#IT ALL MORPHING INTO THE SHIVERS PORTRAIT?????

[allmightyscroll-swag]

HOLY SHIT?????

shivers

[seanpultz]

If the Ghostbusters visited The Haunted Mansion

As the four of them stood before the looming Dutch Gothic Revival mansion, the cool evening air whispered through the ancient trees that surrounded the property. The moon cast eerie shadows across the intricate carvings of the building's façade, giving it a sinister countenance that matched the tales of the paranormal activities rumored to dwell within. Dr. Egon Spengler, with his usual air of skepticism, spoke first. "Ray, are you sure we're in the right place?" he asked, glancing at the GPS device in his hand. Dr. Raymond "Ray" Stantz, ever the enthusiast, nodded confidently. "Positive, Egon. The PKE readings are off the charts here." Dr. Peter Venkman, the charismatic leader of the group, leaned against his proton pack with a smirk. "Well, what are we waiting for? Let's go see if we can't catch a ghost!" Dr. Winston Zeddemore, the stoic and pragmatic fourth member, took a deep breath. "Alright, let's get to work," he said, adjusting his gear. The Ghostbusters approached the mansion, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the quiet night, ready to face whatever spectral beings awaited them inside.

The quartet of Ghostbusters ascended the grand stone steps leading to the mansion's imposing entrance, their boots clicking against the cold cobblestone path. The heavy oak door creaked open, revealing a pair of somber maids and butlers dressed in attire that seemed to have been plucked straight from the 19th century. They silently beckoned the Ghostbusters inside with a ghostly wave of their hands. As they stepped into the foyer, the flickering candlelight danced across the walls, illuminating the rich tapestries and dark wood that filled the space. Their eyes were drawn to the large portrait hanging above the roaring fireplace – it depicted a stern gentleman with piercing eyes and a well-groomed mustache. Yet, as they approached, the painting began to warp and shift, the man's features morphing into a grisly visage of decay.

"When hinges creak in doorless chambers, and strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker where the air is deathly still — that is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!"

The Ghostbusters exchanged wary glances as they were guided into the octagonal portrait gallery, the atmosphere thickening with anticipation. The wall behind them slid shut with a thud, sealing them in the dimly lit space. The flickering light from the candelabras lining the walls cast a macabre glow on the faces of the stern figures in the paintings, making their expressions seem to shift and twist as if alive. Suddenly, a chilling voice resonated through the chamber, sending a shiver down their spines. "Welcome, foolish mortals," it intoned, "to the Haunted Mansion. I am your host, your ghost host. Our tour begins here in this gallery." The portrait of the stern gentleman from the foyer now spoke to them, his eyes following their every move. "Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state," the Ghost Host continued, his tone a mix of amusement and menace. "Kindly step all the way in, please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now." The floor beneath them trembled, and the portraits' eyes grew wider, the figures appearing more animate with each passing moment. The Ghostbusters steeled themselves, proton packs at the ready, as the air grew colder and the whispers of the long-departed grew louder.

“Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis. Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination, hmm…?”

The Ghostbusters' eyes darted up to the four elongating portraits, their expressions a mix of horror and disbelief. "Well, this is definitely not your run-of-the-mill spectral activity," Venkman quipped, trying to keep his cool. The bearded man in the portrait looked as though he had been caught in a tragicomedy, his grin frozen in a moment of absurd terror. The young woman's serene composure on the tightrope was unnerving, her eyes locked onto theirs as if she knew they were watching. Constance Hatchaway's portrait was a gruesome sight, her eyes following them around the room as though judging their every move. The man on the mustached gentleman in the quicksand portrait's face was a twisted mask of desperation. The air grew colder, the whispers grew louder, and the floorboards beneath them began to groan as if the house itself were alive.

“…And consider this dismaying observation: this chamber has no windows, and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out! Of course, there's always my way…”

With a dramatic flourish, the lights in the portrait gallery abruptly winked out, plunging the Ghostbusters into a blackness so absolute that it seemed to press down on them. A cacophony of thunder rumbled through the mansion, the sound of the storm outside now trapped within the very walls that threatened to close in. The sudden flash of lightning illuminated the grinning skull of the Ghost Host hanging from a noose in the cupola high above, his lifeless eyes seemingly peering into their very souls. The sound of bones shattering echoed through the darkness, sending a collective shiver through the group. "Egon, what's the plan?" Winston's voice was steady despite the horror unfolding around them. "We need to find the source of this disturbance and contain it," Egon responded, his voice a beacon of calm amidst the chaos. The four Ghostbusters huddled together, their proton packs humming in the darkness, ready to face whatever lay ahead.

"Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely. The real chills come later. Now, as they say, 'look alive," and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

As the thunder subsided, a previously unnoticed section of the portrait gallery wall glided open, revealing a hidden corridor shrouded in darkness. The Ghost Host's cackle echoed through the passageway, beckoning them deeper into the mansion's bowels. The Ghostbusters, their proton packs glowing like neon beacons in the gloom, cautiously moved forward. The walls of the corridor were adorned with more portraits, each one seemingly more disturbing than the last. As they ventured further, the floorboards creaked in protest, the air grew colder, and the whispers grew more insistent. They could feel the malevolent presence of the spirits trapped within the paintings, their eyes burning into the backs of their heads. "Remember," Egon reminded them, his voice a low murmur, "we're not here to fight them all. We need to find the epicenter of the haunting." The corridor grew narrower, the walls closing in, and the portraits' eyes seemed to follow their every step. Then, without warning, the floor gave way, sending the Ghostbusters tumbling into the abyss below.

The Ghost Host's laughter faded as the Ghostbusters picked themselves up from the dusty floor, now standing in a dimly lit loading area. The air was thick with anticipation and a hint of mechanized scent.

"And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural. Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. "

The Ghost Host's lowered the safety bars of the Doom Buggies lowered with a metallic clank. He recited his scripted warnings with a sinister smile, the candelabrum above casting a flickering light that played upon his shadowy features. The Ghostbusters, now seated in the spooky vehicles, couldn't help but feel a twinge of unease as the carts began to move, gliding effortlessly through the mansion's secrets. The portrait corridor stretched ahead, a silent witness to the horrors they had yet to uncover. Each flash of lightning outside transformed the mundane into the macabre, revealing the true, twisted nature of the artworks. The demure young woman's hair morphed into a writhing nest of serpents, the majestic ship was torn apart by the tempestuous sea, the man's opulent attire shredded to expose his skeletal fate, and the lady of the house transformed into a snarling were-tiger. The air grew heavier with each grim revelation, the very fabric of reality seeming to warp around them. Yet, they remained steadfast, their eyes fixed on the grim tableau before them, ready to face whatever the Haunted Mansion had in store.

"Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please. We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies rolled under an archway adorned with cobwebs and dusty chandeliers, entering a library that seemed to have been frozen in time. The eerie silence was broken only by the rustle of pages and the occasional clatter of a book falling from its shelf. The room was a labyrinth of towering bookcases, their shelves groaning under the weight of tomes that hadn't seen the light of day in centuries. The busts of long-dead scholars stared down at them with vacant eyes, seemingly aware of the intrusion. The sight of a ghostly librarian, floating on a ladder that moved of its own accord, sent a chill down their spines. Meanwhile, a rocking chair in the corner swayed to the rhythm of an unseen occupant, the flickering candlelight casting eerie shadows across the pages of an ancient tome. The scent of aged paper and dust filled their nostrils as they moved through the spectral scene, the whispers of the trapped spirits echoing through the vast space. They knew they were getting closer to the heart of the haunting, and their anticipation grew with each passing moment.

"Our library is well-stocked with priceless first editions — only ghost stories, of course — and marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

The Doom Buggies rolled into the next chamber, revealing a once-elegant music room. A ghostly figure in a tattered tuxedo sat at a dusty grand piano, its ivory keys yellowed with age. The shadowy musician's spectral fingers danced over the keys, playing a mournful melody that resonated through the room. Behind the piano, a window looked out onto a tempestuous forest, lightning illuminating the twisted branches that clawed at the glass. The stormy scene was so lifelike that it was hard to discern if it was a painting or a window to another realm.

"They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion. Actually, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there’s room for 1,000. Any volunteers?"

The Doom Buggies ascended into a realm where gravity seemed to have abandoned all sense, entering a room that mirrored the mind-bending art of M.C. Escher. The staircases twisted and turned in impossible angles, leading to nowhere and everywhere at once. The Ghostbusters clung to the bars of their carts as the world around them tilted and spun. The cacophony of echoing footsteps grew louder, the glow of green light grew stronger, and suddenly, the stomping ceased.

"If you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour."

They found themselves in a hallway lined with thousands of blinking eyes, the pupils dilating and contracting in a hypnotic rhythm. The wallpaper around the eyes began to shift, revealing the grimacing faces of demons, leering and laughing at their disorientation. The room grew colder, the laughter grew more malevolent, and the Ghostbusters knew they had entered the domain of the Haunted Mansion's most powerful and disturbed spirits.

"We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat. Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills. Shhh, listen!"

The Ghostbusters rounded a corner and came face to face with a living suit of armor, its visor gleaming in the candlelight. The chair in the corner of the room had a hidden abstract face, embroidered into the fabric with such craftsmanship that it seemed to leer at them. The most unsettling sight, however, was the long, narrow corridor that stretched down the center of the parlor. A candelabrum floated eerily down the hallway, casting grotesque shadows on the walls that danced and stretched like the elongated figures in the portrait gallery. "Wow, talk about a blast from the past," Ray whispered in amazement, his eyes wide with wonder. "These are some serious poltergeist pranks."

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies made an unexpected twist, spinning them around to face the conservatory. The room was a ghastly sight, adorned with lifeless bouquets and a pervasive aura of decay. At the center of this floral tomb, a glass room stood out, showcasing a morbid tableau. The sight of the coffin with its lid pried open by skeletal hands sent a shiver down their spines. The desperate cries of the trapped soul within filled the air, a haunting plea for freedom. "Egon, what do we do?" Winston's voice was tight with tension. "We need to keep moving," Egon replied, his eyes never leaving the coffin. "The source of the haunting is stronger now. We're getting closer." The raven, seemingly unfazed by the chaos, cawed mournfully, adding to the symphony of the supernatural. The Ghostbusters' proton packs grew heavier with each step, the weight of their mission pressing upon them as they moved through the room, surrounded by the lifeless beauty of the conservatory. The cries grew louder, more insistent, and the green glow from the coffin grew brighter, pulsing with a sinister energy that seemed to call out to them. They knew they had to act fast before the situation spun even further out of control.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies emerged from the conservatory and into the shadowy corridor, the portraits of the once-noble family now grotesque and decayed. The eerie sound of unseen doors rattling and the disembodied knocking of ghostly fists sent a chill through their bones. The air grew thick with the scent of decay and the cacophony of whispers grew to a crescendo, as if the very walls were alive with the tormented spirits of the mansion's past. To their left, the portrait of the Ghost Host grinned morbidly, his noose tightening around his neck in a silent taunt. The door beside it appeared to breathe in and out, the wood swelling and shrinking as if alive. The two demonic reliefs on the walls seemed to leer at them, one with a malicious smile, the other snarling with malevolent intent. The corridor grew more claustrophobic with each step, the weight of the unseen eyes upon them unbearable. They approached the end of the hall, where the skeletal hands of the trapped spirit fought against the sealed door, the emerald glow of spectral energy pulsing from within. The grandfather clock chimed out the thirteenth hour, its pendulum swinging erratically, the shadow of a monstrous claw racing across its face. The Ghostbusters knew that beyond this door lay the heart of the haunting, and the fate of the 999 souls trapped within the Haunted Mansion. They tightened their grips on their proton packs, bracing themselves for the battle that awaited them.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies shuddered to a halt in the séance room, the air thick with anticipation and the faint scent of incense. The walls were adorned with floating musical instruments, their strings plucking and bows moving as if played by invisible hands. At the center of the room, a round table was set with an eerie spread of arcane tools and a crystal ball, within which the disembodied head of Madame Leota bobbed menacingly. Her ghostly visage sang out the incantation, summoning the mansion's spirits to join in her macabre symphony. The instruments grew more frenzied, their tune a cacophony of discordant notes that seemed to resonate with the very essence of the room. The Ghostbusters could feel the power building around them, the air crackling with the energy of the spirits they had been sent to contain. They watched as a set of spectral hands began to materialize from the crystal, reaching out to touch the instruments, their icy fingers leaving trails of mist as they danced across the strings.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat/Call in the spirits, wherever they're at./Rap on a table, it's time to respond/Send us a message from somewhere beyond./Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween/Awaken the spirits with your tambourine./Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond/Let there be music from regions beyond./Wizards and witches wherever you dwell/Give us a hint by ringing a bell."

Then the Ghost Host spoke again, "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

The Ghostbusters leaned over the balcony railing, taking in the surreal scene unfolding in the grand ballroom below. The spectral soiree was a whirlwind of activity, with ghosts of all shapes and sizes moving in a ghostly masquerade to the haunting tune of "Grim Grinning Ghosts." The air was electric with the energy of the otherworldly festivities, the very essence of the mansion's haunting distilled into this one, maddening waltz. They watched as the merry ghost on the mantle gave the bust a playful wink, the elderly spirit knitting away, and the macabre duelists reenacting their eternal battle across the room. The waltzing couples floated through the air with an ethereal grace, their dance partners a testament to the mansion's grim history. The coffin from the hearse lay open, its occupant now lost in the swirling mass of spirits.

"Wow, this place is something else," Venkman murmured, his eyes darting from one spectral sight to the next.

"It's like we've stumbled into a Salvador Dali painting," Ray said, his voice filled with a mix of awe and unease.

"The energy readings are off the charts," Egon noted, his PKE meter beeping wildly in his hand. "We need to find the focal point of this haunting before it gets out of hand."

"Looks like we've got our work cut out for us," Winston said, his gaze lingering on the grinning duelists.

As the Ghostbusters observed the chaotic dance below, Egon's eyes fell upon a previously unnoticed entrance to the attic. "Guys, I think we've found the source," he said, pointing upwards. The door at the top of the stairs was slightly ajar, and a sickly green light seeped through the crack. The air grew colder, the whispers grew more frantic, and the shadows cast by the flickering chandeliers grew darker and more malevolent. "We need to go up there," he continued, his voice firm with determination. The others nodded in agreement, their eyes reflecting the gravity of the situation.

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies glided into the attic, the cobweb-covered space a stark contrast to the grandeur of the ballroom. The room was a cluttered mess of forgotten relics and haunting mementoes, each object seemingly imbued with a story of love gone wrong. The wedding portraits lining the walls drew their attention immediately, the bride's serene smile a stark contrast to the horrors they had encountered so far. Yet, as they watched in morbid fascination, the grooms' heads began to vanish in a gruesome dance of shadow and sound, replaced by the grim thud of a hatchet. The air grew colder, the whispers more insistent, and the malevolence grew palpable. Then, in a corner shrouded in darkness, the bride herself materialized, floating in a tattered wedding dress. Her eyes, once filled with love, now gleamed with madness as she recited her twisted vows, the spectral weapon in her hand raising high. "We'll live happily ever after," she shrieked, the hatchet poised to strike. The Ghostbusters knew that the time for sightseeing had ended; it was time to bring peace to the tortured souls of the Haunted Mansion.

Egon and Ray huddled together, their eyes fixated on the vengeful bride. "Egon, who do you think she was?" Ray whispered, his voice tinged with fear and curiosity. Egon, his PKE meter still beeping erratically, took a moment to consider the question. "Based on the intensity of the negative energy here, she must have been someone significant to the mansion's history," he replied, his gaze never leaving the ghostly figure. "Possibly the original owner's daughter, scorned on her wedding day. The power she wields suggests a deep anger and betrayal that's been festering for centuries." The air grew colder as the bride's spectral form grew more substantial, the hatred in her eyes burning into their very souls. The other Ghostbusters tightened their grips on their proton packs, ready to stand by their comrades as they faced the most dangerous part of their mission. The whispers grew to a crescendo, the room pulsing with the energy of the trapped spirits eager to be set free. The battle for the Haunted Mansion had just begun, and the fate of the 999 souls hung in the balance.

Constance Hatchaway, the bride whose tale was one of greed and madness, grew more substantial with each passing moment. Her eyes gleamed with a malicious intent as she recounted her macabre history, her voice echoing through the dusty attic. "Welcome to my bridal suite," she cackled, gesturing to the cluttered space around her. The Ghostbusters, now fully aware of the gravity of the situation, took a step closer to each other, their proton packs humming with readiness. "You know," Venkman quipped, trying to break the tension, "it's not every day you get invited to a wedding where the bride has a better head-count than the guests." The room grew colder, and the whispers grew to a fever pitch as Constance's eyes narrowed. "You think this is a jest?" she snarled, the hatchet in her hand seemingly growing larger. "This is my sanctuary, my trophy room!" With a ghostly flourish, she raised the axe, ready to add more heads to her grisly collection. The Ghostbusters knew they had to act fast, before the spirit's rage consumed them all.

"Let's not make this a permanent engagement," Venkman quipped, as the Ghostbusters flipped open their proton packs. The room erupted in a symphony of whirring and beeping as the four men steadied their weapons, aiming at the furious bride. "Now, let's show her what we're made of," Winston murmured, his voice a low rumble of determination.

"Fire at will!" Egon called out, and the room was bathed in a cacophony of spectral light as the proton streams shot forth, weaving a dance of containment around Constance Hatchaway.

With Constance Hatchaway safely contained, the Ghostbusters let out a collective sigh of relief, their proton streams dissipating into the cold attic air. The room grew quieter as the whispers of the trapped spirits faded away, the only sound now the distant wail of the wind outside. They made their way to the Doom Buggies, which had come to a halt at the attic's exit, the ground floor calling them back to the land of the living. The caretaker, his face a mask of fear, watched them with wide eyes as they approached, his trembling dog at his side. The sight of the ghostly band, the whimsical ghosts playing their jovial tune, and the macabre tea party scene outside the window did little to ease his terror. The Ghostbusters nodded in his direction, acknowledging his plight, but their mission was not yet complete. They descended the hill, the Doom Buggies carrying them through the graveyard, the air growing colder with each passing moment. The spectral minstrels' music grew louder as they approached, the haunting melody of "Grim Grinning Ghosts" filling the air once more. The Ghostbusters' eyes scanned the scene before them, taking in the whimsical horror of the phantoms enjoying their unearthly revelry. The hearse stuck in the mud, the undead partygoers, and the bizarre quartet of singers all added to the otherworldly tapestry that was the Haunted Mansion. They knew that while these spirits were eerie, they were not the malicious force they sought.

The Ghost Host is heard once again. "Ah, there you are! And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention — beware of hitchhiking ghosts!"

The Ghostbusters' Doom Buggies rumbled through the shadowy graveyard, the cobblestone path leading them to the three large mirrors that stood sentinel beside the mansion's façade. As they approached, the reflection in the first mirror revealed an unexpected addition to their party—a dapper specter with a top hat and monocle, grinning mischievously. "Phineas," Egon murmured, recognizing the ghostly figure known as The Traveler. In the second mirror, a skeletal figure clung to the back of their cart, his rattling bones a silent greeting. "Ezra," Ray whispered, his eyes widening with excitement. And in the third, a ghostly convict with a burlap sack over his head, Gus, was now a part of their convoy.

"They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!"

The Ghost Host raises the safety bar. "Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!"

The Ghostbusters' hearts raced as they felt the icy grip of the hitchhiking ghosts latch onto their Doom Buggies. The Traveler in the top hat gave a courteous tip of his hat, his grin growing wider in the mirror. The skeletal Ezra waved a bony hand, and the convict, Gus, let out a muffled chuckle from within his sack. "Well, this wasn't exactly in the job description," Venkman quipped, trying to maintain his composure. The Ghostbusters' carts lurched forward, the spirits' laughter echoing through the night as they approached the mansion's entrance. They knew that their job wasn't done yet.

[ronaldanthony4]

Today, I found myself sinking into the familiar rhythm of creating digital artwork once again. Still, this time, there was something special about it—a distinct, thrilling excitement that coursed through my veins as I meticulously brought my vision to life. It wasn't just any piece of art; it was fan art inspired by the anime Urusei Yatsura, one of those classics that has been etched into the hearts of many, including mine. It was a labour of love that I poured my heart and soul into, and the final result was nothing short of magnificent.

As I sat before my digital canvas, my mind raced with memories of countless hours spent watching the series, my eyes glued to the screen, entranced by the vibrant colours, the quirky characters, and the whimsical storylines. There was something about Urusei Yatsura that had always captured my imagination, a certain charm that made it impossible to look away. Among all the characters, Ran stood out to me in a way that few others did: her fiery personality and determination to always stand up for her beliefs.

The character design for Ran in the 2022 remake of the anime was nothing short of stunning. Every detail, from the cascading curls of her magenta hair to the piercing magenta eyes that seemed to hold a world of emotion, was crafted with such precision that it left me in awe. I wanted to capture that beauty, that elegance, in my artwork—a tribute to a character who had, in many ways, inspired my creative journey. A character who had, in many ways, inspired my creative journey.

But as I worked, I couldn't help but reflect on the complexities of Ran's character, the duality that made her so fascinating. On the surface, she appeared to be the quintessential beautiful young woman, her hair a voluminous mass of magenta curls that framed her delicate features perfectly. Her eyes, a matching shade of magenta, were large and expressive, often filled with a childlike innocence that belied the turmoil within. Her eyes, a matching shade of magenta, were large and expressive, often filled with a childlike innocence that belied the turmoil within.

Yet, there was more to Ran than just her outer beauty. Beneath that sweet, almost angelic exterior lay a fiery temper that could be unleashed at the slightest provocation. When angered, her appearance would undergo a startling transformation, her soft, gentle features morphing into something far more menacing—sharp teeth, pointy ears, and a glare that could send shivers down the spine of even the bravest soul. It was a reminder that Ran was not to be underestimated, that beneath her gentle façade lay a force to be reckoned with.

In the artwork I created, I chose to depict Ran in one of her iconic outfits—a pink bikini that accentuated her curves and added to her allure. It was a look that was both bold and playful, a perfect representation of her dual nature. I wanted to capture the essence of who she was, to convey not just her beauty but also the complexity of her character. I wanted to capture the essence of who she was, to convey not just her beauty but also the complexity of her character in my portrait.

As I added the finishing touches to the artwork, I couldn't help but feel a sense of satisfaction. It was more than just a piece of fan art; it was a reflection of my admiration for a character who had left a lasting impact on me. Ran was not just a beautiful alien girl from a beloved anime; she was a symbol of strength, resilience, and the power of transformation. Her story resonated with me on a deep level, inspiring me to create a piece that truly honoured her spirit. Through my art, I hoped to convey the depth of emotion and meaning that Ran represented to me personally.

As I continued to work on the digital piece, my thoughts drifted to Ran's backstory, which had always intrigued me. Ran, or Lan as she is sometimes referred to, is an alien girl of an unspecified race, a major character in Urusei Yatsura. She is one of Lum's closest childhood friends, though their friendship is far from simple. The rift between Ran and Lum grew when they both fell in love with the same guy, a shape-shifter named Rei. Rei, with his rugged good looks and mysterious aura, had a charm that was impossible to resist.

Ran's feelings for Rei were deep and genuine, but Lum's victory in love left her feeling betrayed and hurt. The friendship that had once been a source of joy and comfort for Ran now became a reminder of what she had lost. It was a painful chapter in her life, one that shaped her into the person she would become. As I considered Ran's story, I couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her. It was easy to see why she acted the way she did, and why she sometimes let her emotions get the better of her. The rivalry with Lum, and the heartbreak over Rei—all contributed to the complexity of her character.

In public, Ran often put on a facade of sweetness and innocence, acting cutely and demurely, as if to mask the turmoil within. She could be childlike and elegant, charming everyone around her with her seemingly gentle nature. But when suspicion or anger took hold of her, that facade would crumble, revealing a side of her that was anything but sweet. Her personality would turn on a dime, shifting from graceful to rowdy, from feminine to tomboyish. It was as if she was constantly at war with herself, struggling to reconcile the different aspects of her identity.

I found this duality fascinating, and it was one of the reasons why I felt so compelled to create fan art of Ran. She was a character who defied easy categorisation, someone who could be both endearing and terrifying, both vulnerable and strong. In many ways, she reminded me of the characters I created in my own stories, particularly my original character, Liliana. Liliana, like Ran, was a character who embodied both beauty and youthfulness. She was the sweetheart of my other original character, Arlon. Liliana was a source of inspiration for me, just as Ran and Lum had been. Whenever I depicted Liliana in my artwork, I would often draw upon the qualities that I admired in Ran and Lum—their beauty, and their youthfulness. However, Liliana had a depth and complexity that surpassed both Ran and Lum.

In my mind, Liliana was as beautiful and youthful as Lum, with the same ethereal quality that made Lum such a captivating character. But she also had the depth and complexity of Ran, the duality that made her more than just a pretty face. Liliana was a character who had experienced her share of hardships and had been shaped by the challenges she had faced. She was someone who could be both gentle and fierce, both loving and strong. Liliana's character was a perfect blend of beauty, youthfulness, depth, and complexity, making her truly captivating and unforgettable.

As I worked on the fan art of Ran, I couldn't help but think about the similarities between her and Liliana. Both were characters who had been shaped by their experiences, and who had learned to navigate the complexities of love and friendship. Both had a beauty that went beyond the surface, a beauty that was intertwined with their strength and resilience. Their stories resonated with me in a way that was both inspiring and humbling, reminding me of the power of resilience and grace in the face of adversity. It was a privilege to capture their essence in my art, a tribute to their enduring spirit and beauty.

Creating this artwork was more than just an exercise in technical skill; it was a way for me to explore these themes, to delve deeper into the characters that had inspired me. It was a way for me to pay tribute to the characters that had left a lasting impact on me, characters who had shaped my creative journey. As I stared at the finished piece, I felt a sense of accomplishment wash over me. The artwork captured everything I had set out to convey—the beauty, the complexity, the duality of Ran.

But more than that, it was a reminder of the power of art, the ability to capture the essence of a character, to bring them to life in a way that words alone cannot. Through this artwork, I was able to express my admiration for Ran, to explore the themes that had resonated with me throughout the years. It was also a reminder of the influence that Urusei Yatsura had had on me as an artist. The characters, the stories, the world that Rumiko Takahashi had created—all of it had left an indelible mark on me.

As I reflected on the journey that had led me to create this artwork, I couldn't help but feel grateful for the characters like Ran and Lum who had inspired me along the way. They were more than just characters in a story; they were symbols of the beauty, strength, and resilience that I sought to capture in my work. In many ways, creating fan art of Ran was a way for me to reconnect with those themes, to revisit the characters who had sparked my imagination and pushed me to become a better artist.

This artwork of Ran was just one piece in a larger tapestry, a tapestry that I would continue to weave with each new piece of art that I created. As I continued on this creative journey, I knew I would carry with me the lessons I had learned from characters like Ran and Lum—about beauty, strength, and the power of transformation. In the end, that's what art is all about—capturing the essence of a moment, of a character, of a story, and bringing it to life in a way that resonates with others.

[tumkaafiho]

You awaken in a dimly lit room, disoriented and unsure of how you got there. The air is heavy with an unsettling silence, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. Panic starts to rise within you as you realize that you're not alone.

You notice a faint aroma wafting through the room, a familiar scent that seems out of place. It tickles your senses, a mixture of bitterness and warmth. Searching for the source, you follow the scent, step by cautious step.

The hallway stretches before you, its walls adorned with faded portraits of somber-faced individuals. Their eyes seem to follow your every movement, sending shivers down your spine. Yet, you press on, drawn toward the enigmatic allure of the aroma.

As you round a corner, you stumble upon a small, forgotten kitchen. Dusty countertops and broken appliances tell a tale of neglect and abandonment. But there, in the center of it all, sits an antique coffee grinder.

A sense of curiosity overwhelms your fear, compelling you to approach the grinder. With trembling hands, you examine its aged, wooden structure, stained from years of use. Intrigued, you find a small bag of coffee beans nearby.

Without fully comprehending why, you decide to grind the beans. Turning the handle slowly, you hear a faint, distant whisper in your ear, "Tum kaafi ho."

A chill runs down your spine, and the world around you begins to shift. The kitchen morphs into an eerie dreamscape, the walls pulsating with a strange energy. Shadows dance, and figures emerge from the darkness, their eyes hollow and soulless.

Unable to escape, you watch in horror as they draw nearer, their every step echoing through your mind. They surround you, their faces contorted with malice. You can feel their cold breath on your skin as they chant in unison, "Tum kaafi ho, tum kaafi ho."

A profound sense of dread consumes you, and you realize the truth. You were never meant to find this place, to awaken what lies within. The grinder was a gateway to a realm where lost souls hungered for release, their thirst for the living consuming everything in its path.

As the figures draw closer, their grotesque forms closing in, you feel a sudden jolt of excruciating pain. Darkness envelops your vision, and your consciousness fades away, forever lost in their insatiable hunger.

In the depths of the forgotten kitchen, the grinder continues to turn, grinding the essence of lost souls. The whisper echoes through the empty halls, a haunting reminder of the fate that awaits the curious and the unwary. "Tum kaafi ho," it murmurs, its voice carrying a twisted satisfaction.

For in this realm, you're not a person. You're nothing more than sustenance. You're coffee.

SKDJDDJ IM FUCKING DEAD

[shah-writes]

an artificially intelligent curse

so i read this article about a man who uses AI to speak with his dead fiancee and i simply cannot stop thinking about it. there’s no MCD in this! but you can find my thoughts at the bottom.

tldr; think AI + Inception + Drarry

“Draco’s dying.”

Ron is Harry’s best friend in the whole world but sometimes he can be a bit daft. 

“No, he’s not,” Harry replies serenely. He’s not. Draco is in the kitchen, wearing the light blue sweater Harry gave him last Christmas and a rosy flush Harry gave him two minutes ago. 

“They think you can help him.” Ron is staring at a point above Harry’s shoulder. Harry shifts slightly to follow Ron’s gaze and finds Draco standing there, levitating three steaming mugs of tea onto the table. 

Except. Except, Draco doesn’t drink tea. He drinks cheap, Instant coffee, a consequence of his time spent working in America. Harry teases him about it all the time. 

There’s a slight thud as two mugs hit the table, the third has vanished. 

Draco settles into a chair. “No tea for me,” he says playfully. There’s a small Statue of Liberty trinket on the bookshelf behind Ron. Harry relaxes. 

“Ron was just telling me a story,” Harry shares.

Draco smiles and leans forward expectantly on the table. It’s a set they thrifted last weekend: one Walnut table and four Cherry chairs— one ingredient away from a meal, Draco had joked. 

“It’s a curse, Harry. ‘Mione figured it out. It’s preying on your memories.”

Harry gives Ron a conciliatory nod and reaches out to brush a dark curl away from Draco’s forehead. Draco has platinum hair, he remembers, as an afterthought. 

The strands shift to a blinding white immediately. Or were they always white? They must have been, Draco would never dye his hair. 

“It’s you, Harry. You’re teaching it how to trap you.”

Harry reluctantly turns back toward Ron. 

“What makes us human?” Ron asks. “Harry, I know you can hear me, you just have to listen. What makes us human?”

“I… I don’t know,” Harry mumbles. 

“Instinct, Harry. Emotion and instinct.”

Ron is sitting on a cushioned armchair and Harry wonders absently where he got it. All Harry has are four Cherry chairs. He nearly expects to see Ron’s chair transform into dark wood. It doesn’t.

“You can’t teach humanity,” Ron continues. “You can teach a Thing how to learn, how to adapt. You can force it to consume everything around it until it knows right from wrong. Until it becomes as intelligent as any of us, but you can never teach it instinct. Look around, Harry, use your instinct.”

There’s a portrait on the wall. Four people. Harry and Draco. An older woman with almond-shaped green eyes and freckles over her nose; an older man with dark skin and Harry’s own unruly hair. 

“Hermione’s calling it an AI-Curse. Artificial Intelligence. It sweeps through your mind quickly and puts together a scenario where you feel comfortable. It’ll get things wrong, of course. It doesn’t know which memories are relevant, which are wrong, which are just daydreams. That’s where you come in. You tell It when it’s wrong and you reward It when it’s right.”

Draco’s sitting still at the table. Harry beckons him over. 

“I love that picture of us,” Draco says happily, laying his head on Harry’s shoulder. 

“What is this?”

“Us and your parents, silly.”

“Draco, my parents are dead. They’ve been dead for 27 years.”

Draco blinks. “I know. Do you miss them?”

Harry snaps back to the portrait. His parents have disintegrated out of the frame. 

Ron’s still sitting at the table in his armchair. “Malfoy’s condition is deteriorating. He’s succumbing to the curse. Once he’s given up all of his memories, he’ll die trapped in a fake world of his own design.”

“Stop,” Harry says; and then, “STOP,” louder, facing Ron. Ron doesn’t hear him. Because… because Ron’s not here. Ron and his stubborn, incongruous armchair aren’t here. Harry can hear the humming of Mungo’s Stasis charms echoing somewhere in his mind, the quiet bustle of the hallway, the frantic whispering.  

The only person here is Draco. Draco, who barely ever comes over to Harry’s flat. Draco, who flirts with him over lunches but flinches away when Harry reaches out to sweep his blonde hair off his forehead.

There’s a rosy flush on Draco’s cheeks except Harry’s not the one that gave it to him. Harry’s never kissed Draco; they’re partners and friends and maybe something that transcends description, but not this. Not yet.

“Draco, why are you here?”

“What do you mean?” Draco’s smiling at him, eyes soft. It’s a daydream. Harry swallows down the grief of the realization. 

“We’re not dating, we’re not anything, why are you in my flat?”

Draco freezes. 

“No, no, no, please, no,” Harry’s grasping at him desperately but there’s nothing there. Just pixels floating away from each other, dissolving into the air. 

“NO!” Harry’s kneeling, face hidden in his hands. “No, I can’t do this alone, I can’t, come back… please come back.” He knows it’s impossible; you can’t teach humanity, Ron had said. AI doesn’t understand emotions, won’t bring him back now that it knows he doesn’t belong. 

“They want to Obliviate you,” Ron continues, speaking at Harry’s bedside at Mungo’s, imitated in Harry’s subconscious. 

“What?” Harry turns and scrambles toward Ron.    

“Hermione had a near conniption,” he chuckles. “But it’s the logical solution. The curse absorbs everything you show it and gives it back to you, better and smarter. If there’s no data for it to learn from, then you’re free.”

Harry collapses into the chair beside Ron, mind whirling. The room twists around them. They’re in the Gryffindor Common Room now, Ginny and Hermione near the fireplace, no more Walnut table and Cherry chairs. Except, Molly Weasley’s washing dishes in the corner. No. 

Obediently, Molly Weasley pops away. And then, the room is shifting again. 

“Without memories, the curse will implode into the simplest version of itself: a basic mind trap. Straightforward, simple. The kind that Aurors learn in training.” 

“JUST TELL ME WHAT TO DO, RON,” Harry bellows. 

The Burrow. Except, there are two Georges. No. The room glitches and restarts. 

“They won’t try Obliviation with Malfoy. Healers think it’s too late, that he’s too weak even to break out of the simplest version.”

The office and Draco… he’s back. He’s back and alive and leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on his desk, inspecting a takeout box. Yes. 

The room fills in further, encouraged. Case files pile up on Harry’s desk; Draco’s Statue of Liberty trinket is back, in the right place this time; an evidence board on the wall, newspaper clippings, Draco’s neat, white notes, Harry’s scrawl. 

“It’s unethical to deprive him of his memories now.” Ron says. 

Harry inspects the board closely. 7 people dead over 2 months. Inconsistencies in their deaths, but clearly perpetrated by the same actor. A pale blue envelope mailed to each victim. It explodes within minutes of delivery, enveloping its target into a coma.  

Seemingly random victims. A middle-aged mother, an elderly school teacher, a teenager days away from his 15th birthday. Muggles, Purebloods, Half-Bloods, and a Squib. Varying races, different financials. 

“Weird, isn’t it?” Draco’s staring at him. “Almost as if they chose the most diverse targets on purpose.”

Harry turns to him slowly, “Why?”

Draco tosses him an egg roll and shrugs, “Make sure we can’t trace them?” Draco joins him at the board, looks over the victim list.

The first had taken one month to die, slowly incapacitated. The second had taken only half that time, he had perished within two weeks. Faster and faster after that. The latest victim, a five-year old girl, was gone in three days. 

It was the first time, in five years of working together, that Harry saw Draco break down. Crouched outside her Mungo’s room, shivering, quiet; Harry had pulled him up and deposited him home. He came back to work two days later, his clenched jaw and fierce determination lodging itself into Harry’s heart.

Draco’s written a note under her picture: The curse is learning. 

“What is this?”

“You didn’t see the Mungo’s report? They think it’s targeting memories. With each iteration, it’s getting faster and killing quicker. Hermione was telling me about this thing…”

“Artificial Intelligence.”

“Exactly,” Draco smiles, surprised, “it absorbs huge amounts of data until it learns how to adapt to every condition.”

“The diverse victims— someone is teaching it how to learn, adapt to every condition,” Harry repeats. Draco’s standing near his desk again, illuminated by the soft light of his lamp. Soft blonde locks fall into his eyes as he looks over a case file. Harry wonders if this version will flinch away if he reaches out. Wonders if the curse has learned this detail yet. He hopes it hasn’t.

“They’re going to let him die in his own fake world. A peaceful death, they called it.” Ron is still sitting in the corner of the office, in a cushioned armchair.

Harry shakes his head, silently, frantically. There’s a pale blue envelope on Draco’s desk. 

“Draco, what is that?”

Draco looks at the envelope and back at Harry, nonchalant. Then, his face morphs into fear, mirroring Harry’s own expression. It’s the curse, it’s learning. Harry’s teaching it.

“The curse was targeting Malfoy. You were hit since you were in such close proximity, but it's a much weaker variant. You can make it out, Harry. You can help Malfoy navigate out.” Ron says from his corner.

“Harry,” Draco whispers. “What do I do?”

Harry strides forward, takes Draco’s shoulders in his hands. This is real now; Harry remembers this morning. “I’ll come for you, okay? We know what it is now, we’ll figure out how to stop it. Draco, you’ll be fine.”

Draco’s falling now. His eyes are shut, he’s laying on the floor, head tilted toward Harry.

Draco’s dying.

“RON, WHAT DO I DO? TELL ME WHAT TO DO!”

Ron’s not in his corner anymore. He’s gone, and so is his armchair, and it’s just Harry alone, in his office, with Draco’s body. 

The room is still filling up around him. Draco’s coffee mug, steaming on his desk. Blank walls slowly plastered over with Auror-standard tan wallpaper. Except. Except, Severus Snape is standing over Draco.

Harry steps closer cautiously, willful not to let the curse know that Snape doesn’t belong. 

“The headmaster has asked me to teach you Occlumency. I can only hope that you prove more adept at it than Potions,” Snape says, looking up at Harry with dark, hooded eyes. 

A memory, then. Out of place, but relevant. Harry remembers Ron’s words: The curse doesn’t know which memories are relevant. It’s guessing, responding to Harry’s needs. It’s helping. 

“Right. You’re right.” Harry says, loud. Snape solidifies, robes saturating darker. 

“Rid your mind of all emotion,” Snape continues. “Empty it, make it blank and calm.”

“Empty it,” Harry whispers. He takes a last look at Draco and closes his eyes. 

He opens them to a plain white room. Nothing on the walls, the floor. Nothing, except a door. A simple mind trap. Harry opens the door.

i just love the idea that the curse helps him get out. since AI is always developed in service to others, i like the idea that even weaponized as a curse, it would still adapt to the needs of its target and help them in any way possible. idk pals!!!! i just have a lot of thoughts about AI, come scream with me about it!!!!!!!

also, if you haven’t already, i would highly recommend reading the article this is based off-- it is fascinating.

[spxllcxstxr]

Game On • J.P

(Gif not mine)

Writing Challenge: @lunalovecroft ‘s 2.7k Trope Writing Challenge! Congrats again! Everyone go check out their fantastic blog! Trope: Quidditch Rivals and Secret Dating

Summary: No one knows that rival captains, Potter and (Y/Ln), have been in a secret relationship for quite some time. Then, the Championship Game arrives.

Warnings: cursing, a small hint of steaminess (nothing big—it’s like a quick mention and that’s it), slight Wolfstar and Dorlene mention, mention of breakfast at the Great Hall, kissing, use of Ms when referring to the reader (only once), nonGryffindor!reader

Word Count: 2k

A.N: Kinda long winded but I actually like the dialogue for once??? Wow. Congrats again on 2.7k! Everyone go follow them because I get so happy seeing them on my dash ❤️ Hope you all enjoy and love you all ❤️

****

Your eyes snap open hours before they have to, your dorm still pitch black, the soft snores of your friends filling up the otherwise quiet space. The covers feel heavy and restricting on top of you, something you quickly remedy by kicking them clear off the mattress.

You swing your legs over the edge, feet meeting the cool wooden floor.

Rubbing your eyes, you glance over at the ornate clock on your nightstand. One in the morning. You sigh, your goal of getting a good night’s sleep before your important match in ruins.

Your skin crawls at the thought of the Championship Match only hours from now. The amount of blood, sweat, and tears you’ve shed in preparation for it is frankly quite concerning.

Unable to get back to sleep, you drag yourself out of bed, shoving your feet into plush slippers before slipping quietly out of your room. You’re forced to tiptoe around scattered books, most of them Quidditch related from last night.

There’s no way you’ll be getting back to sleep anytime soon, the anxiety of the morning’s match coursing through your veins. The nerves were the worst part of competitive Quidditch—after all these years you still couldn’t shake them.

Absentmindedly, you think about heading to the Kitchens, the warm and comfortable environment sounding like exactly what you need.

Late night visits to the Kitchens aren’t anything new, you and James often sneak out after curfew hidden underneath his Invisibility Cloak. Sitting in the far corner behind countless shelves and barrels was a frequent date for the two of you since it offered enough privacy from the rest of the castle.

The two of you could hold hands on the table, his thumb open to draw little figure eights between your knuckles. Your eyes could light up just looking at him without the fear of being called out. His lips could capture yours in a sweet or passionate kiss and no one would know.

The real and complete reason for keeping your relationship a secret was long since forgotten, but the general idea is still shared. It’s just easier being Quidditch rivals instead of being Quidditch rivals that snogged the second feet touched the ground. Neither of you were ever accused of going easy on the other during matches, and that’s how the two of you preferred it.

Plus, there was something romantic about sneaking around the castle and through secret passage ways pressed closely underneath his cloak. Stolen kisses in empty classrooms and quick shags in broom closets were fun when they weren’t inconvenient.

In the back of your mind you have an inkling that James might be huddled up in the usual spot as well, considering he has a match as well in a few hours.

You shuffle through the common room, a few third years spread out on the couch, sleeping atop their textbooks and notes. The fire crackles and pops lowly. A shiver runs down your spine as you step out into the corridor.

“Lumos!”

A murky blue light blooms from the tip of your wand, lighting up the dark corridor.

You shuffle across the stone, the occasional laugh or snore echoing throughout.

Filch isn’t an issue at this time of night, surprisingly the old care taker does get some sort of beauty sleep, though it does him no good, so you find yourself walking normally instead of carefully creeping around.

It doesn’t take long to get to the portrait of the bowl of fruit, faint giggles coming from the pear. You extend your arm to tickle the bottom of the pear, it’s giggles erupting even louder before morphing into an intricate brass doorknob.

Stepping through the threshold you’re immediately met with a blast of heat due to the large fireplace that practically takes up the wall to your right. Even though it’s the middle of the night, plates and goblets and utensils are clanking and crashing together, the pitter patter of house-elves darting around the area isn’t surprising at this point.

“Nox.”

The blue light fades and flickering orange takes over.

A small and pale grey figure rushes up to you, jittery like they’ve just consumed a gallon of coffee. One ear droops low enough where it’s almost dragging across the floor while the other is significantly shorter.

“Ms. (Y/Ln)!” The house-elf squeaks, wringing their lavender cloth between their fingers. “Mr. Potter is waiting for you!”

“Alright, Tilly.” You smile warmly at the elf. “Thank you.”

As you make your way to your usual spot in the back of the Kitchens, you hear Tilly bound back over to the counters, joining the many other house-elves that work down here.

Behind stacks of old crates and barrels, there’s an old and decrepit picnic table, obscured from the rest of the room. Each time you and James show up you’re surprised the house-elves haven’t chucked it into the large fire yet. It’s so rickety it’s practically only good for firewood.

And being the spot for the two of you to find refuge in.

James is sitting with his back against the wall, legs outstretched across the bench just like you suspected. He’s lazily tracing a finger around the lip of his steaming mug, hazel eyes lost in thought. From your spot you can see his teeth toying with his bottom lip.

“You ok Jamie?” You ask softly, trying not to startle him out of his thoughts.

His eyes flick up to yours before he fixes his glasses and runs a hand through his bedhead.

“Knew you’d join me eventually, love.” He sends over a wink, face lighting up.

“And you didn’t think to pick me up at my common room?” You playfully scoff, slotting yourself between his legs, face pressed into his chest.

The red fabric smells suspiciously like the Quidditch shed, like he got in some late night practice.

“Oh yes, because standing out in the cold corridors outside of your common room after curfew is much better than just waiting for you in the warm Kitchens.” James’ chin rests in the top of your head, his arms wrapped securely around your waist.

“Blimey, chivalry really is dead.”

“Y’know, you could’ve waited outside the Gryffindor Tower for me.” James points out, chuckling at your complaint.

“I’m sorry.” You gasp. “Who has the Invisibility Cloak, again?”

“You got here just fine, didn’t you, love?” He snorts, chest rumbling.

“Whatever.” You grumble, rolling your eyes in defeat.

James sighs, rubbing your side. “You ready for the morning?”

You hum noncommittally, the thought of tomorrow’s match swirling through your mind.

“Nervous, love?” His voice is soft and delicate against your temple.

“I mean, this is my last chance, Jamie.” You mumble into his chest. “And of course it’s against you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean, (Y/n)?” James asks, concern laced within his voice.

“It’s just that you’re an amazing player and I’m—“

“A spectacular player as well.” He interjects. “I’ve seen you out there practicing. You’ve built a bloody good team this year. We’re on equal footing.”

“Yeah well, I’ve never beaten you before.” You huff lightly, playing with the hem of his shirt.

“So?” He questions. “That doesn’t mean anything. There’s a reason you’ve made it into the Championship match, (Y/n). Because you’re a fucking phenomenal Captain. And I’ll hex anyone that tells you otherwise.” You feel his fingers flex angrily against your waist.

“You’re so sweet.” You pick your head up slightly to face him, a pout tugging at your lips.

“Guess I should give you a good luck kiss now, considering we won’t have time in the morning.” James’ hazel eyes shine in the flickering light while looking into your own.

“Does luck even last that long?” You bring your fingers up to hover over his sharp jawline.

“Sadly, love, we’ll have to test that.” He sighs.

You bring your lips to meet his, your fatigue making it a bit sloppier than it should’ve been. He nips at your lips, pulling you closer to his chest momentarily before pulling away.

You whine slightly at the loss of warmth.

“Gotta save some of that luck for myself, love. Can’t just let you win.” He smirks, lips grazing your hairline.

The two of you end up sitting there for another hour or so, listening to the fire crackling and the house-elves rummage around. Eventually, he pulls you underneath his cloak and drops you back off at your common room, a quick peck pressed to your lips.

You manage to drift back off to sleep, dreaming of James rather than Quidditch.

When you pry your eyes open for the second time, the sun is actually filtering through your curtains and most of your dormmates are awake and shuffling around.

You tune them out the best you can, opting to go through your routine in whatever silence you can find.

Your routine is quite simple, you let your joints pop and muscles stretch, trying to shake yourself awake.

The rest of the castle seems to be alive with boisterous laughter and over the top festivities. Glancing around at the corridors and the Great Hall, you’re able to notice a pretty even split between red and gold and your own house colors.

This was going to be one hell of a rematch.

Marlene and Sirius have a crowd forming around them as they flex and throw out trash talk. You watch as Remus and Dorcas try to coax them down from the tabletop, but they seem unsuccessful.

Peter, Mary, and Lily are fawning over James, hyping him up, even you can tell from across the Hall.

But he isn’t paying attention to them, his eyes are clearly trained on you behind his round glasses.

“Already envisioning Potter’s demise?”

You tear your eyes away from him, instead focusing on your teammate.

“Oh absolutely.” You smirk, before throwing yourself into last minute charts and maneuvers.

Breakfast goes by quick, your leg never stops bouncing underneath the table and your fingers tap incessantly against your goblet.

You and your team strut down to the pitch earlier than anyone else. There’s a slight breeze rolling through the grounds, something you take into account.

It becomes a bit of a blur after you’ve changed into your uniform, the crowd begins to show up and their cheers take over your hearing.

Remus is announcing the game, which you have no idea why since it never goes well for anyone. His commentary ranges from picking on James to flirting with Sirius to just trying to get McGonagall pissed off.

Marching out to the center of the grassy pitch, broom in hand, you’re bombarded with your name being enthusiastically chanted across the entire stadium. Confidence bubbles inside of you as you face James, Madam Hooch just beside you.

“Alright everyone, I expect a nice, clean, and fair game today. This is the Championship, no one will get away with any funny business.” Her tone is clipped as her yellow eyes take in everyone. “Captains, shake hands.”

You and James take a step forward, his hand firmly grasping yours.

“Good luck, love.”

With your hands still connected, James plants his lips on your own, and you eagerly kiss back.

The crowd erupts into even louder cheers.

“Bloody hell!” You hear Remus exclaim over the loud speaker. “James and (Y/Ln) are now snogging on the pitch! You own me five bloody Galleons, Sirius Black! I told you, you—“

“Lupin!”

James takes a step back, his usual smirk painted across his face. His hazel eyes glint mischievously behind his goggles, which he takes the time to adjust like they were his own glasses.

The roar of the entire castle fills your ears after your little reveal.

It’s a little overwhelming, you have to admit, but it doesn’t deter you. You’ve spent too many hours training for this very moment to back down now.

You roll your neck, taking a deep breath to calm your nerves, but pixies have already erupted in your stomach. You feel James’ stare burning into you.

“Mount your brooms.” Madam Hooch’s harsh tone cuts through the crowd, but you’re barely paying attention to her as you swing a leg over your broom handle.

The whistle pops into her mouth like usual, but in the split second before she blows with all the air in her lungs, you lock eyes with your boyfriend.

His red and gold robes billow behind him, confidence just rolling off of him. Dark and chaotic curls drift in the breeze.

He sends you a wink.

“Game on, love.”

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

For @lunalovecroft go check their blog out!

[yanderart]

He caught you when no one else did; defeated you when no one else could. Whether you liked to admit it or not, Eraserhead had clearly proven his worth.

So why didn't you prove yours, little villain?

Another portrait for my POV yandere series, this time of Aizawa. Got a few people requesting me to draw/write for him so hopefully y'all enjoy it 🖤

Below the cut, as customary for the series, is a longshot one-shot that delves further into the backstory (Aizawa x Villain Reader, nsfw, dark themes, 8k).

TWs: dub-con, graphic smut, Bad Bondage Etiquette, degradation/humiliation, brat (villain) taming, cumplay and slight bimbofication. Scumbag Aizawa is real.

— — —

   The day you met Eraserhead, looking back, saying your worries had been misplaced would be an understatement. With not being apprehended and losing street cred at the very top of your list, it was decidedly easy to skip over any of the other big red-lettered warnings.

   You first felt the tickle in your nape while you carried your acquisitions across downtown Musutafu, accompanied by the familiar presage of someone watching your every movement. The city around you was bustling, as was the norm, as loud and meandering in its complaints as a chronically diseased elder, yet the alleys you took as shortcuts grew quieter and quieter with each step. 

   It was eerie, alarming, and a platitude of other adjectives you shamefully chose to neglect. 

   “So this is the great V/N in the flesh,” the lazy cadence of someone calling out your alias froze you mid-step, the way his owner dragged each syllable telling you he hadn’t yet decided whether you were worth wasting his breath on. 

   Your body was responding before you even had a chance to properly process the threat, running on instinct and muscle memory as you twirled to face the mysterious man and prepared to...

   “Cute dress, kid.” Eraserhead in the flesh stood barely a few feet away, glowing scarlet orbs illuminating his preternaturally blank expression and transforming it instead into a visage of pure intimidation. “Didn’t pitch you for the frilly type.”

   The growing panic in your chest put a hitch in your breath as you stared back. Yet you couldn’t help but still try, fruitlessly hoping—hands clenched, nails puncturing your own flesh as you tried to force your dormant quirk awake. And all for naught, considering your efforts were only repaid by the hatchet of your sinking realization being buried even deeper. 

   Although, the Pro-Hero also appeared to notice your meager attempts, taking a few steps closer to your form with a condescending gleam in his otherwise somber features. 

   Before you were conscious of what you were looking at (and before you had half a mind to attempt a quirkless attack on the hero), you observed the weapon wrapped around his neck unfolding fluidly, the extensions of fabric reaching out to envelop you in a forceful embrace that left your arms tucked to your sides and your back uncomfortably straightened. 

   “Better to trap you before you get any wild ideas. It’s your fault you’re in this position in the first place anyways,” he was taunting you, prodding you and poking you as you found yourself completely at his mercy, uselessly struggling much in the same way many of your victims had surely felt in their last few moments at your hands. 

   "Eraserhead," his pseudonym resembled an insult on your tongue, your rage and resentment making for rather colorful enhancements. "Don’t you have anything better to do than trapping helpless girls with this weapon of yours? Didn't peg you for a pervert."

   Usually, you managed to reign in some of your nastier attitudes, channeling them into your quirk and the violence you could inflict with it…

   But tied up and under the influence of his own ability as you were? All you had was pettiness. 

   "You can dress up as a civ all you want. Won't be fooling me." He took several steps, closing the distance between you two with barely the hint of a smile morphing his stern expression.  

   You could see the faint stubble on his handsome face from this up close, blood-shot eyes that refused to blink as they studied you in ample detail. Could even see the scar carved onto one of his cheekbones, a textured promise of the fight he had survived and now wore as a medal. 

   Such was your luck, that the Pro to finally catch up with you had to be this rugged scumbag. 

   "I'm not even engaging in any criminal activities, Eraseridiot." Your insult was terrible, but you were never much of a verbal sparrer. Not when you could use your fists instead. "What are you gonna send me to the pigs for? I know my rights."

   And you did. So when the condescension on the lazy hero's face turned into a full-on expression of mockery as he approached your "bag of acquisitions," you audibly gulped. Goddamn stalker couldn't have been following you for that long? Could he? 

    If only you knew. 

   "Then," he held up the bag with an indolent brand of interest, the contents dangling tauntingly from his clutch. "How do you explain this over here? I reckon even dirt like you knows what stealing qualifies as." His other hand dived for the contents and before you could voice any protest, cheeks blushing furiously, a slow hint of a chuckle was bobbing his adam's apple. "It would be a fun thing to peg you down for, though."

   That damned weapon of his didn't give out an inch as you started to furiously struggle, becoming instead impossibly tighter with each futile attempt at freeing yourself.

   "You fucking psycho, is this your sick way of trying to pick me up or something?"

   But your quip did not deter him at all (if anything, it spurred him on). The hand inside the bag tensed for a moment before he was retrieving the sole object inside. To say mortification was written all over your face would be an understatement. 

   A dark pantyhose now hung from Eraserhead's nimble fingers, not a second being wasted by the Hero before he proceeded to bring it up to his face, carelessly stretching the garment until you could see every single one of his features through the sheer material. The way the moonlight caught in it, bouncing off and bathing his patronizing face, made for uncomfortably intimate imagery. 

   (Yet a part of you, one you would never admit existed if further questioned, also could not help but notice the striking attractiveness of it all, making you want to squirm for completely different reasons while the man continued to exert his quirk on you through the fabric of your fucking lingerie.)

   "Gotta say, didn't take you for a pantyhose kind of gal either. Girls like you…" He uttered the last part more like an afterthought, tossing the bag aside before his hands continued toying with the tights absentmindedly. "Are suited for something like fishnets much more."

   By that point, you were sure he was just playing with you. You were such a harmless joke, restrained and showcased like a prize for his viewing pleasure.

   "Reckon you must own quite a few pairs, uh?" He continued egging you on when you failed to give a timely enough answer. 

   (Perhaps the fact that he so easily guessed that detail should’ve been your first real warning, too.)

   Yet you couldn’t help how his condescension and the downright dirty way he stared at you sent dark shivers up your spine, the threat he represented turning strangely alluring under the dim street lights illuminating you both. 

   As a villain, you had robbed, murdered, set people ablaze, and even stolen a popsicle or two from some crying kids. So why were Eraserhead's words having such an effect on you? Why did, a part of you deep down, seemed enthused by the awful way in which he was speaking to you?

   "You don't have any proof I stole them. I just threw away the receipt after I bought them. Very environmentally unconscious of them, too, when electrical ones are a thing."

   Now you were just rambling. What an adorable sight. 

   "Hmm, never thought I'd hear "environmentally unconscious" being uttered by a two-bit criminal." He stopped stretching the lingerie for a moment, thoughtfully scratching at his incipient stubble with his free hand instead, "Are you really trying to sell me the good samaritan angle?"

   To his credit too, he seemed genuinely puzzled by your approach for an instant. Guess even an experienced pro like him still had room to be shocked. 

   "I'm not trying to sell you anything, imbecile." The snobbishly controlled tone of yours was back, the shaking of panic subsiding while you held onto your only hope of leaving this confrontation unscathed. "And my rights clearly state you need proof to apprehend me. Need causality to exert your quirk on me, too, or you would be the one breaking the law." 

   Now, Eraserhead wasn’t annoyed per se. You could tell from what little he had already spoken (and from the myriad of cautionary tales you had been told) that little could rattle the man at all, but your comment definitely appeared to intrigue him. It made you feel like an animal being studied, pinned down, and ready to be dissected for his own morbid curiosity.

   "Isn't this just rich?" His tone was almost lethargic, words dragging on with a faint rumble. "Are you going to run off to the police, then? Tell them how a Pro trapped you and tried turning you in for a very obvious act of theft?", his eyebrows were raised, eyes more awake despite his monotone voice carrying on. "Be my guest then."

   Because of course you were all bark, no bite and he was more than willing to call you out on your shit. So instead of continuing down that route, you decided to veer for a new approach, switching from your assortment of insolent tactics. 

   "Do you get off on this, then?" Your voice morphing into meekness while you adopted an expression of distress, bottom lip jutting out with the sparkle of thinly veiled sarcasm glimmering in your eyes. "Do you like thinking of yourself as the Big Bad Hero, maybe?" And you could tell by the way the incipient smile froze on his lips that your question had caught him off guard. Made you wanna press even harder, "Do you like the idea of taking a defenseless little girl into an alley and showing her just how bad you can be? Maybe planned on teaching me a lesson, is that it?"

   His frown mimicked yours now, no longer any hints of cruel enjoyment on his part. His eyes still glowed red, but he was now squinting ever so slightly, zeroing in on you not only due to the limits of his quirk but also due to the words rapidly continuing to escape your impudent mouth. 

   "Does Eraserhead like to fuck his lays into being law-abiding citizens? Is the power over someone else what really gets you off, perhaps?"

   It was like a spell was cast on the both of you. He couldn't drift his attention, his eyes couldn't stop scanning your face — quickly flickering from the hatred coloring your gaze to the slight quiver of frustration shaking your lips. The hand which he still used to grab your stockings was now a closed fist, knuckles growing pale from the poorly contained strength.

   "Bet you plotted this entire thing, you creep. Wanted to take me behind an alley and show me my place." Your taunts were becoming increasingly more risqué, the anger blurring your sense of preservation—and the hint of something else too, a secret excitement you were unwilling to recognize. "Wanted to have me all submissive and obedient under you, surely. Show me what a scary hero cock can do, is that it?"

   But instead of earning another entertaining grimace, you had a first-row seat to the rapidly darkening expression on his face. Eyes squinted at the same time that the bandages settled even tighter around you, cutting off your breath for a moment before relenting just enough not to suffocate you. 

    And that's when you first felt it for the first time, just when your jests died on your lips and you drank on his foreboding reaction. The grip of Eraserhead's quirk, more constricting than any ropes, wavering faintly around the prison he had constructed around you; the distinct buzzing in your hands returning for a mere instant before flickering out again.

   Now that was interesting.

   "Should watch what you're saying," the pro-hero sounded gruff, voice tinted by a new kind of intensity.

   Like a shark smelling the smallest whiff of blood, you couldn’t help your instincts urging you to dial down. 

   "Always knew you hero types had a hard-on for the power trips. Bet you were using all of this as a decoy. Is this when you strip me and hold me down? When you plow me into the floor of this alley and tell me to "behave or else"?" 

   You knew your jabs were going too far, getting too brazen… yet as much as you enjoyed making the Pro visibly uncomfortable, once he decided to close the distance between you two there was little you could do to stop yourself from flinching. A fire inhabited his expression, the vivid brightness emanating from his stare not only intimidating, but downright frightening too.

   "Are you trying to rile me up?" His hand gripped your face with force, bandages shifting until they were enveloping your neck, holding you up and forcing you to reciprocate his glare, "What do you think will you achieve by antagonizing me even more, V/N?"

   You just looked at him through your eyelashes, still somehow managing to play up the innocent act through the layers of fear settling in. And as expected, it only served to further his irritation, calloused fingers digging even deeper into your cheeks and coaxing the claws of terror to continue trailing their nails all around you. 

   "I’m just trying to understand you, Eraserhead." The way you smiled at him was defiance personified despite it all, your tongue wetting your lips while you caught his eyes following the movement. There was the slightest give of his quirk again, a fluctuation in his concentration informing you that you were finally on the right track. "And I think, given the fact that I haven’t been cuffed yet, that we can both still come to a mutual agreement."

   Fingers twitched around your jawline, muffling your words while your sides were squished together harshly. But even manhandling you, the Hero couldn’t hide the spark in his eyes, an interest you foolishly believed to be ignited by your former comments. 

   "So you are indeed trying to rile me up then." It was an assertion, not a hint of doubt in his leisure intonation. 

   Instead of replying this time, you just slowly blinked his way, observing your imitation of meekness reflected in a gaze that refused to abandon yours. It had been so long since you last tried to play coy, so long since you needed to depend on anything besides your own strength and ruthlessness. You couldn’t help the thrill you got from playing the role. 

   "Think you’ll get me distracted enough to break away, I bet." He was whispering directly against your skin after getting dangerously closer, the heat from his cushioned lips provoking an involuntary shiver. "Do you believe nobody else tried this approach before, little villain?"

   You gulped, feeling caught before you even had time to properly set the stage. 

   "I wasn’t..."

   "Weren’t what, trying to seduce me?" There was a sense of levity hidden somewhere under his timbre, stored between words that kept dragging on in a mantle of aloofness. "Or did you not mean any of your words?"

   When you didn’t reply, you could feel the cruel smile resurfacing against your earlobe. 

   "If I lift your dress right now, do you think I’ll have my answer?" His question sounded almost casual, as weightless as your alias had been when he first called you out. 

   Your heartbeat sang in your chest, an anxious hummingbird trapped inside your ribcage. Because you knew the answer, you both did. 

   When the hand still clutching your bunched hosiery came up to press the fabric against your thighs, you could not help the gasp that escaped you.

   "I bet all those things you were just saying…" His tone drifted off as the stockings were slowly guided up the vastness of your legs, fingers barely grazing you through the thin layer of the stolen undergarments. He was thoroughly teasing you, enjoying the manner in which your expression contorted in response. "You just want me to do them to you, don’t you?"

   Even if you would’ve wanted to object, the pressure of his nylon-covered digits finally reaching your dampened panties was enough to kill any possible refusal. He traced the outline of your slit, soft touches running across it with deceitful lightness, and your mind became positively staggered as you were rendered overwhelmed by his actions. 

   You didn’t have to worry about his next move for long, either, because barely a moment’s notice passed before his entire palm was eagerly covering your crotch. And the new way in which he groped you was demanding, the heel of his wrist putting just enough pressure to drag a shamefully loud mewl from you. 

   The douchebag even had the gall to laugh at your reaction, the sound of his mirth prompting you to writhe even harder as he continued to feel you up through your rapidly soaking underwear. 

   "Knew you’d be a slutty one." His breath was hoarse against the side of your face, the stubble on his jaw scratching against your skin in a way which made you wonder how it would feel pressing elsewhere. "So fucking wet, it must hurt being this eager."

   He didn’t specify what exact kind of pain he meant, whether your growing need for release or the insufferable blow all of this represented to your pride. Somehow, though, you had an inkling that he was referencing both. 

   "Wanna show me just how needy you are?" His words echoed with each laboured breath of his, one of the few signs you had that he was clearly very much into the whole affair despite his detached demeanor. "Maybe you could show me more of your adorable little cries." 

   As Eraserhead rutted his palm against you another time, you found your hips lowering down to chase the feeling much to your own chagrin, more moans making their way out of your panting mouth while he coaxed you to sing the notes of his preferred melody. 

   It was true that you hated his guts… but another fact was that you hadn’t had action in a long while either. Even with the threat of imprisonment hanging over you, you could not deny how desirable the idea to get to cum against that veiny hand of him was, to grip those muscular shoulders as you reached the perdition he was so tantalizingly offering. 

   Decidedly forgotten was your plan of you being the one distracting him. For fuck’s sake, you really were a needy whore. 

   "Why not show me how you cum for me in this alley, if you’re really that desperate?" His words kept getting cruder, his tongue tracing a languid stripe from your earlobe down to the side of your neck, a beautiful path of distractions threatening to dip your sanity even lower. "Be the dirty little villain that I know you are, doll."

   But just as soon as the stimulation was hitting you a second time, so it suddenly disappeared. One second fingers were flexing against your tender flesh, coated by your arousal through the layers of fabric separating you and fluttering with the promise of an impending release, and then the very next instant you were left to whimper (a villain like you, actually whimpering!) in the unbearable wake of their absence. 

   When your eyes searched for the Hero’s again, in his blown out pupils you could only dare interpret part of the enjoyment he was getting from watching you scram for his touch, beautifully bold handwriting spelling out arousal for all to read.  

   Watching you so easily betray your own ego after all of your lip service? More than simple music to his ears, it was an entire sonnet. 

   "But, now that I think of it, you were the one trying to walk away free from this. So why should you be the one getting pleasured?"

   Even in your precarious situation, you couldn’t help rolling your eyes. 

   "Are you fucking kidding me?" Apparently, your discomfort at being denied was enough to forego your better senses.

   The bindings contracted around you in quick response to your insolence, your neck being craned even further and your arms mishandled until they were behind your back instead of at your sides, a sharp pain blooming from your shoulders as you struggled to adjust.

   Treated like this, he really did make you feel like a helpless little doll. (Goddamn, that thought alone was enough to have your juices gushing again, the trails of your excitement starting to make a mess of your inner thighs.)

   "You don’t get it, do you?" He asked in a despondent voice, unblinking eyes still refusing to abandon your face as he elaborated, "you should already be on your way to some second-rate villain prison, cuffed and muzzled and someone else’s problem."

   At his reminder of what you believed to be your impending fate, the mocking pout on your face transformed into a retelling of real horror. Because your spotless reputation was the one trick in your book that had managed to give you a sliver of notoriety over the rest of the unremarkable criminals, much more significant than any quirk or grandiose crime. 

   So for someone like you to lose that? You might as well hang up the villain costume and retire, for all anyone would care. (And yes, you had been called an attention whore a lot throughout your life, but who could blame you when you couldn’t help but thrive on it?)

   Sensing your spiraling thoughts, the Pro raised his eyebrows in an almost pitiful stint, as if he was truly empathizing with the agonized look of your face. 

   "I know you don’t want that, doll." As his declaration dragged on, the grip that had been steadying your jaw was swapped instead for the peculiar feeling of damp fabric —your pantyhose being pushed against your cheek and spreading your own juices around, all while Eraserhead intently studied the new wave of disgust coloring your features. "So why not show me that even a villain slut like you can behave? Give me a reason to believe that and..." The slickered garment was now pressing to your closed lips, your eyes starting to water with the weight of the humiliation you were being made to endure. "Maybe then I’ll consider letting you go."

    You knew he was lying, had every right to doubt the sincerity of his promise and, in its place, conclude he just meant to take advantage of you in your desperate state and then leave you for the pigs to find anyway. 

    You knew all of that, and yet you still opened your mouth and allowed him to do as he pleased. When he worked the pair of soiled stockings inside, you had troubles recognizing the pathetic sight being reflected your way from the wild hue of his gaze. 

   For someone who had always prided herself in being a predator, you had never looked more like prey.

   "Fuck, that’s it, doll." He pushed the piece further with his fingers, forcing you to stretch your lips until your jaw started to hurt from the strain. His fingers swirled inside, pressing the soaked material against the flat of your tongue and instructing you to eagerly lick it.

   You had never felt as debased in your entire life, being forced to choose between savoring your own arousal while tied up in an alley or ruining a reputation you had fought so earnestly to maintain. 

   (And yet your thighs were pressing together now, attempting to create some meager friction to alleviate a yearning that did nothing but shift, demand, grow.)

   "Look at you cleaning up your own mess," he almost sounded proud of you as you kept dutifully sucking, his other hand brushing your hair away from your shoulders in a strangely consoling way. "Seeing you all obedient like this, one could be fooled into thinking there is yet hope for reform."

   By the time the Hero finally took his hand away, bunching up the stockings before fitting them into one of the hidden pockets of his dark costume, you thought you could discern a mocking smile through the clouds of tears.

   "But now, now, doll… are you gonna keep crying or do you wanna try and take proper care of me next?"

   Not finding it in yourself to raise your voice again, you instead opted to wet your lips hesitantly as you awaited for him to elaborate further. There was a question dying to be asked, struggling somewhere alongside the myriad of insolent retorts and insults you wished you could swing the Hero’s way without being harshly reprimanded. 

   "I wouldn’t call that proper exactly," a chuckle reverberated from the back of his throat, gravely and dark as he misrepresented your movements. Fingers still slick from your saliva caressed your bottom lip, massaging it in a way which played straight into the undermining tilt of his words. "Although I’m sure you must be dying to wrap your pretty lips around my cock. Would give you a good reason to stay quiet, uh?"

   You really had been intending not to fall for his obvious goading, not trying to give the Pro anymore reasons to be harsh with you (or even worse, give him an excuse to leave you alone and to a fate worse than his company ever would be). 

   Had tried so hard too, but the cocky villain in you could only take so much degradation before it snapped. 

   "Goddamn it, are you trying to fuck me or bore to death?" As for the slight quivering in your voice, you dearly hoped he wouldn’t pick up on it. 

   Predictably enough, that slip earned you another harsh tug from the capture weapon, your whole body pulled back until you thought you were about to be snapped. 

   "I was just about to praise you for being all sweet for me, V/N." The switch from his pet names to your alias felt like a bucket of ice being dumped on you, voice a slow drawl while he tugged once more from your bottom lip, but this time harsh enough to have you wincing. "I’m trying to teach you how to be a proper girl, so don’t make me regret it. Or would you prefer to go take a prolonged vacation in a holding cell?"

   He already knew your answer judging by the way his eyes coldly studied you, unearthing the secrets you uselessly attempted to hide with an ease that unnerved you (and, as much as you loathe to admit, fascinated you). 

   When he tugged at your mouth again, nails sinking just enough to be noticeable, you knew he was expecting a verbal answer. And a nice one, at that. 

   "Then fucking get on with it…" Words slurred at the end, caught up in the increasingly somber aura of your captor before you swallow thickly, quickly adding as an afterthought, "Please."

   At that, his scowl receded enough for some satisfaction to find its way back into his grimace.

   The more you struggled, the sweeter your surrender became.  

   "Not perfect, but better," he conceded with a thoughtful hum.

   If you had properly studied just who he was beyond his active Heroism, then you would’ve understood just how accustomed he was to insubordination. If anything, your act only served to make him feel more at home.

   You had barely any time to wonder about whatever he had planned next though, because in an instant that damned contraction of his was moving you around once more, twisting you until you were facing the brick wall of the alleyway with heaving breaths. 

   Your legs were now maneuvered until you were forced to keep them apart just a smidgen, the new inviting space between your thighs surely a most intoxicating promise for the sick man manhandling you. And your back experienced pain afterwards too, harshly pushed until you had no option but to allow yourself to be pressed against the dirty walls; As a result, you found yourself with your ass backed up and for the world to see, the frilly skirt of your dress caught somewhere between all the movements.

   Yet even being roughed up as you were, when a hand reached out to tug your ruined underwear away you couldn't help greedily rutting into it, too worried by the fire gathering in your lower belly to care about maintaining a semblance of the reluctance you would later claim to have experienced. 

   It was almost comical for the Hero to observe the pathetic image you were now serving up on an ornate platter —especially when compared to the list of deviant crimes and horrors your spreadsheet of accomplishments preached. For all intents and purposes, you really were a horrible, messed up individual…

   So it was a wonder why his mind had kept supplying him with the same descriptor ever since he first saw you, the same sweet little word that he thought might as well be written all over your skin for how accurate it described you.

   A cute little doll (soon to be his cute little doll). Despite believing himself to be a fairly responsable Hero, the man had never wanted to play with anything as much as he did with you.

   The sound of a zipper being lowered was alarmingly loud in the emptiness of your surroundings, as loud as a wail to your sensitive ears. When you squirmed below your restraints, nonetheless, you could no longer pinpoint whether it was from unadulterated fear or a sick sense of anticipation.

   How easy it had been to break you, even if you would never recognize it openly.

   "Knew you were into it, and now watch your ass trembling in excitement for me." He was chuckling again, not pretending like the cruelty coating his words had any other intention but to degrade you further. It had been just his luck, to find the one villain who just so happened to enjoy it. "I really hit the jackpot with you, didn’t I, doll?"

   When the lewd sound of one of his fists pumping his cock reached your ears, you didn’t even bother disguising the whines of complaint refusing to be contained any longer. 

   "Stop..." Words spilled from clenched teeth, growled out with an annoyance that no longer sought to defy, "Fucking..." but to demand instead, "Teasing."

   "Hmm, that’s cute. Why don’t you try begging me though?" His cadence was growing as bated as his breath, littered by intermittent curses as his eyes dined on the sight of your glistening core, held up and offered up for him to do as he pleased. "Beg for me to use you, and if you put on a good enough show I might just let you off."

   Another shiver rampaging it's way through your body, an exhilaration that could not be entirely pinpointed. 

   "Please…" You started, rough intonation dripping with venom —But Eraserhead didn't seem to mind the sardonic nature of your pleading though, not as you heard the litany of damnations being spilled from his lips. Your shameful excitement, your bitterness, your hatred… he would feast on it all and do it gladly. "Get on with it, bastard. Didn't anyone tell you never to toy with your food?"

   A low murmur was your only response at first, followed by the lewd sound of his pre-cum covered cock being harshly jerked.

   "Hmmm, aren't you being a bit too demanding…" His steps echoed again behind you, his unoccupied hand coming up to massage your ass with a rather firm grip. "Even with the begging, I don't think you've learned your place yet."

    When he planted a slap in the same place he had been eagerly caressing before, sharp and flaring up your nerves with the sting of pain and humiliation, you couldn't stop your scream from turning into a wanton little moan halfway through. 

   Even if he was hitting you, it still meant he was touching you, and so enticingly close to the place you actually needed tended to.

   "Do it…" your breathing was too heavy to speak in full fluid sentences, body flushed and mind filled with the buzzing of desire. "Do it again, fuck."

   You were still not begging him like he asked, but it seemed like your choice of words still greatly pleased him. Another slap rained on your ass, his big warm palm massaging the same reddening spot right after.

   And he kept going, the spanking echoing through your body and sending both pain and pleasured shivers up your spine—lewd sounds mixing in with the increasing pace of his other fist pumping his cock. Even without directly touching you, your pussy clenched and weeped with each firm hit. 

   "Damn, it's my first time meeting such a masochistic whore." Punctuated by his most painful slap yet, the globes of your ass left trembling and a furious shade of crimson to match his lust-filled eyes. "I can see why you've managed to stay free for so long, little villain." The debasement, paired with the pain of his firm strikes, had you moaning even louder. You couldn't even recognize your own sounds, nor the thrills you felt at this entire fucked up ordeal. "Wonder how many other Pros you showed this beautiful sight to."

   Even through the fog of sensations impeding you from being wholly coherent, though, you still couldn't help but want to set the record straight. 

   "None, fuck…" Words merging into another expectant whine when you felt his hand gripping your flesh again, only this time he was kneading you in an oddly tender way —Urging you on, fingers creeping closer to your needy hole. "I'm not… usually in the business of fucking Heroes. Shit, I hate this…" 

   But you didn’t, and when you were surprised by the warmth of his naked erection barely grazing the sensitive outer lips of your cunt, you couldn't help the sigh of relief that escaped you. 

   "Goddamn, V/N, even while you're an ill-mannered brat you still manage to know just what to say." 

   And then the older man was sliding his cock in the juncture of your thighs, teasing your core by pressing against it while grunts began to escape him. You thought you could cry from having him so close yet still not where you wanted him, but then his shallow thrusts against your legs proved to be much more stimulating than you first expected. 

   The fat head of his cock even managed to somewhat stimulate your puffy clit with its movements, pushing in its direction as your essence continued to leak out and cover you both. And It was so absolutely debauched, to think a Hero was using your thighs like a fucktoy while you were tied down and unable to stop it....

   But it felt so good. Even without him actually in you, you had never been this turned on before. 

   "More… ughhh," you were now screaming with the side of your face pressed flush against the disgusting brick walls, needy sounds filling the night and making it privy to your descent into madness.

   Another thrust, this time angled just precisely enough not to caress your pleasurable areas. Punishment, you feverishly thought while you attempted to wiggle your ass, eager to force more of that delicious friction you were quickly becoming hypnotized by. 

   "Now, V/N," his gruff voice had adopted a mocking tone of reprimand as he continued to rut against the soft skin of your thighs. "Haven't I taught you anything, yet? If you want something…" The hand returned to your heated skin, digits underneath you both spreading your pussy enough for the chilly night air to send shivers straight to your core. "You gotta say please."

   And say please you did. Screamed it even, so eager for more and already far beyond feeling any embarrassment. 

   He didn't fuck you, not like you really wanted, but suddenly his thick shaft was sliding between your lips as his capture weapon aided him in angling your body just right, pulsing against your hole while he found a new rythimn. When both of his hands returned, one of them held you back to make the process even easier while the other swiftly joined his cock in tending to your eager pussy.

   So lost were you in the new raw excitement seizing you, in the knowledge of just how messed up you both were for engaging in such debauchery —so distracted that you didn't even notice the faint buzzing returning to your arms, the vibrancy of an old frequency being reactivated and allowed to encapsulate you again.

   (You didn’t notice, but fuck if it didn’t made your orgasm all the sweeter.) 

   You were cumming like that, your moans resembling squeaks, your body feeling closer to a used fucktoy than a human being. The hero kept rutting against you, the joint efforts of his cock and hand mercilessly continuing to abuse your spasming cunt while your cries filled the space with their decadence. 

   You felt dirty, guilty, maybe even a little ashamed as the orgasm briefly gave you a clarity of mind your arousal had clouded.

   And yet, despite it all, it had been the best you felt in years, possibly ever. As the Pro now tugged your hair, forcing you to wrench your neck just enough to look at him over your shoulder, you couldn't help licking your lips in expectation of what he had in store next.

   "You're gonna show me your face next time you come, little villain." He gave you just enough time to nod, eyebrows drawn as your pleasure got impossibly dragged out by the stimulation he still bathed you with. "And you're gonna keep begging me, keep showing me why you deserve to stay free, okay?"

   It was commendable, how collected he managed to sound while thrusting into your thighs like that, the sounds of skin slapping against skin driving each of his words home. 

   "Yes, fuck, whatever you want…" Despite your senses shortly coming back earlier, you were still too far gone to rethink your poor choices. You just knew you wanted more, and so you asked for it. "Just give me more, please."

   So fucking obedient. If your parents could see you know, their failure of a villain daughter being all proper and learning to beg for what she wanted? Well, perhaps saying they'd be proud was a stretch, considering you were also the one getting fucked in the middle of a filthy alley. 

   What you hadn’t expected, however, was just how well your begging would work. 

   Because the next thrust of his shaft was not between your legs, but aimed to finally breach your needy cunt instead, easily filling you up in one go with how utterly soaked in both of your juices you already were. The girth of him had you already clenching with renewed vigor, his hand stopping his assault on your clit just to give you enough time to truly savor the new intoxicating sensation.

   And when your eyes found his again, so drunk on the waves of pleasure you were that you also failed to notice the lack of scarlet coloring the orbs boring into yours, now inescapable voids of dark desire and a type of intense fixation you thought hadn't been there moments ago. 

   (Or maybe it was always there, and you had been too busy with your own turmoil to notice the clues being left by your so-called enemy).

   "Want me to stuff you properly?" His guttural question hit you at the same time as his sharp movements found your tender spot with experienced ease, walls tightening around him while your entire body struggled to continue holding yourself upright, relying more and more on the capture weapon to keep you from toppling over. 

   The binds still hurt from how tightly they wrapped around you, bruises sure to be left on their wake, but by that point you weren't so sure anymore the sting was an entirely bad thing. If anything, it just made the pleasure all the sweeter by comparison.  

   "Want me to fill you with so much cum that you reek of hero cock for the rest of the week?" He laughed while he regurgitated some of your words from earlier, the hand pressing against your lower stomach caressing you with a distinct sense of ownership as he elicited another loud moan with a sharp movement of his hips. 

   Noticing you reacting not only to his actions but to his quips, you could practically hear the self congratulatory smirk as he spoke next.

   "Bet the other villains would love knowing how much of a cockhungry whore you turned into too, doll. Talk about fraternizing with the enemy."

   And he was right, in a way. Because what would your fellow villains think, seeing you being wrecked by one of the most infamous Pros in the business, lowering yourself to pleading and screaming as he rearranged your insides. 

   Would you get called a disloyal whore or just a plain traitor? Not only would your spotless reputation and the myth you had fought to build collapse, but from its ashes your eternal shame could be erected. 

   A shame that would tower over you, looming around you while the eyes of your peers followed you everywhere. You could even picture the jests veered your way, the looks of utter disgust and ridicule...

   Somehow, the idea of anyone finding out only made your screams grow louder, impossibly more fervent. 

   "Fucking… get on with it."

   However, his rhythm was rapidly interrupted after your jab, his cock pulling out almost entirely as your core convulsed with the sudden staggering emptiness it was left to grapple with. More whimpers, struggling against the set of eternally unforgiving ties encasing your body. 

   "But you're making me do all the work, little one" Another slap shook your entire frame as it landed heavily on your still pained cheeks. You were so sore, both from the previous set of hits and from the sheer exhaustion starting to set in, muscles tight and resentful from the awkward positions your body had been manhandled into. "If you really want to continue this, how about you start doing some of the heavy lifting, uh?" Just like before, his palm started massaging the tender spot he had just smacked, fingers digging into your supple flesh being as close to comforting as the Pro seemed capable of. "Show me just how good you can be."

   And you could've argued, truly, could've even attempted to hold onto the last vestiges of your pride…

   You could’ve done a lot of things, but the truth was that when his weapon relented its hold at last, retreating from the underside of your knees and giving in just a smidge for the first time since you had been captured, you didn't waste any seconds before you were chasing after your high with renewed vigor.

   Greedily sinking into him with an obscene sigh, you audibly marveled at the curve of his member being deliciously imprinted in your insides. While you copied the cadence the Hero had previously employed, his grip on your lower belly fluttered, almost like he couldn't decide whether to take control back or allow you to humiliate yourself further with your own zealousness. 

   It seemed like the later prospect won him over in the end though, because he remained almost impassively still as you did all the work needed to bring you both deliriously close to your peaks. 

   The sight must've been spectacular, watching you, renown villain V/N, so thoroughly broken and willing to heed his every command. Impaling yourself on his cock, moaning and continuing to beg him for something you were already taking for yourself. 

   If he died right then and there, he doubted Heaven wouldn't have as much appeal as the scene still unfolding before his eyes. (But again, considering his actions, Heaven wouldn't really be the right place for either of you.)

   You were just about to reach your second orgasm, toes curling inside your shoes, fists clenched and a face that spelt poetic extasis. Angling the way you took his cock, every single movement driving him painstakingly deeper, slamming against a spot that made you imagine the stars falling from the sky all around you, their light being the one bathing you instead of the malfunctioning street lamps. 

   So goddamn close…

   Only to have him pull out again, this time completely. You were clenching against nothing, all stimulation stolen from you, and the bitterness of a ruined orgasm promptly dragged curses and complaints out of you before you could even think to stop them. 

   Eyes searched his, urgently seeking an explanation for his withdrawal only to find his glare fixated instead on that same dirty pair of stockings that had started it all. 

   Eraserhead must have taken the garment out of his pocket sometime while he fucked you, unfolding it from its scrunched up state until the crotch was visibly presented for both of you to admire, dark sheer fabric still stained from a mix of your arousal and spit. 

   When the Pro looked at you again, a beautifully dark smile topped his attractive face. He looked painfully content, the way he studied your own mortified expression reminding you of an artist studying his masterwork. 

   "Only the truly obedient ones get their cunts filled." You noticed then how his other hand was jerking him off again, erection rubbing against the nylon undergarments in a most obscene depiction. Too bad you were too frustrated to appreciate any of it. "I don't think you've… hell, you haven't earned it yet, V/N."

    You didn't even notice you were tearing up from the annoyance until it was too late. And maybe that was what finally did it, seeing you actually crying at his refusal to breed you like the slut you both knew you were, writhing in exaggerated despair as you found yourself feeling jealous of a stupid pair of tights, because not long after your pathetic reaction the man was letting out a pained groan of his own and spilling himself all over the damned garment. 

   But instead of rubbing your wailing in your face after he came down from his own delicious high, last few spurts of cum slowing down to a halt, you were surprised instead by the weapon that had been binding you for the longest time finally retreating.

   As expected, you unceremoniously collapsed to the floor, feet now unprepared for supporting your weight and your entire being wholly exhausted after enduring the roughest fuck you had ever experienced. It hurt all over, although you weren't sure whether your still present longing wasn't what pained you the most. 

   When you looked up to the Pro again, trying to find an answer to the new freedom you were experiencing, you were surprised by having the cum-dripped stockings thrown in your face. 

   And quite literally so, the still wet seed dribbling down your cheek and into your trembling lips, all before you collected enough wits to grab the offending item and pull it down with an expression of unadulterated disgust. 

   "Sorry, doll, but you were pouting so irresistibly," The Eraser user actually laughed, this time the sound coming with an untroubled merriment you did not think he was capable of.

   He actually looked worn out while he tucked himself back into his costume, accommodating the pieces of clothing until all hints from your ravenous affair disappeared. The bandages were wrapping themselves around his neck once more, looking more like an extravagant scarf than the most precise set of inmovilazing gear you had ever endured. 

   However, something about his attitude had you forgetting all about his newest slight, much too worried by a new cause of worry. 

   "Hold on..."

   Eraserhead looked down at you from his place after you raised your voice, urging you to continue as he finished getting himself presentable. The air of nonchalance around him was almost more intimidating than any of the actual threats or vulgar comments he had voiced prior. Almost.

   "Are you…" you swallowed the sudden lump in your throat, voice still raspy and hoarse after what had just transpired. "Are you really letting me go?"

   The man just raised one of his eyebrows at that, eyes crinkling for the first time and looking strangely amused. 

   "Doll, I stopped exerting my quirk on you while I was still teasing you good and proper," he declared bluntly. When his orbs glimmered again, you now felt like an imbecile as you finally realized they had completely lost the reddish hue to them. "So you know what? I thought you deserved to get an out of jail free card for behaving yourself… even if you still need to work some more on your manners."

   To call your shocked expression dumbfounded would be a disservice. 

   When his now bottomless eyes bore into yours for one final time, all you could do was stare back in dazzled shock. Your quirk was back, the Pro himself had just confirmed it, and yet you were still nailed to the spot, still anticipating his next words without even thinking of attacking him in the meantime.

   One little tumble and you were already his brightest pupil yet. He was now so glad to have waited that long, it only made the outcome all the more fulfilling. 

   "You don’t need to be so surprised, Y/N, we'll be seeing each other soon,” He kneeled in front of you for an instant, both hands reaching out to hold up your face in a gesture more resembling a lover than… well, whatever the hell you two were. So entranced you were then, that the use of your real name barely even registered. “It’s been difficult to keep you away from trouble thus far,” his acknowledgment reverberated in the alley, its meaning something else lost to you as you couldn’t help but become entranced by the new peculiar softness he addressed you with, “but getting you like this now, seeing you break so easily… fuck, I’ll mold you right back up, doll, you don’t need to worry your pretty little head about anything else.”

   And just then, for the first time you realized, the Hero’s lips were brushing against yours gently, uncharacteristically careful as he kissed you slowly. Even his hands were tender while they guided you, treating you as if you truly were a doll that could just be snapped with a mere wrong movement. As if he hadn’t just been treating you like a dirty hole for him to use and abuse just short instants ago. 

   But at least he did not seem to care about the mess that was your face at the moment, about the cum stains or the still damp trails of tears. And, for whatever reason, you found yourself returning the gesture in kind, melting into the oddly affectionate touch of a man you were still halfway sure you loathed. 

   Even after he left you, alone and a mess still toppled over on the floor with the shadow of humiliation cloaking your shoulders, your fingers couldn’t help but touch your lips with a bizarre mixture of bewilderment and horror.

   He told me I would see him soon, your mind supplied as you found yourself irreparably fixating your stare on the pair of now completely ruined tights you were still holding onto. The fact that you felt any type of excitement about the notion did not fail to mortify you. 

   God, even for villain standards you were fucked. 

But it was okay, because misery loved company and, with time at his disposal and the right amount of coaching, Shouta was sure he could teach you to properly crave his soon enough.

— — — 

And, 8k of foul smut later, if y’all read through that whole thing... drop by my ask to recieve your congratulatory gold stars! ⭐ (jk but I do appreciate hearing y’alls thoughts, it’s what keeps me halfway productive 🖤)

Last but not least, very special thanks to my best pals @reinawritesbnha​, @snappysnapo​ and @drxwsyni​ (who actually proof read this and helped me out immensely with her Big Brain Feedback. A TALENTED ANGEL). 

[obutsuwrites]

salt water (seamonster!shiggy x f!reader)

summary:  “Of course not! I like talking to you.” Inky black tentacles twitched under the curtain of waves. ‘She’d cower. Make herself as small as she needed to be; pathetic and crawling.’ Tenko grinned at the thought. She was nothing more than meat on a slab.  xxx or the time i write monster shiggy ft. ocean imagery warnings: dubcon, drowning, mind control, tentacle sexey times, vore, smut, oviposition word count: 4,468 taglist: @kaccatus @sadjealouswhore @tenaciousgothstudentauthor masterlist | tipjar | twitter | commission info

The ocean lapped against her knees in gentle waves. It was refreshing and cool; a morning breeze she wanted to submerge herself in and never leave. This was her sanctuary, her home. The ocean -- in its inky blackness -- was almost like a lover. The waves were little arms that entangled around her ankles and upper calves. Simple, harmless flirting until the woman finally took the plunge and allowed the ocean to swallow her whole. She would only tread lightly; growing up in a little sea-side shack carried the reality of her lover; silent waves could shift and evolve into violent tides. 

She squinted as the afternoon sun pierced her eyes. It sat high in the cloudless, cobalt sky. An orange giant that radiated such intense heat, despite the forecast claiming otherwise. The sun was hot against the small of her back; skin exposed and soft. The woman allowed her body to sink further into the salty brine. She shivered at the chill, but it was a welcome distraction from the humidity. As she waded further into the deep, bits of seaweed danced around her legs. Slimy and unpleasant. The woman shoved down her discomfort, it was only temporary. 

She swam apathetic laps. Her body was now accustomed to the chill. In the benign quiet, the woman’s mind began to wander. The sea allowed for more than just cooling off; peaceful and cerebral. After several soft loops, she rescinded herself to float atop the navy sea surf. The woman’s lazy gaze was glued to the sky. Her body was delicately rocked, a lullaby she wanted to submerge herself into for eternity. Sometimes, she wondered if the ocean was capable of violence. To her, it was nothing but serenity and placidity. The woman knew tales of drownings and bizarre, awful sea creatures… However, she had experienced neither within her rather mundane life. Fingers grasped at the azure water, eyes shifting to stare into the great abyss. Despite squinting, the woman couldn’t see to the bottom. She wondered if it was so deep that light simply didn’t refract. 

A crackle sounded off in the distance; the beginning of a storm, she noted. Storms were something she knew all too well. Humidity and the frigid ocean mixed together often to form thunderous, dark clouds that beat against her shack. Angry and fierce.  Eventually, the waves would pick up, as if to respond with equal force to the storm, like two lovers fighting. 

Reluctantly, she began her trek back to shore. Perhaps, she could watch the rain beat on her windows. The wind picked up; the smell of the sea working its way into her nose. Salty and fresh. However, seaweed was strong and wrapped around her ankles. This wasn’t unusual for the woman; the sea could be a difficult lover. The shore was still far away, not even within her reach. Her feet hadn’t even touched the smooth surface of rocks. Slight panic wove into her chest, the sensation tight and heavy. Kicking her legs, the woman tried to swim past the monstrous clump of plant matter. She had done this before. Seaweed wasn’t thick like this and despite her best efforts, her legs were still knotted in the dense foliage. 

The woman continued to kick her legs, the movements morphing into desperation and anxiety. This was foreign to her. The sea wasn’t a maze of fear and panic, yet here she was, arms flailing and face red. 

“H-help!” It was a futile scream; the beach today was empty and she was alone. The sea was going to swallow her and she was alone. Her mind raced with images of her barren skeleton nestled between dead plants and sunken ships. A bleak resting place. 

The sky twisted into a dark caricature of itself; bleak with clouds hiding the sun. Her terror was tangible now as sea foam bubbles seeped into her mouth. Coughs and spit erupted from the woman. Static portraits of her life played like a macabre theater. ‘No! Please no! I don’t wanna die!’ The ocean was a lover scorn; waves began to pick up. The woman feared her body would disappear beneath the current, but the seaweed kept her anchored. Safe. 

Her throat grew dry with cries that fell on deaf ears. This is how she would die; crushed beneath azure crests with an angry sky. She gave up and became complacent in her fate. Tears flowed freely down puffy, coral cheeks. 

Suddenly, she felt a long tendril wrap around her thigh. This material wasn’t seaweed, it was different. Spongey. Organic. The coil traveled down her leg and freed her lower form. 

Breath caught in her throat expanded into the salty, swampy air. “T-thank you!” 

Xx

Fire crackled and the air was balmy; the woman was determined to expunge any cold. Overcast clouds brought in a certain chill, which was only compacted by her waterlogged clothing. Her brassiere had started the slow process of becoming solid again; a fuzzy towel wrapped around jittery shoulders. She believed the suction cup lined tentacle was an octopus. 

“They can be quite helpful. Suction cups are made for -- for sticking.” Truthfully, the sentence was tangible and real for a simple reason; it felt more real. It was far too horrible to believe sea monsters had invaded her paradise. 

Xx

She awoke with a start. Electricity already burning obnoxiously in her veins. The thought was a joke at first; throw out food to the anonymous ocean critter that had rescued her. It was fair. She wanted to repay the kindness. No animal was suited for her sea excursionist. Her love was the ocean firstly; everything came in violent crashes next. Purely no room for animals. However, this being -- this animal. She needed to remind herself it was an animal. Animals can just be smart.

xx

“Like octopi. Or maybe -- maybe a squid.” ‘Octopi’ was a new word; something the woman picked up from long study sessions in the town library. The building was a crypt, dusty and decrepit. Relics from before the second war, chalky volumes of history and academics… but they held the most beautiful anatomical drawings. Precise lines formed into a web of a body on delicate paper. She wanted to rip them from their pages and exhibit the art upon her walls. It was a guilty feeling the woman had to bury. Deep.

Octopi were carnivores, which meant they ate meat. Things like fish, sharks -- even birds. On occasion, the invertebrate would drown their prey. She loathed the vulgar imagery of an octopus immersing a bird into her sea -- into the great blue only to disappear under murky depths. The mental painting seemed so far off -- so  distant from her benevolent savior. 

Xx

There was a certain click in her step, her movements jovial and careless. Her limbs were wire and ethereal. After a masochistic study session, the woman felt confident enough to pursue the octopus. The plan itself was half-baked, but she was… hopeful. Her wallet wouldn’t survive otherwise; she was too naive, trusting and allowed a butcher to sell her a suspiciously warm steak. Little flashes of the overripe meat squirming with maggots skipped through her mind. 

“I hope you like this!” 

She threw the steak into the ocean. A smile had eased onto her face. 

After several minutes a bitter call echoed from the sea. “Not this, stupid.” The voice was scratchy and harsh; like a sweater. Goosebumps developed and her lungs burned. 

‘What an unfortunate sound.’

Xx

Tenko wasn’t a beast per se. He was merely acting on instinct, but he wasn’t all bad. That idiot woman carried a delicious fragrance; her pores were just leaking it. His primal instincts demanded Tenko to clamp his beak over her clavicle. He wanted to peak at her flesh until only ribbons clung to her skeleton… but he was lonely. Tenko was lonely and needed a friend -- needed her. The woman’s cries seemed so inviting. She made pathetic little sounds that were like music to him. He decided to play along, in the hopes of revealing in her fear again. 

Women weren’t unknown to Tenko; they were little sacks of meat that nourished him. However, this wench was something entirely different. She didn’t belong within the predetermined hierarchy and Tenko absolutely fucking hated her for it. Her gestures were carefree and swaying; large hips on full display. The woman wench deserved to know her place. 

‘No one else would do it. It has to be me.’

Xx

An uncomfortable silence inched between them, the steak long gone. The realization wasn’t kind to her. This wasn’t an octopus; this was something worse. Something bad that could speak. Her skin felt slimy and dirty now. She rubbed at her ankles. Waiting for a response was becoming a real experience -- complete with the bells and whistles of anxiety. The woman’s back was on the sea. She refused to greet the monstrosity. 

“I’m… sorry. It’s been so long since I had company.” A soft reflection was in the voice; gentle regret. How could she resist? Tenko was being vulnerable now, if not a little sad. But it was necessary. Feigning humanity would lead his prey in with wide, innocent eyes. 

With a back turned, the woman took a step away from the benign waves. “You talk?” She didn’t want to ask anymore -- she didn’t want to engage the abnormality any further. 

A low whistle crept across the oceanic landscape. 

“Yes. Can we be f… friends?” 

Xx

‘Her little brain must weigh nothing,’ Tenko thought, ‘A stupid broad like her is lucky to even be alive.’ The mortal was braindead enough to put trust in him, he didn’t even have to beg. Well, he didn’t have to beg as much as he anticipated. Her vibrating fear could be felt even within the depths of his domain. Tenko found it pathetic, in all honesty, but saliva pooled at the thought of her. Naked. Afraid. All primed and ready to be devoured… ‘Such a delicate body. It’s really a shame I’ll leave blemishes.’ 

Xx

Within a week’s time, the raspy, sea-salt coated voice was the woman’s dearest friend. Her only friend. It was unnatural at first. The ocean wasn’t sentient, it couldn’t have a soul, and yet something would respond to her questions and ramblings. Always patient and kind hearted. She was curious if the voice was even a sea creature.

‘What if you’re the sea?’

Her mouth opened and closed, mimicking a question. She was curious if the voice had a name. There was certainly nothing offered up; the voice had demanded the woman never swim again -- never look into the great depths. At her sheepish request, the voice shook with rage that trembled and quaked in their words. It was the first time the woman remembered that this voice wasn’t human and maybe it didn’t -- maybe they didn’t function by the natural laws of man. 

A wave bumped against the beachfront. Her name carried off of the breeze, followed by a pause, and then, “What was your question?”

“It’s… uh, it’s stupid, really,” she replied, eyes stuck on her modest shack. Confidence was lacking in her voice; the woman now shrinking before Tenko.

The stench of her was in the water now; Tenko scrunched his face in response. Focusing on her was a part of the plan. His desire for the broad would be found eventually, but he needed to bite down any residual lust that floated around. Her smell was so pungent that it made Tenko’s stomach burn and twist. Like a heated wrench. 

He was growing bored. Impatient. Hunting was never a show like this. Hunting was hunting -- killing and eating with bits of flesh mixing with crimson. The sea looked best like that; bloody, a massacre of sin. Tenko should have eaten her a week before. She was stupid and within his grasp… but he let her go. A mistake he wouldn’t make twice. 

“Of course not! I like talking to you.” Inky black tentacles twitched under the curtain of waves. ‘She’d cower. Make herself as small as she needed to be; pathetic and crawling.’ Tenko grinned at the thought. She was nothing more than meat on a slab. 

His words of encouragement were like a shock to the system. Something was in those words, something the woman craved. Her chest tightened and words washed upon shore, “Can… can I see you?” 

It was a simple question, and yet Tenko hated it. He knew this day would come, but he prepared little in the way of comfort. His face twisted into a scowl as little angry bubbles surfaced. 

“Why? Aren’t you afraid? I can feel your tremors from here.” Tenko wanted to squash her curiosity. This game of cat and mouse shouldn’t end so abruptly. He wanted more play time with his food. Fear was a seasoning that couldn’t be wasted. A precious resource only for him. 

The ocean was quiet now, its rage worn down and tired. The woman looked out into the azure water and tried to gather her remaining courage. Tenko’s voice was unlike the kind tone she was accustomed to; his response was harsh and laced with seafoam. This wasn’t her disembodied companion. This was a creature.

“N-no,” she hesitated. Her words were anchored in her belly. She looked away from the azure abyss, fear creeping into her chest. The woman knew nothing of her companion -- only that he saved her. Surely, he couldn’t be some monstrous bundle of tentacles and eyes. He had to be more… human. 

Silence sat between them. Tenko began to impulsively curl his tentacles. He found the quiet annoying and somehow a little frightening. Perhaps his meal was reconsidering their arrangement. ‘You couldn’t,’ Tenko thought while the sun shrunk behind a cloud, ‘you’re too stupid.’ Befriending him -- feeling sorry for such a gluttonous horror was a fool’s mistake. His heart hummed at the thought of her bare and bloodied. 

The death of their conversation was awkward, if not heavy. Truthfully, the woman blamed herself for it. Feet nestled in warm sand; her mind straying back to Tenko. She knew he was beneath the oceanic canvas. Hidden away. ‘Hiding from me.’ Mournful eyes watched the sea. The day was dreary. No clouds. Sun scorned and resting. The sky held a drab palette; rainbows of blacks and grays formed into being. She wondered if the ocean was ever this ugly. 

Tenko came to his great conclusion; ‘I can eat your pea-sized brain now, can’t I? You’re probably stinking with guilt. So worried about your only friend.’ Slowly, Tenko lifted the tip of his beak into the air. Her pungent rot was like driftwood; moldy and earthy. She sickened him, but his body and mind weren’t one. Two muddled pieces that ached for both devouring her whole, and filling her disgusting guts with him. Tenko wanted to breed her -- watch his mewling little mortal stretch with his eggs.

Tenko’s stomach growled. 

“What -- what’s your name?”

His beak quickly retracted back into the salty brine. In his chest was a heart pounding against his rib cage. She was so close. She was so close. ‘Stupid and trustworthy. You’d do anything for a friend. You’d do anything… for me.’ Tenko realizes this and seizes his dinner bell, “T-Tenko. Can you come into the water?” Saliva pools at the back of his throat, “I’m lonely.”

The voice was heartbroken. His Tenko’s vocal cords were raspy, as if he gorged himself on salt water. A certain note of despair lingered in his sentence. The woman gave one last look into the vast blue before plunging her toes into saline waters.

It was as cold as the grave. Yet the coolness of it was relaxing. Hypnotizing. The ocean was calling out to her, its wet claws draped around her ankles, pleading with her to stay. She thought her ears caught a whisper from the depths; “Don’t go.” 

Everything was falling into his lap. First, she decided to trust him. Then she found comfort. Now, she belongs to him. Every chunk of flesh, every spec of marrow -- all his. He would suck her bones dry and drain her. ‘I’m going to devour you in the worst way.’

Her voice trembled with an alien sort of fear, “Tenko…” Water soaked into her dress, the cotton sticking to her shivering form. “Tenko, I’m scared.” Salt water was plugged into her nostrils. The strong scent was almost nauseating. There was a dull twinge in her heart. ‘Magical octopi,’ she chanted, ‘enchanted animal that speaks!’ Despite her conviction, salivation was unheard. The icy water rested just under her collarbone. Its gentle current nipped at her skin. She suppressed a shiver, keeping her legs kicking. The woman waited until something spongy -- familiar -- grabbed her calf. 

“You’re here.” The woman released a forgotten breath. Her chest was unraveling; the feeling of him was… comforting. This was her friend. ‘He wouldn’t hurt me.’ Her salt stained lips pitched into a grin.

Tenko envisioned violently dragging her squirming body. Little bubbles trailing behind, her last breaths. Gentle face painted into horror. He wondered if she would fight back; maybe pitifully grab at his tentacles? Tenko’s eyes widened in excitement, her legs sending waves. ‘Finally you made it, moron girl.’

His words were like a haunting chorus, “It’s okay,” her name was honey in the air, “Can… can you swim to me?” Tenko sounded cautious, ‘He’s worried about me.’ Her one friend -- her one true friend was concerned about her! The woman’s eyes were bright and alive. A smile played on her lips. Tiny butterflies felt like they were gathering in her chest. Tenko needed her. Needed his friend. The loneliness seemed to melt off while her legs worked against the sea, water splashing in every direction. Her body was numb; skin nothing more than drenched. She noted her dress was slowing her down. Tenko was leagues away -- almost impossible. Yet she persisted. 

His tentacle was the thread guiding her home -- to him. The rubbery flesh was a trail behind her. It was a reminder that Tenko was close, somehow obscured under blankets of briny water. Looking into the blue void made her stomach tangle together in a mess of anxiety. There was an unknown factor -- a certain fear to the ocean now.

Tenko held a delicate grip. ‘I can’t squeeze you to death just yet.’ He hoped the woman’s death rattles were soft, nothing like a dying creature. Tenko knew she would struggle and seafoam would kick into her lungs, but a part of him wanted her to coo at him. Make little creamy pleas. Stuck in his mirth, Tenko began to pull. The sensation was lost on his meal; her mind too preoccupied with determination. Her feet no longer tapped against slimy seaweed. Instead, the abyss greeted her. Negative space gathered. Nothing to keep the woman afloat except for her own flailing limbs.

A rather thrashing limb caught Tenko in the beak. Instinct took over as he yanked the woman. Aggressive and without tolerance. His beak was strong enough for her kick, but the accidental assault felt purposeful. Her lungs filled only once; to scream. Blue fluttered into her line of sight while bubbles erupted into view. Water rushed into her lungs. She managed a cough, salt in her nose. 

The woman fought against the pull. Waterlogged fingers slipping. She clawed at the tentacle as her expression froze in open-mouthed terror. Tenko wished he could see it, but the vibrations of her panicking body would have to do. He wanted to eat her panic. Swallow her whole and stare into the bloody waters she’d create. 

“St-stop… struggling so d-damn much,” forming a sentence was hard. This woman -- this squishy little mortal -- continued to fight. Tenko wished she would claw at scratch at him, fear added a certain spice to his meals, but her insensent kicking must stop.

Tenko releases the woman, her little head shooting up and bobbling amongst the current. Greedy lungs sucked in sour sea air. The saline burned down her throat, but she was relieved. ‘I was going to die. Tenko… Tenko wanted to kill me!’ The realization hits like a sandbag. She has to leave now. This creature, no, this monster was nothing but death. 

Before she can will her tired body, a melody drifts into her mind.

“Please don’t go.” He sounded so mournful. Grief laced into every word. 

She looks into the great blue before responding, “I have to.” Tears brim her eyes, making the world glassy. This was her only friend and yet he wanted to harm her. There was something dangerous to this creature. 

Tenko grew impatient. She should simply accept him as he is. This doesn’t need to be unnecessarily difficult… but she was making it difficult. Couldn’t this broad see Tenko only wanted to fill her half eaten, frail body with eggs? It’s a compliment, an implied attraction, and she just had to ruin it. Her little brain cannot even begin to comprehend the damage she’s done. 

With great effort, Tenko continued his heartbreaking colloquy, “I’m sorry. I… I didn’t m-mean it.” It’s burdensome to speak such lies, even more of a bother to project them into such an idiot. However, Tenko knew this woman had kindness tucked into her heart. She had no other choice but to forgive. “You want to see me, don’t you? The curiosity must be suffocating.”

She did… She had wondered what Tenko looked like; her mind’s eye wasn’t content with a mermaid. The woman had to see him in all of his glory. His voice was mesmerizing, like sharp ocean currents beating against rock. Her heart slowed to an acceptable pace. The organ no longer hammered into her. Her pulse wasn’t in her ears and the only thing in her stomach was an airy bit of hope. ‘Tenko probably hasn’t had any visitors before. I’m -- I’m his first.’ There was a strange comfort in being Tenko’s only friend. 

Something hard bumped against her leg. “Tenko?” She asked, voice small and soft. A vortex of salt water swirled underneath her as a head peaked from beneath a crest of waves. Tenko wasn’t quite as she imagined; her friend resembled a kraken more than a man. His beak was half-way submerged, stringy white hair clung to his worn face. He wore a gentle expression. Her eyes softened at his humanity. Tenko was so close she could smell him. The sharp scent of brine and seaweed permeated the air. A certain warmth settled into her belly. 

“Can I… touch you?” 

The woman nodded. His tentacle -- slimy now -- interlocked around her arm. The appendage was spongy and its suction cups held onto her with care. She melted into his touch while Tenko guided her into his bare chest. She looked up at him, big doe eyes that held nothing but admiration for the monster. ‘A pity,’ Tenko thought, ‘You didn’t really struggle, did you? You want to be full of my eggs.’ Tenko asserted this belief as another tentacle found the small of her back. Another snaked up her waist and landed on a clothed breast. She shivered in his embrace, the frigid water now soaked into her bones.

Ancient words danced in her mind, “Give yourself to me.” No emotion was behind her eyes, no hint of a human. Instead she steeled herself -- perfect and waiting for Tenko. She was a gift for him. Roughly, his tentacles roamed her body. His suction cups latched and unlatched onto bits of sodden flesh. She was mushy and delicate, like algae. Tenko could break apart her body, bone by bone, until she was dust stuck in his suction cups. A hushed mewl fell from her lips once Tenko brushed against a sensitive nipple. Her face was flushed and glistening. There was a crinkle in her eyes; a foreign ecstasy. The woman’s body hadn’t experienced such a fiery, electric sensation before.

“Don’t…” She buries her face in his chest, “don’t stop, Tenko.” It was too mortifying to allow such a divine creature see her like this. Body peppered with pink and chest heaving against him. She leaned into his touch. He kneaded her skin, spongy suction cups tweaking her nubs. Tenko could feel himself begin to swell, tentacles fat and aching. He looked down at her, drool trailing down his beak. 

An eager tentacle harshly grabbed her drenched garment and quickly discarded it to the sea. The woman’s body instinctively shivered, nerves still tender. “Stay still,” Tenko commanded as a tentacle slithered down her stomach, stopping at her waistband. 

“Please.” Her eyes are like saucers, innocent and begging. Tenko indulged and a tentacle stroked her wet cunt. The sloppy noise mixed with her insensent moans. It was a chorus of vulgarity. Tenko, however, made no sound. His vocal chords vibrated with animalistic grunts as he explored her body. Another obscene groan finally encouraged the beast; a single tentacle slipped between her thighs. 

Her pudgy walls gripped his swollen tentacle like a vice. “S-slow down, Tenko.” The woman felt violated. Tenko was going too fast, not allowing for rest. His tentacle plunged into her, prodding her womb. “Stop! It hurts!” The woman grit her teeth while trying to stifle a cry. 

“Quit whining,” Tenko sneered, sharp beak biting down on her collarbone. Iron flooded Tenko’s mouth and a whine played on his lips. She was sweeter than anything -- anyone he had tasted before. Her tainted scent was nothing compared to the meat before him. A piercing yelp sounded from the woman. The shrillness of it only spurred Tenko; his beak gnawing at her open wound. 

An orgy of violence and bliss swirled in her mind, twisting into one. Divinity itself was biting into her and marking her as his own. His fat tentacle stretched her to an almost inhuman degree; her face sweaty and mouth open. Drool pooled into her wound and mixed with Tenko’s spit. She wanted to reach up and touch it, feel the feral brand he left. She adjusted to his size, an unfamiliar hotness gathering between her legs. 

“F-faster, please.” 

Another ethereal voice called to her, carried from the breeze, “You want me to fill you with eggs, don’t you? Say it.”

Dribble spat from her mouth, “Tenko, I want -- please make me fat with your eggs! Breed me!” Painfully, Tenko hammered into her doused cunt, pushing against her cervix, the spongy flesh almost like a pillow. Welcoming. Warming. Wanting him. Her pussy fit perfectly around his engorged tentacle, milking him for every bit of slimy pre-cum. 

“Take my eggs, broad,” Tenko growls as a miry egg sloshes into her womb. 

A cry permeates the air. “Too big, Tenko. Too big,” the woman heaves. Her mind swimming with one simple phrase; “You’ll be such a good moma.”

[lupinsx]

What You Do to Me

masterlist

Pairing: Draco Malfoy x Slytherin!Reader

Summary: Ever since the beginning of your fifth year, Draco became unpleasant towards you, and you’re determined to find out why.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: Kissing, but that’s about it.

a/n — Hello, this is my first writing prompt on here. Feel free to request a one-shot in my inbox and I’ll try to get back to you as soon as possible!

——————————

"And then she had the audacity to run away! Can you believe her?"

A chorus of exaggerated gasps and responses echoed in the Slytherin common room. You gave a light chuckle at the nature of your friends as you took a sip from the bottle of butterbeer laying around before briefly glancing up at the clock.

Blaise, Pansy, Theo, Daphne, Draco, and you laid sprawled across the couches and floor of the common room. It was a usual thing for you guys to hang out there before curfew whenever an escape from studies was collectively needed. Given the intensity of a fifth year's workload, it was nearly every other day when you guys would gather together with some drinks for a couple hours. You weren't complaining, though — this is much rather preferred than working on Snape's essays.

You suddenly put down your bottle and stood up hazily while brushing down your skirt. Five pair of eyes instantaneously turned towards your way as you shot them an apologetic smile. "Sorry, but I promised my brother I'd meet up with him and his friends in the library."

It wasn't uncommon for you to receive disapproving looks whenever your brother and his Gryffindor friends were brought up. You chose to ignore it, as they never verbally expressed their dislike towards them. Until now, when Draco Malfoy decided he suddenly had something to say.

“Those Gryffindors? You could do so much better," he remarked without sparing you a glance. You scoffed at his immaturity and crossed your arms against your chest.

"I don't recall asking for your opinion, Malfoy," You said, clenching your jaw. "Besides, they make better company than you do." He smirked to himself before turning his head slightly to meet your gaze. There was a moment of hesitation before his response, in which he simply scanned your face before staring into your eyes again.

With an infuriating grin plastered on his face, he said, "Please, we know the real reason is that you want to snog Potter. Your attempts are pathetic, anyone can see that."

Your face heated up with rage and embarrassment — How dare he imply that? "Go to hell, Malfoy," you muttered just loud enough to be heard before storming out of the portrait hole.

He was never this rude throughout your time at Hogwarts. You two were the least closest within the group, as you'd normally never speak to him unless it was alongside the others, but he still remained civil with you. It was only the beginning of the school year when this had changed.

He began giving you snide comments about your closeness with the Golden Trio and you being a Weasley. Most people didn't mind that fact, as you were still a Slytherin despite all of your siblings being otherwise, but Draco never failed to insult you about it somehow during any given circumstance.

You attempted to brush your thoughts of him away once you approached the library. However, the question of why he was being like this towards you remained in your head until the end up the night, making you fall asleep with a clouded head and a heavy chest.

~~~

"Settle down, class, unless you intend on receiving a string of detentions," Professor Snape said languidly, silencing the room of Gryffindors and Slytherins. You sat next to Harry, with your brother Ron seated with Hermione behind you two. "Today, we will be brewing a particularly difficult potion in groups of two. Open up your textbook to page 394 as I put you all into pairs."

Harry gave a slight groan next to you upon hearing Professor Snape. You squeezed his hand reassuringly and offered an encouraging grin. You two would often pair up with each other, given how you have a greater talent for Potions than he does. A partner willing to lead most of it is often hard to come across when the pairs are pre-picked, to Harry's dismay.

Professor Snape began listing pairs of his piece of parchment, causing fear to erupt in the stomach's of most. You didn't pay much attention to the names being said as you pulled out your textbook. It was only until the last pairing when you hear your name being mentioned that you finally looked up.

"Y/N Weasley and Draco Malfoy."

You winced at the mention of your partner for the day. Turning your head tentatively, you glanced at Draco. He held an empty expression, void of any emotions indicating how he felt about the pairing. Upon noticing your gaze, he stood up silently to approach your desk.

"Let me know if he is being a dick to you," Harry said softly, squeezing your shoulder before leaving his seat. You notice the glares Draco gave to Harry's departing figure and rolled your eyes, gesturing him to sit down.

"Don't miss your boyfriend too much," Draco said with a scowl on his face. You raised your eyebrows in disbelief. He never quits, does he?

"I'll get the ingredients, you set up the cauldron," You muttered, not wasting any time to get up and briefly depart with him. You quietly groaned in anger once out of his earshot. Out of the twenty-something students in the class, you, unfortunately, had the luck of being with him.

While muttering some less than appropriate words to describe the platinum haired boy, you grabbed the ingredients listed in your textbook. Unicorn hair, you thought to yourself as you try to locate it along the shelves. Upon seeing it in the uppermost compartment, you sighed before placing your materials down and reaching for it.

Come down already! you thought to yourself as you stood on tiptoe with your arms extended. Still, you barely managed to brush your fingers on the bottom of the container. As you contemplated giving up and simply calling someone else to grab it, you felt a presence appear behind you.

Dangerously close behind you.

You could feel their breath tickle the lobe of your ear as they reached for the ingredient with no hassle. Their hand seemed to delicately brush over your outstretched arm on its way down, making shivers appear instantaneously.

You lowered your heel and dropped your arm by your side. Your positions lingered for a brief moment before they took a step back and you turned around. That's when your eyes met a pair of ash-gray ones boring into your own.

For a moment, the room was still, or it at least appeared to be. Nothing else was registered in your brain besides those foggy eyes in front of you. You wanted to take a picture, to capture the beautiful sight, but you knew regardless it would be implanted in your brain for life.

Suddenly, Draco diverted his eyes with a slight cough saying, "You looked like you were struggling." He then strode across the room to return to your desk, looking solely at the work in front of him. As you gathered your materials swiftly and returned to your desk as well, you failed to notice the tinge of pink appearing on his cheeks, similar to your own.

The rest of the class was spent in silence, avoiding his occasional glance and trying to ignore the harsh beating of your heart.

~~~

It was nearly a week after the Potion's incident, and you haven't come across Draco since. To be fair, you were also doing your fair share of avoiding — coming to breakfast and dinner earlier than usual and leaving when the crowd came, as well as hanging out with the Gryffindors more often than the Slytherins. But Draco hasn't been attending the get-togethers in the common room before curfew. It was almost as if he dropped off the face of the Earth.

As you turn the corner in an empty corridor with no clear direction in mind, a tall figure colliding with yours abruptly broke your trance. You fell on your butt and grimaced. Why must this happen to me, you thought in mild pain. Your eyes were too squinted to notice the hand offered in front of you.

Suddenly, the person grabbed your forearm and lifted you up onto your feet. You stumbled for a moment, gripping onto their shoulder for balance, before your eyes fell on the face of the stranger.

Fate was being real funny today.

Draco stood in front of you, making you hyper aware of lack of space between you two. You immediately retracted your hand from his shoulder, but his grip lingered on your arm for a moment before he took it off. Then, he simply scowled at you and rolled his eyes before walking away.

"Watch where you're going next time, Weasley."

You let out a dry chuckle, amazed by his duality. One minute, he'll be extremely close, staring into yours eyes softly. The next, he'll be acting like an absolute git, taking any chance to insult you.

Before he managed to get far, you grabbed the end of his tie and pulled him back so he was at eye level with you. You glared at him for a moment before speaking slowly, "What is your problem with me?"

Draco gulped tentatively, meeting your harsh stare with his striking silver eyes. After a moment of him simply taking in the appearance of your eyes, he opened his mouth to speak. "It's what you're doing to me."

You paused, your grip loosening on his tie as your expression morphed into one of confusion. "What am I doing to you?" you asked in a soft whisper. You didn't know how to react to his statement — you generally steered clear of him unless he spoke to you first. What could you have possibly done to make him hate you?

Draco pulled his tie out of your hands and stood up to his full height. He then took slow strides towards you, making you backup to maintain some space apart. Eventually, your back had hit a wall, and there was no avoiding his strong gaze when there was merely centimeters between you two. He raised his arm to the spot of the wall next to your head, partially trapping you in this position.

"You wanna know what you're doing to me?" He tilted his head very slightly, searching your face for any sign of emotion. "You're running through my head every minute of every day. You're making my heart beat rapidly and my face red at the mere sight of you. You- you're making me feel things I've never felt for someone before."

There was a slight pause in his speech when he simply gazed into your eyes, observing your reaction. Your lips parted slightly in shock, your eyes widened, your cheeks painted with crimson. He took that as an opportunity to continue, in a breathy whisper, "That's what you're doing to me."

Your outer expression displayed merely surprise, but you were jumping in glee on the inside. You have always liked Draco since the second year. You admired his confidence and pride, his sheer ambition, and admittedly, his handsome appearance. Upon hearing the revelation, it's natural that you'd feel quite joyous.

Still, you had to remind yourself of his behaviour during the past two months. Clearing your throat in an attempt to briefly mask your feelings, you said in a sarcastic tone, "That definitely excuses how you've been treating me this year."

Draco's face suddenly turned pale as his eyebrows furrowed in regret. He looked down, ashamed of himself, and dropped the arm trapping you to his side. He mumbled an apology under his breath and stepped back sadly.

Rolling your eyes playfully, you threw your arms around his neck and brought him closer to you once again. "Don't worry, I forgive you," you said, slamming your lips onto his before he could respond. His eyes widened as he stood still for a moment, but he quickly melted into your lips and brought his arms around your waist shortly after.

The kiss started off passionate, filled with the raw, unadulterated desire built up inside them over the years. He gripped your waist as if you would flee when he let go, and he kept bringing you impossibly closer to him. However, it gradually developed into a sweeter, more slower kiss as it went on. You melted into his arms, and neither wanted the moment to end.

After what felt like a century of having your lips connected, you finally pulled away, heaving a euphoric sigh. His breathing was accelerated, and your lips were red and swollen. A grin slowly stretched across his face, and a laugh other than the sarcastic ones you were used to hearing was released. An airy, untroubled one, which sounds absolutely magnificent.

The moment was suddenly disturbed by a loud bang. You and Draco abruptly pulled apart, looking at the surprise visitors. At the end of the hall, Ron, Harry, and Hermione stood shocked, and a textbook laid on the floor in front of Ron's open arms.

"You and Draco are d-dating?" said your brother with a horrified grimace painting his face.

Draco faced you with a slight smile. Grabbing your hand and giving it an affectionate squeeze, he prompted, "Only if you'd like to."

"Of course. What more would I want?" 

——————————

a/n — Horrifyingly enough, I almost deleted it. Thankfully I put it in a google doc. Anyways, reminder that requests are open! Thank you for reading :)

[finalcreacher]

From The Earth to The Morgue - Chapter 1

A/N- Basically...this is a Klaus x Artist! Reader...and y’all are both recovering addicts? Well, not so much Klaus. Not yet, at least.

T/W- I don’t think they are any major warnings this chapter? The rest of the series will have some very heavy topics though.

Oh. and gender-neutral reader! :D

Word Count: 1,825

They fiddle the pen back and forth between their fingers, trying to stop themselves from moving it too quickly- they had dropped it too many times to count, and they think their fellow meeting members(all seated in their banged-up, metal folding chairs) were getting tired of them asking for the pen beneath their seat. It was better for everyone than the tapping though, or the clicking. Everyone except them, the noise and the motion of their hands helped them get through the meetings. Drawing was better than all other options though, it's why they had the pen, and the notebook. Doodling the other meeting members helped keep them focused, but not enough to get lost in the meeting and the message- just enough to listen.

Roaming the room with their eyes, they spot a tall, scrawny man, who appeared new to this particular group spot. He had haunted dark brown eyes, and deep circles underneath them from lack of sleep. He fidgets with his hands and pulls against the edges of his coat, he looks around nervously- on edge. They knew the feeling, but what seemed odd, was how he kept looking back to the same empty spot beside him. Staring, and whispering, and they'd be more worried if this wasn't their second year in Narcotics Anonymous.

Many strange and unsettling things occurred, and they were sure they might have had an occasion or two similar to this in the past. Maybe not a talk to the air type- but definitely a “I've taken too much and I think I can see the walls moving”, type. They didn't much enjoy talking about that, though. However, the man seems okay with this, and very comfortable talking. Not freaked and scared. Almost as if there really was someone else there- someone familiar.

They shake it off, noticing his dark fashion again, ripped along the ends, threads pulled loose. It seems far too many years old- but not beyond repair. A little TLC would do it wonders. They chuckle at the thought of helping him. Mending the jacket in their room, having him splayed across the mattress, bare arms and chest taunting them. It made them shiver.

There was an aura around the man that they hadn't felt before. Part of them wondered if there was a ghost next to him- which was silly, the average person couldn't tell those kinds of things. Then again, compared to most, Y/n wasn’t a very average person. Though they’d like to think they are. 

Eccentric was boring, and normal was good.

They glance around the room once more, but finally settle on the man again. Taking in every feature, how his hair parted, and twisted in far too many directions, and how it looked all shaggy. They start with a quick sketch, and then a simple doodle of his eyes- sad and tired. They supposed everyone's eyes looked a little sad and tired, as did their own, but his were worse. There was something far more horrifying behind them.

Then, they begin to draw a soft, nearly invisible figure, standing behind the first full body sketch. They rub their fingers against it, successfully smudging it. It feels ominous.

A feeling of coldness washes over them, making their arm hairs stand on end. They don't pay much mind to it- only making a small note of it in their head. They look back up from the paper, and notice the aura is gone from the man. Even the dead get bored sometimes.

When they look down, the paper creases like it would if touched too harshly. They had been so careful though, unless- they flash a smile to the air behind them, hoping the spirit would get the message. The cold leaves again, and the goosebumps that appeared on their arms, began to settle. They spend the rest of the meeting doodling- perking up again as they see everyone begin to leave.

They leave they're bag seated on the chair, and run up to the man before he can successfully slip out of the room.

"Hey!" He doesn't seem to notice, and continues. "Hey, you're Klaus, right?"

He stops in his tracks, and gives an odd look over his shoulder to them. Spinning on his heels to face the stranger.

"Oh- indeed I am, darling. Who's asking?" He grins.

"I wanted to give you this," Y/n brings up their notebook, flipping to the right page, and gently tears it from the binding. They fold it down into a small square. "Here, I think your companion will appreciate it. It's Y/n, by the way."

He looks wide eyed at them, "My companion?"

They simply smile. "I'll see you next meeting, okay?"

He blinks at them, but they're off to retrieve their bag and already walking out the door before he can say anything.

Klaus was overjoyed as he got back to the apartment he was staying at- the place of some guy he was hooking up with- pulling the slip of paper from his pocket. Smoothing out the creases as he delicately laid it on his lap.

He couldn't help to feel that Y/n drew him beautiful. He was all skin and bones, ribs poking through his skin, face hollowed. But the way his lips pursed on the page, and his eyelids were gracefully shut, lashes playfully falling with them. The hands seemed to softly play with a string on his overcoat. He'd never looked like that, he was always too many meals overdue and shaky.

He runs a finger along the piece, making sure to avoid ruining it. Ben, who had been leaning over Klaus' shoulder, finally murmurs against his ear.

"What?"

Ben scoffs, but gives him a warm smile anyways. "I said, they're pretty good."

"Yeah."

"Are you going to the next meeting?"

"Why would- oh, for Y/n? They are pretty cute," he teases.

Ben shakes his head, frowning. "For yourself. Putting some effort into this would help you, you know."

"God, I'm offended, Ben."

"Also, for Y/n, though,” Ben admits. “I think they saw me."

"No shit," he says, wide-eyed and happy. 

"I think they smiled at me," Ben's smile is brighter than Klaus had seen it for months, maybe even years. The thought sent a painful twinge through his body.

Klaus hadn't been to very many consecutive meetings. He'd been to so many types of meetings, numerous times, but they never quite stuck. He never really tried. He supposes he wasn't even trying now- he was just curious. This stranger saw Ben- or, at the very least, knew Ben was there. He had never seen Ben look so genuinely happy for something in the last eleven years than now. His eyes seemingly glowed at the prospects of being noticed.

He didn't want to get Ben's Hope's up, though. He hadn't been paying attention to the meeting too closely, nor had he seen you or your supposed interactions with his brother. He tried to get Ben to understand that you were probably crazy or just seeing things from the drugs. I mean, this is for addicts, Ben.

Ben seemed mostly bothered- annoyed- by him, than anything else. Insisting that the two of them head back for the next meeting. Klaus whined and groaned, and tried to protest- but he couldn't say no, not to Ben. At least, not for this. He'd gone against Ben's wishes countless times before.

He gets there early that day. Enough so that most people had filtered in, but the last minute ones still had a chance to get in. He'd thought Y/n would be early, but frowned at the sea of unfamiliarity. He takes one of the empty seats in the circle, absentmindedly placing one hand on the seat next to him, the other pulling at his jacket. His fingers hurt as they desperately pinch together, attempting to clutch the material between each other.

Y/n finds themself seated next to Klaus, wordlessly laying a hand over his, feeling him slowly stop the painful fidgeting. He doesn't hold back, as they cup they're hand around his- but he does let out a content and comfortable sigh. He's about to mention it, when they let go, taking out the notebook from yesterday- the meeting supervisor begins talking. 

He finds himself zoning out for most of the meeting. The light sounds of your pen hitting your paper, and the tapping of feet, and droning voices filter through his head. 

Ben doesn’t bother him much, a few words here and there, but mostly Ben found himself hovering over Y/n’s shoulder. Watching them make every gentle line, and rounded dot- making even the harshest of members appear softer, and human. (Not that they weren’t, but some members appeared so sickly or dressed too crazy, that their features began to morph into something else entirely). He admired the work in silent joy, smiling back whenever they would look towards him- though he still wasn’t certain if they could see him or not.

It’s a comment or two from another member, digging up moments from their past, when the meeting nears its end and Klaus’ anxiety hits him with full force. He was most often able to mask his feelings and play it off- but he was here, with them. He couldn’t risk making a scene. He’s all bouncy legs and a shivering body as he tries getting his mind off the meeting- off the years of his childhood he did not want to remember.

Klaus starts pinching his fingers again, till they’re white and he can feel his bones ache. Y/n doesn’t even look over, as they clumsily move their hand to stop him, this time keeping it on top long after he had stopped. They continue drawing with the other, scratching down quick lines- Klaus recognizes the figure as the supervisor. Clean-shaven face, hair dark and combed back professionally. It doesn’t have a background, maybe a line or two- and it doesn’t sport another character like Klaus’ portrait did. And, as he looks closer, it doesn’t radiate the same feeling, either. Whether that was how they felt towards the supervisor, or just today, was unbeknownst to him. What he knew though was that his was soft and kind, and this one felt dark and heavy. 

He tries asking about it, and they merely respond by attempting to turn his attention back to the meeting. Anywhere that wasn’t their paper. Klaus leaves a mental note to ask about it again later, thinking maybe they would react differently if the two of them weren’t in the middle of something. He’s afraid it will haunt him if he doesn’t. All your actions so far seem to do that to him. Puzzle him, make it hard to think about anything else- keep him up as he tries to fall asleep at night. They’re mysterious, and he wants to know more.

He likes that.

[chaoswillfallrpg]

JAE MULCIBER is THIRTY-TWO YEARS OLD and a DEFENSE BARRISTER in THE DEPARTMENT OF MAGICAL LAW ENFORCEMENT at THE MINISTRY OF MAGIC. He looks remarkably like KIM WOO BIN and considers himself aligned with THE DEATH EATERS. He is currently TAKEN.

→ OVERVIEW:

TW: death, murder, abuse, violence

Calculated and brash, Jae Mulciber is the taste of hundred galleons worth of champagne, a catalyst of destruction and the cold edge of an executioner’s blade; decisive and callous determining the fate of victims with one fateful blow. The second born to KYUNG MULCIBER and YEONG YANG, Jae glowed in his parents' affection as they primped him to raise the Mulciber name into defying glory. Hidden in the secluded mountains of The Lake District, enchanted barriers secluded the family from unwelcome prying eyes. Gothic and grand, the manor was envied amongst Pure-Blood elite for it’s grandeur. Gargoyles kept a luring protective gaze on the prinimator, while towering family portraits adorned embossed walls cast in crystal chandeliers. Resilient, powerful and dynamic with exuberant wealth enough for generations to come; the Muclibers possessed a deep rooted sense of entitlement. Basking in status, the name Mulciber was a feared household name for it’s powerful ties to darkness. Souls matching demons, they snarled at Half-Bloods and Mudblood’s alike, batting them into anguish, with a superior god complex. Molded into assassins of torment by the guiding hand of the devil himself; purist rhetoric was laced in their lives from dusk till dawn. Breeding internal misery, Jae and his older sister ERIS were taught not what beauty magic held but rather what power. Snarled voiced echoed like piercing sirens around the garden’s grounds, poisoning any innocence the children held into pure vile vulgarity. A villainous snarl to accompany his bite, Kyung’s teachings were relentless and traitorous;  enough to make even the Thestral’s kept on their ground quiver. 

Concealing their illegal devastation with unregistered Gregorovitch wands, they harnessed darkness while slipping through the grasps of the law. The first born, Eris became the personification of the goddess of chaos; striking strife with the Cruciatus curse. Jae however took akin to the killing curse; Avarda Kadavra. Harsh, blunt, direct, it’s simplicity and dictating hand grew like a disease in Jae’s hand; graving it’s power. United in misery, the troublesome duo relentlessly tormenting house elves in a plight of their own self-satisfaction. Reveling in screams, elves who disobeyed fell victim to Eris, only once she’d had her fun did Jae put them out of their misery with one swish flick. Cast as the spawn of Satan, they revealed in the misery they inflicted and danced in the praise their parents bestowned who beamed with pride from the shadows at the little demons they’d created. Running on gasoline, as years passed, connections faded. Once thriving in destruction throwing hexes at one another with childish glee, glowering glances turned their relationship sour as Eris grew green with envy watching Jae became his father’s right hand. Though praise nor glory was fated in the cards for the Muclibers as heartbreak shattered a distorted reality. LARKIN MULCIBER, a mistake and tarnish on the family legacy brewed devastation. Causing their mother’s last breath with his first, YEONG passed leaving piercing darkness behind. Lace as black as night hid silent tears of fury burning into Eris’ cheeks, while the stench of alcohol on their father’s breath bit as he dismissed elves hushing Larkin’s wails of tears with bitter hatred. While Eris grew spiteful, Jae grew dependable and divisive; possessing an anger so vile it could burn cities to the ground.

While he left the Mulciber name growing in the pits of hell, Durmstrung was Jae’s doing. Persistent in his acts of cruelty, his wit and suave became his hallmark. Thriving, he followed in his sister's legacy as notoriously volatile. His charm lured in the unsuspecting; leaving them vulnerable at his diposble. Few families held the reputation of the Mucliber’s. A name that echoed for centuries, their family legacy was unmatched. Each member as vile as the next, Jae dominated the school with a devilish grin, slicked back hair and a charmed charisma that left even the strongest of witches falling at his feet. Arrogant in his pride, he rose like a phoenix from his mother’s ashes. Dominating and unforgiving, his popularity left him ruling the school with a gang as equally notorious for their power and cruelty. Enthralled by his father’s guiding words to gather strong connections to benefit them when THE DARK LORD’S world came to fruition, Jae entrusted only those equally despicable to his side. NYX FALKOV was a witch with powerful wandless magic rivaling even his own as she poisoned minds and played fiddle to no man, while OSIRIS NOTT held a somber disposition but whose combat skills could leave any quivering at his feet. Rioting the night they reigned like hell furies, encouraged by classmates and tutors alike for their sickafance and talent for the dark arts. Graduating with shining medals of honour to his name, Jae’s intellect and ambition for glory reigned. Hungry for power, he strode in his father’s footsteps; knowing his position could claim him leverage and a dominating hand in any room. 

Filled with aristocratic politicians who aimed to benefit themselves, though Jae held little interest in the justice of Wizengamot, he saw value in it’s disgrace. Week after week he watched the meek, vulnerable and pathetic plead their innocence despite their guilt. Their insolence was intolerable to him; but presented the perfect opportunity. Cunning as the devil and twice as pretty, Jae turned his hand to Law and became a defence barrister with hopes to become of use in The Dark Lord’s schemes. Safeguarding those with less than savoury natures, Jae’s was untouchable as he pleaded cases for those with horror’s hidden in their eyes. Slick defenses became his hall card as he unshackled the guilty and spared them from the likes of Azkaban and The Dementors kiss. Owl’s piled high from villainous figures pleading for their freedom were hand chosen by him for whom he deemed useful in his game of chess. One witch that found his behavior despicable was NAMARI NGUYEN, an auror with bold gumption; if Jae was the executioner, Namari was the liberator. Openly scorning him for endangering civilians by setting the guilty free, criminals passed through his doors captured by her only to be proven innocent. Taking entertainment in her displeasure, as their heated rivalry grew, Jae found himself only wanting to toy with her more. Love, they say, toys a fine parallel line to hatred. Their passionate disagreements turned to scandalous moments hidden behind locked doors with scattered papers. Opposites, while their values often classed; their blood and families aligned. Unionship encouraged by both sides, their love was in spite of odds; united in marriage after nearly seven years since they first quarreled.

Jae’s motives, however, were more complex. The hand of one of the most trusted Auror’s was a wealthy commodity and perfect mask of corruption; for who would suspect the husband of a senior officer? Destroying evidence to hide atrocities accumulating from the rising power of the Death Eater’s, his glory was finally coming to fruition. Though when villains crumble, it’s always that much more crippling. Sipping a fire whiskey on rocks in a heated political debate between his father and his new companion - ARA YI-; laughed at the state of the Ministry under the hands of MILLICENT. Though when Kyung went to check on his girlfriend after she’d excused herself, frantic alarmed shouts disrupted the silence. Alerted to join his father, Jae’s eyes befell a large serpent luring in the shadows of the room. Swift brash action, a twisted hand and a hissed ‘Avada Kedavra’ left the creature cold. Only, to their horror, as the scaly beast morphed into a petite woman did they realise it wasn’t a creature at all, but Ara; a Maledictus unknown to them. But before Kyung and Jae could utter a word, a scream of horror erupted from Namari who’d just returned home. Horrified, her gaze once loving darked before his eyes. With panicked words of informing the ministry, she fled for her wand. Barely a whisper of a hair from her grasp, before ‘Avada Kedavra’ cut through the air like a guillotine, harsh, brutish and soul destroying; leaving her cold as stone on the marble floor. A shiver in the air, Jae looked upon his wife’s corpse with tight sadness; death having left his lips from selfish fear of his own fate before he’d even gabbled the consequences. The soul of his love destroyed in a plight to save his own; unaware that he too would die with her.

Masquerading murders, Sectumsempra replicated the attack of the late BOOKER, leading blame to ‘infamous killer’ SILAS CRUMP. Assured by Kygung that Jae’s mistakes would aid in The Dark Lord’s biddings. And if betrayed, they’d all go burning into hell and drag RABASTAN and BELLATRIX down with them for their own crimes. Playing the mournful widow, an ominous glance reflected in a mirror before mysteriously vanishing and glass shattering without touch, have left him paranoid. Strange events keep happening without explanation, leaving him feeling haunted in guilt as he catches a reflection of a face he swears is his late wife. Fearing he’s losing his sanity, drowned sorrows eases his paranoia until the lights flicker in an ominous glow. An unnerving sight that isn’t helped with Namari’s once partner in crime NOBREGAS THORNE who is becoming overly interested in the growing investigation. Irritated as Thorne sniffs around, Jae has enlisted the help of close friend EDRICK SELWYN to uncover Nobregas’ skeleton’s in hopes to blackmail him into silence. However, discovering a stolen love affair between Thorne and Namari, Jae has grown furious with vengeful spite. Storm raging in his chest, for a man once so assertive, he’s become unstable in his own judgement. Rationality shattered, he has cleared the name of criminal ESADOWA ARROW and in exchange for his early release from Azkaban, has tasked him to deter Thorne by any means necessary. Swearing to Morgana the Mulciber name will burn glorious as he arises in the new world as the rightful air to his legacy. But what good is a legacy, if you’re unable to bask in all of its power come dawn?

→ ADDITIONAL INFORMATION:

Blood Status → Pure-Blood

Pronouns → He/Him

Identification → Cis-Male

Sexuality  → Up To Player

Relationship Status → Widowed 

Previous Education → Dumstrung Institute of Magic

Family → Kyung Mulciber (father), Yeong Mucliber (mother), Eris Mulciber (sister), Larkin Mulciber (brother), Jieun Malciber (Aunt) 

Connections  → Namari Nguyen (deceased wife/potential love interest/victim), Nyx Falkov (close friend), Osiris Nott (best friend), Edrick Selwyn (best friend), Castor Wilkes (close friend), Evan Rosier (close friend), Bellatrix Black (friend), Ara Yi (victim), Nobregas Thorne (adversary/person of interest), Esadowa Arrow (employee) 

Future Information → N/A

JAE MULCIBER IS A LEVEL 8 WIZARD.

[asktheghosthost]

Ghost Host/ Constance

For the first time in his afterlife, Beauregard didn’t knock before entering the attic. Actually, “entering” is too kind a word. He slammed the door open. Did he feel ashamed about it for a second? Yes, but then the righteous anger he felt came rushing back.

“Ms. Hatchaway!” he bellowed. When she didn’t instantly appear, he prowled through the attic, good eye scanning every shadow and corner. There were too many stacks and piles of junk for her to hide behind.

“Constance! Constance, I demand you come out at on—”

Shing! Thunk!

A hatchet lodged into a portrait frame, mere millimeters from his ear. He couldn’t help glancing aside at it, catching his warped reflection in the well-polished blade.

“You demand?” Her airy voice drifted over from the far side of the room, where her glowing, bright form appeared. Her white gown and veil billowed out behind her as she floated towards him. The bright blue irises of her narrowed eyes were piercing, making her gaze as sharp as her blade. Beau had to admit it was a beautiful effect… for a serial killer.

“Demand,” she repeated. “That’s cute.” She held up her perfectly manicured hand, and her hatchet dislodged and obediently flew to her palm. “You come barging into a lady’s chambers unannounced, and then have the audacity to make demands.” She pouted, her plump, dark blue lower lip out in a hurt expression. “Such a brute. I thought you were a gentleman, Beauregard.”

“I—I am,” he said in a much quieter voice. He even took half a step back, a move that only made her smirk. This really was all just a game to her, he realized. So, he set his jaw into a determined frown and stood up a little straighter. “Constance, I’m here because you physically threatened one of our mortal guests.”

She snorted. “Says who?”

“The teenager who ran out screaming about a witch cutting off his head!” He crossed his arms and leaned forward, but made sure not to get too into her personal space. “The teenager that had a black eye and blood trickling down his cheek. Scares are encouraged, but we draw a strict line at physical harm. You're well aware of that."

She scoffed. "That idiot ran into a beam." With a jerk of her head, she indicated to said support with her chin. Fingering the tip of her blade, she added, "Probably cut himself on an exposed nail." She looked up at him, smiling slyly. "Safety concerns seem like they'd be more your department, Mr. Host."

He closed his eyes and let out a long groan while massaging the bridge of his nose. "Constance..."

"What's wrong, Hosty? Not as sharp..." She whipped up her hatchet, which gave off another shing. "As you used to be?"

With a dramatic little flourish of his wrist, his own hatchet materialized. "If anyone has gotten duller over the decades, dear, it's you."

She raised an eyebrow. "Sure we're not overcompensating for something, Mr. Host?" She jabbed his admittedly smaller and blander blade head with hers.

He clutched it to his chest protectively, the innuendo either ignored or having gone right over his head. It was hard to tell with Beau sometimes.

"This is the blade of someone hard working," he said. "Rough from years of chopping wood... and a... very unsuccessful attempt at rope."

She rolled her eyes. Leave it to Beau to twist her jab at his manhood into an accidental commentary on classism and whining about his suicide.

"Honest, difficult work," he continued. "Which is obviously why you don't recognize it."

"Excuse me!" She held up her weapon, stopping it right against his Adam's apple. "I worked exceptionally hard to get what I have!"

He looked around the attic, completely ignoring the unwavering hatchet. "I suppose so... Configuring your alibis, the networking through social circles to find your targets, the physical dexterity to decapitate a man... The fact you weren't caught until the very end... It would be admirable if it weren't, well, so heinous. It takes incredible skills at scheming, an intellect not matched by your other murderous cohorts in the mansion."

She dropped her arm in unbridled annoyance, and her hatchet disappeared. "God, you're infuriating." She plopped onto a trunk, and he followed suite across from her, watching her quizzically.

"I get that a lot."

"I was waiting for any excuse to take a swing at you, and I... I can't. I left myself wide open for a crude retort, too." She eyed him expectantly.

He leaned forward, elbows on his skinny knees, thin, long index fingers steepled up against his pale lips. Behind his knuckles, he was smirking. "I do so love subverting expectations."

This was her fault, she thought. She started this by accusing him of not being a gentleman, and now he was going out of his way to be such. Anyone else would have seen the opportunity to snap "... on your back!" when she said she worked hard. Or at least the easy "legs wide open, maybe" which she'd practically offered him on a silver platter. She was used to those insults. She heard them daily, usually from the five wedding portraits around the attic, but sometimes from passerby in the ballroom and halls. They could fuel her anger, give her an excuse to lash out, something she'd wanted when he'd barged in.

He pulled his hands away from his mouth. "I'm sorry I accused you of hurting the boy. I should have known better."

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water on her, and she practically shivered as she straightened up. "Hm? What do you mean? Everyone knows I'm a homicidal maniac." There was acid in the words.

Chuckling, he shook his head. "Ms. Hatchaway, do you ever wonder why you're not trapped in a portrait like Jack the Ripper, or the arsonist?"

She looked around. "Too many stunning pictures of me to choose from?"

"No." His half-smile was genuine, and she found herself wondering what it looked like before the scarring on his face had weakened part of it. "You're intelligent, calculating. You know murdering for fortune is pointless now."

"No one takes a check from dead people. It's a real bummer because I want a new car. Have you seen some of the vehicles these mortals drive now?" She whistled.

A softer chuckle, this one exhaled through his nostrils. A pity laugh, she thought.

He continued. "And, deep down, I think you realized it was pointless. You're still here, stuck with money you can't spend. But at least you have a home..."

She put her hand to her chest and scoffed. "Full of complete idiots."

"Family... In a bizarre, grotesque way." He shrugged a shoulder. "And with all that in mind, I know there's a part of you, no matter how teeny tiny, that is repentant."

Unconsciously called, the hatchet handle appeared in her grasp, but it morphed back and forth between the weapon and her bridal bouquet. Keeping it on her lap, she tried to inconspicuously wring it in her hands, slowly tearing apart the flowers while simultaneously giving herself a burn on the wood. All the while, she kept steady eye contact with him, lips parted in a thin smile.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

He glanced down at the pieces of petals, his own smile unwavering. "Of course, I could always be wrong. Perhaps I try too hard to see the good in everyone." He stood up, and she worried he'd bump his head on the sloping ceiling. She almost warned him, but stopped herself. He ducked aside in time.

"Have a pleasant evening, Ms. Hatchaway." He bowed, and turned to leave, but stopped, not fully turning back. "I'm due in the library in twenty minutes. I'll be reading short stories aloud... There's plenty of room for anyone who wants to attend. I take requests." With that, he finally left.

She looked at the pile of torn stems and flowers in her lap. Maybe she would take a trip downstairs, not for any particular reason, she told herself. The attic just suddenly felt too cramped, that's all. And maybe... maybe she wanted to hear more of that silky, thoughtful voice that didn't insult and jeer her.

Plus she could probably trick him into reading something filthy out loud, and the prospect of that was hilarious enough to get her to go downstairs. It's what he deserved for trying to make her feel better about herself.

[snowdxve]

Be Cautious

Werewolf!Yancy x Reader

Warning: Light Gore, Mature Language, Fighting, Prison Life

Inspired by @the-moon-pal Werewolf Yancy

~~~~~

Mark and Y/n walk slowly through the commons of the prison, both were dressed in black and white striped jumpsuits with their heads down in shame from getting caught. Y/n took notice of the cautious looks from the other prisoners, some of the prisoners mumble among themselves some even began laughing at the two as if they knew something that the two fresh convicts didn’t. “Well, why did you choose a helicopter if you didn’t know how to fly one?” Mark snaps at Y/n, causing them to roll their eyes and avert their attention to a tall burly convict who was staring at the two as if they had just threatened to take his lunch money. Y/n could care less about their mistake, and they figured that Mark would’ve had some clue; they weren’t the only one at fault in this team.

Mark lets out a heavy sigh as he pats Y/n’s shoulder gently, “but never mind that, We gotta find a way out of here and get that beautiful treasure of ours. Now, we can either rally the prisoners or we can pander to the guards.” Mark suggests to Y/n, “So what’s it going to be?” Mark looks at Y/n impatiently.

“I suggest that you try and rally the prisoners, hotshot. Maybe you’ll get somewhere.” Y/n answers with a shrug of their shoulders. A curt smile turns up Y/n’s cheeks as they watch Mark roll his shoulders and attempt to crack his neck preparing a speech in his head.Y/n didn’t even bother watching, instead they make their way over to the other side of the room. They didn’t want to be linked to the man, in fact, they would be more than happy to get away from him. All Mark had done since their arrival at the prison was complain, and complain; it gave Y/n an agonizing headache.

Y/n leans against the brick wall and bites their thumb as they watch Mark approach the burly convict that had made eye contact them earlier. “I wonder how this is going to play out,” Y/n mumbles to themself as their e/c eyes follow Mark’s movements. The burly man stands and towers over Mark, he was practically a whole foot taller than Mark.

“So you’re going to help me and my fri-” Mark pokes the man’s chest before turning as if to point to Y/n who was nowhere to be seen. “Y/n?” Mark looks around the commons before he felt his body being thrown through the concrete wall. Y/n snickers and covers their mouth to hide their amusement before they felt a heavy hand firmly grip their shoulders.

“Youse is with him, huh?” The man’s voice makes Y/n shiver and takes a step away but his grip tightens on their shoulder, pulling them back. “Whoa, slow down. Why youse so eager to getaway? Youse and youses friend are new here, eh? Let me show you around.” The man’s grip on Y/n’s shoulder tightened a bit more. Y/n could feel the hostility around the room, making their stomach do nervous loops. They pulled roughly out of the man’s grip and brushes their shoulder off gently and looking the man up and down.

The man was a few inches taller than Mark, about 5’6 or 5’7. His coal-black hair was slicked back with who knows what, and his amber eyes were frightening which added to the look of annoyance on his face. The other prisoners were quiet, each watching the standoff between Y/n and this man. Y/n looks around at the other prisoners and frowns as they roll their shoulders.

“Why don’t you draw a picture? It’ll last longer.” They snap before turning their attention to the man who had lost his patience. He grabs the collar of Y/n shirt and backs them against the brick wall.

“Now, who do you think youse coming into my home and calling the shots?” Y/n stares down into the man’s amber eyes; instincts kick in immediately, they hook their hands on the nap of the man’s neck before drilling their knee into his stomach.

The man recoils as a loud gasp echoed throughout the room from everyone, even the guards who didn’t bother to intervene in the brewing fight. Y/n stares at their opponent as they bring their hands up and bend their knees a bit, just like their dad had taught them. The man lets out an inhuman growl, lunging at Y/n quickly. Y/n falls back doing their best to block the oncoming punches; they tried to remember how their dad had taught them. The amber-eyed man heaved a sigh as he lowers himself into a fighting position; there was an almost animal-like quality to it. It was familiar yet so foreign to Y/n; They made the first move, taking a step forward and swinging as hard as they could. They missed hopelessly with a rush of pain exploding from their cheek. Y/n repositions and adjusts to the irony taste that had filled their mouth; their dad always told them there was no such thing as fighting dirty.

As soon as the man threw the next punch, Y/n grabs his arm quickly maneuvering behind his back and pushing his elbow in harshly before pushing his chest against the brick wall. “I’ll break it, I promise.” Y/n says firmly as the man scuffs in annoyance.

“Youse bluffin’ you ain’t gon do nothi-.” Y/n pushes his elbow in more, causing the man to let out grumble to disguise his pain. They could feel the bones grinding any moment it could snap.

“I never did catch your name, so care to share?” Y/n asks as nicely as they could, but truly they wanted to rub the man’s nose into tiled floors. They waited patiently for an answer, they could feel the eyes of the prisoners burning into their back.

“Names Yancy, now officer when you going to let me go?” Yancy chuckles, but Y/n wasn’t listening. They were taking in the small details they had missed about the man. He was in the midst of changing, his ears had become more pointed and what looked like tufts of fur were growing at the tips of them. His fingernails were sharpened to a razor-sharp point. Y/n lets out a heavy sigh as they remove themselves from their thoughts.

“If I let go are you going to play nice?” Y/n questions as they loosen their grip on Yancy’s arm. Y/n glances around the room in a search for Mark but didn’t spot a trace of him.

“Alright, fine. Jus let me go.” Yancy grumbles. Y/n let go and steps back, rubbing their hands together. They touch their cheek which had started to ache from the wearing off adrenaline. Yancy turns to Y/n and puts his hand out with an eager smile on his face.

“Have you been talking? Cause if you have, I haven’t been listening.” Y/n grumbles as they walk across the room to an empty table, and plop down into one of the cold uncomfortable wooden chairs. Yancy follows suite, unfortunately, there was no stopping the morphing once it started. Yancy’s face and head have already begun morphing. “What do you want?” Y/n groans as they lay their head on the cold table in an attempt to soothe the aching.

“I heard you want to break out, I know all the ins and outs of this place. I could help you.” Yancy smirks as he puts his hand out to Y/n eagerly. Y/n stares up at Yancy with narrowed eyes; they slowly sit up and turn to Yancy whose mouth was slowly becoming more and more elongated. Yancy watches each of their movements carefully as they put their hands out and wave them slightly at Yancy.

“Hold on, hold on. You just tried to kill me and now-!” They put their left hand on their hip and point their finger at Yancy harshly, “you want to help me?” They try to keep their composure but it fails; they burst into laughter and shake their head with a bit of a sigh. “You’re just ready to get rid of me because I beat you!” They tease, pointing at Yancy before nearly falling out of their chair.

“No.” Yancy interrupts firmly. “Youse got something special out there and I know it.” Yancy pulls a small picture from his pocket and slides it across the table to Y/n. “It, uh, fell out of youse pocket when we were fighting.” Yancy rubs the back of his neck as he watches Them pick up the portrait. The portrait was of a tall man with large wood stumps for feet, a large bushy black beard, a scar on his right eye, and a pirate hat with a long feather coming off the top.

“Oh, shit. I wouldn’t have even realized! Thank you, Yancy!” They scoop the picture up and hug it but, of course, it wasn’t the real thing and therefore a big let down. Their father was a big man and a paper-thin picture was nothing compared to him. “This is my dad, Magnum. He might be a bit intimidating at first but he’s a big ole puppy! I bet he’s worried about me; he never did like Mark but he was always happy to let me go search for treasure.” They laugh a moment before turning to Yancy. “What about you?”

“Huh? This is home! I killed my mom and dad. This is all I got now.” Yancy hums in satisfaction. Y/n couldn’t imagine killing Magnum even being away from their Dad was worrying for them.

“So, you’re willing to help me escape this joint? When and at what time?” Y/n had completely forgotten about Mark; they were more focused on getting out and getting home to their dad with their treasure. They wanted Magnum to see that they were capable of doing their own hunts. They hoped that Magnum wouldn’t hear about them being locked up like this.Y/n stopped a moment watching Yancy; the transformation was completely. They smirk a bit and cross their arms over their chest. They had seen Magnum like this countless of times.

“Well what about-” Yancy’s sentence was cut short with grunts and growls before he crosses his eyes, staring down at his muzzle. His ears flattened against his head as he lets out a heavy sigh as his amber eyes land on Y/n as They laugh and turn away from Yancy who was struggling to talk with only whines and soft grumbles coming out. Y/n couldn’t stop laughing, holding their stomach before they sit up and put their pointer finger to Yancy’s wet onyx nose.

“Stop. How long have you been this? If you’ve known for a long time then you should know that you aren’t going to get anywhere.” Y/n giggles as they run their fingers through their h/c hair. “I need to get a box from the contanment area before I leave; I’m getting it for my dad. It’s important-” A red alarm blares out, making Y/n jump and lean into towards Yancy nervously. Yancy covers his ears with his paws and gives a low growl as Mr. Murderslaughter and two other officers walk into the commons.

“Can someone turn that infernal racket off?” Murdrerslaughter yells out. The alarm abruptly ends whilst Murderslaughter adjusts his suit and turns his attention to Y/n and Yancy. Yancy uncovers his ears, ducks his head as his ears droop to the side; his long bushy ash grey tail tucked between his legs as he stands. Y/n took notice of this as they turn to look at Murderslaughter, swallowing hard

“You, I don’t want no more trouble out of you! If you keep causing trouble I’ll toss you back out into the real world for the vultures to eat at you; now you wouldn’t would you? I didn’t think so.” Murderslaughter threatens. He turns to Yancy who cowers a bit more as his ears point forward to listen to Murderslaughter, “now Yancy, I’ve always seen you as a son.” Yancy attempts to defend himself but only whines escape him. “Ah, Ah, No. Don’t try to give any protest, you won’t win. Boys, take him to solitary confinement.” Yancy grumbles as the officers stand at two sides of him. Yancy snarls lifting his lips to show his row of sharp pearly white teeth as the officers reach for his arms. Yancy nips at them as he shakes himself out briskly, raising his tail and walking alongside them as they walk Yancy to his cell in confinement. Y/n, however, was put back into their cell alone. Y/n looks around the cell; It was actually quite cozy with a shaggy cornflower blue rug spread out on the floor, a little white nightstand next to the bunk bed. The color of the plush blankets matched the carpet; they were soft to the touch. The only unappealing part of the room was the stiff mattress. With nothing more to do, Y/n crawls into bed and pulls the blanket over their shoulder. They lay back calmly before they were getting sneezed on. Y/n scrunches up their face as they wipe a little bit of snotty off of their face. Right above them, peering down through the wire bed frame was Yancy’s giant furry head. How could they have missed the massive creature under the mattress? Y/n jumps up from the bed as Yancy sits up, pushing the thin mattress against the wall.

“Yancy, What the hell?!” Y/n covers their mouth a moment and looks around before letting out a sigh, “how did you manage to get out of solitary confinement?” They whisper to the massive molten grey wolf. Yancy crouches, causing his pants to rip at the knee. Y/n couldn’t help but snicker as Yancy’s fluffy ear flip back. Yancy drags one of his long claws across the ground writing: ‘I know the ins and outs of this place, just follow me.’

Y/n looks at Yancy, who gives them a thumbs up and a toothy grin, as he picks up a blindfold a moves towards them. Y/n takes a few steps back nervously with a brisk shake of their head. “No, not happening.” They weren’t comfortable with that in the least bit. Yancy grumbles and plops onto the ground, sneezing with a bit of annoyance; how was he going to get them to trust him?

“Yancy, you didn’t say anything about a blindfold. I know better than to let someone put a blindfold on me.” Y/n looks at Yancy cautiously. Yancy looks at Y/n with narrowed eyes, tossing the blindfold on to the bed as he grumbles to himself.

“Oh stop! Besides, don’t you think it’s a little too soon to break out? I mean, I just got here. They’ll probably be expecting me to try and break out. Let's wait a bit, and talk when you’re not a werewolf.” They tap Yancy on his snout, causing Yancy to wrinkle his snout and nips at their hand. Luckily, they retract their hand to avoid Yancy’s teeth. “Hey! I was messing with you! Don’t nip at me!” They protest but the sound of footsteps causes them to tense and throw blankets over Yancy.

“Get under the bed.” Y/n whispers in a panic, pushing him in a panic under the bed and sitting on the mattress heavily. Yancy growls out as he squeezes under the mattress and the concrete floor. Y/n holds their hand down below the head, “bite me.” They whisper. Yancy looks up at Y/n confused before lunging at their hand, only to nip at their hand and draw a bit of blood. Y/n curses loudly in pain, causing the officers to come running.

“What is it? What’s going on?” The officer asks as he peers through the iron bars at Y/n.

“I hurt my finger on the bed, Can I go to the infirmary? Please?” They get up from the bed, showing the officer the crimson liquid that was forming from their finger.

“Fine, but no silly business convict.” The officer unlocks the cell and steps back motioning for Y/n to walk ahead. Y/n steps out of the cell and glances back at the officer before making their way down the hall. The officer directed Y/n through the halls before stopping at the infirmary where was laid out on the bed with a large ice pack on his face. The nurse motions to chair next to the bed before grabbing a bandaid for Y/n.

“What are you here for, dear?” The nurse asks. Y/n holds their finger out to the nurse with a nervous smile before turning to Mark.

“Hey, Mark. Are you okay?” They lean over to Mark as the nurse cleans the crimson liquid from their finger which was beginning to stream down their hand.

Mark didn't give any sign that he was awake, or alive for that matter. Y/n frowns before slapping Mark’s thigh much harder than they had intended. Mark jolts up and removes the ice pack from his face, “What do you want?!” Mark glares at Y/n. Mark’s nose was a deep purple, and his eye was puffy and swollen shut, no doubt the prisoner didn’t let him off easy. Mark’s sudden movement cause Y/n to flinch and lean away from Mark, grimacing at the damage to his once handsome face.

“I just wanted to tell you that I found someone who can help us get out of here, but I just changed my mind. Maybe you deserve to be here, you narcassitic asshole..” They mutter. Y/n stands and makes their way towards the door as Mark scrambles to his feet from the cot.

“Wait, wait! Y/n! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” Mark wasn’t able to finish his sentence, for Y/n sent their foot straight between Mark’s legs before storming back to their cell. They didn’t wait for the officer, they walk right into their cell and slides the door shut in anger.

“You can come out, Yancy!” They call out, pushing everything off of the night stand with a loud crash. They plop down onto the nightstand.

“Finally! What took you so long? And why did you need to go to the infirmary?!” Yancy crawls out from under the bed and brushes his hands off on his white t-shirt before looking down at his pants. “Wonderful.” He mutters. Despite being mostly human, Yancy fluffy ears and long bushy tail were still very much visible.

“I went to see Mark, I figured he’d be in the infirmary, but forget that asshole. He’s only worried about himself. I just need to get ahold of my dad. I don’t want to set off more of an alarm than I already have.” Y/n taps their foot impatiently as they look at Yancy, who was trying to look back at his tail, grabbing at it curiously.

“Hey! When’s visitations?” Y/n asks, breaking Yancy from his fascination with catching his tail.

“Oh, tomorrow. I don’t get very many visitors, so maybe I can convince murderslaughter to give you my time during visiting hours.” Yancy gives a small smile as he sits down, curling his tail around his legs.

“Well, are you going to stay in here or-” “We’re bunk mates. I know, I was surpised too. Believe me.” Yancy shrugs and yawns. “Get some rest, you’re going to need it.” Yancy throws at blanket at Y/n before he climbs onto the top bunk.

“Goodnight Yancy.” Y/n calls up to the wolf as they lay back on the mattress, pulling the blanket over their shoulder.

“Goodnight Y/n.”

•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•

“C’mon Yancy! He wants to meet you!” Y/n motions for Yancy to follow them as they walk to a table where a tall bearded man sat slouched. The strong scent of sea salt causes Yancy to wrinkle his nose as he sits across from the massive man. Yancy slouches in the chair looking up at the bearded man then at Y/n.

“Dad, I know you’re mad-” “Where be that Mark? I say we go keelhauling with him.” The bearded man growls out, gritting his teeth before turning his attention to Yancy. “And who be this? Is this your friend? What’s your name?”

“Yancy, I’ve got to say you taught Y/n well. They are quite strong.” Yancy chuckles nervously, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Magnum, Pleasure to meet ye.” Magnum gave a big smile but it quickly fades into a menacing look. “Yes, Y/n learns everything from the crew and their old dad, but you didn’t hurt my dear child, did ye? Cause then we have a problem friend; you might be the next one going overboard.” Magnum’s hickory brown eyes slowly dilate as he stares down at Yancy. Yancy fidgets a bit, looking at Y/n for some sort of help.

“No, Dad, it was a simple disagreement. I lost my temper and I popped him in the nose; the officers interevened before things could get any worse, okay? Besides, I can handle him and if Yancy were still mad at me, he wouldn’t be here.” Y/n assures Magnum who merely nods in acknowledgement. “He’s gunna get me out of here soon, just keep in touch.” They whisper as they grab their Dad’s hand tightly.

“Visitations over! Wrap it up!” An officer shouts from a corner of the room.Y/n stands and gathers Magnum in a tight hug before taking a step back. Magnum put his hand out to Yancy with a smile. Yancy firmly shakes his hand but as soon as Yancy pulls away, Magnum yanks him forward. “Watch their back, or you’ll regret it friend.” Magnum growls out in a low husky tone. Yancy nods quickly and joins Y/n on their travel back to their cells.

“So what do think of him? He’s awesome, isn't he?” Y/n says cheerfully as they skip happily towards the cell, swinging their hands.

“Yeah, Yeah. Totally.” Yancy gulps as he walks casually behind Y/n.

“Next time, be careful with your words. Be cautious.” Y/n snickers as they step into the cell.

[vannahfanfics]

Where am I?

Category: Angst

Fandom: My Hero Academia

Characters: Tomoko Shiretoko

An abyss— the inky blackness enveloped Tomoko like a thick blanket, but she did not feel comforted by its embrace. It smothered her, wrapping her in an icy cold that seeped deep into her bones and made every ragged breath she drew excruciating labor. Her limbs felt as if they were weighted with lead, suspending her in the endless space and giving her no strength to move. Her lidded gold eyes were slits as she peered into the gloom; even they felt weighted, chained down to the bottom of her void-like prison beneath the shifting black fog. 

Her throat bobbed as she struggled to speak, yet she could form no words. Even if she could, she could not think of what to say. Like her disorienting surroundings, her mind was shrouded in mist too. Articulation and thought were faraway concepts to her now, save for one.

Where am I? 

Tomoko was not sure how long she was there, suspended like a broken marionette in the endless black. Broken, because in the ebb and flow of bewilderment the searing pain in her body would rise like a rocky cleft in the receding tide. She could not pinpoint whether it was a single wound that pained her so, or if every single one of her bones had been crushed, filling her to the brim with agony. 

Either way, she despaired each time she became lucid enough to feel the burning ache filling her up. She could do nothing to alleviate it— not scream into the void, not sob in misery, not even clench her teeth. In silence, in stillness, in solitude, she suffered. 

Again, she could only think as her tears floated in the chasm around her, Where am I? 

Time was endless, or may it wasn’t long at all, only stretched by the endless blackness shrouding her in its cold veil. Eventually, light speared through the blackness to carve a blazing white path. Tomoko both relished its coming and abhorred it; though part of her welcomed the light— the change— part of her had grown accustomed to her black home in twisted sleepy contentment. 

The light snaked toward Tomoko, chasing away the darkness on either side to extend like a road before her. A groan finally rumbled from her weak lungs as her limbs twitched to life. The world of black swirled around her, and Tomoko had the strangest sense that she was ascending. Lying flat on her back with her arms splayed to either side, she rose like a ghost from the grave to grave the world of light once more. 

And again, she thought, Where am I? 

A grimy white-tiled ceiling greeted her weary eyes when she finally had the strength to open them. Her mind was in dissonance registering it because surely no hospital would allow such deplorable conditions. Another thing that unsettled her was the silence; there was no hushed discussions of doctors and nurses, nor regular beeping of monitoring machines, or even the hum of an air conditioning unit. Only quiet reverberated in the gloom, deafening her with its overwhelming presence. 

At first, Tomoko’s body was numb from lack of use, but the pins and needles soon faded as her brain repeatedly fired neuronal signals to move. As she went to lift her arms, they stopped short a few inches above the bed she laid on, and the clinking of metal filled the air. 

Metal? She thought groggily, rolling her head to observe the thing obstructing her movement. It took her a few moments to recognize the shiny handcuffs securing her to the hospital bed. 

Tomoko’s heart jumped into her throat when her lagging brain cells finally processed her dire situation. Squeaking in alarm, Tomoko bangs her shackled hands against the railings, filling the once-silent room with frantic jingling. Her panic-stricken mind could still realize that this place was no hospital. 

Memories came rushing back like a flood, joining the tidal wave of fear drowning Tomoko. A dark night, dense woods, a villainous raid, and a flash of steel in the dark— the fragmented memories painted a morbid picture, a portrait of her own harrowing kidnapping. As she jiggled the handcuffs violently, part of her frantically wondered if the children and her teammates were okay, while the more rational part of her wondered if she was going to be okay. 

“Now, now. There’s no need for all that noise, Ragdoll, dear.” 

The clanking ceased as Tomoko froze. The voice had emanated from the gloom, sounding over her agitated jangling with carefully controlled malice. A squat man wearing a white coat plodded out of the darkness to give Tomoko an eerie smile. She didn’t like it; he eyed her like a specimen to dissect, a machine to disassemble, and it sickened her to her core. 

As her breaths hitched into hyperventilation, Tomoko began flinging her hands upward again to the point that the cold metal of the handcuffs bit deeply into her wrist. 

“Tsk. You are a professional hero. Have some composure, young lady,” the creepy scientist sniffed in disdain. 

Composure? Tomoko couldn’t even dream of having composure at that moment. The time for composure had long since passed; her only guiding force was self-preservation, frantic sparks of her nervous system driving her body into fight-or-flight mode. Tomoko would one day wonder if that made her any less of a hero, but in the end, she was only human— a frail, pitiful little human just a slave to her mind as the rest of them. 

Tomoko froze again as a massive hand clamped down on her throat. She wheezed as it pushed down on her windpipe, constricting the airflow to just a few ragged puffs. Her yellow irises drifted in a vast sea of white as she stared wildly at the scientist man, whose evil smirk widened to stretch his pudgy face. 

It was not his hand wrapped around her throat, however. 

Her assailant stood at the head of the bed behind her, thick muscular arm reaching around to hold her petite body still. She whimpered pathetically as they leaned over, his bulk casting a shadow over her face. The whimper morphed into a frightened, choked scream as his ghastly face came into view; the crown of his head was a patchwork of ugly scar tissue all the way down past his eyes, so his Cheshire-cat smirk floated underneath a scarred dome of pale flesh. It was an absolutely abhorrent sight, and Tomoko felt a fierce shiver grip her bones. 

The man chuckled as she quaked in the bed, filling the air with faint jingling again. 

“What a fine Quirk you have. I’ll be making excellent use of it.” 

A cold flush shot through Tomoko’s arteries. My Quirk? Use? What? What is he talking about? Though Tomoko’s confusion was evident in her impossibly wide eyes, the man neglected to answer her. That vile snicker resounded in her ears, vibrating her bones and twisting her belly with dread. 

The man squeezed her carotids briefly, relishing her shocked squeak and the way her eyes dilated as her brain was starved as oxygen. An agonizing few seconds passed, but he released his grip before she could suffer any hypoxic damage. As his calloused hand migrated over her face, Tomoko coughed and sobbed. Of the many things that her mind could land on, it once again rang with that quintessential question. 

Where am I? 

His hand closed over her face. Tomoko wriggled as he smothered her mouth and nose, once again making her lungs heave in an effort to suck in air. His cruel chortling filled her head until it was the only thing she could focus on, resounding like a death knell chiming in the deep of night. His grip tightening, fingers digging into her skin— and then her body began to feel strange. 

It felt like electricity humming just under the surface, just a numb tingle at first. It gradually rose in intensity until it seared like liquid lightning across her face. The sensation drew an agonized scream from her body, and her back arched up of the table as her arms and legs writhed. The clanking of her restraints joined the symphony of his laughs, which had risen in pitch and volume to full-blown evil cackles. 

Suddenly, the electricity began to recede. No— that wasn’t it. It felt like it was being drawn out, absorbed through his fingers. The abnormal feeling began to spread from her head down to the rest of her body. Dread pooled in Tomoko’s belly as it felt like her very soul was being sucked out. 

No, stop, please, she tried to plead, but it came out only as garbled gargles against his palm. As the strange draining sensation hummed in her body, her struggles diminished bit by bit until she felt slack against the table. Her eyelids began to droop as drowsiness washed over her. Perhaps this strange villain had taken her soul, and here she was, on the cusp of a sad and lonely death. Tears brimmed in her eyes and rolled down her cheeks as she grappled with her mortality.

Where am I? How will they know where I am? Please… I don’t want to die alone in this place…!

The darkness began to creep back into her vision, beginning as small trickles and rapidly rising into a flooding wave. Tomoko had the sensation of becoming weightless, floating down, down, down into the depths of the dark. As her eyes drowsily drifted shut, she embraced the darkness as it wrapped around her in a cool blanket, delivering her into a dreamless and painless sleep… 

~~~~~~~~~~

Heaven— the cloudy white enveloped Tomoko like a thick blanket, and she felt comfort in its warmth. She hummed as she breathed in deeply and easily; fresh, cool air flooded her lungs with the unlabored breaths. She felt weightless and free, floating unrestrictedly in the lovely expanse of fluff. Her eyes slowly opened, and the golden pools were greeted with neat white tiles framing fluorescent lights. The rhythmic beeping of a machine echoed dully in her ears, accented by the pleasant voices of two women in scrubs by her bedside. 

Where am I? 

“Ah! She’s rousing. Go get the doctor while I do a vitals assessment, quickly!” the nurse ordered her comrade as Tomoko’s eyes fluttered. Tomoko just barely registered the hasty shuffling of her feet as she exited. The nurse gently brushed Tomoko’s locks of emerald hair from her face with a kindly smile. “Easy, now. You’ve been through quite the ordeal. Just relax. We’ll take good care of you.” 

Tomoko’s mind hung in a fog as the medical professionals fluttered around her, checking her vitals and conversing with one another. She caught snatches of conversation that alarmed her greatly— All for One and missing Quirk and warehouse and All Might’s fall. Her frazzled mind toiled to comprehend the snippets of information, but too many pieces were missing from the puzzle. She ended up sitting up in bed with no recollection of being pulled up, drifting in the clouds with no clear way to come down. 

“Ragdoll!” 

Tomoko blinked blearily at the mournful wail that sounded in the doorway. Pixie-Bob came bounded into the room to throw herself at her bedside, snatching up her hand to squeeze it tightly. Tears glimmered in the corners of her eyes. 

“Ragdoll, thank goodness, you’re okay! We were so worried about you!” she sobbed into the white sheets draped over Tomoko’s body. Her pitiful cries pulled Tomoko into lucidity, allowing her to finally appreciate the gravity of her situation. Tiger and Mandalay joined Pixie-Bob at her bedside, and for the first time in what seemed like ages, Tomoko felt relief. 

“You guys…” she moaned as fresh sobs bubbled up in her throat, “where am I?” 

She didn’t really mean it physically. It felt like she was no longer herself, a husk of her former person. She was desperately searching for some semblance of herself, but all she could find within was fear, doubt, and loss. 

Mandalay leaned over to envelop her in a crushing hug. 

“You’re safe, Ragdoll,” she whispered as she nuzzled into Tomoko’s green tresses. “Y-you’re home.” Tomoko blinked slowly, and then a shaky smile stretched across her lips as tears dripped from her lashes. 

Home. Yes. Her home, her beloved teammates. 

No matter what, Tomoko could always find herself there. 

Enjoy this oneshot? Feel free to peruse my Table of Contents!

[gasp-iwrotesomething]

vivi tang as a model,, and mc being her painter/photographer. after flirting through many projects, finally mc just snaps and has to stop painting/taking pictures and just begs vivi to fuck her. preferably a fic thank you !!!!

Sure thing, anon, I’d be happy to write this for you! Thanks for requesting and I hope you enjoy!

Summary: Famous model Vivienne Tang is in the midst of being painted nude by her trustworthy painter when one particular comment sends MC into a frenzy and the task at hand flying to the back burner...

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Vivienne was impossibly beautiful and almost staggeringly sexy in her pose, slumped on a couch with a posture that reeked of strong feminine power. Her body was embellished in nothing at all unless the air counted as an article of clothing; yet she still looked better than most of the women MC had painted. On the far side of the room sat a very distressed MC, whose hands were busy painting a picture of the seductive woman in front of her. She found herself wanting to be busy touching Vivienne and not merely painting her--she wanted an in depth examination of her anatomy in ways that would definitely be a recalcitrant towards her professionalism. But the painter had fair reason to desire this when the subject of her painting continuously teased and seduced her throughout the entire painting process. “You’re taking much longer today than you did the last time you painted me,” Vivienne’s smirk is palpable even from the distance MC was sequestered in, “has my body changed overnight enough that you need a thorough viewing?” The model’s voice is a rumble so feline that MC swore she could sense her sentence nuzzling against her leg purring. MC frowns at the painting before her, the warm hues of Vivienne smiling back as if jeering. It appeared that no matter where MC turned, Vivienne’s ethereal beauty followed to haunt her mind and blot her gaze. “No, just want to get this right. It’s been a week since I’ve painted you, remember?” 

She swipes a crimson grin across the length of Vivienne’s thigh, manifesting the sublime couch beneath the even more sublime woman. Behind the canvas, Vivienne’s lips curl and she lifts a hand to sweep aside a strand of hair from her forehead. Even that brief movement persuades MC’s eyes away from the painting. “That’s fair. But you’ve painted me naked countless times and each portrait came out to be impeccably gorgeous, so that argument doesn’t exactly withstand, MC,” the artist’s name is both a prayer and a curse all at once as it dances past Vivienne’s scarlet lips, casting a spell on MC that shouldn’t have been feasible for any other person except Vivienne Tang, “perhaps your hands long to cherish what your eyes can’t?” Vivienne’s brown eyes bore into MC harder than the looming presence of her nudity, which is reimbursed each time the artist swings her eyes away from the painting to drink the model’s illustrious form. By the way, how the hell did she just vocalize the thoughts circulating in my head? Yeah, she’s a bit mysterious and reclusive but a mind-reader? That sounds so absurd. Vivienne drags a blood-tinted fingernail along the salivating curve of her hip and MC struggles to tear her gaze away. ...Absurdly sexy, apparently. 

MC realizes all too late that her cheeks are inflamed and when she speaks again, her tone is lopsided without the confidence there to bite Vivienne back. “That’s... I’m not-! Listen, do you want your painting finished or not?” The model in question grins at MC’s clipped voice and she tempts a fingernail between her teeth coyly. ‘Coy’ wasn’t exactly an adjective MC would use to describe Vivienne Tang but in this moment that was the only term that could appropriately prescribe the view. A flare of heat splashes within MC and she swallows as a rush of rouge scurries up her nape. “Of course I want this painting finished... if it entails more of your admiring stares. I feel like a subject to your wanton apodyopsis, MC.” She tucks her hair over her shoulder, simultaneously exposing more of her wondrously pale skin, and MC’s breath hitches. Her hand stills against the canvas flooded with Vivienne’s palette. “Apodyopsis? I’m hardly imagining you naked, Vivienne,” the artists keens as she gestures to Vivienne’s lack of clothing, “everything I’d want to see is right here in front of me.”

Vivienne’s grin morphs into something borderline fond and vexatious approval that unleashed a swarm of butterflies in MC’s belly. She almost expected Vivienne to rise from the couch and come over to her but the model stays posed, her posture barely shifting. Instead it’s her words that approach MC--challenging her just the way she hoped. “Oh? All of what you want on display is right in front of you at this moment, hmmm? If so, then why aren’t you acting on the easy exhibit? Why not feast from this buffet when you do so with your eyes constantly?”

There it was. The criticism that would surely tear down the walls MC had carefully constructed--the ones meant to shelter her from falling for Vivienne’s incessant flirting. All of it deflated in a matter of seconds. And Vivienne most likely knew this with the way her eyes flashed with satisfaction.

“Alright, that’s it.” MC sets her brush down roughly and hops off of the stool she was perched on, her arms crossing against her paint-spattered chest. “You talk boldly for someone who just wants to model, Vivienne. I’m starting to get the incentive that you want to walk away with more than just a portrait.” The artist’s admonishment is composed of akrasia, her dark eyes pools of irritation and desire all mixed into one. Vivienne’s brows raise in the slightest hint of shock... before her features slink inwards suggestively. “My, that’s a strong opinion to have, MC,” she says this as if feigning offense even though MC could read the show she was pulling, like a magician performing a trick able to debunked on the spot, “you seem passionate about your resolve. Tell me, darling, am I wrong?” Vivienne levels MC with a dashing look of impishness. Her question is pressing and MC gulps down the rest of her reservations, deciding that if there was any other opportunity as propitious as this one that she’d act with no questions asked.

“What if I asked you to ditch this painting and fuck me instead?”

The question is bashing the moment it breaches the air between them but MC could hardly care, her body coming to life with the thrilling promise of touching Vivienne Tang. This time the model’s eyes widen in tune with her eyebrows hiking and MC finds it hard not to feel gratified. Not many people can claim that they’ve made Vivienne make that kind of face before, can they? In the next moment, Vivienne’s face is composed in that of a mask of a seductress on the prowl. Her pose finally shatters as she whisks her long legs over the side of the couch. MC’s confidence falters as she watches Vivienne’s legs cross sinuously, as if in seldom invitation; not to mention the sudden shift her breasts experience, now solemnly unaffected by gravity. “Is that a challenge? Because if so,” Vivienne’s purr trails off as she leans back on her palms, inviting MC to gawk at her, “I won’t hesitate to push aside the painting for now.” Seeing an entrance, MC scoffs despite the flush embodying her face. “For now? How long do you plan on keeping me here, Vivienne Tang?” She asks this as she slowly nears Vivienne, her hips swaying suggestively. A sense of accomplishment blooms in her chest as she catches the model’s eyes flare with interest beyond what she had already been displaying, tracing the movement intently. “As long as it takes to make you scream my name, which shouldn’t be very long.”

“Oh? You’ve got a track record to back up that claim or what, Miss Tang? Or is that all talk for the sake of getting me naked faster?” MC taunts, her hands planted on her hips. All Vivienne gives in response is a feral grin and a sharp tug, sprawling MC into her nude arms. “I do, in fact, have a track record of just that. Under an hour in most of the woman I bed.” Vivienne flaunts as her hands slide around MC’s back, reaching for the binding that was holding her floral dress in place. MC shivers at how Vivienne’s breath feels against her neck and curls her arms around the model’s neck, her cheeks reddening. “Prove it,” is all the artist manages to murmur as Vivienne finds her vantage point into MC’s dress, her hands transcending the boundaries MC had longed her to breach for the longest time. It was almost an orgasm in and of itself--so satisfying it felt mind-melting.

And true to MC’s request, Vivienne spends the next few hours providing evidence to back her bragging; even going as far as succeeding in stroking her bellowed name out of MC in just thirty-six minutes flat.

A new record for model Vivienne Tang to flaunt to the rest of the world.

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Thank you for your request! I loved writing this for you, it was a lot of fun to write Vivienne again!

If you want to request something, here’s the Prompt List, here are the Guidelines, here’s Who I Write For, and here is where you can Request me.

[snek-boii]

Dimensions of Amnesia | Prologue

Last chapter || Next Chapter

Summary: An experiment goes horribly wrong.

Ships: DLAMPR

Warnings: Sympathetic Deceit, let me know if I need to add anything else please!

Word Count: 1641

A/N: Hello, and welcome to my first Sanders Sides AU! In this, all of the sides are human, for now. And this is set far in the future; 2066, to be exact. I hope you all enjoy, and chapter one is coming out later today!

•|•

Damian was usually a calm sleeper.

Surrounded by the warming embraces of his four boyfriends, he was usually able to sleep soundly and without disturbance. But on this particular morning, he found that he couldn’t. His thoughts were churning like a raging sea that was unable to be tamed.

He glanced over at the clock on the bedside table and internally groaned. 3:25AM, it read. When did the time fly so fast? Oh, Logan would kill me if he knew I was still awake. That thought brought a small smile to Damian’s face, prompting him to glance down lovingly at where Logan was sleeping, Virgil squished between him and Damian. They were adorable.

Eventually, after a while of staring up at the ceiling and admiring how adorable his sleeping boyfriends were, he decided he would get up. Carefully, so that he didn’t wake anyone up, Damian untangled himself from the nest of limbs and slipped out of the bed. The cold of the room hit him, and he shivered as he changed into something warmer.

Now dressed up in black pants and a gold sweater, Damian took one last glance at the four. Patton, not liking the loss of heat, had snuggled up to Virgil, leading to Reman shifting closer to Patton and wrapping his arms around them. Logan’s arms were still wrapped securely around Virgil’s waist.

A smile toyed with his lips before he walked out of the room.

His footsteps were light, even though he felt like collapsing on the floor and taking a good 12-hour nap. Reman and Logan were light sleepers, so he didn’t want to accidentally wake them up.

Damian walked down the stairs, running a hand through his curly hair. He yawned as he walked into the kitchen, beginning to make some coffee. That would wake him up, Damian hoped. A few minutes later Damian leaned against the counter, a cup of fresh coffee in his hand. It was around 4AM now, he guessed. Now that he was more alert, he looked around the kitchen. The silence was strange, in a way; Patton wasn’t bustling in the kitchen cooking, Logan wasn’t spewing random (but very interesting) facts, Reman wasn’t belting out Disney songs like his life depended on it, and Virgil wasn’t sitting on the counter and watching their antics. It was just him.

Well, I’m not going back to sleep anytime soon... I might as well check up on our project.

Ah, the project.

Logan and Damian had been working on this project for months, almost a year, trying to perfect it. It was going to be a gift for their boyfriends, in a language they knew how to speak: science. The plan was to build a portal in the lab underneath their apartment, and bring the others to another dimension. Almost like a vacation. There would be necessary precautions, of course. They didn’t want anyone to get hurt.

Development had gone smoothly, and so had most of the testing phases. The last thing to test was if a human could travel safely between dimensions.

This was the hardest part of building a portal.

So many things could go wrong, whether it be with the transfer or something else. The human could get deposited in a different dimension than planned, the portal could explode... There were even reports of the humans returning mutated, or with animalistic features. It was risky, but he and Logan were determined. Everything was going to be fine. They had planned on doing the human testing today.

Tomorrow would be the day that they revealed the portal to the other three.

Damian, still holding his coffee, walked out of the kitchen. Now, he was facing a beige wall with a small portrait hanging from it; a selfie of the five of them. He smiled softly, before quietly knocking a pattern into the wall. Four, three, one, one, silence.

Patton had suggested that, although he didn’t know what he was suggesting it for. It was now their password for the secret elevator to the lab. The wall slid open much like a regular elevator door, revealing a large compartment inside. Damian walked inside, pressing a button on the inside of the door and leaning back against the wall. The doors slid shut, and the elevator hummed gently as it took him down to the basement.

Damian took a sip of his coffee. He would have woken Logan up, but he had noticed how many all-nighters Logan had pulled working on this thing. The poor man deserved to sleep. Besides, this was just a quick check; in and out, to make sure that nothing was broken.

Soon, the elevator slowed down and came to a complete stop. It dinged to announce the arrival, and the doors opened.

It revealed a giant room with a dome-shaped roof. A white platform circled around the curved edges, glass separating the platform area from the rest of the room. Small lights were embedded into the walls, that would blare in case of an emergency. A white chair sat in front of him, a curved panel with hundreds of buttons in front of it. Small screens hung above the panel, showing angled views of the real star of the room: the portal.

Currently, it was inactive. The ring of metal was silver, but black on the underside. That was where a metal called harinium was placed. Harinium, found back in 2043, had the best conductivity for a portal, and was pretty much the only metal that could withstand the amount of energy and heat a portal radiates. A thick platform was underneath the ring, holding it up. Stairs led up toward the base of the ring, so that whenever someone was ready, they could walk through the portal.

Damian walked up to the panel, gently moving the chair aside; he wouldn’t be sitting for this. He pressed a button on the panel, and the portal whirred to life.

Colors began to form and swirl in the metal circle. Damian watched closely as a mix of purples, blues, and greens appeared, swimming in a spiral as the circle inside the ring of metal grew larger. It never got old, watching the portal form.

Once the portal was at its full size, Damian took a sip of his coffee, set it to the side, and focused on the panel.

A screen popped up, showing the status of the object they had sent in yesterday and its coordinates. It was a quill that Logan owned. “Let’s bring you back, shall we?” Damian hummed to nobody in particular.

He typed in the coordinates to this dimension, applied it to the quill, and pressed the button. The quill would be back any moment now...

The colors in the portal morphed as the pathway for the quill was being created, colors enlarging and growing smaller. Damian’s foot tapped in anticipation as he grabbed a clipboard that had been discarded to the side, taking out a pen. His eyes fixed intently on the portal.

Smooth, midnight black feathers began to poke out of the portal, the substance touching it changing to the same color. Just a few seconds later, the quill floated down to the floor, intact just like it had been yesterday.

“Yes!” Damian grinned, writing down the results. He stepped around the panel, sliding open a glass door and walking down the steps. When he reached the bottom stair, there was a small container containing gloves, courtesy of Logan. You never knew what chemicals or strange bacteria could come from the other dimensions.

He slipped on a pair of the yellow gloves, welcoming the feeling of the fabric on his hands. His footsteps echoed in the cavernous room, reverberating off of the domed ceiling. Up the portal’s stairs he went, leaning down and gently grabbing the quill in his hands.

The lights of the portal reflected on his face and on the silver of the quill, lighting them both up like the northern lights. It was mesmerizing to watch the colors dance on the quill. A few moments later Damian straightened, walking back down the stairs and up the ones that led to the platform.

The beta test was complete.

Now, it was time for the real test.

Normally Damian would have waited for Logan first, so he could double-check everything before he went in, but he was feeling confident. The quill had come back safely, and he believed that he would too.

Besides, it was only a short jump; the dimension he was aiming for wasn’t that far away, and hopefully it would just be a quick trip and back.

Damian took one last look at the quill, running a finger over the dark feathers. Then, he laid it at the top of the panel for Logan to find, if he ever came in. He then typed the coordinates into the panel, watching the screen as it did calculations. Once the screen flashed an affirmative green, he knew it was time.

He walked around the panel again, walking through the glass doors. Sliding it shut again, he made his way toward the portal. The colors warped in front of him much like last time, almost inviting him to step into the swirling depths.

Up the stairs Damian went, and now the colors were right in front of him. Luring him, drawing him closer...

Taking a deep breath, he allowed himself to walk into the liquid-like depths.

It was too late for him to notice the room flashing red, or hear the alarms blaring.

He should have waited for Logan, said a faint voice in the back of his head.

A blood curdling scream sounded, piercing the wall and reaching the apartment above.

So loud it was, that Logan and Reman jolted awake, dread filling their hearts as they recognized the voice.