#was this an excuse to draw Ember in a dress

[arminsfavoritepookie]

PERVERSE by @arminsfavoritepookie PT.1 / PT.2

Pairing: MIKASA ACKERMAN X FEM READER

Contains: Gay stuff, smut, nasty, idk, pervert mikasa stealing yo panties and shoving them up her—Mentions of manipulation, SLOW BURN PEOPLE, intoxication, smoking blah, no because she deadass a pervert, oc mikasa don’t shit your pants

Synopsis: your neighbor really wants to fuck you

Mikasa couldn't believe her eyes the moment you walked into the neighborhood. Her heart raced as she took in every detail of your breathtaking frame. Your sculpted body, clad in skintight shorts and a small tank top, was a sight to behold. Her gaze lingered on your succulent lips pursed in displeasure as you struggled to carry the massive boxes into your new home.

The moment your eyes met hers, Mikasa knew that you were the one she had been waiting for.  As you rang her doorbell seeking assistance, Mikasa couldn't resist the urge to offer her help. She knew it was a feeble excuse to spend more time with you, but she couldn't help herself. With every box that you lifted, every movement you made, Mikasa's obsession with you grew stronger. Your vocalized groans aroused the burning embers of her longing, igniting a fire that could only be quenched by your touch. 

But Mikasa was wise enough to know that she couldn't act on her impulses too soon. She wanted you to experience the thrill of starting a new journey, to savor the freedom and independence that came with it. Like a fragile bird, you were just learning to fly, and she didn't want to be the predator that snatched that away too soon. So she stood back and watched, biding her time. 

Day after day, Mikasa would watch your every move with a mixture of intrigue and yearning. She watched as you unpacked your belongings, arranging them carefully in your new home. She watched as you moved fluidly beneath the gauzy fabrics that barely covered your skin, your silhouette resembling an enchanting melody that she couldn't help but fall for. 

And as the days turned into weeks, Mikasa knew that the time was drawing near. She knew that soon, she would be able to take her rightful place by your side, to offer you all the love and tenderness that her heart could muster. But until then, she would continue to watch and wait, biding her time until the moment was right. For in her heart, she knew that you were the one she had been waiting for, the one who would make all her dreams come true

After long, grueling days of teaching at a prestigious university, Mikasa couldn't help but feel exhausted and drained. But every time she returned to her home, she was greeted by the warmth and comfort of your soft, gentle greetings. Your voice, like a dreamy nocturne, welcomed her home and instantly lifted her spirits. 

But there was something else that stirred up within Mikasa every time she came home and watched you. Whenever you forgot to pull down the blinds, she couldn't resist stealing glances at your alluring figure as you moved around the room, shrouded by the darkness. The way you moved, the way you massaged your body with an almost liberated craving, made Mikasa's heart race with an electric anticipation. 

Despite her best efforts to stay away and keep her feelings hidden, Mikasa found herself drawn to you like a moth to a flame. Your presence in her life brought her a sense of comfort and joy that she couldn't deny.  But what she found particularly difficult to accept was the fact that you had intentionally organized your bed close to the window.

Mikasa couldn't help but feel like it was some kind of tease, a way to draw her in even more and fuel her desires.  Despite her internal struggles, she knew deep down that she would always find herself back at your doorstep. Her urge to see you, to be close to you, was a force too strong to resist. 

It was on a Friday night that Mikasa finally found herself standing outside your door, clutching a bottle of wine and dressed in her tight work attire. The anticipation and excitement she felt was almost palpable as she waited for you to open the door.  And when you finally did, Mikasa couldn't help but be struck by your effortless beauty. It was as if you were a wild flower, blooming in a field, radiating a natural sensuality that made her heart race with a primal desire.

Mikasa was acutely aware of the forbidden thoughts that had been creeping into her mind. Her feelings towards you had grown stronger with each passing day, and it was getting harder and harder to suppress them. But then she saw your smile, and it was like a beacon of light that calmed her inner turmoil.   "Hey, Ms. Ackerman. How you been?" Your voice was like a soft melody, a symphony that echoed through the room and resonated in her soul.

A flicker of desire ignited within her, and her heart beat wildly against her chest. "Something I can help you with?" you asked, your voice dripping with concern. Mikasa cleared her throat, attempting to conceal her untamed emotions, and returned your smile. "I purchased a new bottle of wine, and it seems like a waste to consume it alone," she said, her words almost a request to hide her interest.

She had been contemplating this moment for a long time, imagining what it would be like to spend time alone with you.  "Would you like to join me for a glass?" she asked, her heart thudding in her chest as she waited for your response.  As the question escaped Mikasa's lips, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement. Your heart thudded erratically against your ribcage, and your palms grew clammy as you clenched the doorknob.

You had been hoping for this moment, dreaming of it, imagining it in your mind.  This was no ordinary visit. Ever since Mikasa had helped you move in, her presence had teased you relentlessly. One moment, she would be warm and friendly, and the next, she would retreat back into her own world, leaving you wanting more.

But now, as she stood before you, her form towering over yours, you couldn't help but admire her attractiveness. A crisp, white shirt clung to her every curve, teasingly revealing the faint outline of her abs. The fabric was soft, and the way it hugged her figure left you longing to touch her. Her hair was perfectly styled, and her eyes sparkled with a mischievous twinkle that sent shivers down your spine. 

You gestured her to come inside, strolling to your kitchen,Mikasa followed, her presence filling the room with an intoxicating energy. You couldn't help but steal glances at her as you prepared the wine glasses, admiring her beauty and grace. And when you finally sat down together, the wine flowing between you, you felt as though you were in a dream.

Her visage remains indecipherable. Her dark hair falls over her face in loose waves, casting a veil of mystery over her. She seems like an enigma of taboo fantasies, the kind of woman who knows exactly what she wants and isn't afraid to go after it.  You notice her teeth sunk deep into her bottom lip, a tell-tale sign of what is to come. You feel a rush of excitement wash over you as you try to imagine what the night ahead will bring. 

It's as though the very air around her is charged with an electrifying desire. You can't help but feel drawn to her, your body responding instinctively to her energy. But little did you know that Mikasa had something else in mind entirely. As she turns to face you, her eyes are dark and intense, her lips curled in a seductive smile.

You realize that she has a plan.

a plan to ruin you in the most delicious way possible.

#aot fanfiction #aot x you #mikasa smut #mikasa fluff #mikasa x reader #mikasa x you #mikasa x y/n #aot x reader #aot angst #eren aot #shingeki no kyojin mikasa #mikasa headcanons #mikasa aot #aot x female reader #aot fluff #aot fic #aot smut #aot imagines #aot x black reader

[lokisgoodgirl]

More Hot Gif Drabbles A link to my Masterlist is HERE Warnings: Kinda smutty. 18+. (w/c 300ish) If any of my drabbles inspire you, please let's chat. I'll be extending some of them :)

Tease

"Gods" Loki muttered, leaning forward.

Music thumped through the speakers as he watched you cross your legs, throwing your head back in flirtatious laughter.

You perched on a high barstool, the thick draped material of your party dress skating up your bare thigh. It was so short.

Loki groaned, his eyes running from your ankle to the forbidden deliciousness of what lay teasingly just out of sight.

Your fingertips brushed up the sides, toying with the short hem, flirting with the curve of your ass.

"Don't" he warned to no-one, cringing as you reached for the tall glass to your side, fingers wrapping seductively around the crystal's girth.

"Norns..." he groaned, his brow furrowing as you angled the straw between your parted lips.

You sucked, cheekbones hollowing.

Loki's wrist flew involuntarily to his mouth, a grimace tainting his features as he squirmed, stifling a whine. This was intolerable.

Laughter rolled around him, the shouting voices of his comrades over the music making him wince as he tried to concentrate.

You uncrossed your legs, swinging your feet off the barstool. Your hands gripped the chair between your widened thighs, a smile that could light water aflame playing on your lips.

He could feel his cock hardening beneath his suit, straining against the tight fabric. Loki cursed under his breath, pinching the skin of his thigh to distract himself. He couldn't look away.

"Excuse me" he murmured, patting his brother on the shoulder and slipping subtlety to the side.

The scent of your perfume, the traces of your laugh hanging in the air like embers drawing him from across the bar like a siren.

Tonight, he would surrender to the call.

--

@lokischambermaid @fictive-sl0th @wheredafandomat @sarahscribbles @holymultiplefandomsbatman @muddyorbs @maple-seed @xorpsbane @holdmytesseract @loopsisloops @simplyholl@ijuststareatstuffhereok89 @thedistractedagglomeration @thomase1 @mochie85 @michelleleewise @vbecker10 @xorpsbane @tbhiddlestan83 @sititran @mrsbarnes32557038 @imalovernotahater @lokiprompts @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @ladylovesloki @marygoddessofmischief @ravenwings73 @filthyhiddles @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @mistress-ofmagic @five-miles-over @goblingirlsarah @ozymdiass @peaches1958 @trickster-maiden @stupidthoughtsinwriting

#loki laufeyson #loki x reader #lokismut #hot loki #loki fanfic #loki drabble #loki imagine #lokisgoodgirlhotgifdrabbles #loki smut

[sawrinwrites]

Sawrin does Bumbleby Week

I know I said I was going to use this month to focus on OC content, but I am a recklessly impulsive dumbass, so when the prompt list for Bumbleby Week went up and I realised I was accidentally completing the prompt for day 1, my brain went “Welp! Might as well do all 8!” and I agreed.

Some of these are based on concepts I've already been developing for future multi-chapter fics. I've marked those ones with a * by the title so you guys can let me know which ones you want to see the most.

Here’s what you can expect to see over the next 8 days:

Day 1 - Bumblebaby

Title: Expecting

Summary: A new story in the As Told By Ember collection. This tale follows the best girl as she helps her humans prepare for the arrival of their first child.

Author’s Comment: You can thank @reeves3 for this one. Without their suggestion, I wouldn’t have had the inspiration to build out a collection of Ember’s adventures.

Day 2 – Jock & Nerd AU

Title: I See You*

Summary: Weiss knows Blake and Yang are in love, she just hasn’t figured out a way to get them together yet. When Blake accidentally submits the wrong poem to her class and Yang ends up writing an essay on it, Weiss finally finds the opening she’s been waiting for.

Author’s Comment: This fit the prompt better when it was from Yang and Blake’s POV, but the story worked better from Weiss’ so that's what I wrote. Bees trauma-bonding through literature (a concept that is very near and dear to my heart).

Day 3 – Soulmates / Reincarnation

Title: And Every Time I’ll Find You

Summary: As another one of Blake’s lives draw to a close, she and Yang return to the place where it all began.

Author’s Comment: My beta reader banned me from writing soulmate stories because of this. It’s a sad one.

Day 4 – Nomad Blake & Farm Girl Yang

Title: Maybe This Year

Summary: The Kuo Kuana dragon riders make their annual visit to the floating island of Patch. For most, it’s a chance to relax. For Blake, it’s a chance to reunite with Yang and wonder how many more times she’s going to be able to leave.

Author’s Comment: Pretty sure the last time I wrote about dragons was when the years still had 00 in the middle of them. My inner child had a field day with this one. A more fun and light fic than the summary might suggest.

Day 5 – Evil Yang / Blake (or both)

Title: A Weak and Foolish Heart*

Summary: Sequestered to a keep in the middle of the Vacuo desert, the blood mage Blake leverages her skills and her history with Yang to try and ascertain the location of Princess Weiss Schnee.

Author’s Comment: This one’s the reason why each day is getting posted as a new piece of work instead of chapters under one project. Tags for blood, gore, graphic violence, and depictions of torture. I spent hours researching tendon names and positions for this. It’s also the fic that most closely resembles my preferred writing style (make of that fact what you will).

Day 6 – Comfort

Title: The Way It Feels*

Summary: Blake and Yang attempt to be intimate for the first time since Yang’s accident but the loss of sensations in Yang’s arm triggers a panic attack instead. Blake comforts her wife in the aftermath.

Author’s Comment: I’m sorry, it wouldn’t be a Sawrin fic without angst before the comfort.

Day 7 – AU Day

Title: Double Date*

Summary: After Weiss accidentally accepts an invitation to be the third wheel at a dinner date with Pyrrha and her girlfriend, Yang, she begs her best friend, Blake, to join as her fake girlfriend. An easy ask, if Blake didn’t find herself attracted to the blonde on the other side of the table.

Author’s Comment: I was going to put up a vote on which AU to do but the second I added “Fake Dating” to the list my brain went “What if the Bees weren’t the ones who were fake dating?” So here you go, fake dating monochrome with (assumed) Greek fire. Bees & Schneekos endgame. Also an excuse for me finally write Blake into that dress.

Day 8 – Bonus / VA Appreciate Day

Title: Downtime

Summary: Blake and Yang discuss the lives of their VAs, as well as their own budding relationship.

Author’s Comment: The shortest one of the lot, this is really just a small love letter to the Bees and to Barb and Arryn.

I'll be posting a link to each fic under the Bumbleby Week tag as they go live.

[sabraeal]

Desert & Reward, Chapter 14

[Read on AO3]

Written for @paintercat, who also guessed the correct winner for Trope Madness this year! With two correct guessers, we had to determine the kitty winner via points, but I thought there should be SOME award for getting so close. Took a few extra months to get the time to work on this one, but here it is!

Obi has never made a secret of his experience. I know how to ignite a flame, he’d told Miss once, and Master too. An easy joke to make, a safe one, the kind that said he was a harmless sort of rake, encouraging good girls to keep their distance. And what was Miss but the best?

Except she never did. No, instead she trusted him too much, putting herself so close to him that he’d catch himself wondering if he could light a fire where it didn’t belong. The sort of conflagration that would burn down the whole life he’d built for himself from the ashes of the last one.

Careful, he’d tell her sometimes, when she ventured too close, putting bare skin mere inches from his, hate to find out you’re an easy tinder.

Standing here, the candles above turning her gown into gold so solid she might as well have been cast, it seems as different sort of joke entirely. How he’d flattered himself thinking that she might even smolder near him. He’d spent years at Lilias keeping the cold from seeping into her bones, and not once had there been the trace of smoke, not a single ember.

Makes sense; just because the candles burned on an altar didn’t mean the idol catch too. And now he has three years with which to disappoint himself daily.

“I should have known,” he says, giving the door a rueful grin. “You can’t count on dads for anything.”

Her mouth twists, somewhere between amused and annoyed. “Well, I could have told you that.”

The breath he’s holding rushes from him like sand coursing through a glass. “You’d be the expert. You’ve got more dads than anyone I know! Your old man, Lata, Marquis Haruka. Legally I think you can even claim that His Maj--”

“Please.” Her mouth pulls into a grimace. “Don’t even joke about that one.”

“Fine,” he relents, sinking down into one of the hardest stuffed chairs he’s ever subjected himself too. It seems that this is not an antechamber for guests His Majesty wants to linger. “Consider it my wedding gift. Don’t say I never give you anything, Miss.”

His smile meets silence, his mistress stock still save for her hands. They lace and unravel endlessly, a patchwork of his mistakes. “I didn’t say...” Her mouth works around sounds that refuse to come. She shakes her head, finally knocking a few loose “I just wish I knew why you never told me.”

Obi’s joints lock on reflex, his heart racing in his chest, wondering if she could possibly mean--?

Ah, no. Obi has more secrets than there are stars in the Lilias sky, more bodies buried than even the Wistal catacombs could hold. When she glances at him, mouth wrinkled with misery, he knows it could only be the one most recently exhumed.

“It wasn’t personal,” he tells her, though the words lost in the cavernous expanse of the room. “It just happened, and...”

It wasn’t supposed to matter. That’s what sits at the tip of his tongue. His favorite sort of excuse. I’m not anyone worth knowing about, don’t you agree?

It’s the sort of answer that would work on Master, making him throw up his hands or earn Obi a long, quiet look before a labored change of topic. On Miss, though, he knows better than to try.

“I didn’t think it would change anything,” he admits instead, drawing each word out like a horse at a quartering. “It’s not like I thought His Majesty would actually expect me to..to...”

Her mouth may stay serious, but her eyes spark, and oh, if anyone is a quick tinder around here, it’s him. “Actually be a lord?”

“See, you get it.” He slumps, the brocade of his chair rumpling his jacket. “Who would have thought they’d actually box me up and ship me out to some country seat, making me look a numbers and letters. Can you imagine, Miss? Me, looking at ledgers?”

Her dress shimmers when she sits, perching on the footstool too close to his knees. “I remember you reading one or two when the occasion called for it. Didn’t you spend a whole day going through the logbooks when Touka Bergatt tried to--?”

“That was for Mister, Miss,” he grimaces, hunching down. “I don’t just do it for anyone.”

“Not even Iza--?”

“Especially not for him.” He’s the one that frogmarched him into this whole disaster in the first place. Political expediency his ass. “You know that he was the one to float the idea that Lata could dump all his responsibilities on me if he went through this adoption thing. And then this whole marriage--”

The small hand hovering by his knee flinches back, burying itself in Miss’s lap.

“Ah, Miss.” He doesn’t think when he reaches out; it’s all instinct when his hand closes around hers. A poor one, he realizes, her cool fingers curling over his palm with no leather to mute the feeling. It’s a good thing this damned jacket covers his arms, otherwise she might see the goosebumps tracking up them. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’ve been the best thing to happen since His Majesty shipped me south.”

The tension sighs out of her, fingers pressing flat to thread through his own. “I hardly think Lata needs Izana to tell him how to shirk his duties as a lord.”

“Fair enough,” Obi snorts. “He was doing a good job of it all on his own.”

There’s a curl at the corner of her mouth, the barest hint of humor, but it’s gone the longer she sits, gaze fixed on where their fingers knit together. “Obi...”

When Miss looks at him, it’s always head-on, resolute, confident in whatever request she’ll make of him. But now she shifts on her cushion, her gaze filtered through the dark lace of her eyelashes. “I know you didn’t mean for it to feel personal when you didn’t tell me. But it’s just that...”

She glances up, her fingers gripping the barest bit tighter. “We’re still close, aren’t we? You aren’t...?”

Obi’s been stabbed before-- multiple times, in a host of inconvenient places, including one where the only comfortable position was ass-up on his belly-- but still, this is worse. An knife is an inconvenience, but Miss’s disappointment...

“Of course, Miss!” He doesn’t think when he squeezes her hand, their palms pressing close as a kiss, but oh, he wishes he had. It would save him the trouble of his mouth dying up the moment he needs it. “Really, I thought it would never matter. Something we could both laugh over once His Majesty sent me back off to Lilias, maybe even get a free dinner off of dear old dad. But...”

A corner of her mouth lifts, wry. “Then we got engaged.”

“Ah, well...” He scrubs at the back of his head, if only to keep from tugging at his shoulder. “Yeah. Pretty much.”

“But I still don’t understand why you didn’t tell me after.” Her mouth pulls thin, cheeks puffed enough to threaten a good pout. “It seemed a little more than trivia then.”

“Mm, right.” His grin bears teeth as he adds, so sweetly, “Kind of like what happened between you and m-- Zen.”

She has the grace to blush, even if she won’t look at him. “Ah, that...there was never a right time.”

“His Majesty said that all happened half a year ago.” It’s his turn to pin her down now, watching her squirm beneath the directness of his gaze. “That’s before I even left Lilias.”

“Ah, well...” It’s hard to keep up this glare when her finger absently traces down the bones of his hand. “The letters came with the same messenger. And when you said Izana was recalling you to the castle...”

His jaw nearly drops. “You already knew what it was for.”

“You would never have left if I told you.” She finally looks at him now, jaw in it stubbornest clench. “You don’t care about titles, but I think we both know, if you climbed any higher in the guard, other people would. I thought I could wait until you came back, when everything would be more settled, but...”

“But His Majesty collared me into going to Cacciatore straight from the castle,” Obi sighs, itching at his brow. Knowing the king, he probably planned it that way too.

“I meant to write it in my first letter, but it just...didn’t fit.” She grimaces. “Or in any of the ones after. It just seemed better if I told you myself, in person. And when you invited me, I thought that would be the perfect time to-- to--” she takes a steeling breath, meeting his eyes-- “to tell you everything.”

It’s too much to look at her, to let his world narrow to just the two of them, so he shakes his head, settling back in the chair. “Maybe it’s a good thing I never told you about Lata.”

He feels her glare rather than sees it. “What do you mean?”

“You never would have married me if I did.”

“T-that’s not true at all.”

“Oh really?” He cracks open his eyes, leaning forward as he says, “That so, Shirayuki Forzeno?”

He’s too close; her breath catches and it’s as loud as a moan in a bedroom to his ears, enough to make even his skin heat beneath his collar, but when he pulls away--

She grips tighter, enough that her knuckles pale where they hold him. “Say it again.”

He has to be hearing things. Making his own wants out of her needs. “M-miss?”

“Say it again,” she says slower, too clear to mistake. “Please.”

“Um...” It’s an effort to keep his voice from cracking. “F-Forzeno...?”

Her nose scrunches, cute enough to kiss. Oh, he’s slipping if he’s letting thoughts like this out of their vault. “Not that. My name. I’d...” She glances up at him, and it’s not anger in her eyes, but something he’s never seen on her. At least, not pointed at him. “I’d like you to say it. Just one more time. If you don’t mind.”

“I...” He licks his lips. A terrible idea, since now they’re sensitive, tingling when her breath fans across them. “Miss, I don’t think...”

“Obi.” It’s a word he feels rather than hears, vibrating the air between them. “Please...”

“Shira--”

The door swings open, rattling when it hits the wall. “Are you two still in here?”

Zen fills the doorway-- well, as much as he can-- folded arms creasing his coat as much as his frown does his face. “What are you up to?”

Obi springs from the chair, palm cold where Miss’s no longer hits into it. “Oh, nothing that would interest you, Highness,” he assures him with a grin that keeps trying to slip from his mouth. “You know how it is, being newlyweds. Basking in each other’s company. Whispering sweet nothings. Maybe even getting in a few--”

One gloved hand stalls him. “Save it.”

“But, Master, as my best man, shouldn’t you--?”

Zen grimaces. “I’m here in an official capacity. My brother has informed me that the documents you...reviewed yesterday are ready to be signed.”

It’s only then that he sees the other figure in the door; a man middling in height between both of Clarines’ Highnesses, his mouth pinched like he’s bitten into something sour.

“Yuuha,” Obi says with relish. “Now doesn’t that kill the mood.”

“Could you go any slower?” If it was possible for Zen to pace up a wall and over the ceiling, the past few minutes would have been crucial to the discovery. As it is he’s wearing a trench in a carpet that costs more than most men would see in their whole lifetime. “This was meant to take a few minutes at most, not a quarter of an hour.”

“You’ll have to excuse me,” Obi drawls, squinting at the words scrawled in front of him. He’ll give the clerk this much; he may be a prick, but his writing’s neat as a pin. Even if he might be more comfortable reading with a magnifying glass. “It’s come to my attention only idiots sign contracts they haven’t read first.”

Zen huffs, throwing himself into the nearest armchair. “You didn’t bother when you started working for me.”

“Yeah, and I got an earful for it.” He hands the page to Miss, who merely skims it before she sets it to the side, waiting for him to finish the next. “I figure now that I got stuff to lose, I should probably be more careful with it. Unless I want to go the way the last Marquis Conti went.”

There’s some more sighing at that, but he must make his point, since Zen only grumbles, “Well, just hurry it up. Otherwise everyone’s going to be wondering what you’re up to in here.”

Obi can’t help the grin that stretches his lips. “Doesn’t that only help our story? You know, lovers who can’t keep their hands off each other?”

With a waggle of his eyebrows, Zen’s skin flushes. “That’s--”

“I know that Izana says passion was supposed to rush us to the altar,” Miss interjects, taking the last page from his hands and signing her name with what looks more like chicken scratch than a name. “But I thought it was more...our friendship was sufficient courtship, not that we were eager to jump into bed. Or, I suppose, that we were eager to cover up just how quickly we took that leap.”

“W-why not both?” It’s with iron resolve that he clamps down on mentioning just how he’d like to fall into bed with Miss. “Though maybe it’s better the first way. More yearning. Makes sense why we’re turning the wedding night into a wedding afternoon--”

“Just sign it already,” Zen sighs. “Or else we’ll never make it to the party, and I spent forever planning it.”

“You’ll understand if you get married,” Obi tells him, signing his name primly, right next to Miss’s. He doesn’t think about how nicely they look next to each other. “Or when, if His Majesty gets his way.”

“Don’t remind me.” Zen jumps up from his chair, snatching the contract from his hands. Despite the theatrics, there’s a spring to his step, and the smallest hint of a smile on his lips. “Now get going already. I’m going to have to field enough questions about what you two were up to as it is.”

“Oh!” Miss leaps to her feet, cheeks flushed as she takes his arm. “People won’t really...?”

Zen’s grimace is his only answer.

“Best not to ask, Miss,” Obi assures her, brushing past the clerk at the door. “I hope there’s free booze.”

“What are you talking about?” Zen grumbles. “You can’t make guests pay at a wedding.”

Miss gives him an amused look. “You know,” Obi murmurs into her ear, “I think I could get used to this lord business.”

#obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #desert and reward #my fic #ans #we draw ever closer to the scene i am DYING to do #or rather scenes #but i think we are going to have another 2 chapters AT LEAST before that happens #but we will at least get some real fun talkie talks #and perhaps HINTS of things to come #there are some scenes next chapter that i am super interested in people getting to >:3c

[unorthodoxica]

Mon' Capitaine!

A fan mini-comic for the wonderful @eight-bitanarchist!

Oh, and may I just say, I love how varied the ways people communicate "ghost" with art. It's so fun to see.

#art #digital art #green #fanfiction #mini comic #comics #original comic #danny phantom phanart #danny phantom fanart #danny phantom #jazz fenton #sam manson #danny fenton #ember mclain #with red hair #I woked hard on this senpai! notice me! #was this an excuse to draw Ember in a dress? #yes. #yep. yep. #fire and ice #doc's art

[hotwings0203]

A/N: Hi guys! This is my first oneshot thingy (or any piece) that I’m posting here, it’s kind of dark but I think that’s the type of fic I enjoy writing. Let me know what you all think, and any suggestions or feedback is much appreciated since this is the first time I’m using Tumblr😆

Warnings: implication of non-con, manipulation, yandere themes, kidnapping

Pairing: Yandere Dabi x f reader

Smoke curled into your hiding place, invading your senses. You could hear him smashing other various household items around the house, attempting to startle you and make a sound, effectively revealing your hiding place

Which wasn’t a very clever one, mind you.

If you only had a couple more seconds, maybe, just maybe you could’ve dove into the closet and actually hidden with some blankets and clothes covering you instead of your current chosen position, which was under the creaky bed.

You cursed yourself for even starting something so stupid, and getting a rise out of him in the first place when you knew, you knew he hated it when you picked fights over the smallest of things. All he wanted you to do was make him some breakfast, now was that so much to ask for? Did you have to put rat poison in his oatmeal at 10 am in the morning?

You didn’t think you could handle playing this happy-go-lucky fake domestic scene any further; you wanted to go home. You wanted to see your family again for Thanksgiving, you wanted to meet up with your friends and get your nails done and coo over pretty boys, and most of all you wanted to go outside and gaze up at the clear blue sky and just watch the fall colors swirl around you in a halo of leaves.

Dabi let’s you go outside twice every month if you’re being good for him, and if you really please him he’ll let you touch the grass without that stupid shock collar that adorns your neck like an ornament with with him by your side, of course. Don’t think he’ll fully trust you after that stunt you pulled last week when you tried chewing the restraints off your wrists.

He had to salute your effort though, you really might’ve gotten away if he hadn’t surrounded you by his flames before you could touch the door.

Kind of like now, actually. While you’re trembling and cramped unceremoniously under the bed, he’s finished scanning the living room and kitchen for any sign of you.

Shit

That means there’s only two places left: the bathroom and his room, where you are.

Your legs are starting to cramp up and you’re wondering how long you can manage to stay still while this psycho is hounding you out.

“If you quit acting like a pussy and come out within 30 seconds, I’ll make sure to leave your face intact. Can’t say the same about the rest of you though, babe, I’m not feeling very generous or inclined to spare you too much after choking down rat poison.” He all but snarls as you can see from underneath the bed his elbows and jaw curl with smoke, blue flames licking at his shins.

The smell of rotting flesh feels like an ominous foreshadowing of your fate if you don’t think of a way out of this, fast.

You’re pulled from your musing as Dabi slams the bathroom closet door shut, and flings the shower curtain aside violently, indicating no more places are left for him to check for you except his room.

You’re out of time.

Picking up the soap dispenser on the sink counter, he weighs it in his hand, testing it’s material. You’re peeking out from underneath the mattress, unsure of what he’s doing.

You don’t need to keep wondering after he suddenly hurls the glass down on the floor, the dispenser shattering on the floor near the bed mere inches away from where your face was.

You let out a small shriek at the explosion, and immediately still and clamp your hand over your mouth with wide eyes.

But the damage has already been done, and Dabi knows this as he lets out a dark chuckle and saunters towards the bed, turning around and plopping down on the plushy material, his boots right in front of your face.

“We both already know where this is going, little mouse. I caught you, but I’ll be nice and give you one more chance to come to me willingly.”

He leans back on his elbows and tilts his head up to the chafing ceiling. He knows you’ll come, you always eventually do, that’s why he loves you, his sweet little girl who always does what she’s told.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is you making one last break for it, clambering out from the opposite side of where you both are situated and bolting to the door.

He whips his head around at the sound of you desperately fumbling with the lock on the door, when did he lock it? God this is taking too long he’s gonna catch you he’s gonna-

But you’re already out of the door and flying down the hallway as you hear him leaping off the bed and scrambling after you, the house completely silent save for the deafening sounds of both of your own objectives pounding away at the floor in the same direction.

“You fucking bitch, I grant you one last chance to come clean to me and this is the thanks I get? You’re dead little mouse.” You hear him howl behind you, and it scares you at how close he sounds.

But now you see it, you see your freedom at the entrance just an arms length away and you’re touching the door and-

The room is suddenly enveloped by blue fire, the door handle becoming so hot under your touch that you wail as you let go and cradle your bubbling flesh, tears blurring your vision as you whirl around to locate your assailant and captor.

Dabi stands in the middle of the living room, ethereal cobalt lighting up the sides of his face and illuminating the staples that stretch and threaten to rip from the shit-eating grin he sports while looking at your defenseless demeanor.

“I told you to listen while I was playing nice, right? This is what happens to little mice who want to turn into rats so bad. Is that why you wanted to feed me rat poison, huh, baby? You were warning me to get rid of what you might turn out to be, hmm?” He pouts at you, the corners of his mouth twitching when you sob in terror

“D-dabi please,” you bawl, “please let me leave. I w- wanna go h-home.” Your chest heaves at the last word, the pain in your hand paling in comparison to the ache in your chest.

“An-and I w-want you on your kn-knees worshipping the ground I walk on and making good use of that bitchy little mouth instead of whining and sniveling.” He mocked and cooed cruelly, reveling at your helplessness.

You could do nothing but wail louder as he started slowly walking towards you, his eyes narrowed, complemented with dark glint in his pupils while his ever-lasting hellish quirk enunciated his heavy steps.

Dabi finally reached you, and you pathetically pressed yourself into the wall and turned your face as he lifted his hand and stroked your cheek in faux sympathy. His bottom lip was stuck out in a fake pout, mimicking your state of panic.

“You’re not scared of me, right baby? It’s just a game, right? I mean after all I do for you-bathe, feed, and dress you- you only feel love for me, right?��

He was toying with you, in a similar fashion a cat plays with its prey before it pounces.

When you hesitated for a moment too long, his hand by your face heated up its dying embers, warning you to give him what he wanted to hear.

You whimpered and tried to evade his hand, only resulting in his gripping the back of your head and yanking back on your hair roughly so you were forced to look up and meet his amused, dark gaze.

“Ah-ah my pretty bitch. You don’t get to move away from me after all the stunts you pulled today. I’ve had enough of your bullshit so don’t test me any more, now I asked you a question: you love me right?”

At your wits end, you maintained eye contact with him as you shakily tried to nod your head, the movement being difficult to do as he had such a death-grip on your locks.

But he wasn’t satisfied by your pathetic attempt at agreeing, it seemed like he wanted to make your life hell even further and draw this out as long as he could because he clicked his tongue and shook your head like a rag doll in his hands, hair flying across your face and giving you whiplash.

“Use that sharp tongue you got on you before I melt your fucking teeth. You might be a grade-A moron, and a pathetic one at that but I know damn well you’re not mute.” He leans in further, his nose grazing yours as you almost went cross eyed trying to keep him in vision.

“Y-yes Dabi, I love you.”

His silence seemed to scream unimpressed, so you hurried to salvage the situation as best as you could so it wouldn’t escalate the knee-deep shit you were already in.

“And I’m...sorry I was being such a brat today, I just missed everyone I used to be close with. But you were right, I should be more grateful after everything you do for me. It’s not fair that I don’t treat you with the same, uh, affection that you show me. A-and I’m sorry I put... rat poison in your food.” You whispered this last part, too embarrassed to look him in the eyes.

He snorted, not entirely convinced at your sincerity in the apology but it was enough for him to loosen his grip on your head and take a step back from your personal space.

You sink down the wall to your knees, curling up slightly and taking shaky breaths as you attempt to calm down. The room is still engulfed in flames, but thanks to Dabi’s foresight and extensive planning, most of the furniture of fire-proof (god knows how he got it like that, it’s not like he was the son of the number one hero or anything to accumulate such wealth) so the damage was limited save for your mental state and injured hand.

Dabi crouches down in front of you, an odd smirk on his face as you peer up at him in caution.

“You know, I didn’t say I forgive you princess, or that you’re excused for your little tantrum.”

He cocks his head at you and lifts your chin up towards him with a scarred finger. You blanch at the implication of this ordeal not being over from your excruciating apology, and his disturbing Cheshire-cat grin stretches so wide over his face, you wonder distantly if his stitches are going to pop loose any second.

“Please, I’m sorry. I’ll do anything, just please don’t...please don’t burn me.” You whisper in defeat.

“Anything, you say? But why? Isn’t it more fun if I brand my name into your back? Oh wait! Maybe I’ll burn you so bad you’ll look like me! Then we’ll really be a matching couple, you’d like that wouldn’t you? I mean if you love me as much as you claim you’ll let me, right?”

He’s trapped you again. If you deny, he’ll ruthlessly berate you for lying to his face and who knows what he’ll do just for the sick, sadistic satisfaction he’ll get from making you stumble over your own lie.

If you comply, however, you’ll look like burnt bacon, just like this fucker.

“I’ll do anything to make you forgive me.” You quietly settle for.

He studies you for a moment, and the uncomfortably silence he grants you makes you shift in your place.

Dabi finally stands to his full height and stretches his arms back with a content groan.

“If that’s the case, then don’t say I didn’t let you choose how you wanted to make it up to me.”

You glance up when you hear the sound of a zipper being undone, and you mouth gapes at his innuendo. You can’t seem to look away as he frees himself from his black boxers, the sound of his belt and pants rustling as they hit the floor.

“Now then, what was that you said about redemption? I think this is a great way to put that mouth to good use, little mouse.”

#tw dubcon #dabi smut #mha x reader #yandere mha #bnha yandere #yandere #yandere dabi x reader #kidnapping #dabi #bnha oneshots #dabi x reader #bnha dabi #mha dabi

[etherrealoblivion]

Chapter Fifteen: Fuck It

Table of Contents

Fic summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Words: 2,770

RATING: MATURE

MASTERLIST

~

The awkwardness toned down after a while. There wasn’t much more you could be embarrassed about now that you’d been sleeping in the same bed together for days. What was strange was the fact that it was Christmas Eve and neither of you really knew what to do.

“Should we celebrate?” he asked finally after a few episodes of the strange true crime show on VHS — it was called Felon’s Brains and Spencer hated it, but there wasn’t any cable this far out and there were fifteen seasons of it on tape.

“I’m not sure.” Christmas hasn't always been a happy holiday for you. That coupled with the fact that you were hiding from a killer, what was there to celebrate?

Looking over at Spencer sitting next to you on the couch, his face contorted as he thought hard. There’s something to celebrate.

“When was the last time you ate?” While he was skinny in the first place, his shirts seemed to be falling a little looser lately.

It was a good question judging by the way he had trouble remembering.

“I’m not sure. A few days ago.”

You would be surprised, but there hadn’t really been many opportunities for either of you to eat. You’d grabbed an apple just before you left the hotel but that was pretty much the only food you’d had in a while.

“We should have a feast,” you said excitedly, your stomach grumbling at the thought. Spencer also looked relieved, probably more at the idea of keeping busy.

“Okay! I’m not all that sure what’s in the pantry.”

The yield was minuscule, but you could make the best of it. Surprisingly, there was an old pasta maker with a stiff crank, but it would work well enough. There was flour, eggs, olive oil, all the ingredients to make pasta from scratch.

However, when presented with this idea, Spencer blistered.

“I’ve said this before, I’m, uh, not exactly a chef.”

You smiled gently at him, gathering the ingredients.

“Me either. But pasta from scratch is like the one meal I can make. And there’s some canned vegetables in the pantry. You can prepare those.”

He seemed daunted by the idea, but moved to the cabinet and took out several cans.

So you did your best making the pasta (perhaps adding a bit too much flour) and soon the meal was ready.

“Oh my god!”

“What?” you said nervously, watching him swallow the first bite of pasta.

“This is amazing!” he dug in, savoring it. “How did you learn to make this?”

Pleased, you took a bite yourself. It did taste really good. But so did Spencer’s vegetables.

“I learned from my old . . . roommate.”

You tried to play off the slip. Hopefully, he’d go along with it.

“Cool! Well, it’s delicious. Thank you.”

His eyes crinkled when he smiled, sending a spark through you and you grinned back at him.

“You know, this isn’t a bad Christmas Eve.”

He nodded, glancing from the meal to the window to you. Startled at the sudden eye-contact, you looked away, no doubt a blush spreading to your cheeks.

Spencer cleared his throat; he did that a lot.

“Ahem, did you know that Christmas is just the evolution of a popular holiday in the Roman Empire that celebrated the winter solstice as a symbol of the resurgence of the sun, the casting away of winter and—“

“While it does drive me crazy when you ramble, in a very good way, maybe we could talk about something a bit more personal?”

He wasn’t sure whether to be embarrassed or relieved.

“Sure. Like what?”

“Hmm. What was your favorite Christmas?”

A bright smile lit up his face.

“The Christmas after my tenth birthday. My dad dressed up like Santa and we went and saw reindeer in Baskin’s park. I got to ride one. My mom was so scared the whole time. She kept thinking I was going to fall off, even though my dad was right next to me the whole time. That was really the last family time we had. He left the next year.”

His smile turned to a frown.

To change the subject, you took the plates to the sink, then sat on the couch, patting the place next to you. Spencer stood and ambled over, plopping down next to you, attempting to smile. Your positions were similar to how they’d been in the bookstore, all those nights ago. Strange how close you’d grown after such little time.

“What about you? What was your favorite Christmas?” he asked.

You took one look at him, wearing a thick burgundy sweater that looked far too scratchy to be comfortable, woolen mismatched socks, and regular jeans, his head tipped back on the couch and staring at you so sweetly, awaiting your response.

“This one.”

You had whispered it so quietly you would have been sure he didn’t hear it . . . if not for the sharp intake of breath next to you.

Quickly moving past that, you said, “I’m not sure. I’ve never really had super special Christmases. I mean presents and stuff is great, but none really stand out. Well, stand out in a positive light.”

He chewed on that for a minute.

“Then what’s been your worst Christmas?”

You shot him a look, “I’m not sure you wanna hear about that.”

“I do! Here,” he scooched closer, picking up your legs and swinging them into his lap, surprising you with the closeness of the gesture, “I’ll go first. My worst Christmas was the year after my dad left. I didn’t get any presents because he wasn’t there and my mom was admitted.”

“Admitted?” you asked before you could stop yourself.

“She, um, she has Schizophrenia. She lives in a mental facility.”

It was such a personal confession, you weren’t sure what to say. He told you something extremely private! That’s good! Right? No. If anything it just blurred the lines of your relationship further. Was he telling you to indulge you, make you feel more comfortable with him knowing so many personal things about you, or did he actually want to share that part of himself with you? Either way, you needed to acknowledge it.

“I’m here, Spencer.”

He looked at you in surprise.

“Most people say they’re sorry when I tell them that.”

Shit. 

“Oh, I didn’t mean—“

“No, no,” his eyes were full of curiosity and wonderment. “I’m actually grateful. It’s weird when people apologize because there’s really no right response. I can say, ‘it’s okay’, which is a lie; ‘thank you’, even though I’m not really thankful; or I can ignore it which is just mean. An apology creates an unconscious obligation.”

The two of you sat in silence for a moment, digesting the words.

“I promise never to apologize to you,” you said, smiling.

He smiled back, chuckling softly. “I promise, too.”

“My worst Christmas was last year.” He adjusted his position so he could look at you better. “I had just started my Linguistics PhD so my schedule was constantly full. At the time I was living with my ex-boyfriend, Matthew. He, um, had problems with me being gone so frequently; he always wanted to know where I was and what I was doing. So when I surprised him by coming home early on Christmas Eve, I thought he’d be pleased. Turns out there was a reason he was so obsessed with my schedule. He didn’t want me coming home to someone else in our bed.

“I remember when I walked in and saw them together how sad I was. But even more so, I was relieved. Looking back on it, I was just looking for an excuse to get out of that relationship.” You looked off in thought. “Huh. I’d never really thought about that.”

His hands were slowly patting your legs, sliding up and down your clothed shin. It seemed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. 

“I’m here for you.”

He had said it as a comfort, as a substitute for ‘I’m sorry’, but you couldn’t help taking it as though he was saying he was there for you and he always would be, unlike your ex. Spencer seemed to realize this, his hands freezing on your leg. 

But he kept stroking after a moment, and said, “I never liked the name Matthew. So pretentious.”

You laughed lightly, reaching out for his hand, clasping it in yours and running your thumb along the back. 

“Spencer. How is this going to end?”

When the FBI had first talked to you, Morgan had assured you that the stalker wasn’t trying to kill you. But then why were they being so protective of you? 

He waited a moment before answering, holding your hand tightly.

“The model of a stalker killer deciding to rehearse his fantasy multiple times with possible intent to have you complete the final scenario concludes itself with one of two possibilities. The more likely being the stalker will kill himself.”

“What’s the other possibility?”

Embers from the fire snapped and crackled in the heavy silence.

“He’ll kill the object of his desire.” 

Although you had kind of put together the fact that there was more to the danger you were in, it still came as a shock to have it confirmed.

“Have you had cases like this before?”

He paused, biting his lip.

“Yes.”

“And how do they end?”

“The ones we win, the victim goes through therapy, the stalker goes to prison, and eventually we move on. It never goes away, but it gets better.”

You nodded seriously.

“What about the ones you lose?”

As the logs in the fire snapped again, a lightbulb burned out, making a loud popping noise above your head and shrouding the room in darkness.

Spencer stood on the couch, adjusting the bulb.

“Sorry, I guess there’s not the best electricity out here.”

“Well, there’s a generator out front. It’s probably just the lightbulb.”

“No, these lightbulbs were changed recently. Are you sure you saw a generator?”

You nodded.

“Then it must be the circuitry.”

He unscrewed the bulb and sat back down, setting it on the end table. The only light in the room came from the fire. It cast a golden glow over his sharp features, drawing your attention to the cut of his jaw and the plumpness of his lips. The firelight in his eyes as he stared sparked something inside you; a sort of sudden urgency.

You sat up, moving closer to him on the couch. His hazel eyes glowed in the soft light of the room. 

Slowly, you brought your hand to his face, gently caressing his cheek. His lips parted and his eyes grew dark, glancing down at your lips.

The threat of death was just around the corner, closer than you’d thought. You loved Spencer and you needed him to know before . . .

“Y/N. . . .”

It was barely a whisper but you felt it in every part of your body.

Letting the feeling wash over you, you picked up his hand, placing it on your cheek and melting into the touch.

Spencer stroked your cheek, thumb brushing against your lips. You parted them, staring at him as you mouthed his thumb. 

He suddenly pulled back, balling his hands into fists and trying to catch his breath.

“Listen, there’s this thing called ‘transference’ it’s when—“

“Spencer, I like you.” Well, that was one way to shut him up. 

At his shocked expression, you quickly burst into a ramble. “Not because you’re protecting me, I've thought hard about this. I can protect myself, I'm not helpless. That being said, everything about you makes me want to be with you. The fact you love reading, knowing all sorts of random facts, you love memorizing lists, the way you raise your eyebrows when you’re shocked like you’re doing now. I want you, not the idea of you. I want you.” You said the last part with such conviction you thought you’d explode.

Meanwhile, Spencer was speechless.

Testing the waters, you leaned in as slowly as you could, giving him the opportunity to stop you if he wanted. 

When your mouths were millimeters apart, neither of you moving, just breathing heavily, you said, “You don’t want this?”

“Drink,” and the second he said it, your lips met harshly with tongue and teeth clacking together. It was desperate, urgent the way you pulled him on top of you, laying back on the couch. His hands were everywhere at once, running through your hair, snaking around your waist, brushing against your neck. 

Breaking the kiss to pull his sweater over his head, you marveled at his bare chest. It was different than you’d pictured. Not muscular per se, but not nearly as scrawny. It was perfect. He was perfect.

He hesitated at your gaze, so you pulled him back down, ravishing his mouth and scraping your nails down him back, leaving a trail of white marks.

But, ever the hero, he pulled back, shaking his head softly.

“Wait, wait . . .”

The absence of his mouth was unbearable, but you would respect his boundaries. Although you knew now that if anything, it was his job interfering with his feelings for you. It wasn’t that he didn’t want you. He just couldn’t have you.

The thought was too much, you looked away from him, still hovering above you. When, after a moment, he still hadn’t moved, you looked at him, surprised to see an extremely pained expression on his face.

You tilted your head, eyebrows furrowing. For him, that seemed to be the last straw for he sighed and leaned back down muttering, “Fuck it,” and kissing you harder than ever before.

It was the first time he’d cursed in front of you. Moaning against his mouth, you could feel his fingers brush against the skin of your sides. You gasped at the contact and he started to pull back, but you pulled him closer, nipping his lips and letting your legs fall open, closing any gap between you.

He grunted softly and inadvertently thrust against you in just the right spot, causing you to thread your fingers through his hair and pull. 

The yank made him gasp and his hips jerked unconsciously against yours.

“D-do that again,” he whispered between kisses. 

Delighted, you did, hard, your other hand desperately trying to unbuckle his belt. He occupied himself with kissing up and down your neck, occasionally biting and subsequently soothing with licks.

You finally got his belt undone, throwing it to the floor as he pulled your shirt over your head. He pulled back for a moment, admiring you. Your bra wasn’t all that special, just a plain tan one, but Spencer looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

Tired of the space between you, you pulled him back, kissing him deeply and moving his hand to your breast. The moment he was given permission, his hand slipped underneath, kneading gently.

As you popped the button on his jeans and shoved them down his legs, he found the clasp of your bra and snapped it, probably breaking something in the process. Now your chest was bare, Spencer’s hands moving all over your body, soaking up every inch possible. You gently reached down and felt his hard length, both of you moaning at the contact. He thrust into your hand, desperate for more.

But you had to stop him, you pulled him back, hands moving to gently grasp his cheeks, holding his face inches from yours.

He seemed alarmed by the shift, stopping all movement and staring into your eyes.

In that moment, with him on top of you, looking at you with such care, such caution, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world and he’d do anything you asked in an instant, you realized you needed to tell him. If you kept it in any longer you’d burst.

He knew what you were going to say the moment before you said it.

“I love you.”

The two of you held eye contact for a moment, the only sound in the room your breath. Then, his expression softened and he opened his mouth to speak.

But before he could say anything, there was a loud THWACK and he fell forward onto you, unconscious. Behind him, standing above you, was a dark figure holding a blunt object.

Terror rushed through you, chilling the marrow in your bones. But before you could so much as scream, the figure lifted the object and brought it down on your head, hard.

Everything went dark.

~

notes: I am so sorry.

~

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#spencer reid #spencer reid smut #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #fanfic #fanfiction #criminal minds fanfiction #fandom #smut #slow burn #angst #fluff #criminal minds #i am so sorry

[spookyspaghettisundae]

The Best Way for a Spy

A bright flash of lightning streaked across the sky. A thunderclap and a baritone bout of rumbling followed on its heels. The smell of rain crept through the air.

Alone on the muddy road wandered a figure of androgynous shape, robed in fancy attire, in all manners of bright red and deep black and gleaming gold. A porcelain mask of beauteous shape concealed their face. And they stopped. Stared skyward. Pondered.

Evening neared and the cloudy sky had stolen away the sun, bathing the idyllic countryside in a gloomy twilight, a fittingly bleak azure to accompany the chill in the air. A lonesome inn stood by the roadside. Warm and orange lights from the inviting hearth inside lured the masked figure.

The best way for a spy to stay hidden was to hide in plain sight. So spake their mentor. Thus, they always stayed on the road to deliver important messages. For spies who slinked across the rolling hillocks tended to get confronted and questioned more thoroughly by the knights-errant and the militiamen and the inquisitors. The spies and thieves who dressed in muted colors; those who dared to look inconspicuous, they always drew the most attention.

Hence the colorful jester's attire. The fancy mask, unsettling and like to draw questions, but also a face easily replaced.

First drops of rain bounced off the porcelain and turned the garb a shade darker wherever they landed, soaked up by the fabric.

A soft sigh escaped the thin line where the mask's mouth allowed its wearer to breathe, and the spy set into motion. They approached the inn's entrance.

The Boot of the Cockfosters, read the letters on the sign outside the inn. The colors painting the rooster dancing on a treasure chest had faded years ago. The iron rings from which the board hung now squeaked as the signpost swayed in the wind.

The spy, now going by the name of Gladstone—or Rain 'o Blades, or just "Rain", as people in the savvy of their trade referred to them—pushed inside. The wood of the door and the floorboards creaked. They stopped just beyond the threshold, just outside the weather's reach.

The heads of three people turned. Three men sitting at a table by the fireplace, huddled over tankards of ale. They stared. Studied the eerily serene porcelain mask, the garish garb. Did not notice the many knives strapped to Rain's body in different spots, concealed by frivolously fancy layers of cloth.

The men's eyes only ever rested on the darkness of the eyeholes of the mask, and on the short dirk sheathed at the spy's side.

"Who are you?" asked one of the men at the table. A local, given the ring of his accent.

Rain shook their head. Slowly. Tired.

The men still stared.

"Here for a room for the night?"

Rain nodded. Firm and resolute.

"Come, sit with us. My price for boarding is fair, and fairer yet if you share a drink at my table."

"And good news," said the next. "So few guests here this season that you need not share a bed. Unless you want."

Raucous guffaws exploded out from the three men's throats.

Rain approached their table. Crept with strange grace. Some of the beads and gilded rings on the spy's dress jingled.

Always jingled when Rain wanted to be heard. And stayed silent when they snuck.

The keen ear that seeks the sound always misses the silence, so spake the master. The best way for a spy to sneak was to be noticed whenever they wanted one to notice them, so less attention was paid when they wanted one to not notice.

The men watched Rain's approach with a strange glint in their eyes. A lopsided smirk here, carrying a smug sense of superiority; a leering, lustful gaze there, seeking for a feminine form hidden underneath the jester's cloth.

"You some sorta artist? A dancer mayhap?" asked another one of the men.

"Looks like you lost your carnival, eh?" asked another.

More guffaws from the round.

While rain loudly poured from the clouds, drenching the countryside, Rain stayed silent. Stopped midway across the room. Bowed deeply, flowing like water. The fabric rustled; the jewelry jingled. They flowed from bowing into crossing slender arms before their center, and spinning around in a series of elegant pirouettes, excess cloth flapping and twirling colorfully as Rain finished the series of dancing moves with a dazzling somersault.

The rings jingled one last time as they landed in a striking pose, one hand pointed at the men, splaying all fingers to punctuate the performance.

Another rumble of thunder ripped through the heavens outside the inn. Another flash of lightning lit up the windows. Then Rain bowed again.

The three men chuckled nervously. That made way to clapping and cheering in welcome response to the spy's impressive display.

One slapped the table and waved Rain over to sit with them, and the spy took the last steps. Only trained eyes would notice how easily and deftly they pulled out a chair and slid onto its hardwood seat without a sound.

The grin faded from the innkeeper's face. He leaned over the table, grabbed his tankard, and raised it between them.

"Good show, good show. But in these whereabouts, it's not proper polite to wear hoods and hats 'n masks in the presence of your fellow countrymen, jester."

Rain nodded. Slowly.

A hand gloved in black and silver finery crept to the mask. Into the hood. A latch and buckle clicked, thin fingers clutched the faceguard and removed it.

A lock of curly black hair flopped down before a narrow forehead, a set of piercing amber eyes, and the angular features of a long and symmetrical face devoid of facial hair. Rain's thin lips twitched, suppressing a smile in response to seeing the faces of two of the men fall—having expected to see a woman's face revealed behind the mask, now uncertain over what they beheld. The third was intrigued.

This range of reactions—it always amused Rain.

"Come, drink," said the innkeeper. His face beamed less with enthusiasm and more with curiosity as he turned.

Slapped the table again, causing the plate with the candle and a knife on it to clatter.

He shouted over his shoulder.

"Woman! We have a new guest for the night! More ale!"

Soon waddled from another room a woman dressed like a maid, muted earthen colors as her garb and skin flushed red from the heat of the kitchen.

Her eyes lingered for too long on Rain, searching the jester's figure for defining form and drinking in the sharp features of their face. The innkeeper noticed the awkward pause, and the spy felt his burning glare as it rested upon them.

"Give this good man his drink and get on with it," snarled the innkeeper.

Rain bothered not to correct him. Rain never did.

The woman fumbled with the fourth tankard of ale and placed it in front of Rain, some of its contents sloshing over the edge and splashing the tabletop, and not once did she break eye contact with the mysterious jester-dressed spy.

She had a strange air about her. The spy struggled sometimes to read overly subtle expressions, and the long road and the longer day had been too long for them to dwell on whatever they could have read in her face. Sorrow, perhaps. Despair, possibly.

Rain's lips twitched again, this time forming a timid smile. They nodded. The innkeeper's wife eked out a crooked smile of her own—genuine, warm, but feeble.

"There we go," said the innkeeper.

The very moment Rain picked up the fourth tankard presented to them, the innkeeper clapped a meaty palm onto Rain's bony shoulder and hugged them close, clinking their tankards together in a motion of merriment. The woman retreated into the kitchen, taking her time to peel her gaze away from Rain's captivating presence.

Asked one of the other men, "You don't talk much, eh?"

Rain shook their head. Kept a straight face.

The best way for a spy to be forgotten is to give them only what you want them to remember. The less you spoke, the harder it was to recall how exactly you sounded. So spake the master. These men would only remember the garish colors and the fanciful dancing, reckoned Rain.

"I know what I said, and I am a man of my word, but I'll tell you what. Drink's on me, stranger. You wanna pay less for the room, then you let us hear your voice—just once."

The innkeeper grinned. Missing a front tooth. Bad breath, damp and warm upon Rain's cheek.

Rain smiled, though they had to force it. It did not reach the spy's eyes.

"You're too kind," said Rain. Smoky, silky, and smooth.

One of the men gaped while the other squinted, both still unable to determine the spy's gender.

Copper coins jingled as they danced on the table. One of them almost landed on its edge, then toppled over to join the rest. Nobody had ever seen the "jester" produce them, or where on their body the currency had come from. Like all good magicians, they only saw what Rain wanted them to pay attention to.

Rain lifted the tankard to their lips and gulped away. And gulped. And gulped.

The three men watched in stunned silence. The logs in the fireplace crackled, exploding with a tiny shower of embers. Rain continued to gulp away until having downed at least half the tankard.

They finally paused, swallowing before a belch could arise. Exhaled sharply.

The men still stared. Brows arched, their curiosity still burning.

"It has been a long day for me, so if you'll excuse me, I shall retire for the night," said Rain. "Thank you very much for all your hospitality."

Smiled again, this time more in earnest. Gently put the tankard down and slipped out of the innkeeper's uncomfortable embrace—and out of the chair. Slinked away to the nearest flight of stairs. All eyes on them.

Rain swiveled and performed another low bow, as elegant as the entrance they had made, permitting rings to jingle once more.

Said one of the three, "G'night."

The other two nodded as a courtesy. Then they exchanged curious glances amongst each other, and Rain was already up the stairs, making nary a sound.

They poked their head into the rooms to confirm they were meant for guests, then chose the one in which the weakest smells lingered. It still reeked of onions and stew, but it would serve. The spy opened the window to let some air in while undressing. This attire always cost a lot of time to get in and out of.

Just like armor.

Armor for the identity.

The best way for spies to protect themselves from harm was to wear the proper clothing. For the right attire helped others manage expectations and manipulate them into not ever even wishing to do the spy any harm. So spake their master.

Outside, the storm whipped heavy drops of rain against the window, soon closed for the night by the spy to keep the cold and wet elements at bay. The sound of the downpour and the long and thunderous rumbles had a soothing quality to them, lulling them to sleep. Slowly but surely.

It had been a long day.

Rain jolted awake.

The rain had stopped. The storm had subsided.

The darkness of night had blanketed almost everything, broken only by silver moonlight that poured in through the window.

Neither the spy nor the man standing inside the ajar door to the room had seen how fast it happened, only the flash of the dirk, gleaming in that moonlight, held out in front of Rain. A sharp tip pointed at the man.

He blinked. One of the three men from earlier—not the innkeeper.

The smug sense of superiority admixed with a hint of fear as he went cross-eyed in staring at the pointy tip of the blade.

Said the man, "Pardon. Did not know you was in here." Drunken slurring rounded off each word.

He grinned, but it looked forced.

Rain just stayed sitting in bed, measuring the four paces of distance between them, the blade held steady and pointed at the bothersome man's face. They said nothing in response.

"I'll be leaving, then. Unless you want some company to warm your bed?"

Rain shook their head.

He grunted and closed the door behind him.

Rain sheathed the dirk in one fluid motion, then slumped back down into the uncomfortable straw-stuffed bed. The wooden frame creaked.

They sighed. Clamped their eyes shut and twisted and turned under the heavy, coarse blankets, trying to find slumber anew. Exhaustion from the road returned. Rain's world went dark once more.

Commotion from downstairs made Rain jolt awake again.

More time had passed.

The moon had wandered across the sky, judging by how its silver rays now bathed the interior of this guest room in a different light.

The innkeeper shouted something. Swearing, muffled through door and floor and walls. His maid-wife shouted something back.

Things clattered.

They fought with words and objects.

The familiar sound of a slap echoed through these halls.

Sobbing. Another slap, a cry in pain. More clattering.

Rain twitched. Twisted and turned. Rubbed their eyes, pinched the bridge of their nose, then gazed at the sheathed dirk leaning against the wall right within reach beside the bed.

Fighting the urge to act, they closed their eyes again, hoping to get more sleep. The noise might stop soon, after all. Why endanger the objective by interfering in some animated lover's spat?

The best way for a spy to succeed on their mission was to not get distracted. Distractions led to mistakes, and mistakes led to failure. In the end, the mission was all that mattered. So spake the master.

There was no need to get violent, reckoned Rain. They could just threaten the innkeeper a little bit to mediate matters, perhaps. The spy was very good at mediation. People rarely got hurt. Just a gesture here, a little threat there, and they would be quiet again.

But this was permitting distraction—even just thinking about ways to silence the fight downstairs. Rain perished the thought, and Rain's mind quieted again. The noises downstairs had stopped. Perhaps sleep would come again easily.

Several slaps followed, making Rain flinch more each time. The wet sound of something hard like wood or metal hitting human flesh. Repeatedly. The sobbing choked, sounds of pain and misery mixed in from the woman's subdued wailing, interrupted by brutal strikes.

The spy emitted a soft sigh.

Swung their feet out of bed with the grace of a trained dancer. Slipped on the jester's jacket—a tunic lined with several hidden daggers.

Rain made no sound on the way down.

Found the innkeeper standing over his maid-wife, who lay on the ground, sprawled out. Blood had sprayed iron pots and the door to the pantry. The innkeeper held the crude weapon in his hands; a now-bent pan clutched in a meaty fist.

A single slipper of the wife lay elsewhere, astray, the other still dangling from her twitching foot. It smelled of cooked chicken and rust in the kitchen. Two smells Rain never connected but would not easily forget.

A dark pool spread out underneath the woman. She tried to lift herself up from it, but her arms buckled like the legs of a newborn foal. Funny how closely that death and new lives danced together, reckoned Rain.

She looked like she was dying. They would have to act quickly if the innkeeper's wife was to survive the night. And the man raised his improvised weapon high over his head, ready to bring it crashing down in another, potentially fatal blow.

The final step that the spy took to enter the kitchen fully, they allowed some rings on the jacket to jingle.

The innkeeper's head snapped around. He glared at Rain with murder in his eyes.

Growled with a sneer, "What in the hells do you want?"

Rain said nothing.

Let the daggers do the talking. Let them spell out the name.

Rain 'o Blades.

The innkeeper gurgled and the bent pot fell from his hand, banging against the floor and ringing out from there until it stopped bouncing. He pawed helplessly at the knife sticking out of his throat and gripped the one in his belly with a trembling hand.

Rain had crossed the distance with little pause, a deadly pirouette accompanying the motion as two more small blades gleamed in the glow of fire and moonlight. Blood sprayed and then two more knives were sticking out of the man's body. Yet more blood splattered from his insides as Rain yanked out the first two to spell his demise.

The man continued to gurgle as he clutched his opened wounds where blood pumped out at an alarming rate—alarming to the man, at least. A cacophony of falling kitchen utensils and pots erupted as he dragged the entire surface of a table down to the floor with him in his final fall.

"You're going to pay, you basta—"

Whoever of the other two men had entered the same door as Rain just to utter that oath, two more knives greeted him. No gurgling escaped his throat, just a hoarse groan as he slowly teetered back and forth, a face gaping with surprise and one eye wide open while the other had a knife sticking out of it.

Rain already knelt by the woman in the puddle of blood before the dead man hit the floor. The spy turned her over and cradled her head in their hand.

Eyes white, rolled back. Her crinkled chin quivered, allowing only unintelligible whimpers as the lifeblood continued to spill from her skull.

The spy had seen this sort of trauma before. Too late to save her, no such magic commanded they. The only magic Rain knew was mundane, the methods of toying with simple men's senses, the art of deception, and the sorcery of blades in the dark.

Gingerly, they placed the woman back down, bedding her in her own growing pool of blood.

They produced another knife from the jacket and inserted it. Lovingly. Slipped it right in, underneath the chin, driving the blade right from the soft gap into the brain. Stopping that mouth from flapping uselessly like a fish suffocating on land.

Ending it quickly for her.

The best way for a spy to complete their mission was to complete it without bloodshed, because blood always left a trail. So spake the master. But sometimes, death was inevitable. So, also, spake the master.

And sometimes, death was a mercy. So thought Rain.

They held her in her final moments. Her spark of life slowly dulled until fate snuffed it out entirely.

Rain slowly rose to their feet again. Undergarments stained with dark crimson from the carnage.

Wooden floorboards creaked. Something heavy hit the ground. Rain was out of the kitchen like a flash of lightning. The third man fled towards the inn's front door. Ripped it open, letting it slam against the wall.

He had seen everything.

When all had gone wrong, the best way for a spy to stay hidden was to leave no witnesses. So spake the master.

A lesson Rain always despised but understood the necessity of.

The third man took five flying daggers to the back. Rain did not rush, hurling two at a time with deadly precision, walking at an almost leisurely pace after him, slowing him down with each additional knife launched. A sixth blade flew right into the man's nape, and he collapsed outside, face down in the mud.

His hand helplessly clenched the muck, and mud oozed out between his fingers, just as painfully slow as the life escaped his body and his soul passed on to the afterlife.

Rain sighed once more.

Looked skyward. Observed and pondered.

The rolling thunder rumbled farther in the distance. Though the clouds still hung heavy in the moonlit sky, they had parted, and the rain had long stopped.

Not even a faint drizzle remained.

A short rest at best, this was no longer a safe place to stay. Lights still glowed inside the inn, but it had fallen deathly silent.

Now, Rain would have to go against the best ways for a spy to do anything.

Fully garbed and armed again, all daggers cleaned and back in their rightful place, and the porcelain mask back on their face; Rain stood outside the burning inn. Flames licked outwards from the ground floor windows, and the inside of the establishment glowed brighter than ever before.

The Boot of the Cockfosters would be little more than a husk come morning.

By the time anybody could investigate, the spy would have long snuck away across the hillocks, spending a miserable night in a cold crypt to get some muchly needed sleep.

But before all of that, Rain o' Blades unfolded the folded parchment that had been hidden inside their jacket this entire time.

The message.

The mission.

The best way for a spy to ensure their survival was to never read any messages they had been tasked to deliver. So spake the master. And so, Rain ignored the lesson, as this night had been a lesson of its own.

The note read:

PZHZERI UZROVW ZMW RH YFIRVW. GSLFTS IVTIVGGZYOV GL VMW GSV YOLLWORMV GSFH, GSV PMRTSG’H XSROW NFHG WRV HL GSV UZNROB’H HVXIVGH TL GL GSV TIZEV DRGS GSVN. HL HKVZPH GSV NZHGVI. NZPV RG JFRXP.

Rain studied the note. Let their eyes scan over the cryptic arrangement of letters. Then again. And again. All the while searching memories for different ciphers to unlock the meaning of this message.

Once they had understood, anger guided their slender hands—crumpling up the parchment and stuffing it back into their jacket in a huff.

The best way for a spy to live long and die peacefully in their bed one day was to carefully heed the master's every lesson. The best way for a spy to succeed at any mission was to not get personally or emotionally involved. So spake the master.

But that night, Rain decided that their master's way was no longer the best way. Watching the inn burn brightly, they found a new resolve. A new purpose. Someone to protect. A quest to prevent being a mere witness of another innocent death at best, or an instrument of murder at worst. A quest to shed any willful blindness towards the woes of the unfortunate.

That night, walking away from the inn burning bright, Rain decided to blaze their own trail. To no longer serve as a spy. To no longer bow to any kings or masters.

To make their own best way.

—Submitted by Wratts

#spoospasu #spookyspaghettisundae #horror #short story #writing #my writing #literature #spooky #fiction #submission #dark #fantasy #dark fantasy #Rain #Rain o' Blades #DnD #D&D #spy #assassin #knife #dagger #jester #mask #costume #quiet #calm #creeping #sneak #the best way for a spy #lesson

[imagine-writerz]

My Song Bird {pt.1} ~Prince Kit X Reader

Word Count:  1640

Summery: After meeting Kit, your life changes in an unexpected way. Will you be able to love him even with your lowborn status?

Your POV

As I lay by the dying embers in the fireplace of my family’s manor, the embers flickered like dancer to the beautiful sound of silence. My nightgown pooled around me as I sat up to watch them, I began to hum the lullaby taught to me by my late mother. It was a soothing tone, the word would slowly take over the room but for now the tone was enough. I pause for a moment to speak, “It must be morning by now...”

I glide to the closest window, the smallest glisten of light peered over the top of the hills. A thought entered and I sped to the kitchen to prepare a meal for Father, who has gotten sick. Father was a lowborn lord and my Mother was a maid, that’s why there were very few maids/servants/helpers. Most work was done by father and I, but as of recently i had been the sole keeper for the animals and home. But today, there was no need to run around the homes tidying or maintaining the fireplace. After breakfast i would ride my mare into the woods and visit the hazel tree that was over my mothers memorial.

I dressed in a work gown, and mounted my horse, Destiny. As I rode to the woods, A snake spooked Destiny causing here to begin running, I lost control and could only speak to her to try and calm her. Which was working until what seemed like an army started pounding our way. She panicked more as these strangers ran our way. She began her panicked run again, and she started bucking. I let out a yelp as I was almost through from the horse’s back.

"Destiny, please calm down, please!” My cry caught the attention of one of the men from the Army, that was actually a hunting group. A man on a chestnut stallion came riding to try and give me aid. As I clang to my horse, I tried to stroke her mane to calm her down. Suddenly, a hand pulled the reins that fell where i could not. Destiny finally stopped slowly and i was pulled to up so she was fully on her horse.

“Are you okay, My Lady?” The stranger spoke, drawing your attention to him fully. His eyes were Sapphire, they were the bluest blue i had ever seen. His face was clean shaven, and his curly chestnut hair was pulled back with a gel. His face looked like it was chiseled by any and every god possible.

“I- Yes, I’m okay... A snake scared her, I’m sorry...” I said, almost at a lose for word. I stared at him a little longer slightly bewildered, his clothes looked to be one of a lord.

“What are you doing alone all the way out here? Shouldn’t a lady like you have company?” He said, looking around to see if anyone was with her.

“I’m not alone now. You and Destiny are with me, Mr. Hero...” I finally form a sentence in front of this god of a man.

“Call me Kit, and what do they call you, My Lady?”  Kit spoke with a gentle voice, as he glanced back to the hunting group which waited behind him.

“They call me-” I was interrupted by the chime of a bell that originated from my home, Father needed help, “I’m sorry, I must go..”

“Wait! I want to see you again, how can I?” He said quickly as I began to ride away.

“I’ll be in town tomorrow, meet me in the square near sundown.” I spoke, before rushing off. Outside of my home I found an old friend of my father. He was waiting by the door in his finest clothes.

“Sir Philip, it is lovely to see you in good health...” My voice spooked the older man, he turned around quickly.

“Little song bird, you’ve grown more beautiful than last time I have seen you.” Sir Philip said as he offered his hand to help me down from Destiny.

“Have you come to see father?” I couldn’t help but question, as I slid off of my horse.

“Why yes, I came to see if he was as sick as they say he is...” His face turned sour at the thought of his poor old friend, “I would also like to offer my help if it is ever needed by you, Little bird.”

Everyone was as grim of the outcome of his sickness as I was. I moved to open the door, letting him in. Guiding him to father’s room, letting him in once again and excusing myself into a side room. I cleaned my face and hands, before making some tea for the three of us. As I carried the tea up, I paused outside the door to listen to the obviously important conversation, which was spoken in hushed voices.

“I am too sickly to work or care for her. I wish for you to take her in when I pass and treat her as your own.” Father’s hushed voice let out, “Find her a handsome husband, but let her love freely...”

“Old friend, I always have and always will treat her as my own. If you pass I will go to the king and ask for him to declare her as the next in line to take my land. Martha will make sure she has the finest dresses.” Philip made his piece known, “ and as for now, I will help pay for the finest medical staff to watch you so she may be spared from any more pain.”

I knock on the door now, not wanting to hear such sad talk all the time. I push my weight against the heavy door, once again. As it opens I slip in, and put the tea onto the side table. I pour the three cups of tea and give father his, and Philip his. Father suddenly turns as much as he can to look me in the eyes.

“My darling, how would you feel with living with Sir Philip and Lady Martha? You should not watch me like this...” Father’s voice sounded worse than normal.

“Father, I will not leave you to die alone!” I spoke out again.

“Y/N, I don’t want you to see me like this... I want you to go be happy and young, and you would be able to visit me as you please. You just would not have the pressure of caring for me...” Father wished for me to take this offer, i could not let him down.

“I will go with them, but I will visit you everyday for tea.” I agreed to his wishes.

I was sent to pack, as I headed to headed to do so I saw the helpers Sir Philip brought to leave with father. I headed to my room and filled a bag first with clothes and then with my sentimental items, my stuffed rabbit Claire, a painting of mother, a few gifts from father and a silk lace square. This filled one bag, which was enough for one woman. I headed to Father’s room were he sent me out to the carriage with a farewell.

When I arrived i was sent to my new room and went to rest until tomorrow. I would visit Father in the morning and go to meet my new friend in the evening. For now, I must only dream. Kit was dreamy and charming, and he seemed to be some form of apprentice. His hair was curly and shiny, his eyes were kind and a new blue. He had the face of an angel, mixed with a king. He looked like a dream. Tomorrow I will see him again.

In the morning I woke up, and dressed in the dress Martha set out, it was a beautiful (color you look good in) with a (Silver/Gold) trim. The corset made my waist look tiny as that was the beauty standard, and my chest was pushed out. I left to see Father after I set my hair in a sloppy braid. I sat and spoke to Father until the Sun was in the middle of the sky. I told Father of my friend named Kit, and he was ecstatic to hear that I found another friend. I soon realized I would have to leave soon to make it to the plaza on time.

When I arrived off the plaza the sun was soon to set, and I was walking to the square before I saw a swarm of ladies trying to jump on what looks like a person or a group of people. I saw a man slip out of the group, and down an alley to hide. I approached the man, only to see it was Kit.

“Kit?” I spoke quietly, Kit looked up suddenly. His startled look morphed into a small smile.

“My lady, come with me before they see us.” He said in response, this surprise me.

“Wha- Why?” I ask as he drags me away from the square. I look to see that the fight had stopped and all the ladies were looking confused. When Kit finally came to a stop, we were at the edge of the town near a river.

“I was the reason for the crowd back there...” He says confused that I did not already know.

“Are you famous? or do you go around saving others all the time?” I asked.

“You... You don’t know who I am?” He was shocked more than ever.

“Am I supposed to? I mean I know you are Kit and you save Damsels in distress...” I said, slightly uncomfortable.

“I... No, I suppose you don’t need to know who I am.” Kit said, “now, who are you?”

“I’m Y/N” I Say

#richard #richard madden #richard madden x y/n #richard madden x reader #richard madden imagine #prince kit #prince kit imagine #prince kit x reader #xreader #imagines #hes too cute

[the-last-cuddlebender]

Moonpeach Blossoms

Aang is a ~little shit~. Aang is also late.

Katara wants her damn hug.

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A/N: Aang is a wholesome, sassy little shit, and he gives me some very strong Thomas O’Malley Cat vibes. (speedwrite challenge--under an hour)

Rating: G (H for hugs)

Words: 1,335

ArchiveOfOurOwn 

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The ground is pink and blanketed by a fluffy sea of moonpeach blossoms. Katara’s pacing carves through it like a knife. 

Aang was supposed to be gone for only a few days.

It had been nearly two weeks.

Katara, again, spins on her heel to stride across her little trough of exposed grass. The green and pink contrast would have been pleasant if she wasn’t in such a sour mood. 

Her skin crawls like a caged tigerdillo’s. She hugs herself a bit tighter, and her eyes keep to the cloudy sky. 

She would have been after him in a heartbeat if he hadn’t taken Appa.

Katara pulls out Aang’s letter and reads it again even though the words were seared in her mind the second she received it. 

He said he would be home today. 

He promised. 

Aang never broke a promise. 

“Stupid Avatar, stupid Zuko, stupid dragon—” 

Katara nearly growls. She’s grateful that instinct has her folding up Aang’s letter when the heat in her face wants to tear it to shreds. She straightens out a crease before tucking it into the inner pocket of her dress.  

“‘It’s just a little search and rescue, sweetie.’ ‘I’ll be home in a few days, sweetie.’ ‘You can’t come because we don’t know what the Masters will think of a waterbender, sweetie.’”

Katara throws her hands up. She storms to the little bench, the one Aang had terraformed for them, under their blooming moonpeach trees. 

She grumbles at the wind when it blows by like a glancing kiss. She often talked to it when Aang wasn’t around. He was its last bender, and he and his frustratingly playful element had become synonymous in her mind. 

“Go away. I’m mad at you.” 

The wind doesn’t go. If anything, it blows harder. Moonpeach blossoms swirl around her like a small hurricane before the wind frolics away.

Katara plops her chin in her hand and bounces her leg. She blows a pink petal and stray hair from her face. 

...She’s grumbling a curse that would have impressed even Toph when the wind returns with Aang’s laugh. 

Katara freezes, stunned by the relief crawling up every nerve. Warmth blossoms in her somersaulting belly, filling some empty part of her and spilling over like water from an upturned leaf. 

More moonpeach blossoms rain down on her. 

Katara looks up.

Aang’s smirk reaches his eyes when she finally finds him, not even an arm’s-length above her. He was laying on his branch like a leopard on a warm day, lounging with his face on his fist like he hadn’t been gone for longer than he ever should be (or ever would be again—that Katara would make sure). He lazily shook the branch beside him to sprinkle her with more moonpeach blossoms. He tried singing, but he was smiling so wide that all he could do was hum and try to keep from laughing too hard, especially when Katara puffed her cheeks and crossed her arms. 

Katara couldn’t hide her blush, and it makes him laugh all the more. 

Aang gives her a calculating look and a nod, approving of the glaze of moonpeach blossoms on his fiancé. His little laugh and half-lidded eyes are satisfied to the brim. 

Then, in a few quick moves like he was part lemur, Aang hangs upside down from his perch to kiss her forehead and grumpy cheeks. 

“Hi, sweetie~” 

His gentle voice is smug and warm—familiar and home—and it turns Katara’s insides to ooze. He kisses her nose and curls her hair behind her ears. Katara puffs her cheeks and purses her lips and tries to look angry even though it only makes his smile wider. 

He’s crouching on the arm of the bench before she realizes it. The tree branch faintly shudders, and now they’re both covered in moonpeach blossoms. 

He talks some more. Or maybe he was humming? Katara can’t quite tell. She was reading the thousands of ‘I love you’s and ‘I missed you’s that jumped around in his eyes like polarbeardog pups eager to see her. They wrap around her and tug into a cozy waltz the part of her heart that he had made his own. 

...Katara glances away twice but is drawn back to him by an unseen force that she only half-hates. She kisses his cheek, and Aang—the brat—swoons and falls back on the ground in a display that would have the Ember Island Players taking notes. Moonpeach blossoms gush up and gently fall like splashed water. 

Aang peeks open one eye, his hand clutched over his apparently wounded heart, and grins at her. 

Katara is not amused. 

He smiles even wider. 

He sits next to her on the bench as he chases away the last of his laughs. His hand finds hers, and the tension flees Katara’s shoulders like he had just cut the strings that held her together. He kisses her hand like it was the most valuable thing in the world. 

Katara scowls. He was making it increasingly difficult for her to be mad at him.

Aang wraps an arm around her and scoots closer to her just as he tugs her closer to him. Katara was already curling her arms around his torso—almost laying on him in the process—and letting her head find its home under his chin. 

He doesn’t smell like dried blood or the sorry excuses for soap he normally used to wash out bloodstains (in the hopes that she won’t notice and worry). He’s not favoring any limb, and there wasn’t any hiccup in the airbending-grace of his movements, but the pads of her fingers find a welt on his two bottom ribs that is large and angry enough to be felt even through his robes. 

Katara scowls and holds him tighter. Aang kisses her head and pulls her closer. 

Aang leans against the tree’s trunk. He doesn’t stop humming. The sound is a dull rumble against Katara’s ear that digs under her skin and compels her muscles into complacency like his voice was a siren’s song. She gladly drowns herself in him. 

The wind kisses her face again; Katara sighs and welcomes it. 

“I missed you.” 

Katara didn’t know how Aang heard her, but he huffed a small laugh that bounced warmly against her and had her smiling despite herself.

He kissed her temple and spoke into her hair. “If you think missing me is hard, you should try missing you.” 

As he speaks, Aang’s hand slips under hers. He pulls it away from examining the injury on his side, and he cradles it close. 

Katara threads their fingers on instinct even though his tactic draws a frustrated sound out of her. 

“...You and I are going to have a talk about that.” 

“A talk?” Aang gasped excitedly. “Is the Mighty Katara asking little ol’ me on a date?” 

“Oh, you—You know exactly what I—”

Aang was already littering her face with smirking apology kisses, taking her down from the inside out. A giggle escaped her, and Katara didn’t know if she wanted to smack or kiss him when he laughed and pulled her flush against him. She rolled her eyes even as he plopped his chin on her head. 

She grumbled. “...You just—You just hush up and stay still so I can enjoy this. I’ll nag you later.”

“I look forward to it.” He cuddled impossibly closer, and he settled them like he didn’t intend for them to move for a long while. 

“I love you.”

He said it like he was sharing a part of his soul with her, and Katara melted to slush in his arms. 

“I love you, too.”

Aang hummed some more and petted her hair. The wind stirred the moonpeach blossoms, and the tender petals touched any part of them that they couldn’t hold.

Katara had always appreciated the feeling of returning home. 

She loves the feeling of home returning to her even more.

****************************************

The sweeties will sweet until all the sweet has been sweeted.

(speedwrite challenge)

#kataang #aang #katara #avatar the last airbender #atla #Aang is a ~little shit~ #Katara is ~too tired for this~ #sweeties gonna sweet #speed writing #ao3 #myfanfictiontag #post

[efrmellifer]

Dulcis Somnia

Etien woke with a groan, pleased to be on her side this time, but pleased with little else.

She rolled to the other side, burrowing under the covers and more firmly under Aymeric’s arm again, tips of her ears brushing his throat and the underside of his chin.

“You don’t move this much at night,” he mumbled. “Is it morning already?”

“Not that you can tell by the light,” she replied. “The weather is shi—” she cleared her throat— “certainly unpleasant. I’ve never been so glad I don’t have to go anywhere.” She hunkered down even further.

He hummed. “But I still do.”

“I know, darling. I’m sorry. Do you want me to walk with you? You won’t have to brave it alone.”

“You were just saying how glad you were that you had nowhere to be.”

She tipped her head, trying to look at him, pinned though she was. “A walk to the Congregation is nothing. Or are you starting with the House of Lords today?”

The playful disgust was audible in his voice as he told her, “Oh, please don’t remind me.”

“House of Lords it is, then,” Etien giggled.

“You can stay here,” Aymeric said finally. “Here, where it’s warm and you won’t twist your ankle on the ice.”

“If you insist.” She shrugged slightly.

Finally opening his eyes to the bedroom, not even half-filled with the weak light of an overcast morning, he kissed her forehead, then her lips. “I do.”

“All right, then. Get dressed, I’ll make you something to eat before you go.”

Aymeric sat up, rubbing at his eye with the back of his hand. “You know, you have been more concerned with that lately. I used to have to convince you to have something, even on mornings off.”

No longer held down, Etien slid from the bed, folding over the covers. “I have the time—and cause, really—to be sure I eat, and I’m extending it to you. I should never have taken such poor care of myself out there.” She came around the bed, running the backs of her knuckles over his cheek. “And neither should you now.”

He sighed, though more out of determination to leave the warmth of the bed than in frustration with Etien. “Oh, fine. Nothing too heavy, please.”

“Oh, so no cream in your coffee?”

“Who am I, Estinien?”

Etien chuckled, stepping out of the room and padding down the hall in her new slippers.

“Do you have everything?” she asked as Aymeric rose from the table not much later.

“I believe so,” he murmured. “What is there for me to forget?”

With a pleasant smile, she shrugged, getting up herself to follow him to the door. “I just know I tended to forget things here now and then. My eye mask, a pair of gloves.”

Aymeric stopped walking. “Were those not on purpose?”

“The gloves were, the eye mask was not. Gods, trying to sleep in eternal light was… a trial all its own.”

“Had I known it had been a mistake, I would have flagged down that pixie to bring it back with them.”

“Feo would have called you sentimental and doting.”

With a squeeze of her hand, he replied, “A small price to pay, if you would have slept easier.”

“You’re going to be late, Lord Speaker.”

“I suppose so. I’ll see you later, Etien.”

Her lips quirked up just before she rolled onto her toes, grasping at Aymeric’s clothing to hold herself up and give him a kiss goodbye. “Not if I see you first.”

_

When Aymeric got home, it was to the image of Etien surrounded by knitting, a wide square of powder blue spread over her lap, yarn trailing from the carved bowl at her feet.

The rhythm of the needles clicking together and the motion of her hands as she worked through a stitch were strangely calming, even when he’d only watched them for a moment.

“Before you ask, it doesn’t tangle if I keep it down there,” she said without lifting her eyes from the needlework.

“What… is that?” Aymeric asked. “I know you’ve been working on something rather big—two of them, unless it changes colors every so often.”

“This is a receiving blanket. This one is almost done, and its twin will stay unfinished until this one is complete. Switching back and forth was driving me up the wall.”

Aymeric picked up the yarn bowl, pulling on the yarn to keep it from tangling while he fed it to Etien’s fingers. “Was there something different about it that was giving you trouble?”

“Not exactly. It was the starting over from the same point every time, I think. I would start with a half-done blanket, get it to three-quarters, and then swap to a half-finished one again.” She was quiet for a moment. “That, and struggling with the yarn. The bowl helps, but yarn is still finicky.”

He dug his fingers into the skein, pulling on the loose end some more before winding it through the indent in the bowl again.

“When you finish that row, would you still be amenable to taking a walk with me, like you offered to earlier?”

She smiled, needles clicking all the faster as she tried to finish up the last few stitches quickly, rising from the loveseat to put on her coat and boots.

When she returned to the drawing room, all dressed for the outdoors, Aymeric chuckled before pressing himself up to go put his outerwear back on.

_

The Central Highlands were quiet. The stillness was what they needed, both still in their thoughts as they walked.

Their hands, woven together, kept them tethered as they crunched through the snow, the only other sounds they were taking notice of the bleating of wandering karakul.

“I love karakul,” Etien murmured out of the blue.

“Well, you certainly love eating karakul,” Aymeric responded.

She turned to look at him. “Growing up in the Twelveswood, you learn to appreciate birdsong and roast fowl in equal measure, because the forest can give you both if you’re kind. Tenuous relationship with the Elementals notwithstanding. So I like watching the karakul trot around, and I like roast karakul when it’s on the menu.”

He laughed. “That is a good point. I think Ishgard as a whole forgets what it was like when we weren’t having to fight the land for what we need from it.”

“Camp Cloudtop was having quite a bit of success with the pumpkins,” Etien offered.

“Thanks to you, your knowledge, and your onion-gathering.”

She smiled. “I do what I can.”

Aymeric squeezed Etien’s hand. “And you have been able to do much for us.”

They continued on in silence, their loose grip on each other tightening, drawing them closer together as the sun sank lower in the sky. The tracks of their footprints converged at a point or two, conveying just how close they were walking now, voices low as the light above them began to fade, stars twinkling in the darkest spots.

The sun had gone, but light still clung to the horizon, a glow like dying embers even as the pinpoints of  constellations made themselves apparent.

Aymeric stopped, looking up. “Looking at the sky now, who would have thought it was so dim and dull earlier?”

Etien lifted her gaze to the sky, shielding her eyes, and nodded with a low hum. “But what an excuse to stay in bed it could have been. Skies like this make you come out and see them.”

“Seen a lot of these skies, have you?”

She was quiet for a long time, counting the stars, or maybe connecting them with her eyes. “Not these skies. Thanalan’s skies, Limsa’s skies they use to navigate the waters—same in the Ruby Sea and onward with the stars of the far east. I’ve been looking at the skies over The Black Shroud since I was old enough to tip my head back. And there were the skies of Norvrandt, striking because the deep blue was such a contrast to the light.” She sighed. “But I feel like I rarely get a good look at the skies over Coerthas. Maybe because we’re up at dawn or a little after, when the stars have already been put away for the day. But even if I’d seen this a thousand times, it’s always better with someone you love.”

Aymeric bent, kissing her briefly. “And better still reflected in your eyes.”

They kept walking. Even when snow started falling, they trod on.

“But speaking of the skies over Limsa,” Etien said finally.

“What of them?”

“I’ve been thinking, about my mother and… it’s silly.”

“Dearest, some of the thoughts you call silly are the most interesting things I’ve ever heard.”

“Oh. Thank you. I had been thinking, I’m the oldest of my parents’ children, so I had wondered what sort of mental state my mother was in, when she was having me. Her family was a bunch of seafarers, and she had even convinced my father—er, you know—to do a little traveling before they settled down in Alder Springs. Again, for him. So, did I put a stop to that? What might they have done if not for me?”

“A thought-provoking concept, but not something you could ever find an answer to, is it?”

“I suppose not.” Etien slowed to a stop. “I still think about it, though.”

“To the point of guilt?”

Etien sighed. Caught. “Not yet. I would hate to have been the thing that killed her dreams, though.”

“Why could you not be a new dream?” Aymeric asked, tipping his head to get a better look at her. “If you were, it would have happened more than once.”

Her eyebrows knit. “Oh?”

“Yes,” he replied simply, guiding her under a tree. “Because it happened to me, as well.”

Etien’s eyes just widened as she searched for words.

“For lack of a better way to explain, I wanted you to enjoy the new Ishgard you had helped create. I wanted to enjoy it with you,” he told her. “I had once been ready to die for the changes I wanted to enact, as well you know.” He absently rubbed at his wrist. “But I much prefer satisfying this new desire. It, like the stars, is better with someone I love.”

Etien leaned fully back against the tree they were sheltered under, gently tugging Aymeric to her. “Ishgard wouldn’t be home without you.”

“It would no longer be Ishgard without you,” he rebutted before closing the gap between them, lifting Etien from the snowy ground to negate the difference between her height and his.

Even with them so close now, he waited for her to make the next move. He could have simply claimed her lips, and in fact he rather wanted to. But how long had he waited for her, over and over? The space of a few breaths was nothing. If all she wanted to do was gaze down at him with love in her eyes, that would also suit him, in truth.

But she let her eyes slip closed, leaning in to press her lips to his, and utterly relaxing into his arms when he reciprocated.

For some time, the snow fell and they exchanged kisses, the longer liplocks broken up with tiny pecks across each other’s cheeks and planted on foreheads.

But as Aymeric was lowering Etien to put her feet on the ground again, he whispered, “You have naught to fear of killing dreams. I will do my best to ensure all yours come true, and as for mine, you’ve already fulfilled many of them. You still do.”

Arm in arm, they made their way home, living out dreams while still awake.

#fic #Aytien #okay yes it's a lot of dialogue #in fairness this was really more of a long exploration of ideas I had

[peakyblinders1919]

Prove It

Dancing with the Devil Pt. 2

Overview | Pt 1

The polished oak was cold under Isabella’s feet as she made her way down the stairs to where breakfast waited. 8am everyday like clockwork. For her to carry out the usual routine of sitting at one end of a ridiculously long dining table across from her mother, who’s head was buried in the days newspaper, to poke at a poached egg and half sausage before she would excuse herself and escape the confides of the prison for long as she could get away with. “Morning” she managed a smile which was wasted as her mother barely even lifted her head in her direction, taking her seat. “Morning Isabella, sleep well?”

“I did Mother, did you?” She didn’t care about how her mother slept, it was a common courtesy and respectable. She was taught to keep her responses short or risk being seen as too smart or too opinionated or too talkative. Even with her own mother. But that wasn’t Isabella. “Papa has a meeting this morning?” Being the man of the house, he wasn’t always around at meals and such, he had more important things to do with the estate and keeping their reputation pristine. She asked because some part of her needed to know; meetings never started before nine o’clock unless they were important or it was with someone her father didn’t want others seeing or risk losing that pristine reputation he was working so hard for.

“Soon. I believe so, and an important one at that so you’d best stay out the way.” 

“Don’t I always” Isabella said with a hint too much attitude for her mothers liking, causing her to raise her eyes from the paper in disapproval, scorning her without a word. Isabella sighed, dropping her fork where she had been picking at the yolk than ran along her plate, taking that as her cue to leave. “I’ll be somewhere on the grounds if you need me.” She left the room quickly as to avoid any potential questioning, eager to bask in the fresh spring air that was waiting for her outside. “So you’d best stay out the way” she mimicked her mother under her breath, reaching into her brazier to retreat her trusty pack of chesterfield cigarettes before quickly regretting her thoughtless haste and shoving them back into position when she heard her fathers voice along the corridor, her frequent smoking around the grounds without having yet been caught causing her to have gotten too comfortable, careless even. She straighten up her dress before approaching the corner, hesitating as she heard a second voice responding to her father.

She was just far enough that the conversation her father and the muster clown were acing was inaudible, unable to make out any words. She didn’t recognize the voice, not that she ever really knew who her father was meeting and keeping company with. She was just about to keep making her way towards the door leading to the East gardens. They were the least looked after part of the estate, which made it perfect for smoking in secret. But the drill of the recognizable accent stopped her in her tracks. It was harsh, rough around the edges, not posh in the slightest. Quiet the opposite actually. Gritty. Brummie. Since when did her father surround himself with people like that?

This was enough to draw Isabella in, recalling that the only unusual company her father had had of late were the unfamiliar faces she had spotted at the party a week earlier. The voice she could hear was definitely harsh enough to belong to one of the burley statues she had witnessed, though not the black sheep she had wound up fighting off a soft spot for. No, he had been different. It was only now she found herself questioning whether he had been a Brummie also, she hadn’t noticed an accent as thick as this one in his tone if he had been.

Before she had chance to attempt to eavesdrop on the conversation she heard the door to her fathers office shut tightly, their voices dropping dead with it.

Even with her level of quick wit there was no way she was going to wiggle her way into her father's office, especially if she was right and he was keeping company with men he didn't want to be seen with. While it had peaked her interest for a moment, just like that she was uninterested, her cigarette case itching heavy in her bra. She made her getaway out the back door. The east gardens were deteriorated beyond repair, in her mothers opinion, but the annuals regrew every year in their white, yellow, and pink glory. The garden was sparse, yes, and the marble benches were cracked and weathered, the gazebo falling apart but to Isabella it was a beautiful place to be alone and smoke. She perched herself on a bench in the sun, lighting her cigarette, inhaling and exhaling. She was able to enjoy herself knowing she was completely alone and no one would ever bother to look for her here when there was the undeniable snap of a twig under foot. "Shit." Muttering under her breath, she inhaled quickly a few more times to get her buzz from the nicotine before waving the smoke from the air around her and stomping the cigarette out before her company rounded the corner.

“Well if it isn’t the lady herself,” his voice startled her despite having known someone was approaching, not having expected those words nor the voice that accompanied them. He stood with that same mischievous smirk on his lips, perfectly gelled hair and briefcase in hand. She strangely found herself having to fight back a smile at the excitement of his unexpected visit, replacing it instead with a roll of the eye as she retrieved her cigarettes once again, lighting a fresh one. “Waste of a cigarette” she muttered, about to fumble for her lighter when he presented one before her, flicking it once to produce the small flame. 

“Well this certainly isn’t your fathers office” he squinted taking in the surroundings of overgrown ivy snaking across the once grand roman statues.“I was directed to follow the corridor along and take a right and it seems here I am.” 

Isabella couldn’t help but laugh at this, spluttering a small loud of smoke into the air. “Let me guess, Anna directed you? She’s never been too good with directions. She was mistaken, take a left.”

Michael sighed, setting his briefcase down on the bench next to her, close but not too close. “Ah, a left.” He pulled a cigarette out of his silver etched case, lighting it up and inhaling deeply. “I’m sure my company’s not necessary right now, better to be out here with you.” His a lips upturned at the corners of his mouth, a smile as he watched her. “You know, in case I need to cover for you. Lady Isabella can’t be caught smoking.”

Isabella scowled at him while taking another long drag, scooting up on the bench so he had room to sit if he so wished. “Just Isabella will suffice.” He took her invitation and sat beside her, allowing her to see him up close without the glare of artificial light for the first time. He was very handsome she couldn’t deny him that, his features youthful and wholesome, though his eyes were different. She prayed the intensity of them hadn’t welcomed her cheeks to flush.

“Well... just Isabella, when I met you the other night I didn’t have you pegged as a smoker.” He was handsome, yes, but he confirmed that there wasn’t anything special or different about him, he was just like all the other aristocratic young men she’d been forced to meet; heads swelled to an unimaginable size with pride and ego. She sighed heavily, expelling the smoke into the air in front of them, smoke from both of their cigarettes dancing in the air like they had. “That’s because you know nothing about me. Just like a man, thinking he knows everything about everyone.” This wasn’t a game anymore, it was personal. But she was still winning

“I know you’re a lady and lady’s don’t smoke” 

“Well, this one does” she threw the stump of burning ember onto the ground and twisted it into the gravel with her foot. “I apologise that I’m so far from the angelic ideals of a lady that you seem to know of. Now, did you just come and sit here to remind me every second of my burdening title or did you have something worthwhile to say Mr. Grey?”

In Michael’s eye it was still a game, one that he was winning now as her annoyance was clear and he had succeeded in riling her up. He tisked somewhat disapprovingly, shaking his head. “I’ve just never met a lady is all. But since you say your not like the others, sneaking around the estate smoking, why don’t you prove it, huh?”

 “I don’t have to prove anything to you.” There was a sour taste in her mouth, whether from the cigarette or Michael’s sudden change in attitude, she wasn’t completely sure. She was ready to protest, to stomp on his foot for accusing her of such things and degrading her and her title, but one look into his emerald eyes and she forgotten everything she was going to do. The cheeky grin, she recognized it as a sign of victory. He had her exactly where he wanted her, but she knew her place of the chess board. He intrigued her, his life somewhere far from hers intrigued her. “What did you have in mind?” 

“Meet me tonight at 8, I’ll have a car waiting for you at the end of the drive. Let’s see how you fare outside the walls of this castle of yours.” He stood, picking up the brief case and brushing down the custom made suit. “I can’t.” Isabella protested almost instantly without thinking, seeing his eyebrows raised as he turned back her and that was question enough for her to change her mind. “Fine. I’ll be there. But have the car parked further along the lane than the end of the drive, way further.” Michael chuckled under his breath at the bit of childlike innocence creeping through, afraid of being caught. He began his walk back to the stone archway he had mistakenly stumbled upon earlier. “I’ll see you then. Left, wasn’t it?” 

“Yes. Michael, why exactly are you here to speak with my father anyway?” She asked before he stepped back through the door, the first genuine thing she had wanted to ask him since they’d began. “Business.”

#peaky blinders imagines #peaky blinders imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fanfiction #michael gray fanfic #Michael Gray imagine #michael gray fanfiction #michael gray imagines #finn cole imagine #peaky blinders oc #OC moodboard #oc X michael gray

[zoroshonkingbazonkadonkas]

If you weren’t cussing at this scene, are you even a human?

 “I thought perhaps . . .” At last Will turned to look directly at her. Tessa was shocked at the expression on his face. The shadows under his eyes were so dark, they looked hollow. She stood and stared at him, willing him to say what the hero in a book would say now, at this moment. Tessa, my feelings for you have grown beyond mere feelings of friendship. They are so much more rare and precious than that. . . . “Come here,” he said instead. There was nothing welcoming in his voice, or in the way he stood. Tessa fought back her instinct to shy away, and moved toward him, close enough for him to touch her. He reached out his hands and touched her hair lightly, brushing back the stray curls around her face. “Tess.” She looked up at him. His eyes were the same color as the smoke-stained sky; even bruised, his face was beautiful. She wanted to be touching him, wanted it in some inchoate, instinctive way she could neither explain nor control. When he bent to kiss her, it was all she could do to hold herself back until his lips met hers. His mouth brushed hers and she tasted salt on him, the tang of bruised and tender skin where his lip was cut. He took her by the shoulders and pulled her closer to him, his fingers knotting in the fabric of her dress. Even more than in the attic, she felt caught in the eddy of a powerful wave that threatened to pull her over and under, to crush and break her, to wear her down to softness as the sea might wear down a piece of glass. She reached to lay her hands on his shoulders, and he drew back, looking down at her, breathing very hard. His eyes were bright, his lips red and swollen now from kissing as well as injuries. “Perhaps,” he said, “we should discuss our arrangements, then.” Tessa, still feeling as if she were drowning, whispered, “Arrangements?” “If you are going to be staying,” he said, “it would be to our advantage to be discreet. It might perhaps be better to use your room. Jem tends to come in and out of mine as if he lives in the place, and he might be puzzled to find the door locked. Your quarters, on the other hand—” “Use my room?” she echoed. “Use it for what?” Will’s mouth quirked up at the corner; Tessa, who had been thinking about how beautifully shaped his lips were, took a moment to realize with a sense of distant surprise that the smile was a very cold one. “You cannot pretend you don’t know. . . . You are not entirely ignorant of the world, I think, Tessa. Not with that brother of yours.” “Will.” The warmth was going out of Tessa like the sea drawing back from the land; she felt cold, despite the summer air. “I am not like my brother.” “You care for me,” Will said. His voice was cool and sure. “And you know that I admire you, the way that all women know when a man admires them. Now you have come to tell me you will be here, available to me, for as long as I might wish it. I am offering you what I thought you wanted.” “You cannot mean that.” “And you cannot have imagined I meant anything more,” Will said. “There is no future for a Shadowhunter who dallies with warlocks. One might befriend them, employ them, but not . . .” “Marry them?” Tessa said. There was a clear picture in her head of the sea. It had drawn back entirely from the shore, and she could see the small creatures it had left gasping in its wake, flapping and dying on the bare sand. “How forward.” Will smirked; she wanted to slap the expression off his face. “What did you really expect, Tessa?” “I did not expect you to insult me.” Tessa’s voice threatened to shake; somehow, she kept it firm. “It cannot be the unwanted consequences of a dalliance that concern you,” Will mused. “Since warlocks are unable to have children—” “What?” Tessa stepped back as if he had pushed her. The ground felt unsteady under her feet. Will looked at her. The sun was nearly completely gone from the sky. In the near darkness the bones of his face looked prominent and the lines at the corners of his mouth were as harsh as if he were racked by physical pain. But his voice when he spoke was even. “You didn’t know that? I thought someone would have told you.” “No,” Tessa said softly. “No one told me.”  “His gaze was steady. “If you are not interested in my offer...” “Stop,” she said. This moment, she thought, was like the edge of a broken bit of glass, clear and sharp and painful. “Jem says you lie to make yourself look bad,” she said. “And perhaps that is true, or perhaps he simply wishes to believe that about you. But there is no reason or excuse for cruelty like this.” For a moment he looked actually unnerved, as if she had truly startled him. The expression was gone in an instant, like the shifting shape of a cloud. “Then there is nothing more for me to say, is there?” Without another word she spun on her heel and walked away from him, toward the steps that led back down into the Institute. She did not turn to see him looking after her, a still black silhouette against the last embers of the burning sky.

#will herondale #tessa gray #the infernal devices