#all black except for the red line continuing down the side

[milimeters-morales]

Miguel in his slit dress and Miles takes this as the “OK” to finally wear his outfit with a subtle skirt built onto it. Miguel has yet to notice any difference

[notmyneighbor]

Let Me In ~ Doppelgänger Francis Mosses/The Milkman x Female Reader

Chapter 7

Word Count ~ 3.9k

Rating ~ Explicit

CW ~ minor mention of blood and gore, sexual content

Also available on AO3

taglist @luthien-elvenia-asher @fishfetus @gaudesstuff @nekee-lilac02 @msdevil333 @rrnrjn @maskedpacific

Fanart used with permission @kaworinx on Instagram and TikTok

You are walking the yard surrounding your home in early August.

Francis Mosses’ doppelgänger is beside you, his fingers laced with yours as the pair of you leisurely stroll. You love mornings like this. Lazy weekends when you shut the rest of the world out. There is just this, this safe haven you’ve created, away from the city where the invaders seek to gain entry and conquer, where the humans continue to try to see past the lies standing right before them, the deceivers and pretenders like the one whose hand you’re clutching now so tenderly. Except he isn’t like the others; nothing like any of them. He is yours, and you are his. There is nothing else like this phenomenon, what you have with him.

The blackberry bushes lining the picket fence are heavy with fruit, the plump, deep black specimens dull skinned, ripe and ready to be plucked.

“So many of them,” the copycat murmurs, halting beside you as your pace slows and pauses, contemplating the sight of those heavily laden shrubs.

You nod. “My grandparents used to make jam from them. I can remember spreading it on pancakes on Sunday mornings.”

“Do you still recall how to make the jam?”

“Yes. It’s not difficult. Just a bit time consuming. A lot of prep work.”

“We have the whole day. Want to try?”

“Really? You want to?”

“It sounds pleasant.” He tugs you gently towards him. “Everything with you is.” His lips meet yours, warm as the summer sun heating you through the button front dress you’re wearing.

“We need something to gather them in.”

“Will this do?” He reaches for the fabric of your dress about halfway down the skirt portion, lifting the loose material until it forms a kind of scooped makeshift basket.

“That’s what my grandmother did with her apron. Yes, this will do.” You reach for the handfuls he’s gathered, keeping the improvised bowl in place. “Only pick the ones that are black. No purple or red, they’re not ripe. Nothing shiny. Only the dull ones. They should come off fairly easily. If you have to pull too much, they’re not ready.”

The imposter milkman follows your directions and the dip in the fabric you’re clutching is soon full. It is a little awkward walking up the porch steps, balancing the unfamiliar weight at your front. There are stains on his fingers, on your dress as you dump the gathered berries into the colander he grabs from the cupboard for you, followed by a mixing bowl, anything he can find to relieve you of your burden. Overzealous in the picking, perhaps, but you don’t mind. The excessive berries would just have gone to waste otherwise, more than even your wildlife neighbors could indulge in.

“You should get used to having extra weight around your middle,” he murmurs against your ear. Still persisting in the notion of having a baby with you. The previous month had ended with your menses. You’ve no idea if it’s even possible to create a new life with the doppelgänger. You’re still conflicted about it. Afraid for its life, for yours and Francis’. But you can imagine the face. As a toddler. Convinced somehow it would be a boy. Identical in every way to his father. A father as devoted to him as he is to you. The child clinging to your side, standing in those same fields near the house in summer, looking at the world around him with those dark eyes that are unshadowed, not yet tired like his parent’s. Soft brown hair. Human, because you won’t let yourself imagine anything else; refuse to concede that it would be part doppel as well. “I can’t wait,” he says, his arms enfolding you from behind, your hands settling on his, the quartet all resting over your abdomen.

You smile, leaning your weight against his chest for a few moments before reaching for the faucet. It was time to rinse the harvest, removing the stray leaf or stem here and there. You fill a pan with water to boil to sterilize the lids of the mason jars. There are a set of them under the sink. The glass portion needs to be similarly treated. It will be hot in the kitchen with the stovetop working so hard. You lean and lift the window behind the sink a little higher, hoping for any sign of a breeze.

“Go pick out a record to play.” A new tradition. You let your lover choose the music, discovering what he likes best. Perhaps some of Francis’ favorites. Some for the invader alone. You cherish both selections equally.

The man and the doppel themselves; that is something your conscience has struggled with for many weeks now. You think you will always love Francis. But you love the new creature inhabiting his form, too. More and more with each passing day.

The music begins and you smile to yourself. Al Bowlly. Something from two decades ago, but a timeless classic. One of the records your mother had left behind when she’d moved to the city, inherited from your grandparents. You were long overdue for a visit to your mother and father. You’d received a letter not that long ago. Still safe. It was a worry that gnawed at you. One of the reasons you’d joined the DDD in the first place. Wanting to protect your family, the people you love.

The very thought of you and I forget to do

The little ordinary things that everyone ought to do

You spread a tea towel on the counter. The jars will air dry there after you’ve finished preparing them.

I'm living in a kind of daydream and I'm happy as a king

And foolish though it may seem, why to me that's everything

“How am I meant to not want to dance with you when this is playing?” Your partner’s lips graze the nape of your neck softly, his hands on your waist.

The mere idea of you, the longing here for you

You'll never know how slow the moments go till I'm near to you

You smile again. A gesture that comes so easily when the imposter is around you. “After. You wanted to make jam, remember?”

“I want to make a lot of things,” he murmurs beside your cheek, his nose nudging aside a stray piece of hair that’s come free from where you’d pinned it up, mouth now on the patch of skin he’s cleared.

“Francis!” You giggle, playfully squirming in his arms. You aren’t really trying to get away. “I need your help. Use those muscles of yours and pulverize the berries. The potato masher is in the second drawer there.”

I see your face in every flower, your eyes in stars above

It's just the thought of you, the very thought of you, my love

He rolls up his sleeves, beginning to crush the fruit while you gather the measuring cups and sugar.

“I know it’s equal parts berries and sugar. Three minutes to boil? And then another three after the sugar’s been added. Oh, I need the whisk, too. And one of the larger spoons to stir. Yes, that one, thank you.” Francis’ copy hands you the culinary tools you’re searching for, retrieved from the same drawer the masher had been in.

Speaking of which, he’s done a great job with the blackberries, making short work of them. For a brief second your mind teases an imagining of something far less pleasant being ground down like that, pulped human flesh, the gore that is left behind when a doppel feasts on a human. Your grip on the spoon tightens until it’s white knuckled and you force yourself to relax. You’re with him, the one that you love, that adores you. Your home. With the beautiful crooned words of longing issuing from the turntable in the background. Those horrors do not exist here. “Those look perfect. I think that’s maybe around six cups’ worth. But we’ll measure.”

Your estimate of the mixture volume proves fairly accurate. You begin stirring the berries in the stainless steel cook pot, watching the seeded dark red mixture begin to bubble, keeping an eye on the clock on the wall. The doppel is at the sink, already washing the used bowls and tools.

It’s time to add the sugar. You stir it in, once again timing your task, finally deeming the developing jam ready to be removed from the heat of the burner, switching the knob for the pilot light off as you move the pot to an unused burner.

You can feel the perspiration beading on your forehead as you whisk the heated fledgling fruit spread. Nearly there. Your strokes with the thin wired tool were releasing the natural pectin in the berries now. After that it was just a matter of filling and sealing the jars.

“What’s next? What can I do to help?” The doppelgänger asks, resting a hand on your lower back, where the heat lingers, making the dress cling damply to your skin.

“I think this is actually just about ready to start pouring.”

He turns over the mason jars that had been resting upside down over the tea towel to air dry, lining them up on the counter. You transfer small batches of the jam to a batter bowl, making it easier to fill each jar without spilling. A lot of dishes being used for this. Funny how you didn’t remember that part from childhood. Just the fun of making it with your grandmother.

The replicant screws the last of the lids on. The jam looks so inviting. You can’t wait to spread it on some toast with some butter after it’s had a day or two to set. Maybe just one day. You were really craving it now.

“It’s hot,” the imposter says, dragging a hand across his forehead. “I’m ready to head back into the tub after that.”

You like the idea of that yourself. “You should.”

“Coming with me?”

“I was hoping for an invitation.”

He kisses you and you taste the salt of his perspiration. “You look a little flushed. We definitely need to go cool down. And then heat up again.”

“Francis, you’re impossible. Go get the water running. I’ll finish cleaning up here.”

“It’ll be faster with both of us working together.”

You won’t argue with that, allowing him to assist you. Munching on some leftover blackberries as you work side by side. The last of the dishes done. Everything put away. Shutting off the record player on your way to the stairs. His hands work on the buttons of your dress after you’ve turned on the faucet to fill the tub. You loosen his belt. Shove the hem of his undershirt upward after he’s removed the outer layer. He reaches between his shoulders and pulls it free. You kiss the dip between his pectoral muscles lightly covered with dark hair. Suddenly finding yourself hungry for him.

“Should we wait on the bath for after?” he suggests.

“Yes. Definitely.” You switch the faucet off hurriedly, turning your attention back to him. He’s already entering the bedroom. The temperature in this room is hotter than it had been in the kitchen. No fresh breeze coming in through either of the windows. Just that stifling humidity. It needed to rain.

Undergarments removed. He kisses your bare shoulder, humming the song that had been playing the previous evening, when he’d met you at your front door, the start of your weekend together.

Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own

You sit down on the edge of the bed. A hand rests on your thigh as he kneels down. Fingers stained from some of the berry juice, garnet and magenta smudges along cuticles and nail beds. Your hand sinks into the hair you’d trimmed recently, finding it’s already growing long again. You bend to kiss his mouth and he tastes like the fruit, like summer itself, warm and fresh and sweet.

He leans to kiss the breasts that will one day bear the nutrition to feed your child, if it was ever meant to be, sucking gently, each nipple responding to that sensation, rising and hardening, the melody of that love song still emerging all the while.

Blue Moon, you knew just what I was there for

You heard me saying a prayer for

Someone I really could care for

Then he is between your thighs, every kiss still languid, drowsy, a leisurely summer afternoon gifted in each touch of his lips on your skin. Caressing your legs, the limbs that part to receive him. Gentle kisses on those nether lips, still humming, sending little vibrations into your body.

And then there suddenly appeared before me

The only one my arms will ever hold

I heard somebody whisper, "Please adore me"

And when I looked, the moon had turned to gold

His tongue strokes your clit and you lean back slightly, hands sinking into the mattress, arms braced to either side. His hands curl around your thighs and he sups at your sex, the pace still unhurried, easing you along into pleasure. Delving into your entrance, rolling the taste of you on his tongue before sweeping through the petals back to your bud, massaging it from side to side, up and down, pausing every now and again to plant a kiss on your mound or thigh, suckling the bundle of nerve endings and then dipping back into your canal in short, gentle little thrusts, the tune nearing its end, reaching the final verses, but yours have just started, that thrumming he sends through you, deep inside, an echoing response in your core.

Blue Moon, now I'm no longer alone

Without a dream in my heart

Without a love of my own

You let your weight rest on one hand so you can touch his hair again, meet the gaze of those dark eyes watching you, those depthless pools of desire you get lost in, drowning, a tide that washes you away into your release against his mouth.

You're sweating profusely now, damp inside and out as you scoot yourself back to the center of the bed, making room for your companion to join you.

There is always the little surprised sounding moan when he first enters you, as if he’s forgotten that feeling, rediscovering it each time his cock pierces your pussy. His hips roll against you in slow, lazy thrusts. He combs your damp hair back from your face, hair that has completely fallen loose, natural. He kisses your forehead and cheeks and lips, your jaw and throat and ear lobes.

“I love you,” he breathes against your neck. His voice sounds raw, full of emotion.

“I love you, Francis.” You grind up against his damp body.

His face hovers above yours. “Marry me.” You gasp as he grabs one of your thighs and rocks forward, pushing deep inside of you. “Marry me, be my wife. Stay with me always.”

Your heart pounds. To be joined with him like that. The mark on your arm only a faint pink line now. The traces of the bite completely disappeared. He wanted to put a ring on your finger. Everyone would know, then. There would be no concealing it.

“Be the mother of my children. Be mine forever.”

“Francis…”

“Please.”

“Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you.”

“I’ll do anything to make you happy.”

“I am happy. Happier than I’ve ever been. I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,” you add softly.

A heavy sigh as his body moves against yours, his face tucked into the crook of your neck. “My love, my only, mine.” His pelvis knocks against yours faster now. Your knees tightly embrace his ribs. Every part of skin your lips touch taste of salt. His hair is darker, saturated with sweat, the tendrils clinging damply to his forehead. A drop slides from his nose and pools between your lips. The arms bracing his weight near your face are trembling. So close to the edge of bliss.

“Love,” he gasps.

“Yes,” you answer, and he spills into you, filling your womb with his seed.

***

You sit inside the bathtub between the doppel’s legs, resting back against his chest.

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, and you obey, hearing something being lifted from that basin of water. The wash cloth, you realize, feeling the cool liquid dripping onto you hair, sliding down over your heated face. Repeating until your hair is thoroughly drenched in the bath water, his fingers slicking back those wet tresses, smoothing over your eyes, your cheeks, curling beneath your chin and lifting your face so that he can kiss you. Your eyes open and you see him smiling. “Better?”

“Much.”

“Good.” A rumble of thunder in the distance. Finally, the rain was coming. “Will we lose the power again, do you think?”

“Maybe. Wouldn’t be so terrible, though, would it? Just being here in the dark together.”

“Not at all. I have fond memories of doing that very thing.” He kisses you again and your stroke the damp cloth over his forearms. “I am going to get you a ring, you know. Propose properly.”

“I know.” You lift his left hand and kiss it. “We should tell my parents. Visit.”

“You want me to meet them?”

“Why not? They’ll be your in laws. The grandparents of your children.”

“Hmmm,” he hums. “We will need someone to watch the little ones. When it’s time to make more…”

“How many are you planning on?”

“I don’t know. There’s no specific number. I just want it. Badly.”

“I know you do. I do, too.”

“You’re still scared.”

“Yes.”

“I won’t let anyone harm you. You, or the children. However many there are.”

“I know you’ll be a good father. A good husband.”

His arms tighten around you. “You are my perfect everything.”

***

You do not lose the power that evening.

There is light for your repast at the kitchen table. Still too soon to indulge in the fruits of your earlier labors—pun intended—and neither of you want to heat up the house again using the stove, so you have a simple meal of bread, cheese, grapes, and iced tea, listening to the storm outside, this one much calmer than the last, starting to write a letter back to your parents, beginning with the exciting news of your engagement.

“Do you think your parents will like me?”

You pop a few grapes into your mouth. “Yes. My mom is very similar in personality to me. My dad maybe a little gruffer, but he’ll soften with time. Especially when he sees how well you treat me. He’d probably like it if you asked his permission first. Just as a courtesy. A formality.”

Francis’ copy slices another piece of cheddar free from the block, taking a bite and chewing thoughtfully. “What are you going to tell them about us, exactly?”

“Just that we met while I was working. You’re a resident in the building. The truth, you know.”

“But that’s not the whole story.”

You set your pen down. “I can’t tell them what you are. You know that.”

“Of course not. I’m just…wondering what to say. Or what not to say. How to behave.”

You lift the writing utensil again but don’t use it, merely holding it between your fingers. “Just be you.”

He looks over the top of his glass as you resume writing, neat cursive script filling the page. “Don’t forget to mention how handsome I am.”

“Hush, you.” You smirk, tossing one of the crumpled rough drafts at him and he easily catches it, returning your smile.

“And that I’m a good dancer.”

“You are a great dancer,” you concede, pausing again to tear off another piece of bread.

“We didn’t get to dance earlier.”

“We sort of did.”

His eyebrows lift. “I’ve corrupted you. That’s the sort of innuendo I’d deliver.”

“Speaking of which. No talking about wanting kids when we visit with my parents, at least not yet. They’re against premarital sex. Society doesn’t favor unwed women and it certainly doesn’t favor women who are unwed and pregnant. It’s because of the war. The need to repopulate, our purpose to create more soldiers.”

“We’re engaged, though.”

“Yes. But still not married.”

“I don’t want our children fighting in a war,” he says solemnly.

“Neither do I.” You pause, hesitating midway through writing again. “We are at war already. They’ll be born into it, just by the very nature of who they are. What they are.” You sigh, setting down the pen. The letter could wait for now. You don’t like the dark look on the features of the replicant sitting across from you.

“Come on. I owe you a dance.” You rise, reaching for the doppel’s hands and he allows himself to be tugged to his feet. “Go choose a record for us, my love.”

You clear the table while he rummages through the sleeved recordings. You leave the letter where it is. You’ll finish it in the morning, drop it off on your way to work Monday. At least there was one more day of this relaxed comfort, before you had to go back to the reality of the DDD.

You join your fiancé in the living room, positioning yourself with your dance partner, smiling as you recognize the song that starts to play.

Heaven, I'm in heaven

And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak

And I seem to find the happiness I seek

When we're out together, dancing cheek to cheek

“Fred Astaire, singing to Ginger Rogers. Another classic. This song was from the musical Top Hat. A big hit on the music charts.”

The doppel is silent, his hand warm against your waist, the other clasping your hand as you step and sway in a small circle.

Heaven, I'm in heaven

And the cares that hung around me through the week

Seem to vanish like a gambler's lucky streak

When we're out together, dancing cheek to cheek

“My mom loves that movie. You’ll curry some favor if you mention it. We’ll have to watch it together. The movie house downtown plays classics on Sunday nights. I’m babbling, aren’t I?” Two more verses of the song have already passed by.

“It’s alright. I don’t mind. We should go. I’ll take you.”

“A real date.”

“Yes, a real date.”

You grin, nuzzling his jaw. “I look forward to it.”

Dance with me. I want my arms about you

The charms about you

Will carry me through to

“I like making you happy.” He draws back to look at your features. “I want your parents to like me. I know it’s important to you. It’s important to me, too.”

“They’ll love you,” you say softly. “How could they possibly not?”

“Because…”

“No.” You release his shoulder, resting a finger against his lips. “You’re mine, and I’m yours, and that’s all that matters. I love you. You, inside of this man.” Your hand cups his cheek. “I’ve been calling you Francis all along. I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s…not something you could ever pronounce. The differences in language…”

“I’ll do my best to learn.”

“Sweetheart. Call me Francis. That’s who I am now. Your Francis. Yours.” He kisses you, and you become lost in the feel of it, in the sound of the needle of the record player tapping restlessly now that the song has finished, in the lullaby of the soft patter of the rain outside.

[ryuluvr]

treat you better.

(wlw, smut 18+)

banner made by saradika-graphics.

warnings: reader cheats on husband (when he goes low you go lower), babysitter!arle, fingering, eating out, slight choking but nothing crazy.. literally one line, softer arle (shocker), all reader receiving (arle just showing you what your husband is lacking lol)

word count: 1.8k

after a heated argument with your husband that lasted longer than you had hoped, you called yourself an uber. you were met by plush seats and dim lighting, the driver shooting you a reassuring smile before you confirmed where you were heading. it felt wrong to leave the bar without your partner, but frankly you were too irritated to care. he shouldnt have had his hands firmly on another woman the moment you turned your eye.

the relationship was lovely at first, of course. he showered you with affection, dates, gifts, the lot. and you were always thankful, but slowly he gave you the impression he was losing interest and didnt seem to be attracted to you anymore. his work hours eventually became longer so looking after your kid became a one woman job, but being a mother has always been your top priority anyways. you felt like a fool for assuming that dragging him out for a date night would help rekindle any kind of spark between you both.

above you, the stars shone alongside the moon, gifting you a small sense of comfort as your uber pulled up to your driveway. a deep sigh escaped your lips, tipping the driver before shutting the door behind you and turning on your deep red heel towards your modern house. the cold night breeze ran through the strands of your hair when your hand gripped the front door handle, the warmth from inside your house hitting your face after carefully stepping inside.

you were met with another smile, except this time by a taller and slightly older woman — the babysitter, arlecchino. she wasted no time standing up and brushing herself down before making her way towards you. her touch on your shoulder was gentle as she gestured for you to turn around, slowly slipping your coat off your body.

“you’re alone?” arlecchino’s voice was relatively quiet with a hint of confusion, clearly expecting a man by your side. silence soon filled the room since you couldn’t put together the words to explain the situation at first, and the other woman thankfully didn’t pester you about it. she hung up your coat after running a light hand down your back, possibly to comfort you but you were too in your head to take much notice of her touch.

“i told him to find somewhere to stay tonight… anywhere but here.”

arlecchino isn’t a first time babysitter. shes highly experienced, you being one of many people she works for and her schedule has always seemed pretty packed. though, she somehow seems to make time just for you. her warm breath tickled the back of your neck causing you to turn around to face her.

“i left him for several minutes while i went to the restroom, just to come back to him all over another woman.” you paused before continuing, your voice laced with irritation. “she was beautiful. i feel so stupid.”

arlecchino hummed, similarly deep in thought.

“he doesn’t treat you right, and you deserve better. but you know that.”

her words replayed in your mind several times. you did know that. but a divorce felt extremely scary and your habit of holding onto things that no longer serve you was getting ridiculous.

you simply nodded in agreement, lifting up one of your dress straps that had fallen moments before. your dress was jet black and had a silky touch, and it hugged your figure to perfection.

“the kid is fast asleep. he has been for hours. no trouble.” the babysitter spoke up, her eyes scanning you from head to toe, you thanked her instantly for both doing a good job and listening to your problems, arlecchino noticing your defeated expression and placing a single gentle hand to your hip. you glanced at her with low, tired eyes as she spoke once more.

“you need someone who treats you like you deserve, i mean that. a beautiful woman like you shouldn’t be putting up with men like that.” arlecchino spoke no louder than a whisper, her eyes jumping to your long fingers running through your sleek hair with ease.

the living room was dim with only a small number of lamps turned on, the wind outside howling loud enough to disrupt the silence between the two women, only looks being exchanged for the moment.

“i want to feel attractive, cared for, wanted.” a deep sigh escaped your lips as you stepped away to press your back against the wall behind you, watching closely as arlecchino followed without any hesitation. the older woman didnt leave much room between you both, her right hand trailing up to gently cup your cheek followed by her thumb lightly caressing it. before you could continue, the other woman spoke up close to your ear.

“i can make you feel that way.” her lips hovered above your soft skin just as her perfume filled the air, your hand lightly tugging at the waistband of her trousers without giving it much thought.

“let me show you what you deserve.”

arlecchino turned her head to face you once more before going in for a kiss but stopping right before the connection, curious to see how you would react. to her surprise you slowly pressed your lips against hers, her hands gripping your hips hard enough to make you quietly whine into the kiss. her tongue asked for entrance which you immediately allowed, tasting her entirely as your arms found themselves wrapped around her neck.

arlecchino pressed her slim body against yours, feeling the heat radiate off you while deepening the kiss. she carefully hooked two fingers under the side of your tight dress, lifting it enough to give her access to where you desperately longed for her touch the most. a light gasp left your soft lips the moment you felt the palm of her hand press against your core from over your black lace panties. she couldn't help but smile against your jaw, peppering sweet kisses along it as her fingers tapped your clit several times.

she couldn’t possibly believe she had you in such a position but it was nothing she would ever complain about in a million years.

you tried not to make any noise since you had to be quiet regardless, but it felt difficult while being so needy. you couldn’t even remember the last time your husband touched you.

arlecchino slid her dominant hand into your underwear, immediately teasing your entrance and being pleasantly surprised by how wet you already were. your sweet juices coated her fingers as she nipped at the skin on your neck, following it up with a single wet kiss. it took everything within her not to mark you how she wanted.

moments passed and the older woman inserted one finger, pumping in and out of your aching cunt causing your knees to go weak. unfortunately biting your bottom lip only suppressed the first few moans that left you, arlecchino’s pace quickening when you least expected it. her free hand moved up to lightly squeeze the sides of your neck, her dark gaze sending shivers down your spine.

suddenly, arlecchino stopped, pushing her finger inside you as far as she could, desperate for you to take the whole length and holding it there. it felt like torture for you and she could see that in your pretty eyes as well as feel the way your walls clenched around her.

“fuck, you’re so stunning.” arlecchino’s voice was low and breathy, the sight of you visibly arousing her. you met her words with nothing but a desperate whine as your body twitched due to the sensitivity.

her lips urgently crashed against yours before she began fingering your sopping cunt at a faster pace than before, your ability to kiss her back fading with each second that passed.

the sound of your own wetness pushed you closer to the edge but arlecchino stopped again, this time removing her finger entirely and ordering you to suck it clean, which you did. your lack of hesitation resulted in the older woman lightly chuckling, her attention soon moving back to your core.

you furrowed your brows, watching your babysitter drop to her knees and pull your soaked panties down to your ankles.

“arle..” you kept your voice quiet with a hint of confusion, attentively watching the other woman perfectly position herself underneath you, her long nails digging into your thighs.

“shhh,” she whispered once her lips were barely millimetres away from your cunt, her breath hot against your sensitive skin. “just take it. can you do that for me, darling?”

you nodded eagerly after tangling your fingers in arlecchino's hair, your grip subconsiously tightening once she licked a slow but purposeful strip from your slit up to your small bundle of nerves.

she took her tongue and flicked your throbbing clit several times, following up with a few light sucks to it, eliciting a series of broken moans from your lips. she quickly became aware of the way you tried to grind against her, placing her tongue flat to let you ride her face with ease. arlecchino's crimson eyes were glued to yours, admiring you through her dark lashes, adoring the way you trembled and stuttered her name so beautifully as you chased an orgasm.

you looked down at the older woman, feeling yourself completely losing control and letting a long whimper slip out of your mouth. her lips wrapped around your swollen clit once more causing you to roughly tug at her long hair, arlecchino trying her hardest not to smile proudly against your core. she was enjoying this a little too much, and she could tell you were close.

as much as she wanted to compliment you some more she chose to continue her ministrations, swirling her tongue until you came in her mouth, desperately attempting to be quiet but not entirely succeeding. your body felt beyond weak and you could barely stay up, gripping onto arlecchino's shoulders tightly for support while you came down from your intense high.

you practically choked on your own breath and fell back against the living room wall after a few moments, arlecchino rising up to meet you with a passionate kiss, her hands possessively on your sides. you could taste yourself on her plump lips, humming as you melted into her.

the older woman pulled back to whisper.

"you deserve to feel good, always." arlecchino pressed her lips against yours a couple more times, each kiss feeling more desperate than the last and it was intoxicating. she was right, in every sense. she usually is.

"perhaps sleep on it." she continued with a gentle tone, both of you having lost track of time. after yanking down your dress to cover yourself and picking up your panties from around your ankle, you parted your soft lips to reply as quiet as ever.

"i'll call you, okay?"

the older woman left the residence with payment firmly gripped in one hand and her coat in the other, feeling optimistic that she would hear from you again that week, whether that would be for work or other matters. as long as she got to see your pretty face, she didn't mind.

[lady-phasma]

Release

Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x his Harpies

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Feyd and his Harpies, cannibalism, pain, blood, oral, and our favorite: black cum (Okay, look, he thinks of them as objects, not me. I just can’t get him out of my head.)

Summary: Brain rot about that last warning. I had to write something from his POV. I enjoy writing from the male POV but don’t get enough practice. I hope it works. Just over 800 words.

Feyd tossed his dusty, bloody clothes on the floor. He ran his hands over his head. The practice sparring simultaneously cleared his mind and got his blood pumping. He didn’t have a ritual after fights but often needed to release the excess energy. His darlings, waiting, always starving for any scraps of attention, would enthusiastically be the targets of that release.

He listened to their soft breathing behind him. The man whose blood stained his clothes had provided them with an indulgent meal. When he had walked into his room they looked at him but with drowsy eyes. They were accustomed to waiting for his attention, rarely demanding it.

Not all the blood on his hands had come off when he washed and the red in the creases looked almost black against his skin. He flexed and fisted his hands, replaying the fight in his mind. His muscles had begun to ache already and it would be much more intense by the next day. He rubbed the shoulder that had received a particularly hard blow and smiled faintly as the pain radiated.

Feyd turned toward the bed and his Harpies. Their eyes were a bit livelier now that they noticed he was naked. One licked her lips as she narrowed her eyes, watching his growing erection. He stood next to the bed evaluating them, a look of pride on his face, pride and hunger. He petted the head of the first Harpy to sit up. She gazed up at him as he cupped her cheek in his palm. He looked at each of them in turn as they slithered closer to him. He didn’t require it but preferred that they were naked. It pleased him when he didn’t have to wait for them to undress.

He gazed at half-opened mouths, pert nipples, and hairless clefts between thighs. He continued to absentmindedly pet the one woman but began to stroke his hard cock. Another Harpy moved closer to him, sitting up on her knees. She gently ran her fingers up his thighs, along the line of his hips, up his belly. She stretched up to meet him part way and Feyd obliged and kissed her parted lips. Her tongue lapped at his black teeth. Slowly, she replaced her hand with his and squeezed and stroked his cock. He moaned.

He squeezed her breast with one hand, grabbed her head with the other. The abandoned Harpy whined and followed his hand. She licked at their ears, dividing her attention between Feyd and the woman. The third Harpy managed to insert herself into the kiss and turned his face to her. He let her and only opened his eyes enough to see the disappointment on the other Harpy’s face. He smiled into the lips on his. He enjoyed their competing desires as much as he enjoyed their bodies. Feyd pulled back from the kiss. Smiling down at the woman stroking him he pressed firmly on the back of her neck.

“Open your mouth for me, my darling,” he growled. She did. His moved her hand and slid the tip of his cock along her bottom lip. Black pre-cum coated it and he sighed. She opened wider and pushed her tongue out, making room for him. She looked up at him, expressionless except for searching black eyes waiting on her next direction. None came.

Feyd grabbed the sides of her face with both hands. She closed her lips around his cock as he fucked into her mouth. He groaned softly as the warmth enveloped him. He closed his eyes and images of the fight he had won earlier flashed in his mind. He felt hands on his thighs, his ass, and his balls. A tongue licked his ribs and down his side. Fingers teased him from his lower back to the back of his thigh.

Sweet, lovely sounds filled his ears. The wetness of the Harpy’s mouth on his cock. Her muffled moans and occasional gasps when he would pause to let her catch her breath. The mewling of the other two as they tasted and teased him. They rarely spoke anymore, only his name occasionally, no louder than a whisper. These sounds were what he craved.

One of them squeezed his balls and he pushed his full length into the woman’s mouth. She groaned around him and the vibrations made the tightness in his core unravel. He pulled out just enough to spill his black, thick load over her tongue. He opened his eyes and watched the corners of her mouth twitch up in a small smile. His deep groan turned into an exhale and his shoulders slumped. He released her head. As he moved back he wiped the head of his cock on her tongue.

“Swallow. All of it,” Feyd commanded. The Harpy obeyed. He wiped black from the corner of her mouth with his thumb and pushed it between her lips. Her tongue lapped it from him.

[lesbocaffe]

WHISTLE (⁠✿) MEGURU BACHIRA

w.c: 532

notes: fluff fluff fluff everyone is happy

"Hey... [Name], are you done yet?"

Bachira incessantly whined while laying down on the soft mattress. Watching his girlfriend, according to him, wasting the time you should spend with him on studying. After a moment of comfortable silence, he created a plan to get your attention. He shitfed positions, now sitting down on the edge of the bed and called you— alternating between your name and making up new nicknames out of the blue— several times. Until you finally turned the black office chair around.

"Is something the matter, Megs? I'm busy right now." As the last words left your mouth, you immediately went back into writing as you needed to keep studying for the upcoming tests, though you had gone overboard with it: eyebags started forming under your eyes, expression lines faintly prominent and red cheeks from the tear stains she had released out of frustration.

"So, I have a question..."

"Well hurry up, I still need to revise some-" You yawned in between, "...topics". It was getting late already. Bachira looked at you with a pained expression. From all the years you've known each other, he was always the one to stop you from overworking yourself and it always suceeded; except for this time. So he needed to get creative to prevent your health from deteriorating any further.

"Do you know how to whistle?" He asked, with a glint of mischief in his voice.

"Huh, what's with that question? Of course I know how!" You replied rather annoyed. That was his cue to continue with the plan— he chuckled at your reaction.

"Then... could you teach me how?"

You put your things down for a while and sighed, "It's late already so maybe I should take a break, besides we barely spent tine together today so I don't see why not". In a swiftly manner, you got up and sat on the edge of the bed, next to your lover.

"First, you put your lips in a donut shaped, look, like this". Your plump lips pursed into an 'O' shape then- BAM!

The honey eyed boy advantaged and smashed his lips onto yours, with such force your back hit the soft mattress with Bachira on top; his hands resting on each side of your head, as he continued peppering your face with short, sweet kisses that trailed from your cheeks down to your neck.

"Was this what you had planned all along?" You simply could not hide the laughs that echoed in the room due to the tickling sensation generated by his soft hair coming into contact with your skin. "Ack– you can stop now Megu, i'm all yours forever and ever." At the mention of his name, he halted then went to lay down next to you.

"Mhm, I just adore you so much. Now c'mere so you can have a rest, you worked so hard today." His hands snaked around your waist pulling her body closer to his. Out of instinct, you wrapped her arms around him, now hugging each other like a pair of sloths. The girl nuzzled deeper into his chest, seeking confort and soon enough; Bachira could hear light snores coming from you.

"Sweet dreams, my dear [Name]"

[notinmyvocab]

Neighborhood Watch

Larissa Weems has a new neighbor

Warnings: sexual content, drinking, masturbation, Larissa WeemsxOFC

oops my hand slipped ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

read part 2 here

She knew she should have been pleased with the new building across the street. Jericho was expanding; her lovely little town was growing up. Still, Larissa Weems couldn’t say she was exactly thrilled at the idea of a new apartment building across the way.

Her home suited her because of the peace; because there were so few people on the street coming and going. Now? Now her morning coffee would be less than peaceful.

As the days rolled by and people moved in, Larissa found that it actually wasn’t all that bad. The street was still quiet. Her mornings hardly changed. It was the evenings that she found her blood pressure rising.

After a long day of work, all Larissa ever wanted to do was have a quiet night with a glass of wine, maybe a Judy Garland record playing softly in the background. Instead, she found herself continually distracted by that damn apartment building.

She used to have a nice view out of her window where she could watch the stars with an uninterrupted sight line. And now she had this monstrosity of a building in her way.

It had been a particular bad day. Wednesday’s antics were driving her round the twist and she was this close to losing it. Larissa poured herself a hefty glass of wine, grabbed a book, and sat down on the overstuffed chair that faced her window. That awful, awful building glared at her. She glared right back.

The windows of the apartment building her all black; everyone else had gone to bed it seemed. All except one straggler.

Larissa tilted her head to the side as she watched a silhouette glide through dim lighting; it was like watching a ghost. Then the dimness was illuminated as another lamp was turned on. Larissa’s breath hitched when she set her eyes upon a young woman in jeans and a bra and nothing else.

The woman was looking for something. A shirt, no doubt. No, something else… Larissa squinted, trying to make out the details. Yes, a shirt, she was right the first time. But instead of putting it on, the woman balled it up and walked away.

Larissa’s shoulders sagged, as if disappointed. Seconds later, the woman reappeared, this time without her jeans. Mouth gone dry, Larissa took a swig of wine.

She was being ridiculous. Perverted! Watching this neighbor in her underwear as if it were a free show! Larissa took one more gulp of wine before standing up and walking over to her window to close the curtains.

It seemed her neighbor had the same idea, for she approached her own curtains and grabbed the edges to pull them shut.

The two women paused, seeing their mirror images across the street. The young woman raised a hand and gave a little wave, either not realizing she was under dressed, or not caring.

Larissa mimicked the movement, waving hello. Even from across the street, Larissa could see the young woman’s charming smile. It was infectious; Larissa couldn’t help but smile back.

The neighbor stepped closer to the window, nose touching the glass. She breathed heavily and in the fog she drew a quick smiley face that disappeared far too quickly for Larissa’s taste.

Larissa followed suit, also drawing a smiley face. She fogged up the window again and wrote “hi!” The neighbor did the same, and the two shared a bright smile.

Without really thinking about it, Larissa took her wine glass and held it up, giving a silent cheers. The neighbor held up a finger, telling Larissa to hold on. She disappeared from view and returned seconds later with a bottle of rosé. Forgoing the glass, the neighbor held up the bottle, returning the cheers. They laughed and took a sip from their respective drinks.

The neighbor looked pretty when she laughed; Larissa wondered what she sounded like. She imagined her laughter was like a bell: clear and bright and melodic.

Larissa pulled her wine glass away from her lips too soon; a dribble of red ran down the front of her cream colored dress.

“Shit,” she muttered, setting the glass aside. She walked away from the window as she unzipped her dress so she could immediately get to work on lifting the stain.

Her nipples hardened underneath her unlined bra. Abandoning her dress, she returned to her glass of wine and frowned upon finding it empty. Though that would certainly explain why she found herself unabashed.

Realizing she was once again in front of her window, Larissa straightened up and looked out to see the neighbor.

She was still there, prettier than she was just a minute ago. She watched Larissa, head cocked to the side, apparently enjoying the view. Larissa could have sworn she saw the neighbor’s tongue dart out to wet her lips.

Feeling emboldened by that and the wine, Larissa made a decision. She relaxed her shoulders, letting a bra strap falling down.

The neighbor stood there, frozen. For a brief moment, Larissa panicked. What if she misinterpreted? Had she just traumatized this young woman?

Larissa watched as the woman moved slowly but deliberately, lowering one bra strap and then the other before reaching behind and undoing the clasp. Larissa held her breath as the bra fell to the floor.

She wanted to mimic the movement; she wanted to more than anything to act as a mirror to the enticing young woman across the street. But she found herself frozen with desire. She could only watch as the woman dragged a chair across the floor and sat down.

Now that was something Larissa could bring herself to do. She sat down in her chair just as her neighbor had.

Her mouth went dry as the neighbor slowly drew a hand up her torso, fingertips ghosting her skin and coming to rest on a nipple, which she then pinched, head tilted back in pleasure.

Larissa’s breathing grew heavy, her arousal making her center slick. She could only imagine the sounds the neighbor was making but oh how exquisite they sounded in her head.

It wasn’t enough. She needed to hear the moans. She needed to know what the woman sounded like.

Larissa got up from her chair and walked over to the window. She knocked at it, knowing full well that the neighbor couldn’t hear her but could at least see the movement. Sure enough, she watched the woman stand up.

Feeling brave and perhaps feeling a little bit drunk and a little bit lonely, Larissa made a “come hither” gesture, both as an invitation, and as a promise of what was to come.

[ghoulodont]

Cardiac Action Potential

The birds and the bees, for a ghoul, are the tria prima and a human sacrifice.

Relationship: None... yet Characters: Dewdrop, Rain Words: 1.3k

Read below or on AO3

Six ghouls wait silently at the locked door of the chapel. On the schedule tonight is the summoning of a singular addition to their lineup, a bass player.

Originally, it was a lead guitar ghoul that the group needed, but the clergy had noted Dewdrop’s proficiency on the guitar, his drive to learn an instrument he wasn’t summoned to play, and offered him an opportunity. After some deliberation, it was decided. The lead guitar ghoul role was filled, and the bass ghoul role was empty.

Dew liked the old lead guitar ghoul, and they had great chemistry together onstage. But he wasn’t continuing with the band. That’s life, Dew supposes. Or, that’s undeath, or however a ghoul’s state of being should be classified.

Regardless, because of this change of plans, the final summoning of this iteration of the band had been slightly delayed. Now that it was confirmed they did indeed need a new bass ghoul, they are ready to proceed.

Eventually the door creaks open, pulled back by a single sister of sin. When the ghouls enter, she closes the door behind them and twists the deadbolt shut with a heavy thunk.

Inside is a chapel designated specifically for summoning. It’s rarely used, but immaculately maintained. If you were to see it between rituals — and you wouldn’t, unless you were tasked with its upkeep, because it’s otherwise kept securely locked — you would hardly know its purpose. One of the only subtle hints is the coffin shape of the stone altar at the center of the raised sanctuary.

Another is the circle surrounding it, painted on the floor with something dark red, its circumference lined with intricate sigils. That might be a hint too.

The altar is bare, pristine, except for six black candles, flames glowing steadily, one at each corner. Copia stands at its head, hands clasped behind him.

Copia, only a cardinal, taking on the role of a pope. It’s all very non-traditional, but it’s not like Dew has much experience with anything else. It’s not the only atypical feature of this summoning, anyway.

The ghouls file into the pews along one side of the sanctuary. The matching pews across from them remain empty. The small nave is mostly empty too, save for a row of sisters.

When the ghouls sit, Copia nods to the sisters, who proceed up the single step into the sanctuary and make their way to the altar. Each of them holds a ritual item, cradled carefully in two hands.

Dew has seen all of this before. He just recently saw it three times in quick succession. It doesn’t get any easier to watch. He’s not sure what the purpose of the existing ghouls’ presence is anyway. It must just be tradition.

The necessary items for the ritual were prepared beforehand, ingredients carefully measured into their own little containers, oddly like the mise-en-place of a cooking show on TV. The first three sisters each hand a small bowl to the cardinal. He takes them, one at a time, and pours the contents of each onto the altar, along its long axis, each reagent in its own place.

The first is a fine yellow powder, a tiny, dusty mountain on the stone surface — sulfur.

The second is a shiny, slippery liquid, forming a little round puddle — mercury.

The third is a white and crystalline substance, pebbles of it tumbling down the sides of its pile — salt.

The penultimate sister is holding a black wooden box, intricately carved and inlaid with gold. She lifts away the lid and Copia removes from it a human heart, which he places on the altar, two thirds from the top, at its widest point.

The final sister hands him a chalice filled with a deep red liquid. This, Dew has been told, is blood, once belonging to someone who is now no longer alive.

Briefly, Copia holds the chalice aloft. Then he lowers it and pours its contents across the altar in a wide, splattering stripe, drenching it and all of the prepared items upon it. The liquid spreads, rivulets reaching the edge of the altar and running down its sides to the floor.

There is a tense beat of silence. Then, the salt sizzles, the mercury bubbles, and the sulfur erupts into bright blue flame.

When the reaction fades, the reagents are gone. The only thing left on the altar is the heart, unmarred. The chapel is silent and still, as if maybe that’s all that will happen, and it’s already over.

But, moments later, the main event begins. Blood vessels sprout from the top of the heart and grow, snaking, across the altar. They twist and branch into a vaguely humanoid shape, a shadow over the stone.

Individual organs congeal, wet and shiny, each budding from nothing and blooming into something recognizable — lungs, liver, kidneys. A brain. Ducts and vessels reach out to one another.

Bones form, the biggest ones first. They start out spindly like twigs and grow in length and diameter, creaking as they expand. They lie disjoint from each other, draped over the existing viscera in a loose semblance of a skeleton. As the first ligaments are created, they begin to pull together. Arms slide into shoulders, legs into hips. Ribs attach to a sternum and vault over the organs of the chest cavity.

Muscle and sinew forms, layer by layer, a macabre, meaty papier-mâché. As flesh connects to bone, the ghoul twitches. His limbs jerk unceremoniously, like a marionette.

One of his flailing arms knocks a candle off the altar and onto the marble floor of the sanctuary. Hot wax pools under it, but the flame continues to burn, rising perpendicular from the wick.

He lets out a low, breathy groan, whatever air was in his lungs pushed out by the contraction of his brand new diaphragm.

Final layers of adipose and skin cover his raw, exposed tissue. As all of his bodily systems come together he continues to twitch, smaller movements but more of them now, until he’s almost vibrating.

Then he flops limp on the altar, motionless.

Copia reaches down and feels for the new ghoul’s pulse, placing two fingers into the juncture between his neck and his jaw. When he nods, the waiting sisters flurry over to lift the ghoul’s body off the altar. As two of them raise his upper body into a seated position, his head first lolls back and then snaps forward, like he’s suddenly awake. His eyes fall open.

Dew watches him take a deep, gasping breath. His first.

Two more sisters join to help pull him up until he’s standing. A fifth drapes a blanket over his shoulders. He’s taller than all of them. The sister with the blanket stands on her tiptoes.

They lead him to sit on the opposite side of the sanctuary. If he were summoned when he was supposed to be, he would be sitting among other newborn ghouls. Instead, he’s alone. At least he doesn’t have to sit through any more summonings right now, to witness his first and only memory as an outside observer before he’s had any chance to get his bearings.

No, Dew wouldn’t wish that experience on anyone.

Dew isn’t listening while Copia says the closing rite. He’s watching the new ghoul. His replacement, yet he’s still here to witness this. It hasn’t ever happened before, at least not that he’s aware of.

The ghoul is pulling his blanket around himself. His head is drooping forward slightly, like it’s too heavy for him to hold up. He’s breathing hard enough that Dew can see the rise and fall of his shoulders from the other side of the sanctuary. When Copia dismisses them all, the sisters return to his side and help him file out of the chapel with everyone else.

Tonight, they will go their separate ways. This new ghoul will be whisked off for further initiation rituals, and then closely monitored for a few days as he builds strength in his new body.

Dew watches as he’s led down the hall in the opposite direction. He looks like a baby deer, unsteady in an endearing sort of way. Something about his proportions adds to the image — he’s all legs under his blanket.

As they turn the corner and continue out of sight, Dew wonders what his name will be.

[juliaswickcrs]

HIRAETH

rating: 14+

relationship: robb stark/oc

AO3

summary: Emma Hightower wakes in a land that is not her own with knowledge of a future that does not belong to her. But as she learned from watching Game of Thrones, knowledge is power, and despite warnings about fate and defying the will of the gods, Emma refuses to let any Starks, Tyrells, or Targaryens die at the hands of Lannisters, even if it means throwing herself in their line of sight. Even if it means throwing herself into war. {modern character in westeros, time travel fix it au}

a/n: this has been on ao3 for a while now, but @bisexualterror convinced me to post it on here! please reblog or comment if you enjoyed it!

CHAPTER ONE :: OLDTOWN

She awoke on a soft patch of grass, sunlight streaming through stained glass, crafting a kaleidoscope of colors which danced across her exposed skin. 

Her dress held tight to her frame, skirt flaring out at the waist as it gathers around her thighs. 

It is exactly what she was wearing when she touched the white bark of the tree in the center of the castle. 

Her flannel shirt dangled lazily from her shoulder as she pulls herself up, spandex peeking through the short hem of the white sundress. 

The grass refused to stay grasped in her palms, sliding through her fingers like silk. 

It seemed to be the only patch of grass in this place, the surrounding areas decorated with black marble that covered the area except for a small hole near the top.

The stained glass depicts figures Emma has never seen, and she finds herself staring at a long-haired woman grasping a bouquet of flowers with her head down. 

Besides her stands a broad shouldered man on his knees, sword in hand. 

Despite how little Emma knows, something deep in her head rings familiar, the weight of her bag dragging her shoulder down as she moves closer to the windows. 

She glances behind her for a brief moment and freezes. 

The white tree stands behind her, although it is much smaller than she remembers. 

There is no face carved into it, but the white bark and red leaves are unmistakable. 

It is nearly the exact tree Emma remembers touching after hearing the screams and yells of Cassie and Alec. 

Her leather boots clicked against the beautifully crafted floors of the Cathedral. 

That is the best approximation she can give for the place she woke up in and for all her hatred of it, Emma cannot undo the religious knowledge she grew up with. 

Stained glass, black and white marble, the sounds of choirs in the distance…it’s all horribly familiar to her and yet unknown at the same time. 

The sweet smell of incense caused her to wrinkle her nose as she continued down the narrow halls, religious imagery and icons plastered upon the walls.

It does little to quell the rising nausea in her stomach. 

She hates the smell of churches, the close walls and hymns that accompany the wide-eyed stares and whispered prayers.

“Excuse me, miss” a deep voice rumbles behind her and she whips around, hair nearly slapping the man in the face. 

He’s tall and bearded, with wide eyes resembling her own staring down at her. 

The clothes he’s dressed in are of fine fabrics with gold threaded through the deep forest green of his tunic. 

The sword that swings by his side is certainly not something Emma would see back home, but maybe people in Ireland take live action roleplay more seriously?

That was the only alternative that didn’t have Emma questioning her own sanity. 

“Are you lost?” 

His tone was one she’d heard many times, where an adult would ask a question that was clearly meant to be rhetorical. But Emma had never been good at answering those. 

“I’m sorry, sir,” Her eyes fell to the grey tower and golden flames emblazoned on his doublet, the emblem feeling unmistakably familiar “I don’t know where I am, I believe—“ 

“You don’t know where you are?” The man scoffed incredulously, crossing his arms and shaking his head as if she were a child, “I’ve heard many excuses from whores, but I do believe that is a new one.”

Emma’s chest burned at the insult, “I beg your pardon?”

“Come now brother,” A melodic voice interrupted her attempt to defend herself, “Is that any way to talk to one of our own?”

A pair of long nails attached to spindly fingers landed on Emma’s shoulder, cold to the touch and causing her to tense up. 

The man sighed, “Malora, I do not have time for your antics today, surely father—“

“Father has sent me to retrieve your issue,” The woman behind her spoke pointedly, eyes staring down the man, before lowering her voice, “Or at least, that’s who he believes has shown up in the garden of the Starry Sept.”

The man shook his head again, “You and I both know Father had gone quite mad these days, surely he does not believe—“

“You don’t know what he believes anymore, brother,” the woman, Malora, spoke with a sharp tone, “You are not the one he asks to join him in the High Tower. You have not seen him of late. He is filled with dreams, ideas that no other lord would dare speak aloud, and when he asks his children to perform an errand, he expects it to be done quickly and discreetly.”

Malora’s brother tightened his grip on his sword, jaw clenching as his eyes wandered over Emma’s frame once more. 

She tried to ignore the ridiculous thoughts filling her head as the conversation took place. 

With words like Starry Sept, and High Tower standing out and joining the emblem in familiarity. 

The woman who saved her from the insult steers her past the bearded man and Emma finally catches a glimpse of her. 

She is tall and willowy, with long dark hair that seemed to match the imagery of the stained glass Emma saw earlier. Her skirts fell to the floor, causing Emma to tug on the hem of her sundress. 

They were made of a dark velvet the color of the night sky, dotted with flecks of gold and seemed to move when Malora moved. 

As they passed the bearded man, Emma stopped and stared up at him, gathering every bit of vitriol she could muster, “I’m not a whore,” She spat, “And even if I was, you could not afford me.”

The man’s face turned red and Malora’s lips tilted upward into a smirk. 

The older woman unclasped the cloak around her shoulders, “Here,” she handed it to Emma, “Unless you wish to be mistaken for a whore again, I would advise you keep that on you until we reach my father.”

Emma stared at the deep violet color for a moment before dropping her gaze toward her short hem. 

She wanted to say no, to protest against the ridiculous standards they were enforcing on her. But she had questions, and she needed to know if all of this was as impossible as she believed it to be. 

The golden strings tied neatly around her neck and Emma pulled the thick hood over her long dark hair.

She did not know where Malora was taking her, nor why the bearded man seemed intent on following them through the winding passageways and sweltering heat of what was clearly a bustling city. 

As she held tight to Malora’s hand, a series of possibilities floated through her mind. 

The first was that she’d been dragged into the middle of a very elaborate LARP scenario. 

The swords, the fancy accents, the beautiful Cathedral.

It all made sense. 

After all, Ireland was famous for their beautiful churches and…unique characters but Emma had never heard of people being this committed to the bit before. 

The second was she’d accidentally stumbled onto the set of a fantasy show for Netflix. Ireland was a popular filming place after all, and it would explain why everyone was dressed in similar silhouttes and spoke as if following a script. 

But that would not explain how she fit into this whole thing. Unless it was like that one show where everyone else was an actor except for the lone person out of the loop. 

The third was something too impossible for her to contemplate. 

But it explained more than the first two options ever could. 

The strange dialect, the clothes and belief she was a whore, the fact that the city she was now weaving through resembling nothing of the Irish countryside she’d been given a tour of before with her friends.

It all made too much sense and yet none at the same time. 

“Look out!” Malora yelled and Emma turned just in time to see a wide-eyed man with crooked teeth and a knife fall to the ground with a groan.

Blood spilled out of his mouth and onto her dress as a steel blade punctured his throat.

The bearded man stood before her with a look of disdain, but all Emma could feel the warmth of the blood spattering her face and chest, staining her dress crimson as the life left the man’s eyes. 

And suddenly the impossible became reality. 

If it was a movie, a director would have yelled cut. If it was a show, special effects would have taken place. And if it was a LARPing session, there would be no need for live steel. 

She could taste the iron.

This was real. 

The blood was real. 

Emma knelt down and grasped the knife in her hand. It was crudely made, with a misshapen wooden handle and a flimsy blade.

It punctured the tip of her finger and she winced.

The knife was real. 

This was no longer a dream, nor an impossible option. 

“Holy shit,” She whispered. 

Malora grasped her hand and quickened her pace, the bearded man falling back into place as they continued downriver.

The water rushed beside them as whispers turned to bustling conversations.

Survival instinct kicked in and Emma ran alongside the woman, still not knowing where she was headed or what her fate would be when they got there. 

A white marble bridge arched across the mouth of the rushing river toward the jagged bluffs overlooking the sea. 

The waves crashed against the obsidian fortress which lay atop the cliffs and if Emma forced herself to listen, it almost sounded like the whispers of a thousand voices every time the water hit the brick. 

It was only when a door closed behind her that Emma returned to reality, gauging her surroundings once more. 

If this really was the truth, then she would need every bit of cleverness and wit she possessed. 

She would not win battles with swords or bows or strength, only what was in her mind. 

“Are you alright?” The bearded man seemed genuinely concerned, a far cry from his behavior before, and Emma forgot that she was now covered in someone else’s blood. 

She nodded briskly, certain that her fear was written all over her face. 

The bearded man shot a look at Malora, who was already talking with two men in silver armor with more swords at their sides. 

Both of them held the same emblem on their armor the bearded man did on his doublet. 

God, why couldn’t she remember what it was?

The armored men nodded and disappeared down one of the many hallways.

Several entrances poured out into the foyer, a large spiral staircase reaching up into the endless expanse above her, carved out of the same white marble the bridge was made of. 

“Father will be expecting her,” Malora spoke in hushed tones, the woman’s lips tugging themself into a frown, “And seeing as she clearly has nowhere else to go—“

“I will bring her to Father,” The bearded man spoke, eyes darting Emma’s direction. They lingered on the blood coating her face and something akin to regret crossed his face, “The least we can do is provide her with a place to stay if he decides otherwise.”

Malora sighed and squeezed the man’s shoulder, “Thank you Bael.”

Emma tensed as Malora turned her gaze her direction, only relaxing once the woman gently pressed her hands onto her shoulders once more, “You will be safe here. I do not know what my father intends to do with you, but we will not leave you to your own devices, I will ensure it."

Emma nodded, “Thank you,” She breathed out, barely able to comprehend the woman’s words. 

They filled her with relief, and even though something seemed to dance behind the woman’s emerald gaze. 

Emma blinked, and Malora was gone. 

Her skirts swished up the endless marble staircase, and she silently wondered how the woman held the stamina to ascend the staircase without so much as blinking. 

A moment passed, and the bearded man entered her vision. 

She caught a much better look at him this time around.

Auburn hair hung neatly to his shoulders and his beard was well trimmed. The man was probably in his forties or fifties if she had to guess, close in age to Malora.

In fact, the two seemed to share the same eyes, except the man’s were a much more muted color, resembling waves of grass instead of the cut of emeralds. 

The man seemed to be waiting for something, and it wasn’t until his lips moved again that Emma realized he was asking her a question.

“Your name,” He spoke softly, as if suddenly realizing his mistake from earlier, “What is your name?”

“Emma,” She muttered, still in shock, “My name is Emma.”

“Very well, Emma.” The man spoke, offering his arm, “Follow me, I’ll take you to meet my father.”

His father. 

Of course it was his father. He was a wealthy man, probably a lord of some kind. A deep groaning sound pulled her back into the moment and she found herself staring at a very unstable, very crude elevator. 

The man walked in like he did this every day, staring at Emma for a moment before gesturing for her to follow, “Well, Lady Emma, shall I inform my father you are here or do you plan to stand there all day?”

Gulping down the bundle of nerves in the back of her throat, Emma winced as she stepped onto the wooden floor of the fragile contraption, closing her eyes as the cage shut and began creaking toward the top. 

A tough grip wrapped around her shoulders, but she dare not open her eyes for fear of seeing just how high she was dangling. 

It was worse than rides up the tall skyscrapers back home and she silently waited for a cable to break and send her plummeting like the Tower of Terror. 

The cage shrieked to a stop and she waited. 

And waited. 

And waited. 

But the sound of a cable snapping never came, and when she opened her eyes, the cage door was open with the bearded man offering his hand to her. 

She stepped off without taking it, balancing delicately on the balls of her feet as she pushed herself through the frame. 

“I see you still take offense to my earlier remarks, my lady,” The bearded man dropped his hand while Emma attempted to stabilize herself using the stone railing.

“Women typically aren’t fans of being called whores” Emma shot back, unsure where her voice had come from.  The man arched an eyebrow and Emma gulped, forgetting where she was for a moment, “…Sir.” She tacked on carelessly, “The only reason you’re treating me differently is because your sister and father say you should, otherwise you’d still assume I’m selling myself, right?”

The man dropped his head in shame and that was all the answer she needed. 

Now that she was behind high walls and Malora had promised her safety, her boldness returned in spades, anger rumbling in her stomach at the earlier insult. The short hem and lack of sleeves was all he had to go off of and he’d decided she must have been a prostitute. 

After all, what other option was there for a woman in these times?

She wasn’t dressed like the others around her, and she held no emblem to distinguish her as the daughter of a lord or lady. 

“And even if I was selling myself, perhaps I had no other choice,” She continued to ramble, the words coming to her as the wheels in her head turned, “Perhaps I was abandoned and left in a whorehouse, or disowned and forced to find my own way. I would hope the gods would see that and forgive me.”

The words were too honest for the world she lived in now, but she might as well take one last moment of truth before being forced to lie for however long she remained here.

With her luck, it would be the rest of her life. 

“Well said, my lady.” The man nodded, gesturing toward a magnificent gilded door with the same emblem of a tower aflame carved into the mahogany doors.

It was obviously a symbol of great importance, and Emma wished she could remember what it was. 

“With a temper and a wit like that, I can see why my father is eager to meet you.”

He lifted the bronze knocker three times, the echoing sound followed by a muffled voice of similar cadence to the man beside her. 

“Enter.” It ordered, the door swinging open. 

Anxiety clawed at Emma’s stomach as she stared into the darkness before her, the only light coming from the flame of a candle burning in the middle of the room and the sunlight from outside.

She swallowed the lump building in the back of her throat and shuffled forward, the door slamming shut behind her. 

An older man stared up at her, silvery blonde hair illuminated by the flickering flames of the lit candles surrounding a desk in the middle of the room. 

Scrolls and parchment lay scattered about the room with books open to specific pages stacked on top of one another. 

Many were scrawled in languages Emma didn’t recognize, with drawings of scales and equations written in the margins. 

Behind the man lay a stained glass window with a seven pointed star, the ledge underneath it decorated with bunsen burners and beakers and lumps of coal under magnifying glasses. 

In the shadows lay a green powder Emma had no desire to touch and she tried to memorize as much as she could to see if it jogged her memory in any capacity. 

“Ah, the Lady Emma,” The man’s eyes twinkled as if with knowledge no one else possessed, “How wonderful to receive you. I am Leyton Hightower of Oldtown, Lord of the Hightower and Beacon of the South.”

It all clicked into place. 

“I see you’ve already met my eldest daughter Malora and my heir, Baelor.” He gestured toward the bearded man behind her and the shadow beside a bookcase. 

Malora stepped out of the shadows with a comforting look, and Emma’s stomach sank further, grasping tightly to the strap of her bag.

“Now that we have all become acquainted,” Leyton continued nonchalantly, looking unbothered as Emma’s eyes darted around the room putting the pieces into place, “Perhaps you would like to tell me exactly how you ended up in Westeros.”

She gulped. 

hiraeth taglist: @bisexualterror (lmk if you wanna be added)

[steviestits]

I Move the Stars For No One - Part 1.1

Written for a prompt dmed to me, which can be read in its entirety on this fic’s masterpost.

Pairing: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Rating: T (E for later chapters) Summary: After running away from home after an argument with his father, Steve storms off into the woods only to accidentally stumble into the unseelie king's lavish party. The king, Eddie as he likes to be called, is taken by Steve and dances through the night with him. Though Steve enjoys himself, he feels the need to return to the mortal realm, but soon learns that he can't as he has become property of the king after trespassing on a sacred fairy circle. Steve is forced to stay and begins to learn that all is not as it seems, especially in regards to his own past. (Labyrinth inspired story but they share zero plot points.) Trigger Warning: Child Abuse Eventual Trigger Warning: Feminization, Mating Rituals, Heats/Ruts but not the Omegaverse kind

Ever since Steve was a child, he hadn’t believed in fairy tales. Not because he naturally didn’t think they were real, but because his father had drilled it into him from the start that he wouldn’t tolerate any foolish fantasies from Steve. This included Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and all fairy tales in general. While all the other kids in Steve’s class were eagerly anticipating Santa's arrival, Steve was stuck at business parties making connections with people he didn’t like because he was his father’s heir.

At least he was his father’s heir up until a few minutes ago when Steve’s last college admissions letter was delivered. Steve had prayed hard that this one was an acceptance, that he had somehow managed to get into this one, but he hadn’t, making his father go into a rage. He tried to reason with his father, telling him that he’d try community college first then transfer the credits after a few semesters. That only made his father angrier as Harringtons didn’t attend community college. They attended Ivy League universities or nothing at all.

The argument started to become heated, with his father ranting about how much money Steve was going to make him waste instead of simply getting in on his own merits. Steve made the mistake of talking back since he didn’t even want to attend one of those fancy colleges. This earned Steve a punch for daring to “run his mouth” and even more disapproval from his father, which turned his face red as he continued to berate Steve in anger.

Glancing over at his mother, Steve saw that she was onto her fifth glass of wine. She had her head down, pretending she couldn’t see the scene in front of her. Steve wanted to call out to his mother, though he already knew she wouldn’t answer. Instead of doing something so fruitless, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the house with his father continuing to yell at him as he left, shouting at Steve not to come back until he had an attitude adjustment.

Steve rubbed his nose as tears pricked the corner of his eyes. He then reached into his pocket, wanting to grab his keys, except in his haste to leave, he left them behind. There was no way he was going back after that scene, so he had no choice but to change directions to head towards the woods behind his house, even though it was starting to get dark as the sun started to set, allotting the night to loom closer.

The woods weren't very deep as they were a part of a sectioned off forest reserve, but the farther Steve walked into them, the further they seemed to stretch. Overhead, the sky continued to darken until night fell upon him, blanketing his surroundings in shadow. He couldn’t see the way back, nor the way forward for that matter, however he figured that if he continued in a straight line that he would eventually reach the other side where civilization existed.

Shakily, Steve made his way onward while using his hand to touch the nearby trees to keep himself steady as all he could see was an inky blackness in front of him. That’s why he didn’t see the small ring of mushrooms and stepped directly into it. Though, he might not have avoided the ring even if he had, because in Steve’s mind fairy rings such as these only existed in fairy tales and had no place in the real world.

A sudden dizziness overcame Steve, and he staggered, blinking rapidly as the world shifted around him in a blur of light. His senses did eventually return to him, except that when they did, Steve found that he was no longer in the woods but now stood at the edge of a large ballroom crowded with a throng of costumed guests twirling around a lavish, marble dance floor. No one seemed to notice him, too enraptured in their own revelry than to notice anything else.

Steve glanced around, taking in the rest of the ballroom, which as a whole, felt surreal, almost like it had been plucked out of a dream. White walls with full-length mirrors surrounded the dancers, reflecting their movements and creating the illusion that there were eerie doppelgangers mimicking them. Wax-laden candelabras swayed above the ball, shimmering from time to time as light illuminated the glossy strings of pearls that were laced between each candlestick. White-sequined, sheer gauze lay lazily draped over the marble pillars that stood staunch at the sides of each doorway, though from where Steve stood, he couldn’t see where they led.

At the center of the party stood a man dressed with a black fur cloak draped over an even blacker suit and a white ruffled shirt. His dark brown hair curled loosely down his back, appearing wild and untamed among the picturesque room. His face was covered with a black leather mask shaped like a wolf, but Steve could still tell he was bored with his dance partner as his steps lacked any sort of motivation. Then the man’s head turned, as if sensing Steve’s gaze, and Steve found himself captivated by the deepest pair of brown eyes.

The man’s eyes remained locked onto Steve’s while he callously pushed aside his dancer partner before he made his way through the crowd. He was undeterred as the guests quickly made room for the man, revealing his importance to those here, so in no time at all, he stood in front of Steve, who felt plain suddenly as he was still dressed in his oversized red sweater and jeans. Then the man slowly removed his mask, revealing breathtaking features, which stared at Steve in amused wonder.

“You’re new,” the man said with a deep chuckle. “How did you happen across my party?”

“I-” Steve began, only to realize that he had no idea how he arrived here. “I don’t know.”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I welcome the intrusion. Now tell me your name.”

As though he was under a spell, Steve replied, “Steve, Steve Harrington.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Steve Harrington. I’m Edward, king of the unseelie court, but you can merely call me Eddie.” Eddie then bowed deeply though his eyes never left Steve’s before he took Steve’s hand and asked, “May I have this dance?”

Masterpost ~ Part 1.2

[heliossecretdeskdrawer]

Off The Clock

Continuity: IDW1

Rating: Explicit

Relationships: Megatron/Rodimus

Characters: Rodimus & Megatron

Warnings: Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Porn Without Plot, Masturbation, Voyeurism

Summary: In which Rodimus tries to ask Megatron something while he's off-shift.

Crossposting: AO3 | Dreamwidth Fic under cut. See AO3 for complete notes.

One of these days, Rodimus would learn to knock.

Unfortunately—or maybe it was fortunate, from a certain perspective—today was not the hypothetical day in question.

It seemed a little stupid, however, to be standing just past the threshold of his co-captain’s quarters with a datapad in hand while said co-captain was seated on the edge of his berth with a finger resting on his glowing anterior node.

Rodimus had been planning to ask him why Ultra Magnus had denied a line item on Brainstorm’s expense report for a recent project … uncharacteristically without comment. Usually any denials would be accompanied by several paragraphs of explanation, with relevant policies cited down to the specific relevant clause. The only possible explanation for this change in behavior must have been that Mags was suffering from some illness without telling anyone… anyone except his war criminal confidant.

Who was presently, uh, occupied.

And glaring right at him, finger frozen in place. Much like the icy bloom of embarrassment in Rodimus’s spark.

Mouth hanging open like a moron, Rodimus rifled through his processor to try and find anything to say, anything that could make up for just thoughtlessly bursting in on what was clearly a… delicate situation for his good buddy.

“Uh.” Not enough. “My bad.”

Nailed it.

Now to just step backward through the open door and not let his optics drift downward—The red glow from the partially obstructed node haloing the black finger, moist with lubricant, that had been caressing it was dangerously attention-grabbing. His feet were frozen to the floor.

The lubricant coating the finger and smearing the partially visible valve folds told him that Megatron had been at this for at least a several minutes… if not longer. It was possible Rodimus had walked in after an overload or two, but certainly not at the very outset.

“You constantly tell me to take time off.” Megatron scoffed, rolling his optics. “And then when I do, you show up to hand off work anyway.”

At least he only seemed to be mildly annoyed. Sometimes the glares were difficult to tell apart; “I’m tired and need a warm beverage” and “I’m listening intently to what you’re saying” and “I’m going to commit unimaginably violent crimes against you personally” all looked very similar. Though, to Megatron’s credit, the last one was more of an unlikely hypothetical these days and Rodimus knew that.

“… You know what, I’ll, uh… I’ll just ask you about this later. I can see that you’re busy.”

The automatic door slid shut behind him with a soft hiss; Rodimus hadn’t beaten the preset close timer. Sure, he could turn around and open it but that would be even more awkward than attempting awesomely moonwalk back into the hall. Which he totally could have done if he had been a nanoklik faster.

And not staring directly at the light under Megatron’s stalled finger.

His face felt warm.

His arms, now aching from being kept in a weird posture, were still held out at his sides from when he had first walked through the door, having stopped mid-stride.

“Do you think this is some kind of show?”

“I—No….” But if it was, he would consider watching.

“Then why are you staring?” That was a great question. “Surely, this is nothing you haven’t seen before; you’ve doubtlessly seen pornographic recordings of people pleasuring themselves. Hardly traumatic. Are you finished here?”

The finger continued to stay right where it was. Not even a twitch. That was some kind of discipline.

And from this angle, Rodimus couldn’t see anything more than the gentle curve of the front side of valve folds.

“If I said ‘no,’ would you be mad?”

The fingertip finally twitched against the smooth surface of the node. The heat from his face went immediately south, certain components throbbing behind their panels with growing interest.

“Not necessarily.”

Rodimus had worked with Megatron long enough to know that meant “no.”

“I’ll… uh… pull up a chair then.”

Rodimus tossed the datapad aside to clatter away on the floor before grabbing a chair from elsewhere in the room. He placed it squarely in front of the corner of the berth where Megatron had perched. A few paces between them to ensure a good view.

He had yet to decide how best to enjoy his good fortune, instead simply opting to let his knees fall widely apart… open to possibilities.

Megatron, however, hadn’t waited for him to get settled. His finger was already hard at work, slowly circling the node and leaving a wet smear in its wake. The light brightened as it was uncovered, now illuminating the soaked berth pad peaking out from underneath the valve folds, confirming Rodimus’s suspicions that he had showed up partway through the session.

“Have you already—“ “Only the once so far.” Then there would probably be a fair amount of show remaining, not that Rodimus knew how many times Megatron tended to overload during a session.

There was a brief, breathy laugh.

“I never took you for a voyeur.”

There was a flash of shame in Rodimus’s spark.

“What are you talking about? Everyone likes—”

Megatron just laughed again, not stopping the slow circling of his middle finger, the motion banishing Rodimus’s shame. The other fingers of his hand held the closest folds away from the node, but with this angle, they revealed nothing of the valve itself. That was still hidden underneath Megatron’s body as he remained sitting upright.

Rodimus pouted, his own hand just waiting on his own panels. He still hadn’t decided.

“I never took you for an exhibitionist.”

“I’m not.”

There probably would have been news reports during the war about it, now that Rodimus thought about it. It would have been hard to hide for someone already in the spotlight.

“Then what?”

“You’ll see.”

Rodimus hummed in doubt.

His own middle finger started mirroring the motion he was watching against the closed paneling of his array. That made it easy to make a decision.

He would choose solidarity then.

The panel retracted with a soft click and he let his hand slip down to pick up lubricant. It was tempting to lean over steal some of Megatron’s more than ample supply—and maybe give his node a flew playful flicks—but that seemed a little too forward.

Unlike Megatron, he also leaned back in the chair, leaving the entirety of his valve’s exterior on display. Modesty had already been thrown out the window.

With a grin, he started circling his own node, glowing orange in contrast to the red of his companion. A pleasant tingle began to build in his circuits, just beginning to soothe over the ache of arousal.

The speed of Megatron’s hand suddenly picked up, switching from circling to a simple up and down rub of the swollen end of the node with the slippery fingertip. The wet noise of the lubricant as it was pushed around echoed in the otherwise quiet room.

“Oh, now I see.” His own node throbbed under his hand at the sight.

“You yourself said ‘everyone.’” Megatron was interrupted by a soft, choked moan, like he had tried to hold it in. “This should hardly come as a surprise.”

More lubricant seeped out onto the berth pad, saturating it. His legs tensed and puffed out of his vents.

Rodimus could feel his gaze locked hungrily on the clumsy motion of Rodimus’s hand awkwardly trying to catch up. Megatron had had a significant head start.

Megatron shouted as his finger stopped rubbing, the node underneath pulsing against its captor.

For a few moments, Rodimus paused his own circling, watching Megatron’s hulking frame heave forward to ventilate as he remained precariously in place on the corner of the berth. What if it was over already? He certainly hoped not.

“Are you—“

With a shake of his head, Megatron thrust his middle finger downward, underneath to relubricate. The loud squelch and the slight lift of hips told Rodimus that he had gone directly to the source. While nothing was visible beyond the flex of Megatron’s wrist and the jump of his knuckle as the finger was repeatedly pumped in and out of soft silicone, Rodimus got the picture.

He opened his mouth to ask if he could see, but before any words could come out, Megatron’s hand retreated from its foxhole to once more massage his node.

It appeared they would, thankfully, be busy for awhile.

--

A hand gently grabbed Rodimus’s shoulder before he could pass through the doorway.

He paused and a scuffed up datapad appeared in front of him.

“You almost left this behind.”

“What is it—Oh.”

That was right; the datapad with the denied expense report and Brainstorm’s complaint. Rodimus had entirely forgotten about it. He also didn’t recall it looking so banged up, but then again… he had tossed it aside with reckless abandon in favor of… other, far more interesting things.

He took it from Megatron’s grasp, turning around to face him.

“I’ll have you look at it later.” If he didn’t forget to ask, though he could count on Brainstorm to follow up regularly when it was his grant money on the line. “When you’re not, uh, taking a break.”

“What is it anyway?”

A dangerous question that could very well lead into working off the clock and they both knew that. But, at that point, that would be Megatron’s problem. Rodimus had already acknowledged that this was supposed to be a “work free” time. If Megatron pursued official tasks anyway, well, that was on him now.

Now it was an opportunity for Rodimus to offload this task.

“Oh, this? Nothing much, just an expense report.” A bright, eager grin stretched across his face. “Mags denied it without any comments—“

“Again?” Megatron cut him off, scoffing like he’d been told a joke beneath his dignity. Did Megatron still have any dignity? “The software update last week rearranged the menu; Ultra Magnus must have hit the wrong button without realizing. It’s happened a couple of times—simple mistake, but, regrettably, the whole thing will have to be reentered fresh. A tedious reduplication of work. Have it resubmitted.”

Rodimus stood there with his mouth still hanging open but the sentence he had been in the middle of.

That certainly wasn’t the explanation he had been expecting, but he also hadn’t experienced any issues with the rearranged menu. It hadn’t even occurred to him that it could have been a problem. At least that was easily solved.

“Uh, great. Thanks.”

Megatron continued, changing topics.

“Shall I see you again at same time in, say, three days?”

[forestshadow-wolf]

Ok guys, I sacrificed a newborn lamb, migraine no longer debilitating :)

Cw: slight (nongraphic) emetophobia warning

Anyway totally don't think about simon riley who gets migraines due to trauma because trauma does weird thing to your body

Totally don't think about him ignoring it until he passed out or throws up infront of someone.

Or how he definitely would deny any ailment because "It's just a little headache." When infact his brain is trying to evacuate out the back of his skull, and there's so much pressure behind his left eye that he thinks I'd hurt less to scoop it out with a blunt spoon.

Don't think about how if he was on a mission where his body would automatically go into a sort of fight or flight mode due to his condition

Don't think about how he narrowly misses a shot because his left eye has this quite unique colorful, grainy starbusting phenomenon going on with it, and his right has this odd fading, and puldisng black boarder around it. And when he does fire thsi shot it rings in his ears and actually his vision goes white for half a second. And he'd shake his head to clear his vision, except he has since learded that that does nothing for him except cause an immediate expulsion of his stomach contents.

Don't think about how the action, and the noise, and the lights, and especially the flashbangs only make him want to kill himself, but of course he wouldn't. If only because he would never leave his team without his help, without overwatch, without backup. He'd never leave Johnny.

Or, missions aside, definitely don't imagine him trying to do paperwork but the words aren't words anymore. They aren't even stationary. They just squiggling blobs of black outlined in red or blue or green or purple, and it makes his head feel like it's imploding.

Don't imagine him trying to write out reports but he can't focus at all. He's gripping his pen so hard that his hand shakes. He's not using his computer because he might actually vomit if he has to. He was for a while, forced himself to, after an hour he almost slammed the lid shut and smashed the thing into his wall until it broke into a missiond tiny pieces. He did not do that. Wouldn't be able to explain that to price.

Don't imagine him trying to do signatures but it just comes out as a scribble of nonsense that can hardly be considered on the line. He has to squint to even see the line, much less to coordinate his hand to find the interception point of the line and his pen.

Don't imagine soap silently noticing. He almost doesn't. Almost snaps back when ghost yells at him for nothing really. Doesn't when he sees the telltale squirt of Ghost's eyes and they way his head is tilted to one side ever so slightly.

Doesn't imagine soap doing double time to cover both his and ghost's arses when they're out in the field and sees ghost stumble just slightly after every shot.

Don't think about soap going to ghost's office to coax him out and back to his room. How he makes sure the room is pitch black, had his curtains changed to blackout curtains for this reason. How he poitedly doesn't grab food or drink, against his better judgment, because he knows that it most definitely would not stay down.

Don't imagine him laying ghost's head in his lap or on his belly and massaging his temples, the back of his head, his scalp, even his eye sockets.

Don't think about how he knows exactly how he knows to do all this stiff not only because it's happened to ghost enough times but because he also gets them. From working with chems and explosives everyday for so long, even before then he used to get them. He knows what to do because it's what he likes when he has a migraine this bad. Knows exactly what to do because ghost does the same for him.

And especially doing think about how for both of them they way the other found out is during an episode, and they had to scramble for a trash can or a toilet so that they don't retch their guts up onto the floor.

Don't imagine how they continue to dry heave even when their syomach is empty, so they stay hunched over. Knowing logically that there is nothing left, but the feeling is still there.

Don't imagine them having to sit on the ground and shove their head between their knees to feel even slightly better. Or lying down and resting their cheek against the cold ground.

Don't imagine how they used to have to deal with it alone before they met eachother...

[heartofspells]

This Way We Fall

"Moony calls you Padfoot."

It's not what Sirius expects his godson to say, and he startles a little, his hand skittering, the red line of antlers he'd been curving upwards going wide and stuttering haptically. Two and a half weeks is how long it's taken for Sirius to be allowed into the inner sanctum, granted the holiest of privileges: crayons.

They're kneeling on the front stoop, the door closed in front of them, all previous drawings cleared away to make way for new ones. All except one, the black dog still in place, off to the side, animation charms steadily failing, but its tail gives a weak flutter periodically, stubborn and refusing to die just yet. After his breakfast that morning, Harry had stated it was time. Time for new pictures to replace the old, because the old ones were boring, Moony, and our door is boring, too. And Sirius had been expected to help. Demanded, really, not that he's complaining.

Studying the mess made of his antlers, Sirius is slow to pull his wand, clearing it away to start anew. He thinks there might be a metaphor in there somewhere, but he can't quite grasp it in the jumbled chaos now filling his head.

"Does he?" asks Sirius measuredly, not looking at Harry as he cleans away the red trails.

It's a name he hasn't heard in years, not from anyone. More than five, to be exact, and it pulls at something inside Sirius to hear again now, coming from a mouth that hadn't ever truly managed to form it properly the last time it had tried.

"Sometimes," says Harry, tongue peeking between his teeth as he puts the finishing touches on what Sirius thinks might be a mouse, though he can't be entirely certain. He's never seen a mouse quite that colorful before. Sirius thinks he might make the colors dance once they're finished. "But he never says it to you. Only when he's talking 'bout you."

Humming minutely, Sirius glances over his shoulder to where Remus is seated in the Adirondack chair in the grass. He's reclined back, head and face tilted towards the sky, legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles, eyes closed. He hasn't reacted to anything said, but Sirius knows the other man is listening because he always is, always near enough to catch every word, to intervene in any and everything he sees fit, though he never does, at least not yet.

"You call him Moony," continues Harry, and he's looking at Sirius now, large green eyes curious where they glint behind the lenses of his glasses, Sirius watching them slip down his nose. Sirius reaches out and pushes them back up, an instinct, a long-forgotten habit but not actually forgotten at all, it seems. "All the time."

"I call him Moony because you call him Moony," explains Sirius, not entirely sure what else to say, turning his gaze back to the door.

Harry is quiet for a minute, rolling a purple crayon between his fingers thoughtfully as Sirius scribbles out his own design, just for something to do.

"Did you used to call him Moony?" he asks finally, head tipping so far to the side that Sirius worries for a second it might twist off his neck and clunk to the concrete below. "Before me?"

Sirius drops his hand from the door, slow to respond before saying quietly, "Did, yeah. A lot. All the time."

"Why?"

"I made it up. I gave him the nickname. Seemed only right that I use it."

"Padfoot's your name?"

Swallowing, eyes dropping to his knees before flickering to Harry, Sirius nods. "It was, a long time ago."

"Who gave it to you?"

"It – " Sirius stops, gaze jumping to the drawings on the door, something sharp stabbing into his heart, like longing, like absence and grief and the need to touch what's never coming back again, eyes drifting to the antlers, tracing their shape, familiar like the hazy outlines made by clouds, memories too distant to fully recall clearly any longer. "Your dad gave me the name. It was his idea. Padfoot. He thought it was funny. He always found things funny that most others didn't."

Harry stares up at him for a minute, and then he exhales a breath, heavy for a six-year-old, so very heavy but somehow lighter than Sirius thinks anything in this moment should be.

"That's nice," is all he says, leaning forward to collect the crayon from Sirius' slack fingers, beginning to push the colors back into the box. "Can you make them move now?" he asks eagerly, eyes bright as he looks up at Sirius again.

When the drawings are animated once more, they watch them flutter and skitter and hobble across the wood of the painted door, Harry happy and excited from the sight. Sirius thinks he could stay this way forever, or at least a very long time, days and months, years and decades, if only given the chance, but Harry suddenly stands beside him, clutching his box of crayons protectively to his chest, like to lose them would be to lose the dearest of friends.

"Gotta take them inside 'cause they melt," informs his godson knowingly, and Sirius watches as he pushes the door open, disappearing inside as it closes in front of his face again.

Read on AO3

Gorgeous art by @drunkdumbfucker <3

[ibeta]

Draft: Four Terribears (the dunce klerb) - Board Adventure

Sans kept a hand on his skull as he skimmed the paper on the table. Black had already stormed through it with a red pen and more corrections, and Red had left his on the stack, simply leaning over Sans’ shoulder to look at his document

“THIS DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE AT ALL,” Blue, the self-deceiving skeleton monster, announced to the table. “THE INSTRUCTIONS CONTRADICT EACH OTHER AND THE LORE IS ALL… JUMBLED IN A… WAY…”

Sans looked up, seeing the struggle on Blue’s face. He guessed the skeleton monster was trying to find a nicer way to say it.

“it's fucking horrible,” the skeleton next to Sans flatly announced.

“RED!” Blue gasped.

Sans chortled and turned his head around to stare at Red with wide sockets. The edgy skeleton had a frown on his skull, browridge furrowed as he skimmed the document.

“it’s not just jumbled,” Red explained, pointing at Sans’ paper, “there’s some kind of message hidden in it. numbers at the top give you the key and… well. the pattern looks weird.”

Sans returned his attention to his paper, calculating the lines and the letters and... There it was – a song. It was a song that Sans knew well, so that meant Papyrus also had a hand in the document’s creation.

“welp, i can’t say they didn’t put in the effort.” Sans gave up reading the instructions of the game, but held up his paper so Red could continue reading it.

It was funny to see Red’s face slowly turn into a grim, angry look, as if the piece of paper in Sans’ hand deeply offended him.

“I BET IT WAS MY BROTHER WHO WROTE THIS,” Black snarled. Sans glanced at him and then winced when Black slammed down his clipboard on the table. “LOOK AT THIS! THEY’VE BASICALLY COPIED THE RULES FROM A HUMAN WEBSITE BUT REPLACED SOME WORDS DELIBERATELY IN ORDER TO SPELL OUT, ‘THIS IS THE GAME YOU KEEP ON PLAYING.’”

Sans ducked his head, holding in his laughter. Unfortunately, his move was too obvious that it gained the other skeletons’ attention.

“WAIT, DO YOU KNOW WHAT IT MEANS?” Blue asked him, waving his instructions over. “IS IT A SECRET CODE?”

Sans looked away from him but met Red’s equally curious gaze. He stared at the skeleton with sharp teeth and then sighed, slumping down in his seat.

“it’s one of the nursery rhymes my brother wrote,” Sans told them, looking across the table. Black’s frown quickly disappeared, and an intrigued expression shifted onto his face. “he’s, uh, made quite a lot of them since he was a little bones.”

“THAT’S SO CUTE!” Blue exclaimed, all starry-eyed and sparkling.

Sans blinked his sockets and then smiled at him. “yeah, he’s pretty cute,” Sans agreed, placing the paper on the round table. “he’s the one who told me to make a club so i could socialise more.”

“OH STARS,” Black whispered, looking at Sans like he was a dirty stain on his shiny boot. “YOU DIDN’T WANT TO SOCIALISE, SO YOU NAMED IT THAT WAY.”

Red snickered beside him, and Sans flushed, avoiding their gaze.

“look, no one would want to join the ‘dunce klerb,’ okay?” Sans defended. Then he paused, raising his head to look at his selection of club members. His ridiculous club members. He cracked a grin, and then he started laughing. “except – except for all of us!”

Blue’s giggling echoed in the room with Black’s chuckling.

“fuck, you’re not wrong,” Red groaned beside him.

“of course not.” Sans turned just in time to see Red’s sockets widen.

“they put the club name in the records.”

“THAT’S RIGHT!” Black grumbled from the other side of the table.  “MY PRISTINE EDUCATION PROFILE WILL HAVE THE STUPID CLUB NAME ON IT.”

“THE EXPERIENCE IS WHAT’S IMPORTANT!” Blue told Black, sweat beaded on his skull. Clearly, he also had apprehensions about having ‘dunce klerb’ on his education profile.

Sans sweated out his excess magic. Yeah, he’d actually been hoping monsters wouldn’t join his club, but he gained three members that quickly went to fill in the internal positions.

“do you guys want to try playing the game?” he asked, wincing as they threw looks at him. The one from Black looked particularly scathing. Blue looked curious… and Red looked amused. As if having ‘dunce klerb’ on Red’s file wasn’t a problem. Sans wondered if he’d think the same if someone read it out loud to him.

“THIS WOULD WORK BETTER IF WE HAD A PROFESSIONAL NAME.”

“hey, i can’t retroactively change the club name,” Sans weakly defended. “might as well give up.”

He knew the school rules like the back of his hand. As the judge, he received the laws of a place he visited. The school rules just went straight to his head and stayed there until a change of laws happened. In no way was he able to change the club name.

“um, please?” he tried, gazing at each of them imploringly. He didn’t know what expression he was making, but his skeleton club members sighed in unison.

Red stared at him for a few seconds and nodded. “yeah, sure.”

“THAT… UGH. FINE.”

“IS IT A GOOD GAME?” Blue asked Sans, who also had no idea how to play it.

—

“civilian,” Sans chanted to his folded paper, after all the others picked up a piece from the ballot. “i don’t want to fight monsters.”

“BUT THERE’S NO LISTED CIVILIANS IN THE LIST!” Blue held up his phone, which showed the potential classes they could have received.

“JUST MAKE ONE UP,” Black snapped, “IT’S JUST A GAME OF PRETEND, SO WE CAN HAVE ANY JOB WE WANT IF THAT’S THE CASE.”

“LET’S SEE WHAT WE HAVE, FIRST,” Blue insisted, smiling. “WE MIGHT LIKE WHAT WE’VE GOTTEN.

Sans agreed with him, but he noticed a problem as he read more of the instructions.

“there’s so many monsters in this game.” He froze, teeth clenched as his memories took him back to the past. Fleeting images of a genocidal human and a murderous flower flashed in his mind. They also played games like this with real monster lives cut by their hands.

A game, it was a game. But Sans suddenly thought that he couldn’t play it. It reminded him all too well of prophecies and intervening gods. It reminded him of the helplessness as a piece on the board, a monster trapped within the rules of a game made for the vessel of a higher being.

And, in this game, most of the enemies would be monsters—creatures he’d protected for the most part of his life.

Hell.

Sans placed the instruction back on the table and leaned back on his chair. He didn’t want to disappoint his brother, but he also didn’t want to play a game where monsters would be killed by their vessels—their characters. It felt wrong, as if starting the game would create the world elsewhere, and all his actions would cause it a harmful impact.

“hey, what’s wrong?” A shoulder bumped into his, startling him.

Sans looked up to see Red’s worried eyelights aimed at him. Sans struggled through his emotions, unable to put it into words. He hadn’t expected someone to notice his apprehension with the game.

“just…” Sans tapped the folded paper on the desk, shoulders dropping. “just, uh, suddenly feeling like this might not be the game for me.”

“is it cause you’re not a fighter or something?” Red questioned him, frowning.

Sans paused, and then slowly searched Red’s face. Nothing on it gave him an idea of what Red was thinking. Only worry, compassion. A real monster beside him, intent so gentle, almost soft.

“too many monsters,” Sans admitted after a moment. He waved a hand at the board on the table, which was drawn by Black’s brother, Rus. “i don’t want to kill them.” Stars, his voice wobbled. It must’ve sounded horrible because Red’s expression turned sharp.

“what if they’re all skeletons?” Red offered.

Sans blinked. “what do you mean?”

Red slid a sheet of paper over. “skeletons are already dead. can’t be deader than dead like a skeleton. but our brothers changed skeletons a lot, so we have this… thing.”

Sans lifted the sheet to read it. Their brothers had changed skeletons entirely, giving it a lot more power than other monsters. Skeletons could take any damage, but they couldn’t be completely killed. Some skeleton god lost his people and couldn’t summon them unless they got vanquished. Skeletons that get killed by the vessels would just send them back into the loving arms of their god, and back to… skeleton heaven. Where they’ll receive all love, comfort, and fun. Parties all day, sunny beach times, and a nice soft bed to sleep on when they needed rest.

Sans snorted at the descriptions.

“i'm guessin’ that look on your face says it’s a good idea.”

Sans looked up at Red, who gave him a smirk. He didn’t even notice he’d been smiling. “red, this is…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “yeah. this, uh, might work. they won’t spawn back, and they’ll have a good time in skeleton heaven.”

“good. let’s change them all.” Red turned back to the table, and Sans couldn’t take his gaze away from his serious expression. “hey, numbskulls!”

The sounds of Black and Blue discussing the rules stopped.

“DID YOU—”

“change of plans,” Red told them, tapping the character sheets on the table. “we can’t have this many monsters.”

Black grabbed his clipboard again, skimming it. “IT’S NOT THAT MANY, WE CAN DO IT.”

“i'm all for slaying, but i want all the enemies to change into skeletons.”

“WHY?” Blue asked, looking up from his character sheet.

Red tossed Sans a look. Sans handed over the skeleton story sheet. Blue grabbed it before Black could get his fancy gloves on it. The expression on the bubbly skeleton’s face brightened as he read through it.

“AGREED! SKELETON HEAVEN SOUNDS FUN!”

“WHAT?” Black snatched the papers, frowning. Then, he started chuckling. “OKAY, I LIKE THIS BETTER. THAT MEANS OUR CHARACTERS CAN SPAWN BACK AFTER REACHING SKELETON HEAVEN.”

The monsters were changed to skeletons… which they should have considered doing in the first place. Black had picked some kind of fighter class, Blue had picked a cleric, and Red had picked something that used musical instruments.

“it’s a bard,” Sans read out. “it has… interesting skills. here, take a look.”

Red took the stack of papers from his hands. “better than being an actual civilian,” he insisted to Sans, who had somehow picked no class, but became a useless skeleton prince with no magic. “you’re just a prince from some foreign land looking for adventure, and we’re the thugs you hired for escort work. we get all the action and none for ya.”

“skeleton prince,” Sans absent-mindedly corrected as he looked at the locations on the list.

“yeah, fine. you’re a royal dead weight—”

Sans choked on the laughter that escaped him. He heard Black snorting and Blue snickering as they were plotting out their journey. He turned to Red and saw his bemused grin, the interest and curiosity in his gaze.

“what, can’t accept the heavy title?”

“red, you’re killing me,” Sans wheezed out, chortling.

Red’s grin widened, and Sans thought he looked absolutely evil. “so you’re a royal double-dead weight, huh?”

Sans started giggling again, unable to stop it. “oh, man, stop—”

“wait a minute—guys, what happens if the skeleton prince dies again from laughing too hard?”

Sans made a dying sound as Black and Blue actually considered the question seriously and started giving ridiculous answers.

“HE’LL HAVE TO SPAWN BACK AT THE BEGINNING OF THE DUNGEON, AND THEN WE’LL HAVE TO GRAB HIM. SKELETON ENEMIES DON’T ATTACK SKELETON ROYALTY UNLESS THEY’VE STARTED A FIGHT.” Black scowled, and Sans guessed it had to do with the heavy editing of skeleton traditions from the files their brothers made. “THIS MAKES YOU IMMUNE BY DEFAULT, BUT YOU ONLY HAVE SINGLE ATTACK POWER AND HEALTH, SO YOU CAN DIE EASY FROM TRAPS. BUT, YOU’VE USED A LOT OF YOUR POINTS TO BALANCE IT… PLUS, YOUR LOCKPICKING IS HIGH, SO…”

“CAN WE REVIVE HIM BACK WITH MY CLERIC SKILLS?” Blue asked. “IF WE CAN REMAKE HIS BONES, MAYBE WE CAN STILL USE HIM FOR HIS LOCKPICKING SKILLS.”

Sans was confident that they were planning to keep him in a casket so he wouldn’t dust and still be useful as a lock-picker. He had more use as a lucky charm than an adventurer.

Red chuckled and nudged Sans. “our teammates, huh? might be fun.”

—

“don’t ask, i don’t know why this keeps happening,” Sans told them after he won a roll with a skeleton musician and took his lute. He couldn’t equip it, so Red became the proud new owner of the unique lute. It had little skills on it, special ones that worked well with some of his bard skills.

“ARE YOU A PRINCE OR A THIEF?” Black looked over the board, his expression reflecting the amazement in his voice. “WE’VE ENCOUNTERED SEVERAL BANDITS, BUT YOU’RE THE ONE WHO SEEMS TO TURN THINGS AROUND BY ROBBING THEM BLIND.”

Sans shrugged and leaned against Red, yawning. “i can’t provoke them, but my character can goad them into bets.” With his legendary heirloom as leverage, the skeleton enemies couldn’t resist taking the bait, unknowing of Sans’ high luck stat.

Blue giggled, covering his teeth. “WE’RE FULLY EQUIPPED, SO WE SHOULD TRY GOING INTO THE CLOSEST DUNGEON FOR THE KEY ITEM.”

“finally,” Red breathed out, sounding so relieved. “i literally just stood there and did nothing. sans has higher speed than me in turns, so my bard never had the chance to act.”

“you’ll get there, bud,” Sans comforted, not knowing what hell Red would unleash to their enemies.

—

Honestly, Red should have higher speed because Sans was dying from laughter before they even reached the fourth set of skeletons to fight in the dungeon.

“that mocking skill, i'm gonna use it again,” Red immediately called out, with only a fifth of his HP remaining and so close to going to skeleton heaven. “i'm telling them that they’re too old for this job that they're starting to look like bone meal. whenever i walk past them, i hear them rattle like their bones are begging to be thrown into a wood chipper.”

The mockery enraged the skeleton hoard, but with a roll, they all died in shame from the insult.

“w-why do they always die in shame?” Sans keened into Red’s shoulder. The other skeleton chuckled at him, a rough sound that shook Sans’ bones. Red had an arm around his waist, holding him steady as he kept losing it. “and what’s – what is wrong with looking like bone meal? those are good for plants!”

“it’s just tiny chips of bones,” Red told him. “they’re skeletons – they’re all exposed and sensitive like this, that means their feelings are soft and squishy. if you throw ‘em an insult, they’ll cry so hard you’ll hear them rattling in a corner to hide their tears.”

Black hadn’t stopped wheezing and holding Blue close, who couldn’t stop laughing when they sent so many skeletons back home. Red had used the skill mostly because his unique lute weapon gave it bonus attack damage, but then he just… never stopped using it. Insulting skeleton enemies seemed to come naturally to him.

“come on, let’s check if they dropped something,’ Red hurriedly said. Black shoved over the paper with cryptic numbers and letters. “sans, do your thing.”

Sans warbled out a giggle and rolled the dice twice. “list a, number forty-three.”

“crap gear,” Red groused as he looked up the item list from his phone, obviously spoiled by his many unique items. Black and Blue had similar unique-ranked equipment, courtesy of Sans, thieving the best gears from their skeleton enemies. Them sighing at the drops made Sans turn his face into the fluff of Red’s hood to muffle his mirth. “let’s sell them at the nearest town.”

“LET’S PUT THE MONEY IN THE BANK AFTERWARDS,” Blue suggested with a shudder. “WE DON’T WANT BANDITS TO ROB US.”

Like a curse, they managed to lose all their gold to a quicker thief that ran away.

“that bonehead!” Red groaned in defeat, sending Sans into fits of laughter. “that was all our gold!”

Blue switched to reading so many papers. Looking for a way to grab it back, Sans guessed. “WAIT! THERE’S A THIEVES GUILD NEARBY.”

“LET’S RAID THEM!” Black snapped, lifting a hand to move the objective pointer on the board. “WE HAVE TO GET BACK OUR GOLD. WE NEED IT TO BUY A SHIP FROM THE PIER TO GET TO THE BAD ISLAND.”

Blue looked so grateful that he started loudly planning what paths they should take. Sans and his team followed the thief to the guild, managed to disarm the alarms, and caused chaos in the wake of the night.

Inside the treasury room, they encountered their first boss.

“that mockery skill,” Red hissed after Blue bludgeoned the boss into a stun. “i tell him he’s a numbskull that can’t tell the difference between a carpal and a carpool!”

Sans had long given up on leaving Red’s fluffy jacket alone, keening into the cloth to stifle his laughter. Red patted his side, his eyelights sharply following the boss stats and description. Blue had helped reform the boss into its skeleton form, which came in the shape of a large ox.

The hit struck, and the boss wept. Black took a stab at him, Blue stunned him and knocked off an arm, and Sans skipped his turn because he couldn’t ask the boss to go for a bet while he’s stunned.

Red took his turn and said, “mockery. i tell him it’s okay to lack a sense of humerus. i tell him he if he needs help, i can give him a hand because it looks like he lost one.”

Sans chortled as he pointed at the boss sheet. “you sent him to skeleton heaven!”

Their first boss dropped an amount of gold higher than what they had since Sans’ equipment had gold bonus. They searched more of the treasury, but they had to leave because there was a high chance that someone would soon check it out.

Afterwards, they bought a boat from a shady merchant.

Setting sail, they entered the waters, rolled into an encounter, and sunk into the maw of a behemoth of a sea serpent skeleton. Gold and all. Because, of course, the ocean had a curse that sent its travellers drowning when the sea serpent sensed gold during twilight hours.

“THAT WAS ALL OUR GOLD… THAT DAMNED SEA SERPENT!” Black’s skull thudded on the table. Blue patted his shoulders in comfort, giggling, while Sans became a stress pillow that Red hugged tightly when Sans jokingly asked if he needed it.

“i'm gonna kill my bro,” Red vowed at the top of Sans’ skull. The angry rumble of his voice continued as he crushed Sans to his ribs. “i'm gonna send him a snake through the mail.”

“w-w-was it him?” Sans snickered into Red’s sweater, rubbing his new friend’s back gently. “did he make the sea serpent?”

“are you kidding?” Red hissed, “his hands are all over that curse!”

Sans broke out in laughter.

“MY BROTHER MIGHT HAVE HELPED,” Blue announced. “THAT SUSPICIOUS MERCHANT WE MET FORGOT TO TELL US. I BET IF WE COME BACK FROM SKELETON HEAVEN, HE’LL MENTION THE CURSE.”

But they couldn’t continue when Black noticed the time.

“I NEED TO GO,” Black sighed, an expression of regret on his face. Sans smiled at him. “I HAVE TO PICK UP MY BROTHER FROM SCHOOL.”

Sans sat straight in his chair. “right. aren’t they all together? we can go pick them up.” Heading to Papyrus’ school together will let them all meet in one room. Maybe then he’d get a hint to their existence.

“THAT’S A GOOD IDEA! I’D LOVE TO MEET YOUR BROTHERS.”

“WAIT, EVERYONE STOP.” Sans looked up at Black, who still wore a sour expression. But this time, there seemed to be a glint in his eyelights. “THEY’RE TOGETHER. THEY KNOW EACH OTHER.”

“they’re friends, right?” Red abruptly added, as if he caught on to whatever Black was thinking. “they wanted us to be buddies and all. but, hey, that sea serpent made me real mad—”

“—THEN WE WON’T DO IT!” Black finished, giving Red an approving look. Sans hummed at his plan, turning over in his skull. “I DON’T LIKE THAT WE LOST THAT MUCH GOLD TO A SEA SERPENT.”

Sans shuddered, remembering how hard it took for them to loot a big chest. “we had to spend so much time at the swamp to look for the magic key. i couldn’t do anything because physical lock-picks don’t work on it.”

Blue was the one who had magic, but he barely had the stats to open the big chest. “WE ONLY RECEIVED GOLD FROM THE CHEST. IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER IF YOU DID IT, SANS.”

“yeah, you had better luck at it.”

Sans tipped his head in agreement. “prank accepted. from now on, we’re NOT friends in front of our bros.”

Black beamed, like the true evil overlord that he should have been in the campaign. “WE CAN PRETEND TO TOLERATE EACH OTHER.”

“THEN…” Blue muttered, a look of interest on his face. “YOU KNOW… I’VE ALWAYS BABIED MY BROTHER A LITTLE TOO MUCH. MAYBE IT'S TIME TO GET BACK AT HIM FOR THE PRANKS HE’S PULLED ON ME.”

“yeah, let’s keep it up for a long time,” Red sighed dreamily. “just imagine the look on their face when they figure it out decades later.”

Sans covered his grin at the implication that they’d be friends forever. “sure.”

He wouldn’t mind going on several board game adventures, where Black missed his hits, where Blue used too many of his attack moves, and where Red nearly died but couldn’t stop mocking the enemies.

Blue looked starry-eyed, and Sans guessed his self-deception needed some fixing because he also seemed positively vengeful. “RED, THAT’S A GOOD IDEA! WHAT IF WE ALSO MAKE SURE THEY NEVER FIND OUT?”

“DEAL,” Black accepted. “THOUGH IT’S RISKY. WE’LL PROBABLY NEED TO PLAN OUT OUR REACTIONS.”

“that’s easy.” Sans took an empty sheet of paper from the table, nabbing Red’s pen. He started writing down their names and shared information. “look, we already introduced ourselves and played a game. but what if this scenario happened instead—”

Sans continued to list down the possible scenarios of them remaining as polite acquaintances forced together by their younger brothers. They were monsters who dutifully did their duties as older brothers to attend the club with the silly name that their younger brothers recommended.

“…then, we’d have a way to know they’re coming by, and we can quickly adjust to their presence,” Sans explained as he pointed at Blue. “you’re already sociable outwardly, so you’ll be the one to look like you’re trying hard to make us get along.  black’s already known for being well-connected, so we’re all considered to be his acquaintances. red can continue treating us like he’s dragging his feet over, and i'll make bad jokes to try to get rid of the tension.”

Black and Blue gave him twin looks of amazement. “WELL. I GUESS YOU REALLY MEANT IT WHEN YOU WROTE DOWN THAT WE’D BE LEARNING A LOT FROM THE DUNCE KLERB.”

“you did a good job naming the club,” Red hummed appreciatively. “this way we get to keep your pretty mind all for us.”

“well… uh.” Sans didn’t know why his magic headed straight to his skull. He usually had better control than this, flustered by his new friends. “thank you…”

“YOU’RE SO SMART! YOU GOT ALL THAT FROM OUR ONE MEETING?”

Sans flushed under the attention and shrugged. He couldn’t claim the plans were fully his—hanging out in the lunch room of the Monster Intelligence building had its uses.

“papyrus will know if we act too differently,” he said to them, leaning his elbows on the table. “if i can tell that blue’s too happy, then he’ll notice that black's treating us too well. red won’t be able to fool him if he acts too abrasive… and, uh, it’s not in my nature to quickly write someone off. so he’ll expect me to play nice anyway.”

“what’s your nature anyway?”

Sans grinned at Red. “a total lazybones.”

Red barked out a laugh. “shit, that’s too accurate.”

—

“HOW WAS YOUR… ERM.” Papyrus stopped talking, eyeing them carefully. “IS… EVERYTHING OKAY?”

Sans stood straight and glanced at his club members. Red had his shoulders hunched, but Sans could tell he was trying so hard not to laugh. Blue tried to start a conversation with Red but couldn’t get past Red’s short answers. Black talked at Sans, explaining to him the benefits of personal connections and how he should be considered when he wrote down the next club plan meetings.

His new friends seemed good at acting.

“uh, yeah. we’re good, bro.”

Edge, Red’s brother, stood next to Papyrus, wearing an apron and a glare. Stretch, the skeleton with an orange hoodie, had a grimace on his face. And Black’s brother… he looked nervous as he scanned his brother up and down. They looked like a strange set of twins or fraternal quadruplets. Sans momentarily doubted that he and Papyrus were related, and then he remembered that Papyrus hadn’t exactly come into his care in the conventional way.

Sans hadn’t expected to see the skeletons he’d saved to be together in the same school. “bro, your, uh, new friends... they have an uncanny resemblance to you.”

His brother froze, and then some sort of panic appeared on his face. Sans kept his face relaxed. “SANS, THESE ARE MY CLASSMATES! EDGE, STRETCH, AND RUS!”

“hi, papyrus’ brother,” Stretch muttered, peering down at him. “you… kinda look like blue.”

Sans tilted his smile up at him. “hey, i get your name now. i really gotta stretch my neck to look at you.”

Stretch blinked, and then he grinned happily. “papyrus, your brother’s cool.”

Behind him, Sans heard Blue’s groan.

Papyrus predictably made a strange face, so Sans met Edge’s glare. “heya, you’re edge, right? red mentioned you. once. and, uh, never really got another word after.”

“HELLO, SANS,” the tall and sharp-teethed skeleton replied, offering a hand. Sans eyed the hand and then stretched out his own.

The sound of a whoopie cushion dying between them echoed through the empty school hallway.

Red snorted a laugh and then looked horrified. But Stretch and Rus suddenly started laughing, which set Red off again. Blue and Black giggled and chuckled, respectively, while Sans brought back his hand to himself in case Edge wanted revenge.

Papyrus looked up at the ceiling as if he wanted to be anywhere else but near Sans. Edge had frozen, obviously stunned by Sans’ galling actions.

“the old whoopie cushion on the hand trick,” Sans told Edge. “i didn’t expect to use it this soon.”

Edge face morphed into defeat, as if Sans’ shamelessness trumped whatever etiquette practice he’d been doing. Stretch and Rus lost it. Red kept trying to stop laughing, leaning at the wall of the hallway as he covered his teeth.

Papyrus walked over to stand in front of his friends, as if blocking them from Sans would keep them safe from pranks.

“SANS, MAY I GROUND YOU?” Papyrus asked him politely.

“no.” Sans grinned at his brother. Papyrus leaned down with a sigh, touching their foreheads together as he hugged Sans. He chuckled and hugged back, rubbing their cheekbones together in reply. “but you can visit me at MUCK so you can check on me.”

———

Migraine. Haven't written as much this week because of cleaning and consuming coffee chocolates to heighten my anxiety for cleaning. Only worked the first three days, so now I'm just super anxious. I want to write but can't write until I finish cleaning or making the place look clean.

Ugh.

[sanchoi21]

Chuuya Nakahara BSD x Reader

Chuuya and you go on a night ride.

When you first met him, he had come to your coffee shop in evening. He placed his order to you, and you couldn't help but notice how hella handsome he was with his good sense of fashion, long black coat paired with equally dandy hat. He was eye catching for sure and reminded you of typical mafia from fanfics that you used to read on tumblr, but you didn't know then that he really was one.

You gave him his order with a smile on face. He stared at you for a moment before smiling back. When he was leaving you gave him a orange rose saying that it would go well with his orange hair which he gladly accepted.

From that day on, this new stranger came frequently to your caffe and always made excuses to other waitresses saying he wants to meet the owner. So you decided to serve him whenever he came. As he continued to come regularly there, mostly in the evening when he knew you would be there.

One evening he came and he was the only customer, as you were soon closing. One talk lead to other as he asked, " Y/n would you come with me?" Surprised you asked Chuuya, "Sure, but where?" The handsome man in front of you just shrugged saying, "Dunno, just anywhere is fine."

You agreed and asked him to wait till you close the shop. He helped you with closing and soon you both got outside. After locking the shop you put the keys in your pocket. Now it had started to get dark with all the street lights lit up and with fading colors of sunset visible in the sky. You saw outside there was a red rider moterbike parked by your shop. Chuuya went towards it and signalled you to come over. You still weren't sure but you decided to trust him. After he sat on the driver seat you carefully sat behind him taking the support of his outstreched arm. Once you got settled he asked, "Ready?" You said "yes" and he started his bike.

Initially you were scared but as he started driving smootly over the road, your nerves soon relaxed and excitement filled you up as he slowly increased his speed. You soon found yourself wrapping your hands around his waist. Which earned a little flinch from him but he soon relaxed in your touch.

Passing every street lights and every car, you both rode through the night city which was now shimmering in lights. The view was breathtaking and it calmed you down. Having Chuuya by your side exited you and realizing his close proximity, your entire skin lit up. Even the cold wind around you didn't calm your burning cheeks.

Chuuya pov

I really like Y/n. She is such a warm person. When I first met her she was kind to me even then. For the first time in my life I recieved a rose, let alone that too from a lady. She has been kind to me even though I was a complete stranger to her. In this mafia world when we can't even trust our friends she trusted me easily. Even after I told her my line of work she wasn't scared. Instead she seemed exited and said that she guessed so, based on my clothes preference. She is truely an interesting women.

Y/n Pov

Chuuya skillfully took the road to the mountain. Smootly crossing over each turns and curves of the road as we reached the top. Chuuya parked his bike and we both got down. Making our way through the trees, we reached at the edge of cliff. There with his gravity manipulation power Chuuya made a bench for us to sit on. I was amased as I saw his powers for the first time. We both sat on the bench which was oddly quite comfortable. The view of Yokohama city from up there was splendid, with city lights which looked like jewels over the tranquil landscape.

Chuuya pulled two beer cans from his pocket and handed me one which I gladly accepted. We both just sat there silently seeping on our beer as we watched the city. The very city which was saved countess times by Chuuya. The night was quite as there was no one except us at this time of the night. While looking at the view we both gave each other side glances. Chuuya started speaking breaking the silence.

Chuuya: I meant to tell you this since a while but I still couldn't bring myself to say it until now. I really like you a lot Y/n. No! I love you. Ever since the first the we met I found you interesting and warm. Your really beautiful Y/n, inside out. Will you be my girlfriend? I know there is a lot of danger in being a mafia's girlfriend but I promise to protect you from all the dangers out there.

Y/n Pov

I couldn't believe my ears! This is the who I always deeply admired and had grown fond of, now he is confessing to me? A ordinary girl! I had started to love him since long ago.

I was so overwhelmed that I wasn't able to control my feelings and I simply scooted closer to him and pecked his soft lips. His eyes widened by my sudden action but he soon relaxed.

Y/n: Chuuya... I-I also always found you quite admirable. I love you too Chuuya. S-Sorry that I-I suddenly p-pecked you I simply couldn't control myself.

Chuuya: Y/n are you kidding me? How can I not like your kiss? Come here! We are anyways going to kiss more later so why not now?

Saying this he pulled me into a passionate kiss. I blushed a lot but when I looked up to Chuuya to my surprise he was blushing too, his ears were deep red.

Pulling out after being breathless, Chuuya chuckled.

Chuuya: Y/n you just stole my first kiss!

Y/n: It's your first kiss? Then why are you so good at it?

Chuuya: Seems like you liked it then???

Hearing him I was a blushing mess.

Chuuya: Hey isn't it yours first too?

Y/n: How did you know?

Chuuya: Since you are quite bad at it!

Y/n: What???

Saying this he started laughing loudly looking at my surprised face. This bastard! He always teases me. I smacked lightly on his chest but he pulled me into yet another kiss.

Chuuya: I think you are not that bad. Come on kiss me now!

He said as he giggled softly.

Y/n: Next time I'll surely get back at you Chuuya!

He simply shut me with yet another kiss.

Chuuya: Y/n thanks a lot. I am really the happiest man today because I have you!

Y/n: In fact I am the happiest women thanks to you.

After this we both fell silent and gazed at the night sky which was shining with stars right above us. A shooting star passed and we both saw it together as if it was too congratulating us on our new beginning.

Later that night we both soon returned back to the city. Chuuya dropped me home and I asked him to text me once he reached his home. He did that and we both chatted for a while, later falling asleep as we were still tangled in each others dreams.

My pov

I would like to go on a night ride too someday.... with Chuuya.😖🥰

[enhyqenn]

❝ the cost of it all ❞ — TEASER

pairing. angel!ni-ki x demon!fem!reader

genre. short story, slow-burn, friends-to-enemies-to-lovers, fantasy, supernatural

summary. after nearly a decade of war, lord satan is forced to turn over a daughter as collateral for his crimes, paying a debt for the betrayal of his trust with the malakim. but as death seeps into the glass castle once again, reopening once-mended scars amongst the sky kingdom, allegiances begin to rub raw and old relationships flourish with the necessity for survival.

wc. 0.8k | taglist. open

note. posting this to come back from my year-long hiatus (lol) this is apart of @emeraldenha 's UNLIKELY collab! i highly recommend checking it out :)

playlist | read full version here

inhaling deeply, you sunk into your chair and smoothed down the imaginary wrinkles on your dress. fuck, you mentally cursed, itching to rub at your face. you had forgotten that the seven brothers each had a set of their own powers.

settling on fiddling with the chain around your neck, you observed your surroundings with a frown and met the stares of watching eyes.

“i don’t think glaring at them will cause them to burst into flames. your powers are nullified in here,” riki stated. his presence hadn’t startled you, and you had a small feeling that it was because some part of you knew he would show at the absence of his father.

resting your chin on a hand, you merely said, “i’m aware.”

he took the seat to your right. “then why do you look like you’re trying to light everyone in this room on fire?”

“because,” you started, tilting your head to look at him, “it’s fun. i like watching as they squirm and writhe. it makes me feel more powerful than i am.”

riki’s brows raised as he crossed an ankle over his knee. “we’re the only two people in this room dressed in black. people stare at us as we walk past. shouldn’t that make you feel powerful enough?”

“no,” you scoffed, letting your hand fall back to your side as you stared at him. “my definition of power seems to be very different from yours, nishimura.”

“it was always different,” riki said smoothly.

ouch.

mouth drawn in a tight line, you kissed your teeth, gaze sliding from him to the archangel now standing on the dais. seven identical thrones accompanied the king’s, the new seats all filled except one.

the crowd grew silent as someone tapped a spoon against a wine glass.

“greetings,” the king said with a sickening smile, his wings extended behind him in a subtle display of power. “oh, how i have waited for this moment, to welcome you all here to the castle on the occasion of good news.”

good news? you thought, eyes flashing to riki. his face heeded no information on whether he knew what this was about or not.

the king continued, his white hair shining under the chandelier light, making it appear silver. “here, in this ballroom, we have a very special guest among us. now, she has already made her appearance through an array of deviant actions, but i think her company here could bring us great benefit, wouldn’t you all agree?”

if every person in the room wasn’t already staring at you post entrance, they definitely were now.

your throat closed up at the sudden urge to vomit all over the tile flooring, and you swallowed down lingering anxiety as you stared at the king. you were almost certain that even though the wards around the room nullified your powers, your irises had turned a dark shade of red.

the monarch up front continued to talk, but the words started to slur together as blood thrummed in your ears. this is bad, you thought, forcing yourself to remain dormant in your chair. sudden applause erupted in the room, and someone grabbed your shoulder.

“what?” you heard yourself snap, eyes flicking to riki, who was now getting to his feet.

he nodded toward his father, dark hair falling past his ears, as his mouth curved into an amused smirk. he extended a hand. “dad requires your presence.”

blinking up at him, your mind shadowed with a haze as you stood slowly, ignoring his offered palm. squaring your shoulders, heels clacking on the marble with each step, you weaved through the crowd—riki right behind you—and forced your face to become unreadable. all eyes were on you, and while it wasn’t necessarily a foreign concept, you felt small. like a child hesitantly approaching its furious father.

“ah, there she is,” the king said, watching with a smile that made your stomach twist in on itself. “i’m happy you’re here…and so is everyone else.” he took your arm, turning you to face the crowd he addressed (though not before shooting a dirty look toward riki, sending the black-winged angel to his designated throne).

gulping, you stared at the large group of angels, some with and without wings; of individuals that called this place their home. the idea of people actually being happy here made your stomach knot.

the king continued to speak, it was white noise in your ears, his speech muffled. you continued to blankly stare down the crowd, focus landing on a pocket of empty space, not daring to meet any person’s gaze. you thought it better that you ignore them, even with all of their attention zoned in on your stilled figure.

“...and my sons will oversee her training and missions, making sure that she understands and complies with our rules.” the king moved his hand to your back, and you hoped to hell that you didn’t visibly flinch.

your life now consisted of being the new personal assassin to an archangel, and if you were to keep the impression you strived for, no weakness could be displayed. not now and not ever.

© enhyqenn 2023 | do not repost, republish, steal, or translate !!

[onedaughterofman]

It said yell so HEAR ME OUT OK CAUSE I BE FEELING ANGSTY. TERZO RETURNING TO HIS LOVER IMMEDIATELY ONCE HES RESURRECTED CAUSE IVE BEEN LOOKING AT ALL THOSE THEORIES THAT HES ALIVE AND THEYVE ALL GOT GOOD POINTS. TO MAKE IT ALL WORSE HIS LOVER WAS THERE WHEN HE WAS KILLED CAUSE PAIN

OH I'M LISTENING MY FRIEND. I'M LISTENING.

This is kinda short, but I hope you like it!

Dying tonight (Resurrected! Terzo x g/n reader)

He’s standing next to the bed when you wake up. Cold sweat dripping down your back, a chilling shriek dies inside your chest.

He’s there.

Terzo.

As much as you want to call his name, the words refuse to come out of your mouth. Lips tight in a line, your fingers blindly search for the switch of the bedside lamp. The plastic is cold, so rigid, and it serves as a lifeline to keep you grounded.

Under the yellowish light, Terzo is there. Lifeless eyes open wide, his pale iris shines like a lantern in the darkness of the room. He’s standing immobile, arms by his side, hair disheveled and face frozen in a stoic, emotionless expression. The white dress shirt he’s wearing is covered in coagulated blood. The color is dark, almost black.

As your pupils scan him, you realize the blood is coming from his neck. There's a scar, jarred and red, across his skin.

The sharp edges of your crucifix dig in your palm as you squeeze it in a silent prayer. This can’t be happening. You saw him dying.

No matter how much you tried to bury those memories in some remote corner of your mind, they remain alive. Sitting next to him, in that poorly lighted room, you were there when everything went black. The attack, his death, his funeral… You were there, all the time. You clung to his corpse, blaming yourself for being unable to even attempt to protect him.

“Lucifer, my lord. Please, have mercy on my soul,” you can't say. The words are hidden deep in your body, somewhere between your burning lungs and shivering guts.

It doesn’t matter how much you pray to the Lord and whoever might listen to you, Terzo doesn't disappear. On shaky legs, you get on your feet. The floor is freezing, just like his skin when you place your palms on his cheeks, cradling his face.

For a long moment, Terzo’s eyes remain unfocused, lost somewhere far away. Then, his pupils find you. “I’m cold,” he says, voice merely a whisper. “So cold, amore mio.”

Leaving his side for mere seconds, you rush to snatch a blanket and set it over his shoulders. Clinging again to his body, holding him so close it hurts, you can perceive the faint beating of his heart.

It doesn't make sense. This can be either a miracle or a nightmare, a gift from your deities or a terrible omen. You don't care. If this is nothing but a bad dream, then you don't want to wake up.

In disbelief, you force his eyes to meet yours. “You’re back,” you say.

Still lost inside his mind, Terzo furrows his brows as he nods. “How long have I been gone?," he asks in a rumbling growl.

“Years.”

The only answer he provides is another nod. His trembling hands reach for yours and, despite his weak legs, you manage to guide him to bed. Letting him rest his back against your chest, your fingers brush over his messy hair as he gradually regains some heat in his limbs.

For a long moment, there's only silence in the room. Terzo is reflective, mentally far away from you no matter how hard you cradle him.

After an eternity, he moves. “Amore, I remember it now,” Terzo says, inhaling sharply before continuing. “I remember what happened. I know who did it.”

When the bells chime in the distance, his eyes look up to meet yours. There’s nothing inside them, except undying anger that cannot be tamed. Tears run down his face, leaving behind trails of diluted black paint.

With his voice set in a grave monotone, he speaks up for the last time.

“Someone is dying tonight.”

PS: If Terzo ever comes back, you'll hear me screaming. No matter where you are.