#also deep disgust at first page

[hivemuthur]

a lil request, for freaktor friday or not

soo

what if vik found out the reader comes easily and is a visual learner so he would make them come just by making them watch him suck strap buckled to their hips and giving them a lil show

I feel like this should have a new day of the week invented, but I say it's Freakday since I lack better options :v

Oral Fixation

viktorxfem!reader explicit! blow jobs (?) + fingering (fem receiving since it just came out this way), established relationship, disgusting love, Reader is a complete simp, but Viktor likes it.

word count: 3,3K

author’s note: I feel like this belongs in the pegging universe, so I just kinda nodded to myself in this one, you can treat it as a part two -> here's the pegging fic. @rennethen beta read! RIP all of us cockless. Also, i hope you didn't mind the ask spam people and happy Freakday :v

—

It’s impolite to stare—you were always told. But whether out of sheer defiance or overwhelming curiosity, you’ve never paid much attention to what’s polite and what isn’t. You were right, of course, and the world was wrong. Your long ogling sessions have earned you a partner with equal levels of fixation and a mind as brilliant as it is open—keeping up has only ever been a thrill.

What started as one tiny indulgence on your part—a glance toward his hands—soon bloomed into full-blown obsession. The fruits of which would betray you to anyone who opened your notebook, now full of sketches. Every knuckle, every wrinkle rendered with the kind of care that screams affection.

And it betrays you, as you feared, when those same hands—immortalised in ink—leaf through the pages. Heart plummeting, you watch him carefully. See if he’s noticed. But the moment Viktor holds the book at arm’s length and compares one of your sketches to his open palm—you know it’s over.

He teases you for weeks after. “Is it just my hands that interest you?” he asks, all innocent and smug. “Or are you curious about other people’s hands too?” You swat him for it, ignoring the ‘cripple’ card he pretends to pull, but you’re still smiling as you walk away. You can’t help it.

And what turns out to be true—despite everything—is that it was never just his hands. Nor anyone else’s. It’s the whole of him. The strange, perfect sum of all his parts.

The next fixation is his eyes, though you don’t linger long. He’s too quick, too perceptive, and your stares never go unnoticed. So you move on. His nose comes next. Here you stay for a while, long enough for him to finally clock your silent advances. And Viktor—mercifully—makes the first move.

This, of course, opens up a whole new range of possibilities. All those parts hidden under layers of clothing that you’d only been able to imagine are now granted to you—completely denuded. Pure skin, and sinew, and bone, laid bare only for you to worship. Falling asleep with your ear to his stomach is bliss. Kissing over the bruises left by the brace—a privilege. Pressing your mouth to where his underbelly hollows, trying not to let your breath tickle him—pure joy.

There is one part, however, that managed to escape your attention—until recently. Viktor’s lips.

They are not the kind of mouth you’d notice at first glance. Not full, not plump. But you’ve watched them closely now, and they are a wonder in their own right. The way they purse when he chews absently on a pencil, softening when the pressure eases. How his fingertip comes to rest at the corner of his mouth whenever he’s deep in thought, tapping once, twice, then stilling. You’ve seen him lick his lips after a sip of too-hot coffee, tongue darting out to chase the steam before it vanishes. Watched how they part around a spoon or the edge of a fork, cheeks rounding slightly as he eats, the motion making his whole face look softer—almost unfamiliar.

And when he smiles—genuinely, openly, without irony—his whole face pulls taut with it. The corners of his lips lift first, then the skin around his eyes creases in that way that makes your heart ache. His mouth was never just a mouth. It was a thousand quiet gestures stitched together into a portrait you hadn’t even realised you were memorising.

Viktor, the ever present hawk eye, notices. Mid-sentence, no less, pencil resting slack against the paper while you fixate on the way he mouths the words, vowels rounding tenderly, adding new meaning to the phrase soft-spoken. He doesn’t call you out this time—not exactly. Just tilts his head and smiles in that way that means he’s caught you again. You fail miserably in looking away.

Later, when the work is packed and the clock tells you it's much too late to be lingering, Viktor rises and holds out a hand with purpose.

"Come," he says, voice low with something just shy of caballing. "I’ve thought of something that might make you happy."

You quirk a brow. "You're awfully confident for someone who still insists on instant coffee."

He hums, not rising to the bait, just draws your hand into his and begins walking. The halls are quiet. His cane clicks softly against the stone. "You’ve been looking at my mouth like it holds all the secrets of the universe," he says. "I figured… maybe it should offer a few answers."

You stumble a little, less from the pace and more from the way heat curls in your stomach at the implication. “And you’re not going to tell me what you mean by that?” you ask.

“I think you’ll understand soon enough,” he says, glancing at you sidelong. “If I’m right—and I usually am.”

Viktor doesn’t lead, not in the traditional sense. He doesn’t drag you behind him or push you to move faster. Instead, he floats ideas, opens doors—metaphorical and literal—and lets you choose whether to walk through. He is an eager and generous lover, yes, but also a careful one. He has never once assumed. He doesn’t chase power, he invites trust.

Even when he first offered you his most tender parts, baring himself not to surrender but to be seen. That night had been many things—electric, cathartic, almost embarrassingly emotional—but what lingered most was the way Viktor had looked up at you afterward. Like you’d cracked open something in him he hadn’t known was closed. Like he wanted more.

And now, this. Another door. Another idea. Wild, hushed for now, but clearly mapped out in that labyrinthine mind of his.

The lock clicks behind you as he shuts the dorm door. Viktor turns to face you properly, smile curved like he’s hiding something behind his back. "Will you let me show you?" he asks. His voice is quiet, but sure.

You nod, cheeks blooming into that lovely vermillion he likes so much. He watches the colour spread like paint in water—utterly taken. “Good,” he says simply, and nods toward the chair near his desk. “Get undressed. Sit there.”

You raise an eyebrow at that, already pulling at your shirt hem. “Are you getting undressed too, or am I the only one baring all tonight?”

Viktor’s smile curves sharp, wicked. “There will be no need. Not yet.”

The way he says it—not yet—twists in your belly like silk pulled tight. You settle into the chair, shifting as your skin meets the cool seat, but Viktor is already moving, reaching to the drawer by his bed. He returns not with flourish, but with quiet certainty, cradling the harness like it’s something precious.

“Is your attitude in need of… maintenance again?” you tease, though your voice comes a little thinner than intended.

Viktor glances up, bemused. “Not particularly,” he says. Then sits—gingerly, carefully—onto the pillow he’s placed at your feet. One leg at a time, he slides the straps up your calves, his hands as gentle as they are precise.

“Not tonight,” he repeats, fastening the harness into place on your hips after you lift for him obediently. His thumbs skim the edges where leather meets skin, slow and certain. “But I do have another gift for you.”

You glance down, and your chest flutters with a shaky laugh that barely makes it out.

He’s loosening his cravat now, slow enough to watch your eyes track every movement. The silk slips through his fingers, down his chest and off to the side. The top buttons of his shirt follow, granting you a view of the elegant dip of his collarbones, the pale skin of his throat. He’s flushed—not just the dusting across his cheeks, but his ears, the tips of them going pink like they always do when he’s on the verge of something exciting. His pupils are near-black, and his lips curl into a smile that might’ve passed for shy, had you not known him as intimately as you do. He’s so distractingly pretty you almost overlook the cock hanging between your legs.

“I’ve noticed,” he begins, voice low, “that the full-body scan you’ve been giving me lately seems to halt on my mouth for quite some time.”

You start to object, or maybe laugh, or deny it outright—but Viktor continues, silencing you with little more than a look. “I don’t think anyone’s ever taken me apart so lovingly before,” he murmurs, and you feel the weight of that confession settle in your chest, curling into a warm ball like a cat that has finally found its place. “So allow me to indulge you.”

He shifts between your legs, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. Then another, higher. His breath is warm, his lips scalding. But he doesn’t rush. Instead, he reaches up for your hand and brings it to his mouth.

The first kiss lands at your wrist, soft and gentle. Then he begins to drag his mouth over each finger, tongue flicking along the pads like he’s trying to ruin you right there. His lips close over your index, drawing it in with slow suction, warm and slick, and your breath grows heavy and burdened with need.

But Viktor takes his time. Tongue curling underneath, tracing the crease where knuckle meets palm. Then he shifts to your middle finger, sucking deeper, until the wet sound of it becomes a pulse between your legs. His eyes remain fixed on you, half-lidded, patient and unhurried. You can feel the way his tongue presses up against your skin—how he lets the pad of it slide along your body with intention, tasting you.

He nips, briefly, at the base of your thumb, then soothes the mark with a kiss so gentle it barely registers. There is no part of this that is idle. He worships, he savours. He learns.

Your eyes have not closed for a while. Even when you blink you make sure you can still see him, utterly beguiled by the trace of shiny spit his mouth produces around your fingers. The slide of it, the pout he makes to suck around you until your own hand burns with all the hot blood circulating through it. You are certain Viktor can feel your pulse on his tongue.

He releases your hand with a quiet pop, a fine thread of slick still connecting the two of you. For a moment, he simply looks at you—then his gaze drops.

One hand steadies your thigh, fingers splayed and gentle. The other slips between your legs. First, to check something very important. Whether he was right.

He teases your entrance, clever hand searching, and when he finds the answer, he gasps softly. The quiet sound that follows is unmistakable—confirmation, and proof, and reward. Your eyes flutter closed, unthinking.

“Eyes on me at all times, love,” he says. A small, firm correction. Not harsh, never. But enough. You open them again, immediately.

He’s already looking up at you, chin tilted, lips parted like he might lean in and take a bite. The light catches in his eyes—hungry, but so focused, so careful. His fingers stroke through you again, slower now, like he’s waiting to see every reaction he can draw from your face with just the tiniest movement.

When he speaks next, his voice is lower. Intimate. Pleased. “Good. That’s very good.”

And then, oh—a kiss. Nowhere near your skin. On the tip, sweet and teasing, it pries at the hinges of your jaw, makes your eyes go wide. It is as if you can feel whatever Viktor presents. Your mind, drunk already, soaks in the sight of him at your feet—but mostly, his mouth. Wrapping solemnly around the length nestled between your thighs. With the slide of his lips, two fingers ease inside you.

They curl, slow and steady, knuckles grazing soft where you’re most sensitive. But even that stretch is a distant hum compared to the way your brain short-circuits watching him.

What Viktor is doing is maddening enough with the phantom feeling between your legs, and you cannot stand the idea of what it would actually feel like. He’s not rushing. No frantic bobbing, no mess—yet. Just the steady, measured pressure of his lips gliding down, then pulling back.

And though you don’t feel the warmth of his mouth there, the sight of it—him—at your feet, eyes half-lidded, cheeks hollowing—is enough to have your body tensing up and toes curling.

Whenever your eyes fall closed, he stops. “Watch me,” he says firmly, pulling back just enough to speak, lips brushing the tip in a mockery of a kiss.

The pace he sets when you obey is punishing in reverse—the slowness of it, tormenting. His fingers inside you only add to this feast of teasing, but it strikes you that you can endure it, so long as Viktor never rises from his spot.

Innocence is not your virtue—you’ve thought about it. But now you're convinced that vivid imagination isn’t your virtue either, since the fantasy has absolutely nothing on the reality of Viktor’s mouth caressing the underside, lips shining. Gorgeous, you think.

He moans, pleased, as if to perplex you, a glint of joy dances in his eye when his tongue flattens out and the inanimate head slaps against it. Drool wells around your cock, and you imagine how warm it is, how smooth the slide must feel in Viktor’s mouth—how it would feel to you if it were actually attached to your body.

And as if all of that is not maddening enough, Viktor pushes back down. Lower, further, past the barrier of throat, where his vein is faintly risen, where you can see his quickened pulse painted in pale blue. He doesn’t stop when he gags—just squeezes his eyes shut for a beat, breathes through his nose, and steadies himself. The sound it makes is so vulgar, and it only seems to spur him on. He pulls back, lips stretched glossy around you, then lets it rest heavy on his tongue. Holds it there, looks up, eyes dazed but daring.

You gulp, and he doesn’t. Not until he needs to, and even then, he does it dramatically—lets it fall from his mouth with a slick gasp and a trail of spit, only to drag his tongue along the underside as he catches his breath.

All the while, his fingers are moving with studied intent inside you, curled perfectly, just shy of unbearable. And then—

He takes it again. This time deeper. Swallows it down. At the same moment, he thrusts his fingers to the hilt and presses his thumb firm against your clit. You cry out, reflexive and raw, will your eyes to stay open through the blur of tears, desperate to not miss anything.

It’s not enough to come, but nearly. Nearly is worse. So you move, slow at first, unsure, rocking your hips in shallow thrusts—meeting the wet heat of his mouth, and pressing his fingers deeper in return.

He hums around it, and the phantom vibration flutters straight through you, your brain somehow wills it into existence. You watch the lines of strain on his face, the determination behind his eyes.

It’s odd, in a way. Viktor is always speaking—explaining, coaxing, teasing. But now, his mouth is busy, and the absence of his voice only makes you crave it more.

You hear it anyway, conjured from memory. How he sounds when he praises you. How he groans when you ride him. How he whispers your name like a confession. But the sounds he’s making now—wet, guttural, wanting—are nearly enough.

Before you know it, your ass slides to the edge of the chair, wood creasing the skin of your cheeks, hips spilling over. Your hands come up to cup his face, and it’s the first time Viktor closes his eyes—calm smoothing over his features, as if your fingers have ironed out the tension.

And then—oh God—you’re certain Viktor plots to ruin you eternally, when his jaw slackens, and he offers you a gift. Control. Messy, and glistening with his spit.

He brings your hands to his throat, one at a time, guiding them. Your thumbs prop his chin, and he waits—mouth provocatively open, trusting—waiting for you to move your hips into his palm, between his lips.

It’s surreal, the way he opens for you—so patient, so steady. The way he makes himself available without ever surrendering power. You can see it in the set of his brows, in the calculated push of his fingers inside you, the press of his thumb against your clit timed with every breath he takes around the length in his mouth.

You move, slowly at first. Testing the tension in your thighs, the wet glide of his lips. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t falter. His hand stays on your hip, just placed there, letting you do the rest. And whatever you do is yours to decide.

So you fuck his mouth tenderly, a rhythm born of instinct and awe. Not for the cock, not for the illusion—but for him. For Viktor, who has always known how to give. For Viktor, who never rushes but always sees you.

He moans again—low, almost a hum, the vibration somehow finding a way of seeping straight into your gut. You want to tell him he’s beautiful. That he’s undoing you. That no one’s ever looked so good sat on their ass with a cock between their lips. But your mouth won’t cooperate—your mind, already fraying, can't hold language when he curls his fingers just right and presses the flat of his tongue along the length.

The chair creaks beneath you when your hips stutter. His lips are wet, stretched, cheeks hollowing with every pass.

It comes faster than you expect. Your hand finds his hair and you pull— just enough. His eyes flick up to yours, dark and unblinking. Your mouth falls open, your thighs tremble. He groans around the base, and it tips you over—hot and high and breaking against the inside of your chest.

Your body curls forward. His hand, warm on your belly, holds you through it. Hazy, you gasp and breathe heavily, the rise and fall of your stomach made real by Viktor’s touch. When you step beyond the other side of climax, the side of warmth and pliancy, you slip down from the chair, knees finding the floor, and Viktor’s arms open instantly. The harness shifts between you—warm and slick with his spit, now nudging his stomach awkwardly. It makes you both laugh, breathless and low. Still, you clamber into his lap, careless of grace, needing only to be close.

Your arms go around his neck. His hands bracket your hips. You wrap yourself around him like you might fall through the floor otherwise, pressing your face into the crook of his neck and breathing deep. The scent of him, the sweat on his collar, the faint ghost of whatever soap he used this morning—all of it hits like safety. Like home.

“God,” you sigh, voice threadbare. “How do you know me so well?”

He hums. You feel it in his throat before you hear the answer. “I am very observant,” he murmurs. A kiss to your temple. “And curious.” His hands shift at your back, stroking slow. Then, softer still: “And I love you an insane amount as well.”

The words crack something open inside you. You hold him tighter, and mumble quietly into his shoulder. “There is no other way to love you than an insane amount, Viktor. You are my biggest fixation.”

“My fixation,” he repeats, tasting the word like it belongs to him now. “Come to bed.”

[ink-stainedkiss]

Bunny!Geto who loves to find comfort in silence. He doesn’t like loud noises and while he doesn’t consider you to be loud, he cherishes the peaceful moments when it’s just you and him. In the early mornings, when Geto reads the books scattered in your home and you are busy with your own task. He can’t help but catch glimpses of your focused expression and smile.

Bunny!Geto who has to always be on alert, since you don’t know how to keep your hands off his little tail. You can’t help it, it’s just so fluffy and you have to hold back a squeal when it unconsciously twitches. He always denies it, but there are a few videos of the little fluff ball shaking happily as you scratch his back that would beg to differ.

Bunny!Geto who feels bad that he can’t express how thankful he is for you. You were the one that practically scooped him up off the merciless streets. Some nights he thinks back to the first time he met you and how hostile he was. If he gets too far into his imagination, he’ll try and think of where he would be if he hadn’t decided to stay with you. Ultimately he’ll become sad and end up clingier than usual.

It happened again, Geto had a nightmare. He was an extremely independent hybrid, barely letting you coddle him unless he was under the weather. So it wasn’t exactly easy for him to rise from his bed and try and find comfort from you. It may sound childish, and believe Geto that he doesn’t exactly feel proud when he has these terrible dreams, but they have gotten better since you gave him a place to stay.

They are just quick flashes of the life he had before. Living on the streets and hiding in alleyways was how Geto managed to scrape by, praying that the trash can he found had some sort of food. The thoughts made his stomach churn in disgust. Geto had been restless the entire night, so he only had one option to get rid of this feeling.

The bunny stood in front of your door, contemplating whether he should just turn and not worry you about his past, but shockingly, the door swung open,revealing you. Geto could see you had been awake for a while. Raising a brow at the hybrid,”Are you okay?” Shit, Geto hadn’t even glanced at a mirror, how bad did he look? You glanced around your room, voice dropping to a small whisper,”Did you want to come in?”

Without a moment of hesitation, Geto walked in, admiring how homey your room looked. You got back into your comforter, grabbing the book you had put aside when you saw Geto’s figure standing at your door. As you got settled, you looked up to see Geto just standing there, like if he were to move something would explode. Covering your small giggle, you lifted the other half of your blankets,” You can lay with me, I don’t mind.”

The bunny gave you a short nod and slid into the side next to you. Not wanting to push him out of his comfort zone, you went back to reading. Geto’s droopy ears twitched as he heard you mumble something under your breath. Turning to his side, he realized you were mouthing the words on the page. He tried to be subtle as he got a peek, but it was no use. You were about to flip the page when you felt a little push on your arm. It took you a second to realize what happened and when you looked over, you saw Geto staring at you very keenly.

You knew Geto liked reading, but you also saw the tiredness in his eyes, so you put two and two together,”Do you want me to read out loud?” A tiny spark of happiness ignited in his deep purple eyes and out of excitement he got closer, pulling you in a hug. Immediately Geto tried to pull off, thinking he messed it all up, but before he could, your arm wrapped him. He tensed, but when you began to read, he slowly calmed down. Your words were like velvet and soon enough sleep creeped closer to him. It’s simple to say that wasn’t the last night Geto wound his way into your bed for the night.

Bunny!Geto who doesn’t hesitate when you ask to play with his hair. Like his ears, his hair was jet black and extremely beautiful. You could drag your fingers through it without catching on a single knot. It’s your favorite pastime to play with his hair, either after a long day at work or you are just bored, it’s easy to get lost in his long strands. For a while, you weren’t sure why Geto would click his teeth between humming to your words, but after looking it up, you realized what it meant.

[fairlyang]

Attention ⚔️

w/c: 2K pairing: pornstar!wade!wilson x pornstar!fem!reader tags: 18+ smut. reacting to one of his vids, touching yourself, hearing him give you instructions (joi), mutual masturbation, praise

a/n: a wip from dec 31…. crazyyyy idk what possessed me to finish it today but yayyy

wade wilson masterlist | main masterlist

thinking about pornstar!wade who quickly gained popularity because of the absolutely unhinged dirty talk any porn platform has ever seen.

hell, the fucking internet as a whole was never prepared for the merc with a mouth to do fucking porn and audios.

oh yeah after gaining followers for just his porn videos of him using all his toys and other inconspicuous items, it didn’t take long for him to jump onto the audio train.

especially with the ones that told people how to get off with him.

and unlike other people in his new profession, he actually does jerk himself off and fucks his toys. he wasn’t a liar and if he wanted his channel to be something, it was going to be authentic.

and disgusting.

but only in the best way.

so once noticing that the deadpool channel posted a new audio you sprinted to your bedroom because you needed to listen to it.

you mainly listened to them in your free time but given you were also a porn star and the people have been asking for you to react to his audios while you played with yourself, you figured you may as well.

you already liked his work so you knew you’d like this one. you’d just have to pretend like you haven’t listened to him yet.

so you quickly set up your cameras and microphone, turned them all on, did a fast intro and pulled up the audio.

you clicked on the audio just for him to immediately start moaning which was unusual for him because he always yaps before starting.

you spoke too soon because here came the yapping, “now listen, i’ve heard the complaints that i talk too much and the comments saying ‘wade we just wanna hear you moan and groan, not telling us about your day’ and ‘oh wade next time you give us a story time for more than half of an audio just shove one of your dildos in your mouth’ and all i’ve gotta say to that is….”

“i will personally find you and hunt you down, be fucking mean to me and see if you like being sliced into a little kebab or a whole sushi dinner. fucking try me!!” he threatened then takes a deep breath.

“final thing i promise! this audio happens to be a little special because, well it’s also a video. so if you don’t wanna see my disgusting face, you can stay here. and as you all know i also have a special little channel on a site that rhymes with corn pub. and if you do wanna see, well not my face but me jerking my cock off then you know where to find it.” he explains then takes another deep breath.

“alright now let’s get the party started, shall we?” he says and you pause, then quickly type into the search bar to his channel.

you quickly clicked on the first option which led to his page and finding the new video instantly, “change of plans! we’re reacting to a video instead!”

you skip the first minute where he said the opposite for the audio enjoyers and he started. he first looked down and spat on his already hard dick, and slowly stroked it.

his hand moved slowly and he was lightly biting his lip, turning you on by the second. you spread your legs apart, one leg on the chair so the camera that was facing your lower half would see everything.

“now, the best part about this is.. fuck… I love helping you guys out. so last time I made one for the guys but this one’s for the girls.” he mumbles and grins at the camera.

“so let’s start slow for now, and play with those tits for me, yeah?” he instructs, making you gulp.

you brought your hands up to your tits, squeezing them in your hands and feeling your face grow hot. “god I wish I could watch-“ he moaned, making you moan.

he kept the same pace, using his other hand to run it up and down his body. your eyes fluttered as you gently played with your tits, letting out slow breaths. “that’s it baby, look so fucking pretty.” he sighed and laid his head back.

“and I mean really look at you, doing what a complete stranger is telling you to do and also watching like a little perv… mmm I fucking love it.” he groans, flashes a toothy grin, and makes direct eye contact with the camera.

“here I won’t be too much of a tease, take your favorite hand and guide it downstairs but don’t touch yet.” he instructs and you do as he says.

your right hand went down your stomach and stayed right above your mound, awaiting his next instructions, “now dip a finger in, I’m just curious. and curiosity does kill the cat but I just wanna make sure I’m doing my job right!”

you chuckle and shake your head, dipping a finger between your folds and sure enough you were wet. wasn’t much of a surprise but you laughed at the camera anyway, having to feign the truth.

you lift your finger up at the camera that was recording your upper half and grin, “think this is a good start!”

“now be a good girl and rub that clit for me, want us both to be feeling good.” he murmurs and your hand went back down between your legs.

you placed your index and middle fingers right on your clit, slow and small circles as he sighs praises.

“thatta girl.”

“just like that princess.”

“doing so good for me.”

you moan and match his exact pace, watching the way his hand grips his cock and how the precum was leaking down onto his hand. it was quite the sight, as it always was.

“now I could have us edging for a while but I kinda don’t want it to take us too long-“ he says and sighs, “been horny all day and I don’t know just thinking of all the pretty girls watching me and getting themselves off too… fuck it’s the best picture in my head.”

“now I’m sounding like a perv but ugh who cares-“ he groans and jerks himself off faster, “c’mon baby, go faster for me.”

you bit your lip and followed his lead, rubbing your clit faster, and feeling your eyes roll back. you squeezed your left breast with your left hand and smiled at the camera, doing your job as well.

it was a silly thing, doing the exact thing he’s doing but for your own viewers. it was a good thing they liked it and were use to that from you so there wouldn’t be any complaints.

plus you liked these types of videos yourself which is why you liked his content. he did the same as you, you just weren’t lucky enough to have caught his attention yet because lord knows he jerks off to plenty of people.

“fuck- feels so fucking good.” he moans and grins, “wish you were here to help me.”

you let out a whine and squeeze your nipple, a gasp leaving your lips. you let out a chuckle and mumble, “I know he didn’t tell me I could do that b-but it’s fine…”

“I bet it’s such a mess down there huh? your very own Niagara Falls? wanna slip a finger inside?” he murmurs and you nod, eyes growing heavier.

“slide in as many as you want and remember you still have free will! just gotta remind y’all because- well never mind, just fuck your pretty pussy for me.” he coos.

you moved your fingers down, sliding them both inside then watch how his hand gripped his cock. it was a decent size, just looked very, very thick.

it looked appetizing and you were hungry.

you looked at the camera and gulped, “kinda w-wanna use a dildo… I mean I usually use toys anyway…”

“wait actually! if you have any toys, bring those out! I’m just gonna use my fist but next time maybe I’ll use a toy- or a pillow!” he exclaims then leans over to write something down.

“sorry! back to where we were… I swear I’m gonna come a fucking gallon.” he groans making you giggle.

“imagine a guy comes a whole gallon inside-“ you try to say then accidentally moan.

you bite your lip then smile, “definitely not thinking about it.”

you had your fingers as deep as they could go, now pulling out so see how wet you were. you pulled them out, showing them to the camera, seeing your arousal glisten. you brought them up to your lips and licked your fingers, looking right at the camera.

you slipped them out then went back down, instantly shoving them inside and starting to fuck yourself. you spread your legs more and match his pace, already so desperate for a release.

his voice just did something to your brain. his teasing tone would just always do it for you and make you do exactly as he says. sure it was the voice kink, but it was unlike anyone you’ve ever seen.

you fucked yourself harder, imagining it was his fingers instead, closing your eyes and just focusing on his moans. you were wearing your headphones so you could hear him right in your ear and it was doing it’s job perfectly.

you were dripping so much and you knew it’d be obvious but you didn’t care. you just let your fingers work their magic while he moaned into your ear as if he really was there.

“god baby, feels fucking amazing. don’t stop, keep going.” he moans and stops himself from thrusting up.

“doing so good princess.” he coos, a groan leaving his mouth.

“just like that cupcake, such a good girl.” he mumbles, his cock sounding wetter with every passing second.

you were letting out all kinds of pretty noises, fucking yourself how you needed him to. you were losing it.

“c’mon baby, focus on me.” he pants and your eyes shot open, “give me all your attention- need you so fucking bad.”

you whimpered and fucked yourself even harder, “that’s it baby- don’t fucking stop, wanna come with you. god please-“

more whimpers left your mouth and your legs were starting to shake. you were clenching against your fingers and you could feel yourself getting closer.

“come with me baby- I need you to so f-fucking bad.. you’re doing such a good job.” he praised, his cock throbbing in his hand.

you let out even more moans, feeling your wetness drip down to your ass, “oh fuck!!”

“oh god- fuck I’m gonna cum!” you cried and tried to keep your eyes on the screen.

“baby- oh fuck baby! I’m gonna fucking cum- fuck please, god please cum with me.” he pleaded, going as fast as ever.

then like magic, you came at the same time he did. you were shaking and crying out while his load spilled all over his stomach and thighs. you slowed your fingers down, riding out your high and feeling every inch of you shake.

you closed your eyes still hearing wade’s pants and soft moans in your ears, making your walls entrap your fingers even more.

“fuck-“

you attempt to calm yourself down, taking slow and deep breaths while he did the same and even continued his praises.

“so good baby-“

“you made me cum so good.”

“we’ve gotta do that again.”

you chuckle and your eyes fluttered open, looking at him with cum all over and also calming himself down. you looked at your camera then slowly took your fingers out, your arousal oozing out even more, making a bigger mess than usual.

“fuck- well I’d uh, say I definitely enjoyed that!” you murmur and chuckle, “this was fun…”

“think next time I’ll use a toy!” you exclaim and clear your throat.

“unfortunate that I’ve got no one to clean up this mess but I’ll catch you guys later!” you wave goodbye and quickly turn everything off.

you sat in your chair then really called yourself down, deep down hoping that there was a chance he’d see it. it wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world but maybe too far fetched.

at least it was fun making it which is what matters.

[bonne-chanson]

a/n: first part of the stormbringer collection! <3 i’ve never published anything for verlaine despite him being my favorite (also because i just started this blog a few months ago lmao) but here he is! i hope i did him justice :> on another note, please assume that everything i write for will be gender neutral unless specified through request! this is also my first time writing a fic this long (and a first attempt at slow burn and drama…) anyway, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 here’s over thirty pages of a fanfic. oh, and another thing, this is canon-divergent! the flags are alive because of you ;>

i. mars, bringer of war

the first movement of the planets suite (masterlist).

✑ character/s: paul verlaine x reader

✑ short desc: paul verlaine has only ever known a life of violence and bloodshed. the first time he comes to know what tranquility and peace are like is through you.

✑ content includes: romance ; drama ; slight angst ; slow burn ; canon-divergent (the flags live, but for a price) ; paul verlaine needs a hug ; nsfw (MDNI!)

✑ word count: 15.4k words

Inside Paul Verlaine brewed a tumultuous storm of anger, anguish and despair — something once akin to a vicious, feral dog now turned into the likeness of barren weeping willow. In the eye of such a complex storm laid the kind of emptiness understood and able to be empathized with by no one else but himself, only adorned by a deep sense of grief and graced by a hint of envy and longing for something beyond his very existence.

Paul Verlaine was not human, no matter how much he yearned to be one. An innate sense of humanity was something he simply did not have.

At least, that was what he believed his origins dictated him to be.

Much the same way sculptures were crafted and portraits were painted, he was also born by the hand of a human being; carefully shaped with a firm idea in mind, built finely with the kind of details meant to follow a certain image in one’s head, and formed particularly to suit the desires and the planned design of the artist. Yet while the paintings of Monet and the statues of Michelangelo could be looked at by people with the kind of admiration any other human being would be able to coax out of another, however, Paul would be looked at in terror and disgust — the kind of reactions he soon grew to become more familiar with over time.

For what is a man-made being fated to become, when created with the sole purpose of destruction in joy and love’s stead?

Paul Verlaine was made to be a weapon — born through creation, ironically made to obliterate on command. A bringer of war, they said, a being made for the sake of bloodshed and demolition.

Violent. Cataclysmic. Inherently inhuman.

He had long since given up on any attempt to cope and come to terms with his inhumanity, much less make himself feel human, allowing himself to sink deeper into the only lifestyle fit for a being like him: assassination. After all, there was no point in trying to convince himself he was a part of something bigger the same way everyone else was, not when he was so alien. A God above existed, but that same God did not love him enough to give him the same sense of belonging every other human received the moment they were born — he was sure of it.

And soon after, his name would be whispered among even the strongest in his field, uttered with caution by passersby and spat with spite by the most elite of anyone he made an enemy of. Nobody in their right mind ever went up to the soulless King of Assassins to face him head-on, at the very least not willingly, not if they wanted to die with their lives lived in full.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso.

“Chuuya,” the European man before you had bent down on one knee, bowing his head towards the russet-haired boy as he would to royalty, “I have come to protect you.”

In the midst of playing a happy game of pool with your friends, the Flags, to celebrate your youngest member’s first year of survival in the mafia, chaos ensued when a brunet man had somehow managed to enter the Old World bar that the seven of you often frequented. Albatross had thrown his kukri at the foreigner first, reacting quickly before being followed by Piano Man’s strangling wires and the thrusts of Iceman’s cue stick — all of which were dodged easily by the man dressed in blue. And even when Lippmann’s gunshots were fired and Doc’s lethal injections were aimed at him, not a single scratch scathed his skin, and he had avoided each attack by a mere whisker.

“I did not come here to fight you,” he clarified, fixing his suit. “My name is Adam Frankenstein. I am a Europole detective.”

The tension in the room changed the moment he spoke.

“...You’re a cop, huh?” Piano Man smirked, fingers flexing to ready the wires twisting between them. “We seem to have come to a misunderstanding, then, Adam. It was a mistake on your part thinking that a cop could waltz in here and make it out alive.”

He then turned to Chuuya.

“Chuuya, consider this another one of your one-year anniversary presents! You’re free to break his arms and legs as you please!” he says with a hearty laugh, about to wrap another wire around his neck until—

“Wait,” you interject, preparing to reason with the rest. Though you had no ability, considered no more powerful than that of Yokohama’s average civilian, you were still their friend, and as their friend, they held a great deal of value for your opinions, too. “Let’s hear him out first.”

With a polite nod of his head, Adam momentarily looks at you. “Thank you.” He dusts away the rest of the debris tainting his well-pressed clothes before facing everyone else. “I was created by the skill user engineer Dr. Wollstonecraft. I am the first autonomous humanoid supercomputer in existence. Again, my name is Adam Frankenstein, and I have come to arrest the assassin who is after your life.”

Albatross raises both brows, picking his kukri back up to sling it over his shoulder. “An assassin?”

“That’s right,” the robot responds. “The assassin’s name is Verlaine — Paul Verlaine.”

Paul Verlaine… You allow the name to linger in your head for a little longer, ingraining itself into your thoughts.

(You have absolutely no idea just how much those thoughts would consume you later on.)

“...Verlaine?” Chuuya muttered before his gaze became fixed on Adam. “How do you know that name?”

“You know this guy, Chuuya?”

Straightening his knee, Adam stands, his posture exuding an aura of pristine perfection. “You cannot defeat Verlaine alone, Chuuya, which is why I was sent here. He is no ordinary assassin, you see,” he warns. “Paul Verlaine is known globally as the King of Assassins—”

There is a short pause, and for a moment, you would have been able to sense the hesitation in his voice (if there was any) had it not been for his mechanical intonation.

“—and your older brother.”

Chuuya can only frown in response. “That can’t be true.”

Paul Verlaine is dead.

At least, that’s what he believed.

It was what Rimbaud had told him the year before — Paul Verlaine, his long-time partner, was dead. Shot and killed after an incident that happened at the research facility located in Suribachi City. The Arahabaki Incident that occurred prior to Chuuya’s recruitment into the Port Mafia involved the betrayal of one of their sub-executives who created a god, and the root of the incident could be traced back to nine years ago at the end of the war.

Two European agents and highly adept skill users Arthur Rimbaud and Paul Verlaine both managed to steal Arahabaki from the former national defense force, whose primary focus was to research an artificial skill-derived life-form: Arahabaki itself. Verlaine, however, had other plans—

And chose to betray Rimbaud at the very site of the mission.

According to Rimbaud, his partner wanted to take Arahabaki all for himself and it eventually led to a fight that escalated into something violent. Rimbaud eventually emerged victorious for the price of having to kill Verlaine, although their battle alerted the military’s attention and their tracking unit, and due to his injuries, he had no choice but to absorb Arahabaki and use the skill as his own, losing most of his strength and his memories in the process. Thus, the Impostor Predecessor Incident was staged in an attempt to lure out the real Arahabaki — Chuuya Nakahara.

And as soon as Chuuya finishes elaborating the entire fiasco, Adam shakes his head. “No, I must correct you,” he says. “Paul Verlaine is still very much alive.”

You lean in a little more, intrigued by the statement, which seems to surprise the rest of your friends; you had always been known for your gentler personality among them, never really choosing to involve yourself in any quarrels and dangerous situations, so this came off as quite the shocker. “What evidence do you have?”

“I can prove it,” Adam replies, his tone leaning into being a little more serious, “but doing so would violate my obligation to secrecy in regard to the mission. The only individual concerned in this matter is Chuuya, ergo he is the only one authorized to learn the details.”

“Can’t we have at least some form of proof?” you argue, catching the interest of the Flags. Your enthusiasm towards the affair seems to have caught their attention as well. “We’re already involved in this, too. I mean… as much as the issue may be about Chuuya’s past, we deserve to know at least the significant details so we’re well-aware of what we may be dealing with.” There is a short pause before you add, “Chuuya is our friend, too, after all.”

(You have absolutely no idea how your interjection just saved their lives.)

As if processing your words, Adam blinks before handing you a file holder from behind his back.

“Huh? Where did he get that from?” Albatross questions, looking back and forth between you and the foreign man. “Did he just—?”

“I suppose I can provide you with some evidence without breaching the regulations assigned to me,” he says, handing you the file holder.

You thank him promptly before opening the file holder, the Flags piling up behind you to take a peek as well.

“Yoshino Ryota,” Iceman says, his tone carrying a sense of familiarity. “Wasn’t he one of the two guards at the top floor of HQ?”

Doc tugs his IV pole closer to him as he looks over the document. “If I remember correctly, the boss had the two of them replaced only recently after an incident occurred — something about one of their heads getting blown off and the other getting minced.”

“Death by implosion?” Lippmann finds himself wincing at the descriptions offered by each document. “How brutal…” he murmurs.

You hand the sheets over to Piano Man, turning to Adam yet again. “Is there anything else you could provide us with?”

“Whoa, (Y/N),” your leader snickers, a little amused by your zealous behavior. “You’re awfully fascinated by this whole ordeal. Mind sharing?”

You feel your face burn up at his sudden accusation. You? Fascinated? You were only being a good friend by taking as many precautions as possible. You couldn’t fight and neither did you have any ability to your name, but you still wanted to be as useful as possible to them in order to aid their safety.

(Again, you have absolutely no idea that what you are doing right now ends in saving their lives.)

“I’m just… trying to help,” you mutter, a little shy now. “Verlaine is the King of Assassins for a reason, after all. Better safe than sorry, you know?”

“(Y/N)’s right.” Chuuya stands in front of the closed door. “This may be my problem, but if something ever happened to any of you guys, I don’t think I could just ignore it. I’d try to help whether you liked it or not; I bet the rest of you’d feel the same way.” He looks at Adam, his gaze now stern. “That being said, detective, spit it out and tell ‘em, too, or I’m not cooperating.”

Adam nods. “I understand perfectly how you feel, Chuuya,” he replies, his voice a warm assurance. “You value your friendships and make decisions accordingly. I suppose this is what is called human nature.” And suddenly, he’s approaching the shorter boy with a graceful stride in each step. “Very well. I will give up on trying to persuade you and instead propose a different method.”

And out of Adam’s elbows shoots two anchored wires, spinning around in the air before wrapping around Chuuya. The magnets on each anchor connect, binding him in the process, leaving him confused and irritated as the brunet hoists him under his arm and leaps out of the doorway.

“My mission is the priority, and it is what you humans would call—”

He pauses, mulling the words over in his system.

“...one’s nature, I suppose. Therefore, I will be borrowing Chuuya for the next thirty minutes,” he announces, and within the next few moments, he’s off running to the next residential district with Chuuya in tow.

Awkwardly, you stare at the open door before you, pursing your lip.

“...So,” Albatross coughs, “what now?”

Iceman can only shrug, taking a cube of cue chalk from the pool table to rub at the tip of his cue stick. “All we can really do is wait.”

Everyone is quiet for a good moment, letting the awkwardness of the situation pass before Piano Man speaks up.

“Iceman’s right,” he says. “I say we have our fun while waiting.” Picking up the rack from the side, he grabs each billiard ball and places them inside, shaking the triangle for a bit to even out the spacing between each one. “How about we help ourselves to another round?”

You shrug and smile, walking towards the table to grab a cue stick of your own. “I’m down.”

No one argued against it — if anything, they were all for it. It was precisely because of that that the pool hall became full of its usual noise: the clacking of sticks against the cue ball, the combination of cheers and trash-talking, the sizzle of the alcohol being poured and the chime of the glasses clinking together. It was a scene you would never, under any circumstance, find yourself wanting to trade for anything else in the world. And why would you when you were blessed with such a closely-knit group of friends who would always be there for you during your ups and downs, your worst moments and best celebrations?

(Little did you know.)

One by one, each sphere began to fall into the pocket points, eventually only leaving one left during your turn. All eyes were on you now, and only a singular point was needed in order for you to bring home the gold.

Carefully, you aim, the chalked-up tip of your stick very breathily brushing up against the white cue ball before you as you make your attempt to center your push against the remaining red pool ball. The alcohol, however, makes it difficult for your hands to focus, quivering as they try to stabilize themselves for your point’s sake.

That’s when you feel a pair of arms slither gingerly up around your own, steadying your hands on the stick to allow you to focus better.

“Here,” a suave, familiar voice murmurs beside your ear, and for a moment, your breath hitches in your throat; you can’t tell if the warmth blooming across your cheeks is coming from the beer or the contact. “I know the booze makes it difficult for you to keep your hands in check, so aim like this.”

And then—

Clack!

Albatross’ jaw drops and he whines, stomping his foot on the ground almost childishly. “No fair, Lippmann! You can’t just leech onto (Y/N) for a point like that!”

Lippmann’s laugh is canorous. You find yourself stunned at his voice — as is the situation with everyone else in the room — when he chuckles at Albatross’ complaint, only waving a hand to dismiss the younger Flag’s protests. Staring at him was something you simply couldn’t help yourself doing, not with his unusually handsome face and sweet, attractive smile. His beauty, after all, was unrivaled; whether he decided to dress in men’s or women’s fashion, anyone would find themselves falling too easily for him.

You were no exception to the rule. Though you never looked at him in any other way than as friends, the thought of him being so beautiful that it stilled your heart every now and then would still sometimes catch you by surprise.

Smiling, your hand reaches up to squeeze his shoulder playfully. “I’m giving him half my point since he helped me gain it.”

The others groan and mutter to themselves about the entire ball game being unfair, with Piano Man even huffing about how the blond had, yet again, used his charms to work his way out of last place.

Unbeknownst to everyone else in the room, however, and including yourself, the actor’s gaze lingers upon you for a little longer than it should while you laugh, blissfully unaware of his attention. You’ve never known anything about the way his body would naturally gravitate to yours under any setting, the way he would every so often mirror your speech patterns just to keep you interested in the conversation, or the way he’d speak softer around you, his language a little more gentle than with the others. It’s why you never bothered to acknowledge it — to acknowledge him.

His thoughts, however, are cut when the ring of your phone echoes throughout the pool hall, and with a long sigh, you excuse yourself quickly to take it, only to find that you’re being summoned by your friends’ boss himself.

And so, with a brief farewell and a promise to return shortly, you leave, the sounds of laughter, alcohol glasses and billiard balls becoming more distant as you walk outside the Old World bar.

The first time you had ever heard of the name Paul Verlaine was on the day of Chuuya’s one-year anniversary as a mafioso, and the first time you see him personally is only hours after through smoke and ruin.

“Hm?” Amidst the grunts and groans of your friends and the wreckage of the place you once called your safe haven, you freeze, unable to move a limb in fear. “I don’t exactly recall seeing any record of you anywhere.” He pauses, not even turning to you to see your face. “Nor have I heard of a person like you being in Chuuya’s life before.”

There was no warning. Everything went down to hell while none other than the boss had attempted to recruit you into the Port Mafia earlier (to which you had politely turned down, saying you’ll “think about it”); Paul Verlaine had entered the Old World bar so casually — almost as if he were nothing but and under the guise of a regular customer, ready to drown himself in alcohol after a particularly overwhelming day. Not a single person in the room had assumed otherwise given his attire was that of a normal black suit and the sunglasses that all mailmen of the Port Mafia wore as their uniform, and the only addition to his ensemble was the porkpie hat similar to that of Chuuya’s. Yet before they knew it, their bodies were thrown all over the place as if they were mere ragdolls, their weapons practically comparable to toys against the only man left standing in the room.

Piano Man was bloodied up, strangled by his own wires with multiple lacerations decorating his body; Iceman had been stabbed with his own cue stick from earlier, the other half of it sunken too deep into his body for him to move; Albatross had been slashed cleanly by the kukri he frequented, his body left to lay in a pool of his own blood; Doc’s bones had been crushed enough to render him motionless, the pain so severe that he cannot even scream—

And Lippmann…

Lippmann was being held up by the throat, limp and almost breathless, his hands wrapped around the stranger’s wrist in a useless attempt to free himself. His eyes, typically a beautiful shine of earthy brown, were glazed over and wet from asphyxiation, his usually kept blond hair was a complete mess from being tossed around, and his pristine cream-colored crombie coat was dripping with red. The one who held you earlier and sobered you up during a game of pool with your friends to help earn you a point, the first one next to Piano Man who welcomed you into the Flags, the one whom you felt closest to in the group was now in the very hands of death himself.

And death, as you would have liked to call the perpetrator, only stared him down, his brown eyes so distantly cold as he watched the actor in his grasp suffocate.

“(Y– Y/N)...” your friend manages to choke out between desperate gasps, “run—!”

“How peculiar,” Verlaine murmurs aloud, using his free hand to brush away some of the stray strands of hair splayed across Lippmann’s face, getting a better view of his beaten-up complexion. “If my research tells me I’m correct, you were supposed to be the most difficult one to kill.”

You can only stand there, completely still in terror, your legs aching to do as Lippmann says and bolt out of there as fast as you can, yet they shake so uncontrollably that you would have thought you’d collapse by now. Rapid thumping beats against your ribcage as your mouth goes dry, and you find that your hands and feet have quite literally gone cold, numbing themselves to any form of escape as if they had suddenly shut themselves down on instinct.

“Well,” the breathiness — disappointment — in his voice snaps you back out of being in your own head, “you didn’t exactly put up much of a fight, now did you?”

It was almost as if you weren’t even there. Your presence was barely acknowledged by him, and though you suppose that may be quite the plus when it comes to your survival, your friends were all barely being grazed on the cheek by death’s fingertips and all you could do was stand there with the thought of being next.

Verlaine sighs in mock compassion. “Pity… I’d say this is the most awful way for you to go out, no? What, with you born with such luck, after all — blessed with such a beautiful face…”

The hand formerly tucking away Lippmann’s hair behind his ear grabs him by the face.

“A career in which your hands are able to remain clean…”

The assassin’s fingers press against your friend’s throat a little tighter, leading him to start choking on his own saliva.

“People who adore you endlessly…”

His lips begin to turn blue from the lack of air, and Verlaine can only smirk.

“Friends who love you to death...” He watches Lippmann’s eyes roll back, hands wrapped around his wrist in a desperate attempt to flee slowly going limp. “Don’t worry, I’m not so merciless. I’ll grant you the favor of eternal sleep first.”

And then he smiles so kindly that it almost confuses you.

“That way, you can end your perfect life without having to see the rest of your loved ones suffer.”

“No, don’t!”

Verlaine blinks.

His head snaps over to look at you, and much like a deer caught in the headlights, you stay put.

“…Oh, goodness, what’s this?” he adds, a small smirk gracing his features as he glances back at Lippmann. “You truly are quite the blessed one, aren’t you? A pretty face, a good career, loving friends… and a darling partner to boot.”

Lippmann tries his best to turn his gaze at you, drool seeping from the corner of his lip and down his chin at the lack of air. Even at the touch of death, he still thinks of you.

“(Y/N)—“ he squeaks, coughing and gasping, “don’t—!”

“(Y/N), hm…? Come now, let them speak,” Verlaine coos, tightening his grasp on the blond’s neck, blooming purples and blues across the expanse of his throat.

Your breath gets caught in your lungs as all sorts of possibilities race through your head at the same time, all of which ending in a single outcome: he’d make a quick kill out of you, regardless of it being by crushing your head into a pulp or by making your heart implode. You had easily come to the conclusion that Paul Verlaine was too talented of a killer to be stopped by a mere civilian like you; if he had managed to take down five of the most skilled and feared members of the Port Mafia by himself without so much as breaking a sweat, then what could you do?

A weak cough interrupts your train of thought as your eyes follow the sound, leading you to a bloodied Albatross with a large gash across his chest, gushing red.

“...(Y/N),” he chokes weakly, “run…”

Yet with a trembling lip and glossy eyes, you stand your ground, looking up at the dangerous man before you again, trying your best to brave yourself.

You allow yourself the luxury of ingraining his appearance in your head first, however, even if not willingly—

And there is no denial that the assassin in front of you is a beautiful being.

He stands so elegantly, his posture balanced and effortless even as he holds another man by the throat so violently — a stark contrast to the air of poise he radiates. Blond hair perfectly frames his face in a relaxed flow of waves, the right side of his face obscured by his bangs and the left decorated by a small braid that blends well into the rest of his long, tied hair. Rich brown eyes bore into yours with the kind of intensity swirling in them that would have left you breathless had it not already been for the anxiety swallowing you whole, and even the way he dresses is sleek, not a wrinkle in his suit to be seen. The general atmosphere around him emits a kind of finesse and grace you would only be able to find in a fairy tale’s Prince Charming with the complexion of an ancient Nordic god, and, if you were bold enough to think of it, the tempting prowess of the devil himself.

Paul Verlaine is a handsome man, almost irritatingly so.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” He tilts his head to the side and his voice almost comforts you, snapping you out of being stuck in your own head completely. “I had planned to make this quick.”

The dryness of your lips prevents you from responding as urgently as you would have liked to, and you find yourself tripping over your own words. “I… please, don’t…”

“Don’t what?"

You wince, your knees locking while his sharp words cut through you like a knife.

“Don’t— don’t kill them,” you sputter, breaths uneven and stance unsteady.

Entertained, he loosens his grip on Lippmann’s neck, and a sense of hope washes over your entire being at the action. It’s not nearly enough to keep him alive, but the chances of you doing something — anything — to help keep them alive and breathing were still there.

“Why?”

Your hands go cold yet again and you feel that familiar twist in your stomach make a knot. One excuse runs after the other in your head in a pathetic attempt to conjure up a justification good enough for him to let your friends go and to leave all of you alone, yet you know well enough that for a man only concerned with his kill, much the same as a predator ready to pounce on prey, no reason nor rebuttal will be adequate enough to make sense for him. It won’t matter at all. If anything, you find that you are approaching the situation blindly; you have absolutely no idea what you are doing, only that you are doing it simply because you have to and you are left without a choice if you want your friends to see the next day.

Swallowing hard, you release a shaky exhale of your breath. “I just… I don’t want them to die. It’s not something they deserve.”

He hums.

“Mm. And do you think that matters?”

Your heart nearly stops beating, but you continue anyway. “It… it should, because it does.”

“Hm.”

The relief you feel is incomparable to anything else in the world when he drops Lippmann’s weak body to the ground. It’s harsh, and you can’t do anything but stand there if you want to keep yourself breathing, but it’s a step forward in the direction you want the situation to progress in.

“...How interesting,” he murmurs under his breath, approaching you. With every footstep, you shrink further into yourself, afraid of the things he’s capable of doing to you. “Both your reasoning and your eyes.”

…What?

Now confused, you open your mouth to ask him what he means by that. It makes no sense, but perhaps it’s his way of returning the response you had given him only moments prior. He seems half-amused and half-bored, but an incomprehensible emotion lingers in his gaze the longer you two stare into each other’s souls, searching for something—

…But what are you searching for, anyway?

“I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish,” he speaks, taking a step back. “I’ve spent far too much time here than I’ve intended.”

And before you know it, he is gone.

“(Y/N)!”

The shrill voice of a young boy pulls you out of your thoughts and you turn around to find none other than Chuuya run up to you, his feet clumsy and in a rush as he treads down the hospital’s hallway. Behind him, Adam follows, his footsteps wide yet perfectly measured as always, and he quickly manages to catch up to Chuuya with ease.

For a good while, the russet-haired mafioso is stunned, looking at you with an expression that can only be described as relief. His eyes were sunken, dark circles accentuating his brown hues, and his skin was deathly pale — both a result of his anxieties and stresses for the past week or so.

“You… you’re okay,” he breathes out, reaching out to check. “You’re not hurt or anything, are you?”

Immediately, you shake your head no, placing your hands on his shoulders with a small smile. “I’m alright, Chuuya. He left me unharmed. Didn’t even lay a finger on me.”

He sighs and smiles at you, reaching up to squeeze your hands in his own while you turn your gaze over to Adam.

“Are you two alright? Did anything happen while we weren’t with you?”

Adam nods, briefing you on the situation on their end quickly. “That’s very kind of you to ask, Mx. (Y/N). Quite a lot occurred in your absence.”

Verlaine had apparently come to fetch Chuuya dressed in his mailman attire while you were busy calling for help for the Flags. You didn’t understand most of what happened with his ability during the fiasco that transpired, only that it must have caused him a great deal of pain when Verlaine had opened up his Gate before Dazai had come in to salvage him using his anti-skill ability.

Yet even amidst his own suffering, his first thought was of his friends.

“Are the others alright?” Chuuya places your hands down gently, still squeezing them, hoping for a good answer. “Piano Man, Lippmann, Iceman, Doc, Albatross — are they…?”

You give him another reassuring smile, squeezing his hands back.

“They’re alive.” The breath he’d been holding released itself at your words. “Not… not particularly in the best condition, but they’re alive.” You gesture towards the door to the emergency room, entering with both Chuuya and Adam, and inside you find your beloved friends.

All of them seemed to be in critical condition. Piano Man had multiple bandages wrapped around his body, particularly around his neck where he’d been strangled by his own wires; Iceman seemed stable enough, and he almost looked as if he were only asleep, but the IV bags full of blood and the lack of color on his face were enough to say that he was still in a severe state; the same could be said for Albatross, who, although was in a rather wonky sleeping position, had multiple dressings and blood bags used to aid his rather serious condition; Doc was decorated in plaster casts and splints in order to realign most of his broken bones and immobilize his movements for healing, though surgery could definitely be seen in the long run—

And Lippmann, the only one you caught barely conscious at the time of your unexpected encounter with Verlaine, was now fully unconscious, bandages wrapped around his throat, dressed in a hospital gown instead of his typical suit and crombie coat.

“I… Your boss — Dr. Mori — said they should fully heal in a few months or so. Their injuries were indeed life-threatening, but nothing that your organization’s doctors couldn’t handle.” You take a deep breath and place a hand on Chuuya’s head, stroking it affectionately. “They’ll be okay. Promise.”

“...That’s all I needed to hear,” he responds, and you can almost hear his voice tremble when he speaks.

You only nod, turning your full body to face both Adam and Chuuya.

“I should get going now… I’ve been here all day and I do need to run errands back at home,” you explain. “The nurses told me to tell you to feel free to stay as long as you need.” A glance at your friends tells both the android and the gravity manipulator all they need to know. “They’ll need as much support as they can get, after all.”

Chuuya reaches up to squeeze your shoulder as he nods. “Right, take care, (Y/N).”

Again, you nod, but before you’re able to take your leave—

“Oh, and one more thing—”

You blink.

“What is it?”

He pauses for a good moment, running the words through his head first before saying them aloud. “Stay away from Verlaine at all costs. I don’t know the full details of what happened, and he may have been lenient with you considering you were in the same situation as the rest of ‘em—” he gestures to the Flags, “—but there’s no telling whether or not he’ll be merciful with you the next time anything happens.”

His lips press themselves into a thin line as he looks down, avoiding your gaze.

“I nearly lost all of you only around a week ago… I can’t afford to let something like that happen again.”

You don’t say anything in return, but the nod of your head is enough to tell him that you’ve acknowledged his simple request — to avoid Verlaine at all costs.

(That chance encounter you had with him earlier was only the first of many to come.)

Soon after, you find yourself back at your apartment; it’s a small, humble place with just enough living space for yourself. There isn’t much to it other than the essentials and a few decorations you find enhances your home, but it’s cozy enough for yourself. There’s nothing extravagant nor overtly special about it, but there’s no need for it to be — it’s comfortably lived in, snugly shaped to fit its sole inhabitant’s needs, carrying with it a certain intimacy meant to cater to you and you alone.

Per usual, you go about your nightly routine, something you had perfected over time to soothe you after a particularly long and stressful day. The monotonous practice of taking a bath and changing into your pajamas before eating a warm meal seems to pacify any feelings of worry and stress you’d been holding onto earlier, and not long after, you are in the comfort of your own bedroom, the balcony left open to allow the gentle night breeze to caress your skin.

The thought of the events that occurred three weeks ago haunt you, however, and a single question lingers in your mind:

Why did he spare me?

It bothered you, and it had been almost a week.

(You don’t know it yet, but he’s found himself quite preoccupied with the thought of you.)

Almost a week since you met death face-to-face; almost a week since you stood in front of him as life itself; almost a week since you had spoken words that should not have made sense, yet mattered enough when it came to saving the Flags’ lives; and almost a week since Verlaine had gazed upon you, not as something of a nuisance, but as something to be considered.

Every so often within the small time frame between what happened and the now, you find yourself wondering how things would have ended had he decided to put you in the same condition as the rest of the Flags. He spared you, after all; there was a look in his eye that was unreadable during the life-saving conversation you had with him — something that could only be described as… fascination? Interest? Captivation?

You were never the strong type, neither did you wield a special ability that even made you worth considering in the eyes of an assassin like him. There was no power in your veins, nor did you have anything he wanted when it came to his issue involving Chuuya. In fact, you had absolutely no business standing there when it all happened, yet you chose to remain anyway, both because you had a moral obligation to your friends and because of fear.

Paul Verlaine is a bearer of destruction, after all — someone more than capable of bringing wreckage and ruin everywhere he goes. That natural talent of his does not rage through him in the same manner as a devastating storm, however, and it instead is as eerie and as still as its eye. He is chaos within the serenity that houses demolition, embellished by a deception of peace, similar to that of the false clarity the clearness of the sky brings in the middle of such a calamity.

"How interesting. Both your reasoning and your eyes."

If anything, his potential fascination in you scared you more than it should. And with him still being on the loose…

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

There was no telling what he would do next.

You sigh, trying to brush your thoughts off, dismissing them as you smoothen out your nightwear in the small, cozy space you called your own.

Only this time, you are not alone.

The moment you turn to the mirror in the room, your heart plummets to your stomach.

Paul Verlaine.

Immediately, you turn to face him, but your step backward creates a stutter in the rhythm of your heartbeat as he follows, taking a step forth, mimicking your movement.

You didn’t even so much as hear him. His movements were so quiet and precise that it completely slipped your mind how easily he was able to enter your home without making the slightest indication that he was there.

“…If you have any plans to kill me, please—“ you gulp, the air around you suddenly tasting so thick and unbearable, “just… just make it quick and painless. I won’t ask for anything more.”

But he says nothing in response to your request.

It irks you at first, the stress pulsing through your veins the longer he stares at you. Your heart is screaming, eating at itself alive because of how agonizing the fear of being right in front of him is becoming, yet he makes no move to snap your neck or crush your bones—

And instead, he reaches a gloved hand up to your face.

You can’t feel the warmth that radiates from his skin. His gloves hide the dirt and blood that stain his entire being, and that barrier is something he’d rather keep when touching you — you, who knows nothing of the anguish he grew up experiencing; you, whose only worries of every day life are your schedules and mundane tasks; you, who are clueless to the kind of bloodshed and violence only he is capable of drawing out from his own palms. His fingers grace your cheek so gingerly, and had you braved yourself enough to look at his hand, you would have caught a glimpse of him trembling, almost as if he were afraid, feeling unworthy of tracing the softest patterns on your skin.

He knows he doesn’t deserve a moment with you like this, that even God himself above would frown in disapproval at the sight of an inhuman being indulging in the presence of someone like you. But God almighty be damned, because that same divinity abandoned him the moment his existence was manifested in that laboratory, leaving his entire existence to spiral down to hell, and the last thing he wanted now was to let such a cruel deity take away what little innocence he had left to keep — the small piece of heaven, of innocence he seems to have found in another person that is you.

He doesn’t speak, and neither do you move, your breaths shallow and quivering, halting entirely when he takes your chin in his hand, thumb brushing along the seam of your lips so tenderly.

Paul Verlaine is a man of violence and a man who knows nothing but war, both of internal conflict and between people, and yet you, without a sliver of knowledge about anything beyond the boundaries of your own comfort, somehow manage to tame that beast of a man every single time you come into his view.

(Unbeknownst to you, however.)

“…What are you doing?”

You choke on a whimper, trying to keep your terror at bay while he stares, holding you. You are afraid, deathly so — with a swift movement of your hand, he could easily twist your head to the side more than it is capable of taking, and your life would be over in seconds.

But he never takes the chance, no.

The longer you look up at him, the more you notice the way his eyes begin to grow so soft — they glisten in the light of the moon with the kind of fondness you would only be able to see from an artist drawn to his muse, a knight during a rendezvous with his noble sweetheart, a poet obsessively writing sonnets for his beloved.

That dollop of fondness for you only continued to swell in the weeks following your first encounter.

(He simply couldn’t get you out of his head.)

His lips press themselves into a thin line before he speaks.

“Do yourself a favor—“ for me, “—and stay out of trouble for now, alright?”

The voice that exits his lips is far more gentle now, hushed and almost affectionate. It’s a stark contrast to the way he’d threatened you and the Flags earlier in the Old World bar.

Slowly, he lets go of your cheek, taking a few steps back toward the balcony.

“Wait,” you surprise yourself, reaching a hand out to him, and he pauses in his tracks, his attention solely on you. “Will I see you again?”

(A part of you still want answers, after all.)

“...That depends,” he answers. “Will you let me?”

Taken aback by his question, you are unable to answer, and so he continues.

“I’ll see you again soon.”

There was no underlying threat behind his voice. Just a promise made certain.

And before you can ask about anything else, he is gone.

Not a moment during the few milliseconds that you blink is wasted — only the swishing of your cotton curtains with the gust of a breeze is visible before you, and before you know it, the King of Assassins has taken his leave as quickly and as quietly he had arrived.

This wouldn’t be the first instance in which you’d meet with him.

“…Psst— Earth to (Y/N)? Hello?”

The fog in your head immediately clears at the sound of Albatross’ voice.

“Huh?”

“What were you daydreamin’ about?” he asks, a cheeky grin decorating his face. “You’ve been pretty out of it lately, what, with the way you look and all—“

Bump!

“Ow!”

A quiet sigh escapes from Iceman’s lips as he takes the cigarette away from his mouth, having elbowed the blond a little too harshly. “Knock it off.” He seems to have sensed your current state of confusion, not about what Albatross said, but of the events that have occurred lately in your life.

(Not a single one of them knows about the fact that you’ve secretly been seeing the King of Assassins behind their backs.)

“I was just mentioning it out of concern, honest!” Albatross whines, rubbing his side.

You chuckle and ruffle his hair affectionately. “It’s alright, ‘Tross. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” This time, it’s Lippmann who asks. “You seem like you’ve been in your own head a lot as of late.”

Shaking your head, you smile.

“I’m fine, really.”

The evening hums with the typical clinking of glasses, alcohol buzzing through your veins as your friends fill the pool hall with their usual chatter. It had already been three months or so since the incident, and they seemed to be recovering quite well. Save for their major injuries, they seem to be back to normal, with Piano Man and Doc sharing a few drinks and Iceman and Albatross playing another round of billiards. Next to you is Lippmann, swirling around his whiskey in his glass before he turns to you with a small smile gracing his perfect lips.

“Hey,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand softly. “Walk with me for a moment? You look like you could use some fresh air.”

“...Okay.”

Not another word was shared between the both of you as you excuse yourselves from the rest of the group to exit the Old World bar, making your way to the entrance before walking down the streets with him. Shared laughter and stories echo throughout the quiet night, the streetlamps above you both casting shadows along the tranquil residential areas, stretching the peaceful atmosphere between you both. And after a while of talking to one another, which, admittedly helped calm your nerves a little from all the unease you’d been feeling lately—

“(Y/N)...?”

“Yeah?”

He chuckles to himself rather awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. “This is really awkward… I mean, I had this whole thing planned out, and, well…” Lippmann faces you with a small smile — something so genuine that it couldn’t be mistaken for anything else. “I’d like to ask if you’d be willing to go out with me sometime…?”

…Oh.

Oh.

So now everything about the way he approached you made sense.

It was so obvious in the way he talked to you, so much more gentle in his words and mannerisms as opposed to when he was interacting with the rest of the Flags; obvious in the way he always offered to give you a ride home just to see you off safely; obvious in the way his gaze would direct itself to you first before anyone else in the group whenever he told stories or made jokes; obvious in the way he always took the seat next to yours, the way he would order the same drink as your own, how he never failed to smile whenever you did—

“Lippmann…” you begin slowly, “I… I’m sorry.”

That itself is enough to tell him everything he needed to know.

There’s nothing about him worthy of rejection — everything about him is perfect. But human feelings simply didn’t work that way, and reciprocation is always a gamble.

Ever the actor, he only smiles back at you. You can’t tell just how much he’s hiding behind it.

“It’s alright,” he says with a small nod. “Don’t be sorry. I’m just glad I finally have that out of my system.”

You smile back, bittersweet. “I hope this doesn’t change anything between us.”

He shakes his head and waves his hand, dismissing the thought immediately. “It won’t, I assure you. Though, I must ask… is there already someone?”

You find yourself a little taken aback by his question.

(Does the King of Assassins count?)

And then you shake your head no.

“...I see.”

An awkward silence befalls the both of you before he gestures to the way you both came from.

“Let’s head back, shall we?”

The rest of the night goes on as it usually would, and the weight of Lippmann’s confession from earlier doesn’t seem to lie heavy on either of you. If anything, he takes it better than most men would take it, and remains the same respectful friend toward you as the hours of darkness outside deepen.

You’re more than grateful to have a friend like him. You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Your time together eventually ends, and before you know it, the cool air of the night brushes against your skin while you’re stepping away from the bar, bidding your friends farewell with a wave, letting your glance linger a little longer on Lippmann after what happened. They had insisted on walking you back home to your apartment, only for you to kindly turn them down, knowing that their tipsy selves would very likely argue over something trivial on the way back (not that you would have minded, though — any banter they had with one another was always light-hearted and never serious).

Now, with only the quiet rhythm of your footsteps, you allow yourself to get lost in your own thoughts once more.

The confession plays over and over again in your head. You grimace at the memory of it, silently wishing to yourself to never have to go through anything like that ever again.

It wasn’t that you didn’t care much for Lippmann at all. In fact, it was precisely because you care that you turned him down. You didn’t feel anything for him beyond the friendship you enjoyed with him, and there were never any romantic undertones or hints to the gestures and words you had directed at him. There was no use in forcing anything either — you didn’t want to hurt one of your dear friends, and the sting aches, not of regret but of knowing that he definitely deserved better than being rejected on what was supposed to be a happy Friday night for all of you. Lippmann deserves something real for someone as flawless as him, after all, and you didn’t want to selfishly take him for yourself without being able to give him that.

(You have no idea of it at the moment, and a life spent with Lippmann sounds pleasant to the ear, but the tug on your heart was being pulled by another already, even if not strong yet.)

Not long after, you are in your apartment again—

…only to find that a familiar blond is sitting on your couch.

And it isn’t the blond that had just confessed to you earlier that night.

“You’re back,” you state simply, your shoulders a little more relaxed now compared to when he first arrived on the railings of your balcony.

His footsteps were deadly silent entering your home, his general presence even quieter, and he sits with the grace and confidence of a polished killer even while he's only reading, but you no longer shake in his presence.

You’ve begun to look forward to his visits for some reason.

You don’t really understand why, but you choose not to at the same time.

“I am,” he responds, his eyes never leaving the small book of poetry in his hands.

Cautiously, you circle around him, trying to put some distance between you both before heading over to your kitchen to make yourself a cup of tea.

(How strange; you are making two.)

Your mind wanders yet again.

It’s officially been three months since the incident occurred, and here the King of Assassins was, lounging around in your living room as if he, too, lived in your space, visiting you almost every night for your company. The Flags had survived, and though you find yourself thankful for whatever miracle took place during the time of their supposed massacre, you still feel a sense of unease around the man in your room knowing that both you and your friends are supposed to be dead. After all, Paul Verlaine meant to erase you and the Flags from existence with the experience of a killer, cold and efficient, who never knew hesitation.

His words ring in your head again and again:

"I’m feeling merciful today, and so I’ll leave them alive, as you wish."

(Unbeknownst to you, that had been the first time he’d ever hesitated.)

Verlaine sits on your couch with his ankle atop his knee, cheek resting on his fist with his elbow supporting the weight on the arm of the couch. His eyes rove over the words in the book — your poetry book, one of the few that you keep on the coffee table — as you continue preparing some drinks for yourselves. If such a situation were under different circumstances in a different setting, the sight of it may have even been domestic, the room warm and bathed in the soft glow of your night lamps, garnished by the scent of fresh linen and the steam coming from brewing tea, and the atmosphere quiet with only the gentle breeze and the occasional chirps of the crickets outside to make for some late night ambience.

It doesn’t take long before your refreshments are ready, and your cold hands grasp one of the mugs tightly to try and soothe yourself for a moment.

And then he speaks up.

“You look well,” he muses aloud, and the observation somehow sends something of a cold shiver up your spine.

You hum, taking both mugs, trying to steady your hold as you place one in front of him and sit next to him on the couch, albeit putting some distance between you two.

“I could say the same about you.”

He hums, taking the mug and blowing on the steaming liquid for a moment before taking the first sip, savoring the calming taste and scent of your brewed chamomile.

The air between you two remains thin, and for a long time, not a single word is uttered between you both. For some reason, the silence helps your nerves ease up a little more before you gather the courage to speak.

“...Adam told me a little more about you.”

“Did he now?” There’s a slight edge to his voice that you choose to ignore. “What did the android tell you?”

Your lips press themselves into a thin line before you answer. “I… Well, he told me quite a bit about your targets — particularly the one back in the U.K.”

“Hm?” He raises a brow. “Ah, the one involving the queen?”

He’d said it so casually, too. There was an incident not too long ago at the coronation chamber in one of England’s cathedrals involving the assassination of three highly skilled and trained imperial guards, all of whom had their bones crushed and died of severe internal injuries shortly after. Like the documents you had read from before, there was no struggle seen from the victims — only that they were dealt with quickly. Not too long after came the assassination of the queen’s body double followed her ceremony, the event of the murder as swiftly as the manner in which the crown was placed on her head.

To think that both the British royal family and the Order of the Clocktower were both known to be impenetrable forces, and yet someone like him managed to sneak in and even kill people; it was befitting of his title as the King of Assassins.

You nod in response. “Yes, that one.”

“Don’t think much of it,” he coos at you, almost lullaby-like in tone. “That has nothing to do with you.”

Again, it goes quiet. And again, had the events from three months ago never occurred, you would have found your current situation with the assassin quite domestic.

“You haven’t asked me why yet.”

His words break the silence between you both.

You blink at him.

“Huh? Asked you what?”

“Why I didn’t take the chance,” Verlaine clarifies. “Why I let you live.”

Rendered speechless at him asking you why you have yet to ask him of what happened back then, you stare at your tea, slowly growing colder by the minute.

“...I figured somewhere down the line that I shouldn’t question good luck.”

He nods, placing the book of poetry down on the table.

“I see.”

After taking another sip of your drink, you set the mug down on the table and place your hands on your lap before looking up at him. If you’d been paying attention earlier, you would have been able to catch the slightest hint of a smirk playing on his lips, disappearing as fast as it had first etched itself onto his face.

Your curiosity gnaws at you the more you bite back at it to hold yourself from asking any more than necessary.

“...If I asked you now, would you still answer?”

Yet your curiosity, as always, remains stubborn in its endeavor.

He chuckles — the sound is melodic, but his timbre is empty. For a faint second, you find yourself captivated by his short-lived laugh, appropriate to his handsome face. Then, he turns to face you with a much gentler version of that expression he first looked at you with. If he was considering your existence during the first meeting, now he was leaning into appreciating it a little more.

Not to your knowledge, however.

“Sweet thing,” he murmurs into his mug, drinking his tea before setting it down. “Does it really matter now? Would you rather I have made quick work of you and your friends?”

“I’d at least like to know the reason behind why you spared me entirely.”

Verlaine tilts his head, resting his arm on top of the couch’s headrest. “Curious little one, aren’t you?”

You gulp and look down, unsure of how to respond.

“I… well… I just want to know, is all.” You fiddle with the hem of your shirt, feeling small under his gaze. “And to answer both your questions: no and no, but I would rather try to understand. You keep coming back here, and I’ve eventually welcomed you into my home for the past few months of your returns. I just want to put a reason behind your actions to put myself at peace.”

That, you think, and I want to get to know you beyond your name on newspapers and wanted lists.

His brows furrow. “Don’t you think your friends would be upset if they knew about how you’re willingly trying to come closer to me?”

“Then why do you visit me every night?”

Suddenly, he is rendered silent. What answer does he have to a question he’s never thought of entertaining?

Truthfully, it was because of the innocent look your expression had that day that he lost all will to commit the massacre then and there. How interesting it was to him, both your reasoning and your eyes, able to cease an act of violence completely.

“...Would you like me to stop?”

The conversation is in circles — no questions are answered, only rebuttals are offered.

Thus, you decide to end that.

“...No,” you whisper, a little timidly now. “I must admit, I’ve learned to expect your presence every night when I come back home. It almost feels empty without you in it… Like I’ve learned to look forward to your visits.”

His heart stutters at your words. What?

“Are you hearing yourself right now?” he scoffs, looking down at you despite you never returning his gaze.

Slowly, you reach your hand out to his own, taking his gloved one in yours. His gloves are a pristine hue of white, not a stain or a single inkling of discoloration present, and your fingers brush over his covered knuckles so gingerly, much the same way his fingers had brushed themselves along your cheek the night he first met you by your bedroom balcony. It’s a tender, almost intimate gesture coming from you — the kind of gentleness he never thought he was deserving of nor something he’d be able to experience from a human being.

“...You’re not afraid,” he mutters.

“Not as much as I was when I first met you.”

Little by little, your palm meets his, and the size difference between your hands nearly makes him want to squeeze yours. It’s softer, far more delicate, and much more innocent compared to his own. How ironic that the hand that has taken the lives of many, waged destruction and ruin across multiple organizations and different people, is now so tenderly pressed against yours.

And with a bold move, you slot your fingers between his longer ones, your palm fully fitted to his.

His breath hitches in his throat at your actions.

For a moment, he considers doing the same, and you can see the way his fingers twitch, knuckles bending ever so slightly in order to mirror your movements—

Then he stops.

And he pulls his hand away.

No. He can’t let this continue. An inhuman being cannot find something as human as love in another person.

Paul Verlaine is a murderer, after all — a monster whose only purpose to serve in life is to take and take. Inside him brews a storm that he realizes is far too tumultuous for anyone to subdue, and such an innocent soul as yourself is deserving of something worthy of your fondness and endearment, of your love. After all, no matter how much he yearns for a sense of humanity, he will never receive it, and a beast such as himself will never be deserving of a beauty such as you.

He has nothing to his name — no friendships or family held any value to him because he had none; the only names he had learned to familiarize himself with belonged to the lives he had taken, and even then, they were only for the briefest periods of time, used as information to make the kill; his hands were tainted in blood due to his life as an assassin; and he knew, deep down he knew of no one who would be willing to share their love with him in the same way others — human beings — would receive it.

Someone— rather something made to kill is not worthy of your attention, much less your affections.

He knows he’ll never be able to measure up to the other blond you call your friend. Fate was cruel enough to allow their paths to align, even if violently by his own hand, because in him, he saw the reflection of someone he could never be for you.

“Paul…?” you call, and goodness, it’s the first time he’s ever heard his name on your tongue. You call him so sweetly, it almost makes him forget about the way his name would be uttered with malice and spite by the vast majority of people he’s come across in his life.

“Paul,” you call again, a little more worried now that he isn’t as responsive as he usually is. “What’s wrong?”

He stays silent for a good moment before answering.

“It seems I’ve made quite the grave mistake.” He chuckles bitterly. “It isn’t a good idea for us to continue.”

You retract your hand, hesitant to ask, but you do so anyway. “What do you mean…?”

“(Y/N),” he breathes out your name, speaking it in an almost hazy manner, “you shouldn’t keep letting me in like this.”

A frown makes its way to your features. “Why is that?”

Abruptly, he stands.

“You wouldn’t understand.” You nearly wince at how sharp his tone had become once more. “You… a human being like you shouldn’t keep having to entertain a non-human like myself.”

Panic begins to pool in your chest, the weight of his words lingering heavily in the air. “What are you talking about?” And then you freeze. “Is… is this about that again…?”

That.

He’d opened up to you only recently about his origins — where he came from, how he came to be, what he was made for — and you came to accept him wholeheartedly still. To you, his past didn’t matter. Never did, never will. You’ve become aware of his internal struggles, of coming to terms with accepting that he was fundamentally not like everyone else around him, that even if he was created to be strong and physically perfect, he would still forever be incompetent and hollow inside, a mere shell housing no soul.

A bringer of war he was born, and a bringer of war he will always be. And a bringer of war had no business trying to earn your love.

“Paul,” you begin slowly, taking his hand in yours and squeezing it tightly. “You know I don’t care for any of that—”

His voice comes out as an aggravated hiss and he glares at you — something he’s never done before, not even during your first meeting when he had every intent (rather, almost every intent) to kill you.

"Don’t."

Your shoulders drop and the expression on your face nearly weakens his resolve.

“...Paul?” you call one last time, shakier now. God, the things he’d do to keep hearing you say his name like that, but he’s well-aware of the fact that his name does not deserve to have a place on your tongue. “Paul, wait, don’t go.”

Yet before you are able to stop him, he leaves the same way he had first entered your abode all those months ago — through the bedroom balcony.

You aren’t sure if he’s ever going to come back, and there is a painful stab to your chest as you realize that.

That ache in your heart never fully goes away, even months after Paul’s disappearance. It dulls itself every now and then, usually quieting down into a throb, but the pain of him leaving you ironically never leaves.

Your home isn’t the same anymore after he’s vanished — you’d become so used to his presence that your space now feels much closer to being the apartment it was when you’d first moved in: empty and somber. Every night, not to the knowledge of the Flags, you’d take a stroll around Yokohama in a desperate attempt to search for him despite being well-aware of the fact that both your friends and the man you’d been having secret rendezvous with have become sworn enemies over half a year ago due to the incident that occurred.

It hurts, the constant “what-if”s plaguing your mind and having been left in the dark by Paul, whom you’d grown so unusually close to in the times you’d spent together.

“(Y/N)?” This time, it’s Iceman’s voice that breaks you out of your own head. “Are you alright?”

You remain quiet for a while, mulling over your own thoughts until—

“Maybe they just had too many drinks tonight— ow!”

Cue Doc poking Albatross’ side with the needle of his medical syringe.

“I’m alright,” you murmur before deciding to change the topic. “You’re always asking about me, though… How about all of you? How have you guys been? Y’know, since…”

There is no mention of what you are referencing, but they all know.

“The boss said our injuries have already long since healed,” Lippmann answers with a smile. “Everything’s been alright on our end, but…”

“But…?”

Piano Man shares a glance with everyone else, then looks at you. The air in the bar becomes heavier than usual, and even with the soft hum of jazz music in the background, the tension only gets thicker by the second.

“...We were planning to start looking for him. For our sake and everyone else’s safety.”

“Him?”

“Paul Verlaine.” An uncomfortable silence befalls your group. “If we don’t start looking for him now, he might just come back for us.”

You don’t even realize you’re gripping the glass in your hand tight until the condensation slips between your fingers. You’ll admit that in over the half-year that passed since you’d first had your secret meetings with Paul, you eventually came to forget the fact that he and your friends had bad blood going on with each other.

The plan was to keep it a secret for as long as possible, after all. It was a selfish, selfish wish, but you couldn’t help it—

Not when you’d also found yourself falling for him in the shared, and especially intimate times you’d spent together.

“...Maybe we should just leave him alone,” you respond, trying to keep it as casual as possible. “He did spare our lives, after all.”

Albatross cackles, pausing mid-sip. "You serious, (Y/N)? Leave him alone?"

“He let us live,” you argue, but your attempt to not sound as defensive slowly begins to falter under your temper, built up from the lack of Paul’s presence over the past few months that followed since his disappearance from your life. “He hasn’t done anything to any of since, including Chuuya. Maybe he’s left us alone. That’s already more than what everyone else got.”

“You think that means we’re still safe?” Doc retorts, standing up from where he was initially seated.

No. No, it didn’t mean all of you were safe, but you — you were confident that you were. It was all because Paul had always come back to you. Time and time again, night after night, before the next day would rise, he would always come back to you. Not them. You.

A slow exhale leaves your lips and you sigh. “I just don’t think chasing after him would be a good idea.”

Maybe, just maybe, if he came back, you could convince him to—

“What are you saying, (Y/N)?” Piano Man frowns, clearly in disapproval of what you are suggesting.

“I’m saying we shouldn’t have to go after him considering what happened to all of you. He let us go, didn’t he?” you finally argue, pushing your glass away from yourself.

Lippmann holds your shoulder in an attempt to calm you down, but the same frown on Piano Man’s face is mirrored in his own expression. “That doesn’t sound like you, (Y/N). Where is this coming from?”

You shrug your shoulders, mainly to shove his hand off with how unnecessarily irritated you were becoming, but also to force the nonchalance you were fighting so hard to keep. “I don’t know.” You pause. “Listen, I care about all of you, alright? But I’m also tired of going after the things that shouldn’t concern us anymore—”

"Shouldn’t concern us?" Piano Man scoffs, the look on his face now darkening. “(Y/N), he tried to kill us—”

“But he didn’t, did he?”

The tension between all of you swells into something so thick that, for the first few moments, nobody in the room dares to make a move.

Lippmann, however, is the first to cut it.

“You’re acting like you know something we don’t.”

You stiffen before standing up from your seat and leaving a few bills on the table for the drinks you had earlier. “...I just don’t want to start a fight we have almost no chances of winning right now. Neither do I want you to gamble away your lives for a single person.” There is a pause in your statement before you continue, sincerity lacing your words this time. “I can’t handle being like this anymore — having to chase after a life lived so… so dangerously.”

And just like that, as the night wears on, you begin to feel the unbearable crack in the trust you’d always shared with them.

They’d understand someday, you hope to yourself. Perhaps not now, but when things have settled down and when you are ready.

(It’s the last time you’ll ever see them again. For now, at least.)

“...I didn’t think you would return.”

Your voice cracks as you speak, and tears blur your vision as you race towards him. There was no silence held between the both of you, no moment of reflection before you rushed into his arms. Instinctively, he holds himself out for you and lets you crash into him, your face nuzzling the crook of his neck, your body relishing in his warmth as he wraps himself around you for a tight embrace. In the process, he takes off his hat, his eyes shutting closed as he nuzzles his nose into the crown of your head.

“Shh, shh…” he whispers, hushing and cooing at you softly to soothe your sobs. “I’m here.”

Not once in his life had he ever felt this wanted before. He had always known he was replaceable, maybe not easily so, but he was, and yet here you were, crying like a child who had lost and found their precious stuffed toy because you had no idea whether or not he would come back to you.

“I thought… I thought you weren’t—” you hiccup, pulling your head away as you look up at him, the moonlight accentuating the gloss of your eyes.

Ever so tenderly, he holds your face in his hands, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before pressing a kiss to the bridge of your nose — the both of you are well-aware that the action comes off as unexpected and completely new, but it isn’t unwelcome, and it comes as it is so naturally that it doesn’t feel unusual. So, he carries on, pressing kisses all over your face, murmuring whispers of sweet nothing in the process while peppering you in his affections.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into your forehead, pressing one last kiss there, letting his lips linger a little longer. “I’m sorry… I was wrong to run from it all — from you. It’ll never happen again, I promise.”

“...I don’t think my heart would be able to take it if it does.”

His own heart aches at your response.

And when you finally, finally lean up to kiss him, his brain goes haywire, unable to process anything. Your soft palms cup his face so lovingly and your lips feel so mellow against his own, he finds his vision going hazy and his heart thumping quicker than he’s ever remembered it to be capable of.

(The last time his heart beat this quickly was when he made his first kill — even then, he no longer remembers anything of it, except that whatever this is he is experiencing with you is far more pleasant.)

He’s stiff at first, even when you move your lips to guide him, one of your hands leading his own to hold you, allowing and giving him the freedom to react as he pleases. He could take the opportunity to crush your ribs at an instant, make things quick for you by letting you enjoy the moment as you do whatever you desire to distract you, but he can’t bring himself to, not when he wants to enjoy it with you, too.

(And certainly not when he wants to keep you all to himself.)

When you pull apart for a brief moment to allow yourselves to catch your breaths, your fingers slip beneath the fabric of his gloved hand—

“What are you doing?” he hisses, pulling back slightly when he senses you trying to take them off.

He doesn’t mean for it to come off that way, but really, you don’t deserve to have his tainted hands touch you — not without at least a layer of a barrier between his skin and your own.

“Huh?” You blink. “What’s wrong…?”

The question sounds so innocent, and he nearly melts on the spot when it is accompanied by the curious tilt of your head. He can’t find it in himself to tell you.

So, when he doesn’t answer, you continue with languid movements, slipping his gloves off of his hands, setting them aside on the bedside table. His hands are warm and oh-so soft — you would think that an assassin like him would have hands as calloused as the bark of a tree from the amount of lives he’s taken, but his ability gave him the title of a king for a reason, and for that same reason, his hands remain as pristine as they are.

“…Here.”

And when you bring his palm up to your neck, he’s done for. You’re far too trusting, letting a man like him hold you this way, in such a vulnerable position, but goodness, he can’t help the way his breath stutters at the sight when he sees you look up at him as if you were offering him your own life.

Hell, if you really were, he was going to take it.

And you let him.

Not a moment is wasted when he leans down to press his lips to your own, a breathy sigh coupled with a heady moan escaping his lips as he savors the feel of your skin beneath his touch during the kiss. Astonishment is present on your expression for just a brief second before you melt into him with the sweetest whine, your arms finding purchase on his broad shoulders, wrapping themselves around his neck while he pushes himself against you because it’s not enough for him — he finds himself wanting more.

“Paul,” you mewl, his fingers slowly trailing up your cheeks. He doesn’t let up — he is far too consumed by a hunger that can only be satiated by you.

Slowly, your knees buckle. His stronger arms wrap themselves around you to keep you upright while your hands grasp onto the soft locks of his hair, and in the process, you find your bodies pressed together so intimately that he can’t help but growl at the feeling because you’re just so damn soft compared to himself.

And then you stumble, the back of your knees hitting the edge of your bed, but he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t dare pull away, slowly guiding you to sit down and urging you to move back on the mattress, giving him the space to crawl and take his place on top, and oh, letting his hand dwarf your own when he holds one of them in his hair, your grip tight and needy, bringing him down over and over again to meet his lips with yours.

When you whimper, lips swollen and pursed as you gaze at him with glossy eyes, glazed over with a sheen of the same kind of yearning he has for you, he nearly snaps.

It takes everything in him to be gentle — to hold back in fear of hurting you because you tempt him so.

“It’s okay,” you coo, his hands trembling as they hold you.

He can only sigh and bury his nose into the side of your neck, nuzzling you there with the softest kiss. “You were supposed to be afraid of me.”

You stifle a giggle, sitting up to cup his face in your hands again.

“How can I be,” your tone is as soft as the sheets beneath you, “when you hold me with the kind of gentleness I’ve yet to see from another man?”

Something in his chest clenches at your words. The way you talk about him so endearingly, almost lovestruck and in a daze (and you are), has him dizzy with the most amorous haze. You speak of him as if he were the most deserving being of your love when he himself knows that every single moment he has with you is out of his own selfish desire to have you all to himself.

You think he deserves it anyway. The same can be said for you as well, after all.

He holds your hands in his own, kissing your knuckles fondly before you intertwine your fingers with his. The atmosphere becomes a little more playful when you try to flip your position, your gesture affectionate and skittish.

But he’s stronger — and he uses that strength of his to grab you by your waist, positioning himself beneath you, sitting against the headboard while he settles you onto his lap, your legs parted to accommodate his thighs. Sensing your hesitation, he grunts and brings you down onto him, and you stiffen at the sensation for a moment when he presses his hand against the small of your back.

To have the King of Assassins himself be the very throne you sit upon was quite the statement on its own.

He wastes no time and effort, capturing your lips in his own again with the kind of greed you’ve never experienced before, him gripping your hips to keep you in place, and—

“Paul—!” you whimper, and his hands rough as they guide you to roll yourself against him, the heat of his body radiating to match your own. He sighs yet again, his kisses fervent as he grinds you on his lap, the world around him fading away as the haze of the moment begins to sit and linger, dizzying him.

The air around you grows hot and heavy, and you make an attempt to put some space between you both, only for that same attempt to be refuted, shot down quicker than you are able to proceed with the act.

“Don’t you dare,” he groans with a guttural undertone — a warning to keep you still. Immediately, his voice pushes you deep into compliance, rendering you malleable and submissive. You’ve gone too far into your shared bliss with him to even consider moving away from such an intimate position, and upon realizing such, his need to fan the fire teasing both him and yourself dwindles down into something so much more gentle. “Please…” A breathy sigh follows, and he finds himself embracing you close to press your chest against his own.

And when your hands move up to grip his hair once more, supporting yourself as he moves beneath you so desperately, rutting up against you like he’s been starved of human touch for the longest time (and he has), the world around you two burns away. Flames lap at the pit of your stomach when his right hand moves beneath your pajamas, pressing his warm palm against the soft area of your belly, right where that oh-so delicious feeling is licking at your insides as you both give in to the friction.

How ironic that his hands, made solely to kill, were now so gingerly holding you like this, embracing, squeezing and fondling every part of you like a man having his final night with his beloved.

(You both know this won’t be your last.)

Your toes curl and you wrap your thighs around his waist, encouraging him to go further by rocking your hips in tandem with his own as a response, lips caught in an eager lock. One of your hands finds its way down the expanse of his chest, and the other follows. The heat has become too much for you to bear — you want his tie out of the way (you convince yourself and say that he needs to breathe a little more, after all), maybe pop open a few buttons (the atmosphere has become too difficult to soak in with so many layers in the way), slide his waistcoat off (perhaps his belt as well)—

But he stops you.

He holds your wandering hand in his own, looking down at you with his face so close to yours, your breaths mingling.

His expression says enough — he isn’t worthy of this, of having you.

Yet you think he deserving, and that is all that matters.

So, you decide to take it slow instead. Languid kisses with whispers of the sweetest nothings in between, pulling his ribbon out of his hair and undoing his braid to allow his pale blonde waves to cascade down his back and shoulders. It’s an intimate gesture; you undo him so lovingly, and in turn, he allows himself to be undone for you.

His lips continue to chase yours, desperate, barely letting you breathe when you pull away every other moment for some air, but he holds onto you like he’s afraid you’ll leave. You don’t say anything about it — you only indulge in his desperation, soothing that turmoil boiling inside him that he himself cannot tame.

He doesn’t understand anything, doesn’t understand the kind of yearning he feels to have you in the most primal way possible, but he gives in anyway. For all the struggles he’s had with his own humanity, you sharing your own with him is something he will gladly take and take so as long as you are always willing to give.

(He thinks he has learned to love you. Has he really?)

And slowly, almost agonizingly so, he guides you onto your back, propping your head onto the softest pillow there is, gently leading your thighs to wrap around his waist as he continues to roll his hips against yours. You can’t help the little whines he swallows, his hair tickling your nose when he trails his kisses down to your chin, then your throat, nipping at your skin before nuzzling at your chest so affectionately, almost as if he were asking for your permission. His arousal is present — you can feel his longing and ache as much as you feel your own, and you allow him to take control, giving him the freedom to yield to perhaps the most vulnerable, most humane way to express himself right now.

Paul Verlaine was never a stranger to bedding anyone, and whenever he did, it was always first and foremost to take something for his gain — an exchange of information, important valuables for a mission, a person’s life. His body was a tool, and such a tool, as he was taught, was always useful in his line of work as an assassin, a pretender of pleasure and promises, but a harbinger of death and destruction.

You, however… you were the exception.

With you, he simply wanted to give.

And if he were to take (like he is now), it would only be because you’d be the first to give.

Either way, both would be solely for the self-centered reason that he wanted you for you – not for any sort of intel, not to take your life, God no, but because he simply wanted you.

Wordlessly, you say yes, pressing a kiss to his scalp.

When his mouth goes lower and lower, removing each article of clothing from you so delicately, casting them aside and onto the floor, he nuzzles at your abdomen next, pressing another heated kiss right below your navel.

“If you’ll let me have you…” he breathes, looking up at you with the faint glow of the moon illuminating the beautiful brown hues of his eyes. “May I…?”

You say nothing, not wanting to ruin the moment. Instead, give your answer by raising your hips, and his fingers immediately tug at the waistband of your bottoms to tug it down, starved and eager. He kisses the damp patch on the only piece of clothing left to cover whatever modesty you have left, whispering an amorous “thank you”, and before you know it, his arm is draped over your stomach, keeping you down, and your grip on his hair is tight. He keeps your lower half pinned to the bed coupled with an obnoxious slurp every now and then, rasping declarations of his affections towards you right there between your legs, his hair a mess as you thrash your feet around and his mouth glossed in your essence—

Only for him to use his ability to keep you down.

“Shh,” he murmurs between your legs, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right where your slick spills just to taste you, “there you go, there you go…”

A short-lived cry of his name comes messily from your lips as you clutch onto his soft hair, head digging into the pillows from being thrown back while you squirm (or, at least try to). “I— I can’t—“

“Mon cœur, stay,” he begs yet again, his voice simmering into the softest growl; he found more pleasure in devouring you, after all — to have your taste on his tongue is something only he is so fortunate to have. “I'll never leave again, I promise; I’d sooner stop the beating of my own heart than have the heart in front of me move away.”

Somehow, you have a feeling that there’s more to his words than he means, that he isn’t just speaking from the place between your legs, but from the very depths of the darkest parts of his soul — a place where no one else would be capable of reaching but you.

He feels (and is) inhuman enough as is. To have his heart be ripped from his grasp would make him cease to find reason in continuing to exist. After all, what purpose would there be for a man like him, born without a soul, if his heart were to be taken from his hands?

(Born without a soul… and yet, with the way he kisses you so fervently and worships each curve of your body, he has done nothing but convince you otherwise.)

In response, you can only whine and whimper, grabbing onto his locks tight, earning a quiet moan from his lips as he continues to enjoy himself, loving on you in every way he can.

The rest of the hours that follow are hours full of bliss — one movement blurs into the next and the sounds you both make are shameless, breaths mingling and voices calling out for each other. All you can recall clearly are the moments in which your legs wrap around him tight, his fingers intertwining with your own as he presses you deep into the sheets, and the shared, delicious warmth that blooms into the fiery pits of your stomach after.

Even then, he doesn’t stop. He pants your name into your ear like it’s the only thing he can say, and he says it so fondly and so lovingly, it could almost be mistaken for a prayer.

At this point, heaven may as well know your name.

When he finishes, his tongue lathering itself along your most sensitive parts, he gives you one last feverish kiss right where he’d finished his meal before claiming his position atop you once more. Paul nudges at your throat with his nose, sighing shakily as you hold him and slowly undo the belt keeping his pants up, deft fingers ginger with their movements, a reflection of the way you feel for the man above you.

“...Run away with me.”

You blink and tilt your head as he lifts his own to meet your confused gaze.

“Paul…”

“Won’t you run away with me?” he asks, his voice dwindling into a passionate whisper as his lips meet yours for the briefest moment, short but tender. “We can live together, you and I, off to somewhere kinder… perhaps in a small place of our own in the French countryside where no one else can bother us, where you’ll be free to do as you please. Our lives could have another fresh start and you won’t have to worry about the rest of the world anymore — not while I’m here.” He pauses, brushing his knuckles along the soft apple of your cheek. “I’ll protect you and take care of you… I swear…”

Having his entire existence founded upon being born essentially as a laboratory experiment, the only purpose he knew of growing up was for anything other than himself — to be an assassin, a killer, a rabid dog, a weapon of war, and to never experience the kind of autonomy that every other human being was born with, all because he was created with 2,383 lines of code, and not a soul (still, you are not convinced, not with the way he makes love to you that very same night). That being said, for once, Paul Verlaine decides that he’s had enough. He will continue to exist as he knows, for the sake of anything other than himself as he believes it to be, but this time around, it will be because he has learned to love you, and he will live with the purpose of dedicating himself to you wholly.

(He will soon come to accept his autonomy because of you.)

You don’t give him any words in response, simply pulling him down by the collar with the sweetest moan, gripping his hair as your breaths mingle together and your bodies bridge themselves together in the most humane way you both know how. He has his answer.

Paul Verlaine loves you so.

He knows he’ll wage war and conflict with him wherever he goes — born of violence, rooted in hatred, and alive by spite. But all of that changes every single time your lips part to whisper the softest phrases in his ear or when your fingers hold his face like he’s the most delicate being in the world, because amidst the heaviness of all that innate hostility he carries, there is you, and he doesn’t know it yet, but you’ll always be there to soothe him and bring him the tranquility he’s been craving his whole life.

You make him feel more than what he was created to be, and he allows himself to linger in your humanity which you share with him no matter how many times he tries to reject it. He’ll feel undeserving, incompatible, yet he’ll melt into it anyway, utterly and stupidly smitten by you.

A bringer of war he may be, but that long-held burden dissipates in your presence because you never fail to bring his restless mind and heavy heart a sense of peace.

a/n: i imagine verlaine would want to be with someone who exudes warmth in any way possible, but also a part of me thinks that he’d lean towards being a protector of sorts (given his character in stormbringer), so that desire borders on wanting someone who exhibits some kind of innocence or naiveté — someone who can ground him when he’s too far off into his own head every now and then (can you guys tell how much i love verlaine yet?) but yeah, this was a very experimental work for me with a lot of firsts, so i’m a bit nervous as to how this one will be received (though it’s def my favorite one i’ve written so far!)

anyway, again, happy birthday, paul! 🥳 i hope all of you enjoyed reading this one shot as much as i enjoyed writing it!

[arc852]

Laundry Day

Summary: It's laundry day for the bad boys and Jimmy decides he wants to help out. Grian and Joel think this is a great opportunity for a little teasing.

Word Count: 1631

AO3 Link

Please enjoy this short but very sweet and fluffy fic!

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 “Ugh, laundry day.” Joel said in disgust as he placed his hamper full of clean clothes on his bed. “Literally the worst part about being in college.”

 Grian looked over from where he was setting down his own hamper, raising a brow at him with a faint smirk. “Are you saying your mom did all your laundry for you?” He said with a slight laugh.

 Joel’s face grew red. “No! Obviously I’m not that bad.” He glared and Grian as Grian only continued to laugh at how offended Joel had gotten. “I meant how we have to go all the way across the blummin’ building in order to wash our clothes. It’s such a hassle.”

 Jimmy looked between the two humans as he swung his feet, sitting on Joel’s nightstand as usual. He, personally, had been to the laundry room in the dorm building a handful of times before, in order to get some fabric. But he had soon realized all the good stuff was only there when there were a lot of humans around and Jimmy hadn’t wanted to take the risk. Still though, he had been there enough times to know what they were talking about.

 “It is a really long way.” Jimmy spoke up, gaining his humans’ attention. “Even cutting through the walls, it probably takes me…an hour? Maybe a little bit more?” It had been a while since he took a trip over that way. Well, and a while since he’s been in the walls in general. But he was pretty sure that’s how long it took him last time.

 “An hour?!” Joel looked at Jimmy with wide eyes. “Geez, it only takes us 5, maybe 10 minutes to head over there.”

 Grian had also been shocked but his shock soon fell away to more laughter. “See Joel, it could be a lot worse.”

 “Yeah, yeah.” Joel muttered, turning back to his clothes and taking one shirt off the top of the pile and starting to fold it. Jimmy watched him do so with rapt attention. This was not the first laundry day he was with his humans for, but he still found himself interested in the giant yet familiar motions. And they were familiar to him now, after watching them do laundry every other week for the last few months, to the point where he could probably help fold the clothes as well.

 And that’s what he was thinking about.

 “Can I help?” Jimmy asked and both humans paused and turned toward him once more. Joel raised an eyebrow at him and looked back and forth between him and the clothes he was folding.

 “Uh…I don’t know if-”

 “Sure.” Grian said, cutting Joel off as he crossed the room. Joel sent him a confused look. Jimmy was way too small to be able to help properly and they both knew that. But at Grian’s mischievous smirk, Joel started to understand what he was getting at. Joel felt his own smirk start to form at the thought of some harmless teasing of their borrower friend.

 Now on the same page, Grian reached down and scooped Jimmy up before bringing him to his own bed. Joel paused in his own task to follow them and watch what was about to happen. Jimmy slipped off Grian’s hand and onto the bed, next to the large pile of clean clothes. The very few folded ones that Grian had already done were in their own, neater, pile on the other side of the bed.

 “Alright, here you go.” Grian said as he grabbed a random shirt of his from the pile and laid it out for Jimmy on the bed. 

 Jimmy sized it up, circling it a bit to try and figure out where to start. Obviously the shirt was far bigger than he was but it was just a simple t-shirt. Surely he could pick up and drag and move the sections he needed to at the very least, right?

 He went to the end of the sleeve and grabbed the edge. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, before lifting and pulling at the sleeve. It was a bit difficult, but sure enough, Jimmy was able to drag it along, albeit a bit slower than he would have liked. As he dragged the fabric from one end to the other, he was very aware of Grian and Joel watching him. He glanced in their direction and felt some pride swell up in him when he noticed they actually looked impressed.

 After a couple of minutes, Jimmy made his way to the other end of the shirt, putting the sleeve on top of the other one. The shirt was now halfway folded but Jimmy was already feeling accomplished.

 “Where did that strength come from?” Grian teased. Jimmy rolled his eyes and decided to ignore the comment as he went to the top of Grian’s shirt to finish folding it.

 However, now that it was folded one way, the fabric bulk was now doubled and it was a lot harder for Jimmy to lift and drag. He gripped the edge, narrowing his eyes at the shirt as he thought about how to solve this. He decided on picking up as much of the edge as he could, backing away further and then lifting up and pulling back with all his might.

 He managed to gain enough momentum that the shirt started to come up. Unfortunately, Jimmy had no control over it past that point and it came back down, right on top of him. He let out a little yelp as he was forced down from the weight. “Darn it!” Jimmy exclaimed, though it came out muffled due to the fabric. He pressed his hand against the shirt and kicked at it but it wouldn’t budge.

 “Need some help there?” He heard Joel ask, barely able to conceal the fact that he was trying hard not to laugh. Jimmy huffed.

 “Yes, please.” Jimmy said as he managed to scoot out enough to poke his head out. Though just as soon as he had done so, he saw Grian with a large bundle of clothes in his hand, holding it up and over him. Jimmy’s eyes widened. “Wait-!”

 But it was too late, with a large grin from Grian, he released the clothes and it fell right on top of Jimmy. “Hey!” Jimmy said, his voice even more muffled now that there were multiple layers of clothes. Despite that though, he definitely heard Grian and Joel break out into laughter.

 Jimmy grumbled to himself though he really should have expected something like this. Knowing Grian and Joel weren’t going to do anything at the moment, their laughter still ringing out loudly, Jimmy tried his best to move through the folds of cloth and find a way out. He managed to start moving, but he could no longer tell which way was up or down and moving against the thick fabrics was starting to take a toll on him.

 “Guys, seriously!” Jimmy whined and he finally heard the laughter start to die down.

 “Alright, alright. Sit still, you’re just going to get yourself even more stuck.” Grian said and then Jimmy felt the clothes start to shift. Jimmy stopped and waited and after only a few moments, Grian’s fingers were parting away the clothes within his sights. The fingers carefully came over to him and grazed his legs before pausing, pulling back slightly. They carefully went back down though a second later, grazing over his body again. The large fingers going up from his legs to his side before they curled around him in a gentle grip and pulled him out.

 Jimmy blinked as he was brought back into the light, glaring up at Grian and Joel as soon as he oriented himself. Grian kept him in a fist for a moment longer before opening up his hand and letting him slide onto his open palm. Grian was still grinning that same stupid grin Jimmy saw before having all the clothes dropped on him, completely ignoring Jimmy’s glare.

 “You guys are the worst.” Jimmy said, as deadpan as he could.

 “We know.” Grian said, amused, bringing down a finger to ruffle Jimmy’s hair with. Jimmy swatted at Grian’s finger, trying to fix his hair as soon as Grian let up.

 “So, did you still want to help?” Joel asked, leaning in closer with an equally stupid smirk on his face.

 Jimmy huffed and turned away from both humans, crossing his arms at the same time. “No, you can do your laundry without my help.”

 “Aw come on, don’t be like that.” Joel said, quickly scooping Jimmy up from his spot on Grian’s hand and immediately poking at him with his free hand. “You actually did pretty good in the beginning. Maybe you can stick with folding socks.” Joel said with a slight laugh.

 “Nope! You lost your chance.” Jimmy said, trying to push away Joel’s finger. Unfortunately, Joel wasn’t letting up, still prodding his side with a smile.

 “You’re not actually upset though, right?” Grian asked, his tone was still light but Jimmy could feel the seriousness behind his words.

 Jimmy sighed but let a small smile fall onto his lips. “No, I’m not.” Jimmy admitted. He would have played the part of being annoyed longer but it seemed like Grian had needed the reassurance.

 Grian let out a small sigh of relief before his grin widened once again. He reached over and also poked Jimmy in the side. “Good, then maybe you could try again! I’m sure this time you’ll get it.”

 Jimmy knew all too well that if he tried again that the same exact thing would take place. So he sent a smile Grian’s way and laughed. “Not a chance.”

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Emotions (Sadness)

Sadness can manifest differently in different people. Here are some notes on writing sad characters in your stories/poetry.

Sadness: Other Words to Use

HIGH grieved, crushed, gloomy, hopeless, heartbroken, devastated, despairing, distraught, heavy hearted, miserable MODERATE dejected, dismayed, hurt, hurting, disillusioned, downcast, forlorn, glum, cheerless, melancholy LOW down, disappointed, blue, discouraged, low, somber, sorry, unhappy

Sadness: Some Phrases to Use

A wave of sadness

Irremediable sorrow (impossible to cure/put right)

A sob rose in my throat

A pining melancholy

A plaintive cry (mournful)

A great pang gripped his heart

Her eyes were prickling with tears

Aching with sympathy

His eyes misted over

There were tracks of tears on her face

Her face contorted as though she was struggling not to cry

Sadness flitted across her face

Shaking with grief

His voice cracks, thick with grief

A lump formed in her throat

Sadness: Show, Don't Tell

Eyebrows may be lower and pulled closer together

The inner corners of the eyebrows may be angled up

The corners of the mouth may be drawn downwards

The lips may be either drawn in tightly or pouting outwards

Crying: A Sign of Sadness

Tears may first pool in the eyes before they streak down a person’s cheeks.

Tears distort vision, so if you’re writing in the first person, don’t forget that your character’s vision will be blurry.

Crying usually isn’t a pretty sight, so don’t be afraid to show that the character’s face is red or that their nose is running.

Sadness: Other Notes & Tips

There are many different ways that sadness can be felt and expressed depending on the intensity of the emotion, and there are many different things that can trigger a sad response in a character.

When a character is truly heartbroken, their expression may change to be more numb: their mouth may hang open loosely, their eyes may remain closed, and the rest of their body may become limp and heavy.

Complexity also means that sadness is often experienced in tandem with another emotion, such as anger, happiness, or disgust.

Show your reader the sad (a) behaviours, (b) facial expressions, (c) actions, (d) speech and (e) inner thoughts of your character.

The arts, humanities, give us the space and freedom and consolation to share our sadness.

Sadness can be one of the best things to happen to us, because it shows we still feel and want to strive for a better life.

We usually associate rain with sadness BUT Bad weather is better than good weather at sustaining people’s attention and maintaining productivity, according to a study by Jooa Julia Lee of Harvard University, Francesca Gino of Harvard Business School, and Bradley R. Staats of the University of North Carolina. In a study of Japanese bank workers whose windows gave them a view of the weather, a 1-inch increase in daily rainfall was related to a 1.3% decrease in worker completion time for data-entry tasks. When the weather is bad, workers are less distracted by thoughts of outdoor activities.

Tap into your own emotionality. It’s important to remember that emotion is inside of you—you just need to access it and put it on the page. In fiction writing, you might achieve this by doing some writing exercises or prompts that help you tap into your own emotions and then translating those feelings to your characters’ emotional states. Or, you might find yourself getting deep into your characters’ heads and using their backstories to connect to your characters’ emotions.

Know the difference between sentimentality and truth. To successfully write an essay or novel with weight or substance, you have to understand the difference between sentimentality and truth. Sentimentality is manipulative and unsurprising. It’s the easy words that have always been used to signify certain emotions without actually moving someone into feeling them. Oscar Wilde said, “A sentimentalist is simply one who desires to have the luxury of emotion without paying for it.” In a similar vein, James Joyce said, “Sentimentality is unearned emotion.” The sadness can’t be forced or formulaic, but it’s important to always look for a way to move people, to add meaning, with more than laughter. You provoke tears or deep emotion when you open a genuine window into who you are or who someone else is. Sadness has to be authentic, so you need to maintain that authenticity in your framing of the emotional moment. Resist the impulse to overplay it. It’s not a soap opera; if your subject is experiencing real pain, they’re doing all of the work for you.

Leave room to be surprised by specific detail. That is how you will create natural emotion, which will resonate with your readers, especially if you show and don’t tell. Often something small can trigger reader emotions better than big, dramatic events or descriptions, especially if they’re already familiar with your characters’ backstories.

Pair strong emotions with ordinary ones. When working with heightened emotion, think of ways to pair it with an ordinary, everyday moment. This can help emotional writing sound less melodramatic and make intense feelings stand out.

Use backstories to add weight. If you show your character’s history, that can help build up to an emotional reaction to minor-seeming actions, language, or even body language. Foreshadowing a sad event with a backstory can make the climax feel more intense.

Use sad moments to further character development. Remember as you’re writing that your characters are on a journey. You are rendering only a small slice of that journey on the page. Nonetheless, your characters will need to grow and change. Difficult emotional experiences can shape your characters, so make sure intense emotional scenes fit into the whole story in a way that feels authentic to your characters and plot.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 ⚜ More: Writing Notes & References

If these writing notes helped with your poem/story, please tag me. Or leave a link in the replies. I'd love to read them!

[dulcecherub]

Daggers

Fratboy! Rafe x Sofia

Warnings: toxic!rafe ish, he briefly fights someone in this

Authors note:This was inspired by my conversations with @lostsyren, about frat boy Rafe and Sofia. And if we had Sofia in the earlier seasons instead. Also not proofread!

Taglist: @araybiaaa

I hate the way that he treats you (hate the way that he treats you)/Too dumb to know what he's got (too dumb to know what he's got)

Rafe’s jaw clenched, the baggy of coke still in his hand. He watched as Sofia leaned against some Pogue boy. Watched as he whispered into her ear; Sofia giggling as she pulled away.

Rafe wanted to hit something. Preferably that Pogue next to his girl.

He wouldn’t have said it out loud. Not to her. Not any of his Kook “friends.” But deep down, he believed it.

“Yo Sof!” Rafe practically yells, Sofia eyes widen, spotting him as he nears. The Pogue boy looks almost laid back, like he could care less about Rafe.

“She’s busy.” The Pogue boy says. His arm wrapping around Sofia’s shoulder.

“Busy my ass.” Rafe mutters himself. He comes near, yanking Sofia away from the Pogue boy. “How about you leave now.”

The other boy nonchalance changes, his nose flares. “No.”

Rafe lets out a humorless laugh, Sofia eyes go from the back to Rafe then towards the boy. Rafe scowled, not liking the attention he now was sharing.

“Come on, Sof. Let’s go.” Rafe doesn’t wait to see if she follows. He knows she will.

“You’re such a dick! Why can’t you—”

Rafe turns, staring at her. He feels almost like Orpheus bringing Eurydice back to the mortal world. He’s read one chapter on it in college and already he feels like that describes them. That page of his textbook looks the most worn.

“Why can’t I what? Leave you alone? Not a chance.” He doesn’t care if he’s being selfish.

“And I’m asking you too. Danny—”

“Danny?” Rafe looks almost disgusted, that idiot Danny. Trying to get his girl.

“Yes, Danny. He’s actually sweet to me. Cares about—”

Rafe scoffs cuts Sofias words off, a pinge of hurt runs up his spine. But he won’t utter the words. Won’t tell her how much it hurt to see her with other guys.

He’d been watching her, walking around campus with him. It left a sour taste in his mouth. No one was worthy of Sofia. He knew not even him. But it hurt so bad how much he wanted her. How badly he wanted to hold her in his arms.

“Don’t be dumb. I care about you too.” His nose scrunched up, almost as if he’s disgusted he’s said the words out loud.

“Did you just call me dumb?!” Sofias eyes widen with anger.

“Not like that. God.” Rafe eyes squeezes shut, his hands squeezing the coke. He hates how it instantly relieves him of his anger.

“So we’re back to that huh?”

He’s confused at first before realizing the baggy is out in the open. He shoves it into his pocket, but she’d already seen. Fuck.

“It’s just this one time, okay. One time.”

It’s her turn to scoff.

“You’re unbelievable.” She moves away from him, almost like it burnt to be near him.

“Sofia—”

She just scowls, walking back to Danny.

“Don’t.” He grabs her arm, holding her to him. “Don’t go back to him. I can’t. I can’t handle it.”

Sofia eyes meets his, her eyes briefly widen. Surprised by the intensity in them. Surprised he’d stopped her. Usually he’ll give a dry laugh before walking away from her. But not tonight.

She yanks herself free from him, her eyes narrowing.

“Why? Why can’t you handle it hmm?”

“Because… you’re my girl okay. Not his. Not a—”

“Oh spare me, the melodrama.” Sofia eyes turn into slits. “I’m not your girl. You can’t keep doing this.”

“Sof, please—” He extends his hand out to grab her wrist but she moves away before he can circle his fingers around it.

“No! I’m so sick of you. So sick of you using me. You act like you own me Rafe. You don’t actually care. You can say it all you want. But it’s about how the other person feels it. And honestly—” She raises her hand out to gesticulate at him. “I don’t see that here.” She whips around to go back to Danny.

Rafe shakes his head, following behind her. “No, no you have it all wrong.”

“Leave me alone Rafe. I mean it.”

“No, just listen to me.” He grabs her shoulder but she manages once again to swerve him. His jaw sets. “Stop playing around Sof. You’re not going back to that—He points towards Danny like it disgusts him—to that shithead.”

Sofia rolls her eyes, she gives him a smirk. “Watch me.”

Rafe clenches his fists, watching as Sofia approaches Danny. Rafe sees red when their lips meet.

“Oh fuck no.” In quick strides, he yanks Danny by his neck and pushes him to the ground.

“Rafe!” Sofia yelps, trying to yank him off Danny. But it’s too late, Rafe fist meets Danny’s cheek. Danny groans as his head falls back.

“Get off of him! Rafe!”

Rafe yanks Danny by his collar, his eyes intense as he eyes the Pogue boy. “You ever touch her again. I’ll do so much worse. You understand?” Rafe searches Danny’s eyes. “I said do you understand?!”

“Yes! For fuck sake.” Rafe lets Danny go, he turns to Sofia. Who glares at him.

“You’re a fucking prick! I hate your guts!”

“You don’t.” He’s so arrogant and he knows it. But he knows her.

“Fuck you.” She pulls Danny up. But he pushes himself away from her once he’s on his feet.

“Sorry Sofia, you’re not worth the trouble.” As he staggers away. Rubbing his hands on his jeans, cleaning off the dirt that was trying to coat itself there. Sofia scoffs before turning back to Rafe.

“Happy now?” She crosses her arms, shaking her head.

“Delighted actually.”

She shakes her head once more. “You think that was going to impress me? You’re dead wrong.” She begins to stomp away, Rafe follows her. This time just walking beside her, not attempting to grab for her.

“Rafe, stop following me.”

“No.” He gruffly, following her anyway. Sofia continued to stomp away, her arms crossed. This was starting to feel like when Orpheus was bringing Eurydice back from hell. A part of Rafe wondered if Sofia would turn. Showing him how much he truly mattered to her. He almost willed her too.

She didn’t, she continued to walk like he wasn’t even there. He felt the sting of it.

“Sofia, come on.”

Still, nothing. He reached an arm out to turn her. She quickly turned without him needing to.

“You’re such an asshole! You can’t stand to see me happy. Because that would mean I would be completely unavailable to you.” Sofia threw her hands out in anger. Her eyes glaring daggers at him.

“What? You were going to be with a shithead Pogue? Someone who doesn’t know you as well as I do? Come on, Sofia.” Rafe sucked his teeth. “I wasn’t going to let that happen.”

“You’re so selfish.”

“When it comes to you. Yeah.”

Sofia let out an agitated sound. “Oh please! You do that in all aspects of your life Rafe! You, you use people. Treat them like shit. You think you’re above everyone else because of money.” She continued to gesticulate in anger. “It’s always about money!”

“Not with you!”

A silence overtakes them, like tidal wave finally curling up and making itself known.

Sofia breaks it, the wave crashing into the shoreline.

“You don’t get to pick and choose when you finally decide you want me.” Her voice was hoarse, on the edge of breaking. He saw the way her eyes sheened.

“Sofia—” He says softly, now, truly seeing the affect he’s done.

“I love you.” Sofia sucks in a breath, almost like she’d been running and now was winded. She didn’t shake her head this time. Her eyes not softening nor sending him daggers. She just seemed defeated. The opposite effect Rafe wanted.

“Sure, if you believe that.”

Then she walked away, not letting him confess anything more. Rafe stood there, dumbfounded. Had he lost her for good?

[eclipixels]

Bones and All

Kuro!Kaneki x Reader

Summary: You console a man with an insatiable desire to live

[2,390 words]

      Feverish. You can smell his yearning. His breathing slowly becoming unsteady, fingers trembling as they flip pages. Your scent teases a trail beneath his nose and he hopes the deep inhale he takes does not raise your suspicion. His eyes flutter shut, the corners of his lips quirking up and the valley between his brows forming a crease. His neutral expression changes to one of slight pain.

      He is in pain.

      Why? Because the love of his life was sprawled out peacefully beside him on the bed, deeply upset with him. Or as you said earlier, “absoulutely fucking pissed.”

      He wanted you, insatiably. It was maddening. He couldn’t stand it.

      Something has changed in your usually timid boyfriend. You and Hide were there with him at the hospital as soon as you heard what happened. You spent nights sleeping on the uncomfortable chair beside him until he was discharged. Once he got better, you tried to stay with him at his apartment but he shut you out. He avoided you, and whatever his reasons may’ve been—wanting to keep you safe or being too nervous to tell you—it hurt.

      Eventually after a harsh confrontation, he finally explained his encounter with the ghoul Rize and what happened to his body. You were understanding, you reassured him how much you loved him and will always be there for him. But then you found out that some dark blue haired girl knew what happened to him before you? Okay, you admit, it kind of made you mad. You, his girlfriend, the person who you thought he trusted most in the world was not the first to know. In fact, you were the last of many and oh how that hurt.

      Kaneki couldn’t stand it. The feeling of you being mad at him. You’ve never been mad at him before. You were the one person in his life who treated him like a human while everyone else treated him like he was worthless. He was terrified to tell you what he’d become because he was afraid—were you going to stop treating him like a human? Like a person? Maybe it was selfish but he didn’t want to lose that.

      What sick cruel irony. Being treated like less than human his whole life to becoming something more than human. But never treated as just human.

      ‘I’m a person too…” The hurt young boy whispered after his Aunt neglected him, looking at him with eyes of disgust as she saw her little sister in his face.

      ‘I’m a person too.” The same boy said, now a little older as he walked solemnly by himself to school. He was looking forward to seeing his best friend Hideyoshi but also getting to pass by the pretty girl’s house next door to where he used to live with his mom.

      ‘I’m a person too!’ The teen boy yelled, his fists balled with his knuckles turning white as he sobbed at his mother’s grave. He had gone to visit her for the first time in months, carrying the same worn childrens books she used to read to him. His old neigbor from before sat beside him, holding him in her arms as his body trembled with pain it couldn’t place or contain.

      “I’m a person too—” Kaneki tried to reassure himself once again in a desperate plea, but this time he was cut off by soft lips urging him to release all his pent up hurt. Your kiss silenced all his demons.

      “You’re a person, Ken.” You whispered against his lip, allowing him to melt into you. And slowly, he didn’t have to say it anymore to believe it. He started to feel it, to feel how it was to be human. All the things you did for him, you saw him. Your ‘just cause’ gifts, your baked from scratch pastries, your scavenging his favorite books, your constant reassurance; whenever he’d ask you why, you’d tell him it was because he was your person.

      He was someone’s person? He was someone’s person.

      You moved into the apartment next to his when you were a child. You’d greet him and his mom most mornings, her tired sunken eyes crinkling as she gave you a chaste smile that dissolved the second you were no longer in her sight. Trailing behind her was a fragile looking boy with dark hair and gentle silver eyes. He, on the other hand, stared the whole way past you until he stepped inside his home.

      You never talked to each other beyond that. But it felt so empty when he left abruptly one day. You didn’t see him again till middle school when he’d walk past your street everyday. And still, like habit, he stared at you the whole time he walked until he rounded the corner and disappeared.

      One morning, you didn’t know what came over you as you waved your hand, calling out to him. You walked with him, not knowing where he was going as you asked him how he’s been, where he’d gone to, and what book was peeking its corners against the zipper of his backpack. As soon as you seemed interested in the books he was carrying, for the first time in the years you’ve barely known each other, you saw something akin to joy set off in him instead of the usual dreary that coated his body like hardened wax. He began to warm, and the wax began to melt. Inside, a very broken boy revealed himself and started to bare his soul to a girl who held him with love.

      “You still want to be left alone?” He frowned, unable to remain quiet anymore. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. Even earlier when he was trying to read to distract himself, he was looking you through his

      You didn’t say anything. Instead you grimaced, trying your best to not let him see the look on your face. Kaneki was many things and you loved him wholeheartedly but one of your favorite things about him was how well he listened. Too well, because when you told him to leave you alone, he did. How badly he just wanted to scoop you into his arms and feel your skin against his as he peppered your face with pecks. But, he didn’t want to disrespect your wishes.

      “I-I’m sorry.” He gulped, his throat dry and his hands sweaty. Look at him. Just turn and look at him, please. He needed to see your face. He wanted to reach out and smooth the frustration away from your skin. Knead his fingers across your flesh and relieve all the tension you were holding.

      “Do you like her?” You blurted out.

      “What?”

      “Nevermind.” You immediately took back what you said. He didn’t even know what you were talking about, of course he didn’t like her. Right? You were just being emotional and assuming things. But still, it was gnawing at you mercilessly.

      “Who?” he sprang up from his spot a few feet away from you on the bed, getting up so dramatically that he didn’t even bookmark his page. As if he was reading anything in the first place. His mind was occupied with only thoughts of you.

      You turned your head to look at him, tears brimming them as you stared at him. Kaneki could hear his heart shatter at the look on your face. You’ve never looked so defeated.

      “Y/n?” He moved closer towards you. He stood in front of you now, clad in his usual formal attire of slacks and a knit sweater. You didn’t say anything. He crouched until he was at eye level with you.

      He leaned in, silence consuming your ears until he brushed his lips against your cheeks. He trailed them down your neck and behind your ears. You could hear him inhale your scent like it was heaven’s pollen. His fingers ran delicately from your palm, up your arm, and to your neck. Fingertips grazed your scalp deliciously until they tangled themselves somewhere in the middle of your head. Kaneki used his other hand to place it above your thighs, just barely digging into the succulent flesh.

      “There is so much I’m feeling right now, I’ve never been so confused before in my life.” He spoke, his words soft and clean as fresh snow. You looked at him, right into those damn grey eyes. An unpredictable chaotic thunderstorm thrashed in them and with the way he blinked, you could tell he was trying to pilot through these clouds. But you could also see how tired he was, how hard he was trying.

      “But don’t ever doubt my love. How I feel for you is the only thing that is certain, always will be. No matter what happens, I need to know that you understand that.” He tucked a stray strand of hair that covered your beautiful face.

      “Ken.” You said his name. Everytime you said it he swore it was as if an angel was begging him forth. He followed the sound, the sound of an angel calling him and he settled his face inches away from yours. His eyes darted as they searched yours, the whites shrinking as he narrowed his field of vision to only focus on you. His heart was racing, you smelled mouth watering, he could tear his eyes away from your pulse. Kaneki snapped, self restraint tearing as he kissed you, catching your bottom lip between his teeth.

      His eyes closed as he held your jaw softly, deepening the kiss. Your lips synched in movement, his breaths getting shorter, his chest burned and he whimpered against your body. He was stronger than before now, his hands pinning your wrists above your head as he locked you underneath him. His tongue grazed against every bit of your mouth, purposefully tracking down your chin and jaw until he found that spot in your neck. Your carotid pulsed with blood against his tongue, saliva flooding his mouth and dripping all down your neck to your chest.

      Kaneki savored every second. His hands roamed your body sloppily and frantic. It was as if he was touching you for the first time. You felt his mouth open a little more and close around a spot near your collarbone. You threw your head back as he sucked on the spot that drove you over the edge. You knew it was going to leave a bad mark. You wondered if he could suck out your blood this way without even having to break your skin with his teeth. Was he going to?

      Then, you felt his teeth graze your skin. You froze. No, he wouldn’t. Right? You didn’t want to be eaten but at the same time, for some reason, if it was for him, you’d let him. You squeezed your eyes shut, waiting for it. But instead, you felt Kaneki loosen his grip on you and pull away as if he was burnt. Or more acuratetly, scared that he burnt you.

      He knew. Somehow, he knew what you were thinking. Then you saw it. Written all over his face. The reason he was afraid to tell you what he was now. He hated it. He hated how you saw him now. A monster.

      “I wasn’t going to—I’d never do that to you.” He looked like he was in agony. You looked at him and his mind raced as it tried interrupting what you could possibly be thinking. He was terrified he was going to lose the only thing in his shitty life that mattered.

      “Are you…” you broke the silence. “Are you hungry?”

      He looked at you and tears beaded down his face as he smiled, starting to laugh. That’s what you were thinking?

      “I’m so hungry,” He whispered. “So, so hungry.”

      “I can– I know there’s some ethical ways we can find you some–” he cut you off.

      “No, Y/n.” He said. “I’m not hungry like that. Dont see me as one of them. I’m still me.” He frowned again. It was as if he was grasping air trying to make sure you didn’t see him differently.

      “C’mere” You relaxed, ushering him to come back into your arms. He tangled himself into you, pulling you on top so you rested on top of his chest.

      “You can still hear my heartbeat.” He murmured. “I’m still your person.”

      He phrased it as reassurance for you but really, he was asking to see if the statement still held true. He waited for you to say something. He didn’t dare to look down but if he did, he’d see the way you snuggled into him.

      “I’d never eat you.” He said barely above a whisper. You had to know.

      “I know.”

      “Please don’t see me as one of them.”

      You took a deep breath, slightly lifting your head off his chest to see his face. Your hands came up to brush his hair out of his face, sttling on both sides of his face. You squished his cheeks, a smile curling on your lips at the sight.

      “I see you as Ken Kaneki, my darling lover and best friend. I will always see humanity in you.” You kissed his forehead before settling back into his chest, squeezing him tight. His hands settled on your back. He wanted to ask you if you were still mad at him but some things are better left unsaid.

      “Stop it. I know you’re overthinking right now. To think too much is a disease.” You scolded, noticing the way his heart raced and brows furrowed inwards.

      “Notes from Underground.” He chuckled, immediately knowing what you were quoting.

      It was the book he was reading when you approached him that one day. Its rectangular shape perforating his backpack caught your attention. He remembers talking to you about it enthusiastically. It was the first time in his life someone took interest in his hobbies—in him—like that.

      “I love you. All of you.” You emphasized. You knew him. Every aspect of who he was, what he likes, and the ever changing being he was. You kept up with it all and had your love set deep roots within him, warping tight vines around until it encompassed him. It drowned out the negative voices with hushed lullabies of comfort. You loved him to his core, to his bones.

[pippin-katz]

6 More Little Faces Alex Makes That I Love - Part 2

(not ranked in any order)

No. 1:

I love the smile he does right before this, but I also love this. He gets a little emotional. You can see in the way his mouth moves and his nostrils flaring that it looks like he’s a little choked up.

You know when you’re not crying, but you can feel that throbbing sensation in your throat, and you know you might start crying if you’re not careful. You start swallowing a lot to try and keep it back.

That’s what I’m seeing here, and that’s super sweet because he loves Henry so much that he might cry.

No. 2:

Do you think he knows? Do you think he’s doing it on purpose?

That right there is the “lifts eyes” look. That right there is exactly what authors are picturing they write something like this:

Alex looked down at where the key sat against his chest. The cool metal was a stark contrast to Henry’s hand. Goosebumps spread across his skin, centered on where they were touching. Alex raised his eyes to meet Henry’s.

Like sir, can you not be a walking fictional character? You might as well have walked out of the book.

No. 3:

There is no other word for this but swooning. Again, might as well have walked off of a page with how perfect his physicality and expressions are.

No. 4:

This look right after Henry says they’re committed to each other is perfect. He stays neutral enough not to be rude, but you can see it in his eyes and his eyebrows how determined he is.

He’s looking at Philip here as well, who has been giving Alex rude looks since they sat down; his face particularly after he says “god no” to the question of reading the emails is borderline disgusted, and if you watch his eyes, he looks at Alex more than Henry.

Kudos to Philip’s actor for being able to subtly imply his layers of prejudice with as little screen time as he has.

Alex’s responding stare is like he’s challenging him. His eyes say, “if you have a problem with that, you’ll have to fight me over it, because I’d die before I’d let you take him from me.”

It’s obvious from the moment the king starts talking that Alex wants to speak up, but he knows this is Henry’s fight first. He holds himself back for as long as he can and lets Henry do the talking.

At this point, the king has already dismissed Henry’s request for support and right to be happy, so Alex is definitely pissed off, and then Philip is a dick; his patience is running out.

It’s amazing how a tiny change in facial features can speak volumes without saying a word.

No. 5:

This breaks my fucking heart every time I watch it.

His eyes are noticeably red from crying, which I have no idea how he did because he's not actually crying in this scene, so it wasn't from filming it over and over again. Maybe they filmed the Kensington Palace scene prior to this one, on the same day or something, cause he was crying in that one.

Anyway, this expression just kills me, because he's reached the crossroads. He can either keep waiting, not knowing if Henry will ever answer him, or he can go to London to get his answer.

And the idea that Henry may not see him and how that would be it, the true end to their relationship, fucking devastates him.

You can see it in his eyes and the deep breath he takes that he's imagining it. He's playing it out in his head, him going to London and being turned away, and having to go about living his life without Henry in it.

Just the idea of it is enough to break his heart, and it breaks my heart to look at.

No. 6:

I love and hate the way Alex's face slowly falls when Henry says he should leave. Think about this for a second.

They live on separate continents with an ocean in between them. Alex is the First Son, and Henry is a fucking prince. They were texting for months before they got to see each other for New Year's Eve, which was the only reason why Henry was able to go to the States. He's only in the States now for the dinner party being hosted for the Prime Minister. He's flying back to London tomorrow.

They have no idea when they'll see each other again.

Henry has the idea of inviting Alex to the polo match, so he might be a bit optimistic, which is probably why he was still smiling when he pulls away. He's thinking about it, and has been for at least a little bit, probably since after the Red Room encounter earlier that night.

But Alex?

He has no idea how long it will be until the next time they're able to see each other in person again. Henry texted Alex for the first time on August 27th, and they weren't able to see each other in person until New Year's Eve. That is four months.

Since they were just friends during that time, it probably was no big deal, but now? Now they're going to be constantly thinking about each other. Thinking about getting to hold each other again, getting to kiss each other again, getting to do more explicit things again- all of it.

And Alex doesn't know when he'll get to do any of it again once Henry leaves. He even goes to say, "I guess I'll see you-" when he and Henry start talking at the same time.

Henry inviting him to the polo match is a promise of getting to see him next month, so probably a week or two, depending how far into the current month they are. It's probably part of why he smiles so much when Henry leaves. He has something to look forward to.

But in this little moment, Alex probably feels so sad because he knows Henry has to leave, but he really, really doesn't want him to, because he's not just leaving for the night so they don't get caught in Alex's room together. Once he walks out that door, he doesn't get to see him for who knows how long.

Agh, okay, that's all for part 2! I'm not too sure if I can make a part 3, but we'll see!

Update: If you enjoyed this essay & would like to support me, you can give me a tip on my Ko-Fi! ☺️

part 1 | part 3

[overangel]

I've been thinking about this for awhile but what would happen if y/n as rapture was fighting with the batfamily and in the battle one of the guys they were fighting ends up accidentally (or purposely, whatever u want hehe) ripping y/n's suit or melting it with acid causing it to expose her entire body in the middle of their fight?

Would this cause the batboys to get even more pissed and feel even more overprotective cause some thugs and a bitch in some goofy ass outfit saw their beloveds bare body before they even had the opportunity to see her themselves??

-🦇

(Imagine Alfred's face when the family comes back to the Batcave and finds out some worthless bitches caused his baby girl to fight while basically naked and causing her to get more bruises and cuts than usual cuz of her being forced to fight naked and cold😾)

NONNIEEEEE, I’VE HAD THIS IDEA FOR A WHILE BEFORE I EVEN STARTED THE SERIES OMGGGG,

At first, I always thought Starling’s clothes would get ripped to shreds during a daytime fight where several members of the JL would also be (maybe the JL were calling in anyone who could help or she happened to be in Metropolis and she would’ve looked like an ass if she just left Kara and the others to fight crime while she was enjoying a smoothie in her street clothes lol), but having it a more intimate event with just the Batfam present would be better since this is an ask!

Your MIND

ALL OF YOU ARE IN MY HEAD THIS IS ACTUALLY REALLY SCARY

You preferred to work alone and it wasn’t because you were taking a page out of Captain Underpants’s playbook. Deep inside, you already knew before you donned your suit that having partners or being part of a team would be too stressful for you.

If someone else was hurt because you didn’t have their backs it’d definitely gut you, and your way of doing things was so unorthodox that it was best to not be in a position where you had to explain yourself. And look at Batman, for instance. Something about partners and sidekicks always disgusted you.

You kept a solemn pledge that if something went terribly wrong, you’d be the one to take the brunt and that gave you peace during particularly hard missions.

Well…

Another benefit of notoriously flying solo was supposedly not being bothered by certain idiots.

It was supposed to be.

You had been tailing this small group—fledging grunts who wanted to make names for themselves—for a couple of weeks. They were small time but were already gaining local media coverage and they were definitely specialized enough with some skilled fighters and sadistic methods that would probably see them with VIP seating at the Iceberg Lounge in a year if you didn’t get them now.

They made a big splash and you couldn’t let them go.

Artistically elaborate knife assaults where victims were left unrecognizable, and actual acid being splashed into innocent people’s faces garnered immediate attention. Some worried it was a rising hate group, but you weren’t worried. They’d all be dead before ‘Good Morning Gotham’ tomorrow.

You had all of them on the ropes, screaming at each other and dazed as you used one of your techniques “Fade” where you nearly teleported from one place to the next as you faded out of sight. 

You held serrated blades in both hands and waved them about as you appeared behind a gurgling rogue—delirious from some blunt force trauma you inflicted earlier, but somehow still standing—and reached around him to slit his throat. Blood gushed from his neck like a fire hydrant and splashed onto his former allies as they all screamed. 

You didn’t let yourself feel bad about playing with your food. You remember all of the victims' photos and grinned knowing you’d make these crooks look much worse.

And then, the cavalry arrived. 

Damian kicked down the boiler room’s door, the 3 inch thick metal slab popping off its hinges. His eyes found you immediately behind his domino mask. “She’s here!”

‘Son of a—’

Nightwing basically flew into the room and landed behind a rogue to your right. He delivered a clean hit that made their head slam to one side and he smiled at you like it was a pleasant coincidence you both shopped at the same grocery store.

“Evening, Rapture. I hope you don’t mind a little company.”

“So, here’s the thing—” An unfamiliar rogue who you were sure wasn't part of the team you were fighting, was kicked through the open door and Red Robin walked in after and stood atop the metal slab.

“We happened to chase some henchmen down to this exact location just when you were busy with your own guys. Might as well team up.” 

You made a face under your colombina mask and frowned. He doesn’t even try with his lies anymore.

A man cried out as he crashed through the skylight above and fell down on the concrete floor below. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon. You all looked up to see Batman looking down from the skylight with a displeased frown, “Robin, Red Robin, get to work.” You could feel a pointed glare aimed at Dick, “Nightwing, if you’re going to chitchat, you can do it back at Bludhaven.”

Dick’s mouth formed a flat, restrained line and you could feel electricity between the former teacher and pupil.

A gunshot sounded behind you and you all turned to see Red Hood who had just shot a crook in the face. “Good, now that I have your attention,” he lowered his gun away from the crook he hadn’t even bothered to look at to shoot in the face, his body facing you the entire time. “It wasn’t very nice of you to intercept Rapture’s message to me, but I’ll forgive you on account of you all being blueballed every other day. See, I’m being the bigger person here, Rapture.” He turned to you expectantly like he wanted a cookie. Or more like, your cookie.

While you were distracted, a bad guy who’d had enough of being toyed with, ripped out a hidden pouch of acid akin to a water balloon. 

He whipped around towards Damian who was wide open and hurled it at the unsuspecting Robin, “Eat this, you little shit!”

It almost grazed him before you used the Fade walk and slipped from your spot beside Dick to Damian’s side where you shoved him out of the way.

The pouch burst and splattered lesser corrosive acid all over your suit, causing it and your accessories to come apart like wet paper.  “Shh!” you hissed as the acid burned through your clothes and sizzled on your skin. You could feel the thinnest topmost layer burning under the liquid, and would definitely need medical attention soon. 

Damian was stunned by the sudden push and had to catch himself against a boiler. His mouth dropped when he saw you. Like, really saw you. Your pants legs dissolved higher and higher until—he couldn’t look away.

Your top’s sleeves and straps disintegrated before their eyes, and that included your bra as you hurriedly raised your arms to catch your chest. 

You clenched your thighs together as you felt the cloth between your legs dissolve too. 

The boiler room suddenly felt a lot colder.

“Everything was just fine until you showed up!” Fuck it! They all knew what a woman looked like anyways and it’s not like someone you respected (Alfred, Superman, a small few really) was here so you’d just power through. But damn, you had to have at least one arm covering your chest because it hurt moving around without the support.

You swung out and backhanded the nearest criminal to you and slashed his chest before he could drop. You grabbed him by the collar, refusing to let him know peace. “I’ll show you a bit of god, before I send you straight to hell.” You grinned. He stared hard at your chest but couldn’t remark while he choked on his own blood. 

The Rapture herself being rendered naked and perceived as weak somehow incentivized every criminal in the place. You weren’t a nightmare brought to life anymore. You were a woman. Scum like them saw you as prey and suddenly they thought they could hurt you.

You fought hard, not caring who saw and how much of you they did. Unfortunately, fighting with one hand left you open to hits you would’ve avoided any other time, and you were unable to dodge. Your skin was hot and you could hear the top layer sizzling. You couldn’t counter like usual with all 5 senses overwhelmed. 

The slightest graze from another’s clothes felt like your skin was being ripped off, and every punch felt personal. Everything hurt so much but you could never let a bad guy see you sweat.

If the crooks were fighting like they were reenergized, everyone else fought like it was a suicide mission. Batman and everyone joined the fray with a solid understanding that anyone who saw you naked couldn’t be left alive.

Dick was furious! You’d never shown all of yourself to him (willingly) before and it had to be because of some asshole with an edgy water balloon! You fought like he wasn’t there, but you were taking more hits than ever. You fought hard though impaired to his keen eye and he joined the fray. He jumped in front of you and took the crook down in a second. Looking over his shoulder to you, he smiled his charming smile, “I’ve got you, Y/n.”

He’s got you. He’s got your back now. He’ll always have it in the future. And once this is all done, he plans to tend to your wounds personally.

Jason fought like he was born for it. He threw crooks around like ragdolls and ripped bones from sockets with a grip alone. He riddled skulls with bullets and was the personification of the god of war. 

He was frenzied. He was supposed to be the only one. He was the only one you trusted enough to see all of you, IT WAS HIS PRIVILEGE, but some bastard’s accident ruined it all. The special moments you shared weren’t just for him anymore, and he needed to kill every last one of them and if Dick or Tim happened to step in front of one of his bullets, friendly fire happened sometimes. “I knew this bitch—!” Jason grabbed hold of the crook’s lower jaw with one hand and the upper with the other and pulled apart, ripping his jaw off before he could even finish the slur. The man will suffer.

Jason makes his way to you and gently places his leather jacket around your shoulders. It all goes quiet when you’re near each other and he’s careful about aggravating your burns. “I’m here now, Y/n. God, I’m so sorry I was late.” He’d never let this happen again.

Damian fought like a man possessed. He almost let you continue fighting while he was dazed by the sight of you. He was mesmerized by your curves and the flex of your muscles under supple skin and the way you ignored convention to do what needed to be done. However, you were his beloved and you would never need to fight so hard when he was here for you.

He swooped in and quickly dispatched the crooks around you before they could touch a hair on your head. Not even a drop of blood reached you. He turned around to face you and pulled you into his arms. “I’m getting you out of here.”

Tim stood on the sidelines recording it all. He tapped the side of his domino mask and began recording your fighting in 4k for his private records, and he was so focused on you and getting every possible angle of certain places as he could, that he didn’t even notice the crooks fighting around you. “Oh, no…” He calls out with none of the urgency, “Behind you.” You turn around in time and give a high kick to someone’s throat and disabled them immediately. Your leg raised so high gave Tim all he needed as he zoomed in the lenses.

“Perfect.” 

He knew you’d be safe and sound. It’s not like he was only thinking with his little head; he knew the others would protect you and now he’d have more material for his special Y/n files. He was so glad he intercepted your message and location from Jason.

Bruce ignored the code. He fought like justice was at the end of his fists, and a batarang ripping them to shreds was the source to salvation. These strangers, these scum, these wastes of oxygen, dared to see his little girl. None of them wanted to live anymore! He stalked the one who initially threw the acid bomb and grabbed them by the throat.

The color left the crook’s face when their eyes recognized the vigilante before them. He wasn’t getting the Dark Knight who fought crime and let the bad guys get taken away to Arkham or prison afterwards. The crook knew that he wouldn’t be going anywhere from now on.

Damian and Jason had been fighting too hard over who got to carry you and you decided to walk on your own two feet even if that was slower. At least you weren’t getting your wounds tugged at.

“Hi, Mr. Pennyworth.” You tried to smile sweetly but a sharp sting made you wince. Alfred noticed your nakedness under Jason's leather jacket and the burns and abrasions on your skin and dropped the dishtowel he had been holding.

“Are you,” Alfred took a moment to breathe, “Are you all serious?” Alfred had just finished treating you and stood with the five men scattered around the Batcave who didn’t want to meet his gaze. 

“It was my fault.” Damian offered valiantly, but was immediately shot down. “It’s all of your faults! None of you should’ve been there! I saw you steer your own criminals towards her location and mixed them with her own.”

He turned to Tim, “‘Happened to chase some henchmen,’ my entire arse, Master Drake. I saw the cameras and heard everything.”

He dragged all of them! Absolutely raved at them for hours about compromising your dignity, causing you unnecessary bodily and mental harm, and on and on. Once you got Alfred going he really was on the warpath and Bruce wished he hadn’t come back tonight.

You get to enjoy the next few days in peace while you heal and none of the fatal five bother you because they’re too afraid of Alfred.

[thesophistiicate]

hey im 20 year old female. recently i have recognised that i practice negative self talk a lot. any advices how could i stop or atleast reduce it?

how to cure negative self talk 🤍💭

the way we speak to ourselves can majorly impact our self worth and ability to reach our goals. i remember when i first tuned into my inner monologue… i was shocked and disgusted at how horribly i was speaking to myself all day every day. i had no idea! so i began researching how to stop it and implementing as much as i could. it definitely takes a lot of active work but i’m happy to say that years later i currently hardly ever have negative thoughts about myself (or others) anymore, and when i do it’s really easy to catch and deal with.

1. tune into your thoughts

it’s common for negative thoughts to run wild through our minds without us actually even noticing. the first step is to take some time to tune in and really notice what you’re thinking. the best time to do this is in “trigger” moments, like when you’re stressed, facing something challenging, looking at yourself, reflecting on a social interaction etc. how you talk to yourself in these moments will be very revealing.

2. actively reframe negative thoughts

flip any negative thought you have into an opposite, positive thought and/or speak to yourself with compassion and nurture. a common one for me when i was stressed while working and feeling stuck was “ugh i’m so stupid!” i changed it to “i’m smart and capable of solving problems”. it will feel silly at first but the more you do it, the more natural it becomes. with time you won’t have the negative thoughts at all.

3. journalling/writing morning pages

morning pages are from “the artist’s way”, which i recommend everyone read and try at least once in their life. but you write 3 pages of free flowing thoughts first thing in the morning (ideally). no self editing, anything that crosses your mind goes down. this is where a lot of your deep negative thoughts tend to spew out, and this allows you to see them, confront them, and view them as the silly little thoughts they are. your negative thoughts are from shame and fear; you need to express them and get them out. shame thrives in darkness but will shrivel under the light.

4. practice mindfulness and staying present in the moment

so often we spiral into negativity due to overwhelm. guided meditations helped me a lot (you can find them on YouTube, Spotify, insight timer etc). you’re essentially trying to re-wire your automatic brain response so you need to be able to stop running on autopilot and actually tune into what’s happening inside by gaining some control over your thoughts. it’s literally like training a muscle so is difficult at first, but you get better at it the more you do.

5. eliminate distractions and consider a dopamine detox

we numb and distract ourselves in a variety of ways. whether it’s constantly surrounding ourselves with people, scrolling social media, binge watching tv, over-using substances or other indulgences etc… these things are fine in moderation (and actually can be necessary to overall wellbeing, i think being constantly self aware can also drive you crazy and you’re allowed to have a break) but take note of how often you are actually numbing yourself out and promoting disconnection with your mind. you need to be able to face your thoughts.

6. notice how you think about others, too

i’ve mentioned before one of my worst qualities to overcome was the fact i could be very judgemental and arrogant. i actually found this was directly related to my negative self perception - after all, what we think about others is usually actually just a projection of how we feel about ourselves, our insecurities, our fears. so i also made an effort to stop judging others and instead find positives to focus on. this worked so well to overall retrain my mind toward positivity (and also started attracting much more healthy and positive relationships into my life too).

and consider tailored support if necessary

if you struggle with any of the steps on your own, a therapist, counsellor, coach, or other professional may able to be help with more personalised guidance 🤍

[animasola86]

Kinktober: It is that time again.

Notes: Listen! I woke up feeling naughty again this morning and yet I somehow produced a fluffy, wholesome family life lovey dovey omg they are so freaking cute piece, at least for three pages, after that we're going straight to the topic of @kinktober2023: breeding kink.

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!reader

Genre: Fluff/Smut // Words: 8k // [Read on AO3]

Warnings: NSFW! MDNI! Marital sex. Oh and also: breeding kink.

Warning: After you die of diabetes or cute aggression by reading the first part of this, there will be severe filth following. (Though to be fair, I think I've written worse before >_> Still, it's smut: so if you want to keep your innocence, please look away!)

It is that time again, darling.

It is Friday afternoon in the Sallow cottage, and you're sitting on the couch by the fireplace, enjoying a good book – completely ignoring the loud and certainly obnoxious argument your twin boys are having. They do it all the time, so it's nothing new.

They come after their father in so many ways, it's almost scary. From the messy brunet hair that you failed to comb so many times, to the deep brown eyes that can turn your anger into adoration in only a few seconds (they know that fact by now, which is never a good thing) – to the insatiable hunger for knowledge and the equally insatiable desire to always get what they want.

Benjamin and Archie Sallow surely are Sebastian's sons. As they bicker over who gets to play with the toy train first, your gaze wanders to the corner of the room to your quiet daughter.

Little Anne is in her own world, surrounded by various sheets of parchment and paper, her colouring pencils strewn about as she scribbles away, equally ignoring her arguing brothers. You smile softly as you take in her features. She comes after you, has your eyes and unlike her brothers and father not a single freckle on her pale little face, probably because unlike the men of the house, she likes to stay indoors, drawing and reading with her equally sun deprived mother.

Just as you return to your book, the door opens, and the noise of your bickering boys subsides immediately and turns into a wail of joy as the twins jump up and into the arms of their father. You look at Sebastian with wide eyes and an equally wide smile, you haven't expected him home this early.

“I'm home!” he calls, laughing with one son on each arm as he enters the small house.

You stand from the couch and walk towards him, unable to stop the need to kiss him. As you do, your sons issue grunts of displeasure, yet you only laugh and kiss your husband more.

“Did you miss me?” he asks softly, his dark eyes on you as he sets his sons to the ground again.

“I always miss you,” you whisper and wrap your arms around him.

“You know, I'm only on the other side of the lake, right?” he teases and grabs your chin to plant another kiss on your lips – followed by another synchronised noise of disgust from the twins.

He is right, of course. You chose this house in Aranshire so you can always look over the lake to the castle, imagining your husband walking the halls of Hogwarts, teaching kids in Magical Theory, being in his element. He still spends a lot of time there, has his own room in the castle if his work load gets too much, but every Friday to late Sunday he will come home to you and spend as much time with you and your three children as he can.

“I still wish I'd see you more...” you whisper and lean against him, your hand gently grazing the stubble on his cheek.

“You could teach too, you know? You were offered a position, remember?” he says as he guides you back to the couch.

“You know I can't,” you sigh and look around the house. Your boys are back fighting over the train toy and Anne is still so fixated on her drawing, she hasn't even noticed Sebastian's return yet.

“Soon you can,” he whispers and makes you sit on the couch. “The boys will be at Hogwarts and our little princess here –” he starts and sneaks towards the little girl sitting with her back to the room. “– can handle her own. Hey princess, Daddy's back!” he then says as he grabs his daughter under the arms and lifts her up swiftly. She squeals and kicks, then quickly relaxes and throws her tiny arms around his neck as a wide smile comes to her lips.

“Hello Daddy,” she squeaks, and he laughs softly as he hugs her back.

“How's my little girl?” he asks and tilts his head to look at what she has been drawing.

“Don't look!” she says in that sweet, high-pitched voice. “It's a surprise!”

Sebastian chuckles and presses his lips to the top of her head. “Fine, fine, I won't look! Keep your secrets!” he sets her back to the ground and gently ruffles her hair before he lets her go back to her drawing and finally returns to you.

You reach your arms out to him, and he follows suit immediately, settling down next to you on the couch, your arms entangled as he pulls you closer to kiss your forehead. For a moment you just sit together, looking into each other's eyes, the bickering of your boys just another background noise.

“I've been thinking, darling,” he then says, and one of those wicked smirks comes to his handsome face.

“Yes?” you ask carefully and arch an eyebrow.

He barks a laugh and quickly leans closer to kiss your raised eyebrow. “Don't give me that look, I know for a fact that you'll love it,” he then says and winks at you.

“Really?” you wonder and watch how he disentangles your limbs and stands from the couch, returning to the bag he has left at the door.

“Oh yes,” he calls back and rummages through his bag before he walks to the twins, holding something behind his broad back. “Boys,” he says with a mock-stern voice to get their attention. The mini versions of himself look up with big eyes, their fight momentarily paused. “Have you been nice to Mummy and your sister?”

The boys nod eagerly, already knowing what's coming. He always brings them back gifts when he returns on Fridays. They know the drill and yet they are always so excited about it. You smile softly as you watch the scene before you.

“Well, how about you give your Mummy and Daddy a little break and take this outside?” he then says and produces two toy trains in his big palms.

The twins stare at him, and Benjamin, the cheekier one of the two, raises an eyebrow. “Dad, we already have toy trains...” he says and holds up the toy that he has finally snatched from his brother's hand.

Sebastian laughs. “Not these ones. If you push this button, they'll get bigger,” he says and shows them what he means. “But you can only use them outside, do you understand?”

The twins rise to their feet and crane their necks to look at their father. You already dread the day when they would become as tall as Sebastian, but luckily both of them have yet to hit any major growth spurt. He holds the toy closer and looks at them intently.

“Do you understand?” he repeats in a rather stern voice.

They both nod. “Yes, sir,” they say in unison and quickly grab the toys from his palms and run outside.

“Be good! No terrorizing the cats, alright?” he calls after them and then closes the door again, turning towards you now with that wicked smirk. Through the closed door you can hear your sons laugh and giggle as the sound of a train horn fills the square.

“Will they be alright?” you whisper as you stand from the couch and walk towards him.

“Of course, don't worry! Edgar will have an eye on them as usual,” he says with a disarming smile as he grabs your hand and eagerly pulls you along, right towards your bedroom.

You hold him back and take a look towards your daughter, who is focused on her drawings once again. “What about Anne?” you whisper, knowing what your husband is up to.

“She'll be fine, too,” he whispers back, leaning over you to brush his lips against your ear. “She won't hear a thing...”

You blush at the implication. When you look up at him, you can't help but smile back as he watches you with those dark eyes that can make you do anything. Biting your lip, you nod and follow him into your shared bedroom.

As the door closes behind you, you are very glad that he put up all those silencing charms and protection spells and anything else that will keep whatever happens in here out of earshot of your precious children. Because when he grabs your waist and pulls you flush against his body, you know you won't be able to keep your noises to yourself.

He doesn't waste any time and starts to undress you with nimble fingers, quickly unbuttoning your shirt as he leans down to shower your face and neck with light, innocent kisses. You inhale sharply.

“Do you know how old our sons are?” he then asks as he pushes your skirt down your legs.

You are a little confused by his question and frankly, a little too distracted to think at the moment. “They are... ten...” you whisper.

“And how old is our baby girl?”

“Five,” you reply and tilt your head, letting him nibble on your neck as he gets rid of the last of your garments.

“And do you see a pattern there?” he then says and leans back to look at you with a wide smile.

You blink slowly. “Sebastian, what –”

“It is that time again, darling,” he says with a smirk and quickly pushes his mouth to yours, silencing any doubts for the moment. Your hands reach up and cup his face, and when you finally manage to push him off your lips, you stare at him.

“Are you sure about this?”

He laughs. “Yes! Absolutely! It's time for another one, don't you think?”

“But we already live so cramped here...” you start finding arguments, when in reality you don't see any real reason not to indulge in his desire for another child.

“You realize you are a witch and I am a wizard? We'll just add another room, no worries! And I thought you loved the cosy feeling of our tight little space...” he whispers, leaning back down to kiss your cheek.

You breathe a little harder. “Yes, I do...” you whimper as he sinks his teeth playfully into your neck.

“Then I see no problem with me indulging in your tight space,” he says, and his words make you shiver, or maybe it's his fingers slipping between your legs, teasing at your folds.

“Another one, hm?” you whisper breathlessly.

“Or two, who knows?” he laughs and quickly picks you up to carry you to the bed. You frown at his words. “Those twin genes are strong...”

You groan playfully as he sets you down, and you scramble back on the bed, watching him. He is out of his clothes in no time, and when he crawls over you, settling right between your open legs, he gives you a serious look.

“Only if you're ready,” he says quietly, his dark eyes wandering over your face.

You watch him, and despite the emotional blackmail of those damn eyes, you find yourself smiling and already imagining having another baby. You also think about the last times the both of you decided on adding to your little family. The many hours you had spent in bed together come to your mind, and you can only imagine how long it will take this time. The thought alone causes your legs to twitch.

“Yes,” you eventually say and reach your arms out to him. “I am ready,” you whisper, and when he follows your beckoning to lie on top of you and bury his face in the crook of your neck, you add: “Put your seed in me, Sebastian.”

He leans back immediately and stares at you, not having expected these kinds of words from his beautiful, innocent wife. A sly smirk breaks from his lips. And you smirk right back. He must know by now that your sweet face is only a facade. He's corrupted you a long time ago. And even though you spend nearly every weekend in bed together, enjoying the other's body, the prospect of doing the deed with a purpose, makes it even more exciting for you.

“Then we won't need these,” he says with a wider smirk as he leans over you to the night-stand, rummaging through the first drawer where you keep your contraceptive potions. “Instead we might need... this,” he whispers and produces a tiny flask. “It's going to be a long night, love,” he adds and looks at you, before he downs the contents of the potion he rarely uses, but when he does, you know you're in for a treat – that will last (him) a very long time indeed.

You blush deeply and bite your lip, the heat already spreading through your body. When he leans back, gently putting his entire body weight on you as he cups your face with both hands, you see something you see very rarely: a tear in the corner of his eye. You quickly lean up and graze your thumbs over his cheeks. “You make me very happy, you know that?” he says softly, smiling at you.

You smile back and lean up to kiss him gently. “I'm trying my best,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Oh you don't even have to try, darling,” he says and kisses you back so gently you almost forget about what will come next. “You just do, no matter what you do, what you say, how you look, just thinking about my beautiful wife and all the things she has already done for me...” He inhales deeply. “I love you,” he says and presses his lips to your cheek, his eyes boring into yours. “And I will always love you.”

The warmth his words (and the way he looks at you) create in you almost overpowers the heat you feel for him. Grabbing the back of his neck, you pull him down onto your lips and kiss him deeply. “I love you too...” you whisper breathlessly between circling your tongue around his. “I love you so much, Sebastian. And now fill me up already!”

You feel him chuckling against your mouth. “So eager,” he teases and pushes his tongue deeper into your mouth. When he leans back slightly, planting tiny kisses on your lips, cheeks and jaw, his low voice vibrates through your very core. “My naughty, naughty girl...”

You watch him with your head spinning from lack of air, a small smirk playing around your lips as he moves his mouth to your neck. While you play with his hair, he sucks and nibbles on your soft skin, marking you as his own, as if the ring on your finger and the three children somewhere beyond your closed bedroom door weren't enough proof that you were his and his alone. That is the last time you'll think about your beautiful offspring for this day (or so you hope), as other things settle in your mind and you really don't want them to mix.

When he is done with his mark, gently lapping at your bruised skin, he kisses your neck and leans back on his arms, taking some of his weight off you, allowing your chest to rise and fall faster as you watch him. He looks at you with those dark hungry eyes, and you inhale deeply as he starts showering your bare body with kisses, all the way from your collarbone over the peaks of your plum breasts (that he gives a gentle squeeze with one of his hands as he moves down) until he presses his mouth to your stomach, his fingers softly massaging your skin.

“I can't wait to fill you up,” he whispers hoarsely, kissing your stomach, his fingers pressing down firmly. “I'll fill your womb...” he says and rests his head on your lower torso as if listening for something that isn't even there yet. “And I'll watch you grow... knowing it was my seed that made you so...” You feel his heavy breaths on your skin as you reach down to gently caress his hair, digging your fingers through his locks, smiling softly to yourself.

He stays like that for at least ten seconds, giving you the illusion of peace and quiet and hopeful dreams of the future, a really tender and romantic moment, and once those seconds are over, he presses his lips to your stomach, pushes himself up and quickly leans back, looking at you with that wicked smirk again.

“Let's prepare my beautiful breeding vessel,” he teases and grabs your hips to position himself right between your legs.

You stare at him. “What did you just call me?” you laugh as he puts your legs on his shoulders.

He just smirks wider, and without any warning, he leans down and presses his mouth to your aching centre, kissing your lower stomach down towards your quivering core. You forget about his wording the moment his lips close around your clit. A soft moan escapes you as you throw your head back into the pillow. You feel his tongue prodding at the throbbing bundle of nerves as his fingers wrap around your thighs, squeezing them hard.

“Ugh, call me whatever you like...” you groan, your hips bucking against his face as he keeps sucking with vigour. He chuckles against you, his voice and the feeling of his stubble on your sensitive skin giving you all the friction you need to produce another long moan.

“Sweetheart,” you hear him say as he releases your clit and plants soft kisses on your heated skin. “Darling,” he continues, and you shiver with every term of endearment and every kiss. “Honey.” He keeps going, whispering more names as he presses his mouth to your lower lips, his tongue gently swiping along them. “Love. Sweetie. Baby...” He pulls your soft skin between his teeth and gently sucks on it, coaxing more moans out of you as your fingers grip his hair tighter. “Kitten. Pet,” he finishes as he releases you again and leans up to look at you.

You watch him out of half-lidded eyes, your breaths shallow. As he holds your gaze, you feel one of his hands moving over your centre, his fingertips tracing the outer edges of your labia. Warmth settles in your cheeks as he keeps rubbing his fingers over your sensitive skin, his dark eyes boring into yours, a concentrated look on his handsome face. When he teases a finger between your folds, he looks down and raises his eyebrows.

“So wet for me, my love,” he whispers and moves his finger up and down your slick, the slight squelching sounds filling the room – and you with enough embarrassment that you turn your head away and put a hand to your mouth to hide behind. “You are so beautiful,” you hear him whisper. “Everything about you... Don't be ashamed.”

When he suddenly leans over you and grabs your face with both hands, making you look at him, you gasp softly. His wet finger grazes your ear, and you bite your lip, swallowing hard.

“No need to hide from me, darling,” Sebastian says sternly, watching you closely. “I know every inch of your body, I've seen it so many times and it still amazes me to this day and all the days to come. What your body has given me in all these years... I cannot express how proud I am of you,” he whispers intently, before kissing you softly. “But I will always try.”

You grab the back of his head and kiss him back with fervour, not letting go of him now. He complies and deepens the kiss as his hand moves back down between your legs, continuing its journey through your warmth. When you feel him prod at your entrance, you whimper softly into his mouth. He shushes you and keeps his tongue in a playful wrestle with yours before he pushes one of his fingers into you.

Yours walls clench around him as he starts to explore your tightness, pushing against and scraping over your soft wet flesh until he pushes as deep as he can from this angle. It is when he begins to pump his finger in and out, slowly at first, then much faster and harder, that you moan into his mouth and hold onto him tighter, feeling the tension building up quicker than you've expected.

Suddenly he leaves your mouth and scrambles back down between your legs, repositioning himself right at your quivering cunt. He adds another finger and continues pushing them into you hard and fast, while his free hand holds down your hips that you can't seem to control any more. More moans escape you, and you have to grip the bedsheets as he leans his head down and sucks on your clit again.

His tongue is eagerly lapping at your nub, rigorously pressing and prodding it, licking and rubbing, while his fingers speed up more and more, the wet sounds echoing through the room. But you're too aroused to be embarrassed now as you thrash your head around in nothing but pure ecstasy. You moan his name louder and louder, and when the tension reaches its highest point – he suddenly withdraws his fingers, and you feel his face pressing against your folds as he slips his tongue past your stretched entrance.

“Come on my tongue, darling,” you feel him mumbling into you, and as he moves his wet fingers to feverishly rub at your clit, you comply without hesitation as the coil burst within you, and you cry out and press your back into the mattress, your release pushing out of you with a force that shakes your entire body as you arch your hips off the bed and right into his face. He moves with you, holding your rear with his free arm while he laps at your juices.

More tremors and shivers rush through you, before you slowly come down again, gently placed back with the help of his hand. Breathing heavily, your heart thundering inside your chest, you watch out of hooded eyes how he eventually emerges from between your legs, his entire face covered in your release.

You sit up then, shaking badly, but you feel the need to do this as your hands find his cheeks, and you wipe at them, watching him with your own cheeks bright red. He chuckles and grabs your wrists, leaning towards you to claim your mouth instead. You taste yourself on his tongue as you deepen the kiss hungrily. When he leans back, you sneak a hand out of his grip and push a strand of his messy hair out of his forehead, smiling softly at him.

He smiles back and gives you another peck, before he gently but firmly pushes you back down on the bed, his hand trailing your chest, teasing at your hard nipples, until he rests it once more on your shivering stomach. Pressing down hard on your skin, you see him lick his lips. You swallow at the sight, knowing what is going through his head right now, and soon enough he moves again.

You watch him scramble off the bed, your eyes inadvertently moving towards his hard arousal twitching slightly (the potion seems to have worked already) as he comes to stand at the foot of the bed. His hungry eyes move to yours, and in the next moment, he has grabbed your waist and pulled you towards him, your legs falling off the bed. You let out a surprised shriek-laugh. He then grabs a pillow and shoves it under your lower back, raising your hips up.

He's always so gentle in his preparations that you sometimes forget what kind of animal he can turn into once he is done with said preparations. Yet he's usually quick to remind you. As he positions himself between your legs, you watch him grabbing his cock with one hand, the other ghosting your stomach downwards until he teases your throbbing clit. When he pushes his tip against your folds, you brace for his intrusion, watching him with your lips parted, yet he takes his time and lathers his girth with your wetness first, slowly rubbing it up and down through your slick.

You moan softly at the sensation, one of your hands moving up to caress your firm and currently unattended breast. While you watch him stroke his cock with confident strength, you roll your nipple between your thumb and index finger, whimpering quietly. His eyes snap to your face, and the dark look he is giving you almost freezes you on the spot. As he stares at you, he aligns his tip with your entrance, and at the same time as he pushes into you with one swift snap of his hips, his hands move forwards and grab both of your breasts at once, firmly squeezing them as he rolls his hips against you.

A loud moan escapes you, and you quickly retrieve your fingers from his grasp before you claw them into the bedsheets. Your walls may have expected his intrusion, but when it happened, it still took them and yourself by surprise. His force is unrelenting, and he only stops pushing into your tight channel when his balls press against your arse. You gasp, barely able to breathe for a moment, as you try to adjust to his size.

He's holding onto your breasts tightly, using them to guide his pelvis flush against yours, and once he's satisfied with how deep he is inside of you, he starts massaging your soft flesh, his palms rolling over your nipples, coaxing more and more whimpers out of you. “I wonder,” you hear him say gravelly, “I wonder how big they'll get this time...”

You chuckle softly, even more so when you catch the slightest bit of pink on his cheeks. Unclenching your hands, you rest them on his, causing him to look at you. His smile is almost shy and reminds you so much of the boy you fell in love with all those years ago. Even back then, he has been able to do the most vile things to you, but when it came to your breasts, he had always cherished them greatly, probably even more so now that they were so much bigger.

He licks his lips and folds his body over yours, moving within you as he does so, causing you to gasp slightly, before he places a soft kiss on your mouth, holding his face there for a moment, as if asking you something he cannot quite put into words. But you know what he wants to do, and with another chuckle, you put your hands down and move your chest up against the firm grasp of his. “Go ahead,” you whisper.

His eyes light up, and as he lowers his face down, moving his hands to hold your waist, his mouth quickly finds the pert bud of your left breast, eagerly sucking on it. As you moan softly, your hand starting to caress his hair once more, you watch him swirl his tongue around your sensitive skin, his teeth grazing it almost a little roughly. After nurturing three very hungry children, feeling the mouth of your husband there doesn't come as a surprise to you.

His words, however, catch you a little off guard. “I can't wait for you to lactate again...” he mumbles against you, and you hide your blush with a soft laugh.

“You might need to put a baby in me first, you know?” you tease him after he keeps caressing your tender tits, sucking on one and massaging the other with his fingers. You even buck your hips against him, reminding him how he's still buried deep within your warmth.

Without leaning back, he looks up at you, the creases in the corners of his eyes deepening as he smirks against your chest. “Who's impatient now?” he teases right back and gives your hard nipple a firm suck and a quick nibble.

You inhale sharply, glowering at him. He laughs as he leans back eventually, his fingers drawing soft lines on your stomach as he does. Once he's towering over you once more, with his hands now firmly on your waist, he tilts his head. Without another word, you feel him pulling out slowly, your walls clenching around him, trying to suck him back in. He almost slips out all the way, but then he thrusts forward harshly, hitting your cervix with a force that makes your breath hitch in your throat.

He repeats the exact same motion several times, each time pushing as deep as possible with as much strength as he trusts himself to exert against you. You quickly turn into a moaning, whimpering mess, your legs twitching badly with every slam of his pelvis against you. In the middle of your haze, you admire his control and wonder when he'll lose it as well. But he stays very deliberate in his movements, guiding his length in and out of you with slow but hard stabs that leave you shuddering and aching for more.

His grip on your waist betrays him though, you can see the veins and muscles popping beneath the skin of his arms as he tries to keep that steady rhythm for as long as possible, even though you know he wants nothing more than to ram into you in rapid, forceful little snaps of his hips as he fucks you open to finally receive his seed.

You watch him out of half-lidded eyes, your lips parted and swollen, your noises bleeding into the slapping of skin against skin that fill the small room. You manage to move your shaking hands down, gently brushing against the vice-like grip he has on your waist. He looks at you then, his eyes darker than ever, his own lips trembling before he presses them together into a straight line. In-between softly moaning, you smile at him – and that is all it takes for him to change his rhythm.

He moves his hands to rest on either side of your hips, clenched to tight fists, as he then starts to plunge into you faster, no longer as deep, but still pushing with as much fervour and vigour as he can muster. His groans fill your ears, and you close your eyes as the sensations build up more and more inside your stomach. Every thrust rocks you up the bed, but before he pushes you further, you raise your twitching legs and wrap them tightly around his waist, the change in angle coaxing even louder moans out of your throat.

Grabbing your thighs, he holds you in place and keeps slamming his pelvis against yours, eventually finding a rhythm that is both fast and deep, and every single inward motion hits that sweet spot right at your cervix. You squirm and writhe, whimpering more and more as you arch your back into the mattress, completely overwhelmed by the pleasure he is giving you. You throw your arms back and grab at the edge of the bed, holding onto it as if your life depended on it. The way your muscles contract it certainly feels like it.

“Come for me, baby,” you hear him grunt quietly, and when your eyes move to his face, you see that he's holding back his own release with how his jaw is clenched.

You start moving your hips with him, and it doesn't take long for you to fulfil his wish. The pleasure explodes inside you, sending you thrashing around on the bed, a long cry escaping you, before your entire body freezes and the coiled up tension dissipates in nothing but pure bliss that gnaws at the edge of your vision. He holds you tightly during your orgasm, keeping his rapid rhythm, forcing you higher and higher, until his hips snap against you for one final deep thrust, and it feels as if he's even deeper now, his tight, quivering balls buried in your folds as he comes right after you with a loud groan.

Your walls flutter around his cock as you feel him twitching within you. His warm seed pumps out of him with every twitch, painting your walls, squeezing into any orifice it can find, and as it does, he moves one of his hands to your stomach and pushes down hard again, feeling the sensation of his release through the deep tissue of your skin. You whimper slightly, and he eases his grip and looks at you, panting just as much as you do, but he still gives you a smile that almost pushes you over the edge again.

You reach your arms out to him, beckoning him closer, and he complies, leaning over you to press his lips to yours as you embrace him tightly. You can still feel him twitching inside you, still filling you up, as his tongue invades your mouth hungrily. Kissing him back, you moan softly against him, your crossed feet caressing his lower back as you do so. The warmth within you is indescribable, be it the actual seed seeping into you or the thought of what it will do to you eventually, it fills you up to the brim with happiness and then some.

You feel the same emotion coursing through him as he holds you firmly, his hands slipping beneath your body as he presses you to his chest and lifts you slowly into a sitting position. Once he releases your mouth again, you rest your forehead against his shoulder, breathing heavily.

Yet as you think he is done with you, happy with filling you up, you must have forgotten who it is that's holding you in his grasp. You should have known better than to think that Sebastian Sallow will leave it at this. He knows what he wants, and you know he won't stop until he gets it. It being the absolute certainty that his seed has found a home in your womb. And as you look at him, your limbs twitching in exhaustion, you know he isn't done with you yet.

That wicked smirk is back on his lips, and as you notice it, he presses his mouth against yours for a quick kiss before he slowly lets go of you, his hands prying your thighs open until your legs fall boneless to his sides. Pressing his hand on your lower stomach, he slowly moves back and pulls out of you. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you bite your lip as you watch him, the sensation causing more tremors to rush through your body.

As soon as his cock leaves your warm embrace, covered in your combined juices, he puts his palm over your entrance, trapping the seed that's bound to spill from you. “Hmm,” he makes in thought and looks from his hand to you and back down.

Raising an eyebrow, you witness the gears turning in his head, amusement settling in your chest. When he then grabs your hand and switches his hand with yours, pressing it gently against your wetness, you frown deeply. “Do you expect me to sit here with my hand down there, waiting for something to grow?” you tease, your voice slightly hoarse.

He chuckles a little nervously. “No, of course not,” he says and looks around the room. “Hold it for me for just a moment, okay?”

You watch him walk around the room until he stops in front of your dresser, shamelessly rummaging through your underwear drawer. He retrieves a pair, but then his eyes fall onto the box you store on top of the furniture piece. He drops the garment and grabs something else instead, and as he returns to you, your mouth falls open. “Sebastian... what –”

But you can't stop him as he takes your hand away and shoves one of the many wand handles you collected over the years right into your quivering cunt, plugging it shut. It feels cold and hard as it pushes against your walls. You gasp and shudder deeply, staring from the intricate black object poking out of your entrance up into his flushed face.

“You can't be serious,” you just say and shake your head. “Is that one of the marble handles?”

“It is, fits perfectly, doesn't it? I'll clean it after, don't worry,” he adds cheekily and leans down to kiss you. “Now turn around for me,” he then commands, waiting for you to obey.

You do, obviously, and stand up on shaking legs. You feel his hands guiding you as you turn around, clenching your thighs together to keep the handle inside. Once you climb back onto the bed on your hands and knees, you feel his fingers pushing the object back in as it threatened to slip out. Shivering, you lean down on your chest and elbows, arching your body to only keep your rear in the air. As you settle in the new position, he steps behind you, grabbing your hips to move you a little closer to the edge again.

You turn your head and rest on your cheek, taking a shuddering breath as you watch him out of the corner of your eye. He has his cock in one hand and gives himself a few tight strokes, breathing heavily. Apparently the potion still works, and he has a lot more to give you. His other hand plays around with the wand handle lodged inside you as he pulls it and turns it, teasing you with every slight movement.

“We should use toys more often, don't you think?” you hear him say, and you let out a tired chuckle that's almost a groan.

“Well, next time you bring gifts to the kids, think of me as well, alright?” you whisper into the pillow.

He laughs and pokes at the object again, pushing it deeper. You whimper quietly, your legs shaking at the sensation. “You can't tell me you never thought of sticking these things into your pussy,” he says quietly through laboured breaths.

“Who says I haven't?” you reply with a smirk. That renders him completely speechless. “You're usually gone all week...” you purr and lick your lips. “And a girl has needs...”

He exhales loudly, and suddenly he grabs the wand handle and basically rips it out of you. You shriek and squirm, and with a heavy thud it lands on the floor next to the bed. Before you can complain, you feel his tip pressing against your entrance. “You would choose one of those,” he says through gritted teeth, “over my cock?” He doesn't wait for your answer (and frankly it's not necessary), he simply rolls his hips forwards and rams his entire length into you.

Coated with his seed and prepared from the handle, your walls welcome him back with ease. You moan as he pushes in deep once more, wrapping his arms around your stomach and pulling you flush against him as he folds his body over yours. You can feel him pressing against your cervix and almost further as he stands balls deep over you, holding your shuddering body that would certainly fall into itself at the sensation if it wasn't for his strong arms.

“Doesn't this feel so much better?” he whispers as he leans down more, his lips brushing over your ear.

“Yes...” you whimper. “Of course... it does...” Breathing seems hard in this position with his body weighing on you and his cock prodding your womb.

He kisses your earlobe and starts grinding his hips against you in small circles, each movement coaxing more noises out of you. This time his noises join yours, and the heavy breaths he issues right against your ear make you close your eyes and moan softly as you dig your fingers into the bedsheets.

“Have you thought about names yet?” he then coos, and you can only groan as a shiver runs down your spine.

“No, Sebastian...” you mutter into the pillow. “Kind of... busy here...”

His laugh and the low timbre of his voice almost send you right over the edge. “I was thinking... Beatrice... if it's a girl... or Bartholomew if it's a boy...”

You squirm beneath him, exhaling loudly through your nose. “Bartholomew?”

“Yes...” he grunts as he starts giving you tiny thrusts that send tiny jolts of pain through your body. “Seems... fitting... you know with... Benjamin... and Archie... and Anne...”

“Sebastian!” you squeal and buck your rear against him. “Can we not talk about our children while you are balls deep in my vagina?”

“Oh sweetheart,” he chuckles into your ear. “That's where those children came from, why shouldn't we?”

You groan and bury your flushed face in the pillow. “I like Beatrice,” you then mumble, earning you another low chuckle that makes you shudder deeply. You feel him kissing your cheek.

“Would be nice to have another baby girl,” he whispers and inhales deeply as he halts the movements of his hips for a moment.

You relax slightly, but it only lasts for so long before he leans back suddenly, grabs your waist and starts ramming his cock deep and fast into your quivering cunt. The moans that fall from your lips are loud and quick and make your head spin. You grip the bedsheets tightly, your knuckles turning white, as you brace your body against his rapid thrusts.

Once again you'd be impressed by his stamina if your head wouldn't be so empty. As he grunts and groans, his movements far from deliberate now and more on the rougher side, you can only lie there, your face pressed into the pillow and your knees shaking so badly you wonder how you can still keep them up like this. Perhaps it's his grip on your waist that holds you up, or it's sheer willpower as you try to do your part of this deal in providing him the best angle for him to push his length into you.

You can feel him going deeper and deeper, and the slight shudder in his movements tells you that he's trying to press himself into regions he shouldn't possible enter, yet he tries nevertheless – and the pressure of his attempts is what kicks you right over the edge. The tension in your stomach coils up once again, and when your body starts spasming violently, you know you can't hold it any longer.

As your knees give way under the intense tremors, you feel your walls tightening around him painfully, all of your muscles contract, and this time, it's a long and loud wail that leaves your lips as you fold under the pleasure of your third orgasm of the day. The tight grip of his hands on your bruised waist holds you in that position, and you feel him leaning closer, one of his knees propped up beneath you in support as he keeps slamming his pelvis into yours forcefully.

All you can hear is the blood rushing through your ears, the almost obscene slapping of skin against skin and his deep, animalistic grunts as he exerts himself to crash over the edge as well. When he finally does, he groans loudly, his final thrust into you so powerful it pushes you right into the bed before his body falls on top of yours, his cock ramming deeper as he shoots his load right into your womb.

You cry out in a mixture of pain and pleasure, buried beneath his weight and overwhelmed by the sensation of his cum shooting into you in thick warm spurts as his cock twitches inside you, filling you up more and more as he lies heavily on you, his shallow breaths right in your ear. You can barely breathe yourself, but somehow it doesn't matter.

You're one step closer to bearing his fourth child.

It takes him a moment to collect himself again, and when he does, it's due to an interruption you both haven't anticipated. There's a faint knock on the door that makes you shudder deeply. He shifts on top of you slightly, inhaling sharply as he stretches his hand out to summon his wand from the pile of clothes next to the bed. You hear him muttering something and you know he's lifting the silencing charm on the door to answer whoever is on the other side.

“What is it?” he calls, trying to sound as composed as possible – despite the rather indecent situation you both find yourselves in.

“Daddy? Archie hit his head!” you can hear the faint voice of your daughter through the door.

You immediately start to stir beneath him as your motherly instincts kick in. But he holds you down with a firm hand to your shoulder as he leans back up slightly.

“Is he bleeding?” he asks through the door.

“No,” comes the hesitant answer.

He exhales loudly. “Is he conscious?”

“Is he what?”

“Can he talk? Cry? Are his eyes open?” he explains, in spite of everything calm and patient.

“He's crying,” Anne answers quietly.

“Then he's fine,” Sebastian mutters under his breath, and you are tempted to hit him if any of your limbs would work. He notices your reaction nonetheless and quickly kisses the back of your head. “I'll be there in five minutes!” he then calls to his daughter. “Go and get Mr Adley!”

“Okay, Daddy,” your little girl squeaks, and you can hear quick footsteps hurrying away.

After he puts the silencing charm back up, he drops his wand next to your head and leans down once more, pushing you deeper into the bed again, his lips brushing over your ear. You can still feel him twitching inside you, he's still not done filling you up. While you feel a little ashamed to have been interrupted by your daughter (though she luckily didn't catch you in the act, you really don't want your kids to ever see you like this), his body just kept going, and you admire his willpower once again.

You admire him, period.

For a moment you just lie there, your bodies moulded together, before you stir slightly. “Sebastian,” you whisper quietly, your voice muffled by the pillow beneath you.

“Hmm?” he hums softly against you.

“You realize that Edgar will come here, right?” you say with a soft chuckle.

“Oh blast!” he then hisses, and suddenly he leans back, unfolding his body from yours, leaving your skin tingling and cold without his warm embrace.

You feel him scrambling back, and when he pulls out, you moan softly as your walls clench tightly, threatening to pump his seed out as well. Yet he is one step ahead of you, and without any warning, you feel the cold, hard wand handle plugging your hole again. Squirming against it, you feel him grabbing your hips and turning you around before he pushes your thighs firmly together. “Hold that for me, will you?” he urges and then proceeds to dress in what must be a new record for him.

As you look at him, you can't help but smile. Inhaling deeply, you lean on your elbows and watch him. There he is, back in his shirt and his trousers, his soaked, throbbing cock hidden away behind the stiff fabric, not even hinting at the erection that he forced into hiding. He must be very uncomfortable right now, yet he doesn't show it one bit. When he notices your smile, he walks around the bed and leans down to kiss your sweaty forehead.

“I'll be right back, alright?” he whispers, watching you closely. “I promised you a long night, remember?”

“Oh I remember,” you whisper back and grab his arm gently. “Take care of our children, okay?”

“Of course, love,” he says and kisses you once more. “I bet Edgar would love a sleepover party, don't you think?”

You laugh softly. He winks at you, grabs his wand from beside your head and unlocks the door, before he leaves you alone in your bedroom, filled with his seed and the promise to give you even more. Lying back with a sigh, you close your eyes and shift against the wand handle between your legs.

Ending notes:

I almost feel the need to continue this and build a whole ass story around it. I mean, imagine a 30-something Professor Sallow, teaching Magical Theory, stepping into Fig's footsteps, teaching and inspiring young minds. And then when he's home, he has his cute little children (who'll attend Hogwarts soon-ish) and his loving wife and oh the potential this has! (But we'll see. Maybe I'll just drop a little more snippets of life with Dad!Seb in the future, who knows.) (Psst! Part two just dropped! Look!)

(By the way: The names of his kids are kindly borrowed from @subastian-swallows who made a Dad!Seb-bot whose prompt alone inspired me to write this!)

Oh and that wand handle... is this one, just for reference, if you need it.

Also, maybe a little disclaimer: I am not a mother and never intend to be one, but this mf of a pixel boy makes me indulge in things I never considered before, so I hope my attempt at portraying a family was somewhat realistic.

Thank you for reading!

Btw:

THERE'S A SECOND PART NOW!!!

[ masterlist ]

Other Kinktober submissions:

Pleasant dreams... and tentacles (somnophilia, tentacles)

A scholar and a pervert (overstimulation, sex toys)

The horny ghost (voyeurism, masturbation, spectrophilia)

It belongs to me (deepthroating, semi-public)

A Filthy Fantasy (1/2) (cnc, bondage, sensory deprivation, orgasm denial)

A Filthy Fantasy (2/2) (threesome, oral/vaginal/anal)

[shewritesinblackink]

Twilight fanfic - Paul Lahote x reader part 2 “Rain and anguish”

part 1

masterlist

ao3 link

While you’re dealing with the aftermath of your beach adventures, Paul is too. The difference was that he has the pack to look after him and help him understand what’s happening to him. And they all know two things for certain: one; you had the distinct scent they’d smell on the clothes found deep in the forest a few days ago, and two; Paul had imprinted on you.

And the two weren’t adding up. They didn’t understand how they could be another shifter in Forks and they hadn’t noticed. Some had suspicions ever since that day in the forest, but nothing had been confirmed. Though your sudden appearance had lifted some concerns at the reservation, and even sparked a meeting between the elders.

Sam wanted to meet you, make you come to the reservation and have a discussion. They couldn’t have another shifter outside of the reservation or it was war guaranteed with the coven of vampires that were the Cullens. They had rules they needed to respect. That’s what made the elders agitated mostly.

Paul’s imprinting was the lesser of their concerns. But to him though? It was a big deal. He couldn’t believe it happened to him. He didn’t know how to feel. When he had looked at you at first, it’s like gravity had suddenly shifted under his feet and his whole world was upside down. Or rather like it was finally making sense. Everything was a little smoother around the edges, a stark contrast to how he had seen life unfold around him for years; sharp and tough. Hurtful.

You were soothing him.

When he had looked into your eyes, it was like the final piece of the puzzle of his soul had finally been found and put at the right place. He didn’t know if all these feelings and emotions washing over him all of a sudden were good or bad. Maybe a little of both, he decided. He couldn’t make up his mind. A part of him was furious that another choice in his life had been taken from him. First he had shifted without even wanting it. And even now after some months, he still hates himself for it. Blaming himself, as if he had any say in all of that.

And now the imprint. It scared him. An imprint could be a lot of things, but in general people ended up getting together and irrevocably in love. It was almost endearing but also disgusting to witness Sam and Emily and their perfect love bubble.

You spent that day alone inside your house, trying to keep your mind busy from the beach events and the pain, but you barely managed to read a few pages of a book before your brain started wandering off. At least it seemed your brain was so focused on the recent events that it almost forgot the pain coursing through your body. 

Bella called you the next day, saying that Jacob had asked her to drive you down to the reservation. She said he didn’t tell her the reason, but maybe she knew and didn’t want to tell you in case it stopped you from following her there.

That’s when your mind snapped back to reality and doubled over, hands braced against your knees, trying to catch your breath. Your head was pounding and thankfully Bella drove in silence. No questions, no music, just the sound of the road underneath her truck and the cool breeze coming through the open passenger window.

You saw in the corner of your eye that Bella turned her head towards you a couple of times, probably checking if you weren’t dying on her passenger seat. She could probably see the beads of sweat forming on your forehead.

“You okay? You haven’t said much since the beach,” she let her voice drop low and quiet as if she wasn’t sure she should or could mention it. Like you would burst in an uncontrollable rage at the memory. You thought you must have scared her quite well if she was taking so many precautions to talk to you.

You blamed yourself and hated yourself for behaving a certain way sometimes, but there were days, moments, during which you could barely control yourself because you weren’t yourself.

When she parked beside Jake’s bike, you immediately noticed him standing straight, arms crossed over his chest. A few other boys hovered around him, some sported curiosity on their faces, others looked more worried than anything else.

As soon as Bella got out of the car it was like Jake forgot all his worries and the world around, as he ran to greet her with a big hug. You hesitated, hands on the door handle, finger’s fidgeting nervously. You could sense something in the air, but you didn’t know what it was. And it made you nervous.

What did Jacob want to talk to you about? Had you done something wrong the other day at the beach? Had you hurt or vexed anyone? You didn’t fully remember the day but you know you barely talked. You let Bella do the talking that day.

Taking a big gulp of air you pushed the door open. The very moment you put one foot on the ground and Jacob had you in his line of sight, it was like the stars in his eyes had been turned off. He didn’t look happy to see you, but again Bella hadn’t said anything so you weren’t sure.

He came up to you as you closed the door, fidgeting with your sleeves. “There’s some things we need to talk about.” Was all he said. He didn’t even greet you, so you guessed you had done something pretty bad for him to be so closed off and grumpy. He simply nodded at you to follow him down a muddy path toward a simple but cute house.

Hidden away underneath the shadows of the big trees in the forest, you could see silhouettes moving inside behind the windows, and you heard chatter and laughter.

Jacob entered first, followed by the guys that had been waiting with him and Bella. You were the last one to get inside, and as you closed the door behind you, every pair of eyes landed on you. What you didn’t notice though, was that some eyes traveled from you to Paul and from him to you again.

Looks were exchanged and finally when the silence became too loud and heavy, a man in his thirties and a woman about the same age came out of another room hand in hand. They stopped short when they noticed everybody inside the house, and finally their gaze landed on you. The woman was the first one to speak, greeting you warmly and introducing herself and the man by her side. Her name was Emily and he was Sam.

She immediately went to the oven, opened it and took out a tray of freshly baked cookies. Sam went up to you and introduced himself as well as the other boys and young men in the room. Meanwhile one of the youngest boys sitting down around the dining table got scolded by Emily who had just put a plate full of hot cookies. He was shaking his fingers and blowing on them, you guessed what he had tried to do and a soft smile brushed your lips.

You all but noticed the dark silhouette hovering at the far end of the room, like he was sulking after being punished like a child. His arms crossed over his bare chest, his eyes remained on the ground.

Sam told you to take a seat and you obliged, not wanting to show how tired you were but also grateful he gave you the option.

You sat in silence observing the scene around you. The boys had started talking amongst themselves, the agitated chatter filling the kitchen and dining room. It looked like a mundane scene in the home of a loving family, you thought nostalgic.

Sam leaned back against the wall facing you, his hands in his jean’s pockets. You noticed he was barefoot, but you also noticed they were all shirtless and barefoot. Sam had a gentle smile tugging at his lips as he observed you. You didn’t know if you should feel nervous about it, or nervous about the way they all seemed to share a secret that the world would never know.

He took a deep inhale, then started talking again, ending the torture of waiting silently while happy chaos gently unfolded around you in the room.

“I know this seems strange,” and he gestured to the room around the both of you, “but there’s something I need to talk to you about.”

He then took a place on a chair in front of you, beside the table and started telling you a story about his tribe and the reservation. About some monsters named the Cold-ones and others beasts trying to protect their land. It was a story of life and death, survival and war and bloodlines.

You got chills when he talked about the violence and the fights. And somehow you felt the story resonating inside your bones. You weren’t sure you fully understood or grasped the whole point of his story, the whole gravity of it, but somewhere within yourself, you felt that this story was a part of the past and that it had really happened. At the end of his story his eyes were still on you, trying to gauge your reaction, trying to see if you’d get the hint.

You saw some sort of currency in his brown eyes, but you didn’t know why. So you simply asked. You hadn’t noticed that everyone had quieted down and had been listening too despite knowing the stories by heart as it was custom for the tribe members.

“Why are you telling me this? Aren’t these kind of stories ancient and sacred and like, I don’t know, private to the members of the tribe?”

Everybody was surprised that you knew how private the tribe was and how their past was important. You weren’t ignorant or insensitive, you just thought these kinds of stories were passed down from generation to generation. Never wrote down, always shared with their voices.

As the time passed and Sam was telling his story, you could feel your headache coming back. All your senses heightened once again, you could hear everyone breathing in the room, every scrapping of a chair on the wooden floor. Beads of sweat started to appear on your forehead and neck and Sam seemed to notice. You tried to cover yourself up with your hands, but your arms were hurting. Your shoulders were stiff and your head felt so heavy.

You could have fallen asleep right then and there so much the pain was tiring. Or more like your endless effort to tame the beast inside of you was taking your strength. And the beast was still clawing inside, howling silently in your mind. Like silently begging you to let go.

You had developed a pretty strong mental willpower– that or you were incredibly stubborn trying to fight off the symptoms of each shift.

The noises in the room were starting to overwhelm you, added with how hot you were feeling, like you had a fever. Emily walked over to you and reached out with one hand, but you flinched away and it startled her.

You stuttered a half apology, “Don’t.”

You got up fast from your chair, knocking it over in the process. All the eyes were on you. Paul had shifted from his spot to another closer to the table sometime during the storytelling.

And suddenly you heard a branch cracking outside the open window. Your head snapping in its direction. Eyes narrowing and breathing slowing down, you clenched your hands into fists and tried to ground yourself in your surroundings.

You couldn’t cause a scene here. Not now. Not in front of so many people. A part of you was scared and was seeking loneliness in times like these. The comfort of the forest, the silence of nature and the soft whisper of the trees in the wind. The darkness the tall trees and bushes provided gave you privacy during these tough moments where your entire body shifted. All the bones snapping into different places, claws growing out of your nails and your skin getting covered in fur.

It was a painful process, and you struggled a lot.

Sam got up too, pushing Emily behind him protectively. He kept one hand in the air in front of him like you would to a scared or wounded wild animal. A sign of peace. You knew he didn’t want to hurt you, but the thing trying to get out of your skin could easily hurt him. Or anyone in that kitchen for that matter.

You stumbled backward a few steps and looked up to see everyone looking at you with concern all over their faces. The youngest looked the most excited though, and you didn’t fully understand why. The eldest of the small crowd sported a look of worry and pity.

And it made you angry. Why would they be worried about you? Were they scared of you? Scared you could hurt them? Why did they look like they were pitying you too? Couldn’t they just look away and forget everything, down to your very own existence?

You inhaled sharply. The feeling of anger was much easier to trigger during this state of pre-shift struggle. And now that you felt this anger, this hatred at the world and at nothing in particular and you couldn’t hold back any longer.

Shaking your head “no” slightly, your hand flew to your ears. Trying to drown out the noise and pain pulsing through your skull. You staggered out the door, down the few steps of the small wooden porch and onto the mud.

A soft rain had started to drizzle down from the grey clouds, and you closed your eyes as you looked up at the sky. Praying to whoever was listening to help you.

If anyone discovered your secret, knew who– what- you truly were, you’d had to move out again. And you hated this idea. Mainly because you liked it here. You had slowly adapted into a small routine and it wasn’t that bad. Despite the pain and loneliness. But also because something was holding you here and you didn't know what it was. It made you feel like you were going crazy some days.

You couldn’t help it, you let out a low grunt as your knees landed in the wet soil. A few gathered on the front porch and observed the scene. Sam walked forward, not too much as to scare you again. Paul was on his heels, curiosity and something else written on his face. You couldn’t quite tell what else, that you saw in his dark eyes.

But your stare lingered a moment until you doubled over, hands pressing hard against your skull and spine curving forward.

Your nose almost touched the ground as you rocked back and forth on your knees. Someone said something in a hushed tone and you couldn’t make out the words, but then you heard Sam’s voice nearer and you held onto that.

“It’s gonna be okay, don’t fight it.” You took a few ragged breaths and he continued, “Don’t fight it, it’ll only make it worse.”

You wanted to listen to him but you also wished you hadn’t changed into this beast. You were scared, and maybe he could feel it or maybe he saw it on your face as he crouched down and leaned to be closer to you. Trying to make you feel safe.

“Listen to me, it’ll be easier if you let it come, let the feelings wash over you, trust me I know.”

He knew the firsts transformations were supposed to hurt like hell, what he didn’t know was that it wasn’t technically your firsts shift. It had been six months since the incident and ever since that fateful night you couldn’t control the shift whenever they happened.

You wanted to tell him everything, tell him your story, tell him all the details, all the things that happened and that you had to go through alone. You had a feeling he would understand, maybe he had experienced that alone as well. You clung onto that single thought, like it was your only hope.

You heard a few birds taking up in the sky from some nearby trees and the noise only spurred you on– triggering the beastly instinct inside of you.

Suddenly you yelped from the pain coursing through your body and took a few steps forward, away from the house. Sam followed you close enough to help if anything happened, but not too close as to disturb you. He wasn’t sure if your shift would be the same as any of the others he had witnessed.

He knew what you were trying to do, walking slowly through your body’s convulsions toward the forest. Searching for privacy and the dark protective shadows of the ancient trees.

He understood the gesture, all the shifters from his pack had done the same during their first shift. Searching for a private place where they could suffer alone.

Without any watchful eyes, judging and full of unwanted emotions.

Paul took a few steps, staying behind Sam as he couldn’t overstep the Alpha of the pack. He watched you with a deep worry in his beautiful dark eyes. Jaw clenched and hands balled into fists. He wanted to help you, something inside of him ached for you, seeked to be close to you, to help you in any way. But he also knew shifting could be painful. He didn’t fully understand how he felt about all these emotions swarming his mind and body.

You screamed again, head thrown back from the pain, from the bones cracking and moving into place. A big cluster of clouds passed overhead, low and dark, full of rain. Thunder rolling and a few flashes of lightning illuminating the forest. It was like the sky was following you, the shade of the clouds staying above you as you became a big wolf with fur so dark it looked almost black in the shadows.

Paul’s jaw dropped slightly, unintentionally as he took in the giant wolf in front of him. You were big, probably as big as him and Sam. You could probably fight a full grown Alpha and win by yourself if you wanted to.

His thoughts were interrupted by a low, angry growl as you turned back to face him and Sam. Your eyes were dark and narrowed to slits, almost glowing with fury. Paul got chills running up his arms as he stared at your cold and predatory glare. You looked beautiful and fierce, lips curled back, showing ivory teeth sharp like knives. He observed attentively as you growled low, foam gathering at the corner of your lips, saliva stringing a little. Everything in you just showed anger and fury, relentless fury. It was savage, violent but also beautiful. He just knew you would be a hell of a fighter. He also knew you would give a hell of a hard time to Sam.

Everybody watched as Sam moved in front of you, blocking your view of Paul and the others. You wondered silently if he was trying to protect them from you. Were they scared?

The thought only made you even more angry and hurt, your head was pounding as you lowered your head and snarled at him. Your front paws were braced heavily against the muddy soil, the muscles in your shoulders moving. The others were impressed and not hiding it in the slightest.

Sam recognised this stance and didn’t waste a second more. A fighting stance. You were ready to bounce on your prey or on anything. He shifted into his wolf form, ready to help you or defend his family and friends if needed be. He had to keep in mind that you were still a stranger despite knowing Bella, and he couldn’t rely on his trust because he didn’t know you well enough.

So he braced himself ready and waited. He tried to tell you via his thoughts that he was here to help you but your mind was so messy and loud he could barely get a thought for himself. So he tried to look less intimidating, and more curious and cautious. Trying to make you understand he wasn’t here to hurt you.

Unfortunately in your frenzy you barely registered anything, and right now this other big wolf in front of you was a threat in your mind. As your thoughts swarmed inside your own head, flashes of various threats from your past, Sam saw a few of these glimpses in his own, and started to understand that you had been hurt before. He understood easily enough that gaining your trust wouldn’t be easy.

But he was ready to do his most to help a fellow shifter.

So when you launched yourself forward to attack him he only focused on defending himself. He didn’t try attacking you back, but rather trying to help you get all that frustration and hurt out of your system. Like playing with a dog to exhaust him the most to make sure he’ll be obedient afterwards.

The rain started in a soft drizzle, cold and fresh. You enjoyed it but were too focused on your task that you didn’t notice.

The others watched as the fight continued on for a long time. They witnessed Sam being thrown forcefully against trees and rocks. They watched as you obviously led the fight, again and again. You had a lot of strength, it was remarkable. But again Sam wasn’t giving you everything he had and it frustrated you even more each time you landed a blow or threw him hard enough to knock him off.

After a while they all grew restless just as the rain grew more heavy. Some went back inside to fetch a few cookies, as if they were only watching tv and enjoying it. Emily sat on the stairs and Paul could sense the tension radiating from her as she folded her arms against her chest. She fidgeted anxiously with her ring. He slowly got down on the front steps beside her, silently reassuring her one hand on her shoulder.

You could sense that Sam was getting tired of the fight dragging on, but you weren’t the least bit exhausted. You could’ve fought all day and night long. But you slowly started to feel less anger coursing through your mind. More frustration. Slowly becoming a little bit more empty, your feelings erased, leaving your mind fuzzy.

You were growing tired of this game, Sam wasn’t even attacking you back and you had quickly noticed. You turned your attention to the forest as Sam seemed exhausted besides you, breathing heavily.

Sensing something, Paul got up from his spot on the front porch stairs and walked closer slowly. You didn’t look at him once before leaping towards the forest. The sun had started his descent and the luminosity was getting lower by the hour, making the forest even darker than when the clouds arrived.

Paul called out your name for you to wait, Sam howled but you didn’t stop. You didn’t look back. You continued to run forward. And then you heard it, two sets of breathing, more than one wolf coming after you.

The realisation only spurred you on even more and you ran faster, jumping and bouncing above the trunks of trees covered in moss and rockes. You reached the clearing at the same time as Paul, his wolf form right behind you. He was fast, matching your speed. You liked it. You blinked at him curiously as you took it in. His beautiful grey and brown fur, his eyes.

You were ready to fight again, your big black paws stomping on the pretty green grass. Paul walked with you, both of you walking in circles around each other, like you were sizing up your opponent. But when you looked directly into his big dark eyes, the brown almost swallowed by new moon blackness, you couldn’t see what you were looking for. You couldn’t see any trace of hate.

Your thoughts came to him in a big flash, too fast and intense for him to have time to grasp anything and really look into it.

And then you felt that sensation again– the one from the beach. Like the ground moved under you and the sky started spinning above. Suddenly it was like someone had popped the bubble that had surrounded you for so long, and you could hear the birds singing around you. You smelt the flowers from the clearing, something beautiful and colourful. The earth wet from the soft rain that was slowly stopping.

He was intently watching you, his stare locked onto yours. Face unmoving, mouths closed. He was silent, not a single sound coming from him. But if you really listened closely, you noticed his ragged breathing, matching yours.

You both stopped walking in circles, close enough that you could feel his breath on your own muzzle. He tentatively took a few steps closer and you sniffed the air around him. His scent washing over your senses, his heartbeat a melody in your ears.

He did the same, sniffing the air, closing in on the fur around your neck and taking big sniffs. He heard the steady rhythm of your heartbeat, it was like he felt it physically too. Like his heart was cut in half and you were the other half. He thought it was beautiful, like a song he could listen to forever. All animosity and rigid predator behaviour was gone now, replaced by something so tender and soft it was almost painful to witness. Like he was hurting from being so close and yet so far from you.

The soft bubble that had formed around you popped suddenly when Sam erupted into the flowery meadow. You only had time to notice that he was carrying something in his mouth before you ducked your head down in a sudden rush of pain. And in a flash of thunder you were human again, laying down on your side, naked in the wet tall grass. You curled up on yourself, eyes staring at the pretty flowers almost above you. You barely remember thinking how flowers could be so tall.

You heard a few noises behind you as Paul shifted back to human and put on the pair of denim shorts Sam had brought. The Alpha nodded to Paul and turned around, walking back to the house where everyone was waiting.

Paul gathered the clothes and walked slowly closer to you. He was facing your back and it stopped him in his tracks when he saw the scars there. Claws marks. Bite marks. On your lower back, your shoulder blades, and he saw a glimpse of your arms too.

He knelt and put the clothes on the ground. He didn’t know if it was safe enough to touch you but he didn’t really care. Something inside of him had been craving your closeness ever since the beach. Ever since he knew what had happened but was too scared to admit it or say it aloud. 

So he gently rested a warm hand on your arm. You startled, curling up even more on yourself like you were trying to disappear from the surface of the Earth. He felt how warm you were underneath his fingertips and he almost hummed from the sensation. Closing his eyes he just took a moment to savour it all. The way his mind was calmer than usual. It was like he could breathe more easily now that you were nearby.

Somehow, with gentle soothing words he convinced you to get dressed. He noticed the goosebumps running up your arm when he took his hand off, as if the contact of his skin alone had been keeping you warm against the soft breeze after the rain.

He smiled a little. Liking that reaction of your body and mind to his presence.

It meant a lot.

He gave you privacy as you slowly got dressed, silently waiting his back facing you. Then he offered you his hand to help you get up, not doubting how sore your muscles were after such a long fight.

Your fingers lingered longer than it should have in his hand, slowly slipping away from his palm as you both silently walked back to the others under the last drops of rain.

You undoubtedly were going to need some explanations and help from the pack. You clearly needed their guidance. But they also needed to know where you were from and if you were any danger to the reservation.

[drenix004]

𝐃𝐀𝐈𝐒𝐘━━━ 𝐓𝐀𝐒𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄 141

❝𝐃𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐲︙She was an odd one, as was her obsession with daisies. But, that made her unique in the eyes of the herd… she became the treasure of TF 141.

warnings: mention of alcohol, drugs, death, obsession, among others, if you are not comfortable, don't read it !

rating: 18+

pairings: Task Force 141, Köning y Horangi x Oc female.

Summary: the hunt for jewels had begun, so Laswell decides to pass her off as a human and send her to the British military base under the command of a colleague, all this without him knowing her true identity to protect her (sorry, I don't know how to summarize).

¡English is not my first language, so there may be mistakes, don’t hesitate to correct me.!

wattapad -> here

INTRO | CH 1 | CH2 | CH3 | CH4

●❯────────────────❮●

A tense silence filled the air as they watched the CIA operative, a colleague of their captain for years, through the screen. The woman had initiated a video call to discuss the new team member, which had made them nervous ever since they found out she was human and not a hybrid or monster.

For Ghost, this posed a problem that would affect the team in upcoming missions. Moreover, she was an outsider, and years of betrayal had made him deeply distrustful and more cautious than ever. Whenever they allied with others, he requested their files and scrutinized them thoroughly before gaining more information.

The matter of coexistence between hybrids, monsters, and humans remained complicated. Despite their high ranks in the military, they still faced looks of disdain, disgust, hatred, and cruel words for not being entirely human. Even though humans were cruel and ruthless, they treated them as the only beasts in their hypocrisy.

Kate sighed for the tenth time in what had been just an hour-long meeting.

"I understand you may have doubts and even rejection toward this new addition," Kate said, staring directly at Ghost through the camera, "but she is necessary this time. She'll be a great addition to the team."

"She’s human," the tallest one interjected, his voice slightly muffled by the balaclava. "She’ll only bring trouble."

"She won’t cause you any problems; you have my word." Laswell locked eyes with Price, the man who had remained silent. He had already discussed things with the woman privately and was now letting his pack weigh in. "She’s not just any human. She’ll help you, and she might even teach you a few things."

"Like what?" asked the Scot.

That was the cue for Price to step in, setting an open folder on the table. The five men moved closer to take a look. Ghost was the first to reach it, despite being farther from the table.

"She’s given permission for us to see the first two pages of her file." Price’s voice was calm, as always. "She’ll be supporting us in the medical field." He handed one page to Ghost while the other went to the only dark-skinned member of the group. "She’s a combat medic, specializing in emergency medical-surgical care."

"Aeris Williams, no photo," Soap mentioned, standing next to Ghost. The others crowded around to see the first page.

"It’s for her safety," Laswell replied, "and she’s worked for several private military contractors." Through the camera, they could see the woman drumming her fingers on the table. Price noticed she was nervous.

"She’s worked with the competition, Laswell," Gaz pointed out upon seeing KorTac’s name. "What assurance do we have that she won’t leak information about us?"

"She’s a professional, and as her file shows, she’s worked with more than just that contractor. If she’d leaked information, she would’ve been blacklisted and imprisoned for breaching contractual terms by now," the woman defended her. "She’s highly qualified to join the team."

"It also says she worked with the ghosts. That’s impossible." Ghost tossed the page back onto the table. Price pulled out a cigar from his pocket, lighting it with fire that flared from deep in his throat. The attitude he was most concerned about was Simon’s.

"It’s true," the captain answered on behalf of Laswell, "and not just as a medic, but also as a soldier. She’s participated in counter-terrorist operations, rescue missions, infiltration, and reconnaissance; she’s highly experienced on the battlefield."

"She’s a veteran," Laswell added. "And as hard as it may be to believe, she’s even more experienced than Price." The men looked at their captain, who nodded as he took another drag from his cigar. "You could learn a thing or two from her, if you’re willing. And... there’s something about her that you might like." Price smiled, knowing what was coming.

"What’s that?" Gaz placed the other page back on the table, his black wings stretching slightly behind his back.

"She worked with the Shadows under Graves’ command." The room, except for Price and Kate, erupted in growls at the mention of the man they considered scum.

"She worked with that bastard? How could that please us?" Alejandro’s thick Mexican accent came through as he scowled at the mention of the man. Of them all, and especially the two Mexicans, Alejandro harbored the most resentment toward Phillip Graves. After all, the man had taken his base and his men during their time in Las Almas several years ago.

"That’s not the best part." Price approached the table with the cigar in his mouth, slipping the pages back into the folder. "There’s a very good reason why there’s no information in her file about working with the Shadows."

Soap raised an eyebrow, as did Alejandro. The men watched as a smile formed on their captain’s face and on the woman’s face through the screen.

"The reason is, she almost beat Graves to death with her bare fists." Surprise quickly spread across the faces of the group. Alejandro was the first to laugh, wearing his typical smile as his shoulders shook slightly from the laughter.

He was followed by Rodolfo, who chuckled lightly.

Gaz had his head tilted slightly, a small smile on his lips. Soap mirrored the expression, while Ghost remained silent.

"What was her excuse?" Rodolfo asked with curiosity after he stopped laughing.

Kate shrugged slightly before replying.

"She simply said he was an idiot."

"That’s a solid argument," Gaz commented.

"I’m already starting to like her," Soap said, flicking his tail.

"So, the lady almost killed him," Alejandro murmured beside Rodolfo. "Guess we should give her a chance, then."

Ghost looked at his pack before sighing.

"I’ll keep an eye on her."

"I appreciate your willingness," Kate clasped her hands on the desk. "Now, I’ll give you some recommendations to keep in mind for your safety."

●❯────────────────❮●

"We'll arrive in five minutes, Doc," the pilot announced over the communicators. "It was a pleasure flying with you."

She smiled as she took off her tactical helmet, just like Kamli and her other companion.

"Likewise, Jack. But this is more of a see you later than a goodbye," she replied before cutting off communication again. "Do you think the captain will be offended for not arriving yesterday?" She looked at the tallest of the three.

Kamli took off his helmet like she did, letting out a sigh.

"I don't think so. He knows beforehand that sometimes things happen unexpectedly. Besides, Laswell informed him we would be delayed." His piercing eyes landed on her. "Don't worry about the minor details. There are other things to be concerned about."

"Kamli is right," interjected the other accompanying them, a hybrid of Arctic hare; he was her assistant. "You should save your energy for the problems that exist at that base on a medical level; the anomalies in those records are troubling, boss."

She sighed as she saw the enormous base, spotting several people waiting in the landing area.

"Alright, let's do this."

The helicopter began its descent while the three prepared themselves. Kamli adjusted his gloves, she pulled her black Buff up to her nose, and her assistant grabbed the straps of one of the four military deployment bags they had brought, excluding the huge 25-kilogram first aid kit.

They felt evaluative gazes on them, especially on her and Kamli due to their height. They unbuckled their seatbelts and descended slightly hunched over as a precaution while the blades continued spinning powerfully.

She moved to the front and signaled to Jack to take off again.

Then she turned and made eye contact with the man in the hat and beard, who smiled politely at her. Kate had mentioned his appearance before they left.

"You must be Captain Price, right?" She approached the man and shook his hand. The scaly tail swayed slowly, but she held back her questions. "Aeris Williams," she introduced herself, "but I prefer to be called Harper."

Kamli and her assistant also approached, positioning themselves to her left and right.

Price nodded.

"Captain John Price." The man looked at her before addressing the two companions behind her. "Laswell mentioned that only two of you were coming."

From his tone, Aeris understood she needed to clarify things. Price was still an alpha, and as such, he liked to know who was coming in and out of his base. The arrival of another male without prior notice could be seen as an invasion of his territory.

Kamli was also an alpha, which could trigger an internal struggle to prove who had power over whom if they didn't communicate properly.

"I apologize for the last-minute surprise, Captain. We come from a small mission," she responded calmly. "The big guy next to me is Kamli Sharma, my partner in operations and missions." Kamli nodded at those present, looking at them neutrally with no signs of confrontation. "And he is Jim Parker, my right hand."

Parker also nodded; the man had noticed the gazes on his non-human limbs and ears but ignored them, as they merely indicated curiosity.

"No problem," Price stepped aside, revealing four members of his pack. "This is Gaz." The dark-skinned man stepped forward and shook her hand while slightly stretching his black wings; from the type and color of his wings, she deduced he was a hybrid of raven or harpy.

"Soap," the lighter-eyed one introduced himself with a smile; his accent revealed he was Scottish. His enthusiastic eyes and tail wagging behind him made it clear he was a wolf. "Two of us are missing who couldn't come; they'll show up later." He nodded towards the man in the skull-patterned balaclava. "And he is Ghost."

The one in the mask didn’t respond; his gaze was fixed on Kamli. The height difference between the two was evident, with Kamli being the taller at two meters.

Unlike the others, Ghost showed no indication of what kind of hybrid or monster he was.

"Kamli." His warning tone was enough to make the man stop staring him straight in the eyes.

The others had noticed the small confrontation between the two hybrids, so Price intervened.

"I'll give you a brief tour if you're not too tired." Aeris smiled through her buff.

"We're fine, Captain." She grabbed the first aid kit and slung it on her back before taking one of the bags, while Kamli grabbed the two remaining ones. "We can hold out a bit longer."

"Alright." Price turned halfway and began the tour, allowing Aeris to stay at his side and not behind him. That was a good sign; it meant he recognized her as an equal. "This base is larger than the others since we have more resources; I can give you a map while you get accustomed."

The base was undoubtedly big, just as Price had said, and the map would be useful for orientation in the first few days. Given her role as a combat medic, Aeris had certain privileges, such as the right to a room with its own bathroom, away from the dormitories for greater privacy, which she appreciated. She was also assigned an office at Kate's request for the tedious paperwork related to the anomalies in the medical processes of the base.

It was impressive that, despite being completely adapted for hybrids and monsters, there were more humans.

As they walked through the hallways and different recreation rooms, Aeris noticed small packs formed, all being cautious as they passed. She even observed some injured individuals with poorly placed bandages, suggesting that medical care for the non-humans was, at best, lacking in certain aspects.

She had a lot of work to do, but at least she wouldn't be bored.

However, she was sure she would face resistance from the medical staff if more of her suspicions turned out to be true, much to her dismay.

They returned to their room under the curious gaze of those present at seeing the three staying in the same space. Their excuse was that they had things to discuss, so the pack said no more, just nodded, and left them alone.

"They noticed your behavior, didn't they?"

"They must have a very poor relationship with the medical area; their bandages are poorly placed, and even one is not suitable for the type of injury," Jim remarked. "I think they did it themselves; someone trained wouldn't make such simple mistakes."

"It's clear they aren't being treated according to protocol," Kamli growled, "and yet, the miserable ones dare to ask for raises."

"Laswell suspects they are also smuggling medications, and I think so too," Aeris sighed as she took off her tactical vest. "For now, it would be better to rest, especially you; tomorrow you must return to the field." She lightly tapped the bed for them to climb up. That night, the three would sleep in the same bed; it was a custom they had adopted upon arriving in new places, as the protective instincts of the two hybrids were at their highest during the first two days.

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[ravenisalone]

The Chronicles for Harry James Potter

Disclaimer: I do not support J. K and her actions do not align with my beliefs; I use her world and characters and make it my own.

Summary: Harry James Potter finds a box full of tape in an old bedroom at Grimmauld Place. The old bedroom appeared that afternoon, the name being his aunt Ophelia Lyra Black's in cursive letters on the door.

a/n: Hello! This is chapter three, as I have written previously on my page. This story is also up on AO3, so if you have the time, I would be thrilled if you could leave kudos on it! Please leave a comment; I would love to hear your opinions!

Love, Raven <3

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4 part 5

Chapter 3: The ball and its aftermath

When he picked up the videos again it was after he had spent some time with his friends. It had been a nice day by a lake near the burrow. It had only been his friends and him sunbathing, swimming, and eating. No crowd to scream for an autograph no memories of war old or recent. Harry couldn't stop thinking about the last videos he had seen and what could come next. So after a nice day spent in nothing but love, he went home and hyped himself up to watch another tape. He sat down and looked for the first tape in 1981. With the smell of sun and grass still in his nose and the warm touches and laughter of his friends fresh in his mind he started the tape.      “It is the 27th of October 1981.” She is sitting in a room that seems to be a bit dingy. 

Harry couldn't help but swallow hard with the closeness of that day. He knew it was bound to come up soon enough on one of these videos but he didn't expect it to come so soon. But what surprised him, no made him sick to his stomach was the sight of a tiny bundle in her hands.

Moonlight shines on her pale face which is covered in half-healed cuts. Her hair is pulled back in a loose low bun a few strands framing her skeletal appearance. She is wearing a black tank top again which shows her skinny frame the new and bright cuts and bruises on it and the disgusting black splotch that is the fading dark mark. Her skin is red and irritated around it like the tattoo is fighting back against the potion that is meant to make it fade out or she has been scratching at it again.

“Hi, Harry.” Her voice is horse and she needs a second to clear her throat after the initial hello. Her eyes look lost not knowing where to look but when they connect with the camera they look empty of the previous shine they had.

"So umm, let me address the baby in the room first." She looks down and suddenly her face is overtaken by a giant smile. She looks like her old self again. "Let me introduce you to your cousin, Elanna Circe Crouch. Our little surprise." She looked up then and lifted the baby towards the camera.  Elanna was sleeping peacefully like nothing ever happened like she hadn't spent the first months of her life surrounded by death eaters.

"Well, it wasn't easy of course before you ask. I didn't know I was pregnant for a while. Barty wanted to bolt immediately but we had to stay. If we wanted you and Elanna to grow up peacefully we had to finish it." She was staring at her daughter's face with such adoration. "After Cissy found out I wasn't allowed to participate in anything dangerous, The Dark Lord was delighted to have a tiny baby born into being a death eater, While it made me sick to my stomach. Of course, Cissy had Draco as well so Elanna would be the second baby but still." She took a deep breath before she continued.   

“So it is after the Death Ball. We did it, stole the locket, and escaped from the Manor.” She looks up to her right for a second and now you can see she is sitting next to a bed on the floor.

“We all got hurt, of course not Elanna. Some of us are in worse shape than others. Barty has been unconscious for the past two days, he got hit with Snivolluse’s new curse when we used the Portkey to protect the two of us, Evan and I could barely hold onto him, and he got splinched during travel too. He lost a lot of blood. We patched him up as best we could with what we have here on hand, Reggie is the best with healing magic but he is not half as good as Padfoot or Madam Pomfrey.”

She looks back to the camera once again the cuts making more and more sense as minutes go past and a story gets told. “Dorcas was cut as well, not as bad as Barty thank Merlin. Evan and I got out easy, with only a few bruises and cuts. Lucius fired the Cruciatouse at Reggie so that shook him up pretty good but other than that, we are alive at least.” She starts playing with the blanket around Elanna, a nervous habit.

“Lily and James are already at the safe house with you. I don’t know who the secret keeper is, I was gone while they left.” She swallows hard before she visibly hardens herself. “But I saw Peter at the ball. He was lurking in the kitchens hidden away from everyone stuffing his pig face.”

Her form starts to visibly shake now what seems to be with anger. “His sleeve was rolled up, he was sporting the Darkmark like it was nothing. Like he was proud of that thing.” Tears were rolling down her face but she angrily whipped at them to get rid of the evidence of hurt on her face.

“Voldemort went down there just as I was spying. My dreams weren’t only nightmares they WERE premonitions. I heard them talking. Reggie and I were sneaking away to the basement to get the port key to the cave with Kreacher." She paused, took another deep breath, and continued.

"I already sent Nolex out in his raven form. Sent the letter to McGonagall, with a vial of my and Reggie's memory of it. I don’t trust Dumbledore anymore, at least not as much as I used to. He is using you Potters for some stupid fucking prophecy bullshit. I heard about it at the ball. Voldemort was talking about it with Bellatrix and Lucius before we snuck away.” Her voice never rises above normal but anger and venom are thick on her tongue.

“I hope it isn’t Peter. Please Merling don’t let it be him.” Her head falls into her hands now and she takes a few breaths before raising it again her eyes are red and puffy from crying but the tears are gone now. “Moony and Pads had a big fight while I was gone. Kreacher ratted them out. Moony is away on one of his secret missions again and Pads is working directly under Dumbledor which I don’t like. And now that Prongs and I were out of the picture to keep the peace. Yeah, you can imagine the falling out they had.” 

Harry had heard about the fight before. It was during the war when he first got mixed up with the Order of Phoenix, Harry had been unable to sleep once again so he went down for a drink. Sirius and Remus were fighting in the kitchen late at night after everyone had gone to sleep. Low shouts and past accusations rang quietly through the room and the guilt of losing Wormtail and Voldemort coming back because of it made tensions rise high. His father and aunt had woken up as well and slipping past Harry the two stepped in and made everything better with gentle reassurance and calming words. His uncles were truly lost without these two. 

"The other girls are probably at Hogwarts although we haven't heard anything from them." She once again looked up at the bed which Harry now assumed held Barty on it.

"I hope Nolex reaches McGonagall fast enough." Tears started once again and she couldn't control them anymore. "I should have told her sooner. She would always believe me, but I was just so scared of her thinking I was crazy, just as Remus did." She rubs her arms in a self-soothing gesture staring at the ground.

"We can't leave Grimmauld, I can feel the dark magic outside. Someone is watching us, they are watching the house. They can't see it because of the magic but they know the house has to be somewhere here. Bellatrix probably remembers the street but we were always the ones bringing them inside. Aunt Walburga hated people knowing where she lived." She now looks more up to the side where Harry guesses the window could be. "

I just want everything to go back to normal." She looks back to the camera and slowly lifts her arm to turn it off. 

Harry had taken another break from the tapes.

He had a meeting with McGonagall about a possible job as a DADA teacher at Hogwarts and slept over at the Manor once more. It had been late at night and his mother had already gone to bed a few hours ago. James and Harry sat on the back porch of the manor with glasses of fire whisky.

"I found something interesting at Grimmauld." Harry started making James look towards his son. "Well, there's a lot of interesting stuff at that place." James was unsure where this conversation could be going. He knew there was a lot of dark stuff in that house and he truly didn't want to think about Padfoot's room and what he could be hiding in there still.

"I found a box of tapes from Auntie Whisk in her room and a camera." He said lowly swirling the ice around in his whisky. "Oh, she still kept those? I thought she would have thrown them out after the war ended." James put his glass down leaning back on his hands and staring up at the star-covered sky.

"Did you watch them?" He continues being afraid of the answer.

Whisk went a little crazy during the war.

She had to go through a lot of therapy to be her old self. Of course, the boys could never blame her, they all went a little insane during those times. But the torture she had to go through there was something none of them could imagine. Being able to hear every thought of everyone there being a legilimens at a place like that could have been horrible, not to mention her birthing a child into that place. "Yeah, I have about two or three more left. I'm at the one before that day." Harry's voice is quite like it used to be when he did something stupid as a child. "Oh." Was all James could respond with running his hands through his hair. "She knew it was Wormtail the entire time."

Harry continued staring at the ice in the glass. "You cannot blame her, no one believed a thing she said." James' voice sounded guilty as the words rang through the back garden of the Potter Manor. "She had told Moony about the dreams but by that point, she had gotten a little too, well how should I say this?" 

"Too Black?" Harry looked at his father now who only chuckled with a hurt smile on his face. "Yes, we can say that." He got quiet again for a few seconds before continuing. "You should watch the rest tomorrow. It's a happy ending I promise."

They both let out similar giggles as James shoved his son lightly. As their laughter died down and the comfortable silence blanketed them James sat back up and downed his whisky. Harry looked at his father curiously sitting up straight as well.

"Dad?"

His voice was soft as he scooted closer to him putting a hand on his shoulder. "Whisk saved our lives, and I never even really thanked her. I was just so relieved when Mad-eye and Minnie appeared and then the curse still hit you and we thought you were dead and yet you're here." James now turned to his son and held his face in his hands. "I could have lost you so many times Bambi."

His eyes were shining with fresh tears now and Harry could only deflate at the sight of his broken father. He leaned into him putting his arms around his waist and he just let his father hold him. And Harry would say it was only for his father that night but deep down both of them knew that it was just as much for Harry.   

[randomlyblues]

Yandere!Zane X Librarian!Reader

Part 1

CW:Mention of kidnapping not beta read 1.3k word count

You were on a cloud, melted into the soft fabrics, you didn't want to leave. After stirring a bit in your bed, the memories from the day before made you realize that you weren't home and this isn't your bed. The fabrics were made of the finest, it reeked of luxury. You quickly snapped up from the bed you were once relaxed in. "Good you're awake, you would have been useless to me dead," the mask man responsible for the position you are in at the moment spoke, calmly flipping a page from the book he purchased from you. The High Priest stayed by your side as you slept for the day, watching as you slept soundly while he wished the pillow you held was him. He made sure to put the guard that knocked you hard in the dungeon, he asked for them to knock you unconscious, not harm you.

 Zane didn't bother looking up at you as you slowly began to get off of the soft bed. “Hey, I’m sorry we must have gotten off on the wrong foot, I didn’t mean to offend you especially with that jok-” Zane raised his hand as a way to silence you. Your voice was laced with fear, a nice way to boost this powerful man’s already huge ego. “ Please, I am not easily wounded with jokes about myself, I am aware of the rumor said about me,” he spoke nonchalantly but also with power, still not looking up from his book. “Besides, my goal is to have you alive, you have knowledge.” 

“Believe me High Priest, I have nothing of use to you, I have never left Phoenix drop–”

“It's no use lying to me,” the masked man finally looked at you, his ice cold gaze can drive anyone to the deep end, “ You are originally from Pikoro village, traveled with your father who was a traveling merchant. Your mother dying from a mysterious illness leaving your father having to take care of you when you were the age of ten; soon he succumbed to the same illness as your mother. Later you found Phoenix Drop and have been there for about five years.”

After knocking you out, Zane took it upon himself to ask about you before his departure from the village. He was lucky that Phoenix Drop was pathetically trusting, and also lucky that farmer Brandon didn’t know how to shut up. If he wasn’t looking for information he would have had that man killed. Zane stood up from the comfort of the chair and towered over you, he stood as if he was proud about all the information he memorized about you. His eye looked back and forth to yours, trying to decipher your reaction. He was trying to see if you were proud of him, he was actually looking for your approval.

Your mouth hanged open in shock, soon your face distorted into disgust. “ Oh…wow… that’s actually very disturbing.”

Zane’s confidence was immediately crushed. Him? Disturbing? The guard must have hit you harder than he thought. He kept a mental note for that guard to get lashes as he is finished talking with you. “It’s called being informed,” the High Priest shut his book, causing you to jump at the sudden noise. “Now I will not tolerate any lying, I’ll let this one slide because you are slow as well as me having a certain…liking towards you.” He hesitated on the last of his words but non the less stayed standing and settled his book down on the desk next to the bed.  

Before you even got the chance to say anything about his confession Zane continued on, “That being said, don’t even think about using that knowledge against me, even if it would hurt me, I would have to punish you.” Zane held his hand out, causing you to walk back, your wide eyed expression caused him to stop. His hand turned into a fist and he walked out of the room with a slam of the door.

So many questions ran through your mind, especially the main one. Why me? You knew that Zane was serious about what he said, even if he does have some…romantic feelings towards you, you are not immune to his cruelty. “First, to find a way out, if it has been a day or a few that means we aren't far away. We can’t possibly be in O’khasis.”

Opening the door with a creak, the hallways were strangely empty with multiple doors. “An inn? “I’ve never been in an inn with fancy bedding,” continuing down the hall you notice fancy works of art on the walls, most with Lady Irene. Going down the staircase, the front desk was vacant, if there wasn’t a fancy room, you would have thought that this was abandoned. 

This was too easy. You looked through the curtained windows and saw O’khasis guards standing post in front of the building. Moving to the back, more guards. At every exit it seemed there were guards. “Great, this means I must take things into my own hands…Perfect just great,” you started patting yourself to see if they took your knife and they did even the one in your boot, “My Irene he thought of everything.” Sighing, you started to see if there was anything heavy you can at least knock them unconscious or start some ruckus. The nearest thing was a chair, it looked ancient, calling for you to take it out of its misery. “Worth a shot, as long as I can get as far as I can to know where I’m at.” 

With the backdoor being locked, you broke it off and pushed your way out and didn’t think twice and swang without looking. The guard fell to the ground with a thud.

 “Wow.. That easy? I feel insulted,” making sure the guard was unconscious, you started to loot him to see if he would have at least any money on him. “Score! This would last me for a damn good while!”

“IT CAME FROM OVER HERE!”

Crap. Running as fast as you could, you took notice of the village and realized that this was Meteli. Thank Irene I’m not that far from Phoenix Dop! 

Hearing the guards gaining speed, you decided to hide in the woods and waited for them to pass you. After a while, you continued to run towards the docks, hoping you remembered the way. Thanking yourself for staying in Meteli for a year or else you would’ve gotten lost. It was a nice town, besides the crazy chicken Shaman that was near. The trees guided the path as if nature was cheering you on. Seeing the glistening water, you laughed. Your breath was already getting ragged, legs yelling at you to stop, the side of your ribs felt like knives were poking at you. That couldn’t  stop you, it was there right there.

A boat was already there, wasn’t this such a lucky day. The grin that had just started to take place soon faded as you made eye contact with a certain piercing blue eye. Stopping where you were, you took deep breaths and glared at him. 

Zane knew blood was on his hands that he'd never be able to wash off. He glared at his darling, if you wanted to play cat and mouse. He would. There was nowhere for you to run and you knew that. He looked as you started to get surrounded. Zane nodded at his guards to obtain you. He ignored your cries and how you started thrashing at his guards as he got closer to you, face to face. 

“ I warned you–” Silence. Wet saliva slid down his face. He couldn’t believe it, you actually spat on his face. He started laughing while wiping away the spit. Your eyes were filled with fiery, face with a sly smirk. Zane couldn’t help but love that expression, that is for him, only for him. The hatred you have for him, the passion. 

“Guards, throw her into the dungeon on the ship, I think my pet got too comfortable.”