#almost 1k words bloody hell

[going-to-ikea-for-the-fries]

It's a Match! || 141 x reader

[ The Prequel ] || [ Chapter 2 ]

Pairing: Gaz x Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1K~ Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you?

Chapter 1: Kyle

All of last night you and your friends spent time tinkering with your profile, putting up the sexiest pics of you that you had, some of them from Instagram, some from your camera roll, and filling in all the fields of info you could… 

And then you started checking out the profiles, definitely judging and roasting the men that popped on your screen (blame the alcohol), but always swiping right, regardless of what you (or them) thought of the most recent man on the screen.

But, once they left, you turned off the notifications and alerts from the app and went to sleep. You had acquiesced to downloading the app and making a profile, but the last thing you wanted was to be on that app constantly and get bombarded with DMs and Likes/Super-Likes…

The next day came and went and, as you sat in your kitchen after work, unboxing your take-out boxes of dinner, your group chat pinged with a text from Leah.

leah: How's Tinder going? 👀

You bit your lip and sighed as you typed out a response:

you: haven’t touched it all day bc i was at work. leah: Better touch it then!!

Rolling your eyes, you set the phone down on the table again, and locked the screen, as you began stirring the noodles you bought with your chopsticks.

Mia joined not long after with her own opinion. 

mia: ive got a good feeling about today! ur gonna find a hot bloke i know it 🫶 im sending good energyyyy!

“Yeah, right…” You grumbled. But, once again, you acquiesced and clicked on the little flame-shaped app icon.

The app lagged at first, for a good 5 seconds, and then a bunch of DMs and Like notifications pinged your phone.

You couldn’t help but chuckle to yourself… Oh, how predictable men are… They see a picture showing just a bit more skin and they try to chat the person up. But, at the same time, it made you feel quite good…

You skim through the DMs you’ve already gotten, over 99 of them… And none of them tickled your fancy. Plenty of them were variations of “Oi.”, “Hey.”, “Hi.”... Not to mention the ones that were just directly asking you to meet up right from the get-go.

Returning to the groupchat, you text your friends a screenshot of the 99+ counter on both the DMs and the Likes, which causes them to break into cheers at you.

leah: Look at you!!!! mia: i knew it. you: not into any of them tho. mia: then go back to swiping girl!

Biting back a little groan, you returned to Tinder and flicked onto the Swiping page.

Surprisingly, now that you were alone (and kind of doing it against your will), it was a lot easier for you to not get lost over-analyzing the profiles and simply… mindlessly moving your finger.

Right.

Right.

Right.

Right.

Ew, that’s a catfish of a famous male model, Report.

Right.

Right.

Right.

“Kyle.” You said softly as you read the name on your screen. He looked adorable, with a squinted ‘the-sun-is-in-my-eyes’ smile. “29… A soldier… a Brummie…” You mused as you slipped a Chinese roll past your lips and chewed.

You took a screenshot of his profile and sent it quickly to your friends’ groupchat before you returned to Tinder. As you clicked through his photo gallery, you saw the push notifications pinging at the top of the screen.

leah: HE’S STUNNING! 😫 mia: 👀👀👀👀👀 mia: smash.

Chuckling, you continue going through his pictures. “Holiday photo, holiday photo, I seriously hope those are his nephews or something, mandatory picture in uniform, and… JESUS CHRIST, a warning would’ve been NICE?!” You said to no one in particular as your jaw dropped open and you almost dropped your Chinese roll. 

“Bloody hell… Is that sweat or baby oil?” You asked yourself as you looked at his slick, bare chest in the mirror selfie he uploaded. “And is he cupping his-” You stopped that train of thought before it could go too far from the station.

Clicking the arrow in the corner you finally brought his profile into full-screen and proceeded to find yourself chuckling at his bio. 

His pictures were all wonderful, he looked like a guy who took care of himself, and he was funny which was the best part. 

Taking a deep breath, you press the Green heart at the bottom. A squeal escapes your mouth when the phone screen suddenly changes to the darker ‘It’s a Match!’ screen with Kyle.

Your eyes widen in surprise and, just as you press the DM button, intent on coming up with something to message him, you notice it.

Kyle: bought some shoes from a drug dealer this morning. don’t know what he laced them with but I’ve been tripping over myself all day and now think ive finally fallen for you 👀

The cheesy pick-up line has you closing your eyes and exhaling through your nose. It’s starting off terribly… But he’s the first bloke you felt inclined to text… That has to mean something, doesn’t it?

you: you fell out of a helicopter… i dont think its the shoes. i’m starting to think ur just clumsy. Kyle: holy shit you’re not a bot! let’s goooo you: a bot? you really thought that? Kyle: when someone has posted pics as cute as yours you cant help but have that worry in the back of your mind 😅 Kyle: or that ur a catfish 🤷‍♂️ you: i promise you im neither. you: and thank you. you’re cute too. Kyle: thats exactly what a bot/catfish would say 🙄 you: well how would a human talk then?? Kyle: cant tell you bc then ur gonna machine learn and start doing it you: well then how else am i supposed to prove im not either?? Kyle: let me take you out. let me get a proper good look at you. you: was that all a ploy to invite me out?? 🫠 Kyle: first time on tinder? you: that obvious huh? Kyle: a little. Kyle: so is that a yes? you: I’ll think about it. Kyle: i can work with that. 🥴 Kyle: hmu whenever youd like. no pressure. 

Maybe you would hit him up later… Once you gained enough courage to go through with the whole ‘rebound’ thing.

Biting your lip, you click off the DMs and return to the Swiping page…

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taglist: @daisychainsinknots , @bunnysdaydreams , @iite-cool , @lahniu , @pagesfalling , @tapioca-milktea1978 , @live-love-be-unique , @thelaisydazy , @littleghosthunter , @bossva , @emotion-no-hot-yes-hotel-trivago , @chamomiletealeaf , @ghosts-hoe

[minihotdog]

Whose Wife Is This?

Pairing: John Price x F!Reader

Summary: John comes home and finds out that he somehow has a wife.

a/n: lmaooo I just had this idea before I went to bed the other night. Kinda wrote this in a hurry so it isn't organized at all and the story is all over the place, yada yada. Bare with me... Bear with me? *shrugs*

word count: 1k

***

John tried to rub the sleep out of his eyes to no avail. There was no way of hiding that the long nights he’d been putting in at the office were weighing on him. But with no reason to go home, why would he? He’d just have to complete the mountain of paperwork the next day anyway. His eyes strained from hours of reading, his wrist ached from writing.

Young John Price would’ve never imagined the amount of paper pushing he’d be doing as an operator. His naive young self lived for the chaos of the field, sometimes even putting off his less-than-exciting duties. 

“Sir?” John’s head shoots up. The boys stand at his door huddled around the small entrance. “You staying here all night, Captain?” Gaz asks with concern mixed into his voice. John looks over to the now significantly smaller pile of papers littering his desk.

“I was just finishing up. You boys need something?”

Gaz shakes his head, “No, sir.” A smirk plays on his lips. “Just tell your wife we said ‘hello’.”

“I’ll let her know.” He replies absentmindedly. The boys leave the captain alone once again, he continues looking at the papers, shuffling them around before he stops abruptly.

“My wife? What the bloody hell were they talking about.” He mutters to himself. He takes it as a sign that he should call it a night since he is now imagining things. “I don’t have a wife. Why would he say that?” 

***

The drive home is silent. At the end of a long day, he couldn’t stand to listen to anything, his mind was too exhausted to think about anything but a beer and his bed. Not many knew about his personal life. Ghost was the only one who knew he’d been married before, but the marriage occurred when he was younger and undoubtedly more immature.

He made it to selection, began his career, and fell into the same pattern many men in his profession did: Partying, one-night stands, etc. He would be the first to admit that he’d been a piss-poor husband and he was now missing the touch of a woman in his life. His bed was lonely, his house devoid of life, reflecting how often he was actually home. He’d become a hopeless romantic, dreaming of someone he could hold in his arms. He yearned for someone to memorize. Their little habits and quirks, someone he’d share moments with, even have arguments with.

He pulls into his driveway barely remembering the drive home. He groans as he steps out of his car, his back aching from the day of training and being hunched over. He moseys his way to the front door and unlocks it while letting out a deep breath. The hallway is lit by a single dim light, the brown floral wallpaper looks like it came from the 19th century and gives the home a depressing look. He unties his boots and kicks them off leaving them next to the door. He removes his uniform top tossing it on the chair on the opposite wall before his feet pat softly against the hardwood floors leading towards the kitchen, towards a beer he so badly wanted to have.

He briefly glances at a photo framed on the wall and continues onward-

Wait a second?

He takes a couple of steps back and his head snaps towards the photo. His eyes scan it knowing for a fact that it had not been there in the morning… Or any time before that. A woman in a white sun dress sat smiling in a field of flowers. He rubs his eyes, unable to believe what he is seeing, she’s wearing his bucket hat.

He looks further down the hall and sees another picture frame, this one on top of the entryway table next to a pot of plants he either forgot to water or wasn’t around to. He rushes over to it and his eyes almost pop out of his head. This photo was of him smiling down at the same woman. He reaches for it, holding it close to his face. He looks around trying to make sense of what was happening only to realize the pot of dead plants now had vibrant green leaves pouring out of it.

Maybe he’d entered the wrong house? That couldn’t be, the furniture was in the same place as it had been before. And he couldn’t deny that the man in the photo looked exactly like him. Just as he was certain he was losing his mind a feminine voice calls out for him.

“John?”

He puts the picture frame back on the table and swings around towards the voice. Small bits of light flood into the hallway from the crack in the kitchen door. He slowly pushes the door further, his eyes trying to adjust to the bright light.

“There you are! I thought I heard you come home.” A woman rushes towards him wiping her hands on her pink apron. She pulls him into a hug but he’s too stunned to react. She pecks his cheeks and pulls him towards the dining table. “Sit, honey. I made you dinner. You stayed so late today, you’re probably starving.”

He lets her drag him to the table and plops down on a chair. She flows around the counter and returns with a plate of food. She places it in front of him in between the cutlery already on the table. The meal looks far better than what he’s been putting together for himself the last few weeks. He usually cooked or meal planned but work this week just didn’t let him and he expected to come home tonight and sleep for dinner.

He blinks at her for a few seconds unsure of how he ended up in this situation.

“Love, what are you doing in my house?” 

“I’m your wife silly,” You giggle at him while leaning over to give him another kiss on the cheek.

If he had the energy to argue he would, but instead he decided to eat. He licks the plate clean and brings it to the kitchen sink.

“C’mon, honey. You’re so tired, let’s get you in bed.”

He follows quietly trying to figure out if he should accept this or if he should ask questions in the morning. There’s only one thing he knows for sure in his exhausted state: That’s not his wife.

[the-kr8tor]

In Pursuit of Blood: A trip down goblin lane.

Pairing: Vampire! Hobie Brown x fem! Vampire hunter! Reader

Word count: 5.6k

Synopsis: You, an amateur vampire hunter, find it really hard to kill the one vampire you were tasked to kill.

Tags: Use of Y/N sparingly, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), same universe as the WWDITS series, CW blood, TW violence, CW suggestive, Mockumentary AU, established relationship, Fluff.

A/N: Special thanks to @al1x00 (ly fr) for the idea! Happy 1k! 🫶 (Enjoy my attempt at humor lol)

Navigation

Hobie's Masterlist

The camera focuses on a leather clad man sitting on a patchwork armrest. His long leg is crossed over the other, metal clinking against each other when he moves. He places his elbow on the armrest, hand under his chin, ringed fingers tapping on his cheek—bored and clearly disinterested. Red eyes lined with dark eyeliner, piercings glimmering under the camera lights, sharp nails painted, he makes the crew suck in a breath.

He's the perfect picture of a rockstar.

The dimly lit gothic home provides the perfect backdrop to the ‘confession booth’, various books, knick knacks from far flung places are littered all over the living room. A grand piano stands proudly to his left, dark oak polished and well taken care off. Tapestries from the sixteenth century are tacked on the walls next to seventies and eighties band posters. His coat rack is full of jackets that look like they come from different times in history.

The producer nods at him, asking for the man's name, his voice just above a whisper so that the microphones don't catch the sound.

He sighs, jaws tighten for a second. “Name's Hobie, Hobie Brown.” His voice shakes the crew's bones. The blond haired producer clears his throat and Hobie rolls his eyes like a spoiled celebrity. “And I'm a vampire.” he says flatly.

The blond gestures for him to continue, asking him how old he is. “Fuckin' hell.” Hobie says under his breath. “Were you not taught manners? Come off it, you don't ask a vampire their age.”

The clipboard holding man, who pretends to be important, asks him why he agreed to the interview if he's so disinterested.

“Fine,” He smiles, showing his sharp fangs, the simple act makes the documentary team's heart skip a beat. “Before you say ‘m following a trend of vampires givin' interviews and a ‘peak behind the cape’ like the wankers in staten island or the lovebirds in dubai. ‘m not, ‘m only doin' this because,” he points dramatically at the clipboard holding man. “Your director told me all proceeds from this goes to charity. And it better be—”

Something thumps outside. The camera sharply turns to the closed floor length curtains.

“Oi, eyes back ‘ere.” Hobie exclaims, the camera whizzes back to his figure. “Again, vampire, been alive for…” he inhales, “a long bloody time. Been a pirate, a cowboy, hell even a rockstar. But always an anarchist.” He says proudly. “I've been rebelling against the one who bit me for centuries,” the camera zooms in on his scowl. “Hate that knobhead.”

Something falls right outside his windows, a groan and a curse sounding out, voice muffled by the walls.

The crew expects Hobie to hiss or even deal with the intruder but he smiles, posture loosening up.

“That,” he points at the source of the ruckus. “That’s a vampire hunter.” Smiling, the crew could hear a muffled ‘fuck you’ behind the walls. “She's been hunting me for a few years now. She—eh, hasn't been close.”

The cursing was louder, camera swishing towards the source, your angry face peeking out from the curtains. The boom mic captures your annoyed growl clearly as you place your face as close as possible on the glass.

“Fuck you, Hobart!”

He chuckles as the crew's face grows with concern. “Don't worry, she's—I guess bad at her job. She's interestin’ though. Y’know what, let me just show you.” He stands up, the cameras and the entire crew follows him through the hallways of his home.

The cameraman almost trips on a stray guitar on the floor. “Careful now, that was a present from some rockstar in the seventies. That's why I leave it on the floor, it works best as a boot scraper.”

Hobie stops in front of double doors, scenes of a love story are carved on the wood.

“It was a gift.” He addresses the doors, “not my first choice but where else would I put the bloody thing?” With a small push, hands braced on both doors, he reveals the expansive room lined with hundreds of paintings and photographs.

He sucks in his teeth. “The entire house is a gift, I'd rather live in a boathouse honestly but this works fine I guess.” Shrugging, he points at the oldest looking wood carving hanging on the wall. A man kneels in front of a woman, rose in his hand as she looks down at him with glee.

“Yes, that's me courting. The wood carver fucked up the scene though, it was more like me ravaging– uh” he clears his throat “…this won't show in pbs right?”

The people behind the cameras shrug as Hobie looks to them for an answer.

“I'll tone it down then, for the children, just in case.” He continues down the lineup of pictures.

Stopping by a large painting of what looks like Hobie in medieval clothing. The painted version of him is surrounded by flowers and trees. His antlers protruding from his head, webs clings to his arms.

“This was when people thought I was fae.” He makes a face, “everyone was tripping on shrooms back then.” walking towards the middle of the room, passing by a few more paintings and tapestries, He pauses on a yellowed painting of a woman who looks similar to you, only less angry.

“Look at her,” sighing, the vampire has heart eyes while looking at the painting. “this was before she was cursed by that bitcharse jealous witch. Now every descendant of hers is cursed to never harm me or any of my spawns, which is bad because they all think I killed their ancestor, and all they want is to kill me. A consequence of dating a vampire hunter during the fifteenth century, I guess.”

“The curse is a two way street, they can't kill me, I can't hypnotize them. It's not that I want to anyway.” he continues.

Another ruckus echoes throughout the house. Hobie smiles again. “I believe she doesn't know about it, so hush, yeah?” He does a double take. “Wait, can you cut that part out?”

—

The second crew runs towards you as you climb the tresses of the house. The camera lens zooms in on your clumsy climbing. Looking down, hearing leaves crunch underfoot, you yelp in surprise.

“What—?!” Losing your hold, you fall on a bush, landing directly at his wild flowers. “Ow! Who the fuck—?!”

—

Now sitting down on a lawn chair, leaves stuck in your hair, face and clothes covered in dirt, you scowl at the producer behind the camera.

Sighing, clicking your tongue, you answer their questions with another question. “Who the fuck are you guys?”

You raise an eyebrow at the words ‘documentary crew’ uttered by the producer.

“Seriously? Who would want to interview Hobart? Scratch that, is it because of those fuckers in staten island?”

A cameraman answers, ‘for charity.’

You blink in surprise, “charity? You fuckin' kidding me? Well if it's for the kids then.” sighing, you resign, looking directly at the camera with disdain, you say your first name. “And I'm a vampire hunter, I mean obviously I am just looking at all the stakes and holy water strapped to me. I look like I'm very fun at parties.” You say jokingly, “and church, probably. Dunno never been.”

The camera cuts back to Hobie still in the large room full of paintings and memorabilia.

“— I didn't do anythin’ wrong. They're absolutely mad at me for no reason—” he stops, thinking. “But I guess I was the reason their family was cursed innit?”

He changes subjects, showing the camera a painting near the end of the room.

“Oh this? This is when her great great great great grandfather almost got me, memories huh? He was mighty fit.” The crew zooms in on a gorgeous painting of a man trying to put a stake through Hobie's heart while he smiles up at him like he's smitten.

“Good times.” He chuckles.

—

“Fuck this.” You say, standing up from the chair, grabbing the mic off from your shirt abruptly. The camera follows you as you grab the lawn chair that you were just sitting on. You then proceed to throw it at a stained glass window. Giving you entry to his abode.

“It was gaudy anyway.” Entering the house, your shoes crunch the broken glass.

—

“Huh, she's inside. That's a record.” Hobie says almost excitedly. “I'll show you the rest of the room after this—.”

The double doors burst open, the camera swivels to you and the camera crew behind you. Holding a stake, you scowl at Hobie.

“Hello, darling, how was your commute?” He genuinely smiles.

“I have a car now, fuck you!” You lunge at him.

Lightning fast, he grabs your wrist right before the stake kisses his chest. The camera crews film on the sides, avoiding getting hit themselves.

“Good for you, finally saved up then?”

Lifting your legs, you kick his chest, you tumble, landing on your feet, staring at him menacingly. “Yes! It's a kia!” you scream before you run full speed at him.

“You got a good deal on it? Automatic or manual?”

“No!” You swing at him, he dodges. “I think I got swindled!” Kick “And it's a manual!” Punch “I’m not a pussy!”

Hobie clicks his tongue, avoiding the pointed edge of the stake. “Point ‘em to me, love, maybe I can get you your money back.”

Stepping back further away, you pause while he stands at the end of the room. Changing your hold on the sharp wood, you throw it at him, he leans slightly, dodging the projectile. it hits the wall right next to your ancestor’s portrait.

“You'll just drink him dry like the last guy!”

He shrugs, making a face that makes you want to punch him harder. “Not my fault he was a knobhead.”

You bounce on your feet, pouncing at him. “He was my dentist!”

He moves to the side, seeing you running towards one of the paintings, in danger of getting smashed by you. In his panic, he raises his arm to stop you, accidentally clothes lining you. His wall-like arm hits you right on your face.

Falling harshly on the floor, you're completely unconscious.

Hobie looks at the cameras with concern. “Shit.”

—

You wake up on an ancient looking couch, it's soft despite its appearance. Lifting your head with a groan, headache punching through the back of your head, you grimace loudly at the camera crew still filming in the corner.

Falling back on the couch, you hide your flustered face with your arm, pulling the blanket further up your chest.

“I promise I'm not that bad at fighting.” You murmur, still hiding your face from the cameras. “You just caught me at a bad time.”

Hobie suddenly appears with a whoosh, he holds a metal tray with tea and a hot compress placed on it.

“Who's giving you a bad time?”

You audibly groan. “No one.”

He places the tray on the coffee table, sparing a quick glance at the camera. “I caught you lackin’ you're not always that bad. Tea?”

Wordlessly reaching up, you flip him the bird. Hobie smiles softly, tapping your legs to give him space on the settee. The documentary crew is surprised that you actually move to give way to him.

He sits by your legs, preparing your tea just like how you always take it. Two sugars and a dash of milk. The entire production staff is perplexed to say the least.

With a clink of the tea spoon against the cup, you sit up, wincing slightly. “Can I get another sugar cube?”

Hobie raises a brow, “it's that kind of day huh? What's bothering you, love?”

You scoff, taking a cube for yourself then plopping it in your tea cup. “Nothing.”

He flicks his eyes at the camera with a knowing glance. Resting his elbow atop his thigh, chin placed on his hand, he pokes at your leg using his foot. Wordlessly having a conversation. With a sigh and a frown, you sip at your tea.

“Ex kicked me out. Now I'm living with the family again.”

Hobie's nonchalance drops, hand instinctively reaching out to you until he realizes what he's doing, he retracts his hand back.

“Shit, ‘m sorry. Their loss.”

“Mm-hmm, consequences of living with someone you've only dated for three months.” You finish your drink in one gulp. “‘sides, I don't have to pay rent anymore.”

��You've got shitty taste in partners.” You snort, half agreeing with him. “But you have to live with your psycho family so there's that.”

You laugh, the camera zooms in on Hobie's pleased expression.

“They're tolerable now, mellowed out after they took out count Belois.” You look at Hobie, copying his position like a mirror.

“He was an arse, did all of us a favour.” he stares at your eyes while the camera continues to film, yet you two don't seem to notice them anymore.

“Yeah, wish I was there though.” You say in a small voice. “They never invite me to those hunts. Always left watching outside.”

Hobie reaches towards you again, this time he actually holds you. Long fingers curling around your wrist, his thumb rubbing gently. “If only they know how hard you could kick.”

“You barely moved when I kicked you.” Chuckling, your eyes sparkle under the dim lights.

“Well it's me,” he inches closer to you in the seat, knee brushing against yours. “But if it was any other vampire out there they would have flown.”

You scrunch your face. Laying your hand down to your thigh, Hobie intertwined his fingers around yours properly this time. The camera captures the confusing scene.

“Because they turned into a bat?”

He grins, showing you his teeth, you don't even flinch. “Nah, because you kicked ‘em too hard. Did you hit your head that hard?” Knocking his knuckles against your temple softly, you move back like lightning has struck you.

“No, I'm actually okay, thanks.” You take your hand away, eyes flitting nervously at the camera then to Hobie. “I gotta go, dinner with the psycho family.” Standing up, you take your belongings from the floor. “You know how it is.”

He looks up at you with an unreadable expression, “yeah, I know how it is.” He says forlornly.

Patting his shoulder awkwardly, your hand lingers for a half second. “Bye,” you stare at the crew in the corner, “bye to all of you, I guess. Don't get eaten.”

The camera pans towards Hobie who just shrugs, fangs poking out of his lips.

—

Hobie eats alone in his empty dining room. The table is long, made of strong narra, designed to sit a dozen or so people. He sits in the head of the table, utensils scraping against the bloodied plate. His goblet is full, untouched.

He looks up at the camera on the other side of the table, observing his every move.

“The table's a gift too.” He says before continuing to eat silently.

—

The camera follows Hobie throughout his day. Roaming aimlessly around the house, he floats above the ground, hand and feet sticking on the wall while he dusts pictures that's placed on the highest shelf.

In the afternoon, he writes music on his piano while he flashes back and forth towards the drums and guitar, testing the music he wrote.

The crew captures Hobie burying something in the backyard. Jacket off, tank top and bare arms in full display. Moonlight illuminating his skin. His necklaces clink together as he shovels in dirt, packing the hole in tightly. The producer asks something about familiars and Hobie scowls at the word.

“No, just no. ‘m fully against havin’ familiars, it's fuckin' wrong.” He sticks the shovel harshly on the soil when the producer questions him again. “Ask me again and you'll be the one ‘m burying next.”

The camera shuts off abruptly.

—

The small supermarket's repetitive jingle from the nineties irks Hobie as he shops for some meat. But what irks him more is the documentary crew finding him especially after he went out of his way to hide from them.

He tosses a box of your favourite tea in the basket, annoyed at the team behind the cameras and boom mics. “Do the lot of you have a tracker on me or somethin’?” Shaking his head, he stomps down the aisle, heavy boots thudding loudly on the floor.

With his leather jacket plus all the metal and spikes on him, Hobie looks like a regular punk shopping for groceries. But if you looked closer, stayed too long in his presence, your flight or fight response kicks in, rendering anyone frozen on the spot.

His ruby eyes scan around the soap display, trying to ignore the cameras and people trailing after him, he gets a whiff of a familiar scent: strawberries and cream, it's you.

Hobie's feet move on its own, carrying him towards your direction. He spots you standing in the fruit section, weighing a watermelon in your hands, knocking on it then listening to the sound closely like you're trying to eavesdrop.

“What's the watermelon saying?”

“Christ!” You jump, dropping the watermelon.

Thankfully he catches it before the fruit splatters on the linoleum. “Just me, love.”

Clutching your chest, you take deep breaths. “I thought I smelled something rotten.” He raises a brow at your comment. “What are you doing here? This is far from your place.”

“First of all, I smell like sandalwood and fresh linen, fuck you.” You snort, rolling your eyes. “And ‘m tryin' to avoid them.” He points behind him, towards the cameras.

“Augh, they're still following you?”

“Apparently I signed a contract, it's not a one time thing.” He places the watermelon back to the crate, taking one that is riper and sweeter just for you. He then gently drops it in your cart, you nod a thanks.

“I told you before don't sign anything when you're drunk off of alcohol filled blood.”

“You're right, lovie, should've listened to you. Can't blame me when I only hear music whenever you open your pretty mouth.” He leans on your cart nonchalantly, giving you his signature smirk that has people falling over themselves for centuries.

“That's not much of a compliment.” You grimace, unaffected by his charm. “Listen, since we're in a public place I'm not gonna try to kill you so please get off my cart, I've got some shopping to do.” Shaking the trolley, he leans away, dismayed. “Also, the owner seems to like me, which is rare enough, so I don't want to ruin my relationship with the old lady. Shoo, Hobart, I'm off the clock.”

“You've got two people who like you now. One more than the other, I suppose.”

You narrow your eyes towards the vampire. “Who's the second one.”

Hobie walks backwards, arm wrapped around his basket, smile blinding everyone in its vicinity. “Me, darling, isn't it obvious?”

The bright fluorescent lights shouldn't do him any favours but by god, he looks amazing under it.

You don't answer, the camera zooms into your hands gripping the handles of the shopping cart, chest heaving, swallowing thickly.

He leaves, going towards the cashier to pay for his groceries. And you spot a sign that's labeled ‘50% off on garlic!’ you glare at the camera, pushing the cart towards the display.

—

Hobie sits on his work table, pieces of a TV are jumbled out on the table as he tinkers with them. His hands shake slightly, he should really feed.

“—‘m pretty good with technology, not like the other vampires. I've adapted well with—” he sniffs, “wait, what's that smell?”

He opens the door to find thousands of garlic circling around his house, “what—?”

“Tada!” You pop out from the side, hands carrying bushels of garlic, no doubt smelling like it too. “Wait, no, not tada, that's in poor taste because you hate them.”

Hobie gags at the smell, eyes watery and irritated. “This is a bad idea!” He rubs at his eyes, tears fully streaming on his cheeks.

“Why? Because it's working?!” You cackle, throwing the vegetable like confetti, one lands right on top of your head.

“Because it attracts—!”

You screech when you feel a sharp tug at your coat. A little green creature shrieks at you, the sound rings your eardrums, almost breaking the boom mic. Its eyes are dark and glassy, ears pointed, teeth sharp.

“A Goblin?!” Falling on your ass, you crawl backwards, watching as more and more of them appear from the bushes.

“I'm a goblin.” The one with a worn out party hat says, voice cracking like foil.

“What are you a Pokémon?!”

Hobie runs after you as fast as he can with the garlic hindering him. “Get inside!” He yells, dragging you towards the door. His hands sizzle atop your arms, the garlic searing his skin.

The creatures skidaddles towards you, towards the smell of garlic. Waves upon waves of green skitter and crawl on all limbs, eyes hungry, mouths agape.

“Hobie!” You hold on to his wrists as the ground scratches your back. Kicking an incoming goblin, you yelp as the door closes at the nick of time.

Claws scratch at the windows and walls. One of them even bangs its head hard on the glass just to get to you.

Hobie hides you behind him, eyes still stinging and skin aflame. “Get to the basement!” He screams when one breaches the house with glass shattering. “Go!”

Running down, Hobie lets you and the crew go first. He grabs a cutlass from the wall, chopping one that comes a little too close to your leg.

You look back at him with worry. “Hobie!”

“I'll be there! Just go!” He grabs one by the neck, throwing it away haphazardly.

It yells a faint ‘whee’ as it sails through the house.

Reaching the large basement, you search for the light switch, a cameraman beats you to it and you yelp at the sudden brightness.

The basement is full of things from different centuries. An iron maiden lays discarded on the corner, its steel rusted and brown. A sculpture of a woman sits on a shelf, it looks like it's a long lost work of Rodin. There's a large tapestry depicting a vampire war that is now collecting dust on the wall.

But the thing that catches your eyes is the massive metal cage that sits in the middle of the room. You would gawk but the swarm of goblins are nearing the basement. The familiar thumping of boots shakes you with relief.

“Cage!” Hobie grabs you effortlessly, you have no time to react as he carries you like a duffel bag by your waist.

The crew follows frantically, closing the metal doors shut behind them just as the swarm gets close. They shriek and bang on the bars, little arms trying to reach towards you.

He lays you back to your feet, dropping the drenched sword on the ground, palms still healing. He cups your face, searching for any injuries.

“You alright?” He heaves, out of breath, legs covered in goblin bites and palms searing but he looks at you like you're the one who's bleeding.

Staring at him with your irises blown out, mouth slightly parted, you embrace him to his surprise and the crew's.

“I'm okay,” you lean away before he could hug back. Hands placed on his shoulders, nails digging into him like he's about to be yanked away from you. “Are you?”

Hobie forgets about the other people inside the cage and the goblins trying to nibble at him. It's only you in his hands, even though the pungent smell of garlic makes his nose itch. Eyes tender, touch gentle, he could only nod.

“Yeah, I'm good now.” His voice lacks the usual charm.

You can finally breathe. “I thought…I'm the only one that's allowed to kill you.”

Chuckling, he traces your jaw with his thumb. “I know. You're first in line, darling.”

The crew stands near the sides awkwardly.

—

The goblins are trashing Hobie's basement, and based on the sounds from upstairs, they're also wreaking havoc in the entire house.

You sit back to back with Hobie in the middle of the cage, away from the bars, hands braced to your sides, his own are mere inches away from yours. He's glad that the garlic smell has wafted away from you, but not enough to get rid of the goblins still hankering for your flesh.

The crew stays away from the openings of the cage whilst a handful of the creatures try to grab at their equipment. It's been hours since the initial attack and everyone's getting hungry and thirsty, including Hobie.

“Why do you even have a dungeon in your basement—? Wait, scratch that, don't answer.” You try to pass the time.

“It was for your great great uncle—”

“Ew!”

“Get your head out of the gutter.” He says flatly, hands shaking from hunger. “I got it so he has a safe place to transform every full moon.”

“What? Huh, so that's why that branch of the family is so hairy.”

He changes the subject. “What were you thinkin’ with the garlic?” Hobie lays his head right on your shoulder, craning his neck to face you, he uses the closeness to memorize your face. His crimson eyes are dimmer than you're used to.

“I dunno, I thought it was a genius idea back then. Y’know, trap you inside, starve you then when you're weak enough I'd put a stake through your heart.”

“It's a good thing you're bloody fit.” He murmurs, chuckling quietly. “You almost got me though.” Your ears pick up the fatigue in his voice.

“And here I thought you fancy me for my amazing personality.”

“That too.” He smiles weakly, feeling the ache in his bones. “We need to get out of here.” His jaw visibly tightens, wanting to get away from you and your scent. Unfortunately it's not so easy when you're trapped.

“I know,” You sigh, Hobie sits up, covering his ears with the heels of his palms. “You okay?”

“I can hear your blood rushing through your veins.” He bites the inside of his cheeks. “Fuck, we really need to get out of here.” Standing up on wobbly feet, you help him up while the crew stands as far as they can without getting slashed by goblin claws.

“You're hungry.” You state the obvious.

“Starvin’” his red eyes flick down to your neck, already feeling guilty from the simple look.

You swallow thickly. “When was the last time you drank?”

“A couple days ago.” His vision blurs.

“Why are you starving yourself?” Scolding him, you guide him back down on the cold granite. “Hobart.”

“Why do you keep callin' me that?” Cold hands against your own, his eyes zeroes in on your face, avoiding the veins in your neck. “You sound like her when you call me that.”

Your eyes soften, warming him with your palms atop his cheeks, you worry. “You haven't answered my question.”

He groans, head lolling backwards. “Got busy, forgot what day it was.”

“Busy with what?” You click your tongue, lifting his head back up with your hands under his head. You search his hungry eyes, making a decision you could regret in the long run.

“If I let you feed, will you be able to get rid of the goblins?”

That has him picking his head back up, waking him up from his hungry stupor. “What—?”

You reiterate, voice determined. “If I let you drink from me can you get your strength back and get rid of the little fuckers?”

“Y/N, I can't let you do that.”

“I know what happens if you don't feed and judging by how the goblins are devouring your entire house like some frat, they aren't leaving soon enough.” You ball his shirt in your hands for emphasis. “I'm letting you drink, just this one time so we could all go home.”

“Are you really sure?”

“Just don't turn me into your spawn, deal?”

Hobie cracks a smile, fangs glinting off the basement lights. You suddenly feel your nerves kicking in.

“I promise I won't. Just tell me if it gets too much, yeah?”

“Okay,” you inhale deeply, tugging down the collar of your shirt, showing him what he needs. “Don't drink me dry.”

“That depends, for all I know you taste brilliantly.” His joke alleviates your fear a little. You're both unaware of the cameras watching, recording everything. Even forgetting that they were there in the first place.

His hand is on the back of your neck, the other is gripping on to your arm like his life depends on it. Eyeing your skin, lips brushing along it, fangs barely piercing, he gives you enough time to lean away.

“Hurry on with it, I need to pee.”

With a deep chuckle, he sinks his teeth in you.

Gasping, you bite down on your bottom lip, stifling any sounds. But Hobie can hear them from your chest, feel how your body quivers with every suck and nip from his teeth.

You whimper and he holds on to you tighter.

He wants to devour you whole, his instincts tell him to ravage you until you're dry and limp in his arms— to rip you apart with his bare teeth. But he doesn't, he's careful and gentle like he's drinking nectar straight from a flower.

“F-fuck…” you let out, hands shaking, sliding down to the back of his neck, pressing him closer.

He turns warmer with your crimson flowing through him, not letting a single drop of the precious liquid dribble from his mouth.

Hobie feels like his dead heart beats once again after centuries.

Eyes closed, you feel like you're on cloud nine. You look like it too, eyes hazy, lips parted, hand holding on to him weakly.

Before he could drown in you, Hobie carefully eases his teeth out from your pierced skin, maw covered in your blood, thumb pressing down to your wounds to stop the bleeding.

It will scar, but you're alright with that thought.

He feels anew. His eyes are sharper, adrenaline coursing through him like your blood in his system. His ears perked at every breath you let out. Eyes blown up like the size of dinner plates, his warm breath fans your cheeks.

Half of him regrets doing it, now that he has gotten a taste, he can't go back to biting random rich assholes. His other half delights in your after taste, so sweet and nectarine that makes him crave more.

You crane your neck slowly like molasses to look at him sweetly through your half lidded eyes, and a soft yet tired smile on your lips. Still clinging into euphoria, vision swirling and heart beating a thousand times per second. You feel like you've ascended and you'll never go down from it.

Licking his teeth, Hobie resists the urge to dive back in. But he's more than that, you're more than a blood bag.

“You alright?” He whispers, he smells like you.

You hum, smiling giddily like a child who just got what she wanted.

“‘m gonna go and kill some goblins now. Stay here for me?”

You hum a tune that sounds like a rendition of ‘happy birthday.’ Giggling, you pat his cheek.

“Yeah, you'll be alright. I'll get you some orange juice after this.”

“Orange sounds nice… such a pretty color. And cookies, yum.” You chortle like you just heard the best joke. “Oh handsome, so handsome. I'm gonna bite you back one day.” Staring up at him, your eyes roll back, falling unconscious.

“Lookin' forward to it.”

Hobie gently lays you down on the floor, standing up, ears listening to your fast heart beat, but it's not enough proof for him. Eyes observing your chest, watching it go up and down, making sure he didn't go too far. Satisfied, he points at the crew cowering in the corner, their cameras still rolling. The documentary won't air anywhere at this rate.

“Watch her.” He says sternly, eyes glaring.

They all nod frantically.

With a swift kick to the metal door, he strikes down every goblin he sees.

—

You sit on the same patchwork armchair, sipping on a warm cup of tea, comfortable and content in your seat. The two pin prick scars on your neck peeks under your collar. The camera has you in the spotlight, zoomed in on your freshly washed face.

“Do you know about the curse?” The man behind the camera asks, his voice wavering with every word like it's taboo to mention it.

“What curse?” You watch as their faces morph into panic. “I'm fucking with you,” you laugh at their expense.

“Of course I know about it. Why do you think I hunt him down? For fun? Well, partly because of it but we broke that curse like five generations ago when my ancestor figured it all out and made friends with the witch.”

Smiling fondly, you continue. “She's my godmother now. Don't tell him.” You warn. “Hunting him down is an initiation for us really, a tradition to try and kill him, just really doing our best to cause damage. He's pretty powerful.”

Laying your elbows on your knees, you look directly at the camera.

“I mean you've seen the room right? He's fucking obsessed, someone has to off him or just—I honestly think he should just move on.” shrugging you sip your tea that he made for you.

“Is that why you're living with him?” They ask unabashedly. The camera zooms out, showing you still in your pajamas, complete with fluffy slippers.

“Uh—”

Hobie appears in the corner, leaning on the doorway casually, a similar pajama pants hanging low on his hips.

“Darling, have you seen my good jumper—?”

You take your crossbow from under the chair, twisting in your seat, you aim it at his head, shooting, the arrow whizzes past him, he ducks down as the arrow imbeds into the oak.

Hobie laughs on the floor, lifting up a black and red jumper. “Found it!”

“Goddamnit.” The word is laced with endearment. You turn back towards the crew, eyes narrowed at them. “Wait, why are you guys here so early?”

Support banner by @/cafekitsune

A/N: Thank you for reading! And happy 1k! 🎉

[auspicioustidings]

141 fighting each other to be the one whose lap reader sits on during a meeting or smth

CONGRATS ON 1kkkk

Thanks <3 Please find silly nonsense below!

Tomfoolery Senses

Words: 1k

CWs: Slightly spicy but nothing explicit

Honestly you shouldn’t even be on base, not with your knee being how it was. It was annoying as hell that the recovery time meant you were out of the field for the foreseeable, but they still needed you. You may not be able to run around with a gun right now, but tactical was always your strong point anyway so for now you attended meetings and made plans.

You walked into one such meeting and your tomfoolery senses immediately went off. There were too many glinting eyes for them not to have pulled something, and when you went to sit down you nearly laughed out loud at the bloody audacity. No empty seats. Strange since there should be some, almost as if someone had relocated them beforehand specifically for some ridiculous purpose.

“Ye can sit here bonnie!”

It took a moment for your brain to catch up. Soap was very much patting his lap in excitement. The last time you had ended up in that man's lap his hand had wandered during the entire meeting. You recalled being a mess by the end of it and Soap being very much like the cat who got the cream about it because he knew it meant when he followed to your room like a puppy you would let him in.

“Move your arse MacTavish, I’m injured and I need the seat.”

“Wouldnae dream of it! As ye’ll recall, I also have a dodgy knee. Only right for us tae stick together.”

“Surely you’re not asking them to sit on your dodgy knee then Johnny? Come on sweetheart, right here.”

You gave Ghost a bemused look. Soap you expected this from, but him? Actually no, you had very much been overwatch for 141 missions, this is exactly the kind of nonsense you expected of this idiot.

“Now I would love to, but weren’t you just telling me about your bad back? I seem to remember something about needing me to massage it. It would be irresponsible of me to risk making it worse.”

“Your massage fixed it right up actually" he replied, large hand patting thick thigh in further invitation.

You rolled your eyes. Your “massage” had lasted about a minute with you sincerely giving it your best effort before he had pinned you down and given you a very thorough massaging of his own. Only that one had done the opposite of fixing your back, if anything you'd say he had in fact blown it out.

“That so? You were complaining about it right before they walked in” Gaz said, smug as anything even while Ghost glared over at him.

“He's a lying git luv, obviously just looking to get a gorgeous thing in his lap. My lap, however, is neutral.”

You knew for a fact his lap was not neutral, not one bit. His lap was very much the kind of lap that you found yourself bouncing on anytime he got you alone and charmed you right into it. You could be in the middle of a training exercise, fully in the zone, and next thing you knew you were stuffed full of Kyle bloody Garrick in the middle of a safehouse where anyone could wander in at any moment. It wasn't like you were a big risk taker, but he could make you think anything was a good idea.

“A veritable Switzerland I'm sure.”

“Safest place to be really.”

“Look me in the eye and say that with a straight face then.”

Soap and Ghost groaned in tandem as you made the mistake of looking at Gaz. That bloody sunshine smile could sell ice in the Arctic and as such everyone usually avoided eye contact when they knew he wanted something. Charisma score above 20 that boy. Honestly these fuckers were the worst, but oh Gaz's big brown eyes were just smiling so gently at you and surely he would never do anything untoward. How could you look at this man and think he would ever manipulate you?

“Corporal, come ‘ere, that's an order.”

Gaz's sunshine expression turned to one of wry disbelief. He had been so close, you had been about to take a step towards him. It was awfully unsportsmanlike for Price to pull rank, something Gaz would be holding against him.

“So much for honour.”

“Cheeky fucker.”

“Just taking the piss Captain.”

It wasn't completely unfounded for Price to use his rank to get what he wanted when it came to you, it was why usually the others would try to get you away from him. Ghost did it sometimes too if he wasn't there and the Sergeants were. Although he didn't use it quite as thoroughly as Price did once he got you alone. The Captain was always happy to give you orders if only so he could punish you when you bit back, which you did often. Not because you enjoyed the punishment, that certainly wasn't it. You could not supply another reason, but that was besides the point.

“Well I suppose I have to since you're the Captain, unless there was someone that technically had more authority to give me orders” you said with a grin.

“Come on now pet, don't be like that, just come sit and we can start the meeting hm?” he said, using that voice that was right in the middle of soothing dominance and rough command in a last ditch effort.

“Of course Captain, just want to clear it with command first.”

Price sighed, glancing over and seeing that he had lost the fight when he was met with Kate's sly little smile. She was often your saviour when it came to these men. It helped that her and her lovely wife were both sweet on you. They had invited you round for dinner once or twice, and suffice to say the very delicious home cooked meals were not the only thing getting eaten. If there was one thing the men in the 141 hated more than losing to one another, it was losing to Laswell. She was always so annoyingly smug about being your favourite.

As you settled right down in her lap and both the meeting and Kate's hands gently massaging at your waist started, the 141 collectively thought that next time they'd better bring you a damn chair.

[catscidr]

Can I please request Dottore x clingy reader who loves giving him affection thank you! 💕

hell yeah baby that's what i'm TALKIN ABOUT ୧(☉□☉୨ ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ cw: fluff, vague mentions of gore includes: gn!reader, dottore, webttore mentionned for like a second wc: 1k

6 minutes. 

That was the longest amount of time Dottore had gone without being bugged by your presence. Well, "bugged” was a bit of a strong word- maybe more so inconvenienced by your endless whining for attention. It’s not that he hated it, it was quite the opposite really, but he actually needed to get work done before tomorrow and couldn’t afford to get distracted this time around. You called out after him for the millionth time today, trotting up to his side with an almost puppy-like expression, looking up at him expectantly. 

Currently wrist deep in the guts of one of his poor victims, he swallowed down the urge to speak his mind honestly, instead choosing to glance over at you from the corner of his eyes. His glare (unfortunately) did nothing to deter your determination and willpower- with his attention now on you, you flash him a bright smile, wrapping your arms around his torso from his right side. 

“Hey, why don’t you take a break?” you ask, tilting your head up to look at him properly. Dottore’s sharp, angular features never failed to make you swoon no matter how many times you looked at his unmasked face. You think it’s a blessing, but he argues that it’s a curse- especially now that you won’t leave him alone, making him pause his work. 

“No,” he sighs for the nth time, bringing his attention back to the corpse on the metal table. “I have work to do. Why don’t you go bother Delta instead? He should be filing out some paperwork,” the doctor says, skillfully shrugging you off of him. You shake your head, resting your hands on his forearm to give him the space he needed. 

“I don’t want to hang out with him though,” you say with a frown, bottom lip jutting out in a pout. “Come on, you’ve been working non-stop for ages now. Just a small break! An itty bitty one. Like thirty minutes. You can spare that much, can you?” 

The Harbinger stares at the wall with a deadpan expression, weighing his options. On one hand, he could give in, listen to you and take a much needed break. But on the other hand, he could always just... lock you in his office. Not that he would leave you there for long, just enough for him to get this experiment over with. Plus it’s not like you’d be like a dog stuck in a hot car in the middle of summer without any a/c, he had a plush sofa he never used im his office alongside a mini fridge he also never used. The amenities were there for this exact scenario, anyways- so you’d be comfortable while waiting for him to be done. Although, the more he thought about it, the more his body began to feel heavy, exhaustion seeping through his limbs. Dottore grumbles some choice words under his breath and withdraws his arms out from the bloody mess that came from his current experiment and makes his way towards the sink. You follow after him, curious. 

“‘Ttore?” 

“I give up,” the doctor sighs, his shoulders slumping forward. He turns on the sink and discards his bloody surgical gloves, washing his calloused hands under the cold water to get rid of whatever gunk had gotten on his skin. “What do you want?” he asks in an indecipherable tone. You perk up noticeably, a smile making its way back to your face as you watch him dry his hands and turn around to give you his full attention. 

“Just wanna spend time with you, honestly.” you say a little sheepishly. “Have you eaten yet?” 

“Not hungry.” 

“Wanna take a walk? Get some fresh air?” 

The offer seemed tempting. After spending hours smelling nothing but hospital-grade cleaning supplies, iron and death the doctor wouldn’t say no to a trip outside of his lab- that is to say if he were anyone but the second Harbinger. 

Instead, he grabs his mask and lab coat from the coat rack and begins to walk away, making a gesture for you to follow after him. And you do so eagerly, catching up to him fairly quickly considering how long his strides were. 

Your footsteps echo in the quiet hallways, the only sound bouncing off the ornate walls of the otherwise cold and barren palace. The both of you reach your destination, Dottore pushing the door open to reveal his (barely used) bedroom. Tossing his coat aside and placing his mask on his nightstand, he loosens his button-down shirt and sits on his bed, looking at you with a raised brow. 

“Are you going to stand in the doorway all day?” he asks with the slightest bit of amusement, kicking off his shoes and repositioning himself to lay down on the bed properly. You snap out of it and shake your head, closing the door behind you, jumping in next to him happily. Your bodies fit with one another perfectly, his arms snaking themselves around your waist while you hold him around his shoulders, keeping one free hand to stroke his icy locks. He hums contentedly, eyelids fluttering shut. 

“Happy?” he asks, voice muffled from how close his face is to your chest. Your nails gently scratch his scalp, drawing out a soft sigh from the doctor. 

“Very,” you say, smile audible in your tone of voice. Dottore simply hums in response, basking in the comfort of the warmth of your body against him. Part of you felt the need to ask him how long he wanted to stay like this knowing that the doctor hated being away from his lab but, feeling a bit selfish, you allow yourself to revel in the small victory that came in the form of finally convincing Dottore to let you have him all to yourself for a portion of his day. The both of you drift off peacefully, knowing perfectly well that you’re going to repeat this dance once more in the morning when the Harbinger has to work.

[boolger]

The desk ☆ dark!price x cat hybrid!reader

afab!chubby! reader. No use of Y/N. 

hi hi, lets ignore all of my wips. This lil thing will be Price's pov first, then reader's.

read the tags. MDNI.

☆rating: explicit. ☆ length: 1k word.

☆tags: dark!John Price, dark!141, hybrid!reader, non-con, dub-con, dead dove dont eat, referenced kidnapping, torture, spanking/non con spanking, non-con drug use, mention of stockholm syndrome, r*pe, oral sex, p in v, afab reader, reader has a pussy, chubby reader, punishments, mention of death and suicidal thoughts. 

☆Summary: Reader is chained to Price’s desk and despite her many attempts, she hasn’t had a successful escape attempt yet nor has the captain grown tired of her, as she had hoped.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

She had been chained to the desk for a while now. At first, it was mostly a bother to John himself. The amount of times she had fought him was just as frustrating to him, as to her. Couldn’t she see that it was for her own good? She didn’t have to worry about anything in here, she had what she needed. Once she behaved more, she would earn more privileges. For now, however, his office was her home, the desk the center of the world. 

At first, she made her frustrations known both verbally and physically. Hissing and pulling at the chain constantly, clawing at the nice - and rather expensive - wood, leaving marks that he doubted could be fixed. Hell, his soft girl even managed to make the desk move with her fits. 

A feral little thing she was. Even if Soap argued there was nothing small about her, while looking at her with loving eyes, not even bothering to hide his staring at her ass and tits. Ghost and Gaz weren't any better.

Alas, the office and desk was her home until she earned back the privilege to live in his quarters on base once more. The scar on his cheek was almost healed by now. Her claws really needed to be clipped. Maybe just removed. Would save him a lot of trouble.

The first week, John had spanked her so many times that he was convinced the bruises on her big ass would be permanent. His hands at first, until they became sore and clearly weren't enough - belt then, which seemed to be the way to go. A couple of times he even belted the soles of her feet, making his princess crawl.

His princess, his pet, his kitten. His Fae. She didn’t particularly like the name he had chosen for her, but pets didn’t get to decide their own names after all. The owners did.

Eventually, she learned to behave. Or, at least behave better than before. 

It wasn’t too bad. He tried explaining that to her several times. She had what she needed here. A soft pet bed that was big enough for her to sleep in, the chain was long enough to move freely in the bedroom, there was a little fridge with food and he - or one of his boys - came with food from the canteen regularly unless on a mission. She had clean clothes, neatly folded and cleaned for her. Panties? why would she need those, stop asking. Those were a privilege as well. Bloody hell, Price even got her a nintendo DS that she could play on when he was in meetings and didn’t need a cock warmer.

No, no, Fae was perfect. Her mind, even if stubborn, was brilliant. Her cunt was perfect, her mouth too, despite her struggles. Especially after they filed those pesky fangs of  hers away. Her ears were pretty, tail always soft to the touch. 

Perfect little pet. The chain was just necessary for a while. Until stockholm syndrome set in.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

You were in hell. 

One moment you were living your life as a free woman, the next you were kidnapped by some psycho military man - and his team was just as crazy as him, laughing in your face whenever you begged for help.

He, “Captain John Price, luv, your new master”, had threatened you with a gun before and several times these last days, you couldn’t help but think that you should have made him shoot you. It would be better than this. Sure, you would die, but you wouldn’t be chained to a fucking desk anymore.

You would be free. Not wearing a fucking collar with the name Fae on one side of the heart shaped tag and the words ‘property of Captain John Price’ on the other side. There was a little bell attached to the collar as well, every movement exposed to whoever was nearby. 

“could be worse, luv. could have given you a shock collar, eh?”

… maniac. 

The chain was connected with a big padlock, to a metal cuff around your ankle. You were pretty sure the metal cuff had been welded around your ankle when you had been drugged, though you couldn’t remember exactly. It was connected to the desk that you wanted to burn to the ground. It was giant, wooden and with locked drawers and sharp edges that dug into your skin and left bruises whenever he bent you over it and fucked you.

It had place beneath it for you to sit on a pillow, either just being a cockwarmer for the man or getting your throat fucked so hard you cried.

Worst thing? you were getting messed up from being there. You weren’t even sure for how long you had been with the captain in total, but it had been a little over two weeks in the office, chained to the desk by now.

One sign of that was that you were beginning to like him. Or at least, tolerate him more than any of his bloody men. They hadn’t been allowed to fuck you yet, sure they had fondled you, but nothing more than that and you could kiss Price for it. Fucked up as it was, you would prefer to just be his fuck toy and pet, than any of the others. 

Price knew this, he had figured you out pretty quickly, because of course he had. Threatened you to let them take turns on you, while he fucked you over the desk, tits pressed against the papers while you squirmed on his fat cock and mewled with pleasure. Begging to just be fucked by him, letting your love for his cock spill, saying he was the only one who had ever made you feel this good. 

Still, you weren’t messed up to the point that you didn’t want to run. It was just a matter of time and then you wouldn’t be chained to this fucking desk.

[lvlyghost]

One Last Time

Pairings: Simon "Ghost" Riley x F!Reader.

Summary: You and Ghost go on your first mission since your break up.

Word Count: 1k

Tw: angst, hurt with very little comfort. suggestive themes. ghost being cold hearted. reader's call sign is starlight. not proofread 👻🌸

A/N: Finished this in one sitting lol, just couldn't stop thinking about it so forgive me if it's all over the place, i totally didn't write while listening to champagne problems🫶🏻✨💞enjoy

Masterlist✨

The sun's starting to hide on the horizon, casting pink and orange shadows against the concrete walls of the abandoned building you're currently hiding in. You sort of wish you at least had your earphones. Anything to help you swallow the tense silence that's fallen between you and Ghost.

Both leaning against opposite walls, waiting until it's safe enough to go out and reunite with your team. You cross your legs, shifting in your place to a more comfortable position. The temperature slowly decreasing as the yellow burning star in the sky disappears. You didn't mind Ghost's presence. You liked him. And he liked you too; perhaps way too much for your own good.

But not after what happened.

Not after that night –12th of June–, just one week ago. When he had decided that this –your relationship– had no future. And it hurt like hell. Your ever present smile faded when you came to his barracks ready to spend another night under the covers, admiring each other. You loved him it physically pains you. He had greeted you with that stoic face of his, grabbed you gently by the arm and pulled you inside only to break your heart.

Ghost pulls his mask over his lips to take a sip from his canteen, you divert your gaze not liking what his mouth reminds you of.

You don't get to see him anymore. Not in the way he only let you. You don't get to hear his deep chuckles, or how his chest rumbles when he does. You can no longer have the pleasure of touching his pale features; or feel the stubble that adorns his jaw under your hands. Never again will his hands travel down your body nor hold you when you have a nightmare. Shared lunches at the cafeteria with the team.

Maybe it all became too much in the end.

What were you supposed to say, to do now? Act as if nothing happened? You swallow. Your heart is beating fast so you force yourself to breathe deeply.

"You okay sergeant?" He finally asks, staring straight to you. Ghost's right arm resting atop his leg, the other one splayed in front of him. The intensity of his gaze never leaves your form.

"Yeah. Just tired, Lt." You lie. Because you're not tired at all. you're heartbroken.

"Sleep then." Ghost barely does so it feel almost selfish to do it.

"I'm fine." You murmur, looking everywhere but at him.

"Look at me when I speak to you." Your eyes snap to his. Wide-eyed you fight back an insult. How dare he? "I'm still your superior out here." So you wait. You wait for him to break first. Had you been paying attention to his demeanor for the past week; you would've noticed the cracks on his façade. No one knew like you did.

But you refused to look at him ever since that Friday night. "Whatever happened that night it stays there. Don't bring that shite here."

"With all due respect, Lt." You pause feeling the tears welling in your eyes. "Shut the fuck up."

Silence falls again. Ghost's hand balls into a fist, jaw tightening so hard you can hear the bones crack as an overwhelming press on his chest settles. He had never meant to hurt you, but things were getting too serious, you were getting too close. He couldn't afford to have something like that; Ghost knew what it meant to let someone too close. And he broke that rule. You plagued his mind, his space and feelings.

Too bloody close.

"That all you've got, kid?" He ask firmly. "Try again. I'll give you another chance. Thought you more than anyone would understand."

You're shaking. Astonished by his words. The pain is unbearable. You laugh with no emotion.

"What am I supposed to understand, Ghost?"

"Why it can't be."

Shaking your head in denial you stand up, not thinking about the consequences, too enraged. Ghost is quicker though. Jumping from where he was sitting he grabs you by the straps of your combat vest and yanking you down with him. His nostrils flare from underneath the balaclava, eyes boring into yours. His visceral reaction sinks deep inside.

"There's a potential sniper out there. You trying to get killed?" He hisses through gritted teeth.

You slap his hand away from your vest, yet you don't move away from where you sit between his legs.

"Thought you didn't give a shit about me."

"You're bloody blind if you think I don't care about you."

"You don't!" You bite back. "If you cared for me in the slightest you wouldn't have tossed me out like I'm a stranger! Like nothing we went through ever mattered to you." His body goes stiff as you keep talking. "I loved you..."

Ghost can't bear the way you tremble in his arms, watching you sob. In pain. Because of him.

"I told you not to get close to me. I knew from the beginning I'd hurt you... not because I wanted to. I don't know how to do this. I wish I could be better for you, but I can't, it's all I've been my entire life. My biggest regret is that I started to care for you somewhere along the line; and when I realized, it was too late." He pauses. "Forgive me." The words echo in your ears, paralyzing your entire limbs. "I know you're hurt," he whispers your name. Not your callsign. Your real name. The one he adores to call you when he's buried deep inside you, and you cling to him like he's everything. "I don't deserve you, not even the smallest part of you." He holds you closer, you're still not looking at him, the weight of his words... it's too much.

"It was real, Simon." Your voice is soft and very quiet. "All this time it was real to me. Just because you were afraid..."

"I am fucking scared!" He yells. "Can't bloody see it?! If I lose you...-" you look up at him, mouth agape forcing as much air as you can inside your lungs. "How do I make it right?" He questions. "It was real to me too. Too fucking real."

As angry as you're feeling, broken and betrayed you bring a hand up to his pained features, lifting the mask so you can feel his warm skin again. Ghost's eyes are frantic, waiting for you to speak.

"Let me in."

Staring in the pitch black darkness, silence reigns yet again.

One last chance, that's all you need.

"Ghost, Starlight, sitrep." When no one answers the radio crackles again. "Hostiles coming your way, get ready."

[ataraxiaspainting]

Cherry Wine.

Yan Chrollo x F Reader.

Synopsis: It is your last day of actual freedom, and Chrollo intends to have it end with a mix of your design and his own. Everything is perfectly set. All he has to do now is wait for you to come into the web.

Warnings: Yandere themes, a wild Feitan appears, stalking, drugging/restraining (chloroform/handcuffs), and kidnapping.

Word Count: 1k.

*~*~*~*

A familiar jingle accompanies the turntable’s rendition of Tchaikovsky’s Waltz of the Flowers. It is your keychain, moving with your key as you unlock your apartment door, moving as your feet shuffle on your doormat to get rid of the dirt the soles had acquired from walking. The sounds of tired sighs, your headphones being placed beside the rack where your jackets and umbrellas and shoes are placed. Chrollo knows all of these melodies by heart because those notes make up the beautiful orchestra that is you. 

He hears the little creaking noise of the door closing, along with the lock being turned, sealing your fate. A small sound of the closet you keep near the entrance, which holds your bags and fancier footwear like high heels. Chrollo respected the silent rule of never wearing shoes inside, something that is out of character for him whenever he breaks into other peoples’ homes, and had placed his own black loafers behind that one expensive purse you only used one time for a presentation you had to make for your professors and peers. 

He had Shalnark record the entire thing and has rewatched it multiple times, each one seeming better than the last.

Everything about you, from how you walked, how you were so expressive with your facial expressions, how you seemed to be able to befriend anyone, everything about you felt like it came from another world. Or perhaps he is the one who came from another world, metaphorically? Chrollo chuckles at the thought. It would make sense, really, Meteor City felt like another world, that is for certain.

One of your cats meows loudly, the larger but older one from the way the meow was scratchy like nails on a blackboard, most likely being right next to you. He is distressed, perhaps. Chrollo is an unwanted visitor, after all, and despite being more of a cat person, he had to deal with your cats more than your dog, oddly enough. While your dog cowered and hid under the table, whining like she had been reduced to that of the small puppy she was when you first adopted her, your cats teamed up to attempt to scratch his eyes out whenever they jumped on the kitchen table or couch, hissing and possibly screaming bloody murder. Somewhere deep within Chrollo’s heart, it hurts a bit.

He knows that because of your naivety, you will just pet the cat, take off your coat, and your boots, and go upstairs, where your dining table has been set by Chrollo. It’s a welcome gift, in Chrollo’s opinion, but also perhaps an apology one as well.

As soon as you walk into the kitchen, your fate is as doomed as a little fly caught in a spider’s web.

“Come on,” You grumble. “Already? Geez. I just got that bag too…” Are you talking to your cat? “What the hell? I know you have stomach problems but… gosh.”

Ah. Do you plan on switching out the brand of cat food again?

“I guess that’s my own fault though for getting a cat I knew has digestive issues, huh? I can’t be mad at you. You��re almost the same age as me and… that’s a lot in cat years.” Chrollo hears the sound of a yawn as he presumes you are stretching. You must be tired, you have been on your feet all day today helping out your peers with their assignments, as usual. “It’s just now I have to clean up all this puke… argh.”

Should I speed things along? 

A text message from Feitan, who has been outside your apartment door, though you didn’t see him, unsurprisingly. He is most likely getting annoyed, from the tone of the writing, because Feitan can be doing much more important things for the Troupe instead of helping you “settle in” as Chrollo put it.

That won’t be necessary. Trust me. Everything is going as planned so far, even if this is a minor setback.

The reason why Chrollo didn’t choose someone like Phinks or Nobunaga to help him with this task is because Feitan is the most silent. He can easily imagine the other two scaring you away accidentally if they accidentally lose their cover.

The table is set, with flowers and books and other things you love. All he has to do is wait.

You should have just brought Machi.

Chrollo sighs at that, just barely audible. But he knows Feitan is nothing but loyal to him, so he knows that he will not try anything that he does not like.

Machi is busy shopping with Paku and Shizuku for the other things I need for [First], it would be rude to ruin their own task, Fei.

With that, Chrollo’s message is left on read.

Everything is going according to plan, and Feitan will not ruin it, even if he had wanted to.

All that is left is to wait. You’ll come on your own.

Feitan is only here if you attempt to run afterward, after you see your gifts, after all.

He hears footsteps, coming up the stairs, at long last.

One.

Two.

A large meal is placed on the side of the table that has an empty chair. Chrollo sits across, smiling. Plates and bowls filled with things that are sweet, savory, and everything else in between. They are all your favorites, Chrollo double-checked with Shalnark before he had left. Other items are placed on the table as well, like that jewelry set you were eyeing last week but unfortunately was too expensive for you. You were trying to limit how much you spend, a good habit to build surely. It is a shame you will never get to use that skill, though. Unless Chrollo gives you an allowance each week based on how well you behave, an entertaining concept in his opinion, but if it ever becomes reality it will have to wait a few weeks at the very least.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Six.

Chrollo also had Feitan carry handcuffs, in case the chloroform does not work as it was intended to.

But that is after you two talk, it would be rude to not introduce himself and show off everything he has bought for you.

Seven.

[foldedinpagesfics]

TITLE: clutched my life & wish it kept (dearest love, i’m not done yet)

[1/4]: the injury of finally knowing you

SUMMARY: In the end, all roads lead to you. Pairing: Gaz x Death!Reader, Price x Death!Reader Word Count: 1k

WARNING: no beta, no proofread, first time doing a reader fic. reader is death, but tf141 are kinda into it?

A/N: dipping my writing skills into this fandom for the first time. have a ton of ideas for one-shots and series, but this one popped into my head and i had to get it out.

Death was a stranger.

One that Gaz had no intention of meeting anytime soon. There were several almosts. He almost got blown to shit in Piccadilly. He almost gets riddled with bullets. Hell, he almost chokes on a hotdog laughing too hard at a joke. The cigarettes were a slow building almost, but he put in an effort to quit. Delay things a bit longer. Compared to his teammates, Gaz was the hardest for you to track down. He’s impatient to a degree, wants justice a little too much at times. Played with the idea of throwing out the rules of engagement a time or two and handling shit. Yet he had alluded you at every turn.

It takes a helicopter and some rope for Kyle Garrick to get a glimpse of you.

“Sergeant!” 

Nik’s voice barely registers. It’s a whisper in the wind compared to the vehicles that whip past his head and narrowly miss cracking him in the skull. Nik calling out to him is a memory in the back of his mind that ends up scraping on the gravel and dirt the moment he slams against the ground briefly. He loses his rifle and probably a bit of blood in the fall, but he doesn’t lose his bearings. Not completely anyway. At least that’s his hope, as his blurry vision clears and his eyes lock onto the unbelievable.

He sees Death itself.

He sees you.

Gaz sees your face in each passing car and truck he narrowly misses. It’s not hard to notice someone beautiful like you amongst the men currently trying to kill him. He swears time slows, his eyes finding yours in every direction he looks. You’re oblivious to the chaos around you, hair whipping around from the wind. No one seems to take notice of you. Only him. He wonders if it’s intentional or some sort of sign that his time is coming. He wonders a hundred other thoughts in the brief moment he has before voices begin to yell over comms. 

“Captain, Gaz fell out!”

“Say again?!”

“The sergeant! He’s gone!” 

Not yet.

Gaz heard the voice in his head as he reached for his pistol. Only that voice in his head wasn’t his. Neither was it the voices of his teammates. It was yours. Soft as a feather, the words glided through his mind. Gentle. Hell, it was a little encouraging. Your lips didn’t move when you spoke, your eyes still tracking him with growing interest. You smile. You fucking smile and it’s so damn stunning that Gaz nearly drops his pistol. It was a moment, barely a beat, before the truck you were in zoomed past his head. He dodged, head on a swivel, as he tried to find you again to no avail. Adrenaline began to kick in, sending Gaz fully back into the action.

“I’m not dead, Nik! I’m hanging from a bloody rope!” 

He hears your laugh in his head at his words. Amused was what you were. Even if he couldn’t see you, he knew. Your face isn’t anywhere to be seen by the time he finally takes aim at his attackers. Death was not claiming him that day. If anything, you were going to have to watch him make the comeback of a century. 

And what a goddamn comeback it was.

Gaz waited until they touched ground and were well on their way towards medical before he brought you up to Price. The frenzy around him, the sight of you watching, then disappearing from his sight. Hearing your voice in his head, feeling the echoes of you long after you were gone. There was death and then there was Death… and Capital-D-You-Death was not real. You couldn’t be real. Surely he had to have cracked his head a little too hard back there, right?

“Sounds like her,” Price huffed out, “Always needed a front row seat, that one.”

Gaz half-wondered if Price also had his shit rocked during the fight. Maybe the good captain took a tumble himself. There was no way he heard those words correctly.

“Sir?” he asked, unsure of what else to say. 

“She comes for us all in the end, but you can spot her in the close calls.”

Price brought his gaze down to meet Gaz’s. Ocean eyes kept steady, holding the sergeant’s confused look with absolute certainty.

“Try not to let her visit too often, yeah?”

“I’ll try my best, Cap’.”

Price watched as the medic came into view and ushered Gaz into another room to get him checked over. His hand fished into his pocket for a cigar, bringing it to his lips once he retrieved it. He moved towards his other pocket for his lighter, but found himself pausing. Though there was no other in the room with him, Price knew he wasn’t alone. There was no mistaking the sensation that came over him. Your touch to his cheek, warm and familiar.

He knew your touch well.

“You can’t have him,” Price warned you, gravel in his voice. The words dripped with authority. “You can’t have any of ‘em.”

Price felt the pressure at his back. Light, but just as warm. Like a lover leaning in to embrace him from behind. As macabre as it was, Price found his eyelids falling closed at the at feeling, tipping back his head with a soft sigh. A release that brought ease to his shoulders. It had been too long since he felt something so intimate. What the hell does it say about him? That these days he could only find such solace with Death itself? 

“You can’t have me either, sweetheart.” 

Though he could not see you, Price felt your fingertips brush over the hair along his jaw. He held still, hands resisting the urge to reach out. To try and touch in return. To feel you. It wasn’t until he felt the warmth dissipate that he moved again. You left. Left him cold. Alone. At least until the next time you decided to visit. Price knew you had his number. It was only a matter of time. One bad day. One wrong move. He’d go down fighting, then find you waiting for him. He made peace with that long ago.

Until then, he’d make sure you kept your distance from him and his.

[peachesofteal]

Reaper

This isn't a thing, it's just... a thing.

Simon Riley/reader - Grim Reaper Simon Riley 1k words Warnings-tags: ... none? Silver tongue and scythe.

The porch is decorated with mirrors. They’re all strung together on fishing line, clear, nearly iridescent strings that move with the wind, reflective glass occasionally chiming when they hit one another. It almost looks like art, beams of sunlight getting caught in the mirrors and reflecting off into different directions, across the worn wooden boards or into the two front windows, sneaking past the white lace curtains that are pulled shut. 

A broom is nailed to the right of the front door, it’s gnarled and twisted handled complimented by frayed bristles, fuzzy twine wrapped around where the two meet. In the front garden bed, a small, trimmed tree stretches upwards, its branches adorned with upside down glass bottles. 

He shifts his weight from one leg to another while he waits for an answer to his knock. He keeps catching his own reflection in the many mirrors that swing in the breeze, shards and squares and circles all reflecting his own gaze back to him, over and over. He realizes, right then and there, that this, will be more difficult than usual.  

You open the door. Just a crack, not enough for him to fully see, not enough to even get a good idea of what you look like. 

“Excuse me, I’m-“ 

“What do you want.” Your voice is flat. Unamused. 

“Well, I’m your neighbor, just moved into the old Callaway place down the road. Thought I’d stop by, introduce myself.” He twists his tone into something American, something southern, but you don’t take the bait.  

The door doesn’t budge. The wind picks up, and the leaves of the sugar maple in the yard rustle against each other. 

“Great. Did you need something?” 

“Just, wanted to meet my neighbors, I guess. It’s just you, and the house up the way so I figured-“ 

“You figured wrong.” He bites his tongue, nearly swallows it when you go to force the door closed.

“Wait. Sorry, I know… it’s rude to just show up unannounced but I promise, I’m just tryin’ to be neighborly. I’m Simon.” He doesn’t extend his hand because he already knows how that will go. You trace him from his black leather shoes to the top button of his shirt, cinched tight beneath his throat. A cat meows from behind you, black and shiny, sitting on its haunches with its head tilted, regarding him silently. A familiar? Bloody hell.

You stay silent, the only response a raised eyebrow. 

“I hear you’re named after a princess.” He tries to pry you open but fails, glancing down at the familiar before attempting a different approach. “Cat got your tongue?” The joke bounces, and you try to shut the door in his face, but he sneaks the tip of his shoe in front of the frame, allowing it to slam into the side of his foot. “Come on, now.” He shifts his voice into something silken, honey smooth and sweet, a tempting pull for all who hear it. 

Well, almost all. 

Your eyes narrow. 

“Get off my porch.” The maple creaks, and something pushes your voice through him, as a warning, an evoking. Marvelous creature, I wonder what weight your soul carries? Will you let me strip it from you, taste it for myself?

“That’s no way to treat a neighbor.” 

“You and I both know, you’re no neighbor.” His lips crack into a smile, parting to reveal a beautiful row of pearly white teeth that you cannot see behind the balaclava. The wind whistles again, harder. The smile melts into a thin-lipped frown. 

“No. But they say I drive a hard bargain.” It’s your turn to frown, and you do it so beautifully, lips pulling down into a pout, cheeks sucking inward with displeasure. Your nose wrinkles in distaste. 

“There is no one here to bargain with you. Take your silver tongue and sickle elsewhere.” A flash of rage thunders across your eyes, and something burns in the pit of his stomach. Intriguing. 

“Surely there is something you want? Something you would give in exchange?” You don’t flinch, don’t pause to consider, don’t even blink. 

“You’ll have better luck down the road.” You instruct him, daring to point a finger over his shoulder, directing past where the trees curl around your gravel driveway. 

“Now, Buttercup.” He drags the first vowel of the nickname out, mimicking the way you grandmother said it, drawling it long and deep. You scowl. “I wonder…” He steps closer, close enough he can smell the scent of your spearmint-tinged breath, see the flecks of brown and gold that gather around your irises. “Do you dare venture out, after dark? Or do you resist the call of the woods, staying safe up in your house, locked away.” 

“I venture plenty.” He grins. 

“Do you now?” Let me rip you open, darling. Let me drink your soul from the threads of your being. “They say all the fun happens at night; you know.” His hand finds his pocket, slipping into the black linen, and you tense. When he produces a card, silver in the shine of the midday sun, your shoulders ease, following the movement of his hand with your eyes. “My card.” He flourishes it towards you, and you lift a lip in a snarl. 

“I said, get off my porch.” You cock you head, tilting your chin just so, straightening your spine in challenge. 

“Take it. Just in case.” He watches the hesitation in the tightening lines at the corner of your mouth, the subtle quirk of your lips. Take it, buttercup. A bead of sweat trickles from the hair behind you ear, tracing down the curve of you neck before it disappears down into your shirt. 

The air around him snaps to a halt, and your fingers hover in the air above his. Brave little lamb. For a second, your eyes meet his fully, and a tangle of webs weave in the space between him and you. No one moves, or breathes. The world stands still.

The wind shrieks through the maple. 

The spell breaks. 

You snatch the card and slam the door in his face. 

He chuckles. He’ll give you a few hours and hope you come to your senses. He hates reaping by force. 

[patrophthia]

congrats on 1k girl! 🎉

could i please request charms professor!reader x remus ?

remus comes back to teach at hogwarts and they meet again after having had crushes on each other back in school and reader and severus are kinda friends since they work together and maaaybe remus gets a little sad/jealous :(

but not too sad still super cute sorry if this is too much or doesn't make sense!

omg i haven’t written remus in so long,,, jealous remus has a chokehold over me it’s no good

it’d be an honor | remus lupin

pairing: remus lupin x reader

genre: fluff, meddling weasley twins!!

part of my 1k celebration event !

Remus knows that it's wrong for him to look at you this way, to even dare to think of you in this way when it's been oh so long since it happened.

And though his Hogswart days has long passed, his feelings for you never really did. Especially since he's been seeing you almost every weekend when the Potters get your friend group together for dinner and you'd —without fail— stick to his side the entire night. He knew you reciprocated his feelings then, now though? Maybe not so much.

Remus also knows that you're friends with Severus —has been ever since you've gotten your job as the Charms Professor, and though he understood —through and through— that the two of you were only friends, he can't help but feel his stomach drop whenever you'd smile at Severus a little too bright for his liking.

But he digress, you were only his friends and he has no right to feel jealous over something as ridiculous as this.

"You'll like him, Professor!" A voice insisted, tone nagging as Remus turned around a corner. "He's funny!"

"For the last time Fred," you sighed exasperatedly, catching Remus' eyes as you did so. Remus raise a questioningly brow at you, only for you to shake your head in return. "No."

Remus doesn't mean to pry, but the look on George and Fred's face reminded him too much of his two best friends —both of which were related to the Weasley's might he add! That he had to chirp in. "No to what?"

George grins brightly, "a date! Can you believe her? She's turned down ten very good looking men (They'd asked for Ginny and Hermione's approval before presenting them to you) just for Professor Snape."

"First of all, Snape is a fun person to be around." There's that pit in his stomach again, threatening to swallow him up and spit him back out. "Secondly, he's my friend. And thirdly, if you're this insistent on trying to find me a date then do it sometimes after your OWLs, I don't want you to waste your time on this instead of studying."

The twins laughs loudly, finding it hilarious that you thought they'd study for OWLs —they did end up studying at the end of the year, but they have a few months left and wanted to use it for something more fun. "Do you like Professor Snape, Professor?"

You choke, baffled at the question. "No, what gave you that impression?"

"Well you're quick to defend him," Fred says.

"And you're always with him," George adds.

Then simultaneously: "Excuse us for assuming that you fancied him."

"I don't fancy Severus," you sigh. And Remus tries not to make it obvious just relief he felt by those words. "I'm just not interested in dating right now."

"Hmm," Fred hums thoughtfully, "how about Professor Lupin then?" He's looking over at Remus now, glossing over the second portion of your retort. "Do you fancy him?"

"He's my friend, Fred."

"That wasn't his question," George says, smirking. "Bloody hell, you do like him!"

Childish. That's what this conversation was. Still, Remus can't find it in himself to not get excited by the twins next words. "Professor Lupin, are you free this weekend?"

Remus turns to look at you, noting how you're avoiding his eyes as he did so. "No, why?"

"Would you like to go on a date?"

You're peeking at him from below your lashes and he pretends not to know that you're doing so by glancing between the twins instead.

"With?"

"Oh but with this lovely, Professor. Of course!" Fred says dramatically, making jazz hands on your left side while George did the same from your right. "What do you say, sir?"

"It’d be an honor.”

[brighttears]

It's Gonna Have To Be Enough

Joel miller x reader

No physical description, gender neutral, no use of y/n

Summary: Joel gets in his head watching you sleep until you wake and bring him out. just fluff

Warnings: brief mention of bugs and light gore, pet names (honey)

Word count: 1k

A/n: Writers blocks got me in its talons :( I’m just trying to throw shit together now to get Some kind of story. Pls pray for me

–

The body lying before him, curled up on a hard, dirt ground, makes Joel’s heart burn and sink in his chest.

Powerlessness. That will always be his number one enemy. Love, his second. Because there you lay, lax in sleep, so vulnerable. Joel looks down at his hands, every knuckled scarred, blood ever ingrained under his fingernails. He is no man for you. But yet here he stands, regret, sorrow, fury, guilt, fear, and love, seeping out of him to fall on you like rain. He’d do anything–he’s done anything, and he always will, to protect you, save you. 

But he can’t.

You’re already ruined. You’re already doomed. 

Joel can almost already see fungus sprouting from your skin, those damning veins shooting out from a bloody bite mark to poison the rest of you. If you turn into a monster, is it still you inside? He’s so afraid that he’ll love you even then, even if you turned into one of them. 

Joel takes a deep breath and squeezes his eyes shut. Not yet. You’re still alive, he still has you. He wants to take you up in his arms to prove that to himself, but you’re fast asleep, so he’s alone, full of homeless longing. But god, it fills him. 

Is my heart heavy, or is it empty?

He loves you, he loves you, if he knows nothing else, he knows this. But can he do it right? Can he give you what you deserve, or whatever salvageable sliver may be left of it?

Joel’s brain is filled with maggots. Most of the people he’s met are dead. The last thing he remembers of a lot of them are their corpses, or even worse, their dead and hungry eyes focused on him. The worst of all, what their heads looked like after a shotgun. 

He can’t stop staring at you. Looking at you when you’re like this, so innocent, so relaxed, Joel can imagine another life with you, a domestic one, where you don’t have to worry about any of this. 

But then you start to cry out, and then you’re screaming and thrashing, and he can’t even wake you then, Joel is forced to wait it out until you wake up on your own. He thinks that when he goes to hell, that's what it’ll be. 

Powerlessness. 

He knelt down, folding his legs and waiting, watching you unable to escape from any of it, even in your sleep. 

And then you wake, and when you look into his eyes it’s fear first, always fear first, and then relief, and then you’re in his arms. He breathes again. 

“Did I wake you up?” You murmur into his shoulder. 

“No, I was awake.”

“Were you watching me sleep?”

He chuckles and admits, “Yes.”

“That's ok. I like to watch you sleep, too.” there’s still sleepiness in your voice. 

“You fell asleep on the ground, honey,”

“I did?”

“Yeah. Come on, let me get you up into the truck.” Joel goes to pick you up but you raise with him to your feet. It stings; he wants to hold you so his body will shield you from everything, including the dirt, because it’s cold and it’s hard, not somewhere you should be.

You pop open the tailgate, eyes still squinting against consciousness, and climb in. Joel follows and you take a minute to settle in. A mess of dirty blankets barely cushion the hard metal, but it's better than nothing. You lay on your sides, facing each other. You reach your hand out to push Joel’s hair behind his ear, not because you need to, just an excuse to brush your hand over his cheek and through his graying locks. 

He’s staring at you with those big, sad, brown puppy dog eyes. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Hm?

You can read him too well now for him to get away with lying–trying to protect you from even his own thoughts, but you’ve fought your way through. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Eveythin’s wrong.” he whispers, “This world… it’s rott’n. You don’t belong… in the rot.”

“Are you in the rot?”

“Yeah, I am.” to him, this is where you separate. He is the rot that you don’t belong in. But you tell him the opposite. 

“Then I belong in the rot. And you can’t tell me otherwise. I love you. I won’t ever leave you. I’m with you.” You reach out again to brush his hair back, watching your hands over his skin and hair, then back down to those big, beautiful, sad eyes. You wish you could crawl inside of him and dig all the sadness out. “Why are you so sad?”

“Because… because I can’t save you.”

“Save me from what?”

“Everythin’. Anythin’.”

“What can you do?” 

“I–I don’t know, what? What can I do?” What do you want me to do? What can I give you? Just tell me, and I’ll do it. 

“You know this one.” you tap his nose with your finger. You’ve had this conversation before and you wait for him to wade through himself and remember what you’d taught him about it.

It takes him a minute but then he remembers, “Love you. I can love you.”

“Mhm.” 

Joel moves himself closer to you, placing a hand on your cheek and touching his forehead to yours. This is what you do to ground yourselves. You use this technique frequently—for moments like these, or when you’re the one trying to take him out of his nightmares, or even in the stink of gunpowder, when you’re about to round a corner, make a run for it, or take a risky aim. 

Here you are, here am I.

“That’s all you have to do Joel.”

Joel hums, wanting to keep it to himself, but you’ll pull it out of him anyway. “It's not enough.”

“I love you Joel. Is that not enough for you?”

“No, it is, it is enough,” he raises his whisper, “‘course it’s enough.” 

“Mhmm?” you smile. 

His voice goes back to a murmur, “Ok, ok. I get it.”

“You’re already enough, stupid.” you touch your fingertip to the tip of his nose again and then kiss it. He pecks your lips. 

“Alright. Close yer eyes ‘n go to sleep now, honey.”

Joel pushes your hip and you roll over so he can spoon you. 

“You better be going to sleep, too.”

“I’m not gonna be able to keep my eyes open like this. You make me sleepy.”

It takes him a while to finally fall asleep and he uses the time to ponder your words. Joel’s not sure if he’ll ever feel like enough, but he can at least trust that you believe it. He can’t rely on his own standards when he’s doing all of this for you. If it’s enough for you just for him to love you, then he’s good enough. 

He’d found something beautiful in the ugliness of the infected world. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t take it and never let go. After everything, there you are, and here he is.

[sekiromi]

A Devil You Do, ch. 1

Raphael tells himself that it is only because of your importance that he tolerates your insolence, placates your tantrums, grants you courtesies never before bestowed on a mere mortal. He tells himself his interest is purely professional, his desire to be close merely an expression of wanting to protect his investment.

But then, why do you remind him so much of someone who once felt like home? Why does your soul echo with the remnants of something heavenly, and why does it entice him more than any contract ever could?

He learned not to hope anymore, but for you he might make an exception.

pairing(s): Raphael x Tav/Reader, Astarion x Tav/Reader themes: reincarnation, soul bond, past lives, lost memories, pining, slow burn cw/tw: canon-typical violence, gore word count: 1k

[read this fic in all its glory on ao3!]

Chapter One: A Hundred Lifetimes from Now

The tragedy of the divine retribution of an original sin.

Fire rained down in whistling streaks, scorching the plane and causing it to shudder.

Raphael was many things; eternal, infernal, unforgiving. Hellfire simmered in his veins, behind his eyes, beneath his skin. Cruel and calculating, wicked and sinful, a creature of an irredeemable nature. Scorned son of Mephistopheles, a young lion lying in wait to pounce on his father, tear his throat and devour his flesh to take his place.

Concerned only with control and domination, loving no being other than himself.

Despite the heat of the fight, Cania remained cold and impervious, desolate and dark.

It had been that way for a long time, almost as long as Raphael could recall. His long life stretched out behind him unwaveringly endless, shadowed by greed and lust for power.

A flicker of a dying light, the last gasping breath of something divine erupted into the blackness.

The beginning grew hazy sometime during the second millennia, but there was one thing, or one person, rather, that stubbornly clung to the very fringes of his memory, slipping into his subconscious for safekeeping somewhere around 1400 DR.

Their body lay broken, crumpled, cold. Chest stuttering, choking on the blood rising in their delicate throat, and Raphael knew terror for the first time.

It still haunted his sleep, festered in a dark corner in the back of his mind, waiting for an opportunity to remind him of all he had won and then lost in his quest for everything.

“No…” Bloodied feathers and shattered bones, he tried to hold them together, put them back into one piece as if it could save them. “Hold on, my dear.” This fear on his face, it was a new emotion to them, one that they would remember a hundred lifetimes from now if only in the deepest reaches of unconsciousness.

They made an awful sound, thick, congealed blood pooling in their mouth as they tried to speak.

“G-Go, Raphael…it’s a trap.” Skin was already turning cold, fingertips icy as they weakly brought them to his cheek. “Mephisto…he—”

“Hells with him, I’ll kill him for this. I swear.” Rage burned unrestrained behind fiery eyes they had grown to love, despite every sense telling them to do otherwise. A forbidden attraction, a dance between the infernal and the divine, a collision between the Heavens and the Hells. They had both been damned from the start. They knew this. It had not stopped them.

“You won’t. Please…go, live. We will meet again.” His rage subsided to sorrow, feeling their once immortal life drain from them faster than sand through an hourglass, faster than the Styx through Avernus. His eyes grasped theirs, searching, pleading, bargaining, but both knew it was too late. Stripped of their invulnerability by the very Gods that had gifted it to them, Death would make a move soon. There was one thing left to say, a final deal, their last promise. Gently, they guided his face closer to their own, voice diminishing as a numbness climbed into their very soul.

“In the next life.”

Raphael wept for the first and last time.

—-

Whatever souls are made of, some are awfully persistent.

When theirs had departed for a more distant realm, it was some decades before it graced the material plane again.

They kept true to their promise; Raphael did meet them in their next life, albeit in another form, another face. It did not matter to either, their essence was still there, still the same. In that second life, they had managed to hold on to their memories of the one before, remembered the centuries they had spent together. The first, which they had spent the better half trying desperately to kill one another. The second, when they started to realise why they never could succeed. And the third, where they paid the price for his arrogance and ambition, slaughtered by his own father to teach his unruly son a cruel lesson.

Whatever you earn, I will steal. Whatever you have, I can take. What is yours, is also mine.

When their mortal life ran its course, they found him again in the next. And the next, and the next. He loved them in every single one, however they appeared to him, wherever they had come from. He cherished them entirely, stood beside them as they grew old, mourned their deaths that felt like they were coming faster and faster as the years stretched on, and waited for them to knock on his door once again.

Until they started to stop remembering, until it took him searching for them to elicit any memories at all. Until only echoes of the past remained.

Every reincarnation remembered less than the last.

Sometimes, he would miss reincarnations entirely. In these lifetimes, he would wonder what had become of them, whether they taken another lover, whether any visions of him and their past entanglements haunted them in the void of the night like they did him. During these lapses, the near misses, Raphael would find himself beginning to grow hazy on the details himself. An amalgamation of lives, a collection of personalities that were so similar but also just slightly distinct from one another, made it difficult to hold on to what was original. What he was looking for.

Eventually, it had been nearly a thousand years.

A thousand years of solitude, a thousand years to forget.

Raphael’s heart hardened once again. He became the devil he knew, the creature he was born to be. Cruelness returned, contracts were formed, and souls were traded year after year.

But he did not come across theirs again. He was not sure if he would even recognise it anymore.

By the mid-1400s, any lasting hope of finding them diminished entirely. Wherever in this existence they wandered, they would simply pass as hollow ships in the night, each unaware of the other.

Raphael accepted this, and got on with his work.

[chapter 2]

[call-sign-shark]

I’m listening to Ultraviolence by Lana Del Ray and I can’t shake the feeling of a fic with Arthur based off this song. I feel like it fits him so well! I can just imagine a toxic relationship between him and the reader where he hits her or harms her in some way (intentional or not) but she keeps going back to him

“He hit me and it felt like a kiss..”

Plssss lmao the way this works so well

No need to do anything with it, just wanted to share because I know you’re a slut for Arthur like I am

“Because I know you’re a slut for Arthur” SIS YOU’RE SO RIIIIIGHT. HE’S MY SOFT KITTEN. 😩

Ultraviolence || Dark!Arthur Shelby x Reader

TW: angst ++, abusive husband, toxic relationship, depiction of domestic violence, alcoholism, if you think this trope have a good ending you should not read it, no proof reading: this is raw, unedited and prolly super badly written??

Words: 1k

Each inch gained by the clock’s needle, your heart raced more as if it feared to be pierced by its the sharp steel. Nibbling on your fingers’ skin compulsively, you sat on the large luggage you prepared one hour ago because you knew that when Arthur came home after midnight, he was not the man you fell in love with anymore. His gruff voice, usually lavishing you with the sweetest pet names he could find, would call you deadly nightshade — because when you looked at him with fear and fury in your oh-so- beautiful but teary eyes, it felt like a caustic poison was running through his veins, burning him from within and dissolving his sanity.

The door opened, your soul wept.

“Oi Y/N, where the fook are ye?” The gravel in his tone, who used to make you shiver with desire, sent shivers of fright down your spine. You took a deep breath, struggling to keep composure: this night would be the last you suffered from his violent love. After months of hesitating, coming back to him almost crawling, you decided that this nightmare had to stop. Somehow, you knew you had to flee from his claws before you ended up dead and cold — either by suicide or by his hands.

He stumbled in the living room, an empty bottom of whisky hanging from his hand. His steel blue eyes, half closed due to the amount of alcool he drank and cocaine he snorted, were looking for you, “Bloody hell Y/N, a good wife always welcome her husband when he comes back home. So be a good fookin’ woman and come greet your ol’ Arthur with the warmth he fucking deserve.” He grunted, before his frightening gaze fell on you.

He looked at you, and you could hear the sirens howling in the back of your head.

“What the hell?” He whispered at the sight of your packed stuff, slowly understanding your intentions, “Are you fucking serious?”

“I can’t do this anymore Arthur,” words left your mouth, falling from your quivering lips, “This is going to kill me… I’m sorry.”

“You wanna leave me?” He asked, bewildered. The sound of the bottle shattering on the wooden floor echoed in the living room, answering to the screams of his own heart breaking. You hated yourself at the idea of hurting him but you could not do it anymore, loving him was really hard. At first your thought it would be enough to save him, to heal his soul and mind, but love was not enough— your love was never enough.

“I’m sorry.” You got up and grabbed your luggage, before making your way to the door. Yet, Arthur firmly grabbed your wrist as you passed by, his grip so sharp it bruised your skin almost instantly.

“You’re not going anywhere, love.”

“Let me go. Please Arthur, if you love me you have to let me go.”

“I said you’re not. Going. Any-fookin-where.” He retorted, his hoarse voice growling with more hatred as anger boiled within him.

“Let me go you fucking bastard!” You bursted out, panic overwhelming your aching soul as you felt his nails digging into your skin.

The horrific sound of the blow that followed made the skies shook with sorrow. Pain stung your cheek, its burning sensation spreading on all the left side of your face. You let out a woeful whimper, tears flowing from your eyes almost instantly. He hit you, and it felt like a kiss, because it was his way of loving you when he was drunk.

“YOU AIN’T LEAVING ME, YOU POISON. I’M ARTHUR FUCKING SHELBY RIGHT?” He barked.

His hand grabbed you a second time — but it was not to make you dance anymore, like he used to do when you were kids.

Pain rain down on you,

With his ultraviolence

Ultraviolence.

“I’m … Im so sorry…” Arthur kept saying over and over again, his hands on both side of his head as he pulled his own hair, devastated with the view of crimson stains on your face.

Panicking, he then grabbed your chin and almost suffocated you with his lips, assaulting your bleeding mouth with desperate kisses, “I’m so sorry Y/N, it won’t happen again. I just don’t know what crossed my mind, it wasn’t me… it was the fucking whisky! The bloody snow! I won’t do it again, I swear doll I will never hurt you anymore… I— I love you… God I love you so much I’ll die without you.”

His blue eyes overflowed with tears of gold, like lemonade.

“Arthur… I —“ Words choked in your throat as you saw him cry. The monster had left, leaving him sobbing like a beaten child. He raised your gaze toward yours when you called him, and you knew he was your gentle Arthur again.

But you could not forgive him again and again.

Could you?

He would be the death of you.

“Please, I’ll do anything for you. Please, Y/N.”

The cacophony of your mind almost made you wince, for your thoughts crashed against your skull in a messy bacchanalia. Run away, you had to run away… so why did your body remained petrified? Why did you gently stroke his hair, looking at him, desperately in love?

It was stronger than you, stronger than reason, you hated to see him cry. You despised the way he was hating himself, genuinely guilty.

But you had to go.

To go.

But you stayed.

Don’t beg, stop telling me you love me. Please.

Please I can’t. It’s never enough.

Give me all of that ultraviolence.

“I love you too, Arthur. I love you forever.” Your voice was merely a whisper as warm blood ran from your nostrils, tainting your lips and dying on your chin. Your fingers gently grazed his neck as you knew he loved — all you wanted was to stop his pain. To see him smile with that stupid, irresistible grin that made you fall for him.

“I can’t lose you, Y/N.” His lips laid a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth, the tip of his tongue tasting the blood. His voice was filled with sincere love, “I’ll change. I swear to God I’ll change for you,” Somehow he really believed in what he said, but the truth was he would never change… And you knew it.

“You won’t lose me — maybe you could — help me putting my stuff back where they belong?” You stuttered, your whole body about to collapse in his arms for it just wanted to feel his touch.

“Of course I’ll do.”

Arthur smiled.

You did too.

But Angels cried,

for they knew that he hurt you and it felt like true love.

Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts with me honey, know that you can make yourself at home in my ask box, especially when it’s about babyboy Arthur.

I love this Lana’s song so much, and I completely understand the vibes you felt. It would suit so well in a Dark!Arthur fic — in fact I loved it so much I could not help but write a little something for ya! Even though I do feel in-character Arthur would be far too terrified to hurt Reader and would not physically harm . Maybe being rougher, bruising her with his grip without doing it on purpose. But he would not hit her (cf: office scene with Linda in S5). Yet — I decided to go dark with this one because, as you said, “he hit me and it felt like a kiss” is just perfect for this sad trope.

[riewritten]

TO A POINT OF NO RETURN

ANNA LIEBERT x FEM!READER | READ ON AO3 TAGS: graphic depiction of violence, moral corruption, obsessive behavior, non-con kissing, proceed with caution WORDS: 1k DEDICATED TO: @suusoh my darling sweetie pie, one of the people I missed the most during the time I was gone ! i made this after finishing Killing Eve (which she recommended). i got inspired by how the main character loves it when her partner is lichrally dismembering people. i love messed-up lesbianism.

The tears blurring your vision couldn't wipe the horrendous sight of blood on your trembling hands. Poor Petr Čapek, no? He who had spent a life being an invincible evil force, now splayed down with neck open, face beyond recognition, and with a mouth as wide as his dead eyes, staring into your soul and now tainted conscience. After all, the mess is done by no other than you—in fact, no one in this world would've done such a thing, for Anna even. Anna herself knows it.

You look all over your surroundings and heighten your senses (or so you try) to grasp the very needed presence of mind only to no avail. The scent of blood pooling down Čapek's stomach and neck is starting to permeate your rationality, looming in the air and cradling the terror in your nerves.

And yet, at the corner of the room, you see the flabbergasted Anna kneeling and leaning against the door. Unlike the look of terror due to the sight of her abuser reliving the most painful memories of her childhood a while ago, her face now shows palpable awe.

No one in this world, and perhaps even beyond, would be willing to do this much for her. One might say her twin brother could, but she doesn't consider him because he is her and she is him. Only you, a completely separate entity, a girl whose life has been completely different than hers, came to understand what needs to be done.

Despite the trembling—which is not out of fear but of joyous reverence—she crawls towards you. She savors the sight of Čapek's bloody corpse first. Lovely. How utterly lovely. She couldn't help it.

“What the hell are you smiling for, Anna?!”

Your panicked voice turns her gaze towards you—her beautiful angel, her one and only glorious savior—and so then and there, you see her eyes gleam further. She crawls again, her knees stomping Čapek's corpse along the way, not minding the spurt of blood gushing out brought by that, and then she hugs you. Deeply, tightly, as if she has never done it before. She feels your rapid heartbeat upon her chest, your ragged breathing, and your soft sobs; oh, god knows how bad Anna wants to pin you more to her until you're inside, forever bound and inseparable.

“W-what have I done? God, what have I done?!”

“Shh,” Anna coos, “you did nothing wrong.” A tone softer and you would believe her words. The way she starts stroking your head didn't help either. “My lovely, lovely girl, you did nothing wrong.”

“No!” you push her away. “I-I killed him!” And so your eyes lay upon your bloody hands again. “I cannot turn this back—hah—I cannot—”

Anna gently squeezes your hand and brings it to her cheeks, smearing Čapek's blood on her porcelain skin before it dries up. You think you're soiled? Then she's soiled with you. You look like you're drowning in quicksand right now; are you scared? No worries, you have sealed your fate with her at this very moment. You're not gonna die alone.

“Anna, please listen—”

She couldn't help it anymore. She needs an outlet this instant. All the love she's kept in to keep you comfortable aches to be let out. And so she cuts you off with a kiss, deeply and almost harshly, with rigor and reverence. She licks the blood off the corner of your lip, then your chin, then your cheeks, before slipping it inside. You're too surprised to note how disgusting Čapek's blood tastes. You try to push her away until you feel her tears on your cheeks.

Oh no, Anna.

You let her on then, barely returning it, but when you feel like Anna is about to pin you to the ground, you gently retract. “Why are you crying, Anna?”

She checks to confirm. She is indeed crying, and yet she smiles—sweet and grateful—that you almost forget the matter at hand. She tries to open her mouth only to back off at the last second. What could she say that would not upset you further? Knowing your head to toe, Anna's sure you'd be more rattled if she decides to speak what's on her mind: You're no different from me now. Oh dearest girl, now you're tied to me. We'll never get separated again. No one in this world would've done this for me. Now let me do everything for you in return. You don't have to worry about anything else but letting yourself be loved by me. I love you. I love you. Oh god I love you—

“Anna?”

“Let me clean this up—” she gets a handkerchief out of her pocket and gently wipes your face. She kisses your hand before cleaning it next. “—before anybody else comes in.”

It daunts you again. “I—” you don't know how to start, “I don't know what came to me.”

Anna hums, offering you a safe space to let it out the way she just did.

“All I knew was—” you let out a ragged exhale, “was that he needs to stop talking. And your face, your horrified face, stricken by his words—I-I just can't—”

“Thank you,” she kisses your hand again, now cleaned up from the blood. She walks to her closet to get you fresh clothes before continuing, “Thank you for doing this.”

“Thank you?” you quote, aghast. “Do you have any idea how fucked we are right now?”

Anna, as if she hears nothing, raises up your bloody shirt. And you let her (or maybe you're trembling too much to even stop her), clothe you again. “We're not fucked, darling. Don't you know who I am?”

Indeed, who is Anna even? How could you do this much for her? After all, everything Čapek had said before the commotion unfolded was things you heard for the first time. What the hell is Red Rose Mansion? What about Anna being forcefully separated from her family due to an experiment? What about Anna having the potential to be the perfect subject only to no avail because of Bonaparta's rotten pity? Who the hell is Bonaparta, even?

“I know how to clean this up. Just sit tight and relax, understand?”

“Who are you really, Anna?”

“I used to wonder, too,” she cryptically responds.

Who is she, indeed? She and his twin brother were nameless monsters. They don't have names. They were the only two people in the world. His twin brother made the monster inside her sleep for a while after being adopted by the Lieberts. Only after a series of harassment from Čapek and his team who wanted to take her again did the monster awaken. And since then she has killed plenty. With no remorse, with no difference from her brother. As if they were both born just to do that. 

Now, Anna's question for the longest time is starting to get answered. Maybe Johan and her aren't very alike this time around—not anymore. And slowly, surely, she will adapt to this change, too. Just the same way you'll get accustomed to the new life ahead of you, a life bound to her and nobody else, a life where you'll get smothered with the flowers she'll give, a life where she doesn't have to hold back with the feelings she has for you.

“Who are you, Anna?” you start again, getting more confused at her tranquility.

Anna hoists a strand of your hair before kissing your forehead. With a loving sigh, she answers. “I'm yours. That's all that matters.”

The world could only hope you'd be able to take what's about to come from hereon.

TAGLIST: @s0m4-sh4rk @acid-bunnyy @xeiin-n | SUBSCRIBE TO STORIES

[toobluebirdie]

Sleeptober Day 15- Fury

I wrote some more character exploration for my daemon au, this time about ii and his daemon. These drabbles are mostly exposition to establish character history, but i hope you like them! Let's not talk about how this is almost 1k more words than the last drabble lol

(tags: some minor violence, future polyvessels- literally not important for this drabble but every au in my head is polyvessels)

II’s daemon found her form in his fury.

II was an accident. His parents were young, not even married yet, when he came into the world. And he was born early, far too early. For the first year of his life he was small and sickly. He doesn’t remember that but he does remember how his parents treated him because of it. Until he was old enough to go off to school, ii’s parents kept him sheltered, practically hid him away. They also both worked all the time so he spent a lot of time with the old lady who lived next door. She was kind to him but II wanted friends, someone to play with. II learned how to be alone. At least he had his daemon to talk to. He tried very hard not to think about how that truly meant he only had himself for company. 

II’s mother desperately wanted to homeschool him. She worked herself up into a frenzy over the idea of sending him off to school where he’d be surrounded by other kids and their germs, which only made II anxious about it too. Their family couldn’t afford one of his parents quitting work to teach him, so II’s distraught mother dropped him off for his first day of school when he was 5 years old. It was the first time he had ever met children his age. Hell, it was the first time he met someone who wasn’t his parents, his neighbor, or any of the doctors his mother dragged him to throughout his childhood. 

II didn’t know he spoke weird, using too big words, sounding too much like an adult. He didn’t know he was small for his age, he never had anyone to compare himself too. He didn’t know it was weird to speak to your daemon so much in front of other people. II’s classmates made sure he learned. 

Until he went to school, II’s daemon liked to take the form of soft, furry animals that II could hold in his arms. II was used to self soothing with her fur and her weight and warmth against his little chest. 

When kids started picking on him in primary school, laughing at him and calling him names, refusing to let him join their games, hiding his stuff from him, his daemon started taking on forms that could growl and bark and hiss. II felt small and weak and the way his parents handled him with kid gloves and locked him away cemented those feelings in him. He was small. He was weak. His soul could only try to scare his bullies away.

School hardened II. He learned that showing no reaction made people leave him alone. He eventually made some acquaintances, maybe they could even be called casual friends. He wouldn’t hang out with them outside of school but at least he had somewhere to sit at lunch. The shitty things other kids said to II still hurt but he felt powerful once he had mastered masking his emotions and simply staring at people blankly. 

Unfortunately bullies changed in secondary school. Kids got bigger and II just…didn’t. He was noticeably the odd one out again and he had to learn a whole new set of rules for surviving. The violence got physical. Getting kicked in the knees, slapped in the back of the head, shoved into walls was harder to shrug off than simply being called slurs. 

His daemon started taking on bigger and bigger forms as II’s rage grew. All he ever wanted was to be a normal kid. But there were rules that no one ever taught him. You have to speak a certain way, dress a certain way, look a certain way. And even if you do all those things right, there are still ways to be wrong. II was fucking sick of it. He was tired of always being bruised and bloody with nothing to show for it, so he started fighting back. 

He was terrible at first. He was a scrawny kid and he had no one to back him up except his own soul and she could only touch the other daemons. II was on his own against a whole gang of motherfuckers. 

His elderly neighbor’s grandson had started dropping by a lot as his grandmother got older. He was there every weekend, doing chores around the house and in his grandma’s garden. II can’t remember the sweet old lady’s name anymore, but he does remember Brian. 

Brian was about 5 years older than II and roughly 100 pounds heavier than him. II saw him effortlessly heft two bags of mulch over his shoulder and immediately marched over to ask if he knew how to throw a punch. Lucky for him, Brian knew that and a whole lot more. 

II followed Brian around for a whole summer, getting thrown around a boxing ring at his uncle’s gym until he learned how to stand back up and knock someone’s lights out. He also trailed along to Brian’s friend’s garage when the 19 year old decided II needed another outlet besides boxing. Brian’s band was pretty terrible, but their drummer wasn’t. Trevor didn’t mind teaching II how to hit the shit out of a drum kit at the end of their weekend band practices. 

II didn’t get much taller as he got older, but it didn’t matter. He knew how he looked, arms and shoulders muscular, hands scarred up and calloused from beating the shit out of punching bags and a drum kit, piercings he either gave himself or Trevor gave him in the dingy bathroom attached to his garage, tattoos he got from shops that didn’t ask for ID, his daemon most often in the form of some kind of bulky canine at his side. 

Even looking like that he still got jumped. But II could more than hold his own at that point. His tormentors weren’t brave, they were fucking stupid. II had never been stupid, he just had to learn. 

The last time some assholes from his school ever tried to start shit with him was the day his daemon finally settled. These fights were old hat for II by now. He knew he just had to keep his fists up and keep moving. He had strength and stamina, all he had to do was land a few good hits and spend time wearing them out. But II had unexpectedly found himself on his hands and knees, dry heaving into the grass, his whole body wracked with the worst sensation he had ever experienced in his whole life. Someone was touching his daemon. 

II forced his head up and found one of the ugly fuckers holding his soul, her neck squeezed between his grubby hands. The bastard was bleeding from a clearly broken nose but he was smirking and tightening his grip. II felt sick to his stomach. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. But he also felt white hot fury. No matter how strong he got, how many fights he won, these bastards thought they could still break him. II decided he was fucking done, with all of it. He locked eyes with his soul and she shifted into something larger than she ever had before. And then a fully grown lioness was closing her jaws around a stupid teenage boy’s arm. 

That angry, violent, hurting kid he used to be almost feels like a stranger to II now. He reminisces about that boy sometimes when he watches Purnima curled up in a patch of sun, a lanky jackrabbit tucked under the lioness’ large head, the little bunny’s nose twitching in her sleep. Vessel’s moth will flutter down onto his shoulder to join his quiet contemplation. He gets to have gentleness now. He gets to feel soft touches from people who genuinely like him. His soul may have been born from fury but she now gets to live in love.

(gee i wonder who's soul that rabbit is. you have a 50/50 chance of guessing right ehehehe)