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shibaraki · 5 months

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HELD BY YOU, FELLED BY YOU ┊ TODOROKI SHOUTO

tags: GN reader, developing relationship, physical affection, touch starved shouto, loneliness, hugs + hand holding, fluff, only a little angst, obliviousness, pro hero shouto, reader works at hero agency

wc: 1.4K

series masterlist: 1/5

It is 4:03pm on a Thursday afternoon. The skies are grey, and the rain is so light it’s practically a wet fog. You have not touched Shouto in any meaningful way since Monday.

Before this week Shouto was certain that he must have been absorbed into a long-standing state of neutrality and apathy as a child. He didn’t long for anything, atleast, not in the way his friends claimed to. Whiny professions of loneliness, lamenting over romantic relationships and sex or lack thereof, dreamily recounting their passionate escapades. It didn’t appeal much to him.

Shouto had what he needed to survive—to live his day to day and climb the ranks without disruption, and it seemed that affection was not one of those things. The Todoroki household had never been particularly affectionate anyway. After his mother was admitted to the psychiatric hospital touch became less associated with comfort and happiness, and more of a thing to avoid altogether.

Shouto never actually voiced an aversion to touch. He held hands with crying children as he walked them back to their parents. He rubbed the backs of countless scared victims, he let them wrap around his arm and squeeze until his fingers grew numb. He offered his left side to elderly folk in the colder weather as they waited to be loaded into an ambulance.

But these small instances were always initiated by him, and his well-meaning friends decided to leave the ball in his court sometime during highschool. It never really left.

Until—

“Can I hug you?” you blurted. Your expression quickly twisted into a sheepish grimace. “You look like you could do with one, is all”.

At that moment Shouto had been sitting in the infirmary half covered in soot and picking out the bits of rubble that managed to get inside his suit’s ventilator. He stared up at you and wondered what that would even look like on himself, lifting a hand to feel his face and finding it relatively normal.

The sound of his heart flooded his ears and he frowned at the reaction. You weren’t a new friend by any means, but Shouto scarcely made new friends so you are newer than the others. You’ve never tried to be physically affectionate but he’s caught you gazing at him fondly sometimes, when you think he’s none the wiser, and he likes it.

Shouto nodded. Why, he doesn’t know. To quell your anxiety and get rid of the awkward atmosphere, he reasoned. Then your lips pulled into a soft, pleased smile, and he felt it like the sun on his face.

You stepped forward as though approaching some skittish animal. Shouto made no move to stand. He had only watched with trepidation as your hands lifted. A breath caught in his throat as they extended to rest on his sloped shoulders. “I’ll get you dirty,” he murmured dumbly in afterthought.

“That’s okay,” you replied, barely above a whisper. Your arms slipped around his back gently, and soon tightened to a secure hold when no objection came—there could be none, because the instant Shouto’s cheek pressed against your soft stomach, a rush of adrenaline speared through him and swept away all conscious thought.

To Shouto touch was like skipping a rock through the cavity in his chest; doing it only ever made its presence more obvious. But you cradled him there for what seemed like hours and he felt warm in ways he couldn’t articulate. Your fingers danced aimless patterns along the top of his spine, sometimes pausing to curl the wispy hair at his nape around them, and he sank.

True to his word, Shouto had dirtied your clothes. He apologised when you pulled away because it was all he could do not to whimper. You didn’t spare your shirt a glance—you just smiled at him again, and said you hoped it helped.

Helped? Helped?

The weight of your embrace had lingered for hours, cloven to the forefront of his mind, clinging to the memory before it became too obscure. Only now the memory hurt him to think about, and the pervasive ache for more intensified as the days passed.

Just this morning he’d wrapped his bedsheets tight and drew them around his shoulders to simulate that same feeling. Closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, picturing you there. Your sweet, purposeful touches. Your comforting scent. Your chest rising and falling. Your voice rumbling against his cheek. Heat filled his body, like you’d reached inside and turned the spigot of his heart.

It was mortifying. And exhilarating.

Shouto stuck his hand out from the shelter of the awning and let the rain lick at his fingers. Overturning his wrist, catching them on the shallow of his palm, he contemplates how he can get you to touch him again.

Last time you said he simply looked like he needed it. Too frustrating and vague, not to mention Shouto has been needing it all week. You could have meant his grimy post-battle appearance, but he didn’t really think this should warrant being thrown from another high rise building. Maybe he has to earn it this time.

You’re standing beside him, too preoccupied by the emails on your phone to notice his dilemma. Things have been fine. No awkwardness on your part, which he should probably be pleased about, but his mind keeps veering beyond rational conjecture. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. It all felt too one sided.

Shouto gives you a sidelong glance. You might be the only person he knows that can look alluring in the dreary afternoon light. With a sigh he lets his hand drop to his hip and wipes it on his dry suit.

Your thumbs move fast across the screen. “Sorry, Shouto. I promise I’m not ignoring you—just need to reply to this intern,” you tell him. “God, have I ever mentioned how much I hate the email software your agency uses? Because I do”.

He hums, “You have”.

Whatever you hear in his voice has you looking up. There’s a crease etched in your brow, expression open and apologetic. Your gaze flickers to the hand held to his front, where he’s working out the static in his knuckles.

“Are you cold?” you ask, pocketing your phone. It’s a silly question. He is a walking furnace. But Shouto is statuesque as you reach to cup his distinctly bigger hand with your own. Heat prickles under his skin. The staccato of his heart kicks up. You lean down to exhale a warm breath over his fingers, and stroke your thumb along the dips and peaks of his knuckles.

Shouto sends a mental apology to Kaminari for the halfhearted response he gave after a long, lovestruck monologue about his girlfriend’s hands. He thinks he gets it, now.

Your lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Better?” you scan his face and the smile falters. “Shit. Sorry, Shouto. I should’ve asked,” then you’re retreating again and—

He reflexively grabs your wrist. It’s a loose grip, enough for you to free yourself from. You pause. “No,” a puff of steam billows out from his mouth and he has enough presence of mind to be embarrassed by it. “…It’s fine. You don’t have to stop”.

Your concern dwindles into amusement as he wafts it away. “Alright,” you say placatingly. The tension alleviates, and when your fingers slip against his you immediately twine them together, taking the ache in his chest with it. “Is this ‘fine’ too?”

Shouto nods, not yet trusting his voice or his quirk.

“I wasn’t sure if I crossed any lines on Monday,” your eyes dipped to stare at the pavement as you continued. “I know you aren’t touchy feely like the others. They were… surprised when I mentioned the hug”.

“I didn’t think I was,” he swallows, flexing his fingers to squeeze your hand. “I liked it”.

You squeeze back, “You did?”

Shouto squeezes harder, and can’t stop the smile coming unbidden to his lips. “I did,” he says.

You meet his gaze. He’s pinned by that fond look you always try to hide from him. “Do you want another one, then?”

“But I didn’t do anything”.

A litany of emotion passes over your face at his response. There’s determination in the purse of your lips as you step into his space, entangled hands caught between your bodies. Wrapping an arm around his waist, you tuck your nose into the hollow where his jaw met his neck.

There’s a clumsiness to his movements as he follows your lead and slips his arm around your back. Head suddenly too heavy for his neck, he rests his cheek on your crown, melting into the embrace.

“You don’t need to earn my affection, Shouto. Not now and not ever”.

“Oh,” Shouto breathes. “I can just ask?”

“You can,” you laugh softly.

Why hadn’t he thought to just—ask. That is far more reasonable than being flung from another burning high rise.

“What?”

Ah. He pulls you further into his chest until you’re pressed together like the pages of a book. “Nothing”.

#bnha x reader #mha x reader #todoroki shouto x reader #todoroki x reader #shouto x reader

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inkykeiji · 29 days

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⋆₊˚⊹♡ alastor + dressing you in white

character: alastor warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, heavy pet/master dynamic, toxic relationship (condescension), blood + blood eating, slight gore, fem!reader words: 1.8k

alastor exclusively dresses you, his precious little pet, in white—white linen dresses, white silk pjs, white cotton undies—and you’ve finally figured out why.

“Alright, uh,” Charlie’s finger flicks the worn cardboard spinner in her hands, watching as the arrow lands on a splotch of colour. “Right hand, red!”

You’re in the parlour when it happens—a sudden, sharp pain that sears through your ribs as you bend over, a reactive hiss spit from between gritted teeth.

“Whats’a matter?” Angel teases, panting slightly. “Too short to reach your colour?”

Throwing a glance over his shoulder, Angel’s long limbs easily twist to obey the most recent order, both of his right hands finding red circles on the crinkled plastic mat.

“No, I just—”

“Holy shit!” his gasp cuts you off, all amusement eradicated from his face, dissolved by concerned shock. “You’re bleeding!”

“What?”

Glimpsing down at your body, your eyes are drawn toward the rapidly developing blot of scarlet, steadily seeping through white linen—a gruesome petal, irregular edges spreading, slow but ceaseless, eating away at the fabric.

A gurgle of disquiet sounds from the couch, voices tangling together, dulled to your ears as your gaze finds your Master’s.

But he doesn’t meet your stare.

Unblinking crimson eyes are focused on the flowering patch of blood, beginning to mottle as specks bloom around it. His chest rises and falls with even little huffs of air, ebony pupils gnawing at his irises as they devour the sight, his fingers twitching on his knee. Your gaze drifts back to the smeared blemish, the softest whimper dripping from your lips.

It’s beautiful.

Alastor was right; your blood does look ravishing against the crisp bright fabric—stark but artful, a miniature abstract piece being painted in real time as the substance transudes the linen, created by your body and his, together.

Now you understand; there is a reason why Alastor always dresses you in white. Especially when the abrasions he leaves have a nasty tendency to split and spill out.

Entranced, your fingers press around the sensitive flesh, feeling the open wound hollowed by your dress and staining your skin with a glittering crimson, a sharp breath sucked through the gaps of your teeth, flashes of speared agony radiating through the surrounding flesh.

Your sound of pain seems to snap Alastor from his revere, blinking twice as he comes back to himself, smile stretching wider with something sinister, worming between razored teeth.

“All right,” Alastor’s saying as he stands from the couch, bravado ringing strong and clear and firm over the chatter. “I’ll take care of this.”

“Are you sure? That looks, uh—”

“Why is she bleeding in the first place?”

“Alastor, maybe we should—”

“Come, pet.” Alastor disregards the chorus of concerned comments without sparing them a glance, holding an arm out to you in invitation.

Then you’re scampering to his side, instant, instinctive, allowing him to curve around you protectively, guiding you away from a collection of worried faces with a palm plastered over the injury.

“I told you not to play,” Alastor admonishes in a singsong while he guides you through the threshold of his bedroom

Leaning into him, you nestle your cheek against his ribs, catlike, hiding the blurry disappointment nipping at your eyes.

“But I wanted to.”

“You should’ve known better,” he chides, but his voice is tender, fingers rubbing soothing circles into your shoulder as he ushers you into his bathroom, depositing you on the rim of the clawfoot tub. “Your injuries are not fully healed yet.”

Your injuries are never fully healed, you want to point out. He is constantly engraving new cuts, scrapes, slashes, bites into you; there is never a moment where your body is not stained with Alastor in some way.

“I thought they’d be okay,” you say instead, forehead scrunched in petulance.

“Well, you thought wrong.”

“Who knew a game of Twister could be so strenuous,” you mutter to yourself, bottom lip wavering on the edge of a pout.

He snorts out a titter, mean and scoffing as his fingers pick through the first aid kit. “For such a smart little girl, you can be really stupid sometimes, can’t you?”

“What?”

But he refuses to elaborate, continuing on as if you hadn’t spoken at all.

“Clearly, Master cannot allow you to make decisions for yourself,” he teases, but his tone holds a twinge of sincerity, a vow of certainty.

This is the last time you’ll be making a decision on your own for a long time.

“Arms up.”

Immediately, you comply, arms held straight over your head, Alastor’s hands curling in the hem of your dress and pulling it from your body in one swift, fluid motion.

It stings, the linen of the dress ripped harshly from the steadily weeping wound it had been clinging to, a yelp cracking in your throat.

A halfhearted hush falls from your Master’s lips as he carefully drapes the soiled dress over the rim of the tub, taking a moment to admire the stain. A finger traces around the blotch almost affectionately, a tender sigh exhaled out his nose. Then his palms are finding your legs, pushing them apart and sinking to his knees, wedging himself between your spread thighs.

“All right, let Master see,” he murmurs, shoulders hunched a little as he becomes eye level with the gash, your spine straightening to present the tear to him.

Hesitant fingers prod at the surrounding flesh, now smeared with dried blood, inspecting the damage.

“You ripped open every single stitch,” Alastor chuckles quietly, his fingers tugging at the bordering skin and watching with macabre awe as the wound gapes open beneath the pressure, a thick torrent of blood oozing out.

A whine that sounds suspiciously close to his title sticks in your throat, half-stifled by your clenched teeth, and he looks up at you, sadistic amusement glimmering in his eyes.

“Does that hurt, sweetheart?” His fingertips press down on the tender flesh, now slick with blood, and shove together, completely sealing the wound, another cascade of crimson spilling past the seam.

“Master!” you cry out, fingers clamping over his shoulders to steady yourself, nails scraping against cotton.

The force of his touch increases, claws nearly sinking into the torn slash. “Answer my question.”

“Yes!” you choke out, head nodding in quick little motions. “Yes, it hurts.”

A soft hum vibrates at the back of his throat, sharp teeth hidden behind a wide, close-lipped smile. Leaning forward, he plants his tarnished hands on your thighs for stability, then runs his nose along the top of the cut, inhaling one deep breath, his entire ribcage expanding as his chest swells with it.

He stops, holds the scent in his lungs for a moment, lets it ferment into something sick and foul, lets it steep in the tissues and infuses them with you, before finally exhaling, the rush of air frigid against the bleeding gash.

“So pretty,” he murmurs, rubbing his mouth into the blood. “So fucking delicious.”

Tongue unfurling from his mouth, he traces, slow and cautious, around the edges of the wound with the tip, turning rusted blood watery and faded, grotesque streaks painted across your flesh. A noise claws at his throat, desperate to get out as he shoves it back down, tongue flattening over the slit and dragging, measured and meticulous, slick muscle soaking up the percolating blood.

“Alastor,” you nearly moan, dainty fingers curling around his antlers, the sudden touch evoking a growl from deep within his chest.

“Let your Owner clean it,” he spits against the injury, lips brushing it again, voice muffled by your skin.

And so, you do—because you’re nothing if not an obedient little pet girlfriend for your Owner, back arching as you press your ribs into his mouth, offering yourself up to him.

He laves over the laceration three more times, glazing it in a protective layer of his saliva, glimmering in the light with each of your shallow breaths.

“Better,” he breathes, the word nothing more than a wisp of air against the wet cut, chills skittering across your flesh.

“Th-Thank you, Master,” you whisper, fingers tugging on his antlers a little, desperate to get him closer. “I—It felt nice.”

Crimson eyes flick up, his gaze veiled by heavy lids as he laps at his lips, cleaning them of excess blood, some of it streaked along his chin.

And, oh, how breathtakingly beautiful he looks coloured in strokes of you.

Hips twitching a little, your thighs tense around his torso, and he looks down again, eyes honing in on the drenched lace between your legs, panties molding to your cunt and accentuating every dip, every bump, every contour.

He chuckles at the sight—something dark, something decadent, something demeaning melting on his tongue.

“Well,” he pants softly to himself, pride tweaking the edges of his smile. “Would you look at that.”

A finger traces the outline of your cunt—over your hood, along your lips, circling your hole and just barely pressing into it, watching with a morbid fascination the way it flutters against his finger, delicate material dipping, trying to siphon his finger into you.

“You would like that, you nasty little girl.”

But he’s aroused, too, his cock straining eagerly against his trousers, a direct result of your sweet blood still tinging his tongue, your precious yelps of pain still ringing in his ears. Saliva pools in the dips of your mouth as you stare at it, thighs flexing on either side of him again, another gush of warmth flooding the apex of your legs.

“Master, you’re—” you begin in a stringy, needy whine, swallowing thickly. “You—You’re…Can we…”

“Can we what?”

A knuckle finds your chin, drawing your eyes back to his, a thumb gripping the point, inhibiting you from fleeing his invasive stare.

“Come now, it’s rude not to finish your sentence.”

Pricks of embarrassment erupt across your face, eyes teetering on a wince as you force the stubborn words from your tongue, question trembling.

“Can we fuck?”

Crimson searches your face, pupils pulsing with a vile sort of voracity, consuming his irises bit by bit as he contemplates. His gaze is cutting, slicing into you as it torturously pulls apart your features and examines them one by one.

And you—you let him, open and willing and vulnerable and raw as you bear your soul to him, as you rip yourself open for him, as your fingers dig through meat and blood and bone to get to your core, offering it to him wholeheartedly.

“Perhaps,” he finally responds, reaching for his surgical needle and thread. “I’m going to re-stitch this now,” he tells you, voice a touch huskier than before. “If you are well behaved as I tend to the wound—no squirming, no complaining—I might just give you what you want.”

His stare holds your own, an eyebrow raising, imbued with inquiry.

Are you ready to play?

Oh, he isn’t going to make it easy for you, but you’re up for the challenge.

#alastor x reader #alastor x you #alastor x y/n #alastor smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel x you #hazbin hotel smut #tw:blood

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lvllns · 2 years

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me squinting suspiciously at aeran: what the fuck have you been doing

#reed.txt #reed plays wayfarer #i'm still stuck on the whole 'a wayfarer was here roughly 20 years ago'#and how his presence wasn't picked up on even though it SHOULD HAVE BEEN considering he's a massive blank spot #and now this conversation with the astrials and the knowledge that like. you can use them to attune to a sphere of magic.#i'm also very Hm that SOMEONE knew where he was but not that he wasn't alone #'the spear and the dagger right?' he. he pulled a dagger out from the floorboards in the destroyed apartment? he said like extra or spare #shaking him by the scruff of his fucking neck BRO COME ON NOW

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ozzgin · 2 months

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Yandere! Yokai Harem x Reader (III)

On your travels with the two demon companions, you stumble upon a fortified village plagued by monster attacks. It would be quite unlucky if the grand finale happened just as you step foot inside, right? Worry not, you're saved by a third mysterious yokai that you immediately recognize. The harem grows!

Content: female reader, monsters, violence

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Character Guide]

“Alright, how’s this?”

You do a clumsy pirouette before the two yokai men.

“That’s...are you sure?” Kiritsubo eyes you, mildly confused. “It’s usually what men wear.”

Of course, you already know. After weeks of walking through feudal Japan, you’ve reached the conclusion that modern clothing isn’t the most practical choice. Not to mention the strange looks you always get from other people upon your arrival in any village. You needed something to blend in, and the typical fashion for your gender might not be compatible with your training. You’d rather not swing a sword while covered in multiple layers of kimono.

Thus, you opted for the hakama pants typically worn by men. With your hair tied up and in this baggy attire, one could think you’re a young samurai. If they squint enough. You chuckle at the thought.

“She’ll wear whatever allows her to not be a burden.” Murasaki concludes with crossed arms.

One way to put it, you tell yourself.

“If you’re done discussing fashion, we can leave.” The dark-haired man continues with indifference, standing up and adjusting the swords in the folds of his sash.

Both you and Kiritsubo hurry and follow behind obediently.

“Where are we going this time?” You ask sheepishly.

“South-west. An old residence of his, although we will have to pass through a fortified settlement first. We should reach it before sunset.”

It’s hard to imagine you’re the supposed savior in this equation. Murasaki has been leading you by the hand each step, carefully considering every detail on the map, and extensively planning your travels every evening. All this on top of your daily training. You’ve now mastered the basics with the katana he’s provided you, as well as some common prayers for exorcising small-class demons.

You glance at the daisho pair of swords under his belt. A long, thin blade, and a shorter backup version, both in elaborate matching scabbards meant to showcase the status and wealth of the samurai wearing them. In this case, meant to express his rank as the advisor and right hand of the famed onmyōji. You certainly don’t doubt Nakamaro’s decision to rely on Murasaki.

In comparison, Kiritsubo carries a nagamaki at his waist. A comically long blade in your opinion, used mostly to bring down horses during battle. Any regular sword would’ve been too small for him. Despite his imposing appearance, you’ve learned rather quickly just how different Kiritsubo is from the other yokai. He’s quite clumsy in combat, often anxious about making mistakes, terribly apologetic, and overall has a heart too kind for his own good. If there’s hesitation coming from his side, Murasaki immediately follows with his ruthless, ending blows. As a matter of fact, even you’ve had to do the occasional killing to spare the man of such choices.

The silver-haired demon notices your eyes on him and smiles, excited. He reminds you of a large dog. A horned, fanged dog of monstrous strength, nonetheless the innocence is there. And he does make a great travel companion.

“How much longer?” You grunt, looking up.

“Are you tired? I can carry you for the rest of the way-” Kiritsubo instantly offers but is interrupted by Murasaki’s barked orders.

“She can walk. Don’t spoil her.” He glares at you, then nods ahead. “We’re almost there, so quit your whining.”

True to his word, you can finally discern the outline of a wall at the top of the hill. A few more steps, and you can even spot two guards standing beside the great gate.

“Stop there!”

The soldiers lift their spears threateningly. Before you can react, Murasaki steps in front of you with a hand placed on his sword.

“We’re just passing through.” He states factually.

“We’re no longer allowing visitors.” One of the guards exclaims. “The village has been raided by monsters recently and our Lord has closed all gates until the matter is solved.”

“That means no filthy demons go in.” The other adds in a mocking tone, his gaze lingering on the horns of your companions. His mouth curls in disgust.

You can tell Murasaki is angered by the disrespectful approach. He is not one to let such insults slide and you’d rather avoid him claiming unnecessary victims; therefore, you push past his arm and plant yourself ahead with a polite greeting bow.

“These yokai are with me. I vouch for their good behavior, so please consider letting us through. Perhaps we can even help you with these monsters.”

“You? How would you…”

The man stops abruptly, switching between you and the yokai. Eventually he inspects your scabbard, and he gasps, confusion twisting his features.

“Could it be? No…He’d be dead by now.”

“What are you talking about?” His partner inquires impatiently.

“That’s the family seal belonging to Abe no Nakamaro.” He explains, pointing to the golden finish at the end of your katana handle. “I’ve heard about him from my grandparents. But it’s been decades!”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re saying this kid is a legendary onmyōji?”

“Who else would show up with demons as servants? Everything matches. Perhaps his powers have finally reached immortality”, he concludes solemnly.

The men continue their argument, and you clear your throat, embarrassed. What the hell? You can’t possibly look that manly. Sure, you’ve been skipping the makeup, and the clothes aren’t exactly curve shaping, but to be mistaken for an old man is like a slap to the face.

You’re about to deny their claims, but Murasaki swiftly pinches the back of your neck, and you wince. He lowers himself to your ear and whispers:

“This will be to our advantage. Just go along with it.” “Fine!” You mumble angrily. Then you turn back to the guards.

“V-very well, I see I haven’t been forgotten.” You admit, theatrically. “Lead me to your Lord and we shall discuss the details of your monster attack.”

Thus, you sip on your tea, kneeling at the luxurious table and awaiting the arrival of the feudal Lord. The servants are exchanging words, gossiping fervently next to the wall. “I wonder if he can cure my daughter!” one woman mumbles, visibly emotional.

“Do you think we can finally be saved? He’ll truly exorcise the beasts tormenting our village?” another whispers.

You wipe the sweat from your forehead and glare at Murasaki. You had no idea he’d given you Nakamaro’s old sword. Now you’re stuck pretending to be a pompous, long-dead asshat.

“What if they catch us?” You hiss between your teeth. “I don’t know shit about onmyōdō.”

“Then I’ll just kill them all. Simple as that.” The crimson-eyed man retorts, unconcerned. “Have a little fun, won’t you?”

“W-we’ll help you come up with answers, (Y/N). Don’t worry.” Kiritsubo chimes in, trying to reassure you.

You sigh in frustration and look out the window. The sun must’ve set a long time ago and has since been replaced by a pitch-black sky. What’s keeping the Lord? Surely, he can’t be having important business meetings late at night.

Almost as if your thoughts were read, the door slides open and a servant wobbles in. The rest of the household workers are silent, expecting the entrance of their master, but no one is following behind. You observe the bizarre limp of the woman. Suddenly, she collapses to the floor, revealing her bloodied back torn by deep wounds, caused by some sort of claw. Her body is stiff.

Panic settles in right away, and the servants topple over each other to get away from the fresh cadaver. You struggle to get up among the terrified crowd, but thankfully Murasaki grabs your wrist and pulls you out into a quieter hallway.

“What the hell?” is all you manage to say.

“Rotten.” Kiritsubo furrows his brows, sniffing the air. “Someone in here must be possessed. Could be more of them.”

Murasaki surveys the surroundings and gestures towards his partner.

“We have to see if the Lord is still alive. You go that way. I’ll take the front. Kill everyone suspicious.”

“What about me?” You demand, holding your breath.

“Get out and wait for us. You know how to draw a protection circle, don’t you? I won’t take long.” The dark-haired yokai answers before vanishing.

Judging by the screams and wails coming from all directions, you suspect Kiritsubo is right about multiple attackers. You sprint across the hall, looking for an opening. The self-defense lessons didn’t cover cursed humans with demonic powers. You’ll stay out of this one.

What an absolute mess. You have encountered some demons in your weeks spent here, but nothing to this degree. When the guards mentioned a monster attack, you imagined a ghost with a grudge, or some small fry yokai scaring the workers at night, not a mass curse that ends in a massacre. Of course, it had to happen the moment you arrived at the main house.

You find a room with a door leading to the inner courtyard. Seems isolated enough and it should provide a bit of shelter while you wait for the pair to finish the business. As you rush past the dead bodies, you notice a woman hiding behind a screen divider.

“Ah! It’s you!” she yells, aware of your presence.

From the shadow of her secret spot emerges the small frame of a child. The woman pushes the little human towards you, blocking your path.

“Don’t worry, he’ll protect us.” she gives her child another nudge. “Go on, hold onto him. You’ll be safe.”

What? No, no, no, no, no. Not happening. You’re getting out.

“Ma’am, sorry to break it to you under such circumstances, but I’m not-”

You’re interrupted by a loud growl. One of the possessed creatures must’ve followed your scent, and it’s now sliding into the room on all fours with the bones of the limbs twisting and creaking in unnatural pounces. You purse your lips in a frightened grimace. One advantage of the wide hakama pants – useful to know – is that no one can see your knees shaking cowardly.

Theoretically, you could use the brat as bait and run for your life. It’d make a decent obstacle. Unfortunately for your life span, you’ve been gifted with an idiotic sense of duty instead of survival instincts.

“Keep your distance. If I can’t kill it, get out and don’t look back” you advise, positioning yourself in the learned stance and sliding the sword out of its sheath.

Damn it! Then again, it should be like fighting a zombie, right? Given the pathetic way it drags itself around, it can’t be too difficult to hit. Aim for the head, you repeat in your mind. Your fingers grip around the handle.

The ghoulish beast lowers itself, like a spring about to recoil, and leaps across the room with an ease you did not anticipate. Despite your iron hold, it slaps the blade out of your hands with enormous force. The impact breaks your skin, and you wince. There’s no time to weep, within seconds it could go for your vitals next. While Murasaki hasn’t gotten around to teaching you much hand-to-hand combat, you’ve read your fair share of shounen manga. The first idea that comes to mind is to put the beast in a sumo lock. You bend your knees smoothly and wrap your arms around the monster, feeling for something to hold onto. You grit your teeth and attempt to lift the creature.

A thundering laugh resonates within the walls, and you jolt, startled.

“I never thought I’d see the mighty Abe no Nakamaro wrestling with ankle biters like this. What are you going to do, throw it out of the ring?”

The voice is deep, loud, and unfamiliar. You can’t afford to look back to see the source, but it’s not hard to figure out the possibilities. So far, you’ve only been called by that cursed name by the yokai accomplices. Although now is not the best time to seek revenge.

“Shut up, I panicked”, you snap in frustration. “If you can’t help, keep that trap closed!”

The sudden burst of anger seems to have triggered something within your body, a power you don’t recognize. You watch as your arms effortlessly pick up the monster and swing it across the room, its body demolishing the opposing wall and causing thick clouds of dust to rise and spread everywhere.

The impact must’ve alerted the nearby ghouls, as you can now hear the agitated trample and screeching rapidly approaching. You’re not confident you can pull the same lucky move a second time.

You turn to search for your sword, but it’s already being handed to you by the mysterious yokai who’s been observing your little fight. You have to step aside and tilt your head all the way back in order to fully view the gigantic frame of the man.

Ah, you recognize the features immediately. The same kind of fear you felt when you stumbled upon that old shrine statue is now tugging at your chest.

“You’re Suma, right?”

A proud, wide grin forms on his face, revealing a pair of glistening fangs. His expression is unexpectedly soft and friendly.

“We’re halfway through our introductions then, eh?” You pick up the sword and his fingers stretch out for a handshake. “What is your given name? I’m guessing you don’t willingly go by that…title.”

“I very much prefer (Y/N), yes.” You marvel at the significant difference in size, placing your small hand in his. “Was that your power I just used?”

“Mhhm. You sure surprised me there! It’s not something I did intentionally, but I s’ppose we just resonate that well, huh?”

He laughs again, completely unbothered by the impending danger.

“Alright, you can leave the rest to me. Take the lady outside, it will get a little messy.”

And with that, he casually walks towards the gathering of ghouls. You guide the family to the courtyard and wait for the battle to end.

“Do you think she’ll be fine by herself?” Kiritsubo is resting against the fence, keeping you under a watchful gaze.

“Let the humans sort it out among themselves.” Murasaki responds, somewhat bored.

The morning after the attack, you offered to deal with the survivors: ask them how everything started, if they’d noticed anything suspicious days prior to the event, and if the route to Nakamaro’s old residence was still open. The yokai men had found the feudal Lord in the jaws of a possessed creature and he quickly succumbed to his wounds. Consequently, only the remaining servants could provide them with clues.

A village being targeted like this is highly unusual, and Murasaki can’t shake the feeling it could be related to their master.

“Oh, where are you heading after this?” The silver-haired yokai glances at Suma, sitting lazily next to them.

“Where? After you just told me the whole story? I’m way too invested in this modern reincarnation that just popped out of nowhere, so I’m tagging along!” He announces with a chuckle.

Murasaki frowns.

“We don’t need your help.”

“Don’t be like that.” The giant man pouts dramatically. “Are you upset I saved (Y/N) before you?”

“W-we were on our way!” Kiritsubo retorts, visibly bothered.

“It’s a done deal!” Suma rests his hands under his head and yawns. “Besides, the little human already said he doesn’t mind.”

“He? (Y/N) is a woman.”

The redhead abruptly sits up and gasps.

“Wait, what?”

“Don’t get funny ideas, man”, the silver-haired demon warns.

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adams-angels · 3 months

Note

ÓHi, could you smut Adam x fem Reader he has sex with Lucifer's wife

💖 I can certainly try! I had alot of fun writing this one idk why? I think I went slightly off topic but hopefully it's okay!💖

Revenge 😈

Adam X Lucifers wife!reader

💖 Please send me requests! Send me your own headcanons! I will draw! I'm obsessed rn!💖

Smut below the cut! Minors dni

Extermination day. Every year it's the same. Your husband always disappears a week leading up to the events and then a week after. You're already lonely since he spends most of his time making ducks. It was cute at first and now it's just annoying. You want attention. Any kind will do at this point.

You walk out onto the balcony looking down on the carnage that's destroying hell. You see a sinner nearby. "Oh, hello! Come inside you'll be sa-" a spear pierces through the being. "Shit." You grumble to yourself, leaning on the railing. "Awh, don't look so glum, slut." You didn't know why but he always visited. He'd always tease you about being alone the most dangerous time of year.

You roll your eyes at the voice. "hello, Adam." Groaning as you look up to the giant in mid flight. "What's up, babe? Luci left you alone and helpless another extermination day?" His obnoxious smile covers his face as he hovers above her. You push yourself off from the balcony railing, crossing your arms as your glare at him. "I'm not "helpless" Adam." You declare. It's true, you survived many extermination days before you married Lucifer.

"oh? What's stopping me from killing you right now then?" Adam asked, he thought he was so smart. "I don't know," you shrug. "why don't you tell me? I'm leaving myself wide open here, yet you're just..." You gesture to his body in flight. "There." He blinked. You could tell his little man brain was going into over time trying to find an excuse. "How abou- you just- argh!" He swoops down placing his hands on the railing, facing now inches apart. "Why don't you just fuck off and die!" He yelled. "Why don't you do your job and kill me?" You replied with a smirk.

He growled. "Won't your little friends be like, pissy, that you're sparing me?" You tilt your head with a smirk. "Won't your little husband be like, pissy?" You were confused. What did he mean by that? Before you knew it he closed the gap between you both and kissed you. Nothing fancy, a quick peck. He pushed himself away, both of you stared at each other like a deer in headlights.

You were only brought back to reality when Adam screamed and flapped his wings, blowing wind in your face. "AHH! FUCK YOU! WHORE- DIRTY FUCKIN- DIE, BITCH! I HATE YOU!" He yelled as he flew away, tripping on nothing as he headed back into the blood filled city. You touch your lips. Did that really just happen?

You head back into your marital bedroom. "What the fuck.." you mutter to yourself. You want to feel guilty, you really do. Lucifer is a good husband, but to be touched.. kiss. Fuck. From that moment on Adam consumed your thoughts. You longed for the next extermination day.

The year dragged. You just wanted to see Adam again. You wanted to fluster him. But the day was the day. You dressed up for it. God, it was sick you were excited for this disgusting day but it would be the only time you see him. Putting on your best little black dress you head to the balcony and wait.

The heavens open so it was only a matter of time before he'd come. At least you hoped. The day went on, you heard the screams, the pleading, the cries. All day. You usually last a couple of hours but all day was a bit much. You kicked nothing on the floor, frustrated that you let yourself believing he would return to you. You were a sinner. That's all he ever saw you as, that's all you ever will be to him.

You open the door to return to the bedroom but freeze. "Sup, sugartits." Adam. He wasn't sounding insufferable as usual. "What? Missed me?" Your turn to face him. He was right by the railing. His cocky smile was a cover up, that much you could tell. You step closer and slap him, hard. Good thing you're not a fallen angel other wise his mask would or cracked. "Hey! What the fuck was that for, bitch?!" He yelled in your face. In response you grab his collar kissing him, aggressively.

"I want you." You tell him, asserting your dominance. "O-okay.." his response surprisingly timid. You take his hand and lead him inside to your bed. Turning around a photo of Lucifer. "Yeah, that'll help with the guilt." Adam teased with a smirk, his narcissistic tone returning. "Shut up." You hiss, climbing on top of him, straddling his lap. "Mask off." "How did you kno-" "I'm not dumb, dickweed. Off."

He peels off his mask, he's a lot more handsome than you thought he was, still had that fucking grin. You move into his neck, gently kissing to gauge a reaction. You feel his member hardening underneath you. "You ready to get fucked by the first dick created, babe?"

"you know technically you're not the first dick created. You're the first human dick, sure but not the fi-" you're interrupted by his tongue down your throat. "Maybe shut up, yeah?" He mumbled in the kiss. Your tongues explored each others, as he gripped onto your hips lifting you up slightly to remove your panties to discover you're not wearing any. Pulling away from the kiss "Really? Someone's desperate?" He peppered your neck in kissed. "S-shut it."

He snaked his arms around your waist and flipped you into the bed. He towered over you. Why did God have to make the first man so tall? Hell, who are you to question?! You like it. You help him take off his robe and admire his body. It's pudgier than you were expecting, but you're not complaining. "Like what you see, sweet?"

He returned to your neck, his tongue travels from your ear down your collar bone to your chest then your nipple. Circling his tongue around it as his hardens. Taking it aggressively in his mouth as his hand travels down your body. Two of his fingers separate your folds while his middle finger prods your entrance. You can't help but gasp at his touch. He knows what he's doing.

As he inserts a single digit in your expectant cunt you can't help but reach for his hair, tugging at his locks. A grunt escapes from him. Slowly he fingers you, using his thumb to gently rub your clit. "Ah- Adam~!" You quietly moan. He releases your nipple and looks up at your desperate face. "Oh, fuck yeah, baby. Say my name." He inserts a second finger inside of you. Curling his fingers up, hitting your stop just right.

"m-more!" You demand. "What did I say?" He Purrs. "M-more, please- Adam, fuck me, please?" You beg, desperate for his cock. "Good girl." He removed his hand which causes you to whine. He adjusts himself between your legs with a smug grin. "W-what? Why do you look like that." You ask, you weren't even sure if you wanted the answer.

"just revenge is so fucking sweet, babe." He doesn't waste anymore time and thrusts himself inside of you. One hand on your waist, gripping so tightly it will leave a mark. "Fuckin' hell, ngh- y/n.." he grunts. It didn't take long before you were biting down on your arm trying to keep the noise to a minimum. He grabbed your wrist pulling it away from your mouth. "Scream for me, baby. Let everyone hear how much you love my cock." It didn't take long until you were screaming in pleasure, he threw your legs over his shoulders to get a better angle on your g-spot. He used on of his hand to hold your hip to get as deep inside of you as he could. His other hand was rubbing your clit. "A-adam, I'm close!" You exclaimed. "Then what you w-waiting for? Cum on my cock, babe." He fucked you harder not giving your a chance to lose your incoming climax. You pull yourself up, wrapping your arms around his shoulder as your walls contracted on his member. Bringing him closer to the edge. His arms wrapped around you as he continued to fuck you with mercy. "T-tell me you love me." He said. "What?" You were taken back by his request. "Tell me you love me! TELL ME YOU LOVE ME!" He repeated as his voice became more desperate. His hips bucked and his movements became sloppy as he finished inside of you. Collapsing on top of you on the bed.

His face in the nook of your neck once again. "So.... "Tell me you love me", huh?" His only reply is a groan of embarrassment.

～⁠♡✧⁠｡ I really hope you enjoyed! I'm not a writer by any means but I appreciate any support I receive so thank you for reading! ｡✧⁠♡～⁠

#hazbin adam #hazbin hotel adam #hazbin hotel smut #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel #adam x reader #hazbin adam smut #hazbin hotel adam smut #hazbin hotel adam x reader

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margokesses · 5 months

Text

Cannot stop thinking about thresh and reaper in the hunger games movie. Two black boys who are shown to really strong and could easily take out the other tributes. And how they're precieved as violent because of it.

But when they enter the arena they're seen as the exact opposite. The only death that we see thresh take on screen is clove bc she kept bragging about rue's death. Which we can tell hurt him bc if you look at scenes before the games he seems to be protective of her. And he could have easily killed katniss but he spares her life because katniss humanized rue.

And with reaper. We're told that he killed a peacekeeper in his district and he threatens snow but in the arena its shown that the only thing he cares about is protecting dill. He even defends her from attackers in the beginning and tells her to stick by his side.

And I cannot stop thinking about rue's death. And how although it is violent (a spear through her body) it's not shown in a grotesque way (I don't think we even see blood when she pulls it out). And with dill it's a similar situation. A girl with tuberculosis who drinks water that she doesn't know is filled with rat poison. And when she drinks it she doesn't convulse or do anything dramatic she just lays down and dies.

And I can't stop thinking about how those deaths are instantly humanized. Katniss and reaper both scream in anger when they find out about it. They cry about it. And then they instantly mourn her. Katniss stays with rue until the end and sings with her until she passes and then gathers flowers to give her a proper burial. And it's the same with dill. Reaper grabs her body (and the other tributes and removes their weapons) and he covers them with the flag of the capitol. To show that they're the cause of tributes deaths.

And then katniss and reaper bodly faces the camera and expresses disdain for what's going on. Katniss raises the 3 finger salute and reaper screams "are you gonna punish me now??"

And I cannot stop thinking about how when thresh dies you don't see any of it you just hear screams. And when marcus is in the arena he is tied up and beaten and shown as an example bc he ran away and he could have easily died a violent death from the other tributes. But he is given a mercy killing by another tribute. And when Jessup dies. It's because he has rabies from protecting Lucy gray from the bats on the train. But he also dies in a non violent way bc he was given water to scare him away and he just ends up accidently falling. And how when reaper dies its him being engulfed in snakes because he finally accepted his fate.

And idk this probably doesn't make sense bc it's currently 4am in the morning but as a Black fan I am glad that in a world where my people are constantly dehumanized and our graphic deaths are released in video format for the world to see and be desentized too....

It's nice to not see anything violent and dehumanizing about us in a series about kids dying to the death. Like everyone knows that the black kids are gonna die but they could have done something really violent with them and it's nice to not see that happen.

#the hunger games #tbosas #the ballad of songbirds and snakes #reaper ash #thresh #rue #jessup diggs #marcus #dill #hush ke #my only critique is the colorism in rue and dill casting but that's a topic for another time

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mournings-stars · 3 months

Note

Hello hello! I’d like to request some platonic into romantic headcannons on an Alastor x fallen ex-exorcist/exterminator reader please :>

Small background: Reader fell for whatever reason and maybe a few days to a week (or even months-) afterward they end up striking a deal with Alastor, where they’ll be under his protection (because as skilled as they are it wouldn’t matter much with the entirety of hell on their ass) but he gets a pretty good portion of their power in return or maybe something else that you think Alastor would take.

Gender neutral reader pls

I’ve only read one fic or two with this concept and I am on my hands and knees for more lol

If you prefer a different writing format or feel this is too specific or OC-ish please please please feel free to change anything! I’m not very picky ^^

Thank you for your time and have a good day/night!

okay i LOVE this concept — i think it be the slowest fucking burn in the world tho like

you were never one of adam’s favorites, as you had the tendency to spare demons who seem harmless, but covered it nearly everytime

during this last extermination, however, he was trying to catch you fucking up the plan, so the minute you skipped over someone, he had lute launch her weapon at you

i doubt he’d let her kill you or anything, but he definitely just left you there for the demons to finish off, probably pinned to the ground with lute’s spear in your wing or something before he called all the other exorcists back (and he made sure to leave your halo so even if you did change clothes people knew what you were)

luckily (not really) you’d be in cannibal town, so before anyone could get to you, alastor’s probably just walking around like nothings happening (LMAO) and sees you

i doubt he’d make it known he saw you, like he’d definitely keep humming merrily down the street until he saw you struggling to get away from him as quickly as possible and tearing your wing even more

“my, my, let’s calm down, shall we?” he’d laugh and take the spear out of your wing. “isn’t that better, little bird?” but he’d say that while literally pointing the spear at you so don’t feel too safe

you’d definitely get defensive and shoot into the air with your weapon, ready to kill, and i think after seeing you still attempting to fly with that damaged of a wing (like its fucked up), he’d be impressed enough to drop the spear he had with a very big grin

“you’d better hide, little bird”

and you’d take his warning to fly off, quickly snatching lute’s weapon with yours in case you needed to defend yourself

he would literally just smile and watch you leave before continuing to hum and walk down the street

it’d probably be like a solid three days of hiding and having to fight for your life before the damage to your wing really messed with you and you had to force yourself to find a good hiding place

maybe you see charlie on the news and notice that no one seems to want to go to her hotel, so you force yourself to fly all the way there like a week after her horrible interview (ep 1) and practically collapse at the front door

of course you recognize vaggie and of course you practically run over and hug her despite the spear pointed at you… and of course that means vaggie either may or may not have to confess depending on if you pick up that no one knows or not (off the concept but im sparing chaggie heartbreak)

“who the fuck is this?” would be the first thing you hear from a spider demon and you’d have to explain what you were and hope they didn’t kill you — which, duh, charlie wouldn’t that let happen

“hello again, little bird,” would make everyone shut up because… how does alastor know you??? of course, he doesn’t answer their questions, just says hello and moves on like it’s all normal

your first day would totally be catching up with vaggie, probably breaking down because you needed to get back to heaven and had no way there

i think exorcists probably have a little bit of angelic power, but they probably can’t create portals without that power being given to them or something which means you have no way home and no where to go

vaggie and charlie of course tell you to stay, but once anyone shows up they’ll know you’re here and all of hell would be coming to the hotel to try and get to you — and you didn’t want to ruin what they had going (even if it was small you thought it was a great idea) so they probably give you a change of clothes, something more hellish, and tell you to stay until you have somewhere else to go

that would probably give alastor the perfect opportunity to talk to you privately and offer his protection

you wouldn’t take his offer at first, but once pentious shows up and the overlords somehow find out that charlie is hiding an angel in her hotel (vox and his stupid drones) you dont really have a choice

i dont think he’d ask for any power in return, but i do think you’d owe him a favor each time he has to protect you

vox would probably give subtle hints in all the programs he runs, so alastor would have to protect you very often

that meant if he ordered you to get rid of someone, you did it — whether that meant by the snap of your fingers with holy light (which they could potentially survive or respawn from) or killing them with your exorcist weapon was totally up to him sometimes, he just asked that you create a bouquet of flowers for his room

usually the people he had you “take care of” were repulsive enough, and you never minded creating things with your abilities, so you agreed to what he asked with ease

it’d be a little time before who he instructed you to “take care of” slowly shifted to anyone who wronged you

of course, he’d still protect you, but if he didn’t own their soul and he didnt have an angelic weapon, he couldn’t ensure that they wouldn’t come back, so he asked you, “do you think they’ll come back for you, little bird?” if you were unsure, or knew it was likely they’d come back for the person that ended up being the reason they had to go through the painful process of respawning, he’d tell you to just kill them

it’d probably come to a point where he stopped asking for favors, made sure you were alright, and told you to focus on what you needed to do while he “did his job”

i think eventually you’d find a place you think could be safe and once your wing is totally healed up and alright you’d say your goodbyes even though you weren’t that close with anyone but vaggie (also i feel like niffty would be down to talk to u about her bug battles or some shit)

anyway, when you go to say bye to alastor, he definitely cashes in his favor with a simple “hmm, no” cus he sees no reason for you to leave??? like so what everyone else’s lives are in danger by you being here… you’re safer here

so you’d stay, and it’d definitely make charlie happy because if she can get an angel back to heaven that’d prove she could actually do this

you’d be pissed at alastor for a while, but slowly, it seemed like demons understood that by coming for you, they were fucking with the radio demon (and we all know how that goes) so after a few months you were finally left alone

in that time you’d totally help spruce up the hotel while slowly forgetting why you wanted to go back

but every once in a while you’d have a very prolonged sadness about the situation… heaven was your home after all, and even if you liked the hotel, you could never leave because the minute you stepped outside, there was a line for your head — you were trapped there (like a bird in a cage — hence the nickname)

i think even though everyone likes having you there, vaggie would eventually bring up lucifer (like he can literally open a portal…)

but immediately alastor is not fucking having it and he cashes in another one of his pent up favors, saying that getting back to heaven through a fallen angel was the dumbest thing you could do if you wanted it to look like you were the one wronged in this situation (he has a point i fear)

i think this is where you kind of accept that you’re not going home and maybe just give up because 1. you can’t go to the heaven embassy since you’d just be met with adam and 2. the only person that could get you contact wasn’t a good option

i think now would be when alastor recognizes how much you want to go home and finds himself feeling bad?? for keeping you, but he just wants you to get home safely and surely

still, once he sees that you literally wont leave your room and have contemplated taking your own halo he compromises to let you try going to the heaven embassy to see if you could get a meeting with anyone but adam

you said it wasn’t possible, but he insisted “i can’t have you looking so upset all the time, birdie” he’d say while using his hand to squish your cheeks into a smile just to make you laugh

so you’d go — i think you’d totally get there safely but once demons see an exorcist angel coming out of the heaven embassy, you have to fight the minute you step out of the building

you can 100% see holy light from the hotel, so the minute alastor sees a golden beam he’s out the door

you can handle your own, so you fought them off, but i’d imagine you get injured and that’s what really makes alastor realize he’s falling for you cus he’s seething

even just a minuscule amount of golden blood on you had him tearing apart any demon who even looked like they’d been near you

i hate to say it but i don’t think this would be a happy ending — reader loves heaven even though they hate being an exorcist and alastor knows that so he’d definitely keep his feelings hidden and if you showed any signs of feelings for him he’d be terrified because an angel falling, literally falling because thats what would happen to you, for someone like him would never get you back home

obviously it’d come to a point where he doesn’t want you to leave, but at the same time, he’d never keep you

if i did end up writing an actual fic of this it’d probably end on a bit of a cliffhanger ex. reader getting accepted back and being hesitant with alastor’s last favor just him saying, “if you want to stay for anyone, don’t,” and letting you decide whether or not to go back

OR reader being accepted back but still having to be an exorcist, so the next time they see alastor is the finale where adam would 100% put them against him

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin charlie #hazbin adam #hazbin hotel headcanon #hazbin vaggie #hazbin angel dust #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x reader #alastor x you #hazbin x reader #hazbin x you #charlie hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel vaggie #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel heaven #hazbin lute

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tadpolesonalgae · 3 months

Text

Can’t Bring Myself To Hate You - Part 13

Azriel x Third-Oldest-Archeron-Sibling!Reader

a/n: team long-hair Eris or team short-hair?

word count: 6,921

-Part 12- -Part 14-

——————————————————————————————————————————————

“Eris,” you groan weakly, staring at the plate of food set before you.

“Have you made any progress?” He asks absently, not even bothering to look up.

“It’s been three days,” you say, staring at him as you lean back in your seat, head tipping back to try and distract from the rich scent that’s taunting you. “I’ll take that as a no.”

Your eyes squeeze shut, stomach cramping with hunger as you try to think of something other than food. It’s been so long since you’ve had to consciously draw your attention away from starvation, you’re lacking the discipline. Before, it would have been a case of chopping wood, or counting the grains on different floorboards, but now your focus darts about like a crazed sparrow.

For three days he’s withheld food. Three days he’s set you down with a meal. Three days of being instructed to summon something—a spark, of some kind—and you can eat. A day of boredom, a day of listlessness, and now a day filled with ravenous hunger. Again, your stomach rumbles, carving aches through muscle, teeth gritting together.

The room is large—cavernous. A tall window is to your far right, Eris sat at a large desk before it while his pen scratches away on parchment. The great four-poster bed is at your back, with you sat glumly atop the chest at its foot, staring at the plate laden with simple but lovely food. Not even fully out of reach, but entirely off limits. Instead, you attempt to peer beyond, gold and amber flame flickering wildly within the fireplace, burning free of logs, sustained entirely by his magic, constantly chipping away at the steady accumulation of strain so as to keep himself intact.

“How am I supposed to do anything if I don’t have fuel to feed off?” You ask absently, enraptured by the wicked dance of the fire, mind beginning to buzz dully, eyes losing focus. “Show a spark of magic, and you can eat until you’re full,” he replies, glancing at another sheet of paper before redirecting his attention. “This is torture,” you mutter, managing to shoot him a glare, unwilling to shift your body too much in case the aches spear up into your ribs. “What a wonderful life you’ve had,” he murmurs, before neatly scrawling something on a spare sheet. You deepen the intensity of the glare, wishing to cast a tiny spark of his own flame against the stacks of dry, crisp paper.

His pen comes to a halt, and he looks up, peering at a clock on the wall—midday. Perfectly on schedule, he sets the paper to the side, standing fluidly from his desk before reaching for the outer layer he’d discarded on the back of his seat, pulling it on over the width of his shoulders, pulling his hair from between the back of the clothing and his spine. Hair as smooth as silk, coming to his waist, burning like the flames he commands. Your eyes drag back to the fire, heavy and tired.

“Up,” he instructs, walking briskly across the floor, boots lightly scuffing against the boards in sharp, elegant steps. Wearily, you clamber to your feet, following behind him as he leads you on the trip that will take the two of you to the crisp air of the outdoors, appearing not entirely opposite from a jewel-toned painting. A sharp, brutal kind of beauty. Today, it’s all you can do to keep up with him, quietened from hunger, tired from starvation as you walk at his side, entering into the dense forest that surrounds the palace.

“What’s the point of this?” You ask quietly, watching as you take step after step, lightly frosted leaves crumpling beneath your feet. “That’s up to you,” he replies, leading you deeper into the woods, taking a different route from the stroll he’s chosen the past two. “So there isn’t one,” you mutter, shifting as you usually do to walk behind him, simply following the trail of footsteps, one after the other. “If you spent half the time you do sulking actually putting your mind to training, you’d have found something by now,” he returns, keeping up the pace. “So inspiring,” you mumble, wishing to lie down, but the cold bites at your throat with every breath, so you push on.

“What are you here for?” He asks sharply, your ears twitching from the ice in his tone. “You tell me,” you mutter, “you’re the one who’s supposed to know everything, after all.”

“Not quite everything,” he replies wryly, and you can practically imagine the sharpness to his mouth. “You’re here because you wanted to learn how to control your magic.”

“You’re starving me,” you reply, with a little more bite than is appropriate.

You lift your head, staring tiny needles between his broad shoulders, hair soft as silk as it breezes in the wind, matching the fiery ambers and citrine yellows of the brutal landscape, moss like emeralds clinging to the bark of the trees. The forest is so thick you can’t make out its end, and you wonder how deep the trail is going to go before circling back to the palace. You don’t like forests. All manner of things could lurk inside, no longer restricted to wild deer or rabid wolves.

“Funny, that,” he says quietly, a whispered hiss slicing beneath the edge of his words, hairs rising at the back of your neck. “I’m certain you’ve figured the kitchens are nearby, yet you haven’t so much as taken a single step toward them.” A twig snaps in the distance and your skin prickles into gooseflesh. “Nor have you even attempted to pick at the meals you’re given,” he remarks, ignoring the strange sounds in the distance, pulling you deeper into the density of the enchanted forest. “What’s your point?” You ask warily, the back of your neck beginning to itch, feeling an invisible weight licking up your body. Your eyes dart between the trees, but there’s nothing there. Even the noise of other life has dwindled to a stop, you realise, as if trapping you in a great glass bubble.

“You say you’re starving, yet seem content to remain that way,” he murmurs, absently, moving on silent feet. It’s mildly unsettling how he can move with such stealth. “What are you suggesting? That I just eat the food and lose any sort of motivation to find something?” You reply quietly, subconsciously having lowered your voice to whisper, to avoid being heard. By Something.

“If you understand why your food is being withheld, why are you complaining so frequently?” He murmurs back, the wind dying out, hair resting stilly at his back. “I don’t know if you’ve ever lived in poverty, Eris,” you whisper sharply, “but starvation isn’t an enjoyable pain.”

“An unenjoyable pain suggests the existence of pleasurable pain,” he replies, paces slowing as he peers around the wood. “No wonder you favour the Shadowsinger.”

“What are you talking about?” You sigh exasperatedly, marking a triptych of claw marks on a nearby tree.

But he’s come to a stop, turning preternaturally still, as if frozen in time. So still, he looks like a painting. You wonder briefly how Feyre would choose to render him. You doubt she’d want to paint him at all.

Silence falls thick and heavy. Tension crawling through tendons, threading its way tight through your skeleton, until you’re strung taut, poised to smash like ceramic upon concrete. “Eris?” You whisper, not even a breath, syllables contained within the space of a blink. “What’s happening?” You move to take a step forward, but he holds his hand up, attention remaining forward, piercing into something you’re unable to see, or even smell. Whatever it is, is utterly undetectable to your senses.

And by the moment you can pick it out, it’s already too late.

Hundreds of pounds of weight and muscle slam into you, sending you careening across the ground, the very earth trembling as paws thunder forward, a single arm larger than your whole body. Rock cracks against your spine, and the air is shoved from your lungs. Lips part on ghostly breaths, air rattling in and out as your nails split beneath the pressure of biting into rough stone. Paws shake the ground either side of you, large, ivory tusks curling around a blunt snout, snorting and huffing hot breath in moist tendrils.

Sweat beads on your brow, wide eyes locking with wild aggression, a bellowing roar whipping the hair away from your face with the force of its fury. The beast rears, pushing up onto its hind legs, front paws peddling forward in the air, watery sunlight glinting off steel-like claws, poised to shred down on you.

Hands rise without a second thought, as simple as breathing, and for a fraction of a second, the wall on your power cracks. Shorter than a breath, quicker than a blink, pure magic detonates through the forest, a wave of searing heat blazing through your skin as the pulse finds the beast, knocking thick trunks down as it goes. Wood splinters, earth raining down from the sky, twigs and sticks and logs smashing into the ground, crunching upon rock. Snapping like bone.

You stare with wide eyes at the creature, an awful screaming sound coming from its lungs, paws strung taut and kicking wildly, as if attempting to run. The piercing tang of iron spears through the clearing, clumps of fur falling loosely, slabs of skin sliding off its still-kicking carcass. The squealing dies to choked splutters, wet crunches sounding with each breath as the body pulses weakly, heart still pumping as blood leaks from skinned muscle.

The tubes of your stomach spasm, clenching and retching, trying to haul something up but you’re utterly empty. Eris isn’t as fortunate. While saliva drips from your lips, thick and slimy, he’s upending everything just behind a tree, as if having lost control of his own body. Deep, spasming breaths hiccup in and out of you wetly, needing something to regurgitate.

Already you can feel that burning heat singe at your flesh, sizzling just beneath the surface, flushing beneath your clothes as if sat directly before a bonfire. Perhaps even inside one. A sharp pain pierces through your lungs, feeling as if a needle is pressing into your side with each inhale, having to quickly shallow the breaths. Aches blossom through your temples, colours growing in intensity, parts of your vision looking as if someone burn a hole in them, lids feeling like they’re made of stone, so heavy and tired.

The sickening tang of iron is the last thing you remember before collapsing forward, exhausted from the volatility of the detonation, feeling blessed to be being swept under so promptly. Provided with such a swift relief from the pain.

————

The smell of pleasantly flaky pastries wafts from beneath your door, bringing with it the sweetness of cream and berries, apparently a breakfast favourite, here.

Bleary eyes crack open, aches thudding dully across your forehead, just above your brows. The room is a little hazy, white spots dancing, the edges of your vision blurred with strange colours, as if you’ve stared directly into the sun for too long. Foot steps pass somewhere through a wall, and you try to blink dully, but your skin is itching, the dimensions of your chamber shifting with each breath, nausea fluttering up your throat.

Wilfully, you close your eyes, once again passing over into unconsciousness.

————

You’re pulled up into the world by pain, a sharp spear piercing through your chest, tiny needles flung carelessly into your anatomy then closed in, so you have to live with the prickling pain creeping beneath every movement. Skin is damp with dew and the clothes stick to your body, rising and falling with every breath, a chill icing across your torso.

The door swings open silently, and you blink blearily, struggling to recognise the tall, male figure with hair like the rising sun. Amber eyes pierce into you, and he comes to a stop beside your bed. “You’re awake.”

Your brows knit together tight, the noise sending a pulse of pain through your mind, but you manage to sit up, the blanket pooling around your stomach. “What happened?” You mumble, pressing the length of your cold fingers to join across the hollow of your eyes. He sits down in a chair you hadn’t noticed, nor remember, resting his arms atop the supports either side. “What do you remember?”

“I remember the forest…” you murmur, brows still pulled tight, but the aches are beginning to recede. “And…being hungry again. And…we were walking…then everything went quiet…” You close your eyes, tugging at the memories, but the pathing seems to fade into nothing. “There was…something…” Hands press over your face, rubbing either side the bridge of your nose, digging deeper.

The eruption hits you all over again, fresh shock washing through your body like you’ve been thrown into an icy river in the middle of winter. You inhale sharply, air pinching at your lungs, coughing. Pressure throbs through your mind with the force, before retreating gently, slinking back into the darkness where it came from.

“It should come easier to you now,” he says, breaking the buzzing silence. “What will?” You ask groggily, deciding to keep your eyes closed for a little longer. “Your magic,” he reminds.

You stiffen, listening to the heavy thud of your heart against your ribs.

“I’m not doing that again,” you whisper, hands still pressed over your brows, as if able to lock yourself up away from the world. To keep it at bay so you don’t have to continue living through it. Content to reside peacefully away from everything, quiet and alone. In your own safety. “I’m—… I can’t.”

Your heart continues its dull thud, quiet stretching between you, feeling like a chasm slowly stretching wider, and wider, until you can hardly see him at all.

“You should eat,” he says at last. “It’s been four days since you last had a meal. You’ll feel sick for a bit, but it will help.” You swallow dryly, prying your tongue from your teeth. The last thing you want to do right now is eat. Eris sighs, standing from the seat. “Wash too. You’ll feel better once you’re clean.” He turns, heading for the door on silent feet.

“Did you ever experience this?” You ask hoarsely, not looking up—you know he’s heard. Eris pauses at the threshold, and you wait in a whirlpool of silence. “Only a few times,” he replies quietly, “but my magic is different from yours. It will react in different ways.”

You don’t have to hear the door close to know he’s left after that, and you spend an unknown amount of time marinating in the sheets. Thoughts buzzing dully, your mind feeling as the air does before a storm.

Static, and prone to sparking.

————

You manage to clean yourself up easily enough once the shaking subsides. There’s still a slight ache whenever you move your eyes too sharply, but you’re working around it. A spare set of sheets is in the small closet at the foot of the bed, and you feel better once they’re changed. But then it’s the task of eating, and you feel worse from the thought alone. He’d said you would feel better, and you know you will, but that’s hard to get through when you feel on the verge of upending your stomach on the floor.

Slowly, one small mouthful at a time, waiting periods in between to make sure you won’t bring it back up, you manage to get through most of the meal. The small chunks of meat had been the most difficult, now not only charged with memories from the hut, but also from furry flesh sliding… You push the thought away. You had done that. You’d taken its life. Had Feyre ever felt that sense of dirt beneath her nails? Palms now not only itching, but lightly tingling too, as if you’ve rubbed your hands through tree sap, and now they’re clogged and sticky.

Eris finds you again in the evening, in better condition, with a little life in your eyes. He marks the now empty plate, something flickering through his gaze, but you don’t pay enough attention to it to figure what it is. “Feeling better?” He asks shortly, sitting in the chair, and you shift the volume from your lap. “A bit,” you concede, sat cross-legged on the mattress, clean sheets pulled over your lap politely. He nods to the book, “bored out of your mind yet?”

“Only by your charming company,” you reply, forcing your lips to quirk at the edges, desperate to rediscover that familiar rhythm between you. Where you can forget some things for a bit, and float through time peacefully.

His brows narrow, but his eyes glint. “You clearly could have gone longer without the meal,” he says, displeasure in his tone that has your lips quirking further. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

“What do you mean next time?” You ask warily, leaning back into the wall, pulling the sheets higher around your waist. He rolls his eyes, and you’re surprised by how familiar the gesture is; how normal. You wonder if he’s doing it intentionally. “Your control is incredibly poor,” he remarks. “It’s almost as if I don’t have any, and this is something entirely new to me,” you mutter, reaching for the book. He gives you a pointed look, and you stiffen, realising you walked into that one.

“I’m not going back into those woods again,” you say cautiously, eyeing him, feeling the comforting weight of the volume in your lap. All that knowledge, condensed into paper and writing. The edges of his mouth sharpen, and wariness intensifies in your stomach. “I think you’ll much prefer the new approach,” he concedes, leaning back in the chair, body relaxed as he watches you. “And what is your new approach?” You ask, already looking nervous, worry etched into your features. “I don’t know if you remember our first polite conversation,” he muses, “but you became rather animated over that little orrery.”

“I remember…” you reply, frowning at him. What does that have to do with anything? “So we’ll try evoking your magic through positive emotion, rather than through fear, or withholding a vital ingredient.”

“At least you’re aware of what you were doing,” you reply dryly, grimacing as you remember the cramps that had twisted through your stomach.

His eyes slide over you analytically, and you try to shy further into the wall, imaginary hackles rising. “Do you have some more…appropriate attire?” He asks, and you scowl at him hard. “For what?” The answer is probably no either way. “For being within the public eye,” he elaborates, as if it’s obvious. “You can’t be out and about in the clothes you’ve donned these past days.” You bite back your reply, having not thought anything wrong with them. They’re modest, well-fitted, and warm.

They’re probably lacking diamonds dripping from the sleeves, knowing him.

“I’ll take that as a no?” Eris remarks, noting the sullen set of your mouth. He sighs, “understandable. I shouldn’t have expected you to have the foresight to plan for this.” Your lips part, brows pulled together as you stare with disbelieving outrage. “You’re much more likeable when you’re not talking. Maybe try it more often,” he adds when you’re unable to form a response, a gleam in his eyes. You blink, shaking your head slightly. “Just adding insult to injury…” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “I could have died to that creature, you know.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No thanks to you.” An unnervingly amused expression relaxes his features, lips softening at their sharp edges. “No thanks to me indeed,” he remarks quietly. “You fought for your own life. I didn’t think you had it in you,” he croons, a faint glint in his amber eyes.

Your features shift, swirling from mild irritation to quiet loss. Brow curled in the centre of your forehead almost imperceptibly as the words register across your skin. Shoulders slump, breath floating away, spine sloping against the wall, peering at your hands in your lap, crumbling and lumpy. “I didn’t, either,” you murmur. So softly he almost doesn’t catch it. But he sees the way you’re looking at your palms, a mix of disgust, and wariness.

“I wanted to live,” you whisper, brows furrowed. And it’s the look of doubtful perplex that has him pulling his eyes away.

“You sound surprised,” he says quietly, after recollecting himself. But you shake your head dully, still watching your hands. “After living with it for so long…” you say, “being on the verge of it for years…” You trail off, leaving him wondering what marks it might have left below your skin.

You clear your throat, looking up but not quite able to meet his eye. “What happened? To the…the creature?”

“I had it burned,” he replies simply.

“Was it…had it died quickly?” You ask softly. Amber eyes mark the slight tremors in your fingertips, the room still save for the tremble of your hands.

“Yes,” he answers, able to hear the whisper of breath that leaves your chest. The faint look of guilty relief in your expression.

It doesn’t for a second cross your mind he could have lied.

An untruth would serve him no benefit.

————

For the first time in a long time, a curse sits on the tip of your tongue.

“Have you changed?” Eris asks, boredom heavy in his tone. “I’m not wearing this,” you whisper hoarsely, staring at the way the riding trousers grip to your legs, curving in at your waist, wrapped around your calves. You don’t even dare look at yourself from behind.

The iron rings hiss as he pulls the curtain back, and you spin around, stumbling back into the mirror. “Eris. Get out.” He raises a brow at the sharp tone, mildly surprised by the abrupt venom, but he knows you’re harmless. For now.

“They fit perfectly,” he states, features remaining in a bland but analytical set. “What’s the problem?”

“Are you—? They’re trousers,” you hiss, already searching for something to pull over yourself. “I don’t care how many wonderful things might await me, I will not wear these things.”

“There are a plethora of other subjects for you to work yourself up over, and yet you choose this one,” he muses, and you press yourself tighter to the mirror. “Get out.”

He offers a skeptical look, and your brows narrow, skin beginning to crawl. You feel so bare. So on display. The shapes of handprints begin to itch over your hind, and pressure builds at the forefront of your head, between your brows. “I’m serious. Get out.” Eris regards you quietly for a moment, head angled slightly as he observes, before turning for the exit. “I suppose the colour doesn’t quite suit you,” he says idly. “Next one.”

The curtains again hiss shut, and you ply your lungs apart with oxygen. Heart racing in your chest. Heat builds behind your eyes, but you push it back if only to ward against the painful prickling sensation it brings forward. With shaky fingers, you manage to push the rigid material down your thighs, folding them neatly and discarding the shirt that had been set out with it. Swiftly moving to the next piece. With some conscious effort, you’re able to shift your mind to what lies ahead: he’d mentioned attempting to stimulate your magic through positive emotions rather than fear, which had your interest piqued. Though part of you worries what he might think of as worthy of positive emotion.

The itch to your skin hasn’t quite faded, and your hands have gotten worse since the forest. Bumps are more pronounced on the tops of your knuckles, scabbed over but still raw. The pressure in your head has again receded, but remains, throbbing lightly whenever you raise or lower your head. To make everything unimaginably worse, you’d spotted the beginnings of your cycle this morning, and had nearly cried. You’d secretly hoped the amount of strain your magic has been putting on your body would be enough to relieve the horror, but it seems not. You’d also found more than a few bruises littering your skin, but those will hopefully be healed and gone by the day’s end—they’re only light from when you’d hit the rock.

Thinking back on it, you’re surprised no bones were broken.

“Do you make a game out of taking years to change, or are you simply that slow?”

Your demeanour instantly drops further, a scowl settling between your brows. You finish tying the bodice up, then walk to the curtain, gently pulling one aside. “I’d like to see you attempt to tie yourself up in one of these dresses,” you mutter, arms automatically folding self-consciously across your torso, one hand wrapped over your waist, the other settled below your shoulder. “There are too many strings to do up.” “Turn around,” he says, ignoring you completely.

Pulling back on the scowl, you turn in a circle. “Saying a please or a thank you every so often wouldn’t turn you to stone, you know,” you remark as you move, eventually having gone full circle. “Is this one good enough, your sourness?” You ask, dipping into a provoking curtsey.

His lips remain pressed in a disapproving line, but his eyes gleam. “It’ll do.”

————

You’d been folding your previous clothes back into your small closet, wondering about where he was about to take you. Curiosity wandering through your mind. If he tries to take you so much as a step towards that forest again…

You close the doors softly, turning for the door, going to meet him when your eyes pass over the small desk, pushed tight to the walls. Just beside the volume sits the small, deep blue gift box. You pause, gaze shifting from the door to the desk. Fingers raise to thumb at your earlobes, stroking absently.

Before you can doubt yourself, you walk over to the box, opening it up, peering down at the pair of earrings, understated but refined. Plain, generic jewellery.

You slide the gold in, pearl droplets hanging pretty from delicately pointed ears.

Again, fingers skate over your lobes, this time pierced and weighted. It’s probably the only time you’ll feel brave enough to wear them. A dull ache rubs through your heart, but you push it away, hands falling to your sides as you walk briskly for the exit, out to find Eris.

Leaving the small box open and gutted on the desk.

————

It’s about three in the afternoon, and the crisp breeze cools your skin, playing about your hair and fluttering across the fabric of the dress. Luckily, most of the finely sewn material is concealed by a an earthy orange cloak, dusty but warm coloured. A few wisps of hair tickle the edges of your mouth, and you push them away irritably, wishing to pin it back. You wish his hair bothered him the way yours does.

“Is there anywhere in particular I’m being taken, or is this another mindless stroll?” You inquire, keeping a step or two behind him, trailing along as you peer at the stalls, set up in the courtyard of the palace. “None of the walks have been thoughtless,” he corrects, keeping on his leisurely path, “there are a few things I’m in need of, but you should be looking about on your own.”

“What do you mean ‘looking about on my own’?” You ask, brows furrowing lightly.

“I don’t know what you like,” he replies, as if it’s obvious. You blink, then nod, mostly to yourself. “Right.”

“You do know what you like, don’t you?” He asks seriously, glancing at you briefly from over his shoulder. “Of course I know what I like,” you return, meeting his piercing gaze. “Do you? Or are you always so busy with work you have no time for fun?”

“You have interests in things that serve yourself?” He redirects, skepticism more prominent than before as he makes his way effortlessly through the people. “Nothing that might benefit that family of yours?”

“They’re as much family to me as you are with yours,” you reply thoughtlessly, not a single beat passing.

The words register in your mind, at once tasting foul and horrid. How ungrateful you sound, guilt beating against your still-bruised flesh. Shame heats your skin, eyes drifting down to the neat cobbles. You hadn’t meant that. “I mean…family’s a particular word,” you mumble, pearls hanging heavy from your lobes. Thumbs brush over them—should you even be wearing such a gift? Thoughtless, perhaps…potentially intended. Holding great beauty, while plain and generic. Are you worthy of that?

“You seem to assume I am not close with my own,” he speculates idly, perhaps with more lightness than you’re accustomed to. You suppose you don’t spend much time around people…maybe the differences stand out more because of that. Less habits to familiarise and attune yourself to.

You swallow, gaze skipping to dance over stools: herbs and spices, dried plants and trinkets, small glass bottles filled with gem-coloured liquids, tiny circular things that look like they’d taste sweet, gleaming jewels that wink up at passersby, thread so thin it’s like hair or cobweb. A jewellers stand catches your eye, not through the nature of the craftsmanship, which is admittedly fine, but the table holds a modest assortment of rings, and you’re for some reason reminded of the ones Rhys sometimes adorns his hands with. Wrought in sterling silver, small details welded to the solid bands, showcasing its sturdiness and elegance simultaneously. Like dancers.

Silver flickers at the back of your mind before vanishing, hastily doused before second-thoughts begin swarming.

“Are you?” You inquire with equal lightness.

“They are my family,” he says, “proximity won’t change that.”

A natural quiet settles between you, filled only by the background chatter of other voices, other people with their own lives; their own victories and losses. Other problems, with or without solutions, continuing on with life, because times is ceaseless and everlasting, ticking by coldly, peacefully, sometimes with devastating fluidity, others with painful leisure. Perhaps it’s not time at fault, but yourself. Time isn’t cruel, nor is it kind, it simply exists as it is, unable to deviate from what it started as and unable to shift from what it will become; what it will remain to be. Time is a precious constant, one of the few certainties that will persist no matter what.

The sun will rise and fall, as will the moon. The stars will move through the sky as the planet spins, and life will continue with much more grandeur than such small, short things should acquire. Even immortality will crumble before time—your kind of immortality at least. Endlessly, consistently living, until life is taken away.

You had thought you’d made peace with your mortality as a human, yet you suppose each day you still got up with your sisters, still washed and spoke and persisted, still set one foot in front of the other, even if you weren’t conscious of it. Then the other day something like a drop opened up in your path, something that would require more than one foot in front of the other, and you had found yourself jumping.

You had not walked off that ledge; one foot in front of the other hadn’t sufficed.

For less than a minute, the desire to be had been brimming from your fingertips, glowing through your skin and filling you to the point of overflowing. For little less than sixty seconds, you had been confronted with an end, and had moved accordingly. For a few brief moments, absence had loomed before you, dark and terrifying, and you had no want for it.

Where does that put you?

You’d been thrown into a river, and found yourself swimming.

For what?

What was it for?

Peace had been made, acceptance reached, yet sparks had flown, and another life had been taken in place of yours.

Your eyes raise to the sunset orange of his hair, the broad shoulders, the assured and unfaltering strides that carry him forward. The doubtless weight of steel that is set at his hip, the fire that burns in his veins, pure and hot, the sharpened blades that sit readily on his tongue, protected on all fronts. Strength incarnate.

“For someone without flames to harness, you’re burning a hole in the back of my neck fairly well.”

You blink, pulled away from the conflicting whirlpool of thoughts, unaware of the intensity you’d been regarding him with. “I zoned out,” you mumble, attention shifting to the tall walls rising on either side, and you realise he’s led you away from the marketplace. “Where are we going now?” You ask, at last noting the faded noises of other people, now only distant drones. “I told you there are things I am in need of,” he repeats, not looking back, forging onward, so certain the world will not fall out from under his feet. “And these things are down a dark, suspiciously quiet alley?” You ask skeptically, speeding your paces, remaining less than a step behind him. “One of them is,” he answers, leaving it there.

Wariness settles across your bones, eyeing him doubtfully, but continuing on his heel. It’s not like you have anywhere else to go, so you might as well stick with him, within the realms of relative safety.

Eris turns another corner, narrower than the last street, and you even out your breaths. Nobody would do shady exchanges at three in the afternoon. Right?

Doubt unspools in your stomach as you come upon a door in the wall, one that he enters without knocking, and you keep close in the now dim light, a latch clicking behind you. While there is no obvious difference, you get the distinct sense there’s a decline in the pathway, leading deeper into the ground until the tunnel-like walkway opens into a room, lit by flaming braziers. Few things are held within the room, as if constantly on the move and requiring the ability to make an easy exit, should it be needed.

The exchange is over and done with swiftly, a fluid passing of a weighted pouch with a small box, one that Eris pockets seamlessly, turning and leaving without a word being spoken, not even a nod of recognition before you’re following him out again, the hair at the nape of your neck rising with wariness at the strange sequence of events.

Sound returns when you walk out into the air, less menacing than before, open and inviting with its refreshingly crisp bite, and it reminds you slightly of the fresh air of Velaris—its cool nippiness that washes through lungs to pump its users full of freshened life. Life people are desperate to live, taking breath after breath, hauling it down obsessively.

You suppose even if your held your breath, you would eventually find yourself fighting for it, your own choice or not.

Again, your attention drifts to his back, assured and certain. Steady and secure.

Knowingly or not, questions have been sparked within you, questions you’d prefer to understand before being knocked from the world. Questions that will require action on your own part, no longer sitting passively but searching—not in the way you had in the libraries, nor in the ways when you had been trying to summon your magic back in the House of Wind. It would require a fundamental shift in your outlook, one that had only begun to take root in your mind after years of dull buzzing. You’ve always had a fondness for them: questions. Answered or not, the act of seeking more, searching for more is beloved by you. It’s a skill you’ve been practicing, training, sharpening unknowingly but consistently throughout your life. And now, the intrigue and fondness for learning, the desire to understand and develop will now be harnessed inward, the intent aimed at yourself, poised to unravel, learn, and discover.

All over the simple yet surprising act of defence—to protect and preserve. The fight to continue. Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. The relentless push of life itself. Aware or otherwise, he’s started you down a new road, one that will likely wind and divert, but it’s your duty to stay on track and not fumble.

It’s enough your steps falter, pausing as the market place once again comes into view.

“You said I should be looking about on my own,” you say, not quite a question, but lacking the certainty of a statement. Eris glances over his shoulder, coming to a stop. “If you’d like,” he answers blandly, but you’re too preoccupied by the hurtling path of your own thoughts to wonder at the tone. “There was a stall that caught my eye,” you say cautiously, unsure of what’s coming out of your mouth.

He nods, eyes raising far above, where a large clocktower gazes down upon the courtyard. “Be back here in twenty minutes,” he replies, and you nod, already searching for the way you’d come. “And for the gods’ sake, don’t blow anything up,” he mutters under his breath, just as you pass by.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Okay.”

Breath after breath, one foot in front of the other. No footsteps to follow after.

Pushing forward on your own. Seeking what you want.

Gold and pearl hanging heavy from your lobes.

Too heavy.

——————————————————————————————————————————————

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#azriel x reader #azriel angst #azriel shadowsinger #azriel x you #cbmthy

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rustedhearts · 1 year

Text

everytime (steve harrington x fem!reader)

summary: despite your break up two months ago, you can't seem to stay away from each other. when you need him, he's there. but how long can this really last?

uses she/her pronouns and female anatomy.

♡ the steve collection ♡

tags: steve + reader are college age (early-mid 20s), alcohol consumption, angst, hurt/comfort-ish, reader may have a bit of a substance abuse issue (it's heavily implied), accidental casual dominance? (steve really just takes care of her)

"every time i try to fly i fall without my wings, i feel so small. i guess i need you, baby. and every time i see you in my dreams, i see your face, it's haunting me. i guess i need you, baby."

—everytime, britney spears (ethel cain cover)

hawkins, indiana 1999

For your first date, Steve took you to Harvey's: a little retro milkshake diner off the interstate with the soggiest salted French fries and the smoothest strawberry shake you'd ever had in your life. He kissed you against the tin wall, right beneath the neon crimson exit sign. He held your hand on the drive home and kissed your knuckles at stop signs. You're so fuckin' beautiful, he told you on your porch.

That was senior year, three years ago.

For your last date, Steve took you to Enzo's: the fanciest Italian restaurant in town with bitter sauce and crunchy breadsticks. He didn't kiss you on the way there, nor the way back. You barely looked each other in the eye during the entire meal. When the check came, Steve slid it into his lap and turned to your hand, limp and empty on the tabletop. This isn't working anymore...is it? he asked you.

That was two months ago.

Your relationship had been on the outs for a while. All you did was fight, and not the fun, witty banter you used to have. The arguments turned explosive: doors slamming, engines revving, broken picture frames. Steve accused you of flirting with every man you came in contact with. You accused him of insecurity and projection. The pair of you made a scene no matter where you went, and soon it became exhausting just to be in your presence. You were bitter and bitchy, no longer the sweet girl he loved to make giggle. You became resentful and mean, and he became passive and silent.

It wasn't working, and it hadn't been working for a while.

You moved out of the apartment and in with a friend from college, taking the tiny spare bedroom she'd been using for storage. Most of it lived in the closet now, but the space was yours. The move was difficult—you'd lived with Steve since the day after high school graduation. You were gonna get married. You were gonna move west to California when you were done with school and abandon Indiana together. The pair of you had dreams bigger than this town, and now that you had gone your separate ways, they felt out of reach.

But you hadn't really gone your separate ways, had you?

You spoke on the phone a few nights a week, murmuring in the darkness about your days. Though it always went unspoken, I miss you bled through every phone call. When he inevitably sighed, and the receiver crackled with his shuffling, you had to bite way tears. I should get to bed, he'd say, and he'd say it like an apology. You soaked your pillow, wishing you'd told him you loved him a little more than you did when you had the chance.

Because you always loved Steve, and you were certain you always would. Nobody had ever been so kind to you, so sweet and understanding. Steve saw you for who you were, and never wanted you to change. But you pulled away from him, pushed him out when he tried to get in. Nobody bothered to stick around as long as Steve did. And that scared you.

Now here you were, crying yourself to sleep.

♡ ♡

One thing you didn't lose in the breakup were your friends. They refused to pick sides, insisting that there was no need to choose one or the other when they could easily split their time. More often than not, you found yourself waving to Steve through Eddie Munson's apartment window as he got into his car and drove off—like switching shifts, alternating between your visits and Steve's. He'd wave back, a stiff palm in the air directed your way in the windshield, paired with a tight-lipped, solemn smile.

Tonight, Eddie was hosting a party with his girlfriend, Gwen, and you knew the crowd would be absent of Steve. The only reason Steve ever attended parties was because you wanted to. He much preferred staying in and reading, or going to dinner just the two of you. He hated crowds and loud music, the 'sloppy drunks and fuzzy potheads' as he called them. He hated Eddie's other friends, and he hated you around them. You were always a little too eager to guzzle alcohol and puff a joint—it was the topic of many of your arguments.

He wasn't wrong, and that's what pissed you off the most.

Because here you were, on your third rum and coke of the night, sipping from a tiny red straw and chewing on the plastic. Eyes hazy and rimmed pink, cheeks flushed with warmth, sweating down your spine. The apartment was crammed with people like sardines in a tin can, and you stumbled through them on your way to the kitchen for some sort of snack. There, you found Robin and Gwen leaning against the sink, eyeing you pitifully as you fell between them with a sigh.

"What's up, girls?" You were out of breath and slurring your words.

They shared a look over your head, cringing. "How many have you had, babe?" Gwen asked.

You hummed, rubbing at your eye and smearing glitter across your cheek. "Uh...like two? Three. Definitely three."

"Three and?"

You huffed, tipping your head back exasperatedly. "Three and, like, one fucking hit. How many have you had, Robin?"

Your tone was mean. It always got a little sharp and cruel when you had too much to drink. The words always came flying out before you could swallow them, and you always woke the next morning with a massive headache and a ball of regret the size of Canada sitting in your throat. You felt it, a pang of guilt stabbing your gut, when you saw your friends' faces fall. You felt it, wringing your heart like a wet washcloth when Steve would stomp off.

"Hey. We're just looking out for you," Gwen interjected, brows furrowing at your tone.

Your cheeks flamed, teeth digging into the fleshy interior of your cheek to stop the tears of humiliation from springing forth. You turned around shakily and took a warm cheese cube from the platter on the counter.

"I know. But I'm...I'm fine. Okay?"

The girls sighed, and Eddie came shuffling into the kitchen with a beer and a cigarette in hand. He wrapped an inked arm around Gwen's neck, pulling her in by the crook of his elbow to plant a loud kiss on the top of her head. She fit into his side and nuzzled his neck, smiling in greeting. You swallowed, throat coated with thick warning. You were going to cry, and you sure as fuck weren't gonna do it here.

"Hey, what's up, scholar?" Eddie asked you, smacking your arm playfully.

You refused to turn around, knowing if you did the whole kitchen would see your glossy eyes and wobbling lip. But this just made you mean again, and as you plucked more cheese from the counter and poked at limp peppers, you pulled in on yourself. Eddie turned to his girlfriend and Robin, who shook their heads dejectedly.

"You okay, honey?" Robin reached out to rub your arm, and you curled away to wave her off, keeping your face angled toward the floor.

"I'm fine. I just...I'm gonna...go wash my hands."

You hurried off, refusing to meet their eyes as you went. You staggered through a sea of people, dizzy and foggy-headed, struggling to breathe. Gwen and Eddie's bedroom was the last door on the left, and you burst into the room with an urgent gasp of breath. The door slammed after you, and you had half a mind to sink onto the floor and lie there for the rest of the night until you stopped crying—but then you saw the phone.

You didn't even think about it.

You knew the number by heart. You dialed the numbers like second nature, lifting the phone to your ear to cradle the cool plastic with shaky fingers. You sniffled to clear the snot, swiping at the tears dripping down your cheeks. The dial tone droned. Once, twice, three times. You sank onto the floor against the bed, leaning your head back against the soft mattress.

"Hello?"

You squeezed your eyes shut. "Stevie?"

It was quiet a moment, and then another soft sigh. "Honey...why are you callin' me? Is everything okay?"

His voice, so soft and smooth like it always was, felt like a security blanket. It wrapped around you, tendrils curling around your bones to hold them tight like he used to. And you wanted nothing more than to hear that voice murmuring in your ear, with his arms around you to keep you safe. Everything's been so off-kilter since he left. Since you left each other. Every day feels like finding your footing all over again. Naked and bare, you weren't sure which direction to go in unless he was there to guide you.

And as selfish as it sounded, you wanted him to guide you again.

"N-No. I'm so fucked up, Steve—it's so fucked up."

Shuffling crackled through the receiver, and you imagined Steve sitting up in bed and rubbing his tousled hair. He sounded tired when he spoke again. "You been drinkin', baby?"

You nodded, sniffling nosily. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Stevie."

Keys tinkled like wind chimes in the distance of the other line. "Where are you, honey? Hmm? Do you know?"

You sighed, snot rattling in the back of your throat. Your hand fell to the itchy carpet beneath your legs, rubbing your palm to scratch it. You hated how this sounded like a routine. Like he expected you to call, all fucked out and lost. You wished you were better for him.

"M' at Eddie's."

"Oh, okay," Steve sounded a little relieved. "Stay where you are, alright?" He was coming to you.

"Steve...you don't have t' come, m' sorry. M' sorry, just...I'm all over the place."

"I'll be right there."

The line clicked, and you carefully placed the phone back in the cradle. The tears started up again, full force and breathless. You gasped for air and hiccuped like an infant as you clawed your way onto the bed, sprawling out on your back. You were grateful the room was dark. You didn't want to see yourself like this.

You listened the songs change while you waited to calm your cries. The room hadn't stopped spinning, and your throat felt so tight. Your chest hurt with a hollow ache that hadn't gone away since your last night at Steve's. You slept in the same bed, facing opposite walls. In the morning, you slid your key across the table and kissed his cheek. He carried your boxes to the car and stroked your cheek with his thumb against the passenger door. He smelled like hazelnut coffee and sleep.

Four songs passed before you heard familiar voices murmuring outside the door.

"Jesus, Steve, you can't keep coming to rescue her," Robin huffed.

You wiped your cheeks, lips downturning. Tough love really hurt when it came from your closest friends.

"Mind your business."

"This is my business. I care about both of you, and this is just...this is unhealthy!"

"Get out of my fucking way, Buckley."

The door handle jiggled, and you turned your head to watch it open. A streak of yellow light sliced through the blue darkness of the room.

"You don't know shit," Steve muttered, and then he was standing in the room.

The thump of music became muffled by the door once more, light clamped off to return the pair of you to darkness. A strip of moonlight beaconed over his face as he stepped closer, hands in the pockets of his jeans. You could hear his keys jingling as he fidgeted. He tipped his head at the sight of you lying there.

"Hi," you whispered. It was the sweetest you’d sounded in months.

Steve swallowed, trying not to rush over and kiss you. He had to fight the urge each time he saw you, even in passing. It felt wrong to part ways without a kiss goodbye. Even when you fought, you always stopped to kiss each other before going to work or heading to bed. It became one of Steve's favorite habits. He felt empty without it.

"Hi," he murmured back.

You sniffled, carefully turning your head away to look toward the ceiling. You were disappointed to see it was still swirling. You suddenly wished you were sober. Maybe he'd see you differently.

"You didn't have to come."

Steve shrugged in your periphery. He was wearing one of those collared polos that you loved. Three buttons always left undone, tight white t-shirt underneath. You wanted him closer. You wanted to smell his cologne again.

"But I'm here."

You shuffled to your elbows, groaning softly. Something lurched in your stomach, coiled tight in your belly. You were gonna be sick, but you didn't want to be in front of Steve. Pushing off weakly on your palms, you sat upright and wiped your cheek, smearing more makeup in the process.

Steve inched closer, waiting for his cue to step in. It came when you stood and wavered on the carpet, reaching for a steady surface.

"Alright, easy, honey." He swooped in, arm wrapped around your waist to guide you toward the bathroom door.

He pushed it open and flicked on the light, propping you against the sink like a Barbie doll. With an open palm on your stomach, he kept you upright as he rummaged through the drawers for a rag. You played with the brown leather band of his watch as he ran the rag under warm water, a pout embedded on your mouth.

"Wanna hop up there f' me?"

You braced the cold counter with the heel of your palms, lifting on wobbly arms to sit on top. "Atta girl," Steve mumbled under his breath, and even in your bleary state you flushed with warmth.

Resting against the mirror, you watched Steve lather powder white soap onto the wet cloth until it bubbled, bringing two fingers under the pink cotton to wipe against your cheek. His eyes were steady on his own ministrations, watching his hand clean away the smeared mascara and tears.

Your eyes, however, could only focus on him. His big sad eyes, swampy green and brown flanked by long, curled lashes. The mocha-colored freckles grazing his cheeks and collarbone, sprinkled along his neck. The pout on his plump pink lips, taken between his teeth in concentration.

When he switched the cloth to the other cheek, you exhaled shakily and caught his wrist. His eyes flicked to yours, finally catching your gaze. He blinked, another one of those toothless, tight-lipped smiles breezing over his lips. It was painted with pity.

Wrapping both hands around the warmth of his forearm, you tipped your cheek into his palm and the soapy, damp cloth encompassed around it. Steve sighed, chest deflating beneath that handsome polo. In the fluorescents of the bathroom, he looked prettier than ever. You were smaller than he'd ever seen you, crumpled and disheveled.

"You drank too much again." He said it the way he orders a cheeseburger in the drive-thru: casual, predictable, cool. He expected this.

That's what always hurt you most.

Your mouth opened to utter a reply, but all that came was a shuttered breath. Your lip downturned, jutting out in a petulant pout that made him ache. He swiped two fingers, cool from the cloth and scented of clean soap, across your temple and into your hair, tucking it behind your ear.

"Just felt sad," you admitted lowly, rubbing your hand along his arm.

Steve placed his hand against your other cheek, suddenly cradling your face. His thumb made circles in your sticky skin—firm, tender, just the way you used to like it. Your eyes fluttered closed, head falling deeper into his hold.

"About what?" His voice was so soft, so small. The rest of the world fell away outside of his tiny, outdated bathroom.

You scoffed humorlessly, head shaking. You opened your eyes again as you fiddled with his watch. "You know what."

Steve's gaze rolled over your face, swollen and pink, stuck in a defeated frown. He wondered if you'd remember this in the morning, or if it'd be another night you fell fuzzy on.

"Yeah...yeah, I know, baby."

You huffed, breath hot and laced with liquor across his arm. "M' sorry. M' sorry I made you come out here, and...m' just...m' just sorry—"

"—hey, come on—"

"—no, Steve...m' a mess. Everyone's right about me."

The pads of Steve's fingers scratched at your scalp, and you hated how easily you purred like a kitten at his touch. Your neck craned, and if it weren't for his hand holding your head up, you might've lied down right there on the sink. Inebriation had its claws in you deep.

"Hey," he cooed, urging your head up with his wash-clothed hand. "Don't talk like that."

When you did nothing but continue to frown and sniffle, Steve sighed and steadied you upright. "C'mon, lemme finish cleanin' you up."

Your shoulders slumped, head bobbing gently. "Okay."

Steve chuckled, rubbing your other cheek with the soapy cloth. "Okay."

You were pliant to his pulling and prodding, allowing him to clean you without complaint. He tucked your hair behind your ears when your face was washed, and filled a Dixie cup with cool water for you to drink. He rested his hands on your bare knees as he watched you gulp it down, patting them when you were done.

"All done?"

You nodded, handing him the paper cup. He tossed it in the trash bin, nudging your chin up with two fingers. "Hey. You with me?"

You nodded again. "Mhm."

"I'm gonna take you home, okay?"

You grasped his hand, pushing your fingers through his. "Okay."

He helped you off the counter, but he didn't drop your hand. He held it as he guided you through the dark bedroom and into the hall, using it to pull you into his side to fit through the crowd. When you made it to the kitchen, you were stopped by your friends, and you pressed your head to Steve's firm back as their voices melded into a yell.

"Oh, fuck off, Munson, seriously, this is none of your business. Last I checked, our relationship only involved the two of us."

"What relationship? You broke up—weeks ago, by the way, in case you forgot—"

"—I didn't forget," Steve hissed, side-stepping and pulling you with him to avoid Eddie. "And for the last time, it’s none of your business.”

You peered back at the group of your friends huddled near the sink as Steve steered you toward the back door. You knew they were disappointed—you could see it in their empty eyes and pursed lips. You could see it in the way Gwen had to rub Eddie’s arm to calm him down. Because the two of you were making a mistake, and you’d never move on if you kept crawling back to each other every chance you got.

But maybe you didn’t want to move on, and maybe Steve didn’t either.

Steve took you home that night, and sat you on the end of the bed. He pulled your dress down your legs and replaced it with a big t-shirt: sunshine yellow, drenched in Steve. He tucked you under the blankets and kissed your head. And then he crawled in beside you, and held you the whole night.

He took you home, where you belonged: with him. And he didn’t know if you’d wake the next morning wondering where you were, or happy to see him nuzzled in your neck, but Steve was willing to roll the dice. For now, he could pretend this was how it always was, and that you never left.

#rolly!#steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #joe keery #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington angst #king steve #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington blurb #steve the hair harrington #joe keery fanfiction #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #eddie munson #robin buckley #steve harrington fic #stranger things fanfiction

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callmerainman · 2 months

Text

No Derogatory Nicknames | sinner!Adam x fem!sinner!Reader

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3

pairing. sinner!Adam x fem!sinner!Reader

plot. You're the one and only member of the Royal Family's official army, and you were given the first, vital mission in your lifetime as a bodyguard. Surveilling the First Man on Earth, Adam. Reincarnated in Hell. You and Adam agree on two things: you can't stand each other, and you would never sleep together.

word count. 3.3k

tags. Hazbin Hotel ep8 spoilers!, enemies to lovers, Adam reincarnated as a sinner in Hell.

tw! cursing, Adam being Adam, mentions of sex

part. 1/3

The Royal Family’s official army was a millennium-old institution, skillfully trained through the years to protect Lucifer’s family from potential threats. Except that the army has lost its prestige a long time ago, and you’re the last unit left. You joined the army a short time after your death. It was princess Charlie Morningstar who guided you towards that decision, after finding you lost and scared, wandering around Pentagram City. The infernal princess didn’t specify that the army was dismantled hundreds of year prior, and that it was just an excuse to convince Lucifer to give you hospitality in one of their mansion’s rooms. In the end, the King accepted to make you a bodyguard. You went through trainings, trials, impossible challenges. All of that to…guard Lucifer’s rubber ducks. Boredom wasn’t ignorable. So when Lucifer asked you if you could take on a really serious mission, you accepted immediately. And your task really was important.

Guarding Adam, the First Man on Earth. Reincarnated in Hell.

After wandering for days around Pentagram City, just like you did, he asked the Hotel for help. E promised that he would change. Charlie, being Charlie, couldn’t deny him a chance. But Lucifer didn’t trust him, and accepted his permanence at the Hotel only at the condition that you would be guarding him. And that’s how you arrived at the Hazbin Hotel, how you met Charlie’s friend and especially…Adam. You immediately regretted the rubber ducks. Adam accepted in turn the idea of being watched, but he detested it and didn’t hesitate to let you know. He was as old as the Earth but as immature as if he was born yesterday. Arrogant, hot-headed, presumptuous. He made your job impossible, but he was clever enough to not show it too much to still stay at the Hotel. You were the opposite of patient and dealing with him was troubling. Talking back to him corresponded to a reaction. For example he never spared himself from letting you know how much he did NOT want to sleep with you, because of how much he found you insufferable.

“I have other priorities, instead of being approached by your teeny-tiny thing” you said.

“Hey! You can only dream of having a taste of the original dick!” Adam said, pointing a finger to your face.

And Adam hated when you followed him around town, with your angelic spear always clenched in your fist. He would always mumble insults under his breath, to which you responded with the same medicine. For example when you accompanied him to the few music shops in the city to fix his electric guitar that he would always break out of frustration of being here.

“I’m here only because Lucifer asked me, ‘cause otherwise I would have already called Nifty to repeat the job” you hissed between your teeth, sticking your spear towards his face.

Adam would hunch forward in an attempt to intimidate you “Oh yeah, go get her, so you can show your Hell Daddy how efficient of a bodyguard you are!”.

And you couldn’t do nothing more than sighing, squeezing the spear in your fist because you knew that Adam was right and you couldn’t do anything about it. You always looked forward to nighttime so that you two could separate and go to your respective rooms in the Hotel. Even the guests were relieved, because your bickering was daily and their ears were filled with your insults thrown left and right. Adam, although he was the one who knocked on the Hotel’s door, wasn’t too fond on participating in its activities. He didn’t get the benefit of Charlie’s exercises, and that anguished him because it seemed like the road back to Heaven was far away. Even there, your duty was to encourage him in participating. And your patience with the First Man was running out, so you had to do so by growling between your teeth to be proactive.

“I get it, bitch” he would whisper, enough to be heard from you but not by Charlie. And then he would improvise some sort of low effort answer barely sufficient to make Charlie happy.

You started to get the feeling that some of Charlie’s exercises were specifically aimed at making you and Adam get along. You had your confirmation when once Charlie called only you and Adam, letting you sit together on the couch. Adam’s fists were clenching in correspondence with his knees.

“What are we doing?” he asked.

You crossed your arms on your chest, cocking an eyebrow. Charlie laughed nervously, feeling a growing tension.

“Uhm…see this as a sort of…couple therapy!”

You and Adam, in tandem, erupted in a disgusted groan. His new wings, now turned black, ruffled and pointed upwards in a synced motion with yours.

“WE’RE NOT A COUPLE!” you two shouted in unison.

“I know, but you’re always together and…”

“WE DIDN’T CHOOSE IT!”

Charlie agitated both her hands “But you need to stand by each other, and I would like for you to do so without fighting every time! There must be something you get along in, right?”

You protruded forward “The only thing we agree on is that we would much rather die for eternity than being close to each other”.

Adam raised his arms to emphasize your words “Exactly, I would rather be stabbed again by your filthy janitor than sleep with a pain in the ass like her”

“What did you just say?!”.

Charlie, seeing you two jump towards each other to fight, threw herself between you both to avoid it.

You couldn’t sleep that night. With your head plunged in your pillow, you smothered screams of frustration. Adam, Adam and again Adam. He fluttered in your head with hammering insistence, tormenting you even in moments of relax. Why was he always traveling in your head? Why did you keep visualizing his dumb fucking face when he insulted you in the most disparate ways? Fuck, he knew how to get on your nerves even in dreams.

———

“Adam!” Charlie stops the fallen angel in the Hotel kitchen. He was filling his bowl with milk and cereals.

“Yeah, brat?” he replied.

Charlie sighed “What did we say about nicknames?”

Adam rolls his eyes, bringing a spoonful of cereals to his mouth.

“No ferogafory nifnames” he slurs, his cheeks full.

“Exactly!” Charlie claps her hands “anyway, I need you to do me a favor. You should go grocery shopping for the Hotel”.

Adam raises a brow “Groceries? What am I, a-“

He interrupts himself when his eyes meet yours behind Charlie’s shoulder. Where did you come from? In any case, your gaze is as furious as always. He’s pretty sure that he never saw you peaceful in all his permanence in Hell. Your fuming look is enough to make him desist, so he sighs.

“Alright. And I suppose that Mrs. Spear-Up-My-Ass is going to come with me”.

“Of course (Y/N) will go with you, you’ll shop together” and Charlie adds a hopeful grin.

“How fortun-OH”.

Without noticing, you appear on Adam’s side, a reassuring look on your face but reserved only to Charlie.

“Don’t worry Charlie, I’ll keep an eye on him”.

“Can you not stick your shitty angelic spear in my fucking cereals?!” Adam cusses.

Nervously, Charlie smiles “Of course (Y/N), but I’m pretty positive that Adam won’t cause any trouble”.

You shrug your shoulders “I dunno, I don’t expect much from a dirtbag of his caliber”.

Adam drops the spoon in the bowl of milk, cereals spilling out of it and one of them hitting your cheek

“What, you old hag?!” he screams.

“Old, me?! You’re literally as old as the Earth!”

Charlie puts her hands in her head, desperate “Just go shopping for fucks sake!”.

Half an hour later you and Adam are walking down the streets of Pentagam City. He was bragging about the time he broke the record of bras thrown on stage during a gig he performed in Heaven. Now that you think about it, Adam played in a band when he was up in the skies. And he has an electric guitar that you always accompanied him to fix. By the way, you never stopped to ask yourself what kind of music he listened to, or what genre he played. That’s because you never thought there was something worth to know about Adam. You turn around to look at him in the eyes. When he talked nonstop, without insulting you, his face was more relaxed and in a certain sense a bit more pleasurable to look at. Two big, curled horns sprouted on his head when he reincarnated, you grabbed them so many times while fighting.

“And what did you play with your band-“

“We’re here”.

You stop. You look at Adam, you didn’t realize that you reached your destination. Maybe you’ll pick up the conversation later, maybe not. Why would you want to know more about the Exterminator? You shove a hand in your pants pocket and you take the list Charlie prepared. You put it in Adam’s hand, and you turn around.

“C’mon, go inside”.

Adam frowns, puzzled.

“Wait, you’re not going with me?”.

Adam plants himself in front of you, trying to read your face. He wants to know if you’re making fun of him or something like that. But he only finds embarrassment, as you try to avoid his analysis.

“Do you need me to hold your hand or you can handle it on your own?”.

For a second, Adam’s eyes widen, then a sly smirk crosses his face.

“You wanna hold my haaaa-“

“No” you stop him “and that’s why I’m telling you to go alone”.

Adam shrugs, he looks amused.

“Okay, I’ll treasure this opportunity to get away as far as I can from you”.

And so Adam goes. You realize that all the time you tried to avoid his eyes, your face was burning. You didn’t want him to see even a drop of trust in your eyes, not even the tiniest amount sufficient to let him go grocery shopping. So you stay still outside the supermarket, your angelic spear hidden between your wings to not catch passerby’s attention. Time goes by, and soon Adam will finish. But Adam doesn’t come back. You decide to wait a little more. Then you hear sounds of shouting inside the supermarket, an argument between two men. A carousel of possible scenarios displays in your mind. Adam who calls the cashier a bitch, Adam who yells to the staff because they’re out of ribs. You immediately dash inside, almost smashing through the automatic glass door. You follow the sound of screams, and you find Adam. It’s just not the scenario you had predicted. Adam has his hands raised in front of a bull-like demon, who has a fist directed towards him.

“I recognize you, you know? You’re that shithead from the Extermination”

Adam, visibly pissed off, still keeps his palms open “Hey asshole, I don’t know what you’re talking about”.

It’s when the other demon jumps onwards to attack Adam that you throw yourself between them, your spear pointed towards the bull.

“Don’t fucking touch him!” you yell.

Your chest rises and lowers wildly with every breath. You can’t see it, but Adam’s eyes are incredulous. He looks at his own chest, your free arm is pressed against it, pushing him back in protection. Your teeth are gritted, your horns grown exponentially. His cheek tickles because one of your wings is brushing against it with ruffled feathers, and his skin starts to warm up because your hair caught fire. Adam saw you enraged so many times, usually because of him, but never like this. In the end, the demon gives up, taking a step back from your tended spear. He grunts and takes his leave, fists still clenched but not a menace anymore. You finally relax, the fire in your hair suffocates, your wings recollect themselves and your horns shrink back to their original size.

“Ehm…what the fuck happened?” Adam asks, trying to find your eyes. You run away from them as always.

“Don’t ask questions”

“I thought you were supposed to protect others from me, not me from others”

You press your lips in a thin line, and walk towards the checkout with the shopping bags Adam dropped.

“It’s not like I can leave you moribund on the floor of a supermarket with the possibility of you respawning somewhere else in Hell where I can’t supervise you. Let’s get back to the Hotel now”.

Adam follows behind you, and you know he’s smirking. He steals one of the shopping bags from your hand, and takes your side.

“Well, what were you about to ask me outside? You wanted to know about my band in Heaven?”.

Back to the Hotel, you’re welcomed by a wide smile from Charlie. Just seeing you two walking close without fighting signs on your bodies means a lot to her.

“Sooooo, how did it go?” she asks, sliding in front of you.

You and Adam exchange a quick glance, then you shrug “He almost got jumped”.

“Oh c’mon!” Adam exclaims, raising his arms in protest.

“Why so?” Charlie asks.

“A total asshole almost recognized me” Adam says.

“It’s not a secret that you reside at the Hotel, and someone might not like you” Charlie adds.

“I don’t like him-“ you convene.

“We know, (Y/N)!” Charlie sighs “and because there are sinners like you who, rightfully so, don’t like Adam, we need you to be close to him. Even because we can’t risk Adam using his powers, it could be trouble”.

You stop to reflect, meanwhile Adam puts the grocery bags on the kitchen counter without saying a word. Now that you think about it, Adam didn’t use his powers. When he reappeared in Hell, although with less capacity, he still kept a great power. He was prohibited from using it at the Hazbin Hotel, but anyone would have used them in a situation like the one that unfolded at the supermarket. But Adam didn’t do nothing. He just raised his hands, limiting himself to only cuss at the potential aggressor, and then you intervened. Did he internalize a Hotel lesson?

“No, Adam didn’t use his powers. We gotta give him credit for that” you say.

Adam freezes as he opens the fridge to organize the groceries. You can’t see him, but he’s delicately blushing.

“That’s awesome!” Charlie chirps, happily “It’s a great step forward, Adam!”.

“Mh yeah whatever” Adam brushes it off.

“And you Adam, did you see any quality in (Y/N) that you previously ignored?” Charlie asks, full of hope.

Adam looks at you. You press your lips together and for a moment you hold each other’s gazes. You feel yourself palpitating, and it bothers you.

“She was cool I guess. Cool-ish. And she got interested in my band. But that’s natural, all bitches are interested in my band”.

“Adam, nicknames!”.

Adam raises his shoulders “If (Y/N) doesn’t mind, I’ll go to my room”.

“Me too” you assert.

You wave at all the guests in the lobby, Angel Dust has a weirdly wide smile on his face, almost amused. You go up the stairs, following behind Adam. His arms fall on his side.

“You wanna follow me to my bed?!” he says.

“I’m going to my own room which happens to be next to yours, asshole!”

“Yeah yeah, it’s more likely for Mr. Deer over there to cross the Pearly Gates than me letting you have a piece of this” Adam replies, pointing both fingers down to his groin.

“I don’t even want it!”.

Downstairs, Angel Dust looks at everyone with insistence. Husk is confused, Alastor simply disinterested, and Cherri Bomb appears to already know what the spider demon is about to say.

“Is it me or I sense a certain sexual tension?” he finally says.

Vaggie, Husk and Charlie sigh in resignation. Alastor decides that it’s time for him to get up and leave. Cherri Bomb, on her part, chuckles.

“Yeah I think it’s only you” she says.

“If you sense sexual tension between them I think you got a serious problem, Angel” Vaggie says.

Angel bursts out laughing, throwing himself back on the couch and crossing his numerous arms behind his neck “I bet good money that those two will end up going at it within a week”.

Before they could realize it, all of them were already placing a good amount of money on bets. All pointing towards a no. Angel Dust is the only one convinced of his vision. That between the Royal Guard and the First Man, climbing up the stairs next to each other with annoyance, there could be something that keeps you close in a different way.

———

Adam stops in front of his bedroom’s door. He opens it, and you walk towards the door next to it which is the one for your room. But Adam clears his throat, staring at an indefinite point in front of him.

“Uhm…can you come here a sec?”.

You raise a confused eyebrow, and you cautiously walk towards him. You should be holding your angelic spear, but you left it aside. You stand behind him, and Adam turns around to face you.

“Yeah?” you question.

Adam looks at you, and you raise your chin to hold up his golden eyes. This time you see the flushed red on his cheeks, and his embarrassed expression.

“Well…thanks for today…I guess? This is how Lucifer’s brat wants me to talk to you, right?”.

Your eyes widen in surprise, and your hands start to fidget. It’s not difficult to look at Adam when he’s being like this.

“Yeah, I don’t know, whatever. Don’t expect things to change” you reply.

Adam scowls, and moves closer to you.

“Of course not, you’re still a world-class pain in the ass”.

“And you’re still a fucking jerk”.

Your foreheads are almost touching, you can feel his breath on your face. You notice it too late. Why aren’t you backing up? Shouldn’t that be easy? Your heart is racing again.

“And you’re still a bi-“

“Hey” you interrupt “Charlie said…”.

Too close now. As always. You and Adam have always been close. In a different way. And you always wanted to leave. But not even Adam is moving and his gaze softens. He’s looking at you intently, he’s burning and doesn’t know what to do and at the same time he seems convinced on something.

“I know” he says, with half a tone “nicknames should not be um…”.

He stumbles on his own words, you’re now chest to chest, and you try to help him out “Nicknames shouldn’t be de…” you have trouble too.

“Deroga…tory…” he mumbles.

You lean in. And without premeditation, there’s a kiss. Strong, desperate. Your lips intertwined, your hands in his hair and grazing his horns, and his own hand placed on your waist. He doesn’t need to pull you closer, you already were. You don’t have time to breathe, your kisses are too persistent. A couple of moans escape you both, out of confusion and satisfaction. Now your arguments all look like a joke, because it’s obvious that the sexual tension Angel Dust envisioned is an undeniable reality. Despite spending months repeating that it was something that would never happen. And here you are, clinging to one another, making out. And it feels good.

When you separate you meet his eyes. You expect something terrible. Disgust, or that he stays true to his word and strays away. But you don’t see any of that. Only disbelief, and a sort of epiphany that encourages him to encapsulate the nape of your neck with a hand.

“Shit” he says.

“Shit” you convene.

And then you throw yourselves against each other’s lips again, and Adam drags you inside his room. You let yourself be taken away, and you shut the door close with a kick.

#hazbin hotel #reader insert #hazbin hotel adam #adam x reader #adam #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin hotel adam x reader #enemies to lovers #sinner!adam #hazbin hotel fanfiction #adam hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam fanfiction #writers on tumblr #vivziepop

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fanaticsnail · 4 months

Text

The Spear and the Sword

Masterlist Here.

Word Count: 3,807

This is the final fic for the year, a wonderful prompt given by an anon months ago. Thank you to @since-im-already-here for beta reading and correcting grammar. If there's any issue, know my sister is to blame, folks.

@gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @sordidmusings @feral-artistry @vespidphoenix happy new year!

Warning: blood, gore, flirtatious dialogue, mutual pining, playfulness in battle, enemies to lovers, warlord reader, fluff, Mihawk x female!reader.

I said I'd get it done before the new year. Happy New Years Eve to my fellow Aussies!

This was too much. This was far too much. This was far too much for lord Dracule Mihawk to fend off alone. His great sword Yoru was spattered with the blood of several foes, each impact meeting his blade creating more lethargy in the broody sword master of the seas. His title of “worlds greatest” was hanging in the balance as more enemies approached him with more fervour than ever before.

“Garp,” Mihawk growled into his den-den-mushi earpiece, “you said there would be a few hundred. This is in the upwards of a couple thousand. What is going on back there?” Static and groans of battle were met within the earpiece in return, huffs of gruff breath and thumps of fists coinciding within the ferocious melody.

“It was all I was aware of, Mihawk,” Garp growled once the battle was silenced in the background of the call, “my marines are barely holding up on this end. The other warlords are occupied, I’ve got none to spare you.” Mihawk almost met with a single shot from a bullet, weaving away with a dance-like twirl to dodge the metallic, circular object. He swiped his lengthy blade within the air and kicked back the individual who shot at him, his torso falling to impale themselves against a fence post as a result of the blow.

The town he was tasked to protect, a marine base home to several prominent family members within the world government; alongside the sick, weak, young, and elderly, were currently engaged in a war-like battle with pillagers and pirates from the four corners of the north, east, south and west blues. This army was accumulated under a foreign flag, their jolly roger unfamiliar to both marines and warlords alike. Mihawk had been fighting at the front line alone, his ship destroyed under the destruction of war: his traveling vintages of fine wines claimed by the seas.

As another made his approach, Mihawk huffed out an exhausted and frustrated breath while continuing to swipe to relinquish the foes and meet them with the sharpened edge of his blade.

“Mihawk,” Garp interrupted his flow of battle with his voice cutting through the air within his snail earpiece, “we might have someone available. You’ve worked with her before, a warlord like you. She’s on her way.”

“Boa?” Mihawk asked while placing his fingertip to the shell of the earpiece, “I thought you said she’s on the other side of the north blue right now.” Garp growled at one of his underlings, directing them in some nonsensical way that Mihawk couldn’t quite register.

“No, not Boa,” Garp replied, panting into the earpiece with exhaustion overcoming himself. More clangs, clashes and thumps were heard within the earpiece, Mihawk turning to continue forcing the pillagers back to the shore of the beach.

“No,” Mihawk uttered firmly into the earpiece, “anyone but her. Give me cadets, give me your least valuable soldiers, give me prisoners. Literally anyone else-.”

“I don’t have anyone else!” Garp roared into the earpiece, prompting Mihawk to flinch away from it while furrowing his brows in anger. Both men managed to calm themselves down, Mihawk taking a moment to silence his rage by taking a few deep breaths.

“Put your former grievances and your ego aside, warlord,” Garp ordered within the earpiece, “she’s what we have, and she’s perfect. World’s greatest weapons-master, in fact.”

“I’m aware of that,” Mihawk murmured through his clenched teeth, his teeth grinding as he bit back his lackluster words, “she’s violent, impulsive, ferocious, messy. She’s feral and she’s the bane of my existence.”

“Have you even spoken to her?” Garp questioned, a small humorless laugh falling through his widened grimace, “she’s exactly what we need, Mihawk. You do this, and I’ll let you off the tether to tend your farms, sharpen your sword – or even sheathe it for an entire year.” Mihawk narrowed his eyes, huffing out a frustrated breath and brandishing his sword out to the side in preparation for another recuperated attack from the approaching armada.

“How soon will she be here?” Mihawk asked, his beard protruding while snarling with his upper lip drawing back.

“She’s already on the other side of the war line,” Garp confirmed with him, a final slam of iron-barred doors echoing within the background of the ship, “I’ll patch her through now.”

You tilted your head down, looking up at the coastline full of ships approaching the marine-base through your lengthy eyelashes. You drew back your playful smirk, allowing the elevation of your heartbeat to begin to work itself to frenzy within your ribcage. You were known far and wide for your battle-ready ferocity; allowing your rage to take over your emotions within the thralls of battle to relinquish many a foe.

Combat mastery began at a young age; bare knuckle boxing in gladiator cage-matches being one of the first types of combat you overtook the championship of in your youth. After boxing and grappling, you moved on to wielding large hammers and battle axes, enjoying the weight within your fists as you crushed skulls and decapitated limbs. After heftier weapons, you opted to train under the mentorship of a superior fighter. They taught you to throw the spear and reclaim it swiftly, giving you pointers to always meet your target with the piercing tip of the bladed end.

You were nothing, coming from nothing. No family to speak of, you traveled the continents, claiming title after title of world's greatest weapon-master with ease. The only one you were yet to best was the current reigning lord of Kuraigana, his title of World’s Greatest Swordsman continuing to badge itself against his bare chest with pride. Arrogant prick was the first thought that sprung to mind regarding the nature of his aura. You had seen posters, articles and even catalogs regarding his training history and weapons mastery.

As your status was elevated to warlord, the world government approached you for protection against several foes and to take on contracts they would rather not involve themselves with, you accepted under two conditions: they allow you to handle matters in your own way, being the first. Your own way, being: “I will get this done, regardless of the mess, and you will clean it up after I’m done with it.”

The other condition is you were to be given absolutely all the information available to you regarding the contracts: no children, no women: no innocents. Those were your rules. You didn’t care how feral the children were, nor how arrogant and uptight the women were. If they were innocent, you refused to do harm to them, or unleash your wrath onto the world government themselves. There were absolutely no qualms to your requests, printed in bold atop your profile.

Vice-Admiral Garp had no quarry with your methods, usually placing a den-den-mushi somewhere about within the battlefield to watch your barbaric tirades on the field in awe at your ferocity.

That was how Mihawk knew of your battle prowess, your pictures almost always covered in some form of dirt, mud and blood within the heat of battle. He absolutely despised mess, but was always held captive to your almost beckoning and sultry gaze as you removed your spearhead from another foe. And you knew him in a similar likeness, his images always clean-cut with not a splash of battle worn on him. Given the call you just received from Garp, you were quivering in anticipation to remedy such a plight from him.

“I’m going to patch you through now, Weaponsmaster,” Garp’s lilted brogue uttered into the den-den-mushi within your ear. His voice almost was quivering itself in anticipation of witnessing the carnage you were about to unleash against the armada as far as the naked eye could see.

“Thank you, Vice-Admiral,” you sang in an almost sultry tone within the earpiece, “I know you’ll be watching closely.”

“Aye, I will be lass,” Garp’s voice laughed into the earpiece. You were very well aware of how fond the older gentleman was of watching you work, not minding in the slightest at the attention and preference you got from him.

“Mihawk, you there?” Garp’s voice echoed within the earpiece, prompting you to wince away from his growl slightly.

“I am, Vice-Admiral.” A moment of pause occurred before Mihawk spoke again, “Weapons-master.”

“Sword-master,” you smirked, your voice almost purring at him, “a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

“That I’m sure of,” Mihawk replied in a bored tone. You were slightly taken aback by his standoffish mannerism, your brows furrowing low. He absolutely knew who you were, holding a title as warlord and world’s greatest weapons-master. You rotated your shoulders and clicked your neck to rid yourself of annoyance and prepare yourself for battle.

“Conceited Cunt,” you spat, unaware that the contact was still drawn between the three of you – only becoming aware once Mihawk’s voice relayed back to you, “Feral Filiform.”

“Easy now,” Garp’s voice called over the linked den-den-mushi, “Complete this feat first, then get to your flirting.”

“If you think that’s what flirting looks like,” Mihawk winced into the shell, touching his index finger to the outer shell of the den-den-mushi, “I pity your wife.” You chuckled at his crude comment, almost tangibly feeling the rage pouring off Garp in waves through the den-den-mushi attached to your inner ear.

“Save your insults for the enemy, pirate,” Garp spat into the earpiece. You heard Mihawk hum, prompting you to roll your eyes at the interaction. The ships over the shore began to fall closer to your small vessel - the rise of the tide ushering you into the new thralls of battle. You noticed there were a few hundred ships, all carrying an amassment of crew of various sizes. You once again rolled your shoulders back and pursed your lips.

Placing your fingertip to secure the shell deeper within your ear, you smirked out a final taunt to the warlord.

“This is what was bothering you? Couldn't you handle the troop all by yourself, swordsman?” You cooed into the voice responder. Silence and static was met within the drum of your ear, a stifled growl also accompanying it. You decided to get in a final jab to taunt him, “I could dispatch the armada by myself. Why don’t you take a break, old man? Sit your pretty little ass down on the beach and sit back to watch the show.”

“I’d like to see you try, barbarian,” Mihawk growled in return. Your ship brushed against the hull of the first ship to the rear of the fleet; your presence immediately making itself known as you housed yourself effortlessly over the railing. You laughed into the earpiece, feeling the rapidity of your heartbeat rising in elevation to frenzy yourself before first contact is made with your many foes.

Your spear was flung through your hands to indent itself against the top mast at the middle of the vessel, skewering several members of the mighty crew onto its pole as meat would dangle from a kebab. You grappled, kicked, flung yourself at the crew; using your hands and their own weapons against them to relinquish them from their life. Once they all fell victim to your battle mastery, you again reached your hand up to the shell-responder.

“I bet my left breastplate I will get to the middle before you, Swordsman,” you taunted him, your legs carrying themselves with haste towards the railing of the ship. You jumped high, the air lifting you and drawing your body down against the next vessel.

“I bet my waist-belt you absolutely won’t, Wild-Woman,” the swordsman snarled into the earpiece, Yoru circling around and pushing the troops back with one fell swipe. Mihawk’s teeth drew themselves back, enraged at his taunt being met with a small melodic giggle.

“Oh, this is how we’re playing, is it?” You whispered breathily into the earpiece, your spear clutched within the fist of your dominant hand as you stabbed at the next approaching foe. You giggled again, feeling at home on the battlefield. The life drained from the eyes of the enemy under the tip of your spear; another shipful of foes falling on their knees at your expert ministrations.

“Fine,” you smiled into the earpiece, singsong and humor dripping from your tongue, “I’ll see your belt and raise you my entire breastplate.” Mihawk growled in response. You held your ground, immediately flinging yourself at the next ship.

Rather than to take on several members of this crew, you shrugged your shoulders and thrust your spear downwards - sinking the vessel below your feet. You sprinted against the ship’s deck as it began to be claimed by the sea water below, ushering you on to the next ship. You threw your spear to the next vessel, embedding the tip into a lit cannon and witnessed the beautiful implosion it made; launching the spear back into your awaiting palm as you jumped onto the next one. The blast sunk the ship it was fired from, the cannonball flinging itself to sink the one laying perpendicular to the vessel.

Mihawk was not paying attention to your battle mastery, assuming you were still undertaking the first vessel you had docked your ship against and fighting like some untrained and feral marine. He snickered at the thought, himself already aboard his second vessel after pushing back the troop from their approach of the shore.

“I’m looking forward to claiming your breastplate,” Mihawk’s voice audibly smirked into the earpiece, “to add to the winning pool, I’ll claim that spear too.” A shiver of anticipation shuddered against his spine at the audible growl he managed to pull from your parted lips. Holding your spear more firmly within your hand, you growled back at him.

“There are several things I doubt you’d be able to do correctly, swordsman. Wielding my spear is the first that springs to mind,” you smirked, watching the bubbling of water rise as another ship sank against your skill, “pleasing a woman is the other.”

In order to remain silent while listening to your quips back and forward to each other, Vice-Admiral Garp clapped his wide palm over his lips to stifle an outrageous and unbridled laugh rising in his chest. Bogard smirked, hearing the commotion from the speaker molded into the desktop den-den-mushi, placing his hat over his eyes to hide his joy.

“I’ll gladly show you I can on both counts, woman.”

“You can certainly try, warlord”

“I will absolutely succeed, fellow warlord.”

Garp and Bogard were held on the edge of their seats, watching through binoculars the battle mastery balanced between you both while your quippy dialogue read as commentary to your mighty feats.

“Fine,” you again smirked into your earpiece, clothes and armor littered with the spilt blood of your enemies while your hair stuck to your face under the salty sea-spray, “If I am to give up my weapon to the cause, I will have something of equal value offered in return.”

“Yoru is not something I would ever part with for something as childish as a-,” Mihawk began, his words halting as you offered your trade.

“-If I win this little coo, you pretentious prick, your pride is coming with me,” you called into the shell attached to your ear. Feeling all the pent up rage and frustration of the respect of your skill not being met in return for your affection, you offered the best solution you could find.

“If I get to these exact coordinates, all foes falling before me,” you relayed the coordinates, Garp, Bogard and Mihawk hanging on your every utterance, “you will report back to Vice-Admiral Garp donning nothing but your stupid cross-blade, your stupid Yoru and your feathered hat.” The battle paused, the enemies halting their approach with their brows furrowing in almost disgust and awe. You held up a halting hand at them, awaiting a vocal response from Mihawk to your taunt.

Mihawk’s brows themselves were lowered, his eyes narrowed as he sought you out in the field. He couldn’t find you, couldn’t see a trail of destruction in your wake. He continued to search for you within the crowd, but was still unable.

“In that complete and utter unlikelihood,” Mihawk began, still craning his neck to seek out your form, “I accept the terms. Prepare to have your spear, your breastplate and my own satisfaction in claiming some semblance of femininity from you while I wield your body effortlessly.”

“And you prepare yourself to be absolutely humbled in response, your pride and ego removed because-,” you smirked, your eyes finally meeting with the yellow hue of the feathered warlord only a few hundred feet away from you, “-I’m nearly there.”

Mihawk’s eyes widened as he witnessed you jump to the next vessel, twirling within the air to throw a small axe into the base of the ship and sinking it by placing a wide hole within its bow. You were, indeed, very close to the coordinates. His widened gaze looked harder, noticing the absence of over half of the wide armada sinking to the bottom of the sea. How had he not noticed it before? Why, in all his stupidity, would he ever agree to this without looking properly first? Clearly, he had underestimated you. Or overestimated his ability to easily outmatch you.

The elements had changed along with the tide. Your battle-ready ferocity was overcast by an aura of calm playfulness; you giggling into the earpiece as you continued falling foe after foe beneath your spear, fist and axes. In turn, Mihawk was the one to begin to shower himself desperately in the blood of his enemies; curling up his lip at the mess alongside his stupidity at undertaking such a bet.

“C’mon Hawk, keep up. You’re nearly there. Flap your wings harder,” you’d giggle into the earpiece, uncaring whether blood, sinew or bone showered your body in the baptism of battle.

“Stop your stupid teeth from gnashing, Hyena. Your taunts mean very little to me,” Mihawk panted, his feet carrying him with more haste as he continued to unblinkingly search for you.

You giggled again in response, your feet almost carrying themselves closer to the finish line. Your enemies within the armada were fleeing from the utter horror you created, your wolfy grin and playful eyes not matching the energy of the gore befalling your form. Many simply dove overboard, ran to the next ship away from you in their cowardly retreat - only to be met with another approaching warlord with his mighty sword clutched in his dominant hand.

As Mihawk panted for breath, his adrenaline propelling him to the finish line leaving a trail of destruction in his wake; his steps quivered in his tracks as his gaze met with yours.

You were sitting on a barrel, twirling the twine around your spearhead nonchalantly with a litter of bodies laying at your feet. Your left brow was arched upwards, the knowing smirk plastered against your plush lips as you hummed a tune of victory through your nose.

“Looks like I’ll get to see what your other sword looks like,” you cooed in a melodic tune, not meeting his gaze and remaining aloof, “you can leave your boots at my feet. I think I might wear your coat home with me, Swordsman.”

“You are disgusting,” Mihawk spat at you, his breath finally catching up with him. He was now left breathless at witnessing your ferocity, the wild shape of your battle-worn eyes holding him hostage with tense emotion.

“You agreed to the terms, Mihawk. Now it’s time to pay up-,” you uttered darkly, snapping your head over to his form with your eyes narrowed at him.

“-I meant your appearance. So wild, so feral, so-,” his next words caught in his throat as you drew yourself down from your sat position atop the barrel, “-unladylike.” You scoffed at him, rolling your eyes in your approach. Wiping your forehead with the back of your arm, you rid your face of the bone, blood and sinew blocking your view of him. He was a very pretty man, the most beautiful you had seen in a long time. Although slightly taken aback by his clean and uptight appearance, you stood your ground.

“What would you have me wear then? Silks and satins while I dance amongst the chaos? I think not, lord Dracule Mihawk,” you spat at him, laughing dryly at your own comment. Mihawk sucked in a small breath through his nostrils, wincing at your comment with his lips curled into a snarl. You overemphasized a sigh, placing your spear against your back and stretched your arms to cool down your body.

“I’ll make you another deal then, Mihawk,” you smirked again up at his towering form, “I’ll go and get cleaned up and don some pretty little dress for you,” you prodded his bare chest with your index finger and traced a pattern against his pectorals, “and you can go and relay the play by play to Vice-Admiral Garp completely starkers, okay?”

Mihawk growled, eyes looking to your tender touch against his chest and almost again finding himself falling to his knees under your radiant ferocity. He rolled his neck, arched his soldiers back and leaned into your touch.

“Fine,” he spat in response, gripping your bloodied wrist beneath his palm and curled fingertips, “but it better be something tight and preferably black.” You giggled at his comment, raising your other hand up to his cheek and patting it affectionately with a small utterance.

“What a good boy you are,” you praised him with another cooing taunt, scrunching up your nose and smiling with your feral eyes, “now take off your boots, coat and pants and run along now. I’ll be all dolled up for you and ready for you at the waterfront tavern. I might even see that your clothes are cleaned, pressed and waiting once you arrive.”

Your comment finally broke him, a warm laugh cracking through his tough exterior and rumbling within his chest to pour from his mustached lips.

“It’s a shame I lost,” he leant his cheek into your touch, prompting you to furrow your brows in curiosity. He stooped his form lower to you, tickling your face with his playful and breathy whisper, “I would’ve liked to have shown you how well I can please a woman.”

BONUS

Eyes were either focussed exclusively on the ceiling or marines would simply turn around as the darkened and well seasoned lord of Kuraigana entered the military office building. Holding true to his word, and the promise of good company after his humiliation, he sauntered confidently into Vice-Admiral Garp’s office donning nothing but Yoru strapped to his back, his cross-blade hanging loosely from his neck, and his feathered hat atop his sea-sprayed, curled, dark locks.

#Mihawk #one piece #opla #opla fic #one piece live action #x reader #mihawk x reader #mihawk x warlord!reader #dracule mihawk

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