Idk What I’m Doing But Call Me A Duckling Bc I Be Following All The Ppl Who Use This Format And It

Hello 👋 😊 I want to let you know that I love your work. I mean I absolutely love it! Hearts all the way from the moon and back- Like, damn, you’re amazing. I especially liked the Yandere Garou one, because, like- How could one not? But the others are just as great! So thank you for giving us all this content ;)

YOURE AMAZING TOO I PROMISE!!💜💜 only amazing people would so kind to personally write messages like this, so thank you so much☺️ I’m glad you like my writing (especially yandere Garou bc he’s👌👌), and I hope you know your kind words made me really happy!!

One Sorry Idiot in a Tree (Bakugou x Reader)

*GIF not mine*

Summary: After Bakugou saw you “flirt” with Kirishima, he wasn’t very happy with you. Gee, I wonder what you could do to make him forgive you. On a completely unrelated note, did you know there was a tree outside his window?

A/N: Just some more writer’s block killin’, don’t mind me. Got this idea from @otpdisaster​ with this prompt. Hope you like it!

Word count: 2305

        It began with small pebbles.

       Dink.

       Dink.

       After twenty minutes of that, you ran out of rocks. Now, you scaled the tree next to the dormitory building of Class 1-A like Rapunzel’s prince, prepared to get Bakugou’s attention by any means necessary. A branch, not exactly sturdy-looking, but enough, extended out perfectly to your boyfriend’s window. Before you tapped on it, you grimaced at the sight of the small cracks you had left in the glass from rock-throwing. 

       Oops.

       The night was cold but the full moon provided enough light for you to koala-climb your way across the tree branch to his window, hanging on for dear life whenever it swayed in the wind. The bark made indents in your hands from you gripping it like no tomorrow, but you were desperate to speak with him. Finally, you made across enough to reach out with one trembling arm. 

       Tap tap.

       “Why did he have to live on the fourth floor?” you mutter to yourself shakily, knocking on the glass once more before pulling back and clinging to the tree as evil winds from Satan himself tried to blow you up and away. So… guess I have a fear of heights now.

       At last, the curtains covering Bakugou’s window were ripped away as the blond glared out into the night, only for his eyes to widen in surprise.

       “YN?!” he exclaimed. Or at least you think he did. The thickness of the building muffled his words, so it was actually more like “Mphfmpfhmlpfhf?” He was now enraged and shouting at you through the pane, eyes glaring furiously in true Bakugou fashion. He was about ready to throw hands, approaching your form with heavy stomps you could hear from all the way outside, but he… you know, couldn’t reach you. 

       Throughout this whole fiasco, you were chuckling under your breath while watching him like a wild gorilla in a zoo enclosure. Then suddenly, Bakugou’s expression saddened and he withdrew from the window, sitting on his bed and just staring at you with arms hanging motionlessly at his side. You figured he was bummed he couldn’t beat the shit out of you when you were swaying back and forth on a forty-foot tree. You puffed a warm breath on the glass and reached out with a trembling hand, shakily writing “r u ok?” backwards. 

       Bakugou’s brows furrowed as he read the note (you wrote the “k” wrong) before scoffing and hissing words at you. Either he hadn’t figured out you couldn’t hear him, or this was his last push for you to learn how to read lips. Either way, you were over it. You shook your head and pointed to your ear, only to scream in fright when you lost balance and almost dropped to your chilly, forty-foot death. Bakugou jumped up from his bed and sprinted toward you, his palms slamming against the glass barrier while he shouted your name in a panic. 

       You, on the other hand, prayed to every god above and under the sun while you swung back and forth, hanging upside down and hugging the tree branch tightly to your chest.

       “Oh, son of a bitch, thank God!” you laugh in relief before wiggling yourself upright on the thin, outstretched bark. Bakugou’s forehead slapped against the window as he sighed thankfully, his breath causing the pane to fog. He caught sight of this and wrote you a message with a clenched jaw. 

       “R u ok???” In his haste, he had forgotten to write it backwards, and you giggled at the sight before nodding. He narrows his eyes at you and flips you off. You laugh and do the same while straddling the tree branch, clouds streaming from your mouth every time you breathe with the chilly temperatures. 

       “Goddamnit it’s freezing out here,” you mumble, teeth chattering. Normally, you would hug yourself and rub your arms up and down to gather warmth, but right now… no. Never. Yes, you were the idiot who climbed a tree to ask her boyfriend for forgiveness, but you weren’t the idiot who died falling out of a tree after climbing it to ask for forgiveness. Stupidity was your style, but dying stupidly was just pitiful. 

       Ever so slowly, you scooched your way down the branch, holding in a breath as it dipped with your weight while you reached out to write another message. “I’m sorry.”

       The blond read the note while a muscle in his jaw twitched. His arms hung limply at his side once more, but his hands still curled into fists at the words. With glowing, scarlet eyes, he snarled at you and plumped down into his spinny desk chair, fingers gripping the arm rests tightly.

       “At least he didn’t close the blinds yet.” Your chest fills with hope and you smile gently, wiping away the old message and drawing a new one.

       “I didn’t mean to piss you off.” 

       Your brain hurt from the amount of effort you had to put into writing that whole spiel backwards, but he was worth it. Your fingers turning blue? Yeah, that was kind of a problem. You blow hot air on the one hand before transferring and blowing on the other, watching and waiting for Bakugou’s reaction as you do. 

       His eyes run over the note once, then twice, then one more time until you realize he’s actually watching your form and rolling his eyes. Still, the blinds remain open, and you whisper a “Yes!” Extending your arm once again, you write another message. 

       “I love u.” You sketch a heart along with it, although it looks more like a fat, seated camel thanks to your trembling hands. 

       The message, however, still pleases the furious boyfriend, and you’d like to think he had whipped out his phone and taken pictures of you to remind himself on a terrible day that you loved him dearly. You know, rather than the less desirable, more realistic theory that he was going to blackmail you with it later and present it to his friends.

       “Oh, fuck you, dickhead!” you shout at the window, shaking a middle finger at him as emphatically as you can. Shit, why aren’t there any other physical gestures of hatred? My finger’s getting cold. It was getting more of a work-out than the rest of your hands, so you supposed you couldn’t complain too much. With Bakugou as your boyfriend, you were surprised your middle fingers didn’t have six-packs by now.

       Ooh, speaking of six-packs.

       The blond cackled in his room while reclaiming his seat, the motion causing his shirt to fly up slightly and reveal- Jesus fuck. Who gave him permission to have that?

       Shaking away the distraction, you give him a sarcastic smile and laugh before writing one last time. 

       “Ok, so do u forgive me?”

       You lean back and huff, waiting for his response while he assesses the message. At last, he purses his lips and rises slowly from the chair. The light glowing from his room pushed away the darkness around you enough for you to inspect your bluing fingers while you waited for a response. 

        Inside the warm, toasty building, Bakugou scoffed at your trembling form. That didn’t stop the fond smile from growing on his face, but maybe, just maybe you deserved it this round. Ah, fuck it. His eyes glinted when he came up with the perfect message.

       “Yes, I love u too.” 

       However, halfway through drawing this on the slightly-chilled glass that froze his precious fingertips, your form disappeared from his peripheral vision. 

       What.

       Bakugou’s face turned into pure panic when he spotted the cracked, jagged edges of a broken tree branch in your place. 

       “Oh shit! YN!” 

       Your boyfriend charged down the stairwell, loud curses trailing behind him in echoes as he busted ass down the steps. At last, the door was in sight as he blasted through it and out into the dark night, setting off the occasional explosion to light up his surroundings. Then he spotted your form, silent and unmoving next to a broken tree branch. 

       “YN!” the blond roared, sprinting towards you at break-neck speed and dropping on his knees next to you. Your eyes were shut and your lips were barely open, releasing small puffs of air every few seconds. Still, you didn’t make a sound, even when Bakugou patted you anxiously on the cheek. 

       “YN wake up, I swear to God.” You didn’t respond. He fell back on his knees and reached up to his scalp, hands digging in and yanking on the strands frustratedly.

       “Fuck, YN, please!” 

       Nothing. Tears pricked his eyes.

       “Come on! I forgive you, just please come back!” Your eyes peeled open at that and you let out a snort. 

       “Seriously, I have to fall out of a tree to get you to forgive me? You’re kind of a dic- foof.” Any air in your lungs was forced out as Bakugou snatched up your cold body and held you close, squeezing you tighter and tighter with every passing second. It was warm at first, so you relaxed into it, but then it started to feel like a strangling.

       “O-kay,” you choked out, patting his back, “I yield, I yield.” He held you impossibly closer just one more second and your eyes almost bulged out of your head before he leaned away, glaring at you with damp cheeks. 

       “Don’t ever do that again.” 

       “Do what? Flirt with Kirishima or fall out of a tree?”

       “Both.” He avoided your tender gaze and tensed up when your hands palmed his cheeks, wiping away any and all stray tears. 

       “Okay,” you whispered. “I promise.” 

       “Good.” He pushed away your grasp and rose up off the ground, glaring at his feet while holding out a hand. “Now come on. Your hands are fucking icicles.”

       You scoff. “Yeah, no thanks to you, dipwad.” Nonetheless, you accept his offer and stand up, cringing at his white-knuckled grip on your hand while he leads you into the dorm building. 

       “I didn’t ask you to scale a fucking tree to beg for forgiveness,” he grumbles.

       “I didn’t ask you to get all jealous and mopey after I asked Kirishima for a pencil!” you counter.

       “You didn’t ask for a pencil, you asked for his wood!” You can’t help but snicker at the memory.

       “Hehe, yeah. You should’ve seen how red his face got, too! Especially when I reached over and stole it.” You smack your knee while wheezing with laughter. “He looked so fucking scared!” 

       “It’s not that funny.” Bakugou shook his head and rolled his eyes. Your hands were so concerningly blue that all he could focus on was leading you back to his room.

       “-and his face was all like, ‘Oh shit!’” Your amused howls echoed throughout the dorm halls before stopping suddenly as the smile dropped off your instantly serious face. “I think the cold is getting to me.”

       “Yeah, no shit,” Bakugou grumbles, kicking open his door and slamming it shut after tugging you inside. “Strip.”

       “Excuse me?”

       “You’re excused. Now strip.” Your brows furrowed and you smacked his chest lightly. 

       “Listen up, pervert. I’m not stripping for you or anyone el- O-okay.” Mid-sentence, Bakugou had whipped out his trump card on you. Now, he stood shirtless and pantless in the middle of his room, giving you an expectant look. My man is hella ripped. You gulped while eye-fucking him. You wished there was no eye.

       “Who’s the pervert now?” he smirked, taking a seat on the far end of the bed so his back faced you. “There, I’m not looking. Now strip.” 

       To be fair, you knew there was some logic to his words. There was something about having to be completely nude, or at least in drier clothes, when someone was trying to fend off hypothermia. You didn’t care to think too much about it. Right now, your herculean boyfriend was demanding you to hop into bed (partially) naked with him. You weren’t always stupid. 

       After tossing your clothes into his laundry basket near the door, you slipped under the covers and poked him in his sturdy back. Are back muscles a kink? Shit, those temperatures out there had really messed with your head. Or maybe it was the fall? He got the message and joined you under the blankets, his arms instinctively wrapping around your frozen waist and pulling you close. You sigh and nuzzle into his warm chest, relaxing easily thanks to his body heat. Finally having a moment of clarity, you decided to apologize. 

       “I really am sorry for pissing you off like that.” You stared deeply into his eyes while nervously picking at the bedsheets. 

       “It’s okay.” 

       “It was pretty romantic when I climbed that tree for you, though, wasn’t it?” Bakugou sighed and tugged you closer by your cold hips. 

       “Yes, yes it was-”

       “I knew it!” you shouted, wiggling next to him in bed with victory. 

       “Shut up over there!” Kirishima shouted from next door. Your eyes widened with shame.

       “Sorry!” you shouted back before groaning and running your hands down your warmed face, peeking out from in between fingers when Bakugou released a small chuckle. The noise was deep and melodic, and you were addicted to it the instant you heard it.

       Yes, you were an idiot. And you would gladly stay one if you got to end every day with that laugh in your ears. 

       You were his idiot.

hellooo! i'm just stopping by to request a prompt similar to Conan Gray's song "Heather". One where you've got this crush on him and the feelings seem to be reciprocated, and this flirty banter is going on between you two, but suddenly there's somebody else in the picture. a n g s t please. i want my feelings to be hurt

Another a n c i e n t request from years past. The name wasn't specified, so I had chosen Nishinoya bc he's a lil cutie:

The bandaid

Yn doesn’t want to acknowledge that Noyas moved on in high school, but then she sees him around Kiyoko. 

The bandaid was ripped off. You couldn’t lie to yourself anymore. He didn’t like you. Maybe he never did, or maybe he used to, right now...no.

Okay, so yn likes him and they flirt so she thinks he likes her back

Then they both move on to Karasuno, where Kiyoko comes into the picture and BAM, no more yn

Nishinoya doesn’t flirt with her or anything, instead talking to her like a normal person before bounding off at the sight of Kiyoko.

Yn enters the class with noya and Tanaka and hears them talking about the “absolute babe” that is Kiyoko. Yn greets Noya and he says hi before rambling on about Kiyoko

You thought he liked you....

Yandere bokuto the one that will look at you with puppy eyes everytime you need to go out to get something begging you to stay and cuddle

“Bokuto, let me uppp.”

“No,” he tightens his hold around your waist, burying his face deeper into your neck, “not happening.”

When you finally slip off the couch, he gives you the saddest puppy dog eyes, lips pouting. “Babyyyyy, please stay?”

“I-” you sigh, “fine.” He doesn’t say another word, only whooping and tugging you back onto the cushions. He plops himself on top of you this time so there’s really no point in trying to escape, every limb of his trapping your own smaller version to the couch. The hair on his head tickles your chin as he shoves his face against your throat.

“This is where you belong, YN.”

I love your writing, thank you for taking the time to make and share it with us 💖 I hope your schooling’s going well! Good luck and please make sure to take care of yourself too!

You’re such a sweetheart🥺🥺 thank you so much! Honestly, I just logged back onto here for the first time in weeks and I really forgot how much support you guys have given me💜💜 it makes me feel really special and I hope you’re all doing great too☺️

(Ps: school is going great! How about you?💕)

So I have a request can you write how Kenma Kageyama Nishinoya and Atsumu would react to their s/o randomly telling them to spread their legs cause she wants to put their head on their stomach 🥺👉🏾👈🏾 please and thank you 🙏🏾

“Spread Your Legs”... to Cuddle (Haikyuu!! Headcanons)

*GIFs not mine*

A/N: Slight warning guys, I haven’t watched season four. Aka, Atsumu is maybe OOC. Aka aka, I have no idea how tf he acts. I tried tho, I swear. Also, dear requester, with my dirty mind, I sincerely hope I took your request the right way, and hope you weren’t completely looking for innocent fluff. With love, this dirty-minded author. Anyway, hope you like it! (Oh fuck, I just reread your request, I am so sorry (I saw “randomly” and went off). But I promise some of it is fluffy!! you know... some of it.)

Word count: 1116

Kozume Kenma: 

I'm just gonna start out by saying this is Kenma we’re talking about.

If you ask him for something romantic, he’s obligated to say “fuck no.”

Like seriously, you just gotta sneak attack this dude, cuz straight up asking him isn’t gonna work.

… okay maybe just this once.

“Hey Kenma, can you spread your legs?”

He gives you a weird look, then returns to playing his game. “No.”

I told you so.

So anyways, you just, you know, spread his legs.

He’s laying on the couch so one of them dangles off, and you just kinda slither between and snuggle up to his lap. 

As you do so, he takes in a quick breath and avoids your gaze, keeping his eyes locked on the screen with maximum effort. 

You lay your head on his stomach and smile against him, enjoying the heat after a cold day.

“You’re really warm.” You press a kiss to his stomach and he tenses up.

“Y-you should’ve told me this is what you were going to do.”

“Would you have let me do it?”

“...” 

He just purses his lips and relaxes his game on top of your head.

“Do you want me to stop?” You set your chin on his stomach and peer up at him innocently.

He flushes and rolls his eyes. “...no.”

Kageyama Tobio: 

You’re playing with fire with this one. But like… fake fire that doesn’t burn when you touch it, you feel me?

… Anyways, this guy is very, very concerned at first.

“Tobio, can you spread your legs for me?” 

It’s one of the few days he’s invited you over (more like you invited yourself), and when you popped into his room, he’s already relaxing in bed.

When he hears those words, steam practically blows from his ears.

“W-WHAT?!”

You love to tease him of course, and any other day, you would’ve done so, but…

Fuck it, who am I kidding, you’re totally gonna tease him. 

You step closer to his bed where he’s got one leg crossed over the other and he flinches when you run your hands up his lower legs. 

“Just spread your legs for me, baby.” 

“Y-YN, you don’t have to do this.” 

“Don’t be so nervous, Tobio. I want to.”

Hesitantly, he allows you to settle your hands on his kneecaps and pull his legs apart. 

You slide up onto the bed and slink your way in between his legs, giving him a reassuring smile. 

Then you plop down in the middle of his thighs and rest your head on his stomach with a relieved sigh. 

“Mmm, thanks for letting me do this, Tobio.”

He’s silently oblivious for a moment. (Lowkey thinking “is this how it’s supposed to be done the first time?”)

Then he slowly sets his hands in your hair and combs through it with trembling fingers. 

“S-sure.” 

Don’t worry, later you showed him how it’s done ;)

… meaning you let him lay his head on your stomach then. Geez, get ur head outta the gutter, guys. 

Nishinoya Yuu: 

SPEAKING OF PERVERTS

Just kidding, this strong boi treats you like a queen. 

“Spread your legs, Yuu.”

“Oh, FUCK YEAH!” 

Except for that. You can only giggle when he spreads his legs wide instantly, relaxing a hand behind his head while the other rests on his chest.

With a grin, you clamber onto the bed and slip between his legs, resting your head on his stomach. 

Nishinoya instantly combs his free hand through your hair while you hum in delight against him.

‘Cause you guys do this all the time. Because this is how you cuddle. 

He loves feeling like he’s taking care of you, and this is just one of the many ways he does. 

When you ask him to spread his legs, he knows it’s because you’re cold and want snuggles, and this tiny boy absolutely loves to provide for you. 

Once, when you tried to move after he had fallen asleep, his legs literally wrapped around you and trapped you against his chest. It was warm tho, so you couldn’t complain.

Anytime, whenever you’re watching a movie or just plain old taking a nap, he loves the feeling of you between his legs. 

If it’s a scary movie or you’re having a nightmare and you whimper into his chest, he’ll just coo and massage your scalp until you calm down. We’re talking hairdresser-level scalp massages. 

Noya is good with his hands, it’s confirmed.

As I said before, he loves to take care of you, and you asking him to spread his legs isn’t an uncommon occurrence whenever you two hang out. 

Now this doesn’t mean he doesn’t get a little too excited sometimes...

Miya Atsumu:

First of all, y’all are just laying in the grass courtyard studying.

Well, you’re studying. He’s just basking in the sun and trying to fuck with you in any way he can. 

When you finish (or more like give up) your studying is when you ask order him.

“Spread your legs.”

His brow raises oH fUcK, then he does that lil smirk.

“Oh really? Here? YN, you naughty girl.”

You’re dead tired. “Shut up perv, I just wanna cuddle.”

“What if I wanna do more than cuddle?” *waggles eyebrows*

“Suffer.” 

You spread his legs apart and he silently inhales, trying not to choke on air. 

When you crawl up between his thighs, he tenses up and the smirk on his face falters a bit. 

Then you rest your cheek on his stomach and wrap your arms around him like a teddy bear and he’s like “oh.”

There’s not really much he can do. He doesn’t wanna push you off bc nO but he also wants to keep up his suave, self-controlled appearance. 

But that’s not how biology works.

His hands settle into your hair and he’s hoping if you fall asleep fast enough, you won’t notice. So he starts brushing through your tangled strands and holding you closer to keep you warm.

I mean, you were really tired after studying, right?

Wrong.

“Atsumuuuu.”

“Sorry babe, but this is mostly your fault, just sayin.”

Yeah so um, next time you wanna lay on his stomach, just kinda say it, cuz this boy is all about gettin’ it onnn.

You’re too pure for him to handle

In the Black Widow’s Nest (Henry Creel x Reader) 🕷️Chapter 2🕷️

*GIF not mine*

Summary:

Prince Henry of the Creel Dynasty is finally in search of a wife, and in the spirit of courtship, King Victor has invited young royalty from all neighboring kingdoms to vie for his hand. But with so much royalty introduces the need for many more maids in the castle than usual.

Enter: You.

You’re nothing but a servant in his home, an intruder in his prized library, and an utter nuisance in his mind. But then you survive his attack, and in an unexpected way nonetheless. That makes you… interesting.

You’ve caught his eye—congratulations! Now, you must deal with the consequences of loving a heartless prince in a world where far worse things lurk in the castle than dirty garderobes.

Chapter 1

A/N: yay, another chapter! and not a million bajillion months later, either, aren’t u guys lucky? I worked hard on this one! Let me know what you think, and I hope you enjoy!

Word count: 4809

The maids of the castle did not have an organized way of awakening. The first one to rise from her cot never rang a bell, nor did she make a sound as she bumbled about the room. The others simply roused at her activity and moved to follow her lead. A soft ray of warmth would peek through window curtains, illuminating the rumpled sheets and the scuffling shoes as the ladies donned their uniforms: white pinafores over black smocks, black sleeves down to the wrists with white cuffs, white bows, black slippers.

A light chatter had begun after one maid, a new recruit hired for the season, had asked another for assistance in tying the pinafore’s bow at her back. By the time the bow was finished, the rest of the room had followed suit. Conversations erupted, and some of the more experienced women had taken to helping the newcomers with their garments. When one began to brush her own hair, so did another. When one adjusted the strap on her own shoe, so did another.

They moved as one body and looked as one body, as was expected of them. None dared to lose their opportunity to work with the castle's wages and living, especially during such a season.

The prince of the Creel Dynasty was finally searching for a wife.

The kingdom had long awaited this announcement from the handsome young heir. In preparation for the many balls, galas, and other festivities promised by this news, the castle staff had welcomed a myriad of new members, all of whom had to be trained before the kingdom could host any visiting royalty.

The maids, therefore, had the strictest schedules and regimens. The nature of their duties made it most plausible to come in contact with a royal, and such required a level of propriety unobserved by them in their previous homes.

But a new fear had struck the collective consciousness of the trainees.

One that made the threat of interacting with royals all the more potent.

You rose from your cot at the tap of the girl beside you. A fierce spasming fired along your spine, where your new wounds must have reopened from the movement.

Briefly, you considered lying back down, letting your headache swallow you whole. Considered Miss Miriam, in a devilish state, screaming at you, dismissing you, dragging you out of the castle. Crawling back home with no money, nothing to show for your promises of dragging them out of the village and whisking them away to a life of less hell. You consider coming out of the castle like you came in. Still nothing. Having nothing.

But a pretty sight struck you—Miss Miriam, with her crop, coming up behind you, and you, twisting and grabbing her by her gray hair, shoving her face into a used chamber pot.

Then swatting the old harpy with her own weapon.

A smile split your face, causing the bruise on your cheek to throb.

One day.

But until that day, you were stuck here under the shameless eyes of your own fellow maids. The show Miss Miriam had put on for the others was one that must be burned into the backs of their eyelids, because the maids did one of two things.

They watched you, or they blinked.

You folded in on yourself, turning away and grasping your uniform tucked neatly beneath your bed. When you rose back up and reached for the hem of your nightdress, you hesitated.

The gazes were so heavy you could drown. Even now, you could feel the oozing blood sticking to the thick fabric. However prominent the bruise on your face was nothing compared to artwork that mangled your back; something was peeling, another splitting, and much was bleeding. It was all one collective wound, one scab healing so slowly that any movement you made renewed the process.

You did everything quickly and quietly. You tore off your dress, peeling off fresh skin with it, and stretched the other one over your head, thankful the black smock wouldn’t stain so evidently. The gasps didn’t slow you down. You tugged on your shoes and straightened your sleeves. You whisked your hair out of your face as you worked, tightening and adjusting and grimacing your way through it.

Tears burned at the corners of your eyes, but you didn’t let them fall. You were surprised you had any left after last night—your own tongue sat as dry as a rock in your mouth. How could there be more?

But they sprang forth when you pulled the pinafore over your sleeves and realized you couldn’t tie the bow yourself. Not as tightly as it should be. Your own body wouldn’t let you do such a thing to your wound.

You needed help. Would any of them be willing to even speak to you? To be seen associating with the first pariah of the group?

You couldn’t imagine yourself doing it. Self-preservation was at an all-time high after your public whipping. Would anyone even believe that you hadn’t wanted any of this? That you hadn’t been a crown-hunting girl begging for trouble? That something bordering on preternatural had invaded your mind and drowned out your senses, and all you could do was cling onto another human as you grappled for reality—who gave a damn if the man just happened to be Prince Henry, the one person women in all the known kingdoms were trying to obtain?

No.

No one would believe you.

Dear God, you sounded deranged. One step away from fleeing into the woods waving sticks and crying demon at every creature you crossed.

The church bells, of all things, being the sounds you’d heard when your own life was slipping away before your eyes. You may as well hang yourself right now, if the king couldn’t decree it any faster.

You dropped the two fabric strings of the pinafore with a muffled snivel, cupping your bruised cheek and letting your eyes fall closed.

Three months. Just three months to shed the new label and secure yourself a permanent position in the castle. Real servants’ lodgings, proper pay, daily meals. You could live the rest of your life not acknowledged by another soul if you could just stay here, safe and content and unheeded.

What more could a person want out of life?

A gentle touch at your shoulder blade drew your attention, and you flinched away before it got any closer to your injuries. You spun around and bumped into your cot, eyeing the other maid warily. Her gaze was kind and bordered on innocent, vibrant blue barely peeking out from behind a wall of curly brown hair. She looked about your age, and at first glance, you would never notice the proud, acute way she held herself.

Like she always knew what she was doing, and yet always knew too much.

And when she offered her hands like a sign of peace, you did not try to back away again. Far be it from you to reject the first kindness you had experienced since you had arrived here.

“I can tie your bow, if you like?”

That same accent, unrefined when compared to what usually bounced off the gilded walls, and you surmise that she must have come from another small village like yours. Unlike you, however, she seemed to have less fear when navigating through unfamiliarities like castles and cruel maids.

Why else would she bother offering the one persona non grata a helping hand?

You pause at her offer, gnawing on your lip as though you had other options to consider. Perhaps there was some ill intent to her aid, but even if there was, you couldn’t figure out what and why and why bother.

“Yes…” you swallowed. “Please.”

She smiled gently and gestured for you to turn around. When her hands tied the bow, it was all light fingers and quiet conversations.

Her name was Nancy, and you learned she had come from the village next to yours. When she couldn’t get a job working for a seamstress, she wound up as something of a governess in the kingdom’s walls, traversing back and forth between her home and those of higher standings nearer to the castle. She was good at watching children, but the castle was offering far more than royalty’s butlers and vicars could afford.

And she was also very sorry for you. What happened yesterday was hard to watch.

You asked her to tighten the bow, dismissing her small hum of concern, and swallowed the bile that rose when the pinafore dug securely into the gashes of your back.

You both knew she had been fixing to leave it loose, letting you decide if the risk of an untidy uniform was worth the comfort.

It wasn’t.

The other maids, it seemed, had grown uninterested the second your wounds were covered for what would be the remainder of the day, and returned to normal conversation. Few glances were thrown your way since Nancy had tied your bow, and you noticed yet another phenomenon.

Caught up in a sea of black and white, the only difference between you and Nancy, between any one maid and another, was her hair. Brunette and blond hair intermixed with black and ginger, all blended seamlessly when plaited or swept up into a bun.

Yours hung loose and knotted down your back, and without a word, Nancy began to wisp the tendrils into a braid. You wanted to stop her, but you couldn’t. Your own arms could barely raise as high as your heart, and your hands shook the second they entered your vision, lifted to stop Nancy’s at your nape.

“There,” she murmured, dismissing your thanks, “now you really blend in. By tonight, the others won’t even remember which bed you’re in.”

“Should I be concerned they know that now?”

She laughed softly. “I suppose not, although I have overheard a few girls bitter about you being with a royal.”

You blanched. “What? That’s what they’re focused on?”

Maybe… maybe you should have guessed some of them might focus on that fact. But look where it got you, and you hadn’t even been trying.

Properly flogged, and now in the sights of one Miss Miriam.

Nancy shrugs. “Just a few. Most have been scared for you. But,” she pauses, pursing her lips, “you must understand that we’re… thankful, in a cruel way.”

Of course. You could understand that.

It terrified you, angered you to no end, but you understood it. Someone had to be a lesson for the others. A demonstration. The new maids needed a spectacle to understand where the power lied—that power did not lie solely within royalty. There were pockets of it left scattered throughout the castle, and cruel-enough servants snatched it up whenever possible, and lorded it over whoever would listen.

But… you wanted to cry at the unfairness of it all. You never thought it would be you.

The collective consciousness reigned over the servants once more, and they began to line up. You spotted a girl, younger-looking than most, step away from the door, and guessed she must have heard footsteps. Nancy nodded at you before joining a line, and you followed.

Like clockwork, the door slammed open, and Miss Miriam entered with a silencing swoosh of her black smock. When her second-in-command entered, goosebumps ran down your spine.

You could still feel yourself struggling in her arms, sobs wracking their way through you as she steadied your form for another lashing. Your heartbeat began thundering in your back, right underneath the bow of the pinafore.

“Ladies, today is a day of utmost importance.” With small, black eyes narrowed and surveying each and every young girl before her, Miss Miriam furrowed her brow and frowned, wrinkles tracing the expressions with ease. Her face pinched together so tightly it resembled a sun-dried grape. “The royal family will be welcoming four promising princesses today, and it will be your duty to clean every inch of the castle they will roam upon before they arrive. Am I understood?”

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

“We will work as one. We will bow as one. We do everything as one, today and all days, ladies. Efficiently, and quietly.” Her eyes fell on you. “No one will cause trouble today. Understood?”

You gulped. The maids chimed together once more, and you could only mouth along with them.

“Yes, Miss Miriam.”

Her gaze left yours, and the tightening of your throat eased.

“Moira will delegate assignments. Those tidying halls will follow me.”

The hallways, all gilded columns and glistening marble, flared victoriously in the morning sun. Most aspects of the castle seemed to emphasize the Creel Monarchy’s pride, their devout sense of self-satisfaction the principal aspect of every painting, vase, and snuffed sconce.

A portrait of the long deceased King James, great-great-great-great grandfather to Prince Henry—though, you pondered calling the number of greats preceding his name into question (and the word great itself)—sneered down at you, seeming perpetually pleased to be two hundred years in the ground and still lording himself over every subject that roamed his halls.

Disdain for all others must have been passed down the family line religiously.

You dragged your eyes down and away, busying yourself instead with dusting the marbleized snoot of Julius Caesar. The crystalline windows of the castle acted like a magnifying glass against you as you worked, adding a heat to the already aching skin of your back. You were a cockroach wandering too close to a flame, and any second now you could burn up from the inside out, crushed with a crunch rather than a squelch.

Using the back of your hand, you wiped the sweat from your brow, eyes wandering dangerously to the maid who worked beside you.

Nancy, owning the more bearable appearance between the two of you, had been sent out to deliver and replace new bed sheets along with thirty other girls. But the girl beside you, taller and owning a mess of dirty blonde hair swept into an apathetic bun, had somewhat of the same spirit of Nancy. A small glimmer of rebellion shone in her eyes each time Miss Miriam wandered far enough down the glittering hallway so as to only be seen by squinting.

Then, with a wry twitch of her freckled face, she’d rasp five blasphemies she’d decided described the witch in that moment.

Musty shrew appeared to be a favorite.

The girl glanced up from where she had been polishing a rickety wooden chair and flashed you a smile, glancing each way before rising from her knees and approaching. She reached out and plopped the brush she had been using on the table holding the marble statue head, and plugged a finger into each of its ears.

“I don’t suppose Jesus here will strike me down for my profanity, will he?”

You looked down. Chiseled above its wrinkled forehead was a laurel crown, and you couldn’t recall a Bible passage describing Jesus’ sabbatical in Rome. You blinked at her.

“I’m pretty sure that’s Julius Caesar.”

The blonde glances at the statue again, gray eyes darting over it before she shrugs. “Same difference. If there is a sculpture of Jesus somewhere in this castle, I have no doubt he’s going to receive the same mouthful of feathers you’re forcing on poor Caesar here.”

“Only if Miss Miriam deems it so.” You nodded your head in the skeletal maid’s direction. “Her words are as good as gospel, after all.”

“And yet, each time she speaks, I feel like I’m taking orders from Satan.”

You let out a ghost of a laugh, biting your tongue when your wounds contract and throb.

Her face splits into a smile, and she lets out a short laugh too. Something flits along her face, though, and you get the sense you didn’t hide your pain well enough. The subject is easily danced around; the maid releases her grip on the statue and instead grasps her skirt, lowering into a teasing curtsy. “The name is Robin, milady.” Her eyelashes flutter rapidly and she waggles her fingers in the air, perfectly, in your opinion, mimicking the interactions between royalty that you’ve seen thus far. Haughty, majestic, and filled with intentions barely skin-deep.

You do the same.

She lets your name roll off her tongue a few times, letting it thud against the crisp white walls in her hoarse tone before saying decidedly, “Very fitting.”

Before long, Miss Miriam decides the hallway is clean enough and herds all the maids, the vast majority of them being newcomers like you, out and away into the next wing.

A chill wracks through you when the word “residential” gets passed down the line of one hundred girls, followed by “prince” and “bedroom” and “handsome.” You scan the white, stone columns as you pass, watching them curve into elegant archways shadowed through the frosted windows. This wing is covered in significantly less dust, and a faint scent of roses and pines floats in the air.

You try to flood out the memories, thinking vigorously about the red carpet before you, the soft slap of two hundred clogs, small shuffles and whispers. Everything around you you swallow up whole, eyes wide as though it will help you take in everything and think about nothing. But you cannot avoid it for long; not when you pass by the entrance to the royal throne room, in all its scintillating enormity, golden thrones set with silk, inlaid with gemstones, all wide open spaces.

And hovering above all four was a single, large oil portrait of the living Creel sovereigns.

King Victor, with his light blue eyes caving underneath the lustrous crown, crisp white beard neatly trimmed. His hand hovered over his wife’s shoulder, smile thin and pale.

Queen Virginia, known for her devout faith and kindness, her amber hair falling in ringlets down to her sides. She sat prim and proper on a ruby-cushioned chair, hands folded prettily, eyes dim.

Princess Alice, the spitting image of her mother, bar her father’s eyes and the last twenty years. Second only to her brother in terms of popularity in the kingdom and out, something distinctly complacent set her brows in such a way you knew instantly why she was desirable to royals and dodged by anyone below them.

And then him.

A part of you hadn’t believed Miss Miriam when she’d called him so.

Your Highness.

But as you looked at him now, standing taller than the rest of his blood, proud and ramrod straight, broad shoulders held back by an invisible force, you knew the portraitist had gotten something wrong.

The hair was right; the golden crown of tousled waves, parted neatly and befitting him far more than any scrap of the earth. The lips, pink and pronounced, and the softness of his brow, and, of course, his posture. All perfect.

But it wasn’t Prince Henry. Not quite.

The eyes. Slate blue and cold, cold, cold. How could the artist have not seen that?

Instead, they were warm and too dark a blue. Almost navy, and gentle, and so soft he almost looked like he was frozen in a smile.

No, no. That wasn’t the Prince Henry you had seen.

Where was the darkness? The cruelty? The evil that shadowed every inch of him?

This was some sterilized version of the crown prince, some unattainable, unreliable, utterly purified visage of him being displayed to the kingdoms in pastime.

He radiated divinity, in and out of the portrait. But without that quality of his that effused danger so potently, you could not help but feel the kingdoms were being sold a lie.

The nervous hiss of your name and a strong grip rattling at your wrist spared you from Prince Henry’s trance once more.

Too much power, he had. Too much… something.

“I get it,” Robin whispered, eyes flitting back and forth as the herd marched on, “completely, I understand. But, you cannot just stand and stare at royalty all day. That’s kind of how you…” she gnawed at the inside of her cheek, “you know, got into your situation in the first place. I’d hate to think what Miss Mule would do if she caught you with a Creel of all people.”

You hesitate to tell her that it was, in fact, a Creel that had gotten you in this position. But if Miss Miriam had decided to hide that information from others, you could only guess there was some merit to hiding that you’d thrown your arms around a prince that was already in high demand.

You had wound up committing one of the worst possible treasons with the worst possible man. You supposed it was quite like learning to swim a day prior and diving into a deep lake the very next day—you’d hit rock-bottom, and you’d only just begun.

To think you shouldn’t already be swinging by your neck right now, face blue and tongue swollen, had the head maid hoarded some minute amount of mercy for you.

That, or she’d known your actions had no great impact upon the integrity of the prince’s pursuits—whether it be accidental or otherwise, Miss Miriam viewed yesterday’s nightmare as a tragic attempt to escape your fate, some sick wishing turned to action wherein you wooed the prince and thus he would marry you.

Of all people. You.

You could retch at the thought.

You’d been raised proper, your parents teaching you well about respect, understanding who deserved it and who did not. They had also taught you that people could be born deserving respect, that it was some inherent betterness of their circumstances that, in turn, warranted curtsies and bowed heads.

Which, in your humble opinion, seemed utter tosh, but so be it. For now, you had a head on your shoulders, feasted somewhat regularly, and slept in warmth. Your clothing had not been sewn by your own hands, and your family was receiving enough coins to not worry about your wellbeing.

No matter that they probably should.

Far be it from you to look gift horses in their mouths, but you felt yourself afforded a nice level of circumspection after your back had been torn to ribbons for a mishap over which you had no control.

You didn’t want to marry the prince. You didn’t want to touch him, and you didn’t want to think about him. And, ignoring all the memories of his larger hands, his blue gaze, his golden strands, and how he may haunt you for years to come, you were quite certain you never wanted to see Prince Henry ever again.

Your back twinged in agreement.

The multitude of fluttering pinafores ahead of you slowed their swishing. Clomping clogs eased into a gentle tapping and finally stopped, and the movements were imparted upon the rest of the maids. A smaller form bumped into your back, and you flinched away, spinning and biting back a cry.

A maid a few years younger than you gaped her mouth, innocence and fear mingling in her expression as brown curls fell over her brow. She seemed so much smaller than the others, more unwitting. Your eyes fell to her hand, a clenched fist in the creases of your skirt, as it hesitatingly fell away.

More distanced shuffling disseminated down the corridor, and you watched the assorted heads of hair in front of you split and separate, clinging to either wall, leaving a wide breadth of distance for someone to pass through. Sunlight filtered between the silent shadows of maids and formed a golden glow of a path.

You followed the others and split off to one side, opposite a window, and grasped blindly for Robin’s hand when she didn’t move to follow. A gentle tug at the fabric of your backside conveyed that the other, younger maid had restored her grip.

From your position, the sun blinded you heavily, and you squinted as a yellow shine overtook everything you saw. White spots splattered your vision when you blinked, but you looked past the maids anyway, curiosity jostling its way down the two lines.

“Your Highness.”

So far ahead, you couldn’t see and only heard Miss Miriam and her staunch and clear-cut announcement. That same loyal tone, somewhat saccharine, frayed your nerves in a second.

The prince?

Curtsies flowed like a wave through the maids, and when you bent low, head bowed, Robin and the young maid followed on either side of you, just as gawky. Nobody rose, and, per Miss Miriam’s orders, nobody would rise until the royalty had passed.

But… dear God, wasn’t it an awful affair that you could tell who it was without even looking? That you could feel a quiet sizzle over the rows of women and girls alike, heard the soft, prideful gait of his finely polished boots.

Back in your village, you’d hated how slowly people could walk. How they’d force you to flounder behind them as they puttered, how they could wander one way and then the other, each footstep a guess. Like they had all the time in the world.

You never would have guessed that a fast pace could be just as troubling. Like he couldn’t stand to be in the same corridor with so many servants, Prince Henry was a brisk wind over the ruby carpets. Even so, you could feel the rise and fall of elation, soft gasps partnered with perfectly timed peeks.

He was a sight to behold—that much had been imprinted on your mind. But he couldn’t possibly be as rumpled as he’d been in the depths of the frosty library, hair thoroughly rakish, white tunic clinging to his golden skin. No; royals held a certain standard of propriety, even as they indulged in the most hedonistic of lifestyles. He must be sheathed in some proper velvet tailcoat, and his face must be severe and sharp, slicing along everything he saw.

Breathtaking in an entirely different way, you were sure.

No, you didn’t look. You couldn’t. You can’t.

Not even as his footsteps approach.

You focus your gaze on your swinging braids, watching them refuse to settle against some unknown breeze. A strain forms in your knuckles with how hard you grip your skirt, and your spine throbs with each heartbeat against the tightened back of your uniform.

Prince Henry slows.

The atmosphere tightens around your little grouping of maids, sun soaking into your black clothing so heavily you can barely breathe.  

We must be in front of a door, some corner he needs to turn to. Something.

Some disturbed pulsing blossoms in your gut when he stops just before you, black boots just inches away. Lithe fingers laden with metal rings hover in your vision.

Prince Henry’s too close all over again.

You want to cry out; you want to say nothing and everything. You want to sink into the furthest recesses of your home miles away just as much as you want to stand at the top of a hill and hold your arms out, waiting for it all.  

Your heart is racing—wild, damned little thing. An insufferable hypocrite after all the ways it had condemned him yesterday for what had happened.

Fingertips, gentle and soft as a single breath, rise and brush over your flaming cheekbone.

A tingle of pain jolts through the bruise so suddenly you flinch away, followed by an indifferent grunt that hangs in the air.

No pity in the sound. No remorse. Barely a hint of acknowledgment.

You want to cradle your cheek and press, hard, at the bridge of your nose, will those wobbling tears to stop. His hand hovers again, twitches near, and, when you lean some scant distance away, falls back to his side.

Within that same second, the boots that hadn’t even turned toward you stalk away. Still fast and proud, no more slows and stops. No more grunts.

But, without a doubt, it was Prince Henry. You’d peeked as the other maids had peeked.

You’d done all that they had done, yet you knew that single touch had doomed you.

That must have been his game. A nice bit of teasing for the maid who'd embraced him; let her be thoroughly beaten down to her station. It was some cruel recognition of what happened to you, some silent sanctioning of a proper punishment.  

Servant does a bad thing; servant gets punished by her peer.

Royal approves. No blood on his hands.

You were right, of course. That portrait was missing Prince Henry’s most vital characteristic: Wickedness.

When the maids rise from their curtsies, trembling thighs and huffed breaths, all eyes fall on you. A range of emotions bombard you before you can rub your cheek.

Wonder.

Awe.

Envy.

And—you can only assume from the thundering footsteps—Miss Miriam’s unparalleled rage.

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THAT FUCKING PLOT TWIST. COP DAICHI IS ALSO YOU'RE YANDERE?! WELL SSHIIIITTTTTT THEM HANDCUFFS ARE ABOUT TO BE PUT TO USEEEEEEEEEEEE

RIGHT?? LIKE GODDAMN🥵 there needs to be more yandere of those two w one darling istg

Side note: don’t be surprised if you catch me thirstin’ on daichi/suga x readers bro. Those two plus yn = the unholy trilogy of fuck me up, daddy

Star Wars Masterlist

☔ = Angst

🌦️ = Angst to Fluff

💥 = Crack

☀️ = Fluff

💋 = Smut

🖤 = Yandere

🔔 = Request

🟪Imagines🟪

Anakin Skywalker:

■  Drunk Confession (slight 🌦️)

A very drunk Anakin has some very sober thoughts for you to hear.

Kylo Ren:

■ His Mask (Soulmate AU) 🌦️

After your very first mission for the Resistance goes awry, you can’t help but feel a connection to the Supreme Leader sent to interrogate you. However, when he lets you go after reading the name on your wrist, you can’t help but feel like the mission hadn’t accidentally gone so wrong after all.

■  Who Dunnit 💥 (slight 💋)

Someone left their panties in the control room after what must have been a night of fun and Hux is determined to find out who.