#but maybe not in a deeply cursed mansion

[fuckno-vampireweekend]

Can’t stop thinking about how after this when her dad says that is just speculation and she replies that it isn’t speculation because she lived it like…can you imagine that pain she has been harboring for 5 weeks??

She basically woke up from the most “that was so intensely real I feel strange feelings” dreams EVER where she lost both Ryan AND Ace but also she felt such unbridled happiness alongside that pain. And it wasn’t a dream. It was a premonition. It wasn’t foggy after you wake up like a dream. It was clear and palpable.

She knows deeply what it feels like to both finally be in love and loved by Ace and also what it feels like to lose him and she’s just had to sit with that for five weeks like no wonder she can’t find a fucking ferret

[imaginedisish]

Anything (Logan Howlett x fem!Reader)

A/N: Something is seriously wrong with me...I cannot stop writing for this man. Started this one last night after hearing him say "princess" in "The Wolverine" (2013). This is another nightmare fic, but I promise it's different! Heavily inspired by "anything" by Adrianne Lenker. Hope you guys enjoy!

Summary: Your summer affair with Logan is, in fact, not just a summer affair.

Warnings: 18+ SMUT!! MINORS DNI!!! Unprotected PIV (wrap it up!), (some?)fingering, cockwarming, overstimulation, multiple orgasms, nightmares, fem!reader/afab!reader, canon-typical violence, mutant!reader (unspecified abilities), feelings, angst, cursing, probably grammatical errors, I think that's it!

Word Count: 3,213 short for me

It started one summer night—under the stars. You had slipped out the window of your room in the mansion. You were sitting with your legs crossed, perched precariously on the old, shingled roof. You never got much sleep—you simply couldn’t—even though you knew the mansion was safe. Staying awake remained a solace, a comfort. It meant fewer nightmares; it meant you couldn’t be haunted by the hurt of your past.

Staring up at the stars beat staring up at your ceiling, and so you had made it a habit to crawl out of your window and sit on the roof. 

Until that one summer night, when Logan found you out there.

He shoved open his window and stuck his head outside. “What the fuck are you doing out here?” You smiled, turning your head to face him. You shrugged your shoulders, giggling at the concern on his face. He mocked you, shrugging his own shoulders in imitation. 

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t hide your smile and the way he made you laugh. You and Logan had been growing closer, spending more time together. He was looking out for you—constantly and protectively. It made you feel good knowing that someone cared so deeply. 

“Why don’t you come over here?” You called over to him, patting the spot next to you. He shook his head and ducked back inside. You quickly assumed he didn’t feel like being with you, your heart sinking down into your stomach. You wanted him to come out, to sit with you. Maybe you could’ve—

But then there he was, pushing the window as far open as it could possibly go, struggling to climb out. It wasn’t too much of a scuffle over to you, your rooms being right next to one another, but he made a big deal of the trek nonetheless. He huffed for dramatic effect as he sat down next to you. 

“This is so incredibly dangerous,” he had said, sarcasm heavy in his voice. 

You gasped. “Logan Howlett cares about safety?” You clasped your hand over your mouth for flare. “My safety?” 

He smiled, but there was something serious in his face. “I do, actually.” You tried not to notice as he inched closer to you, your shoulders brushing together. “What are you doing out here, princess?” He asked again. 

You smirked at the familiar nickname. “I don’t really like sleeping,” you muttered. 

Logan nodded. He understood better than anyone else. “I know…” He trailed off, looking up at the sky. “But why sit out here?”

“It’s quiet,” you whispered. “And it’s beautiful. Better than being in there, just sitting in bed.” 

He nodded again. “It is beautiful.” You turned your head back to Logan as he spoke. He wasn’t looking at the sky anymore. He was looking at you. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “Did you have a dream tonight?”

You shook your head from side to side. “Didn’t give myself the chance to yet, and I don’t plan on doing so.” You sighed, looking down at your legs, still crossed like a pretzel in front of you. “Wish we didn’t have to deal with this, you know?”  

Logan slowly brought his arm around your shoulder, as if he was waiting for you to shove him away. He had touched you before, but not quite like this. It was always in passing—always short and fleeting. But this? This was intentional. You leaned into his touch and let your head fall to his shoulder. “You don’t have to deal with it alone,” he offered, his lips faintly brushing at your temple. 

You tilted up to look at him, his face inches away from yours. He pulled you in closer, his breath fanning across your cheek. “You’re not alone,” he repeated. 

And then his lips were on yours. You kissed on the roof. You let him tug you into his window, into his bed. He tasted you that night. You spread your legs and let him inside. And then you slept. You slept without waking up in a cold sweat. You slept without reliving your past. And for the first time in a long time, so did he. 

And now it's become a habit. He opens his window for you, and you climb across the roof and inside. Every night. You haven’t slept alone since the beginning of the summer, and it’s August now. There’s no label on whatever it is you two are. But you know it’s serious—the way he asks every night if you can stay, even though he knows you’ve already made up your mind and that you aren’t going anywhere. 

But tonight is different. Logan was sent on a day trip with some of the students, while you were tasked with staying at the school to run through training exercises. It’s the end of the day now—10 PM. You’re exhausted as you let your back crash down on the mattress. 

Thanks to Logan, your body has become accustomed to sleeping. You can feel it calling you, feel your tiredness creeping in at the corner of your eyes. You try to fight the feeling, but it’s no use. Your eyes flutter open and closed, resisting until you can’t anymore, and you fall asleep. 

There’s a piercing ringing in your ears. Your chest is heaving violently. You’re strapped down to a chair, a needle inches away from your forearm. Maybe it’s Stryker. Maybe it’s some other mutant hunter or government agent ready to do their worst. You thrash around in the chair, yanking at the restraints to no avail.

You choke out a sob, throwing your head back in agony. Logan is all you can think about. What if he’s in danger? What if you never see him again? What if this is it?

Just as the needle breaks skin, the piercing ringing starts up again, and everything goes black. 

You force yourself to sit up, cold sweat drenching every inch and curve of your body. You look over to the clock on your nightstand: 12:37 AM. You had only been asleep for two hours. You shut your eyes, letting your head bump into the headboard behind you. You take deep, slow breaths, trying to lower your heart rate, silently reminding yourself that it was all just a dream. 

You’re not exactly sure what brought the nightmare on, but you know you aren’t going back to sleep. You crawl out of bed and into the darkness of your room, carefully walking to your window and shoving it as far open as it can possibly go. You climb out and sit on the still-hot roof to look at the stars. 

The twinkling balls of heat shine above you. It hits you then that even stars must die. They have all that energy, all that beauty, and then they burn out. You swallow at the thought, tears burning behind your sinuses. 

You don’t want to look over at Logan’s room—don’t want to see the window closed. The trip was to some aquarium down the shore in Jersey. You know he’s likely not home yet, and for the first time since all of this started, you’re worried about bothering him. You don’t want to force him to deal with your—

And then you finally see it. His window is open, the curtains billowing around inside. You let out a tight breath you didn’t know you were holding, your shoulders going slack at the thought of crawling into his bed. 

You scale the roof carefully, bending down as you climb inside his room. You get tangled up in the curtains, and you shove them aside to reveal Logan in his bed, eyes shut. You swallow harshly at the sight—his chest bare and his hair a mess. Sometimes you’ll stay up and watch him sleep, just to see this, just to know what he looks like when it's late and no one else is around. 

But then he’s twitching. He grunts, his chest heaving rapidly. You sprint across the room to his side, practically tripping over nothing in the rush of it all. He’s fisting the sheets, mumbling nonsense, violently turning left and right. You can see the pain in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his muscles flex. Your heart drops deep into the pit of your stomach. 

“Logan,” you call out, bringing a hand to his shoulder. You know he’s sensitive—know he can bring the claws out at any second—so you take care with your movements. “Logan,” you call again, louder this time. You grip his shoulder harder, shaking him, trying to force him out of the nightmare. 

You think you hear your name slip from his lips. “I’m right here,” you soothe, bringing your other hand to his abdomen, rubbing softly as you continue to shake his shoulder. He’s a sweating mess, his body cold and hot at the same time. You want to take his pain away, to make all of this better. “Come on,” you beg. “Wake up.”

And then he’s sitting up, his eyes open wide. You step back, giving him the space he needs as he comes to. His claws shoot out, ready to strike. He turns his head, his eyes frantically searching the room until he finds you. 

He quickly retracts his claws, and you watch as his shoulders relax. His chest still rises and falls rapidly with every breath he takes. 

“Logan,” you whisper, stepping closer to him again. “Are you—” 

He cuts you off, pawing at you, grabbing your sides, and pulling you into his bed. He’s on top of you in an instant, caging you in, his throat bobbing as he swallows harshly. 

“Can you stay?” It’s a ritual, the way he asks. He knows your answer—always does. But he asks anyway. You know he wants to hear it from your lips, wants to know that you want this, too. 

Your heart clenches in your chest. “Yes,” you sigh as one of his hands comes to rest underneath your shirt, climbing slowly up your stomach. “But Logan—”

He swallows your protests with a kiss, and you moan into his mouth. It’s hurried, rushed, like he’ll die if he can't have you right away. “Don’t wanna talk about it. Need you now. Talk after,” he mumbles against your lips, kissing you again before you can say a word. 

You understood—you needed him too. Needed to feel him inside you, under your skin, everywhere. 

His hand slinks up to your bare chest; you had forgotten you weren’t wearing a bra, just one of Logan’s old t-shirts and your panties. His touch is rough; needy. He squeezes your tits, his fingertips brushing your nipples, drawing tight circles. You moan his name, already squirming underneath him. 

Logan’s erection grinds against your core. He’s just wearing his boxers—nothing else—but it’s still too much. You need him bare before you, deep inside you. You lift your hips up to meet his, your arms wrapping around his back to pull him closer.

He takes the hint, his hand gliding back down your body to the hem of your panties. He reaches down farther, teasing your folds through the fabric. “Fuck, so fucking wet already,” he mumbles, slipping your panties to the side so that he can feel you. You shudder under his touch, his fingers spreading your slickness up to your clit. He strokes teasingly, the ache between your thighs growing with every flick and circle. 

It feels like heaven, but you need him closer. “Logan,” you whimper, fisting the sheets underneath you. “Want you, please.” It’s a desperate prayer and not just a request. 

Logan suddenly pulls his hand away and you whine at the loss of contact. “I know, sweetheart,” he soothes reassuringly, sitting up and pushing his boxers down. You’ll never get tired of the sight of his cock springing free against his stomach. His hands are back on your hips in an instant, squeezing lightly before hooking his fingers under the waistband of your panties and yanking them down. 

He's back on top of you, lowering down onto one forearm as his other hand pulls your shirt above your tits. “Wanna see you, pretty girl,” he groans, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple before his forehead meets yours.

His hand comes down to the base of his cock, guiding his tip to your entrance, to where you need him most. His chest heaves in time with yours, your nipples brushing against him. He stays there for a moment, not moving. His eyes search your face, as if to confirm you’re real—that you’re truly here with him. You can see the need in his eyes. It’s not lust anymore—not just about sex. It’s never been about that. 

It has always meant more. 

Logan suddenly thrusts into you, bottoming out down to the hilt, stretching you open. You can feel him throb inside you. He groans at your ear. “So goddamn tight.” He doesn’t pull back out, his hips still, his cock buried deep inside you. You need him to move, need to feel his cock rub against your walls. You try to grind down on him, but he doesn’t let you. His hand latches onto your hip, keeping you in place. 

“Lo,” you whine. 

“Love when you call me that, sweetheart,” he growls, his hips still stuck in place. “Just wanna feel you like this for a minute. Don’t move.” 

It’s all too much. You need more, need him to fuck into you. Logan frees his hold on your hip, his hand trailing down between your bodies. He finds your clit, drawing achingly slow circles there. It’s nowhere near enough, but the temporary relief feels so good. 

“Always want you this close,” he murmurs, his hips finally starting to move, slowly but surely. You arch your back at the feeling. “Feels so good, so fucking good.” 

He’s taking his time, committing how you feel around his cock to his memory. He’s filling you up, taking in every inch you have to give him. You’re still adjusting to his size, his cock working you open with every thrust. His fingertips swirl around your clit, adding more pressure to the sensitive bud. You’re already close, already putty in his hands. 

Your walls flutter around him, drawing him in, deeper and deeper. 

“Should’ve just brought you in here when I got home,” he husks between starving kisses. “Shouldn’t have waited.” 

You wrap your legs around his waist. “I’m here now,” you coo, your nails scratching at his back as he pounds into you, picking up his pace, his hips snapping into yours. 

“D-don’t know what I’d do without you,” he stutters, his voice suddenly shaky. He’s still fucking into you relentlessly, pumping in and out. “F-fucking need you all the time, princess.” His words and that nickname light a spark at the base of your spine. You can feel yourself melting, ready to come undone. 

“So close,” you choke out in between thrusts. 

You clamp down on him. “That’s it,” Logan whispers, his cock rutting into you, his fingers still circling your clit. He’s working you through it, taking care of you, making you feel good. “Come on my cock, pretty girl. Wanna feel it.” 

You can’t help but do as he says—that spark at the base of your spine spreading like wildfire. You’re moaning his name, walls squeezing around him, stars blurring your vision as your orgasm floods through you. But Logan isn’t slowing down, his cock pounding into you and his fingers stroking your clit long after you’ve finished. 

“Love feeling you come,” he mutters, biting your lip in between kisses. “Wanna feel you come again, princess.” 

You’re already beyond fucked out, overstimulated, and far too sensitive, but his words goad you along. “’S’so much, Lo,” you whimper, tripping over your sentence as he splits you apart, sinks into you, hitting your g-spot with every pump. 

“Know you can take it,” he praises, pressing a kiss just under your ear, then to your pulse point, and back up to your lips. “Know you can come again for me, can’t you?”

“Y-yes,” you stammer. “A-anything for you.” You mean it, and he knows you do.

“Fuck,” he curses, his thrusts growing sloppier as the words fall from your lips. “F-fucking beautiful, perfect.” 

You look to where you two are connected—where you become one—and watch as his cock disappears into you. It’s too much, the sight, the feeling of him fucking into you, rubbing your clit, chasing your orgasm. It’s all it takes to have you falling apart underneath him, coming on his cock again. 

After a few soothing strokes to your clit, his nails trail up your body, his fingertips exploring your bare skin. Logan curses under his breath, your name on his lips. You know he’s close behind—almost there. 

“Don’t pull out,” you whisper in his ear, his cock pulsing inside you. “Stay.” 

That’s all the permission he needs to fill you up, his hips stuttering as he comes. “F-fuck,” he groans, his hand slipping under your back to hike you up, to bury himself as deep as possible, to hold you flush against him as he finishes inside you. 

He pumps a few more times, riding out his orgasm, but he doesn’t pull out. He grabs your thigh and hoists your leg around his waist as he shifts you onto your side. You’re next to him now, your chests still pressed together.

“Lemme stay inside you,” he mumbles. 

You nod against him. “Okay.” You squeeze your leg around his waist, taking him deeper. 

The room is silent, your shared shallow breaths the only sound. The curtains dance in the breeze from the still-open window. Your eyes flutter shut, and Logan’s lips press a kiss to each of them. 

After a few moments, he breaks the silence. “Don’t ever wanna spend a night without you.”

Your eyes flutter back open, and you’re met with Logan’s soft, sleepy face. His hair is a mess. You can’t help but smile at the intimacy—the domesticity. “You don’t have to,” you say back. 

“I mean it,” his voice is steady, firm, the sleepiness replaced suddenly with something more serious. “Need you with me all the time.”

“I know,” you say. And then he’s drawing stars across your back. It makes you think of the night this all started. The night everything changed. “I’ll always stay. Always.” You blink and an unexpected tear slips down your cheek. You swallow harshly, unprepared for the vulnerability of the moment. 

Logan immediately notices and brings his thumb up to your cheek, brushing the tear away. “Just want you. Give anything to make you mine.” 

“I already am,” is all you can manage to say. “Don’t need anything.” 

“Gonna give it to you anyway.” He kisses the spot where he wiped the tear away. 

You start to drift off—his arms around you, his cock still buried inside you—the thought of a forever with Logan replaying in your mind. 

You think he’s asleep, but then you hear his soft husk at your ear. “I love you. Always will.”

“I love you, too.”

[whirlybirbs]

— THE FOOL ; KYOJURO RENGOKU ; 煉獄

summary: all you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside to the ubuyashiki mansion's onsen. pairing: kyojuro rengoku / f!hashira!reader wc: 3.6k tags: set-pre season 1, rated T, hashira dynamics, kyojuro's impeccable manners, tengen uzui is a son of a bitch, good fluff, embarrassed flirting, slightly forbidden romance, retable reader insert who just wants to be left alone to bathe in peace a/n: don't look at me.

Your bones are tired. 

Not just your bones — but every ounce of marrow in those very bones. The expression 'bone tired'? Yea, it was written and smithed with you in mind. Tonight, you're the muse for true exhaustion — battered, bruised, and barely hanging on. 

The short walk up to the Ubuyashiki Mansion's onsen is proving formidable. 

Every muscle in your body aches and with each step closer, you pray you'll have a moment of quiet peace to yourself. After all, Shinobu insisted (read as threatened) that you soak in the hot spring after administering simple medical aid post-mission. 

Something, something, hot spring stimulates blood flow, blah, blah, strong healing properties.

All you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. Here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside through the willows of wisteria on a lantern-lit path to the hot spring.

Your geta catches on a root and you trip up, scoffing tiredly as you catch yourself and grumble a curse. Ow. Irritation simmers under your skin, and you wonder absently what's gotten into you. 

It normally takes more for you to be so... cranky. And openly so.

When you reach the gate of the onsen, your eye twitches.

Son of a —

There's Hashira abound tonight. 

"Look who's back from her little foray out East!"

Did Tengen need to be so loud? 

All the damn time?

The small, dimly lit spot is surrounded by wisteria and maple. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you sigh and shut the red gate behind you, paying careful mind not to catch your fingers in the latch. Lanterns are perched on rocks, candles only beginning to run with wax in the evening air. The open-air bath overlooks the sprawling estate down the mountain. 

You sigh deeply from your chest, your eyes practically at half-mast when you turn around to snipe Tengen with an unamused look.

"Our dear Dream Hashira... you look like shit," comes the rogue commentary, "No offense, beautiful."

Tengen is at the far edge of the steaming bath with both arms outstretched along the edge. As always, he's taking up as much space as humanly possible. His silver hair hangs about his shoulders — and he even goes so far as to pin you with a rogueish smile. You stare flatly at him in response.

Then: the middle finger. 

"Woof. Tough crowd tonight," he rumbles as he slides a look towards a decidedly uninterested Sanemi. The Wind Hashira has his head hung back against the edge with a towel over his forehead — his eyes are closed. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was asleep. 

"Tengen, do me a favor," comes the gritted reply from the scarred man, "and shut the hell up." 

You motion plainly to Sanemi — the gesture says thank you — with your brows raising in silent agreeance. Even the act of speaking right now is all too much. 

"I must agree with Tengen," comes the wistful and soft voice of Muichiro Tokito as he lifts his chin from its submerged position; his hair is swimming about him. The Mist Hashira looks... almost peaceful; but his words are damning, "You do look like shit."

Somehow it's worse when Tokito says it.

That makes Sanemi lift his head and pry one eye open. 

You serve him an unenthused look from your spot by the benches. You hope for a bit of sympathy, but instead:

"...What the fuck happened to you?" comes his dry response to your current state of being. 

Which — fine, maybe it's fair. The others rarely ever see you in any state aside from perfect. You're meticulous about your appearance; from your uniform to your posture, you value perfection over all else. The devil that has always haunted you is the details. Perhaps it was your rigid upbringing, but regardless—

"Ah!" suddenly, there's a resoundingly warm voice booming across the small courtyard from the onsen's koshitsu, "I see you've returned, Lady— Oh... my, are you quite alright...?"

You've got to be kidding me.

Kyojuro Rengoku's face is twisted into genuine worry. He's standing in the middle of the path, his focus entirely on you. His hair is undone and the sunburst strands are spilling along his chest and back. There's a small cotton towel slung around his narrow waist. You purposefully level your eyes with his, not daring to let your gaze waver — and then you curse Kocho Shinobu a thousand times over for sending you here.  

(Tengen is smirking. You want to throw your sandal at his head.)

Finally, you speak. 

"I'm fine." 

You don't sound fine. You sound like a woman who'd endured being unceremoniously whipped about by a snake Demon in a swamp for three hours before she could finally land a killing blow. 

Kyojuro frowns. His eyes — like two gems of carnelian — are nearly glowing with concern. Those dark brows of his knit and you try to grit out a tight smile. It fails. It looks more like a wince than anything.

It's... pathetic.

"Perhaps a soak will help," the Flame Hashira offers gently. His tone is soft with pity.

Shit. Fuck. Damn it. Fucking Shinobu, fucking hot spring, fucking swamp demon, fucking—

Right. Right, a soak. It's the thing that Tengen Uzui is somehow singlehandedly making more unbearable — he's dragging Sanemi and Muichiro by the necks from the onsen — by leaving you alone with Rengoku. 

"Go on you two! We're just leaving anyways, right fellas?"

"Die," you spit hoarsly in his direction; your expression is flat.

Tengen throws you a wink. "Relax a little, pretty. You deserve it!"

You could still hit him with your geta. Maybe if you put enough force behind it, it could kill him. 

After all, he's been doing this ever since you let it slip about your little crush. 

And just when a girl thinks she can trust an ex-shinobi... never again. You don't care if Tengen is the one offering to buy the sake, you're never drinking with that man again. He's a gossip and a whore. A gossiping whore. A devoted husband-whore who gossips like no-fucking-other. 

Admitting to Tengen Uzui's stupid face that you've been avoiding Kyojuro Rengoku because of your feelings was the second worst mistake you ever made.

Your first worst mistake was not dragging your sorry ass back down the mountain after you and Kyojuro were left alone in the onsen. 

At least — at the very least — it's quieter now, even if the silence feels oddly intimate. 

You're thankful Kyojuro has retreated into the water of the bath; the distance allows you to ignore the burning pit in your gut at the thought of him and you together. In the onsen. Alone.

You've bathed alongside the other Hashira before. The whole lot of you are warriors. There's no shame in the body — and admittedly, you grew up around konyoku onsen in Tokyo. 

It wasn't the nakedness that was the problem. 

...Maybe it was a little bit of the nakedness. 

But, mostly the fact it's Kyojuro Rengoku: the kindest man you've ever met, a man whose smile is nearly as bright as the morning sun, a man whose laugh feels like a summer thunderstorm. A man who is tall, strong, and handsome. It's no small secret he's well-loved among the ranks; respected, admired, sought after... Who wouldn't make an attempt atcatching his eye? After all, he's capable, swift, courageous, honorable—

Having a heart attack.

He's having a heart attack.

I mean — it's you. And him. Alone. 

...Naked. And alone.

He himself could have strangled Tengen when the ex-shinobi scurried off, leaving him here — though he'd never admit it. That sneaky bastard is fully aware of Kyojuro's feelings towards you, and Kyojuro swears the Sound Hashira gets off on forcing him to confront the very thing he forbids himself to even dwell upon. 

Your voice pulls him from his enraptured internal monologue.

"I am fine," you break the silence as your fingers work at the obi around your waist in nervousness. Your back is to him, and as the grey kimono slips down your shoulders, he panics, "I swear."

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you in such a state as this," he tries to sound level, confident, as he turns in the water; suddenly the mountainside is very beautiful. Yes, very nice. Very... mountain-y. 

Kyojuro's eyes flick over his shoulder briefly, back at you.

He sees skin. More of your skin than he's ever seen. There are dimples at the base of your spine. Good god. He swallows tightly and turns his gaze forward once more. 

Even the act of shrugging your kimono off is enough to make you rasp. The ribs Shinobu had been so concerned about are protesting now. It's fine. Everything is fine. You peek over your shoulder. Relief floods you as you realize Rengoku's back is turned. 

Quickly, you slip into the onsen. It's the quickest you've moved all night. 

You plunge in deep, ignoring the burn of the water along of the more raw marks and bruises bitten into your skin. Your ribs wail in protest as you inhale sharply at the heat, and you try your best to coach your expression into unwavering when Kyojuro turns back around. 

"Better?"

All you can do is grunt from your submerged position.

That makes him laugh.

You try to memorize the warm sound and tuck it neatly into your heart. It's cute, the way his eyes scrunch when he laughs. You find yourself staring for a second before swallowing down your affections.

"Shinobu demanded I come," you explain slowly, lifting your hands and playing with the surface of the water, "If I had it my way, I'd be in bed."

Or murdering Tengen in his sleep.

"The hot springs are good for healing," Kyojuro chirps brightly, canting his head as he speaks almost as if he's going to reprimand you. His voice drops an octave, "You know that, Lady Hashira."

He's teasing you.

He's — he's seriously teasing you.

You're naked and he's teasing you.

You sink a little lower into the water and narrow your eyes at him — the act makes you look a bit like an angry, wet cat. Kyojuro can only grin. Truly this is rare form for you. Your disposition is usually sunny, if not well-manicured and mindfully well-mannered. You are every bit a Lady Hashira. Moreso than Shinobu or Mitsuri in a way. 

You are the Dream Pillar, after all, and a woman composed purely of romanticism in his eyes. It's the way he could see you, in another life, in a fine silk kimono and delicate make-up; he could see you in gold and pearls, pouring tea worth more than his monthly salary into fine ceramic cups. Suitors abound.

Though, perhaps that's not so different than now.

Not with the way you're delicately pouring yourself a helping of Tengen's abandoned sake at the edge of the onsen. You'd think it was the most expensive liquor in the land with the care you take to not spill a drop. 

You slide him a hesitant look over your shoulder, the water lapping at your bruised back. Kyojuro lifts a brow.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence as you turn back to the task at hand, "It'd be a shame if it went to waste."

"I didn't know sake had healing properties," Kyojuro offers slowly, his lips twitching upwards as he watches you take a long sip from the cup.

"Something, something, blood flow," you murmur mostly to yourself, tossing back the rest with a scowl and a wince, "I'm sure Shinobu would agree."

Kyojuro leans back against the wall, sinking a little deeper as he settles onto the seat beneath the water. The ends of his hair are soaked, turning an even darker shade of crimson. His shoulders flex as he relaxes his arms against the stones. 

His own body is tired. Beneath the water, he absently stretches his legs and pays careful mind to the twinge of pain in his left knee.

"Whether she agrees or disagrees is none of my business," he supplies diplomatically.

You reach for the jug, giving it a light shake. It's nearly empty anyway. 

You extend it, offering it to Kyojuro.

The Flame Hashira shakes his head. "No thank you. I reserve drink for special occasions only."

You quirk a brow. Your tone is light. Airy, almost. "I didn't know that about you."

He hums. You place the sake down, sink lower into the water, and try to focus on his face — not the strength in his forearms, nor the water running in rivets down his chest. 

"My father has quite a love for the stuff," he admits with a controlled frown, "I avoid it when I can."

Ah. 

Right. 

Your own father, also a retired Hashira, voiced many a feeling about Shinjuro Rengoku when he was given the chance. You'd visited home months ago and when you mentioned serving alongside Kyojuro, his eyes narrowed dangerously and impeccably sharp. His tongue lashed out at you — as if you were the retired Flame Pillar himself. 

There's a history there, it seems.

"I apologize."

"Don't," he says; firm yet soft.

"It is better that way, really," you mumble in an attempt to soothe the ache you can see across his face, "Liquor leads to making many a fool."

Kyojuro's brow quirks. "You sound as though you're speaking from experience."

"Perhaps," you say slyly, wandering to the far end of the pool. You're nearly submerged to your nose, "A lady shall never tell."

"And if I asked Tengen?"

"You wouldn't dare." The water splashes as you whip around and glare — though Kyojuro senses no real malice. 

It was no small secret you'd been dragged through the mud after you and Tengen's night on the town. Why the Master called a meeting that morning was beyond you, but there's a part of you that wonders if he was slightly amused at your less-than-pleasant state. You swore you were going to puke all over the engawa when you bowed — never mind the fact the morning sun's brightness was enough to nearly drill your brain into a pulp. 

Kyojuro had never seen you so... disheveled. 

Second to tonight, that is.

The Flame Hashira smirks. "If the lady forbades it, then who am I to ignore her wishes?"

Fucking Tengen, fucking Shinobu, fucking Kyojuro—

Fucking honorable, respectable, polite Kyojuro.

"Well, this lady does forbade it," you say with narrowed eyes, "So there."

"You really are in rare form this evening."

He's smirking. That's new.

"Yes, well," you mumble as you lull your head back and wet the rest of your hair; the warmth seeps through the strands and feels soothing on your scalp. You already feel better. Less like a swamp demon's plaything, more like a girl trying her best not to let her petal-mouthed feelings slip out, "We can blame Muzan Kibutsuji for that."

"I surmise it has been a difficult day?" he rumbles quietly from his spot in the onsen.

"You haven't the slightest idea."

"Care to enlighten me?" 

"And embarrass myself?" she mutters, splashing absently, "I'd prefer to remain capable in your eyes, Rengoku. I'll spare you the details. And anyone else who asks."

He's grinning. That sort that appears in an optimist's dream. Bright, sunny and so enrapturing it feels like your heart is being scorched by its warmth. 

"Your capability will never waver in my eyes," Kyojuro supplies as he flicks the water absently; his gaze has fallen to the sway of the wisteria in the evening air, "You are amazing. One particularly bad day does not diminish that fact."

Maybe it's the sake. Maybe it's the compliment. Either way, the tips of your ears feel warm. 

That little, nibbling feeling is back in his chest. The very one he's been trying his best to ignore for months. 

"You are only being kind," you mutter, "Because, as the other's made very clear, I look like shit." 

Kyojuro finds himself smiling a bit at the jest — his fingers glide along the top of the water, tracing idly patterns into it as he watches you sink deeper and deeper into the hot spring. Finally, for a moment, you descend below the surface.

Then, you break the surface slowly. Your hair is swimming around you, clinging to your bare shoulders. You exhale, brush water from your lashes, and inhale. You look... beautiful. A different sort of beautiful than he's used to. This sort of beauty is relaxed. Tired. You seem a bit freer than usual — unrestrained by the image you aim to keep well protected amongst the others. 

Kyojuro sinks a little deeper himself.

He's still watching you.

Your eyes find his. 

There's a moment where all you two can do is blink — Flame and Dream mingling for a breath beneath the stars. Wide eyes bound by a moment of silence, a moment of hesitation. He feels like all the breath has been swept from his lungs. All Kyojuro can do is stare into your eyes.

Then, he speaks.

Blurts, more aptly.

"You are beautiful."

...Did he just say that? 

Your lips part in quiet shock.

Suddenly, his posture is more rigid, and his expression a bit panicked — perhaps because your own eyes widen a mile at the words that spill from his mouth. Kyojuro raises his hands as he inhales sharply, the heat of the bath inching a degree hotter. Whether it's from the sudden admission or a misfire of his breathing technique, you're unsure. 

His cheeks are hot. He leans forward, shaking his head.

Damn you, Tengen. Damn you, damn you—

"I-I simply mean — you... You do not look like shit—" He attempts to explain.

"Oh—"

"Yes, yes, I—"

"Thank you," you say quickly, trying to calm your own racing heart as he swallows down a bought of embarrassment and offers a pained smile your way. It's enough to quell his panic.

"Of course," he breathes out, sagging a bit deeper into the water as he fiddles with his hands. He has a habit of rubbing at his callouses. Kyojuro swallows, then hoarsly admits: "One might think that I was drinking the sake with the way I'm making a fool of myself."

Your laugh is like a balm. 

"Hardly," you offer as you sink into the water with a smile; your eyes are glimmering with something a bit mischievous as you swim towards the water's edge. You pause, then slip a look his way over your bare shoulder, "...Do you mean it?"

"That I'm a fool? Of course."

You scoff quietly. Kyojuro's smile is tight — knowing. 

Then, he speaks warmly and kindly. He confirms your question with ease. His arms are wound across his chest. "You are truly beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the grace to lay eyes upon, my Lady." 

Maybe you could drown yourself here. 

You're not entirely sure how you'll ever recover from this — not from how tender he says it, not from how honest his words sound. So suddenly you feel as though he's hung every star in the sky for your eyes only, having wished upon them, time and time again, for nothing more than a moment of your time. It's reverent is what it is.

You're about to open your mouth and say something when a bright, girlish giggle cuts through the tension—

Kyojuro Rengoku has never been more thankful for Mitsuri Kanroji's ill timing. Behind her is Lady Shinobu. 

The pink and green-haired Hashira is ecstatic to find both yourself and Rengoku in the hot spring — her delight is palpable as she waves her arms and cheers brightly into the air. Her crow caws overhead. Her darker-haired counterpart levels them both with polite smiles.

"Oh, this is just lovely! My friends!" she's chirping as she closes the gate, "I am so glad to see you both back safe and sound—"

"Heading my advice, it seems," Shinobu says slowly — almost like she knows something you don't. Her pale, lilac eyes flick between you and Rengoku. For a moment, you almost suspect she's about to ask something.

"How are you feeling?" Mitsuri cries in your direction, shrugging her kimono off with ease — unbothered entirely by Rengoku's presence. The two are like brother and sister, and Mitsuri has never batted an eye about nudity, "How are your ribs?"

Kyojuro levels you with a look. 

You offer a sheepish grin. 

"Yes," Shinobu mutters as she slips out of her geta, "Four broken ribs."

Kyojuro's nostrils flare. "You said nothing about the sort."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I told you I was sparing you the details."

Mitsuri's bright eyes dart between the two of you — a little bit of giddiness blooming at the sight of Kyojuro looking so worried about their fellow Dream Hashira. 

He slides a look towards Kocho. Then rolls his shoulders. With a sigh, he moves to stand, the water lapping at his waist. You decidedly find the edge of the onsen very interesting as you try to coach yourself through the overwhelming urge to stare. 

"I trust you'll monitor her condition, Kocho," he murmurs as he moves through the water; the words sit nicely in your heart and you feel a little pride swell at his indication that he cares if you're alright, "I'll let you ladies have some time amongst yourselves."

You catch his eyes for a second. A moment. A lingering little breath that mingles between you — like Kocho and Mitsuri aren't there. Then, he stepped from the bath and gathered his robe.

For now, the two of you will pretend earlier never happened.

For now.

Just a little thing between the two of you — and suddenly, you're not so cranky. Once the muse for exhaustion, you're now the muse of lovesickness. 

When the gate closes behind Kyojuro, Kocho speaks.

"...What was all that?"

Nevermind. The crankiness is back.

"Shut up."

[holylulusworld]

Their little maid (1)

Summary: Mafia business is dirty. The brothers need someone to clean up their mess and more.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader x Nick Fowler

Warnings: shy reader, flirty brothers, mafia business, money trouble, Walker is the worst, injured reader (nothing serious), blood

Their little maid masterlist

Catch up here: Their little maid (Prologue)

The brothers flank your sides, while you try not to hiss with every step. Your knees hurt, and you can feel blood dry on your skin. They told you to follow them down the hall and to their office.

Honestly, this house, or rather a mansion, is a maze. If you get the job, you’ll need a floor plan to find your way back outside.

“So, how did you find our job offer?” Bucky asks. He dips his head to watch you wring your hands. “Doll, you don’t have to be nervous. Walker is an ass; forget about him.”

“I found your offer on a website and applied to the job offer,” you cringe at the sound of your voice.

“What did you do before you decided to become our maid?” Nick throws in, stealing your attention when he places his warm hand on your shoulder. “Do you have experience in cleaning private homes?”

“N-o,” you sigh deeply. Of course, they’d ask about experience first. “I mean, I cleaned my home, and I helped an elderly lady before she moved into a nursing home. Does that count?”

Bucky chuckles because you look like a lost lamb surrounded by two big wolves. He watches you squirm under their gazes, feeling something more than amusement.

“I think that counts,” Nick furrows his brows at his brother. “Right, Bucky?”

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky clears his throat. He unlocks the office and holds the door open for you, murmuring your name as you walk inside. You stop in front of the large, mahogany double desk. Expectantly looking at the desk, you wait for Bucky and Nick to sit in their comfortable chairs.

“Have a seat,” Bucky gestures toward the leather couch. “Do you have your job references, resume, and cover letter with you?” He asks, looking at your empty hands. You start to sweat. Fuck, no. Out of all the days you could have messed things up, you chose this one.

“Oh-no!” You hide your face in the palms of your hands. “I left the Manila folder on my bed when I looked for a different shirt, and then I had to catch the bus and forgot about the folder.” You cringe because you’re so pathetic; the men try to calm you.

“Hey, that’s not the end of the world,” Nick says and places his hand on the small of your back, making you feel warm. “You can just tell us what you have done so far and bring us the folder next time. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Nick guides you toward the couch. He sits next to you, eyes glued to your knees.

“Before we begin, let’s get your knees clean. Maybe you need a bandage.” Bucky is fast to open a drawer in one of the cabinets to get a first aid kit out.

“No—no!” You raise your hand. “I can do this at home. I don’t want to waste your time, Mr. Barnes.”

“You can talk while Bucky cleans your wound. He likes playing nurse,” Nick teases while his hand moves up and down your back. You whine, feeling hot all of a sudden. “So, what was your last job?”

“Librarian,” you hastily say before your voice fails. “Uh—that’s the only job I ever had. Oh, and I sold ice cream during college, and I had a lemonade stand when I was a kid.” You curse under your breath. Why do you always have to babble and tell people things they don’t want to know about?

“A librarian,” Nick almost purrs the words. “Bucky, she was a librarian.” He hisses his brother’s name when Bucky doesn’t respond. Said man just stares at your bruised knees, lost in thoughts. “Buck, did you hear?”

“I got a problem to handle here, brother,” Bucky bites back. He doesn’t mean your bruised knees, though, but the twitch in his pants. Bucky knew the moment he laid eyes on you that you were the one they were looking for.

“I can see that,” Nick laughs, watching Bucky tug at his slacks. “You should finish what you started. Fix her knees, and we can talk later.” Nick moves a little closer, his hand dropping to the couch to brush your bottom. He hums when you squirm the moment his brother starts cleaning your wound. “Shush, sweetness. It’s all good.”

You wince because the sanitizer stings like hell. Biting your lower lip, you watch Bucky crouch down in front of you to get a better look at the damage Walker caused.

“Did you like your job?” He asks while swiping a cotton ball over your wound. “At the library.”

“Yeah.” You nod. “I liked it very much, but,” you heave a sigh. “They had to close because no one came to the library any longer.”

“You will like your new job too,” Bucky murmurs as he puts a bandage on your wound. “We need someone to clean up the mess we make daily. The house is huge, but don’t worry. We only want you to take care of our bedrooms and our clothes. The rest of the house is not your problem. We have people take care of it.”

“Oh—” you wrinkle your forehead. That’s odd. Why do they need someone to clean only their bedrooms and to take care of their wardrobe?

“You see,” Bucky grabs your hand to stop you from fidgeting. “We don’t trust anyone near our bedrooms or with our clothes. You’ll get a room next to your bedrooms, so you can take care of this part of the house and sleep over a long day of work.”

“Sleep…here?” You splutter. “But...I got an apartment...and...you want me to live here?”

“Oh, that’s part of the deal,” Nick whispers in your ear. “You must prove to us that we can trust you, sweetness. If you live here, you cannot tell anyone about our secrets.”

You still don’t understand a thing but nod. If you get the job now, you can ask questions later. Your landlord won’t wait another week for you to pay rent.

“That makes sense, I guess,” you lie. This doesn’t make sense at all, but you’re willing to do almost anything to get this job.

“It’s settled then,” Nick claps his hands. He looks at Bucky for confirmation. Well, the bulge in his brother’s pants tells him he’s more than willing to hire you. “Buck?”

“Yes.” Bucky looks at your knees one more time. He hums and gets back up. “We can discuss the details tomorrow. Welcome to our team, Y/N.” He holds out his hand, and you eagerly shake it. “I’ll call Barton and Romanoff to get her things.”

“Get my... what?” You stammer. “You want me to move in today?”

“I told you,” Nick places his hand on your thigh and flashes you a stunning smile. “Do not worry about a thing.”

Tags in reblog.

[rebelliousstories]

Logan Howlett/ The Wolverine SFW Alphabet

Relationship: Logan Howlett/ The Wolverine x Reader

Fandom: X-Men

Request: Yes by Anon

Warnings: Fluff, Brief Angst

Word Count: 3,684

Main Masterlist: Here

X-Men Masterlist: Here

Consider donating a TIP or a Kofi: Here

A = Affection (How affectionate are they? How do they show affection?)

Logan is a very solitary guy. He’s much more used to being on his own than with someone in any capacity. That said, I do see him as an “acts of service” kind of man. He definitely is getting you refills on your food and drink at mansion parties, and keeping an eye on the people around you. He’ll carry you to your room after a mission, or make sure that you’re not needing any medical assistance, if you are a part of the gang.

If you’re a normie, he’s holding your heels and carrying you home after a night at the bar even though he warned you not to wear them and to just go with your boots.

B = Best Friend (What would they be like as a best friend? How would the friendship start?)

Sarcastic comments and playful bullying are your first love languages. I mean, people outside the friendship think you hate each other, but that’s only if they don’t look at you closer. He would always find something to tease you about, but he never let it get too mean.

If you’re an X-Men too, I believe that you guys would have been made to go on a solo mission together. You two have never been this close, so you try to pass the time, but it eventually turns into you pushing Logan’s buttons. So he gives it as good as he gets.

A normal person however, a non-mutant, I could see him just meeting you at every given chance. It’s a small town in Canada that he has decided to stay in; there’s one post office, one coffee shop, and only a couple of bars and restaurants. So yeah, he just keeps running into you, and strikes up a little conversation each time.

C = Cuddles (Do they like to cuddle? How would they cuddle?)

Oh he for sure loves to cuddle. You’re going to look at me and tell me that grumpy kitty with the fluffy hair doesn’t like to cuddle?! Oh nay, nay. This man loves it. A major reason is that he loves to make sure you’re kept happy and comfy. In Logan’s mind, the safest place you could be was in his arms.

Logan would cuddle one of two ways. He would either place you on his chest, fully laying down on him because he would love to feel your weight on him. It’s comforting to the man. Or, he would be on his side, with you in front of him. His back would be to the door, and his arms would be tucked up all around you.

D = Domestic (Do they want to settle down? How are they at cooking and cleaning?)

This man has proved he wants to settle down. He wants to have his little cabin in the Canadian wilderness, maybe a dog, and you and some littles. Logan would want to retire from being a superhero one day. Even though he could technically live forever, he doesn’t want to spend those days fighting. He craves having a slice of the quiet life, with someone he loves.

E = Ending (If they had to break up with their partner, how would they do it?)

Cold, quick, and efficient. He would not draw it out, or withdraw from you over time. Logan would either simply leave with only the necessary items while you’re asleep or away. But if you catch him leaving, he would continue barreling towards the door, successfully shaking off your hands. He would not talk more than necessary and would only leave with one final glance before stalking off into the unknown, and away from you.

F = Fiancé(e) (How do they feel about commitment? How quick would they want to get married?)

Logan loves fiercely and deeply. Not even death can shake his love for you. He would learn to live with it of course, but he would still proclaim his love for you till his dying breath. He’s a committed man to those who commit to him. To be loved by the Wolverine is a blessing and a bit of a curse. That fierce kind of love always rears it ugly head in a jealous mood if he notices you getting close to someone you shouldn’t. That being said…

If you were a mutant that had a healing factor like him, I think he would want to actually get married. Full on, with a marriage certificate, a suit and gown, and a beautiful ceremony and reception on the lawn of the mansion. Beast definitely officiates the wedding, with Charles rolling with you down the aisle. Scott makes a joke about how Logan should get married in a Canadian tuxedo rather than a traditional one. That doesn’t go over well with the man who is already reigning in his nerves about the whole ordeal. Not about marrying you, but rather the fanfare of it all.

If you do not posses a healing factor in some fashion, whether you’re a mutant who doesn’t have that, or a non-mutant, I feel like he would be hesitant to marry you. Logan wouldn’t want to tie you down to someone that will inevitably outlive you. In fact, he might encourage a break up so that you can find someone to grow old with. But, if you manage to convince him to stay, he would have no hesitation about marrying you. You have a small and intimate affair, from where Logan calls in a favor from an old friend named Charles.

G = Gentle (How gentle are they, both physically and emotionally?)

He’s the Wolverine. It’s James Logan Howlett. That man is as soft physically as concrete wall. However, he does tend to take a softer hand to you no matter what he is doing. Logan has lived with his own enhanced strength for centuries, but he is still afraid of hurting you. He would always make sure that his hands are soft on your body, and that his claws are nowhere near you.

Now, emotionally, again it’s the Wolverine people. He is a lone wolf, that doesn’t care too much for the rules of society. But, when it is just you two, he’s letting you in on his struggle on reconnecting his past or the innermost struggle of his more animalistic side. Going back to A for Affection, Logan sends you little winks and smirks from across the bar. But his smile, his genuine smile when the two of you are alone; those are what you both cherish.

H = Hugs (Do they like hugs? How often do they do it? What are their hugs like?)

He, for sure, loves to hug you close. He’s just got those big meaty hands, and those equally beefy arms that encompass you and keep you close. It’s a safe form of intimacy for him. Even if his claws were to come out accidentally, he would probably just knick himself. There would be virtually no chance of him getting you caught between them.

Logan tries to hug you whenever he’s home from missions. The first thing he does after getting home and dropping his bags in the foyer of the mansion, is to find you so he can get his hugs that are on back order. It’s something that helps ground him as much as his hugs help to ground you.

Getting a hug from Logan is the physical feeling of putting a fleece blanket hoodie on a bear statue and walking into it. He is always warm, partially because he’s a big burly man and partially because of his mutation, and he’s hairy. So if you hug him without a shirt on, be prepared. Could make a carpet out of that body hair.

I = I Love You (How fast do they say the L-word?)

At least six to eight months, but more than likely a year. He’ll know right around the six month mark, but he’s not telling you at first. Logan would assume his acts of service and protection were enough to tell you that. He’s also waiting on you to gage how he feels about saying that word to you. You’ve gotta show him, and possibly tell him, you love him in order for him to reciprocate.

J = Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they’re jealous?)

Logan really only gets jealous if he notices someone younger and attractive trying to chat you up. A major insecurity of his would be the age gap, and possibly you not living as long as him. If you had no regenerative healing factor, he might just quietly sulk in the corner of the bar as he watches.

If you do, however, he would be downing that beer first, and then moving. Logan’s not stupid enough to leave his drink unattended. Just because he can heal from just about anything, doesn’t mean he wants to. He’s pulling hands away and squaring off to anyone that dares try to get handsy with his girl. And you need to be prepared to calm down the feral Wolverine, and give him some reassurance once you get back to where you guys are staying.

K = Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you? Where do they like to be kissed?)

As I said, Logan loves fiercely and deeply. His kisses are no exception. He kisses you like it will be the last time he sees you forever. Logan aims to encapsulate you in a kiss, and it works a lot of the time.

He loves your lips, and forehead. Especially if you’re shorter than him. Lips for the obvious reason; it’s close, intimate, and he loves feeling yours against his. Now the forehead, is because that is what he can reach. When you’re tucked into his chest, he wants to be able to kiss you but for whatever reason he can’t, so he goes for your forehead. Also those forehead kisses just bathe you in a warming glow.

Logan loves to be kissed on his throat and knuckles. Now hear me out before you scroll away! His throat, because if you’re shorter than him, it always happens when he’s got you hugged close. So when he’s dropping kisses to your forehead, press a couple to his throat and he’s putty in your hands. As for his knuckles, it’s a dangerous game, but one that is born of a time of deep insecurities. When he is having doubts about himself, his choices, and his past, he likes to sit with you on the couch or bed and hold you. Logan is always worried about having you anywhere near where his claws come out of skin, but the little, feather light kisses you leave, well, they break his resolve just a bit.

L = Little Ones (How are they around children?)

I believe that it depends on the child’s age. If it’s a small baby, like less than two years old, he would be okay as long as he is not the one holding it. However, if you do manage to convince him to hold the infant, he is sitting there with the most scared expression he has ever had.

Kids that are a bit older and can handle their own he’s okay being around. Logan doesn’t mind the younger ones, like are seven or ten, but he tends to just watch them rather than get involved. Teenagers are the youngest he likes to interact with. He’s just not used to being around little ones, and he feels like he’s too old to start now.

M = Morning (How are mornings spent with them?)

Mornings with Logan are blissfully spent. Whenever he gets the morning off from work or from the X-Men, he loves to spend it doing absolutely nothing. Slow mornings are spent lounging in bed, with nothing on your mind. He loves watching you sleep and be at peace. It’s a peace that he, himself, longs for. Logan enjoys being able to have slow mornings as it gives him a taste of a life he craves.

N = Nights (How are nights spent with them?)

Evenings depend on how that day has been. If the day goes good, then you can expect a nice slow evening, with cuddles and kisses. Maybe falling asleep to an old black and white film on the tv, with you perched of his chest.

Now if he had a bad day, oh Lordy. Logan is going to be non-verbal and totally unwilling to be near you. For your own sake, he wants to keep a distance from you. He doesn’t want to hurt you physically or emotionally. Eventually, Logan will come to bed, but he does it after you have gone to sleep, because he just doesn’t want to deal with any questions. Not until the next day.

O = Open (When would they start revealing things about themselves? Do they say everything all at once or wait a while to reveal things slowly?)

Logan would not be open to you at all. He’s a very closed off man that doesn’t let just anyone in. It would definitely come in stages. He would tell you what he could remember about his past over several months to years. And as he uncovers more of his past, Logan will come to terms with it before he ever tells you. He’s also a man of few words, so it will probably take him a while just to put it into words to tell you.

P = Patience (How easily angered are they?)

I don’t think he gets angered easily so much as annoyed. It genuinely takes a lot to get him angered. And most of the time, he’s playfully annoyed at you. Like if you politely ask him for another drink, he’ll grumble about how you are perfectly capable of getting it yourself. However, getting him mad is something that takes a personal turn. If you attack his abilities, or legitimately degrade him, he’s getting righteously angry. Logan takes any purposeful attacks on him personally. And he knows you could do it after a while of dating, because he will have told you things that will push the right buttons in the right order.

Q = Quizzes (How much do they remember about you? Do they remember every little detail you mention in passing, or do they kind of forget everything?)

Logan remembers everything. Losing his memory is a blessing in disguise, because now he can use that space for you. He truly loves every word you say, even if he doesn’t show it. Logan can often be perceived as disinterested in you whenever you’re talking. But this man got a small notebook to fill with random things you talk about, including your to go orders. There’s a section about favorites like food, color, or move. Another is there about dreams and plans for the future, and even random things.

R = Remember (What is their favorite moment in your relationship?)

Logan’s favorite memory is one random night in the dead of winter.

He returned home from a mission gone horribly wrong. Scott was pissing him off, Jean kept trying to tempt him into another relationship, and Storm was staying out of it on the flight home. Then, the actual contents of the mission. They had lost their target, gotten wrapped up in another one of the Brotherhood’s schemes, and overall got the snot kicked out of them. The team had enough that day. So getting home was of top priority.

Logan grabbed his bag and stalked off before anyone could get a word in on him. He wanted out of his suit and in his bed as of yesterday. Even he could feel the cold from the snow seeping into the mansion as they ascended. He was in his jeans and his usual jacket, but the boots caused the stairs to creak under his weight. As he came into the room, his heart skipped in his chest, and he leaned against the doorframe.

There you were, snuggled up in the blankets with his flannel wrapped around your body. You were even on his side of the bed with your face smooshed into his pillow. It made him swell with love and pride. But that stands out in his mind, because it was the first time that he had caught you like this. The TV was still on; you were trying to wait up for him. And that meant more than anything in the world. He would never tell you though, that he had caught you like that.

S = Security (How protective are they? How would they protect you? How would they like to be protected?)

I’m sorry, you do realize who we’re talking about right? Wolverine is going to be the most fiercely loyal and protective lover in the world. He will literally sniff out trouble around you, and keep you safe.

If you’re just dealing with someone who won’t take no for an answer at a bar or party, he’s putting a hand on your waist and glaring the person down. If they refuse to back down, he’s getting in their face and using his intimidation to make them. After that, claws are coming out, bub.

Now, on missions it’s a different story. He knows that you can take care of yourself, but it doesn’t stop him from wanting to keep you away from harm. But if Logan sees that you’re getting overwhelmed or in trouble, he’s on his way over as fast as lightning. He is dispatching of the enemy with fierce vengeance.

Logan wouldn’t need nor want you to protect him physically. That’s his job and he will stand by it. However protecting his mind and heart is the only job he wants you to have. By providing him shelter when his own mind betrays him, it protects him during a vulnerable time.

T = Try (How much effort would they put into dates, anniversaries, gifts, everyday tasks?)

Dates really depend. If you’re an X-Man and going on missions, your date nights and anniversaries are at the liberty of whenever you are home from missions. If you’re not, he usually has an easier time of planning things for your dates. Regardless, he will usually plan casual dates nights for the most part. Every once in a while he will take you out on the town for dinner and a movie, or a night of drinking and dancing. But most of the time, he’s just having a dinner prepped or gotten take out, and a movie pulled up on the tv.

Logan loves to silently spoil you. He will never make a huge fuss about gifts he gives you. And they’re always practical in some fashion. He gets you a new coffee mug with your favorite character on it but he’s scratched your name into the bottom so no one can take it. Or a new set of personal defense weapons that won’t trigger metal detectors but still pack a punch.

            Like I said before, his love language is acts of service. You need your car fixed? He’s got it purring like a lambo. You need laundry done? You’ve got new clothes in your dressers, plus some of his flannel and tank tops so you can have his clothes and scents around you. This lovable man will preform mundane tasks without being asks because he wants you to know he loves you.

U = Ugly (What would be some bad habits of theirs?)

Going cold and silent for no good reason is a big one. It’s so easy for him to revert to his old ways but he does try to work on it. After a long day though, he just wants a beer and a silent, dreamless sleep. So, it’s difficult for him to open up and talk about whatever it is that’s bothering him on a day like this. Thus, leading to the withdrawal.

I feel like another would be his ability to overreact. If Scott asks you to join him on a mission, or even how one went that he wasn’t on, Logan is just about growling at the man. But anyone he views as a threat to you, he’s not liking one bit which tends to lead to the man to growling, snapping, and even the claws coming out.

V = Vanity (How concerned are they with their looks?)

Logan is not all too concerned with how he looks. He does his hair but that’s about it. Like, other than that, he just genuinely doesn’t care. This is a mutant with the ability to heal near instantly. I can’t reiterate how much he doesn’t care.

W = Whole (Would they feel incomplete without you?)

The further you get into your relationship, the more he feels like he can’t live without you. It’s something he gets hit with all at once. It’s part of why he’s so protective over you, even if you have a healing factor. He’s terrified to lose you once he truly loves you deeply within his soul. When he can’t be near you, he’s counting down the minutes till he can remedy that. If he ever lost you, if you died or left him in some other way, there would be nothing left to keep the animal in check.

X = Xtra (A random headcanon for them.)

Logan loves you playing with his hair and pampering him. Does he understand the difference between a physical exfoliant and a chemical one? Absolutely not. But he loves having you use whatever it is on him. When his day is super rough, he’ll stay silent as he lets you lead him face down on the bed. Getting massages on those days are amazing because he swears that your hands can feel what is wrong and get it out. He’s letting you wash his face, put weird creams on him, all the while he’s got a fluffy headband on. And once you’re done with the skincare, the head massage that follows? Oh, he feels the stress of everything wash away. There is nothing that clears the rage and foul feelings better than a little pampering session.

Y = Yuck (What are some things they wouldn’t like, either in general or in a partner?)

I don’t know why, but he strikes me as a texture guy. Not on his skin, but in the food he eats. Like he won’t eat certain foods because they make odd textures in his mouth. He also just likes simple foods, so that could be a reason.

In a partner though, he wouldn’t appreciate someone trying to change him, or that would pry too deep. Let me explain. Logan knows what he is, a rehabilitated animal that tries to do his best. And he doesn’t want anyone else telling him that he isn’t. It’s not a matter of that he can’t shake the image that he spent so long with, but rather that he can still feel it inside his being every time those claws come out.

In that same vein, he doesn’t want someone that asks too many questions that he doesn’t have the answers to nor wants to give. If he wakes up from a nightmare where he uncovers new memories, he’ll decide in time to share that with you. You have to let him go at his own pace otherwise you’ll spook him.

Z = Zzz (What is a sleep habit of theirs?)

On his back, straight as a board, blankets around his chest, while he’s alone. If you’re spending the night, he’ll either fall asleep with you on his chest with hm on his back, or with his back to the door and on his side with you in his arms. Also, I don’t care what anyone says, this man has the cutest baby snores ever. Sounding like a baby bear in bed and now it’s your own form of white noise. It’s so difficult for you to fall asleep without it.

[fiendishfables]

Camillo Carmine x Reader

General Headcanons (SFW + NSFW)

warnings: nsfw, mentions of blood, mentions of biting, cursing

words: 1.4k+

a/n: this was a highly requested work, so enjoy and have fun with the little bonus at the end! This is not really an x reader, but it could be read as such, so oh well. Let me know your thoughts on Camillo's character, and/or if you'd like to see more of him in the near future <3

SFW

✧˚ · . Camillo is basically like a big cat

✧˚ · . Tall motherfucker, standing at approximately 8,2

✧˚ · . The guy is very calm, silent, and sneaky all at once. If anything, he would make an excellent spy and has been offered positions before in that line of work

✧˚ · . Very independent; wont work for anybody but himself and is beyond stubborn

✧˚ · . He is a hardass, but underneath his tough, strong front, is an individual who is a giant kid at heart, who is so deeply loyal and giving that it hurts, and who takes all relationships he makes very seriously, as in he would gladly put his life on the line for someone he cares about; questioning his loyalty is the worst you can do

✧˚ · . Favorite colors consist of greys and purples of any shade; it always struck him as having more of an elegant, dancer sort of vibe, and the display of the colors usually help him to relax in times of distress. His whole bedroom is centered around that color palette and it hasn't been changed since he and Camilla have inherited the mansion

✧˚ · . On the subject of Camilla, he likes to annoy her. His real personality can start to be seen the more time he spends around his sister; they behave just like any normal pair of siblings would. The two have had a love hate relationship growing up and it still is that way, even if just a bit more watered down now. The two like to joke and hang around together every now and again when they aren't off busy with their own lives

✧˚ · . What a Carmine lacks in affection, they make up for in loyalty

✧˚ · . If you wanna talk about dancers, he is one. He loves dancing in his spare time and even uses the Carmine manor as a spot to host dancing lessons amongst sinners willing/wanting to learn

✧˚ · . His silvery pointed dancing shoes are like his literal children, and he always goes into a slight panic whenever he can't find them. They provide him with that sense of security, as dancing is a huge part of his life and he could never stand to be without it; they were also a gift from his mother

✧˚ · . Never likes to ask anyone for anything, especially not help. He likes to cover up his needs with smart-ass comments and handsome smirks that most can't stay mad at for too long

✧˚ · . Has been told he has a very punchable face

✧˚ · . His fangs make for a great, sarcastic smile; his face either consists of a frown or that signature smirk. He uses his fangs for a lot of things, including biting people when they get on his nerves

✧˚ · . Can totally play the piano; claims its a very calming and dignified instrument. He doesn't play it often but when he does, its a gift to anyone around to hear

✧˚ · . On the asexuality spectrum, identifying as demisexual and biromantic. It takes him a little longer than the average sinner to develop feelings for someone, let alone sexual feelings

✧˚ · . As stated before, his relationships are one of the most important things in his life and he handles them with great seriousness

✧˚ · . The epitome of that one secretive, mysterious, tall and mysterious stranger everyone wants to be friends with, but are too afraid to approach directly to ask

NSFW

✧˚ · . It's very difficult to get anything verbal out of this man when he's in the process of being intimate with someone, even if they're his s/o

✧˚ · . The most you can expect is some pleasured grunts, maybe some low groans if you're lucky

✧˚ · . It's not that he isn't enjoying whatever is being brought upon him, he is just one to closely guard his feelings and never really express them too vividly; yes that ends up following him into his sex life

✧˚ · . 9 times out of 10 he prefers to give pleasure rather than receive it

✧˚ · . Loves to degrade and use pet names with his partner; sweetheart, doll, slut, and whore tending to be some of his personal favorites to use

✧˚ · . Big on consent. If you are ever not comfortable with anything he proposes or is in the middle of doing to you, then he will stop instantly and get you anything you need. He may seem like an asshat sometimes, but he is a decent person (if that comes as such a shock)

✧˚ · . Into some form of pet play/leashes, no negotiation

✧˚ · . He always likes to be in control and rarely ever is the submissive one during intimacy.

✧˚ · . Will speak Spanish in bed, usually doing so in order to fluster his partner; it often gets him a positive response

✧˚ · . Being blindfolded is a big kink of his. As a dancer, he is used to having to be accustomed to other senses, so when they are heightened after his sight is temporarily taken from him, he will have a ball of a time

✧˚ · . One of his top favorite things is watching his partner ride him. Just the sight of his cock being sheathed inside your body over and over again as he watches you get off on his lap all on your own

✧˚ · . Dirty dancing is something he is much too fond of. The act of getting all worked up from dancing with one another, teasing each other all the while, then getting to fuck his partner into the ground, whispering praises to them about how well they danced with/for him; he is all too eager to teach you more of what he knows about the dancing world

✧˚ · . The little shit is one of the biggest teases you will ever meet. He honestly has a sex drive that's more so on the lower side and does not need sex as often as most sinners seem to

✧˚ · . But, be prepared when he does have the energy to pleasure you, for he is astounding at it.

✧˚ · . Kissing, biting, steamy makeout sessions, eating you out, fucking you raw; he can do it all and excel in the process

✧˚ · . His fangs usually come into play a lot during sex; a huge fan of biting and leaving marks on his partner to let others know that they have already been claimed

✧˚ · . Camillo is one of those demons you'd be lucky to have sex with. It's not even an egotistical thing, he's just not very sex-coded when it comes to relationships or really anything in general. He believes in a true connection with someone first before engaging in any sorts of those activities, hence his sexuality

✧˚ · . Sex with Camillo is always very serious and passionate. He never allows himself to be as vulnerable as he would be right now, so better to cherish it whilst it lasts

✧˚ · . It's almost like he picks one mate for life, then he's done looking, like some species do

✧˚ · . Thinking of it, when he really gets into action and the rare times he wants to have sex, he fucks like a wild animal. He does have his vanilla, gentle side where he will care for you nothing short of a husband, but if he has the chance or some pent up anger to release, you better prepare to go for multiple rounds of very rough sex

✧˚ · . To top things off, he does have a praise kink. It may be hard to pick up on at first, but if you praise him, let him know how good he's making you feel, he's a mess (at least internally). Nothing really gets him going more than knowing he is fulfilling his job as a partner; making you feel good in every aspect that he can. It gives him purpose and that's really all he needs when he's with his s/o

BONUS~

✧˚ · . One of Camillo's wildest fantasies is to have his lover cockwarming him whilst he plays a song for them on his piano. He can imagine struggling to not fumble over the keys, not let his fingers slip, as he feels you clench around him, biting his lip or your shoulder hard enough to draw blood in order to stifle any noises that may find their way past his lips. That vulnerability is something he knowingly holds sacred; you could potentially be the one to coax it out of him.

[nerendus]

I finished the Abyssal Forest and wow! I think it surpassed the Fishing Hamlet in becoming my favourite Fromsoft area ever.

I am, however, bad at finding stuff and locating illusory walls, so I don't know if I have the full lore or not, so this is just an open mic for y'all to share what you think happened or just to point out any important information that I didn't get.

But with the stuff that I got and how I read it, Midra was the master of a mansion in the forest alongside his wife Nanaya (who, fun fact, shares the name of a Mesopotamian goddess of love) who, based on the fact that she appears to be pregnant in their painting, gave birth to a son.

Nanaya's Torch almost suggests that the spine the torch is made from is Midra, but considering you fight him, I think the spine is supposed to be the remains of their son who, for some reason, attempted to become the Lord of Frenzied Flame and ultimately failed, and I think that's where the state of the mansion comes from. His attempt to become a lord backfired on the mansion and set it ablaze.

Then, at some point, the Hornsent priests, who oppose the use of Frenzied Flame, came and, I guess, tried to cleanse the land but ended up themselves taken by the flame.

Midra did something bad, maybe it was he who urged their son down the path of lordship, and attempted to become the Lord of Frenzied Flame as well, but the Hornsent stopped it by piercing his body with the greatsword.

Nanaya then, whether purposefully or not, cursed him into staying alive to warn people trying to enter the manor, the remembrance states it was a curse--it may be a curse just in the sense that Midra wanted death or that Nanaya was still deeply upset with what happened to their son.

And after that, Nanaya cradled what remained of their son until she herself passed away.

....That's the best I got. It never once states they had a child or even that they were together, but her hand on her stomach really does make it seem like she's pregnant there and considering the torch can't be Midra, I can find no other alternative, but please, if anyone has different or more thoughts on the subject, please share. I want to talk about them.

[lebenspurpur]

what do they smell like

AN: I know I did this before, but I need to correct myself. Plus, it was like 2 years ago, so..

ℝℤ 𝕄𝕚𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕖𝕝 𝕄𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤

Most of the time, he smells like sweat and that sweet coppery odor of blood.

That changes whenever he actually decides to take a shower and change his clothes.

Suddenly he smells like nothing. And I mean nothing.

If you inhale deeply enough, you might get a faint whiff of sanitizer, like the kind they use in hospitals, but that's it.

You can decide for yourself if that's a blessing or a curse.

𝕍𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Paraffin wax.

So he smells like plastic and, like, the worst kind.

Maybe you need to convince him to use some bee wax candles for a change. Or some wax that smells like something nice, at least.

Which makes me think of another headcannon: Vincent hates the smell of cheap scented candles. He can not stand them. You'd think his nose might be desensitized to bad smells by now, but no.

The only scented candles he allows in his basement are the expensive ones, with real dried flowers or some good essential oils.

Other than paraffin wax, he smells like his body wash, which is the same as Bo's.

(You can not convince me they do not share one. Maybe buy him some nice shampoo while we're at it.)

The smell of the wax easily overpowers anything else, though.

𝔹𝕠 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

Bo prides himself on owning some really nice cologne.

So, if he applies that, he actually smells really nice.

Other than that: cigarettes.

I feel like he actually has a nice smell, though. He smells like someone who'd call you sugar, if that makes sense.

𝕃𝕖𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕊𝕚𝕟𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕣

I know, we have the ongoing joke of Lester smelling bad, but I've changed my mind.

Of course, after working, he smells very bad. Like a dead animal that has been cooking in the sun for way too long.

But he's a clean boy! After he takes a shower, he smells like a mix of leather and something flowery, airy. Kind of like a freshly picked bouquet of wildflowers. Don't ask me where that comes from.

When he's been crafting something, he also smells like hot glue and wood, but it's not powerful enough to be unpleasant.

𝔹𝕣𝕒𝕙𝕞𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕖𝕝𝕤𝕙𝕚𝕣𝕖

Dust.

Like, you know when something smells old because it's been standing somewhere without being touched for too long?

That's what he smells like.

He doesn't need to, though. He probably has an arsenal of really expensive perfumes and colognes standing somewhere in that mansion.

After he meets you, there's a slight chance that he'll take more care of himself. And in that case, he will finally use those fragrances.

As soon as he does that, he smells like that mansion looks. Rich, educated, charming, handsome even.

𝕋𝕙𝕠𝕞𝕒𝕤 ℍ𝕖𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕥

Hay, dry earth, Tommy smells like a hot day on a field.

When he spent some more time in the basement, the smell becomes even earthier and damp. Like a crypt.

Though, most days the 'warm' smell is stronger and it's really wholesome. When you hug him, it feels like you're hugging a cat who's been lounging in the sun for a while and got all heated up. (I just want to hug him, man.)

𝕆𝕥𝕚𝕤 𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥𝕨𝕠𝕠𝕕

Now, that man smells bad.

Rotting corpses, vomit kind of bad. It's not good.

When he does his makeup and actually showers, it's not that bad anymore. Then, he just smells like the makeup he applies (you know, the stuff they paint children's faces with?) and (probably Baby's) body wash.

𝔹𝕒𝕓𝕪 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Baby loves sweet perfumes, especially when they have a fruity note (pun intended).

She has a few fragrances she always uses, and they make her smell really nice, and really sweet, kind of like candy.

If she doesn't apply those, she smells like lotion and body oil.

Pretty, that's what she smells like.

ℝ𝕁 𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕖𝕗𝕝𝕪

Motor oil, leather and rain.

Motor oil from working on the trucks all day long, leather from his jackets. Where does the smell of rain come from? Don't ask me.

He smells really masculine in that sense, like a ride on a motorcycle.

𝕁𝕒𝕤𝕠𝕟 𝕍𝕠𝕠𝕣𝕙𝕖𝕖𝕤

Do corpses emit smell if they're still alive?

Well, Jason does.

He smells like wet earth, rain, and the forest. A really grounding smell overall.

Hugging him feels like laying on the forest ground after it has been raining for a while. In a nice way, though.

It's really refreshing, and really pleasant.

𝔸𝕞𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕒 𝕐𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕘

Amanda uses really nice body wash. Something that smells like pine needles.

Other than that, she smells like old metal and disinfectant.

Old metal, because she spends half of her days designing traps and disinfectant because of John.

[dr3mvaalmar]

Bound by Fate | Kinktober Day 7

Pairing: Solomon x F! Reader

Prompt: Stuck in Wall (nsfw, mdni)

Summary: The reader goes to Diavolo's garden and finds a stone fence. Unaware of the warnings, she becomes stuck under its curse. Solomon, the kind sorcerer he is, lends a helping hand in more ways than one.

Warnings/Tags: power dynamic, slight noncon, unprotected sex, standing doggy style, public (caught)

Credit: @cafekitsune (divider)

“Finally,” I sighed, opening a gap through the large double-wide doors. The cacophony of the party inside bellowed into the silent night, echoing along the wind. The noise was becoming unbearable, so I decided to take refuge outside. Hopefully, no one would notice my absence. I didn’t want anyone to follow me as I relieved the tension in my head. 

Diavolo's mansion loomed over me as I walked into the gardens. The trail spiraled across the large expanse of land, a maize for those unaccustomed. I certainly was unfamiliar with the layout. Every step I took made me question my decision to leave the safe haven of the indoors. Maybe I should’ve asked Diavolo if I could rest in a spare room. However, he was quite preoccupied, from what I could tell.

I sighed, observing my surroundings. Neatly trimmed bushes led the trail to a fixed location. Maybe I’ll walk for a bit and return when I feel better. I let the various landmarks guide me. Moss lined the stone walkway, cushioning my feet with every step. Various plants were neatly tucked along the fences and monuments. I wondered how they stayed so healthy with so little sunlight. Before long, the path stretched as I lost myself in the night. I didn’t know how long I’d been walking or where. 

“What’s that?” I mumbled to myself, finding a large stone wall before me. Its length traveled beyond what the eye could see. Was it a fence? It looked like some kind of mural with intricate etchings across it. An unfamiliar language was transcribed about should-height, along with strange images. It was an amalgamation of lines and shapes. Curiously, I stepped closer. I recognized some of the text. It was carved deeply into the stone and was worn with time.

I followed the writings, trying to decipher what the words meant. The wall seemed to surround the entire premises, so I wasn’t sure how far I would go. However, not long after my journey, the text abruptly ended. Next to it was a…

“A handprint?” I asked myself, lifting my hand to compare. It seemed almost too perfect for the contours of my fingers. Growing ever more curious, I pressed my fingers against the stone. It was smooth and cold, yet there was a subtle warmth. As the warmth increased, I retracted my arm. However, to my horror, I realized my hand was stuck in place. In an instant, I realized the writing was a warning, not ancient text. Spontaneous panic spread through my mind as I tried to tug and tear my body away from the wall. Without thinking, I brought my nondominant hand to push me back. Regretfully, that hand sunk into the depths of the wall along with the other. Now, I had no leverage but my legs to free me from this predicament.

“Come on! Ugh,” I exclaimed, my breathing becoming ragged from the exhaustion. I had no idea how long I struggled. However, I could hear the music in the distance, dying to a low thrum. Pitifully, I wondered if anyone noticed my leaving. They probably were having too much fun. I jerked back my shoulder in one final hurrah, but the reality dawned on me. I was stuck. I didn’t know how far away I was, but the mansion seemed much smaller than before.

I shouted every name I could think of from the top of my head. My voice was growing hoarse with every plea for help. Yet, as time elapsed, I realized I had no savior. It was just me in the depths of the dark. I stopped, a veil of exhaustion washing over me. What would I even say if someone were to find me?

Resting my knees on the ground, my hands stretched high above me. I laid my forehead on the wall. Shocked, I realized my error but felt relief when the stone left my skin. Why were only my hands affected? I let the tension go, letting my body collapse. My arm was becoming numb the longer it stayed above my head.

“Oh? What do we have here?” a voice bellowed towards me, the slow movement of footsteps in the distance. “You’ve got yourself in quite the predicament, (Y/n).”

I looked up, my eyes cloudy and narrowed. It was Solomon. Of all people, it would have to be Solomon. I wanted nothing more than to flee.

“Go away,” I said, turned away. “I don’t need your help.”

“Are you sure?” Solomon asked, a few feet away from me by now. He crossed his arms, a cocky smile plastered on his lips. “If you don’t need the help, maybe I won’t tell the others. You’ll spend the night out here alone. We don’t want that, now, do we?”

I sighed, bobbing my arm up to get circulation through my arm. As much as I didn’t trust him, he was reliable when I needed him the most. I’d be so sore if I spent the night out here.

“Fine,” I said, relenting. Solomon’s eyebrow quirked up.

“What was that?” he teased. “I’m not sure what you’re wanting, dear.”

“Solomon, set me free or so help me God,” I said, a biting acidity to my words. I already spent so long out here. My legs and back were stiff. I needed to stretch. The wall encasing my fingers felt so oppressive.

I looked expectantly at the sorcerer, but he only stood there and smiled. Solomon showed no signs of budging as he watched me struggle under his gaze. Did he… enjoy this?

“Solomon! Please, just get me out of here already,” I cried, getting up from my knees. I tried tugging on my arms again, using the strength of my legs. Solomon seemed entertained with every passing second. 

“Ah, what a sight. Never could I imagine the brave (Y/n) succumbing to the mysteries of the Devildom. Literally,” Solomon said, a finger perched below his lip. I scoffed.

“Haha. Very funny. Get me out. Now.”

“Everything has a price in exchange for a service. What will you offer for my assistance?” Solomon asked, stepping towards me. I couldn’t stand up to my full height as he taunted me with half-lidded eyes. I knew he held me in the palm of his hand.

“What do you want? I don’t have anything,” I told him, rolling my eyes. “I left all my stuff back at the castle. It’s nothing good anyways.”

“Quite the contrary, I have everything I want in front of me,” Solomon affirmed, his pupils scanning me from my head and descending shamelessly. I felt my face burn under the implication.

“You want… me?” 

Solomon nodded, enjoying my revelation, “I knew you’d understand.”

I contemplated his offer for a moment, weighing the pros and cons. I can’t believe it’s something I would even consider, but it’s not like I had much of a choice. Solomon was patient as I caved in.

“Don’t worry, it won’t feel like very long at all,” Solomon said in an attempt to comfort me. “I’ll make you forget everything.”

“Just do whatever you want. I don’t care,” I grumbled, averting my eyes. However, I did, in fact, care. Frustration was eating at every fiber of my being.

“You don’t need to tell me twice,” Solomon chuckled. “Once I’ve had my fill, I promise to set you free.”

I turned my head away, the guilt of my decision heavy on my mind. However, that soon disappeared as I felt cold fingers snake underneath my shirt. My breathing hitched as the digits contrasted with the warmth of my skin. The gliding of his touch brought goosebumps along my skin. His hands felt my stomach, moving up towards my ribs. I squeaked.

“Ticklish, aren’t we?” Solomon said, a laugh resonating from his throat. He never paused for a moment. His onslaught of calculated movements sent shivers across my body. Solomon hitched the fabric of my blouse up, allowing him to move more freely. The more I squirmed and struggled, the more access it granted to his wandering touch. He would hold my body firm under his large hands if I felt especially resistant. Eventually, his fingers lingered just below my bust, tracing the fabric confining them. I could feel Solomon’s body, his crotch grinding into my backside. The lining of his cock was no secret, even if I couldn’t see it. Our surroundings seemed to fade away with every movement until it was just the two of us.

“No need for this pesky thing,” Solomon mumbled, voice husky, as he flipped the fabric above my chest. My breasts, freed from their entrapment, were immediately seized in Solomon’s greedy hands. He stifled a groan as he massaged each one vigorously. His chest fit into the curvature of my back, hips moving in tandem with his groping hands. Solomon's mouth wavered over my neck before latching on. His pitiful gasps with each wave of pleasure made my mouth open wide. By now, I didn’t even notice what lewd sounds spewed from within me.

“Mmn you need me, right? You don’t mind if I put my thick cock inside you? Hm?” Solomon moaned, his voice a raspy mess. His lips trailed my earlobe, nipping playfully. I could smell his cologne seeping from his clothes from here. It was intoxicating. “Don’t answer. I already know exactly what you need.”

One of his hands left my breast, and I could feel his vice grip against my ass as he pressed into me. I could feel everything. Every curve. Every inch of his throbbing cock. His clothes did little to conceal his aching member. He seemed drunk with pleasure, rubbing against my skirt without a single ounce of shame. Before I knew it, I felt the soft skin of his dick settling on my back. I gasped.

“So responsive. I wonder…” Solomon chuckled, both of his hands now gripping my hips as his dick thrust up and down. His fingers descended underneath the hem of my skirt, prying my panties away from my smoldering skin. He didn’t hesitate to rub the growing wetness of my cunt. “Is this all for me? How enticing.”

Solomon laughed airily as he ripped my skirt from my body. It fell to the ground pitifully. I felt so exposed under his intensity.

“Solomon,” I cried, finally finding my words under a whirlwind of sensations. “Please.” “Do you want me to stop?” Solomon asked, and I could practically see his smirk through every word he uttered. I shook my head. “Use your words, or I’ll have to force them out of you.”

“Please, just fuck me, Sol,” I exclaimed, rubbing my ass rhythmically against Solomon’s engorged dick. I could feel his body shake.

“Good girl,” Solomon said, aligning his dick against my wet entrance. I had no time to prepare before he pushed inside of me. My body resisted, but Solomon was determined. He explored every inch until he hit a dead end. I could feel the warmth all throughout me. Even a twitch was enough to send spikes of pleasure up my spine. “So inviting. I didn’t know you wanted me so deeply. Don't worry.”

Solomon’s pulled back before slamming inside of me. I could feel the tip edging into my cervix.

“I’ll give you…”

He thrust again, slapping skin against skin.

“Everything…”

Again.

“I’ve got!” Solomon shouted, digging deep inside of me. His movements wouldn’t slow as he fucked me raw. His dick slid easily in the essence of my arousal. The wet sound struck against the walls, returning to me in full force. The lewd noise of our sex was too much to bear.

Solomon gripped my throat as he fucked me senseless. I could only give in as he reared my head back, fingers clasped on my jugular. Solomon pecked my lips, straining the muscles as I twisted around. All the while, each thrust brought me painfully flat against the wall. I could feel every gasp for breath as he hovered over the nap of my neck. His nose nuzzled into the crook before biting down, saliva trailing from his mouth. My eyes furrowed as I shrieked with euphoria.

“Oh fuck yes, you fill me up so good, Sol,” I commended. I so desperately wanted to run my hands into his shirt, to feel up every inch of his body. I wanted his dick between my lips, fucking my wet holes like the toy I am. Every word I spoke seemed to make Solomon quicken his pace. His hands would grab every inch of skin he could fit in his palm. His entire body was against me now. I felt almost claustrophobic against the wall, but the pleasure dulled every sense of danger.

As the knot inside me started to reach its peak, my walls tightened around him. He let out a guttural moan, letting every ounce of energy into his last remaining thrusts. Whenever he delved deeper, my vision blurred, and stars crossed my eyes. He was getting close. Too close.

“I’m going to come,” Solomon gasped, not faltering for a moment. “Take it all. Every last ounce.”

I moaned out his name as he pumped his seed, delving deeper until I couldn’t hold it all. I could feel it spurt, warmth seeping into my core. Solomon grinded into me until he was sure I was thoroughly saturated with his cum. His voice grunted as he hit his high of the orgasm.

We hesitated to pull away from each other, his warmth a cocoon over my naked body. Yet, things must end inevitably. Solomon pulled out, my hole oozing with his very DNA. I felt a sense of pride well up in me, despite being taken advantage of by a horny sorcerer.

“Now, for my end of the bargain,” Solomon said, slowly readjusting his clothes. With a snap of his finger, I could feel the stone slowly glide off my skin, almost like goo. I flexed my fingers momentarily, perplexed to see my hands finally set free. I could already feel a dull ache, not only in my hands but in the areas Solomon ravaged. “I hope our intimate moment helped you realize how much you mean to me.”

It was hard to accept the heartfelt moment when a mixture of our fluids was running down my leg. Yet, I still felt his words tug at my heart, remembering each fleeting glance and teasing remark he showed me before. I wouldn’t mind round two.

“I had fun,” I giggled, picking up my skirt and pulling down my bra. 

“Well, if you need a little company, you know where to find me,” Solomon said with a wink. The corners of my lips curled up further. 

“Let’s go join the others,” Solomon said, holding a hand toward me. I accepted it without hesitation.

“But what about the mess?” I asked, referring to my ruffled clothes and wet skirt.

“What mess?” Solomon teased, pulling me along. We didn’t make it a few steps before we noticed a crowd in the distance. It was the others… I sincerely hope they didn’t hear me as I cried to the heavens.

“Ah, there you two are!” Diavolo exclaimed arms spread out before him. He seemed eager to see us as the demon brothers and Barbatos trailed behind. They all looked aghast, and I noticed Asmodeus snickering something amongst them. “We heard a commotion. I assume everything is all right now?”

“A minor disturbance, Lord Diavolo. Rest assured, all has been resolved,” Solomon said, a sly smile adorning his lips. I noticed a devilish glint in his eyes, which made heat rise to my cheeks.

The sea of faces was perplexing and entertaining. Barbatos was as professional as ever. Lucifer raised an eyebrow, his face indifferent. Mammon looked like he was constipated. Beel seemed none the wiser. Satan had a knowing smirk, suppressing a chuckle. Levi seemed awkward and averted his gaze. Belphie seemed dazed. Lastly, Asmodeus was trying to resist a squeal of delight. This was not how I wanted to make a lasting impression on the brothers.

Now free to move on my own accord, I shifted my clothes, not daring to let out a single noise. If I spoke, I might break under the pressure. Solomon side-eyed me, a teasing but reassuring gesture. 

Asmodeus was the first to crack. Every movement—from the tilt of his head to the flutter of his eyelashes—felt like a pang of embarrassment straight to my heart. He seemed to enjoy my reaction more than Solomon ever would.

“Oh, Solomon,” Asmodeus said. “Always one for… hands-on solutions, aren’t you? How resourceful of you both~”

Solomon’s arm snaked under me, looping around my waist protectively. Slowly, he guided me away from them as I turned my head towards the group in disbelief. 

“I believe we’ve taken enough of everyone’s time. Good day,” Solomon said, not paying another thought to the tragedy of what just occurred. I had a feeling that gossip would spread like wildfire. I hung my head in shame as Solomon reveled in my misery.

[abronzeagegod]

New plot idea:

A crackpot team of thieves gets together for One More Job. They’re going to have to break into a bit ol mansion and the only time they can get into during a big ol gala with fancy rich people in costumes where they can blend in. They do their jobs get into the positions, and start getting through the weird old and esoteric safeguards, and then things start going wrong.

Turns out that they are trying to steal a cursed object, something deeply deeply cursed and even more evil. Things don’t just start effecting the thieves but the partygoers. The heist movie* starts turning into a horror movie.

People start dying, the thieves are staying alive, for now, by the skin of their teeth and with their Extreme Thieves Skills. The leader refuses to call off the job. They keep going.

Just kidding the thieves are aware of the supernatural, not only they are aware but they are ready for it. They know how to combat it. They didn’t live just by luck! They were ready for it. They’re supernatural thieves!

They’re here to steal the cursed object and destroy it or seal it up. The rich people who own these things revel in the violence and blood and horror these things cause and these thieves are here to take that from them. And maybe some other things along the way.

[pascaloverx]

Hit The Road

Chapter One

next chapter

Summary: You are a hunter of supernatural beings who is forced to experience a new reality: being a vampire. The only thing stronger than your thirst for blood is your thirst for revenge.

Author's note: the characters mentioned here were created by Kevin Williamson and Julie Plec, based on the book series of the same name by author L. J. Smith. They don't belong to me. That said, this fanfic will be short. This fanfic may address scenes of violence, inappropriate language and adult content. Minors should not interact with this story.

"A hunter shouldn't act with the heart instead of the head" said the leader of the hunters' clan, which gathers in a different town every six months. On the other hand, they also say that you shouldn't let a vampire take what's yours without a fight. Here you are, lost in a new town, hoping to find the one who took everything from you without even thinking about the consequences. The cursed one with blue eyes and fangs that can pierce even your soul.

You feel the weight of the leader's words as you wander through the new town, determined to find the blue-eyed vampire who took everything from you. Each step you take is laden with the determination to seek justice and reclaim what was lost. As night falls, you prepare for the impending battle, reminding yourself that as a hunter, your courage and determination are your greatest weapons against the shadows lurking in the darkness. You must kill Damon Salvatore at all costs. But you know you're going against your clan's rules. It's like a double-edged sword. You wound and will be wounded. Your clan is against hunting alone. Well, that's not the only reason your clan doesn't want you around anymore.

"Does anyone know where the hell I can find a man with blue eyes and a pretty shitty sense of humor?" You say as you enter a place called Mystic Grill. This small town seems like the type where everyone knows everyone.

"I think you're looking for Damon Salvatore. May I ask what you want with him?" A tall human with blonde hair speaks to me. He looks strangely ordinary.

"Just some personal matters with him. Nothing major." You reply to the tall blonde human, trying to sound casual despite your true intentions running much deeper. He looks at you for a moment, seemingly assessing your answer, before finally stepping away.

"I think he's big enough to take care of himself, but if you want, I can take you to him." What a kind person this is standing in front of you.

"Would you do me this favor?" You say, trying to feign friendliness, although something inside you has changed significantly. That repugnant vampire has changed you and simply left as if it meant nothing.

"Of course, you seem to need to settle something with him. Just need to grab my coat." The stranger picks up his coat from the chair and heads towards his car. It makes sense why the vampires here get along so well. A friendly face, and humans are already willing to help you. The car ride was quick enough that you didn't have to explain much about the reason for being in Mystic Falls.

"A piece of advice, talk to Stefan if you don't get what you want with Damon. Stefan tends to be more reasonable. Maybe even Elena. Right there at that mansion, you'll find what you're looking for." The man who identified himself as Matt during our journey became increasingly helpful to you.

"I appreciate the advice, and in return, I'll tell you, you should stop being so kind. People in general don't deserve that much kindness, especially people who stopped being human a while ago." You say as you look deeply into his eyes. If he doesn't take vervain, he'll probably take this advice to heart. He looks confused, but you're already in front of a mansion. I guess you've reached your destination. You grab the backpack you brought with you and bid farewell to the human.

You knock once, and there's no answer. How irritating it is to wait for someone to grant you entry. You knock again, still no response. How frustrating. You decide to try once more, knocking on the door with a bit more force. It's when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Can I help you?" Says a man behind you. He's so close that you end up attacking him. He's definitely not human, but he's not Damon either. He falls to the ground, unfazed due to his supernatural nature. I bet he's a vampire. Perhaps he's the reasonable one Matt was talking about.

"I'm sorry, I'm not used to being caught off guard. Need a hand getting up?" You say, reaching out to the stranger who is still on the ground.

"You almost offend me by offering help, but thank you for the consideration. If you don't mind, I'll savor my humiliation a little longer." He replies.

"Is it humiliation because I brought you down, or because you're still on the ground?" You don't want to gloat over other people's misfortunes, but you end up smiling.

"Humiliation because I was brought down, of course." He retorts with a hint of sarcasm.

"Don't feel bad, it happens to the best of us. I heard the more recent the transformation, the more ruthless you become. Or maybe not. Are you sure you don't want help?" You say as you watch him slowly get up. You can bet he hasn't fed in a while.

"You couldn't have come here just to make me fall at your feet, what brought you here?" He says looking at you, it seems like he doesn't find it strange that I talk about vampirism so casually.

"Indeed, it was a man named Matt, but my goal here is to reunite with an old friend." You say as you intertwine your arms in front of your body. He seems to understand.

"What did Damon do this time?" He asks, as if he's already accustomed to seeing people looking for that idiot.

"I hope you won't be upset by what I'm about to do; it's nothing personal. I just need to get his attention and then I'll leave. Once I take from him what he took from me." You say as you take the stake from your backpack and drive it into the man in front of you. There's a bit of vervain on the tip of the stake, enough to incapacitate the vampire before you, but not to kill him. That's why you don't aim for his heart. I'll make Damon come to me no matter what it takes. Get ready, Salvatore. You've messed with the wrong hunter.

[aurora-ze-aquarius]

Unfinished Fic: "Sometimes, a bit of rain is all you need"

(Jackson Storm centered fic)

Written sometime in December 2022.

--

I was never able to finish this story, mainly because I couldn't come up with a proper ending.

This story takes place in an au where magic exists, also the cars are humans too. I never got to flesh it out properly. Maybe next time.

In this au, some people are born with magic, Jackson has the ability to manipulate the weather through his emotions. Basically Peppa from Encanto. I was inspired by greendreamer's fantasy cars/ttte au.

Inspired by a oneshot on ao3 where Jackson had weather magic. Unfortunately, I don't remember what it was called :(

Oh yeah, his real name is supposed to be Jackson Ian Rivera (🇺🇸🇵🇭)

⚠️TW/CW⚠️: Implied child neglect, emotional ab*se, panic attacks.

--

'Put your cloud away'

Is a phrase he's been told more times that he could count. 

The Rivera family is not unfamiliar to weather magic. It's been said that they're a family that has practiced this sort of arcana for generations. They are said to be able to summon winds and clouds, to make it rain at will. A Stormbringer is said to be able to control an average area of about 30 meters in diameter surrounding them. The more powerful mages can control the winds up to a mile away. The more refined the user is in their magic, the stronger and more controlled it is. 

They are a proud family, not to mention rich and wealthy. Proud to display their powerful and unique arcana. Majestic eyes of the storms. Something Jackson is not. 

Arcana. How he despises it. The magic has brought nothing but misery and pain in his life. 

Unlike most of his family members, Jackson was born with a curse. A curse in which his arcana is deeply intertwined with his emotions. Arcana in its very nature, is heavily intertwined with one's thoughts and emotions. Losing control of how one feels means losing control of one's connections with their magic. But Jackson's case is different. 

Whenever he's happy, skies are clear, as the breezes are light. Whenever he's not, rain begins to pour, as the thunder claps loudly. Not to mention, how unusually powerful his arcana is compared to most of his family members.

'Put your cloud away' they'd say. They would tell the young child that whenever he would misbehave in their eyes. Whenever tears swelled up in the corners of his retinas as small raindrops began to fall, dampening his once neatened clothes and hair. 

'Put your cloud away' they'd say- whenever the boy would feel frustrated, perhaps even angry, and would throw tantrums. Whenever lightning flashed, when he felt like they didn't understand him, why even felt that way in the first place. 

'Put your cloud away' they'd say- when dark skies and strong winds would cover almost every square inch of their large mansion.  When the boy tried… he tried so hard, yet failed and 'couldn't keep his emotions in check' according to them. 

It wasn't his fault though… was it..?

There's a reason why Jackson failed to connect to other people. They were either deemed not good enough to be his friends, or they would make fun of him and his interests. His family was of no help to those issues.

Honestly? He found it hilarious how shocked that so-called family was when he decided to finally cut them out of his life once IGNTR found him.

Despite having them out of his life, he could never rid himself of their, and subsequently, his views on his arcana. It's part of him, and he hates it. No matter what he did, it was always there. Continuously taunting him, whilst being just out of reach.

Despite them being gone, he knows better than to have a cloud constantly follow him whenever he's in a bad mood. 

--

Jackson hopped out of the car, panting as sweat beads dripped from his forehead. He turned towards the large monitor and growled, unsatisfied with his results.

" '214 mph'. You're doing good." Ray said, crossing his arms.

Jackson scoffed, wiping his sweat with an arm. "Not good enough…" Thunder crackled, as faint drips of water fell down from above him. 

Ray took note of this and sighed. He patted Jackson's shoulder and said, "You did good today, Storm. Take it easy." 

Jackson glared at him, but immediately tore his gaze to the small cloud that loomed above him. He gritted his teeth, wanting to curse it out but instead heaved a sigh, closing his eyes. 

"Put your cloud away… Put your cloud away…" He whispered to himself, taking deep breaths. He repeated this process until the rain stopped, the thunder ceased and the cloud disappeared. 

He opened his eyes. He turned away from the simulator and began to leave the room. "I can do better… I will do better…"

"Your powers are great, but far too unstable… Keep your cloud away… 

You could kill someone with that lightning bolt."

--

Jackson stared at the large monitor that stood tall above the stadium. His breath hitched, eyes widened in shock. 

"I… I…" 

It wasn't his name that took first place. But instead, McQueen and his little costume girl stole the win from him. Little shit appeared out of nowhere and stole the win for herself. 

His grip on the steering wheel tightened. He felt a vein almost pop. 

"FUCK." He screamed. He nearly got into a tangent when the sound of thunder crackling grabbed his attention. A mass of large clouds seemed to have manifested out of nowhere and had covered the stadium, blocking out the starlight from reaching the people. 

"What's this Darrel? It seems like rain clouds have appeared out of nowhere."

"It looks to me like someone's arcana is going haywire! Hopefully things will calm down before they get crazy. And it's already been a pretty crazy day!"

Jackson swallowed a gulp. 'Shit. Not now—!' 

Turning his car on he quickly made his way to where his trailer was. The paparazzi wanted his attention, but thankfully security kept them out of his way, lest someone gets injured due to getting in the way of his car. He quickly drove into the trailer and shut the door, not wanting to face the public. Not wanting to face Ray, McQueen, the other racers, and especially not that costume girl. 

He was panting, breaths were heavy and uneven as the reality set in. He lost. He lost to a random street racer. He lost his cool and almost killed someone, again. He lost his calm and now his storm—

He stiffens. That cloud. It shrouded the whole area. It was massive.

Jackson slowly backed into a corner, hugging himself. His back slid against the wall as he began chanting the words.

"Put your cloud away… put your cloud away… put your cloud away… put it away… just fucking put it away…"

He didn't know how long it took for the dark clouds to disappear; he fell asleep on the floor. But they did disappear just moments before he closed his eyes. Luckily before any raindrops fell and spoiled the day for the racing fans.

--

Jackson was pacing back and forth, still chanting about how his cloud needs to 'go away'. He just wrapped up another training session, and had stormed off to IGNTR's back gardens when he failed to break through 214 mps. 

He gripped his hair, yelling out in frustration. His clothes were soaked, not only from the sweat from training. The rain cloud above him thundered, flashing a bit of lightning once in a while. Jackson tried to swat it away, despite his futile efforts. 

"GO AWAY. DAMMIT." 

Ray watched him from a window heaving a sigh. He was worried. Jackson's storms seemed to be getting worse each time he lost a race, whether it was against Cruz or a different racer. He knew Jackson was a perfectionist at heart, and has tried multiple times to get him to understand that it's not just about winning, but each time, his pleas would fall on deaf ears. 

He knows the boy has it in him to change. But Jackson's mind is clouded in poor judgement, and it pains him to see him this way. That's not even mentioning Jackson's terrible coping mechanisms.

Ray sighed, crossing his arms. "There's no need to force your cloud away…" He mumbled. "There's nothing wrong with a bit of rain every once in a while…" He watched as Jackson seemed to have given up, and just seemed to be standing there, underneath the ever growing storm. 

"I just hope you can realize that one day…"

---

Jackson didn't know how he was dragged into this situation. He was at a party. A party to celebrate the success of the latest race. He won the race (thankfully) of course, but he absolutely despised going to events like these. 

Too many people here. Possibly drunkards just partying it up with A-list celebrities and fellow racers. 

Ray somehow managed to convince him to go. Says he "needs to make peace with the other racers'' or that "he has to try to be nicer to them." He doesn't understand it at all. It's been this way for years. Jackson's already used to it. But nonetheless, he managed to reluctantly drag his ass here. 

It took less than five minutes of just standing around in the middle of the room for Jackson to immediately say 'fuck it' and make his way onto the rooftop of the building, away from where everyone else is at. 

He sighed, elbows propped up against the concrete railings. Ray would be disappointed, but he could just lie and say nobody wanted to talk to him. Well technically, it wouldn't be lying when that's exactly what happened. Nobody knew he was here, and thus nobody could talk to him.

"Hello?" 

Until someone else made their way to the rooftop as well. 

Jackson sharply inhaled, the winds howled, the cold breezes blowing past his face. He knew who that voice belonged to. 

"Brr. Really chilly here, huh?" She joked, rubbing her arms as a means to keep warm. Jackson attempted to ignore her, staring off into the distance, a can of cranberry flavored Sprite in his hand. 

"Hey um. Would you mind if I stayed here for a bit?" She asked, walking up right next to him. Well, she lingered just away from him, but just close enough where she could talk to him. 

Jackson groaned, lightly crushing the half empty can in his hands. "What do you want, Ramirez?"   

[Unfinished Ending]

[brisquad-unit-4402]

Hello, if you write angst, may I request a any character you want x reader, where in the process of time travel, they lost reader.

If you don't write angst, may I request a any character you want x short reader, with anything you want.

lost in time with luxiem

part 2 here ↣

mmmyess YESSSS i do write angst! it’s been a while since i wrote some but i’m glad i got to practice my hurt skills :D long post incoming but i really enjoyed writing these. especially the gory scenes. man. i really am a briskadet aren’t i

tags: established relationship, hurt no comfort, gender neutral reader

⚠️ drinking + gore in luca’s entry

⚠️ drinking in mysta’s entry 

⚠️ suffocation + fainting in shu’s entry

⚠️ gore + panic attack in vox’s entry

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

When you’re ripped out of your universe and sent to a completely new world, it’s only natural to react like that...

🖋 Ike Eveland

His usual solution is to throw himself into his work. The must tumultuous of times create the best stories, pressure turns carbon into diamonds, and writing down the pain make it so much easier to let go of when he scraps the draft.

Ike commits pen to paper, as is second nature. He holes himself up in his office. Sleep comes to him randomly. He can never predict when, but he sleeps deeply, and when he wakes up it’s right back to his nightmare. Food becomes a second thought to written word, then third, then fourth, until it’s forgotten completely. 

It’s addicting, is what it is. He needs to write. The situation he finds himself in, peeled away from everything he knows, is so wildly impossible that maybe, maybe, impossible thinking will return him to where he once was. If he wishes so much to return to the one he loves, creates a world within his pages that mirrors his own, then maybe the stars above or the spirit of the universe or some cruel higher power will hear him and return him to where he came from.

The world he finds himself in is angular, blocky. Its features are so foreign to the intricate architecture of his homeland. Where there once was grass is now endless gray and metal and stone, pavement under his footsteps, so he stays inside now. The office, just as geometric as the outdoors, is blank and the paper serves as the color he’s neglected to spread within his room. 

Because, after all, he’s not going to remain here. Of course, he can’t remain here.

There’s so much he wants to do in his original world. He’s no revolutionary author, but his works are getting recognition after years and years of publishing. He just used the money to move into a proper home of his own, and it’s no mansion but it’s more than comfortable, and the window in his bedroom is at the perfect angle to gently wake him with soft sunlight every morning.

And after all, there’s an angelic face sleeping next to him every time he rises.

He writes tales of a princess trapped in her own castle, with no way to communicate with her subjects. After that, a novel about a hermit who returns to society, and how decades of living alone impacts his daily public life. Whenever he runs out of ideas, he works on a collection of short stories from the perspective of various people locked within a strange, enclosed new environment. 

The poetry is new. Novels are paintings, but poetry is sculpture, and he struggles to find the right words in the right order, but whenever he writes the last line it always tells stories of loneliness. 

Each draft takes place along flowering fields and rolling skies, clouds that adorn tall trees. Houses painted in candy colors. Streets in sepia. Snow that falls gently like blankets, and sun rays that greet mountain peaks. The aurora borealis heralds the climax of each protagonist’s journey.

Ike’s pen runs out of ink on what he would estimate is the seventh night. He curses, and his throat is so out of use, the sound is barely decipherable. He reaches to his drawer of office supplies, only to grab nothing. There is no drawer. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

Ike clears his throat, and raises his voice. “Reader? Be a dear and get me some more ink, please?”

Ike waits.

“Reader?”

There’s no response.

“Reader, my darling.”

There is no Reader. He’s forgotten exactly where he is again.

It’s strange that he does, he notes. Why, he’s written so many stories as his own escapism, but he can’t even remember that he left his darling Reader. 

His darling Reader, all alone, the only person in their shared home. They make meal servings for one, now, and wakes up later now without another in their bed. They have access to the study and the shelves upon shelves of home-bound books, the first edition before publication, but there is no novelist at the desk, no handwriting, no one to hold a mug and offer his gratitude. No one to sit behind as they read his latest work and offer their thoughts and notice his plot holes and typos and errors, no one to hold his pen back and insist, It’s late, let’s go to sleep, and carry him out of his chair and tuck him into bed themselves, and run their hands through his hair until his eyes close and his breathing softens and he wakes up to warm soft sunlight on an angelic face.

“Reader.” Ike says it again, but this time he knows there’s no one to respond to it. His voice breaks halfway through.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦁 Luca Kaneshiro

At the end of the day Luca Kaneshiro is a social creature. Moreover, he’s a social creature that just got cut off from his friends, family, mafia, and lover all in one fell swoop. 

It’s that appreciation for others that drives Luca to walk the streets, acting like he still owns the world despite the completely different reality he finds himself in. He’s a man that’s spent his life around family, both blood and hired. New people to meet and friends to catch up with. A sweet thing he could hold and love openly, one that he would do anything for. Believe it, he means anything; that’s a promise only a mafia boss could keep and truly mean. 

There’s no replacement for them in this time, but he can’t let go of it. He doesn’t actively drink in his original time but in 2022, there’s a party every night, and he wakes up every morning with a hangover. Luca admits it. He’s a nobody, a friendless loser here, but at least every night coupled with the booze and the bodies all dyed under the colorful lights he can forget. Pretend those faces are the ones he’s come to know underneath lion masks. 

The first night was the hardest. He entered the club to color his mindlessly lonely days, because at least he could have a meltdown properly with drinks than the husk he is during the day. A young woman taught him to dance, and he traded dance partners with the rest of her friends until most of them went to get drinks, and the best dancer of them all cozied up to his arm.

By the time they returned with cocktails Luca was already long gone on the way back home, his coat wrapped around his body. He felt dirty. Everything about that night was supposed to make him feel like his legacy was still alive but when it wasn’t you feeling him up, he could feel his stomach turn. 

Sure enough, the next morning he retched out the remains of alcohol and women, and swore he’d never go clubbing again until he returned to his timeline with you by his side… until the loneliness threatened to swallow him whole, and that very evening he was back to pretending that the people in the club were his. 

People flirt with him often, and he’s surprised he hasn’t bolted from one yet. Instead he politely excuses himself and ditches the club with a hollow feeling in his chest.

Luca wakes up every afternoon- noon or later, depending on how wild the night before was- alone in a bed meant for two people. His apartment is nice, but it’s devoid of personality. Glass encompasses one side of the wall, granting him a view of the skyline, and every piece of furniture is clean white. It’s almost hilarious how much it resembles one of his penthouses in Melbourne, but without any of the charm that branded a Kaneshiro home. 

He misses it so much. His active schedule has gone to the wayside, and instead he can spend hours at a time laying in bed. It’s a destructive cycle. Party at night to keep up the pretend life, then wallow during the day about how the life is gone. How unfair, he thinks bitterly. I never asked for this. I don’t even know how I got here. Why me?

The dreary thoughts never ebb while the sun’s out, and once night falls he can’t bear to spend another moment with them. Everything is a distraction now. He can’t bring himself to imagine the mafia surrounding him at the clubs anymore. It sends him into veiled turmoil.

That’s a future worry for future Luca, though.

He walks home one night in better condition than usual. The night is blank and silent, only to be interrupted by a stifled cry. 

He turns to the source of the noise. Two people stand by a closed store. One of them is a older man, and the other is a young woman. Luca recognizes her as a girl from the club he just left, mostly because she barely looked old enough to enter. Her face is flush with alcohol, and the man practically drags her along closer to the door with a hand over her mouth.

Luca’s eyes meet the woman’s. They’re nearly closed, but widen when she realizes there’s a bystander, and then she’s gone. The man led her into an alleyway out of sight.

Sobriety regained, he dashes to the alley, and feels for the hidden pocket on the inside of his coat. It was one of the first things he reached for when he fell into the future, and he thanked his lucky stars he still had a pistol and rounds of ammo on him. 

He takes the safety off but keeps it concealed, and turns into the alley. Two other men lurked deeper into the row, while the first shrugged the woman’s body off to the ground. She was barely conscious.

One of the creeps cocked his head. “The fuck’re you looking at?” 

Another raises an arm but Luca fires before the loser aimed his weapon properly. The bullet shatters the wrist, and the gun spills out of his grasp along with blood. He clutches the mangled appendage and cries out. “Bastard shot my fucking hand!”

The second man raises his gun as well but Luca’s already aiming for his arms and fires, disabling him long enough to move closer into the alley.

The final guy brings out a knife, but Luca’s built for this. He shoves him off, then grabs his arm with one hand and forces the knife away in the other. There’s a cold look in Luca’s eye, he hasn’t said a thing. He pushes the arm the wrong direction, and feels muscle trembling to stay upright. The creep curses again, an empty threat Luca doesn’t care to hear, and the knife clatters to the floor. Luca stomps on the handle with his sole, preventing it from moving any further. 

Luca keeps his grip on the arm, and feels the other guy’s joints give out. An ugly thought wants him to go further. So he indulges even after he hears the snap of broken bone, and when he’s done twisting the limb he yanks it out. The scream of dislocation is like music. 

He feels monstrous, but the most alive he’s been in weeks, an animal let out of its cage with the scent of blood in the air. He notices the one with bullets in either arm struggle for one of the guns, so in one clean movement Luca pins him down, blows an elbow joint out with his own gun, and drags the disfigured arm out along the jagged pavement as his weight rises. Hopefully he’ll get it amputated. 

The first one he shot, the one with one less hand than he started with, helplessly struggles for the gun he dropped with his good arm, so Luca drives the leftover knife through the flesh and into the ground. He lets the bloodthirst win as the blade curves into the muscle like a hook, twists, and snatches it out.

He covers the knife in a handkerchief, then retrieves the guns, and crouches eye-level to their drunken target. Her head is lolled to the side, but unharmed.

“I’m gonna bring you back outside the club,” Luca says. “Get some staff to watch you and call a taxi.”

He helps her up. She’s conscious enough to walk, but her body is limp, and she relies on him to guide her. The blank silent night returns as they return. 

The woman slurs something out, and when Luca looks to her in confusion she repeats herself. “You’re the guy that’s always there…? At the club.”

“Yeah.” Luca keeps his face steady. “Yeah, I am.”

“You always have people around you.” She giggles. At least she seems to be a happy drunk. “Normal people don’t gun. Have guns.” She throws her free arm into the air and makes a finger gun. “Pew, pew…”

He doesn’t answer that. “What’s your name?”

She tells him. “Don’t remember it. You’re too sad for me.”

“I just saved you.”

“And thanks but you’re so… fake!” Luca should be insulted, but he’s so taken aback he doesn’t say a word. The woman is amused by it though. She continues. “Like, okay, you’re cool, I’d hang, but you’re avoiding something, aren’t you? And I’m not talking about the, the pew, guns…”

She used up so much energy talking that she doesn’t notice a crack in the sidewalk and trips. Luca catches her. 

“Hero, much?” She laughs. “You’re such a hero, you’re waiting around for something. What, want me to trip again? Go find it if you care so much about it.”

The woman babbles on as they return to the club. Barely five minutes after, a taxi pulls up to the curb.

“Bye, hero!” She chirps. “Stop being so sad all the time!” Luca gives her a small wave and she’s off. 

He re-embarks on his walk home, and her drunken ramblings follow him the way back. He’d save her again without question, but her words pissed him off. 

She’s right, you know, he thinks. But of course she is, and of course it’s not as easy as a drunk woman makes it out to be. Longing for something is one thing. Longing for a time long gone is another. 

Luca looks back at the club, so small in the distance. Already he can feel the isolation taking hold, and it’s only going to get worse the more time he spends in his apartment, but it’s not like he has the energy for anything else. 

He brushes his hand against his coat. A splatter of blood stains the fur, not so much to be noticeable in the night but daylight is a whole other story. Some hero he is. He’s never been as brutal in a fight as he was today, and the way he didn’t feel a thing, how easy it was for the ugly and dark and depressed to control his weapons… it scares him. 

That’s all he is. Afraid. Is this really who he is without anyone by his side? Maybe it was a good thing he was cast out of his original time. Someone like him shouldn’t be allowed anywhere near you. You’re too good for human trash that drinks until he can’t straighten out his thoughts anymore and revels in inflicting pain. Monsters don’t deserve kindness like yours, after all. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

🦊 Mysta Rias

There is logic in everything. Everything happens for a reason; every action has an equal and opposite reaction; energy is neither created nor destroyed, only transformed. This is what the detective Mysta Rias knows. 

But people don’t just disappear like that. The city he finds himself in is tall and sweeping just like his home, but the lights are brighter and the people are stranger. He catches the year 2022 on a billboard advertisement and balks. This is what the detective Mysta Rias doesn’t know, and he’d admit he doesn’t know in a snap. There’s simply no reasonable way he sprung over sixty years in the future just like that. 

It’s been a while since he was transported into the future with no warning. After week two, he resigned himself to living long-term in the twenty-first century. About a month in, he started a private investigation service to scrounge up money and make sure his deductive abilities stayed sharp. He met some lovely people, but at the end of the day, this isn’t his time. 

What goes up must come down, and what gets magically transported out of his intended timeline must return. You can’t toss an apple on Earth and expect it to float into space. Mysta acknowledges how silly it must be to apply physics to a time portal, but it’s the only thing he can cling onto. The Doctrine of Uniformity states the present is the key to the past, and surely the present must be the key to the future as well. 

During his first week in the future he already searched for his information when he was in his original time. His house was destroyed decades ago to make space for a school. The home phone went to a storefront in Glasgow. So he retraces the steps. Surely there needs to be a gap where the original homeowners sign off on a deal with new owners, and that’s where he can identify the whereabouts of him and his partner. 

Hours of research and calling later, either any mention of Mysta Rias and Reader were wiped off the face of the earth, or they were never on this earth in the first place. 

Mysta tries not to let it get to him. After all, even if the original hypothesis is inaccurate, it narrows down the possibilities. Just keep going. 

Staking out his old haunts proved to be fruitless as well. His favorite restaurant is gone, as expected, but so is the library downtown that his city insisted on preserving for decades. 

Later that evening Mysta grabs a cocktail glass of orange juice, pours vodka into the glass, and places the screwdriver on the coaster of his desk as he looks deeper into the people of this world. Clearly there’s no records of Mysta Rias nor the person he spent his life with, but he recognizes the Queen of England even in her old age, and Paddington Bear is still a thing, so surely there must be other similarities between his UK and the one he landed in. 

The first thing he searches for is his mother’s name, and he’s not exactly surprised when no search results come up. His associates are nowhere to be found either. The closest he gets to finding one of his old friends is an online obituary for someone he doesn’t recognize and an archive of a newspaper comic strip. 

Your family is nowhere to be seen either. A few awkward calls later, he’s confirmed the phone numbers of family and friends as well as his old detective agency are being used by completely different people. He wishes he had some kind of photo from the past. While browsing around online he learned about reverse image searching. Maybe he could see if there were any social media posts or timeless landscapes that could trace back to his origin. Being able to see your face would be a good motivation too. 

Mysta pauses. Man, he misses your face. He’s been so focused on getting back to the right time that he hasn’t even acknowledged the pit of loneliness he’s been fighting off. Emotion makes reason messy, after all. The screwdriver isn’t helping either. If only Reader was here, he muses. They always watch over me when I’m drinking. Fuck, his head’s spinning. How much vodka is in this thing? He’s poured another glass, at least one more, his recollections are getting blurry. 

He blinks out of his thoughts before they can begin to spiral. Even if he didn’t measure out proper shots there’s no way he’s getting drunk on a screwdriver, and during a work night no less. 

The detective hones in on his legal pad and the scrawl of notes on it. He crosses out another failed method. There has to be something out there that can explain it. He chants it under his breath, because after all, he’s a detective. What is a detective without his reasoning?

Whenever he’s struggling on a case, it always helps to have fresh eyes look over his thought process. It’s always you. But he’s alone now without his partner, and he fears he’s working himself into a rut. Ugh, who is he kidding. He begrudgingly drains the rest of the screwdriver. The rut’s already here, and it always has been. The drink’s making it worse but it’s about time he acknowledges it. 

He’s sick of this feeling, so isolated out from everything he knows and the future that’s left him behind, and it’s almost like he can hear your voice melting into the silence of his bleak office. But the words that you’d say evade him. You’re irreplaceable even in his imagination, and it mocks him. His focus has abandoned him, and he’s been spiraling for a while now, it’s just that his mask is starting to crumple now, and he’s already starting to regret letting it slip.

“There has to be something,” he utters, and his voice is already lifting from the alcohol. It’s high and pathetic. Mysta slaps his hands over his face and lets them drag down, as if that would fix everything, and picks up his pencil again. “There has to be a reason.”

The pencil doesn’t move. Mysta repeats himself, reason is a mantra he’s lived by, but doubt drowns him. There’s no reason in time travel, after all, but he says it again, expecting something to change. He’s running out of platitudes. But he clings to it, clings to reason, because without it he’s nothing, and stripped of his home and love, it’s all he has left. Denial of absurdity is the only thing he can do. He can’t afford to wrap his head around it, because that means he accepts this nonsensical problem, so he lives without believing it at all. 

He pours himself vodka without juice and drinks. 

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👟 Shu Yamino

The Yamino household was no stranger to holding the supernatural within itself. For as long as Shu can remember, there’s always been scrolls hung up on the walls in thumbtacks rather than frames for easy access, rows of herbs left out to dry for spellcraft, even the living room regularly had its furniture pushed to the side to make space for a magic circle.

That was what made morphing his own home into a witch’s hut a smoother transition than he expected from the apartment unit he shared with you. The glamour made it easier to work, and besides, looking at your favorite things and the home you created together hurt too much. Either way, you were going to come back. There wasn’t a single question about it. 

Shu drags a clump of chalk along the stony floor. The outline of the circle is already complete, featuring countless shapes crafted for the exact target, and all that was left to do was to etch runes into it. The chalk digs into the floor with intention. 

“It’s going to work.” He rubs a stray line of chalk away, and checks his handiwork. The angular shapes inside of the circle are in position for a standard summoning. Runes form coordinates along the outline. 

He doesn’t even let himself feel proud for the summoning circle before he dashes off into your room. Moments later he returns with three items: your favorite accessory, your hairbrush, and a framed picture. 

There are three winding spirals drawn equal distances apart from one another in the circle. He gently placed your accessory in the center of one, before pulling out a strand of hair from your brush and into the second spiral. One represents sentimental attachments, and the other is something physical for the forces that be to identify a target.

Shu takes great care as he removes the backing of the frame and turns the photo in his hand. He sees himself first. He’s barely holding a giant teddy bear in his arms, and the plush head poked his face, threatening to make the sunglasses on the top of his head fall. On his other side, his beloved partner held the phone in one hand and his shoulder in the other. You timed the phone to take a picture just in time as you pecked his cheek and the beginnings of his blush started to set in. When you printed out the picture, you insisted on captioning it with a thin marker. “5/11/2022: Went to an amusement park and Shu won me a bear. He got a prize too!”

The memory is warm but Shu’s face is still grim. He sets the picture down on the final spiral. Any sorcerer worth their salt knows that you reap what you sow and miracles don’t come from thin air, and if you want that miracle, you’d better be willing to sacrifice something with emotional value. 

The picture captured his surprise and your affection from that day, and stares up at him as he stands. It’s been weeks since you were cast out of this reality. Even as a practitioner of the occult, Shu had no idea where the spontaneous portal came from, but it stole you away in front of his eyes. He was lucky he had the instinct to cast identification spells just as soon as you disappeared. They classified the portal as a time travel rift, and allowed him to reverse-engineer a summoning circle to locate and retrieve you. That picture, one of the most recent, was one of his favorites. It marked a shift in his relationship to you that was a long time coming, which is why it was so treasured. He would miss it, but, well, miracles aren’t cheap. He’d make new memories soon when you’re back in his arms in the timeline you’re meant to be in.

Shu lights a stick of incense, and rising smoke couples with the scent of jasmine and palo santo. He allows it to trail around the witch’s hut glamour and cleanse the room, a clean slate for his sorcery. Curses are his specialty, but he’s no stranger to ritual casting. He steps into the circle, and begins his incantation.

Shu’s flames alight after the first verse, a series of commands and words crafted carefully in accordance with the mystical. Shikigami circle around him as he gets to the second,  manifestation of his ability. The room feels like it’s floating. Static prickles in the air as it warps, the smoke mixing with the buzz, and for a moment the glamour blurs. It’s the spirit of the circle shifting the world around it as it was programmed to do.

The chalk along the floor brightens, shining luminescent with his words in white to lavender to bright, burning violet. A bead of sweat dribbles down Shu’s neck. It’s getting harder to breathe. If the world intends on taking Reader away from me, he thinks, then I’ll shred the very fabric of space-time itself to bring them back.

His fury is quiet, but concealed under how the air compresses around him. It’s a strange sensation, and if the Yamino name didn’t have generations of magic practitioners before him, the way that the atmosphere around him morphs would take him by surprise and ruin his ritual. 

Shu remains steadfast, though, and holds his breath through gritted teeth as the oxygen itself fights to separate itself from the circle. Even his flames flicker at the absence of fuel, and the heat transfers from the halo around his head and into his lungs as the air pressure increases tenfold, and tenfold of that. 

The third verse of the incantation is a fight to speak clearly, especially as the movements require him to fight hard against the resistance of literally rending space-time apart in his living room. For a moment he thinks of Atlas, the titan sentenced to hold the world itself. Then he tells himself to get off his high horse, fight the urge to let go of his breath, and finishes the verse half-ready to choke.

As he does the circle of chalk bursts into flames that lap at his feet, now floating in midair, and he doesn’t need a mirror to know the fire spouting from his body resembles pillars more than anything. Doesn’t matter. He’s fighting to keep his eyes open, but he swears there’s a crack levitating in nothing right in front of him. The fire around him pulses away from the crack and the air gets even tighter, teasing him with the vacuity of the universe he provoked.

The sorcerer thinks of the final verse less of words and more of sounds, anything to make it seem less like all the world’s weight is suffocating him. The crack in space is real. It stares at him unblinkingly.

Even when his eyes are open he’s seeing double, even in the silence he can’t hear himself utter the incantation. His chest is screaming and burning, a red-hot sensation unfamiliar to his purple heat, like claws raking through his lungs and threatening to shred him into ribbons from the inside. The pressure is too much to bear. 

The body is practically frozen in place as the vast emptiness of the crack slowly widens into a hole- a portal- and absorbs all the life from the room, and constricts him to where he stands. The claws inside start to pry and drag along his organs running dry without oxygen, and it’s a completely different sensation than incineration, it’s dead and deep, and slow. Shu’s eyes widen and strain, before blinking once, twice, and feeling the world turn upside down as everything goes black. He faints.

The sorcerer gasps alive minutes later, before entering a sharp coughing fit. The burning in his lungs has subsided, but the coughs are raspy and gritty. 

Shu clutches a hand over his heart as the memories of the ritual flood back, some areas spottier than others. The last thing he remembers is the way that the portal widened and the watercolor webbing inside of it, freckled starlight between the pure pitch, and clouds of color dyeing the fabric of space-time.

He rolls over weakly. He doesn’t have the energy to stand up. Instead he drags a tired hand over the remains of the magic circle, now a smoldering drawing in the center of his living room. Looks like the witch’s hut glamor faded. Not only that, but the chalk has turned to residual ash, easily brushed away by his fingers.

He inspects the rest of his surroundings as best as he can in his faint bleariness. The incense has gone out long ago, the room is in utter disarray, and barely a speck of dust is left on the spirals where his components were spent. They’re gone.

Shu tries to call your name but before he can get a sound out he’s already choking on his words. He fights to stand upright and clear his throat. He doesn’t know why he tried calling out to you. He should’ve known it was a failure. It’s just that he’s gone so long without you, without answers, without a single successful summoning, but this was the first time he saw the crack in space. 

Something’s going right. His body feels like it got caught in a land mine, but he’s on the warpath now, and he’s got his sights set on a new ritual draft, something that will certainly bring you back next time.

Shu hacks out a plume of ashy smoke and violet sparks. He’ll return to the drawing board soon, but he’s overexerted himself like nothing else. 

Despite how much his body feels like a crumpled ball of paper, he writhes to a pen and paper knocked to the ground from his ritual. He’ll summon you yet. Hopefully his next ritual won’t result in drowning on land, but he’s not too optimistic. He’s not going to stop until you’re back in his arms or his body gives out entirely, but he can’t kid himself forever. He’s going to burn himself out one day if he keeps this up, either metaphorically or literally. 

He writes down new observations from this ritual. It still doesn’t change a thing. He’s going to break himself if it means returning you to where you belong.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

👹 Vox Akuma

The Voice Demon snaps awake with fire in his eyes and a growl from his throat. He’s been in stasis for what feels like eons but the memory of searing flames and cold wet blood and the razing of Akuma Castle is fresh. His heart aches. A look down and he identifies why: his red shirt is even redder along the center of his chest, and darkness blooms through the fabric in an unsightly stain. He stares underneath the fabric and sure enough, his torso is covered in slashes, though they fade in supernatural speed. This is demonic reincarnation, as expected, the same mind in a new body, the old transfiguring into the new. His blood boils as he watches the lesser lacerations fade into pale skin. The clotted blood reforms, places itself into his open wound, and the skin reseals itself. A fresh patch, an untouched body, a man seemingly unharmed.

It’s nothing compared to the first man fallen in his clan. Shot dead in the temple, an arrow protruding from his brain, pink and red staining the other end of the arrowhead. The young scholar that took up a bow to defend in the castle’s time of need, only for a catapult to sling a boulder directly to their perch, and send them falling to their demise. A woman, well-known by her Kindred for being a second mother to all, and how she went up in flames when the opposing army set fire to her refuge shelter.

Vox was no stranger to combat, and no coward that would allow his clan to fall for his sake while he stood by. He took to the battlefield, sword in hand, accompanied by his most trusted advisor and most capable warrior. 

“Be safe,” was all you said before you armed yourself with your treasured naginata, grabbed him for a life-or-death kiss, and launched into the fray beside your lord. 

You worked in tandem with Lord Akuma. His sword slid bodies for you to stab through, confirming they would never rise again. But you were only two of 522, and Tokugawa’s troops made short work of the defenseless, the inexperienced, the unprepared.

Blood pooled along your naginata blade, but when you could catch a glimpse of the metal, it reflected the burning of Akuma Castle behind you. You dodged one blade and blocked another, then skewered the man for his sloppy mistake. 

Vox fought his own battles, now, as the shogun commanded his troops to target the lord of the castle. His sword caught on the bone of a soldier before slicing another. He snapped his wrist, shaking the two off his weapon, before raising it into a defensive position in time with another attacker.

You spun the naginata in your hands and fell back to reposition. The maneuver forced your enemies to approach, just in time for you to attack first. They dwindled in number. You were no longer the priority. You held your own against another warrior, decorated in medals and a wakizashi in their hands, more seasoned than the last unit you fought against. 

The duel was a mind game, littered with fake-outs and feints, neither you or the warrior landing a blow. Their movements were calculated, without an obvious weakness, so you focused on observation. Their slashes were quick and left little room for a counterattack. They stayed in your face so your naginata can’t outrange them. They were mobile, moving low and high, their body contorting unpredictably against the backdrop of your burning home and-

And Lord Vox…!

You screamed his name. One of the bodies, one you recognized, still moving. Bloodied, barely alive, but quiet, behind your lord, raising his blade.

“Behind you! VOX!” You cried out so loud your throat went hoarse, only for blood to pour out of your mouth.

In your attempt to warn your lord, the warrior noticed an opening, and drove their wakizashi through your neck.

Vox spun on his heel at your command and drove his sword clean through the ambusher, only to watch as you fell to the mud. “Reader!”

He howled as a knife drove through his arm, the first good hit against him. You didn’t move. Another katana next. The gash on his leg disabled his movement. The fire against his blade flashed. Your body laid in a pool of your own blood. Tokugawa stood before him and pulled his own weapon back, aiming for the heart. You were dead, and he was no fool, but the sword plunged forward…

Vox stands. The ground below him, concrete. Across from him is a tiled wall and railroad tracks. He turns on his heel, fury in his eyes, ready to tear apart this subway station. “Woah, dude,” the man next to him says jokingly. His beard is turning gray and he’s covered in a worn winter jacket, and stays seated on the ground. 

“Piss off,” Vox snarls.

The man is as unbothered as ever, but seems concerned. “No thank you. Er, you good?”

“Good? Why, yes, I���m the very picture of ‘good’.” Vox lowers himself to the man’s eyes. He slams a fist against the wall, next to his head, as his words alight with poison and ember through gritted teeth. His voice burns demonic. “I said, get out of my sight like the vermin you are and PISS. OFF.”

The man’s face, once so calm and and sympathetic, forms into a visage of fear. He trembles like a deer in headlights before pushing Vox out of the way and bolting further into the subway. 

The subway platform Vox finds himself in is dismal and lonely. It’s dark, with some broken fluorescent lighting, and debris along the ground. The signs suggest the next train isn’t arriving anytime soon.

So Vox wracks his hands over his face, contorted in rage, and screams. When he runs out of breath he inhales and cries out again, ugliness crawling out of his throat, and when he closes his eyes he imagines the ugliness as blood, the splatters that coated your lips as you fell. The wakizashi sword through your neck. 

He can’t form words, but the heartbreak is primal. It echoes through the empty station, and when his voice shatters into a sob the acoustics remind him of his mourning. His broken heart tightens, tries to reform itself around the blood of his chest, and only gives him palpitations that lodge in his chest. 

Panic becomes him. What else could he be? Vox’s legacy is besmirched, his subjects slain, and most brutal of all, his greatest love gave their life to warn him in futility. He heeded their advice but- but the shaking in his heart, it’s so stifling, he can’t think straight, he needs to sit down- but he was useless to do the one thing you requested, to be safe. Now here he is, another casualty right after you fell, without the grace to even stay a dead lord. In another world, with another chance at life, and the first thing he does is spiral. How pathetic of Lord Akuma. Utterly disgusting. Even after his demonic blood gave him another chance, he’s spending it bawling like a baby, crumpled on the ground of a grungy subway station, his breath so shallow he feels like he’s about to die again. 

Misery. He’s too afraid to take in the world around him without the comfort of you, so his hands tangle into his hair and against his tears. Rebirth is nothing to an infernal, but today, the very picture of grief, the Voice Demon has been defeated for the first time in his immortal life.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

[terapsina]

stealing all the stars in yesterday's sky - elejah fic

Happy birthday @vorpalmuchness 🎉🎉🎁😘

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ao3

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The feeling of vertigo was like the sensation one might feel surviving a drop from an airplane. Her head spun, her lungs on fire as the breath froze in her chest, her heart beating with the power of battle drums.

Confusion danced through Elena's head as the world around her transformed from the forest of trees and the circle of witches, into the formerly grand living room of an abandoned mansion. Familiar, like an old dream.

She shook her head, trying to dispel the strangeness when her eyes caught movement, someone halting at the top of the staircase, startled into stillness... and Elena's world stopped as her eyes were caught by his.

He looked just as he did the last time she'd seen him fifty years ago; just as he did - exactly as he did - the first time she'd seen him two hundred years back; just as he'd looked in the painfully precious century and a half between.

She hadn't thought she would ever see that immortal face ever again. Those sharply angular lines of the face; those depths of honor and humanity and cool practicality in his brown eyes; that hidden, tightly guarded well of love Elena had once thought spoken for and then found herself drinking from so freely; those strong shoulders that had softened at her touch a hundred thousand times.

She hadn't thought she would ever see him again. Not when the last time had ended as he burned into ash in front of Elena's sobbing, screaming, horrified self.

She stared at him. Her heart both breaking and mending at once.

Her dead husband stared at her with surprise. Surprise, but no emotion. Then rushed to her in the space of a heartbeat, halting in front of her as something vital, something Elena knew should be there, - had been there for longer than she'd been ready to see it - was entirely missing.

Still, as he leaned toward her, his nose nearly against the collarbone of her neck while he breathed in deeply, scenting the mortality she had shed nearly three lifetimes ago, Elena could not help the way her buckling knees made her lean toward him too.

His own scent overpowered everything else. The dust of the old house was overcome by sandalwood and old books and the smell of a fresh, clean shirt because he could never attend a meeting without an impeccably pressed suit he'd put on less than an hour back.

"Human," he mused aloud, speaking more to himself than to her, something amused sparking to life "it's impossible."

Elijah.

Her heart was screaming his name. Elena bit into her lip to hold it safely in its place. She could not ruin it now. It had worked, not the way she'd intended it maybe, - she'd tried to bring him forward instead of going back, - but the witches had warned her that playing with time was always unpredictable, always a throw of the dice.

All that mattered was that he was alive. And whole. And in front of her.

She did not care that he did not love her yet now. If there was one thing Elena did not fear, could not fear, it's that there could ever be a world where Elijah did not come to love her in the end.

All she needed was some time. And she'd already stolen herself plenty.

"Hello there," he spoke, unknowingly echoing the himself from her memory.

Elena's rushing heartbeat slowed, her mind pushing her heart aside as the place in her past asserted its facts. She was human - not something she had any intention to remain but useful just now. Klaus’s curse was yet to be broken, and the sacrifices he would choose could still be changed. Jenna was still alive.

If she played this right. If she played it just right, she could get back more than just her husband; fix more hearts than just her own.

She tightened her jaw and looked into Elijah's eyes.

"I want to make a deal," she said and felt something warm simmer in her chest as intrigue flickered over the stone of his face, his lips twitching slightly in the way that called out for her to touch with her suddenly itching fingertips.

Within the safety of her own mind, Elena smiled helplessly.

[obsidiancreates]

One Undead To Another (Chapter 3)

(It's 1 AM and I work today so naturally I'm hyperfocused on writing. Trigger warning for blood drinking, POV of someone who's dying, and temporary death.)

Burton Guster wakes up to use the bathroom. He checks his phone as he snuggles back under his still-warm covers, a habit he developed pretty much the moment Shawn got a cellphone and the ability to send texts. 

Following MY lead and proving you all wrong

Oh, no. He did not.

Halfway to the Spooky Mansion. Still a chance for you to join in.

Seriously are you ignoring me or did you forget to turn your volume up again :( 

Going in, keeping your half of the check when I solve this.

Spooky mansion got way too spooky. Bury me with my Tears for Fears vinyls.

Gus immediately calls Shawn after reading that last text.

No answer. He waits for a text scolding him for calling during a snooping mission- he waits for ten minutes before he lets out a panicked scream and dials Lassie.

No answer there, fine. He calls Juliet next.

“Gus?” Her voice is groggy and scratchy. “This better be an emerge-”

“Shawn went back to that mansion.”

“He what? I- why am I even surprised?”

“His last text to me says he might be in trouble, Jules.”

“Gus, we ruled them out as suspects.”

“In those murders! In just one set of murders!”

“... That’s a fair point, actually. Okay, I will call Carlton, and we will check on Shawn. Are you going to come with us?”

“Yes, obviously I’m coming with you!”

“Okay, okay, I’ll pick you up on the way to Carlton’s. And Gus?”

“Yeah?”

“Change out of your pajamas before I get there.”

He looks down at his fireman pjs- the same he was wearing last time Shawn did this. Maybe they’re cursed. He should probably burn them and get new ones, just to be on the safe side. “Right.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Jebus, O’Hara, why is Guster here?” Lassiter groans as he slumps, practically unwillingly, into his Ford Fusion. 

“He was extremely helpful last time!”

“Thank you, Juliet. Besides, I’m the one Shawn is texting!”

“If he got himself shot again, I’m putting you both in the holding cells for the rest of the case,” Lassiter gurmbles as he starts the car and pulls out.

“If he got shot again, I’m sicking his dad on him.” If there anyone left to- no, no, he can’t think like that. He can panic and doom-spiral after he finds Shawn totally safe, healthy, and grinning with some stupid new piece of evidence. Because that’s how they have to find him.

“Whatever. We’re either going to save his ass again, or arrest it for breaking an entering. Either way, Guster stays in the car.”

Gus scoffs. “Yeah, alright.” 

The car ride is quiet. Lassiter oozes irritation over being woken up. Jules hums along to the radio, either used to or simply resigned to situations like this being apart of her life- and probably trying to help Gus calm down. It’s working, a little. Gus feels a little silly about it, but it’s hard to panic when there’s someone humming nearby.

They’re only a few minutes away when all three feel a… twist. 

Lassiter tenses at the wheel as Jules lets out a soft gasp and Gus’s stomach drops.

Something is wrong. Deeply, deeply wrong, and they don’t need to say it out loud to know they all feel it.

Lassiter floors it for the last stretch. He and Jules run up to the house with guns already drawn and fingers on the triggers, Gus behind them with a mounting dread as the mansion looms.

Lassiter has barely raised his hand to knock when the screaming starts. 

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Shawn’s scream of pain is muffled, silenced, in the shoulder of The Boss. He feels her fangs dig, pressing deeper and deeper into his neck as she uses him like some kind of handsome juice pouch, or maybe a soup dumpling- yeah, definitely a soup dumpling. Should he be thinking about food right now? He is food- and being food hurts.

She bites deeper, and his next scream feels choked. He can feel his blood as it’s sucked out of him, a horrible unnatural feeling. It’s not like when he was shot, where his blood just oozed out of it’s own accord. It’s like his blood knows it’s being stolen, knows it’s being taken away, and it’s trying to cling to the inside of his veins with all of it’s thick, liquid-y strength.

He thinks he might be screaming again, or maybe moaning in pain? He’s making some kind of sound, but good god, she is making quick work of him. The world is going dull and fuzzy, his eyes drooping but never closing. The flickering candles cast strange shadows, making it look like more than four other people surround them- he sees a dozen, maybe more, it’s hard to tell, they’re all moving through each other. How much blood has he lost if he’s hallucinating already? 

His fingers feel cold. No, actually- all of him feels cold. His fingers feel numb. He’s slumping against her now. He can’t hold his own weight anymore. Will they dump him in a field? No, that- they have something else planned for him. Don’t they? It’s starting to go away. Everything is starting to go away. There must be fifty people in the room now. There’s a sea lion in the corner. His arms have gone slack. Why can’t he close his eyes all the way?

“-ay strong.” He’s not sure who spoke. What did he name the other people again? How many were there? He was… investigating something. Right? It’s hard to think. It makes him tired. Someone is cradling him and holding him up, but it doesn’t feel nice. His neck feels the least nice.

“-wn. Shawn, stay with us, help is coming. Help is coming.”

He… he knows that voice. It’s… comforting. Who is that?

His eyes still won’t close. He feels cold. He feels his last dregs of blood clawing to stay inside of him. There’s pairs of feet, just in front of him, taking up his blurry darkening vision. A pair of white shoes, for… some kind of sport, Shawn doesn’t know, he can’t… connect. And a pair of… he doesn’t know, some kind of old lady shoes. He knows those shoes.

There’s a hand against his cheek. No, there isn’t. Yes, there is. No, there isn’t- but there’s something. It’s there and it’s not there, like- like cotton candy. That stuff is weird. A whole mouthful turns into nothing within seconds. Someone is saying something to him.

“-ay. It’ll be okay. They’re almost here.”

“So are we.” He knows that voice too. It’s not as comforting- but it’s not not comforting. It’s… someone. He can’t make the connection. He should’ve passed out by now. He’s lost enough blood to die, he knows that, if he knows one thing it’s that. Why is he still awake?

“We’ll make sure they find you.” That not-there hand is carding through his hair now as whatever is digging in his neck leaves- it’s the first sensation other than numbness he’s felt in… has it been seconds? Minutes? Hours? He’s not good at tracking time even when he does have blood. This is a nightmare. He hopes it’s a nightmare. Thinking hurts.

His head is pushed back. The shoes belong to people- that’s good to know. He can’t really see who. He isn’t sure what he’s capable of seeing right now actually counts as Seeing at all. Someone is yanking open his mouth. 

“-or you. I’m here for you. You’re not alone right now.”

“I’m not sure he understands what you’re saying.”

“Shush, Mary. He needs to hear it anyway.”

Something is in his mouth. Something cold, and thick, and slugdy, and awful. He doesn’t have the strength to gag as it slides down his throat. It tastes rotten. It tastes wrong.

There’s a lot of it. He can’t swallow. He can’t gag. It lasts forever.

It reaches his stomach.

It burns.

He’s on the floor now- he didn’t feel his head hit, but it’s resting against something solid, so it must’ve. Hey, he can still make deductions. That’s cool. Everything is numb, but not numb, and everything hurts, but he can’t feel it. It hurts someone else, even though it’s him. It’s… far away. He’s far away. Someone is kneeling in front of him. Two someones. He can’t see them. His eyes are closed, finally. He doesn’t know how he knows they’re there.

“Go to sleep, Shawn.” … Oh. Oh, he knows where he knows that voice. He must really be dying, then. Or already dead.

“Gr’ma.” He can’t hear his own voice.

“Shhh. It’s okay. Go to sleep. We’ll make sure you’re okay.”

There’s a sound pounding against his ears. He tries to lift his head to hear it better. It’s a dull roar, like a terrible low-quality recording of a rock concert. … Yeah, exactly like that. It’s screaming.

“Your friends will be okay too. I promise. Trust me, sweetheart. Just… let yourself sleep.”

He actually doesn’t think he has a choice- but it’s nice that she’s talking. It’s so much clearer than the screaming. He should probably care about that. He’s too far away to be able to.

Shawn takes a deep breath and relaxes.

He sighs. 

He loses consciousness. 

He does not breathe again.

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as the screaming starts Lassiter breaks the door down. It’s almost too easy- the wood is rotten. Who would live in a place like this? Someone not looking to stay long. Shawn had said that. Why hadn’t Gus believed him?

“SBPD!” Lassiter and Jules to in with guns raised and ready to fire- Gus feels safe enough behind them to follow.

No-one is home. If it weren’t for the ear-splitting screaming coming from somewhere, it would be eerie.

“Guster, go back to the car.” Lassiter doesn’t move. “Now.”

“Shawn is somewhere in here.” Gus can hear his fear leeching into his voice.

“We’ll find him,” Jules promises, just as rooted to the spot- something in the air feels wrong. A stillness, but a crackling, an energy but a void. 

“Alright.” He can’t stand it anymore, he loves Shawn and he wants to find him but he can’t stand it anymore-

The door slams shut behind him.

“AAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” Gus’s scream is lost among the chorus. The lights are flickering- no, that’s too mild a word for it, because the lights are going in and out and sparking and buzzing and it’s like the whole house is screaming-

Someone’s at the end of the entrance hall.

“Hands in the air!” Lassiter bellows, but the figure doesn’t put their hands up. The lights go out again. They come back on. The figure is closer.

“Stay where you are!” Juliet’s gun is steady as she aims it.

“-me? Testing, testing- forgive me. The afterlife doesn’t usually have this much bleed-over.”

Gus almost faints. He knows that voice.

“That’s impossible.” Lassiter swallows. He knows it too. They all do. “You’re worse at rescuing than Shawn,” Mary Lightly says, hands in the pockets of his racquetball uniform. “At least he was moving.”

[wormsin]

I’ve followed you since your Hannibal days and honestly, I have—had? no interest at all with superhero genre, so whenever I see you post something about it, I am like that meme asking you “are you winning son?” and cheering for you from afar.

Until you post your daily whumptober fills, and now I have a vague interest, about Batman/Bruce and Robin/Dick, yet also within a quite specific setting? A gothic-noir genre one—it just struck me out of nowhere and now I cant get it out of my mind—of which I tried to find posts about it but I ended up not finding anything that could sate this.. let’s call it unique vague interest.

Anyway, sorry for being convoluted, but what I’m trying to say or ask is that, I would like to hear your opinions about their relationship and whether they can be read through gothic-noir genre?

ahahaha 😈

(listen. I was completely blindsided by my Batman & Robin obsession last year, because I had been tired of the superhero genre since Iron Man 2 came out. I have been bored and disinterested in superheroes for over a decade, and *never* read superhero comics. it is mostly not my thing!

however, Batman the Animated Series was the first show I watched as a kid, and Batman and Robin were deeply foundational for me. so as soon as I dipped my toes back in, it was all over for me. and here I am now, writing fucked up BruDick!)

you are in very good luck, actually! Batman has been many things, but noir and gothic are both huge influences. Frank Miller's Batman Year One (1987) is super noir, was the real kickoff for dark, gritty Batman. then in the 1989, Burton brought the campy gothic in the movie Batman. this was a big inspiration for the gothic aesthetic of Batman the Animated Series. (Batman was noir earlier than that as well, but those are notable moments in Batman history.)

Batman suits the genres extremely well—Bruce is always brooding with a dramatic inner monologue; he struggles with Gotham as a city with a personality, a supernatural force; he is haunted by his parents, his legacy, and the villains he faces; he is always going for the female fatales; he lives in a fucking mansion over an underground cave filled with bats. let's not forget that he is a detective! there are a number of canon comics and other media that are in the gothic-noir (or just gothic) genre, and there are some awesome fanfics!

noir-gothic:

dead men are heavier than broken hearts by spaceisgay

gothic:

We Have Always Lived in the Manor by themadwomanwhoisunfortunatelylackingabox

Magnificently Cursed by @mysterious-aud-lou (not complete yet)

I will reblog this with some of my own thoughts about Them in this genre (gothic is maybe my favorite genre). when I am less exquisitely busy.