#hes the neighborhoods shiny <3

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

terrible quality Image, high quality Man <3

[hazelfoureyes]

I just need you to know this story has had me in a chokehold and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I am enjoying writing it. This is gonna be a weird smutty slow burn, so still smut every post but full p in v sex will be a reward you have to work for?

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Redsmut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedysmut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds

A burlesquer with a penchant for conning men, you find your latest game interrupted when your next mark saves you from an aggressive fan— by killing him. The chance encounter left you curious, still half convinced you could complete your normal chase. Unbeknownst to you, you were the one being tracked.

「warnings/tags: HumanAlastor x FemaleReader, implied attempt to SA, fingering, plot with porn?, Multi part work, bad kind of choking, blood kink, blood licking, just in general blood, Non-Sex repulsed Ace Spectrum Alastor, stalking, murder obvs, finger sucking, smoking kinda kills if you squint, Public sex acts, garter belt, You have a stage name but no one important uses it, Greed, Lust, Human Alastor is a little different than Demon Alastor. 」

minors dni 💅🏽

Part 1 Pretty in Red

The marriage between burlesque and jazz wasn’t unexpected. Before the Great Depression took the nation into a stranglehold, both Jazz and Burlesque were immoral wastes of time only the most barbaric sought out.

And oh, did you love it. Everyone who was made to feel like nobody flocked to your theater and the surrounding neighborhood. Men, women, the people who didn’t agree with either. The biblically inclined, those closer to sodom, the sapphic dolls. Everyone was equal in the halls of jazz rooms and theatres where burlesquers were welcome.

Because of the inclusive nature of such places, you often saw familiar faces. It wouldn’t be unusual for someone from Thursday night to be seen Saturday at a different locale.

That presented certain opportunities and challenges. When you found a good mark, it was easy to be wherever he was and play it off as fate and common interests.

And when you gained a new stalker, someone wanting a personal show, it could be hard to tell until it was too late. 

Maybe it was your greed, or just your love of attention, but you found yourself focused almost entirely on a particularly well dressed man one evening. You’d seen him around before. Clean cut, sharp suit, a welcoming smile always on display. He looked like he had money, the most attractive quality of any man you could meet.

So focused on his gleaming stare from the side booths you hadn’t noticed the man at the stage front tables. You barely noticed him the night before, or the night before that, either. Because Smiles, as you took to calling the handsome stranger in the back, had been here three nights now too.

You really put on a show. Shimmying your hips, ostrich feathers following suit with every move. Your brassiere was heavy with shining rhinestones, panties of silk and lace. Your set was almost done, all that was left was to remove your top and slink away behind the curtains to hollers and whistles. Back turned, you unhooked the painful bra and let it fall to the stage with a clunk. Foot in front of foot, you stalked the stage length. With your hand hidden from view you took the feathered fan from the stagehand behind the curtain. As the music crescendoed you turned, fan unfurling just in time to hide yourself.

Groans, mass begging from the audience. Your stage name a chant now, a prayer. “Autumn! Come on!”

As the band slowed, music dying to mark the end of your number, you scanned the crowd. Eyes blinking coyly, you mouthed, “More? Did you want more?”

People were jumping to their feet, not Smiles but that was fine, you were focused now on the adoration of the crowd. The music ended, a second of silence. 

You winked, the drums hitting one last beat as you let the fan close.

Fanfare! Men whistling, women clapping. Someone shouted a marriage proposal. You took a bow, twirled on the balls of your feet and slipped gracefully behind the curtains.

Your hands wound to your spine, rubbing blood flow back into your skin as the staff removed your headdress. Someone slipped your robe over you and you nodded a thanks, aching feet carrying you to the dressing room. It was chaos, as usual. Women buzzing around, tits and ass here and there. You smiled. You happened to enjoy this part of the job. Soft bodies in shiny costumes, lovely smells and sweet voices. If you could get dressed quickly enough, you could still take a tour of the room and slide into Smiles’ booth. 

“Enjoy the show?” You’d ask. He’d lean in, maybe blush, “Always when you’re here.” Or something like that. You’d cozy up to him, flag down a waiter for something strong and pricey, and get him properly drunk. He’d wake up outside, fine and dandy except his missing cash. 

You’ll call him a drunkard if he confronts you, accuse him of getting himself robbed after you refused his advances. You’ll say it too loudly, and he’ll run off. 

You danced a little in your seat, another game of cat and mouse about to commence. But first, a smoke.

Unbeknownst to you, the well dressed man hadn’t come to see you. He preferred your singing shows at the little dive bar two blocks over. No, he had come for the man at the front table. For weeks now, he had watched him harassing the ladies of the few joints in New Orleans that weren’t regularly hounded by police. Your smiley mark even heard stories of unsavory acts, many women leaving the dance scene entirely after.

He didn’t care for it. He didn’t care for him. So he took to his hunt, following the man to come to his own conclusions. The pattern of behavior was obvious, and though he hadn’t seen what ended the last obsession, it was clear one of the performers at this club was being stalked as the next victim. 

He watched your dance with half lidded eyes, just as much as he watched the man give dirty looks to the other men cheering. Heard the, “Marry me!” shouted at you.

Yes, it was obvious to him now. 

So when the target of his interest got up and pushed his way into a staff only door, well, the well dressed man was sure to follow. 

The great thing about confidence and a nicely tailored suit is that no one questions you about why you are where you are. So while the brute he tailed had to shove past people to get wherever he was going, people smiled and made room for the gentleman who was not far behind.

He caught the street access door before it closed, allowing it to stay open just a sliver. Enough for one golden brown eye to watch the events unfold.

“Can I have a light?” The stranger asked you. You looked at him, then to the staff only entrance he just came out of. 

“I don’t think I know you….,” you handed him the lighter but he instead leaned into you, cigarette hanging from his lips. “You… new?”

You sparked the flint with a practiced thumb, taking three tries to get it lit, and put your hand out. The man didn’t budge, eyebrows rising, “You really don’t recognize me?” He asked, motioning with his hand to come closer. Your eyes glanced down the alley, cars slowly moving past the street. When you looked back, the man took your wrist in his hand. He held you so tightly that the muscles in your palm locked and you dropped the lighter. 

“What the fu-,” his hand came across your face, halting your sentence.

“I’m your best customer. Every show. I’m the one who brings flowers.”

Dozens of men bring flowers, especially on the weekend shows. You held your cheek, skin burning. Your hand pulled back, the corner of your lip bleeding from his rings. Scrambling, your mind was searching for the right words.

With a forced smiled, your shaky voice finally piped up, “Oh! Yeah! Oh geez. I am so sorry, doll. I’m just so tired, and the alley is so dark. Here, let’s go inside so I can get a better look at you.” You tried to take your wrist from him but he didn’t loosen up.

“Nah, you ain’t tricking me. You owe me.” He pulled you into him, large hand gripping your face with ease, “You can’t lead on men like this and think you don’t gotta answer for it.” He kissed you, forcing your face into his. “Bitch! Did you fucking bite me?” He threw you into the tin trash cans beside the wall, knocking the wind out of you. 

No purse, no sharp object, not even a heeled shoe to defend yourself with. You cursed, so preoccupied with Smiles you forgot your wits.

You spit out the copper saliva, his blood and yours. “I’ll keep biting, too.” 

Why scream? The sounds of the next act were bouncing off the brick walls. Upbeat jazz and applause echoing around you. No one would hear you. Men can break your body but you never had to give them your dignity. Never give them the satisfaction of a response.

No. No screaming. You instead spent your energy trying to get to your feet. He took hold of your neck now, throttling you. It wasn’t what you had expected, but as he lifted you off the ground and your little dressing room slippers fell off, you thought this was actually better. 

“Well I think that’s quite enough.”

You felt warmth, then registered wetness. Your shin scraped on the asphalt as you were dropped without warning. Trying to open your eyes, you found you couldn’t see. Wiping and blinking away the foreign liquid, you watched your attacker fall to his knees.

Blood was shooting from between his fingers around his own neck, each pulse becoming weaker and weaker, evident through the stream.

When he finally fell over, drained, you were startled to see another man with you. The light reflected off his glasses as he adjusted them, the knife still in his right hand as he did so. 

“My, my. What a mess he’s made.” The man smiled down at you, offering a hand. When you didn’t immediately react, he cocked his head to the left, “Is that anyway to treat your rescuer?”

Is that was this was? A rescue? You took his hand with both of yours, pulling yourself up. 

Smiles? You blinked away the shock, time to shift into your next part. Damsel. You weren’t out the woods yet.

“You saved my life!” As you pressed yourself into his chest, you tucked your head beneath his chin. You tried to make yourself small. “I owe you! Please let’s go inside, drinks on me!” You looked up, batting your lashes.

“I don’t think that’s wise, dear.” His gaze panned down your dress, soaked through. He could see the thinking behind your eyes.

“No, right….,” You gripped his vest, “We gotta get outta here, fast. There’s a hotel just behind the threatre.” You started to pull his suit jacket off, slipping it over yourself. “No cops, the theatre will get raided. Just— take me somewhere safe?”

You watched him look you over, arm finally extending to let you hook yours with his. 

As soon as the hotel door closed behind you, you slipped off his jacket and ran to the dressing table mirror. 

Your face was painted red, navy dress now black and sticky. It was good you stayed from view of the reception staff. “I didn’t get my rescuer’s name,” you licked your thumb and rubbed at the blood around your cheeks. 

“Alastor. It’s a pleasure.”

You laughed, “Is that what you call a pleasure?” Turning, you pulled the mostly still dry handkerchief from your pocket and dabbed the corner on your tongue. You brought it up to the frame of his glasses and wiped the blood from the metal. “I’d hate to see what you call a bad time.”

Your hand slowed, noticing the way he was looking at you. Typically men’s pupils were blown when they fell on you, but his were constricted. They flitted around your face. His hand took hold of yours, fingers separating the thumb from the handkerchief. He pulled the little square of yellow fabric free with his other hand, allowing him to hold your thumb now by itself.

His lips opened, tongue licking the blood stained finger before placing it directly into his mouth.

Your stared, horrified, as he sucked the digit clean. 

His eyes fluttered close, finger popping out of his mouth with a debauched sound. You made no attempt to take back your hand. The realization you may have hopped out of the frying pan and into the fire set in.

“You are a funny one, aren’t you?” You tried to sound as in control as possible. Calm. Unwavered. Offered a timid smile. 

He chuckled, “You could say that. May I?” His fingers lifted your chin. You didn’t know what he was asking. His soft smile looked downright loving. He smelled so good, notes of something earthy rising above the copper.

You nodded, because part of you wanted to see where it would go. And part of you thought you didn’t have a choice.

As his face came to yours, you instinctually closed your eyes expecting a kiss. But no, instead you felt his tongue wipe across the cut at the corner of your mouth. His breath blanketed your cheek. Then his hand left your chin, the warmth of his body gone entirely. 

You opened your eyes to see him at the door, slipping back into his jacket, “I’ll pay for the night.” He tipped his head to you and exited the room back first, eyes locked with yours until the door closed.

You just stood there in the silence left behind. But as if on cue, the adrenaline waned and your knees buckled under you. You were moments from death, now somehow spared. But what had he— Alastor, been doing there? Did he follow you, too? The cat and mouse had been flipped, or perhaps now this was a fox and hound?

Gripping the dressing table, you pulled yourself up and into the view of the mirror again. Face streaked in dried blood save for the one clean spot where your lips met cheek. 

You felt like a ghost the next day. It would be nice to tell someone about what happened but, “Hey a man tried to kill me and then another man killed him! Then he licked blood off my face and I let him. It was the most disturbingly erotic thing to happen to me in months!” would get you tossed into a wagon. 

“Are you rude or just stupid?” The theatre manager pulled you aside by the arm when you came into rehearsal. “You can’t just disappear like that, people were waiting.”

Your eyes narrowed, “Was… my absence really the most exciting part of the evening? Not the John in the gutter?”

He huffed, “So that’s it? Got a beau?”

“Wait— nothing else happened last night? After I left?” 

“This show doesn’t revolve around you. Plenty happened.”

“Excuse me,” you hurried into the back, “And sorry!”

You opened the street access door and looked into the alley. Trash cans neat and tidy, no dead man, nothing strange or telltale.

You ducked back inside. Had Smiles done this? Obviously, actually. No stranger just cleaned up the dead body. If the flatfeet had found him, the club would have been under scrutiny.

Good, you thought, and went about your work.

Rehearsal dragged on. Little details summoning you back to the night before. 

“You okay?” Another performer asked, grabbing your hand and inspecting the blood around your cuticles.

“Oh it’s not mine!” You laughed, she laughed, you walked off before she could clarify.

When applying your makeup, you remembered his hands on your face. They were so soft. Definitely a man of means. A brief intrusive thought, the other hands on your face last night.

You pranced on stage, going through the motions of your routine. Even in the empty hall, your eyes wandered to the booth he’d been in. And as you took the stage in earnest later that night you searched the crowd for the glint of his glasses and found nothing shiny nor promising.

Back in the dressing room you took a moment to wonder what the actual fuck you we’re doing. He murdered a man in front of you, why were you hoping to see him again? He had half a mind to kill you next.

But would that really be so bad?  Your life was routine, boring even. The only thing keeping your lungs expanding was the applause. Maybe the headlines of your death would cause such an uproar, dancer struck down in her prime, that you could bask in the loving glow all the way from hell.

One way to remain famous, you considered. A dramatic death.

Not that you were famous. You weren’t part of the national circuits. Just your local theatres, a common face and body to the sinners of Louisiana’s most infamous city. But, well, fame is relative. For the scene you were in, you were your own little star. 

A shining light. Shimmering. The faint light reflecting off— Blood. For a second you could only remember looking through bloodied, heavy lashes. 

“You’ve been so out of it. Trouble in paradise?” Ruth, the curviest of your coworkers and arguably the favorite of the crew, rested her chin on your head. Looking at each other in the mirror, you offered a soft smile.

“I’ll letcha know when I get there.”

She pinched your cheek, “Tommy said you had a new guy. I just figured-,”

“That isn’t,” you clenched your eyes shut, “no, no guy. I just got locked out last night in the alley. The sticky-,” sticky and viscous blood, “back door wouldn’t open up. I didn’t want to come in the front in my slippers so I just hoofed it home.” 

She patted your head, “if you say so! Be careful out there though. Dangerous these days.” 

An understatement.

You enjoyed the spotlight, but more than that you craved the attention doted on you after. You’d walk through the hall to the bar to adoring looks and free drinks. It bothered you that Tommy was telling the girls you had a man. You didn’t want to appear too closed off, or for word to spread to the customers. 

Last thing you needed was men passing you by for more available options. Not that the pay wasn’t fine. Ends were being met, but grifting added an element of thrill. You really did love the chase. Finding someone and deciding he would be yours, he would fall under your spell and be at your feminine mercy. It made you feel powerful, almost mythical. And the money was nice. Sometimes you didn’t even need to steal, the men would just lavish you in gifts and you’d let it fizzle out naturally. Normally their wives would snatch them back or they’d just get tired of waiting for you to leave the stage and dance into their domestic dreams. A housewife? An adopted mother to a grown man during the day, a hungry nymph at night? For what, an allowance and a home you didn’t own? Pass. Where’s that handsome man with his knife? That was a much better steel to fall onto than what these men offered from their laps.

From your view at the bar you knew he wasn’t there. But with a nod you decided the chase was still on. You were going to get your victory. If anything, this would be easier. You had dirt on him. Blackmail would be simple enough. Bloody clothes and the perfect alibi; being a woman. No cop would think you took down that hulking man. 

Ah, right. There was no body.

That would be an issue. He had to have taken it somewhere. Just find him and follow. Worst case scenario, you play the usual game and steal whatever cash was in his wallet.

Well, worst case you die. 

You slept sitting up to keep your hair set, during the day your makeup barely was there but a red lip always the star. You had three nice dresses (well, you had had four) so you figured three nights to find him before moving on.

You slinked through the crowds of the hot and sweaty dance club Moxie. Swinging music kept bodies moving, and though you kept your eyes open you didn’t catch sight of this Alastor fellow. Which was fine! You enjoyed a few dances, swing always making you feel energized. Not a waste of a Friday night.

Saturday was easy, the lounge on fifth. Smooth jazz, plush chairs, rich men. Definitely a place you could imagine Smiles to frequent. The whisky was all top shelf, and many gentlemen offered you a lap to sit. Sure, no Alastor, but you didn’t go home empty handed.

You weren’t a particularly great singer, but if the room was small enough and the piano loud enough, you could please a crowd. Your friend had you on a semi-set schedule most Sundays at her little dive too many blocks from Main Street. Her darling played piano, you sat and sang to the couple dozen patrons stuffed into the one room bar. When you finished your set, you took your bows and looked for your friend. You needed to tell her you wouldn’t be staying. 

Your polite nods and gracious thank yous were abruptly ended by a tap on your shoulder, “You dropped this, miss.” You did a mental check of your purse before turning around.

“Oh, a sight for sore eyes. Mr. Alastor.” Your face lit up, you could see it in his glasses.

“You’re too kind. Here, I apologize for the delay. I wanted to return them clean.” In his hand was your yellow handkerchief, folded neatly. You took it and found it uncharacteristically heavy. 

When you unfurled it, your brass lighter fell into your waiting palm. Your thumb caressed the engraving. 

Alastor watched your face as the lighter tumbled out. “I figured it was important, given the condition and detailing.”

You tested the weight in your hand, “Did you fill it?” You looked to him incredulously.  He nodded.

It was a surprisingly kind act, and you needed a second to regain your composure. “I don’t know how to thank you.” Your quick wit failed for a moment, but rebounded fast. “Except with a drink. My treat. To my rescuer.”

He mulled the idea, your reaction to him was interesting. Alastor had thought if he approached you first you’d show a little more fear, or shock. But you looked downright chipper to see him there. 

“Unfortunately I don’t have much time tonight. I had just wanted to return your items.”

Your smile dropped. How did he know you were here? Had he been carrying— no, he said he had them cleaned. Had he seen you here before, before the incident? A chuckle, smile brought back, “My luck is terrible. You always flee me. I hope you don’t see my company as deadweight.”

Alastor’s smile twitched, eyes hidden behind the glare of his glasses, “Not at all! I think you’d find I’m quite comfortable with-.”

“Lugging people around?” You said. That constricted pupil again, eyes wild. A chill ran down your spine. Alarms were going off. Wrong answer. You straightened your back, popping the items into your purse, “Next time.”

Alastor nodded, “Yes. Next time, then.”

You fucked it up. You knew you had, but suddenly his words felt like a thinly veiled threat. 

You turned to leave and hadn’t seen his smile sour.

It hadn’t been a threat. He hadn’t anticipated you to notice the implication. Most people would have been so blinded by his charm they would fail to notice the glaring red flags. He was mildly impressed. You would be more trouble than he had expected.

Alastor knew he needed to do something about the clearly clever woman who was seemingly expecting him. He had followed you for several days, surprised to find you not spreading word about the murder. You hadn’t spoken to anyone, really. Even the man you left the lounge with, you just smiled and nodded nearly all evening while the man dominated the conversation. So, your sharp wit took him off guard. Who were you pretending to be? And why?

All of your cleverness fell apart when you tried to follow him. It was almost comical. He felt bad. This was going to be embarrassing for you.

He took several right turns and stepped into the park just outside of the bar. You thought perhaps he had gotten lost and considered turning around after you realized you’d lost sight of him. As you passed a large weeping willow, you were pulled under the curtains of hanging moss by your waist.

Back against the large tree, you could only pout.

“What are you after, stalking a man in the dead of night?” Alastor had you pinned, both hands on either side of your head. His body boxed you in, not that there was much more to see than moss and darkness.

You blinked several times. What a question. You answered honestly, “You.” He cocked a brow. Then you lied, “Your affection. Your time.”

Something akin to a giggle bubbled from his chest. “I don’t have much affection, but I have even less time.” Your eyes darted around, looking for your next move. “I-,” you grabbed him by the face and kissed him. When you broke the kiss he was staring wide eyed, glasses askew. He opened his mouth to speak and you kissed him again, longer, harder.

He seemed frozen under your mouth, lips taut. Your hands roamed his face, messing up his hair and glasses. Mind reeling. Play the nymph. Be the whore the men always said they hated. Be too strong, too forward, too much and he’ll run off like men do. You could try again another day.

Your hand reached for his lap, his hips instinctively jerking away. Perfect. Men these days can’t get it up for a woman who takes the lead. 

Alastor was entirely unsure what the fuck was happening. You were wildly unpredictable. When you grabbed at his dick, he thought his eyes would cross from the shock. Is this what ‘affection’ meant to you? He couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t understand you. Were you really just lustful? Even after what you’d seen him—

You bit at his bottom lip, pulling slightly. Big eyes looking back at him. Your breath was already running away from you, adrenaline seemingly synonymous with Alastor. Staring up at him, you waited. His move.

It was his turn to blink. He looked off to his left, eyes swinging back to you. With a shrug, he leaned his body back towards yours. His hand slid down the front of your dress; red silk. A deer in the headlights, you tensed. The rare third option; fight, flight, freeze. Soon his fingers were tracing the lace of your stockings, climbing up the garter straps. 

His eyes were studying your face. You didn’t want to give the wrong answer again, but at this point you weren’t sure any answer was right. This was taking a sudden turn and your foot was off the brake. You closed your eyes, opting out of the scrutiny of his stare. His hand met your stomach and began to slip down again. He rested it between your thighs, longer fingers and palm cupping the entirety of your sex.

Alastor struggled to decipher your expression. It was almost like a pout, but more subtle. You hadn’t said stop or pushed him away yet. Was he right? You were just… horny? As his hand slid back up and pried their way into your panties, you trembled.

It had been so long since someone else’s hand was on you. Someone whose hands you genuinely enjoyed, who you wanted to be on you.

Is that right? You wanted him to touch you? 

Maybe it was the stare, or the smile. Probably just the adrenaline.

His hand found its place again, middle finger bending to part your folds and feel your wetness. You whimpered, hand coming to cover your own mouth. 

“Is this what you wanted?” He said it low, a husky tone he didn’t have before.

No. Maybe. You nodded yes.

“Will you be satisfied now? No more tailing me?”

No. Probably not. Another nod.

His finger pushed in, and with a kind of greed you didn't recognize your hips ground down into his palm. He slipped in and out of you with ease. You had no idea when or why you got so wet.

“I always end up dripping around you, Alastor,” you whispered through your fingers. His ring finger joined. Why couldn’t you shut up? Why did you have to bring up, well, the murder?

“A common problem for those I take an interest in.” 

Oh no. You moaned softly into your hand. Sharp mind made dull by his fingers so you didn’t, couldn’t, process his double meaning. 

Oh no. The sounds of footsteps, a pair of lovers sneaking into the park for privacy. You heard their giggles, the sounds of kisses interrupting their walking.

“Shhh”, he breathed into your ear as he worked a third finger into your heat. One knuckle, two knuckles. A whimper. His hand came to press down over your own on your mouth, a second barrier for your mewling. You groaned, the sound coming from your throat.  

Whispers. The silhouette of the two interlopers was visible through the willow’s curtains. You watched from over his shoulder, pussy clenching around him. Three knuckles deep, bottoming out.

Fuck it. You moaned freely into your hand, wiggling down onto his hand. Hips rolling, you let your little sounds of praise flow.

The couple laughed, “That’s the spirit!” A man said, a woman hushing him and pulling him away.

Alastor grinned into your neck, immensely amused. He would have better luck predicting a dice roll than your next move. 

You hadn’t realized how hollow you’d been until now, feeling so full. When alone, you focused on just cumming, fingers on your clit and mind on memories. You never bothered much with anything else.

Your hunger intensified. You wanted more. Both hands reached for his crotch again, finding nothing there for you. You could have cried. How were you a wet mess pressed against a tree and he was soft as a newspaper in a rainstorm?

Your pride stung. Men usually stood at attention around you. A half sob into the air earned you a chuckle from Alastor. “It’s no reflection of you, darling.” His nose nudged your ear lobe, “I need a little different stimulation than most.”

“Do you play for the other team?” You considered how you could momentarily switch. 

A louder laugh, “I don’t have a team.” He leaned back now to look at you. His freehand came to press on your lower stomach, gently pushing your womb down. Your brows knit, why did that feel so good? Hands going to the tree behind you for stability.

“Sure feels like you know how to play. This is-,” his hand switched from thrusting slowly in and out to moving front and back. It sent vibrations up into you. Your eyes rolled close. Shut up. Stop talking. Focus. Close.

He kissed around your open mouth, “Well, it’d be unamerican to not dabble. When necessary, or when the conditions are right.”

Double speak over, “Just tell me what to do to get you to fuck me.”

Alastor’s head fell back as he laughed earnestly, most likely alerting anyone in the immediate area. “Ha! No, this is more fun.”

“Oh fuck you,” you brought a hand around to your throbbing clit to quicken your release.

“Maybe next time, dear.” He took a second, fingers in you sliding around your walls in search of something before finding his place and continuing. Your breath noticeably changed, instead of panting you were practically holding it in. You needed the pressure, you needed something to squeeze that spring of pleasure down so it could snap back. As your face went flush, he kissed at your temple, “You look so pretty in red.”

“Oh god-,” Your head fell onto his chest, your joint effort bringing you to orgasm. 

“A little late on Sunday for prayers, don't you think?”

A tiny scream into his suit pocket, his hand not stopping until your thighs finished twitching around him. Even after his hand stopped moving you gripped him by the wrist and rolled onto his fingers a few more times. The pleasure ebbing but still spiking every time he moved against you. 

Ah, greed. That was it. He understood a little better. This wasn’t lust, not alone.  You were definitely a mix of the two. With a sigh, you released your hold and let him slide out of you. Already you felt lonelier. Already you wished to start over.

With his dry hand he smoothed out your dress. You weren’t ashamed but you suddenly felt too embarrassed to look him the eye. But you did, hearing him hum as he sucked his fingers clean. 

Why were you only ever in his mouth in the strangest ways?

“You always taste so sweet, dear. Now!” You wanted to say something clever and salacious like, ‘there’s more where that came from’ but he didn’t afford you the opportunity. He offered you his hooked arm, “It’s dangerous in the park at night. Let’s get you to a cab and on your way home.”

“Is this a hobby of yours?” Your legs were wobbly but otherwise fine. “Illegal activities in public?”

“Funny, I was just wondering the same of you. Stalking is a crime, dear.”

You bit your lip. “Touché.”

He flagged down a taxi, “Tell him where to go.” You slid into the back seat and half-whispered to the driver. Alastor leaned into the passenger side front window and after paying the man, went to close your door, “You’ve been an entertaining sparring partner. Goodbye, sweetheart.”

With a thud of the door and a growl of the engine, you were driving away from him. You could see him in the rear window. He didn’t dare to move, he didn’t need you following another step of his.

Which was unfortunate for him, as you were already scheming how to find him again.

༻Masterlist༺

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

@ivebeenthearchersstuffn, @rubyninja1 , @simphornies , @alleystore , @readergirlstuff , @berry-demon , @chirimeimei , @fairyv-ice , @olive-frog , @thonethatflies620 , @tiredkiwiii , @ilikemyteawithmilk , @whateverlololo , @psipies , @howabouticallyou , @roxxie-wolf , @ive-no-idea-what-to-call-this , @fizzled-phoenix , @fjorjestertealeaf , @phobophobular , @surusurusuru , @mariaclarade-la-cruz1 , @whateverlololo , @simplyonehellofanotaku , @xixflower , @i-am-nonbinary-bean-deal-with-it , @roxxie-wolf , @a-case-of-attachment , @multifandomfanatic02 , @watereddownmilk , @raynerrold , @crazii-saber-wolf , @valkyrie-expeditions , @bontensbabygirl , @sillyb0nez , @oo0lady-mad0oo , @jazzmasternot , @pseudobun , @fraugwinska✨, @alitaar , @angelicwillows

🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan ,@valkyrie-expeditions

[dwaekkicidal]

The Party

˚ʚPerv!Emo!Han Jisung x Cutesy!Fem!Readerɞ˚

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ summary: Fourth part of 'The Incidents' Series; based off of this ask.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ word count: 3k

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ warnings: told from his pov, jisung is a huge perv/creep, alcohol consumption (reader gets "drunk" and ji had a few sips), dubcon/noncon, exhibitionism, mean-ish jisung, degradation, name calling (use of whore and ji calls reader a stupid cry baby once lol), nipple play (f), grinding, cumming in underwear (both), Jisung carries reader on his back at the end

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ notes: Italics are Han's thoughts! also the picture is just a reference for the outfit i had in mind :)

The Incidents Masterlist

DO NOT republish or translate+post my work!

Han stares up in awe at the giant house before him. It’s in a rich neighborhood not far out of town and he easily recognizes the expensive and shiny cars as belonging to some of the well-off kids. They flaunt them everywhere so it’s hard not to recognize them.

He glances down at his text messages, rereading the instructions you sent while nervously fiddling with the collar of his leather jacket. She said just to let myself in… He slowly walks up the walkway of the house, laughing to himself in disbelief at how loud the music is being played. He could hear it loud and clear from inside the damn taxi.

When he finally gets to the porch he sends you a text and opens the door hesitantly, only opening it a few inches to squeeze in without bringing too much attention to him. Once he closes the door and turns, his jaw drops. The inside is huge and has at least 50 people in the living room alone, let alone to giant crowd he can see in the kitchen and hallways. A familiar head pokes out of the kitchen and rushes towards him, a big smile on his face.

Han recognizes the boy as Yeonjun, a tall guy who he used to have dance class with in high school, and who shares a few mutual friends. He smiles back, waving shyly as the boy takes long strides up to him. “Yo!! Han! Nice to see you, man. Y/N told me you were coming but I didn’t think I’d see it haha.” Han chuckles and nods, “I didn’t think I was gonna come either, but she asked so...”

Yeonjun wraps an arm around his neck and leads him around the house, giving him a small tour as they seek out the girl in question together. The taller boy stops occasionally at little tables with snacks and drinks, making sure Han is taken care of before marching onwards in search of those bouncy pigtails. The kindness is more than welcome but Jisung is far from his comfort zone and can't help but chat timidly. He was going to give up and attempt to call her, but suddenly he heard a squeal from his left.

He turns in time to see Y/N running up to him, dressed up in all white and somehow showing more skin than usual. Her shirt parts in multiple places, showing off her cleavage and some side boob as well as her tummy. And no bra..? Is she nuts? His eyes flicker to the thin string that holds the top together and he can feel his eye twitch.

A hand on his shoulder cuts him out of his trance, almost making him fall from the sudden weight. Yeonjun leans in and chuckles, lowly whispering to Han as if anybody could hear them over the music. “She already had a few cups so good luck. If you thought she was touchy before, you can’t imagine how she gets when she drinks.” Han’s eyes widen at the warning, but before he has time to ask what he meant Yeonjun is already gone. The feeling of a body clutching onto his arm has him turning back the opposite way, taking in the rest of her features as she mumbles words at him.

“My goshh~ I didn’t think you’d actually come, Sungie... ‘Missed you soooo much. hehe...” He chuckles and cringes, not sure how to respond. However, he’s not even given a chance to because she starts dragging him down the hallway to the game room where some of her friends are grouped.

About 3 hours pass before Jisung finally settles in, still very uncomfortable but slowly opening up to some of the people there. Y/N had a cup and a half more before everybody began sneaking her water meanwhile Jisung was still on his first cup, only having taken a few sips. He’s too busy zoned out and staring at the floor to realize that they’re almost alone, his mind too busy over the white lace garter that decorates the thigh of his love interest. He’s leaning back on one of the leather couches in the game room, and aside from the few random people who are spread around busy playing their games, or sucking each other's faces, it’s fairly vacant.

Then the song blasting throughout the house suddenly changes to a new one. A slow sensual one that, if he wasn’t so preoccupied, would’ve made him uncomfortable from the sheer seductiveness of it. But this poor little emo boy only realizes once it’s too late: once two hands covered by those familiar white arm warmers rest on his lower tummy. He tenses up and his face darts up to stare at the girl, almost offendedly. Even from this distance, he can smell the sugary sweet sangria on her breath and, for once in his life, the idea of her touching him makes him uneasy.

Y/N smiles, bites her lip, and crawls on top of him, planting a knee on either side of his hips. She leans in until their noses almost touch and Han has half the mind to back away as much as possible. But she only pushes further until she's almost completely pressed up against him. Her hips press down and she looks up at him from under her eyelashes.

His hard-on is resting perfectly against her mound. There’s no way she doesn’t feel that. His brain fries and he stutters out her name in confusion, putting his hands on either side of her shoulders to hold her back. She ignores him completely in favor of slowly running her hands up his stomach and to his chest, pulling the chain around his neck so that he leans into her.

She giggles at his reaction and lowers her hands onto his, pushing them back and lower to rest on her ass, where she then leaves them and wraps her hands around his neck. Those glossy lips of hers are caught between her teeth as she leans into him, her voice low and seductive. “Sungie~” He doesn’t try to move his hands, why would he? He’s enjoying himself. But he does slightly freak out at the thought of people walking in and seeing a freak like him groping the hottest girl on the planet. “What are you doing?!” He looks around the room to make sure there are no prying eyes but her smooth voice drags his attention back to her.

“C’mon~~ Don’t you think I'm pretty?” Her flushed cheeks are almost unnoticeable in the dim lighting but boy does he see it. Their lips ghost and he feels his dick twitch in his jeans when he feels some of her lip gloss get transferred to him. Fuck. I was doing so well today too… “Don’t you want me?” Her voice lowers with each word until she’s whispering against his lips, finally pushing her own against his. His heart beats out of his chest but he lets his eyes close and his hands move up to her waist as he reciprocates the kiss. Her tongue pokes out in an attempt to deepen the kiss and he reluctantly lets it happen. His head spins when their tongues clash and he finds himself losing control when her lip gloss smudges all over their chins. Holy shit... She tastes like strawberries... 

Eventually, they pull away to breathe but she wastes no time and dips down to his neck, leaving sloppy kisses along his Adam's Apple as she mumbles incoherent sentences against it. If the slurring of her words wasn’t enough to discourage him, the recalling of his earlier conversation was. The uneasy feeling from earlier is quickly forgotten when Yeonjun’s voice replays in his head. His hand roughly digs into her hair and pulls her away so that she’s sitting up straight. The moan it pulls from her only makes him harder.

“You know… Yeonjun warned me about how touchy you are when you drink. You do this with every man you get your little hands on?” He whispers against her ear. “N-No only for you, Sungie. I promise~” She pouts and he narrows his eyes at her, not believing it for even a second. “Yeah? Then why does he seem so familiar with how you’re acting right now? You probably whore out every time they have one of these parties. Am I supposed to be your next victim?” Hell. I don’t think I’d even mind being a victim to her.

She whimpers and frowns, shaking her head rapidly and unintentionally rubbing herself harder against his hard-on. He closes his eyes to focus on breathing; while this newfound confidence is nice, he doesn’t think it’s enough to push any further than this, so he just doesn’t respond. Instead choosing to stay quiet and let his other hand squeeze the fat of her thighs, engraving the feeling in his mind. Who knows when I’ll get another chance like this? Might as well take advantage of it too... He knows he shouldn’t. She’s drunk for fucks sake! But GOD does she look so good like this... On my lap, all desperate for me.

The hold on her hair is loosened as he lets his hands roam all over her body. They start at her thighs: running his fingers over the flesh there softly before flattening his palms against her ass and squeezing them, spreading them apart in the process. He glances up at her shutting eyes and nodding head, thinking to himself for a second as he mindlessly fondles her ass. He wonders just how far he can get before she sobers up. She’s gonna fucking hate me... But also, she looks so drunk that she might not even notice. OR remember for that matter.

With every passing second he feels his morals fading away until he eventually decides that today is the day he gives no fucks. Let her find out. Fuck it. His hands move up to her hips again and pull her down, dragging her clothed pussy over his bulge like she was doing earlier. She sighs and closes her eyes all the way, spreading her knees to allow him to pull her farther down. He bites his lip and looks around, staring intensely at the last 2 people in the room who were too busy sucking each other’s faces off to notice his actions. A whimper of his name pulls his attention back to the girl above him. His hooded eyes meet hers as she stares down at him, the neediness painfully obvious. He smirks and tilts his head, playing dumb as she starts to move her hips on her own again.

“Hmm? What’s wrong Y/N?” His hands trail down her thighs and he licks his lips as he stares down at them. His pointer finger and thumb rub the fabric of her lace garter as he waits patiently for her to respond. When she doesn’t he pulls the elastic back, letting it snap against her soft skin there. It pulls a delayed squeak from her and he continues to smirk cockily. The hand moves back up and plays with the hem of her skirt. He can faintly see the dark colored panties she has on and he’s itching to see it. He glances up to see her eyes fluttering open and closed again. She won’t notice...

Then he grabs the fabric and pushes it up against her tummy. He holds it there as he peeks between her legs, watching her pretty panties soak more and more as she pushes down more against him. Her pretty, red panties. You fucking whore.. The hand resting on her ass rises and comes down, slapping the bare flesh there meanly and pulling a shriek from her. “You planned this shit, didn’t you? Asked me for my favorite color just to wear some slutty panties to entice me?” And they’re fucking sheer again. She looks down at him with watery eyes and whines, placing her hand on his shoulder as her hips continue to move. The silence that follows is all the answer he needs. 

He snakes his right hand up her body, stopping at her chest and pinching her nipples through the thin fabric. “Stupid little crybaby... Slutting yourself out for anybody who will give you the time of day.” The hand comes down on her ass again and her hips falter. “Did I say you could stop?” Her head rolls and she continues instantly; he can feel her obedience awakening something new in him.

His right hand slides through the top hole of her shirt to grab a handful of her boob, squeezing it as he leans in. He licked her other nipple through the fabric, sucking and nibbling it as her hips continued to rut against him. Eventually, though, the fabric was preventing him from feeling her up properly and it irritated him to no end. The alcohol in his system tells him to rip it open, but the sober side of him shuts the idea down instantly, so he grabs the top string of her shirt, pulling it roughly and freeing her chest to the cold air in the game room. She gasps and tries to cover herself with her arms but he grabs both of her wrists before she can. “Don’t even think about it. You wanted to act like a whore so I'm treating you like one.” He pushed her arms out of the way and grabbed handfuls of her chest with both hands, aggressively massaging the mounds of fat as if proving his point.

He leans back in, releasing the death-grip on one of her boobs and wrapping those pretty pink lips around her bare nipple. His now free hand moves to her ass, slapping the skin before grabbing her hip and grinding her harder against him. Her hands trail into his hair, grabbing handfuls and tugging it as she moans loudly. “S-Sungie! Ahh~” Her sweet voice crying out his name was the last thing he needed to send him over the edge, and the hands in his hair gripped tighter as she came with him, both of their faces scrunching up in pleasure as he continued to move her hips against him and lick her nipple.

Eventually, they both finish riding out their highs and she sleepily wraps her arms around his neck and hides her face in the crook of his neck. He let her stay there as he caught his breath, hands rubbing up and down her back soothingly. He very quickly hears soft snores coming from her and gets up, laying her softly on the couch as he does so. Standing in the same place she was just 10 minutes ago gives him the perfect view to stare down at her, mind boggled at the way she still looks so hot despite being completely ruined.

Her lip gloss was smeared all over the lower part of her face and her lips themselves were swollen and red. Her shirt was still spread wide open, letting anybody who walked in see her pretty tits. His eyes traced the red marks he left against the pudgy skin there as her chest rose and fell with her breaths. Her one nipple had a pretty red tint on it from his insistent suckling. Her skirt hung loosely around her waist, rising with each breath and giving him the perfect view of her panties that were now darkened from her cum. Now I get to see it in real-time.. haha…

Pride filled his chest as the realization hit that he did this. Not Yeonjun. Not Juwon. Not one of those stupid ass frat boys. Me. The post-nut clarity and sudden soberness were almost enough to send him spiraling as another realization filled his head. The realization of what these emotions meant. Feeling jealousy at the thought of other guys touching her and happiness at the feeling of being the one to make her cum in her little red panties. Before he could dwindle further, the girl whined from her spot on the couch before yawning loudly and stretching. Then her sleepy voice filled his ears, “‘Wanna go home Sungie..”

By the time he fixes her outfit, she's fast asleep. Jisung puts her on his back and piggybacks her through the hallways and down the stairs. As the sole of his boots landed on the expensive tile, he quickly realized that nobody was around. The previously packed living room and kitchen were now left in a giant mess and it was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. He had so many questions but opted to ignore them for now and adjusted the girl on his back, inching her farther up so that he didn’t drop her.

As he stepped onto the front porch, he was met with a familiar face. Yeonjun cackled out loud at the sight of them, startling the boy and almost waking the sleeping beauty on his back. “You guys are still here? I thought you took her home ages ago??” Yeonjun smiled at him, watching Han breathe deeply to calm the heart attack that he almost had. “Just take her to your house, man. None of her roommates are going home tonight so she’ll be locked out if you go to her place.”

Jisung furrowed his eyebrows at the taller boy, “Are... Are you sure?”

“Yeah, she trusts you. And would you rather her sleep in your bed or her apartment hallway where anybody could take advantage of her?” Jisung visibly gulps and nods silently, pushing past the taller boy to meet the taxi that slowly pulled up behind him. He settles her in carefully, almost lovingly, and walks to the opposite side to join her in the back seat. He waved awkwardly at Yeonjun, who watched them and waved with a menacing smile on his face. 

As Yeonjun waved them away he smirked to himself. “That little minx... She’s got him wrapped around her finger haha.”

Taglist: (purple=can't be tagged)

@jiminssluttyminx @changisworld @juskz @linohumina @rylea08

@grandma143 @caught-in-the-afterglow @yaorzu-blog @jabmastersupriseee

@easypeezylemonsquezy @iiriam @soaplickerrr @kimahreummm

@seungfl0wer @4l17h4 @moonlightshostage @whyisaah

@lostgirlinthewoodss @kookiesbunny @piscesrising01 @adollsmind

@iheartbangch4n @evan-rose @klyde06 @ihrtlino @shuporanporang

@zerefdragn33l @sailor--sun

[holylulusworld]

Shy guy (3) - Past

Summary: You grew up together. Bucky is the one. He’s just too shy to make a move.

Pairing (future): Shy!Bucky Barnes x Fratgirl!Reader

Sidepairing (friendship): Steve Rogers x Reader

Warnings: sweet Steve, John Walker hate, John Walker being the worst, harassment, fluff, angst, a little time jump

Inspired by this ask: Shy guy ask and @dawn-petrichor-world​ made me do it…

<;< Shy guy (2) - Past

Shy guy masterlist

Age of 14, …

“Why is Jamie not here?” You sniffle and wipe your eyes. It’s your birthday and your friend Jamie didn’t come to your birthday party.

“His mom wants him to play with other kids too,” Steve softly says. He pats your back and awkwardly tries to soothe you. “I’m sorry. He’s busy with some other boy from his old neighborhood. He moved to town with his mom.”

“A boy?” You are crying now. “But he’s our friend. Jamie is my best friend, and he won’t come to my party for some boy?”

“Hey, we can have fun without him. I’m sure Bucky will apologize for not coming to your party on Monday. He’s…” Steve sighs. “Puberty sucks, okay. Bucky needs some alone time without a girl hanging on to his every word. That other guy told him he can’t be friends with a girl without being…”

“Being what, Stevie?” You whimper. "Tell me!"

“Her boyfriend,” Steve puckers his lips. “Don’t be sad. I will always be your friend. Steve Rogers is a friend for a lifetime.” He grins when you hide your face in his chest. 

You are the only girl whose heart he hasn’t broken yet. Steve doesn’t know why, but you are like a sister to him.

“I don’t like Jamie anymore. He’s so mean,” you cry and whimper. “Why did he do this? I invited him and his sister. Rebecca came, but he didn’t. I hate him!”

“Hey,” Steve jogs after you to walk you home from school. “Did he apologize? I haven’t seen Bucky around today.”

“He was talking to that boy John all the time,” you sniff. “I don’t like that boy. He’s mean. When Jamie wasn’t looking he grinned at me and cupped his…”

“He cupped what, Y/N?” Steve's eyes widen when you tell him that John cupped his crotch and made an obscene noise. “That bastard is dead! I’m going to break his nose!”

“Steve,” you grab Steve’s wrist. “He’s not worth it. If Jamie doesn’t see that guy is no good, I don’t want to be his friend anymore.”

You sniffle and runoff, dashing along the street only to stumble and fall.

“Y/N!” Steve chases after you to help you get up. “Did you get hurt? Wait, I’ll help you.”

“Awe, look at this James. The hero in shiny armor helps her up. LOSER!” John smirks at Steve. Your friend squares his jaw, ready to throw a few punches, but he decides against it. He needs to bring you home first. 

“You’re an asshole Walker!” Steve bites back. “And you, Bucky!” He sneers. “I can’t believe you let that bastard talk about your friend like this while he’s after Y/N. He only makes you do all this to get Y/N for himself.”

“What?” Bucky watches his friend grab your backpack and help you up. “Is that true John? Do you want her to be your girlfriend?”

“I wouldn’t poke that asshole with a stick,” you grunt as Steve wraps one arm around your waistline to help you walk. “You’re not my friend anymore, James Buchanan Barnes. I hate you!”

Steve slowly walks next to you, soothing you on your way home. You’re crying and he feels helpless. He’s only fourteen years old and has no clue how to help you.

“He’ll apologize. You’ll see…”

Three months later, …

Bucky tried anything to get you to talk to him. It took him three months to convince you that he’s no longer friends with John Walker.

Still, something broke inside of you. You don’t see Bucky like you saw him before all this happened. Your heart still hangs on him, but Steve proved that he’s a better friend than Bucky could ever be.

One wrong friend, a few words and he left you hanging and ignored you. 

“I got a belated birthday gift for you,” he shyly hands you a beautifully wrapped gift. “Rebecca helped me with the ribbon.”

“Oh, that’s…nice,” you can’t be happy. The gift only reminds you that Bucky didn’t come to your party because of John Walker. “I’ll unpack it later.”

Bucky sighs. He had hoped you’d like the gift and that you would be all over him like you used to do. “Uh-I hope you like it. I thought of you when I bought it.”

You roll your eyes. “I hope so because it’s a gift for me.” 

He flinches at your icy tone. Bucky knows something shifted in your friendship due to his mistake. You talked more to Steve and pulled away from Bucky over the last weeks.

He only hopes you didn’t change your mind about marrying him one day…

Another month later, ...

Bucky stuffs more popcorn into his mouth. He watches you giggle at something Steve said about the stupid movie he chose for movie night.

“Can we—?” Bucky grunts as you shush him. “Can we watch the movie now?” He murmurs, afraid to speak louder with Steve around. His friend is like an overprotective big brother to you since Bucky let you down and Bucky fears he will make his threat come true and rip him a new one.

“Aw, look at him Stevie,” you jump at Bucky to tickle his sides. “He’s jealous because I got the biggest slice of pizza.”

“No-stop!” Bucky laughs and squeals as you won’t stop tickling him. 

Steve watches you with his friend, humming as he hopes Bucky won’t mess things up with you again.

He’s already got his hands full with all the girls swooning all over him. He can’t always be around to protect you.

Even though, he loves you like a sister.

Part 4

Tags in reblog.

[everyandanything]

Born a Grease // Chapter 6

Summary:

When some of Darry's old buddies from high school call him up and invite him out for a night on the town, Soda thinks it'll be good for him. A chance to be a kid for a little while, instead of a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He couldn't be more wrong.

Excerpt:

Darry met Paul on the first day of football tryouts in sixth grade. He’d been terrified that day. None of his friends from the neighborhood were trying out, and he’d all but talked himself out of going, that was until his dad surprised him with a brand new pair of cleats that morning before school. They were a sleek black with white trim and smelled like new leather. Darry had been pouring over that very pair in his dad’s Sporting Good catalog for weeks, but he had no idea the older man knew. “You didn’t have to do this dad, it’s too much.” But his dad smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Of course I did, I’m proud of you, son.” Darry frowned down at the shoes, he was almost afraid to touch them. “What for? I haven’t done anything yet. I might not even make the team.” His dad just chuckled and ruffled his hair. “For trying something that’s scary, and if a new pair of shoes is what’s going to give you that extra edge today, then it was worth every penny.” It was with his shiny new cleats and that thought in mind that pushed him through tryouts that day. [Read more]

[Chapter 1] [Chapter 2] [Chapter 3] [Chapter 4] [Chapter 5]

[Chapter 6]

[glitterytorturedpoet]

the saltburn review

saltburn hit pretty close to home. largely because i lived it. at times it was personal and surreal, shocking and true. but in the end it was just another misguided attempt at understanding the misunderstood.

and whom are the misunderstood? the middle class and the one percent? or the soul searching queer? according to emerald fennell, it’s the latter.

for the most part i felt that oliver was created and portrayed accurately, though i was ultimately disappointed by his character arc. while the idea of him m*dering Felix and his family is darkly humorous and seems like an appropriate conclusion, i think it actually misrepresented his character entirely. simultaneously, it absolutely destroyed any sense of romanticism the film spent close to three acts persuading the audience on. instead of the psycho-erotic masterpiece you think just might serve as the male counterpart for killing eve, you get just another fuck you to the LGBTQ community and the one-percent economy. which i might add is grotesquely overdone in media, and the audience knows it by the time they reach the film’s stale ending.

and it is stale. every scene plays like a fever dream of conversations one has already heard before. with the most cliché monologues coming from Farleigh and Venetia. every word seems so painstakingly familiar one can’t help but draw the similarities to F. Scott’s Jay Gatsby. Though where Fitzgerald cuts his dreamy romance and imagination short before any nightmare can begin, Fennell embraces the demons of the night, dragging her Gatsby through the mud and the blood until he’s so unrecognizable she has to provide an alternate origin story to make up for Oliver’s unnatural behavior.

and it is unnatural. so unnatrual that by the credit roll, you’re not quite sure who Oliver is, or what his motives are. on the pretense of reality, it seems pretty rigid for a guy who grew up in a decent neighborhood to go from erotically obsessed with his classmate to a murderous usurper. a conclusion so categorically absurd, it’s impossible to believe- largely because anyone on Oliver’s spectrum would never be able to sustain the public image it takes to uphold Saltburn let alone the ghost of Felix. His nude dance around the estate might as well be his seven seconds of heaven before the vultures descend at Farleigh’s call. And who would Farleigh find? Venetia claims her family believes Oliver to be a spider while she herself is partial to the idea that he’s a moth. [though ultimately she decides he’s a freaky nobody.] i personally concluded he was a werewolf. Normal when the prodigal *son is out, but absolutely possessed at night. Oliver himself professes that he is in fact a vampire. but much to every viewers dismay, we’re not entirely sure why.

3/5 stars: guess it’s just an oliver Quick Horror movie for the rich and famous.

bonus:

which saltburn plague are you?

let me know in the comments

the vampire: dead. cold hearted. bloodsucking. manipulative. stealing the life out of everyone and everything after they invite you in. guaranteed to love you forever or your money back.

the spider: the silent observer, hiding in corners, working in the shadows, whispering half-truths to make your bed of lies. and once you’ve captured your lovely guest, up up and away they go. down your throat for dinner.

the moth: addicted to the light, and the money, and the scene, and the shiny diamond irresistible things. you do nothing but eat holes into everything and everyone until the light is yours alone.

the freaky nobody: you have an erotic obsession with the guy you met in chem class, or the 60 year old lead actress on an emmy award winning tv show. you spend your days, weeks, months admiring from afar and planning how you’ll end up being together. you like to spy on them while they masturbate and after they’re dead you wear their aromas and old underwear.

the werewolf: an absolute darling pet during the day. someone's best friend and best mate. you wait by their side and do everything they ask in complete and utter obedience and loyalty. but as soon as the full moon comes out you can't be trusted. the demon inside comes out, no one is safe, and everything is considered dinner.

would you / did you / never ever

let me know in the comments

1. lend your bike to your secret crush

I WOULD ABSOLUTELY. wouldn’t go so far as pre-sabotaging the bicycle, but if she needed a ride, i’d give her mine.

2. watch your crush sleep with another person

never ever. i don’t think i could. it’s one of those things that i think i never would want to see. I think i would black out. I think I would get jealous in a way that i’ve never been jealous before. and i think it would haunt me in a way that nothing’s ever haunted me before. i can’t see it being healthy.

3. make out with your crushes love interest

there’s a duplicity to this. maybe even a triplicity given the nature of the game. would I? yes. if the circumstances were right. have i? I have - sort of. not really. there was a guy that i knew who had worked with her previously. and they weren’t romantically linked at all. but i remember thinking when we made out, this guy has been near her. they've touched. because of my circumstances, it felt mystical and urgent, but i never allowed it to happen again. mainly because deep down i knew i was using him. and all i would ever do was use him for precisely that reason. and that wasn’t fair. so i never talked to him again. never ever? she’s married. her husband is this guy. i don’t think i could kiss him. i don’t think i would. but if i did i would imagine it being for the sole reason of missing her because she was no longer with us.

4. tell your crush you suffered a traumatic event to get them to befriend you even more

no. not to the extent that Ollie lied. that was pretty big even for me. i’d tell a white lie. I have told a white lie to get my crush to befriend me even more, but to lie about trauma is diabolical. [the lie i told, was about not having a twitter account in my crushes honorum. in truth, i really did. and i didn’t want her to know about it because it was my place to be transparent. and curious, and sexually fluid. it was my place to be absolutely mental. but i never lied about traumas. [that’s gnarly.]

5. spend the night over your super rich friend’s house

never ever. for precisely the reasons detailed in this film, however parody the script may have been, there’s a lot of truth to the scenario. to the reactions. I always did my best to avoid putting myself into those situations. when you’re in social settings like that i think it’s important to realize and establish your role early on. if they’re fire, you’ve got to position yourself as water, or earth, or wind and be realistic about that. if you’re not, you’re just setting yourself up for failure. you just seem delusional. you've got to be strong. be your own character. set your boundaries and don’t apologize for them. if you don't you''ll only ever be a play thing. you want to make an impression? you want to be memorable? my advice is to keep networking. don't limit yourself to one person just because they're so and so and they have connections. keep networking. make your own connections. and make connections that are outside of their circle. that way if things do go south, the most you lose is an understanding, but never your newly earned position. when you limit yourself you become dependent on others for your happiness and growth. you don't just come off as a moth, but a leech. [that's your que pamela!] it's just not attractive.

6. slurp your crushes masturbation bathwater

abso-fucking-lutely - on second thought it might be a bit too soapy for my tasting. but i’d definitely do a finger dip.

7. perform oral sex during someone’s menstrual cycle

like a full session? probably not. some people try and justify it and make it acceptable but the fact is it’s unsanitary, unhealthy, and unclean. there’s even risk of giving your partner a bacterial infection. so no. not exactly. but i know it’s possible for some women to become aroused. i’d be open to fingering long term, but nothing oral. i have nothing to prove in doing that.

8. play psychological mind games with your competition

i did. don’t recommend it at all. it’s enough to make a person go insane. and there are so many other wonderful things you could be doing. like being kind and being genuine. that’s not to say that being that way will inherently make you exempt from offensive behaviors- and by offensive behaviors i am referring to the unmentionable hazing experience wealthy young adults play on middle class young adults. that's the ugly side of ambition. the part that you’re unprepared for because no one really expects it. you're so focused on socially advancing that once you've gotten your foot in the door the only thing you can process is the success of it. the next steps of it. it's a lot. one minute you think you've just secured generational wealth for your family and the next you're standing in an arena with a sword while all the advanced gather for entertainment. it can just be impossible and manipulative, and jealous for no reason. they’ll hurt you just because they can, just because they’re not having a good day. and it can cost you everything. so don't go in it with the expectation you're going to win. the game is rigged. go in with the intention to survive. you never know, you might get lucky.

9. kill your crush after they found out about your deception and decided they no longer wanted to be in a relationship with you

nooooo!!!! never ever! if anything, i’d kill myself before i had the nerve to kill my crush. to ruin those eyes? and that hair? and those legs? and that ass? and those lips?! PLEASE. the last thing i’d want to do is kill someone i’m in love with! it's just unfathomable. i can't even imagine it. life just wouldn't have meaning without my crush. even if she is married. i don't care. i still want her alive and breathing. if anything i want her to live forever.

10. masturbate on your crushes grave.

this one made me laugh. in hindsight no. maybe you know, i’d think about us being together when i go to lay some flowers, but full on, naked and thrashing against the dirt? i can’t say that’s for me. I can’t speak for what happens in the car though- especially if the grave just happens to be by the beach...

[green-kat331]

My Friend Spider-man

Pt 1 : Friendly Neighborhood Reporter

(Non-specific! spider-man x reader)

A/N: This is a spider-man from no specific universe, game, comic, or movie, so let me clear some stuff up about Peter. He's a college student (about 18-19 y/o), and He's an intern at the Daily Bugle. You have been his friend since high school and are also in college and working at The Bugle.

warning: Gun, Swearing?

Walking through the streets of Queens New York is no easy task. 

Your satchel bounced on your hip with each quick step. Today, you had to bring in your most recent reports to The Bugle. Something about a recent sports award or a shiny prize of some sort, you were practically asleep writing the damn thing. Judging by the busy crowd, you weren't gonna make it to save yourself from Jameson's lecture. Although the only thing he ever seems to talk about recently is Spider-man. 

The web-slinging hero has been on everyone's mind recently since yet another save from a superbad villain. You can still see caution tape on a few buildings if you just walk a few blocks. 

Now you're waiting towards the crosswalk when suddenly your arm is harshly pulled into an ally, and a gun is held to your stomach. A man cornered you and demanded your bag. 

"Hand it over, and I won't have to use this one you." 

"I- I swear I don't have anything very valuable in here for you to take. I have reports for my job that's it- I don't even carry a lot of cash on me—" you stutter through your stunned state trying to negotiate your way out of it, even though you know it's pointless 

"I said hand it over!" He demands a little louder now. 

Then another man runs into the alley, about the same age as the first man "Yo hurry up, we gotta get outta here," he whispered 

"Alright! I got it," the first man answers and starts to forcibly pull your bag off your shoulder, but you held on tight. The shaking forced the latch to release, and most of your reports spilled out of the bag. At the same time, the man shot the gun into the air, forcing you to let go and cover your ears. The two men ran out of the alley and into the city streets. 

You're left now alone with no choice but to salvage the papers you could. You held up the report by its edge. Now stained due to water and mud, the text was barely visible and the color was an ugly shade of brown. 

"Ugh...Dammit, " you mumble. To be frank, your pride was more hurt than anything. They were clearly disorganized and young. It felt like you got robbed by a couple of teenagers. 

You look around for any way to hold or dry the pages without damaging them. 

Suddenly, a loud scream catches your attention, then a loud bang makes you jump, and you see the guys that just robbed you wrapped in webs and stuck on a dumpster. Staring in confusion, you wonder where the hero that dropped the men off might be. 

Your question was soon answered. 

"This belong to you?" A voice says now behind you. 

The suddenness of the voice made you jump and turn around. you see the web-slinging vigilante hanging upside-down holding your satchel. You take a step back and stare at the masked hero. He tilts his head in wonder, then comes down from his web and hands you the bag properly. 

"Uh... thank you, Spider-man" A smile couldn’t help but appear on your face

"What this? Oh, it's no problem. Just doing what any good ol' Samaritan woulda done." He expressed even waving his hands in the air and leaning on the alley wall.

You chuckled a bit at his casualness. He spoke as though he'd known you forever. Guess they don't call him 'Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man' for nothing.

3 years he's been at this. For the entirety of your senior year, you've been invested in the good deeds he has committed. Whether it's helping an old woman or keeping the green goblin from blowing up the entire city. 

"So you, Report for the Bugle?" He asks, pointing at the papers. Coming out of your own thoughts. You see the muddy report with the mentioned newspaper logo in bold.

"yeah.. Yeah!.. Don't worry about Jameson. Trust me, not everyone there thinks he's right 100% of the time, especially about you. I don't read his blocks about you anyways," you ramble, kneeling down and picking up the rest of the reports.

"You a word-of-mouth type of person?" 

"... yeah... you could say that..."You respond 

Awkward silence

"...sorry... it's my first time getting robbed, Soo… Y' know I'm still...processing... Well maybe you don't actually know what it's like cuz- y'know-- you're spider-man.. i mean have you ever been robbed? sorry! That''s a stupid question. of course not" You ramble nervously tucking hair behind your ear and rubbing the back of your neck.

He chuckles. Then kneels down, and takes the papers from your arms, also doing his best to shake them dry. He puts them back into your bag, then shoots a web out of the ally "Next time you need my help, be sure to holler and I'll come swinging for you." he says with a wave and swings away. 

You wave back, staring at where he disappeared from, calmly you walk out of the ally preparing yourself for Jameson's lecture, but little does he know a spark of inspiration appeared from that brief encounter. 

Hopefully, today will be your day. 

---

You walk into The Bugle, moving past all the other reporters and editors running around the room. The sound of printers and typing almost made you walk right back out of the door, but you pushed through. 

"Hey,(____)." You hear Peter say. 

If you had to pick the most likable person in the office, Peter Parker would take the #1 spot every time. While people gave you sly looks for being a 'kid' in the work place. He never failed to greet you each morning occasionally with a coffee if you're lucky. 

You quickly greet him back, then immediately go into Jameson's office. 

"You're late." He states, not even bothering to look up at you. You rested the urge to choke him. 

"I know - I uhh I ran into an issue on my way -" 

"Put them on my desk then get working on the other files. They're on your desk. I want these all done by the end of the day" 

As you begin to take the files out, you try to talk, "I was actually thinking of asking if I could -"

"Jesus, they're filthy. Print out more and—" 

"I WAS ROBBED!" You finally shout, interrupting the prideful man "on the way here, that's why I'm late and why the papers are.. like that..." You finished now calmly.

He pauses 

"Well you’re alive arent you? Did they take anything?" He asks. You sigh. Finally, he listened. "No. That's what I wanted to talk about. My stuff was given back because Spiderman caught them and returned my items. I want to do a report on him and all the great things he's done. ," 

"The great things!? He is a menace! We shouldn't be celebrating his crimes -" 

"—I won't even ask for payment on this report. Come on, Mr. Jameson, why spend the entirety of your career shouting in papers and broadcasts about something you don't even like? For a few months is all I ask, I'll shine a different light on the vigilante while also doing my usual reports. 

The older man thinks for a moment. "Think of your blood pressure," you quickly add-in. He glares at you, knowing the numerous lectures he receives from his wife about it. You were right, and he gives up after taking another puff of his cigar he turns his chair towards you "fine you'll be put on reports about Spiderman and current events. Your first print is at the end of the week, and I want the ones on your desk printed by the end of the day." You nod and turn to walk out of his office. Looking out the glass panel, you make eye contact with Peter, who was messing with his camera. You look back at Jameson who was angrily scribbling on his notepad almost ripping the pages. 

"You're wrong about him, Jameson. He's good for this city." 

"You're lucky. You're a good reporter. I don't pay you to be biased and sentimental. Just get the job done." 

"... you don't pay me much of anything anyway." 

"I decided to give the kiddies a chance. I've been feeling generous this year. Don't make me regret it. Now go and get those reports PRINTED!" 

Quickly, you run out of his office, avoiding yet another burst eardrum. you slam the door and rush towards Peter with a giddy feeling in your stomach. You grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to your desk. 

"Peter Parker, you are not going to believe what gold I have struck today!" 

He stared at you with wondering eyes. "What- what? why? What happened just now?" 

"I got put on the Spiderman reports" 

"...the what now?" 

"I'm doing reports on Spiderman! Isn't that exciting? My days won't be filled with just writing about middle school basketball and what ducks are fed at the parks. This is something real, something new, something exciting, and you're going to help me!" You state. He still looks at you bewildered. Leaning in close you grab his hands in between yours.

"Peter Parker, you are the best photographer I know. You have captured numerous and damn near impossibly close images of Spiderman swinging around and in some of the most perfect poses ever." His eyes avert yours for a split second as he blushed, clearly flattered by your praises

"Now I'm relying on your skills to get pictures of him in action, I wanna see him being the hero we know he is. Defeating bad guys and saving civilians! They need to know that he's actually helping people. Like you, like me." 

Peter thinks for a moment, then looks into his camera. "You really think he's doing good?" 

"I think he's doing great. Nothing like what Jamison makes him out to be." 

He gives a quick smile, then walks over to his desk and grabs his bag. "So what are you gonna be doing?" He asks 

Before taking a seat, you grin at your friend.

"I'm going to get whatever little piece of info I can get on the guy."

You smirk and turned back to your desk, you can't think too far ahead now all you need to focus on was getting these reports out of your way. although you couldn't help but wonder about Peters's nervous expression.

shrugging your shoulders you pull open your first file.

Hours Later….

You drag yourself and your bag into your apartment doors nearly collapsing in the hallway, your roommate peaked out of his room.

“Damn, you look like shit,” he says laughing at your misery.

You glared at him putting down your bag and keys. The journey to your bedroom was torturous, your back ached and your eyes felt like they were about to fall out of your head. Staying till the end of the day to finish reports made you want to abandon The Bugle altogether. even though it isn't the latest you've come home due to the heavy amounts of work Jameson decided to give you. But still, who would've thought a rookie like yourself would be placed on a task so much larger than you really knew what to do with. It made you kick your feet into your mattress as your eyes slowly succumbed to exhaustion.

Tomorrow you were gonna do whatever you need to. You were gonna get an interview with Spiderman. 

____________________________________________

Also on AO3 in case you prefer to read fics there

[broke-art-girl]

"A Match Into Water." By Broke_Art_Girl

(TW: Self-Harm)

Fandom: Bones and All (2022)

Summary: During Christmas time Lee catches you in the act. Asleep in the tub and the water cold. You sit down with him after he nurses you up to have a talk. A year passes, you have been clean the whole time. <3

Words: 1,801

Characters: Lee, Reader.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54156346

~

Lee sat at the table across from You, hands on his knees. The quiet burned into you both.

You were frozen in place. Your eyes down at the wooden table you shared many moments at. You barely breathed.

“Y/N?” He asked. You didn't reply. The snow piled up against the windows, the neighborhood Christmas lights hinting at happiness in the icy air. But Santa must have forgotten your home this Christmas. The tree in the corner of the living room piled with gifts from one of you to the other.

“Y/N, I love you, alot.”

“This isn't because of you.” You muttered between clenched teeth. You looked pale and gaunt. He tried not to look down at it. The red swollen mark across your wrist. He had no idea why you would want to hurt yourself, especially when everything was so good.

“Can we talk about this?” He asked gently.

Your lips quivered, you pressed them together and bit at the inside of your cheek. You were gripping your fist so hard your knuckles were turning white. However, he knew if he truly had no chance of getting anything out of you, you wouldn't be making such an effort to stay seated at the table.

Your small sigh filtered through the tension. Your eyes became shiny as you sniffed back mucus.

“You don't have to say anything, I just want you to know I'm here for you, okay.” He paused, contemplating if it was a good time to reach for your hand to comfort you, but ultimately decided against it. “Can I ask… does it hurt?”

You looked to the left, more away from him than just looking at the table.”Yeah...” You said with a puff. His brows pulled into a slope.

“I swear it has nothing to do with you. Please don't think that.” Your bottom lip puckered uncontrollably and your voice was breaking.

“Please baby, just talk to me, please. I'm here for you, forever and always.” He shook his head trying to control himself.

“I just-..” a tear escaped your lashes. You closed your eyes then sighed. “I've been having a hard time lately.”

That broke him. He had no idea. Despite sleeping next to you every night, whatever was bothering you so badly, you were trying very hard -and managing- to hide it from him.

“I'm here. I'm right here for you.” His voice broke.

“I know.” You sighed regretfully.

“Are you unhappy? Do you want to leave me?”

“No!” You whimpered, starting to sob.

“I am here to listen. Please. Y/N I cant-'' He sighed. “I can't do this without you.”

You puffed. “I love you.” You whispered and swallowed hard.

“I love you too!” He pleaded.

You were quiet for a while until you sighed again and looked up at him briefly. His eyes locked with yours, only for a second, for the first time since he found you in the tub. The tiles red and slick with bubbles. The water, cold.

“Am I a bad person, Lee?” You asked.

“Absolutely not.” He shook his head. “I love you. Every part of you. This is just something we have to work through. Y/N, I hurt people. I kill people. If you can love me through that, I can love you through this! Everything will be okay. I swear.”

That somehow made everything a little better. The sting in your arm was still there but the icky feeling was still there. You just needed to breathe. You shook your head and your face pulled together as you stood up.

You started pacing the room and puffing breaths of tension, running your hands through your hair.

He was perfect. His wavy crimson mullet. As he raised his arms to rest atop his crown, his thin worn out tee shirt crawled up his torso, his baggy jeans tied to his hips by a merky bit of rope he found in a ditch. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Sexy. Amazing.

Lee.

‘Yet somehow he ended up stuck with me? I don't understand how he deserves it, why does he want it?’ You thought rapidly.

He sat still, because if he stood, the conversation would be over, and you would shut down again.

“When do you do it? Do you have triggers?"

You looked at him strangely. As if expecting him to be less gentle. “When things get hard.” You muttered looking over at you. “When I feel alone. When everything gets too much.”

“Is it something I did? Did I upset you?” He carefully asked.

“When you have to leave.. I when you get the craving.. I'm scared… you won't come back.”

This made his eyes widen. You had only just started dating recently, you were so afraid he would up and leave in the midnight lighting.

He couldn't bear to ditch you without saying goodbye, and he wasn't much of a letter person.

“Could you..” His fingers pulled themselves across the table trying to puppeteer you back to your seat. You took the hint and sat down.

Your left wrist was covered in a thick layer of gauze and an ace wrap. He had insisted on taking you to a hospital, but you were afraid they would send you away to a mental hospital and you would be taken from him, which would have only made things worse.

“Do you need to see them?” You asked, looking down.

“No, not if you don't want me to.”

“Its just embarrassing.”

“Okay.”

The room once again fell silent.

“I want you to know I'm not going anywhere. I'll starve if I have to, to know that you're okay.” he blurted out after a while of listening to you breathe.

“I don't want that.” You mumbled.

“What can I do to help?” He asked devotedly.

You swallowed hard. “What about a phone call? That would be nice..”

He nodded and allowed his hands to hold yours lightly. “Okay. I can try to gather up some quarters for the payphone. Once I get a motel I'll call. Is that alright? It might be kinda late.. like 2 am kinda like?”

“I won't be sleeping anyway.. I always wait till you get home.”

He sighed, “I didn't know that.”

You both once again sat silently for a while. You could have heard a pin drop.

A month or two later when the fresh wound on your wrist healed, he started the process of trying to lighten the scars with different gels. You both tried a hundred or more coping mechanisms. You started medication, but what helped most was his attention. You both had come to the conclusion you had depression and some form of separation anxiety. Even if you two were in the same room you could still feel alone.

“I am beautiful.” He said digging through a box of fine tipped markers.

“I am beautiful.” You mimicked, trying to keep an open mind about his words.

“I am not a burden.” He said as he grabbed a blue marker.

“I am not a burden.” You repeated. That one hit you like a truck of bricks.

“I am worthy of the love that I am given.” He said as you began to draw.

“I am worthy of the love that I am given.” You repeated, letting it sink in.

You watched the small hearts and planets appear on his skin over the healed scars, covering them up slightly. Small pentagrams formed stars surrounding little circles with bands around them. Planets. Your initials next to his with a small + in-between all over the backs of your hands.

That was almost a year ago, Thanksgiving had just passed. Today Lee and you were putting up the Christmas tree. Adding the lights was his favorite part. The house smelt of cinnamon and pine. The fireplace was lit. Everything was perfect.

“Hey Lee, can I eat this?” You asked, pointing to the popcorn garland.

He chuckled and shrugged. “I wouldn't, I bet it's dusty from sitting in that box for a year. I can pop some more if you're craving it.”

“Nah nevermind, I just wanted to try this one.” You continued to rummage through the box and attempt to untangle a set of lights. You had wrapped them a partial way so they wouldn't be tangled, but you both forgot where you were supposed to start from, so now it was a mess.

“Dinner’s ready!” He sang as he plated. You attempted to crawl out from under the pile of garland and lights and ran over to the wooden table. He slid into his fridge facing chair as you rested in your sink facing one. But in the end you stared at each other.

“Thank you, Lee.” You smiled and dug in as he attempted to warn you about the errors he thought he had made in the dish. “Is it okay?” he asked. “I don't really cook a lot other than eggs and the occasional cinnamon rolls. Do you like it?”

“Mhh~” You hummed. “This is really good!!” You spoke with your mouth full.

“Thanks, I hope you like it, baby.”

Your eyes quickly jumped from his face, to something over his shoulder, then back to him, so fast he could barely see it. You chewed the crunchy veggies.

“What?” He asked. “Need a napkin?”

You stopped chewing suddenly and swallowed hard.

“Could you.. put that away?” You look down at your food.

He twisted around in his chair. It squeaked as his weight shifted. “What?”

“On the cutting board.” You mumbled, chewing another bite.

It was the small knife he used to chop the vegetables in his homemade stir fry.

“Oh! Yeah, sorry baby.” He got up quickly to do so, you sighed and took another bite, chewing. “It's okay.”

The table grew silent for a moment after he threw the knife into the sink and covered it with the rubber topper. He asked if you needed anything and you replied, “Nothing other than you to sit with me and eat your delicious handcrafted dinner.” Which made him smile.

He sat and enjoyed as told.

After almost six minutes of silent crunching and guzzling water you piped up with a conversation. “Tomorrow I'll be a year clean.” you mumbled as he ate.

“Mhm!” he quickly chewed and swallowed so he could speak. “I know! I'm so proud of you, baby!”

You grinned.

“I'm super duper proud of you!!”

“Thanks..” You replied awkwardly. You never really could accept a compliment.

“We're gonna do something special. Whatever you'd like.” he said.

You thought for a minute. “Can we stay home and cuddle?”

He smiled, “I expected you to say that.” He pushed your plate towards you. “Eat up.”

“okay.” You took a bite of the warm food, you couldn't taste anything over the love.

[scary-grace]

Love Like Ghosts (Chapter 19) - a Shigaraki x f!Reader fic

You knew the empty house in a quiet neighborhood was too good to be true, but you were so desperate to get out of your tiny apartment that you didn't care, and now you find yourself sharing space with something inhuman and immensely powerful. As you struggle to coexist with a ghost whose intentions you're unsure of, you find yourself drawn unwillingly into the upside-down world of spirits and conjurers, and becoming part of a neighborhood whose existence depends on your house staying exactly as it is, forever. But ghosts can change, just like people can. And as your feelings and your ghost's become more complex and intertwined, everything else begins to crumble. (cross-posted to Ao3)

Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21

Chapter 19

You pitch forward, but Tomura’s there to catch you, and for a moment, everything’s right where it should be. You’re home. You didn’t leave him. He won’t let you fall. For a single split second, you let yourself believe things will be okay. Then one of Tomura’s hands brushes over an open wound and you cry out. When he pulls his hand back, his palm is shiny with blood. Tomura looks at his hand, then looks at you, and you see his eyes widen – first in horror, then in rage.

“You thought I’d blame them?” he asks his conjurer. “You think I’m weak. You thought I was stupid, too? You’re the one who tried to take my human away.”

He’s trying to put his arm around you, but you’re bloody from shoulder to knee. There’s next to nowhere he can touch that won’t hurt you, and with every second that passes, his anger grows, until he’s practically vibrating with fury. “I wouldn’t dream of taking your human from you,” Shigaraki says to Tomura. “On the contrary, I want to ensure that you keep her forever – without having to make any unnecessary changes to yourself!”

“What?”

Tomura sounds baffled. “Nomu,” you mumble. You seize the hand that’s been searching for a place to hold you and press it to your cheek. “He wants to make me a Nomu.”

“Think about it,” Tomura’s conjurer says. “As a Nomu, she’d be much less breakable. Much less mortal, too. All that effort you’ve put in to understand her – this way, she’d understand you. The process was nearly complete when she left to return to you.”

“Escaped.”

“It wouldn’t take much,” the conjurer says, like you didn’t speak at all. He’s coming closer. “It could be done in a matter of hours. If you wish it.”

“If I wish it,” Tomura repeats. Your blood turns to ice.

“Of course,” the conjurer says. “As I said, I’ve neglected you all these years. I’ll do what I must to make it right.”

Tomura’s thinking about it. Is he thinking about it? You don’t know. “You idiot,” Dabi shouts. “She wouldn’t be your human anymore. She’d be something else, and he’d own her just like he owns you!”

“Look what’s been done to her,” Shirakumo says, his voice low and quiet. “I know what it’s like. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

“Do you truly believe they have your best interests at heart, Tomura?” Shigaraki asks. “They’ll do anything to keep you trapped here, using your power for their own protection. You’ll be a slave to their fear forever. I’m offering you freedom.”

“At a cost.”

It’s Aizawa’s voice. He’s the only human who’s spoken up since you crossed the property line, and he speaks again, his voice perfectly calm. Not to the conjurer. To Tomura. “It comes at a cost,” he says again. “Neither you nor he will be the one to pay it.”

You still have Tomura’s hand pressed against your cheek. He looks at you, then at his other hand, smeared with your blood. You see fury flash in his eyes. Then he turns away, putting his back to the street, pulling you with him. “Spinner,” he says, and Spinner hurries forward. Tomura shifts you from leaning against him to leaning against Spinner. “I need both hands to clear this level.”

He’s not going to give you to his conjurer. He was never going to. Spinner ushers you away, pulling you over to where the noncombatants seem to be huddled – Himiko, Eri, Jin’s youngers siblings. Tomura, meanwhile, materializes fully, cutting off his conjurer’s access to the world between as he starts down the steps. “You were gone too long, Master,” he says. “There’s nothing you have that I want.”

“Yes, come here. Let me see you. I – ugh.” The conjurer makes a disgusted noise. “Now I see where my brother’s spirit went after it ceased to trouble me. You look like him. I’m aware you can’t control how you look when you embody yourself, but – forgive me. It’s quite frustrating.”

“I don’t care who you think I look like.” Tomura stops at the edge of the yard, just prior to the gate. “I’m pretty. My human said so.”

He sounds so proud of himself, and your heart leaps. Even the fact that half your neighborhood is laughing semi-hysterically doesn’t check your joy. You twist in Spinner’s arms, catching a glimpse of the conjurer standing on the opposite side of the gate. He looks horrible. Whatever energy the bracelet released when it broke, it looked like it scalded him, or boiled him, peeling back his skin until his face is nearly devoid of features. He’s looking at Tomura blankly, completely nonplussed. He looks like he doesn’t know what to do.

Finally he clears his throat and speaks again. “You’re quite possibly the most powerful being in this world. Is this – protecting this single neighborhood, and that particular human – truly all you intend to do with it? Is that the extent of your will?”

“No. This is.” Tomura crouches, sets his hands on the ground, and your fence blows apart for the third time this year.

That’s not all that happens. The ground shakes. You feel everything around you ripple and shift, and you hear Dabi swear loudly. Eri and Himiko are both cheering. You look around for answers and find Spinner staring, slack-jawed. “He said he could. I didn’t think he’d actually do it –”

“Do what?”

“Expand the boundaries of his power by force.” Aizawa’s got his gun. “His spirit is still tied to the property, but the entire neighborhood is now within reach of his abilities.”

“That means he can do more to all of them,” Shinsou says. He’s hunkered down with the other kids, but he doesn’t look like he likes it. “Except it means it’s easier for them to get to us, too.”

Jin’s mom steps out of your house. She’s holding a baseball bat and her expression is grim. “Go inside,” she tells her children, and most of them get up and hurry through the door. She looks at you. “Look after them. We’ll do the rest.”

You want to say that you’ll fight, too, but you can barely stand. There’s no way you’ll be anything but a liability. “I can fight,” Himiko protests.

“Me, too!” Shinsou gets to his feet. “We’re way outnumbered. You need us! We can help.”

Aizawa and Jin’s mom trade a glance. “Fine,” Aizawa says. “Himiko, back up Dabi. Shinsou, back up Shirakumo. Don’t engage anyone on your own. Understood?”

Himiko nods and takes off, pulling a knife out of absolutely nowhere. Shinsou casts about for a weapon, picks up a shovel that’s leaning against the house, and takes off, too. With nothing else to do, and Aizawa and Jin’s mom already taking up defensive positions in the yard, you herd Jin’s remaining siblings into the house. Eri’s already inside. She’s in Phantom’s crate, with Phantom. Phantom is whining, a low, continuous sound of distress, but when she spots you, she rockets to her feet, trampling Eri in an effort to get to you. You sink down to the floor, trying to greet her without getting any of your wounds stepped on.

From outside the window, you hear the conjurer’s voice. “Remarkable work, Tomura! But you don’t need to be so gentle with the use of your power.”

“Don’t worry.” Tomura’s voice is flat and icy. “I won’t be gentle on you at all.”

The air temperature plummets, inside the house and outside of it, and you hear the first set of screams rise. You’re seized with a desperation to see the fight, to see Tomura and make sure he’s okay, but you’ve got the kids and Phantom you’re responsible for. You rack your brains, trying to think of where the safest place to hide them will be. Finally you settle on the corner of the room, along the same wall as the front window. No one who peers in will be able to see them easily, and it’s a straight shot from here through the kitchen to the back door in case you need to get out in a hurry. Jin’s siblings, usually raucous, are quiet and scared. Eri’s the most agitated of the group, so you put her in charge of Phantom to give her something to do. And then you drag yourself across the floor again so you can peer out the window.

It looks like someone’s unleashed hell. The scene is eerily lit with flashes of blue fire, and you can see wisps of essence drifting through the air. Too many of them. At least two ghosts are already dead.

You search the battlefield, picking out every live ghost or ghost-adjacent on your side – Shirakumo, Natsu, Nemuri, Dabi, Tomura. They’re all here, although in Tomura’s case, here is a relative term. He’s almost fully materialized, but not quite. That’s not good. He needs to materialize fully if he wants to cut off his conjurer’s access to his power. Does he need to be dematerialized to access his own power? You should have asked, or somebody should have. If he can’t fight –

But he can fight. A ghost comes within reach and Tomura seizes them, blows them apart, adding more shreds of essence to the icy breeze. The next opponent is an embodied ghost. Tomura hits them hard enough to cave in their chest, then tosses them away. He didn’t drain them, even though draining them would have been faster. Why?

“He can’t,” Eri says quietly. “He wants to be like us. If he drains somebody he will be.”

And if he does, his conjurer will kill you all. The others are holding their own in the fight, but when you watch Tomura carefully, you realize that he’s stepping in to save them when they get in over their heads. That’s why he’s not fully materialized. When he’s incorporeal, his reach is longer. He can get to the others before they even know they’re in danger. “Knock it off,” Dabi snaps. “Quit stealing my kills.”

“Be faster, then.” Invisible hands grab Dabi’s current opponent, yank them backwards off their feet, and smash them face-first into the ground. It must be a live ghost, because they explode into a cloud of essence, and they don’t come back. “I’ll do this by myself if I have to.”

“Yeah, but you don’t have to,” Hizashi hollers from somewhere out of sight. You can’t see him, but you see dark liquid spray up, and you decide not to think too hard about what it is. “Focus on your own fight! He’s – fuck! Nem, watch out!”

You don’t see what happens, but you see Nemuri sprint through your field of vision, clearly in full retreat. “Quit screwing around! Do it now!”

Tomura materializes fully. You always know when he’s done it, because you always see him stagger slightly when his feet hit the ground. Shigaraki tsks from somewhere nearby. “You think that will save you? Why do you think I brought so many of my friends?” he asks. You feel the ground shake, once and then again. “You can access the world between even while wearing that weak form. Show me what you’re capable of!”

The thing that appears from the shadows is enormous. You’re not sure if it’s a Nomu or just another ghost, but it towers over the rest of them, dwarfing Tomura so badly that he looks like a child’s plaything compared to it. You watch Tomura brace himself, hands outstretched to make contact, but the thing swats his hands aside. Then it seizes him around the waist and clenches its hand into a fist.

You scream in horror. You can’t help it when you see the spray of blood that exits Tomura’s mouth, the way his head falls back, eyes blank and bloody, features gone slack. The monster squeezes harder, then gives a vicious shake, and you swear you can hear his neck snap. Tomura might be the one crushed to death in the monster’s grip, but you’re struggling to breathe. “Tomura –”

Improbably, agonizingly, his head turns in the direction of your voice. Then he dematerializes, leaving the monster with an empty, bloodstained hand.

“He’s okay,” Eri whispers to you, but you don’t believe her. Tomura materializes fully again, just out of reach of the monster, but he looks shaken. You’ve never seen him look like that before. “See, he’s okay! He’s –”

This time, Tomura dodges one of the giant’s hands only to get grabbed by the other. It seizes him with the other hand, too. Then it tears him in half.

He can feel things when he’s materialized. You know that. Some things feel good and some things feel bad, and as you watch the monster destroy his physical form again and again, you’re sick with horror at how much it must hurt. You watch him die three times, five times, twelve times, his limbs torn off, his skull crushed, his body mangled beyond repair. Every time he materializes again whole, he looks worse. Not marked by what’s happened before. Tortured by it, haunted by it, until the monster seizes him and it begins again.

You can’t look away. Some part of you feels like you owe it to him not to. If you can’t help, if all you can do is sit and watch, at least you can let him know you’re here.

The monster throws him to the ground and stomps on him until his body disintegrates into a puddle of tissue and shattered bones, and he doesn’t reappear quickly. Second after second ticks past without him materializing again. Then a familiar rush of cold comes over you, and when you look away from the window, you find Tomura crouched beneath it.

He looks awful, sick and sweaty and pale, and when you reach for him, you can feel how badly he’s shaking. You pull him into your arms and hold on tight, ignoring the bright flare of pain from your wounds when he slumps against you, when he hugs you back even harder. There’s no time for a kiss. There’s not even time to speak. Just a split second of contact that leaves your skin damp with his cold sweat and his shirt stained with your blood, before he dematerializes and reappears outside the house.

The giant swings for him again, but this time it misses – and it misses its second swing, too. Tomura’s gotten his feet under him, and he’s moving faster than he was before, so fast that your eyes can’t track him. It makes your head hurt to try. You squeeze your eyes shut for a split second, only for them to fly open when you hear the sound of glass shattering right next to your head. You open your eyes and find an embodied ghost leering down at you.

You struggle to your feet, trying to stay between the ghost and the kids, trying to figure out how permanent the embodiment is. You strike out towards his face and see him flinch – but he doesn’t blink. Fully embodied, which means you don’t have to worry about being drained, which means you need to fight. You’re not a good fighter by any means, and you’re worse now, courtesy of every other horrible thing that’s happened today. When the ghost strikes at you, you’re too slow to dodge, and he knocks you sprawling across the floor.

You have to get up. The kids. You have to get up so you can protect the kids, but when you try to rise, the ghost kicks you in the ribs and knocks you back again. “Go on,” he says, leering down at you. “Call for help. Call him.”

You seal your mouth shut. If you didn’t scream for Tomura to save you while his conjurer was torturing you, there’s no way you’re going to do it here. The ghost draws his foot back to kick again, only to yelp and stagger as Phantom bites down hard on his other ankle, shaking and snarling until he loses his footing. She’s not the only one trying to help. Eri’s hitting the ghost in every spot she can reach, her tiny fists balled up and her face twisted with rage.

“No!” she shouts. One of her blows catches the ghost in the groin and he nearly falls. That’s your opening. You crawl across the floor, heading for the fireplace and the fire poker hanging from a hook on the wall. “No! You’re not supposed to be here! Go away!”

Her voice rises to a shriek, and you hear an odd, strangled sound. You twist around and freeze, struggling to grasp what you’re seeing. The ghost is – shrinking. From an adult to a teenager to a child to an infant, and finally to nothing, vanishing out of Eri’s grip completely. Eri looks surprised, then pleased with herself. “I didn’t know I could still do that!”

She scrambles across the floor to you and starts patting your head. “It’s okay! I got him! You don’t need that.”

You grab the fire poker anyway, your mind still reeling. “Is that how you – got people before?”

Eri nods importantly. Then her eyes brighten. “I have to go!” she announces, and before you can stop her, she bolts out the front door. “Tomura! I have something for you!”

You want to tell her not to distract him, but then he crashes through the porch roof, sprawled out with wooden spars protruding from his torso, his shoulder, his mouth. He dematerializes, then reappears, and Eri seizes one of his hands. “Here!” she says, and you see something pass from her hand to his. “I helped! Go!”

Tomura nods in thanks and disappears off the porch at lightning speed, while you pour all your energy into getting ahold of Eri and pulling her back inside. Eri goes willingly. “I have to tell Himiko,” she says, squeezing her eyes shut. “Maybe she can do it too.”

You vaguely remember Hizashi saying something about how Eri had massive untapped powers as a ghost. Somehow she figured out a way to pass off a human-sized dose of life-force to Tomura without requiring him to drain anybody, and when you peer out the broken window, you see Hizashi dart past the giant as it pursues Tomura, slapping Tomura in the back of the head on the way. Tomura turns to snarl at him, but when he steps back out of the giant’s range, he’s notably faster. Hizashi can still drain people, maybe. But there’s another live ghost in the equation who can do the same, and Nemuri dips in next, tapping Tomura’s shoulder before dematerializing.

You don’t see where she goes, but the giant staggers, howling in pain. You look to Eri, wondering if she knows. “He’s a Nomu,” she says by way of explanation. “She’s in his heart.”

You remember what Rumi did to the conjurer’s henchman she caught and feel like you’re going to be sick. The giant reaches into its own chest, trying to remove Nemuri, and blood oozes out, spattering the grass, the fence, everyone fighting in the yard and on the street. It stumbles, then stumbles again, and its shadow falls over your house.

If it falls on you, you’re all dead. “Get out of there!” Aizawa shouts. You yell for the kids, grab Phantom, and bolt into the yard once the others are out.

Nemuri and Tomura have gone from trying to kill the giant to trying to stop it from crushing the house, and the two Nomu jump in to help. For a second you’re confused about why they’d want to protect the house at all, but then you remember that even with extending his power over the neighborhood, Tomura’s still strongest inside the property line. If the house is destroyed, there’s nothing at all to stop the conjurer from coming through.

Where is the conjurer, anyway? A chill that’s got nothing to do with the high concentration of ghosts in the area runs down your spine. You turn just in time to see the conjurer step through your front gate.

Aizawa spots him, shoots him, his aim solid even with one eye. But Tomura’s incorporeal, pushing the boundaries of his power to try to contain the falling giant, which means the conjurer shrugs off the shot like it’s nothing. Then he slips into the crowd, weaving in between the combatants, making it impossible for Aizawa to shoot him without the risk of hitting someone on your side. Aizawa snarls, turns to deal with another opponent, and you set off.

You take the kids to hide. There aren’t very many good places to hide, but anywhere the giant isn’t is a good place to be. You find Keigo and tap his shoulder just after he’s finished knocking out an embodied ghost, leaving them easy prey for Natsu. In retrospect this wasn’t your brightest idea. He swings a crowbar at your head and almost knocks you out, checking his swing at the last minute. “Don’t do that! Why are you walking around? You should be –”

“I need you to take them and help them hide.” You gesture at the children. “In your house. I don’t know. Just get them out of here.”

Keigo stares at you. “And what are you going to do?”

“I have to get to him. The conjurer.” Your legs go weak when you think about what you’re planning to do, but you lean on the fire poker and stay on your feet. “I’m the only one he has a reason not to kill. I can get close. If I time it right –”

Keigo doesn’t need you to finish the sentence. He nods and turns to the kids. “We’re gonna cross the street and go hang out at my place, okay? Let’s go.”

Eri hesitates, but she eventually follows Keigo and Jin’s siblings. You force yourself upright, tighten your grip on the fire poker, and start off through the crowd in search of Tomura’s conjurer.

You’ll only get one strike to bring him down. It’ll have to do the job, and courtesy of Garaki, whatever inhibition you had against hitting another person with the intent to kill them is long gone. All you have to do is picture what’s happened to Tomura since Shigaraki got here, and you see red. One hit to stun him, and then as many more as it takes, until he’s dead and Tomura’s safe and this is over for good.

Shigaraki must be trying to stay hidden. With Tomura materialized for most of the fight, his conjurer’s access to the world between is cut off, which means he won’t be able to defend himself if one of the Nomus on your side comes for him. You can’t defend yourself, either. Where would you hide?

The house. The house is the best shelter there is if one isn’t worried about the giant, and the conjurer probably thinks you’re still in there. You look towards the house and spot him climbing the front steps. His back is to you. Tomura’s materialized, darting around the back of the house to evade the giant. Now’s your chance. You renew your grip on the fire poker one last time and set off at an unsteady run, ducking around fights where you’re beneath the combatants’ notice. Originally your plan was to hit him in the head, just like you did to Garaki, but as you close the distance between the two of you, you realize that you don’t have the strength or the balance for a swing. There’s a sharp point on the fire poker. That’s what you’ll use.

You remember thinking, when you were deciding how to attack Garaki, that you couldn’t stab someone. That’s changed. You make it two steps up the short staircase to the porch, lose your footing, and fall forward against the conjurer’s back, getting your makeshift spear into position just in time. Your momentum does most of the work. The fire poker stabs into the conjurer’s back, sinking in to the base of the spike. You apply the last of your strength and shove it the rest of the way, fighting the resistance of muscle and bone until you’ve run him through.

Blood gushes from the wound, soaking you all over again, and Shigaraki Akira lets out a pained grunt. It’s a much quieter sound than you’d make if you’d just been stabbed, and it’s the first sign that something’s gone wrong. The next is when the handle of the fire poker is yanked out of your grasp, pulled into the conjurer’s body. He’s pulling it through, hand over hand, until it exits his body on the other side.

You stumble, losing your footing, and fall backwards down the steps as Shigaraki Akira turns to face you, fire poker in hand. Blood is running from his mouth, but he’s smiling at you, and as you watch in terror, the wound in his chest closes completely. “Excellent try, but your timing was poor,” he says. He tosses the fire poker down the steps to clatter at your feet. “Why not try again?”

You should. Just because Tomura was incorporeal when you stabbed Shigaraki this time around doesn’t mean he will be the next time, but when you reach for the fire poker, you can’t close your fingers around it. The hard landing feels like it’s jarred some circuit loose in your brain, and you can barely move. The pain’s flooding back in, too, and suddenly you’re struck by the futility of it all. Even if you pick it up, even if you fight again, you’ve lost the element of surprise. He’s bigger and stronger than you. You don’t see how you can do anything but lose.

Shigaraki leers. “You spent all your will on one strike,” he says. He’s coming down the steps towards you. You shuffle backwards, but not fast enough. “Shimura’s farewell gift helped you escape my purpose for you before, but it won’t do so again. This won’t take but a moment.”

He reaches down and seizes you around your throat, hauling you to your knees one-handed. His other hand reaches out and snags a passing ghost, yanking them out of their embodiment in a single smooth movement. You can see the spirit twisting in his grip as his hold on you shifts, forcing your head back and your mouth open. “It’s a shame Rumi escaped. She would have suited you and Tomura better,” he says. You bite down on his fingers to no effect, and he grips your jaw tighter in response. “But this will do. Don’t struggle, now. There’s no need when you’ve given up already. Just – swallow.”

Something cold brushes your lips, then the back of your tongue, something that squirms and wriggles horrendously as it tries to escape. You raise your arms and try to pry the conjurer’s hand off your jaw, but his grip is iron, and it’s getting hard to breathe. He’s going to force the ghost down your throat, turn you into a Nomu, and you won’t be you anymore – and there’s nothing you can do. You can’t pull his hand free. You’re reduced to scratching at his knuckles as you choke on the ghost he’s trying to bind to you.

His grip on your jaw tightens past the point of pain. “Don’t struggle,” he instructs you again. “Just –”

Something plows into him from one side, moving too fast for you to track it. You sprawl out on the ground, coughing up what little essence you were forced to swallow, and the ghost he was trying to force-feed to you vanishes in a split second. You’d run if you could, too. Instead you struggle to pick your face up out of the dirt to see what’s happened to the conjurer.

The giant’s gone and Nemuri is nowhere to be found, but Tomura’s on his feet. He’s standing over the conjurer, eyes blazing but curiously blank. His shirt hangs in tatters. His blue-grey hair’s gone white. The very air around you is crackling with the evidence of his power.

The conjurer looks at him, what’s left of his mouth curving into a broad smile. “Well done, Tomura,” he says. “You’ve claimed your power at last. Dispense with the others.”

Tomura doesn’t move, but all around you, enemy ghosts and Nomus burst apart into clouds of essence, until the entire neighborhood hangs under a heavy fog. The only ghosts left are the permanently embodied ones, who promptly bolt. Tomura lets them go. The conjurer gets to his feet, grimacing slightly, but once he’s standing, he smiles for Tomura. “Now put an end to all of this,” he says. “Destroy the house.”

Tomura looks towards the house. He extends one hanz, and for a moment, you’re convinced he’ll destroy it. The conjurer’s right – it was a prison. Maybe it’s always been a prison to him, even if it was home to you. Then a vicious smile comes to Tomura’s face. He turns away from the house and seizes his conjurer by the throat. “I think I’ll destroy you.”

His conjurer doesn’t answer. That smile is still on his face, and you see Tomura’s eyes widen in surprise a moment later. He’s materialized. His conjurer has no access to the world between through him. So why is he hesitating? You see something crawling across the conjurer’s skin and blink hard as you try to get a handle on it. When you realize what it is, your stomach turns.

It’s essence. Tomura’s conjurer is covered in clouds of ghostly essence. Was he always like that? No, you would have noticed during the time he spent torturing you. You were out of it, but not enough to miss something like that. You see Tomura frown, shake his head. A wave of cold sweeps through the neighborhood, instantly coating everything in a sheen of frost and ice, but the conjurer only laughs. “You’ve already broken them. They can’t be blown apart smaller than this, and the neighborhood is full of the remains of your enemies. Even if you could destroy them, I’ll always have more.”

The scraps of essence are beginning to move, crawling over Tomura’s hand, and he draws back, revulsion on his face. The conjurer gestures, and the fog you saw hovering over the neighborhood descends. Where it touches a ghost, embodied or not, they recoil. When it touches a human, like you, the cold begins to burrow through your skin. You’ve got a lot of open wounds. It doesn’t have far to go before it hits bone.

You don’t want to scream, but as the cold begins to writhe beneath your skin, you can’t help it – and you’re not the only one. Human or Nomu or ghost, it doesn’t matter. Whether the scraps of essence trigger a response of disgust or agony, all you and the others can do is scream for it to stop, and the conjurer’s voice rises above it all. “This stops when you decide it does, Tomura. You can’t destroy me the way you wish to. Destroy the house, and I’ll let them go.”

“No, you won’t.” Tomura looks miserable. “I can see inside your head. You won’t let them go as long as you think you can control me with them. I know what you think I won’t do.”

“If you do what I ask of you, you’ll find I’m very reasonable,” Shigaraki Akira says. “I’ll have no reason to hurt them if you comply.”

But he will. Every time he thinks Tomura won’t do what he wants, he’ll hurt you all until Tomura bows to his will. The question of whether Tomura cares about the neighborhood has been settled for good – he does care. Enough that he’d give in to his conjurer to protect you all. “I don’t believe you,” Tomura says. His hand closes around his conjurer’s throat again. “And I’ll destroy you however I have to.”

Garaki had the chance to speak, but Shigaraki Akira doesn’t. You see a split second of shock on his misshapen features before he begins to disintegrate at the throat.

It’s fast and mercilessly simple. Tomura drains his conjurer to death at lightning speed, scattering essence into the air, and as the empty set of clothes falls to the ground, you see Tomura’s feet touch the mostly-dead grass in your front yard. There’s the little stagger he always does when he lands, like he’s not quite used to being on solid ground. And then the world begins to bend and warp around him, midair tearing open just behind him. A rush of cold sweeps over you again, a thousand times worse than anything you’ve felt from Tomura or any other ghost. It’s the world between. It’s pulling him back in.

Tomura’s body begins to fray, strips of skin peeling off and being sucked into the rift behind him, a moment before it yanks him off his feet entirely. In a split second he’s nearly swallowed whole. All that’s left of him is one hand reaching out, grasping uselessly at the air, seeking something, anything, to hold onto.

You move without conscious thought. You throw yourself forward and seize Tomura’s hand in both of yours, one hand closing around his palm and the other around his wrist. You don’t know if you can stop this. If there’s any way to stop this at all. But you know for a fact that you’re not going to let go of him. Wherever he goes, you’re going there, too. Tomura’s hand grips yours just as tightly. His knuckles have gone white. And his hand is warm.

Another set of hands covers yours and you nearly jump out of your skin. When you look to your right, you find Spinner crouched next to you. He gives you a strained smile and tightens his grip on you, and on Tomura. “You gotta hang on,” he shouts at Tomura. “I heard there’s a shiny Giratina in the new Pokémon game.”

You almost laugh. You would laugh if you couldn’t feel the cold leaking out of the world between. Another set of warm hands closes onto you, one around your wrist, one reaching further up Tomura’s arm. Himiko’s teeth are bared, either smiling or snarling – you’re not sure which. “Don’t you dare let go,” she says – to Tomura, not to you. “Your human will never forgive you, and neither will I!”

The pull of the world between is getting stronger. It’s dragging on Tomura, and now it’s dragging you, Spinner, and Himiko, pulling you closer to the breach. “Oh no you don’t,” a voice says sweetly, and someone grabs you and Spinner around the waist at once. Magne’s grip is strong as she hauls you both backwards. “Jin, honey, you too!”

Jin is holding onto you and Himiko. He’s pulling hard. With their help, you’re no longer losing ground to the world between – but you’re not making progress, either, and your hands are starting to go numb. An agonized howl issues from somewhere within the rift and your blood turns to ice. He’s hurt. This is hurting him. You have to get him out of there.

You open your mouth to call for help, but before you can, the air is unceremoniously forced out of your lungs as someone bearhugs you from behind. “Hold on,” Kurogiri instructs – not Tomura, but you. Tomura’s nails are scrabbling at the inside of your wrist, but you’re so cold you can barely feel them. “We will do the rest.”

Only Tomura’s forearm was visible before. Now his elbow and his upper arm are free of the rift. There’s another scream from inside it. Someone scurries past you, much closer to the rift than you thought anyone would dare to go, and grabs Tomura by his upper arm. “Pull together,” Atsuhiro shouts at the rest of you, as ice begins to spiral up from the spot where his hands are wrapped around Tomura’s bicep. “Now!”

Tomura’s shoulder emerges from the rift, but even as you pull him free, his grip on your hand is weakening. You tighten yours in response. “Hang on,” you beg him. “Come on, don’t do this. Hang on!”

Another yank and his head is free, but something’s wrong. He’s not conscious. His head is hanging forward, his hair in his eyes, and even when you say his name, he doesn’t stir. You keep pulling, and so does everybody else, but once you’ve freed his torso, the world between fights back. Even with all seven of you struggling to free him, you can’t win. Tomura’s hand is almost entirely limp in yours.

Himiko notices, too. She raises her voice. “Help!”

Who’s going to help you? Everybody who’s ever shown they care about Tomura is already here, fighting to steal him back from the world between. You know Aizawa won’t intervene. You wouldn’t be surprised if Hizashi tried to push Tomura back in. Who’s left? Keigo’s watching the kids. You don’t know where Nemuri is. Jin’s mom – Natsu – nobody. This is who you have. You’re not enough.

“Fuck,” Dabi explodes from somewhere behind you. You barely have time to tighten your grip on Tomura before a pair of burning-hot hands lock onto your forearm and haul you backwards.

You can smell your own flesh burning, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters, because eight of you are enough. One final yank, all of you pulling together, and Tomura tears free of the rift, falling forward into the pile of rescuers and landing mostly on top of you.

“Ew, he’s naked!” Himiko scrambles backwards, and everybody else follows, as you shift Tomura off of you and onto his back. He’s definitely naked, whatever remained of his clothes torn away in the effort to free him from the world between, and his body’s a mess. There are patches of burns and frostbite, bleeding fractures in his dry skin, his lips split and bloody. His eyes are closed. He’s not moving.

“Tomura.” You shake his shoulder, gently at first, then with increasing desperation. “Please. Please wake up.”

His skin is warm. He’s permanently embodied. He’s alive, or he was. You feel for a pulse at his neck, but you don’t know enough about taking pulses to know if you’re even touching the right spot, and your fingers are still numb. Is his chest rising and falling? Your eyes are so blurry with tears that you can barely see, and you blink hard, trying to clear them away. A few droplets roll down your face to splatter on Tomura’s shoulder, his cheek. You keep shaking him, fighting to hold in a sob. You’re injured. You’re in pain. The cold of the world between is in your bones, and none of it hurts as badly as the thought that you’ve lost Tomura for good.

You’re so busy shaking him that you barely notice when he stirs, but you can’t fail to notice the hand that rises, first to brush at his face, then to awkwardly wipe under your eyes. Even then, it barely registers. You think you’re imagining it, that you wished so hard your mind told you it was true. “Don’t leave,” you say, the same words you’ve heard him say so many times. “I need you. Don’t leave me. I –”

“Stop crying on my face.” His voice is so quiet you can barely hear it, but it’s his. You’d know it anywhere. “Don’t be stupid. I’m right here.”

It’s not a dream, or a wish come true. If everything was exactly as you wanted it, the second sentence out of Tomura’s mouth after he embodied himself wouldn’t be “don’t be stupid”, so that’s how you know it’s real. Tomura’s alive. He defeated his own conjurer. He saved everyone. And you, with a whole lot of help from the neighborhood he’s always pretended he hates – you saved him.

It’s okay now. It’ll be okay. You get a split second of pure happiness and relief before the pain floods in, and for the first time since you were dragged out of the conjurer’s torture chamber, your mind gives up the ghost. Tomura’s crimson eyes, staring up into yours, are the last thing you see before everything goes black.

[imkazz]

Can u do me a favor & drop that genmui playlist u mentioned? Also which song of that playlist is your personal favorite?

Maybe I’ll find a new song to obsess over <3

yessss (the description i have for the playlist is "pov we're teenagers in love and about to bleed out but i want to kiss you -genya" and that perfecty sums up how i feel about their relationship in the canon universe (not kimegaku) its sorta like right person wrong time) my favourite circulates but right now its "i wanna be your boyfriend" because it just feels like genya swooning over mui and it sounds so silly (i put them all in chronological order of how their love story lolll)

i wanna be your boyfriend - hot freaks

i wanna be you boyfriend, i wanna go on walks with you, i wanna have long talks with you (it just sounds like genya pining over mui what can i say)

hey lover - the daughters of eve

life's a problem in my hands, but if you really, really love me, in my heart, you'd be a big man (hey lover just sounds like something they would call each other)

beautiful boy - john lennon

beautiful beautiful beautiful, beautiful boy (just how he sings it is so sweet and how i imagine mui saying it to genya)

say yes to heaven - lana del ray

say yes to heaven, say yes to me, i've got my eye on you, i've got my eye on you (i could imagine genya whispering this in the middle of the night to mui)

paper rings - taylor swift

i like shiny things, but i'd marry you with paper rings, uhuh, that's right, darling, you're the one i want, and i hate accidents except when we went from friends to this (whimsical childish thinking that they would both survive the final fight)

i wanna be yours - arctic monkeys

secrets i have held in my heart are harder to hide than i thought, maybe i just wanna be yours (just them reciting their vows, both bleeding out and ready to die)

see you again - tyler the creator & kali uchis

can i get a kiss? and can you make it last forever, i said i'm 'bout to got to war, and i don't know if i'ma see you again (they're going to war and the song sounds like teenage love)

derniere danse - indila

je remue le ciel, le jour, la nuit, je danse avec le vent, la pluie, un peu d'amour, un brin de miel (translation has really pretty symbolism and it sounds like battle edit music)

daylight - david kushner

oh i love it and i hate it at the same time, hidin' all of our sins from the daylight, from the daylight, runnin' from the daylight (genya flashing back to his backstory)

muichiro tokito theme - samuel kim

0:31 - 0:45 (love the accompaniment of the bell with the rest of the growing music)

džanum - teya dora

ova duša nema dom, ova duša nema ton, crne zore, svеće gore, moje morе, moje more, moje more (the translation. omg.)

mr loverman - ricky montgomery

i'm mr loverman, oh, and i miss my lover, i've shattered now, i'm spilling out (genya worrying over mui during the battle. mic drop.)

softcore - the neighborhood

i'm too consumed with my own life, are we too young for this? feels like i can't move, sharing my heart, it's tearing me apart (they really were too young, and genya's fear of being useless)

chandelier - sia

i'm holdin' on for dear life, won't look down won't open my eyes, keep my glass full until morning light, 'cuz i'm just holdin' on for tonight (desperation to stay alive long enough to be useful during the fight)

wildest dreams - taylor swift

he's so tall and handsome as hell, he's so bad, but he does it so well, and when we've had our very last kiss, my last request is; say you'll remember me (mui just thinking genya would survive and he would die)

titanium - david guetta & sia

i'm bulletproof, nothing to lose, fire away, fire away, ricochet, you take your aim, fire away, fire away (muichirou telling genya to shoot even though genya could've shot him)

somewhere only we know - keane

and if you have a minute why don't we go, talk about it somewhere only we know, this could be the end of everything, so why don't we go, somewhere only we know (it sounds sad and the lyrics could imply an already-present relationship)

blood//water - grandson

we'll never get free, lamb to the slaughter, what you gon' do when there's blood in the water? (guilting kokushibo over killing two children)

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hold on, late night fantasy au snippet (its short, emphasis on this factoid). context: early days of the neighborhood, most of them are still getting to know each other. frank has a crush <3

~

“So,” Eddie says conversationally, “and let me know if I’m overstepping, but how did you get that scar? I confess, it’s been eatin’ at me for days. There must be some sorta story behind it.”

In a heartbeat, Frank lists the qualities of the man in front of him. 

Handsome.

Incredibly sweet.

Too sweet, easy to take advantage of.

Charming accent.

Handsome.

A man of honor and righteousness. 

Handsome.

The only logical conclusion? Impress him.

“It’s not all that interesting,” Frank says. He shrugs in a way that he hopes comes off as nonchalant, but not aloof. “[INSERT GRAPHIC WAY OF SCAR-GAINING HERE]”

There, now Eddie will surely be impressed, and perhaps even in awe of - oh no. He looks sad. Why does he look sad?

“That’s terrible,” Eddie says with upturned brows and soft, shiny doe eyes. “That really happened to you?”

Frank’s brain says, No, of course not. That was a lie to impress you. I actually got this scar from an exceptionally sharp - and heavy - book falling off of a library shelf. It landed directly on my face and knocked me out instantaneously.  

Frank’s mouth says, “Not all of us had a happy childhood.”

That was, evidently, the wrong thing to say. Eddie’s melancholy expression turns stricken and ashamed, and Frank is keenly aware that he just dashed any hope he had of this beautiful person ever liking him.

“You were a kid?” Eddie nearly whispers. Real, honest tears gather on his ridiculously full lashes. “I’m so sorry, that’s… that’s just awful.”

Frank doesn’t know what to say to that. It’s far too late to tell the truth, but anything he says further would just deepen the hole he’s landed himself in. Luckily - or unluckily, it’s hard to say - Eddie doesn’t seem to expect him to say anything else.

He mumbles another guilt-ridden sorry and faces front again, staring mournfully at the ground and radiating discomfort. Frank has a feeling that he’s projecting more of the same. 

Curse this man’s sensitive nature - Frank’s varying tales of how he got his facial scar always garner sounds of amazement or astonishment. Of course Eddie, handsome sweet Eddie, would find the story horrifying. Frank doesn’t want to imagine how he’ll react if he found out that his tearful response was unwarranted. Here’s hoping that never happens.

~

bonus commentary:

[infinite-orangepeel]

soft steddie ficlet: valentine’s day & treasure hunting edition

(in which eddie gives steve a very meaningful/unique valentine’s day gift)

very fluffy and appropriate for all ages, enjoy !! <3

eddie munson is a self-proclaimed “cool rock connoisseur/shiny weird trinket collector” by nature.

ever since he was a little kid he’s been adding to his collection of weird animal bones, strange rocks, dead flower petals, etc. always been something of an amateur treasure hunter (professional if you ask him about it).

most people think it makes him even more of a freak but his best friend, steve harrington, absolutely lives to see his newest discoveries. once spending all afternoon in eddie’s bedroom as he intently listened to the detailed story behind each piece. never once making fun of him or yawning in boredom. instead surprising him by asking thought provoking questions, gently holding each item to display his understanding of its precious value, and occasionally bringing seashells from his family’s beach house to add to the growing reserve.

flash forward to today. eddie and steve are much more than friends having confessed their feelings and entering into a budding relationship. and with valentine’s day on the horizon, eddie knows he has to figure something out to make his new boyfriend feel adored and special (like one of the shiny rocks in his collection).

so he ventures out on a quest for the entire month of january leading up to the big day. on the few days he and steve don’t hang out; he visits the local thrift stores, antique shops, neighborhood garage sales, and takes long walks through the woods. collecting rarities, lost things, vintage splendor, and orphaned objects in need of a new home as he goes. his only stipulation is that each find has to be representative of steve in some way.

so he ventures out on a quest for the entire month of january leading up to the big day. on the few days he and steve don’t hang out; he visits the local thrift stores, antique shops, neighborhood garage sales, and takes long walks through the woods. collecting rarities, lost things, vintage splendor, and orphaned objects in need of a new home as he goes. his only stipulation is that each find has to be representative of steve in some way.

so he ventures out on a quest for the entire month of january leading up to the big day. on the few days he and steve don’t hang out; he visits the local thrift stores, antique shops, neighborhood garage sales, and takes long walks through the woods. collecting rarities, lost things, vintage splendor, and orphaned objects in need of a new home as he goes. his only stipulation is that each find has to be representative of steve in some way.

by the end of his curation, he’s quite pleased with the collection. though a bit nervous about the actual reveal—worried steve will be hoping for something more extravagant and expensive. perhaps he’d rather eddie go the cliche route. it is their first valentine’s day together, after all. maybe steve wants eddie to get him a bundle of red roses and chocolates like most normal couples do. however nothing about steve or eddie has ever been quite normal which is why the idea came to him in the first place so he presses onwards. trying to maintain confidence until the day finally comes.

he sets out to fill an empty heart-shaped box of chocolates with his finds. arranging them carefully and with great consideration. there’s a vintage silver hair clip in the shape of a butterfly, a tiger’s eye crystal that perfectly resembles the colors of steve’s own amber eyes, twin pebbles he found down by the quarry which call to mind the pair of moles on steve’s cheek, an antique gold pendant engraved with the letter ‘e,’ a few sprigs of lavender from the bushes that grow around the perimeter of his house (right by where they shared their first kiss), a pearl earring missing its match, a chunk of rose quartz to bring about love, etc.

on valentine’s day, he and steve go for a picnic in the meadow—wanting to enjoy each other’s company without the homophobic glares they usually get around hawkins. they lay out a mess of blankets and eddie brings his guitar and they kiss under the stars while drinking mulled wine and joking about this and that.

and when steve’s not paying attention, eddie plops the heart-shaped box in his boyfriend’s lap. it’s wrapped in red plastic and boasts the name of the candy company on the front. meant to delude him just a bit.

steve: aw, eds. you got me chocolates ? baby, that’s so sweet—literally. *he wiggles his eyebrows and laughs at his own joke*

such a fucking dork, eddie thinks.

knowing it’s stupid dad jokes like that one that made him fall in love with steve harrington all that time ago.

eddie: *pulls steve into his lap and pets a hand through his grown out hair* actually it’s not chocolates, hope that doesn’t disappoint you too much. its something else or i guess it’s multiple something elses—you’ll see. c’mon. why don’t we figure it out together ? open it up for me, big boy.

steve: *eyebrows furrowed in confusion* i can smell mischief on you from a mile away, munson. if this is a prank—

and eddie knows how badly steve’s been hurt in the past, knows exactly where the cracks in his delicate heart are located, so he kisses him slowly and whispers reassuring words in his ears. active reminders of his love and affection. reminders that he’d never do anything to hurt this boy, has quite the opposite intention.

eddie’s palms are clammy. he’s a bit shaky too, but steve’s blushing and giggling like a school girl, now, so maybe it won’t be that bad. maybe he’ll think it’s kind of cute or keep one of the pieces. eddie thinks he can live with that just fine.

steve: alright, let’s see— *opens the box, eyes widening dramatically* oh—oh my god. eddie.

eddie: yeah it’s kinda—i had this idea to start putting together my own little collection of treasures for you. i mean—not to be horribly cheesy or make you cringe but well—you’re the greatest treasure i’ve ever found and valentine’s day is about love and i love you more than anything so—

steve: *grabs eddie’s face in his hands, thumbs grazing his cheekbones softly* y-you love me ? you mean that ?

eddie: mean it with my whole damn heart, harrington.

steve: *eyes watering* i love you too, eds. i’ve wanted to tell you that for a long time.

eddie: me too, sweetheart. me too.

they turn back to the gift, both laughing and tearing and holding each other close.

steve’s quiet, eyes roaming over each of the items as eddie rushes to explain their meaning—stumbling over his words as he tries to paint the full picture for him:

eddie: the lavender came from right behind my house because we had our first kiss there and well, i know you’ve been anxious lately, so i thought it might help. it’s supposed to be really calming and if you like it, i’ll make you whole bouquets of the stuff—

eddie: the pendant belonged to this old woman i met down on cornwallis. she was cleaning out her house and i stopped by to help her move some of the heavier boxes. when i told her my name, she told me she was a widow and that her husband’s name was edward and she used to wear the ‘e’ pendant all the time but was finally ready to part with it—

just like that initial day in eddie’s bedroom when they were just two friends getting to know each other better—steve doesn’t interrupt, pays close attention, and keeps his eyes locked on eddie’s own as he continues rambling.

eddie: —and if it’s stupid—i don’t know—if you think it’s kinda weird or whatever, no worries ! just like maybe don’t tell me right now and you can dump it in the trash when i’m not looking. i know it’s not anything fancy or expensive but it’s—well, it’s you and i wanted it to be different and special and show you how amazing i really think you are and—

steve tackles him to the ground, rolls over top of him on the blankets and kisses him senseless. makes out with him like they’re two teenagers on the run. and he’s crying. salty sweet tears of joy that melt on eddie’s tongue like spun sugar.

eddie: okay either you’re suddenly a really good actor or i did a good job and you don’t hate it ?? *tucks steve’s hair behind his ear and kisses his nose, wiping stray tears*

steve: a good job ? you think that i think you did a good job ? that’s the understatement of the goddamn century, munson. no one has ever given me anything this thoughtful in my entire life. especially not for valentine’s day. and i’ve been insanely jealous of your trinkets since the day i first found out about them. and now we can hunt for them together, make whole dates out of it.

eddie almost passes out because there’s no way anyone as perfect as steve has ever possibly existed in the history of the universe. he’s certain their soulmates, but he’ll save that confession for another special day.

eddie: *laughing giddily* so is this you officially agreeing to be my valentine ?

steve: i’d have to be an absolute fool to say no, dude. of course i’ll be your valentine, duh. now come on let’s go steal a chain from my moms jewelry box so i can wear this ‘e’ around my neck until the day i die….

eddie: and in the afterlife, too ?

steve: yes, yes, of course in the afterlife, too ! *steve pulls him to his feet and spins him around in a circle, lifting him off the ground* want everyone to know your my ghost boyfriend, can’t have any of the other dead souls thinking they can get some of that perfect, flat ass. *he smacks it jokingly as is his favorite pastime* now c’mon, let’s get in the car !! we have treasure hunting to do !

the end <3 what a bunch of weirdos !

as always, lmk any of your thoughts in the comments and/or if you’d like to join my steddie ficlet tag list for future posts of this nature. kisses and happy early valentine’s day 💌

[cc-horan28]

My New Masterlist

1. Don't Forget Where You Belong (Series for Wordplay) (T)

Ghost AU

Harry and Louis own a Bed and Breakfast on the summer island of Liset. When they host Niall, an investigator, they realise there's more to the Island, and their property, than they thought.

2. Get Out of My Kitchen (E):

part 1 and part 2 (the smut)

“Get out of my kitchen,”

Harry quickly stalked over, poking his finger into Louis’ ribs. “Lou, you’re- I’m trying to cook over here. Out of my kitchen. I mean it. Out. Take the whole bloody block of it if you must but don’t-”

“Your kitchen, huh? Say that again,” Louis challenged, tilting his head to the side, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

Read on AO3 

3. You Control Me (Call This What You Like) (1doff) (E)

The one where Louis almost leaves his mic on while cockwarming Harry <3

Read on AO3

4.  If You Like Causing Trouble Up in Hotel Rooms (E)

The one where Harry makes Louis wear a buttplug throughout the whole day on his LATAM press tour.

Read on AO3

5. The Little Things You Do (1DLibrary exchange) (G):

“What’s that supposed to mean, then? I’m romantic, aren’t I?!” His voice went up an octave with indignation and Harry couldn’t help but giggle at the offended look on his face.

Harry sat back up from where he was snuggled up with Louis, careful to not spill any of his wine onto the older man as he leaned forward to peck his cheek. “Sure you are, Lou,” he grinned.

Read on AO3

6. He's An Angel (1D Folklore Fest) (G):

What might be the oldest enemies to lovers story, loosely based on a folktale from my part of India <3

Read on AO3

7. I Put A Spell On You (1D Teamwork Fest) (M):

With @elmeiko88 <3

Come and discover Harry, our big-hearted witch, and Louis, our shifter cat. Zayn, our Guardian and Liam, his golden retriever. And of course, not forgetting Niall, who pole dances ;)

How their paths crossed, how their paths have always been linked...

Read on AO3

8. One Life For The Two of Us (miniseries for BMV) (M)

A WW2 AU fic with military doctor! Harry and Soldier! Louis

9. Let Me Be Your Last First Kiss (BMV Fest) (G):

Soulmates AU -

There was one boy in particular, with rectangular glasses and a beanie pulled down over his hair who caught his eye, gesturing extravagantly as he boomed out the lines to what sounded like Grease in front of a small group gathered appreciatively in front of him. 

10. When I'm Fat and Old (BMV Fest) (G):

Louis shares his dreams of them growing old together <3

11.It Was Always You (BMV Fest) (G):

But standing here, in the urinals, of all places, Louis would have put his hand on a DVD of Grease and sworn to it. 

He was in love.

12. Dress Me Up (T):

Louis was just doing his best to protect the neighborhood. Getting injured wasn’t the plan. Harry gets worried and just wants his husband to feel better. Fluff ensues.

Read on AO3

1. I'd Follow You To Any Place (G):

“I do,” Niall hummed, placing his chin on Harry’s shoulder, his heart racing a little faster at how the words sounded, as silly as it was. “We’ll go there someday too. Wanna dive there with you. Dive in all the places with you. Hell, I’d dive in that enclosure with you,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder to a corridor winding away.

OR

The one where Niall and Harry are on vacation in Bali <3

2. Hope We Grow Old, But We Never Grow Up (BMV Fest) (G):

Niall Horan x Zayn Malik

Three glimpses into a snowed in day with Ziall!

3. Let Fall (series) (WIP : very much abandoned) :

Niall X OFC

Ayra had worked her way up the corporate ladder. Despite being the COO at the work party she’d dipped with someone she barely knew. It wasn’t like her at all. And she wasn’t planning on fucking it all up for the guy with the blue eyes, right? No matter how nice his voice was, or how shiny his eyes were, or how he treated her… right?

Or

The one where the Irish fella falls for the I-don’t-need-anyone COO of his label

Read on AO3 or wattpad! or here’s the masterlist for tumblr links!

[kelyon]

Courtship 3: First Date--His Place

After dinner, Gold takes Lacey back to his house.

Read on AO3

Mr. Gold’s house was a salmon-pink mansion in the good part of Old Town. This was a popular neighborhood for flower deliveries, so Lacey had at least been in the door of most of these places. But she had never been inside Mr. Gold’s house before. She didn’t know anyone who had. 

He unlocked the door and held it open for her. Lacey tried not to gape at the size of the place, the obvious quality and care. The front hallway was paneled in wood--not fake wood paneling, but wood--polished and clean. No chipped paint or decades’ worth of smudged fingerprints anywhere. 

Most of the house was dark. Lacey couldn’t see up the stairs or down the hallway. The only light was a mini-chandelier, with ropes of crystals that sparkled like the sequins on her dress. The darkness outside was so complete she could see her reflection in the panes of glass on each of the double doors.  

“This is lovely,” she smiled at Mr. Gold.

“Thank you.” 

He locked the front door behind them, then shrugged off his coat and hung it onto one of a row of empty hooks on the wall. When that was done, he went over to a door on the other side of the entryway. It was a closed door, made of shiny wood so dark it was almost black. He stood in front of it, with his cane in front of him, like he was guarding whatever was in the room behind him.

“Miss French,” he began, “you don’t have to be here.”

Lacey raised her eyebrows. “Well that’s a great start to a hookup.”

“I’m quite serious,” Mr. Gold went on. “I want you to understand that I am not compelling you to do anything. We’ve already discussed that what goes on between us will have no bearing on your father’s situation with the rent. If you leave now, or if you want to stop at any point in future, it will not affect my opinion of you. If you’re ever in need of my assistance, you’ll be able to come to me and I will treat you like anyone else.”

Lacey pressed her lips together. She didn’t want him to treat her like anyone else.

“At any point,” he was still talking, “you can ask to go home and I will drive you back. It is of utmost importance that you understand this: You are acting of your own volition, without coercion or threat.”

She looked at him, hands on her hips. She ran her tongue over the back of her teeth while she thought.

“You sound like you’re gonna try things I shouldn’t let you get away with.”

He came towards her. “I have tastes,” he said simply. “I have desires. I have things I want from a lover that many people--quite reasonably--balk at.” He was close enough now to whisper in her ear. “And I have an inkling about you, Miss French. I think it’s possible that you have desires of your own, desires you wouldn’t dare ask another person to indulge in.”

Her face went hot. She didn’t say anything.

Now he spoke more evenly, but still low and seductive. “At the restaurant, you asked me why I chose you. Let me tell you now: I chose you because it’s possible our desires might align. You might want to receive what I so dearly wish to give.”

He stepped away. He hadn’t touched her but he had been so close that having him gone threw her off balance, at least mentally. He stood in front of the door again.

“I’d like to be right about you, Miss French, but I need you to tell me if I’m wrong. Before you get hurt.”

Lacey blinked. She took a breath, got her bearings. “Are you planning on hurting  me?”

“I’m planning to give you every pleasure you can think of and a few more I’m sure you can’t. If you follow the rules.”

Oh. So this was another game. Straightening up, Lacey looked him in the eye. “What are the rules this time?”

There was that glint in his dark brown eyes. That gleam she had come to realize meant he was happy with her, or proud of her. She had done something right.

“This is my study.” Mr Gold tapped his knuckle against the wooden door behind him. “For tonight, this room is our field of play. When you come into this room, you will obey me. Without hesitation, and without question. Do you understand?”

The hairs on the back of Lacey’s neck stood up. The house was warm, but a chill went through her. 

“What will you tell me to do?”

“Nothing you won’t like,” he promised. “Any time you don’t want to obey, you just have to walk out this door. The game will be over.”

Lacey crossed her arms over her chest and tried to ignore how good the scratchy fabric felt against her bare breasts. 

“So are you gonna make me call you ‘Master’ or something?”

“No,” he chuckled at the suggestion. “No, I’m Mr. Gold. That’s quite enough for one lifetime.”

So at least she wouldn’t have to fawn over him like he was God. She just had to do what he said. Everything he said.

“Is this another game I can win?”

He shrugged. “That’s up to you, isn’t it?”

“I meant, would there be another prize?” Technically, the very fact of her being here was her reward for winning the game at the restaurant. 

“I’ll find ways to make it worth your while, Miss French. To my way of thinking, the greatest prize for winning will be the chance to play again.”

He wanted her. Somehow, the thought hadn’t occurred to her until now. It had been so obvious. Of course Mr. Gold wanted to screw Lacey French. She was young and hot and he was old and lonely. But there were a lot of girls in Storybrooke who were young and hot and Mr. Gold chose her. Mr. Gold wanted her. He saw something in her that he didn’t see in other girls. He wanted things--unmentionable but specific things--and he thought he could only get them from Miss French.

He wanted this to work. He wanted her to want him. He wanted her to want to play his games. The fact that she did only made the revelation that much sweeter.   

“Okay,” Lacey moved toward the study. “Let’s play.”

He held up his hand to stop her. “You should take a moment to collect your thoughts. Make sure this is really what you want, Miss French. Then, before you come into the study, take off your stockings and your underthings. Leave them out here. Put your shoes back on, and come join me. Or tell me that you want to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

She spoke softly, but it was the boldest declaration she had ever made in her life. 

Mr. Gold gave her a small smile--an actual smile, the first she’d seen from him. Then he made a nod that was almost a bow. He went into the study and left the door open behind him.

****

Alone in the entryway, Lacey let out a long breath. Mr. Gold had told her to collect her thoughts but all she could think about was how horny she was, how alive she felt. All she could think about was what Mr. Gold had planned for her. Exactly how unconventional were his tastes? Would she walk into the study and discover him putting on clown makeup and wielding a meat cleaver? What did he want? What did he want from her?

She wasn’t going to find out in the hallway.

Lacey backed away from the glass-fronted doors into the dark interior of the house. Then she pulled up her skirt and rolled down her panties and her stockings all in one go. Good thing she had shaved her legs after all. She stepped back into her sensible black pumps and crossed the threshold into Mr. Gold’s study.

He was lighting a fire in the antique fireplace when she walked in. He was fully dressed and not in clown makeup, which was a good sign. When he saw her, he tossed the long match into the catching flames.

“That was quick,” he remarked.

“I know what I want.”

He came toward her, until they were standing close enough to kiss. With the hand that wasn’t holding his cane, Mr. Gold cupped her cheek. It was the first time they had touched anything more than their hands. 

“And what is that?”

The word you lay on the tip of her tongue. I want to know you. I want to know what you want and I want to give it to you.

Of course she couldn’t say that out loud. Sentiment was a little treacly for Mr. Gold’s taste. He liked bitter, not sweet.

“I want adventure,” Lacey said instead. It was mostly true. “I want something I can’t get from any other man in this town--something I can’t imagine most of them would even be able to understand.” She pushed herself toward him, pressing her body against his. She put her hand on his chest. “I want more, Mr. Gold. I want much more than this… life.”

He took a step back, then another. With his body gone, her hand hung in the air. He gave her one of his long, appraising looks.

“The first rule,” he said softly, “is that you don’t touch me. I will touch you, and I may give you explicit instructions on where I want your hands or your body, but I will not have you pawing at me like a pickpocket.”

Lacey’s cheeks burned. From embarrassment this time, not anything fun. “Oh.” She lowered her hand. “God, I’m sorry. I didn’t meant to--”

“That’s why I’m telling you. I don’t want you making that mistake again.”

She swallowed down her guilt and nodded her understanding. She kept her eyes downcast. She really was sorry to have made him uncomfortable.

“I spoke to you, Miss French.” He came close again.

She looked up at him. “Yes, you did. And…?”

“And when I speak to someone, I expect the courtesy of an answer.”

“Oh,” Lacey said again.

He shook his head. “That won’t do at all, dearie. Say, ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.’”

A flash of anger went up her spine. Who the hell was he to nitpick her behavior? Sure, they were playing his game, but that didn’t give him the right to patronize her!

Boldly, she matched his stare. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.” The sentence was hot in her mouth as she spat it out. But the words were right. She was following the rules. “I apologize Mr. Gold. Forgive me, Mr. Gold.”

Now he grinned. “Three times is a nice touch, but remember to say please when you want something from me.”

Lacey managed to conceal her eye roll with a long blink. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He put his hand on her waist and pressed his body against hers. She couldn’t tell if it was a reward or a tease, the closeness she was allowed to have, but only on his terms. The warmth of him steadied her. It dampened down the sparks of her aggravation.

She felt his breath on her ear as he whispered, “Good girl.”

He slid away from her and once again Lacey was left feeling dizzy and off-balance, like she had just gotten off a Tilt-a-Whirl.

“Do you know how to pour whisky, Miss French?”

Lacey blinked a few times to clear her head. She looked around. He was in the far corner of the study now. A section of the bookshelf folded out to reveal a little compartment with bottles inside.

“Uh, is it different from pouring any other liquid?”

Mr. Gold nodded his head toward the bar. “Come here,” he ordered casually.

Lacey hurried to obey. She darted around a large couch with her arms out slightly in front of her, like she was being pulled by something on her wrists.

That was weird. Why had she done that? Lacey shook her head to clear it. When she got to Mr. Gold, she put her arms down by her sides.

“Pay attention,” Mr. Gold ordered. “I want you to be good at this.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He positioned her in front of the bar, standing behind her. Reaching over her, he placed a finger on the lid of one of the bottles.

“Johnnie Walker Blue Label,” he explained. “Blended Scotch whisky, two hundred dollars a bottle. It’s good enough for everyday use.”

Two hundred dollars for a bottle of booze? A bottle of good enough booze?

Before she could marvel any further at how the other half lived, Mr. Gold took Lacey’s hand and placed it on the sky-blue bottle. With him guiding her, she took the bottle by the neck and pulled it out of the row.

“You may unscrew the lid.” He murmured it into her hair like it was a sweet nothing.

Lacey watched to make sure her hands weren’t shaking as she did what he said. Mr. Gold helped her pick up a short glass and set it on the bar. Her hand covered the glass and his hand covered hers. 

“Pour until it’s the height of two fingers.” He had his other hand over hers on the bottle. “Or three, in your case.”

She stopped before he could tell her to, when the brown liquid reached the top of her middle finger. She pushed away from him, just a little. Just enough that she could pick up the glass and spin around to face him. 

“Like this, Mr. Gold?”

The lines in his mouth deepened. “Stay here,” he ordered. “Count to ten--slowly, out loud--then come and serve me.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.”

She watched him walk over to a stuffed leather armchair by the fireplace. Before he sat down, he took a pillow from the couch and set it on the floor next to his chair. As she counted, Lacey looked at him, at the power he radiated. The chair he sat in wasn’t a throne. Mr. Gold wasn’t a king. He was something bigger than that. Something dark and eternal. Just what, she wasn’t sure. It was a mystery to be uncovered. 

When she was done counting to ten, Lacey went over to Mr. Gold with the glass in her hand. Some instinct made her bend at the waist when she offered him the drink. It paid off when Mr. Gold’s eyes swept down the line of her spine and lingered on her ass. Was he thinking about his order to take off her underwear?

“Well done,” he said as he took the glass.

Lacey made a pointed look at the pillow by Mr. Gold’s feet. “What next?”   

“Next,” Mr. Gold sat back in his chair. He swirled his whiskey in the glass and took a drink. “Next you will go to the top drawer of my desk, on the right-hand side. Open it, and bring the contents to me.”

“Yes, Mr. Gold.” Obediently, Lacey crossed the room.

The desk was a thing of beauty, rich dark wood and a leather writing top. It was large enough and sturdy enough that it could function as a bomb shelter if Storybrooke was ever under aerial attack. Lacey French had become valedictorian while doing homework at her kitchen table. If she’d had a desk like this, she would be a Rhodes scholar by now.   

In the top drawer on the right-hand side, Lacey found a strip of foil-wrapped condoms, a box of rubber gloves like at a doctor’s office, and white tube with the label facing up to read: ANAL LUBRICANT.  

She blinked. 

For a long minute, she just stared at the objects in front of her. The things Mr. Gold wanted to have close at hand. Then Lacey took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled. In one motion, she scooped the supplies into her arms and walked back to Mr. Gold. 

The condoms and the gloves went on the table beside him, next to his drink. The lube he placed in an inside pocket on his suit jacket, close to his heart. 

He gestured to the pillow on the ground. “Would you like to kneel at my feet, Miss French?”

At that moment, Lacey didn’t know what she’d like. She had some ideas, or thought she did. Her formative years had been shaped by age-inappropriate romance novels. But it was one thing to fantasize about things--to imagine them and even want them. It was something else entirely to drag a secret desire out into the cold light of reality.

Mr. Gold was leaning forward, staring at her. He was waiting for her to answer, to obey, to keep playing their game. The game that had suddenly become too real for her.

“Can I ask you a question?”

He tilted his head. “You may.”

Lacey breathed. There was no other way to say it than to say it. 

“Anal?”

 Mr. Gold smirked. He sat back, comfortable again with how things were going. “You’ve never done it before?”

“No,” Lacey almost laughed. “It’s supposed to be gross, right? Or complicated, or dangerous?”

“What good thing in life doesn’t have an element of complexity or danger?”

“But don’t I need to, like, do an enema or something first?”

“That’s what these are for,” he gestured to the condoms and gloves. “It’s my understanding that being overzealous with cleaning actually increases the risk.”

“Really?” Lacey had never done research on the subject, and the few romance novels that featured anal were annoyingly vague on the details. Apparently Mr. Gold did this enough to develop a preference for it, so he was now the leading authority. 

“If you want to be clinical, Miss French, an enema will dry out the anal passage and leave you vulnerable to microtears, which can lead to infection.”

“I’m sorry, I stopped listening after I heard the word tear.”

“Micro,” Mr. Gold emphasized. “As in microscopic.” He patted his jacket where he’d just put the bottle of lube. “That’s what this is for, to make everything… smoother.”

Lacey dug her nails into her palms. The sharp, stinging pain eased her nerves. 

“Why did you put it in your jacket?”

“To make it warm for you.” He took a drink, then set down his glass. “Anything else?”

“You’ve done this before.” It wasn’t a question. “A lot?”

“Yes.”

“With who?”

“A gentleman never tells,” he smirked. “Suffice it to say it was long ago and far away. You’re in no danger of running into any jealous exes.” 

Lacey let out a breath of a chuckle. Learning more about what was going to happen had helped. Talking to Mr. Gold, listening to his unshakable self-assurance, had helped.

She smoothed her skirt.

“Do you still want me to kneel, Mr. Gold?” 

He picked up his drink. “Very much.”

Nodding, she went to the place beside him and got down on her knees. She sat up straight in a perfect L, the way people did in Catholic church.

“You can relax,” Mr. Gold said softly. “You’re going to be down there for a while, Miss French.”

His arm draped over the chair to hold her by the back of the neck. Gently, but with firm pressure, he pushed her down. She was still kneeling, but sitting on her legs. Now Lacey felt like she was in a karate class.

“There,” he said. “Isn’t that better?”

There was only one answer Miss French could give: “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

****

For at least fifteen minutes, Mr. Gold sat, and sipped his whiskey, and touched her. He tried to play with her hair, but quickly realized it was an unmanageable rat’s nest full of bobby pins. After that, he kept to her neck, her ears, her cheeks. He played with her idly, as if she was a pet, or some kind of ornament with an interesting texture. Just a thing for him to fidget with while he was thinking.

His fingers were soft. Mostly they grazed over her, practically teasing. Sometimes they pressed in. Sometimes he rubbed her with several fingers at once. He made his way down her back like that, massaging the spaces her dress left bare. Whenever she reacted with a sigh or a muffled moan, he touched her more. 

It was a quiet time, with nothing but murmurs between them. They watched the fire, listened to the crackles and pops of the burning logs. Lacey felt her pulse slow. Her thoughts wound down into almost nothing. Mr. Gold’s touch, his presence, could thrill her, yes, but right now it calmed her. It helped her be ready for what she knew was coming. 

“Have your legs gone numb?” he asked her after a while.

When was the last time Lacey had felt her toes? “I think they are, yes.”

“Good.” 

Pushing himself up with his cane, Mr. Gold got out of his chair. Then he bent down over Lacey, wrapped one arm around her chest, and with surprising strength, lifted her to her feet. She couldn’t stand under her own power, but he walked her to the couch and let her fall over the arm. Lacey braced against the cushion, holding herself up on her elbows.    

“Stay there,” he rasped. 

It sounded like he was out of breath. Had hefting her around worn him out? Or did it excite him to see her like this? If there was ever a position for a girl to get fucked in the ass, Lacey was in it. 

She breathed. It was going to happen. She looked down at her hands. They looked so pale and small against the wide expanse of tufted burgundy leather. Before the date started, she had managed to wash away all the potting soil from work, but she should have painted her nails as well. Maybe tomorrow she’d stop by the drug store and splurge on burgundy nail polish.

While she was thinking inane nonsense, Mr. Gold was running his hands up and down her thighs. 

“So soft,” he murmured. “So lovely.”

“That’s the miracle of exfoliating,” Lacey quipped.

As soon as she spoke, his hands stopped. “No, it’s the miracle of youth, Miss French. Enjoy it while it lasts. Can you stand now?”

Experimentally, she pushed herself up off the couch and put her weight on her feet. “Looks like it,” she said.

“Good.” 

As she stood, he pressed against her again, his front to her back. His breath was hot and delicious against her neck. Carefully, slowly, he put one hand on the front of her thigh, just below the very short hemline of her dress. 

“You know what I want,” he whispered. “The fact that you’re still here means you’re willing to give it to me. Is that correct, Miss French?”

“Yes,” Lacey breathed. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

Still with the same deliberate slowness, he dragged his hand over her thigh and under her skirt. He rested a minute on her hip bone, right over what would be her pantyline, if she was wearing panties.

For a moment, they breathed together. Lacey had the thought that this moment for him was what entering the study had been for her: Crossing a threshold. 

He slid his hand down, over her pubic hair, and into her pussy. 

She hadn’t realized how wet she was until she felt his fingers dip into liquid heat.

“Fuck,” Mr. Gold hissed. 

Lacey’s teeth chattered, but she grinned. “You sound surprised.”

“Pleasantly,” he assured her. His fingers began to move. “Delighted, actually.” He rubbed his face against her neck. His stubble prickled her skin.

She moaned.

“Are you always so easily aroused, Miss French? Do other men slide into you so effortlessly?”

He had found her clit shockingly fast, but he didn’t press against it too hard or for too long. He seemed to know without being told how she liked to be touched, how she touched herself. He pressed two fingers into her core for just a moment, dipping down and pulling up more wetness to slather over her lips and folds. His hand was quick and constant and everywhere.

“I asked you a question, Miss French.”

“No,” she answered breathlessly. “There’s only been one and he didn’t care much about me. I had to--oh!--take care of myself most of the time.”

“Well, there will be no more of that,” he muttered, still working furiously. “A woman’s pleasure is a prize, Miss French. It should be worked for, and savored.”

It was hard to think of an answer right now. It was hard to think of anything besides the swell of feeling he was pulling up out of her. No, Hunter had never touched her like this. She had barely ever touched herself like this, or found herself as wet as Mr. Gold made her.

She felt something building, felt herself rising and arcing, ready to reach the peak. She was going to--she was--

Abruptly, Mr. Gold’s fingers stopped. He kept his hand on her mound, holding it, but not doing anything.

“What?” Lacey turned around as best she could to look at him. “Why did you stop? I was almost there!”

A slow smile spread across his face. “I know,” he said. “You’re not subtle with your orgasms, Miss French.”

“I--should I be? Is that a thing you want?”

“Not particularly.” He squeezed her cunt and Lacey shuddered. “No, it’s to my advantage that you’re so… demonstrative.”

Groaning, Lacey fell forward over the arm of the couch. “You’re just fucking with me, aren’t you?”

“No, Miss French, I’m fucking you. I have every intention of letting you come.” With his other hand, he pulled her back up, pressed her against his body. He growled into her ear. “You’re going to ruin my jacket sleeve with your sopping wet cunt.” He let her go. “But only when I allow it. Do you understand?”

Breath shaking, Lacey tried to pull herself together. It was harder than it had been before. Blood pounded in her ears, the pulse of pleasure denied, the throbbing need she knew Mr. Gold could feel against his hand. She managed one breath, and then another.

“This is called edging, isn’t it?”

“It’s called obedience, Miss French. It’s called doing only what I want you to and only when I tell you to do it. It’s called being a good girl.”

Lacey clenched, she shuddered. She was going to come whether he wanted her to or not. She didn’t have a choice. Her body was just doing this.

“Fight it,” he snarled. “It’s a skill like any other. You can just stop.”

It was like falling. Like thinking there was one more stair and then you stepped up onto nothing and landed hard. Like waiting for a sneeze and not having one. Like trying to force yourself not to have hiccups. It was a weird holding sensation, as Lacey staved off her natural reaction. 

Somehow, she managed it. The feeling passed through her. She was able to calm down, control herself. Just like he wanted.

“Perfect,” Mr. Gold whispered. “I knew you could do it.’

Her teeth chattered. Lacey felt strangely wrung-out. Overwhelmed. Her mind and her body had somehow disconnected, and there was only the slightest tether between them.

“Thank you,” she breathed. “Thank you, Mr. Gold.”

****

Two more times he brought her to the edge and made her pull herself back. Each time it was harder and when he finally allowed her to come she was barely aware it was happening. Her body took over entirely, thrashing and screaming, grinding against him. Her mouth begged for more--Lacey heard herself say the words--but it was removed from her mental reality. It might as well be happening to a character in a book. 

Mr. Gold permitted her as many orgasms as she could take, then gave her one more when she thought she was done. By the end of it, she was slumped over the arm of the couch. Utterly boneless, utterly spent. Her mind was quiet. Her body was exhausted. In that moment, nothing mattered. In that moment, she floated on a cloud of perfect safety and peace.

When he decided she was done, Mr. Gold gave her a satisfied pat on her hip. At some point, her skirt had gotten rucked up to her waist. Her naked ass was up in the air, the perfect position for him to do whatever he wanted.

Through bleary eyes, Lacey watched Mr. Gold walk back over to his chair, to the little end table where he had set the condoms and rubber gloves. He put on only one of the gloves, and flexed his fingers with a satisfied smirk. Then he tore one of the condoms off the strip and walked back over to Lacey. He slipped the foil square between two of her limp fingers.

Putting his weight on his cane, Mr. Gold crouched down so he was on her level. Lightly, he brushed her hair away from her face. “You’re going to hold onto that for me until I need it. Do you understand?”

Blinking slowly, Lacey nodded. 

He tilted her chin up, so she looked him in the eye. “That’s not what you say, is it Miss French? Is that how you communicate with me?”

He was gentle, almost teasing, but she knew he was serious about what he wanted.

“No, Mr. Gold,” Lacey murmured. Complete satisfaction had brought her to a place of complete compliance. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gold.”  

“That’s the way.” He stroked her hair as a reward, with the hand wearing the glove. She could smell her pussy through the rubber. “Do you understand what I want from you?”

 She squeezed the condom between her knuckles. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

He gave her a fond grin. “Good girl.”

****

He stood behind her and opened her legs. He played with her pussy for a moment. The  sudden pleasure jolted her out of her stupor. He spread her wetness back towards her ass.

“Barely even need lubricant,” he muttered. “With a cunt so wet, so sloppy.”

He punctuated the word by jabbing his fingers hard into her cunt. Lacey let out a keening moan--it wasn’t painful, just intense--and he soothed her with gentle rubs.

“But that’s the way I want you, Miss French. You’re a mess of desire, absolutely filthy. You don’t mind getting dirty, do you dearie? No. No, I think you like it.”

His thumb was circling her asshole now, while his other fingers played with her cunt. He paused, briefly, and Lacey heard the snap of the lid opening on the tube of anal lube. A spurting sound, then a new substance on her body. 

The lube wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t as hot as her own juices. Lacey shivered at the feeling--at all the feelings--all the sensations and reactions Mr. Gold had drawn out of her.

“I do,” she whimpered as he rubbed the lube around her asshole, as his thumb made short, exploratory ventures within. “I do like it, Mr. Gold. God, I fucking love this.”

Behind her, he chuckled. His free hand rested over her ass, spreading her apart ever so slightly.

“You’re taking it well,” he murmured. 

Slowly, he eased the whole of his thumb inside her. Lacey closed her eyes and focused on the feeling, the invasion, the unusual fullness. Mr. Gold didn’t move his hand. He seemed to be listening, seemed to be as attuned to her reaction as she was.

“Well?” he breathed.

Lacey tried to think, but he had already fucked all the words out of her. “It’s… weird…”

“Unpleasant?”

“No. I mean--no, Mr. Gold.”

He squeezed the soft flesh of her ass and she knew that was her reward for speaking to him correctly. Then he began to move his thumb. At first he only rotated his wrist, so his whole hand moved in a slow circle. Then he began to spread outward, making the circle wider. Making her asshole wider. He slid out partially, then eased his way back in. All the while, Lacey lay draped over the couch, vaguely aware of the distant pleasure, but mostly overwhelmed. Mr. Gold hadn’t even gotten his cock out and she had already been well and truly fucked.

He added more lube, then started with his fingers. One at a time, he used the same patient experimentation as with his thumb. He explored her, filled her, fucked her.

“I’m going to start with two now,” he told her. “I’m going to open you up, and then I’m going to need that condom.”

Through her blissed-out haze, Lacey nodded. Then she corrected herself. “Yes, Mr. Gold.”

Again, he squeezed her. “Good girl.”

Two fingers was odd, especially once he started moving them. Odd was the only way she could think of it. It didn’t hurt, and it didn’t really drive her wild, at least not as much as his fingers in her cunt had. Lacey got the impression that this act wasn’t for her. Mr. Gold was just preparing her so she’d be alright with him doing what he wanted. 

That was fine. God knew he had already given her plenty. Mr. Gold might as well take something for himself. And in Lacey’s current state, she wouldn’t have been able to do much for him anyway. Better for him to do the work, better for her to just take it.

He plucked the condom from her fingers. She heard the sound of a zipper, of foil being ripped open. She heard a slight hitch in his breath. Then his hands were on her again. He spread her open and glided into her ass.  

Mr. Gold gasped. His clean hand gripped onto Lacey’s hip so hard it was sure to leave bruises.

“Fuck.” He choked back the word through gritted teeth.

With one arm, he roughly pulled her up and turned her neck to look at him. His cock was still inside her, but there was no pain or even discomfort. He felt amazing.   

“You’re sure you’ve never done this before?”

Lacey tried to hold herself up on the couch. “Not that I remember.”

“Fuck,” he whispered. “Fuck, you’re just a natural slut then, aren’t you? You just walk around in your day to day life with an arse that’s begging for my cock?”

He thrust his hips into her for emphasis. Lacey moved with him, realizing for the first time how tightly their bodies were joined. Become one was a romance novel phrase for fucking, but she felt the truth of it now. In that moment, Mr. Gold was a part of her, and she was a part of him. They were one thing, one animal, united in a singular drive.

It felt so right. It felt so good to be with him. So natural, so perfect. She was his and he was hers. They should never be separated again.

He must have felt the same thing. With his clean hand, Mr. Gold turned Lacey’s head to look at him. He stared at her for a moment. His eyes washed over her face, searching for some answer. He must have found it, because he pulled her even closer, and kissed her. 

She kissed him back, wet and sloppy like her cunt. It was an awkward angle with him inside her, but neither of them stopped. His hand moved over her body, over her dress. He squeezed her breast through the fabric and she trembled.

Their mouths broke apart, but they were still one being below the waist. For a moment, Mr. Gold stared at her again. His mouth was loose and slack from the kiss. He looked softer than she had ever seen him before, softer than she could ever imagine him being. He looked open and tender. He looked like he could love her. 

He was beautiful.  

One second later, his features sharpened again. His mouth hardened into a smirk. He bent her down over the couch. His cock pulled out about halfway and then rammed into her.

“Rest assured, dearie: You’re going to remember this.”

****

He took her hard, banging her into the couch with such force that the furniture shuddered forward with his thrusts. Lacey cradled her head in her crossed arms and let herself go loose. He made noises, animal grunts and muttered swear words. Her moaning was so constant it was almost a drone, a single music note that rang out over and over.

How could something so brutal feel so good? Mr. Gold fucked her like a beast, unyielding, unending, and she knew she had been made for him. To be thing he fucked, that was the only purpose she had. Through her haze of bliss, she understood it with perfect clarity. She accepted the fact. She loved it. This was where she belonged. This was all she wanted to do, to be, for the rest of her life. Lacey French was gone, even Miss French had faded away. She was something else entirely now. She was sex itself. She would take anything he doled out to her. She would take it gladly and beg for more. She really was a perfect slut.

His perfect slut. 

His thrusts became faster and stronger. A snarling stream of exclamations poured out from his mouth and over her body. Abruptly, he grabbed her. His arm pulled her up to stand while his cock kept pushing her down into the couch.

 “Ohh,” she sighed. It was all she could do.

His mouth was on her. On her cheek, on her neck. He kissed her with possessive bites, marking her. Claiming her body as his. 

He worked on one spot, just at the nape of her neck. He sucked and gnawed at her flesh until the pain he was giving her outpaced the pleasure. Her moans became high-pitched and pleading, but she didn’t want him to stop. She never wanted him to stop. 

Her pain was enough to send him over the edge. His thrusts became erratic, jerking and sliding, deeper and deeper, until he gave one final push.

When it was over, he let out a heavy sigh against her shoulder. For the first time, she noticed he was trembling, just like she was. Panting, he leaned against her. He rested his head on her neck, pressing his lips to the place he had marked. He wrapped both arms around her waist.

He held her.

Lacey kept shaking, shook more than she had while he was fucking her. Those movements had been all his, there had been no need for her to add to them. Now that he was still, Lacey’s body shuddered. Her hips thrust forward against the couch, her ass ground against him, even while his cock was softening inside her.

Mr. Gold chuckled in her ear. “Again?” he murmured. “Don’t you have an off switch?”

“I wish I did,” Lacey said as she clenched and convulsed. 

Finally, the wave crested through her again. She came with a grunt, her hands clawing at the leather cushion. Then she slumped forward, exhausted. Her body still twitched and throbbed, but those were aftershocks. She was done. 

Mr. Gold rubbed one hand over her back and down to her ass. He patted her like she was a friendly dog, like she had done hard work and done it well. Like she was a good girl.   

“I’m going to pull out now, Miss French.”

She made a vaguely affirmative noise and he didn’t chide her for not being correct. The heat of his body left her and she felt the familiar sensation of something vacating her asshole.

“Oh shit!” She lifted her upper half off the couch. “Did I--”

“No,” Mr. Gold answered before she could finish the question. “It just feels like it because you’ve never had anything else come out of there. At least, I assume. You took my cock with such ease, one might accuse you of feigning your innocence.”

Lacey groaned and crawled forward on the couch so her legs were on the cushion with the rest of her.  She lay on her stomach, her bare ass slowly getting cold.

“I never said I was innocent, Mr. Gold.” She rubbed her face. “Fuck, I’m sure not innocent after tonight.” 

He was over by a trash can. The hand wearing a glove held the full condom. He hooked the thumb of his other hand under the edge of the rubber so when he pulled the glove off, it went inside out. The condom went with it, so now everything dirty was in a neat little latex package for him to throw away.

He tucked in his shirt and zipped up his pants, but he had never even taken off his jacket. Five minutes after coming in a girl’s ass, Mr. Gold looked like he had spent the evening quietly reviewing the details of contract law. He knew it too. There was a swagger in his step as he came back to her. He was every inch the cocky bastard. 

 “Innocence is overrated, though there can be some pleasure in destroying it. Can you stand, Miss French?”

She could, but it was a multi-step process. She hauled her legs down to the ground--God, she was still wearing her shoes--and forced herself to sit up on the couch. Groaning, she got to her feet. Her legs were a little wobbly, but she was able to stand up straight.

“Very good.” 

Mr. Gold put his hand on her waist, just above her ass. He walked her out of the study to a bathroom in the hall.    

“Clean yourself up,” he instructed gently. “Feel free to use the washcloths. Come out here when you’re done.”

She obeyed him groggily, moving like she was underwater. The lube felt so slick and unnatural as she tried to wipe it away with toilet paper. Anal sex wasn’t that gross, but the aftermath sure was. She washed her hands and soaked one of the washcloths in hot water to put on her face. It was soft and new and good-smelling. Lacey breathed in the steam, the scent of lavender. Lavender was one of the few flowers she could actually stand the smell of.

She sighed.  

She looked in the mirror. Her face was flushed from the heat, her cheeks and forehead splotchy. If she pulled the collar of her dress over to one side, she could see the hickey Mr. Gold had left on her. The shape of his lips seared darkness onto her skin. She hoped it would last a while. It was her only memento of a very momentous night.

Her hair looked about the same as when she’d left home. There was some advantage to being so messy. Wild hair easily hid the wild things Lacey got up to.

When she got out of the bathroom, Mr. Gold was waiting for her. He offered her a glass bottle of sparkling water. She took it, and drank.

“Thanks--uh, I mean, thank you, Mr. Gold.”

They had left the study, but were they still playing? Would he want her to keep up the formality? He didn’t correct her. His pleased expression only deepened.

He put his hand on her bare back and gestured with his cane to a wad of cloth on the floor.

“I believe those are yours, Miss French.” 

“Oh!” She crouched down to pick up her pantyhose and underwear. “Sorry about that, Mr. Gold.”

He shook his head. “Not at all, Miss French.”

It would be too intimate to put on her underwear in front of him, and she didn’t want to excuse herself back into the bathroom. Lacey’s only option was to roll her stockings around her panties and hold the bundle in the hand farthest away from Mr. Gold. 

“I’ve got the car running out front,” he said. “I’d say it’s high time you got to your bed.”

“What time is it?”

“Just before midnight. I’ll see you home before your glass slippers vanish into fairy dust.”

Lacey snorted at the joke, then sobered when she looked down at her shoes. She’d gotten these sensible black pumps to wear at her mother’s funeral. Maybe it would be better if they did disappear. Then she wouldn’t have to think about tragedy every time she looked at them. 

Or maybe it would be okay. After all, now she could remember that these were the shoes she was wearing the first time Mr. Gold fucked her. 

****

He drove her home. The Cadillac was as smooth and as silent as a shark cutting through water. It was a far cry from the only vehicle she ever drove. The store’s delivery van coughed and rumbled like a workhorse that needed to be put out to pasture. Her Uncle Manny was over at least once a month to repair it. He used all his skill as a mechanic to keep that clunker running for just a little while longer. Just until things got better.

Lacey stretched out in the roomy warmth of the passenger seat. She luxuriated in this comfort for as long as it would last. She’d have to go back to reality all too soon.

“I can’t believe after all this I’m gonna have to take a cold shower.”

Mr. Gold looked at her. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but there was a tinge of amusement in his voice. “Is your libido that insatiable, Miss French?”

“Huh? Oh.” Lacey chuckled. “No, I mean literally. Our hot water tank is pretty much useless.”

He pulled over and parked in front of Game of Thorns. There was no amusement in his voice when he spoke again. “No one informed me of any problems with your hot water.”

Lacey blinked. “Why would we?”

“Because I’m your landlord, Miss French. Technically, that’s my hot water tank.” He shook his head. “I never should have taken your father’s word that everything was fine.”

“Um. I mean, it’s not a big deal. My dad’s gonna get it fixed eventually.” 

Like everything else in their lives would eventually improve. 

Mr. Gold didn’t say anything. He unlocked the door and Lacey took that as her cue to get out.

“I--uh--I had fun tonight.” She stood in the street with the passenger door open. “Thank you for a… really great evening.”

In the flickering street lamps, Lacey could make out the shape of Mr. Gold’s head, but not his expression. He was looking at her, but she had no clue what he was thinking.

“You’re welcome, Miss French.”

She shut the door, and picked her way through parked cars and piles of snow. He waited until she opened the unlocked side door of the building, and then he drove off. 

[cherryrainn]

hihihi angst smut. like like uh gn!reader ( or female/male, whatever is easier ) is going through a breakup and greed 'helps' them :3 ( specifically greedler ) ( maybe a little comf seasoning with greed buying them stuff ? idk )

━━ ✧ 𝐧𝐞𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐩𝐢𝐭𝐲 ˚୨୧⋆｡˚ ⋆

─ ✩ 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ; greedler (onceler) x reader

─ ✩ 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ; hiiiiiiii mutual i love you/p

─ ✩ 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ; none just smut

in the midst of a bustling city, with towering skyscrapers and neon lights, you, with your heart heavy and burdened by the weight of a fresh breakup, sat alone in a cozy coffee shop. the familiar jingle of the bell above the door announced the arrival of someone who could only be one person: the notorious onceler.

onceler slid into the chair opposite you with a grin that mirrored the shine of his expensive cufflinks. "y/n! heard you could use a little cheering up," he purred, his voice dripping with confidence.

you tried to manage a weak smile. "hey, onceler, you didn't have to come all the way here."

"oh, but i insist," he said with a dramatic flourish of his hand. "i just somehow happened to be in the neighborhood, doing some important business deals, you know, the usual."

you chuckled, despite your somber mood. onceler's larger-than-life personality was oddly comforting in these moments.

the coffee shop's barista arrived at your table, a latte in hand. onceler had ordered it before even asking what you wanted. "your usual," he winked.

you took a sip of the latte, grateful for the caffeine boost. "thanks, onceler."

he leaned forward, his confident persona giving way to a rare moment of vulnerability. "listen, i heard about your breakup. you deserve better than that, really."

you felt a warmth spreading through your heart. "you always know how to make me feel better, onceler."

"ah, but there's more," he announced with a wink. "i may or may not have bought you a little something." he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small gift-wrapped box, presenting it with a grin.

curiosity piqued, you unwrapped the gift to find a sleek, expensive-looking wallet. "onceler, this is too much," you protested.

he waved your concerns away. "nope, just a little token of my appreciation. now you have a shiny new wallet to match your shiny personality."

as the evening grew darker, onceler, ever the gentleman (in his own unique way), offered to take you home. you accepted, grateful for his company and the comfort he provided in this trying time.

the ride was filled with his casual banter and support. he continued to assure you that you deserved better than what you'd gone through, his words sincere and comforting. the city lights painted a beautiful backdrop to your conversation, and for a moment, you felt at ease.

you arrived at your doorstep, and there was a moment of silence. the city's neon lights cast a soft, magical glow around you both. onceler's eyes met yours, and you saw a different kind of intensity in them. it was as if he wanted to convey something beyond just comforting words.

in that moment, he leaned in, and your lips met in a tender kiss. it was a kiss filled with understanding, empathy, and a hint of longing. your heart skipped a beat as you realized that maybe, just maybe, there was more to onceler's feelings than you had initially thought.

he gently pushed you inside your home and closed the door behind him. the atmosphere inside was cozy, and the soft, warm light created an inviting ambiance. you found yourself standing near the couch.

you hesitated for a moment, unsure of how to proceed, but then, a realization dawned on you. this was what you'd been craving for so long — the connection, the intimacy. you needed this.

"onceler, i... i want you," you said softly.

that did it. he closed the distance between you in a single stride. he gently pushed you onto the couch, his body towering over yours.

his lips found yours again, more urgent and passionate this time. you melted into the kiss, allowing him to take the lead.

he broke the kiss, his eyes searching yours for consent. you nodded, your breath quickening.

he wasted no time, his hands exploring your body, caressing every inch of you. his fingers deftly undid the buttons of your shirt, and you gasped as his lips found your bare skin.

"y/n," he breathed, his voice filled with awe and wonder. "you're perfect."

you let out a moan as his hands and lips continued their exploration, leaving no part of you untouched. you felt a warmth pooling between your legs, and you knew that you needed more.

"please," you whimpered, desperate for his touch.

he obliged, his fingers finding the zipper of your pants and tugging them down. you lifted your hips to help him, and his mouth curved into a smirk.

"eager, are we?"

you could only moan in response, the sound of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

his fingers brushed against your most sensitive area, and you bit your lip to suppress a moan. his thumb expertly teased you, the pleasure building and building.

"don't hold back," he murmured. "let me hear you."

the pressure and pleasure built and built until you felt yourself falling over the edge. the release was intense, and you cried out his name, your fingers clutching the fabric of the couch.

as you came down from your high, you gazed up at him, your eyes filled with a mixture of desire and appreciation. he leaned down and kissed you deeply, his tongue exploring every inch of your mouth.

you broke the kiss and looked up at him with a mischievous smile. "now, let's see what you're hiding under that suit of yours."

you tugged his tie loose, undoing the buttons of his shirt with nimble fingers. he groaned as your hands brushed against his bare skin, his muscles tensing under your touch.

you reached down, your fingers unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants. his cock sprang free, and you felt a rush of arousal as you took in the sight.

"like what you see?" he smirked.

"oh, yeah," you replied, wrapping your fingers around his shaft. he moaned, his eyes fluttering closed.

you began to stroke him, his cock growing harder and thicker in your hand. you could feel the tension building within him, his muscles tightening as he tried to hold himself back.

"don't hold back," you murmured. "i want all of you."

at your words, he let out a growl and grabbed your hips, pushing you back onto the couch. he hovered over you, his cock brushing against your entrance.

"ready?" he asked, his voice low and husky.

you nodded, your breath catching in your throat.

"good." he plunged into you, his cock filling you completely. you gasped, your body adjusting to his size.

he began to move, his thrusts deep and slow. you clung to him, your nails digging into his back. the pleasure was exquisite, the feeling of him inside you making you feel complete.

you moaned, the sound muffled as he captured your lips in a searing kiss. he began to move faster, his thrusts becoming more urgent.

"y/n, you're so tight," he groaned.

you could only moan in response, your mind and body overwhelmed by the pleasure. the tension continued to build, your orgasm imminent.

"y/n," he grunted. "i'm gonna come."

his words pushed you over the edge, and you cried out his name, your body shuddering with ecstasy. he followed soon after, his release intense and powerful.

as you both came down from your high, he held you close, his arms wrapped protectively around you. you rested your head on his chest, the sound of his heartbeat soothing.

"i love you, y/n," he murmured.

"i love you, onceler," you whispered.

you closed your eyes, feeling safe and content in his embrace. in that moment, all was right in the world.

[acertainmoshke]

Emerald Outpost snippet—amnesia (sort of)

*Note 1: This is set many books into the series, but screw it I needed to write something fun.

**Note 2: Esther doesn't have true amnesia here, but a brain injury combined with trauma that mess with her ability to keep track of and remember things.

***Note 3: this would NOT post and after redoing it step by step I figured out it doesn't like me indenting it, so I am going to instead bookend it with this nice divider by @/samspenandsword

The street is familiar. She thinks. Maybe there’s a garden near here? Or was it the hospital?  Her heart speeds up. No. No hospital thoughts, that will only make it worse.  She can’t remember what “it” is or how she knows what will make it worse, but she has learned to trust her own nameless instincts the way you trust a partner to watch your back. She pulls her thoughts in a different direction.

Where is she? Why is she here? The pink and green and yellow buildings curve dizzyingly in all directions. There’s a...what’s the word? A...a...a place where trains come. But her head feels stuffed full of fluff and every time she turns her head she veers into a wall, so going near the railing seems like a bad idea, even to look for a sign. A sign probably wouldn’t mean much to her right now anyway.

Case in point: the name of that restaurant is Coral Place, as announced by a very large sign. But that doesn’t tell her where she is.

Or, more importantly, why she came here. Alone. It’s afternoon and hot. When no one goes out—how does she know that?—and she’s alone on the street except for the woman waiting for the train with a couple of children. 

She could ask. The words Where am I? form through the fluff in her brain. Where does this train go? She doesn’t remember where she lives, but she’s pretty sure she’d recognize the neighborhood name. 

Movement on her other side catches her eye, and she turns to see—herself. Probably. Presumably. She raises a hand to her hair and the woman in the window—yes, it’s only her reflection—mirrors her. Her black hair is cut unevenly around her shoulders, and tangles slide under her fingers like beads. Even in the muted color of the one-way window, she can see the thick dark circles under her eyes like bruises, several shades darker than her brown skin. She’s wearing a dirty red tank top she doesn’t think is something she’d buy, with lace trim around the neck that’s been half torn away so it trails down her chest. Twisted, lump scars protrude from her neckline and down her arms. Some of them have shiny metal embedded in them. Their existence doesn’t surprise her. 

She can’t ask for help. She doesn't look like someone to let around your kid. She thinks she remembers holding a little hand, pulling her baby away from someone who swayed and leered in the wrong way.

But also, alone and in leather herself, walking the lowest levels where the sun barely filters. Pulling back the edge of her jacket so they all see her blaster. Laughing. Hand through her short hair. Leaning on the bar and meeting his eyes. She doesn’t know him, but he’s big and angry and drunk and she finds this funny. 

She tries to cling to the memory, but it’s already fading. A train pulls up and the lady boards and is gone. 

When did she sit down? The metal is almost painfully warm through her jeans, even in the shade, but getting up seems...confusing now. 

“Do you need help?” 

She blinks in case she’s imagining him. His legs are right in front of her, but she doesn’t remember him walking up. 

“Ma’am? Are you alright?” 

She didn’t prepare an answer for this, and the words slide away. Is she alright? She shakes her head. 

“Ok,” he bends down. He’s maybe her age, she thinks. Maybe a little older. His heard is 60% silver. “What’s your name?” 

For a terrifying moment, she doesn’t know. But this, at least, slides off her tongue before her brain realizes she does actually remember. “Esther.” Is that how her voice is supposed to sound? 

“Alright, Esther. What do you need? I can call a doctor...” 

That choking, heart-pounding panic fills her again, making the fluff thicker. “No!” Seriously, why does she sound like she’s strangling? “I need...home...!” 

“Alright,” he says again. Did he shift away from her? “Where do you live?” 

This again. “I...I don’t...” She goes to throw up her hands in frustration, then slams them on her knees when the man flinches. But the way the sun glints off her bracelet catches her eye. She doesn’t think she likes bracelets. She doesn’t think people who do wear ones with such big, plain tags hanging off them either... 

Oh. 

There’s an address. A personal message code. And a name. 

She was wrong. She doesn’t recognize the name of her neighborhood. But there’s another name up in the corner, listed as the contact: Phuong. 

Finally, her mind fills with a rush of images. Jumbled, but happy. A wedding chuppah made of green lace. A curving pink apartment wall, from the inside, and the most beautiful woman in the world pressing her against it. Shira—her baby’s name is Shira!—jumping off the back of a couch onto a precarious pile of cushions. A window lined with flowerpots, and Phuong making a face because...because she forgot to water them and one is dead. But the dead plant still has a looping grace to it, silhouetted against the sunset outside. 

She doesn’t know much. But she knows that Phuong means safety and love and home, and is probably worried about her (again, and she doesn’t even bother wondering how she knows this isn’t the first time). 

Wordlessly, Esther holds her wrist out for the stranger to examine. He will message Phuong, who will come get her, and life will make sense again. Right?

Tagging @starsoughtfrost since this seems pertinent to your interests :)