#anyway this might be my favorite piece from this week

[valeriannnn]

Don't think you did me any fucking favors.

Wolcred Week 2024 Day 3: Light | Darkness

[justwinginglife]

hello hello Hannah! Hope you’re having a great timezone!

So I read your fic for Jinshi since I finally started watching Apothecary Diaries the show has a tight grip on me now and I was wondering if maybe you could do something for Jinshi again if you feel up for it?

Can be whatever you want, full fic, head canons (although my one request would be to ask if it could be smut?) even that if you don’t feel like it then fluff is perfect too.

Thank you if you do and no worries if you don’t want to!

Helloooooo! I'm so happy you've discovered Apothecary Diaries! I apologize in advance, I know this was supposed to be smut, but I had too many good laughs writing this and it ended up lowkey being comedic material lmao. I love Jinshi. Anyway, thanks for the request, and welcome to the Apothecary Diaries fandom!

NSFW Warning

The Missing Piece

He had a dick.

He had a dick, he had a dick, he had a dick. Oh fuck, Jinshi had a dick. He wasn’t supposed to have a dick. But he had one. He had one and it was very big and it was very hard and it was pushing up against your butt at this very moment. You’d tripped and he’d caught you -at the cost of his secret- and now you were both planted firmly on the ground, one with a raging boner and one with a soaked cunt. And, GOD, was it embarrassing. You’d never once questioned that he was a eunuch, even with all of his flirting and flouncing around, but now you were very much aware that he was not, in fact, a eunuch AT ALL. 

You quickly pulled yourself off of him, cheeks flushed and underwear stained. You hurriedly excused yourself, spitting out a quick thanks for him breaking your fall, and then booked it the fuck out of there. You could hear him laughing behind you, but you paid no mind. You were too busy overthinking every encounter you’d ever had with him. All the times you’d poked fun at his lack of a member. All the times you’d whispered innuendos into his ear, teasing him with what you knew he couldn’t have. And now you’d been one cloth away from reaching home base with him after one stupid fall. And your stupid body had the stupid nerve to be soaked. 

If you could’ve avoided him for the rest of your life, you would’ve. Alas, a week was the best you could do, and even that was pushing it. In the rear palace, Jinshi was in control of anything and everything, and it was near impossible for anyone, least of all you (he liked to keep you close in particular) to take a step without him knowing about it. You could only plant so many obstacles to keep him busy, but you knew eventually he’d find you. Besides the fact that you were his closest confidant and most useful informant, reporting on all happenings within the palace as one of its court ladies (ranking high enough to have access, but low enough to be virtually invisible), you were also just his favorite form of entertainment and he’d damn near lose his mind if he didn’t have your company to cure his boredom. So it was only a matter of time until he caught up to you; the only real question was, when he finally caught you, did you ignore the massive elephant in the room or did you poke it with a stick? 

“You know I pay you to report to me, right? And I’ve not had a report for almost a week now. Wonder why that is.” A voice chimed out from behind you and you could almost hear his smirk. He was having too much fun with this situation. 

Your brow twitched. So the bastard was going to be smug about this? Fine. If he was relishing in the discomfort this was causing you, you might as well even the score. You plastered on a faux smile and turned to face him, giving him an obligatory curtsy. “Jinshi, to what do I owe the grand pleasure of your presence?”

He chuckled, amused at your fake show of manners. “Drop the formalities. It’s just us. You can speak freely.”

“You have a dick.” There. Now you were both uncomfortable. 

He choked on his own spit. He did say you could speak freely but you never failed to surprise him with just how freely you spoke. “...I suppose I can’t convince you it was nothing more than just my tunic bunching up?”

You snorted. “Jinshi, does your tunic have a tip? And does that tunic’s tip pulse?”

He let out a short laugh. “It appears I’m caught. Alright, I concede. I have a dick.”

You blinked. You hadn’t expected him to outright admit it. You’d expected to dance in circles with him, make him sweat a little, before finally wringing the confession from his throat. 

He could tell you were struggling with his sudden admission. It made him grin. “And before you ask, yes, I’ve had it since birth. I didn’t just glue it on.”

“Well, duh!” You spit out. What, now he had jokes?? Didn’t he know this was the stupidest thing to be joking about?? God, he drove you crazy. 

He seemed to be enjoying your reactions. He took a step closer to you. “Wanna touch it? Confirm its existence?” He teased.

If he wasn’t the most high ranking official here, you would’ve slapped him. You gave him a pinched smile. “Sure. I’ll touch it with my shoe, just let me wind up real quick-”

His eyes widened. “Wait, wait, wait! That’s not what I meant.”

Your brow twitched again. “Oh, I know what you meant.” PERVERT. You didn’t say it but he knew you were thinking it. 

He exhaled. “Okay, I think we got off on the wrong foot here. I’m just messing with you. How about we both just go back to the way things were before you found out? Yeah?” 

You wanted nothing more than to do that. Buuuut…. You couldn’t. How were you supposed to go back to falling asleep at his desk when you were too lazy to go back to your room, after a daily report turned into a lengthy strategy session? How were you supposed to go back to ripping the blankets off of him after he’d overslept and tugging at his clothes to try and change him yourself? How were you supposed to not overthink every time that he touched you, wondering if maybe he wanted to touch you longer, to touch you lower? 

You bit your lip. Did you even mind when he touched you? It’d never been an issue before. He was always fidgeting, always needing to play with your pinky under the table at a meeting, or needing to tug at your bracelet while he poured over paperwork, or needing to nudge your foot with his, and you never minded before, but would you mind now? Would you mind if he wanted to touch you differently, if he wanted to touch you urgently? Your cheeks began to grow warm. How had you never seen how you’d felt about him until he suddenly had a dick? Were you that shallow? God, you hoped not. Of course, you’d always thought he was attractive objectively (though you’d never tell him or he’d gloat for ages), and his company was at times pleasant to enjoy (and you’d never tell him this either or he’d never leave you alone), but maybe you’d never seen him as a love interest before because he wasn’t someone you could settle down and start a family with. But now, what if he was?

And it didn’t help that he wasn’t taking this seriously. He was teasing, he was taunting, he was downright torturous. It seriously made you want to slap him.

But right now, he was looking at you like you held the world in your hands. Like his world might collapse if you didn’t agree to going back to what you were before. Like he might lose something precious to him if you didn’t. And you didn’t want to overestimate your own worth to him; after all, you might just be a useful pair of eyes to him at the end of the day, but the way he was looking at you now made you feel like something to him, even if it was barely something. Did you want to be something to him?

He broke the silence. “You’re not going to ignore me for another week, are you? Please don’t, I can’t take it.”

God, he couldn’t just say stuff like this. It made you want to kiss him and stay by his side forever. “I won’t.” You said finally.

He exhaled. Then he grinned. “Good, cuz I need my favorite plaything.”

Oh, this asshole. “You know what? I’ll touch it.”

His smile dropped from his face. “Wh-what?”

You smirked, stepping dangerously close. “You asked me earlier if I wanted to touch it, right? Sure. Let me cop a feel.”

He swallowed and backed up a few steps. “I was j-joking. I wasn’t serious…”

“Oh come on. Pretty face like yours. I’m sure you must’ve done it tons of times before; it’s not like this is anything new to you. And you must be pretty pent up, working in the rear palace. I’m sure you need to let off some steam, right?” You purred, trapping him against the wall with your next few steps. 

His eyes widened when his back hit the wall.

You almost wanted to stop, you weren’t even sure where you’d found the nerve, but it was like he’d lit a fire within you and it was too late to back out now. “Jinshi…” You murmured, before trailing a hand up his thigh. 

“Wait! I’m a vir-” Your hand trailed up his length and brushed across his tip. In an instant, the front of his tunic was soaked. He slid down the wall, gasping for breath as he collapsed on the ground. “gin…” He finished through panted breaths, head arching back to rest on the wall as he rode out his orgasm. It wasn’t like he’d never touched himself before, but you touching him was something completely different. 

You pulled away suddenly. “You’re a what??”

He laughed, half exhausted and half ashamed. “Caught me. I’m a virgin.”

Oh shit. You dropped to your knees in front of him, and bowed low to the ground. “I’m so sorry! I was only teasing, I didn’t know you were a virgin. And I sure as hell didn’t think you’d…you know…” 

“Come on my clothes?” He offered weakly. 

Your cheeks filled with crimson. “Yeah. So did I… I mean was that your first… did I take your…?” You swallowed, completely unable to finish your sentence.

He laughed again and you were glad he could laugh because you certainly couldn’t. “I hardly think brushing across it counted as my first time. At least, I’m not counting it. So you didn’t take anything. And it’s not like I haven’t touched myself before, you know.”

You scrunched up your nose. “Ew- okay, I did not need to know that.”

He grinned and leaned in close to your ear. “In fact… I’ve done it a couple times to you.”

Your breath hitched. 

A low chuckle rumbled in his throat. “Don’t think you’re the only one who can play the teasing game. I bet you wanna know what it’s like when I’m touching myself to you, yeah?”

Before you could protest (you weren’t sure how you’d protest anyway; it was suddenly very hot in here and your throat was suddenly very dry), he had his cock in his hand, precum drizzling over his fingers, mixing with his previous messy release. If you hadn’t just seen him come a minute ago, you would’ve thought he’d never gotten off a day in his life, with how painfully swollen it looked, veins engorged along his rigid length. 

Your previous assessment of him from the few seconds you’d spent in his lap turned out to be completely correct. He was huge. And you were drooling. Without even realizing it, you’d reached a finger out to dance over his tip. He hissed and bit down on his lip to keep from coming again.

“You’re such a tease,” He groaned. 

Before you could pull away, he seized your wrist and pulled you into his lap. You landed exactly where he wanted and exactly where you hoped you wouldn’t. But there was no denying how good it felt. Especially when he began to thrust his hips upwards to meet you with delicious friction. 

You let out an involuntary moan.

He inhaled sharply. “God, the sounds you make…” His hands found your hips, holding you tightly in place, like he thought you might try to make another escape before he could get off again. You wouldn’t, not this time. Not now that you knew how good he felt.

You matched his rhythm, grinding against his erection in a similar fashion. 

His eyes widened when he realized you were giving in to him. “Fuck…” He pulled you in for a kiss. It was sloppy at first, desperate. Too much tongue and then too much teeth, like he didn’t know how much time he had before you wanted to stop. When you wrapped your arms around his neck, sighing against his lips, and settling yourself closer to him, he finally relaxed, realizing you wanted this just as bad as he did. 

His lips trailed a bruising path down your neck, painting his desire for you in pinks and purples across your skin. 

“Jinshi…” You murmured, arching your head back in pleasure. 

“I don’t think…” He pressed another hungry kiss to your collarbone, “My name has ever sounded so good…”

When his hands began to undress you as his kisses made their way lower and lower on your body, you finally stopped him. “Wait, wait.”

His brows furrowed. “What is it? Change your mind?” 

You shook your head quickly. “It’s just… do you really want your first time to be with me?”

His gaze softened when he realized what your concern was. “And why wouldn’t I want it with you?”

“Don’t people usually save their first time for someone special?”

“They do. So I guess I’m in the clear.”

“I-what?”

“You are someone special-” His lips found the curves of your breast and you shivered, “-to me, you’re special. You’ve always been special.”

“Jinshi…” You whispered in awe. You’d hoped to be something to him, but you never would’ve dared to dream you’d be this. 

“If you want to stop, we can stop. But tell me now, or I won’t be able to hold myself back.” 

Your hands tangled in his hair, tugging his head away from your chest. When he looked up at you in surprise, you pressed a deep kiss to his lips. “Do I look like I want to stop?” You gasped out.

He chuckled. “Whatever you say, princess.”

He laid you back on the floor, resting you on top of your discarded dress. For a moment, he just stared at you, taking in your beautiful, naked form beneath him.

“Don’t tell me you’re all talk.” You teased. 

He scoffed, but his eyes were sparkling with amusement. “Can’t I just look at a gorgeous woman for a moment?”

“Not if she’s naked and cold. Better warm me up quick, Jinshi, or I’ll find someone else to take my first time.”

His eyes widened. “Wait you… you’re a virgin?”

Your cheeks darkened. “Well, I’m about to not be a virgin in two seconds, so hurry it up please.”

You thought he’d laugh at you but all he could do was smile like a kid on Christmas. He smiled like you held the world in your hands and his heart right beside it. It made you want to kiss him. So you did. You pulled him towards you and buried him in your lips. And he lost himself in you, tongue finding yours eagerly, like he wouldn’t stop until he couldn’t tell your taste apart from his. You were so love drunk and sky high, you almost didn’t realize he was lining up to your entrance. 

But your lungs nearly collapsed when you felt him spear through your eager entrance.

You groaned, loudly. 

He stopped abruptly. “Did that hurt?” He started to pull back out.

“Don’t you dare.” You hissed, wrapping your legs around him tightly and yanking him back to you. 

He gasped as he sunk deeper into you, your cunt swallowing every hardened inch of him greedily. “Princess…” He whined and it nearly killed you.

His head rested on your chest as though he didn’t have the strength to both hold himself up and thrust into you at the same time. His thrusts were carefully measured, like he wasn’t sure how much you could handle. Like he wasn’t sure how much he could handle. 

“Jinshi, look at me.”

He lifted his head slightly, innocent eyes meeting yours. You’d never seen his eyes so pure before. So in love. It was like looking into your own eyes. Because you were sure you were looking at him the exact same way. 

“I can take it.”

He looked away.

“Jinshi. I’m serious, I can take it. I need you.”

His head whipped back up to you, eyes darkening as he took in your words. “You need it, huh? I suppose if you need it…” He spread your legs wider, and before you had a chance to breathe, he snapped his hips forward, driving himself balls deep inside you. You yelped and it only encouraged his speed. One of his hands braced itself on your hip, while his other hand reached up to intertwine with yours, pinning it to the ground. For how roughly he was fucking you, you found the gesture strangely romantic.

Sweat and arousal drizzled down your trembling legs as he continued his assault, and he took it as a sign of your satisfaction.

You could tell he was getting close, because he started murmuring the sweetest nothings to you as he pistoned in and out of your dripping cunt. 

“I… fuck… I love… I love you…fuck…” He panted as his pace quickened. 

“I love…you too…”

His eyes widened as though he hadn’t expected you to reciprocate. Suddenly he yanked his cock out of you and keeled over to the side, hips bucking wildly at the air as hot ropes of milky cum shot out of him in wild spurts, staining the ground. 

As he rode out his orgasm, you suddenly felt the urge to cover your mouth with your hand. He raised a curious brow at you. Then he heard your muffled laughter and his cheeks flushed red. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… it’s awfully romantic that my love confession made you come.” You teased.

He pouted slightly but then a devilish look crossed his face. “I wouldn’t be so cruel to the person who holds your release in his hands. You still haven’t got off yet, right? I could just hover you on the edge of an orgasm all night.” To prove his point, he spit on two fingers and drove them deep inside you.

You inhaled sharply. “Jinshi!”

He smirked and curled his fingers, hitting your g-spot in a teasing manner before quickly withdrawing, opting to play with your clit instead. 

“Fuck!” You groaned, exasperated at the absence of his fingers.

He grinned deviously.

“I said all night, didn’t I?”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I'm calling in sick tomorrow."

"Well, I hear your boss is exceedingly handsome and even kinder too, so I'm sure he can make an exception for his favorite employee."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Taglist: @pixelcafe-network @ouiouimochi @inkytypewriter @minasfwoopyponytail @ectopodl3 (just tagging you cuz we were talking about this fic)

[xinganhao]

miscommunication too much communication 🗣️ soonyoung x reader.

an expansion from svt x reverse tropes. dedicated to @totomoshi, my love! ♡

FROM THE ORIGINAL POST

it's a little too hard to keep up with the string of confessions bursting out of soonyoung. the whiplash is dizzying, how he's going from talking about the way he felt when he first saw you, the crush that's been festering for weeks, the dream he had of you last night— and, oh, now he's on his knees. "soonyoung, please get up," you urge, horrified, but he stays on the ground. "isn't honesty the best policy?" he asks, eyes blown wide with overwhelming sincerity as he looks up at you. "c'mon, give me a shot! please, please, please!"

soonyoung who spams you with texts throughout the day. doesn't matter if you're on 'do not disturb'. he will hit that 'notify anyway' option, regardless of whether the text is load-bearing or not. you're lucky to get less than 20 texts in a day. his personal best is somewhere around 159 in a single day, which he's rather proud about.

soonyoung who will keep you on facetime for a minimum of three hours. he'll have you on call the entire night if he can manage, up until he gets that notification that his percentage is below 20 percent. waking up to the snoozing blonde on the other end of your long-forgotten video call is no longer a new sight.

soonyoung who will talk, and talk, and talk to you, no matter where you are. in a cafe? his hands are flying around animatedly as he gives you a play-by-play of his day. on the couch of your apartment? even better— he'll be playing all cute, trying to cuddle up in your personal space as he literally chats your ear off.

soonyoung listens as much as he speaks. you might think he doesn't, but he has a mental catalogue of every little thing you throw his way. a passing comment about your favorite candy as a child. that long-winded rant about an acquaintance you can't stand. he knows your coffee order, which shade of nail polish is your favorite, the songs that always make you cry. he is a wikipedia page of all things you.

soonyoung who is honest, because that's part of 'too much communication', isn't it? it's not quite bluntness; it's transparency. he's always gentle when admitting that you've hurt his feelings, or that he's been feeling a little lonely, missing you a lot more lately. one look at his face and you can already tell what he's about to say before he says it.

but you never have to guess. there are no mind games with soonyoung. he will dull the edges if he has to. he will agonize about how to break it, but he will break it to you, because he values the truth just as much as he cares for you.

soonyoung who is struck dumb when you confess to him, when you give him that piece of your heart that he's been patiently waiting on. he had imagined this moment; practiced his reaction in the bathroom mirror, even. he thought he'd be cool. maybe a bit suave. thank you. tell you that he reciprocated. instead, he finds himself robbed of every single thought clanging in his brain.

soonyoung is a man of many words, and yet you make him speechless.

› scroll through all my work ദ്ദി ˉ͈̀꒳ˉ͈́ )✧ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ my masterlist | @xinganhao

[rexomi]

Something something. Making Solas a liar in Veilguard actively brings back a problem they fixed working on Inquisition.

On December 20 2019 VGS posted an interview with Trick Weekes about their work on Solas. This whole sentence is a link so its large enough for mobile but also disclaimer this is before they changed their name so deadname warning.

Here's a transcription I found here which is where i took the screenshots above. Since I know not everyone has 40 minutes to listen to an online radio interview.

I however highlighted the main point since most of you are not reading the screenshots anyway but skimming through. Rant under Read-more. Also bc i try to not be too negative on people's dashs but also i wanna ramble some more.

"But he lied a lot more. And it really weakened his character."

You can tell this happened during the game. Solas lies only once within Inquisition. He says something he can't be vague about and you push him so he lies, badly. He usually tells the truth vaguely. Typically Solas lies no more than Blackwall.

I fully believe that if in Inquisition your inquisitor figured out that Solas was Fen’harel and asked him bluntly to his face he'd confess. He might even be impressed. But why would you ever start to think that. No one assumes that their coworker is actually Poseidon regardless of how much they love the beach and ocean.

He hides in your expectations.

You can't ask him about being an ancient elf or being Fen'harel of myth because those aren't very probable. They're astronomically low to be truth within that universe. And outside, no one finished DA2 and went i wonder if one of our next companions is the Dread Wolf. Sera said, impossible things can't be surprises. He doesn't have to lie so when the truth comes out it's becomes obvious on a second playthrough.

They then actively bring back a problem they fixed in Inquisitions development. That they were open about fixing. That having a character that outright lies to you makes you have no intention of even hearing out the character. It retroactively undercuts Inquisition bc i see people trying to find Solas' lies in it when they aren't going to find any beyond the court intrigue.

It undercuts any lore we do get from Solas bc people dismiss it outright as being a lie from Mr "I abhor blood magic". I feel like shaking people's shoulders like no, dont do it.

They retconned him guys i have proof from 2019.

And its like if you hate Solas is this even satisfying? Like that's not Solas. His motivations are gone (that's a whole other post) and so is his core personality trait. It's like they went here's the Dreadwolf but during the ten years they replaced the smug asshole who was insufferably right with a 20 yo senior chihuahua that doesnt have any teeth.

My favorite villains are those that tell the truth. Because nothing hurts more than the truth. Can you imagine if he told you the truth. If he told you horrible things that you dismissed as lies to only be true. Wouldn't Varric’s death have more weight if he told you Varric was dead only for you - for everyone - to see him in the Lighthouse. If it was a spirit who took his shape to help you or even because it saw something worth reflecting in your memories.

So you dismiss him until it's revealed near the end oh he was telling the truth and you have an oh shit maybe he was right about other things but its too late to try and stop any of the truths he told you which could be from allies/companions betraying to stuff about Ghilan'nain and Elgarnan.

Like the only way to redeem Solas was to listen to him and by going out of your way to address problems he sees and you can find the alternative to tearing down the Veil by a series a little puzzle pieces throughout the game.

Have it be he will only listen to you if you listen to him. That he'll reject your other solution bc why the hell would he trust you if you couldnt extend the same.

Like Solas couldve been a great villian and he should've been great for both the haters and those that liked him. Not only the romance but for those who became his friend. Like i keep coming back to if i hated Solas would i be satisfied with Veilguard.

And the answer is no because that isnt Solas.

Tricking him has no weight bc he's an idiot in Veilguard like not even in the ending bc doesn't notice you switch the dagger around like right in front of him but none of his actions make sense. Ppl have mentioned the regret prison makes no sense for Elgarnan and Ghilan'nain bc they don't have regrets.

Attacking Solas has no weight because he literally needs the shit kicked out of him by a dragon for it to even begin to work. They literally need him to be at deaths door before its realistic that Rook could take him in a fight.

Redeem has no weight bc of the massive retcons to his motivations. They had to retcon the post credits scene bc even if Flemythal went hey i don't want you to do this Dai Solas wouldve went okay but that doesnt solve my other problems with the veil including the corruption of spirits and the fact its in literal shambles so i guess is still coming down.

I'm just disappointed. By the end of Trespasser they had a great villian and they just tossed it to the side and reverted him and people are arguing about a character who's sole defining trait in Veilguard is a problem they solved before Inquisition launched.

Basically we can sum it up with a screenshot.

[copinghex]

3:00 a.m in Birmingham | T.S

Summary: Tommy's wife has trouble sleeping and resorts to a method he disapproves of. As usual, he tries to solve this issue in his own ways.

A/N: I stopped frequently reposting old works because I thought "oh, I'm gonna work on new stuff now," and then I didn't. Anyway, this is one of my favorites

Tommy sighed in relief as he found her car parked in front of their old house at Watery Lane. He's been looking for her for hours and although her whereabouts weren't exactly mysterious, Tommy couldn't stop his hands from trembling with the possibility of her being gone.

The house was dark as usual, even if they had enough money for it, none of the Shelby's saw the point of paying for electricity for a house they barely went to, the only electric light came from the betting shop, since the business place was closed for the day, the house only counted with the light from streets that shined through the windows.

Thomas walked from each to each room looking for his wife until he finally got to their old shared bedroom. She was sitting on the bed staring at the wall, arms resting on her knees while her hands played with a bottle of something he couldn't identify.

"I thought you didn't like this bedroom," Tommy drawled, holding himself from scolding her, she might not be physically injured, but he knew she wouldn't run away if she was alright.

"I don't, it's too small,"

"Yeah, I don't like it either," Tommy agreed and sat by her side, "so we shouldn't be here,"

She peeked at him by the side of her eye and brought her hands near her chest, trying to hide the label of the bottle, "I needed a place to relax,"

"Oh, why didn't you try a spa?"

"Because in case you haven't noticed, it's three in the morning, we must be the only people awake in Birmingham," she humorlessly chuckled, "well, perhaps with exception of the night shift workers,"

"Right, but why here in all the places?"

"...It was our home for many years, I thought the feeling of familiarity would help me relax, help me sleep,"

Tommy arched his eyebrows at his wife's answer, she had problems sleeping for some time since the business started to grow and brought some consequences, but for the last few years he could swear she's been sleeping well, she's been even able to convince him to try to rest.

"You should see a doctor," he spoke softly with a bit of humour, usually, she was the one suggesting that.

"Nah, all doctors are children of rich people who don't actually care about people," she bitterly spat, it was an honest belief of her, however, there was another reason why she refused to see a doctor.

It was because she already did, during the busy weeks Tommy was barely home, she managed to sneak a doctor into the house and the diagnosis wasn't pleasant, stress was keeping her from a well-deserved night of sleep and the recommendation was to absent herself from any stressful situation. Well, being married to Thomas Shelby was very stressful.

She thought of taking a break, perhaps going on holiday with the children, every time Tommy got home though, he seemed to need her more, business related papers, loneliness, a stress relief, she filled all the gaps Tommy turned a blind eye through the day, because he was always sure she'd effortlessly fill them for him.

He needed her, he told her that many times, mostly not verbally, but the way his tired eyes bored into hers when he got home from work, the way his hands pulled her close to him and how he seemed lost when she didn't greet him at the door left no doubts, together with whiskey, opium and cigarettes, she kept the broken pieces of him tightly tied.

Hell, she knew the best she could do for herself was to leave him, Tommy was unstoppable, he had no limitations or limits, he'd never rest and he lived something near fine with it. She was different, she didn't mind doing paperwork or looking after the broken man she called husband, but she needed assurance things wouldn't fall apart at any moment, she needed to sleep knowing her empire wasn't built on unstable land and that was something Tommy couldn't offer.

Trying to solve this impasse, she bought sleeping pills, the strongest she could find. They worked well for the first two years, eventually she became immune to the effect, increasing the dose wasn't an option anymore either, it'd probably make her overdose instead of sleep.

Now, she was sitting near the cause of her insomnia in the old bedroom they shared, refusing to confess the true reason for her sleepless nights.

"What 's that?" Tommy suddenly asked, eyeing the bottle in her hands.

"Nothing,"

"Show me," he offered his hand for her to give him the flask.

"No,"

"What is it? A secret? Show me," he tried to take it from her hand and she pushed him away, "what the fuck are you hiding?"

"It's none of your business, did you come here only to bother me?" she complained.

"Worrying about you it's bothering now, eh? Give me that fucking thing," he forcefully took the bottle from her.

She pressed her lips together as Tommy read the label, "Did the doctor give them to you?"

"No,"

"Who did?"

"I bought them,"

"With whose prescription?"

"Nobody's, Tommy! I just take them to sleep,"

"These are fucking strong, did you take all of them?"

"Yeah,"

"How long have you been taking these things?" he frowned, insisting when she didn't answer, "Hm?"

"Two years,"

"Two fucking years? Does a doctor know about it?"

"What right do you have to scold me, Tom? Do you think I can't smell opium on you?"

"It's not the fucking same, these can be dangerous,"

"Oh, and yours are not?"

"For fuck's sake," he sighed and stood up, adopting a scolding posture, "why didn't you see a doctor?"

"I don't like doctors, Tommy,"

"Neither do I, but I'd see one if you asked, I know what I'm doing, it's what I always did, you got these pills out of nowhere and hid them from me,"

"I never hid them from you, if you got to bed a bit earlier you'd have seen me taking them!"

"Argh, sorry for not keeping an eye on you, you know I have so much free time," he said ironically, "why don't you go around saying how much of a bad husband I am?!"

"Well, I wouldn't be lying, would I?" she snapped, "I went to a doctor, Tommy! Do you wanna know what he told me?! To stay away from stressful things, but guess what? You stress me out, being by your side is stressful!"

Tommy gulped, assimilating the words his wife just told him, he was not by any means surprised by them, he knew it was all true, but he never expected her to throw them on his face like this.

"...you're with me by choice, if you're not happy, leave," his tone of voice was calm, but there was a dangerous challenge in it. After so long together, she doubted Tommy would accept a divorce, it was certain that when she died, the name Shelby would in her grave.

Besides, leaving Tommy was not her true wish, except for the lack of sleep, her life was comfortable, her child went to the best school, she wore the best clothes, drove the fastest cars and drank the best wine. Also, her love for Tommy was undeniable.

"I don't want to leave you," she mumbled, watching Tommy's tense expression change to relief, "but I need to sleep, I need to be alright so I can help you to be alright,"

"I don't want you to be with me for pity," he sat back down.

"It's not pity, I wouldn't be here if it was," she hesitated for a second before confessing, "I love you,"

He weakly smiled, still looking shaken by her previous harsh statement, Tommy always thought of himself as a not good enough husband, now she just crossed all the lines and defined him as a bad one.

"Tommy," she whispered, "nothing in this world would make me leave you, you won't get rid of me so easily,"

"Nothing?"

"Nothing, not even my sleep craving body,"

Tommy nodded, humorlessly chuckling, he stood up and took the car's keys from his pocket, "Let's go then,"

"I came with my own car,"

"I'll tell the driver to bring it home tomorrow, c'mon,"

As Tommy made the way to his car, she followed after him. It took a few minutes until they got on the road.

Tommy drove slowly, at this hour there was no one in the streets but them. The darkness of the night would have consumed the scenario if it wasn't for the car's headlights.

Despite the engine's noise, she relaxed, the car smelled of cigarettes and Tommy's cologne, it was a familiar scent and she felt safe sitting beside her husband. However, the unknown road Tommy was taking strokes an alert light in her head.

"This is not the way home," she warned.

"I know, I've thought of going somewhere else first," Tommy answered, secretly with no idea of where he was driving to, he only knew it wasn't home.

"Where?"

"You'll see when you get there,"

"I can't keep secrets from you but you can keep secrets from me?"

"It's not a secret, it's a surprise,"

"Tsk, I don't believe you set up a surprise at three in the morning,"

"Better believe,"

As the world got silent, she rested her head on his shoulder, allowing her eyes to close and her arms to wrap around his.

"You know, only this time I'll let you put your feet on the seat," Tommy spoke softly.

"Oh, such a gentleman," she took her heels off, "where are we going, Tom?" she peeked the road through her heavy eyelids.

"Right now I'm trying to find a rotary on the way home,"

"Where the fuck are we going anyway?"

"Just wait and see,"

"Go on, Tommy, quit the mystery,"

"Be patient, love."

She sighed in frustration and made herself even more comfortable in the car seat. The shakes caused by the bumpy road worked almost like motherly lulling.

Tommy's plan went exactly like he expected, his wife fell into deep slumber, this time without the need of any pills.

[stickyspeckledlight]

Tidal Cesspool [Yan!Chrollo x GN!Reader]

Chrollo brings up your favorite literary genre in a typical conversation.

WC: 3.6k

Tags: n0nc0n mention (chrollo hasn't done anything yet, but there's...there's just a VERY brief mention), potentially a bit OOC *sweat*, borderline crack at the end

Note: Ngl I think there's an ask which covers this crack scenario. However I can’t find it but this silly lil thought was still plaguing me so here we go. If I’m not hallucinating, then don’t fault me for the “plagiarism…on accident [which I will fix immediately]” (Somerton, 2020). IF anyone knows abt such an ask then pls put it in the reblogs. Anyways this wasn't necessary I just wanted to put in a plagiarism joke before the fic starts lel

Anyway here's chrollo being a pretentious shithead who should just go and die or something (ngl sometimes i can't help but think he's shalnark expect he tries to pretend to be a gentleman lol).

enjoy my yandere comedy piece <3 xoxoxoxoxo

There is something inane to the way you stare up at the ceiling. You're sprawled over the couch like a sea star, waiting for the tide to come take you.

However, the air continues to waft over you. Continues to prick at your skin, tangling your hair and stinging your eyes.

But you're stuck to your rock. You can't move from your tide pool to the nearshore, much less the deepest of depths, even if you wanted to.

It's not because of your own attachment to the rock walls, however. Rather...

"Deep in contemplation again, love?"

A hand keeps you pressed and trapped against it; a hand that currently runs down the leather spine of a book that you think he's been going through for about a week. Probably about this or that; but most likely, a word salad of pretentious philosophy he’ll use to justify his usual fatalism and/or the Troupe’s actions. Taking after his name (which you’re convinced he must’ve chosen for himself), he does play the devil’s advocate well; but you’d say his ability to twist words to suit his own needs is much, much more impressive. And annoying. But begrudgingly, impressive all the same.

You only wish you weren’t on the receiving end of it.

Chrollo regards you with a patient smile. Joy doesn’t reach his eyes—even if he was capable of such an emotion, he’s irritatingly good at concealing his emotions—but he can never fully mask the hunger that crinkles his eyes; crinkles, like a wolf’s snout, right before it tears into prey. It's the only reason you believe in his insistence that you're of some interest to him. You don't believe in that interest being 'love,' as he likes to say, but you're wholly assured in being a passing, if not intense, interest. Like being enamored with a new show, movie, or game. For a bit, it'll be all your life is defined by, etched into the sand, but eventually, the tide will come back and wash it away like it was never there in the first place. Only truly precious things can be engraved in rock.

For him, only the Troupe is engraved there. And you'd be a fool to think you would be there, too.

The couch shifts. Chrollo's closer to you, his hand barely a pace away from the edges of your hair. Though it tries to beckon, you only ever feel repulsed by it.

...That said, if you only try to delay the inevitable, the inevitable will become much, much worse. And if he gets in a bad enough mood, he might suction you to his chest come nightfall, rather than his usual trick of the room's temperature coincidentally dropping to where cozying up to his warm body would be nice, so why wouldn't you do so? Well, nice, if you disregard the fact that it's Chrollo's body, and not someone you actually like.

You roll over with a grimace, looking up at him from where you lay. You don't bother to sit with him eye to eye yet, and soon enough, you look straight ahead. All you see are his legs and the rest of the couch.

"And I thought you were deep into that book," you unenthusiastically respond, tracing patterns into the cushions.

“Quite,” he admits, “But few things match your level of salience.”

Salience? Really? “What’s with you and talking like a book? Talk like a person, please.”

“But you understood what I meant,” he breezily counters, “Seeing as you are my only present company, it follows that in this rhetorical situation, I need only ensure that you understand me, love. And in that, I have succeeded.”

You frown, “Oh, for Christ’s sake. Not this again.” You would normally bury your face in your hands, but given your position, you bury it in the couches. Sure, he’s technically not wrong, but goddamnit if it doesn’t annoy you. You thought hearing stuff like that was far behind you, with the completion of your required writing and communication classes all the way back in college…

“You’re admonishing me, yet here you are taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Says the guy whose last name is a letter off from Lucifer. Shouldn’t you be alight with exuberance?” You suppress a sneer at your own mocking mimicry.

“I never claimed any moral superiority before, though. I’m only stating facts, love,” the book is set down on the couch, next to your head. His hand inches closer. It’s a sign for you to get up.

As you rise, he continues.

“If you have complaints about my language, then you should watch your own…that’s all I’m trying to say, love. I'm not contradicting myself.”

You grumble. “I’m only saying you should talk more…casually. More normally. Swearing is a part of that.”

“Ah, but I am speaking to you like that,” Chrollo tips his head, “Casual and normal are both subjective. No two people will have the same definition of them. My and your speech are wholly normal, both from our perspectives.”

“Not from my perspective. You've always been a weirdo.”

He challenges, “Even if I cared about what was ‘normal’ or not,” his fingers entwine with yours, despite everything, “I wouldn't call your situation...normal. Do you think 'normal' applies here?"

Now he's just deliberately pushing your buttons. Raving on from some weird, philosophical ledge, twisting out technicalities to craft arguments the average sociologist would drool over. Maybe you could appreciate it more if you were the academic type, but you were never really interested in that scene. Most of what those types talk about just seem too abstract, too pedantic (pretentious) to be of any use at all. Whenever you'd overheard some of the sociology majors (either kids with no idea about what they wanted to do, or kids with parents too rich to let them fail---though, that's not to discredit the kids with a loose screw or two. You actually like those kids, but those kids also talked normally), you'd end up scoffing to yourself and rolling your eyes. You swear that those kids were doing everything in their power to use as many big, weird nobody-could-find-anywhere-besides-the-annals-of-a-dictionary words as possible to describe something that could be more easily described as "power activate many monkeh brain, so monkeh fight."

It's exhausting, and you want him to stop. At least---at least stop pretending that there's some sort of deep meaning to be twisted from this, and not just what the situation really is: "an obsessive psychopath kidnapped and imprisoned you and is trying to make you obsessive for him too because he has no capacity for real love or care."

"Whatever," you mumble, already drained. It's not a response; your response would've been begrudging agreement, followed by you sulking and him preening (even though he never seems to have to try too hard to win an argument against you; but you think it's just because he likes the overwhelming power and 'superiority' he holds over you).

No, you just want him to shut up. In an ideal world, his mouth is either sewn shut, or its not there at all. Actually, the latter would be truly ideal, because if that were the case, he would've died from dehydration hours after leaving the womb.

But, that's wishful thinking. Even when he has you stuck against sharp rock, he never resists the urge to twist his palm, grinding you impossibly closer to it.

"So you don't care about what's normal or not after all?" Chrollo muses. You bristle as his grip firms up. As you feel sharp rock edge on puncturing your skin. "That's a curious change of heart."

You groan, "Chrollo---" you swear he glows "---it doesn't matter. You can talk like some sort of cult member or something for all I care. Just because I'm annoyed at your weird pretentious hoity toity thing doesn't mean you'll stop it, considering the circumstances." You feel even more heated, and take a deep breath to try and quell it. A bit of shame creeps up your cheeks regardless, though. You're getting worked up for the worst, useless reason. Even if Chrollo egged it on, even if you hate him, even if you're just lonely and want to di---you're getting worked up over so, so, so little. "Just...just chill out or something, man."

(Or is that just his manipulation creeping into your thoughts?)

"But it's indicative all the same," He hums. His smile has dropped, leaving behind the blank expression wholly characteristic of him (the only expression that looks like it belongs). Now, he did little to hide his observation. He prowls out in the open, right below the overhead sun. Perhaps it's a contradiction, given his profession, but you understand it as sheer, almost lackadaisical confidence. "If you're able to drop your conviction so easily, even for something as small as this," his hand raises so he can rest his chin on it, leaning forward in thought. He does not let go of your hand. "Then it stands to reason you could drop the conviction that has you refusing me."

You don't mention Chrollo's many, prior claims that you'd give into him, eventually. There's no need to, because from the look in his eyes, you're both thinking about those exact same claims. A futile pursuit, he called it.

And you know? It's true.

But if you've gone this far with futility, then there's no reason to not indulge in it for as long as you can.

"Just because I get annoyed with your conversational meandering doesn't mean I'll just suddenly get all kissy wissy with you," you snap.

"You're getting caught up on the macroscopic level. Today was just a microscopic display, no?"

Despite yourself, you feel heat returning to your cheeks. To your heart. Your whole body, really.

"As if. There's nothing redeemable about these circumstances."

He'll probably cheekily mention your use of room service, curling into the luxurious bedsheets---things like that. Expected things. Actually, things that have already happened, because he really likes mentioning that. It serves its purpose of pissing you off.

He doesn't say any of that, though.

"Are you sure?" he raises an eyebrow, "I was sure you’d enjoy this kind of situation."

Anger spikes in your heart. You realize in the back of your mind its bait, that he's trying to draw out this exact reaction, but emotion already courses through you. Maybe it's because you're so shocked that he didn't go the route you were expecting---or, or---

"Me? Enjoy?" You bitterly laugh, because what else can you do in front of such sheer audacity? "Wh-what," you sardonically chortle, "The kidnapping? Losing my friends, my family---my life?!" And oh, oh no, tears bead at the edges of your eyes--- "How you---how you force me to be with you, to---to kiss you---" the words are hissed, "just so you don't massacre the people I actually care about?! And---and even then," you swallow a lump, unpleasant scenes of sufferance and cruelty unwillingly passing through your mind, "You'll just kill other people anyway?! Steal, plunder, kill, massacre---" your mouth runs with words now; your mind feels too white, too raging hot to string together coherent sentences---

And Chrollo wears that patient fucking smile.

“Love,” he blinks languidly, fluttering his eyelashes, “Are you sure you aren’t lying to yourself?”

"Why would I be lying?!" You snap. Your hand now has a vice grip on Chrollo's, which he simply responds to by drawing circles on it with his thumb. It only incenses you more. "What, annoyed that I can't be your happy little doll of your fucking fantasies and, and---"

For the first time, a chuckle rumbles in his chest. Somehow, it makes you freeze. It sends a shudder up your spine, and though you still shake with unreleased anger, it's forcibly tempered. It shouldn't be. Chrollo laughs during your conversations often. Before everything went to hell, he'd laugh with and for you. After everything went to hell, he laughs at you. Nothing boastful, of course; Chrollo's a reserved man to the greatest extreme. But it's always small. A slight rumble through his chest, a huff accompanied by a smile, and a chuckle in his throat. They're much different than the laughs with or for you---sometimes they were chuckles with a smile ear-to-ear, or even boyish giggles---but they ARE the closest thing to 'genuine' you think you'll ever be able to get with him. You hate them, but you've developed some defense mechanisms against them. They don't happen often, but when they do, you tend to be able to largely ignore them.

But what's so different about this laugh? You don't know, but something about it feels meticulous and planned. It feels---

It reminds you of the day he took you. It reminds you of all the times you've unwittingly sprung a trap.

Now that you think about it, Chrollo's smiled more in this conversation then he has in entire weeks.

"You used to ask me what kinds of books I read," Chrollo calmly starts, lifting his head to raise his book up. You did, but ever since that fateful day a few weeks ago, you haven't bothered.

"And?" You spit.

"Aren't you still curious?" There's a twinkle in his eye. It tells you that there's no choice but to be curious.

You don't want to take it. You're not going to give him the clean segway he surely wants. If not, prefers.

"No," you sneer, "I've got no interest in what a murderer likes to read. Like I said, if you want some nice little doll, go somewhere else."

"If I wanted a doll, I'd have killed and displayed you somewhere," he flippantly replies. You don't think he's serious (you think maybe it's a joke, as cruel as it is), but you can't tell at all. "What I want is you."

"Oh, so then, the 'me' you want is one locked up and currently miserable?"

"You catch on quickly," he teases. He chuckles at the glower you give him.

You think you're bleeding from the sharp rock.

"Since we both understand this, then you should know I love nothing more than some conversation, darling," Chrollo sweetly says. Sweetly, as in a weird, perverted approximation of it. You would've fallen for it before, but you don't anymore. Can't, anymore. "You haven't engaged with my interests for a good while. It worries me about the state of our relationship. Don't you think so?"

He delivers the words lightly, like a soft spring breeze, but the subtle threat doesn't go unnoticed. You feel like you're being plunged into sharp rock directly, now. Like you're being placed on a series of pikes.

"Ok, ok, ok," you breathe---you still want to scream, but maybe Chrollo's patience has started to wear, and maybe if you don't play along with his stupid little game, maybe he'll do something to you you'll really, really hate. Even more than being spooned by him in your sleep. "What are you reading? ...Chrollo."

Chrollo regards the tome in his hands almost tenderly. Almost dearly. Like a treasure. A priceless one, even, and not just something to admire before pawning to the highest bidder.

"Why don't you see for yourself?" He offers it toward your bloody, pinned hands.

You gingerly accept it, and when you do, he finally lets go of your hand. The tide still hasn't come for you.

You start to read. But you quickly notice...perplexing things. The language seems too...too normal, too casual. Not the sort of thing you'd expect to be printed in this sort of fancy leather bound book. It's not bad, of course. The prose is solid, the imagery magical, and the dialogue vivid; but it's just so...understandable. And familiar, but you can't quite place your finger on it.

Then you come across a name, and you swear you've just lost a good 10 years of your life.

“What…” a cold sweat forms on your back. Should you laugh? Should you cry? Should you rage? What are you supposed to do but ask? What CAN you do but ask? When this whole conversation---when you've been put on edge over this fuc---

“Shal has a way of tracking down info even I can't match,” he explains, running his hand over the paper, “Before his help, I never would’ve thought…” his eyes lock onto yours with a devious grin, “You had this…interest. It was a pleasant surprise."

You want to scream. You'd love nothing more than to take his head and slam it into the ground over and over---you'd love nothing more than to scream into the couch and flail your arms and legs with revulsion---you'd love nothing more than to laugh until you're blue and choking.

"H-how," you choke, "The book. And just. This. How'd you---how'd?"

"I went to a bookbinder," he explains. "I'm quite happy with the results."

Your eyes are wide. "...How long? How long did you know?"

"Long enough."

You're too mortified to be properly offended by the non-answer.

The bastard went to a bookbinder so he could physically behold the copious amounts of yandere fanfiction you consumed.

You look over at him helplessly.

"It's a fairly niche genre," he explains, like you aren't currently going through the five stages of grief, "But above all, fascinating."

Someone should just kill you.

"You've been so resistant to loving me because I stole you away. Yet, for years, you've taken escapism in these narratives of the unwilling 'darling' and doting lover."

Doting lover? That's what Chrollo is using to describe the person who imprisons? Who quashes any semblance of individuality out of a person whose only crime was being loved by the wrong person?

The leans in. "Rather than being my fantasy, don't you think you're the one living out a fantasy? I certainly never fantasized about this; of being at the mercy of someone powerful who chooses you to covet." His eyes rake over behind you, where the spoils of his recent heist lay, "Well, I never fantasize for long. I take before I drown in escapism, as you so gladly chose to."

"N-no," you weakly defend.

"No?" He hums, "But there's everything. You, unsuspecting of a charming man, who eventually betrays your trust to whisk you away. And yes, you fight. But...you aren't truly threatened. You are surrounded by all manner of luxury---even if you say you don't like it. Deep down, you're happy you're away from the life that's been giving you all manner of grievances."

"Don't tell me you can't differentiate fiction from reality," you stammer. "Why the fuck do you think just because I read about it meant I actually wanted it?"

"I didn't," he admits, "How long do you think I've had this book anyway?"

...A week or so, you think. After he took you. But he could've read a ton beforehand and only had his favorites binded. You just glare up at him in lieu of an answer.

"It doesn't matter," you raise your hands and let them fall unceremoniously, "The fact that you've read all of this makes everything worse. Maybe I shouldn't be surprised given the whole murdering thief thing, but I'll never not be surprised at just how depraved a man you really are."

"Depraved?" He smirks. That's not a good sign. "Darling," he pointedly says, "I'm not sure how much more depraved I can be than someone who gets raped vicariously through transformative fiction."

Humiliation punches you in the gut.

You choke. "If---if you---" you feel heat rise to your eyes, "You don't let me even have silly little secrets," you helplessly breathe, unable to say anything but the first thing that came to your mind when you read that damning name, "You can't let me have anything of my own."

"Not necessarily. You possess a portion of my heart." A lesser half than the one belonging to the Spider, you'd bet.

"And I'd be happy to relinquish it."

"It really does put a lot of things in perspective," Chrollo ignores you, attention turning back to the accursed book you have half a mind to tear, "How, sometimes," his eyes become lidded, "There's a small part of you that wants to give into me."

"Bullshit," you spit, reflexive more than anything, "A bunch of stupid fanfiction doesn't tell you shit about me."

"Clothes maketh the man, as they say. I imagine a similar principle applies to fiction."

"Have you even heard of---" you bite your lip, "Well, sometimes really good people read stuff that isn't deemed good or vice versa. I hear there was an artist who painted lots of cottages, but was a horrid drunk in real life. My favored sorts of stories doesn't inform my desires, and with you, I desire to skedaddle and never see your face ever again."

"Your most common tag is Stockholm Syndrome." He hums. "Say what you will; about the barrier between fiction and reality, but it tells me that, at least, a small part of you is...receptive."

You groan. "You do realize you sound like some weirdo pearl clutcher with that line of logic, right?"

"I'm not speaking in absolutes, love," he preens, "Merely that it's not remiss to consider you have some semblance of an agreeable predisposition to all of this."

"You---you're just," you want to scream, you want to tear out your eyes and ears and--- "fucking delusional and I---"

You don't realize you're heaving until a hand is placed on your shoulder. The ice it sends down your spine is enough to freeze over the fire of rage, embarrassment, and humiliation fueling you.

"Often, when people read," he begins, "They envision themselves as the perspective character while they do so. They try to feel what they do, and think as they do. Given the genre's heavy use of the second-person perspective, it's safe to say you were able to do that with ease."

"So, if that's the case..." he doesn't smile, not anymore, because there's just no need,

"Why don't you start eroding that barrier, now that the real thing is in front of you?"

It's going to be a long time before the tide comes back, you think. Until it does, you've nowhere but this cesspool.

ㅤㅤ Works Cited

Hbomberguy. “Plagiarism and You(Tube).”

Youtube, 2 Dec. 2023, youtu.be/yDp3cB5fHXQ?si=KsUuykgb8Xswn_he. Accessed 26 Mar. 2025.

Somerton, James. “James Somerton Stream .”

Youtube, 11 Dec. 2022, cant.be/botheredto?si=findlinkonwaybackmachine.. (qtd. in. Hbomberguy, Plagiarism and You(Tube)) .

plagarism joke after the fic 🔥

(it'll be off on mobile i think RIP)

[grenadehearts]

hi hi! saw your post for more plus sized reader fics and i thought i might put in my two cents in…

what if reader and kirishima (mha) went out thrift shopping and they reader finds a piece of clothing (top, bottoms, dress anything really) that they really like. but when they try it on (or maybe they buy it and then try it on at home) it doesn’t fit the way they thought it would, and they’re super bummed. (you know since you can’t size up at a thrift store)

essentially more of like a comfort read with clothes and body image

let’s just say that this sort of thing didn’t just happen to me earlier today and i’m not asking out of personal experience wink wink

anyway hope you have a lovely day 💖 (love your fics btw <3)

comfort in your words of praise. e!kirishima x plus!size!reader

authors note: this took me forever to write i've been going through such a writing slump, i have so many ideas of things to write but no little time or motivation, ugh i just really hope i start to feel like myself again, just so burnt out lately. again not my best work at all so very sorry <3 masterlist link here.

You had dragged Kirishima to your favorite thrift shop—a quiet, family-owned place downtown, free from wannabe influencers and Depop resellers snatching up all the good finds. It was late in the evening when you arrived, both of you struggling to find free time between classes and hero work. But after plenty of begging, your schedules had finally aligned.

Nestled between bustling storefronts, the thrift shop was a cozy haven, its windows glowing with swirls of rosy orange. You were practically bouncing with excitement, a mischievous glint in your eye, while Kirishima stood beside you, slightly concerned. He had never seen you this thrilled before—but hey, you really loved thrifting.

Grinning, you tugged him inside, gasping in delight every few seconds. “Kiri, look at this!” you exclaimed, grabbing a thick gray cable-knit cardigan before moving on to flowy floral dresses straight out of a shoujo protagonist’s wardrobe. Kirishima chuckled, watching you flit from rack to rack like a kid in a candy store.

Then, you saw them—a vintage pair of light-wash, low-rise jeans with just the right amount of wear. They were perfect. You could already picture them paired with that black lace tank top you bought a few weeks ago. With a self-assured grin, you made your way to the dressing room—only to find it closed. Your excitement dimmed instantly. You hesitated, staring down at the jeans. Sizing could be so unreliable, especially with your curves. What if they didn’t fit?

Still, you really wanted them. And there was Kirishima, all muscle and a reassuring grin, giving you an enthusiastic thumbs-up. That was enough to convince you.

You bought the jeans, exchanging warm smiles with the elderly couple at the counter as their shop lights bathed you in a soft amber glow. Kirishima grabbed the bag for you, and together, you stepped back onto the street, the sun now saying goodbye to the sky, bathing it in soothing gold and crimson hues.

Back at the dorms, you wasted no time dragging Kirishima into your room, pushing him onto the edge of your bed. “Sit,” you ordered before rushing to the bathroom to try on your new jeans. You wiggled into them eagerly—only to stop short when they refused to go past your thighs.

Your heart sank.

You tried again, tugging harder, but it was useless. The sizing was way off. You felt utterly deflated as embarrassment creeped right in behind it. How could you have been so sure they’d fit?

Minutes passed, and Kirishima, full of concern, knocked on the door. His rough knuckles tapped lightly against the wood. “Hey, you okay in there?” Then, with a teasing laugh, “Didn’t fall in, did ya?”

You cracked the door open just enough for him to see your face—makeup smudged from frustrated tears, raccoon-eyed and miserable. Kirishima’s expression softened immediately. “Oh… Oh, baby.”

Before you could retreat, he pulled you into his chest, his arms strong and steady as you buried your face in his limited-edition Crimson Riot shirt, leaving behind streaks of mascara.

“They didn’t fit, Kiri,” you mumbled between hiccups. “I was so sure they would. I’m so stupid for thinking—”

“Hey,” he interrupted, pulling back just enough to cup your cheek. “Clothes are meant to fit you. You aren’t meant to fit clothes. You know that, right?”

You let out a dramatic groan, storming over to flop onto your bed. “You don’t get it. I’m bigger than all those girls, and every day the internet is pushing some new diet or impossible beauty standard. The second you catch up, there’s a new trend making us insecure again.” Your voice wavered. “I’m so tired.”

Kirishima was by your side in an instant, wrapping you up in his arms, rubbing your back in soothing circles. “You’re beautiful, baby. Don’t listen to that crap. Half the time, it’s just some shitty guys who’ve never even felt the touch of a woman dictating how they think you should look, so not manly.. Manly guys would never dictate a woman's body. I bet Even their moms are disappointed in them.”

You snorted into his shoulder, your giggle muffled against his shirt. He grinned, pressing his forehead against yours. “I need you to know you’re perfect. And tomorrow, we’re going shopping for new jeans. Ones that make you feel good.”

You pulled away slightly, eyes shining. “Really?”

“For you? Of course. We can even check out that new boutique that just opened.”

Your eyes widened. “Kiri, how did you know about that?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I heard you talking about it with Mina, so I hunted her down and asked for details. I was planning to take you there anyway… was supposed to be a surprise, but, y’know.”

Overwhelmed with excitement, you jumped up, nearly tripping over a pillow in your haste. You flailed for a second before catching yourself, laughing breathlessly as Kirishima quickly reached out, ready to steady you.

He let out a nervous chuckle. “Whoa there, you okay?”

Without hesitation, you launched yourself at him, sending him sprawling back onto the bed with a soft “oof.” His hands instinctively landed on your hips, his face going bright red as you beamed down at him. “I’m gonna give you the biggest smooch ever.”

Kirishima swallowed thickly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Please?”

[ms-snape]

Snape propose reader right after end of the war. She is like.: You are alive ? But she say yes anyway.

Title: You're Alive

Warning: Kinda depressed reader....

Words Count: 1700+

A/N: Girllll, your requests are literally my favorites to write

Masterlist

---

It had been months since the war ended, but for Y/n, peace never truly came. While the rest of the wizarding world began to piece itself back together, she was trapped in a ceaseless cycle of grief and loss. Her days became repetitive, like a cruel loop, each one identical to the last, and every morning, when she forced herself out of bed, felt like another small act of survival. There was nothing left for her but the weight of an unspoken goodbye, a farewell she had never had the chance to utter.

Severus was dead.

The words echoed endlessly in her mind, like the tolling of a death bell. When she had first heard the news, it hadn’t felt real. It had come from Minerva, her voice soft and laden with sympathy, eyes full of sorrow as she delivered the news. Y/n had stood there, numb and silent, as Minerva explained what had happened in the Shrieking Shack. Severus had died alone, his body found hours later among the debris and bodies scattered across the battlefield.

He was gone.

For days after, Y/n had simply wandered through life like a ghost, unsure of where to place her grief. She barely remembered the days following his death—the endless condolences, the quiet murmurs of pity. The world continued to move around her, but it had lost its meaning. There were times she thought the grief might swallow her whole, that the crushing weight of it would pull her down into a pit she would never be able to climb out of.

She stopped seeing friends. Stopped talking to the people who reached out. What was the point? They couldn’t give her back what she had lost. She spent most of her time alone, secluded in her small cottage, where the silence was only broken by the occasional rustle of wind through the trees. The space she had once loved now felt like a tomb—its quietness amplifying the hollow ache inside her.

Her only solace came in the routine. Each morning, she rose before dawn, despite the ever-present exhaustion that clung to her bones. She would make herself a cup of tea that she rarely drank, then head out to the greenhouses. The plants there didn’t judge her, didn’t expect anything from her. They simply grew, day by day, providing her with something to nurture, something to keep her hands busy.

Tending to the plants had become a way to distract herself from the constant ache. In the quiet of the greenhouses, she would lose herself in the familiar rituals—watering, pruning, checking for pests. She would kneel in the dirt, feeling the earth between her fingers, grounding herself in the life that persisted around her. It was the only thing that seemed real anymore.

She remembered how Severus had once stood at the edge of the greenhouses, his dark eyes watching her as she worked. His expression had been unreadable, but she had known, even then, that he found some strange comfort in seeing her amidst the greenery, her hands busy with life. He never said as much, but she could always sense the unspoken bond between them, the way he softened just slightly in her presence.

But now… there was nothing. Just the emptiness where he used to be.

As the weeks passed, the numbness gave way to something darker—anger. How could he have left her? How could he have gone off to fight in the war and not come back? It wasn’t fair. She hated him for it, hated him for being so brave and selfless, for choosing to sacrifice himself when she had needed him most.

And yet, even in her anger, she missed him with a ferocity that bordered on madness. The memories of him consumed her—his quiet, sarcastic remarks, the way his lips twitched ever so slightly when he found something amusing. She would catch herself sometimes, expecting him to walk through the door, to hear the familiar creak of the floorboards under his boots, only to be met with silence.

The nights were the worst. Alone in her cold bed, she would lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment they had spent together. She longed for the warmth of his body beside her, for the steady rhythm of his breathing in the dark. But those moments were gone now, like a dream she could never return to.

As time wore on, the others began to accept Severus’ death as an unfortunate but necessary casualty of war. They moved on. They rebuilt their lives. But Y/n couldn’t move forward. She was stuck in the past, trapped by the memory of what had been and the unbearable weight of what never would be.

It was a stormy evening when the impossible happened.

The rain had started in the late afternoon, a slow drizzle that steadily grew into a downpour. Y/n had finished her work in the greenhouses early, her head pounding from a persistent headache. She trudged through the rain, not bothering to cast a spell to shield herself from the wet. What did it matter? Nothing really mattered anymore.

As she approached her cottage, something caught her eye—a figure standing near the front door, half-hidden in the shadows.

For a moment, she froze, her heart stuttering painfully in her chest. She squinted through the rain, trying to make out who it could be. Her mind immediately leapt to the worst possibility—had something else happened? Was someone here to deliver more bad news?

But as she stepped closer, she saw the unmistakable silhouette of a tall man, his dark robes billowing slightly in the wind.

Her breath hitched.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Severus?” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain pounding against the ground.

The figure turned, and in that moment, her world shattered and reassembled itself all at once.

It was him.

Severus Snape stood before her, alive and whole, his dark eyes staring at her with an unreadable expression.

She felt as if the ground had been pulled out from beneath her, her knees nearly buckling under the weight of the shock. She had spent months mourning him, months believing that he was gone forever. And yet here he was, standing in the rain like some ghost returned from the dead.

“You’re alive,” she breathed, her voice trembling with disbelief.

He nodded, his face pale and gaunt, but unmistakably real. “I am.”

For a moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her hands shaking violently. This was real. He was real. But how? Why hadn’t he come to her sooner?

“I—I thought you were dead,” she managed to choke out, her voice breaking. “I… I thought you were gone.”

Severus’ expression softened slightly, a rare crack in his usual stoic demeanor. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “I didn’t mean for you to think that.”

Y/n shook her head, her emotions a chaotic storm inside her. She didn’t know whether to scream at him or collapse into his arms. Anger and relief warred within her, and she wasn’t sure which one would win.

“I waited for you,” she said, her voice barely more than a whisper. “I waited… for so long.”

Severus stepped closer, his dark eyes never leaving hers. He reached out, hesitant at first, then cupped her face in his hands. His touch was warm, solid, and the reality of it sent a shiver down her spine.

“I’m here now,” he said softly.

Tears welled up in her eyes, the dam breaking after months of holding everything inside. She had been so strong, so determined not to let the grief consume her, but now, with him standing before her, the weight of it all was too much to bear.

“I thought I lost you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion.

Severus’ thumb brushed away the tears that slipped down her cheeks. “You didn’t.”

They stood like that for a long moment, the rain pouring down around them, soaking them both to the bone. But neither of them seemed to notice. The world had shrunk to just the two of them, the space between them charged with the weight of all that had been lost and found again.

And then, as if spurred by some unseen force, Severus reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small, simple ring. Y/n’s breath caught in her throat as he held it up, his dark eyes flickering with something she hadn’t seen in him for a long time—hope.

“I should have asked you this a long time ago,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But… will you marry me?”

For a moment, Y/n couldn’t breathe. The question hung in the air between them, heavy and full of meaning. She stared at him, her mind racing, trying to process everything that had just happened. He was alive. He was asking her to marry him. It felt surreal, like a dream she was afraid she might wake up from at any moment.

She didn’t answer right away.

Severus’ expression shifted, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. He lowered the ring slightly, his grip tightening around it. “You don’t have to say yes,” he said quickly, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I understand if—”

“No,” Y/n interrupted, her voice firm despite the tremor in her hands. “No, I just… I need a moment.”

He watched her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of rejection. But Y/n wasn’t rejecting him—far from it. She was just trying to wrap her mind around the fact that the man she had mourned for months was standing here, asking her to spend the rest of her life with him.

And finally, after what felt like an eternity, she nodded, a small, teary smile breaking through her grief.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Severus’ face softened, and without another word, he slipped the ring onto her finger. It was simple, elegant—just like him. And as he pulled her into his arms, Y/n let herself collapse into him, her tears mixing with the rain as they clung to each other like lifelines.

For the first time in months, Y/n felt something other than grief.

She felt hope.

[tartagliove]

7:00pm

who knew that being friends with Kaveh meant befriending his friends—including the General Mahamatra?

cyno x reader ✧ 1.2k words fluff, mentions of a minor injury

If someone told you three months ago that you would be a regular guest at Kaveh and Alhaitham’s home, you would not believe them. But after working on a project with Kaveh, you have been slowly introduced to his friends, including the General Mahamatra. 

Cyno was intimidating and stoic at first, eyes of flame piercing through you. You struggled to talk to him, even in a group setting. His stoicism has not left, but you’ve learned to read him and are much more comfortable in his presence now.

Which is why you and Cyno are sitting across from each other at the living room table, stomachs full from dinner with your friends. Kaveh, Alhaitham, and Tighnari have moved into one of the studies to discuss something, but all your focus is on the Genius Invokation TCG cards and dice spread across the table. All the game pieces belong to Cyno. After you had asked him to teach you his favorite card game a week ago, he carefully curated a deck for you to start playing with so you could discover what playstyle you like before buying cards to form a deck of your own.

“I’ll use three Cryo points and have my Kaeya attack your Pyro Fatui agent with his skill.” You push three elemental dice toward the center of the table, then look up at Cyno. “I can do that, right?”

He inclines his head. “That falls within the rules of the game.”

“Oh, good.” You move to withdraw your hand, but Cyno’s eyes narrow and he quickly reaches out, fingers wrapping around your own. He pulls your hand toward himself, making you stretch a bit awkwardly over the table. “C-cyno?”

“You’re hurt,” he says. “What happened?”

You look down at your hand, held in his warm grasp. Dirty bandages wrap haphazardly around your pointer and middle fingers, tied in a messy knot at the end. Under Cyno’s sharp gaze, embarrassment makes your face hot at the sloppiness of your work.

“I scraped my knuckles while working on a project,” you tell him. “It was a bit hard to bandage everything up with only one hand.” 

Cyno lets go of your hand at your explanation. “I see.” 

You sit back in your chair, noticing how your hand suddenly feels colder. Blowing  out a breath, you look at the card game before you. “Anyway, it’s your move.”

Cyno is quick to have his Diluc card attack your Kaeya. But when you start thinking about how to retaliate, he stands up. “I’ll be back,” he says to the wide-eyed look you give him.

“Okay,” is all you manage to respond with before he leaves, walking into the study. You can hear his steady voice interrupting your friends’ conversation, though you can’t quite make out the words.

You try to turn your attention to the cards in front of you. There aren’t enough elemental dice with the right elements for you to use your cards’ special attacks, so…what was it that Cyno said you could do? You don’t remember. Sighing, you gingerly cross your arms on top of your cards and rest your head on them. Your eyes flutter shut.

“If you’re tired, we can end the game here and continue another time.”

Cyno’s reappearance surprises you into jolting upright, messing up your cards. You look down at them with a pout on your lips. “Yeah… I think I might need to head home and rest soon.”

Instead of sitting back down across from you, Cyno settles right next to you. He places a wooden box onto the table and flips open the lid, revealing a collection of bandages, small jars of salve and medicine, and cleaning alcohol.

“Wait, what-”

Cyno doesn’t let you fully express your confusion. “I’m dressing your wounds properly,” he states. He holds your gaze, unwavering stare letting you know that he will not budge on this.

You can’t help but squirm a little, eyes flickering away as you lift your hand and rest it on his outstretched one. His hand is warm and rough, calloused and scarred from all the battles he’s fought. Yet he is gentle as he unwraps your bandages, cleans your cuts, and carefully spreads a healing salve over them. 

The salve stings, but your attention is drawn to his long eyelashes as you study him. They cast a slight shadow onto his cheeks, although his bangs partially obscure one eye from view as he looks down at your hand. From the slight furrow between his brows, you assume that the limited vision bothers him. 

Without fully thinking about it, you brush his bangs back with your free hand, tucking the hair behind his ear. He looks up at the action, warm orange eyes meeting your own.

“I was just- you looked annoyed about your hair being in your eyes,” you explain. Your face burns under the indecipherable look that Cyno gives you.

“It did not bother me,” he says as he unravels a spool of bandages from the box. His fingers are nimble, deftly wrapping the white strips of cloth around your wounds in tidy loops. “I was concerned about your injuries; they’re worse than I thought they would be. You are skilled at your work, but please take care. If this happens again, tell me. I will bandage your wounds for you.”

Butterflies dance in your stomach. “O-okay, Cyno. You did take care of my cuts better than I could.” Looking down at your fingers, neat knots tie the two ends of each bandage together, ensuring that the cloth will not loosen as you work tomorrow. “Thank you,” you tell him softly. Then, because you don’t know if your heart can take any more of this—of being so close to him and tended to like something precious—you stand. “I should head home now.”

Cyno dips his head in acknowledgement and releases your hand. You immediately feel colder. He stands as well, tilting his head toward the door. “It’s late. Let me escort you home.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, you don’t have to do that! It’s only a bit after seven, and others are still here, after all.”

He shakes his head, grabbing his cloak from the back of his chair and sweeping it over his shoulders. “I insist. I will return later for my cards.”

Cyno, abandoning his Genius Invokation cards to walk you home? That is something you never dreamed of. Yet it makes you indescribably happy for reasons you are not quite ready to admit to yourself, so all you do is smile helplessly at his adamance. 

“Alright then,” you say as Cyno opens the front door, falling in beside you as you step out on the lamp-lit streets of Sumeru City. “Thank you for walking me home.”

Cyno acknowledges your thanks with a nod of his head. He stays by your side all the way to your home, where he waits to hear the lock turn behind you in your front door before he returns to Alhaitham’s home. As he walks alone, all he can think of is the feeling of your hand in his own.

He’d like to feel that again.

requested by @auraxins for my camping event. reblogs and comments are much appreciated!

[aethelwyneleigh27]

Crinkled Polaroids

Ex-boyfriend!Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Hi my lovelies, Lia here and I'd just like to say that this took so long and so much effort, I really poured my heart out on this one and I hope it goes well. Recently my biggest heartbreaks are the "What ifs", what if you two worked it out? Would things be different? Would Simon have the life you've dreamed for the both of you and the one he's been deprived of?

You might be asking me "Lia, what's up with all the angsty content recently, aren't you a fluff dedicated blog?" Well I feel ill, I just got off an extremely busy week and most of my drafts have been never ending angst because I lost ideas of a domestic fam with Simon but I still need to get something out for you guys okay? A random bedtime scenario written down at 3am and for the rest of my midnights during a photoshoot and exam week, what could go wrong?

I'm still waiting on what my beloved @connorsui's review has to say 👀

Disclaimers/Warnings: This is not proofread, also ANGST.

My CoD Masterlist

Taglist: @wishesforyou @puff0o0 @simping4konig @simp4konig @blingblong55 @azereus @rustic-guitar-notes @shadofireshinobi @thesnowurzikdjinn @09maruchan @anonymuslydumb @skeletalgoats @icarustypicalfall @ghosts-cyphera @fawnchives @connorsui @capuccino192 @miss-gms-and-the-rotten-womb @celestialhole @the-second-sage @starryylies @everlastingmoonlightsworld @keiva1000

A relationship with Simon Riley going south, at first it started great as most relationships do with several minor bumps due to his past but no big deal right?

But Simon distances himself, more than what's healthy and yes, you do give him his space but there's only little time until closing and distancing off for a while could turn into something like neglect.

Little things like "I love you"s, "thank you"s and every verbal affirmation that you used to think you could cling onto was now non-existent, it hurts but isn't as hurtful when he refuses to touch you.

Back hugs you give would only give you a cold shrug in return, kisses you left were on cold chapped lips that remain still. At this point, you were better off loving someone dead.. then again, aren't you already doing so?

The life you've imagined for the both of you cease to fade in your head as the true reality of the man you love sets in, that dumb idea your younger self who had rose tinted glasses had to actually settle down with someone in such a short period of time of a few years.

You felt so unappreciated, it seemed like no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get him to see you. You felt cheated of the relationship you were supposed to have with him when you see others with the one you love and how he acts around everyone except you. You felt like nothing but a chore to him, an occasional fuck who cleans his home.

Then again, this is a broken man, you felt entitled to ask such a thing of him when he himself is also just healing from what his past had caused.

In Simon's eyes, he was doing you a favor, fucked up in his part thinking hurting you is the best way to save you from himself. It worked, that's what he wanted.. right?

So you leave, it was best for the both of you anyway right? Simon deserves someone who could actually make him happy and you deserve to feel loved in a relationship. Simon's life was a mess, truly, but he didn't realize how much more of a mess it was without you.

Coming home to an empty shell of a house, nothing to look forward to. He found himself almost on the brink of insanity, moving things all over his own home as if you were still there.

Always finding himself staring at that one wornout and creased polaroid of you and him, you were a silly one huh? A hobby of yours that left so much proof of your existence.

Begging him to be in a picture, bribing him with a kiss. Slightly smudged and distorted but still legible pen ink at the back as he flips the flimsy piece of thick, shiny paper.

Keep him safe for me, Ghost.

- Your favorite girl <3

You always thought of him as Simon and Ghost as just an alter ego, a mask that he needs to wear in order to stomach the violence that comes with his occupation.

You were the only one who can differentiate these two people. Tears started to form in his eyes but he blinks it away and shoves the polaroid back in his wallet.

He only started noticing changes when Johnny points out that he's become stone cold, a lot more silent, though he was known to be a ghost.. a shadow.. it wasn't like him to not even try to light up his mood with his dark jokes.

Everytime Simon thinks he gets over the pain, there's always one thing in that stupid house that reminded him of you. You weren't there but it sure felt like that you haunted every corner of the house and his mind.

Whether that'd be something you gifted him or an item of yours left behind, especially when the two of you shared moments with those items, oftentimes Simon tries to relive those, preserve his fading memory of your face.

This is what happens when the decisions you make have consequences on the one that your world revolves around.

A few years down this lane, nothing has changed for Simon, at some part of this never ending low point in his life he was under substance abuse.. alcohol to be specific, since to him it was easier. In concern of his captain, he did get help for it to which had progress.

Ghost kept it together, "today was a day to celebrate Gaz" he thought, blowing out the nicotinic smoke and flicking the ash off his cigarette after.. he knew Ghost's thing was more of a "let's drink and play pool in a pub" rather than a sit-down dinner kind of guy but Kyle insisted.

He thought about how awkward it was, although Ghost felt like he knew Kyle's family just from the lovesick fool himself who would never shut up, always finding a way to talk about his wife and their two kids.

After another puff, he throws the cigarette butt on the pavement and grinds the sole of his shoe over it, the soft hiss for the cigarette evoking, proving it was put out.

Simon walked a few blocks till stopping at the Sergeant's described location, his footsteps made smooth, satisfying taps on the wood floorboards of the porch and he knocks.

Price took liberty of being the one to open the door for Simon because the family was busy, Simon walked through the front door with ease, seeing Johnny somewhat interacting with a kid.

He was welcomed by the a cozy looking space, it was homey and clearly occupied, the shoes lined up on the shoe rack next to the door from the largest pair to the tiniest which was such a far contrast from his empty gloomy apartment.

The kid caught glimpse of Simon, they run up to him and take his hand to guide him into the living room as of to welcome him before bringing back their attention to Johnny and somewhat messing with his stubby mohawk.

The lieutenant observed his surroundings, the little toys and picture frames hung around the house, for a moment his heart drops to his stomach, he blinks thinking he must've been imagining things. Simon walked closer to it, he wasn't imagining it.. that was you, in a wedding dress, in the photo with Kyle.

You looked glowing.. as if you've never looked better in your life, that heart stopping smile on your face, the flowery bouquet on your hands. The green of stems highlight the precious metal band on your finger. Of all the people, places and time, why here? Why now? Why Kyle..?

For a few seconds, just a few when Simon thought his nerves and gut settled, he heard the sweetest voice that was all he knew.

He forgot what it sounded like, the effect it had on him, all too overwhelming for a man who tried desperately to run away from the consequences of his actions. I guess that saying that once you don't hear someone's voice as frequently, you start to forget what they sound like.

For once, the ringing in his ear is gone. Just your voice, all he needed, he closed his eyes for a few soaking in the fact that you're here. For a moment he forgets to take into account that you weren't his. You and Simon make eye contact, the smile on your face drops as soon as you realize who is in your home.. who your husband invited..

Dinner came around, you tried your best to stomach the food you made, every swallow was a challenge. You spent most of your time staring at the food below you, afraid to even spare a glance at Simon. He was as uneasy as you were, telling the group he had to go to the bathroom as an excuse to explore what you now view as your home. The place you built your family together with your husband.

Simon uses the stealth he was known for to sneak in all the rooms, starting with the closest, the kitchen. The pictures on the fridge were enough to catch his attention, polaroids were something he was all too familiar with. Photos of the kids littered on the cold metal box with magnets others were of you and Kyle.

Everywhere he glances was proof of the life you built, the life you could've had together if he hadn't taken you for granted. Simon returned to the table a few minutes later, you easily notice the sudden drop of his mood to solemn.

Constantly closing his eyes, the lieutenant's head was spinning, taking in the fact that Garrick was able to settle down with you in those few years, the same amount of time you'd been together and you both were never close to achieving what you had now.

The night ended with the mens' satisfied stomachs while you and Kyle play-fight about who gets to do the dishes. As all of them were about to leave, you gathered what little guts you had to at least try to talk to Simon as he's the last one out the door, away from the ears of your husband who's currently doing the dishes because the last thing you'd want is to ruin their friendship.

"Goodbye Si.."

Simon never thought he'd hear that nickname out of your lips ever again, he stopped, his feet felt like they were sinking on the ground. Before he knew it, Simon was back on your porch, squeezing you so tight. You tried to pull away but he only held tighter, head rested on your shoulder.

"One last, lovie.. please.." you sigh, your arms wrapping around him, you tried your best to sooth him as your palm runs up and down his back. You felt the sleeve of your shirt getting damp, Simon didn't cry often, but this was different. It wasn't silent at all like you were used to, he was straight up sobbing.

Simon pulled back slowly, you saw his puffed up and flushed face against his pale skin. You felt bad for Simon however what happened is what happened and you were content where you were no matter how much pain the past brings you.

Simon knows you're happy, he sees it, he cups your cheek with his hand. He was about to lean in and kiss your forehead like he always used to but he stops himself.

He wanted to be selfish, he wanted you again but he can't do that to Kyle and he knows this would only upset you so just like before, with a heavy heart he leaves.

Simon will forever let that sink into his heart, the only one he's ever love will forever be engrained in his mind. You will always be his favorite girl..

[r0-boat]

Oooo I just read your dark whb headcanons. can you please write a scenario where satan is going through a depressive episode and he accidentally hits and breaks the MC’s jaw? his and his nobles reactions? they have to go to paradise lost to get it fixed. all the angst please 🙏

I was waiting to do this one for a while because I wanted to be in the right headspace for some angst.

These demons are nice to you but my favorite part of this game is that demons act like demons.

Anyways enough chit chat let's get to it

Whb Satan blinded by rage hurts you.

Cw: mc gets attacked by Satan, Satan gives in to Rage, depression, not eating or drinking, Violence against Reader, blood

Red. That's all he saw. Consumed by so much wrath He didn't even remember what caused him to be like this in the first place. All he remembers was hands holding him back and screams.

When he 'woke up' you were on the floor behind Leraye the normal happy Demon had a serious look in his eyes his teeth clenched as he stood firm as if waiting for something to happen. Sitri's arms holding him back. Sitri finally let him go and Satan crawled towards you. "Mc....B-baby? Are-are you ok? His voice shaking filled with fear, and worry. His claws painted red at the tips. You weren't moving , the panic started to set in. That's when he saw it. Blood and a bruised cheek... That was saying it lightly, The devil stumbled backward. Red eyes filled with pain his hands was shaking as he looked at them. He did this to you. That Scream was you, The realization almost made him throw up.

Leraye didn't want to oppose his king but he didn't want him to hurt you. And he didn't want you to die. So he was the one that contacted Lucifer... Sitri with all his strength held the rampaging King back. Demons have to remember that humans are more fragile than devils. If He got hurt he could just get back up with only minor redding But if Satan hit you???

When Lucifer heard about what had happened, He.Was.Pissed. He deemed that you were no longer safe in Gehenna. Normally Satan wouldn't give you up so easily, But he hurt you. How could he even face you? You were the last person he would ever want to hurt like this. Damn it. He was a monster. Sitri knew that Satan hurt you on accident. But He still hurt you. So he does not have an opinion. And he will gladly stop anyone who hurts you like that even his own king. You are unconscious, He thought you died! Only until, They all did Only until Sitri yelled "I still hear a beat!"

You stayed at Paradise lost under Lucifer's care while you recovered. Once you recovered he'll demand you stay for the time usually he would ask, but your life is in danger, and he does not trust what decision you make to be a sound one. Satan was lucky Lucifer allowed him from visiting altogether. But, the visits were supervised. Paimon did not like it that they were treating Satan as some kind of enraged beast. But he can't deny that he wouldn't have done the same if it was someone else's king.

Satan wants to see you but feel as though you would not want to see him. He still visits when you're unconscious. His hand still shakes out of fear he might accidentally hurt you again. He hadn't come out of his room since coming to see you. When he is not in his own bad, staring blankly at the wall, He is clawing up the walls of his room, his bed sheets, and his pillows are torn to pieces. The nobles had never heard their king strong and always smiling, cry.

Even if you want to see him when you finally recover.(constant checkups with Lucifer) Satan just avoids you for a while. Not returning your calls flat out ignoring you by text. Finally you caught that man out of his castle. And He doesn't even look you in the eye when you stand face to face. He still looks guilty, Looks like he's seen a ghost every time he looks at you. You can even see him grow some facial hair. And according to Sitri 'hasn't showered in weeks hasn't eaten a lot in days. And that this is the worst depressive episode he's ever seen from him.'

The other nobles are urging you two to talk again. They swear that Satan is never a demon to hurt you on purpose. And he swears it will never happen again. Seeing Satan in this state is breaking their hearts. But at the same time they would never force you to make that decision. And if you never wanted to see him again they will support you! Even act as your bodyguard just to make you feel safe.

The pain he feels every time he raises his hand, and you flinch is more painful than thousands of angels tearing into his flesh. He's supposed to protect you... Hurting you should have never happened. And he will never do it again.

Satan is terrified of touching you again. It would take a while for him do not feel scared about hurting you by just touching you. Now he's even more regretful that you had to see him like this. He's angry at himself for being like this.

If you force him to talk to you, he'll break down, he'll start tearing up, he'll hold you close, his voice broke as he sobs apology after apology. Nails digging into your clothes as he mutters that he hurt you. That he's no better than an angel. That he's scared that he thought you died and he killed you.

[discotitsposts]

but daddy, i hate you

when spencer recieves a birthday card from his estranged father you help him deal with his feelings

gets a little steamy at the end so 18+ recommended

this is how i deal w my own feelings lol

a little background: set in season 13-14. right before spencer’s birthday. you’re spencer’s wife, you’ve been together around 7 years. You work at the bookstore that you and spencer own. (he helps you run it and is co owner, you run it together) also, Spencer and you live in the apartment above the store.

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning and you’ve been going through boxes of new books for your store before you open for the day. It’s Spencer’s day off and he’s at the counter adding up the figures and making sure everything is in order for your busiest day of the week.

You hear a knock at the front door. “I’ll get it!” You yell to Spencer. You unlock the door and the mailman hands you your mail. “Thanks Jim, how’s Martha?” You ask him.

“She’s great, she’s dropping by later with cookies!”

“Cool! See you tomorrow!” You wave bye and start going through the mail.

“Hey, hon, there’s something for you from…” You stop when you read the name. William Reid. Spencer hadn’t seen nor heard from his father in almost 10 years. He was still very much angry about anything to do with his father. As were you. You couldn’t believe he hadn’t reached out at all.

“From who?” He asks, not looking up from the financial log. He puts his pencil down and reaches his hand out for you to hand him the envelope. You hesitate but hand it to him anyway.

You watch his face drop when he reads the name and address. Oh, how you wished to take the envelope out of his hands and hold him and tell him to forget that silly piece of paper forever. He peels the envelope open, careful not to touch the seal. He feels the dread fill his heart when he sees the contents. A card that says ‘Happy Birthday’ on the front, and ‘to a very special boy’ on the inside.

“What does he think I am? A fucking child?” He shouts, making you jump. “Sorry.” He apologizes and sighs.

“It’s alright, I’ll leave you alone with that.” You start to back away.

“No, don’t. Stay, please.” He begs with his beautiful eyes.

You nod and move closer. He begins reading the handwritten message on the inside of the card.

“Dear Spencer, Hope you’re not too upset with me, I am proud of you. We haven’t talked in a while, you haven’t called. You have the number. Don’t hesitate to reach out. How is Diana? Miss you. Happiest of Birthdays. Love, your father.” He reads it off, mocking every word.

“What the fuck! He hasn’t sent a card in 9 fucking years! Why now?” He raises his voice.

“I don’t..”

He cuts you off, “I’ll tell you why, because he’s either finally feeling bad about everything or he wants something. Well I won’t call him. I fucking hate him.”

“It’s a dick move to blame you for not reaching out, but honestly? Maybe you should, find out what he wants. If he honestly just wants to talk, it might be the closure you need. If he just wants something from you, you can tell him to fuck off. Obviously you don’t have to but maybe you should consider it. I know he was an asshole to you the last time, but you know I regretted not telling my father everything I wanted to say.” You’re watching your words, his father was a touchy subject.

He thinks for a minute and then sits back down and covers his face with his hands. “Maybe you’re right. You alright to open by yourself today? I think I’ll give him a call.”

“Yeah, go ahead. Good luck.”

He walks over to you and gives you a kiss and runs upstairs. He looked like a little kid who had just been given their favorite candy.

Later, when you’re closing the store for lunch break, you hear a loud crash from upstairs. You run upstairs, afraid Spencer had fallen and hurt himself. Worse. He was on the floor crying his eyes out. He had knocked the bookshelf over and he was surrounded by collapsed books.

You carefully step over the books to get to him.

“What happened?” You ask softly, so as to not startle him. He keeps crying into his hands but removes one to take your hand into his.

“I called, told him I received the card and I was willing to talk with him. I- I tried to…” His voice starts to trail off because he’s crying so hard he can’t speak. You rub his back reassuringly. “It’s ok, take your time.”

“I wanted to tell him, I’m married, and my life is going great. I didn’t even get to say anything. He stopped me and asked what card I was talking about. Turns out his new wife felt he should speak with his son, wrote the card and sent it to me. I should have known it wasn’t his handwriting.” He’s so tired from crying he just lays his head in your lap and stares.

“I’m so sorry love.” You say while running your fingers through his hair. Anger coursing through your veins.

“He hung up on me too.” His voice breaks as he says this. It has you fuming mad even more so. How could he do that? You could practically hear Spencer’s heart snapping in two.

He’s crushing your legs, so you convince him to stand up and have him go lay in bed with you. You cover him with the blankets and just hold him until he falls asleep.

You wake up a few hours later and he’s still asleep. You slyly grab his phone and write down William’s number. You take the paper, and your jacket downstairs.

You go to the store phone and as you’re dialing the number your stomach turns. Was this a good idea? After all I’m doing this for Spencer. You think as the line rings.

“Hello? Who is this?” A woman’s voice answers.

“Hello, is William Reid there?” Your voice quivers. You hear shuffling and the woman calls “Will! Phone!” in the background.

More shuffling. Then a man’s voice. “Who is this?” He says sternly.

“Hello, you don’t know me but I-“

“Then why are you calling me?”

“I’m your son’s wife, and I think we need to have a talk.”

“Spencer’s married?” He asks almost longingly. He sounded interested. Good.

“What kind of father are you? You don’t let him know you even want to be in his life and now all of a sudden you do? When he does finally reach out you hang up on him?”

“Ok that was because I went to go talk to my wife about why she sent my son a card from me.”

This goes on for a while, you yelling at Mr. Reid for his rude behavior.

The next morning you wake up to Spencer speaking to someone on the phone. Still groggy, you’re confused and mouth, ‘who is it?’

He holds up a finger to say hold on. He’s smiling. Maybe Prentiss is letting him take the next few days off!

“Alright bye! Love you!” He says into the phone, almost giddy. He hangs up and you tilt your head confused. He has the biggest grin on his adorable face.

“It was my dad. He was calling when I woke up. I can’t believe he reached out and he apologized! Can you believe it? He’s never really apologized to me before! We had a long talk, it was nice. Really nice.” He sits on the bed smiling.

“Is that so? Talk about a change of heart.” You smile to yourself knowing what you had done.

“You know what else he said?”

“What else did he say?”

“He said the little talking-to you gave him worked.” Spencer chuckles knowingly.

“I’m sorry, I should have told you.”

“No, I’m not upset. I actually am glad you did it. He wants to come and visit us. He wants to meet you too.” He pulls you into a big hug. “I love you. Thank you.” He kisses your neck.

“You’re welcome. I love you too.” You pull back and hold his face in your hand.

“Since you did me a favor, I think I owe you one. Lay back.” He gently spreads your legs apart and repays the favor to you. All day long.

the end 💞

it hurt me so bad to write spencer crying

to anyone who read this hope you enjoy! please don’t hesitate to leave feedback if you like this!

[gather-ye-fucking-rosebuds]

Dear Diary,

It’s been a week since Christmas break. Two since the police came. We all had our stories straight—me, Charlie, Neil, and Mrs. Perry—but it was still terrifying having to lie to government officials like that for so many days. But we managed to get through it, and as far as everyone is concerned, Mr. Perry just took off after Neil disobeyed him and joined the play. Nobody knows the truth. Nobody knows Neil killed him.

I know it’s risky writing it down. Evidence of the crime we’ve worked so hard to cover up. But I’m going to explode if I don’t talk about it, and Charlie hates talking about it even more than Neil, so here we are. I’ve taken so many precautions to keep this hidden for the past few weeks that I feel like I could pour my heart and soul out in here and nobody would ever have to see. I mean, I’m probably gonna burn this anyways, so what’s even the point of NOT using this as a full on diary instead of just a confession journal?

I am absolutely positive that nobody will ever find this journal unless I want them to. It’s hidden far into the cavity of the tree I read under—the one facing the lake that turned beautiful marigold orange this fall. It’s a decent distance from the lawn, so nobody will see when I put it away, and nobody will see me writing in it. I know that nobody will find this journal. And yet I’m still stalling. Ughhh.

I did a little research on Uncle Walt today, since we have a little project to read up on our favorite poet and write a short little paper on them. And so I was reading, and I found something…interesting, I guess. He never married. I asked Mr. Keating why he never married, and he said that Uncle Walt liked men instead of women, which I guess never really crossed my mind as being an option.

So anyways, the next day, we veered away from our usual topics and read poems from this Greek poet named Sappho. We talked about her for a little before we actually read anything, and Mr. Keating told us that she’s like Uncle Walt in that she likes women, and a few of the boys snickered. I don’t know why it made me uncomfortable, but their laughs made me feel like I was standing at the front of the class with a ridiculous wig on or something. But Mr. Keating reminded them that love is love, no matter who feels it for who, and that everyone needs to walk in their own steps, wherever it takes them. Then we read her poems. They were beautifully crafted, leaving even the boys who laughed speechless. And then class was over, and I had to act normal for the rest of the day.

But here’s the thing, Diary. I didn’t feel normal. I felt like I’d been living in the dark for so long that just a little spark lit up the world. Something clicked in my brain, making all the puzzle pieces fit exactly how they should. It was like a dam had barely been holding back an ocean of feelings and that one class sent the water crashing over me. Oh my god, Diary, I might go to hell for this, but I think I like Neil in that way.

Kindest Regards,

Todd

[summercourtship]

𝖍𝖆𝖚𝖓𝖙 | 𝖉𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖞 '𝖏𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖑𝖘𝖊𝖓' 𝖏𝖔𝖍𝖓𝖘𝖔𝖓 𝖝 𝖋!𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 | 18+

I started writing this in fall 2020. At it's most ambitious, it was going to be a multi-chapter fic but that obviously didn't and won't happen so here: have it reimagined as a one-shot. You might be able to tell where it would have expanded into a larger story, but I tried to condense it. If anything that is here is eerily similar to something else I've written, it's because I've probably taken it from this draft lol. Also TBH I'm trying to not be as explicit in my sex scenes because I just feel more comfortable writing that way. Which seems like the opposite of a goal: for years, I've been trying to become better at writing super explicit scenes and now I'm trying to reel it in and make it (hopefully) match the rest of my prose. IDK. Happy Halloween!

brief summary: A one-shot about being stalked by your coworker who is also the serial killer terrorizing the town. warnings: slightly dubious consent due to threat of death, stalking, horror themes, knife play, PIV sex, some dirty talk | word count: 4025

danny 'jed olsen' johnson masterpost | read on ao3

You smell him before you see him. Stale cigarette smoke, coffee, and the unspecific musk of his cologne. On anyone else, you’d hate it. But with him, it’s become an almost comforting scent, indicative of one of your favorite people’s presence. When he rounds the corner and comes into your view, you can’t help the tiny smile that crosses your face.

“Hi Jed!” You chirp as he comes to a stop in front of your desk, placing his coffee on the corner of your desk to free his hands as he rummages in his side satchel bag. He gives you a smile in return, pulling out a thin file folder and flipping it open. 

“Here are those photos you wanted me to get,” He hands over a small stack of pictures, all developed and ready to go. Last week, you asked him to take the pictures on a whim, thinking you might just have to go down yourself with your crappy hand-me-down camera and snap a picture for the article you’re working on. But, to your surprise, he agreed quickly. 

The article isn’t anything special- in fact it’s quite the opposite. A filler piece for the middle section of the paper that no one really read. Despite this, you couldn’t bring yourself to bullshit the article, and still put forth an unnecessary amount of effort into the piece. No one would read it now, but perhaps it could be added to your portfolio for when you finally left this town. 

The photos are good- which isn’t a surprise considering who took them. Everything Jed did seemed to turn out well, even when he didn’t try. You wonder what he looks like doing something he’s actually passionate about.

“I didn’t think you’d have these ready so soon!” You say, flipping through the four pictures he handed over. You’d have to choose one- you’re lucky they’re even letting you include a picture in the meaningless article. “I mean, aren’t you busy with Ghostface?” 

He gives a small exhale, like he’s laughing at his own inside joke. “A little bit.” He pauses. “Maybe I wanted a break to go take some pictures of the duck pond in the park. Riveting stuff you’re writing about.”

“Excuse me, but the purported existence of an otter in the duck pond is very important news. Would be front-page worthy if there wasn’t someone else taking up the headlines.” You laugh before stopping for a moment, thinking about what you just said. “Oh my god, I’m sorry. People are dead and I’m making jokes about an otter.” 

“Don’t worry about it, everyone copes in different ways.” He smiles down at you. “Especially when you have no idea if you’re next.” 

“That’s morbid, but fair.” You say, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. You don’t notice how his eyes flick to follow the movement. “Anyways, thanks again for the pictures. I will have to find a way to repay you.” 

“Don’t worry about it.” He smiles again, different this time. This is the smile that makes your stomach swoop and your heart skip a beat. Your face heats and you stop thinking for a second, but you press on.

“No, please-” 

“I wouldn’t want to put you out like that. Times are hard.” 

“I- okay.” You sit back, looking at him. He nods and starts to leave, but the part in you that insisted on somehow repaying him took over and you were speaking up once more.

“Jed!” He turns and looks back, eyebrows raised. “Um, at least let me take you out for coffee? Just as a thanks, not repayment.” He thinks about it for a moment, your heart racing as you wait with bated breath for his answer. If he didn’t say yes, you’d never be able to look at him again. You might have to leave town immediately.

“Sure, but let’s make it a date instead.” He gives you a tiny smile and a wink that you barely register, before turning and walking away. Giddy, you sit back in your chair, trying not to hide your face in your hands. Instead you focus on the pictures, flipping through them to distract yourself from the newfound excitement in your veins.

____

Despite the fact that there was a masked stalker-murderer prowling the streets of your town, you felt no fear walking home. Maybe it’s a remnant of your teenage “nothing can hurt me” years. Maybe it’s just your stupidity rearing its ugly head at the worst time. 

Or maybe you just like the thrill of it all.

You had listened to the warnings- check behind you when you walk, keep an eye out for anything abnormal, lock your windows, lock your doors, don’t hang out places alone. However, you followed them a little haphazardly. You didn’t engage in any behaviors that could be misconstrued as inviting danger into your life, but you also didn’t necessarily allow the paranoia to get to your head.

If you did, you might have died from sheer terror and helplessness. Or perhaps you would’ve been more careful, and would’ve definitely noticed that you had already unknowingly disregarded the warnings.

Someone was following you.

And they had been following you for a while.

____

You wake up suddenly. It’s like that sometimes- not gently, or gradually. You’re just... awake. Brain racing to catch up with your surroundings, you sit up. No clock around, but you’d hazard a guess that it’s somewhere around 3AM. Running a hand through your hair, you sigh, the dream you’d been having already disappearing from your memory. Plopping back onto your pillow, you close your eyes and wait for sleep to come back to you.

It’s funny how the air conditioning can sound like someone breathing, deep and slow. You vaguely register that something isn’t right here, but sleep takes over before you can linger on that thought. 

__

The best coffee shop in town is a small, cluttered shop off of the main road. It’s tucked away between a barbershop and a vintage store, far enough away from the main street that any tourists wouldn’t come by it. (Not that there were many of those now that a serial killer prowled the streets at night.)

“You okay?”

You look up from where you’d been staring into your coffee, even though it was probably too late in the day to be drinking it, the sky already darkening with the approaching evening. But your body was thick with exhaustion for reasons you weren’t quite sure and you needed to finish another pointless article when you went home. Jed had his own coffee, so at least you weren’t alone in your desire for evening caffeination. 

“Yeah, I’m just… trying to not psych myself out about everything going on. The news says it's good to be careful but I know I’d just end up taking it too far and becoming paranoid.” 

“No one knows how to deal with this.” He says, simply. You only nod in agreement and take a sip from the coffee. 

A breaking news report on the TV in the corner of the room catches your eye. GHOSTFACE STRIKES AGAIN screams the caption at the bottom of the screen. You silently nudge Jed and direct his attention towards it. For a moment, it looks like the echo of a smile crosses his face, but it’s gone before you can truly absorb it. His face is stony, and he looks back at you. 

“Are you gonna write about that?” You ask. 

“Tomorrow.” 

“What number is this?”

“Six.” He answers without hesitation. You force yourself to take a deep breath to try and calm the beating of your heart. Every time the news breaks, it feels like the first time. You don’t think you’ll ever get used to hearing about another brutal murder, and maybe that’s a good thing. It means you aren’t desensitized to it yet. You only realize that Jed is watching you carefully when he asks, again: “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine. Why are you so worried about me? You could be next too.”

“I think I can handle it if it comes to that.” He took a sip from his coffee to hide his smile. If you found this odd, you didn’t remark on it. “At least let me walk you home tonight.” 

You stared at him, unsure why you were suddenly uneasy, why an alarm was going off somewhere in the back of your head. Then you decided that it was stupid. You knew Jed. He took pictures of the duck pond for you. Hardly anything to be frightened by. 

“That would be nice, thanks.” 

___

After a week of waking up in the middle of the night, you were certain there was something else going on that your body was trying to tell you. When your eyes open, once again barely past two A.M., you sit up in your bed instead of trying to go back to sleep right away like you normally do. The shadows in your room seemed deeper tonight, your curtains blocking out most of the light from the street. 

You stare into the corner, hoping that the shape manifesting in the darkness was just your eyes playing tricks on you and you could go back to sleep. But you knew better. Slowly, your eyes adjust to the low light and you’re able to make out the dark figure standing in the shadows. 

“...Go away.” 

Slowly, with the creak of leather, the figure shook its head. You take a careful breath, trying not to let your fear show. But it must be palpable in the air, there's no way it wasn’t. 

“What do you want?” 

The headlights of a car driving by shined into your room for a brief second, illuminating the figure and the mask he wore like a bolt of lightning struck down outside. It only confirmed what you had been afraid of since you’d woken to see a dark shadow in your corner, as his mask was barely visible in the dark room. 

But it seems that Ghostface has, indeed, marked you as his next victim. 

You move, bolting out of bed. He must want to give chase because he lets you fling your door open and run down the hall, his steady footsteps following you. But he catches up to you quickly, his body slamming into yours and pressing you against the wall, his arms wrapping around your front. Before you can begin to struggle, the thin edge of a blade is pressed against your throat, effectively stopping you in your tracks. You can only respond with a choked cry.  

The hard length of his body presses against your back, a firm barrier between you and your freedom. He adjusts slightly, allowing you to feel the other hard length pressing against you, though you can only barely feel it through the layers of his outfit. But you know it’s there. 

You exhale shakily, and you don’t know if it's from fear or your own arousal. (Or both). 

His chest hits your back as he breathes, standing still with you as your mind tries to catch up with everything that has happened in the past few seconds.

“Let me go.” You whisper. His arms flex around you, squeezing slightly. “Please.”

To your surprise, his grip loosens. 

“Call the cops and I’ll skin you alive.” He hisses in your ear, his voice rough from the modulator he’s using. 

And then he’s gone, leaving you standing frozen in your hallway, waiting for the other shoe to drop. Why wasn’t he killing you? Why wasn’t your blood splattered on the walls, why did he let you go?

Despite his warning, you did consider calling the cops. But really, what would they do? Ghostface was gone. There was no evidence aside from the thin line of red on your throat where he’d pressed the knife, and even that was fading quickly.

Instead, you return to your room, curling under the covers and staring at the wall until the room brightens with the dawn. 

___

You had no idea if Ghostface continued to watch you. You were certain he was. You’d come home to things in obviously different positions. It was like he was taunting you, begging you to do something about it.

You simply put the objects back where they belonged and continued about your day.  

___

“Is there something you wanted to tell me?” Jed asks, a few dates later when you’re sitting on your couch with him and perched on the edge of the cushion, your muscles tense like you were about to take off running, and he seems so understanding in that moment that you almost blurt out what has been happening for the past two weeks. But fear takes a hold of you, and instead you simply shake your head. 

“No, no. There’s nothing.”

___

The second time you actually see Ghostface, you’re barely prepared for it. You knew, deep down, that he’d be back at some point and yet you were still surprised when you arrived home to an open window, your sheer curtains fluttering in the hot wind as the humidity from outside filled the room. 

You drop your bag, staring at the open window like it was a rabid animal that was going to attack. Then, slowly, you turn your head to the corner, where you can feel his eyes on you. 

Even though you can’t see his eyes through the mask, you can feel the moment you make eye contact with him. 

Ghostface starts walking towards you and you don’t know why you don’t move. The door is right behind you and yet you stand there, watching as he approaches you with slow and measured steps as the streetlight from outside glints off the knife he holds loosely in his hand. You swallow thickly. 

Then, when he’s only a step away and after you’ve had ample time to turn around and run away, he grabs the side of your head, his gloved hand threading through your hair. Finally, your brain catches up to your situation and you struggle against his hold. You vaguely register him shushing you from behind the mask but your heart is racing too fast in your ears to really pick up on it. 

As a response to your thrashing, he places the flat edge of the knife against your cheek, a silent threat that stills your movement. You stare at him, stuck between his knife and his hand. (You should’ve run, why didn’t you run?)

He clicks his tongue, the noise distorted by the voice modulator in his mask as he shakes his head.

“Be good for me, won’t you?”  

Something shifts-- maybe it’s the wind from the open window or maybe he leans in a fraction closer but you suddenly catch a whiff of his scent. He must’ve been covering it up with a heavier cologne in his previous visits, because you would have easily recognized this from the first visit. Stale cigarette smoke, coffee, and an unidentifiable musk of his (usual) cologne.

It’s like being dunked in ice cold water after a warm day in the sun. You stare up at Ghostface, your brain quickly piecing together all the things you hadn’t consciously picked up on. The coincidences, the hints, the tiny behaviors that reminded you, always, of someone else. 

You pull yourself out of his grip, and you don’t know if he expected you because you’re able to make it halfway across the room on shaky legs before he grabs you again. Your legs buckle beneath you at the force of his body against yours and he follows you to the floor, roughly turning you over so you’re laying on your back with him perched above you. 

Heart racing, you reach up and yank his mask off, too quick for him to react. You blink at him, confirming what you’d just figured out. What you’d known, really, this entire time.

“Jed.” 

For a second, his face is blank. Then, he starts to laugh, pressing his weight down on your body when you start to struggle again. 

“I was wondering when you’d figure it out. Was hoping you wouldn’t, really, but.” He shrugged. “Does it make you feel better, or worse, to know that you weren’t actually cheating on me?”

“I never did anything with Ghostf- you.”

“But I know you well enough to know that you wanted to. I felt how you pressed back against me that night when you first noticed me in your room.” He leans down, getting in your face. His eyes are so cold, not at all the eyes of the Jed Olsen you knew. Was that even his name, or was that a lie too? “Did you want Ghostface to hold you down and fuck you? Was Jed not cutting it out for you? You needed the big bad serial killer, didn’t you?” 

He places his gloved hand over your throat, noting how your breath catches. “Of course you did.” His hand moves down, laying over your left breast. He doesn’t move, doesn’t try to actually touch you. It’s only then you notice the rhythm he’s keeping with his other hand, the one that’s still resting on the side of his leg. He’s feeling your heartbeat, though his eyes are locked onto yours. 

“I didn’t. I don’t.” 

“You say that, but-” He peers closer at your eyes. “Your eyes are telling me something else.” He leans back and smugly offers his explanation. “You know that eyes dilate when you’re sexually aroused.”

“I-” You swallow, falling silent. What can you say? Any denial would be a lie. He continues to look down on you, face passive. 

“I don’t want to kill you.” He interrupts your silence. Then he’s quiet. Thoughtful, almost. A glimmer of the Jed you knew coming through in his hesitation. “Not yet, at least.”

“Oh-”

“But I can’t exactly let you go on knowing who I am.”

“...I won’t tell anyone.” He raises an eyebrow, looking like he might burst into laughter again. “Promise.”

What power did you have to promise something when you were the one under him, the memory of the edge of his knife still cold on your cheek? 

“Who would you tell?” He said, causing you to furrow your brow. “You think that Jed Olsen is my real name? I’ve thought through everything before you or anyone else could even try to.”

“But-”

“Why would I let you go, when your death will be so…” he leaned down again, his hips rolling slightly against yours. It’s achingly difficult not to press up against it. “...delicious?”

“I don’t want to die.” 

“None of you do.” He tutted. His hand that had been laying on your breast moves to the hem of your shirt, slowly pulling the fabric up to expose your stomach. You shivered at the feeling of leather on your skin, goosebumps trailing after his fingers as he slid his hand back towards your breasts. 

“Front clasping bra.” He says under his breath, raising his eyebrows at you. “Were you expecting company?”

“No.” You glance down. You could offer an explanation like oh, it’s almost laundry day or I just like this bra, but you stay silent. Watching as he unclasps it.  

Jed- though that isn’t his name, is it?- removes his gloves, tossing them somewhere in your living room. You start to turn your head to see where they landed but he grabs your chin in his hand, forcing you to look at him again. 

“Stay still.” 

It’s then that you notice his knife, back in his hand, and watch, with bated breath, as he drags the tip over the skin between your breasts, not hard enough to even sting. Down, under where your skin creases, back up around the right breast until he lays the blade flat against you. Your chest is rising and falling quickly with your breath, though you try to control it for fear of being nicked by the knife. 

“Are you going to kill me?” 

He hums, tracing the point of the blade around your nipple and watching as it hardens. 

“Tell you what-” He moves the knife to the other breast. “-we can postpone your death.”

“And what do you want instead?” You ask, as if it wasn’t obvious from the way he was dragging his blade across your exposed chest or the obvious erection pressing against you when he rolled his hips. 

“I think you know.” He raised his eyebrows. Was there a choice? And even if you did have a choice where the option wasn’t death, would you choose any differently? 

He pinches your nipple, prompting a shaky acceptance from you. “Fine.” You barely bite back a please before he slides down your body, his hands running down your chest to the hem of your pants. The knife returns to cut off the button (unnecessarily) and he roughly pulls your pants down your legs, his nails scratching your skin. 

He slots himself between your legs, now with only the thin fabric of your underwear and his clothes separating him from you. Even that doesn’t last long, as he takes the side of your underwear and rips through it with the knife before doing the same to the other side, ripping the fabric away from your body. 

Leaning back, he starts to fiddle with the many belts and buckles around his waist. You watch, your legs falling apart slightly. His eyes drop to your core, his tongue darting out to lick his lip at the sight of your wet cunt. 

“For someone who seemed so averse to this, you’re pretty wet.” He comments. Before you can respond, he’s pushing into you, having pulled his cock from the complicated trappings of his outfit. 

You groan at the intrusion, the slight pinch of pain before you adjust as he continues to push into you. He gives you barely a moment to breathe before he pulls out and begins thrusting back into you. 

“Fuck, you’re tight.” He grunts as he fills you, his cock thick in your cunt. You can only whimper in response, rolling your hips to meet his thrusts. 

He pulls your leg up, placing it over his shoulder as he continues to fuck into you, the new angle allowing him to hit deeper inside of you. You curse, throwing your head back. You’re certain that you’ll have a rash on your back and ass from the carpet rubbing against your skin but the bursts of pleasure from his cock and his fingers are enough to distract you from that for the moment. 

“Come on, cum on my cock-” He grunts, his hips rutting down against you, his fingers pressing harder against your clit as he practically bullied your body into orgasming for him. Your back arched, hands flying to pull him down to you. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his cloak, scratching against the leather as he urges you on with whispered praise and degradation. 

With a final thrust of his hips, he finishes inside of you, low curses hissed through his teeth. 

You lay, chest heaving as he pulls out, wincing at the sudden feeling of emptiness. The sweat that covers your skin begins to cool. 

“Remember what I said last time about calling the cops.” 

You don’t respond, only clipping your bra back together and pulling your shirt back down over your chest. After all, what could the police do at this point? There were very few signs of a struggle in your apartment. And, as you found out the next day, Jed had gone out after and killed someone else. At best, the police wouldn’t believe that it had actually been Ghostface in your apartment. At worst, they’d think you were in on it. 

And, when you went into work the next day to find a dark polaroid picture of you, asleep, from a few weeks ago- before you’d even asked Jed to take those pictures of the duck pond- with a red heart scrawled at the bottom, you began to think that maybe the worst assumption wasn’t that far off anymore. 

[theladycarpathia]

Think I'm just squeaking it in for @harringrovewinterbingo, so I'll post as many of my multi-chapter fic as I have finished. (note to future self - do not decide to do this two weeks before deadline again) Chapter 1/6 Pairing: Steve Harrington/Billy Hargrove Rating: Explicit Tags: College AU, no upside-down AU, enemies to lovers, road trip, explicit sex, mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of child abuse, mentions of homophobia, modern au Summary: People shouldn't be allowed to volunteer you for favors. Especially not when it involves giving Billy Hargrove a lift back to Hawkins for the winter break. Sitting in a car with him for hours seems bad enough, and only gets worse when it begins to snow.

Free Square - home for the holidays

It was technically his mother’s fault. 

“Is she serious?” Robin asks, lounging with her feet on Steve’s bed. He’s actually too incensed to scold her for once, throwing things he might need for the winter break into his bag. He’d meant to pack last night but he got invited to a party and woke up this morning in a frat house with a sock plastered to his forehead. “Is she insane?”

“She exists to torture me,” Steve mutters, because right now it feels like it. Parents shouldn’t be allowed to volunteer you for stuff without your consent. And his head is still thumping because it goes to show that you should never drink anything that Jason Carver gives you. 

“Has she met Billy Hargrove?” Robin asks, dropping her head back against his pillow. Steve snorts and snatches his phone charger from the drawer.

“Probably not,” he says. “It wouldn’t matter if she had. You never saw Billy meeting Nancy’s mom. God, it was gross.”

Robin nods, tugging a Twizzler out of the packet. Against Steve’s better judgement, somehow she’s taken over one of his drawers with her stash. “He’s deceptively good at acting like a normal human being.”

“Besides, it was Billy’s mom who mentioned that Billy didn’t have a way to get back to Hawkins,” Steve says, digging in a drawer for his favorite hoodie. “His car’s in for repairs or something…so my mom offered my services.”

“Without asking,” Robin repeats dutifully, because this is all Steve has been able to say for several days. 

“Without asking,” Steve agrees, because he’s been pissed with his mom for three whole days, from right about the time she called and said ‘hey, you don’t mind giving someone a lift home for the holidays, do you?’

And he hadn’t. Until she said she’d run into Billy’s mother at the supermarket and had told Abigail Hargrove that her son would only be too happy to do it. Especially as they lived in the same halls, on the same floor! As though this was some fortunate piece of fate designed by Steve himself rather than the bad luck of being assigned by the college. 

“It just makes sense,” his mom had said crossly. “You don’t even have to go out of your way.”

It’s easy for her to say that. She doesn’t have to spend several hours trapped in a car with Billy Hargrove. 

“He’s a tool,” Robin says, chewing on the end of her Twizzler. “He’s friends with Heather, you know.”

“No, I didn’t,” Steve says shortly. He has ten minutes before he’s due to leave and the fact that Billy will arrive in the doorway of his room any minute now is putting him on edge. Billy might just live down the hall but it’s not like they interact. Not willingly anyway. Every time Steve goes to a party, he finds Billy’s bare chest in front of him, challenging him to beer pong or shots or dives into the pool. Billy was at the same high school, one year behind Steve, and he’d gotten in Steve’s face the moment he got to college back in the fall.

“They hang out,” Robin continues, with obvious disgust. “Billy’s been in my room.”

“How would you know?” Steve asks, a little bit thrown. “You’re never in your room.”

“I am sometimes in my room,” Robin protests, as though she doesn’t have a sleeping bag stashed in Steve’s cupboard. Thank God Steve has a single, or his roommate might have an issue with Robin appearing most nights to sleep on Steve’s floor. 

Steve gets roommate issues. But Robin’s severe aversion to her room and Heather makes him think that something else is going on. He’s met Heather at parties and she’s pretty cool. Definitely nothing worth avoiding the hell out of the place you pay to sleep. 

“And when I am there, Billy’s sometimes there,” Robin says sulkily, fingers deep in the Twizzlers packet again. She appears to be toying with them, never pulling one out and Steve wonders a little if she even gets why the strangely familiar motion she’s making with her fingers may hint at some sort of underlying reason. 

“Doing what?” Steve asks curiously. He can’t quite imagine Billy doing anything other than being a dick in the most low cut shirt known to man. He sees him elsewhere sometimes - on the quad, at games, in the showers…but these are all places where Billy isn’t exactly at ease. 

“Watching horror movies with Heather,” Robin says vaguely. “Eating doughnuts…not a lot.”

“Are they dating?” Steve asks curiously, because he can’t imagine Billy doing anything in a girl’s room that doesn’t require a sock on the door. And predictably, Robin reacts, scrunching up her face in disgust. 

“Ew. God, I hope not,” she says vehemently and Steve turns so she can’t see his smirk. 

“Heather must date,” he says casually. “She looks like the kind of girl who might have dated the pretty jock type in school. Wasn’t she a cheerleader?”

“She was,” Robin says, as Steve shoves socks into his duffel. He probably has socks at home but he’s never sure. He still half thinks that his mom took him going to college as an opportunity to clear out whatever she thought was too old, too tatty or too stained. Which is probably most of what he left behind when he packed up his car to come here. 

“There you go then,” Steve says, shrugging. His duffel won’t do up so he presses the contents down as far as they will go and then yanks the zipper. “Cheerleaders date jocks. Trust me, I have experience with this.”

“So I heard,” Robin says and bites down with a little more aggression than perhaps a Twizzler requires. 

“What are you doing anyway?” Steve asks, because Robin’s normally his passenger back to Hawkins for the holidays. “You know you can’t stay here for the holidays, right?”

“I don’t have to go home either,” Robin says pointedly. “One of the girls from my film club invited a bunch of us to her dad’s cabin for Christmas. It’s got to be better than my great-aunt making comments about those kinds of people over my mom’s cabbage.”

“Queer girls refuge,” Steve says and nods. He’s not thrilled about going home either, even less so without his partner in crime there. But he gets why it’s even worse for Robin. His family dinners are often stiff, counted down by how many times his dad checks his tablet, but at least no one makes pointed jabs about his life. 

Not many anyway. 

“Don’t think there’ll be much by way of a proper dinner,” Robin says, scrunching up her nose. Knowing what college kids' version of food is like, their dinner will be off-brand ramen and more Twizzlers, but it’s the price you pay for freedom. “But it’ll be fun. Vickie’s gonna drive a few of us later.”

“Have a good time,” Steve says, throwing a few final items into his bag and struggling to do up the zip. He’s not even sure why he’s trying - he’ll end up wearing either what his mom has conveniently slipped into his closet while he’s been gone, or the same pair of sweats all day when his parents are out of the house. “Send me updates.”

“You too,” Robin says, rolling over on his bed. “Let me know whether you survived Hargrove.” Steve snorts and finally gets the zip closed, chucking the bag and his hoodie on his desk chair. 

“Debatable,” he says disdainfully. “I’ll text you.”

The sharp thump at the door is the only warning they get, before the door swings open. Billy hangs in the doorway, like a vampire waiting for an invitation. Steve feels vaguely violated just by the mere presence of Hargrove in his space. 

“Harrington,” Billy says curtly and then catches sight of Robin scowling at him from the bed. “Buckley.”

“Hargrove,” Steve says in return, and looks around his room. If he hasn’t packed something, he can deal. It’s only two weeks. “Can you lock up?”

“Sure,” Robin says, because as expected, she has no intent of returning to her room. She’d packed late last night, while Heather was out, and won’t return until she’s sure her roommate has gone for the break. 

Honestly. What some people will do to avoid facing their feelings. 

“Got everything?” Steve asks and Billy jerks his head. 

“Got enough,” he says, raising the battered duffel in his hand. “It’s fucking turkey and Hallmark movies with my mom, I don’t need much.”

Steve doesn’t comment on the Hallmark movies. It feels too much like a trap. 

“Let’s get on the road then,” he says reluctantly. The sooner they leave, the sooner he can drop Hargrove at home and not see him again for two weeks. 

Oh shit. Is he going to have to bring Billy back to school too? He never even thought to ask, and it feels like something his mom might conveniently bring up in the new year, right before he’s due to drive back. 

“Home for the holidays,” Billy quips, with a toothy grin. “If shitty Hawkins counts.”

“You moved there,” Steve bites out. But Billy’s mouth just twists into an expression that he’s not used to seeing on Hargrove. 

“I didn’t have much say in the matter,” Billy mutters in such a tone that Steve just drops it. Conversations with Billy feel all too often like a minefield, for reasons he doesn’t understand. 

“Nice ride,” Billy says admiringly, when they reach Steve’s car. Steve pops the trunk and chucks his stuff in, gesturing for Billy to do the same. 

“Seriously?” Steve asks, a little surprised. He’s seen Billy’s car and he’d be lying if he hadn’t fucking salivated over it. “I mean, I thought you wouldn’t be into something like this. I’ve seen your car.”

“I can appreciate modern cars too,” Billy says loftily and throws himself into the passenger seat. “Does this have heated seats?”

“Perhaps,” Steve says grudgingly and takes one last look up at the sky. It’s a heavy gray, and something about the color of it is making him uneasy. Snow hadn’t been a certain thing, but Steve’s lived through enough winters to recognise the signs. 

“We’d better get moving,” he says shortly. “Maybe we can get ahead of the snow.”

Billy cranes his neck to look out the windscreen, as Steve climbs in. He’d planned to stop a few times, get snacks, take a piss, but he’s already thinking about how to reduce those stops just in case. The weather may clear, but he’s not going to take a risk if he doesn’t have to. 

“The forecast didn’t say it was going to snow,” Billy says, looking doubtful and Steve remembers all too late that he’s originally from California. His mom only moved to Hawkins a few years ago, God knows why. 

“The forecast is occasionally full of bullshit,” Steve says, programming his GPS and pressing various buttons. Billy’s old Camaro probably doesn’t have a dashboard that looks like a spaceship, but sometimes Steve’s pretty glad for modern technology. They need the quickest route, any way that’s going to bypass the holiday traffic.

“Is that safe?” Billy asks and if Steve didn’t know any better, he’d almost think that he looks worried. 

“We should be fine,” Steve says firmly. “If there was going to be a blizzard, they would have seen that. But even so, I don’t really want to drive in snow.”

“Okay,” Billy says and sits back, even though he looks no more reassured. “You got music in here?”

Steve sighs and reluctantly hands over his phone. Perusing his Spotify keeps Billy quiet long enough for them to pull out of campus. 

“You have some shit in here,” Billy mutters and then wriggles delightedly in his seat. “Fuck, you do have heated seats!”

“Yep,” Steve says. He figures this might be the best way to cope for the next few hours - pretending Billy is white noise. But Billy just chews his lip and then nods. 

“Nice,” he says and goes back to Steve’s phone. He finally picks something to play, apparently having found a playlist of Steve’s that he doesn’t find too offensive. Then he stares out of the window at the passing scenery and Steve lets himself relax a little. Billy doesn’t seem too interested in small talk. Maybe they’ll make it through this trip with minimal trauma. 

It’s quiet for approximately two minutes. 

“Is my ass going to get hot?” Billy complains and rubs his butt across the leather seat. “Harrington! Seriously, is this shit going to melt my ass?”

[newnlovesjennie]

one piece fanfiction recommendations!!

i figured i might shine light on some of my favorite fanfics from the one piece fanbase in case anyone was looking for some reading (if any author wants something taken down, please lmk!)

note: these are all on ao3 !!

☆⋆。𖦹✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩°‧★☆⋆。𖦹✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ⋆。°✩°‧★☆⋆。𖦹✮ ⋆ ˚。𖦹 ☆

favorite luffy fic:

bring me home by citrus scented

summary: “The sky is beautiful like this, don’t you think?”. He makes a face that melts into another grin when you laugh. “You know,” you say, “when it’s so clear and blue that it looks endless. I feel like I could just float up into this sky and go anywhere I want to.”  “You can already go anywhere you want to,” Luffy says. He picks at the grass, digging blunt fingertips into the cool earth. Nami will scold him later for having dirt under his fingernails. “If there’s somewhere you want to go, then just do it.”

luffy/reader, wc: 12.3k

cw: depression

favorite zoro fic:

the universe told me by rudimentaryflair

summary: It’s just his luck. He doesn’t even go looking for his soulmate, and he finds him anyway. (Or, snippets of a love story, as told through a series of soulmarks.)

zoro/sanji, wc: 13.5k

cw: none

favorite nami fic:

tiny tangerine speckles painted in your eyes by kermit_coded

summary: nami and all her ghosts.

nami & the strawhats, wc: 1.7k

cw: past child abuse

favorite sanji fic:

don't be weary if we're broken by blueh

summary: the Vinsmokes somehow end up on the Strawhats' ship after crashing the Big Mom's Tea Party and not everything is as right as it seems.

sanji & the strawhats, wc: 3.2k

cw: past child abuse

favorite usopp fic: 

In like a lion, out like a lamb by hongmunmu

summary: Fall on us and hide us from the face of him who is seated on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb (Revelation 6:15-17). In the wake of what transpired at the Pirates Festival, Luffy and Usopp take a deeper look at their relationship.

usopp/luffy, wc: 12.8k

cw: none

favorite robin fic:

(my favorite fic out of these!)

when the warm air comes by bluewalk

summary: seven prompts from frobin week on tumblr

robin/franky, wc: 4k

cw: none 

favorite franky fic:

i saw you and suddenly the world wasn’t by WhirlyBird70

summary: Take me to sea with you! She had yelled, tears falling from her eyes but some impossible dream in her heart, and a craziness no one but a Straw Hat could match. She was a mess, bruised and tired and chained but seas –Franky had never seen a soul more brave and beautiful than hers, with such faith in miracles that were unseen and unthought of. He caught a glimpse that day, of who Nico Robin truly was.

robin/franky, wc: 1.1k

cw: none