#little inmate ring

[waywardvictorianconfessions]

OMG, as a gemology nerd myself… did she seriously call morganite a "pink emerald"?!?! There is literally no such thing! I think even non-gemology nerds know that emeralds are only GREEN. She must've called it that to avoid the original creators of that ring finding out about her store… But still… call it pink beryl then, for fuck's sake. At least it would be correct. Was she or was she not into healing crystals not that long ago? She should already know this if she was serious about the witchcraft stuff. Of course she wasn't. She needed a new personality to look ~healed~ and so above her "cringey" and "gOtH" past, so she stole Veronica's.

[nariism]

you're mad at him.

you're mad at him and he knows it. you've been giving wriothesley the silent treatment ever since you arrived at the fortress of meropide, bandages in hand and a flurry of curses erupting nonstop from your mouth.

not a single word has been uttered between you since you sat him down in his office. despite refusing to speak to him, much less look him in the eye, you're dutifully bandaging up his raw knuckles like you remember sigewinne showing you back when she decided to go on vacation.

"it's very easy," her voice rings in your ears. you bite your tongue to prevent yourself from snarking back at her imaginary presence.

you only hoped she was enjoying herself up on the surface, accompanying neuvillette for the first time in ages. while she absolutely did deserve a vacation, you wished that she had given wriothesley a stern set of instructions to take care of himself in her absence.

if she did, maybe you wouldn't have had to come all the way down here just to witness him in such a state. your poor heart can't take this kind of worry.

the warden has come out the pankration the most unscathed, only sporting a split lip and bloody nose. his knuckles are red and cut, but it's nothing in comparison to the two inmates who had decided it was a good idea to incite a riot in what should be a controlled environment of the prison.

physically, he's fine. emotionally, he's having a complete meltdown.

he can't take this silence anymore; can't bear having you be upset with him, knowing that he should have been more careful about rushing in to stop the riot himself. the prison is crawling with guards for a reason, yet in his haste he decided it would be faster to intervene alone.

"hey," wriothesley calls out softly, timid despite his looming presence over you. "i didn't mean to worry you or–"

"why can't you be more careful?" you suddenly interrupt, voice cracking weakly. you gaze up from where you're kneeling on the floor, bandages halting in the air while you challenge him with your eyes. "don't you know how stupid and reckless that was?"

he holds your stare for a few moments, stunned by your sudden rebuttal. and then you tear your eyes away from his again, focusing back on tenderly wrapping up his hand.

"you always make me so worried staying down here day and night," you continue, voice so quiet he can barely make out your words.

"i'm sorry," he tells you earnestly.

"i know you're strong. i know it. but you're not invincible. would it kill you to cherish your life a little more?"

"i'm sorry," he says again.

you falter, a sigh escaping you as you peer up at him again. there's something softer in the way you look at him now, with all your frustration melting away into concern. you rummage through your bag for a wet wipe before standing to cradle his face.

wriothesley can't breathe when you're being so gentle with him. his hands find your waist and squeeze it to draw you even closer, until he can almost rest his head against your stomach.

"i love you," you finally tell him, and he feels the relief wash over him. "i can't stand seeing you hurt, so please be more careful."

you swipe the cloth under his nose a few times, gently dabbing at the skin and cleaning up the blood that has dried there. his steely eyes drift shut under your warm touch, allowing you to clean his face. when he only nods in response, your hand stops.

"promise me."

he looks at you again, a brow raised at your stern tone. but he would always relent to you, no matter what it is you wanted.

"i promise."

you blink down at him for a second, taking in how beautiful he is underneath his bloody nose. finally, you lean down to kiss the top of his head— a gesture of forgiveness and love that he's grown so accustomed to.

there's sunshine in your smile when you pull away from him to discard the used wipe, all previous signs of anguish gone from your expression.

his heart nearly stops at the sight.

you were right. he should cherish himself more. he can't stand seeing you fret over him even if it is a little endearing.

for now, he'll just enjoy having you take care of him. it's been so long since he returned to the surface, all he wants to do right now is bask in the light you bring down here with you.

"oh nurse," he teases, giving your hips another squeeze. "my lip got busted, too. got a remedy?"

you roll your eyes but press a kiss to his lips anyways.

© ALABOADOA 2023 — please do not translate or post my works to other platforms.

[tojipie]

prison bf series linked here !

hii ! not rly phone sex, but sex nonetheless. i’m rly loving this series <33 prison toji unboxing fic coming someday in the distant future.

content: nsfw + phone sex

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the sudden vibrations of your phone’s ringer rips you from the boundary between sleep and awareness. you groggily reach for the device from it’s place under your pillow, clicking the off button twice to end the call.

the number rings again, then a third time before you finally pick up, ready to tear into the poor soul on the other line. it’s a facetime call from an area code you don’t recognize, probably just a misdial if you’re lucky.

you hesitantly accept and tilt the camera towards the ceiling, shielding your face from the stranger.

“hello..?” you mumble sleepily, trying to get a good look at your phone without revealing too much of yourself. the person’s screen is grainy from the lack of light, probably calling you on an older model.

the stranger’s camera pans down, revealing familiar tufts of straight raven hair. toji stares up at you from his bunk, shirtless with the sheets bunched up to his chest.

“you too good to pick up the phone now?” he asks, clearly teasing. the inmate’s voice is quiet, coming out in choppy rivets as his dated microphone picks up what it can.

“toji!?” you whisper scream, sitting up to turn your beside lamp on. the additional light helps illuminate your figure better, you notice his eyes perk up at the clearer sight of you.

“mmmh, happy to see you babydoll.” he grins, leaning closer to get a good look at you. your eyes are puffy with the promise of rest, giving you that extra bought of softness he loves so much.

“oh shit, were you sleeping? m’ sorry.”

he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“nono i’m awake.” you reassure the older man, taking in the sight of him laid out on the narrow cot. your boyfriend had aged since the beginning of his sentence, though you figure that’s not out of the ordinary for someone serving time. “how’d you even get a phone?”

“s’ a secret.” he muses, clearly finding the situation amusing. “i get to talk to my baby though, isn’t that nice?” he states plainly, shifting to prop his head up with his hand.

“it is, actually.” you mumble apologetically, feeling bad at your initial lack of a greeting. “m’ happy you called me.”

you pause, choosing your next words carefully “don’t you have bunkmates?” you wonder, searching the background for any signs of other men in the dark cell. the promise of being ratted out by a cell mate was one that wouldn’t end well for either of you.

“nah, lawyers said i’m too dangerous to be staying in D-block with everyone.” he states boredly, shifting again to lie on his back with a grunt.

“wh— are you serious?” you whine, already mulling over the countless conversations you’ve had with him regarding his nasty fighting habit.

“pfttt, no?” the inmate chuckles, throwing his head back with a hearty laugh. “last guy in the cell got out on wednesday, ‘s just me in here till’ my sentence is up.”

he stills, looking you up and down quickly.

"fuck." he grumbles, you look real pretty right now."

you sigh in relief, ignoring the compliment to continue grilling him. “so you’ve been getting along with people?” you ask, skill skeptical.

“you know—hah- how i am.” he tells you, clearing his throat before continuing. the screen begins to wobble a little, blurring his figure for a moment. “when have i —fuck- ever been out of line, huh? ”

“i think you were pretty out of line when you went to fucking jail.” you tease, pausing to analyze his hurried breaths on the other line.

“toji? do you feel ok?” you ask, wishing you were there to check up on him.

“yeah—mmgh- why? his camera starts to pan up shakily, phone slipping from his hand. the last of his facade shatters as a pleased groan rings out in the tiny cell.

“fuck.” he whines, “fuck— oh my god. you’re gonna make me fucking cum.”

“show me.” you command, finally piecing everything together.

the older man flips the camera and brings it right up to his hard cock, stroking it from the base up with vigor.

his tip is an angry pink, weeping milky precum down his shaft to glaze his knuckles. the sounds coming from your phone are absolutely filthy, a hot mix of pants, groans and expletives .

“oh my god.” you giggle, propping your phone up to watch better. “is that all for me?” the dips and hills of his abs jolt as he laughs.

“all for you.” he pants, bucking his hips up every time his fist meets his tip.

“is this why you called me?” you tease, watching his cock bob back and forth in his hand. the older man stops to thumb his slit, massaging milky pre into the tip before starting up again. “you just wanted to get off? didn’t wanna talk to me or nothing?”

“no—hah. i mean—.” he groans, clearly too out of it to answer. “fuck. fuck i’m close.”

you squeeze your legs together to quell the ache between your thighs, content to just watch him enjoy himself.

sharing a room with 4 other people means little to no time alone, that much you knew from your visits. it wasn’t rare for him to pitch a tent during your supervised phone calls, squeezing his cock behind a glass barrier while you gushed about your day.

a hearty groan knocks your train of thought loose as ropes of cum stream down his knuckles and onto the sheets. you watch in awe as he milks his dick, slapping it onto his stomach for the added simulation.

you wait until his breaths even out to speak, watching him grab a towel from off camera to clean himself up.

“feel better?” you ask, so badly wishing you were there to kiss him in the midst of his afterglow.

“so much better.” he sighs, shifting to lay on his side again.

“they definitely heard you. i mean those rooms don’t have doors right?”

“of course they fucking have doors.” he grumbles, clearly embarrassed at the thought of getting caught dick-in-hand.

“did you..” he trails off, rubbing his eyes with a soft yawn.

“too tired.” you state plainly, shifting the focus from your pleasure to his.

“i don’t deserve you.” he mumbles, dark eyes barely open.

“course you do baby.” you whisper. “you wanna head to bed? i’m coming up on thursday to visit.”

“you are?” the excitement in his voice is adorable.

“mhm, might even bring you a charger for that piece of shit burner you swiped.”

the jab earns you a booming laugh, lulling you back to the precipice of sleep.

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tag list ! <3 🏷️

@honeybee54321 @m150-50up @kuryoomi @t4naiis @serendippindots @sillyalo @levixbby @powerrwa

[sensitive-neuvi-enthusiast]

"Let Me Fuck Out my Frustration."

♡♡-Request: Frustrated Wriothesley. Does his best to rid himself of it, but when boxing doesn't work, he turns to you. His cute lover.

Content: fem!reader, rough sex, biting, blood, spanking, nipple play, p in v, unprotected sex, pussy eating, cum inside, bruises, almost 900 words, reader gives consent, little prep (he eats you out but no fingering), commanding, messy

Wriothesley liked his job. He felt it suited him. But today? It was annoying and frustrating him to no end. The intimates, for some fucking reason, really wanted to test his buttons. Most likely something to do with some new inmates. They stirred up trouble as soon as they walked through the door. Usually, he could handle it. They'd fall into line, but they didn't. 

Frustration boiled in his veins, which is how he found himself in the ring. 

Hands taped, sweat coating every inch of his body as he continuously punched the bag. Over and over. Grunting with each thrust of his fist, leaving the bag to swing before he punched it again. But it didn't help. In fact, it only made him more frustrated. He thought about asking someone to spar, but didn't want to hurt them in the process. He wiped the sweat lining his brow with the back of his arm, giving a rough sniff. He needed another outlet. 

The squeaking of the door caught his attention, your cute self walking through the door.

"There you are! I've been looking all over for you. They said you were in here."

He watched you slip under the rope, the subtle bounce of your tits as you stood back up. Another outlet, it seemed he found it. 

"Are you okay? You usually only come here when-woah!" He heard you squeak, his arms hooking under your pretty thighs as he lifted you. "Wrio-wait, what's-are you okay? I've never-ah!' He sunk his teeth into the juncture of your neck, biting so rough that he started to taste the bitter copper of your blood. Your hands dug into his shoulder in return, gasping as he let go. Moving to another patch of skin, "Frustrated. Gonna fuck you to get rid of it. Objections?" He breathed heavily through his nose, waiting for your consent. And when you gave it, he bit into your skin again. 

His dick twitching as he heard you yelp, his hands squeezed your thighs so hard his hand prints were left molded into your skin. Bruises formed but he paid them no mind. Moving his teeth to yet another patch of unscathed skin as he bit down, blood trickling down your shoulder into your shirt. "Wrio…" you sighed out, hissing when you felt his teeth graze against you once more. And in the next minute, he was leaning you against the ropes, hands tearing at your clothes and his own. Hoisting you up once more, resting your thighs on his shoulders. Wriothesley immediately dove into your cunt, lapping like a starved wolf. His fingers kneaded the flesh of your ass, pressing so hard he left bruises there too. 

He ate you until your cunt was sopping wet and ready for him to fuck you until his blood stopped boiling. 

Without wasting any time, he slid you down his thick-muscled body. Stopping you just short of his bulbous, leaking tip pressed at your entrance. His eyes scanned your face, looking for any hesitancy and when he saw none, he speared you quite quickly on his length. Your pussy took roughly half before he met resistance, pulling out to push once more. Repeating this process until he was fully seated inside you, fucking roughly up into your drooling sex. Huffing and groaning each time he felt you clamp down on him. 

"So fucking angry," he spit. Leaning forward to take your nipple into his mouth. Teasing his teeth around it, biting down until teeth marks were left. Only to slide his tongue around the wound. 

"Wrio-ah, what's…what's wrong-" you gasped, tits bouncing abruptly from the force in which he was fucking you. The rope behind dug into your back, creating a burning sensation each time you rubbed against it. "Shut up, just fucking take this cock. Do as I say," his hand pulled back, landing a harsh smack to your ass. "Yeah, like this. Use that pretty little head of yours and listen-fuck." He could slowly feel the tension being drained out of him the sharper his thrusts were. "You better make a fucking mess on this cock or I swear-" He choked on a groan, head falling forward as he continued. Nipping at your flesh, hand smacking your ass. Your body was covered in bruises, bite marks, and the red swell of his smacks. 

Wriothesley could feel his balls draw up, ready to fill you up any second. 

"Better fucking make a mess, do it. Now. Cream all over this cock." He punctuated each word in time with his thrusts, leaving you a babbling mess as your body spasmed. Your pussy contracting as you came all over him, whining loudly as he continued to fuck into your overstimulated cunt. "That's a good girl, thats a good fucking girl-gonna make me cum-fuck." His hips stilled, length pulsating as he came inside you. Hot ropes of sticky cum painted your insides. 

You both fell to the floor, his softening dick still inside you as he laid against your marked breasts. "Feel better?" You asked, still out of breath as you barely managed to raise your hand to pet his hair. 

"Yeah, much." He mumbled.

Navigation.

[bayambii]

fontaine hands . . .

warnings: swearing, 4.2 archon quest spoilers, hands, a little steamy in clorinde if you squint

characters: wriothesley, neuvelitte, lyney, lynette, navia, clorinde, furina and freminet

bambis comments: hai cuties!! i have an obsession with hands so i thought it would be a perfect first post LOL

WRIOTHESLEY

◦ jesus fucking CHRIST, this man has large hands. i mean like second to none in teyvat i would say

◦ his hands are bruised and often dirty. when they’re not inside of his gauntlets, his right is covered with dark bandages. he goes really soft when you take the time to clean his hands or even like his nails

◦just like massaging his hands while he tells you about his day, rubbing his temple with his freehand while he goes on and on about one inmate who always tries to pick a fight

◦speaking of his nails! they’re stubby and not painted. he doesn’t bite them they just like break off naturally due to the nature of his job and his gauntlets

◦he has silver rings for every finger it looks like, and he fidgets with them when he’s talking to anyone, rolling it around his fingers and back again

◦HIS HANDS SMELL LIKE TEA RAAAH

NEUVILLETTE

◦ skinny ass hands, but they’re long.

◦ he almost always wears his gloves, because underneath he has scales on his hands. his hands aren’t fully dragon like, still keeping a human like color, but many teal scales decorate his hands.

◦his fingernails are naturally tinted a little blue, and they’re on the longer side. he keeps them clean and pushes his cuticles back often

◦he’s often writing with his hands, rolling his quill/pen around his fingers when he thinks. his hands are skilled at writing, and can write rather fast.

◦a wrist roller. his wrists get tight from writing for hours on end and always makes sure to roll them out.

LYNEY

◦OH MY GOD. don’t even get me started…

◦another fontainian who’s hands are often concealed in his gloves. a magician never reveals his secrets, does he?

◦he has regular length hands, but they’re on the skinny side.

◦his hands are almost always clean, and have a very soft texture.

◦imagine lyney late at night practicing new card tricks without his gloves, using you as his test audience (he shows you all his tricks first anyway)

◦he has trimmed nails, that he paints black and red, to match his whole theme. they tend to be chipped however, and he needs lynette or you to keep repainting them.

◦his hands are obviously very practiced, and he takes great care of them

LYNETTE

◦she has smaller and skinny hands, very petite and cute

◦ due to her cat-like nature, her hands are very sensitive, and she prefers to keep her gloves on

◦ when she holds your hand she likes to keep her gloves on, just so she doesn’t get overwhelmed

◦ however, she likes taking her gloves off to hold your face, and memorize each and every crevice and dimple with her hands

◦ when she feels comfortable, she’ll let you see her hands, and trusts you to know her comfort level with her sensitivity

◦she keeps her nails long, and painted a teal. she often keeps up with her nail care, and looks after your nails as well

◦her hands smell like tea, like wrio, due to her often drinking and brewing the beverage.

NAVIA

◦ADORABLE HANDS, and very well kept!

◦ skinny and longer, and a little freckled near her wrist.

◦she only keeps a glove on one hand, and she prefers to hold your hand with that one!

◦very well kept nails, with sapphire colored nail polish adorning them. she seems like the type to get like gems and stuff put on her nails.

◦she knows you like her hands, so she always makes sure to put extra time into caring for them

◦her hands are incredibly soft, and don’t really get that clammy

◦navia would only get clammy if you were flustering her, which is not an easy feat

CLORINDE

◦beautiful lady, long skinny hands again however she doesn’t know how to look after her hands

◦ ITS NOT HER FAULT NO ONE TAUGHT HER OKAY!! before starting a relationship with you, she never put much thought into her hands!!

◦she often keeps her gloves on, and like washes her hands when needed but she doesn’t take care of her nails or put lotion on or NOTHING

◦her nails are stubby, and might have leftover polish from the last time you attempted to paint her nails

◦with handling her weapons, she has very tactful hands and is not very clumsy

◦where she puts her hands is very, how do i say, purposeful

◦she might feign oblivion, but she knows exactly what she’s doing with her hands

FURINA DE FONTAINE

◦oh ho ho? you want to see the dear lady furinas hands?

◦only furina would take this much care into something she’s going to just put a glove over but WHATEVER

◦she’s got small hands, with many jewels and rings adorning her fingers

◦she looks after her nails with the upmost pride, and keeps them constantly painted and pristine

◦like clorinde, she is very purposeful where she puts her hands. your dear lady knows you, and knows exactly what makes you flustered (and oh does she love that)

◦she would love to help you look after your hands, and even help you paint a most magnificent nail art on your nails oh ho ho!

FREMINET

◦smaller hands, with larger palms, with FRECKLES!! and i mean freckles .

◦freminet doesn’t necessarily have clumsy hands, due to his work on per and other mechs, but his hands aren’t as practiced as other fontainians

◦his hands can also get clammy due to his shyness, and doesn’t want to bother you with that

◦HOWEVER, you can hold his hand all you want underwater. there’s no risk there, and he’s fully confident. maybe he’ll work up to holding your hand above the sea

◦he is very shy, and earlier on in your relationship, and is careful if he puts his hands on you if he does AT ALL…

◦ often under the water, his nails are always clean but still stubby, and never painted (but he wouldn’t be apposed to you painting them) ((just be prepared for a flustered frem))

[yaespook]

Canines.

✧ Room Content: Dom! Top! GN! AMAB! Werewolf! Reader x Sub! Bottom! Wriothesley, oral (reader giving), snowballing, rimming (reader giving), gratuitous mentions of spit, muzzle and leash with collar used on Wriothesley, knotting. Leave a note if anything was missed out. ✧ Retrieved Notes: [The bottom paws of the fortune cat appear on the front desk.]

Getting a new rookie transfer under him this late into the year wasn’t exactly what Wriothesley was expecting.

His office door opens abruptly but you seem almost as bewildered as he is at this surprise. No biggie, the issue is sorted out quickly and seeing that you don't have any case files or inmate registration papers on you (or any sort of personal records at all for the matter), he runs through the essentials before sending you off with a list of duties. 

He watches as you leave his office, you'll undoubtedly be an interesting case to handle.

Over the course of the next few weeks, Wriothesley finds you nice enough to be around during work. You're considerate and you work hard to get your job done. It's pleasant to have another regular familiar face beneath the depths and he's not above sharing his tea with you during your shared breaks. And growing closer, he asks you to box with him.

“Just some training, for fun, that's all.” He's lounging in his chair and cracks an eye open to gauge your reaction. “Feel free to say no if you don't want to. I won't die from the rejection.”

Wriothesley is assured in his combat skills, given his experience in the ring and his daily training. So how is it exactly that he's found himself in this position? 

Dragging out the spar by starting off defensive, dodging his attacks, it seemed as if you were going easy on him.

“Come on, don’t tell me you’re going easy on me?” He throws a series of hooks and a particularly forceful uppercut.

But he wasn't interested in winning this friendly battle, he wants to see what you're truly made of. Hence, kicking it up a notch, he doubled the speed of the punches he's throwing, forcing you on the offensive. 

“You’re asking for it, Wrio!”

He's caught off guard when you start reciprocating and meeting him with the same speed and intensity in your attacks. Sure, your footwork and pivoting could use some work, but there's something surprising in the force behind your punches.

It ends when you manage to wrestle him into a headlock, the both of you sweaty and panting, his head pressed against your chest as he's suddenly aware of how close the two of you are. Tapping twice on your bicep hooked around his neck, he admits his defeat this time around. Freed from your restraint, he takes the time to massage his trapezius muscles as he gives you a once-over. 

“That was a good one, another next week?” 

You cough, “I think I’ll need more than a week to recover,” your tone sheepish.

It’s not often he’s beaten during spars, and for a rookie like you to do so? Extremely interesting. What exactly is your background? The secret to your seemingly supernatural strength? Since this incident, he’s found himself drawn to you even more.

However, keeping an extra vigilant eye on you means that he picks up on the smaller things that might be signs. The next Friday, you clock in later in the day, missing your shared tea breaks with him, and you clock out far earlier than usual, evident from the little note you leave at your desk when he looks for you.

“Sorry Wrio! Something urgent came up!”

He quirks an eyebrow up at this. What could have been so urgent that you had to leave immediately? Are you alright? Glancing around, he notices a bag left on your chair. Perhaps you left it here in your haste while leaving, but what if its contents are important to you? No matter, he'll see if he can pass it to you after work, it's a good chance to check up on you too.

But since you aren't around for the rest of the day, Wriothesley has strangely discovered that he's getting through his mundane paperwork and administrative duties a lot slower than if you were present. His brows furrow as he sighs to himself and sips his tea alone before continuing his work.

By the time he's done wrapping everything up and leaving, the full moon is already high up in the night sky. When he tears his eyes away from it, he spots you out of the corner of his eye. Though he would call out to you, your behaviour is suspicious, slinking around the shadows sneakily as you try to stay hidden. Wriothesley decides to tail you, just to make sure that you don't get into any trouble that he'll end up having to sort out. (And that he's also worried about you.)

His guard is up when you step into a wild forested area. The dim moonlight breaks in through the leaves of the canopy area, just enough for him to make out the ground beneath him. He watches where he steps in order to avoid generating any noise that might alert you but the second he looks back up for you, you’re nowhere to be seen.

Uneasiness starts to kick in. Wriothesley is uncaring of all the ruckus he’s making while rushing past trees and brambles as he scrambles to search for you. The thorns scrape and tear at his clothes but he pushes on, launching into high gear.

However, the deeper he gets into the forest, the more Wriothesley begins to notice things going terribly wrong.

There’s a heavy presence lurking amongst the dark shadows, one that has its eyes trained on him, watching his every move. Lumbering footsteps echo throughout the forest around him, as if getting closer and closer to his location. The sound of twigs nearby snapping sharply and the rustling of dry bushes. Trying to get to a better lit area within the forest, the chase is on.

He’s being hunted.

The vegetation begins to thin out slightly as he skillfully weaves between trees and he reaches a clearing. Catching his breath, he surveys his surroundings, keen eyes looking for any signs of movement. The moon hangs overhead, sharing its pale light.

And from the treeline, something pounces.

He stumbles back at the sudden impact, the wind knocked from his chest as he collides with the ground, eyes clenched shut. A beat passes before the weight on him suddenly lifts and he hears a gravelly yet oddly familiar voice, “...Wrio?” 

Forcing his eyes open, he finds himself at a loss for words. 

“I’m so so sorry. I assumed you were some kind of hunter stalking after me and…” your words spiral and trail on but he can’t seem to process anything you’re saying since he’s preoccupied with taking in this sight of you.

In this form, you’re a lot taller than he is and your physique is nothing short of intimidating. Is this where your impressive strength comes from then? Raking his gaze over your body, he pauses at your flexed thigh muscles from holding yourself above his pelvis. (You could crush him between them and he’d die a happy man.)

Your fur gleams under the moonlight, captivating him as a gentle breeze ruffles through it. By the time he tunes back into your spiel, all he catches is you saying, “I’ll make it up to you-”

“Make it up to me?”

“Yeah?” 

“Fuck me then.” He sees your ears shoot up as you try to gauge whether he actually means it and he tacks on, “I’m being serious. Plus no one will find us here, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Fine, but pipe up if I’m too rough on you.”

A grin stretches across Wriothesley’s face at your agreement but it’s quickly replaced with a hiss when you drop and grind your dick down against his. Leaning forward, you have him completely pinned beneath you, your body heat and larger frame on his is simply dizzying.

“I’ll give you some kisses to start, hmm?”

He watches as your maw opens wide, showcasing your sharp teeth. He can feel your canines on either side of his face as you lick at his lips but there’s enough trust between the two of you that you won’t clamp down, your fangs gently grazing his skin. You wouldn’t hurt him after all.

You bury your snout in his neck, taking in his scent as the both of you grind against each other, a snarl leaving your throat as you feel how hard and soaked he’s getting under you. 

“So wet, Wrio. Are you that desperate?” Shifting and sitting up to strip him of his clothes, he chuckles as he replies, “Only for you.”

Taking off his shirt, you let out a low whistle at the man before you. His broad shoulders, salt and pepper chest hair on his pecs, the body hair and healed scars littered throughout, and not to mention his lovely happy trail up till his naval. Truly, a sight to behold.

Getting him out of the rest of his clothes, you nudge his legs apart and settle between them. Compared to your looming stature, Wriothesley gets a sense of how much smaller he is when your hands grasp at his thighs. (Or are they paws? Whatever. As long as they treat him real good tonight.)

Tracing the tip of a claw down his inner thigh, you watch him shudder, eyes widening as you get closer to his drooling cock.

“What? Already so turned on by me hunting you down and a little grinding?” You tease and a heat rises to his face, retorting, “Shut up.”

You bury your face closer in, snuffling as you lave a rough warm stripe against the underside of his length, the taste of his precum on your tongue. His legs clamp down slightly on your head when you do so and it’s apparent that he’s enjoying your attention on him. Almost as if he wants you to devour him whole.

Changing tactics, you shift your focus to enveloping the underside with your tongue before taking him into your mouth, careful to watch your teeth. The heat engulfing him has Wriothesley groaning loudly, his hips bucking into the warmth as his restraint starts to slip.

“Mffph… so good-!” He throws an arm over his eyes, more clipped moans escaping him while you swirl your tongue, working him to his peak.

But just when he’s about to tip over the edge, you let him out of your mouth, panting as he watches a thick strand of saliva stretch from your tongue to the tip of his dick.

“Hah… Why did you stop?” Sitting up on his elbows and supporting a frustrated scowl on his face, he looks laughably similar to a kicked puppy.

“Patience, dear Wrio, you’ll get your recompensation in due time.”

Moving one hand to his cock, you pump up and down languidly, aided by the copious amounts of precum and spit. His head spins when he feels you tonguing and lapping at his balls, your hot breath hitting the sensitive skin there.

You dip further down to lick at his rim, peering up to observe his reaction. And it’s amusing. His hands fly to grab at your shoulders, eyes shot open as his chest heaves.

“You liked that?” When he nods, that’s all you need to continue.

Manoeuvring him and hiking his hips up, he yelps at the shift but it quickly tapers into a moan as you press your tongue flat against his rim. You don’t stop stroking his cock as you slowly breach his hole, gingerly prying him open. Wriothesley sucks in a sharp breath at this and grinds down on your thick tongue, forcing it deeper, the pleasure in him building and spiking.

It’s not long before he’s spurting onto his tummy with a drawn out moan, walls clenching down on you and his hips stuttering up with his orgasm. Detaching for a second, you lick a long way up from the base of his dick to his dripping tip and his heaving abdomen, collecting his cum on your tongue.

“Open your mouth, Wrio.” And when he complies, you let your tongue hang out of your maw, a mixture of his cum and his saliva sloppily dripping from you and into his mouth. The ravenous look he gets when he swallows sends a shiver down his spine.

“So good for me, Wrio. Let’s move on shall we?” You give him a sly lick on his cheek. “Can you loosen yourself up a bit more? Wouldn’t want to rip you apart when you take me.”

After coating his fingers in your slick spit, you watch as he preps himself for you. Gazing around, you spy your bag discarded to the side on the ground. 

“Aww Wrio, were you trying to bring me my bag I left?”

“Mmph yeah-! I was worried- ah! -about you,” he grunts out his answer.

You respond with a low pleased rumble, stalking over to your bag and rifling through it to find what you’re looking for. From it, you retrieve a set of a collar with a leash and an accompanying muzzle. To Wriothesley’s surprise, it’s in his colours, complimenting shades of reds and greys.

“I bought it impulsively earlier today, thought of you while doing so. I think I’m in some sort of a rut,” you explain lowly, your eyes level with his and he feels as if he could be consumed with your gaze alone. 

Licking the shell of his ear, he can feel your breath fan across his nape as you continue, “Because of you, Wrio, no doubt.”

“Put it on me then,” there’s no hesitation in his voice when he says this and a satisfaction fills him when he sees your tail start wagging.

Carefully, you latch the collar around his neck, making sure it’s comfortable for him before moving on to fixing the muzzle on him. Finally, you attach the leash, the clip sound completing the set. 

As you take in how utterly delectable your Wrio looks for you right now, a filthy sense of pride rises up within you. You, a beast, managing to twist and warp and transform your human’s visage into one akin to yours, to have him leashed and muzzled as if he were the one with piercing canine fangs and a monstrous secret. And that he doesn’t cower or tremble with fear when pinned beneath you. It’s all too deliciously sinful.

The end of the leash is held in your claws as you eye him down. You manhandle him onto his fours and you line the tip of your cock at his hole. 

“I’ll take it slow, tell me if it hurts,” your head presses against his rim as it gradually pries him open, the wind is punched from his chest at your thick girth. Slowly sinking into him, Wriothesley’s vision spins as you split him open on your cock, the stretch an intoxicating one that has him wanting more. 

When your tip nudges against his prostate, he’s left seeing stars, a debauched moan slipping from his lips.

“Ughk!? Is it- hah! -is it all in?” You shush him, ghosting your claws on the skin above his arched spines.

“Just a bit more, you can take it, can’t you, Wrio?” An uncharacteristic whine rips from him when you finally bottom out in him, flush against the back of his thighs as you reach unfathomably deep in him.

You give him time to adjust to your size before you start moving, setting a relaxed pace to begin with. He squeezes down on your cock as you roll your hips, unrestrained noises escaping him as all sense is fucked from his mind. 

Picking up the intensity, you pull out halfway before slamming back into him, positioning your tip directly at where his prostate is while tugging on the leash.

“Hngk-! So big- AH! Fuck!” Wriothesley’s eyes roll back into his head, mouth hanging open.

Your repeated motions have him going crazy, his arms wobbling at the brutal onslaught of pleasure before giving out, the only things keeping him up are the knees folded under him and your hand clamping around the side of his hip.

Seconds blur into minutes and he doesn’t even know when you’ve started pounding relentlessly into him. Your thick shaft drags against his walls and he can feel every vein and twitch of your cock. 

Sensing you pulling on the leash, he turns and looks up at you, letting you see the drool dripping from his parted lips in the muzzle, his eyes unfocused and glazed over with nothing but raw lust. You give him a lick on his cheek, a kiss, before you fold your body over his, completely pressed against his back, pinning him beneath your massive frame.

“I’m close Wrio,” cooing into his ear again, your gravelly voice brings him back, “Want me to knot you?”

He babbles pitifully, “Uh- uh huh! AH! Yeah-! I- I want you!”

“You’re really asking for it now,” growling at his mindless pleading, you drive your cock in, a guttural howl leaving you as you climax, finally knotting your Wrio. The knot at your base stretches Wriothesley out even more and he can feel your cum filling him up inside. The searing pleasure causes him to pull taut, his back arching as he orgasms again, moaning as he tightens up around you, milking you for all you’re worth. 

The forest clearing is filled with the sounds of the both of you panting as you recover, checking in with Wriothesley to assure that he’s alright. While you wait for your knot to go down, you take the time to free him from the muzzle. The second you do, he leans in and presses a kiss to the tip of your snout, a lazy grin hanging from his face.

“Hah… I think you’ve made it up to me,” a glint in his eyes, “Another round next week?”

[> You add a muzzle, collar, and leash set to your collection.]

Thank you kindly for reading. Consider supporting on kofi if you enjoyed this or visit the other doors.

[trashmouth-richie]

your touch

eddie x female reader

summary: eddie survives the “earthquake” but has a hard time adjusting to changes, thankfully you are there

“This thing… fucking itches.”

He stood in the mirror. Harsh glow of sickly green fluorescent lights accentuating his mauled torso. Scrutinizing himself, hating what looked back at him.

“It’s only temporary,” you try to reassure him, speaking with a calm voice gently stroking soft hands over his hips, “just for a few—”

“Years babe!” He says hotly, irritation bubbling beneath his temples as he stares back at your eyes in the mirror, “a few years—you say it as if it’s not a big deal, like it’ll be over tomorrow.”

‘86 wasn’t Eddie’s year.

What was supposed to be filled with celebrating graduation and possibly a trip to LA to find a recording studio who would take him and the band seriously, ended in a week's time over Spring Break.

A week that brought new turmoil, hatred, fear and devastation to Hawkins— starting with a dead cheerleader, ending with a come-to-life DnD monster wreaking havoc across the small sheltered town.

Many people died. And if you asked any living member of Hawkins besides a select few; Eddie and yourself were also considered dead.

You stroke the back of his neck—small circles scratching lightly against bare skin, stubborn stubble peeking through showing itself off.

“Honey,” you purr with lips to his back, looking at him in the same mirror he hated more and more everyday that he had been here. “You know what the other option was.”

The town wanted Eddie dead and Owens agreed that having him be just that on paper would be the safest option. A little hush government money, a silly new name— Eddie was cool with that, almost excited.

“I know, I know..” he groans, fingers raking through the thick brown beard on his chin, defeated. “But this—” he says tugging harshly, “itches and.. and fuck—”

His appearance had to change.

Hawkins wasn’t satisfied with the claims that he was dead from the earthquake, they wanted to see a body, churchgoers going medieval, calling for his head on a stake in the middle of town.

Not wearing his rings made him feel like he was naked. He hated the feeling of it at first. But what really put the nail in the coffin was when he had to cut his hair, and “possibly grow a beard if he was able to” per Owen’s requests.

You work your fingers through the tufts of his beard, gently untangling the coarse hair and massaging his chin. “You’re still handsome.”

When Eddie got down on himself he stayed there in the wallowing depths, barely above water for weeks. Finding no joy in things he used to, some days even refusing to eat.

“I’m scarred up…don’t even look like my— I can’t fucking do this.” His frustration gets the best of him, letting a fist fly into the mirror—shattering it into pieces that clank loud in the sink, some tinkering down the drain and across the tiled floor.

He curses loud as blood flows angry and crimson from his knuckles, pit pattering onto the ceramic sink. He watches it slide down into a collecting path, pooling into a mass before it deepens, staining the floor entirely.

Minutes pass, and you haven’t said a word, giving him the space he needs. Eddie cleans himself up, bandaging his hand carelessly as he scrambles trying to piece the mirror back together, maybe if he had some tape he could fix it for you.

“I’m sorry baby,” he mutters around a fresh flock of tears, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.. I’m so fucking sorry, please don’t leave me.”

He feels your hands wrap around his waist again. Cold as silk, stinging like a frostbite, comforting him the only way you could.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Eddie hears, feeling your icy hands trace around his heart, “I’m always here.”

Sanity left him long ago, the barred enclosure taking its toll on his mind, his body. The others couldn’t understand—maybe didn’t want to understand why.

Why the inmate talked to his mirror.

a follow up to this story, the raven told me of you, is linked here

[dancingtotuyo]

Part II

High Infidelity | Joel Miller X Female Reader

Rating: Mature/Explicit

Summary: The weight of your husband being in jail starts to take its toll.

Tags: Tommy x Reader, Joel x Reader, Tommy's Wife Reader, infidelity, emotional affair, slow burn (as much as you can get for 5 chapters), Tommy goes to jail, Reader has had a child

Warnings: prison, visitation, family stress, lots of tears

Notes: Shout out to @janaispunk and @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin for beta reading this and helping out with the details! Also shoutout to @saradika-graphics for the dividers!

Words: 3310

Series Masterlist | Author Masterlist | Daily Clicks for Palestine & Other resources

You inhale deeply as you sit at the metal picnic table. Nathaniel bounces contently on your lap, taking in his surroundings. Families gather at each table, a low rumble filling the room. You glance down at your watch. The inmates are due any second, and Joel is supposed to be here too. Your eyes dart around the room at the families in the same boat as you. They all look a little different, consisting of different family components, but the same thing brought you all here. 

Joel rushes in, the summer heat and job site filth evident on his skin and clothes. You wave him over to your corner table, feeling more relaxed to have him here. You’ve been able to talk to Tommy for an hour every week, but this is the first time you’ve gotten to see him since his sentencing.

“Hey,” Joel says, breathless as he slides in next to you. Nathaniel lets out an exuberant greeting, hands banging against the table. Joel chuckles. “Hello to you too, bud.” 

“I thought you might not make it.”

“Cement guys were late.” Joel sighs, trying to brush the dirt from his shirt.

“Typical.” You mummer, earning a small chuckle from Joel. 

“You good?” Joel places a hand on your shoulder. 

“Yeah, I’m excited to see him.” You smile, kissing Nathaniel’s head. 

A couple guards file in to stand watch. Then, a loud buzzing rings, and the other door opens. It feels cliche, like one of those law procedural shows on TV. The room goes silent as men in orange jumpsuits file in, hands cuffed in front of them. Their eyes scan the crowd for their loved ones. Slowly, the volume rises as families reunite. Tommy is one of the last ones through the door, but the moment your eyes land on him, you feel tension ease from your body. 

You stand, waving to him. His eyes finally land on you, lifting with a happiness you haven’t seen in a while. He has a cut over his eyebrow. It looks a couple days old by now, a faint bruise still visible around it. 

You’re allowed a brief hug. Nothing long enough to transfer forbidden items is the idea, not that you could’ve gotten anything in here with the security patting you down how they did. 

He melts into your soft touch just a little like he did when he’d come back from his second tour. “Hey, Baby.” He smiles into your cheek, his lips skim your cheek as you pull away to avoid being yelled out. 

Joel hugs him next with a big pat on the back. You can hardly keep your eyes off him, your hand drifting absentmindedly to Nathaniel’s shoulders. Your two-year-old stares at his father with a sense of familiarity. He looks up at you and then back to Tommy. “Daddy!”

Tommy’s head snaps over, smile instantly falling from his face. “What’s he doing here?”

“Tommy…”

“I told you not to bring him.” He snaps.

“He’s your son.”

“This ain’t no place for a child!” Tommy says. “You don’t see Joel bringing Sarah for a visit, now do you?”

“Sarah,” you say, pulling at all your self-restraint. “Had soccer camp today but she said to tell you hi. She was sad she couldn’t come.”

“I want you to get him out of here. Now.” Tommy insists, not backing down. 

“Tommy-“ Joel tries to quell his brother’s rising temper.

“Is this really how you want to spend visitation? Fussing at me for bringing our son to see his father?”

“Get. Him. Out!” Tommy says, smoke blowing from his ears. One of the prison guards starts toward your group. 

Tommy holds up his cuffed hands in silent surrender. The guard backs up with a warning glare. 

“I don’t want him here,” Tommy says. “I made that clear.”

Confusion skirts your brow. Your Tommy, the one you know and love seems to be at war with the person he’s become during his short time behind bars. 

“I’ll take him out,” Joel says, reaching out for Nathaniel. He accepts, sitting comfortably on his uncle’s hip. Joel pauses, giving Tommy a chance to change his mind, but he looks away. 

You bite your lip. Joel sighs. “I parked next to you.”

You nod as he walks out with your son. Tommy sits down at the table. You sit across from him, mouth drawn in a tight line. 

“What the fuck is going on with you?”

“He shouldn’t see me like this. You shouldn’t see me like this.”

“You fucked up, Tommy, but we’re still here. You really want to go two years without seeing your kid?”

“It’s not like he’ll remember,” Tommy says. You sigh in exasperation. A faint smile finds its way onto his lips. “It’s almost like old times. You upset with me.”

You choke out a humorless laugh. “This is nothing like old times.”

“No… I guess it’s not.” He sobers up. 

You sigh, rubbing your temple. “Do you really not want him to come see you?”

Tommy nods, stuck in his resolve. “Don’t really want you here either.” A sly smile crosses Tommy’s face as he runs a finger over your knuckle without being caught. “Don’t like these other guys checking out my woman.”

You roll your eyes, helplessly falling for his flirting. “How progressive of you.”

You step into the Texas sun twenty minutes later, slipping your sunglasses over your eyes. You walk across the parking lot, following Nathaniel’s empty chatter to Joel’s pickup. Nathaniel busies himself in the back while Joel rests his forearms on the edge. You come up beside him, copying his stance. Nathaniel doesn’t notice you, too engrossed by the plethora of less-than-safe tools and scraps in the back of Uncle Joel’s truck. Your elbow touches Joel’s, the metal hot under your arms.

“Thanks for taking him.”

Joel nods. “Tommy really doesn’t want him to visit?”

“Nope.”

“He’s an idiot.”

“He’s your brother.”

“You married him.” 

You let out a little huff of laughter, a half smile gracing your face, spreading to Joel’s. His deep laughter fills your body. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

“Any regrets?” Joel kids, turning his head to you. 

You laugh. “Never. I don’t live with regrets, Miller.” You nudge him with your shoulder, tapping the side of the truck. “Nate, it’s time to go. We have Sarah’s exhibition game.”

Your toddler turns around, hammer clutched in his hands. “Play!”

“Come on, kiddo. You can play with my tools another day. I got a whole garage full of ‘em,” Joel chuckles.  

Nathaniel seems to contemplate the words for a minute before letting the hammer clatter to the bed of the truck. You cringe at the sound before your son reaches for you. Joel chuckles, making sure his items are secure as you pull Nathaniel into your arms. 

“You don’t have to go, you know. Today has been a lot.”

“Of course, I’m gonna go, Joel. It’s Sarah.”

He smiles, knowing your role in her life goes above and beyond the duties of an aunt, but not knowing how to communicate his gratitude for it. “Save me a spot? I have to run back by the job site. I should make it for the second half.” 

You can see him cringe as he says the words. You know he feels guilty about it. Sarah’s been talking about this since the start of soccer camp. “Of course.”

Sarah clocks Joel the moment he walks into the building, her attention is no longer on the coach who’s giving a mid-game pep talk, but on her father across the field. Joel shoots her two thumbs up and a massive grin before directing her attention back to her coach. 

Joel slides onto the cool metal bleacher beside you, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thank god this thing is indoors this year.”

You nod remembering the blaring sun and burning metal bleachers from last year’s camp exhibition game. Your eyes narrow over Joel’s appearance. He seems even dirtier than he did an hour ago. “You take a dirt bath at the job site or something?” You reach over, patting some of the dirt from his shoulder. 

“Something like that.” Joel chuckles. 

Your thumb swipes away a smudge along his jaw. His jaw twitches under your touch. He playfully swats away your hand, capturing it with his own. “That tickles.”

“You’re filthy.” 

“I didn’t really have time to shower on my way here.” He bumps against you lightly. 

“Hence the dirt bath?” You grin, returning the bump, but this time your shoulder and thighs remain pressed against the other’s. His hand falls to your bare knee, hanging off of it. As the second half starts, Nathaniel climbs into your lap, eyes fluttering toward sleep.

For all the cheering you can’t do, Joel makes up for it, spending much of the game on his feet. It might only be an exhibition game and there might not be an official score, but it’s glaringly obvious that Sarah’s team is dominating with Sarah scoring two goals of her own. Joel is beaming. 

“She looks amazing out there.” He says.

“She really does.”

“And she’s having a blast. Look at that smile.” Joel’s smile is just as big as his daughter’s, big enough to push away your own struggles of the day. 

Sarah makes a break for the three of you as soon as she's dismissed. She drips with sweat, but her smile never fades as she goes on about every thought that went through her mind throughout the game and Joel hangs on every word. 

Once Nathaniel rouses from his sleepy daze, he ropes Sarah into kicking the soccer ball around. Joel joins them on the field while you watch, your body coming down from the emotions of the day. 

“Mrs. Miller?”

Your head snaps around. A woman about your age dressed in athletic wear smiles at you. You’re pretty sure she was one of the coaches. 

“Yes?”

“Hi, I’m Coach Miranda. I lead Sarah’s unit this week.” She stretches out her hand. 

You shake it, supplying your first name in return. “Nice to meet you. I know Sarah had a blast this week.” 

“I enjoyed having her,” Coach Miranda says. “She’s a talented soccer player.”

You smile, pride swelling in your chest. She’s not your kid, but that parental feeling toward her is very much there. “She learned so much. Her dad and I were talking during the game about how much she’s improved this week.”

“I’m happy to hear that.” The coach rocks on her feet, briefly considering her words. “Look, I coach one of the travel teams in the area.” She hands you a brochure. “I know she’s still a couple years away from being old enough, but we put on a few camps and clinics throughout the year for kids her age.”

You flip through the brochure of information. “These look very… fancy.”

“We offer scholarships if money is your worry.”

“No- I mean, it’s pricey but… She’s six.” You finally manage something coherent. “She just turned six. It seems early to start anything this serious.”

“Your daughter is very talented, Mrs. Miller.”

“Oh- I-” You stumble over your words.

“Is everything okay?” Joel asks, joining you with Nathaniel on his hip.

“I was just telling your wife how talented Sarah is.”

“We’re not married.” You blurt out unceremoniously, face feeling flush. There were smoother ways to navigate this and you are missing each one. 

The coach’s face flashes with confusion and embarrassment. “Oh- I’m sorry. I just assumed when I said Mrs. Miller…”

“I am,” You feel more flustered than is needed. Nathaniel reaches for you and you take him from Joel. “I’m not his Mrs. Miller. I mean-”

“She’s my sister-in-law.” Joel finishes for you and you sigh in relief. “Helps me out a lot.”

Coach Miranda nods, a slight red tinge to her cheeks from the embarrassment. “Got it,” she says, holding awkwardness in her frame.

“It’s okay,” you assure her. “I’ll let him know.” 

She nods, excusing herself quickly. 

“That was odd,” Joel says.

“Being mistaken for your wife? Or her behavior?”

“Her. The wife thing I understand.” Joel shrugs. ���Guess she was embarrassed.”

 “The wife thing you understand, huh?” You cross your arms, smiling pushing on your lips. “I’m sure your brother would love to hear that.”

Joel shakes his head. “Don’t think he’s interested in anything I have to say after today.”

You roll your eyes, not wanting to relive the day's earlier events. “Here.” You hand him the brochure. “Apparently the coach thinks Sarah should sign up for more camps.”

“These are pricey for a six-year-old.”

“That’s what I said. She just kept saying how good Sarah is.”

“Course she did. She was the best one out there.” Joel smiles proudly. He tucks the brochure into his back pocket without another thought. “The princess wants pizza tonight. Your little troublemaker agreed.”

“Wow, you gonna start blaming everything on my kid now, Miller?” You laugh.

“If the shoes fits.”

“Ironic considering you called Sarah the princess.” 

Joel rolls his eyes, waving the kids over. “I’ll pick it up on our way home. Your place or mine?”

“Yours works. I’m sure Sarah needs a shower.” 

“Works for me,” Joel grins. 

Nathaniel jumps into your arms. Joel takes your purse and Sarah’s duffle and the four of you walk out hand in hand, looking very much like the family Sarah’s coach assumed you were. 

Two Years Later

You’re two years into it, obeying the strict dress code, getting pat down by security guards, and brief touches and chaste kisses with your husband. You typically go alone, leaving Nathaniel with Joel or a sitter. Joel comes sometimes. Usually, he visits Tommy on his own time. 

The visits have gotten shorter, more curt. Tommy has been more irritable. You chalk it up to being stuck in prison, but this most recent visit leaves your emotions fried. Tommy barely looked at you, hardly strung together more than a sentence or single-word response. He didn’t flirt with you, his signature grin nowhere to be seen.

You press your back to the back door as it shuts behind you. Squeezing your eyes tight, you do your best to will away the tears you shed on the drive home. 

“That you, Darlin?” Joel calls, rattling around in your kitchen. “I was just about to put the steaks on the grill.” 

You hear Nathaniel playing in the living room. You catch a sliver of Sarah’s ponytail, back hunched over the table presumably doing homework. You take a steadying breath, but your diaphragm shakes. 

When you don’t respond, Joel peaks around the corner. His brow furrows as he takes in your defeated frame. 

“Sarah,” he calls out. Your eyes open at his strong voice, locking eyes with him. “Keep an eye on Nathaniel for me. I need to go out to the garage for a couple minutes.”

“Okay.” She says, none the wiser to your appearance.

Joel takes your hand, tugging you forward just enough to get the door open before he propels you back into the garage. Your body feels like a limp noodle, helpless to do anything but let him lead you. 

The door clicks shut. He cups your cheeks. His soft brown eyes laced with concern meet yours. 

Your body eases into him, desperate and touch starved as you grab ahold of his soft shirt. Shaking your head, your whole body begins to tremble. Tears fall down your cheeks. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” It’s a stupid thing to say and he knows it. 

“No it’s not!” You shout. “My life’s a mess! It’s all a mess.” You devolve into a puddle of indistinguishable words and sounds. 

Joel pulls you into his chest, supporting your weight as your knees threaten to crumble beneath you. “Shhh, I’ve got you.”

If he’s being honest, Joel isn’t surprised by the breakdown. He constantly watches as you try to hold it all together. He’s visited Tommy too. He’s seen the impact of prison and self-loathing on his younger brother. 

His hand slides behind your neck, cool against your overheating flesh. His fingers play at the nape of your neck, soothing you as you soak his shirt. It’s an event the two of you have become overly familiar with. Joel’s arms represent stability in your unstable world.

Slowly, the tears dry and your chest stops shaking. Joel presses a long, firm kiss on your forehead. With one final deep breath, your heart rate returns to normal and you’re able to slowly pull yourself away from your brother-in-law. 

He gives you a smile, brushing away your tears. Wiping your nose on the back of your sleeve, you manage a weak laugh. “I’ve been kind of a mess lately.”

“You?” Joel quirks a smile. “I haven’t noticed.”

A laugh clears your throat. “Thank you for everything.”

Joel shrugs. “It’s what you do for family, and ours is going through a lot right now.”

You nod, smiling through bloodshot eyes. “I really do appreciate you, Joel. I don’t think I could do this without you.”

Joel reaches out, fixing the sleeve on your shoulder. His fingers drift over your soft collar bone not enough for you to notice, but long enough for him to memorize the feel of it. 

“Don’t think I could either, Darlin.” Joel forces a smile, masking his true feelings. 

He doesn’t say how mad it makes him that Tommy has put you through this, or that you deserve better, or even hint that he would support you leaving his little brother even though he knows Tommy would be heartbroken. He can’t say any of it because if he did, he wouldn’t be able to stop himself. Joel isn’t sure what those feelings are yet, but he knows it’s so much more than one should feel for their sister-in-law. 

“That’s not true.” You shake your head. “You did this long before I came along.”

“Maybe, but I think we make a pretty good team.” His chest tightens. That word doesn’t seem to encapsulate what you are to him. The words that do are inappropriate to use. You’re just two people brought together by their love of another person. Joel has repeated that sentence to himself more times than he cares to admit. 

“Yeah. I suppose we do.” A smile finds its way to your face and you clear the last tears from your face. “How do I look?”

“Like you’ve been crying for an hour.” Joel chuckles, letting his finger run the length of your jaw. He’s pushing a line. He knows, but he can’t help it. These stolen moments are all he gets. “But amazing as always.”

“I swear you and your brother couldn’t tell a woman she looked bad if there was a gun to your head.”

Joel shrugs, putting his hands in his pocket to avoid doing something he may regret. “We were raised right.”

“Mhmm, that’s why my husband is in jail right now.”

Later that evening, you’re cleaning up from dinner, a drink within reach when Joel speaks up. “I think we should go on vacation.”

“We?”

“The four of us.”

You turn the idea around in your head. It would be nice. You can’t remember the last time you had a real vacation, probably before Nathaniel was born. “What were you thinking?”

Joel shrugs. “Just the beach. There’s this place we used to go when we were kids. I’ve been wanting to take Sarah.”

“You sure you’d want us to tag along?”

“Did we not just talk about this?” He steals a dish from your hand, placing it in the dishwasher. “We’re a team, and we could all use the break.” 

“Yeah, It’s been a year… or two.”

“Try five.” Joel offers a weak smile. You return it. “I’ll call tomorrow. See what’s available.” 

“Thank you.”

taglist: @pamasaur @alltheotps @rizzraa @moel-jiller @misstokyo7love @justagalwhowrites @pedritosgfreal @mellymbee @sarahhxx03 @lizzie-cakes @sixhours @duckybird101 @anoverwhelmingdin @nervoushottee

[wri0thesley]

yet again thinking about wriothesley but i'm thinking about old perv wriothesley duke of the fortress of meropide administrator in charge of your prison sentence and your punishments and all of the humiliating things he makes you do that no other inmates are subjected to. it's nice of him, you suppose, to have you as his personal assistant so you don't need to do heavy labour (he'd chuckled, quirked an eyebrow; 'and ruin those pretty hands?' he'd said. 'have you out there for anyone to take advantage of in a dark corner? and hurt yourself? no, sweetheart. you're better off here. it's a much better job for someone as . . . green as you are.')

but you don't know how you feel about the uniform you have to wear. he furrows his brow when you voice a quiet, squeaky complaint, and you're too scared to do it again so you wear the short tight skirt that emphasises the curve of your hip and the little pouch of your tummy, the blouse that's just too small to button over your chest without popping a few off, the stockings that dig into the pudge of your thighs, fiddle with the garters--

and you don't wear underwear, because three times a day wriothesley comes over to your desk and makes you climb onto your desk and spread your thighs for him for an 'inspection'. just to make sure you're taking care of yourself. just to make sure you're not letting anyone between your legs, to make sure that you're just as pretty as he remembers. thumbs spreading the lips of your labia wide, breath hot against your sensitive folds, mouth murmuring so close to your clit you can barely stand it, fingers prodding against your entrance with chuckles about how tight you are and how cute it is when you get wet for him like this and tremble and whine and sniffle--

yep. wriothesley pats your cunt as he stands up, the chains and rings sending a shock through your over-sensitive exposed folds. just a routine inspection, sweetheart, he tells you as he adjusts his trousers. no funny business. just doing his duty. just making sure you're being good.

[fancyfeathers]

little head canons to go with my Yandere Neuvilette and Yandere Wriothesley’s mini series (read it here)

Yandere Neuvilette

I highly doubt that after his and Wriothesley’s darling ran off he would never let her outside again, unless a number of years have passed and she doesn’t misbehave and then he’ll take her out, but only at his side and when I say by his side I mean his hand always intertwined with hers or his hand always on her waist

Anemo vision? Sorry love, afraid he can’t trust you with that anymore, but don’t worry it’s never far, Neuvillette always keeps it in his breast pocket, close to his heart like you. It’s almost like a small bit of you is with him

Over her months traveling she had lost quite a bit of weight only being able to afford the bare minimum for food with the little mora she had, so you can bet Neuvilette has noticed this. He is sitting at her side at every meal shoving more food onto her plate saying how unhealthy and thin she looked. Sometimes it gets to the point where it hurts and she gets sick and ten minutes later Neuvillette is holding her hair back as she throws up from over eating

He’ll coddle her like she’s a child and when she gets upset that she’s locked up he’ll remind her that this was all her doing, she’s the runaway and the convict and now she is just serving her time

Yandere Wriothesley

his darling will also spend most of her days locked up, legally as an inmate of the prison but never treated like one, hell she’ll likely never see an actual inmate there unless she sneaks out of Wriothesley’s room which definitely happens

Speaking of sneaking out, if she wants to let off some steam and face off in the Pankration Ring. Oh bless her heart when Wriothesley finds out. He may have no problem when she looses her temper at him and throws a few punches, but when she’s faces against other inmates she could get hurt. He knows how to fight her without getting hurt but the inmates don’t. Besides that she’s not supposed to leave their room or his office so he’ll be more than fuming.

He may have promised her mother not to take her guitar or vision, but if she dares to use it against him he’ll tuck it away for a week or two just so she knows what will happen if she uses it against him again.

The guitar though, he won’t touch, unless he’s trying to get her to play, but she never does. He’ll ask her to play once and awhile which will be followed by a few swears and curses from her before he drops the question. He’ll try to play her guitar every now and then because he learned how to play with her but every time he does it is promptly snatched from him and always a go die from her.

A few years down the line if she is well behaved and served her sentence she was given in trial a rigged one but that’s besides the point. He’ll arrange it to go visit her family above ground, but he’ll always be at her side and present to her younger siblings that he is her partner and that they took a trip together and that’s why she was gone for a few years. Her mother knows the truth but her siblings can be spared that fact and live in a fantasy.

[bywrios]

sometimes, it’s easy to forget that wriothesley isn’t invincible.

he makes it seem so easy—fighting, that is. all quick, sharp movements and light footwork. it’s almost like he’s dancing as he circles his opponents in the pankration ring, fists held high to shield his face. and outside the ring, he’s aided by those gauntlets of his that pack one hell of a mean punch.

all this to say, wriothesley doesn’t often get hurt. but he is still just a man, and to err is human, as they also say.

and so you give him an apologetic smile as he sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth when you press a damp cotton swab to a cut on his cheek. he’d gotten it trying to break up a fight between a few inmates, and one of them got a lucky hit in. his large, warm hands rest on your knees as he sits across from you, caged in by his own legs to ensure you can get close enough. his thumbs draw idle shapes into your skirt as you clean up the little cut, and he lets his mind wander as he looks at you.

you’re too preoccupied to notice his lingering blue gaze as it traces the contours and dips of your face, over the ridge of your cheekbones and the delicate bow of your lips, before settling on your eyes. ones so full of warmth and sincerity, both things wriothesley once thought he’d never be so intimately familiar with.

but you proved him wrong. and oh, how he loves it. loves you.

when you pull away, your work done, he catches your wrist gently. he grins at the puzzled look on your face, and the way your head tilts to the side in confusion ever so slightly. archons take him, you’re so damn cute.

“i think you’re forgetting something, doc,” he teases, and you blink. your eyes flicker from his eyes to the cut and back, and you frown. wriothesley hums, and to help you along, he lets his eyes flicker noticeably down to your lips then back up—which immediately draws an exasperated noise from you.

“you want me to kiss it better?”

and he grins, charmingly boyish. “pretty please, princess?”

(it takes him giving you his best puppy dog eyes before you relent and press a chaste kiss to the cut. he all but melts against you, and you swear if he had a tail it would probably be wagging furiously right now.)

[waywardvictorianconfessions]

The little inmate ring seems to be a knockoff of a pandora ring called elevated heart (pink, blue and white zirconias). Just bought the original one from pandora. I loved the meaning she gave to it but I’m too suspicious to trust her version since pink emeralds don’t even exist (?)

[aita-blorbos]

(Spoilers for Magnus Archives)

AITA for burning my childhood house down

Hello, Jon.

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

WIBTA for starting the apocalypse

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, Jon, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When RS (87, M) first gathered our little band – L, S, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from R, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. RS was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced RS to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years. for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all RS’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met G (70, F) that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But G was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, G’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of G throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing G, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to G’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, Jon. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, Jon?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during G’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when JP attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor H (~20, F). I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

JL (~70, M) was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much G would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective T (~25, F) be assigned to the case when they found G’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

J (27, F) served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. C, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with M (23, F) and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot JH (???, M) misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective T has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor P (~50, M). He really should have left well enough alone. Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about M (same age as you, Jon, M).

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is M, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, Jon. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[bywrios-moved]

sometimes, it’s easy to forget that wriothesley isn’t invincible.

he makes it seem so easy—fighting, that is. all quick, sharp movements and light footwork. it’s almost like he’s dancing as he circles his opponents in the pankration ring, fists held high to shield his face. and outside the ring, he’s aided by those gauntlets of his that pack one hell of a mean punch.

all this to say, wriothesley doesn’t often get hurt. but he is still just a man, and to err is human, as they also say.

and so you give him an apologetic smile as he sucks in a sharp breath between his teeth when you press a damp cotton swab to a cut on his cheek. he’d gotten it trying to break up a fight between a few inmates, and one of them got a lucky hit in. his large, warm hands rest on your knees as he sits across from you, caged in by his own legs to ensure you can get close enough. his thumbs draw idle shapes into your skirt as you clean up the little cut, and he lets his mind wander as he looks at you.

you’re too preoccupied to notice his lingering blue gaze as it traces the contours and dips of your face, over the ridge of your cheekbones and the delicate bow of your lips, before settling on your eyes. ones so full of warmth and sincerity, both things wriothesley once thought he’d never be so intimately familiar with.

but you proved him wrong. and oh, how he loves it. loves you.

when you pull away, your work done, he catches your wrist gently. he grins at the puzzled look on your face, and the way your head tilts to the side in confusion ever so slightly. archons take him, you’re so damn cute.

“i think you’re forgetting something, doc,” he teases, and you blink. your eyes flicker from his eyes to the cut and back, and you frown. wriothesley hums, and to help you along, he lets his eyes flicker noticeably down to your lips then back up—which immediately draws an exasperated noise from you.

“you want me to kiss it better?”

and he grins, charmingly boyish. “pretty please, princess?”

(it takes him giving you his best puppy dog eyes before you relent and press a chaste kiss to the cut. he all but melts against you, and you swear if he had a tail it would probably be wagging furiously right now.)

[spiral-man]

Hey dudes,

Just wanted to wish everyone a happy-

Hello Jon,

Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself.

I’m assuming you’re alone; you always did prefer to read your statements in private. (slightly strained) I wouldn’t try too hard to stop reading; there’s every likelihood you’ll just hurt yourself. So just listen.

Now, shall we turn the page and try again?

Statement of Jonah Magnus regarding Jonathan Sims, The Archivist.

Statement begins.

I hope you’ll forgive me the self-indulgence, but I have worked so very hard for this moment, a culmination of two centuries of work. It’s rare that you get the chance to monologue through another, and you can’t tell me you’re not curious.

Why does a man seek to destroy the world?

It’s a simple enough answer: for immortality and power. Uninspired, perhaps, but – my god. The discovery, not simply of the dark and horrible reality of the world in which you live, but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness, to place yourself beyond pain and death and fear.

It is an awful thing to know about yourself, but the freedom, John, the freedom of it all. I have dedicated my life to handing the world to these Dread Powers all for my own gain, and I feel… nothing but satisfaction in that choice.

I am to be a king of a ruined world, and I shall never die.

I believe there are far more people in this world that would take that bargain than you would ever guess. And I have beaten all of them.

Of course, this desire did not manifest overnight. When Smirke first gathered our little band – Lukas, Scott, and the rest – to discuss and hypothesize on the nature of the things he had learned from Rayner, I felt what I believe we all felt: curiosity, and fear.

But as he compiled his taxonomy and codified his theories on the grand rituals, I began to develop a very specific concern. Smirke was so obsessed with his ideas on balance, even as our fellows began to experiment and fall to the service of our patrons.

I began to worry that if one of them successfully attempted their ritual, then I would be as much a victim as any, trapped in the nightmare landscape of a twisted world.

At first, I attempted prevention, but the cause seemed hopeless. The only way to ensure I did not suffer the tribulations of what I believed to be an inevitable transformation was to bring it about myself. So what began as an experiment soon became a race.

Beyond that, I was getting older, and mortality began to weigh more heavily on my mind. How much in this world is done because we fear death, the last and greatest terror?

I convinced Smirke to work on Millbank, leading him to design it as a temple to all the Fears in equilibrium, such that my own modifications to the design of the Panopticon went… unremarked.

It. Took. Years, for the dread of the prisoners to fully suffuse the place, and I was an old man before I made my first attempt at the Watcher’s Crown, sat in the center of that colossal eye, the great ring of cells encircling me like a coronet.

It was… flawed, of course, as all Smirke’s rituals were, and none of the inmates survived as the power I attempted to harness shook the building almost to pieces, and the murky swamp upon which the prison was built consumed it.

But it left me a gift: For sat in that watchtower, I could see everything I turned my mind to.

It was a dizzying power, and one I discovered I maintained even as I found vessels to extend my life. Of course, I had to make sure the location was kept under my control while I worked on revising my plans, and so I moved the organization I had founded to assist in my research down to London, and the Institute as you know it was born.

I’ll not bore you with details of my bodies and failures through those intervening years. Suffice to say I kept busy, both planning my own next attempt, and doing my best to stymie those others who tried versions of their own.

Surely my interpretation of the Watcher’s Crown had been incomplete; there had been some element of the ritual I had overlooked.

It was not until I met Gertrude Robinson that things began to really come into focus.

You see, the role of Archivist has been part of the Beholding for as far back as my research can go. This isn’t uncommon for the Powers; most of the beliefs around them are guesswork and fallible human interpretation, but there are certain throughlines and consistencies that can be spotted, regardless of the trappings.

But Gertrude was unlike any other Archivist. She simply did not care about compiling experiences or collecting the fears of others. She was driven to stop those who served the Powers.

More than once I thought she must secretly be of the Hunt – but there was never that sick joy in her, that thrill of predator and prey. She had simply decided that this was her position in life, and went about it with a practicality that even I found disconcerting at times.

I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat.

I don’t know if she was joking, and, to be honest, I could never bring myself to look into her mind and find out for sure.

In any case, Gertrude’s ruthless efficiency in derailing and collapsing rituals threw into stark relief a question that had been bothering me for almost a hundred and fifty years: In the whole span of humanity, why had nobody ever succeeded?

Perhaps there were a long line of Gertrude Robinsons throughout history, but I found that hard to credit. Could it be, then, that there was something in the very concept of the rituals that meant they couldn’t succeed?

She was clearly having similar thoughts in that last year, all of which culminated with the People’s Church.

When I saw that she was making no preparations whatsoever to stop it, I realized she was putting into practice a theory, and one she couldn’t afford to be wrong. She was going to wait, and see if the unopposed ritual succeeded, or if it collapsed under its own strain as mine had all those years ago.

Knowing Gertrude, I’m sure she had a backup plan if she had miscalculated – but she had not. The ritual failed. And all at once, I realized what had to be done.

You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?

Even those that seem to exist in direct opposition rely on each other for their definition as much as up relies on down.

To try and create a world with only the Buried makes as much sense as trying to conceive a world with only down.

Every ritual tied itself so closely to a single power as to render itself impossible. They could bring their patron close, but never sever it from the others, and eventually it would be violently pulled back into the place next to reality where they dwell.

The solution, then, is simple: A new ritual must be devised which will bring through all the Powers at once. All fourteen, as I had hoped I could complete it before any new powers such as Extinction were able to fully emerge. All under the Eye’s auspices, of course. We mustn’t forget our roots.

And there was only one being that could possibly serve as a lynchpin for this new ritual: The Archivist. A position that had so recently become vacant, thanks to Gertrude’s ill-timed retirement plans.

Because the thing about the Archivist is that – well, it’s a bit of a misnomer.-

It might, perhaps, be better named: The Archive.

Because you do not administer and preserve the records of fear, John. You are a record of fear, both in mind as you walk the shuddering record of each statement, and in body as the Powers each leave their mark upon you.

You are a living chronicle of terror.

Perhaps, then, if I could find an Archivist and have each Power mark them, have them confront each one and each in turn instill in them a powerful and acute fear for their life, they could be turned into a conduit for the coming of this – nightmare kingdom.

Do you see where I’m going, John?

It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck.

I’ll admit, my options were somewhat limited, but My God, when you came to me already marked by the Web, I knew it had to be you. I even held out some small hope you had been sent by the Spider as some sort of implicit blessing on the whole project, and, do you know what, I think it was.

Of course, I had to bide my time, get a measure of you before I began to push, learn how you worked – So I decided I would wait until something came for you, and see how you reacted. Attacks upon the Archives were not uncommon during Gertrude’s tenure, and, while she was always prepared, I made sure you would not be.

I reasoned if you couldn’t survive a single encounter, you were unlikely to make it through all fourteen. So, when Jane Prentiss attacked, I watched eagerly, one hand on the gas release from the start.

You acquitted yourself well enough, so I decided to see how far you would get, though I waited until the worms were in you before I pulled the lever. I needed to make sure you felt that fear all the way to your bones.

The discovery that one of the Stranger’s minions had infiltrated the Institute in the aftermath was certainly a pleasant bonus. Even if that sliver of paranoia, that vague wrongness you couldn’t quite place wouldn’t count as a mark, it was only a matter of time before it confronted you in a far more direct and affecting matter.

Admittedly, given the advent of the Unknowing, I needn’t have bothered. But what’s the old saying about hindsight?

More important to me was Sasha’s encounter with the Distortion. If it had taken an interest, then I very much wanted it to cross your path.

So I found one of its current victims and convinced her to make a statement.

Poor Helen. I actually had to put her in a taxi myself, she was getting so lost in those narrow London side streets.

It worked, though.

Between the stabbing and at least two desperate flights into its doors – you’re marked very deeply by the Spiral.

Jurgen Leitner was a surprise, of course, and I was forced to improvise. I had no idea how much Gertrude would have told him, and he could very easily have derailed everything if you learned too much too fast.

I… justified it to myself saying I was going to have to send you out into the world anyway, if you were to encounter more of the Powers, but I can’t honestly pretend it wasn’t a… rather rash move.

Still. I’d requested Detective Tonner be assigned to the case when they found Gertrude’s body in the hope that having a Hunter in the mix would eventually lead to a confrontation, and setting you up as a killer certainly hastened that.

Then it was just a matter of feeding you statements to lead you to a few Avatars I thought were likely to harm you – but probably would stop short of actually killing you.

Jude served her purpose exactly as I had hoped, as did our dearly departed Mr. Crew, marking you for the Desolation and the Vast.

Honestly, I had – nothing to do with Melanie and her Slaughter adventure, but when I saw the situation, I made sure to trap her here, so when her rage bubbled over you would be right there, a ready target.

I didn’t foresee the mark coming from surgery gone wrong, but it was a very pleasant surprise.

The Unknowing was a distraction, but not an unwelcome one. For this to work, you needed more than just the marks; you needed power. And that was something the Unknowing served to test, though it posed no actual danger in the grand scheme of things.

And it did serve another purpose, of course. It inadvertently pushed you to confront death, a mark I had been very worried about trying to orchestrate. If I tried too early, you’d just die. Too late, and you might be powerful enough to see the attempt coming, and maybe even understand why.

As it was, it was just right, and once again, you came through with flying colors.

By this point, your abilities were coming along in leaps and bounds, and I was concerned that meeting face-to-face might end up with you – (sigh) – Knowing something you shouldn’t.

I had initially planned to go into hiding, but when your colleagues surprised me with the police, well. It was simple enough to cut a deal.

All that remained, then, were the Dark, the Flesh, the Buried, and the Lonely.

I was a little put out when that idiot Jared Hopworth misinterpreted my letters and attacked the Institute too soon, before you were even out of the hospital, but then – Ho, you should have see my face when you voluntarily went to him.

I couldn’t see what happened in there, of course, but given how you came out, I’m very sure it counts as a mark.

I suspected the coffin might turn up again, and once it did, it was simply a matter of getting any, uh… restraining factors you might have had flying off on a wild goose chase, and waiting.

Honestly, Detective Tonner has been proving invaluable through this process. I’d been racking my brains for months about what I could use to lure you in.

And, of course, I knew the Dark Sun was just sitting there waiting. So when it came time, I just whipped up another apocalypse and sent you on your merry way.

Then all that remained was the Lonely.

Poor Peter. He really should have left well enough alone. (cruel laugh) Or just done what I’d asked in the first place.

Ah well. He knew what I was attempting, and was very unwilling to cooperate until I made him a little wager about Martin.

Of course, he had no way of knowing that, in addition to setting you up for the final mark, he was giving you all the tools you needed to escape from it.

How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that.

And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date. I have enjoyed our little trip down memory lane, but past here lies only impatience.

You are prepared. You are ready. You are marked. The power of the Ceaseless Watcher flows through you, and the time of our victory is here.

Don’t worry, John. You’ll get used to it here, in the world that we have made.

Now. (cruel, cruel laugh) Repeat after me.

You who watch and know and understand none. You who listen and hear and will not comprehend. You who wait and wait and drink in all that is not yours by right.

Come to us in your wholeness.

Come to us in your perfection.

Bring all that is fear and all that is terror and all that is the awful dread that crawls and chokes and blinds and falls and twists and leaves and hides and weaves and burns and hunts and rips and bleeds and dies!

Come to us.

I – OPEN – THE DOOR!

[i-am-a-l0st-gh0st]

Why do I let myself dream like this?-Wriothesley x reader Flufftober

"But perhaps its just my stupid head in end" T/w- reader has a bad past Summary- Wriothesly can see something is up with you. No matter how much you try and hide it.

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Wriothesley had loved you since the moment he saw you, despite you being a prisoner in the fortress of Menopide. He had done his best to keep his distance from you but couldn’t help but see you everywhere at the cafeteria, the boxing ring and the workplace. How you had caught it continued to baffle him, maybe it was your beauty or your kindness. How could someone like you get sent down here?

Wriothesley had done a little background research on you as he does with everyone. He found out a few unexpected things about you. You were orphaned at a young age and sent to live with a foster family who wasn’t very good. So you took to the streets. Stealing and fighting just too by, and somehow through all of that you remained happy and cheerful. Or so he thought.

One night a fellow inmate caught you crying, and soon many others were giving you pity looks. Including the duke. So you kept your head down and kept working. No one would bother you right as long as you kept to yourself.  

“Hey, it's y/n right?”

You jumped from the deep voice that came behind you. “A-ah yeah..” Ah shit it was the duke you could hardly squeak out words

“Could I speak to you for a moment? In my office?”

“Of course sir…”

You followed closely behind him and as you were walking you could see people whisper things about the two of you. Maybe some secret affair was going on like some thought. Or maybe he really did just want to talk to you. 

In his office sat a desk in the middle of the room. With four bookshelves, two on either side, about a third of the way up the wool. In Between the middle bookshelves, there was something that looked to be a massive cog on the wall. A staircase leading somewhere also was right side as you walked in. The office itself was a tad bit plant but overall comforting.

“What was it you needed to talk to me about sir?”

“No need for the for formalities, just Wriothesley will do. And just something in regards to what the other inmates have been saying recently,”

He looked you directly in your e/c eyes and he said: “I know you are not okay y/n. I've done some reading on you and from what I can see, you’ve had a rough go.”

Tears started to well up in your eyes, “Sir im fine-”

“I can see you are not, and you know if you do need to talk I am here.”

“Thank you kindly.”

“Now how would you like to stay for some tea.”

This was the closest Wriothesley was going to get to a date with you. Or was it.

“That would be lovely thank you.”

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