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aquilacalvitium · 8 months ago

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Rating my favourite fictional characters on how much I'd trust them to do my top surgery

Wander 🎩🪕(Wander Over Yonder) - Bugs Bunny level antics that waste about eleven minutes of everyone's lives and leave every single person convinced he couldn't do it. It would be the cleanest and easiest top surgery on record and I would walk away unscathed.

Commander Peepers 👁💥(Wander Over Yonder) - He'd take it deadly seriously and spend the whole thing nervously sweating. He would get it done but it wouldn't be flawless. Gods help me if Hater walks into the room during the surgery.

Jack Skellington 💀🎃(Nightmare Before Christmas) - A scientific and analytical mind bodes well for surgery. However. He is a skeleton and I'm fairly certain he doesn't understand how human bodies work or that we can't dismantle ourselves like some monsters. 0/10. Love him to bits. Wouldn't trust him as far as I can throw one of his rib bones.

Fantoccio 🧵🎭(Billie Bust Up) - I mean... I think? He'd take it seriously enough but I'm not sure he'd know what he was doing.

Barnaby 🦉☠️(Billie Bust Up) - Are. You. Fucking. Kidding. Me. ☠️☠️☠️

Alastor 🦌🔪(Hazbin Hotel) - Must I repeat the above. ☠️☠️☠️

Ingo/Emmet 🔼🔽🚂(Pokemon) - Yeah actually I think they'd do well. They'd take it seriously, do it flawlessly and I'd walk away with a chest flatter than Emmet's hopes and dreams after Ingo got Isekai'd

Sun/Moon ☀️🌙(FNAF) - Ha. HA. HAHAHA. I can't trust them with children's safety scissors.

The Innocent 🪁🐕(Koozå) - Sir/Ma'am/Other title. That is a child.

The Trickster 🪄🎁(Koozå) - Wouldn't even need to go under. I have seen this man summon people out of nothing, my chest would be flat before I could blink. He'd make a performance out of it though and probably make me feel not entirely safe because he is peak moral ambiguity.

The Doctor ⏳️🌌(Doctor Who) - One would take it seriously but I wouldn't trust his unsteady hands. Two would probably have an anxiety attack so that's a nope. Three, Four and Five I trust to get it done safely and seriously. Honestly Six is... well he's certainly the most eccentric regeneration so probably not. Seven I'm not sure would do it properly even though he could take it seriously. Then again he could surprise me, he's more compitent than he appears. Eight and Nine? Ah shit I dunno honestly. Ten's a yes, Eleven is a huge nope, Twelve is a very safe yes and Thirteen is also a safe yes. Fourteen is just Ten repeated so also a yes. I don't know Fifteen well enough to say yet.

James "Jamie" McCrimmon 🏴󠁧󠁢󠁳󠁣󠁴󠁿🗡(Doctor Who) - He's got the steady hands and seriousness needed, yes. Unfortunately he is from the 18th century and about sixty years before anaesthesia was invented.

Sebastian 🖥🕸(Stardew Valley) - Yeah, actually. I think he'd take it seriously and have steady enough hands for it. I'm in safe company there 👍

Nico the Accordion Man 🪗⚙️(Kurios) - ??? I have no idea??? He's a handyman which bodes well and whatever he was doing with his fingers during Hypnotique tells me he's got the hands for it, but also Have You Seen the Way This Man Moves?

Chief Clown 🤡🎪(Classic Doctor Who) - (Oh yeah I'm getting hella obscure for some of these characters.) I'm pretty sure this man is a homicidal maniac. I have seen the face he makes when he kills someone. I wouldn't trust this lunatic within one mile of me while I am fully conscious and he is unarmed. Especially considering he has been unarmed every time I have seen him kill.

Sweet Cap'n Cakes 🎶🥯(Deltarune) - I love these three adorable sweethearts with my whole chest. And if I let them near my chest with anything sharp I'm afraid I won't have anything left to love them with.

Rouxls Kaard ♥️♦️♠️♣️(Deltarune) - This man. This indigo beanpole. This walking homosexual disaster. Can't make a puzzle more complex than "put box on button." Respectfully and deeply affectionately... ✨️no✨️

Wally Darling 👁🍎(Welcome Home) -

Hatbox Ghost 🎩🦯(Haunted Mansion) - NO. To both film and ride versions for different reasons.

Ghost Host 🪓➰️(Haunted Mansion) - 2023 film Hosty? Never. Put that axe down, sir. Ride Hosty? Well... He's a goober who's not half as dangerous as he appears. But I still wouldn't trust him to know what he's doing or particularly care too much if he accidentally killed me.

The Phantom 💀🎩(Phantom Manor) - Quite honestly I couldn't say. This man was adept at murder but only when given a reason, like his victims wanting to marry his daughter. I can thankfully say that I am queer enough for that to not apply to me. Doesn't make me trust him though.

The Prophet 🖤🎤(Legion of the Black) - Uh. Yeah, I think so. Yeah I think I'd be in okay hands, it wouldn't be flawless but it'd get done well enough.

Captain Rex 🪖🚀(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - While I'd like to say battlefield first aid would give him some experience - which is true - surgeries are left up to droids. But even so I would say I'd be in safe hands. I trust him to get the job done well.

Ahsoka Tano 🗡🔶️(Star Wars: The Clone Wars) - Oh yeah. OH yeah. Safer than a Jedi holocron in the Jedi Temple library vault (before Cad Bane showed up, anyway).

Natemare 👁🎸(Natewantstobattle) - Ah yes because that is a level of mental instability that I trust to safely and confidently give me surgery. /s

Phantom 📜✒️ (Natewantstobattle) - If you know Phantom you're probably expecting a no, but he holds up his ends of any deal he makes! I absolutely trust him to give me the easiest, cleanest surgery ever. What I don't trust him to do is let me enjoy it for long because whoopsy-doopsy I'm now trapped inside his cane forever.

Lukas 🐈📖(Minecraft Story Mode) - Oh honey no, you stick to your books. He can kick ass and write a good story but he could never perform a surgery.

Helsknight ⚔️🔥(Hermitcraft) - The only things this man knows are Quote Meme, Rap and Be Pathetic. He made a pitfall trap for Welsknight because he forgot that literally every single Hermit has elytra and can fly, and then boasted about it, only to get deeply humbled. He has a total brain cell count of -1. I think you know my opinion.

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rossraccoon · 4 months ago

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So, I decided to do a silly and make a whole haunted mansion au crossover thingy 😅

Latter is Madame Leota

(what it says in order)

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat... Call in the spirits, wherever they're at!"

"Rap on a table, it's time to respond... Send us a message, from somewhere beyond!"

"Goblins and ghoulies, from last Halloween... Awaken the spirits with your tambourine!"

"Creepies and Crawlies, toads in a pond...Let there be music from regions beyond!"

"Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell... Give us a hint, by ringing the bell!"

And here's some future plans to do when I wanna draw again

Or when I'm not being lazy for once lol

(What I mean when I say paintings and tightrope girl)

That's all I got so far and that's all for now, Bye bye!

#welcome home #latter pillar #haunted mansion

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belleroseloungecorner · 28 days ago

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Boy been a while since I did my haunted mansion au. Here part one on who each of the characters would be

#welcome home au #haunted mansion #sally starlet #julie joyful #barnaby b beagle

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theghostlyartofclubs46 · 2 years ago

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THE HAUNTED MANSION!WHAT A GREAT AU!

Welcome Home Haunted house Au Howdy

Howdy is one of Wally’s best friends. The day of Wally’s accident, Howdy and Barnaby immediately went to his residence to find him. But it was too late, house caught them and made them into ghost. Howdy was injured in the eyes during the struggle. He became a blind ghost. Well… he still good at playing instruments, especially piano. He usually plays the pipe organ at Saturday night for Wally, he also can create those little worm ghosts to help him tidy the house by playing the pipe organ.

Howdy used to try to run away, now he just wants to stay in peace and plays his music, he knows that there’s nothing he can do. But… if there is a chance, he still wants to see this world once again.

#welcome home #the haunted mansion

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rosesstrawberry · 1 year ago

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New AU Idea

Wally and the Welcome Home ensemble as Scare actors/actresses for a Haunted Mansion gig.

#welcome home #welcome home au #wally darling #welcome home cast #scare actor #haunted house #haunted mansion

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rosenclaws · 1 month ago

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Erased || Logan Howlett x Reader

summary: You are a powerful mutant with powers you hated. They ruined your life and it led you down paths you weren't proud of. Things changed and now you lived happily with Logan. Until your past seems to come back to ruin everything

warnings: angst. traumatic childhood, brief mentions of torture.

wc: 2.7k

Link to part 2

a/n: Hi guys, so this is kind of the you get hurt and he goes feral fic but i've combined it with this other wip i had laying around. I talked a lot about wanting more angst and tw death (my grandmother passed last night) so ive been in this weird state of sadness that i'm repressing. Either way i wrote a fic so there's that lol. I will def have a part 2 btw so don't worry.

Sometimes when you close your eyes you can remember your childhood. What it was like before your, gift, appeared and ruined everything. How your family loved you, how your friends welcomed you, how the world didn’t hate you. Everything was perfect.

Until the day it appeared. All you did was touch her arm. That’s all you did. An argument with your mother, silence, and then you touched her arm to try and apologize and next thing you knew she was asking who you were. Yelling at you to get out of her house. You cried not understanding what was happening.

She looked at you with nothing but confusion. Not even a hint of recognition. Then your father came home and you ran into his arms. Afraid and distraught when he pushed you off him. The same look in his eyes. Who are you? They threw you out, threatened to call the cops. They left you all alone, afraid, and confused.

It didn’t take long for you to understand. A mutant. You had heard of mutants but never thought you could be one. A mutant with a powerful ability. Memory manipulation. You could alter memories, dive into someone's deepest fears, their secrets, and even erase anything from heads. In a single moment their whole lives could be changed. It was a dangerous power and you wanted nothing to do with it.

For years you lived on the road. Keeping yourself moving, stealing when you needed to. Never getting too attached to one place, to anyone. You were alone.

Then one day some people found you. Dressed in stupid costumes. Still they took you in. Gave you a home, fed you, trained you. You grew up there. From teen to adult. Charles was kind and you don't think you could ever repay him for all that he's done. Your powers were strong but he taught you to control your emotions.

Still you tried to stay a safe distance away from people. Not just physically but emotionally. The nightmares of your parents haunt you everyday. They're nice. All of them are. The kids loved you and you enjoyed the mansion.

Still when the team invited you out you declined, when the kids wanted to crowd you during dinner you politely excused yourself to your office. You didn't go to parties, you didn't celebrate the holidays with them. You were just you, a nice, safe distance away from them. Then your world got flipped upside down.

The day Logan rolled into the mansion. He was mean and angry. He had that "I don't like being around people" kind of vibe but he stuck around. Ended up becoming more apart of the team than he wanted. And he liked it.

Logan was the first one to really break down your walls. Just like everyone else you stayed away from him. Smiling and greeting him but never going past that. Maybe that's what drew him to you. You were a mystery who smelled like vanilla. It was your perfume. He would try to flirt but he got nowhere. Eventually he gave up the flirting but his interest stayed. He find ways to talk to you, getting bits and pieces of information from you.

You quickly learned he was just like you in some ways. Guarded, a past life that you don't want to talk about, loners. Somehow in all of it, as he stayed at the mansion and grew to become part of this family, he wormed his way into your heart too. Just too loners who found out that being alone together is better than being lonely.

As time passed, your relationship with Logan evolved into something you never imagined you would experience. Love. You never let yourself feel this way, too afraid that you would do the same thing to them. That you would get close, build this connection, make these memories, only for it all to come crashing down with just a single touch. These memories are precious to you. Every single one of them.

You remember the day your feelings were revealed. Both of you desperate, afraid of what they meant, but neither of you could lose each other. It was the cure. Some company had found a way to suppress the gene. The moment you heard about it you were intrigued. Your mutation wasn't fun. It didn't let you control the weather or turn things to ice. You couldn't touch people. Just like rouge you were at risk for destroying someone's whole life.

Even with the years of lessons you weren't fully in control. You never let yourself try. Logan could see it in your eyes. The confrontation wasn't pretty.

It was anger at first, wondering how you could even consider that. Then it was anger from you, years of pent up feelings releasing all at once. The fighting turned into a deep confession. An intimate moment between the two of you. He cared for you in a way that scared the shit out of him. He couldn't say the words yet but he felt them. You felt the same way but just like Logan. Something was holding you back from saying those three words.

Still you showed your love to each other in other ways. You always let him know how much you cared for him. The words died on your tongue but he knew. You hope he did.

Logan bought you a necklace. Didn't make a big deal of it but you could see the blush on his face. Tossing you the box and mumbling something about him seeing it and thinking of you. It was gorgeous. Just a simple heart necklace with two sparkling stones. One for him and one for you.

Even if you couldn't touch he wanted apart of him to be with you. It was perfect. Everything was perfect. You had Logan. You had the team, the mansion. For once you felt like your life was falling into place.

Apparently the universe didn't like that. Charles had called the team in for an important mission. You weren't on the team due to your own choosing so when Logan came back to bed he started to talk.

"Yeah some rogue mutants. Bunch of assholes who enjoy torturing humans." He grumbled as he threw his jacket on. Fixing his hair in the mirror as you sit on the bed. You're doing everything you can to stay calm, to not set off Logan's super senses.

"Some guy named Mack is their leader. Guess he's got some illusion powers or something." Logan says it all like its nothing. To him it is nothing. Just another mission. To you though, it's the beginning of the end.

"Don't know who in their right mind would do shit like that. Just a bunch of low life idiots." He spits. You wince at his harsh tone. He notices your silence and glances over at you. You're practically frozen in place. An unreadable look in your eyes.

"You alright?" Logan moves to touch your arm but you jerk it away.

"Yeah sorry, just had another nightmare last night." You lie. Logan looks at you strangely before sitting on the bed. His hand intertwining with your gloved one.

"Though I told you to wake me up." You snort and roll your eyes playfully. "And I told you the same thing." You counter. He smirks, you have him there. Part of why you go so well together.

"I'll wake you next time, I promise." There's a loud knock at the door and Logan grumbles.

"Promised some dumb kids I'd take them to the mall. Storm promised me a six pack of beer." After saying goodbye you let your smile fall.

This couldn't be happening. You thought you were finally safe, this was years ago. How could they still be around. Before Charles had found you, you were involved with this group. You weren't proud if it but you were hungry and afraid and they found you. Mutants just like you. They weren't afraid of you. In fact they were in awe of you, something you had never felt before.

You fell into their group, participating in the horrible things they'd do. You never did anything yourself. You were clean up crew. Wiping memories of anyone who saw something they weren't supposed to. Still, you enabled it all. When you finally left, it wasn't easy. You had tried to erase their memories but for some reason they could block you. You got away but they swore one day they'd come back for you. You were one of them forever now. No one would understand, no one would forgive you. You were a monster just like them.

Your mind runs a mile a minute. Thinking of everyone in the mansion. The team. Storm, Jean, Scott, Rouge...everyone.

Logan, oh god Logan.

Would he understand? He would have to. He's just like you. He did things in his past. He was violent, angry, a survivor. He never claimed to be a hero. But that doubt swirls in your mind. Fear overtakes any rational thought. You know what you have to do.

This was your fight, not theirs. You could stop them, you needed to finish what you started. Grabbing your wrinkled old backpack you stuff clothes, money, and any essentials inside of it. You had to move quick before any of the mind readers got a hint of what you were thinking.

Especially Charles. You barely had time to think about this but the fear was creeping into your mind. Poisoning it. It's better this way. It's safer this way. They've done so much for you that you owe it to them to help. You're protecting them. All of them. Logan included.

You held on tightly to the necklace he had given you. Tucking it in your shirt as you leave the room. You smiled as you walked through the halls. Saying hello to those who passed by. By the time you were at the front doors you felt a pull to keep you here.

Deep down you didn't want to leave. Of course you didn't. But you overcome the pull and walk through the doors. Refusing to look back as the mansion grows smaller in the distance. You walked for hours. Your feet aching as you finally reached some rinky dink motel. The room is depressing but for now it's home. Curling up on the bed you bury your face in the pillow.

Your heart longing for Logan. You're scared, so scared. A part of you wants to go back and find him. Tell him everything and ask for help. But then you remember what he said. How would he react knowing that you were one of them? Would he forgive you or would he turn his back on you just like Mack always said?

You barely get a moment to think before there's a loud knock at the door. Hand slamming impatiently against it. You quietly get up and look through the peephole. You cover your mouth to hide your shocked gasp. Logan. How the hell did he find you?

"I know you're in there." Oh he's angry. You open the door and Logan steps through.

"What the fuck were you thinking?!" His voice booms through the room.

"I come home to a ransacked room, I thought you were in danger. Only to be told that you ran away." He growls. He's clenching his fists tightly. How could you do this to him?

"How did you find me?" You demand as you slowly sink back towards your bag.

"Why did you leave? What's going on!" Logan is confused, lashing out on you because he just doesn't understand. Things were going great. You loved him and he loved you so why would you just run away. Away from the mansion, away from him. Did you not trust him anymore? Why?

"You wouldn't understand." You try to move past him but he grabs your shoulders and pressing you against the wall.

His claws coming out to pin you to it. The sharp adamantium knicks the chain around your neck, breaking it in two. The necklace falls to the ground but neither of you notice.

"Try me." The anger is slowly fading as he silently begs you to talk. To let him in.

"I'm sorry Logan, but I can't."

"Why not? What are you running from? I can help. Let me help." He begs. Please don't leave him. Please. He can do something. He can heal like crazy, he can track, he's fast, he's got fucking metal claws. He can help.

"You can't help me with this Logan. This is for your own good." You try to stay strong but looking into those gorgeous eyes of his was about to make you break.

"This is my fight and mine alone." He scoffs and lets go of you and starts to pace.

"Bullshit. This is our fight now. That's the deal. I lo-" He sighs and pulls you close. "Its you and me. Together." You gently trace his jaw with your gloved hands.

Tears glossing over your eyes as it takes everything in power to stay strong. To not fall into his arms. He's protected himself his whole life and you can't be the one to put him in more danger. He's a hero, he's your hero but tonight he's the love of your life and you need to protect him. Even if it feels like ripping out your own heart.

"Logan..." You say softly. He looks at you with those pretty eyes and you cup his face.

Slowly your lips brush against his. It's just a hint at first. Then it's everything at once. He smashes his lips to yours. Kissing you with a passion and need that you've dreamed off. This is your first kiss after all. It's everything you ever wanted. To feel his lips on yours. Skin to skin. You'll treasure this moment forever.

He's so wrapped up in the kiss that he doesn't notice you take your hand away. Taking off your gloves and move your hands to the side of his head. Hovering over his temples. He pulls away, breathing heavily as he leans in and kisses you again.

"I love you Logan, I love you so much." You say with tears falling down your cheeks. He realizes too late, a flash of fear as you press your hands to his face.

"No!" He roars but its too late.

Like he's in a trance he stands there. You cry as you erase every memory he has of you. He won't remember you, he won't know why he's here or how he got here. You know that you won't have long before someone else finds you and you'll erase their memory too. It's for the best. It's for his own good. His eyes flutter close as he falls to the floor. You catch his head, lowering him gently to the ground. A pillow placed under it. You can't stay, he'll wake any moment. But you have a few seconds. You lean down and place a kiss on his forehead.

"I love you Logan Howlett." You whisper gently.

You take one last look at him before grabbing your bag and running out the door. Each step apart from him is like a knife in your chest. You tell yourself this what needed to happen. You'd rather lose Logan like this than watching him suffer because of you. This way he can be happy, he can move on.

You did this for him. All of it for him.

Logan wakes to a pounding in his head. Confusion washes over him as he takes in his surroundings. Where the fuck is he? He doesn't remember how he got here, why he came here. He stands up and looks around the room.

"What the hell?" He mumbles to himself.

Was this a prank or something? He cracks his neck and looks around. The room is mostly empty but a small glimmer catches his eyes. He walks over and sees six holes in the wall that match his claws.

Leaning down he picks up a necklace. A heart with two stones. He winces as a sharp pain shoots through his head. He stands up and slips the necklace in his pocket, something telling him to keep it close. He feels a pain in his chest. Not physical pain but something else. Maybe he finally got drunk. Drank enough to finally fuck him up.

All he knows is that he needs to get back to the mansion. As he leaves stops for a second. He shakes his head and continues on, hopping back on his motorcycle. For a second there he swears he caught a whiff of vanilla.

Must be his imagination.

#logan howlett #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett angst #wolverine x reader

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changbunnies · 1 month ago

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Danse Macabre (18+)

♡ Pairing: Rich Serial Killer!Bang Chan x Fem!Reader

♡ Genre: loosely house on haunted hill inspired, vaguely 1950s au, horror themes, dark romance, smut, dead dove? read the warnings carefully and come to ur own conclusion on what you're willing to read before engaging pls :')

♡ Word Count: 3.9k

♡ Summary: The handsomely wealthy Christopher Bang and his wife are holding an overnight party at the house on Haunted Hill, and the rules are simple– stay the entire night, and $100,000 is their guest's to take; but little do the guests know that their hosts don't intend to let them leave.

♡ General Warnings: this is a serial killer au! do not read if you aren't prepared to read about death + murder + blood + injury! (i personally think i kept the descriptions tame and mild but everyone has different opinions so just use ur discretion and don't interact if you think you may be bothered by anything listed !), chan is referred to as chris, reader is very complicit in his crimes, they're a sick and twisted couple i fear!

♡ Smut Warnings: hybristophilia (i.e chan being a killer turns reader on), smut begins with chan talking about killing reader (intended to be strictly roleplay because he knows it excites them, but ur free to read it as him being serious if ur freaky like that lol), heavy usage of pet names (darling, my love, princess, sweetheart, dear), dom/sub dynamics, rough and a lil mean dom!chan, big dick chan because it's hot!, hair pulling, knife kink (but without a knife actually being used), corruption kink (not in the traditional way), tiny bit of nipple play, oral (m rec), facefucking, choking (on cock :) ), dacryphilia, manhandling, mirror sex, unprotected piv, creampie

♡ Notes: welcome to the first of my late kinktober fics ! this fic is loosely inspired by the opening scenes of the 1959 house on haunted hill movie, which is why the setting is vaguely 1950s!, this is the darkest fic i've tried my hand at writing, but i'm also a very big horror fan so writing this was very fun for me even tho it's not the genre i typically write for!

♡ Disclaimer: please read responsibly, and remember that this work is fiction and meant strictly for imaginative fun. the idols used in fics are more accurately faceclaims and personality outlines for imaginary characters, and should not be interpreted as factual representations of existing people.

"Darling, the guests are arriving. You must get ready," your husband, Christopher, emphasizes as he steps into the master bedroom you'll be occupying for the evening.

You're sitting at the room's vanity, all of your hair pulled to one side as you finish drying it after your long, relaxing bath. The scent of lavender bath oil and citrus shampoo linger over you– scents brought with you from home because you absolutely refuse to use the luxurious room's complimentary soap; no offense intended to the housekeepers who provided it, of course.

You look sweet as ever in your dainty little pastel blue babydoll gown, your robe delicate and sheer, hanging down off your shoulder and bunching at your elbows. You glance at Chris through the vanity mirror as you begin to comb your hair and free it of any leftover tangles, meeting his gaze with a smile.

"What's the rush, my love? Is it not customary to be late to a party?" Chris chuckles as he steps closer, runs his hand over your shoulder and down your spine as he leans down to kiss the top of your head. "Normally I'd agree with you. But this is your party, princess. You should greet your guests."

He's right, of course– today is your birthday, and he booked the entire mansion, as well as invited all the guests, at your behest. Christopher is the old money sort– a millionaire from a long line of millionaires before him. And because of that, your party comes with a fun gimmick– survive a night in the haunted mansion, and earn an easy hundred thousand dollars.

Assuming each guest successfully lasts until dawn, that's $700,000 for your husband to pay out– but that's no worry! That's still only chump change to a man as wealthy as Chris– and besides all that, no one's going to last until morning anyways; you're certain of that.

Naturally, as having a haunted house party was your idea, the venue was your choice– and the eerie mansion that sits lonesome upon Haunted Hill was the perfect pick. You've always found it strikingly beautiful from the outside, dreamed of one day stepping inside and drinking in all its Victorian charm.

It's certainly lived up to your expectations– and you're sure Chris will buy it for you if you express to him just how much you adore it; he'd buy you the entire world if you asked him to. For now, it's good enough that he rented it out for your sinister party.

You doubt the mansion is actually haunted– you don't put much stock in the stories of ghosts and ghouls that gave this hill its nickname; but it's a fun little tale, and you don't mind playing into it for the sake of a fun time. And it certainly helps make your party's tag line of "survive the night!" more inconspicuous.

"They're all strangers, sweetheart– I don't think they'll mind if I'm a little late," you tell him with a coy little smile as you set your comb back down on the vanity, satisfied with the condition of your freshly washed hair. He returns your smile with a mischievous one of his own, an amused glint in his eye.

"And remind me, darling, why it is that we've rented this house and invited a bunch of strangers to your party," Chris says as he leans down further, his breath fanning your ear. You giggle, almost innocently– though both of you know you're more than just complicit in his endeavors; you actively fuel them, his sadistic princess.

"You know why, my love," you reply, and to anyone else your smile would seem pure, almost angelic– but Christopher knows better. He knows that his kills excite you– perhaps even more than they excite him. He grabs a fist full of your freshly tamed hair, grins at the gasp you let out when he pulls your head back.

"And this is really what you want for your birthday? To see me stick my knife into someone's neck? To have me return to this room covered head to toe in their blood?" he questions as he looms over you now, but the answer is clear as it always is. He sees the way your thighs squeeze together, sees how the desire darkens your eyes– you’re sick; but that’s what he loves most about you.

"I could kill you too, you know. Take my knife right along your skin, just like this," he says as he runs a finger over one side of your neck to the other, gentle but purposeful in demonstration. Your breath hitches as you squirm in your seat, unable to turn your eyes away from him as he tightens the grip on your hair.

"But you wouldn't," you breathe, and Chris smiles, sweet and sinister as his eyes narrow at you, just how you like it. "Are you certain, dear? Do you think me incapable?"

"I think you love me, as I love you," you answer, eyes starting to water from the sting of his tug on your scalp. "I love that you trust me," he replies as he trails his finger down, over your collarbones and to your chest. His fingers play with the dainty lace of your gown for just a moment before he slides his hand inside, cupping your breast in his large palm.

"I bet you wouldn't even bat a lid if I touched you with my knife here," he continues as he brushes his thumb over your hardening nipple, "you'd actually like it, wouldn't you, my love? Feeling the cold steel here, knowing I could easily cut you if I wanted to?" You whine, try to nod your head though his grip prevents it– all you can do is answer with a meek "yes" instead.

"Speak up, darling. I'm afraid I couldn't hear you," he says with an expectant look that sends a shiver down your spine. Chris indulges your every desire, gives you everything in the world you want– so in the moments like these, in which when he asks something of you, you listen.

"Yes! I'd like it!" you answer, as loud and clear as you can bring your voice to be. Chris smiles, the sweet one he always gives you when you listen to him well, with his handsome dimples on display– a stark contrast from the darkness in his gaze. He releases his grip on your hair, cups your face and rubs his thumb over your cheek as he kisses you, greedy and deep.

You always manage to get him hot; all it takes is a few simple words and that sweet gaze of yours to get him worked up– always the picture perfect image of innocence, pretty smiles and soft gazes that hide the depravity lingering beneath. So coy and demure, batting your lashes and acting like you don’t know at all what he does in the dead of night, acting like it doesn’t make your stomach twist– not with fear, but with desire.

Chris always sees through your act– he knows you. But he won’t pretend he doesn’t like it– the fun little game you share, where you gasp in faux surprise when he enters the room drenched in a new victim's blood, where your voice trembles and eyes well with tears when he grabs you hard, kisses you deep as the blood coating him transfers to your skin, sharing it with you.

And your answer now– whether it’s part of the game, or you truly would like feeling his knife cutting your pristine, unsullied skin, it doesn’t matter. He meant it when he said he loves that you trust him; and he loves that you wanted this. That all you wanted for your birthday was this party– to see him at his most unleashed, to indulge in the most sinful fun you could share as a couple.

You never say what he is out loud– don’t call him a monster, a murderer, or a killer. You always dance around it, play innocent, though it’s obvious enough that you know the truth; and that’s more than enough for Chris. In fact, he prefers it this way; he likes to pretend he’s ruining your innocence, likes to pretend he’s a corrupting influence in your pure, perfect world, likes to pretend he’s ruining you.

Maybe in a way, he is– maybe you were a good girl before you found out his secret, maybe catching him in the act changed you, and maybe he’s dragging you down to hell with him by sharing this part of his life with you. Regardless, he loves what you have together– and he’ll keep playing this dangerous game with you, even if it ends in both your demise.

You melt into his kiss, as you always do– his lips, so plump and soft, always feel so perfect when they’re pressed against yours. You open your mouth for him the moment you feel his tongue swipe across your bottom lip, and he hums pleasantly as he slips his tongue in your mouth. It’s not the most slow or sensual kiss you’ve ever shared– rather, it’s needy, passionate and urgent.

Chris smiles at you again when he pulls away, enjoying the sparkle beholden in your eyes as you stare up at him. “Open your mouth for me, darling,” he says as he runs his thumb over your bottom lip. You do as instructed, the obedient thing you are for him, and he grins as he sticks his thumb inside your mouth.

You wrap your lips around his thumb, sucking on it after he rests it against your tongue. “Oh, my love– you already knew what to do, didn’t you? Always know just what I want, yeah?” You hum as you nod, staring up at him oh so enticing and pretty. “You’ll suck my cock just like that, won’t you?” he continues, biting his lip to suppress a laugh when you eagerly nod and hum once more.

He removes his thumb from your mouth with a pop, hurries with undoing his belt and pulling his cock out of his trousers. His cock is mesmerizing, as always– so long and thick, with pretty veins and a leaking tip; but you aren’t given any time to idly sit and admire it. He wraps your hair around his fist, forces you to take his cock in your mouth all at once.

You choke and sputter as his cock presses against the back of your throat, your nose meeting his pubic bone in a flash, the neatly trimmed hair there tickling your skin. You can’t pull your head back with his grip forcing you down– but you wouldn’t dream of trying anyways; this is what he wants, and he'll have it.

Eyes watering, you do your best to relax your jaw and throat, to suck him just the way he likes, with your tongue massaging his veins. It’s a struggle to breathe through your nose, unprepared for his cock as you were– and it’s not until your eyes are dimming and head is swimming from the lack of oxygen that he pulls you back to let you take a breath.

It’s harsh, lungs positively burning as you take deep, heaving breaths. “Oh, I’m sorry, darling. Was that too much for you?” he asks, but his tone lacks its usual sincerity. “Chris–” you cry his name weakly after taking another breath, a few of the stray tears lingering on your lids finally spilling over as you blink.

“My dear,” he cuts you off, forcing his cock past your lips once more, using the leverage of his grip on your hair to once again push your head down on him, making you take his length into your mouth until you choke on it.

“You weren’t going to complain, were you? No, I know you wouldn’t do that,” he says, voice wavering ever so slightly, breathier from the pleasure your mouth gives him. “Because I give you everything you want. Everything I do is for you– so you’ll let me use you, yeah?”

He’s right again, of course– you wouldn’t dream of complaining, of depriving him of what he wants from you. And you both know this is far from the limit of what you can take, but as with everything else, he likes when you pretend for him. When you cry and weakly try to protest, half hearted utterances of “too much!” or “I can't!” as tears roll down your cheeks– an act that always leaves him throbbing.

And Chris is good to you, always puts the entire world in the palm of your hands– so just as he says, you’ll thank him by letting him use you however he wants. You can’t nod your head, and any word you try to speak would be muffled and indecipherable– so you allow your jaw to go slack to show him you understand.

“Good, just like that,” he says as you lay your tongue flat, his praise a small kindness before he really lets loose. He easily controls your pace, yanks your hair back until only the tip of his cock remains in your mouth before shoving you back down to the base of it.

You try not to gag and choke, but most attempts go unsuccessful, more tears spilling from your eyes and drool spilling from the corners of your mouth with each full press of his length in your mouth. You can’t even feel the sting on your scalp anymore– all you can focus on is trying to breathe while he uses your mouth.

But all you can breathe is Chris, and he’s unforgiving in the way he moves you on his cock. You jaw quickly begins to ache, and every low groan that he releases is drowned out by the filthy sounds your mouth and throat create as you swallow around his cock.

He doesn’t let up until your vision darkens and blurs again, your nails digging into your own thighs as you try to hold out as long as possible. You gasp when he pulls you off his cock, heart pounding in your chest as the much needed air finally returns to your lungs.

You look up at Chris as he releases his grip on your hair, eyes lidded and hazy. He’s made a real mess of you– from the way his fingers have tousled your hair, to your freshly swollen lips, to the saliva that dripped down from your mouth to your chest. It’s pretty, really– so, so pretty; he almost wants to coo at you.

Instead, he strokes your cheek, offers you a look of faux sympathy– and you’re much too addled to realize he doesn’t mean it. You take the affection regardless of his intent, close your eyes and lean into his touch. You can hear him softly laugh, can easily imagine that smirk he must have on his face right now.

“We’re not done yet, sweetheart,” Chris reminds you as he takes his hand away from your face. He grabs your arm, lifts you up from your chair and quickly turns you around, shoving everything resting on the vanity aside before he’s bending you over it. Your yelp of surprise is weak considering the abuse your throat just suffered, your hands lying flat as he presses you down against the hardwood.

Your face smushes against the mirror, and how cold it is in contrast to how hot your face has become nearly makes you jolt. He shoves your panties to the side easily with his fingers, and you can hear him chuckle when you impatiently begin to squirm as he presses his cock against your dripping hole.

“Princess– stay still,” he says, and you can tell from his tone alone that it’s much more a demand than it is a request. You mutter a soft apology as you still your hips, and he waits a moment– waits to see if you’re going to move again before he acts.

“Please,” you whine, make your desire to have his cock filling you up known, but ultimately don’t move. With a satisfied grin that you can just barely see on his face from your position against the mirror, he slowly, finally, starts to press his length inside your pussy.

He brings his hands to your hips, holds you as you begin to tremble from the feeling of his cock stretching you out. He doesn’t give you time to adjust– just squeezes your hips in his hands as he starts to fuck you from behind. “Oh, Chris– fuck,” you gasp, though it quickly becomes a moan.

His cock feels so deep in this position, and it has your eyes rolling back with each motion of his hips into yours. “You’re so fucking wet, fuck–” he groans, his hands gripping you harder as he finds his rhythm. “Squeezing so tight– feels good, huh, princess? You like it when I fuck you like this?”

“Yes, love it! Love you, love your cock, feels so good–” You cry, high pitched whimpers leaving you now as you try to nod your head, though its position against the mirror doesn’t make it easy. Chris groans again before he moves a hand to your hand, threads his fingers through your hair again to pull you back against him.

You reach backwards to support yourself, one of your hands clinging to his shirt while the other holds him behind the neck. “Look at yourself, darling. Look,” he says against your ear, and you focus your eyes on the mirror. You look at Chris through it first, take in the sight of the sweat dripping down his temple and the clench in his jaw as he fucks you.

Your eyes travel down, met with the sight of your tits bouncing with each of his thrusts, threatening to spill out of your babydoll gown. Lower still, you watch as he takes his other hand off your hip, slides it past the hem of your gown to find your clit with his fingers. “Want you to watch yourself cum. Don’t stop looking,” he tells you, and you whine– it won’t be easy, but you’ll listen; you always do.

He lets go of your hair, and is quick to wrap his arm around your body so that you don’t fall too far forward. You’re so wet that his fingers quickly become slick, and it makes his touch lack friction as they slide messily over your clit, but the feeling is still so delicious that you can’t complain.

It’s so hard to maintain eye contact with your reflection, hard to prevent your eyes from rolling back whenever he hits your spot with his cock while playing with your clit, but you keep doing your best for him. He can feel you clenching harder as you continue to watch yourself unravel, feels your nails starting to dig into where they hold his neck.

“C’mon, love– cum for me, you can do it sweetheart,” Chris urges you, his voice soft and low in your ear. “I will! ‘m gonna– gonna cum for you!” you cry; and though you’d been doing so well, you can’t help but let your eyes roll back and close as you finally let go and gush on his cock. If it were a different day, he might scold you for not keeping your eyes open like he told you to– but it is your birthday today, so he’ll let it pass just this once.

He pushes you back down onto the vanity as you ride out the last of your orgasm, face once again smushing against the mirror as he grabs your hands and holds them behind your back at the wrists, fucks you rough and deep as he chases his own release. You whimper and tremble, unable to escape the sensitivity you feel, or able to grip anything to ground yourself– all you can do is take it.

“Can’t! Chris, please– I can't, t-too much, too much!” your voice warbles as you cry, the pleasure you feel overwhelming. “Yes you can,” he says as you writhe helplessly in his grasp, your fingers clenching into desperate fists where he holds them against your back. “You can take it, I know you can.”

You’re going to cum again, you know it– he doesn’t even have to touch your clit again to get you there, because the tip of his cock is kissing your spot so good that you’re seeing stars. You’re panting hard, your every breath fogging the mirror, your nails digging into your palms as Chris’ name leaves you in desperate, broken syllables.

It’s not until you’re finished cumming around him for a second time that his pace finally begins to falter– he lets go of your wrists, squeezes your hips in his hands and thrusts once, twice more before his own high takes him. You whine as you feel his cum spurt deep inside, hot and sticky, leaving you perfectly full.

Chris takes just a moment to steady his breathing before he’s slipping out of you, hurrying to reach to the ground for the tissue box he previously knocked off the vanity. He grabs a tissue, cleans between your legs as gently as he can, though you still end up flinching just a bit.

He then readjusts your panties so they rest on you properly again, and helps you settle back into the vanity’s chair. He kisses you after tucking his softening length back in his trousers, glances in the mirror to make sure nothing else about his appearance is out of place before he has to return to your party.

“Was it good?” you ask earnestly as you look up at him, and he smiles at you, stroking your head sweetly. “Of course, my darling. You’re perfect, as always,” he tells you, and you beam, turning your head to kiss his hand before he takes it away. He glances over at the grandfather clock sitting in the corner of the room, laughs in disbelief when he notes the time.

“Gosh, it’s almost midnight– we really must hurry,” he says, and you giggle, truly without a care in the world that you’ve kept your guests waiting. You turn back to vanity, pout as you take in your appearance– you were too far gone from lust to really realize just how debauched Chris made you, but now you truly see just how much you have to fix.

“Christopher! You’ve ruined me!” you complain before looking around the floor for your comb. “Apologies, princess,” he chuckles, leaning down to pick up your comb for you once you’ve spotted it. He hands it to you, but doesn’t completely release his grip to let you take it until after you kiss him in thanks.

“Now then– I’ve got to go entertain our guests. But hurry, won’t you, darling? I wouldn’t want to start the real fun without you,” Chris says as he rests his hand on the knob of the bedroom door, and you smile as you look at him through the mirror, making quick work of fixing your hair.

“Of course, my love. I wouldn’t miss my party for the world,” you tell him; and despite what he said, it’s not long until you hear the first shrill scream of the night. Dressed in your prettiest red dress and heels, you peek your head out of the bedroom door– and Chris stands there, knife in hand with blood speckled over his face.

“Sorry darling, didn’t have a choice,” he explains, and you giggle as you fully step out of the room, carefully stepping over the blood that decorates the floor to kiss him before shooing him away to continue. Your birthday party has fully kicked off now– and it’ll certainly be one to remember.

#skz x reader #bang chan x reader #skz smut #bang chan smut #skz fanfic #bang chan fanfic #skz imagines #skz scenarios #mdni + divider graphic credit: @cafekitsune #meant to post this earlier in the day but i wanted to give it one more read to make sure there were no mistakes :')#and if there are mistakes after i just reread it for the millionth time after finishing it then just ignore them i beg gfdshghf

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inkedinshadows · 13 days ago

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A Place Called Home

Pairing: Azriel x f!reader

Summary: Follow Azriel as he recalls all the places where he's lived but never belonged, until he finds the one where he finally does.

Warnings: a bit of Inner Circle slander, I guess? But not really tbh. Mentions of wing clipping

Word count: 2.1k

A/N: I don't know what I think of this one tbh. It's not exactly what I had in mind, but I've made my peace with it. @azrielappreciationweek

Azriel had never belonged in his father's mansion. He never once believed he did. But he didn't belong in Illyria, either.

Though he was Illyrian, he always disapproved of their backward traditions, especially regarding females.

He had seen how his mother was treated; he knew what had happened to Cassian’s, and too many times during his training in Windhaven, he had to witness brutal clippings without being able to stop them.

How could he belong in such a place? A place where females were treated as little more than objects and breeding mares, where children were taught to fight as soon as they could walk and left to care for themselves in the mud and cold?

He had done horrible things—most of which to protect his family and court—and they still haunted him in his sleep at times. But he liked to think that he was at least better than the Illyrian brutes he had grown up among. That there were certain lines even he wouldn't cross.

Illyria was a beautiful land, with its snow-capped mountains and frozen lakes. It could be merciless and harsh, but that was nature. Its inhabitants, however, chose to be that way, and Azriel had long since lost faith in any change.

~~~~~~

He didn't belong in Rosehall, either.

He was always welcome there and visited as often as he could, but that was his mother’s house. He had bought it for her as soon as he had enough money.

It was her safe place, her haven, where she didn't have to worry about anything and where she wasn't anyone's servant. Azriel remembered the tears shining in her eyes the first time he brought her there, when the house was still empty and cold.

It had taken him a long time to convince her that she didn't need to worry about money. He worked directly for the High Lord now, and he was paid well enough for her to furnish the house however she liked.

She had still tried not to spend too much, but she had chosen each piece of furniture and decoration with attentive care. It was the first time she had a place she could call her own after centuries of living, and Azriel liked what she had done with it. The place was simple yet elegant, with cream-colored walls and wooden furniture. Colorful flowers bloomed on the windowsills, and paintings hung in the hallway and the living room. She had even made sure to have a bedroom for him, so he could stay as long as he wished.

But Azriel's favorite part of Rosehall was probably the delicious smell of food wafting through the rooms. Now that she no longer had to cook for domineering males, she had rediscovered her passion for cooking. Whether it was spices, freshly baked bread, or roasted meat, the smell never failed to make his mouth water.

Yes, Azriel enjoyed his time in Rosehall and tried to visit as often as he could, but it was still his mother’s house—not his.

~~~~~~

He belonged in the Inner Circle, he guessed. Though sometimes he felt like he didn't.

Azriel cared about Amren; after all, he had known her for centuries. But it was still Amren. How many times had it been just the two of them, spending time like normal friends? Once, maybe twice, and even then, their conversations had mostly revolved around Court matters. Sometimes he wondered if they would have ever approached each other at all if it hadn't been for Rhys bringing them together.

And then there was Mor. He had spent centuries quietly loving her, longing for something he could never have. He had long since stopped believing that her concerned glances and gentle touches meant anything beyond deep affection—sisterly affection. Yet he'd held on to those feelings even when they started to fade, because he had never known anything different. It was a twisted form of both protection and punishment: if he still loved her, then he wouldn't risk his heart being broken by another rejection. Yet knowing Mor would never feel the same, that she had her own lovers and relationships, was like being stabbed in the chest. He wasn't sure when it started to hurt a little less each time he thought about it.

With that pain easing, the resentment he'd carried buried deep down for most of his life began to fade as well. He never once held it against Cassian. He knew it wasn't his fault Mor had chosen him. Who would have chosen Azriel anyway? He wished things were different, but he didn't blame either of them. It still chafed, though. It was something he couldn't shake, like a shadow lingered on the edges of his heart, and it resurfaced whenever he saw Mor and Cassian together.

And his brother… Azriel loved him deeply, and he was grateful to have him in his life. But there was no denying how different they were, and sometimes it felt as if Cassian didn't really understand him. There was a rage inside Azriel, rarely rising to the surface but it was there, born the moment he'd seen his mother's fear in the presence of his father. That rage never left. It grew until Azriel had to learn how to contain it, to live with it, for the sake of the people around him and his own.

Cassian never really understood it. Rhys did, though. Azriel knew that if he pushed, Rhysand would match him. Yet his brother still tried to thaw and tame that icy rage he had grown so accustomed to, which was probably an honorable aim—if Azriel hadn't lived with it so long that he wasn't sure who he would be without it.

He loved his family deeply, and he knew they loved him back. But they didn't always understand him, and he often felt out of place among them.

~~~~~~

Velaris was his home, and he'd do anything to protect it. He tortured and killed for that very reason many times. But at the end of the day, the City of Starlight was just that—a city. No matter how beautiful or welcoming, it was too vast a place to call home.

He had never bothered buying an apartment or a town house for himself. Maybe he should have. But the House of Wind had always been enough, with its views and endless rooms. It was practical living there—there was the training ring, the hall where Rhys held court, and the library for when he wanted some quiet.

But the House of Wind belonged to Rhys. Now that he had given it as a mating present to Nesta and Cassian, it was theirs. They assured him he could still live there, that his room would always be his, but Azriel had preferred to move out. He had no interest in living there during their mating frenzy.

The townhouse and the river house belonged, once again, to Rhys and Feyre. They never made him feel like he owed them anything for staying there—Elain lived there too, after all—but Azriel longed for a place he could call his own. Yet the idea of buying an apartment had still felt too definitive. He had tried, but none of the places he'd seen made him want to own them.

He had almost given up hope of finding a place he could call home, but then he met you. And he realized, after five hundred years, that maybe home wasn't a place at all.

“Az?”

Your voice cut through his thoughts, bringing him back to the present, to the feel of you in his arms and your big eyes staring up at him.

“Baby, are you listening to me?”

Azriel blinked, slightly shaking his head to chase away the remnants of his past. He looked down at you, and his heart fluttered at the love shining in your eyes.

“Hi,” you said with a soft smile. Your hand came up to cup his face, the touch warm and familiar. “I lost you. Where did you go?”

“Sorry,” he breathed. “I was just thinking.”

You waited patiently, giving him the freedom to continue or return to your conversion. Embarrassment flooded Azriel as he realized he couldn't remember what you were talking about.

He held you imperceptibly tighter, trying to find the right words to convey what he felt.

“I never felt like I fit in anywhere,” he said eventually. His voice was quiet even in the silence of the room, and he struggled to keep his eyes open when all he wanted to do was lean into your touch. “I've been looking for where I belong for centuries.”

It came easy to voice those thoughts to you. You never judged. You listened, and then you gave your opinion or simply shared your own thoughts. You saw all of him, and you didn't run from it. You accepted him. You loved him.

Sometimes, Azriel still wondered if it was all a dream or if you were really a part of his life.

“And have you found it?” you murmured, your thumb brushing his cheek just below his eye.

Azriel nodded. “I found it.” He took your hand, gently removing it from his face to bring it closer to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss to your palm, his lips lingering on your skin before he repeated the gesture with your fingertips. Your smile was soft as he murmured, “I found you.”

Your eyes, which had been following the movements of his lips, shot up to meet his. Even after a year together, he was still mesmerized by how you always wore your heart on your sleeve. It was so easy to read you, and right now, blended with your unconditional love, he could see curiosity and amusement playing on your features.

“Me?” you repeated, your voice a murmur.

Azriel nodded once more, letting go of your hand only to bring his own up to your cheek. “Yes, you, my love.” He rested his forehead against yours, closing his eyes as he breathed in your scent. “It doesn’t matter where we are. You’re where I belong. You’re my home.”

Wherever you went, he would follow. If you woke up one day and told him you wanted to move to the Spring Court, or even to Vallahan far east on the continent, he would go with you. He would go with you to the end of the world if you asked.

He could feel your heart beating faster in your chest, and a playful smile appeared on your lips as you pulled back to look into his eyes. “So… is this the right moment to tell you that I wanted to ask you to move in?”

Azriel stared at you, eyes wide, a huge grin slowly spreading across his face. His arms tightened around you, and then you squealed in surprise as his hands found your backside and he picked you up. The sound was quickly swallowed by his lips crashing against yours, and you could do nothing but kiss him back and wrap your legs around his waist, careful not to brush against his wings.

You were both breathing slightly faster when Azriel pulled back, but he didn’t let you go. If anything, he held you tighter, as if worried you might disappear.

“I’ll take it that’s a yes?” you chuckled. Your fingers brushed the hair on the back of his neck, his wings rustling quietly at the sensation.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Of course it’s a yes, love.”

He didn’t care if your apartment wasn’t suited for an Illyrian, if he had to carefully maneuver his wings to avoid knocking things over. He had already spent so much time at your place that he was used to it by now. The thought of staying there permanently—of waking up with you in his arms every morning, of coming back after a long day knowing you’d be there too—filled him with so much joy that his heart could burst.

You beamed, and all Azriel wanted to do was to spin you around and never let you go. And so, he did, because nothing was stopping him. He was going to share a home with his love, and nothing had ever made him this happy before.

As he spun you around, you threw your head back and laughed joyfully, the sound echoing off the walls. Azriel’s laughter joined yours when he stilled, and then you were kissing him again.

After more than five hundred years, he finally knew where he belonged. And it wasn’t a place.

It was with you.

General taglist: @mrsjna @navyblue-eternity @paintedbyshadows @highladyandromeda @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @azrielsmate3 @mollygetssherlockcoffee @mirandasidefics @tinystarfishgalaxy @cynthiesjmxazrielslover @anarchiii @readinggeeklmao @anneas11 @azrielslittleslut @lilah-asteria @aaahhh0127 @lorosette @azrielsrealmate @pey2618 @mellowmusings @k8r123-blog @daughterofthemoons-stuff @minnieoo @saltedcoffeescotch

Azriel Week: @fourthwing4ever

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mysticalwolf · 1 year ago

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Two Spooky Wally’s

Corpse Groom Wally belongs to @sketchquill please check out their art and support their work.

Haunted Mansion Wally is my Au

#my art #welcome home au #corpse groom #welcome home haunted mansion au #welcome home fanart #wally darling #wally fanart #sketchquill #corpse puppet au #welcome home #welcome home puppet show #haunted mansion

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soulofapatrick · 1 year ago

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Rebuilding - Derek Hale x female reader

Summary: You show Derek the rebuilt Hale House you did for him

Words: 1.8k

warnings: none really; heavy making out

Notes: I can make a smutty part two

Y/N’s POV

The old Hale House had stood as a haunting reminder of the past, a testament to the tragedy and loss the family had endured. But now, it has been transformed into something new, something hopeful. With the combined effort of the pack and my Dad, it had become a symbol of rebirth and unity, a mansion that has welcomed every member with open arms and spare rooms for new pack members.

As I stand in front of the restored mansion, I can’t help but feel a mixture of excitement and nervousness. Derek, who had once lived here in its glory days, deserves to see what I’ve done to the place. He’s been through so much, and I wanted this surprise to be a new beginning for him… for us hopefully.

The anticipation in the air is palpable, and I can’t help but fidget with the key in my hand as I wait for Derek. The old Hale House, bathed in the soft light of the setting sun, seems to hold its breath in eager anticipation of his arrival. And then, I hear it - the familiar purr of Derek’s car engine. It’s a sound that I’ve come to associate with his arrival, and my heart quickens in response. The car pulls down the long, winding driveway, and I keep staring at the house, my hands shaking a little as I fiddle with the keys.

Suddenly, there he is. Derek appears beside me, his tall, brooding frame casting a shadow on the gravel driveway. He looks rugged and handsome as ever, with that alluring air of mystery that has always drawn me to him. His dark brows are furrowed in curiosity and confusion, his eyes scanning the mansion before us as if he’s trying to work out where we are. It makes my heart drop as he doesn’t recognise it despite me trying to keep it as near as I can to the original Hale house.

But then, something remarkable happens. As his eyes roam over the mansion’s exterior, his brows furrow even deeper, and then there’s a hint of disbelief in his expression. It’s as if the familiarity of the place has begun to dawn on him, piece by piece. The realisation hits him like a tidal wave. His kaleidoscope eyes widen, and a gasps escapes his pretty and plump lips, “Is… is this….?” His voice trembles with emotion, and for a moment, he can’t seem to find the words.

I hold out the keys for him and he looks between the house and the keys and then back at the house, “I can’t… I… can you…” His voice falters, and it’s clear that he’s fighting back tears, the enormity of the moment almost too much to bear. Without a word, I’m nodding and reaching for his trembling hands. Our fingers interlace, and with a gentle squeeze, I lead him towards the grand entrance.

Derek’s eyes remain locked onto the mansion, his disbelief and wonder still etched across his features. But he doesn’t need to say anything more for me to understand the whirlwind of emotions storming within him.

I turn the key in the lock, my own fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. The door swings open, revealing the lovingly restored interior. The warm, golden light spills into the entryway, painting a new chapter on the old canvas of the Hale House. The grand entrance is now invitingly open, Derek taking a step forwards. His presence is so close to me that his chest is practically pressed against my back. The feel of him so near is electrifying, and it sends a shiver down my spine.

“Welcome home Derek.” I say, my voice a soft, heartfelt whisper, as we cross the threshold together.

The atmosphere inside is a mixture of nostalgia and fresh beginnings. The original features of the Hale House have been preserved, the hardwood floors polished, the walls adorned with artworks from the pack. The spaciousness of the rooms has been maintained, yet there’s a sense of cozy warmth that wasn’t there before.

Derek’s gaze dances the space, a mixture of awe and sentimentality reflected in his expressive eyes. He appreciates the care and attention that went into preserving the essence of the house he called home.

Then, he grabs my hands again with a gentle yet firm grip, leading me through the echoing halls as the pack gave us the house for Derek to see alone. It’s a touch that sends a rush of warmth through me, the electricity of his touch palatable. We move through the house, our footsteps echoing, and Derek’s strides confident, as if he’s revisiting his own memories.

As we ender the kitchen, Derek stops in his tracks. A soft, almost reverent sound escapes him, and his eyes widen again as he takes in the layout. It’s practically identical to the original Hale House kitchen, meticulously restored to match his recollections with the help of creepy uncle Peter.

His grip on my hand tightens, and he turns to me, his expression filled with amazement, “This… it’s just like I remember it.” He says, his vice soft and filed with wonder, “You’ve brought it all back to life.”

I can’t help but smile at his reaction. The kitchen holds countless memories for him, both happy and bittersweet, and seeing it so faithfully restored means the world to him. "We wanted it to feel like home," I reply, my voice equally hushed, knowing how much this place means to him. Derek’s thumb brushes over the back of my hand, his touch conveying the depth of his gratitude. It’s a silent exchange of emotions, the unspoken understanding between us.

And then, something changes in the air. Derek turns to me, his kaleidoscope eyes now shining with warmth and something else, something that sends a shiver of anticipation down my spine. His gaze flits down my lips, and in response, I can’t help but wet them with my tongue, suddenly feeling acutely aware of their dryness. It draws a small sound from Derek’s throat, low and almost involuntary, a testament to the magnetic pull between us. He leans in, closing the distance between our lips with a purposeful intent. Our mouths meet in a soft, longing kiss, a silent declaration of the emotions that have simmered between us for so long.

His lips are soft yet insistent, moving against mine with a deliberate tenderness. I can feel the gentle, rhythmic movement of his mouth, each touch setting my heart racing. There’s a hint of urgency in his kiss, a desire that has been simmering just beneath the surface. Derek’s hands finding their way to my waist, holding e close as if he never wants to let me go. The touch of his fingertips against my skin sends shivers down my spine, and I press my body closer to his, wanting to feel every inch of him.

My own hands move to rest on his chest, feeling the solid warmth of his body beneath my touch. They gradually work their way up, entwining in his shirt, wanting to pull him closer still. The connection between us deepens with every passing second, a silent confirmation of the emotions we’ve held back fr so long.

Derek’s hands, which had been gently holding my waist, suddenly tighten their grip and before I can react, he’s lifting me up with a powerful yet careful motion. My legs instinctively wrap around this waist as he sets me on the edge of the kitchen island, never once breaking the kiss.

Our lips remain locked in a heated embrace, a heated embrace, a testament to the fiery passion that's been ignited between us. Derek's tongue brushes over my lips, seeking entrance, and without hesitation, I part them, with a small, embracing sound escaping my lips which he swallows, tongue slipping past my lips. It's a dance of desire, a clash of longing, and a melding of two souls that have been drawn together by an irresistible force. Our mouths move with a shared urgency, each kiss deeper and more consuming than the last.

As our tongues explore and intertwine, Derek’s grip on my hips tightens, pulling me closer until I’m arched on the edge of the kitchen island. The sensation of his body pressed against mine is electrifying, sending heat down south where I’m pressed against his growing problem. It has my thighs tightening around him, hips jerking a little and drawing sounds from both of us.

Finally our lips part, but only slightly, our foreheads resting against each other as we catch our breath. Derek’s voice is a husky whisper, filled with raw desire, “I’ve wanted to do that for so long.” He confesses, his words heavy with yearning, “ I couldn’t keep it in any longer.”

My heart flutters at his admission, and I look into his kaleidoscope eyes, my own filled with the same longing, “Der…” I breathe, “I’ve felt the same way. I’ve wanted this as much as you have.”

His lips find mine again, and the kiss that follows is fierce and fervent, a passionate culmination of our unspoken desires. It's a promise, a declaration, and a celebration of the love that has finally been acknowledged.

But then, Derek's lips trail down from mine to my neck, and his kisses ignite a trail of fire across my skin. I gasp as his mouth leaves a mark, a fervent, possessive hickey, and another one right beside it. Each one is a silent proclamation of his desire, a mark of his longing for me. As Derek's kisses continue to trail down my neck, I gasp and my fingers clutch at his shoulders. The sensation is almost too much to bear, the heat of his mouth leaving a trail of fire across my skin, marked by possessive hickeys.

“Y/N,” He murmurs breathlessly voice heavy with desire, “If we don’t stop, I won’t be able to stop myself.” He pulls away slightly, his eyes dark and smouldering now and he lets out a low and sensual chuckle when an embarrassing moan escapes me.

“Maybe…” I have to clear my throat, “Maybe we should check out your room.” My heart is racing as I say it, looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and desire, eager to hear his response but also somewhat ready for the rejection.

Instead, he groans, head falling to my shoulder before he growls out, “Don’t… don’t say things like that baby girl.” I stay silent, knowing there’s more and he kissing my collarbone sweetly before murmuring, “But, I think it’s a very, very good idea.”

┈ ✁✃✁✃✁✃✁✃✁ ┈

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egglain · 23 days ago

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Feel You (In My Bones) - The Party & The After Party

Rating: E (18+*) - mdni Pairing: Toji x reader, Choso x reader, Gojo x reader, Geto x reader, Gojo x Geto, Sukuna x reader, Nanami x reader Content: gender-neutral reader (you/yours pronouns), afab language used for reader's anatomy during the smut routes, Gojo party Halloween shenanigans, JJK men making moves (canon-accurate scary Toji & Sukuna), ShokoHime friendship, smut tags differ between endings Word Count: 3.3k/?

Summary: After avoiding it for years, your best friends Shoko and Utahime must bite the bullet; attend a Gojo Halloween party. As fate would have it, you'd fall into the care of a gaggle of ghouls; strangers at the party can't seem to get enough.

Trick, or treat?

Will you let them haunt your holes? Or will you leave the door unanswered?

A/N: welcome to the Egglain Halloween smuttacular! Each bolded phrase is a possibility, a chance to jump the bones of the men you bump into on your journey.

This part can be read on its own, or with any number of the endings; they each stand alone & are unconnected to the main ending and the other routes.

*while this part isn't explicit, the "routes" are. Routes will be posted as they are finished, in the order they appear in the fic; stay tuned!

Growing up, Halloween was good for two things and two things only—candy and costumes.

Candy had become less and less interesting as your frontal lobe developed, and with “adult money,” it was even less of a hot commodity. And costumes weren’t quite acceptable after you hit 14—at least not the same ones you wanted to wear.

So, Halloween evolved into something new.

Nowadays, it meant crowding around the TV with a big bag of popcorn, Shoko and Utahime putting on a scary movie for you to wind down to together. It meant slipping pajamas on early and huddling under thick blankets, lights off, as an anonymous killer pounced on a nameless protagonist. It meant falling asleep between your two closest friends, filling the hole in your heart that adulthood managed to whittle into its tender flesh.

You had grown fond of Halloween, in a new way—perhaps grown fonder of it than you were as a kid. It was no longer a short-lived rush of dopamine, dominated by consumption and the variable kindness of strangers. No, it was a celebration of your friendship. Of your new life. Of your family.

Which is why this sucked ass.

“Party?”

“Yeah,” Shoko took a long drag from the stubby cigarette between her lips, “a… friend’s. Haven’t seen him since high school, really.”

The way she was chewing on her words, speaking on a smoke-filled exhale, told you pretty much everything you needed to know about this friend.

“So why are you going?”

Utahime pinched the skin between her eyes, looking equally as unsatisfied. “It’s… complicated.”

“We’ve been skirting around him for a while now—but the thing about Gojo Satoru is you can only avoid him for so long… he’s like a disease,” Shoko murmured.

“Like a common cold—mostly harmless, but a pain in the ass. Now it’s time to bite the bullet.”

“So… no festivities?”

“Well… we were hoping you’d come along with us.” Utahime stalled, choosing her words carefully. “You don’t have to—it’ll probably be a lot of drinking and dancing and reminiscing on our high school years… probably some of Gojo’s bigshot friends. But you’d get to wear a costume!”

“And if any of Gojo’s freakzoid friends bother you, we’ll cut their dicks off.” Shoko flicked her cigarette to the pavement and crushed the dying butt under a heel.

You didn’t doubt she would.

Which is how you ended up here.

Firstly, Gojo Satoru’s house could put mansions to shame.

Secondly, this was not the “high school reunion” you were expecting.

Dozens of strangers filled the glass-paned main floor of the home, spilling out onto the well-manicured lawn with bottles and solo cups in hand. It was like a scene out of every shitty teen film—music blared from somewhere in the house, colourful LEDs illuminating the otherwise dark gathering. Skimpy devils and sexy cops hung off the arms of Ghostfaces and… an Elvis impersonator?

Shoko and Utahime on your flanks, you managed to push your way inside. They were skittish—on-edge almost. You weren’t sure who this Gojo Satoru was, aside from an old friend, but by the looks of it, he had to be important. If not for his seemingly endless wealth or his obscene amount of apparent social power, for this disease-like personality.

Nerves were understandable. But as Shoko and Utahime pulled away, whispering among themselves—as you lost them in the crowd—you felt less and less empathy.

Now, standing alone in the centre of a lofty living room, awkwardly swaying to the music in a sea of intoxicated bodies, you couldn’t help but feel a little resentment for this Gojo guy.

Dancers jostled you this way and that as you fumbled for your phone. With shaky fingers, you opened the group chat, trying to flag down your missing friends.

hey think i lost u guys

where r y’all?

hello?

“All alone n’ without a drink?”

A gravelly voice woke you from your stupor.

A tall man—probably a good head taller than you— held out a hand. A silvery scar tugged at the stranger’s lips as he grinned, clearly in on some joke you weren’t.

Something about this man was predatory; he was dressed in simple clothes, a slutty gun holster strapped to his left upper thigh overtop of too-tight black jeans. The muscles of his quads strained against the fabric, as did the full pectorals framed by his compression tee.

“Leon Kennedy?”

“Who?” The stranger cocked an eyebrow.

You couldn’t help but laugh a little. “Your costume.”

“I’m a hitman.”

Taking in the gun and the way he composed himself—that arrogant mug, the bulging arms crossed over his fat chest—he played the bit well.

“Fitting.”

“Let me grab ya something to drink.”

You mulled it over.

“I’m good, thanks…”

“Aw, c’mon. I don’t bite.”

“Oh, no—no thanks.”

You really didn’t want to get on this guy’s bad side. The gun glinted as the LEDs faded to purple and he caught the way your eyes danced along the barrel. It had to be metal. Looked heavy enough, and very realistic.

“Ya like? It’s the real deal.”

Cold shot through your veins, and it took every fibre of your being to not falter at his words.

His grin didn’t meet his eyes. The empty way he was looking down at you left no room for interpretation—he was telling the truth.

You tried to laugh but the sound didn’t come out quite right.

You took a step back, bumping into someone behind you. You didn’t dare turn around. The man took a step forward, following your movement.

“Wanna touch?”

“Oh, no thanks.”

“C’mon—”

“No, man.”

Another voice. You turned around.

A guy—much closer to your age—wrapped a protective arm around your midsection. Deep brown eyes met yours, and the cold melted away inside.

The stranger looked terrifying. Long dark hair was pulled up into twin spiked buns. The pale column of his throat was constricted by thick leather collars, heavy with metal padlocks. He was slender—thinner than the other man—but the ink across the bridge of his nose, and down his arms and chest, made it clear he could handle his pain too.

However, there was one main difference between him and the other stranger—kindness. Dark eyeliner and purple bags rimmed surprisingly soft eyes. While he had wrapped his arm around you, his hand didn’t make contact with your hip.

“You okay, babe?”

Heat flooded your face. You opened your mouth to reply, but almost as soon as it began, his arm fell away.

“Sorry about that. The guy just seemed like he was bothering you, and I hate men who can’t seem to take no for an answer, and I wasn’t sure how else to—”

Looking behind you, the scary stranger from earlier had disappeared into the crowd. The man in front of you was scratching at the back of his neck, flushed in apparent shame. Something in your heart twinged.

“No, no—I owe you one. Thanks for helping… I wasn’t sure how I was gonna get out of that mess.”

The stranger seemed pleased with that answer.

“Anyone else would’ve done the same… no need to thank me.” He smiled down at his shoes—short black platform docs that were scuffing at the shiny tile. “But maybe we could… get to know each other better sometime?”

Your heart fluttered.

“I mean—I just sort of grabbed you, and I wouldn’t want a stranger to do that to me, so maybe um… we can stop being strangers?” He rushed to explain.

The panic in his eyes was endearing. That kindness in him was so painfully evident.

“I’d like that.”

The bright smile that spread across his otherwise sullen face could have put the sun to shame.

“I have to find my friends right now, but maybe I could give you my number?”

He was nodding so fast it was a miracle his head didn’t fly off.

You padded your number into a slim black phone.

“There. It’s nice to meet you…”

“Choso Kamo.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Choso Kamo.”

With that, and another brilliant smile, you were alone again.

You checked your phone. A “hi!” text from an unknown number—Choso, you assume—and two texts from Utahime lit up the screen.

out back by the pool

see u soon

You pushed your way through the crowd, on the hunt for your friends.

The backyard was an oasis—or, perhaps it would be, if it wasn’t packed full of half-drunk half-costumed partygoers. Utahime and Shoko stood at the marble edge of a too-blue pool, speaking with a tall Playboy bunny and… Pitbull?

Approaching, you could see the tension melting out of Utahime’s shoulders as you met eyes.

“This is Gojo Satoru—that friend we were telling you about.” Utahime’s well-manicured nails extended to the one in the Pitbull costume.

A jovial laugh—too youthful to match the bald exterior—filled the air as the man smiled at you. He was tall. Freakishly so. And startlingly pale. Long white lashes lined too-blue eyes, striking even through his tinted sunglasses.

“Oh please. Call me Mr. Worldwide.”

Shoko rolled her eyes.

Utahime’s hand extended to the man next to Gojo. “This is Suguru Geto. Another friend from high school.”

The man—Suguru Geto—was almost as tall as Gojo Satoru. Silky black hair was tied half-up in a loose bun, the rest of his tresses spilling over his shoulder and plump chest.

And oh what a chest it was.

Soft fat tits spilled out over a low-cut black corset, jiggling like pudding as he laughed at Shoko’s unimpressed expression. The latex corset tapered off sharply, curvy hips and large thighs caged in loose-knit fishnets. Black bunny ears sat slightly askew on top of his head.

He looked delicious.

“You feeling alright?” Suguru asked, head tilting a little.

“Oh—me? Yeah, totally fine.”

“Are you sure…?”

“We can take you inside for some peace and quiet,” the bald man supplied, nudging Suguru.

Utahime and Shoko were giving you a look.

The kind that you’d learned to avoid.

The kind that said absolutely not.

Creep-o’clock.

Stay away.

“Oh—that’s very kind. But I think I’m alright. Thank you.”

You made a mental note to ask follow-up questions later.

Shoko put a hand on Gojo’s shoulder, long red nails digging into his shoulder. “Why don’t we go in? I could use some water.”

Gojo, Geto, Shoko, and Utahime exchanged looks, speaking a language in gazes that you couldn’t quite understand. Utahime nodded, shepherding the men back towards the house. Shoko lingered behind for a moment.

“They’re losers. Enjoy your night; we’ll keep ‘em busy a little longer.” She pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the front pocket of her costume—a white medical coat—and put one between her front teeth. “Give us a couple more minutes and then we’ll make up an excuse to head home, alright?”

You nodded, and she gave you a firm pat on the shoulder before disappearing into the crowd after the other three.

Once again, you were alone.

“Keep getting abandoned tonight, huh?”

Warm breath fanned over the shell of your ear, low rich voice cutting through the incessant buzzing of the party.

“That’s not what ‘friends’ do, is it?”

“How is that any of your business?” Spinning around to face the assailant, the words died midway.

He was tall.

Impossibly so—comfortably towering over the crowd.

“Telling me I can’t look at you?” He snorted, cracking his neck and knuckles.

And he was large.

Larger than the man with the scar, even.

A monster.

“Well—no…”

With the cocky way he was smirking down at you, he was aware of it too. His eyes, red, glinted with amusement as you fumbled the ending of what was supposed to be a witty comeback.

“Good. Then I think it’s my business.”

Confidence—he wore it well. It suited the hard planes of his face, the arrogant quirk of his lips accentuating the strength of his boxy jaw. Big inked arms flexed as he dug his hands a little deeper into the pockets of his orange prison jumpsuit. The top half was undone, sleeves fastened around his waist. A black wifebeater clung to the contours of a strong chest, tattoos creeping out from beneath the straps to trail over his shoulders.

He was the picture of a stereotypical inmate.

The only thing that stuck out, however, was the soft pink of his hair.

You couldn’t help but laugh.

The man quirked a slitted eyebrow.

“Somethin’ funny, brat?”

“No, no—sorry… just your costume.”

“What about it?”

“Just looks like you put a lot of effort into it, is all.”

He was looking at you—really looking. His gaze was weighted, and you could feel his eyes bearing holes into yours. He struck you as a rich boy; the type who were used to getting what they wanted, used to women throwing themselves onto him. So, if he was going to try to intimidate you, it wouldn’t work. You held his gaze.

“Put a couple years into it, yeah….” The words were slow, dripping in an innuendo you weren’t sure you wanted to understand.

You opened your mouth to move the conversation elsewhere, but with him looking at you so unabashedly—so intensely—it was hard to think. Hard to breathe, even.

Your neck twinged, aching from the way it was bent to look up at him.

Fuck.

When did he get so close?

“O-Oh yeah?”

“Mhmmm,” he drawled, stepping in even closer. The toe of his heavy boots bumped against yours, and you could once again feel the heat of his breath on you. “Wanna see it up close?”

“You’re really close already—”

“I meant off my body.”

Fuck.

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

He was no good—it didn’t take a psychologist to see there was something fundamentally off about this guy.

His aura—malevolent—set off alarm bells through your entire body.

He carried himself with a deeply-ingrained confidence, a surety that had your heart racing and your stomach dropping… but seeing him up close, you weren’t sure how you had ever mistaken him for some pampered rich boy. No. His tanned skin was littered with little scars and burns, well-worn. He was a fighter… and from the looks of it, a winning one.

Ice spread down your spine. Your body tensed.

Fight or flight was activating—fight, however, would stand no chance against this man. Turning on your heel, you began to walk away.

“Hey! Where you goin’?” His gruff voice called after you, but you didn’t dare turn back.

Beelining it back to the house, you sought out the kitchen. The place was a maze, but picking up the trail of partygoers with drinks in hand, you eventually found your way.

Shoko and Utahime stood around a large marble island with Gojo and Geto, huddled in to chat amongst themselves. Catching the movement in the corner of her eye, Shoko did a double-take upon your entrance. You communicated with your eyes in that secret language now; let’s go. Now.

With a tug on Utahime’s sleeve, the two were pulling away from the men.

“Wait—what’s happening?” Big blue eyes peered out from over the goofy sunglasses. “Leaving already?”

You couldn’t help but feel a little bad for this Gojo guy; not seeing his friends in a long time, partially because of you, and now having them torn away early because you made some poor choices with the wrong guy.

“Sorry, Gojo—I just… don’t feel well.”

Gojo looked between you and the two women, cogs turning in his mind.

“Nanami can take you home. He’s a good guy.”

“We’re leaving together.” Utahime spoke with no room for argument, hand on your shoulder.

You brushed it off, shaking your head. “It’s okay, ‘hime. Enjoy your night.”

Gojo clapped his hands together, too-white grin spreading across those too-white cheeks. “Then it’s settled! C’mon, let’s find him together.”

While you probably didn’t need the escort, you appreciated Gojo’s guiding hand, if not for anything but his lanky limbs and ability to part the crowd. It was a nice bonus that it gave some semblance of security against that inmate. Though, seeing the size of that guy, it was hard to imagine scrawny Satoru standing a chance against him.

In the living room, Gojo clasped a large blonde man on the shoulder, startling him from where he was chatting with a jovial brown-haired guy you didn’t recognize.

“Nanamin!.”

The blonde man sighed, turning around to eye Gojo warily. He was chiseled. The hard set of his lips matched the low seat of his brows as he met the host’s eyes.

“Gojo.” His voice was stern. Unimpressed.

“I need a little teeny weeny favour—could ya do one for me?”

The blonde man sighed, and he rubbed his forehead in a way that reminded you of Shoko. He clearly felt the same way about Satoru Gojo. Weirdly enough, it relaxed you.

“What is it?”

“I need you to drive someone home.”

Gojo dragged you between them by the shoulders, thrusting you towards the stranger.

Nanami smiled down at you sympathetically.

“Should have started with that, Satoru.”

“Oopsie. Noted! Well, I’m leaving things to you, Nanamin.”

Gojo released you, opting to wave his goodbye as the blonde man guided you to the front door.

Nanami, as you’d soon find out, was a gentleman.

Definitely too good for Gojo Satoru.

You’d also find out that he was a collector of old cars; ones which he cared for well, and ones with doors he opened for you. You’d learn he was the designated driver for all the parties he attended, as he had never found interest in social drinking, but appreciated a glass or two of whiskey alone. You’d also learn he was very single—the main reason why Gojo dragged him to every party he threw. Which he allowed, as it was his way of repaying his old friend.

Surprisingly, he went to high school with Shoko, Utahime, Gojo, and Geto as well—though he was a year younger than them (something you would have never expected from his visage alone).

(Gojo had aged him, apparently).

He drove you home with light conversation and soft jazz on the radio, a refreshing break from the mind-numbing bass of Gojo’s party playlist. He offered you water from a closed bottle—the expensive stuff—and rolled down the windows so you could get some air. It did wonders for your condition, although it was never much of a physical one.

Pulling into the driveway of your shared housing complex, he killed the engine and hopped out to grab the door again.

“Thank you, Nanami… you really didn’t have to do that.”

He raised a hand, stopping the thought.

“It was my pleasure. Thank you for the excuse to get some air; I don’t know if I would’ve survived otherwise.”

He smiled, soft and genuine, as he helped you up the steps. Unneeded, but appreciated. You didn’t have the heart to shoo him away.

“I wish we could have met under better circumstances,” he breathed as you reached the front door, fumbling for your keys.

“Me too… would you like to come in for some tea, maybe?”

Nanami chuckled, loosening the spotted tie around his neck. Business-casual looked good on him… though you weren’t sure you understood the costume.

“I should head back; someone has to keep Satoru in check.”

You nod, swallowing the disappointment.

“But I’d enjoy seeing you again. May I grab your number? If it’s alright with you, of course.”

***

Once again, you had grown a new appreciation of Halloween— maybe not a stronger one than the one you had for cozy movie cuddles with your best friends, but it was something. A celebration of the good friends you had. Of the new friends you’d made. Of the new adventures you could share together.

And oddly enough, you were looking forward to the next one.

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u6is · 14 days ago

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"with heat and wet skin, our bodies are tossed and turned, tangled up in it."

— kylian mbappé x reader: smut

Kylian stood in the dimly lit locker room, his breathing heavy and the sound of his heart echoing in the silence that had descended upon the space. His hands trembled as he pulled off his Real Madrid jersey, the fabric clinging to his sweat-drenched body like a second skin. The once vibrant white and gold colors looked dull under the stark lights, mirroring the mood that had settled over the team.

The loss to AC Milan had been more than a match; it had been a personal vendetta, and he'd failed. His thoughts swirled like a tornado, a whirlwind of missed opportunities and haunting regrets.

Outside the locker room, his family stood as a haven of warmth and love amidst the storm of despair that swept through the stadium.

And then his gaze found you.

Eyes soft with empathy, understanding the weight of Kylian's talent and the pressure he bore. Your hand slipped into his, grounding him with a steady, reassuring grip. In that touch, a calm washed over him—one he hadn’t known since the final whistle. Though the loss lingered heavily among his teammates, here, with you and his family, Kylian felt a quiet peace return.

His home in Madrid was a sanctuary of sorts, a place where Kylian could retreat from the prying eyes of the media and the echoes of the stadium.

He was tired. So was you. The weight of the day had settled into his bones, and he could feel it in the way they creaked as he climbed the stairs. His girlfriend, a silent shadow beside him, mirrored his exhaustion. They had spent the evening with his family, laughing and sharing stories, but the joy had not been able to completely mask the lingering tension that clung to him like a second skin.

The bedroom was a sanctuary of sorts, the darkness welcoming and enveloping. He collapsed onto the bed, his legs feeling like lead. You sat beside him, your eyes reflecting the soft glow of the moon that filtered through the curtains. They didn't speak; words seemed redundant in the face of the unspoken understanding that filled the space between them. Your hand found his, and you gave it a gentle squeeze. It was a small gesture, but it felt like a lifeline thrown to a drowning man.

For a moment, Kylian Mbappé allowed himself to simply be. To exist in the quiet comfort of your presence, the only respite from the cacophony of voices that echoed in his head. The chorus of doubt, the whispers of failure, and the relentless drumbeat of expectation. But here, in the quiet solitude of his bedroom, they faded to a murmur. He took a deep breath, feeling your warmth beside him, and let his eyes drift shut.

2:00 AM

The room was silent, save for the occasional creak of the floorboards beneath the plush carpet. The curtains were drawn, letting in just enough light to cast a soft glow across the empty space where your boyfriend should have been. The bed, still rumpled from a restless night, was cold to the touch. You sat up, blinking sleep from your eyes, and called out his name.

"Kylian?" No answer.

The quiet was eerie, a stark contrast to the usual pattern of sounds that filled their mansion: the clatter of breakfast dishes, the hum of the TV from the other room, his laughter.

You swung your legs over the side of the bed and padded down the hallway, the sound of your footsteps echoing through the emptiness.

As you approached the gym, you pushed the door open, Kylian stood in the center of the room, his back to you, his shoulders taut and his eyes glued to the screen of his phone. The gym, once a place of triumph and camaraderie, now felt like a prison cell, a stark reminder of the burdens he carried.

"Kylian?" you said again, your voice softer this time.

He didn't look up. The screen of his phone was illuminating his face, casting a pale blue light on his features that made him look more haunted than ever.

You stepped closer, your bare feet whispering against the cold floor. "Kylian, what's going on?"

Finally, he looked up. His eyes, once full of life and ambition, now held a sadness that seemed to swallow the light from the room. He pocketed his phone and turned to face you, his expression unreadable. "It's just... the match," he murmured.

You didn't need to hear the details to understand. The whispers of doubt, the relentless scrutiny, the endless replay of his missed shot in the final minutes of the game—it was all etched into the lines of his face, the furrow in his brow.

"Please, come back to bed," you said gently, reaching up to hug him. He leaned into your embrace, and you felt the tension in his body slowly start to melt away.

He nodded, his eyes searched yours for a moment before looking away. You took his hands in yours, the warmth of your touch seemed to bring a glimmer of hope to the shadows in his eyes. Hand in hand, you both made your way back to the bedroom.

The soft light from the bedside lamp painting the walls in a comforting glow. He slid into the sheets, and you curled up beside him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

For a moment, everything else was forgotten, lost in the simple act of being close. He propped himself up on one elbow, his free hand tracing patterns on your skin, sending shivers down your spine. The smile on his face grew, and you felt his mood lighten as he kissed your forehead, your nose, and finally, your lips.

His eyes sparkled with mischief as he whispered something that sent you both into a fit of giggles. The room was filled with the music of your shared amusement, a balm to the raw edges of his pain. His hand found its way to the small of your back, pulling you closer, and you felt the tension in his body begin to unravel like a tightly wound ball of yarn.

With your faces close, hearts beating in harmony, he leaned in, his nose grazing yours. His warm breath brushed your cheeks as he whispered, "You make everything else fade away." His words were a soft embrace, and as he kissed you once more, you felt the warmth of his skin, the gentle roughness of his stubble—a touch tender yet filled with longing.

The laughter subsided into sweet, content smiles. His hand slid down your side, tracing the curve of your hip before coming to rest on your thigh. His thumb made small, lazy circles, sending a warmth that spread through your body like wildfire. You reached up to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the line of his jaw. His eyes searched yours, looking for reassurance, for a promise that you'd be there to help him climb out of this abyss.

Leaning in, you whispered, "I'm here for you, always." It was a simple declaration, but it held the weight of the world in those three words. His smile grew, the shadows in his eyes retreating just a little more. He leaned closer, his nose grazing yours as he took a deep breath, inhaling the scent of your hair. His hand slipped under the hem of your shirt, his fingertips grazing the soft skin of your waist, sending shivers across your body.

The tension in the room gives way to something more intimate. His laughter was like the sound of rain on a rooftop, a gentle crescendo that filled the room with warmth. You felt your cheeks flush as he kissed you again, his mouth moving from yours to your neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin just below your ear, and you gasped, arching into the kiss.

As he kissed you, his tongue sought yours, sliding into your mouth in a dance as intimate as it was erotic. You moaned softly, the sound lost in the warmth of his embrace. His touch grew bolder, his hand moving up to cup your breast. You felt your nipple stiffen under his palm, your breath hitching as his thumb brushed against the sensitive peak. His touch was firm but gentle, a silent reassurance that he was here, present, and focused solely on you. The kiss grew deeper, more intense, as you wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer still.

The sensation of his tongue against yours was intoxicating, a sweet agony that had you squirming beneath the sheets. His hand found the hem of your shirt and clasp of your bra, deftly releasing it. The fabric fell away, exposing your bare skin to the cool air. He groaned as his hand closed over your naked breast, his thumb and forefinger teasing your nipple in a rhythm that matched the beating of your heart. The warmth of his hand seeped into your flesh, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your veins.

You broke the kiss, panting, and Kylian took the opportunity to pepper your neck with gentle kisses, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin.

You arched your back, pushing your chest into his hand, "Baby… please…" He obliged, his mouth closing around your nipple, his tongue flicking against the sensitive flesh. The sensation was electric, making you gasp as your body responded to his touch. His hand slid down to your stomach, his fingers tracing the waistband of your panties. The anticipation was unbearable, a delicious ache that made your toes curl.

"Look at you, so needy for me, unable to hold back. Dis-moi exactement ce que tu veux, bébé…"

You gasps, voice trembling, "Encore, s'il te plaît…" (More, please...)

He kissed his way back to your mouth, his tongue delving deep, tasting every inch of you. You could feel the passion between you, a palpable force that seemed to vibrate through the very air. His hand slid under the fabric of your panties, his fingertips brushing against your damp folds. You bit your lip to stifle a moan as he found your clit, gently rubbing in slow, deliberate circles. Your hips bucked against his hand, desperate for more pressure, more contact.

With one swift motion, he tugged your panties down, leaving you completely naked. You felt vulnerable, exposed, but the fire in his eyes only served to ignite the passion within you. He took a step back, his gaze raking over your body, taking in every inch of your bare skin. The way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in the world, made you feel powerful, desirable, and incredibly turned on. You watched as he took in the sight of you, his chest rising and falling with his own excitement.

He slid his own shirt over his head, revealing the tapestry of taut muscles and the scar from the match that had left its mark. It was a stark reminder of the strength and resilience that lay beneath his troubled exterior. Your eyes roved over his torso, tracing the lines of his abs, the powerful planes of his chest. His hands found the button of his shorts, and you bit your lip in anticipation as he lowered the zipper, his eyes never leaving yours. The fabric fell to the floor, revealing his erection, standing proud and firm against his thigh.

The sight of him, fully exposed, only served to heighten the ache between your legs. You reached out to touch him, your hand tentative at first, but growing bolder as you felt the velvet steel of his cock. He hissed in a breath as you wrapped your hand around him, stroking him gently. The vulnerability of the moment was intoxicating, a heady cocktail of desire and power. You felt your own arousal building, wetness pooling at the apex of your thighs.

He watched you, his eyes dark with need, as you explored his body. Your hand moved lower, cupping his balls, rolling them gently in your palm. He groaned, his hips jerking forward. You could feel the tension in his muscles as he fought for control, his self-restraint a silent testament to his respect for you. The air in the room grew thick with lust, the scent of your desire mingling with the faint tang of his sweat.

You leaned back, letting him take in the full view of your nakedness. The soft light caressed your curves, highlighting the peaks of your breasts and the shadowy valley between your thighs. The vulnerability was heady, a thrilling rush that made your pulse race and your core throb. He took a step closer, his erection brushing against your leg, and you could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hand slid down your stomach, his fingertips dancing over your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake.

As he reached the apex of your thighs, you spread your legs wider, inviting his touch. His fingers grazed your folds, finding you wet and ready. He groaned, the sound a mix of relief and hunger, and you felt yourself grow even wetter. He stroked you gently, his thumb circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect blend of pleasure and pain that had you writhing beneath his touch. His eyes never left yours, watching the play of emotions that flitted across your face like a silent movie.

You could see the desire in his gaze, the raw, primal need that mirrored your own. It was a heady feeling, knowing that Kylian had this power over you, that he could make you lose control with just a look, a touch, a moan. His hand grew more insistent, his fingers slipping inside you, filling you completely. You gasped, your hips rising to meet his hand, eager for more. His movements grew more urgent, his fingers pumping in and out in a rhythm that matched the racing of your heart. Each stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through your body, the tension in your core tightening like a coil about to snap.

He leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear as he whispered, "j'a hâte de te baiser à fond," (I can't wait to fuck you hard) his accent thick with passion. His free hand found your breast again, squeezing and rolling your nipple as he continued to tease and taunt you. You moaned the sound of a desperate plea for release. He knew exactly how to touch you, how to make you feel like you were going to shatter into a million pieces.

The first orgasm hit you like a tidal wave, stealing your breath and leaving you trembling. Your nails dug into the sheets as your body arched, your cunt clenching around his fingers. He didn't stop, though, his hand relentless as he brought you to the peak again. You could feel the beginnings of the second orgasm building, a crescendo of sensation that had you begging for release. He whispered sweet nothings into your ear, his breath hot against your neck as he coaxed you closer. And then it was there, the explosion of pleasure that sent your vision swimming and your muscles quivering.

He positioned himself between your legs, his cock poised at your entrance. Despite the intense orgasms you'd just had you took a deep breath, letting the anticipation build as you felt the head of his cock slip inside you. The sensation was exquisite, a perfect mix of pleasure and pressure. You felt yourself clench around him, your body's instinctive response to the sudden fullness. "Relax," he murmured again, his hand sliding up to cup your cheek. "Let me in."

You nodded, willing your muscles to ease. His cock slid in deeper, filling you completely. You moaned, the sound a mix of pleasure and surprise at how good it felt. He began to move, his hips rocking in a steady, powerful rhythm. Each stroke sent waves of pleasure crashing through you, making your toes curl and your back arch. You felt your cunt tighten around him, the walls pulsing as they struggled to adjust to his size. But he was relentless, his movements slow and deliberate, giving your body time to accept him fully.

As he pushed into you, you could feel your orgasm building again. It was different this time, slower, more intense. He leaned down, his mouth capturing yours in a bruising kiss as he picked up the pace. His hips slammed into yours, the impact sending jolts of pleasure up your spine. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, needing to feel him in every part of you. The sound of your bodies coming together filled the room, a symphony of passion that drowned out the whispers of doubt that had plagued him for so long.

The third orgasm hit you like a freight train, your body convulsing around him. He groaned into your mouth, his cock pulsing as he felt your walls clench tightly around him. He didn't stop, though, his hips still moving in a relentless rhythm. You could feel yourself growing wetter, your juices coating him, making his movements easier. The friction was exquisite, a sweet torture that had you panting and begging for more. He broke the kiss, his mouth moving to your neck, his teeth scraping against your skin. You felt him swell inside you, his cock thickening as he approached his climax.

With a swift pull, you found yourself on top of him, the heat of his body radiating beneath you, as your hearts beat in sync, suspended in a quiet tension of the closeness between you.

You threw your head back, riding him like a wild animal in heat. Your breasts bounced with each thrust, and the slapping of skin on skin was the only music you needed. Kylian's hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, his eyes never leaving yours. The smirk on his face grew wider as he watched you, the power of your pleasure evident in every line of your body. "That's it," he murmured, his voice low and commanding. "Take it all."

You could feel him swelling inside you, the pressure building with each stroke. Your movements grew more frantic, your breaths coming in pants. His thumb found your clit, pressing down firmly as he thrust up into you. The sensation was too much, sending you spiraling over the edge again. You cried out, your nails digging into his shoulders as you came, your walls clenching around his cock in a spasm of ecstasy. He groaned, his eyes dark with desire, and you felt him tense beneath you.

With a final, powerful thrust, he came, filling you with his hot seed. You felt it pulse deep within you, a declaration of possession that sent a shiver of pleasure down your spine. He held you there, his cock buried deep inside you, as he caught his breath. His grip on your hips was like iron, his control over your body absolute. And as the tremors of your orgasm subsided, you realized that he had been right all along. This wasn't just about distraction or comfort. It was about power, about reaffirming his dominance in the face of his recent defeat.

He kissed you then, gently, his tongue slipping into your mouth to tangle with yours. The taste of him was sweet and salty, a reminder of the passion that had just been shared. His arms tightened around you, pulling you closer, as if trying to meld your bodies into one. For a brief moment, the world outside the bedroom walls ceased to exist. There was only the two of you, lost in the aftermath of your passionate dance.

As he pulled out, you felt a twinge of emptiness, but it was quickly replaced by a warm sense of fulfillment. He rolled onto his back, taking you with him, and you curled into his embrace, your head resting on his chest. The steady thud of his heartbeat was a comforting lullaby, a reminder that despite the chaos of the outside world, there was peace to be found in his arms.

The room grew quiet again, the only sounds the mingling of your breaths and the distant hum of the city. You felt the tension in his body slowly seep away, his muscles relaxing beneath your touch. The ghosts of Milan had been laid to rest, at least for now. In this moment, all that mattered was the warmth of your shared love, the sweetness of your union.

Kylian pulled the covers over you both, tucking you into the cocoon of the bed. He kissed the top of your head, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace.

"I love you."

You looked up at him, the softness in his eyes making your heart swell.

"I love you, too," you whispered.

His love was the one thing that remained constant, a beacon of light in the storm of his tumultuous career.

#kylian mbappe #kylian mbappe x reader #Spotify

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abbysimsfun · 6 days ago

Text

Sims In Bloom: Generation 2 Pt. 91 (Conrad's Strange Trip)

cw: drinking, ingesting a mind-altering substance

Conrad pulled his cruiser through the gates of Bella Goth's estate in Cavalier Cove. The coastal mansion gave little indication of the paranormal-obsessed inhabitant who owned the property, but Conrad still always felt a chill when he walked through the front door.

Bella swore the house wasn't haunted. Conrad had never seen a ghost so he had to take her word for it, but the home did have two new permanent residents since he and Heather had last visited with the kids. In addition to Alexander and Lydia's newborn son, Jagger, Bella had welcomed a new pet.

"She's a gift from Grimmie. He's off reaping so often, but this crow can travel well enough to send messages between us when we're apart."

"She's beautiful, Mrs. Goth. But don't you worry about things like...bird flu? Especially with a newborn around."

"You don't really think I'd endanger Alex and Lydia's son, do you? My own grandson! Crows are among the most hygienic of all birds, you know. And she's a great little mimic. Watch."

The crow jumped from her wooden pedestal and onto Bella's hand. She spoke a few words in basic Simlish, waiting for her new pet to croak back, 'Nay-doo.'

"What's her name?"

"I haven't decided yet. Do you have any ideas? I thought Grimbella was nice, but Grimmie says we shouldn't name her after ourselves."

Conrad broke a smile across his tense cheeks. "I can't help you, Mrs. Goth. I didn't even name my dog. And, Solomon Wolff, my first partner back in San Myshuno, named him after me."

Bella shrugged with a gentle smile for Conrad and her crow. "I'll sleep on it. Maybe her name will come to me in a dream, or maybe Solomon Wolff will tell me what her name is."

(Surprise! Thank you @deardiaryts4 for making this headcanon canon with me! These two helped bust a puppy mill together as young officers, and Conrad ended up raising one of the pups who followed him back to their cruiser. Solo called him Gord because he was attached to Officer Gordon, and the name stuck. How Bella exists separately and prominently in overlapping storylines both totally makes sense and is outrageous but it need not be explained right now. Just enjoy the ride! Also, taking suggestions to name that crow! Grimbella isn't officially off the table, either.)

Conrad cleared his throat. "River dropped by and told me to come see you. But...I don't really know what I need to talk about."

"Conrad, you look tired." The words were accusatory, but there was only concern in her voice. "Let me mix you a drink. Text Heather, let her know I insisted you stay a while to relax. I'll watch your kids soon to make it up to her. Sometime when you're working late again."

"It's been a long few months," he admitted, following her to the long wooden bar in the dining room. "I know everyone's worried about me."

"So why won't you talk to anyone about it?"

He wavered. "Because sometimes the less people know, the safer they are. I shouldn't talk to you about this, especially since I can't figure out how to tell Heather, but if I don't talk to someone I might lose my damn mind...Have you ever heard of Los Tigres de Selva?"

She nodded. "My grandmother, Enriqueta, was from Selvadorada, but her family got her to Sunset Valley when she was small. They didn't want her to stay because of the cartels."

"I walked away from a case involving them today."

"They're in our ports?"

"They don't smuggle much through here. Probably because our ports are jammed with ice too many months of the year and it's not profitable, but this case...it's sorta personal."

"If you keep pursuing the case, will your family be in danger? You've told everyone you were handling it."

"I've tried. But last night Heather noticed how hard it's been to keep the case separate from everything else, and after River visited today I realized what it's been doing to me."

"This doesn't have anything to do with the woman Heather saw sneaking around outside your house before your daughter was born, does it?"

"She told you about that?"

"No, Cassandra told me because she wanted me and her brothers to be careful if there were any dangerous people lurking around town. And it sounds like there were...Are they still?"

"I really hope not."

Bella nodded. "So they are."

"Why do I always forget you spent a bit of time working as a secret agent?"

"Because they spent more time trying to figure me out than letting me do my job so I rarely talk about it. When Dex came along I said, 'Screw it.' Nothing's more important than family, and that's been my life since I quit."

"Well, you got more out of me than anyone else without much effort, so just know you've still got it."

"I don't know all your secrets, Conrad. I still don't know why you kept it from Heather, but my gut says you're ashamed of something."

"I feel shame about my past. And I feel shame because I should have told her months ago and I kept putting it off. I should have told her years ago. It just got harder and harder to say anything because no matter what, it'll look like I didn't tell her because I have something to hide."

"Do you?"

"There's a lot she doesn't know. There's a lot nobody knows, after my father died."

"Secrets are important to keep sometimes, and I understand wanting to keep her safe if the truth puts her in danger, but you know Heather. She likes honesty."

Conrad stared at the empty glass on the bar. "Heather's the love of my life. I can't lose her because I made stupid choices until my dad bailed me out with what amounted to his dying breath."

Bella thought quietly for a moment, taking a seat at the empty barstool. "You're a fascinating man, Conrad Gordon. Your father would be proud to see what you've made of yourself despite any mistakes of your youth, but something is causing you to go backward. I could press and I'm quite sure you'd tell me everything because you clearly need to talk about it, but..."

"But if I tell you before I tell Heather, I'm an even bigger ass than I've been. And still, knowing that, it doesn't make me want to run home and tell her."

"You know who might be able to provide better guidance than anyone who lacks the hindsight of death? The mentors."

He shook his head with snide laughter. "How did I know you were going to suggest travelling? Mrs. Goth, I have to work in the morning."

"And you know it only takes a few minutes!"

Maybe it was the liquid courage, but Conrad found himself agreeing and followed Bella upstairs. The seance table had been moved into their upstairs hall, with the old attic room turned into a nursery for Alex and Lydia's newborn son.

Conrad took a seat across from Bella, letting her lead just like last time. She chanted her Omiscan summons, with Conrad's palms open on the round wooden table draped in purple and gold cloth. A blue flame flickered above their heads, and Conrad was transported to the Realm of the Dead. He knew Bella wouldn't pull him out prematurely, so he walked cautiously toward the flame.

When he'd returned, he asked how long he'd been gone. A cold sweat broke on the back of his neck.

"You were gone much longer than usual - about twenty minutes. What did you see?"

"I need a drink, Mrs. Goth. The strongest drink you know how to mix."

"Don't you work in the morning?" she countered, but his pained expression gave Bella pause. "I know one drink. It clears your mind of all the jumbled thoughts you can't take with you...when you pass on. Only the most important thoughts and memories remain while you're in this state. But I can't let you drive home if I make it for you."

"Mrs. Goth, what I just saw...I don't understand it. If it'll unscramble my thoughts, I..."

"You can stay here for the night, and I'll tell Heather you helped me with a computer virus."

"I thought I wasn't supposed to be lying to Heather."

"Do you want to tell her you're going to spend the next few hours living as a ghost?"

"Living as a what? Are you going to...kill me?"

"Of course not! Think of it a bit like, oh, I don't know, ayahuasca. It's an out-of-body experience, but it can be mentally transformative! It helps give perspective on the things that really matter to us when our world is clouded with too much fear and worry. It's made with gin and crushed death flower petals, but it won't leave you hungover. Once the effects wear off you'll be fine to head to work tomorrow morning."

They headed back downstairs and he called Heather. Because he was with Bella, who they'd come to trust like family, she made no complaint over him taking a night to combat his stress by getting stuck into a computer problem. Though guilt pecked a hole in his stomach, they exchanged their usual 'I love you' before he hung up. Bella mixed him another cocktail - this one bright green and glowing with spectral gases. "When you travelled for twenty minutes, you must have been gone for close to a year..."

"Almost exactly twelve months."

"What could the mentors have wanted to show you for a whole year?"

"I didn't meet any mentors, other than the professors I already had. I relived my first year of college."

"Fascinating! I've heard of this but never experienced it. I used to hope the mentors could show me where I went when I disappeared and lost all memory of my time away. The mentors let people relive the past if they have an opportunity to make amends for something or if they're sending a warning, so maybe my time away was just boring and uneventful."

"Seems pretty unlikely with you, Mrs. Goth."

As she spoke, Conrad sipped the glowing green cocktail. When he'd finished his drink, he looked down. The empty glass appeared to float on thin air, and he could scarcely make out the faint lines marking his fingertips. He really was a ghost.

Bewildered, he set down the glass on the bar and turned around. Bella watched him with excitement, trying to read his face for a reaction. "Jump-scare!" he shouted, and Bella gasped.

"You're getting better at that," she said with a laugh.

"Jump-scaring feels easier without a body to drag around. But I can't let Heather and the kids see me like this. How long does it last?"

"The sofa's all yours until you've sobered up, and you'll be back to normal by then. But tell me: who are you thinking about right now?"

"Heather and the kids, like always."

Bella smiled. "Good. That's the most important thing. Now go ahead, possess some of the furniture and get this out of your system. I know you want to."

He knew it was time to tell Heather the truth, but tonight, his mind - and body - wasn't right for such a serious conversation. After Bella and her family had gone to bed upstairs, he floated around the house with the cats tailing his every move. Finding the piano open and unattended, he grinned mischievously. Bella was right. He felt an uncontrollable urge to possess the sturdy instrument and jumped inside.

Possessing furniture was a lot harder than it looked, with the treble strings catching on his broad shoulders each time he floated upward. Still, he'd rather possess a grand piano than a litter box.

He had his fun before he passed out on the sofa. For a few hours, he had practically forgotten Ximena's name. But as morning came, he woke remembering what Bella had said about the mentors. He thought finding Rafa would make amends for his past, but it had only caused trouble and he still couldn't find him.

As Conrad headed to work, he wracked his brain trying to figure out what the mentors had wanted him to notice. ->

<- Previous Chapter | Gen 2 Start | Gen 1 Summary | Gen 1 Start

NOTE: Thursday's flashback will let us all see what Conrad saw!

NOTE 2: Not the most responsible night for ol' Conrad, but the stress is still there despite telling Ximena to take a hike. Between fearing her and knowing Heather needs to know the truth but fearing how that conversation will go, dude's cracking! We may judge. Also I wasn't entirely positive what the drink would do before I had Bella make it for him. I had an inkling but didn't look it up, so this was technically an unplanned night of dropped responsibilities for Conrad, who's built a very responsible rep!

#sims 4 #sims 4 gameplay #sims 4 screenshots #sims 4 legacy #sims in bloom #ts4 #ts4 gameplay #ts4 legacy #ts4 screenshots #sims 4 story #ts4 story #legacy challenge #sims legacy #ts4 legacy challenge #gen 2 #brindleton bay #bella goth #reapers rewards

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