hantaslittlearsonist

[hantaslittlearsonist]

got approval on the quality of the dragon knight x reader story by my proofreader so I feel confident that once it's finished and edited, it will be a solid read!

[hantaslittlearsonist]

[hantaslittlearsonist]

Republicans deliberately use coded language to trick people to vote for them and radicalize their group. Many don't even realize they're radicalized or what they're saying is even racist. This is why they think the Left is "over reacting" because the either know they're using coded language and don't care, or they don't know anything at all.

[hantaslittlearsonist]

Apples To Apples

[hantaslittlearsonist]

𝚂𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚢’𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚒𝚛

pairing: Gregory violet x reader

content: gn!reader and Violet go on a date at the local cemetery on Valentine’s day and awkward flirting ensues (reader is down bad)

word count: 886 words

A medley of leaves rustle under my feet and Violet’s, as we walk towards the goth-spiked cemetery gate. This time, he allows me to intertwine our arms while we chaperone; especially since I had to steady my pace to match his hurried steps.

One thing I noticed about Violet is that even if he always walks with his head hung low, his steps remain firm. Though unlike mine, they make little to no noise…I wonder if it’s intentional or-

My thoughts are sent to space when I feel an insistent gaze upon me, Violet stares until I look back, and calls:

“Come on”

I nod my head urgently, as if to get out of my mind zone and watch as he lets go of my arm to push the grand gate with both hands. We step in, and I dare to reach out for his arm again; he stops and raises a thin brow, but makes no move to create any distance.

“Are you scared of cemeteries?” The corner of his lips raise ever so slightly, and I scoff.

“Of course not! Why would I be?” I roll my eyes and let my hands slide down from his sleeve.

Violet watches my touch slip away, and just when my hands were about to hover in the air; he takes one of them, intertwining it with his.

“...No reason”

He gives me one last stare-down, squeezes my hand and picks up his pace, carrying on without any halts and double takes and I follow. The sight of the numerous tombstones are lost on me while the coldness of his hand fill mine, like an ice pack in a hot summer.

Our hands quit swinging and he stops, I look up from our interwoven hands to face a multiple-crypt, gothic masoleum; its columns were covered with overgrown vines, reaching an opaque entablature.

I keep on contouring the tomb’s extremities with my eyes, until Violet tugs on my sleeve to pull me down so I could sit beside him on the leaf-covered grass. He lets go and pulls his clipboard out from his pouch, supporting it on his thigh and occupying his left hand with a brand new charcoal pencil.

“It’s quiet here…” He mutters, close to whispering

Even if the words hang in the air, his ample gaze is already drawn to an empty page and he starts sketching, so I hesitate before answering.

“I assume you like it, then?” I cock my head, smiling warmly.

He nods, his gaze flickering from the page to my eyes, staring and unblinking—as usual. I chuckle and scooch closer, making leaves scatter around beneath me.

“Oh yeah, it’s…Valentine’s day today, did you know?”

His eyebrows raise and his grip on the pencil finally loosens.

“I’m aware…why?”

I gulp and the incoming words stop in the tip of my tongue, but I manage to push them out.

“So is this like…a date?” With each word, my voice got more strained.

To my surprise, Violet simply keeps adorning the sketch with a few lines, and hums in approval.

“…I suppose so”

My belly is filled by erratic butterflies, flapping their wings on my skin and giving flight to my hope. Hope calls for boldness and I feel on the top of the world, above all shame and restraint.

“You know, I wouldn’t mind paying homage to Mary Shelley-“*

The words roll off my tongue like a heavy bucket falling, my eyes widen and I freeze, becoming a hostage of Violet’s response…or lack thereof. He raises his head and sets the sketchbook down on his lap, his jaw was on the floor, his cheeks petal-pink under the shadow of his hood.

“Excuse me?”

I wave my hands frantically, increasing the volume of my voice without realizing. The pathetic flush on my face rivals the ripest tomato.

“Forget it!! It was a joke…I-“ My hands fly to cover my face, seeing nothing but the comfort of pitch black.

I let out a groan, wishing with all my heart that a tree would fall on top of me, it’d be an undignified, but quick death; anything to not face Violet’s imminent rejection. I sit motionless, with tense muscles and tightly shut eyes until I feel a tap on my arm, it was far from rough and furrowed like a tree’s trunk; and felt the same as the cold skin on my palm earlier.

My eyes shoot open and I let Violet lower my hands from my face to my lap. He was close enough for our breaths to mingle, his black painted lips were displayed like a savoury dessert on a bakery showcase. Before I could justify myself, he inched forward and pressed his lips on my forehead, leaving a dark lipstick mark.

“A bit too quick..don’t you think?” He whispers in my ear and I could see a smile, rare and precious right in front of me, and just for me.

The vision was so unberably bright that I quickly averted my eyes, taking a sudden interest in the clipboard laid across his lap.

Just then, I saw it: an unfinished depiction of my profile, down to my bust, so realistic I could dive in the paper and run my fingers through my own hair. My heart started pounding like a drum being striked and my lips curled up to match his.

“Yeah…definitely too quick”

*a!n: the author of Frankenstein, Mary Shelley, is rumoured (likely true) to have lost her virginity on top of her mother’s grave

[hantaslittlearsonist]

The end of online privacy

Now, this isn't something I usually post about from my silly goofy k1nk account (reminder to minors to not follow or scroll this acount).

But I have more followers on here than main, and this is extremely important. Like, scary shit.

This applies to everyone. If you're reading this? It's going to effect you.

I'm sure perhaps some of you have seen around about a this thing going around... KOSA, is one of the ways it's being referred to.

If this shit passes, lemme tell you...

LGBTQ+ adults and minors seeking help and community,

people looking for abortions,

people organizing protests,

anyone using their free speech to voice concerns about injustices, 

even FAN ARTISTS...

Even people reading fan fiction...

And for the purposes of where I'm posting from... people sharing and enjoying their k1nks, wanting to post things with safety and privacy... smut artists and writers, people even LOOKING for smut...

It's all gone. No privacy.

They'll have your face, your name, your age, where you live.

You'll need an ID to use any US-based platform, even if you're NOT in the United States.

Instead of dooming, here's what you can do to stop this shit in it's tracks 👍

Here is a website where you can sign a letter just by filling out a form, (it takes less than 30 seconds) and where you can call reps.

I HIGHLY suggest leaving calls if you're able, and if you have phone shyness, do this after 6pm, since it will leave messages instead.

I'm shy, but I did it!

Here's another letter to sign, takes less than 20 seconds.

Here is a form you can fill out sharing how the social media has POSITIVELY effected you.

Share all of this with as many people as you can. Our safety, freedom, joy, and protection online is at risk more than ever.

(Here is the thread where I found all of this information.)

STAY SAFE!

[hantaslittlearsonist]

[hantaslittlearsonist]

7 minutes in the storage room

Working on valentine's day has its perks — like being paid double the usual rate and making use of the lovely unlimited free drinks package the Café offers its employees to drink so many cherry blossom hot chocolates it makes me sick — and its disadvantages — people out on dates seem to lack even more braincells than the average customer.

I circle back to the couple in the corner booth by the window where a loud-looking blonde guy and a tired purple haired guy sit awkwardly across from each-other again. The silence around their table is thick enough to cut with one of the bar's garnish knives, neither of them is even looking at the other. I sigh quietly and put on my well practiced peppy customer-service voice.

'Hey, have we made our choice?'

They both flinch. I grin as bright as I can.

'If you're having a hard time, may I give you some suggestions?'

The blonde nods.

'Well, we have a lovely selection of valentine's specials. I've really been enjoying the Sakura hot chocolate which is even better when you pair it with the cinnamon rolls! But if you're looking for something cold to drink, we have our limited edition Persephone juice which is made of juiced strawberries, cherries and pomegranates of course.'

For all my trouble, I don't even get a reaction. They both look at me like dead fish and frustration starts to build in my stomach.

'Should I give you a little more time to consider your options?'

The purple one seemed to wake up from his trance. 'No, we'll take what you said, hot chocolate, juice and was it bread?'

'You mean the cinnamon roll?' I ask with a placating smile. He nods. 'I'll get that started right away.'

I have to take a breath as I leave their table behind before tapping their order into my company-issued IPod. It prints immediately and the barista — Dabi — who also happens to be my friend, rolls his eyes at the order.

The barista is another of the perks of working on valentine's day. Dabi is truly a work of art. And he's such a brilliant barista and barman the hiring manager had been wiling to look past the fact he was literally covered in tattoos. The intricate inkwork spirals up his neck and over his jawline, stopping at the limit of his lips only to pick back up under his eyes where I know they hide dark circles from the ludicrous amount of shifts he picks up. His tattoos don't end there though, they curl over his upper chest and down his arms where they end in graceful points on the back of his hands like gloves. I'm pretty sure he has more ink hidden under his clothes but every time I ask he brushes me off with a "wouldn't you like to know". Yes, I would like to know, that's why I'm asking!! But Dabi couldn't just leave it at tattoos, could he? Of course not. According to himself, his body is pierced with 21 pieces of titanium, although I've only managed to count 15. Four helixes on each ear, one lobe on one side and two on the other, three in his nostril and a flash of metal on his tongue.

'Stop making me make these stupid hot chocolates.' Dabi grumbles as you reach past him behind the bar to grab the juice and the cinnamon roll.

I gently bump his shoulder with mine. 'Hey it's not my fault the customers keep ordering them.'

'It is. You're the one who keeps pushing them.' Dabi scoffs but smiles, putting on a silly voice to say: "Oh it's my faaaavourite drink we make here, I can't get enough of them."

Laughter comes easily, especially when I'm looking into Dabi's khol-lined teal eyes as they glitter with mirth. 'Well, while you're at it, make me one.'

'Another one? How many have you had today?'

I pause to count them up, I had one when I got to work but it wasn't as nice since I had made it because Dabi hadn't started his shift yet, one after that one table got angry at me for not reading their minds, two others before lunch, one with lunch and two more since.

'Seven.' I quip, putting a little extra edible pink glitter on the cinnamon roll.

'Have you no shame? You will run this fine establishment into the ground with your excessive hot chocolate consumption.' Dabi says, waving his arms theatrically.

'We only carry that drink for a week! I have to drink as much as I can while it's available!'

Dabi laughs and shakes his head. 'Sure, but seven in one shift is a lot and Manager Rumi will get mad if I drain the sakura sirup just for you.'

I cross my arms and pout for added drama. 'Come onnnn.'

'Nope, pick something else. Anything.' A look of regret crosses his face the second after that last word leaves his lips.

'Anything?' What feels like an evil smile appears on my face.

Dabi sighs and rolls his eyes. 'Yeah.'

'Tell me where your other piercings are. And I want a matcha latte with extra agave sirup.'

He shakes his head, his spiky hair not moving a millimetre. 'Fine. Get this to those customers first, they look like they're about to die of discomfort.'

I hadn't even noticed he'd put the whipped-cream topped hot chocolate onto a platter with my cinnamon roll and juice as well as a glass for the juice. 'Thanks Dabs! I'll be right back!'

I was not right back. The 4pm rush hit the second I put the blonde and his boyfriend's order on their table and it had speed-walking around the café like a pinball for the next hour and a half feeling progressively more tired and more annoyed. How dare these people giving me tips make me wait for the Dabi Piercings Reveal. Ugh.

The easy listening playlist manager Rumi insists on having on in the café loops back to Nicky Youre's Sunroof for what has to be the dozenth time that day is starting to grind on my nerves but I'm not going to be free any time soon. No, I'm on the schedule until closing, because we're severely understaffed since two thirds of my coworkers took the day off to go out on dates with their partners. Dabi gives me a look of pity as yet another couple walks into the café looking confused but happy. I have to resist the urge to make a very rude gesture in his general direction.

Think about the piercings and the cold matcha latte you'll get after this. I tell myself, trying to ignore how my body is shaking from standing too long. I feel like I've run three marathons and am being forced to run two more, my feet ache with every step, my arms tremble as I precariously balance plate after plate after plate on them so I don't have to do more than one trip to the food lift. When Rumi taps me on the shoulder and with the brightest smile I've ever seen, tells me to take a break before she leaves to meet with her girlfriend, all I can do is stop myself from slapping her.

There's no one at the bar, which is rare but welcome. I sit, angry but grateful for the respite on my poor feet, on one of the tall stools there.

'I believe it's impolite to put your elbows on tables.' Dabi drawls as he stacks glasses in neat pyramids on their drying racks.

'Oh fuck you this is not a table.'

He gasps and clutches invisible pearls. 'Language, Y/N, you might give that elderly couple a heart attack!'

I laugh, chest feeling lighter. 'So, about those piercings…'

'I'd hoped you'd forgotten, to be honest.'

'I haven't. Where are the others.' I prod.

Dabi sighs, resigned. 'I have some here.' He pats his chest over where his nipples must be, hidden under his black café-logo-printed t-shirt. I blink. He's still talking but I'm not listening.

'Oh… Now I want to see…' I mumble, just loud enough for him to hear me.

'I mean, we're not that busy right now and I do want to get back at Rumi for understaffing us today…'

That's how we end up in the basement storage room under the pretext that Dabi needed to go and get extra bottles of wine for the last rush that was quickly approaching and I wanted to help him. My heart racing faster than it ever has, I turned the key to lock it from the inside, just to be sure no one would bother us as Dabi prepared our cover story (the wine).

I can't believe this is happening. Dabi's hot and funny to bounce sarcastic quips off of but ending up purposefully locked in the storage room with him is not something I thought I'd ever be doing. 'Wasn't there a rule against workplace romance?' I say, just to fill the silence.

'I don't think this counts as romance, Y/N. Lust though… Maybe.' Dabi shrugs and holds the hem of his t-shirt between his fingers. 'You can still back out, if you want.'

I shake my head so vigorously I get a little dizzy.

Dabi smiles, sorter than I've ever seen it. 'Come over here then, you won't see shit from where you are.'

I take a few steps, until I'm standing so close to him I can smell whatever hair-spray he uses to keep his hair spiked like that. The dim golden glow of the single incandescent light that always struggles to illuminate the whole storage room makes the moment strangely intimate. I know nothing about Dabi, not really, only how he likes his coffee (not at all) and that his younger brother is in high school and living with him. I know that he can skateboard and prefers to skate to work rather than use the underground and that he watches Naruto but only because his younger brother watches it. All in all, we're strangers to each-other. And yet, when Dabi puts his hand on my hip to pull me a touch closer to him, my heart flutters.

It has to be the coworker effect, one can only spend so much time with someone they find attractive before their brains starts producing "fuck them" chemicals, right? Even with a dating ban in place. Especially with a dating ban in place. We always want what we can't have.

'You can touch me, Y/N.'

Y/N, Y/N, Y/N. He says it like a wish, like a prayer. His hair paints a choppy shadow over his cheeks but it's not enough to hide the fact that Dabi is blushing. Dabi is blushing.

I pull his shirt up to his chin, revealing — as I guessed — more tattoos, as well as a lovely pair of very shiny bright blue barbells.

'Can I…' I inch my free hand towards the newly revealed jewellery. Dabi doesn't answer, instead he wraps his stupidly long fingers around my wrist and guides my fingers to his skin.

He's warm, the ink etched into his chest gives it a little extra texture when I pass my fingers over it, light as a feather. His piercings are hard but just as warm as the rest of him. I allow myself to catch one of the balls and turn it a little, it goes easily and the whole barbell spins. Dabi shivers.

'Your fingers are cold.' He whispers, a chuckle carrying his words.

'I think you're just warm, Dabi.' I look up, big mistake.

I forgot how close we are standing, so close I can feel it when he breathes. He smells like the coffee he spilled on his t-shirt earlier and hair-spray, which isn't the best combination really. But as established, he's warm, like a space heater. It makes me want to fall into his chest and wrap myself in him like putting on a feather-down coat in winter.

'Something something… Workplace romance…' Dabi mumbles, looking like he's half way through drowning in air.

I stroke over Dabi's nipple, marveling at the unusual feeling of skin and metal in such close proximity. It's weird, now that I think of it, I've always been pulled towards Dabi for reasons unknown, as if he's a magnet and I'm made of iron or something. Sure, he's strange and intimidating at first but really, once you've gotten used to the sarcasm and the tattoos, he's alright. Better than alright, considering how hard my heart's beating. Why the fuck is it trying to escape from the confines of my chest?

'You know what, I don't think I care.' I'm not even sure who said it but a second later our lips are crashing together.

It's a relief, actually, to finally stop dancing around each other, to give in. Dabi's lips are chapped and he tastes of stale chewing gum, he tells me not to touch his hair "'cause it'll take forever to fix" but he happily pulls on mine when I ask him to. We laugh together at how frustrating it is to unbuckle his three different belts.

The last few piercings, those Dabi hadn't yet shared the location of glitter in the low light of the storage room when I take him into my hand. He's warm there too, and inked.

We exit the storage room looking a little too ruffled to be inconspicuous but Rumi will have left by now so it doesn't matter. Toga — another server — starts to complain that we left her with Tomura (who has arrived to help Dabi behind the bar) but takes one look at Dabi's kiss-bruised lips and my poorly concealed love-bite and changes her mind.

[hantaslittlearsonist]

𝙱𝚘𝚢𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚞𝚝𝚢₊✩‧₊˚

A Gregory Violet x reader fluff drabble, the reader (AFAB) is on their period and Greg goes out to buy pads for them. Thanking @hantaslittlearsonist my angel, for proofreading for me again 💕

After so much tossing and turning in bed, holding my stomach to try to somehow contain the excruciating cramp, my bedroom door slowly opened and Violet finally came back…bringing two plastic bags that were disproportionately large compared to his slender figure. I had only asked for two packages of pads… what was up with all of this? The ache in my lower belly rolled to the back of my mind

“Uh.… love, what's all this stuff?”

I sat up on the bed with some effort from my numb elbows, still holding my stomach as if I had a recent wound that needed constant pressure. Violet was hunched in front of the door frame, panting like he just ran a marathon and gripping the bags for his dear life; dang it! I should have reminded him that the haste wasn’t necessary and I wasn't about die—even if I looked like death. But, before I could protest, my beloved walked over to my bed to hand me what he brought with a hesitating gait

“I didn't know what to buy... I don't know about these things, so...”

His voice was close to a whisper, and he was looking everywhere in the room but my face. Clearly, menstruation wasn't a frequent discussion among his social circle, I got up with a weak groan and started rummaging the bags, there were at least eight packages… did he think I was bleeding to death?!??

“This will last for at least… ten cycles”

I let out a light chuckle. I was keen on teasing him, but the gesture still warmed my heart, especially due to the effort he put, having such a withdrawn disposition. I started to wish I were a little bird at that exact moment so I could witness the scene firsthand.

Even if the commentary was meant to be a lighthearted jest, he hung his head like a sad kitten, sinking even deeper into the hood of his cloak and away from the light.

I sighed and held out my hand, beckoning with the most welcoming, non-threatening smile my muscles could muster. He hesitated, but scooted closer; still, his gaze was stranded away from mine, deciding to take interest on the white wall behind me

“You kno-“

I shut my eyes tightly as a cramp that felt like a sharp, burning dagger struck my lower belly, Violet immediately cut through the distance, reaching out to me with furrowed brows and frantic hands

"Are you okay?"

As if by instinct, he put his hands on my cheeks and peered, almost close enough for the tip of our noses to touch. But, the proximity was lost on me, since his shaking eyes and parted lips painted me a vivid picture. Whenever he looked at me with such intensity, a flame lit in my heart, and I couldn't help but give in to temptation. I lunged and connected our lips, which made his body stiffen like a statue

Slowly, his shoulders dropped, hand flattened on the mattress and he imitated the movement of my lips, reclining as if he was being pulled by strings. He was left with his lips hovering on the air as I longed for air and broke apart from our exchange, opening my eyes. His lips were a stained mess of black, that now formed a pronounced pout—like one of a child whose lollipop was stolen. I couldn't help but provoke him, making his cheeks turn scarlet-red

“You’re even cuter when you’re worried.”

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

[hantaslittlearsonist]

SLAM DUNKS PHONE

finally finally finally finally finally

finished this fucking scene.

I just have the smut scene to go and this stupid thing is done oh my god

current word count: 8,770

estimated word count: 11.5k

[hantaslittlearsonist]

this answer does matter bc it drastically alters my approach to writing the scene. so vote vote vote vote!!!!

[hantaslittlearsonist]

FATHOMLESS

eldritch detective x reader |18+| 2.1k

you'd never noticed detective arsenè in the precinct before, even after a number of years working in the office. when you start to ask around about him, they confirm that he's always been there, but you're more worried that they're not mentioning that he has no face...

story warnings; dark content, dubcon leaning sort of noncon (blackouts and spotty memory), sexual content, grotesque + horrific details, this leans more mystery and uncanny valley than anything else, mentions of mc being a drinker, smoking, roughly proofread.

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

please share your thoughts with me + reblog!

this is possibly a concept piece to a much larger supernatural, psychological piece. if you'd like to see that, let me know!!

Everyone at the precinct called him Detective Arsené, but they never said anything about his face.

It was simply that there wasn't one there, not that you were able to discern in any instance you'd seen him wandering the floor. You had blamed the long hours, glowing blue screens, useless eye prescriptions, corporate greed, and mixing alcohol with allergy medicine before you finally accepted what you were seeing was real, yet no one else noticed it apart from you.

“What's wrong with his face?” you'd ask anyone with the time to spare to listen.

“Who? Arsené?” they'd laugh, whether in disbelief that you were speaking about Watt City’s genius detective in such a fashion, or that they thought you were the funniest person in the office. “What are you talking about? He's always looked like that! Lay off the booze, yeah?”

Those responses had never been satisfactory enough, going as far to set you ill at ease for the remainder of your shift, sufficiently distracting you from furthering your workload because your mind always came back to the detective and his non-existent face.

“He looks pretty normal to me,” said a senior member in your division. An older man you'd come to know as forthright and virtuous with a history showing that integrity. He had taken eyes off his computer screen, bifocals aside, and pinched the high-point between his brows. “What's this about, really? I've worked with Arsené for years. You know that. He's been here since before I started. Good guy. Hard worker. Drinks too much, though. Just like someone else I know.”

But, this was the first time you had heard he'd worked with Arsené, let alone acknowledged his existence at all. There was no reason for him to lie; he had spoken without inflection, warily, almost accusatory towards the end when he mentioned the alcohol.

“Detective Arsené? Well, I think he's really handsome. He just has that look about him, y'know?” The next person you questioned was a junior at the precinct. A pretty woman who was all silky black hair and long, blunt nails that never touched a surface where they'd be put in peril.

She always used her knuckles type on the clunky keyboard, and did so as she went on, “I've heard he has a really specific type, though. I've also never seen him take anyone out, or take a partner on cases, now that I think about it. Isn't he just a stand-up guy? I'd say he's the sort to bring home to mom and dad, but I hear he's got a drinking problem. Why do all the hot ones have vices like that?”

She particularly enjoyed her gossip, especially if it involved the detectives at the precinct. You were positive she'd never mentioned Arsené before now. As smart as she was, she didn't look below the surface very often when it came to men, so for her to say nothing at all of the detective’s smooth face was mystifying.

After that, you started paying attention to Arsené in a way you convinced yourself was discreet, which meant slowly peeking your eyes above your computer screen to observe his movements across the floor. Always in motion, he stalked around the place with undaunted familiarity, maneuvering the razored corners of desks and blockades from doors and walls, and languidly sidestepped the oncoming traffic of bodies in such a way that seemed premeditated.

Practiced.

Rinse and repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

This staunch dedication of yours lasted well over a week before anything came of it until one morning you found him waiting in your seat, teetering a bloated manila folder on a thigh while bouncing it impatiently. A very real sensation of unease took hold of the back of your neck, like a cold hand stroking lightly at the downy hairs there until they stood straight.

You thought about pretending you hadn't seen him, swiveling around, and leaving in a burst of urgency. It'd be easy to call in to say you had a personal emergency or became suddenly, very viscously ill and wouldn't be able to handle staring at a screen for twelve hours. No one would ask questions because you were exemplary, always on time, and seldom took time off as you couldn't afford to do so.

Arsené’s head slanting sideways and the waxy, flat face pointing directly towards you prevented you from acting on that impulse, however. He gestured you over with a lethargic wave, though the jitteriness in his leg seemed to worsen from impatience into sheer excitability.

“Clocked in early, aren't you? You have quite the habit of doing that, I've noticed.” He greeted, voice simultaneously undefinable and velvety. It wasn't so deep that you felt like it was gravelly or reverberated in the same way a baritone would, but there was a heftiness to it that weighted in your mind, as if it were possible for someone to reach through all your blood, tissue, and bone and press down directly on your brain. “I've seen you come in a few times, hours before anyone else. And you know what I think? I think, ‘That’s the kind of person who keeps a place like this running. That's the kind of person we want here in this precinct. That's the type of person who believes in the work that we do and who I’d want as my partner’.”

As much as you wanted to get away from the horrid sight before you, the no-face and potent voice wriggling around the wrinkles in your brain, you couldn't bring yourself to do so just yet. Not while you had questions you couldn't find answers to, not while you needed to sedate yourself at night because they ruthlessly endangered your dreams and were thieves of peaceful slumber.

“I've never met you before,” you said, giving a cordial handshake when he had offered it to you. The skin of his palm was warm and humanlike, though his grip was all wrong and entirely too firm. You didn't convey this dissonance to him, though. “I've seen you around, though. Were you transferred from a different department or precinct? Everyone says you've been around for a long time, but I find it hard to believe I've noticed.”

“Oh? Well, they'd be right.” Arsené said, finally releasing your hand to take up the thick folder. “I've always been here, and I'm always here. Now, that aside, I've cleared it with the Chief and I'd like you to help me on a case that I'm stuck on. If I've read right, you're the most recent person who's looked through everything to update the records, correct?”

“Probably.” You didn't move when he rolled up another chair from a desk nearby. “I'm a Recorder. It's my job to go through files and periodically update them. I'm not qualified to help detectives on their cases, though. You'd need to speak to the Chief about getting an Assistant for that.”

“Ah, didn't you hear me? That's all been handled. Sit down. Sit down.” He waved you close, then took you by the arm to sit you in the chair next to him. “We have a lot to cover. I think we should start from the beginning and work our way through the evidence list, and then the interrogation tapes. After that, it'd be a good idea to revisit the site of the crime. Don't worry about clearances, I've got everything we need.”

It wasn't often that you saw the inside of the precinct after that day as Arsené particularly enjoyed his busywork and bringing you along for it.

Most days you simply operated as a Field Recorder by transcribing statements into the handheld device provided by the precinct to maintain a digital trail. The work wasn't especially difficult, but it did take a level of skill and technological literacy to be able to do effectively, more so to be the sort allowed to tail after a detective on his cases and still maintain an overall ninety-eight percent accuracy.

Despite your job dictating it as such, Arsené never allowed you to fade into the background or stand around as a fancy accessory to go with his title. Oftentimes, he utilized you as his sole confidant as he worked through evidence and suspects, waiting in revered silence for you to offer your insight (however weak it actually was), and afterwards only let you bask in a glow of confidence through streams of unending praise.

“Egads! Eureka! Genius! How is it that it never occurred to me that way? Truly, you're spectacular! You're divine! Who knows how long I’d be running around in circles if I didn't have you as my partner.” They were all slightly variating compliments, though essentially all the same at the core and all very untrue.

You'd never forgotten about the things your colleagues had said about him, of his unrivaled prowess and veneration as the best detective Watt City had ever come to witness. He didn't need you. He had never needed you to solve a case, so you had learned to take his praise in the same vein as you did the silky-haired woman’s comments on men: uninspired and shallow.

When your disinterest became palpable, he seemed to only rely on you more as though he couldn't stand to be burdened with the idea of a rift. He had started calling you late at night about cases, going as far to come knocking at your door and walking inside reeking of stale smoke and a haze of booze, neither of which you could comprehend as possible considering he had no face.

“I just don't get it. I just don't get it! Where am I going wrong?!” He said so wretchedly, sides of his head cradled in his hands that were tucked between his legs. “This case, it’s getting to me. It's getting under my skin. I can't figure it out. Have I finally met my match? Have I finally been defeated? You! You’ve got to help me. It can't end like this.”

For all his dramatics, there was something obscenely cruel behind his words. Perhaps he thought you wouldn't have caught onto it because you simply a Field Recorder, just a person at the end of the day.

“Why haven't you mentioned anything about the victim? You're acting like they don't exist, Arsené. Is this about solving the crime so they get justice and the family gets closure, or is this for your reputation?” you asked.

He immediately stopped complaining and jolted upright, taken by surprise like he had realized this oversight and wasn't sure how to navigate around it. On that glossy slate of a face, one you knew was piercing deep into you despite a lack of hollow sockets and rolling gelatinous orbs within, you could tell he was now thinking of an answer.

“Neither,” was what he gave you. “It's neither of those. Come here. Sit down and talk to me for a while. I can't go home like this.”

The pitying part of you usually won in those moments where Arsené presented himself as his weakest. There was a part of you that believed he was taking advantage of your feeble heart, your kindness, your blind generosity because at his worst, he'd find a way to strip you down and fuck you.

At least, that's what you assumed happened. You never really could remember as the memory was pitch black, his body was unfathomable above yours, but you were sure you felt his cock penetrating you, his hands desperately fondling your flesh and fat like there was too much to touch yet too little time to feel it all. He said things to you inside your head, words that you couldn’t seem to piece together yet ignited the tension between your legs, lit your skin on fire, and delivered lewd, high-pitched sounds to his ears that he reveled in.

He never left you a mess and he never spoke about those times after they happened. Since you were never sure of them yourself, they suffered the same indifference as his praise and the days simply moved onward in a similar way.

“Another case solved!” Arsené cheered, lifting a stout mug in the air for you to reciprocate with the long stem of your wine glass. It was a fragile tinkling sound, a gentle vibration up your fingers and into your wrist as you toasted his success. “I couldn't have done it without you, my beloved partner! If it's you and I, I could do this forever.”

You swirled the liquid inside; a light and dry, raspberry and vaguely earthy smell wafted up your nostrils before you tasted it and let your cheeks pucker. As you drank, you watched as Arsené lifted the stout towards the expanse of taut, clear skin that should've been his face, and saw liquid inside empty into nowhere.

[hantaslittlearsonist]

DARK POOL

aquatic monster x reader | 18+ | 2.8k

your granduncle claims that the noises coming from the basement were rats trying to escape drowning in the ocean outside the lighthouse and scavenging for food. more than being surprised by his audacity, you're astonished he hasn't noticed all the missing raw meat, yet...

story warnings; dark content, the creature is imprisoned, explicit sexual details, double penetration, ig the creature is experiencing some sort of rutting season?, some graphic + grotesque details, heavy prose + details, roughly proofread.

reposted from my deleted blog: theoxenfree.

this is an old concept piece for a larger story.

if you enjoyed, please support my work by leaving feedback and reblogging!! 💖

Uncle told you that the rats in Cape Tellis liked to swim and when they were in search of food, they didn't care how long they'd have to paddle through the water to find it. Some would simply drift with the current for days; black-gray fur rotted off, skin peeled off bone, little faces disfigured by sea and salt, but they would keep going until their bodies nudged the rust-red walls of the lighthouse and found the energy to scale upward to a window and squeeze inside.

He mentioned this anytime you had something to say about the ruckus down in the basement—sometimes scratching, sometimes powerful, erratic thuds that you felt pulse through the floorboards, through the rubber soles covering your feet, and into your skin. That place was sealed behind a rusted metal frame and door, deadbolted and locked with a key he always carried on a chain through a belt loop.

It always jangled when he walked because he had a limp so bad that his entire leg always dragged a pace behind him and took a great amount of effort to haul forward. When you had asked of it, as memory dictated a handful of years prior he didn't have such trouble, he first claimed it had been a bad sinus infection that got into his brain and disrupted something neurologically. In another instance where he had stopped for a third time on an evening stroll together, he had said he scuffed with one of Cape Tellis’ formidable rats and the mangy bastard had won and taken a chunk of meat out of him before scuttling back into the walls.

“Just ignore it, it's normal that they're active this time of year,” he was saying while scraping fried eggs out of a pan onto your plate. Meanwhile, you winced to the usual commotion downstairs. “They get real flighty this time of year. The rats do. They get frisky and chase each other all around. I don't know nothin' about them besides being persistent, ugly things, but it may well be their special season.”

You ripped a sharp edge in your toast and prodded the egg yolk until the sunny orb burst, oozing out across your plate before you could scoop it all up in the bread.

“How long does it take for the rats to go away?” you asked with some interest in his answer, if for no other reason to know what sort of yarn he'd spin next. The bread was buttered, the eggs unseasoned, but you ate it all anyway while watching him. “Are they permanent residents or do they come and go? You must be feeding them if they stay here.”

Granduncle took a long time to situate his bad leg under the table, longer to arrange his silverware and the direction of his food. “Oh, they have no interest in leaving, I don't think. If they really wanted to, I imagine they would've jumped back into the water and swam somewhere else.”

Each time the noises rose up between the wood slats under your feet during breakfast, granduncle told you not to worry about it, but you quieted every sound in your head to better hear rattling metal, reverberations of some sort—like having a man’s deep, anguished moan pressed right against your ribs. You weren't sure what you were looking for when you listened, only that you knew they were rats.

Granduncle looked at you, his appetite pushed away towards the center of the table with his plate. “Let's go for a walk, yes? The rain won't come back for a few hours.”

When you did walk after a meal, granduncle would often have to lie down with his dead leg propped up on a short stack of pillows for a long while. It became something of a habit of yours to exert him too much after dinner, forcing him to keep up with your youthfulness—your merry prances and unburdened soul.

For what it was worth, he did the best he could to never be a hindrance. He didn't seem to fully understand his own limitations either, making it quite a simple thing to steal the key from his belt loop while he slept—deep and silent, so much so that you needed to drop a tissue over his face from make sure he was still breathing—and unfasten the lock to descend a set of slick, stone stairs.

There wasn’t much at the bottom: a space half-flooded from seasonal rains raising the sea-level, old pieces of ship equipment hanging like ornamentation, an old folding chair that had yet to rust despite damp air, and a large hole in the ground that was dark like the throat of a nightmare envisioned in the most precious hours of night.

You held a plate of raw meat, freshly thawed from the freezer, outstretched with a flickering lantern in your other hand. Anywhere else, you'd have just brung a flashlight—but, he didn't like the bright lights, had ripped the last one out of your hands and smashed it against the wall. Oil lanterns were better tolerated, but he still seemed to cower from the gentle flickers.

So, you placed the meat on the seat of the folding chair and walked closer to the hole, wading a hand through seawater until touching braids of cold metal, chains pulled taut as though weighted down by an anchor. You gave the closest one a tug, always with the same caution as a child gripping his mother's clothes in uncertain times, and backed away.

He never made noise when he surfaced, always frightfully quiet, only indicated by a trail of bubbles that followed after where he roamed underwater. The first thing to emerge was a dorsal fin flared proudly from the middle of his head until midway in the deepest curve of his back. His eyes were on you, abysmal black things with a luster you likened to a landbound fish, and skin and scales that moved stiffly with his facial movements.

“You,” said the creature, toneless and in a voice far too raspy and deep to have an equal match amongst human men. “You have come. You are here.”

Months ago, he hadn't been capable of simple speech such as this. The noises he made were incompatible to anything you had ever heard—perhaps mere vocalizations he utilized underwater, possibly something long gone and archaic—but he had started mimicking you when you'd speak, and eventually you started slowing down, giving him the time to feel how the sounds vibrated in his own throat.

“I brought you food, again.” You gestured towards the seat with raw meat with your lantern, prompting his passing glance of interest before he was back on you. “Not hungry? He usually doesn’t feed you that well. I haven't been down here in a week or so, so I figured you'd be ready to scarf it down.”

“No.”

He came closer and the size of him grew, a towering figure with strong, broad-shoulders and a chest built to withstand the friction of the sea he used to own. His face, although hidden in darkness and flickering shadow cast from your lantern, gleamed as the light struck his iridescent scales. The shape of his lips were human-like yet taut, helping to comfortably fit his sharp teeth inside his mouth.

You'd wondered at times what exactly he was, what your granduncle believed him to be and feared so much to hide him away, chained to a wall. You fantasized that he could be the lost prince of some underwater civilization, or the offspring of several thousands of years of evolution between humans and something else.

He never seemed to understand you when you asked him what he was.

“Come,” his reach was limited by the chains that bound his limbs, keeping him shy of touching your body. “Come to me.”

With the lantern set aside, a distance you hoped wouldn't turn him petulant, you walked in his arms and the shackles and made home there as he surrounded you. His embrace was not the sort you could escape, nor was the kiss he pressed against your mouth.

There were parts of him you were too scared to touch, where his scales were like serrated teeth and he had much less control to retract at will like the dorsal find along his back. His lips were smooth and cold, however, a safe place for you to be on his body along with the hard flesh on his chest.

He pushed himself into your touch as your fingertips traced the shape of his torso, rose with the sprawl of his breasts and shoulders, molded into the ridges of his lower abdomen that you felt pulse and tense the further downward you roamed.

The sheath around his groin had swelled significantly and seemed to twitch when you smoothed your hand across it, kneading it gently to see what would come of doing so. You'd seen this only once before several months ago, a time where you'd been more frightened of him and fled from the basement for weeks when he'd acted more aggressive than usual.

It was one of the many things he had taken notice of that were perceived negatively—with fear and distance and shutting him away in this deep dark until you found the courage to feed him again, because your uncle was petrified along with being restricted in his ability to navigate the stairs with his lame leg.

So, he had learned to behave at the worst of times to keep food supplied, for you to stay wrapped up in him like this and so curious to challenge the extent of his self-restraint.

His kiss had grown full-bodied and restless and gone elsewhere on your body to a great expanse of skin. His face nuzzled into the fabric hiding your warmth from him, teeth tearing and fraying the threads that kept your clothes together until you stopped him.

“Stop—wait, wait, wait.” You walked back out of his arms once he was able to recognize the words. He reached for you despite the clattering bonds around his wrist, but you took your time to shuck the clothes from your body and fold them.

Once he had you back, he led you to the edge of the pool of endless depths and sank down inside of it. Your toes touched the very edge of darkness, stirring a rabble of butterflies in your gut that did not dissipate even once he resurfaced.

“Sit.” He gestured right at where you stood. “Sit down.”

The idea of having any part of your body submerged in the black water left you with little desire in continuing this, but you obeyed and slowly lowered your rear to the rim of the pool, legs speckled by gooseflesh as the cold water gripped up to the inside of your thighs.

“Yes, good.” He was close enough to push your thighs wide apart and stick his tongue inside of you. You took in a great sucking breath, startled from the suddenness of it and the long, articulate appendage massaging a part of you in a way no one ever had before.

You leaned back on your arms when they weakened and shook from the sensations, eyes flicking towards the drab ceiling, wondering just how far under the living quarters of the lighthouse you actually were and whether granduncle would hear any lewd sounds that were beginning to hum in your throat.

“Keep going.” He said when you moaned, tongue retracted from your body to mimic the ministrations you made with your hand and fingers while you stroked yourself. “Keep doing it.”

He nudged your hand away to put his mouth over that stimulated spot instead, sucking and licking along you with such fervor that you dissolved into hard pants and whimpers, tempted to close your thighs around his head and push him away as the tight warmth inside of you flushed out with a kaleidoscopic burst of color and cool air following the trail of something slowly oozing out of you.

It took a second orgasm and chanting turned to cries to get him off of you. That brief respite ended when he took you by the waist and dragged you into the pool with him. By that point, you were too far spent to have anything but unshakeable indifference to the depths and the cold.

His kiss was as it had been before, rough and restless, forceful in a way that left you malleable and melting against him. Even when he had your front wedged between the rim of the pool and his chest, you couldn't bring yourself to react much.

You felt his thighs mold to the back of yours before the slim tip of his cock pushed into you, the girth of it thickening considerably at the base. The friction of the water wasn't an obstacle for him to fuck into you with greedy thrusts that threw your hips forward, knocking skin and bone against the wall of the pool.

“Oh, oh, oh, oh—” the ridges of his cock were an unusual feeling, catching your walls in spots, spreading you wider when he'd withdraw part way and plunge back inside. “Oh, shit—feels good. Harder. Harder. Harder!”

There was truly never any way to know how much he understood when you said it, something called into question when his thrusts slowed to a stop, but he stayed hard inside of you. For a moment, the water settled along with your heavy breaths and blood gushing through your ears.

Things slowly came back into focus—the dancing lantern light, the room temperature meat, the wicked water in which you were immersed to the waist while the rest of you was braced by him.

He shifted behind you, adjusting his thighs so yours went even wider. Before you could ask the things you wanted to, a new sensation stole your breath—the swollen head of a second cock, different in shape and size from the first, pushed into you and lay flush atop the other.

“Don't—don’t move.” You were struggling to do the same thing with such an enormous stretch you'd never had to accommodate before. Tension built in your throat, whether a sob or a scream or your own anxiety, and stayed there to cinch your voice into silence.

He soothed you with lips and teeth all over your flesh; the back of your neck, the cartilage of your ears and the underside of your jawbone. His large hands left the shelf of your hips and felt along your front side, nipples, chest, stomach, and groin where he tried to recreate the same pleasure on you now as you had done for yourself earlier.

“Good?” He nested his cocks deeper when he heard you moan. The pain of it was beginning to subside, but the strangeness of it remained. “Is it good?”

“Just—just don't hurt me.”

His hands were back on your hips to keep you seated on his thighs while he thrust into you. It wasn't as easy for him to move as it was before, perhaps realizing the limitations of a human companion, but continued in snappy pulses that made the water lap at the skin on your back and turned your thoughts into senseless, garbled things.

Soon enough, you were riding a sloppy, savage rhythm to which you had no control of whatsoever as he chased his end. In moments where he seemed to regress into a natural state, almost animalistic in the way he rutted into you and buried his cocks, one would slip out and go forgotten for a time. The length of it glided against your groin, a smooth motion underwater that prodded your sore spots before he was able to fit it back into place with the other.

Amid your luscious sounds were those of his own; labored, air-sucking rasps that rumbled from places more than just his throat. They were probably never meant to be heard above the surface of water, just as he didn't belong fucking a human while being chained to a wall.

You thought about that fact while the last thrusts he took seated his cocks so deep that you ached, hard surges of warmth flooding your insides in a way unexpectedly delightful. He clung to you with his arms and shackles even well after he had emptied himself in your body and retracted both cocks into their sheath.

After a while, he hoisted you out of the water and followed you to retrieve your clothes. He stopped short of the chains pulling in the wall, watching while you wiped away the remnants of him oozing down the backs of your thighs and redressed.

“Don't go.” He kissed you and let his cold lips linger over yours. “Stay here.”

You returned the affection as endlessly as he gave it, only thinking that sunrise would soon come to pull you apart.

a/n; not even gonna lie, when I did a brief reread of this to apply warnings at the top, I burst out laughing at some parts. oh, past me, what were you thinking?

if y'all wanna see this rewritten and updated to better fit my current style, please let me know!

[hantaslittlearsonist]

am i having a brain bleed are people seriously considering NOVEL LENGTH FICS as small one shots now what is happening

[hantaslittlearsonist]

Fingering each others weapons is normal friend behavior

[hantaslittlearsonist]

I’m doing MHA reimagined because I’m bored. It’s a Dark Academia Univeristy setting during senior year. No quirks. All human forms.

Previously, Tenya Iida

Next, Ochaco Uraraka

Ochako Uraraka is optimistic, determined, and adaptable. She has a petite build, brown eyes and a soft, brown bob that frames her face. She speaks in a warm, encouraging tone and has a passion for the stars. Uraraka would major in astrophysics. Her studies would focus on gravitational physics, black holes, wormholes, as well as researching how gravity influences planetary formation and galactic structures. She would study how objects move in space, planetary orbits, and exploring the origins and fate of the universe, such as the Big Bang Theory. I picture her stargazing through an old observatory’s telescope and jotting down notes from aged astronomy books. While I originally considered Uraraka as a psychology major, given her helpful nature and creation of the “Quirk Counseling Expansion Project”, I wanted to avoid giving multiple students the same major. Of course, she can still have an interest in psychology!

Ochaco Uraraka 🪐

Let me know who to credit or remove !! ❤️

[hantaslittlearsonist]

*sound of 150 year old bones cracking*