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|ʀʏŌɪᴋɪ ᴛᴇɴᴋᴀɪ| Forgive me, english isn't my first language

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PICK A SCOOP! {DO NOT OVERFILL CONE}

Single Scoop {One shots}

Double Scoop! {Long Fics}

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Love, Death, and Creatures (The Creature x Assistant!Reader) PAUSED

Downside Up (Henry Creel x Isekai'd!Reader) ON-GOING

Carribean (Dracula 2026 x Reader) PAUSED

The Song Of Dragons (AKOTSK x Isekai'd!reader) ON-GOING

The world feels softer when you sprinkle kindness everywhere you go

[pluto-cerberus]

JESTER'S PRIVILEGE────── Homelander

Start Day: Thurs 4-06-2026

Synopsis. You were just another overworked, underpaid PR grunt at Vought, until Homelander noticed you. What began as a predator's idle curiosity quickly became a suffocating obsession. Promoted against your will to his personal handler, stripped of every support system, you find yourself trapped in his gilded cage. When your freeloading cousin Marta becomes his final obstacle, Homelander decides to remove her — permanently. In his mind, it's not cruelty; it's love. And for a lonely god who was never taught how to love, love justifies absolutely anything.

Pairing: Obsessed! Homelander x Stressed! PR! Reader

Content: M D N I. Homelander (The Boys). smut dubcon. Size kink. bulge kink. Dark corporate atmosphere in Vought Tower. Workplace harassment. Obsessive surveillance. Extreme power imbalance. Psychological manipulation. Maternal neediness projection. Forced isolation. Non-consensu Sal touching. Coercion. Murder of a secondary character (off-screen). Blood (mild). Emotional kidnapping. Dominant/submissive dynamics. Intense, dark intimate sessions. Making out. Sustained eye contact. Provocative and possessive language. Pet names (little ant). Extreme possessiveness. Subtle jealousy. Power display. Prolonged pace. Overwhelming sensations. Male vulnerability revealed in intimacy. Personal space invasion. Home invasion. Insistent touching. Whispered words. Growing, destructive obsession. Pathological narcissism. Dark ending with no redemption.

Word Count: 8k

N/A. Truth is, I've never had this much trouble with a draft before. I know it's your standard Homelander fic, but hey, I had to join the party 👍

« But you're everything to me.

You deepen the red of my blood »

Twenty-two hours. That was the cursed number that governed your existence, the official schedule—or rather, the administrative sentence—imposed on you by the Public Relations Department of Vought International. Twenty-two hours a week that, on paper, were supposed to translate into a salary decent enough to allow you the luxury of renting a decent apartment, filling the fridge with food that wasn't made of plastic, and perhaps, with a bit of luck, treating yourself to the occasional indulgence. But reality, like almost everything in that damned glass tower of corporate mirages, was a cruel joke wrapped in bureaucracy. The salary turned out to be laughable, barely a trickle of red ink in your bank account that evaporated before you could blink, leaving you trapped on a perpetual hamster wheel of financial anxiety while you watched the company's real heroes earn more from a single soda commercial than you would in your entire working life.

As if that financial tightrope weren't torture enough, fate had decided to add dead weight to your already tottering balance. You had your cousin living at home. A thirty-year-old woman you hadn't seen since the blurry days of childhood, when both families still pretended to get along at Christmas gatherings. You had taken her in out of a gesture of compassion that now seemed like the worst miscalculation of your adult life. She didn't work. She didn't look for work. She didn't seem to have the slightest intention of lifting a finger to ease the burden her presence represented. She had settled on your sofa like a wilted, demanding fern, an emotional and financial parasite that consumed your resources without offering anything in return. And there you were, trapped in the impossible role of sole provider, taking care of a fully functional adult as if she were a teenage daughter, looking after two people when you could barely keep yourself upright.

Ironic, you sometimes thought while rubbing your temples in front of the computer screen in the empty office, how you had become everyone's pillar when your own foundations were silently crumbling. No one saw it, of course. No one noticed the cracks in your professional smile, the slight trembling of your hands as you poured your third coffee of the day, the dark circles you covered with cheap concealer before facing the most narcissistic superheroes on the planet. You were the image expert who kept everyone else's façade flawless, while your own fell apart behind the closed door of your tiny apartment. And the worst of all was that growing feeling that someone—someone with eyes too blue and a smile that never reached his gaze—had begun to notice the fissures.

The first time Homelander noticed you, it wasn't because of your looks, or your voice, or even the position you held in the tower. It was because of the smell.

He was flying over the administrative wing, a pastime he cultivated when boredom gnawed at his skull, when his superhuman sense of smell picked up a distinct chemical signature amidst the cheap perfume of the hallways. Cortisol. Adrenaline at almost clinical levels. A cocktail of stress so pure and concentrated it was nearly intoxicating. He descended a few meters, hovering silently like a bored god, and located you through the glass walls. You were hunched over a tiny desk, your fingers pounding the keyboard with mechanical fury, your jaw so tight he could almost hear your teeth grinding. Your heart was beating like a trapped bird against your ribs.

He smiled to himself. What a pathetic creature, he thought. Barely a bundle of nerves with an ID badge hanging around her neck. And yet... she's still there. Still fighting. He liked that contradiction: the most absolute fragility that refused to break. It was like watching an insect trying to lift a crumb of bread too big. He decided to remember your face.

The second encounter was deliberate. A leak to the press about one of A-Train's nocturnal excesses had put the Public Relations department under siege, and Homelander decided to honor the crisis room with his presence. Not because he cared about the speedster's fate—whom he considered little more than a defective tool—but because he wanted to see you under real pressure. He wanted to know if that chemical symphony from the other night was your natural state.

He arrived without making a sound, as always. The door opened and his silhouette outlined against the fluorescent light was enough to make everyone in the room hold their breath. Everyone except you. You didn't even look up from your tablet, too absorbed in damage timelines and press releases. That annoyed him. And he liked it.

—Is someone going to explain to me why my time is being interrupted by the incompetence of a drug-addict runner? —he purred, sweeping his gaze over those present until he fixed it on you.

You were the only one who answered, with a tired but firm voice that didn't tremble when addressing him:

—With all due respect, Mr. Homelander, if we manage to contain this before noon, your time won't be affected at all. We're on it.

Mr. Homelander? The formal address rang in his ego like a pleasant bell, but it was the lack of fear in your tone that truly captured his attention. Almost all employees stammered in his presence, sweated, averted their eyes like prey before a predator. You, on the other hand, were too exhausted to be afraid. Your pulse had barely altered when speaking to him. It was insolence born of exhaustion, not courage, and that made it delightfully genuine.

He leaned toward you, invading your personal space with calculated slowness. The scent of your stress was more intense up close, an invisible cloud enveloping him. He could smell the stale coffee on your breath, the lack of sleep on your skin, the cheap perfume that tried to mask desperation.

—Do you have any idea who's talking to you? —he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

—Perfectly —you replied, finally raising your eyes. Tired. Beautiful in their devastation—. That's exactly why I need you to let me work.

No one spoke to him like that. No one. Fury and pleasure tangled in his chest like two serpents. He wanted to punish you. He wanted to rip out that insolent tongue and collect it in a jar. But he also wanted, above all, for you to look at him like that again, with that mix of indifference and loyalty to a cause as insignificant as saving Vought's reputation.

—Alright —he said at last, straightening up with a smile that didn't reach his eyes—. Work. And don't disappoint me.

From then on, he became your invisible shadow. Not in an obvious way, of course; he was too cunning to stoop to following a mere human through the hallways like a lapdog. Instead, he used his senses: he listened to your conversations through walls, smelled your mood swings from entire floors away, watched your routine with the patience of a feline observing a lame mouse.

He discovered that you worked twenty-two hours a week, a figure that struck him as ridiculous and almost insulting. Was that all you were worth to the company? A miserable salary and cut hours? The injustice, curiously, didn't outrage him out of empathy—he was incapable of feeling it—but because it placed you on such a low rung that you almost escaped his radar. He didn't like that. If you were going to be his new distraction, his little pastime, you needed to be in a visible, controllable place. He would have to fix it. A transfer, perhaps. A forced promotion to his personal image team. After all, wasn't he Vought's greatest asset? His image was that of a god. He deserved someone dedicated exclusively to polishing it.

And then there was the matter of your cousin. That parasite who vegetated in your apartment. He listened to her one night, while floating outside your window, invisible among the shadows of the sky. Your voice, tense, begging her to look for work. Hers, indolent, complaining of imaginary aches. The anger rising up your throat, the tears you held back because you couldn't afford the luxury of falling apart. Homelander clenched his fists. It wasn't compassion he felt; it was possession. How dare that useless woman add more weight onto your shoulders? Those shoulders were his now. The exhaustion, the dark circles, the tears you didn't shed, all of that belonged to him. No one else had the right to cause them.

One night, after a charity event where you had coordinated every detail with surgical precision—and where he had pretended not to look at you from the stage—, he intercepted you in the underground parking lot. Your heels echoed against the concrete with a limping rhythm; you had twisted your ankle at some point during the evening and the pain added to your litany of miseries. He appeared out of nowhere, the flag waving on his cape even underground, his superstar smile firmly in place.

—You did a good job tonight —he said, blocking your way with his mere presence—. I've been watching you.

You stopped, leaning against a pillar to relieve the pressure on your ankle. —Thank you. I try to do my job well.

—Oh, I know. You work like a damned slave for a few coins and an apartment infested with useless relatives. —Your expression of surprise drew a soft, almost paternal laugh from him—. Don't make that face. I know a lot of things. I know you don't sleep, I know you eat junk from vending machines, I know that bruise on your left wrist you got from bumping into a filing cabinet last Tuesday, during your break.

The fear that finally appeared in your eyes was the sweetest of nectars. At last, at last, you broke that façade of indifferent professional. You stepped back, but he took you by the chin with the tips of his fingers, a touch light as a caress and firm as a threat.

—You're weak —he murmured, delighting in the word, savoring it—. Fragile, exhausted, about to break. But that's okay. I like it. Fragile things are easier to possess. And you, my little ant, need someone to possess you. To take care of you. To push all those parasites sucking the life out of you out of your way so you can thrive.

—I don't need... —you began, but his thumb lightly pressed your lower lip, silencing you.

—Of course you do. You just don't know it yet. But don't worry. I have a loooot of patience with things that interest me. —He tilted his head, his blue eyes piercing you from an unattainable height—. You are inferior to me in everything that matters, but that doesn't mean you can't be useful to me. In fact, I think you're going to become my favorite project.

His smile widened, white and perfect, and in that gesture was all the narcissism in the world: the certainty of a god who has decided to take a fancy to a mortal and expects, of course, absolute gratitude.

—Now, go home. Rest. I don't want my favorite toy to break before I start playing with it. Tomorrow we'll talk about your new position. You're welcome, in advance.

And with a swirl of his cape, he rose into the night, leaving you alone under the hum of the fluorescents, with your heart galloping and the terrifying certainty that the most dangerous predator on the planet had just set his sights on you. The worst wasn't the fear. The worst was that tiny, almost imperceptible part of you that, for one fleeting second, felt seen.

That night, after the encounter in the parking lot, you barely managed to get the key into the lock. Your hands trembled like leaves in the wind and your ankle throbbed with a dull ache that climbed all the way to your hip. When you opened the door, the smell of stale popcorn and cheap cologne hit you in the face. Marta was sprawled on the sofa, wrapped in a faded flannel robe, watching a cooking competition on TV with the volume far too loud.

—Watching that again? —you murmured, dropping your bag to the floor with a dry thud.

—Well, honey, there's nothing else on... These damn superheroes hog every channel. On channel one, on two, on three... Even on the paid ones! Homelander saves who-knows-who, Queen Maeve opens a shopping center... What a load of crap! —she grumbled, turning off the television with a theatrical gesture—. They used to show reruns of 'Médico de familia', which was a proper, decent series.

You let yourself collapse into the dining chair, rubbing your temples. The terror you had felt in the parking lot was still there, lodged in your chest like a cold stone. And Marta, with her chronic uselessness, was the only person in the world you could share it with. Paradoxical. The thirty-something cousin who never lifted a finger, who lived off your miserable salary, was your only confidante.

—Marta... —you began, your voice broken—. I think I've gotten myself into a really serious problem.

She half sat up, propping herself on one elbow. For once, the chronic laziness on her face gave way to a spark of attention.

—Were you fired? Because if you were fired, I know a guy who sells some really good creams online, and we could...

—No, Marta, I wasn't fired. It's... —You swallowed. The words burned in your throat, but you had to let them out or you would choke—. It's Homelander. The real Homelander. He's been following me. He says he's been... watching me. He knows where I live, he knows about my schedule, he knows about you.

—He knows about me? —Marta's tone sharpened with almost comical indignation—. And what's he going to know about me if he doesn't know me at all? Look, I haven't done anything wrong! I've got enough with my arthritis and my migraines without some guy in blue pajamas coming to meddle in my life.

—Marta, you don't understand. He's dangerous. Really. He told me I'm his... his toy.

There was a silence. Marta blinked twice, processing the information with the slowness of an old computer. Then she got up from the sofa, dragging the fuzzy slippers she had stolen from you, and came over to you. She knelt beside you —with some difficulty, because the arthritis was real, not made up— and took your hands with an almost tender clumsiness.

—Look, I don't like those heroes. They're fascists, hoarders, a bunch of... sons of bitches. But you're my cousin. And I might be useless, which I am, and a parasite, which I also am, but I'm not going to let some guy in a cape make you feel like this. —She squeezed your fingers harder than you expected—. From now on, I'll take care of the house, okay? And the shopping. And if that show-off with laser eyes shows up around here, I'll give him a piece of my mind, because I may have a lot of ailments but in my youth I handed out slaps like they were bread.

You almost laughed. The image of Marta confronting Homelander was as absurd as it was endearing. For the first time in months, you saw in her tired, failed-housewife eyes a spark of genuine loyalty. Marta wasn't a bad person. She was just a woman broken by life, a mediocre survivor who had gotten used to drifting aimlessly. But there she was, squeezing your hands, offering you the only thing she could give: her useless company and her sincere indignation.

—Thank you —you whispered, and it was a real thank you.

It was then that you felt it. A chill on the back of your neck, an icy tingling that ran down your spine. You looked up toward the living room window, the one that faced the street, the one you always left without curtains because there was no money for blinds. And there, floating in the darkness like a malignant star, two points of an almost white blue returned your gaze.

Homelander was outside. He hadn't left. He hadn't left at any point.

He was smiling. Even in the dim light, you could see the white curve of his teeth, the impossible stillness of his body suspended in the air, the cape waving slowly like a flag of conquest. He made no move to leave. He simply stayed there, watching you through the glass, savoring your terror with the calm of someone who has all the time in the world.

Because he did. Of course he did. And he wasn't going to leave.

You didn't sleep. You spent the night wide awake, sitting on the edge of the bed, with the curtains drawn and your mind repeating over and over that smile floating in the darkness. Marta fell asleep on the sofa, hugging a cushion like an old cat, oblivious to the danger lurking beyond the windowpanes. You didn't have the courage to look out the window at dawn, for fear of still finding those two blue points waiting for you in the gray sky.

At eight in the morning, with irritated eyes and yesterday's wrinkled clothes, you arrived at Vought Tower. The receptionist stopped you before you could take refuge in your cubicle.

—Ashley wants to see you. Right now. In her office.

The tone left no room for argument. Something had changed.

Ashley Barrett, the vice president of hero management, greeted you from behind her glass desk with a smile that was meant to be warm but couldn't hide the chronic panic that lived in her pupils. She had her phone glued to her ear, as always, but hung up as soon as she saw you enter.

—Oh, thank God you're here! Sit down, sit down. —She pointed to a chair with a nervous gesture, smoothing her coppery hair—. I have news... well, news. Important. Very important.

—Did I do something wrong? —you asked, though deep down you already knew. It wasn't punishment what was coming. It was something worse.

—Wrong? No, not at all! On the contrary. —Ashley let out a high-pitched giggle, the kind she used to disguise bad news—. There's been a... restructuring. Homelander has personally requested the creation of a Public Relations team dedicated exclusively to his image. And he has also personally asked that you be the one to lead it.

The word "lead" echoed hollowly in the office.

—But I'm the lowest on the ladder. I have no experience in... —you began, but Ashley interrupted you with a wave of her hand.

—Nonsense! You've demonstrated extraordinary resilience, a commitment to the company that doesn't go unnoticed. Besides, Homelander himself has praised your work. Do you know how hard it is for him to praise anyone? It's an honor! A privilege! —Her voice cracked for an instant, betraying the underlying terror—. And, well, there's a small detail: the team consists of you alone. There's no budget for more. Image crisis and all that. But I'm sure you can handle it. He trusts you.

He trusts you. The words tasted like poison to you.

Ashley handed you a folder with the new contract, the salary increase —generous, far too generous— and the schedule: exclusive dedication, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Absolute availability for the Seven. For him.

—Oh, and you have a private meeting with him —Ashley added, lowering her voice as if she feared the walls had ears—. Right now. On the ninety-ninth floor. He's waiting for you.

The elevator rose in a sepulchral silence. The digital numbers climbed toward the sky while your stomach plummeted in the opposite direction. Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine. The doors opened with a soft hiss, revealing a hallway lined with dark marble and a single double door at the end, guarded by the Vought eagle emblem.

You pushed the doors open with trembling hands. Homelander's private office was a temple to himself: glass walls that dominated all of Manhattan, a mahogany desk the size of a football field, giant screens projecting his image on a loop. And at the back, his back to you, silhouetted against the dawn light, his silhouette. The cape waving gently from the air conditioning. Hands clasped behind his back. The feline stillness of a predator in no hurry.

—Come in —he said without turning around. His voice was velvety, almost affable, but vibrated at a frequency that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end—. And close the door. I don't want interruptions.

You obeyed. The click of the latch echoed like a gunshot.

Homelander turned around slowly, savoring the moment. His eyes were exactly the same as the night before, blue to the point of nausea, bright like magnifying glasses focusing on an ant. He was smiling.

—Did you sleep well? —he asked, and it was obvious he knew the answer.

You remained standing by the door, unable to move forward. Words stuck in your throat like sand. He raised an eyebrow, amused.

—You don't need to tell me. The dark circles speak for you. It doesn't matter. From now on you'll sleep better, I promise. —He took a step toward you, then another, closing the distance with unbearable slowness—. Did you like the news? Your own team, your own office, a salary that finally lets you live without counting coins. And all thanks to me. Aren't you going to thank me?

The question hung in the air. He tilted his head, expectant, like a child waiting for a gift. But his eyes weren't a child's. They were a wolf's.

—I... I didn't ask for this —you managed to articulate.

—No, of course you didn't. That's why it's so wonderful. The best things aren't asked for, they're taken. Or received. —He stopped a meter from you, raising a hand to caress the edge of his own jaw with a thoughtful gesture—. Look, I know you had a little chat with your cousin last night. Marta, right? Picturesque woman. Very... how shall I put it? Useless? But with a certain character. I liked what she said. "I'm not going to let some guy in a cape make you feel like this." Verbatim. She's got guts, I admit. Bad taste, but guts.

Your blood ran cold in your veins. He had heard everything. Every whispered word, every confession, every clumsy promise from Marta.

—Don't do anything to her —you begged, and your voice sounded more broken than you intended.

Homelander let out a brief, genuine laugh.

—Do something to her? To that sack of arthritis and TV reruns? Please. I couldn't care less. —He waved a hand in the air, unconcerned—. You matter to me. What she said, what you told her... That does interest me. You talked about me. You described me. Do you know what that means? That I occupy space in your head. That even when I'm not here, I am.

He leaned toward you, reducing the space until you could smell his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and power.

—You've been promoted because I want it. Now you're mine. Every minute of your workday, every thought, every drop of stress you secrete. Everything. —His voice dropped to an intimate, almost tender whisper—. And you're going to do an excellent job, my little ant, because you know what happens when someone disappoints me. Right?

You nodded, because there was no other choice. Because he was the sun and you an insignificant planet trapped in his orbit. Because the nearest window was ninety-nine stories above the ground and, even if you jumped, he would fly faster.

—Good —he purred, straightening up with a triumphant smile—. Now, sit down. We need to plan my next charity dinner. I don't want my image to suffer. And I don't like repeating things.

You took a seat opposite his desk, your hands clasped on your lap and your heart hammering against your ribs. He occupied his mahogany throne, contemplated you for a moment with the quiet possession of someone admiring a newly acquired object, and began dictating his demands.

The following days dissolved into a suffocating routine that didn't belong to you. Your life ceased to be your own and became an appendage of his, a tiny satellite trapped in the gravity of a sun that didn't share its light but devoured it all for itself.

Homelander took you everywhere. There was no executive meeting, press conference, or shopping mall inauguration he attended without you one step behind, tablet in hand and your pulse racing. He introduced you as "my new head of image," and the words sounded less like a professional title than a mark of ownership. The other Vought executives noticed, of course. Ashley averted her gaze. The members of the Seven pretended not to see you. No one said anything. No one dared.

Your breaks ceased to exist as private spaces. The first day, when you tried to slip away to the staff cafeteria to eat a sandwich in solitude, his voice boomed from the communicator he had given you that very morning —a tiny device you wore pinned to the collar of your blouse like a collar of submission—.

"Come up to the penthouse. I ordered sushi for two."

It wasn't an invitation. It never was. You went up to the penthouse, a private dining room overlooking Central Park that reeked of luxury and a god's loneliness, and found him seated at the head of an endless table, pointing to the chair on his right with an imperial gesture.

—I don't like eating alone —he said, while unrolling a maki roll with the precision of someone dismembering something alive—. And you need to eat better. You're all skin and bones. I don't want my investment to depreciate.

You ate in silence, feeling his eyes fixed on you with every bite. When you left a piece of ginger on the plate, he speared it with his chopsticks and brought it to your lips.

—Open up.

You trembled, but obeyed. The ginger burned your tongue and he smiled, satisfied, as if he'd given you a piece of candy.

From that day on, every meal, every coffee break, every minute you used to use to breathe was relocated to his side. He took you to his private dressing room while he changed suits for charity galas, without bothering to close the curtain, talking to you about image strategies while his bare torso gleamed under the spotlights. You looked away, but he came closer, leaned over your shoulder to point something out on the tablet, and his chest brushed your back. The contact was deliberate, millimeter-perfect, and you remained rigid like an animal caught in headlights.

His hands. That was the worst. His hands were everywhere, always, without warning and without asking permission. A palm that settled on the curve of your waist as you walked down the hallway, guiding you with firm pressure. Fingers that tucked a strand of hair behind your ear in the middle of a meeting, in a gesture so intimate it froze the room. The thumb that grazed the nape of your neck when you bent down to pick up some papers, tracing slow circles on your skin, as if calibrating how much pressure he could exert before breaking you.

One night, during the review of a script for a corporate commercial, you were alone in his office. You were reading the proposed lines aloud, seated on the edge of a white leather sofa, and he interrupted you by raising a hand.

—Come here.

You looked up. He had reclined in his armchair, legs slightly apart, the lazy smile of someone who expects the world to kneel.

—Closer. I don't bite. —He paused, tilting his head—. Today.

You stood up on legs of jelly and positioned yourself in front of him. But it wasn't enough. His hand reached out, took you by the wrist, and pulled you until you fell seated on the armrest of his chair, leaning over him, your faces mere centimeters apart. His other hand found your knee and stayed there, warm, heavy, owning.

—Keep reading —he ordered, his eyes half-closed.

Your voice came out trembling, broken, as you tried to ignore the thumb that was now drawing lazy circles on your kneecap, rising barely a millimeter with each pass. He listened without listening, absorbed in the trembling of your hands, in the frantic beating of your jugular, in the perfume of your fear. When you finished, he took you by the chin and turned your face toward him.

—You did well. I'm proud of you. —The words should have been praise, but his tone was that of a master petting his dog—. Tomorrow I'm taking you to the premiere in Los Angeles. Wear something nice. Something I'll like.

You didn't ask him what he liked. There was no need. The next morning you found a dress on your chair, black, form-fitting, with a price tag you couldn't afford even in your dreams. You put it on because there was no other option, because refusing was unthinkable, because you had learned in barely two weeks that saying "no" to Homelander was like saying "no" to gravity.

On the private jet, he sat you next to him, so close that his thigh pressed against yours. During the flight, his hand found yours on the armrest and intertwined his fingers with terrifying naturalness. You looked out the window at the passing clouds, wondering if you would ever set foot on solid ground again.

Marta called that night, late. You were in the hotel bathroom, the dress crumpled on the floor, the marks of his fingers still imprinted on your waist like an invisible seal. You answered in a whisper.

—Are you okay, cousin? You haven't been home in days. —Her voice, for once, lacked its usual laziness. She sounded worried. Frightened, even.

—I'm fine —you lied, because you couldn't say anything else, because the communicator was still on your neck and you never knew if he was listening—. I have a lot of work. We'll see each other soon.

You hung up before she could insist. You looked at yourself in the mirror and saw a stranger: pale, haggard, with eyes too wide. The shadow of a smile that wasn't yours formed in the reflection just before the bathroom light went out and, from the adjoining room, his voice came like a purr through the half-open door:

—Don't fall asleep yet. I want you to read me tomorrow's headlines. And bring me a glass of milk. You know how I like it.

You closed your eyes. You inhaled. You opened them again.

And you went for the glass.

The first night he forced you to sleep by his side, you understood that you were not just a toy. You were a substitute.

It happened after a charity gala in Chicago. The private jet brought you back to New York in the early hours, and when you tried to say goodbye in the tower lobby, he held you back by the wrist.

—Tonight you're staying here.

It wasn't a question. He led you to his private apartment, a penthouse at the top of the tower where everything was white, sterile, and impersonal, like the cell of a lonely god. The bed was immense, dressed in sheets of a cold blue that smelled of fabric softener and of him. He indicated that you should lie down on the left side. You obeyed, rigid as a corpse, staring at the ceiling.

He slipped under the sheets with the naturalness of someone who has always slept alone and never learned to share space. He turned off the lights with a blink of his eyes and darkness swallowed everything. Then, his voice emerged from the shadows, softer than you had ever heard it.

—Madelyn... she used to stay late. She listened to me. She cared... but it turned out she was a liar.

Stillwell's name floated in the gloom like a ghost. You swallowed, not daring to respond. There was no need. He wasn't seeking dialogue; he was seeking an audience.

—I was raised in a lab —he continued, and his tone grew deeper, almost childlike—. I had no mother. I had no father. Just white coats and needles and cameras. Do you know what it's like to be observed without being seen? To be measured without being loved?

His hand searched for yours under the sheets and squeezed it with a force bordering on pain. It wasn't affection. It was possession. It was the desperate need of a child that never existed clinging to a breast he never had.

—You see me —he murmured, turning his face toward you in the darkness—. You're weak, you're small, you're insignificant... but you see me. And I need you here. Every night. From now on.

You wanted to refuse. You wanted to scream, to flee, to claw at the white walls until you found a way out. But his arm wrapped around your waist and pulled you against his chest, caging you like a human teddy bear, and his chin rested on your head with a sigh of satisfaction.

—Talk to me about yourself —he ordered in a whisper—. Tell me something I don't know.

And you did. You told him about your childhood, about your parents, about the summers you spent with Marta when you were both little girls and the world hadn't crushed you yet. You told him things you hadn't shared with anyone, fragments of yourself that you gave in exchange for nothing, because his warmth was fake but his threat was real, and in that freezing bed there was no option to stay silent.

When you finished, a thick silence filled the room. Then, his voice, barely a breath against your hair:

—See? You're not so alone anymore. Neither am I. We have each other.

He closed his eyes and his breathing became slow, regular. He was sleeping. He was sleeping like a monstrous child clutching his new stuffed toy, and you remained awake, counting the hours, feeling the weight of his arm like a tombstone.

The next morning, you woke to his absence. The hollow in the bed was still warm and on the empty pillow there was a handwritten note, in surprisingly childish handwriting:

"You slept well. Don't leave without having breakfast. H. ♡"

The shaky lettering, the solitary initial, the order disguised as courtesy. Everything in that note oozed the lack of someone who never learned to love without possessing, who sought in you the mother they took from him, the confidante he murdered, the mirror to reflect his greatness without ever seeing his monstrosity.

And that night, when you returned home for the first time in three days and found Marta asleep on the sofa with a cup of cold coffee waiting for you on the table, you knew that this wasn't going to end. Because Homelander didn't want you as an employee. He wanted you as a witness. A witness to his life, his pain, his glory. And witnesses, in the trial of a god, are never released.

The communicator on your neck vibrated softly.

"I miss you. Come back."

You closed your eyes, kissed Marta's sleeping forehead silently, and walked out the door. Because there was no other option. Because he always won. And because the most terrifying thing of all was that, in some dark corner of your chest, his need made you feel something akin to pity. And pity, when it came to Homelander, was the antechamber of hell.

That night, the summons came later than usual. The communicator vibrated just when you had surrendered to the idea that, for once, he would let you rest.

"Come up. Now."

The elevator spit you out into the dimly lit penthouse. The lights of Manhattan flickered on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside everything was shadow and silence. You walked forward barefoot —you had taken off your heels in the lobby, without quite knowing why— and found him standing by the sink of the open bathroom, leaning over the marble, rubbing something off his face with a white towel.

The towel was stained with crimson.

Your heart stopped for an instant. He looked up at the mirror and caught your reflection, your eyes fixed on the bloodied cloth, your body paralyzed in the doorway. He smiled wearily, almost tenderly, as if he had just returned from an exhausting day and not from... whatever he had done.

—Don't make that face. It's not mine. —He passed the towel over his cheek one last time and tossed it into the sink with disdain—. A matter that required my attention. It's been resolved.

He turned toward you. Under the dim light, his face was clean, but there was a dark trace under a fingernail, a shadow in the crease of his ear. The blue of his eyes shone with a different intensity, wilder, less rehearsed. He smelled of ozone, sweat, and something metallic you preferred not to identify.

—You took your time —he said, approaching with slow steps—. I almost started to think you wouldn't come.

—I always come —you replied, and your voice sounded firmer than you felt.

—I know. That's why I like you. That's why I need you here. —He stopped in front of you, so close that his breath grazed your forehead—. Tonight... tonight was long. And I don't want to be alone. Not after what I've done.

You didn't ask what he had done. You didn't want to know. But he needed to tell it, as always, to project onto you the echo of his acts so they would exist, so someone would validate them. His hand rose and caressed your cheek with a sweetness that was a thousand times more terrifying than his violence.

—You understand me —he whispered—. You're the only one who understands me. The only one who doesn't leave.

His thumb traced your lower lip, and something in his gaze changed. The childish need you had seen other nights was still there, in the depths, but now it was tinged with something darker, hungrier. The blood he had cleaned from his face hadn't sated anything. It had only whetted his appetite.

—Come —he said, and it was at once a plea and a sentence—. Stay with me. For real. Tonight I need you more than ever.

He took you by the hand and led you to the bedroom. The bed received you with its blue sheets, cold like the sky before dawn. You sat on the edge, and he knelt before you —him, kneeling!— to look into your eyes from below, like a feline feigning submission before pouncing on its prey.

—Don't be afraid —he lied, and his hands began to travel over your arms, your shoulders, the contour of your neck with a veneration that chilled your blood—. Tonight I'm going to show you how important you are to me.

The gloom of the bedroom was barely broken by the distant glow of the skyscrapers, a canvas of cold lights that silhouetted him against the windows. He was still kneeling before you, and in that almost devout posture there was something profoundly unnatural, like seeing a lion prostrate itself before a lamb. His hands, the same ones that minutes before had gripped something you preferred not to imagine, now removed your shoes with a liturgical delicacy. The tips of his fingers traced the arch of your foot, your still-aching ankle, the curve of your calf, like someone caressing the edge of a relic.

— Look at me — he whispered, his breath warm against your knees.

You raised your eyes. His burned in the darkness, two blue embers where the smoldering glow of the recently committed violence still danced. He smelled of iron beneath the cologne, of sweat beneath the sandalwood, of something wild that the superhero suit couldn't tame. When his mouth brushed against the inside of your wrist—right where your pulse raced—a shiver ran down your spine. It wasn't just desire that vibrated between his parted lips. It was hunger. It was possession. It was the certainty that you were about to be devoured by a god who didn't distinguish between love and annihilation.

His fingers traced the outline of your waist, descending over your hips with agonizing slowness. Each caress was a signature, a mark of ownership written on your skin.

— Tell me you're mine — he repeated against the skin of your neck, and this time it wasn't a command, but a poorly disguised plea, the voice of a child demanding what he fears losing.

— I'm... yours — your lips formed the words before your mind could stop them, and something broke inside you as you spoke them.

He exhaled a trembling, almost ecstatic sigh, and his forehead rested for a moment against your collarbone, as if he needed to regain his composure. Then he sat up, his eyes roaming over your half-naked body with a mixture of adoration and ancient hunger.

— Look at me — he whispered, cupping your chin between two fingers. — Don't close your eyes. I want to see you while I have you. —

His lips trailed down your sternum, leaving a warm, wet trail. He continued kissing your soft, sweat-stained skin down to your belly, while his strong hands gripped your hips, turning them red from the pressure he was applying.

— You’re the only good thing I have — he murmured against your skin, and there was a strange honesty in his words, a confession not directed at you but at the entire universe. — The only thing I don’t want to break. —

You were terrified as he removed the last of your clothes. You could barely think. What were you doing? You were letting the man—no, the god—who had made you submit to his will do whatever he wanted with you.

You clenched your jaw as he rushed to grasp your breasts, squeezing them and licking your nipples as if you were a baby. You let out a choked, almost timid moan as the blond man’s hands rubbed your pussy, wetting it with the pressure he exerted on you.

You tried to stifle your moans, but he stopped stimulating you and looked at you with crushing seriousness.

— You'd better keep moaning unless you want me to rip out that pretty tongue of yours — he said, before continuing his work.

You felt compelled to respond to his intimate touch and the tension he was putting you under. He began to insert one of his large fingers inside you, making you moan more and more. However, even though you didn't want to be noisy, you couldn't help it; he knew exactly where to touch you, where to make you cry.

He began to fill you with one finger, then two, then three, withdrawing again and again, each time faster and louder, filling the room with the sound of your sloshing cunt.

— How sensitive you are — he said, separating from your nipple with a thread of saliva connecting it to the reddish ring he left on your breast.

— I-I, oh god — you moaned as he moved his fingers faster inside your tight interior.

— The only god you should moan for is me —he said sarcastically.

Before you could even pull away, he withdrew his fingers, which were stained with your vaginal juices. He gently placed them in his mouth, smiling as he felt your fluids drip onto his tongue.

— How sweet you are when you're only mine — he murmured.

You were trembling as your lubricant still trickled down your thighs. He positioned himself over you, his hot breath circling your ear.

— Like that... like that —he panted close to your ear, his voice a deep purr, a vibration that resonated through your chest. — Don't pull away from me. Not now. —

Homage's breath caught in his throat as he removed his underwear, just enough to free his cock. You'd seen him do this a few times before, shamelessly changing in front of you, but this time was different, because he was going to be inside you. His penis was huge, too big, and you hadn't seen many in your life. It was red with arousal, and pre-ejaculate was spurting from his slit.

— You're so big... — You breathed deeply, in a scared whisper that made him laugh at your surprise.

Homelander slowly pressed the blunt tip against your pussy, penetrating you with a gentleness that almost made him feel romantic. The thickness made you shudder with pain and moan as he filled your pussy, sliding into each of your wet rings. He thrust forward, filling you completely until he reached the very depths of your being. He didn't give you any time to adjust, and began to pound into you despite the pain that coursed through you as you clung to his very thick length.

— You're so small — he growls and thrusts hard again, not even letting you breathe.

— Shit — you cry as he cups your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him, to see what he's doing to you. An obscene bulge forms in your aching belly as he forces you to maintain eye contact with his blue eyes, which occasionally turn a bright red with excitement.

He hits your G-spot with a force that tears you apart inside, until your vision blurs with your own tears and the white sheets are ruined.

— You feel me, don't you? Deep...inside you — he says, laughing as he thrusts forcefully into your insides.

His hand finds yours on the pillow and intertwines your fingers with a firmness that almost hurts. It's an anchor, a chain, a silent promise that he will never let go.

— Do you know how long I've been waiting for this? — His breathing becomes ragged, his movements deeper. From the moment I saw you in that hallway. From the moment I smelled your fear. You were already mine and you didn't even know it.

He kept moving hard as you began to feel spasms. You didn't even respond to what he'd said. Your whole body started to tremble, your thighs clenched, and your belly tensed tightly.

And then it happened. You came.

You came hard while he was still inside you.

— Oh, fuck! — you cried as your nails dug into his back.

He kept fucking you even after you'd had your orgasm, searching for his own. You were still trembling from your orgasm around him when he finally let out a loud groan and spilled inside you in hot, heavy pulses, letting his strands of semen fill your aching womb. His whole body shuddered with his climax, his hips thrusting down until he was empty inside, buried deep within you, where he belonged.

— Don’t go — he moaned afterward, still inside you, his face buried in the hollow of your shoulder. —Don’t leave me alone. Not like the others. —

His voice had become small, almost childlike, and for a moment he wasn’t Homelander, the god feared by millions. He was a child in a lab, an experiment who had never received a hug, a monster he had just killed and was still waiting for someone to tell him he was okay.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you lied, stroking the back of his neck with trembling fingers, because it was what he needed to hear, because it was what kept you alive.

The following silence was thick, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning and your intertwined breathing. You lay on your back, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of his arm on your waist like an invisible chain. He, propped on one elbow, watched you with a strangely placid, almost beatific expression, as if he had just received communion.

His free hand played with a strand of your hair, twirling and untwirling it around his index finger.

—See? —he murmured, and his voice was a purr—. This is how it should always be. You and me. No interruptions. No... interference.

Something in the way he said that last word made you turn your face toward him.

—What do you mean?

Homelander sighed, almost with annoyance, as if you were forcing him to give explanations he considered obvious.

—I mean it's done. —He shrugged, such a mundane gesture for what he had just confessed—. That woman. Martha. The one who was sucking the life out of you while you worked yourself to the bone. The one who watched reruns and complained about me. She's gone.

Your mind took a few seconds to process the words. When it did, the world opened up beneath you like a crack in the ice.

—What... what did you do to her? —Your voice was barely a whisper.

—What I had to do. —There was no remorse in his tone. Only the quiet certainty of someone who has pulled a weed from the garden—. I went to your apartment while you were coming back from the office. I wanted to talk to her, explain the situation. Tell her that from now on, you would live here, with me, and that her services as a parasite were no longer needed. But, honestly, she got really belligerent. She started screaming, calling me a fascist, a control freak... What was the other thing she said? Ah, yes. A son of a bitch. —He smiled, reminiscing—. Your cousin had quite a mouth on her.

Tears welled up before you could contain them. They weren't from sadness, not yet; they were pure horror, disbelief, the atrocious certainty that this man-god had just described a murder as if detailing an administrative task.

—Martha hadn't done anything to you... —you sobbed.

—She was in my way. You were in my way with her. Always worried, always looking after that useless woman. —His expression darkened for an instant—. I need you whole. Complete. Not at half-throttle because you have to go home to take care of an adult who doesn't know how to wipe her own ass. Now there's no home to go back to. Now your home is this. Our home.

You tried to sit up, to flee, but his arm tightened like a steel band and kept you pinned to the mattress.

—You don't understand, little ant. —His voice regained that sickly sweetness—. I did it for you. For us. She was killing you. Stealing your energy, your money, your patience. I've liberated you. Now you can focus on what matters. On me.

You turned to him, and he must have read something like hatred on your face, because his gaze hardened.

—Don't look at me like that. Not after what we just shared. —His hand moved up to your throat, not squeezing, just reminding you of his presence—. Martha was a waste of oxygen. You are my oxygen. I'm not going to apologize for breathing.

You couldn't speak. The words choked you along with your sobs, with the image of Martha asleep on the sofa, her cold coffee cup waiting for you on the table, her clumsy promise to protect you from the man who now held you prisoner.

—Starting tomorrow, you're settling in here. Your clothes, your things, I'll buy you everything new. You don't need anything from there. —He paused, and in his eyes appeared a flash of childish pride—. I've thought of everything. I even ordered a new closet for you. See what I do for you? See how I take care of you?

He closed his eyes, satisfied, and pulled you back against his chest. His heart beat slow, steady, the heart of a man who had just committed a heinous crime and felt at peace with himself. The communicator lay on the nightstand, mute, useless. The nearest window was a hundred floors above the ground. And Martha, the only person you had left in the world, the useless cousin who had promised to defend you, no longer existed.

—Now we're truly alone —he murmured against your hair, and his voice was almost a lullaby—. You and me. As it should be.

You didn't answer. You couldn't. You just closed your eyes and let the tears soak the pillow while he held you, absolute master of your life and your death, convinced that this was love.

Because for him, it was. And that was the problem.

[dollstatic]

Reposting on my second acc bcuz peak is peak

[dollstatic]

The Hills

𝑫𝒂𝒓𝒌! 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒖𝒏𝒂 𝑺𝒉𝒊𝒑𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒙 𝑹𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓

𝙍𝙪𝙣 𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙞𝙩 𝙧𝙪𝙣 𝙧𝙖𝙗𝙗𝙞𝙩

You try your best around the camp, helping with the monotonous chores around that keeps you busy and not thinking about the fact your stranded goodness knows where.

But you've always been nice to everyone, especially Shauna who's been growing that temper of hers, she's already lost a lot of people so you try to give her patience.

No matter how often she's testing everyone's patience.

Notes: also posted on ao3 and wattpad!

The crash would always and forever be fresh on your mind.

You sat beside Misty, who was busy looking around before she finally noticed you. You could tell she was excited having someone other than a football beside her, if not for the countless candies she kept dropping on your lap, you still wouldn't have thought otherwise.

You were only a year younger than them, yet just as hyped for the private plane Charlotte Matthews provided, also excited for the game but more for the plane, you've never officially rode one as big and luxurious as this.

You packed a lot of panties, wanting to swim in the hotel's pool with every chance you were going to get. Omg, you even brought hair glitter for all of you— probably going to get scolded by coach scott but yolo anyway.

A giddy feeling filled your chest, matching Misty's buzzing mood. Van passed sour patch kids around, everyone was so happy, so excited, you shared the gummies with Misty who was ecstatic.

You laugh as she shoves a handful into her mouth, you never thought Misty the creepy, the others dubbed her, was chill like that.

You didn't wear your seatbelt yet, kneeling up your seat and over to Jackie and Shauna behind you, you shook the pack to them as Jackie laughed and took it.

Your eyes flickered briefly to Shauna who was asleep.

That fast? You thought.

You bit the skin of your lips and sat back, clamping the seatbelt shut. You liked Shauna. You mean- liked watching her play, almost thirty percent on your gameplay was based on hers, you joined the sport the moment your foot stepped in highschool.

That time you only knew so much about soccer. They, aka Jackie, Shauna, Taissa, Charlotte, Van, and Laura Lee was tasked with teaching the freshies, aka you.

And Shauna was in charge with you and some other freshie. You nodded and shadowed beside her as she explained and showed the thingies to do.

And with time, sugar and spice and everything nice, you might as well compete in nationals

And you are!

And in a blink of an eye you were getting dragged out the plane, the screams were blurry, there was smoke everywhere, a curly blonde hair obscuring your face, you coughed and heaved as Misty placed you on the ground, shouting for Coach.

You blink into existence, the bunny your holding loafing in your arms.

"Are you alright?" Akilah's worried expression fills your sight, waving her hand in front of you. "Huh?"

"We need more filler for the bunnies side, they keep kicking them out of the pen," she gives you a pitiful smile, gesturing to the once grassy knoll turned soiled area.

A small smile carves its way on your face, you nod as you gently lowered the slumbering bunny. You pat your yourself, ridding of the dust on you and closed the pen's door behind you, bidding Akilah goodbye.

You helped Akilah with the animals, a cute little sanctuary she suggested and you happily took a shift with taking care of the litteluns. You also helped with cooking, especially when you first crashed, you and Mari taking turns cooking and preparing the meals.

The makeshift hays and fillers were by the outskirts of the camp so they wouldn't ruin the whole whimsy aesthetic, but anyways you pass the huts and out of the camp, your hands lightly brushing the growing grasses and flowers.

Suddenly you still, you arms stuck in the air beside you, kinda like a hug me state, still touching the grass, your eyes train on the bunny digging a small burrow.

Slowly, you lower yourself, approaching the animal with caution. The bunny was a calico color, the orange blacks and whites, you have got to bring it to Akilah, she'd be ecstatic with another cute little addition to the sanctuary.

You hold your breath as you extended your arms, cupping your hands together as it nears the bunny.

And with a little more scooching from you, a gasp escapes from your mouth as you bounce at the bunny, clamping your hands around its body.

You squeal and stand up, scanning the animal currently trying to escape from your arms.

"You're so cute." You beam, petting its head.

You cradle it in your arms as it immediately calms down from that retched position you had it earlier.

You bounce it as you turn your whole body in a hurry to get to Akilah.

You let out a yelp when you bump into a wall. The bunny in your arms suddenly jumping down and quickly disappearing among the mosses.

You frown and groan, rubbing your forehead.

"What was that?"

You didn't have to look at her to know it was Shauna. Your eyes widen in a slight, feet shiftig from one another as your eyes flick up to hers.

"A bunny," You say, almost teetering on a whisper. You try to hide your disappointment at the loss of the beautiful animal, you could still feel the pretty coat under your palms.

You shake your head as you flash her a rigid smile. "What are you doing here?"

Everyone knows Shauna and her new profound temper with everything, especially with Mari. They would always find something to fight about in the most petty ways possible. Like the time Mari coincidentally bumped into her when she was showing you some weird dance she came up of, some of the meat shauna was carrying fell to the ground and they started the usual session and not long after you'd have Nat and Tai pulling them away from eachother.

The spring melted the snow as well as her hidden anger issues.

She tilts her head, a ghost of a smirk adorning her face but it's gone as fast as it was there.

"Nothing. Why'd you wanna know?"

Your eyes widen as you stutter, hands fiddling with your sleeves.

"O-oh, uh. I should go," you move to pass her but she blocks you with her body. Your feet brakes in time before you crashed into her again.

You feel your cheeks heat as you slowly lifted your eyes to hers.

"Shauna?" You say, blinking confused. She stared at you with the same deadpan expression she has when she's on the chopping station. You uncomfortablely shift on your feet as you set the game of staring contest between the two of you.

Looking at her now, you probably kinda understand how the others are kinda scared of her.

You probably are now but the beating of your heart covers it entirely. Akilah told you she'd sometimes take some routes longer just to avoid the angry bird. You laughed and slapped her arm, cackling as the both of you kept eachother awake in your shared hut with confessions.

Your tongue points inside your cheeks as you break the staring contest first.

"A-akilah's probably waiting, I should go," the last few words were whispered. Thankfully she lets you pass, speed walking your way out of that awkward atmosphere, not bothering on looking back at the butcher.

You arrive back at the pen and find no Akilah, sighing you lock the gate closed and grab the makeshift basket. The camp could do some good laundry.

You visit their huts one by one, throwing their clothes inside the hamper. You reach Shauna's hut last, surprisingly, her hut was very clean of any debris or stray clothes, they were nearlt bunched up a corner, mostly stained with blood.

You purse your lips and knelt down to get them, trying to avoid touching the red. Goosebumps fill your body, you didn't know how you could do the butching, good thing you had Shauna, or the lot of you would be screwed.

You shut your eyes as bloody Shauna during her birth flashes in your mind. The cabin was wafting of warm blood, everyone panicking, Misty almost spiraling by the sink, you stood beside Akilah holding warm water and extra rags, pinching yourself from the blood.

A branch snapping outside the hut snapped you out of your thoughts. You immediately stand up and exited the shelter.

You were met by Gen who was carrying bunnies and squirrels on her belt. You give her a tight lip smile as she waves to your direction, your eyes follow her to Shauna.

Who was already looking at your direction. Oh wait no. She was looking at Gen, gesturing to the chopping station.

But..

You shake your head, adjusting the hamper on your hips and making your way for the stream.

🐝🔪

The dawn was already coming fast when you arrived at the camp.

"Finally!" Mari jogged to you, hooking her arms with yours and pulling you along with her.

Everyone was coming together at the center, the bonfire area you made together.

"What's the occasion?" You joke, whispering to Mari.

"Oh Nat called a meeting. No idea what's it about." She shrugs, the hamper still leaning on your hips.

Nat catches your eyes and she nods, she surveys the crowd before clearing her throat.

"Alright, some of you probably know what I'm going to talk about but for the others," she starts, Taissa right beside her along with Gen and Van. Your eyes catch on Shauna's, they follow down to her bloody arms and sleeves.

Laundry again tomorrow. You thought.

She's still wearing her butcher apron, not caring about the mess of guts on it. "As you all can see, I've started teaching Gen here,"

Gen bows dramatically, you burst out laughing with Mari who was cackling like this was the best comedy show ever aired.

"-how to hunt. And so far she's been doing great. And we've talked and decided that others would also benefit in learning other skills."

Taissa nods with her. You purse your lips and grip the hamper tighter.

"So!" Taissa clasps her hands loudly, stepping forward to the middle of the crowd. "What we'll do is, Nat is in charge of teaching you how to hunt. Me and Van, we'll be responsible with setting the traps. Misty and her first aid. And last but not the least, Butchering with Shauna."

Mari snorts beside you, covering her mouth. All eyes immediately train on her.

"Got something to say, Mari?" You feel your pulse in your fingertips as Shauna takes a step forward, her head tilting to the side, eyes narrowing and zeroing on Mari.

You pinch Mari as she bites her lip from laughing.

"Mari stop," you whisper, hoping it was only Mari who heard. She huffs and puffs, flipping her hair away.

"Nothing—"

You gasp as Shauna charges at Mari, the hamper falls immediately when you're pulled backwards away from the two.

Shauna grips Mari's shirt by the collar, shaking her.

"Shauna!" Taissa ever the first responder, trying to rip the butcher off of Mari, Nat follows and places herself between them, trying to seperate.

You gulp and hurriedly gripped Mari's shoulders, trying to pull her away.

"Shauna. Let go." Nat warns lowly, you wriggle Mari, trying to loosen Shauna's hold but she doesn't budge. The two barks insults at eachother.

Shauna raises a fist but Nat succesfully tears them open before it lands. A yelp escapes out of your mouth as you and Mari fall on your back.

You cough out Mari's hair, slapping her and her hair away.

"Shauna enough." Nat stands between her and the two of you on the ground. You huff and stumble as you stand up, dusting yourself.

They get into a stare off. Does that always happen with her? Before Shauna grunts and tuts away, claiming her spot amongst the crowd again.

You pick up the clothes and put them back in the hamper, scampering away when you finish.

Nat huffs loudly.

"Going back," she sighs. "You guys should probably choose what you wanna join now so we can start asap. If you still don't know what you're going to do in 5 then we'll choose for you."

The crowd burts into clamoring as they start discussing, even the leaders started going around and asking. Only Shauna stayed where she was, before you could meet her face, Mari pulls your attention back.

"I'm definitely not butchering with Shauna."

A small chuckle comes out of you as does she.

"Oh definitely. Or you might as well be dinner tomorrow," you cackle, she bursts into laughter, slapping your arm.

"I'm actually thinking about joining Van and Tai,"

You nod along with her as she yaps about what where why how she'll join them.

You fiddle with your sleeves, foot tapping on the ground impatiently, butchering is undoubtedly crossed out, wait no, ripped out of your list. Next out of your list in hunting. Either you'll be with Mari, or Misty's first aid.

Which...

You squint, Lottie and Akilah was surrounding Misty, your eyes flick to Tai and Van who had Mari and Travis. Nat was also talking with Gen and Robin.

You jerk away when a finger pokes your ribs. You clutch your side like a wounded soldier, the tickling sensation still there.

You didn't notice Shauna behind you, her hand comes back to hide in her pockets, the corner of her mouth tugs up, the toothpick wiggling in her mouth.

"S-shauna." You stammer, fumbling over your words. She tilts her head, eyes glinting as they settle comfortably on you.

"You choose anything, bambi?"

"I, uhm, not yet. Probably—"

You frown at the nickname, squinting at Shauna who was staring right ahead to Taissa who stepped forward.

"Alright! Let's count it! If a class has too much or too little we'll have to transfer some others!" Taissa announces, you hear some groans, especially Mari who was sending you wiggly eyebrows, aka code red.

You shrug, mouthing a 'what'.

"Okay perfect- then, oh yn where are you gonna be?"

You cough, clearing your throat. "You and Van,"

Tai frowns, nodding, but she's frowning, checking the makeshift clipboard, which was actually tree bark.

"Oh my gosh, I'm very sorry we're full with Robin and Trav. Maybe Nat—"

"She's with me." Shauna steps beside you, staring Tai down. Tai hesitates, her eyes dart between yours and Shauna's.

"I think she should be able to choose for herself yes?" Tai says, not bothering to pay Shauna a glance.

Everybody's eyes were on the three of you, others whispering. You shift on your feet uncomfortablely, you gulp and fiddle with your sleeves.

You feel Shauna's gaze burning on the side of your head but you pay her no mind.

Finally, you give a curt nod. Tai blinks, gripping the clipboard tighter.

"I-I should probably, uhm, yea." You point to Shauna beside you. Tai sighs, nodding.

"I'll be with Shauna too," You hear Melissa as she raises a hand up.

Relief passes by you as they all returned to their business. Tai going around the crowd.

When she finally finishes, she stands beside Nat.

"Ohkay, that would be it I guess. Meeting adjourned!"

You puff your cheeks, clasping your hands behind your back, you didn't move an inch from your place, and it seems Shauna was thinking of the same thing.

She pokes your side and you jerk away again, a small chuckle escapes her mouth. She spits the toothpick away and places her hands in her pockets again.

"See you, bambi."

You blink and say goodbye but she turns away and goes before you could finish.

[mystiquevoid]

me when the most scrumptious fic idea hits me right when i have zero time to write bc of irl responsibilities

[dollstatic]

The Song Of Dragons

Chronicle I | Chronicles | Next Chronicle

Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.

Pairings: Where the blood flows

Note: There's no fixed Character x Reader endgame (yet), reader's presence may complicate things for SEVERAL characters. I started this out of a whim because Baelor died. (Baelor come home, the kids miss you)

You've watched a total of 0 episodes for got, 3-4 episodes of hotd, and the 6 episodes of akotsk (for people that HAVE seen all of them, please forgive me, I have devastatingly not finished them all especially GOT and its very very abundance of seasons, and yes, I haven't read the books) before standing in front of the Ashford Meadow's entrance.

A sight you've only seen in front of a screen not long ago.

"Oh give me strength," you sigh, rubbing your nape before entering the archway.

Miraculously, your wearing not the clothes you had back then, or should you call it the future?

Nevermind, instead, you're wearing a dirtied and worn outfit, secured with a rope on your waist so you wouldn't look like a kid with a too big of a tunic on her

You suddenly remember egg and dunk in the inn.

A smal chuckle blurts out of you, causing few of the passerbys to look to your direction weirdly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Major freaking aura loss on day one.

You stomped your way among the crowds, your shoes barely protecting you from the mushy mud. You thought about how if you would've woken up like weeks early here then you would've ran straight to  King's Landing and held Baelor hostage till the lady Ashford's name day passed.

But no, you arrived on the day of her freaking birthday, you don't even know if the series is already starting around you without even knowing about it.

That was why you're marching into the festivities with no clear goal in mind.

You look around in awe as performers, knights, and lords alike co-exist in the same atmosphere, you see a squire patting a horse aggressively.

What didn't register to you until now was the stench.

Eugh.

You freeze in the middle of the path.

Disgusting.

You gag, quietly. Tears bundle up in your eyes as you cover half of your face in a crushing grip.

You're fine.

You went into a light jog to run away from the smell, who in the seven kingdoms smells THAT horrendous, you're scared.

You frown, turning your head behind you as a last resort to finding the source, you're actually terrified, what in the world.

That was until you ran straight into a wall.

You swear you felt the side of your face reverberate.

Then a hand caught unto your arms, steadying you before you trip backwards.

The man asks if you're alright.

Oh and you almost forgot, for some reason, you understand what they're saying to you without translation, for sure they're not speaking english but somehow your brain translates it like it's always been there your whole life.

Everyone around you seemed to form a good ol bubble around you to pass, not one of them meeting your eye, not even their robes and dresses touch you as they pass.

"Forgive me," he says again, lower and clearer as he lets go of you."Are you alright?"

Oh you recognize that streak of white hair in brown in this economy.

"I-I,"

You're dreaming, you're actually dreaming.

"You've gone pale, Miss. Did I hurt you?"

You blink into existence.

"Prince Valarr, I-I'm sorry, I should've seen you," you cast eyes down, then you realize you should probably bow, and so you did.

Albeit awkwardly, with half of your body tilted down to a perfect 90 degree angle.

"Miss," Valarr almost stutters, looking around that almost seemed like a call for help.

"You need not do so.” His hand hovers around you.

"Please forgive me, my prince," you bite your cheeks.

Just kill yourself why don't you.

After a beat, he answers.

"You need not worry yourself. There was no harm done,"

You hear a huff in his voice but you're too scared to look him in the eyes.

"You—"

"Prince!"

His head whips behind him.

You take a small peek at the voice but Valarr makes it hard to spot him.

"If you will excuse me," he says, turning back to you.

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Excuse you. I mean—” Silence.

Then immediate regret.

"I'msosorry,"

The corner of his mouth twitches before it quickly schools away.

He inclines his head, formal again.

"All is well."

Then he turns and leaves.

The crowd around you quickly replenishes the space again.

You're bumped, jostled, ignored.

Finally, when the back of his head disappears from your sight, you snap out of your reverie.

"He's so.." you mumble. Your mouth twitches to a grin.

Dreamy, hot, handsome, everything all in one.

You touch your arms, specifically where he held you When. You. Almost. Fell.

Your stomach does the summersalts. A giddy feeling threatens to burst out of you.

You force yourself to breathe and start walking again, determined to act like a normal person and not someone who just met a Targaryen and survived.

Then your belly rumbles.

As you passed by a stall grilling meat.

Ugh you'd kill for a doner kebab right now.

Your stomach growls again, louder this time, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since like... forever.

You follow the smell of...

Well the smell of food.

It takes you to a very very much more crowded space, vendors yelling about orders.

Cooks cooking loudly.

Waitresses moving in lightning speed.

You spot a busy stall.

Super busy in fact that the laid out barbeque is left alone, people crowd the front of the stall, you don't see any staff from where you are, probably blind with the crowd covering them.

Your chance.

You feel guilty. Yet less than you probably should be, hunger is absolutely eating your organs right now

You stare at the food.

It should be long forgotten now should it? It's almost spoiled now at best, they'll only throw it to the dogs at the end of the day.

Why not just eat it now?

Your stomach rumbles yet again.

Your hands tingle as it reaches for the food.

You make sure your near enough that you can quickly snatch the food away. But far enough so they won't be suspicious of you.

Then a figure flanks beside you before you can reach it.

You snatch your hand away in milliseconds, looking down, you feel embarrassment creep up your face.

"One of these please," the figure, a man, points to the food you were about to take.

"And water if you may,"

"Coming right up!" The staff hands the hooded man his order. Your eyes follow as he drops coins unto the table.

The sight made you still.

The sigil.

The color of blood, a three headed dragon stares at you, it gleams from the sunlight directly hitting it.

Then, in a motion too smooth to be casual, he hands you the bag.

Your eyes flick up to the man, trying to peek up the hood.

"You are not in want of food?" He says, voice formal and gentle.

You blink profusely, you open your mouth but no words come out.

He tilts his head, letting the hood slip slightly, enough for you to see, but not for the throng of festival-goers around.

“Y-Your Highness!” you blurt, bowing quickly, eyes fixed on the ground.

Baelor Targaryen stands in all his glory in front of you, peoole didn't seem to recognize him, with all of them in a hurry to get somewhere and his clothes. Dirtied and muddied, his hood fraid at the seams, his shoes are soiled and used.

He lifts his head slightly, gentle eyes locking unto yours in an unhurried sense.

“Eyes and ears are everywhere. Speak carefully.”

You stutter, quickly nodding. Baelor reaches out, fingers brushing against yours as he takes your hand in his, he places the food in your grasp.

"That should do it." He says, voice calm and kind.

“The food tastes better when it’s yours to hold honestly,” he murmurs, hooded eyes on yours.

"I'm s-sorry," you tilt your head down, eyes casted on the ground.

"All is well." Your eyes flick up to him.

Just like his son.

You remember the Trial. Dunk holding him up from falling to the ground. His crushed skull.

You can't fathom how his death was looming over him, that days from now, he'll be on the ground cold.

You clench the paper bag.

He sees it, your eyes seemingly far away from your soul looking into his, like you're trying to find, or perhaps forget something by looking at him.

Curiouser and curiouser.

A beat goes and he speaks.

“My duties call; I must depart.” You snap out of your mind.

"O-Of course I— Thank you, uh, sir," you shift on your feet. "For everything,"

Your stomach grumbles once again, this time, physicsl enough that he heard it.

You pause, your eyes slowly lifting up to his, you see the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the hint of a smile.

Then as quickly as he arrived, he turns and leaves.

[alexisabirdie]

I.LOVE.ISEKAIS. I love a isekai fix it x reader fic at any hour of the day or night. This fic is a hidden diamond I just discovered. I hope it keeps going. It's amazing, I really liked it. I pray we can save baelor.

[dollstatic]

BABY THIS IS SO SWEET ALAVYA ALL💐

[dollstatic]

Authorrrrr, when will you continue AKOTSK x isekai reader?🥹

OUT RIGHT NEOW!

[dollstatic]

The Song Of Dragons II

Chronicle I |Chronicle II | Chronicles

Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.

Pairings: Where the blood flows

Note: There's no fixed Character x Reader endgame (yet), reader's presence may complicate things for SEVERAL  characters. I started this out of a whim because Baelor died. (Baelor come home, the kids miss you)

The noise hadn’t changed.

The shouting, the clashing steel, the laughter—still loud, still alive.

But something in you had.

It felt like you’d been here for days.

Not minutes. Not hours.

Days.

You looked down at the paper bag in your hands like it might disappear if you blinked too long.

Then you looked to where you last saw Baelor's head disappear.

Your heart clenches.

You could shave your head and wear Valarr's armour, then fight on his stead.

Nah...

You don't even know how to ride a horse.

Right.

No horse.

No armour.

Nothing.

Your lips form a line, looking down on your paper, you slowly peel it open.

The smell hits you first.

So, so good.

It hot and fuming and ready to be devoured.

You shove it into your mouth.

For a moment, the world of westeros wasn't Westeros.

The sudden ache in your jaw when you first bite into the food made you close your eyes, the pain and satisfaction both a welcome sensation.

Every bite and swallow felt divine.

You can thank your beloved Baelor.

Then your eyes snap open.

Oh Baelor.

Your heart squeezes again.

You stare at the food on your hands.

Because what are you even supposed to do?

'Hi, Your Highness, big fan, by the way don’t enter a trial by combat soon because it ends horribly?'

Your appetite shrivels at the thought.

You'll be dragged by your hair and fed to carnivorous pigs. Or worse.

You sigh through your nose and take a bite of the food.

Think.

Think.

What do you actually know?

You glance around the meadow.

There's too many banners, too many swords, knights, tents, it's all so smothering.

Somewhere around all this.

Duncan is probably around here.

And egg.

A mop of white catches your eyes among the crowd.

Well there's only two people who's heads are white.

Oh you hope to see daddy Maekar at least once in this life.

You hurriedly shoved the rest of the food into your mouth and jogged while chewing rapidly, your eyes never leaving the white head in the crowd.

Oh goody! another dilf you'll meet today, you almost tripped in excitement.

You meekly follow 3 paces behind him, making sure you've got enough people to cover you but as the same time also enough so you don't lose him. Except you can't see him very well, only the back of his head and cloak.

That doesn't hinder you in observing him.

Yes, it's observing.

Certainly not stalking, duh.

Oh how you wish you could've spawned as one of their cup bearers, you would see to them everyday and every second when they dine.

Much like how Queen Rhaenyra did to her father in their early years.

You realise how near, well not super near, but sensibly near enough to the black queen's time.

If you would've appeared just a few, few more years before, you could've dropped a boulder on the hightowers and ensured Queen Rhaenyra's claim.

Oh wait, you could drop a boulder on Aerion like right now.

If only you could find one as big as the iron throne, you could care less if you get caught after dropping it.

Too caught on by your thoughts, you fail to notice the pillar incoming in front of you. You went in head first, you slam with a loud thud, and you stumbled back, clutching both the paper bag and your forehead.

"Ouchhh..." You groan, rubbing your surely red spotted forehead. "Huh... Where's everyone.."

You realize the noise was no more, the people that kept bumping and hitting wasn't there anymore, and most of all, it was only you and..

Oh goodness, did you lose Maekar.

You groan once again.

The smell of roasting meat and food was faint, you're much farther from wherever you came in.

But there was still tents and some uhh, chairs and tables here, not as crowded as the main areas. But there are no nobles, no knights, nothing.

You frown, this wouldn't be an abandoned camp right? The smoke from the campfire was still kinda there and the plates still had some leftovers in it.

You take a step back.

Are you.. Trespassing?!

Okay, breathe, no one's here... Yet.

You've got to make your feet quick and disappear before anyone sees you and throws you into a snake pit.

You turn abruptly to gain momentum but you hit another very very hard wall once again.

A wall that clattered like metal when you hit it.

This time, you stumbled and fell down on your butt, the man, as you discovered, didn't make any move to help you up or even look apologetic, he stood with his legs wide in front of you.

You rub your surely, surely battered forehead, you scowl, head whipping up to glare at the perpetrator.

"You!" You point at him. The sun flashes down on his head, making it impossible to see his face, you squint, with no intention to help you, you begrudgingly stood up by yourself, patting your clothes in anger.

"You impudent little hedge-creeper."

You still before the voice.

Oh you know who this is.

Oh... You know who this is..

You swore your legs trembled a bit.

You're actually petrified, if you were to choose between death by spikes and death by trial, you'd choose to just die right this instant.

His hand shoots out to grip your arm, you yelp as he drags you out of the sun.

Here, in the shade, you can clearly see the resemblance of him and his father. Clearly.

“Trailing someone above your station… careless. Did you truly think it would go unnoticed?” his bruising grip tightens even more that makes you think if he wants to cut off your circulation all together.

"P-prince—! I-I didn't know it was y-you," you whimpered.

“Didn’t know? Then you’re a fool. And fools don’t wander this far without reason. Speak—what were you after?”

His face was so close to yours, in this angle, you can see how beautiful the beautiful violet targaryen eyes were.

Aerion's was a deep violet, like those amythests they sell on ebay but even better.

When you gave him no answer he leans close even more.

"Cat got your tongue?" He clicks his teeth. "Or is your pretty little head deciding which lie to tell me?"

You stutter, mouth opening but no words comes out.

This is it, your dead, what could you possibly tell him.

'Yeah, I followed you around because I thought you were your father and because I'm hopelessly in love with him I just needed to get a look.'

Yeah you dead.

Wait no.

He waits for you answer, scarily not blinking as he starts a no-blinking contest.

"I-I.."

He raises an eyebrow, he's getting impatient.

“I see… d-dragons’ blood flow in your veins, and yet... it is not yet awake.”

That makes him falter, his grip weakening around your arm, oh you'll know it'll bruise later.

“It’s not gone,” you murmur, forcing yourself to hold his gaze for a second longer.

Please believe this, please believe this.

“Just… waiting for the right moment.”

“Waiting,” he echoes, studying you like something that doesn’t quite make sense.

“Strange thing for a stranger to see.”

You blink profusely.

"You are the blood of the dragon—" you pause, tryna find something that can stroke his overflowing ego. "Just like the great Daemon,"

That successfully combs his pride for he let's you go the second you said Daemon's name, a dangerous glint shines in his eyes.

You rub your tender arm, the sting from his hold still imprinted.

"Who are you?" He asks.

You gulp, you're at the end of your wits.

"S-someone who," you wrack your brain, fiddling with your sleeves. "Someone who.. admires fire, in all it's forms."

A ghost of a smirk touches his face but quickly dissipates.

Your heart hammers in its cage.

"I've a-always been fascinated by it, dragons, fire, valyria," you pause, his eyes snaps at yours at the mention of their old home. "I-I mean only in passing, stories really. I've never seen one up close, a dragon I mean,"

You thought about if you'll really say it, should you say it? Nah, or maybe...

YOLO.

"Until now."

You thought you saw flames dancing in his violet eyes.

It's not so bad to please a prince.

If it meant you'll get out of here alive and in one piece.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he hums.

"I-I have to take my leave, your highness. It was a pleasure meeting you." You bow and immediately turned and fast walked.

You feel his gaze burning at the back of your head.

Please don't call me back, I can't take this anymore.

“Do not stray too far! I have plans for you!"

You bite your cheeks as you successfully join the crowd.

No matter.

You can just run away from here.

Oh but Baelor.

You scratch your head, whatever can you even do.

You almost had a stroke just talking to Aerion.

You can feel your soul dissipating.

Then your eyes catches a bald, shiny head running around the crowd.

[dollstatic]

Guys I'm so sorry for taking so long w chapter 2 for The Song Of Dragons 💔 It's exams next week and the school is absolutely swamping me with works and performance tasks😓 But I promise when exams are done I'm gonna lock this in and post nonstop👅😈🙏

[dollstatic]

The Song Of Dragons

Chronicle I | Chronicles

Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.

Pairings: Where the blood flows

You've watched a total of 0 episodes for got, 3-4 episodes of hotd, and the 6 episodes of akotsk (for people that HAVE seen all of them, please forgive me, I have devastatingly not finished them all especially GOT and its very very abundance of seasons, and yes, I haven't read the books) before standing in front of the Ashford Meadow's entrance.

A sight you've only seen in front of a screen not long ago.

"Oh give me strength," you sigh, rubbing your nape before entering the archway.

Miraculously, your wearing not the clothes you had back then, or should you call it the future?

Nevermind, instead, you're wearing a dirtied and worn outfit, secured with a rope on your waist so you wouldn't look like a kid with a too big of a tunic on her

You suddenly remember egg and dunk in the inn.

A smal chuckle blurts out of you, causing few of the passerbys to look to your direction weirdly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Major freaking aura loss on day one.

You stomped your way among the crowds, your shoes barely protecting you from the mushy mud. You thought about how if you would've woken up like weeks early here then you would've ran straight to  King's Landing and held Baelor hostage till the lady Ashford's name day passed.

But no, you arrived on the day of her freaking birthday, you don't even know if the series is already starting around you without even knowing about it.

That was why you're marching into the festivities with no clear goal in mind.

You look around in awe as performers, knights, and lords alike co-exist in the same atmosphere, you see a squire patting a horse aggressively.

What didn't register to you until now was the stench.

Eugh.

You freeze in the middle of the path.

Disgusting.

You gag, quietly. Tears bundle up in your eyes as you cover half of your face in a crushing grip.

You're fine.

You went into a light jog to run away from the smell, who in the seven kingdoms smells THAT horrendous, you're scared.

You frown, turning your head behind you as a last resort to finding the source, you're actually terrified, what in the world.

That was until you ran straight into a wall.

You swear you felt the side of your face reverberate.

Then a hand caught unto your arms, steadying you before you trip backwards.

The man asks if you're alright.

Oh and you almost forgot, for some reason, you understand what they're saying to you without translation, for sure they're not speaking english but somehow your brain translates it like it's always been there your whole life.

Everyone around you seemed to form a good ol bubble around you to pass, not one of them meeting your eye, not even their robes and dresses touch you as they pass.

"Forgive me," he says again, lower and clearer as he lets go of you."Are you alright?"

Oh you recognize that streak of white hair in brown in this economy.

"I-I,"

You're dreaming, you're actually dreaming.

"You've gone pale, Miss. Did I hurt you?"

You blink into existence.

"Prince Valarr, I-I'm sorry, I should've seen you," you cast eyes down, then you realize you should probably bow, and so you did.

Albeit awkwardly, with half of your body tilted down to a perfect 90 degree angle.

"Miss," Valarr almost stutters, looking around that almost seemed like a call for help.

"You need not do so.” His hand hovers around you.

"Please forgive me, my prince," you bite your cheeks.

Just kill yourself why don't you.

After a beat, he answers.

"You need not worry yourself. There was no harm done,"

You hear a huff in his voice but you're too scared to look him in the eyes.

"You—"

"Prince!"

His head whips behind him.

You take a small peek at the voice but Valarr makes it hard to spot him.

"If you will excuse me," he says, turning back to you.

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Excuse you. I mean—” Silence.

Then immediate regret.

"I'msosorry,"

The corner of his mouth twitches before it quickly schools away.

He inclines his head, formal again.

"All is well."

Then he turns and leaves.

The crowd around you quickly replenishes the space again.

You're bumped, jostled, ignored.

Finally, when the back of his head disappears from your sight, you snap out of your reverie.

"He's so.." you mumble. Your mouth twitches to a grin.

Dreamy, hot, handsome, everything all in one.

You touch your arms, specifically where he held you When. You. Almost. Fell.

Your stomach does the summersalts. A giddy feeling threatens to burst out of you.

You force yourself to breathe and start walking again, determined to act like a normal person and not someone who just met a Targaryen and survived.

Then your belly rumbles.

As you passed by a stall grilling meat.

Ugh you'd kill for a doner kebab right now.

Your stomach growls again, louder this time, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since like... forever.

You follow the smell of...

Well the smell of food.

It takes you to a very very much more crowded space, vendors yelling about orders.

Cooks cooking loudly.

Waitresses moving in lightning speed.

You spot a busy stall.

Super busy in fact that the laid out barbeque is left alone, people crowd the front of the stall, you don't see any staff from where you are, probably blind with the crowd covering them.

Your chance.

You feel guilty. Yet less than you probably should be, hunger is absolutely eating your organs right now

You stare at the food.

It should be long forgotten now should it? It's almost spoiled now at best, they'll only throw it to the dogs at the end of the day.

Why not just eat it now?

Your stomach rumbles yet again.

Your hands tingle as it reaches for the food.

You make sure your near enough that you can quickly snatch the food away. But far enough so they won't be suspicious of you.

Then a figure flanks beside you before you can reach it.

You snatch your hand away in milliseconds, looking down, you feel embarrassment creep up your face.

"One of these please," the figure, a man, points to the food you were about to take.

"And water if you may,"

"Coming right up!" The staff hands the hooded man his order. Your eyes follow as he drops coins unto the table.

The sight made you still.

The sigil.

The color of blood, a three headed dragon stares at you, it gleams from the sunlight directly hitting it.

Then, in a motion too smooth to be casual, he hands you the bag.

Your eyes flick up to the man, trying to peek up the hood.

"You are not in want of food?" He says, voice formal and gentle.

You blink profusely, you open your mouth but no words come out.

He tilts his head, letting the hood slip slightly, enough for you to see, but not for the throng of festival-goers around.

“Y-Your Highness!” you blurt, bowing quickly, eyes fixed on the ground.

Baelor Targaryen stands in all his glory in front of you, peoole didn't seem to recognize him, with all of them in a hurry to get somewhere and his clothes. Dirtied and muddied, his hood fraid at the seams, his shoes are soiled and used.

He lifts his head slightly, gentle eyes locking unto yours in an unhurried sense.

“Eyes and ears are everywhere. Speak carefully.”

You stutter, quickly nodding. Baelor reaches out, fingers brushing against yours as he takes your hand in his, he places the food in your grasp.

"That should do it." He says, voice calm and kind.

“The food tastes better when it’s yours to hold honestly,” he murmurs, hooded eyes on yours.

"I'm s-sorry," you tilt your head down, eyes casted on the ground.

"All is well." Your eyes flick up to him.

Just like his son.

You remember the Trial. Dunk holding him up from falling to the ground. His crushed skull.

You can't fathom how his death was looming over him, that days from now, he'll be on the ground cold.

You clench the paper bag.

He sees it, your eyes seemingly far away from your soul looking into his, like you're trying to find, or perhaps forget something by looking at him.

Curiouser and curiouser.

A beat goes and he speaks.

“My duties call; I must depart.” You snap out of your mind.

"O-Of course I— Thank you, uh, sir," you shift on your feet. "For everything,"

Your stomach grumbles once again, this time, physicsl enough that he heard it.

You pause, your eyes slowly lifting up to his, you see the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the hint of a smile.

Then as quickly as he arrived, he turns and leaves.

[targaryen-dynasty]

Oh, please, fics like this are my guilty pleasure 🥲 And this right here was amazing, I can‘t wait to see where you‘re taking this!!

You stomped your way among the crowds, your shoes barely protecting you from the mushy mud. You thought about how if you would've woken up like weeks early here then you would've ran straight to  King's Landing and held Baelor hostage till the lady Ashford's name day passed.

God, please, this would probably the first thing we‘d ALL do if we‘d be in Westeros during that time 😢

[dollstatic]

MY LOVE THIS IS SO SWEET💗🥺

[dollstatic]

The Song Of Dragons

Chronicle I | Chronicles | Next Chronicle

Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.

Pairings: Where the blood flows

Note: There's no fixed Character x Reader endgame (yet), reader's presence may complicate things for SEVERAL characters. I started this out of a whim because Baelor died. (Baelor come home, the kids miss you)

You've watched a total of 0 episodes for got, 3-4 episodes of hotd, and the 6 episodes of akotsk (for people that HAVE seen all of them, please forgive me, I have devastatingly not finished them all especially GOT and its very very abundance of seasons, and yes, I haven't read the books) before standing in front of the Ashford Meadow's entrance.

A sight you've only seen in front of a screen not long ago.

"Oh give me strength," you sigh, rubbing your nape before entering the archway.

Miraculously, your wearing not the clothes you had back then, or should you call it the future?

Nevermind, instead, you're wearing a dirtied and worn outfit, secured with a rope on your waist so you wouldn't look like a kid with a too big of a tunic on her

You suddenly remember egg and dunk in the inn.

A smal chuckle blurts out of you, causing few of the passerbys to look to your direction weirdly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

Major freaking aura loss on day one.

You stomped your way among the crowds, your shoes barely protecting you from the mushy mud. You thought about how if you would've woken up like weeks early here then you would've ran straight to  King's Landing and held Baelor hostage till the lady Ashford's name day passed.

But no, you arrived on the day of her freaking birthday, you don't even know if the series is already starting around you without even knowing about it.

That was why you're marching into the festivities with no clear goal in mind.

You look around in awe as performers, knights, and lords alike co-exist in the same atmosphere, you see a squire patting a horse aggressively.

What didn't register to you until now was the stench.

Eugh.

You freeze in the middle of the path.

Disgusting.

You gag, quietly. Tears bundle up in your eyes as you cover half of your face in a crushing grip.

You're fine.

You went into a light jog to run away from the smell, who in the seven kingdoms smells THAT horrendous, you're scared.

You frown, turning your head behind you as a last resort to finding the source, you're actually terrified, what in the world.

That was until you ran straight into a wall.

You swear you felt the side of your face reverberate.

Then a hand caught unto your arms, steadying you before you trip backwards.

The man asks if you're alright.

Oh and you almost forgot, for some reason, you understand what they're saying to you without translation, for sure they're not speaking english but somehow your brain translates it like it's always been there your whole life.

Everyone around you seemed to form a good ol bubble around you to pass, not one of them meeting your eye, not even their robes and dresses touch you as they pass.

"Forgive me," he says again, lower and clearer as he lets go of you."Are you alright?"

Oh you recognize that streak of white hair in brown in this economy.

"I-I,"

You're dreaming, you're actually dreaming.

"You've gone pale, Miss. Did I hurt you?"

You blink into existence.

"Prince Valarr, I-I'm sorry, I should've seen you," you cast eyes down, then you realize you should probably bow, and so you did.

Albeit awkwardly, with half of your body tilted down to a perfect 90 degree angle.

"Miss," Valarr almost stutters, looking around that almost seemed like a call for help.

"You need not do so.” His hand hovers around you.

"Please forgive me, my prince," you bite your cheeks.

Just kill yourself why don't you.

After a beat, he answers.

"You need not worry yourself. There was no harm done,"

You hear a huff in his voice but you're too scared to look him in the eyes.

"You—"

"Prince!"

His head whips behind him.

You take a small peek at the voice but Valarr makes it hard to spot him.

"If you will excuse me," he says, turning back to you.

"Oh. Yes. Of course. Excuse you. I mean—” Silence.

Then immediate regret.

"I'msosorry,"

The corner of his mouth twitches before it quickly schools away.

He inclines his head, formal again.

"All is well."

Then he turns and leaves.

The crowd around you quickly replenishes the space again.

You're bumped, jostled, ignored.

Finally, when the back of his head disappears from your sight, you snap out of your reverie.

"He's so.." you mumble. Your mouth twitches to a grin.

Dreamy, hot, handsome, everything all in one.

You touch your arms, specifically where he held you When. You. Almost. Fell.

Your stomach does the summersalts. A giddy feeling threatens to burst out of you.

You force yourself to breathe and start walking again, determined to act like a normal person and not someone who just met a Targaryen and survived.

Then your belly rumbles.

As you passed by a stall grilling meat.

Ugh you'd kill for a doner kebab right now.

Your stomach growls again, louder this time, reminding you that you hadn’t eaten since like... forever.

You follow the smell of...

Well the smell of food.

It takes you to a very very much more crowded space, vendors yelling about orders.

Cooks cooking loudly.

Waitresses moving in lightning speed.

You spot a busy stall.

Super busy in fact that the laid out barbeque is left alone, people crowd the front of the stall, you don't see any staff from where you are, probably blind with the crowd covering them.

Your chance.

You feel guilty. Yet less than you probably should be, hunger is absolutely eating your organs right now

You stare at the food.

It should be long forgotten now should it? It's almost spoiled now at best, they'll only throw it to the dogs at the end of the day.

Why not just eat it now?

Your stomach rumbles yet again.

Your hands tingle as it reaches for the food.

You make sure your near enough that you can quickly snatch the food away. But far enough so they won't be suspicious of you.

Then a figure flanks beside you before you can reach it.

You snatch your hand away in milliseconds, looking down, you feel embarrassment creep up your face.

"One of these please," the figure, a man, points to the food you were about to take.

"And water if you may,"

"Coming right up!" The staff hands the hooded man his order. Your eyes follow as he drops coins unto the table.

The sight made you still.

The sigil.

The color of blood, a three headed dragon stares at you, it gleams from the sunlight directly hitting it.

Then, in a motion too smooth to be casual, he hands you the bag.

Your eyes flick up to the man, trying to peek up the hood.

"You are not in want of food?" He says, voice formal and gentle.

You blink profusely, you open your mouth but no words come out.

He tilts his head, letting the hood slip slightly, enough for you to see, but not for the throng of festival-goers around.

“Y-Your Highness!” you blurt, bowing quickly, eyes fixed on the ground.

Baelor Targaryen stands in all his glory in front of you, peoole didn't seem to recognize him, with all of them in a hurry to get somewhere and his clothes. Dirtied and muddied, his hood fraid at the seams, his shoes are soiled and used.

He lifts his head slightly, gentle eyes locking unto yours in an unhurried sense.

“Eyes and ears are everywhere. Speak carefully.”

You stutter, quickly nodding. Baelor reaches out, fingers brushing against yours as he takes your hand in his, he places the food in your grasp.

"That should do it." He says, voice calm and kind.

“The food tastes better when it’s yours to hold honestly,” he murmurs, hooded eyes on yours.

"I'm s-sorry," you tilt your head down, eyes casted on the ground.

"All is well." Your eyes flick up to him.

Just like his son.

You remember the Trial. Dunk holding him up from falling to the ground. His crushed skull.

You can't fathom how his death was looming over him, that days from now, he'll be on the ground cold.

You clench the paper bag.

He sees it, your eyes seemingly far away from your soul looking into his, like you're trying to find, or perhaps forget something by looking at him.

Curiouser and curiouser.

A beat goes and he speaks.

“My duties call; I must depart.” You snap out of your mind.

"O-Of course I— Thank you, uh, sir," you shift on your feet. "For everything,"

Your stomach grumbles once again, this time, physicsl enough that he heard it.

You pause, your eyes slowly lifting up to his, you see the faint twitch at the corner of his lips betrayed the hint of a smile.

Then as quickly as he arrived, he turns and leaves.

[dollstatic]

The Song Of Dragons

Synopsis: You wake up in the fictional world of a series you have yet to finish: AKOTSK. But you're not about to pass up the opportunity to make right the wrongs in this universe.

Pairings: Where the blood flows.

Note: There's no fixed Character x Reader endgame (yet), reader's presence may complicate things for SEVERAL characters. I started this out of a whim because Baelor died. (Baelor come home, the kids miss you)

Chronicle I

Chronicle II

Chronicle III to be unsealed..

Chronicle IV to be unsealed..

Chronicle V to be unsealed..

More Chronicles will be added as the story progresses.

“A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies.”

— Jojen Reed, A Dance with Dragons

[dollstatic]

Guys forgive me for taking so long with chapter 3 of Downside Up, exam is taking 70 years of my lifespan💔

[dollstatic]

Carribean

Dracula x Reincarnated(?) Reader

Fragment: A soul that once inhibits a body cannot live in the same shell once it has been lost, but it will always be there; In yet another form, another face, another body. One bears her likeness; her eyes, her mouth, her face. One bears the very element which makes a person whole.

For what are we without a soul?

Act I | To be revealed in time...

Act II | To be revealed in time...

Act III | To be revealed in time...

[dollstatic]

Downside Up

Henry Creel x Reader

VHS Log II: One moment you're watching the ending of stranger things s5 ep4 and the next you're standing in the middle of a long super white hallway with a mop along with all the cleaning materials in the world. Where the heck did you go?

Archive: I was supposed to add more but I couldn't keep you guys waiting💔

VHS Tapes | Previous Tape

You remember an edit of Henry that got you reading hours and hours of  x reader fics on practically every single website and app.

Your jaw hangs on balance as your eyes widen almost at the limit of how wide eyes can widen.

Your body slackens and straightens both at the same time. Ts dream looking real. A little too real.

You feel a tingle on your nape as the world around you slows down, the lights overhead flicker, but honestly, with the hot sexy man in front of you, you couldn't csre less, you finna milk this dream to its core.

You forget you had the mop for a sec, you drop it almost instantly and it lands on the bucket of water, the bucket tips, which then... Spills on his shoes.

You gasp.

But he doesn't move.

Not a flinch.

Not a twitch.

Not even a subtle human change on his face when they get splashed by dirty water.

Then slowly, he looks down.

Blue eyes tracking the water flooding the pristine white floors.

Then, this is your dream, you slap a hand on your mouth and dramatically whisper:

"Shoot, I'm so sorry, Vecna Jr."

Good thing your hand was still covering your mouth or he would've seen a full blown Pennywise-before-eating-a-child-smile.

And ever so slowly, his gaze climbs back up to you.

Your breath hitches.

His eyes burrows a hole on youe face, they never leave for a blink nor a breath.

There's an eerie little pause of silence, then his mouth open.

".. You dropped something."

You nod aggressively. "Yeah. Yup. Totally. Dropped the plot."

"The..plot?"

"Yup. Lost it. Gone. Vanished. Like… hello? Why is my brain rendering you in 8K Ultra Terror Shader Mode?”

He just stares.

Not blinking.

Not moving.

Just watching you unravel like a rotisserie chicken on fast spin.

You hurriedly drop on your knees, because why not- ehem, anyways, grabbed a rag and began wiping the floor and his shoes.

Henry lifts his foot slightly, more confused than annoyed.

"You don't need to do that," he days, in an unsettlingly calm manner. "It's just water."

"No dude. Let me cook. My dream, my rules."

"... A dream?"

"Uh-huh. Cuz no way you're standing right in front of me looking like the love of my multiple lives and I have a mop." You shake your head.

His jaw tightens.

You let out a breath of hard work and stand up, wiping an imaginary sweat off your forehead.

His eyes flicker—barely, but you catch it.

Like he’s offended… or amused… or both.

Then he steps closer.

Too close.

Your brain blue-screens for a sec.

He leans down just slightly, voice barely above a whisper:

“I assure you… I am not a dream.”

You stare into his eyes and—because you cannot be normal—you say:

“That’s exactly what an eldritch sleep paralysis demon WOULD say.”

Henry just:

…

…

“…What?”

"Can I touch you?" A beat goes and he doesn't say anything, he still has the poker face on, you almost thought you broke your dream but he leans back, indicating, thankfully, that your dream bon voyages.

"I— I, mean, not in that way, I'm sorry, I meant, like—" you sigh and groan, you can now imagine the state of yourself if you ever meet Jamie.

And when you felt like the world was upper cutting you:

"Go on," your eyes snaps to his, a very faint smirk twitches on his face, though you don't notice, busy thinking of the new business opportunity that has presented itself to you.

You grin, then bite back a squeal, you point your finger and slowly, in suspense, began nearing him, like a horror movie edit.

"I can't believe this.." you gasp when your finger hits him. And like a kid in disknee land, you squeal and twirl like a maniac.

You actually dont care what you're doing, your in a dream, and there's actually no one who'll judge you, much less your husband in front of you.

"I'm gonna miss this— actually, you, when I wake up," you sigh closing your eyes. You surprisingly don't mind this whole thing ending yet, you'd like to stay here, a little more longer, beside your bootylicious soulmate.

"Ugh, please don't end yet," you clasp your hands together and clench your eyes close.

You must look like an idiot. An idiot in love. Haaa, oh how good this is.

Henry tilts his head in amusement. An anomaly...

An abnormality in this sterile place. Where did you come from? Who are you?

Silly, you're from janitorial services, he answers himself, his blue eyes catching on the name tag hanging out of balance.

Do you really work here? Like work, work. Maybe you're new, still not familiar with the.. things here.

He might've placed you on the company side of this building, but how did you even get here?

So far from the real world, far from the normal side of this place, he wants to know, to crawl inside your brain, know every little thing that twitches in there, the small corners that turn you, it must've been the years of being powerless gaining a toll on him, it must've been, he tries reaching into the back of his head, into everywhere in the void. Nothing.

He scratches the sleeve right above his tattoo, everything's so white, so bright, so sterile, the bleach hurts his head, it makes him nauseous, disgusted.

"You're not supposed to be here," he says, like a switch was turned.

He watches you snap your eyes open, he expects fesr covering your face, a stutter for a reply, but you shrug, almost trying to stop your laugh.

"Yeah, yeah, I know, they're watching or something like that, can't we just skip to the good part?"

His jaw clenches, the ditzy act is getting annoying now. His eyes flicker to the red dot on the corner of the hallway then back to you.

"Who sent you?"

"Eh, I'm too tired for this," You giggle internally, you're literally living the wattpad fic right now bro. You chuckle and tap his shoulder, walking past him.

"I should probably go. I might—"

"Wait."

You roll your eyes playfully then turn back to him.

"Okay, but make it quick, momma's on the clock" you snicker, tapping on your imaginary watch.

"You—"

"Hey!" You whip your head behind you just in time to see the bulky guard that was on your floor once again.

"You should be finishing ypur assigned floors," he crosses his arms. " Janitorial staff are not allowed in this wing without clearance."

You scratch your scalp. Peter eyes the back of your head, his hands clasp behind him, chin moving up and shifting to that of his default orderly persona.

"I'm sorry—" you pause, why are you even sorry for? You chuckle inwardly.

"Oh no, not dream people enforcing rules in my dream..."

Isn't this where it's supposed to like... End? Like you know before disaster falls on you, like when you dream of falling but never dropping on the ground, or when your getting chased but you never get caught.

Bruh, you pinch yourself, then pinch yourself again, and again.

You groan.

"Wake me up!" You yell to the ceiling.

Then you feel someone's burning gaze behind you, you peek over your shoulder.

Henry tilts his head, frowning, ugh this disgustingly hot man.

You bite back a smile.

"Ehem— Dr. Brenner expects all personnel on schedule. No wandering. Now get yourself back to your floor."

You bite your inner cheek, this dream is getting wayyy too long and wayyy too real.

You touch your forehead, then pinch yourself again.

"Agh, okay, it hurts, it hurts," but you remember your mom saying you can't eat in dreams, but you often dream of eating food so like maybe pinching yourself in a dream to wake up is busted and definitely a myth.

You sigh and massage your forehead.

Everything is actually suffocating.

You feel your socks getting wet, the water from the bucket seeping in your cheap shoes.

You grimace, looking down.

"Uhm, I'm actually supposed to be waking up right nowww soo..."

You smile awkwardly, the guard frowns at you, his arms crossng tightee, probably the dream people wondering why you were breaking character.

"As much as I loved spending time with daddy vecna jr," you glance behind you, winking at Henry then immediately cringing at yourself.

".. I'm out—" you pivot your heel, your exit ticket out of this blessing and curse of a dream. But the floor has other plans, your very much cheap cloth shoes slips on the floor, your rag falling with a squelch, mop harshly slamming on the floor, echoing the whole hallway, you land hastily on your butt, your head makes a bam on the ground.

For a second you thought you were waking up which is weird because it should've been as simple as a flick of a hand and you'd be face to face with your tv screen, but instead, bright lights welcome you with open arms, the toxic flourescent sears your eyes.

You see the guard hovering above you, wait, was there two guards earlier? Did he call for backup? Ugh.

Your head hurts.

Your eyes are drooping, ugh, they're very heavy aren't they?

You close your eyes, you'll wake up.

Huh, yeah, you will, uhh, you just need— need a few.. seconds.. to, uhm, close your eyes, let them rest for, for a bit.

Yeah..

[abysstrap-ran]

❖ As Time Ticks Down (Preview)

(Peter Ballard/Henry Creel x Reader)

A/N: Writes angst with a straight face. Writes fluff and I wanna crawl into a ditch and never resurface. Hi, Chapter 3 of Forsworn is gonna take... a while. A very long while.

But I promised a snippet from what I'm working on, so here's a bit from the first scene to tide you through the wait!

Length: 1.9k Series: Forsworn

Credit: Header by @dollstatic Taglist: @frolickingbimbo @spooky-artist0 @ravencrow1995 @missmaggieb @toogaytofunctiondangit *Let me know if you want to be added to Forsworn's taglist or if I missed anyone!

Henry Creel Master List | Writing Master Lists

⊹ ˚✩ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ∘◦ ✥ ◦∘ ━━━━━━━━━━━ ✩˚ ⊹

Warning: Fluff. Tip of the iceberg. Do you like yearning?

The rays of sunlight felt pleasant against your skin as you stirred, their golden light caressing your eyelids and gently drawing you back to the land of the waking. Unwilling to wake just so soon, you turned, burrowing deeper under the covers, relishing in the toasty warmth that seemed to wrap snugly around you in the serenity of the morning. 

It wouldn’t hurt to have another stolen moment of rest, right?

You blindly reached out to fluff your pillow back out, content to doze off again, only for your hand to hit something solid. The grunt that followed soon after made awareness finally catch up to you. Cracking an eye open, you were greeted by the sight of yet another white-tiled room, painted in the soft hues of the morning sun.

Huh, looks like you were still in the lab then, though you didn't really know what you'd been expecting to find. It wasn’t like you could be anywhere else these days. But even in your sleep-addled state, you couldn't seem to recall ever making it back to your room last night, or even getting to bed, for that matter. Your brows furrowed as you tried to recall the happenings of last night, drawing up a blank despite your best efforts. 

It was hazy, at best. 

All you remembered was how sore your eyes had felt after finally finishing the last stack of files that had been entrusted to your care, with an awfully sensitive deadline attached to it in bold red ink.

Funny, had you been so tired that you'd accidentally wiped the last couple of hours from your memory? Or maybe you just weren't awake enough for the task yet? You inwardly sighed. The insane schedule you'd been holding recently certainly wasn't doing you any favors.

It was then that your eyes finally passed over something different, something that shouldn't have been there— A side table where a radio sat alongside a pile of haphazardly stacked papers, held down by what you recognized as a communication device serving as a makeshift paperweight. You don’t remember ever owning a radio, much less a walkie-talkie.

You instantly shot up, more awake than ever. 

This room, while fundamentally similar to your own, wasn't your room at all. Which then begged the question, where were you? 

“Mngh…” A small groan sounded alongside the rustle of sheets as a weight shifted against you, snapping you out of your thoughts.

It hits you then that you weren’t alone. Pillows weren't exactly capable of moving or speaking, were they?

Glancing down, you found an arm that had somehow ended up curled loosely around your middle sometime during the night. Your eyes trailed along the length of it, eventually landing on a familiar face— Peter. And while you'd rather not face the implications of the whys and hows you'd ended up waking up next to him in what you rightfully assumed to be his room, you found yourself staring, a single thought swirling in your mind. 

How in the world did you end up here?

It was the most unguarded you'd ever seen him, and you weren't quite sure how to feel about that revelation. For someone who always looked so put together on the daily, it felt almost taboo to see him all rumpled up from sleep.

One could say that it was almost… cute.

Peter’s hair was mussed, his face half-buried into the pillow, and his nose crinkling at the disturbance. It was endearing, in its own special way, that made you want to stay in the moment forever. But the man was undeniably starting to rouse, eyes shifting beneath his lids. And when those hazy blue eyes eventually fluttered open and locked onto yours, you panicked, scrambling as you darted towards the other end of the bed.

However, you hadn't realized that your legs had been tangled up in the sheets in your haste, causing you to trip. You let out a startled yelp as you lurched over the edge in a flurry of limbs. Scrunching your eyes shut, you prepared to faceplant onto the tiled floor. But the impact you braced yourself for never came. Instead, a fleeting feeling of weightlessness overcame you before you felt a firm grip around your arm, hauling you back up to safety.

A sigh sounded overhead as a low voice, still gravelly from sleep, filled your ears. “Come now, really?”

Peter had somehow managed to catch you with surprisingly quick reflexes, but it hadn't been without its own drawbacks. One of your flailing limbs had managed to score a hit on his face in the process, evident from the rapidly reddening skin, knocking whatever remnants of sleep he had out of him. 

“I didn't exactly put you on a bed after you fell asleep just so you could throw yourself off it in the morning.” He mumbled, stifling a yawn as he rubbed at the spot you’d accidentally struck in the midst of your ungraceful tumble.

However, his fingers came away red, startling both of you in the process. 

You winced. Had you seriously hit him that hard?

You both exchanged a glance, but while you were absolutely flummoxed by his sudden nosebleed, Peter's brow had creased, almost as if he couldn’t quite fathom the fact that he was bleeding. Which was odd, because all humans bled red, didn’t they? But the way he was looking at it seemed to belie the fact that there was more to it.

Peter made a thoughtful sound, staring at the blood on his fingers with a perplexed expression.

“Don’t worry about it.” He reassured you, reaching over to the bedside table for tissues to wipe it off.  “My nose is just having a bad day.”

Ah, the consequences of his actions.  Both literally and figuratively.

He’d felt it just as you'd slipped from his fingers, a second too late, unconsciously reaching out towards his once abundant well of power. He had attempted to draw from it again— a reflex that he hadn't quite killed despite knowing that nothing would come out of it ever since the Soteria incident. 

But this time, it responded. A spark had ignited. While nothing like the electrifying surges of power he used to experience when he was at his prime, the faintest buzz of it had flared to life for just a fraction of a second before flickering out of existence. Then, he'd caught you, much to his surprise. 

He'd managed to levitate you back within his reach. Barely; by mere millimeters.

His first act of successful telekinesis in years.

Was the device starting to fail? Or was he getting stronger, enough to overpower the infernal nuisance of a device?

It was then that you apologized, drawing his attention back to you, looking almost apologetic despite it being an accident. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to hit you that hard.”

The nosebleed had been entirely Peter's own doing, however. But he couldn't tell you about it. Not if he wanted to keep things under wraps like he'd sworn to do. At least, until his time was up.

So he played along, shaking his head lightly while he cleaned the blood away and disposed of it in the bin. “Don't be. I was the one who brought you here.”

“Though I wasn't aware that you hated me that much.” He joked.

Hate was a strong word, but the truth was far from it, and you both knew that. After all, you wouldn't be here if that had been the case. 

Peter wasn't the charitable sort when it came to his personal space. And the fact that he'd let you into it meant something even if he hadn't quite put it into words. Still, the evident guilt on your face was palpable enough that even he was starting to feel bad. 

None of this would have happened if he hadn't brought you here in the first place. Perhaps he should let you out of here now that you were awake, unscathed, and understandably wary.

A moment lapsed in silence before you spoke up again, tugging at his sleeve. “I have an idea.”

“Hm?” He turned back towards you, only for all thought to fizzle out of existence when you'd promptly reached up, pressing a chaste kiss to the bridge of his nose.

“Better?”

A beat passed in silence as he stared at you, an inexplicable expression on his face.

“Peter?” You blinked, calling out his name when you got no response; only a blank stare. 

“Hey.” You snapped your fingers in front of him. “Earth to Peter?”

Did his brain short-circuit? Because it sure felt like it.

It wasn't until you saw the red starting to creep up his ears that it clicked.

Oh, you got him. You got him good. 

“Yes? wait, no— I mean— what?” He started, tripping over his words as he went, voice trailing off in uncertainty. “You, uh… What are you doing?”

Now, where was his carefully pieced facade when he needed it?

You tilted your head in the same manner he always did. “Kissing it better?”

He knew what you were doing. Of course, he did. It was something he used to placate the children, especially the younger ones, when they accidentally hurt themselves. But for it to be used on him? Astounding, startling. Absolutely unheard of. It evoked something within him that bordered on surprise. No, there was something else, occluded behind the initial surprise he felt. Perhaps a part of him that he'd sealed away.

His cheeks were red now. A sight you never thought you'd see— The ever-composed orderly, fumbling.

It was almost funny, the way he dropped his head to hide his face, arms winding around you to keep you in place. Almost as if he didn't want you to see how flustered the single act had made him. But you could tell with the way his heated skin felt against yours that it'd affected him, perhaps in more ways than you were aware.

“Aw.” You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, his hair tickling your skin. 

Melodious, tinkling. A bright thing to be cherished.

He should let you go. He should, but he had the inexplicable urge to squirrel you away, here, in the small place he had to himself. Away from the one too many prying eyes. A balm to the everlasting winter, even though winter was still well a ways away.

You felt the minute shudder that ran through him as your breath fluttered past his ear, his fingers braced against your back. And then, a whisper.

“Will you stay?”  If only for a moment longer?

⊹ ━━━ ✥ ━━━ ⊹

But all good things had to come to an end. And when the time came for you to leave, he felt a strange pang at the loss of your presence. The softness of your skin under his touch. The warmth you brought and evoked within him was like the gentle beat of a butterfly's wings, fluttering in the wind.

The feeling lingered, plaguing him with unrest. 

He remembered the first time he'd looked at your hand, uncertain, like he'd forgotten what warmth felt like for the longest time. And now, as he glanced at the empty palm of his hand where he felt the lingering ghost of your touch, flexing his fingers in vague wonder, he realized that he had it now, firmly in his grasp.

“Oh, sweetheart. The things you do to me.”

[dollstatic]

Downside Up

Henry Creel x Reader

VHS Log I: One moment you're watching the ending of stranger things s5 ep4 and the next you're standing in the middle of a long super white hallway with a mop along with all the cleaning materials in the world. Where the heck did you go?

Archive: Sorry babes I can't make a taglist, I've been writing for years (on other accs), and the making of a taglist is my weakest point.

VHS Tapes | Play Next Tape

"Are you kidding me?!" You groan indefinitely.

As much as you love stranger things, you absolutely hate how good they are with cliff freaking hangers.

Like bro are you kidding me, now you gotta wait like a whole month for vol 2 to release.

You scratch the back of your head.

Now what are you going to watch to fill the endless void stranger things left in your gaping chest.

A light bulb flicks on

Of course. A certain Mr. Whatsit edits.

You grin, a giddy burst of excitement rises up your stomach. It's been what, 3 years since you last saw a fresh, new Henry edit and boy the throat is PARCHED.

You quickly grabbed your phone and opened tiktok.

Then everything explodes white, your ears ring as the corners of your eyes crinkle, your surroundings blur, well you can't really see clearly, everything's white, ringing, haze.

You don't know if you're standing up or sitting down, everything is on slomo, you clutch your head in your hands, crouching on your feet to find some, any kind footing, your legs feel like they're going to drop any second.

A groan emits from your mouth.

You feel a hand on your shoulder, you ignore it and focus on trying to expelliarmus your migraine, then it shakes you, when you don't respond, it shakes you even harder.

Then you hear your name being called, albeit weak, your ears were still ringing, like it's trying to find the right channel to channel itself in.

"Hey," the word is much more audible when they shake you again. "Darling, you alright?"

You turn to your left to see a woman, she looked to be in her late forties, warm brown eyes, and faint smile lines on the corners of her mouth, she held your shoulder in suxh a worry, you forgot she was talking to you.

"I-I'm sorry..?"

"Don't tell me your done, darling?" She laughs, her voice had a lilting, british rhythm, clean, crisp, qnd warm.

"Done? I.. what.." you clutch your forehead, its pounding and pounding, your eyes feel like they're gonna pop out at any moment.

"This floor's not close to done, I'm headed downstairs, you have to finish this floor if you wanna get out early, love." She clicks her tongue, but in a good, amused way. She taps your shoulder and walks away with her broom and cloth. "Oh, don't forget, the doctor wants the break room cleaned!"

She waves up at you without turning to you once, you hesitantly waved back she starts disappearing from your line of vision.

The lights overhead flickers, your headache spikes, you massage your forehead.

"Where am I.."

Your not in your room.

No posters.

No tiktok.

No tv.

No nothing.

Where the freakalishious..

Instead:

You're in a blindingly bright hallway, surrounded with white tiles and bleach scented floors. Everything's too sterile. Too quiet. With your bucket??? And a name tag on your shirt??

You pluck it off your self.

Hawkins National Laboratory- JANITORIAL SERVICES

Employee: [name]

General Personnel

Your blood runs cold.

What..

You shivee visibly, a cold chill running past you.

The hairs on your body prickles, you look around, no one, exceot for the occasional sounds travelling axross the hallways.

Nonetheless, your alone. Lo and alone, you highkwy wished the woman comes back, darn it.

You shake your head, no, you're at home, on your couch, watching stranger things, and you fell asleep. Yes. That's it, you were far too tired, but you wanted to finish season 5 because duh its stranger things, so you fell asleep, you still might be holding the remote on your hand, drooling on youe face.

You chuckle. You're a genius, and on the other, you're dreaming, and you know you're dreaming, you touch your forehead, whoa that's too much information.

A tap on your shoulder sends you howling.

"Woah, woah, I'm sorry," he raises his hands up, probably tryna show he was friendly but his built structure-a-bob somewhat says otherwise.

"I don't know if you're new or something but you have got to start doin' your job any time soon, lady." He gestures to the cameras. You get the cue and nod, you start cautiously mopping the floor. This is a very weird dream, why mop a perfectly clean floor?

Amidst mopping, you start pinching yourself, the dream should end like any time now right? You've been here goodness knows how long and your arms are starting to ache and your back is on borderline arthritis.

You sniff and wipe your nose, and what the crap are you even supposed to be mopping huh? You glance at the guard behind you, he looks like a robot, or those royal guards who stays like a statue till the end of their shift, then you glance at the elevator.

Isn't this supposed to be your dream? You can damn do anything you want, you palce the mop insife it's house and drag them inside the already opened elevator which you already pressed earlier.

Ugh, no elevator song-a-bob? What kinda dream of yours is this? This dream is not worthy to even be called yours.

You tap on your shoes, you watch as the elevator passes the numbers decreasingly till it stops on the 3rd floor.

You internally yelp as hordes of people enter the room, you're squished between your mop and a person, all busy in their conversations.

They don't seem to notice you, which is especially suspicious when you're wearing a uniform so much different than theirs.

You notice they're all wearing the same clinical white top and pants, and a kinda creepy black belt and shoes, so bland, you roll your eyes.

"Yeah, one of 'em almost killed the smaller one, poor kids, no wonder Tess quit,"

"Nah, heard they killed 'er too,"

"Shut your damn pie hole, man. She quit cuz them kids and the damn doctor were insufferable."

You look around, nobody seems to hear them, you frown, you're in a hospital? So are they all nurses and doctors here? But that doesn't explain the bad fashion at all, you surmise, the elevator dings open then they all rush out, bringing you out with them too.

"Excuse me— sorry— I need to—" You grip on your mop and cleaning materials, lion king stampede?

You groan when the elevator dings close, the staff around you disperses in their seperate ways, along with the three who gave you very useful information.

You look around, now where are you..

You suddenly feel cold.. and nervous, you look around you once again. No one. A chill creeps up on you again. You have got to wake up.

You pinch yourself, hard-hard. Nothing.

You let out a breath of sheer coldness, you swear you saw fog coming out of your mouth because of how cold the floor was.

You spun on your heel, about to take the next elevator when you bump into a brick wall.

What the—

You look up to see familiar blue eyes and blond hair.

[dollstatic]

Downside Up Masterlist

Henry Creel x Reader

VHS Log : One moment you're watching the ending of stranger things s5 ep4 and the next you're standing in the middle of a long super white hallway with a mop along with all the cleaning materials in the world. Where the heck did you go?

Tape I » Successfully Logged

Tape II » Successfully Logged

Tape III » To be recorded...

Pending more tapes soon...