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hisui-dreamer · 3 months

Text

trial romance

Pairing: Malleus Draconia x gn!reader

Synopsis: since you were going to be put in an arranged marriage anyways, you decided to let yourself experience a normal teenage romance first!

Tags: fluff, slow burn, rent-a-boyfriend mallesu, mutual pining nrc and sra are mixed schools, reader has an elder brother, reader is royalty

Word count: 2.7k+

Notes: woooh sorry for neglecting you mal mal :( i hope this fic makes up for it hehe

Masterlist

You've never really known love.

Born as the second child of a small, but affluent kingdom, you're not sure you have the right to complain. Each day dawns with the assurance of never experiencing hunger, attended to by countless devoted maids catering to your every whim. It's a life of opulence, one that stands in stark contrast to the struggles endured by those grappling with meager wages just to survive.

Still, there remains an ache within you, a yearning for a love that exists in the enchanting tales of old. A love so untainted that it remains steadfast in any circumstance, a love capable of cleansing away all your sorrows, becoming your very reason of existence.

But such a love seems as distant as the stars. After all, you're bound by the responsibilities as the second princess. Unlike your elder brother who inherits the throne, you are a mere pawn in the intricate game of politics, destined for an arranged marriage rather than a fufiling romance.

In a rare display of benevolence, your father granted you a fleeting taste of freedom, sending you off to live under a false identity at the renowned Royal Sword Academy on Sage Island. Three precious years, promising a respite from the constraints of duty, and you promised to seize each moment and savour the life of a normal person who yearned for love.

Which brings you back to the present moment.

"Jellyfish are such fascinating creatures, don't you think so dear?"

The man stands tall beside you, his golden locks catching the ambient blue glow within the aquarium, lending him an almost ethereal air. His emerald eyes fix upon you, awaiting your response.

You return his gaze, captivated by the way the light dances in his eyes. A soft smile graces your lips as you consider his question.

"They are indeed fascinating," you reply, your voice carrying a hint of admiration. "They move with such grace and fluidity, it's like they're dancing through the water."

He hums at your response, fix focus shifting back onto the creatures drifting in the display.

He's a peculiar man, no doubt. It's puzzling to fathom the sort of individual who would boldly advertise their boyfriend rental services on Magicam. Especially someone as strikingly handsome as he appears to be; you would have assumed he'd have no shortage of admirers or suitors.

But you suppose you're not really any better, the person who hired said rentable boyfriend.

Though you're a bit ashamed to admit, you harbor a certain discomfort when it comes to meeting new people. And with your identity as a merchant's daughter, you've had few interactions with your schoolmates, leaving you with a shortage of friends, let alone a romantic relationship.

It was in then that you stumbled upon his listing.

And now, here you are, on your first ever date, exploring an aquarium together.

"Do you mind telling me what dates you're free?" you ask casually as you stroll towards the tropical section, bathed in the vivid hues of exotic marine life.

He trails alongside you, his presence exuding an air of calmness. "Dates...?" he muses, his tone tinged with intrigue. "Ah, you wish to see me another time, I presume?"

You cast your gaze downwards, a hint of bashfulness coloring your cheeks. "Yes... I would like that."

He contemplates for a moment, a hint of concern crossing his features. "Hmm... My fees are quite high you see. Your finances may suffer if you spend too much time with me."

"Hmph. You don't have to be concerned. This money has nowhere else to go anyways," you scoff.

His gaze lingers on you with a hint of curiosity, before a gentle warmth softens his features as he nods. "Very well," he murmurs, his hand reaching out to envelop yours in a tender clasp. With a delicate gesture, he presses a fleeting kiss upon the back of your hand, his voice resonating with anticipation, "I look forward to seeing you more often, my dear."

Aquarium Date ✅

First Date ✅

"You seem quite troubled by this book. Is something the matter?" Mal asked, peering over the edge of his book, eyes sparkling with curiosity.

He sat across from you, textbooks and notebooks scattered between you, each page turned with a quiet reverence. The library was bathed in a soft glow, the gentle hum of whispers filling the air like a comforting melody.

You glanced up from your own notes, running a hand through your hair in a gesture of resignation. "I have a test coming up for Magic Analysis, but I always get so overwhelmed with information I forget the details."

"Magic Analysis... Perhaps you're approaching it from the wrong angle," Mal suggested, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. "What if we break it down into smaller, more manageable chunks? We could create a study plan together."

The idea sparked a glimmer of hope within you, the prospect of tackling the daunting material with a structured approach feeling suddenly within reach. "That... actually sounds like a good idea," you admitted, a tentative smile forming on your lips.

"Alright," Mal began, his eyes alight with enthusiasm. "Shall I give you a demonstration?"

There's something to his smile that worries you slightly.

Study Date ✅

The quaint café bustled with life, the aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingling with the sweet scent of pastries.

Mal's eyes sparkled curiously as he scanned the menu, his fingers tracing the various options with keen interest. "This place is quite charming," he remarked.

You smiled, a flutter of warmth blooming in your chest at his appreciation. "I'm glad you like it. I heard it's one of the best spots in town. Have you decided what to order?"

His brows furrow lightly. "I'm not sure... They all look quite enticing..."

"How about a parfait then? You can choose different flavours of ice cream too," you suggested, gesturing to the other page.

Malleus's gaze followed your gesture, his eyes alight with anticipation. "Ice cream, you say? That sounds delightful," he replied, a spark of childlike excitement dancing in his expression.

You couldn't help but mirror that smile.

Cute Cafe Date ✅

The night stretched out before you like an endless canvas, painted with a myriad of twinkling stars scattered across the indigo sky. Cradled in the comforting embrace of a soft blanket spread out on the grass, you lay your head gently upon Mal's shoulder, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath as you gaze upwards.

"It's breathtaking..." you murmur softly, your voice barely above a whisper, not wanting to disturb the tranquil stillness of the night.

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining in a silent gesture of affection. "The sight never fails to captivate me," he responds, his voice tinged with awe. "I'm often reminded of how quickly time passes when I stargaze."

Lifting your head slightly, you steal a glimpse of his face, illuminated by the ethereal glow of the night sky. "Ah... Fae are known for their longevity, aren't they?" you remark, reaching up to tuck a stray lock of his blonde hair behind his pointed ears. "Is that part of the reason why you became a rentable boyfriend?"

He smiles ruefully. "Partly so," he admits. "My mentor suggested it as a means of broadening my perspective and gaining new experiences.

A giggle escapes your lips. What's with that? To think you're doing this for educational purposes..." you tease, though the chill of reality briefly brushes against your thoughts. "I hope you've at least had fun?"

"Absolutely." He envelops both of your hands in his own, his gaze unwaveringly earnest as it locks onto yours. "My dear, I've thoroughly enjoyed every second spent with you,"

A blush tinges your cheeks at his sincerity, and you respond softly, "It's the same for me. I had so much fun when I was with you,"

You find yourself ensnared by the ethereal presence of the man before you, his proximity stirring a flurry of emotions within you. His face, mere inches from your own, is illuminated by the soft glow of the twinkling stars, their light mirrored in the depths of his serene emerald eyes. Your heart quickens its pace, thumping so loudly in your chest that it threatens to drown out his next words.

"...Can I kiss you?"

You feel yourself nod slightly.

He tentatively closes the distance between you, his movements deliberate yet achingly tender. His hand, warm and reassuring, cups your cheek, his touch sending shivers of electricity dancing across your skin. The scent of night blossoms and distant pine trees fills your senses, mingling with the heady anticipation swirling in the air.

The kiss is tender at first, a tentative exploration of each other, as if testing the waters of this newfound intimacy. But soon, a surge of desire courses through you, fueling the passion that blooms between you. You lose yourself in the moment, surrendering to the intoxicating whirlwind of emotions that sweeps you away, leaving you breathless and utterly consumed by him.

The sequence of events that followed remains a hazy blur in your memory, the details shrouded in a fog of uncertainty. All you recall with clarity is Mal's familiar presence beside you as he walked you back to the imposing gates of your school hand-in-hand, just as he'd always done.

Just like clockwork, you retrieved a thick envelope from the depths of your bag, its contents weighing heavily on your mind. "Hold this," you instructed quietly.

He stared curiously at your actions. With a practiced fluidity, you extracted a handful of bills from your wallet.. With unwavering composure, you extended the money towards him, your tone devoid of sentimentality. "This is the bonus for kissing," pressing the bills into his palm.

Leaning forward on tiptoes, you planted a chaste farewell kiss upon his cheek, the gesture a stark contrast to the emotionless exchange that had just transpired. "See you next time," you murmured, before turning away.

Each clack of your heels against the pavement resonated within him like a mournful toll, echoing the hollowness that had taken root in his chest. He watched, transfixed, as the last sliver of your silhouette dissolved into the far distance, the bittersweet echoes of your footsteps fading into the twilight.

Dark, menacing clouds stretched ominously across the vast expanse of the sky, casting an eerie pall over the landscape below. Before you realised it, raindrops cascaded from the heavens in a frensied blur.

Stargazing Date✅

First Kiss ✅

The evening air was cool as he led you through the labyrinthine streets of the old city, the cobblestones whispering tales of centuries past beneath your feet. Towering above you, ancient buildings adorned with weathered stone facades loomed like silent sentinels guarding the secrets of bygone eras.

"This way," he beckoned, his voice tinged with excitement as he pulled you along into a narrow alleyway veiled in shadows.

With eager steps, you followed his lead, anticipation coursing through your veins as you delved deeper into the heart of the historic district.

"You know," you mused, breaking the silence as you walked, "when I said you could choose our next date, I never imagined it would involve a trip to the City of Flowers. Have you been here before?"

"I have," he answered. "I was invited here once. There was a magnificent festival here, but I was more interested in the gargoyles."

"The... gargoyles?" you echoed, casting an intrigued glance at the statues that adorned the buildings around you. "There do seem to be quite a few of them."

"They've watched over these buildings for centuries, warding off evil spirits and protecting those within."

"Really? That sounds fascinating," you murmured. "Would you mind telling me more?"

A smile graced his lips, his eyes gleaming with a unbridled glee. "Gladly," he agreed, his voice reverent. "Each one has a story to tell, waiting to be heard by those who seek to listen."

You listened intently as he recounted the legends surrounding these ancient sentinels, his words weaving a captivating narrative that transported you through time. As you continued your exploration of the historic buildings, he regaled you with tales of the city's storied past, his words painting vivid pictures of times long gone.

Somewhere along the line, night had descended like a comforting shroud, cloaking the city in a blanket of darkness. Now, you found yourselves strolling along the tranquil riverbank, the rhythmic lapping of the waves providing a soothing cadence to your thoughts.

Your three years of time is almost up.

Soon, you'd be back in the confines of your childhood room, the familiar walls suffocating with the promise of the same, predictable routine. Then, like a ship launched by an unforgiving wind, you'd be whisked away to wed the spouse your father had chosen, leaving behind your fleeting moments of freedom and the memories far away in your teenage years.

Mal glances sideways at you, noting the unusual quiet that had settled upon you like a shadow. "Is everything alright, my dear?" he inquires, his voice laced with concern.

You pause, grappling with the weight of your impending confession, searching for the right words to convey your thoughts. Finally, you draw in a deep breath, steeling yourself for the revelation to come.

"No... It's not," you confess, your voice faltering slightly as you let go of his hand. "Mal, this... this will be the last time I'm hiring you."

Confusion furrows his brow as he searches your eyes for clarity. "But... why?" he responds, a note of sadness creeping into his tone.

"Because..." you begin, your gaze drifting towards the glistening surface of the river, unable to withstand his earnest gaze. "Because I'm leaving Sage Island. I'll be graduating and returning home, and... and I won't require your services anymore."

"I... see."

A heavy silence descends between you, the weight of your confession hanging in the air like a tangible presence. And as you continued your stroll along the riverbank, the knowledge that this would be your final night together lingered like a bittersweet farewell to the memories you had shared.

His Choice Date ✅

Breakup ✅

You've never liked riding in carriages.

With each clop of the horses' hooves, the entire contraption lurched, sending shivers skittering up your spine. It was a waltz of unease, the sway and groan of leather and wood a discordant melody against the cobblestone streets.

The confines of the cramped cabin also felt suffocating, a gilded cage that further severed your connection to your freedom. But the carriage rolled on, carrying you not just through the mountainous terrain, but towards a future you desperately wished to outrun.

Malleus Draconia was your spouse-to-be.

Throughout your school days, whispers of the famed fae prince from Night Raven College echoed in the halls. Tales spun of his unmatched prowess in Spelldrive, where he emerged victorious alone against all teams, his formidable magical abilities casting a long shadow of fear over his opponents. His towering and menacing presence, coupled with the dark horns that crowned his head, only added to the mystique that surrounded him. You could only hope that beneath this formidable exterior lay a heart capable of kindness, granting you the chance for a peaceful existence.

Though, you wouldn't say you could forgive him for having such a similar name to Mal.

As the carriage comes to a halt, the sound of hooves and wheels ceases, accompanied by a palpable sense of anticipation. With the opening of the carriage door, your guards stand at attention, their expressions solemn yet resolute. "Your Highness, we have arrived," one of them announces, his voice carrying the weight of the moment.

With a deep breath, you gather your resolve, steeling yourself for the encounter that awaits beyond the carriage doors.

Just as your foot grazes the carriage step, a gloved hand extends towards you, reaching out towards you with a graceful assurance.. You glance up to meet the gaze of your betrothed, and for a moment, time seems to stand still.

His eyes are a familiar shade of emerald green. A shade that's grown to be your favourite, in fact.

"M-Mal?" you stammer, the name escaping your lips before you can stop it.

"It's lovely to see you again, my dear," he smiles, as radiant as the sun.

Masterlist

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

#lilia definitely saw what teens were doing and asked malleus to become a rentable bf #“good learning experiences” he just wanted mal to meet more ppl and hopefully fall in love #and fell he did :)#he helps mal to disguise hiss identity by making his hair blond and his horns temporarily invisible #but his eyes remain the same #since eyes are the windows to your soul hehe #if ppl like this fic i might write a short bonus where it's lilia lecturing mal how to act like a good boyfriend hahaha #twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst imagines #malleus draconia #malleus draconia x reader #twisted wonderland malleus #twst malleus #twst malleus x reader

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lollytea · 3 months

Text

Therapy

(Wrote this in five hours without stopping. Nothing fancy. Maybe sloppy and unpolished. Bon appetite???)

"Leave it alone, Darius," Hunter snarled, slamming down his chisel and wooden shape on the desk as he whirled around to face him.

"I'm doing a load anyway!" Retorted Darius, one hand gripping the laundry basket against the hip and the other holding a graphic tee with the solar system printed on it. "You know it bothers me to walk in here and see dirty clothes tossed all over the floor."

"I can do my own laundry!"

Hunter internally winced at his tone the second it burst out of him.

He sounded like the cranky, whiny child that he had once been, always gnashing nonvenomous teeth in an effort to be taken seriously.

Being treated as a child was one of his most explosive buttons. And the worst part was that if pushed, he always acted up in a way that proved them right.

He reeled himself in, filling his lungs to steady his wrung nerves before turning back to his work.

There was a pause.

"I know you are," said Darius, his voice softer than it had been a moment prior. "But considering you've been letting it pile up for the last few days, I figure I'd lend you a hand."

"I don't need a hand." Hunter took furious chunks out of his hunk of wood. "I'm gonna do it myself. I'm just....busy. Right now."

Hunter was "busy" a lot lately, leaving things such as laundry overlooked, as he focused on one obsession after another. Darius referred to his bouts of productivity as "manic episodes."

It was preferable to the other half of the time when he went borderline unresponsive. Those days weren't fun.

He heard a fwump, which was presumably the sound of Darius dropping the shirt back on the floor.

"Ocellena called," He said.

Hunter's rough attempts at whittling went still. "That's...the therapist's name, right?"

"Yes. Your first session is scheduled for the day after tomorrow. 3pm."

"Right. Okay." Hunter intoned. "Thanks."

When he offered nothing else, Darius pushed a bit.

"I know you're scared."

Hunter wanted to hotly declare that he wasn't. But he felt like the blood of a lie would seep through his words. He said nothing.

"But you haven't been doing well, Hunter."

He wanted to argue that he was actually doing awesome. But Darius was a lot better at arguing than he was, so he'd probably just end up looking stupid.

"And I promise that this is a step in the right direction."

"I said I was sorry," Hunter found himself uttering in a quiet, scratchy voice.

There he was again, that whiny difficult child inside of him. And in that moment, he had touched Hunter's throat, letting out one final plea to be forgiven.

He didn't know what he expected to happen.

Maybe deep down, he desperately wanted Darius to soften up and say to him, "Oh Hunter, what am I thinking? I shouldn't send you to therapy. You don't deserve that."

Darius said nothing of the sort.

Instead, he sighed. "You have nothing to apologize for,"

Hunter felt fingerpads gently drill against his temple. "How do I get that through your stubborn skull?"

His insides writhed with empty dread.

So, apologizing was worthless in this case. Noted.

Before Darius left the room, Hunter's hair was affectionately ruffled. He slid his eyes shut and savoured the feeling.

Every day for the last few months, Hunter was handled with such gentleness by the people around him. It had become so frequent that he had come close to taking it for granted.

He once caught himself wondering if maybe one day he'd forget how it felt to be treated.....the other way.

Well, it certainly wouldn't be anytime soon.

Hunter was, quite possibly, one of Bonesborough's most insufferable roommates. The number of times Darius and Eberwolf were awoken at untitanly hours by the sound of him suffocating on his own serrated screams was embarrassing.

The memories still seared raw and achey, nowhere close to scabbing over.

He couldn't forget.

And now, he was about to experience it all over again. But for morally correct reasons this time.

Hunter exhaled, irritated by the way it rattled. He leaned forward and hung his head in his hands.

There was a persistent gnaw of guilt in his abdomen that he was doing his damndest to ignore.

He did not want to go to therapy. But he knew he'd be a coward to admit that.

This was supposed to be a noble thing, right? Atonement. He was supposed to be owning up to his mistakes like an adult. But, being faced with the imminent appointment made him feel more like a spineless child than ever.

"Do you know what therapy is?" Darius had asked a few weeks ago when the topic had first been broached.

His tone made made Hunter bristle. He felt patronized. Nothing made him shrink in humiliation more than being confronted with the fact that he still didn't know a lot of things.

"Of course I do!" He snapped, not bothering to mention that he had only learned of the concept a few days prior when Steve brought it up in conversation.

"It's so chill, dude," He had explained. "It really made me reflect on all the bad stuff I did as a scout, y'know? And now I feel like I can finally move past all that business without the ol' baggage wearin' me down."

"But what is it?" Hunter prodded. "What happens in therapy?"

"Well it's...y'know,"

Hunter frowned, impatient. He did not know.

"It's just you and them. In a room together. Alone. And...you talk. About stuff..." Steve shrugged airily. "It's just that, man."

The last words Steve uttered sounded like they were underwater because Hunter had mentally blipped out after hearing the words 'In a room,' 'Alone' and 'talk'

His blood had frozen over.

Steve's wrist was promptly squeezed by Hunter's jittery fingers. And when the older scout curiously met his eyes, he said solemnly, "Steve. You don't have to go there."

Steve smiled his pleasant, lopsided smile. "I want to, Hunter."

His voice was so soft, so sure of itself, that a heavy weight of devastation unloaded in Hunter's stomach.

"Sure, it's scary at first." Steve continued, giving Hunter's knuckles a comforting rap. "But over time....it helps."

And then, he said the words that Hunter selfishly wished he had never heard.

"I go to therapy, and I think I'm now a better guy than I used to be."

The rest of the interaction had fallen flat because Hunter suddenly felt very disconnected from his body, and Steve could not reel him back.

He remembered the curt businesslike knock on the door of his castle bedroom. He knew it as the sound of guards delivering a message. A slip of paper from the Emperor himself, requesting his presence in the throne room. To talk.

He remembered the soft-spoken echoey order once he entered.

"Close the door,"

Hunter would obey. And then, they were alone.

'In a room'

'Alone'

'Talk'

Hunter knew how to read between the lines.

He felt stupid. Naive. They had told him that the things Belos had done to him were wrong.

They promised him that it was wrong.

But it seemed as though Hunter had severely misunderstood.

The actions themselves were not wrong, but the reasoning.

Hunter did not deserve to be punished for failing to carry out the dirty work of a vile, depraved man.

Every punishment was undeserved by default, on the grounds of it being delivered by Belos.

But Hunter, idiot that he was, had foolishly believed that he was never going to be hurt like that again.

And if he was, he would at least take comfort in the fact that it was wrong.

The realizations were crashing over him in overpowering waves. He felt pathetic for not being able to take it.

I'd like to leave the Emperor's Coven and never set foot in that throne room again

I go to therapy, and I'm now a better guy than I used to be

There were people on the Isles who hurt you and....and it was right...?

You face the consequences of your actions, and you allow them to hurt you in a way that was ethical, and then....you were a better person.

Of course.

Of course that was how it worked.

How could he possibly believe it worked any differently?

It had struck him the moment Steve had said it, that nobody on the Isles deserved therapy more than Hunter.

The actions of the Golden Guard had been unspeakably cruel. All the times he had stood there, turning a blind eye, as his uncle tore open a living creature. All the carnage Hunter had allowed to happen directly in front of him.

It was borderline brainless of him to ever assume that he could escape consequences.

He desperately wanted to be a good person. He would start ripping his own innards out if it meant he could be deemed a good person.

He'd do anything. Really.

Which was why he had decided to steel his nerves and agree to therapy.

He would walk into that room and his legs would not shake.

He would tilt up his chin, close his eyes, and stomach the consequences he had earned.

And then, Titan willing, he'd be one step closer to being good.

And yet...he would rather be dismembered than admit it, but...

Hunter was scared. He was scared to receive his punishment.

After everything he had done to innocent lives, Hunter had the audacity to be scared of the punishment.

He disgusted himself.

_______________________________

With the Emperor's Coven dismantled, the vacant police precinct currently had a plethora of uses.

Most notably, it was a research facility that Darius frequented. The current project was working on a safe sigil extraction procedure. Hunter gave Darius a headache by asking for updates every damn day, despite the latter's insistence that it would probably take years to perfect.

But today, when Hunter visited the building, he and Darius did not turn right towards the lab, but they ventured down an entirely foreign hallway.

Hunter was doing everything in his power to keep his breathing steady.

"Would you like me to sit in the waiting room?" Asked Darius.

"No," Hunter answered.

They continued to cut through the hallway in silence.

"Yes," He corrected himself, so quiet he worried Darius wouldn't hear it.

He did hear it. "Alright. I think we'll pick up some fatty junk from the market for dinner tonight. I don't feel like cooking."

Darius hated fatty junk.

Despite the terror teething his insides, Hunter's lip still quirked upwards, feeling the tiniest surge of warmth.

He loved fatty junk. And Darius knew it.

His therapy session was not the end of the world. Life would continue afterwards, and there would still be little pleasures.

And he would be a better person than he was now.

Once Darius checked him in, Hunter tried not to squirm in the uncomfortable waiting room chair, debating whether he wanted to pick up one of the trashy magazines on the rack.

According to the front cover of one of the tabloids, a star grudgby player had an organ eating scandal. Typical tabloid stuff.

"Hunter?" Called a soft, docile voice that nonetheless made him glad he didn't eat breakfast because he wanted to puke.

Darius tapped his knee to signal him to stand up, which Hunter did. He managed to not cave in.

He crossed the waiting room and pushed the door open, pretending that he wasn't experiencing alarming flashes of hands and eyes and dripping green blades.

He was ready. He was going to be a good person.

"Hello, Hunter~" Singsonged a small pudgy woman, who was in the process of donning an ankle length cardigan. Occellena. "Do you find it chilly in here, by any chance?" She asked.

Taken aback by the question, Hunter dumbly shook his head.

"Guess it's just me, then. It's a curse. Cold blooded n' all."

She had a head of plump indigo tentacles, and her bright amber eyes were magnified by jar-like spectacles.

"Well, let me know if you catch a chill and I'll turn up the heater."

The heater in question was a crystal ball the size of an ottoman with a blazing flame contained in the glass.

Occellena swept across the room to where Hunter stood and put a hand to the door. "Let's just close this and we can get--"

As far as he was aware, he did not do anything. But something made her take pause, and when she glanced his way, he felt himself jot.

"Or would you prefer to keep it open?"

The question initially escaped his comprehension. It seemed out of the realm of his own reality.

Hunter's throat tightened. And when he tried to speak, he failed.

He nodded again.

"Okay!" She said cheerily, like this was the best thing she had heard all day.

Out of the thousands of tangles in Hunter's stomach, one of them spread loose.

It was faint, but he distinctly felt the way that tangle relaxed itself.

"So, we'll leave the door open for now," said Occellena. "And if you decide at any point that you don't want that anymore, you can just pop right up and give it a swing shut."

Defenses still scaling high, Hunter had no idea what to make of this.

"Anyway," She made to walk towards her own chair, politely beckoning him to follow with one of her tentacles. "Shall we sit? I recently got a new couch. I'd really like some feedback on how comfy it is."

_______________________________

Darius would never say it, but his heart was hammering like a jackalope with worry for that ridiculous kid. His legs kept crossing and uncrossing in the waiting room chairs that seemed specifically designed to be uncomfortable.

Darius had bumped into Occellena on a few occasions in the upstairs kitchen. He had spiked his apple blood while she grounded oyster shells into her tea. He had never been one for chit-chat, but she had been nothing but bubbly with him, in spite of his less than enthusiastic responses.

He couldn't determine her skills as a therapist from just a few conversations, but the extensive research he had done to find a qualified candidate had promised that she was highly competent

But was she 'Golden Guard as a client' competent?

Was anyone?

If all else failed, she was sweet. Hunter loved sweet people.

He needed this to go well. If Hunter had a bad therapy experience, it would both stunt his recovery progress and leave him far less willing to try again for the foreseeable future.

Darius resisted the urge to stand up and pace the room, knowing his footsteps would probably disturb Hunter's session.

He noticed that the door remained slightly ajar, which he found peculiar.

Were they not supposed to keep the doors closed? Client confidentiality and all that mumbo jumbo?

Granted, he could not make out the words being said. The pitch of two voices, definitely, but it was all muffled nothingness.

His nerves were barbed during those first few minutes, in which Occellena carried on speaking for several seconds at a time, while Hunter only offered singular sentences as a response.

It was fine, he convinced himself. They were just warming up.

The moments passed, and the session seemed to take a turn in a positive direction.

The seconds in which the slightly lower pitched voice stretched a little bit longer every time he spoke. Louder too.

At some point, he seemed to take off babbling, presumably having one of those obsession buttons pushed.

Darius could only imagine that Occellena had asked about one of Hunter's many passions. That would certainly work wonders.

He had such terrible control of his own volume when he got too eager, so this was a promising sign.

After that, the conversation took a subdued dip, the silences hanging for longer.

And then, he heard footsteps. He straightened his posture, startled by the session seemingly wrapping up so soon.

But no. It was the door clicking shut.

From then on, total silence. Thirty minutes of just Darius, his trashy tales of organ eating athletes, and the vacant uncertainty of how Hunter's first therapy session was going.

And then it was over.

When Darius saw Hunter emerge from the room with Occellena's hand on his shoulder, his eyes were strikingly rimmed with red.

"So I'll see you next week. Don't worry yourself with telling Jewel, I'll have her put it down in the system. Be sure to take it easy for the rest of the evening, alright?"

Though he looked like every ounce of energy had been sapped out of him, Hunter still pulled up a smile for her, and Darius recognized sincere warmth on that face when he saw it.

"I will. Thanks, Occellena,"

And when he approached Darius, he looked relieved, ashamed, and dazed all at once.

"Hey," He greeted, uncharacteristically quiet.

"Hey," Darius responded, softly incredulous. "Shall we go ruin our skin with your accursed bag of grease now?"

His reddened eyes glinted with light boyish amusement. He nodded.

Hunter did not say much during their quest through the Bonesborough marketplace, and Darius vaguely wondered if he should be concerned.

As much as he complained about the boy being an incurable chatterbox, his silence unnerved him.

Hopefully, the session had used up too much of his blabbering muscles.

It wasn't until they were home and seated on opposite ends of the dining room table that Darius understood.

One of his most strictly enforced household rules was that dinner must be served on an actual plate. No takeout containers allowed on his property.

His nose wrinkled in distaste at the atrocity known as deep-fried eyeballs that were making a greasy mess out of his ornate lilac dishes.

Hunter was rolling the unsavoury little orbs around with his fork.

He seemed relaxed, if distracted, so Darius decided to pop the question, only to fill the silence, if anything.

"Do you want to tell me how it went today? With Occellena?"

Hunter's fork went still, but his eyes never dared to draw away from the fatty dinner in front of him.

When he opened his mouth, his bottom lip wobbled, searching for a voice that he did not seem to possess right now.

"It's alright," said Darius. "What happens in therapy stays in therapy. Isn't that what they say?"

Hunter did not respond to that, not even with a glance or a nod or anything of the sort.

He remained hung up on the struggle of getting his initial words out. The bump of his throat bobbed.

Finally, with a small, feeble voice that cracked around the edges, Hunter said, "I didn't think she was gonna be nice to me..."

The silence that fell was born of complete and utter bewilderment. Darius was so flabbergasted by the statement that he spoke before he fully thought it over.

"Well, that is to be expected from therapy," A touch of laughter rose and fell between the words. "I mean, surely you didn't think she would--?"

Darius cut himself off, his smile dropping as he noticed the visible tremor of Hunter's mouth, which he had forced into a thin line.

"Hunter?"

The boy lifted his head, bright brown eyes already pooling with an open, lost, childlike anguish. Then he blinked and it spilled to his cheekbones. He looked to Darius searchingly, like he wanted to ask something, but he could not utter a sound more.

"Hunter...? What did you think was going to happen...?"

234 notes · View notes

moondirti · 8 months

Text

13. A CHALLENGE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter twelve / chapter fourteen ⇀

summary: you ask for a challenge. miguel gives you one worth your salt

mature | 10.2k words warnings: praise kink, mentorship with benefits, sparring, sexual tension, loads of banter/flirting, mild angst, sexual fantasies (including blowjobs), insecurity, blood and injury, mentions of death, dirty talk, arousal notes: i know y'all hate me after that end

Sunday, 14:45

“How long’s it been?” You urge, voice strained with thinning breath.

Miguel – for all his insistence that you push yourself beyond normal measure – doesn’t seem to hear you, gazing off into a distant corner. His forehead looks especially flickable from this angle, in this particular moment, and you have to curl your fist to quell the urge as it arises.

“Hm?” He hums, finally snapping out of it when you walk to the stretch of ceiling above him, intruding on his eyeline. The conditioned air of the gym itches the parts of you that are damp with sweat, particularly that exposed by your drooping shirt, draped under your bra to reveal your abdomen. Gooseflesh pocks your skin.

“The time.”

“Right.” He blinks, lifting his wrist to pause the stopwatch he’d set, then makes a small noise. “Double the last. You’re getting better.”

“Yeah, well–” To dispense the effects his praise has on you, you turn to make your way over to the pull-up bars at the back. They were your means of getting up on the ceiling, and they’re your way off. “S’not really difficult. I’m just hanging, trying not to throw up.”

“You could start practising on walls. It’d make the whole ‘getting down’ process easier.” He says, almost admonishes. As good as you’ve gotten at defying gravity upside down, you’ve stayed clear of testing your luck by doing so perpendicularly. “Not to mention, accessible. You won’t always have conveniently placed support to help you.”

“I don’t quite trust it yet.” Because you don’t, and it’s hard to imagine you will. The whole idea feels like a big fuck you to every physics lesson you’ve ever digested. “It makes no sense.” Swinging off the bar, you make sure to land on a wide stance to prevent your tumble. Your extremities have long since numbed, and you’ve already learnt your lesson on how that generates a lack of stability for the first few seconds until adjustment. “If everything in the universe operates on the same laws, I won’t be the exception.”

“You’re right.” Miguel ducks to fetch the bottle you left beside him, handing it over before you can ask. “You wouldn’t be. Several spiders manage it just fine.”

“Several spiders also have several one-ups on me.” The cold slice of water cuts through your thirst, tamping the headache you could sense starting at your sinuses. Recovery, in absolute contrast to your endurance, has cut by half. You’re recuperating from exertion a lot quicker than before.

“Like?”

“Failsafes in case they fall. Web-shooters, assistive gear.” You neglect to broach the topic of your own infallible; him, never too far out of reach. Not only would its mention go against your point, you’re still unsure of the nature of his aid – whether he would catch you if the severity of the situation did not call for it. If he’s here because you need him, or in commitment to a duty beyond your understanding.

(Tallying what you know about Miguel, you’d bet on the latter.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.”

“Very helpful, thanks.” You’d offer him your drink, but even the thought of his lips touching where yours once did makes you flush with molten heat. Late at night, tucked on your bed as you watch the highway leading to Second Base, you strain to remember what they felt like, mashed to yours in a laser confined cell. If you knew back then how things would end up, maybe you would’ve savoured it for longer. “Experience too. With the constant danger they face, they pretty much have to equip every skill at their disposal.”

“Is that what you want, then – danger?” He teases, mouth curling in a downwards smile. You’re too quick to shake your head. That word, want, still haunts you.

“You’re missing the point.”

“Am I, now.”

“I’m just saying,” Biting your cheek, you scramble for a fitting sentiment. Nothing quite encapsulates the crux of your little tangent, and you can’t help but compare yourself to Miguel. No matter how far the conversation strays, he always finds a link to tie it altogether. Unshakeable, poised. Like the sun, pulling comets into its orbit until they shine brilliantly, their tails forged under the radiation pressure. “A challenge might hit your lessons closer to home. Y’know, thrill, adrenaline – forcing me to resort to lengths I wouldn’t typically go to, instilling in me all the marks you want me to land on.”

(But if he’s the sun, what would that make you? Pluto, far on the other side of the solar spectrum, barely doing enough to keep its cosmic status? Even dwarf planets have their pull, some force strong enough to accrete nearby matter, and so it seems ill-fitting.)

Your mentor accepts your argument regardless, nodding minutely.

(Perhaps you’re the comet itself – coming from nowhere, heading nowhere, meant for the one, singular event that could give your existence meaning. That crossing paths with a star, to burn brightly in its influence before dissolving into nothing.)

“Similar to the planking exercise we do. Up the stakes and simulate something real for you.”

We. Your stomach lurches to your chest and you have to swallow it back before speaking. “Y-Yeah.”

“Te entiendo. Alright.” He agrees. “If that’ll get you to make progress. Come.” You follow him to the centre of the room, stumbling over hurried strides until you reach the combat training mat. “You remember our first day here.”

“Feels like centuries ago, but yes.” You respond, assuming he means the premiere lesson of yours, betiding this very spot. You’d christened it by letting him fuck your throat, and that’ll forever be the memory that occurs to you so long as you keep returning to this gym. It’s hard to forget.

“What did I ask you to do?”

“Er– Pin you down.” Your pitch drops an octave in an effort to mock him. “Three seconds, and you’ll have proved your point.” His inflection is tough to nail down, though – unique to the broad-shouldered form that affords his vocal folds more space, subtly curled where his accent comes through. You end up sounding like a parched frog more than you do him.

He shakes his head, nose twitching. It’s a vague quirk that says nothing about his amusement.

“As I recall it, you couldn’t.”

“As I recall, I was kept quite busy.” You, of course, are referring to his cock and it’s wedging into your mouth. And if he didn’t get the implication on word alone, then your lewd miming of the act fills in what gaps remain. Miguel sighs, waiting for your redolence to subside to continue. Though his weight shifts from one foot to the other, like he’s ridding himself of the tension that swells at your suggestion, and the small action speaks louder than what he likely intends. To think that you might have the same effect on him as he does you, however physical, is a tempting thing.

“Before that.”

You acquiesce, arm flopping uselessly to your side. “Sure. Though to be fair, I’ve no knowledge on how.”

“Good.” He crosses his arms. “We’re going to try again.”

“Right now?”

“No.”

“Well don’t keep me in suspense,” Rolling your eyes, you start to fold your sleeves to sit above the elbow. “Or next thing I know, I’m trapped in a cage with Rhino and a knife for defence.”

That drives a chuckle from him. It’s warm and coarse and low, and with the way your stomach churns at the sound, you hardly care that it’s at your expense. “Proper spectacle that would be. You wouldn’t last ten minutes. The best I’d give you is a weaponless Vulture.”

“Are you forgetting that I took down a symbiote on my own? Where your first instinct was to throw punches at it.” You huff. “They’re regenerative!”

“An oversight on my part. ‘Course, I didn’t want to get involved in the first place.” His chin practically sits on his chest now, tipped down to look you face-to-face. It’s the way through which you realise how close you’ve gotten, nose millimetres away from his forearm. He smells infuriatingly clean – fresh patchouli aftershave, soap, clothes fragranced from the laundry, familiar only because you use the same detergent. “Fortunately, or perhaps unfortunately for you, your opponent continues to be me.”

“And you want us to wrestle.”

“Given a few caveats.” He shrugs when your expression pinches. “To make it more real.”

“Okay…”

“Today will continue as is. I’m going to teach you the basics of taking down a larger opponent and we’ll drill it until you understand.” You cut his explanation into small fragments for better digestion – takedown, larger than you, drills – and show your attendance with wide eyes, following as he circles you. “Pinning me down in a static setting is simple enough. Your challenge is to do so unexpectedly, somewhere outside of this gym. Within the next week, I want you to sneak up on me and staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds. Anywhere, any time of the day; so long as you aren’t following me on missions, it’s all up to you. Take me by surprise, use it to your advantage. But remember–”

You cock your head, earnest. As he speaks again, it’s seven trumpets to armageddon, deep punctures to the anticipative silence you’ve built.

“When you come for me, I won’t be holding back.”

Ribs echoing with the rattle of your rapid heartbeat, you wipe your palms on the loose fabric of your sweats and take longer than you perhaps need to register his dare. He wants you to act much like a hero would on a stealth operation. That’s fine. You can do that. You’ll be taught on how to disable him and all that’s left is the matter of covertness, in which you have an advantage given your newfound ability to walk on the overturned pathways of HQ. Except–

“Wouldn’t your spider-sense–”

He shakes his head. No. And though he doesn’t state it explicitly, you’re reminded of his claws and how divergent they are to the standard spider-power. It seems, then, that he differs in more ways than one. No enhanced intuition. You couldn’t imagine.

But it’s new. Exciting. It’s exactly what you needed, and again, you’re left wondering how he’s gotten so good at reading you. If in place for his deficits, he’d been granted a supernatural knowledge on body language. Even now he’s looking, studying your restrained appearance for a hint of your feelings on the subject. You give it to him with a devilish smile.

“That the best you got?”

“Big talk.” He winds around you, positioning behind your back. “We’ll see how you feel in seven days.”

“Glorious, having kicked your ass ‘n’ all.”

“Okay, sparks. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Miguel says, before patting your hip. His hand is heavy, and you brace yourself against the urge to shiver under it. “Most people are left leg-leaning. Not always, but it’s a statistic you can count on for learning. Put it forward. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

You do as he says, adjusting to an open posture, slanting your torso so your head faces the same direction as your left foot. The man appears in front of you after making a few corrections, mirroring your effort.

“Because I’m anticipating what leg you’ll resort to, I’ll bring my right leg forth. Always match same side foot. It’ll give you leverage towards your opponent’s vulnerable areas.” You sway a bit when his muscles stretch the taut material of his shirt. As you try to picture what more is hidden by his civilian clothes, it occurs to you that you’ve never seen him nude enough to make that a possible feat. “Assuming you’re shorter than them, aiming for their lower half is your most efficient bet. But you want their focus away from it when you make the jump.”

Blinking, you reorient yourself away from your tangent. “Right.”

“So you’re going to reach.”

“Rea–”

Suddenly, he’s grabbing for your face. It’s swift and done with enough aggression that you don’t process what you’re doing until your arms come up to defend it. Split second instinct, your spider sense combing through the hairs on your neck. And he takes the obliviously-given opportunity to duck, hooking his foot behind yours, back hand wrapping around your knee to grip onto his other. His head pushes up on your ribs to stand you on one leg, off balance, and faster than it started, it stops. The attack throws you backward, slamming you onto the cushioned floor. Air syphons out of your lungs.

“When they’re down, you don’t hesitate to straddle them.” He adds. “The blow will probably knock their limbs to the side.” He bridges over you, lowering so that his knees touch the surface above your shoulders and his feet anchor onto the bits below. His weight rests on your upper arms now. You, despite the loss, can’t help but flick your gaze down to his crotch. If he notices, he doesn’t comment on it. “The technique’s called stapling. Pressing down on two points to completely immobilise.”

“Feels awfully familiar.” You grin, only to choke on the spit accumulating by the back of your throat when he not only acknowledges your innuendo, but reciprocates.

“Used to being on the bottom?” Huffed sardonically, with all the constituents of a flirt yet none of the sticky-sweet charm. And he doesn’t give your stunned-self a chance to quip back either, rising and gesturing that you do the same. You scramble off your back, rubbing the sore spots left by his grip, watching him warily. It’s facile to convince yourself that it didn’t really happen at all. “Your turn. Right foot forth this time. Remember, reach and duck.”

You stay locked onto him when you throw your fist up at his face, stopping shy of his jaw. He isn’t as ignorant as to believe you, but his elbows draw away from his hips to allow space for your consequent assault. Squatting, you step forward to completely embrace his left leg. Quick calculations tell you that his weakest point is at his knee, so you lower your clutch around it, cheek squishing onto his stomach, before lifting the appendage off the ground. It isn’t heavy on you, all his mass directed to the back leg he now has to balance on.

And then–

And then… what?

He’d done it so briskly that you completely missed his method.

“Tell me what you did wrong.” Miguel examines. He’s got your head scissored in one strong arm, and if you weren’t struggling to comprehend how he gained the upper-hand, you’d be salivating with how potent his cologne is from this distance.

You mutter a faint “Agreeing to this.” and hope your bowed pose muffles it enough.

“Overcommitting. If I wanted to, I could shove your neck downward and take you on from behind.” He shakes you off his leg. “Don’t put your chest on my thigh. Lace your right shoulder over it so that your crown hits my ribs. Yeah, that’s it.” He smooths his hand over your back. It’s merely a graze and almost enough to have you collapse out of position entirely. “See how your head is preventing my arm from leaning on you? Good. Now use that, knoc– oomf.”

You don’t let him finish, driving him up until he tips backwards. The gratification stalls you for a split-moment, pride trembling up your frame, knocking your bones together. But he raises an eyebrow at you from the ground, and you remember the second part of the expectation.

(If this were the real thing, you’d be squashed by now. He’s holding back, guiding you semi-gently through this practice round.)

With no further ado, you seat yourself on his abdomen. His biceps are too large to pin your calves to while keeping both your knees and toes to the ground, so you spread until you can do so over the bends of his arms. Your pelvis aches with the near-split, and you find you couldn’t care less, shivering in high delight.

“Huh. Would you look at that.” You wiggle to reinforce your point. “And how did I do for my first time?”

(Admittedly, it’s a much milder line than what you had in mind; but even you have your limits, and congratulating him on taking your wrestle-victory virginity is just out of bounds.)

“Everyone starts somewhere.” He says, purposefully echoing his earlier attitude, recognizant of how it irritated you so. The answer pops your ego before it could begin to surmount to anything. “But you wavered, don’t pretend I didn’t see that. Get off. We’re going again.”

Tuesday, 22:00

Your first attempt at his challenge comes late.

The logic felt elementary; wait a day before trying anything so he’s caught further off his guard. It was a plan born with sights on his warning – when you come for me, I won’t be holding back – and, admittedly, your anxiety to it. This new equanimity you find yourself within is fragile, a compromise held up on couth alone. You’ve fought Miguel at his best, with claws reared and fangs snarled right at you. It never ended cleanly. And if either of you lose sight of the labour that is keeping it civil – away from that exact past – you’re terrified that things will shatter in pieces that tear you apart.

(There also remains the knowledge that you’d lose, sorely, should the match be equal.)

So, you didn’t want to give him the opportunity to resist at all. To your sleep-deprived self, there were a few steps in ensuring that:

Find him late at night, following a presumably long day, having just been lulled into faux comfort by his last meal before retiring. Beyond the fact that you skipped a day since his initial proposal to act on it – with a belly full of food, the lights of HQ dimmed low, and a drowsy filter cast by work, he’ll grow lax. Complaisant. At least, that was your theory, based on patterns you’ve observed in yourself. And it had been solid enough to ground your hopes on, especially when all that was required of you is to disarm him.

Only as you wait for him to emerge from the cafeteria do you realise the various other factors you forgot to take into account. Ones that complicate your lattermost objective.

The bridge is still, a thick cover of quiet befalling the sector. Bobbing outside the asymmetric windows is a waning gibbous moon, its luminescence casting lurid shadows onto the carpets and columns surrounding you. You sit, crouched behind a bench on an offside seating area, tracing patterns onto an adjacent palisade with your eyes. The moulding on it is triangular, like everything else in this building, and the task is mind-numbing enough that it hits you, then and there. Entirely too late.

He only taught you the one way of tackling your opponent.

Head on, with no room for stealth in your approach. Unless Miguel comes out of the cafeteria with a blindfold on, he’ll see you running towards him and squander the endeavour with ease. It’s like you to resort to your worst suspicions when cornered, so you can’t help but believe he did that on purpose. Either to test your ingenuity, or for some other convoluted reason you’ve no mind to get to right now.

Fuck. That bastard.

Should you back down now, you won’t trust yourself to face him tomorrow. Already, you’ve stalled for far too long, prudent to the approaching deadline. A week's time. Seven days to prove you’re worth your salt, to overcome the obstacles he’s thrown your way. Unlike your other exercises, you weren’t guaranteed anything in return for mastering this. He probably expects you to want it so bad that you become motivationally self-sufficient. And he’d be right. You do. Christ, you’d asked for it – this much needed intervention on the monotony you’ve been living in. It’s given you something to do beyond your lessons, and a victory might encourage him to design more like it. So–

You’ll stay. Work something out – an alternative plan. He hasn’t been in the caf for long. Given the chance he chose to have a sit down meal, you’ll have time.

“Lyla.”

The artificial intelligence flickers into being above you, hovering at your shoulder. She appears wildered, blinking owlishly at the source of her summon. You’d never called on her before – until now, you didn’t think you could. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and your throwing caution to the wind seems to have paid off.

That is, if she’s willing to proffer Miguel’s position.

“Upgraded from haunting worlds to our very own HQ?”

You shrug, blaisé to the jab you’ve heard so often. “Promise I’m on my best behaviour.”

“My, my.” She belly flops onto a nonexistent surface, still level with your nose, to shelf her chin onto her hands and kick her feet behind her. A small smile worms its way onto your expression when you notice her attire; a silk set of pyjamas, bunny slippers and a heart-shaped sleeping mask, pushed back to keep her bangs off her forehead. “Wonder what the boss has to say about that.”

“The boss can’t know I’m here.”

“My lips are sealed.” After miming the action, she glitches onto the ground in front of you, peeking from behind the bench to spy on the automatic doors leading into the cafeteria, much like you’re doing. “What’s with the secrecy? Please tell me this is a proposal. You’re certainly underdressed, but we can work what we’ve got. Oo!” She straightens to a ram-rod posture, alongside the exclamation mark that pops above her head, clothes returning to normal and a clipboard materialising in her hand. “We can add a little jeuje to the space. What’re we thinking? Flowers–” An orange array of digital peonies projects onto the bridge, fat and blossoming with accelerated speed. “Or streamers?” The petals are soon replaced by banners and curled ribbons, drooping from overarching beams.

Face molten with panic – and a hint of mortification – you wave through her incorporeal form to hurriedly interrupt her tangent. You can only hope that none of the commotion gave away your primacy.

“No!” Whisper shouting, you bow your head to the floor to look her in the eye. “Nothing like that. Listen, I just need you to watch Miguel and report back to me on his status. Preferably, before he exits the cafeteria. It’ll help me anticipate his approach while I think of what to do next.”

“Hmmm.” The lifeform approximation takes her sweet time considering it. Your gaze oscillates anxiously between her and the door, your body in perpetual flight or fight. Any longer, and you’re afraid quick-trigger reflex will have you jumping regardless of whether he emerges or not. “Don’t know what you’re trying to do, but I gotcha. Double agent Lyla, at your command!”

And then, she disappears.

Her aid does not reassure you. Baby hairs tickle your nape, matted with sweat. The condition persists, extending to your palms, which lay pressed to the tiled floor to tamp the perspiration seeping from them. Adrenaline – the very response you’d predicted – makes you sick and dizzy despite, bubbling up your gut in violent bursts. For all that you should be focusing on a course of action, her words claim a monopoly in your mind.

Double agent.

Do you want to know?

No, you decide. Not now. Whatever it is, it’s bound to hinder your performance. You settle back down.

Moments later, she crops back up.

“He’s on his way. If I were you, I’d up and turn around. He looks hangry.”

“Thanks, Lyla.” It’s about the worst thing she can say to you right now. “Go back to… sleep.”

Giving a final bow of her head, she departs. Her exit marks the milliseconds before Miguel’s entrance – sacred suspense stretching, spreading, only to implode by the schwip of the automatic door. It unlatches, layer by layer, to reveal a wide silhouette, framed by the bright fluorescents of the still-open cafeteria.

She’s right. Based on posture alone, you can tell he isn’t in the best of moods. It’s the only clarity you’re afforded as the entryway closes off, plunging him – and you – into the void of your surroundings. You strain to see where he begins or ends now, navy-suit obscuring his edges, punctuated only by the red accents on his chest. They become your indication on how and where he moves, the angling of the lines informing you that he’s headed straight towards you.

In complete contrast to the plod he takes on, your internal dialogue is a tangled mess of stray worries. An old, feral part of you – the girl who had to fend for herself for a year, untreated to the woes and safeties of regular food and board – claws out with a vengeance. She’s scared, she has nothing to lose, she’s plump with horror at the sight of a prowling hero, which had only meant one thing for her – and the sheer force of it all crushes you into choked submission. Perhaps it’s foolish to think you’ve moved on from your past when old habits return so easily. So she is still you, and it takes a good bit of convincing – of spotting and counting backwards from ten and breathing real slow – to prioritise your objective in face of the sudden regression.

By the time you manage it, in fact, he’s already a few paces away.

There goes your plan.

Frantically, you spring off your haunches, shooting to the side to hinder his track in an bid to salvage what’s left of it. It’s clumsy, lacking all the grace necessary for you to have even the chance of success, and when he stutters short of stepping on you, you make matters worse by curling around his ankles, striving to destabilise him by tugging at the roots of his support.

It fails. Obviously.

(In a rather anticlimactic way.)

He releases an exasperated sigh, staring down at your writhing form with what you can only imagine is regret at having ever agreed to this. “What are you doing?”

“Um–” You stop, glancing at him with one, hesitant eye. “Tackling you.”

Miguel blinks. Once. Twice. His foot bounces, pushing you off. Then–

“Up, before you hurt yourself.” Unphased. Strict.

You clamber to a stand. He gives you a once over, shakes his head, and brushes past you to continue his route. As he walks off, you catch a quiet huff, followed by a mutter – the reflection meant only for himself to hear. “Tackling me. Honestly.”

Wednesday, 10:20

Your second attempt finds you asleep under his desk.

Not deliberately, of course. You didn’t drag a pillow and comforter to his lab like an impromptu nap would lend you an upper hand. The position that brought it forth is hardly even a comfortable one – tucked under a squat table that has you bending your neck to fit, raised high off the ground on a hovering platform, in a cavernous office whose only lightsource seems to be the overhead aperture and orange monitors. They beep multiversal jargon and blare the occasional alarm, which never fails to send your heart rate sky-high – and if you hadn’t at all been convinced in your plot, then you would’ve left after the first couple minutes wait.

It’s torturous. Depressing. How he’s able to think, let alone work here, is beyond you. It can only be an optimal environment for what you set out to do – and perhaps that’s a point you should take up with him, should he care about being snuck up on by a more competent threat.

But you dozed off anyway, made weary with all your fretting, legs pressed close to your breast, cheek slotted upon them. It was cold, and he hadn’t arrived yet – off being the responsible spider-hero that he is, conducting city patrol while you tarry for the opportune – and Hobie’s gifted cardigan is snug enough around your frame that it serves as a blanket of sorts. Your course of action, set on an unremitting loop in your mind, was the last straw – a lullaby, cradling you down onto security. Fully drafted, practised, with no room for mistakes given the lessons you learnt last time.

Even submerged in sleep, it’s all you think about.

On account of an oversight, you’d panicked. Lept at him with no regard for the tactics you’ve learnt, instead of rerouting an alternative or preparing for contingencies. He’d taught you to tackle him head-on, and while that isn’t ideal for the covert-component of this challenge – like on that bridge, where he would’ve seen you coming from miles away – you can still make do with what you’ve got. That’s why you’re here, early in the morning, waiting for him to come to you, all while remaining oblivious to your presence under his desk. Not only does it grant you cover while he stands mere centimetres away, it ensures his hands are too busy to defend him when you strike, raised to tap away at his screens.

Those are the foundations you worked out on your chagrined walk home last night. The logistics – intricacies you have to calculate spontaneously – can be dealt with as they come up. Like sneaking in undetected. (Accomplished successfully.) Or whether space will allow you to lunge out onto him when he appears. (You practised it first thing – one eye on the door in case he comes in – and established that with a bit of improvisation, it’s possible.)

Your fingers twitch, triggered by muscle memory into acting the attack out on a smaller scale. It’s odd that you recognise it – still somewhat unconscious, suspended in an hypnopompic state where both your dreams and reality intersect. Elements of both topple over one another, porcelain dominoes that splinter on impact. You feel your fingers twitch, yes, and the scrape of your chapped lips – things you abstractedly assign as real – but they’re strewn between memories that run like worn film, singed at the edges.

A warm hand cupping your neck, callused fingers rubbing lightly over the curve of your shoulder. Shallow breaths, fanned across your lashes, struggled in keeping still.

Multi-coloured motes, flipping through a catalogue of colours in dark corners.

A headache, nipping the nerves leading to your brain. Pain, excruciatingly itchy above your elbow, up the back of your arm. Whiplash, smouldering agony across the junction of your shoulder.

A voice, hummed from the depths of a broad chest. Resonant, rugged. ‘Don’t move’ – the demand so steady it could’ve been gospel. Him, keeping you stable. Him, the only constant you know.

For a moment, you believe you’re still there. Buried under mounds of grey rubble, nestled on his lap. Oxygen depleted, injuries severe. No hope of escaping or checking in on the population of Earth-15, whose fate you screwed by merely existing on the same plane. The past number of weeks were fable, then, conjured by your sick mind to help you die easy. Creating a story besides the one that ended you; where you and Miguel worked something out.

And if it’s true – if you truly imagined it all – then that’d entail you never grew out of your hatred. You never got to rest on a bed, or take a shower, or bask in a filling meal again. It’d mean you didn’t leave any legacy beyond that of Wraith; destroyer of worlds, bane of his existence.

(And that you never counted as anything more to him than just that.)

Gradually, the pseudo-dream morphs into a nightmare born of stressful thought, and at its peak, it shakes you so hard you wake up. Bones jolting out of your skin, legs ready to kick outwards; raptured in fight-or-flight until you remember where you are, why it’s so cramped – because his desk is obnoxiously short and not because a building toppled over you – and how you got here.

You’re thankful you’re able to collect yourself so swiftly. Had you smacked your head on the belly of the table, or otherwise panickedly flailed about, then you would have alerted the man currently standing in front of you. His upper body is cut off from your sight, but you’d recognise those muscled thighs anywhere. Clad in his digital suit, little patterns shimmering on its surface. You see them clearer in your proximity, correlating them to the figures you’d observed on his monitors. Parallel lines and concentric circles, like maps of the spider-verse projected onto a navy backdrop.

How long were you out?

Despite your semi-awareness to your surroundings, you hadn’t heard him come in. Nor did you feel the platform drop to allow him to step onto it. You brush the confusion off, figuring it’d do you no good, and rub the drowsiness from your eyes while catching yourself up to speed.

You’re here to tackle him. The voice in your head begins chanting the plan again; leap out, grab his forward leg, ram his ribs with your head and pray it’s enough to tip him over. That’s one.

Two: you’re a quiet sleeper. You can’t imagine the embarrassment had you not been – if he were to catch you napping in his office by following the sound of your groans. You suppose it’s a frivolous thing to get hung up on, but you remember how your college roommate would talk during her nightmares. It never failed to capture your attention, even with headphones clasped tightly to your ears.

Which leads into your third remark–

He doesn’t realise you’re here; the most important thing considering. You’re still in the clear to go ahead.

Right now, Miguel is a smidge too far away for it to work out. You knead the sore flesh of your nape, stalking his feet for the slightest movement. They stand on the other side of the platform, verging near its brink, tapping in cogitation. Then, when he swipes a screen away from his direct view, his weight leans onto the back one. The manoeuvre brings his pelvis lower, cut-off rising to his midriff. It’s all you can do to remain dignified, gaze locked on anywhere except his hamstrings and where they round out to form a pronounced behind.

Would it be wrong for you to abandon your objective on justification of lust? It strokes some primal part of you seeing him so dedicated to his work. You’re instantly overwhelmed with the urge to crawl out and service him like this, on your knees, while he maintains his concentration. To give him a soft mouth, soft hands, maybe elicit an iota of pride over how well you behave. It’s depraved – you won’t deny it – but in your darkest moments, nothing consoles you like the thought of his unequivocal praise. Acceptance. There’s no one it would matter more from.

(No one it could matter more from. It’s true that he’s the only constant presence you’d ever had, even before your world went to ruin. Though you’re unsure of whether it’s in good providence, or if you’ll ever fully accept the fact.)

Miguel steps closer. You repress the reverie, slapping yourself softly to land back on target. A bit more to his left– yes, that’s it. He’s in front of you now.

When you’d practised, your head had to be out from underneath the desk for the manoeuvre to work. Pushing up into a squat, you shuffle forward. All you need is a distraction so he doesn’t catch you peeking out in his peripheral, and it comes in the form of child laughter.

Distant, as though it’s been passed through a speaker. With the way it repeats, incessant like that of a fond video playing over and over, you can appreciate that it isn’t happening live. Perhaps it’s a subject he’s keeping his eye on, or he’s slacking off with a movie. Not that it matters, of course – so long as he’s honed in on anything other than you.

His knee is at your eyeline. You scoot further. The low metal of the desk slips over your head. Now or never.

Pouncing, you wrap a gable grip around the bend of his leg, using the momentum of your squat to spring upwards. It’s bull-like when your forehead slams onto the exposed expanse of his ribs, toes skidding for acceleration as you force him to balance on the one limb, driving onward. The force could’ve concussed, had he not been cushioned by brawn. It’s certainly enough to almost throw him over, in any case. He stumbles backward, arm slipping across your back, and the scuffle is so promising that you let yourself relax slightly.

That’s your fault, you admit.

He exploits the slip-up to wrench your arms off from around his knee, using the appendages to pull you out from underneath him. With a frankly painful tug at the wrists, he twists you so your back is facing him, before pinning them in one strong grip. You’re shoved onto his desk that way, unceremoniously bent at the hip, nose ramming into the reinforced durasteel. Warmth trickles from it. A metallic taste fills the back of your mouth.

“¡Maldita sea! What the hell?”

Pain crackles up your nose, where ichor continues to bloom and slip from your nostrils. His aggression perhaps shouldn’t surprise you – he did say he wouldn’t be holding back – but it’s parallel to the treatment you received as Wraith, and you can’t help but assume that he resorted to what he was used to in all the adrenaline.

“That hurts.” Groaning, you wiggle your fingers in a plea for release. His pelvis flattens on the plump of your ass, and it burns the longer he continues to press into you. The situation is almost reminiscent of the fantasies you create when alone; rough-treatment and all.

“Christ.” He hisses, backing off at once. Despite asking for it, you mourn his absence, rubbing the brand left by his clothed crotch, sheepishly turning back to look at him. The instant he sobers up, he’s opening the drawer to his left. “I didn’t realise it was you.”

“Who else...” You murmur, ducking to shield your bloody nose from his attention. It’s done in vain, though – he already has a towel in hand, heading towards your face. Erroneously, you think he’s passing it to you and reach out to grab it – only to brush across his knuckles when he instead presses the white cotton to your lip. “Security that big of an issue?”

“You got in, didn’t you.”

“Har har.” As the red is wiped off your skin, he steadily lets you take over, dropping the towel to allow you to tamp the flow on your own.

“How long have you been under there?”

“Ah–” You pretend to occupy yourself with the task at hand, waiting for the heat to diffuse from your cheeks before you speak again. “Depends on what time it is.”

“Half past ten.”

“Two hours then.” You’d come in at eight. “Give or take.”

“I’ve been here for one.” He adds, prodding for a more satisfying explanation.

“Don’t worry. I wasn’t snooping for intel or anything.” A necessary preface and not at all a bid to steel yourself for your confession, the prospect of doing so filling you with shame. “I fell asleep.”

“You–” Like his stutter, his brows spasm at a rapid pace, creasing together in a flash before smoothing out to form a more pleasant expression. With eyelids fluttered shut and lips quirked at the edges. Amusement. Your stomach cartwheels. “You fell asleep.”

“Sure.” In complete contrast, you imagine your expression is solemn. Loss is an ugly and hopeless beast, roaring in your gut. You place the towel on his desk, starting to make your way out with a petulant march. “Like this place isn’t built for it, you gloomy jerk. I mean, where are the lights?”

(If he managed to overpower you despite doing everything correctly, then what chance have you got?)

The universe has a sick sense of humour too, it seems. Your argument is interrupted by the border of the platform, where you teeter over a fifteen foot drop. Fear blazes through your nerves, suddenly awake with the knowledge that you’re hovering mid air, no fence or handrails to hold you in.

Miguel chuckles from behind you, sounding way too pleased with himself when he asks. “You need help getting down?”

You throw a dirty glare over your shoulder, hoping it compensates for the humility you have to succumb to. “Yes.”

His arms stay crossed over his chest, holding out.

Fucking fine.

“Please.”

Thursday, 13:05

You plonk the heavy bag of scraps onto your table, sighing in relief as the weight redistributes off of you.

All morning, you’ve snooped around HQ with a nimble hand. It’s vast, after all, with many winding halls and unfrequented corners, of which you’re probably the only person to have walked through in weeks. Accompanying you, a makeshift pouch and a cover-up story; if any outsider should inquire – then you’re exploring the building that’s been your home for the last month. It would be suspicious, if the venture could not be so easily misconstrued.

No. You’re not worried. Far from it, in fact. You’re sure that the gadgets you pilfered won’t be missed. Some even had a thin coating of dust when you picked them up, their uses long neglected in favour of newer technologies. You’re merely giving them a new purpose, reshaping bits and bobs to suit your goal.

(A far-fetched one, for certain. But it’s wild enough that he won’t expect it.

That’s what you need. To stop playing by his rules.)

“Lyla.”

The AI glitches into translucency at your beckon, saluting as though you were a general and she a cadet. “Lyla á la espionage, reporting for duty!”

“No. Not this time.”

“Theeeen…”

“Can I count on your discretion?” Squinting, you stare straight through her pink-heart glasses, like lying is an expected part of her programming. Her last remark occupies a small portion of your mind. Double agent. You still haven’t asked, and you’re running at a speed too fast to jump over that hurdle now.

“Perhaps.”

Shaking your head, you do away with the ambiguity. “I’m hoping you’re good with tech.” You say anyway. “I need help.”

She only grins, wickedly, skipping over to peer into your bag. You spread it open for her, laying out the stolen paraphernalia. Then–

“Wraithy.” She adjusts the moniker so that it rhymes with baby. “I am tech.”

Saturday, 2:00

Nueva York streaks past you in blurs of blue and purple.

The sky lifts its buildings from the top up, spires pierced into its inky surface. You count the panels that pose a stark, golden contrast to the night-drenched landscape, lit up by residents whose lives are framed in the tiny windows. It’s a worthwhile distraction from the vertigo damaging your systems – all your efforts directed in looking forward, not up, as the ground shrinks farther and farther away above you. Yet with every metre, your distress worsens, distending to become a ferocious force.

Eventually, not even city gazing is enough.

You’ve trained on ceilings. On balconies. But the bottom-side of an elevator is another matter entirely, especially as it moves with zipping speed. You’re terrified that, at any moment, it’ll wobble and send you plummeting to your untimely death. And Miguel, who currently stands on the flip-end of it, won’t be able to process your presence or scream for help by the time you hit the ground.

That’s the calculated risk you convinced yourself into making when you sought him out today. It’s evolved beyond the point of learning a lesson, or whatever prompt you’d initially proposed to get him to agree to this. Now, or in the way it has been for the past two days, it’s personal. Your ego is bruised but not battered yet, and if the cuffs on your forearms have any sway in it, then you’ll get your solatium soon enough.

The apparatus is impressive, by standards of the day it took to hurriedly construct it. A smooth fit to your wrist, with narrowly hammered metal and a small compartment designed to hold your personal, synthetic formula. Lyla had pulled schematics from a large archive, handing you one she deemed ‘friendly for beginners’. You begrudged the coddling, if only because you yourself were worried about your competency with it.

You tested it, naturally. It’s functional. The fluid is durable, if not sticky. If worse comes to worse, you can rely on the prototype to catch yourself. That’s what you tell yourself, at least, all the way up to the top floor of HQ, which comes at a gradual halt of the lift.

Eager, you hook your fingers over the brim of the platform before flipping over to the right side up. You somersault so your landing isn’t as heavy-footed, and blood bursts down to your numb legs as you reorient yourself with gravity. It’s all you can do to wait until you regain feeling in them, before following the man out the door.

He’s multiple steps ahead already, traipsing with a tired gait. You match it, careful to set your toes down first so as to not make noise. The floor isn’t one you’ve been to – and it isn’t so much a floor as it is a singular hallway, lined with tilt-and-turn glass windows that gleam like all futuristic things do. The aesthetic is juxtaposed by a frankly retro carpet, shades of yellow and brown cut into a pattern you recognise from the bridges in the lobby.

Plastered to the edge, away from the subjection of the spotlights down the middle, you wonder where he’s going. It’s gotten late – you’ve been shadowing him for the better half of a day, since Friday afternoon after your lesson. The plan was to tackle him on his way out, right as he was about to leave to go home, but it’s two a.m. now and he’s at work. Still in hero attire. Wandering a corridor you’ve no reference to, with sight set on the door at its end.

If he waited this long to get to it, then it must be important. That’s what you argue against, anyway – that he likely arranged to complete this task at night when he would be ensured total privacy. How questionable is it, then, that you’re violating that?

You could turn back now, find him later instead. Yet today marks your final day before the deadline he set expires, and you want at least one more chance to try should this attempt turn to shit.

The right glove of Miguel’s suit disappears, digital projection flickering to white as the nanotech retracts into his palm. You notice the act only because his fingers soon flick out, a key pinched between them. It’s red and patterned with the same arithmetic lines as his ensemble.

Smart.

Once he arrives at the door, he uses the pass to unlock it. It comes open with an effortless swish, sliding completely open to allow him access. He lingers for too long, though, and you press closer to the wall in case he suspects your pursuit. He doesn’t turn around though, instead hitting a setting on his watch that causes the entryway to slip shut.

Before you can catch up. Before you can sneak in.

Your heart drops.

Floundering, you run to pull at the lock. It doesn’t budge. Nor are there any other ways in, the narrow hall composed solely of this door at one end and the elevator on the other. You can’t go in by any manner except pass through, and with every slap of your hand on the wall, it becomes increasingly apparent that your powers won’t miraculously emerge like they have before.

Nails digging into a fist, you reassure yourself that not all is lost if you give up now. It’s an unofficial loss, made outside the scrutiny of anyone besides yourself. And though you’ll kick yourself to sleep over being so inept in your own abilities, at least he won’t come to the same conclusion. That’s what matters – doesn’t it? His opinion of you.

Giving a final, aggravated sigh, you’re about to relent when you catch sight of it – a silver lining, adjacent to you. Levelled on the same plane as the door, separated only by the right wall of the hallway, opened to the high atmosphere air – a casement, hinged to a window much like the one you ogle at it through. Leading into the room he just entered. Just a short jump and swing away.

You shiver at the notion, first instinct loud and conclusive. No. Absolutely, positively not. It’s a ‘jump’ over a hundred-story fall. Even if you manage to crawl out of the first opening with your sanity intact, you’re nowhere near experienced enough to make it to the second. Unless–

Your belly lurches with pre-emptive nausea, and you sink to your knees to massage it without retching. You can’t believe you actually consider the reckless idea, sitting with your poor excuses for web shooters, triggers flat on your palm, looking far flimsier than anything you could trust. Your refusal to walk on walls comes back with a vengeance, laughing in mocking echoes at the simple obstacle you can’t overcome.

Whispering, you try your last alternate. “Lyla.”

There’s a lag before she appears, glasses skewed upon her nose. “Huh.”

“Do you…” You rasp, swallowing the bile surging up the back of your throat. “D’you think you could, y’know–” When words fail, you gesture to the locked door with the cock of your head.

“Oh-ho-ho. No can do. I’ve done a lotta favours for you sister, but this is crossing the line.”

“Okay. Okay, sorry for asking.” Your chest tightens. The corridor narrows. The shapes on the carpet warp to resemble the plunge off the end of a skyscraper. You have to ask to abate the panic. “What’s in there, anyway?”

“Find out on your own accord.” She doesn’t take the bait, fur coat rising with a brief shrug of her shoulders. “Good luck.”

And in a blink, you’re on your own again.

You must sit like that for half an hour, rocking back and forth in anxiety that refuses to settle. It gnaws on your energy until the passion depletes, draining out, leaving you to wallow as an empty husk. Every so often, you press your cheek to the cool glass spanning the side of the hallway, wishing the problem had magically amended itself since the last you checked. But the ground remains where it is, bottoming endlessly down below, and so does the window to the room, built just out of reach.

Of your concerns, there’s a resounding question that doesn’t quite fit. Its edges and curves search for a spot to click into place, but you aren’t able to find it – not until you give the piece further contemplation.

Why haven’t you left?

If you’d given up hope, then why haven’t you gathered your wounded pride and salvaged the rest of your night? You could’ve been in bed by now, cosy under a heavy comforter, ruminating over your failure in a safer setting. Yet you’ve chosen to stay and prolong your torture, egged on by the reminder of what you couldn’t do.

You’re not waiting for him to emerge. That hadn’t even occurred to you.

(And a tiny part of you already knows the answer, keening by the base of your skull. It just takes some work to admit.)

It’s that stupid, idiotic, dangerous philosophy he’s instilled in you. The ideology that gets heroes killed. The conviction that marks scars on their body or gives them the peace of mind when walking on walls and swinging across heights that could permanently ruin them.

What had you spread out underneath him, cupping your knees while his tongue lathered your wet cunt. Or when his fingers shoved into your pants, scissoring you open to the seconds on his stopwatch. The thing that’s kept you coming, fighting, over and over again despite receiving the brunt end of your endeavours every time.

Resilience.

You’ve internalised it. You’re here, where you wouldn't have stayed a month ago. And it’s forcing you to face the second lesson he’s been trying to teach; a value impossibly scarier. Courage.

You know you won’t rest until you embody that too.

Rising, you take your first step towards it by unlatching the fastener to the window in front of you. The pane upturns, pitching open like a gluttonous mouth. Frigid wind rushes in, biting at your cheeks. You breathe in the crisp freshness of it and ignore the threat it might pose to your welfare. Pessimism is a hulking burden. It’ll only weigh you down.

The rest follow in a clumsy sequence.

You sit on the edge, sticking the soles of your shoes onto the wall outside. It fixes in that newly familiar way, like how it does when you’re upside down, sucking onto the perpendicular surface. You don’t stand up despite the mild relief that washes through you, though – you understand now not to let your guard down until the task is done.

Keeping a firm grip around the window for stability, you scoot off the support it provides your bottom. You’re hanging out, posted on the external side of the hallway. There’s nothing but air underneath you. You don’t linger to process it, moving on to the next operation before dread knocks you out.

Tapping the button on your free hand, you test your web shooter one last time. Once to equip, twice to release. Once to equip, twice to realise.

When you sling it to the adjacent slot, your gaze is bolted forward. Never, ever down. Nothing exists, you cry to yourself, nothing exists but this small jump. And the web holds firm when you tug on it. You’ve tested the fluid against your own mass. It’s held strong. You’d have to be a novice scientist to have overlooked that; and you’ll be fine.

Nothing exists beyond this small jump.

(Except for maybe the cosmic forces you pray to. You invoke God, the sun, the stars. Even the moon, who gently glows down on you. It hits you, then, that you’re the closest you’ve ever been to any of them.

That verity reassures you just enough.)

You jump forward.

Tears bud on the corners of your eyes, scleras burning with the whip of air, sinuses scorching alongside it. Your organs hurtle to your feet, and your heart beats like bullets to your chest. It’s a vile, sickening sensation – akin only to the paralysing disbelief after finding out you’d brought an early apocalypse to your world. Nothing has required more bravery from you than enduring it, but…

You don’t fall.

In fact, your angling is so flawless that you glide into the space between the window frame and casement. The grace ends there, however, as momentum throws you hard onto a piece of furniture, toppling over it to smack head-first on the tiled floor. Pain blazes up your shoulder, jerked back by the web you forgot to release. You blink to diffuse the black dotting your vision, slowly coming to terms with the havoc you’ve wrought. The commotion had made way more noise than intended, and it seems you aren’t the only one who thinks so.

Sure enough, the light in the next room flicks off. It’s a choice made with the careful contemplation of a trained hero; if Miguel suspects an intruder, then he knows that he’d have the upper hand in the dark, within this space he’s far more familiar with. You feel around for the seat you tripped over, crawling behind it for cover.

As your vision adjusts, you’re able to make out the advent of his faint silhouette. His pants are looser than that of his suit, his arms bare – judging by the fleshy colour, hardly illuminated by the ambient lighting outside. The change would confuse you had you not been honed in on your challenge, reconciling stealth as you calculate your next course of action. The pound-force per square inch of your splitter-web function isn’t high enough to shoot across the distance you want – that being the expanse between you – so either you move closer, or he does.

The circumstance mirrors how things played out in this lab. Although this time, he creeps away, cautiously navigating the space with a prowess that can only be explained with night vision. Perhaps it’s a part of his spider-granted abilities, or otherwise he frequents the foyer often enough to know when to side-step to avoid incoming furniture.

Unfortunately for you, you don’t have either luxury. Thrill rockets within you, striking every nerve like a pinball game gone wild, fuelled by the fortitude your indiscreet stunt afforded you. He’s taking far too long to search his surroundings; at the rate it’s going, you’ll have lost your will before he comes close enough to wrestle onto the floor. You decide it’s much too intoxicating a sentiment to sacrifice, then, settling on the former bet.

Move closer it is.

You don’t run at him like you’re inclined to do. That hadn’t resulted in your favour the last time. Instead, you stay on all fours, bound inching in the opposite direction he takes on. You use the bulky chattels surrounding you to escape his notice, ducking behind the shaded shapes until you’re mere inches away.

The web shooters practically hum on your flesh now, mimicking your excitement as you point them to the angles intersecting his arms and torso. You hope your aim is as good in this less perilous scenario, the ploy contingent on your initial shot. Binding his extremities together would reduce possible scrimmages to zero, which buffs your chances of pinning him down to a pretty percentage.

And you make sure he spots you before you fire.

(Nothing satisfies like the slight widening of his eyes when he realises it’s you.)

The bombardment allows him no room to escape, discharged in every possible way as you run a three-sixty around his thrashing form. Your webs secure his arms, yes – but also his legs to one another, and his hands flush to his hips. For extra measure, you even go so far as to switch into long-form shots to wrap the final product once, twice, thrice, so he’s adequately swaddled and cuffed.

You don’t know how he’s still standing once you’re done. It can be seen as rubbing it in at this point when you tip him onto his back – but really, you just want to hit every aim he’d set out for you.

Within the next week. Check.

Sneak up on me. Check.

Anywhere, any time of day. Check.

Staple me to the ground for upwards of three seconds.

As you crouch down to straddle his abdomen, you count. Check. Check.

Miguel’s face is hard to read, shrouded and pursed in an indecipherable lour. You bite your lip with the appreciation that, despite his vague disapproval, your pride is still wholly valid.

“I won.” You croak, voice hoarse with misuse.

He shakes his head, slowly, then quicker when you combat it with an eager nods.

“I won. I won. I wo–”

“Web-shooters were never part of the challenge. ”

“Call it ingenuity,” You smirk, tapping on the metal contraptions. “You should add it to your list of traits befitting a hero.”

“Let me go.” He growls.

“Not until you admit it.”

“Let me go.” Firmer. It's smouldered by a fire you can’t locate the source of, for all that his tone rings familiar.

“C’mon, O’hara. I can see how badly you want to cut me the credit.” Arching down, you only mean for your next bribe to be heard more clearly, yet your chin brushes against his and his cologne hits you like a brick wall. Tension crackles in the same way it did then – when you’d been at the wheel of a cop car, hurtling towards a fate that’d always been coming for you. Promising ruin. Promising change in the sense that things could never be the same again. “It’s as much of a victory for you as my mentor, I think.”

“Hardly, seeing as you followed me home.”

(Home.

Of course it doesn’t go in the way you expect, though. Nothing ever does.)

“Wh–” All of a sudden, things start to make a whole lot more sense. You look around like the revelation will paint your setting in new colours. “You live at work?”

“I own the building.”

Your bravado shrivels to a minute thing, becoming a fraction of what it was. Just like that, he captures the upper hand again, all the while still dormant underneath you. The sun – you remind yourself. Always the sun to your comet.

“Alright, well.” You mumble, nipping the soft tissue of your cheeks. “I still won.” Though the proclamation holds foolish meaning now; not at all worthy of the lengths you went to.

Miguel’s hips thrust up, jostling your thighs, which remain pressed on him. Your core keels with the movement.

“Let me go.” He emphasises again. You shift to do exactly as he says, succumbing to the crushing pressure of your diffidence – only to be interrupted by his continued warning. It’s tricky. Devastating. It stops you right in your tracks, tearing the fibres of your chest apart with mad violence. Yet the implosion is only as powerful as the various fantasies that’ve gone into this very moment, and you can only attribute your reaction to your depraved self and not the filthy words that exit his mouth.

In truth, you have to hold on to his leg to make sure you heard him right.

“Lest I change my mind about fucking you silly, you bold little thing.”

chapter fourteen

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doormatty3 · 3 months

Text

Ocean Eyes: Chapter 4 (Orm Marius x Reader)

Masterlist Ao3

Ocean Eyes Masterlink

Summary:

[Orm Marius x Female Reader] [Orm Marius x You]

The ocean has always fascinated you - the ebb and flow of its water, the marine life in the sea and the wild and untamed beauty it exudes. Your attempts to explain this fascination have always fallen short. But when you meet Orm at the seaside one rainy day you find, that he just understands. You offer to show him around since he is not from the city. And you are intrigued by his rather strange quirks and his regal demeanour. After all, how could you not? When his eyes mirror the ocean itself, deep and incredibly blue. OR: You impress Orm with the surface world and he impresses you with his Atlantean cock

Wordcount: 4721

A/N: If there some mistakes, I had a major surgery and am currently high on Oxycodon...

As the day unfolds in a gentle rhythm, you and Orm find solace in the simplicity of lazy kisses and unhurried walks along the shoreline. The connection between you two is palpable, a subtle energy that defies explanation.

It‘s akin to the unspoken bond you have with the sea – a presence that exists without the need for words or rationale. It just is.

The lazy kisses are a sweet punctuation to moments of shared silence. Each touch, each caress, carries with it absolute bliss.

The slow walks along the beach with the sand beneath your feet, warmed by the sun, create a soft pathway for the two of you. The play of light on the water, the shifting hues of the sea mirroring the ebb and flow of emotions between you and Orm. The horizon stretches endlessly, a metaphor for the boundless potential of the connection you share.

The day progresses at its own unhurried pace, mirroring the unhurried nature of your connection. It‘s as if time itself has slowed down, allowing you to savour the simplicity of being in each other‘s company.

As you spend more time with Orm, you find yourself wanting to get to know him better - to unravel the layers of the person beneath the surface. However, you sense that it doesn‘t make sense to push him - he has to approach you,

Sometimes, his eyes betray the storm within him. There‘s a depth to Orm that intrigues you, a narrative etched in the lines of his expressions.

And so, you tread gently through the storm in his eyes, offering a steady presence without demanding entry into the tempest.

In the ebb and flow of days, you find a quiet rhythm with Orm.

The days are punctuated with laughter, conversations, and shared silences that speak volumes. You explore the nuances of his likes and dislikes, weaving the tapestry of your understanding of each other. In the simple joys of companionship, you find a happiness that surpasses even your most cherished expectations.

Waking up next to Orm becomes a source of comfort, a tangible warmth that permeates your mornings. His presence beside you is a reassurance, and falling asleep in his arms at night feels like being cradled by a serenade of tranquillity.

As you navigate the passage of time together, the bond between you and Orm deepens with shared experiences, mutual understanding, and unspoken affections.

_____

In the gentle embrace of morning, you awaken to the warmth of Orm‘s body pressed against yours. The soft light filtering through the curtains paints a tranquil scene, and as you open your eyes, the first thing you feel is the steady rhythm of his breath, a comforting lullaby in the quietude of the dawn.

Orm‘s arms are securely wrapped around you, creating a sense of safety and intimacy. The rise and fall of his chest against your back form a soothing cadence, a heartbeat that resonates with the peaceful stillness of the early morning.

With eyes half-open, you take in the contours of the room, the subdued light of dawn casting a gentle glow. Cradled in Orm‘s embrace, you savour the quiet beauty of these morning moments, where time seems to stand still, and the world outside is yet to fully awaken.

But it‘s late enough to get up you think, so you slip out of Orm‘s embrace, careful not to disturb his peaceful slumber. With a gentle touch, you rise from the bed, leaving behind the warmth of the covers.

You steal a final glance at him, a quiet affection swelling within you for his peaceful, sleeping form.

You make your way to the kitchen to brew coffee for yourself and prepare tea for Orm. While he really doesn‘t like coffee, you found out that he has a rather sweet tooth and likes fruity teas.

As you walk through your living room, your gaze shifts towards the window overlooking the terrace.

To your surprise, a tall, bulky figure captures your attention - A huge man stands on your lawn.

His long brown hair and beard contribute to a rugged appearance. As he stands there, the rays of the morning sun dance upon intricate tribal tattoos that tell a silent tale on his well-defined arms.

Instead of looking lost, he seems like he belongs - like he is waiting.

Reacting instinctively, you grab a fire poker, your heart pounding with a mix of caution and adrenaline. The sturdy handle feels reassuring in your grip as you cautiously open the door, the brisk morning air brushing against your skin.

The stranger meets your gaze as the door swings ajar, and you waste no time asking, “What do you want? And who are you?”

“I‘m Arthur,” the towering man responds, his eyes locked onto yours.

His sheer size renders him an imposing figure, dwarfing even Orm in comparison. In hindsight, you realise you should have called for Orm instead of venturing out on your own.

Thinking logically, you surmise that if he intended to harm you, he would have struck by now, so you inquire, “And what do you want, Arthur?”

“I‘m Orm‘s brother. I need to talk to him, please,” he explains, hands raised in a gesture of non-aggression.

Your scepticism persists as you lower the fire poker and remark, “What? I‘m sorry, but you two don‘t exactly look alike.”

Amused, Arthur lets out a hearty laugh, “I know. He‘s my half-brother.”

“How do you know he‘s here?” you inquire, unable to shake off the scepticism. Orm‘s family is uncharted territory, and Arthur‘s sudden arrival stirs a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Oh, he told me,” Arthur replies with a nonchalant smile.

The revelation that Orm talks about you to his family brings a pleasant warmth to your cheeks. It‘s a subtle affirmation of the connection you‘ve been building with him. It‘s a vulnerable yet comforting feeling, knowing that you hold a place in his thoughts outside the moments you spend together.

However, Arthur‘s unexpected appearance and claim of urgency cast a shadow of doubt and wariness.

“But if you talk to him regularly, why not just ask him directly?” you press, your tone carrying a note of suspicion.

“It‘s urgent – please,” Arthur implores, his gaze holding a sense of sincerity. The urgency in his voice hints at something pressing, and you furrow your brow - you‘d really like to know what‘s going on.

“Arthur, he never mentioned you – he never said anything about his family,” you assert, your words carrying a mix of confusion and caution. The unexpected nature of the encounter prompts a wave of doubt about Arthur‘s intentions. “For all I know, you‘re gonna murder me because you don‘t know him and just pretend.”

Arthur lets out a hearty laugh, a sound that echoes across the terrace. “If I wanted to hurt you, don‘t you think I‘d already have done that?” he retorts, the humour in his tone attempting to diffuse the tension.

The acknowledgement of your shared perspective brings a momentary alignment of understanding. “But you get why I‘m sceptical, right?” you press, seeking reassurance in the face of the unknown.

Arthur‘s laughter rumbles through the air again, seems inconsistent with the seriousness of the situation. “Sure, alright, listen. I can just prove to you that I know my little brother, alright.”

“Okay, go ahead,” you say, a glimmer of curiosity mingling with your scepticism.

“When he drank coffee at your place, he almost spat it out – he told me it was one of the most vile things he‘s ever drunk, and he really doesn‘t understand how we can drink it - and how you can call your coffee a good roast ,” Arthur reveals, a grin playing on his face.

A surprised chuckle escapes you, realising that Arthur‘s story is an accurate retelling of your and Orm‘s first breakfast together. “I didn‘t know he thought it was that bad,” you admit, laughter bubbling up at the unexpected revelation.

“Oh, he hates it,” Arthur laughs, his deep voice resonating with amusement. “But he really likes that fruit tea you have,” he adds, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He finds it funny that you and his brother are so smitten with each other.

You smile, feeling a warmth spreading through you. Clearing your throat, you say, “Well, Arthur, you just earned yourself a cup of coffee in my humble home. Come in.”

You head inside, leaving the door ajar for Arthur to accompany you.

He follows you into the house, his gaze wandering around the living room and open kitchen. As you prepare coffee for both of you and a cup of tea for Orm, Arthur‘s attention is drawn to the aquarium. Colourful fish gracefully move through the water, creating a captivating display.

Setting the mugs on the table, you join him by the aquarium. “It‘s a passion of mine,” you say, gesturing toward the fish gliding through the water. “Helps bring some life into the place.”

Arthur nods, his eyes still fixed on the mesmerising dance of the aquatic life. “I can see the appeal. Orm never mentioned you had such a lively home.”

You chuckle, “Well, surprises are always good, right?”

Arthur smirks, “Indeed. So, where‘s Orm? Still asleep?”

“He is,” you reply, “I didn‘t want to disturb him. Plus, I wasn‘t sure if waking him abruptly for a family reunion was the best idea.”

Arthur chuckles, “Fair point. I appreciate you being understanding about this.”

As you lead Arthur to the table, both of you take a seat, the morning light streaming through the windows casting a warm glow on the room. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the comforting scent of tea, creating an inviting atmosphere.

The conversation flows smoothly, and you start to feel more at ease with Arthur‘s presence. He talks about his life, sharing snippets of his experiences - you find out that he‘s married with a kid.

It becomes evident that despite the differences, there‘s a shared thread of love for the sea that ties the siblings together.

After a while, Arthur‘s eyes wander to the sea glass on the table. “Interesting choice of décor,” he remarks, picking it up and examining it.

You smile, recalling the moment when you found it on the beach. “It‘s a little souvenir. Reminded me of Orm.”

Arthur nods, his gaze thoughtful. “You know, he‘s not one to easily let people in. Must‘ve seen something special in you.”

You blush at the compliment, feeling a mix of warmth and appreciation.

As the conversation progresses, you discover more about Arthur, finding him to be not only funny but also kind. He delves into anecdotes about his child‘s antics and shares tales of odd jobs he‘s worked.

The warm atmosphere changes when Orm enters the kitchen. You eagerly go to greet him, excited to see him, but his expression stops you in your tracks.

Instead of the usual calm demeanour, Orm is seething with anger.

His brows are furrowed, and his normally serene eyes now burn with an intense fury akin to a storm raging beneath the surface.

The soft blue eyes that you love looking into have turned into a cold and cloudy hue. It feels as though you are looking into the heart of the storm, waves of fury rising and falling with a savage rhythm, crashing against each other like warring titans engaged in an eternal struggle.

The lines on his forehead deepen as he directs a stern gaze towards Arthur, whose presence has triggered this unexpected reaction.

You have never seen him like that.

Orm‘s anger is palpable, radiating off him like waves of heat. His clenched fists and completely tense posture speak volumes, signalling a storm about to unleash its wrath. His broad shoulders are rigid, every muscle coiled with tension.

You feel your heart beating in your chest, a mix of concern and confusion enveloping you. You‘re not sure how to react.

But before you can even utter a word, Orm curtly nods towards Arthur, his jaw clenched. The silent message is crystal clear – this is not the time for pleasantries. Without further ado, Orm guides him outside, the door closing behind them.

As you stand in the kitchen, you can‘t help but notice the drastic shift in the atmosphere. The air feels tense, and you can‘t help but wonder what transpired to provoke such a reaction from Orm.

You observe them through the glass door, the transparency offering a distorted lens into the unfolding scene.

Orm‘s expression has contorted into a visage of frustration. His brows are furrowed, and the anger etched on his face transforms him, turning him into someone feral.

On the other side, Arthur appears to be caught off guard by Orm‘s reaction. He stands with a mix of surprise and contrition, facing the verbal onslaught from his brother.

Through the closed door, you catch fragments of Orm‘s voice. The tone is heated, and you can sense the palpable tension in the air.

You hear his voice, sharp and reproachful, berating Arthur for showing up unannounced. The words come in bits and pieces, like the distant echoes of a conversation carried by the wind. The door muffles the sound, leaving you with only intermittent snippets of the exchange.

“Arthur, you can‘t just...” Orm‘s voice pierces through the door, each word laden with reproach.

You see Arthur talking back but can‘t understand what he‘s saying.

“...eat a cockroach, Arthur!” Orm‘s voice surges, and you can almost feel the exasperation in his shove when his hands press against Arthur‘s chest, pushing him back a step.

Arthur‘s reaction is a mix of shock and indignation. His eyes widen, and he instinctively recoils from the force of the shove, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before finding his footing again.

Orm‘s voice escalates, slicing through the air with a sharp sense of accusation, punctuating his words with another forceful shove.

“...took my throne, my betrothed, and now my peace of mind!” Orm‘s voice carries a weight of bitterness and resentment, the gravity of his words hitting you like a sudden tempest.

Wait what?

The unexpected revelation leaves you stunned, grappling with the realisation that there are layers to Orm‘s turmoil that extend beyond the immediate situation.

As the tension between Orm and Arthur reaches a boiling point, Arthur‘s composure begins to crack. His anger builds, evident in the tightening of his jaw and the fire that sparks in his eyes.

Arthur‘s accusatory words, dripping with frustration, reverberate through the room like an unspoken challenge, “What‘s your problem, Orm?”

He not only responds with words but also looks like he‘s ready to hit back, his fists clenched and posture shifting into a defensive stance when a flicker of realisation seems to cross his face.

“You never told her, did you?” he accuses Orm, his words laden with disbelief. His tone takes a sharper edge, and the words pierce the air like a dagger.

Your heart beats rapidly in your chest, caught in the whirlwind of emotions and uncertainty. He spoke about a fiance, and now there‘s something he never told you?

The bits and pieces of the argument you manage to overhear only serve to deepen your confusion. Determined to seek clarity, you take a deep breath, summoning courage, and make the decision to step outside.

The chilly air nips at your skin, and you‘re met with the intense atmosphere that hangs between Orm and Arthur.

Determined to understand the roots of this conflict, you inquire, “What‘s going on?”

Orm remains silent, his features etched with reluctance and a hint of frustration. It‘s clear he‘s not eager to divulge the details.

Arthur, seemingly less concerned about the secrecy, interjects with a tone that swings between nonchalance and urgency, “We‘re from Atlantis. He was the Ocean Master, the king of Atlantis. But he lost it all. Too hungry for power, and I had to step in to fix the mess. And now I have to deal with the Council of Houses that want my ass.”

“Sure. And I‘m the Chinese emperor.,” you say in disbelief, the sarcasm dripping from your words. Your gaze shifts to Orm, who avoids your eyes and still appears visibly angered, with frustration and regret emanating from him.

The growing anger inside you prompts you to confront Orm directly, “You won‘t tell me what‘s really going on, Orm?” You don‘t know what‘s worse: Orm just being silent or Arthur lying to you.

“Shit, I am not lying,” Arthur exclaims, his frustration matching yours. “Orm, this is your woman, fucking tell her the truth.”

Orm finally meets your eyes, and you swallow nervously. His expression shifts to remorseful; the once-angry blue eyes now reflect sadness and uncertainty.

“Orm?” you say quietly, a plea for honesty and transparency.

“I‘m Atlantean - so is he. He didn‘t lie,” he begins, running his hand through his hair. “I have never been to the surface before...and -”

Arthur interjects with a hint of playfulness, “Look, we can breathe underwater, and I can talk to fish. The ones in your living room told me some interesting things about you two a few days ago.”

“Arthur, please,” Orm says, a mix of exasperation and concern in his tone.

At this point, you‘re just confused. You don‘t know what to believe. Surely, they must be lying. There is no way in hell Atlantis is real - it seems preposterous, Yet the sincerity in Orm‘s eyes challenges your scepticism.

Arthur somehow senses that you need some proof, and realising Orm is not in a state to do something, he strides back into the house. The urgency in his movements compels you and Orm to follow, caught in a whirlwind of confusion and disbelief.

Once inside, Arthur doesn‘t waste a moment. His eyes, now with a peculiar yellow gleam, fixate on the aquarium as he approaches.

You watch in amazement as the aquatic inhabitants respond to him. They swim in intricate patterns, almost as if following a choreographed dance. Some even seem to perform playful flips in the water, creating a surreal spectacle.

Arthur, with a mischievous glint in his eyes, turns to you and grins. “Impressive, huh?”

You find it hard to fathom the reality unfolding before you.

“Atlantis is a fun place,” Arthur continues, undeterred by the incredulous atmosphere. “Full of politics, underwater cities, and, well, talking fish.”

The surreal scene in your living room challenges the very fabric of your understanding, leaving you grappling with the notion that Atlantis, a mythical realm, might be more than just a legend.

As Arthur‘s words linger in the air, you‘re faced with the undeniable truth that the world you thought you knew is just the surface of a much deeper and more complex reality.

Your attention shifts to Orm standing beside you. As he reaches out to put a hand on your shoulder, you turn around, your voice a mix of hurt and confusion. “Were you ever going to tell me?”

Your heart thumps loudly in your chest - this is not how you envisioned the morning unfolding. Hell, you had placed trust in Orm, and you genuinely like him. However, you‘re uncertain about what this revelation means for you.

The room seems to tighten with tension, and Orm‘s response is palpably strained. “I was going to, in due time.”

The weight of his words lingers in the air, leaving you standing on shaky ground. Uncertainty creeps in, and you‘re left to grapple with the implications of this newfound knowledge. The man you thought you knew harbours a secret world beneath the surface, a world you were blissfully unaware of until now.

Feeling the need to collect your thoughts, you excuse yourself, stammering out something about needing a moment. Hastily making your way to the bedroom, you close the door behind you, the muffled sounds of conversation still audible from the other room.

As the weight of the revelation bears down on you, you find yourself overwhelmed by a rising tide of emotions.

Panic tightens its grip around your chest, and you can feel the telltale signs of an impending attack. Placing your head in your hands, you try to steady your breathing, attempting to navigate the storm of conflicting thoughts and emotions swirling within you as the room feels suffocating.

As the door creaks open, Orm enters the room, his footsteps measured and purposeful, his demeanour carrying a palpable sense of remorse. The soft click of the closing door resonates in the air as he crosses the threshold, his gaze meeting yours with a mix of regret and genuine concern.

His movements are deliberate, each step echoing the weight of emotions he carries. Without hesitation, he gracefully kneels down, his hand extending to rest on your back, a comforting touch that conveys both warmth and strength.

“Hey, it‘s going to be okay. Just take a breath, honey,” his voice is a soothing cadence, every word chosen with care.

You observe the furrow in his brow and the slight slump of his shoulders, evidence of the burden he shares with you in this moment. His presence feels like a reassuring anchor amidst the tumult of emotions.

Attempting to steady your breath, panic tightens its grip on you, “I can‘t, I can‘t-” Your words falter, caught in the throes of distress.

His voice assumes a rhythmic flow, guiding you through the storm of emotions. The deliberate pace of his words creates a sense of order within the chaos, each syllable serving as a lifeline. With each uttered phrase, you sense a gradual easing of panic, his words acting as a balm for your distressed mind.

His large hands gently brush over your cheeks and hair, reaching wherever they can. The warmth of his touch is palpable. You find solace in the softness of his fingertips and the sincerity etched in his gaze.

“You‘re doing so well, honey. Just keep breathing. I‘m here with you. You‘re safe. Inhale slowly... and exhale,” Orm‘s voice continues its calming effect, a steady stream of reassurance that envelops you like a protective cocoon.

He talks you through the panic attack, guiding you with words that carry the warmth of understanding and reassurance.

With each carefully chosen phrase, Orm helps you navigate the tempest within. The room, once suffocating, begins to loosen its grip as Orm‘s presence becomes a source of comfort and support, helping you weather the emotional storm.

You manage a shaky breath and look at Orm, gratitude in your eyes.

“Thank you, Orm. I... I didn‘t expect all of this,” you admit, your voice carrying a mix of vulnerability and appreciation.

“I know, and I‘m sorry,” he reassures, cradling your face in his hand. His blue eyes shine with worry and tenderness, a testament to his commitment to being there for you.

You observe him close his eyes, taking in a shaky breath before reopening them. He appears on the verge of tears as he apologises once again.

Instinctively, you wrap your arms around Orm. Tears held back for too long stream down your face, a release of the pent-up emotions that have been coursing through you.

Orm responds with a gentle understanding, reciprocating by wrapping one arm around you in a protective hold. With his other hand, he tenderly wipes away the tears that cascade down your cheeks, and you feel the comforting touch of his fingers on your face.

As you remain wrapped in Orm‘s embrace, you become keenly aware of the rhythmic thudding of his heart against your chest. His shaky breaths resonate in the quiet space, a testament to the emotional intensity of the moment.

In response to the palpable tremor in his breath, you softly whisper, your words a gentle reassurance, “Everything will be alright, Orm. We‘ll get through this together.” The words uttered in a hushed tone carry the weight of sincerity, weaving a sense of comfort into the shared space.

Feeling Orm‘s tightening embrace, as if he fears you might slip away, you reciprocate the gesture, bringing your arms to cup his face gently.

As you lift his gaze to meet yours, you see the aftermath of the emotional storm in his eyes. They swim with unshed tears, and the intensity of the blue is almost overwhelming. His bottom lip trembles with the weight of the shared emotions, and you can sense the vulnerability etched across his features.

Your touch on his face is both a grounding presence and an assurance that you‘re here, steadfast and unwavering.

It is at that moment that you realise that you‘re falling in love with him.

Despite lingering anger about the concealment of his Atlantean identity and Atlantis itself, you know that he didn‘t do it out of bad intentions. He did it because he was afraid, and you know that feeling all too well.

With a gentle yet firm touch, your hand buries itself in Orm‘s blonde hair, fingers tangling in the soft strands. The kiss that follows is soft, tender, and brimming with a vulnerability that binds you both.

Orm responds to the kiss, and his vulnerability meets with your own as the unsheared tears in his eyes glisten.

Breaking the kiss, he tenderly smooths your hair away from your face, apologising, “I‘m so sorry. I didn‘t mean to tell you like that.”

“I know,” you assure him, your voice carrying a soothing tone as you lean in to place a gentle kiss on his forehead. “I know.”

“I‘m glad you know now, for all that‘s worth,” a small smile graces his lips.

“I‘m glad too. It does explain a few things,” you chuckle. “I‘m looking forward to showing you more surface things - now you can actually tell me what you haven‘t seen before.”

He laughs at that, a full-blown grin spreading across his face, reaching his eyes.

“I‘m genuinely excited to see more with you,” Orm admits, his eyes reflecting a genuine curiosity and eagerness. “And I promise not to keep any Atlantean secrets this time.”

“I‘ll hold you to that, King Orm,” you share a playful smirk, “Or do you want me to call you Ocean Master?”

His head snaps up at that, and his eyes darken with a feral intensity that makes you swallow dryly. He holds your gaze for a few seconds before surging up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss.

That was not the reaction you wanted, but you‘re not complaining, you think.

You whine into the kiss as Orm‘s hands cradle your face, his touch both gentle and possessive. It‘s as if he‘s imprinting the kiss with a promise, and the raw passion sends a surge of electricity through your veins.

The kiss deepens, the feral intensity transforming into a potent blend of desire and longing. Orm‘s lips move with a rhythmic urgency, leaving little room for doubt or hesitation.

His fingers thread through your hair, a tactile exploration that sends shivers down your spine. Each touch, each caress, is a language of its own, conveying unspoken promises and a shared hunger for connection.

Breaking away, Orm rests his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours in the shared space.

Orm‘s eyes, still darkened with desire, lock onto yours with an intensity that leaves you breathless. His thumb traces your lower lip, a lingering touch that ignites a spark of anticipation.

“I didn‘t expect you to call me Ocean Master,” he remarks, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You laugh softly, still a bit breathless, “Well, you do seem to enjoy it.”

“Perhaps I do,” a wicked gleam enters Orm‘s eyes, and he bites down on your bottom lip before leaving a warm trail along your jawline.

Orm‘s movements are both tender and possessive, making you gasp beneath him. His touch leaves a trail of heat, a tantalising promise of more to come.

As he continues his journey, his hands find their way to the small of your back, pulling you closer. The room seems to shrink around you as Orm‘s body presses against yours, the closeness igniting a delicious ache of desire.

Orm‘s breath, warm and steady, fans over your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The scent of him, a mix of sea and musk, envelops you, adding to the intoxicating atmosphere.

You feel arousal pumping through your veins and driven by pure instinct, you lean up and whisper in his ear, “Or do you prefer to be called my king.”

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anyasathenaeum · 10 months

Text

NSFW Trigun Headcanons

A/N: I felt inspired to just kinda punch these out before I start tackling requests. So yeah, please enjoy these LOL my first NSFW writing ever (PLEASE BE NICE)

Warnings: MINORS DNI, nsfw writing, mentions of cunnilingus, penetrative sex, marking, rough sex, etc. etc.

Vash the Stampede

Somebody who absolutely focuses on his partner's pleasure over his own

Like, Vash would absolutely be the type to straight up cum in tandem with his partner when he's been pleasuring them.

He's eating you out/sucking you off? You better believe he's humping into the bed or whatever surface is beneath him as he does so, making his cock leak precum all over, especially hearing your moans and cries of pleasure as he does so

WOULD ABSOLUTELY MOAN INTO YOUR PUSSY/ON YOUR COCK no doubt about it

His noises? THE PRETTIEST

Vash would be the type to cover his mouth with his hand in an attempt to stifle his sounds, because you draw them out of him constantly

"Mmph, (Y/N)... y-yes, like tha-ah!"

You'd absolutely have to pin his hands down to hear those noises more, I lowkey imagine Vash is a little embarrassed at just how noisy he can be

"Now, now, I wanna hear you, Vash."

The blush on his face is unmatched, his whole face red and his blue eyes all shiny as he looks up at you

"O-Okay! Hah-, o-okay, nngh!"

Whines, whimpers, even slight sobs, they're all sounds you'll hear escaping him

As well as calls of your name and passionately proclamations of his love for you

Sex with Vash is always a loving affair, so filled with tenderness and care. It's rare for it to be rushed or purely lustful

Vash would have a hard time leaving marks on you, he doesn't like the notion of hurting you, even at the height of passion

Of course, if you insist, over time, Vash will learn to leave a mark or two on your skin, wherever you'd like him to - your chest, your neck, your thighs

He'd be!!! so!!!! gentle!!!!

Caressing your skin constantly with both his real and his prosthetic, enjoying the feeling of you in his hands

I definitely think he'd cum even if you didn't touch him, especially the first few times you have sex with him

Over time, once you and Vash become more comfortable, there would definitely be moments where you two have rougher rounds

Or, maybe not rougher, per se, but more desperate, less careful

Maybe after Vash has almost lost you or something has almost torn you away from him, he'd be tearing at you desperately, clutching onto your skin, kissing you and marking you freely, tears going down his cheeks as he thrusts into you, savouring the feeling of your skin against his, a reminder that you're still alive and still with him.

"(Y/N), o-oh... (Y/N)... I love you, I- ah! Pl-please don't leave me..."

Nicholas D. Wolfwood

Sex with Wolfwood starts out more as just a purely physical thing - an act you both partake in, but it slowly becomes something more

Wolfwood would lowkey use you as stress relief

He's had a bad day? You'll know by how hard he thrusts into you, his skin slapping against yours, his grunts and moans echoing off the walls of the empty room you two have snuck off to

"Yeah, take it, (Y/N), just like that. Take it!"

This man? Dirty talker extraordinaire, can straight up turn you on with very few words

He takes flustering you and turning you on as a personal challenge, trying to keep you on your toes all the time and see how red he can make you

If he sees you rubbing your thighs together in desperation, in need, or crossing your legs, your face heating up, Wolfwood takes it as a win

He rewards you for taking his teasing all day by giving you one of the best fucks of your life

What's surprising though - he doesn't actually have all that much experience

I actually can't imagine Wolfwood sleeping around a lot before you, despite all his confidence and his smugness in bed

So, when he actually starts sleeping with you, at first, Wolfwood knows the mechanics of the act of sex, but he doesn't understand the small things

With time, Wolfwood becomes softer with you, learning how you like to be touched, what you like to hear, all your preferences

"Does that make you feel good? Yeah? Lemme hear you, sweetheart. Yes, just like that... good."

Marks you up SHAMELESSLY - will leave hickies wherever he feels like it and he doesn't give a damn who sees because you're his.

Will smirk when he sees other people eyeing the marks on your skin

P O S S E S S I V E - he gets jealous easily, even if he doesn't admit to it, and when he's jealous? Goddamn, RIP you, you're not walking for the next few days

Will also not hesitate to fuck you wherever he feels like it - in the bathroom of a saloon? Check. In an alleyway, not too far away from the main street where people are walking? Check.

The thrill of potentially getting caught makes it all that much more exciting for Wolfwood

Not a huge fan of cuddling after sex when you first start seeing him, but after a while, he softens and doesn't want to let you go

Basically, at first, sex isn't an emotional thing with him, but it becomes one over time - it changes as your relationship with Wolfwood changes and becomes deeper, more intimate, more romantic.

And you know what? Wolfwood wouldn't change it for a thing (though he'd rather die than admit it to you or anybody else)

#anya's athenaeum #trigun stampede #trigun #trigun stampede x reader #trigun x reader #vash the stampede #vash the stampede x reader #vash x reader #trigun smut #vash the stampede smut #wolfwood smut #vash smut #nicholas d wolfwood smut #trigun stampede smut #trimax smut

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f10werfae · 11 months

Note

Would Baby Bun ever comfort her husband when he's feeling a bit under the weather? Maybe with some fluff breastfeeding? 🥹 Just comfort, not necessarily smut

Milky business

Lumberjack!Henry x shy!wife!reader

summary: Baby bun comforts her man with a little milk (lactation kink) (lowkey subby henry for once??)

lumberjack!Henry Masterlist

��‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵

“H-Hen? What’s wrong? Why do you look so u-upset?” Y/n whined crawling into bed beside her grumpy husband, his head immediately coming down to lay on top her chest, which he had admitted had grown major sizes since she had given birth to their twins, Iris and Beau. “Jus’ feelin’ a bit under the weather sugar butt, nothin for your pretty head to worry about” His fingers were already tweaking with her engorged nipples through her thin vest, watching as wet patches soon covered them, the fabric now sticking to her skin.

“B-but it is for me to worry bout! Y-you’re my husband n’ we’re supposed ta take care of each other” Y/n whined scratching the nape of his neck, little moans and whimpers leaving her lips every time Henry would let his teeth rake over her hardened wet nipples. “You’re so sweet baby bun, ya wanna comfort your man?” He cooed leaning up to kiss her lips sloppily, pulling her tongue out in the process, his smirk widening when she just nodded; already knowing his method of choice.

Within seconds Henry had once again rested his head onto her chest, pulling down her vest just enough to let both of her swollen tits pop out, the milk practically aching to come out since the twins weren’t able to finish her off. This was something they had both experimented with both and undeniably fell in love with as a couple. There was nothing better than finding a new way to be closer and intimate with each other, with Henry finding himself simply nursing on his housewife whenever he pleased or whenever she found her breasts too sore. Some may even say he was jealous of his twins. Seeing his wife adopt the new role of a mother made his heart glimmer with pride, she was HIS wife and the mother of HIS children, she was all his just like he planned from the start.

“They’re so tense baby” Henry whispered placing a soft kiss onto her swollen bud directly, before doing it again, only this time sucking softly to receive some of her sweet warm milk into his waiting mouth. Every so often his mouth was engulf more and more of her breast into his mouth until his mouth was satisfyingly stuffed full of his wife. “That feels so good” Y/n whispered kissing the crown of his head, letting her hands rub down his back gently.

It wasn’t often that Henry let himself be emotionally vulnerable in front of his wife, so the times that he would she would completely savour it. The way he would absolutely cling to her, needing her to be beside him constantly, because she grounded him.

“You taste so good momma” Henry rasped kissing the skin around her nipples, lifting his head, letting her take control of a tongue filled kiss; the taste of the milk filling her mouth as Henry whimpered for more. He whimpered for her, his lover, his wife. “Thank you so much for being my rock, my everythin’, n’ givin’ me our little miracles. Forever my precious girl” He whispered against her lips, both of their glossy eyes looking at each other with so much lust, love and passion.

“Y-you’re so mushy and emotional tonight” Y/n giggled nudging her nose against his, “Can’t you just let me love on my wife and the mother of my children in peace?”

“Need I to do the other one now don’t I? Can’t have the other one feelin’ left out” Leaving another small kiss onto the corner of her lips he leant down to her other breast and let himself get lost in the feeling of her soft skin against his. With the combination of his baby bun’s head and back scratches and her warm milk, it wasn’t surprising when Henry literally fell asleep with her tit in his mouth.

——-

PSA: I cant wait to finally write full fics again after my exams 😭😭 In the mean time hope you guys enjoy this short story🫶🫶🫶

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the-darklings · 2 years

Text

──𝐭𝐨𝐝𝐚𝐲 𝐢 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐦𝐞 [𝐕𝐈𝐈.]

summary: "Matters of this realm are not for you to consider."

pairing: dream of the endless x f!reader

wc: 7.5k+

warnings: brief violence/blood, Corinthian is his own warning, we're hitting the big time rush angst, Dream is still Dream (insult) ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

notes: i'm just... hahahaaaaaaa. enjoy.

part one | series masterlist | ao3 |

PART SEVEN: YEAR 619-850

“Do you imagine stopping one shipment will change anything?”

Gliding your tongue over your bloodied teeth, you shrug half-heartedly. In part because you could care less what this pompous man concludes about you. Another part—a brazen, reckless side that’s been steadily honing to life with experience and age—craves to see this man squirm. Your fellow humans are no longer so indifferent to your presence. They’re becoming more knowledgeable. Nowadays, they welcome you with distrustful, knowing stares. Those with old family names whose ancestors you might have encountered previously. But there’s also apprehension. Fear. That one’s new.

That particular emotion is cherished when faced with such men.

“Sure it will,” you drawl, licking your bloodied mouth again. “They’re free people now. You don’t have any right to them or anyone else.”

Subdued wrath laces every syllable, and each word rips from your mouth with pointed accusation. Your people have come to this. Carting off other human beings like merchandise. Things to be sold. To be treated as lessers. For wealth. As if they won’t all decay and die in a few decades. It makes you sick with fury. You had such faith in them, such hope—that they would grow and improve, achieve wonders and help one another. So fiercely you’ve defended them to the other Endless.

And this is your reward.

“My father warned me about you,” the man continues, regarding you through narrowed eyes. His fine coat, stitched with golden threads, rustles when he lumbers over. The guards holding you jerk your body, keeping you upright. “The Conjurer. The Trickster. The Many Faces Witch.”

“Yes, your father was a piece of shite, too.” A yawn pulls at your mouth. The man’s lined face tightens at your dismissiveness, deepening the grooves etching into his pallid, leathery skin. “You people need to work on something better than a witch. It’s outdated.”

"Silence your wretched tongue," he hisses, stalking closer. Oh, he's getting braver. The merchant's gloved hands ball into fists at his sides. He's taller and stronger. Your body, in comparison, is all but battered, but there is no fear in you. For one such as he, that is a far greater insult. "I will discover where you hid them and who helped you. Do not think I will not."

Your lip throbs when you dig your tongue into the fleshy, torn skin. Copper on your tongue tastes like nothing and everything.

“You’re most welcome to try, Mr… hm, I honestly don’t remember your name. Neither will history.”

Merchant’s face turns purple, nostrils flaring. Blinking innocently, you await the strike. Usually, it’s a backhand. Deliberate and savoured. Humiliation is vital in breaking spirit. But it stopped working on you a long time ago. You’ve been stripped naked, paraded around, and degraded so many times you’ve stopped counting. Or caring.

He can hit you. He can mock you and abuse you all he wants, for however long he wants. You will get back up and continue helping people because they deserve it. It is not for some pampered, greedy man to deem otherwise. Decades from now, you’ll still be here when he’s no more than an ailing husk of a man.

He wants to hit you. It’s written in the harsh, shuddering way he swallows down his breaths. The holding cell is utterly silent aside from his occasional spluttering huffs.

“I will cut out your tongue, you insolent—”

The cell door swings open with a metal creak behind him.

“You called for me?”

The new man is younger, clad in finely-stitched royal blue, augmented coat. Folds and ruffles locomote around his lithe body when he strides forward, hands resting folded behind his back.

“Constantine, yes.” The merchant straightens, impatiently waving his hand for the newcomer to join you. His ring-clad finger digs in your direction. He won’t see you cower. You’ve experienced many such condemnations. “This creature. I want this one dealt with.”

The younger, blonde man raises a ponderous, curious brow, a crafty sheen reflecting through his irises.

“Your meaning, sire?” he prods innocently.

"She is not… normal, Edward. Not human." The merchant's expensive shoes slide through the grimy cell floor when he veers in Edward Constantine's direction. "Your family deals with these matters, do they not?"

"My mother, Lady Johnna, would not take kindly to your implication, sire." Edward smiles pleasantly as he speaks. He's unfairly handsome; in a pale, nonpareil way that flustered most souls he encounters. Cupid's bow mouth; wheat-coloured hair like that of his mother; gentle, narrow features and lulling voice. But all Constantines you've encountered have something wicked pulsing beneath their skin. It's what makes them so powerful, so excellent at their craft. "And I assure you, if you were dealing with a demon, you would know by now."

“How?”

The man’s snarling question sends spittle flying.

Edward puckers his lips in mock thought. He then grins brightly. “You would be rather dead, sire.”

Old, powerful Latin spills from Edward’s mouth, the mischievous grin sliding clean from his face. His focus narrows, well versed in his craft.

One of the guards holding you chokes abruptly. Heaving, sobbing retches leave him, his hold on you loosening. Shoving away, you bury your elbow in the other guard’s ribcage, grabbing his pistol while he’s too winded to react. You promptly knock the weighted weapon across the guard’s temple. The dazed man goes down like a falling tree, his mouth agape while he sprawls across the cell floor unconscious.

The merchant holding you prisoner stumbles back at the commotion, sweat beading his brow at the power shift. He looks on the verge of throwing up. “What—what is going on—stop!”

Pale, twitching hands rip from the guard’s gaping mouth, something crawling from inside his body. The man squirms pathetically, plunging to his knees. Faint, smug smile curls Edward’s mouth, all but victorious, while the Latin continues reverberating against the dank stone.

“I order you to stop!”

The guard explodes. A wet, squelching sound hits your eardrums. Then only a pale, gnarly-looking creature rests curled on the gore-covered floor.

“You’re late, Constantine.”

The ire in your voice causes Edward to bow his head apologetically.

“My apologies, fair Wanderer.” His grin is downright roguish. “Perhaps if you offered me a kiss as a reward next time, I shall hurry.”

The merchant chooses that precise moment to empty his stomach, fainting a second later. While you do not intend to shoot him, it does comfort you to level your newly acquired firearm on him. His judgement will not be in your hands. You have no right to it. His sentence will be at the hands of those he tried to trade for personal riches.

Sighing, you stare down at the convulsing demon. “Wrong host.”

Edward clicks his tongue. “Yes, quite. It turns out the old coot is just a regular cunt.”

You step forward, hesitating. The demon snarls loudly at your proximity. Hissing and spitting, it springs back up, leaping forward instantly. Its slimy, boney form crushes you to the ground, pinning you there.

“Wanderer—”

“No! Finish it.” The order rings piercingly through the saturated, cold air. It’s a testament to how much Edward relies on you because just as the demon’s jaws part to sink into your flesh, guttural, commanding Latin resumes. The demon’s half-humanoid body cracks under sheer power, light opening up in swelling circles around you. The wind howls through the tiny cell. Portal straight to Hell. “I’ll be fine! Do it! Help them, Edward!”

The wind wails deafeningly, light burns through your vision, tears blurring everything in sight.

Invisible power closes around you in an unyielding fist, sucking you down, down, down—

The demon wails above you, its claws sinking into your arm and stomach for support, flailing as you both plummet. You choke down a yelp of pain when blood starts gushing, the demon’s claws dug in too deep. Portals, dimensions, blurring hues, cold, hot, hot, hot—

In its rawest form, the universe rushes and slides around your body. Every knock and snag nearly breaks bones. Edward’s enchantment is sending you speeding down straight to Hell, but you’re using the curse as an anchor. An excruciating, ill-fitting buffer that slows your descent into an agonising shredding.

Your nails hook deliberately in the slimy, cold skin of the demon. Snarl forming, you jerk.

The knock sends you whistling through the universe's raw matter, but in a different direction. You plummet to the ground with cracking bones. A rare cry tears from your throat when your body flops to a resting position, jolting at the sudden impact.

You’re in a cemetery. Black clouds roll overhead, faraway thunder vibrating through the air. You manage a bloody, victorious smile.

“Human ssscum. Come here.”

The rattling, hissing voice gets accompanies by eager claws at your skin. Your pistol is long gone, lost in universal transit. Your hands are all you have left.

“No pleasss for help?” it coos and caws gleefully.

Words form, but it’s the pleasant voice behind you that responds: “You talk too much.”

Metal blade sticks clean through the demon’s gut. It screeches—a piercing, haunting sound—for it’s no ordinary blade that guts it. Black liquid gushes from the demon’s belly; its greyish skin marred as it crawls backwards, slobbering and snarling in a frenzied symphony.

The nightmare crafted by the King of Dreams himself stands above you, a black halo assembled from shadows and lightning crowning his pale head.

“Corinthian.”

Your chuckle sounds a tinge manic, relief slumping your limbs into the supple dirt beneath.

Corinthian’s head tilts marginally in your direction, but his focus stays entirely on the demon sitting erect on its hunches. Its tongue lolls to the side—a disturbing sight paired with its humanoid features.

“Puny nightmare,” it gloats, black liquid coating its bent, rotting teeth. “You dare to challenge me? I am Bifrons, Earl of Hell. You think you can prevail against one sssuch as I?”

A slight, cruel grin edges Corinthian’s face. His dual blades flip through the air, adjusted and firm in his relaxed hold, an extension of him.

“Let’s find out.”

It’s a blur. The demon is sly, its long limbs and small but robust wings serving it well, but Corinthian is liquid metal. More fluid than water and more vicious than any serpent. If the blade doesn’t sink in, it cuts and cuts and cuts. In seconds, the demon is covered in its own deformed version of blood, dripping heavily onto its hooked feet.

One blade punches clean through the demon’s wing, pinning the creature to a burnt tree behind it. The demon flails, bucking.

“You’re in the Dreaming.” Corinthian shapes each word with calm, pleasant malice. “The Nightmare Realms are my domain, and you’re a long way from home, my friend.”

The wind, the lightning, even the demon’s pained bleats—every sound and sensation hush to an abrupt suspension.

You sense his arrival in the clearing before he so much as utters a word. “Corinthian, enough.”

Dream’s deep, unwavering command glides through the charged, unnaturally still air.

Corinthian glares at the demon’s beady eyes, his teeth bared and face crinkled with enraged disbelief. “This thing—”

“Enough.” You cringe at the frigid bite in Dream’s timbre, struggling to sit up. “I will deal with the demon.”

If they continue at this, it’ll devolve into a disaster.

Your mouth wobbles, pain lapping at your senses. “Cori.”

The blade poised in Corinthian’s graceful hand quivers at the subdued plea, keen for the killing blow. His mouth contorts, shaping a hollow, wide grin. A tense moment crawls by. Then his arm drops to his side.

“As you command.”

He doesn’t bow. A strange sensation prickles your skin at the observation, but you brush it aside.

Black blocks Corinthian from your sight. Power sizzles across your skin. Achingly familiar, absolute. It’s everywhere, embracing you in blankets of everlasting comfort. Cold, bitter night and sun-dripping sleepy daydream simultaneously.

Cold fingers skim over your swollen cheek. The air around you cools by several degrees the longer Dream King drinks in your torn appearance. “Wanderer.”

Sorrow traces the whispered moniker. Why is it that when you’re alone, these tragedies slide clean off you, but when Dream peers at you with such unspoken despair, it hurts so bad? Is it because his comfort is so vastly different from others? Or perhaps because with him, there is no escaping anything. Because Dream’s hands touch and linger with a gentleness that wrenches something hurt and bleeding deep inside you and lays it bare.

“Hey, Dream.”

Dream Lord imparts no words, decrees no commands. He simply sweeps his midnight, flame-edged coat across you, and you’re both gone.

“I’m fine. I told you, typical trouble.” A more pressing question springs to mind. “Where is Corinthian?”

Dream of the Endless sweeps a searching look over your healing body, mutely unsatisfied. Even though you’ve slowed down, he resumes his steady trek through the sweeping castle corridors.

“I will speak with Corinthian later,” he responds. “He acted outside his function.”

Something in your chest ices over at the carefully light way Dream articulates those words. Springing on your tiptoes, you hurry after him, wincing at the everpresent discomfort.

“Outside his—” Swallowing your frustration, you reach for the Dream King, folding your fingers gently around the crook of his arm. His black coat warms your hand when you touch it, sending a pleasant shiver up your arm. Dream halts at the light contact, pinning you with a stormy stare. “He tried to protect me. He did this to protect me from a demon.”

But Dream Lord has retreated, leaving the ruler of the Nightmare realms behind. Stony, stubborn, uncompromising.

“As monarch of this realm, it is my duty to handle these transgressions,” Dream clarifies. “Corinthian acted on his own accord. You do not slaughter the Earl of Hell without invoking wrath from Lightbringer.”

“Then why give them free will in the first place?” Your fingers tighten around his arm. “Don’t give me that look. You heard me.”

Dream exhales softly, his head bowing closer. “I was coming for you.”

You’re unsure why that sentence pulls a pained laugh from your chest. Feeble and scratchy. Your hand slips away from him, and with it, the more benign light with which Dream was regarding you does so as well.

“Yeah, before or after that thing killed me?” Damage is so blatant in your strangled question that you’re almost embarrassed by it—that you would be so apparent in your emotions after centuries together. “You haven’t been there in the past, Dream. Corinthian was. I can’t stand by while you punish him for keeping me safe.”

Dream’s pale, handsome features stutter at the not-so-subtle reminder. Does it trouble him? The knowledge that once you didn’t call for him because you didn’t believe he would come, but now you never do because being alone, relying on yourself, has become the norm. Calling for his aid no longer crosses your mind.

“Do you suppose Corinthian did this from the goodness of his heart, Wanderer? Or because it was a prime opportunity to indulge in his savagery?”

Dream’s soft conjecture lances clean through you, balling your heart in a merciless fist.

“You mean savagery you instilled in him?” Your shoulders hunch, defensive. It’s challenging standing against him when he’s like this: looming, all-powerful, ancient dust and brimstone. But the poor, naive soul who once found themselves in his gardens, at the foot of his mercy, has long since grown up. “You made him this way. You make them all for humanity. To serve them. Corinthian just did.”

Dream’s stare darkens, sliding away dismissively. “I do not expect you to understand the intricacies that come with Hell’s wrath—”

“You don’t expect me to understand.”

The gallery you’ve halted is quiet enough to hear a feather drop.

For years, you were trapped in Hell. You’ve tasted their cruelty and bloodlust; experienced firsthand the unending list of methods they use for torture and how they delight in it.

Dream’s soft mouth parts. “I did not mean to imply—”

“No, you implied enough, Morpheus.”

He leans back at the hard bite of his true name. It’s so rare for you to use it, and rarer still, for it to be spoken with such… disappointment. You’re too blind to his faults. Perhaps Desire was right in saying so. Or maybe you’ve always seen them but never cared because you care for him. Your fondness for the lonesome Dream Lord outweighs the logical, critical part that’s all survivor now.

Or does it?

You brush past him. “Excuse me.”

He doesn’t stop you.

“I’m an idiot.”

Your groan is met with a contemplative hum from your nightmare companion. Wanderer Island is blanketed by flimsy cloud cover today; the sun blazes hot and bright onto the sand, trees and flowers encircling you. You chew absently on the sour apple grass, your fingers knotted in the undying pasture beneath.

Corinthian deliberately bobs his leg, jolting you where your head rests on his thigh, your arms wrapped tight around yourself.

“You challenge him.” The nightmare pauses in his whittling, his attention straying over the water towards the rest of the Dreaming. “Dream doesn’t like hearing the truth. The only truth he cares about is his own. He’s selfish like that.”

You say nothing. Just as you’ve never pointed out that Corinthian has all but migrated to the Wanderer Island. It’s the one place you are guaranteed to find him no matter how much time has passed. Shelter for those lost and seeking. It applies to him as much as you.

You examine his profile. Each line, pore, and curve of his proud visage. “He won’t punish you for this. I won’t let him.”

Corinthian lightly scratches the tip of his blade into the half-finished wooden piece snug in his palm. “He already talked with me.”

You freeze. “What?”

He reaches out and flicks you on the forehead. Hard. “Nothing to concern your pretty little head with.”

Slapping your hand over your stinging forehead, you propel yourself upwards, shooting him a glare. His tells are as apparent to you as yours are to him after centuries together.

“Corinthian.” His name, spoken with intent, drags the nightmare’s attention your way. “What did he tell you?”

A light breeze ripples the tree branches you’re resting under—molten spots of sunlight smear and dance across Corinthian’s cheek through cracks in the leaf cover. For too long, he’s altogether quiet. Dread coils around you in a suffocating grip.

“That if I stray again, he will unmake me.”

Of course. You knew you. Even before he spoke aloud, you knew.

“I don’t believe him,” you hiss, dragging your hand over your face.

The tiny stabs caused by the still healing flesh hardly register.

Corinthian peers up at the sky, relaxing in his spot. “Ah, tough business.”

You cast a suspicious glance his way. “You’re not even a little bit concerned? If you keep pushing Dream’s boundaries, it will implode in your face eventually.”

The nightmare rubs his thumb over his newest piece. “Nah, not even slightly concerned. He won’t dare to unmake me.”

This once, you take the bait.

“Do you know something I don’t… or?”

Your reflection appears puzzled in the distorted, dark shine of his glasses.

“If Dream unmade me, it would break your heart.” Unequivocally self-assured. Your heart skips several beats. Corinthian swishes his blade from side to side playfully. “He knows as much. Why else do you think I’m still around? I get away with things others won’t dare to dream about. Told ya, truth bites.”

He taps the blunt edge of the blade against your nose. You don’t react to it. No, instead, you mull over his hypotheses, his conclusions, the weight in your pocket becoming unbearable.

“Funny timing,” you mutter absently. Your hand closes around the figurine in your pocket, now significantly more ragged than when Corinthian first gifted it to you. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for some time.”

Another item has been living with the figurine in your dark pocket. Pinching it carefully, you pull it out, proffering it to the nightmare wordlessly.

“A ring?” A slow, crooked smirk bites into Corinthian's cheeks. “Oh, now Dream will unmake me for sure.”

You can’t help but roll your eyes. “Hilarious. It’s not for that. Put it on.”

Still smirking, Corinthian accepts the offered object, slipping it on his finger. With much pleasure, you watch that haughty, charming smirk slide from his face. The nightmare’s body goes incredibly still, a deep, nonplussed frown taking shape.

“What is this?”

This is the first time you’ve heard the nightmare sound so serious or carefully controlled. The silver band on his finger doesn’t stand out. But wearing it, specifically for him, you imagine, would be a rather peculiar experience.

“A small piece of humanity for you to hold,” you say with a small smile. “I told you, they’re not all bad. I hope this can help you experience it.”

“You prefer people. Not me.”

“I prefer their stories. Their worries and hopes. Give it time, Cori.” You drag your feet closer to your chest, hugging them to you. Corinthian is still staring down at the ring on his hand. “Sometimes I’m ashamed of them. But sometimes I love them so dearly I remember why I still walk amongst them. Now you have that in this. From me.”

A small segment is packaged from you—your very soul—into his ordinary ring. So he experiences what it’s like.

“Desire helped me make it,” you add when the silence becomes too profound and heavy.

Dragging his thumb over the ring, Corinthian snorts. “The flashy one.”

You match his grin. “You two should meet. And I never did give you a Dreamfall present, so.”

His brows lift, the strange bout from moments ago shaken and laid to rest. “Should have waited for the next one. You’re a tad late.”

You lean over, grabbing for his hand.

“Fine, give it back.”

The nightmare yanks his arm back, wiggling his fingers. “Don’t think so,” he concludes slyly.

“Wanderer.”

Wanderer Island warms with delight at Dream Lord’s impromptu arrival. Your grin withers, your tongue nervously dragging over your teeth.

“I hate it when he does that,” you mumble, standing to your feet. Corinthian eyes his creator with a neutral but nevertheless shadowed expression. “Have you noticed it? He always says your name with that tone when you’re in trouble. Talk to you later?”

The nightmare finally reacts. “Sure thing, trouble.”

His drawling, ponderous reply does not reassure you.

Flames kindle brighter around Dream’s coat, orange and red sparkling at his feet. His otherwise black apparel and unruly hair make for a fond, beloved memory. He’s unchanging in an equally frustrating and comforting manner.

“Dream.”

His jaw flexes, relaxing somewhat. It takes you several seconds to deduce why. When you parted ways last, you left with an impersonal farewell, calling him Morpheus. You haven’t done so in centuries.

Dream slopes his chin towards a blossom-covered path behind him. “I hoped we could conclude our earlier conversation.”

Never one to admit he’s in the wrong.

Without a word, you set out down the path he gestured towards, butterflies fluttering past your head. One lands directly on your shoulder, and you hold out your finger, delighted when the butterfly flutters over immediately.

“You misunderstood my meaning,” Dream begins, his footsteps near silent behind you.

Another butterfly lands on your outstretched hand, but no smile graces your face. “Did I? You don’t interfere with the curse. I’m perfectly aware. It’s my destiny. We’re all born into our roles. There is no escape. I get it.”

Dream cuts around you, his coat rustling behind him when he blocks your path. “It is not that I do not wish to help,” he insists, his words tight. There’s a beseeching edge in his low intonation, a plea for understanding perhaps. “It is that I cannot.”

Your smile is faint and sad but understanding because of course you understand him—your stubborn, lonely, weary Dream Lord.

“That’s fine, Dream. You have duties. You won’t risk the Dreaming. And you shouldn’t. Not for me. Are we done—”

You jump when he grasps your hand in his. Sand strokes your skin, your eyes widening at the gliding sensation. He holds your startled stare, burning through you. Dream’s grip loosens as swiftly as it formed, but your hand is no longer empty. Your fingers splay, stupidly missing his touch, sand trickling to the ground. A miniature, transparent stone sits in a teardrop shape in your palm. “What is this?”

Dream takes a while to respond.

“A pebble from the Fiddler’s Green. In it, I have deposited additional power beyond that of an unadorned creation. My power.” Your head jerks up, staring at him wide-eyed. Dream strides closer, so close you feel his breath on your mouth. “I cannot interfere in my siblings’ affairs, Wanderer. If anything should befall you in their realms, there is nothing I can do. But the waking world… is fickle. You do not dream; therefore, I cannot locate you, but with this, I can.”

You’re so speechless that no words come to mind, leaving you spluttering on a pathetic, “I… I shouldn’t…”

Twin stars rage in Dream’s eyes. He carefully folds your fingers back over the stone. “I need not stress how imperative it is you only use this in emergencies.”

“Why? Why now?”

Why make such a drastic gesture after over seven hundred years together? Was your suffering not enough before? Or did something change in how Dream views the curse? Views you?

“Because I made you a promise long ago, and I do not commit to such deeds lightly.”

A promise? Oh.

Would you come for me?

Yes.

Promise?

You never did hear his answer back then. You had assumed Dream never responded at all. Endless do not pledge themselves to such commitments.

Days of no food or water, near constant beatings, but it’s a tiny stone denting your skin that causes tears to well in your eyes. They don’t fall, but you’re sure Dream hears them when you choke out, “Thank you. I’ll keep it safe.”

Dainty contact caresses your cheek, tingling and light. You raise your head, savouring his thumb sweeping over your skin. Your breath catches at the conflicted, intent way Dream peers at you. “Wanderer… I…”

“What’s wrong?” you breathe.

Tell me, be open with me, let me in.

Dream swallows, working a kink in his jaw. His piercing stare lowers, latching onto your mouth—

He forcefully turns away, muttering, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Flames flare brightly around his coat’s hem, and he’s gone in a breath.

Butterflies explode in a mad circle around you at the Dream Lord’s departure, their featherlight wings kissing your skin. Wanderer Island seems to shudder a breath, settling back into place.

You clench the stone in your hand so hard your skin turns numb.

“Morpheus. Dream King. Oneiromancer. I bid thee welcome.”

Mighty wings extend in either direction behind the powerful silhouette, showcasing the fallen angel’s full, terrible might. Even for one such as him, power emitting from Maker’s once most beloved angel is immense.

Morpheus inclines his head marginally, his helm tucked close to his side. Anything less than face-to-face with the netherworld ruler would be considered an insult. “Lucifer Morningstar. I thank thee, Lightbringer, for your welcome.”

Lucifer’s slight smile belies the malevolence festering beneath it. “Tell me, Morpheus, what brings you to my domain? Enlightenment, perhaps?”

Hell boils with cruelty unprecedented and hatred unmatched, sins unpaid and torment everlasting. In this, Morpheus finds these lands unchanged. Fluttering reminder flees through his mind that Wanderer had suffered here. For such long years.

He may be required to keep to the accords when dealing with infernal regions, but it does not mean he will be quick to forget such slights.

“I have come to return one of your adrift terrors.” His hand lifts, and the wretched demon falls out from the rushing sand. The wounds Corinthian has inflicted on the creature have not faded. Lucifer regards one of their demons with callous indifference. Its claws are still covered in what was once red blood. Dream’s voice slips into soft, cold caution. “Demons may pass through the Dreamworld, that is the agreement, but they do not attack my own. I request, Lightbringer, that you see to it we do not have a repeat of such incidents in the future.”

Lucifer circles them in their luxurious silken robe, their fingers steepled.

“Bifrons, are Dream Lord’s allegations true?”

Torchlight illuminates the demon’s broken shape.

“Yesss, your majesty.”

Lightbringer halts before him. Morpheus edges his chin higher to meet their cunning stare. “Describe this being you attacked.”

His self-possession prevails, giving up nothing, but Morpheus sees right through Lightbrnger’s objective.

The slow, satisfactory smile grows at the demon’s detailed description, curling beautifully across the former angel’s mouth.

“Ah, not just any old creature dwelling in your dream clouds, then.” Vindictive pleasure glimmers through Lightbringer’s deceptively composed countenance. “The Wanderer. Oh, Morpheus, you are becoming rather soft for that one.”

They circle again, their majestic black wings whisper over the floor as they add a contemplative, “Though I suppose you always were the sentimental one.”

“I did not come here for a social call.”

Soft. What presumption. As if Wanderer is a weakness. Instead of a soft spot, something tender and free, leaping through stars and into his awaiting home.

“No, you did not.” Lucifer glides a sudden, purposeful step forward. Their eerily angelic smile remains perfectly intact. “Fear not. Bifrons will be flayed for what he has done. Blood unjustly shed will be repaid as the old laws would demand.”

He no longer wishes to linger here. Even the dreams lapping at him insistently, reaching for him as starved branches would call for the sun, for life, taste of nothing but ash and rot.

“Then I bid thee farewell.”

He bends his head in another slight bow. Ceremony only, but it is a necessity. Beneath the calm mask, chafing irritation prickles his chest.

Placing his helm back over his head, Morpheus edges backwards, a handful of sand slipping from his pouch and into his awaiting palm.

“It never ends well, Morpheus.” Sand engulfs his knees, slowing with Lightbringer’s saccharine words. “Mortals falling in love with the Endless. The control that gives them spells ruin. And it especially won’t end well for that one. Cursed. Tormented. We will have your Wanderer one day, Dream Lord. You left one here quite willingly already. I’m sure we will find room for the Wanderer just fine.”

Love? It’s foolish to even contemplate it. You would not love one such as him. You are far too clever, and he…

No. He is done with love—and all it entails. Even if your soul is destined for Hell, Morpheus will see to it that Lightbringer awaits until the end of times for it.

“Eternity is a long time to wait, Lightbringer.” Sand slithers along his body, so Morpheus gently reminds, “But I suspect you know as much already.”

He’s gone just as Lightbringer’s features crack open with fury.

The news reaches you in between dimensions. One foot in and one foot out. Such a feat should not be possible, but such is the power this news carries, spreading through the universe. It’s as if a part had been broken from you and crushed.

Destruction of the Endless has abandoned his domain.

Your knees fold beneath you, hand over your mouth. You’re not entirely sure where you ended up.

A hand grasps your shoulder. “Wanderer? Heavens. Wanderer! Mother, come quick!”

Edward sounds frazzled, his eyes visibly bulging. At long last, the dreary walls of Fawney Rig come into focus. Your head rings so loudly, that you desperately drag your fingernails over your forehead.

It’s not until much later that Edward informs you that the reason for your sore throat is relatively uncomplicated.

You were screaming the entire time.

“Do you hate me for what I’ve done?”

“I don’t.”

“Did it hurt?”

“Yes.”

The large, muscular arm tightens around your shoulders. You don’t miss the slight tremor there. “Forgive me, Wanderer. Others… do you they…”

Sunset paints the panoramic vista around you with gushing golds and reds.

But you cannot lie to him. “Yes, I think they resent you for it. Some more so than others. But give them time. One day they’ll understand why you did it.”

“Not Dream. He believes we cannot change our nature. Perhaps he is right.”

He says it so knowingly your heart cracks.

“Dream is wrong. And before you ask, no, I won’t tell them. It was your decision. I respect that.”

“You can’t tell anyone, my dear friend,” Destruction reminds kindly. “I beg you never attempt it.”

What is more powerful? An ancient curse or aspect of the Endless? You suppose one day you could try and find out. See what tears you apart first.

Gazing at him, you rest your cheek on Destruction’s broad shoulder. “I’m not telling them because you’re my friend. Idiot.”

Destruction’s warm, booming laughter compels a smile from you. “I have missed you, dear Wanderer.”

I missed you too.

“I told you, it won’t kill you.”

Having said that, even you can admit you’re painfully winded. Leave it to Dream to build a castle with the biggest staircase you’ve come across in any dimension in over eight hundred years.

Challenging an Endless to a physical wager is a sure indication of your hubris.

“You are certain?” Dream poses lightly.

“You’re so not funny.”

The accursed Dream Lord even manages to sound a shade smug about it. Or at least far more so than usual. Gatekeepers bow deeply to their Lord upon your entry to the castle side by side. You wave at them until they’re no longer visible.

Cracking your neck, you endeavour to relax and luxuriate in the knowledge you’re back at the Dreaming. The curse has been painful since the beginning, but lately, since Destruction’s departure, it’s as if your very bones feel ill-fitting. Your skin is a thin, worn cloak. Whatever disorder Destruction’s departure caused in this universe, even your curse is acclimating.

“Are you well, Wanderer? You have been more distracted as of late.”

You’re certain your surprise shows. That he noticed, even more so that he asked.

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Curse stuff.”

You enter the throne room, where Dream purposely slows you both down.

“Has my sibling’s departure made it worse?”

It’s an effort to hold back from flinching. Every time Dream brings up his younger brother, an imperceptible noose finds its way around your neck. “No. I mean, Olethros is fine. It’s not his fault—”

Dream halts dead in his tracks. Too late, you realise your mistake. Your heart plummets to your stomach.

“Olethros…” Dream rasps. “My brother did not share that name with you before his departure. You have seen him recently. You know. You know where Destruction is.”

Dream draws closer, his scrutiny crushing. For the first time in your long existence, you stumble a step back from your Dream Lord.

“Don’t ask me about that,” you choke out, fear audible in your shaky voice. Hot, scalding destruction licks up your spine in warning, in reminder. “Please don’t ask me about that, Dream.”

You’re not sure what’s worse: how betrayed he looks or how determined he appears to dig deeper. “Why did you not tell me?”

Your head is shaking before he’s finished. “It’s not my secret to tell.”

Merv and Lucienne come into view, halting mid-chatter when they spot you, but you’re too choked up on dread to pay them any heed. Neither does Dream.

“His duty… he has to fulfil it.” Dream takes another step closer, and you stagger backwards again. “You must tell me.”

Your mouth is so dry you fear you’ll choke on your own tongue. “No.”

Distantly, you hear Merv mutter oh, boy, but it’s swallowed by the deafening silence that veils the throne room. Muted purple light pouring from stained glass windows blinks out, devoured by the steadily building cloud cover outside.

“No?” Dream repeats so softly you want to crawl from your own skin.

It hurts. It hurts not telling him, but you can’t. Even if you tried, Destruction assured no one would locate him again.

“You good, trouble?”

Not once have you dreaded Corinthian’s presence at your back until now. His arm brushes against yours, but you don’t remove your attention from Dream.

Dream Lord finds Corinthian’s presence less than palatable. “Leave.”

You can’t help but bristle at his authoritative tone. “Don’t take this out on him.”

“Where is my brother, Wanderer?” Dream’s features darken, shadows pooling in the crevices of his handsome face. “You will answer me.”

He sounds so soft, but that immemorial wrath trembles through each word. Your mouth remains clamped shut.

Corinthian chuckles sardonically at your side. “You can’t order this one around. Not yours to play with.”

Dream’s pale, lightning stare cuts to the nightmare at your side. Every muscle in your body goes rigid. “You forget yourself, Corinthian.”

“Stop it, both of you.” You shove your shoulder between them. Behind Dream, Merv hovers awkwardly on his heels, unsure if he should interfere. Even Lucienne appears bewildered as to what action she should take. Jessamy’s low crows echo like doom bells across the throne room. “I can’t tell you, Dream. Please, just trust the fact I can’t.”

Please, please, stop asking me—

But there are few traces of your Dream Lord to be found. No gentleness, no reluctant attempt to understand, or his exasperated patience. Only Nightmare King, one of the Endless, stands before you and your spine nearly bends under his suffocating presence.

“Can’t, or won’t?” Dream questions, each word a cutting caress.

Your tongue refuses to work because you both already know. Destruction is a beloved friend. So not even for Dream, not even for the one you trust most, would you betray that plea for acceptance. Because how can you judge someone who wishes to be free? Who wants to be something more outside his destiny? Who wants to create instead of destroying?

Cold realisation washes over Dream’s features. With it, the invisible tether binding you together snaps in two. Here, at the end of everything, you will choose your conviction, hope, and integrity over him. You can’t tell him, but you also won’t. And it snuffs out the unspoken affection you’ve glimpsed in him for centuries in a single wink.

“That is what I thought,” he concludes emptily.

“Well, for once, somebody doesn’t dance to your tune,” Corinthian bites out.

Dream doesn’t move. The Dreaming moves around him, gliding him closer. “Hold your tongue.” He halts when you shove in front of the nightmare. “Wanderer.”

Warning laces your title.

“You’re not touching him. I won’t let you.”

Words stumble from your mouth in a rush, but you stare directly at the Endless, your head unbowed.

Faint breath tickles your ear. Corinthian’s brief laugh vibrates against your back. “Oh, let him show us his true colours.”

But Dream is no longer paying attention to his creation. He’s staring down at you with the same distant nothingness when he first came upon you. Nothing.

You are nothing to him.

“Won’t let me? Matters of this realm are not for you to consider. You have also forgotten yourself. You are a guest here in the Dreaming, nothing more.” Those words strike you harder than any physical blow or kick ever has. You would take a thousand more kicks, a million more, just to have him take those words back. “But these privileges, too, can be revoked. So, I will ask you one last time: where is my brother, Wanderer?”

You recognise the olive branch. If you just tell him now, all will be forgiven and forgotten.

Once again, it’s about his damned pride.

“No.”

Dream’s unnatural stillness makes Corinthian tense behind you.

“No…” The single word sounds like a betrayal on his tongue. Nothing has ever hurt more than this. Your stomach roils, but still, you stand, staring him down with a glassy stare. You would rather he were screaming at you.

“You would forsake us, this realm and all it has offered you, in favour of secrets? Lies?”

Your knuckles hurt from how tightly you’re clenching your clothes. “I care for you.”

Supernovas flare and burn in his irises. “Do not speak to me of care.” It’s a lash on bare skin, salt in the wound, an agony you sense ripping you from inside out. “Desire has no place in the land of dreams. But have it your way.”

His coat sweeps over the pale marble, embers flaring as he ambles towards the stairwell leading to his throne. Merv physically slopes backwards when the Dream Lord brushes by him. Lucienne grips the ledger in her hand in stunned silence.

Dream climbs his stairs one at a time, deliberate in his actions, but when he pauses, that is when fear floods your body.

Your Dream Lord gazes at you over his shoulder—not angry, not bitter, he looks, then, simply devastated. Exhausted. Utterly betrayed. Perhaps hurt. Then, whispers of vulnerability, imagined or otherwise, disappear like smoke, leaving nothing but endless emptiness behind.

“Wanderer, you are henceforth banished from the Dreaming. Take your secrets and your curse, and begone.”

Lucienne marches forward. “My lord—”

A single, swift look from the Dream King cuts her speech short.

No. Surely he won’t. The Dreaming is all you have. It’s all you ever had—

“Dream.” His name, called a thousand times, loved just as many, cracks to splinters on your tongue. “Please, I can’t.”

He doesn’t pause, striding up the staircase with single-minded, dogged purpose.

Pained desperation unleashes a simple request, “Don’t make me leave. This… the Dreaming is my home.”

You’re my home.

Dream halts, almost at his throne, and you silently beg for him to choose you in your mind. But the foolish hope is not done forming before you know what will transpire next.

There is no changing the Lord of Dreams.

Dream sits down on his mighty throne. You’ve been in this position many times, but this is the first time he’s looking down at you, not at you. “Go, or I will have you removed.” The exact words as when you first met, but you’re not strangers this time. Or are you? “When you are ready to cease your artifice, you may return.”

So, never. Because you can’t justify yourself, and he never listens. He will never listen.

It’s over.

You have no idea where to put your hands, where to place your feet, how to walk or form a thought.

Wobbling, you spin around blindly, putting one leg in front of another.

“Kid—”

“Wanderer.”

“That is enough.”

A single command promptly silences Merv and Lucienne. Your steps echo deafeningly as you stagger from the throne room. Outside, the Dreaming has turned bleak and cold. Over the snowcapped mountains on the horizon, lightning splits the purple back skies.

No one is in sight. Trembling, you raise your head hopefully towards the Gatekeepers, but they avert their gazes. You think you read silent regret and sorrow in their powerful faces. Not that it matters.

It’s over. Where do I go?

Footsteps approach from behind. Somehow you already know who it is without having to check—the only one who is not afraid to disobey even at a time like this.

“You’re just going to let him do that?” Corinthian hisses.

Your feet move mechanically while you descend the staircase. You’d been so happy to return, to see Dream again just minutes ago. You had just laughed and joked with him. You…

“You heard him. He…”

—wants me gone.

“Fight back.” Corinthian grabs you by the shoulder, shaking you once. “Fight back.”

Your tiny smile is defeated, cracked and shattered. “He’s the Endless, Cori. He… he doesn’t want me… here.”

He doesn’t want me. Why would he? You don’t belong in his life. A stray, a curse, you’re nothing—

“Then take me with you,” Corinthian proposes abruptly. You blink, uncomprehending. His grip tightens around your bicep. “To the hell with them. You and me.”

“What?” you croak out.

Lightning strikes above head, thunder clapping seconds later—the Dreaming trembles from the frenetic energy. “Take me with you,” Corinthian says breathlessly, his fingers curling around your shoulder, holding you close. “To the waking world. You’ve brought other objects with you in the past. This time, we go together.”

You pull from his hold, staring at him blankly. “It doesn’t work like that. Outside the Dreaming… the journey alone. I rip through dimensions, Cori. It’s meant to harm me. What if it destroys you? No, I can’t risk that. Your place is here.”

A hissing, disbelieving sound slips from Corinthian's clenched teeth.

“Here. I’ve never belonged here. Not with them or him. Neither of us does.” But we did, you and I, together. A breathless laugh puffs from the nightmare’s mouth. He paces backwards, a sneer warping his expression. “Even now… still, you would rather obey his rules.”

The barely leashed disappointment, the sheer betrayal you hear, guts you.

“Wait, Cori—”

Your hand sails through empty air.

“... don’t go.”

Don’t leave me here alone.

But you’re alone on the stairs leading up to the castle you once believed to be your home.

Nothing, and no one, answers you back.

an:

y'all wrongfully assumed nothing bad can happen between these two before Dream's capture, and I'm saying bet. this is still pre-capture!Dream we're dealing with after all. he's truly dumb as bricks, and we love to hate him for it.

also, sorry if this was a lil clunky I wrote most of it in one sitting and will be doing a lot of travel over the next few days, so I wanted to get this out before I have to leave because I won't be able to update till Wednesday at the earliest, but we're truly in the trenches now.

#the sandman #morpheus x reader #dream of the endless #dream x reader #sandman fic #morpheus x fem!reader #sandman x reader #dream x fem!reader #netflix sandman #sandman fanfiction #the sandman netflix #reader insert #fic: today i bury you in me

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yrluvjane · 10 months

Text

𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒈𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝐈𝐈𝐈

[old money] James x fem!reader

《 Summary - It's the day of your date with James and it turns out better than you had hoped, Sirius and Margret confront James on who the secret mystery woman is and an unexpected surprise leaves James in worry of what it may cause. 》

Series List

The days dragged on, each hour an eternity, as you struggled to focus on anything but him. You knew it wasn't healthy, but with this fixation, you couldn't help yourself - you were caught in a whirlpool, and he was the eye of the storm.

And yet, for reasons you could not quite understand, you found yourself unable to reveal your true feelings to anyone, not even yourself. It was a conundrum of the heart, torn between desire and honour. You knew that letting this - whatever this was - would only lead to heartbreak and pain, but the game was too great to resist. James Potter may have been nice to you but that doesn’t have to mean he finds you that interesting; so you hid your emotions away, praying that hopefully this was nothing more than a crush and someday it would simply fade.

You step out of the bathroom, feeling refreshed. Your hair is damp, and you take a moment to wring it out before setting about styling it. You reach for your curling iron, curling and curling your strands until they are loose and wavy. Then, you apply your makeup, starting with your skin - foundation, concealer, blush and then a sweep of highlighter to give your face a glowy finish. You finish off your look with a splash of lipgloss and then your signature lipstick. You take a moment to look at yourself in the mirror, and you definitely look different, you can’t remember the last time you’ve looked so…put together. It almost feels like a dream or a distant thought when you push back some of the curls that sat on your shoulder.

Your thoughts are interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. You glance at your watch - it's a little after 6:00 PM, and the sun is sinking low in the sky. You walk over to the door, your heart racing with anticipation and nerves. You take a deep breath, you look through the peephole and James is standing there, looking as handsome as ever. As the door creaks open, you catch sight of James, his striking face and well-tailored suit looking more attractive than ever. The beautiful arrangement of flowers in his hand makes you smile.

“Hey,” You say, your hands are fidgeting and you're curling your toes from the storm of awkwardness you’re feeling. “Hello.” He says smiling as he takes in your form, "You look absolutely stunning," and the warmth in his tone makes your cheeks flush with heat.

You thank him and compliment his attire, feeling a flutter in your chest and when he offers you his hand; you take it eagerly, feeling a surge of excitement and anticipation as you step out of your apartment and join him. You feel your heart racing as you step out of the building, the cool air brushing against your face.

He looks at you with a smile that reaches his eyes, and you feel your heart skip a beat.

You settle into the passenger seat, feeling the soft leather underneath you. As he starts the engine, you take a deep breath and try to steady yourself. Tonight was going to be either special or a disaster - you can feel it in your bones.

As you sit in the car next to James, you feel a sense of both excitement and trepidation wash over you. You've spent the past week getting ready for this moment - practising your makeup, trying on different outfits, and preparing yourself mentally. Now that the moment has arrived, you find yourself wishing you could freeze time, just for a moment, so you could savour every detail of this experience. You take in the familiar scent of the leather seats and the soft glow of the streetlights outside blending in with the setting sky.

Once you've arrived, you stare dumbly at the restaurant that's even more extravagant and luxurious compared to anything you've ever experienced before. The entrance alone is enough to take your breath away - the gleaming gold doors, the elaborately carved marble pillars, the gleaming black-and-white marble floor. You feel a sense of anxiety and anticipation as you approach the entrance. This place seems so different from anything you've ever known, and you can't help but feel a little bit out of your depth, when James opens the doors for you and links your arms together as he walks you in.

The smile James sends as he pulls back your chair for you is absolutely irresistible, and you feel a warm rush wash over you. His expression radiates a genuine kindness that makes you feel safe and look up at him, trying to think of something to say that doesn't sound like babbling. You sit down in the chair, feeling James' warm and muscular shoulder brush up against yours. His smile is incredibly charismatic, a mixture of confidence, playfulness and a touch of arrogance. You can't help but feel your heart fluttering slightly as you meet his gaze, the butterflies in your stomach intensifying as he takes a seat in front of you.

James begins the conversation by asking about your day, but you can't help but notice that he's looking at you in a way that makes you feel both nervous and flattered all at once. He leans in a little closer, and you can feel his eyes tracing over every inch of your face as though it was a portrait he wished to memorise.

Or looking for flaws. A sickening voice whispers in your mind.

"So, tell me about yourself, Y/n." Your heart rate quickens, and you begin to feel a little lightheaded. Taking a look around, you can feel the nerves starting to set in. You’ve never been to a place like this before, and the prices on the menu are making you feel very out of your league. You can't help but feel insecure and unsure of yourself as they placed the menu in front of you.

The restaurant was grand, with tall ceilings and elegantly dressed waiters flitting about. The diners were equally well-dressed, many of them sporting expensive jewellery and clothes that could probably buy your entire street. You feel very out of your element as if you didn’t belong here.

You don’t. The voice says once more.And this time you truly feel sick.

But James, gentle and understanding, read your mind. He seems to sense your discomfort, and he flashes you a warm smile. "Don't worry about the prices," he says, reaching across the table to take your hand. "I just want to treat you to a nice dinner." His words are reassuring, and your nerves start to calm down but you also can’t help but wonder if he’s doing this out of pity.

"I just want to treat you to a nice dinner." He said. Does this have something to do with you getting sick? Did he feel as though he was obliged to treat you out as an apology? Maybe guilt? Politeness? Were reading this completely wrong?

The thoughts hit you like a speeding train and it’s almost as if you can feel the acid in your stomach. Your mind is questioning every little thing, every little move and micro-expression, raising your stress and anxiety with each passing second.

You take a deep breath and start to tell him a little bit about yourself, about your childhood, your interests, your likes and dislikes. You find yourself drifting off on a tangent about your favourite book, and he looks at you with interest, encouraging you to keep going.

James leans back in his chair a little, his eyes meeting yours. There's a sparkle in his eye while you find yourself leaning forward slightly. It's almost like the two of you are in your own little world right now, and nothing else matters.

When he places your orders his voice is confident and sure. The server nods and hurries away, and the two of you sit in comfortable silence for a moment before James speaks up again. You can't help but be impressed by James' confidence and assurance, both in the way he speaks and the way he carries himself. He seems to know exactly what he wants and is not afraid to ask for it; it's a quality that you're sure served him well in life and it only adds to the attraction you feel towards him.

You're so caught up in the moment that you don't realise how much time has passed, and before you know it, the sun has set over the horizon. It's a moment of pure magic, and you feel like this is something truly special.

You look up from the table and see the waiter approaching with two plates of food - one for you and one for James. You watch as he sets the plates down, the food is absolutely delicious, and you let out a sigh of satisfaction. "This is incredible," you say, taking another bite.

James chuckles, smiling at you as though you were the moon itself. “I’m glad you like it.” He says softly and you can’t help but feel something at his tone. It makes you falter for a moment, utensils frozen mid-bite. “T-thank you?” You try and the laugh he lets out is enough to break whatever just happened a few seconds ago.

James listens attentively, nodding and asking questions as you speak. It was like a weight had been lifted from your shoulders, and you felt grateful for his company, for the comfort he provided, and for the opportunity to forget about the world for a moment.

You stare in disbelief as the food keeps coming, each plate seemingly topping the previous one. The service is impeccable and the food is absolutely delicious. As you continue to chow down, you can't help but be a bit self-conscious - you don't want James to think you're a gorger.

"Do you remember your childhood, James?" You asked, putting down the fork and knife. "What was it like growing up for you?"

"It was... interesting," James replied with a smile on his face. "I spent a lot of time outdoors, playing with friends and exploring the woods around our house. My father taught me how to hunt and fish, and my mother taught me how to paint and play piano."

"That sounds lovely," You said and he nodded, his eyes lost to distant memories. "I also loved to go exploring, even though my parents warned me not to. It was dangerous, but the excitement was just too much to resist."

"We grew up quite differently," You state, the smile on your face as you utter these words is a complete opposite to the spiders crawling in your chest.

"But that's a good thing.” James said, lifting his glass of water for a sip. “We can learn from each other's experiences and grow as people. That's one of the things I love about life – there's always something new to explore and discover…and wonderful new people to meet." You can feel the heaviness of his last words, his eyes gaze at you with a smile adorning his face. You tilt your head to the side and run your hands down your face as you laugh.

The conversation continues, with the two of you sharing stories and finding common ground as you get to know each other. You both feel a little more connected and a little closer. "I’ve been on hikes before but it didn't end very well. We – my friends and I – we always do everything together and we decided to go on a hike." James states, a smile on his face.

“It was fun, I presume?” You ask and he laughs, nodding his head, “The word I would use if unforgettable. We forgot one of us and didn’t even remember him until 12 hours later!”

You laugh, imagining the scene. It's easy to imagine James, the life of the party, surrounded by friends who were probably just as lively as he was. "I bet it was quite the adventure," you say, still smiling. "What happened then?"

James doesn't miss a beat as he continues the story. "We had to retrace our steps, which took hours, but we finally found him. He was still asleep, and when we woke him up he looked so lost as to why we were all watching him so we just didn’t tell him what happened! It was pretty funny, actually.”

He laughs again, and you find yourself starting to feel more at ease in his presence. There's something about him that's so easy to talk to, so natural to be around, whatever worries you had before have all turned to forgotten ash by now.

It's so silly and relatable, and it's nice to know that even the most charming and regal people can be just as clumsy and forgetful as the rest of us. It makes James feel more human, more like someone you could see yourself being with. You don't dare to hope for too far, but you can't help but dream.

Sirius steps out of the elevator, the heel of his shoes tapping a beat upon the marble floors of the office. He strides excitedly towards Margaret's office, the sound of his footsteps echoing through the empty halls. As he approaches the door, he takes a deep breath, steeling himself for the coming conversation. He knocks upon the door and swings it wide open, not bothering her to invite him.

Sirius storms into Margaret's office, his expression one of disbelief, his voice rising as he speaks. "James is dating someone?!" he exclaims, staring at her as though she has committed the greatest betrayal. "How could you not tell me?!" he pouted, his voice laced with feigned hurt as he threw himself on one of the leather seats opposite to her. Margaret looks up from her desk, a look of shock on her face.

Margaret's eyes widen as she takes in the statement, her face twisted into an expression of shock and surprise. "What? Since when?" she asks, her voice rising slightly. She's not sure how to respond, not knowing if this is a good thing or a terrible thing. She's still processing the information, trying to wrap her head around the idea of James. Dating. Someone.

“You don’t know?” Sirius asked shocked, “How do you not know? You spend over 10 hours with Prongs and you don’t know?”

Margaret's face flushes with surprise as she turns to face Sirius, her expression one of confusion. "Are you sure you know what you’re talking about?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.

Sirius steps closer, leaning in towards her as he speaks. "James. He's dating someone."

Margaret's eyes widen as she processes the information. "You're sure?" she asks, her voice quiet.

Sirius nods, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "He's been keeping it a secret from us, but I just found out from mum."

Margaret's expression turns to one of admiration. "Wow. Good for him," she says, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Do you know who it is?"

Sirius shakes his head, his smile growing. "No. But we'll find out."

Margaret's eyes brighten with interest, and despite the initial surprise, she can't help but feel excited at the thought of James dating someone. "I'm curious to know who it is," she says, leaning in closer to Sirius. "Do you have any idea who it could be?"

“With James you never know, it could be anyone from an artist to a secret spy to you-know-who.”

Margaret laughs, feeling a sense of relief as they share a light-hearted moment in the face of such serious news. "James is one of our best friends, and we'll make sure he's happy and safe." Sirius nods, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Of course. You know James would never be able to keep a secret like that to himself. He'll break down and tell one of us eventually."

Margretchuckles, shaking her head. "Yeah, you're right. He's not exactly the most secretive person when it comes to these things."

The two share a hearty laugh.

Your heart races as you step outside, into the cool night air. The moon shines brightly over your heads, you steal a glance at James, noticing the way his eyes gleam in the moonlight. You want to say something to him, but the words catch in your throat. The silence stretches out between you, and it feels like a century has passed before James speaks. "I had a good time tonight," he says, his voice soft and warm. "I hope you did too."

You nod, feeling a smile spread across your face even though you're still feeling a little flustered. You nod, trying to catch your breath. The night air feels cool on your skin and you take a deep breath, feeling alive. "I had a great time, too," you say, still looking at James with a mix of awe and nervousness. You want to say more, but the words get caught in your throat, and you end up just standing there, looking at him. You hope he feels the same way.

The night air is cool and refreshing as you walk to James' car, and you breathe deeply, feeling everything around you come into focus. James opens the door for you, and you slip into the seat, feeling the warm leather wrap around you. The engine purrs to life, and you close your eyes, letting the vibrations from the car engine soothe your tired muscles. “It’s a shame the night has come to an end…it would be nice to relive it all over again.”

You smile, feeling your cheeks flush a warm pink as James' words wash over you. "Same," you reply, your voice barely above a whisper. The stars above you seem to twinkle brighter than ever before. The silence seems to stretch on forever, and you find yourself wishing that you could freeze time, just so you could stay here, with James, forever.

You hesitate for a moment, your mind frantically trying to weigh the pros and cons of what you're about to do. On the one hand, spending more time with James sounds like a dream come true. On the other hand, the possibility of rejection itself is enough to make you feel embarrassed. But then James looks at you, his eyes full of warmth and affection, and you find yourself unable to resist the appeal of his smile. "Who says it has to end?" James faces you with an arched brow at the sound of your voice. "There's a public park a few streets from here if you’re up for a late walk." You suggest.

Your heart races as you say the words aloud. You hold your breath as you wait for James' response, your hand trembling a little as it rests on his arm. It seems like hours has passed before he speaks, and when he does, his voice is calm and steady. "Okay," he says, and you can almost hear the smile in his voice. "Let's go."

You let out a sigh of relief and sink back into the seat. You can't believe you're actually going to do this. The car makes a few turns, and soon you're pulling up to a small, secluded park. It's empty, dark, and still, and you can't help but feel a twinge of anxiety as James pulls into an empty parking spot and turns off the engine. “You better not stand me up, it was your idea after all.” He jokes and you chuckle in response as you get out of the car.

It's a beautiful night – the stars are scattered across the sky like diamonds, the air is warm and fragrant, and the lack of sound, people and noise makes the perfect mood.

You take James' hand, feeling his warm grip around your own. He leads you down a path, into the darkness, his hold on your arm firm but not too tight. You feel the warmth of his body next to yours, and a tingle shoots through you. You know that what you're doing is risky, but you can't deny that you're excited to be doing it with James.

You feel James' hand around your waist, pulling you closer, and you let out a small, happy sigh as you tilt your head back and look up at the stars. The night feels endless, full of possibility and excitement, and you can't help but feel a sense of joy wash over you as you stand there, hand in hand with James, surrounded by the stars and the night air.

"Tell me something that most people don't know about you," you prompted, wanting to get closer to him, to understand him better. "Something… something that you've never told anyone else."

He thought for a moment, then spoke. "When I was a child, I used to spend hours looking at maps. I loved learning the names of places, tracing the lines of rivers and mountain ranges with my fingers. And I did get to go to these places and see them just not in the way I wanted,"

You looked at him, your eyes full of surprise. "Why not?"

"...work, I guess?" he said with a sad smile. "I’m always needed somewhere. Always a conference to present, a gala to host, reports to look over. It’s always one thing after the other."

You nod in sympathy, trying to imagine what it must be like to be constantly in demand. "That sounds rough," you say, reaching out to take his hand in yours. James gives your hand a small squeeze, his fingers warming yours. "It can be," he admits, his voice tinged with a hint of bitterness. "But I try not to complain. I'm lucky to have the opportunities I have, and I don't want to take them for granted."

There's a moment of silence between you as you both stare out at the path ahead. “But sometimes," James begins tentatively, "I do wish I could just...stop. Take a break from all the noise and the work and the constant demands. Go somewhere where nobody knows who I am and just...be."

You listen to him and you can't help but feel a pang of jealousy towards James and his life of privilege.

As you sit in silence, you can't help but wonder what it would be like to have a life like James'. A life where everything you need is just a call or a text away - a life where you never have to worry about money, or rent, or bills, or anything else that makes people suffer restless nights. But you also understand that with that kind of power comes a cost - a never-ending list of responsibilities, a never-ending list of things that cannot be forgotten or neglected.

You wonder if James ever feels like he's drowning in a sea of expectations and demands. You wonder what it must be like to live in a world where everyone is expecting something from you, where everyone seems to want something from you, where you're never just "James", but always James, the CEO or James, the philanthropist or James, the public figure or James, the Potter heir. You wonder what it must be like to never have a moment of peace, to never have a moment of silence.

You wonder if the cost is worth it, or if you would find yourself in the same position as James - overwhelmed by the weight of the world, desperate for a moment of peace. You wonder if it's possible to have both privilege and peace - or if the price of money and power, the price of everyone’s deepest desire is a life lived in constant apprehension, a life lived on the edge of a knife, where every step you take could bring everything crashing down.

"You're not alone," you say, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. "I think everyone has that urge to just...stop, at some point. To get away from everything and just live." It’s a rare, intimate moment between the two of you, and it brought you one step closer.

You start talking, and before you know it, you're both lost in conversation – sharing stories and exploring each other's interests and passions. You feel a sense of connection that you've never felt before – You both laugh easily, and even the moments of silence are filled with the feeling of wanting, a feeling that makes you want to never end these moments.

You chuckle into the silence and James turns to you with his charming smile and warm eyes. "Care to share your thoughts with me?"

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you shake your head. "I guess it's just... I just never thought I'd be doing something like this, you know?" You pause for a beat, searching for the right words. It’s James that speaks next, "Ever since we met, I just can't get you out of my head. I know it sounds silly, but..." You let the silence stretch out between you, unsure of what he is going to say next. You chuckle softly, a smile spreading across your face. "It doesn't sound silly at all," You say warmly. "In fact, I think…I think I've been feeling the same way."

James lets out a small laugh, feeling a surge of relief rush through him. "I guess we both felt the same way," you say, looking up at James. "I'm just glad you finally said something about it cause I would have been too embarrassed to say anything."

A small laugh shakes out of James as he leans down, his face inches away from yours. "And I'm glad I did," he says, his breath ruffling your hair.

With that, he leans in, his lips pressing softly against yours. The kiss is slow and sweet, and you feel like you're floating on a cloud of happiness. You can't quite believe that this is really happening, that James is really kissing you - and yet, it feels like the most natural thing in the world. As the kiss comes to an end, you look directly into James' eyes, feeling like your heart is about to burst out of your chest. "Thank you," you say softly, the words barely above a whisper.

James just smiles, a twinkle in his eye. "Thank you, too," he says, his voice dripping with affection.

As the night wears on, you find yourselves talking about things that you've never shared with anyone else – your worries, your fears, your deepest hopes and desires.

James stands in the empty kitchen, a piece of bread in his hand, he's in the middle of taking a bite of the sandwich when Margaret and Sirius burst into the room. "So," Margaret begins, a smile curling at the corner of her mouth, "who's the mystery girl, James?"

Margaret looks expectantly at James, a small smirk on her face, waiting for his response. But instead of answering, James seems lost in thought, his hand still raised to his mouth, a bite of sandwich still there. He seems to be weighing his options, considering the pros and cons of revealing his new relationship to his best friends.

Sirius steps forward grinning like a mad man. "James, we're not here to judge you. We just want to make sure that you're happy. And if she makes you happy, then she makes us happy too. So, who is she?"

James looks up from his sandwich, his eyes wide with surprise. He swallows his bite, a smile spreading across his face as he looks between Margaret and Sirius. "How did you find out about this?" he asks, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and nervousness.

Margaret chuckles, leaning against the counter as she crosses her arms. "Let's just say we have our sources, shall we?" she says, a small smirk on her face. James raises his eyebrows at her.

Sirius sighs dramatically, leaning against the kitchen counter as he takes a step closer to James. "Mom told us," he says, his voice filled with amusement. "She's one of us, after all." He nods towards Margaret, who rolls her eyes playfully, but can't suppress a small smile of her own.

Sirius steps closer to James, a knowing look in his eyes. "And who is she, James? You have to tell us. We're practically family, after all."

James takes a deep breath, a laugh escaping his lips. "Okay, okay. Her name is Y/n, and she works here in the kitchens."

Margaret nods, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "We need to know all the details. First of all, how did you meet her?" she asks, taking a step closer to James, her hands clasped in front of her.

The phone starts to ring and James nods, a hint of worry in his voice as he heads out of the kitchen and answers the phone. He steps into a living room, speaking quietly and urgently, his eyes flitting back and forth as he listens.

As James talks on the phone, Sirius and Margaret share a worried look, their eyes fixed on James's face as he speaks into the device. They can't make out what he's saying, but it's clear that whatever is happening is serious.

James's lips curl into a dark frown as he speaks into the phone, his voice low and intense. Margaret can't make out what he's saying, but it's clear that he's in the midst of an important conversation. Eventually, he hangs up the phone and steps back into the kitchen, looking at Margaret and Sirius with a serious expression on his face.

James takes a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the screen of his phone. "I have to go," he says, his voice tinged with worry, "I'm sorry."

Sirius and Margaret share a look of concern, their eyes fixed on James as he moves toward the door. "Is everything alright?" Margaret asks, a note of worry in her voice.

James looks back at her for a moment, the frustration and sadness written all over his face. "I'm not sure," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I'll let you know when I know more." With that, he steps out of the kitchen, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Sirius's phone vibrates next, Margaret quickly rushes to his side, a look of curiosity and concern on her face. They both look down at the screen, waiting to see who's calling.

As Sirius puts the phone on speaker, Remus's voice can be heard across the kitchen. "Have you heard? Have you seen the news?" Remus's voice is strained and serious, and it's clear he's in the middle of something important. Sirius's brow furrows as he listens to Remus's words, his expression growing more serious by the minute. "What is it, Remus?" he asks, a note of concern in his voice.

Remus takes a deep breath, and Margaret notes the tone in his voice. "It’s Delilah," he says, his voice low and intense. "She’s back."

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Tagging: @sssstarstruck @cloudroomblog @ietss @kquil @arctvrvs @loving-and-dreaming @enamoredofbella @astonishment @empath-bunny @white-wolf-buckaroo @semi-tuned @mellinnaaa

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sidemari · 2 years

Text

• August NSFW Headcanons Collection •

Characters included: Ayato, Childe/Tartaglia, Diluc, Kazuha, Thoma, Xiao and Zhongli [separately] x Afab!Reader

Warnings: Consensual sexual content ahead. Contains things such as oral sex, vaginal sex, breeding kink, overstimulation, semi-public sex, edging, fingering, praising kink, shibari, threesomes, etc.

Author’s notes: Those headcanonss are the results of the asks I received in my last event. Be gentle with me and forgive me any mistakes. Keep to yourself any kind of hate.

Art: @iamnychu on Pinterest.

(Kamisato) Ayato🧋

18. Something they tried and won’t do again

Ayato won't share you with anyone after the first experience. His jealousy didn’t allow Thoma to do much more than touching and stimulating some parts of your body with his hands and kiss your neck and collarbones. Still, Ayato got pissed off with the possibility of Thoma nurture feelings for you. That means no fun in three anymore.

But it's not like you won't try to convince him that bringing Thoma to spend a night together isn't a bad idea, right?

Childe / Tartaglia 🌊

1. What was their first time like?

He was such a sweetheart with you!

Even though he could have settled a rhythm and satisfying his own urges, Ajax respected your limits and pace.

His kisses, touches and stimulation were always on the exactly intensity to not leave you uncomfortable during your first time, but enough to make you experience something new and pleasurable.

2. Who usually initiates things?

The both of you have no problem with expressing your feelings and needs to each other. Your relationship is healthy enough for the both of you to be completely honest about anything that may cross your minds.

Usually, it's Childe that seeks you to have sex. Even though you often ignite his nerves in order to get him riled up enough to spicy the night up.

It always starts with kisses, hickeys and curious touches against the soft spots of your bodies.

Delicate things can lead to heated sessions later on.

6. What’s foreplay often like?

It evolves lots of caresses, kisses and words of affirmation just to settle the right mood.

When things heat up a bit, Tartaglia will gladly explore every inch of skin from your body - covering you in wet kisses only to blow some air against your skin to make you shiver with the change of temperature.

Oral sex is as memorable as the main act. Usually your boyfriend will take things slow just so he can watch you squirm under his tongue's ministrations as you struggle to handle all the stimuli.

After you're relaxed and wet enough, his fingers will prepare your body exclusively for him: having Childe stretching your tight walls with soft thrusts while his tongue savour every drop of your essence is unearthly.

(Afab; GN) 8. Favorite position to have sex?

When the both of you are way too tired and sleepy to move around much, the Spooning position is your choice often.

Other than that, 'Cowboy' and 'On the Stomach' positions are his favorites, just as any position that you're usually under him and his desires is appreciated.

(Afab; GN) 11. Who’s more likely to be caught masturbating?

The both of you prefer to have actual sex than only satisfy yourselves on your own.

Still, when Childe's away on a mission and you have no other choice than trying to supress your urges somehow, you'll mostly touch yourself - only to be caught during such moment by him that arrived earlier than expected from another nation.

"Oh my! Being welcomed home with this sight is... Interesting... But perhaps my fingers will prepare you for me way better"

10. Who’s more romantically sexual?

It's you, even though Childe isn't much behind you when it comes to showing affection and devotion.

(Afab, GN) 17. Shared kinks/fetishes?

Praising kink is noticeable on Tartaglia's words whenever you two have sex. It's just another way for him to show his affection while making sure you're feeling good.

Dominance and submission is always present even if it's not utterly displayed. It's almost like an implicit detail about you two, since you guys are always playing your roles even outside the bedroom. Childe thinks it's hot when you well behave, specially when you do whatever he's thinking about without him bringing it out.

18. Something they tried and won’t do again.

Pushing you through your limits. Even if you tell him it's completely okay and that you wanna try and get overly overstimulated just so you remember how it feels, he won't agree. Tartaglia prefers to have you a bit sore so he can make it up with a nice and cozy aftercare than having you completely worn out to the point he feels guilty.

Diluc Ragnvindr 🦉

3. How often do they have sex?

It depends on how busy the both of you are. Sometimes you can go long days without doing anything besides sharing kisses and soft touches - specially in the mornings and before sleeping.

If your routine ends up being a little easier on you both it'll reflect directly on the number of times you have sex per week. Usually, the frequency it's about 3 or 4 heated nights a week.

4. Who is louder/noisier?

You are noisier and Diluc prefers it that way. The most you can listen from him are some grunts and gasps. He controls his sounds so he can listen to your own - you sound like heaven to him.

16. What sextoys do they use?

It's not Diluc needs any sextoys in order to make you enjoy yourself during intimate times. Actually, the existence of those bother him a bit.

'Do I really need this stupidity to make your legs tremble or your heart beat faster?'

The closest thing to a sextoy he'll ever use on your are ropes to practice shibari with you and candles to let them melt and drip their wax on your skin.

8. Favorite position to have sex?

Any position that allows Diluc to freely explore your body and watch your expressions closely is enough for him. The 'Lotus' position, however, is his favorite one because of how close you both stay.

11. Who’s more likely to be caught masturbating?

Curiously, it's you, since Diluc has a better self control than yours. If you're caught touching yourself, be prepared to receive some kind of punishment from his part. It's not like he sees masturbation as something dirty or wrong, he just wants to play around with you.

'Couldn't my love wait for me to get home?'

17. Shared kinks/fetishes?

Diluc may find it hard to show his interest in some kinks in the very beginning of your relationship. Some details about him you only learned after months of dating.

One specific night that Diluc had arrived at the Dawn Winery after a dreadfully long mission and was exhausted enough to not pull out from you when he finally reached his orgasm was the night you found out he had a breeding kink. The sight of you struggling to keep his seed inside you - only for his essence to mark your thighs and bedsheets, as well the risk of knocking you up provoked adrenalin to run through his veins.

Kaedehara Kazuha 🍁

8. Favorite position to have sex?

It's probably cowgirl. Kazuha adores the freedom this position gives him to explore your body with his hands. The soft squeezes and touches on your breasts, neck and waist easily have you squirming in pleasure above him.

11. Who’s more likely to be caught masturbating?

It's probably Kazuha. Even though you both have been together for quite some time, Kazuha is still a little cornered when it comes to share his desires and needs. He'll often think you're way too busy to relieve him so he'll try his best to solve any boner alone.

You frequently find him during such moments due his whimpers and moans.

17. Shared kinks/fetishes?

TW: Narcotics consumption.

Having sex while high after smoking 🍃 together is always memorable. You both get relaxed enough to forget any stupid formalities as a way to simply explore and experience the best of the moment.

Edging the both of you is another common detail during sex. It's hot trying to control the urge to empty himself deep inside you while you struggle to not let the relaxation lead to your feet curling orgasms.

18. Something they tried and won’t do again.

Any kind of kink that evolves things that can lead you to get the tiniest little bruise like spanking or rough shocking.

Kazuha prefers soft and intimate sex.

(Afab; GN) 20. Your choice! You get to choose a theme for a headcanon.

Kazuha likes to have sex in places where you both can't be caught, like some completely desert area of a beach or even on a small forest that no one really visits or remembers of its existence.

Enjoying each other's company while maintaining contact with nature is important and appreciated by the both of you.

Thoma 🎋

3. How often do they have sex?

Almost every day. Still, you both aren't hypersexualized. It's just having sex is just a form you both can spend together, enjoying all the sensations your bodies can go through while bonding your souls.

4. Who is louder/noisier?

Even though Thoma is somewhat loud in bed - as a way to show you how much he's enjoying you, your body and warmth of the moment - he still tries his best to control himself only to get the chance of hearing little sounds slipping your lips.

16. What sextoys do they use?

Thoma only own one or two vibratory toys so he can softly overestimulate your senses and get you sensitive enough to come completely undone in the bedroom.

Xiao 🎆

1. What was their first time like?

Much to the adeptus' frustration, he had no idea of what should he be doing with you or to you. Because of that, being patient and taking things slow as you guided him throughout the experiences was the key to have a satisfying first time.

Curiosity and pleasure were all over his senses as Xiao savored your body's most sensitive parts while you were completely surrendered under him.

Xiao don't have much idea of the difference between his strength and yours. After your first time you had to take some time in order to the soreness to fade away. He learned about aftercare since that, and it feels like heaven.

2. Who usually initiates things?

In the beginning of your relationship with Xiao, it was always you who had to seek him to experience intimacy but that reality changed the moment he gained more confidence while exploring you and your body. He grew so addicted to the sensations you provoked on him that his difficulty in starting things up completely vanished.

The adeptus usually gets your attention with kisses against your neck and soft squeezes on your thighs and breasts. Whenever that happens, you know exactly what comes next.

10. Who’s more romantically sexual?

It's probably you. Xiao's focus is usually so centered on making you and him feel good that he almost forgets to talk to you and play around with some kisses and words.

It's you that brings him to the mood of being close - in all the ways of the word - during sex. Your hands usually keeps caressing his black and teal hair during such delicate moment as he swallow your whimpers and moans with deep kisses.

15. Do they have a dynamic (dom/sub) or are they versatile?

Even though that detail isn't much of a problem to the both of you, Xiao has his preferences. Under or above you, his behavior will often lean to the dominant side, with you just enjoying anything he may want to accomplish by your company.

17. Shared kinks/fetishes?

Biting and marking any inch of skin that his mind tells him is almost a reward to him. It's not like Xiao sees you as something to conquer, but someone so preciously perfect that he has to show any other envious souls that you both belong together.

Hair pulling is another common action during sex. Usually it's him that enjoys the soft pulls you can provide him and that very sensation is like fuel to the yaksha. Pulling his hair a bit harder may lead to rougher or faster thrusts while he's lost in thought inside you.

18. Something they tried and won’t do again.

Definitely semi-public sex. Xiao cares about you way too much to simply let you reach such delicate point out in public. Jealousy also makes him bothered with the possibility of someone observing any of your reactions or body parts.

19. Green card! A random NSFW headcanon.

He never thought a human like you could provoked such emotions and urges on an adeptus like him. He learned a lot about himself and even more about you - easily knowing your body with the back of his hands.

Curiously, Xiao grew fond of the foreplay part almost more than the heat of the act itself. Tasting you deeply as his hands abuse the sensitivity of your fragile body is priceless.

Zhongli 🐉

1. What was their first time like?

Zhongli was understanding and careful. He's a fast learner that even with limited experience, learned how your body reacts to his touches, kisses and stimuli easily.

You didn’t need to pronounce a word, since he had planned everything to be perfect.

Controlling himself to not overwhelm your senses and body, the god made you his priority the entire night.

Everything was tending to a slow pace, with Zhongli taking his time to touch, savour and explore you. His delicacy and appreciation made you felt incredibly complete and loved.

For some hours, you forgot anything that was happening besides how good he made you feel under him.

6. What’s foreplay often like?

It starts with quality time and proceeds to become a more intimate talk. Massaging you with body products to relax you from any tension is important to Zhongli.

Kissing all over your body while you let little sounds slipping through your lips while his fingers ravish you feels good enough to already make you feel in heaven.

If you arrived here, have a good day/night.

You deserve all the happiness of this world :)

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