#Vestige has a cold!!!!

[rvnwtch]

Vestige sick fic is LIVE!

“Now will you let me help you… Please?”

The Vestige nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” They shuffled after him and ignored the pain that was developing in the back of their head. “But I’m paying you like I would a real healer!” They said close on his heels.

Fennorian stopped in his tracks and the Vestige bumped into him. “Am I not a real healer to you?” He asked exasperatedly.

The Vestige’s heart sped up, had they really just said something so stupid?

The Vestige gets a cold and tries their hardest to hide it from Fennorian. Will they be able to rely on Fennorian to make them feel better?

[silver-horse]

Mannimarco will need to apply cold water after that burn

[avocado-writing]

being the worst wolverine’s wife and one day you get zapped by the TVA for whatever reason, and it looks like you completely disappeared, this is what leads logan to become depressed, start drinking and ultimately ignore the x men when they die etc etc

he goes with wade purely bc he would if you were alive- he couldn’t give less of a shit about wade’s universe but he can feel you over his shoulder like an angel telling him he needs to do this (i imagine it’s like the jean hallucinations he had in the wolverine movie)

what if you’re in the void and he finds you with the rest of the group, like being unable to believe you’re really here?

hehe i love angst and ily avo <3

I already did a “Logan meets you in the void” fic here so I didn’t wanna make this too long or I’d just end up hitting the same beats!

1.4k. rated m for excessive use of the word “fuck”

The day you disappeared you took his fucking soul with him. 

You had been out shopping. Nothing weird about that, he wasn’t some overbearing husband who demanded to know your location every single hour. But then afternoon had turned into evening had turned into night and nobody had heard from you. The unfamiliar sensation of panic had risen, queasy, from his stomach into his chest. They sent out a search party and looked for days. Not a trace of you to be found. Logan couldn’t smell you. Fuck, he’d never not been able to smell you before.

He would hunt for you every day, hoping to find you alive but trying to level with the idea of you being cold and dead because at least then he’d have closure; he’d stay awake for hours on end until he collapsed from exhaustion… then he’d wake up and repeat the whole horrible affair. Nothing. After weeks of searching, Charles had laid a hand on his arm. Logan can still remember the look of pity on his face, like a bomb to the gut. 

“I’m so sorry, Logan.”

They had to assume you were abducted and killed. Your body never turned up. And Logan just had to… keep going. How was he meant to keep going? You were his entire fucking life and then you were just…

Gone. 

To say he was left empty was the biggest understatement of his fucking life. He was a shell of the man he once was. He never laughed any more, never smiled, always trying to plug the hole your absence left in him with whatever alcohol he could get his hands on. Drink himself to a place where he could forget you.

It never really worked. At least it made him numb to the pain though. 

When he staggers home one evening, eyes bleary and head spinning, and finds the whole mansion torched? Everyone left that he loved fucking dead? Well, it takes the last vestiges of his existence and crushes them into dust. 

Oh, Logan, he hears in the back of his mind. Your voice. It breaks him. He falls to his knees, hands buried in the burning timbers, and wails. 

He survives. He does not live. Thinking about everyone he’s lost, with you haunting the corners of his consciousness, always reaching out to comfort him - but when he goes to nuzzle into the warmth of your palm he is overcome with rage and bitterness to find it’s just his own imagination playing tricks on him. 

Then a fucking idiot in red dragged him away from the shambles which was his life and forced him to be functional again, if only barely. He’s angry, so angry all of the goddamn time, even when in the back of his mind he can hear you speaking sweet, calming words to him. 

And then he hears your voice for real. 

Sees you standing across the base this pathetic resistance has made. You look older, sure, he does too - but there’s no mistaking the fire in those eyes. You’re even wearing the same fucking shirt you went missing in, he remembers it, it has a picture of your favourite band. 

His heart stops dead in his chest as you whisper his name. 

“Logan?”

“Oh shit!” says Wade, and Logan has never wanted to kill him more, “Oh shit! Is this your refrigeratored wife, coming back to throw in a third act character arc?”

Logan finishes the bourbon bottle and throws the empty at Wade’s head, where it shatters and knocks him flat. You wince at the violence and he feels like pure shit. 

“I’m fine,” Wade calls from the ground, sticking a thumbs-up into the air. 

“Logan, I…” you clearly want to say something, but you have not been met with the Logan you knew. That Logan would have spent no time running to pick you up and hold you in his arms. This one half-snarls at the man he bloodied on the floor. 

There is an agonising silence, both of you wanting to speak but not being sure how. You take a hesitant step forward. 

“I never thought I’d…”

“How do I know it’s you?”

You recoil like he’s stabbed you with his claws, confusion and hurt flooding your face. Goddamn. He is the worst man alive. He’s not sure if he’s saying it because he just wants to lash out at the nearest person, or…

… or if, because he gets his hopes up, it might just kill him to have them crash down again. 

“What?”

“All these fuckin’ timelines. How do I know? How can I be sure that you’re you?”

The sadness in your face melts away into anger. When you step forward this time, you’re on the warpath. He sees the others in the room cringe, trapped now in this caustic reunion. 

“How can you be sure it’s me? Fuck, Logan, I knew it was you, didn’t I? What do you want? You want me to show you the shitty tattoo I got after we first started dating and we were both drunk?” You lift your sleeve to reveal a little design on your shoulder. “Want me to tell you how an eighteen-year-old Marie was my bridesmaid and she cried because she didn’t think anyone would ever be that kind to her after living as a mutant again? Want me to fucking remind you that in my vows I said I would be by your side, for fucking ever, no matter what - and how when that TVA agent zapped me when I was out for the day and I ended up here, it was only the thought of fulfilling those vows which kept me going? How about all that, or do I fucking need to humiliate myself more?” At this, you gesture to the others who have lined up at the side of the room, trying to look scarce but utterly failing. 

Your shoulders are heaving with emotions, tears hot and heavy in your eyes but not yet spilling over. Logan grits his jaw. Yeah. It’s you. 

“I…” he starts, but trails off when he realises there’s nothing he can say. You shake your head, numb. 

“Fuck you, Logan Howlett,” you spit, words you’ve never ever thrown his way before, and run out of the room. 

“Wow. Aced that one, peanut,” says Wade, and Logan rips off one of his legs. 

He finds you several hours later at a campfire outside the rundown building which makes up headquarters. LeBeau has clearly been kind enough to part with some of his liquor, because you’re gulping down whiskey like it’s air. You stare at him, embers dancing in bitter eyes. 

“What do you want?” you snap. He grunts as he sits down opposite you, either from age or exertion. Stares into the flames. 

“I never stopped looking,” he manages. 

You blink. 

“What?”

“I never…” he shifts uncomfortably. It’s been a long time since he bared this much of his soul. “I never stopped. Even when the others told me to give up, that I would only make it worse for myself, I’d still search. Couldn’t face the idea you weren’t there any more.”

It’s true. If he was twelve bottles deep he’d be looking, if he was hungover as a dog he’d be looking. When the rest of the X-Men were still there and even after they weren’t. If he wasn’t sitting at a bar he was on the streets, ever a bloodhound trying to catch your scent again. 

For the first time you soften. 

“Oh.”

“So… when I asked if it was you… ah, fuck. I didn’t mean to come off as an asshole. Just couldn’t live with it if it wasn't true. Wasn’t real.”

When you stand he expects a slap. He deserves it. What he doesn’t count on is you sitting down - not on the log next to him, but in his lap. He hasn’t felt you do that for so long, and it’s so good. Your warmth on his thigh. You grab one of his hands, still larger than yours, and press it to your chest so he can feel your beating heart. 

“I’m real, Logan. I’m right here, baby,” you whisper, eyes dewy. Fuck. His are as well; he can’t help it. He’s overwhelmed by you, your feel, your gaze, your smell. He’d forgotten how much he loved it. 

Logan noses upwards against you, searching for your lips, and you let him find them. When you stroke his hair he can feel the wedding ring on your left hand. The kiss is desperate, longing, and the best one he’s ever had. 

“Right here,” you repeat, forehead against his. He grips you so tightly that it’s possible he’ll never let go again. 

[dolche-tejada]

You know, I think this ending would have been slightly less of a fucking disappointment if the heroes hadn't been so unfairly favored by Horikoshi compared to the villains. I mean, seriously

Deku destroys every bone in his body multiple times throughout the story and is warned that if he continues, he'll permanently lose the use of his limbs ? Everything's fine, his body's just got used to being reduced to a bloody pulp somehow so there's no consequences for him. In fact even when he literally loses his arms to Shigaraki, he gets them back two minutes later thanks to Eri because guess what ? Her horn still works even when cut off from her body. How convenient.

Gran Torino gets his ribcage obliterated by Shigaraki ? Don't worry guys, he'll survive that despite his old age and injuries, and this to have no particular role in the plot afterwards.

Bakugo dies heroically trying to buy time before Deku arrives ? Lmao, did you really believe it ?? No of course not, Edgeshot just uses his last-minute Deus Ex Machina to save his life at the cost of his own and- Oops nope he's fine too, my bad !

Hawks murders a criminal fleeing for his life in cold-blood ? The best Hori has to offer is him completely free and in charge of the HSPC.

And no, losing his quirk isn't a real consequence for him because not only it literally played a major part in saving the world with Vestige!Hawks raising an insurrection among AFO's quirks, but also because his quirk has always been the element through which people exploited him.

Endeavor abused his family for years and completely destroyed his eldest son ? No jail time and no media backlash for that, the only blame he received was due to the heroes' failure to stop the League during the Raid Arc.

And don't even get me started on this bs about facing hell or whatever for what he's done : He's literally free and wealthy ; he have Rei, Fuyumi, Shoto, his sidekicks and Hawks on his side ; and all the difficulties he's apparently going to suffer are off-screened.

Deku had to sacrifice OFA and his future hero career to save the world ? Guess what, Bakugo invested all his time and money to make him an Iron-Man suit and now he can still be a hero with everyone else.

There are plenty more examples of this but I think you get the idea. Now let's take a look at the villains' ending :

Toya is now a piece of charcoal kept artificially alive for the few years he has left, unable to move a finger, and whose few minutes a day during which he can stay awake will be spent talking to his father who abused him as a child.

Toga, a literal teenager, killed herself to save Ochako and because she knew it's still better than rotting at Tartarus her whole life.

And not only did she die but she did by bleding to death. Let me repeat for those who have trouble grasping what I've just said : In a manga where the heroes can survive having their heart blown to bits, being impaled Kakyoin-style or smashed against buildings like a fly on a windshield, one of the main antagonists died of a fucking hemorrhage…

As for Shigaraki, after learning that his very birth and all the tragedies of his life have been orchestrated by AFO, after all this development and narrative promises about him being saved in the end... Deku just kills him.

Because despite all his speeches about saving him, it seems like the best he could do was beating him both physically and mentally until he crumbles to dust…

Compress on his side is apparently locked up for life and kept alive by machines too.

A begging Kurogiri tried in a desperate attempt to save Shigaraki, only to be unceremoniously blown up by Bakugo and dying off-screen without anyone giving a shit, including Aizawa and Mic.

And Spinner will now spend the rest of his life struggling with the extra quirks inside him that affect his body and mind, while having to cope with the thought that his boyfriend best friend and companions have either died alone or are locked away for life in horrifying circumstances.

Clearly not the same as with the heroes...

Now don't get me wrong, even if they suffered just as much from the consequences of their actions or the plot as the League, this ending would still be a disaster in terms of writing but AT LEAST it wouldn't reek that much of hypocrisy.

[pseudowho]

Post-ShibuyaAU! Grey Nanami Kento Headcanons, Part 2

(help me find the Nanami artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

As an accompaniment to my story, Grey (link here); an AU where Nanami survives Shibuya exploration because I'm never going to be over his loss.

Part 1 of Greynami Headcanons, link here

Christmas Greynami Headcanons, link here

Warnings: Severe injury (burns, eye loss), PTSD, alcohol use, depression, light smut, angst, AU headcanons

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Before he met you:

AU!Nanami Kento who takes up smoking again, a habit he had while working as a salaryman. His voice becomes rougher, more gravelly, irritated by the tobacco.

AU!Nanami Kento whose parents weep and stroke his healed burned face the first time they see him post-Shibuya, devastated by the suffering their little boy has experienced.

AU!Nanami Kento who sees that pain in his mothers' eyes every time he visits her. She can't help it. She's just heartbroken she couldn't keep her baby safe.

AU!Nanami Kento who begins to screen his parents' calls, not visit for dinner like he used to, and sends birthday gifts in the post instead of in person. Causing them distress by exposing them to his brutal injuries is a stress he's too fragile to cope with.

AU!Nanami Kento who listens to his fathers' long voicemails every night after a few drinks.

AU!Nanami Kento who often doesn't go home between missions, sleeping against walls in old buildings instead, a cold uncomfortable sleep preferable to a deep sleep with nightmares.

AU!Nanami Kento who alters his wardrobe after his tie, which he was unusually fond of, was destroyed by Jogo's flames. He can't find the tie for sale anymore. His beige suits just don't feel the same without it.

AU!Nanami Kento gives the last vestiges of his emotional energy to Yuuji, knowing he needs support, not wanting Yuuji to know he's struggling, not wanting to add more to Yuuji's already full plate.

AU!Nanami Kento who used to daydream about being a father one day, but now, being loved and giving love in return feels so remote and unlikely

After he meets you:

AU!Nanami Kento who tries to hide his trauma at first, afraid it will be too much baggage for you.

AU!Nanami Kento who is grateful to the very depths of his soul when you make it clear that he could never be too traumatised to be loved; you are each others' therapist, confidant, and sexy best friend.

AU!Nanami Kento, who struggles through reducing his alcohol and cigarette intake, with your steadfast support.

AU!Nanami Kento whose home screen photo is one of you asleep, snuggled into his chest, drooling; you hate it, he absolutely refuses to change it.

AU!Nanami Kento who confesses to you on one snowy evening walk; he tells you the moon looks beautiful tonight and you're on tiptoes kissing him before he can even finish his sentence.

AU!Nanami Kento who takes up baking bread overnight if he can't sleep, the process cathartic and soothing. You know he's had a bad night when you wake up to warm bakery smells.

AU!Nanami Kento and you, whose home becomes a refuge for all the kids who know where the spare key is hidden.

AU!Nanami Kento who has made up the spare room for Yuuta, Inumaki and Nobara at separate points in just one week.

AU!Nanami Kento, who makes sure you buy extra bottles of burn ointment, and delivers them to Maki when he gets the chance.

AU!Nanami Kento, stood at the bathroom counter which you sit on, facing him, your legs wrapped around his hips, as you gently shave around his scars. Kento rests his hands on your waist, slipping his fingers under your shirt, just to feel your skin.

AU!Nanami Kento, whose towel comes loose and drops to the floor, staring into your eyes in challenge. You last a few seconds before your eyes flick down, drinking in the beautiful nudity of him.

AU!Nanami Kento who immediately throws you over his shoulder, and carries you to your bedroom while you squeal and laugh, being promptly de-clothed by him.

AU!Nanami Kento who behaves the second time you sit on the counter, to finish the job you started; he looks at you with a naughty glint in his eye.

AU!Nanami Kento who, with your support and continuous company on his missions, finds his power grows rapidly; he manages five black flashes in a row, and feels he may be nearing domain establishment.

AU!Nanami Kento who, after a rocky start with Higuruma Hiromi, becomes his firm friend, forming an intensely unstoppable duo. Ino is only a little bit jealous.

AU!Nanami Kento who finally calls his parents with your encouragement. He can't help but tell them about you immediately. They're thrilled, and want you round for dinner as soon as possible.

AU!Nanami Kento who is mortified as you and his mother coo over his baby photos.

AU!Nanami Kento who is stunned into silence when, in the car on the way home, you wonder out loud if your babies will look more like you or him.

AU!Nanami Kento who throws you into bed the moment you get home, face between your legs and drunk on the taste and sounds of you, until you're begging him to come closer; he graciously complies, his mind full of your future home, tiny footsteps and laughter as you cling to him in bliss.

AU!Nanami Kento who goes looking for rings on his days off; it's a huge decision, and one he ponders over for months, so in the meantime, he buys you a watch which perfectly matches his own.

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More love for Greynami. I'll do some bigger stories at some point too.

Part 1 of Greynami Headcanons link here

Thanks as always to @silkspunweb for being my muse and fellow unhinged friend.

[honeybeebard]

Other Forms of Stimulation (Gale x Reader)

Summary// After a fight in the Shadowlands that very nearly takes your life, you realize just what Gale meant when he mentioned that book about brushes with death.

(I am so down bad for this wizard and I had to write this. It has been a while since I’ve written so I hope you all like it!! I’d love to write more if anyone is interested but for now, enjoy this :)! Also, while this is in second person, the name used for you is Tav!) 

WARNINGS: 18+, smut, talks of almost dying

As your sword cuts across the last of the shadow entities you stumble to the ground, your knees aching as you take in a deep breath. The only sound you can hear is your heartbeat as it thrums in your ears, your mind racing to catch up with what had just happened. 

It had been an ambush that, thanks to the curse, you couldn’t have even perceived coming. You and your friends were already weak after the fight with the cursed drider and his group of cultists so the last thing you were prepared for was something like this on your way back to camp.

However, your group had made you proud as they battled the shadows fiercely. Karlach and her great axe, Gale and his magic, and even Astarion was kicking misty ass with his longbow. It would have been over within minutes if you had been more on guard, if you had realized just how far you had gotten from your friends while fighting. 

A cold chill, like a kiss of death, had raced up your spine as you felt one of the wicked creatures wrap its hand around your ankle, knocking you prone and dragging you into the darkness. The scream you had let out could’ve woken the dead as you dug your nails into the rocky earth, scrambling for anything to hold onto. 

Darkness wrapped around you within seconds, your mind screaming in pain as you felt this dark energy seep into your lungs and heart. It only lasted seconds at most before Gale had saved you, a gigantic fireball lighting up the sky, but to you, it felt like hours. 

The warm hand that had pulled you back to the light was your lifeline, your words dying in your throat as you looked up at Gale who was surveying you for any damages. He had been so focused that he forgot about the fight, forgot about everything that wasn’t you, but you saw one of the wretched creatures coming towards him with its claws raised.

That was when you had leaped forward, using the last of your adrenaline rush to throw Gale back behind you and cleave the beast in two. It had let out an inhumane screech, turning into a vestige before your eyes. 

Now, as reality comes back to you, so does the realization of just how close to death you had been. You turn to examine the damage, seeing your companions in various stages of exhaustion. Astarion was leaning on Karlach who was leaning on her axe, both of them complaining about wanting to go to bed which made you smile. When you turned to look at Gale you saw him watching you with a mixture of awe and concern, strands of hair stuck to his forehead. 

Your eyes locked together, the tension from the past few weeks of adventuring and the fight coming to a head as you saw him move his gaze from your face to the rest of your body.

It could have been an innocent survey to see if you were hurt but when you saw the color of his cheeks and the way he licked his lips you knew it was something much more darker. Lustful, even. “I, um, once read a book that explained in some detail the effect the brush of danger has on one’s desires for uh…other forms of stimulation. Have you ever read anything on that subject?”

Gale’s earlier flirtation came to the forefront of your mind as the world seemed to close in on the two of you. While you were absorbed in your thoughts, Karlach and Astarion seemed to catch on to what was about to happen. Or, Astarion did at least. 

“Come now Karlach, camp’s just up ahead and I don’t want to be here to hear their pathetic humping in the bushes.” The vampire snarked, his smirk growing when you sent him a warning glare. Karlach gave you and the wizard her own knowing smile, wiggling her eyebrows, before dragging Astarion away towards the nearby campfire. 

“I, um, want to thank you for-” Gale began, stepping closer to you only to grunt in surprise when you all but grabbed him by the collar and went to a nearby tree, thankful for the brazier that was lit close by. “What are you doing?!”

“Thanking you for saving my life…and showing you how much I know about that book you mentioned earlier,” You smiled, pressing him up against the bark before pulling back slightly. “That is, if you want me to. I thought you were flirting earlier but if you were just going on another rant I am so sorry-”

He silenced you with a heated kiss, his soft hands coming up to cup your face gently as he spun the two of you around so that now your back was against the tree. “Hush now,” Gale murmured, his eyes dark as he slipped a hand up your blouse. “You’re talking too much.”

“That’s rich coming from you-ah!” You gasped, back arching as deft fingers went under your bra to palm at your nipples. It felt incredible. “Gods, Gale, more please.”

Gale hummed to himself, helping you rid yourself of your top and maneuvering your pants to sit around your ankles. It had been years since he had taken a mortal lover but he had been head over heels for you for a while. He intended to prove himself worthy to you. Worthy of saving you. 

Worthy of you.

You pulled him from his thoughts with another kiss, this one rougher than the last. The adrenaline seemed to be wearing off but somehow the desire was only increasing. He groaned low in his throat when your tongue brushed against his, tasting the uniqueness of you before he pried himself away. A whine grew in your chest but it was cut off when you saw him sink to his knees, his large hands resting on either of your thighs.

“Gale, I…” You trailed off as you watched him through your lashes. “What are you doing?” His gaze was intense as he tugged your pants the rest of the way down along with your underwear, settling himself between your legs as his lips turned up in a wicked smirk. 

“Thanking you for saving my life.” He echoed your earlier statement, his brown eyes twinkling with amusement before he trailed a single finger down your sex. You let out a huff of air when he brushed your clit, blushing as he felt just how slick you were as he whispered, “By the weave, Tav, you’re dripping.”

A whine builds in your throat once more as he continues his ministrations. He gently dips two fingers into your aching cunt, his own groan covering another one of your cries from just how tightly you grip his fingers. You can’t stop from bucking your hips forward towards him, silently begging him for more stimulation.

“Such impatience.” He chides playfully though you can see how ragged his breathing has gotten. 

“Perhaps you should hurry up then, wizard.” You say through clenched teeth, your eyes fluttering close as he bristles at your challenge and suddenly buries himself between your legs, licking a long stripe up your pussy. It was divine. “Fuck, yes!”

Gale’s tongue sets a pace that immediately has your thighs shaking, your hands flying into his chestnut hair as he shows you just how talented his tongue can be outside of spellcasting. You had lovers in the past who would taste you, some hesitant and some enthusiastic, but none of them even came close to the man beneath you. 

His nose bumps against your clit with each fervent lick, savoring the taste like he was a man starving. You raise one of your hands over your head, the other still fists in Gale’s hair, and start to roll your hips in time with his tongue. He moans into your cunt, his fingers digging into your thighs until you are they are going to leave bruises. 

“Please, Gale, gods it feels so good,” You whimper, voice an octave higher as he finally seals his lips around your clit and sucks. “Ah!”

“That’s it, love, take what you need.” He growls, worshipping your pretty pussy as one of his hands rustles under his clothes to rub against his aching cock. It was already hard and leaking, a stain on the front of his pants that he was sure he would be embarrassed about later. 

Your ears perk up at the schlik sound, your head dropping to watch as he fisted himself while eating you out. His eyes found yours, watching you in adoration, which made your hips increase in desperation. At some point you had hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, grinding deeper into his face to the point you were afraid you would smother him. 

Not that you think he would mind that.

A fire starts to brew in your stomach as he holds your gaze, his own hips rutting up in a desperate attempt to find release. You can feel yourself on the edge as he starts flicking your clit with the tip of his tongue, the sounds positively sinful. And just as you find yourself tipping over into the pleasurable abyss of Gale’s tongue, your defenses come down and your tadpole greedily reaches out to his.

He flinches at first, his pace stuttering as he sees himself through your eyes. The desperate look in his eyes, the way the entire bottom half of his face is covered in your arousal as he fucks himself needily into his hand. Gale could practically feel your pleasure through the link and it spurs on his own orgasm.

You feel your voice grow hoarse from your screams of pleasure, not caring that the camp could hear as Gale continued to take everything you gave him. For a moment you swore you could see the orb in his chest pulse with untamed magic, could feel an electric current pulse through your veins right before he pulled away with a gasp of air.

Gale smiles up at you as you sag into the tree. He takes in your disheveled appearance, from your hair to your slick-covered thighs, and ingrains the vision into his memory. You have never looked more beautiful. 

“I should,” You begin, chuckling when it takes you a moment to catch your breath. “I should save your life more often if that is my reward.”

“You don’t have to do anything quite so grave for us to do this again, Tav.” He murmurs, watching as you sink to your knees to join him on the ground. “I would gladly spend eternity between your thighs if you asked me. It is better than any heaven promised to me by the gods.”

Your lips turn up in a wicked smirk as you take his cum covered hand and bring it to your mouth, sucking the digits clean as you make sure to keep eye contact. Gale tenses, his mouth parting as you bat your eyelashes innocently. 

“I might take you up on that offer but first…” You trail off, pulling him closer so that your lips brush his cheek. “We have to face Astarion’s teasing.”

A loud laugh escapes his chest as he shakes his head at your teasing, cupping your face and kissing you tenderly. The taste of your and his cum mingles pleasantly on his tongue and he has to stop himself from deepening the kiss. 

“A small price to pay.” He smiles, standing up and holding his hand out for you. “Come, let’s show him exactly what a pleased woman looks like.”

[twola]

idk if this is too vague, but arthur/f!reader in the classic trope of, oh my god I can't believe we both almost just died sex? did they both almost drown? Was there a fire? did he save her life? who knows! i feel like arthur would sees the woman he loves almost die and immediately fuck about it

Okay this has been in my asks for WAY too long and it’s such a good one and I wanted to do it justice.

Left Unsaid

Arthur Morgan x F!Reader Smut (18+), MDNI

➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ AO3 Link

When he think's he's almost lost you in a run-in with a rival gang, Arthur quickly gets over his nervousness in approaching you.

The bloodcurdling scream jolts him from sleep, making him stumble up from where he was sitting on a rickety chair in the main room of the old cabin. At first, he thinks it's a dream, but when the sound of breaking glass pierces the night, Arthur shoots up; the chair falling to the ground in a clatter as he quickly shakes the vestiges of sleep from his mind.

This abandoned cabin off of Eris Field seemed the perfect place to spend the night instead of making the trek all the way back to Shady Belle tonight - your yawning from behind him on his horse had him chuckling as he made the decision to stay - doing the gentlemanly thing and giving you the bedroom with the old single bed. As much as he’d like to be sharing it with you - he remained externally aloof - proclaiming that he’d sleep on the chair in the main room. He certainly did not dare to ask to share your bed - not now, probably not ever. 

But the rustling and thumping behind the door where you sleep has his heart racing - his hand flies to his revolver as he readies himself to throw his shoulder into the door and shoot whatever it is that is making that noise, but the door bursts open before he gets the chance.

A man stands on the threshold - dirty, and grimy, with a faded gray woolen military uniform and a yellow bandana around his neck.

Of course, goddamn Lemoyne Raiders.

The raider holds up his knife in front of him, and in the din of movement and chaos around them, Arthur can see the liquid sheen over the steel in the man’s hand.

The knife, dripping with blood. The man, seemingly unharmed. The door, slightly ajar, to the bedroom where you slept.

A cold stone settles in Arthur’s gut as he puts the pieces together. In an instant, he snarls, diving toward the man with little regard for his own person, tackling him to the ground and ready to rip him apart with his bare hands for what he’s done to you. As Arthur mounts himself on the man’s chest and begins to strangle him, the movement knocks the oil lantern off the table, crashing to the wooden floor and immediately bursting into flame.

The man’s neck snaps between Arthur’s hands and he immediately leaps up, moving toward the bedroom where you were sleeping.

Another body crashes into him, a Lemoyne Raider dressed like he is straight out of a Civil War battle tackles Arthur to the ground, the two of them tumbling along the floor and breaking through the rickety door to the porch. Arthur rolls backward, unsheathing his hunting knife as he grits his teeth, ready to slice this damn bastard into shreds.

Of course, the wannabe soldier is no match for the hardened outlaw. They sure as hell don’t make them like they used to. Arthur easily dodges a swing of the man’s fist and throws his weight forward. He sinks his knife into the raider’s gut, and immediately shoves him to the ground. He gurgles blood from his mouth as Arthur rushes over him, back toward the house.

The flames burst out the windows as he barrels back toward the door, grabbing at the handle and cursing aloud as it burns him. 

The constriction in his chest has settled into a churning in his gut as he prepared to kick the door in. At this point would he be finding your charred, lifeless body, having bled out on the floor because he couldn’t protect you?

“Arthur-!”

He steps off the porch, not sure if he is lightheaded or hallucinating, but you move toward him, hitching your skirts, blood covering your blouse, your hair wild.

“Jesus-” He crashes into you, having nearly leaped the final few steps, crushing you into his chest, nearly causing you to stumble.

He yanks you back, large hands on your shoulders, and looks you up and down, eyeing the blood patch on your blouse.

“N-not mine.” You breathe, but he does not move his hand from your ribcage. It presses inward, against the wet cotton, splaying across your side as if he did not believe you, checking for where the knife would have marred your flesh.

“Arthur-” You whisper, your hands tight on his biceps, “I’m alright.”

His eyes dart back up to yours, searching, pupils dilated, breathing heavily.

“Ar-”

You’re cut off completely as he pulls you against him and presses his lips desperately against yours, muffling your surprised yelp as his tongue demands entrance into your mouth. After a moment of shock, you melt into his embrace, fingers tightening on his shirt sleeves as you open your mouth to him.

He kisses you like you are the air he breathes. Like you are some kind of salvation… like he thought he almost lost something.

Arthur pulls back, breathing heavily, a flush having taken over his face, “Christ-” he goes to unwind his arms from you, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have-”

It’s his turn to be cut off as your hands immediately travel to the collar of his shirt and you pull him down to your lips to kiss him again, needy as you moan into his mouth.

His arms immediately recircle you, hands moving down from your ribs, down, down to your waist, your hips, your rear. Hooking his arms around the back of your thighs, you’re lifted up, squealing in surprise into his mouth as you wrap your legs around his waist. 

Continuing to press into each other's mouths, you barely notice him walking the two of you back, further from the flaming cabin, into the woodline, and finally against a tree trunk a safe distance away. He pulls back, panting as you recline against it, his arms tight under your thighs.

He gazes upon your kiss-swollen lips; your heaving chest as you breathe heavily, your pupils blown wide in arousal. Arthur takes the opportunity to roll his hips once, his hardening cock pressing against your cunt, and your eyes flutter closed as a needy, breathy whine escapes your lips.

“Arthur-”

He does it again, maybe for his sake as much as your own, the blood rushing to his groin and filling his cock properly. He grits his teeth as the rolling becomes rutting, your gasps driving him insane.

Before he gets to the point of no return, he slows his hips and leans over to recapture your lips in another kiss. As he pulls his 

“Thinkin’ you was dead back there-” He pushes his lips to yours again, “Christ- I… I never told you-” 

One of his hands leaves your thighs, but you have no fear he’s going to drop you. He buries it in layers of cotton, pulling at your skirts to move them from his way, reaching your bloomers and pressing against your cunt, watching your face intently as you moan, the cotton separating you quickly dampening against his fingers.

He leans in again and groans against your neck. Grabbing the cotton tightly, he yanks until he feels the seams give way, the tearing sound ringing in his ears as he delves within the ruined fabric to your soaking folds. You jolt against him and whine loudly as he slides his fingers along the seam of your body.

Arthur covers your mouth with his own as he sinks his fingers into you, working you open as you clutch desperately at his shoulders.

After you’ve cried out several times in the night, his hand leaves you and you sigh at the loss, he shushes you gently as he works at the buttons of his trousers, finally freeing his cock from his pants after moments of fiddling. His hand returns to your thigh as he adjusts you in his arms. The head of his cock presses gently against the rim of your cunt.

Your hands move from his shoulders to cup his face, your thumb tracing his lower lip gently before he sucks the tip into his mouth, his eyes trained on yours.

He pulses his hips and his cockhead slips inside you. Your brows crinkle with the first vestiges of the ache of penetration, and he leans forward again to press his lips upon your forehead.

“What did you never tell me?” You whisper as he holds you on the cusp of joining, the precipice of sheathing himself into you.

One of his hands leaves your thigh, though you are completely unafraid of falling with your legs wrapped around him and the strength of his other arm. His fingers brush back a strand of your hair from your forehead, tucking it gently behind your ear before his rough and calloused palm rests on your cheek.

“You’d have died and I woulda never told you I’m in love with you.”

Your eyebrows raise in shock as you clutch at him, and while you remain silent, after a moment, you pull him closer with your legs, nudging his back with your ankles, and he slowly slides himself inside you, inch by inch, until your hips touch and you mewl with the stretch. He hums softly before slowly, gently, rocking his hips, starting a slow rhythm as you get used to him.

His powerful arms keep you suspended against the tree trunk with each roll of his hips, each glide of the inches of him in and out of you, well glossed and hot with your slick.

Arthur’s lips press to yours incessantly, muffling your gasps and whines as he presses into you. After one particularly deep thrust, you throw your head back in ecstasy, bumping against the trunk of the tree.

“Careful there, darlin’,” Arthur slows his hips, and tightening his grip on your thighs, he pulls you away from the tree, you yelp and tighten your legs around his hips. He chuckles softly as he walks you, still joined, a few steps from the tree and slowly lowers the both of you to the ground on a patch of grass. Spreading himself out over you, he buries his head against your neck as he lets go of your thighs, his forearms on either side of your shoulders, rocking his hips into yours again.

The staccato whine of the syllables of his name escapes you as you hook your ankles around each other over his back. Carding your hands through his hair, your fingers interweave between his honeyed strands, his hat long gone in your desperation to join yourselves.

He presses himself up above you as his thrusts become more erratic, his breathing loud and heavy as he pounds you into the ground.

“God-” you cry out as your hands grasp his shirt, “Arthur, yes-”

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly, looming over you as he careens toward completion.

You arch your back, your thighs wrapping tighter around him as you begin to babble - “Yes- Arthur… I love you too-”, another gasp as he hits that spot within you, “God - I love you so much-”

That’s it. There it is, stripped bare and bleeding out like an open wound, his heart catching in his chest at your confession, and his amazement leaves him speechless as he thrusts into you once more, holding himself as deep as he can possibly get into you, feeling you pulse and clutch around him, wailing your pleasure into the night. It’s only a moment more before he has the wherewithal to yank himself from you, in the nick of time as he spurts his seed over your cunt, dripping white into the dark curls at the joining of your legs.

He’s gasping, you’re gasping, and he groans as he settles himself to the side of you, barely able to hold himself up with the exertion. Your legs hang open as you pant, flushed from your cheeks down your neck.

One of his large hands spreads out over your chest, against your racing heart, and you turn your head toward him, breathing out through your nose as a smile graces your lips.

“Probably should get outta here before any more stragglers find us.” He says, out of breath as he removes his hand to tuck himself back into his trousers. You nod and sit up, pulling your skirts down over your legs.

“D’ya think…” you trail off as you watch him rebutton his pants before he pushes himself to stand. His hair is ridiculously ruffled from the amount of times you've run your fingers through it.

“Mm?” He holds out his hand to you to help you up. 

You take it, and he pulls you up into his embrace, his hand secure on your lower back.

“Was wondering if we could spend the rest of the night in Rhodes or somewhere instead of heading all the way back to camp…” You ask as you lay a hand on his chest.

He squeezes you closer to him. 

“Sounds mighty nice… certainly wouldn't mind a stay in a hotel room tonight.”

[icarusignite]

For Whom the Bell Tolls Masterlist

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Strong! Reader

Tropes: World War 2 HOTD AU, nurse x soldier, trauma bonding, childhood sweethearts, star-crossed lovers

Wattpad / AO3

Summary:

"The tragic hero is complete. You can call him unhappy (miserable, utterly broken) even before he is dead. For an instant, he is something divine, and then he dies, because there's nothing else left to do. The center of every tragedy is the image of a human being who has already died but keeps talking, someone whose face is a mask."

In the years preceding the inferno of the Second World War, the world dances precariously on the edge of destruction, teetering between disintegrating old empires and the looming dawn of new ones. In the heart of this volatile era, the Targaryen family rises to power through the might of their ironclad empire, the Targaryen Ammunitions Conglomerate. The story is set against a backdrop of a world torn between tradition and modernity, where the echoes of old wars linger in the corridors of power, and the spectre of new conflicts casts long shadows across the lives of those entangled in its web.

Viserys Targaryen, the Chief Executive Officer of Targaryen Ammunitions, is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. Decades before the world would be set ablaze, he cements his legacy, but at the cost of his own soul. The death of his first wife leaves him shattered, clinging to the last vestiges of humanity through the love he bears for his only daughter, Rhaenyra, his chosen heir. 

But even Viserys cannot escape the machinations of those around him. Drawn into a marriage with Alicent Hightower, his daughter's former college classmate, he finds himself ensnared in a web of deceit spun by her father. Otto Hightower's ambitions reach far beyond the bounds of mere familial ties; he seeks to control the empire itself, and the Targaryen family, once bound by blood and loyalty, begins to fracture as ambition and betrayal take root.

Rhaenyra, a woman of fierce independence and unyielding spirit, is forced into a life she never wanted. Pressured by her father and the demands of his legacy, she is coerced into a marriage of convenience with Laenor Velaryon, a man whose own struggles mirror her own. Their union is one of necessity, where neither partner truly belongs to the other, yet, in their shared discomfort and understanding, they find solace, forging a partnership that defies the world's expectations. Laenor, hiding his true nature in a society that would cast him out, finds safety in the match, while she, in turn, secures the power and stability she needs to maintain her position as her father's heir.

Years pass, and the couple's inability to have children leads them down a different path—a path that brings them to the doors of Harrenhall, where the recently deceased Harwin Strong leaves behind four orphaned children who have been disowned by his brother Larys in his greed for their fortune. Rhaenyra, with a heart as relentless as it is kind, cannot bring herself to separate the siblings, despite the dangers it may pose to her own ambitions. She adopts them all, bringing the Strong children into the fold of the Targaryen family.

As the eldest of these children, you are burdened by the weight of the world. At just ten years old, you have been forced to grow up far too quickly, stepping into the role of mother and protector to your younger siblings in the absence of your own. Your heart is a fortress, built stone by stone, your mistrust of the world as deep as the abyss. When you and your brothers are taken in by the Targaryens, your siblings find joy in the luxuries and love showered upon them by their new family, but you cannot let yourself believe in the comfort being offered, waiting for the moment when it will all be torn away.

Your fears are only compounded by the cold reception you receive from Rhaenyra's half-siblings, the children of Alicent Hightower. The second of these, Aemond Targaryen, is a boy who has grown up in the long shadow cast by his half-sister. Neglected by his father, who lavishes affection upon his new adoptive grandchildren, he harbours a deep resentment toward the Strong siblings. In his eyes, you are all usurpers, interlopers who have stolen all that should have been his and his alone. 

Nevertheless, the two of you find an unlikely ally in each other. Aemond, who despises the hollow privilege of his lineage, finds in you a kindred spirit, someone who understands the bitterness that festers in his heart. You, in turn, see in him a mirror of your own disillusionment, a boy lost in a world that seems intent on breaking him.

As the world outside your gilded cage hurtles toward cataclysm, your connection blossoms into something deeper, something tender, but just as your hearts begin to entwine, calamity, as it always does, intervenes.

Tragedy strikes the family, one blow after another, as the winds of war begin to howl across the continent. The fragile alliances that Rhaenyra has built start to crumble, and as Viserys struggles to hold his empire together, the rifts within his own family threaten to destroy everything he has worked for.

It is all made worse when a terrible accident steals away two precious loved ones, and in the aftermath, guilt weaves its thorny tendrils around Aemond's heart. At the tender age of eighteen, burdened by the weight of his own self-reproach, he severs all ties with his family, abandoning the name that has become a symbol of his anguish. He takes up his mother's maiden name, hoping to cast off the shackles of his past and live free from the burdens that have haunted him.

But in his flight from the wraiths of his former life, he leaves behind the only person who has ever understood him, to pick up the fractured remnants of their family. You are left all alone, as you have been for so much of your life, to mourn in silence, and the grief that once bound the two of you together now festers into a simmering resentment. Aemond does not write, nor does he respond to the countless letters you send, each one a plea for reconciliation, a desperate attempt to reach him across the chasm that has opened between you. 

Eventually, you receive word that he has been drafted into the conflict. The news shatters the fragile remnants of your dreams, the ambitions you once held of becoming a historian now buried beneath the rubble of a world on fire. You abandon everything and follow him into the inferno, earning the nursing certifications that place you at the very heart of the battlefield, where life and death are decided with every breath.

In this vast and chaotic landscape, the young lovers keep missing each other, like ships passing in the night, always just out of reach. Time and again, they come within moments of reunion, but never actually do. Until, at last, they are thrown together once more when a severely wounded and half-blind Aemond Hightower is brought into the makeshift clinic where you have been stationed.

The reunion is a storm of tears and apologies, a raw and unfiltered outpouring of the pain that has been carried for so long. For a few precious months, you have each other once more, as you tend to his injuries, nursing him back to some semblance of health. In those fleeting moments, the two of you cling to each other like drowning souls.

But fate is a fickle mistress, and there is nothing she loves more than to slit the throats of young lovers, and you are not spared the annihilation that has been written for you in the very stars, centuries before you were even born, a destiny that neither of you can escape, no matter how hard you try.

"You're going to die in your best friend's arms. And you play along because it's funny, because it's written down, you've memorized it, it's all you know."

CHAPTERS: (coming soon)

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter3

Chapter 4

A/N: This isn't going to be a full-length fic. It's going to be a collection of one-shots almost, or snippets jumping around the timeline to tell the most important parts of the story, so maybe 10-12 chapters at most. This way I won't bore yall with unnecessary filler chapters and still get to tell the story I want. The summary is about as much as you'll on the background tbh, this is meant to be an AemondxReader centric story. It's inspired by Atonement and every other WW2 movie I've ever watched.

Comment to lemme know if this is something you would be interested in and if you'd like to be added to the taglist.

Alternatively, add yourself to the taglist!

[heavencanbeaprisontoo]

Strip Me to My Bones

Slowburn!Tommy x autistic!fem!reader

Chapter One: The Mentalist of Minster

Prologue

Summary: You came to Birmingham for liberation, for freedom. To live. It was never your intention to attract the interest of a man with a red right hand. Yet you have, and for two years after meeting his cold gaze you were allowed to enjoy that freedom. But that cage may soon be closing on you again.

Warnings: Blackmail, period-typical sexism, contextual use of g-slur, Canon-typical violence, author is autistic, spoilers for series one possibly, slow burn. WC: 4.3k words

Like a Bengal tiger in the London Zoo. She doesn’t belong there, walking behind iron bars as the pads of her paws crease loose straw peppered on top of cold concrete. Onlookers gawk at a creature who has no way of hiding from their judgment. The handlers feed her, yes, but she is never fully satisfied.

For as long as you can remember, you have felt like a beast in a small cage. There are faded treads along the floorboards of your childhood bedroom. All caused by the pacing of the beast your family put into itchy dresses and floppy bows. You would tear at the vestiges of girlhood with vigor, but they would only grow tighter. Verbal language came late to you, a fact that your mother would hide by calling you “shy.” When the beast did speak, they were still not pleased, for she said precisely what she thought. You had a keen eye all your life, and to study your fellow man was what your mother had told you that you must do. Watch and observe those around you, so that you may one day learn how a lady must act. Unfortunately, you cared little for replicating what you saw. It was far more interesting to observe, analyze, and report. Which got you into trouble. Truthfulness and rudeness were twin siblings that you could not tell apart. Silence was forced back upon you.

The little things you did as a child that most adults found endearing became rude and unsightly. Rocking oneself back and forth was sweet for a child and unsettling for a teenager. You must stop that. Tracing the wood grain of your desk at school seemed creative until it wasn’t. You must stop that. Flapping your hands as you listen to your father’s records charmed many before you grew to about twelve. You must stop that. A caged beast can only pace, and so you did. You paced, and paced, and paced, and paced—

As you grew into adolescence, the cage stayed the same. Brother was allowed to journey off for his business and leisure. Sister attended school far from home. You remained caged, for, like all odd creatures, it was for your own good. It did not matter how curious or clever you were. The world was too wild for you now, so said your parents. Father was seldom home, and when he was, you were never certain which version of him would greet you. There was the gentle Mr. Hargreaves, who would talk with you about patterns in history and compliment your keen insight. Then there was Father. The one who berated you for your awkwardness and kept to his study with a bottle of scotch that seemed to fill itself every other day. He was brilliant, your father. A man of meager means used his ability to identify patterns to predict the market and make a fortune through investing. He was intelligent, successful, charismatic, and deeply troubled. He fought forever with himself until one day he lost the fight.

You were in your early twenties when your father died. Unwed and still living in the family home, this was the greatest change you faced in your entire life. His death was hard to accept for many. Tears were still falling as his last will and testament were read before the family. All his fortune was to be split in four. A portion to your mother, brother, sister, and you. The amount was read. It was a lot. Enough money that your cage now has a door. One with a handle on the inside.

For the first time in years, you stood perfectly still as you had your thoughts on it all. If you were to leave this cage, it would be for good.

When you announced to your family that you intended to use your piece of inheritance to buy a flat, your mother was horrified. It took you six months to find a flat in a city that you found agreeable. For all six of those months, your mother tried and tried to talk you out of it. She reminded you of how overwhelming change could be for you, how you knew no one outside of the family, and how you had never known such loneliness. She cried over how you would be living like a widow in a world that would see you as a harlot for being young, unwed, and without a male figure. You answered with a smile, “I have never cared for the thoughts of onlookers, and I will not begin that habit today.”

That was the last time you had seen your mother. Three, no, five years ago. Now you were the resident of Flat B10, Minster Drive, at the heart of Small Heath. All under her maiden name, just to add that healthy bit of distance between you and the Hargreaves name.

You were quite content buying necessities (bread, milk, butter, and Belgian chocolates) and had no need to work the first year of your independence due to your inherited fortune. On days with fair weather, you would walk about Birmingham for hours. Journeying to museums, libraries, gardens, and occasionally the Cut. During one of your long walks along the canal, you encountered a weeping woman. Feeling compelled to comfort her, you went to her and inquired as to why she was upset. Over the course of an hour, you learned much about her life and gave her some thoughts on her various struggles. Despite your lack of worldly experience, something in the way you spoke moved her. She thanked you with wide eyes and both hands gripping yours tightly. You went on with your day.

The following week, she found you as you walked to your favorite reading spot. She had a friend with her who also needed your advice. So, you gave it. The two women put money into your hands. Oddly, they wouldn’t take it back when you tried to return it. This happened again three days later. To avoid being interrupted on your walks, you gave them your address and times of the day when you would not be occupied. Sure enough, the two women came to your home for your advice. Only this time, they were referring to you as though your observations were metaphysical or supernatural in nature. They referred a young man to you after this, an ex-soldier with a fractured mind. He left your home convinced that you had seen the innards of his soul. You merely asked him questions and made valid inferences. This mattered not to him or your rapidly growing list of interested customers. Thus began your strange occupation as a “mentalist.” Such a strange thing, you thought, to be sought out and paid to do that which polite society shunned you for. Observe, analyze, and report. Summon details from your mental filing cabinet to illuminate that which is not obvious to those around you.

It took some adjusting, but within a year, the random visitors became routine. Your earnings were unneeded, but not without their use. And your clients seemed so in need of an unjudging ear. It felt as if you were engaging in some sort of public service. So, you carried on. They started to call you The Mentalist on Minster.

On a rainy morning in late 1919, with your popularity on the rise, a man came to your door.

He stood tall in a long gray coat. Sharp gray suit underneath with a pinstripe shirt and a thick, white collar. The cap on his head combined with the collar told you straight away that he was one of those men the old lady next door complained about. Search the files behind your eyes, Peaky Blinder. It occurred to you quickly that there may be a problem. You thought it best to be direct. “Can I help you?”

His eyes move left, then right, taking in the surroundings. You knew that meant he didn’t want to be seen here. Interesting. He stared back at you with the bluest eyes you had ever seen, and he answered your question as lightly as possible. “You see the future, I hear.”

His face was somewhat tanned on the cheeks. Where would a gangster get a tan in Small Heath? The Cut. They get supplies from there, you once heard. Supplies for what mattered little to you.

“I see people, for a price. Not the future. Nobody can do that. It’s rather early, so I hope you’ve got money in that big coat.” You step aside to let him in. Slowly, he entered your home. The stranger had full lips and high cheekbones, almost womanly in his beauty. Your mind raced to identify who he was and why he was there. The women in town talked about a family of pretty gypsies; they are the ones running the gang. The name, the name... Search the files...

“I normally have tea prepared, but you don’t drink tea anyway, so I won’t bother with the kettle this time.” You took a seat on your favorite sofa and tried to look relaxed. You heard that the criminal sort would take advantage of those who seemed rattled and disorganized. Maybe you should have changed out of your robe. That was hardly on your mind; you were still trying to find the bloody name.

The stranger threaded his fingers together on his lap. “They say you can see inside of people; tell them things about them that even they don’t know.” His voice was low, but not deep. Smooth. Cold. There was an accusation in the way he spoke to you. A challenge. It was odd that he would come to you for services he himself didn’t seem to believe in.

You played glib, “My, that’s a lovely review of my services! I should put that on a sign outside my doorway.” His face doesn’t give away humor or irritation. The name comes to you. “Though I would rather know why you came to see me, Mr. Shelby, You are Mr. Shelby, yes?”

“That I am,” he seemed amused, “and I am not entirely sure why I came to see you either.”

He told you most of what you needed to know without saying a word. People in great stress and desperation tend to do that. What you heard from his eyes irritated you. This Mr. Shelby was trying to use you as a coin flip. Tip the scales in a direction so it will be easier for him to make a decision. As politely as you could, you told him to make his choice and move on. He seemed satisfied. You got your payment. He left.

Days turned to weeks and weeks to months. You found out his first name was Thomas, and that he went on to overthrow the track king of Birmingham, Billy Kimber. The Shelby family’s infamy grew rapidly in the following months. Not that it mattered to you, as you have a steady flow of clients now. You were never sure if it had to do with Mr. Shelby’s visit. Years passed, and a week after 1921 was hailed in, there was a knocking at your door.

You open it while holding your cup of tea in your right hand. When you saw his face, you sighed. You had a feeling your cup would go cold.

He stares at you as he had two years ago. Focused. Incredulous. Still waters. His face isn’t kissed by the sun anymore. Colder. He looks colder.

“You came back,” you say, taking a sip of tea, “and in a better suit, Mr. Thomas Shelby.”

Meeting your statement of the obvious with one of his own, he says, “And you’re dressed this time.” He gestured to your white blouse and mulberry skirt. “Might I come in?”

Just as you did the first time, you step aside and let the devil into your home. His head swivels around as he lurks through your home. Past the walls of shadowboxes, the bookshelves of ancient histories, and your various taxidermized creatures.

You take him right back to your sitting room. He starts to lower himself as you remember something and fish out a small stack of cards from your skirt pocket. “Ah, Mr. Shelby. Here.” Carefully, you hand him one plain business card with your new moniker, ‘The Mentalist on Minster,’ and your phone number. Mr. Shelby takes it and turns it over in his hand with a hum. “Moving forward, you’ll need to call ahead. I’m quite busy these days, and I simply can’t take any walk-ins. You’re fine for today, however.”

He pockets it, chuckling to himself. Upon sitting down on the client’s sofa, his mood seems to darken. “It’s strange, isn’t it? The things that change and the things that stay the same?"

You don’t sit, not right away. His deep blue eyes find you standing in the doorway. “Is that a comment on my decorating or an opening for this second unscheduled visit?" Thomas puts his eyes back on your vine-covered window. They're thicker now, the vines. Some might call it growth. Others might call it a sign of decay. You wonder in which category you could place this man in your home. 

Mr. Shelby takes out a cigarette, lighting it. He doesn't ask permission. Mr. Shelby puts his cigarette on his lips, but he only holds it there. You can see his eyes flick at you briefly. All his motions are smooth and slow, even the small ones. “How did all this start? This business of yours.”

This conversation is irritating you, and it's only just begun. What sort of person arrives unannounced at someone's home just to waste their time? You cross your arms and say, “People tell me things; I listen, and then they give me money.” 

He takes a drag. Exhales. “They pay you to tell you things.”

Leaning against the doorway separating your sitting room from the dining room, you sigh, “I’m a very good listener, Mr. Shelby. So good, in fact, that people tell me things without even speaking.”

“Quite the ear you must have.” He's back to looking out the vine-covered window. 

You slip into the room and sit across from him with barely a thought to the cup in your hand. Tea might've dripped on your skirt, but it was worth it to finally see him move faster than a molasses drip to meet your eyes. “There are other ways to listen, of course. The way people move, speak, and shift in their seats It says more than anyone is willing to say.”

His lips purse as he nods thoughtfully. It didn’t seem terribly genuine, though. He clicks his tongue and asks, “Would you need to be in front of someone to ‘listen,’ to them?”

“Not always, but it can be difficult unless I can see the way they move. And to hear too much about someone can make it difficult because then my reading is tainted by the opinions of whoever informed me of the person. Bias is a powerful thing, you know.” You wait for him to respond. He just sits there, looking out your window. Unimpressed. “I am becoming irritated, Mr. Shelby. If you cannot explain your purpose in coming to my door, I will ask you to walk back out of it.”

Mr. Shelby doesn’t move; he doesn’t even blink. You set down your cup on the table that separates you and say, “It’s a woman. Again. A woman and your family, most likely. It certainly can’t be the law because you’ve come to me at a sensible hour. It can’t be money because, my God, you drove here. The only thing a man like you cannot control is love and family. When you lose your grasp on either one, you’re helpless. It’s too soft for you. It’s all the things you try to lock up so you can think clearly with bloodied fingers. Stop me if this starts to feel like a biography, Mr. Shelby.”

His eye stays on you, and his lips are parted around that blasted cigarette like a lover. Eyebrows raised just barely. The lion has been interrupted as he takes his drink at the watering hole. A beast recognizes one of its own kind, even in this place of concrete and smoke. You answer his question before he asks it: “I told you, people tell me things without even speaking.”

Finally, he says, “There’s a woman on my mind, and there she stays. No matter what I do,” he says, taking a long drag of his cigarette. Slow and deep.

“A bit pathetic to have the same problem twice you paused.“ Don’t repeat that; most of my repeat clients have repeat problems. Which shouldn’t bother me, as I do love to study patterns, but it is indeed pathetic. The woman isn’t dead, is she?”

A twitch at the corner of his lips hints at humor. You couldn't know that for Thomas Shelby, that was as close to a smile as many had gotten in several months. He exhales smoke from his nose; it curls around his head in a loose halo. “As far as I know, she is alive and well."

“Did she leave on her own, or did you shoo her away to try to be kind?”

A short, humorless chuckle escapes his lips. Either at being called ‘kind,’ or at your bluntness. It is hard to say. The halo dissipates in his loss of composure: “She was smart. She left.”

He seems to avoid meeting your gaze. It's not entirely unwelcome. Sometimes, when people look at you for too long, it feels like something is being asked of you that you cannot give. “It must be hard for you to be so arrogant and self-loathing all at once,” you state with sincerity.

He looked at you and gave you a nod of affirmation. "Whiskey helps."

"It clearly doesn't."

"It's a joke."

"It isn't funny,” you say, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, “and it still isn’t everything. The first time you were here, you weren’t sure why you were here. This time is different. I knew it when I saw you. This was planned; you are here for a reason. Why don’t you just say it so that I don’t have to say it for you?”

The light that slips from between the vines lights his eyes. It’s a strange thing that a man so pretty would have a life like his. If you were truly a reader of minds and lives, maybe you could make better sense of him. Right now, you’re trying to play the game the way you think he might. Bluffing, just a little. Truthfully, you aren’t sure if there’s a real reason for his being here outside of interpersonal woes.

“Normally, I’m not fond of your type. Posh, educated, clean girl with soft hands that have never known labor... living among the working class by choice,” he leans back in his seat. The conversation has changed somehow. His posture has shifted slightly, head titled to the side as he stares down at your hunched-over body. You remain still, remain silent, and wait. He continues, “But I would like to hire you.”

“Hire me?” you scoff. “What would you need of someone like me? Surely you have people to gather information if that’s what you so desire.”

Mr. Shelby’s lips pull back in a self-satisfied smirk. “Finding papers and connecting them to people is a simpler task than one might think. Now, reading people—that’s an art. And I will be in need of an artist in the foreseeable future.”

A chortle leaves you before you say, “This has been fun, Mr. Shelby, but I think it’s time you left. I have no desire in being commissioned to be a consultant for an active criminal. Throw whatever numbers you like at me, but as you know, I’m posh. Money doesn’t concern me terribly.”

His next words are complimentary, but devastating “Yes, you’ve made a legitimate business for yourself, Miss Hargreaves. You must be proud.”

Heart into the stomach, plummeting. He had not been the first to correctly assume you were from the upper class. Anyone could guess you weren’t from Birmingham based only on your accent, but certainly not your name. “Hargreaves? Why did you call me Hargreaves?”

He only stares, silence fills the room and it’s not helping you at all. Your mind is racing. How could he know that name? How many people know who you are? All the money you have hidden away? 

You scoff and move to stand. Before you can order him to explain his intelligence, he says, “Trying to distance yourself from your conman father, are we?”

You could’ve struck him for that. But you don’t. Body tight, you spit “Did my words sting you so badly that you had to come back here to hurt me with lies?” No point in denying relation.

The slow blink he gives you is not at all encouraging for your case. He seems so bloody pleased with himself. You could swear he was smiling as he said, “I couldn’t help but want to learn more about you. And after some digging, I met someone who recognized you by description alone. They had so much to say about you, and so much more to say about Mr. Bertram Hargreaves.”

Leaning forward, you grip your knees to keep from grabbing this man by the throat. Father was never an entirely kind man, but he was brilliant. He made his fortune honestly. Brutally.

Light from the midday sun beams through the vines of your window, painting you both in slithering shadows. Chest rising and falling deeply, you say “That person spoke lies wrapped in truths to keep your attention, Mr. Shelby. I am indeed Mr. Bertram Hargreaves’ daughter, but he is no con-artist. I merely concealed my name for privacy. My father’s hands were clean in death.”

The sofa he sits upon groans softly as Thomas moves forward, slipping out of his casual posture and imitating your own “My source provided evidence. Would you like to see a piece of it?”

A piece of it? “Show me,” you bark.

Sighing, he shifts to the side and produces a thin folder from his inner coat pocket. The emblem on the side has your blood running cold immediately. He places it on the table between you and opens it. There, right in front of you, is a folder baring the Hargreaves family emblem with three pages of… payment records. With your father’s signature at the bottom. You’re able to read that an organization called Western Investment Liaisons was being paid hundreds—no, thousands of pounds by a variety of individuals and organizations. Before you could examine it closer, Thomas closed the folded and pulled it back. 

Wildly, you reach for it, “Let me see that! If you mean to accuse my father, I—"

“Miss Hargreaves,” his hand takes your wrist to stop you. Fingers slide just beneath the sleeve of your blouse. The touch of his fingertips is rough on your bare flesh. Mr. Shelby’s skin feels cool. Cool, not warm. You force your gaze down to where your hands meet. The sound if him moving closer makes you hold your breath. The space you crafted between yourself, and your clients has never felt so thin. You can feel the smoke of his exhale ghosting your hairline as his right hand reaches down. The lit end of his cigarette catches your eye. “I understand this is distressing. If this were ever to get out, I imagine your family would suffer under the harsh scrutiny of the upper class. They already looked down upon you and your family, the Hargreaves might as well be new money in their eyes. They’re all waiting for an excuse to discount all that your father did to put your family where they are now.”

“You are a starved, godless creature,” comes from between gritted teeth.

He carries on, as if he hadn’t heard you, “I know money doesn’t drive you. So, I think proper payment is this: in exchange of your cooperation, Things like this can just… go away.”

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you croak, “And what of the person who told you these things?”

The angry red tip of his cigarette hangs over your cup. He flecks the ashes of his cigarette into the tea. Gray ashes land on top of the murky water, collecting into small piles of soot before like a sinking to the bottom. You close your eyes as he says into your ear, “With time and money, people can go away too.”

Your head shoots up and you blurt out “Mr. Shelby! That’s— that isn’t what I meant, I just…”

With one last puff of his cigarette, Mr. Shelby drops it into your cup, “Do we have an agreement? Your services, on call, and in exchange the family reputation remains intact?”

All you can do is nod, dumbly. He rises from his seat and regards you with one last smirk: “And please, call me Tommy. We know so much about each other now; it’s only right to forgo the formalities, eh?”

Driven only by societal convention, you walk him to the door and usher him out. My mind was racing with all that had just transpired. Tommy holds up your business card and says, “Expect a phone call by next weekend. There’s a lot of work to be done.”

You close your door and push your back against it, fighting to control your breathing. Shaking hands start to flap as the urge to pace rises. Such a strange thing happened. So strange. You cannot force away the feeling that you’ve been caged yet again.

----

Taglist:

@eclectic-trash @weaponizedvirtue @girlwith-thepearlearring @perseny

[hardly-an-escape]

just thinking about Hob and Dream and acts of service as a love language and how Hob would react as Dream gradually reveals more details about just how horrifying his imprisonment was…

Hob realizing exactly how long it’s been since Dream was touched by another person and deliberately seeking out opportunities to touch him in casual and gentle (and plausibly deniable) ways. passing him a mug of tea and just briefly cupping the back of his wrist. a gentle hand on his shoulder as he points at something. Hob’s knee against Dream’s under the table or his toes tucked under Dream’s leg on the couch. after a while he starts hugging Dream hello and goodbye and each hug lasts a fraction of a second longer than the last.

Hob makes a random comment about breathing and Dream mentions that the glass sphere was basically airtight - mentions it in an offhand, ‘it didn’t really matter because I don’t technically need to breathe anyway’ kind of way - but it matters to Hob. so wherever they are he starts making sure there’s a window cracked or a door propped open so Dream can feel fresh air.

Hob, thinking about how cold and hard glass is, starts offering Dream his coziest sweaters and softest, most worn-in t shirts and pajama pants. fleece blankets and fluffy pillows multiply in his flat like there’s an infestation. he considers buying a four poster bed with curtains, like in the olden days, in case Dream ever wants to sleep with him take a nap.

Hob just doing everything he can to fill Dream’s time in the waking world with pleasant sensations. beeswax candles and delicious cooking smells. there’s always music playing on his stereo when Dream is over. fresh colorful flowers on the coffee table every week (sometimes he makes Dream come along to the farmers market and pick them out).

and Dream knows what he’s doing, of course, because subtlety is not Hob Gadling’s middle name, and at first it almost offends him, and then it amuses him, and finally it unlocks something inside him - because he comes to understand that Hob is not trying to fix him; he’s trying to fill in the holes that Burgess drilled in him with something new, something warm and kind.

and one fall afternoon they’re coming back from the farmers market with flowers and this spicy chili oil Hob has been wanting to try, and it’s raining so they’re crowded under one umbrella and Hob’s shoulder is pressed warm against Dream’s, and Hob is extolling the virtues of a hot bath on a chilly day. and they come inside and shed their wet jackets (because it was a rather small umbrella) and Hob immediately gets a fluffy towel to wrap around Dream’s shoulders.

and Dream just can’t help it anymore, he’s in this space that has been filled with soft, warm things for him and he’s looking into Hob’s soft, warm eyes which are brimming with love for him and he leans in and kisses him. and Hob’s mouth is as soft and warm as his eyes. and the last vestige of that cold glass sphere that was lodged under Dream’s ribs cracks and dissolves under the warmth of Hob’s care.

and it turns out Hob didn’t need to get a four poster bed after all because his bog standard ikea one serves its purpose just fine.

[cursedmoon-doll13]

Blackhearted

(Sirius Black x Reader)

Cw: Noncon, Angst, Smut, Afab Reader, Dark!Sirius, PnV Sex, Somnophilia, Unprotected Sex, Fingering, Crying, Forced Orgasm, Tender But Nasty™️, References to Alcohol Abuse, Reader has head + pubic hair, this got kinda bleak and depressing

READ WITH CAUTION

Word Count: 3.5k

Summary: 12 Grimmauld Place is a miserable home.

But for now, it is yours. A lost and vulnerable soul, you find refuge in the owner of the house; a man as troubled as yourself. Unbeknownst to you, he’s sunken his teeth in far deeper; clutching onto you like a lifeline, and the dark, harrowing isolation of winter may drive him to commit acts unforgivable…

Ao3 || Masterlist || Dividers by @/saradika

In mid-February, it’s so cold, so desolate, it reminds him of sharp, icy fingers, clamping down on— His childhood home, decrepit with neglect and age, is the last place Sirius ever hoped to return to. It’s lost, crumbling into undignified ruins, deteriorating into filth. With his pest of a house elf still clinging to the old family values, it’s properly gone to the dogs, and he’d gladly let them pick off the carcass. 

But now you’re hiding alongside him - not by choice - you’ve taken it upon yourself to try and ‘fix it up.’ Sirius almost scoffs at the mere thought of it— At you, whose nose wrinkles distastefully at the grime and mould that gracefully adorns his kitchen. You don’t understand that the disease has progressed far beyond the point of recovery. It’s everywhere; it’s in the air you breathe, in the walls, in the carpet. It’s lurking inside the very infrastructure, festering like cancerous growth. The Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, haunted by its rotting opulence: the decaying decor, the cursed, priceless artefacts, the tattered, hateful portraits, courtesy of mum. 

Sirius, who has long since forgotten the luxury of owning his own clothes, wraps himself in the same mothball ridden finery his father died in. Sometimes he feels— He’s eaten alive by the fabric. By vestiges of the past. It still stinks of stale drink, and on nights like these, Orion’s son glares down at the bottom of an empty wine bottle, and thinks that he might be following in his footsteps after all.

On a night like this, the aged floorboards squeak under his heels as he prowls the dilapidated halls. Sirius’ stalking route leads to you, as it usually does, far past midnight. Your bedroom door is sealed tightly shut - probably to keep the heat in - but you never lock it. As if he isn’t dangerous. 

Gripping the weathered knob, he twists it, and lets himself in. The dim, yellowy glow of the gaslamp bolted to the corridor wall is his only light, flickering as it pours into the musty guest room he’s lent you. Sirius lingers on the precipice, his fingers still curled around the handle, sobering up rapidly. 

Blinking slowly, he looks down at you. 

You’re lying on your side, both arms grasping the pillow, dressed in that novelty pyjama set (‘to ward off the draught,’ was the unspoken function of it) Tonks had gifted you for Christmas; a sort of consolation prize. Greatest sympathies, to prepare you for the sordid husk you’ll now inhabit— With him, no less, a man you thought at first to be a killer.

And you, well… You’ve been left skittish from whatever you’re on the run from. He reckons that’s why you’ve latched onto him so powerfully, hoping this unredeemed convict will see fit to protect you from the isolation and the horrors. To help fill the long stretches of time when it’s just been the both of you to keep each other company. Sirius can’t deny his own strong attachment towards you. 

Your presence is comforting, and he’s fallen deeply. Too deeply. It’s why he so often finds himself standing here, watching over you. Sirius envies you, the peaceful sleeper. But he also covets you; if only you’d stay and lay beside him, to heal wounds never spoken of… But he doesn’t know how to ask. 

Silently, he crosses the boundary. 

Rising over your unconscious form, he lifts the quilt, a heavy, lumpy thing, and tentatively rests his knee on the mattress. You sleep peacefully on, even as the rusty old bed-springs squeak underneath him. Sirius slides his exhausted body in behind you, and the dark mass of his own scraggly black hair spills over the cushion. For a moment, he lies there, unmoving and quiet. Even at this safe, chaste distance, your body heat, radiating off you in gradual waves, is enough to soothe the permanent chill that’s seeped into his bones… Sirius can’t resist. He shifts, before placing his forefinger over your throat. 

Sirius can feel your pulse, throbbing with blood; you’re a real, flesh and blood human, warm and alive. Merlin, he’s been deprived for so long, a strong vein feels like it’s a lifeline. This is all he’s ached for, but— No... No. He’s already overstepped a line, one he shouldn’t have ever— He needs to stop, he needs to leave, now, before this all goes too far and he ruins it; ruins you, as he knows he inevitably will. 

But he doesn’t. Sirius’ breath catches in his throat as he tilts his chin ever-so-slightly, and he presses his cold mouth against your exposed nape. You twitch, but do not stir. Sirius licks his dry lips and swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down, as he nudges down the fleeced collar of your pyjama shirt with his thumb. The slope of your neck is covered in fine, delicate hairs, and he can’t help but smile affectionately down at you. Your defenceless state is sweetly endearing. To be so close to you like this, almost holding you, tender as lovers. 

Sirius hesitates, then, squeezing his eyes shut as he endures the lurch of churning revulsion in his gut (he shouldn’t be doing this, he shouldn’t—), he leans forward and plants a string of wet kisses over your bare flesh. So human, so vulnerable… You twitch again, shivering as the ticklish brush of his whiskers rubs lightly over your naked skin. Shame burns like acid in his stomach; but his need for you burns brighter, hotter than fire now, all-consuming… He heaves a jagged sigh, and, unable to stop himself, drags the starving flat of his tongue over your neck, lapping up hungry stripes of perspiration. Sirius tightens his grip on you and shudders with relief— He’s finally quenched his thirst, if only a little. Your intoxicating scent, your taste… 

He’s stolen things, too, before this; he’s not proud of it, but he’s done it. It’s convenient enough to blame it on Kreacher, who hoards all sorts of objects in the first place… What is the difference, really, between the Black family heirlooms and soiled knickers from the wicker basket? No, It hasn’t been so hard to convince you it was Kreacher; to lie and to fib— his old, senile house elf is simply a raging kleptomaniac… You trust him so much… And now Sirius has gone and betrayed that trust entirely. 

Merlin, he needs to stop, he needs to… This should be enough… No, it’s not enough… It’s never enough, he’s barely touched you… Sirius groans feebly into the nape of your neck, slipping the palm of his hand under your nightshirt, desperate for your sacred, lifesaving heat, just a little bit— And then he’ll stop, immediately— just a tiny bit more… You shiver once more, twitching repeatedly as the pads of his fingertips skim over your stomach, still asleep… Sirius brushes his lips over your throat again, as he locks you in wiry arms, inching up your shirt, exposing you to the dark and cold. He traces the slats of your ribs, searching further, until he comes to knead coyly at your breast, teasing your nipple. He dips, finding the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, thumping robustly… Proof of life. 

And you’re definitely real, aren’t you? Not a hallucination, not some illusion… He’s sleepless for the nightmares, but the dreams are always worse, because they remind Sirius of everything he can’t have, not ever again… But he can have you. This stray thought, forceful and insidious, leaks into the dark recesses of his brain. Yes, He can have you— It’s his house, his rules, isn’t it? 

Fuck, he’s disgusting. The realisation of what he’d just conceived of, even momentarily, assaults him with a new stab of remorse. Sirius flinches away, pulling his offending hand out of your pyjamas; but the damage has already been done. By now, he’s pressed flush against you, leeching off your comforting warmth, and his dick is straining tightly against his trousers. Merlin… He’s perverse. 

He throws his forearm over his eyes, blinding himself. Sirius intended for this to be a wholesome encounter, to be sweet and innocent. And now… Have all those years of degradation truly rotted him to the core? Is this what he’s become now? A lustful wretch? This has gone too far, too far— He should leave— 

But now, Sirius has known your touch, and it’s embedded itself parasitically into his mind. He’s swiftly hurtling into addiction; he can’t settle for mere table scraps— To retreat with his tail between his legs, only to find a cold and lonely bed, would be unbearable... Sirius rattles a breath, grasping onto that frayed rope of inherited entitlement he’d meant to cut off a decade ago— He deserves this one thing, surely, after a life of torment… Right? 

You twitch again, mumbling incoherently. Sirius grimaces. He needs to be careful… You might be a heavy sleeper, but he’s already disturbed you too much. If you wake up screaming… He wouldn’t like to think of what he might do. But he’ll stop— He’ll stop after this, he swears it to himself, licking his lips, feeling harder and hungrier than ever. 

Sirius’ forearm props up your leg for him to gain enough access, spreading your thighs open. It’s awkward, but he manages. He tugs down the waistband of your pyjama bottoms, just a bit, so he can touch you, feel you so close to him… Sirius’ hand brushes over a soft tuft of your pubic hair, and he twitches a faint smile… So endearingly vulnerable, before dipping his fingers into your pussy. 

You’re not aroused, but the heat of your core is enough to satisfy him, if only temporarily. Sirius hasn’t done anything like this for a long time; it feels unfamiliar, like all human contact does. He nudges away the curls, tracing your labia, before recalling the shape and form of it, and gently rubbing your clitoris. Fondness, mixed in with his sickening shame, rushes into him, and he presses his lips to your nape again, pleading and soothing like an apology. 

Then, Sirius bites his tongue, justifies himself with the excuse of repaying you with sweet dreams, and pushes his index finger deeper inside your pussy. He hums quietly, indulging in your little twitches, the way your walls flutter around him. It’s not particularly romantic to pleasure you without receiving consent, but lying back-to-chest in the darkness, planting scorching kisses down your neck, he can use his mind to fill in the gaps. Easing out his intruding hand, Sirius tastes the heady flavour of your slick— Merlin. He licks his fingers greedily, drenching them in spit, before plunging them back into your warm cunt, spreading wetness over your folds. 

You let out a sleepy whimper at his touch, and he pauses, going completely stiff with alarm. But— But you haven’t woken up… And now he’s uncontrollable, beyond all morality, relishing in your soft, breathless gasps as he toys with your clit, his damp fingers sliding easily in and out of your pussy. You moan faintly, and the noise vibrates straight to his cock. He’s throbbing, now... Groaning, he forces down his guilt and remorse, discarding them as trite, worthless things. You’re enjoying it, aren’t you? Though you’re still fast asleep— Yes, maybe you’ve hoped for this all along… Secretly. Secretly. Of course, you’ve just been too embarrassed to admit it, but that’s fine… Right now, you’re all his. 

But that’s still not enough. 

Sirius knows what he truly needs; to bury himself inside of you, to merge with you entirely, to steal your warmth for himself— This aching desire, it’s wrong, so revoltingly wrong, but so is he; the entire expanse of flesh covering his body feels like prison, mired in filth, and he’ll never be clean again… He only wishes you could alleviate his pain— Oh, but you can, Sirius will find solace in your heat even if he has to take it from you. He grinds his palm against his temple as he decides. He fights it, but his selfishness wins… Yes, he needs it, needs you— Fuck, he’s about to do something unforgivable, commit a genuine offence; but he’ll make it up to you, of course he will— 

Sirius carefully shuffles down your pyjama bottoms until they’re bunched up around your ankles, followed by your moist panties. He shifts, now painfully hard and weeping in his trousers, and allows your thigh to fall momentarily to unbutton them and release his erection. Rigid and leaking precum, his dick falls over your ass. He readjusts his position on the bed and strokes himself roughly, before hooking his forearm around your leg and lifting it. You jerk unceremoniously and mumble, stirring, but he ignores you— He’s too close, he’s gone too far now… Gritting his teeth, Sirius guides his cock into you, finding you elusive and slippery in the dark, but— The slick of your folds sliding along his length feels heavenly. Sirius licks his lips, smearing precum over your inner thighs, and finally enters you. 

He stifles a raspy moan into your neck. The hug of your tight, wet heat is almost overwhelming— Shuddering, he wholly eases himself inside you. Merlin, you feel so perfect around him… Sirius, gasping rapturously, begins to move, savouring every long, torturous drag against your gummy walls. You’re rousing, now, slurring confused murmurs— “What, what’s going on, hm…”

Sirius doesn’t miss the flutter of lashes, a sharp intake of breath— But he continues, regardless, thrusting in slow, tender arcs. Flinching, you let out a strangled, high-pitched noise, and that’s how Sirius knows you’re truly awake— But he’ll make it up to you, he will— he spreads your thighs wide, to penetrate further, sucking affectionate bites into your neck as he ravishes your quivering body. You tremble and shriek, and your panicked struggling fills him with guilty regret. But he needs this now, he needs you now, he’s been alone for too long— And he’s not going to stop until he’s finished taking you… Feverish, Sirius’ other forearm digs underneath the pillow you’re clutching onto, white-knuckled. He tightens his grip on you before he sinks in deeper, spearing into your intimate core

You whimper, spasming involuntarily. Sirius rumbles with approval, his lips still latched onto your throat. He grabs your thigh firmly, bracing himself against the old headboard. He growls and snaps his hips upward, hitting that delicious spot over and over, trying to elicit more of those sweet noises from you. Even if you’re being frustratingly reticent - too shy, he pretends - you’re still unable to muffle your cries, twitching and writhing in his relentless grasp.

The bed creaks noisily as he hastens his pace, showering wet kisses on your rapidly bruising flesh. His movements are heated and urgent now, growing increasingly desperate— Now he’s inside you, he must fill you utterly— He longs to feel alive with you, slipping a hand down towards where you join together and connect, feeling the way his cock effortlessly slides in and out of your pussy. He dips further to rub harshly at your clit, and you whine, arching. Sirius strokes you mercilessly, his wrist cramping from the awkward positioning— 

But it doesn’t matter, you’re spurring him on with your ecstatic moans, croaky with tears. He doesn’t let up, teasing in sloppy, frantic circles as he bucks into you, revelling in the stickiness of your skin against his; the lewd, wet sound of flesh-on-flesh is obscene. Sirius groans hoarsely, his hips jerking and stuttering as your cunt squeezes around his dick with his every forceful thrust— You are enjoying this…    

Fuck, he is too— Hot pleasure jolts up his spine like the tightening of a knot; and you, crying out with loud whimpers as your spongy insides clench and squeeze around him— Sirius can’t take it anymore. He forgoes gentleness, pounding into your cunt with beastly intensity. You choke out a sob, lurching away from him, but he overpowers and holds you down, still abusing your sensitive clit— He’s going to fuck you until you cum, whether you want it or not— And his hungry mouth returns to sink livid, red marks into your neck, teeth grazing your artery. Something in the wooden bed frame cracks ominously— 

But he ignores it, his breathing growing laboured and husky as he slams his hips into you, again and again, forcing you to whine until your voice breaks. You’re shaking violently in his grip— He can sense it, and you’re close, so close— He’s getting sloppier; rapidly approaching orgasm, and your reactions are boiling his blood, whipping up a primal frenzy in his brain— Sirius pinches your clit, and you climax. 

Your euphoric moan chokes into a loud sob. Sirius growls at the way you clench around him, and pins you down with his body weight. His hand slips and pushes your leg up high, fucking you harder still through your orgasmic tremors— He’s following right behind you, on the cusp— You’re impossibly tight—

Merlin, you’re so damn tight— Sirius barely remembers to— He pulls himself out with a heavy groan, and his seed spills messily over the inside of your thigh. Hazy static pours over him, smothering the guilt, the emptiness… As it gradually tapers out, he feels the absence of your heat, of your closeness, and it pangs like the pain of starvation. It takes a moment for him to recover, lying beside you, his face buried in the crook of your neck. Then, he pushes himself up onto his elbow. 

Panting, Sirius’ damp hair clings to his forehead, stinging his eyes. He wipes it, and fog clears, revealing only desecration.

As if murdered, you lie very still— Or try to, but your breathing is ragged and uneven. You’re glistening with orgasmic sweat, chest heaving as he rests your trembling leg back onto the mattress. You jolt, as if hiccuping, still wracked with sobs. Sirius’ heart aches for you— Merlin, no, what has he done?— He wants to take this moment back, but it’s too late now. The only fix he can think of is practical, like ridding a crime scene of evidence… 

Sirius pulls out his wand, flicking shakily, evaporating his cum, but the scent of your lovemaking still lingers, thick in the air. With as much dignity as he’s able to grant you, he tugs your pyjamas and knickers up your hips. He tucks himself in and buttons his trousers, swimming in post-climax numbness. For a few minutes, he resumes his vigil behind you, as if he’d never done it at all. But you’re colder and distant; farther away than he’s ever felt you. Sighing, he gently strokes your hair. You don’t flinch or shiver away from his touch, but lie still, perfectly still… Your tear-stained cheek is still stuck to the damp patch on your pillow. Sirius passes over it deliberately. You’ve been asleep this entire time, blissfully unaware… That’s a lie he’ll peddle for both of your sakes, until this all melts safely into a nightmare.

It’s agony to tear himself away from your warmth, but Sirius knows he’s ruined everything by violating you, and lingering will only hurt you more. He presses one final, adoring kiss to your neck, yearning to embrace you, then slips wordlessly out of bed.

To forbid himself, he uses magic to bolt the lock.

Morning brings clarity. 

He walks into the kitchen, and the stone tiles clack under his boots, echoing, echoing… You’re there, also, preparing a slow, tedious breakfast.

The silence is heavy. Sirius wants to break it, but the quiet feels impenetrable; a chasm of his own design. For a moment, he frowns, looming uneasily over the dining table, aggravated by the clinking of the jar as you spread jam on your toast, eyes downcast.

Then, he pulls out a rickety chair and sits down. 

You don’t smile at him today. You don’t return his probing gaze. You knife up more slimy jam— Too much, now, and the bread has gone soggy. 

If you’d only burst into tears, he’d gladly take you in his arms to hold you now. Sirius could be your solitary comfort, as you have been his… Only, your new, withdrawn, gloomy state unnerves him. His face darkens… Your bond has truly been broken.

But there’s something else, too. 

Remorse gnawed his flesh until daybreak, and was scarred over by something cruel and hard, burrowing gruesomely inside him like an infection.

He could think of it this way: returning to his old childhood home has done very, very strange things to him. Yes… That’s it. Sirius has never had anything so warm and lovely in this place... And indeed, he’s spent much of his life out of control and powerless… But he does have power over you. It occurs to him abruptly. He does have power over you.  

Sirius leans back in his chair with a squeak. His guilt, hot and shameful, broils fiercely in his gut, but it intertwines with a kind of grim satisfaction. 

It’s his house, his rules… 

So why shouldn’t he have you?

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Partners in Crime 4

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Characters: Lloyd Hansen, Lee Bodecker

Summary: you’re left reeling after your divorce but the chaos has only begun. (short!reader)

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

The door opens and lets in the chill night air. You shiver from more than the temperature. The dark figure clings to the metal frame and bends to peer in at you. You whimper and shrink further down on the seat. 

You don’t know where you are. The sheriff kept driving until darkness set in and even after, didn’t stop. Now you’re lost in the sea of humming crickets and rustling trees. You’re far from home and the thought of never going back has you paralysed. 

“Come on, sugar, no need to be scared,” Lee coaxes, “we just wanna get you tucked in for the night. Ain’t ya tired?” 

“Please, I can’t...” you squeak, “please take me home.” 

“Huh,” the other door opens, “is that what you call that shithole?” 

You shy away from Lloyd as he reaches for you. You lean towards the sheriff but still make no move to get out of the car. It’s your last vestige of safety. 

“Lloyd, please, you’re frightenin’ her.” 

“Whatever. She’s going to be jumpy, isn’t she? She’ll settle down.” 

“Not right now--” 

“H-how...” you begin in a stutter, “how do you know where I live?” 

“Doesn’t matter much now, does it?” Lloyd scoffs, “come on and get out. My ass hurts from that seat.” 

“Pleaseeee.” 

“Honey, come on out and we can talk,” Lee coos and beckons with his shadow had, the moonlight glinting off one side of his body. 

“No!” You throw your foot out then find yourself yanked backwards. Lloyd drags you across the seat and out into the open, “ah! Let me go!” 

“Would you stop fucking around?” Lloyd snips. 

“Hey,” Lee slams the door on his side and stomps around, “don’t you be handlin’ her like that.” 

“You really think she’s going to listen? She’s scared and she still thinks she’s going home.” 

“No,” you whimper, “please. You can’t keep me here.” 

“Get inside,” Lloyd shoves you but not far as he’s ripped back. 

“I told ya be nice,” the sheriff grows and there’s a jingle between them, then a grunt, “go get the door open, I’ll take care of the lady.” 

“Jesus, you’re coddling her--” 

“It’s exactly why we got her, now get,” Lee retorts, putting an arm around your shoulders, “now darlin’, you don’t be listening to him. We’re not gon’ hurt ya. It’s not our intent.” He walks your forward, your feet kicking dirt up with reluctance, “we wanna take care of ya, like ya never been. Like your old man didn’t--” 

“How... how do you know all this?” You whine as you lean back into his arm; not for wanting but for horror. 

“Well, you told me you got a divorce, didn’t ya?” 

“But--” 

“Course we know you’re alone. Lonely and all that. And it’s expensive just livin’ these days,” he lurches you up the stairs of the looming black house, “come on, then, ain’t ya cold? I feel ya shakin’. You’re tired too, you were puttin’ up quite a fit. You must be.” 

“Please, please, please,” you beg as he gets you onto the porch and Lloyd pushes the door open, “I wanna go home.” 

Lee sighs as Lloyd flips on the porch light and it washes you over in a yellowish white hue. Your soles slip over the wood and you’re forced across the threshold. You whine and whimper as you can’t fight off his strength. He forces you past the door and it shuts swiftly at your back. 

“You are home,” Lee huffs as he grabs you by your shoulder and turns to face him. “Got it. Girl like you needs this. Ya need someone to look after ya. Lucky you got two of us.” 

“I’d fucking say,” Lloyd chortles. 

Lee harrumphs but doesn’t remark. He urges you further in and your body gives out altogether. He’s right. You can’t resist this. So you’ll do nothing. You’ll just stop. 

He struggles to keep you on your feet as you limpen to dead weight. 

“Woah, Hansen,” he calls to the other man. 

Lloyd sighs and comes up on your other side. The two of them as good as carry you to the staircase and up it. Your head lolls back as your limbs lock and your eyes roll back.  

When the blackness clears away, you’re on a plush bed staring at the ceiling. Lee sits with one knee up on the bed, his other leg extended to the floor and he rubs your cheek and calls your name. Your lashes flutter as something scrapes. Lloyd appears on the other side of the bed. 

“Here, this’ll be sexy,” he cackles as he lets the silk nighty dangle from his fingers. “Oh, welcome back, honey pie.” 

Your eyes are wide as they bounce between the two men. You can’t move your body. You’re too scared. You just stare up at the ceiling and resign yourself to whatever evil deeds they have planned. How do you keep finding the worst men? No, how do they find you? 

You’re jostled as Lee begins to undress you. You can’t stop him. If you tried, it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t get you out of this room or this house. There’s two of them and one of you. You’re pathetic and weak and stupid. 

As the layers fall away, you can’t help by squeak. You’re horrified at your nakedness. He used to tell you how disgusting you were. You remember keeping your shirt on and staying on your stomach. Your eyes glaze over with tears and you sniffle. 

Lee reaches to grab the nightie from Lloyd and pulls it over your head, sitting you up against him as he slips it down your figure. He lays you back as the glistening tears overflow. 

“Honey,” he wipes your cheek with his thick knuckle, “we mean it, alright? See, we’re taking care of ya.” 

“Could sure use some of that,” Lloyd remarks as his fingers tap along the top of his pants. 

“Don’t,” Lee warns, “now you needa get your sleep. It’s a lot. A big change but a good one. You just gotta trust us.” He pauses and looks at Lloyd then back to you, “trust me.” 

You sniffle and turn your face away from him. You can’t trust anyone. Only your grandma and she’s not here. She can’t save you from this. Your heart drops. She’ll never get a gift. She’ll spend her birthday alone. What is she thinks you left her on purpose? 

You roll onto your side and hide your face as you devolve into sobs. You don’t have much but it’s your own. It was.  

Lee rubs your shoulder and hushes you as Lloyd continues to hover at the side of the bed. The latter sighs as the former shifts closer. Lee tuts and pets your hair. 

“Go on, get her some chamomile or something,” he demands. “Show her what good husbands we can be.” 

[redjademilktea]

Okay one of the few times that whole "PhD student in history" thing is going to be relevant to anything I post here but last night's C3 episode has me feeling some sort of wayyyyy.

Specifically the part where they found those incredibly ancient elven ruins within the cave they were exploring. After barely escaping near-death, and Laudna fresh from deliberately channeling the darkness within her, they stumble across these ruins. Deep within a dark cave where they sought refuge from the harsh storms that plague the unforgiving Ruidian surface. Geodes full of sharp and jagged crystal jut out from the walls of cold, ancient rock. A river coming from some unknown source pouring into a rushing waterfall, leading away further into the depths. Matt did a phenomenal job painting the scene.

There, in those ruins - in that tomb, that crypt - they run across a hauntingly serene sight. Bones from the presumable inhabitants are crushed into the walls, unmoving. Frozen. Sharing the same space in a wonderful, striking, tragic, serendipitous juxtaposition is an enchanted garden. There, in the derelict remains of this once-vibrant space, the vestiges of that past life hold strong. A small bastion of life and healing amidst the monument of death and destruction.

It's within this space of dizzying contrast - air thick with the practically tangible weight of past tragedies - that Laudna finds a doll. A simple doll, devoid of features beyond the bare minimum that helps identify it. A toy, a companion? A relic of some child from so long ago. Laudna likes dolls. She decides - after asking permission - to keep it.

Now within her possession is a ghost. Not a literal ghost, mind you, considering those are in fact a very literal thing in the world Laudna lives in, but a ghost all the same. Through that doll, a child from untold centuries before is reaching, grasping at Laudna. This child, whose entire life, history, and experienced are lost to time - trapped in the past - has managed to pierce that temporal barrier and make themselves known to her.

In addition to this framing of a ghost, the doll can represent another type of haunting. That of a reencounter. Through this doll, this mundane object that often is filed away under the folder of insignificance, Laudna is confronted with the complicated web of violence, trauma, and grief that wraps around both her and the space around her. Laudna loves children. She has a childlike innocence that constantly bubbles at the surface. Yet beneath that is 30 years of unfathomable pain and loneliness.

Laudna, much like the ruins, is at times also frozen. Both physically in her unaging visage and mentally in the way she seems to revert in response to intense trauma.

So, within the confines of this long-forgotten space, the woman who just hours before channelled 30 years of darkness, anger, and hurt into a spell that served to strengthen her tormentor, picked up a doll. A doll that in so many ways symbolizes the innocence and joy that Laudna embodies, surrounded by tragedy.

It was such a beautifully haunting scene.

**If folks are interested, I am referencing the wonderful works of Avery Gordon in her book Ghostly Matters (1997) and Crystal Baik in her book Reencounters: On the Korean War and Diasporic Memory Critique (2019)**

[wajjs]

can i just say that for all the times hal has been portrayed as a joke by comics, media, and the fandom, it never warped my perception of how powerful he is and how sad his circumstances are as a hero and a human who has to leave earth for so long. sorry for being serious, but he's such an interesting character, his origin, his power coming from an alien ring, him being the first among the earth lanterns so he was probably a veteran to them. i love him, he needs more appreciation posts lol

Hal is at the intersection of wanting to go home and having no home to come back to.

Hal is at the intersection of knowing he's only human but knowing he's far from human.

He wants to be back on Earth with those who are just like him, and when he's in space that's all he can think about, all that he misses and needs... but then when he's on Earth, all he can think of is space, the stars, the planets and the things out there in the big universe waiting for his smallness, waiting for his tiny vestiges of humanity to shine and carry a message of resilience.

He is at the intersection of wanting everything and thinking he doesn't deserve anything. He is the hero who dreams of home but cannot return home, because home is forever changed as much as he himself has changed, too. And so he doesn't fit in his own bed, which is ridiculous, he should, the indent in the mattress has the shape of his body, but he doesn't fit because that indent belongs to someone else who died three months ago, out in space, and he gets to return to the memories of what he was like before the things that changed him happened.

Hal wants to return home, like Odysseus. He's desperate for home. His teeth ache for home. But he doesn't have a home to return to. First, it was destroyed when Coast City was destroyed. Then, he was destroyed when Coast City was destroyed. And he keeps getting destroyed in the journey.

The journey is changing him. Sometimes he thinks his home hasn't actually changed, it's him. It's him, he has changed, and now the places that were his own aren't anymore because he's no longer the Hal he used to be. That Hal? That Hal is dead, floating frozen cold somewhere out deep in the deepest furthest sectors of space, desecrated, forgotten, an empty shell of an equally empty living.

Being a hero transforms him into something that's no longer human. But he bleeds like one. But he breathes like one. But he longs for love and acceptance and family and home and home longs for him but the more they chase each other, the further away they get from one another.

Hal is at the intersection of being full of himself and being in a perpetual state of starvation because he's not enough for himself. He's not enough. He's starving. His teeth ache. But he's fine. He's really fine.

[desultory-novice]

"Apologies" AU - Masterpost

"Before Popstar, Adeleine lived on 'Shiver Star,' the embittered residents' nickname for the frozen husk of old Earth they were left on after the migration. But she isn't sad, for she has a best friend in her older brother. And he would give up anything to protect her...."

Characters: Adeleine, Noir (loosely based on unused Dark Matter design) / Dark Matter Swordsman, Gooey, King Dedede, others...

-

Note that this "comic" started as a well-received one shot that proceeded to grow into a series. As a result, it's very experimental. Expect random inconsistencies and continual artstyle shifts.

Bolded text are the newest posts

[Apologies AU] -Shiver Star- “Apologies”  “One Sneeze”   (illust) “Summer”   “A Walk in the Snow”   “The Swordsman”  “Wonderful Gift”  (illust) “Damnation”  “Salvation”  “Unstoppable”  “Brightest Star”

-Dream Land 2- “Sibling Reunion” “Big Brother Instincts” “Unsung Hero”  “The Perfect Vessel” “To Protect” “Matter Over Mind” "Darkened Skies" (illust) “Last Will” “Ego”

-Side Stories- "Freeze" "A Cold Hell" "No Friends"

"Honestly, it was all worth it"

"Never Never Land"

-

[Noir Fontaine - Initial Ref Sheet] [Noir Fontaine - Kirby OC Tourney Profile]

-

[Noir's Field Trip]

Please see the above post for links to all Noir content following Dream Land 2. In short, I submitted him to a silly popularity contest and let people ask him questions, many of which served to reveal his backstory and emotional state during various events. It also provides the lead up to Noir's ultimate fate, ie, The Good Ending.

-

[White-Haired Noir] “Dark Matter Painter”  (gift art - how this whole idea started...) "Have You Ever Killed Before?" (reblog sketch - W.Noir is born...) "Why Did You Stop Me...?" (reblog text + sketch - W.Noir in Kirby 64)

“You’re a good knight!” (illust - W.Noir and Ribbon) “The Body Remembers” (illust - W.Noir's scars) "Knight Costume" (sketch - W.Noir and Meta Knight) "My Trauma" (sketch - W.Noir and Meta Knight)

"Like Brother Like Sister" (comic, white-haired Noir origin) "Each From His or Her Own World" (comic, one of various endings)

"Three Challenges Noir Had to Face and One Meta Knight Did" (fanfic - W.Noir and Meta Knight in Planet Robobot) "Cold Air" (fanfic - W.Noir and Meta Knight's first meeting)

"The Little Prince" (illust - Adult W.Noir) "Brighter Skies" (Sketch - Adult W.Noir and Kirby)

[Snowflakes Timeline - cw: body horror + bad end] "I'll Never Leave You" - Script + Sketch "...Zero Three..." - Sketch + Script + Illust "Melted Snow" - Script + Fictional Boss Fight "Null v0.3" - Sketch + Silliness

[Extras - Art (canonincal)] “Ugly Scarf”   (illust - our first look at Noir) "It'll All Make Sense Soon, Right?" (illust - Noir + Adeleine) "You Won't Win..." (illust - Noir's last moments) “Was I A Good Brother...?” (illust + text - storycrafting for Noir) “That’s…Funny…”  (illust - Adeleine's notebook) "Blue Penguin Scarves" (illust - Dedede and Noir's Scarf)

"Happy Birthday!" (sketch - Adeleine and Noir)

[Extras - Art (non-canon)] “Full Regalia” (illust - Dark Matter Blade “Gijinka”)  "No Hands Club" (sketch - incredibly short MariPav Crossover) "Looking Over You" (sketch - Angel Noir he's not dead yet!!) "Hell Branch x Apologies" / 2 / 3 (sketch - unexpected crossover!?!) "Games You Play When..." (sketch - the siblings + Steven meme) "Family Wedding?!" (sketch - the siblings + Raquelle/Rimura) "Adeleine meets Dark Matter Painter" (sketch comic) "Noir meets White-Haired Noir" (sketch comic) "Hell Branch x Apologies Returns!" (sketch comic) (Leads to same post as "...AGAIN" below)

"Ending D" (illust - Everyone dies...) "Sempai Noir" (illust - Adeleine draws Noir) "sEmPaI bLaDe" (illust - Gooey draws Noir)

[Extras - Scripts] “Vestige” (script - Susie + Adeleine) "Evil Science" (script - Meta Knight + Susie) "W.Noir and Taranza + Adeleine and Magolor" (scripts) "...AGAIN." (script - Noir in Dream Land 3) (Leads to same post as Hell Branch Returns" above) "Why Does Life Suck?" (more Hell Branch crossover)

"Re_Birthday" (script/sketch - Noir reflects as Adeleine mourns)

[Extras - Asks] "Warning Sign?" (text) "W.Noir and Meta Knight" (text) "What was Gooey...?" (text) "Adeleine, Noir, and 'bullies'" (text) "Noir as Dream Land 3's Dark Matter" (text) "Dark Matter Painter's Light" (reblog; White-Haired Noir lore) "Why hell though?" (text)

[Shiver Siblings Takeover] (For one weekend, I let Adeleine and Noir "answer" any asks about them. White-Haired Noir shows up too. Somewhat non-canon, but surprisingly connected?!?)

Please Send Positive Thoughts to... Which Kirby Adventure... [w/ Sketch] If You Had a Wish-Granting Clock... Food and Warm Clothes Arrive... [w/ Sketch] A Crystal Ball to See the Future - Noir... [Comic] A Crystal Ball to See the Future - W. Noir [Comic] Have You Been to the Forgotten Land... [Comic] (This ^ one is canon to W.Noir btw!) So Zan Roasted Your Sister Online... A Conversation (?) With Marx [Comic] Thanks for the Fun Weekend [w/ Sketch]

[ruhorih4ra]

I really reaaally should be sleeping right now.

This chapt contains descriptions of violence against humans and demons, big demons and little ones. :(

Get out of my way 🌈

The devildom isn't suitable for humans. Everything is too dangerous for the vulnerability of their souls and the fragility of their bodies. The days were cold, but the nights were colder, freezing. Human eyes can adapt in the morning; the sky even resembles the one in the human world when the sun has just set. Even so, the devildom doesn't have a sun and the dark just grows more intense as the hours pass with no promise of a brighter tomorrow.

There comes a time when you cannot see a thing and the cold stiffens your muscles so much you start to look like a statue. But you had never had to worry about it before, the brothers were always there to hug you, guide you, protect you with their hands and warmth.

“You don't want to open your eyes, Mc? Don't worry, dear, you don't need to see us devouring your soul.” The Little D. of pride said. Even though he had the same voice of Lucifer, it sounded different. “I'm just enjoying the clean air.” you answered.

“Ah, so that's why you are protecting yourself with magic?” The impersonator of Satan inquired. You finally opened your eyes and searched for the new addition to the group, all of the Little D.s had morphed into the brothers' demonic forms.

“Zzzz Night, Mc. Zzzz.” The copycat of Belphie was sleeping in a fetal position over a bush. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Heh, no problem. We don't need him to start the feast!” Leviathan's impersonator cracked his knuckles. “I guess that's true, but first listen to me.” you stood in the middle of them. They had surrounded you in a circle, leaving no place to run.

“We are on the outskirts of the Devildom forest, as you can see, we are completely alone except for the creatures that lurk in the dark.” Your voice was calm as you inspected the demons’ faces. “We are the creatures that lurk in the dark, Mc.” Asmodeus's copycat said.

“Yes, one of them.” you took a rock and closed your hand into a fist, bringing it to your lips and chanting a spell. “Look, it is pretty, isn't it?” the rock glowed a bright green color.

The demons looked at each other as if they were questioning your sanity. Some raised their eyebrows, and others merely shrugged. “Catch it!” You threw the rock at the Little D. of Wrath, who caught it effortlessly. “Oh! Look! it's me!” He said excitedly, turning to the Lucifer impersonator. Sadly, before he could even meet the eyes of his companion, fangs, huge like sharp knives, sank into him.

“A fufufucking giant venus fly trap!! Aahh get the hell outta my way!!” The first to run was the Little D. of Greed and you followed in his steps, quickly closing your eyes and casting another spell. “I am the magician, MC… Heed my words! Open the way forward and create a path where there was none!”.

Suddenly, the air changed and you knew you were far from the forest. You were in the coliseum, surrounded by the vestiges of Diavolo's ancestors. The peace didn't last much as sardonic laughter filled the place. “Hahaha! I must admit that was funny, Mc. But as you may know, you CAN'T kill us!” the Little D. of Envy spited, fury evident in his agitated movements.

“Oh, but I can and you know it. For all these months the truth about your kind was impossible to find, there was nothing!” You walked towards him. “But in the end, you are just demons. I know I made you stronger but I did not create you.”

One by one the Little D.s arrived, all but one. “Phew! that was close hahaha!” The demon of greed laughed while wiping away a drop of sweat. “Ugh! my clothes are ruined!”

“Hey! where is your arm?!” Beelzebub impersonator asked, looking at his partner in crime with confusion. “Enough!” the voice of Leviathan resounded in the silent place, the echo of his order made sure that the others obeyed. Even you stood still for a moment, trying to remember if you had heard Levi speaking in that tone before. It makes sense, after all, Leviathan is supposed to be and admiral.

“I will not give you my soul. I’d rather die.” with a swift movement of your wrist a dagger materialized in your hand and you adopted a fighting pose. “As you wish, Mc.” Lucifer imposter ran towards you and kicked you right in the stomach, throwing you against a wall.

He was incredibly fast, you only saw a shadow before crashing into the hard surface. “Already bleeding, human?” The Little D.s were surrounding you again but they stopped when black, well defined lines appeared on your neck. You stood up with no effort, arranging your clothes and brushing off the dust. “I borrowed some of Beelzebub’s strength, I'm sure he won't mind.”

“Ha! Points for trying but you cannot avoid the inevitable.”

***

Sc ran towards the house of lamentation under the inexplicable feeling of urgency and shame. The other students looked at her with curiosity and amusement as she left RAD, most looking for the demon chasing her just to realize that the human was simply running.

It felt unreal, everything since she had arrived to hell feels the same way, like a comedy. She paid no attention to the blurry faces and shady laughter, she couldn't care less about them in this hellish asylum. She heard the high-pitched squawk of a bird in the sky and noticed how a couple of crows flew back to RAD after looking at her. “The Avatar of Greed and his thousand eyes.” she thought, unconsciously running faster.

“Fuck you, you blabbermouth jerks!” Sc shouted, already sensing their intentions. Her whole body felt ready to explode, her lungs were burning, breathing had long since become painful. “I won't make it, I won't make it, I won’t ma-”

The sudden image of the house of lamentation's door appeared in front of her, seconds weren't enough for her to stop before crashing into it. “Shit, oh, fuck!”

“I saw you running away, I thought I’d give you a little push, Sc.” She heard a condescending voice from behind. She touched her nose and the pain was sharp, surely it was broken. The blood on her fingers took her attention away before her brain could process the demon's words.

“Did you open a portal in front of me?” She asked, still confused. “You seem to be in a hurry.”

Sc looked at Satan with wariness, he looked mad but it was quite different to previous times, he seemed tranquil, peaceful. Sc felt goosebumps trough all her body, something was screaming at her to get up and run away and so she tried. “Not so fast, little rat.” Satan moved so fast it looked like he had teleported, he took her arm before she could open the door and pulled her closer, gripping her hair tightly with his free hand.

“We have some unfinished business, Sc.” Tears unconsciously welled up in Sc’s eyes as the burning of her scalp became unbearable.

Satan's eyes widened, confusion filled green irises, darkening his gaze with pain. Sc sunk the dagger deeper into the demon's stomach without taking her eyes off his. “I'm sorry, m'lord but I don't have time for your tantrums.” Sc twisted the dagger viciously, years of experience helping her to keep her hand still against the fear. “I’ll kill yo-” She thrust the dagger again until the grip in her hair disappeared and Satan fell to her side, moaning in pain as dark blood pooled around.

***

The pain in your stomach was sharp as the knife that caused it, you looked first surprised and then with fear at the black form of Mammon, drops of saliva sliding through his fangs as the knife sank more and more in your body. “What kind of idiot gets stabbed with their own knife?!”

You took the Little D.’s hand, the one that was wielding the knife, while the other hand searched for his face with apprehensive calm. “…ring of light!” you murmured, tightening your grip on the demon's face that gradually changed from mocking to pained. Rays of divine light came from the ring that had belonged to Lucifer so many years ago, light that worked as a deadly repellent against demons.

Your wound was nothing compared to the cries of pain from the Little D. of Greed who begged for mercy with a voice that no longer resembled Mammon's. His body fell at your feet with a loud thud. “5 left.” you murmured, looking at the Little D.s, who were becoming more and more manic with every passing second.

***

Sc entered the house of lamentation as if she was coming from a peaceful walk in the gardens rather than a death fight with the Avatar of Wrath. However, once that she realized the other demons weren't coming at her, she started walking faster, following a direction that only her intuition knew.

She stood in front of the attic door, where she had been staying since she had arrived to the devildom. An ominous feeling filled her when she touched the doorknob, her skin was crawling as she opened the door slowly. The fast beating of her heart slowed down when she saw the Avatar of Sloth sleeping in deep slumber, like that he even looked like an angel.

Suddenly, something called her, a force too strong and pressing to ignore. Her gray eyes landed on the little cage she'd bought, like the sleeping beauty was lured to the spinning wheel, she was lured to the bird cage. It was situated above a dresser, just a few steps ahead of the bed.

Once she took it, the urges to go became stronger, as if the cage was commanding her to move. A voice in her head murmured words she could barely register. “Forest. Dark. Cold.”

“What?” She murmured, her voice as feeble as the one in her head. “Careful. Attic.” Sc's hands tightened around the small bars of the cage, absorbed in the voice and the message she couldn't decipher. “I don't understand you.” She said, how was she supposed to sharpen her hearing if the voice was coming from inside her mind. But it wasn't necessary because what she heard then was loud and clear.

“Behind you.”

***

A left hook from the Little D. of Gluttony sent you straight to the ground. The other demons had returned to their more amicable form, small black demons with friendly smiles cheered every time Beel imposter landed a blow. Before you could stand, you received a kick that conected with your jaw and made you kiss the ground again.

“You're the best, Leeb! Give them a good lesson!” The little D. of Envy shouted. If not for Beelzebub’s strength, you would be dead. “Leeb? This is the first time I hear your name.” You said, breathless.

“It doesn’t make sense. Don’t try to fake it, I know you’re not my ‘inner demons’.” You were beaten and bruised but there weren’t broken bones and so you could hold your ground. “You stole his shape and now his name?” The Little D. of Gluttony didn’t answer, instead he charged towards you. You dodged his punch at the last second, putting distance in between. “Where did you come from?”

It was clear that your questions wouldn’t be answered, the demon was too focused on ending you. “Hear me, denizens of darkness, you who are born of shadow and you who give birth to it. Hear me and do as I command! I, MC, call upon you to give me the strength of one of your number! the Avatar of Greed, Mammon!”

Before Leeb could land another blow, you moved behind his back, but you were so fast that it let you disoriented. Your body felt so light weighted and free, no wonder why Mammon is the fastest of them all. The demon aimed a kick to your torso, with Mammon’s speed you avoided in no time and thus began a round of blows and dodges.

“This is taking too long! Just break their legs!” You heard the voice of Leviathan, the Little D.s were tall again, clear proof that they were getting impatient. Leeb charged towards you one more time and, just like last time, you waited until the last moment to launch yourself out of his reach.

The demon crashed entirely into the wall, he stood there for a few seconds before turning around. Just when you thought another round would begin, what was left of the giant wall came crushing down on Leeb.

“Clearly, you are not on the good side of the Avatar of Greed.”

***

SC turned in time to see Belphegor aiming a punch, she dodged it in time too, her eyes glued to the hole Belphie made in the wall behind her. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Mm-hmm.” Belphegor murmured, but didn’t move. Sc looked at him, his eyes were closed and his head was tilted to the right side, occasionally moving to the left. “Lord Belphegor, are you a sleepwalker?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“That’s okay, I’ll leave now, okay?”

The Avatar of Sloth remained still, breathing calmly over Sc’s face. She wanted to relax, but she couldn’t remember any animal with claws as large and sharp looking as the demon in front of her. The same demon that had killed Mc in the very same place.

“Ookay, my lord, I’ll take my leave.” She moved slowly around Belphegor, never turning her back on him. She was almost out of Belphie’s reach when the demon straightened and dug his claws into Sc’s arm, making her gasp in pain. “Mc?” he murmured sweetly, in stark contrast to his actions.

“No!” She muffled her mouth with her free hand, noticing how the sleeping demon was in fact still sleeping. “They’re not here.”

“Where are they?” Belphie asked, tightening his grip, making the woman bend over in pain. “The news-” She gasped, closing her eyes. “The newspaper club, my lord.”

The relief she felt was immediate, Belphie let go of her arm and went back to bed. “Stupid eggplant.” He said, then a bunch of snorts as adorable as those of an angel were heard.

***

The Little D.s started attacking all at once, too upset by the current situation. You moved, attacked, and avoided as efficiently as you could, but the constant use of magic was taking its toll on you and more often than not their hits were successful.

"Spirit of the fire, bring your force upon the demons before me" you screamed, breaking the spells that allowed you to use the brothers’ strength and directing all your attention on the current one.

Two of the Little D.s avoided the intense fire that appeared out of your surroundings. Asmodeus and Belphie impostors screamed as the fire consumed their flesh. Similar to the others, their bodies didn’t die like a human one, instead they crumbled as if they were made of porcelain.

For a few moments, the world stopped moving and you watched them burn, the fire illuminated your face and your eyes reflected the flames. “Only two left.” Both the Little D. of Envy and the Little D. of Pride stood in silence, their faces disfigured by a perverse grimace of hunger.

“You are correct, Mc. We aren’t your inner demons.” The Little D. of Envy took the first step, as soon as his foot touched the ground, his leg broke and rolled into itself, his body did the same. “Congratulations!” He broke into maniacal laughter. As for Lucifer copycat, he vanished from his previous spot, leaving behind a cloud of black fog.

Your eyes scanned everything as fast as they could, but the fear had flooded your brain, stifling your ability to move. “Don’t resist, Mc.” Said a voice you hadn’t heard before, the real voice of the Little D. of Pride. You tried to move but something was forcing you to stay still, a black mist adhered to your body like freezing cold. “No, I refuse.”

The Little D. of Envy finally stood in front of you, taking your face with his hands, sinking his claws into your jaw. “Open your eyes.” He demanded. You had closed them, remembering Mephisto, Mammon, Amodeus… they had seen something in you through your eyes. “No!”

The fog that had adhered to your body forced your eyelids, tears of pain, fear and frustration slid down through your face. “Oh! It is not as white as before, is it?” the demon laughed. “So resilient, so persistent!” “Stop!” You screamed one last time before the mist prevented you from even that.

He looked at you and you looked at him, something stole your breath and left you empty.

The smell of your favorite food, that reminded you of Beel.

That feeling when you sleep on freshly washed sheets, that reminded you of Belphie.

They vanished, something absorbed them until you couldn’t remember what was there before.

A deep laugh, he doesn’t laugh often. Well, he does laugh a lot when he is with you. It makes you feel proud. Proud. Lucifer. That disappeared too.

You try to fight it, to grab an invisible rope that is not there for your soul knows no strings.

Someone is pulling your wrist, a voice is calling your name, asking you to follow him and only him and no one else. Your first disappeared too.

Your favorite color, that one song that accompanies you in all your difficult moments and the sound of the waves breaking against the rocks. Your favorite book and the hand of Satan, holding your hand as you turn the pages.

You started crying, feeling the emptiness as a part of you.

Someone hugging you, the relaxing smell of tea, the warmth of the fireplace, the silly jokes, the routine. A decorated cane, a simple courtesy.

“It’s mine!” You cried in vain.

Flowers, roses hanging from the bed and a beautiful demon smiling at himself, smiling at you. A bathtube filled with roses and then empty, just a pillow and a sheet. The faint sound of video games while you see the slow movement of a goldfish, alone in a giant tank.

And the only thing you can feel at the end is love, tender love.

You can feel the taste of your favorite food, the rhythm of that song, the ache in your stomach when you laugh too much. And what you thought was emptiness was only the resistance of your soul, the incorporeal fight for your soul.

And you feel it in yourself, with all its colors and shades.

You smiled, no longer looking into the dead eyes of the Little D. but looking at everything that makes you feel alive. “I told you, you can’t have my soul. It’s mine.”

As soon as you finished talking an intense pain spread from your stomach to your throat, blood came out of your mouth and choked you for an instant. “If not your soul, at least your body.” The Little D. of Envy said with boredom and hatred.

Before delivering the final blow, a dazzling golden flash hit him on the head, a woman holding a bird cage landed blow after blow at Leviathan impersonator, who was now lying on the ground. Gradually, the mist that held you still vanished and took the form of the Little D. of Pride, but this time it was as little as the Little D. of Envy that you had seen the first time, no bigger than your hand.

“Catch him!” You barely had the strength to speak but Sc heard you, quickly launching herself with the cage in hand towards the little demon. The bird cage did all the work, sucking inside the little demon.

“Thank you.” You murmured. Sc was hugging the bird cage, slowly sliding against a wall. Until that moment, you hadn’t noticed how injured she was. “No problem.” She said before passing out, the cage firmly secured in her arms.

You heard hurried footsteps and frantic voices but your eyes couldn’t resist more, you surrendered to your tiredness and closed them, perhaps forever, you thought.

Last part ಥ⁠‿⁠ಥ???

Taglist: @yuumaofc @asmolover1234 @gallantys @prefesro @urminebutidontwantyou @fiveofspades @exrellian @kaiserkisser @cutestpatoootie @fandumshippr @frenchmess23yo @reject-queen @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf

Yes, next one is finally the end of this long ass fic that is taking me forever to finish (feign surprise please 🙏🏻)!!

Also, I KNOW it was kind of sappy, if I were Mc my soul would already be marinade and ready (bon appétit! 🍷) but this Mc is amazing just like you! (⁠っ⁠˘⁠з⁠(⁠˘⁠⌣⁠˘⁠ ⁠)

Still, I feel like I lacked angst in this chapt. My soul is sad rn. :(

Thanks for reading and commenting! 🩷