#That frame where his shadow is frowning is so cool

[edgy-senju]

Can't hide what's underneath that smile now.

[Commissions are open!]

[sincerelyverena]

the oliver fic section of tumblr is SOOOOO dry rn so I'm wondering if you could write about how you've been friends with ollie since oxford and got invited to stay the summer with felix. then while playing spin the bottle you and him have something? IDK IM JUST RAMBLING BUT YEAH

i enjoyed writing this so so so much. i diiiid take this in a way different direction than i anticipated, but i hope you enjoy this nevertheless. thank u dearly for ur rambles! mwah! 🤍

⟡⁺ SEVEN MINUTES IN HELL

. . . OLIVER QUICK X FEM!READER ‘testosterone boys and harlequin girls.’ @ajs-222 @michael-loves-chickens @surazim @soocore @fedyascoffin

inbox is always open to requests!

in whichꕀ

✦ ﹒hate has no bounds. except when you're stuck in a wardrobe with oliver quick.

tagsꕀ

✦ ﹒implied sex ﹐fade to black smut ﹐enemies with benefits ﹐dom!oliver ﹐spoiled!reader ﹐reader would’ve probs bullied you in high school ﹐oliverrr you little stalkerrr ﹐felix and reader have a sister-brother connection ﹐ oliver brat tamer arc ﹐farleigh has naturally sharpened canines beware ﹐reader is a homie hopper ﹐YES OLIVERR USE YOUR HANDS ﹐DRUNK N HORNY, DRUNK N HORNYYY ﹐smack my ass like the drum slurp the dick til it cum ﹐forced proximity ﹐degradation ﹐phat exposition beware ﹐the plot is absolutely plotting ﹐implied incest between minor characters

THANK YOU TO MY WONDERFUL BETA READERS: @sparklehani ﹐@vikwrites

You pushed the frame of your sunglasses upward with the pad of your thumb. The accessory nestled into the top of your hair, positioning yourself to soak up the grandeur of old money that ascended far beyond where the naked eye could see.

Saltburn. A spectacle passed down by word of mouth.

The double ebony archways are considered to be a set of doors shifted in position. Presented to you, the skyscraper-remnant entrance is extended with a gradual creak of effort. Revealing the beauty of the estate’s foyer in the process. 

“Miss Esmeray.” 

You were too absorbed in the elegance etched into every breath that was drawn in the manor alone to notice the suited male positioned behind the doorways. Declan, was it? You weren’t too opposed to not giving a singular shit about the name of a mere, working butler. 

To outsiders, those morals would’ve been doubted in the fashion in which you approached the estate’s employee. 

You inclined forward. The painted maroon of your lips puckered as you scattered lightweight kisses upon either side of the loose, wrinkled surface of the butler’s cheeks. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last, Declan.”

He didn’t seem particularly phased – on the surface at least – apart from the cool hardening of his formerly strained eyes. 

“It’s Duncan.”

You stifled the urge to laugh.

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?” You leaned backward with a hushed hue of voice and a poised frown. A frown that didn’t last long as you slipped by with an isolated thrum of your heels along the blemishless, maintained floors. 

The porters that had withheld your luggage followed suit, grasping the attention of Duncan. He continued to clasp his hands behind his back, surveying the situation with a stare that would put a hawk to shame.

“Leave the luggage there. The estate butlers will see to it.” The note of exasperation that tainted Duncan’s articulation caused your personal porters to arrange the stacks of luggage onto the flooring without missing a beat.

The bound of employees hit the open doorways, leaving you to bask in a well-deserved solitude. Or so you had thought.

The hue of your flickery eyes had fixated immensely upon the silhouette which overlooked the foyer. An individual that leaned along the fencing of the plank-relied stairway, slinked in the comfort of the shadows. Even in the limelight of darkness, you could scrutinize the sight of a chiseled jaw and the irises of dusked aquamarine. 

Oliver Quick. Bile slicked the crevices of your throat. That slimy, freakish companion of one of your closest friends from Oxford. The sole reason you were invited to the estate in the first place.

And that sole reason broke out into the foyer before you could’ve mustered a word.

“[Y/N]!”

Felix Catton. Gorgeous, radiant Felix Catton came bounding toward you. Arms sprawled wide open, and a grin of nothing more but graciousness broke across his lips. Devoid of awaiting a response, Felix tossed the base of his arms around your shoulders. The toned muscle propped behind the sleight of your neck, burying himself into you in the process.

“Hi, Fi.” You mumbled around the top of his broadened shoulder, basking in the familiarity of his scent and aura. The tension that had made itself known in the base of your abdomen uncoiled, just the slightest.

You had inclined backward momentarily. The palms of your hands propped themselves upon the sleight of Felix’s jaw. You surveyed Felix closely and blew out a sharp breath. “Felix, you’re looking thinner. What have they been feeding you here?”

“The summer fucks up my appetite, you know that,” Felix grumbled pointedly.

“That’s not an excuse, Fi.” Your forefinger pinched the practically non-existent fat lining his cheeks, reeling a small grimace from the male.

The dense thrums of rhythmic footsteps spliced unnervingly through the moment. You tore the unyielding hue of your stare from Felix toward Oliver, who positioned himself solidly against the foot of the stairway. 

“Ollie!” Felix unraveled his arms away from you, in turn, to acknowledge his self-titled best friend. The male was peacefully oblivious to the glowering irritation that etched itself into your gaze. “You remember [Y/N], yeah?”

“How could I forget?” Oliver quipped the mere intensity of his gaze maintained upon you. You felt as if he was staring right through you, aware of every crook, crevice, and secret of your being. Deep speckles of disgust were blanketed behind hues of feigned interest.

As the moment drew on, he extended a hand. You harshly glared into it. Whilst the remainder of the inner circle Felix had established in Oxford grew to warm up to Oliver’s meek, somewhat awkward presence. You loathed it. 

“Mum has been dying to see you all day, [Y/N].” The strained hues of Felix’s voice tore into the steadily growing silence. His lips curved upward into a thin smile. Felix could virtually feel the tension tighten between his two companions.

“She’s in the morning room.”

You pecked him on the cheek on your way out. “Thanks, Fi.”

Felix’s words of prominence held a generous truth. Lady Elspeth Catton pushed the teacup amid her hands aside the second her eyes had met the radiance of your presence. You mustered a small smile at the sight of the woman you had known for the year prior.

“Oh, darling. It’s been too long.”

The all-too-familiar scent of high-end designer perfumes assaulted your nostrils as Elspeth brought you into a momentarily embrace. You had come to terms with the preceding summer that she had grown to be more of a maternal figure than your mother ever would be. Even if you were inclined to remove your nose ring and settled for a less dramatic false lash to soothe her fear of what she deemed to be ugly.

In those logistics, you had no idea why she hadn’t thrown Oliver out the second she met his acquaintance.

“Come, come, come. Sit down, I’ll whisk up some tea for you…”

“Hot chocolate.” You had a hard time grappling with the concept of politeness.

“Oh, of course! How would I forget?”

As Elspeth handled the hot chocolate-bearing teapot, you were prompted to discuss the prior school year. Conversations flowed from academics to the selection of boys and girls alike who had the misfortune of encountering your diva-like logistics. 

Elspeth indulged in her tea. “Did Felix mention the festivities we’re having tonight?”

You propped a spoonful of whipped cream atop the chocolate goodness, a frown painting your lips. “Not at all. What festivities?”

“One of the annual dinners with the Catton’s family friends is proceeding tonight,” Elspeth explained, tone somewhat bored with the lack of any mentions of gossip present in this crevice of the conversation. The flimsy painted surface of her nail tapped away at her teacup.

“Please tell me it's the Lockwoods.”

“Who else would it be, darling?”

“Thank Christ.”

As Elspeth continued to chatter onward about the newest scandal she observed with the Lockwoods, you pertained to drifting off in thought. Concerning the night ahead. And the dread that followed with the idea of socialization with a bunch of stuck-up acquaintances alike yourself.

And Oliver Quick.

You rolled the base of your fingers around the rounded cigarette Felix had outstretched. Flimsy smoke curled outward from the plumpness of his lips, drifting upward toward the coiling stairs above your heads.

You circulated your lips around the rim of the drug stick, angling your hand backward as you took a hit – brimming with a  buzz of pleasure. The cigarette slipped back into Felix’s hand, which inclined away to pass it toward Oliver. Whom you hadn’t even bothered to glance toward once during the entirety of the night.

The remains of the others flocked behind, the light hue of conversation prominent in the air. The three others you’ve befriended – Wiona, Lincoln, and Valencia – had befriended the Catton children in their younger years. At the annual dinner that commenced the year prior, you discovered that they had developed an annual tradition for Spin the Bottle.

The sole reason why the group of eight traversed up the spiraling stairway in the first place, bottles of alcohol propped in hand.

A prominent part of you wordlessly hoped that the alcohol would loosen you up a tad. Alas, with the sensation of Oliver’s eyes bored into the back of your head. You were bound to feel a tad paranoid. Especially when you weren’t oblivious to how every movement you made was tracked. 

The minuscule smirk when the base of your nail had chipped. The glimmer of distaste when you looked up and down the outfits of the current houseguests. The burn of eyes when you laughed a tad too loudly. The indescribable emotion that blared throughout Oliver’s surveying gaze as you stared into him. An attempt of intimidation that was never accomplished.

The solid front of the bathroom’s tiles was undeniably cool, in contrast to the thin garment that shielded the top of your thighs.

You proceeded to tuck yourself across the minuscule opening between Farleigh and a most currently amused Felix. The glass-spun bottle of the night lay vulnerable in the grip of his broadened fingers.

“Care to make a bet on this year’s game?”

A short laugh stirred itself from the crevice of your throat. You inclined your head over the brink of your shoulder, scrutinizing gaze propped upon the curly-haired male sat inches away. Farleigh’s eyes crinkled with the intensity of his curved lips, tongue tracing the rim of his canines. 

You suddenly grew aware of the sheer amount of certain plastic bags you had smuggled down your bra upon arrival. Ziplock bundles of goodness Farleigh would surely die for. A sentiment visible from the mere spark of interest blanketed behind his eyes.

“You seriously think I’ll say no to a good gamble?”

With a tinge of casualty, Farleigh swung a singular arm over the bridge of your shoulders. His voice grew hushed, but the intention of his words burnt into the crevice of your ear. “One of those pretty bags of yours if it lands on Valencia and Lincoln.”

“They’re siblings, munchkin.” The force of your articulation twisted with a prominent combination of distaste and fluid judgment.

“So what?”

For someone who always had something to say, you hadn’t been rendered this speechless in a long, long time. Alas, Farleigh wasn’t the only soul that expressed his amusement with the fact.

Oliver stared right into you. Twisted amusement circulated within his gaze.

Felix proceeded to illustrate a spectacle of himself, the glass-rimmed bottle set down on the tiled ground before him. Dramatics and flairs. Nothing out of the ordinary for your beloved Fi, who expressed the rules and regulations of the game as if his company hadn’t played for the years prior. 

This excluded a scrutinizing Oliver. A prominent smirk threatened to overcome your lips at the sight of his cockiness. His prior attitude slipped away at the news of having to potentially be stuffed in one of the Catton’s family closets for several minutes – with his luck – accompanied by a total stranger.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t wait to begin.

Felix offered a riveting motion with his hand. The echo of uproar, paired with the creak of the bottle against the tiles bounced off of the thinly-veiled walls as he gave it a fluid spin.

The uproar crescendoed into a screeching halt as the pitcher shook into a steadied pace. Its glimmering tip angled precisely toward a noriette-haired girl, who was in the midst of pertaining her slight nose toward the strip of snow-white goodness laid out on the back of her hand. 

“Wiona!”

“You better hope and pray, darling.”

“Leave your drink with me, Wynn!”

Felix stuffled the broadened nature of his fingers into his mouth. He offered a low whistle toward Wiona, whose smirk was shielded by her bob-length curls.

He inclined toward the glass-rimmed bottle once more. “Right, whose the lucky boy… or girl? We don’ discriminate here…”

Murmurs of agreement followed the winding silence of the spinning contraption. Accompanied by short-circuited laughs, and gambled musterings. Overtaken by shrill yells as the crown cork inclined precisely toward Farleigh, whose curves were still draped over you. 

“Leigh, that’s you.” Felix had confirmed, to the delight of those inclined around the circle. His eyes crinkled, appropriate to the intensity of the sparkling grin that graced his otherworldly face. “The blue room awaits you lovebirds…”

The jangling of cash and the slip of dope occurred.

The game continued as such. And with gradual time, all participants grew intoxicated by the minute with the presence of booze and crack. Two of your tit-coke bags have been ripped out of your disposal with the force of the circle’s gambles, gaining triple the amount in the process. Especially when Lincoln and Valencia slipped into the next room.

You found yourself with the curve of your head lolling atop the pad of Felix’s shoulder. An endearing warmth buzzed throughout you, rooted in the alcohol burning the crevice of your throat.

One of Felix’s broadened palms settled upon the hitch of your scalp. The other claws at the scarcely dented bottle once more, sending it into a tile-searing spin.

Commotion peaked within the room as the pitcher sloped toward Oliver.

Shadowiness engulfed your vision as the wardrobe doors closed in. Bathing in the darkness of mere loathing for two factors in this twisted, twisted equation. For the bottle. And for Oliver Quick, who had never been closer to you than in this moment. Bile rose in your throat for the second time that day.

It was just your luck that the bottle inclined towards you at that moment.

“That’s ironic.”

A slither of outside illumination managed to crack into the wardrobe, lining the crevice of Oliver’s azure hues. Speckled with what was perceived as faint amusement, tightening the knot of tension present in the atmosphere.

The sleight of your back strained as you stumbled toward the clanky side of the closet, desperate to discover an escape. To no avail. The faint ghost of a scoff reverberated from the hollow of your throat. “What’s ironic, huh?”

For some reason. For whatever reason at all, Oliver inclined toward you. The slightest indeed, but it managed to send your heart hammering between your ears. Nothing more but pure loathing pulsated throughout you with the sudden proximity. It was the alcohol. Booze does funny things to the mind, right?

Olivcr’s alcohol-tinged breath mists upon your lips. His words slurred somewhat. “For som’one that gets everythin’ she wants, you seem pretty… helpless right now.” “Anyone that finds themself in a closet with you would be.”

“I’m jus’ sayin', it’s pretty pathetic.”

A gradual grin seeped onto Oliver’s face at the undeniable loathing that flared within the depths of your eyes. You looked as if you were a tick away from murdering him with your bare hands, and it brought him nothing but pure amusement.

“Pathetic…” The word dripped off of your lips with slow, taunting articulation. A twisted of taunted tipsiness. With the fiery force of each syllable, you leaned forward and clasped a sloppy hand toward the center of Oliver’s chest, an attempt to shove him further away. 

“Pathetic?”

You had made your intentions very clear to extend the distance between you and the male. To your luck, you had found yourself even closer.

Oliver didn’t appear phased, gaze carving holes into you. “You think the complete world of yourself, I’d say that’s pretty pathetic.”

Your stare narrowed down further. Silence draped over you momentarily with the intention of cold-shouldering Oliver until the seven minutes eventually ticked by. You adverted your eyes, purposefully scrutinizing the slight gap between the worn closet doors. The illumination blurred amid your intoxication.

 “Look at me.”

A roughened palm tore you back toward reality. Accompanied by a thread of fingers that pressed into the curve of your cheeks. Your once inclined head had surrendered into Oliver’s grasp, involuntarily meeting his gaze.

“Whoa… he’s finally thinkin’ for himself for once.” You spat out around the mere brute of his hands. Even though they radiated a certain chill only Oliver could possess, a prominent warmth glowed in every patch of skin he had clutched onto.

“Instead of bein’ Fi’s little hound…”

Oliver’s grappling hand seemed to tense with every batter of your words. “Shut your bloody mouth before I do it for you.”

“Wooow… so scary–”

You barely possessed the will to blow out another sharp breath before Oliver’s lips were interlocked with your own. The breath you had been holding hitched upright into your throat. Your chest constricted. In replacement of the disgust you preempted, velvety warmth pulsated throughout your entire being with a singular brush of the male’s mouth along yours.

With the fashion in which Oliver devoured your lips, you wondered if he wished to eat you alive.

You blamed it completely on the booze and the crack.

He was the first to pull back from the embrace, hands still tucked immensely around your jaw. A glow of succession is prominent in Oliver’s aquamarine stare, a glow that brought forth a sleight of irritation to overcome you.

“I believe you liked that.” 

“Your ego is as big as your head, Oliver.”

He inclined his head, a smile wandering upon his lips. “That wasn’t a denial, now.”

The palm that cradled the sleight of your jaw loosened the slightest. It moved toward the back of your neck, utilizing the position to guide you toward him further. His lips. So close. Nearing with time. The curve of your abdomen burned with a newfound desire, christening your inner walls with its molten warm goodness.

But you couldn’t care. You just couldn’t. 

“You’re completely… fuckin’ mad.”

The seven minutes must be up now, wouldn’t it? Your ears strained themselves through the momentary silence as you processed tidbits of laughter from the next room over.

You reminded yourself to beat the everliving Christ out of Felix Catton the next morning.

The palm still collared around your neck dug downward into the base of your shoulders. In the same leering motion, the edge of a heel curved into the density of your legs. Before you can even process the situation, the rock-hard surface of the wardrobe is felt underneath your suddenly aching knees.

“Now, now…”

You inclined your head upward. The twisted hues of Oliver Quick bored down upon you, like wood to an already brewing fire engulfing the inner workings of your womanhood. The hollow of your throat bobbled as you gave a dense swallow.

An even denser zip of Oliver’s dress pants sounded throughout the wardrobe.

“How about I teach you a lesson on how a brat should behave?”

WORD COUNT: 3K MASTERLIST REQ ME!

[bloodiedrogue]

GO SLOW (12)

SUMMARY: Astarion figures out some hard truths. Also some easy ones.

PAIRING: Astarion & Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 3,665

WARNINGS: Spoilers for Act 2, depictions of a panic attack, brief mentions of past (sexual) abuse.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: SURPRISE SHAWTY!! Because I was home sick all day and now I'm apparently busy the rest of the week you get the chapter now! Hopefully you like it. :')

CHAPTER LIST / MASTERLIST / NEXT CHAPTER

-

You’re meant to be focused on the relic —on its discovery and retrieval and potential handoff depending on the item in question. As you walk across the cobblestone, tightly gripping the moonlit lantern, you’re well aware that you more than likely look a bit distracted. Lost in a world of your own as you glance around, knowing you should concentrate instead of allowing your head to fill with thoughts of him.

Embarrassingly though, you can’t help it. Not now, when Astarion’s practically glued to your side, brushing his arm against yours with every step. It’s distracting, to say the least. Creating a mess of thoughts within your mind. Shifting in and out of reality, you find it increasingly difficult to pretend you’re anything but elated over your previous private conversation. 

As you continue your journey, feeling the coolness of his hand haphazardly make contact with your own, your heart swells twice its original size at the mere memory. How his voice, so simple and sweet, told you he loved you. Even now, hours later, you can hear it clear as day, echoing through the cavern of your skull. Taking its hold with each passing moment; enveloping you in a warmth like any other, laying a heated waste to every thought that may try to penetrate.

If you’re honest, it makes you feel a bit guilty knowing that the rest of the group is most likely feeling more anxious than anything else. Resembling a cluster of bundled nerves, trudging through the darkness, wondering what might be next, it’s as if you’re the only one struggling with something else. 

Fully looking at Astarion, you can see the attentive scowl that rests across his face to prove this. The ever so slightly upturned nose, wrinkling in disgust at the rotting trees that line your vision. The angrily knitted brow that pushes together, revealing a lack of enjoyment as the shadows dance around the lantern. Even the frown that graces his lips appears almost too engrossed with the task at hand, making you realize that, despite your shared feelings, he’s more present than you are. 

Upon realizing this, you force yourself away. Taking a half-step from his frame, you shake all thoughts of him, replacing them with whatever observation you find in front of you. Like the sound of a crow echoing through the air or the heavy wisps of wind that hit your ears a little too hard or the looming figure leaning on a nearby epitaph—

All of you stop in your tracks, watching as it emerges from the fog to reveal a smug looking Raphael sauntering towards you. 

Greeting you with interest, despite the obvious lack of trust for one another, his eyes scan the line of your bodies, lingering on each for a moment before ultimately falling to you, smirking. “Through the dark he went creeping and awoke what was sleeping…”

His voice makes you shiver as he begins to recite some sort of riddle, reminding you of your previous conversation. The one where he threateningly spoke of his aid being the only way to release you from the tadpole's grasp. Assuring that with time you’d seek him out again despite all of you agreeing otherwise. 

Even though the context of the conversation seems completely different, you assume it’s the same reason he’s here now, standing before you, rambling on about some terrifying creature through obnoxious prose. More than likely, he’s here to offer you yet another deal —another contract you know will only end in further misery if you so choose to agree to it. 

It’s all devils like him seem to do.

“Strange way to warn us about something,” you comment when he’s finished, raising your brow as he chuckles under his breath. 

“Well, you know, I’ve grown quite fond of you —in my own way.”

To your right, Karlach groans. “Is there an actual point to this fucking riddle or is this another opening to one of your shitty dealings?”

In response, Raphael tuts in her direction, subtly shaking his head as the grin across his lips only grows. “Such poor manners, tiefling. You’d think Zariel would’ve taught you better.”

Immediately, Karlach takes a step forward, her jaw clenching just as you and Gale hold her back, both of you staring with pleading eyes for her to calm down. 

“And here I thought after all this time apart you might miss me.” Regardless of the obvious threat, he flashes all of you a fake frown, pouting his lips for a moment before changing the mood with another laugh. “No matter. I’m merely here to warn you of the dangers ahead.”

“Dangers?” 

This time it’s Shadowheart who speaks, her tone quiet —cautious in the way that Karlach’s fails to be, causing Raphael to nod before going into some long-winded tale of a darkened stage with tired actors. Ones that, if awakened, will cause a great calamity. 

Or, so he says. With Raphael, it’s hard to trust what’s being embellished and what’s not with the way he speaks, moving his hands through the air while he rhymes. Sure, there’s a bit of eloquence to the whole thing —an air of intrigue to his tales but ultimately, it only makes you and the others frustrated. Skeptical. A lack of trust rising through the air as he continues, pivoting the conversation to a lurking shadow. 

Apparently, it’s of Infernal descent, something that piques both you and Astarion’s interest, sharing a look. As Raphael speaks, telling you to kill the creature before it can be released upon the rest of the world, your tadpole vies for your attention. Squirming violently, it makes you cringe with discomfort, trying your best not to let it show as you allow the call to enter your mind. 

We should ask him about the scars.

For a moment you disagree. With Raphael being a devil and all, it’s almost certain that if you ask him a question he’ll only offer a bargain in return. Something big and shiny but worth hardly anything in the long run. But then you remember the timing. The lack of minutes and hours and days you may have left. Already you’re running on borrowed time and you can tell that Astarion’s desperate. Struggling to come to terms with the fact that at the end of all this, he might not get the ending you both believe he deserves. 

Because of this, instead of denying you merely nod your head, making quick eye contact just as Raphael finishes his tale, using the short moment of silence to pivot the conversation. 

“Now, enough about all that,” he says, waving his hand in the air. “Let’s talk about you. I sense there’s something you want to ask me.” 

When his gaze hits Astarion’s face it’s as if the whole party turns defensive. Narrowing their eyes, their bodies instinctively lean towards Astarion, making sure it’s known that any sort of threat will not go unnoticed.

It makes Astarion puff up triumphantly as he clears his throat, glancing back at all of you with hidden thanks before returning his attention to Raphael. “I do. I have a proposal for you.”

“A proposal?” 

“Yes.” 

Chuckling darkly, you see Raphael shift. “If this has anything to do with you wanting to taste my blood, I can assure you vampling it’s hardly worth it.”

As you roll your eyes, Astarion scoffs. “This is serious, devil,” he retorts, a rather crisp bite to his tone despite who he’s talking to. “I have this scar —this eyesore of a creation carved rather deeply into my back. Someone wrote it all in Infernal and considering I’m neither devil nor demon I obviously can’t read the damned thing.” 

Instead of responding, all Raphael does is hum. Low and slow, he takes his time mulling over Astarion’s words, stroking his chin most likely for dramatics as he paces the path, making you frown. 

“Can you help him or not, Raphael?”

When you speak, he looks at you with offence. As if interrupting his thought process is a fate worse than death, prompting you to swallow in regret, trying not to look scared. Even though that’s exactly what you are. 

Considering you don’t trust him in the slightest, watching Astarion so easily ask for this devil’s aid makes you anything but calm. In your mind, you can feel the anxiety brewing like a storm. Threatening to strike you down at a moment’s notice as this hellish creature disguised as nothing more than just a man, scolds you for your lack of patience. 

“It’s something very important to your master,” he then says, smirking at Astarion —pulling him in with tempting words and more theatrics. “But what is it? A love letter perhaps? A warning of your impending room? A contract of ownership maybe?”

Every example he lists off makes you more and more uncomfortable, your stomach churning at the prospect of Astarion’s scars meaning anything at all. 

“I could give you all the gory details. For a price, of course.” 

As expected, Astarion sighs and looks towards you, searching your face for signs of reluctance only to find support. 

“And what’s your price?” 

Without hesitation, he tells you he wants the aforementioned creature dead. Slain on sight so that he no longer has to think about it. To which Astarion looks at him a bit confused, wondering how such a simple task could be deemed worth its weight in information. Especially when taking into account all the slaying you’ve all done already.

“Really? That’s your price?” 

Raphael nods —humming again but this time in acknowledgement. “You slay the best and I tell you all about those beautifully crafted etchings. Sound good?”

It doesn’t. Not in the slightest. But regardless Astarion merely nods, prompting Raphael to finish his end of the conversation, telling you he’ll be in touch before evaporating into a thick fog of smoke.

As soon as he’s gone you can feel the breath returning to your chest. All the past anxieties slipping into something a bit more manageable as you reach for Astarion’s arm, earning yourself a look of frustration that everyone else opts to ignore. 

“You okay?”

You see him swallow as he looks away, turning his attention to the entrance of the mausoleum you now find yourselves in front of. “I’m fine.” 

“Yes, but are you okay?”

It’s obvious then he doesn’t know how to answer. Now that he’s one step closer to finding out the truth of this thing that’s haunted him for so long, you can tell he’s nervous. Apprehensive in a way that has him debating whether or not he truly wants to know. You can see it plainly in his eyes —the way they dart around in circles, searching for something neither of you has the answers to. 

Sensing this, the rest of the party moves ahead silently, glancing at you from afar as they stop at the run-down building’s entrance, allowing you a moment to yourselves. 

“It’s a lot to take in,” you remind him then, squeezing his arm. 

Beneath your touch he tenses, signalling you to pull away as quickly as you can, fearing he may not like it. 

“There’s always something in the way, isn’t there?” he grumbles, gritting his teeth in frustration. 

Sighing, you nod your head. “Unfortunately.” 

“I mean, honestly, you’d think for once the universe would allow me a moment of goddamn peace but no, I have to work for it —to become a slave and do the bidding of someone else yet again!”

His frustrations are rational. Justifiable even, when you take into account all that he’s suffered. After everything, he deserves to be thrown some kind of bone. Even one as little as this, and more than anything you wish you could do that for him. 

Instead of merely supporting him on yet another perilous journey to earn the bare minimum you wish you could give him everything. The key to his past —the gift of his future. If you could, anything and everything under the sun would be plucked from its rightful place and put into his open hand without a second thought. You’d will the stars to fall without warning if he wanted them. Lasso the moon and drag it down just so he could see it clearer each night. Hell, you’d even rip the sky itself down if it meant you could prove to him just how much he deserves.

Unfortunately, though, you’re not nearly powerful enough to do anything like that, so instead you merely set the lantern down on the ground and offer your hand. Palm up into the air, you shove it between you with a sombre smile, watching Astarion glance between it and your face, inevitably taking it. 

“I don’t need your pity, you know.” 

“It’s not pity.”

“Fine, your sympathies then.” 

“Alright.”

A part of you knows he’s being stubborn just to guard himself. A tactic he often uses so that his vulnerabilities may remain hidden. It’s something you’re often guilty of yourself —avoiding conflicts in the form of jokes or comments said only to distract. 

Unfortunately, because of this, it means that you can see right through him. As you move your other hand to flip over his, trailing patterns across the lines of his palm, you can feel the fear that strikes his heart. The thoughts inside his head pulsating with all the potentials of where this newfound information can lead you.  

Neither of you know, but it’s apparent then that regardless of what it is, it easily has the ability to change the trajectory of everything. Depending on the severity, the more unwilling you know Astarion will be to continue with the group. If it’s dire, more than likely, he’ll try to venture off on his own to solve the issue. Especially if it results in enacting some form of revenge. 

Because despite his growing fondness for the group you find yourselves in, he’s still Astarion at his core. And you know that means there’s an inherent selfishness that sits dormant, waiting for the right moment to abandon the world to get what he wants.

You don’t blame him for it. Not after everything he’s been through. Not after countless years of seduction and starvation and a solitude meant only for the dead. At the bare minimum, he deserves the chance to erase all of that in the form of raw revenge. Whether it’s through betrayal or murder or whatever may linger in between. 

Regardless of all that, he deserves closure. Even in its impurest form, he’s earned the right to do whatever the fuck he wants because it’s his choice. His decision. If he wants to leave —to abandon the party for greater things, so be it. You won’t stop him. However, you will offer him your hand.

“I’m with you. Whatever happens.”

As you speak, you continue to stroke his hand, repeating the routes of your index finger over and over again until you can feel him relax in your palm. Until you know that the frustrations that he feels are pushing themselves to the back of his mind, making way for your presence. 

“It’s rather foolish of you, you know.”

You raise your brow at him. 

“To fall for a vampire. To promise him things you may not be able to fulfill.” 

Despite knowing he’s right you merely smile and look back down at his hand. “I never claimed to be smart, did I?”

“No, I suppose not.” 

You move your thumb across his palm, gripping it gently with your other hand as you pull it up to your face. “I’m pretty good with a sword though,” you offer, kissing the centre, feeling it curl around your chin, his own thumb trail past your cheek. 

“I know, I’ve seen you.” 

“So you’re aware of my talents.”

He snorts and leans in without another word, capturing your lips in a soft kiss that has you humming against him until suddenly it’s over far quicker than you’d like. 

“You know, the plan was never to have this happen.” 

His hand remains firmly on your chin. Thumbing your bottom lip it pushes it down to reveal your teeth before springing back up when he moves his digit elsewhere.  

“Have what happen?”

“This,” he says. “Us. We —I was meant to merely seduce you. Manipulate you into trusting me so that you’d never turn on me.” 

There’s an awkward pause that quickly fills with nervous laughter. Ripping through his throat, it’s there and gone before you can even react to it, making you swallow hard as he continues his confession, telling you how easy it was supposed to be. How instinctive it felt to flirt with the idea of you while you fully fell for his charms. 

“All you had to do was fall for it. And all I had to do was not fall for you,” he tells you, earnestly —looking at you with eyes so heavily filled with guilt that, as he confesses further, all you can do is stand there, panicking. Praying to whatever Gods may hear you that at the end of this, he doesn’t retract all the words he previously said just to spare you from helping him accomplish the impossible. 

“I swear if you—“

“That’s where my plan fell apart, you know,” he cuts you off, leaning in to press his forehead against yours. “When I realized how incredible you are. How caring and funny and—and smart you are. I didn’t stand a chance. Not with the way you take the time to listen. Or the way you defend my honour even though I never ask. Or how you have the ability to make me smile when all I want to do is scream.”

All you can feel is the breath of his words hitting your face. The sensation of air pluming across your skin, forcing you to blink and breathe and carry on as silently as possible. 

“You deserve to have the kind of love you selflessly offer me every day.”

Slowly, his hands move to cup either side of your face, pulling you further in despite how close you already are. 

“I want to give you that —to give you something real. But I’ll be honest, I don’t know how to do that.”

There’s a part of you that feels like you’re shattering then, hearing those last few words, unaware of the implication. Considering it’s such an open statement, as you remain still beneath his touch, trying to explore his face for clues, the only thing you can think of is the worst. How instead of loving you, he’ll leave and die by Cazador’s hand. How as a result you’ll be one member short and fall to the Absolute. How everything will have been for nothing. 

Breathing hard, you assume his next few words will be the worst words you’ll ever hear, so when he eventually opens his mouth, preparing to speak further, you can’t help but close your eyes. 

“Being close to someone —experiencing intimacy— it’s something I did to lure people in for him, so it’s tainted in a way. Still brings up those feelings of disgust and loathing, despite what we have being different,” he confesses, forcing your eyes to reopen and see the almost wild look in his eyes. 

“I don’t know how to be with someone else. How to offer them what they need —how to let them in the way I know I should. No matter how hard I try.”

At that point, it feels like he’s searching for answers. Begging for you to tell him what to do next —knowing it’s all he’s ever known. 

Because of this, all you do is offer him a smile, reaching up to grab his face back, tentatively feeling the skin through the nerves that shake beneath the pads of your fingers. “So, what happens next?”

“Next?”

You nod, watching his expression change, telling you he doesn’t quite understand the question as he blinks back tears, glancing away while clearing his throat. 

“I, uh, I suppose I don’t know. It’s been so long since I’ve had to decide what I wanted.”

“That’s okay.” 

He opens his mouth to respond but all that comes out is a soft crackling of sound, signalling even more uncertainty until he’s pulling away and avoiding your gaze, panicking at the prospect of having to choose. A newfound agitation flowing throughout his features as you attempt to call him back in, whispering his name like a prayer.

At first, he’s completely hostile, pushing air rapidly through his nose as his eyes flicker through the trees. At one point he wobbles from side to side, shifting the weight of his feet so carelessly that you move your hands in front of you, waiting for him to drop. 

Thankfully, he doesn’t though. Instead, all he does is ride the hysteria of his emotions, eventually looking to you for the kind of guidance you’re more than willing to give him. 

Once again taking his hands —cautiously this time— you etch those same patterns into his hand, using your thumb to trace every line you see, telling him he’s okay. That you’re here and he’s safe and that you love him, despite everything. 

Barely above a whisper, you tell him that his feelings are valid. That he’s allowed to take the time to process. That admitting that he loves you doesn’t mean there has to be this automatic shift into something new.

“We can just love each other,” you tell him, smiling. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want. We can take it slow.” 

That seems to calm him down enough for him to nod his head and reciprocate the contact of your hands with a short squeeze. Both of which make your heart swell in a sort of sad understanding as you silently offer him a hug, feeling him roughly wrap around you as he tells you he loves you again. 

-

@poohxlove @gaiasmight @sassy-stupid @novarex @v-gremlin @sapphiccloud @lipstickghoulie @kuroitsukyo@jjfchk@idiotsatan@bluestuesday@bloopthebat@art-by-greenie@heneralmoon@sukunababe@dreamingaboutyousworld@ranfithegood@haniscrying@liadamerondjarin@the-lake-is-calling@marina-and-the-memes@rookieoftheyear@zraloci-cpr@kaetmo@snickerdoodle-daydream@wowowwild@d1anna@raswiet@conniesbbymama@venus-wrts@demonicthorns@kihten@deadglamsheep@sanscas@spammypasta@leighsartworks216@rose-gold-blue@p1ssmagg0t@hellish-writes@ghostinvenus@otayz@sexysquatch@sleepyeclair@colorful-anxieties@alina-exe@ilana-the-lasagna@lillifer@girlwiththepapatattoo@y2cade@acelin-ginsberg@pinkuranium@catrad0rable@scarletrosesposts@qwnamidala@itsrosebabe@bunnyperi@queenofcarrotflowers-s@tatumadams20@spkyxszn@chlort@f3v3rs@awkwardwookie@joy-the-reader@warm-milk-with-honey-blog@vertigocrime@iyis@wildpiper@pebblethestone@tillywasneverhere@bex-03@kaetmo@revemiya@staticspouse@itzagothamcitysiren@djarinsmixtape@when-the-night-came@epicy0n@bababahannah@sleepyred1703@lotus-99@lofcompass@r4d10h34d5@vampninjaz@itsmekalou@offbrandhand@yikes-buddy@konenichi@rainonarden@oceanbluesixeyes@bodtyworship@maydayitsjay@greasyslimebucket@yeeteth-the-raven@fantasyfairysworld@allexthakatt@flowersaretheshit@morglyne@thespectacularspaceace@cephiss0@use-your-telescope@furblrwurblr@kloverfield@angelofthorr@writervaul-t@starved-kitten@minixluvr@crowley--aziraphale@sapphicwren@alionera-blog@jennithejester@dezedrol@thisisew@saladalpaca@applepiewithbacon@httpbiohazard@aurasyn@nerdoodles@kingpinthedevil@itzkawaiix@domainoflostsouls@silverskylan@uminootome@helpidkwhatimdoingwrong@deadlyinfernos@blackbirdswhispers@sarahskywalker-amadala@writingmysanity@f3v3rs@jayjones03@quietlyebbie@optimisticprime3@eyes-for-daze@sunnytalia3@megoshh@maddiedott@cappsikle@mostbeautifulnightmare@lynnlovesloki@simpytheshrimpy69@astarion-archive@smaranshakthi@autistic-deer@shadowfeart@freckled-petals@candied-lavender@hp-art-studio@ghouligan@satelliteapotheosis@waywardwitch-hel@pandimoostuff@mythoughtsofinsanity@ilovelovelylove@oneandonlyizabelle

TAGLIST NOW CLOSED!

[trinketstealingzombie]

Following up on my last post :) Let me know if you want a part 2!

Of course you noticed when Stanford started acting strange. Even after only knowing him for a few months you notice the variations in his usual behaviour. Being two of the only sane people in gravity falls, you and Stan often met up for some much needed social interaction in between lengths of research. Being the good friend that you are you decided to bring him some warm chicken soup with the secret intentions of finding out what the hell was wrong with him.

“Stannnnn” you called knocking on his front door balancing soup in one hand while you abused his front door. The house sounded quiet but his car was in the driveway. You see the shuffle of a shadow and bang on the door again.

“I know you’re in there bum.” You say slightly annoyed.

“If you want me to leave just say so, don’t play gam-“ your stopped mid sentence by the opening door swinging out an inch from your nose. Good lord he looks… yellow? He’s leaning up against the door frame if almost for support but by the look on his face you can tell he’s trying to be cool. There’s something foreign about his smirk and the devilish look in his eyes.

“Stan. Finally. I brought you soup!” You display your steaming tupperware waving it around his face. His eyes are distant as if he’s not listening causing a frown to tug on your lips.

“Come in.” He says. Turning, he heads inside. After closing the door behind you, you take in the state of his house. Slightly destroyed with some feeble attempts to amend the carnage . Cups of who knows what lay abandoned on the floor, the tables (or really any flat surface) lay covered in papers and diagrams scrawled depictions of otherworldly figures.

“Sorry I have not been feeling… much like myself lately” Stan’s says with a wave to the cluster of mess. His eyes land on the soup. He’s body reacts with a growl and a slight salivation.

“Don’t tell me you forget to eat Stan you numb scull” you say digging through the cabinet for a bowl or two while he watched intently . Normally you would not be digging around in his kitchen but something in the air fills you with a sense of urgency. You start to ladle out a portion.

“You’re right I’m such a numb scull, that must be why after all this time you’re the only one to come check up on me!” He says and you stop in your tracks.

“Stan…” you almost at a loss for words. All this time? How long has he been… troubled?

“Are you alright ?” you say gently looking directly into his eyes and finally you get some recognition. Stan looks straight into your eyes giving you a glimpse into the yellowish tint held in them. You wait for him to respond as he stands distracted in some far off thought. Too far for you to see in his eyes or any twitch of the face.

“Of course I’m alright darling” he says. You return to the soup sliding him a bowl. You hang you head to cover the blush. Darling. He must not be thinking straight. He immediately digs in ravenously devouring the soup. He asks for seconds. Thirds.

“Stan I’m really getting worried.” You say a slight waver in your voice. In the past you have had experiences with mental health issues. You have seen them manifest in the people you love. You glance again at the piles of papers note his erratic behaviour. You’re suddenly desperate to help him.

“What do you need me to do. I can help you please. Do you want me to help you tidy up a little bit.” You say as gently as you can. He looks distant for a second then his eyes skim over the room as if seeing it for the first time.

“I have been engrossed in my work. I have lost sight of my priorities in wake of a new discovery” He rises from the table where he was siting. Making his way over to you.

“Stay with me darling” he mutters his breath close to you neck. He moves closer to your ear.

“Stay.”

[girl-next-door-writes]

Darling, You're The One I Want

Characters: Remus Lupin x reader

Summary: Remus adores his best friend, but that’s totally normal, right?

Word Count: 1999 words

Prompt:  Fluff. Best friends. A fierce kiss. Falling asleep on them. Holding hands when stressed.

A/N: @the-abyss-gazed-back requested this little bit of Remus for my follower milestone celebration, and I am DEEP in a Hogwarts hole right now, and this one got away from me a little. Anyway, I hope you enjoy, and if you do then please reblog!

“Remus, come on!”

Turning his head, a smile pulled at his lips as he spotted you sprinting down the hall towards him, Sirius and James right behind. It took him a moment to register that you were being pursued by at least six fifth year Slytherin students and his smile dropped as his eyes widened. It wasn’t until he felt your hand grabbing his as you passed by, that his body caught up to the situation and he found himself running by your side as your friends laughed behind him.

“Why are we running?” He asked in confusion, unsure quite how he was now part of this situation.

“Sirius.” That was all the explanation you offered, and it was all that he needed to know. Probably had something to do with Snape, but details could wait.

As you rounded a corner, he tugged you into an alcove hidden behind an intricate tapestry. Watching as you leaned back against the wall, trying to catch your breath, he couldn’t help admire the way your lips parted, a smile playing on them as you desperately attempted to stay quiet. It was moments like this he thought about how the two of you had become such close friends in the first place.

“I don’t think this stuff is working.” Peter frowned as he blew out a plume of smoke thoughtfully.

“I think it’s working just fine.” Sirius grinned, reaching over and plucking the joint from Peter’s fingers and taking another long drag. “This, my man, is the good shit.”

“You do know we will be in trouble if we’re caught here.” Peter frowned, glancing over to the side of the bridge, hoping a gargoyle wasn’t about to alert the prefects or staff to their presence.

“Yeah, it will be the location we get in trouble for, not the smoking pot.” James chuckled, taking the joint from Sirius as he leaned against the wooden frame.

“It is rather a long way down.” Remus hummed thoughtfully as he peered over the edge and immediately wished he hadn’t. Scrambling a little further back, he gave his friends a sheepish smile.

“You’re not supposed to be out here.” An unfamiliar voice stated, a hint of amusement clear in their tone, followed by a giggle as the four boys frantically looked around for the speaker.

“You gonna grass on us?” Peter asked indignantly, trying to hide his panic.

“Well, if I did that, then I’d have to admit I was out here too. Mutually assured destruction. Not sure I’m up for that tonight.” You appeared floating by the bridge having been out for a sneaky late-night flight.

“Ah, then we can be confident in your silence.” Sirius shot you a dashing smile, leaning a little further out on the side of the bridge.

“I won’t tell, if you don’t.” You returned his smile. “Goodnight, gentlemen. Don’t stay out here too long, they are due to walk the grounds in twenty minutes.” And with that you were gone.

The boys all leaned out over the side to try and catch a glimpse of where you’d disappeared to with varying degrees of curiosity.

“Who was that?” Remus asked in awe, his eyes squinting as he fought to spot you in the shadows.

“Not a clue, mate, but they’re cool. Come on, let’s finish this and get inside before we get in real trouble.”

After that encounter, Remus had spent weeks trying to track you down, catching glimpses of you in the corridors or across the gardens, but never catching up with you. He had started to feel a little like he was stalking you, but he was just so intrigued. This game of cat and mouse went on for a month, and then he literally bumped into you in the library and that had been it, you’d been best friends ever since. It was rare for one of you to be seen without the other, joined at the hip, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Well, part of him would like it another way, but he would never acknowledge that because then everything would be ruined. Like right now, you had both been reading in the common room, in front of the fire, and he had slowly felt you leaning against him more. The weight of your head against his shoulder made his heart race, and he stole glances when he was certain you had fallen asleep. Remus would happily forego sleep if it meant he could just sit and watch you breathing with that peaceful look on your face.

Carefully, he shifted position on the sofa, laying down with your head resting on his chest. He reasoned that this was a more comfortable position for you, it definitely had nothing to do with wanting to hold you close at all. As the fire crackled, Remus brushed the hair from your face, allowing his fingertips to ghost lightly over your cheek. You were the most beautiful person he had ever met, and it was such a privilege to have you this close, especially knowing what he was. You never judged, never looked at him with pity. He adored you, that was why you were his best friend.

“You can not be serious.” Remus looked at his friends with a weariness that failed to hide his amusement.

“Come on, Mooney. Or are you scared?” James grinned, knowing that you would all end up joining in on this stupidity.

“It’s going to be bloody freezing.”

“There could be rocks.” Peter’s brow furrowed slightly as he gazed down into the water.   

“Only one way to find out.” Sirius took off towards the top of the ledge, letting out a whoop as he leapt. The four of you rushed to the edge and heard the ‘splash’ when he hit the water. Holding your breath, you waited for him to emerge, laughing when he finally did.

“COME ON THEN!” He yelled up as he tread water, trying not to let on how cold the lake was.

Before anyone could say anything, James sprinted past and leapt.

“Bloody hell.” Peter grumbled, knowing he would never live it down if he didn’t do it now. Taking a few steps back, he began to run before launching himself off into the air, screaming all the way down to the water.

You took up position for a run up and Remus shook his head.

“You too?” He had hoped, rather vainly, that you would be the perfect excuse for him not to jump into the Black Lake in the middle of February, but now you were going to be the only reason he would do this.

“See you down there.” You grinned before heading to the ledge.

“Shit.” He sighed, chuckling to himself when he heard the chorus of ‘Remus! Remus! Remus!’ coming from the water below. “I am going to regret this.” He mumbled before taking the leap to join his friends.

As much as Remus felt you pushed him to be braver, you also prevented him from dying of stupidity. He knew this lesson would be tense, hated knowing that the whole class was about to learn how much of a monster he truly was, even if they didn’t realise it. His body was a ball of anxiety as soon as he opened his book to the page indicated. Werewolves. He was aware of glances from Sirius and James, very aware of Peter looking anywhere but at him. Heat began to creep up his neck and he stared at the page in front of him, wondering if anyone had stared words off a page before.

The lesson seemed to last an eternity, going into detail about how monstrous these creatures were, how sly and duplicitous. The idea that such a demon could hide in plain sight until the full moon sent a ripple of murmurs through the class and Remus ground his teeth, his jaw set as he forced himself to remain calm. Nothing good would come from him losing it right now. Gripping his thigh tightly, he dug his nails in to feel something other than the total humiliation and shame of knowing this lesson was about him.

It took him a moment to realise there was a warm pressure against the back of his hand. Glancing down, a little surprised, he saw your hand resting on his own. Turning his head a little, he looked at you from the corner of his eye and frowned slightly as you seemed to be watching the Professor rather passively. Twisting his hand, he felt your palm rest in his as your fingers interlaced with his own, giving it a light squeeze, and it felt like he could breathe. That simple contact made him feel less alone, like he was redeemable in some way because if someone like you was unafraid to hold his hand then he couldn’t be all that bad, right?

Your hand remained resolutely in his throughout the rest of the lesson, and he didn’t care that Sirius spotted it and smirked while raising his eyebrow suggestively. This had been a hard lesson, and knowing you were there for him made it lighter somehow. That was when he knew he was done for. He wanted more of these moments with you, more reassurance, more feeling safe. Remus wanted all the complicated moments and all the mundane moments to be shared with you, as more than just his best friend.

The lesson finished, but Remus kept hold of your hand.

“I need to talk to you about something.” He said earnestly, knowing he had to tell you while he still had the courage to.

“Okay. We can talk.” You gave him a reassuring smile and he quickly turned and shoved everything in his bag before taking your hand again and dragging you through the castle, looking for a quiet corner where nobody would bother you.

He didn’t stop until he got to a fourth floor corridor and pulled you into a small storage room, and then all his courage seemed to dissipate, leaving him running his hands through his hair and pacing.

“Remus? Come on, you can talk to me about anything. What’s going on?” You moved a little closer, tentatively reaching out for his hand once more.

This contact made him still as he looked at your hand in his. Suddenly it was all so simple. He didn’t have the vocabulary to even begin to tell you how he felt, but perhaps he could show you.

Without a word, he cupped your cheek and moved into your personal space so quickly you didn’t have time to register what was happening until your back was pressed firmly against a wall and Remus’ lips were devouring yours in such a heated, passionate kiss it stole your breath. As you gasped, he took full advantage and deepened the kiss, leaving your head spinning. This kiss was claiming and hopeful and desperate all at once. You weren’t entirely sure how long the two of you were kissing but when he did eventually pull back, he looked wrecked, his hair disheveled, his lips swollen as he panted for breath.

“Bloody hell, Remmy.” You puffed, breathy giggles falling from you.

“I-I’m sorry.” He began to back away, but you pulled him close again.

“For what? For kissing me so thoroughly that you’ve ruined me for all other men for the rest of my life?”

“I was going to apologise for over stepping, but your reason sounds so much better.” He gave you a shy smile, not entirely sure he was reading the situation right.

“Well, you’re just gonna have to be the only person who kisses me from now on, just to prevent me being disappointed.” A smile grew on your face as he rested his forehead against yours.

“Darling, I would hate for you to be disappointed.” He hummed as he nuzzled your nose, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he leaned in for another kiss.

[shibaraki]

SAVE POINT ┊ TODOROKI TOUYA

tags: GN reader, ambiguous romantic relationship, kissing, light angst, dabi smokes in this (he’s also a flaky weirdo that breaks into ur bedroom when he wants to see you)

wc: 1.1k

You’re roused by a sharp chill, still weighed by the lingering dregs of sleep. Instinctively curling into yourself to preserve the warmth of your body, your bleary eyes open above the bed sheet.

There is something familiar about this. Enough that a part of your mind itches, but too long since you’d last experienced it. Straddling your open window is a distinct silhouette, one booted foot flat on your bedroom carpet, the other swinging idly above the street.

The hard lines that make up his form expand and lift as he inhales deeply, a cigarette nestled in between two lithe fingers. He takes a long drag, the tip glowing through the dark. Limp wristed, he leans back against the window frame and exhales the smoke into the cold night.

Amidst the haze it is difficult to place the last time you'd seen him. Disappearances were routine with Dabi, but this time the period of absence felt like it wouldn’t end. You presumed you would never see him again—in a moment of grief you’d even imagined him dead.

You’ve missed him so much that it supersedes the anger of being abandoned. As his presence registers your body jolts up into sitting position, abruptly rustling the sheets where they’re tangled around your legs.

No acknowledgement. You exhale shakily, throwing off the blankets and hooking your legs over the edge of the bed, “…Dabi?”

Bare feet touch the floor. The air immediately engulfs you into a cool embrace. You shiver, the soft hair on your arms lifting where your skin pimples. You are afforded a low hum and a sidelong glance over his shoulder as you approach.

The moonlight pierces through his irises, illuminated in a way that is haunting. Dabi’s eyes have always been clear, not unlike a tropical ocean surface—no flecks of yellow or green, no varying shades of blue. They’re beautiful, and yet despite that clarity, have always been clouded with something you know not to touch.

You could look for hours, toeing through the sediment, and find nothing. You got whatever he gave, which was never much; but what little you held you knew the significance of.

“You’re here,” you mumble.

The shadow of his tongue swipes quickly across his bottom lip. Dabi takes another drag of his cigarette and holds the smoke in his lungs. An arm reaches for you, wrapping around your lower back when you step forward. You watch his lashes flutter, head tipping back to expose the column of his throat as he breathes it out nice and slow.

“I’m here,” he repeats. His voice is low and rasped, amused in a way you had been longing for. You lean into his side, sliding your hand along his jawline as his thumb strokes back and forth against your hip. His muscles slack into your warmth like the tension was all that held him together.

Sometimes Dabi would squirm if you handled him with care. Tonight there is no distant look of discomfort at your affections. You trace your fingers lightly over the swell of his cheek, touching the cold metal of his rings. Under the moonlight you can see that the scarring has progressed further, mottling above the sutures.

“What’s the frown for?” he murmurs, tapping the ash from the tip of his cigarette onto the street below. Then he pauses, contemplating it between his knuckles. “Are you mad I started smoking again?”

“Logically I should be mad that you ghosted me for nearly three months,” you reply dryly, applying pressure to the fresh burn and releasing at the sound of his soft hiss. “Your skin got worse again”.

It isn’t a question but it still begs for an answer. He kneads idly at your waist and takes a final puff of smoke, likely to stall for time. The end glows red, smouldering as the heat eats away at the rolled paper.

You wait, trailing your fingers into his hair to scratch his scalp. He shudders, palm reflexively heating up through your clothes. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“You wanna come in?” you ask, setting the topic aside for now. “You must be cold”.

Dabi doesn’t care about the cold, he spends most of his days numb to it. The excuse is flimsy and terribly transparent and he knows it. He flicks away the cigarette butt, mouth curved into a knowing grin, pulling at the skin of his cheek.

You move to stand between his thighs when he hooks his leg over the window sill, both feet now on steady ground. Smoothing over the back of your thighs, he coaxes you in. Tilted to look at you, his chin rests against your chest. “You got a habit of letting strange guys into your apartment at night?”

“Just the one,” you murmur, cradling his face in your palms. “Though I probably shouldn’t”.

He nods sagely and regards you with heavy eyes, “You really shouldn’t”.

The atmosphere shifts imperceptibly. You swallow. It’s something you feel in your gut; a warm flame spreading to all the places his fingers touch. He must sense it, jaw tightening as he slowly slips his hands beneath your shirt to toy with the waistband of your shorts by the small of your back.

Dabi tastes like ash and smoke. His lips are always softer than they look, and he kisses you much in the same way. Gentle and unexpected. Blunt bitten nails sink into the fat of your hips and your arms slip loosely around his neck, mouth parting at the tentative lick of his tongue. He hums quietly, the sound of his satisfaction buzzing under your skin.

Your eyes flutter as he takes you between his teeth, pulling your lip and letting it snap back against your teeth. He kisses you again and again, uncharacteristically patient. There’s a sense of finality to his actions that you don’t like—as if he were savouring you.

“Dabi,” you whisper the name he gave you, drawing back to regain your bearings, connected by a thin line of spit that bends and breaks. Together, your panting breaths fill the anticipatory silence.

“Come to bed”.

He stares back at you, expression carefully blank. Anxiety rears in your chest when that gaze slides over his shoulder, looking out into the night. But then, “Alright”.

“You will?”

Dabi meets your eyes with a soft smirk. “Yeah. Since you missed me so much”.

He pulls the window shut and you guide him toward the bed. You’re sure he’ll give you the chance to miss him again in the morning—your heart will be tender like a bruise and you’ll berate yourself for ever having let him in.

But you’re certain you’ll regret it more if you don’t.

[ukthxbye]

All That Glitters and Gleams

So it has been over a year since I writer Sherlolly. Thought I might be done because of my focus on my two books and trying to get an agent... life is funny.

When this photo showed up in the sherlolly discord,

the wheels started spinning and 24 hours later, you're welcome.

cw: semi-public sex, fingering, light dom/sub, begging

Glittering.

Gold and silver statues and everything shiny draped dramatic fabric in this room normally spare dingy blue white.

And he hated it.

But impressed all the same. The banquet hall of St. Barts transformed to another age. Sherlock scoffed when Molly asked him to this 1920s fundraiser, rattling facts about all the false opulence for what.

"It's fun to pretend," she'd said in the wry, sad resignation he knew like a drug. Nearly as unpredictable. She might tell him to forget it and go with someone else. She might let him rattle off facts as they walk in and still pull him along, suffering the embarrassment.

She blessed him with the latter. 

He couldn't refuse anymore what she asked for. His life depended on her happiness… like a new addiction.

But he'd denied her the one thing she craved. She denied herself more. 

"They shouldn't have spent so much money, you were right," she said at his side. "You've every right to hate this. It's dancing and talking to higher ups. We can go home."

"Well, at least the champagne is cheap," he said glancing at woman walking by with two green bottles in had. But home, where is the adventure in that? Can't critique and complain until we have the facts," he said, slipping off his long wool coat, handing it to the hired coat clerk… no wait, it was a boy from the cafe. 

"Gerald, they roped you into this?" Sherlock frowned at him. 

"Ticket sir, you try to have a good time, eh?" the boy said, coats piling up on his right. 

"Yes…yes." Sherlock offered him a cocked tightlipped smile. 

In instinct he turned to Molly, and without interrupting her conversation with a heart surgeon he disliked, his hands reached around her shoulders, grasping the lapels on her equally long coat.

The lights, low in the room but travelling across a mirror ball, landed at her back as he slid the dark fabric down like a curtain.

Glittering.

But he liked it.

He vibrated, her scapula bones meeting like wings of an angel as she dropped the coat off her arms. 

She'd not let him look at the dress until now. Beadwork in a line down the straps, down and across her waist. Shadow and bones and gold. Champagne dripped down her frame, soon like on her tongue.

She matched the room and enhanced it to a mind numbing quality. 

"Come on, there's Stamford," she said with a half grin, and grabbed his hand.

 Like fire on a golden pyre. 

He accepted her lead, lost in the light playing off her skin. He'd mapped it before. He mapped everything. But why does it look different here?

Do her nerves jump when his hand drifted up to her elbow, gripping like a secret, waiting? Lost to the bunching pale satin, but… she responded each time, ending the conversation.  

She let him hold her hand absently as she tugged him from one corner to the next. Satin gloves threaded in his fingers, robbing him of hers.

But her back, exposed, and his touch strayed there often to catch her attention, drawing her into him so he could mutter in her ear some amusing observation he'd about someone she chatted with. 

Her skin cooled like a glass of cold milk. He craved it the same. But he feared his hand gave him away, warming more with every risked caress. 

She flinched the first time, her wings shrugging him away.

But now she let it lay there, even as he chased a shadow up the nape with his finger. 

Her shiver is not from the room now. 

He smiled to himself, but the oncologist next to him took it as an opportunity to speak. I can do two things at once. Sherlock kept his fingers near her scalp, his fingernail grazing along the hairline until she quivered, and fanned herself with her purse. 

They made many more rounds, each one more exhausting. The satin under his hands, the hand on her lower back enticing. Every man who tried to insult her field of study with backhanded compliments boiled his blood.

 His mask slipped, and he half insulted the last surgeon they spoke to. 

"You're getting rude," she said, dragging him down by his collar to her ear. 

Oh, don’t do that…

The tug switched on a part of his brain he'd kept safe from her. They'd both been so good since his sister nearly destroyed everything.

Such respectable friends, open with their emotions except for…

I'm going to ruin that now. 

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” She searched his face for understanding in the dark. 

“I thought you said all surgeons are like footballers, egotistical and overpaid,” he sniffed. 

She leaned back and frowned. "You said that."

“Hmm…” he matched her frown, then smiled, running his tongue along his teeth. “Oh, yes… I did. But you might have agreed.”

He gasped. She snatched his collar again, with a curl twisted in it now, setting a delightful tingle across his scalp. 

“Why is it so hard for you to behave…”

He turned enough so she could meet his stare. "You like me when I don't… why change that now?" His tongue strayed across his lips, letting his gaze drop to hers. 

In the dark and flashing light of the room, it hit perfect timing for the scarlet of her lips to show. Her teeth parted and her tongue licked her own lips as well. 

“Come with me,” she said, low, releasing him when someone glanced their way. 

They reached the bathroom on the front left corner of the room, with no one around. “You know what? Wait here for a moment and then we'll talk.” She stepped in and his hand caught the door as she pushed close it.

Wide-eyed, she let him push it back and close it behind him, meeting her stare. 

"Sherlock, what are you—"

His finger to his lips and she clamped her mouth shut. His lips lifted into a sly smile. 

"Is there something wrong?" She moved to him and glanced at the door, his hand going back behind him and clicking the lock. 

“No, I wanted to talk… privately.”

She sighed out in relief. “We could have gone outside.”

“Then I couldn’t look at you in that dress.”

The bathroom decorated for the theme, feather arrangement, lights low. The cream walls normally boring matched her antique faded gold satin. He soaked in the room along with her. 

One last look before you leap…

"Oh, don't be silly…" she chuckled, crossing her arms, and his eyes dropped to the cleavage.

He remained wordless, a hand in his pocket, waiting for her to catch up.

She squinted, shaking her head as she whispered, "Oh… no."

"Molly."

She ran a hand through her short cropped hair. How soon might I do the same?

“Are you really going to do this here? This dance for… god I thought we'd settled this,” she said, the plead in her tone only urged him on more.

“Oh, my sweet Molly, like ice cream on my tongue, freezing every word… until this dress.” he shifted near to her, and she stepped back near the sink. 

"I'm not sweet," she said with folded arms, looking down at the cleavage, realising the effect and moving her arms, bracing on the sink basin. “We should go… before you say something you shouldn't.”

"I'll be the judge of that."

She turned toward the mirror with a scoff. “Your judgement is terrible. I don't trust it. But yes…you always thought me too sweet… is that all compassion is to you?” Her gaze went down as she said it and he counted the vertebrae in her neck, concentrating. 

How did I get here? How do I get out of it? 

But he was bored with ignoring the chemicals running under his skin when she was near. 

He closed the distance behind her, and she stiffened. His eyes travelled from the hollow of her throat, slowly following the pink path each capillary displayed with the pump of her heart. Those lips, red and not yet swollen as he'd make them. 

His gaze lifted from there up as he spoke his stare meeting hers in the mirror. "My mistake then… I do confess to the two mistakes you accused. But then I recall less gentleness when your hand stuck hard," he raised his hand, tenderly tracing his thumb along her cheekbone, and licked his lips when she shivered. “Do I deserve it again?”

The beadwork, gold and silver sparkling in the low light, entranced him. He traced down with a finger, following along its path, ending in a v, breast swelling with her heightened breath. Her heartbeat was so strong the pulse beat a rhythm under his fingertips. But he never broke his stare, and she held it, her eyes dark and shining.

Gleaming.

And he loved it. 

Would she imagine him closing the gap, a canyon between what they've been… and what they will be? Never letting his lips touch, but he assured his breath and its heat performed the same duty as he spoke into her ear… and then her jaw. 

"But tell me… did you know how I fought every urge and when it changed… how many times we've almost. When we considered all the possibilities and said no…was it not because you were so principled?" He said with a smirking grin. 

Crack.

She’d spun around to face him and struck his left cheek. She gulped hard, and he sighed, waiting for her words to catch up with her hand. 

“If this is a game… It's very cruel. You can read what I want without touching. You know every ache, every want… you…” She drew a deep breath through her nose. “Always did. Question is… will you be too high minded … or will you…” She squinted as she spoke, but the tremble he expected was absent. 

But this was the Molly he'd fallen for all along, in her own power and never under his. Quite the opposite. Her lips parted, her eyes on his lips as well.

Her breath matched his, and his lungs ached for them to share the same air. 

“Which one of us will break… that delicious thick tension we’d spun for years… but…” he tipped his nose against hers and with his hands on either side of her on the washbasin, holding on to the porcelain for dear life, he said near her lips, “It was always yours to take… stop asking for permission.” 

Come on now, my Molly.

He let her kiss him, and answered the swell in his chest deepening until his entire mouth encompassed hers, his tongue licking the champagne sugars off hers.   

“You kiss like you want me, Sherlock Holmes.” She sighed into his throat, breathless. She'd pressed her body against him when the kiss deepened. He couldn't dare put his arms around her… I might never let go.

He swallowed hard. "The easiest thing I've ever done. You'd be correct… you always were."

“Oh, yes… too sweet. Then…” she said with a huff, leaning back, robbing him of her nearness, and he missed it.

He met her knowing stare. 

“You're correct… you always were.” Honesty at last. But he couldn't see if it would help or harm the mood. 

She shook her head slightly. “Don't be like that. I don't know what to do with that. It can't fuck me properly.”

“Then tell me what you want. As in to say… I'm done thinking for now. It bores me.” He spoke into her neck, “Tell me the fantasy… I can only read so much from your breath and skin singing under my touch… instruct me to see how to get you there. New memories.”

"Beg me. On your knees. And make sure you say please.”

He sighed. “Now Molly… I wanted to tease you more before I have use of my knees… have you lost patience—”

Her hand covered his mouth, and she pushed him down until her knee dug into his shoulder hard, on his knees in front of her.

“Beg… it's the least you can do if you want me so much… wanted me so long. We're both ignoring our principles now…” she said, each word strong ringing in his mind. “So beg.” 

Her mouth is so pretty when she says…

"So beg." 

He quieted his mind, a singular focus now. Every sense dialled in to her rich floral perfume, her touch and heartbeat. 

The light played on the satin before him, transfixing. “Please,” he said low, running his hands lightly along the golden sleek cloth, seeking her bones underneath like a lost road. “Teach me, tell me what to do.”

“I don’t want to ruin this beautiful dress… put your jacket next to the basin.”

He lingered his hand fascinated with the precise folds of the skirt, shining and shadowing, like the folds he’d soon… he trailed a finger along one close to her hip.

“Now will you be a good boy…and do what I asked or do I…?”

He looked up into her eyes, so far above him like a goddess’ blessing. He held her stare as he snatched the coat off and handed it to her to arrange.

“Now set me—oh!”

As he stood, taking her with him as he grabbed her hips and arse, fingers digging the slippery dress and sat her on the counter so hard she bounced.

He smiled sly as irritation on her skin coloured the same as her blush. I like both too much. 

He held his hands up in false surrender. 

She huffed out, “Are you going to take instruction or are you gonna improvise your own here?”

 “I’ve matured, I like collaboration.” He shrugged a shoulder, leaning over and snatching an ostrich feather out of the full vase next to her. How perfect for the theme this evening. The sheen on the feathers caught the light golden as her dress. He twirled it between his fingers, waiting. 

“Nothing else unless I say so,” she said. He didn't miss the gravel and struggle to breathe. Her stare unblinking on the feather.  

“Then…” he held the feather out in front of her and lowered it, leaning in meeting her half lidded gaze. “Tell me what to do.”

“I think you guessed I like a tease.”

He nodded, “Oh do I ever…we've done years… little kisses on the cheek like friends,” he let the end of the feather fall across her face, moving it in time to watch the colour rise deep scarlet. “But since we remedied that… … but what's a little more?” He lowered the feather across her neck and she turned her head, opening up and he imagined her nerves jumping.

That neck was like cream he wanted to lick and bruise with his teeth. 

Ah, there is the demon I've always feared.

He teased with the feather down between her breasts, and she shuddered with her sigh. Her eyes closed, and he trailed the feather up again, teasing her clavicle, the bones showing their angles in shadow and he wanted to add his own shadow there as well.

She leaned back, head against the mirror. “More,” she whispered out.

The feather up her throat, and he trembled, the tip of it caressing her lips. Now I'm jealous of a feather. He wanted to kiss her again but now bound by the agreement. She'd broken so many rules for him. I can keep this one.  

Her breath shuddered as she leaned back over and looked up into his eyes. 

“That's enough. Kiss me… kiss me so hard I might bleed.”

He shook his head, and squinted, “Don't ask me to do that. I'll do anything you ask… it is what you deserve, but… those demons don't need to come out yet.”

She gritted her teeth under her lips, “Then kiss me like you love me.” 

I'm gonna ignore those tears. They're not here to stay.

 He kissed her so tenderly he thought they both might break. 

She stopped for a breath, and spoke into his ear, “I love you too… Now that's out of the way, kiss me however you want… but I want your hands to move this skirt out of the way.”

He lifted her and shoved it out of the way behind her, and she helped gather the top. He hates the skirt now. Should have encouraged her for a short flapper dress, one with a delightful fringe he could have twirled in his fingers near her knee.

No matter. The music kicked up loud outside the bathroom, the low beat thumping under his hand resetting just beside her thigh like a heartbeat. 

“Tell me what you want… my touch or my tongue.” He licked his lips, drying from his breath increased as much as hers. Oh, to find out how sweet she really is.

“Touch… I think that's all I can stand for now,” she said with an unsteady voice. “Talk to me. Tell what you want… tell me what you will do… your voice is the only sound I want in my head.”

His thumbs strayed to her thighs, bare and like silk. Circles and caresses, and he leaned into her ear, “Can you please…” he caressed over her knees. "lean back to the wall, my love, I don't want you to hurt that pretty head."

“Yes… more,” she said, exposing that creamy throat again.

“Can I kiss your neck… please?”

“Yes… god yes, but… I need your fingers,” she reached a trembling hand and grasped his, setting it on inner thigh. "I need them inside me." The fire like heat pulsed against his palm. She's so wet for me… 

But first, he raised his fingers up to his mouth, letting her observe him wet them, meeting her stare. 

He tugged her soaked knickers aside. Two fingers found her folds. So ready for him, his knees nearly buckled. He turned his fingers and met her clit with his thumb, gently as she was so hard. She pulled and tugged on his fingers, whimpering, calling him like a siren's song.

She's always been the rock I'd dash myself on. 

His lips on her throat, and she burrowed her nails in his curls and scalp. Those low moans barely reached his ears, but they vibrated under his tongue, the salt of her skin mouthwatering. 

Bang bang.

The lock jiggled.

They both glanced at the lock, wide-eyed, but it held. 

Oh, that will not do. 

Her movement on his fingers wavered, but he pressed further, finding the spot that nearly made her cry out and he grinned into the hollow of her throat and flicked it with his tongue. 

Her moan louder, but he clamped his hand tight over her mouth, every knock urging him on, his thumb playing with clit, soaking wet dripping down as his fingers curled. Her panicked peeks at the door replaced as she closed her eyes and smiled into his hand, her sigh hot and panted. 

He turned her face and leaned into her ear, nipping as he spoke. “Is that adding to the effect? There'll be no mistake what I did to you when we leave together… they’ll know… shame they can’t hear the crying moan I want to hear… A shame for me. Tell me. Harder or softer… how long do you want them to wait?”

She panted into his hand. "Harder… oh god… I'm so close. Don't stop that or I'll hit you again."

The brat in him wanted to tease her. But this wasn't the time. 

But his deep voice, he knew its effect, and he spoke, meeting her lidded stare with his own.

"They love our brilliant brains, don't you think? But they don't see us as humans. Never will, but we can see and feel it now. It's our little secret how human we can both be."

She whimpered and tightened but… no it's not quite there.

“Can you come for me… please?”

“Kiss me one more time… I… oh…” she said with a shudder, her legs tightening on his hand.

And kiss her he did, so hard she might bleed and she cried out into his mouth and shuddered down into her orgasm, pulsing so deliciously around his finger he almost came himself.

She slumped, and he stared, pulling out. 

When she met his gaze, she whispered, “You can taste the results… and think about when we get home.”

He sucked his fingers clean, not blinking and her smile, slight, ended with a shivered whimper. 

Much too sweet… I can't wait for more. 

[anime-x-readers]

PART THREE

Anime: Attack on Titanime: Attack on Titan

Pairings: Levi Ackerman X Reader (Your name is Yuna)

Genre: Fluff, some chill smut

Sumarry: A relaxing and firely night

You recognized his writing style, of course it was him. You hurriedly opened your closet, chose a white shirt that was tight on your small frame. You felt so small under his gaze. Only a meter and a half tall. You still wondered why they accepted you in this place. You put on a long, loose, sandy-colored skirt, let your long blonde hair flow down your back, and made sure you looked cute.

You descended the stairs filled with emotions. A week ago, you and him were exchanging sly glances during evening dinners, on the training ground, or on missions, and now something had drawn you closer, somehow.

You opened the last door, and the cool night air enveloped you entirely, causing the edges of your skirt to sway to one side.

He was there. His black horse stood calmly beside him, while he appeared as a somber and imposing shadow in the diffuse moonlight. When he heard you, he only glanced at you out of the corner of his eye, but his gaze softened a bit.

"You broke into someone's room to leave a message," you say, frowning at him.

"I have my methods. Get on." He gives a brief nod towards the horse.

"Where are we going?"

But your curiosity is locked away in a jar.

"To show you somethin’," he says, then his dark green cloak flutters around him as he turns toward the black horse, ready to help you up.

The fact that black horses are rare, with most being brown, was another thing that fascinated you and made you see him as a special guy.

He pushes your back up, and you manage to find your balance on the horse's back. Then he climbs in front of you, and your instinct tells you to hold on tight. Shyly, you wrap your arms around his abdomen under the cloak. A shiver runs through your entire body when the warmth emanating from him has a calming effect on you. You feel so safe now that he’s so close.

"Hold tight," he says quietly, without turning a single inch toward you.

You listen to him, pressing your chest against his back. When he feels this, you can tell he’s preparing to set off.

He guided the horse gently through the houses, considering that at a late hour, the clatter of hooves would wake people. But when we passed the houses, he urged the horse to run freely towards the forest. You frowned at the sight of the place, but you decided to trust him.

At some point, the horse stops at the edge of a... river. You could see something shining in the water.

Levi dismounts first, then extends his arms towards you. Your palms rest firmly on his shoulders, and your body slides down from the horse as his hands grip your waist tightly, helping you.

The moment your feet felt the gravel, you ran to the edge of the stream and saw glittering stones on the bottom of the water. You had never seen anything like this before, and the moonlight outlined them perfectly. The water was clear, clean.

Feeling his presence behind you, you turn to him, but your facial expression becomes worried.

"Your face looks like even 10 hours of sleep wouldn't be enough. You're exhausted, are you sure you wanted to spend your evening with me?" You ask without thinking about anything else. Because his health mattered to you, it was important.

"Don't stress with me. I'm fine," he states shortly, but you could read in his tired expression just how exhausted he was. He can't get away with an excuse like that.

In the next second, your palms push his broad shoulders down, making him sit on the grass at the same time as you did. But you weren't satisfied with just that. You pulled him by the arm, encouraging him to lay his head in your lap, which he did. He didn’t resist any of your ideas. He was probably too exhausted to care.

You took a deep breath as you looked at him. His blue eyes were even deeper, being illuminated only by the moon, in the darkness of the night. His face showed nothing, but his body had certainly relaxed.

Your fingers began to tangle in his black strands of hair, so soft... You started tracing invisible lines with your nail along his cheeks, along his jawline, and admired his attractive features. This guy is so handsome...

He looked up at you, with his hands resting on his abdomen and one knee raised. You were glad that he could occasionally relax too, because the world is chaotic, and you admire the courage he has to be able to face it. You’ve never seen him afraid of anything or giving up. He’s strong.

What surprises you is that you flinched a little when his fingers brought you out of your thoughts. He had caught a strand of your hair between his fingers, separating it strand by strand. He seemed focused.

Trying to mimic his courage, you lift your hand, moving it from his hair to his palm. Now, your fingers were intertwined with his. Levi gently squeezed your hand, but his expression was still serious. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either. Rather... he was attentive and perceptive.

Like a spark, the guy pulls on your hand to lift himself up. Now, his face wasn’t very far from yours. His gaze searched for its prey, and he found it when he met your gaze again. You swallowed hard.

The box of insects in your stomach flutters restlessly, but you can’t stop it. His hand rises, catching your chin and tilting it towards him. There was no need for any words to speak about this night.

He tilted his head and, without warning, leaned in towards you. For a moment, you closed your eyes, waiting. When nothing happened and you looked ahead, his sly gaze was analyzing your face up close. He looked at your lips, hesitating for a few seconds and putting pressure on you, as you felt his warm, minty breath on your lips.

In the next second, he closed the space between you two, and then your world came to life. The touch was soft, tickling, and made your stomach clench. The strands of hair from his bangs tickled your cheeks. When he pulled away, he didn’t move far. He stayed close, still allowing you to feel his breath hitting your face.

Suddenly, his arm caught your waist, lifting you so that your legs naturally settled on either side of his hips. He leaned his back against the bark of a tree and looked at your blushing cheeks with interest.

He tilted his head back in a way that was far too enticing for your body. He pulled your chin towards him again and rested his palms over your thighs. His gesture made you shiver.

When the space between the two of you closed again, his lips had a taste that became addictive from the first seconds. You couldn’t resist. You moved one hand towards his shoulder, then pressed it like a magnet against his chest.

He caught the back of your neck, wanting to feel you closer. When his hot tongue asked for permission to explore your mouth., you showed no resistance. You deepened the kiss, pushing yourself more into him, showing how much you had wanted him. Your skirt was only slightly lifted, but he decided that it wasn’t yet the moment to explore that chapter. He first needed to make sure you were okay and comfortable.

[starshifter]

my hopes the wind done scattered

malevolent. john/arthur, king in yellow/arthur. 8.3k

Ao3 Link if you'd prefer to read it there

I am currently sick and also I haven't posted anything here in like...fuck eight years? But I finished writing this yesterday and I am releasing it on the world now. It's as cooked as my balloon brain. Let's fucking go

---

The walls loomed up around him, dark and extending up until they vanished completely from sight. Arthur hunched further back against the wall behind him. Across from him, an indistinct humanoid shape watched him.

The bucket sat between them.

Water splashed inside it and Arthur lurched forward. He needed it. If he didn’t get it first, he knew that he wouldn’t get any at all.

Bent over the large basin, he brandished the shard of sharpened bone towards the lurking figure to warn it off. He would fight it. He wouldn’t let it get him.

He reached into the basin and his hand hit the bottom of a dry bucket.

Then the shadow was on him. His legs shattered under him as its hands closed around his neck.

He felt like he was suspended in jello. Moving his limbs was an inordinate amount of effort, but he would die if he didn’t.

He strained harder and then the shadow was pinned under him. Triumphant, he pressed his thumbs into its eyes and began to laugh as it screamed—

Arthur looked up from his well-lit desk at the knock on their office door. “Come in,” he called as he gathered the papers in front of him into a neat pile. A shadow shifted behind the frosted glass on the door and there was silence for a long moment.

The knock came again.

Frowning, Arthur got up and went over to the door. “It’s unlocked, Parker. You don’t have to—” he started to say as he opened the door.

Darkness greeted him. A void stretched out from the doorway, a blackness utterly untouchable by the dim electric light. Faint whispers caught in his ears that he could almost understand. If he could just hear them a little clearer...

He tipped forward, compelled by their words, and something shifted.

He froze.

He couldn’t see a thing past his door frame, but somehow he knew that something was there — lurking in the dark.

Watching.

Waiting.

His breath caught in his chest and his heart pounded as he stumbled back. He needed to get away. He needed to—

There was a flash of color in the void. A whirl of yellow.

“Arthur!” John’s voice called faintly, as if from far away.

“John,” he whispered. Then again, louder, “John!”

He plunged forward into the void.

Something huge and unfathomable closed around him.

-

Arthur gasped awake.

He stared up into darkness from where he lay and, for a disoriented moment, thought he was still in that void. The past few days returned to him abruptly. He was trapped in a cabin, surrounded by snow with two broken legs, and still completely and utterly blind. John was lost to the King and he was starving to death in the middle of who the fuck knew where.

It had been a dream.

He closed his eyes, not that it made any fucking difference, and reached down to pull the blanket over his head.

It wasn’t there.

“What?”

He propped himself up on his elbows — and at the very least he had all his limbs back, for all the good that did him — and the surface he was lying on tilted slightly underneath him.

He froze.

Something was very, very wrong.

For one thing, it was warm — almost hot, in fact. The cabin he had been trapped in had been cold even with the fire lit. And the surface he was on… It didn’t feel like the cot he had fallen asleep on. It didn’t feel like a mattress at all. In fact, it wasn’t even a flat surface. It almost cupped him, with his head on an incline that scooped gently downwards until it rose back up under his legs, his knees curving gently over another bump.

He carefully rubbed his hand against the material. It was smooth, cool to the touch, and velvety soft with a bit of give to it. Except velvet had never felt so alive before.

“Oh god,” he whispered and sat up.

Immediately, the surface shifted again as it closed around him.

It was a hand, a massive hand, but like no other hand Arthur had ever known. It seemed to be made entirely of fingers, the palm non-existent, but the fingers had no joints. They curled smoothly without bending as they wrapped around him like living prison bars.

“Fuck,” he yelled and started struggling in earnest to get out. The pressure around him increased and he quickly found himself immobilized around the upper torso, only his legs able to kick freely.

“Have you figured out where you are yet, Arthur Lester?” a deep, reverberating voice asked. It was a voice he could never forget.

“No,” Arthur choked out through the sudden surge of nauseating horror. “No, no!” He thrashed violently, straining as hard as he could against the hold around him.

“Calm down, Arthur,” the King in Yellow said in that slimy, manipulative way of his and sheer rage flushed the terror out of his veins.

“Release me! Release me right this second or I swear I will find a way to kill you.” Arthur dug the heels of his feet as hard as he could into the hand holding him.

“If you insist,” the King said, uncaring.

His stomach swooped violently with a sensation not dissimilar to an elevator suddenly ascending, only this was much faster than any elevator he had been on. The wind whistled past him for a split second as he was lifted. To some sort of platform, perhaps?

The fingers unwrapped from around him and he shoved himself up to sitting, intending next to get to his feet.

He never got the chance. The hand holding him tipped to the side and he was falling.

He didn’t even have time to scream before he crashed messily into a soft surface.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he gasped out. Fingers cupped around him again, though they didn’t close him in the way they had before.

Nauseous, furious, and terrified; Arthur grabbed at the finger closest to him and clung to it with all his strength. He’d been lifted up. There was no way of knowing how high up in the air he was right now. If the King decided to drop him for real instead of tossing him between hands like some kind of fucking baseball, it might just kill him.

A deep, menacing laugh rumbled around him. “Would you still like to be released?”

“Fuck you,” Arthur spat at him and he hated how breathless he sounded. He took a deep breath, forced himself to stop trembling, and tried to think. He couldn’t let the King manipulate him again. “Isn’t this a breach of your deal? I was supposed to go home, which you couldn’t manage either, by the way. That was not Arkham.”

“It was Earth. Humans are capable of traveling between their little cities.”

“Not with two broken legs!” Arthur yelled. Then he paused. His legs had been broken in that cabin. He’d set them himself before passing out from the pain of it.

They were completely fine now though. Even the make-shift splints had vanished. The King had healed him? Why? What did he gain by giving Arthur back his mobility?

“What do you want from me,” he spat at the King.

“You wanted what you called “John” back, didn’t you?” the King asked him.

Arthur went still. “… What?”

Had he heard that correctly? Was the King really offering…?

No. No, this was a trick of some kind. Or some kind of fucked up game he was playing. Arthur wasn’t going to fall for that.

“What are you saying?” he inquired guardedly.

“Exactly what I said. You didn’t wish to be parted from your friend.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if he knew Arthur better than he did himself.

It pissed him off.

“You didn’t care about that before. Why are you bringing it up now? I don’t believe for a second that you’ll just give me John back out of the kindness in your heart. If you even have one of those,” he couldn’t resist spitting out at the end.

The King didn’t sound bothered in the least by his righteous anger. “It changes, actually.”

“What?” Arthur asked, completely taken off guard.

“Hearts. The number of them changes. Right now, I have three.”

“How—” Arthur started to ask before he realized he was being directed off topic again. “No, I don’t care about that. Why aren’t you answering my questions?”

The hand cupping him shifted slightly, the fingers curling in towards him. Arthur tightened his grip on the finger he held. He might be doll-sized to this creature, but he wouldn’t let himself be tossed about like a toy.

“You didn’t answer mine. Did you want “John” back?”

“Of course I fucking want John back!” The words burst out of him before he could stop it. “I want John and I want to go back home!”

“But you wanted him out of your head. You wanted to give him his own body,” the King pressed, as if that had any bearing on Arthur’s answer.

“It’s none of your business what we wanted to do. What do you fucking want?”

“I want you to answer my fucking questions when I ask them,” the King finally raised his voice back and it shook with a sound that could only be described as electric static. The sound thrilled Arthur as much as it terrified him.

Mortal terror wasn’t enough to stop him now. “Well, too bad! I answered one of yours, so now you can answer one of mine! What do you really fucking want from me?”

The fingers closed around him and squeezed. The air wheezed out of him at the sudden pressure and he released his grip in a panic to try to shove the fingers away before they crushed him.

“I will give you one offer. You can either go back to your precious Arkham alone or you can have your “John” back and in his own body here in the Dreamlands.” Arthur opened his mouth to tell the King to go fuck himself, he would have both even if it killed him, and the King cut him off before he could get the words out. “Think very carefully before you answer or you will get neither. My patience for your insolence grows thin.”

And Arthur’s anger faltered. For a moment, the only thing he could think of was lying in the Prison Pits, John silent in the face of his ill temper, and staring up into darkness as he lay slowly wasting away in his own filth. It flushed a deep shame through him as soon as he realized that the subservience the King had worked to instill in him had taken, at least on some level.

But it also served as a wake up call. He was being an idiot. He knew exactly the sort of person he was dealing with and charging forward in a blind temper could only end poorly.

He would never go back to those Pits. He’d already died once to avoid going back to those Pits and he would die again if that’s what it took. But maybe he could avoid reaching that point at all. The King clearly wanted something from him. He needed to figure out what was going on and then find a way to turn it in his favor.

He’d beaten the King once when he climbed out of those Pits. He could do it again.

He needed to play along. At least for now.

There was no way he could trust a word that came out of the King in Yellow’s lying mouth. He knew he wouldn’t get John or a way out of the Dreamlands no matter which he picked, but all he needed to do right now was answer the question.

It was an easy question too. It wasn’t even a choice which he would pick.

“John. I choose John.”

John wouldn't leave him here. John would help him find a way for them to both escape, just as they’d always done before.

The King let out a pleased sounding rumble. “Very good, Arthur.”

The strange elevator like sensation came back, but this time he was being moved sideways. He was pressed up against the softest cloth he had felt in his entire life. Silken wasn’t a fine enough word for it. Silk was far too coarse in comparison. This material felt as if someone had plucked the gentle starlight down from the heavens and woven it into the ideal of fabrics that could only be found in dreams. Even the velvet-soft skin he was cradled in felt rough and unfinished in comparison.

There was an off-putting noise akin to the wind, if the wind could be described as solid, that was accompanied by a faint echo of whispers. Then it changed into something sideways to the sound of a multitude of shuffling bare feet and a flag rippling in the breeze. It made the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck prickle up.

John hadn’t described the King in much detail, but Arthur was starting to think that may have been a kindness. There was something very wrong with the way he moved, like nothing that had ever graced the Earth.

“Let’s get you settled in,” the King said simply as they moved.

“Settled where?” he asked sharply.

“A room, of course. This is your home now. I would hate for you to feel unwelcome,” the King crooned, clearly trying to put him at ease. It only made his hackles go up. He knew when he was being lied to and that tone of voice was nothing but falsehoods laid over a monster’s visage.

A guest. Ha. What a laugh.

He was just as much a prisoner now as he was before, no matter how nicely the King tried to dress it up for this go around. What in the world did he want from him? He’d already taken everything Arthur had left.

But… Wait. He was thinking about this incorrectly. The chance that the King wanted something from him specifically wasn’t likely. No, the only reason the King had ever cared about him was because of his connection to John. And now the King had kidnapped him back to the Dreamlands and was asking him about John.

Was this… Was this because John was fighting back? Was the King looking for leverage over him? Fuck, had Arthur doomed them both by agreeing to stay?

But would the outcome have changed if he said he wanted to go back home? The King wouldn’t have sent him back if he had meant to keep him from the start.

So the choice had been false like he first thought. It had been another clever manipulation because he knew just enough about Arthur to know which option he would pick and was hoping he could pull the wool over his eyes by making him feel like he had a choice. It had been a clever ruse to create some good will.

Well, Arthur was on to him. He wouldn’t find an easy mark here.

The sensation of movement and that brain twisting noise came to a stop. He was lifted away from that dreamlike fabric and tipped gently onto his feet on some sort of solid surface. The soft scent of flowers unlike any he had smelled before washed over him. Underneath their perfume, there was the faint scent of what he could only describe as clean water. It drew him forward a thoughtless step before he stopped.

He had no idea what lay before him. This was the King’s domain. There was an equal chance that some kind of paradise lay before him as that it was some kind of illusory trap that would send him into another monster’s lair.

“You are at the doorway of a lavish room,” the King began, in the same cadence that John had always used to describe what they saw. The sheer longing that ripped through him at the sound made his breath hitch painfully.

“The walls and floor are made of polished, dark stone with veins of violet crystal. It stretches out nearly fifty feet from one side of the circular room to the opposite. Golden tapestries hang from the walls between sconces lit with crystals full of trapped starlight. Right now, the room is lit with a gentle blue light in reflection of the sun outside. It will soon cycle through to red.

“Various pieces of furniture are scattered about the room. There are lounges, desks, bookshelves, and other soft looking surfaces to rest on. A large, circular bed lies set into the floor off to your far right. To your left, there is a large pool set with mosaicked tiles that depict the Hyades. Each of the glass stars glows with their own light. The water steams softly and soft towels and plates with fruit and flatbread lie along the pool’s rim.”

Arthur’s stomach clenched painfully at the mention of food. God, he didn’t even know how long it had been since he last ate. Time was strange in the cabin he dragged himself to. He kept passing in and out of consciousness and he couldn’t see the light outside to estimate the time. All he had to tell time was the number of times he awoke freezing and had to relight the fire.

“In the center of the room is an open circle set with the heart of another mosaic that stretches beyond the initial circle like golden rivers through the rest of the room. Along its edges are a variety of instruments, including a piano.”

It felt like a slap in the face. Arthur’s nails dug into his palms painfully. A piano. What a sick joke. “You don’t have to describe it. I’ll figure it out myself.”

“Very well. I’ll leave some of my Dancers with you. If you require anything, tell them and they’ll see it done.”

“I don’t need their help.”

“Then don’t ask anything of them.”

So they were his new prison wardens then.

There was a rustle of fabric from the King’s direction as he prepared to take his leave.

“What about John?” burst out of him without any further thought.

The King neatly sidestepped the question. “For now, you should bathe.”

Arthur wasn’t letting it go that easily. “And then what? You’ll produce John like some kind of party trick? Or is he contingent on good behavior? Do exactly what I say and you can have your friend back? You promised me John! Let me speak to him! I’d rather have him here than these Dancers.”

“I don’t need to produce “John,”” the King growled. And there is was. Arthur had known it was a lie and he still somehow felt his hopes shatter. He opened his mouth, to say what, he didn’t even know, but the King beat him to it. ““John” is already here.”

“He clearly isn’t!”

“Arthur…” the King said, disappointed and condescending. “You’re smarter than this. I know you understand what I mean.”

And damn it all, it only took Arthur a moment to catch on. “No. No, you are nothing like John. John is a good person. I know he’s still fighting you in there.”

Anger crept into the King’s voice. “And what do you know about me? Do you even know my name, Arthur Lester? Or will you keep calling me John until your final days?”

“I don’t need to know your name to know you’re a right prick. Even a fragment of your own soul wants nothing to do with you,” he spat back.

Silence rang between them for a long moment. An otherworldly growl like the screech of a slipping record echoed through Arthur’s bones and he froze completely still. He couldn’t even breath as the sound bounced back off the room’s walls.

“You forget yourself,” the King snarled, that horrific echo of the unknowable hammering the words directly into Arthur’s brain. “Maybe I should jog your memory.”

The scent of filth and despair flooded his senses and Arthur knew immediately where he was.

“No!” his voice cracked as he threw himself forward to claw at the hard-packed dirt walls. “Fuck! No, let me out! I won’t fucking go back! I won’t!”

Not the Pits.

Anything but the Pits.

The visceral scent and sensation of the walls under his nails abruptly vanished. He stumbled forward and collapsed to his knees. Shaken, he reached forward and patted his hands along the floor. It was hard, polished stone, not hard-packed dirt. Nothing like the floor of the Pit. Tears welled up in his eyes with the strength of his relief. He wasn’t there. He was still out.

He wasn’t there.

A sob ripped its way out of him.

“Arthur, I…” The King sounded so fucking much like John sometimes. It drew another helpless sob out of him.

Arthur couldn’t do this anymore. All he wanted was to go home. But how could he go back without John? He’d seen what waited for him on Earth without John. It was emptiness. He’d been dying alone and blind in a cabin in the middle of nowhere surrounded by snow. He couldn’t even pick a direction to drag himself in without risking death from exposure because he had no fucking clue if he was moving towards civilization or heading deeper into the wilderness.

“What do you fucking want from me?” His voice sounded so fucking small as it bounced off the walls of this fancy new prison.

He’d never wanted to hear John’s voice more than when he’d woken up on the floor of that fucking cabin.

But John hadn’t been there. John was here. John was a prisoner of the King still.

Arthur couldn’t leave him here alone.

He’d given his life up for John once. He could do it again. He didn’t have anything else waiting for him back home.

He dragged the tattered shreds of his resolve back around him and stood up. John needed him. He couldn’t fall to pieces now.

He wouldn’t let the King win again.

“Right now I want you to settle in. Take a bath, eat something, sleep. We can talk after that.” Arthur didn’t even have the energy left to get properly angry at how fucking gentle the King sounded now. The little flare that sputtered up died down almost as quickly as it appeared.

“Fine.” If the King was going to offer him respite, then Arthur would take full advantage of it. He would need it later if he wanted to escape with John.

“Then I will see you later,” the King told him. An unholy screech of electric reverberation and whispers clawed its way into Arthur’s brain and he brought his hands up to his ears with a pained exclamation. It did nothing to block out the noise.

Then there was a sudden sense of absence. He knew down to his bones that the King had departed.

After taking a second to pull himself back together, he stretched a hand out and shuffled to the left until he encountered a wall. Dragging his hand along it, he moved forward, carefully testing the ground with each step forward.

It was obvious when he reached the pool. The gentle caress of steam curled over his skin and the sweet, clean scent of water drifted up with it. He felt out with a foot until he found the lip of the pool. Eagerly, he reached for the tattered remains of his tie, before stopping.

The King had said he left some of his servants here.

He cleared his throat politely. “I would like to bathe privately now. If any Dancers in the room could either leave the room or turn away, that would be greatly appreciated.”

The rustle of cloth came from a few feet away from him and Arthur nearly jumped out of his skin.

“Jesus Christ,” he gasped. He’d had no clue they were so close. A new wave of annoyance hit him. The King couldn’t have included the locations of his fucking Dancers in his description of the room?

There was the sound of soft shoes moving away from him and then silence.

“I— Thank you,” he said shortly — hoping the sound had been their full compliance and not merely them moving back while continuing to stare — and started stripping out of his clothes. Though perhaps rags would be a better description of them. Mud, sweat, and blood was liberally encrusted into the fabric and the less said about the smell the better.

He tested the water with his foot carefully. Gentle, soothing, heat had him fumbling forward to get into the pool as quickly as possible. He splashed in and a groan ripped out of his throat. God, he hadn’t felt so good in… He didn’t even know anymore. It felt like it had been decades.

He took a second to just stand there, the water up to the bottom of his ribs, and soak in the heat. Then he ducked down and submerged himself fully in the water.

Suspended there in the water, time seemed to stop. There was nothing but heat and darkness and the sensation of being weightless. He folded himself down until he touched the bottom of the pool and there he sat.

His lungs began to burn with the need for air and, for a second, he considered just staying where he was. A visceral wave of disgust and horror followed hard on the heels of the thought and he shot back up to the surface of the pool.

He couldn’t.

He wouldn’t end it like that. Even the King in Yellow didn’t deserve to come back and find a corpse where there had been a living person.

The phantom sensation of the knife plunging into his throat burned at him and Arthur choked around it.

Jesus fucking Christ. He’d actually done that. He’d slit his own throat and it had…

It hadn’t been the relief he had thought it would be.

His stomach cramped hard and he dry-heaved. God. Fucking Christ. He didn’t want to think about this. He fumbled back over to the side of the pool and started feeling along the edges of it for some kind of soap.

His fingers encountered a metal platter of some sort and when he felt over it, he found what felt almost like… grapes? No, they were far too large for grapes and their otherwise oval shape ended in points rather than rounded edges. But their skin was smooth and cool like a grape’s. Maybe this was some alien fruit from the Dreamlands. He’d encountered so many oddities here. What were some strange fruits in comparison?

He left them where he found them for now. The thought of food made his stomach churn uncomfortably.

A little further on, he found a glass bottle of some sort. He pulled the stopper out and sniffed it cautiously. It was spicy and intoxicating and far too strong, but it had that soapy edge to its smell that indicated it was what he was looking for.

It wasn’t his preference, but clean was clean and he would use far more offensive scents if he had to. He tipped some into his palm and worked it into a lather before rubbing himself down.

As he worked it through his overgrown bush of a beard, he found himself wishing he had a razor. What he wouldn’t give to get a nice, clean shave right now.

He paused there, soap dripping slowly down his temple. Perhaps…

He cleared his throat loudly. “Excuse me, would there happen to be a razor I could use?”

There was the soft tap of shoes moving out of earshot and then a long stretch of silence. Perhaps there hadn’t been any razors in the room. Or perhaps the Dancer had run off to ask the King if it was okay to let him shave. Whatever. He would finish his bath regardless of getting a shave or not.

Not too long later, as he was rising his hair our for a second time, the soft tapping of shoes approached until it was directly in front of him. Hesitantly, he held up a hand and something cool and metallic was pressed into it. Feeling it out, he found that he had been given a straight razor. “Ah, thank you.”

There was a small titter of laughter before the dancer moved back. Feeling strangely self-conscious now, Arthur finished cleaning himself up quickly.

He hesitated when he’d finished. The idea of getting out of the warm water was incredibly unappealing. Would it hurt to stay in the pool a little bit longer? There was food along the rim of it. He could soak a while longer as he ate. His stomach had settled while he performed his ablutions and now was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it wanted attention too.

Mind made up, he felt along the edge of the pool until he encountered the metal platter again. He plucked up one of the strange fruits and turned it over in his hand. There would be no benefit in poisoning him now, so it was likely safe to eat.

He popped it in his mouth. Tart, sweet juice burst over his tongue like a sunburst. His stomach roared at him and, before he knew it, he had demolished most of the bunch.

His fingers brushed along another item next to the fruits and he realized it was the flatbread. Delighted, he tore a chunk off and ate that too. It was freshly baked, soft and warm on his tongue, and it vanished almost as quickly as the fruits had.

He proceeded to clear the rest of the platter and even found a goblet full of what might have been some kind of strange mulled wine next to it. He didn’t know and right now he didn’t particularly care.

Uncomfortably full and warm, a massive yawn escaped him. He bent forward over where his elbows braced him on the pool’s edge and debated the merits of falling asleep right where he was. It was incredibly tempting, but he didn’t feel like dealing with the humiliation when he would inevitably have to be fished out of the pool.

Reluctantly, he dragged himself out of the water. The towels were just as soft as he had been promised and he happily wrapped himself up in one.

God, he felt like a new person entirely. The difference such simple pleasures made in one’s life was frankly unbelievable. He could hardly believe he was in the same Dreamlands that he had spent the last three months suffering through. It felt like he would wake up back in the Pits at any second.

Maybe he would. He was at the King’s mercy here.

The rapid patter of shoes came directly up to both sides of him and Arthur flinched back at their sudden proximity, slipping on the wet tile and nearly falling before he caught himself. “Jesus Christ. Don’t do that.”

There was a rustle of fabric from his right and then incomprehensibly soft, smooth fabric was pressed against the back of his hand that hadn’t gone down to make sure his towel didn’t slip.

Curious, he accepted it and ran it through his hands. It was folded up, but when he shook it out, he realized it was some kind of robe. “Is this for me to change into?”

There was another whisper of cloth from the right.

“Are you… not able to speak?” He tried to remember how John had described the Dancers when they had encountered them before, but the details were largely overshadowed by what came after. Another pointed whisper of cloth followed. “Right, of course, how about… Tap my arm once for yes and twice for no.”

There came two soft taps against his arm. The hand, if it had been a hand, had not felt like skin, but rather more like the flat of a ceramic blade that was body-warm in temperature. It was decidedly off-putting.

He shifted back a step and pulled the garment up against his chest. It seemed fitting that the King would leave him with strange servants unable to answer his questions.

The Dancer to his left reached forward and tugged lightly at the fabric in his hands.

“I can dress myself, thank you,” Arthur told her sharply and unfolded the garment to do just that. It took him a second to work out where his head and arms went, but soon enough he had the robes on over top of his towel. Feeling somewhat foolish, he then let the towel drop.

Pettily, he left it where it fell. The King could just deal with him making a mess of his guest room.

He made his way back over to the wall and let his hand trail along it as he started towards the other side of the room where the King had said the bed was. The Dancers trailed in his wake. It was more than a little unnerving.

“I can walk across a room just fine on my own. You don’t need to hover. Go do whatever it is you normally do.” It was unlikely they would leave, but Arthur could settle for them giving him some space.

Their footsteps stopped for a moment before they moved off deeper into the room. It wasn’t long before the sound of them was lost in the vastness of the space. Somehow, not knowing where they were or what they were doing was worse than having them dogging at his heels, but Arthur refused to call them back.

The walk stretched on and he encountered nothing aside from the tapestries and a few bookshelves on the wall. A few times he felt the smooth marble-like floors under his bare feet shift into the mosaic tiles the King had described, but other than that he encountered nothing.

The room was big yes, but surely he should have reached the other side of it by now. It occurred to him that he had no idea whether the bed was up against the wall or not. He could have already walked past it and was now circling back around to the pool. Alternatively, it could be a few steps in front of him.

He didn’t know and he hated how helpless it left him feeling.

He stopped walking and took a deep breath. At some point he would need to map out the entire room, perhaps shuffle a few items around in it to serve as guidance posts, but right now he was exhausted. He just wanted to sleep. He could find the bed on his own, but he didn’t know how long it would take.

His free hand bunched up in the robe before he straightened it back out and smoothed the fabric down.

“Excuse me, could one of you point me in the direction of the bed?” he called out towards the center of the room.

There was silence for a moment and then one set of footsteps approached. A pair of heavy hands landed on his shoulders.

He flinched back automatically, his hands coming up to defend himself before he stopped. The grip vanished immediately. He took another deep breath before he put his hands back down. He would not apologize for a perfectly reasonable reaction. Not to one of the King’s own.

There was silence for a beat of time and then the hands came back, alighting on his shoulders as delicately as butterfly wings. Slowly, he was nudged about two-thirds of the way around from the wall.

Warmth flushed into his face as he realized that he had indeed overshot the bed. “Ah. Thank you.”

The Dancer retreated again with a flutter. There was a soft tittering sound almost like laughter from deeper in the room. Arthur’s face went even warmer as he clenched his jaw and marched forward.

He hated this. Even more, he hated how much this bothered him. What did it matter if the King’s heralds laughed at the poor blind man? If they underestimated him, it would just make his future escape easier.

He wanted John back so much it felt like being stabbed.

The bed announced its sudden presence by way of changing the hard stone into plush fabric. Arthur yelped and tripped forward. He caught himself with his hands against pillowy cotton that sank down almost an inch with his weight. Laughter rang out from deeper in the room.

“Would the two of you shut up,” he snapped. Hadn’t they said they couldn’t speak? What was this then?

Angrily, he shuffled forward on his knees, feeling around for the edge of the blankets and a pillow. The bed continued to stretch onwards and, before he knew it, he had abandoned his quest to settle down in order to find out just how big the bed was.

The answer was unaccountably massive. Arthur was relatively certain that he could have stretched himself out twice and barely touched the edges of the bed. It was far beyond lavish, it was unreasonably ostentatious. He felt ridiculous just being in its vicinity.

Still, it was soft and he’d earned something nice after everything he’d been through. He draped one of the light sheets over himself — it was warm enough in the room that it was more than enough to keep him comfortable — and dragged one of the many plush pillows under his head.

A long breath escaped him as he relaxed back into the most comfortable bed of his life. He was out in moments.

-

He drifted slowly out of sleep. It was warm and comfortable and he never wanted to get up. He turned over, intending to settle down and go back to sleep, and something stroked over his arm.

Arthur shot up out of bed with a strangled yell. For a moment, he struggled with the blanket, then he was free. He shoved the thing on his arm off as he frantically scooted away.

He stopped, confused, as his hand met nothing but cloth. “What…”

Cautiously, he patted around for the thing he had felt moving, and his hand closed around a bolt of impossibly soft fabric. A shaky laugh escaped from him. It hadn’t been something trying to kill him after all. It was just some fabric he’d been tangled with.

Then the bolt of fabric wrapped around his hand and tugged him forward.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Arthur gasped and frantically tried to claw it off of him.

A deep, unearthly laugh reverberated around the room. Dread pooled in his stomach and he froze where he was. The King had returned.

He shoved the fear down as far as he could, but he couldn’t help the way his hands continued to tremble at the shock.

“Did you have a good nap?” the King asked him, fond and teasing and sounding far too much like John.

Arthur bristled. He tugged his arm firmly against the grip around it — and what was it? It felt just like cloth, if soft enough that cloth didn’t feel like an adequate word to describe it, but it moved like it was alive — and it curled further up his arm in response. Frustrated, he let his arm go lax instead of giving the King the satisfaction of continuing to struggle hopelessly.

“Are you finally going to answer my question?” he shot back.

“I suppose I should,” the King said, sounding bored by the idea of it. “Very well. You are here because I would like you to be.”

What a non-answer. There were so many ways a statement like that could be meant. “And why exactly would you like that? Because the last I checked, you hated me.”

“Hatred is a strong word for what I felt. Annoyance would be closer. Perhaps frustration. You were like a fly buzzing in my ear and refusing to leave.”

“A fly the almighty King couldn’t even manage to swat,” Arthur said sarcastically, feeling strangely stung by the flippant dismissal. “Yes, I can see why you might call that frustrating. Now stop dodging the question. Why am I here? Truly.”

“I think I swatted you just fine,” the King said smugly.

“Not the point,” he hissed.

The King sighed and there was a shuffling of cloth and the faint hint of whispers carried on an otherworldly wind. The cloth around his hand squeezed once and twisted further up his arm. “I know you had your expectations of what returning John to me would entail and that he shared them, but returning to my whole, unbroken self has had a rather different outcome.”

There was a sudden ringing in his ears as he processed what the King had said.

“No,” Arthur breathed out in horror and then continued, louder, “No, John promised he’d fight you! He wouldn’t give in that fast!”

“Would you just fucking listen to me?” the King hissed at him. “I did— He did fight. Every fucking step of the way. And ultimately it was a draw. I chose to become whole again rather than remain broken, but I am not the same King in Yellow that I was before. I am changed. You changed me. I don’t know if I want to kill you for it or reward you, but it is done and it cannot be undone. You, Arthur Lester, have changed a piece of the fabric of the universe.”

Hope surged up in Arthur. “Then… you’re saying John is still there?”

“Fuck, is that all you care about? Yes, “John” is still here. I remember every step we walked together and every emotion you evoked in me.”

The idea of the King having all of John’s memories was sickening. Those had belonged to John, not a monster like the King. He had no right to them. This had to be fixed. He couldn’t give up on John now that there was a glimpse of hope on the horizon.

“And you don’t want to be changed, right?” he cajoled the King. “So what if you gave him back? Undo the change, so to say.”

“Did you listen to a single fucking word I said? The change is done. I am John and John is me. I might as well rip an arm off and hand that over to you. It would accomplish about the same as ripping another piece of my soul out and stuffing it in your head, you greedy, selfish human!” The King’s voice rose into a brain-rending shout and Arthur froze in place.

“Do you have any idea what that was like for me?” The King continued in a multi-toned mixture of a spitting electricity and a growl of the wind that made every hair on Arthur’s body stand up straight. The fabric around his arm curled agitatedly, sometimes tight enough to be painful and sometimes loose enough that he might have been able to pull free. He didn’t attempt to.

“I was a prisoner! I had nothing but a pair of eyes, a hand, and a foot. I couldn’t speak to anyone, I couldn’t control our actions, I couldn’t even make a single fucking decision except for what I chose to tell you! I should kill you for daring to hold me prisoner!”

As abruptly as the King’s anger surged, it ebbed back down. His voice was firm and deep with a hint of whispers behind it as he finished. “I won’t stuff myself back into you anymore than you will walk back into the Prison Pits.”

“That’s—” Arthur started to say, a lump forming in his throat.

“But maybe that’s not what you want,” the King continued while Arthur tried to breath through the sudden wave of nausea. “Maybe, you just want a harmless little pet to guide your every action.” It was John’s voice, curling comfortably inside his head the way it always had. “A dying branch turned into a crutch for the helpless, blind man and damn what it means for the tree you took the crutch from.”

“Get out of my head!” he screamed. He jerked his arm back hard and the fabric finally fell away.

Arthur panted harshly in the heavy silence that fell over them. He could feel the King’s heavy regard pressing down on him like the stones of the cave under the lighthouse. He wrapped his arms around himself, half to keep them out of the King’s grip and half to reassure himself that he could still move.

After a couple moments to collect himself, he spoke again. “If there is any truth to what you just said, then you never do that again. Never. Do you understand me?”

He waited until he got a response.

“I understand,” the King said tightly after several long beats.

“Good.”

A charged silence fell over them.

Arthur’s felt like his emotions were being pulled in so many directions at once he was about to collapse in pieces. John was gone? For good? Oh god. He was—

He switched tracks. Had he really been imprisoning John? But John had wanted to stay with him! He wasn’t anything like the King and his cursed Pits.

But John also wasn’t really gone and still wanted him around, hence bringing him back to the Dreamlands? Hadn’t he been just as desperate to leave this place and return to Arkham as Arthur? Then the desire to stay here was the King?

It didn’t seem possible for his friend to be the same monster that had left him to rot in the Pits. He couldn't accept that. John was different. He knew it in his soul.

Was this all an elaborate ruse by the King to torment him as some kind of revenge? Arthur didn’t know if he could survive finding out that John was truly gone and this was just the King playing with him. But it felt so much like talking to John…

Arthur didn’t know. He felt like he didn’t know anything anymore. The rug was well and truly pulled out from under him.

But… Arthur had rebuilt himself from lower points than this. He had lost everything before. There was no excuse for falling to pieces now when there might still be something left.

It was likely a fool’s hope, and would come back to stab him through the heart, but he had to believe that John was still in there somewhere.

Unwinding his grip on himself, he wrapped his hands together, closing his right hand over his wooden pinkie. As John had said: there were miles still to go.

It was time to pick the pieces back up and carry on.

He could do this. He just needed to treat this like he had any other problem that needed to be worked through.

Arthur knew he was a damn good detective and very good at reading people. And, right now, he felt like he was being told the truth. Maybe not the entire truth, but very close to it. He could work with that.

“If I,” he swallowed heavily to force the lump down and tried again. “If I was your jailer, then why did you bring me back? Wouldn’t you have preferred to leave me to die on Earth?”

“Because you are also my friend, Arthur. I found that…” He fell silent.

“You found what?” Arthur prompted gently.

“I found that I missed you. As strange as that seems. I did not wish to leave you on Earth, especially when I knew I had injured you.”

He didn’t sound like the King. He sounded like John. Was it possible… Could John have defeated the King? Could he have absorbed the King rather than the other way around?

“John,” he questioned, the entirety of his tremulous hope contained in that single name.

“I suppose that is one of my names now,” he said with a hint of humor. “It’s been quite a while since I took a new one. Perhaps it was time.”

Arthur reached up in the direction John’s voice had been coming from. Hope and a kind of ecstasy he hadn’t know before swelled inside him. “Your hand. Give me your hand.”

Something warm pushed against his hand and Arthur closed both his hands around it. He would guess it was just a fingertip, but it was close enough. “I suppose I can’t quite shake your hand, but it’s still so good to finally properly meet you, John.”

“And I you, Arthur,” John rumbled back. His hand pulled away and Arthur felt strangely disappointed by the loss of contact.

Then John’s hand closed around him and he was lifted so gently he hardly even felt the movement of it.

Arthur still felt his stomach swoop and he clutched at the fingers around him for an anchor. “I’m not a doll. Don’t just go picking me up,” he objected.

“Of course not, Arthur. I simply wish to see you better. You are quite far down. I think I may get a crick in my neck talking to you.” John’s voice shook with suppressed amusement.

“Shut up. You’re the one who is far too big.”

“I prefer the term glorious.”

A finger pressed down on his head for a second and then lifted just enough to stroke over his hair. It was strange, but not entirely unwelcome. John had his own body. How novel. He released his grip with one hand and stroked over John’s finger in turn. How wonderful it was to be able to do something so mundane as touch his friend.

A laugh that was half hysteria and half honest joy bubbled up out of Arthur. This was utterly insane, but when had insanity stopped him before?

John was here. They would figure out the rest together, just like they always had.

[maraschinomerry]

okay so, what about a lockwood and co x reader (platonic) where reader is quiet but if she does speak it’s always blunt or sarcastic or kinda rude because she doesn’t know how to express her feelings nicely but she shows her love in ways like act of service or protecting the others on a mission and like linking pinkies with them when walking to the archives and things and everyone is convinced she hates every other person but they know they’re the closest thing she’s ever had to a family even if she doesn’t say it

thanks so much bae i understand if you don’t want to write it no presssure <3333

Saving Your Friends 101

Pairings: Lockwood & Co & gn!reader (I know you used she/her in the ask but there aren't actually any pronouns in the fic)

Content: found family, struggling with expressing feelings, school bully, canon-typical violence fighting a ghost, Kipps being a jerk

A/N: I'm the least sarcastic person ever so I hope this all sounds okay 😅 also I just had to use that gif as the header, Lucy looking so done felt like the right vibes for reader in this

Word count: 2.7k

Taglist: @neewtmas @marinalor @ettadear @honey-with-tea (lmk if you want adding or removing!)

"Hey loser! I thought I told you to finish my maths homework!"

You were 8 years old, sitting making patterns in the dirt of your school playing field when your horrible classmate Jason stomped over with his group of equally unpleasant friends. He was a brute of a lad: what he lacked in height he made up for in muscle, his expression was almost permanently fixed in a scowl, and he had a small scar on his cheek that everyone thought was so cool and intimidating (but which you knew he got from falling off his bike when he was 5). Half the school, teachers included, were wrapped around his little finger in fear. But not you.

"Go away, Jason."

"Or what? You're not doing anything, nobody ever wants to play with you."

"I don't care," you shrugged. "I'm not going to waste my time so you can pretend you're not too stupid for times tables."

Jason stepped forward to tower over you, stocky frame casting your whole body in shadow, and a few of his cronies twitched with tempered aggression. "What did you say?"

You stood up on the spot, forcing him to lean back to normal as your face rose ever closer to his. You were a couple of inches shy of him, dungarees rolled several times at the ankles to stop you tripping over, but he wasn't exactly tall in comparison to his group. Being smaller didn't faze you; you squared up to him without hesitation. "I said you're stupid and wasting my precious minutes. Life is short… and so are you."

The cluster of boys burst out laughing - not at you, at him. Jason grew red in the face and puffed up like he could account for the missing height to fight you better, but you merely raised an eyebrow. One of the boys stepped out from the group and punched you encouragingly on the arm. Another much taller boy leaned on Jason's shoulder to emphasise the difference. Jason stormed off.

—

Ever since then, quick wit and sarcasm had been your shield as you carried yourself through the world. From holding up against your affectionless parents to commanding instant respect when you started training to be an agent, they served you so well that you near enough forgot how to be any other way. And that was fine. It worked, kept you detached and independent. That is, it worked until you joined Lockwood & Co.

You settled in quickly, discovering that the rest of the agency could be just as snappy as you. George especially had proved more than a match from the day you arrived.

"I'm here for a job," you announced when the curly-haired boy, dressed in orange plaid, opened the door of 35 Portland Row.

"As an agent?" he frowned. Lockwood hadn't put out another ad, as far as he knew.

"No, I just like accessorising with a rapier."

"Well, if it's as sharp as your tongue I shouldn't be in too much danger. Come in." Despite the insult you followed him with a grin. Finally, someone who might get you.

Unlike you, however, they knew how to switch it off. Your switch had rusted long ago, if not fallen off completely. Normally it wouldn't have bothered you, if it had kept you alive up to now it was worth it, but the longer you stayed the more you found yourself growing genuinely fond of your teammates and entirely unable to tell them as much. Nothing had to change, of course, that was what you told yourself - letting them in would only make you weak, it was better to keep to yourself. Say as little as possible to them. You tried to quiet the little voice in the back of your head which whispered that maybe the reason you kept your distance was that you were afraid of saying the wrong thing and scaring them off, of losing your first real friends.

—

"Everybody ready?" Lockwood asked as he dropped his kit bag onto the kitchen floor with a dull thud. You'd been ready nearly 10 minutes, still fairly new to working cases despite the months you'd been there and eager to respect the schedule that Lockwood had set out. Lucy had been the next after you to arrive, offering a quick 'hi' which you acknowledged with a nod. When George came down he immediately started chatting to Lucy. He didn't ask if you wanted to join the conversation. You never seemed to. He often wondered if you actually wanted to be there at all, but you hadn't left despite how little you'd tried to bond with them. There were plenty of other agencies to go to, yet still you stayed.

While Lockwood checked over the supplies once more, you leaned over to Lucy, who so far had been a reliable source on the boys and their actions.

"Is he always this picky with the gear?"

Lucy sighed as she adjusted her bootstrap. "No, just when the case involves families like this one. Brings out his protective 'save the world' side."

You'd heard by now about the young age at which he'd been orphaned, he was open enough about the circumstances if not the details, and you understood his pain but had never been taught how to address anything as serious as that. All you had to work with was your dry humour. "Save the world? He can barely even save his toast in the mornings," you muttered. Lucy snorted.

"If you're quite done mocking my culinary abilities…"

"Oh, I'm definitely not done, but it can wait," you smirked. Lockwood rolled his eyes, but didn't miss the way you wordlessly joined him in sorting through the bags.

The case itself went well, up until about the last 5 minutes. You all successfully secured one source, but it turned out the house had a second Visitor which you discovered when the four of you were ambushed by it in the dining room. It was a man, looked to be in his late 40s, with a thinning head of hair and an even thinner frame. The previous owner, then, Richard. Lockwood immediately stepped forward, rapier brandished, but with an ear-splitting screech Richard tossed him aside. The rest of you watched in horror as he flew across the table and crashed through a chair to land in a pile of splintered wood.

You levelled your own rapier, less aggressively. "George, Lucy, look for the source," you fought to keep your voice as steady as your blade, all your usual confidence gone without the safety net of your snide remarks which would only anger the ghost. "Cabinet behind us is our best bet, I think. I'll help Lockwood." The other two exchanged a glance before nodding and moving slowly towards the cabinet in question. You began to move in the other direction, around the side of the table and towards the spectral figure which was hovering worryingly close to the boy in the debris.

"Hey!" you called. Richard's gaze snapped to you. You faltered. No. Confidence. Wit. Use your ridiculous snarky brain to keep Lockwood alive. "He's not a fair fight any more, and you're better than that, aren't you? Come on, show me what you've got."

You almost heard Lockwood's protest - you saw his lips forming the words, sure, but the noise itself was drowned out by the shriek that burst from Richard's snarling mouth as he rushed towards you. You planted your feet and held your ground, just like you'd done that day in the school yard all those years ago, but at the last second you rolled out the way and sent your rapier slicing upwards. Richard howled, but it wasn't enough to dematerialise him and within seconds he rounded on you again.

"Aww, not bad for a first attempt," you jeered. "Do you want to try again?" The words had barely left your lips before he was upon you, and you swung hastily. The blade split him right down the middle, but he reformed behind you and you had to dance across the space to avoid him, smacking your ribs painfully against a sideboard as you did so. Your chest was heaving as you faced him once more.

"Are you even trying to hit me?"

A lance of air struck you in the centre of your chest, knocking all the air from your lungs as you collided with the wall. That answered that. You would have cried out if you'd had the breath to do so. Lockwood was right beside you, midway from climbing out of the broken chair but now frozen in the glare of the wrathful spirit which hung above you both. With the last of your energy you dragged your body between him and it.

"Got it!" Lucy yelled frantically in the distance, and in a wave the feeling returned to your limbs as Richard disappeared. Lockwood groaned, reaching out to help you up from where you'd slumped against him.

"So you know when you're taught not to taunt the Visitors, did you just skip that class, or…?" he scolded, but there was a touch of amusement in his voice, his way of showing he was grateful to have been saved.

You chuckled, wincing as the sound rattled your bruised ribs. "Scheduling conflict, not my fault. Clashed with 'Saving Your Friends 101'." You realised that was the first time you'd called them your friends out loud. They realised it too.

—

That case marked the beginning of a shift within the agency. Where the rest of them had been struggling to see any indication that you cared about being part of the group, suddenly they couldn't stop seeing them. Nothing had changed in the way you spoke (minimally, and heavily sarcastic when you did), but they learned to notice everything you said without words. How you always grabbed the first aid kit when someone came home injured from a case, and insisted on treating the wounds yourself. The way you clicked the release on the toaster every time Lockwood risked leaving it a little too long. The times George would fall asleep while researching with you in the library and wake up with the blanket from the back of your chair draped across him. The fact that none of them had bought any more of Lucy's favourite tea in nearly two months, and yet whenever she was close to running out the caddy would be full again the next day. As they began noticing the subtle ways you expressed your feelings, they began to find little gestures they could do in return to show they cared without pressuring you into talking, which only strengthened your commitment further. Lucy poured you juice in the morning before you asked and put your pyjamas in the dryer while you were in the bath; Lockwood made a big act of ruffling your hair and calling you 'kiddo' like an enthusiastic uncle when you did something particularly well; George learned your rankings of pizza toppings and Arif's doughnuts by heart so you'd always get the highest one available. All so uniquely them.

—

It was a bright June morning, with fine wisps of cotton candy clouds drifting lazily across the sky. An ice cream van sounded nearby, being pursued by a horde of excitable children. This was no time for ice cream for Lockwood & Co, though - there was an exceptionally big case to research, and it was all hands on deck as the four of you strode towards the British Archives. Lockwood was on the right, trenchcoat left at home and shirt sleeves rolled up to make the most of the glorious sun, rapier hanging from his belt. Lucy was on his left, arm linked through his. Her other hand had started in the pocket of her blue playsuit, which today she wore without tights, but now it held yours and swung casually back and forth. George completed the line on your left. You knew by now that he wasn't overly keen on physical interaction, which you completely understood, but you also could tell when he was willing to let it slide to join in with the group. This was one of those moments. Your hands had brushed as you walked along, and your pinky had twisted round his. This was almost a habit between the two of you by now, not quite as intense as holding hands but still providing a tether, a connection.

Inside was bliss, the comforting scent of old books accentuated by crisp conditioned air which provided relief from the blazing heat outside. You all spread out to gather resources from across the archives. Lucy returned with a stack of books so high she could barely see over the top, and you shifted your files into one arm so you could pull a chair out for her with your free hand. She smiled at you as the books cascaded onto the table.

Before long you were thoroughly engrossed in the research. It was one of your favourite activities within the agency, an opportunity to make a helpful contribution without the expectation of speaking to anyone. The only sounds were the rustle of turning pages, the scratch of your pen as you scribbled notes, and the occasional comment from one of the others when they found something unusual.

"My my," a voice that didn't belong to the group filtered through the barrier of concentration you'd built. You looked up to see Quill Kipps and his team sneering at your table. "It must be a big case to have you all working on it. Or do you just need help with the difficult words, Tony?"

There was a tic in Lockwood's jaw, but he forced an overly polite smile. "It is a big case, one that our client clearly thought we were better equipped to handle."

Kipps scoffed. "Probably just trying to save a bit of cash on a sub-par service instead of paying for the premium. Not to worry, Fittes will be more than happy to finish the job when you fail to."

You decided to follow Lockwood's lead, putting on the most innocent expression you could muster. "Hmm, what was I…" you feigned forgetfulness. "Oh, George, you'll know! What's that theory with the monkeys and the typewriters?" Kipps' team took the bait immediately, giggling amongst themselves at your scatterbrained question.

"Supposedly if you had infinite monkeys with typewriters or one monkey with a typewriter and infinite time, they would eventually type out the complete works of Shakespeare. It's not exactly true though."

Your smile turned wolfish. "That's the one, and remembered without a database too! I just thought of it because I was wondering whether, given long enough, Kipps would eventually say something intelligent. Don't think that's true either."

The other group fell into a stunned silence, giving everyone the opportunity to hear Lucy choking back a laugh. Kipps opened his mouth to respond, but then had just enough sense to realise that there was hardly anything he could say that wouldn't prove your point and promptly closed it again. Instead he shot you all one last glare and turned silently on his heel. The rest of his team scampered after his retreating figure.

Lucy's laughter erupted with enough force that she almost tipped backwards out of her chair. George grinned at you. "That was amazing!"

"Couldn't have done it without you, genius."

You suddenly glanced at Lockwood. His rivalry with Kipps was more intense than any you'd seen before, and you hated to think you might have overstepped or taken away his chance at gaining the upper hand. Relief washed over you when he gave you his signature smirk, eyes twinkling with mischief. "If that's something else you learnt in 'Saving Your Friends 101', I might have to sign up for classes."

"Lucky for you I'm very committed to my studies, I can just lend you my notes."

Lucy leaned over to watch your pen gliding across the notepad as you spoke. She frowned at the page. "Your current note is just a doodle of… is that a crying monkey in a Fittes uniform?"

You all glanced in the direction in which Kipps had retreated. Lockwood reached across and picked up the notebook. "I'll definitely need to borrow this, for educational purposes of course… and then it's going on the fridge." You beamed with pride.

[sunny6677]

The House On The Hill.

(A rewritten version of the Hatzgangs scene from The Stars for the Saturated AU.)

TWS FOR FLESH EATING, BLOOD, DRUGS, DRUG DEALERS, ETC

————

It shows the kids walking along the sidewalk for a brief shot, with Skid being like. "Sheesh–how could this get any—"

He stops, noticing something off screen and then seeming frustrated. While Pump becomes visibly confused.

It cuts to the Hatzgang, who is standing in front of them. Roy's friends have mischievous looks on their faces, while Roy has a genuine smile from ear to ear.

"Hey! Those are some nice costumes you got there!"

"Uh—thanks?" Pump says, arching a brow.

"For us to ruin!" Ross suddenly cuts in with a smirk. Roy tries to protest, but before he can stop them, Robert and Ross both walk foward—straight up hitting the kids in the face, kicking them in the stomach and then punching them across their heads. Before they can go any further, Roy intervenes by getting in between them.

"He—Hey! Stop! What are you doing??"

Ross blinks. "..uh.. duh..? They're weirdos. They deserve it."

"No, they're not!" Roy exclaims, and then faces the kids while his friends glare a bit. "Uh—sorry about that. What are you two here for?"

"..uh.. we were just trying to find something cool to do until your friends decided to beat us up." Pump shrugs, speaking bitterly.

"Oh—reallyy?? Y'know—there's actually this really cool house over there on the hill! It's really Halloweeny and junk!"

"..really?" Skid looks over to where Roy points, and sees it. He still seems skeptical though, glancing over at Ross specifically. "..well.. we'll go check it out, I guess. This better not be a trick though. C'mon—let's go."

The kids slowly walk away as the three watch.

"..I bet they're gonna have a lot of fun with that guy who sold me the special sugar in the alleyway!" Roy grins aloud to himself. This sentence makes both Robert and Ross glance over at him, their expressions becoming more serious.

"..what..?" Ross says.

It cuts to the interior of the house on the hill, only for the doors to practically slam open. The kids skeptically look around, and see no one inside, so they walk in.

"..huh." Skid says aloud to himself, looking around. "..guess it's empty after all."

But then, when the two look ahead—they see a gigantic opening in the ground. There appears to be some kind of strange wrapped box beside it, but also a splatter of blood trickling from the hole.

Skid becomes noticeably cautious, and as does Pump. As bravely as he can, Skid steps foward to maybe ensure that whatever is inside doesn't hear him. But the moment he peeks in, a tentacle shoots out and grabs him. Skid screams out. Pump yells, only for a tentacle to shoot out again and grab him too.

They're both dragged down into an eerily silent, bright red void. And..

..Eyes is standing there right before them, his eyes looking straight down at their faces. Skids face becomes noticeably irritated instead of frightened, while Pumps becomes absolutely horrified as he stares into Eyes's red sockets.

Eyes loud, rumbling voice begins to speak. "..HELLO, MORTAL FLESH.."

"..hi." Skid frowns. "Can you let us go? We're trying to explore a house up here!"

"..I DON'T BELIEVE I CAN ALLOW THAT. ALLOW ME TO PUT YOU OUT OF YOUR—"

When Skid feels Eyes's tentacles tighten at a painful level, he reacts quickly and literally slaps Eyes on the tentacle. "Hey! Stop! I don't know who you think you are, but I'm not letting you push us around!"

"..YOU'RE.. INTERESTING."

"Yeah. That's very nice of you. Can you let us go? Please?"

"..HMMMM.. YES. BUT IN EXCHANGE FOR ONE THING.."

It shows Eyes ominously emerging from the house for a frame, and then cuts to the Hatzgang.

"What do you mean that wasn't candy?" Roy asks his friends, who then look up with even more horrified faces as a shadow looms over them. Roy looks behind himself, and it shows Eyes, who has two of his eyes in the center brightly lit up. It cuts to the Hatzgang, who now have red pupils and are visibly distressed as red marks begin to appear on their skin a bit.

"Wh—hey!"

Skid slaps Eyes on the mush they're sitting on, and Eyes briefly stops making noise.

Skid yells, "I said we'd show you the town! Not eat people's flesh!"

Skid then just let's out a irritated sigh, but his eyes light up, seemingly getting an idea on what to do.

[izvmimi]

Every stranger’s glance toward Tanjiro makes your stomach sink as deep as the nearly setting sun.

“Have a great day, Kamado-san!” The all too cheerful young woman at the fruit stand sends him off with a few extra mandarins and a smile that makes your frown deepen. “You too! Thank you!”

His response makes it worse, equally as cheerful, and the enemy that is your mind gradually fills in vile blanks for you. She could easily take your place, cut you out of your own life and fill in the spot like a collage. Your fist clenches at your side and Tanjiro finally reaches you, wrapping said clenched fist in his hand and squeezing it with a puzzled furrow of his brow.

“Are you okay?”

His words sound filtered, spoken through cotton while you bully yourself in your own head. Gradually working your hand open, he links his fingers with yours and you glance down at your tangled digits, withdrawing your own to let it hang at your side.

“Hey,” he starts, placing a hand on your back to gently guide you away from the main thoroughfare of the market. The two of you have ducked into a narrow alleyway, the shadows of the buildings surrounding you mirroring the cold pit in your stomach. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to but let’s take a moment to stand here.”

So kind, always. If you were in a better frame of mind you’d be grateful for him and that seemingly bottomless well of patience but right now it makes the pit grow wider. As badly as you’d like to keep your mouth shut until this passes, your emotion gets the better of you and you fold your arms over your chest.

“Why do you have to smile like that at other people?”

Taken aback by your question, Tanjiro’s mouth opens and closes quickly, brow still furrowed in confusion. He didn’t think he was overly friendly but the shake of your lower lip when you speak tells him that he made you feel bad, a frown on his face.

“I’m sorry beautiful,” he leans in toward you and reaches for your hand again, rubbing his thumb over the back of it and relishing in the feel of your skin against his.

You are the only one that he wants to smile at him. To sigh, to gently redirect or reprimand, to bathe together under the cool light of the moon. To laugh, to share pleasure, to create a family with.

He knows he could tell you all of this in words and he will later but for now, he settles on something different. Picking up your hand and gently maneuvering closer to you, he lifts your hand to the his mouth to kiss the back of it and then slowly slides it over his chest,

“You feel that?” He uses his thumb to flatten your palm against where you know planes of hardened muscle and scars lie beneath his clothing, his heartbeat reverberating against your skin. “That belongs to you.”

Whatever righteous fury existed in you dies with the soft pumping of his blood, the pitter patter of his heart causing yours to beat in response. Tanjiro’s soft smile further soothes you and he uses the gentle grasp of his hand atop yours to pull you against his chest, resting his chin on the top of your head.

“You are mine and I am yours forever.”

He has said and demonstrated these words to you since the day he realized you love him as much as he loves you and the soft way you glance up at him makes him believe he may finally have convinced you that they’re as true and honest as everything else about him is.

me looking at you after this blessing 😭 i love him so much i love YOUUUUUU 🫵🏾 so much cjfkfkkfgkkf💖💞💖💞💖💞💞💞💓💖

[kaisarion-tactical]

Possession Date

Kit buys a house and meets a ghost. 1400 words

“Alright, Mr. Kit. Just need you to sign here, here, and here; initial there, there, there and there; and... that's it!” A long French tipped nail pointed at various places on the page, only moving once Kit had affixed his signature or initials as required. 

Once finished he set the pen on the desk and the bubbly real estate agent beamed at him. “Congratulations on the purchase of your new home!” Her smile slipped momentarily. “Oh! I’m so sorry. There’s one more thing that requires your signature. One moment.” 

She fussed about on her computer before disappearing from the room to grab whatever it was from the copier. Kit sat back in his chair, taking in the room as he waited. Even though he’d been there several times during the purchase phase, there was always something new to catch his attention. 

The office wasn’t particularly exciting. It was painted a neutral beige, edging towards a latte colour. There was tasteful wainscotting around the bottom of the wall, and some contemporary art to give the room a bit of personality without being too bland; but it was overall as generic as any real estate office Kit had ever been in. The desk was oak laminate and had a large Mac computer on it, the stark white of the mouse and keyboard feeling too modern against the dark wood.

The click of heels on laminate flooring signaled the agent’s return and she slid into her chair with a soft huff, her wide, impossibly bright smile still locked in place. She tucked a strand of dark brown hair behind her ear.

“Sorry about that.” Taking the purchase agreement from Kit she set another sheet of paper in front of him. “This is just a waiver that you acknowledge that the house had a death occur there and that you release the former owners of any responsibility for issues you might have with the house in regard to that.” Her smile flagged slightly at the corners, a shadow crossing her face briefly. She swallowed, and then her realtor smile was back in place.“Standard stuff. Just sign and date at the bottom there, and then we’re all done!”

Kit signed and dated on the line above where his name - VINCENT KIT - stood out in bold black letters against the stark white paper and slid the document across the desk. He watched as the realtor signed and dated at the bottom as well before adding the document to the back of the purchase agreement.

It was still a couple weeks before he’d get the keys. While he’d agreed to a very short escrow period, knowing that there likely wouldn’t be any fall through with the agreement, there was still a short waiting period while all the legal pieces were finalized. 

From the realtor’s office he drove by the house, not for any reason other than just to look. It was early spring, but still cool enough that a thin layer of snow lingered on the grass and along the sidewalk. Backlit by the late afternoon sun the house stood imposingly with its red brick exterior, white window frames with their black shutters. The three dormers on the upper floor staring impassively out at the street below. 

Like empty eyes, Kit thought. Nobody’s home.

Something caught Kit’s eye inside the house and he blinked several times, peering closer through the passenger window at the lower floor where he was certain he’d seen something – someone – pass through the room.

The house had been empty for months now, and there was no way there could be anyone inside, unless they’d broken in and were squatting. The idea of dealing with a squatter twisted Kit’s mouth into a frown. Turning off the car, he got out, cautiously approaching the house. It was dark inside, as it should be. The windows were too high for his small frame to see inside, but that didn’t stop him from making a circuit around the house at a distance enough to let him peek inside from an angle. 

Once around, then twice, and no movement like what he’d seen from the car. 

Maybe his eyes were just playing tricks on him.

He smoothed a hand through his hair and pulled his powder blue peacoat a bit tighter to himself as he returned to the car, giving the house one last glance before pulling out onto the road and returning home.

---

Two weeks passed in a rush of preparation, and soon enough Kit was on the stoop of the house with the smiling realtor as she set the keys to the house into his waiting palm.

“Congratulations, again,” she said, although the enthusiasm in her words was less than when he’d put ink to paper.

“Thanks,” he said, giving her a polite nod. 

She clicked down the walk to her car, and Kit turned, slipping the key into the lock and entering the house for the first time as owner.

It was a stunning house that he’d gotten for a steal. 

When he’d read about the murder, he’d put his sights on it immediately for purchase, hiring a realtor before the house was even on the market, asking to be notified the moment it did. 

It’s not that he believed in ghosts, necessarily, but something about the murder, about the woman who had died… He felt some pull to protect her for reasons he didn’t quite understand and wasn’t prepared to question. If some soulless property developer, or even some renovation happy flippers had gotten their hands on the house he could only imagine what damage they would have caused. The interior of the house, while beautiful, had seen better days, and would require a good amount of work to repair to his satisfaction.

His footsteps echoed against the hardwood floors, creaking in places as he moved through the house. There were four good-sized bedrooms, two full bathrooms, a well laid out kitchen, living room, dining room, attic and a basement.

As he moved through the living room, there was a soft creak behind him, as though someone had walked over the same creaking spot Kit had just walked across, and he turned on his heel, looking for the source of the noise. But there was no one there, and other than the click of his shoes against the floor, the house was silent. 

“Hello?” Kit offered cautiously, not expecting an answer and certainly not sure that he wanted one.

Something brushed his arm, and he spun again, looking for the source. 

“Is someone there?” He was certain he hadn’t imagined the touch.

Another squeak of the floor further ahead. He followed it into the kitchen, eyes flickering around the room for any sign of movement. 

More nothing.

“I’m losing my mind,” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. 

There was another brush against his arm and he froze. He thought he could see something out of the corner of his eye. Something… vaguely human. Tall. A reflection in a window like a mirage. Definitely, probably human.

“Hello?” he said again, this time hoping for some kind of an answer. There was another soft brush against his arm and he let out a shaky breath as his heart hammered in his chest. “Okay. I’m not losing my mind, then.”

Kit wasn’t sure what to do with the confirmation that the house was haunted, or at least temporarily occupied by something. At the very least it validated his wild decision to buy the house as soon as conceivably possible. 

“Are you… Eisley?” he hedged. 

There was nothing for a long moment, but the temperature in the room became uncomfortably warm. How was he supposed to interpret that? Hot for yes, cold for no?

“Is that a yes?”

The temperature rose another few degrees, and Kit tugged at his shirt to get some air against heated skin. 

Okay. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Eisley,” he said. “I’m Kit.” There was another soft brush against his arm and he allowed a small smile. 

The house was definitely haunted. The ghost was more than likely that of the woman who had recently died there. She didn’t seem… malevolent. She was certainly active, though. How that would translate to other people living in the house he wasn’t sure, but he decided he would deal with it when it became an issue and not before. 

[chiwhorei]

gun bunny

pairing: mafia!s. aizawa x fem!reader

genre: mafia!au, quirkless!au, smut- 18+ minors dni

word count: 2.5k

warning: somnophilia, voyeurism, violence, attempted kidnapping, attempted assault, mentions of blood, mentions of guns and knives, degradation, age-gap (reader is 19 and aizawa is 31), spitting

a/n: hello! this is my contribution to the smut pile mafia!server collab, this is both my first smut pile collab (this is so late i am so sorry sksksksk) and my first full-length bnha piece, be sure to check out everyone else’s amazing work here! thank you to @10millionyearsdungeon and @messwriting for your constant support while i trudged through sad pal hours for a fucking month and crawled out of the pits of writer’s block

hymns: hayloft by - mother mother, i’m on fire - awolnation cover

Blood pours over decades like syrup, the tinny-sweet smell was distinct but all too familiar. A muffled gun’s buzzing frames 19 years of life. The barrel feels cool, sitting precariously by the highest angle of your cheekbone.

“I told you not to cause trouble, brat. Now I have to clean up your little mess.”

Aizawa’s body is tall and broad above you, holding you against him with a protective grip on the small of your back. Every word is sneering, punctuated with a growl-- you feel it reverberate against his chest.

The bullet is resounding even through the silencer; a deafening sound, final bell tolling next to smeared streaks of mascara.

Aizawa Shouta has always been around-- whether bringing your dad a hefty stack of reports to thumb through or loosening his tie in the parlor and toasting him to another job well done. A carousel of chauffeurs and bodyguards encircle you, but all are nameless faces except for the man that can make people disappear in an instant: Eraser.

Otsuka y/n, the only daughter of the most powerful man in Japan, is a weighty title against your shoulders. Your father’s reputation has cradled you for almost two decades, keeping you draped in fur and balancing on red-bottoms. He has more money, more power than God. To most of your father’s inner circle, you are the dutiful, angelic heiress to his blood-soaked empire. You play the part well enough, polite, temperate- your hands are painted red in culpability, but perfectly manicured.

Your father’s business isn’t a secret, no matter his attempts to shield you over the years. There’s only so many nights spent humming to the tune of cracking skulls in the next room before “investments in oil” starts to lose its validity. Whenever you ask him, he pats your head, smoothing stray strands of hair, “I do it all for you, bunny. Everything is for you.”

You decide not to think about rouge splatters of blood and bruises against his knuckles, ignoring the clicking of a loading gun before he leaves for the office.

It’s better this way.

“You can’t be serious, Otsuka.” Aizawa paces across the hardwood, heel to toe with Italian leather from one large bookshelf to the other. A familiar habit, you’ve seen the contemplative marching before and know it to mean one thing: Aizawa is pissed.

“Have you ever known me to joke around? Especially with y/n?” Your father’s elbows hit the table in front of him, the jagged scars lining his face seem even more intimidating when coupled with a harshly set frown. You perch on the side of his large desk, swinging your feet lightly.

“Oh daddy, I’m not a child. I don’t need Eraser to babysit me.” You huff, crossing your arms and providing a pout to your father’s hard expression. You hear the mumbled, “Don’t call me that,” from behind you, but decide against a response.

“He’s going to look after you while I’m in Musutafu. I have to handle some…” he trails off slightly, one of his hands coming up to rub against his bald head, “noncompliance, but I shouldn’t be gone for more than a few days.” His disfigured fingers curling around yours, you look up to meet his eye, “Be a good girl, bunny.”

You give your father’s temple a kiss, pulling back to smile sweetly. Your next words have Aizawa snorting, rolling his eyes far enough into his skull to be painful.

“I always am.”

A bend downwards at the hips frames your ass perfectly, the lace of your panties curls around your pussy tightly, hooking against the lips and showcasing your soft skin. Questions swirl in the bowl of cereal in front of him, all but forgotten as soon as a cup“fell” from your fingers and clattered to the floor. The taste, the smell, the feeling of--

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer.”

Aizawa is ripped from the reprehensible desires of his senses to meet your eyes, your form still folded over on itself and displayed for Aizawa in the otherwise empty kitchen. You giggle at his scowl, snapping back up and smoothing out your skirt. Aizawa bites down on the spoon in between his teeth, he swears he can feel his teeth cracking. Better his canines than his will.

This only marks the beginning of a long week for your father’s right-hand man. The proceeding days turn to nights at a snail's pace. The past week has been inching towards disaster with every minute of alone time you could steal with Aizawa.

“Eraser, what are you doing up so late.” Your voice curls around his shoulder, the whine tugging him towards your open bedroom door. It’s late, far too late for you to be up to anything good.

You always like to push your luck, playing a game you know Aizawa won’t let himself win. Pressing firmly against the line but never pointing your heel across. Maintaining your immunity, feigning innocence behind a soft pout. Your appointed guardian isn’t fooled by any honeyed façade you build around his associates. He knows what you are at the core.

He tries to shake off your pull, but the way your voice lilts against the long hallway is magnetic. The past few nights have been the same song and dance, your disarming call to him as he trudges to one of the many guest bedrooms. Every night he gets closer, heavy feet and tense nerves guiding him towards your warm voice. He’s weathering a sea, you’re the siren hell-bent on his drowning.

“I told you not to call me that, little girl.” His response to your wanton call is shallow, the nickname is one he hates the sound of, especially rolling past your lips.

“Do you like what you see?”

Aizawa’s brows set harshly as he looks on to where you lie nestled in pillows and silk. You have nothing but a loose, light pink camisole to cover your body, cotton panties pulled down to your ankles with shameless intent. Your legs are spread wide for your viewer’s pleasure, two fingers brush against your lips, dragging lazily- up and back down.

Aizawa knows what you really are, a petulant brat.

You pull at the soft skin, spreading yourself to unveil the tight, clenching hole. He leans his shoulder against the jam, eyes drinking you in where his body shamefully wishes to be. The groan aching deeply in his chest is not lost on you as your other hand pulls the hem of your shirt upwards to catch in between your teeth.

The soft plush of your breasts bounces slightly, nipples peeking out from the folds of fabric, now fully exposed to the inky-black stare of your voyeur. There’s nothing left to his imagination now, the question that haunts sleepless nights, palming a large hand up and down his cock and imagining something softer and smaller. The picture of what his boss’s precious daughter would look like squirming under him becoming clearer beyond all reason.

Aizawa should turn heel and walk away, he should slam your bedroom door shut and count the days until your father’s return with a measured distance. He should walk away. He should-

A soft whimper drags him from contemplation and back to the writhing succubus center stage. Your fingers move quickly against your aching clit, drawing out babbled pleas to hit harshly against the tall, brooding presence at your door.

“I’ve had about enough of your games, bunny. Your father tasked me to keep you out of trouble, but you are the trouble.” Aizawa’s words hit your ears mockingly, but they sound more like an invitation than a warning, especially as his body inches forward, breaching the threshold of your bedroom inch by inch.

Two fingers slip past your lips, pushing in and drawing back slicked with arousal. You repeat the action, slowly, ensuring the boring set of eyes are trained on where you clench desperately; wanting to put on a good show with your bodyguard in the front row.

Aizawa’s head is swimming, dizzy and drunk. He wants to tear you apart, to lay claim to the twitching prize between your legs. If you struggle around two of your own much smaller fingers, it would be nearly impossible to wrap you around his thick cock.

That is, not without breaking you.

The heated pants escaping you pick up in canter, your audience winding a tight cord with his presence alone. Aizawa is unrelenting in his deep, unblinking stare, stepping towards your bed slowly. Once his body is looming over you, the coil in your stomach has turned into a hair pinned trigger.

“Such a messy little slut. Getting off to the attention aren’t you?” You’re rendered dumb at his comment, Aizawa barely has to press his thumb into your chin before your mouth hangs open. You look up with glassy eyes, fingers sore from working against your pussy, chasing a high you can only imagine how fast Aizawa could steal from you. His expression is as neutral as always, but the despondency doesn’t quite shadow the fire burning in his eyes. You watch him lean forward slightly, a string of saliva falling downward to land against your tongue. His spit feels hot, you can taste the remnants of cigar and mint gum as you swallow.

You come undone in a litany of cries, pleading with your captor. His hold is passive as he looks at you, watching you cum against your fingers, the squelching sounds make his mouth dry. The only source of hydration is at the apex of your thighs. Visions flash before his eyes, images of what the curve of your breasts look like as he’s buried tongue deep, lapping you up post-orgasm and pushing you over once more for good measure.

Aizawa retreats, lest he pulls you against his mouth while your cunt is still pulsating, he needs to escape before your knees are pressed to your shoulders. He slams your door closed harshly, leaving you with the taste of his contempt for you on your bottom lip.

You’re quick to sleep, body falling into the warmth of unconsciousness coupled with dreams of what a certain set of fingers would feel like against you. How the scars and calluses would brush against your most intimate inches of spongy flesh, how he would stretch you.

You can almost feel the soreness in between your legs and the heavy slap of something against your stomach. You can almost remember the whispered confessional swimming in the back of your head, the soft grunts from above your sleeping form. As sunlight stretches across your sleep-stiff body, your hand trails down over your naked skin, maybe you aren’t the only one playing games this week.

You could have almost sworn you had gone to sleep with panties on.

The car ride to your father’s bar was filled with unflattering tension. You had protested in vain that going with Aizawa wasn’t necessary, but had been met with a dismissive, “I don’t trust you to behave.”

“I’m not a child, Eraser. I don’t see why I couldn’t just sit at home.” You wobble behind your escort, heeled boots clacking against the gravel.

As you enter the building, a young mop of violet hair flanks Aizawa down with a stack of papers. The man is nameless to you but is familiar enough to be assumed under your father’s thumb.

Aizawa looks over the document’s now held in front of him with care, rolling up the sleeves to his crisp dress shirt as his eyes scan the pages. You note the shimmering silvered skin of a scar under his left eye, pronounced by the harsh lighting surrounding you. His hair is held up partially by a tie, the loose strands framing his face.

“Are you listening to me, little girl?” You're snapped back from watching his mouth curling around syllables to actually make out what they’ve been saying.

“Go sit down, I’ll only be a few minutes.” You nod along and turn to perch at the bar, but stop at the grip pulling you back for one final order. “Don’t get yourself into trouble.”

Aizawa leaves you to stew in the subtle brush of his pointer finger against the tender skin of your wrist, he rubs the skin subtly before disappearing to the back rooms.

The minutes ticking by are agonizing. Aizawa, usually the epitome of brief, has been gone long enough for the condensation on your glass to mar the wood below it in countless ringlets. You twirl the straw against the strawberry liquor, willing time to crank by faster with the action. The drink in your veins isn’t nearly enough to get you drunk but does make the opening of the front door unnoticeable.

Your back is facing the heavy wood, unaware of the two strangers now approaching until the curdling sound of one man’s voice hits the shell of your ear.

“Well, well, look what we have here. Why don’t I buy you a drink, princess?” Each man steals one of your sides, enclosing you into a tight, predatory huddle.

“This is my bar. I don’t need you to buy me anything.” You try to shake off the nauseating feeling of their bodies so close to you, gut twisting uncomfortably as one man’s breath crawls across your shoulder blades. They’re both so close. Too close.

“Wow, this little kitty cat’s got some claws, don’t she?” You feel hands curl around each bicep, a bruising grip right below your armpits. Your body is hoisted up, your balance off at the jarring upheaval.

Possible escape routes flash across your mind but all seem impossible. Would trying to shake off the still faceless strangers even work? And even if you sprung free, would you make it to the back office before they caught up? Should you try to scream? Would Aizawa hear you?

Before you can make any moves, you feel the flat side of a knife at your collarbone. A chill rattles down your spine at the contact, two inches of metal keeping your entire body compliant.

Their intent is clear, you’ll be coming with them, and by the sharp point of a blade digging into the first layer of skin-- you’ll be coming quietly.

A mixture of shock and disbelief compels your body into compliance, dragging you to the front door and closer towards an awaiting trunk.

“Your carriage, princess.” You hear the shorter man on your right, his voice at your neck sounds waterlogged through the blood rushing in your ears. Any protests die at the knife against your skin, digging in shallowly and pricking a small trail of red along your clavicle.

A sharp snap sounds behind you, like a piece of thin wood under a heavy boot. One of your captors falls in a pile next to you. You’re turned around to meet a familiar pair of venomous, black eyes, Aizawa’s words roll from his tongue with a growl.

You’re pulled at the wrist, stumbling back into the strong chest of your appointed bodyguard.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing with my bunny?”

all writing is dymphnasprose’s original content, please do not repost or modify. do no read my content as asmr.©️

[nonobadcat]

YANDERE ALL FOR ONE X FEMALE READER

Rating: Explicit - for readers 18+ only

Entire Story TW: Noncon/DubCon, gore (non-reader directed), All For One too many kinks to count them all. Highly mentally and sexually abusive relationship. This story is absolutely not for minors and readers should consult the warnings/tags at the top before reading.

This chapter’s TW: Illness, mental manipulation, pregnancy

Read the entire story at: Archive of Our Own

Chapter 47 Excerpt:

All For One’s sportcoat flopped into a puddle at his feet. His white oxford was soaked. It clung to his body like plastic wrap. He kicked off his loafers without even untying them. They thudded to the floor, laying in different directions. When he turned to face you, his pale skin was flushed. Short hair was slicked to his forehead with sweat. He peeled his socks off and let them splat into the genkan floor.

The aura around All For One was dark, as you fully expected. However, something about the way he rubbed his arms vigorously in the cool of the apartment made his anger seem half-hearted. When he walked past you, he patted your head with only the tips of his fingers. The heat radiating off his body was oppressive, like standing mere centimeters from a fire ring.

Was he… shivering?

His voice was hoarse as he croaked. “With apologies my dear, I’ll greet you properly when I’ve had a shower.”

Without another word, your husband walked straight into the bedroom and shut the door behind himself.

You stood in the front of the kitchen with your eyebrows vanishing into your hairline. Your mouth opened, then shut, and then opened again. You shifted your weight onto the balls of your feet and raised your arm, only to freeze when you realized what you were doing. You looked down at your hands and then glanced at the door.

Were you really going to chase after him just now?

You shook your head violently to cast off the feeling rising in your gut. It was a natural reaction you told yourself. If you kept him happy then maybe he wouldn’t hurt you again. It wasn’t concern for him. It was concern about him. About what he might do to you if he didn’t get what he wanted.

What a good little puppy.

Your jaw clenched.

...and it certainly wasn’t that.

You turned on your heel and stalked back into the kitchen. Your fists slammed down on the countertop. Your hand gripped your forehead as frustrated tears welled at your lashes. You clenched your eyes shut and shook your head. The rice was still sitting in the bowl. Your gaze rolled to it and then you glanced at the cabinet where you kept the Donabe pot. Snarling, you turned away in a huff.

You were just making a normal dinner. Katsumi said he’d be happy with that right?! It’d be good enough. Good enough to quell the storm. You didn’t need to do more. You weren’t making his stupid rice porridge just because he looked a little chil-

THUMP

Your head jerked toward the sound. Your ears perked. The shower was running but you didn’t hear any of the “normal” humming noises you’d come to expect. You walked toward the bedroom, twisting the handle slowly so as not to make much sound. The door to the bathroom was open. The fan was buzzing. The light spilled across the carpet, ending just at the foot of the bed. Shadows pooled under the frame.

Your free hand curled to your heart. “Dar-ling…?” you called.

There was no reply.

You walked to the bathroom and came to a stop right where tile and carpet met. There was a large foot laying just inside the door. Your eyes followed it up the hairy legs to a pair of sweat-soaked Versace briefs. The pants and shirt were tossed into a heap on the other side of the room. On bare, bullet-marked skin, you could see a blazing red blush that traveled up the man’s back all the way to his ears. Cheek down on the tile, forcing a smile, was your husband. The new bandage on his left arm was half untied.

"Knowing you care has been the highlight of my day," he teased.

You frowned and gripped the door frame "Should... I be calling the doctor?"

He shook his head. "It's nothing contagious. I'm just a bit over-steamed."

"So the pot boiled along with the lobster?”

“What happened to ‘in sickness and in health’?”

You raised an eyebrow. “You had him skip that part, remember?”

“So I did.” He chuckled and turned his forehead to the ground. “If you come a little closer you may yet be able to kick me while I’m down.”

You strolled into the bathroom and nudged him with the tip of your toe like a bear nudges a flaccid possum. His skin was blazing. The blood vessels in his arms were like snakes. You could see his pulse throbbing in his neck. You squatted beside him and pressed the back of your hand to his cheek. You had to fight the urge to jerk away. Compared to yours, it was as hot as lava. However, there was something about the pink dusting on his cheeks that made your heart throb.

When your gaze met his, it felt like you were staring into a kaleidoscope. Swirling in crimson were mirth, pain, irritation, exhaustion, and something calculating. It made you uneasy in more ways than one. The way your heart quickened at the jewel-like facets of his mood was slow, warm, and fluttering. Shigaraki's grin widened as he watched your expression. Your only response was a disgusted curl of your lips that ill-suited the softness in your gaze.

“I’m not you,” you replied, smoothing his hair out of his face.

Read the rest at Archive of Our Own

@shigashig @shig-a-shig-ah @weo0o @feral-creep @raygard-elvets @awkward-confused @vizhi0n @dokoni-mo @the-lady-writes-what @all4one @avelaste @diowithagun @yeunsstuff @river-to-swim-forever @lizthewitchh @0-ddball @catalystgaming27 @cityscapingly @imdatingyourdad @gxmblinqueen @villaincxmdump @yandereloveraw @seijohmilktea @kermitthekrog-blog @toughbook @fgkween @averydrunksatyr

[atomicwriter]

my teeth in your heart → xiao

00. An Amputated Soul

DESCRIPTION: in liyue, wuwang hill is spoken of as the place where the dead dwell, and there’s a fable that’s oft–repeated among the youth of qingce village. xiao knows this tale, he witnessed it firsthand, and it is as familiar to him as the wind that he coils between his fingers. he does not speak of it much, for who is he to tell it to? all he knows is that the memory is prevalent as the disembodied whispers of karmic debt that call his name.

DISCLAIMER: gender neutral reader. brief mentions of nudity and death. multi-chapter fic.

WORD COUNT: 3k.

It’s a strange sensation.

There’s no pain, just an all-consuming numbness that spreads throughout your entire body. Your fingers flex, although you’re barely able to make sense of their movements. You can only recognize the metronome of your heartbeat as you float wistfully, the blood in your veins roaring so loud that all other sounds fall deaf to your ears. This serenity, a moment free from shouldering the hardships of the world, seems all too foreign for you, although you can’t pinpoint the exact reason why.

Here, you drift in the endless cosmos, wet and thick. You’re untethered, a lone particle with no sense of gravity in the middle of space. Reality seems discombobulated, and life consists of fractured memories that you’re unable to put together, as if you are missing the puzzle pieces necessary to do so. There’s a heavy pounding in your temples, and the tresses of your hair float around your head like wisps of smoke caught in the moonlight.

It’s when you open your eyes that you realize you can’t breathe. You suddenly become aware that you’re submerged underwater, and the previous tranquility is replaced by a fervent hysteria. Curled up in a fetal position, your bones knock together at the joints, trying for a foothold over the slick crossings of the river floor. Withal, your limbs are constricted by the water reeds, rendering you practically immobile, and your feet sink into the slick, black earthsoup. The surface seems far away from your stricken fingers as you desperately flail them in an attempt to stay afloat.

You can feel your heart pulse sporadically in your teeth, and your spine convulses as you choke on the air that you can’t breathe. In a brief moment of clarity, you retract your arms, beginning to uproot the reeds that confine your body to the riverbed. Determination numbs the burning sensation that coruscates throughout your chest, snuffing out the white-hot sensation that begins to gnaw at your lungs. This newfound electricity swallows you whole, surging through your veins like an incinerator that’s sweltering hot and nuclear-powered. Mud billows up in waves from the floor.

You can taste the acrid tang of death as you bite down on your tongue, and you know it’s coming when your periphery turns white. An abrupt coolness rushes in, igniting a formication along your skin. In mere moments, you realize, you will float like the water reeds, nothing more than flesh and bones ready to decay in the currents. It’s unnerving to realize, it’s unnerving to even think about, and you want to push against the exhaustion that barrels onto your body; to strain for the moonlight that dims above. But your limbs grow heavy, your fingers turn bloated and blue, and your head is spinning, spinning, spinning…

A rough hand clamps down on your shoulders and you’re jerked out of the water before the darkness completely takes over your vision.

You break the surface, coughing and spluttering. Your chest heaves violently, sucking in desperate lungfuls of air that you had previously been so cruelly deprived of. The disturbed water sloshes around as you’re pulled onto the surface of a raft, and you collapse to your knees. Spindly fingers anchor themselves against the dried bamboo stakes, unable to let go until you’re steady once again. Your breath releases in sharp heaves, but it’s there, and that’s all that matters.

When the chill finally seeps into your skin, you see everything in pieces: the shadow of a silhouette in the fading moonlight, dark eyes fraught with concern, and frantic hands thrusting a sheet around your trembling body. Panting hard, you find a certain sense of relief when you cut your eyes to the person who stands by your shivering form. The landscape is blurry before you, and a restless energy hums beneath your skin.

“Are you alright?” the man asks you.

You don’t answer him at first. Instead, you swivel your head around as you take in your surroundings. You’re encircled by calm waters, serene despite their previous menace. Ripples lull the boat, and you follow their path to a shore that doesn’t lie too far from where you are now. You can barely make out the bamboo stalks that extend towards the night sky, framed by the gray cliffs that confine the surrounding land within an alcove of shadows.

“Where are we?” you ask him.

“This is Bishui River.”

The name rings with an unknown sense of familiarity, and you repeat it under your breath.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” the man crouches down beside you, “but, what happened to you?”

You wish you could answer him, and when you look down, you notice your hands are shaking. From the frustration of being unable to recall anything or your apparent weakness, you don’t know. It’s like there’s a roadblock in your mind, a screen that reaches from ground to sky that disconnects you from the world around you. Faint sounds plug your ears, memories float across your eyes, and you’re unaware of what you have forgotten. Your past is something hidden, but in this moment you cannot fathom what it might be.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. You ball your hands into fists, knuckles blanching and fingernails digging deep into your palms as you turn to glower at the waters below. A sharp pain lances through your skin, but you don’t release them. All you can do is tell him your name.

“I see,” he hums, and you look towards him, whose cloak reveals a subtle beard of black hair and callous hands - working hands. There are wicker baskets that lie adjacent to his feet, filled with scavenged fish and herbs, carrots and sunsettias. “I stopped using my real name a long time ago. You can just call me Jiangxue.”

Your eyes narrow, but you don’t lose focus. Your nature is to piece this puzzle together: a fisherman out in the dead of night, an unknown land that is strangely familiar, and you, a person composed of seafoam who was pulled to the surface with nothing but a name. You admit that that’s what bewilders you most, but you suck in a breath and push the thought away.

“There’s a village near here. I can take you there if you’d like,” Jiangxue speaks when your silence persists. His eyes glance towards your figure before quickly looking away. A cough catches somewhere between his lungs and his throat. “It consists of amiable folk. You should be able to persuade them into getting you some clothing.”

You look down at his words, and your throat drops to your stomach when you find your bare skin on display. A hypodermic heat rushes to your face, and you wrap the thin sheet tighter around your naked body.

“I … uh … sorry,” you manage to sputter out, bowing your chin down to your chest as if the simple action alone could erase all traces of embarrassment. “I hadn’t realized.”

“It’s no matter,” he affirms, paddling towards the land.

It begins to rain once the raft reaches the shore, and an argentine fluorescence seeps from the sky. The drops plummet from the sky, rapid and ruthless. As you step onto the bank, you find that the mossy ground is damp and sodden, a deep green pigmentation that indicates the fallen rain as a usual occurrence. Jagged stones press uncomfortably into your heels, and you can feel the way the air stills around you.

You don’t understand why these plains seem so disorienting, why the soft susurration of the leaves feel so heavy in your ears. This stupor comes alongside that previous sense of familiarity - an ambient nostalgia for a native land that you yearn to experience once again. There’s an entwining reassurance, distant childhood memories, and the comforts of home. Perhaps one day you will find out why.

When you see the man step off of his raft in an attempt to follow you, you stop him with the shake of your head.

“I’m fine from here on out,” you say before you can even make sense of the words. “I know my way there.”

Skeptical of your proclamation, he raises an eyebrow.

“Dawn will be here soon, you should return to fishing before the world wakes up.”

“You misunderstand,” he says, walking towards you nonetheless. “I do not fish for a living. Neither the process nor the result means much of anything to me.”

“Oh,” you frown. “Is it just a way to pass time, then?”

“Precisely that.” And then he smiles, reaching out his hand and placing it on yours. When he retracts, you find a sunsettia placed into the cocoon of your palm, accompanied by a glowing ornament composed of Varunada Lazurite. There’s a delicate swirl–like design imprinted in the middle of the gem, and your breath catches in your throat when you realize what it is: a Hydro Vision. It must have resurfaced alongside you.

You wish to thank him, but you can not find the voice to do so.

“Safe travels,” Jiangxue says. He turns away, only walking a few steps before he pauses entirely. He opens his mouth, and a look crosses his face then as if he doesn’t know what to say.

“Yes?” you ask of him. “What is it?”

He still doesn’t speak, and you watch as he unclips the cloak from around his waist, slipping it off his arms and rolling it within itself. He hands you the bundle of cloth.

“O-Oh,” you stutter, waving your hands in front of you. “I couldn’t possibly. You have given me far too much.”

“You are cold,” is all he says. “Take it.”

“Really, I don’t-”

“I implore you. Please take it.”

There’s something in his voice then, a plea that is all too unfitting for the composed man before you. Unable to fight against his wishes, you timidly reach forward and remove the article from his grasp.

“There should be no monsters to block your path,” Jiangxue says. “He has made sure of it.”

There is nothing to stop the bewilderment that illustrates your face.

“He?” you question, but the fisherman’s back is turned to you. Befuddled, you do not say anything more, and the quietude encroaches in.

Somewhere in the near distance, a bird squalls — the only sound to penetrate the silence. Jiangxue moves back onto his raft, situating a paddle between the calloused texture of his hands. You don’t wait to watch him leave, instead bowing your head in a display of gratitude before pivoting on your heel and weaving through the clotted bamboo.

When you are certain that you are adequately hidden, the soaked-through sheet that had previously found home on your shoulders falls to the floor. You cinch the cloak that Jiangxue gifted you around your body, and the linen cocoons your body heat comfortably. Pocketing your Vision and the sunsettia, you pluck the sheet from off the ground, and begin to walk forward once more.

It’s not a long trek, that much you can recall, but when you reach the edge of the village, you find that the world has flung itself over and a new sun breaks the horizon. It’s a nectarine-sweet sky, mingling above the mountain that cradles the abundant crop lands within its embrace. You cross the bridge over the terraced fields of crops and wildflowers, inching closer to the livening village. It remains peaceful and quiet all the same, even as its occupants begin to stir.

This isn’t a place that receives many guests, that much you can affirm, despite the boundless beauty the land withholds. The rising sun embraces your skin, silky and warm, and even the rough texture of the stairs beneath your feet seems to hold a fount of comfort within themselves. You can hear the hummingbirds philandering with the flowers, their birdsong coming in lulls and bursts. The aromatic hints of Jueyun Chili and Violetgrass invade upon the atmosphere, inspiring a warmth to pool within your stomach.

It’s when you near the top of the stone path that you can make sense of a hunched figure beneath the strung lanterns, still lit despite the day’s arrival. She paces from side to side, graceful in her steps regardless of the aged lines that sculpt her face, on display due to her gray hair tucked in a low bun. As if sensing your presence, she stops, the green of her dress swiveling with her movements as she pivots on her heel to face you.

“My dear,” she calls, as if she has known you all this time. “Welcome to Qingce Village. Why don’t you take a walk with me?”

The elderly lady nods her head towards the courtyard, and there you can see a conglomeration of buildings that frame the square, constructed of wood and bamboo stalks. Fruit stands are tucked into corners, and a little ways down, a water mill sits adjacent to a bridge, converging with the path that leads further up the mountain. From nearby, the sound of a waterfall marginally emerges above the noises of early morning, and a rush of wistfulness overwhelms your entire being.

“Have you been aware that I would come?” you ask as you step beside her. She leads you towards the bridge.

A small smile sets apart her lips. “You must know we have quite the accumulation of spies here.”

A look of confoundment overtakes your features, and before you can request her to explain any further, a muffled chorus of giggles is heard from behind you. When you turn around, three pairs of eyes stare curiously at your form, and petite hands latch onto the edges of the cart that the children hide behind.

“I was not aware that I’d been under surveillance.”

“Outsiders are rather rare here,” the elderly woman muses, turning her head to where you gaze. “Of course, they still have a lot to learn.”

A sense of amusement flutters within your chest.

“Might I inquire as to why you have come?” she asks you.

The question momentarily startles you, although you reason that it is not unexpected. Attempting to grasp at your thoughts, you press your teeth down onto your lip, and all answers that are brought to mind prove insufficient to her question.

She must notice your inner turmoil, because she provides a reassuring expression before speaking: “It is fine if you do not wish to indulge me. We all have things we wish to keep to ourselves.”

“It’s not that. It’s just … how do I put this?” you reply, taking a grounding breath before voicing further. “There are many memories before this morning that have escaped me, including the answer to your inquiry. Although, I do suppose I hoped that I might be able to acquire some assistance here.”

She seems to contemplate your words, and stops walking just before your feet make contact with the bridge. A middle-aged woman appears in your periphery then, raising her hand in greeting to the lady beside you, the other arm slung over a wicker basket that rests on her hip. She must be preparing for a day's worth of field work, you presume.

“I see. Let us go somewhere more private. We will converse there,” she says. “And perhaps we might find you some more suitable clothes.”

She leads you to a building that rests on a wedge below the peak of the mountain. It’s certainly the largest structure of the village, composed of wooden posts and joists to encircle the open space. A shallow pond borders the front entrance, lotus heads and lily pads peaking above its glassy surface. The inside is completely exposed to the external environment, and from here, you can make out the entirety of the village. Nonetheless, being under a roof grants you a gratifying sense of privacy.

With a fragile hand on the small of your back, the lady leads you to a painted screen wall that rests off–center of the building, framed by wooden beams. It’s a picture of the mountain, you promptly recognize, with streaks of orange and blue that appear to glow in the morning light. She gently encourages you behind it, and you don’t realize that there is a set of garments in her other hand before she’s pushing them into your own.

“There is no one around to see,” she says, as if sensing your hesitation, and leaves you to your own.

Once the woman rounds the corner, you make haste in removing the cloak, slipping on the pants that tighten at your waist. The silk laced fabric flares out to brush at your ankles, and the cerulean trimmed edges barely graze upon the ground. The main portion is a dark umber, much like the short sleeved shirt given to you, with stitched decals of ochre and blue. It takes you longer than you’d like to admit to bind the fastenings down your chest.

There is no mirror nearby, but you are gently pleased by the choice in fabrics. You run your fingers over the material, feeling the ridges, the needlework, and the cotton–like texture. You know you’re in no position to experience such a luxury at the given moment, but you also have no entitlement to brush off such a thing. Your body hums with gratitude, and you step out from behind the wall.

The elderly lady seems to be equally as pleased, as she sends you a tight–lipped smile. From where her hands are clasped behind your back, she motions towards the chairs that circle the center of the building, fringing on the carmine painted engraving of a flower–like design. You take a seat.

“Might I ask your name?” You are the first to speak.

“You may call me Granny Ruoxin,” she muses. “I do apologize if it isn’t too lively around here, but life is pleasant here, and I hope you find a sense of enjoyment within the village.”

You learn forward, eager. “You mean it? I can stay?”

She nods, and it’s like the Universe has bursted into light. “There is plenty of room. You may stay until you are certain of where your journey will take you.”

A glint from the sun sparks your gaze, and you watch as Granny Ruoxin moves to sit beside you. Her movements are leisurely, hands crossed–hatched with scars reaching down to clasp yours in her own, and you dare to wonder of all the ways in which your life is about to unfold.

hello! i hope you enjoyed this. it’s my first time posting something genshin related on tumblr, so feedback is greatly appreciated. <3

additionally, i am considering making a tag list for this story, so if you are interested please message me!!

also! you can read it here on a03!