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meowcatsposts · 1 year

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Perfect [Neteyam]

✎⁾⁾⁾ note: reader is an albino omatikaya & neteyam is probably OOC

@tiddieshakeshownu, I hope you enjoy :)

Overview

Being born different, things don't go so smoothly for you

("Outcast is all they see" frfr)

So you learned to stay in the shadows

But Neteyam always finds you

You were born different.

Your skin–a pale baby blue, void of the rich pigment forest Na’vi usually had. It burned easily, too; you couldn’t stay beneath the blazing sun. “Useless,” the hunters would say. Useless.

Your hair–white as snow, that shines smoothly beneath any light. Children would flock around to touch it–some in awe, most in mockery. A few were mean enough to pull it, calling you, “Skxawng! Skxawng!” over and over and over.

Your eyes–an icy blue, from the lack of pigment. Like your skin the sun was their enemy, its bright rays nearly blinding you. And, unsurprisingly, they cursed you with clumsiness during your early years. Tripping over roots and gripping onto branches for dear life you were, often the source of other childrens’ amusement.

One day, you returned home shaking, biting tears at bay; you were a hair's breadth away from the snapping sharp maws of nantang, after all! That wasn’t even the worst part; the other children set you up. Their jeering, high-pitched laughter still rang in your ears, no matter how hard you tried to drown them out. How you would’ve loved to jump into mother’s arms, to tell her just how cruel your own people were. How you would’ve loved to tell father about those scary-looking wolves, cornering you between a dark rocky crevice.

Sadly, that wasn’t so.

As you scaled the Hometree you heard hushed whispers; among them was your mother’s.

“Will (Y/N) ever be able to ride an ikran?”

Then your father’s. “...fragile…don’t know…”

Fragile.

Something burned deep in the pit of your stomach and you wretched, but nothing came out.

Night was your only option. No sun to blister your skin. No one to push you off the edge. Only at night could you forget everything else and focus on the beautiful world that was so cruel during the day. It was dangerous, sure, but you fared better. Limb by limb, meter by meter, you soared across winding branches and leaped across slippery slopes, paying no mind to the soft looming shadows of night.

Eywa always lit a path for you. Always.

Long ago, a seed sprouted in your heart and it grew and grew and grew until its thick roots spread so much that your heart cracked and splintered and shattered. Those fragile broken pieces you stowed away in a box, somewhere no one could find–somewhere no light would shine. When no one was around, you glued those pieces back together, slowly and painstakingly, one by one, under the Pandoran night. No one should be able to find you deep in the forest, mending your broken heart–should.

“Neteyam?” you whispered. Your eyes blew wide; how did he know where you were at this ungodly hour? A moss patch, glowing blue-green, winded out and away from under his feet.

“Sorry,” he apologized sheepishly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Hard cold ice encased your heart. You quickly shoved your broken pieces back into their shabby box and faced Neteyam with a cold, doubtful gaze. “Do you want something?”

Now it was his turn to be surprised–baffled, even.

“What…?” he spluttered. He was growing nervous, you could tell. His heart was thrumming. “I…was just wandering around and found you here…so I was wondering what you were doing.”

Not really convincing, was it? He was lying, probably. But it wasn’t so; Neteyam opened your eyes to so many things.

Pandora was beautiful at night. Everything glowed so prettily; even the animals came out to play. You giggled softly to yourself as you saw a bunch of kenten spin around and around, disk-wings unfurling like glowing umbrellas. A pack of nantang pups scampered along the ground, lighting up bright patches of moss in the wake of their paws and you smiled, hearing them yip around. Every night Neteyam chuckled beside you, his laughter spreading from his lips to your lips, and you didn’t feel so lonely anymore.

“Go, leave. Now.”

Neteyam was always there, somehow, when you were in trouble. He’d bare his teeth at those mean kids and afterwards, he’d take you on fun little shady adventures under big ferns and tall trees to cheer you up, and before you knew it, you were smiling–smiling!–and Neteyam would be grinning, too.

You gushed to your parents about a handsome boy who was so kind and caring and wonderful, and Neteyam, too, quietly told his parents about a beautiful Na’vi who had shimmering silk for hair and pretty skin like the skies.

He couldn’t understand why you called yourself a freak; it shattered his heart when you did.

“Sometimes I wish I was born different.”

One particular night the moon shone so beautifully, so radiantly. Everything seemed to glow just a little brighter, just a little more prettier. It was so serene tonight, but it wasn’t so, and you blamed yourself for this. Your soft sniffles carried through the wind and into Neteyam’s ears, and he bounded to you in an instant. His markings glowed a pearly white-blue under the night, and you smiled weakly, seeing the boy in all his beauty. He was skilled and handsome and kind and sweet; why was he rushing to comfort you?

“Don’t cry.” He hushed you with such sweetness that your heart melted into something gooey and warm–it scared you. Then with his thumb he gently swiped the hot tears streaming down your cheeks, never minding how wet his hands got. You nearly flinched; why so kind?

“Look,” he whispered, jabbing a finger to his chest, yellow eyes all wide and silly and desperate–oh how he hated to see you cry. “You might not see it, but I’m different, too–part demon, some assholes say.” He paused, biting his lip to suppress a hopeful grin. “We can be different together.”

A sliver of a smile creeped up your lips. Different. Together.

Then Neteyam murmured in that hushed-excited whisper, “Here, come closer,” and held out his arms to beckon you into a hug. Timidly and shamefully you scooted a little forward, wiping furiously at your eyes.

“Look at me. Please?” He wanted so badly to tell you how stunning your eyes were, how pretty your smile was. He wanted to give his eyes to you, just so you could see how radiant you truly were–but now wasn’t the time, he could tell.

So he gently bumped foreheads with you, closing his eyes. You closed yours, too. Then slowly, timidly, his hands oh so softly cupped your face as if he were telling you, “Stay, don’t go.” As more tears stung your eyes you rested your shaky hands atop his larger ones, feeling his warmth spreading to your fingers. It was just him and you now, glowing under the moonlight; you thought you could feel his breath on your lips.

“I see you,” he murmured softly. “Perfect.”

blue dividers by: firefly-graphics

#avatar 2 #avatar way of water #neteyam #neteyam x reader #omatikaya #na'vi #na'vi x reader #avatar #avatar x reader

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a-wisebear · 7 months

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wolffe, describing the void: yep yep

fox, grey hairs at 5: yup yup

cody, too numb at this point that he's smiling: yip yip

rex, wanted to ask about jetpacks and cody adopted him into their group: THE MAN WITH THE WHA-

#listen LISTEN the fake sense of calm when anxiety is crushing you and start seeing things in your peripheric vision #that's just before the void oki #commander wolffe #commander fox #commander cody #captain rex #the clone wars #tcw #star wars #i deeply apologize to the girl we adopted at campus BUT she didn't leave!!

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aspenonpawzzz · 4 months

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HENLO! (pls read )

Hi-hi-hi!

My name is Aspen! I’m the host of the Canis Constellation. My pronouns are They/them and It/its, so please use gender-neutral, non human terms when refering to me! I am a TransAlterine Biromantic Asexual, and support All identities (except p3d0s, z0()s, maps, dreamsexuals, or other thing such as those!) NO POLITICS PLEASE (alterine https://yb3.fandom.com/wiki/Alterine)

term hoard sideblog: @aspens-hoard

ASPEC MAFIA COMMANDER!

@aspec-warriors Mafia acc

I am :

a Leo, a 5, a chaotic nutural, introvert ,and a INTJ, plus a red fox, Mexican coy-wolf, and AA wolf THERIAN!

I Mostly shitpost/reblog, but my main theme is The owl house, alterhuman, fandom and art posts!

I have dislexia, discalucla, and disgraphia, along with AuDHD ,and MaDD. I’m a median system, with a Monoconscious! I still use I/me however!

MaDD side blog @zenith-empire-for-real

I am a vulture culturist, mask maker,a cosplayer, a quadrobist, a fanfic writer, a fan artist, and my aesthetic is Goblincore and cryptidcore!

my favs:

-turn off the lights (panic! at the disco) {IT GOES SO HARD}

-green

-Oh geeez, not again. (band)

-wolfwalkers

-the owl house

-Spirit of the north

-wild rescuers

-fox

-taiga

Questioning cryptid kin of some kind, possibly Runalong!

I AM A MINOR, SO NO FUNNY BUSINESS

ABT ME

^Role: name |age| {pronouns} [creation/ origin /reason for being in System] /Sexuality or who they like\ ' species' ^

Me! The host!: Aspen |15.5 mentally| {they/it} [Birth] /Biromantic ace\ 'human'

Nonhumans(S) : Slate |6| {she/they} [death] /Straight\ 'AA wolf' , Dusty |2 | {He/it} [death] /bisexual\ 'mexican coy-wolf' ,Orion |Unknown| {Any} [Neurodivergency] / unknown\ 'all corvids’ and Sage |4| {She/It} [Death] /Hetero\ 'red fox’

MADD holder(s): Polaris |400| {They/them} [ protection] /Aroace\ 'divine being'

Fictives(s): Hunter/Phantom{He/they/it} |16| [Owl House AU created by me] /Biromantic Demisexual\ 'shapeshifting grimwalker' @phantom-w0lfbane his side blog! OC that became sentient and is part of my PiC au of my irl life and one of the reality tabs I keep running at any time.

Other(s): Salem |13.5| {it/Its} [evil thoughts bastard] /Aroace\ 'Void-kin' @yourlocalangstdealer

Information :

tags:

aspen yips: silly stuff

aspen speaks (REAL): importiant

aspen barks: alterhuman stuff

aspen squeals: fandom/ hyperfixtion

aspen crows: neurodivergency

aspen howls: creative

[instert word or something]] Au: a au of mine Phantom posting: fictionkin/ hunter related stuff

screaming into the void: system stuff.

AU MASTERLIST

DNI:

anti-lgbtq+, people who ship canon (insert sexuality) with (instert gender that the person is NOT attracted to) ei, a lesbian with a male, anti-furry,anti-therian,anti-vulture culture,anti-quadrobics, 18+ or kink blogs, if you’re older that 18(unless I knew you before you turned 18, or pass The Vibe Check{stalk ur blog}) , ableists, racists, exculionist, The works.

PLEASE INTERACT:

Alterhumans (Therians, otherkin, otherkith, otherhearted, animal hearted,otherlink,copinglink, furrians[furry therians], holotheres, soul shards, phytanthropes, and ANY OTHERS PLEASE ) furries, TOH or gf fans, artists and writers and cosplayers and musicains, freaks and werdios, vulture culturists, quadrobists, mogia and liom, enbies and enbyfluxes, fictionkins and fictives, systems,LGBTQIA+and people with decency.

PLEASE DO NOT:

treat me lesser/younger than you, treat me like a child, call me human, or person/people, talk Abt politics ,or involve me in such matters, repost(reblogging is fine) my ideas.

RANDOM OTHER BLOG RULES

This is a "Ship and let ship" blog. only exceptions are "insert orenation" with "a gender orenation is NOT attracted to" , Minor with not minor, [age] with [ age more than 2-3 years apart] aroace with anyone, bully x victim (ie bochlow) villian x hero with in certain bounderies, ab#sive or toxic ships, or proships.

NO HATING/DISSING ON OTHERS SHIPS. ANY WILL BE BLOCKED.

any aggressive hating/ threats will be blocked. only z0()s, n3cr0s, p3d0s, and other harmful “philia”s are allowed to be hated on here. if you support/are these, find help and leave this blog. this is not for you.

gatekeeping is not allowed. at all.

support of KOSA and other things like this is not allowed.

take your discorse and politics elsewere. this is a fun blog for fun stuff.

I am a minor, if +18 dni unless I, a trusted person, or a mewtual vet your blog.

I WILL SPAM LIKE AND REBLOG.

I use tonetags.

I AM ONLINE 7-2:50 ON THE WEEK, EXCEPT TUESDAY, WHICH IS 8-10, then 1-3.

Biggest Mewtual- @justalexisfine

Nonhuman Nat. Park member - https://nonhumannationalpark.boards.net/thread/1477/intro

I CAN SEE RUNALONGS!

‼️If you request anything,(pfp especially) CREDIT ME‼️

🏳️‍🌈ITS PRIDE🏳️‍⚧️

https://www.tumblr.com/aspenonpawzzz/749386519080550400/30-days-till-june

THANK YOU FOR COMING TO MY BLOG! <3

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ulquiorrapleasecallmetrash · 1 year

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Improvise (Sebastian Michaelis x Kitten Play! Reader) 500 Followers Special

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

Fandom: Black Butler/ Kuroshitsuji

Genre: Smutty smut smut

Rated: 18+

Warnings: Pet Play, Kitten Play, Collaring, Dirty Talk, Brat taming rough sex, pussy rubbing, fingering, fellatio, Praise Kink, 18+ content

Summary: If the Young Master won't allow Sebastian to have cats in the manor, then he will have to improvise, besides it's not like you hate it or anything~.

Admin Harmony: This one is for my Black Butler peeps out here! I hope you guys enjoy this as well! Thank you all for following me and liking my content! Everyone is so amazing I can't-

-ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ--ˋˏ ༻✿༺ ˎˊ-

The collar felt tight around your neck as your owner fastened it around you. You weren't exactly sure why but you didn't mind being collared, especially if it is by Sebastian himself. You two have secretly been doing this for a week, ever since the Young Master found all the cats that Sebastian hid in his room that day. Then once he had a discussion with Sebastian about his hoard of cats things changed drastically. The Young Master made it completely clear to him to never have cats again or there will be serious punishment. Of course, when Ciel orders something everyone will have to follow them especially Sebastian.

Now Sebastian was at a stand-still. What could he do to fill the void of not having cats but not breaking the rules? Simple, he found the cutest girl that worked at the manor and made them a offer they couldn't refuse. It didn't help that you already had a huge crush on him and would do almost anything to please him.

You flinched once he leaned forward to put the cute cat ears on you. You were hesitant about this offer, you still weren't fully sure on how to play part as his cat but you wanted to make Sebastian happy and this was the only way that you could.

"Now now now, no need to flinch, You're not truly a cat until I put on the ears." His silky smooth voice felt so calm even though there was a slight teasing tone to it. "S-sorry." You muttered, becoming more shy by just him being so close to you. He took a step back, staring at you with approval, he adored you even more, you look cuter now that you have a collar wrapped around your neck and cute kitty ears on. "You're so adorable, such a cute little kitten." Sebastian cooed, eyeing with adoration, You couldn't help but blush at his praise, what can you say just a little bit of it makes your heart beat so fast.

"On your knees, cats don't walk on two legs." He ordered you, watching as you slowly got down on your knees, looking up at him expectantly afterwards. Sebastian begins to circle you, taking in every detail of your outfit, or lack thereof since you were wearing nothing but a cute matching pair of black lace bra and panties. You were becoming more self-conscious and nervous, you were hoping that Sebastian liked what he saw. "I-is there anything wrong?" You stuttered out, the silence was getting too much. Sebastian tutted, giving you another verbal warning. "Cats don't talk, my dear. Do not speak out again or you will be punished, Is that clear, kitten?" You bit your lips, your face starting to turn pink from not only the nickname but his stern voice. You nodded your head, hoping this would suffice. "Good girl." He simply said, taking a seat in his fancy reading chair, Once he sat down you began to crawl towards him until he verbally stopped you, "Stop, I didn't say for you to come over. You speak, and do anything only when I tell you. That's what good kittens do, do I make myself clear?" Sebastian glared down at you. You nodded frantically, "I-i'm sorry! I won't do that again! oops!" You yipped covering your hands over your mouth. Sebastian tutted again,waving his hands over, "Come over here." His voice sounded very annoyed, you broke one of the rules and you were scared but still a bit turned on. You then crawled over to him, afraid to make eye contact with him. He lifted you up into his lap so you could face him, making sure you stare into his eyes. "Didn't I say not to speak? Not to mention you will always look into my eyes, that's what good kittens do." "I'm sorry, I didn't- ah!" You yiped as Sebastian swatted your scantily clad tush. It hurt but you wouldn't say that it was a horrible feeling, quite the opposite. "Good kittens need to learn not to make mistakes, if you keep it up there will be worse consequences." He smacked your ass again, this time it felt nice, you felt your pussy clench at the pain he had given you. He continued to give a few more erotically pleasing slaps which made your pussy wetter with each spanking. Afterward, he slid his hand from your butt to your fabric covered lips. His gloved hands rubbing you sensually feeling your wetness seeping from your panties and on his white gloves. "My my you're such a naughty little cat, getting wet just by me punishing you." He rubbed his hand harder, adding more friction to your soaking wet panties. You moaned out in pleasure, unintentionally rubbing yourself against Sebastian's hand. "Ah ah ah, Naughty kittens don't get to come before their masters." He removed his hand from under you, before giving you another sharp spank on your butt which caused you to moan out in pleasure.

"Have you ever tried fellatio before?" Sebastian asked, You slowly shook your head no, everything was so new to you. "Today will be your first time, kitten and if you do a good job then I will grant you a huge reward." Sebastian said, taking his thumb and teasing rubbing your chin with it. You were now the same color as a tomato, you couldn't believe that you were about to taste him. "Get on your knees, I'm sure you know what to do next. If not, I will guide you." You were still hesitant, but you at least had some idea on what to do. You begin to take your hands, unzipping his pants, watching Sebastian cock spring out through the hole of his dress pants. Your eyes widened at his length, you couldn't believe how pretty and thick his cock was and this will be the first time you get to actually touch it. "Go on my pet, take a lick, caress it, do what you need to do to pleasure me." He ordered, his ruby red eyes watching you intently. You lean forward, giving his length a tiny lick. Sebastian only chuckled at you, so innocent. He adored every part of it. "Take a couple minutes to touch, lick and suck because soon I am going to train you to take every inch of it." You looked up at him with shock, he was going to train you to take every huge inch of him, is that even possible? You wanted to question him but you knew that the clock was ticking way and you only have a short amount of time to really get use to him. You begin to lick the base of cock all the way up to the tip, slowly licking it since you knew that it was the most sensitive part of cock when it comes to pleasure. You then took your dominant hand, grasping firmly and stroking it. You heard a slight gasp from Sebastian as his cock became hard. You could tell that you were doing something right, so you went from licking his tip to wrapping your lips around and sucking it hard enough. The longer you sucked on his cock you felt a bit of pre-cum leaking from the tip, you licked it up and swallowed gracefully. Sebastian begin to pat your head, physically praising you for taking him so well, "Keep going kitten, you're doing an amazing job. Make sure not to use your teeth." His praise made all of your self consciousness fly out of the window, You continued your movements faster and harder with more confidence, remembering what Sebastian had said. You were learning so well, Sebastian was glad that he had chose you as his kitten. You felt his cock getting hotter as you continued to use your mouth to satisfy him. He placed his hand inside your hair, trying his hardest to keep his composure. You could have sworn you could hear panting coming from him. What you definitely feel was his cock pulsating in your mouth and hand, signaling that he was almost about to come. "I'm going to slowly push your head down so you can use your throat to take all of me. If you ever feel uncomfortable, whine to let me know." Sebastian placed his hand on top of your head, slowly pushing you down his cock, it felt awkward feeling your throat slowly being filled by his length. "Make sure you breathe through your nose, you're doing so well, kitten." He was patient and encouraging, which made this whole experience much better. You slowly made all the way to the base of his cock by then his cock was rapidly pulsating and hot with need. A few seconds later, once his whole cock was shoved down your throat his came right inside you, causing him to moan in pleasure, causing you to swallow every drop of come that was shoved down your throat. You took everything like a champ and Sebastian was very impressed by how well you did for him. Sebastian quietly pants removing his hand from your head so you can unlatch from him. Once you did, you begin to pant as well. Once Sebastian's panting seized he smiled down at you, leaning forward to grasp your chin so you could look up at him, "You did a wonderful job, my pet. Now it is my turn to return the favor to you." Your eyes widened, does he really mean…?

"Lay on the bed for me." Sebastian ordered you. You did exactly as he said, laying right on top on of it. Sebastian then followed in pursuit, standing right inf ront of you, taking in your beautiful scantily clad form. "You look so beautiful in your lingerie." He begin to take off his gloves with his teeth, never taking his eyes off of you. He placed his hand over your clothed pussy, gently rubbing it in circles. You begin to pant some more, you felt very feverish enjoying Sebastian's erotic touch. You wanted to be touched so badly, every part of your body was so sensitive and him just by touching you like this was fulfilling it. "Are you enjoying this, kitten? You're so wet for me, I can't wait to feel every crevice of your sweet wet cunt." Sebastian darkly chuckled, hovering over you to pepper several light kisses from your neck all the down to your chest, licking and biting them as well. "S-sebastian….p-please.." You moaned out, which caused Sebastian to chuckle at you. "Open your pretty legs wider for me." You did exactly what he said, spreading wide so he could see every part of you. He moved his hands at an agonizingly slow pace to further tease you. "What did I say before? Cats don't speak. All I want to hear is meows and mewls from you, no words. Do you understand?" You nodded your head vigorously, hoping Sebastian would hurry up to further please you already. "You seem so eager to be pleased by me aren't you?" You begin to whine pathetically at him, nodding your head as well. He could only chuckle at your desperation. "I'll do all I can to please you since you have been such a good little kitty." He smirked at you before rubbing your wetness faster, making sure that his hand is coated with your arousal. You begin to whimper pathetically while trying your hardest to hide all of your embarrassing sounds. Sebastian moved your panties to the side, inserting his fingers completely inside of you, curling them inside of you to make sure you hit your sweet spot. "Cats meow my dear, so make sure to mewl and cry just for me." He teased you, causing you to squirm under his touch. You begin to pant frantically, your body heating up from arousal. "Your cute little pussy is clenching around me, you're so good to me," He continued to praise you, slowly pumping his fingers in and out of you, your slickness slowly seeping from your heat and dripping down his hand. Your whimpers and cries of pleasure were audible now, your toes continue to curl as the erotic pain grew. You watched intently seeing you moan and pant was a treat to see, but he also wanted something else from you.

"Good kittens keep contact with their owners, make sure you look at me while I am pleasuring you."

You whimpered loudly, your mind on overdrive, how could you focus on him while he made you feel this way? You weren't sure if you could really focus on him but you tried your best. Seeing his beautful eyes gazing at you was almost too much to handle but that was why Sebastian wanted you to look at him.

"That's a good girl, keep looking at me." He encouraged, pleasuring you with his skilled fingers. Then, right when you were almost at your peaked, his hand left from inside of you, feeling the emptness on them made you moan so loud, "Aw, is my pretty kitty upset that I stopped pleasuring her? Don't worry, I will I just have to have a little taste of you. It's only fair." He couldn't take his eyes off of you as he begin to seductively lick his hands clean from your wetness, making sure you were watching every moment of it. "S-s-s…" You whined out loud, you were almost crying by now, whimpering loudly with desperate need.

"You poor thing, you really want me that bad? Then I must oblige and spoil my good little kitten." He swiftly flipped you over onto your stomach to where your pussy and ass was on display for him. He inserted himself inside of you, not waiting any longer for you to get used to his length, pumping himself in and out of you hard and fast, keeping up a rhythm, hitting your clit and G-spot perfectly. You were pretty sure by how rough he was your cat ears had fallen off somewhere on the bed but it didn't matter as each of your bodies had intertwined with each other. You screamed out in pleasure as his cock continued to abuse your pussy, he could have sworn you heard him growl, before slamming your whole body down on the bed, causing you to almost taste the sheets as you let Sebastian have his way with you. You didn't mind at all, since your screams and moans of pleasure were muffled. Until Sebastian roughly grabbed your hair lifting your head up, "Good kittens let's their master hear them meow while they breed them." He said in a teasing tone, causing you to gasp, your pussy clenching around his cock. You heard a few strings of grunts of pleasure from him,"That's good kitty clench around your master, good girl~." He praised you, as he continued to rail you ruthlessly while you screamed with pleasure.You felt him twitch inside of you, signaling that he almost done using your pussy as his own personal fleshlight. His thrusts begins to become bit more sloppy, then once he was about to finihh inside of you he grabbed you by the neck, keeping you in place as he filled you to the brim with cum. You came right after him, becoming so turned on by the feeling of his seed deep inside of you. You screamed out in pleasure as you were high as kit from your powerful orgasm, causing you to squirt all over Sebastian's flaccid cock. Sebastian could tsk at you, taking himself from out of you.

"What a naughty little kitty, you made such a mess all over me. I guess you will have to clean up the mess you made and I will have to train you to come when you're supposed to."

You laid limp, except for your eyes which widened at Sebastian's statement. You were in for a wild ride but you had to admit you weren't mad at all.

Quite the opposite.

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#500+ followers special #manga #anime #black butler #kuroshitsuji imagines #black butler imagines #sebastian michaelis #sebastian michaelis imagines #spicy #black butler masterlist #black butler x reader #sebastian michaelis x reader

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doumadono · 8 months

Note

Hi, does this count as an emergency request? If not feel free to ignore, thank you.

My cat Arthur who's been with my family for a long while while hurt when he got outside yesterday, he passed this morning and my world is spinning. Would it be possible to ask for some comfort through Bakugou?

A/N: I'm really sorry to hear about the loss of your beloved cat. Losing a pet is always incredibly tough. I hope that, with time, you will gradually find healing after the loss

EMERGENCY REQS MASTERLIST

Life had been challenging since the loss of your beloved cat. The grief weighed heavily on your heart, and the once-familiar silence in your home now felt oppressive. You'd shared a unique and cherished bond with the cat, and the void he left behind was suffocating.

Bakugo, your boyfriend, was not known for his softness or sentimentality, but he could see the depth of your pain. The sadness in your eyes hadn't gone unnoticed, and he was determined to find a way to bring back the light that had dimmed in your life. He was about to hatch a plan that, unbeknownst to you, would be a potent mix of surprise and emotion.

Seven months had passed since your beloved kitten, Arthur, had crossed the Rainbow Bridge, leaving a void in your heart.

On a crisp spring morning, he presented you with a mystery. "Close your eyes, and don't open 'em 'til I say so," he grumbled, his demeanor trying to hide his excitement.

You obeyed, curious yet tinged with worry. Bakugo had his own way of surprising you, but this felt different.

A soft rustling followed, and then the sensation of something warm and fuzzy against your fingertips. "Okay, open your eyes."

You blinked in astonishment, your gaze meeting a pair of sparkling brown eyes, filled with endless curiosity. A fluffy, golden retriever puppy was nestled in your lap, wagging its tail with enthusiasm.

"Bakugo!" you gasped, your heart swelling with joy. "Is this… for me? You got me a pupper?"

He crossed his arms, a faint blush on his cheeks. "Don't get all mushy on me. Yeah, it's for you. I noticed how down you've been since Arthur…. well, you know. Thought this might help."

Tears welled up in your eyes as you scooped up the puppy, cuddling it close to your chest. "You… You have no idea how much this means to me."

The puppy yipped happily, nuzzling against you, and you couldn't help but smile through your tears. Bakugo might not express himself like others, but his actions spoke louder than any words could.

Days turned into weeks as you and the puppy, now named Sunny, built a deep bond. Sunny was a whirlwind of energy, constantly testing your patience as you tried to train him. You spent countless hours with Bakugo, who had secretly been watching training videos to help you.

One evening, as you sat on the couch, Sunny perched beside you, Bakugo turned to you and said, "You've done a damn good job with that furball."

You looked at him with a teasing glint in your eyes. "High praise coming from you, Katsuki. Did you ever imagine we'd love a dog this much?"

He huffed, leaning in closer. "Don't get too smug. It's just 'cause you're so crazy about the damn thing."

You laughed, leaning into him. "Thanks for giving me a reason to smile again, Bakugo."

His gruff exterior softened, and he pulled you closer. "Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep that smile on your face."

As the weeks turned into months, the three of you became inseparable. Sunny had grown into an energetic, playful dog that loved to steal Bakugo's socks and make a mess of his bowls.

But Bakugo had also grown, showing a side of himself that he'd hidden from others for so long.

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oonajaeadira · 2 years

Text

I'll Never Fall In Love Again: Scene 7: The Sex Scene

Fandom: The Bubble

Pairing: Dieter Bravo x f!reader

Warnings: story jumps back and forth in time, playing fast and loose with "how things are done" in the film industry, consensual troublemaking with just a little boundary testing, frottage and thigh-riding (nothing super explicit but still very much a focus of action), messy feelings, indulgent yearning, angst, performance anxiety.

A/N: Thanks for your patience on this. It's nice to get back to these two idiots. I went light on sex and heavy on feelings and I hope that's okay with y'all because you know my kind of porn is feeling porns, right? Right. Okay. Let the disaster continue.

On film, kissing can’t be faked. Sex most certainly can.

When you enter the dim studio, Natalie and Nate, your stand-ins, lay artfully folded around each other in the back seat of a sedan, bared to the world in nothing but nude underwear as the crew work to set proper lighting levels and the DP makes sure this tight shot’s gonna work.

Unlike Natalie, you’re in a skirt and blouse, but only for the time being–it will be Dieter’s task to open that blouse and get that skirt rucked up around your hips soon enough.

Shit. You really should have taken some time to mentally prepare yourself for this. Taken a page out of Dieter’s book and, what? Had a stiff drink? (Heh. Stiff.) The butterflies that are escaping the cage of your stomach and eating at the supports in your knees should have been tended to prior to this shoot–

But then Dieter comes and takes a stand next to you and those nerves just…go away.

Yes, you both had your feelings out the other night, it should be awkward now, but it isn’t. There’s understanding now. Healing is coming. Has started already. And there’s never been anyone you’ve trusted more on set than Dieter fucking Bravo. You know he’s a pro. He’s a mess and a menace. But he’ll take care of you. Still.

“Hey,” he bumps a shoulder into yours. “You wanna have sex with me?”

Smiling down at your feet, you nod. “Yeah, let’s get this over with.”

Maybe not the best choice of words, even jokingly. You can feel his energy droop beside you, almost hear the wattage of his good mood bawooing out. “We okay, Cakes?”

Reaching for his hand, your fingers weaving into his own, you serve him a confident smile. “Of course. I’m glad you’re here.”

Like you have been for so many of my major career firsts.

The frantic kissing and the tussle in the rear car seat goes well; it’s okay to let your character get lost in his, to lean in and borrow from the way you and Dieter claw at each other. He kisses you hungrily, hands grasping your jaw, sucking in any breath you’ll give him, taking control of the kiss so you can concentrate on stripping him of his shirt and pants in the confines of the car seat as parsed out with Annie and the intimacy coordinator. But it's work and it's professional. Mostly.

You’d fall in love with his talent if you actually thought he was acting.

A few takes with resets of hair and makeup, a few different angles and a few shared giggles, and a few hours later you’re moving into the full shot, from the moment of first contact all the way through the deed.

And the kissing continues to go well–easy, pleasing, second nature. You’ve done enough takes to be able to get his clothes peeled away with ease.

But it’s when it comes to exposing you–to his big fingers somehow making short work of your dainty blouse buttons, to his palms sweeping up the sides of your thighs to push your flounces up and away–something yips in you, steps over a line into an unknowing void and you fixate.

It would be the same with any other actor, but it seems so strange here with Dieter–technically your husband–that you’ve never been in this state of undress with each other. With your breasts out, him slotted between your legs in nothing but a genital sock thrusting without actually making contact other then his hot breath in your neck and hands curling under your back and would it be better if he was making contact and you think about that night on the couch and what came after and your head’s not in the game here and Annie makes you take one shot, two, five–

“Cut, please,” Annie begs after take eight. “Take a break you two. Reset. We’re gonna try another angle.”

This isn’t good. Dieter peels himself from you, and you look anywhere but his face–although you have to avoid staring at the cock sock, at his whole bronzy naked body, really.

Something’s not working here.

And you both know it’s you.

A PA approaches Dieter with a robe open to receive him, but before you can ask him for reassurance, he simply snatches the robe as he passes the poor assistant, lazily throwing it on and padding off the set into the darkness of the crew area, covering his naked ass in his own time. “Hey. Annie, can I talk to you?”

Shit. FUCK.

It’s very telling that neither of them are turning to you immediately. Annie giving up on offering direction and Dieter has no encouragement in him anymore. Like they’re gonna huddle up and decide what to do with you. The thought of disappointing not just one but both of them–a director you admire and a friend and fellow actor who you had looked up to not so long ago–is heartbreaking and ego-shattering in so many ways and imposter syndrome shrinkwraps itself around your heart, preserving it in a marinade of cringe.

Why? Why can’t you just portray sexual pleasure? Sex can be faked! Tap into the arc of your character using this man who’s crazy about her to get off? You’ve got real life experience to draw on, and–if you're sly about it–you can play a little of life imitating art here….no. You don't need that. This shouldn’t be hard.

But it is. And you know full well why.

You can just make out Annie’s serious face and Dieter’s waving arms over by the craft table.

Shit. Well, union rules are union rules, and you might as well take advantage of the break. If you make it quick, you can get all the tears out and still swing by makeup to cover it up before anyone misses you.

____________

That summer after Cannes and Seattle was a whirlwind. Fall of Timon had its major release and there were regional premieres and panels, talk shows and interviews, everyone fawning over the director and Davey and Dieter; those few who paid attention to your involvement mainly asking about your experience with those two and then of course your marriage to the latter.

Auditions came hot and heavy. Dieter had some last minute ADR work for Hunger Strike and then took on a voice acting gig for a major video game company, so he rarely allowed himself to speak much after hours in an effort to manage his instrument.

But there were a few nights that hot summer, balcony windows open, curtains billowing and blowing through your room out into the lounge where you and Dieter sweated against the couch, taking turns getting up for cold beer and ice cream, laughing through a classic 80’s romcom. Those were good nights. Happy nights. You-and-your-best-friend nights.

By the end of August he was gone. Venice’s Film Fest first, then Toronto’s to promote Hunger Strike. Straight from there back over the ocean to Jordan for filming a season on a sci-fi series.

He called almost every night. Not long. Just a harried recap of his day–your morning–the shoot, his victories, his irritations, outings with the cast, hot goss. And you fought so hard against your jealousy–of him for his adventure, and of the cast for getting his presence. You found any and every excuse to be out at night with friends rather than streaming tv by yourself in a big, empty house.

But more and more he’d tire of talking and beg you to tell him about your day. Well. Your yesterday. If you didn’t have much to tell, he’d push you for details of a meal you ate or what you wore or even what the weather was like. It became clear that he was growing weary of being away from home and just wanted to hear you chatter, that your voice was his bedtime routine, that he would sleep better just hearing you complain about traffic.

And more and more, you realized your day was better when you could speak to him at the beginning of it.

And soon enough it was Thanksgiving week, Hunger Strike’s Stateside premiere, and Dieter was coming home. His schedule was tight–a mere five days to hit the premiere, the afterparty, the talk shows, a few auditions, and a recording session–and yet, he took you by surprise and reserved an evening just for the two of you.

Dieter new people, like any celebrity might. And one of the people he knew–an old college friend–happened to be working an install at Geffen Contemporary, able to open the gallery after hours for a private walkthrough on the weekend before the exhibit was set to open.

Takashi Murakami–one of your mutual favorites. A surprise for you. And as much as he was happy to get the chance to see the exhibit before he flew back to Jordan, he spent most of the time there just enjoying your delight at all of the bright colors, the insipid smiling flowers, the crazed and euphoric animals, the fountains of anime jizz.

Standing in front of a floor-to-ceiling mural of repeating cartoon faces, you’d turned to him, grinning like an idiot, only to find him regarding you with the same expression.

“This is a nice treat. Thank you, Deets.”

“Happy birthday,” he beamed, severely proud of himself.

You laughed, your nose wrinkling in confusion. “It’s not my birthday.”

“I know,” his smile faded a bit, “but we didn’t do yours properly. So since we’re done here, we’re going to the weiner stand.”

“Is that a metaphor?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Do you want it to be?” But your pseudo-husband granted you mercy, turning to go before your face betrayed the whammy he’d just dealt you, leading the way out of the gallery and into a silent Uber. The trip ended up with the two of you sharing a messy order of Holee Molee Fries with your hands, standing on the sidewalk in front of the hot-dog shaped walk-up eatery under the husky rose and umber L.A. sunset.

He always looked so content and warm and beautiful in the twilight hour.

You weren’t prepared for Hunger Strike. Or rather, how it would make you feel.

The premiere was grand, fun. Davey and half the cast of Timon were there making the occasion a mini-reunion, and Dieter’s stylist had struck up a deal with de la Renta, so you were matched in a tasteful floral cocktail gown from the same series as Dieter’s suit. Which meant plenty of couple photos on the carpet. It wouldn’t have been wrong to slip off and let him take the spotlight alone, except he simply wouldn’t let you, holding tight to your arm and joking that you were his fanciest and most slimming accessory–nobody would notice that he’d gained weight since the filming if they were all drooling over you.

But you weren’t fooled. And he wasn’t trying to fool you. Just trying to keep you beside him because he wanted you there. Simple.

It wasn’t until he found you in a quiet corner of the afterparty that he was able to seek your opinion, your mind whirring with the premiere you’d just witnessed, Dieter’s performance brilliant, unnerving, inspired, breathtaking–leagues more surprising and career-making than his work in Fall of Timon.

“Hey, I wondered where you’d gone,” he breathed, relieved to be away from the crowd for a hot second. “You okay?”

He was quiet while you gathered your thoughts, while you tried to articulate the swirl of emotions after watching your best friend–your mentor, your damned fake husband–fucking kill it on that screen. Finally, all you could manage was to pull him into an embrace that he eagerly returned, to press a kiss into his cheek and tell him, “That was astounding, D. I’m so, so proud of you.”

In those scant seconds after you let him go, he was transformed–haloed in pride, drunk on your praise, even though he’d had more thorough words from the mouths of a hundred guests–you watched the world begin to fall away from him as his eyes held yours, yearned after more. There was something he wanted to say, something that started with, “Yeah? You really think so,” and might have ended in god knows what if he’d been allowed to finish, but a couple of VIP guests had noticed the lack of crowd around you and paid no respect for the private moment, swooping in to take the opportunity to have you both to themselves.

As it was, all you got out of the night were some blisters from your designer heels and a press photo someone had snapped behind your back--your arms around him and your lips to his cheek, his fingers gripping the back of your dress and his face buried against your shoulder, eyes squeezed tight in agonized bliss as if your approval had meant more to him than the whole theater combined.

You refused to entertain the possibility of that being the truth.

You found a printout of the photo hung on the refrigerator after he flew back out to Jordan the next morning. Like a toddler that did a good job on his spelling test and wanted you to remember the best of himself.

You had a suspicion that a twin printout was in a bag on its way to Jordan.

____________

“What’s going on?”

The crew is in a flurry, doing final light checks and adjusting the car set when you’re called back into the soundstage after being redressed and reset again.

Dieter’s back in his full costume as well. Looks like it’s another full take again.

“They’re doing a slight adjustment on the lighting,” he says, watching them. “Talked to Annie. We’re gonna try something different.”

“Uh…what?” You’d just gotten used to the fact that this scene was happening and now they’re changing it? “Does the I.C. know?”

He shrugs. “She’s not here. What she doesn’t know won’t get her buttplug all twisted ‘round.”

“And were you two going to clue me into these changes or…..?”

Here’s where he finally turns to you, but can’t seem to meet your warning gaze for long, chewing on the inside of his cheek. God, he’s pretty when he drops all his swagger. If only Dieter knew how good vulnerability looked on him….“You trust me, ‘Cakes, yeah?”

An old warmth returns, melting you like the earth turning back towards the sun in spring. It’s an instant recognition that whatever he said to Annie was about you–and in your best interest–and just like he did during Timon, he wants to help you again.

“‘Course I do.”

One of the assistants calls over to the two of you, ready for you to return to the set, and you follow close to Dieter as he whispers, “Listen. You’re just wearing a snatch patch, right?”

“W-what? Yes?”

“Good. A full genital guard would have been rough."

The assistant dressers crowd you, doing a last minute swat for lint, trapping fly-aways, fixing your waistline. “Um, okay, why–”

“Alright, you two,” Annie appears beside you, all smiles, her tiny frame belying the big sass that you know lurks underneath. “So Dieter and I talked and he made me see the very rare error of my ways and here’s the deal.”

Your director goes on to explain that Dieter alerted her to the fact that this is an escalation point for your character, that little by little you’ve been taking control of your situation and this is the moment you take control of Dieter’s character. Trapping you under him was cutting you off from options to express that.

“We’re putting you on top,” Annie says to you, continuing when she sees your dropped jaw. “You let Dieter guide. This isn’t about you seducing him or dominating him. It’s about you learning to let go and enjoy him, to own your own sexual freedom. So we’ll start with the buildup as is, disrobing as is, but then let him pull you on top. It’ll give you more opportunity to play.” Pinching your chin and giving it a sisterly shake, she growls, “You got this, kid. Feel free to really give into her wildness. And remember it’s your call if you need to stop at any time. Dieter leads, but you’re in control here? Okay? Now. If you want to rehearse a take, that’s your right, but I’d like to roll for spontaneity’s sake.”

Looking away from her glittering, black eyes, to Dieter–standing there like a taught rubber band, his arms hanging but his twitchy fingers betraying his trapped kinetics–and back to Annie, you give her a nod. “Let’s do it.”

A shake of the shoulders, a fist bump with your scene partner. A silent commitment to do better for both of them.

And while Annie gets situated behind the monitor and the DP synchs, you keep Dieter’s focus, allowing yourself just for the moment–for the hour, the day–to fall back in love with him.

You wonder if he senses this change. You’re certainly sensing one in him, his fidgets melting, his jaw unclenching.

You both know what to do.

His kissing has improved since……well. Perhaps he’s more confident when he’s acting rather than being drunk or jet-lagged. But right now…now he’s intoxicating. Traces your jaw and ears with the soft bend of his nose and plush of his lips, taking care not to let his scruff tear you up too much. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know how to devour your breath, keep your tongue dancing tempo with his, put his big hands in all the right places to press out all your tension.

It’s not even whispered, just mouthed against your lips: “That’s good.”

His shirt comes off first, and you take the lead in stripping away his jeans, but then the choreography changes as he slows you, brings your focus to him, pushing up your skirt in order to hold your hips and guide you to his lap, pulling you into a straddle, watching your expression as you land.

Only the thin fabrics of his genital sock and your modesty patch separate your softer sections from his harder ones.

And he drags you against him.

And you gasp.

There’s a moment where you pause with your eyes and mouth wide in surprise, his air trapped within him as he waits to make sure he hasn’t crossed the line.

He has.

But your skirt covers things. And what Annie and the crew don’t know can’t hurt them.

Suddenly you’re in the mood to match his trouble.

And you begin to slowly ride.

And in his escaping breath, there’s a “Yeah.”

His hands give you a gentle pull and leave you with the subtle direction to keep rocking while he takes his time working his way through your blouse buttons, pushing the fabric down over your shoulders but not your arms, leaving it to drape artfully from elbow to elbow across your back, giving you a little more cover, a little more security, allowing his naked character to be the vulnerable one.

And as you roll against him, wetting your breath-dried lips, he watches you, checks in with you.

You okay with this?

Yeah.

A rise of his hips. I’m gonna pick it up.

Please.

That’s good, Babycakes. Just like this.

And all of a sudden, it clicks. It doesn’t matter that the set is full of people, doesn’t matter that Annie is hoping for a saving take, doesn’t matter that millions of people will watch this intimate moment between the two of you.

All that matters is that you get to have it with him.

As he rocks you closer to breaking, your lips part, your eyes close, and your forehead lands upon his.

“That’s it, Baby,” he breathes, his words just hurried shapes and pops, “I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.”

Later, Annie will tell you what a perfect arch your back makes when your character finally lets go.

____________

After the Hunger Strike premiere, he called less often. He was bouncing around Europe, shooting a commercial, visiting friends, auditioning a few treatments, and when he was back in Jordan, he was far enough off the grid that he’d have to use the production’s satellite phone to call and that was getting governmental aerospace involved, so communication slowed to a crawl.

You’d had an unsent message sitting in your drafts for weeks and was just about to delete it one dreary January morning as you lazed in bed. Alone. In a big, empty house.

But then the phone rang in your hands and you dropped it on your face with a loud curse, fumbling and snatching it back with the hope that the call was coming from the person your message was addressed to so you wouldn’t have to say it–

“SWEETHEART!”

No such luck. “Heyyy Morgan.”

“Well, you did it, kitten,” your agent’s bangles rang over the phone as you imagined her clutching her fists and doing a little shimmy, “congratulations!!!”

“Huh?”

“Wait. Are you kidding me? The nominations dropped today. Don’t tell me you slept in.”

And all of a sudden you were a windmill of arms and legs and flying sheets, a shrieking and thudding mess across the carpet as you ran to the desk to open a laptop. “Shit! Tell me!!!”

“Supporting actress, hon. I TOLD YOU.” Morgan knew you’d be sitting there in a permanent gasp, so she took the opportunity to spill. “Fall of Timon is one of the big takers; film, director, special effects, supporting actress, lead actor–”

“Dieter?” you squealed. “Oh shit, he’s going to be so excited–!”

“Ah, no. I mean, yes, but Davey’s been nominated for Timon. Dieter did receive a lead nom, but it’s for Hunger Strike.” As if she could feel the turmoil in your silence, Morgan laced her voice with a smile pushed forward. “And this is marvelous; the press will be all over you two, the power couple who have to war with rooting for their spouse or their project. Good visibility.”

“Well,” you force a chuckle, “I mean, yeah. Davey’s my costar. But of course I’ll pull for Dieter because I know he’ll be pulling for me.”

“Yes. Although. He’s going to have to support Chelsea as well.”

“Chelsea? What? …Oh.” Chelsea Seagate. His nemesis in Hunger Strike. “But…that’s easy, right? She would be up for leading actress, so–”

“The studio thought she’d have a better chance at taking supporting, so that’s where they championed her.”

“Oh.” Direct competition.

Somehow you’d made it through the rest of the conversation. Somehow you’d managed to fake full enthusiasm for Morgan’s sake while you were sitting stunned on the edge of your bed. Somehow you’d let her congratulations sink in.

But you’d also fallen back onto the mattress, all fetal position and stunned silence.

It wasn’t anything to cry over. But your adrenaline was running high off your own nomination and you were stupidly excited for Dieter of course.

If he had been there, it wouldn’t have been an issue. You would have hugged and jumped up and down and called in a mess of takeout and downed some edibles and just been happy for each other.

But he wasn’t there. And you felt it. Had been feeling it for weeks and living in denial that it meant anything. The year was close to being over and there was no need to complicate things. Catching feelings wasn’t part of the deal and the logistics of being tied to Dieter Bravo for a long haul just weren’t built on solid enough ground.

Especially since he’d been calling less. Being out of country meant he could probably mess around easier without anyone finding out. He was doing his best, keeping his promise, slowly repairing his image and not making you look foolish for marrying a–well, a bit of a slut, really, if reputation served. And if he was getting his dick on, well, he’d been discreet and you could appreciate that.

You told yourself he was having his fun but being discreet for you. There was no way you’d believe he was denying himself for your sake. Not Dieter. Entertaining that thought would be like admitting that…

That you didn’t want him to.

Shit.

Laying with your cheek to the sheets, squinting in the cold January sun, a thumb-drag across your phone opened it to your messages. It was easy enough at first to avoid the unsent one.

--Congratulations, D!

Still skipping past the unsent text.

--I’m so proud of you!

You should have closed the phone, but your heart teetered on the edge of a gulf, hovering over the send icon.

There had to be a different way to say it.

--If you were here, I’d take you out to celebrate.

It was the wrong thing to say, because it was true.

And it hurt. And the realization of what you were then admitting to yourself pulled the tears out even faster. All the times you almost told him out of some nagging need, and then, as if he knew you needed to hear from him he’d call and then it just lived there in your drafts, but oh god, this was a big twist of the knife, and it hurt, and you just thought, fuck it, and hit send.

--I miss you so much, Dieter.

____________

Silence.

Stupid. For the next week you tried to push the mental groan of anguish out of your head. This is why you should never text when you’re emotional, you big dummy. He might have been too far out on location. Or trying to text and it didn’t come through. There was no reason to believe he was ignoring you or you’d overstepped. After all, it was text and didn’t have intonation behind it. You could still be his best friend and miss him. That was allowed.

No need to fret.

Anything would be preferable to silence though.

What was going to buoy you was a celebratory get together at Davey’s place that weekend. An invite went out to cast and crew of Timon, and Saturday night saw old friends converging in Beverly Hills, Davey and his partner Mark’s mid-century home still lit up from Christmas.

It was exactly what you needed to relax and find your smile, to be among friends, and, of course, proceed to get just a bit more than tipsy thanks to the catered bartender.

Davey mentioned that he’d gotten into pinball lately and at one point in the evening a friend asked to see his collection, so the whole party took a detour to the outbuilding that he’d turned into a throwback dive-bar setup with nine vintage pinball machines.

Everyone was crowded around Mark, watching him play for the high score on the very suggestive cowboy machine that would trip the bucking bronco. He’d just missed, and there was a loud, raucous groan, that ended in Davey cheering, “Well fuck you, you son-of-a-bitch Oscar-traitor! Aren’t you supposed to be in Egypt or some such shit?”

The group spun as a messy whole to find Dieter standing in the doorway, offering up a dumb grin and a wave, causing everyone to whoop.

You were too drunk to feel anything but delight and shock, and it must have shown, because once he saw you in the crowd–saw you gasping smile and brimming eyes–he came straight at you, bowling you backward in a sloppy embrace, growling contentment as everyone else slapped and patted his back in welcome.

“I missed you too,” he mumbled against your shoulder. “Surprise!”

And everything that felt broken in you found its way back into place.

He made the rounds at the party, said his hellos to friends, but kept you close by until it was just the two of you creating your own little bubble, both leaning head and shoulder against a wall in the hallway–you a little overwhelmed with drink and him jet-lagged–explaining that he’d hoped to be here a day or two sooner, but there were re-routes and delays and he’d be flying back as soon as he could guarantee a stand-by. He’d literally been traveling over 24 hours just to surprise everyone and come celebrate.

And you’d stood there, asking him questions about the location and the shoot, listening, laughing a little too hard, hanging on every word, holding his hand as if he’d fly away the second you weren’t tying him to you. But he wasn’t going anywhere at that moment. He was as grounded to the moment as you were.

Maybe an hour? Two? Another drink? An Uber ride home. Laughter. You almost dropped your keys on the doorstop trying to unlock the door.

“You wanna see my house? It’s really big and I live here all alone,” you joked, chuckling as you kicked off your shoes and stumbled into the dark living room, your oncoming headache keeping you from turning on the light.

Dieter followed, but didn’t join you in the merriment.

“I’m sorry for not calling more, Cakes. We’re literally staying with the Bedouins, there’s nothing out there–”

“Hey. You don’t have to apologize to me. If I need company I know where to find it.”

That made him smirk. “Yeah? You’d cuck me in my own house?”

“Ah–” stammering, you tried to make light of what you assumed was a joke. “That’s not the kind of company I meant. Besides, you’re the one out there away from prying eyes with the desert roses, Mr. Bravo. So. No pointing fingers at me.”

“That’s what you think?” You couldn’t see his face in the dim light, but his voice told a story of quiet disappointment. Oh. So not a joke then. “I flew back here to surprise you.”

You had to put some mental distance between what he was saying and what you hoped it meant. “And to go to the party.”

“Because I knew you’d be there. I wanted to get home earlier so we could go together. Like we're meant to.”

You wished a lot of things in that moment, the main one being that you were more sober.

You didn’t get that wish. But you did get another one.

Because he didn’t pull back when you crashed your mouth into his. He didn’t push you away when you wrapped your arms around him. And even when the momentum of a few kisses pushed his calves against the couch and he lost balance and fell onto it, he was the one who reached up and pulled you onto his lap and kept begging you silently not to stop.

Delirium. Bliss. You were both sloppy, but equally present and willing. “Holy shit your lips are soft. Like pillows or some shit,” he mumbled, unable to help himself.

At one point you felt the evening dragging you down and you could sense yourself slipping into fatigue, threatening to steal precious hours with him away from you, but you fought it, trying to crank it back up by reaching for his belt.

He laughed softly against your lips as he gently moved your hand away. “Mmmmnnnope. You’re drunk, ladybug.”

“All the easier for you to take advantage.”

“I know,” he groaned, just a shadow of regret coloring it. “Another time maybe.”

“But you came all this way,” you whined, reaching again for his buckle and then switching to a purr. “Don’t you want to sleep with your wife?”

That made him stop. “Fuck, you’re making this hard on me.” He pulled your hand away again, this time guiding it up to receive a kiss to the knuckle. “No means no, missus.”

Oh shit. Thinking you’d really gone too far, misread the situation–how?--you shifted backward, moving to get up.

“No, no. Wait. C’mere.” Hands on your hips guided you back and he put a thigh between yours. Urging you to sit, he pulled you back to his mouth as he whispered, “Just. I can’t… Not me. Let me help you.”

And he did. Although he denied you any payback. He simply held you, gave you his kisses and his thigh, and your head swam and your desire glowed. But each sigh got longer, longer, longer…

Until you woke up the next morning on the couch, covered with a blanket, a glass of water on the coffee table in front of you twinkling in the cold wintry morning sun, the spike of pain in your head matching the one of complete mortification in your heart.

____________

I want you to feel it this time. I want you to have this. I’m here. Use it. I want you to have it.

Standing in the trailer at the end of the day, you flip through the divorce papers absently, unfocused, not really seeing anything but a word here and there; “differences,” “lack,” “unable,” “resolve.” Yours is the only signature. It’s inelegant–either your pen didn’t have enough ink at first or you hesitated–

“Hey.” Dieter stands in the doorway, confused, not expecting to find you in his trailer. As you turn toward him, he notices the papers in your hand and cringes in recognition, sucking in a rallying breath as he enters and pulls the door closed behind him. “That mad, huh. Listen, Cakes–”

But his jaw drops as you grip the top of the small packet….

…and give it all a neat tear down the middle.

Dropping each half to your sides, it signals an end to something between you that isn’t your marriage.

He waits for you. A little bit anxious. A little bit hopeful. Expectant and quiet.

And you make him wait.

Then you simply place what’s now garbage in the bin.

“I see you’re still in your robe.”

“I see you’re still in yours.”

“That was some trick you pulled, Mr. Bravo.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mad.”

“I’m not.”

He’s still not sure where this is going, keeps watching you with those same puppy eyes, Fight sitting on one shoulder, Flight on the other, waiting for a million shoes to drop.

“You didn’t finish during the scene.” You say, pointing to a shape that’s hiding under his robe. “How very professional of you. I suppose you came in here to take care of it.”

He swallows, nods eagerly, his hope utterly, adorably transparent.

You take a step toward the back where the crash bed is. Jerk a thumb back over your shoulder in its direction. Cock an eyebrow. “Well? I’m sober this time. You wanna consummate this thing or not?”

It’s not his birthday, but you might as well have just told Dieter you were taking him out to the wiener stand.

And this time, it would most definitely be a metaphor.

____________

SERIES MASTERLIST

MASTERLIST

#i'll never fall in love again #the bubble fanfiction #dieter bravo #dieter bravo x reader #dieter bravo x f!reader #dieter bravo x cakes

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 2 months

Text

Recap - a Malevolent fic

A certain auteur director doesn't like to repeat himself.

Part of the Surrogate series. Written with @sepiabandensis and @sparklyandheroic.

Quick authors' note:

Hey! It's been a while! :D We had a silly little idea for a recap episode, and unfortunately Kayne has decided you're all the victims. You know how he feels about repeating himself. Hopefully this doesn't bode too ill for our protagonists...

“Listen up, kids. Listen up. It's edumacation time!”

The voice came out of nowhere. So did the pyrotechnics (though the observant might note they came with no heat—this was a library, after all), and the distinct and memorable sound of a smoke machine.

Fog poured across the floor. “Come one! Come all! To the great fan-friendly recap…ap…ap!”

A white sheet suddenly flapped open, hung from nothing in front of Tabby’s armchair.

Kayne’s voice came from nowhere. “I said, come one, come all!”

Like the floor was greased, acolytes slid quickly around the stacks, all looking startled, quite a few afraid. More armchairs appeared, some made of leather of questionable origin, some that squished uncomfortably when sat on. (One acolyte took a sample of the liquid that came out, because terminal curiosity ran through all of the Keeper’s people.)

Behind them all the Keeper let out a yip as an armchair knocked her metaphorical legs out from beneath her, skirts puffing up in a floof as she was not-unkindly deposited into a seat of her own. “Kayne! What is—”

“Better!” And there he was in the armchair next to her. Kayne had eschewed the normal suit; he was in a fluffy pink bathrobe, with matching slippers, and his hair was in curlers. He leaned over the plush arm, cupping his mouth to stage-whisper to her. “It’s a bit. No harm, no foul. We good?”

“A what?” The Keeper said, voice jumping an octave.

“It’ll be fine, Keeps,” Tabby said, sitting up in her armchair; if she didn’t try to leave it, it seemed she could wriggle around as she pleased. She peeked over the back of it, giving a little wave to the god of the Scriptorium. “It’s just movie night with big brother. Right?”

“But,” the Keeper pleaded.

Tabby mouthed ‘play along’ at her.

The Keeper sighed. “Movie night, then,” she said, twisting the edge of her veil in her hands.

His smile wasn’t… great. Tight. Eyes angry. “Well, aren’t we lucky you and your experience are here? Shall we?” He offered each of them an enormous bucket of popcorn.

Tabby took one cautious handful. “She’s still learning how to ‘yes, and’. You know. What’d they do this time?”

(Kayne knew what he was doing. He’d provided each acolyte with pen, paper, and little digital cameras to keep them occupied, not unlike giving a child crayons in a restaurant.)

“See,” he said, “we are the audience. That is, we are the stand-in for the audience, who knows who they are, and knows what they did! Or if they don’t, they will. They should know…” His voice dropped an octave. “I don’t. Like. To repeat myself. But it’s that old expression…" He smiled, smooth and baritone again. "‘Those who don’t listen have to feel.’ You know that one? Here’s another: ‘Some people have to learn the hard way.’ And… action!” He snapped his fingers.

There hadn’t been a projector between them a moment before, but now there was. With a whir, it started.

“I understand you’re upset,” the Keeper said gently. “Perhaps you and I should just—”

Tabby twisted in her seat, eyes wide, shaking her head with warning.

The Keeper let out a small sigh, fingers twisting unnaturally amongst each other.

An old-fashioned title-card appeared on the sheet, flickering in black and white: MALEVOLENT: A PRIMER. REEL ONE NOT FOR DISTRIBUTION.

Kayne’s voice sounded not from him (his mouth was full), but from the creaky vintage wall-speakers that appeared in the air around the chairs.

“In the beginning of time,” said Speakers Kayne, and the white sheet suddenly filled with a slow-motion explosion.

Explosion was the wrong word. It was expansion, void-excision, movement and light and depth, a universe being born. It was jerky, a sixteen-frames-per-second view of the past; and at the core of it ( light heat darkness things for which there were no words ) sat a cluster of gods.

Everyone there could feel them. Like their presence was here, now.

No one made a sound.

“Hold on a minute,” said Speakers Kayne, followed by a record screech. “Too far back.”

But the reel (if that’s what it was) didn’t stop, and in the moment before the projector seemed to run out of film, its end smacking against the picture head, they all saw a blob of darkness and a million eyes sort of gooping eagerly into a field of shockingly yellow flowers, somehow splashing like water as if in joy for discovering the color.

The reel changed. Flickering, tinny music rolling through, a player piano doing its best. Speakers Kayne resumed. “You all remember this, ” he said, and it was Arthur Lester’s office. No, Parker Yang’s office, shared with Arthur, only Parker was dead. Very dead, throat squeezed so hard it was permanently misshapen. Beside the body, Arthur curled up, gasping. In front of them lay a book.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Speakers Kayne, and the film sped up.

The Scriptorium understood timelines. It wasn’t like anyone there didn’t know this story. But it was one thing to know it, and another to watch it—fast, jerky, funny if the content weren’t so horrific. Arthur and John, on the run. Arthur and John, fighting, killing, driving, crashing. Arthur and John, being lured to the Dreamlands through trickery and mindless obedience. Arthur and John, in terrible, terrible trouble.

The reel ran out in the prison pits.

“Sorry, but we’re doing a time-skip,” said Speakers Kayne. “That one’s a lot of the same thing, you know—back and forth, to the shit-corner and back, eating a guy and crying… blah, blah blah. On we go!”

The new reel started, just as fast.

Amazing, how brief Hastur’s appearance was in this form. Blip: there and gone, descending on Arthur like some kind of magician’s silk cloth, then disappearing again.

Then suddenly, the reel froze. It froze on Arthur in the snow, losing so much blood—impossibly red and shocking in this black and white image. It froze on his face, tormented, agony and pain, twisting him almost into someone else, as his tears froze on his cheeks.

“He ain’t cryin’ over spilt milk!” said Speakers Kayne as though that was just the funniest damn thing on earth.

“Brother,” said the Keeper, and the word was not just coming from her but resonating through the ground, rumbling up through the armchairs.

“Easy,” Tabby said.

“Oh, no no, I’m not being mean! It’s because this is actually the big moment. The moment it all changed for him,” said Speakers Kayne.

“Boo,” said Armchair Kayne. “Keep the commentary to yourself!” He threw some popcorn, which stained the sheet with buttery grease.

Speakers Kayne ignored himself. “See, this is where I… take a hand in things.”

The reel resumed. Faster. Pulling away, as if whatever view this was hung on a rope. Away from the snow, away from the continent, until Earth shrunk to a tiny blue dot, until they were in Carcosa.

Hastur was screaming.

Silent. Which somehow made it worse, arching back, arms and tentacles out, freakishly stop-motion-like, damn near losing his form and reverting to the oily blob that once fell in love with flowers.

“See, here, ” said Speakers Kayne, “is where I decide what to do. Sometimes, I take just a little bit!”

A blurred movement on the screen which this jerky, sixteen-frames-per-second reel could never have portrayed, smooth and bright and shocking. It felt like a knife, somehow, like some kind of scalpel swung at speed.

The Hastur on screen didn’t seem to notice.

The view changed: suddenly, it was a hand, Kayne’s hand, holding a wriggling, struggling piece of yellow cloth about the size of a young cat. Tiny black tentacles flailed from its bottom; still, it was silent.

“See? My own little proto-Yellow, ready to insert!” said Kayne. “Different sizes do different things. You can tell THE AUDIENCE —” the words echoed outside the Scriptorium, into distant halls and distant ears, into the awareness of those who thought they were safe, thought it was just a story—“that their favorite version is… well, all of him.”

Back to Carcosa.

Back to Hastur, grieving, going through rubble, visibly losing his shit.

And a giant hand came out of nowhere and grabbed him, same as the former hand had held the tiny slice.

“Yoink!” said Armchair Kayne, throwing more popcorn.

(The more observant of acolytes realized at this point that the grease stains were forming some very dangerous runes, and averted their eyes.)

Giant Kayne (with a backdrop of planets, of spinning galaxies) smiled at the camera, eyes in full shadow, and gave the other half of the King in Yellow a shake. “Would you believe there’s a timeline where this guy is in Larson?” He threw back his monumental head and laughed, each guffaw shaking the room, rattling the bookshelves.

Then he tossed the King over his shoulder.

“But that’s not what you get!” announced Speakers Kayne, and the reel… rewound.

Back to Carcosa. Back to Hastur, barely maintaining his form, flying over rubble and trying to find anything left, anything that survived, anyone.

That impossibly smooth white swipe again, like the flash of a knife. “Different sizes do different things!” said Speakers Kayne again. “Anyone remember this guy?”

A tiny golden hamster appeared—strange, with little horns and little face tentacles, in an airy, clean cage on a table they all recognized—as the thing sat less than twenty feet away.

“The Yellow that made was a real menace! But what was left barely squeaked by,” said Speakers Kayne, and a laugh-track followed.

None of the acolytes laughed.

“What was left of Hamstur was too small, but I’ll tell you what… then it became a challenge!” said Speakers Kayne, and once again, the reel rewound.

Once again, Carcosa—the King, on the ground now and draped like a funeral shroud over some body no one could recognize in the condition it had been left.

Swipe.

The hand reappeared. In it sat a tiny, tiny Hastur.

Music piped over it: “Suuuuunny days, sweeping the… clouds away…”

“Sunny?” gasped someone.

“Yep!” said Speakers Kayne, fourth walls be damned. “At least, I assume one of you said his cute widdle name, so anyway: smallest version of this guy I could get with any sort of independence or personality. Speaking of personality!”

The reel ended.

Awkwardly, taking his time, making it hurt, Armchair Kayne rose, took the old reel off, and fumbled with the new one, muttering. One of his hair-curlers fell out and bounced under Tabby’s seat.

The reel started again.

Addison. A portrait showing a man, Larson, from a hundred years ago.

The reel sped up even more quickly, as if this wasn’t worth anyone’s time.

Armchair Kayne plopped back in his seat. “Boo! Unremarkable! Boo!”

And then Arthur—

Wait. This wasn’t what happened. Was it?

Arthur went to New York City.

The Butcher almost got him (and their shotgun race through apartments was… something to watch at this speed).

He met with Charlie Dowd-Noel, and sprang the Butcher, and they all headed up north to face the Order of the Fallen Star, and…

Through the speakers, high-pitched, came Arthur’s frustrated sped-up voice: “Larson’s not here?”

Wah-wah-waaaaah, sounded a sad trombone. “Sunny too liddol,” said Speakers Kayne. “Too tiny. No projection. So Larson missed the party in his honor. Alack and alas!”

The whole affair still went to shit.

Elder Things, a freaky machine, cultists all over, a horrifying-looking man (“Stupid Vizier!” shouted Armchair Kayne. “Boo!”) with some kind of thing on his head, its tentacles buried deep in his eyes and ears, dried blood no one had bothered to clean all over his face, dried in streaks down his neck.

The cult died, messily and bloodily, defending nothing.

At the end, Arthur still stood. So did Charlie Dowd.

So did the Butcher, but whoever was in control of this film didn’t care about him. Arthur and Dowd—Noel—limped out. (Armchair Kayne laughed: “Look at ‘em go!”) They drove back to the city. Noel, there, handing documents to Arthur before they parted ways.

Arthur, stopping by the hospital—

(And there was a flash just a glimpse just a moment of Kayne standing above Daniel’s bed with that same galactic smile, eyes in shadow)

—just in time to say goodbye before Daniel died from his wounds.

Grieving, weeping, Arthur fled.

“You see,” said Speakers Kayne, and several acolytes jumped, “at this point, he couldn’t stay. He’d be implicated in so many murders! I mean, that would’ve been fun, but Noel was…” A sigh. “A good friend, and got him out. Papers. Names. Look at him go!”

The driving, though sped-up, was kept in its entirety. Arthur, driving, John’s eyes and hand navigating, as daylight slid over his face and abandoning it to darkness, as headlights played across his pale cheeks to show his still-falling tears.

“They fucked off!” said Speakers Kayne. “To Vermont! Oh, look how cute it is!”

A brief zoom-in on a door with “Peter Saltzman, P.I.” in stencil.

The reel ran out. This time, like the first, it replaced itself.

Music started—a tinny, solo violin, as the camera pulled back slowly from that closed door.

And it was interrupted by Arthur’s scream.

“See,” said Speakers Kayne, “he couldn’t get away now. Too many things just got Fucking Lestered (how’s that for a tag), and between the nightmare-eater and our lovely King, he couldn’t be left alone. Bad dreams! Bad memories! I, uh. Wasn’t as involved here as I should’ve been, to be perfectly honest. Kinda missed what Blondie was doing? Arthur failed my test, see (and this is an aside to the audience you’re standing in for, you lucky devils). Without a worthless little man and his fucked-up god-piece to follow, they never found what I wanted, so I’d moved on. But then!”

Another title card appeared: MEANWHILE IN ANOTHER WORLD...

Hastur.

Hastur, casting dangerous spells, the kind of wild magic that required even him to create a rune circle, to set protections. Hastur, casting some magic with all his limbs raised and dripping as if it had cost him much blood.

And an infant girl appearing in the center of the circle and beginning to cry.

“Oh wait, wait!” said Speakers Kayne. “Also!”

A third title card appeared:MEANWHILE IN ANOTHER OTHER WORLD...

A woman. A goddess of some kind, with black hair, and pale skin, and they knew her even if they didn’t know her, and—

“Nevermind that bitch,” said Speakers Kayne with a weirdly frustrated affection, and the film sped up yet again, granting the briefest glimpses of this woman dressed in red, of this woman reaching into darkness as if into the aether, and of Arthur twisting in bed, tormented by dreams.

The excess speed suddenly stopped.

The reel continued to roll, but abruptly, it was not jerky, not old-timey at all. No: right now, it was real.

They were all staring through the sheet at a broken-down school-house basement, abandoned somewhere in Vermont, where Arthur Lester, on his knees, gawked toward a young Faroe.

She was precious. Dressed in yellow, happy, healthy, and her little brow knit as she tried so hard to do… whatever she was trying to do here. “You should say sorry,” she said in a high, sweet voice. “Since you were bad.”

The cracking sound was sharp, loud, echoing. It hurt; several acolytes put their hands over their ears, and all of them jumped.

Arthur… lost all his color.

The rest of this scene continued to play out for a few moments, in this grimy old basement: the little girl, all a-glow in health; the god behind her, gleaming and smearing as if whatever camera this was couldn’t quite hold his image; and Arthur, who was now gray, who was black and white, as if he no longer belonged in the scene at all.

“But you know all that, ” said Speakers Kayne, and without giving anyone time to process anything, the film sped up again. It went back to projection on a sheet, but this time, it stayed full-color.

They saw Arthur go to Carcosa.

They saw him skinned. (Blood dripped to the floor, staining the edges of the sheet.)

They saw him marked, though not what caused it. (“Boo!” shouted Armchair Kayne. “There was some good sex in the Woods, too, afterward,” he told Tabby in over-loud confidence, “but you know how it is—a good director never shows his face on film.”)

They saw Faroe grow, and Arthur adapt (but he stayed gray). They saw John rage, and Dis get involved, and Arthur finally put on some weight (but Arthur stayed gray).

They saw music, and glimpses of the beginning of Rites (“Gotta keep the archive warnings consistent, I guess, ” said Armchair Kayne), and preparation for the Games, and Faroe—

A moment of Faroe, holding The Once and Future King.

Fast forward.

Faroe running away. Hastur taking Arthur and John on a road-trip from hell to find her. Hastur’s son (“He doesn’t know any of this part,” said Armchair Kayne), Gokar’luh, making so many preparations, first fueled with the smoldering embers of being wronged and the bellows of a revenge promised, and then, when Faroe spoke to him with kindness, a moment where that armor cracked and he wept for the unjustness of it all. His tears were bright as gold.

Disaster.

For a moment, the screen went dark. Someone made a low, choked sound, like an abortive sob.

It resumed, quick again, flitting from scene to scene.

Hastur. (With a gray crack through his whole form, like he was a photograph that had been badly folded.

Parker. (The film slowed a bit to show his little adventure, stealing and rescuing Sunny, and their time on the run.)

Larson. (Only in red tights and with his Van Dyke, though, as if earlier moments didn’t deserve the footage.)

Dagon getting involved, and gods beginning to question what the hell was going on with this composer, and Faroe growing sure and strong atop her striding beast, and Dis reluctantly drawn into the drama ( “Lestered!!” both Kaynes said at once).

Hastur slipping out at night to make Carcosa safe, Hastur making new enemies who were then defeated, Dickensian-looking Ialdagorth sneering directly at the camera, Arthur poisoned (and the reel, for no reason, focused on him throwing up horrible black chunks for more than a moment too long), and John forgetting who he was (and… growing? Bigger? Glimpses of his whole self, too large for Arthur, leaking out his colorless pores), and the crack in Hastur widening, and Arthur still gray, and a birds-eye view of a crazy double-birthday celebration with a genuinely heartwarming image of Arthur (still gray and shocking against that bright-lit sky) holding Faroe, atop some tower, watching the pyrotechnics, his head resting on hers.

A single second (sound included) of a full-color three-dimensional deeply enthusiastic Odd getting deeply, enthusiastically railed by—

“Oops, sorry! Even the best directors screw up sometimes,” said Speakers Kayne, and cackled. “Anyway, he was into it.”

“No, really, he was into it,” said Armchair Kayne. “Like, a lot. Which I say because there was some confusion. ”

And suddenly the reel was done.

THE END? appeared in a title card, followed by six seconds of wildly dramatic music over a groundhog looking absolutely aghast.

Armchair Kayne stood, whooping and clapping, as the lights came back up.

Everyone felt… dazed. Dizzy. Acolytes took eyes off of the screen and shared glances with each other. Some looked visibly nauseous, trembling in the seats; others wiped blood from their eyes.

Kayne’s clapping slowed. His smile faded. His eyes darkened, as if the curlers in his hair were somehow casting impenetrable shadow. “Pity,” he said.

It was obviously leading. The silence had to break. “Wh… what is?” said someone.

“They made me repeat myself.” Kayne shook his head, tsk -ing softly. “They’re going to regret they did.”

And he vanished.

The projector exploded, pieces skittering across the floor.

All the armchairs he’d conjured vanished, dumping acolytes onto their asses. Notes scattered everywhere, and one checked to see if the liquid sample had vanished or not. It had not.

“Keeps?” said Tabby slowly. “What… what the fuck just happened?”

The god’s sigh was heavy. “Something that bodes very, very ill for the players of Carcosa. At least he gave us some warning.”

“Should we try and warn them?” Tabby said, twisting in her chair.

“It won’t help. They’re not even the targets, someone else is.” The Keeper sank into her chair, boneless, miserable. “I hope you lot are happy.”

Tabby frowned. “Who?”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Keeper sighed.

Abandoned on the floor, the grease-stained sheet shivered as if alive, until an acolyte finally took it away to study.

-----------

NOTES

A tinny, solo violin A groundhog looking absolutely aghast Glorious baby-Hastur-loves-yellow drawn by @flamdoodles!

#malevolent #malevolent au #malevolent fic #surrogate fic #surrogate series #surrogate malevolent #kayne malevolent #spoilers

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