#I want to squish him into a pulp

[amberbean16]

This is my son. I made him. He is just a girl in the world.

Pattern credits : @crochet_crochey and @canadianroo on instagram

[wrathful-reptile]

i am not allowed to keep the g2s. i am not allowed to keep theg2s.

[hinderr]

sorry in advance for the person i will be when moff gideon comes back on screen

[hazelfoureyes]

A Doe in Fall (part 5)

⟢HumanAlastor x FemaleBurlesquerReader - A Doe in Fall

Part 1 - Pretty in Red smut💦 Part 2 - Liar smut💦 Part 3 - A Tragedy smut💦 Part 4 - Enough Part 5 - Too Much Part 6 - Learning smut💦 Part 7 - Recognition smut💦 Part 8 - Trust sexual 🥵 Part 9 - Shiny Things Part 10 - Good Deeds

Part 5 Too Much

Actions famously speak louder than words, so what did you say, exactly, to Alastor with your actions that night? You were briefly rattled by what happened in the park but not for the obvious reasons. Despite everything, despite your fears, you found the situation deepening between you two when he suddenly invites to stay the night at his home. Perhaps he had fears of his own?

「Warnings/Promises: Human Alastor x Fem Burlesquer reader, No smut! That’s next part because this part was already super fucking long 😭 , but we do flirt our asses off and get taken by the hand, crying, panic attacks, discussions of murder, dead bodies, you really have to stop smoking, deer, adorably nervous Alastor, this man owns more than one mug you fucking know it」

19 days later… 😩 please don’t kill me. 5000 words here, Another like 6000 words are posting this Thursday, also tumblr wouldn’t let me post this for like an hour , just gave me error messages, I had to copy and paste 4 times so there may be some errors in here so let me know if you find spelling or format issues🙏

When he came to, momentarily either unconscious or just incapacitated as his brain started up again, he was frantic for his glasses. He could hear the sounds of a brutal death, the crunch of anger, the squish of rage. 

His eyes focused now, slightly askew and smudged glasses helping him see you clearly. 

Leaning over the man, hands red and face twisted in a marriage of fear and wrath, you were bringing a large rock down on the man’s unrecognizable face over and over and over and—

You flinched when Alastor’s hands delicately slipped down your arms and peeled your fingers from the rock.

Full body shaking, “He was going to kill you!” You said it too loud, too fast. “He was going to—,” Your breath got caught in your throat, “He wanted to— He was trying to kill you, Alastor.”

Wet with mud and blood and the rain still left on the grass, you were pulled into Alastor’s lap. He tucked your head into the crook of his neck with a small wince and hugged you. “He was. He almost did.” Low and slow, his chest rumbled when he said it. “You did such a good job.”

You looked down at your hands, but he pulled your face back up to look at his, “Always surprising me in the best ways.”

You’d forgotten already, how when adrenaline wanes you’re left with terrible tremors and a suddenly clear head. Alastor almost died. You hadn’t thought at all when it happened. Everything had taken place so fast, faster than your brain could process.

You had seen Alastor stop struggling against the man, his body went still and your eyes were blinded with tears, there was a horrible sound that may have come from you, and then there was nothing. A flash of running Colors. Distant muddled sounds.

Maybe you saw someone grab a rock. 

You might have hit the man on the back of the head. 

You think he fell down and something didn’t stop moving against him. 

Perhaps you thought if you hit him enough you could make it have not happened at all. If you killed him fast enough, Alastor would have been fine and standing.

But you weren’t sure. You blinked and Alastor was touching you and underneath you was a pulp of a man’s face. 

Alastor’s heart was racking against his ribs. Arms tightening around you unconsciously as his eyes landed on the dead man.

He’d gotten too comfortable. He pushed too hard. He wanted too much. He was too much.

He felt himself spilling over and staining your hands metaphorically and now literally.

You didn’t feel anything. Not during. Now you felt too much.

Your mind was filled with an echoing chorus of, ‘He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost killed him. He almost died. He almost died. He almost died.” 

There was a strange fear that Alastor had died, and any second you’d blink again and be alone in the trees with two dead men. You twisted in his lap,  hands rocketing to Alastor’s face and gripping the sides of his head. You were staring into his eyes, panting.

“You can’t die. I’ll—,” tears poured down your face in streams not drops. Your throat closed around the words. Short and fast, your breath ran wild. Hands tingling, your lips felt like they were pricked with a hundred tiny needles. 

Alastor pushed down his own mess of emotions, “One deep breath in.” His hands settled on yours,  still on his face. He could feel the familiar stickiness of drying blood in his hair. “Keep breathing in.” You coughed, shaking your head no. “You can, I promise it. Would I lie to you?”

You laughed, managing to catch your breath for a moment, “Y-yes.” 

“Well, now you’re adding insult to injury.” He made a show of rubbing his neck. You smacked his chest lightly, breathing in twice in a row.

He held both of your hands in both of his, “Name a time I’ve ever lied.” He distracted you but wounded himself. He could name a time.

You tried to think. “I don’t know. Maybe you’re just a really good liar.” Your voice was hoarse. 

Alastor nodded, “That’s true, there’s actually nothing I can’t do well.”

Another laugh, a cry, “Stop it.”

His warm, clean hands wiped your tears. “You’re being aggressive again, sweetheart. You know I prefer soft spoken women.”

The laughter helped break the cycle of hyperventilating. As your breathing finally got to a manageable speed you felt exhaustion deep in your bones.

All at once the sensations became prominent. Your knees were red and muddy, your hands bloody, your left side and back wet. You were sticky and sore and cold. “Alastor,” his legs were framing you, yours now folded under yourself and digging into rocks, “I wanna go home.” You adjusted his glasses, “Together.” 

If he had a reason to say no, he ignored it. 

“I thought I was the messy one.” He washed your hands with the water cans and settled you into the passenger seat of his car. Alastor took care of filling the trunk and cleaning the ground before sliding into the driver's seat.

He turned to you, his face dirty and clothes worse. You looked down at yourself; knees a color of wine, and blue dress now dyed brown.

“I know you have to get rid of him. So, I won’t ask you to sleep over. Just,” you felt sleepy, mind asking you to let it catch up, “let me take care of you for a little bit. Okay?”

His hand slipped onto your leg, he wanted to make a joke about sex or murder hoping to make you laugh again. But it was obvious he needed to be quiet, so he just nodded.

Alastor left the car on a side street behind your building. The man whose name you never asked concealed under canvas and red oil tins.

Luckily everything was clean in your apartment. It was small, just one room and a bathroom. The other apartments you’d seen had communal toilets and showers so you were quite proud of your space. You’d made it yours, gifted trinkets here and there, walls decorated with hanging dried flowers you'd had thrown at your feet. A shrine to your abilities.

You peeled off his clothes, tossing them in the kitchen sink and wiping off as much dirt as you could with a damp rag. 

Clothing hanging over the radiator, you both got into the shower. Cold and wet now hot and soaking,  you took his hands and sat you both down in the tub while the water ran down. Taking your time, you gently scratched the blood and mud from his hair and let it all wash away.

When fully cleaned and dried off he slipped on the only bit of clothing he had left, a loose pair of boxer shorts. You had a slip, silky and soft, to comfort you. Your mother wore silk, and it always made you feel safe. The way the fabric slid around its self and others, never catching or bunching up, was something you always hoped to emulate; smooth and cool, but always in need of a little caution and care.

A small bed meant for one, but you offered it. When Alastor motioned for you to slide in too, you didn’t hesitate.

Nose to nose, the room was quickly heating up with the radiator's help. 

You hadn’t been in a bed with Alastor in nearly two months, not since that first time. His words stuck to you like embroidered messages lovingly stitched into a handkerchief you didn’t want to lose. So you kept your hands between your thighs, still and away, to make sure he had space to exist in your bed.

“You saved my life.” Alastor whispered, one of you finally bringing up the obvious.

A hummed acknowledgment, “That makes us even.” He saved you before, you did the same in turn. A little piece of you worried the contract was done and he’d disappear.

“No, my dear. I owe you so much more.” A kiss to your cheek.

A terrifying thought took hold of you. “Roll over.” He looked confused but did. You were always asking him to turn away, always trying to hide your face when you said things that scared you. You hooked your arms under his and held tightly. 

“If I wasn’t there, there’s no one to have told me. How long would I have waited,” another torrent of tears into his back you couldn’t keep in if you tried, “at the phone booth for you to call in the morning.”

You were crying like a child, uncontrolled and with your entire body. Pathetic. 

He had never had someone to worry about those details. Everyone truly close to him was dead. Until now, of course. 

Of course.

What a natural addition you provided to him. He thought it like that it was a long standing fact.

He hugged your arms tighter to his chest. 

A shiver of fear in the warm bed as you continued, “I want to be there. With you. Always.” You gathered your courage. Shields completely down, if just for a moment, “I know there was nothing right about tonight but,” you wiped your tears off his back with your palm, reabsorbing that pain before he could soak it in, “Please. Don’t shut me out now. I’ll go to hell tomorrow for you but please don’t damn me to picking up a newspaper and seeing your name in the headlines; Learning you died in block letters for a nickel. I wouldn’t survive it.”

You didn’t want to meet his eyes, worried rejection was waiting for you there, so you’d asked him to turn so you could hide. He picked up your hands and kissed your knuckles one by one. “Please don’t say things like that outloud. Things like ‘go to hell’ and ‘tomorrow’ so close together. The spirits can hear you.” A kiss to your palm, “And I wouldn’t dare shut you out.” He couldn’t. The very idea of going back to how he was before, alone and mumbling to the dead, made his heart race with his own panic. If you disappeared tomorrow he was scared to think what would happen to him. “Plus, I know you’d just find me anyway. You always do.”

Had you not been there, he would have still tried to kill the man. Waiting in an alley or for a walk home through an empty space. You weren’t at fault. He’d been hurt before, but this was by far the worst situation he had been in. But he would have been in it regardless of your participation. Alastor pressed his lips into your hand, smelling the soap you’d washed him with. 

You hadn’t hesitated. He had thought you would run, that he’d slip away into death and you’d book it to safety. Something he never planned to ask you to do, to kill someone, you’d done it for him when it was the most selfless option. Did he mean so much to you? He wanted to ask, but if you said anything other than an immediate yes he feared he would turn to a pillar of salt and crumble.

If you both could find the courage to just look at each other you’d have all your answers. But you couldn’t. The fear still too strong. So you changed the topic for a chance at an escape.

A small confession, to turn the conversation away from death. “After our dates, your cologne always lingers on my clothes. Sometimes I just fall asleep in them. When I wake up, my pillow smells like you.” Your body formed against his back, pressing as tightly as you could. How was that less embarrassing than everything else you’d said when it was arguably more pathetic?

He was quiet. You worried you’d pushed too far. Alastor worried he’d already hurt you too much.

“If you asked me,” he spoke slowly, hands resting on yours above his heart, a deep breath, “I’d stop.” He would. 

But, “I’d never ask that of you.” You said it so quickly, like blinking or yawning it happened without you needing to think about it. Alastor did something he felt he needed to do, you saw that look in his eyes before and understood this was Alastor at his truest. And the people he killed weren’t good people. He provided a service to New Orleans that no one appreciated.

He smiled against your palm, making sure you felt it, “Why are you so good to me?”

Without hesitation, Because I love you.

After a beat of silence, “Because you know where I live, obviously.”

A huff, “And where you work.” 

“And the park where I like to get fingered.”

Finally, his unburdened laugh, “I didn’t expect you to say that.” That sound of his joy bounced off the thin walls around you both. He rarely expected anything you said or did. It was part of your charm. Normally he could predict what people would say like reading a bad story, but you were something else. Effortlessly entertaining, was that a compliment? He was sure you’d say no and make that face you always did, something between a pout and a glare, between sad and angry. 

He had been asking genuinely. Why were you so good to him? Why so patient? Why care at all? 

“Can you sleep? Or do you need to go?” 

Alastor thought about it, if he left early enough he could still get home in time to empty the trunk. He hummed an affirmative, when he didn’t move you understood it was the former. He didn’t want to go. He needed more time. He needed to feel you nearby. An odd sense that if he pulled away now the thread holding you two together would pull him apart at the seams with the distance. 

You would think nightmares would plague you after killing someone in cold blood, but no. You practically killed Tommy, when you considered it thoroughly. And while this night was not a joy, you had defended yourself and Alastor. You didn’t feel bad. You didn’t regret it. You were just scared you did a bad job. That you’d get caught. 

The kind of dreams you had were different kinds of scary. Of Alastor always leaving a room when you entered, of falling off the stage and landing too far down, of waking up to feel Alastor cold beside you. 

When you did wake, your arms were still tight around him and he was warm. Your forehead rested between his shoulder blades. You didn’t feel different this time, you didn’t feel changed like after Tommy.

Alastor always had nightmares so he wasn’t surprised to have them in your bed. He dreamt he awoke on the ground, the man was gone but you were there broken into several pieces.

Had it been a dream though? 

After he dressed, you brushing his hair over a shared cup of coffee (you only had the single mug), you walked him to his car. The sun was nearly up and luckily no one else was. You had just wrapped a coat around your slip, not exactly acceptable clothing for being in public.

A shared kiss, small and chaste, Alastor’s mind elsewhere. He opened the door but stopped and turned back to you. It was always in these moments before you two parted that he felt the most frantic. 

“I know we love talking in circles and making jokes, but I have to ask you, bluntly. You killed a man. Are you alright?” When you only blinked, he quickly added, “It’s okay if you’re not.” His expression was pure worry, furrowed brows and flat mouth. “Nothing will change if you say you’re not.”

When you started to smile, Alastor thought he had lost his mind. The sun was rising behind you, making the shadows on your face slowly shift. He took a second to take in the scene. Ankles naked with sockless shoes. To your right was a trunk full of a dead man. And you just smiling like he’d made a joke. Which he explicitly said he wasn’t going to do.

“I don’t feel like I killed anyone.” You said it with a levity that made him glance around, wondering if you’d hit your head a little too hard earlier, “I feel like I stopped someone from killing you. Which feels,” you fought to suppress your smile from growing any further, “kinda good. Like I’m strong. I’m just scared I made a mistake and police will find out. I’m terrified we’ll be seperated. But I don’t feel bad.”

A normal man would be deeply concerned. You didn’t feel bad? For killing a man with a rock? Arguably one of the most brutal ways to murder a person. A normal man would worry he would be next.

Luckily for you both, Alastor was not a normal man. He stared at your face, trying to discern any hints of deceit there before he fell into the comfort of trust.

Your pinky came out, “I’m fine, and if I’m ever not, I will tell you. Promise.” His eyes left your face to stare at the tiny digit, “If I break the promise, you get to break the pinky.”

“Pinkies are useless, we should use a finger that matters.” He offered his index. You let yourself laugh, hooking your pointer finger with his.

Smile to smile, he exhaled his stress and slipped into his normal demeanor, “No worries, darling! No one will ever know what happened to him.” He leaned beside you and patted the trunk. “Leave it to me.”

Alastor drove away with the man, ready to disappear the body and try to sleep before work if possible. A nagging still sat in his stomach, a little pull that maybe you’d change your mind. 

He asked you the next morning, on your routine call, if he could stop by the theater when he finished with work that night. No reason in particular. He’d pull into the side street, and you could run out to see him.

When he arrived, you were in your stage outfit waiting to greet the crowd. Alastor smiled, “The prettiest bird I’ve ever seen!”

“A bird? Alastor just ‘pretty’ woulda been a fine compliment.” 

He offered an apology by way of kiss, soft hands coming to your cheek as he leaned against the door of his car. “I just wanted to see you. Steal a kiss before you stole some hearts. May I return tomorrow?”

Ah, that feeling again. Stupid school girl with her first crush, her first taste of love. “I wouldn’t complain.” 

That flow of conversation eased Alastor, things felt normal already. For you, they were. A small worry remained he may begin to act differently but the only difference was he seemed to be embracing you deeper. 

After your delivered kiss, you took the stage like a woman reborn. The warmth of the light felt like the sun. Pointed toes as you moved along the stage, hips loose and smile coy. 

As you looked around the backlit crowd you didn’t search for a good mark. The times you did play a man’s attention for Alastor were different, it felt like art when you lured men into Alastor’s claws.

A shake of your feathered fans, a very controlled lowering of your head, you let a hip rock out into view. A little flash of inner thigh. Then, your favorite part. One hand gripped your fans as you them with the aide of practiced fingers. Free hand undoing your still remarkably heavy and glittering bra and handing it behind the curtain.

Surprise reveal, a naked magic trick done behind distracting whirling feathers. Arms open, fans high, you waited for the applause to die down. Deep breaths were not possible, adrenaline and the weight of your costume keeping you from hiding the heaving of your chest. 

The whistles were your favorite. You couldn’t imagine Alastor whistling but you were sure it would be flawless in its ability to capture your attention. 

“Anyone wanna smoke? I don’t want to go into the alley alone.” You asked the room, several girls glancing your way and shaking their heads no as you hurried back in from your set.

“Just take the fire escape to the roof. That’s where we’ve been smoking since Mr. Brady said it was dangerous at night.” Florence was normally a perfect smoking partner, never talking too much. The name Brady made your stomach flip though, you had forgotten about him for a second. You’d managed to avoid him until Tommy’s bloody trail went cold, but you knew he still stalked around the jazz and music district.

A dancer laughed, “Nighttime has always been dangerous for women.”

Someone you didn’t see added, “Fuck, daytimes not safe either.” 

You climbed the creaky and seemingly forgotten-about fire escape to the roof. The breeze hit your face before your feet even left the metal railing. 

It was… a roof. Grey painted floors and brick sides. Nothing special, but you could see the bowl full of discarded cigarettes near the front of the building. You looked over the short wall that edged the front, you were able to see the pigeon shit covered marquee. What an unattractive view, the lights flashing out from beneath actual shit.

There was a metaphor there, you were sure. 

Looking around, there were a few wicker chairs hidden in the shadow of the street’s lights, thankfully upside down to keep them clean from the birds.

If more people used roofs instead of alleys Alastor would be out of luck. Tommy was difficult enough with a staircase, the fire escape would have been the nail in that coffin. 

It had been a lovely night, absolutely jarring compared to the night before. You leaned back in the chair, you knew you weren’t the best at saying what you meant. Especially when the words you offered could be used to hurt you. Words of affection and love, when true, were daggers given handle-first to someone else. 

So you hoped Alastor could guess how much he meant to you. You shouldn’t need to say it, right? Actions speak louder than words. You bludgeoned a man to death for what you had thought was a lost cause. It had seemed Alastor was already dead when you first brought down the rock. 

Diamonds are rocks, you considered. The most expensive costume the theater had was peacock feathered with shining crystals. You wanted to say you felt like a peacock, spirit large and wide and colorful. But those were males. Of course they were. The animal kingdom had males compete for mates with pretty colors and lovely songs. Now ladies pranced around in painted faces and short dresses. You didn’t feel pale or small like the ‘fairer sex’ peacock.

You felt like the swan. Vicious and beautiful, not out shone by anyone.

Well there was someone you’d allow to shine brighter. Someone you’d happily let take the lead. You’d thought letting a man walk in front of you was a sign of subservience. It hadn’t ever occurred to you that there could be respect in trusting someone else to go ahead. That the act of going first could be for protection and not power.

“Hey!”

You hurried to the fire escape, “yeah?”

“There’s a man asking for you. Tall guy named Frank?”

Frank?

Oh, Frank.

You’d forgotten about him. He’d left months ago. He was a whale, rich and generous. You took a moment to consider sitting down with him, smiling and laughing at his jokes, letting his hand settle on your thigh. It had been weeks since you entertained scamming anyone, and now you couldn’t even stomach the idea of faking interest in another man. Frank wasn’t one to scam, he just liked having a pretty lady on his arm to make him feel young and wanted, and in exchange you got into private parties and were gifted jewelry and clothing.

“Tell him I’m busy and send him off.” You hollered down. You could buy your own clothes. 

“Did he leave?” Alastor asked you the next morning, you leaning against the glass phone booth in the early morning light.

Your finger wrapped around the phone cord, “No of course not! They never do. I snuck out the back.”

There was a hum, “Well my dear, you’ve offered me a wonderful transition into my next question.” Alastor was sitting at his kitchen table, nervously turning his coffee cup around in circles, “Would you like to come over tomorrow night? I can pick you up after your show.”

Like a glacier drifting away from shore, you very slowly crouched down in the booth. “To your home?” 

“No, to Alabama.” He waited a beat, “Yes of course my home. I can show you what happens after I drive away.” A cheeky smile evident through his voice.

You pressed the phone receiver into your chest, teeth chewing on your bottom lip. What happens when he drives away? So…where the bodies go. But most importantly, the biggest part of this—where he lives. So much can be gleaned about someone from their home. A bookshelf alone could make or break an attraction. You brought the receiver back to your mouth. “Lovely! Sure thing— Alastor. Yes.” you almost added on an awkward nickname like daddy-o or mister man, like an idiot, because your brain was misfiring like you’d seen him in the sunlight again.

Ah, you could see his bed. 

Where he slept.

Did he ever dream of you?

What if it was terribly dirty? Could you still love him if he was a slob? 

“I’m quite far from downtown, pack an overnight bag, okay?” He stopped fidgeting with the mug. When the call ended he sat at the table for some time, staring around the kitchen. The home was large by city standards, but it was old. His mother’s charm was evident through every part. A finger scratched at the wooden table, heavy and solid. Why was his heart racing? 

He walked to the screened back door, looking from the weathered patio steps to the greenhouse. 

No one had ever been to his home. Ever. A teensy part of him was panicking. Was this a mistake? Was he going to fuck up the budding relationship? Throw off the peace of his safest place?

Budding. Okay that was ridiculous even for him. The kind of intimacy gained through murder did not allow any union to be called budding. He’d shared pieces of himself no other living soul knew of. Your image of him was possibly even more complete than his own mother had held, even though he tried to always be the most sincere with her. Even people he did care for and consider close friends had never knew where he lived. Never heard what kept him up at night. Never learned his distaste for a random lay.

Opening the screen door with a signature creak, the sound many southerners could call comforting, he walked to the greenhouse.

The newest part of the property, the glass walled structure was built shortly after his mother’s death. Double doors: locked. Just beyond the glass was a forest of plants and potted trees. They had no need for a greenhouse, but Alastor had a need for them.

He set about preparing his home for another occupant, a task that brought him such a shock of joy and anxiety he began to wonder who he was. New sheets on the bed, extra pillows set against his wooden headboard. Large glass jar in the backyard full of water and tea bags.

It was also unexpected he was thinking so much of his mother. In a perfect world she’d be there to greet you. Though if she was alive, he wouldn’t have been in that alley that night. He made a mental note to not mention his mother, at least not as much as he was remembering her as he walked around the two story home tidying.

Would he have met you if he wasn’t a killer? 

A flicker of fear was quickly extinguished by romance. Definitely. You both ran in the same scenes. He’d seen you before that night, he just never approached you. He hadn’t anticipated how much more you were than the facade you put on. Nothing about your sweet face said, ‘I have a high tolerance for murder.’

Alastor spent the day at work physically present but mentally pacing his living room. He nodded along to discussions of who was to be live on set next, smile never faltering as he worried if he had breakfast foods. He rarely ate breakfast, did you? How had he not thought to ask. Sloppy.

The only outward sign he was feeling any stress was the tapping of his finger on his desk, which he hadn’t even noticed until the stage manager commented.  

“Alastoooor,” her voice was high, like it seemed many women’s voices were recently. Was it a trend? “Impatient? Hot date with a young lady this evening?”

While she meant well, she always pried, always asked questions he didn’t appreciate. 

Alastor shook his head, smile strained. A perceptive person would have picked up on it, but Brenda was not perceptive.

“Oh.” A noticeable disappointment, “That’s boring.”

Actually on second thought maybe she didn’t mean well.

“I’ve had too much coffee, is all, Brenda.” He pulled his hand into his lap. “Was there anything you needed?” 

“No,” she pouted, much less endearing than you.

If he murdered purely for fun Debra would be dead before sunset. Unfortunately her only crime was being remarkably annoying.

Alastor waited behind the theater, where it was less likely any staff would see him. It was still important to avoid connecting the two of you together, at least at your workplace yet. 

He was quick to grab your bag for you.

“Not the trunk, please.” You said, it took him a second to catch the joke. He set it on the back seat after opening your door for you. You’d only been in his car a few times but he never failed to be a perfect gentleman. 

Your palms were sweating, when his hand rested on your leg while he drove you resisted the urge to hold it. Instead you slipped yours under his. Alastor asked you about your day, about work, about if Frank came back. Typically as soon as you left the theater you were in a cone of silence until your phone call with him the next day. It was kind of nice, having someone to speak to. Before meeting him there were times you worried you’d forget how to talk naturally, how to sound like yourself.

The glowing eyes of deer popped up from the side of the road, startling you. Eerie. You held your breath, would they run, stay still, or sprint into the road.

“Is it true their antlers can break car windshields?” You asked not breaking eye contact with a doe as you drove past.

Alastor nodded, “If a buck hits your car the wrong way, not even the car will make it out of the accident.”

“Are there a lot of bucks around?”

“Will be soon, as fall— wait why am I telling you this,” he laughed, “Miss Autumn Hind already knows what makes the bucks run wild.”

You shouldn’t be smiling, it was a dumb rut joke, but it felt like a compliment. 

The car lights passed over the home as he turned into the dirt driveway. Powder blue. It wasn’t a color you associated with Alastor. He was caramel, honey, midnight blue, red. His sometimes sinister smile didn’t look quite right against powder blue. But, for a home, it was lovely.

“Is someone home?” You saw a light on in an upstairs room.

Alastor reached behind you for your bag, “No, I leave it on when I’m gone. Gives the impression that the house isn’t empty.”

A minor bit of acting, Alastor opening the door and offering to bring your bag upstairs before a tour like a good host. His anxious energy was barely contained by that grin of his. For your part you played the appropriately impressed guest.

But deep down you were very impressed. An actual house. Your mother struggled to keep apartments rented. Alastor had a home. With stairs. That went to more home, not a neighbor. What a lovely thing. What did he do with all this space?

He could probably hide quite a few bodies in there.

Alastor opened his bedroom door and motioned for you to enter.

You took in every detail as shrewdly as you could. Two circular nightstands, a wide dresser with a few framed photos and a radio. One large window facing the yard, you could see the car outside from where you were standing. “Wow a man’s bedroom. I tend to avoid these.”

“What a coincidence, so do I. Bedrooms in general, really.” He placed your bag on the dresser, offering to unpack it for you. Your smile screwed up, shaking your head no. You couldn’t imagine Alastor folding your panties and setting them into a drawer. 

Well.

“Yes please.” You took a seat on the end of his bed, watching him tenderly empty the bag before beginning to put things away like you’d come home from a trip. “A bed big enough for two people. You didn’t tell me you were a fancy man. Ooh la la.”

Alastor laughed, “Your bed was quite comfortable.” He set your dress onto a hook attached to the closet door, hands running down the fabric to straighten out the wrinkles, “But I have a feeling that had more to do with you than anything else.”

The floor was clean, the rug beneath the bed a simple but pristine white. What an odd color for a rug.  

You truly did avoid men’s homes. The power dynamic shifts too much.

“Are all men so clean?”

“Oh god no. Have you really never been to a man’s home?” Without a moment of hesitancy his long fingers flattened out your underthings and neatly folded them. You could call it erotic, knowing what else his fingers could do.

A hum, you swayed side to side, “Too much risk. I don’t know where the knife drawer is, which locks stick, what windows open all the way.” 

He set the empty bag into a reading chair in the corner, “That sounds stressful.”

You shrugged, “My mother taught me to always have an escape. From situations, from rooms, from people. Not terrible advice.”

That was true, he thought. If the few women he killed had considered that, he would be less prolific. Women tended to be easier in some regards.

Alastor finally let himself look at you sitting on his bed. Were you wearing the black garters today? He liked those. He appreciated the red dress you’d worn.

Taking off his jacket and vest, he hung them up while his eyes kept returning to you. Your legs were crossed, thighs soft and pressed together. He remembered feeling them against his ears. A little cough to clear his throat and mind.

“Are you hungry?”

You werent, but you weren’t ready for sleep either, so you asked for some bread and butter. Alastor sat beside you at the table, watching you look around. It didn’t look like a killer's home. 

“Ya know, I was going to rob you. I had been wanting to talk to you, before that guy caught me off guard when I was smoking.” You said it easily. 

He smiled, “Oh, why’d you change your mind?”

“Well, you slit a man’s throat in front of me.”

“Tsk tsk, you give up too easily, my dear.”

Salted butter, soft bread. Simple. Happy. “You were so handsome-,”

“We’re?”

A snort of a laugh, rolling your eyes dramatically, “and you looked well off. I was searching the room for the lights reflecting off of your glasses all night.”

Alastor grimaced, fighting the well of his ego, and leaned on his elbows, “Is it too morbid to say I’m glad that man tried to kill you? I like this timeline more than being robbed and never seeing you again.”

“That’s very selfish. I would have enjoyed chasing you down and finessing your wallet off you.” You set the glass lid back over the butter dish, content with the snack. “Some men come back actually and confront me at the theater.”

He howled. The idea was ridiculous, “Seriously? Why not just tell the cops.”

“Men don’t like telling other men they got taken for a ride by a dame.”

Alastor stood, “What would you have done if you had robbed me and I marched into the theater demanding my cash back.” It took a second to realize he was being serious in wanting you to play along. 

You popped the last piece of bread into your mouth and stood too, “You rake!” A fake smack to his chest, “I booted you to the curb! You had more hands than an octopus!” 

Alastor tried to stay in character but his smile kept cracking through his serious face. “And my wallet? None of my hands can find it.” You took a few steps back, feigning shock at the accusation.

“Sir! You were so drunk I’m not surprised you lost it.” When Alastor closed the space between you with two wide steps and pulled you into his chest you giggled, hitting softly at him, “You should be ashamed of yourself. Trying to take advantage,” his hands wandered down your hips, making your voice catch in your throat, “of a good woman like me.”

His mouth came to your ear, “Well, miss, I think you owe me the opportunity to try again.”

You went stiff against him, the sudden turn of his voice into seduction taking you by surprise, “If you were a real mark, I’d punch you in the face for saying that.”

“But for me?” Breath against your neck.

Your hands slid up his chest and to his collar, pulling him down and into a kiss. His smile spread across your lips. 

His mouth stayed against your cheek as he pulled you into a hug, “Ready for bed?”

“Are you sleepy, hun?” You pulled away, a sincerely worried face. Two nights now you’d interrupted his normal routine.

Alastor’s eyes seemed to sparkle behind his glasses, head shaking, “No, not at all.” You felt the heat rise up your face. Wanting to avoid assumptions, you tried to temper your expectations.

His hand pulled you toward the stairs, you dragging your feet, “Did you want to show me around?”

“In the daylight.” He led you up the stairs and to the right.

“Oh okay….”, your mind was reeling, mouth dry. No dead body in sight. No blood. You hadn’t pressed him or asked for anything. Maybe he just wanted a good cuddle, or some kisses. You often enjoyed necking near the car before he would go home. Right. Let him lead.

You followed him, letting him guide you hand in hand back to his bedroom.

ᡣ𐭩ˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

∰ Summoning the Horny Little Deer Cult (general tag list):

@cxrsedwxrlds , @nonetheartist , @tsunaki , @janchei , @wettiny-in-smutland , @moonmark98 , @hoebihoeshi , @pansexual-opera-house , @polytheatrix , @lorddiabigmommymilkers , @backinthefkingbuildingagain , @harley2223-blog , @coffee-colored-hopeless-romantic , @poinappel , @midnightnoiserose , @spookieroz , @missmidorima , @ivebeenthearchersstuff , @downbadforfictionalppl , @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx , @sleepylittledemon , @aether-th3-enby , @dontfuckbutimfab , @breathlessaura , @aperfectidiot , @certainlygay , @jth12 , @star-kujo-platinum ,

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🏹Alastor stalkers: @celestial-vomit , @amurtan

@faeoffaith , @sailorsmouth , @jeannyjaykaydeh , @jyoongim , @cosmic-lavender , @saturn-alone , @lustylita , @radio-darling , @kaylopolis , @dickmastersworld , @leviskittywh0re , @asianfrustration13 @alittletiredcry @sirens-and-moonflowers @alastorssimp , @angelxx7 , @katgirl05 , @impulsivethoughtsat2am , @sugurubabe , @zzzykiek , @phamtasic

[atarathegreat]

Come Back to Bed. Keisuke Baji.

Why his mother let you stay the night was beyond Baji. He didn't doubt that she knew you two were already sexually active, but still, most parents would discourage the act. All the same, he was glad to have your presence beside him, you to distract him from everything going through his head. Normally, keeping you quiet was one of his favorite things, now he just wanted to hear your voice and confide in you.

Baji sat up on the edge of his bed and pulled on his shorts. There was nothing that could shake this terrible feeling from his bones.

"Follow me." "Where are we going, Baji-san?"

The sound of the window opening filled the room and for a split-second Baji stood still, hoping it didn't wake you. Only when he was sure that your breathing had remained the same and you weren't waking, did he move. Baji crawled out onto the fire escape and sat down in hopes that the fresh air would help somehow to alleviate the guilt.

Images of the initiation filled his mind, watching himself beat Chifuyu to a pulp. The sensation floated back to his knuckles, the slight pain from each hit, yet he knew that Chifuyu was hurting more. Much more.

"Baj?"

He turned around to see your half naked form in the window. "Get inside, babe. You're only wearing a shirt."

You chuckled, "You're only wearing shorts."

Silence hung in the air, a small symphony of crickets sounding from somewhere below. He hadn't said anything to you, but you knew Baji was acting differently. Baji was a normally rougher with you, demanding, making sure you knew your place, only showing his sweet side after the fact. But tonight, he was careful, made sure you knew how much he loved you. Even went as far as to dress you when he was done.

"Wanna talk about it?"

"Not really..."

"Wanna come to bed, and I can squish your face in my chest?"

Baji chuckled and shook his head, "Yeah... Yeah, that might help."

[reysdriver]

Silly Face | E.M.

carving pumpkins with the family — dad!eddie x mom!reader fluff

warnings: a knife (used for carving the pumpkin), so much fluff

words: 1.2k

You sat your baby son up on the plastic-covered kitchen table so he would have a view of his dad and his sister as they prepared your Halloween decorations. 

“Are you excited to carve your first pumpkin, honey?” You asked your daughter. 

“Yeah!” Willow responded excitedly. “They’re gonna look so good!”

“I bet they are!” You said, entertaining both kids at once by tickling Ash while talking. “Is Daddy done with all the prep?”

Eddie smiled at you. “Yup. Got the pumpkin guts right here!” He made a fake vomiting noise as he waved the bowl of pulp and seeds in front of you. 

“I’ll take that, thank you.” You laughed, taking the bowl and putting it between you and your son. “My baby boy can play with that while you two do all the fun carving stuff.”

And even quicker than you thought, the little boy dove for the bowl beside him and stuck both hands into the gooey mess, squealing while he felt the pulp squish between his little fingers. 

 While you watched Ash enjoy his silly sensory experience, Eddie handed a marker over to your daughter and told her to draw the outline that she wanted to carve out of the gourd. 

“What are you gonna make, baby?” You asked her.

“A happy face!” 

Eddie kissed your daughter on the cheek after she handed the marker back. “You’re not gonna make him scary, honey?”

“No!” She said, like it was obvious. “Scary is too scary. He’s gonna be silly!”

“What? ‘Scary is too scary’? I’m wounded, my little girl.” Edde held his hand to his heart like he was so offended by what Willow said that he was going to have some kind of a medical emergency. He fell back into his chair and put on an exaggerated face, which elicited a giggle fit from your daughter. 

You couldn’t help but laugh as well. “Don’t listen to him, honey. I think your silly pumpkin looks perfect.”

“Thank you, Mommy.” She said bashfully. “Did you see his eyes? They’re different shapes!”

“Of course I saw it, sweetheart. I love it.” You told her. “Now, do you want to wake your dad from the dead so he can help you cut the shapes?”

Your daughter shuffled around to face Eddie and shake him ‘awake’. Eddie’s eyes shot open and he inhaled dramatically, which just made Willow laugh even more than before. 

“Oh my god, honey.” Eddie turned to you, a hand still clutching his chest. “Did you see how our daughter just saved me from the dead? I think we should start investing in medical school like, yesterday.”

“I think a magic school where she could practice necromancy is better for that. And probably cheaper.” 

“Well, either way, we agree she’s gonna do great things in life.”

You reached out to tickle Willow’s side. “I have no doubt about that, starting with helping Daddy carve this silly pumpkin!”

Eddie picked up the knife and held it away from your daughter, keeping it tight in his grip but still leaving enough room on the handle for her little hand to hold it with him. 

She reached up to grab it, then they both guided the knife to the first eye she had drawn. With some extra force, they pierced into the thick skin of the gourd and sawed out the shape. Once the eye was able to be popped out, Willow grabbed it from the rest of the jack-o’-lantern and held it out to show you. 

“Look, mommy! We’re taking out the face!”

Eddie made eye contact with you as you both tried not to laugh at the way she described pumpkin carving, but you quickly returned your eyes to your little girl. 

“I’m looking, honey. It looks good so far.” You told her with a smile. 

She seemed pleased with your response, so she turned back to Eddie and went to help hold the knife again. You watched them bringing the utensil to the pumpkin once more, but your youngest child took your attention for himself when he deemed he was done playing with the pumpkin guts. 

He turned towards you and babbled some incoherent syllables that you were proud of him for attempting. He stuck one of his hands in his mouth, then promptly took it out and made a face at the taste of raw pumpkin. You scooped Ash up into your arms, then wiped off his hands with a clean dish towel that was next to Willow. 

“All better, baby.” You told him softly, then began bouncing him on your leg to earn some more happy squeals from him. 

Still bouncing your son lightly, you looked back up to your daughter and your husband as they carved out the other eye shape, which your daughter was just as excited to pop out and show you as the last one. You made the same happy face you did last time, then watched the whole time while they finished the jack-o’-lantern. 

After it was all done, Eddie pivoted the pumpkin to show it off to you and Ash. 

“Well, how did we do?” He asked, getting up to put the knife in the sink. 

You knew he was mostly asking so Willow could be praised by you, so you directed your answer at her. You soundlessly clapped your little boy’s chubby hands and gave her a big smile. “You did so well! It’s the best jack-o’-lantern I’ve ever seen!”

Willow looked overjoyed with your compliment for her pumpkin, and she got off her chair to hug your waist. “Thank you, mommy!” 

“No need to thank me, honey. I just appreciate good Halloween decor and I’m not ashamed of it.” You told her, standing up and moving Ash to your chest. “Do you want to take the silly pumpkin outside now?”

She immediately turned and reached up onto the table to try and grab the pumpkin, but you brought a hand to her shoulder and told her to slow down. “Let’s get Daddy to grab it, honey. It’s pretty heavy and we don’t want to drop it and ruin your masterpiece, right?”

She understood and moved away from the pumpkin, instead walking towards the front door. Eddie picked up the pumpkin and walked to the door as well, then you and your son followed closely behind. 

Willow opened the door for you all, then pointed to where she thought her creation should go. Eddie obliged and turned the pumpkin to the angle of your daughter’s liking.

Eddie stood up to his full height and put his hands on his hips, looking down at the jack-o’-lantern. 

“You know, my love, our daughter’s a visionary, she’s an artist, she’s a holiday decorator; what can’t she do?” Eddie asked you, putting a bashful smile on your daughter’s face. 

“That’s a good point, Eds. Maybe she’ll even be a teacher and help her little brother carve pumpkins when he’s old enough.”

Willow rushed to hug your leg tightly at your suggestion. You knew the day in question wouldn’t come for at least a few years, but you were already as excited as her.

[theproblemcallednight]

aaaand we’re back w more hosting from night

hello fellow living creatures and bots that haunt me, welcome back to my weekly splurge of the new bsd ep

obvi spoilers for bsd s5 ep 8 and also the manga, u guys know the drill

teruko is my queen i luv her i wanna marry her omg

atsushi thought w dazai gone bed have peace. but no. atsushi will never have peace. also look and aku. i luv him

AAAAA SHES MY QUEEEEEN I LUUUVVVVV HERRRRR

kenji baby nooooooo. not near ur bdayyyyyy. it’s ok i’ll gib u as many beef bowls as u want

TETCHO STOP BEING SEXY WHILE BEATING UP A CHILD. Y R U SO DAMN FINE

GUYS GUYS GUYS OMG THEY DID THE THING THEY DID THE THING BONES IS PULLING THROUGH YES YES YES Y IS NI INE TALKING ABT THIS WE GIT YHE MARRIES SUEGIKU COUPLE OMG YES YES YES YE-

god if he’s this pretty here he’s gotta be stunning in the manga. i need to reread it

oh no kenji got angy

AAAAAA MARRIED SURGIKU CONFIRMED MY SOURCE IS MY SOUL. also kenji and tetcho r sonsweet together they’re like brothers :)))

MERSAULT GIRLIES R BACK YAY. also sigma looks so cute here. but when is he not being cute

my lil sleep deprived baby boi. he’s working so hard mushi better be taking care of his bf

omg yes. sigma u kick that bitch. beat him to a pulp. slay girl keep at it

sigma honey, he was unhinged since day one this prison break ain’t doing shit

oo it’s cat lady! i thought her hair was pink tho. oh well

omg there r so many good fedya shots. i luv him. out wet rat anemic man

THE RETURN IF CHUUYA. also the drowning sounds he was making were so wired and funny like wat

bitch u wanna kiss ur ex so bad rn. stop feeling bad for him he’s gonna come and point a glock at ur head in like 2 min dw u can confess then

goodbye! he’s sounded so cute i’m sry

CHUU HAT

MY BLORBOS R BACK AAAAAAA

LOOK AT THEM I WANNA SQUISH THEM AJSJSKSJSN

omg bram. bones rlly does luv him don’t they. it’s ok i luv him too

yes u r!!! aya u go girl!!!! also bram in these front shots makes the the silliest faces

father and daughter. my life is once again whole

fuck i took to many screen shots. wait lemme reblog this w the rest

*fizzles out*

[tobyisave]

the plot of "ethanol"

aka that Adamandi fanfiction I never finished last year (OTL) and companion to this drawing (x)! There were only a few pages (that I will never release) so instead here's what was going to happen, according to my old notes doc... it's mostly just Vincent angst I'm not gonna lie. I kinda stopped because I realized there was no plot at all and that's not how stories work

Also: I did not write adamandi. And it's been a *second* since I was Vincent. And cannot stress enough that even the finished parts of this are wildly unfinished. So make of this what you will kdlfdsjf

(tw for body horror, medical horror, suicide, self harm, others harm, vomit, you know the drill it's Adamandi)

CH1: "I love you, too"

Vincent wakes up in Hancock Infirmary, the medical center on Ardess campus. (It's incredibly sketchy that he's not in the local hospital instead -- especially since the Infirmary has been openly racist to him and Quincy before -- but evidently this is the best way to keep things under wraps.)

He has a traumatic brain injury (from fighting Beatrix), is probably a little drugged, and starts freaking out because he's in pain and everything looks super flat and fake...

But he sees his Phaethon award letter sitting on the nightstand and feels so relieved that he lets himself fall back asleep.

Later the doctor tells him "what happened" including a reference to Vincent’s suicide attempt and "stabbing his own eye" to which he's like my WHAT. He finally realizes he can only see out of one eye - he pokes his fingers into the "soft, swollen folds of meat" on his face (thanks past toby) and finds that the eye is completely gone.

Doc is like you might have amnesia? You also have a TBI. Also fill out this form to make sure you wont kill urself when we release you

Specifically, the form is like “How often in the past two weeks have you: Had trouble sleeping…. Had thoughts that you are a failure….. Wanted to hurt yourself….. Attempted suicide….” And because he only ticks the last one the final score is "1" and the doctor's like okay free to go! (this is totally anachronistic but i think its funny so it stays)

Doctor makes him call someone to help him get home.

For some reason he doesn’t want to call Quincy (he thinks bc he hurt Quincy really bad). He thinks over who else he could call – oh yes, that guy I’ve been hanging out with lately, Ambrose! Wait fuck…. For the first time he realizes that Ambrose is not here.

After phoning Quincy to pick him up (Q cries on the phone, V feels moved to but genuinely doesn't have the energy to cry or even say much - and they say I love you to each other, except its Weird and Uncomfortable this time), Vincent roots around in the medical waste bin and pockets his enucleated eye, which he's alarmed to find is bloody and kind of smashed to a pulp.

CH2: pretty peppermint green

(title from "asthma" by b/ulldog eyes)

Quincy shows up (btw they're they/them in this because I can) and Vincent remembers pretty much everything. They share a reluctant kiss --- after which Vincent is content to slip into the fantasy that things are back to normal --- and walk back to the dorm. It's lightly misting outside. On the way there, Vincent stops and kneels to vomit from his intense headache and nausea. Quincy tries to hold them/help them up after and it makes Vincent's heart race.

In Quincy's room, they lie in bed. Vincent is often the big spoon (lol) but he feels the eye in his front pocket squish against Quincy's back, so they switch for undisclosed reasons. Quincy keeps saying they're so glad Vincent is back and they love him so much. That strikes a terrible weird chord with Vincent, and he's just lying there and he can't see Quincy's face and he's practically pressed between them and the wall and he can't stop feeling like there's another guy in the room watching them both, and he's not sure if the knowledge that there isn't is comforting or scary, and he starts freaking out until he has to leave the room.

(Why that strikes a weird chord: Quincy kept dissing him until now, and now is lovebombing him? Is that because Vincent finally earned their respect academically or because Quincy is guilty or what? He can usually tell what Q's thinking but it's very opaque to him right now - either because of the TBI or because their history is so extreme. And what usually makes him feel calm and well - ie Quincy - is not working anymore).

Vincent goes downstairs and sleeps on the basement couch. He unlocks this memory -- or is it just an image he constructed to fill the gap? -- of Quincy holding him, the weapon still in their hands, those hands still bloody, their face twisted in a horrific expression he can't even describe.

CH3: 20 grams

(title - from "duck or ape" by roar - but references an old paper that claimed to experimentally calculate the weight of a soul by weighing a person before and after death - they were purportedly 20 grams lighter.)

In the morning, Vincent goes to his own dorm. His chair and desk and bedframe were all burned in the pyre, plus most of his paper and books, so there's just big square sun-stains everywhere and a lot of empty space.

He goes to his bottom shelf, where there's a few empty jars & cans & stolen lab glassware, and puts his old eye in an open beaker. There's a big jug of ethanol under his bed and he pours some in to preserve it. (This has been making the room smell awful by the way). The beaker goes on the shelf next to an array of other trophies (aka student organs) which he'd left as a sort of last display of genius that the world could find after he killed himself.

He goes to the mirror and is unnerved to realize that he's been fully bathed and his hair has been brushed out. He checks all the bruises on his body and tries to recount where he got each one - most are from previous murders and some are from the pyre. Even though he literally just got out of the hospital where he lost an eye, he looks a lot better than in the past few weeks just because he finally got some fucking sleep and idk they probably had him on an IV or something

After that he looks at his eye again with morbid fascination --- he's seen this exact wound on corpses before, but never seen it healing.

He considers taking out his surgery kit and trying to fix the eye. There's this question of if he could repair his damaged eye and see through it again, would he be able to see Quincy the same as he used to? His right eye never saw Quincy betray him. He wonders if Quincy burned themself again after last night - the first time he remembers that knowledge - and tears come even though he's still just standing there absently.

Anyway when he goes back to the shelf to look at his old eye, he frowns at how fucked up it is, and pulls down the bottle next to it instead. In the bottle are two blue eyes. He pulls one out in front of the mirror and presses it into his socket, which is rapidly filling with fluid; it overflows out of the socket as he pushes the eye in. This is agonizing because he's putting an eye covered in ethanol into an open wound.

He stands there looking at himself, still in his jacket, with one finger up to hold the eye in place, for like 10 straight minutes. He recounts all the unbelievable things he's done this year, the way people looked at him a bit differently as he started to get his act together. The way they looked each time he wound up the killing blow. Ambrose's eye still looks completely out of place on Vincent's face.

Everything else that happens!

Quincy & Beatrix

Beatrix was also going to be at the hospital for back up in CH2 apparently. so pretend that happened

Quincy finds out about the preserved eye (idk how lol) and confesses to Beatrix that it creeps them the fuck out. Beatrix assumes it's because it represents Quincy's guilt and tries to reassure them. That makes Quincy feel worse because to be honest they just thought it was disgusting and scary to see their lover's disembodied eye looking back at them from the bottom of a beaker.

Graduation

The three of them are planning on going together and walking through the Ardess Randolphitz graduation gate etc etc. Except all of them are kind of having a trauma reaction to the idea of going to graduation. Less so Quincy, because they missed the pyre graduation speech, but yeah. Nobody likes that.

Vincent thinks about skipping graduation but then checks his mailbox and realizes he failed two of his classes this semester. AN: In my notes it said this: the letter says he has to take an extra course to graduate - he literally cant afford that (used to have a scholarship but obviously broke the contract) so he can't graduate. His family is in China and he cant stomach the thought of explaining everything to them.

(Right before the Pyre scene he mailed a copy of the newspaper accusing him of murder to his family because he wanted his mom to see what he did (/pos??). Then he has this sudden realization that his mom has no idea who Vincent Aurelius Lin is. Not really that relevant to this fic, but I actually consider this canon to the show because I sat backstage and did it every night with the newspaper prop lmao)

Anyway I don't think the graduation logic checks out anymore, I mean he won the Phaethon so he kind of has to graduate lol. Oh well.

Quincy & Vincent

Honestly... I didn't write a lot about what happens with them because one of the central concepts of the fic is that they break up! And unfortunately I seem to have stopped working on this around the time that Quincy reentered the story, so I have no idea what that actual arc was going to look like. Upon revisiting this story though, it's pretty obvious I was just using everyone else as a sounding board for Vincent angst anyway... so that kind of sucks lol

Room situation

Vincent... doesn't have a bed... so he sleeps in the basement of Stutton (?) again. Unlike the months leading up to the pyre where he was completely sleepless (aka restless and unable to stop mentally planning each of his murder schemes and the things he would say about what inspired them after it all came out), he falls asleep really easily now (...because of the TBI). Beatrix encounters him there and heres a quote from my google doc:

B: oh my god. don't tell me you lost your keys again 

V: no. i just… dont have anywhere to go

B: … do you want my room key? like ill have to kick you out in the morning but me and portia are pulling an all nighter right now 

V: thats not what i meant. (licks lips) beatrix im not graduating

(AN: damn.... where CAN he run........)

B brings V to news room where portia and her are working, planning to use portia as the emotional support dog. this works on portia's end but vincent is not very reactive.

Beatrix is renting a house for the summer and invites Lin to sleep on her couch (upon learning that he planned to squat or get back with Quincy to survive)

Summer: Bea's house

P: Bea, he's a murderer! You're going to let him live in your house? Alone?!

B: Harper, just.... look at him

*The most hollow dead eyed broken toy of a Vincent you've ever seen*

^^^^ this is like the establishing quote of the fic, just vincent looking like that is the whole concept actually. Obviously thats also what I tried to capture with the drawing too

While shes at work he gets very understimulated and he wants to Plot Evilly and hes really really frustrated that he cant (because that project is over and he can't focus)

he used to journal/stalk every day but "lately... i cant even remember whats been happening lately." he has headaches constantly and hasnt written in weeks 

he starts chain smoking on her couch (AN: interesting choice sldjfsdkfjdsfls)

she gets back and is upset about this (the smell and he used like all of her cigs)

→ a) he realizes he cant really feel remorse over this (only intellectually he understands it and goes outside)

-> b) he's confused to see her refuse a cig from him. okay bea thats new what are you pulling here

in her office, bea (feeling like she has adopted a stray dog) chews gum while reading a terrified letter from quincy who is about to move 

(AN maybe anachronistic that bea would try to quit smoking at this time?? im not sure.)

(Also - not sure if this ever came up explicitly, but in our production, Beatrix is the one who first offered Vincent the occasional smoke back in the day, and instead of ever buying any he mostly grubbed them off her (which you can maybe see at the beginning of little more in love). During the course of canon events he gets more addicted - and if i remember correctly, he also started going through withdrawal at some point, but I dont remember why he quit - I think because he stopped seeing Bea around so he kind of just stopped?? - if anything I guess it's symbolic of Bea kind of setting him up to murder and then disappearing from his life for months. The cigarettes weren't actually in the original script at all.)

vincent paces then goes to the drugstore

while hes there he uses the restroom to stare into his eye hole yada yada

(prior to going to restroom hes dubious about entering mens but its single stall anyway)

buys like a shit ton of cigarettes and pain medicine (which was probably like coke back then idk) and also candy

(cigs are for beatrix because he just wants to be loved…)

Phaethon did not give him any money at all by the way. Maybe this is the part where he should go huh I need a job even if I can't be a doctor

IDK where to put this but also - at some point Vincent finds a horrifying drawing of Quincy killing him, and Bea is like you obviously drew that look at it it's in your style. and he can't remember drawing it but not that he looks around he sees he's actually been drawing little pieces of it everywhere

Beatrix's apology

*giant overwrought Beatrix speech here*

V: (trying to be normal about it) i uh i did try to kill you

B: (also playing cool) yeah sure, so did my dad, join the club 

V: sorry?

B: the point is, lin, you were having an episode, and instead of helping you see that i pretty much handed you a bat, spun you around a couple times, and sent you on your merry way 

(shaky breath, beat- V feels weird about being described so passively)

Anecdote I wrote last year that I genuinely don't understand anymore OTL

Vincent likes to read possibly?

B: you can read?!

V: (swallows a lump… then sarcastically) oh yeah quincy finally taught me how

(^^^ realize they always bitch at each other by default - he wonders if she would be nicer if he was nicer but probably not)

^^^^^ the book sucks anyway shes like ok go to the bookstore CUE QUINCY

(“ok read your own fucking book” “i can’t” “why” “i burned them”)

AN: like QUINCY WOULD NOT FUCKING SAY THAT jdslkfjdsf who is that what's happening what's going ON

...I think it's Beatrix actually? idk man idk

but OMG im suddenly obsessed with the idea that this is all a bunch of absolutely insane buildup to an exes-to-lovers vincent coffee shop / quincy bookstore au dlskfjdslkfjdslkjfsjfjdsklfsdf

BONUS NOTES

V’s lack of empathy - i think he cant understand other peoples feelings very well? He definitely at the least has to imagine them through incidents in his own life to picture how they feel 

People pleasing … & possibly its conflict with the above 

Bring back suave vincent :(  (AN: I failed)

Masculinity problems…? 

Realization that all of his rapports (ie with ambrose and beatrix) are facetious and aggressive. And also baggage with quincy accidentally dissing him all the time. Who will be nice to him :( 

Maybe this: 

V: "i think i might be autistic"

B: "i dont think youre autistic i think youre a sociopath"

V: "i think i might be both"

^^^^ except thats also pretty anachronistic and kind of silly but i do what i want

ambrose ghost was a representation of his hyperfixation on murder (AN: absolutely insane take. what the fuck)

he probably gets lost in drawing now if he can stomach doing anything

accidental psychiatrist beatrix bc shes really good at cracking people open 

themes:

breakup 

realization that quincy didnt value him while he was innocent which fucked the relationship but V has trouble justifying it bc now he cant value himself 

difficulty feeling remorse for what he did 

→ realize you arent accountable for how you feel just for what you do 

can you love someone without empathy? (yes)

(stems from asking if q was ever in danger of murder -- obviously not!)

realization that v is actually good at something (art) 

Respectability politics - beatrix is trying to make girls/latinas look good. vincent is still in the headspace that hes inferior but starts to think about how frosh vinc would have felt about him now (AN i dont know what i meant by this ldjsf)

becoming ambrose was in a way his idea of proving himself in the world. being gnc and failing his classes was just bc he couldnt "do better" 

RECURRING: pulls open his eyelids and tries to see into his brain through the hole 

addiction (AN: thats it thats all i said its the word "addiction" sljdkfdslkf. I can only assume because for a while i had an interpretation of vincent as becoming an adrenaline junkie after his first murder - plus then bea got him addicted to cigs and murder)

other char breakthroughs 

Bea - yo vincent actually did some fucked up shit

Quincy - living with yourself. realizing you can never reconcile with some people. 

Portia - hold on… Bea actually did some fucked up shit...

(sorry this is MASSIVE i thought it would be like 7 bullets)

AND ON THAT NOTE.... Yeah that's what the fic was going to be about. Hope that was fun??? And shoutout to @ceaslesswatcherwhatistboyswag for asking about the abandoned fic and inadvertently prompting this whole post :P

Also. by god please do not take any of this as canon or word of god (except perhaps the newspaper thing...) i beg of you... these are just the post-show ramblings of a man newly deprived of the ability to spend 5 hours a week pretending to be a fruity little murderer. very fun diving back into that time to compile this though 🫀

[divinityunleashed]

Location: Earth's Orbit.

BGM: Transformers Prime - Decepticons Theme

"STARSCREAM!"

"Y-Yes, Lord Megatron?"

"Why... is the Space Bridge activation process TAKING so long?!"

"Eheh... Those accursed Autobots, they must of dealt some serious damage to it before we had a chance to properly test it, my lord."

"Really...? Because as far as I am made aware, Starscream. is that there was no recorded assault on our Space Bridge as of yet, and all I am hearing out of your accursed vocal circuits... ARE EXCUSES!"

"Oh please, Lord Megatron! Please forgive my insolence!"

"All the time, all the damn time I have tried to tolerate your insolence. But now, it would seem that my patience has grown too thin to be ignored. Give me one good reason, as to why I shouldn't rip out your spark from your spark chamber, and grind it to a pulp!"

"Because you should really check your status on your fancy floating ring again, mr giant robot man!"

As soon as Adult Neptune appeared in the bridge of the Decepticon Warship, every single blaster, including that of Megatron and Starscream, pointed and armed towards the girl, in which she immediately yelped.

"How did this human get aboard my SHIP!?"

"You are in the presence of his highness, Lord Megatron! If you value your life, girl, you'll--"

"Human? Oh yeah that's a funny one. But seriously, you should really check that terminal. I left ya a gift."

Megatron huffed, before he pressed a button on one of the many intricate terminals aboard the Teletrann I, and the giant Space Bridge just opposite the warship began to open up and activate!

"What?! Impossible... A mere girl knows Cybertonian tech?!"

Megatron ignored Starscreams comments and walked over to Neptune, picking her up with his hand and lifting him closer to his face.

"Explain yourself."

"Well it's simply. I picked up some tricks from hanging out with my friends, and I learned how all your stuff works! So I fixed your giant ring thing and even put in a set of cool coordinates for you! I know, I know, I'm just that amazing aren't I?"

"You are certainly no mere ordinary human. You've given me enough reason not to want to squish you like a bug. Perhaps you may even be more tolerable than that of my supposed second-in-command over there."

"What?! Haven't I been... HUMILIATED, enough?! Surely you jest, Lord Megatron...!"

All that did was prompt Megatron to give Starscream a glare that made him shiver down his circuitry, which also prompted a giggle from Neptune before she climbed onto one of his shoulders.

"I set your location to a special place of mine, I think it would be great! My friends would love to meet you!"

Megatron then prompted the terminal to guide the warship through the Space Bridge, and arrive at Neptune's intended destination whilst Neptune briefed him on the location...

Which was...

Location: Gamindustri V2 - A considerable distance away from the main islands.

Soon as the ship appeared out of the Space Bridge, the view of Gamindustri V2 appeared in the windows of the Teletrann I Bridge. Megatron gazed upon it with a smirk on his face, as Neptune squealed.

"So this is Gamindustri. We shall conquer it."

"STARSCREAM! Be sure to make our new guest and ally... comfortable. And don't squish her under your legs. I would hate to learn what sorts of torture I would inflict upon you..."

"Y-Yes... Lord Megatron. As always, I am at your beck and call."

Neptune then jumped down and walked over to Starscream with a grin on her face.

"If you're anything like Arbore was, you're gonna be fun to hang out with."

"Tch. Cease your wits, Neptune. I answer only to Megatron, and myself. Not. You."

"Now you might as well come along before my master grows impatient. I know what he's like when he's grumpy."

[random-vore-blog]

Kotoha and Inosuke, my

treasures

He heard her song, a song she was taught by him to use whenever she was in danger.

His eyes fluttered open, teeth bared and fangs visible. He was furious, enraged and ready to kill those that dared to hurt what belonged to him. He came out of his resting chambers, swimming to where his treasures were. His acute sense of smell and hearing was far more advanced than a human's.

-×-

She held the bundle of blankets close to her chest, singing while backing away from the people that considered her a witch. She hated how the wind picked up as she sang, how it began to storm and those were all signs of his fury.

" Witch! Witch! Kill the witch!"

The people chanted, and one of them went for her. But, a large clawed hand squished him to nothing but a pulp.

" Run!"

" The gods have been angered!"

" It's the beast! Run for your lives!"

People scattered left and right, fear filling their beings when the hand lifted up, revealing a gruesome sight. Kotoha turned her body to look at whom the hand belonged to, and saw none other than her husband.

Douma.

She smiled and sighed in relief. The creature, the Leviathan she has grown used to, moved its head to look down at her with his rainbow eyes. His pupils were slitted, the siren kanji for Uppermoon Two as clear as day. The leviathan lowered his head, lips inches away from her body before his eyes trailed to the bundle of blankets.

" Thank you, Douma..."

She was surprised when he lifted his head over her body and opened his maw, four demonic fangs evident compared to his other human-like teeth. Within a few seconds, the creature lowered its head and her torso was engulfed, jaws clamped gently around her form.

As if knowing how strong his jaws were.

She yelped slightly, being lifted into the air, her legs hanging outside his jaws, dangling as he slowly tilted his head. Inosuke was pressed against her chest, and she had to adjust her position. She slipped into his throat, the slippery muscles held them firmly before relaxing, pulling her and Inosuke down the slippery tube of flesh and saliva.

" He is devouring the witch!"

" We are saved!"

" The witch has been killed!"

She heard the people cheer, glad that he was devouring her and Inosuke. She slipped deeper into his throat, holding Inosuke against her chest. The muscles of the throat didn't put enough pressure that could hurt both of them, but it was tight enough to pull them down.

After what felt like forever, they both finally landed in a more open space. The shock wore off, and she began to panic. Scared, she held her son for comfort, soaked in the saliva that covered them both while they slipped down the throat. The clothes clung to her skin, and it made her more terrified.

" D-douma?"

Her voice was shaky, tears began to blur her vision as she tried not to cry.

" Douma- please-! Let us out!"

She huddled into a corner against a slippery wall, closing her eyes as she sobbed. She felt the organ she was in sway as he moved. Probably slipping back into the ocean and swimming to his den to enjoy his meal. She felt betrayed, heartbroken at the thought that he saw her and Inosuke as nothing but a food source. Her mascara mixed with her tears, lipstick smudged. The mascara stained her cheeks, and she had no more tears to shed. She was exhausted, and the humid air didn't help. Inosuke began to cry, and she rocked him in her arms, and calmed him down.

" Douma... please... let us... out... I don't want to die..."

Her voice was nothing but a whisper as her eyes finally closed, a single tear running down her cheek and onto the floor of the organ. Her body went limp, and Inosuke fell asleep again.

-×-

He felt her go limp in his crop, and felt guilt crawl up his spine when he heard her pleas. He entered his den, and curled up, the guilt gnawing at him and a pit grew in his stomach. He felt a ton of bricks weigh down his chest and shoulders.

" I am... so sorry... Kotoha..."

He whispered with guilt laced in his voice. He didn't mean to scare her. He never wanted this to happen, to let his instincts take control and store her. He never wanted this!

" Please... don't be afraid... I only wanted to protect you with the best of intentions..."

He propped himself up on one of his elbows, the free hand placed on his chest where his crop was. He gritted his teeth when the guilt grew.

" I'll explain everything... I-I promise..."

He laid back down with his head on both arms, closing his eyes and hummed. He hoped that he didn't tear their relationship to shreds.

The End

[doyouknowhowtowaltz]

Tales from the Fruit Basket, please!

When I was at the tail end of writing The Core of the Matter, I went off on an unrelated Fruit tangent that ended up eating another story I'd been working on since 2018. It's a lovely monster, and like The Core of the Matter, its another story that's more focused on the Beast's feelings about his feelings for Enoch more than the relationship itself.

He reaches into the puncture wound and wraps his claws around the wound, and wrenches them apart until the rind cracks and comes away in two pieces. A spray of fine particulate splashes across his fur, hangs in the air and perfumes it with the smell of pumpkin. The lines of his self control fray like the fine viscera that clings to his claws. 

He sinks his claws into pulp, sifts along and closes his fist around a cluster of flat pale seeds with a squish. He pulls and the flesh of the womb stretches taught and snaps, clinging to his his wrists and fingers, spilling down like mangled tissue. For a moment he lingers there, fingers flexing and tightening against the shift of seeds in his palm, slick as scales, and then slowly he uncurls his fingers. 

With a hand dripping with tendons of pumpkin flesh he plucks up a single naked seed, turning it between his fingers, tracing out the gentle swell of its shape with an almost loving sketch of his fingers.

...

 If he had any respect for himself, if he had any restraint, he might stop there, but he is so hungry, and he has wanted for so long to do nothing but consume the happy swathe of contented town that runs like a scar through his woods, to devour the terrible feelings that welled up from within his own chest whenever he heard a strain of some folk song bent and broken to accommodate his duet, to wrap his teeth around the Harvest King and swallow him whole, maypole, catskin, town and all. 

[a-weird-writer]

leon, but his beloved catches him staring and decided that it was a good idea to hug him and put an unnecessary amount of emphasis in pushing their chest up against him. if there was a nose bleed emoji i would use it.

Leon Cromwell wouldn't give you the satisfaction of a note.

Because he knows the context of your stare, which penetrates deeply into his head. What you're there for, he bluntly refuses out of willpower. Pride rules Leon, a sheer stubbornness, courtesy to not give what you want.

Never a giver, not without gain nor price; not exactly shunning-but no direct, physical acknowledgment. None that is obvious.

With Leon, almost everything in between is a constant fight.

You remind Leon of Guy Crimson in more than one aspect, and another Guy isn't a scenario Leon wants to bend around. Whether or not that's a positive or negative is left up to you.

Fickle as Leon's mood is even on his best nights, he won't move to stop you. Affection is a troublesome affair, it matters less if Leon truly does consider you, his kindness feels inhumanely bland and emotionless at best even if he does mean 'well'. Heroes and demons alike are forever slaves to pride and morals.

Don't get it wrong, a mere fool can piece together what you're up too; Leon can take a hint, read a sudden mood shift in the air-either in the form of your stare or cocky lift of your upper lip. You're an active, romantically inclined advancement-if the pulp squish from your breasts behind him is of any obvious constitution. But the thing with Leon is, while Guy Crimson makes it a mission to go out of his way to include himself into people's well-being and physical space-Leon is his own special kind of annoyance upon the living, in the case of clear apathy; he acts completely and utterly unfazed at a majority of indignant things, living or otherwise, including the Demon Lords themselves.

Leon is a silent confident, and passionate about his role in his kingdom. The whole thing-you, as well-blows over his shoulder, at surface level at least.

It will take far, far more to truly move Leon than only physical affection, regardless of how kind it is in nature. But Leon would most rather perish than inform you about his heart, the 'heroic' soul of his past; your deep, infliction upon him.

His eyes are cold and distant-vast in platinum fog, a sharp aura of the purest focus. But neither empowers nor stops you. Leon just lets you take what you need. Rolls over in your harmless arms, believing it is ultimately inevitable. Accepting fate and allowing you bodily access within reason.

Leon knows better than to play games with such behavior, people reap what they sow.

Reactions often encourage contagious continuous-Your physical semantics. To forever suffocate in your determined embrace, Leon doesn't want to hopelessly keep picking at a thorn at his side, play a game you won't let him win without a waste of effort; you and Guy are compared to children, grasping at everything in your reach-how eager you both touch Leon out of nowhere.

[snickety-lemons]

napollya 23 hand-holding prompt!

BLESS YOU, ANON, SKSKSKSKS. Do I have permission to squish you with my love?

You literally just made me light up like a Christmas tree, albeit 2 months early...

I just don't know whether I should pick one or do both ???

Uhhhhh...

~2015~

'Keep a safe distance, 200 feet at minimum and 300 feet at maximum.' Was the sign that ex-KGB agent Illya Kuryakin was... metaphorically holding up in front of him at that particular moment. Those who were able to recognize his anger would see every aspect of him boiling over with it. His hands shaking as though there were no bones holding them steady, his jaw clenching and unclenching, the tight line of his lips, the freezing glare of his eyes. Danger was imminent, though. Little wonder the man sitting beside him, Napoleon Solo, had so coined him 'The Red Peril'. And the proximity was less than a single foot, between himself and those the blonde wanted to pummel into a pulp.

Their voices, and the consistent ticking of his father's watch were faded over the sheer volume of Illya's rising ire. He was sick of the conversation anyway, wanting to bring it to heel by his fists connecting to their damn mouths. Infuriating, did not begin to describe this. During the Russian's latest mission with his dashing American partner, everything had gone unexpectedly south. For Napoleon more so than anyone. In fact, he was in his seat all wrapped in bandages; his face scarred and lost of its healthy color; he was fairly seriously 'banged up' - to use a term of the dark haired spy's own vocabulary. And yet he seemed so calm, how the fuck ... could he just be calm while staying here; having just had their operation turn to complete shit and listening to those they'd been paired with go off on himself and his colleague as though they were fully responsible for it?

Illya could not stand for it, and he wasn't going to - Черт побери. (Damn it.) - No. He was going to... The blonde then felt a warm, though slightly trembling hand gently grasp his own under the table. A thumb massaged along his wrist and his palm. He turned his gaze to find Napoleon's light blue eyes on him, tender and concerned. "глубокий вдох." He whispered. "Мы оба в порядке, Peril. Я в порядке, обещаю. Просто дыши вместе со мной. Мы скоро отсюда выберемся, хорошо?" (Deep breaths. We're both alright. I'm alright, I promise. Just breathe with me. We'll be out of here soon, okay?) Stunned beyond words for... several minutes, the Russian simply wound his fingers with the ones the American wasn't using to touch him. How did he know? Know the precise moment to act? Know that what Illya needed was not to be forcefully stopped, told to 'calm down'. No one else had ever dared such a move as to be gentle, to just tell him it was all okay, to remind him to inhale and exhale. No one, except Napoleon Solo.

Illya took a course breath in, lightly nodding. The comfort of his comrade's hand surrounding his, was something that not only reassured him and made him feel cared for and understood in a way he never had been; but something that reminded him... Napoleon was still here with him. He was alive. That, at least, was a victory. The one failure that the blonde would be unable to bear... would be losing Napoleon. Partner, best friend... his возлюбленный Napochka... "Illya." He heard, the softest murmur from the man sitting beside him and saw a smile sitting on his face. Once they got home... he was going to take this baffling... frustrating... absolutely gorgeous man; and kiss every last wound on his body. He was going to endlessly whisper affection into his ear, thanking him for being so infuriatingly wonderful. "я люблю тебя..." (I love you.) lllya muttered for the moment. He was delighted to find Napoleon warmly chuckling. "Не знаю, по какому поводу… но я тоже тебя люблю." (Not sure what the occasion is... but I love you too."

---

~1960's~

It was a fairly ordinary afternoon at the UNCLE HQ, hidden away within the tiny dressing room at Del Floria's. Napoleon and Illya were reading through the various files for the latest operation and having lunch together; whilst their commander in chief Waverly went over details and plans. The blonde rose from the table to go the coffee machine off in the corner of the room, fixing two cups and bringing them over- one of course for his wily partner. Plenty of sugar and milk, just the way he liked it. "Oh uh, thank you, Illya. Deciding to play nice today, are we?" Napoleon teased, silently thrilled by the way the very sublime blonde remembered and also was so sweetly thoughtful. "And just what precisely do you mean by that? I'm always nice." The Russian said with a petulant huff, pulling down his glasses a little whilst glaring at the American agent.

He grinned, and blindingly as he took a sip; lowly humming at the taste of the hot drink. "Of course you are. " The little devil... "And may I in turn extend to you my lunch? I, uh- Believe there must have been some sort of mix up at the deli. This is prosciutto, and, uh I definitely ordered pastrami." Napoleon said, already passing the bag. Trying to seem as innocent as possible, and as though he hadn't ordered prosciutto in the first place- fully on purpose. Illya's favorite. The deep blue eyes he adored staring at lit up in an instant, the blonde softly gasping as he took out the sandwich. "Господи... (My goodness) And, no ketchup or mustard! Did- did you get your money back?" The American was so busy enjoying Illya's reaction, that he forgot himself. "Oh, uh, yes. Though I... took less, I'm used to such excellent service at Pete's. " He didn't have to take anything. "Спасибо, (thank you) Napoleon, really.... This is wonderful. Here, here, you take mine then. We both know you well that you with an empty stomach is not something that proceeds to pleasant events..."

The Russian exclaimed, merrily scooting his own lunch towards Napoleon. Roast beef on sourdough. "Quite by coincidence, they were out of prosciutto." Truthfully, they were and there really wasn't time to stop elsewhere that morning. "You, Illya Kuryakin, are a wonder." Napoleon said, still looking into his transfixingly beautiful eyes. Illya smiled softly, his cheeks becoming a bit pink. Then he... tentatively slipped the American's hand into his own, beneath the rotating console surrounding. They- had not been dating very long yet, the blonde feeling as though... he might be getting a little too fond a little too soon. When he felt Napoleon give a squeeze though, after bringing their fingers together... when he saw his hazel eyes glowing... It truly was going to be impossible not to fall for him, wasn't it?

They sat together like that, as the missive conference continued. Illya interjecting now and again, offering his extensive knowledge and advice and Napoleon gazing at him in total awe... At one point the Russian caught him, and mischievously smirked. Perhaps he was not the only one... He reached out a napkin with his spare hand. "Oh, I believe you have some mustard there. May I?" "W-would you?" The man who was a self pronounced expert on flirting... found himself stammering, and shy. "My pleasure." Illya said lowly, rubbing the stain that was in the corner of Napoleon's mouth- though, longer and more... languidly than he really needed to. The smooth, black haired spy tried to muffle his moan. Dear God, what the Russian did to him... "Later, лис. (fox)" The blonde purred. Not much later, Napoleon hoped...

[the-whispers-of-death]

It's Hari and Milo time!

So Hari was the very first member that Meizian recruited and also his oldest friend. Hari knows everything about Meizian and vice-versa, and every time Meizian had a nightmare, he would sneak into Hari's tent and cuddle up to him for comfort 🥺

Hari is 7 feet tall! BIG BOI!

He has long hair that slightly drags on the floor, and each strand of hair has a barbed point. He has full control of his hair and can stab slice people with it

He has a very extensive haircare routine, and if something causes him to not do his haircare routine, he will go into furious frenzy, loosing his calm and gentle demeanor (Hari is like a gentle river)

He's from Los Demonios, New Cali (aka Los Angeles gon wrong) and he is fluent in 3 languages. Japanese, English, and Spanish

And now Milo's turn!

Milo is Alina's older brother and also the most powerful of the Onyx Skulls. He weilds a massive ass battle axe and got muscle!

Milo was never as faithful as his younger sister but still helped around the church. A long while back, a few demons started relentlessly attacking the church and caused a lot of damage, and Milo couldn't fight them off by himself, so he got help from this mysterious mercenary group and as payment for helping Milo with his demon problem, Milo joined the Onyx Skulls. Alina begged him not to go but he went anyway.

Milo is now currently on a mission all the way in Newer New York and has been doing a mission that Meizian assigned to him for 3 months (it's a very important time-consuming mission)

Despite the fact that he could turn a person into pulp, he's extremely gentle and sweet. He's a big old teddy bear (which is why his nickname is Teddy)

🔮

I can't decide which I like better, so I'm going to be obsessed with both! I love the fact that they're both gentle. I love OCs who are gentle. Makes me want to squish their cheeks together and love on them.

[randomperson339]

Insects Gods and Mortals- a Hollow Night and Alien fanfic

(Hey so this was supposed to be the second chapter but I was stupid and put up the wrong one. Please refer to the tag of the title for the second chapter. also here's the mastpost)

“Fuck”

That was the best word for the situation Thomas found himself in. Fuck. 

He was currently lying, face-up in a sickeningly warm pool of guts and viscera of a creature he wasn’t even sure could exist. I mean, it had white blood, for christ’s sake! White blood! Nothing has white blood.

Wobbly taking a step up, Thomas got a look at his surroundings. He was in a dark cave, with an entrance way above him, providing the only light. He could still see perfectly fine, despite the dim surroundings. Although he didn’t really notice this fact at the moment.

Though, one thing he did notice was the creature he had fallen on. It looked like a small bug. It certainly looked white but was impossible to tell due to being so thoroughly caked in its own white ‘blood’. 

With the initial shock gone, of crushing a living, breathing organism behind him, Thomas crouched down to examine the remains. It felt strange, worming his fingers past still warm carapace, into the squishy innards of the bug.

At first, Thomas was confused at the lack of internal bones, until he remembered that linsects don’t have normal skeletons- they had exoskeletons. Or, a carapace that did the same function. 

Next he tried to examine the internal organs of the creature. Except that he didn’t find anything really of note, on account of him squishing it and it’s internal organs into a white, messy pulp. 

Finally, after some time, Thomas brought up the one part he didn’t break.

Only to find two pits staring back at him. Two eyes, once imbued with the water that was life was empty, twin pits baring into Thomas’s head, into his very soul.

After all, when you stare into the void, the void stares back.

Suddenly, an unseen structure broke around Thomas, the reality crashing and breaking his newfound morbid curiosity. His muscles tensed like taunt ropes, his mind spun intricate nightmares of this new species.

“Why did you desecrate my corpse?” It yelled at Thomas. “Why did you twist my body?! Why did you not stop at my life!?!” It screamed.

Frozen in terror, Thomas could only sit there as his muscles constricted around his bones. The back of his shirt was still warm, still wet, with this creatures own blood. His hands were still dripping with the- with the-

“WITH MY BLOOD!” The creature yelled. “MONSTER!!”

It was only then, at the sound of an invisible starting gun only heard by the innermost recesses of Thomas’s mind, Thomas ran through a tunnel he didn’t notice before now. 

But now, it was his only lifeline as he ran, feet pounding against the thick stone. The sound of his shoes thwacking again and again, reverberated throughout the cavern, echoing and echoing against Thomas. Pain shot up his leg like lightning with an improper step.

But all Thomas could do was run. Run and run trying to escape his own shirt, his own back, his own hand which were still wet and white with the blood of that creature. 

Finally, he found a massive doorway, nearly tripping over himself when he passed the threshold. Not wavering, he stumbled onto the stairs before he began racing down those too. 

Finally, after some time, he was next to a bench. With his legs being stabbed with spikes of exhaustion, and his lungs being crushed by his chest, he sat on the bench.

He sat on the bench, feeling like he had just ran a mile a minute. His shirt was still soaked, both from his own sweat and the blood he spilt. The blood he smashed out of that hapless bug, defileing it’s corpse. 

However, it didn’t feel like he was alone. He felt something in his chest, next to his heart. It was a thing, a presence almost. While it lacked anything resembling a human consciousness, Thomas knew it wanted to-

“Are you ok?”

Those words echoed throughout Thomas’s mind, reverberating through his skull. It wasn’t a hallucination, it wasn’t a day-dream, someone was asking if he was ok.

“No.” Thomas admitted, shaking his head at the cold cobble pathway. 

“Well, what can we do to help?” The stranger asked laying a carapaced hand on Thomas’s shoulder. 

Eyes exploring this new arrival, Thomas looked at this new stranger.

They were exactly Elderbug from Hollow Knight. 

Forgetting his exhaustion, Thomas’s body roared back to life as he jumped up, knocking over the bench and falling on his back again. 

While scrambling back to his feet, Thomas had a realisation- if that was Elderbug, then he must be in Hollow Knight! And the ‘blood’ he currently has covered himself with was actually soul! That explained the white color, at least. 

Mow that Thomas looked at the then-old bug, it dawned on him that wlderbug was now a simple bug, probably a child at this point. And as he looked into this Elder(or was it young?) bug’s eyes, he saw confusion, fear, but most importantly- hesitation. Thomas could use that, probably.

“S-sorry, you just startled me.” Thomas apologised. “I’m just not used to being touched like that.” 

“Would it have something to do with your soft shell, mister?” The bug politely asked. The ‘or the soul on your hands and back’ went unsaid. 

“Yeah. Ever since the infection, I’ve been living on my own.” Thomas lied. He didn’t know exactly where or when he got kidnapped, but he did know that he lived in some densely populated area, probably a city. 

“The infection?” Elder bug(or young elder bug?) “Mom and dad said not to talk about that.”

“Well, it’s ok.” Thomas began whispering. It probably wouldn’t be any good to announce his presence. And from Elderbug’s comment about their parents, he could infer that right now Thomas was at a time before the Infection took complete hold of Hollownest. “I’m just a humble messenger for the Pale King, so you can tell me anything. So, what’s the latest new about the infection?”

“Well,” Younger-bug(?) whispered as low as he could. “Apparently the infection is this magical dis-eaze, that keeps people up forever. So the Pale King has to keep them in his castle, so they can do all the work he ever needs. My granny got taken by the Pale King last week!”

“Well, that’s not suspicious at all!” Thomas thought to himself. Thought, a half-baked plan was forming in his head, he still needed to figure out how to get to the Pale King. “Sorry if this is a non-sequador, but what could I do to hide my, uh, condition?” Thomas asked.

“I guess you could go see the tailor. She’d probably held such an afflicted individual.” Smaller bug said, pointing to an edge-of-town building.

“Thanks for everything!” Thomas said, ignoring the Youngbug’s comment about his ‘affliction’. Walking towards the building, he tried to process what he was going to do. He was absolutely going to see the Pale King, see just how bad the infection truly was, and then, well, go from there. But first, he needed to cover his face and wash off before he frightened anyone else. 

He felt that… presence again, feeling the ancient air shift around him. He felt his steps get more wimpy, actively treading with less force. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. And if it was asleep before, it had woken up and placed it’s eyes on Thomas. It only asked for one question to be answered, the very same one Thomas himself was thinking.

“What are you?” They both mentally asked one another. 

In a brief moment of confusion, not realising he was technically using telepathy, Thomas replied with his name.

“What’s that?” The awoken presence pressed on. 

“Me.” Thomas replied with before sputtering. He had just accidentally used telepathy! He could do that! Was he speaking to The Radiance? Or some other unknown entity? Possibly the Pale King? But then-

“What’s The ‘Radiance’?” His new compatriot asked. 

“Hollow Knight. Ultimate villain. Must defeat.” Thomas’s brain responded for him. “WAIT! You didn’t answer my first question! What are you?”

At that, the presence stuttered. “Um… larvae. Small. Will get strong terrifying. Before then in warm. In soft. In creature. Grow until break-out.”

“Huh?” Thomas was dumbfounded. The only thing that he knew of that grew inside a creature was a xenomorph, and some half-formed memories about “real life xenomorphs”. So,-

“I’m that. But bigger.” The presence announced at ‘Xenomorph’, making Thomas pause for a moment. If this thing was a Xenomorph, but bigger then it could only mean that it was a Xenomorph Queen, and that meant he had to move fast, otherwise this entire kingdom would becomes H.R. Geiger’s wet dream! Wait, if the Queen was still developing, then he could just kill it right now! That would be a good solution. Probably the only solution.

“No!” The Queen screamed through his mind, causing the sore-pain in his legs to re-light with renewed vigour. Feeling the cold stone beneath his face, he heard the juvenile Queen’s words, accompanied by a ringing in his ears. “You won’t kill yourself! I’m still in you!”

Wait, if it was inside him- that meant he was the host- and he was going to die in a few days. Probably a week. 

“Fuck.”

[z3nitsusgf]

VALL I WANT TO REQ FOR UR EVENTTTT!!

can i get diluc w thigh fucking, cervix fucking n overstim?1?1? 💞💞 im such a slut for diluc and i cant never pass up a chance to get fucked by him 🥺 congrats to 1kay again love <33 take care and have a good day 💞💞(｡ﾉω＼｡)

AMOS OFC ILL WRITE U ANYTHING U WANT BAE

Warnings: cervix fucking, overstim, thigh fucking, size kink, soft dom diluc

Tags: @diamond-3

Diluc only does this because he’s too big, tells you it’s because he doesn’t wanna ruin your tiny princess cunt. Strips you bare, glossy cunt on display as he pushes your thighs up, “hold them.” He commands, and makes you keep them up and squished. Slipping his cock in between your slick inner thighs, so so close to your creamy pulsing center.

It makes you cry, tears streaming down your face because you can feel his cock rutting against your puffy lips and the red leaky head catching on your pearly clit. You’re so used to it that you can cum from that alone, but you feel so empty. And you need more.

“Please luc, diluc- just put it in, I can take it,” you whine, the denial hurts so much. You know you can’t, know that the stretch is gonna ruin you - but gods you don’t care.

Thick heavy cock slipping and thrusting between your thighs, as you press them shut for Diluc. Tears lining your lash line at how close he is, your tummy throbs. And diluc is cooing, “are you sure, honey? Don’t wanna hurt you.” He murmurs, and even though he’d love nothing more than to gape you to perfection - he doesn’t want to hurt you. But you’re so whiney, sweet tears dripping down your face and honey slick coating your thighs.

You just nod, “please, I want it s-so bad,” you whimper and Diluc is smiling, “okay baby, keep your legs up for me, yeah?” And you comply, thighs up to your chest and diluc is popping the bulging mushroom head into your tight hole. You hiss at the stretch that’s already peeling your tight lips apart, and he’s shushing and cooing above you. Trying hard not slam all the way in, but it’s getting a little difficult with the way your hips are shimmying away.

Diluc grabs your waist, fingers digging into your sides as he pushes to the hilt. Your mouth drops open, let’s him see your pink tongue and wide eyes. And he almost looses his touch, he’s so fucking deep. Sits so far inside of you that he’s smushed your against your cushiony puckered cervix, and it feels so good. You’re wondering why you didn’t do this sooner, until he’s thrusting in and out of you and you’re already clamping down on him. Cumming with a cry and shakey legs as he just pummels his way farther into your precious little cunt.

You’re squeezing him so tight with slick sticky wetness coating his cock, his balls papping against your ass as he drops his chest down onto yours making you wheeze out. Pretty pink head kissing your cervix as you see pyrotechnic stars in your eyes, “look at you, so pretty with a cock too big to fit your pretty pussy.” Diluc murmurs, lapping at the pearly tears in your eyes as you just hum and cream around his hard length.

He doesn’t stop, he’s wanted this for so long it’ll take more than a spasm to make him loose it. “Diluc-! Please, please,” you warble, tongue loose and drooly as he coos at your expression. Your hands press against his tummy, thighs tensing as he fucks your cunt raw. Walls pulping around his cock as he hits every spot inside you. Diluc grabs your wrist in his grip and presses them into the mattress, leaning his weight down over you and pressing in farther, fat head pushing what feels like your guts.

“Take it so well, my pretty pretty girl.” He murmurs, gritting his teeth as he tries not to cum early. Leaning down and kissing you with a nasty tongue and a nip to your bottom lip. You don’t realize that you’ve created a monster, Diluc feels like he’s on cloud nine. Wrapped in your sweet velvety pussy for the first time, his back arches over you and gods - you’re so sweet. You’re small cries and squeaks fuel his swinging hips till he’s pumping you full.

You think he’s placated, till he snaps up into you again. And you know - he’s never gonna give up your sweet cunt ever again.