#crypt ask box

[cryptiam]

THANK YOU FOR MAKING PERSONA CC, I ACCIDENTALLY STUMBLED UPON IT AND U MADE MY DAY !!!!!!!!!!

Aw thank you I'm happy to hear that!! Hope you have fun with it!

[dragon-subway]

For the color thingy:

2016 ERA MEME AND KANAN <33

I had to reread this so many times to make sure this didn’t say Ezra too

[fistfuloflightning]

b dylan hollis quotes, in no particular order

“It’s butter on butter. No one tell Paula Dean, she’ll bust in like the Koolaid Man.”

“This is not—how can I say—RIGHT?”

“How did you come up with these ingredients? Did you just throw a grenade down aisle six??”

“Now the chickens are implicated.”

“The only thing this’ll rise up from is the dead.”

“Oh, it’s foaming… please stop growing.”

“Sorry hippies, I’m with Nixon on this one.”

“How long does sadness take to cook?”

“They say there’s a cookie for every occasion, and if so, then this must be the cookie for when you descend into psychosis.”

“To those who use Celsius… don’t.”

“I’m just gonna listen to the Texans.”

“Is the pudding related or did you just want a snack?”

“This pie is made of beans.”

“Ask your grandfather’s grandfather about it… Actually, don’t. You’d have to dig him up for that. He’d be kinda… soupy.”

“In the Great War people dug holes and threw things at each other. It’s a bit like a children’s sandbox… just with an abundance of missing limbs.”

“The La Croix method of adding flavor; just enough to make you realize what you don’t have.”

“You’re diluting peanut butter—to the Gulag!”

“If I have to beat anything else in this recipe, I’m going to be charged with domestic violence.”

“Just let that fester.”

“Shit, gravity.”

“A lot of things start with potatoes: french fries, hashbrowns, famine.”

“Mrs Kirk, you’re my hero.”

“Look who’s fallen from grace. Shame.”

“Seriously, don’t disrespect the Irish, they can be mean.”

“It smells really festive, like febreeze in a crypt.”

“Here come the tears—like my mom after a glass of wine.”

“We start with a box of lime jello—the Abyss beckons.”

“One package of vanilla pudding, this one’s French… It’s given up. What a surprise.”

“I can only describe these as voluptuous.”

“‘But Dylan,’ you say, ‘what if I’m allergic to peanuts?’ Repent. You and your ancestors have obviously done something to deserve such a malady.”

*mouth full* “Everybody say thank you, Judy. You did a good job.”

“Now it says we can add sprinkles for the children. Screw that, this is for me.”

“Juice of a lemon—pretty exotic for Nebraska.”

“Prunes are just plums, post-mortem.”

“The Draugr of the fruit kingdom.”

“This stuff is stronger than my desire to drop out of college.”

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Besotted 5

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, virginity loss, age gap, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your new neighbour brings intrigue and a bit of danger.

Characters: ex-con!Bucky Barnes (silverfox)

Note: Friday at last and my house guest is away for a couple days.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Bucky plants his feet as the bike comes to a stop. You look up at the duplex and your insides get all swirly. You're home and still giddy. You've made up your mind. It's now or never.

He shuts off the engine and waits for you to get off first. You hang onto his shoulder for balance as you hop down. He gets off without much effort and heaves a dark sigh. He hesitates and you do too.

"That was awesome, Bucky," you shimmy. 

"Mm," he drones and flinches, moving toward the saddle bag. He unbuckles it and takes out the cookies. "Don't forget these."

You take them reluctantly and he hauls out his bag of groceries. He wraps one arm around it and lets the flap fall open. He faces you as you clutch the box to your chest. Don't let him do it. He can't send you away now.

"Hey, you want... want to try some? I could make us some tea."

His eyes dart to the side then he looks down at the bag. He fidgets and shifts on his feet. He looks at you and his forehead lines. He deflates just a little as you watch him with rounded, hopeful eyes.

"Sure, I should get the yogurt in the fridge though so why don't you come in?" He relents.

You could fist pump and jump in glee. You don't. You're not that lame. You bounce and smile.

"Oh, yay," you grin, "so you got everything set up?"

"Hm, not much. Still got a few things to grab," he grits.

You walk up the steps beside him and stand aside, waiting for him to unlock the door. He keeps the screen door open with his elbow then pauses before he pushes open the inner one. He sniffs.

"Go on, girl," he waves inside.

Huh, what happened to doll?

You enter as if you've discovered some ancient crypt full of treasures meant for the after world. There's a couch and a coffee table, a floor lamp behind the former. The area rug is the only piece of decor to give it any warmth. You try not to be too obvious as you take account of the barren space.

"I might got some tea," he says as he gentle touches your back and slips by. You savour the tingle along your spine.

You take off your boots before you break the threshold of the front room. You tiptoe in as you hear him in the kitchen. He sighs as cupboards open and close.

"It doesn't have to be tea," you call to him. You near the table and examine the motorcycle magazine, a sheet of paper tucked under the cover.

"Good, all I got is beer," he says. 

"Mmm," you turn as he comes close with the bottles.

"Coasters," he says.

"Oh, uh, right," you set the box next to the magazine and take two of the cork coasters from the stack. You place them down and he swiftly clanks the bottles into place.

"I know it's not much but uh, get comfortable," he says.

You pluck up a bottle and sit on the couch. You taste the malty beer. It's not bad. He paces around and nears the window. You watch his back.

You lean forward to set down the bottle and tear the seal on the box. You flip the top and pick out two cookies. You get up and approach him. You stop beside him.

"Try one," you offer.

He exhales and accepts it with a thanks. You nibble and he crunches into his. It's a bit dry by sweet.

You're nervous. You've never been this close in your life. Now you have the prime opportunity. You're in his space. You finish the cookie and smack your lips.

"Dry," you chuckle, "need to wash it down."

"Me too," he says.

He follows you as you go to grab your beer. You drink and sit. He does the same, stiffly, as he takes his beer and swigs. Your eyes stick to him. You watch his throat and the way his chest stretches the fabric of his shirt. You set the beer back on the cork and sidle closer. You're fuzzy all over.

You put your hand on his knee. He flinches and lowers the bottle. He looks at your hand and reaches to set down the beer. His other hand covers yours and he peels it off.

"Look, doll," he squeezes and clears his throat, gently laying your hand in your own lap. "There's things you don't know about me. I think you better just finish and go."

"Bucky, I... it's okay. Whatever it is."

"I'm too old for ya," he puffs. "You're young. Don't do this."

His eyes bore into yours. You pout.

"I might be young but I can make my own choices. So why don't you tell me so I can?"

His cheek twitches, "girl--"

"Please. Don't I deserve to know?"

"I don't know what you're thinking, girl. Alright? Look at us. I'm... I gotta twice your age. And you're... you're too sweet for your own good."

"Tell me," you reach for him again, petting the denim on his thigh. "I won't go until you do. Or you can drag me out."

His eyes flicker and he looks at the window behind you. His jaw squares and he shakes his head. He slaps his hand over yours again but doesn't move it away.

"I'm a criminal. I just got out and I'm tryna rebuild, but I'm not changed. Alright? You understand me," he snarls. "I'm a bad man. I hurt people. Too late for me to change that."

You search his face, "but... you haven't hurt me. And you did your time."

"Girl, don't be foolish."

"No, Bucky, you told me and I don't care. I don't care what you are. I know that you feel this too," you move closer. "Don't you?"

He turns his head and stares at the wall. You squeeze his thigh and get up on your knees. You trail your touch up to his belt and he grunts, stopping you with his thick fingers around your wrist.

"Bucky, please," you beg. "It's just us. Nothing else."

"Girl--" he pleads.

"You're not too old, you're not too bad," you slip free of his grasp and tickle up his shirt, "you're perfect for me, baby."

You bring your hand to his jaw and flutter your fingers along his beard. He shudders and you raise yourself on your knees. You lean in and press your lips to his. He grabs your upper arm but doesn't push you away. He growls as you open your mouth and slide your tongue along his lips.

His hand slides away from your arm and to your back, crawling to the back of your neck. You brace his shoulder and swing your leg across him, straddling his lap as you deepen the kiss. He groans as you hook an arm around his neck and snare him. You rock him slightly as you breathe into him, tilting your pelvis against him. 

He grips your hip with his other hand and parts from your mouth. His eyes are cloudy as he gazes up at you. The tension is his cheek pulses.

"Doll," he shakes his head, "one last chance..."

"I got condoms," you say as you sit back and reach to your cross body bag, still resting against your side.

He shivers and slackens against the couch. "You're too much."

"I know what I want," you assure him.

He stares at you and his lashes flick, He grabs the strap of your cross body bag and unhooks it from around you. He puts it on the cushion and gulps. He frames your face with his hands, his thumbs rubbing your cheekbones. He sighs. 

You reach up to curl your fingers under the straps of your tanks top and drag them down your arms. You feel him beneath you. He's hard already. You're soaking through your panties, not that there's much to them.

You push down the sheath of your top to your waist. He inhales sharply and you reach back, your chest bulging as you tug at the band of your bra. You unhook it and quickly drop it down to your wrists. Your tits pop free and jiggle as you toss your bra.

He blinks at your chest. He just sits there, paralysed. You giggle and grab his hands, putting them on your tits, making him squeeze them. He purrs and rolls his hips.

"Doll, you're... you're..." He gropes you then slips his hands down to lift your tits. He leans forward and nuzzles your flesh, pushing your chest around his face as he snarls. You got him. There's no going back.

You arch your back and cling to his head, urging him on. He nips and teethes at you, tracing your nipple with his thumb before popping it between his lips. He hums and swirls his tongue around the hard bud. It must have been a while for him, having been in jail. That sends another thrill through you.

You twine your fingers into his hair and grazes his scalp with your nails. He snarls as he continues to bounce your tits, squeezing and pawing. You never cared much for the extra weight, but now that he's drowning in them, you can't complain.

You lip your hand down between your bodies and feel along the front of his jeans. He groans and wriggles against your touch. He's rock-hard. He hisses as he pulls away and drops back against the couch heavily.

"Doll," he tenses up.

You giggle and tug at the bottom of his shirt. You push it up his stomach and over his broad chest. You mess his hair as you swoop it past his head and drop it over the back of the couch.

Now it's your turn. You flatten your hands across his pecs and moan. He growls and you drag your nails lightly down his skin, the soft hair contrasting against hard muscle. His stomach is cushier but not in a bad way.

"Baby, you got me struggling," he groans and rubs your thighs, his pelvis tilting desperately.

"Me too," you breathe.

You linger at the top of his jeans then back off of him carefully. His eyes widen. You see fear in him. You grin and turn to wiggle your ass as him. You hook your fingers inside your leggings and bend as you push them down. Your thong rides up between your cheeks. He hums as the couch springs whine beneath him.

You shiver as your nerves flurry in your chest. This is it. So close. You're throbbing. You can see the slickness in your leggings as you step out of them.

"How... why do you want me, doll? You're... you're gorgeous," he rasps.

You stand and face him again. You shake your chest at him and he brings his fist up to bite his knuckle. You feel powerful.

You slink closer to him and touch the front of your bejeweled thong, a little heart on black. "Can I keep these on?"

"Yes," he croaks and clears his throat, "yes, doll."

You grin and grab your bag. You unzip the front pocket and slide free the strip of condoms. It unfurls and you laugh. "Oops... think we'll need them all?"

He startles you as he swipes up the end and tears one off, "we'll see."

You drop the rest beside your bag and blink at him. You sense something different. He tears open his pants and raises himself off the cushion as he shoves the denim down. His dick bobs above the elastic of his briefs, the head swollen and weeping. You get even wetter as you see the veins bulging under the skin.

He rips the wrapper with his teeth. He trembles as he presses the rubber to his tip and you near him, wavering as you weigh the moment. This is your last day a virgin. You take a silent breath and lean forward to grab his shoulders. He quakes and moans as he slides the condom down his length.

You bring yourself over his lap, hovering above him as he grips himself. He frames your hip and hisses, "doll, please, please, I need you on me. I need--"

You reach down and wrap your fingers above his. He lets go and gasps. You angle his tip along your cunt and push your panties aside. You stare down at him. Your eyes cling to his and you bite your lip.

You dip down carefully. As you open around him, you grunt. You sink your nails into his trap and your eyes speckle with tears. Oh, it hurts more than you expect.

He taps your hip, "stop," he snarls.

You bat your lashes but obey, "I can take it--"

"Come on," he feels along your side. He loops his arm around you and in an instant, he has your back to the cushion. He slips out of you. 

He fishes out your bag from beneath you and sweeps it onto the floor. He knees on the other end of the couch and urges you further up. You drag yourself until your head is against the armrest. 

He bends between your knees and kneads your thighs, his eyes on your cunt. He licks his lips before he plunges in. You yipe in surprise as he laps at you, his beard tickling your lips as he pushes your legs wider.

He flicks his tongue around and across your clit. You spasm and clasp onto his hair as the sensations stir within like flames. Your thighs clench and your spine stiffen. You pout and gulp loudly as he toys with you, suckling and swiping as you squirm.

He growls into you and traces a finger along your ass up to your entrance. He spreads the wetness there before he delves inside. He pushes his finger in bit by bit then draws it back out. He adds another and urges inside even deeper.

His tongue teases you to the edge as he pushes in and out of your cunt. He hums and drinks you up, spreading his tongue as wide as he can to taste all over you. He seals his lips once more around your clit and the pressure pinpoints, pulsing faster and faster until your muscles release.

There's a sudden surge and a hot flow coursing from you, dripping down his fingers. You convulse and whimper as you wash away with your orgasm.

He kisses your cunt before he sits up. You watch him, bleary-eyed, and he wipes the glisten from his beard with a hum. He inhales so his chest puffs out and he cracks his neck.

"If we're gonna do this, we're gonna do it right," he growls.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #3

The thing about being seventeen and King of the Infinite Realms is that nobody prepares you for the paperwork.

Sure, Danny thought there’d be some responsibility when he accidentally overthrew Pariah Dark and inherited an ancient, eldritch realm full of undead beings and chaos entities. But this?

“This” being a five-hour council meeting about whether the Blob Ghost could legally marry the Ghost of a Haunted Taco Bell.

Danny slammed his forehead into the obsidian table, sighing. “Can someone remind me why this is my life again?”

Fright Knight, sitting to his left in full spectral armor, replied without missing a beat. “Because you claimed the Throne of The Infinite Realms by Rite of Spectral Conquest, my liege.”

“Right…” Danny muttered, dragging his crown—which looked less like a crown and more like an aggressive mass of bone, metal, and green flame—off his head and onto the table. “That. Cool. I love my life. I’m living my best afterlife.”

The Ghost Zone’s politics were a nightmare. The Council of Wailing Scepters argued in riddles. The Ministry of Temporal Loops wouldn’t stop trying to undo Danny’s birth “as a preventative measure.” Ember was unionizing musical ghosts. Skulker demanded hunting permits. Box Ghost somehow had diplomatic immunity.

And let’s not even talk about the Realms’ economy.

“Have you ever tried to make a tax code for entities who don’t obey time?” Clockwork once asked with a deadpan stare.

Danny had not. Danny did not want to.

And all of that was on top of being a superhero, a public figure, a full-time student at Midtown, Tony Stark’s ghost consultant intern, and, most critically, Peter Parker’s boyfriend.

The one bright spot in his entire liminal, half-dead, legally dubious existence.

Peter was the only reason Danny hadn’t exploded yet. Or accidentally declared war on Canada (long story, don’t ask). Or gotten exorcised by a rogue Vatican unit (longer story).

When Danny phased into his boyfriend’s bedroom at 2:43AM wearing royal armor, covered in ghost slime, with a ghost octopus clinging to his leg screaming, “LONG LIVE THE GHOST KING,” Peter didn’t even blink.

He just put his book down and said, “Do you want hot chocolate or a sedative?”

“Both.” Danny croaked.

“Got you.” Peter said, already moving toward the mini kitchen.

Danny melted into the couch, dropping his crown on the floor. It rolled slightly, then hissed at the furniture. He kicked it under the table.

“I hate everyone.” He muttered. “The fire ghosts are trying to annex the Library of Screams again, the Spectral Senate is debating if time travelers have souls, and a councilwoman called me a fleshling with trauma issues.”

“Well,” Peter called out gently from the kitchen, “she’s not wrong.”

“Peter.”

“I’m just saying. You did try to punch Death last week.”

Danny groaned. “It was a misunderstanding!”

“You called them a dusty crypt bitch.”

“They insulted my hoodie!”

Peter returned, holding two mugs. He handed one to Danny, kissed his forehead, then sat beside him.

Danny leaned heavily against him.

Peter didn’t complain.

“Y’know,” Danny said after a moment, sipping his cocoa, “sometimes I forget I’m still seventeen.”

Peter chuckled. “Babe. You’re seventeen, King of a spectral empire, on the Avengers’ emergency contact list, and still get detention for being late to gym. You’re living like six lives at once.”

“I died once,” Danny muttered. “That should’ve been enough.”

Between ghost attacks, council drama, interdimensional skirmishes, and Midtown High exams, Danny hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since… well, since before dying.

The living world had opinions too. America couldn’t decide if he should be considered a minor, a sovereign leader, or a health hazard. International ghost regulations were passed in his name. He had diplomatic immunity in over a human countries and was banned from a hundred others. There was a conspiracy subreddit entirely dedicated to the theory that he was an alien hybrid bred by the government to replace the Queen of England.

Danny’s response to that was, “Do I look like I want to colonize anything?”

He still had math homework due tomorrow.

Sometimes he phased into the UN to yell at their Interdimensional Defense Committee. Sometimes he missed bio class because a ghost war broke out on the edge of the Dreaming Isles and he had to teleport to stop Nocturne from invading people’s nightmares.

Sometimes, Peter would find him sitting on the floor of their shared dorm shower, still glowing, muttering, “I am the King of Everything and Nothing and I can’t figure out mitochondria.”

“I’ll tutor you,” Peter always offered. “And also get you a nap and a cookie.”

Peter was… everything.

Unflinchingly patient. Wickedly smart. Constantly worried.

He patched up Danny’s wounds, whispered jokes during council meetings when Danny looked five seconds from screaming, brought extra snacks when Danny forgot to eat.

He held Danny after Danny woke up screaming from ghost-fueled nightmares.

And when the burden got too heavy—when Danny stood on the balcony of his palace in the Infinite Realms, overlooking a kingdom of madness and memory, time fractals and ghosts whispering in languages lost to the living—and said, “I don’t think I can do this anymore,” Peter kissed his knuckles and said, “Then I’ll do it with you.”

The other ghosts hated it.

A human, dating the King? Scandalous. Blasphemous. Soft.

Danny told them all to choke.

Peter? Peter told them to submit a formal complaint in triplicate and then kissed Danny in front of them just to be petty.

They ruled together, in a way. Danny signed the decrees. Peter corrected the grammar. Danny banished tyrants. Peter took notes and organized his calendar. Danny fought for peace. Peter made sure he didn’t forget who he was fighting for.

Once, Clockwork pulled Peter aside and said, “He will burn out without you.”

Peter just nodded. “I know.”

And yet, through all the madness, they found joy.

Danny giving Peter flying lessons. Peter webbing Danny’s locker shut as a prank. The two of them building a spectral stabilizer out of Tony’s spare tech, laughing hysterically when it turned the floor into a trampoline.

They shared ghost patrols, movie nights, star-watching on top of the Empire State Building.

Peter calling Danny “Your Majesty” in a ridiculous accent until Danny threatened to drop him into a lava lake.

Danny threatening international leaders by day and then cuddling with Peter by night, wearing fuzzy socks and a hoodie that said “Half-Dead, Fully Tired.”

Sometimes, Danny just stared at him. In awe.

Peter, who knew the truth. All of it. The weight. The loss. The terrifying power clawing beneath Danny’s skin. The fact that Danny was the anchor between dimensions, balancing the afterlife and reality like a tired high schooler with PTSD and ghost fire.

And still loved him.

Still said, “You’re doing great.”

Still held him when it all came crashing down.

The Realms called Danny a King.

To Peter, he was just Danny.

Sometimes, that was all Danny needed to be okay.

Just… Danny. Human. Ghost. Hero. Boyfriend.

King of the Infinite Realms, sure. But also a seventeen-year-old who just wanted to pass his math test, kiss his boyfriend, and maybe get five hours of sleep.

With Peter by his side?

He could do it all.

Even the haunted Taco Bell marriage negotiations.

[seriesxwriting]

Hi! I have an idea, maybe you'll like it. The reader was born in the 19th century. She was from a rich family. She loved Damon. Her father made an agreement with Giuseppe and you were remembered as representatives of rich families. Damon couldn't go against his father, but he immediately had a negative attitude towards her because of that marriage was settled without his opinion. Her task was only to give birth to a child. When Catherine appears, she does not want to see an obstacle in the form of a legitimate wife. Emily casts a spell that everyone thinks the Reader is dead. She is laid in the family crypt. After 150 years, when Emily destroys the horcrux in Bonnie's body, the reader wakes up. Surprisingly, she is pregnant. But the Reader is offended by Damon. He ruined her life. And she's determined to keep Damon away from her child. She also tries to fit into the modern world. There's really one problem… gradually Damon realizes that he loves the writer, and Catherine and Elena were an obsession. Will he be able to get his wife back

Thank you for this request, I hope I displayed it how you envisioned it!

Second chances

Pairing: Damon Salvatore X female reader

Series: The vampire diaries

Summary: Request! You’re Damon’s Fiance from before he turned and you wake up from a curse finding yourself in a modern world while pregnant with Damon’s child. But distracted by Katherine, Damon was horrible to you before. Can you forgive him? Has he changed?

Warnings: Pregnancy? Swearing.

Second chances- The second (Number two)

My eyes opened to darkness. My first thought wasn't where I was, my first thought was what just happened. I blinked a couple times, trying to clear my brain of the fog, of the discombobulation. I heard distant moving behind my head which created this new thought. where was I, and how did I get out. I began trying to move but I didn't have much space, nor did I have much air. I struggled some more and began making grunting noises of distress before the shouting began. 'HELP" "GET ME OUT OF HERE".

A moment or two later I heard voices nearer to me. I stopped banging and tried to listen to them, to find out if they were friend or foe. "Hello?" one of them called out. "Where are you?" another voice asked. looking at my options I had no choice but to ask them for help, even if they were foe.

"In here" I cried out banging on what seamed to be stone. "It took a second but eventually I felt myself moving backwards and then the bright light attacked my face. I looked up at the three girls standing above me. They looked at each other then back down at me. "W-who are you" I asked looking at their clothes. Id never seen anything like it before. Women in mens clothes? trousers?.

"We're... um well i'm Bonnie and this is Caroline and Elena" one of the girls answered. "Why do you dress yourself in mens clothes and speak improper" I questioned shaking my head, trying to understand what is going on. “Um?” Elena threw me a weird look and the girls looked me up and down. “What are you guys doing?” A man’s voice appeared from outside.

“I’d know that voice anywhere” my eyes batted pulling my self out of the box in an act to escape. But it was too late. There behind the girls stood Damon Salvatore and his younger brother. “Y-y/n?” He stuttered looking at me like I was an alien. “It can’t be- you’re dead?” Stefan shook his head taking a step closer. “What in earths name is going on, I don’t like this game boys?” I folded my arms putting my head up. “You know her?” Bonnie raised an eyebrow. “T-that’s my fiance- from before I changed” Damon stated still obviously in shock.

“Your father wouldn’t be happy to hear you speak so improper and hang out with such obscure company” I frowned at him before looking around at my surroundings. “Gosh- everything looks so- different” I blinked realising something was wrong. “Y/n- it’s been over 100 years since you were out of that box- we thought you were dead but- you must have been turned too” Damon told me softly. My head whipped round to him, my eyes blazing with fire.

“You know Damon I once loved you- and after all the love I gave to you, you still treat me so uncouth” I scoffed putting my hands on my hip. “Y/n- Damon and I aren’t playing any games- it really has been over 100 years” Stefan told me, all their faces had a wipe of sympathy across them, and I hated it. “Nonsense- I have had enough- I shall tell my father I no longer want to be wed with you” I folded my arms and pushed past the girls but as I did my eye caught onto something. My father’s name was written on the tombstone next to me.

I stopped and stared at it thinking about nothing else but the words “it’s been over 100 years”. I turned to the boys with tears in my eyes. “Why does my father and my mother’s names lie on these tombstones in our family crypt” I asked almost in tears at the thought of them cold, dead in a box. “You know why Y/n” Damon took a step towards me and I took one back. “Those stories- about that girl being a vampire- the one you loved Katherine- they- they were true?”. No one answered me for a minute- they all looked around at one another.

“They must have been so- how else would you live all these years- and myself? Am I truly one of those beasts?” I asked them desperately, feeling the tears roll down my face. “No- you’re not- or you would have needed blood to wake up- I think my ancestor Emily put a spell on you- if you were due to marry Damon and Emily worked for Katherine I’m sure she would have had something to do with it” Bonnie folded her arms looking at Damon pissed off. “Y/n I’m really sorry- for how I treated you- for what happened- come back to my house we will get you cleaned up and catch you up” Damon put his hand out to me.

“You did not answer me” I shook my head at his hand. “Yes” he replied. That’s all he said. That’s all I’d had to go off. A whole new world and my only friend was my horrid Fiance who didn’t love me. but I suppose I had no choice. “I shan’t hold your hand but I will follow behind” I nodded with not hint of a smile. It was all too much for me. I wasn’t sure if I’d get on in this world- awful use of the English language, girls who dress like men?

As we left I kept my questions inside- though I had many. They helped me into what they called a Morden day car, and Damon drove me all the way to his house. Though there was all this new stuff stepping into his house was like a breath of fresh air. A lot of the decor looked as if it was made in my day. It felt familiar. They took me upstairs to what was a Morden day shower and Elena left me out some Morden day clothes. She made sure she gave me a dress and I told her I shan’t be wearing male attire.

And then Damon met me in the room. He took a seat on the bed and patted for me to sit down. “This is all rather a lot Damon” I sighed sitting down, crossing my legs properly. “How can I live in a world without my Father- I have not married” “women- don’t need to marry anymore- women can live on their own now” he shrugged with a little smile. “Women can work, drive, smoke- vote- women are independent now”. I swallowed finding what he said hard to believe. “But- I have nothing left” “I’m here” he told me reaching for my hand.

“And im so so sorry for how i treated you before- you don’t deserve that you didn’t- i was distracted by Katherine” he explained to me while tucking some hair behind my head. “You never loved me Damon- you loved her- we cannot be married, my father would not want me to marry you after hearing how you treated me- the things you said to me and did to me” I shook my head taking my hand from his. “I am present for you to explain how this disaster happened- and where I go now- what I do in this morden world- after that I wish never to see you again” I told him boldly.

Damon shook his head almost pouting at me. “Y/n you can’t mean that- i will apologise every day if you’ll let me please just don’t go- when I thought you were dead the guilt ate away at me so much until I turned my switch off- i couldn’t live knowing I could have had that life with you and I threw it away- but I’ve been given a second chance to fix it to make it up to you”. I suppressed an eye roll for his idiocy. “But I do not and can not love you anymore Damon” I folded my arms looking him dead in the eye.

I wish I felt a little more remorse because his heart looked like it was breaking. But I didn’t, he put me through a lot worse. "But where will you go Y/n? you have no money no family- you're human". That was true, and I felt my heart drop when I realised he was right. "You must tell me- it is your fault I am in this god forsaken position" I expressed as anger bubbled upside of me.

"I know- i'm so sorry- we could have just lived the normal human life- had children together... what I would do to go back" Damon looks away from me, I wasn't sure if he was hiding tears or just couldn't look me in the eye. "But we cannot" I answered bluntly after giving it a second. In that moment my stomach became incredibly sore, I wrapped my arms around it and breathed out to try and stabilise it once more. "Y/n?" Damon called out gently putting his hand on my arm. "Are you okay?" he moved closer as I let out a wince from the pain.

"I am- it is merely a stomach cramp I am sure" i breathed out trying to suppress the pain. But it wasn't working. "We should take you to a doctor, you were in that tomb a long time" he suggested taking a stand. "No- I would not like to waste a good physicians time" I shook my head adimant I wasn't going to go. "Come on Y/N, I want to make sure you're alright". I looked up at him, he was worried, it was written all over his face. But how could I be sure it wasn't all a game- the Salvatore boys liked games. I wouldn't be tricked by Damon.

"Okay- if we must" I nodded weakly and tried to stand, Damon supported me wrapping an arm around my waist and the other held my left hand. "This is the longest stomach cramp I have ever endured" I stated as we left his room. Damon told the others where we were going and insisted he didn't need any of there help, he then proceeded to help me into the car. I didn't know lots about this Morden day vehicle, but the pain I was in made me glad it went faster than a horse.

We arrived at the hospital and Damon once again helped me out the car. He used what he called 'vamp speed' to get round to me quicker than I could even blink. But that just made me even more weary of him. What other powers did he posses, what could he do to me? We rushed into the hospital and it was there I saw exactly what he was capable of. He compelled the doctor to give all his attention to me. I was rushed into a room and had scans done on my stomach. The doctor left to get my results, filling the room with awkwardness. I didn't want Damon in here to hear what was wrong with me.

But he was adamant he had to take care of me. "What was it like? waking up in there?" Damon asked me softly, as if he didn't want to offend me. I turned my head to him and blinked just staring for a second, maybe two. "Like I had just woken up from a sleep- but I did not realise how long it had been" I sharply put turning my attention away from him again. "Is there anything I can do to make up for what I did?". "Do you understand how absurd you sound- not only did you abuse me- physically and mentally- committed adultery, you got me stuck in another time, I missed my friends growing up, my parents will never watch me become wedded, and I have to fit into a world I was never supposed to be in".

Damon took a deep sigh in, he knew I was right. "God- what is wrong with me- I suppressed all the guilt for so long, I really mean it when I tell you i'm feeling it" he told me talking in a soft sympathetic voice. "Perhaps I believe you, but that does not change the past- or how I feel towards you" I told him harshly, I saw from the corner of my eye that he opened his mouth but in that second the doctor walked into the room. "I have good news" he smiled clutching his papers to his chest. "And- not so good news" he took a seat next to me and smiled.

"The not so good news is you are very malnourished my dear, it looks as if you haven't had a meal in 100 years" he chuckled trying to make a joke, but I looked at Damon gritting my teeth pissed off with him. "Well what's the good news?" Damon asked so that id stop looking at him. "The baby seems to be perfectly healthy, you just need to have a few large meals, gain some weight otherwise when you come to giving birth or even being heavily pregnant, complications will be serious".

"What- what are you talking about? what baby?" Damon questioned sitting on the edge of his seat. "D-did you not know you were pregnant?" he looked to me over the top of his glasses. "I- I did not" I muttered feeling my arms cross over my stomach protectively. "Thank you- doctor" I blinked staring at my arms. "Good luck with everything" he smiled sweetly before getting up and leaving.

I didn’t move. Not my body, not my mouth. “I-is it mine?” Damon asked me eventually. “Of course it is” I snapped at him throwing my legs off the bed and facing him. “Just because you commuted adultery does not mean I did too” I frowned at him angrily. “No I know- I just- I dunno it was a stupid question I just needed to say something” he admitted, but he didn’t have the same reaction as me. I saw a little smile forming on his face. “How is this funny” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Y/n I’m not laughing” he sighed rolling his head onto his shoulder and presenting a bigger smile now. “I’m happy- you know I’m - technically I’m dead I thought I was never going to procreate- I- this is a miracle”. Excitement definitely danced in his eyes, it was obvious- spread across his face and it was starting to flow through his body. His fingers were fidgeting now. “Y/n I am going to show you I’ve changed- we’re going to have a family together and I will never- ever let anyone hurt you or our child” he told me getting up and holding my hands in his. “I promise”.

“That is a ambitious promise Damon- considered you are the only one who has hurt me before” I told him standing up now. His body was close to mine, we were almost touching. I had forgotten how tall Damon was compared to me, he towered over me. But all I felt was fear. “How can I move past what has happened when you frighten me?” I whispered looking into his deep blue eyes. “You give me a second chance- you have to Y/n I’ve changed, please that’s all I ask of you” he begged me with those eyes of his. Those eyes that he could bat and get anything he wanted. By almost everyone.

“I simply cannot answer yet- it seems this new world allows women to have some power, maybe I must take that into consideration” my arms folded across my chest. My feelings were more than conflicted. “Of course, you can take all the time you need, I’ll take you home” he replied, the happiness had been almost ripped away from him, he only showed desperation now. Damon put a hand on my back as we walked back out towards the car. The journey home was silent, I watched the roads to see how mystic falls had changed.

And oh it had changed.

I went back into the house leaving Damon trailing behind me. “You can go back to the room if you feel like you want to be alone- I’ll get you some food you must eat” he told me. I didn’t turn around or say anything to him. Just climbed the stairs heading back up to the room. Damon walked into the living room where Stefan was sitting with Caroline, Bonnie and Elena. “Hey” Elena smiled, happy he had just walked in. “How’d it go?” Stefan raised an eyebrow. “Um- I’m gonna have a kid Stefan” the older brother looked him in the eyes from across the room.

“She’s? No? Really?” Stefan stuttered, eyes wide and jaw hanging open. “She’s pregnant” Elena spat out, her face covered in envy. “Yeah” Damon cracked a smile as he nodded his head. “I’m gonna be an uncle?” Stefan joined him standing up. Damon continued to nod and he let out a small laugh. His brother walked round the sofas to embrace him. “Congratulations brother” he whispered in his ear. “So what you’re going to start a family with her now?” Elena jerked her head back making Damon look back at her.

“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do- once she forgives me” he scratched the back of his head. “But what about us?” Elena blinked folding her arms tightly. “There is no us Elena- we broke up got together broke up again- we were toxic” “we were working on things” she interrupted sitting forwards now. “Not anymore, my Fiance is upstairs, the mother of my child- you where exactly what Katherine was, a distraction” he told her and with that he walked away from the conversation and into the kitchen to make some food.

About ten minutes later Stefan camp ran into the room, Damon turned to him with a confused look. “Why do you look so concerned” he tutted going back to what he was doing. “Damon- you need to go upstairs” he told him sternly. “I’m about to, just need to finish this sandwich” he murmured not paying much attention to his brother. “Damon, now” Stefan warned him, “it’s about Y/n” “is she okay?” Damon turned round fiercely, paying more attention now. “She’s gone”. Damon’s eyes blinked a couple times and he dropped the knife running off in a flash.

Stefan wasn’t far behind him. “I came to congratulate her and I found this note” Stefan sighed pointing at the bed. Damon couldn’t find any words, he wondered over to the bed and picked it up.

𝒟ℯ𝒶𝓇 𝒟𝒶𝓂ℴ𝓃，

ℐ 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓇ℯ 𝓈ℴ𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝒷ℴ𝓊𝓉 𝓉𝒽ℯ 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓉， 𝒾 𝒶𝓂 𝓉ℴℴ． 𝒲ℯ 𝒸ℴ𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝒷ℯℯ𝓃 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝓉ℴ𝑔ℯ𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝒾𝒻 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝒹 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝓁ℴ𝓋ℯ𝒹 𝓂ℯ 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓃．ℐ 𝒹ℴ 𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝒻ℯℯ𝓁 𝓁𝒾𝓀ℯ 𝒾 𝒷ℯ𝓁ℴ𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓁𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒾 𝓌ℴ𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒶𝒷ℴ𝓊𝓉 𝓇𝒶𝒾𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝒾𝓃 𝒾𝓉．𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇ℯ𝒻ℴ𝓇ℯ 𝒾 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝑔𝒾𝓋ℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌ℯ𝓇 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝒾 ��𝒾𝑔𝓊𝓇ℯ ℴ𝓊𝓉 𝓌𝒽ℴ 𝒾 𝒶𝓂 𝓃ℴ𝓌． ℐ𝒻 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓃ℯ𝓋ℯ𝓇 𝓈ℯℯ 𝓂ℯ 𝒶𝑔𝒶𝒾𝓃， 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌ℯ𝓇，𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝒻 𝒾 𝒸ℴ𝓂ℯ 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓃 𝒾 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝒸𝒽ℴ𝓈ℯ𝓃 𝓉ℴ 𝒻ℴ𝓇𝑔𝒾𝓋ℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊． ℐ 𝒶𝓂 𝓈ℴ𝓇𝓇𝓎 𝒾𝓉 𝒽𝒶𝓈 𝓉ℴ 𝒷ℯ 𝓁𝒾𝓀ℯ 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈，𝒷𝓊𝓉 𝒾𝒻 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝒽𝒶𝓋ℯ 𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝒸𝒽𝒶𝓃𝑔ℯ𝒹 𝒾 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝓃ℴ𝓉 𝒷𝓇𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶 𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝓊𝓅 𝓌𝒾𝓉𝒽 𝓎ℴu, 𝒶𝓈 𝒶 𝓂ℴ𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓇 𝒾 𝓃ℯℯ𝒹 𝓉ℴ 𝓅𝓇ℴ𝓉ℯ𝒸𝓉 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓂， ℯ𝓋ℯ𝓃 𝒾𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓂ℯ𝒶𝓃𝓈 𝓀ℯℯ𝓅𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽ℯ𝓂 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒻𝓇ℴ𝓂 𝓎ℴ𝓊．

𝒲𝒽ℴ 𝓀𝓃ℴ𝓌𝓈，𝒾 𝓂𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉 𝓈ℯℯ 𝓎ℴ𝓊 𝓈ℴℴ𝓃．

ℒℴ𝓋ℯ 𝒴／𝓃

“Well fuck…”.

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[chemical-killjoy]

Mr. Bloody Brightside

Spike x reader

Word Count: 1.3k

Warnings: very silly and fluffy

Summary: Spike has a pity-party when he thinks Y/N likes someone else, only to be very wrong

Bloody bastard, Spike thought, as he paced his crypt. Tosser. Who did he think he is, Mr soddin' Perfect? Y/N probably thinks so.

It had been a rough day. Bored out of his mind, he thought he'd come find you, hang out. All the scoobies thought you were crazy, befriending Spike since a little before he got the chip in his head (Buffy didn't know you were friends before hand), and getting so close. Why would you want to be friends with a killer? But you saw there was a man beneath the monster, and you didn't mind the monster so much anyway. You'd bonded over your sense of style, hatred of the man, music and poetry. And Spike was everything to you. Unfortunately for him, he didn't know that.

So it was a warm Thursday evening when Spike got to your shitty apartment. Sometimes he'd dream of moving in with you, buying a better place so you didn't have to live in that shit hole. Put up some black-out curtains and he'd be good to go. But he didn't dare risk suggesting it. He knocked on the splintering door and was surprised when Willow greeted him.

“Spike, hey!”

“Willow, hi,” Spike looked behind her, craning his head a little. “Is Y/N here?”

“Oh, no, she's out with Charlie, I think he's finally gonna make a move!” Willow smiled up at him, not knowing the pain she was causing.

“Charlie, right. Charlie.” He huffed.

“Something wrong, Spike? You look a little paler than usual, and that's kinda saying something.”

“Yeah, yeah all good. Just, uh, tell her I was lookin' for her, will you? And that...” Spike took a breath, turning away. “No, just tell her that. Thanks, love.” He attempted to smile at Willow before leaving.

There were many benefits to being your friend. And one of them was your ability to find cheap CDs and your love of giving gifts. A while back, after seeing how barren his crypt was, you new what he needed. A few days later, there was a box on his doorstep, a CD player with built in radio, and a bunch of old CDs, both yours and ones you bought in a pile on top. Spike spent hours on the phone with you that night, listening to songs and asking which you liked, which were gag gifts and which you'd stake him if people knew you listened to.

And that's how Spike found himself blasting The Killer's 'Mr. Brightside' and singing along at only 9pm. He spent hours getting angry, training for fights, beating up the air, reasoning with himself why he was better for you, until he eventually gave up and sank into the misery. He picked up a half-full bottle of whisky, turned on the song and played it on repeat, singing, crying, dancing and drinking until the bottle hollowed into a microphone. It was a hell of a pity party, perfect for heartbreak such as this.

He was so sure you'd pick Charlie. You sure talked about him enough. And he was such a good guy it made Spike want to puke. He was tall, dark hair, muscly, with a smooth voice. He played guitar, and was teaching you, and what's more romantic than that? And he was only a year older than you. You probably thought Spike was an old man. But he's only a few decades past 100!

But more importantly, Spike was reminded of how much he isn't worthy of you. Like so many women he'd loved before, he was probably beneath you. He was lucky you were even friends with him, after all. He was a shit man, and now a shit vampire. Why would you care for him at all? He took another swig of what was left of the quickly diminishing liquor, and screamed the chorus into the bottle, laughing into a half sob-half scream. He huffed. And then he continued to sing and dance.

You'd know that tune anywhere. Mr. Brightside. One of your favourites, blasting from Spike's crypt. You could hear it outside, and were smirking for a minute before you knocked on the door.

No answer.

“Spike,” you yelled. “I know you're in there!”

“IT WAS ONLY A KISS!” Spike yelled the lyrics, and you giggled. No way had he heard you.

You tried the door, and it was unlocked. Weird, Spike wouldn't normally leave it unlocked... Unless he's going through something.

The sight before you told you he definitely was.

Spike was dancing with his back to you, black short sleeved shirt and black jeans, hair a mess, singing into a bottle of whisky. You couldn't help but laugh at the sight before you.

Spike jumped, and turned around so fast he nearly fell over. His eyes couldn't have been wider.

“Y/N, hi.” Spike rushed to turn the song off. “What're you doin' here, love?”

“Evidently crashing a one-man party.”

“I, er, I thought you'd be out with Charlie.”

“Charlie?”

“Yeah, Willow said, I went to visit you today.” Spike took another, smaller, swig. “You know, I think that boy is, uh, I think he'd be good for you, you know. He's got, uh, stability, for one, I guess, and-”

“Spike.”

“Yes?”

“I don't like Charlie, not like that.”

“You don't.”

“I don't.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah! He asked me out today, and while I was flattered, I said no. He's not the kinda guy I want to go on dates with.”

“What, cause he's so perfect?”

“Well, yeah, actually. He's so... nice. He's such a good guy, he has no faults, no flaws, nothing of real strength to him. Like he's sweet, don't get me wrong, and I like being his friend, but it's not like I'm into him. He's too... soft.”

“...oh.” Spike's brows raised and he nodded.

“Oh?” you couldn't help but giggled. “Spike, don't tell me you were jealous? You weren't gonna lose me even if I went out with him. We'd still be friends.”

“Yeah. Right. Friends.” Spike put the bottle down and sat on the couch. You came to sit next to him.

“Spike?”

“Yeah?” He hated how his heart leapt at you simply saying his name, and you loved how his eyes, open and honest, bore into yours.

“I, um,” you said, scooching closer. Spike took a sharp breath, feeling more intoxicated by your perfume than the whisky. “Do you, um, did you not want to be just friends?”

“Careful there, pet, what're you really asking?” Spike could swear he sobered up at your words.

You swallowed nervously before asking properly.

“Do you like me? As more than a friend?” You looked into his blue eyes, and he took a minute to process your words. If he said no, he'd be damned. If he said yes, he could lose you. He glanced down at your lips. Screw it.

“I adore you, Y/N. As much more than a friend.” His voice was low but soft. “I don't throw a bloody pity party when I think a girl's datin' someone because I think she's neat... I love you.” Spike was breathing faster with the words out in the open, and you didn't know what to say.

You opened and closed your mouth, not sure how to respond.

“Really?”

“Yes, of course, I-” Spike gave up, lurching forward and crashing his lips against yours.

You smiled into his lips, and sighed softly into the kiss, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him closer towards you, tasting the whisky on his tongue and pulling softly at short strands of pale hair. Spike put his arms around your waist and pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him. You stayed that way, lips locked, smiling, then you pulled away.

“I love you too.” And your lips were back on his.

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Taglist: @fandomfoodiedancer

[alilobsessive]

Master list!

Ask box: empty 

(And other important info)

To go Romancing!: The Romantic/Ship fics

Tbh

If you need some company: Fic’s we’re Platonic/Familial Relationships are the focus.

Dreaming of Teeth series:

Ch1: The risk I took was calculated, but man am I bad at math.

Ch2: Child Neglect!: On Ice!

Dreaming of Teeth asks! 1

Just thoughts: Story Ideas that I thought of but don’t have enough ideas for to actually make even a one shot or more.

Adult Reader learning there Bruce is kid

one-shot

Crypted Reader

Spawn Reader

Harvey Dent is Kid Reader one-shot

Vtuber Reader

Kid Reader

Mayday Reader(Kid Reader spinoff)

Squid Games Oneshot

Best Friend AU

Villain Reader snippet of there wip

Crow Reader

The Bob’s Burgers AU

Wip List

Dreaming Of Teeth p3

Adult reader p2

Squid games AU p2

Villain Reader one shot

Several romantic X Readers at varying stages of ‘do I really want to post this when I’m finished?’ All of which are Jason Todd fics. Non of which are close to being finished.

[noirscript]

05; the washing

Pairing: Yandere!Priest x Reader Description: You are not his lover—you are his altar, his sacred ruin, the pulse beneath every prayer he’s ever whispered into bloodstained hands. To Enoch, devotion means worship through possession, and he would rather see the world burn than let anyone else touch what he believes is divinely his. Warning/s: Yandere | Obsessive Devotion | Home Invasion | Implied Poisoning | Religious Delusions | Emotional Manipulation | Implied Kidnapping | Psychological Horror | Implied Noncon Note/s: Enjoy reading! Also, I fucked up a bit irl and behind some bills. Dark Roast is still on sale until end of the month. Also, commissions are still open. Either send me an email or message me on discord (noirscrypt) if interested.

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You feel the roses before you see them. Not the soft, powdered perfume you’d expect from a bridal bouquet, but something heavier—dense and humid, like breath trapped in a crypt. The scent clings, viscous and sweet with decay, steeped in overripe petals and the sharp sting of old blood. They’re waiting for you on the kitchen counter when you return from the final wedding tasting: twelve roses so dark they drink the light, packed in a box too tight, like wet organs stuffed into ribs.

No card. Just an envelope. Sealed.

The wax is unmistakable—red, cracked, pressed with the imprint of an ecclesiastical ring you last saw on the hand of a dead priest. You know that seal. You know that theft. You know who sent it before your fingers even dare to tremble over the parchment.

You were always the altar. I only ever wanted to kneel. Let me wash the dust from your feet, one final time. —E.

James asks who it’s from. You lie. Something about a florist’s mix-up. He hums an off-key tune as he pours wine and scrolls through reception playlists, his fingers brushing yours on the stem of the glass. But you barely feel it. Your skin still remembers the seal—still pulses from the echo of it. That wax might as well have branded you.

Enoch Saintclair.

You haven’t spoken his name in years. Not aloud. Not since you taught yourself not to dream about thunder and stained glass. Once, he was just the silent boy in church with a spine like a cathedral beam and eyes like holy water spoiled in a silver chalice. He smelled of old hymnals and myrrh, always one shadow too still. A former altar boy turned antique dealer with the uncanny grace of someone who never quite belonged to this century.

You sang in the same youth choir. You shared breath in the same confessional box. He once handed you a rose during Lent and carved your name into the wax of a votive candle. You laughed at something small during a storm once—just a joke—and he wrote an entire psalm about the curve of your mouth when you said the word forgive.

He didn’t see you as a girl.

He saw you as a sacred thing.

And instead of running, you smiled.

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

The night before your wedding, you lock the door. Bolt the windows. You place James’ wine on the nightstand and watch him drink too deeply, his lips loose with affection and slurred vowels. He falls asleep to the sound of your silence.

You don’t listen for footsteps. You listen for the places where silence folds in on itself. For the way the air changes when something holy goes rancid.

At 2:18 a.m., it arrives.

The temperature dips. The stillness thickens, syrupy and strange, like breath caught in prayer. And you know. Before you open your eyes, you already know.

He’s here.

And when your eyes do open, he’s standing at the foot of the bed—not entering, not arriving, simply being, as though he was never outside the room at all. As though he’s been sleeping somewhere deeper inside you, waiting for this moment like a sacrament.

Enoch stands in the half-light with a porcelain basin in his hands. Ornate. Victorian. Its rim is chipped, kissed by time, and filled with water so dark it gleams like oil. Steam curls from it in rich spirals. The scent of roses hits you first—roses drowned in something metallic, something older, something wrong. Like rust and salt and the slick sweetness of rot.

You don’t scream.

You sit up, throat tight. “You drugged him.”

He waits. Then, calm as candlelight: “He was unclean. He would’ve touched you without reverence. Without worship.”

He moves closer, slow and barefoot, robes of shadow swaying as he kneels beside the bed. The basin rests between you like an offering. He folds his long body into the posture of devotion—head bowed, spine bowed, hands trembling in the space between sin and surrender.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper.

He lifts his eyes to you, and it’s like drowning in sanctified ink. “You don’t believe that.”

Your pulse kicks like a trapped bird. “I’ll call the cops.”

“You won’t.” His voice is velvet, soaked in certainty. “You’re already wondering what’s in the water. Whether it’s holy oil, or rose water, or something redder. You’re wondering if it’s blood.”

You flinch. Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out.

He reaches for your ankle. You jerk back.

He doesn’t chase. He waits.

“Don’t touch me.”

“You said those words once before,” he murmurs. “And then you kissed my hand.”

“I was seventeen—”

“You anointed me.” His smile is the ghost of something unholy. “You touched me, and I bloomed into reverence.”

This time, when he takes your foot, you don’t resist. He dips it into the basin. The water is hot—intimate, obscene, like a mouth against your skin. You feel the heat ripple through you, feel it curl into places untouched. His hands tremble again, but not with hesitation.

With restraint.

He lifts a cloth. Begins to wash you. Slow. Painfully slow. His fingers trace over your arch, between each toe, up the soft skin of your heel like he’s mapping scripture. With every pass, the act becomes more than cleansing. It becomes adoration.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he says, voice rasping at the edges. “To carry someone in your mouth for years. To speak their name at dawn and dusk. To whisper it into your own skin. To kneel at altars and know—know—that none of them hold your divinity.”

His breath warms your calf. He presses his lips there, a kiss so slow it feels more like a vow.

“I would’ve torn out my tongue if you’d asked. I would’ve burned down every church that dared take your name in vain.”

“Why now?” The question cracks from your throat. “Why not let me go?”

“Because he doesn’t kneel,” Enoch whispers. “He fucks. I worship.”

He switches feet.

You don’t stop him.

The water has gone darker, laced with crushed petals and something thicker. When he lifts the cloth again, it’s already stained red. Beneath the surface, a shimmer of gold catches your eye—a bracelet. Yours. The one you lost your senior year. A single charm dangles from it: a heart, split and hollowed.

“I followed you to college,” he says. “Sat through lectures. Counted how many times you laughed. Knew when it was real. Knew when it wasn’t. I memorized the sound of your lies.”

He kisses your foot again. Slower. Deeper. His lips barely part, but the heat lingers.

“I made a shrine,” he breathes. “Books filled with your notes. Clothes that smelled like you. Hair I gathered from your brush. It was never desecration. It was sacred.”

“You’re sick.”

“I’m yours.”

He rises. The motion is fluid, reverent. His shadow drapes over you as he leans forward. Your back hits the headboard. There is nothing between you but breath and trembling will.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Enoch says, low. “You’re afraid of how right this feels.”

“I’m marrying him.”

“No.” A slow smile spreads across his lips. “He’ll sleep for days. The doctors won’t find a thing. And when they ask, you’ll say you don’t know what happened. Because you’re merciful. Because you’re kind. Because somewhere in you, I’m still the boy you never stopped blessing.”

“You’re insane.”

“I’m in love.”

He leans close. You feel his breath in your ear—hot, humid, consecrated.

“I’ve worshipped you in silence long enough.”

Then softer. Deeper.

“Let me serve you in sin.”

• ─────⋅☾ ☽⋅───── •

He leaves before dawn. No threats. No chains. No rage.

Only stillness.

You sit there, unmoving, the sheets heavy with him. When you finally rise, your feet leave damp, red prints on the wood. You scrub them. Again. Again. Until your skin peels.

But they stay red.

His scent clings to the sheets—roses and rust and old churches. You light candles. You pray. You try not to tremble.

When you glance out the window, you see it.

A cloth tied to the iron fence.

White. Folded. Bloodied.

An offering.

You want to look away.

But your eyes find the words, stitched in bruised thread along the fraying hem:

Blessed are the broken things... ...for they bend easier to worship.

TBC.

noirscript © 2025

Taglist: @hopingtoclearmedschool @violetvase @zanzie @neuvilletteswife4ever @yamekocatt @mel-vaz @vind1cta @greatwitchsongsinger @delusionalricebowl @nomi-candies @jsprien213 @kaii-nana33 @saturnalya

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[noobiestnoober]

Truth or Dare Gone Wrong (The Mystic Falls Gang and Reader)

A game of truth or dare at the Salvatore house starts off innocent enough—until you dare Bonnie to use a spell, and suddenly, Stefan is stuck speaking in rhymes, Damon’s hair turns bright pink, and you are somehow glowing in the dark.

The night started out almost suspiciously normal.

The Salvatore boarding house had that rare, peaceful vibe—as if the walls had momentarily forgotten all the times they’d been stained with blood, or echoed with Klaus’ taunting threats. The fireplace was flickering softly. A lazy indie playlist hummed in the background. Someone—probably Caroline—had strung fairy lights across the ceiling, giving the space a soft, golden glow that made the worn-out furniture feel cozier than it had any right to.

For once, no one was fighting. No one was bleeding. No ancient evil was crawling out of a crypt. It was just the Mystic Falls crew, lounging in a makeshift circle with blankets, pillows, pizza boxes, and a dangerously underestimated sense of peace.

You had just taken a sip of soda when Elena, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, said the cursed words.

“Truth or dare?”

Bonnie, immediately suspicious, gave her a withering look. “Seriously? Can we not tempt fate for one night?”

Jeremy snorted. “You say that like we haven’t already tempted, pissed off, and danced with fate about twelve times this week.”

“It’s a harmless game,” Elena said with a shrug.

Damon raised his glass. “Says the girl whose last harmless game got us locked in a haunted corn maze with a headless banshee.”

Stefan gave his brother a pointed look, but his lips twitched with amusement. Still, despite Bonnie’s half-hearted protests, and the unspoken what could go wrong hanging in the air like a warning, everyone agreed. Maybe it was boredom. Maybe it was habit. Or maybe it was the kind of collective denial only a group of supernatural misfits could afford.

The bottle was retrieved from the kitchen, placed in the center of the circle, and given a spin.

It started off... well. Manageable. Funny, even. A few tame truths. A few harmless dares. Stefan reluctantly jogged shirtless around the house after losing a bet. Caroline was dared to speed-clean Damon’s liquor shelf alphabetically and did so with glitter and flair. Elena admitted she once fantasized about making out with Elijah during a particularly weird dream—and then pretended she hadn’t said it by stuffing her mouth with chips. Damon was dared to compliment Jeremy ten times in a row and got through five before dramatically fake-gagging and muttering something about his “tragically average bone structure.”

Everyone laughed. The laughter was warm and real. Then the bottle landed on Bonnie.

She arched a brow. “Truth or dare?” you asked, unable to hide your grin.

Bonnie didn’t hesitate. “Dare.”

You leaned in. “Use a spell.”

Immediately, the mood shifted. Everyone exchanged glances. Bonnie straightened, her expression unreadable.

“Nothing serious,” you added quickly. “Just... something fun. Something dumb.”

Caroline tilted her head. “Like what? Turning the lights different colors? Floating snacks?”

“Sure,” you said, already regretting everything. “Something like that.”

Bonnie stared at you for a long second. Then she sighed and stood up. “Okay. Fine. One spell. No promises.”

She reached into her bag and pulled out a small crystal, whispering under her breath as she moved to the center of the room. The lights dimmed slightly. The fire crackled louder. And then, in a voice that sounded just a little too ancient for your comfort, she muttered something in Latin and waved her hand.

There was a brief shimmer in the air, like heat rising off pavement. The fairy lights pulsed. The candle flames danced.

Then silence. Nothing exploded. Nothing caught fire. You exhaled. Too soon.

Stefan suddenly sat up straighter and, with perfect seriousness, said, “What in the name of hell just occurred? My chest feels tight, my thoughts are slurred.”

Everyone blinked.

“Did you just... rhyme?” Elena asked.

Stefan opened his mouth again. “I fear my voice is not my own. These cursed words—I speak in tone.”

Bonnie’s eyes went wide. “Oh no.”

Damon, who had been halfway through sipping his bourbon, looked up with narrowed eyes. “Oh no what?”

“I think the spell... reacted,” Bonnie said, backing away. “It might have tied itself to the game.”

“That doesn’t even make sense,” you said. “It was just a dare.”

“Yes, and I dared chaos. So... congratulations, you’re welcome.”

While everyone tried to process that, Damon stood up and stalked over to the mirror near the staircase. He paused, stared, and screamed.

“Oh, hell no.”

He turned slowly, seething. His perfectly tousled hair—his pride, his signature—was now a blinding shade of neon pink.

“Someone fix this before I set the entire block on fire.”

“You can’t threaten arson in a tiara-colored mop,” Caroline deadpanned, half-laughing, half-horrified.

You blinked and looked down at your hands. Oh. You were glowing. No—radiating. A soft, golden shimmer rolled across your skin, pulsing in time with your heartbeat.

“Bonnie?” you said carefully.

She turned. Her eyes widened.

“Oh my god.”

“I’m glowing.”

“Yep.”

“Like a radioactive lightning bug.”

“I think the spell is bonding to each of us,” she said slowly, scanning the room. “Based on who we are, what we dared, or maybe... I don’t know... emotional resonance?”

Damon flailed. “My emotional resonance is not pink, thank you very much!”

Stefan sighed and sank into the nearest chair. “Of all the things to make me do, why rhyme? I’d rather die than waste my time.”

“You are wasting our time,” Damon muttered, still glaring at his reflection. “At least try a haiku or something.”

“Guys,” Bonnie said, rubbing her temples, “the spell is unstable. If we don’t finish the game, the effects could stick.”

Jeremy perked up. “So we have to keep playing?”

“No,” Stefan said dramatically. “We must continue this cursed affair, or suffer longer in despair.”

“That’s a yes,” Bonnie translated.

And so the game resumed.

—

If the first half had been silly, the second half was absolute supernatural anarchy. Elena’s next dare gave her brief telepathy—just long enough for her to hear Damon’s thoughts and physically recoil.

“Oh my god.”

“What?” he said.

“You—think—in French when you lie.”

Damon didn’t even deny it. “Helps with finesse.”

Caroline, ever the overachiever, accepted a dare to teleport—but immediately vanished mid-sentence and reappeared on top of the kitchen counter. Then again in the hallway. Then, horrifyingly, in Stefan’s shower.

Matt turned into a stone statue for five whole minutes when he refused to answer a dare, only revived after Bonnie waved a candle and sang Beyoncé under her breath.

And you—your glow was brighter now. It shifted with your emotions. Every time someone shouted or shrieked, you pulsed like a heartbeat monitor on espresso. You were afraid to stand too close to anything flammable.

Stefan, rhyming now with bitter elegance, was narrating the entire night in tragic couplets like some cursed Shakespearean bard.

By the end, everyone was slumped in various states of exhaustion and spiritual damage.

Bonnie stood slowly. “One more round. Then I can end it.”

“Don’t you need, like, an actual reversal ritual?” you asked.

She shook her head. “It started with a dare. It ends with one.”

She looked around. Then dared herself. The room darkened. Magic sparked around her fingertips. She spoke fast, incantations layered in an ancient tongue. The spell pulsed out of her like a wave, and all at once—

Your glow vanished. Stefan exhaled in silence. Caroline reappeared on the couch with a relieved squeak. Jeremy finally stopped trying to get the bottle to spin on its own. And Damon? Damon stared at his reflection.

“Still pink,” he muttered.

Bonnie winced. “Yeah, that one’s... probably gonna fade naturally. In a week. Or so.”

Damon turned slowly, eyes murderous. “A week?”

“You dared the spell,” she reminded him.

“No. She did.” He pointed directly at you.

You raised your hands, no longer glowing, and smiled. “Worth it.”

Later

Everyone had gone home—or, more accurately, scattered like trauma survivors. You stayed behind to help clean up. Damon, sullen and sparkling under the low light, poured himself another drink, tiara still in place because Caroline had dared him to keep it for the rest of the night and Bonnie had reinforced it with a binding charm. He caught you smirking.

“Laugh it up, glow worm.”

You saluted with your soda. “Truth or dare, Damon?”

He narrowed his eyes. “Dare.”

You leaned back with a grin. “Be normal for a whole day.”

Damon groaned.

“Pure evil,” he muttered, downing his drink.

You didn’t disagree.

🕯️ Truth or Dare is now banned from the Salvatore boarding house under magical law. Violators will be glitter-bombed and hexed accordingly.

The Sequel to this story is uploaded. Enjoy!

[cryptiam]

yo, i've been using your persona custom contents in sims 4, and i can say i'm a fan of your work. btw, is there any chance that you'll upload sumi's purple dress from her rank 8 confidant event (i even called it her signature dress, lol)?

Thank you! Glad you're having fun with the cc

(You looked familiar and I realize I followed you on my Grim Reaper twitter account lmao)

I'm working on one final round of P5R cc, so I'll prob add Sumi's dress to it

[dragon-subway]

I like looking at the "just guys being dudes" kind of content because it's exactly what clones would do. College age guys digging holes for no reason other than fun.

Gotta love the classic “just guy being dudes” stuff they deserve it, man, makes em feel more alive. Some of my favourite stuff to draw fr fr

[b-skarsgard]

Bill Skarsgård’s transformation into the hideous-looking vampire Count Orlok for Robert Eggers’ “Nosferatu” was an arduous process — with the end goal of making the Swedish actor completely unrecognizable.

“I was not so interested in Bill’s features, aside from his eyes,” Eggers says of Skarsgård. “The things that make [Orlock] not just an intimidating, masculine human being, is the fact that he’s also decaying and dead. Even the design of the teeth needed to be something that could be fucked up.”

Oscar nominated makeup effects designer David White created over 62 prosthetic pieces that required a team of six to apply. Skarsgård was covered from head to toe, including elements for his tongue and eyes. Only the soles of his feet were untouched.

read the at the link or under the cut

The film reimagines F.W. Murnau’s 1922 silent classic starring Max Schreck, whom Eggers wanted to reference when it came to Orlock’s look. One such detail was in Orlok’s hands and fingers. “I wanted to extend Bill’s fingers ever so slightly, and I [asked] David about creating something to push the envelope,” says Eggers.

In coming up with a concept for the hands and fingers, White had one that was quickly scrapped. “I was playing with the idea of soft mechanics to extend them, but they’re really long and they weren’t as dexterous,” he says. The idea was too cumbersome for something that had to be very sharp. Orlok also needed to hold things, open boxes and write letters.

White used a dense material so Skarsgård could feel things. It took a while to get to the final design, but in the end, the nails were a quarter of an inch longer on the tips. They were custom-made to be “gnarly and weathered,” White says. “‘Arthritic’ was a word we looked at, as well as having them slightly unusual in their angle.

“They’re not quite right, as if they’ve been used for so many years.”

In a nod to Schreck’s silhouette, Eggers also wanted Orlok to be hunchbacked. White built a one-piece prosthetic with a thick foam insert. “That took away the weight, otherwise, it would be 46 pounds of silicon,” White says. Breaking down the application, he adds, “The back goes on first, the front overlaps the back, but the rest is all in little sections across the arms and the legs. It’s between 18 to 25 different pieces of muscle which overlap. They were pre-painted and ready to go.”

Orlok’s full reveal comes when Ellen’s (Lily-Rose Depp) husband Thomas (Nicholas Hoult) heads to the crypt and finds the sarcophagus. Orlok is in a state of decay with intricate veining and coloring.

White made it darker on the underside because he’s been lying down, but his front is lighter and waxier.

Florin Lăzărescu, the film’s Romanian folklore consultant, was the inspiration for the blood-pooling color. Says Eggers, “He reminded me that the vampire is often described as being red-faced in Romanian folklore, which was a concept that was very intimidating to do. What David came up with was beautiful, and he did paint jobs where this guy was red as hell.”

White was tasked with creating full body prosthetics, including a penis. “It was a necessary piece to make,” he laughs. Eggers adds, “I was allowed one penis [for] this movie. He rises out of the coffin naked. That in itself is a bit of a phallic act, as is most of everything that Orlok does in the movie.”

Every detail of a decayed Orlok was considered, including a dead eye made possible with special contact lenses. “I even made a sock of a tongue that Bill could use in certain scenes, which was all gnarly and scored and black and horrible, you know. So poor Bill, he took it well,” White says.

[idrawweirdstuffnominors]

okay, so i know your reqs are temp closed, but i'm desperate, ABSOLUTELY DESPERATE, and in love with your writing style... for some transmale reader x bill who adopt a kid... from how they decide to adopt to maybe the early moments of meeting their kid

PLEASE i know your reqs are closed and im SOSOSO sorry but your writing style is SO GOOD i have cried to your fics before

( YES YES YES!!

“So We’re Doing This, Huh”

(Epilogue bill dickey x trans male reader!

(Modern bill dickey

It starts the way most things do with Bill these days — with yelling. Not his yelling, though. Some poor bastard on the train is going at it with their toddler, tugging at their coat sleeve like it’s a chew toy. Bill watches from his spot by the window, arms crossed, one boot kicked up on the edge of the opposite seat like he owns the car. He doesn’t even like trains — they’re slow, loud, and crawling with “pop culture zombies and diaper gremlins.”

He mutters something about the decay of society and kids with “iPad brains,” and you roll your eyes.

“I’m just saying,” he grumbles, not looking at you, “back in my day, a tantrum in public got you a backhand and a grounding, not a f***ing TikTok and a juice box.”

“Back in your day,” you say, dryly, “dinosaurs walked the earth and the SNES was peak technology.”

That gets a snort. “You wish. Kids these days wouldn’t know good media if it pissed on their Funko Pops.”

But he keeps looking — not at the dad, not at the mess — but the kid. Dirty cheeks, snot-crusted nose. Crying, yeah, but it’s the kind of cry that isn’t just spoiled — it’s scared. Small. Alone.

You nudge him. “You keep staring like that, people are gonna think you’re the creep.”

Bill scoffs. “You think I give a sht* what people think?”

But he does. Especially you. The ones who squint at you funny in stores when they clock your voice, or when they don’t and later do. The ones who call you ‘lady’ or ‘miss’ and get real hostile when corrected. The way his jaw twitches when he hears it — he always notices. You stopped needing to ask him to step in months ago.

“Y’know,” you say casually, “if we adopted a kid, you could train them properly.”

You meant it as a joke.

Bill doesn’t laugh.

He looks away, eyes darting to the side.

“…Why the hell would you even want to do that?”

You shrug. “I think we’d be good at it. You’d teach them how to argue. I’d teach them how to calm down.”

He grunts. “Cute. So I’m the attack dog, and you’re the therapy plush.”

“You’re more of a porcupine. But I like porcupines.”

You expect more mockery. Some edgy rant about how the world isn’t fit for kids, how parenting’s a racket, how even fandom couldn’t survive modernity, let alone a child’s mind.

Instead, he’s quiet.

Really quiet.

“...It’d have to be a weird kid,” he finally mutters. “Like, a really f***ing weird one. A kid that likes practical effects and eats the green jellybeans and gets bullied for knowing who Lon Chaney is.”

You smile.

“Yeah,” you say. “Someone like that.”

---

The agency building smells like antiseptic and popcorn. The lights are too bright. The other prospective parents look like they stepped out of a J.Crew catalog. You and Bill… don’t.

He’s wearing a faded Creepshow tee under a wrinkled flannel jacket, and you’re in a Baggy graphic Tee , half-worried they’re gonna ask for proof you’re married or some invasive sh*t about your body. Passing or not.

You fill out the forms. The social worker gives Bill a once-over, like he’s about to spit on the carpet. He glares at them like they’re a reboot of Tales from the Crypt.

You meet the kid in a cramped playroom with stained carpet and a broken lava lamp.

They’re small. Big eyes. Hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed in a while. They’re sitting in the corner, drawing something on a piece of paper. It looks like… a monster?

No, wait.

A kaiju. It has a lopsided smile and a rocket arm.

Bill leans down next to you, arms crossed.

“…Okay. Not bad taste.”

The kid looks up — wary.

Bill squats down, cracking his knees.

“You into Gamera or just freestyling?”

The kid shrugs. “They made fun of it at school. Said it was dumb.”

Bill’s nostrils flare. Good sign.

“They’re dumb,” he says, flatly. “You like practical effects?”

“What’s that?”

He smirks.

“I’ll show you later.”

You sit beside them, letting them pass you a crayon. No big speeches. No dramatic music.

Just a quiet moment. A slow unfolding.

When they ask what to call you, you say your name — and nothing more. No pressure. No labels.

When they ask what to call Bill, he says, deadpan, “Overlord.”

The kid laughs.

You’re gonna be okay.

“Bedtime is a Scam, Kid”

The kid’s stuff isn’t even unpacked yet. Their duffel’s still by the couch, and the bedframe Bill built is crooked. (“I don’t need f*ing IKEA instructions, I’ve been building model kits since I was twelve.”) He refused to buy any furniture branded with Minions, Disney, or Marvel. Their sheets are black with little glow-in-the-dark bats on them, which he picked out.

“They’re not babyish,” he’d argued. “They’re thematic.”

Now it’s 9:30. You’re in sweats, exhausted, brushing your teeth while Bill stands awkwardly in the hallway, arms folded, glaring into the dim bedroom like the concept of bedtime itself owes him money.

Inside, the kid is curled under the bat covers, wide-eyed and not even pretending to sleep.

“You want me to read something or what?” you ask gently.

The kid shrugs. “They always used to read me the same book before bed.”

You nod. “Do you have it?”

They shake their head. “…No. I left it.”

They look small again, like they’re shrinking under the covers. Your heart aches.

Then, from the doorway:

“Bedtime is a scam.”

Bill’s voice. Rough. Defiant.

You turn. “Jesus, Bill—”

“No, listen,” he says, stepping into the room like a man about to make a presentation at Comic-Con. “You ever read the original Grimm’s Fairy Tales? They weren’t ‘goodnight, moon,’ they were ‘hope you like dismemberment and Catholic guilt.’”

The kid sits up, confused but intrigued.

Bill points a finger. “They sanitized everything. Modern stories? They’re full of sh*t. You wanna hear a real bedtime story?”

“Bill,” you say, warningly.

But the kid nods. “…Yeah.”

Bill plops onto the floor cross-legged, cracking his knees like a glow stick. He’s not smiling — he never really smiles — but his tone’s got a twisted warmth to it. Like a guy showing you his prized VHS collection.

“Alright. So once upon a time, there was this kid named Hans who lived in a village of bootlickers. One day, he meets Death in the woods—yes, Death, like a bony bastard with a cloak. And Hans doesn’t scream or cry or try to TikTok it. He bargains. And that’s the first smart protagonist we get in Western canon.”

The kid’s eyes are locked on him. You’re frozen in the doorway.

“And what happens?” the kid whispers.

Bill shrugs. “They make a deal. Hans tricks Death. Steals his magic sack. Locks him in a tree for seven years. Chaos ensues. People can’t die, the world falls apart, and eventually, Hans gets scared, lets Death out, and dies. The end.”

“…That’s a terrible ending,” says the kid.

“Exactly,” says Bill, nodding in approval. “It’s honest. The moral is: you can’t cheat death, but you can make him work for it. Kinda metal, right?”

The kid giggles. Actually giggles. Then lies back down, eyes wide with something halfway between awe and sleepiness.

You just stare at Bill. He meets your gaze like what?

“...You told our kid a literal death allegory as a lullaby,” you whisper.

“I edited out the part where the townspeople riot and eat each other. You’re welcome.”

You sigh. But the kid’s already asleep.

You brush a hand over their hair, quietly pulling the blanket up, and when you walk back into the hallway, Bill follows.

“Don’t make it a thing,” he says under his breath.

“What?”

“You’re doing the face. The look. The ‘aww, Bill has a heart’ look.”

You smirk. “You literally just improvised Grimm's Tales fanfic to help our kid sleep.”

He grunts. “Yeah, well. Somebody’s gotta undo the brainrot from this capitalist nursery trash.”

You reach over, lace your fingers through his as you walk down the hall. His hand twitches, but he doesn’t pull away.

“You’re doing good, Bill.”

“Tell that to the f***ing bedframe. It’s listing like the Titanic.”

“Still. I think you’re gonna be a great dad.”

He groans. “You’re trying to make me cry. Stop it.”

“I Don’t Say It. I Do It.”

It’s late. The apartment is finally quiet.

You’re in the bathroom, staring at your reflection. Not in a self-obsessed way — more like... monitoring. Jawline. Shoulders. That shirt you swore fit better last month is clinging wrong, and your binder’s pinching like hell after twelve hours. You look tired. You feel tired.

You splash your face and lean on the sink.

From behind the door: a knock. Not gentle.

“Hey.” Bill’s voice. “You dead in there?”

You open the door a crack.

“I’m fine,” you mutter. “Just needed a minute.”

He sees right through it. Of course he does.

Bill steps in. Doesn’t ask permission — doesn’t have to, not with you. Just wedges in the doorway beside you, arms crossed, sizing you up with that squint like he’s trying to decide if you’re being dramatic or not. Then he sees your binder’s edge peeking out from under your sleep shirt, and something about his stare sharpens.

“You wore that thing all day?”

You glance away. “It’s not a big deal.”

“It is if you’re two steps from passing out like a fainting goat.”

You snort. He cracks half a grin. Then, gently — for him — he reaches forward, tugging at the fabric near your ribs.

“Take it off,” he says. “Before I cut it off you.”

You roll your eyes, but you do. And he’s there the whole time, acting like he’s busy fiddling with the faucet or counting toothpaste caps, but you catch how his eyes flick to your chest, then away — fast, like it’s not even a thing worth noting. Like it doesn’t change a thing.

When it’s off, he doesn’t look at your body. He looks at you — your face, your expression. Like he’s checking if the storm behind your eyes has passed.

Then he shrugs. “Better.”

You nod. “Yeah.”

You lean back against the counter, arms folded, exhausted. Bill huffs through his nose, watching you a beat longer.

“…You’re doing good,” he mutters, barely above audible.

“What?”

He growls like he hates repeating himself. “I said you’re doing good. With the kid. With all of this.”

You blink. That’s… rare. Coming from him.

“You are too,” you say.

He scoffs. “No, I’m surviving. You’re the one who talks to him like a person. I just tell bedtime horror stories and threaten the cafeteria with bodily harm if they don’t stop giving him f***ing ham every day.”

You laugh under your breath. “He likes the stories.”

Bill shrugs. “Yeah. Well. I like him.” Then a pause. “I like you.”

It slips out like a mistake. But he doesn’t take it back. Doesn’t even look away.

You raise your eyebrows. “You getting sentimental on me, Dickey?”

“Shut up,” he says.

But then — a small shift.

His hand, rough and dry from years of handling comics and takeout boxes, slides up behind your neck. Not forceful. Just steady. He looks at you like he’s about to argue again — but doesn’t.

Instead, he leans in.

It’s not a swooping, cinematic kiss. It’s quick. Grounded. Real. Tastes faintly like coffee and whatever chips he stress-ate after the kid went to sleep.

But it’s honest.

He pulls back. Not far. Just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re not just some guy I ended up with,” he says. “You’re you. And I picked you. Remember that.”

You swallow. Your throat’s tight, but not in a bad way.

“I remember.”

He snorts. “Good. ’Cause I’m not sayin’ it again.”

Then he pats your hip — more of a weird half-assed affectionate smack — and mutters, “C’mon. If I’m cuddling, I’m doing it horizontal.”

[noctilucid]

Dannymay Poetry - Day 10 Family

Danny wandered to the front of the room like a plastic bag dragged by a light breeze, his legs steady only because they'd disconnected from his brain. He still had that deer-in-headlights look as he turned to face the class, like his Pavlovian response to bolt to the bathroom was a hair's breath from kicking in and whisking him away.  

"Um," he said, voice cracking, "it's in free verse?"

Sam mimed a deep breath and smiled at him from the back.  Tucker gave him a thumbs up.  Danny locked eyes on his papers and let the hasty words swell up his throat and over his tongue like water, slowly finding his rhythm as the lines lapped against the walls.

I perch on the banister and look down into a still house, A living room in miniature, doll-like. Stale air smells like the summer I was 8, Something indelibly Us leeching from the carpet, or walls. The smell that can only emerge when we are gone, Our home shut up like a box.  This emptiness feels like you.  Here is a version of me, a tapestry, Of a moment, and a moment, and a moment Shuttled through time and bound in white string. A houseplant left to yellow and stretch from a dark end table As our furniture collects dust. You live in hypotheticals In equations and circuits and graphs— And perhaps I learned that from you And wove myself into myth. Now, the ghost of us sleeps below Encased in solder-smoke and chrome. You built a rocket ship inside-out. As I sit in our mausoleum, the orange gloam of sunset Grows from the window across the dingy floor. And a vision out of the past— my sister glows like fire in that light In cheap bangles and striped socks, Feet kicking in the air as she reads on the rug. She rolls her eyes at me, but I lay down next to her anyway. I use the cover of her book to pin my star map flat So I can trace the constellations. I will not break the silence, only feel the thud... thud Through the floor as she taps her feet, deep in thought.   We exist in a bubble of warmth. I used to beg you for stories of constellations and cosmonauts. That far-flung dark, beautiful and hostile and unknown, Was my siren's call, not so unlike yours. How strange it is to be spun from an essence That has become my opposite, To be made and destroyed in the same breath. Did Clotho weave my life backwards, a chiral pair to yours? For one instant I held the heavens in my left hand. My catasterism— blast shadows etched across the walls. Am I interesting to you now? If only the stars would catch us as we fall, And usher gently in that good night. Charon nor Orion saw their poisoned stings.  Atropos snipped, and they fell unawares. Now I ask, do you believe in the Fates? Ticking down in our clockwork universe. Does there exist a sky with no constellations? But here the whole menagerie is loose With Cetus in the lead. You build blast doors over my deepest place And see if they will hold. Come, dam up the infinity behind them. You think you can close the hole you made, But you only seal yourselves into our family crypt. See?  I have already stepped through. I go to the threshold and open the doors.  I stand on the shore to cast the ashes, Let them sink into the tide.  Loss is in our nature.  Now I know And I am trying to let go. I can't contain you. I am only an echo of your voice. I am only the parts of you that didn't hurt to keep. One thread at a time, I cut myself away. What white string is left, you can have. 

...A stillness lingered after his voice fell off into which Lancer murmured, "You wrote that today?" 

[fabseg-creator]

I imagined this image yesterday.

It talks about Thomas Astruc "giving his answers" to the people who ask questions on him about his animated series (explanations, coherency, character development, alternate soluces, salting, plot, etc.).

Example:

Why haven't Chloé any redemption ?

Why Teen Bunnyx didn't seen the moment when Cerise stole the Butterfly miraculous (which fell in the water of the Crypt) via the Burrow ?

Why Bunnyx didn't noticed the disguised Cerise entering in the mansion while Bug Noire and Monarch fought each other ?

Why Timestalker, when she returned back to the Plage, didn't thought about reading the book BEFORE rejecting the akuma (that could make Cerise correct the Chronobug's vandalism) ?

How can Cerise be able to imprison and paralyze Nooroo (with finger snap) WITHOUT touching the Butterfly brooch (and without wearing it on her) ?

Why hasn't anybody created a healer sentimonster to healing Emilie and Nathalie from their magic illnesses (like in the Scarlet Lady comic) instead of seek the Ladybug and Cat miraculouses ?

Why Mei Shi the spirit of the Prodigous didn't felt the arson against his guardian's kung-fu school in what his master Wu Shifu (Fei's adoptive father) has been killed ?

Why none of any kwami hasn't felt the negative energy (and Nooroo's distress) caused by Cerise when the latter used the Butterfly miraculous for her auto-akumatization into Timestalker and Spectral Looter while Wayzz already felt the negative energy from Hawkmoth in Origins ?

In the Re-Verse, The Supreme is the master of the world but also the Guardian of his/her own Miracle Box. In there, there are the same miraculouses like the Quantic Miracle Box. And there are Ladybug, Cat, Butterfly and Peacock miraculouses. So, there is a Rabbit miraculous. Why the Supreme didn't thought to use the Rabbit miraculous for tracking Gabriel after the latter stole the Butterfly and Peacock jewels to him/her ?

In response, you can imagine (in your mind) TA can answers to you:

Warning: The post is a dark humour-themed parody. It doesn't require any bullying or offend.