#i don’t know how fabric works and i REFUSE to learn

[theradicalace]

did somebody say magical girls? (it was me. i said magical girls.)

splendidol belongs to @shawzii!!

[zephyrchama]

Mammon stares down at his youngest brother snoozing away on your lap. Belphegor has made himself at home with your thigh as a makeshift pillow. It’s far from the first time this has happened, and very unlikely to be the last. Any more, he just walks over and does it, falling asleep within moments without even asking. He’ll wake up if you try to stand. As long as you can still study, read, or scroll your D.D.D., it’s usually not too bothersome and easier to let Belphegor do what he wants.

The scowl on Mammon’s face says otherwise. “Ya really gonna let him walk, err, sleep all over you like that? How many time’s he done that this week?” He tisks and stomps his foot, looming over you with crossed arms. “Belphie, wake your ass up! Yer big bro has a bone to pick with you!”

You feel a warm exhalation on your leg. Belphegor seems to be sighing, but doesn’t bother opening his eyes or acknowledging Mammon in any other way, much to the elder’s chagrin.

“Push him off!” Mammon insists.

“I’m flattered you think I’m strong enough to push a full grown demon off of me,” you admit, lightly ruffling Belphegor’s hair. “But, no. I’m not.”

“Don’t encourage ‘im!” Mammon grabs Belphegor by the collar.

At this provocation, the youngest curls an arm under your thigh and nudges his nose into the fabric of your clothes. He refuses to budge. “They don’t mind it, so just leave us alone.” Belphegor’s muffled voice sounds tired and annoyed.

“Belphie, let go! Ugh, use your pact!” Mammon literally growls. “Don’t coddle this jerk, you spoil him too much!”

“Don’t yell at me about it! I’m just sitting here!” you pout. ”And Belphie, watch where you’re grabbing.” It’s not your fault these guys go crazy over you. “Pact orders are painful for you guys, yeah? I don’t want to go through all that trouble. I’m still learning how to control the magic and it’s not worth it right now.”

“Hah? You kiddin’ me?” Mammon taps his foot and gnashes his teeth as Belphegor gives him the cold shoulder. “Fine then. Be that way.”

He goes to walk away, but abruptly turns back and returns. It’s evident when Mammon gets a new idea into his head. You can practically see the light bulb pop up over his head as he dons a cheeky grin.

“Spread your legs for me,” he demands.

“What?” Now you’re staring at him, disbelief etched into your features. You knew Mammon had the occasional lewd thought but even for him this was brazen. Maybe his brothers are right and he’s finally lost it.

“Spread your legs for the Great Mammon! C’mon!”

Belphegor snorts and turns his head ever so slightly, just enough to give his dumb older brother the evil eye. Mammon is tired of waiting and seizes his chance to yank your knees apart. By your own admission, you can’t fight the strength of a full grown demon.

“You’ve got two legs, there’s plenty a room for two demons here.” There isn’t exactly much space, but Mammon lays his head back on your thigh and grins up at you, bumping his noggin against Belphegor in the process.

Ah. You realize this was his goal and Mammon was just being too stubborn to come out and say it.

Your face grew hot. It felt weird to manspread with two doting demons on your legs. “You really could have phrased that better.”

“Whatddya mean?”

You sigh. “Think about it.”

Belphegor exhales again, probably laughing under his breath this time as he re-adjusts his arm to a cozier position.

Mammon is content just to admire you from below until he connects the dots, and a deep red blush spreads across his face. He turns, winding his arms around your back to better hide his face in the folds of your shirt.

He closes his eyes against you, his nose brushing against your side. “I don’ wanna think ‘bout anything. I work too hard, just lemme rest here a while.”

You allow it, ruffling his hair knowing full well you coddle both of them too much.

[deadsetobsessions]

Once more the hallucinations hit, and once more I am here writing it out.

My brain is fucking terrifying and I want out, so bad. This came to me in the form of a nightmare.

Also, please don’t take the timeline into consideration, because I have no idea what’s going on. Again, nightmares and dreams tend to not have the best coherency when it comes to plot and timelines. The reincarnation doesn’t have a name, I was too busy feeling terrified. Shit in parentheses was how I experienced the nightmare. Everything else is just me adding sprinkle sprinkle.

——

Ra’s al Ghul.

Talia al Ghul.

Two names that she had been aware of, in the peripherals of her hyper fixation. Two characters meant to enhance the story of the Dark Knight. Side characters, on a good day. Perhaps, a main antagonist on a better day.

On a bad day?

Main characters. Real, living people. Real, living, breathing assassins.

Unfortunately, they’re her new family. One she remembered coming into, bathed in a pool of blood and screams.

She was not a baby.

She is now, a baby. The first of Talia al Ghul’s children. The eldest, once Damian al Ghul was born.

Swaddled in emerald green and gold silks, she was presented to a man with silver streaked hair and a receding hairline. He too, was robed in green and golds.

“A daughter, Talia?” He rumbled, the smooth Arabic flowing out of his mouth failing to hide the acrid disappointment. The child, past the haze of confusion of suddenly being deported from her own adult body into one of a helpless child, felt a stirring of irritation. It’s good she learned the language, because now she knew exactly how Ra’s felt about her. The child grumbled a displeased sound. Not that she would have ignored the fact that her grandfather was Ra’s al Ghul. (He smelled like moth eaten fabric and blood- but I think that was because my cat accidentally scratched me.)

“My apologies, father.”

“Do not tell the young detective of this. Had it been a son, perhaps things would have been different. No, a daughter would only hinder him.”

Talia bowed, hands tightening on her daughter. “May I raise her, father?”

“A resource is still a resource. Go ahead, Talia.”

“Yes, father.” Talia took the dismissal and bowed before leaving.

On her way back to the room with the reincarnation’s crib, Talia al Ghul stroked her daughter’s head.

“I wish you were born a boy, my daughter. I am sorry my beloved will never know of you.”

The reincarnation looked at her new mother. She’s young, the woman-child realized. A teenager.

“You’ll have to be useful, my daughter. Your grandfather is not so kind as to keep the useless. I… do not wish for your death,” her mother muttered.

Great. She got new life and it’s already in danger.

——

She learned to swing a knife. Swords. She learned and devoured the teachings. She learned to be useful.

But then they asked her to take the life of a man who did her no wrong.

Her baby blues clashed with her grandfather’s Lazarus green.

She was still young. A child.

“No.”

“No?”

“He did no wrong.”

“He failed, granddaughter.” Ra’s smiled down at her, patronizing. Cruel. “Perhaps you possess your father’s heart, and you are foolishly sentimental, as women and children tend to be. But in the end, you are an al Ghul and you will obey. Plunge in your blade and I will reward you.”

The reincarnation looked at the man kneeling in front of her, resignation and a hint of pity in what little she could see of his face.

She’s already died before. What did she have to be afraid of?

“No.”

They tried to beat the weakness out of her. It didn’t work.

——

The reincarnation stared at the mirror, left alone in an opulent cage of gold and emeralds and precious stones that meant little to her now.

Her hands traced her back, small fingers finding purchase in soft skin. Her mouth opened fruitlessly, noise refusing to escape. She still felt the burning magic, the brand her own blood had carved into her skin and soul because she refused to kill. The chains her grandfather had shackled around her with magic and cruel amusement.

She had killed him, in the end. Obey, or be punished. Her body had moved without her permission, the reincarnation a prisoner in a body that refused to do as she commanded. The knife swung, a life taken, her hands dipped in red.

She learned a valuable lesson that day.

There were things worse than death.

“This is an order, granddaughter.”

The Magic had flared a searing heat at her neck, forcing her to kneel on broken legs. Ra’s loomed above, authority in his voice. She was bound to obey, regardless.

“You will never speak another word of affection, you will never speak another word to anyone unless I allow it. Perhaps this will teach you of your folly, and your place in this world.”

The loss of her freedom and the fear that came with it was a bitter and devastating lesson.

——

Ra’s al Ghul was so much worse than what little she knew of him.

She was right to be afraid for herself.

Her mother had worried, when she’d withdrawn and refused to speak to her. Even if she could, the reincarnation would not have wanted to. The reincarnation had felt furious, back then, when she thought of Talia. Her mother who refused to protect her. Her mother, who claimed she loved her but refused to see the chains Ra’s wrapped around her neck. She who plied the reincarnation with a supportive hand but forced her into the fighting pits.

But, as the reincarnation stumbled out on bruised and used legs from Ra’s al Ghul’s meeting chambers where he had allowed his business partners to partake in her, she realized that Ra’s was a monster in a human’s body and her mother was a victim of his making.

The lesson Ra’s taught her that day was that if she was not useful, if she did not kill, he would take what was left of her and make use of her.

Hate flared in her heart, and the beginning of Ra’s downfall began the day he let her go from the chambers alive. Injured, but alive. Injured and violated, but alive and furious.

——

She carved her hate and rage and helplessness and fear in the bodies of the people he bid her to kill. Her silenced screams were expressed in the way she splattered blood, the way she covered herself in it. A killing machine first, a stress reliever second, and a child… wasn’t on the list of things she was allowed to be.

His enemies were felled, one after another. He gave her his approval, something she detested.

But still, she continued, bodies racking upwards, tens turning to hundreds, hundreds edging into thousands.

The red in her ledger became ichor and guilt. Her language became violence and obedience.

“You have become a sharp tool, granddaughter.”

She was a genius, after all. And now, she could not disobey. A blade that Ra’s believed will never point towards him. She kneeled. She obeyed.

“Thank you, grandfather.” Her words were only allowed to come out- without searing, terrible pain- when she was thanking him. She tried not to do it as often as he wanted. He thought he broke her when he read the obedience she carved into her body language.

But she never bowed. Never. Not to him. Never.

——

“My weapon could learn much from your granddaughter,” David Cain sat across from Ra’s, wine in their stupid goblets. How she detested the green and blacks he’s seen fit to dress her with. She’s dressed provocatively, not of her own choice. She doesn’t have much of those- doesn’t have much in ways of choices- these days.

She was twelve, and Ra’s al Ghul deserved to die.

“Her combat is a higher form of what my daughter has achieved. How did you do it?”

When Ra’s began to reply, she slipped away.

She found the girl. She found… the cage- the black box- the child was placed in. The child flinched from her when she opened the metal box, fear only easing as the reincarnation kept her body language neutral and kind. (It was pitch black, and about the size of like, a closet. No light. Only from whatever door the box had.) (Cass’ hands hurt from banging on the walls to be let out)

David Cain’s daughter, her mind whispered, the memories of another life once more making itself known.

“Cassandra.” She whispered, regretting it immediately when pain wracked her body. She fell to her knees as the punishment for disobeying an order slammed into her.

The girl looked at her in concern, but did not move closer. The reincarnation stared at this girl and saw a reflection of herself.

David Cain would be here for a month. She will free Cassandra in those days.

——

The weapon stared at the girl in front of her, kneeling in pain.

She did not understand.

-

The girl came back. Water. Food. Kind.

The weapon felt warm. The girl was quiet. No sounds. Good. The weapon knew the girl understood. The weapon thinks that the girl is a weapon too.

-

The girl comes back, again. This time, she makes a sound. It hurt her, but she did it again. The weapon understands when the girl points at herself and repeats the sound. The sound means the girl. The girl expects something from the weapon.

The weapon makes the sound, flinching to see if the owner will come to punish it. The girl purposefully sits, relaxed but vigilant… and protective. Of the weapon?

The weapon relaxed. It repeated the sound, pointing at the girl.

The girl smiles, in pain. But approval. The weapon feels- the weapon is warm, like under the blanket. Approval.

The girl teaches her to make sounds but the weapon communicates without it. It does not like the sounds, does not need them, but the girl seems to think it’s important.

The weapon likes the girl, so the weapon learns. They still understand through no sounds, through reading each other.

-

The girl comes back, silently. Secretly. The weapon does not notify the owner. The weapon feels- does not want to.

The girl- the girl with the sound- she says a different sound. Her body tells the weapon that it’s important, this sound.

And when the girl points at herself and says her own sound, then points at the weapon and says that new sound again, the weapon begins to understand.

The girl had given the weapon her own sound.

“Cass—n- ra.”

“Cass,” the girl said, and Cassandra understood.

“Cass.” Cassandra pointed to herself.

-

The owner wanted- wanted Cassandra to end a life. Cassandra watched the owner kill and gesture to the dead thing.

Cassandra did not want to.

When Cassandra is placed back into the pitch black box, she waited for the girl.

The girl came.

“Don’t want.” Cassandra clung to her, reading the welcome and the sadness in the girl’s body. Cassandra tucked her face into the girl’s shoulder. She is cold. The girl is warm.

The girl hugged her back. The girl understood. Sadness hardened into lines of determination. Cassandra felt… light. Felt hope.

-

Cassandra slipped away from the place, water in her pack for the dessert and money to run from the country. The girl stayed behind, seeing her off. The girl tells her to never come back.

Cassandra did not want to leave the girl behind, but the girl could not go.

“Be free, Cass.” The girl had whispered through the pain. “For the both of us.”

——

Her grandfather knew. He allowed David Cain to break her, not kill because she was of use to him still, as a lesson. She found that she hated his lessons. But, she hated his attention more.

And still, she could not regret. How could she, when Cass trusted her with what fragile hope she had?

So, she lets him beat her, and provokes him with smirks and fearless eyes because the longer he’s focused on her, the more time Cass has to run.

Then, he gets too angry, and insults Ra’s, whose eyes grew cold. Her grandfather gestured and while she usually hated the command that followed that gesture, she could not feel that hatred now.

She got back up, legs broken and arms twisted once more, and attacked David Cain.

Ra’s would not follow Cass. Not when she was not his business to deal with, and not when David Carin’s fury amused him so.

David Cain would not follow Cass. Not while she still drew breath. The reincarnation stood, and threw herself at one of the best assassins of the century.

She tore his throat out with nothing but her teeth. She felt, for once, not like a monster. Not even when Ra’s nodded in approval and ordered for David Cain’s broken body to be cleaned up.

——

She’s been granted a mission in New Jersey, once her months of discipline- of torture- ended. She does not get ordered to find Cassandra. She’s fourteen now, and as silent as ever. Her mother had adjusted to her silence by then- long ago, actually, taking it as a quirk her daughter had developed. She hadn’t been a terribly vocal child, after all. Talia praised her for being useful even as a woman- the self degradation something the reincarnation had no doubt Ra’s had insidiously trained into Talia- and for being loyal to Ra’s.

Sometimes, she hates Talia for being- for-

Never mind. She couldn’t afford to hate anyone else.

She killed her targets early, determination and wistfulness urging her movements into sharp . Then, she made her way to Gotham and slipped into the city of darkness- where her father was.

She watched as he hid in the shadows almost as easily as she did. She watched as he flew and glided with the younger Robin. (He was younger than her by a year. She checked.) He was free. They were free.

She wished…

As she turned away, she saw a child tumbling from the edge of a roof. It was an instinct she’d thought Ra’s had managed to bury after the months he’d spent making sure she killed only children.

She hated him.

She caught him, swooping in and tucking him against her side as she plucked him from the air and plopped him back onto the crumbling roof of Gotham’s slums.

“Oh, thank you! So much- are you a vigilante?” The boy asked, looking at her masked face. It’s a good thing she wasn’t exactly dressed like a regular League operative.

She shook her head. Her eyes fell onto his camera, faint memories rising once more. She had an inkling-

“I’m- uh- Tim!” The boy introduced himself nervously, edging away from her silence. “Thank you for saving me…?”

She nodded. She pointed to the camera, tilting her head.

“Oh- you… want to see it?” He clutched his camera closer. Oh, he did have some sense of self preservation. She wondered why a seven year old was allowed to roam these streets… but she did worse at seven.

She held her hand up and back up. The boy hesitated, and then showed her the camera. “Uh- I took pictures of Robin and Batman!”

They sat on that roof for hours, and she let Tim Drake tell her stories about her father and his son. Ward. Son.

She could tell that Tim didn’t have anyone to listen to him.

She didn’t have long until she had to go back or risk severe punishment, but… she could make time for Tim, to listen to him.

She wondered if Cass managed to escape completely. She wondered if her sister all but in name and blood learned how to smile.

——

Tim had never had a friend before!

She listened to him! And gave him hugs the one time he was brave enough to ask! And she seemed to like Batman and Robin as much as he did! No one who didn’t like them would listen to his endless rambling otherwise, right? (Tim was super skinny, like ribs poking out skinny. He looked like a sickly Victorian child and he was kind of cold)

“And then, Robin went like this,” he pantomimed the awesome punch Dick Grayson did on a Joker goon. “And the guys got knocked out just like that!”

His new friend nodded, looking interested.

“Sorry, am I talking too much?” Tim asked anxiously. He didn’t want to make his friend hate him!

She shook her head, and gestured for him to continue.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded.

His new friend was so cool! She even taught him how to throw a punch and to fight!

——

When she had to leave, she prepared Tim for it.

“Do you have to go?”

She nodded and placed a hand on his head, ruffling his hair. Her other hand held a duffle bag with an assortment of weapons she carefully kept from him. (One of the blades still had guts on it, which, ew.)

“Try not to fall off anymore roofs, little photographer.” She said, smiling at his shocked look before leaping away.

“Wait, you can talk?!” He shouted at her back. She smiled a little wider.

——

“A son, this time.” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice echoed in his disgustingly flashy throne room. It rings of approval.

The reincarnation stood behind her mother, eyes cast downwards.

“Well done, Talia. I finally have a worthy heir.”

Damian al Ghul cooed.

The reincarnation was scared. But… she could not allow her younger brother to be trapped like she was. She’s fifteen now, a decade of slavery having worn her down and nearly broken her. But with her brother… no, she could not allow it.

She met her mother’s eyes and knew then that they agreed. Protect Damian, at all costs.

She ignored the sting of envy. So what her mother could not find it in herself to protect her daughter? So long as she protected Damian, it didn’t matter.

Maybe she didn’t matter. Maybe she wasn’t worth anything. Maybe- maybe- maybe.

She also ignored the seed of disgust she had for mother’s actions in conceiving Damian. She couldn’t do anything about it. Talia was also a victim.

A louder voice in her asked if she could really excuse that, when Talia had a choice and she chose to hurt and violate Bruce Wayne like that. She wondered if she could truly ever forgive Talia. She wondered if Bruce Wayne got therapy.

——

She stared at the tome in front of her, eyes blank. (Actually, she had no eyes. Like? Empty sockets, but then later she had eyes???)

The brand- the shackles- the chains could only be broken if Ra’s died. She wasn’t opposed to that. But if he died, so did she. She couldn’t even kill herself to get out, because the chains would be there even if she died. If she was revived- a high chance, thanks to the fucking pits- then the chains would still be there.

Perhaps… she could use the pits?

Her mind turned and turned.

——

“This is your ukht.” Her mother pointed at her. Damian stared up at her, and she melted. Her brother was too damn cute.

“Ukhti?”

She nodded as her mother smiled in joy. “Yes, habibi.”

She was better at hiding the pain, now. She was better at enduring it, too, that fucking burning feeling. She spoke more, but only to Damian.

It would not do for her brother to grow up not knowing how to receive verbal expressions of affection. Not like she did, in this life.

Still, it hurt to speak. But then, she had an idea, based on Cassandra.

She could not speak, but speaking wasn’t the only way of communication. She’ll teach Damian sign language- standard, as commanded- but also her own version. Yes, she could do it. It wouldn’t be hard.

She was a genius, after all, and creating languages wasn’t as hard as people seem to think.

——

Damian copied her, small fingers patting his hand four times.

She did it back to him. “I love you.” She tells him, with sounds and with motions.

He does it back, excitedly, because he had a secret with ukhti!

——

Sometimes, she dared not to touch Damian. She wants to ruffle his hair and give him hugs but the ichor on her hands reminds her to not get to greedy. She did not deserve it.

Not when her hands were stained with the lives of so many people.

——

Another mission.

She was twenty now, and not much closer to escaping her bonds. Though, once she hit her majority, Ra’s lost interest in her in that way. A blessing, even if she had to seduce his “business partners” into giving him better deals more often now.

She stops by Bludhaven. The Robin she watched so many years ago- six, by her count- had grown new wings and moved. She wanted to see if he could fly still.

He could. He flew as free- no, freer than his days as Robin.

She dipped away to complete her mission (nuclear weapon trading, really?) and swings back to see a spider trying to break the former Robin’s wings.

“No.” Nightwing whispered, staring upwards at the cloudy sky blankly. “Please, stop.”

She didn’t need to hear any more. She saw red, and dove feet first straight onto the spider’s head, knocking her out.

She picked up a near-catatonic Nightwing, and helped him to his apartment. She left Tarantula in the rain and felt zero guilt about it.

He changed mechanically, some kind of instinct keeping him from removing his domino, but it was a bit pointless considering she escorted him to his personal apartment.

She watched as Nightwing slipped into an exhausted sleep before leaving. She had a spider to squish, and traces to hide.

——

Dick wakes up, drained and exhausted. He… someone saved him.

He sees a scrawled note, handwriting impeccable enough to be a font, written with his pen. He picked it up from his table, and his eyes tiredly read the message.

“Don’t worry about Tarantula. Or your identity.”- A friend.

He remembered- the mask- the mask of the stranger that saved him vividly. He’d remember. And he’d thank them if they ever came back.

——

She was in charge of training assassins, these days. A year and a half later after Bludhaven, she was back in Nanda Parbat, and she’s devoured every magical tome she could get her hands on. They all say the same things.

Her assassins were trained well, and Ra’s praises her with more responsibilities as he followed the pit in his obsessions. Her mother began to splinter the group, not knowing that as Ra’s began his descent into madness, people looked towards her instead of Talia for leadership. They did not know that her unwavering presence by Ra’s side wasn’t voluntary but it is their true that she became his right hand out of pure skill. And flawless obedience, of course.

Then, someone new joins.

Someone with pit rage and empty eyes that goes rigid when she approaches.

Then again, most of the operatives freeze up when she walks towards them.

Her memories roar. A child.

He bowed, and her eyes followed the streak of white hair at the forefront of his skull.

She gestured at him to follow, and ignored the pitiful eyes the rest of the assassins gave to the kid- they act like her training was hard when she went easy on them (it was)- and led the kid towards the training rooms.

She knew who he was, even if her grandfather and mother didn’t think she knew.

Her… Bruce Wayne would probably appreciate his son being returned relatively sane.

But first, she had to beat the Pit out of him. Then, she could assign body guarding duties to him, in an attempt to protect him.

——

“Grandfather, I will take Damian’s punishment.”

“A whipping girl, granddaughter?” But he nodded anyways. He made Damian watch.

She kneeled and allowed the punishment. She couldn’t always protect him from Ra’s, but this she could do anytime. It’s not like she was unfamiliar with the torture. (The whip had barbs. Rusty. And they sprinkled salt.)

——

“I liked poetry….” Jason Todd tells her after a training session. “I think.”

“Sure. I’ll call you Grave, then.” Pain. But she was used to it.

He tilted his head, eyes going blank once more. She sighed. There went his memories again. (His eyes were blank and glazed. Like looking at someone you love and knowing they’re looking through you.)

——

“I would not trust her,” she says to the air, next to a Red Hood emerging from Talia al Ghul’s chambers. She could see it, the beginnings of Gotham’s new crime lord. But still, “Talia al Ghul is known for her lies.”

She pushed away from the wall. It was up to Grave if he listened. It was out of her hands now.

——

She’s twenty-five, and she’s helping Damian pack for his first meeting with Bruce Wayne.

“You must not tell him about me.” Because he’d come rushing here, and she had worked too hard to save Damian for her fool of a father to come and ruin all of that effort.

“I promise.” Her little brother said solemnly. Ukhti said it out loud, which meant it was important and she expected him to keep that promise.

The only other time he’d heard her speak was to tell him she loved him.

The reincarnation smiled and told him through their special sign language, to treat the current Robin with respect and to try his best to get the current Robin to pass down his title.

‘Robin is earned. They have different rules, over there. Try your best to learn those rules.’

Her brother was sheltered. She loved him, but he was spoilt and sheltered. Of course she was worried. Talia barely mothered him.

“I know. You do not have to remind me so often, ukhti.”

She smiled, and patted his head.

“Be safe,” she whispered. “I will miss you.”

Damian darted in for a hug. “Of course. Goodbye, sister. See you soon.”

She hoped not. It was hard enough to convince Ra’s that Damian would learn more under Bruce Wayne.

(She was locked in a small closet- like Cass- for about a week, because she brought up the idea first.)

——

She found it.

The answer to pit rage laid in an old, all but crumbling tome from Atlantis- answers “from a ghost.”

——

Bruce Wayne died. Months after Damian came to live with him. That- irritating- she sighed and worked with her mother to turn Ra’s al Ghul’s attention away from Gotham, lest he called Damian back in Bruce Wayne’s absence.

The little photographer caught grandfather’s attention. She stood vigil as he played chess with Ra’s. His interest in Damian wavered. Anticipation blurred in her veins.

She saved his friends. Her assassins. She let them go, telling them to wait for the little photographer’s plan. (Y’all miss girl had fucking bloody handprints on her pants like someone tried to grab it.)

The first few people who had an inking she might not be loyal to Ra’s… and it was them.

When her other assassins attacked Red Robin, she cut them down before they could touch him, helping him with a furious League of Spiders or whatever operative. She hated spiders.

“What…?”

“You’re a lot of trouble, little photographer.” She sighed. His jaw dropped.

“It’s you!”

“Go,” she cut him off. “Blow this place up. I left a surprise for you outside.”

——

“Owens?! Z?!” Tim trembled, exhaustion and shock and wonder hitting him at once.

“Heya, boss!” Z chirped. Owens helped Tim up while Z helped Tam. Pry walked around them, looking out for further threats. “The nightmare trainer let us go. She knew you, I think.”

Tim smiles, all shark teeth and zero hero. (In the background, the song zero to hero from Hercules 2, played in reverse.) “Tell me more.”

——

Damian grunted, bracing himself for the magical creature’s attack.

“Robin!” His father barked out, panicked. Damian hoped he’d survive-

Shhhlk!

He looked up and there stood his ukht. She bounded forwards, using the odd fauna of the magical plane to bolster her movements as she sliced the creatures apart with her swords, magic humming brightly as she cut through them… and the magicians attacking them.

“What- what are you doing here?” He asked. She greeted him, three fingers curled over her shoulder.

‘My question is,’ she signed. ‘Why were you here without a magical weapon.’

Damian sighed as father stepped in between them.

“Who are you.”

“Batman. Cease your excessive worry. I trust her with my life,” Damian snapped. He stepped around a shocked Batman, looked him in the eyes, and unsheathed his katana. He handed it over to his ukht, who took it with amusement.

‘See?’ His eyes seemed to say. Father tensed when his sister unsheathed her own blade and handed it to him.

‘Are you here for a specific reason?’ His sister signed to him.

“Uh, you gonna introduce us, little man?”

Damian sent the Flash a derisive look and ignored him.

“We’re looking for a magician. He set a squadron of demons loose into D.C. last night. He has a tower.” Damian added.

“Robin,” Father growled. “Who is this.” Damian shot him a look and turned back to his sister.

The reincarnation tilted her head. ‘Tower… it’ll have to be that way.’

“Could you take us there?” Damian asked. Truthfully, he could find the way himself. But he wanted more time around his ukht. She nodded and Damian straightened.

“I feel like we should be concerned that Robin’s friend just murdered a bunch of people.”

His sister glanced back and ignored them.

“Silence, incompetents. Speak another word against her, and Batman’s no killing rule will be applied creatively.” He hissed. (The fucking surroundings hissed with him y’all what the fuck)

He turned when his sister ruffled his hair (Superman muttered a super shocked “what the fuck.”) and Damian allowed it. He had missed his sister.

——

[h-hollieskz]

ALMOST THERE

introduction | masterlist

->pairing : sub lee know x dom gn reader

->word count : 700+

->synopsis : lee know

->tw : idrk with this one, edging?, use of kitten once (I couldn’t resist sorry)

->authors note : was considering putting this in the tw, but this whole thing is incredibly sloppy and low key shit, but I’m just trying to get back into the habit of posting so bear with me

What you could only describe as the cry of an angel escaped your boyfriend’s plush lips as your fingers curled up onto his spot, his half-lidded eyes the epitome of a man far too gone to form a coherent sentence. Leaking on his stomach was his achingly hard cock, neglected through your teasing and cruel ministrations and you didn’t have any intention of getting him off any time soon.

Every time his body began to convulse, heart rate rising just a little too high, you’d pull away, leaving him to chase his orgasm desperately, tugging on the binds that held his wrists. He’d never pictured himself in this position and had you asked him a few months ago if he’d consider it he’d have scoffed in your face.

You see, your usually so proudly dominant boyfriend had agreed to a bet, allowing you to take control for one night, granted that you beat him at bowling (his pride certainly had gotten ahead of him considering his shaky skills at the sport). Despite not exactly being so great at it yourself, you still managed to beat him with quite some points between you both. The look on his face had been priceless.

Let’s just say that well, that night Minho learned some things about himself.

He’d already been denied twice at this point, and this is where previously you had given in. You reckoned he could take more though.

Lube squelched as you drove two fingers into his loose hole, aiming directly for his prostate each time and basking in the small yelps he let out, similar to the mew of a cat. His small hands were clasped together, knuckles turning white, in the soft fabric that tethered them together and his legs squirmed helplessly beneath your weight. Your hand danced around his crotch, caressing his thighs which you admired so greatly.

His pink lips were open in a small, delicate ‘o’ as he could feel himself approaching his release again, believing for a second that you were going to let him and whining as your touch departed again.

“Pl-please. I haven’t done anything wrong.” He gasped lightly. It was almost phrased as a question, begging you to tell him what he’s done. His usual grouchy tone returning slightly as he remarked, “just let me cum already.”

It was cute you decided. He believed that it would work. What he didn’t realise is how much harder he was making it on himself as you gripped his jaw like a vice, staring him cold in the eyes.

“Good kittens don’t make demands, they take what they are given.” You said through gritted teeth before continuing “If you don’t want it, you know your safeword.”

His glare began to soften as he gulped, his eyes squeezing shut as your hand found his cock, gliding it up and down his length agonisingly slowly. In a second you’d give him what he wanted, judging that he was right, he had done as you’d asked that evening, and you already pushed him so far. He deserved a treat. You just had to make him suffer a tad bit more first.

“You look so beautiful like this, you know that right.” His scrunched up face barely reacted to your words, but he let out another small whimper. You reinserted your fingers into his wet heat, Minho’s face relaxing slightly as he lost himself again.

It wasn’t long until he was at the edge again, a few beads of sweat noticeable in his hairline. He had gotten considerably noisier, the closer he got, eyes refusing to open right until he tipped over, body convulsing in pleasure as his orgasm rocked through him. It was more intense than any other he had experienced, and you made sure to kiss and ease him through it until the aftershocks were over. A sheen of sweat covered him as he flopped back, and you quickly undid his wrists.

“You handled that so well, baby.” You mumbled into his ear, peppering him with kisses, “did you enjoy it?”

“Yeah.” You faintly heard him say, and you didn’t press for more information.

“Do you want a bath?” You asked, ready to jump up and go run it for him.

“In a few minutes, jus want to lie here with you for a bit.” He whispered into your neck where you held him.

honestly gonna cry

[yuwuta]

gojo assistant to gojo househusband is EVERYTHING to me he’d be so good at it. packing up bentos before work, visiting u for a lunch break, visiting u for a shoulder and neck massage. hes just so cute. i bet that even when he gets to a househusband role he’d still do some assistant duties and he absolutely is against u getting another assistant bc he’s been that guy and he knows u are too easily fallen in love with. he’d probably only give up that role to someone that he trusts 100% and knows that won’t fall in love with you like yuuta and even then he probs gets a tiny bit irrationally jealous when yuuta knows a lot about your schedule and habits bc that’s HIS job but a lil smooch from u will have him too flustered to even remember what initially ticked him off

when he finally makes it out of the work husband territory, he’s already wildly insufferable as a boyfriend. but when he finally becomes your husband? all bets are off—if people thought satoru couldn’t be louder or prouder of you they were so, so very wrong. he was born for this. 

sends you off with a bento and a kiss every single morning, and then calls you right before lunch time to remind you to actually take your lunch break and eat—and maybe because he wants compliments on the food he made you. when he can’t send you off with lunch, he has yuuta deliver it for you, or he drops it off himself, which is always a welcome surprise, not just for you, but everybody in the office. it’s nice that he’s remembered so fondly, and some days he does miss it, but he wouldn’t trade in being your husband for the world. 

so true about yuuta being his replacement—satoru was very, very thorough in the vetting process of hiring your new secretary. he knows how easy it is to fall in love you, he knows what it’s like to be the work husband and he refuses to hire anybody else who might think even slightly like him. so, call it nepotism or call it favoritism, but yuuta is one of maybe three people satoru actually trusts with the job. turns out yuuta is best suited for it anyway, which brings satoru even more relief. on the days he really misses you, it makes him pout when you recount all the times yuuta saved your ass, but a kiss or two really is he needs to be brought back to reality. 

he’s always calling or texting you with paint samples or fabric samples, and you’ve learned to not try and make sense of satoru’s interior design priorities. you really don’t think that the guest bathroom needs new wallpaper, but he does and if he wants to install it, who are you to stop him. so many days you come home from work and he’s like, “oh, babe, my mom called in a friend of a friend and turns out her husband can make us our own version of that vintage couch you saw in the museum display last week,” which is. absolutely insane because that’s easily a $25,000 couch, but he just waves you off about it and asks you what color you want it in—he’ll handle everything else. 

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

I MISS MY MATTHIAS I MISS HIM SO MUCH AAAAAAAAAAA

Rated: Explicit | Warning: lipstick and shibari (listen i got my favs lol)

“Needs more blue.”

“Please, (Name).”

“You're right, maybe purple.”

Matthias struggles to be still as you bite his chest, another bloom of a hickey on his breast, you lick his nipple making him jerk at action more so than the sensation, he does that to you but to have it done to him is odd— But not unwelcome. The part of his body scarred by the fire is covered with different shades of lipstick, his clothes completely off and his dick in your hand slowly pumping the weeping suffering cock.

“(Name).” This is killing him to be lying here tied down unable to do anything but endure your endless boundless undaunted affectionation. He says something in his native tongue and you giggle knowing frustration is kicking in as he no longer is speaking English.

“Shh, just a few more colors.”

This time you give attention to his cock but only by kissing it all over with blue lipstick then switching to red letting it blend with the blue.

“Argh!” He needs to cum so bad but you continue to refuse him.

“Matthias, you look so beautiful.” Examining your handy work, “Aw, don’t cry. I promise you will get all that you need and more.” Covering his lips with the color of red, “A thousand nights of lovemaking will not be enough to show you how much I love you.”

Matthias jerks his whole body up as your heat touches his cock, you moan as you grind on him, hips swaying in an erotic dance only he can witness. Your hands on his chest to keep yourself steady on top of him.

“My beautiful lover. Matthias, you are so handsome. If only you could keep me here to worship only you. I will give you everything.”

The puppeteer might actually die with how you are making him feel with all this talk.

Matthias Czernin is a master of his craft, whether unwillingly or not, he knows how to create puppets with ease. His left-hand keeps your chin up as his right hand applies the final touches of your makeup.

He has an eye for colors, blending, and applying. Something you guess is from years of puppeteering.

“There.” It seems like a waste to do all this just to ruin it very soon, but you begged him to do this for you.

“Wow, this is amazing, Matthias.” Smiling as you look at yourself with a handheld he holds up for you, “Hehe.” Giggling with glee alright as puts the mirror away on your vanity before assisting you to lay on the bed.

Naked, a strong ribbon-like fabric fashioned in an intricate pattern, you told him it is called shibari and how it works as both sensual and artistic.

The puppeteer admires the assisted work lying on his bed staring up at him trusting him not to harm them. Because this requires trust.

“Nervous?” You ask.

“Not as much before,” His scarred-covered hand travels up your body, the pattern of the ribbons and color looks lovely on your skin. “Wow.”

“Next time we should try this on you.” Nuzzling his hand when he cups the side of your face, “You will look beautiful.”

“... Maybe.” He is a bit shy about trying these things on himself given the position he will be in, however, he is learning you enjoy an equal partnership with him. He can be the dominant force but you can too have a chance for the other to submit comfortably. The topic a person of your time period could only bring up to him.

“You are beautiful, Matthias. Especially with rouge on.” Winking at him.

[mi-i-zori]

Think and Forget

CoD - Ghost x GN!Reader

SYNOPSIS : You never stop thinking about your Lieutenant - until he makes you.

WARNINGS : NSFW - 18+. Smut (with a little bit of context, but barely). MDNI.

Author’s Note : I wanted to practice writing smut without thinking about it too much. I intended it to be longer, but I’ve been stuck on it for more than a week now, so I’ve decided to be done with it. Next time will be better, but I still kinda like this. Hope you do too !

I do not give anyone permission to re-publish, re-use and/or translate my work, be it here or on any other platform, including AI.

There is something about him that you never manage to fully figure out.

No matter how hard you try, his eyes remain unreadable. The library of his thoughts is constantly locked, and nobody knows where he hid the key - or if he still has it at all. Your efforts to take a peek through the keyhole have yet to bear any fruit ; a veil of darkness has fallen over his soul, obscuring your view whenever you hold his gaze for too long. Still, you don’t want to give up on deciphering his heart. So you keep on trying, poking at the steel lining his defenses. Many have lost more than a finger in the process of doing so, yet you refuse to let that thought scare you away from him. His very presence is too magnetising for you to ignore.

Curiosity killed the cat, many people like to say, obscuring the second part of the idiom. Changing its whole meaning. You, however, refuse to forget about it, aiming for the satisfaction said to have brought the feline back.

So you try to be as subtle as possible when you let your eyes and thoughts runs over his silhouette during training, analysing his every movement. You pretend to focus on his words whenever he supervises your own exercises, hoping to see an ounce of his mind behind the cold, distant aura he is so intent on maintaining around others. You keep wondering if you will ever be able to see a glimpse of who he really is ; learn about the man standing behind the wall.

You do, sometimes. These moments, however, always take place when he renders you unable to think.

Whenever his hands roam your skin, gripping every curve they fall upon with a desperation you have yet to understand, you find yourself surprised by his tenderness. His fingers seem to reach for your very soul, calluses molding both flesh and bone. Your heart synchronises with his as he holds you to his chest, exploring the expanse of your back all over again. His breath on your shoulder leaves a delicate ache in its wake, and you sometimes wonder how the chills running down your spine keep getting sweeter each time.

Under the light of day, he is nothing more than a machine. A tool made for destruction, cursed with a coldness that never seems to leave him even for a second. Sharp words echo in the minds surrounding him, and icy eyes carve incandescent holes in everything they touch behind the fabric covering his face.

Yet the abyss of his voice softens when the moon rises, highlighting aspects of his soul even he thought ceased to exist eons ago ; a reality he unveils only in front of you.

His touch leaves vicious burns on your skin. He coaxes you to bury your head in the crook of his neck, driking up every trembling breath dripping through your lips as his hands run down your back. A soft grunt echoes in your ear as your teeth sink into his shoulder. A shiver runs down your back, following his fingers as they find your core with ease, and he savours the taste of the whimper you let out the second they enter you.

- Easy, luv’, he says as you instinctively clench around him, the deep rumbling of his voice sending waves of ecstasy straight to your core.

Once again, Lieutenant Riley is impossible to read. Even as you both become one, trembling limbs and erratic breaths intertwined, the only thing you see behind his eyes is an indecipherable storm. A mayhem that seems to be engraved in his very bones, tainting him from the inside out.

- You like bein’ good to me, eh ? Lettin’ me take care of ya ?

You can only nod against his shoulder. Your chest collides with his as you bounce steadily on his length, his hands digging into your thighs to support your effort. He keeps whispering praises into your ear ; low grunts sometimes interrupt his words as you drag your nails down his back and arms, admiring the red streaks they leave on his skin.

Your legs tighten around his waist, allowing your hips to apply even more pressure against his. They roll over and over, dragging both moans and whimpers out of your throat, grunts out of his. His hand suddenly staples itself to the back of your neck - and your eyes flutter as he draws your head back, diving into the curve of your neck to suck violet bruises on your skin.

Mark you as his.

- Such a good pet fo’ me, he mumbles, kissing your pulse.

An animalistic heat is taking over his voice as he plunges his teeth into your collarbone. Pain shoots up your neck and shoulder, raining down the muscles of your arm.

His name is lost in your scream. Pleasure clouds your mind and vision, obscuring the many questions you still had about him right before nightfall. You let him drop you on the bed, once again sealing your hips together before abruptly rutting into you, reaching a well-known, sacred place only he can seem to find. Electricity courses through your core, causing your legs to jerk as they lock behind his back - drawing him even closer to your form. He relishes in the feeling, head dropping to his chest with a low growl.

The sight of him towering over you, broad shoulders heaving and sweat running down the sturdy valley of his chest, causes you to choke on a strangled moan.

His ravaged hand finds leverage on the headboard. The polished wood slams into the wall, following the frantic rhythm of his body slamming into yours. Your teeth tear your lips as you try to bite on a trembling cry, and your Lieutenant leans towards you, his breath ghosting your face through the fabric of his mask. Dark eyes lock onto yours, boring holes into your soul as his fingers keep working harshly on your clit.

- Cum fo’ me.

And as always, these words are enough to send you over the edge.

[clockwork-ashes]

Day 6 - AU | Retellings

Note: for day 6 of @erisweekofficial <3 this is a modern neris au! thank you for reading!!!

Summary: Eris can’t skate, but Nesta thinks it’ll be fun to try and teach him the basics (modern au, one-shot). Read also on Ao3 <3

Nesta was on her knees, looking up at Eris through her golden lashes. There was an amused tilt to her full lips, a knowing sparkle in her lovely eyes. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen and he was consumed by the sudden urge to trace the curve of her sharp jaw with his mouth. 

Eris watched as Nesta ran gentle fingers through her long hair, pulling the strands together to loop them around her fingers so she could tie them back. No wisps escaped her neat bun despite how little effort she had put into making it. She tugged at the hem of his pants sharply, her palm straightening the wrinkled fabric on his other leg. Eris felt heat rise to his cheeks, was sure he had turned a deep scarlet. 

“Next,” she ordered, waiting for him to present her with the foot whose skate laces had not yet been tied. 

Eris did as she said, glancing around the large space and noticing with some embarrassment that there were children fully capable of putting on their skates with no help. Nesta did the laces expertly, her movements practised. He was surprised with how much strength she used before hooking the string into place, making sure the boot hugged his ankle comfortably.  

Nesta took a moment to admire her work, seemingly pleased with herself, before she sat next to Eris so that she could put on her own skates. 

Eris wiggled his feet, raising a brow at the unfamiliar feeling. 

It was a cool autumn day, but the sun was bright, breaking the frigid temperature slightly. Not yet cold enough for outdoor rinks, Nesta had suggested they go to the community centre during the public skating hours. 

When Eris had learned that she was a figure skating coach after competing for years, he had been impressed. It was only after they had begun dating that he had actually seen how talented she was on the ice, although he had never joined her, content to simply watch her spin and glide effortlessly on the rink behind the safety of the boards. 

Nesta had wanted him to try, and Eris had been unable to refuse her. He could barely remember the last time he had done anything athletic, deciding that his daily jog was entirely unhelpful. Eris had played lacrosse in university, but he figured none of the skills translated well to skating. 

Maybe she sensed his unease, but as soon as Nesta straightened from tying her laces, she placed a hand on his thigh. “You sure you don’t want to wear a helmet?” 

Eris huffed a laugh, “I think I’m good.” He was feeling out of place just sitting on the bench, the stiff fabric of the skate cutting into his skin despite the thick socks he was wearing. He was having a hard time imagining himself on the ice.  

Nesta got up easily, but he stayed seated until she offered him her hand. “Don’t worry,” she reassured, “I won’t let you fall.” 

Eris placed his large hand into her much smaller one, his knees buckling in protest as his ankles turned in on themselves. He wobbled backwards with a ridiculous yelp, knowing he would have fallen if Nesta had not been there to steady him. “I think you’re going to have your work cut out for you.” 

In response, Nesta tilted her chin up. Eris pressed his lips to hers, meeting her halfway. He did not think he was doing a very good job of disguising how worried he was, but the way she rubbed her hand along his arm provided him with some much needed comfort. 

They walked at his pace to the open door leading onto the rink. “Watch your step,” Nesta advised. 

The ice looked like it had just been flooded, very few marks on the smooth surface. One hand still clutching Nesta’s, Eris gripped the glass in preparation for getting past the step. Two little girls in hockey skates and shin pads flew across them in a blur. Eris wondered if it was too late to ask Nesta for a pair. 

Nesta got onto the ice easily, and when he followed her without losing his balance, he took a moment to silently celebrate his victory. 

“There you go,” she said, all encouragement. She let go of him, clapping her hands together like he had seen her do when children successfully completed a difficult spin. “Now use the blade to push yourself forward.” 

How hard could it be, Eris thought to himself.

He instantly regretted the little bit of confidence getting on the ice gave him, his leg slipping from under him. He barely stood a chance, balancing never having been an option. He threw out his arm, hoping to break his fall. His knees hit the ice painfully. “Fuck,” he grunted loudly, the word ripped from his throat. 

A mother holding a young kid glared at him from the other side of the glass. Eris frowned at her disapproval, but Nesta rushed to help him and he tore his attention from the onlooker. 

“Maybe we should get you one of the skating aids,” she said absently, dragging him to his feet with little effort. 

Eris sighed. “I don’t think any come in a big enough size.”  

“You okay?” Nesta asked, concerned. She held onto his arm in a tight grip, like she was anticipating him to lose his footing at any moment. 

Eris flashed her a smile, nodding. She continued to coach him, helping him learn the basic actions of moving along the ice. After a while, Eris could even say he had grasped the basics. 

Nesta spent much of the time skating backwards effortlessly, pulling him along. When his pick got stuck in the ice and he tripped, she easily steadied him and kept herself upright. Her laughter was contagious, her absolute joy at doing what she loved enough to convince Eris he had to take lessons on the weekend.  

When Eris was finally comfortable skating as Nesta led him, he decided to try and move on his own. His muscles tensed as soon as she let go of his hands, but her answering smile had him relaxing. 

He glided a few steps, his tongue between his teeth and resting at the corner of his mouth in concentration. 

“Don’t do that,” Nesta instructed. He obeyed, his arms wide so he could balance better. 

After he did alright on his own for a while, Nesta drifted to his side. She linked their fingers together, a perfect fit, as they moved at his slow pace along the ice. 

Just when Eris was starting to feel as though he had gotten the hang of it, his toe pick got stuck once again and he crashed to the cold surface, dragging Nesta down with him. 

“Falling really hurts,” he mumbled, his legs pinned to the ice as she practically sat on his lap. 

Nesta blew strands of hair from her face, so close to him he could count all fifteen of the freckles on the bridge of her nose. “We can leave–” 

“I’m having a nice time,” Eris interrupted, wanting to clarify. Whenever he was with Nesta, he enjoyed himself. He loved her company, and in the time they had dated, she had become his best friend. 

Nesta smiled, her expression unguarded. She adjusted his scarf, pulling him close as her fingers clung to the cloth. 

Eris forgot for a moment that they were not alone, his eyes falling shut as she pressed her mouth to his. It might have been cold in the arena, but Eris only felt the warmth of Nesta’s lips as she kissed him. 

[ofallthingsnasty]

tags: noncon spanking, power imbalance (boss/employee), exhibitionism, f!reader, reader wears a skirt + is implied to be chubby, this is just about being disciplined by sir crocodile pffft sorry idk what got into me with this one mini disclaimer: I haven’t been up to date with one piece since 2015 + I just finished the alabasta arc during my current re-read. this is pre-canon but please forgive me if I’ve missed anything. pairing: sir crocodile/f!reader word count: 1.4k

“Are you stupid?”

The clipboard in your hand shakes at the harsh words. You owlishly blink at the source of them - your boss, whose upturned eyebrows tell you just how  annoyed he is. Crocodile isn’t someone who you should try to talk back to, especially you - too soft compared to him and still fairly new to this job-

Yet you can’t help but bristle at his tone.

 “Excuse me, Sir?”

“I've excused you quite enough, haven't I?”

He clicks his tongue and his cigar dips with it, ignoring your indignant face.

“You don't listen, woman. I let it go yesterday but here you go again, staring off into space.”

Oh. So he noticed. 

It pains you to admit but you’re still starstruck over working for Sir Crocodile, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea - and somewhat of a hero to your people. Helping him operate Rain Dinners might be weirdly mundane but being close to the man who has saved the people of Alabasta countless times is something you’re still not quite over. You know you’re too old to be that naive, that blue-eyed - but who can fault for wondering where he got that scar in his face from, or how he lost his hand? Working for someone like him would spice up anyone’s life in Rainbase. 

“Ah”, he sighs - heavy and exhausted as though you’re some kind of mutt, refusing to be properly trained -  and puts out his cigar. “It's no use.”

Okay, now you’re starting to sweat. Your eyes rush to the manager - who just blinks back at you, a cryptic expression on her stony face. 

“Over my knee.”

“Sir-”, you stammer out, glad that the words are even coming out despite the cold shower that is running down your spine. “This is entirely inappropriate- In front of other employees, no less-”

A wave of his hook interrupts you.

“A learning opportunity, then.”

This has to be some sort of nightmare - if it weren’t for the curious little head tilt of the other woman in the room, you’d try to pinch yourself awake. Your mouth opens and closes while you try to process this situation, try to make sense of it. You should leave, quit on the spot, tell him to fuck off-

You surprise yourself when you set down the clipboard with shaky hands. 

Maybe it’s because deep down, you don’t want to lose this job or because of the way his voice leaves no more room for discussion - but you lower yourself over his legs, feeling very much like a rotten child and not a fully grown woman. They dig into the fat of your stomach and press the waistband of your skirt uncomfortably against it but you don’t even dare to adjust yourself, you just grip the edge of the chair weakly and try to soothe the sting of humiliation by scrutinizing the texture of the floor beneath you.

You know what comes next - still you startle as your skirt is hiked up by his rough hand. He lifts up your midriff ever so slightly while he pulls the piece of clothing over your ass, the sturdy fabric holding almost all of your weight for a short second. Luckily, it stays intact - contrary to your tights. Thick fingers hook themselves underneath the band that helps them stay in place and you can only let out an indignant squeak as he digs into the thin fabric like it’s butter, ripping large holes into it. At least he leaves your panties where they belong.

“You’re going to count for me”, he says from somewhere above as though he’s telling you how he likes to take his whiskey and not about to spank his employee for a minor transgression.

You just nod with too much enthusiasm and a burning hot face.

You’re stock-still and tense over his knee - so acutely aware of the impending doom. He’s not going to be gentle with you, you have no pretense about that, you know that he’s going to make you feel his frustration, every bit of it.

He lifts his hand from your ass - you hear the fabric of his clothes shuffle, strain - and brace yourself.

It doesn’t hurt at first. You only register the smack of his palm meeting your flesh and feel the force that is behind it, that pushes you forward and shifts the content of your stomach uncomfortably over the bone of his thigh. A split second passes and then- it burns. 

You can’t suppress the shocked whimper that leaves you as you press out the count. “One.”

“One, what?”

You grit your teeth in utter shame but promptly rectify your mistake. 

"One, Sir. And thank you- Sir"

Your words are rewarded with his hand rubbing the skin beneath it - maybe it’s to alleviate the pain, maybe it’s to cop a feel - you cannot tell.

The next four hits come rather quickly. Your head is thrown down with each one and you can feel the snot building up in your nose, blood accumulating where branches of both the external and internal carotids meet, the skin hot and sticky. Still, you count each and every one of them, your voice getting wispier and wispier from the pain.

“Having trouble holding that thick head of yours up?”, he asks after the fifth one, thumb digging into now tender flesh. It’s an entirely rhetorical question.

“Let me help you. Don’t move.”

Not moving turns out to be rather difficult when his hook moves to your neck, that sharp, glinting tip too close to the soft organs of your throat. The cold metal settles right where your suprahyoid muscles connect to the bone, just above your larynx. 

It’s not enough to choke you - but the discomfort keeps your neck straining, instinctively trying to shield that small brace of bone that forms the hyoid.

Your eyes meet blue ones, just above the edge of Crocodile’s desk. You must look absolutely pathetic to her, you’re sure - but there is no judgment in her face, just a slender knuckle under her chin as her full attention is on you. Every further thought is swept away by another hit to your rear. It jerks you into his hook, crushing the fine cartilage of your voice box, forcing mucus into your mouth. Something pops among the muscles, like the jump of a tendon over bone and you balk at the noise, sure that he’ll break you before he even gets to the end of this.

 Yet you sputter out the number six, voice throaty with strain.

Seven, eight, nine and ten follow quickly - and aren’t less harsh. Every single cell of your body is focused on getting from one moment to the next, of just getting through this.

Whatever it is you do, it’s deemed to be adequate - eleven and twelve come and go - slower, but heavier - and he finally rests his hand on your prickling skin after you croak out fifteen, Sir, your throat tender and ass bruised so deeply that your left leg shakes with it. A few tense seconds pass - during which you’re not sure if he’s actually done or not, but a soft sigh confirms it. 

“Up with you.”

You’ve never moved faster in your life, beaten ass be damned. Trying to preserve the last shreds of your dignity, you tuck down your rumpled skirt with shaky fingers, fighting the urge to rub your sore neck. You can barely look at him, too scared you might find nothing but disdain in his eyes.

“Look at you now. What a nuisance.” He doesn’t sound disappointed - just tired. Like you’re a mess that needs to be cleaned up and he just came home from a long day at work. You shrink into yourself at his tone, relieved that it’s over but still tense, still afraid that there will be other consequences. “Go on. Get yourself fixed.”

You’re dismissed with a simple wave of the very hand you can still feel on your skin - that will make it hard for you to sit in the next few days. 

Robin's eyes follow you as you hurry out of the door, pantyhose ripping even further because you try to clumsily adjust it while walking, your face betraying every single emotion you feel. Hurt, humiliation, even genuine anguish - but you’re still in one piece, even if your ego (and ass) are a little beat up. She tilts her head as she watches the very last traces of you disappear.

“Hm. You've gotten soft.”

He huffs in annoyance and reaches for the untouched newspaper in front of him, not even bothering to light a new cigar. She eyes Crocodile for a second as he pulls the pages taut. Something clicks.

"You like her", she says, thoroughly amused now.

The only answer she gets is a sharp tug at the newspaper.

A/N: It's hard to decipher what non-Baroque Works employees of Rain Dinners call Robin -- but she is addressed as manager, so I stuck with that. I hope it didn't confuse you.

[yanderemommabean]

Southern yandere being raised on those good morals and Christian values until they meet reader. Being the apple of the towns eye and everyone’s favorite golden boy turned into a savage mess when anyone dares to mess with his darling! Perverted once he see’s reader in revealing clothes for the summer (to beat that southern heat!). Suddenly he has to pray more often since only not so sacred thoughts come to mind when he thinks of you (which is ALL the time). The polite manners being CRANKED UP when they are in ur vicinity. The oh so bold flirting! BEING COURTED by the most desired guy in TOWN. And no one would help u girl, u think THE (his name) would bother stalking YOU? How pretentious. Knows how to court a lady but if you keep on playing hard to get he’ll just have to show you he’s the BEST and ONLY option for you.

“Well hello there August!” You say with a sweet smile, fanning yourself by tugging at your shirt as sweat seeps into the fabric. “What brings you by? Needing more chicken eggs?” you ask, used to the man asking for one or more things he could buy from you or help you out with. Always so courteous and gentlemen like, even when you insist he doesn’t have to be. 

It’s sweet, you’ll admit. He’s been trying his best to be sweet and kind to you, even the town is beginning to think you’re all he worries about anymore. His duties often get neglected when you’re on his mind, which seems to be every hour of the day. 

“No, no, I was just comin by to see why you’re working in heat like this. You could get killed if you aint careful y’know? Jesse nearly had a heat stroke a few days ago ‘cause he thought he could handle the stables all by himself” 

You snort, dusting your hands off on your jeans “Well, I ain’t Jesse. Jesse needs to learn a thing or two about asking for help when he needs it too, I learned that lesson the hard way”. August laughs at that, tipping his hat as he does so. “Yeah, boy aint the brightest. I’ll give you that. You wouldn’t mind taking a break for sweet tea or anything would ya? I’d love to waste your time for a bit”. 

Nodding, you begin to walk into your house, heading to the sink to wash your hands from the dirt and muck covering them from the chores. “I’ll make ya a glass in just a sec, let me get a bit cleaned up. You get your things done today? Pastor told me to yell at you a bit if you lagged behind one more time. Think he meant it too, ‘is face was redder than hell”. 

August comes up from behind, wrapping his arms around you as you stand at the sink. Your face dusts pink as he lays his head on your shoulder, his breath right on your ear as he gruffly says “Don’t worry about what he says. I know what I’m doing, and how I’m gonna do it. Anyone gives you more trouble you come to me alright?” 

The sudden playful mood felt more tense, his arms squeezing you tight against him as your voice struggled to come out. “You’re like a hen, I swear. I'm not some dainty little belle, I can tell a pastor off if I need to. Now sit down, I’ll make you a glass”. 

You two sit and chat for a while, August giving you stares that you couldn’t quite read from time to time as you mention how your life here was going. He was a real sweetheart, a man of manners and good values, it’s no wonder the whole town loves him. But there's something there, stirring and growing, you just don’t know it yet. 

It’s a dark, unleashed beast of a thing for sure. 

-------------

Six months have passed since you’ve moved down here, and the winter seems awfully brutal. Your house is refusing to stay warm lately, and as much as you hate to admit it, you’re terrible with a wood cutting axe. Never could get the aim right. 

As if on cue, the towns most beloved bachelor comes driving into your yard in his truck, practically leaping out as he runs to you with a worried and dare you say frustrated appearance. “What on earth has gotten into you? Put me down!” you hollered, being lifted up over his shoulder with ease as he carries you inside without so much as a hello. 

“Me? What’s gotten into you? It’s below freezing and you’re out there trying to cut wet wood that won’t burn! You’re gonna get frost bite, and momma won’t let me hear the end of it if I let you get hurt!” 

“For your information I was doing just fine!” you scold, being dropped down gently onto your couch as he stands over you, arms crossed over his chest. “...I ain’t moving until you promise me you won’t go back out there in weather like this” 

“Unfair game to me. Seeing as alls I gotta do is tickle you in the right spot to get you out of my way” 

“Dangerous game to play to me, seeing as your touch would do a bit more than tickle me” he says with a seductive tint to his voice, his face coming down to meet yours as you become more flustered “A touch from a sexy thing like you, wouldn’t make me move out of the way. It’d make me pick you up and show you how I wanna touch you too” 

You both stay there for a minute, your eyes becoming playful and your tone more flirty as you lean closer, daring to kiss his lips. “Hmm. And what would your momma think if something happened before marriage?” 

“Who says I can’t make you say my name without breaking that rule?” 

“Oh now you’re just being a mean old flirt. Is this your way of warming me up? Cause as much as I like it, I do need to get work done” 

August doesn’t budge. If anything, he seems determined to tower over you like this, keeping you in place. “I think you’d be better off at my house for a few days. Especially since the holidays are coming up and the weather is only gonna get worse” he says as if he didn’t just act like he would go a few rounds in the bedroom with you. 

“We’ve talked about this-” 

“I know. You’re worried about the animals and such. Never said I wouldn’t let you come by to do your stuff, I just think you need a place with actual heat since this place is clearly in need of more repair than we thought. It ain’t gotta be a month or nothing, just til we get it fixed” 

You worry your lip, unsure and not exactly comfortable with just staying a few nights at his house. “The town will think we’re being a bit-” 

“The town also thinks aunt Susie's pie is the best, but they ain’t right in that regard either” he cuts you off, taking your cold hand and kissing your fingertips softly “I won’t do nothing, I promise. I’ll even let the church and every gossiper in town have a piece of my mind if they start making you upset. Just please, let me keep you warm. It’ll break my heart if I know you’re suffering like this any longer” 

His eyes are so sweet as they plead, and how he holds and warms your hands makes this deal all the more enticing. What can you say? You really have no other choice, and you’re so lucky to have him here for you like this. “A-alright, August. Just until we figure out why my heat aint working. No more than that” 

Oh, just knowing you’d come willingly at all is more than he could’ve asked for. He hates having to force his hand in these situations, but it’s needed! That’s why he had to ruin your heating system, to show you that he’d be the better option in the long run and he could get you out of that shithole house faster. 

But he won’t tell his little secret. The plan is to get you in his home, then in his bed, and in his arms. Town can think whatever they want, but no one would suspect him of sabotage and stalking. He plays his role very well, knows how to manipulate anyone who tries and ruin his chance with you. If they push too hard for you to leave, he might just stage another accident or two. 

Whatever it takes to keep you with him and him only. 

((HI! I hope this didn’t go too off the rails, I really enjoyed it! I hope you did too! -Mommabean))

[written-with-blue-ink]

Could we get headcanons of different pets the Genshin men would have and how they would interact with them or their personalities? Especially Diluc and Alhaitham. I love men with animals, the biggest green flag

I got you, boo! I honestly couldn't stop once I started so added a few other characters

Alhaitham, Diluc, Kaeya, Childe, Cyno TW: neglected animals in Cyno's

Pet Headcanons

Alhaitham

She showed up in a previous post but I think he would have a cat

An Egyptian Mau to be precise, her name would be Asal (Persian for honey) after her golden/bronze coat

She would 100% be a curious and very intelligent kitten who loves to run around and play

Type of cat who just climbs up fabric/clothes and will sit on your shoulder or around your neck

Will bite and pull on your ear if you oversleep and don’t feed her

Literally embodiment of “Ray of Sunshine”

Absolutely loves Kaveh for some reason (totally not because he spoils her rotten)

“Kaveh, stop feeding her so much, she’s getting fat. I don’t want two spoiled lazy cats”

“Excuse you, she’s perfect and skinny as is… Wait did you insult me too?!”

Does tricks! she knows how to sit, shake, tap (where she taps her nose to your finger/thumb) and is learning more

Diluc

A big dog man

I could see him with rottweilers, german shepherds or bernese mountain dogs with a name like “Bear” or “Beau”, short, bold, and simple.

Originally gotten as guard dogs for a paranoid Ragnvindr who has many enemies and just got back from a murder spree in Snezhnaya, they now work more as emotional support dogs for him and others

He also still has his childhood tortoise (because those things live forever) which he named ‘Clip’ as a child

He’s very mellow, the dogs treat him as one of their own

They also cuddle and sleep together, two dogs wrapped around a tortoise who rests his head on the dog’s neck

When he and Kaeya were in their older teens, Crepus got them both large Clydesdale horses when they both joined the Knight’s Cavalry. 

He named his horse Skinfaxi and Kaeya has Hrímfaxi (named after the sun and moon horses from Norse mythos)

Skinfaxi is one hell of a mare, it took Diluc a lot of time, energy, and patience to get her to behave (though she still has a playful streak)

Would buck him off during training but she was the fastest horse in the Cavalry

He would take her on long rides at night through the woods and around Dawn Winery just to get her to trust him

Kaeya

Obviously, Hrímfaxi, who, unlike his sister, was much more timid.

They both got along really well, with no issues, unlike their siblings.

The two riding are almost like one being, completely in synch

With the cavalry gone, Mondstadt City doesn’t have a lot of space for a horse so he stays with his sister at Dawn Winery

Kaeya comes by whenever he can to ride him

But besides her he would take care of the stray cats around Mondstadt City, refilling food and water bowls around the city while on patrol

One day, after a long night, Kaeya woke up to clawing and meowing at the door and saw his favorite cat, a Calico named Lucky, wandered inside and flopped on his rug in pain, crying as he noticed the giant lump coming from her stomach

By sunrise, he now had a mother of three kittens refusing to leave his house.

Two girls (One Calico like her mom and the other orange) and a boy (A black cat with faint stripes)

He lets Klee name them: Sunny (Orange), Cloudy (Calico) and Stormy (the black cat)

The girls are definitely headstrong while Stormy is shy and tends to hide behind his big sisters

(as a kaeya kinnie with three stray/outdoor cats, he gets them too)

Childe

From a family with lots of big dogs, like Great Pyrenees, Samoyed, and Tibetan Mastiffs

When he moved to Liyue for deployment and got super lonely, his subordinates weren’t super close to him and locals didn’t trust him as a Harbinger, he grew rather lonely

Till he went into the countryside to deal with some Treasure Hoarders and saw them using weasels and ferrets to carry contraband and money around without notice

What really sold him was watching a little kid in the camp playing with one and rubbing noses with it

The next day Ajax had two ferrets running around his apartment with the most expensive ferret setup money could buy

They are the most playful, feral things who love running around and play-fighting each other

Named Jayson and Lila, a pair of twins

(totally didn't name them after the stoats from Burrow’s End)

Loves them so much and plays with them throughout all of his free time

Leaves them to his assistant whenever he is away or is busy (who proceeds to give her hell)

They love it when he wears big coats/parkas so they can climb in and snuggle

Cyno

Didn’t have pets growing up

His first pet was on a mission as General Mahamatra, arrested some guy, went through his house for evidence, and found a severely malnourished and neglected Leopard Gecko

Some of his claws had fallen off to nubs due to layers of sheaded skin build up and he was cold to the touch from lack of heating. 

The lizard curls up into his warm hands and it immediately melts the General Mahamatra’s heart

Immediately putting him back and picking up the cage, he leaves the rest of the investigation to his coworkers before rushing to Gandharva Ville

Scared Tighnari and Collei with how quickly he rushed in through the door with a giant glass terrarium.

Looks calm and collected but is sitting in the corner with Collei just staring at Tighnari and the lizard, internal panic on the inside

Once Tighnari gives an analysis, Cyno asks Nari to watch the lizard for a few days and he will come back for it

Proceeds to spend two days straight researching Leopard geckos and how to take care of them

Also blows a good portion of his paycheck on supplies for the gecko, a larger tank, lights, and heating pads, etc. 

Picks him up and takes him home as soon as the terrarium is set up

Names him something dumb like “Geck” or a combo of his and Tighnari’s names like “Tighno” 

Most people don’t know besides Tighnari and Collei that the gecko exists, and why would they? Who’s gonna believe that the General Mahamatra has a tiny lizard as a pet

When Alhaitham and Kaveh find out Cyno has a pet, Cyno immediately pulls out pictures from his wallet like a proud dad

Whenever he is away for a while, he has Collei house sit and take care of the lizard, pays her generously

Will just sit on top of Cyno’s head or shoulder and chill

Loves to chirp and make little noises for fun/comfort

(also a leopard gecko parent and my gecko is a rescue with all these attributes from being mishandled)

[pro-mammonologist]

Demons Are a Girls Best Friend

A fun vacation to the mountains! The brothers are fascinated by the human world and even more fascinated by the human world’s interpretation of them. After exploring a local church, Asmodeus learns of Mc’s relationship with the church as well as igniting an interesting fantasy of theirs.

Note: inspired by the song Demons Are a Girl’s Best Friend by Powerwolf, if you’re okay with a little bit of metal, you’ll love this and want it in your obey me playlist

This chapter is the start of the NSFW, it’s essentially the planning process, the setup, and the very start of the adventures. There’s mentions of impact play, bondage, and sacrilegious fantasy. I imagine if you’re reading fanfic on tumblr you’re not afraid of a lil kink. And you aren’t afraid of sacrilege if you’re into Obey Me. ALSO, I really try to have MC discuss the role play itself because I think it’s important people have a good idea of how these bdsm scenes work even if it’s not perfect. Sorry if it’s moving slowly to your taste, I wanted to explore Mc’s emotions as well as the brothers. I think the intimacy here will really amp up in preparation for the actual scene itself! Enjoy!

GN!Mc with a coochie x All brothers

@ikevampharem

Part 1

Chapter 2: “they wanna make you bend and scream”

Now faced with all 7 brothers eager to try out your fantasy, you scrambled over what you wanted to happen. And how. And where…

“So are we gonna dress as priests?” Belphie looked toward Mammon hoping he’d suggest stealing some priests garb.

“Don’t look at me! I feel like stealing from a church is a bad idea!” Mammon answered, confused as to why Belphie asked him not you.

“Well,” Asmo now had pen and paper in his hand, “we could use magic!”

“What are you writing for?” Beel questioned peeping around the table you all sat at.

“So we know what we’re gonna do to our lovely Mc!” He clicked the pen and looked to you. “So, it’s a bit of daddy I’ve been naughty sorta situation! Do you wanna confess your sins to us all?” Asmo’s eyes were twinkling.

“Um… confession usually has one priest present so I figured it’d be a different setting.” You sat at the head of the table, fiddling with the fabric of your shirt.

Lucifer sat on the edge of the table, directly to your left, refusing to sit in a chair for some reason. “Hm, to be honest, playing priests sounds fun but what if we were demons pretending to be priests? Im not exactly too sure if we could all maintain a holy facade. Those days are long gone, don’t we all agree?” Lucifer looked around and Satan was the first to agree.

“I never even had any holy days, so I agree. Plus it only adds more fun to the fantasy don’t you think?” Satan pulled the paper from Asmo and grabbed a pen for himself. “Here, I suggest we set everything up for Mc within their limits and we plan the scene ourselves.”

“I trust you guys to come up with something good for me by now.” You nodded, somewhat thankful all the planning wasn’t up to you. “I can list the parameters though.” You were also thankful that you didn’t have to confess exactly what you wanted to them, your embarrassment would be overwhelming.

Levi put his hand down on the table. “Listen, I have an idea!” He scrambled for the paper. “So let’s say Mc is lost and they find us here and we will use magic to make one of the rooms look like a church right… and then while Mc is praying to themselves out loud for forgiveness, we come in and—“ he abruptly stopped when Beel spoke up.

“If we say everything that ruins the fun right? We need to hear what Mc isn’t up for and what they are up for, right?” Beel looked to you, innocent per usual.

Your thoughts were swarming and you struggled to find out what you should say. “I’m thinking—well—I imagine that I’d be punished for all the stuff you have done to me, right?” You had a thought, a dirty one, but you were hoping for someone to read your mind.

“Go on.” Lucifer encouraged you, knowing you’re feeling a bit shy.

Dammit. “Well, then I guess everything we’ve done is on the table. At least what we can access.” You avoided saying exactly what you wanted causing Lucifer to sign through his nose.

“Everything?” Mammon repeated, leaning back. “To be fair, when we all do it with you, you do have the same limits. Just no actual harm. A lil pain here and there, no tickling, no blood, and only tears from pleasure. Amiright?”

“I’m told the same thing.” Lucifer concurred. “Those are your limits correct? Nothing beyond typical bedroom bdsm.”

“Sounds about right!” Asmo cocked his head and pulled the paper back while no one was looking. “So how about we 7 devise a plan and you, our lovely Mc, gets to prepare!”

“Well, for one, those are my limits, and for two, Asmo you can’t decide for me!” You were mildly irritated at him rushing but you did enjoy his enthusiasm. “Basically, I’m down with restraints, a little impact but let’s keep it down to just our physical person. I’m already about to get fucked by all 7 of you I don’t need that much overstimulation. Speaking of which, I’m down for multiple orgasms but overstimulation might not be it for right now especially since I imagine you’re all in the mood to go all out.”

Asmo furiously wrote, trying to keep up with each word. “Is edging on the table?”

You smiled and Levi scoffed. “If Lucifer is involved it’s probably always on the table.”

“I’m not that awful that I always edge them.” Lucifer looked offended by Levi’s comment but you ignored their little comments.

“Yes but… remain in control of yourselves I don’t wish to pass out before I even get to cum once.” You emphasized and Asmo underlined don’t go crazy on the paper. After he looked back to you thought a bit more. “Let’s use the light system too.”

Satan nodded. “We might need a nonverbal as well. And I think it’s better to use the light system for something like this, but if you do yellow, you need to inform us what to stop and what to continue.”

You thought for a moment. “If that’s the case, let’s say if my mouth is full then my hands need to free and vice versa. I’ll snap twice.“ You watched Asmo write again. “If you don’t hear or see the snaps, ima kick. No matter which one of you it is.” You were in-between joking and seriousness.

“Careful, Mammon and Levi might like it.” Belphie cackled.

“Hey! Don’t go lumpin’ me in with Levi! That guy probably likes to be waterboarded!” Mammon retorted making you grin.

“Water boarding? That’s more like Barbatos! I bet that guy will do anything! Plus… water boarding wouldn’t even work on me!” Levi snapped back and he shook his head at Mammon. “Mammon probably has a findom fetish!”

“Excuse me??? Why would I give my money to someone for just a boner!”

“Well you spend all your money on Mc!”

“That’s different! I’m spending it on gifts for them! Not begging for them to take my money!”

Levi and Mammon continued their back and forth until Lucifer pinched both of them. “Hush. You can squabble about your concerning fetishes later.” Lucifer turned the attention back to you. “So, let’s say you’re sucking me off, you wouldn’t want to be bound? Am I understanding you correctly…?”

You blinked twice, trying to see what he’s getting at. “Oh! Um, I guess if I’m snapping then my hands could be bound.”

“Hm, good to know that’s something you’d consider and I wasn’t hinting at me questioning your safety, Mc.” He smirked, a sadistic twinkle in his eyes. “I just wanted to make sure we heard you correctly. The more detail the better, right?”

You fought the heat rising in your body. “Well I don’t even know what you’re hinting at either.”

“Who says that I’m hinting at anything?”

“You just implied that you were hinting at something.”

“Then what do you think I’m hinting at?” Lucifer crossed his arms, still smirking.

“Something nasty for sure, you wouldn’t be making that face otherwise.” You tried to challenge him, pretending as though you aren’t flustered. “Why don’t you tell me what you plan to get out of this?”

Lucifer snorted. “I plan to have fun, relieve some stress. Perhaps tire them out as well.” He motioned to his brothers.

You couldn’t help but grin. “That’ll take some trouble off your plate, huh?”

“HELLLOOOO! We’re here too!!!!” Mammon shouted. “Stop talkin’ bout us right in front of us!” Mammon moved to the front of the table and nestled himself between you and Lucifer. “And don’t go picking favorites when we get down and dirty!”

Lucifer groaned as Mammon moved between you two. “Is your presence necessary?”

You giggled at his comment and looked at all of them sternly. “Also, when it starts, I don’t want any arguing! We can fight afterwards.”

“Hey, my favorite, aftercare. Ya know sometimes it’s more fun than the actual thing itself. But it’s probably gonna be annoying since it’s not just you and me.” Mammon smiled at you and his brothers spoke up in protest.

“Who said it’d be fun with you anyways?” Satan was the first to talk back. “Mc, you don’t have to include him.”

“Hey! No bullying Mammon either.” You gave him the irritated-mom-stare.

“Shame.”

Asmo cleared his throat and pulled everyone back to the scene. “Aftercare indeed. Bath, warm clothes, lotion, cuddles, water, snacks, cakes?” He listed off his suggestions and Beel’s ears perked up at cakes. “Anything in particular??”

You leaned toward him, away from Mammon and Lucifer. “I’m gonna be sweaty as hell probably. I’m gonna need a cold shower. I think a bath might overwhelm me. Water is important. Maybe some tea and yes, we should have dessert after the fucking. I’m assuming we will be eating dinner beforehand. And cuddles are always on the table but uh… we need to wait until I’m done for me to decide who I wanna cuddle.”

“Ooooh! That reminds me, I am hungry! And while we are out for dinner, we can get supplies so we don’t waste our magic!” Asmo stood up and it’s as though everyone suddenly realized their own hunger.

“I am starving.” You stood and Lucifer looped an arm around your waist to pull you into him.

“Mc. I’ll have you know,” he whispered, “this fantasy of yours is something I plan to play out perfectly. Us demons, we love to play, something like this just strikes me so perfectly. You need to realize that you can’t be shy later.” Your back was pressed to his chest and his lips just grazed over your ear.

“I won’t be.” Was all you answered.

——————————————————————————

When you all finished your dinner, you split up into groups to find supplies for your trip and your fantasy. You walked alongside Mammon and Satan searching for things to do while vacationing while Beel, Belphie, and Levi searched for supplies for your night. Lucifer and Asmo returned to your loft to plan the night ahead.

“What made you come along Satan? I figured you’d want to be with Levi’s party.” You asked, sitting next to him while seated on the metro.

“Truth be told, while I’m fine with helping to plan for the trip, I wanted to have you alone so we could talk about what you really wanted to do.” He answered honestly.

Mammon leaned forward. “While they ain’t alone. And why do you get special treatment?”

“I don’t. Even if you’re here Mammon, they’d be more willing to admit their fantasies considering they slept with you first. So… if you’re here, I figured they’d talk to you about it more.”

You nodded. “I guess that makes sense. But to be honest, I’ve already said the most embarrassing part.” You glanced away and focused on Mammon’s hand on your knee.

“I don’t think so.” He disagreed. “You’re clearly biting your tongue.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I won’t press you too much if you’re truly feeling too embarrassed but I still want to know more.”

Mammon was oddly silent, his own thoughts swirling. “Ya know, Mc, I bet I got a good guess.”

You swallowed. “Okay…”

“It’s not the getting fucked by priests thing is it? It’s the demons pretending to be priests, amiright? That’s why you suggested it, right Satan?” He kept his eyes on you while your heartbeat moved faster.

“Correct. You see, Mc, I’m trying to get you to admit something in particular. If Mammon has figured it out then I’m sure the rest have the same assumption that I do.”

Mammon stepped on Satan’s foot in retaliation to his comment. “You got a demon kink, dontcha?”

He hit right in the balls. You weren’t escaping this one. “Yeah.” Neither of their expressions changed and you sunk back into the seat. “Is that it?”

“Yup, that’s it.” Satan crossed his legs again and relaxed into his seat following suit. Mammon did the same.

“Damn, all that tension just for a yeah.” Mammon teased, clicking his tongue. “Figured after a while you wouldn’t be scared to admit that ya like demons to the demons you’re fuckin’.”

“Shush.” You elbowed him. “Ima get your ass someday.”

Satan tried to bite back a smile. “I’d be happy to help get him back. I’m sure I have something that didn’t work on Lucifer but would work on him.” Satan shot Mammon a mischievous look.

“Haha funny. Laugh laugh laugh.” Mammon squished your cheeks out of nowhere and you jumped.

“Mams!” You protested.

After you all exited the train, you went into a small bakery to choose your desired items for post-coitus. You eyed the treats. Cupcakes, cakes, cookies, pastries, everything you could want. You saw at the top of the counter a crucifix and your eyes fixated on it, thinking of what you planned to do later.

Mammon started choosing items, asking for the tray of blueberry muffins and asking Satan who is paying for all of this. You suggested getting the cupcakes on the top of the shelf and told Satan to place the order.

“Mc.” Mammon scurried over to you. “We should get that tea over there too.”

You looked to what he was talking about. “Why?”

“Cuz it has a soothing effect. I don’t want you to be in pain afterwards. I know you prolly want a lil but—“

“But what?”

“I can tell that Lucifer, Satan, and Levi are crazy excited for this. I am too, but, you got the two sadists out here foaming at the mouth. And you admitted you got a demon kink.” Mammon reached for the tea and put it in the pile. “I just know Satan is gonna abuse the hell out of that shit… I mean… I would too but, only when we’re alone.”

You knew he was right, you also had a feeling Satan had been waiting for something like this. You realized that’s also what Lucifer wanted you to admit earlier. That you had a kink. For demons. For them.

“Yeah, you’re right. We should find something for me to wear too. I wanna fit the theme of, as Asmo would say, lost little lamb.”

Satan returned to your party, bags of treats in hand. “There’s a small boutique there. I’m sure it has something in there that looks innocent.” His eyes were glassy, something that usually happened when he was enraged or insurmountably horny. “Surprise us. Me and Mammon will search for any… enhancements we can make.”

“Whaddya mean me and you? Leavin’ them alone? Nuh uh.” Mammon tried to go with you but Satan grabbed his arm.

“Asmo and Lucifer are sending the plan to us. We need to make adjustments. Come on, don’t you want this to be perfect.” He convinced Mammon and handed you Lucifer’s card. “We will stay here.”

You nodded and went inside the boutique. You mostly saw tourists clothing but as you moved further back, you found more conservative clothing. You wanted to look sexy but also innocent and it’s a struggle to combine those two things. You knew whatever you wore needed to be white and likely needed to be a dress. Or something that had easy access.

Moving aside you settled on a frilly little white sundress, something that an innocent church girl would wear for sure. It hid everything but there was appeal in the sheerness of the sleeves and how it was practically see through. You went to try it on, admiring how it hung on your body. You also grabbed a pair of white thigh highs, knowing they’d love the touch. The real question was what underwear to wear. You had to move closer to the back where they kept the intimates. Should you even wear a bra or just wear undies? The bra is kinda useless you decided. And, in contrast to the rest of the white outfit, you picked out a pair of cheeky black panties with a small bow at the top, desperately trying to be innocent. It was cute, something to tease them with.

When you went to check out, the clerk eyed you weirdly but you played it off to the best of your ability and joined back up with your boys. “I’m done!”

“Good. They’re almost done setting up, let’s head back.” Satan put his phone in his pocket. Satan and Mammon were both smiling innocently, looking at you with slightly raised brows.

“So? You ready?” Mammon grabbed your free hand.

“Yeah.”

————————————————————————

The group was cooking or preparing a room for the event by the time you got home. Lucifer welcomed you back and immediately ordered you to assist with cooking, for Satan to set the table, and for Mammon to help the others with setting up the room.

You joined with Belphie and Beel in the kitchen and helped with the steaks Beel was so diligently trying not to eat. Belphie was dealing with the side dishes combining vegetables together and wondering why it all looked so weird, to which you looked at him like he was crazy.

“They’re miniature trees.”

“They’re called broccoli.”

“This one looks like a carrot.”

“That is a carrot.”

“Weird…”

“They’re the same in the Devildom!!!!”

Beel was sneaking small pieces of carrot and eating them to his hearts content but he desperately wanted the meat. The sauce part was awful especially since Belphie just didn’t follow directions and Beel drooled too much into the first batch causing Satan to join and let Beel help with the rest of the bunch.

“Seasoning is very important in the human world. Much of the Devildom’s food has more flavor.” You told him. “So you need to put a lot more. And you really need more than just those three. Since Beel didn’t put enough in the marinade, we’re gonna have to hammer in with the sauce.”

“Is that why all the human world food we have in the Devildom sucks?” Belphie asked after almost falling asleep with a knife in his hand.

“Yeah, cuz y’all can’t follow directions clearly.” You ended up doing most of the heavy lifting when it came to cooking, which is unusual considering there isn’t that big of a difference in cooking human food or demon food.

“You’re moving fast, are you excited for tonight?” Lucifer entered and sat at the bar next to the kitchen. “I got some interesting information from Satan earlier.”

Ah, of course he told. “I bet you did.”

“How long until it’s done?” He pondered as you removed the steaks from the pan.

“We are done.” You hurried last Lucifer and called to the brothers trying to avoid his teasing he was bound to unleash upon you should you give him the opportunity. “Come on!!! Get your plates and line up!!!!”

As the other three joined, Asmo wiped sweat from his face and jumped up to you. “Everything is finished and it’s perfect ugh I’m so ready!!!!!!”

You smiled at him softly and he huffed. “What?”

“You can admit it too, you know. No one is going to judge you, Mc.” He cupped your face and pouted.

“I just know y’all are gonna eat me alive if I do admit it, so ima stay quiet.” You responded and pulled his hands down. “Don’t try to pull it out of me.”

“I’m not pulling out don’t worry!” He hopped around to the back of the line and pretended he didn’t imply anything and you served the food.

Dinner was unusually quiet, everyone was eating, likely desperate to wolf down the food and let it settle so they could begin. You were actually pretty nervous now that the time was near, it was mildly uncomfortable and you were the only one taking your time to eat.

“Mc.” Mammon whispered beside you. “What’s wrong? The foods really good.”

You looked down, pushing a carrot around in the sauce. “It’s nothing really.”

“Are ya nervous?” He rubbed your thigh and waited for your answer.

“Yeah. It’s something I’ve always thought about but never thought I’d do.” You answered, knowing they could hear you too but avoiding their presence.

“Don’t worry, if you need us to stop, we can. Does the fantasy bother you?” He reassured you. “We’re demons, not evil.”

“Um… well. No, it’s more or less. A little weird and I’m kinda ashamed of it. I was really surprised when you guys brought it up and you all decided to go along with it.” You heard shifting beside you.

“Mc, it isn’t all that weird at all.” Levi pulled out his phone. “Look, humans are into it everywhere. And ya know us demons tend to have corruption kinks. We like seeing people acknowledge your dark side. That’s how we planned it out actually!”

“We promise it’ll be fun.” Asmo put his fork down. “I wouldn’t want to to be a weird forceful type of situation. And even though we wanted to surprise you, if you want to see the plans and scripts and stuff I think no one would be opposed to showing you.” He ran off to get the papers.

“Yes I agree. I was concerned it might be too much for you, now that you’re having doubts I think it’d be wise to read it.” Lucifer began to gather plates at the table. “If you want us to stop or even not do it, we can return everything and undo the magic. No one will be upset at you.”

You shifted and looked at him. “I don’t want to stop it, but I am nervous. I appreciate you letting me do this.”

Asmo handed you the notes they wrote. “Here, tell me if I need to change anything.”

You grabbed them and looked through them. Each brother had written something or contributed, you could tell. There was a detailed description of the scene and how you wanted it as well as things you enjoyed from previous sessions with the brothers. They even had a list of words to call you and not to call you, as well as some biblical research. They had a timeline as well and open-ended portions that you would likely decide on mid scene. It was also written entirely in glitter pen.

Nothing was off, nothing was harsh, nothing no consensual and nothing dubious, just demons playing pretend. And when Mammon said that it was gonna be making you drop your innocent act, that’s exactly what it was. Everything was you centered, your pleasure. To be honest, it almost made you emotional seeing their attention to detail.

“I’m actually impressed.” You said. “I’m really surprised that you managed to make that whole secretly demon thing not how can I say it…”

“Non-consensual?” Satan spoke aloud. “Yes, I wanted it to be completely in your hands. I even suggested we write a script where we weren’t demons at all. Beel helped really flesh out the reveal part.”

“Beel, really?”

“Yeah.” He said, reaching to point at a certain part. “This is where I started. I can’t do anything that might hurt you whether fake or real. And I just didn’t want to pass any limits or make any of us harm you.” The brothers all agreed and looked to you.

Mammon wiggled your leg. “Soooo, we all on now? You feel better?”

“Yeah I do.”

“Still wanna do it?”

“Yeah, I’m more excited now.”

“Heheh. Good.”

Lucifer nodded. “Just know, you should never worry about communicating this to us. We would never hurt you. At least, not actual harm. Should we ever pass a single limit or even draw near it, I expect you to stop us and I expect you to be honest. Since your our sub tonight your safety is top priority. Even out of the scene, you’re our top priority.”

Man, you could cry. “Thank you.” You uttered out, feeling your throat hitch. “And if you feel uncomfortable I want you guys to stop too.”

“My Mc, you need to be able to first. I don’t want to continue unless you’re fully honest. 100%. Tell me, do you consent to me and my brothers engaging in this scene with you?”

You sat for a moment and nodded.

“I need an answer, not just a nonverbal. I think we all do.”

“Yes. I consent to this scene.” Once the words were out, a weight lifted from your shoulders. Your nervousness practically faded.

“Good. So, let’s clean. And then, we will begin once you’re ready.”

[mental-breaker-74]

Imagine: Satoru Gojo trying to win your affections (Satoru Gojo x y/n)

Pairing: Satoru Gojo x y/n (you)

Genre: fluff, romance

Warning: few curses

- Satoru Gojo was your classmate, and the moment he saw you, he was dead set on making you his girlfriend

- he would ask you out at least once a week, and every time you would refuse

- y/n-chaaaan, why do always says ‘’no”?

- Gojo… we don’t even know each other

- que to Gojo being really confused because usually his good looks were enough for every other girl he flirted with

- but getting to know each other? well, that’s new

- but he doesn’t have objections, you are stunning and even tho he saw you as someone more on the introverted side, he knew you got some spice in you, and he would gladly have a taste of it

- you were such an interesting person

- but then you got transferred to learn and later, to work overseas

***

- after years of no contact, and not seeing each other…

- you see, your technique was unique, as it was called „SOUL GROUNDING” – you could exchange places of the soul withing the same or different bodies and ground them in the moment of death for few more minutes – how strong the technique results were, depended on how powerful the bending spirit was (working better as a suprise attack)

- but this alone made you a perfect „card” if Sukuna was to take over Yuji body (at least in the early stages of his ‘’possession”)

- the second side of your technique made you really useful when it comes to interrogation – bounding the soul to the body in the moment of death

- once he sees you again…well fuck, you were the most beautiful person even back then, but now? you were soo pretty he could cry

- number one simp for you

- and he was right, you were a devil in disguise with your unusual power and combat skills, you literary played with death

- describes you as devil’s coin – you were as deadly as sweet, two sides

- calls you sweetheart

- introduces you to kids at school as „his future wife”

- gives you tons of compliments

- aaand back to teasing (god, he loves when you blush and gets speechless) and asking you on a date

- lot’s more personal questions – as it was stated before, he wants to know you better

- gets kind of turned on when you are bossy and serious

- constant messages when you are not in his presence, even to the point when you will get his shirtless photo with annotation: ,,Does this not tempt you?”

- and this one time when you were alone, his eyes visible but focused only on you, your expressions, he asked all serious:

- Are you going to ever agree to go out with me?

You looked at him, a little surprised. Nibbled at your bottom lip and thought about how to explain it and not hurt him. He always seemed confident, but you know that part of this was fabricated.

You sighted and started with:

- Satoru…

- fuck, that was first time when you called him by the first name, and it was the sweetest torture

- Satoru… I do find you attractive but… I just… You tease me a lot and give me all this attention, you did even back when we were younger, and sometimes I enjoy this, I do because it’s really flattering and sweet of you, but… sometimes it’s too much. I don’t want to be rude, it’s amazing how much energy you have. You may don’t know or don’t notice, but… - you sighted once again. – I’m really, really tired sometimes and need space. This job is drowning me, it may also be the consequences of my technique, because I feel like even my own soul is aching… I’m just tired. I enjoy you, your humor, I know you would make me happy. Then on the other side I think we just don’t fit, and I would bore you – you looked at him with those sad, guilty eyes and regret swimming just over the surface.

- Gojo can admit and know, he can be a little too much sometimes and looking at you closely you did look tired and resigned

- I’m sorry, y/n-chan, I just want you for myself, I want your attention and your time, I just want you, all of you. I would try and…

- Satoru I don’t want you to change, I think you are fine just the way you are… We just don’t fit-

- Don’t say it again, because you are wrong, we do fit, I believe it… so if you at least have a little hope for us, if you at least find me attractive or are a little curious how we can be, then give me a chance and let me prove it, we will work on this together.

His word were genuine, full of purpose and promise, yet his eyes full of adoration

- you just had to agree

- because even if you didn’t show it, you have also fallen for him but didn’t give into the feelings believing he deserved someone better, someone who would love him fully as he is

- but loving someone isn’t always looking for ‘’ the perfect fit” sometimes it’s just being someone who is open for changes, and would put effort to make things work 

- sometimes, those imperfections are things we would simply adore with time

- so y/n let him love you, and let yourself love

[possessivedesires]

Midnight

Nsfw themes, characters aged up, tried to keep gender neutral character best I could, tw: somno, non con, toys, oral, hinting to drugging at the end

MDNI

It was quiet in your room, something Tetsutetsu had learned to know. Just like he knew the perfect way to open your door, just enough where it doesn’t make a sound, like he knew where to step on the floorboards so they don’t freak.

He knew this room like the back of his hand and it excited him every time. It wasn’t always like this… Tetsu’s thoughts running vulgar and feral when he sees you sleeping, it used to be so peaceful. He’s had hard times sleeping so he would sneak in and rest on the side of your bed- letting your peaceful aura calm him.

But then… things started getting worse for him. He saw you so innocent, untouched, unmarked. It irked at him, so he placed a hand and waited. You didn’t wake up, not then, not when he moved his hand along your collarbone and throat, not when his hand travelled down your chest and between your legs. You stayed asleep.

Suddenly, he was no longer angry at your work studies exhausting you. It fact, it made it perfect- no… it made him hard. He’s always been so nervous when he comes in at night, fearing you’ll wake up and be disgusted at him. You can’t! He’s your lover, you just don’t know yet, and he’s learning everything about you so he can be the best when you’re awake with him.

That made sense to him, that’s how he justified it. And he fully believed that statement, refusing to believe anything else. Tonight, he was feeling more bold, pent up with adrenaline since his workout got cancelled tonight since the gym is under construction.

He had been so annoyed when he found out, but then remember of his darling angel. Who wouldn’t mind to help him out, of course not, especially since your patrol ran later than usual. He could tell you were exhausted when you came back, he had been angsty with anticipation. You had been beginning to doze off where you were standing and Tetsu was fighting hard to keep his excitement from showing.

“So beautiful… fuck…” He whispered under his breath, just knowing you wouldn’t wake up but the anxiousness in the back of his head was eating away at him, rough hand brushing along your jaw and leaning over to trail his hand down. Lightly wrapping around your throat, feeling that rush of a thrill. Your life is in his hand, you’re trusting your life with him. As it should be, he could only think with his lips grinning largely.

His breathing got heavier, the excited thrill set like a fire under his skin. Leading down to feel your breath lightly fan his face with the gentle puffs, he could smell your toothpaste from how close he was. His eyes were glossy, clouding with desire as he looked at your perfect lips. He debated, he would be the only to kiss those lips- you belong to him. So he doesn’t see why he couldn’t.

Your lips was soft as he pressed his against yours. He could feeling some of the chapped because of the chilled weather, but he didn’t care. Tetsu was too busy pushing his tongue into your mouth, tightening his hand lightly around your neck. That little wheeze of a gasp you let out. “Yea baby…? You like being so helpless for me?”

He whispered, moving his lips against yours as he spoke and shivering in delight. His cock was hard, pleasure shooting through every time the fabric of the sweatpants rubbed against him. He groaned, tilting his head back. “Fuck… you have no idea what you’re doing to me. Gods… You’re perfect.”

He leaned back, straddling your legs as he looked at your shorts. His hand trailing inside, holding onto the side of your inner thighs and teasing by running his finger along the v of your groin. Tonight, he was gonna risk it, he was gonna-

Oh… This was new, he didn’t understand why he hadn’t seen this before. He took off the shorts, scooting his body down to rest his head on your thigh. His silver eyes watching darkly at the vibrator resting inside.

His plans changed, immediately. He sat up, beginning to search around for a remote while praying that he could have control. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw your phone light up with a notification. The phone was clutched in your palm which was strange because you’ve always had it plugged up before you went to sleep.

Unless… He grinned wickedly, already knowing your passcode from the amount of times he had secretly watched you put it in. Bingo, there it was. It was controlled by your phone and he was shaking in excitement, almost dropping your phone as he shakily pulled his out to download the app. If I could control them one day when they’re awake… Fuck…

He had to pull his cock out, feeling like it was painful. His sweats resting under his cock as he leaned back with a groan, rough hand wrapped around his cock. He turned off your phone, plugging it up for you as he took control from his phone.

Your whines made him see stars, turning his head on his shoulder to watch your face. Your eyebrows knitting together, the combined spit glossing your lips and mouth opening to moan at the pleasure that suddenly seemed to kick up. “Oh fuck-“

His thumb slipped, the vibrations skyrocketing with his motion and he panicked. Quickly dropping the phone and looking back at you, widened eyes and cock bouncing from letting go quickly. His sweats dropped to the ground as he stared at you, cold sweat running down the back of his neck.

But you never showed any signs of waking up, making him take a sigh of relief. He picked up his phone, straddling your waist and hand running over your chest. Your cheeks were flushed, panting softly. Those lips…

They let out the prettiest sounds when he messed with the vibrations on his phone, those sounds running straight to his cock. He didn’t care of the pre was dripping on your skin. In fact, he enjoyed it was. Going as far to rub his cock along your skin, eyes darkening at the thought. You were his. This was him marking you, no one else could have you.

He let out a pathetic groan as he pushed the head of his cock into your mouth. Cursing under his breath as he folded his arms on the headrest of your bed, laying his head on his arms as his legs were straddling your face. “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.”

He chanted, trying really, really hard to be nice and hold back. But he couldn’t, oh fuck he couldn’t resist the heaven that you bestowed on him. Hearing your choked sounds as he suddenly rutted his hips forward, whining at the feeling. “Shit baby, you feel so so so good. You’ll forgive me, won’t you baby? I’m just/ Ah- fuck- I’m just training you, gotta have fuck.. perfect.”

He rambled softly, beginning to get lost of the pleasure that is you. Wondering to himself why he didn’t go this far sooner, rolling his hips more and swore he saw white every time your throat tightened with the lack of air. “Come on baby, come on, fuck.. fuck! You can take this, b-be ah good, fuck- for me.”

His hand grabbed onto your hair, fingers tightly grabbing as his sharp teeth dug into his lip from being too loud. Pushing your head as far as you could to his pelvic, feeling your nose smushed against his skin as the drops of blood ran down his chin. Tongue licking it up before it could fall on you, hazy eyes staring down at you as he pulled out his cock.

Spit and cum still on his cock, making him tsk. Your lips were red, swollen and slicked. It was a masterpiece to Tetsu, looking down to see the mess you’ve made. “Such a naughty little thing…”

He mused roughly, voice low and gravelly as his fingers brushed along your hole. Digging them in and groaning at your tightness, pulling out the vibrator and turning it off. “You left me so messy baby… the least you can do is clean me off.”

He spoke, already cock drunk from the nectar you gave. His lips stretched into a wolfish grin as he lined up to your sensitive hole before pushing in with one thrust.

The next morning when you woke up, you noticed that your throat was sore and blamed it on the way you slept since you had slept longer than you had before. But you don’t remember taking out the vibrator, feeling like an idiot once realizing that. You had used it to blow off the steam from fighting low villains yesterday on patrol. But it was out, laying besides you and you shook your head. Not questioning it, thinking making you pushed it out when you sleeping. That made sense…

But of course, as always, Tetsu was careful. You never knew he was there. Greeting you in the morning and hiding that dark lust behind that sweet smile of his, that sunshine personality hiding all the things he wanted to do to you.

Maybe I can find something to keep you asleep longer and have the entire night with you. Fuck… wouldn’t that be fun baby?

[l4long-winded]

iii. mr. wright and jane austen

summary: sherlock observes you from afar and learns things against his own whim. that's what he'll keep telling himself (cavill!sherlock x afab!reader)

reflection: i was working hard to get this done in a timely manner while i still had the ideas for it in my head. this speedy process has left me with little direction, however, so i hope i will be able to get to the next part of this soon. i have a certain vision, but working the details out is another matter entirely. i am hopeful for this one. please enjoy and feedback is always encouraged.

warnings: seamstress!reader, condescending!sherlock, mystery brewing, cursing, longwinded descriptions, overthinking, sherlock is in denial, suggestive language, reader is going through it, off screen character death, somewhat slowburn, enemies to lovers, sherlock watches reader, eventual smut, victorian era (please let me know if there are other warnings i need to add)

word count: 6,004

previously: consequences and a lead

( this work has been cross posted on ao3 )

Sherlock avoids you and you avoid him and he notices you’re doing the same to him from how you turn away when you spot each other or how you inevitably have to cross paths and choose to focus on other points in space rather than him. In one instance, you walk past each other and the fabric he’s been investigating for a week taunts him as you graze his right arm, your chin turned up in pride. You don’t allow him to deter you, but he can tell by your trembling fingers and how you fall back into a slouch once you’re closer to your door that you’re working hard again. While you refuse eye contact, he opts for it. He doesn’t know why he does, but against his better judgment, he studies your face and notes the violet rings adorning the contours of your lower eyelids. A champagne pigmented chain hangs around your neck, a white lily of the valley charm hangs off the chain, and those trembling fingers caress it after you two pass in the same fashion as parallel lines. Something beyond your job is troubling you and he acts as indifferent as he can until he reaches the staircase and walks up two total steps. From this view, he can look at you properly, your attention on unlocking the door to your flat. He hears a light sniffle before you enter it and you close the door with a gentle pressure, so gentle that he would not have known the action had been done had he not seen it done in front of him. Sherlock purses his lips in thought and then he shakes his head to return to his clues he’s gone over a million and one times in his mind and then he ascends the staircase to do the same in his office.

You’re not someone he should worry over. He knows it’s unnecessary as there’s this common, unspoken treaty between the two of you to stay a distance away. It’s for the best considering how neither of you entertained requests from one another. Except, he’s pondering why you might be sniffling and why you did it so soon without knowing if he was truly gone. Either you did it on purpose and for attention, which makes little to no sense since you clearly want nothing to do with him, or it’s because you couldn’t restrain yourself any longer. Both are causes for concern.

That’s the first time he sees something is amiss, a week after you dismissed him at your flat. He’s visited a total of 36 seamstress and tailor shops since then and miraculously none of them have carried the fabric you’re utilizing for your dresses. In his mission, he figured which shop was yours. It wasn’t difficult since it was close by and actually the first in mind he wanted to visit, but he saw you through the window and immediately did a full 180 turn to maneuver to the next possible stop. From then on, he tried to keep his head up and ahead to not keep any tabs on you as an accidental eye-lock would indicate he was stalking your establishment, and from your past conversations, he did not wish to use your help in any capacity, much less against your knowledge. He did well in not letting his ego wander in and cave into some sort of apology, his glances at the shop kept at a minimum unless a person of interest walked inside while Sherlock went to and from his home on Baker street. His abnormal hours prevented him from running into you besides the miniscule moments of time he would see you in his building. He thought it would be easy to continue this repelling for as long as possible.

That is, he thought this before he made the poor decision to deduce you off a whim on his way to his flat. You didn’t stay at the forefront of his mind for long, but as he let himself get carried away with his case, you did appear randomly and without warning. After that, the next morning, as Sherlock ventures out into the world, his cerulean irises delve into the atmosphere of the shop. He observes the bodices holding your hand-made clothing, the stitching impressive even from a far away gaze. He doesn’t stop walking to try and bring his mind peace, doing so would mean he’s going against his commitment to leave you out of his investigation, but he indulges in the interlude and distance it takes strolling by to gather pieces of information. He’s not so much curious about the fabric, but what’s seemed to have you so shaken and work stricken. The last thing he desires is to talk to you so this feels as if it’s the next best logical choice. The lights are off, you’re not in yet, and as he comes to a corner, he catches the sign above the shop and then he commemorates it into his brain, a mental note he slaps to the far wall of his skull: Mr. Wright’s Threads.

The next time he passes the shop, it’s the afternoon and he’s in need of nutrients if he wants to continue his travels. He’s on his way home and his head turns a touch to look through your window and alas, you’re there tending to a headless mannequin while an older woman speaks to you from the side. He watches the interaction and you smile brightly as you showcase the dress, but when the woman turns away to look through the other items, he sees your face fall. He can tell you’re blowing a breath of air out to keep your patience, but there’s also something else beyond that. Your cheek sinks in, most likely due to how you’re biting the inside of it to keep yourself at bay, from what Sherlock does not understand, but as the older woman pivots on her heel, your smile is back and you’re the expert merchant helping as much as the customer desires.

He thinks he’ll never fully understand how people can commit to duties they hate, but then again, Enola would probably tell him how that came from a place of privilege. He comprehends how he has an unusual form of work that pays well and more than the average worker, much more than a woman in any field, but from what he had seen in your flat and the quality of your clothing, you’re well off. You have money. Whatever is making you miserable is a puzzle for him and it’s actually not any easier to navigate than this murder investigation he’s currently undergoing. He sadly prefers the game since answers would always be unveiled to him eventually. The same could not be said for how he could decipher a woman and her feelings. Still, this is not the last time he looks into your shop. He looks into it again the next morning, the next afternoon, and the next evening when he stops by the pub for a glass of wine meant to calm down his nerves and smother his thoughts. Curiously, each time he does, he realizes you’re alone. A shop run by a woman is not unheard of, but the extravagance of it and its location have him questioning how it came to be. Not only are you selling clothing and pressuring yourself at home to complete your goals, you’re also the cashier, the cleanup crew, and from what he can tell, the manager.

Perhaps, the owner.

Sherlock realizes what he’s doing around the fourth day of peering into your shop and he refrains at the midpoint of his stroll. He lightly scolds himself for going against his own aims and tells himself that it won’t happen again, he can’t let another thing distract him from what’s important, especially not someone who refused to help him in this endeavor. He’s not sure what possessed him to be checking in on you as frequently as he has been, but it’s not going to happen anymore. It’s time to intensify the seriousness of his situation tenfold and travel out to gain a look at the bigger picture he’s obviously been overlooking in the process of being too curious for his own good, too curious about a woman who cannot stand him the very same.

He speaks with a shop owner nearby, one he’s already spoken to before but the tailor did reassure Sherlock that he would be checking his inventory for the fabric. A cup of tea and some banter he has to sit through to maintain a friendly facade later, it’s another dead end and he’s disappointed as he leaves and shoves his hands into his pockets. His luck in this case is close to nothing it seems and he fears it might have to go cold, something to archive while he works on something new. It’s another kind of technique, taking a break from what has your mind in shambles in order to find new pieces and details. From what he understood, the creatives of the world did so to find new inspiration and broaden their horizons they unknowingly limited through narrowed thinking and crescendoing stress.

It’s only that Sherlock doesn’t operate this way. He obsesses (as much as he would hate to admit it) and thrives until something is complete. The sad and maybe deranged fact of it is that it’s not always for the intended victims to gain sooner justice, but for his own sake. It won’t stop burrowing into his mind until it’s solved, he can’t sleep a wink, and if he does, the case will mock him in his dreams. He will not let it continue to do so, he has to think of another way to attack this that does not involve abandoning it or you, the woman he catches in the library he decided to turn inside of—what the, what are you doing here of all places? At the sight of you, he subconsciously tightens his grip on his cane. He doesn’t need anything else to sour his mood. Fortunately for him, you’re busy reading at a table and didn’t catch wind of him. He’s quick to move out of your way in case you do look up and he busies himself scanning the shelves so he can possibly bring something home. He reads title after title, each one he’s read before and in this, his frustration amplifies by the seconds. It’s then that it occurs to him that the book you’re holding might be something that’s not in his collection.

It’s not that he wants to know about your interests any further. That could be so far from the truth. No, he desires to ensure his entertainment with a new book that may end up helping with his investigation. That new book is quite possibly sitting in your hands… though, from what he can tell overlooking from his position behind a shelf, the pages are yellowed and old. Every time you turn to a new one, he can hear the distinct crisp that follows due to the silence of the area. Few people walk by, their shoes on the creaking floors still not drowning out the pages that you shuffle beneath your fingers with care. It cements a factor about you in his head, how you’re also a reader and you don’t want to damage the knowledge and words in your hands, strange when he thinks about how damaged the print is already. What a sign of sentiment. Oddly enough, despite how much he’s seen it happen these past few days, your hands are not trembling. And it’s not due to a lack of work since your efforts are high and alert in his eyes, it’s because you’re trying to relax. From what he could surmise, it’s working, your shoulders laying softly into the back of the chair you’re sitting in, your eyes dreamily passing through every word in your immersion, lashes fluttering open and closed. Those stubborn hair strands you messily push away often are even hanging over the apples of your cheeks, but you make no motions to remove them from where they are. You simply let them be, just as you currently simply are.

Sherlock gazes downwards a minute after he’s looked at you because it takes him that long to remember what he told himself moments before he entered the library. He’s not supposed to be deciphering anything about you and your shop, he’s supposed to be working on his case just as you’ve been sewing in your time. His fingers tap the shelf impatiently, impatient with himself for falling right back into a pattern he didn’t know started almost two weeks ago now. He doesn’t understand what it is about you for you to continuously pull his attention out of thin air without doing anything particularly extraordinary, but the aged books sitting in front of him cause him to recall where he is. He’s in a place of silence, silence that’s present and prominent in consideration of an even quieter reading among the individuals inside. You just so happen to be one of those individuals and it’s not wrong for him to be discovering what book is currently in your hands. You’re not at Mr. Wright’s Threads and you’re not his neighbor he circumvents in order to evade another awkward situation. You’re a reader who holds a book he possibly hasn’t read and it’s alright to move into a position where he can read the title for confirmation. Said movement is conducted by him in an instant after rationalizing this and he treads carefully still not wanting to be detected by you. He’s successful in being nonchalant, and soon enough, your digits nudge over the cover enough for him to read what is currently in your possession. Persuasion by Jane Austen isn’t a bad read, but he’s read it all the same.

“The chokehold romance has on people,” he whispers to himself, but it’s not in some patronizing way. He’s fascinated, actually. Towards him, you’ve presented this cold exterior with the intentions there to stop yourself from appearing shaken in any type of way and while he can trace this phenomenon to your two not-so-amiable interactions together, his ego isn’t that grand to think he’s the sole cause. You live a life beyond being his downstairs neighbor and over these past two weeks, he’s been privy to it no matter how much he’s tried to keep his nose in his own business. There’s almost a melancholy aura to how you live and how you speak with other people even if there’s a welcoming grin on your features. Because really, your grin is not feigned, but it’s necessary to hide away feelings you don’t want to seep into your work, much less to the bleeding socializing life towards strangers, and so much more less to a stranger who plays violin at almost all hours of the early morning when he can’t think clearly. Your mask is evident to him because he’s seen it removed when you think no one’s watching and it’s a vital detail to him here in this moment because said mask is nowhere to be found. You’re reading without your usual safety precautions which could only mean that you’re at ease.

So maybe he can’t comprehend why love seems to be such an enthralling topic for not only you, but countless others across the country and the world, but he can understand that its effect and longing for it can change moods and emotions. It can affect motivations and bring out the best and worst in people according to how it’s applied to situations. This realm is not at all his forte and he tends to subtract himself from circumstances that deal in love unless it’s necessary to the caseload he’s working on. And yet, he lingers as he nears the exit. He lingers watching as you bring your fingers towards your lips and the peculiar part is you’re doing so in thought, but a real smile slowly graces your mouth and it conveys to him that you’re probably suppressing it subconsciously. In your enjoyment, you still find a way to hide genuine mirth and he believes it’s out of the habits you’ve created for yourself and for those around you to see. No one observes people like him, however. Sherlock is not sure if anyone could detect who you are because of how good you are at concealing her away, but he’s been gifted (and cursed) with the ability to not only see what others can’t, but to see everything. And he sees your smile and a negative cloud drapes over his shoulders for some reason knowing that if you see him right now, it would crumble away and the mask would promptly be lifted back up. It’s the possibility of disturbing your peace that finally pushes him out of the library and back to the pavement where he resumes his pursuit of that evasive fabric.

It’s late at night when he finally calls it a day. He’s on his way back to his flat when he takes a glance through your shop’s window. He doesn’t mean to and he’s about to stare straight ahead when he sees a frequent customer of yours leave through the front doors. He notices how she waves her goodbye to you and you wave back before you’re heading inside to clean up. He should leave the older woman alone, he knows this, but there’s something that’s been bothering him when it comes to your shop. From what he’s gathered, he’s certain you’re the owner. It would explain your constant vigilance, this marriage to your work that you’re committed to at home and within this store, and why you seem to live alone. You have the funds, but they definitely most come from the shop. What is not accounted for is who Mr. Wright is. While Sherlock may not know your first or last name, he’s positive you don’t go by Mr. Wright. It’s possible you’re taking care of everything in his absence, a reason as to why you’re working yourself to the bone, why you appeared downstairs seemingly out of the blue. Being on location is easier than not. Before, you probably sent your work through a carrier.

With these questions and theories in mind, Sherlock jogs lightly to catch up to the older woman. His presence is easy to catch because of his sheer size and she immediately looks up at him with a warm smile. Age has caused her to slightly slouch, but she stares up with bright eyes that he knows have not forgotten youth for a second. Something snug spreads across his chest at this, but he ignores it and reflects back her smile.

“Excuse me for bothering, but I’ve been meaning to—”

“You’re not bothering me at all!” she chirps, not willingly cutting Sherlock off, but it happened nonetheless. Older people have that habit of delayed processing and he knows that so in response, he gives another smile, one he’s practiced in the mirror numerous times. Mycroft used to remind Sherlock to fix his face, to think of the emotions he’s replicating and failing at since he wasn’t good at them naturally. She’s still just as inviting as before, so he counts it as a success.

“Right,” he continues, “Say, I’ve been meaning to commission an item there for a while now, but I haven’t seen Mr. Wright around to do so?” He’s cautious as he asks this, watching her facial structure closely for anything that he might have said wrong. Mr. Wright may be imaginary, but the probability of that is low. Sherlock is taking an educated guess here relating to the existence of Mr. Wright and he does regret his approach for a moment when he sees her face transition into a frown. It’s only a moment, however, because he realizes that it’s not in confusion, but in… dread?

“Yes, well… I’m sorry to be the one to break the news, young man, but… Mr. Wright won’t be around any time soon.” The woman sighs and turns her stare down to the ground. Sherlock’s not sure what changed the mood, but he continues walking with her at her pace and shortens the strides of his long legs out of courtesy. She walks slowly already, but the weight of her words have seemingly pressed into her back and her pace is now similar to that of a snail’s. “His daughter’s a diligent and brilliant young lady, so I do recommend going to her for this request. From my experience, she’s easy to speak with and navigates a cluttered schedule well. She’s closing up now, but I’m sure you can converse with her tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock physically bites his tongue at this and it’s to refrain from commenting on you and just how “easy” it is to speak with you. He’s not about to give into spite and possibly throw away another vessel of information, he’s learned his lesson much like how he’s now learned that Mr. Wright is your father. Of course you’d be striving to keep it in shape, it’s a family business.

“I don’t know if I can do tomorrow morning, or anything for a while in that regard for a consultation,” he lies, “So, if you can please tell me when Mr. Wright will be back, I’m sure that’ll be simpler for the both of us.” The prospect of Mr. Wright existing is what causes Sherlock’s brain to light up. He didn’t want to interfere with your work or stoop to a lower level in which he would have to give you a meaningless apology, so the idea of there being another authority figure in this shop that sold his rare fabric is something that greatly intrigues him. He could skip the formalities with you and ensure that the space between the two of you would be maintained for as long as you both wished. He feels the answer to his problems is closer and closer and something electric travels up his wrists that he hasn’t felt in a long while. The last time was probably during the last case he solved, this being months ago now.

Though, the electricity fades as the older woman comes to a complete stop on the street. Fortunately there are no carriages passing by and there is little traffic among the people walking home/taking evening strolls. He pivots where he stands to face her fully, his eyes blinking in confusion. He glances at her heels and he thinks for a second that she might be stopping because her feet hurt. Then her hands hold each other and he thinks that perhaps she’s cold with the night’s air biting through the thin fabric of her sleeves. She fidgets with her mouth, twitches in it that he interprets as confirmation of his thought. Sherlock shimmies his overcoat off his broad shoulders and manages to remove one cuff off his wrist as he says, “Here, would you like my coat?”

Before he can slip another side off, the woman raises her hand and presses it to his forearm. He volleys stares from her hand to his arm to her face that is now gazing up at him with what he could only describe as apologetic eyes. He’s not sure what they were apologizing for, but he doesn’t try to guess out loud. He solely listens.

“You haven’t heard,” she whispers. Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He knows she’s technically right since he didn’t even know if Mr. Wright existed prior to this conversation, but these words are not meant for him. They’re meant for someone who actually knew Mr. Wright, an acquaintance of this woman who would care more deeply about him due to a mutual, friendly connection. Sherlock hasn’t heard anything about this man because why would he? He doesn’t know this man. He should cut his losses and back away because maybe it’s the right thing to do. But he doesn’t budge, he stands still and waits for her to continue because even if he does not know Mr. Wright to hear about the information she’s about to divulge, he’s a Holmes. And a Holmes has to know.

“Mr. Wright… Mr. Wright passed away not too long ago. From what people have said and from what I have seen firsthand, his daughter was left the clothing shop.”

That’s not what Sherlock expected her to say. Or maybe it was and he was truly hoping that it would not be the case. There went his chances right out the window at proceeding with his investigation. That’s what he’s choosing to focus on and not the earth shattering discovery of how your father passed away recently. Because if he focuses on that, Sherlock’s brain will become laden with moral culpability. There’s that skin deep influence and place of privilege that Enola would have snuffed out first before he did. She’s better with emotions than he is, better at empathizing and using other tools besides nitpicking every single aspect of complex human behavior. He would’ve arrived at this obvious conclusion had he not turned every which way from you. Because if he focuses on this, then it’ll hit him upside the face that he invalidated you in not just common decency, but in the human experience. If he stops, physically as he’s done now despite the older woman patting his chest in sympathy he doesn’t deserve as a stranger to Mr. Wright and an ill-mannered stranger to you, he’s going to realize how he’s the one who’s in the wrong and the only one truly standing in his way is himself.

Sherlock’s brain is moving faster than he can form coherent thought because it takes him fifteen seconds of contemplating what would happen if he focused on your father’s passing to become aware that he’s indeed ironically focusing on that very thing. His fists clutch at his sides in disappointment and there are so many things he can say to this older woman who is wrongfully attempting to comfort him of all people, but he can’t bring himself to utter anything that would help her in this or deceive her into believing a man’s death meant something to him at all. All he can muster is, “When?”

The woman replies, “About one month ago.”

It’s the afternoon and you’ve just arrived at your building. You had a long day of work ahead this morning, but now you’re finished with half and you’re going to do your best to enjoy your lunch time. You must find a way to stay positive since sales are not where they need to be and you can hear your father warning you about “giving up is truly giving up”. You have this urge to yank at your own hair, but the memory of his voice helps you walk to your door. In the process, you see Shoulders in the middle of the staircase. Before you have the chance to turn away as usual, you notice how he’s already been looking down at you and most likely did so when you came back from work. It’s too late to refuse his gaze. There’s an interlude of you looking into his eyes and him looking into yours. This action itself is not brand new, but it somehow feels different than other times before. You don’t know what to make of it.

“How’s work?” He asks and breaks the silence. His break is clean, there are sans any nerves, but the tension rests between you. You don’t comprehend why he’s being so casual with you after three weeks of not interacting with one another and separating as if quarantining from the black plague, but you don’t reply with anything negative. You don’t reply with anything positive, either, but venom’s not twisting your tongue this time around.

“You tell me,” you say in a neutral tone. You know he’s smart. He knew you were a seamstress without you telling him and then you recall how he’s a detective consultant. The other day, you felt yourself bloom a rosy shade across your cheeks and chest thinking of the time he came by to ask for your help. From your appearance and from how he focused his eyes at the top of your head, you came to the realization that he probably figured out you were in the bath before you answered the door. Luckily for you, this was weeks ago now and you were no longer embarrassed at the prospect. You’re the one who wound up turning him away, after all.

Mr. Holmes leans into the railing as he observes you. You’re keenly aware of how his eyes stay on yours, his gaze wordlessly asking if that’s really what you wanted since he did hold the ability to do so. He’s disbelieving you’re guiding him towards this since you’ve rampantly been frigid in his presence and he in yours, but you don’t have the energy for it today. That’s what it comes down to for you to offer this challenge for him (and boy does he read this as a challenge), the fact that you don’t have enough energy to tell him about how your livelihood is at stake and how you can’t conjure new and paying clientele. You nod at Mr. Holmes to give him that push to go ahead and you watch as his chest expands and deflates in the process of a decisive sigh.

“It’s tiring, isn’t it? Full of commitments and responsibilities, free of equal payout to match the work ethic put in, long hours that are barely worth their weight.” Mr. Holmes pauses and you’re in awe that he’s nailed it so perfectly without overstepping any boundaries. You don’t think you’ve heard anyone understand these aspects of your job so closely without still expecting more of you, while still being general. He couldn’t know the details that have gone into your work, but you’re sure that they’re written across your forehead for someone like him.

“Yes, that’s right… My work is shit.”

You don’t know what you were expecting saying such a thing to Mr. Holmes, but it certainly wasn’t the small smile on his mouth. You actually expected him to laugh rather than smile your way and your hand reaches up to grab your own bicep as a method of shielding yourself away. Your own smile comes to your lips and you gesture your head to your door. “I have to get going. Can’t take too long since I have to go back soon.”

Mr. Holmes merely drops his chin in comprehension and you do the same in acknowledgment before you get back to opening your door. He’s heading up the steps as you enter your flat. Your face dawdles near the door as you try to decipher what exactly just happened between you and your crabby neighbor. It’s not that it was friendly, because it was, it’s that it wasn’t dismissive or conflicting. That’s what made the concept of it all the more conflicting.

As you take a step back and away from the door, the heel of your shoe bumps something solid on your floor and you’re quick to catch yourself from stumbling. Looking down, you see a brown package wrapped in twine, writing underneath the winding binding forming neat knots. Picking it up for a closer look, you undo the knots of the twine and loosen it enough to move it aside and read what is written at the top of the parcel: For Ms. Wright greeting you in handwriting you did not recognize. The only people who could send you anything were either your mother or your sister. You may have taken the shop over, but you doubted you created relationships with any of your customers so deep enough for any of them to discover where you live and send something. That and the package is missing any sign of an address. It just holds your last name. It’s a curious thing.

You commence the unwrapping of the package and as you unfold the paper, you notice how someone sent you a book. The book looks familiar to you, but instead of listening to your gut, you turn it over to see it for yourself. Just as you surmised, Persuasion by Jane Austen stares back at you. Oddly enough, you forgot your own copy back at home with your mother who lived out in the country and you didn’t have time to write anyone to send it over. You also did not want to interfere in your sister’s attendance with your mother. The attention needed to be on the frail woman and you would not take a second of that away from her. That further eliminates them from being the senders and you’re nervous trying to think of who could have possibly done this. You sift through the pages and you can see that this is an old version, but not as old as the one at the library you like to stop by at. 

It’s the sight of a dried plant that stops you from carrying on any further. In chapter 16 of the book, there is a dried lily of the valley matching closely to the one currently dangling from your neck. You immediately grasp the charm in your hand as you inspect the dried flower. Despite its condition, the floral smell still fills your nostrils and it reminds you of your garden back home where you could sit in when everything collided in the background. While everything in the house became tumultuous, you could bring yourself to your knees and smell the flowers blossoming around you, listen to the breeze as it traveled by and took various petals along with it. You revisit the garden in your memory and staring at the lily will barely give you any answers so, you untuck the scrap of paper underneath it and begin to read.

I saw you reading this at the library. Consider it a peace offering. I’m not sure if it’s enough, but I would like for us to have a clean slate. We could be friends or enemies or mere acquaintances, time will explain.

Yours sincerely,

     Sherlock

You had a feeling of who “Sherlock” could be, but you could hardly believe that he, of everyone, would send you such a thoughtful gift despite hardly knowing anything about each other. You don’t remember seeing him at the library and you don’t think you ever mentioned the lily of the valley. Just as you think it, you close your hand over the charm at your necklace and how visible it is for anyone with a pair of eyes to nose out. Then, the last time you attended the library had not been that long ago and you do recall how you sat by yourself and tuned out the world around you. It’s likely that you didn’t notice him near you because of how invested you were in the book, the same story currently sitting in your hands. It wouldn’t be too out of left field. He simply saw you and you didn’t know how to react to that. Especially since you’re not sure what made him take this direction. He seems as stubborn as you are.

Not wanting to hurt your brain any further with overthinking, you instead begin to read the passage beneath the lily aloud. “Lady Russel listened, and looked, and made only this cautious reply: ‘Elizabeth! Very well; time will explain.’” At this, you let out a soft chuckle. He underlined what he wrote in his note.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes… What are you playing at?” You say to yourself. You trace the letters on the note, the indentation he’s left behind. “Sherlock Holmes,” you murmur as if testing the name out, trying it for a spin, “What will time explain for us?”

[steddiejudas]

November 2nd, No Touch/Watching

Steve can do this. All he needs to do is focus on just how annoying Eddie can be, and he can totally do this! There are dirty dishes all over the living room, empty water cups on his bedside table that he never takes to the sink in the morning. The bathroom is a mess of shed hair even though it seems like Eddie never even brushes it, and the sink is full of globs of toothpaste. Steve cleans up after him like a maid, and it’s one of the most annoying things about their relationship. Yet still all he can think about is dressing up in a little french maid costume to tease Eddie into ripping it off of him. 

It’s only been a day.

Steve must be an idiot for thinking he could do this. It’s not like they put any money on the bet, or if they had, like Eddie would hold him to it. Since being cut off, Steve has learned his expensive hair products and cologne and even fucking groceries are just that: expensive. Eddie is a saint, putting up with him learning to use coupons and compare the price of things to the ounce to get the best deal just so he can afford his little taste of luxury. Steve will be damned if his parents cause him to lose the one thing he’s ever been known for that he was slightly okay with after high school. He once was and will always be ‘the hair’. Plus, the first time Eddie called him sweetheart was the result of his Sauvage cologne, loudly proclaiming “you smell like a dream, sweetheart!” So, you know, that’s a must. 

But maybe, just maybe, if Eddie cracked first, Steve could get out of this whole thing without punishment (because if he’s being honest, he just knows there will be one). Maybe there really is something to the whole french maid costume idea. So Steve does the unthinkable. He dips into his change bowl. He’s been saving up his tips at the little diner he and Robin are working at these days in a little pinch pot Eddie made in a high school pottery class. Eddie tried to throw it away when they were packing up to move into their little apartment, but Steve clutched it close to his chest and said it was too beautifully done, surely a good luck charm. And maybe it was a projection of his subconscious, or maybe customers tipped better when he was happy, but Steve always brought home the most at the end of the night when he gave the pot a little kiss before leaving for his shift.

He has just enough in there for gas and a discounted costume from the Halloween store that's closing down soon in the next town over. Eddie texted to say he’ll be late, so he has plenty of time to make the half hour drive and hope to god there’s some kind of maid outfit left in the women’s section. He knows he’ll go unrecognized, and the employees probably don’t care what he’s buying at all, but he still wears a hat and ducks his head when he’s perusing the aisles. His eye catches exactly what he’s looking for. A short black dress with puffy sleeves and frilly white lace, a white apron that ties around the hips, a little black choker necklace with a bell, and a little headband with a half circle of lacy white fabric. 

The cashier gives him a slightly bemused chuckle when he sets the costume on the counter, but rather than let the heat of embarrassment he feels rushing through him surface, he cocks a hip and settles into the familiarity of bitchiness. 

“What?” he snaps, when it takes the cashier a beat longer than it should to scan a single item and read out his total. 

The guy smirks and shakes his head. “Classic. Do you not recognize me or something? I saw you like a week ago, dude.” 

The truth is Steve was refusing to meet his eye since the moment he stepped up to the counter, but now that the guy has said something, Steve recognizes those curls, that slightly boyish face, and, oh fuck. He’s standing in front of Gareth. 

“Not a word Emerson.” Steve bites out, but he feels the tinge of red finally hit his cheeks. 

“You know this won’t work, right?”

“What do you mean?”

“Dude, I was the one who brought up no nut November in the first place. And your facial expressions are not as subtle as you think they are. I could practically hear your thoughts about it the whole time, and I’m assuming Eddie made a bet with you as soon as you left.”

“Oh. Right. Just don’t tell him?”

Gareth hums noncommittally and tells Steve his total. Steve hands him the cash and awkwardly thanks him before grabbing the costume and running back to his car, lest he miraculously be spotted by anyone else he knows. 

The interaction all but dissipates from his mind on the drive home, replaced by scenarios of what Eddie might do to him when he comes home to Steve in this outfit. Bend him over the kitchen counter, rip the lacie panties he’s wearing right off of him and blow his back out to oblivion. Steve’s face heats up in the silence of the drive home. He didn’t bother turning music on, too consumed by his own thoughts. His mind drifts all the way home, without something tangible to lock onto. He’s home before he knows it, rushing up the stairs to the apartment and throwing on the costume without a second’s hesitation. In total, the trip took him a little over an hour, so Eddie should be home any minute. 

Steve busies himself pretending to dust Eddie’s minis on the bookshelf in the living room. They’re kept on the top shelf, so even with Steve’s height, he has to stand on his tiptoes to reach. The skirt rides up just over the plush of his thighs and exposes the black lace of his panties just as the front door opens.

“Honeyyy I’m hooome!” Eddie’s voice comes out in a delightful singsong, which fills Steve’s chest with warmth. It’s the same way Eddie always greets him, which, however sweet it may be, he was expecting a little more of a reaction if he’s totally honest. 

Steve turns his head, hoping to find at least a smirk on Eddie’s lips. Something that shows he’s acknowledged Steve’s gift, but he’s not standing by the door anymore. His jacket and boots have been kicked off and left haphazardly in the middle of the floor and Eddie is in the kitchen… making himself a snack? Steve grumbles and walks over to the entrance, picking up the mess Eddie’s made in less than a minute, and tucking them away on the shoe rack and coat hook less than a foot away. Walking hurricane, Steve thinks. 

Eddie hums a light tune from the kitchen. He hasn’t looked at Steve ONCE and he knows because his own eyes have been boring holes into the side of Eddie’s head since he walked in. Steve follows to the kitchen and does his best to gain Eddie’s attention. Steve grabs an arm and lifts it until he can slide between the counter and Eddie’s chest, their noses touching. Eddie can’t help his smile as he nuzzles Steve’s cheek.

“Hi princess. How was your day?” Sweet. Casual. Not at all what Steve was going for.

“It was fine. I spent the whole day cleaning up after you.”

“Oh really? The whole day, huh?” Eddie kisses the tip of Steve’s nose and goes back to spreading peanut butter across a piece of bread. 

“Well, most of the day.” Steve steps out of his orbit now, walking across the kitchen to watch Eddie eat his pb&j. He folds his arms and honest to god pouts.

“Aw, sweetheart. What’s wrong?” Eddie finally looks Steve up and down, only, rather than a reaction, all he gets is level headedness. Eddie knows what’s wrong. Steve knows he does, but he’s pretending nothing is out of the ordinary and for some reason, being ignored is not helping Steve’s desires for this stupid challenge to end.

Steve sighs, maybe a bit heavier than is necessary. “Nothing, Eddie. I’m fine.” His voice comes out shorter than he means it to, but, well, he had harnessed bitchiness just an hour or so earlier with the familiarity of swinging his nailbat, and it’s hard to just tuck that back away. He starts to walk away in a huff, but Eddie’s hand reaches out to stop him. There’s a flicker, just the slightest hint of desire when his eyes shoot up from the crease of Steve’s ass, but he schools his expression back to one of complete control before speaking again.

“I’m sorry sweetheart. Did you get all dressed up for me?”

“Duh.”

“Watch it,” Eddie’s hand snaps up to grip Steve by the chin, shaking him to meet Eddie’s gaze. “Did you really think this would work, Stevie?”

And now, this Steve can play along with. “Think what would work?”

“Honey, you have to know Gareth texted me as soon as you left, right?”

Steve sputters. “W– B– I asked him not to say anything,” he whines.

“And you know what he said to me? Bros before hoes, my sweet.” Eddie laughs at him, then. Really, truly laughs at the face Steve pulls because he really thought he’d gotten away with it. 

“‘M not a hoe,” he grumbles, his gaze falling as his cheeks redden in Eddie’s grip.

“Are you sure about that? You drove out of town today just to get yourself a slutty little costume. And all because you thought I would rip it off as soon as I laid eyes on you. I have to admit, it probably would’ve worked had I not been tipped off.”

“I’m going to kill Gareth.”

“Oh, I think he did you a favor, honey. The payoff will be oh so sweet. Just, not right now.” Eddie lets Steve’s face go and pulls a chair away from the dining table. “Right now, I want you to take this chair into the bedroom, facing away from the bed, and sit politely. Don’t. Change.”

Steve’s confusion is evident, but he complies nonetheless, scraping the legs of the chair across the floor as he goes. His nerves alight as he takes his seat, the short skirt riding up so just the lace of his panties press against the cold lacquered wood of the chair. He can hear Eddie shuffling around the kitchen, the sound of his plate clinking down into the sink. Steve briefly thinks he’ll have to clean that up later too, but then he hears the water running. Eddie never does dishes. He’s making him wait. The thought sends a shiver up his spine in tandem to the heat pooling down low in his gut. It feels like there’s a rod in his spine, keeping him sitting up straight, palms down on his thighs. Steve hears footsteps close to the door, but still Eddie doesn’t enter. Instead he walks right past the bedroom to the bathroom. Closing the door and starting the shower. 

No. No fucking way. Eddie is not leaving him here half hard in an itchy polyester dress while he takes one of his famous hour long showers. He can’t.

He does.

Or at least, Steve thinks he does. He doesn’t know how long he’s left sitting there, really, because his mind is swimming with the sound of Eddie. He’s humming Corroded Coffin’s originals, the ones Steve knows were written about him, and he can hear the water splashing off of him. Steve has never once been grateful for their thin walls until now. His soft singing is interrupted only occasionally by a little moan as Steve imagines he ghosts over his hard cock. His mouth waters at the thought of it laying hot and heavy on his tongue. His own dick is throbbing painfully at the thought, at the restraint he’s showing, at Eddie’s ruthless teasing. 

Finally, finally the water turns off and Eddie comes to their room. The door creaks open slowly and Steve tries to turn his head to take a peek at the towel wrapped low on Eddie’s hips, but he only gets a short glimpse at the obvious bulge and swirling black ink creeping out of the white cloth before fingers snap at him and he’s looking back at the wall. Steve’s skin is crawling, his muscles aching to turn and look, to see the sight of his boyfriend wet and lean and hard. His hands grip into his thighs until he thinks he’ll leave bruises on himself, wants to put his hands on Eddie, bruise Eddie. But he’s a good boy, and there’s a part of him, no matter how bratty, who just wants to please Eddie.

And then he hears it. Those same low moans come more clearly now that there’s no wall separating them and Steve knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he will not be getting what he wants. He knows Eddie will stay true to his word no matter how he tries to tempt him. In fact, Eddie is playing his own game right back at him, and he’s damn near winning. Because now Steve can hear the slick of his pre sliding up and down the shaft, and he can hear Eddie’s breathing get faster and all the sounds with no ability to touch Eddie, or even himself are making his cock weep against his stomach, sticking out of the lace waistband, red and angry.

“You can look now, sweetheart.” Eddie grunts out between broken moans. 

Steve whips around at breakneck speed, tripping over himself to stare hungrily at Eddie laid out and wanting him. As much as Eddie can read Steve, Steve can read him right back, and he can see how badly Eddie wants his mouth on him. The chair tips over and clatters to the ground as Steve scrambles to be by Eddie’s side. A scolding voice stops him before he can get a hand on his boyfriend.

“I said look. Not touch. Behave yourself, princess.”

Steve whines. It comes from somewhere deep in his throat, fueled by desperation that he can’t find any other way to express. Eddie wants him to behave, and he knows he won’t get what he wants, but he still holds out hope that maybe, just maybe, if he does what Eddie says he’ll get what he needs. He lays his head down on the bed next to Eddie’s hip and stares, his eyes crossing with each stroke. Eddie’s hands are large with long fingers that could practically fit Steve’s whole length in his fist. It’s like Steve can feel the ghost of the sensation on his own neglected cock as his eyes track each movement.

Eddie’s fist glides down to the base, his fingertips grazing over his balls. His hands move deliberately slowly, running the tips of his fingers over the vein on the underside until he reaches the tip and squeezes. More pre leaks out and Steve has to physically restrain himself from leaning up to lick it off and swallow him whole. 

“Good boy,” Eddie teases, and it’s then that he notices Eddie is watching him just as intently. 

Good boy. Good. Steve is good. Eddie’s good boy. All for him.

The praise both helps him stay where he is and causes his dick to jump and strain against his panties. Eddie understands without needing to hear a word from Steve and his breathing picks up, a constant slew of praise falling from his lips.

“You’re so beautiful, sweetheart. So perfect. I can’t believe you went out and bought this just for me. Did you dip into your tip jar for this?”

“Mmhm.” Steve nods, his face rolling in a wet spot on the bed. Oh. He’s drooling. 

“Fuck, baby. You’re never going to make it are you?”

“No,” Steve whimpers. He wants to argue, but his filter is long gone now, and all he can do is agree with whatever Eddie says, be his perfect boy. Well, almost perfect. “Please Eddie. Please let me taste you. I need it.”

“Fuck, Stevie,” Eddie groans deep and reaches his free hand out to pull Steve in by the nape of the neck. As soon as his lips attach to the head, his tongue darts out and licks over the head, swirling over the slit until hot cum is flooding his mouth and both of their moans are filling the room in a cacophony of noise. Eddie pants, his eyes burning as he tries to school his expression into something less hungry to swallow Steve whole. 

“Come here baby, you did so good for me.”

Steve crawls up on the bed, immediately going to straddle Eddie’s hips, but he’s moved to lay down next to Eddie and he wraps his body around Steve from behind. 

“Eddie, wh–”

“I said you did good. That doesn’t mean the bet is off, sweetheart.”

“But, I’m so… Eddie, please.”

Eddie sighs, genuine sympathy in his voice when he says: “Honey, look at me.” 

Steve rolls over in Eddie’s arms, trying not to grind his aching dick against Eddie’s hips. 

“Do you really want to do this, Stevie? And don’t say yes because you think it’s what I want because trust me, it’s taking everything in me not to fuck you within an inch of your life like this. I mean, fuck, we’re keeping this outfit because I can’t get enough of you.”

Steve considers it for a moment, and while the throbbing between his legs is telling him one thing, his mind is telling him entirely another. This may be torture, this month may just kill him, but that, whatever the fuck that scene was, it was one of the hottest things he’s ever experienced, and if this month promises more of that, it may just be worth it.

“I want to. I really do, but I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it, Eddie. Please don’t be upset if I can’t.”

“Upset? No, no of course not my love. I’m already so proud of you for keeping it together so far. Listen, why don’t we discuss a new safeword of sorts? Something that’s specific to the bet, so if you really can’t do it, you have a way to let me know, yeah?”

Steve’s heart swells. Eddie is proud of him, and more than anything he wants him to feel good. “Okay, thank you, Eddie. Do you have something in mind?”

Eddie giggles. “Well… I noticed you didn’t really want to use the word ‘nut’ when we talked the other day. What if, when you really want to, you ask me to let you nut, and that’s how I’ll know.”

“Ugh, Eddie, come on.” Steve playfully slaps Eddie’s chest, but the smile on his face is unmistakable. 

“What? You don’t like it?”

“No, I don’t like it. So let’s hope I’ll never have to use it.” Steve giggles, shooting Eddie a wink. “Now can you please help me make this go away?”

“Oh. Right.” Eddie says dumbly, as if he could have forgotten Steve’s weeping cock when it’s all he can think about. Eddie helps him out of his dress, gently removing the panties so nothing brushes too overtly against him. He dresses him in boxers and comfortable sweats and lays him back down in the bed, cradling Steve to his chest as he pets his hair and whispers the most boring, mundane things he can think of. 

“Eddie, even stories about cars you fixed today are hot in that tone of voice. Read me The Lord of the Dorks or whatever?”

“The Lord of the Rings?” Eddie snorts. “That is blasphemous Steve. The only thing on this planet hotter than Aragorn is you, and that’s marginal at best.”

Steve gasps. “Rude! Boner gone, you don’t even have to get the book now.”

“Too late, Steve. You gave me an inch, I’m taking a mile. We’re absolutely reading Lord of the Rings now.”

Steve exaggerates a pained groan, but he’s more than happy to let Eddie read to him. Even if he doesn’t always understand the complex words and run-on sentences, coming from Eddie’s voice, it may as well be poetry. Steve drifts to sleep in the warm embrace of Eddie and Tolkien, unfinished, yet somehow deeply satisfied.

@steddievember