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acourtofwhatthefuck · 10 months

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Practice On Me — Part Thirteen — Azriel x Reader

Summary: Backstreet’s back, ALRIGHT! Or rather, the Bat Boys™️ sort their issues out. Tathaln’s ball is officially announced. Azriel gives Kaeda a piece of his mind. Fin has no business being the sexy dad he is. Roza’s worried about reader.

Word count: 6.3k.

Warnings: None for this part.

All is silent, save for the rhythmic tick-tick-ticking of the clock. Cassian has always hated that clock. Finds it fucking annoying.

But it fills the vacant hole that exists in the absence of conversation. That hole is open and gaping between Cassian and Azriel. It’s not a table that sits between them — it’s a dangerous, yawning chasm.

Az stares at Cass, and Cass feels uncomfortable. He’s seen that cold gaze be levelled on people hundreds of times, thousands. To be on the receiving end feels a little like staring death in the face. He actually kind of wishes that Kaeda hadn’t been sent off to the dorms to sleep off her drunken state, because at least then he wouldn’t be the only one here, being subjected to…this.

So, he stands up, so abruptly that his chair almost topples over, and asks, “Want me to make you some tea?” The question feels stupid the second it leaves his lips.

Azriel’s eyes track him, drink in every uneasy shift and twitch. It’s not that Cass is afraid of Az — though anybody with half a brain cell would be — just that he’s not good in these situations. Situations where he has to be serious and…and listen.

“Cassian.” The shadowsinger’s cold voice stops him before he can move. “When, in our years of friendship, have you ever once made me tea?”

Cass peers over a broad shoulder and shrugs half-heartedly. “First time for everything…”

“Sit.”

The word brooks no room for argument. Cassian does, indeed, sit.

It’s then that Azriel heaves a deep sigh, his entire body taut as a bowstring, and says, “I’m sorry.”

Cass blinks. “What?”

“I’m sorry—for what I did in the mead hall. I…had no right.”

“…But Y/N and I…”

“It’s not for me to dictate whether the two of you should or shouldn’t lie together. My…jealousy…is my problem, and mine alone.”

This is hard, Cassian realises — for Az to say this. For him to face it. And Cass can relate to that. Not everyone can be as silver-tongued as Rhysand. The Mother knows, Cass himself isn’t.

But he also isn’t an idiot. Some people may believe him to be, and that’s their mistake, because being proved wrong is usually the last thing they remember before waking up to a healer standing over them. He’s aware enough of his surroundings to know that something was brewing between Azriel and Y/N for years before Cass took her to bed…or kitchen counter, or…whatever.

“I need to be better,” Cassian offers, “at thinking before I act. Thinking about who I might hurt with my decisions. I’m working on it.”

Az studies his friend, and he feels no anger. If anything, it’s guilt that claws at the shadowsinger. He gave poor Cass a pretty good hiding over something that was, essentially, none of his business. And it could have all been different if Az simply wasn’t a coward, afraid of his feelings.

Something he needs to work on.

And perhaps he’s doing that as, rather than burying the topic, he asks, “What…what actually happened? How did you end up sleeping together? I mean…do you have feelings—”

“No.” Cassian cuts him off, blinking. “Gods, no. I love Y/N, you know that. But not romantically. I just…I felt so damn useless that night, Az. If you’d seen the way Y/N was…the self-loathing. I didn’t know how to help.”

Immediately, Azriel’s brow pinches. “Self-loathing?”

“Because of what her father did to her. When we were flying to Fenlaros, and she was the only one being carried in…”

Azriel slumps back in his chair, feeling like a godsdamned idiot.

He blinks forward and wonders what the fuck the point is in being born a shadowsinger when he obviously can’t read situations very well. Within seconds, it’s clicking into place.

“And then you started that fight with that Fenlarion male,” Cass continued. “and Kaeda just declared that it was her you were fighting over…and everyone has a limit, you know? I think that night was just all too much for Y/N. And she was so upset, so downtrodden…talking about how she hated herself. And I’m not good with words like Rhys is, and I’m not as observant as you are, but I am good at physical touch. Physical comfort. And it seemed like the only thing I could offer in that moment to take that bleakness away from her. But I should have thought about how you would feel—”

“I’m glad you were there for her.” Azriel blurts, realising, with every word, how much he means them. “I wasn’t. I failed her that night.”

“I really didn’t know that the two of you had been exploring things. If I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I mean…that fight you started wasn’t over Kaeda at all, was it?”

Az’s eyes shutter. And it goes against every natural instinct of his to strip himself bare and just…be honest. Every steel wall he’s ever built up is screeching in its effort to stand strong and not be caved in. And those walls were necessary in a life of darkness and hate…but that life is long gone.

What good do those walls do him in an environment where he has love, has people who genuinely care for him? As much as he wants to run and hide from his feelings as he always has…he thinks that the key to happiness may be on the other side of those walls. That a new bravery lays in letting some light filter through the cracks and warm a guarded heart.

His voice is quiet, laced with a self-preserving fear, as he admits, “No. It was not.”

Before Cassian can offer an encouraging response, the front door is swinging open, and Rhysand is kicking snow from his boots and trudging in. Azriel tenses like a threatened animal — but there is no threat here. Only safety, only love. He forces his shoulders to relax.

The violet-eyed male takes in the sight before him. Goes still as he looks between his two friends. “Please tell me this is a positive conversation.”

Cassian inclines his head. “Work in progress. Why don’t you make some tea?”

“Fuck you, make your own tea—”

“Make me some tea—”

“Kiss my ass, dickhole—”

“I’m in love with Y/N.” Azriel blurts.

It promptly shuts the other two males up.

They turn away from their bickering to look at the shadowsinger. He looks…shocked, by his own confession.

“I’m in love with her,” he breathes.

Cass and Rhys share a glance, and then Rhys is slowly approaching the table, carefully taking a seat like he doesn’t want to startle Azriel out of the moment.

“We know, Az.” Rhys tells him gently. “I mean…I think we always suspected…”

“I started that fight in Fenlaros because I was jealous of that damn male having his hands all over her. Saying the things he was saying. It was nothing to do with Kaeda.”

“You should really tell her — Y/N, I mean. Tell her how you feel.”

Azriel’s eyes trace a mark in the table as he admits, “Kind of already have. When she came to speak to me earlier today.”

Another glance is shared between Cassian and Rhys. And both are equally surprised — figure they would have heard something about it. Unless…unless it hadn’t gone down well.

And now that Rhys thinks about it, Y/N had been tense whilst he’d flown her back to Velaris. Taut in his arms and barely uttering a few words. Perhaps this was why.

“Did she…not take it well?” Rhys hedges. He wants to be delicate, not go blasting in at full-force. So rarely do they get to see such a vulnerable side to Az.

Azriel shakes his head once. “It’s not that, it’s…” He clears his throat. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“How?” Cass pushes, and Rhys shoots him a warning glance.

But Azriel doesn’t balk from it, doesn’t slink back in his seat. Instead, he lifts his head, and he levels his friends with a desperate look.

“There’s more that I haven’t told you.” He says.

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A short while later, Az thinks that maybe talking through his feelings is a good thing. Just saying the words has a little bit of weight easing from his chest, his shoulders.

But Cass and Rhys aren’t saying anything at all. Cass and Rhys are staring at him like he has two damn heads.

And then Cassian sits up, barking, “Tathaln Baralas wants what?”

“Exactly what I told you.” Azriel shakes his head. “He wants me to move to Fenlaros and work alongside him. Has some sort of backing from the High Lord, though I’m not sure how much. In a nutshell, Kaeda’s interest in me has always been driven by her father.”

“I knew that little wasp was up to something. You know she tried to kiss me tonight?”

Az shrugs. Really could not give a fuck. “I figured something had happened from the look on your face.”

“I never liked her. Nor her father—”

“Her father,” Rhys cuts in, “walks a very fine line in presuming to exceed in his role as a Camp Lord. His ego and title are going to his head a little, it would seem, if he believes he has the authority to scheme such ideas.”

“It’s a terrible idea.” Cass says. Neither of the other two noticed him get up, but he’s returning to his seat, speaking around a mouthful of food. “All Illyrians in one big camp? They’ll kill each other.”

Rhys is inclined to agree. But he turns a neutral — maybe gentle — expression on Az and asks him, “Do you want to go to Fenlaros?”

It would kill him if Az said yes. Would kill Cass, too. These recent days of being torn apart by tension has been bad enough. Being in different camps and not seeing each other is an almost unbearable thought.

But they would find a way to live with it, if Az decided he wanted to go. They’d find a way to be okay with it.

Such thick silence fills the room that the thudding of all three of their hearts is audible.

But then Azriel replies quietly, “No.”

Neither Rhys nor Cassian bother to hide their relief.

“I told Kaeda I would think about it.” Azriel goes on. “And I told Y/N that I’d promised Kaeda that. But I don’t think I’ve ever really intended to think about it — or needed to. I think…I think I was just using it to bide my time. To create space for myself and…avoid everything else.”

“By everything else,” Cassian chomps into a loaf of bread, “do you mean facing your feelings for Y/N?”

Azriel can’t deny it. He nods. “It’s not an easy thing to face…to be vulnerable. Hiding behind this Fenlaros situation has just been easier. Cowardly, yes, but…easier.”

“You can’t keep pushing her away, though, Az.” Rhys says. “You can’t let her think that you might be leaving if you have no intention of doing so.”

The shadowsinger’s eyes flutter shut, thick, dark lashes grazing his cheekbones. “Do you think I’ve fucked it beyond repair?”

“No.” Cassian offers. “But you will, if you don’t start handling this the right way. Tell Kaeda and Tathaln to fuck off. Tell Y/N you’re in love with her and want to see her naked—”

“Watch it.” Azriel warns quietly, but Cass continues, unperturbed.

“Just start letting more people in. And I’ll stop letting so many people in, because it gets me into trouble. I think…I think we all need to grow up a little. Do better.”

Rhysand’s brow pinches. “What do you mean, we all do? I’ve done nothing other than put my own pleasure aside to advise you idiots. What could I possibly need to do better?”

Cassian shrugs. “That haircut, for one. It’s annoying.”

“And when was the last time your hair saw a comb, Cassian?”

“When was the last time you were generous and made tea for your good, long-suffering friend?”

“So this is about the tea.”

“Of course it’s about the tea, jackass. Zakai clearly isn’t with you for your observational skills…”

Azriel sits back, allowing their bickering to become background noise. There’s a warmth to the sight, the sound, that makes him realise he never again wants a repeat of this situation — of being apart from his friends for days, tension thick between them.

He loves Rhys and Cassian. Loves them dearly.

Another reason why he could never, ever turn his back on this place.

And he finds himself actually being…grateful…that Cass was there for Y/N that night. That she didn’t have to suffer her self-loathing alone.

There’s still a lot to get through, of course. Daunting emotions and truths to face head-on. But as he watches the two loveable idiots in front of him take verbal swipes at each other, it’s the first time in a while that he wonders if things might actually be okay.

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The news is announced the next day, when Lord Devlon gathers a rather colourful bunch of his soldiers in the mead hall and stands at the front, silencing them all with a single shout. Rhys, Cassian and Azriel stand against the far back wall, their arms folded over their chests.

Gods, they hope it’s not another training exercise. Not so soon. Az has things he wants to resolve before he saunters off and possibly gets himself killed.

But Devlon reads the roll of parchment in his hands, a frown contorting his features. He looks up, his eyes very deliberately finding Rhysand as he announces to the room, “A message from the High Lord.”

And every other gaze is then swivelling to turn on Rhys, too. There’s something accusatory about it, like they’re assuming he’s privy to whatever it is their asses have been dragged out of bed to hear.

He isn’t. He wants to be in bed, too.

“Looks like you pricks better get your dancing shoes ready.” Devlon raises his eyebrows. “The High Lord is calling for a ball. Legions from all camps invited.”

This — this is exciting news for the brutish males who could fill the mead hall with their egos alone. Not because they have a particular affinity for dancing, but because amongst themselves, they’re already murmuring about which particular camps they dislike for some reason or other, and what they plan to do about it. So many bloodthirsty streaks are painted in those males’ eyes, stamping out the tiredness that lay there only moments before.

Nothing pricks an Illyrian male’s ears up quite like the prospect of a fight.

“The legions from each camp have been carefully selected, and you lucky fuckers will be representing Windhaven.” The Camp Lord continues, disdain dripping from his voice. He wants his men out there training in the cold, not prancing around a dance floor. “Plus-ones are allowed, also, so it might be time to splash out on a pretty gown for whoever is warming your bed these days. The ball is to be held on Starfall, at a neutral venue of the High Lord’s choosing, and I expect you all to make Windhaven — and me — look good. Any questions?”

“Do we actually have to dance?” One male asks, while another one pipes up with, “Will those pricks from Camp Steelshore be there?”

Rhys shuts out the litany of battling voices as he turns a concerned look on Az and Cass. Their expressions mirror his own. Something about this feels…off.

So while he looks like he’s merely lounging against the wall, hands in his pockets, he sends his inner claws spearing straight for Devlon’s mind. He doesn’t give away what he’s doing, not even slightly, as he roots around in the Camp Lord’s thoughts and grabs for his glimpse of the letter. Rhys scans it, drops the thought, and he’s out of Devlon’s mind and straightening himself up before the male can so much as flinch.

“Let’s go.” He tells his friends, and not Devlon nor the males around them seem to care as Azriel and Cassian follow him, the formidable trio traipsing out into the thawing snow, regardless of whether the meeting is over or not.

They’re halfway back to the house, safely out of earshot, when Cassian finally barks, “A ball? What the fuck?”

“At the request of Tathaln Baralas.” Rhys reveals. “That’s what the letter said. He took the idea to my father, and the asshole is humouring him. This has all got to be part of Tathaln’s plan.”

Cassian scowls and spits his disdain at the ground. “Someone needs to drive a poison arrow through that prick’s heart already. I don’t like this one bit.”

“It’s my father’s intentions I’m worried about.” Rhys shakes his head. “Tathaln only has the power that my father gives him. One word from him and this idea could be snuffed out and never mentioned again. And I expected that to be the case. Arrogant as fuck he may be, but my father isn’t stupid. He’ll know what a terrible idea this is, and I would have predicted that he’d laugh in Tathaln’s face for mentioning it. I didn’t think he’d actually entertain it…which means—”

“There’s something in it for him.” Azriel finishes.

Rhysand nods. “Every single move and choice my father makes is, ultimately, for his own gain. He would never agree to anything if he weren’t getting something out of it himself. Whatever Tathaln has proposed to him…my father will be using it for his own gain.”

Cassian opens the door to the cottage and strides in, forgetting — as always — to kick the snow from his boots. “What, though?” He asks. “What could Tathaln have that your father could want?”

Rhys shrugs and waves a hand, magic promptly mopping up the wet, melting trail left in Cassian’s wake. “That, I don’t know.”

“So what do we do?” Az watches him closely, trying to read the thoughts on the male’s face. His shadows reach out to him, too. “Are you going to talk to your father? Make him see how ridiculous this idea is?”

“No,” Rhys shakes his head. “There would be no point. I could lay a whole host of truths out to my father, and he’d go against them on ego alone. He must want something badly enough for him to be throwing money into it. This ball won’t be cheap.”

“And it won’t be a ball, either.” Cassian cocks an eyebrow. Roots through the kitchen cupboards for food. “Blood will be spilled. And you can’t dance on blood. I’ve tried. Too slippy.”

Rhys chooses to ignore that little scrap of information. Mostly because he doesn’t doubt it for a second. “I don’t want us to pre-empt anything.” He says. “If I go straight to my father with concerns about any of this, it could blow up in our faces, instead. For the time being, I think we should just…go along with it. Watch it play out, and see what happens. My father is unpredictable. Even I can’t tell you what goes on in his head.”

“I can speak with Kaeda.” Az clears his throat. “See if she’ll tell me anything.”

“You have fun with that.” Cassian mumbles, biting into something. “I’d sooner chop my balls off and nail them to the front door.”

“Such a way with words. It’s no wonder, really, that females fall at your feet.”

Cass shoots him a wicked grin. And this…this is nice. What they’ve both missed. This is normal.

“I’ll keep an eye and ear out for anything.” Rhys drags them back to the subject at hand. “But my father’s good at not letting anyone know things until he wants them to know them. And he’s clearly serious about this.”

Cassian swallows. Takes another bite. “And until then? Until we know what he’s even serious about?”

Violet eyes sparkle with mischief, and one side of Rhysand’s lips tips up. “Until then, boys,” he says, “you’d better practice your dancing.”

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Azriel really hopes she’s not there, but sure enough, when he enters his room at the dorms, Kaeda is sitting up in his bed.

It gives him a little bit of satisfaction to see her look…less than perfect, for once. Her hair is knotted, and even the vibrancy of the red shade seems a little dulled. Her skin is sallow, her eyes bleary. He wonders if she’s as miserable as she currently looks.

She beholds him with a strangely coy look, like she’s waiting for him to rip into her. But if she really knew the shadowsinger, she’d know that that is not his style. He does not shout. He rarely fights physically. His danger lies in his quiet voice and icy stare.

Kaeda’s tired eyes fall to the blanket pooled around her waist, and she murmurs, “You’re angry with me.” Her throat bobs with a swallow. “I understand. But I appreciate you putting me to sleep in here when I was in a vulnerable state.”

“I would have done it for anyone.” Az presses his back against the wall, folding his arms. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

The female merely bows her head. Doesn’t bother to argue.

“I have a question.” Azriel then says. “I’d like an answer.”

“I know that Cassian has probably told you about last night, and all I can say is I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have kissed him. I was drunk and upset and I—”

“I don’t care about that.” He really doesn’t, and it shows on his face. “I want to know what your father is playing at by organising an Illyrian ball. I don’t believe for a second that the gesture is an innocent one.”

She glances down again, but Azriel doesn’t buy the coy act for one moment.

“Kaeda.” His voice is laced with warning. “Tell me.”

“It’s just…a ball. A ball to have all camps in one place, so he can get a good look at what each one has to offer. It’s nothing sinister.”

“So, a chance for him to scout more supporters for his cause.”

“He’s trying to make a change, Azriel. A good one—”

“He’s interfering with lives. Tearing families apart.”

“Good results require difficult choices.” Her voice hardens.

The shadowsinger bites out a cold, brusque laugh, turning away from her. “Mother above, he has you trained well.”

There’s movement behind him. Kaeda is kicking the sheets away and pushing to her feet. And she’s…seething.

“You would laugh in the face of somebody trying to make a positive change?” She snaps. “What reason have you to be so arrogant? At least my father is trying to make a difference. All you’re doing is clinging to a miserable life in a miserable place where you don’t even have a family or home of your own—”

“Except that I do.” Azriel rounds on her so quickly that his wing knocks a fragrance bottle off a shelf. “I may not have your riches, and that’s fine, because I have a group of people — a family I made — who love me enough to care whether or not I come home at night. Who want nothing less for me than happiness and contentedness, and not just to use me as a pawn in some convoluted plan that will do more harm than good. I have reason to be in Windhaven, whether it’s miserable or not. I have love here. So much of it. And there’s nothing — not a damn thing — that would make me turn my back on it.”

Something in his impassioned speech clearly hits a nerve with Kaeda. She goes still.

And she looks…small, despite being fairly tall. She looks…insignificant.

Her eyes fill with tears. One spills over and rolls down her cheek as she whispers, “Please, Azriel.”

Azriel says nothing. Stares at her.

“Please.” She takes a step closer. “I’m not above begging. I…” Her voice cracks. “I need this. I need you to say yes—”

“Your father,” he interrupts quietly, “is playing a very dangerous game. And he’s using you to do it.”

“You don’t understand. I…if I can’t give him what he wants, I’m finished. I’ll have no home to go to, nobody on my side.”

“You already have nobody on your side. You’re his daughter and he’s dangling your livelihood over your head and ready to snatch it away if he doesn’t get what he wants. You’re already finished.”

“Please.” She says again. Tears are streaming, now, and she tries fruitlessly to wipe them away. “Please, just…if this is about Y/N—”

“Do not,” he grits out, “bring her into this.”

“She’s already in this. I know that you want her and not me…that you always have…and that’s fine. Bring her to Fenlaros with you, if you must. I’m sure my father could be persuaded on that. But just…please—”

“You’re not listening, Kaeda. This isn’t just about my family. It’s about all the other families that would be separated, ripped apart by your father’s scheming. He’s power hungry. This is just the beginning of a whole host of self-serving plans that will bring him glory — do not doubt that for a second. People like him are never satisfied, and he needs to be stopped. Not encouraged.”

“You’re wrong.” Her voice is so weak, Az isn’t convinced she believes her own words. “He just wants a better future for Illyria—”

“No.” Az levels her with a pointed look. “He wants a better future for himself. I will not play a part in that, and neither will my loved ones.”

“Azriel, please—”

“I will attend your father’s ball, just as Lord Devlon has ordered me to do.” He breezes to the door, not caring that this is his room he’s leaving her behind in. He stops, palm poised on the handle. “But as for delivering a male straight into your father’s den? You better start trying that seduction on somebody else. Because there is nothing that would make me follow you into that camp.”

He leaves without a glance back. And while it sits uncomfortably inside him that he made a female cry…he can’t help feeling like he’s finally doing the right thing.

About time, too.

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This — this is the last thing you ever would have expected of coming to Velaris.

The tonic you’d needed was an extended amount of girl time with Roza. And yet here you are…in the High Lord’s arms.

“This is useless.” You murmur, aware of every single place your body brushes against his. One of his hands is a firm weight on the small of your back, the other clasping yours. “I’m not a natural dancer. Fuck, I’ve never even been to a dance.”

Fin’s mouth tips up at the corners. “There’s that filthy mouth.” His hand lets go of yours, opting to move up to the cut of your jaw, where he allows his thumb to rest on your lower lip. “You,” the pad of it swipes slowly over your mouth, “are going to be exquisite.”

You square your shoulders. Cock a challenging eyebrow. “Is that genuine encouragement, High Lord? Or an order?”

A deep chuckle. Slowly — reluctantly —he lets his hand drop. “Both.”

Flirting with him like this, playing the part of the High Lord’s pet, is a necessary evil. You’re just so surprisingly good at it that you can’t discern whether it’s an affront to him, or to Roza. Or both.

But you can’t deny that you’ve been flattered by his undivided attention this past week. And perhaps he’s been flattered by yours, too.

Mother bless Roza for her undying support. The best you can do for her, right now, is to keep her in the loop. She merely tells you to be careful.

But a week — a week of cosying up to Fin, of breaking through his exterior and appealing yourself to him. You humour him with these dance lessons, with the preposterously expensive shopping trips and dinners, the late night fireside conversations. Anything, everything, to get him to tell you what truth lies behind the excited glint in his eyes whenever he speaks of the ball. To tell you what it is he’s planning.

Perhaps you’re not appealing enough. You are no more aware than anyone else. And that’s really fucking frustrating.

At least your hard work has kept you from thinking about Azriel every five minutes.

Your breath still heaving from your dance efforts, you make your way over to the table of refreshments by the huge, arcing windows that overlook the city. The High Lord’s palace, you have to admit, is a place you might miss once you’re back in Windhaven. You’ve never been one for luxury, never had more than a few things to your name — but the views are what makes you feel like the richest person in all of Prythian. These are not the cold, barren views of your camp, but a place of such vibrancy, it sometimes makes you want to cry. It’s like the setting of a storybook, laid out right before you.

From behind, slow, graceful footsteps sweep across the wooden floor. Fin comes to a stop so closely behind you that his body heat encases you.

Fingertips make contact with your skin, the back of your neck. The sleeveless tunic you wore for your practice now feels like nothing more than a paper towel.

“You have such beautiful skin.” Fin says roughly, and you tense. So far, this week, he’s kept a respectful distance away. Hasn’t put you in any awkward positions.

You pivot under his touch, pressing your back up against the table enough that his hand drops. It’s not entirely for show as you smile apologetically and tell him, “Sorry — scars.”

Such genuine, slicing rage fills his face. The intensity of it almost knocks you breathless.

“I will kill him.” He says the words like a lover’s promise. “With my bare hands, I will kill him for taking your wings.”

He had the power to stop the practice before you were even born. He is very old — over nine-hundred-years — and very powerful. What he says, goes.

And yet…he means it. You can see it. And perhaps you have seen so much unkindness, such brutality, that little scraps of ferocity, of passion, in your defence, make you a blinded fool.

But a part of him — however small — actually cares about you. Enough to mark your abuser for death.

But your father’s blood will soak your hands, and yours only.

You smile up at him, wickedly, cunningly, prettily. “No, you won’t.” You reply. “Because I will do it first.”

And the fury in his stare simmers immediately to a different sort of heat. Your words are a flirtation to him — a cut of raw meat dangled above a hungry, waiting animal. They make him feel something.

“Such a murderous little thing.” His soft laugh caresses your skin. He sounds pleased — impressed. “I like that. I like it a lot.”

“I would hope so. I am to be your special guest at the ball, after all.” A small voice in your head wants to coax him; tell me what you’re planning, tell me what to expect.

But, as always, he steers the conversation away, a vague, mysterious smile on his face. “Do you like it here in Velaris, my murderess?”

“I do, very much so.”

“I can’t help pondering how much you would thrive here. You were made for so much more than Windhaven. Illyria, even.”

A soft, coy smile — one that comes from deep within that part of you that wants the praise, the compliments — that needs them. “Many would disagree with you.”

“Show them to me, and I will twist their minds until they see in you what I do.”

“And what is it you see in me?” A disingenuous little liar. A good actress. A traitor.

Fin leans down, and for one startling, heart-stopping, stomach-lurching moment, you think his mouth might meet yours.

But his lips brush over your cheek in a tender, barely-there caress. He presses a kiss to the skin before retracting. Straightening himself out. The way he slides his hands into his pockets with casual arrogance reminds you so much of Rhys that you miss your friend instantaneously.

“I see beauty that is unappreciated, and intelligence that is underestimated.” Fin says. “And I see a female that I wouldn’t mind having at my side.” His eyes trace you from head to toe. “I wouldn’t mind it at all.”

No response sits on your tongue. You think you might be too surprised by the genuine praise. The fact that the High Lord actually feels some level of affection towards you.

Maybe you’re not so bad at these games.

He turns without waiting for your response, and only when he’s at the door does he make eye contact with you over his shoulder.

“Keep practicing the dancing, my murderess.” He says. “We’ll make a fine pair at that ball.”

✧: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

If Roza weren’t so worried, she might laugh at the three expressions of outrage that meet her when she strolls into the cottage.

Rhysand jumps up immediately and demands, “Did you fly here? You’re supposed to be resting.”

Roza merely rolls her eyes and shuts the door behind her. “Don’t get your undergarments in a bunch, Rhysand. I’m pregnant — not on my death bed. The babe is fine.”

Her son does not look convinced. Neither do Azriel or Cassian. As if they’re, like, experts on pregnancy, or something.

“What are you doing here, mother?” Rhys stalks straight to the fire and stokes it. Then straight over to the kitchen to make a hot drink. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Mostly.” Roza pauses. “I hope.”

Azriel sits up at that. “Is Y/N alright?”

“She’s fine.” If playing games with the High Lord of the Night Court can be considered fine. Roza eases herself into a seat, and Cassian is promptly propping cushions behind her back. “I want to talk to you about the ball.”

Cass’s lips turn up into a half-smile. “We’ll be on our best behaviour, Roz. Promise.”

“You’d better be. Because I want all three of you looking out for Y/N at that ball, do you hear me?”

The command is a firm one, and yet the three males don’t straighten up at her matriarchal tone like they usually do. Instead, they share a puzzled glance, frowns pinching their features.

“It’s a ball for Illyrian soldiers and their guests of choice.” Rhys explains, carrying a steaming mug over to her. “None of us are bringing her along. Not to that.”

“You may not be.” Roza slides a protective hand over her bump. “But your father is.”

All three males go so preternaturally still, it’s almost frightening.

Rhys bites out, quietly, “What?”

“Your father is taking Y/N to the ball as his special guest. He’s bought her a gown, taught her to dance — he’s serious about this.”

“He can’t.” The shadowsinger’s face is like rolling thunder. “He cannot take her there. All those males—”

“That’s precisely why I’m not attending. He needs someone in my place, and he’s taking Y/N.”

“He can choose someone else.” Azriel’s clipped tone, his panic, is not at all personal to Roza. Usually, he would never speak to her in such a way, but—

But this is Y/N they’re talking about. Y/N in the High Lord’s hands, at a ball with so many Illyrian males, too many Illyrian males.

“Watch your tone, Azriel.” Rhys warns, but Roza is holding up a hand. Because she gets it — the panic.

“I’ve tried telling him to take somebody, anybody, else.” She says. “He’s insistent — absolutely adamant that he wants Y/N.”

“But why?” Cassian frowns.

“I don’t know. I don’t know if his kindness to her is genuine or not.” She shakes her head, absentmindedly stroking her bump. “All I know is that he’s taking Y/N to that ball, and I’m not going to be there. You know, Rhysand, that there is no changing your father’s mind once it’s set. I need the three of you to look out for her.”

Because Y/N is just as much a daughter to Roza as the little girl growing in her belly. They know that.

Rhys inclines his head, reaching out to place a hand over Roza’s. “We will, mother.” He promises. “Whatever game he’s playing…we’ll look after Y/N.”

Roza’s eyes dart to Azriel, to Cassian. “Do you promise?”

“We promise.” Cassian, unfazed as always, grins. “You just focus on the little one, Roz.”

Azriel’s face is grave, but he nods once. “We won’t let her out of our sight.”

Y/N is in good hands with them, Roza knows. She may even be in good hands with Fin, depending on what his true intentions are. Perhaps being at the High Lord’s side is the safest place she can be. It’s an unknown.

But one thing Azriel does know, as he wishes and wishes for this damn ball to just be over already, is that he’s wracked with guilt.

He can’t help feeling like it’s his fault — that his actions, his behaviour, chased Y/N right into a viper’s den.

That he’ll stop at nothing to get her out of it.

pom tags: @dream-alittlebiggerdarling @sirenpearldust @queercodedcharacter @azriels-shadowsinger @ruler-of-hades @demi03 @magicaldragonlady @abrielletargaryen @ralsieq @v3lv3tf0x @achase2002 @feyretopia @hayrunnwr @don’t-feed-the-hipsters @brekkershadowsinger @piceous21 @bloodicka @acourtofinkandpapyrus @riri-is-agirlie @siriusement @4valyries @socmono @azriels-mate123 @acourtofbatboydreams @katherinearcheron @nesemi @lupinswolfsbanes @dreaming-unafraid @dxnniiix @cyrygher @liddyr03 @lmllsl @nightless @teenageeggscissorslawyer @brighterthanlonelythoughts @blitz-fall @maybefoxysouls @mschanand1erbong @juiceboxreads @bangtanbecks @florencemtrash @hyemishii @obixix @thenovarose @meshellexplosionmurder @angzlxna @lissy31xoxo-blog @supernatural99 @positivewitch @art3-m1ss @milfhunter-pdx @bbuckysbeardd @coralseacourt @towhateverend87 @sspookz @bird-on-the-wire33 @morrie-rose @megwan @catscanteleport @sevikas-whore @thickthighs-sadeyes @hihelloitsbooktimeppl

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flametrashiraarchive · 1 year

Note

why do i get the feeling muzan would love endowed! reader in a maid costume- GHGHJBVGFGHHIJHU

Haha I can see it! (and also the other way round someone please please ask me about Maid Costume Muzan)

NSFW below the cut

Muzan x F!reader.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 |

Muzan and the Maid

Part 4 of the Muzan's Epic Titty Sucking Saga

"Put it on." The tone of Muzan's voice told you there was no room for negotiation. He held the skimpy maid's uniform out toward you, the crimson of his eyes half-flooded out by his vertical pupils. His eyes only ever looked like that when he was just about to feed, or he was just about to work out his stress on your ample bosom. You trusted it was the latter.

You knew better than to argue with his demand. Protesting the tackiness of the uniform would only earn you an hour-long diatribe about how everyone disappointed Muzan and he should let the infinity castle crumble to ruin.

Taking the garment with a sigh, you stepped behind a modesty screen and started to change.

"With less attitude next time," Muzan grumbled from the other side of the screen as his silhouette crossed the room toward your, luxurious bed.

As you pulled on the dress, you glanced down to find that the bustier barely covered... anything. It didn't even fully conceal your areola. The blushing crescents peered over the top of the dress as your nipples tented the sheer fabric. You were almost certain that Muzan somehow lowered the temperature in your room whenever he felt like it.

"Well?" you asked, stepping out from behind the screen to find Muzan sat on the end of the bed; knees spread wide and hands clasped in the chasm between them.

He glanced up at you. "Yes. Come here." His hand slipped over your hip as you stepped into the gap between his thighs. "You're nothing more than a cheap slut," he whispered, caressing the mound of your breast. "My cheap slut to do whatever I want with. Isn't that right?"

Heat prickled on your cheeks as you nodded. "Yes, my lord."

"Good," he groaned. "That's my good little harlot." At once his mouth was on you, sucking your nipple through the fabric as his brow raised and knitted together. "Mmmhhh"

Your breath shuttered as you fought the urge to put back your head and moan. For all his faults--of which there were... a couple... Muzan definitely knew how to get you off with the simple act of lavishing his demonic attention on your breasts.

The wet heat of his mouth through the fabric was divine, the graze of his teeth over your hardened bud sending pangs of desire to your core.

He chuckled, fondling your breasts through the fabric with one hand while sliding the other up under your skirt. His fingers slipped through the wetness spreading across the top of your thighs as he continued to tease and lick your breasts.

"Mm... you're always so damn wet for me..." he smirked, giving your nipple a reprieve and pushing his face into your cleavage, covering it in hot, wet kisses. "Maybe one day I'll do something about that. But tonight, my little maid..." He leaned back and scooted his way up the bed, his clothing magically turning to tatters and falling away entirely as he gave you a devilish grin. "Your lord has been a very dirty boy..."

Let me know if you want part 5... where Muzan gets a tit-wank.

#muzan kibutsuji #kny muzan #kibutsuji muzan #muzan smut #muzan x reader #muzan x y/n #muzan x you #kimetsu no yaiba muzan #muzan kibutsuji x reader #kibutsuji kny

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sunkendreams · 9 months

Note

Idk exactly what to ask for, but I have an ✨idea✨

Dwayne who seemingly has a penchant for choking his SO. He just loves the little whimpers and moans they make, and the way they squirm.

Really basic, ik 💀. You can take this and run, or simply enjoy this thought with me, but I wanted to share 🥰

moving in stereo.

( dwayne x fem!reader. )

➾ pairing ; dwayne x fem!reader.

format: one-shot — requested.

word count: 5.9K.

warnings: SMUT (mdni), making out, dirty talk, cunnilingus, oral sex (f!receiving), bloodplay (he’s a vampire), breast-play, biting, hair-pulling, scratching, breeding kink, scent kink, p in v sex, missionary position, rough sex, begging, unprotected sex, mating press (a little bit), choking, bruising/marking, dwayne is hot

author’s note: i am so obsessed with him, it’s not even funny ngl :’) also, I have a couple of other fics/drabbles that I’ll probably post tonight too, I’m definitely feeling very inspired! If you haven’t voted on my poll, please do so! thank you guys sm for your continued love & support !! ❤️

Beads of blood filled your mouth as you absentmindedly chewed at the skin of your cheek, flesh taut between your back molars — you hadn’t intended to bite down as hard as you did. A singular glance at Dwayne’s hands had contorted into shameless ogling, smitten hues discreetly flickering over the veins and smudges of grayish grease coating his fingers.

He had a way with machinery that transcended you — he often claimed that it was simply natural instinct, but your running theory was something buried in his past life. Dwayne was known for his stoicism and quiet demeanor, neglecting to educate you on his background.

It must’ve been a life of hard work — otherwise, his hands wouldn’t have appeared so rough and calloused. They weren’t smooth and spindly like Marko’s, or pretty like Paul’s. They were taut and thick, dexterous and built for destruction, if he let it.

Hands that had held you many times before, touched you in ways that you longed to feel again. A shudder rolled down your spine as you daydreamed, mind floating into a fantastical haze of lascivious thoughts. If it weren’t for the presence of the other boys, a tendril of drool might’ve leaked from the corner of your mouth.

“It’s fucked, isn’t it?”

Paul’s agitated groan reverberated throughout the cavern as he crouched beside his boombox, slapping a palm against the top of the speaker, as if that would cure all ailments. His brows furrowed together, lip curled in annoyance as he knocked his hand against the machine a second time — for good measure.

“You’ll ruin it if you keep it up.” Dwayne’s monotonous remark echoed from the opposite side of the lobby. He was entrenched in repairing his motorcycle after it had gotten vandalized by a Surf-Nazi who didn’t live to tell the tale. Paul’s beloved stereo was the least of his concerns.

“How are we gonna listen to Alice?” A begrudging sigh escaped Paul, whose theatrics weren’t out of the ordinary. He huffed, falling in a dramatic heap along the edge of the dilapidated fountain. “Can’t you fix it, Dwayne?” He asked, peering toward his brother, who seemed entirely uninterested.

Silence filled the chasm between them, prompting you to stifle a smile. Dwayne didn’t enjoy being bothered whenever he was working on a project — he was always one to see it through until the very end.

David and Marko emerged from their abysmal resting place. Once the sun disappeared behind the ocean and dusk consumed dawn, the boys became wildly active. “Paul,” David’s voice carried, always domineering without even trying. “Let’s go.”

Disappointed in the lack of closure for his treasured boombox, Paul relented, rolling off of the stone bannister with an exaggerated sigh. He ruffled your hair in passing, and smacked Dwayne on the way out, who didn’t flinch or move a muscle. He simply exhaled — you could sense the twinge of irritation in his sigh alone.

Paul snickered, hopping up the ledge alongside David and Marko. “See you later, bud.” He sneered, waving at you as he departed with his brothers. Once the trio slunk away into the moonlight, it left you and Dwayne by yourselves in the cave.

You could’ve watched Dwayne work for hours, captivated by the way he dismantled the machinery, handling the finer pieces with nimble digits. He was wrist-deep in the grease-laden guts of his motorcycle, surrounded by a myriad of scrap and parts. His dark brows were furrowed together in stark concentration.

Intrigued, you abandoned your perch — a rickety, velvet-cushioned chair that had come with the hotel’s ancient wreckage. Paul’s stereo was sitting along the ledge, awaiting a tune-up that you knew Dwayne would inevitably provide. You sat down, inspecting it for any damage — it looked unharmed, on the outside.

“Do you think it was a user error sort of thing?” A burst of laughter escaped you as you opened up the hatch for the cassette tapes, noticing a rather banged-up copy of Alice Cooper’s Constrictor from ‘86. It was a good choice — you had to commend Paul’s taste in music.

Dwayne’s soft, bemused huff was all you needed to hear, prompting you to smile. You never mistook his tranquil, halcyon demeanor as indifference — he was a man of very few words. Even his temper wasn’t violent or tempestuous, like that of Marko or David. His placidity in most things was what drew you to him in the first place.

Being a human amongst a den of rancorous vampires wasn’t your intention, but you were happy — happiest with Dwayne, above all. He was the best boyfriend you’d ever had, not that it was a lengthy list. You idly fiddled with some of the switches on the boombox, removing and reinserting the cassette before closing it up.

Much to your chagrin, the stereo didn’t work — maybe it wasn’t Paul’s imagination after all. You gently nudged it back along the ledge, abandoning it for now. “How come you didn’t go with the others?” You inquired, folding one leg over the other, tapping the heel of your boot against the dusty stone.

There was a slight shift in his body language — a mere shrug of his broad shoulders, accompanied by the noises of metal clanging, gears twisting, and then he grunted. “I’m not looking for dinner.” Dwayne replied, matter-of-factly. He was in the midst of replacing the engine on his bike, placing the damaged part aside, hands stained in dark ichor.

With a soft hum, you pushed yourself off of the ledge, wandering over toward Dwayne’s scrapyard — a rather cluttered corner of the cave that acted as a makeshift garage. You sat along one of the flat outcroppings of rock, opting to watch him fix up his motorcycle. It would intrigue you more than messing with the boombox ever would.

His pearlescent teeth clenched around a wrench, clutched between his maw as he focused on putting the new engine back in. There was a quiet appreciation that he held for you — you were always respectful of his hobbies, if this even counted as one. Dark eyes flickered toward you, sitting there in your billowing sundress like some statuesque angel.

Dwayne appraised you in his usual silence, eyes carefully raking along your physique, as if he were undressing you through gaze alone. His jaw tensed, a fire beginning to spark within his chest, threatening to spread like an encroaching wildfire the longer he ogled you.

Sundresses were a hot commodity — and they never lasted, either. Dwayne made sure of it, and once he got his hands on you, that pretty fabric shielding you from him would cease to exist. He made it up to you with the gift of another, but rest assured, it would be shortlived.

It was a mutual feeling, the silent staring. His keen hues settled along the supple curves hiding just beneath that thin veil of fabric while you were captivated by the visual feast of strong, capable hands and taut forearms. You folded your hands within your lap, beginning to absentmindedly chew at your inner cheek again.

Your scent wafted throughout the short distance between the both of you, heavy with hints of your favorite perfume, a saccharine concoction that Dwayne had grown accustomed to. He loved your smell — it was unique to you, invading his senses as he continued his work.

Those strong, muscled hands of his were buried in the underbelly of the motorcycle, carefully placing the new engine back inside. He began to fasten it all into place, removing the wrench from his mouth, quickly fixing it all up with a series of bolts, screws, and metallic plates.

“I’ll teach you sometime.” Dwayne was, oddly enough, the one to shatter the comfortable silence between the both of you. He prided himself on playing mechanic — his ability to handle such equipment and repair it was rather renowned. Once he was satisfied with the job, he sat back, peering toward you.

Warmth oozed from those earthen-brown hues of his, coupled with a subtle adoration that only he possessed for you. Your smile only served to further it, the only thing to make his dead heart pump to life again.

“I’d like that,” You mused, canting your head to one side. “I think you should fix Paul’s stereo, too.” Even if Dwayne had brushed him off before, he would fix it and have it ready for him whenever he came back. It was the right thing to do, anyway.

Dwayne huffed, lips twitching into a threadbare smile, wrought with traces of amusement. He didn’t say anything — he didn’t need to. He wiped his hands off along the crimson cloth he carried in his back pocket, ridding his hands of engine grease and oil.

He stood, filling in his full height as he bent down to give you a kiss, hand carding through the back of your skull. It never failed to make you shudder, haplessly squeezing your thighs together as you reached for his forearm. Powerful, taut muscle flexed underneath your fingertips, and his kiss briefly intensified before he withdrew.

That familiar aching sensation flickered to life between your legs, a dull arousal pooling within your stomach. You wanted nothing more than to cling to him, beg for another kiss, but Dwayne was already over to the stereo, inspecting it for any damage it might’ve had.

For Dwayne, your mind was exceptionally loud — he could read your thoughts, hear them screaming from afar, which he happened to smile at from where he stood. The feeling was mutual, but he wanted to make you stew in it for a little while — it heightened the experience.

As he dismantled the stereo, you decided to go elsewhere — to Paul’s nest, which wasn’t the brightest idea, but he had an impressive collection of cassette tapes. You began climbing toward the rocky slope that led off into alcoves, using some of the ropes hanging about to pull yourself up.

“Where are you going?” Dwayne asked, seemingly finding the source of the boombox’s disarray — there were pieces of tape stuck in the machine.

“To see what Paul has to listen to,” You mused, nose wrinkling in amusement. “It’s the least that he can do for you since you fixed it. We should go listen to music.” Truthfully, Dwayne owned that stupid stereo just as much as Paul did — joint custody, you’d called it.

Hawkish, dark hues drank you in from afar, and Dwayne decided that he’d indulge himself in your wishes, picking up the boombox by the bottom. The handle had been broken off long ago — courtesy of Paul, once again. He simply trailed behind you, briefly pressing his hand against the small of your back when you made it up the incline, keeping you steady.

Paul’s nest was notoriously cluttered — in a very fascinating and macabre manner. It was littered in trinkets, things he’d taken from people he fed from, bones and all, or general thievary. The boys were all like this, but not to Paul’s level.

Posters of hair-bands and metal groups hung all around the rock, illuminated by flickering candlelight. It smelled faintly of marijuana, decorated by a patchwork array of tapestries, clothes, and stolen jackets. The guitar he’d lifted off of a traveling rock group sat on his bed — he always talked about starting a band.

A mountain of cassette tapes lay in a semi-organized heap, many of them taken from Videomax or anywhere he could find them. Dwayne simply stood at the fringes of Paul’s nest, watching as you picked through his extensive collection. You smiled at the handful you’d grabbed, rejoining Dwayne as the two of you made for his nest.

In an amusing juxtaposition, Dwayne’s nest was noticeably simplistic — yet, his personality was scrawled all over it. He liked to read, keeping a trunk of books, tools he’d taken from garages, and some trinkets stashed away in a large piece of a drawer.

He hadn’t bothered to invest in a bed for several decades — not until he got entangled with you. When Marko had mentioned it to you in-passing, it was rather intriguing, but you never asked Dwayne about it.

With the stereo now placed at the foot of his makeshift bed, placed atop a rather rickety wooden trunk, you ejected Alice Cooper from the hatch and put in The Cars, instead. Dwayne happened to regard this choice with curiosity, sitting along the edge of the mattress.

Moving in Stereo began to drift through the alcove, and you promptly fell back against the plush surface, tucking your hands atop your chest. “This song reminds me of you.” You murmured, gazing at the cavernous ceiling, focused on the jagged edges and outcroppings of rock.

Dwayne seemed curious, twisting slightly to face you. Even when sitting, he towered over you, indomitable and immovable, a wall of sheer strength and muscle. “Why does it remind you of me?” He wanted to hear your answer, eyes flickering toward your exposed stomach.

You smiled, somewhat embarrassed, but you decided to answer him anyway. “I don’t know,” You began, rolling over onto your side, propping yourself up with one hand. “Just a bit of a mystery, but alluring. It’s pretty magnetizing.” With a soft exhale, you began to pick at a stray string on one of the blankets that covered the mattress.

“Magnetizing,” Dwayne echoed, withholding the urge to smirk. Instead, he joined you, laying on his side as he mirrored your position, face mere centimeters away from yours. “You got a way with words, girl.” His chest shook with a brief huff before he leaned in to kiss you.

If a kiss could have destroyed you, this was it — Dwayne’s mouth consumed you, intensified by your seemingly innocuous words. He tasted good, like spiced smoke and the faint bite of copper.

You were eternally grateful to The Cars — Dwayne was careening into you, broad chest flush against yours, veined hand grasping at the base of your skull. Thick digits massaged at the nape of your neck, coaxing you close until there was no space left between you, lips voraciously tangling with yours.

He ripped all wisps of air from your lungs, as cold as ice as he shrugged off his jacket. Arousal reactivated inside of you, no longer dormant as your warm hands reached for his chest, feeling broad muscle underneath your palms. He felt like a god — chiseled, forever perfect — you were sometimes in-awe of his beauty.

In awe — Dwayne smirked against your mouth, unable to help himself when it came to your overactive imagination and racing thoughts. He pushed his hand underneath your shirt, fingers tracing along your curves as he began to feel a familiar tightening in his jeans.

Your scent thoroughly intoxicated him — your natural musk, the cling of perfume, the arousal coalescing between your thighs — it was a perfect amalgamation. Dwayne exhaled, sitting up and taking you with him, hands hooking into the hem of your shirt as he peeled it off of you.

His lips were on your flesh again, hands tearing your thin brassiere apart with ease, reveling in your warmth. Dwayne pressed a string of kisses along your neck, feeling the thrum of your pulse point pound against his mouth. The shorts you wore still clung to your frame, but they wouldn’t be for much longer.

“Dwayne,” You sighed, The Cars becoming nothing more than atmospheric background noise. Liquid heat pooled between your legs, a shiver rolling down your spine as he laid you down against the mattress, covering you with his body. Your eyes locked together as he stared down at you, gaze boring right through you. “I need you.”

Dwayne kissed your neck, sucking enough to create a hickey before he traveled to the base of your throat, peppering kisses across your collarbone. “Where do you need me, sweet girl?” His husky, warm baritone made you shiver in delight. Those eyes raked over you in rapture, full of reverence.

“Everywhere,” You whimpered, goosebumps coalescing along your spine. Dwayne’s huff of laughter made you smile, and you quickly urged him closer for another kiss. His mouth crashed against yours, passionate and blistering, full of an unrestrained want. “I’m yours.” A sweet moan tore past your lips.

A wave of possessiveness swelled up inside of him, coupled with that innate desire to keep you all to himself. Dwayne didn’t have an issue sharing with his brothers, but you? No — you belonged to him, and him alone. A growl rippled across his broad chest as he tore his lips away, returning to your sternum.

There was a prowess to him that the others didn’t possess — Dwayne was emotionally intelligent, just as vicious in the same breath. He was an enigma of so many things, drawing you in with his arcadian charm. Your fingers reached for his dark tresses, perusing through as he kissed your chest.

“You’re beautiful,” Dwayne’s affectionate baritone rumbled across your flesh as he continued his slow, deliberate string of kisses, making his way to your breasts. He trapped one nipple between his lips, gently suckling on the sensitive mound, the other hand tugging at your shorts. “Perfect.” He uttered.

You sighed, fingers tangling within his mane of black tresses, pulling and carding through. It felt silky between your digits, like velvet. Those veined, calloused hands gripped along the meat of your hips, strong and unwavering as he lifted you to discard your shorts.

Arousal pooled between your legs, honey-thick as it toyed with Dwayne’s senses. He wanted nothing more than to drown himself between your thighs, devour you until you were a trembling, mewling mess. Your thoughts shamelessly echoed that sentiment, prompting him to reach toward the apex of your thighs, hand breaking past the waistline of your panties.

Dexterous fingers languidly slipped along your slick cunt, making a line right for your clit. Your body responded in a near-violent fashion, hips jolting up into him, hands curling within his hair. “D—Dwayne!” You whimpered, chasing after the friction his hand provided. Those dark hues hadn’t left you, transfixed on your smitten countenance as he kissed your stomach.

He looked big when his body was spread over yours, but when he began to slink toward your thighs, he was hulking, a massive wall of muscle. Dwayne’s kisses continued, littered all across your pelvis and thighs, fingers still winding you up as he pushed in between your legs with those broad, bronze shoulders.

His visage was rugged with a fine layer of dark stubble, tangible as it scratched against your inner thighs. He curled his hands into your panties, and instead of removing them, Dwayne simply tore them asunder, leaving remnants of fabric behind. The alcove reverberated with the sounds of material being ripped apart.

A thin sheen of arousal painted your cunt, scent stinging his nose in the most pleasant way possible. The velveteen flesh of your inner thighs were layered in faint bite marks — his own, from the past. He looked to you for approval, thumb lazily circling around your clit.

“Please.” You huffed, head bobbing up and down in an idle nod as he moved his lips toward a patch of flesh, unmarred by any bites. Dwayne was always very sensual, and even when he fed from you, it felt so lascivious. Your body jolted, hips writhing closer as he began to bite down.

Dark, earthy-brown hues melted away into pools of a golden-red, unnaturally vibrant. The initial sting of his bite made you wince, but he was always gentle with you when it came to feeding. As sharp teeth drew blood, a low growl reverberated throughout his chest, causing you to shiver. Your fingers continued to trace through his mane of black hair, a myriad of moans escaping you.

Restraining himself from taking this further, he had his fill, kissing over your now-healing bite. Dwayne licked his lips, effortlessly tossing both of your legs over his broad shoulders as he tugged you closer. You were somewhat folded at the hips, but you didn’t care.

Dwayne’s gaze was incendiary, intense — he stared you down from his perch between your thighs. You were visibly flustered, staring right back, nearly shrinking away altogether. He kissed your thighs, mouth dangerously close to your aching cunt. “You ready, girl?” He asked, inhaling another gust of your scent.

You nodded, feeling every fiber of your being scream with desire, and you wanted him terribly. “Yes,” You whimpered, hands having splayed out at your sides instead, no longer buried within his hair. “Dwayne, please,” His deliberation made it worse. “I want you so bad.” Your hips wriggled again, desperate for his mouth.

A warm, hearty chuckle emerged from his lips, making his herculean form shake between your legs. “Just relax,” He soothed, noticing how coiled and poised you were. Those strong, veined hands wrapped around your thighs, keeping you spread apart. The flat of his tongue lapped across your slit in one long stroke. “Relax, Mama.” His voice made your head swim.

Relaxation wasn’t exactly your forte — you were too wound-up, too drunk with desire to simply sit still and melt into the mattress. Dwayne’s tongue began to lap you up, greedily consuming every drop of your sweet arousal, working along your cunt. His fingers clamped hard, enough to leave behind the inklings of bruises, etched into your flesh like his personal brand.

Your thighs threatened to squeeze at his head, but he kept your legs firmly planted on his shoulders, pinning you down and rendering you immobile. Your taste saturated his tongue, and he only chased after it, dutifully lapping at your slit as his nose absentmindedly grazed against your clit.

Dwayne was relatively silent — and you didn’t mind in the slightest. The only ambiance happened to be The Cars, your delighted moans, and your boyfriend’s deep, rumbling grunts. His tongue worked wonders on your aching slit, cunt clenching pathetically around nothing as he lapped you up, gaze flickering towards you.

Your countenance was a vision of beauty, all contorted into an expression of complete and utter bliss. Your hips writhed, with very little room to go considering that Dwayne had you locked down, arms bracketed on your thighs, keeping you caged in against him.

A heavy fire burned bright within the pit of your stomach, demanding to be extinguished. Throaty, noisy moans escaped you in droves, vocalizing your delight as Dwayne vigorously lapped at your cunt. He alternated patterns, between soft and exploratory and recklessly needy. His mouth occasionally brushed over your clit, causing you to shiver.

Each time he ate you out, it was almost like the first time all over again — blissful, filled with a lust-infused passion that threatened to swallow you whole. Dwayne was beyond attentive, savoring you as if you were the most delicious meal he’d ever had.

He lowered himself toward the mattress, musculature flat and poised between your thighs. Those strong, thick arms kept you held in-place, keeping you locked in as he continued to lap at your core. His hips rocked forward, harshly grinding against the bed to relieve some of the friction.

Much to your surprise, Dwayne got off on pleasuring you above all else. There was something intimately carnal about it, knowing that you only made those sounds for him, only let him touch you. Your hips jolted forward, met with a barrage of an eager tongue and mouth as he lapped at your cunt.

Dwayne grunted, lips opting to purse around your clit, instead. Your reaction was visceral, moans ascending to an excitable crescendo as your hands flew toward his hair. He grunted again, attempting to vocalize his own satisfaction of you pulling and tugging on his dark tresses as if they were reins.

A burnished-gold coloration had swallowed brown irises whole, flickering down towards your blissed-out visage. Your body had a mind of its own, twitching and writhing as his mouth relentlessly assaulted your aching cunt. Pleasure licked acros your frame, burning along your sensitive nerves. He was vigorous and attentive, throat itching with a dull, familiar ache.

Hunger could wait — Dwayne merely placed that feeling into the recesses of his mind. His tongue continued to cascade across your slit, lapping at your arousal before he returned his attention to your clit, suckling on that bundle of nerves. He steered you towards your orgasm, mind swimming with a thick haze of lust, overwhelmed by your heady scent.

“Dwayne!” Your voice carried above the nest, echoing throughout your cavernous surroundings. Fortunately, you were alone — you had little desire to mask how you felt about him. Needy digits gripped at his tresses again, hips bucking into his mouth until you were simply a pile of mush, unable to respond.

You were lost to the white-hot heat of your release, an explosive sensation that caused you to quiver and spasm in delight. A glittering perspiration danced across your hot flesh, sparkling from the glow of the candlelight. “Dwayne,” You huffed, a whimper emerging from the back of your throat as he dutifully cleaned you up.

He released your hips from his ironclad hold, crawling along your body until his broad frame nestled between your thighs. That taut, muscled hand rest against the base of your throat, digits gingerly squeezing on either side of your windpipe. You initiate a rather tantalizing kiss, able to taste yourself upon his tongue.

A clattering sound resonates in your vicinity, Dwayne wrestling his belt off of his hips as his jeans sag upon his frame. He’s swift, wrangling his pants aside with one hand, the other clutching onto your pretty throat like a vice, evoking a string of sinful noises from your mouth. You kiss him with a desperation that he matches tenfold.

His hips brush against yours, and the distance is nonexistent, closed by your stoic paramour, whose normally-cold gaze reflects with a semblance of warmth. Your hands clamor for his broad shoulders, sinking into the expanse of bronze skin, nails clamping down when he drags the head of his cock against your cunt.

“Speak up, sweet girl.” Dwayne grunts, lips ghosting above the shell of your ear. He thoroughly enjoyed your begging on occasion, with this happening to be one of those occurrences. His lips briefly press against the side of your face, stubble grazing across your silken complexion.

With an agonizing pace, he continued to toy with you, pushing his cock against your entrance, but declining to go any further. A pained whine escaped you as you tilted yourself closer. The hand around your throat squeezes, effectively commanding your attention.

“Please,” You sputter, squirming in delight whenever those veined digits tense around the slender expanse of your jugular. “Dwayne, please,” Your simpering pleas are met with a hiss as he sluggishly sinks into you, inch by inch. He lets out another shallow rumble when your fingers brazenly dig into his shoulder. “Please move!”

Cold-blooded and dangerous — but not to you, not now. The icy temperature of his flesh swallows the warmth wafting from you as he invades your space, musculature eclipsing any light. His shadow falls across you, visage awash with his own carnal delight. You’re tight around him, aided by your arousal.

Another satisfactory snarl rips forth from his mouth, echoing next to your ear. You wrap your legs around his broad hips, gasping when he began to move. His cock hit new depths, pulling halfway out before Dwayne pushed himself back in again. His pace was rhythmic and passionate — not sloppy or too rough.

The pad of his thumb draws circles along the curve of your jawline, the rest of his hand tight around your windpipe. You moan, legs locked like a vice as he continues to roll his hips forward, cock battering its way into your cunt with a domineering force. Dwayne was taking it easy on you — if he lost control, it wouldn’t be very pretty for either of you.

His lips find yours, kissing you fervently as you reciprocate in a flurry of passion. Heat bled from you, arousal seeping from your core as Dwayne continued to rut into you, one hand splayed beside your head. The sparkling sheen of his ring glints in the lower light, mouth relentlessly assaulting yours in a barrage of kisses.

Dwayne grunts into your mouth, but the entanglement is shortlived as he moves to cover parts of your neck in kisses — whatever parts aren’t covered by his hand. You feel the sudden scrape of razor-sharp fangs drifting over your flesh, testing your resolve. You shudder, eyes fluttering shut as you grip and pull on his hair.

Sometimes you simply forgot that he was a specter of the night, a fanged creature who had the capability to rip you apart at any moment. His fangs continue to hover across your neck before they retracted, lips replacing them as he kissed your pulse point. There was an added element of thrill and exhilaration as you whimpered, his name spilling from your mouth over and over again.

You nearly see stars when he pistons himself into you again, slow and savoring you, enjoying the sluggishness of it all as Dwayne continues to drag out his thrusts. Your cunt clenches pathetically around his length, prompting you to whimper and moan, goosebumps coalescing along your spine.

“More,” It was incoherent, a string of needy babbles that escaped you in droves. “Dwayne, please,” You whimpered, chewing at your lower lip. In the midst of his own pleasure, Dwayne’s calculating stare flickered toward you — it wasn’t a good idea. “Please, please fuck me.” You begged, hearing the growl that echoed deep from within his chest.

“You sure?” Dwayne didn’t want to hurt you, but he was inclined to obey your needy command. Another grunt escaped him as he steadily rutted away into your tight cunt, deliberating in the midst of it all. “Won’t be gentle.” His stark warning was concrete, you knew this — you knew exactly what you were getting yourself into.

Swallowing the growing lump within your throat, you nodded several times over, digits gently curling around his wrist. “Yeah.” You panted, chest fluttering with a tight sensation as he gave you a hasty, passionate kiss, a parting gift as he squeezed at your jugular. That steady rhythm began to pick up instantaneously.

Dwayne made sure to watch you closely, gaze hawkishly trained upon your body as he began to fuck you. The intensity and the heat rose like a tidal wave, consuming the both of you as he pounded away at your poor cunt. Your legs rattled like leaves, attempting to stay locked around his waist.

The taut muscles of his shoulders and abdomen worked in-tandem, body effortlessly exerting strength. For him, it was nothing — for you, it was a different experience entirely. He was rough, manhandling you with one hand as he grabbed at your hips, enough to leave behind faint impressions in the form of bruises.

Moving in Stereo still swallowed any background noise, encompassing the whole of Dwayne’s nest. You were a complete and utter mess, devolving into a puddle of sweet moans and needy whimpers, especially whenever he applied pressure around your throat. He squeezed whenever he thrust into you, force akin to that of a barely-restrained battering ram.

Even in his self-proclaimed roughness, Dwayne was still executing some measure of restraint. “Mine,” His thunderous voice swarmed you from all sides as he fucked you into submission, gritting pearlescent teeth together as he approached his climax. You kept nodding, back arching into his touch.

“Dwayne,” Dwayne — it feels like the only word you’re capable of saying, rolling from your tongue with a wanton moan. You tug on his tresses with an urgency, feeling his hips grind against yours, flesh kissing flesh with unyielding thrusts. His cock continues to bury itself deep inside of your needy slit until it can go no further. “S—Shit! Right there!” You cry.

He huffs, musculature flat against you, chest to chest as you coax him in for another kiss. You whimper into his mouth when his tongue tangles with yours like a heat-seeking missile, teeth breaking the thin skin of your lower lip. Pearls of crimson trickle onto his tongue, fusing lust with hunger — all for you.

Dwayne didn’t stop, showing no signs of stopping as he fucked the both of you through an orgasm, painting your cunt in hot ropes of seed. He doesn’t pull out, a sensation that the two of you feed off of. If it weren’t for his vampirism, you’d be round with his children — the fantasy would continue to linger on for as long as he pleased.

“Shit, Mama,” Dwayne’s strained baritone sends shivers throughout your body. He rarely talks during sex, and this felt like a treat as he continued to thrust into you, feeling your nails dig angry crescents into his shoulder. He groans, savoring the feeling of your constant tugging on his mane of dark tresses. “You’re perfect.” His voice tapered off into a possessive growl.

You want to scream, a raging fire surging throughout your body before it finally comes to an end, extinguished by Dwayne’s rough rutting. He could’ve kept it up, continued all night long with his cock stuffed inside of you, but humanity was both a blessing and a curse. Your thighs shook underneath his grasp, and he began to slow, pressing kisses along your collarbone.

His hand left behind a searing brand around your throat — whether or not the imprints are visible, it’s the sensation that refuses to leave. Your windpipe feels a little sore, but it’s a pleasant burn as he comes to a crawl, nestling his forehead against yours.

The excitement and blissful thrill of the moment steadily begins to fade, composure replacing a very heavy lust. Your heart thrums beneath your breast, beginning to crawl to a more uniform beat as you nudge forward, kissing Dwayne again. Your lips are swollen, split down the middle with a patch of dried cruor.

Dwayne’s exhale of relaxation comes after, and the tension within his body unfurls. He kept himself inside of you still, feeling your poor cunt clench around his cock when he adjusted his position. His kiss is astoundingly tender this time around, able to taste the pang of copper upon your lip, accompanied by your natural sweetness.

A sense of euphoria overwhelms you, body feeling wonderfully heavy as Dwayne peppered kisses all along your jaw and collarbone. “You alright?” He murmured, making sure that he hadn’t pushed the limit with you. It was easy to become lost in the moment, forget about your humanity.

You nodded, wincing slightly when he pulled out of you, resting his head against your stomach, arms encircling themselves around you. “Better than alright,” You mused, tracing your fingers throughout his hair. “You think Paul will mind that we borrowed his stereo?” Laughter burst forth from your mouth.

A bemused huff escaped Dwayne as he reached over with one muscled arm, hitting the ‘NEXT’ track on the boombox. He pulled you close, nose wrinkling in disdain as Drive by The Cars came on — it wasn’t exactly his taste in music.

“Like you said,” He rumbled, peering up at you with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. His arms effortlessly tugged you down to his level, lips twitching into a faint smirk, rare for Dwayne yet mesmerizing all the same. His mouth brushed above yours. “Joint custody.”

#the lost boys x reader #the lost boys x you #slasher x reader #slasher x you #tlb dwayne x reader #dwayne tlb x reader #the lost boys fanfiction #the lost boys #slasher fanfiction #slasher fanfic #slasher fandom #slasher x y/n #the lost boys 1987

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chaotic-orphan · 6 days

Text

Heroic betrayal (ix)

Read part one here // Continued from here

THIS SERIES HAS NINE PARTS??!?! IT DOESN’T FEEL THAT LONG, MAYBE FOUR OR FIVE WOW!!!

*~*~*~*~*

Hero woke up buried under extremely heavy sheets. It felt like a net of blankets weighing down on her, like a giant warm hug of safety. The first thing she did when she woke up was nestle deeper into the warmth, letting out a light hum as she did. She was entirely too comfortable, her mind rosey and hazy, exactly how she liked it.

A heartbeat steadily under her ear, warmth radiating off her mattress. The fog in her mind turned thick, impenetrable and she wanted to be sick. The warmth around her clawed at her desperately, trying to lull her into a false sense of security.

She had bolted from the bed, backing up until she hit the wall behind her, before she properly opened her eyes. Her chest heaving with heavy breaths as she glared at the man in her bed.

Flynn peered at her with one eye open, casually throwing an arm under his head to prop himself up. “Mornin’,” he said, his voice low from sleep.

“You fucker,” Hero hissed, her mind flashing back to last night when Supervillain fixed her nose. Flynn had settled her mind for her, leaving her in his artificial weightless-haze. “You said you wouldn’t use your powers on me.”

Flynn shrugged. “I didn’t want you to suffer.”

“No, you didn’t want to see me suffer, and there’s a chasm of a difference between them,” Hero huffed, crossing her arms over the shirt she was wearing. “Then sleeping with me?”

“You never complained before,” Flynn said with a lazy, cocky grin.

“That was before I knew you were a fucking scheming bastard, who,” Hero continued, walking towards her door and opening it. “Coincidentally, has his own room in this hell house. So please, get out.”

Flynn stared at her through half-lidded eyes, two hands behind his head now. Hero hated when he did that. She hated how it exposed his muscles and somehow made him hotter. He knew it too. He knew that she liked it when he reclined like that, because she told him once after a long night.

“I’m comfortable.”

“You’re a liar.”

“I’m a comfortable liar.”

“I hate you,” Hero snapped. The cocky smile dimmed on his face, and she took a little bit of satisfaction at it. Ignoring how it pulled a little on her heartstrings too.

“I know,” he replied softly.

Hero swallowed, lingering by the door, arms folded across her chest. “Were you here all night?”

“Yes,” he said with a sigh, running a hand through his hair as he sat up.

“Why?”

“Because you said you didn’t want to be alone,” he answered honestly.

Hero scoffed. “No doubt from your loopy induced haze in my head.”

“Despite what you may like to believe,” Flynn said, getting to his feet. He was fully dressed in the shirt and tracksuit he was wearing last night. Decent and gentlemanly. Infuriatingly. “I can’t sway your ideas in your head. If you want me to, I can find a telepath for you to put all your blame on.”

“Oh yeah? And will you kidnap them too?” She snapped, eyes blazing.

Flynn scoffed, grabbing his socks and shoes before walking towards Hero by the door. Hero’s heart beat double-time the closer Flynn got to her, but she maintained her resolve.

That was, until Flynn stopped in the doorway beside her. She shifted her feet under his gaze, feeling his eyes travel over every pore, lingering on every feature, tracing a line down the curve of her neck.

Her breath hitched when he reached forward, a hand cupping her cheek, the heel of his palm tilted her head up. So gentle. Filled with too much everything— Flynn knew her better than anyone, knew what made her tick, what made her nervous, her fears. His touch lit a fire under her skin, but his eyes laid her naked before him, and sent shivers down her spine.

“We could make this so nice,” he whispered like the snake tempting eve in the garden, his thumb running over her bottom lip. “We could go back to the way things were. We were happy.”

How Hero ached for that to be true. How she wanted to abandon her defences, to forget the heartache at his betrayal, and run into his awaiting arms. He could make her forget everything, what he did to Sidekick, what he was doing to her. Hell, he could make her forget that she was ever a Hero and it would be so easy.

Her eyes burned with unshed tears as she swallowed a sob and covered his hand with hers. “That was before you betrayed me, and everything I thought you were.”

“Hero…”

“How can I believe anything you say? How do I know that you weren’t seducing me as some plan you concocted with your father?” She asked, breathlessly. He dropped his shoes and socks with a clatter to the floor and stepped closer to her, caging her in against the door.

His eyes implored her to trust him, to love him, to believe him. She couldn’t look at the desire in them, so she looked at his lips instead. His soft lips.

“You know what we had was real,” he murmured, his hot breath fanning her face. “Believe in us. Believe in what your heart knows to be true. I love you, Hero.”

Hero’s bottom lip trembled against his touch. She swallowed and turned her head away, pressing her hand against his chest with more restraint than she thought herself capable of.

“Please, Flynn,” she said, her voice soft like the static in the air before a thunderstorm. “Just leave me alone.”

Flynn paused, his touch faltering and for a second she thought he was going to kiss her anyways. Something heartbroken inside her that still loved him told her that he would never do something like that. That there were lines of decency even a traitor wouldn’t cross.

“Fine,” he said, dropping his hand from her face and stepping back, scooping up his discarded shoes and socks. Hero did the right thing. She knows she did the right thing, so why does it feel like something just tore a hole through her chest? “Look, I know we were friends once, maybe more than that, maybe not, but right now Hero? I’m your only friend here. Your only refuge.”

Hero felt as if she had just been slapped. “Is that a threat? Be nice to me or else?”

Flynn had the audacity to look hurt. “No, that’s not—”

“Goodbye, Flynn,” she ground out through clenched teeth, stepping away from the door and grabbing it in her hand, ready to slam it in his face.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “See you later.”

The moment he stepped out of door frame she closed the door and leaned her back against it, sliding down and hugging her knees to her chest. She let the tears fall when she was alone, unaware that on the other side of the door, Flynn was listening to her, a pained expression colouring his features.

*~*~*~*~*

Hours later a knock sounded on her door. Hero ignored it. She watched the door handle open from her bed, her back propped against the headboard, her legs stretched out, crossed over at the ankles a book with its spine broken between her fingers. She inclined her head when the door opened, expecting it to be Flynn but froze when she saw a mess of black hair.

Villain was wearing a red leather jacket, contrasting against his sharp pale features and dark hair, making him seem other worldly. He smirked when he noticed Hero’s tension, he kicked the door open with his foot, crossing his arms and leaning against the door frame.

“I’ve been told to call you for dinner.”

“Like the good dog you are.”

“Woof,” Villain replied, a grin that made her skin crawl spreading across his features. “Of course, you hurt Flynn’s feelings so he’s licking his wounds in his room. You get me instead.”

“Yeah, well, I lost my appetite looking at your face.”

Shadow hands sprung from the backboard of the bed and grabbed Hero’s wrists before she realised what was happening. They squeezed, hard, until she dropped the book, shackling her in a ring of icy coldness, that yanked her arms back sharply and pressed them against the headboard. Hero didn’t even struggle and suppressed her whimpers of pain, but it must have shown on her face because Villain’s grin got wider as he stepped into her room.

“I would be nicer to me, Hero.” Villain cautioned, his fingers curling slowly into a fist in his hand, the shadows tightening more until Hero couldn’t keep her cries locked behind her teeth anymore. “We could be friends, like you and Flynn, hmm?”

“Friends don’t hurt each other,” Hero ground out, pulling against the shadows keeping her pinned. With all the effort she put behind it, it only resulted in her muscles shaking in her arms.

“Well, we’re not friends yet, and besides, it’s not hurting each other. I’m just hurting you.”

Hero looked away from Villain, staring pointedly at the wall to her right just to piss him off. Who did he think he was? Another cold hand stroked a finger along her jaw. Hero shivered at the touch, but refused to look at Villain. That’s when she heard footsteps round her bed until she was staring at worn, red leather in front of her.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Villain said, crouching down so he was eye-level with the stubborn Hero. He tilted his head with a smile. “Hmm? You’re stuck here, y’know. Unless you grow a spine and want to kill your friend, in which case, well, you’d belong here.”

“Let me go,” Hero snapped, pulling against the shadows. Villain let out a dark, breathy laugh, standing again as he shook his head. His hand shot out, as cold as his shadows and pinched her chin between his fingers tilting her head up sharply.

“The sooner you learn your place here the better, I mean,” Villain said, sucking in a breath as if it hurt. “Upsetting Flynn? The only person here on your side? Not a smart move, not one I would make. Or Supervillain if he were in your shoes. I mean, aren’t you supposed to be smart? Isn’t that your whole thing? Cause god knows you’re not strong.”

Hero’s lips curled back into a snarl and she shot her leg out. Shadows caught her ankle before it made contact and yanked her down the bed, but the hold on her wrists didn’t budge and so her body was stretched taut, pulled in two directions.

Villain released his grip on her chin when his shadows caught her foot and now he just stood back as she cried out and tried to gain purchase on the bed with her other leg for support.

“You know, it’s not nice to kick people.”

“Get off of me!”

“I’m not on you, Hero. Why? Do you want me to be?” Hero’s breath caught in her throat at the very thinly layered threat in Villain’s voice, and the sick fuck seemed to feed off her panic. “Relax Hero, I’m not that kind of Villain. I won’t touch you until you beg for it.”

His words sent shivers down her spine, and when the shadow on her ankle dissolved Hero quickly pulled it into her chest, retreating up her bed back to where her hands were pinned, not taking her eyes off him for a second.

Villain hummed, then turned and walked towards the door. He lifted his hand and clicked his fingers without looking at her. The shadows dissipated, leaving her wrists red raw but otherwise unharmed. “Come along, Hero. Like I said. Dinner’s ready.”

On the way downstairs, Villain rapped on Flynn’s door and yelled: “grubs up.” Hero didn’t take her glare off of Villain’s back the whole way down her U-shaped stairs to the second floor. It wouldn’t matter either way considering all the shadows he could utilise to torture her, and there was no way she could keep eyes everywhere.

Though when Flynn’s door opened, she paused on the last step of her stairs, watching him as he walked out of his room and shut the door. He didn’t look at her as he followed Villain down the stairs. He may as well have slapped her in the face. Actually, she’d rather he would have slapped her, or looked at her, or even paused when he saw her in the corner of his eye. But he continued through the landing and to the stairs like she wasn’t even there, and Hero swore her heart broke inside her chest all over again.

She followed the brothers down to the dining room in silence. Flynn and Villain were already sitting down at the Supervillain’s side of the table, both on either side of where Supervillain sat. Hero stared at the chair beside Flynn, something urging her to sit beside him, but instead she sat at other opposite head of the table. Yanking her chair out and sitting down.

Why should she be the one who’s suffering or feeling guilty? Flynn should be the one feeling guilty. It was his fault she was here. His fault that she was on Supervillain’s radar in the first place. His fault that Sidekick is in the hospital.

Villain’s cunning eyes went between the pair. “Trouble in paradise, lovebirds?”

“Oh shut up, Vil,” Flynn snapped.

Hero leaned forward, clasping her hands in front of her as if she was about to conduct a meeting. She smiled sweetly at Villain, sickeningly sweet. “Yes. No trouble at all, Vil. I wouldn’t touch a villain with a ten foot pole if I could help it, but considering I’m on house arrest with a family of villains, I’ve had to make some concessions.”

Flynn shot her a scathing look, his cocky smirk sliding onto his face. “That’s not what you said when you were cuddling me this morning.”

Villain’s entire face lit up, eyes going between the pair, enjoying the two of them silently fuming at each other. “Damn. You could cut the tension with a knife. Get a room, guys.”

Supervillain stepped through the doors that joined the kitchen to the dining room with two steaming plates. “Dinner’s ready!” He exclaimed happily. Noticing the atmosphere, he raised his brows. “What’s wrong?”

“A lover’s tiff,” Villain answered at the same time that Hero and Flynn bit out: “nothing.”

Supervillain hummed, walking down to Hero and sliding a plate in front of her. It smelled divine, like last time, and Hero’s stomach grumbled at the sight. Two steaks of salmon and green beans and cauliflower. “For your strength,” Supervillain beamed at her, then walked to Villain and served him next.

He disappeared through the doors again. Villain smiled at Flynn. “I got mine first, I’m the favourite.”

“You wish,” Flynn said, folding his arms across his chest. “He serves me last because hr wants to make sure my dinner is still hot.”

Supervillain appeared again and sat at the table beside Flynn, handing him his plate too. “Ah. Bon Appétit.”

They ate in relative silence, Villain or Flynn would say something and they’d start a conversation that would ebb and flow while Hero ate quietly, trying her best not to scoff the whole plate down in seconds, but she didn’t have breakfast or lunch today, so she was starving.

“How’s the nose, Hero?” Supervillain asked.

“It’s fine,” Hero replied coldly, then stiffened, thinking better of disrespecting him and added a quiet, “thank you.”

“Good. Glad to hear it. I actually got you some papers today.”

Hero raised her brows. “Oh.”

“To keep you up on the news,” Supervillain told her, his smile reminiscent of his son’s, though maybe a bit more civil, but no less shark-like and menacing. “Don’t want you completely disconnected from the world.”

Hero pushed at the remains of her dinner with her fork, tightening her grip on the utensil. “You just want to torture me as much as possible, is that it?”

“Torture you? What would be the point? I have you immobilised and incapacitated. I don’t need to torture you any further. I just thought you’d like to know—”

“How the world’s doing outside my fucking prison?” She demanded, raising her gaze to meet Supervillain’s. Supervillain’s smile remained on his face and she wanted nothing more than to climb over the table and slap it off. “No thanks.”

“Things can be pleasant for you here, Hero.”

“Thanks, but no thanks.”

Supervillain tilted his head to the side, steepled his fingers in front of his face. “You didn’t let me finish, Hero. Things can be pleasant for you here, Hero, or—”

Hero felt the cold hands of Villain’s power grab her wrists again and yank them behind the back of her chair, her fork clattering along the floor of the dining room. “We can make it very, very difficult for you if you’d prefer. Which would you rather, now that you’ve tasted the cell and the room?”

“I’d rather you let me go, you fucking dick!” She hissed, trying to yank her hands free, but each time she got an inch her hands were clamped down tighter, almost dragging her over the chair, but she planted her feet on the ground, resolute, and glared at the man. “Stop threatening my friends and give yourself up to the proper authorities while you’re at it! That’s what I’d prefer over this playing house bullshit!”

“Hero,” Flynn cautioned. Hero scoffed. She would have threw her arms up if she could, bordering on hysterical.

“Now you deign to talk to me?” She cried. “Save it!”

She turned her gaze, crueller now, back to Supervillain, adopting a false sense of innocence. “I mean, this isn’t really a proper family, is it? Where’s the mother figure after all?”

Hero only got the briefest of seconds to enjoy Supervillain’s easy smiling expression dipping, turning to cold fury before a shadowed hand grabbed her throat, followed by Villain who grabbed her where the shadow hand did, and slammed her back against the wall.

“You fucking bitch,” he seethed. “You really don’t know when to shut up, do you?”

Hero spit at him in reply, cracking a smile despite her face that was steadily changing from red to purple at her oxygen being cut off. It wasn’t a proper glob, more like a spray of saliva, even her fucking spit was limp at her circumstances.

“Villain,” Supervillain said as Hero gasped on air that she wasn’t getting. Hero could barely hear him when he spoke again, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she clung desperately to air. She fell to the ground deadweight, head smacking off the floor but she barely noticed it as she gasped in oxygen like a fish being thrown back into a river.

Her throat screamed at the abuse, screamed at her to stop fucking tempting fate and cruelty of the family of villains but she couldn’t bring herself to care if they killed her or not. It would be preferable, honestly.

But then who would help Sidekick? Her stupid, logical voice chimed in as she pushed herself up by her hands. A pair of tailored trousers met her gaze as she righted herself, she had only begun to tilt her head up, her mind cloudy when she felt a hand lock around her upper arm and drag her to her feet.

She stumbled up, her leg faltering behind and falling again but the grip didn’t loosen and the legs didn’t slow down and Hero was forced to make her legs work after depriving them of oxygen for the last twenty seconds.

“Dad.” Flynn’s voice. “Dad!”

“Enough, Flynn.” They were in the kitchen Hero realised, the wood of the dining room floor replaced with the black tiles. Supervillain was holding her, dragging her to the far side of the kitchen and she had the sense to start digging her heels in when they reached a door she wasn’t familiar with. “We tried it your way, Flynn. Now, we’ll try it Villain’s way and compare notes.”

“Dad, no. Wait!” Flynn cried. Hero turned her head over her shoulder to see Villain’s sharp grin, arms around Flynn to stop him from following Hero and Supervillain wherever they were going. “Dad!”

“Ladies first,” Supervillain said after he opened the door and with a pause, he pressed his hand to Hero’s back and shoved her down the stairs.

*~*~*~*~*

Orphanage roll-call: (lmk if you wanna be added or removed): @xenlust @books-are-everything @micechomper r @shywhumpauthor @aarika-merrill @xxgalgurlxx @0eggdealer @watermelonrandom @tippytappytyping @silentpotat0 @swift-perseides s s @gloriousqueen101 @ladygwennn @books-are-everything @isnortkoolaidpowderteehee @memepsychowhowantsuperpower-blog

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 2 years

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hello beautiful people! hope you're fine. I wanted to know if you have any fic where stiles and derek love each other but derek (or stiles, but preferably Derek) is just too stubborn to admit it and there is a lot of angst and pining.

thank you!

Hi anon. @kevaaronday found this for you!

Trust me by madsmeetsmisha (23/23 | 43882 | Explicit | Sterek) Derek Hale needed a nanny for his kids. Someone who knew about werewolves, someone who was persistent enough not to throw in the sponge as soon as the kids wouldn't behave, someone trustworthy. Could a young, very talkative man like Stiles Stilinski be what Derek was looking for?

Summerblink by Thomaddicted (7/7 | 33,193 | Not Rated | Sterek) Young Derek Hale first met Little Stiles Stilinski 15 years ago on the beach, at the Hale family resort. For five summers, they were friends. Then one day, they weren't.

Ten years later, The Stilisnkis have returned, and with it, an entire host of unanswered questions and unresolved (If not a bit uncomfortable) feelings that seemed inappropriate then, but are resolvable now.

Love isn’t Linear by CaitliNation (7/7 | 26,882 | Explicit | Sterek) “If I had a hypothetical boyfriend, uh… would that hypothetical boyfriend be allowed to stay with us hypothetically this Christmas? You know, if you wanted to meet my hypothetical boyfriend hypothetically?”

There’s a long pause from his dad as if he’s trying to process his son’s jargon but is failing wholeheartedly.

“What,” he finally replies flatly. Stiles lets out a groan.

“Don’t make me say it again!”

I found you hidden in plain sight (why’d I take so long?) by Goergeousgreymatter (7/7 | 25,419 | Explicit | Sterek) Stiles is pretty sure he’s hallucinating. He’s got to be. There’s no other plausible explanation, he thinks, as he sits on the sidelines of the lacrosse field and feels the cold, hard bench underneath him, the roar of the crowd at his back like the worst white noise machine in the world.

There’s no other reason why he sees it, the hulking, black figure of a wolf peering at him from the treeline behind the bleachers. Its eyes flare in the glaring glow of the stadium lights, but they’re the wrong color, he thinks: blood-moon red instead of cobalt blue, but the familiarity of it all makes his stomach roll and clench.

The Stilinski Pack by TheRealDanniX (10/10 | 18,449 | Mature | Sterek) The Hales didn't go far after the fire and they took Peter with them. Ten years later they come back to Beacon Hills and find a new pack. The Stilinski pack lead by their human Alpha.

What did you just call me? By Written_prose_things (7/7 | 16,077 | Gen | Sterek) When an unknown hunter walks into Beacon Hills, Derek goes into Over Protective Alpha mode. Everyone gets puts into groups, which they're supposed to stick with at all times.

Stiles gets stuck with Derek. Ya know, The Alpha He Has A Crush On.

Over the next three days, they both realise exactly how much fun their normal life can be as well.

Nine Kinds of Silence by suburbanmotel (1/1 | 8,443 | Mature | Sterek) This was how it usually went — Stiles talking, Derek not talking.

Derek was used to it, the endless spill of words pooling between them, filling the cracks and chasms of silence. He told everyone it drove him crazy, but that was mostly a lie. If you asked him on a good day, he might even say he liked it. It was the quiet that unnerved him, the gaping Stiles’ shaped holes of space where the words were supposed to go, that he didn’t know how to handle.

But If I Know You (I Know What You’ll Do) by notahousebutatomb (1/1 | 7,339 | Teen | Sterek) The two intermingled packs approached the gym doors with caution, Scott and Derek in the lead for safety. In the middle of the basketball court stood a tall, slender woman draped in a long black cloak. Two dark horns protruded from the top of her head, partially obscured by her wild black hair. Her lips curled into a smug grin when she saw their expressions of obvious dismay.

“You poor, simple fools, thinking you could defeat me, the Mistress of All Evil! Well…” The witch swept her sleeve aside to reveal Stiles. The pale teen was sprawled across the ground, his face partially obscured where it rested against his elbow. His other arm was tucked snugly against his chest, supporting his slumped torso. The witch smirked when she added, “Here’s your precious human.”

A Promise Like This by whentheywrite (1/1 | 6,037 | Gen | Sterek) “Oh my god,” Stiles said, taking the offered bag Derek had brought that night. The moment he opened it, the best smell in the world came wafting out and Stiles moaned. “Curly fries. Oh my god, Sourwolf, I want to marry you.”

In a split second, Derek’s face had gone from neutrally blank to bright red. Except Stiles was much too busy digging the container of fries out to really notice.

He might have been a little intrigued if he had.

Five times Stiles sort of accidentally proposed and the one time he might have meant it.

Stormy Nights Make The Best Hot Chocolate by FogDog1738 (1/1 | 4,070 | Mature | Sterek) Stiles gets anxiety from a storm during the night and Derek comes to check on him. Things are worse than they both wanted them to be, but eventually turn into a night of mutually coming out.

heart/beats by Galaxy_Collector (1/1 | 2,568 | Gen | Sterek) Character A [Stiles] gets the flu while the rest of the gang are away fighting supernatural enemies. Character B [Derek] comes to check on him. Oh, and he's failed to mention that Character A is his mate. But don't worry, Character C [Melissa McCall] totally (and unintentionally!) rats him out.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #pining #pining!derek #pining!stiles

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killerfrostisme · 2 years

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That last line in TEG absolutely KILLED me. So I decided to write a series of Locklyle one-shots, to heal my poor broken unsatisfied heart.This one takes place somewhere between TCS and TEG. Enjoy!:) I posted this on Fanfiction.net as well, so you can check it out. It's called Moments in Time and by username is MissPotts01.

Lucy Carlyle was having a really hard time not falling in love with Anthony Lockwood.

It wasn't his good looks that did her in, (though they certainly were an added bonus). She pretended not to notice her heart do backflips everytime a lock of his dark hair would fall into his eyes, or the way he'd flash his special smile at her, successfully making her forget all logic. Or the way he threw back his head and laughed at something George said/did, making her wish she could bottle the sound and listen to it whenever she wanted.

It wasn't even because of the suave, confident disposition that was his leadership. Or the quiet, calm way he inspired his team's confidence and gave them the strength to believe in themselves. Or the way he'd congratulate everyone individually on a job well done after a case was closed. His charm, his witty remarks, his charismatic smile were all trademarks of just him being Lockwood and were all enough on their own to give her butterflies.

But they weren't the reason why she was having a hard time preventing him from living rent-free in her head.

No. That was because of a very simple reason:-

Lockwood saw her as a person first and an agent second.

Ever since she was a little girl, her abilities as an agent had always been given top priority. Especially by her family. According to her mother, Lucy's primary existence revolved around solving the best cases, bringing in lots of money and generally being the best agent there ever was.

Even at the cost of her own safety.

It's not that she had ever resented her Talent, (she wouldn't know who she was without it) but sometimes she really wished her mother would try to have a conversation with Lucy Carlyle her daughter, rather than Lucy Carlyle, the agent. Her sisters weren't so bad, but there was such a wide chasm between her and them, that it seemed impossible and completely useless to try and cross it. Packing her bags and coming to London, had probably been the best decision she'd ever made. Here, she found a family.

And Lockwood.

She scowled. It was eleven thirty in the morning, (early by her standards) and she just couldn't get him out of her head. For crying out loud, the day had only just begun!

"Something wrong, Luce?" asked Lockwood, peering over the top of his newspaper. They were sitting at the breakfast table, rested from a night's sleep after a particularly gruelling case. George, was scribbling something in his research notes, and inhaling one jelly doughnut after the other, Holly was looking at him with mild disdain, as she daintily sipped her cup of tea.

And Lockwood?

Ah, Lockwood. Well, he was looking right at her.

"Luce?" He asked, his eyes probing, "Are you okay?"

Belatedly, Lucy realized Lockwood had asked her a question. Flushing bright red, she gulped down her scalding hot tea.

"Just fine." she said, sneaking a glance at Holly and George, to see if they were paying attention to the conversation. (They weren't. Holly was delicately broaching the topic of civilized eating with George, who was clearly not listening to a word she was saying.)

Lockwood raised his eyebrows. "Is that why you're scowling at your breakfast?"

She flushed a deep, beet root red. Ah. So he had caught that.

"Oh, just thinking about things." she said flippantly. Getting out of here would probably be a good idea. She could never think logically when Lockwood was shooting her one of his 'searching' looks.

She grabbed her plate and cup, rinsed them in the sink and all but dashed out of the kitchen, all while feeling the intensity of Lockwood's gaze on her.

The warm afternoon sunshine was making her sleepy. She was sitting out in the garden, drawing soft, languid strokes across her sketchbook. First came the strong, defined jawline, the angular cheekbones, the megawatt smile, tousled hair, there was no mistake:- she was drawing Lockwood.

"Is that supposed to be me?" asked a voice behind her.

She jumped a foot in the air, and whirled around. Lockwood was standing there, no tie, shirt sleeves rolled up, looking more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.

"Yes," she said, suddenly remembering that he'd asked her a question.

"It's really good." He smiled at her, soft, slow and hesitant, the one he reserved just for her. "You're really good, Luce."

She flushed as red as a tomato at his praise. (Was she doomed to forever resembling a tomato when he was around?)

"If it's okay with you," (he rubbed the back of his neck) "I would-" (now he was messing with his hair) "-really love to see more of your sketches."

Oh.

It's not that she didn't want to show him. She did! He was the first person she would have shown all her work to if...he weren't the centre of nearly every artwork she'd done.

She opened her mouth, prepared to decline and make up some excuse which he'd never believe, when suddenly-

"Yes."

Had she actually said that? No, she hadn't. The wind was messing with her hearing.

Except, there was no wind.

Which meant...she'd just agreed to letting Lockwood see her sketches.

Lockwood on the other hand, seemed unaware of the inner turmoil in Lucy's head, because he was already stretching out a long quick fingered hand for her sketchbook-

-and wordlessly, Lucy seemed to be handing it to him.

She watched him flip through the pages, and felt something akin to a very strong and intense feeling blooming in her chest. What that feeling was she had no idea. Well, she had some idea but she was trying not to think about that. All she knew was she felt extreme happiness when he was around, felt joy when he noticed little things about her and felt pleasantly surprised when he wanted to know more about her, the person rather than her agent persona. She felt special when he chose to confide in her, and while their experience on The Other Side had severely scarred them, she wouldn't change a thing about it. It had forged an irrefutable bond between them which she'd rather kiss a Raw-bones than break.

Love.

The unfamiliarity of the word struck her as odd, since the person who it was associated with felt like home.

She was incomparably, irrevevocably, completely and utterly in love with him.

The realization wasn't as jarring as she thought it would be. Instead, it brought with it a sense of peace, a sense of belonging and a feeling of familiarity.

Like coming home after a long day of work. She felt at ease, as if everything was just right.

As she looked at him, still thumbing through the pages of her sketchbook, she was still having a hard time not falling in love with him. But she found she didn't care. She was tired of ignoring her feelings and keeping them locked up in a box. She knew he felt something towards her, and was going to wait however long it took, to make him realize that she was going nowhere.

She looked at him and smiled:- I am going to allow myself to fall head over heels in love with Anthony Lockwood.

#books #lockwood & co #lockwood and lucy #locklyle #locklylefluff #lucy carlyle #anthony lockwood #fiction #ficlet #i love these two #lucewood #jonathan stroud #fanfic #the empty grave #the creeping shadow #i giggled #these two have me in a chokehold #lockwood and co show #lockwood and co spoilers

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chaotictarlos · 1 year

Text

A future without you is no future at all

ship: Tarlos | fandom: 911 Lone Star | author: chaotictarlos | read on ao3

Rating: General | Warnings / Tags: 4 x 12, 4 x 12 Swipe Left, Self Doubt, Angst, hurt / comfort

Summary: Carlos and TK talk again later that night about kids and Carlos tells TK more about the fears that he has.

Author's Note: Personally, I think that this episode was so good and I really enjoyed watching it. I know some that didn't, and that's okay, but I am requesting that no negativity about the episode be discussed in the comments of this fic. I enjoyed the process of writing this fic and looking at it from both TK's and Carlos' POV. I hope that you all enjoy reading it.

thank you to @meditating-honey-badger for being my beta for this and all of the fun comments you left! I highly enjoyed them.

Season 4 Fic's

----

Carlos doesn’t know what he’s doing when he ends up at the pet store after taking his mother home. His heart is heavy, filled with thoughts of things he had tried so hard not to think about or bring up in his life. He told his mother that he doesn’t avoid things, but the truth is he does.

He avoids the hard conversations and tries to live in the happier moments, not wanting to say or do anything that could upset the balance of what he has in life. It’s not the best way to live or cope with the traumas he’s tried so hard to pretend he doesn’t have. He knows that, but it’s gotten him through so much of life already that it’s become second nature.

He wants to stop doing that. He’s not sure how but he knows he needs to figure it out, for his sake and TK’s.

Carlos drums his fingers across the steering wheel, thinking as he peers out the window at the pet store. It’s not one he’s been to - honestly he’s only ever been to one - but it’s the one that came up on Google when he searched “where to get pet lizards near me.” He knows that it’s not the solution to the problem, but he hopes it’s a symbol of how much he cares about TK.

Maybe it’ll help them bridge the chasm - as TK had put it - that opened up between them since the kid topic came up - a topic he had hoped naively would not come up for many years.

He sighs heavily, letting his head drop back against the headrest, and closes his eyes. His body feels heavy, shoulders tense with anxiety, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes because he’s sure that this is the end. This is what’s going to break him and TK, the difference of opinions on wanting kids, and Carlos won’t even blame TK. He can’t give him that, not yet and maybe not ever.

He sniffles, wiping his eyes, and forces himself out of the car, telling himself that a lizard might be a good compromise for the moment, maybe an olive branch to open the conversation he knows he needs to have with TK. If TK decides that Carlos being unsure and not ready to have kids - and maybe never being ready - is the deal breaker then at least TK can have a lizard to keep him company. It might be a better company for TK anyway, at least it wouldn’t break TK’s heart and make stupid decisions like buying an entire loft without talking to him.

Carlos pauses at the doors of the pet store and composes himself, pushing everything down once again and putting a charming smile on his face.

He is not going to run away screaming at all the reptiles the place probably has.

READ ON AO3

tags: @strangefurychaos @sapphire11 @first-kanaphan @noxsoulmate @rangergurlgleek1211 @detective-giggles @tarlos-spain @lonestardust @bubblesandroses8 @thebumblecee @mooshkat @importantbailiffpaperpony @cowlos-reyes @meditating-honey-badger @paperstorm @otter-love-asl @kiloskywalker @angeltk @firstprince-history-huh @brouill3r

#chaotic fics #tarlos #tarlos fic #tk strand x carlos reyes #tk strand #carlos reyes #4 x 12 #4 x 12 swipe left #tarlos fan fiction #tk strand fan fiction #carlos reyes fan fiction #911 lone star #911 ls

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coolbeans32 · 3 months

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Echoes of Destiny: The Serpent and the Phoenix

PAIRING: Tom Riddle x F!Reader (OC)

SYNOPSIS: The memories of Genevieve and Tom back at Hogwarts. Their Third Year.

WARNINGS: Some warnings worth mentioning are some dark themes (manipulation, bullying, etc.), life of a double agent (spy), lying, academic rivalry but not explicit nor extreme. Furthermore, if any of these topics are touchy or uncomfortable, do not hesitate to leave the page or chapter. As well as, if anything pops up that is not mentioned in the warnings, let me know so I can properly add it to the warnings section!

WORD COUNT: 2.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hehe Happy reading <333

Previous Part| Next Part

Chapter Nineteen

A Journey to The Past: Third Year

Third year at Hogwarts had brought with it a noticeable shift in dynamics for Tom Riddle and Genevieve Dumbledore. The friendship that had blossomed during their first year seemed a distant memory now, replaced by an unspoken chasm between them. Tom had distanced himself from everyone, including Genevieve.

Genevieve, once the enthusiastic and optimistic girl who believed in their shared journey, found herself increasingly left in the dust. She had tried to maintain their connection, approaching Tom with the same warm smiles and open conversations that had marked their early friendship, but his responses had grown colder and more dismissive with each passing day.

One day, Genevieve made her way through the dimly lit corridors of Hogwarts, the echoes of her footsteps mingling with the distant murmurs of students. As she approached the entrance to the Slytherin common room, she noticed a commotion up ahead.

Peering around the corner, Genevieve's eyes narrowed as she saw Malfoy and a group of older Slytherins surrounding Tom, their voices dripping with contempt and superiority. Tom, ever composed, stood his ground, his expression a mask of icy indifference as he faced their taunts. His stance was firm, his jaw set in a stubborn line, but Genevieve could see the tension in his shoulders and the tight grip he had on his wand, a silent testament to his readiness to defend himself.

Without a moment's hesitation, Genevieve stepped forward, her wand held firmly in her hand as she cast the Flipendo spell at Abraxas Malfoy, sending him stumbling backward with a yelp of surprise. The other Slytherins recoiled in shock, their bullying tactics faltering in the face of Genevieve's unexpected intervention. Her presence commanded attention, her eyes blazing with a fierce determination that left no room for doubt about her intentions.

"What's going on here?" Genevieve's voice rang out, clear and authoritative. She stepped between Tom and the older students, her posture radiating confidence and defiance. "Last I checked, we were all supposed to be on the same side."

Malfoy, recovering from the spell, sneered at her. "This has nothing to do with you, Dumbledore. Riddle needs to learn his place."

Genevieve's eyes flashed with anger. "And you think you're the one to teach him that? By ganging up on him like cowards? Pathetic, just like your coward of a father."

Malfoy, argued back, visibly angry, “How dare you talk about my father that way!”

Genevieve smiled, “Oh did I hurt your feelings? Are you going to tell dear daddy about it?”

Abraxas, his arrogance momentarily deflated, scowled but made no move to challenge her further. The group slowly dispersed, muttering under their breaths, but none daring to meet her gaze.

Tom, though visibly taken aback by her interference, maintained his cool demeanor as he brushed himself off, his eyes betraying a hint of confusion, upset at the fact out of anyone, it was Genevieve who stopped them. "I could've handled it myself, Dumbledore," he muttered, his voice tinged with frustration.

Genevieve turned to him, her gaze piercing and unwavering. "I know," she replied simply, her tone leaving no room for argument. "But Slytherins protect their own. Even Malfoy should know that, Riddle."

With that, Genevieve turned on her heel and walked away, her heart pounding in her chest. She had acted on impulse, driven by a mix of anger and a deep-seated belief in fairness. She didn't wait to see Tom's reaction, knowing that he valued his independence and might resent her for stepping in. Yet, she couldn't ignore the sense of satisfaction that came from standing up for what she believed was right.

Tom watched her retreating figure, a sense of curiosity and admiration stirring within him, mingling with the lingering confusion of her unexpected act of solidarity. He was used to facing his battles alone, accustomed to relying solely on his own wits and abilities. Genevieve's intervention challenged that notion, introducing a new dynamic that left him both intrigued and unsettled. He was trying so hard not to associate with her, especially Dumbledore.

With a sigh, he shook his head and made his way to the library, his thoughts consumed by the enigma that was Genevieve Dumbledore. As he walked, he couldn't help but replay the scene in his mind, the way she had stood up to Malfoy and his cronies without a trace of fear. It was a rare display of courage and loyalty, qualities he hadn't expected to find in her.

Despite his initial frustration, Tom found himself reassessing his opinion of Genevieve. She was more than just a fellow Slytherin; she was someone who embodied the ideals of their house in a way that was both fierce and honorable. For the first time in a long while, Tom felt a glimmer of genuine respect for another person, a feeling he wasn't quite sure how to handle.

As he settled into a quiet corner of the library, Tom opened his book but found it difficult to focus. His thoughts kept drifting back to Genevieve, her unwavering gaze and her unyielding stance. She had defied expectations, not just his but those of their housemates as well. In a world where alliances were often fleeting and self-interest reigned supreme, her actions stood out as a beacon of something different, something potentially powerful.

Tom resolved to keep a closer eye on Genevieve, to understand what drove her and what she might bring to his own ambitions. And as much as he prized his solitude, he couldn't deny the intriguing possibility that her strength and loyalty could prove valuable allies in the future.

Genevieve made her way to her father’s office, her heart heavy with questions and an underlying sense of unease. The corridors of Hogwarts seemed endless, and the familiar stone walls did little to alleviate the storm of emotions within her. She had been harboring questions about Gellert for some time, and today, she was determined to get answers.

Reaching the entrance to Albus Dumbledore's office, she whispered the password, and the stone gargoyle leapt aside to reveal the spiral staircase leading to her father's domain. She ascended quickly, her footsteps echoing in the silence.

"Come in, Genevieve," Albus called as she approached the door. She stepped inside to find him seated at his desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment and ancient tomes. His eyes, though kind, seemed weighed down by unseen burdens.

"Father," she began, her voice steady but edged with uncertainty. "I need to talk to you about Pops."

Albus looked up from his work, a flicker of apprehension crossing his features. "What is it, my dear?"

Genevieve hesitated for a moment before pressing on. "Why haven't I seen him? Why is he never here? He’s always been such a significant part of my life, and now... he's just gone."

Albus sighed, a deep and weary sound. "Gellert is pursuing his cause, Genevieve. His ambitions and his beliefs have taken him down a path that... I can no longer be a part of."

She frowned, confusion mingling with the sadness in her eyes. "But why? Why can't he be here with us? Why can't we be a family?"

Albus leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully neutral. "I have many responsibilities here at Hogwarts. My duty is to this school, to my students. Gellert has chosen a different path, one that I cannot follow. It's as simple as that."

Genevieve, still naive and trusting, nodded slowly. "I understand, Father. It’s just... hard to accept."

Albus reached across the desk, taking her hand in his. "I know, my dear. It's hard for me as well. But we must carry on and focus on what we can do here and now."

She offered a small, resigned smile. "Of course. I'll do my best."

"Speaking of which," Albus continued, his tone shifting slightly, "I have a favor to ask of you."

Genevieve perked up, eager to help. "What is it, Father?"

Albus's eyes grew serious. "I need you to watch someone for me. Tom Riddle... he requires special attention."

Genevieve's brow furrowed in confusion. "Watch him? Why? We don’t even talk anymore.”

"Tom is a complex individual," Albus explained. "He has immense potential, but he also harbors a darkness that concerns me. I believe that with the right guidance and companionship, he can be steered towards a better path. You are in a unique position to offer that companionship."

Genevieve considered his words, her mind racing. "You want me to spy on him?"

"Not necessarily a spy, but a watchful presence. Someone who can observe and influence him in subtle ways. It’s a delicate task, but I believe you are up to it…despite no longer being close as you once were."

She nodded slowly, the weight of the responsibility settling on her shoulders. "I'll do my best, Father. I'll watch Tom."

Albus smiled, a touch of relief in his eyes. "Thank you, Genevieve. Your help means more than you know."

As she left the office, Genevieve couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the story about Gellert, but she trusted her father's judgment. And now, she had a new task to focus on—one that could shape the future in ways she couldn't yet comprehend.

In Transfiguration class, Genevieve focused intently on the lesson, her quill moving swiftly across her parchment as she took meticulous notes. Professor Dumbledore was explaining a complex spell, and Genevieve's mind raced to absorb every detail. She could feel Tom's eyes on her, and she knew he was watching, just as she was keeping an eye on him.

"Miss Dumbledore, if you would please demonstrate the Vanishing Spell," Professor Dumbledore called. She stood, her wand at the ready. With a graceful flick and a murmured incantation, she made the rabbit before her disappear. The class erupted in applause, but she barely registered it, her eyes flicking to Tom to gauge his reaction. Tom's expression remained impassive, but his eyes betrayed a flicker of determination. When it was his turn, he executed the spell flawlessly, earning equal praise from the professor. He cast a sidelong glance at Genevieve, who met his gaze with a small, knowing smile.

In Potions class, the competition was even fiercer. Professor Slughorn had set a particularly challenging assignment: brewing a Draught of Peace. As the cauldrons bubbled and the scent of various ingredients filled the room, Genevieve and Tom worked in near silence, each trying to outpace the other. Genevieve added her ingredients with practiced precision, her eyes flicking occasionally to Tom's station. She noted his technique, mentally comparing it to her own. He was meticulous, almost obsessively so, and she couldn't help but admire his skill even as she plotted to surpass him.

Tom, for his part, was equally observant. He watched the way Genevieve measured and stirred, noting her methods. There was a subtle elegance to her work that he found both intriguing and infuriating. He wanted to outshine her, to prove that he was superior in every way. As they finished their potions, Professor Slughorn moved around the room, inspecting their work. When he reached Genevieve, he beamed. "Excellent work, Miss Dumbledore. A perfect Draught of Peace." Genevieve's heart swelled with pride, but she kept her expression calm, offering a polite nod in thanks. She glanced at Tom, who was next in line.

Slughorn examined Tom's potion, his expression one of mild surprise. "Another excellent brew, Mr. Riddle. Well done." Tom's lips curved into a small, satisfied smile. He met Genevieve's gaze across the room, and for a moment, there was a flicker of mutual respect between them. Outside of class, the rivalry continued. Genevieve often found herself watching Tom, trying to decipher his intentions. He was brilliant but distant, and she couldn't shake the feeling that he was hiding something. She began to discreetly follow him, noting his movements and the people he spoke to.

Tom, meanwhile, was equally intrigued by Genevieve. She was talented, of that there was no doubt, but there was a lightness to her that he couldn't understand. She seemed genuinely kind, something he found perplexing in a Slytherin. He kept a close eye on her, trying to understand what drove her.

One evening, as Genevieve was leaving the library, she noticed Tom slipping into a hidden alcove. Curiosity piqued, she followed quietly, peering around the corner to see him poring over an ancient, leather-bound book. The intensity in his eyes was palpable, and she knew he was delving into something significant. She made a note to find out what that book was, her determination to uncover Tom's secrets growing stronger. She turned and walked away, careful not to make a sound.

Tom, sensing he was being watched, glanced up just in time to see Genevieve's retreating figure. He frowned, wondering how much she had seen. He knew she was curious about him, just as he was about her, and the thought both unnerved and excited him. The days turned into weeks, and their competition continued unabated. They pushed each other to excel, each silently spurring the other on to greater heights. And through it all, they remained locked in a dance of rivalry and intrigue, each determined to uncover the other's intentions while guarding their own.

Taglist: @wheenerrr @jillian2003 @secretkittydreamland

Tom Riddle Masterlist

#harry potter #tom marvolo riddle #tom riddle #harry potter fandom #harry potter fanfiction #tom riddle fanfiction #slytherin #tom riddle x oc #tom riddle x reader

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maddoc05 · 1 year

Text

forest fire (1048 words)

Summary: MAG 200 Jon and Tim AU

Ao3

The walls of the tunnels crack, curved like a spider’s web as it hangs over their heads. Jon tries not to linger on it too long. Every scuttle in the dark, every hint of a shadow peering from the corner edges, every muffle-thump of dirt that echoes in these godforsaken tunnels tenses him. Spider-clumps and miles of silk string.

There is no forgiveness to be found under these tunnels.

His hands are shaking as he lights the cigarette. His fingers catch against the fractures in the metal case.

Jon drags in a breath, and welcomes the burn of ash perforating his lungs.

Tim shuffles next to him, and Jon wordlessly passes it over to him.

He watches the flames flicker against Tim’s eyes. The shadow it casts are as dark as the bags under his eyes, against the pale scarred skin of his face. After the worms. After the explosion had singed away hair and flesh. The guilt dwells inside Jon like a second home. He never tries to bury it anymore – a punishment, if only to himself.

Because empty platitude and apologies can never scrape together shards or mend what was so many years in the breaking.

Saying I’m sorry will never fix what Jon has done.

Tim burns the cigarette.

“These will kill you.” His voice is hollow.

“Too fucking late.” Jon mutters.

His empty hand itches. The space between his ribs where his heart stagnates reminds him of this fact with every mockery of a breath.

“Georgie wanted to come after you.” Tim says darkly. “I told her I would.”

“Hm.” Jon has long since burned that bridge. The only thing he was ever good at. Next to surviving like a fucking cockroach when it would have been better for everyone if he had properly died.

“I hate this. I hate-“ – you, Jon mentally fills in the blanks – but Tim continues, “Being forced to make that choice. Like- losing everything else even after I think it’s all been taken.”

Jon says nothing. Waits for it.

“And- and now. We have to choose between this world or countless others. I can't even be selfish, because I keep thinking, that there's a world where none of this happened, where all of us could have been happy. Where Danny-” Tim breaks off. "I thought that- even after all that shit - at least we would have a chance. In the safehouse. A chance to be safe and free."

Before Jon ruined it. Like he ruined everything else.

“None of this was fair.” Tim says. “Not to me. And- and not to you. I’m tired, Jon.”

It’s the first time that Tim has addressed him by name, since after the Unknowing.

Not the sarcastic drawl of Archivist or that bastard or monster.

“And I’m not? My whole life is a lie, it’s been nothing but a long setup to this.” Jon says bitterly, scrubbing his hand over his face. Part of him dares Tim to get angry again. At least it’s a familiarity for him to grasp onto. “I damned the whole fucking world, Tim. Sasha is gone. Martin is gone. Billions are suffering and dying.”

The silence drags.

“Since we’re doing this heart-to-heart thing.” Jon mutters, and stupidly, that’s the thing that finally breaks him.

His next breath is a sob. And the next. He doesn’t expect Tim to catch him when his knees finally give out, when Jon can’t even see past the blur of tears in his vision, but he does. His throat aches, tight with tears like a noose, and it feels like his chest is caving in within himself. His face is crumpled and wet like a tissue.

Tim’s breath is hot against the front of his throat, Jon tilts his head back, exposed, as that aching thing within him grasps onto the direction of the closest thing to his god but the tunnels block him, heavy and oppressive, and so Jon is alone and breaking and nothing and everything all at once.

Tim is the serrated edge of an anchor. Jon wants to bleed, wants to match that awful chasm within himself to something that he can actually comprehend. He wants- he wants an end to all this, and he wants Jonah Magnus to pay. He will rip the words from Elias’s throat like Magnus had done to his, and he will make him suffer the fear that Jon has been drowning in for so long.

Tim doesn’t need words to understand, when Jon grasps his hands – one always, always cold – and he twists his head to meet Tim’s gaze head-on, and the wound that bleeds from his eyes is the rage and anguish and determination that tells Tim everything he needs to know. Tim thinks, and Jon knows, that this is where their road inevitably ends.

Tim breathes, ragged. They are both slumped against the tunnel wall, Jon cradled in Tim’s arms with kindness that they both know he doesn’t deserve.

Jon whispers in Tim’s ear, “Pull the trigger.”

A shiver racks Tim’s spine. “You bastard.” Their foreheads pressed together, and in that moment, Jon’s world is Tim. Not the Beholding, not the spider, not the door that knocks and knocks and knocks. Tim’s eyes are full of understanding and pain and some sliver of emotion that Jon can’t name. “That’s the deal.”

It’s so easy to lie to the others.

Basira tells them to enjoy their brief respite – one final night of rest – before their plan is to be implemented. Jon smiles a liar’s smile, but it doesn’t matter, because they all walk on fragile courtesy and false words slipped within sheep’s wool. Tim’s arms are stifling around Jon’s shoulders.

They both don’t sleep, but the feigned intimacy of it is… something.

Jon can close his eyes. He can spare a moment to pretend.

But he doesn’t dare to.

The tunnels carry sound well. Both Tim and he wait for Basira’s breathing to even out, to be certain that Georgie and Melanie are well and truly asleep, before making their move.

Tim is the one to press the knife into Jon’s hand. Jon is the one to give Tim a pained smile, and mouth thank you.

They both leave the tunnels and don't look back.

Jon ascends his Tower, and Tim follows

#jontim #mag 200 #tma #the magnus archives #fic #jon sims #tim stoker

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yourmumsc0ck · 2 years

Text

NEEDS

Summary: Ventress is the biggest flirt in the galaxy (sorry Obi-wan)

Asajj Ventress x CorruptFem!jediR

Word count: 1.3k

"Turn left at the next junction-" Plo Koon instructs me over coms, "-and take a steep incline to the landing pad above, through the canopy layers of-"

"I've got it, master," I insist, navigating the busy underworld of Coruscant with ease. Just as he was about to explain in great detail, the only real access to the landing pad was through a thin passage which was neatly sandwiched between two shop-front roofs.

"Be careful, young one. The underworld is dangerous, even for a Jedi," he warns me. Despite now not being his padawan anymore, he still sometimes thinks that I am, "and remember: this is only a scouting mission."

"Yes, master Plo," I respond, biting my tongue of any of my usual sarcastic remarks because I know he only means well.

"Very well. May the force be with you," and after a moment, the faint crackle of the active comlink goes silent. I had been tasked with investigating a lead which the Senate had uncovered while discussing Separatist dealings right here on Coruscant.

Taking the route of the steep ascent to the landing pad, I can feel my speeder bike struggling to keep up with itself as it's strains under the torment of my manic driving. Twist after turn - and jump after jump - the two shop fronts come into view. Breathing deeply, I know this is a one chance opportunity, "Come on, you can do this."

I'm not sure whether I'm talking to the bike or myself.

Taking a slight left to avoid an awkwardly placed transmission terminal, I accelerate over a small jump between two buildings. The entrance is rapidly closing in, yet my speed can't decrease until I'm over the final jump - which lies only metres before the opening.

Flooring it, the bike's screams bounce sharply off the narrowing walls either side of us. The underworld is far deeper than it appears.

Two shop fronts. There and gone in an instant, the jump sends me over the top of a vast, bottomless ventilation chasm. Immediately, I kill the right thruster and lean my full body weight over to the side.

'Clang!' an exhaust vent is sheared off the side of my bike in an array luminous sparks. Not my cleanest of turns. As the suffocating tunnel behind the shops begins to fill with more light, I put the engines so low the faint whir of the repulser fan becomes all but silent.

"Tell Dooku: his deal is off," a male voice exclaims, indignant in tone, "this isn't what I signed up for-"

"You represent a Separatist planet, don't you, Lord Pli?" a second voice responds. This one is female, dripping with a sultry simmer of distain; it's familiar.

I assume that the man nods, because she continues, "Then I don't think it's in the best interest of your people to defy me. I also can't imagine the Republic Senate would allow you to return in open arms, do you, hm?"

"No, but-"

"-Agree to the deal, and I reassure you that our relationship will be..." somehow, her voice goes from a demandingly demeaning sneer, to a slow murmur of lust in a matter of seconds. She is almost impossible to hear, "mutually beneficial."

I can sense the man's increasingly desperate anxiety. His breathing quickens, "But the moons of my world: they have people-"

"-Who will be fairly compensated, I assure you," she interrupts again, yet she makes it so it doesn't feel rude or intrusive; merely a minor interjection.

I haven't yet peered around the corner, but I daren't consider stopping these blatant admitions.

"...Alright," he mutters. To sense him is like trying to search blindfolded for a secondary coupling latch in a Gundark nest: the surrounding Force is so potently asphyxiating that I can barely feel anything else.

"The Count's forces will move in by your day break, and our operations will be functioning in two rotations."

A few minutes later, a shuttle's engines fires up and the landing gears disengage. All falls silent once again moments after 'Lord Pli's' exit.

But the suffocating presence still remains.

"Hmm..." her snarky, teasing tone cuts through the dense silence, "I didn't expect to meet a Jedi today."

My body tenses: how long had she known my position?

"Come out, darling," she sings, a firm smirk in her voice, "I don't bite."

Grasping the cool metal hilt of my saber, I round the corner with it raised and ignited. In front of me - stood hand on hip in the middle of the landing zone - is a tall, slender woman with deathly pale skin and bare scalp. In the blue hue of my weapon, she appears to shimmer, as if not fully there. Form-fitted in strips of dark cloth, it appears every angle of her body and face is jagged and sharp.

"Why don't you put that silly thing away, hm?" she requests with a sharply raised eyebrow, "You don't see me waving mine about, and there really is no need, dear."

"You're a Sith," I seethe, the Force around us beginning to cloud the clarity and calm I usually have, "I can't let you escape."

"You propose a duel... with me?" she teases, feigning surprise, "Oh, darling, I thought Jedi were meant to be intelligent."

I swallow thickly, taking a deep breath to compose myself and feel the Force flow and connect through and all around my body. It brings me a quiet confidence, "Or perhaps you're scared you'll lose."

"I can feel you... your centre is off balance; your peace is fractured," she explains slowly, taking two testing steps towards me, letting her hips sway with her words, "Your anger, your fear, your love and attachment are fighting to get out: you can't deny what is already within forever."

"I am nothing like you!" I retort, clenching my jaw and flexing my fingers around the cool metal hilt of my sabre.

"Not now, perhaps," she smirks, taking a few more steps closer, "but I can feel your turmoil; I can sense the conflict when you meet someone... like me."

"Like you...?" I question with hesitancy.

She takes a few more steps, the frayed edges of her minimal robes shifting slightly with each minuscule movement, "So free... so alive."

"I am free," I say indignantly, keeping my eyes blazing into her's, "and I am most definitely alive."

"You might be an almighty Jedi," she takes the last step, ignoring my still ignited sabre and tracing the intricate details of my robe's lapel. Her sultry fascination begins to move from my robe to the blemish-less ingot pendant hanging around my neck, "but even you can't deny... needs."

This shocks me into a sort of daze. For the first time in a long while I feel myself more than I feel Force.

And she knows it. "Let the anger out... the fear of yourself... of me," she taunts, the cool puff of her breath seeping into my skin, "let it-"

"-I don't fear you!" I lean back and raise my sabre. Within an instant, her dual blades meet mine. The hot white blaze of their connection stings my eyes and makes her pale skin shine.

"Don't you, my dear?" she seems utterly unfazed by my sudden assault.

"No...!" I strain, allowing the Force to flow through me more powerfully than ever before.

Her eyes glow, narrowing to a menacing glower, "Yes! Let the anger flow, let it control you!"

"You won't beat me!"

"I don't need to..." I push her away, the distinct clashing of our blades ringing out across the landing zone. We end up in another standstill, "...because you know I'm correct, darling."

I drop my arm and force her back - but in my moment of lacking concentration - she sends my sabre skittering across the tarmac. I stumble back onto one knee, as she raises her blades to cross at my throat.

"Let yourself live! I can help you be free!" she smirks, "I can help you!"

"You would only control me..." I look up at her, watching how her lips twitch slightly.

"Hm, perhaps," that intricately laced tone of lust returns in an instant, "but you'd like that, wouldn't you, dear?"

#asajj ventress #Star Wars #the clone wars #plo koon #Jedi #fanfic #oneshot #wlw #lgbt #Ventress #nightsisters

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