#*runs out into the street laughing maniacally*

[alienseasfanfics]

Friction - Part 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!traumatized!Reader

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | AO3

Summary: When you're targeted by a violent stalker, Sam Wilson hires Bucky Barnes to guard you in an isolated safe house. This causes tension as you both get on each others nerves in an increasingly dangerous situation. But, you slowly come to realize you're more alike than you thought. Will it be too late when you finally let yourself trust him?

Word Count (for Part 1): 2.3k

Tags: Slowburn, reluctant attraction, enemies to lovers, forced proximity, bodyguard, hired to protect, fluff and angst, nightmares and comfort, eventual smut, reluctant attraction.

T/W: Some non-graphic depictions of violence, guns, eventual smut.

A/N: Hello. This will be just a few parts. I'm envisioning 5. Who knows though. Will be posted on my AO3 as well (linked here). Also, feel free to send short one-shot requests. I may not answer them all but if one inspires me, I'll write. Enjoy!

“If you keep staring at me, I’m going to sprint down the hill into oncoming traffic.”

“There is no oncoming traffic.”

“I’ll keep running until I find some.”

“Good luck.”

“Shut up.” You mutter, taking another swig of your coffee. Bucky Dumbass Barnes leans against the porch railing, watching you. You flip him off and he rolls his eyes, looking instead at the dirt road ahead.

The day is calm and cicadas are buzzing loudly. You draw your knees up to your chest as you watch the wind play with the grass, making it flatten and swirl into ever-changing circles.

It’s so incredibly boring out here, away from the city. There’s no coffee shops, or long walks down busy streets, or movie theatres. The lack of movie theatres hurts the most.

All you want to do is sit with people, too many people, anonymously sharing a laugh or a cry in a dark room. Free people don’t appreciate the amount of community that is shared within the walls of a theatre. The insight gleaned from hearing their murmurs to their friends about the attractiveness of the actors or the stupidity of the dialogue. You miss connecting with them and feeling, finally, like one of them. Anonymously. With the ability to leave afterwards, free to go about your business.

But now, all you do is watch the grass as Bucky watches you. Solely because of one stupid person with an obsession.

You chug the rest of your coffee and get up, limping past Bucky and letting the screen door slam behind you. He huffs, but you couldn’t care less.

The safe house has a rudimentary kitchen. Though, fancier than your own due to the coffee machine Sam brought as an apology for forcing you here. As you start another cup of coffee, you tap the counter with a finger. Sam said this would only be for a month. Just until they found out how He was tracking you. Then you could go back to your blissful anonymity in New York.

That is, if they could even find who He is.

That’s the flip side of the coin. You can disappear, until someone wants to find you. Then, it’s all that much easier for them to never appear to you at all, except when they want to.

The little voice in the back of your head whispers his name to you, but you close your eyes and silence it. He’s gone. He must be.

The coffee drips from the machine. It’s been overworked the past two weeks, both from you trying to cling on to whatever sense of normalcy you’ve cultivated outside of this house, and from Bucky trying to stay awake.

How long did Bucky say he was going to stay here for? Couldn’t have been more than a month. He’s always been sick of you within the hour in past missions. It’s a miracle he’s still around two weeks in. Once he’s decided he’s done, you can go back. Or when whatever Sam bribed him with is gone. And then, who else does Sam trust enough to know where the safe house is? He barely let you know. You’ll be going back in no time.

Sure, there’s a homicidal maniac after you, leaving traps that have caught you twice already and broken your leg both times, but now that you know his M.O. you can catch him. You’ve handled yourself before, who’s to say you can’t again?

The coffee machine beeps, and you take a sip from the cup. Your bad leg twinges, angry at supporting you for this long, and you grit your teeth. Your own body doesn’t believe in you. That’s a tough pill to swallow.

The screen door slams again as Bucky comes inside.

“There’s no more coffee.” You mutter, and he reaches into the cupboard by the door and pulls out a bag. Opening it, he comes over to the machine to refill, and you move gingerly out of the way. He doesn’t notice, or care, and continues.

“This is the last bag, though. We’ll have to go into town to get more.” He says to the coffee machine.

“I don’t think it’ll answer you.” You say.

“You don’t want me looking at you. I’m happy to grant that request.”

“I don’t want you watching me. That’s very different.”

“You’ll have to get used to me doing that.”

“Not for much longer.”

“Thank god. You’re the most irritating woman I’ve ever met. I don’t know who’s stalking you, but it must be the only person in the world who could put up with your bullshit.”

“At least someone can put up with mine. I don’t think anyone can handle this long with you.”

“I’m okay with not having a psycho leaving bombs on my doorstep.”

“My balcony. He left them on my balcony.”

“Touchey. Or however the fuck you say it.”

“Touché.”

He rolls his eyes, not answering you and instead methodically glancing over the sparse living room. After two weeks you know what he looks at. The boarded up back door, the windows with trip-wires stretched across the sills, the cameras blinking red and pointed at every egress point. If he wasn’t such an ass, you’d be impressed by the level of care he’s putting into his job. You know it’s just about the money, though. Money that’s quickly running out.

“How much did Sam pay for?”

“Coffee? Two months supply. You’ve been drinking it like the damned Energizer bunny, though.”

“No, your money. For your ‘services’, or whatever you call the peeping tom bullshit.”

He closes his eyes and sets his jaw. His neck muscle flexes beneath his collar. You’d think it was attractive if it wasn’t his jaw.

“That was one time. I knocked, and you didn’t answer. I told you to always answer. I didn’t ‘peep’ at anything, anyway.” He finally says after a minute of counting.

“You’re not my keeper.”

“For the next two weeks, I am. And then it some other poor idiots job to watch you.”

That makes you freeze, putting your coffee down.

“What?” You say, and he glances over at you.

“What, you want me to stay now?”

“No! What do you mean someone else will be watching me?”

“Well, if Sam and them don’t find Him, you’ll still need to stay here.” He’s talking slowly, as if talking to a particularly dumb child.

“That wasn’t the agreement. Sam said a month.”

“You’ll have to take that up with Sam. Besides, you want to go back there? Back to your apartment, that He knows about? Hell, He knows the security camera blindspots. And you want to waltz back in like everything is fine?” Now, he’s looking at you. You really hate it when he does that. He seems to always be studying you, picking you apart with his ice-cold eyes. It makes your heart jump into your throat.

You break the eye contact by looking into your coffee.

“I just want to go home.” You finally say into its dregs. You swallow the rest of it, putting it on the counter harder than you meant to. “I’m taking a shower. Try not to come in, weirdo.”

“Easy enough.” He mutters as you walk up the stairs.

- - -

That night, you’re running.

You don’t need to look behind you to know He’s there. You’re barefoot again, running on the rough cement of the lab, scraping your bare skin against the walls as you round the corners of the never-ending basement prison. The burn from your wounds is nothing to the one in your head. It’s making your vision blurry and your eyes red-hot, and you know he’s closing in on you.

Sprinting now, the lights behind you close one by one with an electric thud, like a giants footsteps getting closer to stomping on you by the second.

Thud. You’re blinking back fire. Thud. Your heart is giving out.

Thud. You can feel his breath on the back of your neck, sending chills down your spine as he finally-

Crash. You startle awake, a scream still ripping through your throat. You grab the closest thing to you -another coffee cup- and throw it towards the door that just smashed open. It narrowly misses a barely clothed Bucky as he ducks backward.

“Fuck!” He shouts, “Don’t surprise the guy with a gun! Gun safety 101!”

You notice now that he is holding one, its metal nose glinting off the moonlight coming through the bent blinds. His steel fingers share the same gleam.

“Don’t break into a sleeping woman’s room!” Is the only thing you can manage to yell back, turning away from him to wipe hot tears from your face quickly.

“I think the fact you were screaming loud enough to wake the dead is reason enough to come in here! I told you to not lock this door, by the way, so the whole breaking and entering thing is your fault.” He barks.

“Shut up, Bucky.” You whisper.

“Is someone in here? Why were you screaming?” The floor creaks under him as he steps into the room, looking around the corners.

“No one is in here, just go back to bed.” You’re gripping the mattress now, trying to calm down. He’s not making it any easier as he stops to stand behind you. There’s a soft ting of a bullet hitting the ground as he uncocks the gun, but he doesn’t leave.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Yes I did.”

“There were two questions.”

“I’m glad you know how to count.” You need to breathe. 1, 2, 3- shit. 1, 2- shit! Do you know how to count?

He’s quiet for a moment, and you almost think he’s left until he speaks again.

“Why do you insist on being so difficult?”

“Because I need to be.” You say breathlessly. Running a hand through your hair you stand up shakily, moving around the bed and going to the door. He’s standing in front of the doorway, not moving. In the dim light of the moon, the only part of him not shrouded in shadow is his metal arm. You try to avoid looking at it, knowing somewhere deep down that he hides it from you for a reason, with long sleeves even in the harshest sunlight. But the only other place to look is his chest or his face, which makes your cheeks feel hot even now. You settle on looking down at the bullet on the ground between you both.

“I need some water.” You murmur after a moment of him staring down at you.

“You need to answer me.”

“Please, Bucky.” You plead. Your defences fall for just a moment, but your lungs are starting to collapse. The world is starting to swim, and you’re not sure if its panic, tears, or the pain in your leg screaming at you to sit back down. Whichever one, you really don’t want Bucky to see it.

“Go back in bed. I’ll get it for you.” His voice is calm now. Quieter. Exhausted, the only answer you can manage is a nod, doing as you’re told and laying back down. You stare at the crack in the blinds and try to blink away tears as you listen to him rummaging in the kitchen.

He comes back too soon. He sets the glass on the nightstand behind you, but you don’t hear him leave. Sighing, you turn around, and finally look at him in the face.

His eyebrows are knit together, and as he looks at you, you can feel him studying you again. This time your stomach flutters.

You break eye contact again, sitting up and sipping the water quietly.

“Thank you, Bucky.”

“Sorry for crashing in.”

“Sorry for screaming.”

“Not for the coffee mug?”

“I’ve been wanting to do that.”

You flick your eyes up at him, and you think for a moment you see a smile, but it quickly falls away once he looks in your eyes. You both look at each other for a second, two, three, before its his turn to break contact. He runs his metal hand through his tousled hair, glancing down at his gun, the bed, the window, anywhere but you.

“When I, hmm.” He takes a deep breath. “When I have a bad night, I have to ground myself.”

“Ground yourself? Like a naughty kid?”

“No.” He pinches the skin between his eyes. “My senses. Y’know. Five things I see, three things I hear, one thing I feel. Until I calm down.”

“Oh.”

“Are you still on edge?” He glances down at your free hand gripping the mattress. You loosen it.

“I guess.”

“Do you want me to stay in here?”

“What?”

“Do you want me to stay in here. To...watch over you.” He’s still looking away from you.

“Aren’t you already doing that? Hence the gun?”

He rolls his eyes.

“If you don’t want me to, I’ll just-”

“Yeah. If you can. Stay here, that is.” The permission comes from a part of you that you’ve shoved down. Or thought you shoved down. Now, it’s speaking from the middle of your throat, stealing any breath you have with it.

He finally looks at you again, then slowly nods.

“Okay. I can. Let me grab a blanket.” He walks out of the room, and you’re finally able to breathe again.

Laying back down, you try to ground yourself. You see the armchair across from the foot of your bed, the window, the bent blinds, the broken patch of ceiling above you, the barely touched glass of water on the nightstand. You hear the croon of an owl outside, the orchestra of a grasshopper, the creak of the floorboards as Bucky comes back in. Closing your eyes, you try to focus on sleep.

You feel Bucky’s warm hand brushing against your skin as he pulls your blanket up to cover you, leaving you cold when he moves away.

Your muscles relax as you hear him settle into the armchair. Inexcusably, your brain tells you, he calms you. Happily, your heart slows, letting you fall into a dreamless sleep.

[huicitawrites]

Omen of the Cursed

Yandere! Ryomen Sukuna x Fem! Reader

TW: depictions of abuse, gore, mentions of suicide (non-descriptive), yandere

THE KING OF CURSES sits casually at the edge of the village well, biding his time. Two muscular arms support his weight on the cobblestone, while another relaxes on his knee, and his fourth is busy—clutching a decapitated head in his clawed hand.

Crimson stains adorn the tips of his fingers, and his feet are smeared with blood. Puddles gather in abundance throughout the village, and the earthy streets are littered with bodies and dismembered remains.

He has killed every single one of them.

He enjoyed it.

He relished in their screams and their agony: men, women, children, the elderly. They all sounded the same in the end, squealing and wailing like lowly pigs sent to slaughter.

At first, the village men tried to fight back, but once he claimed his first victim—his Dismantle technique turning a man into a mangled heap of flesh—they began to shriek and run. When they realized there was no escape, they started to beg.

Some cried for their children; others, for their lovers or themselves. It was amusing to observe how far they would go for survival. They offered everything they had: the village's meager gold, their wheat, their rice, their sheep. When they sensed his dissatisfaction, they turned on one another, offering up their wives, their children, their kin—one even stabbed his own brother and threw the corpse at his feet, declaring a desperate loyalty.

Yet, the King of Curses had come to finish what was started, he took their lives one by one, laughing maniacally in ecstasy and joy.

And so, he sits amidst his carnage—waiting.

The best was yet to come.

He tosses the head in his hand, its expression of horror still etched on the pale face as it rolls across the ground, leaving a trail of blood. He shakes his hand to rid himself of the crimson droplets before resting his four-eyed face atop it. His glaring eyes fixate on the village entrance, marked by a large, old Torii gate.

He recalls the day you abandoned him.

He remembers it all too well.

Ryomen Sukuna was born a cursed, unwanted little wretch.

Everyone believed it and treated him as such: the adults and elders in the village, who instilled their beliefs in their children. Even his own father abandoned him as a mere babe, leaving the village under the moon of Sukuna's birth. His mother, on the other hand, took her own life shortly after he learned to walk.

The villagers whispered rumors of a sibling he had devoured while still in his mother's womb.

Everyone despised him, and so young Sukuna began to despise them too—except for one.

You.

You probably knew of Sukuna as ‘an ill omen’ and ‘a cursed child forsaken by the very gods,’ but what surprised him was your disregard for the villagers' cruel words.

(He remembers the first day you met.)

“Hey,” your soft voice called to him in the village woods. He wore dirty, ragged clothes that contrasted with your colorful kimono. “Do you want to play with me?”

“Go away,” he spat, leaning back against the trunk of a tree, pretending to ignore you.

“C’mon, it’ll be fun,” you replied, rolling your eyes with a playful smirk. You crouched by the river, scavenging for the perfect pebble—a flat little rock. To your delight, you found a twin of it, and with both rocks in hand, you approached the bitter boy.

“Here, you have one,” you tossed him a pebble. “I’ll show you.” Your squeaky voice was impossible to ignore, drawing his gaze as you meticulously adjusted your stance. He recognized the blue fire coating the rock in your hand. His eyes widened, and a single thought sprang to mind.

‘Is this girl cursed like me?’

You threw the pebble expertly, and it bounced across the water’s surface three times.

“Did you see that?! Say it was cool, right?! Your turn now; it’ll be fun!” You jumped excitedly, pointing at the lake with a wide, joyous smile.

Sukuna snapped out of his thoughts and concealed his amazement. He didn’t want to admit it then, but it was a very cool shot. With a blank stare, he picked up the pebble at his feet and mirrored your stance. He held it between the tips of his fingers, took a deep breath, and unleashed his own blue fire. The pebble soared from his hand, bouncing farther and more times than yours.

You sparkled with wonder. “Say, can you teach me that? You can see it too, the blue fire!” Your tiny hands clasped his for a jolly handshake.

He remembers the burning embarrassment on his face, nodding and stuttering when you said, “Say… Let’s be friends!”

Back then, you were children who became great friends. You were so different, yet inseparable. You were a pretty daughter: kind, gentle, obedient, playful, and pampered by strict but loving parents.

On the opposite end, he was the village’s outcast. Shooed away from stores, despised by everyone. Parents forbade their children from being near him, adults mistreated him without remorse, and even the village priests scorned him.

Yet you laughed at his antics instead of scorning him. You cheered him on and even sewed him clothes out of spare cloth. You helped him flee when villagers chased him with pitchforks and torches and snuck him food or tea.

Like a moth to a flame, he basked in your warm kindness. As you two grew, he coveted your friendship, wishing for eternity with you by his side.

But as your teenage years approached adulthood, things began to change. While Sukuna detached from the village and its obligations, you became bound by expectations. Your mother filled your days with lessons on housewife duties—sewing, cooking, and manners—while your father began seeking suitors.

You wanted none of it; your spirit longed to explore the world, but your heart was tethered to your family, making it difficult to ignore your parents' wishes.

In a moment of desperation, he proposed an idea, but you laughed incredulously.

“So you say we ‘run away,’” you cocked your head. “I can’t just leave my parents behind. What kind of daughter would I be after all they’ve given me?”

He wanted to protest, to argue that he could take care of you, but you added, “Besides, we need money. A marriage would solve their issues. Yet…”

“I could marry you,” he blurted out.

The words spilled from his lips impulsively, and though he masked his bitterness, a knot tightened in his throat when you laughed.

“My parents would never give their blessings, they’d disown me first.”

“I’m not that bad of a choice.”

“Sure, a boy who steals and has no care or responsibilities makes a decent candidate,” you quipped.

He knew you meant no harm and understood the frustration behind your words. But he stood up and left, even as you apologized. You were speaking the truth. He was still an unworthy boy—weak, poor, a disgrace.

He couldn’t intervene as you left the village.

Three days before your departure, a foreign man appeared. Older, yet toned, with a staff in hand, he seemed a wandering monk- he later realized the old monk was a pesky sorcerer. He should have killed him back then.

The sorcerer interrupted one of your encounters, pointing his staff at you. His eyes sparkled with glee before darkening in disgust as they fell upon him.

Surely, he saw the monster would become - no, the one he was. The hate, the fury, the greed brewing in his dark heart.

The monk spoke with you, offering escape if you became his apprentice. Under the guise of holy work and financial compensation, your parents agreed to send you away.

“I’m leaving, then,” you stuttered, eyes cast down. You couldn't meet his dark crimson gaze, knowing the look of betrayal hiding beneath your stoic facade.

“I will come back to visit; I promise, Ryo,” you said, the pet name spilling from your lips with sweetness, but he huffed in response.

“I will be here waiting, [Y/n].”

Ryomen Sukuna left the same night you departed. He had nothing left in the village and without your presence, he could tolerate the shithole no more.

Two and a half decades passed.

He left as a cursed boy and returned as the feared King of Curses—Ryomen Sukuna.

As he stared at the Torii gate, his foot bounced impatiently, fingers tapping against the cobblestone edge.

Soon, a figure emerged in the distance—a traveler on a mule, donning a kasa. For a moment, he mistook you for the damned sorcerer monk, but he felt your familiar cursed energy. It seems you grew stronger through the years as well.

A wicked grin spread across his face, revealing sharp teeth and fangs. His four bloodshot eyes widened and pupils dilated in anticipation.

Finally, you crossed the gate.

“Welcome back,” the King of Curses greeted. “Do you like my welcome gift?” He gestured to the bodies and blood scattered throughout the devastated village.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you pulled back your kasa, revealing a solemn expression on a beautiful face. To Sukuna’s surprise, your eyes held no disgust, fear, or even anger, only a pitiful gaze that irritated him.

“Did you enjoy it?” you asked, ignoring his question. He huffed, wondering if you were attempting to seek a glimpse of that playful childhood friend.

The King of Curses laughed at your question, finding it absurd given the answer was obvious. “I found it most delightful,” he cooed.

Slowly, he detached himself from the well and stood before you. Even a few meters away, you could see the transformation he had undergone. He had become a beast—two extra eyes and arms, a mouth in his abdomen, a colossal build, and black curse markings embroidering his skin.

“It’s true then,” you sighed. “You’ve become the King of Curses, Ryomen Sukuna.”

“Tis how I’m called now.” It struck him as strange to hear his full name from you. “I must say it has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“How many have you killed by now?”

“I’ve lost count, darling.” Your frown deepened, and Sukuna’s smile widened. He noted how tightly you clutched the reins and how your body tensed. “My father and mo—”

“I’ve killed them both,” he cut you off, grinning wickedly. “Their deaths were slow and painful.”

“Ah…”

Now it gets exciting, he mused, watching as fury consumed your expression. This was the response he craved—a little punishment for abandoning him, if you will.

Tears streamed down your cheeks as you struggled to hold back sobs.

“I have come to slay you, curse,” you spat, mixing pity with spite. You clutched the cloak around you, prying it off to reveal white and red Miko clothing. You held a shakujō, likely a cursed tool.

This was not the first time someone had come to exact vengeance upon him, and it wouldn’t be the last.

However, it would be the last time you left him.

The King of Curses made the first move, closing the distance between you in the blink of an eye. He lunged forward, delivering a devastating blow.

You leapt from your mule, who perished instantly. Your body shivered from his overwhelming strength.

Sukuna continued his relentless assault. Blow after blow, all you could do was dodge—there was no time to parry or block.

In a fleeting moment of opportunity, as you rolled away and encountered his exposed back, you swung your staff, chanting, “Cleanse.”

A blinding explosion of cursed energy erupted against him, bright light streaming from the metal adornments of your staff.

For a moment, you thought you had succeeded—what a fool you were.

He was the King of Curses, after all; he was no longer ‘Ryo.’

Sukuna remained unfazed, standing with his back turned to you. Before you could gauge the danger, one of his lower arms seized your staff, crushing it into splinters. He turned, crimson irises meeting yours.

“Was that all, [Y/n]?”

He reveled in your shock, and before you could distance yourself, he conjured his own spell. “Cleave!”

Hundreds of cuts ripped through your skin, blood gushing from every wound. You choked and coughed, your body crashing to the ground in a futile struggle for breath.

“Does it hurt?” he taunted, voice dripping with venom. Lifting his chin, he added, “This is but a taste of how I felt back then when you turned your back on me, spurning me like everyone else.”

He loomed over you, body casting a shadow. The wicked grin evaporated from his face, voice turning serious. “I find the fear in your eyes delicious. It’s a satisfying punishment for what you did to me.”

Crouching down, he drew forth a hand ignited with cursed energy. Not the familiar blue you knew, but a clear white. You had never witnessed such a technique, your weary mind too occupied to marvel.

Sukuna hovered his hand over your wounds, and in a short time, you found yourself healed, yet the damage had already been done—the fighting, the murder of people.

The King of Curses encircled you with his four arms, lifting you as a husband would lift his wife. Despite the tenderness once present in the boy you knew, you turned your head to avoid his gaze.

He scowled at your rejection; your silent tears pierced his resolve more than any weapon. One hand cupped your cheek, forcing your gaze back to his monstrous face.

"Spurn me no more, I will not let you, not again", he warned, his fingers digging into your skin.

“You’ve become a monster—what their words condemned.”

“I’ve become a king.”

“-of curses.” You cut him off.

His many eyes narrowed, “So what? Human or curse, it matters not in the face of strength,” he said nonchalantly against your melancholy. “All that matters is that I am strong now and that we are reunited. Even if you spurn me, I will make you love me again.”

He sighed, his voice as soft as a whisper.

“The boy you knew may be gone, but you will learn to love the man he has become,” Sukuna assured, his four eyes gazing back at you with an affection that twisted your gut, making your heart race in fear. He began moving toward the Torii gate, carrying you as if you were caged in his embrace.

He inhaled your sweet scent— it reminded him of the home he never had, the one he desires to build with you by his side.

“Finally,” he lowered his face to yours, “we are together again.”

His lips tasted of iron and yours tasted divine.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

𝗔 𝗽𝗮𝘁𝗵 𝗼𝗳 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗿𝘂𝗰𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 || 𝗞𝗮𝗸𝗮𝘀𝗵𝗶 𝗛𝗮𝘁𝗮𝗸𝗲 ||

A/n: Wrote this before going into work. Also Au where Asuma and Jiraiya ( because I am still upset when they died)

The morning had started out peacefully enough. You had come down with a fever, and Kakashi, ever the doting husband, insisted you rest while he took care of your two-year-old son for the day.

How hard could it be?

It was just one tiny, adorable, chubby-cheeked baby.

Kakashi was a seasoned shinobi, an elite Jōnin, former ANBU captain, and the Sixth Hokage. He had faced S-rank criminals, rogue shinobi, and war itself. Surely, watching his own son for a few hours would not be a problem. He has dealt with Naruto so how hard could his own son be?

Oh, how foolish he had been.

Within the first hour, Kakashi had already learned one undeniable truth: his son was a menace.

The trouble began when he set the boy down for just a moment—just a moment—to grab him a snack. By the time Kakashi turned back, his son had vanished. A quick glance at the open window sent cold dread through him.

“…No,” he whispered.

But yes.

The baby was loose.

And The Great Chase Begins.

Kakashi leapt out the window, scanning the streets of Konoha with Sharingan precision. He spotted a trail of destruction leading toward the Hokage Tower. His heartbeat accelerated. He followed the path, dodging villagers who were either laughing or screaming.

Then, he heard Tsunade’s roar.

Bursting into her office, he found papers scattered everywhere, ink splattered across the walls, and an overturned sake bottle rolling across the floor.

At the center of it all? His son.

The boy was sitting happily on Tsunade’s desk, chewing on an official document, his chubby cheeks stuffed like a squirrel’s. Tsunade stood frozen, her eye twitching violently.

Kakashi grabbed the baby and bowed so fast he nearly snapped his back.

“So sorry—gotta go!”

And then he vanished in a cloud of smoke before Tsunade could launch him through the wall.

Then came the incident with the fruit stand.

Reappearing on the street, Kakashi sighed in relief. At least he had his son now—

Except he didn’t.

His son wiggled free with the skill of a seasoned escape artist and hit the ground running, his tiny legs carrying him with surprising speed.

Kakashi lunged, but it was too late.

The boy barreled straight into a fruit stand.

CRASH.

Oranges, apples, and melons exploded everywhere. The vendor screamed in horror as a cascade of pineapples rained down onto unsuspecting civilians.

“Oh no,” Kakashi breathed.

“Oh YES,” Naruto cackled from the sidelines, enjoying every second of the disaster.

Kakashi tried to grab his son again, but the little devil was already scurrying under a cart, giggling wildly. Kakashi dove after him, only to smack his head against the wooden frame with a loud THUNK.

Naruto wheeze laughed. “You’re getting your ass kicked by a toddler, Kakashi-sensei!”

Kakashi groaned, rubbing his head, just in time to see his son disappear again.

The next explosion Kakashi heard was not from an enemy attack.

It was paint cans.

Somehow, some way, his son had found an unattended cart of open paint buckets and had gleefully tipped them over.

Bright blue, red, yellow, and green paint flooded the street in a swirling rainbow of disaster. The child, now completely drenched in vibrant neon colors, looked like an abstract art project.

Kakashi deadpanned.

A civilian slipped on the paint and landed face-first into a fresh puddle of bright pink.

Another merchant wailed in the distance.

Naruto was on the ground, howling with laughter. Because of course the brat would laugh at his pain.

“MY—HAHAHA—THIS IS THE BEST THING I’VE EVER SEEN—”

Kakashi had tried to grab his son who was still giggling maniacally until he bolted, the toddler zigzagged like a seasoned shinobi and bolted into an open-air shogi parlor, where Asuma was enjoying a rare moment of peace with Shikamaru.

Asuma, seated comfortably, lit a fresh cigarette, exhaling slowly as he studied the board.

“Alright, kid,” he said to Shikamaru, who was already looking bored. “I’ll even go easy on you today.”

Shikamaru sighed. “Troublesome.”

Then…

A tiny, chubby blur EXPLODED into the parlor like a one-man natural disaster.

Before anyone could react, Kakashi’s son crashed into the table—flipping the entire shogi board into the air.

Game pieces flew like shuriken, scattering across the floor.

Shikamaru barely dodged a flying rook piece, while Asuma jerked back, his cigarette falling from his lips in shock.

And then…

The child grabbed Asuma’s entire cigarette pack from the table.

Kakashi froze in horror.

The innocent toddler giggled, waving the pack around before-

CRUNCH.

He smashed it between his tiny hands. Then, for the grand finale—

He stuffed the crushed cigarette pack into his mouth.

Kakashi launched forward.

Shikamaru choked on his own spit.

Asuma—eyes wide with the absolute devastation of a man who just lost his entire will to live—let out a strangled noise.

“Kid—NO!” Kakashi yanked the pack away, frantically checking his son’s mouth, finding only slobbery cardboard.

The child cackled, delighted by his father’s panic.

A long, heavy silence filled the ruined shogi parlor.

Shikamaru exhaled slowly. “Wow.”

Kakashi did not have enough strength to apologize. He just bowed his head in shame.

Asuma’s soul had left his body.

His cigarette pack—his beloved, full, brand-new pack—was reduced to mush.

“…He’s a monster,” Asuma whispered, staring at Kakashi’s son in stunned defeat.

The child grinned up at him, covered in drool, completely unrepentant.

Kakashi sighed, rubbing his temples. “I swear, I’ll buy you another pack.”

Asuma waved a shaky hand. “It is not about the money, Kakashi. It is the principle.”

Kakashi grabbed his son and ran. Before Asuma could change his mind and strangle them both.

But buy the time he looked down his son was no longer in his arms, the giggling toddler vanishing around a corner.

And

Just when Kakashi thought the worst was over, he spotted his son ripping apart the pages of a brand-new Icha Icha book.

Jiraiya’s brand-new manuscript.

Pages fluttered in the air like cherry blossoms.

Jiraiya stood frozen, mouth agape, eyes empty as he witnessed the horror.

Kakashi whispered, “I can fix this.”

Jiraiya slowly turned to him, his expression that of a man who had just lost everything.

“…You can’t.”

Before Kakashi could attempt damage control, his son—now completely covered in paint, fruit juice, and crumpled pages—wiggled out of his grasp one last time and took off toward home.

Kakashi burst through the door of your shared home, panting, sweating, and disheveled.

Your son sat innocently in the middle of the bedroom, clothes still stained and playing with a wooden block as if he had not just caused Konoha’s worst day in months.

You sat up groggily from bed, blinking at Kakashi.

“…Why do you look like you got hit by a tornado?”

Kakashi hesitated.

“…No reason.”

He scooped up his baby, who smiled sweetly at him, as if he had not just terrorized an entire village.

You hummed. “Did he behave?” Your head still spinning, sleep attempting to take you.

Kakashi forced a smile.

“Of course…he was a perfect angel.”

[godhandler]

[Martial arts coach! Sukuna x down bad!reader, huge age gap, couple of god-complex maniacs pining for each other, Sukuna being a tough coach]

“You won’t make it.” Sukuna spits carelessly, unwrapping his sweaty gloves post training. There are promising students he’s scouted in his gym, his favoured ones who’ll be the cash cows winning tournaments, buzzcut boys with tight abs who laugh mid-fight. Growing in his shoes. You’re not one of them. “You’re not good enough.” It’s a statement. 

No, you grit your teeth, it's a challenge. 

Sukuna the Ryomen: beastly calamity in the ring. Raw talent picked off the street, 80 international tournament wins over 25 years, bachelor villa bought with notoriety money. The Undisputed King of the Curses. 

Two-faced, he’d play by the rules as much as he wanted to– ran his tongue over the cheek of an opponent while choking him in a headlock, jammed his knees into countless shattered ribs, snapped spines into halves. He once bit a chunk out an opponent’s neck, goopy blood running down his chin and pecs as he laughed at the horrified screams of the audience, medics running, judges whistling, TV ratings shooting up like firecrackers.

He keeps that piece of chewed flesh, big as your fist, preserved in formaldehyde, on display in his office behind the locker room. It’s oddly captivating– you want to pull his lips up, matching his teeth to the canine marks on the chunk. 

Nutcase. Martial arts fiend. Often disqualified, but never for long: handsome money-maker was he. No one would turn up at a competition if not to watch the fiery Sukuna. His posters filled your childhood bedroom walls, unsupervised access to his gruesome fights on the internet, early 2000’s gossip columns of his many affairs with thin-thighed supermodels, little you copying his moves in front of the mirror. 

So yes, he could be as harsh to you as he wished, who gave a shit now when you’re lucky enough  to bask in his glow? You work just as hard as those boys, deserve his attention just as much, regardless of how cruel that attention comes. If you want to make it, Yuuji tells you, you callus your heart more than your achy knuckles. 

Sometimes at 3.45 am you wonder that if you had gotten more parental love and attention, you wouldn’t have attached yourself so deeply to this retired monster. Too late now, you suppose. 

A few days ago,  Megumi, one of Sukuna’s prize boys, said over a bowl of tteokbokki after practice, “Kamo Noritoshi likes you. So you can go after him and leave the elderly alone, okay?”

“I beat Kamo to a pulp, remember?” You pointed with poked tteok. “There’s only one of you losers I can’t beat and that’s who I’m fucking. Don’t go ruining my ambitions, Megumi-chan.”

The boy just sighed, ordering another bowl to go. Megumi, content being the sacrifice bunt, will never understand and it's not something you can explain. 

It’s that hunger that keeps you awake at night; you don’t want a trophy, you want the trophy– Ryomen Sukuna himself, the greatest one to be won. To be fucked, chewed, swallowed, surpassed. You want to have him, you want to be him. He’s you and you’re him and it’s written fate and oh god you need to go to therapy megumi was right you need to start taking your damn meds on time why is it 3 am again?

……. 

“Sup, coach!” 

You’re a cockroach. You arrive half an hour before session starts, practising kata moves by yourself, grappling dummy puppets double your weight to the ground, turning extravagant somersaults. Standing in front of the line. Every new move Sukuna demonstrates, you ask a billion questions, getting it right exactly as he does it. Running the extra lap, the extra sparring bout with your friends, the extra push-up. 

Sukuna peers inside Megumi's mouth, poking his finger into his gums, checking for any bleeding. Despite his actions, he’s not blind to you, the itchy teeth in your maw. 

It’s not just a sport for people like you and Sukuna. People a little fucked in the head. People whose names, announced out loud, get the audience jumping and cheering, the main attraction of the night. Hurricanes out to flatten the competition. 

See, it’s not about the points. Just the gold doesn’t satisfy: you want blood and broken teeth on the floor after you’re done. You want your opponents to refuse to fight you. You want them crawling, begging for time-outs, their coaches throwing the towel in to save their lives, their teary mothers cursing your very sight. Just like Sukuna.

Sukuna who relishes in your eyes on him. The way your breathing quickens childlike when he wrestles your face to the dirty mat, arms twisted behind you, his heavy foot pinning you down. The way you linger a bit longer when he shrugs his gi off, thick biceps flexing against the overhead lights. What a nut, he thinks: bitten fingernails, daddy issues, all the wrong things that excite you. This one’s gonna kill.  

Your hunger he rears by starvation. The harder you fight for a scrap of his attention to prove yourself, the sweeter you get. He can almost see his own tattoos on your eager face. 

So narcissistic, the way his pants tighten when he watches you fight: it's his devilry that flashes in your young eyes. Too young for him, some noble nonsense of not fucking your student, like he gives a rat’s ass. A rising Alexander, he’ll pick you for himself the second you’re good enough.

He knows to wait for it. Latchkey kids like you, raised to fight for love, you’d never want something you could have. The unreachable glory of Sukuna was what made having him worth it. 

He also knew that once you had him, you’d dig your teeth into him so hard that you’d tear right through him. Maybe preserve him in formaldehyde too. 

Not that he’ll spoon-feed you chances for that. Not that he has to, when you do it for yourself.

“Coach, could you spar with me?”

He’s terribly pleased, but the frown he wears for you remains on his face. “Aiming too high, brat.”

“Sorry,” an apology that you don’t mean in the slightest. “But I think I can qualify for the next tournament, coach. I can start cutting weight tomorrow. Put me in this time, please, coach!” 

“You’re not good enough.”   “Let me convince you, coach.”

“Convince me?” He sounds so bored, as if you’re the greatest waste of his time.

I’ll change your mind, you promise.

I’d like to see you try– he’s amused.

“Oi, Todo! C’mere, beat this one for me. You–” he bends down to hold your chin, privately delighted at your blushing face. “– you score six points in sixty seconds against him, maybe I’ll think of putting you on the tournament roster.”

Right. Aoi Todo, brawler build, has the height and weight advantage on you, which means he’ll go for grappling techniques and try to pin you down to the ground. He’s not the type to go easy on anyone, and he likes to show off, so he’ll keep it short distance and try out some fancy kicks– he’ll waste time on performance and then you’ll get time to return attacks. Here’s the M.O. then: you keep light on your feet, dodge every single attack of his, and go for the head. Amen.

Todo squares up, entering the ring, dabbing you up in a show of good faith before assuming his fighting stance. Just as you predicted, his arms are open to take you down. 

You hold your ground. Todo, my friend, you grin at Sukuna, who for once has all his attention on you, I’m going to kill you. 

Sukuna blows the whistle, and immediately Todo lunges for you. A feint, for he changes tactics immediately and is punching you from the left. You have to jump over his shoulder to avoid it (Yuuji whoops), land behind his back, and before he can turn around, kick his spine so hard that he stumbles forward a bit. 

“2 points!” Sukuna checks the time: it’s been 6 seconds. 

Todo’s impressed too, you can tell. You’re distracted: Sukuna nodded at you! Both of you come back to your original positions, ready for the next point match. The whistle blows. 

He’s cautious this time– you kick his shins but he doesn’t yield an inch, so you attempt an upper-cut, but are caught unawares by his hook straight to your mouth. 

“Todo–1 point!” Your jaw feels dislocated, there’s tears threatening to brim in your eyes. Did you forget your meds again? Why can’t you stop giggling? 35 seconds gone.

Restart. You’re playing dirty now, tripping his ankle as he comes forward to attack. You pass through between his legs (using his height to your own advantage) to get behind him again. As if he was expecting it, you dodge his back kick, taking the moment where he’s off balance to land a 360 kick– right on his face. He groans in surprise, but you’re not done.

This isn’t about winning fair or showing sportsmanship spirit, you remind yourself as you pull Todo’s face into your knee, repeatedly, the sick sounds of his nose cartilage crunching. This is about you, Sukuna. 

He blows the whistle. 42 seconds, the match is over, Todo’s burst his sinuses open, bleeding too badly to avoid medical intervention. A K.O. you’re calling it. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you’ is Megumi’s opinion. 

“Decent.” Sukuna’s smiling. Buzzed giddy on adrenaline and sweat, you want to kill the both of you. “Fine. Start the diet tomorrow.” He’s already leaving, other students to tend to. You’re a tad disappointed: you thought it’d be him checking your bleeding jaw, not the medic. Still, you’re happy taking what you can. It doesn’t come by often. “Come by my office after practice.”

a/n: i wrote this while looping bread by anya nami, really elevated the experience

[darylbae]

never again — daryl dixon 🩰

in which you reunite with daryl after him being taken by the Saviours

note: i had to get this off my brain before i forgot about it & also it's not 100% story accurate as season 7 was so long ago for me lmao

You were a crack shot with a gun. You were quick, reliable, efficient. But nothing prepared you for this.

Negan.

Being on your knees, Lucille being swung around recklessly by the psychopath you'd met only moments ago, you were holding it together. You'd seen a lot since the world had ended, done a lot, lost a lot. Something just felt worse about this, the not knowing, the complete and utter defeat plastered on every face around you. You looked over to Daryl, who you'd only just seen again, being dragged out of a vehicle by one of the many ruffians. The two of you locked eyes for just a moment, hoping to not give anything away between the two of you. His eyes were desperate, helpless, full of every ounce of love his body could carry. Hoping he could give it to you in person soon. You tried to be strong, for the group, for yourself, but this was a loss. There's no trying to be tough here, they had the upper hand. Negan was playing with everyone, playing a party game to choose who dies, laughing maniacally at the tears and shivers you all shared. You lost your breath when the bat clocked Abraham's skull, diverting your eyes away out of pure fear. Fear. At one point that was only reserved for the dead, but you'd come to realize humans were way worse. Everything blurred together after that. Daryl having a moment of courage and clipping Negan before being held down once more. Glenn being hit. Your eyes burning and jaw hurting from clenching your teeth so hard. It had taken every last bit of humanity out of you. You'd lost two parts of the family keeping you glued together. And there was nothing you could do. Your once bright demeanor swapped for one moodier, angrier, emptier. Daryl had been taken by Negan, to be kept. Like a pet. Your mouth dried as you saw him thrown into the back of a vehicle, like an animal, like he meant nothing to nobody. But he meant something to you. The love of your life. The reason to want to survive this mess daily. He meant everything to you. Even from before, you'd never had a connection like this with anyone. Daryl understood you, knew you, cared so deeply for you, and you him. You spoke about marrying, about finding a nice place to yourselves one day, about making a beautiful family to devote your time to.

You stayed in Alexandria, out of fear. You wanted to leave, you wanted to tell Negan to shove it, you wanted to side with Rosita and stand up for yourselves, like you always had. But Negan having Daryl changed everything for you. You didn't want to do anything to put him in harm's way, you wanted him back. Negan and his group would occasionally come in, take whatever they wanted, and leave. You'd see Daryl, all dirty with his head low. And you'd tell yourself it wasn't him. That wasn't your Daryl. He'd look at you, and you could still see him in there, but the looks were always fleeting. So you'd sit in your house, parts of your furniture gone, waiting for your turn with Lucille. You'd sit on your porch, a blank stare cast over your face as you think about him. You'd sit out here together, reading a book to him as he massaged your legs that were propped up on his lap. You'd join him out here for a smoke, not to smoke but for company, and you'd talk to him about a cute thing Judith did that day, or what you thought your own kids would look like. Nobody was happy living like this, trembling at the sound of the whistling, or the men just wandering around the streets and homes. But Rick was submitting, he had to. There was no other way. You'd lost all motivation for anything, you'd force yourself on runs, finding resources for Negan. Then you'd come back, sometimes eat, but mostly sleep and think about Daryl.

There were small talks of a fight back, like Maggie had spoken about the morning after Negan. She was on Death's door last time you saw her, but you had hoped and prayed her and Sasha were okay. Rick had shut down every idea of fighting back, saying this is how to survive now. You'd even gone over to him, pleading to do something.

"Please, Rick," you cried, stood at his door with tears sliding down your cheeks, "I need him back." "I know." Was all he said, pulling you into his arms. The comfort was nice, but these arms weren't the ones you wanted around you.

Then you'd lost Spencer, Eugene, and almost Rosita. Your emotions were burning inside of you, you felt like a spectator in this sick, twisted game. Enough was enough.

"I'm fighting, Rick," you spoke, your voice low. Broken but determined. Michonne stood by you; you needed to go to war. There's no more lying down and taking it. "We've lost so much, too much, for this to be our lives now." You cried, "I'm not losing anything else. Anyone else."

You were headed to Hilltop, where Maggie and Sasha were. You were hopeful for their health, and survival, and to see them both on the other side of those gates, was a sight for sore eyes. "You were right," Rick said to Maggie, but you couldn't hear the rest. Your eyes had drowned out everything around you. Your eyes, you thought, were playing tricks on you. There he was. You'd walked over to him, unsure if this was just another nightmare like the previous nights, or if this was him. Daryl. Standing in front of you. The two of you just looked at each other, unable to comprehend what you were seeing. Until Daryl had opened his arms for you, crying into your shoulder as you were his. The two of you a sobbing mess in each other's limbs. "I got ya back," he whispered, for only you to hear, "I've been thinking about ya every day. I couldn't stop." "I'm here." You cried, holding him tighter against your body. "I'm not going anywhere, you're never leaving me again." "I know, baby, I know."

[jinxposting]

Jason Todd x Jinx! reader Chapter 1

Debut

Your official debut as the Joker's sidekick didn't come till you were 17

People knew of you prior to this, they knew Joker and Harley had been harboring a little maniac with a penchant for bombs

The uptake in explosives the Joker employed was less than subtle proof something had changed

Harley being a tad more mentally stable (tad being the key word) didn't want their surrogate child being caught in any crossfire

Joker didn't care

So they compromised with you being allowed to build your devices but not allowed to have any direct involvement in their escapades

Then you grew older and more confident

You demanded to be more involved

This of course came with risks

No more free roaming the streets of Gotham, now you'd have a target on your back

And most notably there was the Batman

Though he didn't know the exact nature of your relationship with Joker he was already well aware of your existence, just not your face or name

Until today

You were tasked with protecting the Joker's new cargo shipment. Weapons for the henchmen, canisters to house laughing gas, just your typical odds and ends. Easy work.

Or it should have been.

The Bat decided to make an appearance. He made quick work of your 'partners' (low level thugs really). You weren't worried though. You knew that the Dark Knight had strict rules not to kill. But you didn't.

You triggered the preemptively placed smoke bombs. Walking out to the front of the ship, still unloaded and parked in the harbor, you came face to face with the infamous Batman.

He stared you down, no surprise nor malice. Just a warning look.

"Hi."

You pulled the pins on two grenades and threw them at the man. With a flourish of his cape he shielded himself. Long enough for you to slip away.

That was until a blur of red and black caught your eye. And a fist. You weaved out of the way, barely missing the punch.

"Woah there, Boy Wonder. Don't you know the rules? You can't hit a girl!"

"You're not a girl, you're a villain."

"It's called duality."

The boy growled and threw another punch. Again, you weaved out of range. You reached behind your back for the gun you kept on hand. With a swift kick however, it went flying from your grasp. You were tackled to the floor, Robin pinning you down with a snarl.

"You aren't used to a fair fight, are you?"

"Fair my ass, there's two of you!"

"What are you even supposed to be?" The boy scrutinized your appearance. "Joker 2.0?"

"Jinx."

"What?"

"My name is Jinx."

The masked boy scoffed. "That doesn't match at all."

"Oh, and remind me what a robin has to do with bats?"

The boy opened his mouth only to immediately close it. He looked away in embarrassment. "I didn't pick it."

An opening.

You kneed him between the legs before rolling him over. The boy groaned out in pain. Before you could run a hand pulled you by the hair. You curse your long braids.

"That's enough."

You turned to eye the large man in black. There he stood, scowling, with a fist full of your green locks. You stared blankly.

"Can you let go now?"

"Depends. Are you going to run?"

You merely offered a smile

"Then no."

That was the first time you found yourself in the back of the batmobile.

Restrained to your seat of course, held against your will, Batman attempting to interrogate you. Still, you couldn't help but beam at the vehicle. Buttons and switches lined the dash with a voice activated screen in the middle. Hell, even the seats were equipped with built in tasers. You were in awe.

"This. Is. Amazing! What's the mileage on this baby? Do you really have an oil slick? What about tire jacks?!"

"Wouldn't you like to know."

"Uh, duh! That's why I asked."

The boy in the seat ahead of you mumbled something you couldn't hear. If your legs were free you'd have kicked the back of his seat.

"Hey, Boy Blunder. What's your damage? You caught me, didn't ya? Quit whining."

"You kicked me in the-!"

"Robin."

Batman didn't even take his eyes off the road. At least you don't think he did. Hard to tell with the mask. The boy crossed his arms defensively. Though he didn't say anything.

Oh? This would be fun.

"So... why a robin? Small, dainty, useless..."

He turned in his seat to face you. "So help me-"

"Robin."

"But she-!" The Bat glared this time. "I'm just supposed to let her trash talk me?!"

"You're supposed to ignore her."

"Yeah, Robin. Ignore me." You grinned.

Before he could retort a sudden crash reverberated through the car. Green smoke flooded the windshield. You'd recognize your handiwork anywhere.

"Hey, Batsy!" You heard Harley sing out. "I think you took somethin' o' mine."

It didn't take too long for Harley to rescue you. Batman may have strength but your family has speed. And bombs. Lots of bombs.

When you returned to the hideout Joker was less than pleased. You fumbled the shipment and had to be rescued. How pathetic.

Now he thinks I'm weak.

I am not weak!

And I'll prove it.

[chelseeebe]

somebody's watching me

day one of spooky week starts with eddie! a very cliche horror movie drabble to start off, r is babysitting and eddie just can't stay away

18+. mdni. smut. general horror tone.

๋࣭ ⭑🕸🦇🕸๋࣭ ⭑

“No Eddie,” you scold your boyfriend playfully, twirling the phone chord around your finger, “I told you I’m babysitting,” glancing up the, finally quiet, stairs, “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow, I promise.” 

He huffs, letting out a long, throaty whine from his throat, “but it’s Halloween tonight. I even rented Evil Dead for you, the new one too!” 

“And we can watch it tomorrow,” frowning though you really did find his incessant pleading quite sweet, “they’re paying me like fifty bucks for this.” 

Eddie sighs once again, “alright sweetheart, I get it,” reluctantly stopping his begging, “I’ll see you later, okay?” 

You smile to yourself, clutching the plastic telephone in your hand as if he were really here, “okay, I love you.” 

“Yeah, I love you too,” hearing his grin through the staticky phone line before it cuts off. 

Quickly placing the phone back onto its rightful place on the table. Mr. and Mrs. Dunstable had said you could use it as much as you liked after six, but you’d felt guilty enough about calling Eddie in the first place. 

Settling in to watch the TV all night instead. Deciding to flick over the channel playing ‘The Babysitter’ to find literally anything else instead. You weren’t scared per say, but chancing fate on a night like Halloween seems like a bad idea. 

You’re half-way through the movie, when something clangs outside the window, a metal echoing that sends shivers down your spine. You sit bolt-upright, grabbing the decorative vase as pitiful protection. 

It was probably just neighbourhood kids playing a cruel Halloween night trick. Wanting to scare the lone-babysitter like all the movies did. 

The sound starts again, only this time on the other side of the house, right outside of the back door. 

You glance quickly upstairs, wondering if you were truly prepared to lay your life down for those snotty kids or if you should just sprint out of the house as fast as your legs would carry. 

Oh my God. This is it. 

You hadn’t done even half the things you’d wanted to, dying alone in a strange house wasn’t exactly in your twenty-step plan. 

The back porch light flickers on, illuminating the empty yard through the wide glass doors. There’s no one there, it’s just the wind, maybe a stray cat running from the kids on the street. Any excuse you can conjure up to try and convince yourself that this wasn’t real. 

Before you can even attempt to settle your heartbeat, a face appears at the door, causing you to yelp in utter terror. 

He’s already laughing by the time you stand from the couch, in fits of laughter behind the glass, falling over onto the dewy grass. 

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you hiss, sliding the door open and to reveal your petulant, juvenile boyfriend. Laughing maniacally to himself as you try kill him with your mind. 

“Oh baby don’t be like that,” collecting himself from the floor, still snickering to himself, “I had to do it.. you can’t blame me,” grabbing hold of your arms, hoping to calm you down. 

“It’s not funny,” you pout, though you don’t push him away, “what’re you even doing here? I told you I was babysitting,” certain that the Dunstables would never approve of your boyfriend and his torn clothes coming into their pristine house. 

“I just wanted to see you,” Eddie coos, sliding his hands up the length of your arms, cradling your cheeks, “my pretty girl s’all alone,” already gently edging you back inside, his motives were definitely not unclear. 

“I’m not completely alone,” glancing over your shoulder to the stairs, you hadn’t heard a peep out of the kids all night. “They’ll never want me back if they find you here,” keeping him at arms length despite his grabby hands pawing at your waist. 

“I’ll be gone before they get back.. stop worrying about it,” fully walking you back into the dimly lit room, closing the door behind him before you could push him back through it. 

You hum with caution, though you do nothing to stop him from walking you back to the couch, fingers toying with the hem of your tee. 

“You’re so…” kissing the back of your teeth, all the while allowing him to lay you back on the soft cushions, his body falling on top. 

“So…?” quirking his lips into the most Eddie-like grin, real smug and smarmy. 

“Bad,” you bite, threading your fingers through his hair, throwing your head back in anticipation of his lips on your neck. 

Eddie nestles his face into the crook of your neck, starting with gentle kisses to the sensitive skin to quickly baring his teeth, sucking and nibbling at your collarbone. 

“Mmhm,” moaning in response to his lips moving slowly down your body, “we have to be careful.. and quiet,” placing great emphasis on that last part, because Eddie was anything but quiet. Even in his everyday life, he was the loudest human you’d ever encountered. 

His fingers lift your shirt further upward, exposing your stomach and the goosebumps that had appeared. Lips making their way down with a path of gentle kisses, keeping your hips steady with his heavy hand. 

You relax, finally. Allowing him to tug your jeans down so he can position himself perfectly between your legs. His face already buried deep in the middle of your supple thighs, kissing the soaked lace that dressed your cunt. 

“Sh-shit,” you shudder, arching your back already. 

Eddie’s fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling ever-so-slowly, the cold air hitting your slick folds. He purrs as the lace comes off, licking his lips in sheer anticipation. 

“So wet f’me already,” slinging his arms tight around your thighs, ensuring you stay put throughout. 

You hum, bashful over your obvious arousal. Gasping quietly when his tongue slides through your folds, lips latching onto your aching clit. 

Your head falls back against the pillows, pushing the inevitable guilt from your mind to not your boyfriend worshipping your pussy. 

Eddie groans with each lap of his tongue, grinding his hips down into the couch, aching for just an inch of relief. Keeping his eyes trained on your pretty features despite your eyes struggling to stay open. Fluttering shut as soon as his finger teases your neglected hole. 

“Fuck Eds,” tightening your hold on his curly strands, “I missed you so much,” turning to incoherent babbles in an attempt to quieten your growing mewls. 

His lips vibrate against your cunt, probably agreeing with your mindless mumbles though all it does is make you louder, fingers pumping in and out while his tongue circles your clit, like this was the only thing he could eat for the rest of his life. 

His tongue doesn’t falter, circling your clit unrelenting as he tries to pull you to climax. An iron-tight grip keeps your wriggling hips pressed to the couch, desperately trying to grind your cunt against his face. 

The lights hit your eyelids first, bright white strobes of lighting that force your eyes open and immediately to the window. 

“Oh shit Eds,” you whine, frantically grabbing onto his hair to pull him up. 

“I know baby,” he coos, pulling his face from out of your pussy, still muffled by your thighs slung over his shoulders. 

“No Eddie, get up!” the headlights blare through the slightly cracked curtain, illuminating the x-rated scene happening in their living room. 

Eddie’s face re-emerges, shining with your slick, “oh fuck.. oh fuck- shit fuck,” scrambling to get from between your thighs and off of the couch. 

Only he doesn’t do so with any grace, landing on the floor with a loud thud, frantically grabbing your discarded underwear and tossing them vaguely towards the couch. 

“Oh my God!” you jolt upright, pulling your clothes back on, albeit skewed and twisted. Praying to God that they’d want to skip the small talk and let you leave immediately. 

You shove Eddie back towards the doors, pushing him outside just as the engine turns off, “I’ll be a couple minutes.. wait around the corner for me.” 

His lips quirk to the side, taking one last grab at your shirt to pull your face next to his, planting a disgraceful last kiss to the side of your mouth. If anyone were to ever try their luck as much as he did, they’d be locked away forever. 

“Get off of me dumbass! Go!” refusing to reward his petulant behaviour before sending him off into the night, the door coming shut with a slam. 

The key rattles in the front door, your cue to spring back over to the couch, adamant to keep up the facade for as long as it takes for you to get your money and get out of there. 

[sharksfrommars]

What was Ford's time in the Asylum like? How'd they even find him, and what made them come to the conclusion that he killed his twin, with no body?

Bill took over Ford’s body a LOT in the early days. He also messed with his brain like he threatened to do in tbob. He was messing with him because he felt betrayed. So ‘Ford’ was running around being a menace to society, and actually hurting people, then leaving a lucid Ford to deal with the consequences. Bill doesn’t like to lose.

Ford gets apprehended when he drives Stan’s car into a building. The cops check the registration plate, and the Pines family send Shermie to see ‘what trouble Stan’s gotten himself into’. Shermie is shocked to see Ford, trying to gouge his eye out.

no one has any clue where Stan is. Shermie didn’t even know Stan came to gravity falls? He has been looking for Stan for a long time, knowing that his little brother was on the streets somewhere. He wanted to give Stan a place to stay and the sporadic phone calls from across the country all led to naught. Shermie insisted on an investigation, which led to them going through the shack.

It’s a BLOODBATH. And because they’re identical twins, the cops can’t distinguish what’s Stan’s blood and what’s Ford’s blood. That in an of itself is suspicious enough, but then they find the postcard.

The cops say it was premeditated. That Ford intentionally asked Stan to come to gravity falls, so he could kill him. They thought Ford used him for his spooky science experiments. Everyone knew weird shit happened in that shack in the woods. The shrine to Bill they found didn’t help either. They thought Ford was a satanist, and this was in the middle of the satanic panic. He even played DDnD, which everyone knew was the devil’s game.

during the trial, Bill thought it would be funny to give Ford hallucinations of rats devouring his body the entire time. And, when Ford inevitably passed out, Bill took the stand. He wanted Ford ruined, wanted him to know that Bill would ALWAYS have power over him. It wasn’t even about the portal anymore. It was about Bill’s wounded ego, about how he wanted Ford to worship him.

bill took the stand and, with a crazed smile, spun a wild tale of how Ford killed his brother. It was gory. Bill laughed as he talked about hammering nail’s through Stan’s hands just to hear him scream, about flaying him whilst he was still alive. He said he ate Stan, and made him watch. And then, when Stan had finally died, he took the tallow and bones and made him into soup. He claimed it was all in service to the One True God. To the Beast with Just One Eye. He said he didn’t regret it. All while grinning maniacally, laughing at particularly the gory bits.

one of the jury members vomited. Ford’s mother couldn’t look him in the eye. There wasn’t enough usable physical evidence for the verdict, but they didn’t think they needed it after that show. Stan Pines was declared dead, Ford, his murderer.

they were going to execute him. It was only because Shermie appealed to the courts that Ford survived. He was found to be insane, and had him sent to an asylum. His parents disowned him. Only Shermie stuck by his side, not wanting to lose another brother. Shermie fully believed that Ford was still in there, that he could overcome whatever was wrong and maybe even live a normal life. He was right, in a way.

after the trial, the blind eye kinda went mad erasing people’s memories, so no one remembers the specifics. Stan and Ford end up as an urban legend in gravity falls.

[smusherina]

yard work - chapter 8 (regina george x reader)

fandom: Mean Girls (all media)

pairing: Regina George x OFC/Reader

summary: You'd been in the same class as Regina George since kindergarten. You'd lived on the same street even longer. Once upon a time, when life was sandbox disputes and who got the swing first arguments, you'd even been friends. Now, in junior year of high school, you doubted she even remembered you. The same couldn't be said about you. You definitely remembered her.

warnings(s): not so much homophobia in this one! not even cigarettes!

chapter 1 / chapter 2 / chapter 3 / chapter 4 / chapter 5 / chapter 6 / chapter 7 / chapter 9

A snowball hit you on the back of the neck. Squealing like a pig and whirling around indignantly, you caught Kylie's eyes across the yard. Softball had made her aim dangerous. Luckily, you had one big advantage.

You lifted your arms above your head, miming a rearing bear, and charged towards her all the while bellowing like a beast. She giggled and began running away, rounding the pool. You gave chase, not even having to pretend to have a hard time since she was ridiculously athletic for her age, but eventually caught her. You hauled her into your arms and into the air, spinning around while cackling maniacally. She laughed and screeched in joy as you shook her around, screaming once you intentionally fell into the snow.

"I won!" She yelled in your face, cheeks rosy from the cold. Her grin was gap-toothed and so carefree.

"No! The snow monster caught you!" You protested playfully.

"Nuh-uh, I threw the last ball an' hit you- hit you square in- in the neck!" You'd heard from Mrs George that Kylie was in speech therapy for the stammer. In your opinion, it just made her cuter.

"The snow monster doesn't agree!" You lowered your voice and made it gruff, putting on the snow monster role, and stood up. She was tiny so there was no issue picking her up whenever you wanted. Holding her by the back of her jacket and knee, you threw her into the nearest snow pile.

"Again!" She stumbled down and out of the pile, back to where you stood, and you picked her up. Spinning around a few times, her legs flailing as you did, you launched her into the air sending the kid off in a great trajectory right back into the snow.

Before she could demand you manhandle her some more, you heard the backdoor slide open.

"Girls!" Mrs George hollered. "Josie and Riley are here!"

Your shoulders slumped in relief. You didn't know what you would've done if it'd been Mr George at the door. Kylie, eager to see her cousin and aunt, sprinted to the door. You lagged back, happy to be alone for a bit.

"Kylie! Kylie, through the garage please!" Mrs George waved her arms like a frazzled traffic guard, desperately not wanting wet floors. Kylie skidded to a stop right before the porch steps and swerved right, headed for the garage door now. You walked at a level pace behind her, knowing full well both the guests' attention would be taken up by the youngest of the Georges for at least the next half hour. Kylie had redecorated since they last visited after all. Priorities.

Your clothes were covered in snow, so due to be soaked pretty soon. You brushed off what you could but hung them up to dry nonetheless. You shot a text to Regina, asking for spare sweatpants 'cause your jeans were not suitable for inside wear. You got back a LOL. You crossed your fingers that meant yes.

"You did not put on that fugly sweater to meet my aunt and cousin." She said once she saw you. You could only shrug helplessly. You liked the sweater.

"I guess I did." You looked at the clothing in her arms. "That for me?"

"Yeah." She handed them over. You stared at her for a moment, waiting for her to either turn around or leave the room. When she didn't, you decided that, hey, she asked for it.

Unbuttoning and unzipping your jeans, you revealed a pair of Ironman boxers.

"Do you shop at the kids' section?" Regina sneered at you.

You winked in response. "I know you like 'em."

"Sure. Love 'em."

You pulled the sweatpants on. They were soft and grey and somehow exactly the right size.

"Did you get these from your dad?" You asked dubiously, not too thrilled by the prospect of wearing Mr George's clothes.

"No, they're for you," Regina responded as if it were obvious. "I got some stuff for you when we started talking. Like, it'd be really inconvenient if you had to go back home just to get a toothbrush or something when you were staying over." She expanded, sounding confident but fiddling with her nails. You'd driven her to an appointment a few days ago to get a new autumn set. "But then, y'know, we spent more time at yours so... Hasn't been much use."

"Huh. I should get something like that for you at mine."

"No." She grinned. "I like stealing your clothes."

"Do you use my toothbrush too?" You acted scandalized, hiding how her saying she liked your clothes made you giddy. She couldn't hate your sweaters that much, then.

She rolled her eyes. "No, idiot, I carry one in my purse always."

"Gotta always be prepared." You clicked your tongue and swung your arm in jest. "Did you already say hi to your relatives?"

"Yes, so now we can go hang out in my room until dinner." Regina grabbed you by the arm and dragged you out of the mudroom. You went pliantly but redirected your path to the living room before she could climb the stairs. You ignored Regina's groan.

Introductions happened swiftly. You were Regina's friend and your family was spending Thanksgiving elsewhere, leaving you in charge of the house. The story wasn't entirely truthful, but neither was it a lie. Riley was a bit younger than Regina but only by a year or two. You could tell she wanted to spend time with her older cousin so bad, but Regina was not enthused.

Luckily, Kylie wanted nothing more than Riley to play Wii with her in the basement. So, off they went. You sat on the couch next to Regina, subtly leaning back and putting your arm on the backrest behind her. You were being totally casual and cool. You weren't even sitting that close so it didn't even look like you had her arm around her. It was totally cool.

Mr George sat in the recliner, eyes trained on the TV. Some sports game was on, but you paid more attention to Mrs George and her sister.

"So, what do y'all wanna do when you get outta high school?" While Mrs George's Southern accent had dulled down over the years to a North-Western one, which meant she sounded like any other Illinois local, the same could not be said for Aunt Josie. Her Texas twang was prominent.

Regina went first. "College." You did so wish she could find it in herself to be a little nicer to her relatives.

"I'll probably take a full-time position at my dad's shop." That'd been the extent of your plans since forever ago.

Regina looked at you oddly, but didn't say anything.

Mrs George and Aunt Josie nodded along, mildly interested, then started talking about college these days and the state of youth in America. You excused yourselves from the conversation and pulled Regina into the kitchen.

"Mom forbids snacks on special days, you know this," Regina grumbled as you dug around in their pantry.

"Does this count as a snack?" You pulled out hot cocoa packets. They were probably ages old, been there since you used to regularly visit the George residence, but you didn't believe in expiration dates anyway. It was just powder.

"We could make real hot chocolate, though." Regina pointed out, eyeing the dusty packets with contempt.

"Well, we could spend some more time in the kitchen making all that and be roped into sitting with them again to drink or we could be quick and tactically retreat upstairs."

"Get the big mugs. We're putting at least two packs in one. And make it with milk."

So, you got to work. You, specifically, while Regina sat on the island and watched. You didn't mind. She looked really pretty. She kind of matched with you, coincidentally enough. Your sweater was a motley of orange and brown patterns and shapes, itchy on bare skin and more so frizzy than fluffy. Regina had a sweater too, and of the same colour scheme, but hers was much more refined, soft to the touch, and had sensible patterns. She had on a black skirt and white legwarmers.

You snuck upstairs with your steaming mugs, tiptoeing so you wouldn't be heard. Once in the safety of Regina's room, you quickly huddled up on the bed.

"Good, right?"

"Swiss chocolate would've been better." She took a sip. "That's really good, though. What is that?"

"I added a little cinnamon."

"It tastes a bit like Christmas," Regina said, looking at you above the rim of her cup as she drank.

"It's right around the corner." You got comfortable on the bed, laying on your side facing Regina.

"Ugh, I hate Christmas. Everybody always comes here, as if Uncle Charlie doesn't have a huge log cabin that he doesn't even use most of the year. If I have to share a bed with Luke this year, I'm quitting."

"He's your oldest cousin, right?"

"Yeah. He's a dick. Last year, he totally-"

As she got into the story, you were lulled into a sense of comfort. Safe in Regina's room, warm hot cocoa cup in your hands, her voice regaling her cousin Luke's douchebaggery, you could almost forget everything else.

You decided you didn't want to think about difficult things during Thanksgiving. Even if the holiday itself hadn't ever been sacred or even fun for you, the fact that you got to spend it at the Georges' made it special.

At one point or another, you felt Regina pluck the mug out of your hands.

"Hey..." You slurred, blinking awake.

"Shh, just go to sleep." She patted your shoulder. You mumbled sleepily and nodded. Somewhere in the distance, she giggled, her hand still warm on your shoulder.

You stirred a couple of times during your nap. At first, you saw Regina next to you reading. Still Catcher in the Rye. She didn't look your way and you fell back asleep.

The second time she was closer. Your eyes met and her hand squeezed yours. She smiled and shuffled closer. Had you not still been halfway to sleep, your heart would've beat right out of your chest.

The third time, her arm was around your waist and knee slotted between yours. It'd been a long time since you'd been held like this. You and Regina used to cuddle in bed for sleepovers, but those were so long ago. She'd always insisted on being the big spoon despite you being bigger. Even now, she had you by your waist while your hands were tucked close to your chest. Wiggling one out, you threw it around her back.

The fourth time was the last. Regina had rolled partly on top of you. Her cheek was pressed to your shoulder, arm secure around your belly, while her leg was bent over your hips. You were firmly held down. There was a gentle knock on the door before it creaked open.

"Sweetie, would you come down to help with dinner?" Mrs George was there, head poked into the room. You nodded with a smile. She eyed you two for a bit, a secretive sort of smile on her lips, before closing the door again.

You took meticulous care to not wake Regina up as you wriggled out of her hold. You replaced your body with a couple of pillows, hoping it'd be enough to keep her asleep a while longer.

After splashing some cold water on your face in the en suite bathroom, you headed downstairs.

"There you are," Mrs George waved you over. "Slice up those mushrooms, would you?"

You washed your hands and got to work. Mrs George and Josie were singing along to some music playing on the radio, chatting occasionally. Kylie and Riley were seated on the island playing on their Nintendo gadgets, at times demanding to taste the contents of the various pots on the stove. The sisters fed them spoonfuls dotingly. Mrs George came up to you a few times too, holding a spoon in one hand while the other was cupped under it, feeding you this and that. The gravy was really good.

The Georges were going all out, going above and beyond in both the taste and sheer amount of food. There were three courses, appetizer, entrée, and dessert. You could only dream of a spread like this and, maybe a little selfishly, you wished Mrs George would pack some of the leftovers for you. It sounded like an utter dream, food for days, good food for days. Mrs George's mac and cheese, buttery mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, stuffed mushrooms, pear salad, heartily roasted vegetables—you could go on.

"Turkey's ready!" Josie called gleefully, clapping her oven mitts together. "Let's get her out, Judie."

Once the turkey was out and placed to the side to wait for dinner, you popped the green bean casserole in. Along with it went the mac and creamed Brussels sprouts. Kylie bemoaned the dish and made a big show of declaring she would not be eating Brussels sprouts in any way, shape or form. You kinda liked them, but it wasn't your favourite.

At some point or another, Regina came down, rubbing sleep dust from her eyes. Still groggy, she didn't even try to bat her mom's hands away when she started smoothing down her bedhead.

"Good morning, sleeping beauty," You greeted from your spot at the stove. The job of stirring all the pots had been handed off to you.

"Morning," She yawned. "I'm not gonna get any sleep tonight. You should've woken me up."

"Sorry." You didn't really feel sorry, and she knew that, but that didn't stop you from patting her on the back in consolation. She leaned into you, mind clearly still addled from the nap of the century. She didn't like being touchy-feely in front of other people.

Just under two hours later, you were all ready to sit down for appetizers. You offered to help Mrs George with bringing the dishes back and forth, but she insisted she had it. It made you feel bad since she was the only one who didn't get to sit down and eat in peace. Under the strict eye of Mr George, you didn't dare to go against her wishes. You didn't know what he would take as disrespect or how he'd react to a guest misstepping in his house.

You mirrored Regina the whole time. You ate when she did, took more when she did, and focused on conversation when she did. The tactic was a safe one, but even so the shift in vibrations when around Mr George was palpable.

He didn't talk much. Mostly he just asked his daughters questions about school and their extracurriculars. He only nodded at Regina when she briefed him about the goings-on at school. He indulged Kylie's retelling of her most recent ball game with a subtle smile. He gave his compliments to Mrs George. It made your stomach twist, seeing Kylie beam like she'd won something when she got a smile out of him. Watching Mrs George's nearly full, almost untouched plate sit unattended as she busied herself with the pecan pie in the oven, you quietly wished he wasn't here at all.

Even though the air was soured by Mr George's aloof presence, the food was good. Delicious, immaculate, spectacular. Regina was a much slower eater than you, so you did eventually give up mirroring her because there was no way you were not stuffing yourself full. By the end of it, your stomach was maybe visibly distended and you could taste cranberry sauce at the back of your throat. It was a horrible feeling, but you wouldn't take any of it back.

Mr George went to his recliner, Mrs George and Josie retreated to the sitting room, and you were roped into playing video games with Kylie and Riley. Regina came too, seemingly pained.

The food baby melted away slowly as you watched Regina's younger replicas try their damndest to beat a boss in some game with a raccoon in blue. There was also a pink hippo and a green turtle. Eventually, they pawned the controller to you and told you to beat it. It took you a little bit to figure out the controls, but eventually, you were beating some tiger to the ground as a pink hippo. As you played, you noted that the plot was pretty good for a kids' game. You'd have to see if you could get it for yourself next time you went to GameStop.

With the boss beat, the younger girls took over again. Regina decided that that was enough and bid the two goodbyes, dragging you out with her.

"Not a fan of Sly Cooper?" You teased once she'd deposited you into her room. You walked in further and sat down on the floor, leaning against the frame of her bed.

She was looking at you like she never had before. Or maybe she had, but this was intense. She walked closer, forcing your neck to crane up as she stood above you.

"Reg?" You whispered, confused and a little wary. Had you fucked up somewhere?

"You always ruin the moment with that." She wasn't smiling, or scowling, and there wasn't anything hostile or hurt in her eyes. You couldn't read her. Unexplored territory. She came even closer, stepping so that her feet were on either side of your legs. Your vision blurred as she knelt down, straddling your things. She was soft, her usual perfume faded and mixed with the delectable smells of Thanksgiving dinner, and her hands were coming around your neck.

You swallowed, not daring to move lest you scared her off or something. What was she doing? She couldn't be, just, simply, that was too easy, you were being delusional-

She was soft there too. Glossy, tangy like cranberries, gentle and slow. She kissed you. Regina kissed you. You held your breath for a moment, not even realizing it, and shuddered as it released. She smiled against your mouth.

"C'mon, jorts." She whispered, lips brushing against yours as she talked. Her eyes, so close you couldn't really even look into them, glinted in mirth. "Kiss me back."

Your hands snared around her back, pulling her close to your body, as your lips found hers again. She giggled and you swallowed the sound, feeling it expand in your chest like sunlight.

Even hidden in her bedroom, sharing a kiss you didn't know would mean anything- could mean anything- there was nowhere else you'd rather have been.

Notes: We're still not at the climax. Or, well, we're very close, very much in it, but The Moment is yet to happen. Everybody knows it'll get worse before it gets better. That's just how it goes. So, have this fluff before it's yanked away from you! <3

Taglist: @autorasexy, @wedfan2, @unadulterated-moron, @modernsapphicism, @9unknown0, @sage-rose2000, @massive-honkas, @nattys-swiftie, @likefirenrain, @luz-enjoyer, @dandelions4us, @natashamaximoff-69, @alexkolax, @jareaul0ver, @here4theqts, @charleeeesworld, @natsbiggestfan1, @brocoliisscared, @yellowwallflowers, @scarlettbitchx, @ayoungexwife, @cyberbonesworld, @syddie-reads, @screechcat

(holy moly there's a lot of you. if you wanna be added to the taglist, say so in the comments!)

[alfredosauce50]

These are the birthday headcanons for one of oldest fans and Patrons. It has a theme and plot, so it’ll be quite different than usual, having been heavily inspired by Night at the Museum and my Viking AU.

I hope you enjoy this, Tullah 😝

Viking Denmark in the modern world

After being thrown a thousand years into the future, he tries to make sense of the strange new world he’s in, and it’s nothing like Kattegat. More importantly, he goes searching for you, and by some astronomical chance, he finds you. But you’re not the same person he remembers, and you don’t recognize him at all.

Mathias had always told you having you in one life wasn’t enough. That he’d want to find you again in the next, then the one after that until the end of time. But now that the opportunity presents itself, would he even be able to have you?

Content warning: Brief NSFW and violence. R18+ only.

Origins

Mathias can trace his predicament back to his expedition to North America. He carelessly picks up a tribe’s religious relic, not realizing that it will grant his deepest desires. Having you in the next life, wherever — and whenever — that takes him. He goes to sleep, not knowing that upon waking up, he wouldn’t be in the same place, nor the same year. Instead, he opens his eyes and finds himself on a hard bench in Central Park in the company of pigeons. He sits up squinting from the sun, wondering what the hell just happened.

He’s not in America anymore, or at least, not the America he knows. There’s no natives, everyone is wearing strange clothing, and the concrete jungle is a bit nauseating. The buildings are so tall that they’re touching the sky, and there are self-driving carriages carrying people in them! To say he’s overwhelmed by the hustle and bustle of a modern city would be an understatement. But his first priority isn’t to figure out where he is, or when he is for that matter. It’s to look for you.

You’re waiting at a bus stop when he lays eyes on you, and time stops. He enters a realm beyond it, like everything just disappeared but you and him. Nothing matters anymore, not the strange world or era he was in, for you were here. He found you in this place, making this place his. He can barely describe the elation coursing through his body as he runs up to you, eyes wide and heart racing. But when Mathias takes your arms and speaks frantically over you, smile growing, you pull away from him as if he were nothing but a stranger.

“Let go!” You push him, much to his confusion.

“What are you talking about? It’s me!” Mathias talks excitedly, not quite registering the fear marring your expression. He comes for you again, laughing as he pulls you into a tight embrace. With your feet off the ground, you start squirming in his arms, frightened out of your wits. “I’m so glad to see you. I thought I’d never see you again! But really, what is this place?”

“I don’t know who you are, and I don’t know what you’re talking about, so could you leave me alone?” You try to pull away from his unrelenting hold on your shoulders. It’s only when passerby take notice of the situation do you have any hope of freeing yourself. They surround him and give him trouble, shoving him back to give you the chance to flee. “You’re crazy!”

You manage to get onboard while leaving him behind, but Mathias chases after your bus like a furious bride left at the altar. And the way he runs is terrifying. He’s charging after you like a bull, following you street after street for an ungodly amount of time before you eventually lose him. One part of you is relieved that you just escaped a maniac who was likely having a mental health episode, but another part of you is wondering that if by some slim chance that everything he said was justified, who on Earth was this guy?

Taking him under your wing

It takes while before you see him again, but even longer before he convinces you to want anything to do with him. You’ll bump into him in the city where he’s sticking out like a sore thumb, still in the clothes he came in, and when that happens, he’ll chase you desperately for a conversation. Luckily, even he can’t quite master the bustling chaos of New York, let alone outrun a moving car. “Wait, just give me a chance to explain, please. I’m not crazy—” He begs as you get into a cab, to where you just yell, “—just stay away from me!”

After a few more chance encounters, you start to feel sorry for him. He clearly needs your help, and what finally changes your heart is seeing him live in a homeless encampment roasting pigeons so he can eat them. Mathias even offers you one, leading you to believe that he doesn’t mean any harm, but is otherwise very mentally disturbed. “I’m gonna get you some help, okay? Don’t make me regret it.” You tell him, leading the man out of the alleyway and to your car. He jogs after you with a relieved grin going, “I promise you won’t.”

He gets fascinated by everything in your house. The furniture, the kitchen appliances, running water, everything. But that also means you need to teach him how to function in the world as it is. How to use cutlery, the phone, public transport. Good thing is that he’s intelligent and adaptable, so he’ll get the hang of everything in a week. His social mannerisms, however, still need a lot of tweaking. The way he talks to strangers can be passive-aggressive, and he stares a lot. People in New York are like nobody he’s ever seen, and he won’t hesitate to point it out to you all the time.

“What are you doing with your fingers?” He frowns, watching his taxi driver rub his fingertips together.

“I was asking for a tip,” They grin.

“What is a tip?” Mathias asks, his accent and foreign background now more jarring than ever.

“You know, when you think I did a good job and you feel like paying me a little extra for it?” The man says sheepishly, hoping to get lucky with who was clearly a rich tourist. “Just common courtesy around here.”

“But you did not do a good job.” He leans back.

You’re tempted to think he’s a runaway from a mental hospital. And one that’s suffering from delusions that he’s a Viking who time-traveled to present day America as he keeps talking about it. To make things worse, he doesn’t have any form of ID, and you’re hesitant to take him to the cops. You decide to keep him at home while you figure this out, hoping that he’d be gone in a few days. “What can I do to convince you I’m not mad?” Mathias sighs, to where you smile, “You’ll think of something. But it’d probably take a miracle.”

He comes onto you. Mathias has always been an incredibly affectionate husband, and by today’s standards, maybe even too forthcoming to the point of it being problematic. So it’s a given that something will happen eventually. While you’re in the kitchen chopping up vegetables, he’ll wrap around you from behind and press his face to yours — much to your protest. “Stop that, Mat. We’re not like that.” But he just grumbles and stays put, expression hardening as he presses even harder. “Of course we are. You’re my wife.”

He tries to kiss you all the time. With his mouth open and tongue is ready for you, he’s quite the menace when he’s in the mood for some love. You obviously respond by pushing him away, sometimes to the point of shoving him so hard that he stumbles back and plummets onto the bed. Mathias will just sigh and look to the side, a little disheartened, but after a moment of waiting for you to let your guard down, he’ll shoot up like nothing and go back to you to try again. After all, he’s faced your refusal of his advances before.

“Mat, I have a boyfriend. He won’t take kindly to you doing things like this.” You shoot him a heated look.

“Boyfriend?” He laughs breathily over you, pressing his forehead to yours gingerly. “What is a boyfriend?”

Interestingly, Mathias is not that bothered by the fact that you have someone. A boyfriend sounds like nothing compared to what he is. To him, it’s more like playful competition that he can’t take seriously. He’s just that sure of your love for him. It’s only if your ‘boyfriend’ tried anything in front of him that he’d lose his mind, which, fortunately hasn’t happened yet. In the end, he’d probably need you to break the spell and to return home, so if he isn’t able to have you, you’re stuck with him forever anyway. Not that he’s complaining.

You can’t grasp the magnitude of his feelings, nor what it truly means to be his. How could you? You’ve never met the man in your life, but he’s known you for all of his. It’s unsettling how sure he is about you, as well as how comfortable he is around you. He won’t always put in an effort to be decent in the house even when you tell him to, even to the point of being naked. Nudity is no big deal to a Viking, so imagine how he’d feel about being told off by you — his spouse. “What’s the matter, kæreste? Never seen a real man before?”

To remedy this imbalance, he tells you about all the memories he’s made with you. And the way he talks about you is as if he really knows you. Mathias is aware of so many things that would otherwise be impossible without you telling him, such as your habits, likes, dislikes, and the way you think. It’s mesmerizing and magical, just as if he was your lover from a past life. It’s crazy how well he gets on with you, and your chemistry with him is so natural, you start to wonder if you could really love him the way he always says you do.

“I won’t put dill in this. It won’t be the same but you don’t like the taste,” He murmurs as he works in the kitchen. He’s making salmon with a cream sauce, and all you can think about is that he somehow picked up on something you’ve never mentioned.

“How did you know I don’t like dill?” You lift your eyes to him quickly, gaze softening out of pure wonder.

“How could I not?” He smiles gently before returning to the stove. It’s only been a week, and he’s already mastered cooking. “I haven’t been lying to you, eskler. I’ve known you ever since we were children.”

At night, he’ll leave the guest room you told him to stay in and come into your bedroom. There’s nothing you can do as he crawls into bed with you, even wrapping himself around you until all you can feel is him. His arms are coiled around your stomach, and he’s pressing so hard against you that you can feel his bulge from behind. One of his hands goes up to your neck, holding it in a possessive, yet glaringly erotic bid for affection. It’s wrong of you to let him do this, but his touch just feels so right, you let yourself give in to him.

You start having lots of close calls with Mathias. He sometimes stand inches away from your face with your lips so close together, you would’ve ended up kissing him if you didn’t turn away last minute. When you do, he chuckles lowly and says this in a tender voice. “I promise we’ve done a lot more than kissing, eskler. We’re adults, after all.” Otherwise, his stare on you is always too hot for you to stomach, almost as if he has something else on his mind. He makes it obvious that he’s obsessed with you, and he’s losing his patience.

He chases you like crazy. It takes him back to the time before you married him, and that gets his blood pumping like never before. He will corner you against the kitchen counter and won’t let you leave without kissing him. Then, against all your morals, you actually do, which ends up with you two in the bedroom, half-naked and about to make love. Something about him feels so warm and familiar, you don’t act like yourself around him. It’s as if he’s put a spell on you, turning your mind inside out until you can’t think straight.

“I shouldn’t be doing this, Mat. This is wrong on so many levels,” You tear up as you climb off him.

“No it’s not. You know it’s not,” He frowns deeply, taking your hand before you can even get off the bed. He’s that high-strung about you, it’s impossible for you to get any space from him at all. Mathias is just constantly on your back, always pulling you back to him, again and again. “You know I’m the one for you.”

“How could I? Some stranger starts following me around like a puppy and I let them into my home?” You gush, red in the face from shame. Now that you said it out loud, it sounded a lot worse than what you originally thought. “And I was just about to sleep with them? God, I must be out of mind. I have to be!”

“But you’re not! Me being here is proof that you’re not crazy because it was you that brought me here. We belong to each other,” He exclaims passionately, his eyes burning with so much certainty you start caving again. But how could you give in when none of this made any sense, and was cruel to Alfred, who had no idea of everything you were doing behind his back? “You’re mine in all the lives you will ever live.”

Alfred eventually catches wind of what you’re doing. You still haven’t figured out how to explain this to him, and you’ve just been so distracted by Mathias, you’ve been putting reality on the back burner. But that all ends when he swings by unannounced with some food to surprise you. However, he’s in for quite the surprise himself. Mathias is in the living room watching TV while you’re typing on your laptop on the dining table, but that’s when he hears jingling behind the door, so he get up and comes over to your side.

“Hey, babe. They had a pop-up sale on some cookies so I thought I’d drop by,” Alfred speaks mindlessly as he enters your apartment with his spare key, and that is when he lays eyes on Mathias. He is visibly startled as he stops in place, but he keeps his composure. “Oh. I didn’t know you had company. Who’s this?”

When worlds collide

Like any other normal person, Alfred blows up on you when you tell him he’s been staying over the last two weeks. After all, what man in their right mind would be okay with their girlfriend living with another man and not tell them about it? You’d have to come up with some pretty good excuses to justify that, and with the way Mathias is holding you, things aren’t looking good for you. His hands are both sides of your waist like they belong there, and he’s giving the dirtiest look to your boyfriend like he’s the unwelcome one here.

“You need to get him out now.” Alfred demands.

“You don’t understand.” You close your eyes.

“What’s there to understand? That you’ve been living with another guy for the past two weeks and haven’t told me?” He seethes, nostrils flaring. The growing volume of the room alarms Mathias, who stands in front of you protectively. “Not that I’d even let you, but don’t you think you’re crossing the line here?”

“He’s homeless, and he’s not right in the head—”

“So is half of New York, but you don’t see me taking anybody in!” He gestures to the Dane like an alien.

“He’s not from this time period, okay?” You exhale.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Alfred squints, not at all prepared for what you were about to tell him. “Like he’s from another generation that’s somehow okay with their girlfriends living with other guys?”

“No, I mean he’s a time traveler. He’s a real, bonafide Viking from more than a thousand years ago,” You let it slip, watching his brows go up. “And I know that sounds crazy, but I didn’t believe it at first either.”

“Yeah, you’re right, that is pretty crazy,” Alfred scoffs, shaking his head in utter disbelief, but above all else, a sharp pang of betrayal. “If this is a prank, just know that I really hate it and I’m very disappointed in you.”

“But it’s not, I promise! Why would I pull something that could jeopardize our relationship?” You frown.

“I guess so,” He mumbles, albeit a little reluctantly. “But just run me through your thought process here. How did you come to the conclusion he broke the laws of physics and somehow leapt through time?”

“Well, I took him to the doctor yesterday and he had a bunch of diseases that are impossible to have now.”

“Oh,” He makes a face, shocked and disturbed by how on the nose your explanation was. Now he was really worried you were actually telling the truth. “What else? I mean, you can’t actually believe that—”

“—he speaks Old Norse fluently, doesn’t know what Wi-Fi is, and doesn’t even know to use a toilet.”

“Wow, okay.”

“And I’m sure the Danish are familiar with toilets.”

“Right.”

“And look at him. Doesn’t he look just like Mathias Densen, the Viking earl that lived more than a thousand years ago?” You ask him, pulling up your phone to show him a few images off a website.

“Shit, you’re right.” He digs a hand through his hair.

Your boyfriend is cordial at the start, especially with how bizarre all of this is. He’s also excited to talk to a real Viking, so he springs a bunch of questions on Mathias out of curiosity. The way the Dane answers them only confirms you were in fact, not lying, so he quickly gets onboard with the mission to send him back to the past. You’re all in the kitchen when Alfred drops the bomb on Mathias ever so casually while sipping on a mug. He’s sure you’ve wondered about the same thing, it’s just that he has it in him to actually ask it.

“So, how many people do you think you’ve killed?”

“I don’t know. Maybe hundreds.”

“And does that ever keep you up at night?”

“No, I sleep like a baby.”

“Thought you would.”

Things start to get heated once Mathias reveals that he’s in love with you and has no intentions of giving you up. Alfred was willing to be hospitable at first, but he doesn’t play about you, not even if he’s going up against a warlord turned King. This is his realm, and he won’t hesitate to use that to his advantage to threaten a man who otherwise is impossible to threaten. Not that he thinks he needs to, because he trusts you to stay loyal to him. Little does he know, Mathias has a profound effect on you that not even you can understand.

“You’re never gonna have her. I won’t let you,” Alfred says in a monotone, his expression unreadable as he stares straight at the man. He’s taken on a cold and calculating attitude, a far cry from the excitable nerd he used to be. But Mathias isn’t afraid of him at all.

“Then you will never be free of me.” The Dane smiles contentedly, eyes closed for a relaxed demeanor.

“I’d hate to be that person, but I could always call ICE on you for being undocumented,” Alfred raises his brows at him while he speaks in all seriousness, “I’d do that just so you’d leave my girlfriend alone.”

Shit finally hits the fan when Mathias walks in on you and Alfred in the bedroom. You’re riding him when the door opens, and your head whips to it out of shock. In the next few seconds, everything goes from zero to a hundred as something snaps in Mathias — he’s thrown into a hot and crazed mania, driven insane by the sight of you making love to someone else. The look behind his eyes is as if he’s completely gone, and he storms over with the intention to murder Alfred on the spot. “Mathias, no!” You plead, but it falls on deaf ears.

He pulls him off you and punches him so hard, blood sprays from his nose. But that’s not all. Mathias picks Alfred up by the neck, holding him inches above the ground to choke him to death. If he has to kill him with his bare hands, so be it. And he gets dangerously close to doing it when you smash a vase over his head, getting him to loosen his grip. You help Alfred escape with the skin of his teeth while screaming viciously at him. “Get out. Get the fuck out!” You cry, shoving him back again and again. “And never come back!”

After getting discharged from his hospital stay, Alfred goes looking for Mathias. It’s not the first thing that should be coming to mind after the guy almost offed him, but he has to resolve this once and for all. Because at this rate, someone would really end up killed. And he had a feeling that someone would be him. After a few days of scouring the city, he finds the Dane in an alley in front of a burn barrel and warming his hands. Without even greeting each other, they find that they’re already on the same page about this.

“You don’t belong here.” Alfred tells him point-blank.

“I know,” Mathias murmurs, keeping his gaze fixed on the flickering flames. “But she doesn’t either.”

“Ha! She’s lived here since she was a baby.”

“And she’s lived in Kattegat since she was a baby.”

“Have you not once considered she’s not the (F/N) you know? Yours is probably still in 1000AD wondering where you went,” Alfred shakes his head, frankly exasperated by the other’s stubbornness.

“Then why would I be here if she were not? There has to be a reason for me being here,” Mathias turns to him for a disgruntled look, but above all else was how determined he sounded. “She must be the reason.”

Going back to the past

Alfred goes to the library to do some research on the relic that Mathias picked up. Turns out, it can grant the user what they want most, only with a slight catch. It gives them the means to attaining their deepest desires, not the whole deal. And to reverse the spell, the user has to fulfill their wish completely before having that kind of freedom. So in other words, he has to get you to fall in love with him if he ever wants to return to Kattegat. “Well, it looks like you’re gonna be stuck here as a hobo forever. Not my problem.” Alfred shrugs.

Mathias isn’t disheartened by those terms, even if you did just kick him out for trying to murder your boyfriend. You’ve hated him once, just like you hate him now, so this is just a repeat of the past. As much as that bothers him, he knows he can do this because he’s done it before. Alfred, on the other hand, isn’t convinced he can pull this off at all. While he’s putting back the books he used, he wonders what’s left for the Viking now that they’ll be stranded in modern day America without even two dimes to rub together.

“So, what are you gonna do now that you’re never going back to Kattegat? You have nowhere to stay.”

“But I am going back.” Mathias lifts his gaze to him.

“How?” He shakes his head, eyes narrowed.

“I have my ways.”

“What ways? She thinks you’re an axe-waving megalomaniac, for fuck’s sake. You tried to kill me!”Alfred whispers that last part furiously while pointing an accusing finger at the man, who showed not even the slightest dash of remorse. “And you almost did!”

“And that mean she cannot love me?”

“Yes!” He blurts it like it’s the most obvious point he ever made, but something was still not clicking.

“You underestimate our passion for one another,” Mathias smiles sagely to himself as he recollects the raunchier memories he made with you. And he isn’t afraid to disclose that information to the other man. “When we were together, we made love every night.”

“Okay, I did not need to know that.”

“She was always with child.”

“Didn’t need to know that either!”

It’s understandably very tense between you two at first. Mathias will show up at your door, and still in the last outfit he was wearing when you kicked him out, only for you to shut it in his face. He does this a few more times before resorting to sleeping outside your door, because it’s not like he has anywhere else to go anyway. He’ll do anything for you to forgive him, even if it’s at the expense of your kindness since he’s starving at this point. After days of lying outside your home, you take him in out of fear for his well-being.

When he’s back at your place, he behaves well. He actively helps around the house, doing chores without you asking, and doesn’t even bother you for your affection. You’re barely tolerating him, and you don’t see that changing anytime soon. However, you get a phone call from Alfred that changes everything. Just when you thought you would be keeping Mathias at arm’s length out of respect for what he did to him, your boyfriend is now telling you to throw all of that overboard and do the unthinkable. Giving your heart to him.

“Is Mathias back at yours?”

“Yes, but only because he was starving. Why?”

“Well, we had a little talk and we figured it was best to let everything run its course,” Alfred says. He goes on to explain what he found out about Mathias, the relic, the spell, then how to send him back home.

He also tells you that if everything goes right, you’ll still be here. So if he has to give you up until then, he will, no matter how much it hurts. There’s also some part of you that’s not really you, which explains a lot.

A lot being why you were so uncharacteristically receptive to Mathias in the first place. But as soon as he gets sent home, you’ll return to your normal self again, which is everything Alfred could ever want.

Mathias eases his way back onto your good side. Aside from being a good roommate and giving you space, he will sneak some lingering touches until he works his way up to talking and hugging again. It works better than you like, but Alfred did say you weren’t yourself. You are your past self, or at least partially, but it’s more than enough for a soft spot to form for him. Before you know it, it’s routine for you to sit on his lap and talk to him at night. While nothing happens, it becomes undeniable what’s developing between you two.

“Is it okay for me to put my hand here?” He whispers, letting his palm hover over the side of your face, and you answer him by simply press your cheek into it. You’re looking at him in a way you never had before, with so much love and tenderness that he feels like he’s back home. But then again, you are his home.

You start having dreams about your past. And it’s all so vivid, it feels real. Little do you know, it is, because what you’re experiencing are visions of the life you once lived. Playing with him as a kid, getting chased by him in adulthood, and finally marrying him in the sweet, cypress-scented air. Sailing to new, unknown lands just to give you a better life and a place to raise a family with him. All of it is so familiar, and the memory of Mathias is so beautiful that you end up waking in tears, aching for what feels like a dream of a dream.

Overtime, you remember more about yourself until you’re no longer the person Alfred knows, but the person Mathias does. It’s like your past self is fighting to wake, then on that one fateful night, everything just falls into place. With only one glance at you, he knows you’ve come back to him. You’re staring at him with your eyes wide and lips trembling, almost as if you hadn’t seen him in years. He smiles warmly as he opens his arms for you to run into, and you practically plow into them with tears running down your face.

“Take me home, Mat. I wanna go home.” You whisper into his chest, squeezing him as tight as you can.

“We will, kæreste. You’re gonna take us home now.” He wraps around you assuringly, kissing your head.

The next morning, you and Mathias wake up in the bedroom of your longhouse. He remembers everything that happened, but strangely enough, you have no recollection of being in New York or having a boyfriend there. When he tries asking you about it, you shoot him a weird look and go,“Who’s Alfred?” On the other side of the timeline, Alfred looks for you at your apartment after you text him to come over for dinner. When he does, he notices that Mathias is gone, and upon asking about it, you shake your head. “Who’s Mathias?”

[feyascorner]

8 | The Fangs Between Us

summary. You try to swat him away, but his thumb swipes the droplets of blood to the side of your face, staring down at you with eyes that resemble rubies. You’ve always loved them, describing them as the gems you’ve stumbled across in such dire times, but now all you want to do is look away. They’re too harsh. They’re too cold. They’re too him.

You swallow the lump in your throat as he licks your blood off the pad of his thumb.

“It would’ve been better if one of us died that day.”

warnings. angst, comfort, slow burn, tav reader is a bard, italics are flashbacks

pairing. Astarion x GN!Reader

parts. TFBU masterlist

a/n. a little peek at what this guy is thinking before i move onto act 2 of this fic!! <3 also this specific flashback is not the usual pre breakup flashback it's right after the blushing mermaid incident !!

His nightmares have long stopped making him sick.

The same dreams where Cazador would have shackles around his neck and wrists, laughing maniacally while he carves runes into Astarion’s flesh, no longer bring him the same dread the morning after. Instead, he feels a kind of numbness that spreads past his physical being into the mindless stare he bores into the ceiling. Even before the birds awaken outside the city, it's quiet in the morning. This eerie sense of stillness used to be his favorite time of day.

Because when there’s nobody outside, there’s nobody to bring to Cazador.

Now, it feels too empty. Too alone. As if he’s the only person left in Faerun.

With nobody but his own mind, he begins to replay the events of the last few months. No matter how many times he does it, it doesn’t seem quite real. The nautiloid, the grove, the underdark—all of it. From the second he first bathed in the sun’s glory to the second he lost it all anyway, it doesn’t seem real.

It doesn’t seem real that he once had someone to care for him.

But he supposes he’s mistaken. He’s had plenty of affection throughout his centuries lurking on the city's streets, albeit rare for something genuine. Regardless, it did happen. Like Sebastian or other fleeting victims of Cazador who weren’t as crude as his usual prey. Genuine people whose biggest crime was falling for Astarion’s charms at the wrong time and place.

He doesn’t remember most of their faces anymore. He’s given up on trying to.

And like clockwork, his mind fades to the moment he first tasted humanoid blood as he begins to zone out from a particular part of the ceiling. A proper meal, rather than those disgusting rats on cellar floors he’s been allowed for most of his vampiric life. He remembers the liquid gold sliding down his throat and the sheer energy that came with it—some of which he hadn’t even known he had. He recalls the heavenly metallic taste of your lifeline. How, despite all the blood, all he could smell was your soap. How hot you’d felt against his own cold and unforgiving husk of a body.

Astarion swallows, forcing himself to focus on the chipped wood on one part of the ceiling.

While on any other occasion, he’d remind himself that he’d never have a taste of you again, you had given it to him. Even though he swore all the gods above were against his odds, you’d offered him your blood as he lay pathetically against the walls of the Blushing Mermaid.

But it had been different this time. Instead of that soft smile you’d give him when he’d drink from you in the past, all that remained was a stern frown. You hadn’t run your fingers through his curls and instead chose to grit your teeth, forcing your eyes away from where he bit into your wrist. Your generosity hadn’t been one stemming from affection but one of necessity.

You had flinched away from his touch.

He’s not surprised. In fact, he should’ve expected you to shove him away the second his mouth neared your skin, and he did expect it. But instead, all you’d done was brace yourself—as if you hated his touch—and forced yourself to stay still for his sake. It was akin to watching himself endure the skin of so many strangers in hopes of convincing them into Cazador’s dungeon all those years ago. He knows it’s not the same. He knows this, but hells, did he hate how dry his throat felt after, despite feeling satiated.

He would’ve preferred if you’d just left him there to bleed.

He hates that you hadn’t done so.

He hates that you hadn’t let him ascend.

He hates that he’s forced to live alongside you.

He hates you.

Before he can tell what he’s doing, he’s standing in front of your bed. How he got here is a blur, but he has a dagger in one hand and a fist in the other. You lie blissfully asleep, unaware of the blood-red eyes that stare down at you in a daze, illuminated by nothing but the moonlight peering through the windows. He takes a moment to take in the state of your room–and though he’s not shocked at the mess scattered around the ground and desks, he’s not pleased by it either.

“Gods, how do you even live like this?” he asks, as if you can hear him.

He glances at the glint of his blade and then at your sleeping face. The same face once peppered at least a hundred kisses against his cheek, laughing loudly when he’d feign annoyance at the marks left behind. You’d only snickered then, tackling him into an embrace and allowing him to return the sentiments. Those same lips of yours are now chewed raw, almost a bloody red.

“I could finish this endless fight right now,” he whispers, his grip tightening around the handle of your blade. “I could wake you with this knife at your throat, and you’d have no choice but to kill me. I’d return the violence, of course, but only one of us would live. There would be no use fighting any longer.”

Your chest only rises and falls steadily, and he notices he hasn’t seen you at such peace since he last slept beside you all those months ago. He doesn’t see the same expression anymore because when you look at him now, it’s always accompanied by furrowed brows or a downward quirk of your lips.

He wishes you would respond.

“Ha,” he scoffs pitifully, dropping his hand. He places the blade in its rightful place on your bedside table again and sighs. “This is much too pathetic of a death for either of us. If we were to kill one another, it should be done properly—not in this mess of a room.”

With one last pathetic scan at the details of your face, he turns to leave. But before he can even reach the door, he hears a soft gasp from your bed.

For a moment, he thinks he’s been caught.

When he whips around, all he sees is your clearly asleep form, yet this time, there is no peace in your expression. Instead, it’s scrunched up into a painful grimace as your fingers grasp at your sheets and your mouth falls open to take in breaths of air that don’t come to you. He thinks you might be choking on god knows what until one of your hands flies to your throat. Your nails claw at a collar he can’t see.

He glances at his own hands.

Oh.

Astarion slowly paces back to his spot beside your bed, watching as you writhe against nothing but the air. He realizes you’re not suffocating, but it sure looks that way. He doesn’t know what to do besides watch blankly with wide eyes, but fortunately for him, the moment doesn’t last long. In seconds, your hand falls from your throat, and you continue to grimace painfully. Still, you’re no longer choking.

The bruises have faded, but only physically.

The vampire feels his hand inching toward you but freezes, unable to bring himself within a foot of your restless body without doing something he’d regret. His mind flashes back to how you’d flinched away from his touch, and it’s enough to make him drop your hand again. And being unable to decipher what he’s supposed to feel, he just stares at the wetness of your lashes, his jaw tight.

His voice is rough as he speaks.

“You foolish bard.”

“You’re one of the Gur children.”

“So what if I am,” the small child, too frail for her age despite the fangs protruding from her gums, crosses her arms, huffing. It’s been mere minutes since you managed to sit her down on the forest grounds, bent down on one knee to reach her eye level, but she remains positively stubborn, glaring at the other vampire spawn who stands idly by your side while twirling a comb in his fingers. “That doesn’t change anything.”

“It’s important. You were turned recently, then, weren’t you?” you frown, and a flicker of recognition passes her before it vanishes again. “Why are you alone? Where are the other kids?”

“That’s what you want to ask?” Astarion hisses from your side, his hands stopping. “Stop indulging such trivial questions and demand to know whether the little brat was the one to kill that poor husband. The clock is ticking, and I still have to hunt.”

You snap in his direction. “Will you stop it? She’s a child.”

“A spawn—she’s a spawn. Get it right, darling, she’s no child.”

“You’re acting like a nine-year-old yourself.”

“Ha! As cute as it is that you’re attempting to insult me, let’s leave the lines to me, hm? Your delivery couldn’t be less enthusiastic if you tried.”

“This isn’t a joke, Astarion.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

You glare at him, and he glares straight back. The smallest of snorts, stifled by a hand, comes from Berry, and you both turn to look at her in an instant. By the time you do, she’s already back to huffing, her brows furrowed.

With an exhausted sigh, your shoulders slump. “So, did you kill Roger Highberry? Was everything an act?”

She hesitates, and though you dare to believe that what you see is sorrow, she wipes it away with a blink of an eye, gaze glued to the ground before her. “I didn’t kill him. I didn’t lie.”

“Do you think we’re idiots?” You nearly roll your eyes at his voice. “You’re telling me a spawn—one that’s been newly turned, might I add—wouldn’t go ballistic at the sight of fresh blood sleeping soundly just a room over each night?”

“I didn’t!” she spits, baring her teeth. “And I’m not talking to you! I don’t want to talk to you, you—you—asshat!”

It’s apparent that it’s her first time using the word, but you don’t bother mentioning it.

“You wretched little–!”

“Berry,” you sigh for the umpteenth time, ignoring the fuming elf behind you. “I want to believe you, but I need you to be honest. And when I say honest, I mean absolutely everything. Including why you followed me out here and tried to attack me earlier.”

She falters. And almost shamefully, she looks down at her hands again. “...I ran away from the other spawns. I didn’t want to be with them anymore, and I pretended to be an orphan to stay with Cora and Roger.”

“What?” you blink. “Why would you do that?”

“Ulma taught us vampires are evil for the blood they take from people,” she mumbles. “I didn’t want to be evil too. Even if it means leaving my friends.”

As she speaks, her face dawns with a wave of solemnness–one too familiar to yourself.

“If you’re not with the others, why did you send me to the Blushing Mermaid knowing that there’d be an ambush?” you finally ask, gentler than you should be with how Astarion impatiently taps his foot behind you, but you couldn’t care less. “It could’ve killed us.”

“I wasn’t trying to kill you,” she blurts, searing eyes darting to your silver-haired companion. “I was trying to kill him. He tried to perform a ritual and kill the rest of us with the power he’d get…I might not be with my friends, but I don’t want them to die either. I don’t want to die.”

You feel your breath still. Astarion does the same, now unmoving from his spot. However, his shock stems more from offense. “Cazador would have rid of you anyway. You were doomed from the start.”

You glare at him, still maintaining a soft tone toward the girl. “He can’t harm you anymore, Berry. Nobody can.”

She points a finger at Astarion. “I can’t be sure until he’s gone!”

“Berry–” You reach toward her hand.

“I let you see Dalyria so you’d turn him in! Not to keep him!” she hisses, slapping you away with a snarl. “And the worst of all, you let him drink from you! You let someone who wants to kill the rest of us drink from you while the rest of us have to pay greatly just to survive! If you’re his friend, then I have to hate you too!”

Eyes going wide, you find yourself standing again, cheeks tinging red. “I—that was just–”

Astarion’s attention still seems elsewhere. “I don’t want to kill you, as appealing as it sounds at the moment. Even I don’t indulge in harming children, despite how annoying I find brats like you.”

“Stop lying!” she shrieks. “Petras said you’d kill us all! That the second you finish the ritual, you’d kill the rest of us to make sure you have no competitors. That there isn’t another person like you who’d go against the will of their very master—”

“Though it sounds positively delightful, I wouldn’t be the one doing all that bloodshed,” he snaps in return, fangs visible through the grit of his teeth. “It seems my dear brother has misinformed you. The ritual itself would’ve wiped you all—which would’ve been far better for the city, clearly—but I would only be making a choice. A sacrifice.”

While the two are too caught up in the wrath of their distaste for one another, realization quickly flashes across your eyes. Suddenly, you’re standing between the two, one hand inches from Astarion’s chest as a warning, while you keep Berry shielded behind your free arm. The act catches him off guard, and you think the downward curl of his lips should scare you. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

“Go hunt—or whatever it is that you do,” you demand, fingers inching closer to your weapon. It feels too dramatic, but you decide you can never be too safe. “I need to talk to her without you here to bicker and argue with a child.”

He scoffs. “Talk about what exactly? What more is there to know? You do realize that if I were to leave now, the brat would take another attempt at your life.”

“She’s a kid. I can take care of myself.”

“When you cowered behind me just minutes ago over a damn squirrel?”

Hells. You should drive a stake through his heart just for that.

Your eyes narrow. You might’ve entertained this quip on another occasion, but that moment is not now. “Go.”

His gaze flits from you back to the child, his expression indecipherable. You want to look away from his harsh stare, but your pride doesn’t dare allow you. And you’re thankful for it. “20 minutes then. 20 minutes only, and then I shall return.”

You nod.

With one last fleeting glance and a hesitant footstep, he turns on his heel, stalking to disappear into the darkness of the woods. It doesn’t take long because, after only a few dark strides and the rustling of leaves, he’s gone, leaving only you and the blazing vampire spawn behind you.

“Is that what Petras told you?” your brows furrow at Berry. “Is that what he told everyone else? That Astarion would’ve killed you once, he became an ascendant?”

She stares up at you, gaze blazing with rage. But there’s more to it. Loneliness, longing, and the most prominent: grief. Grief for the life that’s been taken away from her and reciprocated her payment in the form of fangs. She adjusts uncomfortably in her cloak, her tiny fists clenched at either of her sides.

Her silence is the answer you need.

This must be why the other spawn isn’t against the ascension. They can’t be against it because they don’t know how it works in the first place. Just as Astarion’s siblings believed the ascension would’ve rebirthed them alongside Cazador, the remaining 7000 spawns believe the same—almost ironic, in an endless cycle that repeats itself no matter what. They aren’t even aware of the ticking clock attached to their lifelines.

“Astarion wasn’t lying,” you say softly. “He wouldn’t have killed you after becoming an ascendant. He would’ve killed you becoming the ascendant. It’s the price of the ritual.”

She releases a frustrated grasp of her nails digging into her palm. “No, you’re just saying that because you’re his friend!”

“I’m not his friend,” you admit.

And despite expecting a pang of regret pulling at the strings of your heart as you say the words. No tightness in your chest, no dryness in your throat, and no shame for the lies pouring so effortlessly out of your lips. It makes you think that perhaps it’s not a lie. You dearly hope that’s the case.

“Then what are you?”

"I'm like you,” you say. "He tried to kill me too."

She frowns. “You let him drink from you. Nobody does that. Not for something like us.”

Your heart cracks a bit at her words, but you shake your head. “It was to keep him alive. To save him, as I intend to do for you.”

“You? You’ll save us?” she scoffs, clearly unconvinced, as she picks at the makeshift bandages wrapped around the wound on her arm. It’s a flimsy piece of cloth you tore from your cloak, but it’s better than risking it against whatever natural elements the forest offers. You gently pry her fingers away, preventing her from agitating the split skin.

“I did last time,” you remind her. “I’m the one that stopped Astarion from ascending—did Petras tell you that too?”

She falters. And while there’s an apparent hesitance in her eyes, there’s something behind all the rough exterior she’s built up from an undeniably traumatic experience of becoming a spawn. She looks up at you when you squeeze her tiny hand, almost hopeful. Because despite what irreparable damage the past few months have done to her, she remains a child. An innocent caught in a war of bloodshed. And what more can you gather from a child but hope?

“You want to stay with Cora, right?”

She nods sheepishly.

“Then you’ll stay with her,” you smile. “I’ll lend you my trust if you lend me yours, and you don’t run off anyway.”

“Promise?” You hold out a pinkie. She stares at it, but when she meets your eyes, she lifts her own hand to interlink with yours. For a moment, she almost looks like she's forgotten about the reality of her situation. That even if she were to live, she wouldn't be able to stay with Cora for long, given her inevitable nature.

How childish. Innocent. And you’d do anything to keep it from becoming more sinister.

“You let the girl go?” After ensuring Berry returns to her room, Astarion repeats the question for the third time as you turn away from the Highberry household in utter disbelief. The cold night air sends chills down your skin, and you wrap your torn cloak tightly around yourself, walking straight past him. Despite your apparent intentions of ignoring him, he trails after you urgently, following no matter how quickly your steps take you through the dead stillness of the city. “And what if she decides to kill the wife?”

“She won’t.”

“You don’t know that,” he hisses. “What makes you so sure she can go against her very nature to kill just so she can stay in a bedroom she shares with four other kids? All of which are very appetizing meals to her, by the way.”

You shoot him a glare. “I’m sure you would know.”

“I do. Which is all the more reason for me to step in so we don’t have to deal with yet another dead body on our hands.”

“I don’t need advice from someone who wouldn’t hesitate to use a comb as a weapon.” You rub the side of your head to soothe your headache.

“Seeing as you set a spawn free into the city, I’d argue differently.”

“Will you just shut up?”

“I didn’t accompany you to be a pretty toy piece at your side, darling. With the foolish choices you’re making, I have no other choice but to nag,” he rolls his eyes. The snarkiness in his voice is enough to snap what remains of your already worn patience.

“And you think you’re allowed to give me advice?” you spin around to face him, stopping dead in your tracks. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re basically a hostage! You don’t get to make decisions on what we do!”

“Well, who else will you get advice from now that all your little friends seem to have lost all respect for you?” 

Your jaw unhinges. He stands firm, arms crossed, and it’s enough to make your blood boil. “Gods, you’re—you’re such an asshole.”

Astarion laughs bitterly. “Care to tell me anything new?”

“About your personality? We’d be here all night. You’re also forgetting that I fought with the others for your sake, you bastard,” You step closer, teeth gnashing together. “I saved your life.”

“I would’ve survived with or without your help, darling.”

“You only got this far because our friends helped you!”

“Would you like me to be grateful?” he guffaws, and your chest tightens at how condescending it sounds. “Because must I remind you that you also stole the only chance of me escaping this filthy life where I rot away on the streets and feed on lowly criminals? You’ve forced me to be what I am, and now you think I’m indebted to you?”

Why does he keep saying that? You fight the urge to just punch him.

“I’m not saying you owe me anything, you fool!” your eyes meet his in a blaze of fire. Your heart beats rapidly, and you sincerely hope it’s gone unnoticed. “How many times do I have to tell you that I never forced you to do anything—I was stopping you from becoming like Cazador!”

He’s suddenly looming over you, his gaze sharper than before in a frenzied manner. Just mentioning his old master’s name is enough to push him on the offensive. “I never would’ve become like him…not after what that bastard did to me. I would’ve become stronger and been able to help you. Us. So why in the bloody hells you ever stopped me–”

The words pour out like a mountain of sand held by a twig, and you reach to grab the collar of his shirt. “I didn’t need help! Neither of us did, Astarion. It would’ve been hard, but we would’ve made it out like we always do if we just tried!”

You’re unsure you’ll make it out this time, but does it matter anymore?

His frown creases as if none of your pleas are getting through his thick skull. And while you have half a heart to keep blurting out whatever comes to your mind, his sudden silence and the smallest of steps he takes away from you make you seal your mouth shut. Like he’s closing the door again. Like he’s leaving you all alone again.

Your voice drops, and you bring your hand back to your side.

“You’re not being fair, Astarion.”

“Darling, I’ve followed all your stupid rules and remained on my best behavior till now, even when I could’ve caused more than a few casualties. Hells, I even watched that girl go back to the orphanage alive,” he says, quieter. “I’ve been more than fair.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What is it, then?”

“It feels like you know everything I’m constantly thinking of, whether it be you or something else,” you mumble. “But you won’t let me know what you’re thinking. I’m not asking you to tell me your deepest secret…I just need to know what I’ve done to deserve the bullshit I have to put up with. I took away the ascension from you; I get that, but is that really it? Is that really why you hate me this much? What’s worse, is that very time it feels like we can finally talk, you just—you tell me that you hate me again and then leave it there to fester even more anger on both sides.”

Astarion stares at you, his expression impossible to read. Horrified but unrelenting of the mountain of unsaid words, you continue. “Just talk to me.”

Why, you want to ask. He knows you only did what you thought was best at the time, so what have you done to deserve such cruelty?

Why do you hate me so much?

He gives you a long, hard look. It was surely only a few split seconds, but it seems like hours as you don’t even dare to breathe, rooted in place as you await his answer. It’s infuriating that you can’t tell what he’s thinking even now. He’s always been far too good at masking his feelings, and while he’d used it against you once, you never thought he’d have to again. And finally, when he moves, he doesn’t move to speak.

He shuts his eyes, and when they open again, he’s grinning. That fake, beautiful grin that brings you so much anguish and conflict simultaneously that it makes the sides of your head pound with the beating of your heart. “Fine, darling. Let’s talk if you want to so badly.”

It's so artificial that it leaves a bad taste in your mouth.

You wish he’d just tell you he hates you again.

He’s blocking you out again. Again and again, no matter how many times you take a step forward, he takes a few back, and the distance between the two of you grows larger. It’s just so exhausting and repetitive. You’re sick of it. 

“Why do I hate you? Where should I start?” he hums. “Ah, perhaps when you took it upon yourself to be the one to stab a knife through Cazador’s heart. I’m rather curious myself, darling, how did it feel? Could you feel his screams through your dagger, or were you too occupied watching the life drain from his face? Was it hard to reach his heart? Did he struggle? Oh, do tell, I’d love to know how that bastard suffered.”

The words feel like a knife to your own chest.

“To think that could have been me if I hadn’t seduced you when we met…You could’ve pierced a stake through my heart when you first caught me longing for your blood. Can you believe it? If you’d just killed me then, you wouldn’t be standing here now. You wouldn’t have let me bed you in that dirty forest clearing, and you would have never felt my lips upon yours. I could have chosen anyone else---anyone in the camp---and we wouldn't be standing here, but Gods was it easy to seduce you."

He stops, and his next words make the blood drain from your face.

"Just like the thousand other victims I brought to Cazador. You're no different from them...all you want from me are my weaknesses. You kept me this way to keep me fragile, and pathetic."

Has listening to someone's voice always been so difficult?

“I didn't—”

“But I suppose you’re the victor in another sense, my dear,” he sneers, his face impossibly close to yours, but he’s never felt so far away. “You should count yourself lucky. Few can say they’ve managed to bed me and survive to tell the tale. You even managed to make me fall for you! You, a simple naive bard, managed to seduce me! And Gods, did you put up a glorious show, darling, betraying me like you did. It was an ingenious move on your part, preventing me from reaching my full potential—the hero of Baldur’s Gate wouldn’t want anything tainting their beloved city with blood, after all–”

No, this is all wrong. This does nothing but make things worse. You wish he'd just stop.

In the blink of an eye, Astarion stops speaking. With expecting eyes, his attention flickers to the knife now pointed at his pale throat. You practically gnaw on the inside of your cheek as you inch the knife just a few centimeters from breaking skin. “Shut up.”

Astarion’s glare narrows on your hand. “Enough talking for you?”

You see that whatever man you fell in love with in what feels like another lifetime was a mask. Deep down, you’ve known that the face he wears is nothing but a facade ever since this entire fiasco started and he’d situated himself into your home. Yet, the cruelty still hurts. It hurts how much he detests you with the very same face that once worshipped your very breath. Gods, you’d been so foolish, thinking a damn vampire spawn could feel anything other than hunger….much less love.

He’d likely prefer to eat out your heart than hold it in his cold, dead hands. He’d watch you with those sultry eyes as he sinks his teeth into what remains of your heart and feels nothing but his own thirst being satiated.

So you won’t give him the opportunity. You won’t give him your heart again, even as the sky falls and the ground dissipates.

You’ve done it once, and you’ve never regretted anything more.

“You’re turn, my dear,” he says. “If you wish to say something, feel free to do so.”

He steps closer, and the tip of your blade draws a small bead of blood. He doesn’t seem to care.

Red, red, red. Your vision is growing blurry.

You inhale sharply. Breathe. You can still breathe. Words that had been bottled up inside dissipate the longer you watch him, as you understand that no matter what you say or do, he will remain as he is. While you want to tell yourself it’s because time itself has ceased for him, you know he doesn’t want to change in the first place.

“I should kill once this is over,” you mutter calmly. His blood now falls down the side of your knife. “But I’m not like you. I’m not as pathetic or petty as you are, even though I’ve been through less than you probably have. I don’t attempt murder just because things don’t go my way.”

His smile twitches.

“If you like being alone so much, then I won’t stop you. Once this is all over, I never want to see you again. I don’t care what you do, but I just want you to disappear. I want you gone, forever, in whatever shadows you hide in during the day.”

It only seems like yesterday when you begged the moon to see him one last time.

Even though he’s speaking through his teeth, he nods as you bring your knife back to your side. “I’m glad we have something to agree on.”

You want to laugh, but you fear it’ll come out as cracked.

“And you’re right,” you wipe his blood off the dagger on your sleeve, not bothering to spare him a glance. “I should have let the others behead you when we met.”

If he wants to sabotage the little good left in his life, let him. If he wants to be miserable for the rest of his undying days over what’s already been done, let him. You don’t care anymore.

Amusement drips from his voice. “A shame.”

His finger tilts your chin upward, his thumb rubbing at the side of your cheek. It’s then that you realize there’s a whiff of blood coming from a wound on your skin—a result of the forest, you’d guess. You try to swat him away, but his thumb swipes the droplets of blood to the side of your face, staring down at you with eyes that resemble rubies. You’ve always loved them, describing them as the gems you’ve stumbled across in such dire times, but now all you want to do is look away. They’re too harsh. They’re too cold. They’re too him.

You swallow the lump in your throat as he licks your blood off the pad of his thumb.

“It would’ve been better if one of us died that day.”

He takes his time to respond. 

“I know.”

Tags:@ayselluna@littleenglishfangirl@bg3obsessedsideblog@iwillpissyourpants@cyberpr1m3@ukeia-uchiha@snowlotr@road-riot@spacekidnova@madislayyy@lordfishflakes@nicalysm@djarinsway@tinystarfishgalaxy@brainz00@hopeful-n-sad@ohdeerieme@madisban@chrismarium@chonkercatto@fanfic-share@bitterrenegade@sleepyred1703@miskouly@ravenswritingroom@iamlowkeycrying@deezus-roy@spiritraves@mariposakitten@dinobae-replyacc@whisperingwillowxox@bdudette@misscrissfemmefatale@atropapurpurea@cosywinterevenings@phoenixgurl030 @generalstephkenobi @shadowsmusical @himesuedi @girlygmer-blog @vulgarfuckinvirgo77 @deezus-roy @hyperfixationwhore @teardropcup @marina-and-the-memes @kiwi-mansanas @woosaaghh @cminr @everybodystaycalm@divineknightmare@bangtanbecks@carolinelec@bitterbeanren @aelieknox @bluelovesleep @catching-fire-in-the-wind @moonlight-stay @thatbeanieboss Please let me know if I didn't add you to the list or if you'd like to be added! I needed to redo the entire taglist because it wasn't functioning, so please let me know if I missed you :)

[metalomagnetic]

I like to think Sirius actually killed the muggles. That he went after Peter, cast a Blasting Curse at the traitor, but Peter transformed in the last second, and the curse went into a gas pipe or whatever and BOOM. Twelve muggles dead, the street blown up. Peter flees the scene, the lil' lucky rat, and Sirius stands there, shocked, hysterical, laughing.

When they come for him, he says "I killed them", only he doesn't mean James and Lily, he means the poor muggles.

The Aurors check his wand, and they see the last curse he performed was a Blasting Curse. More than proof enough. They don't imprison him for being a Death Eater (he has no Dark Mark, after all) and betraying James and Lily isn't actually a crime, but they have proof he murdered a street of muggles, and he confessed to it, too, refuses to elaborate, just laughs like a maniac.

Dumbledore does come to the Ministry when he hears they arrested Sirius, but when faced with this proof- well, what is there to do? It's clear as day Sirius actually killed the muggles.

I think I'll go with this from now on; it makes the Ministry look less incompetent, it solves the dilemma of 'why wouldn't Dumbledore even attempt to ask for a trial for Sirius', and while it's still heart breaking Sirius wasted away in Azkaban, at least now he's actually guilty of something, and it isn't just incredibly unfair. Sirius spends 12 years in hell, one year for each of his muggle victims.

Even after Dumbledore learns in Harry's third year that Sirius isn't actually a Death Eater, it's not like he can overturn the guilty verdict or ask for a trial. They are well aware Sirius would be found guilty at a trial, anyway. They all know it, hence why they don't try to clear Sirius' name. Because he's guilty. So Sirius stays on the run. They decide not to tell Harry, because ...well, because he just gained a godfather that loves him dearly, wouldn't do to find out he actually managed to slaughter muggles by accident.

After Sirius dies, the Ministry decides to pardon him, since he's already dead and no longer a threat to the public, and Dumbledore convinces them to do it, as a sort of comfort for Harry.

Now, I'm gonna write a fic about it.

[slayfics]

I HAVE A REQUEST MAMA

Kirishima x short! shy! fem! reader >:3

Like maybe he gets to see her goofy side for the first time then she gets all shy about it 🥰

Eijiro catches you being silly.

500 words

Eijiro passed through the door of your shared apartment. He unexpectedly got off early from his hero shift. It was a slow day, little to be done, and the streets were peaceful for once.

Kneeling down he undid his shoes and left them in the entranceway. He was expecting you to come running out surprised but you must not have heard him enter.

Music drifted down the hallway and he followed it to the bedroom. You were shuffling around, folding laundry and putting it away. You always made it a point to do whatever house chores you could on your days off. That way whatever time together you both had could be shared uninterrupted.

You still hadn’t noticed the hero in the entry way. You worked around the room singing to the cheesy love song that played on your speaker.

It was cute, and your voice was soft. Until becoming disinterested in the mundane task of folding laundry you started to sing more exaggerated. Adding your own silly lyrics and sounds. At one point Eijiro thought you might have been attempting to beat box.

The hero bit back a laugh not wanting to interrupt the scene. Knowing you’d turn and run as soon as you saw you’d been caught being so comical.

Your one-person concert continued until you made your way to put a fresh blanket away. Your attempt to reach the top of the closet where the blankets lay left you jumping. Momentarily halting your singing.

Eijiro watched a few more failed jumps to the top shelf before he took pity on you.

“Need help?” He asked coming behind you.

You screamed, turning on your heels to face the hero.

“Eijiro!” You yelled tossing the blanket at him. “You scared the shit of out me!”

Eijiro laughed, and easily placed the blanket on the top shelf for you. “Sorry babe, couldn’t watch you struggle any more though.”

“Wait- HOW LONG HAVE YOU BEEN THERE?!” You asked, horrified at the thought of him watching your awful display of singing.

“Long enough to hear the beat boxing symphony,” he said with a smirk.

“OH GOD!” You exclaimed, throwing your face into your hands. Face, ears, and neck red with embarrassment.

“Awe don’t hide bunny, I liked it. You’re so cute when you’re being yourself.” He said bringing you into a hug.

You hid your face in his chest, still absolutely mortified.

“Come on, let me give you a kiss,” he urged, giving you a squeeze.

“No! I wanna crawl in a hole and die,” you mumbled into his chest.

“Oh, come on- it’s not like you haven’t seen me a goofball a million times before,” he spoke attempting to comfort you. “Come on, let me see that cute face.”

You peaked up slightly from his chest, then hid again.

“Alright fine, play that way. I’m just gonna… SHOWER YOU WITH KISSES THEN,” he yelled and surprised attacked you with kisses. The top of your head to your cheeks were peppered with his kisses. Until you were laughing begging him to stop,

“Ok ok ok,” you pleaded and giggled. “I feel better!”

“Good,” he said placing one last long kiss on your cheek. “Now, mind if I sing with you?” He said grabbing some clothes to help put away.

I typed this on my phone while lying on my bed bc I’m a maniac. I hope you enjoyed this! I actually wrote two fics since I wasn’t satisfied with the first- I’ll still be posting it though.

sinners: @unofficialmuilover @maddietries @fiannee @derangedmango @reneinii @zanarkandskylines @pastelbakugou @abadbitchblogs @deluluforcarlos55 @pinkpurpledreams

[xmads-omensx]

PART 1

Pairing: Joker!Noah Sebastian X Harley Quinn!Reader

Word Count: 2,525

CW: violence, weapons, mentions of death, swearing, references to murder, mentions of / allusions to torture

Tags: @shayeanna-ashlie @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @supersquirrel1996 @dontwantthemoney @tosoundlessdarkistare @bloody-spades @klutzy-kay24 @heyyoplayer @lacy1986 @collidewiththesav @kenjipepsi1 @follow-me-down-to-wonderland @chey-h @thisbicc @fadingangelwisp @heyyoplayer @dsireland86 @missduffsblog @overmydeadbodysblog @dominuslunae @littlebear423 @blade-dressed-in-red @rumoured-whispers @eclipseeetop @xxkittenkissesxx @theanarchymuse95 @blackveilomens @lilgarbitch @lil-garbitch @concretejunglefm @museonfilm @death-ofpeace-ofmind @xxkatsatwatwafflexx @kissestomyomens @flowery-mess @athenexe @anything-more-than-human

Bullets whizzed past the car as a maniacal laugh ripped through me.

The Omens asylum was an easy break, which I found hysterical since it housed the worst of the worst, humanity’s craziest, those who could not be contained in The Drain prison alone. That was where Noah had been rotting away. Until tonight at least.

Now, he sat in the passenger seat, laughing in the same manner that I was. His trusty pistol sat in his hands. He brought the white weapon to his lips, kissing the side of it before cocking it, getting it ready to fire.

“Fuck I’ve missed you.” He groaned as he looked at the pistol in his hands before leaning out of the passenger window, shooting at the cops that were gaining on us.

As he fired, he laughed like a maniac as I swerved to avoid passing cars.

“You happy baby?” I asked gleefully as he climbed back into the car to reload his gun.

“Fuck yeah I’m happy princess.” He groaned with a smile, grabbing the back of my head and pulling me into a deep, passionate kiss, making me moan into his mouth.

I let out a cackle once we pulled away, before putting my foot down on the gas pedal and turning the wheel sharply to the left, taking us down an alleyway.

The car sped through, bursting through the other side onto a busier road. I had hoped that this would deter the cops, and it seemed to have worked, until I heard the beating of helicopter propellers whirring in the sky above us.

Noah’s large tattooed hand gripped my thigh that was exposed by my shiny, pink mini-dress having ridden up, exposing both my thigh and the scratchy tattoos that decorated my skin.

My stomach fluttered.

“Go underground Princess.” Noah commanded with his trademark smirk that never failed to make me bite my lip with desire.

I followed his orders, steering the purple sports car into the subway opening that stood further up the street, the police not far behind us with their sirens blaring. The chopper overhead was gaining on us rapidly. 

“Good girl.” He praised my obedience.

The subway was packed with people, which only made me laugh harder as I drove the car onto the tracks in front of the platform making them scream and run around like headless chickens, speeding further and further down the tunnel towards the opening that was located somewhere in the darkness.

Noah had insisted on having the entrance to our own little hideaway down here since we could get to it from anywhere in Malice, as long as we were near a subway station.

Sure, it was a risky location but the only time cops ever came down was to kick out homeless people who sought refuge down here. Since we always cut the cameras for the subway system whenever we came and went, they would never know we were down here. But even if they did, they’d never find our hideout.

It was perfect.

I pulled into the space beside the rails as Noah reached for the switch to open the large door to allow the car to enter the base. I sped through the moment the door was open wide enough to slip through. We laughed in unison the moment the doors closed behind us.

I squealed as Noah picked me up, placing me down on his lap and kissing me deeply once again.

“Got a present for you baby.” I giggled as I pulled away from the kiss.

Noah squeezed my ass, making me squeal again, as I gripped his hand and led him further into headquarters.

“If it’s not you in that pretty green lingerie set then I don’t want it.” He laughed, walking closely behind me, practically pressing himself against my back as he followed me. “Been thinking about that since they locked me up.”

“Maybe later, baby.” I giggled, a sickeningly wicked smile crossing my features.

The base was large, spanning five floors beneath the city of Malice with multiple wings leading to different entrances and escape routes. We could never be too careful. 

It was painted in striking bold colours, none of them matching, but they all worked in a misaligned harmony. 

Some of our other cars and vehicles were parked at this entrance, so Noah took some time to look at each of them, running his tattooed hands over the surface of them, muttering greetings to them as if they were old friends he hadn’t seen in years.

The green of his hair had faded during his time at Omens Asylum, with his natural roots growing in heavily. 

I missed it. 

The colour still clung on in places, but it wasn’t the vibrant colour that it once was. 

Regardless, he was still the handsome man that I had fallen madly in love with all that time ago.

He looked much stronger now than he had when they had taken him away and locked him behind concrete walls and barred doors.

The muscles on his back rippled beneath the orange jumpsuit that he was still wearing that clung tightly to his biceps as he walked, gazing around headquarters with a newfound sense of freedom in his brown eyes.

The diamond tattoo beneath his eye crinkled with his smile as he looked at me, walking back over to me and pulling me into his arms once again.

“You gonna show me this surprise?” He asked with a sly smirk, clearly still hoping for the dirty surprise that he was envisioning.

“Uh huh, honey.” I said with a giggle, nodding my head as I spoke.

His spindly fingers gently threaded through my hair, which I had chosen to leave down for this great escape, as he gazed at his movements, mesmerised by them.

“You changed your hair.” He remarked at my hair, which had black and red tips when he was initially incarcerated.

“Well yeah, I had to get a whole new look when they locked you up, hot stuff.” I replied with a giggle, twirling my hair which was now blue and pink at the tips around my finger as I stepped back so he could see my whole body which was clad in a shiny pink minidress that I had worn, and come to regret, when helping my lover escape.

My initial thought was that this flashy outfit would distract the guards, but it only made my presence more obvious. They were such party poopers.

“Honey I gotta show you youre surprise.” I huffed, stomping my foot playfully as though I were a child throwing a tantrum.

“Am I gonna like it?” He asked, the boyish smile that he wore previously vanishing from his face.

“I think so baby.” I smiled in reply, taking his hand in mine and skipping out of the garage and further into the complex that resembled an underground oil rig, passing doors that led to various weapon storage rooms as I led him to the surprise.

I turned right, taking him to the very end of a narrow hallway. 

“Sugar.” He began, voice laced with an edge of hesitation. “Ain’t that the torture room?” 

I nodded with a giggle, hair swaying slightly due to my vigorous movements.

Releasing Noah’s hand, I put the code into the keypad, unlocking the large steel door revealing the surprise that I had lovingly procured for Noah.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Noah snarled as he looked inside the room.

There, right in the centre of the concrete room, sat a metal chair with a man chained to it.

“What do you think baby?” I giggled, bouncing with excitement.

“What the fuck is this.” Noah snarled, stepping forward, every single muscle in his body tense.

“Your surprise!” I began, clapping my hands together as I jumped up and down in excitement.

“What the fuck is he doing here?” He went on.

“Baby?” I went on. “Don’t you like it?” 

The man who sat on the chair looked up, a smirk on his face, before he burst into laughter.

“Nicholas.” Noah snarled, animosity lighting up his eyes as he took another step forwards.

“Baby?” I went on, stepping closer to the wall, cowering slightly.

Noah said nothing, only walking closer to where Nicholas sat on the chair. “I thought you would like getting him back for what he did? He got you locked up baby, it’s all his fault.” I rambled, trying to explain my reasoning to my lover.

“You fucking idiot.” He snarled.

“Me?” I asked, all previous excitement vanishing from my voice.

“Yes you!” He screamed, pushing the small metal trolley filled with various torture instruments to one side, making it fall over with a loud clatter. “You brought that fucking traitor right into our home! Are you asking for them to come back?” 

“Baby… I just thought… maybe you’d wanna hurt him.” I mumbled, looking at my feet in shame.

“Get out of my sight.” He barked, running his hand through his hair.

“But baby-” I started.

“Now!” He bellowed, pointing at the door we had just walked through in anger. 

I scurried out with a whimper and made my way to our living quarters as fast as I could.

How could this have gone so wrong so fast?

The green door that led to the living area opened with a loud creak as I pushed it open, the sound echoing throughout the hideout.

I welcomed the silence as I made my way to our bedroom so that I could change out of my dress and into some more comfortable clothes, suddenly feeling self-conscious in the dress.

The material of the hoodie was a welcoming soft texture on my skin, it was one of Noah’s that he wore often before he was taken away.

I took off my makeup and pulled my hair back into two messy low buns at the back of my head before sitting down on the large, pink couch in the middle of the living room, curling my knees up to my chest and waiting for Noah to come and join me.

What felt like hours passed when the door opened with a slam and Noah walked through.

His knuckles were bloody and he was breathing heavily as if he were out of breath. 

I didn’t say anything, but simply watched as he stormed into the bedroom and stripped out of the orange jumpsuit that now had specks of blood on it.

He re-emerged in a pair of purple joggers and a white tank top. 

He sat down on the couch beside me heavily before flexing his injured hand in front of him.

Wordlessly, I stood up and walked to the bathroom, coming back with the first aid kit. 

I retook my seat beside Noah and took his hand in mine. I inspected his knuckles before taking out some antiseptic and began to clean the wounds. It was nothing major, just the same scuffs that I was used to seeing on them.

I wrapped a bandage around his knuckles and placed a kiss on it once I was done. 

Noah extended his arm and pulled me close to his chest, placing a kiss on my head.

“I missed you sugar.” He whispered.

“Missed you too honey.” I whispered back. 

“Never. Ever. Do anything like that again.” He growled.

“Nicholas?” I asked, turning my head to look at him.

“Yeah.” He snarled.

“Did you kill him?” I asked.

“Not yet. The bastard might be useful for something after all.” Noah said with an evil smirk. 

I hummed as he pulled me closer, his large tattooed hand resting on the swell of my ass.

He traced patterns on my skin as we stayed there in silence, just enjoying each other’s presence.

I knew better than to ask any questions about what Noah had meant when he said that Nicholas might be useful after all. 

The answer wouldn’t be something that I wanted to hear when I wanted nothing more than to hold the man that I loved close. 

“I’m happy you’re back honey.” I whispered, kissing his chest softly.

“I’m happy I’m back too sugar. Missed this freedom.” He replied.

There was no more need to talk as we stayed there. 

My mind began to wander to the man in the torture room down in the lower levels. 

What condition had Noah left him in? 

Judging by the state of Noah’s knuckles, Nicholas was most likely wishing that Noah had just killed him. 

When Noah got mad, there was no stopping all six feet and three inches of him. 

I’d hate to see Nicholas right now. 

“Make any friends when you were inside honey?” I asked, voice soft and delicate.

He laughed.

“Yeah. Make plenty, sugar.” Noah said.

“Bet they all liked you.” I giggled.

“Yeah they did.” He laughed.

“Heard rumours abou’cha.” I said as I sat up and straddled Noah’s lap.

“Oh yeah? What rumours did you hear sugar?” Noah smirked, hands caressing my hips.

“Heard you hurt some people when you were in there. Had to lock you up extra good.” I said, fiddling with the straps of his tank top.

His chest vibrated with a laugh beneath me.

“Yeah baby. Hurt them real bad.” He said with that same smirk that make my stomach flutter.

“How bad?” I whispered, shifting on his lap.

“Real bad.” He leant forward to whisper in my ear.

I giggled in response and moved my hands from his shoulders to the back of his neck, pulling him into a deep and passionate kiss.

His hands tightened on my hips, making me grind on him ever so slightly. I moaned into his mouth as he kissed me harder and pulled me closer.

“Noah.” I gasped as he pulled away.

“You stupid fucking bitch.” He laughed as he pulled further away, resting his arms over the back of the couch as he leant back, looking me up and down. 

“Honey?” I asked in a whisper, a blush rising to my cheeks in my vulnerable state.

“You think you can do whatever you want while I’m locked up in that asylum, huh sugar? You think you’re all smart, bringing that man into our home.” He smirked.

“Baby i thought-” I started before he put his finger to my lips.

“Shhhh I don’t wanna hear it sugar.” Noah said. “That man is dangerous and you lead him right to me.”

“I just wanted to help.” I whined, pouting as I looked down.

“I know sugar.” He whispered as he kissed my head. “But his crew are gonna be back for him. They’re gonna come right here… and blow your pretty little brains out.”

He poked my nose as he spoke.

“Sorry honey… I didn’t think.” I tried, voice small.

“I know you didn’t sugar.” Noah said with a laugh. “But luckily for you, I can take ‘em.” 

Noah smirked at me before pulling me back into a deep kiss. 

He laughed again once he pulled away, me following after, joining him in hysterical laughter. 

They were coming for Nicholas.

But we would be ready for them.

[lovelybucky1]

Sweeten the Deal

Kinktober Day 4- Femdom

warnings: batgirl!reader, afab!reader, bondage, canon typical violence, implied batman x reader, degradation, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, spit as lube, unprotected sex, fade to black sex scene, 18+ minors dni

masterlist

kinktober masterlist

when you take the bag off of crane’s head, he is already conscious. he grins, though it’s lazy and dazed with his eyes unfocused.

“batgirl,” he drawls in that sickly sweet voice of his.

“crane,” you reply bitterly.

you had chased him down the streets of gotham in the rain. he had gotten some hits in, but your injuries were nothing compared to the uncomfortable squelching in your suit. when you finally caught up with him, you hit him in the back of the head with a rusty pipe and he was out. it’s not your most tactful capture, but it worked.

“i have to say, i’m a little offended they sent you after me instead of daddy. i guess i’m not as big of a bad guy as i used to be,” he smirks.

it’s a dig at your power, strength, and a slightly misogynistic one at that. you narrow your eyes at him. he can talk all the shit he wants, it doesn’t change the fact that he’s bound to a chair bolted to the floor.

crane looks around the warehouse he’s being held in, taking in the sight of the tall ceiling, dim lighting, and seeming lack of exit.

"this doesn't seem like the interrogation room they usually take me to," he notes.

you roll your eyes. "No, it isn't."

"have you bat-people finally taken over and judge and jury now, too?" crane looks far too smug for someone who is ultimately at your mercy.

"this isn't your typical trial, crane." you step closer to him. "you have information i need, so in return for your cooperation, i won't turn you in to the police."

crane leans his head back as much as he can due to the high back of his chair and raises his eyebrows at you. "you think you're doing me a favor by not turning me in? you turn me in and i'll just escape again, just like i did the last time, and the time before that. seems like those arkham employees really don't have their heads on straight," he smirks.

you pause for a moment, trying to think of a rebuttal. sure, crane has a phd, but you didn't think he'd be able to figure you out so quickly.

"how about we made a deal, then, crane?"

he looks at you with an unimpressed stare. "what, i tell you what you want to know and you stop torturing me?" he adjusts in his seat. "no offense, but a little girl in a costume doesn't really scare me." before you can respond, he's talking again. "besides, there is nothing you can do to me that i haven't already done to myself."

after that, he grins. it's unsettling, maniacal, and it reminds you that you're not just dealing with a guy who wears a costume and runs around the city. this guy is fucking crazy.

you exhale through your nose, resolving yourself to using a different interrogation method. you're not proud of it, but like crane said, there isn't any way to hurt or scare him. he already thinks you're only good for using your feminine wiles to distract enemies. what do you have to lose by confirming his suspicions?

"no, i'm not going to hurt you."

"oh, good. i have to say, i was getting pretty tired of batman breaking my ribs."

"i have something to offer you at batman can't," you say. you walk right up to his chair, almost standing between his bound legs. "sex appeal."

crane laughs, and the sound makes you feel slimy. "you must be one of those blind bats, or maybe batman really is your father." you furrow your brows behind your mask.

"but i can offer you something much more comfortable than what he would."

crane looks your body up and down, not trying to hide ogling in the slightest. "i see... so why don't you get on with it and take off that ridiculous suit."

"that's not how this works. you talk first," you say.

"how do i know you're not going to take my information and leave me here?"

you slip your leg over his hip and hold onto the back of the chair, lowering yourself onto his lap. he raises his eyebrows, looking up at you with a slight smirk on his lips.

"how about i give you some, you give me some?" he asks.

"fine. you go first," you say, not bothering to hide the annoyance from your voice. "tell me what you know."

"i know a lot of things. i'm a doctor, after all. i doubt most of it would be of any interest to you, though."

you sigh heavily. "tell me what you know about the drug supplier for arkham."

"hm, i'm not sure that rings a bell," he looks up at you with a devilish look in his eyes. you clench your jaw as you reach towards the base of your throat to grasp at the zipper to your suit. you drag it down slightly, revealing some of your cleavage.

"don't play dumb with me, crane."

"i have no idea what you're talking about."

"the original drug supplier for the asylum got bought out by some no-name company with no public records or anything."

"and why do you think this has something to do with me?"

you narrow your eyes. "because a week before the merger, the old ceo checked into arkham after a psychotic break. that has scarecrow written all over it."

crane chuckles. "it wasn't my idea. i was simply following orders."

"who's orders?"

"i don't know. i got back to my temporary residence and there was an unmarked envelope with my name on it. thirty-thousand dollars cash up front. the letter said they'd give me the rest upon completion of the job."

"so you did this without even knowing why? he was an innocent man," you say, voice almost a growl.

crane laughs mockingly. "oh, you precious thing. men like that are rarely innocent. he could've been corrupt, or an infidel, or a sexual predator. everyone is guilty of something. even batman, even you."

ignoring his bait for a reaction, you continue with your questions. "they gave you cash up front. why didn't you just take the money and run?"

"steal from a mysterious organization who knows my identity and where i'm hiding out?" crane scoffs.

"so you're-"

"if you want anything else, you better show some more skin," he interrupts.

glaring at him, you unzip your suit all the way but leave it on to show off the rest of your cleavage and down your stomach. his eyes trail over your skin hungrily.

"so you're just a hitman for hire now?" you ask.

"why, are you in the market?"

"have you done any other jobs?" you ask instead of answering his ridiculous question.

"maybe i have. maybe your precious batman is screaming and crying for you to come save him. wouldn't that be a sight? your mentor needing to be rescued from his bad dreams by you."

his voice is almost hypnotic, but you know better than to fall for his tricks. he's trying to persuade you to give into your baser urges, your jealousy, your need to be useful. fucking psychopath.

you reach around his head and twist your fingers in his hair, yanking it back causing it to knock against the metal back of the chair. he winces a bit, but it does nothing to quell the wild look in his eyes.

"shut up, crane."

"feisty," he remarks. "i did a few jobs outside the city, but those aren't in your jurisdiction."

unfortunately, he's right. outside of the city is too vague to track anyone down and connect crane to crimes.

"how did you do it?"

"do what?" he asks, looking at your tits instead of your eyes.

"do whatever it is you did to that guy."

"you want the dirty details, batgirl?" he smirks. "of how i strapped him down and injected him with my chemical that put the fear of god in him?" his hips thrust up, jostling you on his lap and making you grab onto his shoulder for support. he looks up at you with a sick smile. "he screamed and screamed, begging for mercy, for death to take him. he ripped out his hair and scratched his skin bloody. i think he was imagining spiders from what i could gather, but in my professional opinion, he just seems like your regular nutcase."

recounting his crime clearly feeds into some sick fantasy he has, but by playing into it, you're getting the information you need. you look down to see his cock straining in his pants.

"jesus, you're crazy," you say in disbelief, though you shouldn't be surprised.

"yet you still decided to crawl into my lap. you're just as crazy as i am, you're just afraid to get your hands dirty."

you can handle crane doubting your strength, your intelligence, your capability, and your worthiness to wear the bat symbol, but you refuse to let him compare the two of you.

"we are nothing alike," you hiss. "i don't torment people for my own enjoyment."

"what are you doing to me now?" he says, looking down at where your hips have shifted closer to his erection.

without thinking, you reach forward and harshly grab his cock through his pants. he winces and squirms, trying to get away from your touch or wanting more of it, you're unsure.

"you sick fucking bastard," you spit. "talking about your attempted murder got you this hard?"

"it was mostly the slut on my lap."

"you want me to hold up my end of the deal, crane? well it's going to be on my terms."

you climb off his lap and take off your suit, leaving you in your undergarments and mask. his eyes study you intently, making you feel more like a test subject than sexy.

when you step back over to him, you yank open the fly of crane's pants and take out his cock. he's hard and average sized; nothing impressive but enough to satisfy you.

standing in front of him, you spit into your hand and bring your wet fingertips down to your pussy. you open yourself up while he watches, unable to do anything else.

once you deep yourself open enough, you sit back on his lap and hold onto his dick, positioning his tip at your entrance.

"ask me for more," you say. "beg me for my pussy."

"this wasn't part of the deal," crane says, smug.

"i won't give you anything if you don't play by my rules. you're my prisoner right now."

crane rolls his eyes but resolves himself. "please give me your pussy," he says unenthusiastically.

"you can do better than that."

"please bless me with your fucking cunt, batgirl. i want you to use me." his tone could use some improvement, but the words were good enough to satisfy you.

you sink down on his length slowly to adjust to the size. by the time you're fully seated, crane is having a much more difficult time keeping his composure. his breathing is faster and small whines occasionally escape his mouth.

"how's that, crane?" you ask, voice breathy in his ear. "everything you thought it'd be?"

"looser than i expected. guess daddy treats you well," he chuckles, though it trails off into a moan.

you roll your hips a bit, gripping his shoulders tightly. perhaps you're holding on tighter than you need to, but pain clearly isn't a problem for crane.

"now you can tell all your freak friends- joker, harley, the riddler, whoever else you run with these days- that you got fucked by batgirl. i bet you'll spin it like you got me begging on my knees for you, but we'll know the truth. we know that you whimpered for my pussy like a little bitch."

“they don’t give a shit about you. but they’ll love to hear that i fucked batman’s bitch. does he know that you’re stepping out on him tonight?” he asks with a grin.

no, bruce doesn’t know what you’re up to tonight, and when you tell him, he’ll get the abridged version.

“stop fucking talking about him,” you hiss in his ear. “keep his name out of your disgusting mouth.”

crane moans at that. a genuine, low moan.

“i would’ve let myself get caught sooner if i’d known you were so easy to give it up.”

you’re riding him now, bouncing on his lap and using your grip on his shoulders as leverage. he watches as your tits jiggle in his face, staring shamelessly like the pig he is.

this doesn’t seem like much of a punishment for him, but fucking yourself on his cock is too enjoyable to care. besides, as soon as you finish, you will be promptly sending him back to arkham where he’ll be held in a much more secure wing.

[uhhlifeig]

Spooky - October 25 - word count: 490 - @wolfstarmicrofic

Remus strolled down their quiet London street, walking Padfoot. Or rather, a “ghost” Padfoot. 

The dog was draped in a white bedsheet, complete with lopsided eye holes Sirius had proudly cut himself. 

The “spookiest dog in London,” the older man had declared. The werewolf snorted just thinking about it.

As they walked, Padfoot swayed with every step, the sheet flapping dramatically in the evening breeze. 

A couple of neighbors stopped and stared, while others tried (and failed) to hold back their laughter.

“Is that… Remus, is that your dog under there?” Mrs. Billings from next door called out, squinting at them.

“Yes,” he replied, feigning exasperation. “He’s very into Halloween, apparently.”

Padfoot barked loudly in agreement, strutting around proudly, the sheet rustling as he strutted along with an exaggerated wiggle of his tail.

A group of small kids on the corner pointed, wide-eyed. “It’s a ghost dog!” one gasped.

Padfoot lifted his head and let out an enthusiastic howl, the sound muffled and hilariously dramatic under the sheet. 

The children squealed and clapped, and one of them came over and gave “Ghost Dog” a quick pat on the head before running back to his friends, shrieking, “I touched a real ghost!”

“Enjoying the attention, are we?” Remus murmured to the dog animagus, who responded with a proud little yip, as if to say, Of course.

Just then, Padfoot attempted to hop up on a bench, attempting to dramatically perch- but his paws slipped on the fabric, and the sheet fell. He scrambled, tail wagging furiously as he tried to get free.

Remus couldn’t hold back his laughter as he bent down, helping untangle his dramatic “ghost.” “Come on, Scary Dog, before you hurt yourself.”

Padfoot barked again, giving his most dignified shake before trotting onward, head held high as if the mishap had never happened. They continued down the street, gathering chuckles, waves, and even a few phone photos as Padfoot continued his ghostly strut through London.

By the time they turned toward home, Padfoot was still proudly wearing his “costume,” though it was now askew, draped over him like a toga.

As soon as they stepped into their flat and closed the door, Sirius transformed back, still tangled in the sheet and grinning like a maniac. “Did you see their faces? I’m a legend!”

The younger man smirked, crossing his arms. “You’re a menace, that’s what you are. We’re probably going viral by now.”

Sirius threw the sheet dramatically over his head, leaning in with wide eyes. “OoOoo, beware, Remus Lupin, I’ll haunt you foreeeever…”

The dirty-blonde man laughed, rolling his eyes as the noiret did his ghost impression. “You’ve been haunting me for years already. You think I’m scared now?”

Sirius grinned. “Just you wait. I’m the ghost with the most!”

Remus chuckled, reaching out to ruffle Sirius’s hair, walking into the kitchen. “Alright, Casper, let’s get you some tea. Your ‘haunting’ has probably terrified the whole neighborhood.”