#ways around dealing with that devil other ways instead of taking red honey ways of not (probably) worsening the condition of a seeker

[miamicommune]

thinking abt how nemesis kind of sets up what should be the most thematically interesting ambition in FL and how quickly that fades as it goes

[theveryworstthing]

So over on patreon Trevor asked for my take on the Addams Family and I grew up LOVING the Addams family movies so here we are. Instead of doing a straight up style interpretation, I decided to do a full on design challenge, using the characters as bases to make a black southern gothic Addams au. I actually drew the kids first, using the character bases of Wednesday and Pugsley to create some delightful kiddos I'm calling Sunday and Blanche. I of course then redesigned Gomez and Morticia into Carlisle and Mortesha.

The Addams have a very specific high aristocratic goth aesthetic (they've got a butler and nobody really works among other things) so in this re-imagining I wanted to go with vibes that run a little more middle class/upper middle class.  I thought it would be interesting to think about what would be considered weird and off-putting in an entirely different culture, and how being a big ol' goth is way less controversial than it used to be.

I tried to keep this short (HAHAHAHAHAHA) so I didn't spin off into an essay about villain coded families, black people in the horror genre, and normalcy as it pertains to social survival, but just...bits of that are in these designs and lore. Keep that in mind.

Also I made the kids twins because they've flip flopped in age so much in different media and also twins run in my family (i'm the daughter of one). And let's face it, I'm pulling a lot of their southern gothic traits from living as a southern goth so *shrug*.

10 thousand pounds of lore incoming loooooooooool.

The Parents

From the moment he saw her he knew that there was a 50/50 chance of him either never making it out of that swamp alive or marrying the figure that was creeping out from under the distant willow tree in a black cocktail dress. The third time she found him trussed up in one of her traps, he complimented her rope work and asked if she'd like to go out sometime after his head wound stopped bleeding.

Or while it was still bleeding.

If she was into that.

Some kids and a mysteriously burnt down Piggly Wiggly later, their love is still as strong and inescapable as a bear trap in a sink hole.

Carlisle Guillermo (now Addams through marriage but I wanted to give him two first names for a name since Gomez has two last names) makes a vaguely described living practicing ‘law’ around town. A loophole king, people come to him from miles around with contracts signed in blood, fights over chunks of hair buried in their rivals’ yard, dehydrated primate hands, memories that seemed like dreams until the evidence of their happenings became too real, and other regular Legal Items asking for counsel which he is all too happy to give. For a price. Sometimes that price is a homemade pie and sometimes it’s a million dollars, depends on who you are. Whatever you’re asked to pay it’s worth that price, and if you try to scam him out of work or he just plain doesn’t like you? Well. He knows how to twist a contract better than anything at the crossroads.

And he always gets his due.

He doesn’t just serve the local (living)humans though, there are many things that need proper legal representation in this day and age. You wouldn’t believe how many city councils try to build on sacred burial grounds even after he lets them know that his ghostly clients are totally gonna haunt the FUCK out of the ensuing shitty condos and curse their families for all eternity. At least 50% of his energy goes towards dealing with real estate bullshit.

Carl is an excitable and good natured(?) man who loves his family, cigars, dancing, and his many knife-based hobbies. People find him very charming once they get past the feeling that they’re talking to a sultry gator badly disguising itself as a human. I didn’t put a ton of deep thought into designing him, mostly I wanted to make a middle aged dude who looked like he would have been voted ‘most likely to smooch the literal devil’ in high school. Tbh he probably has, but no demonic ex’s can compare to his lovely wife~

Mortesha Addams(her name was already perfect so I just tweaked it)is a woman of many talents. A self proclaimed homemaker, she prides herself on a greenhouse full of Concerning Foliage, a beautiful wasp apiary, and a coop full of what are probably chickens that she keeps for what are probably eggs. She’s also an avid creator of the outsider art that can be seen around the estate. She has taken on the family business of selling her homemade goods in a little stall by the road just outside the swamp with her mom, and makes pretty good money doing so. A surprising amount of poison gets bought in quaint southern towns.

Speaking of poison, people who come out to the edge of the swamp to buy it are usually carrying a lot of secrets around, and Mortesha knows most of them. It’s not like she pries the truth out of people, it just so happens that many nervous hellos eventually turn into the tragic backstory power hour if she’s alone with a client for long enough. She supposes that’s just how people are. Despite the fact that the Addams are very active in the community (whether the community likes it or not) she especially, as a direct descendant of the first Addams matriarch, is seen as…Well not an outsider because the community feels A Certain Way about outsiders and despite it all the Addams are their people, but maybe something like an exception. They feel like whatever weirdness they’re hiding can’t be weirder than any given Addams, so they get a little loose with their words.

This is amusing to her, since Addams’ don’t naturally keep the kind dramatic secrets that their surface level prim and proper neighbors do. It’s much more fun to openly talk about those things.

Do they have a sadly decrepit yet terrifying grandma up in the attic? Yeah, like three. They got a tv, all the creepy porcelain dolls they could want, and they’re close to family. Where do you keep your gram-grams?

Any bodies buried on the property? Yeah some, but most are thrown to the gators.

Any creeping through the balmy summer night with ill intentions? Yeah dude, everyone loves a nice family stroll.

What about dangerous forbidden love? If an adult Addams isn’t incorporeal then they’re either queer or in a torrid romance with some person/thing mysteriously drawn to that awful swamp. Sometimes both at the same time. Most times actually.

Mortesha would know.

The current head of the Addams family is just as outgoing as her husband but a lot quieter and harder to read. She never really seems to get mad about much and always has a genteel smile for everyone whether they deserve it or not. A seven foot tall human shaped “Oh, bless your heart”. A perfectly composed Lady even when she’s, oh I dunno, burning down a Piggly Wiggly. You know. A regular southern mom. Chat her up at the hair salon for 50% off a jar of wasp honey with your next purchase of a mysterious but foreboding packet of herbs.

Designing her was pretty easy because I just drew a lankier Grace Jones and called it a day. I had some problems with her outfit simply because if we were going HARD southern gothic then she’d probably be wearing a white/cream dress with a fuller skirt but I thought keeping the silhouette and the black was more important. She’s supposed to be an anti southern gothic southern gothic character anyway. A woman who looks like she has a million secrets who is actually the most open person you could meet. For better or worse. The red hair came from a coloring error that I really ended up liking (my mom had red hair her whole childhood that only darkened up in high school so I can buy that an Addams can be naturally fire engine red) and the veil was to get more of that classic Morticia silhouette in there.

The Children

Sunday and Blanche are the twin children of Carlisle and Mortesha Addams. Some say the Addams clan got their cursed homestead when a wealthy local businessman made a deal with the devil and lost, leaving his grand mansion to his least favorite maid and cutting his losses once he realized that the swamp would do everything it could to drag the house into the water and take what was owed with its horrible curse. Others say that the family has just always squatted there and no one really cares because man, fuck that particular swamp. Have you been in there? Absolute horror show.

Anyway.

Blanche is the more outgoing sibling and quite the engineer/mad scientist in the making. He started going grey at 2 weeks old but considering he was also rocking some extra fingers, toes, and a tiny tail (he takes after his dad), his parents just put it on the 'not life threatening' pile and decided not to worry about it. He's the kind of smart that teachers find utterly infuriating, less a dog eagerly learning and obeying commands and more a hyena who keeps teaching itself how to pick locks. He has a few friends in his school's robotics club (which they honestly allowed him to make so the school could contain his... creations) but mostly hangs out with his sister exploring the swamp. They find all sorts of neat things in there! wedding rings, suspiciously lumpy garbage bags, cloaked cultists who can't read private property signs, it's an adventure every day!

Blanche is all about experimentation with his creations, his look, and his tether to this mortal coil. Is lipstick a cool thing to try? Let's find out. Can he get out of a strait jacket fast enough after being pushed into the depths of the swamp by his sister? let's find out. He's not dead yet and confused local doctors can attest to the fact that he's rarely attained more than a bad bruise so he's pretty set on continuing to kiss rattlesnakes on their cute little heads and have his sister practice her knife throwing at him until that fact changes.

Blanche is very much a country goth. Cowboy boots (customized by his mom), knife, and lighter are daily accessories. He likes to wear the crusty swamp jewelry they find (the rust adds a splash of color!) and despite appearances he does try to keep himself neat. He's just got  natural Grunge Colors and a tendency to wear clothes he likes until they fall apart. Pugsley always seemed the most modernly styled to me (which might just be because little boys clothes have been the same for a long time) so I wanted Blanche to be the most purposely fashionable Addams. Everyone else is goth by nature, but he's the only one truly familiar with goth as an alternative fashion.

I got really into designing Blanche because honestly, I find Pugsley to be the most boring member of the family. And he was hard to design! I had to mess with his vibe a lot to get him looking how I wanted. I know he's supposed to evoke an " 'evil' little boy next door who's parents never reign him in", but that's just goth Dennis The Menace.  I's 2020. We can at least go queer goth Calvin.

Sunday was much easier to design. Wednesday was my favorite as a child (of course) and I really wanted to keep the spirit of her look while adding things like billowy sleeves (it gets HOT down here), big poofy twists instead of braids, and a nice tie. She's a professional after all, been running the local pet cemetery since she was 6 and the previous groundskeeper met with an unfortunate accident after telling her that tarantulas don't have souls. Her specialty is creating beautiful naturalistic animal funerals similar to those that Maquenda (https://linktr.ee/artofmaquenda) makes, and she takes pride in creating miniature dioramas of her subjects after each burial which she uses as a kind of 3D catalog for future clients.

She really wants to try out her skills on humans one day. Well. Publicly try out her skills. Lotta random bodies float into the swamp. None of them have turned down her requests for diorama models so far. Most seem downright flattered. Plus, she usually figures out which graveyard/crime scene they floated over from and gets her parents to give them a lift back. She'll even help enact terrifying revenge from beyond the grave on whoever put them there if she's not, y'know, busy.

Besides arts, crafts, and pet based funerary arrangements, Sunday is an avid lover of archery (any ranged weapon really), books where little fantasy adventure animals die dramatic deaths, and history. She is That Kid who eagerly raises her hand when asked who Christopher Columbus was and ends up being sent out of class after 15 minutes for making 'a scene'. Her favorite party trick is just picking an item in the room and talking about how it relates to either some obscure historical figure with a buck wild life or a horrible disaster. At least one charity pancake breakfast ended with children in tears after her vivid description of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919.

Social-wise, while Wednesday is the girl that people ask to smile because they think she'd, "look so pretty", Sunday is rarely asked anything at all. People just kind of assume from her quiet nature (in between horrible history facts) that she's angry all the time and that she hates everyone. This is untrue. She hates some people but she's ambivalent to most everyone else and even downright friendly if you bother to talk to her like a person instead of a terrifying cryptid. Like, she IS a terrifying cryptid but she's also a little girl.  

That’s about it for now. One day I might do the other family members but for now I’m happy with the four I’ve redesigned. Making an au! Lurch in a family that doesn’t do butlers could be interesting. Over on patreon I put forth that he could just be Motesha’s mute little brother (similar bone structure) but Amy Crook had the nice idea of quote: “ a mysterious "cousin" that "helps around the house" whose origins are both long in the past and faintly unsettling. He's good for lifting heavy things, like that tank of propane you're about to throw into the burning Piggly Wiggly... “ which i now consider canon. Who's kid is he? How old is he? Not important. Anyone willing to commit arson with you is family.

Annnnyway.  This challenge was a lot of fun! I love indulging in AU’s.

[thegracelessfaceless]

*slithers in*

Can I request some Helen headcanons? Just like general dating him and maybe some nsfw if possible.

@mutat-ad-astra , ₐᄂᵣᵢg𝓱𝚝 yₒᵤ'ᵥₑ 𝚍ₒ𝚗ₑ ᵢ𝚝 𝚗ₒw. ᵢ'ᵥₑ 𝚋ₑ𝚌ₒᗰₑ ₐ 𝘴ᵢᗰ𝐩 fₒᵣ Hₑᄂₑ𝚗 . W𝓱ₐ𝚝 𝚍ₒ yₒᵤ 𝓱ₐᵥₑ 𝚝ₒ 𝘴ₐy fₒᵣ yₒᵤᵣ𝘴ₑᄂf??

(づ￣ ³￣)づ

ꇙꄲ ꇙ꒐ꋊꉔꏂ ꓄ꁝ꒐ꇙ ꉣꄲꇙ꓄ ꉔꋬꂵꏂ ꄲ꒤꓄ ꇙꄲ ꒒ꄲꋊꍌ, ꒐'ꂵ ꍌꄲ꒐ꋊꍌ ꓄ꄲ ꅐꋪ꒐꓄ꏂ ꋬꋊ꒯ ꉣꄲꇙ꓄ ꁝꏂ꒒ꏂꋊ'ꇙ ꋊꇙꊰꅐ ꒐ꋊ ꒐꓄ꇙ ꄲꅐꋊ, ꍌ꒒ꄲꋪ꒐ꄲ꒤ꇙ ꉣꄲꇙ꓄ ❤

ᕼᗴᒪᗴᑎ ᗝ丅Ꭵᔕ/ᗷᒪᗝᗝᗪƳ ᑭᗩᎥᑎ丅ᗴᖇ ᖇᗴᒪᗩ丅ᎥᗝᑎᔕᕼᎥᑭ ᕼᗴᗩᗪᑕᗩᑎᗝᑎᔕ

(With a fem!SO)

♡Let's just get canon out of the way real quick.

♡Helen is very calm and quiet

♡He isn't very expressive and doesn't speak much, but when he does, he's always the picture of the perfect gentleman.

♡If something doesn't concern him, Helen is pretty apathetic towards it. However, if it's something he cares about, Helen will be very passionate.

♡His parents treated him as a pet or toy, and this caused Helen to have repression issues.

♡He won't show emotion towards a person unless they show emotion first, then he will reciprocate. This is essential to remember as Helen's significant other; you'll have to make the first move every time.

♡Helen's a Libra. His birthday is October 1st

♡Helen's parents were so excited when they found out they were going to be parents. That night, Helen's mother dreamed that she had a beautiful baby girl with delicate features, the deepest blue eyes that she had ever seen, and coal black hair so fine that it looked like dark lace against the baby girl's alabaster skin. She woke up certain that she was pregnant with a baby girl that looked just like in her dream. Mrs. Otis went into labor and delivered a baby that indeed looked just like in her dream, but it was a boy. So they decided to continue on and name him Helen, and raise him as they would a little girl.

♡This treatment continued until he started school at six. Then his parents decided to dress him as and refer to him as a boy in order to not draw attention.

♡Helen still suffers from body dysphoria because of this. For a long time, Helen couldn't reconcile whether he was male or female in his mind, so he existed in a chaotic state of one, the other, both and neither all at the same time. Now- after years of therapy, and a great deal of time building his trust with Reader, Helen identifies as agender preferring he/they/it pronouns and a refined but masculine aesthetic.

♡Reader is the only person allowed to call him Helen. And even she doesn't do it often, only when she's serious. He prefers Reader to call him darling, love, honey, dear, and, if he's feeling frisky, Sir 😍. All others may refer to him by his surname, Otis.

♡Helen can be quite manipulative and his intelligence is obvious

♡While in "working" mode, Helen is very cautious of the scene he his creating, and presents every body as if it were a canvas to bear his work.

♡His fascination with blood stems from his childhood. He had always had trouble making friends, only managing one at a time and spaced distantly apart. His only childhood friend had been murdered by bullies in the park, rocks thrown at him for being friends with that "weird sissyboy kid" until one struck his temple, killing him instantly. The bullies had hurriedly buried his friend in the deep snow from the night before. Helen knew this, he had told you, because he had watched it all from his perch in a tree. After the bullies had fled, Helen had uncovered his friend and stared at his body lying in red stained snow, and the bullies later blamed Helen with his friends death. Ultimately, he had been cleared, as there had been a witness in the park.

♡The false accusations of murder didn't stop there, much to your displeasure.

♡In high school, a classmate of Helen's, one who happened to be Helen's only friend, fell from the building and died. A witness said that Helen had killed him, but no concrete evidence was found.

♡Not to say that Helen is an angel. You know he's far from that, too.

♡Later, the same year, as a freshman at university, Helen killed 17 people from his dorm building, and wounded 5 on Devil's Night (October 30th).

♡Helen was found insane by the courts as a minor and received 6 years of inpatient treatment before being released back into society.

♡He started "his work" again three years later, and then met you two years after that.

♡Helen smokes cigarettes (though not as much as Tim) and unwinds after "work" with music and a rum and Coke or whisky on the rocks.

♡Helen enjoys lofi hiphop; classical music; instrumental and instrumental covers of songs; music from the early 1960's like: Frankie Valli, The Big Bopper, the Animals, and the Zombies; and indie rock like The Flaming Lips, Harvey Danger, Dinosaur Jr, and The Smashing Pumpkins.

♡He loves discovering new music with you, listening to playlists you make him for hours. But you're gonna listen to some of his music, too and he makes playlists for you to play according to mood.

♡Helen's love languages are: quality time, acts of service, and words of affirmation. But the love languages he craves are: all of them except receiving gifts! Getting a gift is uncomfortable for Helen, especially if he has no gift to give back. He wants you to feel just as appreciated as you feel, if not more.

♡Helen thought that he was completely asexual before he met you. No one he had met had ever... Moved him in that way. And he was fine with that. Why should he mourn something he'd never even wanted?

♡And then he met you at an antique art showcase of pieces by and inspired by René Magritte. (Example here: ◎▼◎) After you spent hours together at the show, exchanging witty banter, and eventually, phone numbers, Helen found himself thinking about you that night, alone in bed. And then his mind wondered something it had never thought about anyone else. He wondered what you looked like naked. What your skin would feel like. How would you taste?

♡He frowned to himself, confused by the foreign thought for a moment before he realized that he felt sexual desire for you.

♡It still took him a long while of dating you before he felt comfortable enough to even kiss you in a sexual way. The two of you were practically engaged when he gave you his virginity.

♡Bonus wholesome content headcanon/drabble: Once you convinced Helen to bleach his naturally blue black hair. Not wanting to disappoint you, and telling himself that it was just hair, he consented and you happily set to work. An hour later, he emerged from the shower with a shock of platinum white hair 😱. He had to support himself with a hand on the back of the couch because his knees started shaking when he caught a glance of himself in the mirror over the fireplace. A long, thin fingered hand with a fine tremor lifted to cover his mouth. You knew without him telling you that he absolutely, 100%, no doubt, undisputedly hated it. His already porcelain skin had paled even more, now trembling chalk instead of bone China. His midnight blue eyes held a sort of flinching terror in them as they tried to look anywhere but the vicinity of the mantle mirror. You approached him gently and pulled the towel thrown around his shoulders loose and used his shoulder to balance you as you went up on tiptoe to finish drying his now shockingly white hair.

♡You leave Helen waiting shirtless in the living room to deal with putting his shoes and socks on and you pull on a light jacket to guard against the chill that manages to never be around when we need it during the daytime hours as you enter yours and Helen's shared bedroom. You find Helen a clean black tee shirt and pick up one of your beanies from the coatrack behind the bedroom door. This one was black with a tree frog leaping over the words Frog Leap Studios done in a typewriter font in white thread, a circle of bright blue making the frogs eye stand out.

♡You take the shirt and beanie to Helen and he pulls the shirt on. You feel a little sad that he's covering up, but there would be time to enjoy his body later. Helen sits on the couch so you can slip the beanie over his baby fine hair easier than going up on tiptoe to match his 6'2" lean frame. The bleach may have stolen its darkness, but it couldn't steal its softness. Helen's hair was probably the softest thing you'd ever touched.

♡Hair sufficiently covered, you and Helen get into your car and head to the only place open at the hour of 3:24 in the morning. Walmart. Your sleep schedule had never been normal and Helen didn't help you normalize it at all. In fact, if anything it had gotten worse, the two of you wrapped up in your own hyperfixations, leaned up against each other back to back, or one of you holding the other as one of you writes while the other draws.

♡You feel Helen's hand find your thigh and squeeze it, letting you know he's not upset with you. You reached down and covered his hand with yours, returning the squeeze and you finish out the short ride more relaxed now that you know Helen isn't mad at you. Helen follows you to the beauty section once you're inside the store. He patiently watches as you pick out boxes from 4 different companies.

♡An amused Helen watches you as you quibble with the four boxes. You shuffle through them, running through them over and over like a person considering their hand while playing cards.

♡You end up with him bending down slightly again so you can compare the dyes to his eyebrows. He thinks it's the sweetest thing that you're going through such a clear effort to fix his hair. Obviously you feel responsible for the mistake and he hates that.

♡Gently taking the boxes from your hands, he picks a random red and black one from the four you were debating between and puts the rest back on the shelf.

♡Then Helen pulls you into his arms and holds you tight and close, burying a kiss on top of your head. You smile into his chest, breathing in the scent of paint, paint thinner, lavender shampoo, and jasmine soap. On anyone else, the paint thinner smell would have made you sick. But on Helen, it just smelled like home. You two stay in your embrace, Helen swaying slightly to a beat only he could hear. A stolen moment, a stolen dance, to help ground yourselves.

♡Helen broke the hug after a few moments more, but kept hold of your hand. You walk to the checkout line and pay almost $10 for the dye. The price gave you a mild case of sticker shock, but you shook it off and smiled at the older cashier, who was beaming as her eyes moved between you and Helen. The two of you seemed to get that reaction from older people. That look of pure hope that more people got to experience the love that shone between you. You both thank the cashier repeatedly as Helen payed her the money needed.

"You two have a good night" she smiled at us, "the world needs more couples that look at each other the way you do. You look, at each other like you're reach others entire worlds."

"She is" Helen says softly, pulling me into a hug and a quick kiss, "She's my whole universe."

♡You're pretty certain that the woman's smile could not get bigger. But you didn't really want to find out, since you were starting to notice that her teeth were huge and you were starting to get squicked out by it. Helen must have picked up on your discomfort because he led you away in the protective half circle of his arm.

♡"My knight in shining armor" you croon at him as you walk back to the car, "Thank you for saving me. I am forever in your debt. However could I repay you, Sir?"

♡Helen took in a sharp breath and chuckled as he slowly let it out, "I can think of a few things."

♡"You'll have to show me when you have the time" I teased as Helen opened your car door for me. He'd taught you that chivalry was not dead, and you'd realized that it would be easier to let Helen be a gentleman than it would be to convince him that you could open your own doors.

♡You drove home and locked the doors behind you. You headed straight for the bathroom and Helen borrowed a stool from the island bar to sit on so you could reach all of his head.

♡Twenty minutes later, you threw dye covered vinyl gloves in the trash and settled an old towel around Helen's shoulders and neck to keep the dye from dripping on him. You'd clipped a pillowcase over his hair and you had just finished hitting the dye with heat to assure his hair took the dye well, absorbed it.

♡Helen smiled contentedly up at you from his spot on the stool.

♡You tilted his chin up to kiss him. He kissed you back and then sent soft kisses across your cheek and jawbone, and then kissed and nipped down your neck. Helen focused his kisses back on your lips, kissing you like the kisses would magically cure everything, would keep you alive.

♡The timer you'd set so Helen would know when to wash the dye out of his hair went off, and Helen stood

♡Having already taken off his shirt, Helen unfastened his jeans and let them slide down his legs, stepping out of them as they pooled around his feet, leaving him completely nude, comfortable.

♡instead of getting in the shower, Helen pulled you closer to the shower and used his nimble hands to liberate you of your clothes. Before you could protest, or even decide if ypu wanted to get in, Helen had pulled you under the spray of the shower and he stood in it now, extra dye streaming in lines

♡You turned Helen's back to you and massaged his scalp as the water rinsed the excess dye down the drain. When the water ran clear, you massaged some of the color protect conditioner that came with the dye and Helen switched places with you, his hands never leaving your hips so he could catch you if you slipped.

♡Helen washes your back for you and then your hair, lathering up a clean washcloth with jasmine soap and making sure not to miss a spot. Then he rubbed some lavender scented shampoo into my hair. Then he rinsed it and repeated the process before leaving some conditioner to sit in my hair.

♡Finally Helen worked some conditioner into your hair that matched the shampoo. You help Helen rinse everything from his hair and you condition his hair with the rest of the conditioner that came with the dye.

♡Showers with Helen always end up with him bathing you, his hands and keen eye not missing a single millimeter of your skin. Showers rarely turned sexual between the two of you, instead the two of you focused on the intimacy of showering together.

♡After all the soap and hair products are rinsed from both of you, Helen turned off the water and wrapped you in warm towels, quickly drying himself off and slinging a towel around his hips.

♡Helen obviously felt better once his hair was back to its natural inky darkness.

♡You could tell from the mischievous grin he wore as he escorted you to the bedroom.

AN: so I wrote on this well into the night... Fell asleep in the process a few times 😅. If you see continuity issues with the POV, let me know so I can fix it. I kept wanting to write in first person 😂

[prurientpuddlejumper]

Don’t Look! [Part 4]

<- Part 3 | Part 5 ->

Frederick Chilton x Reader

@we-are-all-just-a-bit-crazy’s lovecraftian horror AU, with a bit of my own twist on the origin story. Emotional hurt/comfort. Body horror. Hugging your body-horror monster boyfriend. 

3,386 words

Once upon a time, there lived a man who had everything: great wealth (built on the backs of exploited workers), a grand estate, a beautiful wife, and many mistresses waiting in the wings. Yet after years of trying, he failed to produce an heir. Determined that his money could buy anything, the man scoured the world, searching for a solution. One day, his extensive resources brought him to an ancient castle in Lithuania, where the last descendants of a noble bloodline offered him a devil’s bargain—a book, a summoning ritual. He did not ask questions. His wife was finally with child.

The Chilton legacy was secure.

The moment Frederick was born, the life was sucked from his mother—a human sacrifice for his soul crossing into this world. That was what his father told him, at least. Frederick had no memory of clawing his way through the veil between worlds, of being anything other than an ordinary child with a distant father, a young, blonde stepmother, and nannies instead of friends. Until the changes began. Allison (or was it Kayla at the time?) fainted in the living room when he staggered in, screaming as smoke boiled from his skin, begging for help. His father only wrinkled his nose with disgust and calmly explained what he was.

“You must learn to hide this, Frederick. Never let anyone see you this way, or it will destroy the family name.”

And so, he learned the transformation’s schedule. Prepared for it. Knew how to hide it away and never let anyone get close enough to see the real him. But it wasn’t good enough. Try as he might, nothing Frederick ever did met his father’s expectations for the perfect son he had gone through so much trouble to produce.

Frederick grew into a bitter and lonely man with no one to care about, or who cared about him. He kept the world at a distance, hiding his shame behind expensive suits and lavish decoration.

Never once did he consider that he was not alone in this world at all.

 ***

I see him as one of those pitiful things sometimes born in hospitals. They feed it, keep it warm, but they don’t put it on the machines. They let it die. But he doesn’t die. He looks normal. Nobody can tell what he is.

This is how Will Graham describes the Chesapeake Ripper.

Every therapy session with Graham, every conversation overhead, the puzzle became clearer. At first, Chilton merely believed that Dr. Lecter was guilty of unethical practices—manipulating Mr. Graham in the same way he had manipulated Gideon. He felt such kinship with Hannibal. Learning a bit of dirt on him brought the ever-so-superior doctor down to his level, gave him something to lord over him—a little implied blackmail to strengthen their friendship.

They both had secrets to hide.

Dr. Chilton never would have guessed the final puzzle piece to convince him fully that Hannibal was the Chesapeake Ripper would be the one everyone else laughed at.

“I brought you here to bear witness,” Graham said to Gideon through their adjoining cells.

“To tell Jack Crawford that I sat in Hannibal Lecter’s cobalt blue dining room? An ostentatious herb garden, Leda and the Swan over the fireplace. And you, having a fit in the corner.”

Chilton perked up and quickly shared the audio feed to one of the junior therapists assisting him. You were reliable at editing his audio files, clipping and exporting segments he wanted to keep, but he was avoiding you at the moment. This was proof—irrefutable proof that Gideon had met Hannibal Lecter the night he went searching for the Ripper.

After his conversation with Graham concluded, an assistant was sent down to coax more information from him while Chilton’s research team listened in, keenly taking notes.

Gideon was not finished dropping bombshells.

With a casual lilt to his voice as if talking to a friend over dinner, he began to describe the Chesapeake Ripper. Skin like volcanic ash, reflecting no light. A red glow to his eyes. Black claws as long as steak knives. Antlers breaking through the inside of his skull, punching through the skin. All black as night—a form that shifted in the shadows, ever tricking the eye, unwilling to be known.

He’s the Devil, Mr. Graham. He’s smoke.

“Great. Gideon is delusional,” one therapist snorted. “On the bright side, this completely undercuts his malpractice case against you.” She patted Chilton’s shoulder. Chilton flinched.

“We should start him on antipsychotics. What do you think? Doctor?”

Chilton’s face turned ashen white. “Y-yes, certainly,” he muttered, staggering to his feet.

He moved for the door, but crumbled halfway there, pain ripping through his leg as sharp thorns grew beneath the skin. It was daylight. No. No! The transformation should not be starting for hours—he had plenty of time! He gasped out as another shock tore through him, barely containing a cry. His body convulsed.

“Doctor!” A therapist and a guard rushed in to help him to his feet. “Where does it hurt? If this is a complication from your surgery, we need to get you into intensive care right away.”

“No,” he brushed them off. “Only… psychosomatic. I need to— ah!” He gritted his teeth, mind racing to the one person he did not want to turn to, but the only one he could, and barked, “Get my secretary!”

 ***

Smoke was rising off of his burning skin by the time you rushed into Chilton’s vacated office. His eyes were wide with panic, but greeted you when you entered with—not relief, perhaps, because he was every bit as terrified as before, but with the anticipation of being rescued. His eyes pleaded.

“H-help. I cannot make it stop.”

You managed to get him into your car. The sun’s orange rays seemed to chase the beast away, clearing his skin and stopping his wracking convulsions long enough to cross the employee parking lot without drawing stares. He insisted on taking the back seat so he could hide—and to put more distance between you in case he lost control.

His chest rose and fell like a rabbit in a cat’s mouth.

“The way he described Dr. Lecter—anyone would think it was a metaphor! That he was crazy!” Chilton’s breath was raspy as you drove, glancing back at him through the rearview mirror. He kept trembling, small patches of scaly skin appearing at random then swirling back inside. One pupil was a pinprick. His tongue occasionally became serpentine and got in the way as he frantically spoke. “But it was too specific, the details. Familiar. I always knew there was a connection between Dr. Lecter and me—a reason we were friends. It all makes sense now!”

“Hey, it’s OK,” you said, trying to sound soothing, though you had no idea what he was talking about.

“Don’t you understand? Lecter is like me!”

“That’s good, isn’t it? That means you’re not alone.”

“Hannibal Lecter is the Chesapeake Ripper!” he shouted, and a spine tore through a seat cushion. “A cannibal, if Will Graham is to be believed, and loathe as I am to admit it, Graham is an excellent profiler. If the Ripper and I are the same… then that means I—”

“You are nothing like that!” Forgetting the damage his demonic tantrum was doing to your faux-leather interior, you had faith in him. He was a little withdrawn and more than a little vain, and it had garnered him an icy reputation around the hospital, but now you understood why. He wasn’t evil or malicious. He was frightened.

“God help me,” he murmured.

 ***

As soon as the garage door closed behind you, he scrambled from the car (scratching the handle), and retreated inside. He didn’t invite you to follow him home. But he didn’t forbid it, either, and you wanted to be there. All you had were panic-scrambled memories from the first time that made his transformation worse in hindsight than it was. Or maybe better. You didn’t know, and you wouldn’t know until you saw it again with clear eyes.

The electric kettle rumbled on its stand, hissing steam as you searched through Frederick Chilton’s surprisingly extensive tea collection for something herbal and soothing. Chamomile, you thought. With honey. Surely that must be good for demon-monster-werewolf things?

The sun was about to set and he was still reeling over Hannibal, and just as much from the premature transformation the revelation had triggered. And every time he cried, “This is not possible. How can this be possible?” the next convulsion was more intense.

He would probably just burn himself on tea.

A painful whimper came from somewhere in the house, and you followed it to a tiny panic room that opened behind a bookshelf. It was only about seven by nine feet with concrete walls and floors, bare except for deep scratches of varying age, like an animal trying to escape. The few chairs inside were metal. Difficult to break. Frederick faced away from you, staring at a hand that was too large for the rest of his body, capped with long black claws.

“Oh no, this will not do at all,” you tutted, shaking your head at the barren space. “How about I bring in some blankets? Let’s get you comfortable.”

His whole body shook. “You should go.”

“No. No way, not after seeing this prison cell. I am not leaving you like this.”

“I do not want to hurt you.” His shoulder jerked. A spike tore through his shirt.

“You won’t.”

“Seeing it again… will not be therapeutic for you,” he hissed, another spike breaking through. “Go before it is too late.”

“No!”

“Damn it! I am a monster—there is proof of that now! The FBI has no idea what it is dealing with!” Chilton began to pace the small cell, thoughts racing, features morphing into something grotesque and alien. “Does Hannibal know about me? Can he sense it? Is that why he confided in me? I always thought it was professional respect—hah! God, what if he…” A painful convulsion halted his pacing and brought him to one knee, gripping his side. His attention snapped back to you. “This is… dangerous,” he warned, then hacked violently. Fleshy, snake-like projections spewed from his mouth, and he quickly turned away again, hiding his face. “You should… you should be nowhere near all of this! You should not be here! Why did I let you inside?!”

A roar of anguish ripped through the air with enough force to push you back through the panic room door, just in time to avoid being impaled on half a dozen spines as they shot from Chilton’s body like lances. Chips of concrete clattered to the ground as they penetrated the walls. He screamed again, writhing to get free, but found himself trapped by his own violent transformation. Like an animal, he struggled and clawed at himself as if his rational mind had been overtaken by raw, volatile emotion.

“Take it easy. You’re going to hurt yourself,” you tried to calm him, but you couldn’t stop your voice from shaking.

This was worse than last time. You were sure his spines weren’t half as long when you saw him in his office—even Chilton seemed surprised to be pinned.

You lifted your hands, palms toward him in a steadying gesture, and took a step back into the concrete room.

“Stay back!” he howled, thrashing. “Get away!”

It was tempting. Every muscle in your body wanted to follow his advice and run far away from the indescribable horror before you. But his eyes were still green. Were still terrified. And you had an inkling of why it was worse this time. Maybe he would hate you later for imposing, but it seemed more important right now not to leave him feeling… like a monster.

“It’s OK.” You took another step closer.

“No!”

“You’re not going to hurt me. I trust you. Shh, shh… I’m not afraid, see?”

Rigid spines sprayed from his back and shoulders in a 180-degree arc, leaving only his front accessible. You ducked under one and followed its trajectory to where it met the wall. It wasn’t just pinned by pressure—it had struck the wall with enough force to dig into it like an iron rod. Sawing through might be the only option for getting him unstuck. You wondered if that would hurt. Were there nerves in his spines? You stepped over the next one as you drew nearer.

“You should be afraid! I am just like him!” Chilton tried to turn his head away as you traversed his network of thorns and stood in front of him.

His face was almost entirely inhuman. Tentacles cascaded down from where a nose should have been, and when he opened his mouth in a snarl, they parted like wriggling eels—each with a life of its own—to reveal a jaw that split his face open vertically, crowded with rows of sharp white teeth. The more agitated Chilton became, the more dramatic the effect. Each time he spoke, you caught a flash of teeth that sent shivers racing down your spine. But you continued to move closer anyway, within snapping range.

“Hannibal and I… we are the same. Please—I do not want to become him. Do not let me hurt you!”

“You are not the same. You’re not a killer.”

Chilton let out a choking cry that was all too human. “I killed that nurse,” he said. Concrete groaned as his spines grew longer. A crooked horn sprouted from his head. “I killed Elizabeth Shell.”

“You… you didn’t kill her.”

His breath quickened again. Tentacles sprouted and died and resprouted from his face in a constant fevered motion. “I knew Gideon would kill! I lowered security! I knew what would happen—what I needed to happen to prove that he was the Ripper! I may as well have plucked her eyes out with my own hands and… and feasted on her organs. God… I am the Ripper,” he wailed.

“No…” It never occurred to you that Dr. Chilton would have done such a thing knowingly. Maybe there was something dark inside him that this creature was reflecting. It hurt to acknowledge, and yet maybe you both needed to. “You made a mistake. You did a bad thing, but… Gideon was already a killer. It wasn’t your fault.”

“I drove him to it, manipulated him… I am just as responsible as he is. I am a monster.”

“A monster wouldn’t feel this guilty! You made a mistake, but you won’t make it again, will you?”

Tentacles and spines stopped sprouting. His form stabilized as his wet eyes looked off thoughtfully. He seemed so pathetic… so innocent, almost. Despite the intimating spines and claws that added danger and height to his appearance, his body had the same mass—leaving his frame gaunt and frail, with ribs sticking out prominently. Hollow.

You wanted to protect him.

You knew that was your job at BSHCI. You knew that was why Dr. Chilton suddenly needed a personal secretary when he never had before. Someone to sit outside his door, take his calls, and warn him when visitors wanted to see him. You’d never met the doctor before he was attacked by one of his patients, but you recognized the signs of trauma—the way he flinched easily, avoided contact at first, then the way he clung to you when you earned his trust. The awkward little smiles. The way his cheeks turned bright red when his fingers brushed yours as you delivered his coffee. You couldn’t help feeling protective. Falling in love, even.

Though it was closed for the moment, his mouth was a dangerous black hole with alien arms ready to pull prey inside. It seemed impossible to get close without being dragged into its teeth by instinct. You couldn’t imagine putting your face anywhere near it.

Another step, and your forehead touched his.

“I... I do not want to hurt you,” he pleaded.

“You won’t.”

You leaned into his arms, a hand reaching up to stroke the side of his face. It was covered in fine scales that glistened as if they should be slimy, but were smooth to the touch, like a snake. Sharper thorns sprouting from his skin seemed to retreat before your caress.

He trembled with inner turmoil, hot breath puffing against your chin. Your eyes darted toward the motion of one of his claws rising behind you, and all you could focus on were the way each sharp talon caught the light. You couldn’t be sure what he was thinking—if he was going to return your embrace, or prove to you that he was a monster. Would he slash you just to drive you away?

“I smell your fear,” his voice hissed accusingly.

For some reason, of all the reactions you could have had, you started to laugh. It was nervous and tight at first, but then building in confidence at the ridiculousness of the situation.

“You’ve got giant claws! Of course I’m afraid! But I’m not running, am I?”

You slid your hand from his cheek and trailed it over his bony neck and the ridges and spines of his shoulders, finding a path for your arms to twine around him. Cuddling closer, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, hardly bothered by the writhing tentacles that draped down over you.

“I know you would never hurt me. You’re just going to have to keep showing me there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Shuddering, he breathed in your scent. All his senses were heightened by this form, and he was surrounded by you—your pheromones, your electric field, the radiant heat of your skin. It was like sinking into a warm bath with a glass of fine wine in his hand. He opened his palm and let his predator’s hand sweep harmlessly down your back, holding you close. He could sense the fluttering of your heart in his embrace. It was slower than a creature in terror—slowing the longer he held you. You were not afraid. And he could not imagine hurting you. Whatever he had been worried might happen, whatever awful things he might be capable of, he could never imagine hurting you. You were right. You didn’t have anything to fear.

He exhaled a long, steady breath of surrender. The long spines retracted, pulling out of the walls as they returned to their usual size. He could move again, but didn’t. Not for a long time.

“It’s OK. It’s OK,” you sighed. The scent of your hair was intoxicating.

Eventually, you had to part. Chilton’s eyes darted away as you did—the inky scales on his face emitted a soft bluish starlight, which you were certain was blushing. You could not coax him to leave his concrete prison cell, but he told you where to find some blankets he could live with damaging—linen closet, second floor, third door on the right—and let you make a cozy nest on the bare floors. You made tea, and only cringed a little at his attempts to drink it. It was late, then. You were sleepy, and he was exhausted. Emotionally drained. His mind still raced over everything, still not certain of your presence and inexplicable kindness. You sat in the pile of blankets and had him rest his head in your lap.

“Give me your hand,” you asked, extending yours.

A clawed, scaly hand slid tentatively along the floor. You took it. Held it gently, first observing the long talons protruding like daggers from each finger before slotting yours between them—nothing sharp there. You let out a long sigh and leaned back against the concrete wall. His breath hitched.

He’d never had his hand held in this form, you assumed.

He’d never had his hand held at all, in fact. Not in many years.

It had to be a trap, he thought. No one had ever loved him before. No one could—not like this. Yet, as he fell asleep to your fingers massaging his temple and the soft murmuring of your voice, he let himself believe it. You were always there, protecting him. Smiling at him in the morning.

When you woke up, Frederick was human again, still fast asleep in your arms.

[eroslove88]

The Devil Himself

۶Pairing: Yandere!Overhaul x Reader

۶Warning: Yandere themes, Stalking, Blackmailing, Threatening, Mention of Child Abuse, Crying, Kidnapping, and Drug Usage

۶Note: .... It's Overhaul!

"Good Evening! Welcome to Gardenia's Flowery, find anything you like?" you asked then turned around to face a little girl with a horn, blue hair, red eyes, and a rag dress. "Sweetie are you ok?" you asked noticing bandages on her limbs.

Quickly you went around the register and knelt down to her level. She immediately clung on to your long sleeve white dress shirt, tears threatening to come out of her glossy eyes, "Please help me" she begged.

You picked her up and took her the to break/employee room then sat her down on the sofa, "What's your name?" you asked the young shaking girl.

She bowed her head and clenched her ragity dress, "E-Eri" she responded with glossy eyes. She didn't even look at you, was she that scared?

"Hey honey" you chuckled, "I'm not gonna hurt you" you said. You went pat her head but she flinched, you rubbed her head instead, "What's wrong? Who hurt you?"

"Please, he'll find me" she begged finally looking at you. Still clenching her dress finally a tear fell from her filled eyes.

"Nobody is going to hurt you" placing your hand on her head, "I won't let him" you said getting up and taking your hand back. "I'm going to lock up for the day" you said grabbing a tray of snacks. "Have one, don't leave from here. I'll be right back" you said leaving the break room.

Luckily today was Thursday, which meant that you locked up for the day. It also meant staying behind a few hours more than the others. After picking up some flowers that were outside you locked up you then went to flip the sign that said open to closed. You sighed checking the door then went back to the break room.

"Eri" you said walking into the room, "I'm back" you said closing the door behind you, "I need you to talk to me" you said pulling up a chair in front of her, "If I'm going to help I need to know what's wrong" you said. You chuckled, "But I'll let you finish that before all that, ok?" she was currently eating a Carmel Apple. You grabbed a napkin and Apple Juice for her.

After she was done she drank the juice and you wiped her mouth to make sure there was so mess on her. "He-" she started before looking down, "He hurts me" she said.

"Who does?" you ask. "Is it your dad?" you say looking at her. She was still shaking but not as much as before.

"No" she said looking at you. "O-Overhaul" she responded finally saying his name instead of he. Overhaul? That name rung a bell.

"As in the head of the Hassakai?" you asked the short frail girl. She nodded immediately, "I promise he won't find you" you said holding her hand, "I'll take you to the station right no-" before you could finish you heard a crash in the front of your store.

"He found me" she whispered. Now she was crying a lot. "Please miss leave you need to go before he finds you" she said.

"No way" you said. "Not without you, come on we can leave from the basement where my car is parked." she nodded and you grabbed her hand walking to the next room which was where the elevator was.

You both got in and you clicked the basement button. The elevator felt slow and you were getting inpatient. Finally it dung but to your horror, he was standing there. The Devil Himself, Overhaul. Eri was scared and she started shaking again.

"Excuse me miss" he said tilting his head with a fake smile, well not that you could see it because of his mask but you could see his eyes make the smile shape, "Sorry about her she's a clumsy one"

Eri clung to your leg immediately, causing you to look down then back at him, "What are you doing to her?" you asked him. His smile went away.

"My daughter Eri is just clumsy and plays rough" he said then started to remove his glove, "Now come here Eri" he said looking at her. Immediately she ran to him and held his hand. "Nice seeing you miss, hope to see you again" he said walking out of there.

"What the fuck" you whispered out. Did he threateb her? See you again? Hell no! You thought. "God I'm an idiot" you groaned into your hands. You walked to your car and slammed your head on the wheel, "I could've stopped him. Why didn't I say or do anything?" you asked yourself. You sighed then turned on your car letting regret and felt guilty the whole way home.

"Eri?" Overhaul turned to the small red eyed girl, "What did you tell her?" he asked gripping her hand tighter. She started crying bowing he head in feeling the guilt in her, "So you told her about your tests?" he asked her. She nodded shamely. "Well then, I've taken a liking in that that quirkless lady. I thank you Eri" he said with a smile. She knew that whatever would happen to you would be her fault.

For the next 2 weeks you felt guilty and like if you were being watched. But you chalked it off as being paranoid. "He didn't mean it" you whispered to yourself rearranging some bouquets.

The next week on your 19th birthday you got a letter from anonymous, in the letter it contained photos of you sleeping, walking around your house, getting dressed, and the most horrifying of all taking shower. There was a paper inside and it read, "If you want your family to live then don't disobey our following orders, 1. Go to the nearest park alone 2. Leave your phone 3. Don't tell anyone 4. Burn this letter and leave no trace of our encounter or this ever happening." worst of all at the bottom it had your parents and friend's addresses, "Just in case :)" they wrote next to it. Then there was a signature, Overhaul, It said. You sobbed burn the letter and photos.

You always loved the walk to the park. Now you felt as if you were getting closer go death by this walk. You got there but there were no specific directions on where to go. After 10 minutes and nothing you decided that maybe they forgot.

Until you heard the tapping of his shoes, "Sorry to keep you waiting, I had to deal with someone" he said walking closer to you. Immediately you took a deep breath and turned around to face him... He grabbed your chin and made you look into his eyes, "Your so pure" he whispered, you barely heard it though due to the mask, "Your so beautiful" she said quiter than before. He let go, "Follow me" he said walking to the direction he came from. You did that and followed him. Maybe it was because of different scenarios playing in your head or you were to scared but you didn't say anything.

"What do you want from me?" you asked him. You voice was barely passing a whisper. But it was still weak. You were obviously scared.

He stopped walking then turned around, "You'll see" he said then turned around and continued walking. He walked into an alley way and you hesitantly followed. He immediately pinned you to the wall with one hand and held your throat with the other. You began to feel tears burn the corners of your eyes. "Your a bit naive but you knew this was gonna happen" here said. But it was true this was one scenario, death. "But I don't think it's what your thinking" he said he removed the hand from your throat and grabbed something from his pocket, "I'll see you in the morning" he then injected something into your neck but before you could scream he covered your mouth with his free hand. "Shhh" he whispered. You felt your body go weak and eyes grow heavier before.. You fell asleep.

You woke up in an all white bed, in a different outfit, different bed, different room, and definitely not your home. You tried to get up but there was a chain connecting you to the bed. "Good morning Angel" Overhaul said walking into the room, "Hope you slept well" now the smile he wore was real. He finally got his darling.

[blushnote]

rich girl | m.

⟡ word count: 6,708. ⟡ genre: smut, a bit of angst if you squint. ⟡ contains: a blowjob, facefucking, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, shower sex, copious use of petnames, just a whole lot of sin.

summary: wonwoo likes to call you a rich girl, and you hate it because it’s true. in fact, you hate a lot of things: your friends, your parent’s attitude, the way your life is supposed to be perfect even though you’re miserable. not much makes you happy, except for a punk boy who you can’t even be with.

a/n: this is a reupload because for some reason tumblr wasn’t showing me my own posts? anyways, sorry for the wait!! enjoy hehe. 

your parents don’t like wonwoo.

even better – they don’t like the fact that you like him.

wonwoo isn’t supposed to be someone you like. he’s kind of foul-mouthed, awfully conceited, and he probably makes deals with the devil in his spare time. he likes to hang around those dimly lit corners at night, just outside the local shops, puffing from a cigarette beneath the dusty street light and chuckling amongst his friends. they all hang out together. they’re very tightknit in the way that they only meet on the corner to smoke and laugh and then head their separate ways when it gets late enough.

honestly, you didn’t think you were going to like wonwoo either. most friday nights you go out for drinks with the daughters of your mom’s friends. she’s a business lady, very professional, makes good money, and has the politeness and etiquette of a true monarch. her friends mirror her every quality, and so do their daughters. you like them, even when they snap at you to sit straighter or give you unnecessarily stern glances while you swallow your alcohol in inhumane gulps. they’re great, but they give you a headache.

also, they’re the only friends you have, even if they’re not very good ones. they once left you to get home by yourself when you got too “drunk” for their liking. not wanting to soil their sophisticated reputations, they literally abandoned you after your wobbly trip to the bathroom to fix your makeup. you came back to an empty table. when you left the bar, this unknown man tried to take you by the arm, promising that there was a telephone just around the corner for you to make a call. your cellphone was dead anyways.

“what the fuck are you doing?”

there was a deep, displeased voice that echoed from the street corner as the mystery man tugged you away. you couldn’t help but stumble in your saint laurent heels. they didn’t add much height, yet you felt as though you were walking on stilts. quickly, you made eye contact with wonwoo. he stepped away from the pole and removed the cigarette from between his bubblegum lips, just before he adjusted the glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. the air was cold, so he wore a beanie that pulled his hair back.

the man stuttered in response. he attempted to configure a convincing statement, but wonwoo cut him off.

“do you know him?” wonwoo asked you directly. his friends were silent as they crowded the corner, but they looked ready to pounce.

“n-not re-really, no.” you fought to respond sluggishly.

wonwoo then narrowed his eyes at the man who was digging his nails into your skin.

“do you know her?” the man countered. he sounded almost petulant.

“no,” wonwoo admitted impassively, “but i’m not an idiot, and i’ve hung around here long enough to see my fair share of fucking weirdos. go slink back to the other side of the street before i shove my cigarette past your eye socket and into your cranium.”

honestly, wonwoo’s words almost turned you completely sober. the man looked like he wanted to argue, but his pathetic type doesn’t usually put up a fight when their plans are directly thwarted. he released you, and melted away into the night like a sad, shrinking shadow.

“do you need to use my phone?” wonwoo was already revealing it from his pocket.

you nodded. you knew your mother would explode into fumes if you called her at this hour, so you dialled the local taxi service and decided to wait right outside the bar. you wanted to thank wonwoo for intervening when he did. he didn’t necessarily look like a bad person, but his tainted mouth and snarky expressions didn’t exactly shift him into the light.

“thanks,” you told him as you handed over his phone, “i-i appreciate what you dd-did.”

wonwoo made the effort to blow the smoke from his cigarette away from your face.

“it’s fine,” he shrugged, “happens all the time. figured i’d just stand here and be useful i guess.”

so there is a reason you’re always at this corner.

that’s what you wanted to say, but you were too shy, too foggy, to articulate any other acknowledgement apart from a tight-lipped smile. since then, you knew wonwoo would be someone you liked.

wonwoo liked to call you a rich girl. it bothered you, mostly because it’s true. you wore diamonds in your ears, pricey jewels on your fingers, dressed in luxury outfits and designer products. you lived a lavish life because your parents were well off, but it’s not like you tried to rub it in everyone’s face. in fact, you were quite modest, and you only wore the jewelry because your mother never stopped draping you in it. after your first encounter with wonwoo outside the bar, you greeted him again on the street upon exiting the floral shop.

he was alone, not even smoking a cigarette, instead sucking on a vibrant, cherry red lollipop. you could smell its sugary coating the second you stood in front of him.

“hey, rich girl.” he nodded. “how’s life treating you?”

the only reason you approached him was out of gratitude. you had already thanked him for his intervention that one night, but you wanted to thank him again now that you weren’t intoxicated and cloudy in the head. notably, your expression soured at his words.

“rich girl? that’s not my name.”

wonwoo looked you up and down skeptically. his eyes were a strong, earthly shade of brown behind his glasses, but in that afternoon sunlight, they flared up slightly, and the colour was more molasses-like. thick and sweet.

“are you joking?” he seemed like he wanted to laugh, and swirled the lollipop to the opposite corner of his mouth. “babygirl, those heels you’re wearing are more than my rent.”

you didn’t know why, but you were transiently overwhelmed with the urge to drop to your knees and let him fuck your mouth right there on the corner. was that too soon? oh well. you already thought it. remembering you were supposed to feel disrespected at his comment, you crossed your arms, though it only accented the jaded bracelet your friend bought you as a birthday gift.

“i’m going to pretend i didn’t hear anything you just said. i wanted to thank you for getting me out of that situation last week. i thought i should tell you again, now that i’m… well… sober, i guess i could say.”

you then swallowed tightly. “do you really stand there to stop creeps from taking advantage of people?”

wonwoo shrugged. he then tousled his hair, which had been flopping in multiple directions. it was on the longer side, and seemed to be the same colour as dark, silvery ashes, though the roots were pretty much black. his hair looked so soft and springy. you almost wanted to comb it down for him.

“i’m just at the right place at the right time.” he said.

what did that even mean? you simply accepted his response and pressed on.

“well, i wouldn’t mind repaying the favour one day. do you want a coffee or something?”

“no.” wonwoo replied sharply. “you could do me one better and slip me a couple hundred from your pretty bank account. i’m trying to get the local black tar heroin dealer off my back.”

you nearly choked.

“wha-what? are you… serious?”

wonwoo maintained his staid, emotionless expression, and you were really starting to believe that there was a black tar heroin dealer running rampant in the streets that might pop wonwoo if he didn’t pay him off. but then a gradual smile pulled up his lips, and you wanted to retract your entire offer.

“yes, it’s a joke. you’re too easy. the only drugs you’d find in this part of town is the ibuprofen for your grandma’s arthritis. you don’t get out much, do you, rich girl?”

you gaped widely at him.

“careful, baby,” he smirked, and he suddenly brought his hand out, raising your chin with his cold fingertips to close your mouth. “don’t breathe too much of this cheap air. it’s not filtered.”

in a bubbling, festering haze of anger, you snapped his hand away.

“for your information i—,”

abruptly, you heard your name echo from down the street. turning around, you watched your mother exit the floral shop, carrying a pale green wrapping of scarlet poinsettias. they were so huge that the petals almost covered her entire face. it wasn’t her fault, but she couldn’t have picked a worse time to come looking for you, especially when she was cloaked in the thick warmth of her sable fur coat. you sighed deeply and faced wonwoo again. he’d lost his lollipop, attempting to spark up a cigarette instead.

“aren’t these just gorgeous?” your mother swooned, running her fingers over the butter-soft petals. “they certainly cost a pretty penny to get such an exquisite arrangement, but i couldn’t help myself!”

you wanted to sink straight into the earth. wonwoo was looking between you in pure amusement as he crammed his lighter inside a pocket on his jeans. your mother didn’t even seem to notice him until he took his first puff, the distinct potency of the smoke making her nose scrunch.

“a-and who’s this, dear?” she couldn’t even mask her discomfort as she inquired you about wonwoo. at that point, you hadn’t even known his name yet.

“wonwoo,” he introduced himself, “a new friend of your daughter.”

“oh, how lovely,” she nodded at him while forcing a crooked grin. “honey,” she then placed her hand on your shoulder and spoke closely into your ear, “your father is parked down the street. we need to leave soon and get these out of the cold, so please finish your conversation quickly.”

as soon as she slipped past you and began striding swiftly toward the car, you could already taste the muddled defeat on your tongue. if you weren’t protruding the mirage of a spoilt rich girl then, you certainly were now. at least he didn’t blow any smoke into her face, though that didn’t diminish the fact you were going to receive a lengthy lecture in the car.

“why would you say we’re friends?” you scolded wonwoo.

“because you don’t have any.” he responded matter-of-factly while tapping some ash off his cigarette.

“that’s not true! what do you even know about me anyways, apart from that i’m rich.” you made sure to incorporate in-air quotations.

wonwoo pushed back the silver tresses dancing in front of his glasses, embracing the cool, afternoon current against his face.

“not a lot,” he admitted, “you come for drinks every few fridays. sit at the table looking like you hate your life and all the people in it. then you leave with your phony little rich clique.”

“not to be rude, wonwoo—” you almost wanted to laugh; you came here to thank him. now that ship had completely sailed— “but you’re kind of a dick.”

he then had the nerve to roll his eyes. “you’d drop to your knees and suck mine in a second, babygirl. now didn’t your mother say you should hurry up and get in the car? the princess can’t be out of the palace i’m guessing, especially not to talk to assholes on street corners.”

what else could you do apart from swallow your own frustration, bite your lip, and brush past him? there was nothing. it was too bitter to stand outside anyways. a strengthening winter wind was beginning to pick up from the north, the sting making your eyes water. at the same time, your cheeks were hot metal. if no one were on that street, you certainly would have taken him right into your mouth and sucked him dry. he was ridiculous and cruel, but you loved the unhinged nature he unearthed in you. it was liberating in a sense.

you wondered what would become of your relationship.

“where did you say you were going again?”

you looked up from the porcelain dinner plate, in which you’d been picking at the last few crumbs of your wine reduction pineapple cake. it wasn’t your favourite dessert, though you always finished every meal out of respect for the family’s personal chef. you saw your father reach for his water glass. he took a long sip and eyed you over the candlelight and scarlet poinsettias. it was in a way that was completely and unabashedly suspicious.

“ester and i are going to the jewellers to get a custom necklace as aria’s christmas gift. i told you like five times already.”

of course, that was a gigantic lie. you and ester had already gotten the precious necklace last week, you just needed a reasonable excuse.

“and you’re coming straight home, correct?” his voice was stern and unnegotiable.

“i always do.”

“not always.” your mother chipped in as she cut a piece of the glazed cake with her fork. “you’re not going to see that one character, are you?” she always called people with less fortune characters, like they weren’t even considered to be real.

“who?” you acted clueless, and poured yourself more of the sugary, pink lemonade.

“you know who,” there was already a note of displeasure in her voice, “that boy from the corner. the one who smokes. i wasn’t very impressed by his actions.”

you started to squeeze the white cloth across your lap. “he’s trying to quit. i’ve persuaded him.”

“he won’t do it,” your father shook his head, “and he’s not right for you. i don’t want you near him.”

“and that’s why you’re coming straight home after the jewellers.” your mother continued, not allowing you the breadth to speak.

this family couldn’t get any more ridiculous, you were tempted to scream. instead, you pushed out your chair and collected the utensils sitting on your placemat. a maid passing by had scrambled to assist you, though you told her thoughtfully that you could take care of yourself. in actuality, it was the perfect time to get going, just as you could feel the anger warm your own blood to a boiling crimson. you threw on a long peacoat, a spritz belonging to a vanilla perfume, and your saint laurent opyum heels.

“i’ll be home soon!” you shouted down the marbled corridor, but it was only your own voice that echoed back to you.

your knees were beginning to lose feeling from being pressed against the sponge-like carpet of wonwoo’s bedroom, and they would probably ache like hell whenever you came to your feet again, but for the time being, you really didn’t care. your hands were braced against wonwoo’s knees as his hand tangled possessively through your hair, each of his tugs causing your scalp to burn and tingle. you were crying. you loved to be used by him, and he loved using you. especially the warm inside of your slick mouth.

“ff-fuck, that’s it, babygirl, j-just let me fuck your pr-pretty fuckin’ face.” quickly heeding his words, wonwoo bucked his hips up in a sudden snap, the head of his cock nuzzled deep against your throat.

consequently, you gagged, and there were glossy trails of your own saliva uncomfortably pooling down your chin. he bucked up again, his fingers clasping your hair even tighter. you were struggling to breath around him, white, cottony spots blurring your vision while he forced you to take him even further. you were clutching onto his knees with enough strength to bruise his pale skin. but hearing his voice, lined with lust, heavy and laboured, how it hitched when everything felt too good; you were addicted to it.

“you’re so good at this—,” wonwoo grunted through his teeth upon jamming your head down again, “m’gonna cum down your f-fuckin’ throat, baby. be a good girl n’ m-make sure you swallow a-all of me, huh?”

you learned that wonwoo was really filthy. he didn’t have a preference for where he came, though you had to regulate his carelessness. if any of your clothes even got one rip, one pulled up thread, or god forbid a stupid ejaculation stain, your mother would put your head on a mahogany plaque. wonwoo always made fun of you for belonging to a rich family, having to act like the town’s local sweetheart because one wise crack might cost your parents a lost business partner. but you knew he loved it.

the elegant daughter of a rich heir running around with the outlandish punk? he adored it.

eventually, you had to come up for breath or else you would’ve fainted between his thighs. the air gushed into your lungs and coldly filled your chest. a string of your spit was connected from wonwoo’s flushed, hard cock to your wet lips. you could hardly discern anything that surrounded you. the oxygen had yet to thoroughly circulate and the tears were creating a thick blur. wonwoo started to stroke himself while you prepared to take him once more. the empty void in your mouth was a horrible feeling.

“you look like a fucking mess.” wonwoo grinned as he noted that your body was shaking. “am i being too rough with you, babygirl? should i just jack myself off and cum all over your face instead?”

“n-no,” you suckled in a half-hearted breath, “i-i can do it.”

wonwoo smirked. “you still want it down your throat?”

you could see him clearly now. his cheeks were tinted pink, and his eyes were impossibly dark, glittering in anticipation. without thinking, you nodded eagerly, knowing this was what you wanted. he then tapped his cock against your swollen lips, to which you opened up again and calmly took him as deep as you could. he watched your eyes glister with more tears before he started thrusting up into your mouth. his fingers were gentle. they brushed the stray spindles from your face, now destroyed by tears and drool.

“i’m surprised your tears aren’t pure gold,” he laughed, “i guess you aren’t so special.” your spine tingled as his hand crept back through your hair. “m’gonna make you cry even harder, baby.”

his grip had turned to solid iron against your scalp. you got less than a sliver to brace yourself for his unrelenting treatment, in which he pushed you straight down on his cock and kept your face right where he wanted it. with his hand against the back of your head, wonwoo snapped his hips upward, feeling you immediately gag in response. then, he unleashed on you, using your mouth as a mere fucktoy, getting all his pleasure’s worth from you in each of his hard thrusts. everything was so overwhelming and rapid.

wonwoo couldn’t help the mantra of guttural, taunt curses. he started to moan even, his deep voice cracking the second he felt his sticky cum start to abundantly spurt. without a warning, you struggled slightly to accept and swallow it, though wonwoo was intent on keeping you flush to his pelvis until every drop was polished off. he was still thrusting shallowly into your mouth, and you could feel his length gradually begin to soften. his release was warm, and it was similar to cream sliding down your throat.

after he removed himself from your mouth, he titled up your head by the chin.

“did you swallow it all yet?”

you shook your head. quickly, the side of your hot cheek was met with wonwoo’s hand. he’d given you a timid slap, one that wasn’t meant to hurt, but stung gingerly.

“i wanna see you swallow, babygirl.” he purred. “be good, won’t you?”

your tears were dribbling uncontrollably as you fully swallowed his seed. god, your throat felt like it was on fire. each muscle in your jaw was burning up ardently. your knees were so numb you didn’t even think you could stand. there wasn’t enough time for wonwoo to return the favour. you were sure he could smell the thick scent of your arousal, especially as it ruined your underwear and shone on your inner thighs.

but you didn’t care. having him use you for the night was enough.

“are you alright?” wonwoo asked, getting himself back in his pants.

you didn’t respond, just gripped onto his knee tightly and attempted to stand. your opyum heels were still on, and you nearly broke an ankle as the blood rushed into your legs. wonwoo stood also. he stabilized you by holding your shoulders, at least for a good minute. pulling back your sleeve, you rid the tears that stained your face with a quick wipe from your hand. you were going to have to be very speedy getting back to the house, unless you wanted your father to send the swat team after you.

“god,” you sighed with a raspy, dying voice, “i hate my life.”

wonwoo scoffed at you lightly.

“what lie did you tell them this time?”

you muttered, “i was going to the jewellers.”

“that’s a long time to be at the jewellers.”

“i know that,” you snapped quickly in response.

more tears pushed at your ducts. you couldn’t believe how unhappy you were, even despite having every material thing you could ever want. sometimes that particular thought would just pummel you out of nowhere and you’d fight back the urge to cry.

wonwoo’s hand cupped the side of your face. his thumb stroked gently beneath your eye and he leaned in to kiss your mouth softly. his tongue tasted like a cherry lollipop. he really was trying to quit smoking.

“what are you gonna do, babygirl?” wonwoo hummed, pressing his forehead against yours as he continued to brush your cheek.

you held his waist. “i dunno,” you croaked, “my parents don’t like you. my dad doesn’t want me near you.”

“then don’t tell him i fucked your face, princess. it’s easy.”

there was a puff of meek laughter in your chest. for a few more minutes, you let wonwoo hold you. it was the most comfortable and happy you’d felt all day. you were running short on time. the first thing you’d do when you get home would be to run a hot shower and most likely finger yourself while you thought about wonwoo’s cock lodged deep down your throat. maybe one day you’d really snap and stuff all your belongings in a suitcase and come live with him in the shitty scope of town.

but for now, that seemed unattainable.

you’d have to come up with another lie as to why you just spent two hours at the jewellers.

“the earrings were the most magnificent things i’d ever seen! i’m going to wear them for my modelling gig next month, in paris of course. i’ll even text you guys some photos of them when i get home. they have these little opal centres that absolutely sparkle.”

just one more word. if you had to listen to aria babble one more word about her modelling gig or her stupid opal earrings or her all-expense paid trip to paris then you might have to throw your glass of chardonnay in her face. those were the only three things she talked about. then the month would change and she’d have another three things to drive into the mud, yet everyone at the table ate up her words like they were a slice of chocolate cake. you were starting to develop a headache.

“that’s wonderful, aria!” ester was gleaming as she readjusted the strap on her pearl-white dress. you could just tell she was dying to incorporate tales of her own wealth into the conversation. “i can’t wait to see your modelling pictures. that reminds me, i still have some old videos from when i went parasailing in bali. do you guys wanna see them?”

everyone started crowding around ester’s side of the table, attempting to view the footage she was pulling up on her phone screen. however, you didn’t budge, and continued to stare with a dull look in your eyes out the bar’s front window. through the glass, you could see wonwoo standing at the street lamp with his friends, swirling around another lollipop from cheek to cheek. you wondered if it was cherry. his last flavour had been green apple. you tasted it on his tongue when he’d fucked you in the backseat of his car.

but that was a week ago.

“don’t you want to see?” ester was smiling at you.

winding your fingers around your thin wine glass, you shrugged. “i’ll pass.”

“suit yourself.” ester replied, and started to play her first video.

you hated everything about this situation.

wonwoo was right. you really didn’t have any friends, and that became especially clear as you observed everyone at the opposite end of the table, adoring ester’s cute, ditsy little parasailing videos that her boyfriend took. you wished you liked the same things these girls did. your life would be one-hundred times more enjoyable if you just embraced your sumptuous blessings and shed a couple brain cells to be on the same level as them.

then again, you didn’t want to be exactly like them.

they left you to get home by yourself just because you drank too much. at a bar.

pressing the wine glass against your lips, you tilted your head back and easily gulped down the remaining chardonnay. it was a pleasant coolness that streamed down your throat, and you slammed the glass onto the table once it was emptied; even slouched back in your seat and didn’t bother patting your lipstick dry with a tissue. aria raised an eyebrow at you. she looked like she was itching to say something. you were in the mood for a challenge. if she was going to make a passive aggressive comment, it better be soon.

“i hope you have a designated driver.” she finally decided to chuckle.

you rolled your eyes. “shut up, aria.”

ester and her friends immediately looked up from the phone.

“excuse me?” aria replied while tucking a strand of her behind her ear. she seemed a bit baffled by your sudden disdain. “i don’t believe i’ve ever heard you speak like that.”

you were beyond a point of caring. “what are you gonna do then? tattletale on me? you’re such a fake.”

“that’s way out of line.” ester intervened, staring you down intensely. “why are you acting like this?”

“whatever.” you stood up from the chair and reached for your coin purse, revealing a wadded clump of cash that you slapped on the lacquered table. admittedly, the alcohol concocted with your frustration (not to mention being around wonwoo’s snide personality) had quite the effect on your behaviour. if you never had to see these girls again, it would be too soon. you couldn’t believe that you’d even went through the effort of buying aria a christmas present. the only thing she gifted you was a card with her signature on it.

like that was fucking useful.

“i think you need to leave.” ester announced like you weren’t already gathering your things.

“exactly.” you falsely commended her.

she probably had a pea-sized diamond in her skull instead of an actual brain. “i’m leaving now before you guys get the chance to ditch me. don’t worry about it though. i can actually walk myself out this time.”

if only you had a camera ready to capture their gobsmacked expressions. it would have been embarrassingly laughable. you flicked past them toward the door and pushed into the nighttime air, which was crisp and wonderfully cold to your warmed flesh. you felt powerful for summoning the courage to break ties with them, and yet, at the same time, you found that you were on the verge of tears. they deserved to have their toxic behaviour thrown back in their face. it was just that you felt a bit broken.

now you truthfully were alone. well – apart from wonwoo.

you approached him as he stood at the corner, still suckling on his lollipop. him and his friends were in the midst of a humorous conversation when you tapped on wonwoo’s hard shoulder. you always wondered what they spoke about. it always seemed more interesting than the lifeless talk you once endured inside the bar. he didn’t seem all that surprised to see you, though he did look with concern at the watery film across your eyes. you could smell the sweetness of his lollipop; it had to be strawberry.

“are you okay?” wonwoo asked, his breath forming wispy cotton against the dark sky.

you ignored his question. “i want to go back to your place.” you told him.

“now?” he raised his eyebrow.

“yes. now would be good. i’ve just been thinking, and i really want you to eat me out.”

you didn’t care if his friends overheard. apparently, wonwoo didn’t care either. he smirked at you and licked his lips, though there remained a bit of uncertainty in his eyes. you had yet to answer his initial question. from inside the bar, you knew those girls were staring at you, watching you talk to wonwoo.

they were definitely going to tattle to your parents.

your fingers clawed mercilessly over the bed, practically uprooting the linens tucked beneath the mattress as wonwoo kept your thighs tightly locked apart. everything felt so dense, so hot, like the universe was pushing down on your chest and igniting flame inside of your body. you lifted your head off his pillow, only capturing a mere glimpse of his pink tongue gliding past your slit, the muscle coated purely in your arousal. he started to fuck you with his tongue, digging it as deep as he could within your heat.

unabashedly, you moaned, extremely loud and most likely disturbing everyone in his apartment complex. everything about the technicality and purpose of his movements was pushing you toward a climax that would be unlike any other. he was so impatient to get a taste of you that he hadn’t even taken your skirt off, instead bunching the pleated material up against your stomach while your underwear were thrown to the floor. suddenly, you were gasping, and your head collapsed back to the pillow.

wonwoo had managed to wriggle his hand between your thighs. as he ran his tongue in hot, fervent licks against your needy clit, he pushed two fingers inside of you, scissoring you open.

“ffuh-fuck, wonwoo!” you wailed, your hand grasping at his soft hair to keep his tongue against you. “it fe-feels s-so … s-so fucking go-good!”

he’d been taking his sweet time in building up your climax. you allowed him to have his way with you, since he knew how to work your body as though he were magic. his fingers started to curl. it didn’t take him long before they were hitching up into that one golden spot, the one that caused the entire room to whirl. you could tell that he was smiling. he began to messily circle his tongue around your clit. the sensation of the warm, wet muscle pleasuring your most sensitive region was leaving you breathless.

“c’mon, babygirl,” wonwoo mumbled against your core, his fingers thrusting up heavily and abusing that spot inside of you, “you gonna let go and let me taste your cum? you’re fucking dripping all over the bed.”

there was a glimmer of drool leaking from the edge of your mouth. you were so blissed out and crammed with euphoria that you could hardly articulate a response. wonwoo wasn’t giving you much of a chance either. he started a brisk pace rubbing his tongue against your clit, and then he closed his plump lips around you to better flick it with the pink muscle. his bicep was probably burning as he slammed his fingers deep into your heat, making you squelch. your slick had thoroughly soaked the sheets beneath you.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” you panted, arching your chest into the air, “i-it’s s-so much, w-wonwoo—m’gonna—nngh—m’gonna cc-cum!”

wonwoo kept your hips pressed firmly to the mattress with one arm as your pleasure exploded. the tears easily streamed down your flustered, glossy face as this extreme contraction passed through you. it was incredibly wet, too wet, and you knew exactly what had happened as wonwoo pulled out his glistening fingers and completely buried his face between your thighs. god, it was fucking embarrassing. you would have curled away from him if wonwoo wasn’t so persistent. he kept licking at you, hard and fast.

at that point, your tears were no longer tiny beads. the sensitivity had left your nerves completely raw, and you sobbed helplessly as wonwoo continued to eat you out. his tongue felt like it was lapping everywhere, impatient and hungry. you tried to pull him away by dishevelled hair, but he swatted your hand back and bit down softly on your swollen clit. before you even knew what was happening, wonwoo had somehow forced your body into another orgasm. his tongue was inside of you as the second wave hit.

“pl-please,” you whimpered in utter fragility, the mixture of pleasure and pain becoming too overwhelming as wonwoo attempted to lick you clean, “pl-please, wonwoo… i-it huh-hurts..”

he chuckled against your sore flesh warmly. “are you sure you’re done, baby? bet i could make you squirt again if i was real gentle.”

“i-i don’t want to talk about it…” you said shakily. honestly, you didn’t even know your body was capable of feeling that much stimulation and pleasure. it was cosmic.

“awe, don’t be embarrassed,” wonwoo hummed, “you have no idea how fucking hot that was.”

“i don’t want to know.” you sighed.

wonwoo scoffed innocuously. he pecked the inside of your thigh, then each hip bone, before he crawled overtop of you and let you taste your own sweetness off his tongue. you spent a few minutes idly making out, smearing saliva over each other’s flushed lips, running your hands up and down his broad, hard chest, leaving scarlet rivulets along his biceps. wonwoo began teasing his fingers against your slit again, and you gasped into the kiss as his finger sunk into you, slowly, deeply.

“what’s wrong?” wonwoo asked while pumping the digit at a gentle pace.

“what do you mean?” you squeaked, staring into his brown eyes tinged with his earlier concern.

“you know what i mean,” wonwoo hummed, “why were you about to cry outside the bar? what happened?”

“are you sure we should discuss this while you’re fingering me?”

“baby, just tell me.” wonwoo urged with a comforting tone in his voice. he started to massage his thumb over your clit, and your entire body jolted.

you sniffled. “i-i just, i— i kind of cut ties with my friends. a-and i’m glad i did it but now i’m just gonna be even more a-alone.”

“of course not,” wonwoo shook his head, “you have me.”

“are you sure?”

slight amusement and shock coloured wonwoo’s face. he pulled his hand away from your core and looked like he wanted to laugh. you couldn’t blame him, but you also couldn’t help your insecurity.

“i’m sure, baby.” he told you firmly. “i’ll always be here for you. i promise.”

you smiled up at him, feeling your heart start to soften.

“can we take a shower?” you then proposed. “i want to get these tears off my face before they dry.”

while wonwoo was busy getting the water running inside the bathroom, you noticed your phone start to glow and vibrate on his nightstand. it was your mother’s number on the screen. taking a long, slow breath, you flipped your phone upside down and ignored the call. it was a risky move, but it felt almost healing in a sense to turn away from the stress in your life. instead, you focused on what mattered in the moment.

wonwoo joined you in the shower, the water gliding in silk-like pathways around his lean muscle and smooth skin. he pushed back his wet hair, sparkling droplets sticking heavy to his eyelashes. he pressed you against the tiles, and their icy touch sent a shiver up your spine. in the midst of the steam and heat, he was kissing you again, suckling softly on your tongue and squeezing your breasts in his hands. his aching length, hard and heavy, brushed between your thighs, to which your palm started to glide up his shaft.

he smiled against your mouth, “you want my cock inside you, babygirl?”

the fire slowly rebuilt itself from the embers in your stomach.

“yes please.” you lilted innocently.

wonwoo decided to press your front against the glass wall instead of the tile. his lips were leaving drifting pecks up your shoulder blade, and he didn’t seem to be in a hurry. a rough, deep groan filled your ear as wonwoo rubbed his cock between your folds, allowing your arousal to coat him generously. however, you were yearning to feel how he filled you entirely, until you could feel him nestled right to the brink. wriggling your hips against him, it was your non-verbal cue for him to start sliding in.

he cupped your breasts in his hands, whispering into your ear, “how should i fuck you, baby? do you want it hard?”

as impatient as you were, there was something about the atmosphere that told you to prolong your intimacy.  “n-no,” you mumbled as the fog swathed around you, “s-slow, i want to feel you.”

your moan was almost louder than the water spraying against the tiles when wonwoo started to push inside of you. once he was buried as far as could fit, he started to grind into you, extending his pace so that you could truly feel his every inch and vein. his fingers were massaging your chest, the round flesh almost like velvet to his touch. everything about your body was endearingly soft and warm. he loved it.

“does it feel good, babygirl?” wonwoo purred. he was situated at such a pleasurable depth inside you that you felt like complete gelatine. he thrust into you a little harder, but it was enough to make you cry.

“s-so good,” you stuttered, licking the water off your lips. “do i feel good t-too?”

wonwoo smirked. he moved his hips at a shallow pace. “mmhm. you’re so tight and warm around me, baby. feels so perfect. how pretty do you think your pussy would look with my cum dripping out of it? should we try it?”

you pushed yourself back against his pelvis, “fill me up, wonwoo, please.”

“of course,” he grinned, and slowly dipped a hand down your stomach until you felt him begin to rub soft circles into your clit.

“let’s see how much you can take, babygirl.”

you were exhausted. you were sore. but you felt safe. you made an audacious decision and decided to spend the night at wonwoo’s rather than going home, where you knew you’d be greeted by an equally displeased mother and father that aria had snitched to. it was the first time you’d gone to bed without wearing pyjamas that weren’t expensive, pink satin. you were clad in nothing but one of wonwoo’s old t-shirts. he tried to give you one that didn’t still carry the scent of stale cigarette smoke.

his arm was around your waist, your spine resting comfortably against his chest while you lay together beneath the bedsheets. the sheet that was stained in your arousal had been tossed in the laundry hamper. you knew wonwoo would never stop teasing you about it. anyways, life felt different at his apartment; in fact, it felt better, especially when wonwoo kissed your temple before shutting off the light. your wealth had never been a defining factor in your personality, but it did make you consistently miserable.

that night, it was just you and a boy, a boy who you were quite positively in love with. maybe he loved you too. you weren’t completely certain yet, and you didn’t want to rush anything; however, you felt fairly confident his heart was likewise when he buried his face into your neck and wished you goodnight in his low, sleepy voice.

whatever your parents had to say, you’d find out tomorrow morning.

right now, you weren’t the rich girl, but a happy girl, and that mattered more to you than anything else.

[thiswasinevitableid]

Demonic Intervention (Indruck)

Prompt for the 7th: “Hell is empty, and all the devils are here.” - The Tempest (William Shakespeare). This fill is NSFW

It can't get much worse. 

Indrid is barely scraping by. He can count his friends in town on one hand. He’s gay in a tiny, rural community and one of the few men like him is a goddamn priest. His house is a mess. And his every waking moment is filled with the demons of his past or the devils lurking in his future. There are so many of them in his present too, roaming the streets of Kepler. 

What’s one more in the mix?

He lights the stubby black candle by the bed, scratches the symbols on the floor, and retreats into his cocoon of blankets to wait.

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

Duck hates when it’s his turn on the summoning shifts. All this ancient knowledge and power and he’s stuck waiting to see if some yahoo in a graveyard or a wannabe cult leader will call him up into the world. 

He has brambles that need pruning, damn it. 

His name isn’t well known among humans, so he only gets summoned if someone is just rooting around for a demonic entity without caring who they get. He’s only been summoned twice in the last hundred years. The tingle in his horns tells him it’s about to be three. 

The room he arrives in is gloomier than any graveyard; the lights are off, the curtains are shut, and the place looks like it got hit by a tornado with a grudge. By the light of the candle, a pale-haired head emerges from the blankets of the small bed. A hand reaches for the floor, comes back with a pair of red glasses.

“Greetings, infernal one. Thank you for answering my summons.” The man’s voice is flat.

“Even demons got manners. So, uh, what’s the job?”

“There are so many dishes in the sink that the thought of doing them is an insurmountable task. Please do them for me.”

“...You realize I’m takin somethin’ from you for this, right? Like a piece of soul or a month of your life?”

“Mmmm” The man rolls over and says nothing else. 

“A day of your life for this.” Duck feels like he should haggle more, but then he’d had to pretend he actually thought a higher price was fair. 

“I accept your terms.” A crackle of green and black electricity flickers in the air in the form of  Duck’s signature and the other man’s name: Indrid Cold.

“Pleasure doin’ business with you.” 

Indrid says nothing. Duck is sure to wash and dry before he goes. 

The next day he’s summoned to the exact same room, in the exact same state of depressing mess. 

“Greetings, infernal one. Please clean this room.”

“Same terms?”

“Mmhmm” Indrid is just staring at the ceiling. 

“You gotta say you accept.”

“I accept.” 

Duck snaps, turning on the light, and gets to work. Technically he could do all this with a wave of his hand. But then he’d lose his chance to learn a little more about the guy who’s settled on demonic deals instead of a maid service. It’s the opposite of the usual problem he has in these kinds of situations, where the humans reveal their deepest secrets, desires, and fears within five minutes of meeting him. 

The records he stacks near their player, the clothes all go in the hamper to be magicked clean, then are hung in the closet; they’re loose and soft, not a scratchy fabric to be found. Tarot cards and candles abound, as do art supplies, and under a pile of drawings he finds magazines featuring muscular, hairy men in various sexual positions. Some of them even look like his preferred human form, the one he’s wearing now. 

He glances at the bed; Indrid is on his side, facing him, must have been watching him at some point but has dropped into a restless sleep. The blankets are slipping, showing a The Sonics tank top hanging off skinny shoulders. Right, that was one of the bands in the record stack. 

Duck doesn’t tend to pry into souls or auras or shit like that; there are whole heaps of trouble that lay that direction. But as he flicks the dust from the bookshelf covered in paperbacks, he feels the edges of Indrids and nearly falls on his ass from the wave of exhaustion and loneliness. 

When it’s time to go, he pauses to pull the blankets back up around him, sets his glasses on the bedside table, and turns the calendar on the wall from “September 1974” to “October 1974.”

When he’s summoned right back to Indrid’s room the next evening, he spots the same tank top on him as he sits up in bed.

“Greetings infernal one.”

“You can just call me ‘Duck’. It’s a nickname.” 

“Oh” Indrid blinks, perplexed, “very well. I, ah, there are some bills that need to be paid to keep the lights on.”

“You need the money for them?”

“No, just for someone to fill out the forms and checks and put them in the mail.”

“Okay. But my fee’s a little different this time: you gotta tell me when you last ate.”

“I accept. I ate this morning.”

Duck snaps his fingers

“Two days ago!” Indrid yelps, then slaps his hands over his mouth. He glares, “why does it matter?”

“Because while I’m payin those bills, you’re eatin’ dinner.”

“Everything in the fridge is disgusting and I can’t go to the store.” 

Duck takes the short trip out to the kitchen, opens the fridge to the new sound of Indrid’s footfalls behind him. 

“You got lots of decent stuff in here; could make you some eggs?”

“No, thank you.” Indrid shakes his head, looking a bit ill. 

“Well, what do you want? I can summon it up.”

“I’m out of Lucky Charms.” The humans says sheepishly, staring at his bare feet. 

A fresh box of cereal appears on the table, Duck pulling out the half empty bottle of milk. He thinks back to the drawings he saw yesterday and conjures a bowl covered in a pattern of brightly colored moths. 

He gathers the stack of bills of while hearts, stars, and horseshoes rattle into the bowl. After a few moments of crunching he hears, “May I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“Why is your nickname Duck? Does that word mean something else in demonic speech?”

Duck stuffs paper into envelopes, “Nah. It’s, uh, kinda silly but, uh, most demons learn how to take on an animal form. When it was my turn, they asked me which I wanted and, uh, I said I wanted to try bein’ a duck. Liked it so much I stayed that way for three months.”

There’s an odd, strangled sound that makes him look up; Indrid has one hand over his mouth and is shaking with little squeaks. He’s laughing. 

“I’m, I’m s-sorry but, but I, I cannot get over the image of you as a little, feathery waterbird.”

Duck smirks, “Only part that ever gave me trouble was the quackin’; always came out too deep.”

He just manages to pull the envelopes back as milk comes out the human’s nose and he giggles uncontrollably. 

“Ow, ow, heeh, oh g-goodness, I’m s-sorry I, I just haven’t laughed in so long, ugh, there’s milk on my shirt-”

“Guess you’re gonna need to shower now too.” 

“Nono, I can just change-”

Duck waves the bills back and forth, “Uh uh, if you want me to actually put these in the mailbox, you gotta agree to shower.”

“But that’s changing the terms!”

“Demon.” Duck grins. 

“Very well. Let me finish my dinner first.” Indrid scarfs the rest of the cereal, pads back towards the bedroom while Duck cleans the table. He waits to hear water running before going to the mailbox. When he gets back he sticks his head into the steamy bathroom.

“I’m gonna go now.”

“Oh, alright. Thank you again.” Indrid pokes his head out from the shower curtain and Duck resists the temptation to make the whole barrier disappear just for a peak. What can he say? He’s always liked his humans a bit unique looking. 

He draws a special sigil in the steamed-up mirror and heads for home. 

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

Indrid sets the candle on the table, lights it, adds the symbol he found in the mirror, and then starts unpacking his groceries. 

“Lookit you doin’ chores.” The whiff of burnt pine needles accompanies Duck’s voice and draws the tension from Indrid’s shoulders. 

“I’ll have you know I swept today as well.” Indrid turns and crunches the bag of potato chips in his fists; Duck hasn’t put his horns or claws away, and his shirt is half unbuttoned. 

“Caught me while I was gardenin, which is why I ain’t as put together as normal. What can I do for you?”

“This may sound strange but, ah, what is the fee for just talking with you?”

Duck’s eyebrows shoot up and then he chuckles, “You’re full of surprises, little moth.”

Indrid touches the luna moth on his shoulder; how much had Duck studied him when he was here? Did he like what he saw? Does he give everyone he makes deals with nicknames that come out in a drawl like summer honey?

“Hows a little nibble of the old soul sound?”

“I accept. Ah, would you like some cookies? A friend of mine brought them over to me.”

“Sure. The fella on the fridge bring ‘em?” The demon indicates the picture of himself and Barclay, the one he can’t bring himself to throw away. 

“No. My friend Dani, she’s in charge of the gardens for the little co-op in town and when the bakery has seconds she often drops them off for me.” 

He really needs to stop staring at Duck’s chest, even demons probably find ogling rude. Duck’s eyes--one blue, one brown-- catch his own and suddenly claw tips are undoing the remaining buttons. Indrid goes pink but manages to get the cookies and two glasses of water on the table without incident. 

“You know, you never told me why you stayed a duck for so long.”

“It’s the least demonic thing you’ve ever heard but, uh, I just thought it was nice. Bein’ out in the woods, paddlin’ on the lake and watchin the world go by. Sleepin under the stars. Just makes you feel like you’re part of somethin’ bigger than yourself. Now, I got a question for you; why go to all the trouble of summonin’ me just to do your chores?”

Indrid bites his lip, “I knew I was in the kind of mental place where I could not manage it myself. And it felt safer to ask you than to ask my friends. Not that they wouldn’t help me. It’s just, when my mind is like that it turns so inward I can’t conceive of a world that might contain things for me.”

The demon says nothing for a moment, sips his water with a thoughtful look. Then he sets down the empty glass, “Glad you’re feelin a little better.” He tilts his head to indicate the sketch on the counter, “that new?”

“Yes” excitement bubbles up in his chest, “I was reading about--ah, well, it’s, it’s sort of a long story, I don’t want to bore you.”

Duck kicks his feet up on the spare chair and gestures for him to continue. So he does, tells the demon about reading every book he could find on the mythology and folklore of the Mexico and the American southwest, about his new inspiration for a series of drawings, his worries that no one will like them or purchase them and he’ll be stuck running his little psychic side business until he dies 

Duck, in turn, tells him about life as a forest demon, about his hellcat, and about the fact he routinely comes up to the human world for french onion soup because the stuff made in his realm never tastes right. When Indrid next looks at the clock, it’s well after midnight. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“No complaints here. But I oughta get home and feed Winnie before she shreds my cabinets again.” The demon stands, rounding the table, “gotta get my fee first.”

“Right. How should I…” Indrid stiffens as Duck bends forward, wondering if the sharp teeth that smiled at him all night are about to pierce his skin. 

Warm lips meet his forehead and he sighs at the tenderness in the gesture. Duck, however, moans as he pulls back, then quickly covers his mouth.

“Uh, that, that’s a totally, uh, totally not, uh, un-normal reaction, uh, fuck, see you around.” 

He’s gone with a campfire crackle, leaving Indrid to wonder how a demon can be such a terrible liar.

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

“Sweet fuckin hell.” Duck gasps as his living room forms around him. His lips still tingle from kissing the human’s forehead, from the sheer force of the want and yes that came when he took that sip of soul. It’s never like that, never comes so willingly and eagerly, like the soul is searching for someone to look after it. 

Technically, there’s nothing stopping him from zipping right back up there and pinning Indrid to his bed while he takes what the human seems so happy to give. 

Duck takes five deep breaths, then ten, and then goes to retrieve Winnie from the cabinet she clawed her way into.

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

When Barclay suggested Indrid find someone to confide in, Indrid’s going to guess he didn’t mean, “routinely invite a demon into your house to play cards or listen to music.”

Most times, Indrid isn’t even summoning him; they have two standing dates a week, plus a game night with Dani and her new girlfriend, Aubrey (who Duck seems to know but refuses to say more about how). Duck will sometimes drop by unannounced, and he hardly ever collects a fee these days. When he does, it’s always a taste of Indrid’s soul, taken via a kiss on the cheek. 

Indrid would let him take it any way he wanted. He’s well past denying the fact Duck is type in all his forms, that he’s gentler than most humans, and that he’s so charming Indrid would eat out of his hand. 

Duck even goes out with him, like the boyfriend he wishes he had. When he puts on his human form to accompany Indrid around town, he radiates enough residual, demonic energy that the people who normally make Indrid’s life a living hell stay far, far away. In fact, tonight is the first night in months he’s had something close to a disaster, and it was mostly an accident. He’s peeling his beer-soaked shirt over his head when he feels mis-matched eyes on his back.

“Have a little too much fun bartendin’ tonight?” Duck holds out his hand, rendering the shirt fresh and clean when it touches his palm.

“Some caveman hit on one of our regulars and would not back off when asked. She threw a full pint of beer on him and I happened to be standing right behind him when she did.” He wiggles out of his jeans, let’s Duck give them the same treatment he gave the shirt, “ugh, I need a bath, I smell like Rheingold.”

“Allow me.” Duck waves his hand and steam wafts from the bedroom, goes into it and grabs the bubble bath from under the sink as Indrid follows him in his underwear. Duck’s constant glancing at his crotch and legs makes him bold. 

“What’s the fee for such excellent service?”

“No fee, little moth. I’m just doin’ a favor for my friend.”

“And what if your friend wants to repay you anyway?”

When the demon looks up from the tub, his eyes are glowing, “Only if he’s doin’ it because he wants to and not because he owes me.”

“I want to, so very badly.”

In a flash Duck is in the tub, beckoning Indrid to join him. Indrid tests the water with his finger just to be safe.

“Mmm, nice and warm.”

“Hellfire, sugar. Now get your cute ass into the tub or--oh fuck yeah.” Duck growls as Indrid strips and climbs in with him, drags him into his lap and traces his claws up his sides while Indrid yanks him into a kiss.Curious, Indrid reaches one hand up to rub the base of his horn, the dark brown curls like smooth bark beneath his fingers. 

“Fuuuck” Duck groans, “feels like gettin a back-rub.”

“Then I better keep at it. Oh, oh my” Indrid sits back to admire the vines of green appearing in Duck’s skin, “you’re absolutely beautiful.”

“Kinky little thing, you like that I’m a demon.” Duck scrapes his teeth along Indrid’s shoulder, “that really why you summoned me? You were hopin I’d have my, uh, demonic way with you?”

“N-no, I, I, it’s no secret I’m attracted to you but I, you make me feel so happy, I’m so safe when I’m with you, and, and if all your care and affection towards me has been part of some malevolent plan please, please just tell me because I, I think I’m falling in love with you.” He kisses Duck with far more force than before, forestalling the inevitable confession that this was all just a game for his soul and his own, pathetic admission that he’s not sure that changes anything. 

“Oh, sugar” Duck keeps brushing their lips together as he speaks, “First time I tasted your soul I knew I was fucked. Knew I wanted to keep seein’ you, even if you never gave me another goddamn thing.”

Indrid buries his face in Duck’s shoulder, letting out shuddery sighs as Duck pets his back. He’s never leaving this spot, Duck is just going to have to carry him about while he does his infernal business and his housekeeping.

“Tell me what you want, little moth.” Duck kisses the shell of his ear. It still tingles, even when his soul stays put.

“Please fuck me? Oh! Oh that’s very efficient and extremely strange.” He squirms in Duck’s lap as his ass turns slick and stretched, like someone has pulled four fingers from it.

“Do it the traditional way some other time” The curved head of a cock bumps his ass, “you wanna feel just to be sure you can take it?”

He flails in the water a moment, finds a warm, responsive shaft with four, bumpy ridges leading to the head. It’s no bigger than the one toy he splurged on during his last trip to the city.

“Yes, certainly, oh, oh, AHHhnnnn yes.” The cock is hotter than his body as it slides in and he wonders if it will just melt him from the inside out, if Duck’s cum will be just as warm, how it will feel on his tongue and down his throat when he drags the demon into his bed.

“That’s it sugar, take it all the way. Fuck, been jerkin off to the thought of you on my dick for months.”

“Nnngh” Is his eloquent reply, the ridges of Duck’s cock making his toes curl and his fingers dig into Duck’s skin. 

“You like that idea, little moth? Knowin I could be out temptin anyone I wanted to and instead I was in bed thinkin’ about you?”

“Mhhmmm” He whines, the desire pouring off the demon wrapping around him and soothing his insecurities. 

Duck slows the thrusts of his hips and his voice is gentle when he whispers, “Course I did; no one can compare to you, ‘Drid.”

“Ohgod, Duck, please, please, please, want to be yours, always yours-”

“Careful,sugar, that sounds like you’re anglin’ for an infernal marriage.”

“A, a what? OHhhhnnyes” He moans as claws knead his ass.

“It’s a special kind of deal where a human agrees to marry a demon. Soon as they’re dead, they go straight to their spouse, no other options provided.” Duck cups his face, holding it steady so he can look into his eyes, “but there ain’t no need for that right now; way I see it, we can do this like we were just two normal fellas for now.”

“But it sounds fun.” Indrid offers a teasing pout and gets an adoring kiss in return. 

“Yeah? What if I tell you a lot of demons mark their spouses by piercing these” He pinches Indrid’s nipples, the pain making him bounce more determinedly on his dick. His demon growls, drops one hand down to thumb at the head of his aching cock, “pierce here too. Won’t even do it in public like you’re supposed to; do it at home so no one else will see just what a sweet, needy thing you are for me--whoah, fuck, did not expect you to cum just from playin with this nice dick a little.”

“V-very sensitive” Indrid gasps against the green swirls in Duck’s shoulder, his orgasm such a surprise he’s still registering it, hips twitching and tongue threatening to loll out of his mouth.

“Keep that in mind for next time. Might even bring a cage so you don’t cum too early and spoil my plans. Now, hold tight, little moth.” 

Indrid clings to the warm bulk of Duck’s body as his cock pounds up into him, the demon easily holding his hips up and his ass open so all he can do is whimper and writhe on it. When he cums it’s hot enough that Indrid squirms

“Don’t hurt does it?” Duck pets his sides, concerned. 

“Nono, it, it’s nice, just very strange.” Indrid winces as Duck pulls out, watches him wave his fingers to clear away the mess. When the demon makes no move to let go, Indrid looks up, “you really meant what you said? About wanting me as a boyfriend?”

“Damn right I do. Now c’mere, lemme get the beer outta your hair.”

Indrid hums as Duck scrubs his scalp and runs warm water over his skin, talking all the while about how they should go camping as a first date so no one will bother them, says he’ll even turn into a duck to make Indrid smile. 

Indrid says he knows just the spot, let’s his boyfriend dry them off and bundle them to bed and then, for the first time, falls asleep with a devil in his arms.

[sparklecryptid]

when is a monster not a monster?

also here on ao3

If a monster knows that he is a monster does he have a choice in that matter? Does he have a choice to discard the beast time and rage have made of him? Or is he still merely a pawn, merely a piece on the board where he should have been king? If the monster knows he is a monster and that he has no other option but to be the villain of this play-

Is he still a monster?

-

Ardyn knows that he cannot be kind. That the role he has been forced into will not allow it, will not allow for the inch of mercy that creeps across his soul when he sees those dead and dying. A different him would have saved them, and if not that would have comforted them in their final hours. A different him was a kind man, with mercy for all those who wandered across his path.

He can no longer afford to be such. Ardyn can no longer afford to be a gentle man, to be a man of virtue and sacrifice. He is no messiah, adorned with a crown of holy water and roses, there will be no mourning at his funeral for none will ever know the length and breadth of his tale. They will see a villain, a monster laid to rest and that is all his legacy will be.

Ardyn is a monster, he knows, and monsters do not get a second chance.

-

There’s a writer. A poet. A wordsmith with words lacquered on his tongue like the finest honey. The poet speaks of gods and monsters, of love and redemption and something in the words of this man causes Ardyn to stop his wanderings through the streets of Lestallum and listen.

“-and the end will be not of light; blaring loudly in our ears it will be a rose silence, a gentle mourning for we did not know what was lost.”

The poet speaks of an end, of the last days of darkness and a gentleness that came not from the dawn lingering over the heavens but from the silence of mourning something lost. Something they could not understand that had left them.

The poet ends his performance and the crowd before him murmurs as he bows. A nervous yet gentle smile crosses the poets lips -a slash of dark pink on pale brown skin- and the crowd applauds him. The poet bows, and when he rights himself once more his gaze meets Ardyn’s and the poet freezes as though he recognizes Ardyn.

Oh, Ardyn thinks as he claps slowly with the crowd, That’s interesting.

“Uh,” The poet stammers as the crowd fades and Ardyn approaches. The poet’s bright brown eyes darting around as though attempting to figure out the best way to escape Ardyn. “Hello.”

“Dear Wordsmith,” Ardyn grins at the man who fidgets with his shirt as though it’s the most interesting thing in the world, “May I ask for what inspired your performance? Though I only caught the tail end of it I must say that I found it… fascinating.”

The poet’s eyes widen, as though he’s been caught in a net there’s no way out of before he takes a breath and the confidence that he had while speaking to an audience shows itself once more.

“Only,” he says, lips turning downward in a frown, “If you buy me lunch.”

-

If someone knows that a terrible fate befalls a man who was once innocent does that person have the responsibility to try and right things? Charlie can almost hear his mother tell him yes, tell him that he has a duty to right the wrongs that have been set in stone throughout the history of this new world he finds himself in. Charlie can almost hear her say that if he has the chance to help someone that he should take it.

And Charlie knows the type of man that he is; knows that he cannot leave someone out there to suffer. That if he can even ease the suffering of a man the slightest bit that he will do it, not out of duty, but because the sight, the thought of someone else suffering and no one doing anything turns his guts into knots.

If he can do something, he will.

Perhaps that is why after he has lived in Lestallum, has made his name selling books and writing poetry, Charlie decides to step onto the street and recite the poem he had written for a man and god made villain. His voice and words draw a crowd, as he knew they would, and they stand and sit enraptured by the tale Charlie spins.

When a man approaches him, with wine dark hair and golden eyes Charlie almost faints.

Instead he gathers his courage and asks the man to buy him lunch.

-

Charlie the poet calls himself.

“That’s not a very poetic name,” Ardyn comments.

“You’re not very poetic,” Charlie replies, voice like ice as he sips the iced tea latte he had ordered from the bistro’s menu.

Ardyn smirks, amused by the bite in Charlie’s voice and leans across the table just to watch Charlie’s eyes widen.

“So,” Ardyn asks, “I believe I was promised the details of what inspired your verse today.”

Charlie’s eyes narrow, the sun dancing over his brown hair turning it almost red in the light.

“You,” the poet says, and despite the way he bites his bottom lip when Ardyn’s eyes take on a dangerous glint Charlie does not leave.

“Me?” Ardyn asks, voice as sweet as silk, “Why me?”

Charlie meets his gaze across the table.

“You have a compelling story,” is all the poet says, “It deserves to be told.”

Ardyn should kill the man in front of him, this he knows. Ardyn should let the mans corpse fester and rot in an alley but-

It would be a shame to lose someone as skilled with words as Charlie is.

Ardyn can admit to himself that he wants to see what this strand of fate has in store for him. That he wants to see what becomes of this poet who knows far more than he should and yet doesn’t seem to know enough. He wants to see whether this poet will live or die and yet already there is a part of him that insists that if this poet dies it will be by Ardyn’s own hand.

“Not many would share your opinion,” Ardyn says and watches rage flare in Charlie’s brown eyes.

“Yeah,” Charlie says, “Well your family has always been full of idiots.”

“They are not mine.”

Charlie looks at him, like a writer analyzing their newest project.

“No,” he says, “I suppose they aren’t anymore at least.”

-

When you offer a monster a hand in friendship, when you choose to tell that monsters story to the world, does that make you a monster as well? Charlie wonders this as his mouth runs ahead of him.

“Tell me what I don’t know,” Charlie asks near the end of their lunch, “And I will ensure it will be told.”

Ardyn's grin is wicked and Charlie feels as though he's just signed a deal with the devil.

[like-that-one-weird-dog-thing]

carrion bones and sorrow

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warnings for major character deaths(already happened, Schlatt and Wilbur), graphic mentions of violence/murder, and friends turning on each other

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Schlatt should leave.

His eyes linger on the boy with sharp, filed down teeth, with floppy pointed ears and sharp sharp claws, on the boy with grey hands and nothing eyes and…

Schlatt doesn’t leave.

-

or: ghosts, and Schlatt wrestling with the fact that he's dead

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Hell, Schlatt has long learned, is nothing like what the living have believed it to be.

There is no fire and brimstone, no devils and demons with pitchforks waiting to torture them for eternity.

Instead, there is the all oppressing, all consuming void.

Hell, real, honest to god Hell, is much worse than anything any living soul can conjure, Schlatt decides.

.

.

.

He can leave, he knows this. The connection to the Hub is still there. His respawn star for this world may have broken, but his Hub star is still there, he can still leave.

If he were to leave, his hands would no longer be grey, his mind would no longer fuzz along the edges, his lungs would take in breath once more.

But if he were to leave, Schlatt knows that he would never come back.

Anger burns and simmers in the back of his throat, when he watches his funeral. Anger and grief and pain.

If he left, there would be no more whispers in his ears, no more memories of those thrice damned voices echoing around his office. If he were to leave, he would be free.

But here there is yellow, and it is nowhere else. And so, he stays.

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.

“What do you remember?” The question is becoming a constant. Wilbur stares at him with his nothing-eyes and shakes.

He pretends to breath, because sometimes Wiblur even forgets he can’t anymore, and his fingers clutch at Schlatt’s blue sweater with aching force and Schlatt has to smother down the urge to yank away from black claws. Wilbur sometimes forgets his own strength, too. Schlatt still cringes at the memory of when he’d learned that even if they were dead, they could still hurt each other.

“Water,” Wilbur finally answers him, still shaking, still clutching at him. “Rising water. A flood. Rain. It was always raining.”

Claws carve through fabric, fade away into mist, reform, both perfectly untouched. Wilbur’s pretend breaths hitch.

“Leaving.” 

Twisting, yanking apart blue threads over and over again.

“Being alone.”

His fake breaths quicken.

“Drowning.”

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.

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Schlatt should leave.

His eyes linger on the boy with sharp, filed down teeth, with floppy pointed ears and sharp sharp claws, on the boy with grey hands and nothing eyes and…

Schlatt doesn’t leave.

.

.

.

Wilbur is a stick of TNT with two fuses, lit from both ends.

Schlatt has always known this, from the moment he met black eyes all those years ago, from the moment he’d seen bloody knuckles and bruised cheeks and had decided that him, that one right there, he will be my friend, he has been able to see the ticking time bomb that is WilburSoot. He could see the way he caved in on himself overtime, a supernova, a star collapsing, and he was able to see the moment it expanded, the moment it swallowed everything whole.

He’s always known his friend was volatile.

Schlatt has always seen the way Wilbur has crumbled down, over and over and over, every single time there was a new fight or argument or simply another time that he was forgotten.

But he’d never thought that he would contribute.

They’d gotten into their fair share of fights, of course(cursed, broken, unwanted, rings in his ears, his own voice filled with a venom he’s forever torn between agreeing to, and recoiling away from), but Schlatt had never thought…

But that was before. Before Dream. Before the threats. Before hearing about the man Wilbur had grown up to be.

He’d hated him, then, when he’d first stepped into the server.

Holding the shaking, cold- oh so very cold, why is it so c ol d Schlatt?- ghost in his arms, he can’t find it in himself to feel that same hate anymore.

Maybe Dream was wrong. Maybe Dream had lied.

.

.

.

There is a space, a blank, in his memory. He knows this. He sees this. Wilbur went up in flames, following in his footsteps(a van, a drink, too many enemies to think and two men settle miserable and pathetic between this all, armorless and powerless for all that they have forever held the world between their claw-tipped hands) and he cannot pinpoint the moment it happened. He cannot remember that one, single point when those fuses that had been steadily burning his entire life suddenly roared up from candle lights to wildfires.

Maybe it was the moment of the man’s exile, the words forever settled so solidly on Schlatt’s tongue like the poison he’s long drank. Maybe it was later than that, when his son loosed shot after shot until some finally met their mark.

Or maybe even further, hiding among the dark and dangerous and being so at home. A clawed monster fitting itself amongst the shadows and watching Schlatt’s every move with cruel, black eyes.

But then again, maybe it was before that.

Maybe it was at their first argument(his hands ache and his claws itched, screams long cut off filling his ears, Wilbur would always respawn, what was the harm in giving in to his anger?) or maybe it was their last(there’s the burn, forever leaving his arm aching and Wilbur had said that he would never raise a hand to him, he fucking li e d ).

Maybe it was when Wilbur had stumbled into his server, into his home, with a child in his arms and had begged for help. Maybe it was when Schlatt had given this help, but had never asked what happened or why or maybe you should rest.

Maybe he could’ve stopped this.

The voices hiss and crackle in his ears, the gods demand he pay them in blood. He is helpless to fall under, drowning in liquid gold and honey.

.

.

.

“I was worse than you, I think,” the words hang in the air. They are in Wilbur’s little carved out home, buried blocks and blocks bellow L’manberg- New L’manberg- where no one will search for them and no one will hear them.

There are only rats and water down here, and they fit right in.

Schlatt, stares emptily at the books in his hands. He does not answer Wilbur.

“I got what was coming for me. I hope I accepted it well enough, in their eyes.”

They didn’t even give him a gravestone.

For some reason, this makes Schlatt ache.

(they gave him a funeral, and a wanted man had to bury his brother alone.)

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.

.

“Your’re lying,” the words burn a line of fire up his throat. Wilbur still looks shaken from Fundy’s visit, body fuzzing along the edges worse than normal. “You’re- you fucking lied to him.”

Schlatt doesn’t know why he was surprised. Maybe he just expected better from the man, maybe he’d just expected death and hell and that horrible void to have taught Wilbur better.

You would think that having your own father kill you would teach you a fucking lesson, somewhere along the lines.

Apparently not.

“It’s better like this. Like- it’s better if they don’t know- it’s-” Wilbur’s hands curl up, claws sliding through ghostly skin as easily as tissue paper only to leave no damage behind.

“It’s better if they don’t know so- so they- they won’t be afraid of me.”

The words hand like ash in the air.

Schlatt closes his eyes. He wants to bite back the anger, wants to reel himself in, because he knows that Wilbur is fragile, right now, his memories there but weakly, the man barely grasping onto them.

But it’s lava under his skin, magma flowing up his throat, and his hands shake even though he’s dead and there should be no shaking and his breath hisses through his teeth and he’s so fucking angry.

“You’re a fucking coward,” he spits, lips curling. Wilbur flinches away from him, a line of static fuzzing along his chest, bisecting him in two, before settling. “You’re a fucking coward, hiding away from your family because you’d fucked up and you’re too afraid to admit it, too afraid to deal with the consequences of your actions. You always run away! You always do this, and I’m fucking sick of it!”

His chest heaves, but he’s dead and it’s more a long standing habit following him into death and he stares at Wilbur, stares into the ghost’s wide nothing-eyes and he hates him so fucking much.

He spins around, storming out of the tiny little room filled with water and rats and things no one wants.

When he looks into the water of the sewers, into the faint reflections he still casts, he almost expects his eyes to be red.

But they’re yellow, yellow and and cross pupiled and he bares his teeth and burns.

.

.

.

The lava haunts his memories.

That’s where it starts, Schlatt decides, the knowledge curling bitter on his tongue, trapping him. Waters Rising had mostly been a bit, a joke between two friends as the world threatened to tear them apart.

It’s Lava Falling that everything began collapsing, when Schlatt’s hands gripped Wilbur’s wrists before twisting him around and shoving him.

Right over the platform.

Right in the lava.

(the screams and squeals echo in his ears, shaking hands and red eyes staring into the piglin’s deep brown ones below.

Wilbur lasts ten seconds before allowing his respawn star to crack, letting go of his life in this world. Schlatt counts every single one.)

His hands clench. Lava Falling had been when he’s first given in. When he’s first listened to the voices and did as they asked.

(this is a lie, of course, because he’d painted the ground in Wilbur’s blood dozens of times in that first world, when they were ten. He’d taken that flimsy little sword he’d made and he’d fallen into the whispers’ loving embrace and had done everything they’d asked.

A joke, he’d told Wilbur later, after his dog had torn out the other boy’s throat and he’d respawned again. It was all a joke, don’t you see? No need to be upset.

Wilbur had shook, curled up in the corner. He’d sniffed, but agreed.

They didn’t talk about it, after that.)

.

.

.

He comes back hours later. Wilbur is nowhere in sight and the air tastes bitter even though Schlatt can’t taste anything at all, and so he sits, and he waits.

When Wilbur finally reforms, fuzzy and shaking and his grey skin looking blue, neither says anything.

Schlatt contemplates apologizing, for all of two seconds.

He agrees with what he said. Maybe in a better state of mind he would’ve been softer, but Wilbur…

Wilbur was dead. There was no soft for the dead.

.

.

.

[wormstacheangel]

Day 3: Demonic

Word Count: 1888

Pairing: Dean/Castiel

---

Rowena had someone coming for her crown and while the Winchesters aren’t for hire, having his Aunty Rowena on the throne has been a big help. They didn’t close the gates of hell or heaven but instead run them. Jack and Cas upstairs while Rowena ran hell with a little help from Sam. Dean was mostly on call from whoever needed him. Also, Sam likes to point out that Purgatory was all his for the taking according to the rumors.

Right now though Rowena needed him to find the demon making a secret army to overtake the crown. Simple enough that he said he’ll do it himself. It was just one demon and his dumb army. He just fought God and won, he’s surprised they’re any monsters still willing to pick a fight with them.

The thing was that nobody said this damn demon was going to be so annoying.

“Buddy, I know you got those kamikaze bombers going for the Queen so you might as well call them off,” Dean says as he leans against the desk in their dungeon with the demon trapped in the, well the damn demon trap. 

The demon hasn’t said a damn word since he brought him down here. Only smiled because he thought he was being a cocky son of a bitch but Dean was too tired to deal with regular demon crap. He wished they would just tell him what he wants to hear so he could be on his way but they never made it easy for him.

Dean sighed as he twirled the angel blade in his hands as he sat up and took the few steps towards him. To stand just at the edge of the trap. “You know, if you ain’t talking I don’t have to keep you alive. Shit, I would have killed you even though you were talking but I guess you aren’t useful to me after all. Probably not even the right demon. They said this demon was smart and he’s a leader demons can depend on or whatever but you…” Dean looked the demon up and down before shrugging. “Meh. You look like any other basic bitch. Nothing special.”

“I am the future of hell!” The demon hissed at him and Dean found his weak spot. His pride. Not really a surprise. “I will be a leader that will not roll over for the Winchesters or anybody for that matter! My army would kill that red-headed bit-Ah!”

Dean squirted the demon with holy water from Jack’s tiny water gun. He chuckled when he got him right in the eye but then glared back at the demon. “Now, let’s be civil and keep from the name-calling. Just tell me where your army is. I mean, don’t you wanna see how strong they are? If they can defeat me then damn I’m sure all of hell will follow you with no hesitation. Since, you know, I killed Hitler.”

“I don’t need my army to kill you. I can do it myself.” The demon laughed and it was darker, clearly knows something Dean doesn’t. “I forgot to tell you. We also captured a little leverage not that long ago. Why do you think I let you take me so easily?”

“Cause you suck?”

The demon, clearly not amused, continued his evil person speech that made Dean roll his eyes and groan as he paced around the trap. 

“Do you think we didn’t know Rowena would call on you two for help? We couldn’t stand by and let a Winchester rule alongside the Queen! What an embarrassment to be taking ordered from that overgrown son of a-” Dean waved the water gun around again. “So I took matters into my own hands. I figured we couldn’t get to your brother but sometimes the new God sends one of his Daddy’s to do some work here on Earth without supervision. Without back up.”

“Cas?”

“Oh, we have your precious little Angel somewhere hidden away from you and your God.”

Dean walked into the devil’s trap and held the blade to the demon’s throat. “You have five seconds to tell me where he is or I’ll kill you.”

“You will never find him without me and I will never reveal him until after my bomb-Ahh!”

“Time’s up.” Dean finally pulls the blade out of the demon’s chest as soon as his screams die out. Then he was on the phone calling the dumb angel that let himself be jumped again.

 After the third ring, Cas answers with a tired, “Hello Dean.”

“You’re a dumbass you know that.”

“I figured you will say something like that but I’m fine they just wa-oof!” Dean can hear Cas groan out in pain and Dean was already out of the dungeon with his keys in his hands. “Where the hell are you?”

“Dean Winchester.” Someone says and Dean was too mad to deal with another speech from demonic asshats. “What a nice-”

“Just tell me where to meet you and quick. I would like to kill you before dinner.”

A short laugh from the demon as she said, “Funny.” 

“Well I try my-” Dean started but then he heard a groan from Cas before a coughing fit started. That alone made Dean tense up as his boy heated up in anger that really should scare just about anyone who dared mess with family. 

The demon then quickly told him their location, an obvious trap but who cares now. The only problem was that they wanted a trade. The dead demon, that he was positive they didn’t know was dead, for Cas. Well, he hopes they like surprises cause the only thing they are going to get from Dean is a one-way ticket to the damn Empty for laying a damn finger on his husband.

The trip went just as expected. Dean pretended the demon was in the trunk of his Baby and killed the first few that came to check it out. Then he was walking inside the old-looking house with the angel blade in hand hoping that Cas hasn’t prayed to their son yet because then he’ll start to worry again.

Jack wasn’t the biggest fan of Cas going fully human, to be honest, Dean wasn’t either, for the same reason as Cas not being able to heal himself. Now they were constantly worried that the new fully human Cas scraped his knee somewhere. Or worse, made himself into bait by a bunch of demons who thought was a great idea to kidnap one of God’s dads.

As soon as he walked into the house he called out for Cas. He got some lady, probably the demon from the phone, answer from upstairs. While he made his way upstairs he noticed a couple of demons standing sideline downstairs but he can deal with those later. It’s not like he was in a hurry or anything. 

“Okay,” Dean walked over to the wide-open door where he could already see Cas tied up to a chair and unconscious. He knew this was a clear trap but he didn’t care as he ran over to his husband. Taking his head in his hands he quietly whispered, “Cas, honey, you okay?”

He found a pulse at least but Cas was bleeding from his nose and his cheek was starting to swell under the rag they were using as a gag. There were bruises along his wrist along with rope burns from trying to escape probably because of course Cas wouldn’t just stay put to wait for Dean to come.

“Now that you have your angel back or ex angel. A surprise that made it a lot easier for all of us actually,” Dean didn’t even turn around to face the talking demon as he started to untie Cas. “Let’s discuss our fair trade. I will ignore that you killed our people as long as you let our leader go.”

“Yeah, your leader is dead.”

“W-what?”

“Gone. Fin. Rotting in my dungeon at home as we speak.”

“But we had a deal!”

“What you got me here, didn’t you? I’m sure there was something else that was supposed to happen.” Dean says as finally unties Cas and then removes the dirty gag rag. “Oh man, he’ll have to get some shots after having that in his mouth. You know how long it took me to convince him to get a flu shot.”

Dean was then thrown against the wall because of course, he was. The angry demon stalked towards him and Dean realized he left the blade by Cas’s side. He reached for the gun in his pocket only to be pinned to the wall now, a not so new trick he was also tired of. 

“I’m gonna guess that you’re not happy,” Dean said between his teeth as the woman stood in front of him. Her fingers reaching to caress his cheek, not creepy at all but most importantly he didn’t know where her hands have been. Everything in this dump was dirty. Dean’s gonna have to burn their clothes after this. “So, you wanna share your big overthrow the government plan or…?”

Of course, she did. Dean was only really half-listening as other demons started to walk in and make a beeline for Cas, who still rested unconsciously on the dirty chair. Dean delivered a threat to them to not touch his husband but of course, that was ignored as they reached to throw Cas over one of their shoulders. 

Then he heard the demon lady’s words, “Wait, Cas’s the bomb?”

“Who else can get close to the Queen?” She smiled with her black coal eyes sparkling. “Don’t worry you’ll work for us too. Get that brother of yours out of the way.”

“That’s a terrible plan.” Dean tried to turn his head towards the voice of his husband who must have hidden the blade somewhere because the next thing he knows he hears screaming then another scream and one more for good measure. “You should pick me up like that more often, Dean.”

Dean smiled as he rolled his eyes fondly. “I’ll do that now but I’m kind of preoccupied with the whole being stuck to the wall thing.”

“You suck at rescue missions.” Cas teased him as the demon waved her hand to try to push Cas against his own wall but Cas was quicker as he threw the blade across the room to be buried into the demon’s chest. 

Cas was by his side at once as he kneeled down beside Dean and took his face in his hands now, giving him a once over. He rested his forehead against Dean’s own and for a second they just sat still like that, letting the relief of the other being okay run through them but the demons running up the stairs had terrible timing. They also angered the scariest human in heaven and Dean loved seeing how badass Cas looked in a fight.

They called Sam after it was all over to let him know what happened and it was a quick call because his husband was being too grabby now.

“Don’t you dare kiss me until you brush your teeth!”

“Then let’s go home and take a hot shower together.”

“Fine but it won’t be sexy cause I’m scrubbing you clean.”

[stillpartofthisworld]

Juno Steel and the Deal with The Devil-NanoWrimo 11/02

Juno knows this is a bad idea.

He's standing in his kitchen, staring at the countertop. It's a nice countertop-a lovely granite that matches the cupboards. Shame that he got blood all over it.

The blood in question isn't his, for once. It's goat's blood, fresh out of the bag from a butcher across the street. He'd put it in a bowl, and then used one of Benten's old watercolor brushes to draw the appropriate sigils across the surface. The summoning circle he'd drawn looked perfect, mirroring the one he'd seen online.

Now he had to hope that the rest of the plan went as smoothly.

He lights the five candles at the edges and pulls out his phone. He's only a little buzzed tonight, so he can make out the words on his screen easily. They were in Latin, sure, but Sasha had taken Latin in highschool and had forced him and Mick to help her memorize verbs, so it can't be that different.

He sucks in a breath, and begins to chant.

20 minutes and 2 cans of beer later, and Juno feels like an idiot. Of course the stupid, stupid summoning circle didn't work. Why the hell should it? It's not like demons actually exist, and even if they did, why would the come at the beck and call of a Reddit post?

"Fuck," he mutters, and lurches out of the couch. He needs to clean the kitchen before Rita comes to see him tomorrow. Can't have her seeing his slow descent into madness, especially not after-

He hears a knock on the door.

Juno moves towards it. He thinks he might have ordered a pizza when he got home, but the amount of drinks between got home and now are enough to make him uncertain. He fumbles for the lock, and only remembers to check the peephole after the door is swinging open.

The man in front of Juno's door is tall, pale, and most importantly, handsome. He's dressed in a tailored suit, all black save for the blood red cufflinks on both wrists. His silver cross earrings sway in the breeze, glinting as they reflect the streetlights. His face is all angles; sharp cheekbones, slanted eyes and a cocked smile, his lips pulled back far enough to reveal wickedly pointed canines. It's enough to make Juno want to touch him and make sure he's real, that beauty like that could be tangible.

Instead he settles on clearing his throat. "Who are you?" He asks gruffly, and somehow the strangers' smile just gets wider. "I'm not sure what you mean, Juno," he says, and even his voice sounds beautiful, smooth and sauve like liquid mercury. "After all, you're the one who called me."

Juno freezes. Then:

"What."

The man points a long, manicured finger into Juno's apartment, where the kitchen is. Where the summoning circle.

Well, shit.

"What, you mean, you're...the...demon?"

The alleged demon chuckles at his incredulous tone. "What else would I be, dear? It's not everyday random men show up at your doorstep."

"You'd be surprised." the rebuttal comes automatically, and just serves to streach the man's grin even wider. "Aren't demons supposed to show up in the summoning circle? And be all fire and brimstone?"

"Is that what people are saying nowadays?" The stranger sighs, shaking his head. He leans on the door frame, using his height to let his gaze rove lazily across Juno's body. "The summoning circle isn't meant to trap us, dear. It's more of a...calling card. I show up how I like. And as for the 'fire and brimstone', well-" He snaps his fingers, and suddenly there is a small blue flame in between his thumb and index finger. "I could certainly show you," he continues smoothly, "But I assumed that your furniture might be flammable."

What had he gotten himself into?

"Oh, nothing that thousands of other humans haven't gotten themselves into before," the demon replies, and Juno realizes he's been talking out loud. "Might I come in?"

Still reellng, Juno moves out of the way to let the man in. He looks around the space curiously. It's a nice place; Rita was the one who'd shown him the listing, and Benten was the one who'd bought all the furniture. It still felt like it wasn't his apartment at times, like he was the one dirty thing in this clean, crisp home.

The demon, however, fit perfectly into the room. He sits down on the couch, crossing his legs and gingerly placing an empty beer can on the coffee table. "Can I get you something to drink?" Juno asks, and the demon waves him away. "I'm quite alright for now, thank you. Let's get down to business, shall we?" He spreads his hands in front of him dramatically. Sighing, Juno takes a seat opposite of the demon.

"I have to say, I am curious," The demon cups his chin with both his hands. "Why did you summon me, Juno Steel?"

"Well...you know, thinking back on it, it wasn't such good idea." Juno scratches the back of his head sheepishly. "I was sad, and drunk, and honestly I didn't even think it was going to work!"

"Most people don't-"

"And it's not like I have to show up with you tomorrow," He says, getting angry at himself. "I can go with Rita and Ben and just stick to the back of the reception. Drink all I want and get driven home. But it was just...the pictures and the updates and the register- God that fucking register-"

"I'm not sure I follow-"

"So I just had to pretend that I got over him! Putting down a plus one and writing "significant other" like a fucking dumbass. Stupid Juno, stupid-"

"Can you please explain-"

"I need a date for my ex's wedding."

The demon looks at him and blinks once, twice, before- "I beg your pardon?"

Juno pauses, unsure. "You...know what a wedding is, right?"

"Of course I know what a wedding is," the demon snaps, and Juno swears that for a second his dark eyes glow blue. "But is that the only reason you called a demon? To spite an old partner?"

"He was my ex-fiance, if that adds anything." His tone is flat and unbothered; he'd been practicing. "Found out he was cheating on me a week before the wedding, too, the bastard."

The demon looks at him in shock, then with something akin to sympathy. "That...makes a lot more sense."

"Yeah, yeah, so now he's marrying the same asshole who he left me for and had the nerve to invite me, so excuse me for not wanting to look like I'm still pining for him." Juno looks away from the demon in front of him. God, he needed a drink. Hell, he needed a liquor store.

"And...might I ask why you simply didn't...look for a human to go with?" The demon inquires softly, still staring at him. "Go on one of those those...blind dates?" Juno's head snaps back to look at him incredulously. "Have you seen this, buddy?" Juno gestures to his face; the scars around his eyepatch, and the very visibly sunken skin under it. "Ain't no one swiping right on this."

"I think you're quite handsome, actually. In a rugged way." The demon says quietly, and Juno has to laugh. "You're a natural at this boyfriend thing, bud. I almost believed you."

Before he can speak again, Juno cuts in. "Anyway, what's the payment for this again? You want my soul or something?"

"Oh, nothing so barbaric," the demon waves a hand. "We haven't asked for souls for a long time; they don't keep as well as they used to."

Juno decides not to ask about that.

"Rather, we trade in favours," his smile is back, his tone all milk and honey. "I do something for you, you do something for me, and everyone's happy."

"Uh-huh.” Like he was about to buy that. "What do you usually ask for?"

"Why ruin the surprise?" His canines peek out again, and Juno briefly wonders how the demon never manages to cut himself on his own smile. "I try not to ask for the same things twice; gets awfully boring when you do. It doesn't have to be right away, either; I could ask you years down the line instead."

Juno scowls at that. "I like my consequences to be punctual, actually."

"Good thing I'm the one planning the consequence then, hmm?" The man laughs lightly. "For now, dear, all I need is to officially seal our deal." He stands from the sofa, towering over Juno. "I am bound to your service for as long as you require me," he says, bowing slightly. "All I ask is that you give me a name."

"What do you need a name for?"

The demon shrugs. "It's a way of sealing the contract. The old way demanded that we spill the blood of a virgin, if you would prefer." He looks up from his bow, one eyebrow raised. "I'm sure you don't meet the criteria for that, but if you want we could-"

"Fine, fine!" Juno nearly shouts, willing his blood to not enter his cheeks. "You want a name that badly? Why don't you pick one?"

The demon straightens. "Well, I suppose I could think of a few names that might fit..." He taps a long finger to his chin thoughtfully. "How about...Rex Glass? That sounds exciting, doesn't it-"

"Nope. Too weird."

The demon looks at him, shocked. "Too weird?" He chokes out. "Well, I never-"

"Picked a good name before? Clearly. Try again."

The demon sighs. "Well, if you insist. How about... Perseus Shah?"

"Nope."

"Duke Rose?"

"Sounds like someone I'd want to shoot, next."

"How about a Monsieur Dauphin? A little mystery-"

"Is going to get both of us killed, try again."

"Christopher Morales?"

"Well now you just went too plain."

"You're impossible to please, did you know that?"

"So I've been told."

The demon huffs. "Well, then, how about..." His face goes thoughtful for a moment, then nostalgic, then something else altogether that Juno can't quite place. He stays like that for a moment, all softness and memory, before suddenly switching back to a rogueish grin. "I've got one. Peter... Nureyev."

He looks so pleased with himself, it takes all of Juno's willpower to not shoot it down. Because it's actually a good name. Peter Nureyev seems to fit this demon well.

"Nureyev it is, then."

And they shake on it.

[thatrandomcatoverthere]

She devil part 4

Summary: Tony and Bruce look deeper into the effects and power the she devil has. Y/n also starts going stir crazy during her recovery making a very unlikely friend. Bucky experiences jealousy and doesn’t know how to handle it. 

Blood. So much blood. My first kill that wasn’t from a sniper rifle. I froze up, it was quick of course I never wanted anyone to suffer. Seeing the damage up close was different though, she actually saw the life leave the man laying in front of her. Maybe that was the problem, she didn’t see him as a body but as a man. A father possibly, a son of some old woman. That was the day she vowed she would never kill up close without more research. Without making sure she knew the person had truly done wrong. To know for a fact it wasn’t a person but instead a monster.  

I could hear a monitor beeping beside me in sync with my heartbeat. The lights were bright as I opened my eyes slowly, attempting to regain my senses. Carefully sitting up, even as painful as it was, i took notice of my surroundings. 

The medical room. The memories came flooding back. Rushing out of the building with Steve and Bucky. Taking out guards left and right. The sound of a gun, the bullet piercing my shoulder. Then everything went black. 

Then I saw a certain brunette slouched over his chair with his head laying on the bed next to my legs. He was asleep, he looked so peaceful. His bed head covering his face slightly, he looked so calm. The sound of the metal arm whirring and him taking a deep inhale alerted me he woke up. His eyes cracked open and before I knew it he was standing next to me. 

“You're awake! Bruce she’s awake! Do you need anything? Water? Are you hungry?” He suddenly berated me with questions. 

“Buck I'm ok, water does sound nice though please.” I said as Bruce stepped into the room. “Y/n I’m so happy you're awake, How are you feeling?” DR.banner started as he checked my vitals. Bucky left to get some water before rushing back in. 

“I feel like I've been shot a few times, but other than that I'll be ok thank you. Uhm, how long was I out?” I asked and took the glass from the brunette and took a sip. 

“A week.” 

All the water in my mouth was suddenly all over me, “WHAT? A full week?” 

After some explaining from the two, Dr.Banner cleared me to roam the house. With the exception that I absolutely can not work out, go on missions, or leave the house without someone else with me. 

Everyone turned and looked at me when I walked into the common room. This must attention at once made me nervous as I gave a little side wave and said hey. Nat spoke first after her shock of seeing me and not Bucky, “Y/n/n I didn’t think you’d ever wake up. How’s the shoulder?” 

“Bruce said it should be fully healed soon, maybe another week or two.” Bucky walked in and sat down beside me on the sofa. Sam, Tony, Thor, and Clint all said their hellos and wished me luck on healing and being on house arrest. I was reading a book and listening to everyone talk when Steve walked in and said there was a mission debrief in 20 minutes. 

Before he walked out he spotted me, “Y/n I see you’re up and doing better, well at least awake. It’s good to see you, you don’t need to come to this meeting by the way. Bruce said you’re out of commission until that shoulder heals. Oh. and do not ever scare me and Bucky like that again, I thought we lost you after you went all devil and fainted.” 

“What is he talking about?” I glanced at Bucky. 

“I’ll explain later, let’s just say you were pissed when you got shot. I’ll never be getting in your way when you’re mad.” Then he got up and followed the others out of the room. 

I frowned and tried to continue reading before a certain god of mischief walked into the room. He sat on the recliner across the room, “Hello Loki.” He just hummed a response as he summoned a book. So much for conversation when the others are gone. 

The team left on a mission late that night, Bucky said they'd be gone for at least 3 days. Great, I have to be home alone and bored with the most boring person, god thing ever. How he got the title god of mischief I'll never figure out because he rarely does anything but read. 

The next morning i was laying over the sofa staring at the sofa when Loki walked in. “What’s your deal? Is staring at nothing a form of entertainment on this planet?” He said stopping in the doorframe with a look of confusion. 

“No actually. It’s something I do when I finish my book at the same time as being out on house arrest alone with the person that barely talks to me.” I stated matter of factly. He rolled his eyes at me and I got an idea, “You strike me as the type of person to play chess. Let’s play chess, I'll kick your ass in it.” 

“Oh my goddddddddddd. It’s like you just KNOW what my next move is.” The score is currently 15 to 0. 

“Maybe I do.” I rolled my eyes at him. Damn god. 

“Whatever. I’m going to go put honey in the vents to mess with Clint when he gets back.” This caught the mans attention, “You’re welcome to join me and show me why you of all people got your title.”

We may have gone overboard with the pranks. Loki did anything that was too vigorous for me with my healing shoulder, but now I know what he’s actually capable of. We were chuckling to ourselves putting a flour trap above Steves door when we heard the elevator ding. Shit the came back sooner than we thought. Loki made quick work finishing up the setup. I innocently met up with the team Loki going straight to the common room. 

“Hey Buck! You’re home early!” I gave a false sense of innocence. He gave me a hug carefully, “Yea, it wasn’t nearly as hard as we thought it would be. Hope the god of books didn’t bore you too bad.” 

“Nah I actually convinced him to play chess with me, he beat me more than I'll ever admit.” For a second it almost looked like Bucky got upset. Shrugging it off I said the rest of my hellos before everyone split off to get cleaned up. Cap decided food was more of a priority first, so he went to the kitchen. 

Bucky was the first one to come into the living room, me and Loki were playing chess again. It felt kind of nice to talk to more people on the team. I actually started to feel more accepted. Bucky looked at the board and told me to make a different move than I was going to. As I was making my move, all three of us heard a yell that sounded very close to Steve’s voice. 

Then he walked in, covered from head to toe in flour. He was pissed. “Which one of you did it. Actually I know the answer.” He looked at Loki. 

“Sorry Captain, wrong guess. It was her idea.” He smirked at me. 

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

The mission went faster than usual, which meant I got to see Y/n sooner. 

I didn't expect her to actually befriend Loki during my absence. Not like it bothered me. At all. Totally unbothered. 

I mean I gotta admit it was really funny seeing Steve walk in covered in flour. Then seeing Nat walk in fuming, her red hair was now a dark blue. Y/n lost it in a laughing fit, this was first time I've ever seen her so open. After she hung out with Loki. 

OK maybe I am a little jealous, how could I not be? She hung out with him for two days and suddenly she’s actually laughing and talking more. Over the course of the day multiple other incidents happened. 

First was Steves flour bath. Then Natasha unknowingly dyed her hair, Y/n assured her it was temporary and would wash out easily. Then Tony was called Sugar Daddy by Jarvis and everyone lost it. I found out the salt was replaced with sugar while making food, let’s just say steak seasoned with sugar does not taste good. No one could even do anything yet because she was still healing. 

When everyone thought we found all the “pleasant surprises” around the compound and we were sitting in the common room. Then Y/n gets a phone call from Clint, “Hey Clint, we live in the same house why didn’t you just come into the living room?” 

“Why of all things did you use honey. You could’ve used anything and you chose honey. I thoughts we were friends man, it’s in my hair.” 

Taglist: @capandbuckylvr

[skaryskylar]

Toss A Coin To Your Witcher

Pairing: BakuDeku, DekuBaku Switch

Type: One-Shot

Prompt: Twin Stars Week/Day 1-Fantasy

Rating: Explicit (18+)

Warnings: All the smut, Minor KiriKami, Dubious Consent, improper Use of Magic

Read on AO3

His stomach growled as he settled into the darkest corner of the inn. The ale in his cup had already gone warm, but he didn't dare waste a drop. It was bitter on his tongue, dry and heavy on the hops. Swishing through his jaws with difficulty, it seeped rather than flowed down his parched throat.

But it was all he could afford.

The pouch at his waist was depressingly empty, silent without the jingle of coin. He needed to sit and wait. See if something cropped up. But the inn didn't seem to be overflowing with those in need. No, it was fool's night. The bard atop a table strummed his lute, singing a tale of a honeyed, fair maiden chased down by a horrible beast of a bear. It was a lewd little ditty. If he could, he'd scrunch his face in disgust.

But that would mean he wouldn't look 'approachable'. In this line of work, and with a pocket as barren as his own, he needed to keep an easy going appearance at all times.

He tried to direct his ears elsewhere. Some of those gathered at the bar-common townsmen and farmers out for an evening drink-were whispering amongst themselves. It wasn't hard for him to pick up on the murmured sounds.

"-'s him. I'm sure of it."

 "That's not him! He's short! They say that this Witcher is ten feet tall, wide as a bear and twice as fierce!"  

"I heard he's got a hound's gnashing canines for teeth and blackened claws on his hands."

"He walks with a peach-colored wolf. It used to be white, but blood stained the damn thing's fur red so many times it started to grow out a strange, rosy color."

Ochako whined at his feet. Her dark eyes peeked up from under the table, ears downcast. Those assholes. Didn't they know she had a sensitive soul?  Smiling at her comfortingly, he scratched behind her ears, a silent apology.

"Fool! He doesn't walk with a wolf! He is a wolf! When the full moon hangs low beneath the clouds, they say he transforms into a monster neither man nor beast."

"Shh! He can hear us! Don't you know he has ears large enough to hear for miles? See how they peek out from that head of dark curls!"

"I keep telling you that's not him! What would the Symbol of Strength, the Slaughterer of Shigaland, the Devil's Wicked Right Hand, Izuku of Yuuei be doing here of all places?"

"Perhaps he's come to slay the dragon."

Izuku perked up at that. His stomach groaned in protest but he had long ago learned to pay hunger no mind in the face of work. A dragon's head huh? That would fetch him a pretty penny. Perhaps enough for him to make it to the next town over with a sackful of dried meats, bread, berry...

And a horse. By the gods, how he needed a new horse. He lost the last one in a nasty encounter with some graveirs a while back. Travelling was a royal pain in the arse without a horse.

He stood to his full height, pushing his day-old ale aside as he made to go stand by the bar, leaning some of his hefty weight against the creaking wood of the counter. It was warmer there. Whether it was the heat of their fearful gazes or the warmth of human touch, he didn't care to find out.

He had something better to focus on.

"What's this I hear of a dragon wreaking havoc on innocent citizens?"

He went for a charming smile. The same that had maidens fall over him all the way from Shiketsu to Aldera. It didn't work. Men were less susceptible to his charm. They took one look into his eyes-saw how unnatural the green was with its sheen and flecks of gold, and knew he was not of their same blood and bone.

(No, he was stronger. Faster. More cunning and full of tricks. Without the folly of their emotions to weigh him down. A symbol of strength just as his master had been a symbol of peace.)

Sure enough, the one closest to him with the greasy black hair and gaunt face took one look into his gaze, and immediately blanched, tugging his mug of ale closer to his chest.

"M-M-Mind yours Witcher! Yer not welcome here!"

"It's not the Witcher." One of his friends snorted into the foam of his drink. "Don't mind a fake trying to trick his way into some coin."

Rather than speak to defend himself, Izuku drew his sword from its scabbard. The inn went silent in the wake of its gleam, watching how the silver glinted and shone even in the dim light. It was a beautiful piece of work, made from the finest goblin ore and elven wood, forged by dwarves in the deepest fires of Mount Rocklock.

It had passed from worthy hand to worthy hand till it found its way into his own calloused grip. The feats performed with it granted it a name fitting for its prestige.

"One for All." One of the men breathed. He reached out as if to touch iy, but Izuku was quick to slide the blade back into its sheath.

"Now," He grinned cheekily. "About that dragon."

The dragon, he learned, was terrorizing the farm lands towards the edge of town. It hadn't done much in terms of fire damage, just a few burnt stables here and there. A rabbit hutch for one man.

But it was surely taking its fill. A shepherd had lost half his flock while they were grazing in the hills, and that was just the beginning of it. Chickens, goats and cows had all fallen under the things clutches. There was no blood spilled so it naturally ate them whole.

But to spite the farmers, the thing had even stolen barrels of cheese and crates of milk, just throwing salt into the festering wounds. Slowly but surely, the little bastard was creeping closer and closer to the main villages. It wouldn't be long before it ran out of animals to eat.

Maybe then it'd decide it fancied human thigh instead of lamb.

"Listen, us farmers, we have a pact," The most reasonable out of the bunch, Inasa the dairyman, approached him with a fresh drink and a hot plate of roasted chicken. He was about to descend upon it with vigor, when a paw reached up to settle on his knee.

Ochako stared at him from under the table, brown eyes wide. Sighing, he split the meat in half, offering her the larger share.

"We'd be willing to pay if you can get the damn thing out of our hair. It won't be much in the way of coin, but you'd be guaranteed food for the next month at least. My wife and I can offer our place for you to rest your head for a night upon your return to sweeten the deal."

Izuku's stomach growled in response, the meager meal having not been enough. He willed an embarrassed blush to fly up to his cheeks, painting the backdrop of his multitudes of freckles a rosy red.

"Sounds like we've got a deal." He said, rubbing the back of his neck.

(If the farmer and his wife renegaded on their part, he would leave them out during the upcoming full moon and have Ochako rip them limb from limb.)

Promise of food stuck fast in his mind, he collected his things and began to walk out. The wolf was quick on his heels, gnawing at an abandoned chicken bone as Izuku adjusted his sword at his hip. He was only a few paces from the door when a voice called out,

"Wait! Witcher! Mister Slaughterer Sir! Wait!"

He nearly didn't stop. If Ochako hadn't spat out her bone to growl, he wouldn't have.

Certainly not for the bard. He was young. Mature in human years but his jaw was still smooth with youth. Neither hair nor scar marred his features, boyish grin bright with a fool's bliss as he clumsily stumbled his way over, golden eyes taking the setting sun's last rays into their depths to shine bright as day in the encroaching darkness.

"Let me come with you."

Izuku smiled.

"No."

Turning right on around, he once again set off on his journey. Ochacko huffed at his side as the bard continued to follow them. He maintained a distance just outside of his sword's reach so if Izuku fell prey to the building desire to turn and gut the man where he stood, he'd have to put some effort in.

And that was energy he did not have.

His stomach rumbled. The wolf at his side gave a keen whine.

"-can sing songs about our travels! Of who we meet and what we dare to do! I heard you're setting out to kill a dragon. Imagine what limericks I could reap from that!"

He pulled out his lute, cleared his throat and sang,

'The dragon with tongue of fire and death

Nearly killed us all with one sniff of its breath'

Izuku stopped in his tracks. He gave the other man a long, soul-searching look. The bard scrambled to get back, saying some nonsense about how he'd work on those horrible lyrics. In his haste, his hat ripped from his head, exposing long locks of flaxen hair, a single stray jagged line of black towards the side. But that anomaly wasn't what caught Izuku's attention: it was the pointed nubs of batlike ears that pointed through the matted fray, of a paler complexion from the rest of the man's skin due to the lack of exposure to sunlight. Immediately, his hands left the lute to cover them up, pulling his green flouncy hat low beyond their tips once more.

"You're an elf."

"Half-elf!" The man protested. "My mum's about as human as they come." After a beat of silence, he picked his lute from the ground, inspecting the wood for damage.

Izuku's smile widened.

A half elf. This was perfect. The only thing dragons enjoyed more than sheep was a roasted, honey-eyed elf. The bard would be a useful trap.

"What's your name stranger?"

"Denki Kaminari."

"You may come along. Don't get distracted, nor can you distract me. Dragons are dangerous after all."

It would've been an easy trip if the fool didn't talk so much. He had an easy voice; it chimed like bells. All the masculine grit stuck to the back of his throat, leaving only light melody to flow from his lips.  It made him sound naturally friendly and open. Izuku wished for that. Every tone of his own words had to be thoughtfully considered before he spoke, lest he fall into the same gruff, monotone of his kinsmen.

That wouldn't do. He had to be personable to get jobs. Strong to make results come to fruition and cunning to ensure he always had his way.

His master was not lazy with his tutelage. One could not become the Symbol of Peace without accumulating centuries of wisdom, and that same wisdom was bestowed upon him with each lesson; each fletching of an arrow, crushing of yarrow root in mortar with a pestle, and adjustment of his manner of speech came with some kind of warning. It was the warning that made him careful. It was his care that made him great.

But the bard, Denki, wasn't taught. He wasn't raised as he was. He was just...human. Well, half-human.

And fully annoying. So, so annoying.

Like a pest he flew around Izuku as they walked, commenting on his height, how his arms were twice as thick as his own. He was writing songs as they made their way up the hills to the farmlands.

If he had to hear another comparison of his 'wild, curly locks' to a 'dewy clearing on the first morn of spring', he would cut off his ears and throw them to Ochako to eat. At least then one of them wouldn't be starving.

"And your eyes! Cut from the finest jade no doubt! They say Witchers can see in the dark like a cat. They say your kind prowl the forests at night searching for prey from a young age, and that's how they find you, bloody babes wrapped in wolf skins. Is it true?"

"You are not born a witcher," Izuku said idly, coming to a stop. They had arrived at the appointed farm. He could see the burnt rabbit hatch; how meager the gathering of cows was in the field.

But this story didn't add up.

"Witchers are made. It is not a path suited for every man. Be happy you're a bard."

"I'm terribly fond of my profession good sir. There's nothing the fairer sex fancies more than a man who can sing their troubles away."

"Is that so?"

The scent. The scent was wrong. He knew what dragon smelled like and this wasn't it. There was smoke yes. The anger, of course. The acrid scent of soot and all-consuming fire, but there was a sweetness that betrayed its magical origin.

Dragons did not smell sweet. They smelled like a viper pit after a night of rain, like the petrichor seeping off the ground before lightning struck true. They stank of death and doom with the smoky after notes of all-consuming rage.

At least, that's what he knew from his own experiences. Perhaps this one was a runt.

"They quickly find my tongue has many uses. Singing makes it nimble and quick. Easy to fit in, uh, tiny spaces if you get my meaning."

He did, but refused to give any indication that it was so. Humming good-naturedly, he moved towards the main cottage without a word, letting the bard talk him down the stone path.

If it was a dragon, then the bard would draw him out. If it wasn't, he could still use the man as a distraction as he created a better plan. Win-Win situation.

The woman that answered the door was thin. Her head of hair had already started turning gray, and there were dark circles beneath her fearful brown eyes. She spoke in whispers and murmurs, as though she thought speaking about the dragon itself would bring it back to harm her. Izuku ignored the usual talk about the terror the victim felt, how helpless they were in the face of such a mighty beast, and focused on the facts.

The attack happened two days ago, which meant the scent would still be fresh if he tracked it down. They were missing all their rabbits, half their cows, and a barrel of cheese. The first two was nothing out of the ordinary. Dragons weren't known for having a small appetite.But the barrel of cheese was strange. Even stranger yet was the missing cherry pie.

"I remember leaving it on the windowsill to cool that morning, but when I came back it was gone." She said, pressing a hand to her head.

He would've written it off as a common thief taking advantage of a disaster, if the last detail she uttered hadn't set off all his alarms.

"The worst part was its laughter."

"Laughter?" The bard spoke the question on his mind between bites of apple pie. "What kind of dragon laughs?"

She sighed, pressing her eyes to her hands as if she were about to weep.

(Izuku hoped she wouldn't. He didn't do well with females, nor their tears. They made him...unsettled.)

"It was horrible. My husband and I went out to put out the fire and we heard the thing just laugh and laugh and laugh. It sounded almost human, but there was a darkness to it. It was small, but if you heard it you'd notice. No one, not even the worst of the worst sinners, sounds that evil."

Izuku set off with suspicion in his heart and a bit of dried meats in his pouch. The bard kept trying to break into his head, see what plans he was making behind his 'jolly demeanor' but he remained silent, smile locked to his face as if it were an iron mask. Ochako had no such patience. When the bard got close enough to brush Izuku's shoulder with his hand, she barked and snapped her teeth, sending the man running several paces back.

"Control your dog Witcher!"

"She's a dire wolf." Izuku corrected cheerily. The good little pup snarled her agreement. He didn't need to look to see the man was terrified. The sharp scent of a little piss was one of the wafts in the air.

The trail was leading them into the mountains. It would be a day before they reached the end of it. Izuku would've walked through the night with his wolf at his side, but elves, half or not, were prissy about darkness.

They settled at the foot of the mountain. Izuku set a fire with ease, magic crackling electric green in his palm before shooting out to the bundle of sticks and tinder. Ochako took her place at his back, licking her fur for a quick clean before settling on her paws and falling asleep. Her snores rang out throughout the land, imposing and fearsome, letting all woodland creatures know that a direwolf was present and ready to rip out their throats if they strayed too close.

He could sleep easy so long as she kept snoring.

"Witcher,"

But not as long as the bard insisted on speaking.

"This dragon...I've got my reservations about it. Wouldn't we have seen its claw marks in the dirt?"

"Dragons fly bard." The Witcher answered, eyes shut as he lay against the direwolf's back. She was warm beneath him, fur tickling the skin of his neck as he shifted to get comfortable. There were a few moments of darkness and blessed, blissful silence.

Then:

"I can't get that laughter tidbit out of my mind. What kind of dragon laughs Witcher? Will we face a particularly fearsome one?"

"The fiercest." Izuku replied, because he couldn't resist. The bard's 'eep' of fright sparked a distant amusement in his chest.

"Perhaps if you tell it a funny tale or two, you'll distract it long enough for me to take its head."

He felt the vibrations of the bard laying out a bedroll. (Made of fine material no doubt. Ever the prissiest those elves) The ground gave a slight shake when the man threw himself upon it.

Izuku's eyes remained closed as Denki gave a long sigh.

"Hopefully I'll live to see another night."

Izuku did not hope. He had been told he inspired such a feeling in others but he himself was immune to such irrationality. He was a man of facts, of odds and probability, of notes scrawled on paper well into the night, of the smell of ink lingering on calloused hands.

He did not hope. He predicted, anticipated and prepared.

His odds of survival were high. There was an off-chance he would perish: burning to his demise or falling off the face of the mountain seemed to be the top two contenders for the 'final blow'. But the probability of him strutting out of there with a dragon head slung over his back and Ochako gnawing on rawhide at his side was greater by far.

The bard though?

...Hmm.

The man continued to talk to himself through the night, attempting to assuage his own fears. Groaning, Izuku turned his back on him, and tried to fall asleep to the anxious melody.

       The first thing he noticed upon waking was the silence. Ochako's warmth was still at his back. He could feel her chest rise and fall with each breath, but the loud fearsome snores that should've been ringing out were muted. He could taste the magic of the silencing spell in the air before he could taste the bitterness of morning. Hand already at his scabbard, he leapt up, only to get slammed back down by a leather boot.

Crimson eyes cut from ruby and forged in flames leered down at him. The wicked, sharp grin of his attacker loomed inches above, teeth sharp and white blotted red with blood, so close he could taste the copper of it.

He thought of the bard. A quick sniff told him the man was still alive. Terrified, if the whimpers and more than subtle waft of piss meant anything, but still alive.

He quickly scanned the attacker. His chest was bare, golden skin not marred with scar nor birthmark, immaculate and smooth save for the rolling hills of his abs and pink peaks of his nipples, stiff in the mild morning frost. A cape the same color as his eyes gave a few flaps in the easy winds. It was clasped by a silver dragon around the neck, white fur lining the shoulders above his defined collarbone. Clearly a luxury, but not a symbol he could put a royal family name to.

His pants were dark, but made of fine material. He had only seen kikimore silk once before in his life: at the royal wedding of Prince Shoto of Endeavour and Princess Momo of Creati. Her dress had been made from two yards of it and a stunning, hand-sewn lace. It was a white so pure it glistened when the sun hit it, rivaling the shade of the snow as it fell upon the pair underneath their wedding arch.

This was that same material, but dyed a black so harsh it absorbed all color, cuffs tucked into his boots. Lined with that same white fur as the cape, they had spikes beneath their soles.  Armor was strapped around the man's knees, sharp points tacked on so they could be used as a weapon if need be, Every inch of this man was a weapon. Sharp. Dangerous.

And he smelled nothing like a human. Izuku didn't recognize this scent. Sweet and sultry, like golden ambrosia presented before an altar, or the exotic perfumes of a passing noblewoman. He had to lean away to catch the fresh winds and clear his head from the hazy mist that threatened to settle over him at the smell of it.

But there was something else on that wind. The smell of a viper pit after a heavy rain. He looked to where the edge of the attacker’s cape billowed in the gentle breeze.

Hmm.

Izuku slipped on an easy smile. It was second-nature by that point, but it only seemed to make the man angry. His eyes narrowed into slits, confident smirk morphing into a bitter scowl.

"Don't play innocent with me Witcher. I've met others of your kind. You don't have the heart for kindness."

Smart one. Arrogant asshole. Izuku made a point to smile harder, quirking a brow in what he hoped would look like a playful jest, as if the man were an old friend rather than the next victim of his blade.

"Now, now. I'm sure we can talk about this-."

He saw the dagger coming down before it was even raised. Heaving, he got the man away from him by turning suddenly, rolling across the ground. Grabbing Ochako by her scruff, he tossed her to the screaming bard and went to face his rising opponent.

Izuku reached for his sword, only to find the scabbard empty.

The other man twirled it about in his hand, checking his reflection in the blade. The tip was already stained red. If the beheaded, mangled deer towards the edge of their camp signified anything, it was that his blade was stolen from him while he slept then used to hunt breakfast.

Which meant that this one who appeared in the image of a man, licking the last of the blood from his teeth, was definitely not mortal. Izuku could sense other life forms even while unconscious. No one touched anything so close to him without his fist closing around their neck. This one was...was...

"Who are you?" The bard yelled. He was bound in rope, hands behind his back and ankles together. His cap still covered his ears securely. Izuku angled himself so the stranger wouldn't see the elf's face, lest he catch the spark in his eyes and begin to suspect.

"I am Prince Kacchan."

"Prince of what?" Denki snorted. "Thieves?"

There was that rage from the farm, smelling of soot and ash. It was thick in the air, hot and violent. Sparks skittered up Izuku's skin as those eyes came to meet him again. They looked him over, slowly, with intention.

Then there was the glint of a smirk full of salacious promise and scandal.

"I think you look better beneath me Witcher."

"I think I'm going to need my sword back Prince Kacchan."

He didn't miss the shiver that racked through the man at the sound of the title. The air was heavy with their auras, challenge and intrigue passing between the two of them, neither willing to drop their masks.

Until a pained roar came down from mountain high, sending birds squawking away from shuddering treetops as the ground rumbled. Kacchan leapt up at once, landing on a branch in a show of nimbleness.

He tossed back a wink.

"Come find me Witcher. I have need for some company." He said before taking off. Leaping from tree to tree, he kept the sword still in his grip as he disappeared into the foliage.;

Izuku bit back a curse. Gathering his things, he used the blade he kept within his boot to cut the bard free. Ochako led the charge as they ran, kicking up dust and dirt in their haste. The bard was too slow to keep up so Izuku swung him onto his shoulders, matching Ochako's pace with ease.

"Where do you think he ran off too?"

If the scent that clung to the man's cape was right, then he had run off to meet their dragon. Izuku didn't reply with this, gritting his teeth as he set a faster pace, thoughts of his sword flashing through his mind along with the possible outcomes of the situation.

The higher up they went, the worse the options became.

The scent was thickest at the very top. There was a cave or rose quartz, large enough for a dragon, but decidedly empty of its large hulking mass. There was no camp set up for Prince Kacchan, only a couple large stones here and there.

Izuku knew better than to judge by first glance. He moved to enter the glistening cavern when the bard pounded his shoulder.

"There is no way I'm going into that cave without a battle plan Witcher! What if it drops from the skies and roasts us where we stand?"

"Then we die," Izuku said simply. Though the bard screamed and yowled his protest, he did not release him, edging his way into the dark cave overflowing with the sharp scent of dragon.

And blood. So much blood and death.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness quickly, narrowing on everything in his path. Kicking aside a cow's skeleton, bones white and licked clean, he brought his tiny party further to the back of the cave, where the smell was strongest and the warmth of fire began to trickle through.

"I'm not too sure about this Witcher."

"Just sit up there and smell pretty bard."

"What do you mean by-?"

A deafening roar cut them off. The ground shook beneath his boots, dust falling from the pale pink stalactite above. He leapt back as one of the spikes dropped, bursting into shards in the same spot he once stood. Deeper and deeper he went as the roar continued. The more he listened, the more pained the cry seemed. It was...off. This wasn't anger. It wasn't lashing out. He doubted it even knew they were in there at all.

He crept closer to the scent of fire, inching along the wall of the cave, straining his ears to hear beyond the wail.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. It hurts. Quit wailing you big baby. You're acting like you lost a ball sack."

That was Prince Kacchan. The jackass who stole his sword. Clutching the bard's ankles tight, he dared to creep in further, murmuring a spell to hide his and Ochako's scent.

Bracing himself, he peeked around the corner.

It was a dragon alright. Definitely not the runt of the litter though. It was huge, looming several feet above his own head even in a crouch. Its horns were long, thick as a tree trunk, curling around his head like that of a rams. Its scales were  red so dark they were almost black, taking in the light of the fire, each as long as Izuku's hand.

But it wasn't its massive size that drew his attention.

It was its wounds.

A gaping hole tore through one wing, the other folded at an awkward angle behind him. Broken, no doubt. Its claws were long and sharp on all three limbs.

The fourth was missing. Its dark eyes were glued to the spot where it should of been, watering with unshed tears of pain as Prince Kacchan cleaned and wrapped the wound. At the blonde's side was Izuku's acclaimed sword, sitting still and idle, waiting for him to grasp it in his hand once more. The discarded bandage pile was where the stench of blood was strongest. Izuku sniffed, identifying the sour smell of infection in the cloth.

"Whoa," The bard breathed and, immediately, all eyes darted to their location.

Izuku could've killed the man himself, but it seemed like the dragon wanted to take a go first. He let Denki go, dropping him to the ground when the thing raised its head to strike, then rolled to snatch his sword before it was too late.

Two things happened then.

The dragon gave a keen whine, then began to collapse in on itself, shrinking in a blaze of red light till a man stood where the beast once sat. His spiky hair was the same shade of crimson as the scales, and his build more similar to Izuku's own bulk than Kacchan's lithe muscle. There was a bandaged stump where his left hand should've been, a clean cut slicing just above the wrist. His eyes were curious, a light reddish-brown as they fixated on the bard and the bard alone.

He was also completely nude.

The second was that Izuku reached for his sword, fingertips brushing the hilt when lava burst from the floor below, wrapping around his ankles and wrists, pinning him to the ground. He grunted when the familiar sensation of a spiked boot stepping on him came from his back.

"We meet again, Witcher."

His face in the dirt, Izuku dropped any mask, letting a cold fury envelope him as he struggled. He was close. So close. One inch more and One for All would be where it belonged.

But the Fates did not will it to be so. Kacchan gave a savage, mocking laugh as he plucked the sword up from the floor. He did some kind of magic to turn Izuku over so that he was facing the ceiling.

He couldn't see Kacchan, but he could feel his witchcraft. Powerful, it thrummed through the air, enveloping his limbs like a restraining caress till he was immobile.

At least the dragon found the bard. If he could enjoy nothing else, it would be the fact that he could hear the annoying little man being ripped limb from limb before he died.

...But the Fates didn't will that to be so either.

"You're an elf!"

"A-A-And your prick is out sir! I implore you to get a covering. Where are your trousers?"

"Oh! My apologies. I didn't mean to offend."

Izuku sniffed. Sweet and heady. Nervousness. Anticipation. Attraction. Arousal-.

Oh fuck.

"I've never met a real elf before. My mother says your kind are as sweet as honey and have eyes of starlight. If I may see your ears?"

"I-I don't really like letting people look."

"But they're beautiful!" The dragon insisted, as if scandalized. "Elves are the most beautiful creatures in all the land. I should know! I'm a dragon! My kind collect pretty things."

There's the sound of someone shifting. Probably the elf, blushing like a maiden at the flattery.  Izuku fought the desire to throw them all off the mountain.

"I have a cousin, Mina. She courted an elf. At their celebration, there wasn't a dry eye on that mountain top. From envy of course. A good half of our family was ready to kill her to take her place."

Gritting his teeth, Izuku made a mental note to rewrite the segment on Elven-Dragon Relations in his journal.

"So I assume you're the one that's been harassing the farmers then," He said, trying to get Kacchan's attention. Maybe Ochako would be able to catch the man by surprise if he kept him distracted. "You need to feed your friend after all, and he's not fit to hunt."

"Hey!" The dragon-shifter's voice was stunned, and a little hurt. "I thought we agreed we'd live off the land."

"Those beasts were on land." The Prince said arrogantly. "Our land. Those hills belonged to my kind long before these filthy mortals claimed the earth as their own."

That shortened his list. Demi-god? That'd be a bitch to take down. He would have to go off of rumors for that. The last Witcher to take down a Demi-God was centuries ago. One of the Vampire Fathers maybe? They walked the world long before his own kinsmen did, but their weakness to silver was common knowledge. He just needed One for All back and he'd make it work. It wouldn't be easy, but it would be possible.

But that wouldn't explain the fire.

He'd never heard of a vampire capable of making molten lava out of rose quartz then cooling it quick enough to bind a Witcher.

"Those farmers are poor and scared. They've sent us here to kill the dragon ravaging their homes," The bard said because he had a big mouth and just couldn't shut up. Izuku tried to think, tried to run through all the information he'd gathered so far to find a way of this mess. He strained against his binds, but even with all his strength, they wouldn't budge. Fortified by a dark magic no doubt. He would need to wait and build his power to counter it.

That could take days. Months even.

He'd be dead by then if Prince Kacchan wished it so.

"That's horrible," The dragon was saying. "I'm terribly sorry this has happened. I had no idea where he was getting the food. We'll leave if that would please you...and, uh, the farmers of course!"

"Oi! Shitty hair! We're not leaving! Do you know what I went through to find this place-!"

"Splendid! Did you hear that Witcher? A bit of diplomacy and we've saved the townspeople!"

Izuku gave a long, tired sigh, smile straining as soon as he pasted it back up.

"Wonderful," he said through grit teeth, failing to keep the sarcasm from his tone. "Now if I could get my sword, we'll be on our way."

At the sheer implication, the dragon hissed. Izuku shut his eyes to the sound, already aware of the sharp claws that were undoubtedly reaching out for the bard to stuff him further back in the cave. Territorial little bastards, those dragons. And if his gut was right, he wouldn't be letting the bard go anytime soon.

"By the gods, what is it man?"

"Oh! Sorry! The claws, they, uh, do that sometimes. It's normal."

Izuku could taste the lie on the air, sweet as cherry wine and just as deceptive.

"But you all don't have to leave now," The dragon continued. "Let us feed you! We've got plenty of food to share! And that lute! You're a bard, aren't you elf? Tell me some of your tales!"

The bard, like a fool, agreed.

To his credit, Izuku did not resist as he was lifted roughly to a stand. Prince Kacchan's fist was wrapped in his tunic, pulling him away from the ground even as his other hand wove sigils into the air, completing the stone cuffs around his wrists and ankles into dark circlets. He pulled his aching arms down to his chest, bending his elbows as he was hopped over to a smooth raised stone by the fire.

He took the seat, lips pressed tight as Kacchan sat right next to him, avoiding eye contact with all lest they see the calculations in his eyes. The fire rose high, hot against his front, with pointed wooden spikes at its base. If he kicked out at the right angle, could he launch one into the Prince's chest? Once he was gone, Izuku could take a lame dragon with Ochako's help.

The direwolf sat at the edge of the light, watching the Prince with wary eyes as he went about roasting the cow. Ever a loyal girl. Izuku didn't deserve her.

"Let's share names then," The dragon-man said, now with a fresh pair of breeches covering his bits. "I'm Eijirou the Wild. I'm from the mountain range of Kirishima."

"I'm Denki, a bard. Half-elf." He emphasized. "And that's Izuku of Yuuei. The Slaughterer of Shigaland and the Devil's Wicked Right Hand. He's a Witcher."

"And I'm already bored of this conversation. Eat and then leave bard."

"Don't be rude Kats!" Eijirou the Wild smiled, a grin with sharp pointy teeth and fawning eyes for the bard alone. Kats. What was that short for? Was Kacchan not his 'true name'? What kind of creatures needed to hide their names?

"Don't mind him. He's been sour ever since his mother tossed him out for stealing her favorite plaything."

"She didn't kick me out," the Prince said sourly. "I left of my own accord."

But his words went ignored. The dragon and the bard were already well on their way to a rousing conversation, speaking to each other in fervent whispers, inching closer by the minute till they could pick the remnants of meat off each other's laps. No one asked the Witcher about his life, because they didn't care. Prince Kacchan was too caught up in his own annoyance. and the dragon just wanted to know more about the bard, looking at him as if he was the one who cast away the moon to hang the sun in the sky.

Honestly, how did he get 'Elven-Dragon relations' so wrong? Didn't they have a lesson about this at Kaer Morhen? His old master would be so ashamed.  

The bard of course played right into their hands. He relished the attention, even got comfortable enough to take his hat from his head, shyly allowing a clawed hand to wondrously prod at the pale tips of ears.

When he pulled out the lute, the Witcher knew they were in for a long night. He played song after song, growing more loud as they opened a barrel of orc gin and passed it about. Izuku sat there, small smile beginning to ache, ears ready to bleed as they began a new ballad,

'A dragon there was, a dragon, a wild one

All red and fierce and ready for fun!

The dragon! The beast! The wild one!'  

He was going to beg for the sweet release of death. There was no other choice. The bard was annoying the shit out of him.

"You're annoying the shit out of me bard." Prince Kacchan spoke for him. Tossing the last of his scraps into the fire, he stood and emptied the contents of his waterskin on his hands to clean them. Wicking them out to dry, he commanded, "Find yourself elsewhere."

"Don't talk to him like that-!"

"Leave!"

Eijirou frowned. Pointedly snatching up Denki's hand, he led the bard off towards the edge of the fire's light, in the direction of the cave's entrance, continuing their rapid fire conversation about some frivolity. Izuku didn't trust the bard with the dragon alone. Silently, he looked to Ochako. The direwolf rose to her feet. Huffing her displeasure, she heeded his wordless request and turned to follow the pair.

It left him and the Prince alone, only the crackling of the fire to fill the gap between them. He kept his eyes on the flames, watching the wood split and burn from their heat.

"You're a quiet man Witcher. What's in that head of yours?"

His smile froze.

"I'm trying to figure out what you are."

A partial lie that left his mouth dry. He chanced a glance at his unfortunate companion. Kacchan's expression betrayed nothing but a fox's cunning. There was trickery afoot. Izuku took pride in his ability to catch it

"How about I let you guess? Hmm. Three tries."

A game then. The Prince doubted the extensiveness of Izuku's bestiary. He could see a vision of victory already dancing in the man's eyes, and swore to keep it as was: a vision rather than a reality.

"If you win-,"

"Then I get your true name."

The man's eyes narrowed into slits. A tell if any. That narrowed his list once more. Vampires didn't give a damn about 'true names'. Maybe an elder member of the fae?

"If I win then I get to lay claim to what's yours."

Tricky wording. Fae then. He'd seen a good share of their cunning.

But when he spoke his guess aloud, the man only smirked.

"You could break a fairy with one sweep of your hand couldn't you Witcher? Just snap them in two."

Red eyes traced the length of his biceps, something unreadable in their gaze. Izuku gave a sniff but he couldn't smell anything past that heady perfume. It clouded his head, made his mind lazy even as he resisted. He used his eyes instead, studying the curve of his collarbone, the path of a bead of sweat down his pecs, past the taut skin of his stomach to the low hanging hem of his trousers. There was a coil tightening in his gut, the pressure of a low flame.

"Vampire." He said hoarsely, throat suddenly parched. The scent got closer as Kacchan slid even closer. Every inch of skin pressed to his side burned hotter than any fire ever could. Crimson eyes dancing, the man dropped his chin to the butt of his hand, pouty lips forming an arrogant smirk at the end of a short, "Nope."

His last guess. Izuku was silent, eyes searching to see what his nose couldn't smell. He looked like a human. A dangerous human but a human nonetheless. What creatures could adopt this form, especially one as easy on the eyes as this? He wished he had his notebook in hand rather than down at the inn. He would have taken his time going through old pages of lessons till he found the right one.

Now he had only his intellect and his gut to guide him, and the former was fading fast, lost to a rosy haze of heat and need.

Wait...wait...wait...There was magic at work here.

"You're human. A sorcerer that's filled with trickery and cunning."

Kacchan gripped him by the arm, fingers digging into his skin like little daggers before swinging his other leg over. He nestled himself into Izuku's lap, firm thighs on either side of his waist as a hot breath caressed the shell of his ear.

"Wrong. Honestly Witcher," He shifted. Izuku felt his arousal twitch once through the fabric. "Have you never met an incubus before?"

"...Ah."

"Yeah."

"You said you were a Prince."

"Prince of Corrupted Virtue."

"Is that what they're calling it this age?"

"Fuck if I know," The Prince's voice lowered into a growl as he pounced. Again, Izuku was one his back, hands and legs pinned to the ground as the incubus nuzzled its nose to the junction where his jaw met his neck.

"You smell good Witcher. Of magic and strength, pine, firewood and all those-Mmm," He fidgeted as a breathy moan got caught in the air. "All those other manly things. You owe me a prize, don't you?"

"How about a pat on the back?" He asked sardonically. With each twitch he made, the other just tightened around him, hot hands locked on his raised biceps as an armor-less knee kept his legs apart. Kacchan pressed a gentle kiss on the lobe of his ear, then changed his mind, switching for a long, slow swipe of his rough tongue against the shell.

(He shivered reflexively, a heat beginning to spread in his loins.)

"Come now, Witcher," He said the title with a voice promising sin. "A demon's gotta eat."

"I don't suppose we could negotiate terms?" He tried squirming out from his grip, but the Prince only laughed, low and raspy, descending upon his neck to bite down on every bit of bared skin.

His hands ventured under the hem of his tunic, hot against the cool skin, ripping the fabric apart to leave his chest bare. Izuku made a keen sound of annoyance. The old forgotten sensation of self-consciousness tried making itself known, but he beat it back with a fierce refusal. He had scars. It came with the job. There were many. They were gnarly. They were hideous.

He had a lengthy kill record to match.

Kacchan was not afraid. He took his time with each one, pressing his lips to the scarred skin as he were a lover rather than a parasite. Izuku squirmed with each caress, grinding against a firm thigh in search of any friction.

"You're a fighter," he crooned. Izuku hissed when teeth grazed his nipple. Kacchan licked a long stripe up the area in apology, flicking the tip back and forth till the nub was a pert peak of pink. "Why do they call you the Devil's Wicked Right Hand?"

The question was meant to distract him from the fingers inching toward his belt. Did he have anything under there that could help him? He sold his dagger months ago. His potions stock was low but there were some salves.

Nothing magic. Nothing useful.

He bit back a curse when the fingers met their target, one hand ripping the belt away while the other palmed at him through the rough cloth.

"Answer me," Kacchan demanded. Izuku groaned when his slick tongue dipped into his navel, pressing kisses down the curly trail of green leading past his trousers.

"They say I do his work for him," He gave a stuttered gasp as the Prince squeezed. "I've sent both man and monster to fill his domain. More than he could ever ask for."

"She's got more space down there than you think."

"Your mother I-ah-I'm guessing?"

Kacchan rose. A thin string of spit connected his rosy lips to Izuku's abs, snapping in sync with red eyes gone to look him in the face.

"Do you always talk about your partner's mothers before you fuck? I know your kind are socially inept, but really?"

"Let's get this over with then. Eat your fill and let me go."

The Prince smirked, yanking at the loose band of his trousers till his cock sprang free, already at thick with his arousal, tight against his stomach. He watched as Kacchan fondled it in his rough palm, shame and anticipation at war in the back of his mind. He bit down on a gasp when the demon finally descended upon his cock like a man starved. His warm, slick mouth wrapped around the length, cheeks hollowing out to deliver a firm pressure as his tongue swept at the bead of pre-cum, slow and careful on the slit.

Izuku watched, breath heavy with lust, as the tufts of flaxen blonde bounced with each suck, straining against his stone cuffs to be able to reach out and tug at it, to retain some sense of dignity and control.

But he had no intention of letting him free. As if sensing his efforts, he laughed, a deep vibration in his throat that made the witcher try and lock his legs with a pained grunt, beating back a tidal wave of pleasure with sheer spite alone.

"You're going to have to come eventually Witcher." Kacchan huffed as he let his prick loose, a pop sounding out when the tip left his lips. "Don't make this more difficult than it needs to be."

Tin and canisters of salves had rolled out from his pockets when his trousers were tugged. The demon selected one at random, removing the cork with a careful sniff, then emptied some the contents on his palm, rubbing the oil between his fingers then turning to look at his prey with mischievous eyes.

Izuku took one whiff and was overrun with the scent of mint. He recoiled as much as he could, knowing the other's intention before he could even act.

"That's for muscle pain."

The Prince's smirk was wicked. Wild.

"Then it's perfect."

"Not that kind of muscle pain. It's a salve from the Isles of Chiyo. It's meant to-,"

A low scoff was the only warning before a discarded shred of his tunic was stuffed into his mouth, the salt of sweat heavy on his tongue.

"You talk too much."

The demon stood. Casting his cape to the side, he took off his boots, then his own trousers, standing bare and golden in the wake of the fire. Izuku tried not to stare at the taut muscle, the shadows cast by the dim glow, and the arrogant grin on the man's face as he returned to his place above him.

(He failed. Miserably.)

"Stay still Witcher. This won't hurt." Izuku glanced at the salve again, wincing at the sharp scent of fresh mint. "I hope."

Izuku knocked his knees as soon as the man approached, eying the slick between his fingers with wary eyes. Kacchan tried to pry his thighs open, but Izuku was stalwart, shaking his head like a virgin bride on her wedding night.

The demon huffed.

"You have to consent. It'll taste bitter if you don't come willingly."

'You're the worst seductress I've ever met,' Izuku said through the cloth. 'I've met common prostitutes that're better.'

The demon's gaze flickered from his prick, still standing at full attention, to the sheen between his fingers. A blush filled his face, redness darkening the sharp planes of his cheeks.

"Would it be easier if I..?" He glanced away, stubbornly glaring to the ceiling.

And wasn't that a tale to be told? A shy incubus? Where was the bard when you needed him? Izuku almost pitied the little Prince. Almost. He gave a grunt, shifting back and forth. His knees relaxed slightly in the process and red eyes locked on the movement.

The demon must have taken this for a 'yes'. Leaning on his haunches, he gave Izuku a full view as he prepped himself, two fingers scissoring back and forth, in and out with sinful, slick squelches and low, halted groans filling the space between the crackling of the fire. \The heat pooling in his stomach began to simmer. He wanted to touch- to be touched- but his hands remained atop his head, He was painfully unable to do anything but watch as the demon rocked onto his own fingers, the other hand wrapped around his cock, pumping steadily till it was a pretty, flushed rouge.

When he decided he was ready, he crawled forward, pulling himself atop Izuku till he was lined up properly.

When he finally sank down, he could only hold onto his hands, biting down on his teeth to distract himself when the simmer in his gut turned into a raging boil.

The Prince was a tease. There was nothing shy about the way he lifted himself till the tip was barely brushing the tight ring of muscle, then rocking down to the hilt, one hand braced against Izuku's chest and chest fondling his balls-coaxing him to come with a masseuse's touch and sultry whispers. But he refused to be the first. He met every buck with one of his own, eyes never straying from that of his partner. Every twitch and spasm had the demon tightening around his length.

"Be a good boy, Izuku." Even his name came out in a hiss, arousal evident in every vowel, so thick he could practically taste it in the air.

Red eyes flinched a little when Kacchan's hand reached to touch himself, shutting completely as he alternated between spat compliments and insults.

"You're taking too long. Do all Witchers have this kind of restraint?"  

"God you're so thick and-Ah! Oh, oh fuck."

"How many people have seen you like this? At their mercy? Lain out beneath them like a common whore?"  

Izuku spat the cloth from his mouth, fire in his lungs and tears in his eyes.

"Faster," He demanded in a low groan. The demon smirked, slowing his pace to something torturous. He snapped his hips up, silently making his plea known, but the demon only pressed down against his chest, peppering kisses up his clavicle as his cock slid against his navel. The smell of mint was ever-present, but not as strong as that of fire. Ash and soot clung to the air as the crackling of the flames became a roar. The wood split in deafening claps, flames climbing higher as the demon's breaths quickened.

He gave up on the slow rolls, bouncing up and down on Izuku's cock desperately, cleaning around him as keening into his jaw with a low whine till finally, the incubus found his release. And with it, he lost control of his powers. Izuku's wrists and ankles sprang free. He sat up just as the flames hit the ceiling, licking at the stalagmites as his hands went to grasp the demon's hips, holding him down as he fucked into his tight, wet hole, chasing after the tide that was once so keen to swallow him whole.

Soft fingers ran through the hair at the nape of his neck. A quiet, murmur was in his ear, begging him to "go, go, go" till he came with a shudder that racked through his spine. He blinked back red and green stars. Collapsing on the warm, lithe body beneath him, he took a moment to steady his breathing, enjoying the post-coital bliss.

He cleaned them off with the remains of his tunic then cast the scrap into the fire pit to sit with the soot. The smell of mint and ash was strong. The salve was particularly potent. He couldn't feel any part of his groin, numbness spread to even parts of his backside which was concerning, but not as much the one lying next to him. The fire had snuffed out, plunging them into a darkness so deep, even his vision was blurred. A voice spoke into it, raspy from use, gentle with its curiosity.

"...What is your name Witcher? Your true name?"

He was at ease, but he was no fool.

"They called me Deku as a child. Some in Kaer Morhen came from a place where such a name meant 'uselessness'. Weakness. They taunted me for it, so I cast it away."

He turned to the side, where he knew ruby eyes shone upon him.

"And you, Kacchan? Any childhood nicknames you didn't favor."

"They wouldn't dare," He said, puffing out his chest. "I would've ripped out their tongues if they had tried. Disrespecting me is disrespecting the devil herself."

Izuku made a sound of disbelief. Crimson eyes narrowed. "You doubt me?"

"I just...I'm sure there was something. Everyone has a nickname."

"Except for me."

The tunic that was tossed burst into flame, small and timid but still hot enough to destroy the fibers. He was getting somewhere.

"And we can't forget that you're royalty. They had to have called you something when you turned your back. Sparky?"

"No."

"Smoky?"

"They called me Prince Katsuki or nothing at all." The demon snarled.

Then he froze.

Izuku smirked.

"Katsuki," he tried. The name was fire on his tongue. Every syllable screamed of power "Prince Katsuki."

"Don't do this Witcher."

  Izuku saw him moving before he even thought of it. He stopped the blackened claws from plunging through his heart at the last second, strong grip on the wrist. He looked straight into crimson eyes as the pupil swallowed the irises whole, engulfing the red in black with the force of his rage. The tension in the air was strong enough to become a physical weight bearing down on his shoulders. His grin never faltered.

"Katsuki," he said sweetly. "I forbid you from harming any member of my party."

Those eyes narrowed into slits. The fire roared once more to life, lighting the cave into a brilliant scarlet.

"How dare you command me-?"

"Katsuki, I forbid you from harming farmer, common man, shepherd, and from stealing any of their property."

"You're making the worst mistake of your life! My mother will find you and rip you limb from limb-."

"Katsuki, I order you to hand me my sword."

The demon stiffened. Gritting his teeth the entire while, he rose as if he were a marionette pulled by invisible strings. His movements were blocky as he made his way through the dark to the discarded blade. One for All glinted in the light, a startling green sheen to the metal as Katsuki laid it flat against his palm, kneeling before him like a knight did his king.

Izuku accepted the offering with grace, not bothering to resist the urge to ruffle soft blonde tufts after the blade was safe in the scabbard.

"That wasn't so hard was it?"

"DAMN YOU WITCHER!"  

"What is going on here?"

The bard and the dragon stood at the edge of the shadows, eyes wide as they took in Izuku's state of undress. Shameless, he took his time in collecting what was left of his clothes, watching the demon screaming insults and threats all the while. The demon never moved to harm him, but a good Witcher was always careful.

"Nothing," he answered the question terribly late, so much so that Denki jumped when he answered. "We'll be taking our leave now. The problem's solved."

He saw the way the bard and the dragon looked at each other, then held back a groan.

"-WILL SLAUGHTER YOU AND EACH OF YOUR BASTARD CHILDREN YOU GREEN SOD-!"

"Where's Ochako?" he asked wearily. At the sound of her name, the wolf gave a short howl from the direction of the cave's entrance.

As long as she was safe, he could go. If the bard wanted to stay, marry a dragon, and live forever as a prissy hoarder in bliss, he couldn't care less. The demon wouldn't pose a threat. The dragon wouldn't dare harm an elf. He could tell the townspeople the bard died gruesomely during his battle, and his absence would serve as the proof he needed for payment.

Everyone would leave this encounter happy.

"-FAIR-FACED FRECKLED FUCK! I'VE MET STABLEBOYS WHO WERE A BETTER ROMP THAN YOU! YOU SMILING SIMPLE LIMP-DICKED-!"

Everyone that mattered would leave this encounter happy. Without even a backwards wave, he left the trio behind. Ochako fell into his pace with ease, and together they went down the path into the night, bare-chested with his trusted blade at his side. Screamed curses rang out into the dark, carried by the smooth glide of the wind. Izuku smiled, small but true.

The sounds were greater than any song the bard could write.

The pouch of coins slammed against the counter, a few gold coins spilling out onto the wood. The attendant behind the wood stared at him with blank violet eyes, hair of a similar shade a messy mop atop his head. A pipe hung from his lips, steady stream of smoke billowing through the air.

"A horse," Izuku said with a tired smile. The man stared back with dead eyes. "Please."

Groaning, the attendant set his pipe aside. Ten minutes later, Izuku walked away from the stables with a mare of his own choosing. It was an easy day in a new town. The whispers followed him as they always did, curious eyes following him as he walked his horse through the town.

Only one was brave enough to break through them all. A little girl with hair of silver and eyes a familiar scarlet.

"Witcher," She began with the familiar tones of a plea, pale hands clutching at the edge of her frumpy gown as tears swan in her gaze. "My-My cat! It's been taken by a d-d-dragon! Please help me get it back before it's too late!"

Izuku took one long look to the mountain range. As if sensing a possible repeat scenario, his prick began to burn uncomfortably. His hesitation must've shown on his face because she dropped to her knees, hands clasped in a plea.

"P-Please! I would've gone myself, but his laugh was so scary I couldn't move!"

Ah, then there was no doubt. Swinging onto his horse, he offered the girl a small comforting acceptance, then set off to the mountains, Ochako running at his side.

At least, this time, he had a salve more...suitable for salacious cause.

[honestdreams]

Chemisty | Peter Kavinsky

A/N: Guess whose back from the dead, it’s your girl, hope you guys missed me! This ones a LONG one, I got this request form @ruwaidahmulla which I got over a year ago but I’ve been in mia since tumblr deleted my blog but I’m back baby! Hope yall enjoy this, I’ve missed writing so request more things please  ♡

words: 2450

warning(s): smut

masterlist

“Girl, how did Peter Kavinsky ace chemistry?! I mean he beat LJ, that’s like crazy!” Chris exclaimed, emphasising her blown mind with her hands and a sound effect.

I chuckled and ran my fingers through my tousled hair, “I know right, I’m proud of him?”

“What did you do? Put a spell on him?” Lara Jean joked.

Making me laugh and shrug casually, “You could say that.”

“Y/N please, please, you have to tutor me, I’m failing chemistry and you’re amazing at it!” Peter followed me through the halls begging.

“How many time do I have to tell you, this isn’t going to work. No matter how good I am at chemistry, you have a tendency to get distracted around me, and you know it! Coach even makes me sit on the highest bleachers when I’m watching you practise or you’ll keep stopping to talk to me if I didn’t.”

Peter groaned knowing I was right. “Please honey please…unless you want me to get some other girl to tutor me.” He started.

My eyes narrowed as I imagined another girl taking advantage of Peter’s need for help for their own personal gain, to flirt with him, even though I know he was all about me, I found it hard to trust other girls, especially after meeting girls like Gen, and the fact that more than half of the girls in our school drooled over Peter.

“Fine, but you owe me dinner then yeah?”

“I promise, Friday night is at your favourite dinner, thank you honey.” He kissed my forehead quickly making me smile and blush.

/

“Okay Peter these are the notes you have to remember the most because this is what the test is mainly about.” I went over the sheet of paper I had made for myself to study on for our next upcoming test, everything was simplified and focused on the information that needed to be remembered, unlike how our text books were set out. I guessed if these helped me a lot, hopefully they would also be a big help to Peter too.

“I like the colours.” He finally spoke and I sighed,

“Thanks Pete, but I need you to focus on the dot points.” I gently ran my fingers through his hair, “This will help you.”

“I know, but you running your fingers through your hair doesn’t help me concentrate honey.” He mumbled, pulling my hand from his hair to hold it instead.

I blushed and squeezed his hand gently. “Sorry bub.”

He smiled and kissed my cheek before reading over the sheet, occasionally asking questions but he got the basics then I felt his hand on my leg, without a word he moved my leg over his lap, and I instantly moved my other to be the more comfortable.

He settled his hand on my thigh and rubbed his thumb subconsciously. I continued to explain things to him, but his hand began to wander higher until I felt his fingers against the lace of my panties.

“Peter.” I groaned and tried to move his hand away, but he brushed me away and smirked still looking down at the paper.

“Yes honey? I’m trying to read.”

“No you’re not you’re trying to get in my pants.”

“Um wrong, since I’ve already been in your pants so I don’t have try to get in them again.”

“You’re supposed to be studying.”

“Well this is a little boring and I think I’ve just found something better to do.”

I sighed in defeat as Peter reached over and pushed my hair back behind my ear, teasingly brushing his lips over mine and I couldn’t help but push my lips against his and his hand settled on my cheek, while his other pulled my body closer to him. Making me sit on his lap as our lips became familiar with each other, I ran my fingers through his hair and moved my body against his, feeling my wetness quickly ruin my lace.

“Told you this tutoring thing wouldn’t work.” I mumbled against his lips.

“Thank you for trying honey, but right now I wanna focus on this right here.”

/

I sat in front of LJ’s TV as Billy Madison played, entertaining our need for a comedy on movie night.

“Adam Sandler is such a good actor.” I commented before eating some more popcorn.

“I know right; he can do just about anything. I mean we should watch Mr Deeds next because it has a good romance too.” LJ replied and I nodded in agreement.

We talked minimally as the scene where Billy’s girlfriend had come up with an inventive way to help Billy study better and a light bulb went off in my head. I questioned to myself if that would work for Peter and knew I might need to adapt it.

He was doing a bit better after our study session but I wanted to help him more, and I know I couldn’t do that if I was a distraction for him, but perhaps I could use the thing that was distracting him as a motivator to make him to better.

/

“Okay Peter I got an idea of how to help you study.”

“It isn’t flash cards is it because we tried that in 10th grade and I will remind you that it didn’t work.”

“No. No, I got this idea from a movie and I want to see if it’ll work for you. I’m am going to ask you a question and every time you get an answer right I am going to kiss you.”

After hearing the word kiss Peter instantly perked up. “Now you’re interested huh bubba.” I mumbled before pecking his lips.

“Yeah, yeah I’m listening.”

I smiled and asked him a simple question that I knew he knew the answer to, I quickly kissed him as a reward and asked another. Following the process over and over again. Taking mental notes as he surprisingly answered some difficult questions, and struggled to answer some others before going over my helpful papers to review what the answer should be.

I pushed his hair back as he read over a paragraph a couple of times to embed it into his memory. “Wow bubba, I’ve never seen you so concentrated besides when you’re practising, it’s hot.” I grinned, teasing him but also telling him the truth.

“Yeah?” He smiled back cheekily.

“Yes, I’ll tell you what, if you get over 90% on our next test, I’ll let you do absolutely anything to me after our date on Friday.”

“Anything huh? You dirty girl.” He took a moment to poke my side before I pushed his hand away and he intertwined our fingers. “Alright I’ll take you up on that. And if I don’t?”

“You have to help me make cupcakes for my monthly sleepover night with the girls.” I offered my hand out to him to shake and he instantly shook it.

“Alright, you got a little deal you devil, but that means we’re having study sessions every day before the test.” He smiled and pulled me in by our handshake to kiss me.

/

My leg bounced up and down anxiously as I watched the teacher walk around with our test papers, I was excited for Peter, but I always got anxious when we were getting our results back because I hope to get a mark I would be proud of, especially after all the hard work I put into it.

I bit mu lip and dug my nails a little harder into my palm as the teacher got closer to us. Finally, he slipped my paper down in front of me and I immediately let out a breath of relief as I read a clear 88% was written in red pen on the top right hand corner of my paper.

Free from worry I glanced behind me at Peter and proudly showed him my mark, he gave me a big thumbs up and I laughed softly before turning silent as our teacher dropped Peter’s test paper in front of him.

I watched as Peter took a deep breath, obviously being nervous. I bit my lip and subconsciously interlocked my middle finger around my pointer finger, hoping Peter gets a mark that makes him happy. Suddenly his face lit up and I knew.

He flipped his paper around for me to see and I gaped at his mark of 97%.

“No fucking way!” I whispered in surprise then quickly got up to kiss Peter, “I’m so so proud of you bubba, I mean I would have been proud no matter what you got, but I’ve even more ecstatic that you got an A+. It’s well deserved, you worked very hard for this. Good job baby.”

“Thank you honey, I wouldn’t have been able to do it without you.” He smiled and kissed my forehead.

“Obviously.” I joked and messed up his hair before walking back to me seat, admiring his award winning smile before I turned back around to face the teacher that had just sat down at his desk.

/

“I’m serious Peter, you shouldn’t have yelled at that guy just because his friend caused him to knock his drink on me.”

“Honey you’re too nice, he didn’t even apologise, of course I was going to make him so do, I know how much it annoys you when people don’t use common decency, you’re just like me.” He chuckled and wrapped his arm around me.

I rolled my eyes but moved closer into him knowing he was right.

“So back to my place honey?” He whispered in my ear and I shivered in anticipation, nodding quickly.

/

Peter laid me down on my bed and brushed my hair back.

“I will never get over how lucky I feel when I get to see you like this.”

I immediately pulled him in for a kiss and wrapped my legs around his waist to pull him closer in, consumed in how much I loved this boy and knowing he loved me just as much as I loved him. Our hands roamed the other’s body, becoming familiar and finding where our hands belong, mine in his hair and his on my hips, pulling me in as he grinded against me.

I blushed feeling his hard on grow, making my body react and my wetness grew. Suddenly I was on top of Peter, a position I wasn’t used to, but as I looked down at Peter I realised what he meant when he said he got to see me ‘like this’. I normally saw Peter from below, him being so much taller than me and all, but now from above, he was vulnerable, his hair messy, his whole face to admire and nothing to hide behind.

“I’m the luckiest girl in the world.” I admitted, tearing up a little.

“Honey,” He chuckled and cupped my cheeks, “if I knew you were going to get this emotional, I would not have put you on top.” He laughed and quickly pecked my lips before laying back down.

I followed him and leaned down, our lips barely touching but getting lost in each other’s eyes, “I love you Peter Grant Kavinsky.”

“And I love you (your full name).”

I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against him, just for a moment, though it truly felt like a lifetime, then pressed my lips against him and let my head get dizzy with lust. Our hands travelled one another’s body again but this time taking off clothing. I pulled away breathless as Peter pulled my shirt over my head, and I made sure his followed suit.

I kissed him again before my hands found his belt and unbuckled it, undoing his zipper than hastily pulling his pants down before Peter did it himself, and soon enough my pants were off too. I watched as Peter carefully ran his fingertips over my bare skin, feeling the material of my underwear before pulling them off too.

“I want you to ride me honey. That’s all I’ve wanted for ages but have been too shy to ask, and after this test business, I wanted my well-earned reward.” He kissed my neck running his hands up and down my sides.

My cheeks turned pink at the thought of riding my boyfriend, he was also in control and I liked it like that but at times I was curious how it would be if I was on top and it seemed the both of us were getting what we wanted.

I gently took his cock in my hand and stroked it silently, my other hand drifting between my own legs to see if I was ready for him, I bit my lip feeling how wet I was. Peter smiled and kissed my cheek, letting me go at my own pace as he rubbed my skin. I took a second to position myself over him then slowly sank down onto his cock.

I moaned quietly and dug my nails into Peter’s chest, feeling myself getting used to his size over time then slowly rocked my hips, making Peter moan as well which was music to my ears. I leaned down to kiss him as I moved my hips faster.

I whimpered his name against his lips and he gripped my hips, pushing up against me making me moan louder, his lips found their way to my neck again and I knew he was leaving marks but my mind was too clouded with pleasure to tell him off. I felt my orgasm grow and I pulled away from Peter to better take in how he felt inside me.

“I’m close honey, you look so sexy like this.”

“Peter.” I whined not able to say anything else.

He quickly grabbed me and sat up, thrusting into me as I became lightheaded. My body shook in his hold and I screamed out his name, climaxing on his cock and Peter followed quickly, finishing inside me as we both breathed heavily, taking in everything that happened so quickly.

Y/N comfortingly brushed her fingers through Peter’s hair before he rolled them over so she was on her back, resting his head on her chest, listening to her rapid heartbeat, smiling as their hearts were beating as one.

/

“That’s why you’re wearing a turtleneck?!” Chris questioned laughing.

“I couldn’t find my makeup to cover it up.” I blushed.

“That’s why Peter asked me where you keep your makeup.” LJ started to laugh too.

“Well it’s good to know Peter and Y/N have a lot of chemistry, huh LJ?” Chris continued to tease and I rolled my eyes at my goofy friends.

masterlist

[alloftheimagines]

billy hargrove | heaven-sent | part seven

masterlist | series | part six

words: 1.5k

warnings: swearing, driving under the influence, angst, supernatural, can’t warn u about other stuff without spoilers oop

summary:  she’s an angel. he may as well be the devil. one would not exist without the other.

The cabin is still a mess when Frances returns the next morning. The windows are covered with cardboard and duct tape, and inside, the floorboards are scratched and worn in places they hadn’t been before.

“Dad?” she calls when she finds the kitchen and living room empty. “El?”

There’s no response beside the sound of the wind raging through the woods outside. The TV screen is grey with static, and both El and Hopper’s bedroom doors are open, revealing two empty rooms. Frances’s stomach twists in worry. El isn't allowed outside of this cabin, ever. Where the hell are they?

Piles of files and papers are scattered about all over the floor, sitting beside a floorboard that had been pulled up. Frances kneels, inspecting them. They are all stamped with Hawkins Laboratories, typewritten, ink seeping into the damp from their time under the floorboards. Frances has never seen them before—and yet perhaps she should have, because she finds one of her familiar baby photos with a record under the label 002. Beside it is the date of birth: her date of birth.

“What the fuck?” she whispers, searching through the other papers frantically. She must have misunderstood, she thinks, until she stumbles across adoption papers with her name written in bold. The date of adoption is only a few months after her birth, and both her mother and father have signed them beside a name she doesn't recognise.  

Her mind races, trying to conjure up images she might have seen in her old photo albums of her mother pregnant. There were plenty of her with Sarah, but none, she realises, with her. She didn't have that many baby photos either, other than the one in front of her and then ones of her a little older. Her mother said she had surgery when she was little and they didn't want to remember how hard it was with pictures. Now she wonders if that was a lie.

She goes back to the lab records, tears pricking her eyes as she traces a list of symptoms scrawled in black ink beneath the heading 002. Golden eyes, advanced mental and physical capabilities developing more quickly than in other subjects, surgery performed to remove protrusions in the shoulders, translucent skin, abnormalities in blood sample. She hadn’t been crazy in thinking her eyes had changed. There really was something wrong with her.

“Dad?” she yells again, throwing the papers down. She can’t look at them anymore. “Dad?”

No reply, but she hadn’t expected one. She runs out of the cabin, suppressing a sob as she scans the woods to see if he’s nearby. The woods are silent, empty. A fog lingers around the trees eerily. She’s alone.

* * *

Florence, her father's assistant, peers over her glasses with an alarmed expression as Frances marches through the police station, searching desperately for a glimpse of her father.

“Morning, Frannie,” she greets cautiously, standing from her desk and frowning. “Everything okay, sweetheart?”

“No,” she answers, tears staining her flushed cheeks as she checks his office. It’s empty. “Where is my father? Where’s Hopper?”

“I don’t know, honey. It’s a Saturday: his day off.”

“Can you see if he’s answering his radio? It’s urgent.”

Florence takes her glasses off to look at Frances properly. “He didn’t come in this morning. He isn’t working today. What’s wrong? Are you in trouble, sweetie?"

“Can you please just try to catch him on his fucking radio?” she snaps, slapping her hands against the front desk angrily.

There must be something in her eyes, because Florence pales and sits down in submission, grabbing her radio with shaky hands. Frances might feel guilty if she wasn’t so hysterical. “Station to Hopper, do you copy?” When a reply doesn’t come, she clicks the call button again. “Hopper, do you copy? I have your daughter here. She’s very insistent on speaking to you. Over.”

Nothing. Frances’s shoulders drop in defeat, and she wipes her damp cheeks, realising only now that Callahan is watching her from his desk, a donut in his hand. He looks entertained by the whole ordeal, and she shoots him a scowl.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Florence apologises with a shrug. “Have you tried the Byers’ house?”

“No,” she says weakly, forcing a small smile. “Sorry, Flo. Thank you for trying.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Thank you,” Fran nods, turning around and inhaling. She falters when she sees a familiar face. Billy is being pulled in by Powell, hands behind his back in handcuffs. When he looks up, he freezes. He’s a mess, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, his bruise now a violent green on his cheek. His hair is disheveled, too, and his jacket hangs off his shoulders.

“Flo,” Powell calls as they pass, barely acknowledging Frances. “Get Neil Hargrove down here. His boy was caught driving under the influence.”

Frances wants to leave, to carry on finding her dad, but her legs won’t take her out of the station. She can’t help but feel as though this is her fault, as though what happened last night has led Billy here. She sighs. “Powell, wait. I wanna post his bail.”

“Sorry, kid, but that’s not how it works,” Powell responds as Billy looks over his shoulder in surprise. He’s forced into a chair at the desk, where Powell unlocks his cuffs roughly.

“Then do me a favour. Please?”

“Your dad ain’t gonna be too happy if he catches you trying to bail out drunk drivers, Frances. You know this kid?”

“Yes,” she says, “and I’m sure that there is some way this can be resolved without getting his father involved or keeping him here. You’ve learned your lesson, right, Billy?”

Billy looks up in surprise. “Yeah, right.” His voice is gruff as though he’s just woken up.

“That’s nice an’ all, but the law’s the law. Plus, he's underage,” Powell says, sounding amused by the whole situation. “Your dad around, kid?”

“No, but he can vouch for Hargrove,” she answers, her voice strained with desperation. “Please, Powell. I’ll owe you one. It’s his first offense, right? No one was harmed?”

Powell glances at Billy doubtfully, but she knows he’s thinking about saving his ass from all the paperwork he’d have to do otherwise. “Yeah. Alright,” he caves, causing Billy to relax in his seat. “I’ll cut you a deal. I let the kid go, don’t ever catch him drunk driving again, and we don’t need to press charges.”

“Deal—”

“—And you can repay me in donuts and coffee. For a year.”

“Great.” She grabs Billy by the arm before he can change his mind, pulling his unsteady form up from the chair. He props himself up against her, and she can smell whiskey and cigarettes on his breath. “Flo, cancel the call. This was all a big misunderstanding.”

Florence looks bewildered from behind her desk as they pass her, Billy almost tripping over his own feet on the way out. When they’re free of the station, he pulls away from her, using the wall as support instead. “What was all that for?”

“I was doin’ you a favour,” Frances replies shortly. “You’re welcome.”

“I didn’t ask for your help, Frances,” he spits, though there is no anger in his eyes the way there was last night. Now he just looks tired and numb.

She rolls her eyes, her jaw clenching. “I don’t have time for this. Just don’t try to fuckin’ drive home, okay? Get a cab or somethin’.”

“Fran,” he calls as she’s about to go. “That’s it? You’re just gonna fuck off again after what happened last night?”

She softens, swallowing the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry for last night. I’m really fucking sorry, Billy.”

His brows furrow at this, and he straightens up, finding his balance. “What was it?”

“I don’t know,” she replies honestly, remembering the record she’d found. Golden eyes. Advanced development. Abnormalities. “There’s something wrong with me. I … I think there’s something really wrong with me. I didn’t mean—I’m just sorry, okay?”

She turns to leave, but Billy grabs her wrist to stop her. “Wait. I shouldn’t have tried to kiss you. I guess I’m just not used to … y’know, talking to girls without fooling around. I meant what I said, though. I like talking to you. It was never about trying to screw you.”

Tears spill over her lids, and she looks away, wiping her eyes quickly. “God, how is it you always catch me at my absolute worst?”

His blue eyes soften. “It’s a talent.”

“Yeah.” She forces out a laugh, inhaling and looking up to try and stop the tears. “Sorry. You want me to walk you home or call you a cab or somethin’?”

At the word ‘home’, he stiffens, his lips pursing into a harsh line. “No. I don’t wanna go home. If my dad sees me like this …”

She nods, though she doesn’t really understand. “I need to keep looking for my dad, but the trailer’s empty. You can sleep it off there.”

“Yeah?” he asks, scratching the back of his neck as though he’s reluctant to accept the help.

“Yeah,” she replies, sighing. “I’ll walk you. Maybe my dad’ll turn up there.”

part eight

[shipaholic]

Omens Universe, Chapter 9 Part 1

At last, the present day! Time for bringing up Satan’s baby. :)

Link to next part at the end.

(From the beginning)

(last part)

(chrono)

---

Chapter 9

Tad and Harriet Dowling, new parents, were at breakfast.

Sunlight poured through the French windows. Harriet buttered a slice of toast. The baby was on her lap, grizzling. He was a golden-haired male baby, and he was perfect.

The baby’s tiny fists wobbled. His face turned red. The first hint of a high, plaintive note escaped his body.

Harriet put down her toast. She sighed.

“Tad, could you call for Nanny?”

It was like a siren going off. When the word ‘nanny’ was uttered, the baby wailed like he already understood what it meant and hated it.

Harriet winced. “Actually, I’ll get her. Tad, could you take the baby? Please? Now?”

Tad Dowling, cultural attaché to the United States, grimaced as he took his son off his wife.

“Here you are, little guy. Why the fuss, huh? You’re not scared of Nanny, are you? She’s a lovely woman.”

Yes. Wasn’t she?

His eyes unfocused slightly.

A tall figure swept into the room. The baby hollered like a car alarm.

Tad gingerly carried the little guy over. Nanny wordlessly held out her arms. She looked terribly normal. The baby kicked and turned purple as Tad handed him to her.

“Sorry about him, Ms…”

He broke off, puzzled.

The baby’s roars grew loud enough to shatter glass.

Tad laughed, nervously. “OK, now, off you go. You’ll soon calm down.”

There was a foul smell in the room. Harriet pulled a face.

“I’m sorry, I thought I just changed him.” She sounded uncertain.

Nanny gave a grim smile.

“I think the little man wants a walk.”

Tad nodded with relief. “Great idea. Doesn’t that sound nice, Adam?”

“See you soon, honey,” Harriet said. She had to shout above the yells.

Hastur, Duke of Hell, rearranged the baby in her arms, and carried him into the garden.

~*~

A familiar face snipped the heads off the roses. Ligur nodded to Hastur from beneath the brim of his gardening hat.

Hastur’s lip curled. The air was too fragrant. At least the rest of London was still decently polluted.

She looked around the smooth lawn. No-one else was around, besides some security guards in the distance.

“Where’s he pissed off to?” she growled to Ligur.

“Tree,” Ligur grunted. He assaulted some flowers with the secateurs.

Hastur stumped round the side of the house, baby screeching in her arms.

An apple tree curled into the sky round the back. It was the only plant in the grounds that hadn’t withered under Ligur’s ministrations. It smelled sweet, like cider and cloves. Underlying the fragrance was a hint of good old-fashioned terror. Hastur reluctantly approved.

She stood beneath the tree and knocked on the trunk.

“Job for you, Crawly,” she sneered.

Something wound down the trunk from the canopy. A long, black scaly body with a red underbelly. The baby’s unholy shrieks quietened. The tears splashing down his front dried up.

The snake turned into a white, glowing coil as it reached the bottom. It shifted back into a man with wavy red hair and sunglasses. He checked himself over - clothes, shades, glove - and held out his arms. Hastur deposited the baby and stepped back, simmering with jealousy.

“Hi, Hastur.” Crowley tucked the Antichrist against his chest. “What’s up?”

Hastur glowered. “Things are progressing as planned. Our dark master, may he ever watch under us, would be proud.”

Crowley jiggled the baby up and down. Adam gurgled. Hastur held back an envious tear.

“We have infiltrated the house at every level. There is no sign of the hated opposition. None shall thwart our glorious purpose. Our master’s child grows closer every day to fulfilling his destiny. Praise be to Satan.”

“Praise. Great.”

Hastur squinted into Crowley’s face.

“Get on with it,” she whispered.

Crowley cleared his throat. He paced slowly under the tree, rocking the baby in his arms. Adam’s big blue eyes stared around in curiosity.

“Once upon a time, our Lord and master, the King of Hell, knew that it was time to scorch the planet Earth to a tiny cinder and reduce all the creatures upon it to a thin, red slurry, lying all over the place like pools of, er... soup. And that was all very good and correct. Hurrah. And that’s where you came in -”

Hastur, satisfied, turned and stomped away. She never stayed long for Adam’s stories. She didn’t approve of literacy.

Crowley kept up a litany of blood and gore until Hastur was out of earshot. He and the baby lapsed into companionable silence.

Adam blew a few bubbles. His little baby hoodie was drooping on one side. Among the golden curls, on the left side of his head, something glinted in the sun. It was a gem, shaped like a curved red horn.

Crowley covered it up. He didn’t like looking at it. He felt like it was spying on him. Hell had used more unlikely things than babies as listening devices in Crowley’s time.

Worse still, there was the chance that Lucifer was in there, somewhere. Conscious. Furious at Crowley’s lukewarm attitude to the impending Armageddon.

“Just remember, I rescued you from Nanny Hastureth,” he told the baby. “Think of that when you’re deciding who to grind beneath your heel later.”

Adam grinned.

Crowley grinned back.

Adam hiccupped and threw up on Crowley’s jacket.

Crowley finger-snapped it away. The smell lingered. He hoped that wasn’t an omen.

“You know, the real story of how you got here is pretty fun,” he said.

~*~

Six months earlier

Crowley spotted the nun with the rabbit-in-headlights look about her at the end of the corridor.

“Psst.”

She took in the man with the sunglasses and the picnic basket dangling from his hand, and scurried over.

“Is that him?” Her voice trembled with awe.

“Yup.”

Crowley handed over The Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Prince of this World and Lord of Darkness.

Sister Mary Loquacious poured over the tiny Antichrist and cooed at his teensy little toes, fingers, and horn.

“Pardon?”

Crowley peered into the basket. He hadn’t thought to check. A red curved horn, like one half of a classic devil’s Halloween headdress, sprouted from the left side of the baby’s head.

“Wow.”

“It’s very classic. Though I’d expect him to have a matching one,” Sister Mary said.

Crowley said nothing. He felt like he’d caught his boss asleep sucking his thumb at the office party.

So, Lucifer had really done it. Used his own gem to create. This.

Blimey.

“Does he look like his daddy? I bet he does. Does he look like his daddy-waddy-kins?”

In one way, yes. Crowley deflected. He needed to get going.

“Do you think he’ll remember me when he grows up?” Sister Mary said, wistfully.

“Pray that he doesn’t,” said Crowley, and fled.

~*~

Sister Mary bustled to Room Three. The Antichrist, tucked in his little basket, dozed under her arm. She felt like she was skipping through the woods to deliver a picnic to the lucky Mr and Mrs American Ambassador. Except that instead of a picnic inside, there was an apocalypse.

She wondered if his new parents would love him. She felt sure that they would. From the tips of his hoofie-kins (which he didn’t have), to the top of his precious little horn.

She slowed.

Now that she thought about it, the horn was a bit of a problem.

It was silly, but it had never occurred to her that the Ambassador’s wife had, presumably, just given birth to a baby without a horn growing out of his head, and she was about to hand her back a baby that did have a horn growing out of his head. That part of the plan had sort of... passed her by.

There must be a plan for dealing with this. Naturally. The other sisters must have just forgotten to mention it to her. Which was strange, since all they were supposed to do was mention things to each other all day long. Probably an oversight.

Still. Mrs. Dowling might, just conceivably, have the odd question.

It would be fine. She’d make something up.

She tried to think of a lie she’d be comfortable giving to a room full of security men with guns.

As a bead of nervous sweat appeared on her brow, Mary found herself before Room Three.

She swallowed. She raised her hand. It trembled mid-knock.

Maybe…

On second thought, there was no shame in finding someone a little higher up the chain, just to make sure. It didn’t mean she’d failed to handle things at all.

She hurried away from the room.

~*~

Mary stood, red-faced, in a corner of Room Four, hidden behind two other nuns.

Upon some extremely pointed instructions, she was silent while Mother Superior suggested names for the baby. This was in defiance of her vows, but going by the looks on everyone’s faces, she’d better obey and not risk messing things up.

The thought of what could have happened had she given the Prince of Lies to the wrong parents made her feel faint.

Still, she caught the mistake in time. That was the important thing. And Mother Superior had a very convincing story about the horn, which Mrs. Dowling accepted without question, possibly owing to the euphoria of birth, and also the painkillers. She was explaining the complex medical reason for it, in a serious voice, to her husband, on the laptop held by one of the secret service agents.

Mary was a little lost in her own world, and still on edge, and she really didn’t mean to forget herself. But a lifetime of mindless chattering, some of it mandated, was a tricky habit to break. The words spilled out before she was even aware of them.

“Of course, there’s always Adam.”

Someone next to her trod on her foot. She squeaked.

Mother Superior shot her a frozen, angry stare. The room seemed to hold its breath.

Mrs. Dowling stared into her son’s eyes.

“Adam?” Her brows lifted. “Huh.”

~*~

2013

Adam Dowling’s bedroom had a real racing car in it. It had a real remote controlled tank, a real pirate ship, and a real plane suspended from the ceiling. They were all sized for him.

He was five. His eyelids fluttered as he sat up in bed, listening to his bedtime story. A huge black snake, the size of a python, loomed over his innocent little face.

“And then little Adam went home with his new peons, mum and dad. They took him to live in a big house they’d bought just for him, and filled it with all the things he liked, like toys, and sweets, and television, and egg-and-soldiers for breakfast every day. And he grew up big and strong and destroyed them all. Which was good. The end.”

Adam yawned.

“Cwawly, can I hear the other story?”

“Sssure,” Crowley hissed. “Which one?”

This wasn’t such a bad role. Delighting a macabre junior-schooler was squarely in Crowley’s wheelhouse. The downside was that his official title was Crawly the Magic Talking Snake. Including on his paperwork at head office. Which was a bit annoying. Definitely Dagon’s work.

“The one about the angel in the garden.”

Crowley hesitated. “Yeah, all right.”

He happened to be in the mood for it this evening. He coiled up on Adam’s pillow. It was soft as a dream. He’d have to be careful not to fall asleep himself.

“An angel and a demon met in a garden. They were supposed to be enemies, and thwart each other's plans, and score big victories for Heaven and Hell. But that was a lot of work. So instead, they became best friends. And then, purely by accident, they discovered they had a secret power. When they needed to, they could turn into one person, with the best parts of both of them. A superhero - but cool. Not a goody-goody from the comics.

“Whenever they turned into him, the angel didn’t have to feel bad about doing the wrong thing from time to time. And the demon could experience a little of the grace that he thought was lost to him forever. They loved being him, because they loved being together. Because they loved each other. But the angel never realised it, because he was good, and good people are stupid even when they’re really, really clever. So the demon knew he had to keep his love a secret, because if the angel knew about it, he’d get into a panic and everything would be ruined.

“But one day, the angel realised he loved the demon, and he didn’t panic, and everything was wonderful. But it still ended up ruined, because of ineffability. That’s the worst word in the English language. Never say it or I will wash out your mouth with soap. And so the angel left Earth forever to hang out with the other angels, who were rubbish and boring, rather than the cool demon who was better than them in every way. So, the lesson is…?”

Adam nodded along, glassy-eyed. “Good people are rubbish?”

Crowley hissed. “Believe it. Stick with what you know.”

Adam made a non-committal noise. He often sounded like he was weighing his options at the end of these. Crowley wondered how much he was taking in.

“And in the End of Days, the forces of Hell will cwawl over the earth and drag the hosts of Heaven down into the pit. Hurrah,” Adam said, contentedly.

“Hurrah,” said Crowley, checking over his shoulder in case one of his bosses was there. They weren’t.

It was a lonely job, honestly, playing imaginary friend to the Antichrist. To keep up the pretence that he was a made-up magic talking snake, he had to take care only to appear when no other people were around. This wasn’t too difficult, as he seemed to be Adam’s only friend. He wondered if he’d have had lots of friends, in different circumstances. He was an intense kid. There was an odd, magnetic draw to him. Probably got it from his dad.

Unfortunately, his upbringing had largely involved demons whispering in his ear that he was destined to bring about the End of Days. The other parents tended not to bring their children round after the first time little Adam joyfully took a playmate to the koi pond and enacted the Rise of the Kraken from the Thunderous Deeps. And replacing the koi was blessed expensive, judging by the sharp tone Adam’s human mum took with the idiot ambassador they’d lumbered the poor kid with.

The rest of the team all thought it was for the best, of course. Wouldn’t do for the Harbinger of the End Times to get attached to the world and any peoples he was about to destroy. Adam had never had so much as a pet, in case he discovered a fondness for animals. Hastur, still slogging away as the Dowling’s live-in nanny, once tried to interest the boy in a tank full of pet tarantulas. Adam had recoiled in horror, although that might just have been from Hastur. It gave Crowley a warm, spiteful glow that Adam never warmed up to her.

Adam’s eyelids were drooping. Time for Crowley to go. He uncoiled and slithered onto the floor. He reared up to whisper a goodbye over Adam’s curly head.

“What are you?” he murmured.

“The Great Beast, Destwoyer of Worlds.”

“And what are your powers?”

“Money.”

Eh, fine. That’d do. Crowley slunk from the room.

Outside the bedroom door, he shifted back to human-shaped. His right arm twinged. It always played up when he switched forms. He looked at it and winced. It was worse tonight.

He morphed the glove over it before anyone could round the corner. Incognito, that was his middle name. [1]

He slipped down the hall, encountering no-one. Demons had replaced most of the staff. They had little interest in him. This was Hastur and Ligur’s operation. Crowley was small fry. Fine. It wasn’t like he wanted any of this.

Six years to go.

He slowed as he passed a ground-floor window. The mathematically trimmed lawn rolled out like a table mat. Beneath the window was a bed of rose bushes with all the heads cut off.

Crowley pushed the window open and leaned his head out. A sulphuric stink rose from the flower bed. Overlaying it was the faint scent of roses. They were fighting a losing battle. Crowley reached down and snipped off a stem.

He brought the headless stem inside. He looked around furtively and blinked. A pink bloom pushed its petals from the top of the stalk.

Crowley lowered his head and inhaled the scent of the rose in his hand.

He sighed and snapped his fingers.

The flower burst into flames. It fell into a pile of ash. Crowley trod it into the carpet as he strode away.

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[1] He’d tried to make it his middle initial, because it sounded cool and James Bond-ish, but he’d been a bit drunk and smudged it. Then he decided he liked ‘J’ better, anyway.

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Musical interlude! Go here for Crowley’s version of It’s Over, Isn’t It? - Steven Universe

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(Link to next part)