knees, your flimsy panties doing little to cover up the skin of your ass, completely exposed to him.

"i-i don't-"

"c'mon, i've already seen all of your photos" he says, a warm blush creeping into your cheeks.

he knows.

you can't do anything but keen at his words, bucking your hips back towards him where he rubbed the plug against your puckered hole. "i've seen you" he continues "in your cute little lingerie" he runs his hands up and down your body, pressing at the curve of your ass. he just can't believe you're finally like this, laid beneath him just how he imagined. "you looked so pretty, i knew i had to make you mine when i saw you like that"

"we can't" you protest, trying your best to slap his hands away from your body, but instead he takes both of your wrists in one of his hands, using his free hand to insert a finger into your ass. he works you open slowly, thrusting one of his knuckles to fuck into you until you're ready to take the metal plug.

you mutter curses under your breath when he pulls his fingers away, only to be replaced with the hard metal as he pushes it in. "ah!" you exclaim, gasping when its finally all inside and he pets the fluffy tail.

"good girl" he praises while he toys with the tail. when he's done admiring your ass, he slides your panties to the side and runs his fingers through your folds.

"you got so wet from me playing with your ass?" he asks teasingly. "my little bunny"

the pet name makes you drip down your thighs and he notices, he can see that your hole is drooling with your essence, eager to be filled to the brim, and who was he to leave you all high and dry?

"don't play with me shoyo" you whine, squirming and struggling to get his hands off of you, feeble attempts to make him stop.

"i'll play with you all i want" he says "unless you want me to show them what a little slut they have as a daughter"

he's blackmailing you. you're stuck between a rock and a hard place, nothing to do except do whatever he wants. you shouldn't have posted those stupid pictures, and you curse to yourself for getting involved in such a stupid cashgrab.

"no..." you shift your hips closer to him, grinding against him in hopes it would change his mind.

he knew you'd cave in as soon as he threatened you, but he didn't expect you to be so receptive. when you grind your wet panties against his clothed cock, how can you expect him to hold back?

"god, you're gorgeous" he sighs, the feeling of your wetness on his fingers excites him, drives his crazy as he sucks on his fingers, reveling in your lovely taste.

he inserts two of his fingers into your clenching hole, imagining it was his cock instead. he grows harder by the minute, biting his lip to hold back his want for you, and he swears he could cum on the spot when you moan his name.

"shoyo, please!" you whine when he curls his fingers to hit that perfect spot that left your legs weak, barely able to keep you kneeling properly on the bed. "'m gonna cum" you warn him.

"not yet" he says, releasing your hands and spanking your ass, then he lightly pulls on the plug buried between your cheeks.

"fuck! p-please let me cum!" your pleas fall to deaf ears, he's focused on getting your phone from the nigh stand and pulling out the camera app. he starts recording you, zooming in the camera in on the sight of your drooling hole, and capturing all your noises in the video.

"cum, bunny" he orders. you don't hesitate to let go of the built up pleasure, cumming around his digits and coating them with your slick juices.

"f"-fuck!" you say between sobs, tears streaming down your dainty face as he takes his fingers out. he pulls them apart, showing off the string of juices that cling to his fingertips to the camera.

he stops the recording and grabs your hips, rough calloused hands leaving dark marks that would probably be visible tomorrow.

"did you like that?" you can't even reply, still lost in your own pleasure and clenching onto the sheets. you're so buried in your mind, you don't even notice him taking his cock out of his pants and positioning it to your entrance. he covers it in your slick, using it as lubricant to slide into you.

he fills you up perfectly, leaving you gasping for air when you feel the head of his cock pressing against your cervix. you're stretched out beyond your limit, cursing under your breath at the burn he sends throughout your whole body.

shuddering under his grip, he starts his pace, rutting his hips into you at slow pace. he treats you so carefully, as if you might break if he makes a wrong move. you're a porcelain doll for him, a porcelain doll that clenches around his cock deliciously every time he hits your sweet spot.

"doing so good for me, bunny" that nickname again, it drove you crazy.

you pant and bury your face deeper into the pillow, trying to suppress you moans from him. you didn't want to give him the benefit of your moans, but he makes it so hard when he angles his thrusts to hit your g-spot over and over, prompting more and more sounds for him to drink in.

"taking me so well in your little hole" he keeps praising "this greedy pussy was made just for me" he pulls you closer with a hand to your tummy and drags it lower, low enough to roll small circles to your clit. you can't help but buck your hips against him, driving him insane with the way your little tail jiggled every time he thrusted into you.

he grips one of your cheeks with his hands, spreading you open to get a better view of the little plug, pushed neatly into your tiny hole.

"sh-sho- fuck! 'm cumming, 'm cumming!" you exclaim, your walls pulling him deeper into your cunt.

he almost cums along with you, but he remembers to take your phone and start recording again, capturing your hole as it clenches around his cock in the frame.

a few curses and he's lost in the pleasure, barely conscious enough to hold the phone correctly as he spills everything inside your tight hole. he records your trembling figure, and he puts the phone closer to your cunt, focusing in on the sight of him pulling out his cock and his cum seeping down your thighs, oozing out of your little hole as you pant and drool all over the picture.

the last scene he captures with the camera is the one of him pulling you up, positioning your body to have you kneeling on the bed, facing the mirror. he records your fucked out body, struggling to stay up and look towards the mirror.

its a sight enough to make anyone cum. its a sight enough to make atsumu cum as he sits in his bed, imagining its his cum that drips down your legs and makes a lovely puddle of slick on the bed. he sits in disbelief as he watches the next video, because he recognizes the red head that kneels behind the fucked out girl, caressing the skin of her hips lovingly.

he definitely has to talk to shoyo when he's back from his trip.

#hqcest #hq #haikyuu #haikyuu!!#haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x reader smut #haikyuu smut #haikyuu scenarios #smut #hinata #hinata shoyo #hinata x reader #hinata x reader smut #hinata smut #hinata scenarios #hqintheclub #cw. incest #cw. step cest #cw. blackmailing

260 notes · View notes

toadwarts · 3 years

Text

Special Delivery

Companion piece to Safe At Last.

After two humans escaped from an abusive home and found a new home working alongside Duke, they have begun settling into their new lives as merchants and their polyamorous romance with The Duke. Our primary character (aka the Reader) is struggling with the way he is perceived by the villagers, but is pleasantly surprised when The Duke returns with a special gift... Just the thing to help him feel better.

Fluffy hurt/comfort poly oneshot written in first person but made so that you can insert yourself if wanted. This story centers on a transmasculine protagonist!

Read on A03 or Fanfiction.net!

I sat in the back of the Duke’s caravan, lonely and bored. Both the Duke and my primary partner had been out for hours, making deliveries around the village and to the factory. I had stayed behind to look after the caravan and make sales to anyone who might approach--not to mention I wasn’t terribly keen on meeting any of the four lords yet. It had been months since we began staying with the massive enigma of a man, and only a few days less of that time since we had become a delightful little polycule.

Life in the village hadn’t been easy--there were a lot of mysterious dangers, and you had to be cunning with both your words and weapons. Even still, it was as if The Duke commanded respect of all who lived within the confines of this little world, and so the three of us were safe/ When asked, The Duke would simply flash an award winning smile and say, “I suppose it’s one of the perks of having world class customer service!”

Still, The Duke being so...enigmatic could be exhausting, and perhaps a little bit annoying at times. But he was a good friend and even better lover, and always made sure that we were cared for. If he wanted to keep his secrets, I suppose it was his business. One day, after building up plenty of trust...perhaps we would be privy to them. After all, we had our own secrets too.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

I startled at the sudden noise, hopping up to my feet. No one had approached the caravan all day, but I needed to make sure my customer service was perfect, else The Duke would be most displeased!

“Hello,” I said, my voice chipper. “How can I help you out today?” The customers seemed to be a couple--a thin man and woman, dressed all in black with their hats pulled low on the crowns of their heads. Their hands were intertwined, both of them shivering in the cold.

“We were looking for meat. Sausage, if you have it. And a few nails so we can fix our fence.” The man said, fidgeting with his jacket.

“Of course! Anything to help out a loyal customer. Just let me go and grab them from the back.” I said cheerfully, forcing a big smile. I wasn’t prone to very much facial expression myself, but trying to mimic The Duke definitely helped. It was almost like putting on a costume.

I traversed back into the caravan, rooting around for what was needed. I kept my ears perked to listen to the customers as I unraveled a rope of thick sausages, placing them gently into a pristine paper bag.

“I wonder where that girl came from. The boy too.” The woman said. “The Duke has seemed to take quite a shining to the two of ‘em, and it looks like The Lords don’t mind them too much either. Surprised Dimitrescu hasn’t taken that maiden for herself.”

I felt ice shoot through my bloodstream. The girl. The boy too. A sour feeling entered my mouth. My partner didn’t go by any gender, and me… Well, it seems that my binder didn’t work well enough today. Really, I suppose it was my voice that gave me away. I had always felt disconnected from its lilting, high pitch. I hunched my shoulders and huffed, finishing packaging their order. It couldn’t be helped. A lot of people couldn’t understand.

I approached the front of the caravan, wanting this transaction to be over as soon as possible. “Here you go.” I said, doing my best to open up the back of my throat and make my voice sound deeper. Foolish and a waste of time, I’m sure. “Everything is packed up now. I hope that you find it all to be of the highest quality. If you have any qualms, please come back to see us.”

“Thank you ma’am.” The woman said as her husband dug around in his pockets for the appropriate amount of lei. “Such a sweet young girl. Where did you come from, dear?”

My stomach twisted, and I did my best to keep the discomfort out of my voice. “Um… Further away. I left home, and stumbled across the village while looking for somewhere to camp.” I didn’t see the point in correcting them and starting up a whole new conversation that they likely wouldn’t or couldn’t want to understand.

“How unfortunate. We’ve been having a lot of problems lately, miss.” The man said, counting up his lei.

Tch. Did they have to keep gendering literally everything they say?! Geez.

“Like werewolves?” I couldn’t help but smirk a little. “Well, it’s definitely a step up from where I came.”

“I suppose so. Especially with special treatment from the merchant.” The man sniffed, flinching when his wife elbowed him.

“I’m sorry about that. He didn’t get enough sleep last night,” The woman apologized, handing me the lei.

I nodded, smile tight and strained. “No problem! I do hope you get to feeling better.” I handed them their items and swallowed hard. “Have a wonderful rest of your day and good luck fixing your fence!!”

They waved me off, and I slunk back into the caravan. I knew the village definitely had a few gossips, but I hadn’t imagined it would be so annoying. I had already heard some adolescents talking about how funny it was to see a woman with such short hair and a flat chest, chattering about my partner and I… I’d argue that the most dangerous thing in this village wasn’t the werewolves, but perhaps the strain on the villagers that had them biting at each other’s ankles… Or mine, at least. Maybe they’d eventually warm up to me like they did The Duke though. Even my partner was having an easier time settling in to it all.

I guess I just felt out of place. The only time I did feel right was when I was curled into The Duke’s soft side, my hand entwined with my primary partner’s across his ample belly, their soft breaths lulling me into a comfortable slumber.

My ears perked as the door to the back of the caravan opened. My primary partner stood there with a broad grin, eyes shining. “Hey there, dear!” They said happily. “We have a surprise for you. Well, Duke does, I’m just happy and along for the ride!”

I cocked my head. A gift was certainly something to perk up the mood--and The Duke was certainly top tier at finding the perfect gifts… Who knows what he may have brought?

Speaking of The Duke, he leaned on his cane as he squeezed into the wagon. “Hello, my dear boy!” He said happily. His words sent flutters of delight through my stomach, making me smile. “I’ve got a bit of a gift for you. Something you’ve mentioned a few times. I hope you might like it!”

I stepped forward, eyes glinting curiously. The Duke turned a bit, shutting the door to the wagon behind him. When he turned, a small black box was in his hands, seemingly procured from thin air. Without skipping a beat I came closer, feeling my cheeks pinken with shyness. “What is it?”

“Well, you’ll have to open it to find out, won’t you?” The Duke smiled broadly, holding the box out.

I took the box from his hands as he sat down, my partner bouncing with giddiness. I carefully unfolded the top, seeing that whatever was inside was wrapped in deep red satin, the color of blood. Fitting, for the village. Gingerly, I pulled the satin back, curiosity thrumming through my fingers.

I gasped.

A little vial, full of clear liquid, and a set of alcohol swabs, syringes, and band-aids.

It couldn’t be.

“Is… Is this…?” The words were so small in my throat, barely breaking out of my mouth.

“It is.” The Duke nodded, clasping his hands together and smiling softly. “Testosterone.”

Tears sprung to my eyes, a laugh emerging unbidden from me. Ever since I had come out, I had wanted to transition--but I had never had the opportunity in my old abusive home, and I imagined somewhere out here would never hold the chance either. I had dreamed of the changes for so long--a deeper voice, bottom growth, body hair, facial hair… Hell, even building more muscle easier so I could achieve the musclechub look I had always been enamored by!

“How did you do it?” I choked out, pressing the back of my hand against my watery eyes. My primary partner was at my side, arm around my shoulders. They planted a kiss on my head, holding me tight.

“Why, I can procure any goods I need!” The Duke laughed heartily. “It is only a matter of time before an item is in my hands. And now it’s yours, free of charge.”

I sniffled. “Duke… I don’t know what to say. This is amazing. This is my greatest dream. Thank you. Thank you so much!” I handed the box to my primary partner and ran to him, throwing my arms out. He leaned forward, hulking arms wrapping into me and pulling me into him. “Thank you!”

“Of course, my dear! Anything for you.” He planted a gentle kiss on my forehead as he pulled me up to his chest. “And I know from our conversations about hormone replacement therapy before that you had concerns about vaginal atrophy and hair loss. Remedies for those are on the way as well!”

“You are amazing.” I said breathlessly. After all the abuse my primary partner and I had endured over the years, I never could have imagined that we would have ended up in a place so terrifying and yet...so safe. So like home. A place where dreams could come true.

“Well thank you, my dear. The customer is always right!” He said cheekily.

My primary partner approached, holding the box as if it were the most prized thing in the entire world. “My good sir,” They said with a flourish. “I believe it is time for your first injection of boy juice!”

“Boy juice.” I repeated. “Wow.” Then took a deep breath. “Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“Let me administer the first shot for you, to show you how it’s done.” The Duke said, lowering me into the seat next to him.

I nodded, suddenly feeling my palms get sweaty. “Yes. That sounds nice. I’m a little scared of the needle.” I laughed nervously. “Hey hon...you think you could hold my hand?”

My primary partner nodded, fingers intertwining with mine. “I’ll be right here.”

The Duke took the box, balancing it on top of his belly. Carefully, he loaded up the syringe with the testosterone, making sure to get the air bubbles up and load the approximate dose. “Now now, my boy, the friend I got this from let me know that this is a subcutaneous injection, and we’ll be starting off with a lower dose to start, and then you can choose if you want to go lower or higher from there. If we can get a bit of your blood later, I’ll have another friend of mine run tests on it to make sure it’s safe.”

“Wow, you really can do anything and everything…” I smiled, shaking my head in disbelief. “You’re incredible, Duke.” I lowered my pants, revealing the skin on my thigh.

“Perhaps so, but you must know that you are just as wonderful. It is a pleasure to get to share my life with such a wonderful man.” The Duke said pleasantly, swabbing some skin on my thigh. “Truth be told, I had grown a bit lonely myself. Having you two as companions and then something more… Well, I have to say it’s the happiest I’ve been in a long time.” He sighed. “Ah, to love and be loved. One of life’s greatest joys, right next to lei.”

My primary partner grinned. “Always with the lei.”

“I’m a man who knows what he wants in life!” The Duke tapped the syringe with one finger. “Now, are you ready?”

I looked to my primary partner, feeling as if some holy light was glowing behind my eyes. Starting now, I would be transitioning. I would be something new, something self made. I would be myself. They squeezed my hand, nodding encouragingly. “You got this.”

I took a deep breath. “Alright, Duke. I’m ready.”

#the duke #resident evil village #resident evil 8 #re8 #the duke re8 #the duke x reader #the duke x oc #duke x reader #writing #my writing #fanfiction #transmasc #trans #trans man #transitioning #hrt #hrt testosterone #transgender #fat reader

27 notes · View notes

honestsycrets · 4 years

Text

The Phantom I: Think of Me | Ubbe x Reader x Ivar

❛ pairing | ivar x reader x ubbe

❛ type | multi

❛ summary | you're used to a life with the phantom. his company feels like home.

❛ tags | slight violence, phantom of the opera au, love triangles, original characters.

❛ sy’s notes | this piece has been a long time coming. each chapter will be named according to soundtrack pieces. the introductory scene is probably reminiscent of the movie, i really want to recreate those feelings for me. @alicedopey

The Opera was loud today. Usually, the flutter of shoes downstairs, the rush to change costume, or the giggles from flirtatious girls was typical. Sigurd would lower backdrops as beautiful ballerinas crossed him, dreaming of life not as the keeper of backstage: but as a musician. He loved the dancing girls. You rushed down the stairs to the bottom floor and binding it with soft ribbons passing rich crimson curtains of the stage. Madame Gunnhild reprimanded you for your heavy steps, reminding you that this was not folk music. This was ballet. Powerful, yes. But not unnecessarily loud.

The only loud one was the star whose voice rattled the stage. Her presence incited the glamour of a fat cat. Not that she was plump; perhaps she would be happier, rather than hungrily scrounging and screaming and howling for more and more. Signora Stella was insatiable.

“It’s because someone is coming for tonight’s gala. She wants to make sure he knows who she is. Didn’t you hear?” Adeline whispered. “Bjorn sold the Opera.”

“Is that really true?” The dancers convened on the stage for a final run-through of the opera Hannibal. For which your pink gossamer silk slave piece so appropriately draped off your hips while she stood donned in gold and red, strutting around the stage.

“It’s not FAIR!” Her eye was squarely upon manager Halfdan. His soft eyebrows bundled together as she berated him with her latest complaint. At his side, his brother stood with his hand settled nicely into the taupe pocket of his slacks. You recognized them. Bjorn brought them in the deep quiet of dance rehearsals. Harald especially loved the dancers. He loved to watch them spin along the stage like a top.

“Signora,” Halfdan’s sweet voice consoled. You rushed around her stony body, her beautiful blonde hair wrought in delicate curls. “La mia Stella,” he crooned. There was a softness to the way his dirty blonde hair framed his gentle eyes.

“I am the star, me! Me, me, me!” her foot cracked down on the hardwood floor. She gestured toward your ruddy-haired friend, then you, biting out her complaint. “Not one of these-- these dancing girls can sing like I!”

“We know, Signora.”

“Then who dressed-- them?”

Harald crossed his arms over one another, glancing toward his boots. It could never just be the voice. It was an experience. For a man like Harald, whose artistic expression was about in line with that of a straw doll, it meant costume.

“You will be the focus. We will give you a solo. Just for you!”

“A new song?” she turned, the wheels of her brain suddenly spinning again. She ran her ringed hand down Halfdan’s pressed deep blue suit, drawing her ruby nails up to tap him on the nose. “What kind of song?”

“Think of Me,” said Harald.

“Think of Me!” she squawked. “That is perfect. Perfect for a girl like me! Can you imagine me-- a childhood lover-- in Paris?”

No, you couldn’t. Even Paris was too muted for her taste.

“Well?” she looked toward your group. “Get off my stage. Especially you,” she pointed her finger between Adeline and you. You’re not sure who she’s talking about. “Fat little frog.”

It’s better not to push. You take Adeline in one hand and, with the other, the sheer fabric. The orchestra wretched alive again as the awful vocalizations filled the auditorium, reverberating your ear. Think of Me never sounded worse.

Still, it must be nice, you think, to be an opera star by virtue of birth. Sour with embarrassment but saved by the prospect of dance, you delighted in knowing that Stella would soon leave after her songs were sung to a T. A woosh of air hair threw your hair over your shoulders. It was compounded by her harsh scream and filling the auditorium. You glanced from the floor to the upper stage where, if you looked closely, you might have seen a shadow flitting across the bridge with the aid of the banister.

“Up up up up! Get me OUT FROM UNDER HERE!”

“Sigurd!” Halfdan boomed. “What are you doing up there!?”

“I wasn’t up there.”

Your fingers left your locket when Sigurd hiked up the stairs beside you. His dark trousers were stained with paint, as was his crisp white dress shirt, pulled apart with a pretty blue smear across his chest. You peered over Sigurd to see the black drop clattered over Stella’s back, pressing her chest to the ground and chin quivering in horror.

“So it fell on its own?” Harald accused belligerently.

“I never said that. Signora. The Opera is full of strange magic.” he stood upright, helping her stand on quivering heels, shouting in awful pain. He quirked his head. “Oh, she won’t be able to perform on that.”

She jabs her finger into Harald’s chest, deliberately on his fine silk tie. Then Halfdan, whirling a curse. Stella squealed with renewed vigor. “You see what you’ve done! I hate you! I hate you! And I hate this-- this phantom!”

“Not that again,” Harald rolled his eyes.

The light in her eyes burst, soaring through the surface like an explosion across the surface. How awfully she punched him, shouting about his indignation in not paying the Phantom his salary-- before flitting down the steps on a beating heel. She would be back. Maybe not today, but another. Sigurd dragged the fallen backdrop to the side, inspecting the thick-cut rope and all its seeming imperfections.

“Can we reschedule for next week?” said one.

“We need a new star,” said the other. “Every day is the same.”

Adeline leaned her aquiline nose into your curls, “Do you think it was him?”

An awful warmth flooded your belly. Should you rejoice in a woman’s abuse? No, but at the same time, it meant she would not be here to berate the ballerinas. There was no one there.

“She can sing it for you, Harald.” At that moment, Madame Gunnhild hooked her arms under your arms. Harald turned on his boot to Gunnhild, a sultry smile playing on his lips. “What? Her?”

“No, Madame. Please.” You choked on your own words in the attempt to process what she meant. She wove her spindly fingers in your hand, jerking you toward the middle of the stage. For a moment, your heart seized to beat, blood ran still, and you might have fainted by the curiosity in the brothers’ eyes.

“Shh,” she whispered into your ear. “I know you can sing Think of Me. I’ve heard you sing with him.”

If you ever have a moment, spare a thought for me.

Your stomach leapt with uncertainty in the silence of the room. Outside, gossip ran like a bolt of lightning across the sky. Stella’s replacement was never a position you hoped to have. Not for a day, nor an hour but here you were, dabbing your lips with a pink product after intermission in your father’s old room. His picture sat framed by photos of your family: Thyri, Siggy, and him. Your hand trembled as you seized it. Then, falling away, you looked toward the letter that sat square in front of you.

“You have a letter from the Opera Ghost,” Gunnhild had said. Usually, those words would have inspired anyone with fear. Instead, it filled your belly with fervor, a soft pinkness that dusted over your cheeks soften than any blush you could apply. “Open it when you’re alone.”

You fluttered your eyes, hoping that the excitement in your belly was just a built-up from this corset that restricted your breathing. Breath swelled in your chest. You hooked a letter opener under the blotchy gold seal.

“Bellisima.”

The voice echoed through the room. Your physician Athelstan told you it was nothing: a figment of your imagination that you ought to hush about-- or they would send you away. Your angel was a kiss from God and nothing more. Your chest swelled with a heavy breath, fixing the earrings into your ear. They looked like the very stars that shone on the rooftop of the opera house. The voice filled the room, a soft sing-song that bounced from wall to wall and filled you with something like peace.

“Open it, my sweet.”

“It frightens me,” you murmured.

“Don’t be frightened.”

With a flick of your letter opener, you forced the crisp letter apart. In it, a square of parchment sat nestled between a glimmering gold chain. It was a glorious gold chain and, at the end of it, a singular heart locket. There was a knock at your door just as you inspected the inscription etched into its surface.

“May I come in?”

Whether or not you’d agree, Harald already came in. He was a man of tall stature despite his height. Wherever he carried himself, there was respect. You knew him to be in love with Gunnhild, and though she gave him no attention, you knew his intentions for her.

“Do you want to sit down?” you offered. Harald drew off his taupe jacket to figure with a tucked letter in his black breast coat. He held it out to you. You took it, bracelets jingling and saw that inside was a wealth of currency.

“Oh-- this is…” you murmured. “More than I can accept.”

“You knew the viscount, don’t you?”

The viscount Ragnar, you recall. Your cheeks warmed with his memory—a thin child with honey brown hair and a big heart. Harald kneeled before you, running his hand on top of your fluffy pink ball dress.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“It has been a while,” you gesture to your photo of your father, reminded by the memory of the land you left behind in Scandinavia. “He probably wouldn’t remember me.”

“I’d wager you’re wrong. Put in a good word for us. He’ll be hard-pressed not to notice you,” he pauses. He rolled his finger through your long curl. It slipped away from his finger as he took his bunched-up suit jacket and opened the door. “As beautiful as you look tonight.”

“I-- thank you.”

The door clasps shut. You didn’t need this money, you murmured. But perhaps the children could use bread. Your attention fell to the necklace around your neck. If you turned the gold pendant over and over again between your fingertips, you could calm the racing of your heart. Today, you would be Elissa. Tomorrow, maybe a chorus girl once again. It was your time. The Ubbe from your memory was just that: a memory.

“Sing it again.”

@tephi101 @alicedopey @supernaturalvikingwhore @tootie-fruity @titty-teetee @queen-see-ya-in-valhalla @ethereallysimple @deathbyarabbit @deathbyarabbit @readsalot73 @natalie-rdr @lol-haha-joke @lisinfleur @hissouthernprincess @marvelousse @dangerous-like-a-loaded-pistol @vikingsmania @wish-i-was-a-mermaid @lif3snotouttogetyou @gruffle1 @cris101071 @gold-dragon-slayer @babypink224221 @wonderwoman292 @naaladareia @beyond-the-ashes @generic-fangirl @chinduda @laketaj24, @peaceisadirtyword, @ly–canthrope @cris101071 @daughterofthenight117 @unassumingviking @ladyofsoa, @inforapound @winchesterwife27 @feyrearcheron44@readsalot73 @squirrelacorngliterfarts @gold-dragon-slayer @medievalfangirl @sallydelys @bluearchersstuff @affectionrabbitt @whatamood13 @notyouraveragegirl17 @igetcarriedawaywithyou @unacceptabletatertots @ivarandersen @stra-vage @tgrrose @cookies186 @learninglemni-blog @theleeshanotlouise @soiproclaim @msmorganforever @destynelseclipsa @soleil-dor @strangunddurm @superwolfchild-fan

#ubbe x reader #ivar x reader #Ivar Ragnarsson x Reader #ubbe ragnarsson x reader #vikings imagines #viking imagine #ubbe x reader x ivar #ivar x reader x ubbe #vikings/reader #ivar/reader #ubbe/reader

67 notes · View notes

galvanizedfriend · 4 years

Text

The Wolf Outtake

This is a little outtake, if you will, of The Wolf universe. It actually fits within the post-TW2 headcanons I've been writing to keep myself happy, so somewhere in S3. It's something that would never fit within the actual story because it's pure domestic fluff. lol I wrote this for @recyclingss, baby Eve's number one fan who yells at me when the child doesn't make an appearance and who’s also the biggest cheerleader this story’s ever had. 💖

This is set much later in the future, and you will notice baby Eve is actually more of toddler Eve here, but I've removed any specific context to make it so this would fit into any point of The Wolf post S2E14, I guess.

Summary: Just random KC+baby moment in The Wolf. It's fluffy, domestic, features the child and Klaus' bitter feelings for Bayou wolves. Nobody asked for it, but I figured, after the WEEK we've all had, maybe people could use some fluff? Hope you guys enjoy it! :)

______________________

Klaus doesn't even realize it's morning already until Caroline stirs next to him, making a lazy hum deep in her throat that pulls him out of his idle reverie. He blinks his surroundings back into focus; the fluorescence that had been filtering in through the windows last time he checked has now been replaced by warm sunlight. He didn’t even notice so much time had gone by.

Caroline rolled onto her side and was quickly lulled into blissful sleep after their late-night exertions. Klaus was distracted by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a long time until his mind was ensnared by its usual culprits, thoughts trapped in the latest batch of torments and woes to take over the Mikaelsons’ lives.

When Caroline opens her eyes and offers him a slow smile, Klaus feels himself touch ground again.

"'Morning," she slurs in that husky voice, still thick with sleep.

"Good morning, sweetheart," he replies with a short grin.

Caroline yawns as she stretches out her body under the thin sheet covering her modesty.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asks, blinking sluggishly at him.

"I'm well-rested, if that's what you're asking."

"It's not." Caroline props herself up on one elbow to stare levelly at him. Some of that drowsiness in her eyes dissipates, disappointment panging through him for bringing her back to the harshness of reality so fast. This is why, sometimes, especially on those not-so-rare nights when he ends up not getting any sleep, he'd rather not stay in bed. It allows the reprieve that slumber offers Caroline to last a little while longer. "Is it about Elijah?" she inquires, a knowing look on her face.

Klaus' eyes wander away from hers. "It's about everything," he states vaguely, but not untruthfully.

Caroline hums unconvinced. "While I know you don't need to sleep, I also know it spells nothing but trouble when you can’t. It’s never good when you spend the whole night thinking."

"Well, not the whole night," he says with a suggestive leer. "I did spend a good portion of the time engaged in far more pleasant activities."

She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile is more than a little satisfied when she leans into him. "You're not as smooth as you think, Mikaelson."

"I beg to differ." Caroline chuckles, shifting under the sheets to press herself against his side, placing a kiss on his shoulder, then his neck, his jaw. Klaus snakes a hand around her back, pulling her closer still, feeling the familiar stirrings of heat in his underbelly. "Shall I prove my point?" he all but purrs.

Caroline smirks against the corner of his mouth, her palm coming to rest on his chest. Klaus covers her hand with his, angling his face to take her mouth into a kiss. Her breasts pressing against his skin sends a tingle shooting through his body, and his other hand is already sliding down her spine, ready to guide her to straddle him, when lively conversation in the next room makes them pause.

"Oh-oh," Caroline mutters. "I guess that means Mr. Wolfy is up early today."

Klaus lets out a disappointed sigh.

Eve doesn't cry so much when she wakes up anymore. Now, she either stays quietly in her crib until someone sees to her, or she starts playing with her toys. A social butterfly like her mother, she loves to engage in complex conversations with that hideous stuffed wolf Jackson gave her and her absolute favorite toy, the wooden knight Klaus carved for Rebekah when they were children.

When he started to wake up to the sound of her talking to herself, he became worried, thinking maybe she was seeing things they weren't - which, in New Orleans, could mean a number of horrifying deals. But Caroline assured him that it is perfectly normal for young children to talk to inanimate objects, especially one who lives exclusively amongst adults.

Apparently, it's good exercise for her imagination, or something.

When Klaus is watching her, he will make a point to take part in her debates, always highlighting Mr. Knight's grandeur compared to Mr. Bog Scum.

"Sweetheart, this filthy dog here is the enemy. He wants to shroud you in flannel, carry you away to the swamp and bore you to sleep. Mr. Knight is here to save you from this stinky animal's claws."

He's convinced one day she'll understand what he means.

What’s most troublesome, however, is that Eve has started to attempt to climb out of her crib on her own. They always lock the other door to her bedroom when she's asleep, but the door connecting her room to Caroline's is always left unlocked for safety reasons. One of these days, Klaus thinks, their little wolf is going to catch mommy and daddy in very compromising positions. The idea mortifies him, especially because he and Caroline can get a tad carried away. They are a hybrid and a near-hybrid, after all. Too much energy and whatnot.

"No rest for the wicked," Caroline speaks around a sigh before peeling away from him. Klaus watches her naked form with wistfulness as she climbs out of bed, his prospect of a lovely morning enterprise disappearing alongside the shape of her beautiful breasts as she shrugs on a fleece robe.

Caroline vamps off to the en suite bathroom to freshen up a bit and then follows to Eve's room.

"Good morning, sweet cheeks!" she greets their daughter sunnily. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wolfy!" Oh, for goodness' sake, Klaus curses inwardly. "And Mr. Knight!" Much better.

Minutes later, Caroline returns with Eve, comfortable in fresh diapers, right on her heels, carrying Mr. Inconvenient and Mr. Knight.

When she sees Klaus, she takes off towards the bed, her little legs getting more and more agile by the day. He pulls the sheets and covers up to his chest while she tries to hoist herself up. With ease, using just one hand, Klaus lifts her up and puts her sitting on his stomach.

"Good morning, my littlest wolf," he says. "Where's my kiss?"

His daughter leans down and smacks a loud kiss on his cheek, and then holds Mr. Fleabag close to him for a kiss as well. Klaus makes a face. "Not the dog, Eve."

"Seriously?" Caroline says with a bored air about her. "You're antagonizing a stuffed animal now?"

"This thing is a health hazard."

"That thing has a cute little name, Mr. Wolfy, and your daughter loves him."

"I refuse to treat a swamp dog as though it were a gentleman. Besides, I'm sure she loves Mr. Knight way more, don't you, love? Where's Mr. Hero?" She shouts something that sounds like Miter Nigh before pushing it onto Klaus' face. He cracks a proud smile at her. "There you go." He attacks her with tickles, and Eve bursts with sweet laughter.

Caroline shakes her head at him, but he notices she's quite clearly biting back on a smile. "You're impossible."

"I’m quite possible, I assure you," he replies smoothly. "Where are you going?" he asks when she starts tying her hair into a ponytail and taking clothes from her drawers.

"Running with Marcel."

"Oh, for goodness' sake," he protests. "Can you believe this, Eve? It's not even seven in the morning and your mother is willingly stepping out of the house to run. I sometimes fear she might be a psychopath."

She scoffs loudly. "You would know, wouldn't you?" While she walks by him to go into the en suite, she slaps him lightly across the legs. "Stop telling my child that I'm a psycho, psycho."

"How else am I supposed to explain this insanity? What kind of person runs for pleasure when there is an infinite array of far more gratifying activities to invest your energy into? Just now we were about to -"

"Not in front of the small child, Klaus!" she chides from the bathroom.

"She doesn't know what daddy is talking about, do you, love?" Eve giggles while he lifts her up above him, holding her like a flying superhero. "Blissfully clueless."

Caroline steps back into the room, already in her exercise gear. Klaus lets out an infinitely despondent sigh. He would love nothing more than to get her out of those.

"It's inappropriate conversation to have in front of the toddler," she remarks, putting on the smartwatch she bought recently to exercise with and measure her sleep patterns or whatever the bloody hell that is. She showed him all of this gizmo’s functionalities, swearing it’s the best thing ever invented by human minds. Klaus thinks it’s adorable, however incomprehensible, that someone with such close ties with the supernatural world would still be so impressed by technology. There’s literally nothing that cannot be sorted through magic. How is a watch that counts steps supposed to awe you once you’ve seen someone brought back from the dead? Caroline’s attachment to her humanity goes way beyond her empathy. "Besides, it was gonna be a quick activity because I'd go meet Marcel anyway,” she adds after a beat.

"I can make you see stars in five minutes," he leers, a smirk growing on his face.

Caroline whips her face at him with what is clearly an attempt at outrage but turns into something else when she can't hold her own smile. She can't deny him when his point was proved just the night before. Several times, in fact.

"Shut up," she retorts simply. "Can you give her breakfast? I left chopped fruits in the fridge. You can wait about an hour after the bottle and give it to her as a little treat - not Fruit Loops."

"She loves that thing."

"Of course she does, it's pure sugar. That's exactly why we don't let her have it all the time. She needs to eat real fruits."

Klaus rolls his eyes, sitting up in bed and putting the baby beside him. "Honestly, sweetheart, your mother sometimes..."

Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You really love to make yourself out to be the cool parent, don't you?"

"I don't have to make myself out to be anything, love. I am the parent who doesn't deny her the little joys of sugary treats. If that makes me cool, then you’ve only got yourself to blame."

"You're the parent who'll spoil her rotten, that’s what. Let's see how you'll feel when she's 16 and her boyfriend is climbing the balcony in her room in the middle of the night because she never learned how to take a no."

"Oh, I would love for her suitors to climb her window in the middle of the night. It’ll be the last thing they do,” he says, smiling innocently at Eve.

“You’ll be such a ray of sunshine when she starts dating.”

“As per usual," he says with a bite of arrogance. "Hold the child so I can get decent, will you?"

Caroline picks Eve up and keeps her looking firmly the other way while Klaus flashes out of bed and into the bathroom. He hears Caroline teasing her with “Where did daddy go?” and laughing at what he knows is Eve's extremely confused but astonished face. She thinks they're magicians. It's one of her favorite things, to watch as Klaus makes full use of his vampire speed to all but vanish right before her eyes. Modern technology has got nothing on him.

There's something extremely heartwarming about his daughter's innocence. One day, she'll be old enough to understand why he can do the things he does. When that day comes, Klaus will cease to be a creature of magic and wonder, to become what he truly is: darkness made flesh.

He has never been ashamed of what he is, hardly ever had any qualms with filling the villain shoes, quite glad to do it, in fact, but he suddenly finds himself dreading the day when his child will figure out what it means to carry the Mikaelson name. When their family’s history will weigh down on her shoulders as it does on theirs.

While making people cower in fear at the mere sound of his name has brought him an obscene amount of satisfaction and pride over the centuries, Klaus has to admit he's fascinated by the pure sparkle in his child's eyes. She's the first human being in a millennium who does not see even a fraction of monstrosity in him, no shadow, no taints, no mortal flaws. Not yet, anyway. All she sees is a funny man who makes her laugh and can hold her up with his finger, tells her stories about evil werewolves and keeps her safe and that's enough for her to adore him. Sometimes, he feels unworthy of such love. As though he's a fraud, deceiving his own daughter and taking advantage of her innocence.

It still astonishes him that he should ever be capable of making something as pure and bright as that little girl. In a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson has only ever brought misery and pain into this world. Eve is the first genuinely good thing he's ever done. Then, of course, she inherited all of that from her mother, who holds herself open for compassion and kindness even though she is herself in a symbiotic existence with her own beast. Caroline has taken control of her darkness in ways Klaus doesn't think he's ever seen a vampire as young as her do before. She truly is extraordinary, and every day he hopes, from the bottom of his withered heart, that Eve will turn out to be every inch Caroline's daughter more so than his.

Klaus can still smell last night’s sex all over himself, so he takes a quick shower and puts on a pair of denims and a shirt and vamps back to the room again, just to surprise Eve. She gasps when he materializes next to her, flinching, and then starts laughing like a little maniac, reaching out to him.

"Remember," Caroline says as she lets Eve slide over to Klaus' arms. "Bottle, fruits. No Fruit Loops. I'll tell your other child you said hi."

"A child who enjoys running has clearly learned nothing from me," he grumbles. “Hopefully I’ll do a better job with this one.”

“Start by not feeding her Fruit Loops,” Caroline remarks with a grin before she smacks a loud kiss on Eve's cheek and then one on his.

When she’s gone, Klaus turns to look at his little wolf, watching him with those dark blues of hers as though she's studying her father. Sometimes he wonders if toddlers know more than they let on.

"Do you want to do magic?"

"Yes!" she practically screams, her face splitting with a wide, toothy grin.

"Get ready, then. Are you ready?" She gives him an exaggerated nod. "Keep your eyes open. One, two..." And then he flashes out of the room with her.

______________

✨ Thanks for reading! :) If you’ve enjoyed this silly thing, please drop me a comment! Your reblogs are also much appreciated to help this reach more people. ✨

#klaroline #klaroline fanfiction #klaroline fic #kc fanfiction #kc fic #kcfic #klarolinefic #yokan writes #The Originals rewriting #is this me writing fluff again?#fluff with BABY?#why yes it is #the wolf outtake #klaus x caroline #+ child

125 notes · View notes

ssa-lesbian · 4 years

Text

this is how i will love you, even as the world goes on its wicked way (1/1)

word count: 2.97k

The fever comes two days after landing in Paris.

-> read on AO3

(content / trigger warning: fever, vomiting, curse words, implied suicide ideation.)

—

Emily Prentiss does not get sick. She feels her throat close up and drinks some hot water before driving in for work. Her nose is clogged and she barks out a laugh at Morgan’s pathetic joke and pokes Reid in the side when he stammers at the innuendo. There’s a pounding in her temples and she closes her eyes for a moment before standing at the precinct and telling officers their unsub is a sociopath and they needed to be aware of those whose smiles were too wide and eyes too charming.

JJ asks her if she’s okay after flinching at the bright sunlight, and Emily flashes her her signature smirk, and even though JJ’s eyes are still filled with concern, she drops it, and they continue their stroll through the Musee d’Orsay because she knows JJ loves old paintings and the Louvre is too busy and crowded for one last walk with someone she must forget. And even if the Metro ride there is loud and shaky and fluorescent lights blinding, her head spinning is worth the way JJ’s eyes glitter in dim light, hand still clasped tightly in Emily’s as she gazes at the massive wall-size paintings.

On the fourth day, Emily collapses.

She tries to make a joke out of it, but her throat has closed up and she’s breathing hot air and this bedroom floor is as grimy as a dog’s ass (dog’s ass?), and the only sound she can make is an undignified grunt.

“Oh my God— oh my God, Em.”

There’s something wet sliding down her face. Is she crying? Or is that sweat? She can’t feel anything and her eyes are burning. She lets out a groan.

Someone takes her shoulder and rolls her over, and Emily’s head lolls to the side, the only thing keeping her up the strong, calloused hands of JJ, her pretty face blurring in and out of Emily’s vision. Her other hand brushes against her forehead.

“Em, you’re burning up,” she hears, and in one smooth move, JJ picks her up and back into bed.

“Unh,” Emily says.

“I know, I know,” is the reply, and JJ rearranges the sheets so that only the thin bedsheet is covering her instead of the thick duvet she sleeps in. “Let me get you a cloth, you’re gonna be just fine.”

“Unh,” Emily protests, because her skin is burning up and she’s blinking back hot tears and her head hurts so much and the only thing that would make it all better would be to see JJ and her soft, pink lips.

It feels like a lifetime when JJ returns, which is impossible because the bathroom is right next to Emily’s bedroom (in her old apartment it was down the hall, and Emily considered it a major design flaw but not one worth buying another home for), but JJ returns, and she comes back with her honey-voiced murmurs and a cool cloth laid across her forehead.

“You’ll be fine, Emily,” she says. “You’re so strong.”

Emily doesn’t tell her that the cloth has long dried up because if she does, JJ will leave her again.

The day passes by with Emily floating in and out of consciousness, head pounding every time she opens her eyes, and the only things she can recall are JJ’s hushed murmurs as she talks about getting better and being okay and the way JJ’s thumb traces gentle circles over her knuckles, fingers still intertwined, curled up in the armchair on Emily’s bedside. JJ orders takeout with what little French she retained from her high school years, exhaling sharply every time she pronounces an unnecessary consonant, and when the doorbell rings and JJ stands to answer, Emily grabs her hand.

“Unh,” she says with as much emotion as possible, and JJ’s eyebrows knit together.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” she says, and she squeezes Emily’s hand, but she doesn’t let go.

You only came back after I died, Emily tries to say.

“Unh,” comes out.

In the end, Emily is too tired to hold JJ back, and as her hand falls limply to the bed and she watches JJ slip out her bedroom, she curses her body for betraying her.

French Chinese takeout is similar to American Chinese takeout, Emily notes: oily, savory, and mouth-watering. JJ doesn’t let her eat the stir-fry (apparently it’s bad for her stomach) and passes her small amounts of fluffy jasmine rice and wet bak-choy, but Emily can only barely hold down the pitiful foods JJ passes her.

JJ gets Emily a pitcher (an entire pitcher) of water on her nightstand for the night and promises that she’ll be there if Emily needs anything and Emily just needs to yell, and Emily lets out a thankful grunt. Closing her eyes, Emily drifts off to the blood roaring in her head, mouth hanging open slightly to breathe properly.

Emily wakes up to a burning sensation on her chest and in her stomach and in her eyes, and fuck it, she is the burning sensation, and she tries to call for JJ.

“Jayje,” she says, words slurring, and even though she tried to say “JJ”, it works for now.

The way JJ appears in her door frame is like some God-given miracle, and even through her blurred vision, Emily can never forget those blue eyes.

“Em, what’s wrong?”

She crosses the room in quick strides and leans over Emily, and when her gold curls fall over Emily’s face and her nightshirt hangs lower than any work attire would require, her heart skips a beat.

“God, you’re burning,” JJ says, and if Emily weren’t so delirious, she would say JJ sounds almost worried, but JJ is never worried, pretty, perfect, media liaison JJ is never worried, the way she holds her chin up and the way her eyes always meet the other person’s.

“Don’t leave me,” Emily says, and JJ’s hand cups Emily’s cheek, shaking slightly from the heat radiating off of her.

“I need to get you some water,” comes as a whisper, and she disappears despite Emily’s groan.

When she comes back, the bedsheets are spread haphazardly around the bed from Emily’s weak attempts at kicking them off, and balancing the small tub of water and towels on her right hand and hip, JJ plucks off the bedsheets with ease, and Emily relaxes as JJ settles into her seat.

"You’re going to be fine, Em,” she says, draping another towel over Emily’s forehead before wetting another one. “We just need the fever to break.”

"I haven’t felt this hot since I got stabbed,” Emily says, and she lets out a croaking laugh at her own joke.

There’s a flickering smile on JJ’s face, and Emily continues.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been dead before, remember? This fever ain’t shit.”

JJ replaces the cloth on Emily’s forehead and stays quiet.

“Why aren’t you saying anything? Your voice is so pretty. I could listen to it all day.”

“You’re gonna have to listen to me for the next few days, Em,” is the murmured reply, but everything is too hot now.

"My stomach hurts. Jayje, Jayje, my stomach–”

There’s a burning sensation as the chair leg pieces her, and she screams.

“Jayje, Jayje— it hurts, it hurts, I’m sorry—”

And Emily can’t do anything except cry when JJ unbuttons her nightshirt and places a wet cloth on her stomach, chest heaving as she gasps for breath.

"Jayje, it burns, please, I can’t—”

“You’ll be okay, Em, it’ll be okay,” JJ says, draping another cloth over her chest and taking off Emily’s nightshirt. “It’ll be okay, everything will be okay.”

But still her stomach and chest burn, and maybe in a different world Emily would be ashamed of herself, with how pathetic and weak she is, crying and sobbing and begging, in front of JJ, of all people.

But if it means JJ’s hands will trace over her bare chest and her hair will tickle Emily’s cheek, she will take it.

—

It doesn’t get better.

The fifth day Emily spends throwing up, except she’s too weak to get out of bed and so JJ brings a trash can to Emily’s bedside so at her convenience, she can simply roll around and spit up whatever the fuck is still in her stomach.

And her head still fucking hurts. JJ touches her hand, and Emily recoils.

“Leave me alone,” she spits, and her mouth feels like sandpaper. “Leave me alone.”

“Em—”

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, except she doubles over and retches into the trash can, dry-heaving at this point because all of last night’s vegetables and rice are gone and Emily’s going to rip out her entire digestive tract.

And also because this is pathetic. Former CIA and Interpol spy, BAU profiler, lying half naked in a bed in Paris, supposedly dead, drenched in sweat and her own spit, recently branded and staked, succumbing to a fever. A fever. If Emily had it her way, she would rather hurl herself out the window than to have JJ see her like this.

JJ retreats to the corner of the bedroom and blinks back tears. Emily is too busy coughing into the trash can to notice.

—

“Why can’t you give me any pills?”

It comes as a croak, and wordlessly, JJ pours Emily another cup of water and passes it to her. She takes it shakily and sips, knowing that inevitably, it will come back up and into the bin. JJ is silent watching Emily, curled up in her armchair, and her eyes are unreadable.

“When Doyle stabbed you,” she says quietly, “he ripped part of your stomach.”

“He ripped more than my stomach,” Emily comments drily, and JJ’s eyes flash with something Emily cannot quite understand.

“They stitched it back up, but the doctor said something about how you shouldn’t take any Tylenol and similar medicine until it completely healed.”

“Why Tylenol?”

“Because— because—” JJ huffs. “I don’t know, I’m not a chemist. I guess it’s something to do with how it affects stomach lining.”

“I bet Reid would know,” Emily says, and there’s a pang in her heart as she imagines the young doctor. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Almost instinctively, JJ’s hand reaches out, but just before touching Emily’s, she freezes. Emily frowns, blinks.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

JJ brings her hand back.

“You wanted me to leave you alone.”

“I did?”

A pause, and Emily’s heart twists at the look on JJ’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” is JJ’s immediate response. “You were sick.”

This time, Emily reaches out for her, and JJ takes her hand immediately, fingers interlacing and squeezing tightly. JJ’s eyes glitter in the dim moonlight, and Emily wonders how much longer she has with her.

“When are you going home?” she asks her.

JJ is wearing Emily’s old Yale sweatshirt, she realizes. A muted, old navy color, the letters flaking off, and her hair looks disheveled, as though she hadn’t brushed it in days. There are bags under her bright eyes, not unlike the bags she had when she first had Henry and still insisted on coming in for work, and Emily feels a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Jayje,” she says.

“It’s not your fault,” JJ says quietly. “Let me get you some water.”

—

Emily begins burning up again that night. All the water JJ coaxed into her earlier comes back up, and JJ still tirelessly drapes wet towels over her and removes the dry ones.

“I’m going to die,” Emily groans.

“You’ll be fine,” JJ repeats, squeezing a wet cloth down Emily’s face. The droplets stop the pain momentarily, but once they touch her skin, they evaporate immediately, temporary relief gone. “You’ll be fine.”

“I love you,” Emily says. “I never got to tell you that. My eyes hurt.”

“Close your eyes, Em.” JJ keeps trailing water down her face.

“I want to see you. Every time I see your eyes, I know it’s going to be okay. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Em. Close your eyes.”

“It’s really hot. Jayje, it hurts.”

JJ replaces the towel on her stomach, and she flinches at the sudden cold.

“Jayje, it hurts.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“I like it when you call me baby,” Emily says, eyes hot and vision blurry, and she can’t see the way JJ stiffens and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Go to sleep, Em. It’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The last thing Emily registers is a singular wet drop on her face, just above her eye, and bleakly, she wonders why that one droplet was more hot than cold.

—

Emily’s hand is cold.

“Jayje?”

But it comes out as a grunt because her throat has closed back up and the pounding has returned, and she lets out another grunt as her hand flexes. Something takes hold of her and squeezes, and Emily grunts.

“Unh,” she says. I need you. I need to feel you. I love you.

“I’m here, baby.”

The cloth on her head is replaced, but the burning persists. She’s stopped sweating now, thankfully, it’s just her head.

“Unh,” Emily says.

“I know, baby, I know.”

JJ used to smell like vanilla. Emily’s nose is clogged up right now, but she’ll bet ten thousand staked stomachs that she still smells like vanilla, with just a hint of cinnamon. She remembers asking JJ about it once; her shampoo was vanilla, she said, but she can’t imagine where the cinnamon came from.

“Unh,” Emily repeats, and she tugs on her hand.

“It’ll be okay, baby, I’m right here,” she hears, and Emily tugs her hand harder.

“Unh,” she emphasizes, and she brings their hands to the bed.

A pause. Emily’s vision is blurred and spotty, but she imagines the way JJ’s eyebrows scrunch together when thinking.

“You want me in bed with you?”

“Unh,” Emily confirms, and she squeezes her hand again.

A rustling of clothes, and JJ squeezes her hand gently before dropping, and Emily notes the soft footsteps as JJ pads around to the other side of the bed (JJ has the lightest footsteps, Emily’s tried making hers softer but she can’t manage it). The bed creaks as JJ settles in, and suddenly there’s an arm wrapping around Emily’s waist.

“Come here, baby,” JJ murmurs, and Emily curls into her warm body immediately, burying herself into the old sweatshirt and her soft curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The pulsing in her head ebbs away as JJ’s nimble fingers thread through her tangled hair, and Emily drifts off to an uneasy sleep.

—

It’s a choked sob that pulls Emily halfway out of sleep, eyes flying open and trying to pinpoint the cause of the noise through her blurred vision. Another sob, and it’s coming from behind her.

“I’m so sorry. This isn’t how it was supposed to turn out.”

The voice breaks off at the end, and blearily, Emily wonders who it is.

“I love you so, so much, I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I love you.”

Everything is so heavy. The words float in and out of Emily’s head, and there’s a ringing in her ears. She makes out a shaky inhale before something; Emily has to strain to make out the words.

“I thought— I thought we could do it, I thought we could— but then Will came and Henry and— and I didn’t— Em, I’m so sorry.”

A choked sob, and Emily feels tears drip onto her neck.

“You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Emily tries to say something, say anything, but all that comes out is a grunt and a jerk of her body, and the arms around her tighten, kisses pressed into her hair over and over as circles are rubbed onto Emily’s skin.

“Sh, sh, it’s okay baby, it’s okay.”

Another kiss pressed into the crown of Emily’s head, except this one seems desperate and raw and she can feel someone linger there for a moment longer before burying their face in the nape of Emily’s neck.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. God, I’m so sorry.”

—

When Emily opens her eyes, she’s greeted with JJ perched on the armchair next to her bed and diligently studying a magazine, and she can smell coffee-

She can smell coffee.

“I can smell,” Emily says abruptly, and to her delight, she can speak .

JJ’s head jerks up, and her lips curl up in her signature soft smile, eyes twinkling. “You’re awake.”

“Yup,” Emily answers, and tentatively, she swings her legs out of bed, a grin forming on her face as her feet plant on the carpeted ground easily. “And better.”

“Oh, thank God,” JJ says, and when Emily glances up, she’s met with a looser smile, more tired. “I thought—”

With her recovered vision, Emily can now make out the dark circles under her eyes, and she flinches. Her body still aches, but that must be nothing compared to what hell she put JJ through, and JJ, of all people—

“I’m sorry,” Emily says. “Was I that bad?”

A pause, and JJ’s smile drops and her eyebrows furrow together. Emily stills, insides twisting because did I miss something?

“You don’t remember?” JJ asks quietly.

“Uh, I— I don’t think so. It’s all very hot. And blurry.”

Emily is a profiler, she is a seasoned profiler who has worked in the elite department of the BAU for several years, but she can only make out the way JJ’s eyes widen slightly and the way her mouth drops for a moment before they’re instantly masked, covered by a smile that seems almost relieved.

“Jayje?”

“Don’t worry about it,” JJ says, reaching out to take Emily’s hand. “Nothing happened worth remembering.”

152 notes · View notes

mc-i-r · 4 years

Text

The poem

Summary: Roman finds an unusual notebook on a certain sides desk. What he finds inside is... surprising.

Pairings: platonic Prinxiety

TW: mentions of self-harm, mentions of hospitalization, mentions of blood, angst of course, brief mention of eating disorder, poor self image, major fluff at the end don't worry ;)

Let me know if I missed any triggers!

Word count: 2,172

---

Roman was walking around the Mindpalace when he passed by a door. He stopped, finding the door particularly weird. It's dark colors and purple highlights were not what caused Roman his sudden stop. No, it was the fact that the door was open.

‘That’s weird. Panic! At the Everywhere always leaves his door closed. In fact, he makes sure of it. I better check and see if he’s okay.’ Roman thought to himself.

He looked around him, making sure no one was in sight just in case the lovable emo was having a private crisis. After confirming it was safe to enter, he creaked open the door, sticking his head in only a little bit just in case, not wanting to invade someone's privacy.

“Hello? Virge? Your door was open so I wanted to check if you were okay,” Roman said in a hushed voice, in case the side was sleeping. After receiving no response, Roman opened the door wider, walking fully into the room.

Now, despite common belief, Roman had only been in Virgil’s room once before during Accepting Anxiety and had not returned unless asked; which so far have been the grand total of zero times. Roman looked around the barely-lit room. A lot had changed since he was last in there. The room felt lighter, not by colors but by the overall feeling. He knew that the first time he was in this room the effects were dangerous, affecting them all quickly and severely. But now, there was no feeling. The feeling of doom and nervousness he felt was gone, replaced with a sense of focus and overall awareness. It somehow calmed the Prince, making him feel like he could focus on the tasks at hand and making his dreams reality through achievable means. It was a good feeling, and Roman always growing addicted to it.

He took in the scenery; dark purple walls, fluffy gray carpet, and a single bed in the center of the wall with a black comforter and purple pillows. A nightstand with a single lamp that looked almost never used sat beside the bed with a desk under the window adjacent to the bed, notebooks and art supplies all over it. Two doors stood on the right wall, one to the bathroom and the other to the closet. There were posters all over the walls, most from those emo bands and a few from The Nightmare Before Christmas, which Roman absolutely adored. Despite it not being Romans taste, he liked the room. It was comforting, like you could just snuggle up in a thick blanket and sleep through the winter.

Roman walked over to the desk, curious to what the emo nightmare’s art style is. He found mostly sketches, many of the other sides in relaxed poses. There were some of Patton cooking in the kitchen and others of Logan reading a book on the couch. Others were the Prince himself, writing down ideas in his trusty notebook or singing along to a movie on one of their many movie nights. Roman smiled at the papers.

‘So that's what he’s doing all the time. Aww, the emo really does care,’ Roman thought. He knew Virgil cared about them, he could tell. Virgil had come a long way, they all had. Roman admired Virgil for it, for being able to make that personal growth all on his own. It was something not many could do.

Roman looked over the rest of the desk, noticing an open notebook that he had never seen before. Virgil was always doodling or sketching in his sketchbook but this book was different. It was a black leather-bound book, about an inch in thickness, that had words upon words written on it. The whole page was covered in writing. And Roman was curious.

‘Must be some type of journal. I wonder what’s in it? No, Roman, that's being nosey. But it’s so enticing. Who knows what he has in there! Okay, fine. One page, okay? Only one page and then you put it down, okay?’ Roman argued with himself.

Upon his decision, he picked up the notebook, placing his thumb on the current page to make sure he could put the notebook back without being caught. He flipped back near the beginning of the book, scamming over the titles. Most pages were filled with rants on varying topics, ranging from other sides to whether or not squirrels are real. The other pages, however, caught Roman’s eye. They were writings; short stories, writing prompts, poems, and much more.

Roman saw a title that caught his eye.

“‘Isn’t it funny?’. Hmm, sounds interesting enough,” Roman said aloud to himself. It was a poem and Roman, being the fanciful romantic he was, was intrigued.

He adjusted his grip, holding the book so the page was illuminated by the hallway light that seeped in from the still-open door. Focusing on the page, he began reading.

‘Isn't it funny how nobody cares?

Until you're laying on the floor getting horrified stares

As blood pours out of the cuts that you've made.

Each arm marked by a single razor blade.

The pool of blood slowly grows around you

And the people staring wonder how this is what it's come to.

One leans down to check if you're breathing.

It's steady but slow, slowly leaving.

You wake up later in a hospital bed.

Your arms are sore and you rub your head,

Wondering what the hell happened and where you are now.

And you look at the people in the room and wonder, how?

How could they stand there and look at your face?

How could they stand to give you an embrace?

They act like they care in the hospital room.

But you know-oh you know- that it's really a tomb

Where all your secrets and shame slowly die.

But you harden your gaze and slowly sigh

As they ask why you did it or why you tried

To take your own life and they break down and cry

You look up slowly and shake your head

Saying "you should've just left me I'm better off dead"

They quickly say that they simply didn't know

That they would've helped if you only let it show

But you shake your head and look off to the side

Avoiding their gazes as you let out a shaky sigh

You slightly chuckle but not from amusement

You speak softly, your voice raspy from not using it

"Its funny how you care now that the damage is done.

Where were you when it all begun?

When I cried myself to sleep in the corner of my room?

When I cut my skin to rid me of this fleshy tomb?

When I stopped eating meals that made me too fat?

When I looked in the mirror and subconsciously spat?

I don't want your pity or your false sorrow.

Cause I'm just going to feel the same tomorrow.

I'm hanging on by a single hair

Cause isn't it funny how nobody cares?"’

By the time he was done reading, Roman was in tears.

‘How could he think of himself like that? We-I was so...horrible to him. Is-is this what he was going through while I was being so mean to him? Was he...was he thinking about doing those...those things? Did he do those things?! Does he still think that way? What if he still thinks we hate him? What if he’s always thought that and never stopped? What if he-what if he tries-’

“Princey?”

Roman’s thoughts were cut off by a hesitant hand on his shoulder, making the crying side snap his head around to see who was touching him. He found Virgil, looking at him with clear concern written all over his face, wondering why the Princely side was crying. His gaze flicked over to the notebook still held in the Prince’s hands and his face went deathly pale.

“Princey, listen to me. It's not what you think-” Virgil started.

“...is it true? Do you feel like this? Do you… do you do those...things?” Roman asked, voice small and fragile. He looked up at Virgil with sad eyes, praying to every god out there that it wasn’t true. Virgil only sighed, giving Roman a sad face that said everything.

‘Its true. All of it. The feelings, the emotions, all of it. Oh god-’

“...what have I done?” Roman said aloud, mostly to himself. At those four words, the Prince launched himself at the emo, dropping the notebook and wrapping the small side in a tight hug, crying into his shoulder. Virgil, who wasn't prepared for this, stumbled backwards a bit but caught himself, wrapping his arms around the crying side to try and calm him down.

Roman gripped Virgil’s baggy jacket, guilt taking over his mind. He wanted to hold Virgil forever, make sure he never feels that way again. He wished he could take it all back. Start over, make everything disappear and get a fresh start. God, that's all he wanted.

‘It's all my fault. It's all my fault. It’s all my fault.’

“...it’s all my fault,” Roman whispered out through cries. Virgil tightened his grip slightly and pulled back so Roman could see his face.

“Hey, hey, no it’s not. It's not your fault, okay? Look at me Roman,” Virgil said. The usually energetic side was drained, slowly lifting his head to meet Virgil’s gaze.

“None of it was your fault, okay? You only acted the way you did because you were told to act that way. I don’t blame you. No one does. We were all in the wrong okay? Don’t blame yourself for something you had no control over,” Virgil said, holding the other by the arms.

“But I could have done something. I should have done something. I knew you were just doing your job and I still treated you like shit. You deserved-deserve so much better than that. You-you make us better, Virgil. I mean that every time I say it. You make me better. To think that I drove you to those..those things it- it destroys me,” Roman said, tearing up again near the end.

“Roman, you did not make me do those things. In fact, what I did to myself was no one’s fault but my own. In fact, I never did it because I got too anxious about someone finding out or if I would bleed out and, well, the list goes on and on. That's why I have that notebook. I use it to write down my feelings so they don’t escalate. It was a complete accident, actually. I dropped a glass and cut my hand so when I started cleaning it up I began thinking about what it would be like to hurt myself and what would happen. So me, being the literal embodiment of anxiety, thought of almost every possible scenario and that was one of them. I wrote it down and decided to make it into a poem to occupy myself. I would never do any of that, not after all I’ve been through. Not after all you have helped me through. I could have never been the person I am today without you, Roman. You helped me learn from my mistakes and grow from them. You saved me, Roman,” Virgil said.

He was teary-eyed and grabbed Roman's hands. Speaking of Roman, he was crying his eyes out; half out of sadness still and half out of pure joy that the poem wasn’t all true. Roman threw his arms around Virgil yet again, hugging him so tight Virgil thought he would pass out. Virgil hugged back, smiling slightly and patting the others back in comfort. Roman pulled back, still hanging on to Virgil by his arms. Virgil wiped Roman’s tears away with his jacket sleeve, making the Prince blush out of pure contact.

“Hey, Princey, you got a little something on your face,” Virgil said, teasing.

“Oh shut it,” Roman said, smiling. Virgil smiled back, glad to see the other smiling again. God, that smile.

“There it is, there's that smile I was looking for,” Virgil said. Roman just smiled brighter and Virgil laughed. He actually laughed.

“Come on, Princey. I think Logan and Patton are helping Thomas with something so we have the Mindpalace to ourselves. Want to have a mini movie night?” Virgil asked. Roman smiled.

“After that emotional roller coaster? Hell yes,” Roman said. The two made their way downstairs, grabbing their blankets off their beds as they went, and snuggled into the couch. Virgil grabbed a few snacks while Roman picked a movie, which turned out to be Moana since it was his emotional support movie. They settled down to watch the movie, enjoying their time together.

A couple hours later, Logan and Patton returned from their errand with Thomas, coming home to see the two sides cuddled together on the couch fast asleep, the end credits of Moana still rolling on the tv screen.

---

A/N: Well...there you have it! My first oneshot I've posted! I've got a ton more so if you'd like to read more, let me know. I'm open to suggestions so message me, send asks, or tag me anytime! Anywho, hope you enjoyed :)

Taglist:

@whattheremus (sorry if you didn't wanna be tagged, I just thought since you said yes you'd like to know :) )

52 notes · View notes

mightysteelix · 4 years

Text

The Sin Of Gluttony

Because this, after all, is still a fic blog. Here's my newest story - and my longest so far. And it did not take as much time as I expected, being finished in two-three weeks. Written to fix the lack of Shirou/Dantes fics and the lack of male "Fate/" kink fics.

Rating: Mature Category: M/M Fandoms: Fate/Grand Order Relationship: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler/Edmond Dantès | Avenger Characters: Amakusa Shirou Tokisada | Ruler and Edmond Dantès | Avenger Summary: Shirou Amakusa had been sneaking in Chaldea's kitchen to indulge his gluttony. Thus, Archer enlists one Avenger to help him.Weight-gain kink fic. Don't like, don't read.

WARNING FOR KINK CONTENTS UNDER THE CUT

Additional Tags: Weight Gain; Belly Kink; Rapid weight gain; Magically assisted weight gain; Main character is 18+; Force-Feeding; Teasing; Erections; Mildly Dubious Consent; Feeder Edmond Dantès; Feedee Amakusa Shirou

LAST WARNING FOR KINK

Amakusa Shirou sneaked into Chaldea’s kitchen. Coast - clear.

The last master of humanity was snoring in their bed, lulled by Nursery Rhyme’s tales. The Servants had taken the opportunity to sleep - expect the most obsessed, who tried to barge in Ritsuka’s room. Even EMIYA, usually restless about his domain, had holed with the rest of his not-exactly family.

As expected. Amakusa planned every heist months in advance, manipulating Servants for the perfect night. As a saint - even if apocryphal - he should reject the pleasures of the flesh: forget the buttery cookies, the fluffy desserts, the sweets that melted in the mouth... Snapping from the trance, he caught himself drooling. His eyes sparkled with desire. He had to fight the sin that would lead him astray.

Yet he crossed the large dining area in a single leap and entered the kitchen. The enthralling taste of gluttony, as captivating as EMIYA’s food, lingered. His own desires were controlling him. For a third night, he would indulge his longing in secret, fill his craving stomach with the most masterful food the world could offer. He would stuff his stomach past the norms of sense, lose himself in the pleasure of food. Perhaps the Fiendish Bodhisattva had cursed him with the unquenchable hunger.

Amakusa licked his lips, imaging the feast tonight. “Or my sins crushed me and I am their slave.” He should have rejected it. Yet those greedy desires took over the priest, stealing any control. Against the craving, he had no power. Gulping down his dry throat, he opened the fridge slowly, as if performing a holy rite. Sweet, sweet aroma tickled his nose. His fingers shivered. The light blinded his eyes, used to the dim darkness. As he adjusted, the outlines of the dishes took a concrete form. A large tray of cookies sprinkled white with powdered sugar; a few batches of thick, sweet, and fluffy ice cream.

Above them stood the crown jewel of EMIYA’s cooking - a five-layered cake, patiently decorated. Sugar flowers colored the frosting, each one with crafted petals. Fine glaze ribbons circled each tier. The Archer must have put an entire day in his masterpiece.

And Amakusa would destroy it in sheer, unbridled gluttony - a grave, unforgivable sin. Once he was stuffed, unable to stomach another morsel and pinned in one place by the pain and the weight of the food, he would polish down the cake in the most wasteful, decadent show of greed. His heart beat faster in his chest.

“The feast has started,” Amakusa whispered and took the chosen dishes. The light thinned, before disappearing as he pushed the door closed. Alone in the dark, hidden from everyone’s stare, he snatched a cookie and pressed it between his teeth. They tore the sweet dough. The sugar melted over his tongue.

“EMIYA,” he moaned, “you have outdone yourself again.” After gulping the cookie, he took another. The sweetness excited his tongue. His greedy fingers reached for the next one and it disappeared as quickly. The risk of capture at any moment, red-handed at the crime scene; the off chance his plan could fail drove him to gulp faster. If he did not finish before the others woke up, he had lost.

The ritual ended as the last cookie traveled down in Amakusa’s belly. A whole tray and he was barely stuffed. He had laughed at the tales of Saber’s hunger yet now was outeating her. His fingers rubbed the small curve of his stomach, hidden under his baggy clothes. A solid beginning, yet so far from the gluttony he desired.

“What should I pick now?” he asked himself. The cookies - however heavenly - had dried his mouth further. Some ice cream would serve as a relief. Amakusa opened one tub, a fresh, chocolate wave of coldness pinching his cheeks. “It’s decided.”

Standing like a hero against their sworn enemy, Amakusa held his sword - a spoon - and broke the dark brown, almost black, layer of syrup.

“Huh?” Shadows hissed out of the ice cream and twirled around his arm. The curse chilled his skin, leaving a deep chain mark. Amakusa tensed. He tried to free his hand, yet the darkness pulled him closer, even more chains shooting at him. One bound his free arm, another warped his legs painfully tight.

They held him above the ground, unable to move a single finger. Only his mouth remained free. Should he scream for help? No, his captor desired that - to break his pride by forcing an admission out of him. He would never allow himself to be caught.

“Do not hope you will escape!” Thundering, evil laugh boomed. Pale sparks flared around the core of the curse. The shadows grew like smoke. Two legs formed under the cloud, covered by a long, dark coat to the ankles. “For your sin has already claimed your very soul!” The Avenger - the Count of Monte Cristo - cackled. His eyes flared brightly like the flames of hell. “No salvation awaits you!”

“This noise for me? Ah, you flatter me, Avenger.” Amakusa smiled, far more sweetly than any pastry. “I doubt you will release me if I ask.” He closed his eyes and lowered his voice to a sly whisper. “Would at least tell me why you took your time to curse me?”

“Politeness will lead you nowhere! The Archer yearned for vengeance.” Edmond walked closer to Amakusa, leaving a trail of shadows behind himself. “His thirst summoned me. The perpetrator must suffer and regret his crimes.”

“Have you stolen Holmes’ job? He will hate it. Very well, you caught me. You can turn me to the Master.” The pleasant way out. The preferable one.

Edmond shook head, his long hair swaying. “No, mon ami. Our Master will forgive you. That would be justice - their justice, yet the Archer does not care about it. He wants retribution, he wants punishment.” The fire in his eyes died as he held Amakusa’s cheek. “You will bear the weight of your sins.”

Amakusa gulped - an exaggerated jest of fake fear. “Does he plan to hang me until my limbs become numb? He must have a strange taste.”

The Count’s manic laughter filled the kitchen, making the utensils on the wall shake. “No, he gave me full right over your punishment. If the greatest Avenger accepts it, it will satisfy his dark desire. No one is observing us, nor anyone will wake in the following hours. Until our time runs out, I will plunge you in my curse.” He took the spoonful of ice cream from Amakusa’s hand. “Enjoy your greed, sinner! Rejoice as you become the embodiment of your sin!”

The spoon aimed for Amakusa’s mouth. He shut his mouth and bent his head backward. Whatever the Count had prepared, he would not comply. Although empty curiosity (or greater hunger) gnawed on his thoughts, eating him alive, he resisted. One word and the Count would stab with the spoon.

“Too late!” The magical sparks lit the kitchen with their pale colours. “You should have fought your sin before eating the bait!” Another shadow - thin like a piece of cloth - forced Amakusa’s mouth ajar.

He struggled to close it. His jaws shivered, pulled back by the bindings.

"Now," the Count continued, “you can repent only through punishment!” As soon as Amakusa’s lips opened, he lunged the loaded spoon in his mouth.

The ice cream had already molten a little. Thick and syrupy, it chilled Amakusa’s tongue. Sweet chocolate excited his taste buds, before emptying in his throat and leaving him craving more. He licked his teeth - some of the treat had stuck there. “Do you plan to feed me the entire night?”

“The punishment must fit the sin! Tell me, priest, how else should I discipline you?” Edmond scooped more ice cream, before pushing it in Amakusa’s mouth. “Three nights I prepared the perfect curse for you.” The shadow loosened its hold. “A curse to please Archer’s and my lust!”

Amakusa had to stop. The Avenger’s plans could only end badly for him. If he clenched teeth again, he could fight the spoons: sweet, sticky, pleasuring… The lingering chocolate taste flared up in the pit of his stomach. He wanted - no; he needed the creamy, thick confection down his throat.

A priest should reject any temptation.

And yet once the ice cream touched Amakusa’s tongue, he gulped down desperately.

“That’s it!” More frantic than a Berserker, Edmond forced a spoonful after a spoonful in Amakusa’s mouth. “Fall in your sin! Embrace your desires and suffer!”

The priest obeyed like a trained pet. He could not reject the tingling pleasure of the sugar. Each gulp moistened his throat, making him shiver with delight before a stronger, fresher taste replaced it. Closing his eyes, he waited for the powerful, familiar fullness. Once hunger had left him, he would eat because he wanted to blow in size: bloated, overfed, huge, indulging. Most thoughts were pushed away, only one lingering. The Avenger must have realized Amakusa enjoyed his punishment.

“You are shaping up perfectly!” The chocolate taste died without a new hit to replace it. “Now everybody in Chaldea will realize your gluttony!” Edmond pressed hands over Amakusa’s belly. “Did you believe I will only feed you?” The black shadows let him on the kitchen counter. “No! You will suffer the results of your sin: your lustful, decadent greed!” Where Amakusa used to have solid abs, now there was a chubby, small belly.

Intriguing. Out of all possible torments: the hellish tower; the soul-sucking nightmares - the Count chose to feed him in person and curse him with fatness. Amakusa smiled like the sun. "You do not lose points for originality. But what are you going to do now?" He took a spoon and fed himself a large scoop of the cursed ice cream. His body tingled as the sweet taste washed over his tongue and he felt himself pluming the slightеst bit.

Edmond snorted. "I have already broken you? Pity. I expected you would rebel for longer. If you had tried to run, I would have had you tied and stuffed for the whole night."

"Not at all." Amakusa's warm eyes locked on the Count. "You have not broken me. I would have eaten the ice cream anyway." He cupped his chin - a little thicker than normal. "Cannot let my careful planning waste. Thank you for speeding the process and feeding me."

Sparks flew around the Count, making the kitchen glow. "Don't talk!" he ordered, tying Amakusa with the shadows once again. "I will fatten you up until you need to be rolled around Chaldea! How could you still eat despite the curse?"

So cute. The big bad Avenger was flustered and his it behind anger.

Amakusa scratched the flab lightly. Small ripples formed around, disappearing at the limits of his newly gained fat. It was a real, permanent part of him; a definite proof of his gluttony. "Be fast, please." He wanted to grow soft, enormous, fattened by his inevitable obsession. And he would make the Avenger admit he enjoyed the night as much. "Perhaps I should have tried to run. I'd rather not waste time on small talk when there is still food."

"I shall make you eat your words along with everything else!" Edmond flared as if burning alive. The shadows boiled and squirmed behind him. One coiled around Amakusa's legs and pinned them to the base of the counter. "Even if you enjoy it now, the night is still young. I have endless time to make it a worthy punishment!"

"Would you drop the pretences already?" Amakusa leaned forward and his shirt rode a little, showing a silver of tan skin. He held Edmond's palm in his hands. "If you admit we both seek pleasure, the night will be more enjoyable."

"What pretences?" The Count pulled his hand free. "I work in the name of vengeance! My only pleasure is the pain of my victims!" He draped over his prisoner and fed him so fast that Amakusa could not talk.

The overfilled spoon left his lips and came again, even more full, forcing him to gulp or drown in the ice cream. With each course, his belly expanded - even more extra weight piling on it, stretching his black shirt tighter and making it ride up higher. The speck of revealed skin grew as his little bit of flab engorged in a proper gut - and Amakusa would not stop.

Not that Edmond would let him. Frantic sparks shot around, giving short bursts of light - Amakusa bigger at every one. Laughing madly fast, he scooped through the tub and ensured that all of its contents ended in the priest's mouth. Any moment he expected to break Amakusa's bliss and make him beg for mercy.

But it did not happen. As Amakusa’s body widened, so did his grin. A decadent desire possessed him; he sucked the ice cream from the spoon before Edmond had finished putting it in his mouth. He poked his hands sideways in his stomach and shook it up and down, the vibrations jolting through his flab. The weight over his hands increased, and he put more force to jiggle his forming rolls. The next dose could not come fast enough.

And even though the Avenger controlled Amakusa, he was fighting on the defensive, unable to find an excuse. Tied and speechless, the priest still rebelled against him. Not only rebelling, but he also held swath over Edmond’s actions. His joy would not end soon; the Count’s anger was burning up. And how could it stay, when Amakusa ate every fattening spoon and took the full bunt of the curse?

The Count dragged the spoon out of Amakusa’s mouth but did not fill it again with ice cream.

“What happened?” Amakusa asked, his nimble tongue licking the ice cream on his lips. “Has it run out? Too bad,” he laughed, his chubbier cheeks jiggling along. “I was just starting to enjoy it. Can we move to the cake now? A bit earlier than I expected, but if there’s no more ice cream left…”

“How?” Edmond broke the spoon in two as if it was a mere twig. “An Avenger - a Servant born of hatred - to bring pleasure? Impossible!” With a flick of his hands, he cleared his pale sparks, drowning the kitchen in total darkness. “I hoped to keep this as my finishing move, but your joy has continued for too long!”

He took the second tub - the first truly empty - and imbued it with his dark power. It glowed a sick green color as the ice cream boiled, bubbles forming and exploding with a strong ‘Pop!’. It melted, leaving a thick liquid full of sugary calories. As soon as the light died, he pressed the tub to Amakusa’s lips.

The viscous liquid slogged down the priest’s throat, and the empowered curse fattened him faster. Even in the darkness, he felt himself expanding, stretching the black shirt to sizes Amakusa never imagined it would reach. Each gigantic gulp sent shocks through his gut. It flopped, pulling the shirt higher. Now it covered only the topmost part of his belly - and soon would free it as the mass of lard did not stop growing.

His pants proved somewhat more resistant, digging deep in his gut. The waistband stretched to its limit, a mound of flesh falling over it. Amakusa tried to reach under it and unbutton his pants, but his chubby fingers could not budge the button. He would have to pop it with his growing gut. An even heavier gulp made his abdomen sag lower, resting on his tights.

Of course, the fattening had not spared them either. His legs filled the dark pants, pushing the material beyond its limit. He felt the brush of air on his bare skin, small holes having formed around the seams. The fabric pressed deep, but with each second the thread unraveled further.

His arms also expanded, losing any muscular definition. Even with the powers of a Servant, he moved them with more difficulty than before. The arm flab quivered with his movements, doubling the pleasure of exploring his flabby body.

And the cushion of his ass softened, taking more and more place over the counter. Amakusa sneaked his hand down his back, squeezing the thick globe of pure fat. His nails dug in the flesh and the ripples traveled to his knees, the flab a perfect conductor for them. Moving up, he groped his large love handles - they have united with the bulk of his gut, forming a flabby ring around him.

How huge was he? He could see nothing, only feeling his belly bulge and his shirt rise and his pants tighten… Once the lights came back, Amakusa expected incredible joy and disappointment. He would find how enormous he had become, yet it would never reach his imagination. If his lardy ass covered the counter, the floor would be the next challenge, then the rest of Chaldea…

After each gulp, he leaned back more and more, the sudden weight of his gut proving too much for a Servant’s body - or another effect of the curse? The more his belly surged out, the closer he came to lying down, pinned under the always growing weight of his own fat. Could he even stand up on his own once done? Or he would rely on the Count’s whims: seemingly unpredictable, but completely under Amakusa’s control and in an endless game of cat and mouse?

As Amakusa lay on his back, the warm fat insulating the cold counter, the last spurt of the ice cream fell in his throat and pushed out his flabby sphere of a gut.

“Perfect!” The Count dissolved the shadows and jabbed his fingers in Amakusa’s stomach, above his belly button. The vibrations shook his mass, reaching to his now-ample moobs. “With all this fat pressing you down, you must feel -“

“Perfect.” Amakusa cut in Edmond. He huffed as he sat up, mashing his bulbous gut and forcing more pressure on his soft ass. “Did you believe that you can make me regret it? Abandon my gluttony?” He laughed, feeling his chubby cheeks wobble. “Avenger, this time your plans failed.”

The Count clenched fists. A storm of sparks flared around him, throwing blinding light over the kitchen. Amakusa bowed head, avoiding the sudden brightness. He saw his rolls: wide and flabby, daring almost to touch the counter.

“I failed!” The Count stomped away, causing the kitchen to shake - Amakusa’s fat body included. “I had only to force you to regret your sin, make you detest your desires - to punish you in Archer’s name! And now the night has fallen to ruin.” His body vacuumed all the sparks but the palest light.

“It does not have to be,” Amakusa said. “We have not touched the cake. Your last chance to make me detest the curse. Will you take up to the challenge?”

“Yes,” Edmond muttered. “Yes!” he roared, clenching fists in a triumphant pose. “You, mon ami, will curse my name by the end of the night!” He burnt bright with sparks. The closer he walked to Amakusa, the more air around him heated. “I swear it! As the sun rises, you will curse the Count of Monte Cristo!”

“And I swear,” Amakusa replied in turn, “to make you admit that you have enjoyed the night.” It was a deal with a handsome devil; a bet he would win. He extended his pudgy hand to Edmond’s slender one.

Edmond fell in the trap; once their fingers pressed, Amakusa pulled him closer, making him fall in the mountain of his gut. The sudden movement made Amakusa’s whole body jiggle like a ball of squishy jelly. Trying to push himself up from the soft pile, Edmond only sent greater tremors through it. He spoke horrible curses, his fiery tongue licking Amakusa’s skin. The priest wanted only to keep him there forever, worshiping and feeding him.

Alas, the momentary happiness had to end. Using his shadows, the Count pulled himself free. “I have never thought a priest as you would fall to such nasty tricks.” He draped over Amakusa. His hands groped his flabby moobs for support. “You could have asked.”

“You would have refused,” Amakusa smiled without a trace of regret. “Or I have won?”

“Not even close. I am merely -“ he leaned even closer, above the priest’s lips, “- casting a bigger net.” Edmond massaged Amakusa’s moobs, his fingers squeezing the two sacks of flab. His knees gently kneaded the gigantic mass of his gut.

Amakusa’s pants tightened even more. His erect dick pressed in the flab of his tights, and each ripple of his belly sent a stronger joust of pleasure through it. “And how it helps you to give me more pleasure?”

Edmond’s heated breath touched the priest’s face. “I could chain you with the shadows and leave you here.” One of his hands slipped lower and stroke Amakusa’s dick slowly. “Begging on the verge of a release that is not coming.”

“Is this your rumored cruelty, Avenger?” Amakusa smiled and pulled Edmond in a tight hug. “Then I will reply in kind.” He dragged his flabby hands over the Count’s back, holding them over his tight, tiny ass. Edmond’s dick poked into Amakusa’s stomach. “Now we are even.”

“Do not overstep your bounds, Ruler.” Pressing hands on the counter, Edmond pushed himself up above Amakusa’s face, close, but out of reach. “I might just decide to leave you packed in shadows as a present for the Archer.”

“Perhaps it is your fault. If someone was… I don’t know - feeding me too fast - I would have no time to play with you.” Amakusa trailed a finger over his fat, empty gut. “Bear the responsibility and keep engorging me. Ensure I grow constantly.”

“Your tendency for shameful moves should have made you a Caster. A warning to the people, who don’t expect sneaky priests.” Edmond jumped off the counter and turned his back to Amakusa. “No.” He snorted, shaking his head. “I knew your nature and still chose to fight against you.” The flame in his eyes glowed. “Enfer Château d’If!” His body tensed and in the next second, he had Amakusa gagged again, while he leaned over his mouth with a chunk of the cake.

One shadow had coiled around Amakusa’s calves, squishing the fat on them, and slammed them to the base of the counter. A second bound his hands, forcing him to lie down on the table.

Amakusa smirked and opened his lips. “I won,” he muttered before the Count pushed the pastry down his throat. He gulped the light, extra buttery dough, letting the curse do its job. His tights fattened around his hard dick, embracing it in hot flab. Almost cuming, Amakusa ground them together. The movement shook his stomach, its bottom roll falling onto the tip of his cock and pressing deeper.

The Count moved at a fiendish speed; before Amakusa could gulp, a new portion of the cake had filled his mouth. Using both hands, he tore from Archer’s masterpiece, all in the important goal of feeding his priest. Amakusa twitched, his erection throbbing.

His moobs - two balls of fat that could rival Raikou’s - strained the black shirt which fought in vain to cover them. His sleeves fared even worse; bits of exposed skin oozed out of the large tears. The tight pants endured the longest, yet as Amakusa’s gut pushed out heavier, fatter, more decadent, the waistband groaned. After an especially heavy chunk, the layer of fat forced it stretch more. The fabric could not take it and with a loud sound tore all the way down to his crotch.

Amakusa moaned as he felt himself cum, soaking his tight underpants. The Count paid no notice, only using the opportunity to force even more food into his wide-opened mouth. The priest’s body heated even more as a haze of incredible pleasure clouded his thoughts. He ate on autopilot, not caring how big he would end - it would not be enough. Thus, they would repeat the night’s session later, when…

The sweet flow of the cake ended. “What happened?” he asked, licking his lips. “Have I eaten the entire cake?” Already? Even with Edmond’s Noble Phantasm increasing his speed, the doughy tower should have lasted longer. Amakusa wanted to check, but his fattened neck and the tight shadows restricted his movement.

“Not yet.” The Count gritted his teeth, turning his head away from Amakusa. The long shade of his collar hid his face. “But I lost my only advantage. You have won. I do not have to feed you further,” he said in a weak tone. Melting away, the shadows released their prisoner.

‘You have won.’ The hollow words did nothing to fill the void in Amakusa’s stomach. He lay unmoving, staring at the dark ceiling of the room while Edmond walked away. “Wait,” he said, just as the Count stood in the door, ready to leave him. “As long as there’s some cake left, you have chances. You can fatten me so much that I would regret it. So fat that I would depend on you for everything.”

Edmond leaned on the door. “And yet you would still like it. Tell me, priest, one reason not to leave.”

“You will never know. I might just realize I dislike my size once the cake is over. Would you risk missing the chance to taunt me over it and mock me? Would the Avenger miss his vengeance? Besides,” Amakusa whispered an octave lower, “I am sure you are as aroused as I was.”

“Even the goddess of pleasure cannot compete with you.” The Count turned, his coat fluttering behind him in an arc. “Very well, priest. You will entertain me for some more time.”

Tomorrow, Amakusa would deal with the questions, the stares, and the consequences. The Great Order, the King of Mages, even simply moving became a distant goal. Tonight he had a cake to finish and a Count to tease.

#weight gain stories #male weight gain #male weight gain stories #weight gain fanifction #Fate Grand Order #amakusa shirou #edmond dantes #chubwritings

28 notes · View notes

isis-astarte-diana · 4 years

Text

Puppetry

Summary: “There are pains the human body can never accustom itself to; birth, death, and the foreign presence of a psychic link chief amongst them.” Missy can’t wait to be inside you, in every possible way.

Warnings: 18+/NSFW/Explicit. Fisting, bondage, tiny bit of painful sex, dodgy dynamics, little bit of mind control, potential dub!con if you squint. As always, Missy is her own warning.

Word Count: 3993

NB: After mentioning it no less than twice (!!!) in Big Bad Wolf and Reckless, I had to do a fisting fic. Totally normal stuff. I don’t even know what to say about this thing. It’s strangely fluffy?? Good luck.

“Open wide, love.”

Your mouth is full, a thick bit of supple leather resting snugly between your teeth. It’s buckled comfortably around the back of your head and your breaths, while wavering, are unobstructed. Your tongue is pinned beneath it. Words of protest and encouragement alike are robbed from you, replaced with the taste of earth and smoke and a satisfying fullness, a pleasant resistance that lets you work your jaws around it. Your wrists are bound above your head with soft restraints that grant you enough slack to wriggle. Lying supine and naked on this bed, the ship’s engines humming beneath you like cosmic music, your world shrinks to the space between Missy and yourself.

She’s stripped down to her chemise, the thin linen of it starkly white against the hair that tumbles down her back and over her bare shoulders. The half-light casts dancing shadows on the sharp lines of her cheekbones. With her knees planted between your thighs she leans over you, dark locks tickling your neck, and presses gentle fingers to your temples.

You can feel her there. She’s warm and throbbing just outside your mind, applying a faint pressure that ebbs and flows and grows in increments. It’s not the first time you’ve done this but you still aren’t used to the near-physical sensation of pushing as she inches closer to breaching you.

What starts as pressure slowly turns into discomfort. Beneath her fingertips twin pains begin to bloom in your temples, tight and reminiscent of the soreness from a tension headache. You close your eyes against it, focusing on steady, deep breaths, knowing from experience that the worst is yet to come.

The aches sharpen as they spread further into your skull and soon they’re creeping behind your eyes, blinding and burning as they go, two shafts of white-hot light parting the folds and creases of your brain so that they can meet in the middle. You shudder beneath her, the raw heat of it coursing down your spinal cord and making every nerve thrum with sensation. Behind the gag you wail in anguish.

Missy’s voice is tender. “Shh, shh, it’s alright.” She soothes you like a bucking animal, pressing her fingers deeper into the protesting muscles and rubbing tight circles. You barely feel the touch, consumed by the fire blazing inside your head, unable to control the arching of your back or the pitiful sounds streaming from you. “I know it hurts, my love, I know. Open up, let me inside.”

There are pains the human body can never accustom itself to; birth, death, and the foreign presence of a psychic link chief amongst them. For a single moment of vice-like agony you feel the familiar panic, that this will be the end of you, that you cannot possibly accommodate her in a skull already so full of meat and thought and memory and feeling and then-

Stars.

Millennia of stars, nebulae bursting with life inside your mind, histories and futures beyond your comprehension that expand and fill each recess until you’re holding the universe itself within you. Infinity and eternity and the crushing weight of aeons, terrifying and beautiful, consume you. There are heavy tears rolling down your face but you can’t feel them. Your eyes are glazed and unseeing as they stare up at her, the ceiling beyond her, the whole of time that stretches beyond that.

Well done, pet.

Her voice inside you is grounding. It resonates through your bones and pulls you back to her, to the moment at hand. She’s a warm, lavender haze as she sinks into the hollows of you, filling the space like a cloud in a bell jar.

Relax for me.

The first rush of her psyche inside of yours is always overwhelming. It feels so much bigger than your own, impossible to contain as it swallows your consciousness within itself. She’s immeasurably patient, working the synapses in your brain as deftly as her fingers work the controls of her TARDIS, carefully returning your senses and awareness until you’re piloting your own body once more.

Like waking from an episode of sleep paralysis, the first shred of control regained comes with the twitching and curling of your fingers. The scent of her perfumed neck is quick to follow, bringing with it the taste of leather and the weight of her, warm and soft and deceptively strong between your legs. Your sight comes back gradually, eyelids fluttering as your optic nerve struggles to adjust, and when at last you see her hovering ethereal above you once more it’s the loveliest thing you can conceive of.

Missy leans down and kisses you. It’s awkward around the bit, but she’s undeterred, catching your lips one by one between her own and slicking them with her tongue. She cups your cheek and strokes it with her thumb as the shock of being so thoroughly invaded dies away and your quivering slows and stops.

Better?

No longer dizzying, it feels natural to hear her voice even as she busies her mouth with yours. You wriggle experimentally, testing the control of your muscles, satisfied to find your faculties returned completely.

Better. Perfect. Thank you.

Thank you for having me. She chuckles audibly, stroking the tears away from your cheek. You took me in so well.

You blink up at her, meeting her eyes, and the tenderness there catches in your throat. I’ll never get used to this.

You will. Give it time. She presses her forehead to yours. This is just the beginning. I have so much left to show you.

Like what?

Her fingers trace along your jaw. I can control so much. The nerves, the muscles… they’re all just strings to pull. She rests her palm across your throat, the faintest of touches, measuring your breath. I can control this.

Do it.

You’re surprised by the quickness of your response. The spoken word is a conscious choice, but you have no control over your thoughts, and you still don’t know how to keep them from her when she’s linked with you. More than the pain of entry, that’s the most frightening part of joining with her like this. For her, it’s the greatest appeal; the nakedness of you, soft and malleable and incapable of hiding. She can pore over your every desire, pick apart the deepest dreams and fantasies and fears that you could never verbalise.

Do you want me to? She senses, or hears, your hesitance.

I think so. Yes. Show me.

Your wish is my command, love.

Your throat closes suddenly, as if by an invisible drawstring. There’s an instant of horror when you try for an instinctive breath that doesn’t come. She soothes you with feather-light kisses to your cheek, humming inside you, relax, I have you, I won’t let it hurt. Her palm hooks under your jaw to gauge your pulse. I would never let it hurt.

I trust you. It’s only been a few seconds, but the shock of losing your breath like this is like plunging into Arctic waters and you’re already struggling. The panic rises slowly, your body protesting at an inability to draw breath that it can’t distinguish from dying, regardless of your consent. Missy...

Of course. She releases whatever hold she has on your windpipe immediately. Your chest heaves with grateful breaths and she grins against your jaw. That was very brave. Another tender kiss to the curve of your chin. You look so lovely when you’re desperate.

You squeak around the gag, twisting in your restraints. Please don’t tease me.

I would never. Her lips trail further down and you mumble an appreciative noise into the bit when the heat of her mouth descends on your neck, sucking an affectionate bruise just above your collarbone. I can feel it, you know. How much it excites you to have me inside like this.

Quivering, you lift your hips towards her, searching for her touch. So much. Like nothing else.

You can’t hide from me. I know what you want, what you need.

More. I need more.

How much more? A ferocious graze of teeth has you whining and squirming. How much will you give? How much can you take?

As much as you like. Always as much as you like, Missy. She’s driving you into a frenzy with her teeth and tongue, hands braced either side of you, keeping you pinned down and spread out like a mounted butterfly. Please. I’ll do anything.

My fist. She pushes out, a wave of her desire lapping at your mind while she puts one strong hand on your rocking hips and forces them to still. You groan around the bit. I want my fist inside you, filling you up, fucking you open until you beg me to stop.

Yes. Please, yes. Both hands are on your pelvis now and your back arches when she starts to kiss down the length of your breastbone, over your stomach, towards the thatch of hair between your thighs. Anything you want, just please, touch me. Take me. I’m yours. I’ll let you do anything.

You know just what a girl likes to hear. Her hands wrap warm and tight around the outsides of your thighs as she situates herself between them, slotting her shoulders into the space she creates, leaving you hooked around her and exposed enough to feel her breath against your slick folds. You whine and try to draw her closer. Oh, my little human, how beautiful you are down here. I'm ravenous for you. Can you feel it?

Inside your skull the fog of her is turning red at the edges, rolling through you like billows of steam in its maddening desire. She leaves you no room for shyness, engulfing your doubts in clouds the colour of an electrical storm, lighting you up from within even as she leans in and drags the flat of her tongue along the full length of your vulva. It’s hot and slick and not enough and you tug at the restraints, head thrown back in wild abandon. The skill of her mouth alone is enough to make you frantic but the telepathic link is like a feedback loop, amplifying your arousal through her own until it’s all you’re conscious of.

I love you. I can’t bear how much I love you. There’s not enough room in me for all of this.

You’re so dramatic. She repeats the long, slow stroke once, twice, each time making you moan. I love you, too, poppet.

Missy works her lips against you, sucking at your tender folds, her tongue caressing and exploring until your breath comes short and heavy. The first stroke of the underside of her tongue against your clitoris has you crying out, sinking your teeth into the leather wedged between them, thighs twitching around her head. She hums in satisfaction and does it again before focusing her attention exactly where you need it, fingers clenching tighter into the creases of your inner thighs, holding you perfectly still despite your screaming nerves as she worships the sensitive bud with her lips and tongue. She insistently follows every rocking motion of your hips, offering no reprieve from the excruciating assault.

There, right there. Just like that.

I know. I know what you want.

You wrap your hands around the bedposts, white-knuckled. I won’t last, Missy. It’s too much.

So don’t. She doesn’t let up for an instant. You’re almost howling behind the gag, body taut and trembling like a plucked string. I need you dripping when I take you. I need you relaxed. Come for me first.

She knows you too well. It’s effortless for her as she drags out the perfect repetition and rhythm, every sweet word that she sends pulsing into your mind pushing you nearer to the precipice. The pit of your stomach tightens with each laboured breath. Close. I’m so close.

Good girl. Her mouth is merciless, her grip on your thighs close to bruising, her voice vibrating through your bones. Come for me, love. Just for me. Let me taste what’s mine.

It doesn’t take much longer for you to fall apart, thrashing and writhing beneath her as your orgasm takes you. Your thoughts fall crashing into a jumble of professions of love and adoration and yours, all yours, always while you fruitlessly try to squirm away from the overwhelming sensations. She doesn’t let you go, working the last of the tremors from your supine body with her tireless mouth. In the back of your mind she swells with pride and pleasure.

So lovely. Always so lovely for me. I’ll never stop craving the taste of you. Your chest heaves as she presses tender kisses to the insides of your thighs, allowing you a moment to catch your breath. Even so, she fails to hide her impatience. I need you. I need to be inside of you.

You know it’s not an exaggeration; she’s pushing and squirming urgently in your head, incandescent with desire, fanning the flames of your own need. Despite the aftershocks still pulsing through you her urgency is contagious, and your clenching cunt feels torturously empty.

Fuck me. Take me. I’m ready, Missy. I need to be filled.

And you will be.

She doesn’t tease, keeping one arm hooked around your thigh while she presses three fingers inside of you. They’re met with no resistance, your fluttering walls still pliant in the wake of your orgasm, the natural slickness more than sufficient to ease their way. Your grip tightens on the bedposts as if to drag you upwards and away but she holds firm as she begins to fuck you slowly.

Not enough. It’s not enough. It’s maddening, the way your mind can’t seem to reconcile with your body. You’re full with the thickness of her fingers, the width of them just this side of uncomfortable, a drag and slide against your insides that should be more than enough to satisfy you and yet it isn’t, not even close. What are you doing to me?

Tiny bit of psychic projection. She sweetens the words with another broad swipe of her tongue against your throbbing clitoris and your breathing falters. I thought you might need some courage.

Courage for what?

You feel the tip of her little finger against the stretched lips of your cunt, and then she’s twisting, driving her fingers deeper to accommodate the shorter length of this digit as it enters you. It burns, stings, just for a moment, enough to make you groan and bite down on the bit, arms trembling as your body stiffens in a brief but furious protest.

For that, mostly. She stills, giving you a chance to relax around her. Are you alright, poppet?

I think so. I don’t know. The discomfort ebbs away quickly, leaving your muscles clenching around the startling width of her four fingers, pulsing in time with your heart. It’s dizzying to be so open for her. No, but don’t stop. She chuckles, outside and inside. You can feel the absence of her thumb almost as acutely as the stretch, a breathtaking threat of more to come, miles left to go. I don’t know how I can take any more.

I’ll show you. I’ll help you. More tender, much-needed stimulation to your vulva, her mouth still astonishingly unwearied, never tired of pleasing you. She twists her fingers, wriggles them, massaging your insides and carefully making room for more. Patience, love. Always patience. You were made for me.

Now who’s the dramatic one?

Hush. Her fingers rock against the sensitive spot inside you, feeding the clenching pressure in your abdomen, making your legs twitch. You feel so good around me. So hot, so soft.

It’s so much. I’m so full.

You’re almost there. Her thumb tucks into the hollow of her cupped fingers, pushing gently, easing you open further. This might feel... strange.

A giddy sort of laugh bubbles up from your chest. As opposed to?

Fair point. You draw a harsh breath when her fingers shift, expecting pain, prepared for her to push her thumb inside of you, but instead you feel a rush of slickness from your cunt, a fresh flood of your own arousal that coats her hand down to the palm. It’s not unpleasant but the sensation is bizarre, and you whine.

What was that? What did you do?

Just needed to ease the way a bit. The copious lubrication lets her thumb slide past your pulsing muscles with ease, so smoothly that you barely notice it until suddenly she’s buried inside you to the knuckles. Like I said... strings to pull. You’re lucky I know my human anatomy.

Even as you keen and writhe around the impossible stretch, you can’t help your exasperation. We do have lube, you know. There’s no need to show off.

I know. Starting up a slow rhythm of strokes inside you, her fingers push and twist, carefully working you open while you shudder and moan. It’s more fun this way, though.

Does this mean I’ll be really dehydrated later?

You wince as the idle thought rings out before you can stop it. Between your legs, Missy laughs, a rich and indulgent sound that makes your heart soar. Craning your neck from the mattress, an abashed look on your face, you see her grinning up at you. You squeak around the gag.

Sorry. Mood killer?

Never. Holding your gaze, she drags her tongue over your clitoris with aching precision. Your head falls back with a gasp. Plenty of water, tonight. Let me worry about it. I’ll take care of you.

You always do. Thank you.

My pleasure. She pushes deeper, letting you feel her slippery knuckles dragging at your labia, accustoming you to the width of them. Ready for the hard part?

Yes. No. Do it. You rock your hips in invitation. Please.

Beg me? A flick of her tongue against your overstretched entrance, drawing your attention to the size of her inside you. Just a little bit?

Please, Missy. Please fuck me with your hand. I need to feel you, all of you.

That’s my girl. You can feel her in your mind again, squirming with excitement, feeding your own. Deep breaths. Let me in.

Holding tight to the bedposts, you nod as best you can, fighting to steady your breathing. She moves almost painfully slowly, easing you open, a stretch that has your eyes rolling back in your head. When the sting begins to set in she knows it immediately.

So good for me. Such a brave little human. Her psyche caresses the inside of your skull, hot and slick, pulsing to the rhythm of her twin heartbeats. I could ruin you in so many ways.

You moan brokenly when she pauses, the full width of her knuckles splitting you open. Your cunt throbs and burns around them. You already have.

Silly girl. There’s a tightness in your chest, the ghost of her warm hand squeezing your lungs from the inside, making your breaths come shallow and your head swim with delirium. You have no idea what I could do to you. A twist of her hand; you cry out, hoarse, so consumed you’re numb to the beads of sweat trailing down the curve of your neck. You’re mine, you understand? Every cell of you. Every atom. You’re all mine.

I know. I know. I’m yours, Missy.

And I’m yours.

The world falls from beneath you when she slides home.

It feels like the link forming all over again, your vision whiting out, your senses failing but for the blazing fullness of her warm, slender hand inside your cunt, every curve of knuckle and bone tugging at your walls, hollowing out a space to fit her perfectly, her alone. You’re dimly aware that she must be projecting again because this has no right to feel as good as it does, and then she starts to move and the thought is no more.

Missy’s fingers flex inside you, rocking against your muscles, shifting and writhing and working you like a puppet. She’s reaching nerves you didn’t know you had and manipulating them relentlessly. You’re lost in the sensation, the aching, excruciating pressure that threatens to tear you apart in the sweetest way, unaware of the tears streaking down your face or the wail you’re choking out around the gag.

In your mind she pushes and pulls, slow thrusts that match her movements, suspending you in a merciless ebb and flow of physical and mental ecstasy. You’re drowning in her. She fills you and surrounds you with clouds of violet and red, caresses you from within with her knuckles, her thoughts, her blazing, burning adoration.

My girl. My dearest girl. How good it feels to fill you up like this.

You can’t control your movements, your sounds, your thoughts a babbling mantra of please please please please as she picks you apart, thread by thread.

You’ve done so well. You’ve taken so much. Come for me, now. I’ll feel it. I’ll go with you. Come on.

It’s a mystery to you, now, whether it’s her tongue on you or her fingertips or just her plucking the nerves from inside your skull, but you’re drawing her closer with your heels behind her shoulders, dragging your weight back by your clenched hands on the bedposts and coming hard. It almost hurts, racing down your spine like an electric shock, tight in your stomach and thighs and leaving you scream-hoarse, cunt pulsing and gushing around the width of her hand.

Something in the psychic link releases as she lets you come flooding into her mind, welcoming the rush of sensation you bring. Untouched and still half-clothed she feels it with you, lets herself be swept away by your own orgasm. If you were more coherent you might be comforted by the way she swears and shudders, the look of wild-eyed ecstasy on her face when she sinks her teeth into the soft, slick flesh of your inner thigh and comes with you, rocking her hips into the bed, growling and moaning into your skin.

It seems to last an age. There’s no reprieve from the telepathic interference, looping your climax through hers, dragging it out until you’re sure you’ll go mad from the pleasure and then-

Enough. That’s enough. Missy pulls back, throws her walls up again, allowing you to come back to your senses with only her unsteady voice for company. Good girl. My good girl. Breathe.

You didn’t realise you hadn’t been.

It takes a few seconds of gasping and quivering but you claw back control over your body, relaxing your death grip on the bedposts, letting your arched back fall to the mattress. Your cunt is almost numb from the overwhelming stimulation and you can scarcely feel her hand inside you.

Are you alright?

You can’t straighten your thoughts out enough to respond. Instead, you chuckle breathlessly into the gag, more than a bit hysterical.

You look lovely like this.

You can only imagine the state you’re in, sweating and twitching, hair strewn across your tear-stained face. I doubt that.

You shouldn’t. She kisses the bruising imprint of her teeth in your thigh. You look ravished.

That’s one word for it.

Missy starts to move, to curl her thumb back in preparation for the achingly slow process of withdrawing her hand, but you tug her weakly back into place with your calf hooked around her shoulders.

Can we stay like this? Please. Just for a minute.

Aren’t you sore?

Sore is an understatement. She laughs, resting her cheek against your thigh. It feels... I don’t know. Good. Right. I like being so full of you. I don’t want you to go just yet.

Then I won’t.

Her free palm strokes your hip, your stomach, everywhere she can reach. Her mind wraps soft and warm around your own, easing the tremors, silencing the cacophony.

I won’t go, love.

#missy x reader #the master x reader #mine #nsfwork #smut fic #f/f #femslash

82 notes · View notes

writers-block-is-now-a-person · 3 years

Text

Even Truth Lies in the Thicket

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 |

The following days were a blur. I played countless melodies on countless instruments, just to please the countless guests Lady Elowyn entertained. All sorts of Ladies and Lords came to congratulate Elm, all asked questions of the shy Astria and how he managed to get her hand.

I ignored their conversations as much as I could. I was shivering through each performance, not from fear, but something colder in me, trying to tell me something. I ignored it, my music quality was more important than silly fear.

I think it had been a week since the announcement. I had played almost every hour of every day, my fingers and arms and lungs hurt. I had never realised how much pain plucking strings and blowing flutes could cause. I had been dressed in fine silk dresses and velvet suits for each performance. It was Lady Elowyn’s way of showing me off, as well as her newly high status.

It was just after dusk, the sun had turned the sky a deep purple, stars dotted the sky. The windows were open, allowing the cool breeze in and billowing the curtains. I was curled up on my bed, the pillows creating a small nest. Lady Elowyn let me rest properly for the night, after noticing the blisters on my fingers and the darkness under my eyes.

“I forgot you were mortal, your music seems so much more ethereal for such a weak creature,” she had said, guiding me to my rooms.

“Why should we take care of such a weak creature then?” Dale sneered from his perch by the window. “Wouldn’t it be less of a hassle to enchant the instruments?”

Lady Elowyn ignored her son, he continued to glare at me as we passed.

I had used the rest of Elm’s balm on my fingers, the pain made me hiss but the bumps had started to ease. I cradled my hands as I tried to get some rest. The fire in the grate burned slowly, the logs charred ash.

A rock bounced off the side of the bed, flying in from the window. I was too tired to investigate, fae threw rocks at mortals all the time.

Another rock, round and red. I knew who was throwing these stones. These red pebbles came from Locklan’s family estate, scattering the paths that wound through their maze and gardens. Locklan wanted something from me.

I could hear him climbing the vines and bricks of the house, he was not a very good climber. His red hair and wide smile popped into the window frame. His amber eyes glowing.

“Heard the songbird was given a rest, how’s the preening?” He shimmied himself onto the sill and propped his feet up on the frame. If this was a different story, he would be prince charming coming to save the princess locked away in the tower.

I tried to smile. “My hands hurt too much to brush my hair, and I have no need for vanity.”

“So I’ve heard, songbird,” Locklan gazed around the room. He never minded the mess, his family thrived in mess and chaos. His family’s mansion was always littered with drunk fae from revels and all the ruined extravagance that came with them.

I still felt embarrassed, Lady Elowyn would faint if she knew another fae had seen the state of my rooms. I pulled my feet under me and cleared my dry throat. “Why are you here?”

Locklan rolled his head to face me, his eyes narrowed, he smiled smugly. “You know, dear songbird, so why chirp and question?”

I did know, but I also hoped tonight would be different.

Locklan stepped into my room, swinging his legs over the seats under the window. He offered his hand to me, the fire made his silhouette glow. “Come along, little song bird, time to take flight.”

The sinking feel in my gut had left, now replaced with hatred and need. I took his hand gently, he was careful with my blisters. Locklan helped me into a long coat and tall riding boots, I didn’t realise how sensitive my hands would be after playing for a week.

We stuffed pillows under the embroidered quilts, creating the illusion that I was sleeping. Locklan climbed out first, using the thick wisteria vines as foot holds. I took my time, I was not taught to climb out windows, I was raised to perform.

The grass was soft under the boots, silencing my mortal steps. Locklan moved like wind, silent and flowing. He held the cuff of my coat and led me through the immaculate gardens of my own home. I never had time to admire the flowering gardens of Lord Bryn’s estate, the large and colourful flowers blurred around me as Locklan hurried through.

He pushed through the surrounding wall, thick rows of aspen trees and twisting ivy, holding my cuff tightly as he dragged me through.

We emerged into a clearing, where Opal and Evora waited patiently. Opal was fluttering, her moth wings, stirring up the leaves under her. She squealed with joy and took me in her arms.

“I’m so happy to see you! It has been ages since we last talked,” Opal smiled brightly, holding my face in her hands. She was wearing a black dress with fluffy skirts and thick slippers with ribbons that wound around her calves.

“Hush Opal, we don’t want to alert anyone!” Evora whispered, her dark green cloak matched her dark skin and eyes and covered her entirely, masking her ethereal beauty.

Opal pouted and took my hand, careful of the blisters. “Of course you wouldn’t worry about not seeing her, how many times as Harper played in the palace halls?”

Evora looked guilty. “Just because she’s played in my home doesn’t mean I could talk to her, I was crowded with suitors and questions at every turn!”

Opal wanted to retaliate, Locklan made a show of ruffling his coat to get our attention. “As much I love to reunite with our dear songbird, if we keep this up we won’t be back before dawn. And Lady Elowyn will have her head if she finds out that her songbird has left their cage.”

He was right, but he didn’t have to say it like that. We all followed him out of the aspen forest and into the thicket that surrounded Folkshire. Opal fluttered next me, then seemed to blink out of existence. The first time she did this, I almost screamed, I never expected her to turn into a real moth. Her family were luna moths, able to change their appearance from fae to moth instantly. Opals teal and green wings fluttered silently around my head, she seemed happy. I could faintly hear her voice giggling.

I watched Locklan closely, his transformation was always fascinating. His pace quickened into longer strides, he seemed to shrink in on himself as he leaned forward. His snout grew from his face, ears from his head, and soon he was a red fox trotting through the fallen leaves beside me.

“I wish I could morph, all the fae who morph get up to far more fun than me,” Evora huffed next to me, she seemed far to close.

“It is rather fun, until you get caught in a fox trap,” Locklan said, voice clear from fox jaws.

The fae who could morph themselves could still talk, that’s how you got stories of talking deer and foxes in the darkest parts of the woods. It was the fae, happy to create some stories to weary travellers.

Evora couldn’t morph, she didn’t have the power to. Only very few fae could, that’s why Locklan and Opal’s families were so well regarded.

We walked silently for a while, the forest was cold and silent, I pulled my coat tighter. To other travellers, we would be seen as two young girls following a fox and being pestered by a large moth. No doubt that would create stories of a clever fox guiding lost girls to the town.

The thicket grew denser, the trunks of the trees were thicker, their branches lower. I didn’t know what type of trees they were, I guess they were magic of some sort. They had dark green leaves and even darker wood. I’ve heard stories of the woods eating people, making them turn in circles, or making them walk for days on end only to emerge with having no time pass at all.

I never liked the thicket. I don’t like these trees.

Evora held tightly onto my coat. She wasn’t touching me exactly, and my arm kept trying to pull away from her. But I knew that if she let go, I would be lost. The magic of the thicket was far stronger and older than Lady Elowyn’s, only the fae born in Folkshire can navigate it. We climbed over fallen trees and through paths I would never have been able to see. Locklan led the way, Opal’s wings gave off a soft glow.

I knew Evora could see. That’s another thing the fae have over humans. With their senses being almost double mine, they have no trouble walking around in the dark.

We climbed over one last log. Months ago, Locklan had wedged one of his red pebbles into the wood, the pebble acting as a marker for us. We had broken through into a clearing of sorts, the magic trees had thinned out and I could see the cobbled road a few metres ahead.

Locklan sniffed the air, his whiskers twitching in the wind. “This way, not far now.”

Evora and I followed, Opal fluttered higher, desperate to see the lights of the little mortal town. We weren’t going into the town, not tonight. We traveled along the cobbled road, I could see tire tracks and hoof prints. I remembered the old horse ranch that was just on the outskirts of the town. My heart ached, it ached for something I never had.

With the thicket on one side, and the mortal forest on the other, I could see the difference in trees. The enchanted thicket seemed darker, impenetrable and untouchable. The thicket looked haunted. The oaks and pines on the mortal side looked harmless, leaves rustling in the wind, branches swaying slowly.

We kept walking, following Locklan as he guided us through the outer parklands of the town. I heard the sound of laughter, the smell of a campfire and melted chocolate. The sickening need in my heart hammered away, the greed ugly.

Locklan circled the camp first, then beckoned Evora and I forward. Evora whispered under her breath and blew, the air shimmered around us. She had used some sort of glamor, some spell to keep us hidden from human eyes. We huddled behind a fallen oak tree, it’s trunk thick with moss. Evora and I watched the group of mortals with wonder.

They sat on weathered stumps and chattered around the fire. Two sat close, one holding a spool of wool while the other knitted a blanket that was draped over both of them. One was leaning forward and gazing at the flames, they seemed distracted by the flickering heat. There were two others, one held a bright red ukulele and was laughing through jokes.

I knew who the one holding the ukulele was. It was me. It was the fae child they switched me with.

They had the same hair, face shape, eyes and even skin tone. But they looked nothing like me. They had clear skin and eyes that glowed in the light. Their hair flowed like silk and they held themselves with such confidence it made me feel fake. They looked like my reflection, but maybe they were the better version of me.

The mortals around them might not have seen it, but Evora and I could. I could see their pointed ears and teeth, the black slits replacing round pupils. They were fae, but they disguised themselves to look like me.

The mortal holding the spool of wool chuckled slightly. “Come on Harper, there’s no way Caroline’s jokes are that funny.”

The girl next to the fake Harper scrunched her nose. “And what would you know about humour?”

The spool holder smiled. “More than you, morgue girl.”

Caroline stood up, Spool Holder did as well. The knitter beside them made a startled sound and pulled the Spool Holder back down. The Spool Holder mumbled apologies and sat back down, smoothing out the blanket their friend was knitting.

Fake Harper stood up and smiled. “Come on guys, no need to be mean. We’re here to have fun. Let’s enjoy the time we have before school starts again and we are all flogged with homework.”

“Says you, Straight A’s,” the boy staring at the fire said, he seemed unimpressed. “You hand up your work the day after and it’s bloody perfect. You have no idea how long I’ve spent on essays.”

Fake Harper looked uncomfortable, they swung the ukulele under their arm and smiled. “Well, I have no control over you, but I have control over the mood.”

They plucked the strings, I cringed at their melody. The ukulele was in dire need of tuning but Fake Harper sang a crude song anyway. The group laughed and smiled and sang with him. Evora frowned next to me.

“They are nothing like you,” Evora said.

Locklan had prodded my side and pulled at my sleeve. He wanted us to leave. I tried to pull Evora along with me, but I couldn’t touch her. She seemed frozen in place, hands still placed on the mossy log.

I followed her gaze, she had locked eyes with the boy who had been staring at the fire. He seemed angry, or scared, or entranced by Evora’s beauty. Locklan had latched onto Evora’s sleeve with his jaws and pulled her away, dragging her out of her trance and through the oak and pine.

We ran quickly over the leaves and cobblestones. Locklan didn’t slow down as he leapt over the log we crawled over before. He didn’t slow his pace through the thicket either, not even stopping to check if we were following. I couldn’t see Opal, I hoped she was behind us.

Locklan stopped when we were on the fringes of the aspen forest that surrounded Lord Bryn’s property. Evora and I struggled to catch our breaths while Locklan shifted to his human form. His brow was knotted.

Opal appeared, she stretched her arms and wings. “Why the hurry? What went wrong?”

“He saw Evora, or Harper,” Locklan said. “I don’t who he saw, but he saw us.”

“Who did?” Opal questioned.

“The boy watching the fire,” Evora said, she sounded startled. “I don’t if he really saw us, or if he just heard Locklan in the leaves.”

“Do you think he could have seen you?” Opal asked, eyes wide with fear.

“Surely not, my glamor cannot be seen through by mortal eyes,” Evora said, still, her voice shook.

We had ventured out at night countless times in the past few months. These only started when I was bought by Lady Elowyn, before I was her property, I belonged to a market worker who used my music to attract customers. All of his woodcarvings were horrible, so he used my music instead. My melodies attracted Lady Elowyn and she bought me from him.

It didn’t take long for Locklan to notice me at revels, he pestered me with questions and jokes in an attempt to befriend me. Then he introduced me to Opal, who then brought Evora into our ring.

When Locklan learned of my Switching, he spent days trying to find my Fae Switch. Then we started sneaking out to see them. I have seen Fake Harper laugh riotously with their friends down a dark street, ride their bike over a large rock and go tumbling into a stream, throw stones over a frozen lake and then step onto the ice themselves, unafraid of the frozen waters. I’ve watched them and the friends I should have march down the street in coloured flags.

Every action they did, they looked exactly like me, but their wide smile and glowing eyes and pointed ears meant I could never be like them. I felt guilty for the humans my Switch had befriended, and knowing that they would never like the real me made me feel worse. I would never have that human life, of eating bright coloured ice cream that stained your tongue and singing loudly around a campfire. I could never have that, I never will.

Tonights adventure had shaken us, that human boy looked straight at us. None of us knew if he actually saw us, but the prospect of his knowing there were other people in the woods would create suspicion. From what I could remember, the boy watching the fire was called Flynn, he never talked much but followed Fake Harper even if he hated them.

“There’s no way he could have seen us!” Opal said. “Evora’s magic is too strong to be seen through by mortal eyes. There is nothing to worry about.”

Evora nodded, most likely to reassure herself. “Opal is right, he must have been looking at the shadows the fire created. My magic is not weak.”

Locklan crossed his arms, he didn’t seem convinced. “Well, if your so convinced that we were not caught, how about we all retire for the night. I heard there is a tournament tomorrow so Elm can prove his strength for Astria.”

Locklan was right. I have been watching Elm practise his sword skills in the garden today, I could tell he was anxious. Elm was not a knight, but he was skilled with a sword. I hoped he had enough skill and strength to win tomorrow.

Opal took my hands again, her wings kept her above me slightly. “We can’t follow you home, Harper, but we will see you tomorrow if you’re there.” She wrapped her arms around me, fluffy hair smothering me. “Sleep well, the stars will watch you rest.”

Opal often said that. With her mother being the Royal Astrologer, Opal often said whimsical things about the stars and planets. Opal would sometimes predict the future with the stars, sometimes she got it wrong, but she tried anyway.

She fluttered back, letting Evora say goodnight. She couldn’t touch me, but she tried anyway. Her dark eyes kind as she said goodnight. She left with Opal, heading towards the palace in silence.

“You shouldn't look at her like that, songbird,” Locklan said, his gaze careful. “Princesses don’t fall for mortals.”

“It’s not that Locklan, it never was,” I lied, thankful my mortal tongue could. “She seemed to be startled by that boy, he seemed to have shaken her.”

Locklan sighed. “Sometimes magic is weak when we don’t focus, something could have shimmered through.”

“Did you do anything?” I said, walking towards the ivy and aspen wall.

“I was under the log, watching the Fae Switch sing their horrid tune. I only noticed the boy look over when he didn’t look back to the fire,” Locklan admitted.

He couldn’t lie, not even slightly, so I knew he was telling me the truth. Locklan helped me through the ivy barricade and through the gardens. He didn’t have too, but he did. He followed me back up the wisteria wall and into my bedroom, helping me out of boots and coat.

“Can you manage the rest?” He said softly, gesturing to my clothes and the bed. The fire had died out, only warm coals left, my room was cold.

“I’ll be fine Locklan, I’m not as weak as you think I am,” I didn’t mean to be harsh, but I hated being insulted by fae.

“I never meant it like that, you know I would never insult you,” he couldn’t lie, I knew he was honest. “I just wanted to make sure you’re all right. I know that sometimes our adventures leave you desperate for reassurance.”

He was trying to be kind, but his words still stung. I swallowed the hurt and smiled. “I’m fine Locklan, truly.” I wrapped my arms around him and hugged him tightly, his coat smelled of woodsmoke and cinnamon. “Thank you Locklan.”

He hugged me tightly back. He let go slowly and creeped back out the window. “Goodnight, little songbird.”

He was gone, and all was left was silence. I closed the window and flipped the latch, keeping them locked for a while. I changed into something less tight and buried myself under the heavy quilts. I only had a few hours until sunrise, then a few sparse hours before I was needed.

I tried to sleep, but the face of the Fae Switch flashed in my head. Their perfect face taunting me. I could never be them, I could never be that perfect.

All I saw was the gaze of the boy by the fire. Flynn. His eyes were cold grey, he had startled Evora. He had seen something.

I couldn’t sleep, I tossed and turned in the blankets. My fingers ached, my head pounded. And my gut kept trying to tell me something. Something was wrong, or something bad was about to happen. And I know I would see it coming, only if I knew what it was.

The sun had peaked over the horizon, turning the sky pink and my room gold. I rolled over again, burring myself under the covers. Desperate the get some sleep, desperate for some rest.

#fae #story #new writing #chapter 2 #faeries #fox #moth #royal #forest #magic #flowers #garden #thicket #mystery #harper #music #writing #secrets #old forest

2 notes · View notes

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years

Note

Hello !!! I have a blurb request May I request reader x brain may? Reader has a major anxiety attack over something and Brian tries to calm them down. They end up passing out in his arms (partly from being exhausted, partly from hyperventalating). Their skin is clammy and pale. Their pulse is fast. Brian checks their breathing/pulse. peridiocally and puts them to bed. When they wake up, he comforts them. Fluffy ending please. Thankyousomuch !!! 🥺🥺🥺

how did you know i think about this at least once a week?! also, i put it under the cut cause this got ~very lengthy~ it’s literally the length of a small fic. i never claimed to be good at succinctness.

it was the crowd. at least, that’s what you blame it on when you wake up.

the show’s over, largely successful expect for the moment roger tossed his drumstick too high and couldn’t find his replacement. (he ended up drumming with his hand until crystal brought him another.) you’re tired, brian’s tired; it’s been a long weekend, and all you want to go is go home, curl up with a cup of tea, and fall asleep to the sound of your husband reading from one of his scientific journals that makes your eyes cross with confusion.

it starts—the familiar tightness in your chest, wrenching stomach, sweaty palms—as you follow him to the side-door of the venue. there’s normally a small collection of people waiting outside, pushed back by security, and you’ve gotten used to hiding your face from the cameras and waiting in the shadows for him to sign autographs and talk to fans. tonight, though, the crowd is different. you can hear them chanting before the door even opens, and when the door does open, the crowd is larger, rowdier, somehow more frenzied than you thought possible. it makes you nervous, but not nervous enough to say anything. it’s only for a moment; you can handle that much.

brian stiffens slightly when you step out of the venue and the night turns bright with the flash of cameras, the air filling with sounds of people calling his name, scrabbling for a sliver of attention. he looks over his shoulder, whispers, “i’ll just be a minute” before crossing to the steel gates holding the crowd back. you hesitate on the sidelines, mumbling in conversation with dominique while she, too, waits for her husband.

when he’s finished signing and smiling and sweet-talking, brian turns away from the crowd and winds his arm around your waist. he draws you toward the back parking lot, his thumb working a soothing pattern over the bottom of your ribs.

but then one of the gates breaks loose.

the crowd surges forward, hot on the heels of the band and, by mere proximity, the band’s entourage.

“oh fuck!” it’s dominique who scrambles to the side first, out of the way of the onslaught of bodies. perhaps on instinct, she grabs your wrist and pulls you roughly against her side as the crowd engulfs you from all angles.

the cameras are hot, the voices loud, and the crush of people breaks you out in a cold sweat. you squeeze dom’s fingers hard, turning your face away from the camera which sticks over your shoulder, trying desperately to find a good angle of the boys. you can barely see brian—just the outline of his head over the crowd—and he seems to be drifting further and further away as the mob undulates and grows.

“we gotta get out of here,” dom says, her voice as breathy as you feel.

you nod and swallow past your dry throat. “maybe... maybe if we just push our way through?”

“worth a shot. hold tight to me.” she lowers her head, her hand around your wrist like a vice, and starts shouldering her way through the lines of people.

the majority of fans ignore you in their fervor to get closer, but a handful don’t appreciate the way you push them back in an attempt to break through to the other side of the mob. a few hurl choice words—bitch, slag, cow—in your direction; some merely growl and shoot dark looks. one woman, closer to the age of your mother than any of the lads, elbows you in the back as you retreat, and it knocks the wind out of you. you stumble forward, falling before you can stop yourself.

asphalt digs against the palms of your hands. it bites your flesh, sharp pinpricks of pain. darkness—darkness from the night, from the bodies squeezing in around your head—edges closer, threatening to swallow you whole. you suck in a deep breath, but it doesn’t reach your lungs. tears blur your vision.

oh my god, i’m gonna die.

the thought crosses your mind, and you hold tight because, truly, if the crowd pushes back, if they push forward, if they push to the side, if they move at all, you will be crushed, flattened like a bug to the pavement.

clutching a hand to your sternum, you gulp for air. you want to cry, to scream, to make some sort of noise and let people know that you are here, on the ground, powerless to stand up. but your throat is too tight. the air passing through your mouth is thin, worthless. you’re going to pass out. you know this feeling, have felt it before.

an overwhelming surge of embarrassment flows over you. to be trampled by a crowd of queen fans—what a way to go. your mother will surely be proud of the way your life turned out.

you choke on a sob, still caught against the ground, now flattened, your shoulder digging into the pavement. faintly, you hear dom screaming your name, and you feel utterly ridiculous.

you wonder, briefly, before the world fades to black, your eyes rolling back in your head, if you remembered to turn the kettle off before leaving home. brian will be cross if not; he doesn’t like to waste the energy.

with the thought in mind, you succumb to the encroaching darkness and slump against the ground.

brian knows there’s something wrong before he hears dominique over the din of the crowd.

of course, it’s clear there’s something wrong. he’s surrounded on all sides by rabid fans, their arms frantically vying for his attention and approval, camera flashes like staccato notes before his eyes.

fred stands to his left, still the picture of professionalism despite the fine line of frustration etched in his forehead. there’s too many cameras, too many people. no matter how close brian knows fred is to hitting the roof, he would never; not so publicly, at least. roger and john are elsewhere, a few paces off, also swarmed, also fighting the mounting anger. it’s written on their faces. brian’s sure he looks none-too-pleased as well.

where in the bloody hell is security?

more importantly, brian wonders. where the hell is my wife?

he’d lost you early in the fray, ripped apart by dominique’s quick thinking and even quicker feet. but he’d thought by now he’d at least have been able to grab a glimpse of you. if not by the safety of one of the trailers, then among the horde. he can’t find you, though, despite using his height as an advantage in the search.

but he finds dom, and the sheer panic on her face, her doe eyes wide and fearful, is enough to tell him that something isn’t right. he pauses, the pen in his hand stilling on the pad of paper. dom’s speaking to no one in particular, to anyone who will listen, but he can’t make out her words over the sounds clattering around him. he concentrates, focusing on her mouth, until he can make out the words fell down and it’s all he needs to know.

he drops the pen and paper and wades into the thick of the crowd, using his forearms and height to part the sea of bodies. and maybe it’s his forceful movements, maybe it’s the anger casting shadows on his face, or maybe it’s nerves, but people move out of the way easily, without comment. he doesn’t need to say anything; they just move.

a hush falls over the crowd in a wave, passed along like a game of telephone. something is wrong, and brian isn’t happy is the message, and even those furthest away from the eye of the storm seem to get it.

dominique wrestles her way to brian’s side, face red and blotchy in panic. she breathes hard, gasping for air as she speaks. “i lost her,” she wheezes. “we got separated, but i saw her fall.”

“where?” his question comes as more of a command, but he can’t help it. he’s rarely angry, but tonight he’s royally pissed off. his hands clench to fists at his sides, his jaw set firm.

“i don’t know. i don’t know!” at this, dominique begins to cry. she presses her hand to her mouth, shaking her head back and forth in distress.

brian reaches out to steady her shoulder, opens his mouth to comfort, but before he can, a different, unfamiliar mouth fills the space.

“hey! can we have help over here? there’s a woman passed out!”

brian drops his hand like its touched hot metal and sidesteps those in his path, quick to maneuver his way to the huddle of people around a prone form on the ground. it’s your form, her realizes, the form he knows better than his own, has memorized with his fingertips and traced a thousand times over. his gut clenches, and he mutters “that’s my wife. out of the way” as he bends to pick you up. your head lolls against his shoulder, eyelashes fanned against your cheekbones.

carrying you as he does toward the stage door, he’s reminded of your wedding night: the way he carried you over the threshold in much the same fashion, snug against his chest, though you’d been conscious and giggling and pink with blush. tonight, you feel frail in his arms. your skin is clammy to the touch, breathing shallow.

someone holds the backstage door open, and he ducks into the cool hallway of the concert venue. shuffling through the hall, he makes his way to one of the dressing rooms and ever so gently lays you on the couch. the room is dim, partially stripped of the queen paraphernalia from moments ago. footsteps, hurried and hard, thump in the hallway. roger sticks his head in the doorway a moment later, dominique close behind.

“is she okay?” roger asks.

brian doesn’t tear his eyes away from your face, from the fluttering behind your eyelids and the uneasy rise and fall of your chest. “get me a damp wash cloth, please?”

roger nods. “be right back.”

you wake to the sound of a foot tapping against the linoleum floor. you don’t remember much about the evening. just the concert and then leaving and then the crowd—oh, you’d fallen, hadn’t you? maybe that’s why your head throbs and your shoulder aches.

you blink slowly, groaning as light from the ceiling aggravates your headache. you press the heel of your hand against your forehead. there’s something damp against your skin. a cloth perhaps?

the couch dips as someone places their weight beside your legs. “[y/n]?” the voice is soft, melodic, a song you know well. “can you hear me?”

“brian?” when your eyes open completely and you see the strained face of your husband hovering over you, you try to push to your hands, to sit straight on the couch, but he gently holds you firm by the shoulders.

“no, no. just lay there for a minute. don’t move too fast.”

“what happened?” you twist, glancing about the room. your gaze runs over freddie and john and roger and dominique and crystal and ratty and gerry all smooshed together, shoulders touching, knees knocking, as they stare on at you in anticipation of your next move.

“some fucktard let the—” roger starts. dominique shushes him with a hand on his thigh.

“you fell,” brian says. he lifts a hand, brushes the hair away from your face. “got pinned down.”

“oh.” you frown as you try to remember, but the memory is too hazy. all you remember is the descent and nothing more. the rest is blank. “that doesn’t sound like fun.”

brian cracks a grin. “no, it doesn’t.”

you twist your hand around his fingers and smile, though the movement needles at your headache. “did you come save me?”

he shrugs. “not really.”

“that’s a lie!” freddie pipes up. “he carried you in here like fucking prince charming. i almost swooned.”

you chuckle then wince at a sharp pain in your ribs. “my knight in shining armor.”

he colors, dipping his head against the rise of blush in his cheeks. “hardly.”

your fingers run across his knuckles then pull him down by the wrist, crushing your arms around his back. you hold tight and whisper, “thank you, prince charming.”

you can feel his smile against the curve of your neck and his mouth against your skin as he says, “anything for you, princess.”

#brian may #brian may x reader #brian may fic #j blurbs

58 notes · View notes

expectingtofly · 4 years

Text

SPN Stay At Home Challenge

Week 8: Hope

The angels have fallen, Heaven is broken, Castiel burns through a grace that isn't his own. Everything seems hopeless, but Dean is determined to help his homesick, heartbroken angel and give him a home on Earth.

Words: ~1.5k

also posted on ao3

Hope in the Form of One Small Bee

Dean is worried about Castiel. The angel has been holed up for days in the room he and Dean share in the bunker, hardly speaking, hardly moving. Dean knows a thing or two about hiding away in his room, but in those hopeless days he distracted himself with music, with drinking, with crap TV and horror flicks. Castiel lies on their bed in silence, curled up in one of Dean’s old T-shirts, and the sight makes Dean want to crumple.

Sam says, talk to him, but Dean isn’t good with words, he knows that. So he invites Castiel on a drive. He even offers to let Castiel get behind the wheel, but Castiel only shakes his head and sinks in on the passenger side. They drive with the windows down, fast, because Dean hopes Castiel might find some resemblance in it to flying. But Castiel’s shoulders stay slumped as he stares out the window, and when they return to the bunker he retreats to their room without a word.

Sam says, give him time, but Dean is worried, scared, and that makes every quiet day stretch on interminably. He finds himself spending hours in the library, staying behind when Sam goes on errands and cases because, if Castiel does leave their bedroom, Dean doesn’t want him coming out to an empty bunker. Seated in one of the library’s leather armchairs, Dean reads more than he has in years, pores over dusty, thick volumes on angels: their wings, their powers, their grace. None cover how to help a homesick angel.

Even though he knows angels don’t eat, he feels compelled to bring Castiel food, hopes a familiar meal might spark a happy memory. Castiel takes the peanut butter and jelly sandwich Dean offers him, but when Dean returns an hour later, there’s only one bite missing and Castiel says, thank you, but it doesn’t taste like anything.

Sam says, it can’t be easy, losing his home, his family. Using a grace that isn’t his own. Being an angel among humans. Every night, Dean sinks under the covers, wraps his arms around Castiel and holds him close. Sometimes Castiel nestles up against him and Dean believes his angel will become his old self again, and sometimes Castiel doesn't move, as if Dean isn’t there, and Dean feels hollow inside.

When he whispers, I love you, and presses a kiss to Castiel’s forehead, Castiel whispers, very softly, I love you too, and Dean hopes it means he hasn’t failed this angel who he loves, but doesn’t know how to help. Castiel never cries. That’s an answer Dean can’t find in any of his books: Do angels cry?

It’s when Dean is on an errand, Sam convincing him to leave the bunker for the first time in days, that he realizes it. He stares at a stuffed crochet bee—yellow and black stripes, two antennas, small black eyes, white wings, thin line of a smile (one stitch out of place but it adds personality)—and realizes Castiel doesn’t have any belongings. Even his clothes, the suit and trench coat, are originally another’s.

This reminded me of you, he tells Castiel and feels silly holding out such a trivial thing, offering a stuffed animal to an Angel of the Lord. But Castiel takes the bee from him and gazes at it. This is for me? he asks, tracing the bee’s smile. It’s yours, Dean says.

Castiel looks up at him with a small smile of his own that creates a flutter of hope inside Dean. Thank you.

This, at least, is something Dean knows he can do—give Castiel things, material things he can hold in his hands, that will ground him to Earth. He buys Castiel a fluffy, blue blanket—its color the closest approximation to Castiel’s eyes he can find—cotton shirts with pockets and stripes, a yellow bath towel. He places books on the nightstands in their room: westerns with amber and rust covers, a children’s book about a boy and his dog which he thinks Castiel will appreciate because the dog is named Sam. A small plant sitting in a teal pot, its curling green leaves tinged yellow down the center. A mug which says, Morning, Handsome, and which he tries to hide from Sam when he makes tea for Castiel every morning and night (because even if Castiel can’t savor the taste, seeing him sit up to hold the mug and breathe in the steam, drink in the warm liquid, gives Dean a similar warmth inside).

They’re yours, Dean says, repeats. All yours. He hopes it is enough.

Castiel takes every item in his hands when Dean returns from long shopping trips, turns them over and studies them. In the days that follow, Dean finds him bent over his books, turning the pages slowly, sees him returning from a shower wrapped in his yellow towel. In the morning, Dean wakes as Castiel rises to water his plant and trace its leaves with his finger. The stuffed bee takes up permanent residence on their bed and Dean pretends to grumble—You’ve left me for him. Castiel hugs his bee defensively and Dean can’t help but smile.

Castiel wears his new shirts—they are very soft—and sits on the floor in the laundry room, reading, waiting for his clothes to emerge clean and warm. Sometimes, Dean catches Castiel watching through the dryer’s glass door as his stuffed bee tumbles inside in a rough imitation of a bumblebee’s corkscrew flight. Castiel’s quiet listlessness, the droop of his shoulders as he pulls his bee out and holds it against his chest, fills Dean with an anxious doubt. How can warm cotton and yarn ever replace the light and warmth of Heaven that Castiel sunned under for millennia?

His name is Buzziel, Castiel says one night as Dean pushes the bee aside to take the angel in his arms. Dean hugs both Castiel and this strangely named bee. Buzziel? he asks, stressing the -iel. Is he an angel bee?

Castiel nods and Dean watches him run his finger along Buzziel’s wings. And Dean realizes that no matter what he buys Castiel, an angel will always miss Heaven.

I’m sorry, Cas. Castiel doesn’t speak and Dean learns angels do cry.

Sam shows Castiel a video of Marie Kondo and the earth-bound angel spends hours folding his new clothes into neat bundles and organizing them in his new dresser. He frowns down at his plant, at its wilting leaves turning brown at the edges. If I had my grace I could heal you. Dean introduces Castiel to nature documentaries and they watch for hours and hours. Most shows are slow and plodding, but Dean finds comfort in the weight of Castiel leaning against him, the way Castiel holds Buzziel on his lap, his rapt focus.

They watch a documentary on beekeeping and Dean points to a bee seated on a purple flower. There’s Buzziel. Castiel smiles so he starts naming every bee on the screen, Samiel, Bobbiel, Jodiel, hoping to keep Castiel’s smile on his face for a little longer. He feels the hollow space in his chest filling with something like hope, something he doesn’t want to acknowledge for fear it will disappear and leave him emptier than ever before.

When he wakes one morning, it seems his fears are realized because the space next to him is empty, save for Buzziel staring at him with his crooked smile.

He and Sam search the bunker and just when he grabs the keys for Baby to search outside, the bunker door creaks open and Castiel walks down the stairs. There’s dirt on his bare feet and he’s holding his plant. She needed sunshine.

Dean breathes a sigh of relief, pulls Castiel close, hears the crinkle of leaves. I thought you left. He holds Castiel at arm’s length to look in his eyes. I know this isn’t Heaven. But I’ll buy you anything you want. Anything to make this feel like home.

Castiel stares back at him, his eyes serious, his hands around his potted plant. Heaven isn’t my home anymore. My home is here with you, he looks over Dean’s shoulder at Sam, and you.

And Buzziel, Dean says. Castiel smiles. And Buzziel. A relief Dean hadn’t dared hope for fills the bleakness inside him and he pulls Castiel close, feels the warmth of the sun on Castiel’s clothes, his bare arms and dark hair, a reassurance that Castiel will be alright.

Thanks to @bend-me-shape-me @pray4jensen @helianthus21 for creating this challenge, and I just have to give credit to this week 3 fic by @wingtrap for sparking the idea for this fic :)

Tagging: @spnwaywardone @good-things-do-happen-dean @becky-srs

Let me know if you’d like to be tagged in my spn fics :)

#spnstayathome #deancas fic #destiel #set sometime in season 9 #i need to stop writing sad cas fics #and let this angel be happy for once #maybe next week #fingers crossed #expectingtoflywrites

84 notes · View notes

itsthe-neo-zone · 4 years

Text

Wands and Potions: NCT dream & WayV

Please read the Masterlist before continuing ahead with the chapter, thank you.

Chapter 18:

[02:16PM]

[20th of October]

“Do you even know what he was using the tentacle juice for?”

The huffs became frequent and the more Lyra questioned the more Selene became tired. Was this really necessary? And why was she being so unbelievably nosy?

“No, and frankly I don’t need to know.” the walking stopped halting the trail the two created in the thick fluffy snow that covered the earth. “because I don’t care.”

“You should, Liu could be plo-” a snicker stopped Lyra’s chapped lips from blurting her thoughts. “Plotting? Is that what you were going to say? He’s plotting against me. Or maybe its against you? Or even Jinsoul.” The words spat back at Lyra.

The brunette took her lips between her teeth, her fingers took the red and golden threads of the scarf wrapped across her chest, fiddling with the bare edges. Selene was already on edge and the change of demeanour pushed her off.

“Hey, I’m not going to feel sorry for you, so don’t give me that pathetic look.” Her fingers ran through her golden roots, her hair had turned a shade darker with the coming of winter making it lose the fiery glimmer in it.

“You all need to stop telling me how to act or feel.” She rolled her eyes leaving the brunette standing there stiff and alone, the only speck of colour on a blank sheet of white for miles.

The creaking door slid open letting a gust of cold biting chill mix in with the heated warmth of the shop. The three broomsticks was a place where the youngsters could chill and relax. The ancient and rustic feel made it close to home for some.

It wasn’t the same for Selene.

“You need to start talking to her again, Scorpius you can’t just igno-” “Oh but he can,” she shuddered, the witch dropped the scarf and slid the robes off her shoulders setting them next to her. Sparing a glance at Albus, Selene sympathised with the blonde boy before her.

“And why is that?”

“She’s being awfully nosy, quite bitchy too.”

“Just because you aren’t on good terms it doesn’t mean he has to ignore his own sister.” Albus shuffles closer his tone drops to a minimal whisper. Selene rubbed her hands trying to heat up the ice cold blue tinted flesh.

“Also, what happened to innocent sweet Selene?”

“Oh her?” her arm lifted to signal the server, “she’s usually what most see if they don’t know me too well. Ask Scorpius.”

The glance left Selene and moved towards the empty blonde boy next to him. No response came. His head lulled above his fist pushing the skin upwards, hair covering his glacier orbs.

“You ok?” the ginger placed her hand upon his, she felt his fingers twitch, there was no warmth in his touch. Inside her chest, the breathing became a little harder, an exasperated sigh left her.

“It’s hard, I know. but you have to believe your father did this for a good reason. And now you can let her move in, you’ve always said you wanted a sister.”

“Move in? After my mother’s death?” his voice dripped with poison. It was a little loud gaining attention from the tables nearby. Jisung sent the most blood curdling nape shivering stare at Selene from across the bar. His eyes were hard-rimmed and fixed, so much so that it was as if he was not able to move his eyeballs.

If looks could kill. The ginger would have disintegrated instantly.

So would Albus have with what Scorpius was sending him.

“Keep it down a little.”

“I am not going to replace my mother any time soon.” He spat back.

“You need her, Scorpius think about it, she will help you and your father get through this. Lyr-” the death glares the two sent made him rethink his choice of words. “Ehem… I- mean she is a girl after all.”

Selene sipped the jug of glowering orange liquid letting it sting the back of her throat slightly. She needed it. Secretly, it was the only thing she was feeling nowadays.

“Rose Weasley can take her in. After all, the two are half-sisters.” His voice was stiff and cut at the end, it was like his throat was clogged. Scorpius hated this topic. He didn’t want to talk about it.

The others sensed that.

“And you, cut the long night walks with that German Durmstrang boy.”

“Whys that? Am I bothering you in any way?”

“No actually, its not me you’re bothering but-” A hand slapped the two lips that were moving of their own accord. Selene didn’t think nothing of it, but she missed the alarmed state that Albus was in.

“You shouldn’t be walking around he grounds late at night. Its dangerous.”

“Did little miss snitch tell you I was sneaking out late? I knew it!” she turned to the deflated boy. “This is why you shouldn’t talk to her just yet.” She finished her words with another gulp taking in the tingling sensation.

“Selene, I’m being serious, it shouldn’t matter who told me, this is for your own safety.”

“Why does everyone hate him so much?” the witch continued taking larger gulps the farther she got towards the bottom of the cup.

“Can you calm down; you must be really thirsty.”

Selene chuckled but before a word could be uttered, she lifted the closest free hand towards her head, she felt dizzy and her eyes were going blurry.

“Why’s everything spinning?” a murmur left her lips. It was mumbled aloud. A chair dragging across the wooden polished floor was heard in the distance and someone’s figure made their presence known next to her.

“Did she drink from this?” snatching the cup from the table Chenle grabbed it sniffing the few sips left in the cup.

“Yeah, why?”

Selene didn’t see the glare sent towards the table chenle was situated at before he came over, she also didn’t see the way he dropped the few paper bills on the table.

She did feel his strong hand grasp tightly onto her arm and shoulder helping her out of her chair. The daze she was in was getting stronger. Her knees felt week from the sudden force of standing but she pushed through on his command.

“Whats going on?” the question was left unanswered as she was dragged out tumbling next to him as they ventured into the freezing cold.

She had left her robe and scarf at the bar, shivering and dizzy Selene moved to lean onto his arm. Sliding the other across her waist he pulled her to a nearby stable.

“Why did you drink it knowing its full of poison?” he strained. She wasn’t on good terms with him. Actually, she despised the blonde mixed boy.

“Answer me!” his voice rose. Selene couldn’t really see that well her head was pounding, and it was starting to get even worse.

“I-I can’t see clearly. My eyes…” “What… whats going on?” she lifted her fingers to eyes level but all she saw was a messy blur of what used to be HD clear vision. Thin strips of cream-brown against white.

“You took a morbus potion. From your symptoms only a few drops, too much could have killed you.” A silent pause registered between the two, she was confused and the last few words he had said really hit clear. I could have died; I never finished the glass. I could have…

“I’ve taken no such thing.”

“It was in the drink,” his voice was hard, it was like he had a rock lodged in his mouth. “Someone must have slipped it in.”

“I feel like I-” holding her lips shut with her hands she felt something sinister crawl up her throat it blocked her breathing and restricted her normal body flow. Defying gravity and her disaccord of its appearance. Please no, not here…

“Get it out of your system.” His tone lightened slightly, or maybe it was her hearing things. Why would his tone change anyway Selene was over listening into things that didn’t matter right now.

“Take this.” He handed her a bottle it contained a liquid of some sort that didn’t look too familiar, she stared at it cautiously as if it would transfigure into a centipede.

“I don’t want to.”

She was able to push down the thick trickling of crimson blood

“It’s already gone this far, how do I know this isn’t going to kill me?” Selene didn’t move her head she just lifted her eyes staring him up, the trust was gone. It was hidden, locked away until he took the key out. But she didn’t expect the answer he gave her…

He sighed dropping his hand before looking away his eyes glanced anywhere but her face. The breath that left his dry, chapped lips evaporated into smoke coalescing itself into the air.

“Good point,” he pressed his lips into a thin line. “Why would I stop you from drinking the rest of the jug back then?”

Selene glanced down, his face had no show of remorse and it had a blank expression plastered onto it. She couldn’t maintain eye contact at all. It felt pointless.

His words made sense though…

“Drink it all.”

Listening to him, she took the first sip hesitantly, not minding the bitter taste. It felt heavy on her tongue but she too it in accepting it was good for her.

“You’ll be alright.” he muttered the words, in the wintery cold that surrounded them Selene felt her heart warm up slightly. She would never admit it now but it felt nice having someone look out. Even if it was with a frown and a dry response.

[09:15PM]

Selene felt drained. Absolutely exhausted and while she did love nothing but a good rest she still had to do her night duties before she finally could rest this included the lengthy check and route of the whole 2nd floor and near the library.

It would have been 10 times easier- not to mention faster- if it wasn’t for the bratty 3rd year that refused to help her out. The job was specifically made for two yet she never showed up. But the ginger couldn’t bring it in her debilitated self to spend any longer than necessary looking for the young student.

“For fuck sake…” selenes face fell completely. She was aggravated to the max now, which can be added to the list of emotions she was feeling. The last thing she’d expect to see was the young student supposed to be helping her helping her own needs.

The sound of lips against lips filled the air and half of her internally cringed, the lewd sounds filling the air too fast to comprehend. God did she wish to wash out her ears with soap. But as she left a figment of her imagination removed the figure of the male student much older than the girl and placed a charming and devilish German student that had been taking up to much of her mind lately.

For a short second, it was barely comprehensible. his light caress and soft touch was all she yearned for. She shook her head continuing all the rounds she needed to finish. The guilt inside her built up daily but she pressed it down.

During the cold and wintery days. The gloom that was slowly being foreshadowed around the castle, Yangyang was the only source of happiness and joy she found. He filled her with something so intangible and sensual it was so difficult to describe.

And Selene felt herself change bit by bit, she tried to subconsciously hold back. Avoiding him on certain days and cancelling scheduled meet ups but it was inevitable, Yangyang was slowly yet voraciously devouring every inch of her being. She could feel it in the way she looked at him. The way her thoughts where changing. Her desires were developing.

Something once so innocent – a touch from him – a simple sensory fondle. Turned into a carnal and instinctual hunger that he had awoken in her. What was I turning into?…

[Selene Pov]

I felt that relief I craved for when I entered the dorms. Red or green it never mattered when I was weak in the knees. I looked at my bed like a man who was stranded in the dessert looked at fresh water.

“Look who’s here...”

“Please don’t start.” I knew this was going to be rough getting past the two crow-like girls at their beds but I didn’t expect their beady eyes glaring in the pitch dark the cool toned shadow casting harsh shapes across their faces.

“What?”

“We know what you borrowed.” A sigh left her lips as Jinny finished speaking, but the sly raven next to her muttered “She really stole it…” “Ravelle!”

“I didn’t do anything.” A frustrated exhale left my own lips. They wouldn’t know a thing because I never let them know about anything. It wasn’t their business.

“Does this ring a bell to you?” Ravelle stood up waving a slither of tentacula its sticky residue dripping from its end.

“Yeah.” I simply muttered, shrugging and to Ravelle’s shock. She probably thought I was going to deny everything.

“It’s what you mix every morning to slap” I lightly tapped my fingers onto her cheeks “onto your face, what was it for again- oh right. Your beautiful visuals… right?” I rolled my eyes after feigning thought.

The sniggers didn’t go unnoticed from Jinny who had rolled back onto her bed fully. The glimmer in her beading eyes was picked up by the light rays of moonlight sheathed inside.

“Don’t you dare make fun of my natural face masks and answer me truthfully.” Her voice picked up in volume.

“You’re pathetic.” Ravelle spat back after no response from me.

“You’d really love to know what was in that wrap I held before, don’t you?” I edged coyly. I loved having her on edge like this. But it wouldn’t last too long…

“Sit down.”

I motioned to sit down pointing for her to do as I say.

“There’s no point in getting mad now since it’s already over. There is nothing you could do about it.” I couldn’t help but stop myself from giggling slightly. It was too good.

“I gave the wrap of tentacula away. It wasn’t for me anyways.” I smiled

Ravelle started feeling uncomfortable, she shifted from her position awkwardly. Blinking multiple times.

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean Gryffindor or any house for a matter of fact is going nowhere. This year belongs to Durmstrang and I just made sure they got a head start.”

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Ravelle’s eyes went as wide as saucers, “What have you done? Selene!” Jinny’s voice piped up for the first time, the shriek in her voice prominent.

“You’ll find out soon.” I sniggered, a smirk coming up to form at my lips.

“Shit shi- Guys! You won’t believe this!” the doors to the main dormitories slam open and in came a breathless and beyond petrified Irene, the young girl held her posture against her shaking knees.

The worry evident in her chewed dry lips and pale yellow face. A few more moments and it looked like she was about to throw up.

“They, the- oh god.” It’s like realisation flushed her face, Irene was gobsmacked she frowned glancing at the two girls that were accusing me. Jinny flipped over to see the ghastly expression Irene adorned.

“What is it, spit it out already!”

“James. And uh- Well James potter and his friends they got severely injured.”

“WHAT?” the screech was pitched so high I was surprised it didn’t shatter the clouded glass of the window. All three of us flinched.

“Calm down Ravelle,” Jinny pushed past, fixing her hair. She smiled gently towards the terrified girl. “How did they get injured, tell me what happened clearly” after a few seconds of sharp breaths, Irene spoke shuddering the words I had wanted to hear since I gave the plant to him.

“Well, they got injured last night in the pre battle for the lead in the tournament. Someone had put a certain strange plant in their soup.”

“It was- uh… it’s almost fatal for some.” The last few words were muttered but I heard everything as clearly as I could.

At some point I doubted myself, my ears had to be making up sounds for me to hear and feel accomplished. It couldn’t have worked that well.

“It wasn’t just them. The other houses reported similar symptoms to them earlier.” Another young Gryffindor peeped through the wooden door squeaking quietly.

“Get lost pipsqueak!” Ravelle threw the remains of tentacula at the doorway, “I’ll deal with you later. You’ve done something!”

Her eyes screamed anger she was Enraged, Ravelle hit boiling point. Her body buzzing with a fury that could only be calmed with the sight of her secret lover safe.

“Yeah yeah,” I waved my hand swatting her as she stormed off. She couldn't do a thing.

This was only the beginning of things…

@ajuniceuajuniceu @kkuljungwoo @sensiblebutch @kangkinoa @nctzen2020 @mystic-jungkook @merryandhappylele @bcbymingi @mochischeeks @rilakunma @jaehyunspaghetti @commentgirl @99jjh @johnnys-wifeu @misaraem @apricottulips @h2ogamergirl@angelsnowflake

(if you want to be added to the taglist please send in an ask or direct message me thanks)

45 notes · View notes