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netherfeildren · 4 months

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Honey, Stomach, Mine ; 2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Series Masterlist ; Part 1. ; Part 3.

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics; Dystopian Society; Outbreak not Cordyceps AU; Angst & Yearning™️; Slow Burn; Sexual Inexperience; Cock Riding; Size Difference; Size Kink; Sex Ed for Omega’s 101; Power Dynamics; Creampie; Discussions of Heats and Knots and Slick, Oh My!; Virginity; Emotional Hurt/Comfort; Young and Needy Omega; Possessive Behavior; Age Gap

A/N: FYI I do mention that she has small breasts in this one only because I usually write big boobs and thought it was time for some itty bitty titty committee representation.

Word Count: 13.9K

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2. More Intelligent Than a Face

Existence is a strange thing, a needful thing. Something to be sated, filled, satisfied, this ordeal of being a living, breathing person. And to be an unusual sort of person, someone with needs extra to what the regular sort would require, doubly strange.

You had always thought, in different ways, that the mating program, although a choice thief, a freedom thief, was also benevolent in its control in some ways. After all, it gave those of you who were of the not usual sort, alphas and omegas, that such thing that you needed so badly.

Each other.

A bad, terrible, devastating thing that in turn gives you something necessary, life changing, life fulfilling, even, perhaps.

When your aunt had died and you’d been taken away and then put away and then shut away for what seemed would be forever, it had not, at first, in your child’s mind, seemed so terrible. But with the years, that existence you bore that needed, it began to hurt. It eventually became a very terrible thing that in turn, had taken away your ability to recognize yourself, as well. The reality that you’d been caged because of what you were, perhaps not particularly who, but certainly, what, was, at first, difficult to see. And then, when you did see it, even more difficult to look at.

A thing caged because of what it is. And again, existence is a strange and needful thing. Caged because of what you exist as; caged because of what you need because of what you are. Caged because they can give you what will sate you.

You open your eyes slowly, the bright, waning golden light of dusk shooting over the edge of the end of the world; bleeding pinks and violets feeding the fire. And he’s there, in a deeply set arm chair pulled up by the hearth, staring into the flames, and you realize, like you’d never truly considered before, that the cage was in part also his fault. That in ways, you’d been put away also because of what he is. You wonder if this should make you angry, resentful. If it should mean you should not want to be here, langoring so comfortably in his home that he’d brought you to. This man who you do not know, who does not so much even look like he wants to know you. In ways, your caging is his fault. And certainly, concretely, the prolonging of that caging was entirely of his doing. So why is there no resentment?

Once, one of the other omegas had said that they were brainwashing all of you. Preparing you, ripening you for slaughter. He’d come in later than the rest of you, when he was more grown, more mature, when he’d seen more things in his before life. He had lots of opinions, lots of thoughts, said that your before life, those ten years of living with your aunt, of only being a child like all the rest of them and not an omega, did not count. He said you’d been too young to understand all you’d lost. A boy named Leo. He was kind, but he was angry. And his anger frightened you. It was something you did know, in the sense that you could recognize it, for you’d seen anger before, but you could not understand it. For some reason, maybe you were built wrongly, and Leo was right, and you should have been angry like him, but you could never find it within yourself to muster it. Maybe there was nothing wrong about it. Maybe everyone was simply built and made and felt differently and that was fine too. But you knew that he was wrong on some accounts, particularly, that your before life had counted, that your aunt, who you remembered with so much love, had counted. And most of all, what he was most painfully wrong about, was that you did, and deeply, understand all you had lost.

After all, you could only see the sky for one hour a day, every other day, now, and that one hour made your understanding of everything around you, everything happening to you, keen and painful and humiliating in a very clear way.

The last rays of the sun wash Joel in vibrant orange reds now. A slash of glowing vermillion across his face, something almost violent about the streak of light, something possessive, and you focus your eyes intently on the sight of his face. This man, this alpha, who for all intents and purposes would or could own you as declared by the government or nature or even Leo and all he’d said would happen once you’d been claimed.

But there was one last thing he’d been wrong about, that young, angry boy, and what you felt was the greatest chasm between the way the two of you had existed within your new designations, which was that, at one very recent point in Leo’s memory, he had belonged to someone, to somewhere. He’d had a place and a home and a family, and he had belonged, and you had never had that. Your aunt, despite her love for you, had been too old and tired to want you, truly want you. You had never been wanted in any soft, true way by anyone before. And looking at him now, you don’t think Joel could ever be capable of wanting anything in a soft way, but you do think he could want something in a true way, and you’re certain that could be more than enough for you.

“Why didn’t you come for me?” Your voice, scratchy and small from sleep, floating away from you towards him. He jerks, the twitching returned, head snapping towards you, eyes wide, moving forward in his seat as if he’d spring out of it and towards you without thought. His scent seems to be heightened somehow now. As if your sleep had awakened your senses in new, keener ways. You can feel him tickling the back of your throat, threading his way through your hair, beneath your clothes, between your legs.

“Are you hungry?” He asks, ignoring your question. “When was the last time you ate? You need to eat.” And again that frown, too many fast words.

“Why didn't you come for me?” You press. “They told me you didn’t know if you wanted to come, that you wouldn't answer. I want to know why.”

He sighs a heavy, heaving thing, falling back in the chair, and turns back to the fire, and you want to whine and cry until he puts his attention back on you. You feel so… so– you don’t know. Little, unmade, with a need to be big, to grow and grow and grow so that all the things you feel and want might fit inside of you, so that he might fit inside of you. You feel hungry as if your gums ache and sting with a desire you’ve never tasted before. But also, and despite all of these conflicting, churning things, you also feel so inexplicably at ease. He’s just there, and you are just here, and you’ll make him answer, you know you have it in you to make him do the things you want, and you can’t say how, you don’t know how, but you understand that you do.

There’s power in that – even as you are, all you are not, you can see it – the ability something small possesses to make something big move, do, be. There’s power in that.

You whine low in your throat, and he turns back to you, something dark and tumultuous in his eyes, brow crooked sternly, but he opens his mouth. “I was going to leave you there,” he says, and you immediately wish he’d shut it. Never mind, you want to tell him, you say all the wrong things.

“But why? I was waiting for you.” Whine, whine, whine.

“I didn’t want this. I never have.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t want me?” You ask again, just to be absolutely certain you’re understanding that you’ve once again found yourself in a place where you are not wanted for, or despite of, the thing that you are. The logistics, the intricacies of it don’t seem to matter as much anymore, after everything, the before life, the not life, all that matters now is the yes or no.

But he goes silent again, attention back toward the fire, the sun set, no more glowing vermillion slash, very little hope now too.

He ignores your question again. “Tell me about the place they kept you,” he says instead.

“There’s nothing to tell.” You want to cry now, for the first time, besides the tears of initial happiness when he’d finally walked into your white box, you want to cry. You dig stubby nails into the round of your knee, hard as you can, trying to make it hurt and distract. “It was very calm and very quiet.”

“Did you have friends?” He won’t turn back to look at you, and it makes you feel very lacking. Very much like the nothing they tried to make you feel you were before.

“No. They wouldn’t let us.”

“They wouldn’t let you have friends?”

“No. They said it would agitate us – too much socialization. Really, they just didn’t want us realizing, becoming angry and aware”

This makes him turn, makes you feel, within yourself, the anger you’re telling him of, like oh, now, when I’ve been shocking and honest, you look at me – after I waited all that time for you. There is no resentment about the cage, only for the waiting. You should stick your tongue out at him, make him an ugly face, turn over and go back to sleep and ignore him the way he’d ignore you. But no, you think, let him see that you do understand, and you do know some things, that you are angry, and Leo was right.

“What did you do then?” He asks.

“I read. I learned about myself, about you. About what we are.”

His gaze is so intense now, a ricochet, a scream, something very persistently sad. “And what are we?”

“People just like all the rest of them. But with more necessity.”

“How do you mean?”

You tip your head side to side, bright fire eyed gaze to bright fire eyed gaze. Your cheeks feel molten, sweltering, sweat at your nape, the fire in the hearth so bright, but not as bright as you; your belly glows. This is what you are, this is what you’d been made into. “There is so much necessity in existing, don’t you think?”

He tips his chin, he doesn’t understand.

“We need so many things. We require so much to be alive, to be what we are, to be satisfied and content.”

“Do we?”

“The things we are, yes. I think so.”

“You don’t seem like you spent years in that place,” he says, voice slow, molasses in the notes. There’s something hypnotized slumbering in him that forces something satisfied to swell within you. Your belly glows.

“I had a before life. People forget that.”

“I read in your file — you lived with an aunt.”

You wait for the: only for ten years, but the diminishing does not come. “Yes. She was kind, and I remember all of it, even if the rest of the world forgets it happened.”

“Did they ever mistreat you? At the facility–”

“No. Never. There was nothing.” You’re the one to turn away now. The sun has entirely gone away, a single glowing sliver just at the drop off of the end of the world. You stick your hand out straight ahead of you, fingertip following that line of fading light through air and space and sea.

He watches you unblinkingly, and asks, “What do you mean?” The far off light glows through your skin, through your fingernail; he follows the path of your hand.

You can pretend in your mind that you feel the warmth of it against your fingertip, that it scorches the way it glows, heats the length of your limb, feeds the same glow in your belly, but there’s no more possessive streak of light to wrap around you; now, the heat only lives within you. This is what you are, this is what they said would happen, and now it’s finally happening. You let your arm fall back to your lap, limp, and turn to look at him again. He looks so angry, and you feel so incredibly sad for him. This cold perch, this cage that is not white like your box, but dark and struck right on the edge of peril, this place he chose to exile himself to. They were honest, in the things they'd told you all, the truth of the way alphas exist out in the world. Lonely and ostracized and feared, brainwashed to your reality maybe, sure, the way Leo claimed. But in certain things, they’d been honest, and you’re glad for it, that you have the ability to understand him now from this vantage point. The reality of how he exists, the reason for that look in his eyes, it all makes sense to you.

“I suppose that can be a kind of bad thing… a mistreatment. Making nothing of us, of our lives, taking the whole world away until someone chooses to come and give it back to us.”

He flinches, the look shutters, clicks and flashes, a camera capturing the truth of what the two of you have already done to each other without even really knowing one another at all. “I’m sorry I waited. I’m sorry I took so long.” The words cost him something the way all truths cost something. “That I wasn’t there for you as soon as I should have been.”

“Why weren’t you?” You ask, although you know.

“I couldn’t. I can’t. I’m not– I’m not right. I’m not well.” And this costs him more than the rest, you can see. The thump, thump, beat of his heart in his throat. You should tell him to stop, mercy is power, but you think, feel, that this pound of flesh you’re demanding via his truths is what you’re owed for your life and a year of waiting. And anyways, you’ll pay your own pound of flesh in kind eventually, and it’ll cost, even if it’s freely given, it’ll still cost. Everything is equal here, it’s only that it takes a certain kind of eye to realize the truth of that.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“Everything, what I am, the whole thing of it and this. It’s all wrong.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You don’t know.” And he looks suddenly angry, aged, wearing all his years and all his very obvious loneliness, teeth bared but on the verge of falling out.

“No…” you say slowly, thinking, rationalizing, a rolodex of truths in your mind. What you are, what I am, what we all are and all the honesties that compromise us. “I don’t, but I understand anyway. They make you all nothing, as well, don’t they? They take it all away, all nothing until you have one of us. It’s a terrible way to live.” And you don’t ask him, it’s not a question, only a very obvious thing.

Your words upset him, put him right at the mouth of madness, all those shakes and jitters returned, but you only lay your head back down on the soft pillow he’d tucked beneath you, hands folded undercheek to wait for the explosion that does not come. There’s something in you that wants to see him angry, angry like Leo, like the boy who’d said you didn't have to be what they told you to be, that reminded you that you could choose for yourself. One of the few things you’d agreed on, despite and inspite of the friendship that they would not let you have but that would have blossomed anyways if they’d given you the time. They wanted to make you nothing, but you didn’t want to be nothing. You wanted very much to be alive and to belong.

You realize, watching Joel muzzle his nature before your very eyes, wondering if the truth of him would have him springing up out of the chair to smother you with his weight and temper you with his knot, subdued with his teeth sunken into the gland at the back of your neck, that you want to see him angry. You realize that you want to see him break, that you want to hear that truth no matter what it costs the either of you. You want to see him honest.

He struggles, a dog fight right before your eyes, but when he wins, it changes the game, turns the truth chimeral. Makes you see him in a different way, and all at the same time, makes you aware and even more comfortable than you’d already been. You’re safe here. He is safe. Most importantly, you want to be here.

“Let me show you your room,” he says after a deep breath.

“My room?” A little seedling of dread and sadness and disappointment.

He shows you to a bedroom hued in soft blues. The sea when it is gentle, the sky when it’s joyous. Everything comfortable, nothing white, like he’d known already.

He stands awkwardly at the mouth of the entry, as if scared to step foot into this serene pool of azure and marr it’s peace. You watch him out of the corner of your eye as you move around, no shoes, no socks, slowly running your fingers over all the soft surfaces, sweaty little toes sunken into the deep pile of the rug underfoot.

“I wanted you to have somewhere to adjust– where you’d have privacy. I’m sure this– that I– that it’s all a shock…” he stutters.

One of his boots inches forward, snaps back, like he wants to follow, like he needs to follow, like nature is right here in the room with the two of you, but he wins that dog fight again, holds back. Frustrating.

“I’m not shocked. But I– I won’t stay with you?”

“No,” he says with a finality that makes that seedling bloom in full. “I also got you clothes. And– and soft things. I know your sort–”

You give a soft huff of air through your nose, my sort… our sort.

“Like things like that. And I also… I also put some of my own things in the drawers,” he nods towards a dark mahogany dresser shoved up against the wall; shy and boyish and hesitant all wrapped into a package that would seem to be none of those things. “They say that helps.”

“Okay… thank you.”

“Went into town to get it,” he says of the robin's eggshell blue duvet, a more dove gray blue wash for the silk soft sheets beneath. It’s all beautiful and delicate and lace trimmed and looking at him, huge and rough and something like a lonely mountain, you can’t believe he’d chosen this for you. “Lady at the store said you’d like it when I picked it out.” And that makes satisfaction smother the seedling, yes, he’d chosen it for you. A good sign.

“You went into town to get me things?”

“I told you I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.” Something about the sentence tickles your mind, but then you’re lowering yourself onto the cloud soft bed, cool silk and cotton beneath your skin, sliding against his clothes, your belly glows bright. You’re full of distractions and truth. “There’re a couple of young women that live down aways.” Young women? You perk up at the thought. Friends? “Ellie and Dina. Two young alphas, and they’re good people. I’ll take you down to meet them soon, when you’re ready.”

“Two alphas?”

“They’re a couple.”

“Like– like in love?”

He hovers at the edge of the rug with that strange look in his eyes again, the one from before – I’m only an omega, you don’t have to be afraid of me – and a palpable desperation to cross the border you don’t think he’s even aware he’s letting you in on, but that you can see nonetheless. Two fingers tucked into the line of his belt, twisted there as if grasping for restraint.

“Yeah, they’re together.”

“I didn’t know alphas could do that… that they’d let you.”

“Reckon it’s why they came all the way out here, to be honest, for freedom. But ‘course they can – be together, that is. We can do what we please, despite what they’d have us believe.” And Leo’s words ring in your mind again. Perhaps everyone sees the truth of what you are except for you. The seedling grows vines, suffocates. All the hope you’d thought would live here seems to have never even existed at all. You feel, for the first time, heavy with all the things you do not know, all the things you lack, all the inexperience and naivety like ignorance thick and cloying in your blood. “From what I understand, Dina presented late, after they’d already gotten together. And by that time it was a done deal, they were in love, no going back. And anyway, they make it work, make it look easy as nothin’, to be frank.” He runs a big hand over the back of his skull, and the way he lifts his arm has the thick of his bicep bunching, fat ball of muscle just there for your teeth to sink into. You shift restlessly on the bed.

“Easy as nothin’,” you say slowly, trying to imitate the dip and pitch of his drawl. Your fingertip follows the line of stitching in the duvet, petting at the seams holding it together. “Is that how we’ll be too?” And although you mean the words, intend the question, you’re suddenly awash with shy regret for asking, even though you can’t say exactly why. Probably for the look on his face, which goes immediately dark and serious, and even yet, you persist. “Will it be easy for us too?” And you’re sure your voice must sound like you’re begging.

“No. It won’t. It won’t be like that between us. You’ll stay here as long as it takes for you to acclimatize to being out of that place,” that place, he says like a curse, and it makes you angry, “To bein’ out in the world, and then we’ll find somewhere for you. Somewhere that’s safe and comfortable where you’ll be able to make your own life.”

“I don’t– I don’t understand,” you tell him, but it’s a lie. You do understand, you see, and very clearly, that all you’d waited for during your life, the before, the not life, the extra year, it had all been in vain, for nothing. It would not be given to you here.

“What don’t you understand?” And his tone is cruel and spitting, making you flinch. “I’m sending you away soon. This is what I’m saying.”

“But I don’t– No–” You’d waited so long. He’s being so mean, and you tell him so.

“Yes. You need to be with people your own age. You need to see the world and grow up,” and what a horrible thing to say, you think – to grow up. As if it were not a thing you’d been forced to do already all on your own, without anyone to help you.

“Well then what do you care about what I need? You make no sense!” And you bare your teeth at him. “If you don’t want me–”

But he cuts you off, broad palm held up in a staying gesture, and it’s so incongruous with all the rest of it, that you want to laugh in his face. “Didn’t say I don’t want’cha.” And that frown again, he makes no sense, the tip of his boot makes landfall in the high piled rug, halfway in, hypnotized and compelled in full. You settle on the bed and feel very calm despite the too fast beat of the thing that moves and lives within you, despite your anger and confusion.

And through the beat and the heat and the sweat on your neck, despite the shyness you’ve forgotten is shyness right at this moment, but that you’re sure will return later because this is what you are and this is what you were made for: him. You ask, “Then are you going to knot me now?” Because if he’s going to send you away, then surely he’ll give you that before you go, surely he’ll still want that from you.

He splutters, going all red in the face as if the notion of a young omega asking the experienced alpha she’s been presented with to do that most basic thing his nature demands, is something out of the ordinary. “What? No– no.” But despite his supposed refusal, he takes two steps forward towards you. Venturing further onto the soft piled rug, leaving large crushing footprints in his wake.

“Later then?” You ask very pragmatically.

“No. Absolutely not. There will be no knotting.”

You shake your head at him, small frown between your brows, but still feeling calm despite the tragedy. Forcing that horrible seedling down into submission, the vines smothering all your hope. “But what do you mean?” And you feel like a child.

“I’m not going to fuck you. We aren’t doin’ any of that. You’re too– you’re too young, practically a girl.” A child. He has an accent that thickens with agitation, the ends of his words sluicing off between his tongue and teeth and anger while he hurts you.

“You don’t want me,” you say, and it isn’t a question anymore, only an obvious thing.

His eyes go very dark, and you want to turn away, look back at the edge of the world and the bright glow of the sun being swallowed by it. “I don’t want that.” And the way he spits the words hurts, making you a thing impossible to desire.

“You don’t want me,” again, repeated, so the both of you can bask in the truth of it.

But it snaps something in the room, or in him, or amidst the honesty being brought out here and now. He takes two ground-eating steps forward to loom over you aggressively, forcing you to fall back on your elbows, looking up at him wide eyed but still inexplicably not afraid, only a greater thing than what can be called merely disappointed. And yet, not disappointed enough to not notice the way one of his knees presses against the inside of one of yours. “I should get to have a fucking choice too, shouldn’t I? Like you, locked away in that horrible place–”

“It wasn’t horrible,” you try and say, but you don’t think he hears.

“The way you had all your choices and freedoms stripped. Shouldn’t I also be allowed to have one single goddamn thing?” Where else would I have gone if not there? “A choice – to say, no, stop, I don’t want this.” He’s so angry, and it is all suddenly so clear, and he finally grabs you, pulling you up by the bend of your elbow, the small joint almost crushed in his massive fist to pull you halfway up off the bed and towards him, getting in your face with all his anger.

Leo’s voice again, you don’t have to be what they tell you to be, you can choose for yourself. This is what Joel wants too.

“You can’t end up stuck out here at the end of the world with some washed up old alpha who can’t give you a quarter of what you need and deserve. I won’t let you. I won’t,” he snarls.

But despite your greenness, your naivety or your ignorance or your youth, you think: how dare he? “And what about what I want? What about my choices? Or are you going to be just like all the rest of them? Like the whole world telling me I’m too insignificant and too stupid to decide for myself? Just locked away in another cage–” You spit at him, trying to claw and shove at him, stubby nails digging at the sun pebbled skin of his throat, yanking at his too long hair and patchy beard, inadvertently pulling yourself closer to him. He grunts, struggling to take you in hand, slippery thing you can make yourself into when you really want, and you, trying your mightiest to hurt him any way you can as he’s already decided he’s going to hurt you with his rejection. “Is that what you are? Just like all the rest of them?” You cry amidst your struggle, choked with tears and being too little to be effective but too big for your own skin.

You shove at his jaw, trying to scratch at his cheek, but he grips you full around either arm, locking you in place and gives you a swift but measured jerk, jostling you into submission, trapping your hands bent as they are up by his neck so that one small palm is sliding to the back of his nape, over the gland behind his ear, at that soft vulnerable hollow, and coming to rest at the one in back, at the base of his neck beneath his collar. Both of you go still as stone, frozen by the truth of what you both are and how inescapable it all is, reality held in the palm of your hand.

Obvious: a designation is not a thing you can ever hide. Alphas and omegas wear it on their bodies like markers. Glands scattered at different places: behind the ears, at the base of the neck, inside the wrists and ankles; vulnerabilities that when acknowledged, bitten, seal a mating bond. Places that if handled properly, turn you into nothing but what you are at your basest nature. And you can’t help yourself – at the feel the spongy patch of skin, slightly raised and slightly rougher than the rest of him, a place that when in rut or in heat, would become, will become, extra sensitive, extra swollen, extra ripe – when you slowly slide your fingers against it, feeling the texture of it, the way it’s even hotter than the already sweltering rest of him.

He growls low and rumbling in his chest, that sound again, and he’s so angry, it’s painted all over his face in shades of defiance; coming off of him like radiation, angry at you, angry at the truth of what you both are, angry at himself and the world and all of it, but he pulls you closer anyways, tugging your forward by his grip on your arms which is starting to mimic the ache you’re suffering at that place between your legs you long to show him, pulling you in so that the tips of your breasts, covered beneath his thick sweater and the too thin, soft bra they gave all the omegas who needed them, brush against the thick of his chest, pulling a soft breath of a moan from your tongue.

“You’re being so mean to me,” you whisper. “And I don’t deserve it. And I waited so long for you and you never came for me, and now this is how you’re treating me,” you say with a hiccup and a tear, and you feel little and big and that place that calls for him pulses and hurts and leaks. He’s so mean and you’re so sad and you want him and you can’t understand why he’s being this way when you were made for him and he for you, and if nothing else was right in this world, then this was the thing that was supposed to be.

His eyes shift quickly back and forth between both of yours, that frown, mouth turned down, his mustache that connects to the patchiness of his beard showing how contrary he finds you. You frown back at him, trying to pull away, whining when he tightens, pulls you closer, right up to his face as if he needs to inspect you even more closely. Your toes aren’t touching the rug anymore, scraping against the thick round of his boots, and you won’t have it. You’ll give him a piece of your mind, you’ll show him. “You think that because I’m little and young and easily bruised that I’m not in control.” It’s not a question. If you could grow fangs, you would. If you could rip him to shreds, you would. “That I can’t control you. But I made you come for me, didn’t I?” Now you laugh at him, now you show him. “I knew if I wrote to you, you’d come, and you did. I made you come. I made you.” And saying it feels like victory, so you don’t care that it makes his face crack, you don’t care that he pushes away from you, letting you fall back onto the bed with a limp bounce, storming out of the room, the door slamming shut behind him. You don’t give a thistle for choices. You want to be selfish, you want to be alive, you want to see the sky. You have the sea now, and you want to be this thing you are because this is already you, this is what you were made into, and you have no choice but to bask in it, and you won’t bend to him or give it up for him only because he can’t accept the same of himself, only because he’s still trapped in his own white box.

He knows, as soon as you make whatever stupid decision it is that you’re making, that something’s off. A shift in the air in the house, his heart beating funny, his scent changing because his body knows you’re not in its immediate vicinity anymore, something that tells him off, off, off, be vigilant, she needs you so much, you can’t fail again. He reminds himself of all the decisions he’s already made, of what he knows he wants and does not want, of what he is and what he is not.

After he’d stormed out of your room – I made you – he’d retreated to hide in his own bedroom, to the other big chair by the fireplace in here, cowering like a dog with its tail tucked between its legs, forcing himself to listen to you cry for hours, the whine and whimper of an omega in need of something he was made to give, and yet will not. As if a little thing like you could make him do anything. Him. He grits his teeth, chews on his own tongue, digs his fingers into the arms of the chair to force himself to remain seated in place, to not return to you, to not give you all the things he knows you need and want to be soothed by.

He can smell your scent changing already, reacting to him, reducing him to nothing, entirely effective in your conquering. And he’d stupidly thought that perhaps the heat, and the rut that it would yield, would wait, give him a moment of reprieve or compassion before it came for him. A moment to think. He thought he’d have more time, a chance to escape the thing he so desperately wants but cannot and will not let himself have, refuses to give in to. His body stirs and smolders, and like he’d done for eleven years and then one, he ignores it. He ignores the truth of who and what he really is.

He sits in his chair, head propped up against the back, and listens to your cries and mewls ebb and quiet until finally, he thinks you might have sobbed yourself to sleep. He doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t mean to hurt you. It’s the absolute last thing he could ever, ever want. Everything, not only in his nature, but in his character, in the things that make him up as a man who’d want a woman like you, is clamoring within him to go to you, to give you what you want, to sooth you with his voice and his scent and his cock. To fuck you into your heat until you’re soft and slick and fevered enough to take his knot, to let him breed you, to let him mate you. His cock stirs and thickens beneath the rough confines of his jeans, that thicket of skin at the base where his knot waits in ready for you, simmering with heat and tightness. He digs his knuckles into his temple until it hurts.

You don’t want me… Of course he fucking wants you. He’d have taken your cunt for himself right there in that white box room, on your rickety little iron cot for all the surrounding omegas and witless betas to hear without giving a single shit what anyone said or thought if he had any sort of right or will or choice. If he had anything more to give you. And then watching you go right to sleep when he’d brought you into his home, the sight of you feeling so immediately safe and content, ready to nest amongst his things and his scent – that feeling of having within himself the things that he needs to be what he is – indescribable.

Pretty little omega – and truly, you’re so pretty. All he’d never let himself imagine or desire or hope for. He’s too old, past his prime and forgotten by the world, but he’s still a man with a working cock, still an alpha, even if only in the simplest of ways. Of course he wants you.

He lets himself languish miserably before the fire, eyes going hazy with exhaustion, the comedown of adrenaline, the presence of warm omega all around him, the taste of your pre-heat scent coating his tongue and throat. He pulls his socks off and lets the heat of the fire warm his feet and thinks he should’ve given you his room instead, let you sleep in his bed, near the fireplace, between his sheets and amongst his scent. He can sleep out in the dirt for all he matters as long as you’re comfortable. And the rational part of his brain wants to laugh at the thought, sitting here alone, realizing that despite his battling, his nature will always win out in the end, that all this fight really means shit. His cock gives a faint throb, his deflated knot rhythmically pulsing in time with his heart, ready to swell and claim what everyone including nature, but excluding Joel, has said belongs to him. Of course he wants you. And if he’s honest, or a fucking liar, he can’t really say which, all his truths and deceptions have become so muddled within his own mind, his past and his present and this future he’s never thought he wanted or had a right to, the year of waiting was more a form of self punishment, restraint as proof of fear, than anything to do with you.

Anger, yes, that everything had been decided for him for so long. That he isn’t even allowed to decide what he is, what he wants. But fear, more than anything, that interminable curse of failure he’s so haunted by and so afraid of. How could nature ever look at him and think him strong enough to take on the role of caretaker, protector, alpha – whatever it is that you need him to be, the whole world in the eye of a young and untried omega – when he can hardly stand the sight of his own face in the mirror? There’s nothing but tragedy setting the stage the two of you stand posed on.

Finally, your cries fade to soft hiccups, and then a peculiar silence he doesn't trust. He waits, ears peeled, his head turned slightly towards the cracked open door of his bedroom, sensing the shift in scent and after a few beats of too loud silence, a thud and a huff, the music of a little mind thinking too loudly and mischievously for its own good. Even the wind seems to blow differently as if it knows you’re scampering about amidst it now, vulnerable to its lashings, and he’s shooting up out of his chair and charging through the house. By the door, he realizes his boots are gone, stolen from where he’d dropped them discarded after he’d left you in your room to cry your salt tears. He forgoes a coat and his flannel, braving the icy wind in nothing but his white undershirt, stepping silent but no less frantic out onto the deck. The truck is dark and quiet, still in its usual spot, and this quells his fear minutely. It occurs to him that you likely don’t even know how to drive.

But when he comes around the western facing corner of the house, it’s worse than he could’ve imagined, and the scar slashed across his right temple suddenly zings like copper, burns like fire at the sight of you. You are, for some inexplicable reason, crawling on all fours, towards the edge of the cliffside. And he’s frozen solid for a second, shocked and terrified, and then moving forward like lightning, tripping over his own two feet and breath before he realizes you’re right at the very edge now, and he needs to move very fucking carefully to ensure he doesnt send you spilling in fright over the edge.

He alters his movements, continues forward slowly, his bare feet over the freezing ground and sharp bric-a-brac of the forest floor, the slabs of stone turning to ice as he nears the edge, and he watches the uncoordinated wallop of your movements, banging your knee with a small yelp, as you crawl like a slow and drunken spider in his too big clothes, dragging his too big boots around your ankles, to the very edge of the cliff side, slowly lowering yourself to plop down with your head and arms hanging over the edge.

He pauses about ten feet away from you and waits for your next move, but you lie still, quarter part of you draped over the edge of the cliff, and he realizes that you’re watching the water far below crash against the rocks.

“Sweetheart,” he calls slow and gentle, crouching down low so that his voice travels along the ground where you lay. “Sweetheart, what’re you doin’?” You start, turning back towards him, one palm coming to the edge of the rock to shove yourself up to peer back at him, rock pebble spraying out over the void with your movement, and his heart and stomach lurch to his throat, almost gagging at the terror. Your eyes are hazy and bright, and he recognizes the beginnings of the fever, it’s tendrils wrapping themselves around you, making you a little confused, a lot needy, and he’s so fucking stupid, he should’ve never left you alone. But he hadn’t thought it’d come on this fast, that you’d affect each other so.

“I wanna go down there,” you call over the small hill of your shoulder, turning back to peer down at the beach. You point down at the shoreline with your other hand, wagging your finger as to emphasize what it is you want.

Jesus fucking Christ, he’s going to have a goddamn heart attack. “Alright, baby. Come back here, I’ll take you down. Let’s go together.” You mumble something, arm flopping out, waving him away. “Please, sweetheart, come back here with me,” he begs, and there must be something in his tone, he’s sure, because you turn full back at that, looking at him suspiciously like you remember his earlier words of rejection and no longer trust him now.

“I’m glowing, sir. I need to feel the sea and the cold.” Your voice sounds not your own, like it comes surfing off the wind to his ears.

“Not, sir. Joel. Only Joel, remember?”

You push yourself up, moving to sit back on your knees, but still right at the edge, still too close. Sweat slides slick and frigid down his spine, the complete opposite of what you must be feeling right now. Only Joel. Only Joel, he hears you mutter at the sea. “There isn’t anything only about you. Leave me alone. Go away–”

“Please, baby. Come back here. Let’s go inside, I’ll give you the sea, I promise. Just come over here – with me.” You turn back at that, shifting on your knees to face him. If you lose your balance, stumble, you’ll topple back over the edge. He just needs to be good enough for you to want to come to him, convincing enough. He puts his palm out towards you, all supplication now. “Come here, sweet thing. I’ll show you the sea, I promise I will.” You start your slow spider crawl back towards him and his scar burns, a sharp pain through his brain, piercing behind his eye, heart beat to death between his ribs. As soon as he gets his hands on you, he’s going to fucking throttle you, he promises. But he’s almost got you, and he dares not move, barely even breathes, his hand is shaking so badly it interrupts his view of you on every other painful heartbeat, and he realizes his eyes are blurry with terrified tears, and suddenly, that anger doesn’t matter even half an ounce as much anymore because then you’re here and crawling into his arms, up into his lap so that he’s falling back onto his ass on the cold, hard ground. He pulls you into himself, clumsy little spider legs wrapping around his waist, your arms going around his neck so that you’re clinging to him.

One of his boots lies lost and discarded back by the edge of the cliff.

“Please, don’t ever fucking do that to me again.”

“I’m glowing,” you sigh into his neck.

“I know you are, baby. It’s okay, we’ll fix it.” He feels you nuzzle at his collarbone, his neck, the gland, already sensitive and swollen behind his ear, already, already, already, God help me, and his heart feels like it’s beating so hard he can feel it move through your chest cavity and reverberate against his hand on your back. Christ, it wasn't supposed to happen this quickly, it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was supposed to have more time, more choices, more control. The wet of your lips mouthing at his skin, and then the peek of your tongue tasting his gland, and he rumbles deep in his chest, his mind going loose and slacken like an old rubber band, and then snapping back to clarity at your surroundings. Cold wind and now the beginning sprinkling of needle freezing rain, your shivers jittering into his chest.

“We gotta go inside – let’s get up,” he murmurs into your ear, unable to resist nosing at your hair, the small, freezing cold seashell hidden within.

Wait, wait– and then the scrape of small, blunt edged teeth just there at the vulnerable patch of skin. He swallows a scream, and the caged thing rattles and howls inside his chest, his arms going iron and binding around your back, pressing you to him, chest melded to chest. “Wait, please,” again, and now a tiny kiss. “If you don’t want me,” and he never should’ve even insinuated it, it’s the worst thing he’s ever done in his entire miserable fucking life. “Then will you please–” another soft press of lips to his jaw, the corner of his mouth. His hand slides down your spine, he can’t help himself, presses down on the base of your vertebrae, the heat of your cunt along the pulse of his cock, through cotton and denim and cold, just there, just there, he’s so fucking close. “Will you at least kiss me–” but you’re not waiting for another rejection, you’re just licking clean across the slash of his mouth, taking his bottom lip between both of yours for a shy little suck, unsure and inexperienced with desperation. And then there’s nothing caged about any of it, no more white box, no more perch at the end of the world, he squeezes you to himself so that it hurts, and he kisses you.

Hand twisted too tightly in your dampening hair, he pulls your head back, and with a rumbling grunt sends you deep and languid into easy submission, the steady deep timber of the sound wringing the desired effect on you. You twitch once, as if he’d tugged on your strings, his pretty puppet, and then go soft and open and easily penetrated, jaw hinging open so that he can lick inside of you, tasting all you have to offer which he refuses to accept he’s actually taking and which you’re all too desperately eager to give.

He takes it all regardless.

Slick mouth against slick mouth, out there in the cold rain and wind, rolling around in the dirt, he tastes you the way the two of you were made for. Pulling your hips closer, rolling his up to meet all the heat you have to offer which will only get hotter and hotter the more he continues down this path. You claw at his hair, the gland at your wrist rubbing against the one at his ear, marking him with your scent and pheromones, marking him as yours. And he swears he can almost feel that glow in your belly too, a little wriggling comet in his hands, set to burst. The crescendo of your whining climbs higher, your mouth hungrier, and Joel feels insane for a second, entirely outside of himself, lost to his senses. All he is, is what you need him to be, something hard and strong and solid for you to mold yourself around, and it’s so right it’s wrong. Not what he’d planned, not what he’d decided.

He rips his mouth away from yours, panting, forgetting his name and his sense and everything else he is besides a hard cock and a now equally smoldering belly. “Wait– wait,” he begs, burning comet, too willful to tame without teeth, surging in his arms. You rub yourself against his face, your hair sluicing through his, your soft tits against his chest, his neck, bumping his chin while you try to climb him perched in his lap like you are. “Wait, please–” he tries to sooth over your huffing whines, and then a sharp stinging little bite to his jaw line.

No, no.

“Stop. We have to stop, please. This isn't what’s supposed to happen. This isn’t what I want.” And you hear that.

The comet burns out, you go still in his arms, and it feels worse than anything. He wishes he could swallow the words back immediately because then you’re pushing back and away from him. Scrambling out of his lap, escaping his arms as fast as you can.

“You’re horrible! Get away–” He dodges a small, kicking foot – the bootless one. And you’re stumbling to your feet, tripping over the too big shoe wrapped around your too small foot. He pushes to stand, as well, gripping you about the elbow, avoiding a weakly punching little fist now. This is truly getting too ridiculous. The two of you need to come to terms with each other, meet in the middle, forgo the theatrics you seem all too desperate for. He ducks away from another ineffectual punch, grips you by the scruff of the neck, unruly kitten that you are, and pushing you forward, hooks you under his arm, lifting you clear off the ground and rendering you entirely captured, bent in half, a wilted flower over the strong of his forearm.

You squawk indignantly, kicking your feet against the back of his leg as he stomps over to his abandoned boot, slowly filling with rain now, fuck this shit, and trudges through the mud back to the house, ice cold droplets dripping off the tip of his nose. The two of you are well on your way to soaked, but he thinks it might not be such a bad thing, considering the ball of heat radiating from your belly, the one in his own mimicking you. It seems to pool in the palm of his hand, where he’s got you hooked and caught over his arm, honey collection of magma.

Let me go! You’re screeching. “Leave me alone! You don’t even care about me and I hate you and I want to see the water!” More kicking and clawing.

When he finally dumps you back onto your rumpled bed, undignified yelps and pathetic little growls, he’s at his wits end. Taking you firmly in hand, heavy hand back at the nape of your neck, thickly calloused palm scraping against the quickly swelling gland there, other pushing at your hip to drape you over the edge of the bed like a rag doll, he folds himself over you, smothering you with his weight and heat, forcing you into calm. You go shocked frozen, wracked with shivers and then finally, blessedly still and quiet. This was all you needed, for Joel to follow his instincts.

He presses you into the bed with his too heavy weight, thick arms caged around your head, pert little ass tucked up against his pelvis, and he breathes you in, lets you settle.

“You need to behave,” he rumbles, and all you do is sigh bleary eyed and exhausted by your own willfulness. “You’re not to go outside all alone at night like that again, do you understand me? And you are especially, never, ever, to go that close to the cliff edge again.”

“But the sea–” you whine and shift, rubbing your little cunt against his now fully hard cock, perfect position that he’s got you in, presented to him like this. He presses tighter against you, growling deep in his chest to shut you up.

“Promise me.” But you whine, shifting, starting to cry a little, too far gone to the start of the fever he’s done nothing to really sate. There’s still time yet, for your full heat, but these beginning symptoms, they need to be soothed just as well, tempered just as diligently as the full blown heat would be. If for nothing else, than for the sake of the omegas' comfort and happiness. He bends his knees, shoving the thick of his erection up against the apex of your thighs, pressing you further up onto the bed and tighter beneath him, and nosing through the mantle of your hair, he finds the gland at the back of your neck beneath the collar of his sweater and bites down gently. Not breaking skin, only giving you teeth to feel, to be soothed by, that blunt clasp that’ll dull your own sharp edges for now.

He laves his tongue along the scorching patch of skin, the texture different to the rest of you, different, even, to his own glands, like silk, like water, something liquid about the feel of you here beneath his tongue and teeth. You let out a terrible little sound that has the threads of his control snapping, providing cause for concern, and he growls softly, pleased, in response. It’s a sound of submission and acceptance and praise, from the both of you equally, all at the same time. He lets you settle like this, petting at you with his tongue, giving you the scraping edge of his teeth like a threat, every so often. Grinding, because honestly he can’t even fucking help it, against that scorching little cunt he knows would already, even now, be so soft for him. Perhaps, not soft enough yet, not ripe enough yet, to take his knot and everything else he wants to force on it, but soft enough for him to teach you how to take a good fucking.

A virgin, never even had a heat before, and trapped here between his teeth and beneath his cock. It would all be so easy, it would all feel so right.

But that is, Joel thinks, just the thing of it. It would feel right – but would it be right? He can’t yet tell.

You cloud his judgment, seduce his nature into wanting to give you everything and anything you could ever even think to ask for, and he can’t yet tell if it’s just you, that sparkle and that light and that heat like a comet that lives inside of you that he’s coming to suspect is wholly yours, nothing to do with biology or designations or markers that tell of what you should and should not be, that’s got him so desperate to please you. Or if it’s only nature, trying to force him into another choice he’s not made for himself.

You wake slowly, disturbed out of your sleep the way one feels when they’re being spied on by something too large and too scary to look at right in the eye.

You shift in the blue bed, cool and calm now, all that glowing heat from before that’d forced you out into the cold and the wind, hungry to throw yourself through space and time out into the sea, reckless and free, gone away now. All you feel as your eyes blink open slowly, is a shivery, damp cold rattling down the line of your spine. The room around you is dark, the glow of the slumbering fire out in the living room peeking in through the slightly left ajar door of your bedroom.

He’d stayed until you’d gone boneless and calm, trapped beneath his weight and between his thick strong arms, letting you suck on the gland inside his wrist as you’d pleased. And when finally, you’d been just on this side of awake, he’d changed your clothes and slid you beneath the soft sheets and weighted duvet, and sat in the cozy sofa chair by the window until you’d been too exhausted by the embers in your tummy and the tight want between your legs to fight sleep any longer.

The chair sits cold and empty now, and above it, the wide window, the pitch black of the world beyond is bright with unknown terrors, and you huddle into your nest of pillows and blankets, hiding beneath the edge of the duvet.

You’d never had a window in your bunk, had not experienced the night in years and years, and looking at it now, put on display as it is through the clear pane of glass separating you from all of that unknown, you feel suddenly terrified, nothing but little. It feels as if you were to look away from it, it’d reach through the glass and pluck you out of your bed, whisk you far enough away that he’d never be able to find you, come for you again, and also, like if you don’t stop looking, it’ll eventually begin to look back. You wiggle backwards, bum finding the edge of the bed, and then sliding out, feet first, gaze still peeled on the window and the night, walking backwards out of your room and pulling the door shut on your way. At the very last moment, you peek through the sliver of the door edge and frame, nothing but your nose remaining in the blue room, and you swear the night stares back now.

You shut the door with a snick, and turn to rush on tipped toes in search of his room.

He’s sleeping on his back, one thick arm thrown over his head, the other laying across his belly, and you peer over the edge of the bed, hands clasped beneath your chin, watching the up and down of his breathing, the flicker of his eyes beneath his lids. He has long eyelashes and funny whiskers and hair everywhere. Under his arms, and across his chest and his belly, leading down below the sheet covering him, to the thick lump there, that place you don’t know yet, but do understand. He’s hairy, and he’s big, and the aching place you want to show him comes awake in response to all this man you have before you. And although the house is warm, the fires stoked diligently to keep you as toasty as you need, another shiver runs its way down your back. So taking hold of one of his thighs, you hoist yourself up onto his too tall bed, knobby knee stabbing him in the side as you climb on top of him, planting yourself right in the middle of his broad expanse. He gives a rough grunt, shocked awake by the little creature climbing its way all over him, hands shooting out to steady you by the hips as he jerks startled.

“What in the Sam Hell–” You ignore his spluttering, rubbing your bottom against his stomach, finding a comfortable position to drape yourself over him, wilting like a felled weed snuggled up against his chest, tucked just below his chin, giving an entirely contented sigh when you settle. “What the fuck’re you doin’?” He has such a nasty mouth. Someone should wash it with soap for him.

He tries to roll over, but you cling, bearing your sharp little teeth to latch at his collarbone, holding tight, refusing to be shoved away again. “M’cold–” you fuss, chewing and slobbering all over him as you pull yourself closer, hitching a knee over his hip, burrowing your foot between the bed and his back.

“You have t’go back to your bed. You can’t sleep here.”

You whine, chewing harder, and he grumbles, but his hands slide from your hips to your back in a soothing pass and you slick your tongue against the flavors of his skin. He tastes so good, and he smells so good, and in a tiny voice you know will get you what you want, you say, “The window is too big and it’s so dark. I’m scared, alpha.”

He groans, grip going tight and strangling around you, fists bunching in the oversized clothes he’d swaddled you in after he’d dried the rain and outdoor chill off of you before putting you to bed. “Can’t I just stay here? I promise I’ll be good like you told me to,” and you nuzzle against him, making sure to thoroughly cover him in the headiness of your scent. Everything is so warm and right, and he’s so thick and comfortable and strong everywhere, perfect for laying on top of like this. The hair on his chest is prickly, tickling your face where you rub yourself against it, and he rumbles low, a deep sort of purring sound that you feel vibrate in your tummy, big wolfish man that he is, but his grip goes loose and soft after a while, stroking and soothing and petting along your slopes and planes. Convinced. Ha.

You hold very still, breathe very slow, make sure not to spook the beast while he accepts the fact of you here atop him until he finally says, already sleepy and relaxed again, “Alright… but you’ll behave like I said.” And eventually he rolls the two of you over, little omega barnacle that you’ve turned yourself into, and tucks you into his warm side.

The third time you wake to him, there’s fire everywhere. And an ache in your womb so sharp it sends shivers through your whole body. You cling and grind and tremble; forget your name, where you are, nothing more than that sticky throb in that place that you want to give to him so, so badly.

He’s draped atop you, heavy arm caging you in, thick chest covering your back, smothering you between incredible strength and, soft, Joel smelling sheets. You cup the ball of his bicep, it’s big and hard and hot, and drag your palm along the thick slope. He’s so strong, he could crush you, hurt you, make you into anything he wanted, and you want all those things, you think. You want him to do whatever he wants if only he’ll make the ache go away. Fire and glowing bright heat everywhere, most of all your belly, your heart, somewhere so deep inside you’d never known it existed until he’d come and made you aware of it.

Your fingers slide along his wide forearm, hairy here too, thick wrist, hard, strong bone beneath, and then the soft spot on the inside that belongs to you now. You stick your tongue out, tasting the spongy patch, scraping your teeth along it. If you bite him, you’ll be able to keep him forever, he won’t be able to send you away, but there still remains – even if just for a little bit longer, before the heat you’ve been waiting your whole life and a year for to finally take you – a part of you that’s still rational, head only halfway gone to the clouds. That part which reminds you that more than anything, you want him to choose you. Without the bite as a deal breaker, bond sealer, only because he wants you, only because he likes you.

But you can taste him, it doesn’t mean you have to bite him, and you the tip of run your tongue along the inside of his wrist, gently suckling at his gland, the flavor of him so much stronger here, as if his essence is more concentrated at this small place. And the ache between your legs, in your tummy, deepens, spreads and blooms and ravages. The inside of you feels sensitive and swollen and big and little all at once, and you shift your bottom, trying to rub yourself back up against him, your sucking mouth pulling sharper, a whine bubbling in your throat because you need something, something more, and you think you know, and you know you understand, but you’re not sure, and if he could just wake up and show you it would all be so much better.

You press back harder, arching so that the aching place feels the heat of him behind you, that hard ridge there that makes your heart pound all through your body. You’d shucked off your leggings and the sweater he’d put you in through the night, too hot and sweaty with the big beast smothering you as he’d been, so now you’re left in nothing but one of his too big t-shirts and the soft, cotton white panties all the omegas always wore. You whine again, gnawing on his wrist for real now, and a big paw of a hand comes up to wrap around your hip, stilling your wriggling. You feel him lean closer, burying his face in the back of your hair, groaning, hot bullish breath fanning across your nape. He rumbles deep and it only makes you feel worse, more desperate, more hungry for that thing you don’t know how to ask for. You want to cry his name, beg him, but your tongue feels fat and swollen inside your mouth, too full of blazing heat to form actual words. He just has to know, he just has to be able to tell.

“I know,” he mumbles against your nape, nosing around to your ear where he presses his mouth. “I know, it’s alright.” You gurgle again, pulling his wide palm to cover your face completely, nuzzling against his rough palm, muffling your pathetic animal sounds of supplication. It’s okay, it’s okay, you can hear him murmuring and you’re not sure who the words are for, but you feel certain they’re not for you. He’s scared, you know this. Between all the things you’re so uncertain of, this you’re sure of. He’s afraid, and it’s your job to reassure him, to show him how well it will all be once the two of you come together.

You push your face harder into his palm, and you feel him hook his fingers into the elastic of your panties, tugging the soft fabric wide, tugging them down your legs, and there’s that same need, yes, that comet bright glowing heat, but also, and something you can recognize as more your usual self, a desperate sort of shyness. Something coming unraveled and unspooled for the whole world, him, to see. You can feel the slick uncoveredness at the apex of your thighs, running down your legs, a blossom of heat and vulnerability there at that place, the core of you, and it doesn’t feel shameful, necessarily, but painfully exposed. Your softest place bared for him to see. And yet, alongside that, the knowledge that this soft place is only for him, that you only ever want it to be for him, and so this can, again, be nothing but right.

“Look at all this slick you’ve made for me, what a sweet girl you are.” There’s such reassurance in the timber of his voice, it makes the heat change, something swirling but steady, constant. You spread your own palm against the back of his hand covering your face, line your fingers along the backs of his, little and big, matched alongside each other, and you press his fingers against your forehead, squishing your nose against his palm, Hiding there in the cup of his hand from the whole world and him, waiting for this truth of yourself to finally be revealed to you.

His palm strokes along your bare thigh, I know, I know, he keeps saying, and they’d told you all that your alphas would know, that they’d show you, and there’s reassurance in this, that some part of what’s happening is unfolding as they said it would. It makes you feel not so small, not so untried and naive. You try and lay as still as possible, willing the flames into patience, breathing in your own hot breath from the cup of his palm. I know it hurts, we’ll make it better, I promise. He shifts behind you, the rustling of fabric, and then his hand on your bottom again, moving in a slow circular motion, steady and reassuring. He moves to your leg again, lifts it and then something hot and hard and big, coming to rest on your inner thigh, and he lets your leg down, starts the soothing rub of your bottom again.

“We’re gonna go so slow, alright. Only a little at a time and not the whole thing today. We gotta wait for your heat to settle in all the way, time it all right so that my rut doesn’t start before you’re ready to take me. How does that sound, sweetheart?” But your tongue is still fat, your words still jumbled and missing, and all you really want to ask is if he’s changed his mind now, if he’s finally decided he wants you, and you think you’re crying, sipping salt water from the palm of his hand. “I know I wasn’t how you needed me yesterday, and I’m sorry for that.” He presses his forehead against the back of your shoulder, hand sliding up your hip to your waist, dragging his shirt along as he goes, uncovering you for himself. And you feel so intensely, that you belong to him, and you can’t understand how he could have ever not felt the same way.

You hitch an agonized little sob, muffled by his hand, and he rolls slightly so you’re half draped atop his chest, his palm rubbing soothing circles low on your belly now. And forcing you out of your hiding place, he pulls your face back to look at him, gripped around your jaw. His face is very serene, and this settles you, makes the words he’s saying clearer, more meaningful. “Can you hear me silly thing, or can all you think about is taking a cock right now?” You scrunch your nose at him, you know that word, it’s his hard thing between your legs.

“It’s so heavy, alpha,” you sniffle, feeling the weight of it pressing against you there.

He nods, warm look in his eyes that crease at the edges. “That’s how it’s going to feel inside you, baby.”

“The knot?” A seedling blooms again, this one very different now, full of hope once more. You realize you’ve found your missing words.

He shakes his head, not yet, and drags his palm up the inside of your thigh, squeezing and kneading as he goes, and you want to complain that he moves so slow, that he needs to do something else, you don’t know what, but something. You want to click your teeth at him, bite him again, anything to make him go.

And then: “Drippy little girl,” and he’s finally there and a moan that’s almost a scream because he’s cupping a place that is so unbearably sensitive and raw and full of heat and wet like you’d never known was possible.

Oh, oh, ah, ah, ah. “It’s alright,” he says, rubbing gently back and forth, a slick sound that is loud and embarrassing coming from between your legs. “It’s alright. This’ll help for now. We won’t go inside.” And he grips the heavy thing, his cock, in his own palm that’s all slick from your leaking and presses it against you. He rolls over completely now, shifting higher in the bed so that you’re sitting full on top of him, back to chest, bum to belly, and he spreads your thighs wide with his other hand, pulling your shirt up to bare all your nakedness for him to see. You wonder if he can also see all that burning shyness you’re suddenly so chock full of.

“Look at these pretty little tits,” he murmurs, cupping one small morsel in his palm, squeezing so that you’re arching against him, mouth agape like a fish, trying to find sounds that seem to have suddenly gone missing once again. “That’s right, I know.” He moves to the other one, squeezes and pinches and shakes it so that it jiggles in the cup of his hand. All the while he strokes his cock between your legs, pulling his hips back every so often so that it slides against you, coating it in all that wet slick you’re spilling for him.

You look down at the place where it juts out between your thighs, and it’s so big. Dark and angry looking at the end, thick and covered in veins that make it look even angrier and about to burst. You ask him if it hurts him, and he laughs a little and says it isn’t anything you can’t fix which makes you seven different shades of pleased.

The hand at your breasts moves up to your face again, and he turns your head, searching for your eyes. “We started off badly yesterday, yes? But we’re gonna do better today. I promise.” He slides his hips back again and this time he presses harder against you, his hand flat against the underside of his cock so that the top is slicking all along you. Sensitive little cunt, he says when you tremble and shiver and keen, and that’s when you know that’s what it's called. Your cunt. That place that belongs to him, that you want to give him so badly, that you want him to want so badly but that you barely even know yourself. No more experience than the greedy, frantic digging at the soft, hot flesh beneath your hand in moments when everything had felt too tight and needy to do anything else.

“Gonna break you in so well, baby. Gonna teach you how to come, how to fuck, how to take a knot.” And now the wide head presses against you, against a place that is so, so incredibly sensitive it almost hurts. You suck in a sharp gasp, trying to jerk away from the hurt, but he holds you in place against him, presses again, yeah, I know, yeah I know, like he’s trying to put it inside you, and yes, you think that’s what it is, that’s what you need, even if it might hurt. “You’re gonna get everything you need jus’ from me,” and his words are slurred and dripping slacken from his tongue.

He starts to move faster, you think he’s swallowed the same stone of desperation you did, rough grunts and huffing pants, and “So fucking small, it’ll never fit.” Jesus fucking Christ. And on every slick slide forward that wide angry head of it, his cock, bumps the crest of your sex, catches at your hole. You watch it in shock as it presses in just a little, and it hurts and feels like you’re full of bubbles and everything is sticky and your tummy glows with heat.

“Your little cunt needs this,” he grunts, the head catches, he presses, presses, pulls away, you want to bite and scratch and demand he go all the way, and you’re nothing but a pounding heart and a clenching cunt and you want more, and when he slides again it notches full on at the tiny opening, he pauses, lets it rest there before he presses not even half a centimeter further, only giving you the wide stretch of it, letting your cunt flutter and grip around the very head.

“Look at that–” And he peers over your shoulder to look at what he’s doing to you. “Look at your tiny cunt stretching for me.”

You cry, trying to pull away, trying to shove yourself deeper, to take the whole of it like the greedy thing you are, but he holds you in place and lets you flutter and flutter and cry until something in your womb pulls tight, and with his fingers swirling at the apex of your sex, the little nub that is so sensitive it pulls a warbled, baying moan from your tongue, an ah, ah, ah, he gives you your first orgasm with him. A desperate thing, too much and not enough, and with his other hand he’s squeezing, shoving his fist along the rest of the length of his cock, pressing it hard where you meet, and then he’s feeding you a blazing heat, filling you with it, stirring your insides to flutter and shiver harder. Forcing you to cry and beg for more, “Please, please, please,” more.

“You’re not ready yet.”

And although you’re not entirely certain for what, you promise, “I am, I am, I can take it.” You know he’s supposed to put it all the way inside, that then, the knot will come. And although you’re unsure what it will specifically be like, what will become of you during or after, you know you’re ready to discover it all.

“Not yet.” And he’s grunting it through clenched teeth, his hips churning, spitting tip grinding at your hole, something hot and thick sliding wetly all over and between the two of you. “You’ll do as I say. Your little cunt needs this, needs me to be patient with her.”

He lets the slick weight of himself fall away from you, leaving you feeling stretched and bruised and all shivery on the inside, yet still hungry for more. And he pulls his hands along the slopes of you, leaving trails of sticky wet along your skin. The proof of all you are, invisible but tangible, with a taste and a smell and a feel.

You lay your head back on his shoulder, the heat swirls and simmers for now, and your cunt, your cunt, your cunt, you want to give it to him in full, it throbs and trembles against his slick cock. “I’ve never had a heat before,” you tell him although you know he knows. He probably knows everything there is to know about you, which, admittedly, is not much.

“That's alright.”

“It will come soon, yes?” You peer over your shoulder to look up at him, and he nods down at you, that warm, eye creased look on his face again. You like the sight of it so much.

“Will I go away from myself?”

“No,” he says gentle, “I won’t let you. I’ll keep you here with me. You have nothing to be anxious about.”

He rolls the two of you over, keeping you in the comfort of his embrace, and he’s huge and steaming and naked behind you. His hairy chest, his hairy legs all along the smooth and sensitive curves of you. And his thing, it’s still trapped between your thighs, heavy and sticky with your wet, and still kind of hard but not as much as before. You reach between your legs to touch it, and he jerks and hisses but lets you do as you please. Curious fingertips gently along the thick round end of it, down the long length to find two heavy and hot weights hanging lower.

“Where is the knot?” You ask uncertainly, shy with all the things you don’t know.

“Here,” and he grabs your hand, moving your fingers to the base of it where there’s an area of skin, of a different sort of texture, rougher, thicker, around the circumference of it. You prod gently at it, not understanding. “See, it’ll swell when it’s inside of you, and then we’ll stay connected for a time, and I’ll fill you, and that’ll help your heat. And after a while it’ll go down, until you need it again. Did they explain to you how it’ll happen?” His cock is thick between your thighs again, beneath your exploring fingers. A little harder and bigger than it was before. His body, something like a wonderful miracle you need to know everything there is to know about it.

“Yes, but not– not all the way, I don’t think. They said you’d show me.” You turn back to look at him, searching for confirmation, reassurance, but instead ask: “Why did you change your mind?” And finally, of his own choosing, he grips you by the throat, and presses a small kiss to your mouth. The greatest victory of the day, and it’s only just begun.

“It’s exhausting, not letting yourself have what you need.” Need, not want. He shifts over you, coming up on his elbow and rolling you so that you’re on your back and looking up at him. You bring your fingers up to explore along his face: the hooked nose, soft mouth, heart brandished beard. He sighs that bull sigh, and you giggle as it tickles your throat and cheeks. Need, not want. That stings. “Fighting against what you are constantly– and you reminded me that we still have control in what we are. That there’s still choice in this, decidin’ to be what we are without resenting it. And we need each other, after all.” Need, not want.

“I don’t think you need me.”

“No?”

“No.” The truth that you very much feel like you need him, you keep to yourself. And anyways, he knows. You know he knows.

“M’thinkin’ I didn’t know I did. Or couldn’t say it out loud.” And he mimics your exploring fingers: thumb against the fan of your lashes, up the slope of your cheekbone, prying your mouth open to catch the edge of your bottom teeth and look inside. There’s a warm look in his eyes, like he’s pleased with you, like you’ve done a good job. “Think I’m realizin’ how wrong I was. How I want this all too.”

Want, not need.

He bends his head and kisses your mouth, kisses your breast, shows you how much he wants it.

3. I Was a Child Once, I’m Not Any Longer

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bowieandqueen11 · 6 months

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Strawberry and Black Tea / Sanji Imagine

Request: for the fluffy sanji request-- maybe sanji and the reader end up sleeping in each other's rooms one night because its hard for them to sleep apart. reader gives sanji a good night kiss and he just falls into a lovesick puddle on the floor.

Something short and sweet because this idea is so so lovely, thank you anon!! :)

Warning: mentions of child abuse!

(I do not own One Piece or its characters, all rights go to creators. Gif credit goes @suuho.)

☆.。.:・°☆.。.:・°

It was the Iron Mask that had left Sanji with such a distaste for the dark.

Even now, lying tossing and turning in his bunk on the Going Merry, the dark starlight that creeped through the lone porthole seemed to do nothing but shroud his eyes in a long-suppressed misery. It reminded him far too much of home. Of his father. Of nights spent trembling in dank corners: nothing but the touch of flimsy cobwebs against his outreached hands, and the ratchet of his own voice cawing off the empty stone chamber to ease the frightened child.

Until his paranoid eyes couldn’t tell of the receding monstrous shadow shrivelling up the tower was the receding form of his father, or the unyielding loosening of shrill’s death fingers rasping uneasily across the stone wall by his cage, finally come to fulfil her promise to take him away.

She grew closer and closer, until her liripipe seemed to crow through the bars as she leant down through the shadows to kiss his forehead.

He started scrambling back desperately along the dirty dust, still too young and inexperienced with the true hardships of his life to try and face them head on. Instead he buried his head into his crossed arms, tried his hardest to calm his panting breath, closed his eyes and squeezed. It was the only way, he thought in that tumultuous moment, it was the only at he would be able to hold onto his sanity. To pretend it was you. To pretend it was you. To believe it was you.

A rat scurried out of a hole between cracked shackles, sniffing the air as it noticed Sanji cowering in the corner: the same boy who had showed the rodent such kindness only e weeks before, feeding it leftover scraps of his mother’s favourite crumble, trying his best to clear the dish before his father realised it was missing. The poor thing ran over to Sanji’s shoe, it’s tiny claws pinching into the forgotten prince’s skin as it raised its little body up closer to him. But to that child - oh, that poor child - it was like bony fingernails biting into his bone and extruding coarse chills straight to the bone.

She had come. The wrong person had come. So he did what any young child would do. He started screaming.

He screamed your name. He screamed for his ma, until the screams died, choked by the wails sticking in his throat. Then he whimpered, clawing at the metal screwed against his cheeks until his fingernails were left stunted, jagged, bloodied.

He thought about how alone he was, but realised quickly that wasn’t what made him so sad. He thought about you: how you would react, how heartbroken you would be when his father announced to the world that the young Prince has perished in a terrible accident. He imagined your tear streaked face as you would watch the faux funeral procession parade in a cheerful solemnity down past the main market and into the sea, stealing away into the alleyway and seeing how alone you were.

Most of all, he felt guilty. Guilty that this was all his fault. That he had proved his brothers right. He was weak. He had destroyed his mother. He had ruined you. He was weak. And so he crumpled into a ball, falling onto his side and allowing the sweet embrace of the shadows to lap over him.

His cries had quickly fallen into pitiful whimpers. Then quiet sobs, jolting his body forward in convulsions that had left him gasping for breath every few minutes or so, only broken by the almost angelic sound of the iron wrought door being shoved unsteadily open, and the pained whisper from the top of the stairs. ’Sanji? Sanji! Where the- ow- are you?!’

'Y/-Y/n?' He clambered to his knees, and shoved his arms desperately through the bars, as if he could levitate you down towards him. 'I'm here! I'm here - please! Y/n!' His little fists began to bang on the bars as he scraped up to lean on his knees. 'Help me - get me out, please! She's going to kill me!'

It took you less than thirty seconds to scale down the remaining steps, nearly flying chin first down into the dirt. You didn't care though: not when Sanji's fingernails sliced desperately into your skin and burrowed into the meat of your arm, tugging your forehead against the cool metal of his own. You did your best to cup his face between the clunky mask, pressing your fingers down to his neck and pulling him even closer to you. 'It's alright - it's alright. I'm here. I'm going to get you out of here, Sanj. We're going to run, we're going to get away.'

He refused to let you go, even as you bit your lower lip in concentration and wiggled into your pocket to pull out a stash of bobby pins you had pilfered from Vinsmoke Reiju when you had slipped into the castle. Poor Sanji nearly flies backwards onto his behind when you finally manage to click the locked gate open, yet the realisation hardly seems to dawn on him; he's leapt on you in a second flat, knees knocking the wind out of your stomach as he tumbles his torso against your awaiting hug.

'You came', he heaved out between sobs, shoving his grimacing face into the throbbing pulse point on your neck, 'you came back for me... why would you come back for me.'

The absolute dejection in the final warble of his desperate plea made you bite down on your tongue so harshly, you had to shove it against the roof of your mouth for a moment to stop yourself from spluttering on blood. 'Because, Sanj... because you're my best friend. And I love you. And we made a promise, didn't we? We're going to go find the All Blue, but we're only going to do it together. Not one without the other, right?'

He head bobs quickly, desperately. Shaking fingers latch tighter into your back, and although he wants nothing more than to grab onto your fingers and fly to freedom up that winding staircase, he slides his legs to the side and comes to sit awkwardly on your lap like a frail bird. The soft tip of his nose tickles the shell of your ear as he whispers: 'like black tea and strawberry?'

You snort, but nod your head against the side of his curls, tightening your grip around the shaking expanse of his spine. 'Yes chef, like black tea and strawberry. Even though that sounds absolutely disgusting.' His laugh- god, his laugh was so warming, even if the sound cracks, hoarse and low as his face balls up. What was less welcome, though, were the few pearly tears that slipped past the cracks slats covering his eyes and began to trace down an old bruised hollow that lay sharp and gaunt on his neck.

'I'm sorry- I'm sorry, I'm sorry I'm sorry-', he starts to panic again, one eye blinking open as he stares into the inky depths of the umbral shade gathering over your heads. 'This is my fault. It's my fault we have to leave.'

'No.' You grab onto his shirt, nearly making him wince, but both of you refuse to unlatch from the other. 'No. This is not your fault. This will never be your fault, and I don't want you to think that for a second.'

The authoritativeness behind your shaking words was almost enough to make him believe you.

He nods slowly, but you can tell he's doing it just to placate you. 'I love you too, by the way', he sniffles, finally leaning back enough so he could wipe what he deemed as an unsightly amount of snot away from his nose. More than you know. More than he could even put into words. More than his young, frightful heart could even yet understand. He's too bashful to look you in the eye, instead skimming his eyes quickly over the torn threads of his kneecap, but finally allowing himself a respite of calm in the knowledge that the love he had been so desperately begging for hadn't abandoned him.

Before the adrenaline could rush out of his body, he leant forward with his head still bowed, and kissed your cheek as best he could in the darkness.

You hadn't left him. You hadn't: you never would. The revelation seems to shift the world around him, coaxing him into believing the sweet twilight sleeting across his eyes was sunlight instead; even though he still felt like his life was spent as a coin flipping through the air, so unsure of where it will land - of where it belongs - of the choices it will wrought, it felt a little easier afterwards, knowing he would eventually land. That it was your hand that would catch him.

He still hated the dark. And he still loved you more than life itself. Which is why you weren't surprised to find yourself running around your room at nearly one in the morning, trying your best to discreetly gather your bed sheets and sneak off towards the boy's cabin.

Before you could even finish gathering your pillow into your arms, the melodic rapt of Sanji's knuckles had rung out through the door. It took you less than thirty seconds to slide across the planks and fling it open, but it took the poor chef a lot longer to catch his breath and try to look more put together; he was doing his best to look suave by the way he was leaning his elbow against the doorframe, but the wind swept hair gave away the fact that he had come running over the side of the ship to get to you. The soft pant of his breath, the ruddy cheeks, the slight spasm of his abdominal muscles through his half-unbuttoned dress shirt, the scratch of his teeth against his inner lip line: you knew his tell-tale sings, his idiosyncrasies far too well. The man was flustered beyond belief, even if he did his best to cock his head and beam down at you.

What really gave it away - what really, really gave it away, though, was the fact that he literally had to clasp his hands together in front of his chest and wring them to stop them launching forward and grabbing onto you with the cloying, overwhelming power of eight octopus tentacles.

You almost have to shove your hand against your mouth to stifle your laugh at the way he flicked his head back to move the hair away from his eye: to anyone else, it would have seemed like an innocent tick. But he knew, and more importantly you knew too, that it was just so his glistening eyes could wander across your face, as if the lines and marks of your face mapped out the most beautiful treasure in all the seas.

'Well, my strawberry, I hope I didn't wake you from your beauty sleep. Not that you need it! But I, I was hoping, if you were to grace me with such luck, that I may come in-'

Before he can even finish, you've grabbed the knot of his tie and have hauled him across the door line like a fisherman reeling in his hook. Sanji goes flying, landing safely in your open arms, and flopping his back down pleasantly into your hammock. Sanji's eyes widen as he comes sliding down the material towards you, headfirst, stopped only when his chest does the job for him. His arms thump clumsily around your back, using his fall as an excuse to pull you as physically close to him as he can. He huddles up against you, his hand spreading across your shoulder blade and guiding your ear down to rest comfortably just above his right pec. You flush, pretending you don't feel the firm ripple of his tense muscle: don't hear the pounding shudder of his tell-tale heart.

'I'll take that as a yes, ma chérie.'

Distracted by the way your arm falls around his stomach, idly reaching up to curl back the stray edges of his fringe behind the corner of his eye again, his legs inch closer... and closer... and closer... until his left one has plunked down above your own. You have to bury your head into his neck to stop yourself from laughing at how incarnadine his face spreads, warm pink waves radiating off his cheeks as you lift up your knees and slide your free leg in between the heavy weight of his thighs. Bless his heart, it must have taken some exertion to hold it the way he did, making sure not to place his full weight on you, but just enough that the contact was physically there.

'You know', Sanji starts, once he has calmed his heart from beating so rapidly he feared it may have flopped out through his throat, 'Zeff used to give me a kiss goodnight.'

You lift your head to stare at him incredulously. 'No he didn't. I was there for only... uh...', you lift the arm hanging over the soft skin of his bellybutton to ostentatiously count on your fingers, waving them in front of his face. 'Hm, look at that - fifteen years!?'

He leans his head down until his chin is tucked into his neck, and does his best to try and hide the way his lips are warbling into a grin; he tries to play it off as him finding your antics amusing, as he strokes his fingers tenderly over the warm cotton on your shoulder, but inside he's just so beyond giddy to know that you remembered. To know that you had been together so long. To know that after all this time, after all the two of you had been through, he would gladly dredge through the unspeakable caliginosity again, if it meant he could always arrive at this moment. If it meant, no matter what his life threw at him, he could spend every moment of it by your side.

Even if the shadows are juddering up the walls of the girl's cabin too: even if your stroking fingers can't mask the memories of death's sharp knuckles stretching out across the walls. Even if he were to land, right now, in the waves: if he were to capsize and drown, he would be happy. He would be happy, because it was your hand instead. Your hand.

Too timid still, too apprehensive to admit that which had been a heavy weight holding down the flight of his sweet heart, he hides his love behind canorous tease.

'Yeah, well, Zeff did it when he could be arsed. Which I’m pretty sure was never.'

You snort, and he delights at the sound that he had drawn out. His vice like grip on your side tightens, but you decide better than to tease him for the way he begins squirming himself against you. He finally settles properly on his side, the bridge of his nose so dangerously close to yours that you can feel the shallow warmth of his breath brush over your bottom lip.

'Well-', he starts, trying to distract himself from your proximity. He was failing horribly, of course, because his eyes kept falling down to stare blankly at the seam of your lips. 'This does sure beat sleeping on the dungeon floor, even if we do have to put up with Luffy's snoring.'

'Hm, the dungeon wasn't too bad. Cosy', you say teasingly, letting your finger dance down the shell of his ear, pointing the tip against the jut of his chin and lifting his gaze with a smirk.

'How'd you figure that, sweetheart?' The feel of your finger against his skin, no matter how miniscule the touch, was enough to make the fibres of his body burn with such a want that it almost scared him.

'Because... it was the first place you ever kissed me.'

Sanji starts, eyes widening as he feels his limbs turn to stone.

He can't hide in the shadows anymore. Now, he has to come into the light. Has to let himself be free.

'Yeah, well strawberry', he wets his bottom lip with a dart of his tongue, and folds himself further down the hammock so his knees are drawn warmly up against your own. The shaking of his torso is only overshadowed by the widening of his eyes, so full of deep wonder the dams might have burst and drowned you if he hadn't spent so years cautiously restraining himself. You draw a finger down the pulse point of his neck, and he feels that resolve weaken.

He feels like that frightened boy again, but he knows it has to be now. He knows he's been lucky to have had the luxury of borrowed time, but the bell has tolled: the bill has come due, and now he must admit the truth of his life - of his soul - of his heart, for he doesn't know when it will become too late.

He wanted to kiss you. God, he had wanted to kiss you so badly for fifteen years it hurt. Now, now he was going to create his own light: he was going to thrive, in spite of it all. He was going to allow that child to live. The cage was open. He was free. His choices were decided by nobody now but by his own ruling, his own compassion, and he had wasted far too many years training himself to be sceptical, precise, composed.

'... If you may be so kind as to permit it... I think this beautiful ship might end up being the second.' He leans his torso forward, and after a bashful burn flickers over his cheeks, he squeezes his eyes shut and plants a wet kiss against your cheek, just like he had done all those years before.

He suddenly becomes hyperaware of it all: of the closeness of your thigh against his own: slick, naked, vulnerable below your pyjama shorts. Your warm breath, inching closer and closer to his trembling mouth as he juts his head back to look warily at you, so afraid he's messed everything up.

But then you surprise him; you rush forward, overwhelming and crushing in the way your lips pliantly slide over his own, licking against the inside of his bottom lip as it drops open, breathlessly.

He had been waiting for this - over and over since the two of you were children. This thought - the idea that he would finally get here was the only thing that had kept him grounded. Kept him sane. And so he kissed you back: heartily, heavily, with a slipping mouth awaiting your tongue, and clawing fingers coming up to rapt into your cheeks as if you were something fleeting: as if he were still spinning in mid-air, waiting for the shadows to snuff the light out again.

When you finally find the strength, the resilience to pull away, neither of you seem to be able to muster the courage to just finally admit the truth you had both always known. Sanji, instead, looks youthfully shy as he tries to hide his wanting - god, so longing gaze behind his fringe once more, although his tongue can't help but prod against his bottom lip as if in disbelief.

'Like strawberry and black tea, right?', he finally asks against the side of your mouth, nudging his nose against your own and smiling fondly.

'Like strawberry and black tea.'

#one piece #sanji #sanji imagine #sanji x reader #one piece imagine #opla #vinsmoke sanji #vinsmoke sanji imagine #vinsmoke sanji x reader #opla imagine #sanji fluff #vinsmoke sanji fluff #one piece x reader

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hollowed-theory-hall · 23 days

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Harry was never really Dumbledore's man

So, in HBP Harry says himself:

“Well, it is clear to me that he has done a very good job on you,” said Scrimgeour, his eyes cold and hard behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dumbledore’s man through and through, aren’t you, Potter?” “Yeah, I am,” said Harry.

(HBP, 348)

But, I'm here to argue Harry actually has many many doubts and reservations about Dumbledore throughout all books (even HBP), and I find it interesting how Harry convinced the Wizarding world (and the readers) that he's Dumbledore's man when he isn't. Not really.

(Just makes me all the more annoyed at him calling his son Albus...)

I'm going to go through some examples of Harry showing his doubts about Dumbledore way before book 7. Because Harry is an abused, distrusting boy, and Dumbledore isn't actually an exception to that until very late into the books. And even when Harry chooses to trust Dumbledore's intentions, he never fully trusts his judgment.

“D’you think he meant you to do it?” said Ron. “Sending you your father’s cloak and everything?” “Well, ” Hermione exploded, “if he did — I mean to say that’s terrible — you could have been killed.” “No, it isn’t,” said Harry thoughtfully. “He’s a funny man, Dumbledore. I think he sort of wanted to give me a chance. I think he knows more or less everything that goes on here, you know. I reckon he had a pretty good idea we were going to try, and instead of stopping us, he just taught us enough to help. I don’t think it was an accident he let me find out how the mirror worked. It’s almost like he thought I had the right to face Voldemort if I could….”

(PS, 217)

This quote above is from the ending of Philosopher's Stone and the outlook Harry, Ron, and Hermione have on Dumbledore and his behavior is the same as seen in the later books. So I wanted to talk about each of them and how they see Dumbledore because this quote really sets the tone for the rest of the series.

Ron is doubtful and distrustful. The situation is odd, and he's clever, he analyzed the situation and came to a frightening conclusion — the whole ordeal seemed planned by Dumbledore. And Ron isn't scared of voicing this question.

Hermione, while not always a rule-follower, respects Dumbledore and his authority. A lot. So, she doesn't believe Dumbledore could've planned it as it would reflect badly on his character and authority. Hermione is a very loyal person, and once she decides she respects someone she is willfully blind to their flaws (we see it with her later in the series).

Harry, while he's clever enough to notice the same things Ron did and come to the same conclusion — that Dumbledore planned for an 11-year-old to face Voldemort — he attributes good intentions to Dumbledore. Harry sees the situation and draws his conclusions, but chooses to hope/believe Dumbledore's intentions were good ones.

Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many others. . . . At last he forced himself to speak. “You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred. “Not what?” snapped Riddle. “Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days —” The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look. “Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!” he hissed. “He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true —

(CoS, 282)

This is one of the scenes people call to to show how much faith Harry has in Dumbledore (even Dumbledore himself), the thing is, Harry says (in his mind) he's just saying things to try and scare Tom. To try and buy time, or unbalance Tom so he may have a chance at escape.

The important note is that Harry doesn't actually believe what he's saying to Tom. He's just saying what he thinks would bother Tom the most.

Harry had never shared this piece of information with anybody. He was very fond of his wand, and as far as he was concerned its relation to Voldemort’s wand was something it couldn’t help — rather as he couldn’t help being related to Aunt Petunia. However, he really hoped that Mr. Ollivander wasn’t about to tell the room about it. He had a funny feeling Rita Skeeter’s Quick-Quotes Quill might just explode with excitement if he did.

(GoF, 310)

This part about telling no one about his wand's connection to Voldemort is true. He never told anyone by that point in GoF. Not Ron, not Hermione, not Dumbledore, not even Sirius.

As I mentioned above, Harry is abused and distrustful. He's not at all Dumbledore's perfect soldier who trusts him with everything. In GoF, Harry decides against telling Dumbledore about his dreams and the pain in his scar:

“Your scar hurt? Harry, that’s really serious. . . . Write to Professor Dumbledore! And I’ll go and check Common Magical Ailments and Afflictions. . . . Maybe there’s something in there about curse scars. . . .” Yes, that would be Hermione’s advice: Go straight to the headmaster of Hogwarts, and in the meantime, consult a book. [...] As for informing the headmaster, Harry had no idea where Dumbledore went during the summer holidays. He amused himself for a moment, picturing Dumbledore, with his long silver beard, fulllength wizard’s robes, and pointed hat, stretched out on a beach somewhere, rubbing suntan lotion onto his long crooked nose. Wherever Dumbledore was, though, Harry was sure that Hedwig would be able to find him; Harry’s owl had never yet failed to deliver a letter to anyone, even without an address. But what would he write? Dear Professor Dumbledore, Sorry to bother you, but my scar hurt this morning. Yours sincerely, Harry Potter. Even inside his head the words sounded stupid.

(GoF, 21)

Harry doesn't wish to share secrets with Dumbledore, nor does he feel comfortable to go to him with his troubles (his go-to adult while Sirius was around was always Sirius). Again, Hermione is mentioned as the one who trusts Dumbledore's authority, in Harry's head, but he's right, he knows her well.

Harry actually spends a good portion of the series purposefully trying to hide information from Dumbledore. (I'm saying 'trying ' because Dumbledore always found out, but not because Harry told him).

“He seemed to think it was best,” said Hermione rather breathlessly. “Dumbledore, I mean.” “Right,” said Harry. He noticed that her hands too bore the marks of Hedwig’s beak and found that he was not at all sorry. “I think he thought you were safest with the Muggles —” Ron began. “Yeah?” said Harry, raising his eyebrows. “Have either of you been attacked by dementors this summer?” “Well, no — but that’s why he’s had people from the Order of the Phoenix tailing you all the time -” Harry felt a great jolt in his guts as though he had just missed a step going downstairs. So everyone had known he was being followed except him. “Didn’t work that well, though, did it?” said Harry, doing his utmost to keep his voice even. “Had to look after myself after all, didn’t I?” “He was so angry,” said Hermione in an almost awestruck voice. “Dumbledore. We saw him. When he found out Mundungus had left before his shift had ended. He was scary.” “Well, I’m glad he left,” Harry said coldly. “If he hadn’t, I wouldn’t have done magic and Dumbledore would probably have left me at Privet Drive all summer.”

(OotP, 63)

Harry is angry here, true, but he doubts Dumbledore's idea of what's "safe" for him. He's actually glad for the dementors because he doubts Dumbledore would've brought him over if it wasn't an emergency.

And Harry is right to be doubtful and suspicious. He's right that he's less safe at the Dursleys than at Grimmauld Place. He's right to feel angry and betrayed at literally everyone knowing he's being followed except for him. He's right Dumbledore probably wouldn't have brought him if it wasn't for the dementor attack. Harry is correct in each and every one of his assessments of Dumbledore's character and decisions here.

“No,” said Harry, shaking his head. “It’s more like . . . his mood, I suppose. I’m just getting flashes of what mood he’s in. . . . Dumbledore said something like this was happening last year. . . . He said that when Voldemort was near me, or when he was feeling hatred, I could tell. Well, now I’m feeling it when he’s pleased too. . . .” There was a pause. The wind and rain lashed at the building. “You’ve got to tell someone,” said Ron. “I told Sirius last time.” “Well, tell him about this time!” “Can’t, can I?” said Harry grimly. “Umbridge is watching the owls and the fires, remember?” “Well then, Dumbledore —” “I’ve just told you, he already knows,” said Harry shortly, getting to his feet, taking his cloak off his peg, and swinging it around himself. “There’s no point telling him again.” Ron did up the fastening of his own cloak, watching Harry thoughtfully. “Dumbledore’d want to know,” he said. Harry shrugged. “C’mon . . . we’ve still got Silencing Charms to practice . . .”

(OotP, 382)

Remember I mentioned Harry hiding things from Dumbledore? This is one of such occasions. There are more in GoF that I didn't copy, but this is an example of Voldemort-related, dangerous information Harry is hiding from Dumbledore because he doesn't trust him and doesn't feel comfortable telling him things.

“It’s lessons with Snape that are making it worse,” said Harry flatly. “I’m getting sick of my scar hurting, and I’m getting bored walking down that corridor every night.” He rubbed his forehead angrily. “I just wish the door would open, I’m sick of standing staring at it —” “That’s not funny,” said Hermione sharply. “Dumbledore doesn’t want you to have dreams about that corridor at all, or he wouldn’t have asked Snape to teach you Occlumency. You’re just going to have to work a bit harder in your lessons.” “I am working!” said Harry, nettled. “You try it sometime, Snape trying to get inside your head, it’s not a bundle of laughs, you know!” “Maybe . . .” said Ron slowly. “Maybe what?” said Hermione rather snappishly. “Maybe it’s not Harry’s fault he can’t close his mind,” said Ron darkly. “What do you mean?” said Hermione. “Well, maybe Snape isn’t really trying to help Harry. . . .” Harry and Hermione stared at him. Ron looked darkly and meaningfully from one to the other. “Maybe,” he said again in a lower voice, “he’s actually trying to open Harry’s mind a bit wider . . . make it easier for You-Know —” “Shut up, Ron,” said Hermione angrily. “How many times have you suspected Snape, and when have you ever been right? Dumbledore trusts him, he works for the Order, that ought to be enough.” “He used to be a Death Eater,” said Ron stubbornly. “And we’ve never seen proof that he really swapped sides. . . .” “Dumbledore trusts him,” Hermione repeated. “And if we can’t trust Dumbledore, we can’t trust anyone.”

(OotP, 554)

Again we see the same exact dynamic from first year. Hermione is loyal to Dumbledore, not even considering he might be wrong about something, or not have their best interests at heart. Ron and Harry on the other hand, are both open to the possibility that things aren't so simple. They don't think Dumbledore is intentionally harming Harry, but they think he's wrong about Snape. Something Hermione, Arthur and Molly would never consider.

(This is actually the most annoying thing in Hermione's character for me, her unshakable faith in Dumbledore, who doesn't deserve her trust)

“. . . so you see what this means?” Harry finished at a gallop. “Dumbledore won’t be here tonight, so Malfoy’s going to have another clear shot at whatever he’s up to. No, listen to me!” he hissed angrily, as both Ron and Hermione showed every sign of interrupting. “I know it was Malfoy celebrating in the Room of Requirement. Here —” He shoved the Marauder’s Map into Hermione’s hands. “You’ve got to watch him and you’ve got to watch Snape too. Use anyone else who you can rustle up from the D.A., Hermione, those contact Galleons will still work, right? Dumbledore says he’s put extra protection in the school, but if Snape’s involved, he’ll know what Dumbledore’s protection is, and how to avoid it — but he won’t be expecting you lot to be on the watch, will he?” “Harry —” began Hermione, her eyes huge with fear.

(HBP, 552)

Even in book 6, the book Harry grows the most comfortable and trusting towards Dumbledore, even then, he doesn't trust Dumbledore. He thinks (and somewhat rightly so because he doesn't know of Snape and Dumbledore's plan) that Dumbledore is wrong about Snape. that Dumbledore is wrong about Malfoy. Harry doesn't trust that whatever protections Dumbledore would leave would be enough (and they weren't).

Even at the end of HBP, the point in the series where Harry has the most faith in Dumbledore, Harry still doesn't trust Dumbledore's judgment or his ability to protect the school. Even after Dumbledore calls Harry out on it, telling him the safety of the students is important to him, Harry still tells Ron and Hermione to get the DA to protect the school without notifying Dumbledore.

And Dumbledore raised Harry to feel responsible for the school's safety, Harry is doing what he was "bred" to do. But he does it behind Dumbledore's back, because like every adult, Harry deep down expects to be let down. After all, he's used to saving the school himself.

So, no, Harry never really trusted Dumbledore fully. At least, not Dumbledore's judgment. Harry does believe Dumbledore's intentions are good for the most part, even if ineffective.

“He never told me his sister was a Squib,” said Harry, without thinking, still cold inside. “And why on earth would he tell you?” screeched Muriel, swaying a little in her seat as she attempted to focus upon Harry [...] Where was saintly Albus while Ariana was locked in the cellar? Off being brilliant at Hogwarts, and never mind what was going on in his own house!” “What d’you mean, locked in the cellar?” asked Harry. “What is this?” Doge looked wretched. Auntie Muriel cackled again and answered Harry. [...] Numbly Harry thought of how the Dursleys had once shut him up, locked him away, kept him out of sight, all for the crime of being a wizard. Had Dumbledore’s sister suffered the same fate in reverse: imprisoned for her lack of magic? Had Dumbledore truly left her to her fate while he went off to Hogwarts to prove himself brilliant and talented?

(DH, 135-137)

And in Deathley Hollows, Harry is very quick to start questioning and doubting Dumbledore. Especially when compared to Hermione:

“Harry—” But he shook his head. Some inner certainty had crashed down inside him; it was exactly as he had felt after Ron left. He had trusted Dumbledore, believed him the embodiment of goodness and wisdom. All was ashes: How much more could he lose? Ron, Dumbledore, the phoenix wand . . . “Harry.” She seemed to have heard his thoughts. “Listen to me. It—it doesn’t make very nice reading—” “Yeah, you could say that—” “—but don’t forget, Harry this is Rita Skeeter writing.” “You did read that letter to Grindelwald, didn’t you?” “Yes, I—I did.” She hesitated, looking upset, cradling her tea in her cold hands.

(DH, 311)

Harry is hurt, he feels betrayed, because while he never 100% trusted Dumbledore's judgment, he trusted his intentions. He trusted Dumbledore was good and cared for him. He feels cold and betrayed, showing trust in his intentions. But his readiness to accept Skeeter's and Muriel's accusations so quickly shows he always had his doubts about Dumbledore and they never really left, even if he wanted to trust him, he never did, not fully.

Hermione, on the other hand, who was always loyal and trusted Dumbledore (both his intentions and judgment) 100%, tries to rationalize Dumbledore's actions and convince herself everyone who says bad things about him is lying.

Harry doesn't. Because out of the Golden Trio, Hermione was always Dumbledore's woman, Ron and Harry... not really. Not as much.

“That old berk,” muttered Aberforth, taking another swig of mead. “Thought the sun shone out of my brother’s every office, he did. Well, so did plenty of people, you three included, by the looks of it.” Harry kept quiet. He did not want to express the doubts and uncertainties about Dumbledore that had riddled him for months now. He had made his choice while he dug Dobby’s grave, he had decided to continue along the winding, dangerous path indicated for him by Albus Dumbledore, to accept that he had not been told everything that he wanted to know, but simply to trust. He had no desire to doubt again; he did not want to hear anything that would deflect him from his purpose. He met Aberforth’s gaze, which was so strikingly like his brothers’: The bright blue eyes gave the same impression that they were X-raying the object of their scrutiny, and Harry thought that Aberforth knew what he was thinking and despised him for it. “Professor Dumbledore cared about Harry, very much,” said Hermione in a low voice. “Did he now?” said Aberforth. “Funny thing how many of the people my brother cared about very much ended up in a worse state than if he’d left ’em well alone.”

(DH, 478)

More of how Harry thinks about Dumbledore, showing, again, how he always had his doubts and reservations but he chooses to trust Dumbledore's intentions because otherwise, he doesn't think he has any hope to defeat Voldemort. He chooses to keep following Dumbledore's path because he has no real choice but to trust what he sees as the only path that'll lead to Voldemort's destruction. But Harry has plenty of doubts about Dumbledore.

Hermione, on the other hand, has little to no doubts. She doesn't allow herself to doubt.

And this pattern, of Harry doubting Dumbledore again and again, never truly trusting him, just trusting his plan will kill Voldemort... like, how does that lead Harry to want to name his kid 'Albus'? I just don't get it...

TL;DR

Harry likes to say he's Dumbledore's man, but he always had his reservations, even when he choose to ignore them since trusting Dumbledore's plan felt like his only chance at survival. Hermione is much more trusting of Dumbledore than Harry is.

#harry potter #hp #harry potter thoughts #hp thoughts #harry potter meta #hp meta #hollowedtheory #hp theory #harry james potter #harry potter analysis #albus dumbledore

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theeoriginals · 5 months

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ok but what about werewolf!reader who is protective over tyler lockwood since mason died, and she's at senior prank night when klaus turns tyler. i imagine klaus being curious about her bc he hasn't seen or met her since she doesn't hang around elena & co. bc of what they did to mason. love u and thank you for blessing us with all these requests!!

i think i want you | klaus mikaelson

klaus mikaelson x reader (no y/n!)

author's notes; sorry this took a while!! holidays got the best of me and i've been so busy. i hope u like this!! go check out my klaus fic on wattpad for more content :) link on my masterlist

warnings; mentioned violence & death but nothing explicit. this is genuinely just a lot of fluff, and only a tiny bit of angst. I like writing klaus being straight up infatuated so enjoy

She’s heard of him. Klaus Mikaelson. Not only is he an Original, but he’s the worst of them. He’s a mystery, a myth of a man. The hybrid. The only one of his kind, and he’s trying to make more. He’s trying to become a god of his own making. He’s a terrifying beast, even in their world of monsters. He is the monster beneath your bed, he is the boogeyman that you see in the shadows of alleyways and glimpses out of the corner of your eye.

When she meets him for the first time, she expects something out of a fairytale, she supposes. It was unintentional, the image of him she had in her head, but she’s heard of this fabled man her whole life as a warning of what can happen if you grow lonely in this life.

She figured if she ever met Klaus Mikaelson, it’d be the first and only time. There weren’t many stories based on people’s personal interactions with him for a reason. If he bothered to pay you a personal visit and not just send one of his cronies out to deal with you, it probably meant you wouldn’t be seeing another day.

But instead of that, instead of meeting her demise at the hand of the infamous man for some offense she most likely didn’t even mean to do, she meets him in the high school gym in Mystic Falls, Virginia.

She meets him, and he’s just a man.

He’s a terrible man, no doubt, but just a man. She is perhaps wrongfully unafraid of him because of this. It most likely doesn’t bode well for her, because even though he looks just as human as the rest of them, she doesn’t doubt those stories about him are all real, and likely worse than the retellings.

But she was raised with a pack that taught her to be unafraid in the face of death, and even though she doesn’t have that pack anymore because of men just like Klaus Mikaelson, she wants Tyler to know the security and safety of it just as she had.

She does not flinch when he looks her way, and resists the urge to rip his head off of his shoulders when he snaps Tyler’s neck and puts Bonnie on a timer for finding a way to bring him back to life as a hybrid.

She knows she can’t win a fight against him, so she doesn’t fight back, not even as he forces Tyler to drink the doppelgänger’s blood and turns him into a hybrid. A half-dead, half-wolf thing that her pack would likely call him an abomination for. It’s a very dark, comforting thought to her that they aren’t around to condemn Tyler to the ends of the earth for something that was entirely out of his control.

She knows Tyler is frightened of her doing that, just by the way he looks at her. He learned from Mason and herself that there’s a sense of loyalty to their kind, and that vampires are an inherent enemy. Even his relationship with Caroline would be enough to get him shunned from most werewolf communities at this point. Though, even Mason himself didn’t take that into consideration considering his relationship with one of the doppelgängers.

After everything is said and done that night, she takes Tyler home without saying a single word to Klaus. Anything she wants to say will get her killed, and Tyler needs her more than ever now, so she can’t get ahead of herself.

Tyler sheds rare tears in the privacy of his home. He tells her he’s terrified right now because of the fact that a part of him is technically dead now, and that he’s never felt like a monster about being a werewolf until now.

She does her best to comfort him, but it doesn’t help much. She doesn’t know what he’s feeling right now and they both know it. If the circumstances were any different, she’d probably think he was the new enemy.

He falls asleep eventually and she leaves him be, heading to her temporary room in the Lockwood mansion. She falls asleep looking at the moon just outside her window, thinking about how she was just a little disappointed in the fact that Klaus Mikaelson is just a man.

──────

The next time she sees Klaus Mikaelson, it’s in the tea room in the Lockwood house. He somehow looks even more underwhelming in this place, despite its grandiosity. She doesn’t know why or when she’s going to stop feeling so disappointed in the fact that if she didn’t know any better, she could’ve walked past him on the street without even looking his way.

He’s there for Tyler, she knows, but Carol’s playing her role of oblivious hostess, and now she’s left to entertain him while Carol goes and handles a small, mayoral emergency.

Carol leaves them with a charming smile, winking her direction, and she ignores the older woman pointedly.

“I don’t think I got your name the other night at the school,” Klaus says, tilting his head as he looks at her. “I’m not usually so rude, but the stakes were high and I ran out of patience. You know how it is.”

She narrows her eyes, shaking her head a bit. “A thousand years old and you haven’t worked on your patience? Maybe your priorities are a little skewed,”

Klaus’s eyes flash with danger, but she swears she sees amusement in the smirk that pulls at his lips. It sparks that flint inside of her that likes to push and push, just to see the breaking point. She’d tried to deny it, but it only takes the smallest moment for that desire to set its sights on Klaus Mikaelson, even though pushing him could mean death. Her curiosity was a fatal flaw in itself, she knows.

“My only goal in life has been to break this curse,” He says, leaning forward to sit the cup of tea Carol had brought him on the table in between them, the only obstacle stopping him from lunging for her and snapping her neck before she could even blink. She wonders if he’s even aware of all the ways he could kill her, just by looking at her in this mundane setting. She doesn’t know if she actually wants an answer to that, though. “And now I’ve done that. I think a thousand years of this has proven I have nothing but patience.”

She hums, acknowledging the fact that he was right. She couldn’t imagine being in his shoes, waiting a thousand years to break a curse that kept you from being who you are. Even now, knowing that the Sun and the Moon curse was fabricated in order to help Klaus break the only curse– his curse– when it comes down to it, she can’t blame him for his insistence.

But she thinks about Tyler and how frightened he was, and she can’t stop the annoyance that builds in her all over again, so any bit of understanding washes away like sand beneath the rising tides.

She shrugs, unwilling to vocalize the depth of her understanding, as miniscule as it may be. “Still, choosing a hormonal teenage boy as your first hybrid probably wasn’t the smartest decision, wouldn’t you say?”

Klaus narrows his eyes at her and she stubbornly sits still, unwavering beneath his prolonged, burning stare. “You’re protective of him. I understand why you wouldn’t like me. But I’ve just made him the strongest creature he could ever be. He won’t need you, or any other pack he might have been clinging to before this.”

And this, she thinks, is the biggest indicator to why she’s not properly afraid of this man before her. It’s not just because he looks unfortunately normal, spare his admittedly beautiful face, or that he’s yet to truly focus any of his true capabilities of danger in her direction. It’s that, at the end of the day, Klaus Mikaelson is just as human as the rest of them are. Because no matter how long you live, or what kind of creature you are, everyone gets lonely.

“On the contrary,” She says, blinking slowly as she scans his face. “Tyler needs me now more than ever. And any pack would be lucky to have him around. That’s the whole point of a pack. You know that you’re never alone, no matter what happens.”

To a degree, she knows that’s a lie. There are plenty of packs out there that will banish Tyler and any other hybrid that is made in the coming months because of the rivalry between the creatures that the hybrids are made of. But she also knows that for every pack that will turn them away, there’s one that won’t. There’s always someone, even if it’s just one person, and she’s willing to be that person for Tyler, or for any other hybrid that goes through the loss of their pack.

“It’s a shame you’ve never known what that’s like,” She says, leaning forward to set her own cup of tea down, a mirror of his actions a moment ago. “Unwavering loyalty and trust, and a sense of family that never goes away. You may think that Tyler has no one, but I will always be here for him, just as I was his uncle.”

Something defensive passes through his face and he stands abruptly, making her tilt her head back to maintain eye contact with him.

Klaus leans down into her space, and they glare at each other with a surprising amount of vitriol that neither one of them feels is even genuine.

“You can cling to your idea of family all you want, but it won’t change the fact that Tyler isn’t just a werewolf anymore. And as much as you may want to deny it, you can’t help him anymore just like you couldn’t help his poor uncle,”

He stands upright again, looking at her almost accusingly. “But since it’s causing no harm to me, I suppose there’s no real reason to make you give up this desperate mission. I wish you the best of luck, dear, truly,”

He doesn’t wait for a response from her before he leaves, and after her initial anger and embarrassment wears off, she realizes he never even talked to Tyler like she assumed he came here to do in the first place.

──────

Mystic Falls has never felt like a smaller town. She’s never run into someone so many times when all she wants to do is avoid them.

It’s like all of the sudden, since that very first night she saw Klaus Mikaelson, he’s everywhere. He’s in Tyler’s house, because the newly-made hybrid suddenly worships him. He’s in her dreams. She can’t escape him.

Even now, sitting in a corner booth at the Mystic Grill, he’s suddenly there, sitting across from her like an old friend catching up for lunch.

Immediately, her face twists in disgust. “Klaus.”

He smiles in the face of her adversity, and says her name with a fondness of unknown origins. She almost feels insane, looking at him with any degree of civility.

“What do I owe this visit to?”

“I’m curious about something and I’m hoping you’ll humor me,”

“Interesting start,” She huffs, taking a sip of her drink beside her. “What on earth could you possibly be curious enough about that you have to ask me?”

“You, of course,”

She swallows roughly, nearly choking as she looks at him in surprise. “Me?”

The hybrid nods, smirking at her reaction.

“What… What do you want to know about me?”

He leans forward on the table, looking at her as she suddenly avoids his eyes, unwilling to admit that she’s feeling heat rise in her chest. “Why is it you aren’t banding together with those bumbling idiots to get rid of me, hm?”

“Oh,” She breathes out, face turning solemn for a moment as she looks down at the tabletop. “I don’t– I don’t have any reason to want to get rid of you, really. I don’t necessarily like you, but you haven’t hurt Tyler in any permanent way so… I guess I’m just not really worried about it.”

When she finally meets Klaus’s gaze again, there’s something shocked and unexpectedly warm in his blue eyes that makes her own soften.

“Is it really that simple?”

She falls silent for another moment, picking nonsensically at her nails. “They killed my friend.”

She looks back up at him, sighing. “Mason Lockwood. Tyler’s uncle. He came here because of Katherine– she was looking for the moonstone so she could break that stupid curse that you made up. And they killed him for it,” She shakes her head, anger seeping into her voice. “They’re irrational. And if I’ve learned anything about this life, it’s that being irrational gets people killed.”

Klaus hums lowly. “You are right about that.”

Heaving a heavy sigh, she looks up at him, eyes wide and pleading. “What do you want from me, Klaus? I’m not picking sides here– I’m going to protect Tyler until it kills me, and that’s all. So what do you want from me?”

He observes her for a moment and she doesn’t falter beneath his stare, if only out of spite.

“Perhaps,” He starts. “I just want to know you.”

Something fragile breaks on her face and she shows just a little bit more of that vulnerability to him in this new space between them. “What’s so interesting about me that Klaus Mikaelson wants to know me?”

His eyes search her face, lost. “I don’t know yet. I’m hoping you’ll let me find out,”

She lets out a breath, quiet, and admittedly flattered.

A smile pulls at her lips, bashful in a way she isn’t used to. She allows it to spread across her face and beneath Klaus’s gaze, she feels like a blooming rose being adored. It makes her feel things she’s nowhere near ready to admit to herself, or anyone else. “I think we can work something out.”

Klaus’s returning smile takes her breath away. It feels new, and wonderful.

#klaus mikaelson #elijah mikaelson #rebekah mikaelson #the vampire diaries #the vampire diaries fanfiction #kol mikaelson #the originals #fic recs #tvd klaus #klaus x reader #klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus mikaelson fanfiction #klaus mikaelson fanfic #damon salvatore #elena gilbert #tyler lockwood

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hyperfixat · 1 year

Text

Yandere Lucifer (the brothers are also here and in love but we aren’t terribly focused on them.) ABSOLUTELY NOT BETA READ ‼️

more under cut :p .. ~2.2k words

pt2

Lucifer who lets you in his office, on the clause that you don’t cause trouble or make too much noise. He lets you sit on the carpet, the hardwood floors, the chairs near the fireplace, and even the spot across from him. Such a powerful demon, with a weak spot for you.

So much goes into keeping you alive, even in the comfort of his office, he has to make sure he’s using enough magical energy to dampen and absorb curses from any vinyls he has spinning, so as to not melt your tiny human brain. He has to make sure you have water, keep the room at an adequate temperature, make sure he provides you with human safe snacks, but he can’t bring himself to mind.

Your presence calms the ache in his soul, his head, and his heart.

He’s so far gone into the pits of love, that he’d kill, torture, and slay for you. Even on a whim. Sure he had a pact with you, but you wouldn’t need to use it, he’d follow you wherever. A loyal dog is the Morningstar.

And you, you don’t even seem to realize the effect you have on him, his brothers, those worthy to be around you. It’s maddening, your naïvety. So many demons, hungry for your flesh and soul, but you just.

Everything about you drives him further into love, borderline obsession. You’re perfect. He barely has to do a thing and you look at him like he hung the stars in the sky. (He did create a few of them, but still). Don’t you understand he’d give you the world? Anything for you…

His fountain pen scratches away at the endless pile of documents on his desk. It never ends. Diavolo wants this, RAD needs that, there's another suit being filed against Mammon… it won’t end. It’s well into the evening, perhaps eleven pm, and you should be asleep by now, but he longs for you to pay him a visit.

He could take a break, a tiny one, head down to your room, where you would surely be, tucked into your bed with one (or more) of his brothers snoring on top of you.

A sigh rips through him.

No, he should just get this work done, then he can rest (hopefully) and see you in a few hours at breakfast.

Mammon, a pest, a loveable pest, but still a pest, had hidden away two weeks worth of bills, ie a lot. Lucifer will not be getting sleep tonight.

“Ah, forgive me,” Lucifer says as he yawns. “I’m afraid I had a rather long night.”

Lucifer, third most powerful denizen of the Devildom, holds a lot of power. At times it has frightened you, how close his slips in emotional control have led you far too near your grave. But more often than not it lulls you into safety.

Your first year in the Devildom, your relationship with Lucifer was quite rocky, seeing as your insubordination was not welcomed, and you pried apart doors that should not be opened, but he managed to fall for you anyway. All your silly, human flaws and quirks melt into oblivion in Pride’s gaze.

It slipped beyond his notice as to when his attachment to you went too far. Lucifer won’t complain, can’t bring himself to even care that he’s so deeply infatuated with you. You do so much for him, his family.

The night you formed your pact and the time spent after, holding you close, keeping your small human body up against his own. It burned a permanent spot in his memory, a figure as large and grand as the Taj Mahal.

Lucifer is far from dumb, his brothers fell for you far before he did, Mammon, Leviathan, Beelzebub, Asmodeus, Satan, he can’t pin down where Belphegor grew to love you, but it’s clear he does.

“Is there anything I can help with?” And there it is. You’re so heart achingly kind, to him, to demons. A smile graces his face before falling.

“No, thank you, little one. I appreciate the offer. I should finish up in an hour or so.”

You hum thoughtfully and press a kiss into his hair. “Goodnight, Lucy. Sleep well.”

And how can he not, with you snuggled into his bed, safe. It will always give him an easy rest when you’re with him, because no harm can fall upon you as long as Lucifer is there.

And so, as another year comes to a close and your term at RAD comes to an end, he realizes that he wouldn’t live if he let you go. He needs you to breathe, to function.

It’s silly, more than a little silly, but the ache in his chest that caves deeper and deeper every mommy you’re away will collapse if he can’t hold you, can’t kiss you goodnight, can’t taste the horribly bitter coffee you brew. The Avatar of Pride needs you to feel whole.

The Demon Brothers (New) (7)

Lucifer: Everyone, come to my office after today’s classes end, important discussion.

Mammon: Everyone?!

Levi: Are we in trouble?

Levi: 😨

Asmo: Group Orgy?!!? ☺️

Lucifer: No. It concerns MC, by the way. So tardiness is not acceptable.

Belphie: Are they okay?

Levi: asmo stfu

Beel: Did something happen?

Mammon: 😮

Lucifer: No.

— end discussion.

“We all care deeply for MC. And with your help I have a plan to let them stay with us forever.”

Lucifer does what he does best, justifies his actions. Clearly Mammon keeps his spending under control much better with you around, and Asmodeus won’t bring unsolicited visitors into the House of Lamentation anymore. Satan’s never been harder to deal with than when you’re away, so really, he needs to keep you around. They need to keep you around.

Lucifer doesn’t keep many secrets from Lord Diavolo. This situation is complicated. Diavolo won’t want the Celestial Realm to see you as a hostage, that’d be an act of war, no doubt. But. Lucifer is confident in his brothers and his ability to convince you to stay.

Keeping you under the radar, away from the Prince, will be hard. Harder than locking Belphie away, because his brother knew he was a prisoner. He doesn’t want you to feel like you don’t have a choice.

It isn’t the first time Lucifer discovered a brother with blood stained clothes and a feral look in their eyes. The frequency of these discoveries have increased exponentially. Mammon and Satan were the obvious offenders, but each and everyone of them have sulked home after a kill since MC has arrived.

It’s an odd sense of vigilantism. In a way. Anyone who dares look at you wrong could face the force of an Avatar.

If they were anyone but the Avatars that they are, surely they’d be prison bound, but being powerful and near worshiped has its perks.

The picture in front of him paints him thick with panic, and anxiety. Mammon is covered in blood. The fear isn’t for his brother, it’s for you. You’ve seen them with evidence of their true nature, humans don’t like that.

Mammon’s ruined everything, but a bitter strike of envy runs through Lucifer when he realizes what you’re doing. Cleaning him up, placing a cutesy human bandage on the single scratch Mammon obtained in his fit.

Lucifer bristles quietly.

“What is this?” His voice makes both of you jump, and you gasp quietly.

“Uh, I, uhm, I fell.” Mammon makes a poor excuse as he takes you into his wingspan protectively. You stumble into his younger brother’s chest and he scoffs.

“Sure.” Lucifer bites sarcastically. “MC, why don’t you tell me what’s going on.” He knows he has you cornered and the smug look on his face proves it. When you hesitate and look to Mammon, he quirks an eyebrow.

“He, uh,” you look back at Mammon. “Hhgh. I’m not supposed to tell you.”

“Mammon.” Lucifer harshly directs his emotions.

“Agh, they’ve been cleaning me up when I go out, I didn’t mean for them to know, big bro! They just kinda saw me all bloody and started doing it, this.”

“He told me you’d be upset if you knew I saw him like this, but I don’t mind! I like taking care of your brothers.”

Lucifer watches you fiddle with the bandage wrapper in your hands and then at Mammon, holding you at the waist, looking like a kicked puppy.

“Do you even know what he was doing? What any of us do when we go out to return bloodied?” Lucifer raises himself high, a sharp glare in your direction. Even when you flinch slightly he doesn’t back down despite the ache of hurt he feels for your little human heart.

“Uh, I figured it wasn’t my place to ask.”

It takes Lucifer a moment to nod and dismiss himself with a simple, “very well.”

Lucifer

Lucifer: I am not upset with you, MC. I am upset that my brother has been taking advantage of your kindness.

Lucifer: You do know they’ve been killing humans and demons alike? All of them.

Lucifer: Don’t fret, you’ll always be safe with me.

MC: demons’ll be demons i suppose

MC: as long as i’m not the one dying 🤞

Lucifer: 🤨

First it was Mammon, then it was Belphie, then Asmo; Satan, Beelzebub, and Leviathan. He didn’t need you to take care of him, of course not. Lucifer aches for his touch, a traitor to his pride, he wants you to pepper him with kisses and your cute band aids.

It’s rare Lucifer actually makes a kill, mostly because no one dares cross him or speak ill of his family while his ears may hear. A foolish middle class demon let slip a confession of his attraction to you while Lucifer passed.

Logically he knows that is an unreasonable reason to murder, but the part of his mind and soul filled with love infatuation desire wont listen to reason. Ice spikes his heart. No demon, angel, nor human should harbor such feelings for you. They will never live up to what he holds for you, what he could give to you.

And so, venom in his body, Lucifer strikes from shadow, a clean kill, not much to it. Then the memories of you patching his brothers flashes through his mind, and ugh, he knows he could get your undivided attention if he messes himself up just a little.

When you find him, bloodied, uniform absolutely darkened with drying blood, at your bedroom door, your jaw drops.

Finally, he gets the pleasure, the reward of your hands cleaning his face, his uniform, tending to him. It was worth the wait, the effort, the time. Perhaps he should find himself bloodied more often if it means having you like this.

While your soft human hands clean his face and freshly unbuttoned shirt he decides to tell you what he’s done. You deserve to know, and a part of him hopes you’ll be thankful. Although there is always the chance reality will sink into your mortal mind and you’ll realize what a monster the Morningstar truly is.

He hopes the latter doesn’t happen, he doesn’t want to hurt you.

As you place the final tiny kitten bandage on his face, and before you think fully about it, you press a gentle peck against his lips.

“Hm? Do you like seeing me kill for you?” He smiles against your lips and his hot breath leaks into your own. “You like having the Avatar of Pride avenge you?”

An embarrassing noise escapes you as Lucifer pulls away from your lips to kiss your hairline.

“There isn’t a thing in all the realms I wouldn’t do for you, you know that?”

You exhale against his chest, before breathing him in.

“Thank you, Lucifer.”

A low purring, perhaps growling, revs itself in his throat. Lucifer loves his little human, but he doesn’t like sharing them. If he proves himself better than his brothers, they’ll be all his. But their heart is so big, perhaps he’ll have to settle for being the favorite. The best.

He noses along the hollow of your neck, breathing you in, “I love you.” Lucifer feels the way your heart flutters beneath your skin and he’s near delirious with the scent of you filling his lungs.

You, you, you; your hands on his chest, his face, so gentle with him as if he is the fragile one. He’s possessed with the desire to claim you, to bite and mark you for his brothers to see that he is the right one for you, he is your favorite, your proper suitor.

Teeth strong enough to snap steel, ghost around your jugular and draw in a sharp gasp from you. But he refrains from blemishing your precious human skin. When his head is clearer (if it ever will be clearer around you), he’ll mark you so, so carefully.

Your hands tangling into the roots of his hair brings him back into the moment, and he reaches his head back to capture your lips. Yes, he’ll just have to do this again.

#verified hyperfixat post #obey me #obey me lucifer x mc #obey me lucifer x reader #obey me lucifer #lucifer x reader #lucifer obey me #yandere obey me shall we date #yandere obey me #yandere lucifer #obey me lucifer x you #rahh

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baby-beelzeburger · 1 year

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The brothers finding you asleep in their bed [Part Two]

➳ Summary: The brothers come home late to find MC sleeping in their bed. When asked, MC admits that they missed them while they were gone.

➳ Content info: MC is gender neutral.

➳ Characters: Leviathan and Satan

➳ Word Count: Leviathan- 2,047 // Satan- 1,444

Part one

Being an otaku was exhausting work. This, Leviathan knew well. But his hard work was worth it all as he walked through the empty halls of the House of Lamentation with a limited edition Ruri-chan figurine within his grasp. He had spent hours of the early morning, lined up with other super fans in order to get a chance to score such a precious item. There had only been a small amount of this special figurine. Not wanting to take any chances, Levi had set out the night before, eager to be as early as possible to the event. He had spent much too much time in the outside world, social battery drained just from having to spend so long packed in a line full of others. But at the end, it was worth it.

Despite his fatigue, excitement coarsed through his veins as he thought over all the places he could put this precious new addition to his collection. He knew she had to be front and center! She deserved no less. He wanted absolutely everyone to see this masterpiece! Not like... anyone really went into his room. But you did, and he just knew you were going to love her! So he had to make sure she was in a nice spot.

Just as he pictured the cute smile you’d give him when he was finally able to show off his new prize, he opened the door. His entire body felt like it was melting in relaxation at the sight of his room. He could already feel his energy meter beginning to fill again as he took a step inside, calming blue lights welcoming him in.

And then, he froze as movement from the corner of his eye drew his attention. Movement specifically coming from his bed. Upon closer look, he saw a lump underneath his covers where a lump should not be.

Frightened out of his mind, convinced some terrible creature had snuck it’s way into his room (after all, he had just played a new horror game the night before,) he hugged Ruri-chan tight to his chest. He took one more careful step into his room, craning his neck as far as it could go to see over the edge of the bathtub.

The lump moved again, and Levi jumped back in surprise. He yelped at the movement, only to hear a quiet voice mumble in response.

Wait. That sounded a little bit like.... MC?

Hah, no, that was silly. As if someone like you would ever want to sleep in the bed of someone like him. It was absolutely more likely that the scary monster from his game was under there, not you. He was completely imagining things.

Except, as his strained eyes continued to stare in fear, a head popped out from under the blankets. A head with a pretty face attached to it, a face that looked just like yours. and it looked incredibly adorable snuggled tightly in his bed. Your eyelids fluttered just a bit, showing him those gorgeous eyes he could get lost in forever. And then, he knew for sure.

You mumbled something incoherent, then your eyes slid back shut.

It was unmistakably you. He could never, ever forget your face! Or your voice, even when he couldn’t really understand what you were saying. And the monster from his game wasn’t a shapeshifter... so it really was you? But, why?

A lightbulb went off in Levi’s mind. This all must be a dream. The best dream of his life, for sure. It was the only way to explain how he managed to score such an incredibly rare item, and the only reason that the person of his dreams would be laying right there in his bed.

Levi stood there for a moment, taking it all in. If this was really a dream, then he wanted to soak it all in for as long as he could. He held Ruri-chan close to his chest. But even then, even as he wanted to revel in both parts of this increible dream, he couldn’t really take his eyes off of you.

That’s okay, he thought. This was enough to make him happy. He’d treasure the memory of your dream self snuggled up like this forever.

With a sigh and a firm nod to himself, he decided that he should wake up now. Enough relishing. Although, now that he thought about it, he never really checked if it was a dream. They say you can’t feel pain in your dreams, right? You’re supposed to pinch yourself to check. That’s what he’s heard, at least.

Leviathan tucked Ruri-chan underneath his arm- even if it was all a dream, he could never just drop her, or put her on the dirty ground!- and dug his nails into his flesh.

He yelped once again, this time in pain. He put his all into that pinch, convinced that it wouldn’t hurt. Now he had deep crescent shapes marked into his arm, irritated and beading with blood.

Wait... so was this honestly real? All of this? That meant that he really did get this awesome Ruri-chan figurine! Yes!

And, that meant that you were really sleeping in his bed...

WAIT, THAT MEANT THAT YOU WERE REALLY SLEEPING IN HIS BED!

Levi’s head shot up to look back at you, panic now erupting through him at the confirmation that this wasn’t all in his head.

Oh no, his head felt light. Was he about to faint?

Okay, okay, think Levi, He thought as he braced himself against the wall, This must be some trick of the mind. Lack of food, and water, and sleep. Yeah that’s it! Gotta be it. Don’t freak out.

But that wasn’t it. That became increasingly clear as you started to stir, the bright light shining in through the crack in the door becoming irriting to your sleeping mind.

He barely noticed at first that you started to return to reality. Not when your eyes started fluttering back open, fully awake this time. Not when you pushed the covers away from yourself and stretched out your arms with a little yawn. Only when you fully sat up to look at him from over the lip of the tub did he notice, and he jumped yet again.

You smiled a cute, lazy smile as you rubbed your tired eyes. Goodness, you even looked perfect straight out of bed, sleepy and a bit disheveled.

He started stuttering your name. It was all his brain could really muster in the moment. He couldn’t really think of anything other then you right then, and his panic was making him do a bad job of speaking.

You giggled. He felt mortified by the possibility that maybe you were laughing at him.

“Levi, you’re here. Welcome back.”

How could you be so casual about this!? You were sleeping in his bed! What are you even doing there!?

Wait, shit. Did he say that out loud? Why were you smirking like that?

“Mm... I just missed you is all.”

...WHAT!?

His heart was about to burst right out of his chest. You were literally about to kill him, did you even realize that!? You- you were trying to kill him, you must’ve been! This was an attempt on his life!

But completely oblivious to the hammering beats against his ribcage, you pointed towards Ruri-chan, still tucked underneath his arm.

“You got it!” You said, excitement in your voice.

That eased him up, just a bit. He knew you’d be excited...

All he could do was nod though, holding the box up in his hands for you to see.

“She’s so cute,” You said with another giggle, pulling yourself up and out of his bed. You stepped onto his cold floor, stretching out your legs this time, “I told you that you’d get her. Where are you going to put her?”

He felt happiness bloom across his chest, even in his anxiety-ridden state. This is why you were his best friend. You always engaged in his intrests and passions. You always cheered him on, even when no one else did.

Except... why did it feel so weird to call you just his friend? Especially after what he’d seen? That panging in his heart over seeing you in his bed... was that a normal thing to feel towards a friend?

Best friends sleep in each other’s beds when they miss each other, right?

Sure. This was normal.

Levi tried to take deep breaths to calm himself down, just like you’d taught him. This panic was over nothing. This was normal!

“I’m not sure yet. Do you maybe want to- um... do you wanna help me choose a spot?”

You nodded, even despite the fact that you looked so tired. Even through your fatigued eyes, you looked more then happy to help him.

The two of you spent the next few moments discussing which shelf she would look best on. You helped him rearrange some things to fit her in, treating each piece of his collection like a precious artifact. And that’s why you were the only person he’d let help him do this. Because he knew you were the only one he could trust to treat them- and by extention, him- with respect.

Once that task was completed, you both looked upon your work in triumph. She looked perfect there, the spot you chose was the best one in the room. He knew he could rely on your opinion.

After just a moment of observing, a yawn escaped your lips, drawing Levi’s attention back to you. You smiled sheepishly.

“I should probably head back to my room for the rest of the night. I’m still sleepy.”

“Right, uh... Sorry I woke you up.”

You laughed, shaking your head.

“No worries. Goodnight, Levi.”

“Night...”

His eyes never left you as you made your way to the door, trailing after you the entire time. He was thankful for it when you turned to look behind your shoulder as you reached the door. You sent him a wave. In a daze, he waved back. Then the door was shut, and you disappeared behind it.

Leviathan took a deep breath of relief, feeling the tension start to dissipate. With nothing left to do, now exhausted from both his excursion, and his panic of the evening, he begun his nightly routine to get ready for sleep.

Though, once it was time to get in bed, he hesitated. He wasn’t sure what he was so anxious of. Somehow, sleeping in the same spot that you once had felt strange. Wrong. Even when it was his own bed. Like you had blessed it with your pure pressence, and he would taint it the moment he touched it.

Eventually, the call of his soft blankets and pillows drew him in. And he was so glad it did.

It wasn’t until he rested his head onto the pillow that he realized his bedding smelled of you. The pillows he lined the tub with, the blankets, and sheets, all of it. The smell of you invaded his senses in the best way, and he felt his entire body ease.

You were so strange. You made him so nervous. You made him feel so tense, in an odd way that he didn’t understand. And yet, even the very thought of you, the very scent of you relaxed him. You were an enigma. A paradox. How could both things be true at once? It made no sense.

Despite this, he snuggled into his bed, into your scent, as much as possible. He felt so relaxed surrounded by you... so comforted. Almost like you were still there, laying next to him. Holding him in a gentle hug...

He shook his head, as if he could shake the thought right out of his brain. Maybe that was another thought for another day, as his swirling thoughts of you were starting to trouble him. He could think on it another time. Or he could avoid it, and loose himself in video games instead. It was a choice for future Leviathan to worry about.

One thing was true for certain, however. Levi got the most comforting sleep that night. More comforting then he’d had in a long time.

On days like this, Satan was rather greatful for the exsistence of libraries. Not only for the wealth of knowledge right as his fingertips, but for the silence they offered him in times of distress. A library was like a sancuary to him, where the chaos of the day could melt away, and the wrath that boiled just below his skin could be temporarily forgotten.

Just that morning, Satan had once again lost his temper towards Lucifer. Over what, he could hardly remember. But he remembered exploding, his words flying from his mouth a mile a minute. And what made it worse was that Lucifer had barely even reacted. He just kept this annoying, stoic expression on his face, and that only served to piss Satan off more.

That bastard really thought he was perfect, acting like nothing had any effect on him. But Satan yelling at him must’ve upset him! It must’ve!

Satan had ended up storming out of the house in his distress, warning everybody to not follow after. The library was where he retreated to, as usual. But even as nice as the stillness of it was, he couldn’t help but wonder why, for the first time, it felt so lonely.

It wasn’t until late at night that he dared return home, but even then he still felt tense. Asmo greeted him at the door, expressing worry but clearly treading carefully in case he was still in a bad mood. Satan made an attempt at assuring him otherwise, but he knew his dialogue still came off as stiff. Asmo left him alone rather quickly, at least reassured that Satan was back home, but not wanting to set him off again.

Satan took a deep breath, then sighed it out slowly. It was a long day, and he was looking forward to falling asleep in the comfort of his bed.

He made the trek up the stairs, thankful he had yet to come face to face with Lucifer again. Though he was calmed down considerably, he wasn’t sure if seeing the demon’s face would set him off once more. Better safe then sorry.

Satan’s jaw was still clenched, and his eyebrows still furrowed, but even with the tension still lingering in his body, it felt like it all melted away the moment he opened the door to his bedroom. There, laying in the bed right in front of him, was you. It was hard to miss, the way the stacks of books littering his room framed you perfectly. Not to mention the moonlight that filtered in through the window behind you, acting as a spotlight to you and your peaceful rest.

How precious, he thought as he stepped inside, closing the door as silently as possible. He skillfully stepped around the mess of books to get to you, and with each step the frustrations of the day became further and further away from his thoughts.

In your hands, he noticed a book hanging from limp fingertips. A book from his own collection, he believed. Seems as though you’d helped yourself as you waited for him. A luxury granted to you and you alone, so long as you were mindful of the cursed and forbidden tomes hidden amongst the piles.

He couldn’t help but smile as he slid the book from your grip and set it aside, sure to save your place with the bookmark on his bedside table so you could pick up where you left off later.

He shed his jacket, kicked off his shoes, then crawled in bed with you. He dare not touch you, not wanting to cross any unknown boundaries. But he laid there beside you, and that was enough. He felt so at ease just being next to you. He fell asleep in no time, thanking you for being his most effective stress relief.

In that moment, just before he was whisked away into a dreamless sleep, he felt so silly. Just that morning, he had been so caught up in his rage he had forgotten that you, too, were his sanctuary. Even more precious then any word on a page. Had he remembered that this is how wonderfully being in your pressence would go, he would have sought you out, not gone to some stupid library.

The last words to drift in his mind before his eyes slid closed for the remainder of the night were accompanied by a soft smile.

I’d be wise not to forget it again...

When he awoke the next morning it was to the sight of you, rather frazzled. It seemed as though you had become a lot closer in the night, you with your head on his chest and him, with his arms holding you with no soon intent to let go.

He released you the moment he had become aware of it however, not wanting to make you uncomfortable. You let out a relieved breath and scooted away just the smallest bit, but he still noticed your slight hesitation the moment before you parted from him.

He apologized, feeling bad that he had indeed crossed a boundary, despite his own wishes the night before. He supposed even in his sleeping moments, he wanted to be near you as much as possible.

You took it in stride, not worried or upset. Simply a little flustered to have woken up in such an unexpected way.

“I hope I didn’t have you caged in for too long,” He said, a grin forming on his lips. Now knowing that you weren’t upset, it meant that the situation was open for teasing. Of course, he was also keenly aware of the fact that he were the one to hold you in the first place. He was just as open for teasing as you.

“No, don’t worry. I woke up just before you did...”

He nodded, and a silence began to settle over you. Normally, Satan would enjoy the fact, not because he grew tired of you speaking, but because it was the state he found most peace in. Your times together were often like this. Silent, simply enjoying one another’s pressence.

He was rather aware of how... cat-like that was. Especially when you teased him so much for it.

However, in that moment, Satan had one more question on his mind. He would have to set aside that moment of silence for just a minute longer.

He called your name, softly. Your head rose to face him again, still flustered. Adorable.

“Not that I’m complaining at all, but why exactly are you here?” He wondered.

“Well, you weren’t answering my calls yesterday and I was really worried. And I... I...” Your voice trailed off, the rest of your sentence turning into mumbled words he could no longer understand.

He leaned in forward and asked, “Sorry, what was that?”

“I said I... I really missed you.”

Satan felt like his heart was suddenly soaring through the bright, starry Devildom sky.

Yet even with all these soft feelings swirling around his chest, he couldn’t help but show something else on the outside. A teasing, smug smile formed on his lips.

“Is that right?”

“I- I did! You left in such a hurry and I didn’t know when you were going to come back...”

He sighed, the smug smile falling from his lips. He found his hand raise to cup your chin, guiding your gaze upwards to meet his own. He hoped you could feel the sincerity within his eyes.

“I’m sorry I worried you, MC. I feared that if I responded to your calls then I would end up taking my anger out on you."

He really hadn’t meant to upset you. He hadn’t even been thinking that clearly. All he knew was that he needed to be alone, away from everything. To know he worried you in the process made him feel terrible. Never did he want to be the cause of your bad feelings.

Seemingly gaining some sort of courage, you gave him the meanest face you could muster. It wasn’t all that mean, nor that threatening. It was actually rather cute. Like a kitten, trying to prove that it was scary. He didn’t say that though, keeping in the adoring smile that threatened to grace his face.

“Well next time, you be sure to at least let me know where you’ve gone, got it?”

With a nod, Satan let his hand trail up from you chin to hold your cheek instead. Hid thumb brushed against your cheekbone, and your “mean” expression melted.

“Got it,” He agreed, his voice light. Warm, “Now, would you mind coming back over here? I’d like to spend a bit more time with you before I have to face Lucifer again.”

#obey me #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me leviathan x reader #obey me satan x reader #obey me!#omswd #obey me shall we date #om leviathan #om satan #om leviathan x reader #om satan x reader

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paperbackribs · 9 months

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Witch Steve

(working title)

next: Chapter 2: The Aftermath

So 👉👈 You were all so encouraging that I was inspired to write 14 chapters of Witch Steve. This will eventually be going up on Ao3, but while I'm finishing it up and re-editing I'll post the start of it all on Tumblr. Chapter content: steddie to come, platonic stobin, ~2K words.

Edit/Update: This is a 15 chapter fic. Ao3 here.

Chapter 1 The Sacrifice

Robin fiddles with the vodka bottle full of gasoline in her hands, “…in the face of the world ending, the stakes of my love life feel spectacularly low.”

She sighs, stuffing one of their rags into the mouth of the clear glass and completing their next Molotov cocktail. Steve watches the resignation on her face and thinks that if anyone deserves to have a moment of love and joy in the face of the world ending, it’s Robin.

It’s all of them, he reflects, looking out onto the grassy clearing.

The forest of trees behind Lucas and Erica reminds him of where they will be taking their battle to shortly. Vecna waiting in the Upside Down like a venomous spider in his web. Manipulating the troubled emotions and frightening visions of his victims, ready to break them in more than one way for his selfish desires.

Exuberant laughter draws his eyes over Nancy tailoring her weapon to Dustin as he dodges Eddie’s outstretched hands. Fondness rises within Steve like the warmth of rising bread. The fading sun frames the two boys as Eddie speaks earnestly into Dustin’s grinning face, the bond between them obvious even from here.

“Maybe it’s not the time for romance,” he admits, pensive as he watches Eddie tackle Dustin to the ground with a cackle. “But isn't love the most important thing when it is the end of the world.”

Robin knocks her knees amicably against his and he knows that this is her way of saying she loves him. He smiles back at her; he loves her too. He says it silently because he does, more than he can say at this moment. The words heavy and stuck at the back of his throat.

He wishes she could have had her moment with Vickie before they face the coming danger. The fragility of their situation leaves him with a disturbing feeling of unease churning in his gut.

It’s the fear of losing Robin that further feeds into Steve’s increasing sense of foreboding, making his teeth clench and nails dig into his palms. He has to Know, Steve decides; he needs to make sure there is hope for a later where love and romance can be indulged.

In the heart of the quiet afternoon, Steve allows the sounds of the boys roughhousing and Erica’s sharp, but not unkind, words to become muffled. While he relaxes his fists and Robin fades from his sight, Steve unfurls his uncanny gift to see into the murky depths of their futures. He hears a soft, haunting melody reaching out to him through the ethereal and a glimmering sheen covers his vision.

Like a weaver of fate, he gently unravels the white threads of destiny that intertwine around the lives of those he cherishes. Even Eddie, new to the party but just as entrenched in their fight, running scared; yet Steve thinks, just as courageously meeting the more experienced members toe to toe.

And it is only Eddie’s fate that gleams a terrible ox-blood red, a twisted tapestry of the future revealing a grim reality. Steve’s unease deepens as he Sees two roads diverging before Eddie, each leading to vastly different destinies.

One road, he is unsurprised to find, is golden bright and brilliant, full of joy, love, and friendship. This Eddie would be the guiding light for those he loves and who will love him just as fiercely as he holds them to his heart.

Steve swallows over the hard knot in his throat at the thought of all the beauty that is stolen if Eddie loses that path: because the other is shrouded in a terrible darkness.

If Eddie chooses this road, a jagged tear will be torn through the tapestry of too many lives. An unravelling thread that leads to the frayed fabric of its survivors in a way that Steve thinks the self-deprecating Eddie would never suspect.

Aside from family, only one other person knows Steve’s truth. Keeps his secret close to her breast, alongside twin confessions on a bathroom floor. Robin haltingly refusing Steve’s advances to favour Tammy Thompson and Steve blurting out that he comes from a long line of Witches. Taught at his nana’s knee and made to understand that this is something just as private to him as Robin understands her sexuality to be to her.

He watches Dustin’s wide smile, still innocent amongst a grim collection of dark moments, and Knows that this will be a turning point for his young friend. One in which Dustin lives a life spirited and mirthful or another irrecoverable scarred and linked to a critical event of grief and regret. A shiver runs down Steve’s spine and he decides he can’t stand idly by, watching as Eddie teeters on the precipice of these two divergent paths.

Drawing from long lessons of heritage and the power he and his kind hold, Steve decides on a potent action that will allow him to weave a new pattern.

---

Scarlet lightning roars in the darkness behind Eddie and Dustin as the boys wait for Steve, Robin and Nancy to depart and attack Vecna. The trailer behind the boys is tightly wrapped in the sinister vines of the Upside Down and the smell of sulphur rains down with the grey ash that coats the world in a bitter blanket. Steve watches the ghostly flakes drift onto the cloud of Eddie’s bound-back hair, and he knows that this is the moment that he readied for.

Steve reaches out to Eddie with his uncanny gift — a glass sphere, like a marble, is cradled innocently at the centre of his hand. It is as big as an apricot pit and strangely swirls with warm browns and flecks of gold, like the gentle play of sunlight flickering through to a forest floor. Steve holds his open palm out to Eddie, his hazel eyes filled with a heartfelt entreaty.

"Eddie," he asks softly, "take the marble and swallow it. Please, trust me."

Even in the short time that Steve has known Eddie, he gets that the other guy isn’t known for his impulse control. Despite this, he’s still somewhat surprised when Eddie, with no hesitation, takes the marble and swallows it down. Doe-eyed pools of warm brown look up at him through dark bangs.

“I do,” Eddie shrugs with a mysterious smile.

“What was that” Dustin shrieks, the faux military tags he had insisted on wearing jingling in agitation.

Robin stays silent behind him; Steve knows she’s holding her questions for later, having cottoned onto that he was up to something mystical when he’d hidden in the RV for a while. Only clasping his arm briefly in support when he had walked past, sweating and still pale.

Nancy though is just as surprised as Dustin and looks on at them suspiciously.

Eddie knocks an arm lightly into Dustin’s side, “I don’t know, but it tastes like hot chocolate. Warm,” he chuckles softly, “even comforting.” He turns questioning eyes back to Steve, “but, yeah, what was that?”

Steve feels how tight his smile is. “A little insurance.”

He talks to both of them, trying to instil them to obey by the force of his words alone. Knows that Dustin can be a stubborn little shit. “Just… if this goes south, I mean, at all. You abort.” But his focus turns, inevitably, to Eddie. “Don’t be a hero, man. Okay?”

A flash of emotion crosses Eddie’s face too quickly for Steve to understand before he slings an arm around Dustin’s skinny shoulders. “Of course, look at us. We are not heroes.” Under his hoodie and headband, Dustin grimaces in agreement.

The deep feeling of foreboding in his gut is untouched by their reassurance, but Steve doesn’t bother to unravel his Sight again. He’s done what he can and now he follows the girls to battle Vecna and maybe free them all from this nightmare once and for damn good.

As they travel through the dark forest, neither girl notices the small glowing pulse that Steve presses to each of them. The marks fade softly before the other can notice it. Transported by a light brush over Nancy’s tight shoulders and a firm squeeze of Robin’s sweaty hand in his.

The attack against Vecna is fierce but the three of them have never struck more certain or true. Steve with his axe, Robin and her cocktails, and Nancy with the shorn-off shotgun. Their attacks land every time and between their physical assault and Max’s diversion, something must go right because the world shudders once, then twice, but stays steady before Vecna screams harshly and his pale, grotesque body falls broken to floor. His web of terror finally shattered.

The rest of the decrepit house, vines and all, quickly catch from the blazing gasoline and the three stumble after each other, racing to the still-rancid outdoor air. But it’s air free of Vecna and that makes it all the sweeter.

With a whoop, Robin jumps into Steve’s waiting arms and breathlessly he swings her in joy. Resting his forehead on hers, he knows she can see every nuance of his relief, sensing him finally releasing the suffocating fear of the Upside Down. “This is it, Robin. I can feel it.” Steve exclaims.

Robin’s blue eyes, which sometimes can be so cynical for a person this young, gleam in belief. Belief in Steve and that he can See the truth of it all. She wraps her hands around his shoulders and is shaking in a combination of comfort and ebbing adrenalin. “Thank god,” she breathes.

“Let’s hope so,” Nancy interrupts. But she’s looking on at them with a small smile.

Steve knows it will take a long time for her to believe that it is true. And she doesn’t have the benefit of Steve’s Knowing as they do. But she’ll get there, he thinks. Much like it will take them all time to heal, they will. And the kids will bounce back, he thinks with faith. They’ve been made to be too resilient for children their age but he’s grateful for it, nonetheless.

It’s at the thought of Dustin that Steve remembers Eddie and those two paths he had seen; he urges the girls on, back to the uncanny version of the trailer park. Impatience sparking through to his fingertips.

They’ve not quite reached it yet when Steve hears the haunting cries of anguish that echo through the empty forest and roads of the Upside Down.

Dustin is hunched over the still-warm but devastatingly motionless body of his beloved Dungeon Master and friend. Bright red blood spills everywhere, coating Dustin's hands and across his face where he has smeared a hand over his cheeks. Eyes filled with tears and pain, Dustin looks up at Steve and cries out that the older boy had tried to save him.

“He said he didn’t run, Steve. But he did. He did. He ran to the demo-bats and they— they—"

Dustin starts hiccupping between tears and short, frantic breaths. He grabs at Eddie’s camouflage jacket, shaking the body as if it will jolt the older boy awake.

“Eddie!” Dustin cries. His voice, often bigger and louder than his short body would seem, breaks through the empty quiet of the Upside Down. No more swarming bats or jagged bolts of red lightning to distract from the palpable sense of grief saturating into their tired bodies. The only cruel answer is the flakes of ash gathering over Eddie’s unresponsive body like this terrible world is already trying to bury him away.

Steve’s heart is breaking, he feels the crack of it cleanly through his chest and in the thickening at the back of his throat and burning behind his eyes. But he is not powerless; this is exactly what he prepared for.

With a firm, yet gentle hand, Steve unlocks Dustin’s stiff fingers and shifts him into Nancy’s waiting embrace. She tries to turn him in her arms, but Dustin refuses to look away.

Nancy must think that Steve is going to quietly close the lids over Eddie’s blank eyes, which should be bright and expressive; eyes that were full of mischief just hours ago. Or that Steve will try to pick up the body and take it back with them, impossible as it seems in the moment, to think of carrying a heavy and limp weight vertically and against gravity where climbing through the Upside Down gates, with only their own bodies to support them, had been hard enough.

He’s not going to do any of those things, Steve thinks fiercely. He won’t need to.

With an unwavering determination, Steve drops to his knees and pushes his left hand down, through and deep into the realm of the mystical, until he finds an answering beat, a corresponding warmth. He pulls, straining with every ounce of physical and spiritual strength he possesses. A pearlescent light suddenly pushes out from Steve's link to Eddie, it pours unendingly into the dark landscape before pulsing sharply. The ethereal cuts precisely through the unclean atmosphere before rapidly shrinking back into the connection between the two boys.

Steve's own spirit is being drained, a live wire shooting up his arm and threading through every vein of his body in a white, blinding heat. But Steve knows that it is in this critical moment where he could lose his own body and soul, where the world hangs in the balance between life and death, that something miraculous can happen.

And it does.

Eddie draws a shuddering breath and his eyelids flutter open. His chest starts to rise even as his gaze looks unsteadily out into the living world once more.

“Steve?” he whispers hoarsely.

“I’ve got you, Eddie,” Steve murmurs, checking that the wounds are healing under the slick blood. His left arm is numb, but he uses the shaking right to examine Eddie’s torso where jagged gashes are rapidly closing over.

“It’s all right, we’ll get you help, you’re gonna be okay."

“No, Steve, your eyes…” Eddie lifts a shaking finger to touch Steve’s face, leaving a red fingerprint behind to mark Steve with the very essence of his mortal life.

Steve knows what he must see since this has worked. Because reality is not the same as when Eddie had closed his eyes for seemingly the last time. As Eddie returned from the brink of death, Steve now sees the world through one rich hazel eye, while the other will remain forever white and sightless, an eerie testament to the price paid to mend the shattered threads of destiny.

If you liked anything, please consider leaving a comment over on Ao3 :-) It would make my day!

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#witchsteve #steddie #platonic stobin #stobin #stranger things #steve harrington #eddie munson #robin buckley #dustin henderson #paperbackribs writing

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tashacee · 4 months

Note

hero's aspect wild still has mipha's grace, right?

i'm rereading the whole fic and i got to the bit where hyrule is sure he would've killed wild if he'd been there when they first saw him. and i thought-

well ok. what if he did. like they kill wild before sky can tell them what's really happening and everyone is horrified and then he. comes back to life. all's well that ends well! except the trauma i guess

OH MAN

Oh no!

(Oh Yes)

Aspects of a Terrible Mistake

They had messed up. They had messed up beyond messing up. ‘Messed up’ wasn’t even an appropriate word for how badly things had gone wrong.

Legend stared silently as Hyrule, sobbing, tried to pour his Life spell into a corpse. Beside him, Sky was paler than ash, his eyes wide and his lower lip trembling. Only a moment ago he had burst through the brush, panting, and shouted for them to stop, that this wasn’t a monster, it was a hero like them.

It was too late. Hyrule had shot true, his arrow going into one of the hero’s eyes and killing him instantly.

This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be real. It was a dream, a terrible nightmare, it-

Legend felt like the world was spinning without him. He couldn’t focus. He heard himself saying that he was going to get Time, knew distantly that he was moving through the forest towards their camp, but he was in a daze.

They’d killed a hero.

He didn’t know what he said to Time. He didn’t know what the old man said, just that his eye flew wide and he looked sick. The rest of the heroes - the heroes that hadn’t been part of the group that killed an innocent man - followed him to the river where the corpse was still lying prone and Hyrule was sobbing into his chest.

They eventually decided to give him a decent burial. It was the very least they could do. The new hero, whoever he was, was a big guy but Time could just about carry him back to camp.

They laid him out on a bedroll, as if he was only sleeping. It would take a while to dig a grave and they were determined to do this right, to clean the blood from his face and comb his hair before they buried him. They would take some of his jewellery, maybe his sword and that strange device on his hip so that they could give it to his own people if they ever went to his era.

Hyrule was still trembling as he removed the arrow from his eye and washed his face. Legend had no idea how the traveller, the sweet kind traveller, would ever forgive himself for shooting the killing shot. Legend had just been a part of the group that killed him and he felt wretched.

There was nothing he could think of to say.

Legend turned to see how the grave was getting on, and -

A gasp. The sound of someone stumbling backwards, and a whine.

Legend span around and screamed.

The dead man was no longer dead, and now was looking up at him with two wide, very frightened eyes.

What the f-

Link awoke with a gasp, his body aching and his head pounding. He had been dead a moment ago. He had been dead, he had been murdered and -

Oh Hylia, the boy who shot him was right beside him. Wild whined and tried to struggle away, but his limbs were heavy and numb after their temporary death. A few feet away someone screamed, a guy with pink hair who looked like he’d just seen a ghost. Which, yeah kinda.

But what the hell was going on?! He’d died in the river, but now he was in a glade, under a blanket. Were-

Were they planning to bury him? The killing boy looked like he’d been crying, what the hell was going on?!

Voices began to ring out as a group of more boys and men began to crowd around him, all looking shellshocked and disbelieving. Some, he recognised from the hunting party, others he did not. The largest of the group, a tattooed man with one eye, pushed his way through the crowd and knelt at link’s side.

“Everyone, give us some space. Sky, stay with me, help me explain.”

Link whined again, looking up at the tattooed man. Despite his intimidating figure he was looking down at him kindly. Link knew that he probably shouldn’t trust him, but he did.

Okay so this was all batshit crazy. According to one-eye - Time, his name was Time - they were all heroes from across time, all called link, and all drawn here by mysterious portals. Sounded like a lot of woo-woo bullshit to Link, but then Time’s friend, Sky, had let him hold his sword. The Master Sword.

Hylia, it was all true.

Call him crazy, but Link - Wild, he was now - didn’t hold a grudge. He’d died before, including by accident or at the hands of people who hadn’t realised it was him and not a monster. It was fine.

Well, it wasn’t fine, but Wild was forgiving and wanted to move on. Wanted to get to know his brothers.

It took a while. Weeks, really. He couldn’t communicate properly, couldn’t explain himself to them. Little by little, though, he broke down barriers between himself and the chain. The ones who hadn’t been in the hunt first, then one by one, the others.

Four. Warriors. Legend. Sky.

And then Hyrule. Much as Wild wanted to move on, it was hard to build a bridge with Hyrule.

He knew why the traveller had done what he did, probably would have done the same in his situation. Honestly, he was even pretty impressed by his shot!

But his subconscious was another matter. He got nervous around the traveller without any real reason, and Hyrule’s guilt was clearly affecting him too.

Then, one day on a hike the traveller had pulled out a bow as he turned to listen for monsters and Wild had jerked away on instinct. The look of shock and guilt and grief he then got from the traveller after that was horrible, and that night he found Hyrule’s bow snapped in half in a ditch.

In the end it was food that united them. Wild had seen Hyrule by the campfire and steeled himself, walking over and plopping down beside him.

Hyrule immediately made to move, to give wild space, but wild stopped him, putting a hand on his wrist. He rumbled softly, and offered his slate.

It took a while to get his meaning across, but eventually Hyrule understood that he was asking for food suggestions. The traveller would never be a great chef, but he could follow instructions and was genuinely excited to help.

It was the first time they had ever actually done something together and… it felt nice. Right. When they were done they had a damn good meal for the chain, and Wild ruffled Hyrule’s hair fondly. The traveller smiled shyly back up at him.

By the time they first made it to Wild’s world, the time Wild had be killed by Hyrule felt like a bad dream.

#it me #replies #hero’s aspect au #hero's aspect #whump #with a happy ending #my writing

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just-a-sleepy-idiot · 2 years

Text

The Grabber Drabble: Kidnapped Reader! Introducing him as your boyfriend when you see an old classmate

Content/Reader: Kidnapped Reader!, Gender neutral Reader, Pet names, Mean old classmate, Fluff

You didn’t act up, you played by the rules. Ever since he took you the Grabber could only be pleased with your behavior and that was why he eventually allowed you to go outside with him.

It was the first time you were outside after he had taken you along with your freedom, locked away in a basement with no way out without punishment waiting at the end of every option you might pursue.

So far he has never harmed you or even shown which intentions led to your kidnapping in the first place. He only ever presented himself as a mischievous and sometimes almost compassionate person.

The malice behind your imprisonment wasn’t reflected in any other aspects of his behavior, the only thing that suggested evil was the devilish mask he kept on wearing in front of you.

That was why you behaved.. at least until you found a safe way out. Earning enough trust to have room for an escape he wouldn’t see coming. As long as he didn’t harm you you could wait for that opportunity to arise.

Today was the first time you saw the light of day again outside of that small window way up there in the basement. You saw the world behind the light that would fade into frightening darkness every day, leaving you to fear what felt like the presence of those who inhabited that place before you.

But now everything was open to you, that was the closest you‘ve ever been to freedom in the past weeks. But it meant he was even more alert than usual, he was watching you closely and he would most likely keep you away from other people.

He took you to the Van that had imprinted so strongly in your memory after what had happened, and your heart sped up even now that you saw it again. This time however he opened the door to the passengers seat for you, mischievously making a welcoming gesture for you to get in.

It was the first time you saw him again without his mask, yet the upper half of his face was hidden again by big sunglasses that you recognized as well from the day he took you. You couldn’t help but look at him out of the corner of your eyes when he got into the drivers seat next to you and started the engine.

You nervously put your hands in your lap and watched his large hands come to rest of the steering wheel, your gaze cautiously wandering up the veiny arms to his concentrated face. You observed him for a moment, his jaw moved before he glanced at you through the sunglasses- „Stop staring, darling.“

You adverted your gaze with a mumbled apology, cheeks reddening as he had caught you watching him.

You ended up driving to a gas station to get minor errands, a place were he could buy stuff with you without having you encounter too many people.

He opened the door for you again as he didn’t want you to just slip away from him and be caught chasing after you on the security camera. You followed after him into the gas station and looked around the isles, staying close to him as he shot you a warning look that told you all you needed to know.

You picked up a few things, wondering if you could ask him for these things when suddenly-

„Y/n is that you?“ You looked up in surprise to see a guy standing next to you, someone who looked faintly familiar to you. You tensed up, „Um.. yes?“

He smiled at you, „Don’t you remember me? It’s me, Brady! We went to school together.“

… Could you go back to that basement, like, right now please? Oh god

You gave him a tense smile, gods no, you were so embarrassing back then and right now you didn’t look much better. You straightened your posture hoping to correct at least some part if the terrible image you must be right now.

„What are you up to?“ You inhaled deeply, thinking about what to tell him. You didn’t even have any big achievements you could talk about to set the image of you right, the only interesting thing about you right now was that you were currently being held hostage by a serial killer.

„I’m just..“ and looking back you had no idea how you cane to say this „I’m just picking up some things with my boyfriend!“

His eyes widened in surprise, probably not having expected to find you in a relationship. That surprised gaze tasted so bitter, if you weren’t here with your kidnapper you would have been mire upset though.

You looked around for said man, and when your panicked gaze found him he picked up on the conversation you were having too. His eyes darkened behind the sunglasses, what were you talking about.. He was about to come over when you hurried towards him, unexpectedly hooking your hand around his arm.

„T-This is him! My boyfriend.“ You said, not daring to look him in the eyes as you said it. He gazed down at you from the side and raised a brow, you anxiously squeezed his biceps in a plead.

The stranger approached the two of you, „Oh, Hi! I didn’t expect Y/b to find someone after all.“ He laughed, playing that mean comment off in the same breath as if it was nothing. „We went to school together you know.“

He felt a possessiveness rise within him, a sense of ownership as he had been the one to take you, to show you his true colors through the mask and bestow his rules upon you.

A cold smile played around his lips as a large hand snaked around your waist, pulling you into his side with a playful tilt of his head.

„I don’t think you ever knew Y/n enough to be the judge of that, don’t you think?“

The guy was quiet, taken aback by the contrast of the friendly appearance and the piercing, raspy spoken words.

„And what have you grown up to be, if I may ask?“

The guys gaze flinched to you and back to the man by your side. „Uh, I’m currently between jobs..“ to which the Grabber clicked his tongue, looking down at you again as he twirled a strand of your hair around his finger.

„Is that so.. well Y/n here has great things ahead of them, even if they’re to modest to see that.“

He hummed, and then looked up at the guy again who tensed up now and pursed his lips, clearly uncomfortable and ashamed.

„Well, that was nice! But we got to finish these errands, don’t we love?“ Your eyes lit up as you couldn’t quite believe how he diminished that guys mocking attitude in a few sentences. „Yes!“

With that you went up to the cash register to pay, he took the item you were still holding from your hands to buy it as well and put everything in a paper bag.

„Come on now, we gotta go home.“

***

I hope you guys will like this one! Inspired by me just running into an old classmate while looking like crap xD Tell me what you thought! 🖤

#the grabber x reader

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kitthepurplepotato · 9 months

Text

Chapter 3: It’s just a family dinner.

Summary: Y/N meets Eri and Hitoshi and falls in love with Aizawa’s little family right away. After spending the whole evening with the little group, happy and content, Y/N’s heart shatters into pieces as the end approaches.

!!! This chapter ends with a bit of angst. If you are sensitive to that, wait until next week!

Warnings: swear words, mild angst by the end

First Chapter Master List

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

“Just a heads up, she’ll probably hide behind me when she sees you.” Aizawa murmurs as he drives. “Be patient with her and she’ll open up quickly.”

Needless to say, you are terrified. Aizawa told you everything about the little girl, about her terrifying quirk and her terrible backstory and you really don’t know what to expect right now; will you be able to make the frightened child feel comfortable around you or will you fail terribly, ending up ruining the poor kid’s afternoon? “I can hear you overthinking. You’ll be fine.” He adds when you don’t react.

“Yeah, I hope so.” You sigh while staring out the window.

The car stops at a small school where a tiny little girl is talking to a teacher; Aizawa jumps out of the car as soon as he parks, strolling towards the little girl while you loiter at the back.

“Papa!” The little girl yells, fresh tears running down her little cheeks as she runs towards Shouta. He takes the little girl in his arms, hugging her closely while the kid’s teacher speaks to him in a low voice; Aizawa’s face contorts into a frown so it’s definitely not a pleasant conversation. When the conversation halts he puts the girl down and takes her hand then makes his way towards you; your heart is pounding heavily as Eri looks at you with worry in her eyes, her small body hiding behind Aizawa .

“Sweetheart, this is Y/N, she’s a guardian of one of my students.” He says, slowly urging the little girl to come forward.

“Hey, Eri! Nice to meet you!” You smile at the terrified little soul. “I’m really sad to hear you had a bad day today.”

“It’s always bad when we share a class with the other group.” She mumbles quietly. “They always bully me for my scary quirk…” Her little mouth wobbles by the end of her sentence and you feel a sudden urge to hug the poor soul.

“There is no such thing as a scary quirk, only scary people.” You say, kneeling down on the concrete to be on the same level. “Even the most innocent quirk can end up being used for evil and even the ‘scariest’ quirk can be used for good. If anyone says otherwise, they are stupid. Don’t listen to them, listen to your papa and to the people you trust, because by the end of the day, they are the ones who matter the most.”

“So you don’t think my quirk is scary?” Eri asks with a hopeful glint in her eyes.

“No way! You can fix people! That’s kinda cool!” You smile but by the look of it, this wasn’t the right answer; the little girl looks at her shoes, tears pooling in her eyes. She looks guilty but you have no idea why.

“I couldn’t fix Papa.” She says, and damn, you are on the verge of crying.

“Eri.” Aizawa reprimands, but you jump into his words.

“Papa does not need fixing, Eri. He’s perfect as he is.” You look up to Aizawa with fondness in your eyes. “And he’s the happiest guy in the world thanks to you. Do you know how much he talked about you today? And your bother Hitoshi? You are his world, Eri. Don’t make him sad by talking down on yourself. Be proud of yourself because Shouta is definitely proud of you. Look at you going to school alone after all you’ve been through. Not a lot of people can do that, you know.”

Eri looks at you with teary eyes, but with a big smile on her face; she stands in one place for a minute, contemplating what to say then suddenly, the little girl is gripping your arms, hugging you tightly.

“Thank you miss Y/N.” She mumbles into your dress then looks at her dad with a hopeful gaze. “Papa, can Y/N come over for dinner? Please please please?”

“I already invited her.” The look Aizawa gives you makes your chest flip; he looks amazed, fond and a little bit incredulous, the man’s face is a mess of emotions but for the first time since the morning, you feel seen as more than the silly guardian of a student; you can feel the shift in the air, crackling with a new kind of electricity as Shouta joins your little bubble with Eri to ruffle her hair, his hands caressing your shoulders gratefully as he moves away. “Let’s go home.” He mumbles and makes his way towards the car; Eri runs after him but not before taking your hand to pull you forward. With one of her hands in Shouta’s and one in yours, she makes her way to the car with a happy face, like nothing had happened at school at all. You respect this child more than you respect adults; she’s already a hero in your eyes.

~•🩶•~

“Tadaima!” Shouta murmurs at the entrance of his home; for your surprise, his house is on the UA campus, a middle sized cabin next to the dorms, just on the edge of the man-made forest. It makes sense, to be honest; the amount of time the teacher spends with his students, especially now that they are all probably struggling with nightmares after what they’ve been through, living close to their building is beneficial for both sides; Aizawa can be in and out in only a few minutes and the children can sleep well knowing their teacher is always around if they need him.

“Okaeri!” A tired voice comes from the living room; a purple mess of a head looks up at the new arrivals, his eyes opening wide when he sees a stranger by the door. “Oh.”

“Don’t ‘oh’ me, young man!” Aizawa snaps and you can’t help but giggle at that.

“Date went better than you expected?” The shit eating smirk on the teen’s face reminds you of your own little menace. They would get along well.

“Say another word and I’ll make sure you don’t finish this school year, Hitoshi.” Aizawa retorts with a quite obvious blush on his face. You love this family so much already.

“Expelling me for personal reasons? I wonder how that will look like on your resume.” Hitoshi grins, his tired eyes somehow still full of energy. You can’t believe these two are not related. They literally look the same.

“You’re only getting cucumber salad for dinner.”

The teen takes great offense at that, apparently disgusted by the mere thought.

“Now that’s just rude.”

“That’s Hitoshi, but I’m quite sure you know already.” Aizawa rolls his eyes. “Hitoshi, this is Y/N.”

Hitoshi ignores the introduction and looks at you instead; he doesn’t make actual eye contact, but you know his next words are meant for you. “Dad doesn’t let me meet Megumi-chan, did you know? Denki and I really want to see the legend who made Aizawa-sensei loose his cool.”

“That’s not true. Denki is the one who’s banned from befriending Megumi and as you two come in a package deal…” Aizawa can’t finish his sentence as Hitoshi jumps into his words.

“Stop talking about him like that. Denki has a big mouth and loves drama but he’s a great guy. He’s not the same person he was before the war.” The boy sighs, his eyes clouded by the grim memories.

“Let them have fun, Shouta. Or do you hate to see me in your office that much? Should I be offended?” You tease, picking up on the teasing vibe of the family right away.

“You found a good one, dad. Well done.”

“I’m going to cook, Eri, show Y/N around. I need a minute.” Aizawa sighs and hides in the kitchen, overwhelmed. You start to feel really bad for ganging up on him now.

“He’s not mad Y/N, don’t cry.” Eri mumbles and it’s the cutest things you’ve ever heard; she actually looks concerned.

“I won’t cry.” You giggle, taking the little girl’s hand in yours. “So where are we doing first?”

“To my room!” Eri yells and pulls you towards a room with a pink door.

You can’t wait to hug the shit out of Megumi for her stupid idea.

Eri shows you around the house, spending most of the time in her room, showing you her favorite toys and pictures. The house is small but really cosy; by the look of it, it’s mostly the younglings who did the decorating; there are loud picture frames with family photos on the shelves, random hero figurines and Eri’s little creations scattered all over the place and for your surprise there is a TV in almost every room showing cctv footage of UA. When you ask about the reason, Eri just smiles.

“He wants to make sure everyone is safe. There is also a camera in the dorm common rooms but Papa hid the live footage so the kids can have some fun without being told off the next day. Papa is nice like that. He comes home grumpy a lot but he really loves his students, especially Megumi-Chan.”

“She gives him a lot of headache isn’t she.” You sigh but Eri only giggles. “Does he get overwhelmed a lot? I mean… does he run away to the kitchen a lot, like he did now?”

Eri makes a serious thinking face and nods shyly.

“He’s not mad, you know.”

“I shouldn’t have done that though. You shouldn’t tease people you don’t know well.” You sigh in agony. You feel extremely guilty and honestly, you kind of want to leave. Every family has their own style, you had no right to comment on Aizawa’s strict parenting.

“Why don’t you go and talk to him?” Eri offers. You can’t believe she’s only 7 years old.

“Yeah, that’s an amazing idea, Eri!”

The little girl looks at you with a proud face, pushing you out of her room right away. In only a few seconds you end up being pushed into the kitchen; you can still hear Eri’s tiny giggles as she closes the door behind you.

Shouta is in his own little world, stirring the stew on the counter, one of his legs propped up on a chair while he massages it with his other hand, where the prosthetics are attached.

“Does it hurt?”

Shouta jumps from the sudden voice behind him.

“Wouldn’t say that, it’s just uncomfortable after a while. It’s fine.” He mumbles, staring at the food.

“I just wanted to say sorry.” You sigh. “I overstepped my boundaries. I shouldn’t have teased you.”

You really want to cry but that would definitely make the poor guy freak out even more so you decide against it and take a deep breath instead.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He says, not looking at you at all. “I’m just… fuck.” Shouta pops the wooden spoon into the sink unceremoniously, his voice flat and unemotional. “I had a good time today. I liked spending time with you and the kids already adore you. You made Eri smile and Hitoshi felt comfortable to speak up in front of you. We’ve known each other for a year but today was the first time we spoke about anything personal, but if feels like I’ve known you for ages. You also fit into my family so perfectly. My kids are a lot yet you didn’t even budge.” Your heart swells from the words and you want nothing but to embrace the man in front of you. “But this doesn’t make it less wrong, Y/N.” Aizawa says and your heart breaks into pieces. “It’s already troublesome to be my son’s homeroom teacher. I can’t mix my personal life with work any more.”

“Okay. I understand…”

“But…” Aizawa jumps into your sentence. “I want to be selfish for a few more hours. I’m sorry.”

The time freezes while your brain tries to comprehend the implications of his words and when it finally does you really want to push the man in front of you until his back hits the kitchen counter, just to barge into his personal space and kiss him deep and sweet while your hands mess up his perfect bun… but you are quite sure that would end up with you being banished from this household so you decide to answer like a normal, sensible person instead.

“Okay.” You giggle shyly, with a slight blush on your face. “Yeah, okay!”

“Thanks.” Shouta smiles and it turns your word upside down.

~•🩶•~

The dinner goes amazingly; the whole family chats around you as though you’re not just a stranger interrupting their family meal, everyone banters with everyone, then Eri begs you to stay over for a movie. You really should go but Eri-chan wants you to stay so much she’s even willing to share her favorite ice cream with you so you decide to play along for a bit longer.

Hitoshi sits on the sofa chair, scrolling on his phone and typing religiously before the movie starts, Eri sits in the middle of the sofa, urging the two of you to sit on her two sides ‘so she can share her ice cream’, but she probably just wants to be loved. Eri gets really sleepy around the middle of the movie so she decides to snuggle into your side with a happy smile on her face; Aizawa decides to join the cuddling session by putting his arms around your shoulders. It’s so domestic and so sweet you can’t help but smile at him with affection swirling in your tired eyes; he looks back with the same expression, calm and content, almost daydreamy and it’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. You two get lost in the moment for a second, completely forgetting about the two kids in the room; you only wake up from your daze when you hear the shutter of a camera going off; Hitoshi looks down at you with a shit eating grin, showing off his absolutely fucking adorable picture proudly.

“Toshi, delete that, now! You can’t just take random photos of people without their consent!” Aizawa reprimands. Hitoshi only shrugs and looks at you questioningly.

“Toshi, send me that picture, now!” You retort and Hitoshi laughs; Aizawa just hides his face in his palms, shoulders tense, clearly given up on this conversation.

“You two are terrible for my heart.” He mumbles, just as Eri opens her sleepy eyes.

“I’ll put Eri to bed and go to my room. I’ll send you the picture dad, forward it to Y/N. Nice to meet you, I hope to see you soon, yeah? Don’t be a stranger.” Hitoshi smiles with Eri in his arms, slowly moving the little girl to her bedroom.

“I should go, it’s really late.” You mumble as you make your way towards the entrance. You are way too soft and emotional right now to stay alone with this man. You just can’t take this anymore; this man and his loving, mischievous family is everything you’ve ever wanted in life and you know you can’t have him. It hurts like a bitch. You just want to go home and curl up in your bed then cry yourself to sleep.

“Wait!” Shouta jumps off the sofa, slowly limping towards you; he must be in a lot of pain by now; you really wanted to ask him to take his prosthetic leg off in the kitchen but you didn’t have the guts to ask; you definitely aren’t close enough for him to be comfortable around you in his natural state yet… well, technically, he never will be as this ends right here, right now. Your already broken heart breaks into even smaller pieces by this revelation. He stands in front of you, supporting himself by the wall to ease the tension in his legs; he’s so close you can smell his perfume; it’s strong and musky with a hint of bitterness to it. You’ll never forget this scent until you die. “Thank you for today. I had a great time and it’s all thanks to you.” He sighs and looks into your eyes; his eye holds an emotion you can’t really decipher; it’s soft and sad, but also kind of happy… it’s a little mess of everything and you can’t stop staring at it. “Y/N, you deserve the word and I’m so sorry I can’t give that to you.”

Rejection. You knew it’s going to happen but it doesn’t make it any less painful.

“Thank you for doing this for Megumi.” You give him a sad smile, seconds away from crying. Aizawa makes a terrified face at you; he looks anxious about something but he doesn’t say a word. “I’m sorry for ruining your day off.” You mumble and you’re just about to open the door when you’re stopped by a hand on your shoulders; the feeling of freedom made you let your guard down, tears falling on your cheeks heavily as you look up at the hero’s heartbroken face.

“Y/N, you have it all wrong.” He says, pulling you towards him to hold you close. You decide to look at the ground; you can’t keep looking him in this state. “I don’t know how to say it so I’m sorry in advance.”

“What…”

You can’t finish your sentence because the words get stuck in your throat as Shouta gets rid of the distance between you two and embraces you so tight you can barely breathe. He grips the hair on the back of your head, pulling you closer and closer and the words stops for the nth time; your hands automatically shoot up to grab the back of his shirt, trying your best to convey your emotions, but it’s just not enough and he certainly feels the same if his death grip is anything to go by. You stay like this for way to long; at least a few minutes pass before he lets you go, but not before he puts his lips on your forehead with a pained look on his face.

“Take care, okay?” He mumbles, his voice broken and full of agony. You don’t respond, just step back a few steps until your hands find the door handle.

“Shouta…” you say, clear and confident. “I like you. So if you ever change your mind, you know where to find me.” You top your words with a tiny kiss on the tired-looking hero’s cheek and this time, you manage to open the door and slide through the crack, not waiting to get an answer.

~•🩶•~

“Auntie, how was it?” Megumi jumps out of her room right as you enter the living room. She takes a good look at you and pales completely; she can definitely see how red your eyes are. “What happened?” She tries to come closer but you step away from her, making your way towards your bedroom.

“Fucking great. I met his children, he made us dinner, and I had a fucking amazing time. It was great until it lasted, Megumi. Now leave me alone. Leftover’s in the fridge. Don’t bug him with stupid questions, he did what you’ve asked him to do, so keep your end of the bargain.” You deadpan and close the door aggressively; you know how unprofessional you are right now, acting like a stupid teenager when you are supposed to be the adult in the household, but you can’t do this tonight. For your surprise, Megumi doesn’t say a single word and goes back to her room. The night is silent but your thoughts are not; you roll around in your bed the whole night, not getting a wink of sleep and even when you do, you wake up after a few minutes to Shouta’s scent in your nose.

You would like to laugh at yourself for falling in love after one stupid date but the truth is, you’ve been crushing on this man since the first meeting in his office so these feelings aren’t new at all; they’ve been there the whole time, dormant and invisible, sneakily waiting for the perfect time to explode out of your chest.

“Everything will be okay tomorrow.” You mumble into your pillow and close your eyes; maybe if you say that a few more times you’ll believe it.

… Next Chapter!

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~

Potato ramble:

- Ah man, I hate angst. I really do. But Aizawa needs some time to get his shit together. He’ll be fine eventually.

- I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I love this new version of Hitoshi who’s not an emotionally constipated asshole 😂 He transferred to class A after the war hence why he’s so close with Kaminari. He managed to fit in really well thanks to him and opened up to people. I love him 😭😭😭

- Aizawa doesn’t hate Kaminari by the way. He genuinely loves him so much but there is no way he’ll show it. Also, Kaminari and Megumi together are nothing but trouble, he’s absolutely right about that. You will see 😂

Likes, comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Taglist: @cheesenmax @bobcar1 @ginevraxrogers

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #Aizawa x reader #aizawa x y/n #shouta aizawa x you #aizawa shouta x reader #eraserhead x you #eraserhead x reader

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scriptorsapiens · 7 months

Text

Classicstober Day 12: Theseus (𐀳𐀯𐀄)

I can't deny that I am kind of personally jaundiced against Theseus (because he sucks) but jumping into a maze with a people-eating monster to save 13 complete strangers is actually a pretty stand up thing to do.

Someone on insta asked me if I had any thoughts on the Minotaur design of Asterion, since I had depicted him as a baby on his mother's lap on that day, and I replied that he would probably look wretched.

Thinking about it more, I decided to go fully wretched for Asterion's appearance. After Minos traps him in the Labyrinth, Asterion gets very little company, if any, so he eventually loses his concept of hygiene and having any care for his appearance. There is probably precious little water in the maze, so any dirt that sticks to his hair remains in place. Dried gore from past victims remain, staining his hands and face. His nails grow long, thick, yellow, and cracked where they have torn through flesh. I imagine that Minos would fear that Asterion might make friends with any prisoner tossed into the Labyrinth, so he makes sure his beast is ravenously hungry; too hungry to think before his quarry is introduced.

Despite being massive and powerful, Asterion's constant near-starvation keeps him from growing into the bulky, massive bull-man we have come to expect. He also is not invulnerable; his body is scarred from where his victims managed to get a shot in. Scratches from nails and even some rocks prized up from the floor are visible, and one particularly vicious tribute managed to bite off part of Asterion's ear before they died.

All this combines to make a Minotaur that I actually find scary. Most of the Bulky Bull Man images are intimidating but not frightening. I feel like this version of the Bull of Minos looks like something out of a horror movie.

All in all, Asterion is a tragic figure. Born between worlds, a shame to his family, a punishment from the gods made into living flesh, and made into a monster to serve Minos' terrible will.

Theseus, on the other hand, kind of sucks as a person and this is a hill I will die on, but by this point in the story he has just done something very selfless and heroic: trade his own life for that of a complete stranger in a wild attempt to defeat the evil that threatens them. I modeled Theseus' build after power-lifters; his test of character that began his hero's journey was lifting a massive rock, after all. Theseus also has two fathers; the mortal Aegius and the god Poseidon (it's a long story). To reflect this I drew him with heterochromia. The dark eye is from Aegius, the light eye is from Poseidon.

The thread Theseus is holding is the end of Ariadne's Clew. While as far as I could find it had no inherent magical properties (although I would not put it past Daedalus to have made some of his crafts with magic) I decided to make it glow so I could have a secondary light source to really push the scariness of the scene. I think it turned out very well.

#classicstober #classicstober2023 #theseus #the minotaur #greek mythology #ancient greek mythology #tagamemnon #mycenaean #linear b

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poisonlove · 9 months

Text

Miss Ortega | j.o

First love is always something wonderful, isn't it? The illusion that everything will be fine and that love between you two will grow stronger, staying within your bubble, ignoring the world.

At times, it can be a harsh wake-up call from reality, a slap in the face that makes you feel terrible about yourself, and most of all, the fear of trusting someone else.

In this case, Jenna is T/n's first love.

A forbidden love, full of problems between the law and judgment.

But the real question is: realistically, how can this affair between these two girls end?

part 13

I approach Olivia, my face marked by anxiety and worry. It was time to face the difficult situation that had arisen due to our relationship and the discovery that Jenna was the mysterious girl involved.

—Olivia, we need to talk. I know you feel betrayed, and I understand why. I never wanted things to get this complicated– I repeat, looking at her with a heavy heart.

Olivia crosses her arms, gazing at me with a mix of anger and sadness.

—I can't believe you kept from me all this time that the mysterious girl is our teacher. I feel betrayed, as if you've played with my feelings... damn it, I'm in love with you!–she confesses, lowering her head with guilt.

—It wasn't my intention to hurt you, Olivia. I kept the relationship a secret to protect Jenna, to avoid complications. But now everything's out in the open, and I realize the mistake I made– I admit.

If I had talked to someone about Jenna and me, maybe I could've had help in handling this immense burden.

Olivia runs a hand through her hair, trying to calm herself. She still felt love, but the disappointment and sense of betrayal were hard to ignore.

—How could you think this wouldn't be a problem? Didn't you consider the consequences, the fact that you could endanger not only yourself but also Jenna's future?– I lower my gaze, regretting my actions.

I take a deep breath and look at Olivia with tear-filled eyes, my voice trembling as I try to explain my feelings.

—Olivia, I beg you to try to understand. I tried to ignore my feelings for Jenna, but she... she's Jenna. She's my teacher, but she's also the person I deeply love. You can't expect me to ignore that completely– my heart tightens as my heartbeat noticeably increases.

Olivia feels a wave of jealousy wash over her, mixed with disappointment and anger. She wants me to feel her suffering and tries to threaten me to preserve her own dignity. After all, I had deceived her.

—If you think I can accept this situation without doing anything, you're mistaken. I can't let this relationship between you and our teacher continue. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to protect my future, even go to the principal and tell the whole truth– Olivia looks at me with hard eyes, a mocking smile playing on her lips.

I look at Olivia with my eyes wide open, frightened by her words. I feel my heart break, fearing losing Jenna and Olivia's friendship forever.

—Olivia, please don't do it. I care about you a lot, but I can't deny my feelings for Jenna. Let's try to find a way to get through this situation together– I nervously bite my lower lip.

Olivia is caught in an internal conflict, torn between the desire to preserve our friendship and the feeling of betrayal she's experiencing. She manages to hold back the tears, but her gaze remains stern.

I approach and take Olivia's hands.

—I don't know if I can ever fully forgive you, t/n. This situation has shaken our mutual trust. We need to find a way to face all of this, but it won't be easy–Olivia admits. I let out a sigh of relief, squeezing Olivia's hands with gratitude.

My eyes lock intensely with Olivia's, my heart full of hope but also fear for the future of our relationship. I needed confirmation, I needed to know if, despite everything, we would still have a connection as friends.

—Olivia, are we still friends? I don't want to lose you completely from my life. Despite everything, we've shared precious moments together– I ask hopefully.

Olivia feels a lump in her throat, understanding how important it is for both of them to maintain a part of their relationship intact. Reluctantly, she nods slowly.

—Yes, we're still friends. We've shared too much to lose each other completely– she smiles as she remembers their first attempt.

As we talk, I notice movement in our direction. I lift my gaze and see Professor Ortega approaching us with tears in her eyes. Her expression is a mix of pain and disappointment.

—Olivia... can I talk to you for a moment?– Jenna asks, her eyes filled with tears.

Jenna's POV:

I feel a lump in my throat, my lips tremble, and tears begin to trickle down my cheeks. A sense of fear overtakes me at the thought of losing my job and t/n, while Olivia's judgmental gaze materializes in my mind.

All my insecurities and fears overflow like a swollen river. I had dedicated so much time and effort to this job, made sacrifices, and carved my path with determination, but now everything seemed to teeter on a thin thread. I feel like the ground is opening beneath me, ready to swallow me into an abyss of uncertainty.

Olivia's words resonate in my head like a hammer hitting an anvil. It's evident that Olivia has discovered something, something that puts me in a vulnerable position. Just thinking about facing the consequences of that exposure makes my legs tremble. The reputation I had painstakingly built over the years seems to fade away, disappearing in an instant.

Fear and sadness intertwine in my heart, creating a tangle of emotions that seems impossible to unravel. I feel like a caged bird, with clipped wings, unable to fly away from the storm that's closing in on me. The job had become my identity, my reason for being, and the thought of losing it is unbearable.

T/n...

I feel the need to shut myself off, to find a safe haven where I can release my anguish. The walls seem to close in around me, suffocating me, and the weight of my worries feels unbearable. It's as if every cell in my body is screaming in pain and terror.

But deep in my heart, I know I can't let fear completely overcome me. I must find the strength to face the situation, to stand up for myself and prove my worth. I must turn fear into determination, tears into courage.

So, with trembling knees and a tight chest, I rise from the ground. I wipe away my tears and take a deep breath, trying to reclaim my inner strength. I won't let fear drag me into the abyss of helplessness. It's time to fight for what's rightfully mine, to protect my job and dignity, to protect t/n.

With determined steps, I seek out Olivia, ready to face whatever consequences and defend with all my might what I've built. I don't know what awaits me, but I'm determined to do whatever it takes to overcome this trial.

When I stop in front of Olivia and t/n, tears well up in my eyes again, anger pulsates in my heart. I need to make them feel the depth of my emotions, even though I know that anger can cloud my words.

—Jenna...—t/n weakly calls me, but I urgently want to speak with Olivia.

Suddenly, I feel the need to tell Olivia the truth, to let her know how I feel about t/n.

—Yes, I made a mistake. I wasn't professional. But Olivia, you don't understand! I love t/n! I love t/n more than anything, and this job means nothing if I lose it– I say, with a feeling of lightness moving in my chest.

The words hang in the air, filled with passion and desperation. It's the first time I've openly confessed my feelings for t/n in front of anyone, and the weight of my emotions is overwhelming.

T/n looks at me with tear-filled eyes, speechless for a moment. Then, with fierce determination, she approaches and takes my hand.

—Wow... Jen, I was about to tell you that I already convinced Liv...– t/n says, laughing, looking at me with bright eyes.

Olivia remains silent for a moment, shocked by the revelation. Then, her gaze softens, and a certain compassion appears on her face.

—But that doesn't change the fact that Jenna broke the rules— she admits with a sigh.

I lower my gaze, my shoulders trembling under the weight of remorse. —I'm sorry, Liv. I promise things will change—t/n admits, probably referring to their friendship.

—Now... I'm leaving—Olivia asserts, and without saying anything more, she walks towards the stairs.

T/n's t/c-colored eyes look at me sweetly, and my breath catches in my throat. —So... do you love me?– she asks, and I nervously bite my lower lip.

We've just resolved one drama, and now I have to discuss this.

***

Jenna and I ran into each other in the school hallway after solving the Olivia issue. With curious eyes, I watch Jenna, awaiting her response.

Jenna nods, her eyes gleaming with happiness. —Yes, I love you. It's something I've felt for a while, but I was afraid to confess—she says with a smile.

I embrace her tightly, excited about this discovery. However, after a moment of joy, I remember something important. After the horrible experience I had with Olivia, I need to tell Enid about it to have someone who can support me in front of others.

—Jenna, I want to tell Enid about us. I want her to know that we're together— I confess, and Jenna looks at me as if I grew a second head.

Jenna withdraws slightly, uncertain. —I'm not sure if that's a good idea. I'm afraid things might get complicated—her dark eyes look at me with fear, dreading having to go through a similar situation as a few minutes ago.

I take Jenna's hands and gaze into her eyes tenderly. —I understand your concerns, Jen, but I think it's better to face the situation with honesty. Enid is understanding, she's my best friend; I want us to be free to be ourselves, at least in front of her– I admit, giving Jenna a slight smile.

Jenna reflects on my words and realizes I'm right. After taking a deep breath, Jenna smiles at me.

—You're right, we should face the situation together. But let's not mention it to my family, not now obviously— she says and smiles as confirmation. —We just need to be prepared to face the possible consequences– Jenna adds with a smile, instinctively moving closer to me to hug me.

I step back when I see a student approaching in the distance.

Jenna looks at me, puzzled, furrowing her brow. —You need to be more discreet— I whisper as the student walks past us, and Jenna nods slowly.

—Sorry—Jenna whispers, and I give her a sweet smile. —Don't worry... see you later at your house?– I ask, and Jenna smiles at me like the Cheshire Cat.

—This time, serious studying– I say, and Jenna, putting on a disapproving expression, taps her foot on the ground, behaving like a two-year-old.

—Come on, you're 23... you should be more mature– I comment, and she sighs in frustration. —You're 23!– she responds in a joking tone, and I roll my eyes at her behavior.

—You'll be the child—she sticks her tongue out and looks at me with narrowed eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

Shrugging indifferently, I nod my head. —Yeah, I actually am, I'm 17–I said, looking at my nails with little interest. Jenna opened her mouth in indignation. —Close your mouth if you don't want flies to get in– I told her.

Jenna closed her mouth and shifted uncomfortably in her place, looking at me with flushed cheeks.

—Great, not only am i dating one of my students, but she's also a minor– Jenna murmured to herself, spreading her arms out theatrically. —A few more months and you won't risk jail time, my dear– I said, giving her a sidelong glance. Jenna looked at me, biting her lower lip in concern.

—And you have to admit that you like fucking this underage– I whispered with a teasing smile, earning a glare from Jenna. —You really are an idiot.– Jenna shook her head and tapped me lightly on the shoulder. —Ouch! I can sue you if I want!–I rubbed my arm dramatically and Jenna looked at me with a raised eyebrow. —Will you stop being the jerk?— Jenna sighed loudly, and I smirked.

—It's worth accepting it, after all you love me just the way I am– I admitted, and she shook her head with a smile on her lips. —Yes... I love you like this... now go, I need to go do my job– Jenna blew me a kiss with her lips and turned her back, starting to walk down the hallway.

The "I love you too" presses at the tip of my tongue, finally wishing to come out, but fear overwhelms me, preventing me from telling the truth. I can tell others that I'm in love with Jenna, in this case just to Olivia, but I can't say it to the person directly involved.

—Maybe next time– I whispered into the air before walking away.

(...)

After school, I met Enid in a quiet place, the backyard of her house, to talk. I had sent her a message saying that we needed to talk, and she told me she had something to share too.

Enid looks a bit worried as she gazes at me, trying to understand what I want to say. I take a deep breath and begin to speak with a serious expression on my face.

—Enid, there's something I need to tell you. Jenna and I... are together. We're a couple–I murmur, dropping the news like a bomb.

Enid remains still, eyes wide with surprise. She had intended to share a different piece of news, but my confession leaves her speechless. For a moment, it seems like she's trying to process the situation.

—..I... wanted to tell you that I had worked things out with Ajax. I was planning to talk to you about it today...—Enid interrupts herself, a look of confusion on her face. The blonde looks at me with disbelief.

I look at Enid with anxiety and hope. —I'm sorry, Enid... I didn't mean to put you in an uncomfortable situation. We just... Jenna and I wanted to be honest with you. Our relationship has just started, but we wanted to share it with you.—

In reality, we had been together for a couple of months, but in comparison, it wasn't a long time.

Enid shakes her head, trying to reorganize her thoughts. —It's not that you're putting me in an uncomfortable situation, t/n... it's just... sudden. I didn't expect this. And I must say, you've caught me off guard– Enid sighs and covers her face with her hands, feeling a heavy weight after this revelation.

I lower my gaze, worried about Enid's reaction. —I'm sorry if I surprised you, it's just that... Jenna and I realized we had feelings for each other, and we wanted to try building something special– I confess, fiddling with my fingers.

Enid backs away slightly, a worried expression on her face. —T/n, I understand that you and Jenna love each other, but we need to be mindful of the possible consequences. Jenna is our teacher, and if your relationship is discovered, there could be serious disciplinary consequences for both of you.–

The same words Olivia had mentioned echoed like a haunting reminder, and a frustrated sigh escapes my lips.

I lower my gaze, acknowledging the seriousness of the situation. —I know, Enid. It's a risk we're taking. But we can't ignore our feelings.—

The blonde sighs and approaches me again, her expression concerned. —I can help you keep the relationship a secret, at least until Jenna is no longer our teacher— Enid proposes, and her statement makes me smile.

I smile gratefully for Enid's support. —Thank you, I really appreciate your help.—

—And to think I would have bet that you'd end up with Olivia— Enid genuinely smiles, finding amusement in her statement.

After Enid's remark about Olivia, I become nervous and panicked. In a moment of weakness, I want to say something that will likely get me into trouble. —Enid, there's something you should know... Olivia already knows– I confess, feeling my heart race.

Enid freezes instantly, looking at me with a mix of hurt and disappointment. Tears start forming in her eyes. —How could you? How could you trust everything to Olivia and not to me? I've been your best friend for years– Enid's voice cracks, and I feel like a complete fool.

I look at Enid sincerely, trying to explain the situation. —Enid, I want you to know that Olivia didn't learn about our secret directly from me. She discovered it by accident, she caught us together in a moment of intimacy. I didn't intentionally confide my secret to her— I try to lift the girl's spirits.

Enid feels relieved hearing these words. Her face relaxes slightly as she listens attentively to my explanations. She wipes tears from her cheeks. —If Olivia found out accidentally, then I feel a bit more at ease. I was worried you had trusted her with it without telling me first– Enid shyly smiles at me with moist eyes.

I nod, understanding Enid's concerns. —I assure you, En, that the secret remained between Jenna and me until Olivia found out. I understand your desire to hear it from me, and I apologize again for not telling you personally– I confess, smiling at Enid.

—After all, I know you love gossip—I give Enid a friendly tap, and she bursts into hearty laughter.

—Do the others know? Diego? Spenser... Xavier?– she asks after finishing her laughter, looking at me curiously.

—No, and I'd prefer to keep it that way... I have no intention of telling them... maybe in a few months– I confess, and Enid nods understandingly.

The two friends gaze into each other's eyes, reassured by the strength of their friendship. They know there will be challenges to face, but they're determined to overcome them together.

(...)

I was at Jenna's house having a calculus lesson. After having discussed with Enid, I had to go to Jenna's house to resume studies in the afternoon since the contest was almost there.

—Then, Rolle's theorem establishes that if a function is continuous on a closed interval and differentiable on an open interval within that closed interval, then there exists at least one point in which the derivative of the function is equal to zero— Jenna writes the explanation on a portable whiteboard that she kept on the side of the kitchen.

I put the tip of the pencil between my lips as I look at the teacher with mischievous eyes. To make the lesson more interesting, Jenna and I agreed on a small, innocent detail. Every time I answered correctly, Jenna would remove an item of clothing, and now the teacher was walking around the house half naked. Jenna brushes back a lock of her hair before writing a rough draft, exposing the skin on her body. I had managed to make her take off her crop-top and skirt, as well as her socks with their respective shoes. My eyes wandered over her curves, stopping at the lingerie she was wearing: a white bra and matching panties.

It seems pretty clear to me. Could you give me a practical example to understand it better?” I ask, tilting my head to the side as I look at her toned legs. Jenna nods and begins to write the example. –Imagine you have a function f(x) = x^2 - 4x + 3. We want to find a point where the derivative of this function is equal to zero. First, we must check if the function satisfies the conditions of Rolle's theorem. The function f(x) is continuous on a closed interval [1, 3] and differentiable on an open interval (1, 3)–

Jenna looks at me smiling slightly, her brown eyes sparkling.

-Understood. But how can we check if the values of f(1) and f(3) are the same?” I ask, and Jenna looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Excellent question!" Let's compute the values of f(1) and f(3). Substituting x = 1, we get f(1) = 1^2 - 4(1) + 3 = 0. Then, substituting x = 3, we get f(3) = 3^2 - 4(3) + 3 = 0. As you can see, the values are effectively the same— Jenna's eyes flicker to my lips before returning her attention to the whiteboard.

—So, can we apply Rolle's theorem in this case?– I ask, crossing my legs.

-Exactly. Since the function satisfies the conditions of Rolle's theorem, we can affirm that there exists at least one point c within the interval (1, 3) in which the derivative of the function is equal to zero— Jenna bites her lower lip and pulls away a lock of hair from his face.

—The derivative of f(x) is f'(x) = 2x - 4, right?—I ask innocently, as Jenna looks at me with a slight smile on her lips.

—Yeah...exactly–Jenna sighs and, resigned, removes her bra, leaving me gawking at the sight.

—Now, to find point c, we must solve the equation f'(x) = 0. So, 2x - 4 = 0. Adding 4 to both sides and dividing by 2, we obtain x = 2—the chestnut nonchalantly explains while Continue writing on the board.

My eyes remain fixed on her breasts, marveling at her shape and her modest size.

—So the point c at which the derivative of f(x) equals zero is x = 2?— I ask, savoring victory.

—Exactly, point c is x = 2.—Jenna's voice softens and, with a resigned sigh, she removes the last item of clothing she was wearing. Jenna gives me a pleading look, urging me to intervene as soon as possible. while licking my lower lip, I was admiring this beautiful work of art.

—So, what's up?—Jenna rolled her eyes in boredom and jumped up to sit on the dresser. My eyes widened at Jenna and my breath caught in my throat as I saw her spread her legs slightly, inviting me closer.

❤❤❤

—I love you!—I spontaneously murmur, resting my head on Jenna's bare chest. I was quite exhausted and couldn't continue with the "rounds" my girlfriend was asking for.

Jenna seems satisfied, her breath heavy and her hair tousled. Her body tenses slightly beneath mine after hearing those words. Our eyes meet, and I see her irises filled with tears.

—Did... did I say something wrong?— I stammer, looking at Jenna with concern. She shakes her head, smiling widely.

—You... you told me... you love me— she whispers, and I open my eyes in surprise.

Now that I think about it, Jenna was right. I nervously bite my lower lip, realizing that I had said those two famous words spontaneously and, above all, in a moment of vulnerability.

Jenna's hand rests on my cheek, and she looks at me tenderly. —It's the first time you've said it to me— she confesses, and I lean into her touch, getting lost in her gaze.

Jenna pulls me closer to her for a kiss, and I enjoy it, placing my arms on the sides of the couch to not crush her with my weight.

—ti amo– I repeat earnestly, pressing my forehead against hers, our noses brushing in an Eskimo kiss. —I'm sorry for telling you while we were making love—I smile, and she returns the smile, highlighting the dimple on her cheek.

Jenna wraps her arms around my neck and lightly bites her lower lip. —It's perfect this way– she confesses, and I look at her with love, seeing the reflection of my face through her crystalline eyes.

—I love you too– Jenna says, giving me a little kiss on the tip of my nose. —How about we get dressed and have something to eat?— she suggests, and I enthusiastically agree.

—It sounds like a great idea— I respond excitedly. We get up from the couch and head to find our clothes scattered on the floor. As we dressed, I couldn't help but smile and feel overwhelmed by the love I felt for Jenna.

Once dressed, we leave the room hand in hand and head to the kitchen. Jenna starts preparing something to eat while I sit at the table, watching her with adoration. I loved seeing her move with grace and skill in the kitchen. It was one of the many talents she had that made me fall in love with her more every day.

After a few minutes, Jenna places a plate of pasta in front of me. Not only was she an expert in bed, but also in the kitchen. I smile gratefully and begin to enjoy the meal with her.

As we eat, we chat and laugh, sharing moments of intimacy and complicity. There's no room for worries or stress in that moment. It's just the two of us, wrapped in the love and happiness that binds us.

We finish eating and remain seated at the table, taking a moment to relax and enjoy each other's company. Jenna looks at me with tenderness and affection, gently stroking my hand.

—You're the best thing that's ever happened to me– she says softly. —I love you more than words can express.—

Tears of happiness fill my eyes as I look at her. I squeeze her hand lovingly. —And I love you more than I ever thought possible. You're my everything, Jenna.—

We embrace tightly, sealing our words with a gesture of love and commitment. In that moment, I know that we're meant to be together, overcoming any obstacle that comes our way.

The love we share is powerful and real. And as we embrace, I know deep in my heart that we've found our happiness in each other's arms.

Comments please

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