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nezuscribe · 1 year

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those summer months when your older brother and gojo satoru came back from uni were something you looked forward and also dreaded to every year.

the moment your brother and him arrived meant that it was the start of three months of unforeseen events. it meant going up to the cabin with some of their friends and yours as you spent two weeks in the woods, passing time by catching up and doing anything to fill the hot hours of the day up. the summer nights were surrounded around a campfire, huddled around each other as you eyed the lake, wondering if now was the best time for a swim.

these trips were fun, (exclude from the bits of drama that happened here and there), but a little part of you went along for something more than the experience.

him.

your friends giggled at the way your eyes hopelessly tracked his movements, turning to them as if they were schoolgirls and couldn’t learn to control their laughter and teasing. you told them it was okay to look, and that no harm could be done from simply admiring him from afar.

admiring the way his lanky body changed drastically the last three summers. how his scrawny build turned into lean muscle, his long body exuding a confidence he never had back when you three were younger. his hair was a bit longer and curled at the edges, but you liked it like that. his eyes shined even brighter than before.

his smile changed too, you noticed. it was more laid back, but hid a bit more. not as carefree as it used to be, and you wondered if the parties and uni lifestyle changed him more than just appearance wise.

but, you didn’t do anything about that crush (a pesky thing you’ve had to deal with ever since you were eleven), and just let it be, knowing nothing would come of it, seeing how gojo never looked at you as anything other than his best friends sister.

dinners you didn’t talk much, seeing how most people had more interesting things that happened to them throughout the year, but bonfire was when you relaxed a bit, keeping to yourself as you laughed at peoples stories and jokes, bumping shoulders with your friends as they whispered stupid shit in your ear that made you throw your head back in laughter.

but had it not been for something catching your attention you almost would have missed his stare.

looking up to see one of your brothers friends passing around some marshmallows to toast, your eyes caught his, your breath lodging in your throat at how piercing it was, noticing how the fire danced carefully along his graceful features. you felt like you did when you were a kid again, seeing him for the first time as he offered you a toothy grin.

gojo didn’t smile or nod, anything to acknowledge why he was looking, but his brows furrowed just a tiny bit, his lips parting as he squinted, looking quickly away as though nothing happened.

you shook your head, riding your thoughts of what just happened as you pretended to listen to a story somebody was telling, peeking over to gojo to see him looking away, almost forcefully, and you didn’t look again, not wanting to push anything that wasn’t there in the first place.

but it kept happening it.

not just stares, but fleeting touched when he passed by you, his arm grazing yours as your fingers inched towards each other as though gravitating with some unknown force. he’d catch your eye from across the living room, whisper something in your ear when you didn’t quite hear what he said the first time.

his fingertips grazed your wrist when he passed you a plate that one time the two of you set up for dinner, and he gently gripped your waist to move you out of the way from an incoming football another night.

he smiled more at you than anybody else, even when your joke was somewhat lame and didn’t laugh. something had changed since that one night, and the more it happened, the more you decided it wasn’t just you experiencing things.

so you cornered him one night; tired of the pitter pattering of your heart and how he muddled your thoughts with no explanation, the heat of his touched seared into your skin as you looked up at him through trembling lips, trying to keep your cool.

“do you want something from me?” you sputtered out, not at all as gracefully as you planned it out in your head. the chatter from downstairs became a dull noise, and you were hoping nobody would pop out from the rooms surrounding the two of you, making this even more awkward and tense than it already was.

“want?” he asked, tilting his ridiculously gorgeous head to the side in a teasing way, not picking up on how serious you were trying to be, “something from you?” he thought about it a bit, moving closer to your body with a languid step as you took one back to steady yourself.

“yeah,” you bit out, your hands curling by your sides as you looked away from his heavy gaze for a second to recollect yourself, “do you want me to set you up with one of my friends? or, or tell my brother you didn’t do something when you actually did?”

his smile faltered for a bit, clearly not understanding what you were saying, and slowly coming to the realization that you weren’t joking and never were.

“i don’t want you to set me up with anybody, nor do i want you to tell him anything i haven’t done...yet.” he muttered at the end, his striking eyes holding onto yours as you were now the one to be confused.

“huh?” you murmured, feeling hot despite the tank top and fan running, your heart beating out of you chest and ass as he stepped forward again, his large presence taking up half of yours as he craned his neck to look at you.

your back hit the wall, and it seemed that your breath was taken alongside with it.

“you’ve changed since last year.” he finally said and you rolled your eyes, understanding now that he was just lost and confused.

“well, yeah, obviously,” a part of you sunk upon the realization, looking away as you tried to mask your hurt with a roll of your eyes, “i got a new wardrobe and i changed my major. and i invested in this skincare stuff, so i really hope i have changed-” he cut you off, shaking his head as he huffed out a laugh at your obliviousness.

“not that, you changed,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair as he moved an inch closer, your chests aligned at this point as your breathing became more shallow, “you...and i guess me a bit....” he trailed off, not able to find the right words as he groaned in frustration.

“you...?” you tried to find the right words for him but couldn’t. not when he was looking at you like that. just like he did that one night. when everything seemed to change.

his eyes fell from your lips and then back to you, and you shuddered, hoping you were hallucinating when he leaned down just a little bit.

“d’you see what i mean?” he whispered, a breath away from you as your lashes fluttered against your check, looking up at him as you nodded slowly, your movements dulled down a bit by every emotion you could possibly feel pushing you closer towards him.

“think i’m starting to,” you answer, leaning up just a little bit to close the space between your two body’s, the instant groan that feel from his lips fueling the dancing flames inside of you as you wrapped your arms around his neck, hoping that the air between you would be lost.

it was hot, years of your feelings unknown to each other passing towards the messy kiss, your teeth clashing and spit lining your lips. it was everything you had dreamed of and more. he was passionate as he wrapped his sturdy hands across your waist, one hand moving up to cup the back of your head so that it wouldn't bang against the wall, and you whimpered against him as he tugged at your plush bottom lip, swollen form his rough attack just seconds earlier, and he grinned at the way your gloss shinned on your chin.

your fingers found purchase in his soft curls, his thumb tracing the curve of your cheek as the two of you took a moment to stare at each other, coming to terms with what just happened.

“listen, i think i’m-”

“satoru?” a voice cut him off, the two of you jumping at the third party as the man in front of you whipped his head around to see who it was, trying to shield your body with his, “shit, sorry...” your brother apologized, averting his gaze until he saw a familiar face, his brows contorting in something different as he looked at his best friend to you.

a heavy minute past, and your chest was slightly heaving, still trying to come up with words and air to please your lungs as gojo’s hold on your tightened, trying to hide you from anything other than him as you brother rolled his eyes, muttering a quite “what the fuck” as he quickly made his way down the stairs.

gojo looked at the stairs and then to you, not caring about the guilt in your eyes as he smiled boyishly, pecking the corner of your lips gently as his thumbs held your jaw with such care that you wanted to melt away and pretend nothing ever happened.

“i’d rather he be mad that i kissed the girl of my dreams than never have kissed her at all.”

and you should go find your brother, talk to him and see what he wanted to say, but you stayed put, letting his thick thighs nudge yours apart as you came apart in his warm arms.

#gojo x reader #gojo x reader smut #gojo x reader fluff #gojo satoru x reader #satoru x reader #gojo smut #gojou x reader #jjk x reader smut #jjk smut #gojo satoru drabble #gojo headcanons #Gojo x reader headcanons #gojo satoru #jjk x you #jjk x reader

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hana-no-seiiki · 1 year

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YANDERE! DELINQUENT! OC x READER

As celebration for 1K followers and 1K likes on the HAIRPIN | POPPED short fic. I have drawn a sketch of Mori and made another fic for you all ! Enjoy ;D

Please read the previous fic linked above for context.

warnings: [y/n] is masc leaning though i don’t use anything specific to describe them. [y/n] is kind of a terrible person. perv! mori. mentions of sex. underwear theft. stalking. m. masturbation.

IT TOOK MORI AN EMBARRASSING AMOUNT OF TIME TO NOTICE THAT YOU TWO WERE IN THE SAME CLASS. But now that he knew, he made sure to attend as much as he can. Shamelessly staring at you like he was about to have you as his next meal.

This would have prompted your classmates to warn you, if you weren’t such a menace and a half yourself.

From what Mori learned from his stalking, you were about as bad as he was when it came to physical hostility only that yours came in the form of verbal and emotional assaults. You were known for turning even the most popular person in campus into an outcast with just a click of a button. It became your job to basically be on the know-how of everyone. You probably knew everything there is about Mori himself.

He found out after seeing an underclassman confess to you. Poor kid had his heart shattered when you told him that you shared his declined terrific confessions about wanting to be railed by you, to not only the entire school, but the internet as well.

What was even worse was that kid still liked you after all that. Apparently you two were acquaintances and he had unknowingly saved the junior from getting his ass beat by kicking the bullies’. And that led to you and Mori meeting.

Tch. Why did he have to owe that lanky piece of shit the honor of encountering you?

After going through the 5 stages of grief that is falling in love with you. Mori decided to just fuck it and accept the fact that he ain’t getting you out of his heart and/or mind anytime soon.

Might as well indulge his feelings.

By that he means following you everywhere.

And he means everywhere.

His lackeys are so confused. Why was Boss stalking you? You had a horrid reputation like him, but you only attacked when provoked. But the way Boss was staring you down said otherwise. His horny was mistaken as anger.

This would have prompted them to ‘deal’ with you. If you didn’t threaten their social lives.

So for the next month it had been a standstill. Until one fateful day. When you dragged him to a dark, abandoned shed behind the school.

And started taking off your pants/skirt, and your undergarments. Your genitalia out for show.

“Wh-Wha—Wait— I’m—“ He stuttered. He’d seen you strip many times before. Even masturbating inside your closet and on your bed. But seeing you do it right in front of him with nothing between you two was still . . . new but nice . . . and a tad bit overwhelming.

“It’s my underwear.” You dangle the piece of cloth on front of his face. Using your free hand to put your pants/skirt back on.

“I can see that, why are you giving me your dirty ass—“

“I was thinking it may have been the kid. Taking all my laundry and all that. But then you started following me everywhere.”

“Y-You knew?!”

“I was guessing. But now I know.” You shrugged casually, as if you hadn’t just dropped the biggest bombshell in the world. As if you hadn’t just exposed his depraved actions towards youz

“Which brings me to my next point, I want you to go out with me.”

“What?!”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“YES! I mean, yes — But . . . why ?”

“Well it’s an equal exchange. I’d have a boyfriend to stop all those pesky confessions and attempts at my life, which you have been doing for me in the background. Thank you, by the way—“

“You’re- You’re welcome? You could have said something—“

“Let me talk properly before I change my mind.” Tired of holding your underwear, you decided to throw it on his face before continuing, “And you, get to take all the underwear you’d like. Get to take me on all the dates you’d like. Maybe even fuck me in whatever place or position you’d like.”

This was too good to be true. Mori was leaking from the words coming out your mouth, but he had to make sure he wasn’t getting himself into a situation he didn’t want.

“What’s the catch?”

“It’s simple. Know your place. I take the reins of this relationship. Not you. I make the decisions and adjustments to this exchange. Not you. We’ll break up when I say so. So there’s no backing out on your terms I’m afraid.”

The arrangements seemed unfair. Too perfect. It wasn’t as if he’ll break up with you at any moment, he’ll just have to focus on keeping your eyes on him. There was nothing to be afraid of. Doubt still permeated, but even then . . .

“Deal.” He answered immediately. The benefits were too good to care about essentially being a guard dog. He might as well indulge as he has been.

This time without the time spent hesitating on his decision.

“Let’s make good on that deal right now, shall we?”

[ YANDERE DELINQUENT / MORI CHARACTER PROFILE ]

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hellkeepers-if · 7 months

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DEMO (prologue out) UPDATES

Set in an alternate version of Singapore, you're a fresh university graduate bumbling through life as you desperately look for a job.

...Or that's what your mother thinks. In a world where occult ceremonies are as common as an existential crisis, there's no way you were ever going to be a perfectly average office worker. Just like your twin brother, you work for the International Society Of Exorcists (ISOE) which deals with supernatural occurrences, demonic rituals, and the like.

When a tragic event befalls your older sister, it uproots your entire life and everything you ever knew about the supernatural. With it, comes a forced need to come to terms with a family history straight out of the movies.

After all, how the hell did it take twenty years to find out that you're descended from the freaking king of the underworld?

"I have a duty to myself, but more importantly, my family."

——————

Inspired by Supernatural, Fullmetal Alchemist, Noragami, and the Percy Jackson series, Hellkeepers is a +18 urban fantasy/paranormal interactive fiction, involving elements of Chinese and Southeast-Asian mythology. In every playthrough, you will...

• Play as a female, male, or non-binary Chinese demigod/ess.

• Determine the relationships between you and your family members. After all, they will play a big part in your story...

• Peel apart the full truth behind you and your siblings' birthright. Your parents can't hide it forever.

• Learn more about Chinese and Southeast Asian mythology as you warp into different dimensions, unlike anything you've seen before.

• Learn more about who you were in your past life.

| Nishimura Kazuo (he/him)

Age: 26

Ethnicity: Japanese

With a penchant for mischief and a charm that woos even the most stubborn of grandmas, Kazu is the wildcard of your organization. You think he's an anarchist, and the only reason he's tied down to the ISOE is so that he has an excuse for whatever havoc he wreaks on the supernatural.

The A-ranked exorcist is your colleague and your brother's mentor, though you rarely ever see him in his office. But if you ever need him for demon fighting, he'll be there. Most of the time.

"Mind taking that pesky thing out for me while I take a quick nap?"

| Quentin Khanh (Quan) (he/him)

Age: 25

Ethnicity: Vietnamese

Quentin, more affectionately known as Quan, was your childhood friend. After he moved overseas, the weekly texts you sent him fizzled into nothing but a lost friendship.

Since then, he's returned to Singapore as a forensics pathologist and researcher under your organisation. Whether you like it or not, you have to no choice but to work with him for most of your investigations.

"If your bribe doesn't involve a penthouse worth of money, don't talk to me."

| Reyna Aliyah Santos (she/her)

Age: 23

Ethnicity: Mixed (Filipino-Chinese)

You've never quite met someone like Reyna. A halfling with a demon mother and a human father. Being raised in Singapore all her life with little knowledge of her parents, it's natural that Reyna would come to the ISOE for help at the mere instance of a fox tail and white fur.

You've been tasked to help her mask and get comfortable with her supernatural powers, but she won't make it easy for you. After all, foxes do bite.

"Technically, I'm not stealing anything if they don't notice."

| Song Huayun (she/her)

Age: ????

Ethnicity: "Uhh...from Hell?" Chinese

| You don't know too much about Huayun, except for the fact that she lives in Diyu, the Chinese Underworld. As Diyu's gatekeeper, Huayun has seen countless depravities committed by humans before their deaths. That alone has made it hard for her to like them, and the contempt she shows you is no different than what she shows everyone else.

But with time, maybe she'll finally learn what it is like to feel human…and what a smile is.

"If it isn't the star of tonight's show. Welcome to Diyu."

| The Arbiter of Fate (m/f)

Theyre a stranger, or so you say. But this deity knows everyone...especially you.

#interactive fiction #interactive novel #interactive game #choice of games #adult fiction #dashingdon #cog wip #if wip #if recs #upcoming if #urban fantasy #hellkeepers if

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edgeray · 4 months

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“LATE NIGHT DEVIL, PUT YOUR HANDS ON ME

and never never never ever let go”- Teeth, 5 Seconds of Summer

Mafia AU! Arlecchino x Reader Oneshot

Author's Note: It's been a while since I've actually published anything on here. Well, my gay ass is back with another oneshot. This one has been in the works for at least a month. I'm considering making a Part 2, but that will definitely take at least a couple weeks for me to publish (if not months). I wish I was kidding. School literally hates me and my teachers are incessant on killing my GPA. This is also a gift for @megistusdiary because it'll be her birthday when I post this. Please go check out her blog for amazing genshin wlw content (especially Arlecchino content!) Would you guys like this on AO3 as well?

Content Warning/Info: This is a long af oneshot (6.3k words), long af descriptions and kinda long intro, Arlecchino is referred to with they/them pronouns, implied female but no usage of feminine pronouns for Reader, general dark-ish content, pet names, Arlecchino is a lil scary, I've never been to a club so I apologize for the very inaccurate information, nor have I ever been apart of the mafia so also inaccurate, a bit suggestive but otherwise sfw, if I'm missing anything feel free to tell me!

---

Monsters are said to have lied underneath beds–waiting to ensnare an unknowing victim–or stalk hidden among the depths of a closet–awaiting an opportune moment to strike its next prey. Monsters are fabled entities that are used to scare off children from bad behavior and are quickly eased from the mind by coddling parents. The mere notion of a monster shooed away like a pesky fly, swept underneath the subconscious like forgotten specks of dirt.

You know otherwise. Real monsters don’t lurk on the undersides of mattresses; no, they lurk both in the skies above and the depths below. They do not stalk dark closets because they instead stalk alleys in daylit streets. Monsters are very real, that you know is true since you’ve seen your fair share of them. You’ve met monsters in person–they’ve come to you before. Terrifying is an understatement for them, and each time one has appeared as a client, you’re no less scared shitless.

You’ve learned that even inhumane demons find themselves in need of entertainment; like the sinful creatures they are, they seek self-pleasure. And that is how you found yourself in this particular circle of hell, meant to serve and please demons, devils, and monsters alike. Perhaps it was a revolting job, working at a strip club run by a criminal organization but it paid decent money for being danced on the fingertips of whoever you were unfortunate enough to be assigned to.

If it was a regular strip club, being an exotic dancer would have been fine. It wouldn't be so bad. Lustful and prying eyes can be accustomed to quickly, and so are the flattering compliments and the awkward flirting by middle-aged married men. However, there was a difference between lecherous and predatory gazes. Here, you aren’t even viewed as a person, no, the clients here, those that come in reeking of smoke or blood (though sometimes both), armed with knives and guns on their person, see you as nothing more than a toy or prey for them. Even in the eyes of your employer, you're less than human in their eyes.

‘You harm our merchandise, you’ll pay for it,’ is the warning given to every guest when they first enter. Merchandise. That's what you are. And that single line of words is the only thing that assures you of your safety among mafia members, gangsters, crooks, and whatnot. You've heard that the organization behind this strip club does well in enforcing that rule according to other dancers, but you personally don't want to see if the statement is true. You've been here for a little over a year, and besides bruising grips and pulled hair you’ve surprisingly yet to be seriously injured in any way. So maybe monsters do have a little humanity in them.

You're quickly growing to be a fan favorite as of recently, which means more money goes your way, but you're not sure how you feel about all the attention on you. It's most likely because of how often you offer private dances and private rooms to clients. Whatever gets you the most money; the faster you make money the faster you can pay off your debt and be out of here.

Tonight is supposed to be no different from other nights. You perform on stage, you rile up the crowd, you get showered in tips, and if there is a customer that looks mentally sane enough not to murder you in private, you take them to the back. Except, tonight, you're approached by your boss, who informs you that the entirety of the club was reserved by the Fatui, a well-known mafia more powerful and larger than the one that backs you up, for some celebration. These kinds of occurrences in the club rarely crop up, but when they do, they're often the most opportune time to bag in an abundant amount of money. Big shots like the Fatui pay and tip well, but there's one unsaid risk that comes with this: as a mere dancer like yourself, your life quite literally dangles in the Fatuis’ hands tonight. The organization that owns this establishment can't retaliate against the Fatuis if they so choose to dismiss the warning. They can't even compare to the might of the Fatui.

Simply put, if a Fatui kills you tonight, no one could do more besides bat their eyelashes. You're not at all pleased with this predicament of practically bordering on death, especially when you know one wrong move with one too hot-tempered Fatui could land you at the pearly gates. Keep pleasing the crowd, keep entertaining them, keep racking in the money, you remind yourself as you continue your dance, twirling around the pole sensually, and the customers devour every movement with their eyes. The only comfort you're given is that you've heard the Fatui are quite reasonable and diplomatic most of the time. This is especially true for the Harbingers, you've heard, the twelve most elite members that serve under the Tsaritsa, and the ones that are the most exclusive customers this night. That doesn't mean the Harbingers are any more humane than the average crook. Having worked in a strip club run by the mafia and surrounded by criminal organizations, the more rumored something is, the more dangerous it is. They can be considered devils amongst demons even. That's simply how vile they're supposed to be.

The most concerning problem about the Harbingers is that you don’t know what they look like, only the occasional whisper has alluded to how to distinguish between the twelve. Perhaps, you can survive through the night if you try not to draw too much attention; let the other dancers shine instead and hope you don’t get requested for a private room or dance. That way, you can ensure you don’t end up dead.

Your time to go upstage comes sooner than you’re prepared for. Your hands are clammy, and your form trembles in a way that only happened during your first month. Both reactions don’t make for a very good combination when your survival relies on you not fucking up and disappointing criminal customers. As you approach the pole, just like every time you’ve done, you make sure that the crowd’s gazes are in the backdrop of your mind, and instead, fixate on repeating the movements you’ve been taught and have mastered with your experience. Bet your survival on the provocative sway of your hips, the practiced showcase of your legs, and the allure of your dancing form. Beguile the crowd, but not too much, just enough to wow them. From what you can tell by the volume of the crowd, you’re doing a good job pleasing the Fatui enough. Your body stops tremoring after a few minutes on stage, and with one last final push of courage, you focus your eyes on the crowd before you.

Unsurprisingly, the makeup of the Fatui are men, though there are notably quite a few women. Either way, all of their attention is on you. As your eyes scan across a crowd, for one reason or another, you stop at a particular set of eyes near the back of the crowd. Intent, pitch-black abysses stare back, like they were trying to bore into your soul and devour every single motion of yours. They don’t quite hold the same ravenous desire as many of those before you right now, you mentally note with curiosity. It feels like your form is being calculated, in the way a predator would cautiously observe their next prey, a sensation you’ve experienced a few times, but each is no less chilling. The weight of their engrossed gaze causes you to shiver momentarily, and you snap away from their disturbing gaze to prevent any fumbling or faltering while you’re on stage.

Tonight marks the first time you actively seek out the same viewer while on stage, or even, during your entire time here. For some reason, you feel awfully bold, or curious, whichever two comforts you more, and unlike the meek little rabbit you usually are, you instead search for the viewer’s gaze. You find the pair of eyes with relative ease, as you remember that above their eyes are distinctive snow-white strands with streaks as black as their orbs. You take a moment to study them, and they remind you of a lion–or lioness–among hyenas. The aura they exude varied quite a bit compared to the other Fatui in front of you: not rambunctious, or arrogant; it's apparent they held an aura of indomitable authority just from the way they held themselves. Perfect posture with their clasped hands nested in their lap, with one leg raised over the other. They’re an embodiment of perfected elegance, however, much like a porcelain doll, they’re also expressionless, their appearance unmarred. You don’t examine the Fatui’s form for much longer because their scrutiny on you pricks at your skin irritatedly.

You don’t look for them again throughout your performance. In fact, you hope you never meet those charcoal pits again. You’re afraid that if you do, you’ll be ensnared by whatever beastly claws or fangs you know that Fatui hides underneath that impenetrable mask. The moment your time on stage ends, you rush back to the changing room to shake off your nerves. You sit down at a nearby chair, taking in deep sighs as you attempt to forget how you were stared down like a you were cornered, defenseless animal. And that is what you are, as much as you hate it. There’s nothing that can protect you from the Fatui. Maybe if you hide, never show your face for the rest of the night, they’ll forget they ever saw you and they’ll target another dancer. Surely, that will work, won’t it?

You’re able to steady your breathing before you can delve into a panic attack. Tonight, you decide, you’re not going to take any customers to any private rooms or take any private dances. You’d be missing out on a lot of money, but your life is more of a priority as of currently; not after the ‘encounter’ with that individual, you don’t want to think about how many more are just like them, hiding in the crowd like they were awaiting an opportunity to pounce on your vulnerable form.

Unfortunately, it seems like someone else has other plans for you because your manager storms into the room asking for your whereabouts before his eyes narrow on you. You immediately sit up, stiff as a board when he practically marches his way towards you.

"Someone wants you."

You sigh and shake your head. You should have known. "Not tonight."

He clicks his tongue. "You know I can't allow that tonight."

You bite your lip. "Just pass them to someone else."

"They're not someone you or I can refuse."

"Who?" You question with a shuddering breath, your nails digging into your thigh.

"The fourth one. The Knave. Lord Arlecchino."

Fuck your life. You might as well pull the trigger now. You’ve heard faint whispers of each Harbinger from the customers audacious enough to speak of them. The youngest, the eleventh, charming and boyish. The ninth, money-obsessed but a pretty looker. The eighth, elegant and cold, yet no less alluring. The seventh, as human-like as their robotic creations, which to say isn’t very. The sixth, is hotheaded and mysterious. The fifth, unknown. And the fourth?

Insane. Ruthless. Bloodthirsty. That’s how the fourth is described. You shiver at the horrors that appear on the forefront of your mind when imagining what may come for you. If you're lucky, you'll be alive at the end of the night, more than likely clinging to the edge of living.

“Well? What are you waiting for? Get ready as soon as you can.”

And you do. It’s not long until you stand in front of the private room’s door, your guest is already inside more than likely. The Fourth Harbinger is waiting, you remind yourself, fruitlessly trying to swallow down your stress. You can be dead the minute you step inside, this room could be marked as your grave. Whatever he tells you to do, you’ll obey wordlessly to survive. Just nod along, smile, and do whatever it is that he tells you regardless of the demand. You inhale deeply, regaining some ease of mind, before you bring your knuckles to the door, knocking.

“Come in,” comes a deep, flat voice, slightly muffled by its distance but what surprises you is how feminine the Harbinger sounds. Maybe you got the wrong room. You glance back at the room number plate on the door, and it’s the room you remember your manager mentioning. It’s the right room. Maybe someone else? You don’t have time to wonder, however, as you enter the room, knowing that if it is the Fourth, it wouldn’t be wise to keep him (Her? Them? You’ll just stick with ‘them’ now.) waiting.

“Lord Arlecchino?” You inquire as you enter the room, closing the door behind you. Sucking in a harsh inhale, you instantly recognize their distinct hair. It’s them. Your sight is immediately greeted by the figure sitting on the couch before you, sitting in exactly the same way you discovered them–crossed-legged and lounging back with unfaltering confidence. The Knave wears a scarlet blazer over a black compressed turtleneck, with a matching set of crimson leggings. Upon closer inspection, you’re able to make out red irises in their jet-black eyes. Despite the blatant and literal red flag, something about their appearance draws you in even when they scream danger. They’re… you’re not quite sure how to describe them. You admire the unblemished and pale skin, their elegant and rugged demeanor is like the perfect balance between femininity and masculinity. Are they beautiful, or are they handsome? You think both.

Arlecchino stares back at you like they’re considering devouring you then and there. You can’t suppress the shudder that runs down your spine. You’re a sheep before a wolf. There’s something so chilling about them that even with your experience with other clients, none has ever made you feel this way with just their mere gaze alone. This is what separates the average crook from one of the most powerful mafia members you've ever heard of.

You wait for a response but they only continue to observe you. You take the silence as confirmation to your question and that they’re anticipating something from you. Biting back a sigh of resignation, your hands hook underneath the band of your bra top and you lift it just the slightest amount before a cutting voice makes you freeze.

“What are you doing?” the Harbinger demands, their tone chilling and apathetic, making you want to shrink in yourself immediately. Your blood pumps loudly in your ears and your hands tremble a bit. Something about how designing their gaze makes you suddenly self-aware in a way you’ve never felt before another client–you’re practically half-naked in front of them with your skimpy bra top, undergarments, and fishnets and now is the only moment that you've actually considered how little covering is on you.

Why are they stopping you? Isn’t this what they wanted you to do? Or maybe they just want to do it themselves. Those types of customers always have the most bruising of grips and suffocating of holds. You stiffen at the notion. How are you going to survive this night with a Fatui Harbinger of all things? How many of your limbs are going to be fractured and how many of your bones are going to end up broken?

“I…I’m undressing,” your meek voice sounds out and you hate the crack in your speech. The Harbinger continues to scrutinize you. You don’t dare continue disrobing yourself.

There are several beats of wordless response before they then stand up from the couch.

Oh shit. You’ve fucked up. Are they going to kill you now? Is this your end?

Every thought is telling you to run in the opposite direction as they stalk up to you, but you're petrified as you realize with a chill that they’re taller than you. You’re not short by any means, a bit above average height, but they tower over you, looking down at you from above and casting judgment on you like a god. Once they stride toward you, you avoid eye contact by looking straight, observing their neck and clavicle that protrudes from underneath the fabric. You tense when they raise a hand, their manicured fingers placing themselves underneath your chin and long, carmine nails dig into the underside of your jaw, making you wince. They forcefully tilt your head, raising your focus onto their face.

It’s like they plunged their hands down your throat and ripped out the oxygen from your lungs, leaving you unable to breathe. Up close, the first thing you notice is their lips, plump and red from their lipstick. Briefly, you wonder what color their lipstick would look on your skin. Then your eyes travel up, red-crossed eyes gaze back at you and you gape quietly at the distinct shape of their pupils. You swear that their pupils flash red as you finally lock eye contact with them.

“Did I tell you to?” Their tone is cold compared to the strange softness of their handsome (beautiful?) face.

Something in your gut coils inwardly and you want to look away, but their firm hold on your chin prevents you. You bite your bottom lip to repress a whimper. You’re delicate glass in their hands, and they can break you so, so easily.

“No, sir.” Only the numerous times you’ve said this phrase ensures you don’t stumble over your words. They don’t answer promptly, but as they observe your features, their lips quirk up the slightest amount.

“You know how to address me. Very good,” Arlecchino purrs after several beats of silence, in a low, oh-so-sultry tone, and oh. Oh.

You’re not sure why, but their last two words make your stomach churn, but not in a discomforting way. In the way that lights a fire underneath your skin and spreads heat to every part of your body. You’ve never quite felt this way with another customer. You couldn’t believe that your body reacts this way just from a single praise but it doesn’t stop the pooling heat in your bowels. The chill down your spine still remains in place, but there’s an off-putting equilibrium of iciness and fervor generated from the client.

The Fatui’s eyes stay fixated on you wordlessly until the hand on your chin turns your head, finally breaking you free of their intense behold. Their grip slackens so that they can trace their nails gently down your throat, every inch of surface their fingertips brush against ignites a blaze on your skin. A shuddering exhale leaves your lips and it seems like they take notice because from the corner of your eye, the small uptick of their mouth grows. Despite how sensual and probing the Harbinger’s touch feels, there’s nothing lecherous about it–purely just intrigue and fascination. It’s a touch you both have and never experienced before. Cold nails rake against your throat, not enough to mark or scratch, but enough to invoke shivers.

You’re aware you should be terrified, but for a reason you can’t pin down, you can’t jerk away from their touch. You try to reason with yourself it was only because you’re one upset away from getting yourself killed but that reasoning falls apart when their hand gingerly traces your jawline and you make the softest of groans, a barely audible noise of content. Unfortunately for you, the sound seems to have reached Arlecchino’s ears and their expression softens slightly: their eyes narrow less and their brows aren’t as creased. And that smirk–if you could even call it that from how faint it is–becomes a half-smirk.

They pull their hand away and your trance is broken, reality returning back to you as you remember that the person before you is still a Fatui Harbinger, no matter how bizarrely melting their touch was. They turn on their heel and walk towards the couch in front of you; the slightest bit of heaviness is placed on your heart. You remain stationary where you are, observing them as they seat themselves gracefully on the couch, and their attention encounters yours again. Their black pits hold expectancy in them. At first, you’re clueless as to what the criminal desires from you, but then their legs spread apart, an inviting gesture that beckons you and every rational thought leaves your easily swayed mind. Your heart skips a beat, and you're sure this time it's not out of trepidation.

Even if you didn’t command them to, your legs would take you to their seating figure. You stand before them, feeling blatantly disrespectful to look down at Arlecchino, but you await their order. They lean back, lounging laxly against the couch, their posture never lacking their usual self-assurance. It only ties the knot in your gut tighter. You’re aware of what they’re instructing you to do, but the absent confirmation makes you hesitant. It seems like the Knave picks up on this because the room echoes with one definitive spouted word from their lips, authority and dominance ringing through their husky voice.

“Sit.”

Your legs buckle underneath you from the one-worded response, the demand only stoking the consuming fire inside you. Eager to please, you perch yourself on their lap, straddling them, your knees pressed into the furniture below you and encasing both of their thighs between your own.

Oh, you think to yourself as your legs make contact with their thighs. They're firm. And for some reason, that provokes your stomach to churn in itself even more. You're so close to them, enough to feel their breath cascade against your skin.

As you seat yourself, you nearly clumsily topple over, instinctively grasping onto their shoulders for support. Their shoulders are remarkably broad, you regard, well-muscled as well. Their hands creep up on your hips, steady but gentle hands grasping on each bare side of yours to stabilize you. The heat that radiates from their hands is infectious, regardless of the nails that burrow into your plush waist. For the first time, you flush considerably, a sweltering inferno forming in your cheeks and your head fills with dizziness. Their touch is gentle–something you rarely experience with customers–so, so gentle that you would describe it as heavenly. How can someone so inexplicably vile have heaven on their fingertips?

It's not a position you never found yourself in. In fact, it's far from the first time you've been like this with another client. But here, as you're sat on top of the Fatui Harbinger, and red x-pupils search yours, a foreign feeling passes through you. Placing your finger on it, you dubiously think it's bashfulness, but the heartbeat that sings in your ears and pulses underneath your fingertips tells you otherwise, tells you it's something more. Against that, you remove your grasp on their shoulders and place your palm flat against the couch’s surface behind the Knave.

You squirm a bit, nervousness in your form as you remain as still as you possibly can, waiting for any more instructions. All you need to do is act like an obedient doll for them in order to survive; compliance is the best way of ensuring survival with people like these. You feel like you're merely eye candy from the way that their attention flits across your body, but you're immobile throughout the entirety of their observance. Being looked at is much better than any physical interaction. Their hands still cup your hips, but slowly, they descend to the side of your thighs, making your skin feel tingly.

Impulsively, you mumble out a quiet "Sir…" as strange sensations brush against your skin.

The sound surprises you and you feel on edge as their eyes travel from your lower half to your face. You gulp considerably. From their stare, they expect more of a response, a reason for their addressment, but even you don’t know yourself; it seems like an unconscious calling that just rolled off your tongue. You cow underneath their gaze, even when the two of you are at eye level. When you linger in quietude, their hand releases one of your thighs and lifts to your face, supporting your chin while their thumb rests on your bottom lip, unfurling it just the slightest amount to implore an answer from your now parted lips. Gleaming scarlet pupils grip your regard sternly, piercing into you and instilling you to spew something out. Except, you still can’t, now too entranced and lost in the crimson.

“Doll.”

Despite the pet name, it's devoid of any affection or warmth. It's a word that drips of command, a reminder of your place: simply a toy that they can play with however they want, a manipulated and decorated plaything for their amusement. That means you answer to them, and so when they request a response, you're under the obligation to please them. Your survival is in their palms anyway, if they wanted you to dance, you would just so they wouldn’t strangle the life out of you.

However, its implication doesn’t prevent the tingling shudders that wrack your body nor the involuntary clenching of your thighs around theirs. Was it the gravelly voice that aroused your behavior? Your cheeks flare at the knowledge that Harbinger sensed the physical reaction. It shouldn't be possible. It shouldn't be possible, your thoughts repeat, but then they're interrupted by:

"Oh?" Arlecchino inquires to themselves, a stark amusement in their speech. Their red glare illuminates slightly, replacing the lost darkening with a faint glow in their pupils, and the corner of their mouth curls up. It is only then that you discover something entirely new: that monsters can be sinfully, cataclysmically, terrifyingly beautiful and the sight before you is the most exquisite example. A devil has you wrapped in its claws and its fangs readied for devouring but it’s disguised as an ethereal angel; blinded by their perilous allure, you mistake their snow-white hair, their lustrous piercing rubies, their flawless porcelain skin, and their burning, fleeting touches as traits of a seraph. From a measly smirk, you forget the atrocities lying underneath their fingertips and dismiss the hazard their presence holds.

The hand on your thigh rakes its fingers up, red nails trailing across the surface of your fishnet, wrenching out a breathy gasp from you as they travel inwards. Tingling pleasure injects into your veins as you subconsciously lean in, imploring for further sensual contact. A plea sits on your tongue and nests in your eyes as you beg them through your pitiful expression. They drink in your desperation with a slow swipe of their tongue over their lips, and that single action is debauched enough to elicit a soft groan from your throat.

“Well, aren’t you an amusing toy?” They drawl out with a preposing rasp and dark abysses glint with an insatiable hunger.

They smirk enticingly, their thumb running across your bottom lip and smearing your lipstick on their thumb pad. Their grip on your chin tightens a bit, pulling you even closer to them before a shadow casts over you when their face nears. Before you can even fathom their intentions, they descend upon you, closing the distance between the two of you. Your lips are greeted with something pillowy soft and fervently warm, and you sharply inhale from the sensation. Every one of your nerves sings frenziedly, your muscles tense all over, and your heartbeat drums deafeningly in your ears–all of this as your body is engulfed in a fervid tornado of heat that makes you lightheaded with pleasure. It takes you several beats to realize the reason for this is that Lord Arlecchino, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave is kissing–no, kissing is far too intimate, devouring–you voraciously like they're trying to rob you of any air, trying to imprint themselves on your mouth. Their mouth dominates yours, pushing against them with a deep fervor and famished urgency, eager to swallow every bit of shocked noise you make.

You close your eyes and allow yourself to indulge.

You first taste lipstick with a waxy flavor hitting your tastebuds. It’s cold against your lips, yet warm at the same time. But the physical texture and flavor of their lips are irrelevant; there’s only one true manner you would distinguish their taste:

They taste like sin.

The type of sin that’s chocolate coated and sprinkled with colorful toppings; depravity so sweet and charming it makes you reconsider the bounds of right and wrong. Degeneracy is far, far tastier than anything you’ve indulged in before. How can something so evil be so heavenly? Cushiony soft, placidly warm, flatteringly zealous, it’s like having a dance with a devil; so unequivocally immoral but no less gratifying. You question if they really belong to the Fatui because how can something like this come from such? You want to engrave the texture of their mouth onto your memory, feel this faux intimacy even when you’ve long parted. The Fourth Harbinger, you surmise as you surrend your will to them, is decadent–the only word that can be defined as both wicked and delectable at once–the perfect word to describe them.

The last remaining bit of reasoning comes to the backdrop of your thoughts and begs you to not be swept away in the heavenly embrace. You discount it in favor of accepting this godsent gift by leaning further with a weak imitation of their ravishing lips and pressing back. It’s a feeble attempt to match their insatiate nature, far too domineering and forceful than you can manage but they display a token of appreciation when they squeeze your thigh, indenting your skin shallowly with the burrowing of their nails. The action exposes just how sensitive you’ve gone underneath their touch and you reward them with the sweetest of sounds.

“Arlecchino,” you mumble with half-lidded dazed eyes in between ravenous exchanges and it evokes a depraved throaty growl from the Fatui, like provoking a call from a starving beast. They lean deeper to indulge in your taste. The gruff sound reaches your ears and it’s like a psalm–you shudder from its musical melody.

Their clutch on your jaw releases and their fingers outline your jawline before snaking to the back of your head. Well-manicured digits entangle themselves in your hair, and there’s a gentle shove against your skull that forces you deeper into the kiss. Your hands clutch onto the couch underneath you as tight as you physically can for any sense of grounding and your knees attempt to close in even more to feel more of their body against yours. The hand on your leg, in turn, caresses the length of your thigh.

Every graceful touch, stroke, and brush exudes an unyielding and infectious warmth that only adds to the stoking fire in your gut, and you’re bathed in so much swelter from the ecstasy that you feel dizzy. Yet, you never want it to end, you grow more addicted and drunk with each encounter of their lips. That, paired with your strained breathing, prompts your stamina to falter much sooner than the Harbinger’s. You let out a soft whine to signal your depleting oxygen, and their mouth unlatch with yours, pulling away despite your ache for more. With the separation comes a small string of saliva attached between the two of you, evidence of the shared intimacy that’s snapped when they lick their lips. The hand behind your head detangles from your hair and you silently mourn over the loss of contact.

You heave for air, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You’re a little perturbed when you notice that they’re not even out of breath, a small but firm reminder that they’re as inhuman as humans can be. That knocks a sense of reality back into you. Customer, mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, it comes back to you like a train. Here you are swapping spit with them while in the lap of potentially the most dangerous criminal you could ever meet, but fuck were they a good kisser–you’ve never experienced anything that came close to this in your lifetime.

Any foolish doubtful contemplation of the morality of this interaction is swept away just like that when you hear:

“Greedy little thing that you are,” they regard with the most cunning and handsome of smiles, discrete amusement dripping from their words. Their dark pits behold you entirely, the same way they have always done when it seems like they were contemplating what part of you to savor the most. Only this time, you’re not so disturbed by the notion. If anything, the swirling heat in between your legs suggests the opposite.

Greedy wasn't a word often associated with you, yet you couldn't more correctly describe yourself in that moment. Greedy. Greedy for a Fatui Harbinger no less. As ashamed as you should be, there's no use denying that you crave for their touch, for their gaze, for anything and everything they're willing to give you. You want everything and more. The more you contemplate, the more it seems obvious why you wouldn’t. Are they a devil disguised as an angel, or are they an angel that fell from grace? Regardless, they bring nirvana to you. An incessant desire bubbles inside you, your throat swelling up with an urgent request on the tip of your tongue. Would they allow such a thing if you plead? Would they be offended by your impudence? Would they punish you for such? But the necessity outweighs any reconsideration of your insolence and the supplicant beg tumbles out of your loose lips.

“Can I… touch you please, my Lord?” You croak out, wincing at just how wretched it comes out. The response from them is not immediate as the two of you stew in silence, a building sense of dejection inside of you. The expression on their face noticeably contorts, smile lessening, their brows furrowing, and their red x’s glinting dimly. Their free hand raises to near your neck and you suck in a harsh breath as their fingers enclose around your throat. The mere action sends a stinging reminder to your lust-dazed thoughts about their position, and a chill pierces you.

Mafia, Fatui, Harbinger, the Fourth Harbinger, the Knave–the labels cycle through your thoughts. Though their grip is lax, not exactly suffocating and giving ample space to breathe, their fingertips does acutely jab into your skin, a display of their impressive grip strength. You have no doubt that they can suffocate you with one hand alone, snap your neck, or, as your mind ventures into more harrowing territories, crush your skull. Those thoughts alone has you breathless with anticipation. A heavy weight suddenly appears in your gut, so heavy that you feel like you can’t move so much as a muscle.

Did you just go too far? Was that too much to ask? Was this how you were going to die?

The reflex to gag and inhale combat each other in your throat, a discomforting sensation that crawls up your spine while you tremble. You’re almost certain that the nails have penetrated the layer of skin, drawing beads of blood that’ll trail down your mark. You whimper at the prickly pain. Yet, in all your unease, the most masochistic thought arrives briefly at the forefront, and you can’t help but consider: this position is just as intimate as all the other interactions. You’re already so vulnerable in their lap, does the hand around your neck change your peril in any way? No, you’ve been a defenseless lamb to a slaughter the moment you’ve stepped into the domain of a menacing wolf.

Ah. Even now, you can’t dismiss the warmth of their fingertips.

“Do you still want to touch me when I do this?” They demand callously, their voice harsh and reverberating through the room. Their grasp closes more around, and you feel your supply of oxygen inhibited. Tears begin to brim your eyes, but you’re undeterred. Unlike Arlecchino’s, your answer is instant and breathless. Your eyes intently lock on theirs, the hardened expression enough to satisfy their question. There’s no need for contemplation. Danger, you determine, is addicting.

“Yes.”

The previously small smile stretches across their lips considerably. Content, or dare you say it, thrill writes itself over their face and the boulder previously pressed against your shoulders is lifted. Your throat is freed from their hold, but their touch doesn’t halt there. Instead, they rotate your head for you to face to the left, exposing your side profile to them. From the corner of your eyes, you watch as their face draws closer to your skin, hot breath cascading across the small dents her nails created. The one on your thigh finally leaves, moving to one of your hips, tender strokes across your flushed surface. They lean forward, and moist, plush skin meets yours. Lips traverse over the length of your neck, teeth scraping against, making you weakly groan. It takes all of your will to still your body, only allowing for the Harbinger to do whatever they desire to your form. Their touches are burning, burning, burning–so hot that you wonder if you’re experiencing a heat wave. Peppered kisses follow the edge of your jawbone, all the way up to your earlobe. A wet kiss graces your ear and then the most sinful of statements dignifies your eardrums, like a devil whispering hymns directly into your ear.

“I think I’ll keep you to myself after this.”

A short hum follows afterward.

“If you want to touch me, you’ll have to work for it. You’re only mine for tonight, aren't you? Entertain me. Give me a private dance, doll. After all, you have me for all night.”

---

Link to M-Alexa's amazing art and how I imagine Arlecchino to look like in this oneshot.

#arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #arlecchino #genshin x reader #genshin x you #genshin impact fanfics #guys I'm so tired it's 2AM rn #i have school tomorrow guys #i chose to finish this tonight despite the shit ton of homework I have to do #arlecchino brain rot does that to you #def worth it #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact x you #genshin impact arlecchino #genshin arlecchino #genshin fics #arlecchino smut #edgeray.writes #edgeray.blog

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utterlyazriel · 2 months

Text

whom the shadows sing for — (and the thief's echoing hymn)

a/n: WE MADE IT TO CHAPTER FIVE!! EVERYBODY CLAP!! labour of love fr <3 but we're almost to the scene that sparked the whole freakin series and i. oh man im just yearning for that hurt/comfort

word count: 4.4k

synopsis: You test out if your efforts with the tonics are worth anything and Azriel bestows you with a gift. He asks about the Blood Rite and you ponder the strange, golden thread you've been feeling in your chest. Disaster strikes when night falls.

CHAPTER FIVE :: CONFIDANTS

You look younger in your sleep, Azriel thinks.

He doesn't think he's ever seen you like this before. The hard lines of your face are all smoothed out as you rest, so unlike your usual expression. There's something softer about you.

The constant furrow between your brows is whisked away for once. He can still see the familiar line between your brows though, if he looks close enough.

If he can look past the bruises that mottle your face, that is.

The damage you've sustained from training within the camp is severe enough to curdle something sour in his stomach.

Azriel had held his reservations about his trip back to Velaris— a suspicion that proved to be well founded. His own memories of training at Windhaven provide plentiful ways for you to have ended up in this state.

You’re curled up instinctively in your sleep, wings tucked around yourself. It sews of thread of worry through Azriel's chest, a slight concern at the state of your wounds and how the position will agitate them. While you don't move much in your sleep, he knows from experience that it'll be hell when you finally do stretch back out.

But... he can’t bring himself to wake you. You need the sleep desperately.

Azriel is fairly certain that the huddled form you take is some subconscious way to protect yourself, even in your sleep. Your wings drape across yourself, keeping yourself covered, hidden.

And while that makes some part of Azriel's heart ache, he can't deny that you—it looks… sort of cute.

Azriel forces himself to avert his eyes, ducking his chin for extra measure. Those pesky thoughts were becoming more and more frequent — something that he's pointedly ignoring at this point.

Protect, his shadows whirl around his ears like tiny gusts of wind, whispering their suggestions. Protect, they whisper.

Protect. Both a thought and a feeling. A guiding intuition that seems to reverberate from his very bones.

The suggestion from his shadows isn't entirely left field either, as they always take inspiration from what he can see. From his wandering thoughts, from his prolonged gentle gaze that lays upon you whenever he can.

Azriel scowls lightly at himself. He had no claim to protect you and further more, most Illyrian males like yourself would take great amounts of offence to the mere insinuation. He knows that you are more than capable.

He steals another glance at your peaceful, sleeping figure and his shadows seem to quieten in response— at least about you. The whispers don't ever truly quieten.

Azriel's fairy certain where they're getting their ideas. It's what he wonders too as he takes in your battered face once more—whether it’s the truth or just his familiar brand of desperate hope.

Something that would explain the urge to protect beyond reason.

Something like... a bond forged in starlight.

The Mother's Kiss whistles quietly outside and Azriel shifts his gaze again and this time, it lays upon the Heartstriker.

Sitting atop the one table-top in your shelter, the blade stays sheathed away in the very same bejeweled case that Azriel had found it in. Same as on that very first day he laid his hands on it.

It had been a wretched mission. One of his very first. It was not performed with the eloquence he would come to learn in future years.

Heartstriker had not been the objective of the mission. Far from it, in truth. The objective was a simple stealth reconnaissance into the Court of Nightmares.

He was to delve beneath the rock of the mountain in a mission very similar to his current. Swirlings of rumours and whispers of rebellion, against the new Highlord. Azriel was there to learn who had the guts to pick up the knife and try.

Heartstriker was a ploy. A shiny trick that Azriel had not yet learned how to evade.

He was still a novice by his own standards, only a few hundred years old. Spying in this sense was still fresh, still new. The work he had done under Rhysand's father during the war had been far more reliant on his brute strength. He had strict instructions not to hesitate to draw his blade.

It had taken time to relearn the importance in a message sent with words.

To remember the power of mercy.

This mission had been the first and only time Azriel had underestimated the measures in place in the Court of Nightmares, meant to keep out the likes of him.

His hesitance to kill had given another Fae time to trip an alarm, to flood the room with warriors. So when he had been backed into a corner by the snarling miscreants that lived in the belly of the mountain, taken by surprise, he hadn't hesitated to snatch up any weapon he could reach.

And it had branded him, singeing him right to his core.

But when he tried to force his fingers apart, they wouldn't obey, even as they screamed with the pain of the invisible flames. It was as though his hand had become fused with the blade, each atom of his being completely joined with the bronze of the sword through a terrible, unstoppable and invisible force.

Every part of him shrieked in agony. An age-old fear reared up within him, his hands burning like they were set alight and he could feel the flames licking at his skin, at his hands, could smell the scent of burning flesh—

He had fought on and won, all the same, taking on two battles at once. Fighting foes by real and faux, all whilst burning up from within all the while. The sword was immeasurably heavy and yet too light, all at once.

And only once almost all his enemies were slain, their blood staining the marble floors, did the burning cease. The blade seem to hum in response to the battle— drawn to the final foe who was clawing for his breath through his blood-soaked throat.

The tip of the sword had urged Azriel forward, like pulled by an invisible string, and he let it lead him, plunging the blade through the chest and into the heart of the last enemy left.

Only after, had the humming stopped. The sword finally clattered from Azriel's strong grip, the fusion broken.

His hands were same as ever, mottled with their scars, but with no indication of the burning he knew he had felt.

On his return, Rhys had told him the history of the sword and it's duly fitting name: Heartstriker.

It hadn't been claimed in centuries and as such, naturally it had come to live amongst other cursed objects within the Court of Nightmares. Unable to be used, unless someone bested the pain it took to raise it.

But Azriel had, entirely by accident.

It is said that once mastered, it will always strike true. Rhys had said, violet eyes gleaming as he looked over the bronze sword with piqued interest. That it's more than a regular sword but a living thing you must work in tandem with.

If anyone tries to take it from you, they must suffer the same fate. It can be gifted freely but, He had paused, that smirk that held no warmth in it pulling at his lips. I'm sure you can guess how often that happens down there.

It hadn't been used within the Night Court either, condemned to another hundred years or so without sight of battle. Azriel had more than enough blades of his own. The Illyrian broadsword that he had earned all that time ago in the Blood Rite for a proper battle and his Truth-Teller for the finer details.

Heartstriker wasn't right for his stature. Too short, strange weighted.

He'd kept it all the same. Perhaps, he told himself, to keep some other Fae from suffering the same fate if they laid hands on it.

His hazel eyes drift back across to you, bundled within yourself. You make a noise in your sleep, a gentle snuffle, and Azriel finds himself smiling.

Or perhaps, he thinks, he knew to keep it for entirely other reasons.

—

The quick healing of Illyrian's is more often a blessing than it is a curse.

On today's quiet winter morning, it is somehow both.

When you wake, dragged from your slumber in the early hours, it's before the sun has begun to make an appearance on the horizon. The shelter is coated in a soft darkness of dawn. The trees sway outside, a thousand creatures still roaming amongst their branches, reliant on the dark before daylight breaks.

It's the pain that wakes you, ebbing in through your sleep til it shakes off your sleep. You wake with your teeth already gritted.

The only pleasant surprise is that fact you're not shuddering yourself awake out of a nightmare, especially considering yesterday's training session.

You have a feeling that it has something to do with the sleeping Illyrian, propped up beside the fireplace, keeping watch.

His shadows still move about, even in his sleep. His neck is tucked down, his forehead pressed against his knee. It hides away part his face but as your eyes adjust to the shadowy light, you can make out his closed eyes. His hair looks messier than you've ever seen it.

It can't be comfortable, sleeping the way he is— but you have a feeling that Azriel has slept in places far worse before.

Shifting about in the darkness, your hand comes down to press tenderly at your sides, assessing as quietly as you can. There's no immediate sting of sliced skin as your fingers tips poke and prod at the skin, which makes you sigh in relief. You press down again, at bit harder this time, and it forces a wince out your gritted teeth.

Extremely bruised. But at the very least, the skin has knitted itself together in the nighttime.

Your face still aches, too. It's not quite the same ringing that made both eyes throb painfully yesterday and with a slow wrinkle of your nose, you can assess that the worst of your broken nose has healed up too.

Your ears, however, poses a different problem. One of them, the right side, still rings lightly. It would be more concerning, you think, if the left one itself wasn't so muffled altogether.

Huffing out a breath, you drag yourself up to a sitting position, moving at a tentative pace. Pain ricochets around your body. You're doing the best you can to be quiet but it's futile it seems — there's one creak of the bed as your weight shifts and Azriel's wings twitch, giving him away. He’s awake.

He lifts his head slowly, letting it roll from one side to the next, stretching out his neck. It's the only indication he gives you of feeling sore from his cramped sleep all night, his attentive eyes already watching you closely. His shadows, you notice, seem to gain speed at his rousing— circling his shoulders and neck closely.

You clear your throat and focus your gaze forward, resuming the task at hand. Raising one hand, you snap your fingers beside your left ear, then your right.

Frustration bubbles up inside you as you repeat the motion, as if it’ll change the outcome.

It doesn’t.

At least beyond the ringing, your right ear can hear the snap clearly— a keen Fae sense that like any warrior, you rely heavily on. The left one…

All you can think is that they must have hit you pretty damn hard to leave it as dulled as it feels. It can still hear, thankfully, but the noise that filters through is muffled around the edges. Buzzy. It makes you feel off kilter and unbalanced.

You let your hand drop and try to remain stoic, so used to hiding your emotions away from your face. You don't realise your drooping, limp wings give you away anyways.

Azriel gets to his feet swiftly, the movement so smooth you would have never guessed he spent the night tucked up uncomfortably against the bricks of your fireplace. He regards you with those burning amber eyes and your heart seems to lurch forward in response. You avert your gaze.

"It would seem we have an opportunity to test out our efforts." He says. His voice is still coated in sleep, low and rumbley, and it sends a bright zing down your spine. You lift your gaze from your lap and raise your brows in question.

He waves a hand to the table, in gesture.

Your various ingredients for brewing the tonics stay tucked in one corner, some wrapped up and set beneath the table. There are several different bottles too, stoppered with corks and containing yours and Azriel's attempts at the healing tonics.

It takes another moment to understand what he means.

"No," You say sharply, climbing to your feet. A thousand parts of your ache and groan in protest and you channel your focus into not letting a single ounce of it show.

Rolling your tense shoulders back, you wander towards your armor in slow steady steps. "Those aren't for me. I've healed enough in the night."

"I see." Azriel replies. "Is that why your left ear isn't working right?"

Gaze snapping back to him, you curse his ever-so observant nature. Maybe that's on you for trying to keep a secret from a Shadowsinger.

You are keeping a secret from a shadowsinger, something whispers in you.

A cold flush fills your body, numbing out every nerve for a single moment. The hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Your wings hike up, tuck in. It feels wrong.

For the first time in your life, it feels so so utterly wrong to be keeping this secret from someone. To be hiding who you truly are.

But Azriel... he was a stranger not too long ago, wasn't he? You're not sure if you can even call each other friends, even if you had begun to in your mind, without even realising.

You think back to last night, to when he could have easily lifted your shirt a few inches higher when trying to save your life and known.

Then you wonder if he did — and he hasn't said anything.

If he's waiting for you to trip up, to fess up, to explain to him why you've been lying to him from the moment you first met him.

Azriel seems to sense your internal battle, the same way he seems senses a thousand things from you as though he's known you his whole life. He clears his throat to get your attention. When you focus your vision back on him, you notice one of the bottles is in his scarred fingers.

"I will train you today," He says. "On the condition that you take it."

Your nose twitches. It's an ultimatum. He knows you want to train, to brush off yesterday and let the pain in your body fuel the determination of today but he won't let you do it so carelessly. Bastard.

Before you can blink, he tosses the bottle across to you. You react instinctively, cradling your hands to catch it quickly before you realise what you're doing. Your nose twitches again, a tiny flare of annoyance at his smugness.

No, not smugness. Surety. His expression, bordering on bored, tells you that he knows you don't have any other options— unless you want to climb back into bed and rot for the day.

You yank the cork off the bottle harshly. Then, just to show him how unpleased you are with this, you lob the cork at him with all your might. Your bruised side screams in response. Azriel snatches from the air easily, without so much as a blink.

He looks like he wants to smile but thinks the better of it, placing the cork gently onto the table. "I'll meet you outside." He eyes the uncorked bottle in your hand then back at you. "Drink it. Please."

—

The tonic, as you find out, is only mildly effective.

It's a gutting discovery. The mixture is nowhere near potent enough to fix the level of nerve damage that gets inflicted during clippings if it barely lightens the bruises on your side.

The mottled blue painted on your skin gives way to a light purple, the edges of them retracting to a tinged yellow. The skin glows hot as the tonic works as best as it can.

The taste of it is nearly as rancid as the failure feels.

You deal with it the only way you know how; chewing it up and spitting it back out as determination to do better. The drive to push yourself harder in training rears up, fiery and stubborn— harder than you logically know is any help to yourself.

What was already tedious and heinous training is made that much worse by your injuries.

You're moving sloppily today, offbeat. The dullness in your left ear helps to keep you off balance. Still, you manage to keep up with Azriel— not quite the one step ahead you're usually aiming for but, at the very least, you're still holding your own.

Your ribs ache and your heads throbs. The ringing in your right ear has disappeared with the help of the tonic, only to have started up in the left. A relief in one sense— it's good to be hearing more of anything. A fucking pain in another.

The only major upside, really, is the sword.

The Heartstriker, Azriel had called it

You had been half convinced it was a hallucination, the gift. Sure that it some desperate illusion born out of the delirium of the blood loss because, really, when was the last time you had ever gotten a gift?

When you'd limped your way out into the snow and saw it in his hands, you had blinked in disbelief.

But it's almost like Azriel had expected it, his scarred hands reaching out to gently curl around your wrist, murmuring its name as he had pressed it into your hand. It's yours, he had said.

He had let go of your wrist go immediately, stepping back but not far, still hovering close by. He let you have a moment to marvel at it before he urged you to follow to the usual neck of the woods you trained in. The sound of clashing steel had soon followed.

It's a perfect addition, you find.

The blade is like a mere extension of your own arm. It's light enough to carve through the air with ease but when you strike, it's buries deep. Compared the Illyrian broadsword used in training at camp, it suits your stature far better. You move more agilely, hit more frequently and harder when you do.

It's probably the best thing you've ever owned— ever held.

You're gazing at it where it rests on your lap, glinting in the light of the day, as you try to catch your breath. Azriel had given you a moment to recover, far earlier than normal, due to your injuries, no doubt. Normally, you'd grumble and snarl and push him to continue but today, you're quite happy to have another moment to stare at the first gift you've gotten.

Azriel breaks the silence with a question.

"Why haven't you competed in the Blood Rite?"

Something icy spikes in your blood and your back straightens instinctively, the hair on the nape of your neck standing on end. Whether he knows it or not, he is treading close to dangerous territory.

"Why do you ask?" You answer his question with another question.

Azriel regards you with a certain look, his dark eyes dragging down your body intensely and back up to your face. It's enough to make you fluster momentarily, to feel a faint stirring in your heart that doesn't entirely feel like your own. No one has ever looked at you like that before.

"You're strong. You hold your own. You're of age." He states carefully. "You remain attached to this camp with no rank until you pass it. Why not?"

You scowl at his frame of thinking, as if you haven't passed over those reasons a thousand times. Beyond the fact you can't ever ensure you wouldn't be burdened with your cycle during the Blood Rite, there's more than enough reason for you to remain a nobody.

You feel oddly disappointed that he would think only in that manner; glory and rank.

"What makes you think I want any rank in my camp?" You spit bitingly, watching as his wings sink down an inch at your tone. His misunderstanding of why you've chosen this way of life bothers you more than you expect.

"Because you did?" You ask. "Because three bastards fought their way through it and won and left their shitty pasts behind? I am not you, Azriel."

Azriel doesn't react, not even the raising of his brows. Only his shadows give himself away, whirling around slower than usual. He speaks in that same careful tone as before.

"I know you are not."

He makes you feel foolish for giving in to any lick of your anger, for so quickly snapping at your only friend. You turn your head away and stare down into the snow, taking a breath. Cauldron, you're tired. Lifting you arm, you wipe your forehead with the back of your hand, clearing the sweat that beads there.

"I could leave but for what reason? Ever since I—" You suck a sharp inhale, swallowing back words that dance too close to giving you away. You pray he doesn't notice your hesitation. "Ever since I was young, this has been my goal. This change must come from within, you know that."

You inhale again, feeling the breath rattle past every ache and pain in your chest.

"I can only do the things I do... the things I must achieve, by being unnoticeable."

You cast a glance up to him. "To them, I am some bastard who won't give up and die. I am not a proper threat. You, of all people, should understand that it's easiest to work when people are not paying proper attention."

And that's all you have known — how to become unnoticeable when needed and how to be noticed when wanted. Attention, you've learned, only means a target on your back.

Beyond that... you can't imagine someone who would want to notice you for anything more. You've had many, many years to make peace with that bitter fact.

I am.

Without warning, there's a sudden thrum from deep within you, like a echo of a drum, of a call. It's golden and threaded with softness. I am paying attention.

It startles you, one hand flying to your armored chest in surprise. As quick as it had appeared, the hum flees and leaves your bound chest twingeing only in its usual discomfort. One moment of brief serenity. You long for it, despite the unfamiliar nature.

You realise abruptly that you've trailed off and force yourself to move, body aching in the process. Heartstriker sinks into the snow and you use it to clamber to your feet, not nearly as graceful as you would like. Azriel doesn't say anything.

In fact, when you lift your gaze to meet his, he's staring at you more intensely than usual. His shadows seem more agitated. They flit about, circling his hands more than his shoulders, and you can barely see the scarred skin through their inky darkness.

There's a long moment. Around you both, the trees creek as they bend in the wind, a thousand leaves rustling around you in a chorus.

Azriel breaks the silence, casting his eyes to the ground and lifting his blade. "No more questions."

He says it like a promise, his lips pulling at the edges like he might be offering a smile.

"Just fighting."

—

By the time the moon rises, the ache in your body has dimmed to a more bearable pain.

While you'd be miffed at the idea of Azriel pulling his punches, you can't deny the sliver of gratitude you have for it now. As you reach over the cauldron of simmering stew, only a few of your ribs twinge enough to make your motions falter momentarily. The stew bubbles and brews, filling your shelter with a hearty smell.

It's been too long since you last cooked something to share.

You try to shelve the guilt away—you and Azriel have been running a very tight schedule, switching between training, tonics and rest. Taking time to cook, for yourself or others, hasn't even had time to cross your mind.

Your brief brush back with the reality during yesterday's training, however, had provided you with ample reminders. Your home camp and all its violent glory.

So, you cook. The logs crackle on the fire and above them, the stew simmers gently as you stir absentmindedly at it. Giving yourself this quiet moment, you let your thoughts drift as the tiredness of the day trickles into your body. Your thoughts turn to the quiet Shadowsinger.

He had taken his leave as soon as he had declared the end of your days training, needing another trip to Velaris.

I'll be back by morning, he had said, each of his seven cerulean siphons flaring brightly before he stepped between the fabric of the world and disappeared. Another hidden trick up his sleeve.

You'd allowed yourself only one moment of surprise before you closed your mouth— you really needed to stop underestimating him. As the stew before you begins to hiss and spit, you pull yourself from your thoughts and prepare yourself for the discomfort of meal times.

They never are as friendly as you might hope.

Despite your generosity, the different outcasts of Exordor remain cagey. Regard you with pensive and guarded looks, hands hovering on the butts of their swords. You can't blame them in the slightest.

But those that can brave the walk to your cabin, risking both themselves and your own safety against the other Illyrian brutes in the camp, are rewarded with a hot meal. Tonight, you feed 12 hungry mouths before your doorstep grows quiet.

You pack it all away in silence, with a quite yearning for company you've only just become used to having.

It's only as you're tucking in for the night, your wings wrapped around yourself tightly, does the first pain strike. Right to your core, the very insides of your gut feels as though it's being shredded. You gasp, your entire body curling up tighter to fight against the pain.

For only a moment, confusion clouds your mind at the attack that seems to come from nowhere, from an invisible enemy. Only one answer comes forward—the only thing that can threaten to reveal your secret without your permission, through mere scent alone.

A certain agony that only tortures you twice a year.

[NEXT PART: BETRAYERS]

#azriel #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger #azriel shadowsinger x reader #azriel x you #azriel shadowsinger x you #azriel fic #azriel fanfic #azriel acotar #azriel fanfiction #acotar fanfiction #acotar #i have nothing to say but sorry it took more than a month!!!!!!!! ahhhh!!!!!!!!!#mwahmwah please forgive me #we're GETTING there #i just keep being dedicated to the backstory lmao #TOO dedicated

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daisy-milk · 3 months

Text

Non Dimenticar

three times in which you needed minho, though it wasn't in you to ask

➠ lee minho x reader

➠ wc: 1.7k

➠ summary: both you and minho are independent induviduals, and that aspect thrives in your relationship. though it makes it hard for you to reach out to him when you need it. you and him learn that sooner or later you both will have to learn how to ask for help.

➠ warnings: slight angst (maybe its normal level angst idk its pretty sad), mentions of passing out, mentions of injury, mentions of hosptial/emergency room, overworked reader

➠ masterlist

➠ a/n: i am currently a little tipsy and therefore this is not proofread

he gets it. he really does. he understands because he is the same way. all his life, he has had the same mentality, but now that he’s met you, he has learned; and perhaps it was because you were so similar in that sense that he learned what it looked like from an outside perspective.

it was your inability to ask for help and openness to receiving it.

minho, as well, struggled with this. throughout his life he had that mindset. one of, ‘whatever is happening will pass. you must power through. don’t drag others down with you,’ and he knew what it felt like from a personal level. pretty much, you both lived a very much ‘just thug it out’ lifestyle. minho never saw it as too much of a problem though. it didn’t seem to hurt others, in his eyes it kept them safe even, ignorance is bliss, no? but that was until he met you.

minho saw in you, the struggle that was deep within him. the one many urged him to overcome, because he never would see any issue in it.

the first time he began to become aware was when the two of you were working out. you were both doing bicep curls, your attention on the mirror in front of you as you counted your sets. minho and you took turns and he was using a heavier weight than you, so naturally you dropped yours in favor of letting him switch the plates. you must have been distracted however, and in switching, you accidentally dropped the heavy plate onto your big toe. minho wouldn’t have even noticed if his eyes weren’t trained on you at all times. you didn’t even make a sound when it dropped on you, just an airy hiss, and through your reflection in the mirror you tried your best to play it off. the weight was heavy enough to raise concern, there was no way that didn’t affect you. therefore, minho spoke up,

“hey, you good? that looked painful” he grabbed your arm as you stepped away.

you shook your head, “nah. i’m fine. i’ve had worse,” a chuckle leaves your lips in an attempt to put your boyfriend at ease.

minho gave you a look. one of uncertainty. though he didn’t want to pry. he knows that even if it was hurting there is a reason you aren’t asking him for help.

perhaps he should have asked though. you didn’t say anything further but he couldn’t help but notice the quite obvious limp you wore as you walked out of the gym. he noticed, as he peeked at your uncovered foot when you got into bed with him that your toe began to swell and bruise a nasty shade of purple. he noticed the way, even after days, you struggle to put your full weight onto your foot. he urged you to see a doctor, but you brushed it off, saying that it’ll heal on its own, you’ve had worse.

again, he didn’t pry and you never brought it up. though he knows now to keep a close eye on you at the gym.

the second time was probably the most brutal. what started as a simple stomach ache soon became an even worse pain that had you doubling over in pain. be it cramps, your pesky lactose intolerance, or food poisoning, you always had an excuse for when minho began to worry. because naturally he would become worried at the sight of you rendering unmovable due to the pain. though no matter what, each time you would ease his mind with a new excuse and a wave of your hand. the excuses lasted a while. though it was only a matter of time until something worse happened. he had gotten a call from you late into the evening, “hey…” your voice was low, it sounded as if you were far from the mic, “can you… can you uh pick me up. i’m at that pho spot near your place. i’m- i… uh don’t think i can drive home.”

“did you drink?” he had asked. you had told him no, but offered no further explanation. he could tell there was something you didn’t want to tell him; he knew there was a reason you sounded hesitant to ask for his help.

minho had been right because upon arrival he was met with your nearly passed out form, drooping from the driver’s seat of your car. he rushed to you, and you were conscious, luckily. though you did let out a loud groan in pain, your hand clutching your abdomen tightly. without another thought, he rushed you to the emergency room.

fate was on your side that night. appendicitis. the doctors had told you that you were lucky that you hadn’t waited. if it were perhaps a day later, your appendix may have ruptured. the two of you shared a brief look as the doctor debriefed you. it was a knowing look.

during your surgery minho thanked every star in the sky that night. he also made sure to schedule himself a check-up with his physician as well. he had to take care of himself to take care of you, is what he told himself.

the third time wasn’t a physical injury per say. minho caught you in your room. using the spare keys you gave him, he welcomed himself into your apartment as he normally did, though you weren’t expecting him this time. he wanted it to be a surprise. he knew you were studying hard and came in to surprise you with your usual coffee order and some homemade pastries felix made.

instead he found you at your desk, uncomfortably splayed out before your computer. surrounding you were litters of paper and textbooks, most with notes and formulas, but as he looked closer there were papers completely scribbled out, torn, crumpled; it looked like a disaster. he couldn’t count the amount of tabs open of your computer, the chaos that reigned the screen made his head hurt just looking at it. there were at least 2 empty coffee cups on the floor and another on the table, the ice melting into the now lukewarm americano. his hand cropped the one he brought you a little tighter.

“sweetheart?” he questioned carefully, kneeling down to reach face level with you.

though you were curled up, he caught a clear glimpse of your face. you looked nearly lifeless and his heart shattered. minho knew it was just finals. he knew that you were probably fine, but what made him break was the fact you were going through it all alone. it had been days since you contacted him, and it wasn’t an issue for him, the two of you were good at maintaining your own personal time, and as per usual he never pried. but the thought of you, pulling through like this for days left his stomach falling into the deepest pits within himself.

“my poor baby…” his finger traced your cheek, now squished against the table. your skin was dull, eye bags too present, day old makeup faded and smudged all over your eyes. minho kicked himself for not coming sooner.

minho’s arms curl under you and he pulls your body into his arms. you’re so knocked out that you barely notice the movement. as if it were second nature, you curl into his hold as he hoists you up. his face softens a little as you do so, relieved that even in this state you know to trust him completely. his arms bring you to your bed where he carefully tucks you in, giving a gentle pat on your head as he moves to clean up your desk.

scattered papers and endless notes littered the surface of your desk. it wasn’t just your desk though. your room itself was left in a messy array, the days of stress piled up and you couldn’t bring yourself to clean, as litter and clothes became too much to handle. without a second thought, minho cleaned, folding clothes, tossing garbage until your room was spotless. he finished at your desk, beginning to pick up your papers as you woke.

silently, you approached him, your hand resting on his from behind as he gathered some sheets of paper,

“minho…” you said groggily, “don’t worry about it… i-i’m not finished with those. gotta finish them then i’ll clean it up”

you attempted to grab the notes but he stopped you. his hand took the papers from your own. without a word he continued to gather the papers and pile them neatly to the side. you didn’t have any energy left to stop him, to argue. you just let him do this thing. after he powered off your computer, he finally turned to you. his hands now rested on your cheeks, gently brushing the soft skin on your face. his head tilted at you as if you were one of his cats, his thumbs brushing the crusty makeup around your eyes.

“did you sleep well?” finally he spoke

”i have a lot to study…”

”did you eat today?” he continued

“there’s only one more day before my project is due…” he remained quiet and continued to caress your face, “… i won’t have time to study after my classes and…” you began to lean into his touch, softening up from both your sleepiness and his affection, “…and…” you could melt into the way he looked at you right now, “…and i have to finish… i’ll rest when i…”

”you must be so tired, hm?” there was no other infliction in his voice aside from affection

“…yeah,” you admit, “…i’m really tired.”

tears began to well in your eyes as you dipped your head down. he didn’t let you though, using a gentle finger to tilt your head back up. new tears traced down the same path as the ones that were now dried on your cheeks.

“let’s go take a shower?” he asks and you nod. his hand leads you to your bathroom as he begins to use your makeup remover to gently wipe the makeup from your face.

his hands are too gentle, you think, as he cleans your skin.

”after this, we can study in bed, yeah? together.” he gazes down at you as he tosses one wipe for another, “next time… please call me. i know you want to do this alone, i get it, i thought the same way too. but now that i have you, i could never want to be alone again. trust me when i say, i will never be tired of being with you, helping you, no matter what it is. just please, call me when you need me,” he presses a soft kiss to your forehead, “i promise i’ll call you when i need you too.”

please leave feedback please please please

#skz #stray kids #lee know #lee know angst #lee know x reader #minho x reader #minho angst #minho stray kids #lee know stray kids #lee minho #lee minho stray kids #minho

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mintsvnoo · 5 months

Text

JUST WANT YOUR ATTENTION!

PAIRING zb1! ricky x gnreader

— in which (name) is a favored upper class and would always be asked by first years to help them with their school work, continuously depriving attention to their best friend shen quanrui. having been fed up with it, mister loverman decides to confront the first years about it, ultimately leading to him confessing his love for (name) to the freshmen's...

GENRE non-idol au, fluff, drabble, friends to lovers

WARNING|S threatening freshmans?

A. NOTE all writings and reactions from these idols are from MY imagination, it does not reflect their actions and reactions irl! dàjiě/dá gē is a word in chinese, meaning big sister (dàjiě) and big brother (dá gē) or eldest sister/eldest brother, while for lǎoshī is referred to a teacher. i used chinese words since ricky's nationality is chinese.

more under the cut !

“hey (name)! i've got something cool for you to see”

turning around you saw your best friend quanrui, walking with a swift pace, opening your mouth to say something, but instead of your soft voice that quanrui wished to hear, a young and annoyingly loud voice was heard instead. “dàjiě/dá gē (name)! come with us!! we need your help for something!” said five first year students who we're running quickly towards the both of you, well evidently, you. stopping for a second to catch their breaths before saying. “our teacher made us do a video project on how to make a diagram of a volcano erupt!” the boy in the middle said before getting cut off. “we've tried every procedures and steps and tutorials, but nothing worked! you're our only hope now!!” the shortest girl of the bunch continued with a pleading tone at the end. “oh, i... have something else to—” you tried to protest but was quickly cut short. “pretty please, dàjiě/dá gē (name)!~” all of them pleaded at the same time.

you sighed knowing your in a losing battle before agreeing to come with them. as they now grabbed you towards their room, you turn your head back to ricky to shot him an apologetic expression, while he just smiled and raised his hand up to motion a wave and walked away.

this went on for twenty. more. days. and it'll be always when he would come up to you to talk or just overall try to hangout with you, it's almost like they we're trying to keep him away from you! no, wait IT IS like they want to keep him away from you! and no way can he let that happen. so one day, after the first lunch break, he quickly went to the first year building after eating his fill to confront those pesky little attention stealers...

“hey you, your (insert random name) right?” ricky said while walking behind a group of short freshman's thats attention where quickly gathered. “y-yeah, do you need anything dá gē rick..?” now forgot to mention the ricky is has notorious reputation in all of campus. he's that typical bad boy campus crush with only one friend, that's you the school crush and also he only let's you call him ricky. “yeah, need you to stop always asking (name) for help with your stupid group projects, if your always going to rely on a senior for help then how are you supposed to learn to be dependent? and also why do you always have group projects? wang lǎoshī isn't one to give out group project every now and then—” before ricky could finish, he was quickly cut off by the truth. “okay, okay! you caught us... we don't actually always have group projects,” said the boy at the left. “we would always ask dàjiě/dá gē (name) to come with us because we are afraid that you're doing something bad to them! because you know.. they said you we're a bully....” (insert random name) continued before the girl next to him nudged his arm harshly to stop him from talking more.

not shocked by the sudden accusation, ricky simply relaxed his shoulders and reassured them that. “their my friend, not my punching bag. so stay away from them, okay?” he said in soft yet monotone voice befire turning around, once he was about to walk away a sudden ‘why?' was heard followed by a audible slap was heard. wherein, ricky only turned his head to look at them. “because i want to spend time with them for atleast once. and also because, they're going to be mine.” he said, as the group of freshman's only looked at him with a slightly shocked face. realizing what he just said, he swiftly turned back his head and slowly bolted out of the teen's gaze. ignoring the 'so you like dàjiě/dá gē (name)!?’ question.

the next day, after arriving to school, he was quick to grabbed his books and quickly went to find yoy, which turned out to be a mistake. since he saw you sitting on a railing outside your classroom with that... pesky little boy.. whispering something at your ear. when you two locked eyes, his stomach suddenly began to feel tingly, and his face not hiding it. i mean, he just can't especially on how you looked at him like the truth the you've yearned to come true was being said to you, the way you smiled so brightly with clear blushing cheeks. it's almost like his gaze was locked on you and only you can be seen and heard, and also can be the only one to break that lovesick gaze.

“right, so you, just want my attention, hm?” oh, how all his regrets on confessing his feelings to those freshmen's haved all been slipped away after you said those words.

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wheredidhiseyebrowsgo · 9 months

Note

Heyy, love what you do. You're amazing.

I was looking for sterek fics where Derek has a dirty mouth, even porn couldn't compare to the things that come out of his mouth when he is with stiles. ♥️♥️♥️

Cover your ears ya'll.

A quickie in the janitors closet by pizzz_10

(1/1 842)

Stiles wanted to go lunch after class, but Derek has other ideas

Something to Remember Me By by 1lostone

(1/1 I 5,038)

At a graduation party, Derek makes some assumptions.

Stiles sets him straight.... so to speak.

Gordian Knot (Of Sex) by tourdefierce

(1/1 I 5,859)

Losing his virginity was hard enough when Lydia Martin was his sole focus. Now there are werewolves involved and this is way crazier. For one, there are a lot more dicks involved. (To be fair, in some of his fantasies, Lydia Martin had an impressive rubber cock.) Either way, Stiles doesn't know why he thought getting rid of his pesky virginity was going to be easier with Derek involved—the guy is practically allergic to doing anything the easy way and that includes Stiles. Being done. Because he's easy. What.

Things We Know, Unsaid by uraneia

(1/1 I 6,036)

Stiles accidentally finds a trunk full of Derek's professional dom gear from when he lived in New York. They don't talk about it. Then Stiles turns eighteen, and they do.

If he thought Derek would be angry or embarrassed at Stiles finding a trunk full of quality BDSM gear in his closet, he’d have been wrong. “I used to do it professionally, in New York,” Derek says easily, and Stiles—Stiles doesn’t know how to process that. Because he’s seventeen and has eyes and an unfortunately vivid imagination, and if he lets it go there he’s not going to get any use out of any body part except his dick for several hours.

Feel You Breathing by sugareey

(3/3 I 8,400)

Derek: So, you need a distraction.

Stiles: Maybe Stiles: It’d be better if you were here to help me with that. Stiles: ;D

[Or: Sexy things start late one night when Derek gets a text from Stiles and escalate from there. A few secrets are revealed along the way.]

Melt Me Slowly Down by maichan808 (maichan)

(1/1 I 20,307)

The last thing Stiles expects when he walks into Lydia’s exclusive S&M club is to rescue a sub who’s obviously been mistreated for a long time. His name is Derek, and when he awkwardly reaches out, asking Stiles to be his Dom, the urge to shield Derek from more pain is too strong for Stiles to resist. But Derek is still recovering from his past and learning how to set boundaries, so they have to take things slow.

Incredibly Gifted Fakers by Fortem

(21/? I 76,596)

Stiles desperately needs a new scene partner and Derek desperately needs a job. They may just be able to help each other out, if they remember that this is all supposed to be acting.

Yoda Said It Best by OKDeanna

(21/21 I 99,128)

Derek Hale knows he as a problem. Contrary to what some might believe, he isn’t stupid. He knows the Jeep has meaning to him, real meaning. The kind of meaning that he doesn’t want to think about, let alone stop and have to analyze. Except… his son keeps pushing him about it, prodding at him, and then before Derek knows it, Stiles is back in Beacon Hills, driving the one thing in the world Derek wishes he never had to set eyes on again. If Derek isn’t careful, he could open himself up to a fall, and that would affect more than just his son but also his own traitorous heart. Because with Stiles back, Derek finally has hope again, and its making him want the things he knows better than to ever crave: a home, a future, a life—love.

Domestication by Arver7, Moit

(37/37 I 280,892)

Derek and Stiles are heat partners, but neither realises how invested the other one is. When Stiles winds up pregnant, their relationship gets more serious, even if neither of them knows how to handle it.

#teen wolf #sterek #stiles stilinski #derek hale #dirty talk #anon #rating:_e

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many-gay-magpies · 10 months

Text

An expansion of my headcannon of skykids being able to transform into the animals their masks are based off of! Typed versions of the image text and additional notes below the cut, because LORD do I have so much to say about this concept.

Image 1:

Bottom left text:

BODY is just the CONTAINER—Skykid soul is the LIGHT inside

Light takes shape of container at first, but has no one shape

Top right text:

Light grows used to assuming humanoid shape to fit container, but as a skykid strengthens their light, they remember/learn how to assume other shapes and gain the ability to mold their container to their will.

Image 2:

LIGHT is fluid, but the container is stiff and easily broken (at least at first). It takes a lot of slow, hard work to mold it, and MASKS are used to tell the container what shape to take/give the LIGHT a direction.

Skykids imbue their mask with their light so that when they wear it, it connects to them and allows the transformation to occur.

Change happens in increments, not all at once—learning to shape oneself takes TIME.

Small notes: "Small changes first" above the drawing of the two hands, and "Most stick to an anthropomorphic form" beside the fox skykid.

Additional Notes:

This process is also why Skykids are born wearing masks. Because light is fluid and has no single shape, the light of a newborn Skykid has not yet learned how to be humanoid, and is at risk of breaking the fragile body it inhabits, therefore: Megabird gives newborn Skykids a basic mask to “teach” their light how to maintain its shape inside the container. It takes a lot of effort to obtain the blank/“faceless” mask because it takes a lot of effort for Skykids to maintain a humanoid shape without the assistance of a mask.

Also potentially how the chibi mask works (in a world where chibis aren’t just toddlers/babies)—the mask tells the Skykid to be small.

The process of becoming a Morpho (workshopping the name) is long and arduous, and involves a lot of studying the animal one wants to take the shape of, before then making the mask that will guide the shape-change. Though most of the Skykids who take an animal form choose a more anthropomorphic default, it is possible to transform completely into the animal of choice, and this is often done for fun or stress relief.

Possible that the Eden cycle strengthens the body and makes it more malleable to change? Something to do with repeatedly dying and being reincarnated and becoming more familiar with/at home in the body you possess. Kinda like how exercising is just you tearing muscles in your body so that they grow back even stronger.

Masks can also of course be just masks. A lot of Skykids like to wear animal masks without doing any of the actual Becoming; its fun to disguise as a little creature sometimes!

Unlike human beings (and potentially ancestors?), who are all full of guts and bones and stuff, Skykids are pretty much all light in there, and the outside is just a shell. They can eat and drink and everything, and it’s fun, but it all gets burnt up instead of being digested or anything and they don’t need it to survive. Also how Krill work; they’re starved for light, and Skykids are full of it, but there’s this pesky little shell in the way, so the Krill have got to crack it to get the light out.

This is slightly inspired by the legends of the Selkie, with the masks being akin to the seal pelts that the Selkie wear to turn themselves into seals.

The body/container is what protects Skykids from having their light too badly damaged and allows them to walk the realms of Sky, but it is also what limits them in their ability to shape-change. In a hypothetical situation where a Skykid was completely unrestrained (i.e. pure light without a body, like we are in Orbit), they could potentially become any and every light creature available to them.

Essentially: Skykids = light, and light = all light creatures, so Skykids = all light creatures.

I’ll probably think of more stuff to add to this later, but for now that’s about it. I’m already thinking up possible animal forms for my singular sky OC lol (because even though I looked it up and that mask is technically a serow mask, it could very easily be any number of other things, like a dragon or a giraffe).

Bonus content: a little bird guy, and closeups of the random fox guy I made without their cape and hair (because I put way too much detail into parts of their outfit that weren’t even going to be visible). I’m for sure drawing them again <3

#magpie in the sky #sky cotl #my art #sky: children of the light #sky children of the light #sky cotl lore #thatskygame #sky cotl fanart #sky cotl art #worldbuilding #my sky #<- potential tag for my OG sky content #skyblr #skykid

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tickly-giggles · 1 year

Text

Feather Ticklish (My Hero Academia)

Warning: Tickle fic ahead!

Characters: League of Villains (Shigaraki, Dabi, Twice, Hawks)

Shipping: Technically DabiHawks but they're not together yet

Lee: Dabi

Ler: Hawks

Word Count: 2,683

Summary: During a meeting at the LoV hideout, Hawks notices Dabi looking more down and apathetic than usual. He tries to make him feel better, but when words don't work, he realizes he may need to take another approach.

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

It had been quite a slow day. The League of Villains had rather frequent meetings as of late, especially due to the pesky heroes getting on their case now more than ever. They usually consisted of what their goals were to be after they succeeded, an entire alphabet of alternative plans, and what to do in the worst case scenario - that being the heroes finding their hideout, a traitor in the League, or one of the League members dying.

The current meeting was regarding their newest recruitment, and how he was going to be of service to them. Shigaraki had a way of talking that made the meetings simultaneously entertaining, yet hard to bear. He was very passionate when he spoke, but his voice was shallow and raspy. Hearing it in large quantities didn’t help Dabi’s headache, especially when he had a tendency to ramble and go off topic.

The hot-headed villain rested his head against the big table they were all seated at, the cold surface stinging his skin in a refreshing way. Slowly, everything started to sound as if he were underwater, and he tuned out his cohorts’ voices. With a gentle sigh, Dabi closed his eyes and listened to nothing while he waited for his headache to subside.

Bzzzt-!

He jolted at the sudden vibration against his leg. With a low grumble, he fished his phone out of his pocket and glowered at the notification.

Bird Brain: hey, u look down. u ok?

Dabi furrowed his brow, then looked up at Hawks. He was sitting directly across from him.

Hot Stuff: Why are you texting me? You’re right in front of me.

Bird Brain: we’re in a meeting. i cant just talk over ppl

Oh, he supposed that made sense. Dabi rolled his eyes and responded.

Hot Stuff: Well I’m fine. Now leave me alone.

Dabi huffed as he placed his phone on the table, screen side down. He tuned back into the meeting - what was going on? … Ah, Shigaraki moved onto a different topic.

Twice raised his hand, “I know we’ve talked about the heroes finding our hideout, but what’s gonna happen if they do? I’m not worried, they’ll never find us!”

“Even if they did find us, Twice, they would stand no chance against us.”

Shigaraki put two fingers to his chin for a moment, then smiled weakly at his friend,

“Think of it all like a video game. We’re an army defending an entire tower, and another army is coming after us with their own arsenal of weapons. We have to defend as much as we can and, in the meantime, we’re only getting stronger.”

He smirked and raised his arms out on either side of him, taking a confident, triumphant stance,

“We learn the opposing army’s strengths and weaknesses, as well, and that only further solidifies our victory!”

“We shouldn’t be too lax about it, though,” Hawks chimed in calmly.

He grinned at Shigaraki and leaned back in his chair, resting his hands behind his head,

“The heroes may not know about the hideout now, but we shouldn’t rule it out as a possibility.”

“Of course, which is why this is our course of action.”

Dabi huffed and rested his chin in his hand, absentmindedly watching the meeting go on without really listening to anything being said anymore. None of it really concerned him. He knew what he was going to do if the heroes infiltrated. He was going to kill them, every last one. He watched as Shigaraki took the floor once again, rambling on about yet another plan.

Bzzzt-!

What did Hawks want now?

Bird Brain: u sure ur good? u look tired

Dabi glared at his phone as he irritably typed back a response.

Hot Stuff: I’m tired of you texting me, leave me alone.

Bird Brain: why’d u give me ur number then?

The hot-headed villain growled and placed his phone back down, a little harder than he meant to. He rested his head in his hands and breathed in slowly, trying to calm himself down. Admittedly, he wasn’t sure why he was so angry. He just felt very tired and wanted to be left alone.

Suddenly, his body involuntarily twitched and jerked as he felt something soft rub up against his side. He furrowed his brow and swatted at it, thinking it was just a bug or something. When the soft flicking persisted, however, his chest tightened and he clenched his fists in an attempt to keep the overwhelming desire to react at bay.

What was going on?!

Dabi’s breath hitched as he felt a second offender flick against his lower tummy, and it was getting increasingly more difficult to keep himself calm.

Bzzzt-!

Not now, Hawks!

He opened his phone and his stomach lurched at the text.

Bird Brain: somethin the matter~?

Dabi looked up at Hawks, who had the biggest shit eating grin on his face. No one else seemed to notice how he was acting, so this had to be his doing. Then, it all clicked. He shakily grabbed at the soft objects that kept sending tingles up his spine and, when he grabbed one, pulled it out of his shirt.

A red feather.

If looks could kill, Hawks would have been turned to ash. The number two hero bit back a howl of laughter. He gleefully savored Dabi’s reaction, so much so that he sent even more of his feathers to attack the annoyed man.

“Grrk-!”

Dabi gasped and desperately clutched his seat when he felt feathers on every healthy part of his torso. Most of his body was scarred, but the parts of his skin that weren’t were extremely sensitive. He was having trouble keeping it together, and Hawks’ odd form of entertainment had only just begun.

Bzzzt-!

Bird Brain: u havin muscle spasms or somethin?

You asshole, you know exactly what’s going on!

He couldn’t even focus enough to grab his phone and type back a retort. He was going to kill Hawks for this.

Bird Brain: im actually concerned and u ignore me? some friend u are

We are NOT friends, you dick!

The soft tickling of the feathers was only getting worse. Some of them flicked back and forth very fast, while others slowly dragged up and down the sensitive skin. The duality drove Dabi insane, and his knuckles were turning white from how tight his grip on the chair was.

“Hey, Dabi. You okay?”

Twice whispered, placing a concerned hand on his friend’s shoulder.

Dabi jumped and swatted his hand away,

“I-I’m fine, Twice, fuck off.”

“Jeez, sorry, dude,”

Twice raised his hands in apologetic panic, then warily turned his attention back to the meeting.

The hot head quietly groaned, sweat trickling down his forehead. Laughter bubbled up in his throat like acid reflux. He squeezed his eyes shut and desperately tried to focus on something else.

Bzzzt-!

Bird Brain: careful not to laugh~. dont wanna draw attention to urself

So he’s outright admitting it now? The smugness of that asshole.

Bird Brain: where else are u ticklish?

Dabi shot a glare at Hawks, though it wasn’t as intimidating as he hoped it would be with his quivering lips and flushed cheeks. Like he would tell him where he was ticklish. He wasn’t even sure himself. The last time he was tickled was when he was a kid, he thought he had grown out of it. The opposite seemed to have happened. In fact, he didn’t remember being this sensitive.

Bird Brain: thats ok. i’ll find out for myself~

Like hell you will!

“What?”

Shit, had he said that out loud?

He turned to Shigaraki, who was staring at him with a suspicious gleam in his eye. Dabi gulped nervously and shook his head.

“N-Nothing, sorr-eeEEHEHEE!”

He slapped his hands over his mouth and gaped at his cohorts in horror. One of the damn feathers had dipped directly into his belly button. He chanced a glance at Hawks, who was looking as confused as everyone else.

That damn snake!

“Are you sure you’re okay, Dabi?” Twice asked again, looking more amused than concerned at this point,

“You’re being ridiculous!”

Dabi quickly stood, nervously quivering as he stumbled out of the room without a word. The villains looked amongst each other, all wearing confused expressions, when Hawks stood and politely pushed in his chair.

“I’m gonna go see if he’s alright.”

Dabi stood just outside of the hideout, leaning against a wall and greedily gasping for air as he tried to calm down. Luckily, Hawks had shown an ounce of mercy when he exited the building, and his feathers were no longer assaulting his ticklish torso. Phantom tingling lingered on his belly and sides, and he rubbed at the areas desperately.

“What an asshole,” he muttered to himself after he finally regained some composure,

“I’m gonna kill him.”

“Why’s that?”

Dabi whipped around to see Hawks exiting the building, a playful smirk on his face. He sauntered over to the hot-headed villain, who grumbled and stepped backward.

“Get the fuck away from me, Hawks.”

“What’s wrong?” The number two hero laughed,

“I just came to check on ya.”

“Like hell you did!”

Dabi heatedly pointed at the door leading into the hideout,

“What the hell was all that?!”

“All what?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, birdie,” Dabi hissed.

He glared intensely at the winged hero as his right hand was engulfed in blue fire.

“Whoa, whoa,” Hawks chuckled nervously, hands up in an attempt to defuse the situation,

“Calm down, man. I just wanted to see you smile.”

The response was so shocking that the villain lost concentration, and his fire was extinguished. He gawked at Hawks, unsure of how to reply. He wanted to see him smile?

“What?”

“‘What’ what?”

Dabi sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger,

“You’re a dumbass.”

“Well that’s not very nice~.”

By the time he recognized the teasing tone in Hawks’ voice, it was too late, and he was trapped. Hawks hugged Dabi up against his chest, hooking his arms in between his own and forcing them high above his head. The hot head yelped and thrashed to get out of his hold, but crumbled as soon as Hawks’ giant wings beat against his torso.

“FUHUHUHUHUHUHUCK!!”

Dabi tried doubling over, but the hero had him held tight. He kicked his legs and attempted to curl up, but nothing was stopping the overwhelming ticklish sensation. The incessant flapping of his wings caused the villain’s shirt to rise up, so none of his upper body was protected. Not only that, but the feathers were so fluffy and stiff. They were both insanely soft and dangerously accurate.

“STOHOHOHOP, AHAHAHAHASSHOLE!”

“Wow, you’re really ticklish, huh?” Hawks chuckled.

“I WILL ROHOHOHOHOAST YOHOHOHOU, BIHIHIHIRD BRAHAHAIN!”

“You’re not in the position to be making any threats, hot stuff. Tickle tickle tickle~!”

Hawks smiled at the ticklish mess he was making of the villain. To put it simply, he looked adorable. His hair was a mess as he thrashed and writhed, a giant smile split his face in two, the healthy skin on his cheeks was flushed a bright red, and his overall demeanor was entirely different from how he usually was. To see Dabi, of all people, completely incapacitated due to a little tickling was hilarious. More than that, however, it was humanizing. It gave him a glimmer of hope that these villains could have some level of empathy in them, too.

Hawks grinned deviously as three feathers detached from his wings, and flew to Dabi’s belly. He had to admit, what he made them do was quite cruel, but his laughter was addicting.

“I remember getting quite a reaction from aroooound… here~?”

Two of the feathers slowly circled Dabi’s belly button, while the third dipped directly in and twirled inside of it unfairly fast. The scream that escaped him was inhuman. Hawks’ wings gliding effortlessly across every inch of the villain’s torso, combined with the feathers honing in on his belly button, was enough to send him over the edge. His knees buckled and he would have fallen to the ground had Hawks not been holding onto him. Shrieking laughter quickly turned into silent hysterics as Dabi threw his head back against Hawks and practically fell limp in his arms. The hero’s face flushed slightly, and he couldn’t help but laugh along with Dabi.

When he finally regained his voice, he shrieked hysterically,

“STOHOHOHOHOP!! FUHUHUHUCK, IHIHIHIHI CAHAHAHAHAN’T! C-C’MOHOHOHON, CUHUHUHUT IHIHIHIT OHOHOHOUT!!”

“Sorry, what was that? I can’t understand you when you’re laughing like that~.”

“FUHUHUHUHUCK YOHOHOHOHOU!!”

“Maybe I’ll stop if you ask me nicely.”

“FIHIHIHINE!! FINEFINEFINE PLEHEHEHEASE STOHOHOHOP, HAHAHAHAPPY?!!”

Suddenly, it all stopped. Hawks released his hold on Dabi, and he came crashing into the hero. He eagerly sucked oxygen into his lungs, coughing a little as he did so. His breathing was labored and wheezy. Hawks noted the scent of smoke. He smiled at the villain as he rested against his chest, trying to regain his composure.

After a few moments, Dabi’s breathing slowed, and he felt his heart rate return to normal. He looked up at Hawks, who had a hand atop his head, petting his hair. His face contorted into one of confusion, then anger, and finally mild embarrassment. He shoved off of Hawks with a grunt and dusted off his clothes. Hawks chuckled and followed suit.

“You okay?” He had the audacity of asking after a moment of silence.

The glare that Dabi shot him sent him into his own laughing fit.

“Lohohook!”

He cackled as he wiped mirth from his eye,

“I said I just wanted to see you smile! You can’t be mad at me for that.”

“On the contrary,” Dabi growled,

“I’m furious.”

“You looked adorable~.”

Dabi’s breath hitched and his face went red all over again. He told himself it was only due to the residual tingling on his skin.

“Do that again and I’ll kill you.”

“What, ya don’t like being tickled?”

“Was me screaming for you to stop not an indication?”

“I dunno, man, some people actually do like it.”

“Yeah, well those people are psychotic.”

“Says the mass murderer.”

Dabi stared at Hawks, not really sure how to respond to that. He simply furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes,

“Why was seeing me smile such a big deal anyway, birdbrain?”

“Well, like I said, you looked down. ‘sides, I never see you smile aside from an occasional smirk here and there,”

Hawks shrugged and stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, feeling bashful all of a sudden,

“Watching you laugh like that, without a care in the world, it was cute. You looked happy.”

Happy?

Dabi’s glare returned, but only for a short moment. Finally, he sighed and moved to head back inside of the hideout.

“Whatever, hope you had fun. Cuz you’re never doing that again. Oh, and one more thing.”

Hawks moved to follow him, but stopped when he turned around to address him a final time.

“Watch your back, birdie.”

With that, he walked inside without another word. A shiver ran up Hawks’ spine. What did he mean by that? Deciding not to think much of it, the number two hero simply followed Dabi back inside and reclaimed his seat at the table.

Everyone was still there, waiting, and Shigaraki scoffed when they finally returned.

“About time. Can I continue now?”

“Sorry about that,”

Dabi replied calmly,

“Go ahead.”

As Shigaraki started his explanation from where he left off, the hot-headed villain glanced at Hawks. A feeling of triumph washed over him as he examined the hero’s face. He looked calm on the outside, but it was clear to Dabi that he was quite nervous. A low chuckle escaped Dabi’s lips, causing Hawks to shoot his gaze over to him.

When they caught each other’s eyes, neither of them emoted for a few moments. Then, Dabi made a simple motion of his thumb running across his own throat with an evil smirk on his face.

Hawks gulped. He was doomed.

A/N: I wrote a sequel! You can find it here: Watch Your Back :D

#dabihawks #mha dabihawks #mha dabi #mha hawks #dabihawks tickle #mha tickle #sfw tickling community #mha sfw tickling #dabihawks tickle fic #mha tickle fic #lee!dabi #ler!hawks #league of villains #hotwings #mha hotwings #hotwings tickle

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