#he grows wool and doesn’t stop

[emilys-bangs]

could i request an Emily xfem!Reader fic where they end up sharing a room while out on a case? and maybe there’s a couch or something and somehow reader falls asleep with her head on Emily’s lap? i just can’t stop imagining Emily playing with reader’s hair to help her sleep 🥺 love how you write Emily 🩵

Tysm 🫶🏼 I write gn reader, hope that's ok <3

----

fall right into me | e.p

Tags: room sharing, fluff, pining (so much pining), reader has enough hair for emily to run her fingers through—length not specified, no use of yn

Word count: 1.8k

It’s cold. You’re rubbing your skin through the wool of your sweater, stifling a yawn as Hotch walks into the motel lobby. Four keys are clutched in his hand.

“There’s only four rooms available, we’ll have to double up.” He says, and you bite your lip to keep a groan from escaping. The cold seeping in through the thin walls has made you cranky, and after a whole day spent on your feet, the thought of sharing your precious alone time with someone makes you want to slam your head into a wall.

Amongst the seven of you, three of the rooms would be occupied by pairs. That leaves one spare room.

Everyone reaches that conclusion the same time you do.

Immediately, they start squabbling over who gets the spare room, Morgan and Reid protesting sharing with each other. Emily ignores them and turns to you, gently bumping your shoulder with hers. 

“Roomies?” She whispers, her dark eyes wide.

Well, shit.

It’s not that you hadn’t shared a room with Emily before, but rather, you hadn’t ever since you’ve realized—quite inconveniently—that you’re in love with her. 

It’s hard not to be. Against your better judgment, you’d fallen for her. For the soft way she teases you, the sturdy way she has your back. The curve of her lip and the darkness of her eyes have enchanted you, swarms of butterflies turning your stomach when you get a glimpse of dimples, when you see her swoop her bangs over bottomless irises.

Her shoulder is still pressed against yours, a warm weight that seeps heat through your sweater. Sharing a room with anyone right now is an egregious thought. 

But Emily isn’t just anyone. 

You can’t help but give her a small smile, even as your heart jumps against your ribs. “Sure.”

Emily returns it, a dimple creasing in her cheek as she turns and snatches a key from Hotch, walking past him while the others continue their arguing over the spare room. You trail after her and catch up on the rickety stairs, the cold in your skin chased away at the thought of rooming with her again.

“Promise you won’t snore this time?” Emily turns to you, a teasing glint in her eyes as you walk up the steps together. They’re so narrow your shoulder has no choice but to knock into hers.

“Hey!” You complain as she lets out a low chuckle. “I was sick, I told you.” A frown drags your lips downward, but when you spot Emily’s smile, it’s all you can do to keep it in place.

You step onto the landing as she hums, twirling the key around her finger, “You did have a pretty cute sick voice.” She muses thoughtfully as her eyes skip over the few doors lining the hallway, looking for the number that matches the one etched onto the key.

Heat simmers in your cheeks. Your skin grows tight and itchy under your sweater, the sudden flush of warmth in your body making you pull your lip between your teeth.

“Ah, here it is,” Emily murmurs and approaches the door, casually fitting the key in the lock as if she didn’t just blow your whole world out of proportion with a few words.

You’re hardly looking as you follow her in, distantly taking in the two twin beds and couch while your brain replays her comment in the hallway. The thud of the door behind you doesn’t register, your blank gaze just barely taking in Emily as she claims the bed on the right.

Snap out of it, you firmly tell yourself. She’s just saying your voice was nasal. Hardly a compliment.

But your stomach is still in knots.

“I’m taking the bathroom.” Emily says. 

She’s going to take an eternity, you know, so you hum, drop your bag on the floor, and sag onto the bed next to hers. The bathroom door clicks shut and you sigh, kicking off your shoes and curling your legs into your chest as you turn sideways, your eyes catching the TV.

Exhaustion is heavy in your bones, mingling with the cold. A yawn escapes past your lips as you stare at the dark screen, distantly listening to the sound of the sink running as Emily gets ready for bed. Even as your body screams for sleep, your eyes are wide open, jumping from couch to desk to TV, restlessly taking in your surroundings as you run through the case in your head and allow the disquiet of your thoughts to run rampant.

It takes the better part of ten minutes before Emily finally walks back into the room and murmurs, “Bathroom’s free.” 

Rather sluggishly, you drag yourself off the bed and into the bathroom with another yawn. The first thing your eyes fall on is the sink, and Emily’s assorted skincare products littered around it.

The sight makes you smile. There’s glass bottles with droppers and smooth, expensive looking creams and glossy tubes with soft, pastel colored caps. You’re used to this display; serums and cleansers and moisturizers, each that she presses into her skin with a diligence that makes you wait for an upward of fifteen minutes outside the bathroom door. Your own routine is much simpler—washing your face and brushing your teeth and changing into another sweatshirt that serves as pajamas.

When you finish getting un-ready and walk back out into the bedroom, you find Emily on the couch. She’s in a worn t-shirt and sweatpants, channel surfing as she nibbles on her bottom lip. You sit next to her and try to conceal the hitch in your breath when her warm eyes slide to meet yours, the intense darkness of her gaze forcing you to look somewhere else. The freckles on her cheeks catch your attention; warm sprinkles of cinnamon that dust her skin, tiny spots nestled in the curve of her nose and the folds of her under-eyes, softly standing out against her pale complexion and bringing out the darkness of her irises.

“Any suggestions?” She murmurs as she turns back to the screen. The overhead lights are dimmed, the room blanketed in a low glow from the bedside lamps. Light from the TV washes over the two of you, throwing Emily’s features into sharp relief as she skips over channel after channel, not yet finding what she’s looking for.

“No.” You say. Forcing your gaze away from her, you turn to the TV and watch her restless browsing instead. She flips through the channels and a yawn leaves your lips, making your eyes water as you sag further into the couch. 

By some force of nature, your head falls against Emily’s shoulder.

She tenses for the briefest second before relaxing again, her shoulder collapsing beneath your head as she breathes in and out. Heart thudding wildly in your chest, you gnaw on your lip and steadfastly keep your eyes on the screen as Emily pauses on a showing of When Harry met Sally. You barely see the movie, too preoccupied with the places your body touches hers.

In the cold room, the air between you two buzzes with shared warmth. Your arm pressing against her arm, your sweatshirt rubbing against her skin; shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow. Emily exhales again, heavy enough that you feel it in your body.

Shit, you freeze. What if I’m making her uncomfortable? She probably wants me to get off—

Her hand finds its way into your hair. The muscles in your body turn into liquid as she scratches your scalp, gathers some strands of hair around her index finger.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?” She asks softly. Her voice vibrates through her skin; you feel it in your bones.

When you turn your head to slot under her jaw, you smell honeysuckle. Your eyes flutter shut. “How’d ya know?”

Stupid question.

“Well,” Emily starts, and again the vibrations of her voice travel to your heart, “you’ve yawned like ten times in the car and since we’ve gotten out.” She scratches her short nails against your scalp, “Those pretty eyes of yours have started to grow distant, and you’re walking like a lifeless zombie.”

“Hmm.” You hum, latching on to the word pretty. The more she plays with your hair, twirling it gently around her finger, the more incoherent you grow, your eyes getting heavier by the second. Shit, that feels good.

“I think that’s a yes.” Her voice is amused. You can almost picture the smile on her face, gently tugging at her lips. You’re thinking you should move—by this rate you’ll definitely fall asleep on her shoulder, numbing it beyond belief—when Emily slides her fingers out of your hair.

A disappointed frown draws your brows together. The feeling doesn’t last long before she gently places her fingertips on the back of your neck, pushing carefully down until your head is in her lap.

In her lap. Your head is in her lap—

“I don’t think my shoulder’s the most comfortable place to sleep.” Emily says apologetically. Her nimble fingers slide back into your hair and she drags her nails against your scalp.

You sigh involuntarily, fog growing thicker in your brain when you feel the soft cotton of her sweatpants, the tangible warmth of her thighs beneath your cheek. You want to at least try to protest, but then her other hand lands gently on your shoulder, pinning you in place.

Well, you can’t really complain.

But you can’t fall asleep here; there’s a perfectly good bed two feet away. Forcing your heavy eyes open, you’re met with Harry and Sally at the karaoke. They’re blurry, splitting into two, but you persist.

“You a romcom kinda girl, Em?” You slur. You don’t have the energy to speak out her full name; lips growing heavy, you snap off the last two syllables and keep one sweet on your tongue.

The hitch in her breath gives her away. “No.” She says quietly. Combing over your scalp, she scratches against a spot over your ear. Goosebumps break out on your skin.

“This one’s special, though.” Her voice is hushed. Crushed velvet, you think deliriously, wrapping yourself up in the warm comfort of it, “I saw it in the theater the summer before I left for Yale.”

She starts saying something, something about popcorn and the heat and—weirdly—Hotch, but you can’t ask any questions, can’t get your eyes to open after they’ve fallen closed. Emily twirls another strand around her finger and you’re gone, sinking into the darkness of sleep faster than you can stop it.

The last thing you hear is her voice, a golden incandescence in the darkness as she lulls you to sleep.

taglist: @suckerforcate

Reblogs and comments mean the world! Lmk what you thought <3

[stevenose]

i get what i want

steve harrington’s annual halloween party, 1991

contains: copious twin peaks references (you do not have to be familiar with the show to read!); audrey!reader; mean!reader; dumb puppy steve; tension; flirting; teasing; mentions of smut

note: i just think audrey and steve would be fun together… this is self-indulgent but i hope you enjoy! if you haven’t watched twin peaks, you MUST. you also should watch this tiny little clip to get the vibe of this fic <3

“Nice decorations.”

Steve turns, stomach twisting in a confusing, delicious way when he sets his eyes on you. Propped up on a bar stool in his kitchen, legs crossed under your wool tartan skirt, a foot kicking in your black and white oxfords. His eyes fall to your lips, painted cherry red. Your white teeth bite into them. You gesture towards the living room, juvenile decor strewn about.

“Audrey Horne,” he says, clocking your costume immediately.

You grin. “And you must be my Dale Cooper.”

He only dressed up like this because he had a suit and a similar tie and enough coffee mugs to sell it. “How’d you guess?” he quips.

You giggle, head turning to the side. You have her mannerisms down pat. “Isn’t that funny? What do you think it means, Stevie?”

“That Twin Peaks is a popular show.”

You tsk. “That’s no fun, is it? Maybe we’re all synced up.”

Your finger taps your temple. It registers now that you’re smoking a cigarette. He blinks at it. He opens his mouth to tell you to put it out, but you ash it onto the tile of his kitchen floor before he can speak.

“Put it out,” he says. Then adds, “Please.”

Your grin, playful and mean, makes him blush. “What are you worried about, Stevie? Your parents aren’t here.”

“Doesn’t mean I want you to make a mess.”

You hum. “You probably shouldn’t have big parties if you don’t want a mess, huh?”

You bring the cigarette back to your lips. You’re hypnotic, dragging Steve closer. He doesn’t know how to talk to you and he never has. You’re the only person he’s ever met that talks to him like that. Like he’s a nobody, like he’s pressed down underneath your shoe.

It’s so hard to admit to himself that he really likes it.

“I don’t remember inviting you,” he says. Tries real hard to keep up the cool guy act.

“No, but you invited my best friend.” You nod towards her, and Steve turns to look. He doesn’t remember inviting her, either, but at least she’s not ashing a cigarette onto his floor.

“What’s the problem, Special Agent?” You take a puff from your cig. Your head tilts to the side. “Do you want a taste?”

His heart skips, body growing hot, but then you’re handing over the nicotine.

And he really wishes you’d let him push up your skirt and eat your cunt out while you talk to him like that. So mean, teasing, hands pulling his hair so tight it hurts. Wants to shut you up when he pushes himself inside of you. Wants you to run your mouth when you find your voice again, talking down, degrading him so much he has to kiss you to make you stop. The revelation startles him, and your smile grows as if you can read his mind.

“I don’t remember Dale Cooper smoking,” he manages.

You roll your eyes. “Alright, Stevie,” you say, pulling back. You stare at him as you put it out on the countertop behind you. “There. No smoking.”

Your delicate hands suddenly reach out, nails manicured. You take his tie between your hands, studying the stripes of it. Then you tug on it, bringing his face down to yours. You smell like cherries and vanilla and a soft groan slips from his throat.

“How about a taste of something else?”

Steve blinks slow, stupid. Completely entranced. “Okay,” he whispers, cock hardening.

But you pull away and reach for the bowl of alcohol-soaked marichino cherries behind you, sitting pretty beside the jungle juice. You bring it to his lips, looking at him mischievously, teeth biting into your lip once again. “Open up.”

He doesn’t even think about it. His soft lips part and you hold the cherry by the stem, letting the bittersweet flesh of it catch between his teeth. He doesn’t pull away, so you do for him, snapping the stem off as you pull back.

He chews, delirious.

“Good boy,” you coo. “My Special Agent.”

And then you bring the stem up to your lips and it disappears between your teeth.

Steve’s cock aches. He watches your tongue roll in your mouth, a look of concentration bringing your arched brows together, before you pull it from your red lips in a perfect little knot.

He’s so dumbfounded. Wants you to kiss him so bad. He’d let you do anything you want to him.

You take one of his big hands, hanging heavy at his side. You place the stem in his palm and wrap his fingers around it, looking up at him so innocently. He thinks for a moment that you might actually like him, the way your eyes are all soft, your tongue swiping along your bottom lip.

“Something to remember me by,” you say.

You stare at each other for another long moment, and Steve’s eyes start to flutter shut, heart racing, stomach fluttering. But you never move, never press your crimson mouth to his.

“Your tie’s messed up,” you say instead, sitting upright. Your hands find the knot of it, and you push it upwards, making it sit snug around his bobbing throat. It restricts his air flow, making him feel even dizzier.

You smooth it, then drag your nails down his chest and tummy before dropping them so they gently brush against the zipper of his black slacks.

“You’re being a bad host,” you scold, getting down from the stool, squeezing yourself around him. “You better go mind your minions before they make a bigger mess than I did.”

Steve watches you disappear into the crowd, the world suddenly coming back again. The music’s too loud and he searches for Robin with lovestruck eyes. He finds her, watching him with her jaw dropped. She makes a face - what the hell was that? - and he decides his boner needs a little more attention than her prying.

[temis-de-leon]

Gn!MC with thick curly hair

Characters: Lucifer, Mammon, Satan and Asmodeus (x reader, separately; could be read as pre-relationship since it's a tiny bit suggestive)

Main Masterlist

@cubandevil04 : Hello!! I ADORE your writing, it's so fun😘 I was wondering if I could have an obey me headcanon (lucifer, mammon, satan and asmodeus please🙏) with a GN!MC with thick curly hair?? Very 70s curly shag style💅😜 just overall reaction and their thoughts, especially since no character with curly hair has been introduced👀 please and thank you!!

A/N: had so much fun with this one that I wrote it in just a day, can you believe it?

.

We’re bringing sheep!MC to the table here. Whether you want them to be an ewe or a ram, it doesn’t matter; in the end, they’re cute and their wool is curly and fluffy.

I haven’t read the manga, where this version of MC takes place, so I don’t know how it works, but I like to think the potential human students didn’t have photos on their information sheets as to “not judge a book by its cover”, therefore no one really knew how MC looked like.

(Actually, this HC works with human!MC too)

It isn’t until the year is coming to an end that MC’s biology and immune system have developed enough to survive the Devildom’s atmosphere in their human form. They’re allowed to transform back and everyone finally sees what they’ve been missing out this whole time.

.

Lucifer

Due to his work, his taste and the way he is overall, most of Lucifer’s friends belong to the nobility or high society or are generally people with ambition and success in mind.

While he can enjoy going to clubs, like some of his brothers, his personality shines in more private ambiences. Old-money type of parties where chatter is never loud and guests are well groomed and put together, showing themselves in their demon forms with grace; the ultimate level of formal attire.

No matter your gender, hair is supposed to be pushed back with a polished look, so thick curls are hardly appreciated.

When he sees your human form for the first time, and this is something he will take to the grave, his first fleeting thought is wondering if you somehow maintained some ovine feature that made your hair look like that.

Suffice to say, it doesn’t take him too long to understand that your appearance is entirely yours and not the consequences of some spell.

He’s not blushing, MC. Stop laughing at him.

Will compliment you to make you blush instead.

The unruliness of your haircut makes it impossible for him to stop staring and he can’t help but imagine what would it feel like to touch it, to curl the loops around his fingers as many times as you’d let him.

He’s curious about how messy it’d look with a bedhead, but that’s a thought he’d rather revisit later.

Mammon

Although he was extremely curious about your human appearance since the moment you started to grow on him, it wasn’t something he lost sleep over.

He would love you no matter what you looked like.

However.

Being a model himself, it is impossible not to picture you on the cover of a magazine the first time he lays eyes on you. Looking upwards, eyes directed towards the camera under your lashes and lips partially parted, barely hiding a knowing smile.

Yeah, he can picture you. Perhaps too well.

But he’s being honest! You could be a model, MC!

Demons have been following human trends since the dawn of time, given that they are to be perceived as temptation, and he hasn’t seen that haircut in decades. Sure, curls have always been present, but not in that specific style.

You will catch him staring at you way more often than when you were a sheep, but there’s a shift in his eyes that you’ll only notice if you stare just as much.

Before your change, there was admiration and affection, an honest yet small smile that would disappear behind his hand in embarrassment whenever you’d turn his way.

Now, besides that, there’s also yearning. A desire to do something that only manifests when his fingers grab the end of your curls and gently tug to make them longer each time you sit together in class.

He will stop if it bothers you even if your rejection hurts a little, but please, please, allow him this much.

Satan

Unlike his eldest brother’s, Satan’s social circle is diverse and large, ranging from interns and students to CEOs and deans.

You never know where help and privileges may be coming from, after all.

He’s not picky about the origins of his friendships either, so one day he might be seen chatting with the National Fangol’s Vice Chairman and with an undiscovered indie singer the next.

His world is versatile and constantly evolves; he’s met a lot of different people through the many years of his life and all of them looked different from the other.

While yours is a haircut he’s already seen other people have, he still smiles the first time he sees your human form, although that might be due to him finally seeing your true self.

There’s a wild feeling to you that’s also cosy and confident. You remind him of bookstore cafés and open mic bars and even music festivals in summer where the dirt is covered in empty cans, half-smoked cigarettes and unconscious people.

He wonders if you like music or poetry, if he could introduce anybody to you that could make your dreams come true or that could give him the perfect opportunity to take you on your ideal date.

Or maybe you’re not an artistic person and you have your fixation focused on science or magic.

Perhaps none of them or even all at once!

He stares, not because he’s obsessed with you or your fitting hairstyle, but because he’s dying to know how much more is there for him to uncover.

Asmodeus

I’m going to step into shitpost territory here, but if he could have a Pokedex of inhabitants of the Devildom and beyond, you better believe it would be halfway full.

He’s known, met, and befriended (and more) so many people that is difficult for him to discover someone different.

It’s not your fault or lack of creativity, but when you’re an extroverted demon with such an experience in socializing like him, it gets to a point where finding unique features gets hard.

Still, when he first sees you, he can’t help but stare with shiny eyes and an open wide smile.

Your appearance helps your personality make sense. It’s an accessory that compliments you and, now that he has the whole picture, he can remember all those moments he shared with you and replace your cute little sheep shape with the human body that’s keeping him awake at night.

It’s not like that! Nothing filthy!

Although he won’t mind if you happen to slip inside his bed in the middle of the night.

He just can’t stop thinking about you, the way your curls frame your face or bounce when you play that tiring dance game in Levi’s room.

Not much time passes until he starts watching videos on Deviltube on how to define curls or how to style them with silk scarfs, rings, chains and even crystals. He’ll be happy to help you with the process, especially if it takes longer than expected. That just means you both get to spend even more time together.

And you’re going to look so cute!

.

.

Taglist: @ilovecandys2010 @ollieoven @kingofspadesdelusion @whimsybloom

[nanamimizz]

tags: 18+ minors dni / fem reader / fingering / reader is mexican / spanish / religious imagery / aftercare / hinted virginity loss / penetration /2.6k/ pwp - let me know if i miss something.

synopsis: javier escuella feels an all encompassing desire to have you. you feel it too, maybe even more.

Javier laughs into your lips, you are kissing him with the reverence of the faithful. You kiss sweetly, gently with the undercut of hunger he is all too happy to sate. Your form is soft beneath his hands, flesh pillabe like the strings on his guitar and the trigger of his revolver - the hollow of his palms filled with the curve of your hips. Javier nips at your lip until he can hear you hiss from the sting among your sighs from the pleasure of having him suck on your tongue.

“I can’t believe you - all I did was kiss you,” he stops to puff a breathe against your lips snickering at the dazed look on your face and the glistening spit on your lips, “and now you’re letting me fuck you.”

You whine, high and embarrassed but so unbearably needy and pressing yourself up against him like a cat in heat. There’s a little gold necklace threaded along the slopes of your collar - it glints against your untouched and unblemished skin like a comet, looping along your form in a circle until completion where it stays in perpetual orbit. Javier doesn’t know if he should be jealous of the thin necklace or not.

Your nightgown is off, spread out on the ground and Javier’s eyes are caught on the pendant that holds the face of La Virgen that glints in the lowlight of his tent - his eyes meet hers and he feels a shiver against his spine. Of course she would be there, looped above your too-good heart and appearing before him. It almost pains him to touch you, the holiness of your skin burning his palms that are too greedy to stay away.

You gasp his name and it brings him back to you - it brings his lips to your chest and you sigh as your hands twist on the fabric of his shirt clad shoulders like you are scared to touch him. You still have your bloomers, the white cotton stark against his tan hands and he presses another kiss right above your heart as it stutters tucked away in your ribs.

“Esta bien hermosa - you can touch me.” The pet name makes you tremble, whining when the word graces your flushed ears. Hermosa, meaning beautiful or gorgeous in the language your mother would sing you to when you were a girl. Your nostalgia brings desperation and it only serves to make you needier, wanting for more of the man above you like how priests desire the light of God. You think of that ill-stricken Reverend that wanders this camp and something aches in your chest as you let your hands go over the curve of his shoulders and anchor yourself there. Teeth aching with each suck on your tongue you don’t notice it when your bloomers are off until the brisk cool night breeze dances on your bare thighs. The skin there is hot and growing more so when he lets his hands settle on the smooth skin.

It’s almost comical how perfectly you fit in his roughed hands, his callouses from his knife so seamlessly accepted by the plush of your thighs. Like the velvet cushions rich men sit in their gilded train cars and golden stagecoaches. You go from velvet to wet silk with simple touches and you moan something sweetly into his ear as his face goes to your chest and his hands in between your thighs. The backs of his knuckles tease the wetness of your slick that leaks like honey and Javier lets his lips kiss the bud of your nipple softly but not without letting his teeth have their own kiss at the edge to make you whine.

“You are so wet, leaking for me - you’ll make a mess on my pants mi amor.” His teasing is endless and you can hear that smile you see whenever you blink. You jumble out a half-assed apology and it makes Javier laugh at you again. He must have you in quite the state if it’s making your perfectly trained manners fall off like wool when faced with sheep shears. His fingers have made their way to where you are the most needy - letting them pet along the slit and cup at your mound. You moan his name, oh so, softly when he squeezes gently, cradling your most delicate part the same way he cradles the neck of his guitar.

“Javi - please, please.” The shortened version of his name makes him grin, shivering pleasantly at how affection given only to him melts into his ears like syrup.

“Ya se, ya se. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you tonight.” Dark eyes are wicked at how they glint in the low orange light of his tent as he lets one finger slip in. He reclines himself back so he can watch how you take him.

Javier does not profess how he would take care of you every night for the rest of the nights you have in your life.

You whine thinly into the air, and it makes him hiss at how tight you are around his one finger.

“Relax, chiquita - I can’t take care of you when you’re all tense like this. Shh, shh,” he murmurs to you and in return you whine with a nod; pliable and sweet for him as you let your legs shuffle more open, working on letting him in and letting him deeper. One finger turns to two, and they curl into you cruelly without respite for how you weep and sniffle at the pleasure he tugs from you like music from his guitar strings. Your mouth is hanging open, drool shining on your lips as you let out thin little sounds.

You feel full, and pleasure dances along your spine as his thumb plays with the glimmering pearl of your clit. You whine - no sing his name like gospel and it makes something inside his stomach preen like a peacock.

Javier is dedicated, giving you an even pace and deep curls of his fingers to make you soft and loose for him. Dark brown eyes watch you with the precision of a predator - eagerly taking in how sweat drips down the middle of your breasts and how your jaw drops to make out little pants of his name just for him to hear. His fingers do just enough to bring you to the edge, and you stutter over your words as you push at his wrist with the desperation that is unbecoming of you. Etiquette and education are long gone from your mind as you beg him with an addled mind.

“Please, please not - not like that,” you stutter and let out soft little moans in between each word as Javier remains unmoved; letting his fingers stay inside you at their same pace, dark brown eyes taking in how even this almost makes you weep in pleasure. His cock stirs in his jeans at how it will be when he’s inside of you, filling you well beyond anything you’ve ever had.

“No, like this - it will hurt if you don’t cum now.” He mutters, voice thick with lust as he watches your hips twitch and jump when you have begun to hit the highest peak of your pleasure. Your body is eager for his fingers, tightening and fluttering around them as you leak down to his palm. Javier goes to shush you but you’re a good girl he realizes, watching you with a grin at how your hands shoot up to your mouth to muffle your long winded whines when you crash and cum for him. His voice is soft, reassuring you as you ride out your pleasure with the trembling of your hips and the quickened rising falls of your chest.

“Just like that - like that. There you go, there you go. Cum for me, give me this one and I’ll give you another.” He promises you, his accent thick as he watches your eyes go dark and unfocused as you burn with hot desire for him until he hears your broken voice mumble; “There’s more?”

He laughs. Teasingly, adoringly, lovingly and so many other words he can’t quite say.

“Si mi vida, there is always more with me. That I can promise you.”

Again, he laughs at the way he feels you twitch around his fingers that have stilled inside at the prospect of what more entails. He won’t admit to how his cock twitches in time with you tucked away in his pants.

You whine at the idea, hot at the image of being filled with all of him and whine again when his fingers slip out of you. Gossamer strands of your cum follow them, only to break and splatter along the inside of your flushed thighs. Javier smiles the same charming smile as when he sings and soothes you by rubbing your thigh with one hand while the other goes to undo his belt buckle.

You don’t see the length of him, only feel the heat of him against the petals of your cunt and it’s enough for you to yelp like some poor animal caught in a trap. Javier is bent over you, the build of his slim body covering you with his elbow supporting him above your head, eyes attuned to the half lit scene before him. You, sweating enough to make strands of your hair stick your flushed face with your eyes half lidded and mouth parted. His hips move without him thinking, coating his length in your glimmering release and rubbing against your still sensitive clit that it makes you flinch - mewling his name in a wet and defeated tone that makes him huff in half fondness-half teasing.

“Javi-” you whine, hotter than you have ever been and voice cracking when the head of his cock brushes past your entrance and makes its way in. You gasp into his mouth, one hand coming to cover your eyes and the other gripping at the fabric of his shoulder. Javier sighs against your lips and kisses you to muffle his own noises - higher pitched than he’d like to admit they are lost in between your two mouths as you take another inch of him. He is long, he knows this and you are tight ; tighter than anyone else he’s ever been with due to your lack of experience so he is slow with you despite how he wants to devour you entirely with one stroke.

Javier is tactical when he wants to be and is more than practical when he has to be so he controls himself, letting you have him inch by torturous inch. You are panting, throwing your head back in a way that lets him catch the tears that make it down your cheek and are uncovered by your hand. With one hand he bats away yours until your face - glistening and flushed is revealed to him as your mouth shines with drool from pleasure. His thumb goes to wipe away a tear and you move to feel the warmth of him more closely.

“Why are you crying hermosa, hm?” He asks you, sighing at how you take more of him so sweetly. You don’t respond only squealing and squeezing around him as you lose more of yourself on his cock. Half of him is seated inside you, enough for you to moan his name brokenly as you beg for more despite you wincing when he moves. Javier grunts and stops, letting the half of him that’s inside you stay still to let you breathe

“You can,” you pant, “you can put the whole thing in - please, please put it in.” You beg, and a thrill goes up his spine at the idea of seeing you weep from his cock being too much runs across his mind before he pushes it to the side. You are far too sweet, too delicate to be treated so roughly by him. You aren’t a working girl he can forget about come morning but the woman he wants to wake up to, which is why it’s easy for him to do what he thinks to be best.

He denies you.

“No, this is -” he sighs deeply at the way you feel around him - slick and wet and wanting for him to give you more until it aches. “This is enough. You’ll take the rest next time.” You whine at the thought and whine again when he pulls his slim hips back to fuck you like that. He gives you slow, careful thrusts with the hand that cradles your face sneaking down to rub at your pulsing clit with gentle precision. It’s almost too much for you, he notes and he feels bad that the sight of you weeping on half his cock, losing your mind with your eyes glassy from tears is doing it more for him than anything else.

You’ve always been a proper girl, ever since he saw you on your horse in the snow of Colter looking at him with the sweetest eyes framed by snowflakes. There’s a sick pleasure tugging at his stomach at how he has you now, manners gone and all you are now is debauched and drunk on him. It’s almost enough to make him finish and clearly it’s enough to get you there too by the way you weep out the little nickname you gave him.

“Javi, Javi, ’m going to -” He cuts you off with a punched out exhale, grinding his molders to keep from cumming inside by how you keep tightening around him like a vice.

“Go let go for me, mi amor - you’ve been so good.” With that you break, voice so ruined it cracks when you whine out babbles of precious thank yous in his ear as you come to completion a second and last time for the night. It’s painful, the last drag he gets of your cunt before he tugs at his sticky and slick cock to shoot his spend against the mound of your cunt. The sight of him dripping down to your twitching lower half more than makes up for it and he is more than willing to bend back over you to press gentle kiss after kiss on your panting lips. Your eyes had fluttered close and you babbled mindlessly under his gentle touches as you slowly came back down to look up at him with blearily eyes. Javier smiles at you with all the tenderness of the world when you wrap your arms around his neck - he manages to settle on his side with you in his arms and you tuck your face into his neck. You nuzzle the skin and sight softly, eyes red and half lidded tired from all he has pulled for you. Javier is soft with you, spoiling you by letting his nails scratch your scalp the way you like.

“Rest mi vida, I’ll clean you up.” he murmurs into your hair, presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You hum, murmur his name and a soft little confession of love before your eyes slip shut. You shiver when the soft fabric of a pocket square wipes at the mess of your swollen cunt and whine when you are moved to have your nightgown pulled over your head. Through your fussing Javier remains gentle, whispering praise as he settles you to his chest to sleep. When you awake you’ll be faced with teasing you thought you were quiet enough to avoid but that can wait. Now your eyes are heavy and Javier’s heartbeat is soothing - anything else can wait as for now you want for nothing else.

[flowercrowngods]

for prompt tag!

28. i'm just getting comfy (would love if this was established relationship/domestic fluff.. perhaps one of them is sick in this... idk)

but also take your time 🫡🫂

in which steve is sick but that won't stop soft boys hours

When Eddie hears the sound of fuzzy sock-clad feet dragging over the hardwood floor, accompanied by a sniffle or two, he drops the book he's reading onto his chest, exasperated by his restless boyfriend who refuses to stay in bed after Eddie tucked him in — again! Ready to give him A Look and tell him to get back to bed, because whatever it is he needs, Eddie can and will get it for him, Just go back to bed, Stevie. 

But whatever words were on the tip of his tongue even just a second ago have disappeared at seeing Steve – the same way that they always used to when they've only been dating for a few months. Instead of giving him anything remotely like A Look, Eddie grins, and instead of exasperated, all he feels is immeasurably fond. Endeared. Fucking enamoured. 

Because Steve, in all his pale, sniffly-nosed glory, is standing in the doorway to the living room, blinking against the sunlight streaming in through the windows, painting everything golden and bringing colour back to him, too. But it's not the way the light catches on his skin that makes Eddie fall in love all over again in what Robin would describe the most pathetic way possible, no. 

The thing that makes Eddie want to propose on the spot, in sickness and in health, is the fact that Steve is wearing Eddie's woollen hat. The one Joyce knitted for him with thick, soft, dark brown wool a few Christmases ago, with two distinctive bat ears sticking up.

God, where did Steve even unbury that? 

And what business does he have looking so absolutely fucking adorable wearing it?  His glasses are askew, the hair sticking out from beneath the hat is tousled and greasy, and the bags under his eyes are stark against his sickly pale skin that makes his nose shine red. 

Eddie is about to die with how much he loves him. It’s like a scream lodged in his throat that he cannot let out, an urge that grows evermore to let the whole world know, to not rest until the last person knew about his endless, endless, endless love for this angel of a man. 

In sickness and in health. It is there, residing in the back of his head, and he almost says it out loud — but Stevie would kill him if Eddie proposed to him because of a stupid woollen hat with bat ears (Sorry, Robbie). 

“Baby,” he breathes instead, miraculously keeping a hold of his heart in this wave of affection that overcame him so suddenly. “You good? Everything okay?” 

“Mhmm,” Steve hums, though it’s more of a growl with how rough his voice is. He wipes at his face, almost nudging his glasses off his nose, and Eddie can’t keep in the chuckle that bubbles out of him. 

He’s about to get up off the couch and wrap the angel with bat ears in his arms, just because he can, but then Steve is already approaching him, the blanket thrown around his shoulders dragging on the floor just as much as his feet. There is something so young about Steve when he’s sick, something so vulnerable and raw that makes Eddie want to latch onto him and never let go. Protect him from the evil germs and the headaches they bring. It’s dumb. Stupid, really. 

Eddie doesn’t even try to fight it as he sits up and holds out his arms for Steve to fall into. He brushes kiss after kiss to his overheated skin as Steve cuddles into him, burying his face in Eddie’s neck and his hands underneath his shirt. 

They hum in unison, finding a sound for serenity.

“That’s my hat,” Eddie says after a while, breathing in his sick angel and feeling him melt in his arms. 

“Our hat,” Steve mumbles into his skin. "My turn to be Batman."

Eddie laughs, wrapping his arms tighter around him, giving in to the urge to hold, the urge to never let go. “You’re ridiculous, d’you know that?” 

“I did know that,” Steve says, and he somehow manages so sound proud of that. 

“Good, just making sure,” Eddie remarks, hiding his own grin in Steve’s cheek, nosing along his temple and the edge of the hat. After a moment of silence that they spend just holding onto each other, he murmurs, “You need anything?”

Steve shakes his head, winding his arms tighter around Eddie’s shoulders and leans into him; it takes him a moment to catch up with Steve, but eventually he lets himself fall backwards so they’re lying flat on the couch. 

“What are you doing, hm?” he asks, reaching for the blanket that has pooled around Steve’s legs and pulls it up again, wrapping it around his shoulders properly again. 

“I’m just getting comfy,” Steve rumbles, slowly and sluggishly wiggling and twisting on top of him until he stills with a satisfied hum that sounds a lot like a smile. 

“Good?” 

Another hum, affirmative this time, as Steve buries his cold fingers underneath Eddie’s body. “You’re warm.” 

“And you have a fever.” 

“Hmm. Still.” 

It makes him grin again, makes him want to burst and scream and cry and laugh endlessly. 

“Ridiculous,” he says again, no louder than a whisper, and Steve turns his head to press a kiss to the centre of Eddie’s chest. It’s as much of a No, you as Eddie’s going to get, and he cherishes it with everything he has. 

“I like that,” Steve says, half asleep by the sound of it.

Eddie reaches for Steve's glasses and places them on the coffee table, and tucks the hat back over his ears. When no elaboration follows, asks, “You like what, angel?” 

“That. Your voice. Feels nice.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Mhmm.”

“Want me to read to you? I think you might like this book, actually.” 

Another hum, another kiss — to his heart this time. “I like everything about you.”

“That’s what I wanna hear,” Eddie laughs, reaching for the battered copy of Momo that’s been one of his favourites since Wayne brought it home on a rainy night in ’85 and Eddie stayed up all night devouring it. 

“At the edge of the city,” he starts reading the blurb, to give Steve an idea what this is about and let him decide if he wants to listen in or just feel the rumbling of Eddie’s voice in his chest, “in the ruins of an old amphitheatre, there lives a little homeless girl called Momo. Momo has a special talent which she uses to help all her friends who come to visit her. Then one day the sinister men in grey arrive and silently take over the city. Only Momo has the power to resist them, and with the help of Professor Hora and his strange tortoise, Cassiopeia, she travels beyond the boundaries of time to uncover their dark secrets.”

Steve doesn’t react, but Eddie can feel that he’s not quite asleep yet, so he opens the book and starts reading from the beginning that he almost knows by heart. Somewhere on page seven, Steve takes to playing with Eddie’s hair, carding slow fingers through the strands in the gentlest way that is almost enough to distract him. Switching the book from one hand to another as his arms get heavy from the position he’s holding the book, he always has one hand drawing idle patterns underneath the blanket, between Steve’s shoulder blades. 

It’s a slow afternoon as the sun sets on them, painting them in golden hues of orange and rose. Once he’s sure Steve is asleep and the living room too dark to keep reading, Eddie puts down the book and sneaks his arms under the blanket, wrapping them loosely around Steve’s shoulders to follow him into dreamland.  

hope this lives up to what you had in mind! 🫶

[tainted-liquor]

⋆✦ Keep Talkin' ⋆ [3.11.23] - ft. Miles G. Morales ⋆ Ingredients: Sugar, Smiles, and a lil bit of Salt! A/N! READER HAS A STUTTER. Please keep that In Mind.

“Miles, c’mon…get up-“ You chuckled, using all your strength to shuffle Miles off your body. “Absolutely not.” He blurted, somehow getting heavier than earlier as he further relaxed on top of your chest. “I-It’s almost the e-e-end…fuck” you sighed, growing more and more agitated by the minute. For as long as you could remember, you had a mind that moved faster than your mouth could deliver; words and syllables getting lost on the tip of your tongue every time you attempted to vocalize your thoughts. “Mamita, está bien. vamos, sigue hablando, It doesn’t bother me” Miles grunted, plunging his face further into your soft navy-blue wool sweater.

“Y-y-yeah y-you don’t, I do” you chuckled, feeling the air fill your lungs as Miles hoisted himself off of you. The temperature difference was terrifying; you had gone from a comfortable cozy warm to a sudden burst of wintery air blowing directly on you from the A/C. You pulled yourself off the sophomore lounge’s plush bean bag, stretching and yawning while Miles poured coffee into his matte black water bottle. The enticing scent of fresh brew wafted through the space, invading the senses of anyone who passed by the cozy lounge. “You want some?” He asked, pouring French vanilla, cinnamon, sugar, and caramel into the bottle and giving it an aggressive shake.

You nodded, taking the bottle from his hands and taking a deep swig from the warm cup of caffeine. “Aight, c’mon. You have class” Miles recalled, wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he guided you out of the dim and inviting lights of the lounge to the harsh fluorescent lighting of the school hallway. “Miles, can we go to…what’s i-i-i-it called…the cafe across the str-..the cafe across the str-street?” You asked, twisting the cap back on his water bottle and handing it back to him without missing a beat. “Yeah, of course, come get me after class,” he beamed, shoving the water bottle back into the side of his blue backpack. You said your goodbyes, slipping into the cold confines of your classroom while you waited for the rest of the student body to cram into their assigned seats.

Tension was high as everyone opened their computers, faces being illuminated by the ghostly white hue of their screens as they got ready to present their Google slides. You’d always been exempt from vocalizing lengthy presentations, but today you wanted to at least try to work through or around your stutter. You got up from your seat as quietly as possible before fixing your ash grey skirt and made your way over to Mr. Talgate’s desk. You felt slightly more confident, or maybe that was just the ghost of pride taking over you from Miles’ reassurance prior. But regardless of what it was, you wanted to present your slides, especially with how hard you worked on them for the past 3 days.

“Mr. Talgate? Is i-i-it…is i-it alright i-i-if I pres-present today? I’m really proud of my slides n’ I wanna try tod-today” You whispered, attempting to suppress that agitating stutter of yours. Mr. Tailgate looked elated, like a proud father who was ready to support his daughter with anything she wanted. “Yeah, of course! You can go right after…uh,” He mumbled, looking over the classroom to see who you could sandwich your presentation in between. “Lisa! You can go after Lisa. But if you ever wanna stop, just let me know…Make a time-out sign with your hands and I’ll let you go, alright?” He smiled, waving you off as you nodded and retreated to your seat. No thoughts were coursing through your head as everyone went up and gave their speeches; one by one, people’s names were removed from the list as your time to speak came closer and closer. 

You fixed everything that you could, reciting your I’s and Y’s and E’s with each passing second. Lisa took any final questions, before giving a warm smile and a thumbs up in your direction, mouthing “Good luck babes!” before collecting her computer and returning to her seat. You gave her a sheepish, lopsided smile in return as you prepped the small podium in the front of the classroom to present your project. You sucked in a deep breath, wrangling your thoughts and lingering anxieties before turning to face your peers.

“Hi! So, m-my pres-presentation i-i-i-is about th-th…the chemical compound Nitrous O-Oxide.  As you can see, there’s-” You began, quickly beginning to feel the epiphany of speaking in front of a whole class setting in. You were doing fine for the most part, until a random voice in the back spoke up, ruining the rest of your day. 

“Yo, does she always fuckin’ stutter like this? We can’t skip her?” He moaned, throwing his hands in the air like he was stuck in bumper-to-bumper traffic. Your blood ran cold as you shut your mouth and clutched the sides of the glazed oak podium. The class erupted in groans of annoyance and shouts of ‘Shut up!’ aimed at the boy as you quickly sat back down at your desk. Your waterline pooled with tears as the boy named ‘Kaiden’ was ejected from class. What a fucking loser.

You barricaded your face in your arms, the tip of your nose ghosting your desk as tears silently trailed from your eyes. The sound of whispers and apologetic glances in your direction went unnoticed as the tinnitus made itself known in your ears, flooding your senses as the pressure on your throat grew heavier. You struggled to control your breathing while you asked the teacher to leave, earning quick confirmation and a gentle pat on the shoulder from Mr. Talgate. When you finally brought yourself out of the classroom, you wiped away the remnants of the salty tears in the mirror that you kept in your blue locker. No matter how hard you dabbed at the trail of tears, no amount of recovery or cleanup would dissipate the feeling of dread that pooled into your stomach every time you went to open your mouth.

Anyway,

Thankfully, that was your last class of the day. All that was left was to find Miles and get some food, and then you could go home to your warm and comforting pink cotton sheets. Your glossy Mary Janes clinked against the pure white vinyl composition tiles, echoing through the spirit-painted walls as you advanced toward the sophomore lounge once more. You pushed open the deep grey sliding door, revealing your boyfriend with his legs propped up on the window seal. He crouched with his knees to his chest, one AirPod in his left ear as he read a bright red comic about someone named Spider-Man. His eyes broke their pattern of scanning over the small font and vibrant pictures, instantly turning over to look at you as he lifted himself off the window.

“Wassup, Ma…You out early, they let you go or somethin’?” He asked, giving you a tight hug and a kiss on the forehead. There was a moment of silence as you nodded with a small smile, earning a sideways glance from Miles. There was a thought that itched at the back of his mind, but he went against his better judgment and assumed you were tired and just wanted some food. It was all going fine until he realized that you were 2 minutes away from the familiar French cafe and you hadn’t said a single word. He missed your usual commentary as you passed by buildings, giggled about dogs, and pointed out signs that caught your attention. He glanced over in your direction, observing as you stared at the ground and fiddled with his bandaged fingers.

“You good Ma? You been real quiet lately… what's on your mind?” He questioned as he held open the glass door so you could pass through into the soft, dim, yellow lighting of the cafe. It was virtually impossible to get anything past Miles; he knew you better than he knew himself, that was clear. Your voice was barely above a whisper as you unpacked the events of 8th  period. “Then he said that I shou-shouldn’t be presenting,” you mumbled, taking a seat at the deep brown leather booth just by the back exit. The store was warm and the fragrance of fresh baked goods wafted through the air, something that could always be associated with comfort and relaxation wasn’t doing much to help you relax right now.

“Well fuck him. Fuckin’ dumbass ain’t even had the balls to say it at the front of the classroom…Kaiden failing his classes anyway baby don’t pay that bum any mind. His mama got 2 teaspoons of hair, Déjalo donde está” He grumbled, rolling his eyes as he slid you closer to his side. “Listen, don’t let them niggas hurt your feelings. He a fat rectangle with buck teeth, don’t let that motherfucker bend you,” He grunted.

“Now c’mon, I want a cannoli.”

Tags !!

@ashsostrange @chessbox @janaeby @faeriesoiree333 @fivestardior @an1bara @bachirasegoist @niaurluv @sp1derw1re @ban-al3x  @we-loveebony @kae2kaee @dxrlingcc

[macabr3-barbi3]

Alastor/sheep!Reader- Red Riding Hood (Ao3 Request)

I had so much fun with this! And I'm thinking about doing a little mini-series of retellings of fairy tales because of this so 👀

Tags: chase; outside sex; rough sex; predator/prey for like 3 paragraphs; reader is kind of a little shit

2.6k words

<3<3<3<3<3

The woods are dark and dense, and you curse yourself again for agreeing to undertake this journey for your new manager.

“It gets cold!” She had whined, gesturing to the hairless skin of her Sphynx cat form. “ I could freeze, and its really important that this delivery gets picked up tonight! You’re such a great friend,” she had gushed when you caved and agreed to make the trip for her, to the outermost edges of the Pride ring. Why couldn’t she have just air-shipped the package? “The customer doesn’t like modern technology.”  Why not have him come get it? “He isn’t really a people person, I don’t want to scare anyone off.”

An idiot is what you were- an idiot that was new to Hell and didn’t have many other options for jobs. You were sweltering under the stupid red cloak that she had given you, swearing up and down that the forest you’d be going through got chilly at night and insisting that you take it with you; the only plus to the damned thing was that it had a pocket into which you could slip the delivery parcel. Even though you weren’t technically properly trained for deliveries yet, the thick wool that coated the lush curves of your sheep-like body apparently made you the perfect candidate for the trip through the ‘cold’ woods. 

“Bullshit,” you mutter, throwing the hood of the damned thing back and letting the soft breeze whip past your ears. The trees seem to whistle their displeasure at your presence, your hair swirling around your face as you head in the general direction that the app on your phone directed you. 

There’s a sudden growl in the air, and you freeze where you stand. It almost rumbles the ground beneath your feet, and glancing over your shoulder you see a hint of crimson eyes staring from the darkness.

Fuck that. You take off without any further inspection of the glowing gaze, tossing your phone into the cloak pocket as you run- you don’t need to know what it is if it's going to try to hurt you somehow, and you don’t give a damn about the delivery being on time if it means risking your life. Why wouldn’t your manager have told you there was dangerous shit out here? You get that it’s Hell but for fuck’s sake.

Your lungs are aching as you continue on, not willing to slow or stop while you can still hear the crashing of tree branches and snarling behind you, right at your heels. There’s a hand on the hood of your cloak then, pulling you backwards, and without thinking you slam your head back, horns miraculously hitting home right in the creature’s face. It releases you with a pained groan and you don’t look back, booking it as fast as you can in a different direction, stitch in your side growing more and more painful with every step.

The woods are silent as you finally slow and stop, bracing your back against a tree and trying to catch your heaving breath. Your whole body is on fire, physical exertion having never been your strong suit, but you’re still alive and that’s what matters- body aches will heal, but you heard that regeneration was a bitch.

“Are you chilly, darling?”

The unexpected voice makes you whip around, cloak whirling as you turn. “Fuck!” Your heart is still beating like a drum, hard hammering against your chest from the run before you had stopped to rest. 

The demon casually leaning against a nearby tree watches you with a wide grin, a trickle of blood from his lips where your horns had slammed into him. His eyes, red and lidded, flick up and down your body. “It’s quite rude to leave a question unanswered.”

“It’s also quite rude to sneak up on people. Was that you chasing me?”

“Why, I’m just making sure that you are heading in the right direction! The number of people that have gotten lost on their way to me is truly a nuisance.” He eyes the shape of the package in your cloak pocket. “I’m pleased to see that this one hasn’t been lost to the forest yet.” He steps closer, holds a hand out to you. “Come along now, dear.”

“R-right. Can you confirm the name on the package?”

A wide grin, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Alastor.”

It matches the name on the package which is good enough for you. “Okay, great. Here you go.” You pull the box from your pocket and hold it out to him. “That’s all this needed to be.”

He cocks his head to one side. “Surely you won’t be leaving so soon.”

“I’m just here to make the delivery, sir.” Your hands are trembling with leftover adrenaline as he takes the parcel, inspects it for a moment, then unceremoniously tosses it over his shoulder into the darkness.

“Your work ethic is to be admired!” He exclaims, ignoring your outraged expression. “But there seems to be confusion- you are the delivery, darling.” When you stiffen at his words he chuckles and creeps closer, circling you like a predator. “Let me guess- you’re new to the shop, you aren’t trained for deliveries, and the manager had compelling reasons for why you should come instead of herself?”

“I-”

“We have an understanding, you see.” He trails a finger down the cloak hanging over your arm. “Retail is a hard business in Hell- no one wants to stick around, people are hard to train, they never last long anyway. Your manager has had to run several of my packages herself and the last one was, sadly, lost to the elements by her own fault.” He looks off into the distance, seemingly irritated at the memory. “What could have possessed her to attempt to cross a river with a priceless antique electronic is beyond me but here we are. I would have simply killed her but she has connections I can use to my advantage so we made a deal instead.” He looks back to you, head cocked to one side as he smiles. “An easy meal as compensation for her transgression. Delivered right to me.” His eyes darken, raking over your form, the curves of your body. “I hadn’t expected her to act so quickly but it’s been some time since I last had mutton.”

“I won’t taste good,” you tell him calmly despite the lingering fear from the chase, and an eyebrow raises in amusement. “When I was alive my mom always said I was rotten, I’m sure that doesn’t translate well to my demon form. And then you’ll have wasted your deal on bad meat.” You keep your voice steady while you address him.

“Oh?” He circles you and you can feel his gaze running over your body again. “I’m not so sure about that, dear- I’ve never found any complaints with meat of any kind. I’m sure you’ll be quite tasty.” He smiles when he comes around the front again, the sharp teeth glinting in the light that filters through the trees.

And fuck, the way he said that shouldn’t have been kind of hot. This was a serious situation, definitely not the time to be thinking vaguely inappropriate thoughts about the demon who was quite blatantly threatening to eat you. “Do you want to risk it?” You ask, and his smile turns curious. “I mean, I’d hate to have to tell you ‘I told you so’ but I would do it. The shop has new people like me coming in every week for training that you could have your pick of instead of taking the first thing to come along; what if you missed out on something really delicious?” 

Alastor watches you carefully. “I suppose you have a point, darling,” he concedes, his slim shoulders shrugging. “A meal that talks back so much would surely be a poor one. Though I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I won’t get a chance to sample you.” His voice seems to drop, a rolling purr in the strange radio cadence he has that makes your hair stand on end and your heart thump in your chest.

“Maybe I could let you have a taste?” The words leave your mouth before you can stop them, the air between the two of you suddenly charged with tension. “Just, you know. Show you what I mean, that I won’t be any good. Rotten and all that, like my mom says.”

“On the contrary, I think you’ll be very good.” He steps closer to you, towers over your frame with hooded eyes that track the movement of your throat as you swallow. “But I’ll behave myself since you’ve shown me the error of my ways- a mere sampling of your flavor, nothing more. I suppose there is more that I could get out of your manager if I don’t ‘cash in’ right away, as it were.” He brings a claw tipped hand to cup your face, tilting your head one way then the other. “We’ll start here,” he murmurs, and you close your eyes, wait for the brush of his lips against yours.

It doesn’t come- instead you feel him lick along the column of your neck, the muscle hot and wet where it drags against your skin, a shuddering exhale leaving you at the feeling. One hand comes up to rest on your waist, the other unclipping the clasp of the red cloak you wear and letting it fall to the ground. You shiver without it, not from the cold but from the sensations raging through your body at such a simple touch, and Alastor pulls back, licking his lips at the taste of you.

“My disappointment at agreeing to let you go is immeasurable,” he whispers, pupils blown when he meets your eyes. “It’s just as I suspected- delicious.” The hand that released the cloak winds itself into your hair, brushing against the base of your horns. “Would you indulge me in another taste?”

You nod, not trusting your voice to come out clearly, and he swipes along your neck again, allowing his teeth to press gently against your pulse point before he continues down, snaking the hot appendage between the valley of your breasts and holding you tighter to his body. There’s still adrenaline coursing through your body making each touch feel like an electric pulse to your core, and when he growls into your chest you let out a quiet moan that echoes in the quiet woods.

One hand still tangled in your hair, thumb gently brushing against your horns, he slips his free hand under the waistband of your skirt and into your panties, inhaling sharply at the wetness he finds. Claws absent, he slides a finger inside of you, the press of it slow and steady, making you rock your hips into his hand.

“Someone’s eager, hm?” He presses another digit into the slickness of your cunt, bends his fingers in a way that his you seeing stars as he thrusts them in and out of your heat. You let out a soft cry against him and cling to his shirt, up on your tiptoes to let his fingers reach wherever he wants.

“More,” you whimper, letting one of your hands reach up to his face, a move that surprises him. “Please, Alastor.”

He brings his face up from your skin and devours your mouth, his tongue showing just as much attention to your mouth as he had your neck, licking into it with fervor and enthusiasm you wouldn’t have expected from him. “Would you let me have you, darling? This is hardly an appropriate place, but-”

“Yes,” you tell him, not even letting him finish his sentence, and he gently lowers you to the ground to lay across the expanse of the red cloak. He makes short work of his trousers, shoving your skirt up around your waist and slicing your panties off with a quick swipe of his fingers before he fists his cock and slots himself against you. “Oh fuck-” He impales you with a hard thrust, sinking in to the base with a harsh grip on your hips.

“Lovely,” he groans into your ear, and then he seems to lose the capability for language, his words devolving into harsh grunts and growls as he fills you over and over, snapping his hips against yours in a quick rhythm that leaves you gasping and trying to pull him closer. 

A hand leaves your hips to tangle in your hair; you arch up, thinking that he means to kiss you again until his palm wraps around the length of one horn, using it like a handle to pull your head back, throat exposed to him while he rails into you. “Delicious little thing,” he says, and drags his tongue down the column of your throat again, sucking a pattern of bruises along it that you know you’ll spend the next week pressing into with your fingertips. His sharp teeth pinch a bit of skin lightly and you jerk in his hold.

It should have terrified you, instead dousing your body in a liquid flame. “J-Just tasting, remember,” you jokingly reprimand, and his laugh reverberates through your chest.

“How could I forget?” He lets go of your horn, slips the hand between your bodies as he leans back so he can watch you rocking with the force of his thrusts into you. His thumb swipes forcefully at your clit, the ecstasy near overwhelming as he loses some of his rhythm, your cunt clamping down on him. “It's quite selfish to deny me, darling, but I’ll take of you what I can- your pleasure, your body, all of it mine-”

Your eyes roll back in your head as the tension in your lower body snaps, dragging Alastor down with a hand in his hair to meet your lips, desperate and sloppy while you quake and shatter to pieces below him. He spends himself with a snarl in the tightness of your body, slick with your arousal and release as you cry out, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

He remains still for a moment, crouched over you, before he pulls back and rests you gently on the cloak. “This thing is hideous,” he says with distaste. “It made it quite easy to track you- which was the intention- but you must have been sweltering.”

You watch what you can see if the sky through the canopy of the trees. “She said it could get cold,” you laugh, “and I’m a fool. What a terrible job.”

“Not a fool,” he corrects, spreading the fabric out to lay on it beside you for a moment. “Nearly a victim of a deal that didn’t concern you- and perhaps I will still pay your manager a visit- but never a fool. You convinced me not to eat you for now, at least.”

You shoot him a smile. “Well, you weren’t that scary once you stopped chasing me,” you giggle, “besides those sharp teeth.”

His nose wrinkles with his amusement. “Keep teasing me, dear, and I’ll acquaint you with these sharp teeth for real.” He leans close enough to nip at your shoulder, the motion more teasing than painful. “There’s always tomorrow, after all- who knows what my appetite will be once I’ve dealt with that manager of yours? Mutton could still be on the menu.”

“Well,” you say, “if I’ll be out of a job soon so I might go apply at the coffee shop around the corner from our place. I heard their manager is a real ass- how would you feel about duck instead?” He laughs into your shoulder, the sound deep and clear, and you think maybe it wasn’t such a bad job after all if this was where it lead for now.

[haddonfieldwhore]

seasons - michael myers

michael myers x gn!reader

summary: living in the myers house throughout the year

note: this is something out of my comfort zone, but i was inspired by the incredible @visceravalentines and a work she did in a vignette style <3

warnings: smut, mentions of death & blood

word count: 1.6k

winter

the myers house is always cold. no radiator or wool blankets can fight off the draft that rushes in through the gap where the windows don’t close flush with the frame. the wind whistles past the glass that’s coated in a layer of frost; the front walk ices over and the garden fills with snow. the floors creak louder in the winter months. michael rarely eats, but when it gets really cold, you can get him to drink a cup of black coffee, your legs over his lap on the couch as you try to defend yourself from the cold air with a layer of blankets. he is always warm.

you yearn for a shred of his body heat on the nights he doesn’t come up to bed, finding yourself alone more often than not. on nights he does actually come upstairs to sleep, he swallows his pride and lets your snuggle into his chest. anything to stop the teeth chattering.

•

it’s by far the coldest night of the year. no amount of clothing or blankets can warm the chill that runs through you. it’s in your bones and it doesn’t want to let go. michael hears the squeak of the faucet on the claw foot tub upstairs from the kitchen as he searches for you. his footsteps echo up the stairs, and the bathroom door creaks open as you sink into the water. you look up at him expectantly, arms wrapped around yourself in the bath. he unzips his stained coveralls and steps out of his boots. once his clothes are gone, he walks over and sinks into tub behind you. the soapy water overflows the edge of the porcelain, spilling onto the tile floor, but you don’t care. you lean back into him, and look to the side to see him drop his mask on the floor stop his clothes. you don’t turn to look at his face, instead closing your eyes and tucking your face into the crook of his neck. he is warm. and for the first time in months, you are too.

spring

the porch of the once clean white house sinks about half in inch each april, when the rain seeps into the not yet green grass. the wood is rotten underneath. the left hand railing wobbles on its post if you put any weight on it. flowers no longer grow in the soil of the garden; there is too much death in the earth. water creeps through cracks in the dated foundation, pooling on the floor of the basement and staining the concrete.

his boots track mud into the house, the rug on the front step might as well be for decoration only. you’ve asked him to wipe his feet before coming inside, but he either forgets after listening the first time, or simply doesn’t care.

the wind blows the branches of the trees against the side of the bedroom window, casting claw like shadows across the pale yellowed wallpaper.

you sit up with a start as your heart pounds against your ribcage, likes its screaming to get out. your eyes adjust as the unsettling shadow creeps in through the night. it’s frightening, but it’s familiar.

besides, the man sleeping next to you is far more frightening than anything that dare try to snatch you in the night. you lay closer to him and let his deep snores drown out the rattling of the trees. your monster will keep the other monsters away.

•

the roof leaks in the kitchen. decades of water have faded the colour of the tiles where the floor dips and the water collects. sometimes you step in the puddle in the middle of the night, dampening your socks, when you stumble through the house in the dark to grab a glass of water. the fridge light is burnt out. you forget to change it for days.

spring is the season of new life, but instead the myers house is haunted by death. decay. the wallpaper peels. the ceiling leaks.

but it’s home.

summer

heat surrounds the old house, and all its inhabitants feel it. the pitcher of iced tea on the kitchen counter is sweating, a drop of condensation rolling down the side to gather around the base of it. two glasses sit next to the jug; one used. one untouched. despite the heat outside, there remains a permanent chill inside the house. it’s there year round. unrelenting.

haddonfield isn’t usually this hot, and the heat wave has you considering venturing into the cellar. michael spends a lot of his time down there, but you dare not follow him. as are all things with michael, the unspoken rule is that is his space. his alone. sometimes he is down there for days, his side of the bed empty when you go to sleep and the same when you wake up.

the window box air conditioner rattles against the cracked wood frame. a few mosquitoes lay bleached and lifeless atop it. the sheer curtains do little to block the sunlight from slipping through. tiny dust particles float through the air in the beams.

the sun sets late, and you’re nearly asleep on the couch as you’re finally able to breath the air around you, the house no longer suffocated by the summer heat. your eyes feel heavy, but you fight to stay awake as you hear heavy footsteps up the basement steps. the third step from the top creaks. he doesn’t sit with you. he just watches you from the kitchen doorway. you know he’s there. he knows you know.

•

his teeth sting against your sunburnt skin as he bites into your shoulder, his mask pulled up to expose his mouth. rarely do his lips meet yours. his teeth are far more familiar. you welcome them. he knows when you can’t take anymore, and relents, satisfied with the mess he’s made of you; disheveled beneath him. the room is silent now that the bedframe has finished thumping against the wall. you can faintly hear a frog croaking somewhere outside, likely under the porch in the overgrown grass. your legs like jelly, michael pulls you into his side by your arm. it’s the closest thing to affection he can show you. you wrap your arms around him and hope he doesn’t push you away. he doesn’t. it’s the closest to happy he’s felt in a long time.

fall

something changes in the air in haddonfield as soon as the first leaf falls. they know something awakens soon. something in him. people walk faster on the sidewalk in front of the house. they keep their heads down. they cross the street.

the house smells of pumpkin as you curl up in bed, a candle on your nightstand. the flame casts a soft glow throughout the room, the same orange as the leaves that flutter to the ground outside. the bed is empty next to you. you see him less in the fall, as he spends more time in the cellar.

you don’t know what he does down there. sometimes you wonder if he truly does nothing.

you don’t ask. he wouldn’t tell anyway. truthfully. you don’t care. if he is there, he is safe. the town is safe from him. you don’t have to worry.

•

you hear his name in whispers and in the wind all throughout the town. as october 31st approaches, people don’t stay out as late. there’s less people on the streets and in the stores. but they’ll still all be out on halloween. there is a line between the fear and the reward, and they dance along it.

it’s october 30th. you haven’t seen michael in 3 days. you hear his footsteps and the third from the top stair creaking when he comes up to get the food you’ve left out for him, so you know he is still here. for now he is still here.

you hear more footsteps that night, as he ascends the second flight of stairs and his heavy boots shuffle into the bedroom. the door hinges squeak, and you turn your head. the wind whips the tree branch against the window again. but he’s here. you’re safe.

michael kicks his boots off as the bed dips next to you and he lays down. something is different. his scarred hand reaches out for you, and you set your book down, blowing out the candle with a puff of air. before you know it he’s pulled you on top of him. he’s still in control,you’d be a fool to believe otherwise. he guides the rise and fall of your hips as his nails leave crescent shaped bruises in your flesh. you’ll cherish them until they fade.

he thrusts into you like it’s the last time, and you wonder silently if this might be a goodbye.

you fall asleep in his arms. he’s gone when you wake up.

•

he’s gone for four days, but to you it feels like four years. the marks he left on your body have faded; you wish they hadn’t, checking for them each time you get dressed. the only glimpse of him you see is on the news, and by the second day you wonder if he is dead. no one seems to know.

this year was worse than last year. more bodies - more blood. the house is colder without him, and it feels like it’s swallowing you like a sinkhole. you consider going to the cellar, though you know he isn’t there. the third step from the top creaks as your foot lands on it and you change your mind. you don’t consider it again.

he returns on the fifth day, bruised and covered in dark blood. your wonder how much, if any, of it is his. he washes it off before you can find out.

like nothing happened, he is next to you in bed again. like nothing happened, he lets you cling to his body, but he holds you a little tighter than usual. he missed you too.

you hum contently. you’re home. but it’s not the house. it’s him. and it always has been.

[author-morgan]

Title: Daylight Rating: M Pairing: Arthur x fem!Reader Summary: Arthur always knew you and he would make a fine match. ...hiding all of our sins from the daylight... I've now collected all(?) your husbands for my infinity gauntlets. a late merry christmas and an early valentines for you boo. @mrsragnarlodbrok.

“SORRY,” ARTHUR MUTTERS, “hands are rough.” He noticed how you pulled away from his calloused touch as he pressed the stained damp cloth against the bloody wound on the back of your shoulder—remnants of an arrow after Bedivere and the Mage helped him dig out the bodkin point. It’d likely been meant for him in the heat of the battle and he cursed himself seeing you fall nigh feet from him, pulled away to shelter by his kingsguard. Even with the power of Excalibur, he’d been unable to protect you—an age-old promise broken.

You lift your gaze from the charred stone floor, looking at your reflections in a fogged-over mirror on the opposite side of the room. Focus has his brows furrowed and lips pressed into a thin line. “You always say that,” you tell him, words slurred from the pain, exhaustion, and strongwine, and voice rougher than normal. This isn’t the first time Arthur Pendragon has tended your hurts and woes, and at this rate you doubt it’ll be the last.

Dried blood and sweat washed away, Arthur picks up the piece of tree bark with a salve prepared by the Mage to stave off the pain for a while and keep the wound from festering. Then, Arthur binds the wound with fresh linen and wipes his hands, kneeling in front of you—hands resting on your hips. You lay your hand on his cheek, thumb sweeping across his cheek, marred with dirt and soot. Leaning toward him, he meets you halfway, and you set your lips on his—a soft, fleeting kiss like the touch of butterfly wings.

“Thank you, Arthur,” you tell him, fingertips mindlessly combing through the scruff on his jaw. He straightens to full height but does so with a grimace. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?” You ask again.

“Just bruises,” he assures you, and this time, it seems like he’s being truthful, besides the few scratches on his hands and the slim, already scabbed-over, cut on his forehead. 

Arthur sits next to you on the edge of the bed, looking toward the open balcony. You both can hear the joyous shouts and chants. Bedivere and the others will only be able to satiate the men for so long. They will want to hear from the one who led them to victory. From the Born King. “They’ll be waiting for you to give a speech,” you tell him. 

“They’re waiting to go headfirst into the barrels of grog,” he amends, but if the out-of-tune songs are anything to go off of...  

“Sounds like they already have,” you laugh. Tonight, there will be revelries for the victory against Vortigern and his forces. In the following days, there’ll be feasts to honor the fallen and growing lists of preparations for a coronation. But right now, Arthur Pendragon doesn’t want to be a king just yet. Right now, he’s content just to be Arthur the street rat, especially when you lean your head against his shoulder and link your fingers through his—and then he’s certain there’s no one else in all of England for him except you.

“HIDING FROM ME? Or everyone else?” Your head quickly swivels to the side, only to relax at the sight of Arthur approaching. You cannot help but wonder how he isn’t cold. He's not dressed anywhere near as layered or warm as he should be for the winter evening, but somehow, he manages to look cozy even in just a scarlet linen-and-wool doublet. Stepping back, your eyes flit up to the scarlet-tinged leaves, still clinging to the branches of the white-bark birch, before looking beyond to the fresh falling snow. 

He stops at your side and looks up, too. “Was just thinking about what a bad influence you’ve been on my person,” you tell him, a small half-smirk creeping onto your features. Arthur tilts his head back in amused question, then stares up at the leaves and the silver sliver of the moon peeking through the winter clouds. “As I recall, I was an innocent girl before you came along and ruined all that.”

His blue eyes narrow, arms crossing over his chest. “You’ll have to refresh my memory on how I did that, darlin’.” He moves a little closer, and you sense his ploy, twisting and ducking when he moves to grab you. 

You face him with brows raised, smiling. “Such a brute,” you taunt, “grabbing at innocent girls in the castle courtyards at night. Is that any way for the King of England to behave?” 

Arthur only rolls his eyes, trying to smother another smirk, and this time, he catches your arm as you move around him. It takes little strength to move you how he wants—pressing you into the trunk of the great tree at the heart of the courtyard. His hands press against the smooth bark beside your head as he leans in enough to look down at you. The glint in his eyes is mirthful, but there’s something else shining in his gaze too—you’ve seen that look a dozen times now, and you’re almost afeared to think about what it can mean. “Maybe you have a point,” he drawls, wearing that crooked, boyish grin that makes your heart flutter.

Your laugh almost catches him off guard. His hand slips down to run gently along your waist, the other toys with the hair at the side of your head. You lean back into the tree more, relaxing as your hands find his waist to rest on. “My father sends his kind, innocent daughter to study in Londinium, and what does this strong, noble boy do?” Arthur raises his brow. “He shoves her against a wall in an alleyway because he has no reasonable way of expressing his feelings with words.” He was just a street rat orphan and you were the daughter of some fancy lord from far away—opposites in nigh every way but more alike than you ever could have imagined. “I was never the same after that.”

His head dips down into the crook of your neck, nose training across your throat and inhaling the scent of roses and lavender. “No,” he smiles, voice low—more of a muttering husk—lips twitching as he pulls back, glancing to your lips and up, “but you’re more fun now.” Your expression falls flat, and Arthur laughs. It’s nigh impossible not to grin or melt at the sound and how little it seems you’ve heard it of late—and by Merlin’s beard, he’s impossibly handsome with laugh lines crinkling the edges of his eyes and a lopsided smile. Leaning further into him, his breath dances across your cheek, the back of his fingers brushing along your neck. 

You exhale shakily, and Arthur teases you again with light presses of his lips along your jaw and neck—hands smoothing up and down your waist as he does. For a moment, your hands find their way to his chest before you remember how open the courtyard is and that anyone can happen upon the two of you like this. Glancing around, you breathe his name in a flustered whisper, hand pressing against his chest—the last thing a new king needs is rumors to turn into scandal. 

Arthur takes a step back, giving you both room, but then there’s a new glint in his eyes. The playful mirth disappears from his cornflower eyes, replaced by something more serious—kingly, even. It’s something he’s been thinking about for years. Maybe even since the two of you first met by happenstance in the streets of Londinium and struck up an odd friendship. But over the years, Arthur thinks he cannot just call you a friend, not anymore. What he feels runs deeper than that, and given his newfound title and responsibilities...“I’ve been thinking,” he starts.

“And does it pay well?” You quip in a poor attempt to lighten the now solemn mood.

He rolls his eyes, exasperated, unable to hide how his lips quirk upwards. “Would you let me finish?” And so you do, unsure what he must say or ask that warrants such a dramatic change in his usual demeanor. Arthur reaches for your hand, the rough pads of his fingers curling around and into your palm. He stoops forward, lips brushing against your knuckles—reverent. “I’d like you to stay,” he breathes, straightening back to full height. Your brows furrow. “Here,” he adds, “with me.”

You know what he is asking of you—marriage—and it should be an easy answer. Yes, of course. You’ve loved Arthur since before you knew what the word truly meant. But given the events of the last few months and the precipitousness of his proposal, you’re left speechless, heart beating in your throat until all you can do is run to the haven of your chambers with tears pricking your eyes.

A LOUD KNOCK on the great wooden door echoes in your bedchambers. You rouse from sleep, righting the oversized tunic hanging off one shoulder in an attempt to appear decent at the late hour. Part of you already knows who will be waiting on the other side, but when you crack open the door, it still surprises you to find him standing before you—wearing only a loose, nigh threadbare tunic and pair of dark britches. “Arthur,��� you greet, rubbing the sleep from your eyes before motioning for him to come in.

There’s still an uneasy air between you after the earlier events and conversation in the courtyard—his proposal. “I shouldn’t’ve….” he starts as you do. “I should not...” You both fall silent, eyes searching the other’s face for an indication of who will be the first to speak, the first to act, but there’s only silence. 

“Yes,” you quickly tell him—the shock of his initial proposal has faded, and now you’ve never been more certain about something in your life. You still can’t say what it is that caused you to react in such a way—Arthur’s the only man you’ve ever loved, the only person you could have ever thought of having a life with, even before all this Born King shite. The answer is ‘yes.’ It had always been. 

“Yes?” He repeats with furrowed brows, not sure he’s heard you correctly.  “I’ll stay” —you reach to comb your fingers through his close-shorn beard, and he leans into the touch— “with you.” Forever.

He smiles, and it’s as though a great weight has been lifted from his shoulders. Arthur cradles your face in his hands, thumbs running over your cheekbones. You smile for him, and he leans toward you, closing the distance. His lips are on yours in an instant.

You answer his kiss, slowly at first, then with more fervor when you settle your hands on either side of his neck, drawing yourself closer. Parting, you press your forehead against his and meet his heated stare. “Do you have any idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that?” Arthur asks, breathless.

Then he’s kissing you again and again—hands straying to your waist and backside, pulling you closer, tighter. And it fans the embers burning low in your belly to flames. Arthur breaks the kiss with an anguished groan—fighting a losing war with himself. He brushes back the hair falling in front of your face, the rough pad of his thumb running over your lips. “Tell me to stop,” he mutters—it’s almost a plea. And then he’s adrift in your soft and dark gaze, knowing if you do nothing to stop this, he’ll be acting on countless years of love and pent-up desire.

“No,” you breathe, catching his wrist and sliding his hand up from your neck—peppering his fingertips with gentle kisses. He watches you, lips parted and heart aching. Closing your eyes, you draw in a slow breath, and with a final kiss to his palm, you guide his hand to rest on one of your clothed breasts.

“Arthur.” You speak his name as though it is a quiet prayer. “I want you.” He pulls on the string at the neck of your nightshirt, loosening it until the gauzy material falls off your shoulders—puddling around your ankles, 

Though bare, you still hold his clear blue gaze. He goes silent as he draws in a sharp breath—eyes dart over the length of your body. His eyes darken, though, a mix of lust and adoration. “Think this is the longest you’ve been qui–” He cuts you off with a kiss, and one of his hands rises to cradle your cheek—the side of your neck again—and his lips coax yours open.

You sigh into his mouth, hands instinctively dipping under the hem of his roughspun tunic, fingertips trailing over the taut muscles of his abdomen and the scar on his ribs. Arthur breaks the kiss, quickly shrugging off his shirt, and lets the undyed piece of wool fall to the floor.  

Then, suddenly, he lifts you off your feet effortlessly. You hastily grip his shoulders for balance until he lays you on the bed—standing back to take off his trousers, and you watch him with a weird mixture of hunger and wistfulness as he strips. Arthur kicks aside his discarded clothes, then crawls onto the bed, making room for himself between your thighs—his clear and cold gaze burning with the warmth of the Sun and never once straying from yours.

You gaze tensely at his face as he studies you. His expression is greedy and appreciative, and the firelight glowing in his eyes just makes him look all the more ardent, and the longer he stares at you without doing anything, the more restless you are for him to act. You want his touch, his cock, his lips on yours, and all he’s giving you is this appreciative greedy stare, and it’s not enough.

Arthur kisses you again, and then he leans away from your lips and kisses the angle of your jaw. His mouth travels to the side of your neck, and your pulse flutters in your throat. His lips are surprisingly soft, and as his mouth trails from your neck to your collarbone, the delicacy of his kisses makes you feel lightheaded —a mix of pleasure and disbelief. 

He nuzzles your collarbone, then places a kiss just above the swell of your breast, and you arch helplessly toward his mouth. The heat of his breath wafting over your breast, making your nipples go taut with anticipation, and when the scruff of Arthur’s beard brushes over your nipple, you jolt and make a helpless little mewling sound. You twine your fingers into his golden hair, trying to hold him in place against you. But Arthur shoots you a quick smile, then shuffles lower on the bed still and kisses your breast —and you twist your hips, hands slipping from his hair to his shoulders.  

A sob leaves your throat—not a crying kind of sob, but an instinctive noise tore from your throat without your permission. He lifts his mouth from your breast and smiles at you, and you stare stupidly at his handsome face—the spark in his clear eyes and the boyish smirk twisting his lips.

Arthur palms your breast and squeezes gently. He shuffles lower still on the bed and places a sweet, open-mouthed kiss on your navel, and your sense of surreal disbelief ratchets to a nearly unbearable degree. His mouth drifts lower now, the scruff of his beard tickling your belly as he presses his lips to the skin below your navel and eases your thighs further apart.

Arthur places a kiss between your legs, and your mind goes blank with pleasure. 

“You alright, darlin’?” He smirks. You stare at him, too stunned by pleasure to find a clever response. Instead, riled by the teasing sparkle in his face, you spread your knees wide. His gaze drops between your legs, and his expression darkens with interest as he places his hands on your knees—stroking up to your thighs. He places another firm, wet kiss between your legs, and a helpless moan leaves your lips, and he hums with approval, a smug, half-growly little hum.  

You gasp in a breath, realizing you haven’t been breathing at all. Arthur lifts his head to look you in the eye. “Relax, love,” he croons, smoothing his palm over your belly as he laps at your cunt with slow hot sweeping strokes of his tongue. It’s not long before a finger presses into you, working you slowly open.

Your hips jerk softly along with his movements, and there’s unspoken interest in his gaze as he stares down at you, relentless in his efforts to see you come undone. His tongue and lips are at your clit, fingers stroking and curling deep within you. You jolt, and then he moves slower, dragging over the sensitive spots he’s discovered inside you and leaving your nerves tingling with every touch.

Pleasure washes over you in waves, making your calves twitch, your fingertips feel numb, and that high-pitched mewling noise leaves your throat. Overwhelmed—enraptured—you buck your hips toward his face and clench your fingers convulsively in his hair, and he keeps licking and kissing you until you can’t take it anymore. You pull on his hair to stop him, and he finally pulls away, lips glistening in the moonlight and fading glow of the firelight. “Enough,” you groan. “Need you.” It’s nigh a broken plea.

You shudder as he moves, situating himself between your thighs, calloused fingers dipping into your cunt to gather your slick and spread on his hard cock as he strokes himself. “Arthur, please,” you whimper, impatient, and he won’t keep you waiting.

He slides his cock through your folds before his angle changes just slightly, and on the next pass, your breath stutters as his cockhead presses just inside you—barely splitting you open. Arthur’s hand grabs your hip and angles you up just a bit so he can slide deeper inside you, and you cling onto his biceps—feeling his scars press into your palms and admiring the way his muscles flex under your touch. 

Arthur hisses through his teeth when he fully seats himself inside your warmth, then releases his breath slowly and smiles at you. “You’re lovely,” he murmurs, twining his fingers through yours, pressing the back of your hands into the mattress. From the moment Arthur first saw you in the Londinium streets, he knew your fates were intertwined—just as your bodies and hands were now. He trembles at this personal heaven, then draws his hips back, starting to move.

You laugh breathlessly, mindlessly. “Charmer,” you pant, hooking your legs around his waist. You roll into his thrusts, pulling him deeper. His ragged breaths and grunts mingle with your sighs of pleasure—panting scarcely keeping up with your racing heart. 

He huffs in amusement. “Can’t say that’s something I get called often,” Arthur says as he pumps his hips slowly, teasing you and pleasing you almost more than you can bear. Then he lowers his lips to yours in a kiss—there’s something sweet on his tongue, like honey wine. 

His whole body begins moving, surging, and writhing against yours. One of his hands releases yours and caresses your cheek before he slides it down your body. Without thought, your body arches into his hand as it moves, ripening under his touch—thoughts clouded by lust and love. His fingers find your clit at the same time his mouth latches to your neck.

Another guttural cry bursts from your lips. He’s pounding into you now, and he’s still holding your hand while his other grips your hip. Your breathing is loud, and so is his, and his hand is tightening on your fingers. He drags in a breath, then expels it in a strained groan.

He shudders, then pounds into you hard, twice, thrice, and then he pauses with his cock deep inside of you. His jaw clenches, and his grip on your hip is so tight that it’s almost painful, but you like it—just as much as you like the guttural sound he makes as he shudders in completion. A few long seconds later, he gasps in a breath, then sighs and releases your hand. “Fuck,” he groans, holding his weight above you on shaking arms. 

You beckon him to lie atop you, his golden head pillowed on your breasts as his breathing steadies, sighing when you kiss his hair and whisper a quiet, I love you, for him to relish. He stays sheathed inside your warmth, unwilling to part just yet. “I love you,” he murmurs in turn, never tiring of how you smile when he says the words. Sighing, he rolls to the side, and you whine at the loss of him and the empty feeling between your thighs.

He lays on his side, and you pillow your head on his outstretched arm, nuzzling close against his chest and threading one of your legs through his. Arthur presses his cheek to the crown of your head and strokes your hair as the first dregs of daylight break over the horizon, shining upon England, Camelot, and his future wife and queen.

[Forever taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @rigshak ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my forever taglist, or any other character/fandom taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[walidgoldpreppy]

Anthony gets a dark Golden tie

Sitting in the back of the cab, Anthony feels a slight nervousness rising inside him. As the vehicle speeds through the city, he decides to take a look at his work dress code, one more time, to make sure everything is in order. As he scrolls through the document on his phone, his heart sinks.

The code is much stricter than he remembered:

“Matching two or three-piece suit, never mismatched.” Tie tied perfectly, shoes polished to a perfect shine. Hair must be neatly styled with gel. Belt or suspenders required to complete the ensemble.”

Anthony freezes. He does have a tie around his neck, his shirt is neatly pressed, and his shoes are polished. But he is only wearing black pants without a jacket! The look of a man in full compliance with these increasingly strict rules comes back to him, and he knows that he cannot present himself like that. The simple fact of deviating from this code makes him uncomfortable. He begins to sweat slightly under his shirt collar.

“Excuse me, could you stop me in front of the Brooks Brothers store, right there?” he says to the driver, spotting a familiar sign through the window.

A few minutes later, Anthony finds himself in this prestigious store. The scent of leather and fine fabrics fills the air as racks of impeccable suits line up before him. The interior of the store is luxurious, lit by soft, soothing lights. He immediately heads to the suit section, his heart racing.

Salesman approaches him. He is tall, slim, himself dressed in a crisp three-piece suit, a gray wool vest under a perfectly tailored jacket and a beautiful Dark Gold tie. His smile is professional and polite.

“Hello sir, may I help you?” he asks, his voice calm and assured.

Anthony quickly explains his situation, the urgent need for a formal suit to conform to his work dress code. The salesman nods, understanding, and leads him to a rack where charcoal pinstriped suits are hanging.

“This one is made of Italian wool, lightweight but structured, perfect for a day at the office.” I also recommend adding a belt that matches your shoes.”

Anthony nods, his mind clouded by urgency. The salesman escorts him to the fitting rooms, where he quickly puts on the suit. The fabric slides easily over his shoulders, perfectly adjusted, as if it had been tailor-made. Looking at his reflection in the mirror, he feels a strange satisfaction growing inside him. The charcoal suit, with its fine vertical stripes, gives him a more imposing, stricter, almost intimidating look.

The salesman returns with a brown Brooks Brothers leather belt, then asks him what metal he wants for the buckle. Anthony doesn’t hesitate: “Gold, of course.” It seems obvious to him, almost natural. Gold, the color he increasingly associates with perfection and obedience. He also chooses a brown leather watch with a Gold strap.

As he takes one last look in the mirror, Anthony feels an unexpected sense of pride. The suit is cut impeccably, the tie is neatly tied, the belt is smooth and shiny. Everything is in its place. He briefly thinks about the money he had saved up for a PS5, but that is no longer important. This new style, these new rules, that is all that matters.

Proud of his new outfit, he leaves the store, confident. The taxi drops him off at the office just in time, and as he crosses the entrance, he immediately notices the looks turning towards him. Unlike the day before, he does not feel embarrassed by these stares. He walks with a sure step, his back straight, his leather shoes making a slight, regular clicking sound against the shiny floor.

“Wow, Anthony, you look even classier today!” a colleague says as he passes him.

“Do you have anything special planned? You look like you just came from a board meeting!” " jokes another, an amused smile on his lips.

Anthony smiles, almost satisfied with these remarks. He settles for a slight nod and subtly adjusts the knot of his tie, checking once again that it is perfectly centered. He feels good in this suit, as if he embodies a more serious and disciplined version of himself. Every detail of his outfit seems to resonate with this new mentality he has adopted, this desire to follow the rules to the letter.

Throughout the day, he receives compliments and glances. Even his boss notices him when he passes by his desk.

"Nice suit, Anthony. I like to see that you take our dress code seriously," he says approvingly.

Anthony feels his heart leap with pride. This simple comment reinforces his idea that he is on the right track. As the day goes on, he feels more comfortable in this skin. He continues to check his reflection whenever he gets the chance, adjusting his jacket, checking his gelled hair and the shine on his shoes.

(End of Part 5)

Part 4

[bonesandchalamet]

a golf outing - h.styles

masterlist

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

warnings: my former apology for not knowing too much about golf but enough to write this!

he’s four strokes up on the back nine, and he’s grumbling. it’s no fun to play with him, he takes it too seriously and it doesn’t help that a crowd has grown around the course.

“the winds fine, love, just putt already.” it’s your turn to grumble, taking a seat in the golf cart. he’s spent the past three minutes adjusting his grip on the club and waiting for the so called wind to die down.

he mumbles some words you can’t hear. the sounds of the giggles from fans gathering around were growing louder. you know he’ll blame them, the wind, or you for his lack of skill this afternoon.

you’d dressed a little too skimpy for the cold weather. in your white golf skirt and tightly knit wool woven pink sweater, it’s all his mind can think about. fuck the ball he’s been trying to tap into the hole, he’s too preoccupied.

finally getting it in, the crowd around you erupts in a cheer. he just gives his fans a little wave before picking up the ball and returning to the golf cart where you’re sat, “you’re the worst to play with.” you scoff moving to the passenger seat, allowing him to drive.

you’d been golfing since you were a little girl, you’d known how to play a good round on some of the worst and best courses. harry was still an amateur, despite his many rounds he gets in during tour, you wouldn’t ever invite him to Augusta with your father.

“one day I’ll get that invite.” he looks over at you before stopping at the next hole, you just laugh. your dads competitiveness would scare the singer off, and Harry’s hyper fixation with checking the wind would send the whole trip down the drain.

“focus on this next hole, would you? you’ll need a different club. knowing you, you’ll end up in the sand.” you toss him the club he’ll need before he scopes out the next hole. it’s different than the last, it’ll take an average of five strokes, but at Harry’s rate it’ll take him at an average ten.

“you go first, my lady.” he moves out of your way. you bend over placing your ball on the green before adjusting for the swing.

he’s watching you, green eyes glued to your stance, the way your hands grip the club, eyes close and shut before you lift the golf club up and swing at the ball. a perfect shot.

his mouth opens slightly, fans run towards the flag where you indeed just hit a hole in one. girls scream and cheer you on, while harry stands star struck.

you turn around to face with a big grin. he sighs, setting his ball on the green where you stand, “I’m never getting that invite to Augusta.” he turns to you, lips quickly pecking your cheek in congratulations.

“you’re cute to think you’d ever be invited in the first place.”

[wri0thesley]

protection - lucas (yandere oc) x reader (5.3k)

halloween has always been your favourite holiday. with your captor, though . . . perhaps not so much.

a/n: if i cannot be self-indulgent and write a fic about my cannibal murderer yandere oc for halloween when he is such a horror pastiche of a man, when can i? if you would like a primer on lucas, reading this is probably the best thing to do!

cw: yandere, cannibalism, kidnapped reader, descriptions of gore, non-explicit mentions of past dub-con/non-con.

Lucas has one of those perpetual calendars upon his mantelpiece.

You’ve never had much cause to look at it before. It’s another of those mix-and-match décor pieces that are so prevalent in the cabin; a boring block of wood and blocky white font that you suppose someone might describe as ‘minimalist’. It’s certainly not something you’d choose for yourself – and from what you’ve seen of Lucas’s own choices, his clothing, the items he gravitates towards in his little slice of home, it’s not something he’d have chosen either. Had it not, perhaps, been chosen by someone else.

You ignore the way your gorge rises when you consider that it’s one more piece of somebody who must be long dead by now. Lucas’s cabin is full of those reminders; embroidered tablecloths (your own hands are not so steady), handmade blankets (the wool used makes you itchy), clothes in the wardrobe three sizes too small and two sizes too big. A bookshelf of tattered paperbacks; crime novels and romance novels and horror novels, an eclectic mix you can’t imagine belonging to the same person.

That’s not important.

What is important is the morning after breakfast, when Lucas and you have gone out to collect eggs already and he’s held onto your waist while you carefully fried them along with the something-that-might-be-bacon that you’re growing more and more accustomed to cooking.

(It doesn’t even make you throw up any more).

He’s casual as he walks over to it; you’ve never really paid much attention to it before. It’s simply one of those rituals that he does; he likes the domesticity of a daily routine, and though you’ve always been rather more spontaneous . . . You’re hardly in a position to argue about it.

He moves the cube around and you glance vaguely towards it and you see the month and date, clear and bright as if illuminated by a shaft of sunlight.

The thirtieth of October.

You stop breathing, just for a moment. It’s been three months, then – time had lost meaning for you somewhat, after you’d realised you had no choice but to play along if you wanted to keep yourself away from the sharp end of an axe. But . . . three months. Three months of smiling nicely and forcing your mouth around the name ‘darling’ and letting his weapon-calloused hands curl about your waist, slide over bare skin. Three months of making yourself smile, of showering with a stranger in the bathroom (three months and he is still a stranger, though you suppose you know him intimately; three months, though, and you still do not know his surname), of sleeping beside him at night--

“I love Halloween.”

You don’t realise you’ve said it until it comes out of your mouth like the dry squeak of a frightened mouse.

Lucas looks up in surprise. You don’t often volunteer information readily; you answer his questions, but otherwise you’re a quiet obedient little home-maker for him, the way you think he likes you. That’s not to say you think he’d mind, but . . . you still keep some of yourself held close to your chest. You share hearth and home and body with Lucas; you think you’ve earnt the right to not have to share everything.

“S’that so?” He rumbles, after a moment. He doesn’t smile, the way he does when you tell him that you like the present he’s brought you back from town or when you let slip once that the western film he’d been watching on VHS reminded you of your childhood. “I’ve never been all too fond of it myself.”

His green gaze stays steady on you. He lets the moment stretch, waiting for your answer. You are walking a tightrope, as always; there is a right answer, you think, and a wrong answer. Which one are you supposed to pick? You’ve seen Lucas angry – that smouldering, teeth-grit explosion when he’d caught you, early on, trying to open a window.

(You’d sobbed and promised, sworn on everything you loved, that you just wanted some fresh air – that the August air was stuffy and pressing. Enough tears, and Lucas had repented, finally, drawn back his blistering anger. Calloused thumb wiping your tears away and a gruff apology, followed by; “Aww, darlin’, don’t cry like that. C’mon now.”

Followed by kissing your eyelids. Followed by the press of his body upon yours. Followed by hands on your hips, thumbs digging into your thighs to part them. Followed by him murmuring for you to cry for a different reason.

He likes the tears. It’s a good lesson to learn so early on in your life with him).

You shrug helplessly.

“I like the atmosphere?” You give him, your voice quavering at the end. “All of those kids in cute costumes, jack-o’-lanterns, cuddling up warm and cosy on the couch with a scary film on--”

His shoulders relax minutely, and he lets out a breathy chuckle.

“Yeah,” he says to you. “I s’pose those things ain’t so bad. I’m not a scary movie guy – there’re enough things to be frightened of out there in the real world, y’know?” He walks towards you, joins you on the couch. His arm wraps around your shoulder and you let yourself be drawn into his embrace, because you risk upsetting the balance again if you shy away. With a sigh of pleasure, he drops a kiss onto the top of your head. “Gets real busy up here around this time. Trespassers. I prob’ly won’t even be around mosta the night; gotta patrol the area. Think we can rustle you up a pumpkin and a coupla’ videos though, huh?”

You swallow. You know what he means by ‘patrol the area’ – you think of teenagers in local towns, daring each other to spend the night in the woods. You think about twenty-somethings with their tents and their camping and coolers full of beer, telling spooky stories about huge cannibals who live in the woods--

You think of Lucas’s weapons, the axe shining bright mounted on the wall, and the sound it had made as it had thwacked into the ground beside your head as Lucas had realised you were trembling and whimpering and sobbing and merely lost, not some ne’er-do-well out here for any other reason.

How much fuller will his freezer be, come the first of November?

He’s true to his word, as he so often is. Despite everything, he looks at you hopefully when he presents to you the things he brings back from his little foray into town; his head cocked, an echo of the earnest young man he might once have been beneath the scars and the greying.

He presents to you: one large pumpkin, three VHS tapes of movies you haven’t heard of that look like schlocky 90s B-movies, a multi-pack of sweet treats obviously intended to be poured into a bowl for trick or treaters, and a bean-filled plush of a fat black cat.

“I thought we could carve the pumpkin together,” he says, which you think is just an excuse not to leave you unsupervised with sharp implements. He trusts you to cook, now – but he still likes to be in the room, even if he’s not guiding your hand with his fingers entwined around your own over the knife.

“That would be nice,” you cautiously reply, and he smiles at you all soft and gooey-eyed. Your spine still feels like a rod has been shoved in it; being around Lucas can so often seem like a balancing act, and normally he does not come back from town in anything resembling a good mood. But giving you presents and the pleasure that had sparked in your eyes and the truth tinging your thanks have clearly set him well for the evening; he’s whistling as he rattles around in the kitchen to find the implements.

“C’mon here then, angel,” he calls, and you tuck the fat little black cat into the corner of the couch - it will be nice, you suppose, to have something to hold when you are alone later. You doubt the movies will provide much in the way of stone-cold terror, but the knowledge that Lucas is out there stalking the night and it would not take all that much for him to turn his rage on you certainly does.

It will be nice, too, to have something to hold that is yours and is not haunted by the echo of ghosts of Lucas’s past. Once, you had been uncomfortable in bed, rolling and writhing and whimpering through a nightmare – and Lucas had gently shaken you awake and placed a bear into your arms you had never seen before.

You might not have ever seen the bear before, but it had clearly once been loved; visible stitches re-attaching an ear, the velvet flocking rubbed off on its nose, the fur compacted from many nights of cuddling.

You try not to think about someone else, after you, having the little cat placed delicately in their arms.

When you enter the kitchen, you see that Lucas has spread newspaper out all over the floor, placing the pumpkin carefully in the middle with an array of carving implements and pens laid out for you. There’s a waiting candle and a box of matches on the table, waiting for the final touch.

The newspapers are all nearly twenty years old. The matches have packaging you’ve never seen before, the kind of retro artwork you’d see hipsters hang ironically on their apartment walls.

You crouch to get onto the paper he’s laid out, but Lucas clicks his tongue in annoyance at you.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he says, and he pats his knee where he’s knelt with them spread apart. “Come sit between my legs and let’s do it together.”

It takes you a moment to gather the courage to do it – touching him voluntarily is always harder than when he makes the first move – but you see that shimmer of frustration in the air, the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, and you clumsily climb over to situate yourself between them. You feel him let out a satisfied exhale as one of his arms wraps around your waist possessively.

“There,” he murmurs, directly into your ear. “Ain’t that better? More . . . cosy?”

You can feel every hair on the back of your neck, the thrum of your heartbeat, as Lucas’s hand fastens over yours and works at removing the top of the pumpkin. His chest is solid behind you, a barrel of muscle and scar – and when he shifts, and his crotch in his fatigues snugly presses against the curve of your spine, it takes all of your grace not to whimper at the feel of him hot and wanting.

Domesticity always seems to stoke something in him – and you suppose this would, under other circumstances, be a perfectly lovely Halloween evening. If Lucas were somebody you loved, and not a madman who kidnapped you from the middle of the woods. If that were so, Lucas’s breath against your ear wouldn’t make your head pound – his calloused fingers over yours wouldn’t make you wonder how he got all of those scars. The sight of a sharp instrument in his hand wouldn’t make you wonder how many have met their maker at Lucas’s behest.

There is none of the joy you would normally find in this activity, doing it with Lucas’s arm around you and his body bearing down over yours. There’s instead, the knowledge that he could break your bones if he wanted to – and a desire beating at your ribcage to get this over with as quickly as possible without alerting him to how much you hate it. Lucas hums softly under his breath as he helps you scoop out the insides of the pumpkin--

You feel your gorge rise at the sight of his hands scooping out the insides alongside your own, at the sensation of the stringy sticky pulp and seeds as they coat your fingers. The viscera of the pumpkin, laid out on the newspaper, as if some grisly crime has occurred right here in Lucas’s cosy cabin kitchen.

(He doesn’t like a mess inside the house. You know about the storeroom that you’re not allowed in, having peeked in it once when he’d left the door ajar to go and pick some meat up for breakfast whilst you stood in the kitchen with the chickens pecking around your feet. When he’d come out and seen you there, you’d stammered something about Dolly the silkie having wandered off – and though there’d been mistrust in his gaze, you’d kept your eyes wide and hidden trembling hands behind your back and eventually he seemed to have believed you).

The flash of a sharp knife in his hand makes you start against your will, your back pressing against him, your rear pushing into him. He lets out a noise that’s half a strangled huff and half a breathy chuckle.

“What’re you scared of, angel?” He murmurs, and you are stiff and frozen as he gently, gently, presses the flat of the blade against the palm of your other hand. “I won’t ever hurt you. Not less you give me a reason to. And you aren’t gonna, are you?” You’re glad he can’t see the deer-in-headlights look on your face, even as you give him a jerky shake of your head, and to your immense relief returns the knife to carving. “Good. Hurts my feelings thinkin’ you’re afraid of me.”

You don’t know how to respond to that.

“I—I’m not?” You guess, stammering it out, trying to weigh out all of the options in your mind. If he was threatening you – one of those late night murmurs of “I’d break you into pieces if you ever tried to leave me, darlin’,” - then perhaps you wouldn’t have said it. But right now, he is pretending the two of you are a perfectly ordinary couple doing a perfectly ordinary thing, and so--

He laughs again, good-naturedly pressing a kiss to the top of your head. The pumpkin has taken shape now; a classic jack-o’-lantern face, jagged triangular eyes and teeth.

“You’re so cute,” he says into your hair. “Here. Look at that. Ain’t that adorable?”

Shakily, you nod. It’s not your best work – in your own kitchen, at home, you’d mastered the art of silhouetting elaborate scenes in your pumpkins. You’d used your favourite horror stills as inspiration (you force yourself not to think of last year’s pumpkin, of spending so much time carefully carving that iconic scene from the Texas Chainsaw Massacre into the orange flesh, Leatherface holding his chainsaw aloft – it’s better not to dwell too much on fictional monsters when there’s a very real one sitting behind you, holding you close, pressing a kiss to your cheek and resting his chin on your shoulder as he admires your handiwork).

This pumpkin is a little lop-sided; one eye bigger than the other, the cuts jagged and messy. But Lucas is smiling at it, and you force yourself to smile too.

“Where shall we put it?” He asks you, as he pulls himself up and offers you a hand to help you too. He’s a little too rough with it; pulling you against him with a throaty chuckle as you stumble, off-balance. Little reminders of your own fragility, your clumsiness and all of the things you struggle with always seem to put him in a good mood. “Windowsill?”

You swallow.

“C-can we put it outside?” You whisper, softly. “I know we won’t get any trick-or-treaters, or anything, but . . .”

You trail off; he’s looking at you again, the green in his gaze impossible to understand. He might be thinking about exploding into anger, he might be thinking about kissing you – but as you feel your knees threaten to knock together, he smiles instead.

It’s another smile that, on someone else, you would read as utter infatuation. Love, in all of its gooey, saccharine sweetness. On Lucas, though--

“Of course, darlin’,” he says. “Come put it out with me.”

You reach for the box of matches, but Lucas’s palm comes down over your hand before you can get a hold on them.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” he says, as he picks it up himself, and strikes a match against the striker strip. You flinch at the sudden light, and Lucas makes a soft noise of satisfaction. “You'daa just hurt yourself. Leave this kinda thing to me, sweetheart.”

He lights the candle and places it in the lantern himself, before he turns to you and gives you an indulgent smile again.

“D’you think you can carry it?” He asks you, voice soaked in honey. “Don’t drop it, now.”

You nod shyly as you take it, hating yourself for playing along with him. If he wants a sweet, naive little thing who can barely take care of themselves and needs the big strong hunter in the woods to do it for them . . . well, you suppose your dignity isn’t so bad a price to pay for staying alive.

You are allowed out of the cabin, supervised. You’d earnt that right by being sweet and soft and obedient, by doing what Lucas asks and doing it the way he likes. You go out to collect eggs in the morning and you’re allowed to help him in the garden, planting vegetables and tending to those he already has. But still, every time you open the front door it feels like a treat – a thrill running through you at the reminder that there is a world beyond the four walls of home that have become your prison.

Lucas takes in a hissing sigh through clenched teeth as he opens the door.

“It’s getting’ later than I thought,” he says, to himself more than you. “I’m gonna have to get goin’ soon, sweetheart.”

You nod, and carefully place the pumpkin by the front door, where the candle inside flickers and wavers in the light breeze. You find yourself wishing that it would somehow escape its own cell of pumpkin flesh and set the cabin afire – wondering if it would really be so bad, to perish like that.

(How many more Halloweens will you spend with Lucas? Is it worse if the number is small or large?)

“Do you have to go?” You ask him, voice tremulous.

You don’t know if you want him to go. You don’t want to be with him; he terrifies you, leaves you feeling rattled and confused and conquered all at once, his presence looming over everything you do. But at the same time – you can’t in good conscience want him to go out there, to cut down Halloween revellers who merely thought the woods would be a good place for a spooky experience. Are you far enough away from wherever he might go that you won’t hear the screams?

You wouldn’t be able to pretend even if you don’t hear them. You’ll meet them later on, at the end of your fork.

“Awww darlin’,” Lucas simpers at you, grasping your chin in a hold like iron. “Don’t worry your pretty head about it, I told you. I ain’t gonna let a single thing near this cabin; you ain’t gonna be in a jot of danger. I promise.”

Your face must betray your anxiety, because Lucas tugs almost painfully on it.

“Don’t you trust me, angel?”

Sickly sweet and bladed like ice, you mutely twitch your head in a meek nod.

“Of course I do . . .” You whisper, and Lucas smiles in satisfaction.

“Stay here at the door for a bit while I get ready, okay? Fresh air’ll make you feel better.”

Unspoken goes the ‘don’t you dare try and run’. You can’t see yourself doing it tonight of all nights, either – though Lucas has been sweet throughout the pumpkin carving, you can already see that as he considers the blanket of night out beyond the cabin he is shifting into a predator. So you stand there, breathing in deep, slow, controlled breaths. Trying to think about how pretty the stars are and the candy that Lucas has brought you to eat in front of his crackling old television. Trying not to hear the thud of Lucas’s boots and the sound of him getting down the axe from the wall, the swish of the displacement of air as he gives it a few practise swings.

“There we go,” Lucas says, as he comes back. His axe is slung over one shoulder, and he’s smiling at you. He hasn’t made a single allowance for the cold; he wears the same shirt in a shade of forest green, straining tight over his shoulders and biceps. The silvery skin of his scars shine in the moonlight. “Don’t stay up for me, okay? Get yourself to bed. I’ll try not to wake you up.”

(Will you wake up, hearing him drag a corpse into the store-room? It doesn’t matter – you know you won’t get much sleep tonight).

He stands there in front of you for a long moment. Anxiety sends a bead of sweat rolling down the nape of your neck. He’s waiting for something – he wants something, and you don’t know what it is, and he’s going to be angry at you for being a bad beloved and he’s going to lodge that axe in your skull--

“Don’t I get a kiss goodbye?”

His tone is teasing, but laced with simmering anger. Grateful he has thrown you a lifeline, you practically trip over your tongue as you reply in the affirmative.

One slow, lingering kiss – possessive. You’re shivering as he pulls away, and he smiles as he wipes his thumb over the corner of your mouth with something that might be fondness and might be triumph, like a hunter who has his prey cornered.

“See you later,” he says. “Don’t scare yourself silly, now.”

You stand at the door-frame, waiting for Lucas’s hulking figure to disappear into the darkness of the trees. His axe is swung over his broad shoulders. The jack-o’-lantern beside you flickers and gutters in the breeze, your only companion out here. Lucas turns and waves one hand at you, and then makes a very firm ‘shoo’ gesture that you interpret to mean ‘that’s enough, now. Get back in the house before I make you’.

You close the door behind you and turn the key as he disappears fully from your view. You’ve always felt awkward being alone in the cabin – about three weeks after your arrival here, he had given you heavy warnings and set out to the nearest town for the kind of supplies he couldn’t make himself – but tonight, it feels all the worse.

You jump at shadows and feel like you hear screams with every footstep, your brain already playing out thoughts of Lucas in the woods surrounded by corpses, bloodied and grinning and feral-bright. You have to try twice to get the video into the player, and your hands are trembling as you attempt to open a packet of M&Ms and spill them all over the sofa. You pull the curtains closed for full immersion and almost give yourself a heart attack when you see light flickering outside, until you remember the jack-o’-lantern.

Eventually, though, you do relax into the movie.

It helps that it’s a movie about a werewolf stalking a suburban town; you don’t know if your nerves would hold out if Lucas had brought you some kind of killer in the woods movie. Even he, though, seems to have realised that – a quick glance at the other movies show you that one is about giant bugs attacking and the other is set in a hospital.

It’s not a good movie. In a different lifetime, you’d watch this with friends and laugh and joke over the cheesy special effects and the over-acting. On your own, though, you at least feel somewhat comforted by the familiarity of the horror recipe. The coquettish blonde in the hot pink outfit will die first; the outcast girl in her too-big denim jacket will survive to the denouement and will perhaps kill the werewolf herself.

There’s a sound from outside.

You’re half-asleep in front of the sagging middle act of the movie, but the crunch of leaves under feet has you bolt upright. Lucas can’t be home already, can he?

Time stands still. There’s a muffled giggle, and then a low voice murmuring something. You slowly, slowly, pull yourself up from the couch. You’re grateful to have pulled the curtains closed. At least they can’t tell you’re in here.

A hundred scenarios run through your head, none of them ending well. You think of every home invasion movie in a holiday home in the middle of nowhere you’ve ever seen. You could laugh at the absurdity of dying like that, when you’re literally the prisoner of some cannibal psychopath already . . . all of that, and some other horror trope catches up with you instead?

Three knocks on the door, and a voice jokingly calls;

“Trick or Treat!”

Oh, saying all of that stuff to Lucas about trick or treating was so stupid. Wanting a pumpkin out there so you could pretend to have one little bit of normalcy left in your life.

A rumble of conversation floats through the walls; something about a dead phone battery, needing to find somewhere with a landline, a map that didn’t seem to have any of the landmarks they’d seen marked on it.

(You can sympathise with that; the map you’d been using, once upon a time, hadn’t made a single lick of sense after you’d gotten into the heart of the woods, like some nature spirit was messing with you).

But that could just be a way to make your defenses fall, you think. You’ve seen that in movies time and time again – I need the bathroom, I need to use your phone, I’m sorry I fell over and I’m injured can I rest here--

One of them has the nerve to try the door; the key jingles traitorously in the lock.

You’re shaking as you approach. You can hear conversation now; a male voice and a female voice, arguing. They sound about your age.

“There’s a fucking jack-o’-lantern burning, and there’s a key in the front door, of course someone’s in--”

“Look, this is some horror movie bullshit, I don’t like it--”

“Do you think anyone keeping fuckin’ . . . those fluffy-ass chickens is gonna be a murderer? C’mon. It’s probably some old couple with their hearing going. I’m gonna knock again--”

Three raps on the door and you find yourself collapsed against the cabin wall, your knees trembling. You know you should answer the door and you should tell them what’s going on here. You should beg them to run and take you with them.

But now you’re faced with it, you don’t know what to do.

“Hello?” The girl’s voice is louder now. “Is anyone home?”

Oh, she shouldn’t be shouting. Lucas can hear when you drop a fork doing the washing up from halfway across the yard, and always comes hurrying to make sure you haven’t hurt yourself.

“Look,” the boy, “We just need to use your phone, we’re lost—”

Another voice cuts across the squabbling – one deeper and darker and grittier. A thick Southern accent.

“You sure as hell are,” it says, and there’s outright hate in it. “What the fuck do you think you’re doin’ on my property?”

The girl screams. You can’t blame her; at six foot four and bound in scars and muscle, Lucas is a frightening prospect at the best of times. But when he’s appeared from nowhere, holding his axe, like a horror movie villain . . .

“Shit!” The boy is swearing. “Look, man, I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

You do not see the axe come down – how could you, from the hallway, behind the door? But you hear two screams, this time – both his and hers – and you hear the wet sound of something sharp meeting something soft. Blade striking bone – the slick noise of an axe blade being pulled out of a body and then swung back in. The sound of someone choking on blood, of someone sobbing--

You don’t know how long it goes on for. Your knees give out long before the girl gives up on screaming, as you sink onto the floor and hug yourself tight and squeeze your eyes shut against the noises.

It could last forever. You try and think of something else; somewhere happier. What would you be doing right now, if you were at home? How different would your October have been?

But the slosh of blood and the hacking noise of blade and flesh worm into your consciousness, the very real massacre going on outside the front door seeping into every memory you try and recall. Your pumpkins smashed to pieces, accusing staring eyes of the corpses of your friends at last year’s Halloween party as a man with an axe mows them down in your living room--

The noises have stopped. There’s not even heavy breathing, now.

“Darlin’?” Lucas calls out, from behind the door. “C’mon. I know you’re there. You can open the door now. You’re safe.”

You can’t disobey him, you remember, as you shakily climb back to your feet, using the wall as leverage. If you don’t do as he says, then you will also meet the business end of his weapon – and he’s already said, in those jealousy-fuelled threats that he whispers into your hair at the most intimate of moments, that for your betrayal, he’d make it hurt.

You turn the key with a trembling hand, and have to force your fingers to close around the door handle. Slowly, slowly, you pull it open--

The front porch is a mess of blood and flesh and organs and other things you carefully do not look at. These people have been butchered for more than just meat – but you look up at Lucas’s eyes instead and ignore them. You can’t think too hard on it.

There are splashes of blood all over his face, flecks of red in his stubble. His clothes are ruined.

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, and he steps forward and the tang of blood invades your mouth and your nostrils and gets on your clothes as he pulls you into a tight embrace. “Don’t worry. I told ya’, I won’t let nothin’ happen to you. Not tonight, not ever.”

He says it like this poor lost couple were a threat, and not just unfortunates who happened upon the wrong woods at the wrong time. The wrong house.

(If you hadn’t put that pumpkin out, they wouldn’t have thought that there was anyone here. It’s your fault.)

His grip around you is tight. You squeeze your eyes shut and bury your face in his chest for a moment, and try to pretend nothing has happened.

It can’t last. Lucas pulls back, takes hold of your shoulders.

“Well?” He says – and bile rises in your throat as you realise you have to say it. You have to do it. If you want to stay on his good side--

“Thank you,” you breathe out, hating yourself for every syllable. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

And as you stretch onto your tiptoes and Lucas bends down to meet your lips for a thank you kiss, you pretend that there aren’t two corpses outside of the front door.

You carved a pumpkin. You ate candy. You watched a shitty horror movie. It’s like every Halloween before it--

He pulls back; a hand ruffling through your hair, a smile on his face.

“Happy Halloween, darlin’. You get back inside while I clean this up, okay? Night ain’t over yet.”

[sukunasun]

i always thought of dilf geto suguru loving skin-to-skin contact with his newborn baby😔❤ with the twins by mama's bedside as she rests from the birth days ago while suguru, shirtless, sits at a chair nearby, lovingly cradling his baby, who only has a diaper and a cap, in his chest looking at his family with so much love in his eyes

dilf nanamin too....skin-to-skin contact with his baby in the nursery as mama rests in their room hhhhhh why arent they real :*(

"we're not having a baby," you tell him time and time again. and geto just chuckles then, getting lost in the smell of your shampoo, in the lingering perfume by the nape of your neck, arms encircling your waist, and just...accepting it as fact. he's content with this. he's already got two beautiful girls who call him by the name papa, so why should he want more. he doesn't. he's sure of it.

then he'd pull back, looking to where his forearm rests against your middle, bringing his palm down to your lower belly and kinda...feeling the space there. wishing and wishing, that tug in his chest calling out to him, urging him, "what if..." he whispers, words caught in his throat, unable to say the rest of that sentence for fear of what might come next. your reaction, your rejection...would be too hard to bear.

and you know what exactly it is because you've seen the way he lingers just a little bit longer inside you every time he finishes, eyes staring at what's not there. lost in a daze, in his own world imagining his release taking root with hands splayed across your womb. for a second picturing you full with his child, glowing and resting under warm blankets, burrowing in soft pillows, waddling around your kitchen in the middle of the night hoping to satisfy a craving. he'll stop at nothing to deliver, not even if he has to make a drive out or if he needs to pay extra for same-day shipping.

you'd smell so good, feel so soft...my wife, my wife, my wife—is pregnant. she's carrying my child. he won't stop saying it, he wants it so much... and he knows you've talked about it, you don't need to have a baby now, had agreed that your parenting days are yet to be over anyway. of course, you'd want a little baby made up of the two of you, but the thought of going through a pregnancy is a lot. or at least, just for now. "its for the best," you tell him while on your tip toes, leaning in to kiss the pout off his face, "besides, we could still make babies, isn't that the fun part?" so he'll swallow it down. you'll seduce him, and the both of you will forget about it for the time being.

but his want only grows stronger. you'd see it on his face, in the way he looks at the pamphlets at the nursery when he drops the girls off, at the squirming little bundles in incubators and carriers, newborns swaddled in pink and blue, he stares at strollers by a display window and when they cross him by on the street, his fingers caressing the wool straps of a onesie at a store as he sighs fondly. "how cute..." he mutters, in awe of the detail and the craftsmanship at work, olive greens and navy blues with the cutest embroidered stitches of flowers and woodland creatures, "this would keep him warm...a warm portable boy..." he chuckles to himself, doesn't even realize the things he says, or that he says it aloud, but your heart clenches at the thought...would it be so bad to give him another.

and maybe you should have seen it coming, but the two of you weren’t the most particular when it came to protection, and by the time winter arrives, your belly swells and so do your ankles. “this kid doesn’t move or make a sound, i think he’s only kicked once the past six months,” geto says from behind you, his hands feeling over your bump. and you sigh, leaning back into his hold, about to nod off into slumber when he feels so warm, so comfy, relieved when he takes some of the weight off in his arms, lifting your belly up and keeping it there.

“you’re just looking out for mama aren’t you?” you coo, hand over geto’s and at that very second, your baby kicks and you both feel it in your palms. “im thinking he’s a mama’s boy," he laughs, can’t stop caressing where his baby’s foot had been. grinning wide, you admit to him something you already know, “you're gonna be his favourite...i feel him responding to your voice more, and he'll be just like you…i bet you’d been a quiet baby yourself…”  

he's not geto when he holds his baby for the first time. special grade curse user or villain extraordinaire, but suguru...just suguru holding a baby in his arms while he gingerly feels the fine hairs, fixing the little cap atop their head, watching as a tiny fist wraps around his one index finger. oh, his heartbeat pounds when they gurgle and fidget, pulse jumping with sudden fear, before he calms again, smiling, cooing at them, a steady lup-dup, lup-dup beats through the cotton, soft and constant against his palm, trailing up his fingers, and down his spine. a life he holds onto. a life he's made.

[blueraineshadows]

Sebastian Sallow 🔺️F!MC 🔺️Leander Prewett

Chapter 13 - 14.2k words

Tags: NSFW / Dark Magic / Angst / Injury / PTSD

Chapter Master List and Ao3 link

Chapter Thirteen: Of Faerie Rings and Offerings

Sebastian

Another wild, Highland trail to follow, and more hours of tension, as they walked through the cold, morning fog. As hardy as he was, living outdoors and growing up through the unpredictable patterns of Scottish weather, Sebastian had wrapped a warm, wool cloak about himself before setting out with MC in search of their next location. He walked on ahead, MC lagging behind him, her breaths laboured and her mood quiet. She wasn’t up to full fitness yet despite the potions she took each morning, but insisted she was fine every time he paused to check on her.

Turning once again on the path, his gaze taking her in, a small crease appeared on his brow at the paleness of her face contrasting with the dark smudges under her eyes. The last two nights had been rough, sleeping out in the wild landscapes in their tent, the tension thick after the confrontation with Anne. His twin’s words had intended to cut, and they certainly felt heavy over his head, slicing open his fears that MC would leave him. 

Waiting for MC to catch him up, he pulled his cloak closer against the damp chill, moisture heavy in the air from a lingering fog. MC slowed to a stop beside him, strands of damp hair stuck to her forehead and cheek. She gave him an enquiring look, glancing around at the endless sentinels of trees that surrounded them. 

“Why have we stopped? Are we close to the fairy ring?” 

“It shouldn’t be too much further,” he said, managing a reassuring smile. “How are you holding up? That last hill was quite the climb.” 

“I’m fine,” she assured him, her chin tilting up in that stubborn way of hers. “I told you to stop fussing over me like I am some kind of china doll that’s about to break.” 

He grinned and brushed gloved fingers against her temple, smoothing back the loose strands of hair there. “I know. That doesn’t mean I listened, though. I am merely adopting the manly role and looking out for the fair maiden in my charge.” 

Her look of disbelief was swiftly followed by a ‘pfft’ of laughter. “Oh, but of course!” She scoffed, planting her hands onto her hips. “Never mind the fact that my magic far outweighs yours in power, and if anything should befall us, then it is more likely going to be the fair maiden who saves the day. What, pray tell, will your manly role involve then?”

A spark of delight filled him at the sight of her mouth curving into a smile. Her laughter may have been an attempt to mock him, but he would take it. Her mood had dropped so low over the last few days due to the lack of ancient magic deposits, and the emotional weight she seemed to carry had put up tense walls between them. He wondered if she would rise to even riskier bait, his fingers shifting to capture her chin, tilting her face up towards him just so. Her eyes flashed, her mouth a tempting pout of pretty pink as he gave her his most wicked smirk. 

“I can think of a few manly roles I could adopt to offer my thanks to the fair maiden for saving my backside,” he murmured, daring to lean close enough until he could feel her breath on his cheek. “Especially for a maiden as fair as you.” 

“Smooth, Sallow,” she said, arching a brow, but not before she had visibly swallowed at their closeness. He had caught that dark spark in her eyes before she had quickly smothered it. Her hand caught hold of his wrist and tugged his hand from her chin. “But, you’re going to have to try harder than that.” 

“I’ll take that as a challenge,” he grinned, tipping her a cheeky wink. 

MC rolled her eyes and set off along the forest trail again. “Come on, let’s keep at it. You said the fairy ring was close. You can tell me more about your manly deeds with the Ashwinders as we walk. Impress me with your villainous skills.” 

She threw a smirk over her shoulder and he felt his spirits rise a little as he stepped out to join her, matching her step so they could walk side by side, careful to avoid tripping on rogue rocks or tree roots. 

“What do you want to know? I have some rather miserable tales about debt collecting on Rookwood’s behalf, or there is always the noble act of robbing from shipping crates arriving from far flung places.” 

Her side eye game was strong as she shook her head. “I think you might need to check on the definition of what a noble act entails. What are in these shipping crates anyway? Do you know? I hope it's not beasts.” 

He met her narrow eyed suspicion with a firm denial. “I stay well clear of any poaching,” he assured her. “That side of the gang is definitely not my area of interest.”  

“No, you are far happier with the torture and thievery,” she said sourly. She frowned thoughtfully. “Does it get any easier the more you do it?” 

The dark shadows of memories hovered greedily at the corners of his mind, and he adjusted his cloak, his face grim. “No,” he said regretfully. He sighed, his gaze scanning their surroundings, always on watch. “Thievery is probably the easiest job to do. Most of the crates that we stash have rare items such as spell books, or ancient artefacts from other countries. Those are the ones that intrigue me the most. I was working the docks for a while, particularly at Dover. Rookwood has a hidden lock up in the tunnels that are carved inside the white cliffs. Those tunnels date back centuries, carved out by Saxons or Vikings I suspect. Hidden by enchantments, Rookwood has quite a decent stash there.” 

MC remained quiet, appearing to think this over as she chewed her lower lip. She gave him a curious glance. “Have you ever been tempted to sneak an item for yourself?”

He gave a sly smile, shrugging his shoulders. “I may have pilfered the odd book, you know me. But, not too often. I couldn’t risk being caught. I’m with the Ashwinders for a reason, and I can’t afford to lose sight of that over a few items. The time will come when I get my hands on his collection.” 

Her expression soured and she dipped her gaze. Anne was a sore subject, but his determination to fix his sister remained the same. He couldn’t just let it go, not when they could be so close. After what MC had told him from her talk with Rookwood, killing him would lift Anne’s curse. It might even be worth the time in Azkaban to just end him and suffer the consequences. Anne would be well, Rookwood would get what was coming to him, but he would be parted from those he loved once again.

Lost in thought, he was surprised when MC came to a stop, his eyes immediately scanning the path ahead for any trouble. The path had widened slightly, the trees here mostly ash and old oaks, the ground a crispy carpet of browns and golds from the Autumn fall. Ahead was a clearing, a first glimpse of ancient stones set into a circle. 

“This is it,” MC whispered, a look of intense concentration on her face. 

Ancient stone circles were littered all over the Scottish wilderness, some called them fairy rings, others pagan ritual sites. Whatever they were called, there was always a healthy amount of respect and awe for these places. Untouched for centuries, they held a magical aura of their own, but it was the glow of ancient magic that they needed from this one. After nearly a week, they had found nothing.  

“Do we need to move closer?” He asked, watching her carefully. He couldn’t see the traces, but sometimes he could sense a strange energy in the air, although this could merely be coincidence. After all, he had magical blood of his own, and magic could be sensed if one concentrated hard enough. 

They moved towards the clearing slowly, the stones standing as solid and true as the day they were placed, any greenery that had dared to encroach seemed to do so with its own level of respect. MC moved towards the centre of the ring, turning in a circle as she studied the stones. Markings had been carved into them, symbols that were intriguing but very few looked familiar to Sebastian. 

MC sighed, her shoulders slumping. She shook her head and gave him a defeated look. No ancient magic here, either. All that walking for nothing. What were they doing wrong? 

MC

The leather of Noctua Gaunt’s journal was supple and smooth, the book a pleasant weight in her hands. MC let her fingers slide over the cover, deep in thought as she sat with her back resting against a tree under a canopy of tall ash. She had never known her mother, and to read about her within the pages of a book was strange, disconnected. It made her appear as a character in a story rather than a living and breathing person, and yet, she was out there in the world somewhere if records proved true. The fear that lingered in MC’s heart that Elizabeth had met a similar fate to Noctua kept taunting her. Perhaps she was foolish to get her hopes up, and any daydreams about a reunion were neither helpful nor wise.

Elizabeth Gaunt had fallen for a Muggle. A forbidden love for a daughter who came from a line of pure magical blood, her family staunch believers in keeping magic within the bloodlines. The emotions may be written by a second hand, but MC still felt an affinity to a young girl who felt confused about her own feelings. The circumstances may have been different, but MC was confounded by the way her heart seemed to find itself torn between two very different men. However she tried to imagine a life with either of them, it always came to the fear that she would end up destroying them both, as Elizabeth appeared to have ended up destroying her own true love for daring to take what she wanted.

Leander had a pure soul, and she could not bear the thought of dragging him under the shadow of her darkness. She had warned him of such, and yet he remained. Sebastian carried his own darkness, their paths entwined so deeply that surely they were like kindred spirits. His twin thought otherwise. Anne’s bitter prediction that MC would destroy Sebastian in the end still echoed through her thoughts. Could it be so? As much as she resented Anne, her words had struck a nerve, nudging up against the old fears that she had carried throughout her whole life. That she was not worthy of love. Abandoned as a child, never adopted, always on the outside looking in, followed by a darkness that owned her. Always alone, even when she had bound herself to another. 

To take the love that Leander offered so willingly would be a selfish thing to do. It terrified her when she saw that softness in his eyes, how fragile and untouchable it appeared, and if she broke it, which surely she would eventually, then it would be lost forever. The irony of it brought tears to her eyes. In not accepting what he had to offer, she proved only that she returned his affections. If she did not care, she would drain him of all he had to give. It would seem she did care, a lot.

Allowing a tear to escape and roll down her cheek, she thought of Leander, allowing herself to relax the solid walls of protection she had built around herself the last few days. Sebastian had excused himself, wandering off a way under the cover of lingering fog through the trees. The few moments of his absence provided precious time for her to vent the pent up emotion stuffed tightly in her chest. Closing her eyes, all she could see was Leander standing in the kitchen of Shell Cottage, his face a mask of bravery whilst his eyes glittered with his pain. Leaving him like that had been so very difficult, but in the end, it had to be for the best.

Taking a deep breath, MC took out the secret parchment and opened it out on top of the journal, tapping it with her wand and turning up nothing. No messages from Leander.  Swallowing foolish disappointment, she reminded herself that she had a job to do, and she wouldn’t let him down. Wiping the tear from her cheek, she sat up straighter, writing quickly before Sebastian returned. The little tidbit of information that Sebastian had shared about the tunnels in the cliffs at Dover would be valuable information, and she explained quickly. Resisting the urge to add anything personal, she tapped her wand and sent the words on their way to her Auror. 

When Sebastian wandered back through the trees, the low lying mist swirling around his boots, she gave him a wary look. Caught off guard for those brief seconds, she met his gaze and her heart thundered behind her ribs. His look was drenched in curiosity, he knew she was suppressing something, and she feared the questions he would likely ask. She wasn’t ready to answer them. She could feel his need rolling off him in waves, curling with the mists and snaking around her, his eyes almost begging for her to open up to him as he rolled his lower lip thoughtfully. 

Dragging her eyes from him, she stuffed the journal back into her bag and got to her feet, brushing dirt and leaves from her trousers. Barriers firmly back in place, she slung her bag over her shoulder and glanced towards the trail. “We should get moving,” she said stiffly. “We have one more possible location to scout out before nightfall.”

Sebastian paused beside her, picking up his own bag and taking out the map. She could feel the strength of his gaze on her, but kept her own eyes averted, looking down at the markers he had drawn on the map. He pointed at the next location with a grubby finger, small scars that looked like burns from spells embedded on his skin. Hands capable of such destruction, and yet she found she liked looking at them, unable to help herself as she took in the veins on the back of them filled with his life blood. Hands that had held her, touched her in ways that left her breathless. Hands that could kill. 

“There is a village nearby where we could stop for provisions,” he said, showing her on the map. “I’m almost out of snacks, and I’m pretty hungry.”

Risking a look at him, his expression was one of simple enquiry, the earlier raw need gone. Her lips almost curved into a smile. “You had a massive breakfast, Sebastian. How are you so hungry already?”

“It’s all this fresh air and exercise, love,” he smirked, patting his stomach. “It gives one an appetite.”

She dared to poke a finger into the softness of his tummy. He was by no means overweight, but neither was he lean and hard. He had that solid build, with just an edge of softness, a body that was both strong and capable of the most satisfying hugs. She felt warmth flame her cheeks as she recalled curling into him and falling asleep the other night. Clearing her throat, she lifted her eyebrows, flashing him a teasing glance. “Aww, cute and squishy like a teddy bear. Must be all the snacks.”

He scowled and rubbed his stomach again, looking down at it. “Are you suggesting I’m getting chubby?” He asked, pinching at his flesh through his shirt.

She stepped out along the path with a chuckle, glancing back to him, allowing her gaze to sweep slowly over him. There was nothing boyish about him anymore, except for maybe the twinkle in his eyes sometimes, and he definitely wasn’t chubby. Her eyes lingered on the cut of his jaw, darkened with a few days worth of stubble, the strength in his neck and shoulders. She knew all too well how easily he could lift her up. Her fingers clutched at her bag strap as she let her gaze wander down over his torso, lingering on thick, powerful thighs. Solid, strong, but fast, those legs could side step and fall into powerful stances during duels. He could run, too.

Biting her lower lip, her gaze lifted to meet him once more, and she could see the way those chocolate eyes had darkened. Staring each other down under the canopy of the forest, she felt the primal pulse of blatant desire flare in her blood, calling to him. His throat worked as he swallowed, his lips parting slightly as though about to speak.

“Don’t worry, I was merely jesting,” she said quickly, flashing him a quick smile. “I'm sure there are plenty of adoring fans at the duelling pit when you start flexing your prowess.”

Turning quickly so she could get a grip on her flushed state, she began to stride along the path, blood pumping. It wouldn’t do to get all carried away with intrusive thoughts. His mouth had always been distracting, and she had enough to figure out without adding ideas of what that mouth could do.

“I should hope so,” he cracked, following her, his boots thudding against the dirt. “It takes a lot of care and attention to look this good, darling. I wouldn’t like to disappoint.”

She huffed a laugh, throwing her eyes up towards the gently swaying branches above their heads, golden leaves fluttering down to carpet the forest floor in a blanket of fiery colours. “Always so bloody sure of himself,” she muttered.

Hands gripped her waist and she jumped with a sharp intake of breath, her feet stilling as he bent close to her ear, his breath hot on her neck. “I heard that,” he murmured, his fingers flexing in a tempting grip. “If you don’t believe me, you are most welcome to conduct a more thorough investigation. You would find me a very willing participant.”

Gulping in an attempt to steady her breathing, MC desperately tried to get a grip on the roaring of her pulse, every nerve ending seeming to bend and scrape to his will. “Oh, I have no doubt about your willingness,” she quipped, aiming for bored and unimpressed, but sounding dangerously close to breathy and needy. “It likely equals your level of audacity and randiness. Quite the scoundrel, in fact.”

His nose brushed up the column of her neck, his throaty chuckle sending shivers down her spine as her head tipped foolishly back a touch. All this wonderful fresh air, and yet she couldn’t breathe sufficiently. “I would wager that you secretly enjoy the scoundrel in me,” he teased, soft lips grazing against her skin, the scratch of stubble added just enough roughness to make her sigh. “You are quite the vixen yourself, MC. Do you even know what you do to a man when you look at him with that dark fire in your eyes? When you sway these delectable hips…”

His hands slid down to cup her hips, drawing her back against him so that her back was flush against that solid strength she had been appraising. No, she absolutely wasn’t leaning into him, her eyes closing as his hot mouth claimed a taste of her neck, over and over again, until she felt the tantalising tug of his teeth on her earlobe.

“Seb…” It was the ghost of a whisper through her lips, her back arching as the flat of his palm slid down to the top of her thigh.

“Yes, sweetheart,” he breathed into her hair, his fingers digging deliciously into the flesh of her thigh before he dragged them slowly upwards.

A soft sound left her throat as her knees trembled. Scoundrel, indeed. He knew what he was doing, and she let him, her skin inflamed with every heated touch of that wicked mouth. With one hand splayed at her midriff, and the other seeking out the curve of her hip and backside, her body was melting into his touch. How easy would it be to give in and let him have her? Like falling back into a feather pillow, surrounded by his scent, his arms, his kisses driving the wildfire in her blood to dizzying heights. So effortless.

“Seb,” she said again, firmer this time, her brows drawing together. 

He spun her round to face him, his hand claiming her jaw as he pressed his hot mouth to hers in a dominant kiss. While her fingers clutched at his jacket, and her mouth opened to welcome the slide of his tongue, she felt the first flutters of insecurity and panic begin to dance in her chest. 

This isn’t love, it’s obsession. She will destroy you. 

Her hands were in his unruly mop of hair, his low groan into her mouth making her thighs clench as his hands moulded her curves. Their kisses had become desperate, ravenous, their hot gasps for breath loud in the surrounding quietness. But, the doubts filtered through the haze.

If you were to allow it, I would love you until the very end of existence. 

Breaking the kiss with a whimper, MC squeezed her eyes closed against the voices in her head. Anne and her bitterness, Leander and his soft brown eyes full of love she could never accept, Luella Rookwood’s possessive hand on Sebastian’s arm. Her chest tightened but she couldn’t seem to let go of Sebastian, her hands curled into his black jacket as though her life depended on it. His eyes were aflame with hunger, dark and wild, his freckled cheeks flushed with passion when she dared to look at him. They shouldn’t be doing this. Every cell in her body was screaming for him, but that little cold slice of her that held all her fear and doubt began to cut through the fire in her blood. It had not been that long since they had held others in their arms, and tasted kisses from another’s lips. 

He shook his head, his eyes turning pained. “No, don’t do that,” he begged, holding her tighter against him. “Don’t you dare start shutting down on me, not now. Please. Don’t push me away, MC.”

“It’s too soon,” she rasped, shaking her head. She stepped back, her arms straightening where she still clutched his jacket, holding him at bay. “I can’t.”

“Surely, you must feel this…this connection between us,” he said, grasping her arms in a tight grip. The desperation on his face, that flicker of fear in his gaze, it made her heart twist painfully. “Please, MC. I love you so much. You drive me crazy being this close, but so out of reach. What do you want me to do? I can’t stop how I feel about you, not ever.”

“You said you could wait,” she winced, his declaration joining Leander’s in the jumbled mess of emotions bubbling inside of her. 

A pained look crossed his face and he let her arms go, his hands dropping to his sides and he looked away through the trees. “What am I waiting for, MC? Tell me that. Am I waiting for you? Or, are you going to tell me that you love him more, and then go off to live your life without me? Is that how you will break me, MC? Are you planning to leave in the end?” 

A tear slid from her eye and she flinched, blinking rapidly against the swell and burn of more filling her eyes. Her lips parted but no words came. Would she leave him? Slowly letting go of his jacket, she turned her left palm up to look at the red scar there. She was bound to him until death, and therefore, he would always be a part of her. She could never fully turn her back on him, and neither could he do the same to her. But, was it enough?

Sebastian wrapped a hand around hers, squeezing it gently. “Don’t look at that, look at me,” he said softly. “When you look at me, I feel like you see me for who I truly am. You have seen the worst of me, and yet you stuck around. You are more than just a scar on my palm. You’re everything.” 

“I…I’m scared,” she admitted, withdrawing away from him, her arms curling around herself as she stepped back. So long in the dark, alone and afraid. Now, she was surrounded by what she had craved for years, but she was too scared to reach out and take it. “What if it’s not real? What if it’s just the foolish, teenage dream you’re in love with rather than me? I’m not that girl any more. Azkaban changed me. I’m harder, colder, the darkness is always there waiting for me. What if I destroy you? What if I can’t give you what you want?”

He looked crestfallen. Those big, brown eyes of his made her think of an abandoned puppy, lost and in need of reassurance. “What are you saying?”

The truth had spilled from her lips and she cringed from it, slapping her hand to her mouth and turning from him. “I can’t…I can’t do this right now.”

He called out to her, but her feet kept moving, one in front of the other until she was running. Speaking the darkest, painful truth had split the fear into shards and now they were digging their jagged edges into her chest. It left a raw feeling there, replacing the heated desire that had bloomed so ferociously before. Feeling exposed and vulnerable, she ran. The path winding through the trees splitting off into tangents that she paid no heed to as her feet hit the dirt. Running from herself, running from the dark, and behind her, the inevitable steady beat of footsteps running after her. 

Sebastian

When MC had run from him on the peaks above Hogwarts Valley, he had let her go. Her magic had blasted from the depths of the forest in her rage and pain, but he had not gone after her. This time, he gave chase. Instead of Apparating, she had run, and it would be no great effort to catch up to her. He had wanted her to open up to him so desperately, but when that thick shield she clung to had cracked, the vulnerability that had haunted her eyes had staggered him. She had said the darkness lingered there waiting for her, and that was something he knew all about. 

The weak sunlight dappled through the forest canopy, flickering in shades and glimmers on her black hair, strands of it slipping loose from the braid that hung down her back. She was nimble on her feet like a sprite, but she was tiring quickly, her strides lagging as she ran aimlessly through the trees. He could hear her laboured breaths, his mind racing with all that had transpired between them in the last few days. 

Anne had rattled her with poisonous words, planting seeds of doubt in a mind already guarded against him. He loved his twin, but damn, he could throttle her sometimes. Whatever had gone down between MC and Leander haunted her thoughts, her gaze faraway and distracted, her quietness laying thick and heavy ever since she had returned from that meeting. That scared him more than anything Anne could say. Anne he could deal with. MC’s feelings for Prewett were a whole other matter entirely. 

Despite the nagging fear that MC was in love with another man, he could not get that kiss out of his mind. He couldn’t be mistaken. The fire in her gaze, the way she had responded to his touch, it was tangible and explosive. He couldn’t be the only one who felt it, she had to feel that burn between them as he did. Certain that she did, the fear she had admitted to just now had her in a vice grip, and she was holding back from him. There was still hope. There had to be.

The path appeared to be widening out, a strange sound drifting through the trees, like sticks clacking together. MC slowed, her step faltering as a clearing opened up before them. The sound of a babbling spring joined the clacking sticks, MC coming to a standstill before a huge hawthorn tree decorated with ribbons and strips of cloth. Coming to a stop beside her, both of them catching their breaths, Sebastian felt his skin prickle with the sensation that came from being in a sacred place. He recognised the significance of the clearing immediately, his eyes taking in the offerings tied to the tree.

The clacking sticks were makeshift wind charms strung up on nearby ash trees, the breeze catching them and making them sound their strange music as the scraps of fabric fluttered and danced along with them. MC took a step back, her gaze full of curious wonder as she looked around the clearing, seemingly forgetting why she had run from him.

“What is this place?” She shivered, rubbing her arms, a look of intense concentration darkening her face.

“It’s a Clootie tree,” he said, his voice hushed.

“A what?” She turned to look at him, her brow creased.

“A Clootie tree,” he repeated, pointing up to the branches of the hawthorn. “Clootie means cloth. You find them near sacred wells or springs. People come to make an offering, dipping their Clootie into the water and tying it to the tree in the hopes of curing their loved one from some ailment. It’s sometimes done as a gift to the goddess, or spirit, that guards the sacred well, but mostly it is a prayer for good health.” 

MC took a tentative step towards the tree, studying the offerings. Some of them were very faded, the fabric threadbare from age, others looked more recent, one a particularly lovely silk ribbon tied in a bow. “So, these are all likely to represent someone who is hurt, or sick?” 

Sebastian nodded, solemnly. She turned to look at him again, a shadow of sadness in her eyes. “Does it work?” 

“I’m not sure,” he shrugged, looking at a rather faded scrap of tartan. “It’s said that as the fabric wears thin, the ailment fades with it. It could just be a comfort, but as you and I both know, magic is capable of wonderful things. It may surprise you to hear that most of these were likely placed here by Muggles, though. It’s a Celtic tradition going back centuries. You will find these all over Scotland and Ireland, no doubt in Northern Europe, too.” 

The soft look she gave him stirred at the hope he clung to. “Do you know them from personal experience, or through your reading?”

“Both,” he said, his smile sad. “I’ve read about them, of course, but when I was a small child, I remember visiting one with Anne and my mother. We gave an offering to the tree for my grandmother.”

“What happened?”

Sebastian looked at the offerings and swallowed thickly. It had been the first loss he’d experienced in his young life, but definitely not the last. “She died,” he whispered.

“I’m so sorry,” MC said, moving a little closer towards him.

“I remember standing there watching my mother tie the piece of cloth to the tree, and I didn’t believe it would make a difference. I think I even complained about how cold it was that day, the whole idea seeming silly and annoying when I had a new toy train to play with at home.” He bowed his head, worrying at his lower lip as old grief rose up to mingle with new. Always, those he loved had to leave. “Then when grandma died, I lay awake worrying that it was because I didn’t believe in the Clootie tree. It was my fault that the wish didn’t work, and if mother ever found out, she would blame me, too.”

He felt her hand on his forearm, gentle, reassuring. “It’s not your fault, Seb. People die, it’s the way of life. One young boy cannot hold back what nature intends. I doubt your mother would have blamed you, either. Terrible things happen to good people, and we must find a way to carry that loss. There is nothing you could have done.”

“But, what if there was?” He said, his voice hoarse with the emotion bubbling up his throat. “Everyone I love leaves in some form or another. It must all come back to me somehow, and no matter how many books I read, or how many shadows I battle, people still end up leaving. I have to find a way to fix whatever dark curse hangs over me, this rotten luck that steals all that is good and leaves me with nothing.”

She stared at him, wide eyed, lips parted, as he ranted. It seemed she was not the only one cracking open and spilling dark truths. Feeling ashamed of his failures, he put a hand to his face, his eyes squeezing tightly closed as the well of darkness inside of him threatened to spill over. His stomach churned. Shame and guilt, fear and self-loathing, all twisting together to form a lead ball that lay heavy within.

“Perhaps you are right to be wary of me, MC,” he said, voice cracking. “It could well be that I end up destroying you rather than you destroying me. Look what has happened to you already because of me.”

“Do you think Anne has a point?” She asked quietly after a moment. That flicker of worry appeared in her eyes again. “Is this a toxic obsession? What do you see when you look at me? You said I see you despite your darkness, but what of me? I’m just as dark, and definitely more dangerous with the power that I have access to.”

Risking her running from him again, he cupped her face, making sure that he looked directly into her eyes as he spoke. “Yes, you are powerful, and I won’t deny the excitement I feel when I see you unleash it. It truly fascinates me, but that’s my thirst for wanting to know about all things magical. That’s the Ravenclaw part of me that is all my mother. But, the more time that I spent with you, the more I realised that the girl behind all of that was worth knowing, too. I felt this affinity to you, like I could have known you on another plane of existence, or something.”

“A kindred spirit,” she murmured, a slight smile curving her lips. “You said that to me once.”

His own mouth curved in remembrance, his thumb stroking her cheek. “You know me better than anyone, aside from Anne. As I said before, you have seen my darkness, and you stayed. I am not afraid of your darkness, MC. It could be a mirror of my own, and if Anne thinks we will only destroy each other, then I am still willing to risk it. All the time you are willing to hold my hand as we face whatever it is we have to face, then I’m here. If you go down, then I’m coming with you, because if there is one thing I learned while you were gone, it’s that I am fucking miserable without you beside me.”

Her head tilted slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. “You’re a big softie underneath all that dark magic and fierce duelling, aren’t you?”

He gave her his most devilish smirk, leaning in closer towards her. “Don’t tell anyone,” he murmured, dropping her a wink.

“It’s a good thing I am a master of keeping your secrets,” she said, dipping her hand into the collar of her shirt and pulling out the silver chain that held the amulet. The blood stone glittered eerily in the dappled light of the clearing. “I swore on our blood that I would, but even without it, I would keep your secrets, Sebastian. Just as you have kept mine.”

Was it enough, though? He studied the amulet, mulling over the pact they had made. He remembered how strongly he had believed in his love for her. When she had asked if it was nothing more than a teenage dream, it had felt like a blow to his stomach. Looking at her now, her hair tumbling free from her braid, her face pink and blotchy from her tears, he couldn’t imagine feeling this way about anyone else. 

“I should have married you instead of making this blood pact,” he said, taking hold of her left hand. He brushed a thumb over her ring finger. “We could have done it despite our age. We broke so many other rules, why not that one? We could have done it the old fashioned way and performed a Handfast ceremony, they are as good as law here in Scotland. You would have been mine forever.”

She gaped at him. “Marriage? Bloody hell, Sebastian! We were kids! Do you think it would have made any difference? Wouldn’t we still be standing here without a clue what we are doing?” 

“Would you have gone to Prewett’s bed if we were wed?” The question fired from his lips, bringing his fear of her feelings for the Auror into the open.

MC reeled backwards, her cheeks flushing scarlet, and her mouth forming a tight line. “I could ask the same question of you with regards to Miss Rookwood,” she snapped.

“Ask it,” he said firmly. “Ask me, and I will tell you. I would not. She means nothing to me, nothing at all. But, Prewett is a whole other kettle of grindylows, isn’t he? I didn’t move on, MC, but I think you did. You moved on, and you’re too scared to admit it.”

Her eyes widened, and she stepped back, her hands darting up to fiddle with loose strands of her hair. “Admit what, exactly?”

“I know you have feelings for him,” he pressed, his chest heavy as though filled with rock. “As much as it kills me, I saw it in your eyes. You love him, and that’s why you have been so cold and distant with me. You are pushing me back, and I think it’s because of him. I’m right, aren’t I?” 

Her lips parted with a harsh sigh, a small cry of distress leaving her lips. “It’s not the same,” she said, her voice breathless and high. 

“You either love him, or you don’t, MC,” he said, shaking his head. “Am I a fool for thinking that the kiss we just shared meant something? Am I really waiting for you to break my heart?”

She put her hands to her head and paced, her chest rising and falling with tortured breaths. Each agonising second that passed without an answer seemed to make the weight on his chest grow heavier. She wasn’t denying it, his worst fears were manifesting right in front of him, and he felt sick. She was going to leave him for another. 

“You are not a fool, Sebastian,” she said, coming to a stop before him. He almost held his breath as he waited. “But, you are right, I do need to be honest with you. I’m not going to deny that I have feelings for Leander. I cannot help how I feel, and I won’t do him an injustice by pretending that he doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Fucking hell,” Seb groaned, pushing his hands into his hair and looking up at the swaying branches of the trees. 

“You wanted to hear this, Sebastian, and so you can damn well listen!” She said firmly. When he glanced back at her, she had her hands on her hips, her face determined. “He loves me. I know it, and I know he would do anything for me, but I can’t…”

She winced and looked down, taking a deep breath.

“Can’t what?” 

“I can’t give him what he wants,” she said, tears forming in her eyes. She sniffed and put the back of her hand beneath her nose. “He offered me the chance to start a new life, and I turned him down. How could I accept such a thing when I cannot give him all of myself in return? I broke his heart because…because all that he wanted from me, that part of me, in here…” She patted her hand to her chest, tears rolling freely down her cheeks now as she looked at him. “I’m pretty sure that part already belongs to you.”

Her words washed over him, pulling him back from the edge, a stuttered gasp ripping from his chest. The relief that she felt that way had him staggering towards her and dropping to his knees. In that moment, there was no swagger, no smirking, just raw emotion as he buried his face into her stomach, his hands holding her as though she was made of precious glass. He felt her hand in his hair, the touch soothing, and sending shivers down his spine. 

“I haven’t given up on us, Seb,” she said, her voice thick with tears. “There is still a lot to figure out, and that might take some time, but I haven’t given up.”

Sebastian nuzzled into her warmth, breathing her in and drawing comfort from knowing that she was his, but that niggling fear still lingered. She admitted having feelings for Leander. “And, Prewett?” 

He bit his lip, expecting her to push him off, but he felt her shudder. He kept his face buried into the fabric of her clothing, afraid of what he would see on her face if he looked up. 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” she whispered. “He is a good person, and he deserves so much more than what I could give him. My darkness would swallow him whole. I have to let him go.”

For the first time since he had met Prewett in their first year at Hogwarts, he felt a pang of sympathy for him. There was pain and regret in MC’s voice, and while Sebastian hated the thought of them being close with each other, he could understand the pain of wanting someone and then losing them. That could have been him, he could have been the one to be let go of, and perhaps he still could. 

“I will do whatever it takes, MC,” he vowed. “You know I am yours.” 

Her hand swept through his hair, her fingers caressing the back of his neck as he remained there on his knees, holding her. The crude wind chimes clacked together in the trees above, the babbling spring gushed as it had done for centuries, and Sebastian allowed himself a moment of peace beneath the Clootie offerings. This time, he was going to believe in the sentiment that good things could happen. 

“I don’t wish to break up the moment, but there is something you should know,” MC said quietly. Sebastian tensed, waiting. “I know you can’t see it, but there is ancient magic here. It’s glimmering around the trunk of the tree, little wisps of it trailing up and around the branches. The offerings are all touched by the magic, too. It’s actually rather beautiful.” 

Sebastian lifted his head to look up at the tree, but of course, he could not see what she could. He could feel the power of the space, ancient and steeped with years of human emotion. People came here because they were sad, hurting, desperate. They came to make their offering to save their loved ones. That kind of emotional magic was bound to leave a mark. 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, getting to his feet. A strange tingling sensation swept through him as the realisation dawned, and he grabbed MC by the hand. “We have been looking at the deposits all wrong. We are assuming that ancient magic would reside in ancient places, but what if that’s not the true source. It’s old, of course, but age shouldn’t dictate where it would gather.” 

“What are you thinking, Seb?” She asked, her grip tightening on his hand as he gazed up at the tree. 

“These offerings,” he said, gesturing up towards them as he looked at her. “They are emotional. What if that is what draws the ancient magic here? What if it's the emotion that manifests it?” 

Her gaze lifted to the tree, her mouth parting as he saw the way her thoughts must be racing. A quiver of excitement trembled through him, as it always did when he stumbled across a brilliant idea. 

“That would make sense,” she nodded, her gaze dipping shyly before she spoke again. “There have been instances where ancient magic has burst out of me without the use of a wand, and those moments have always been highly emotionally charged. I…I saved Leander from Dementors inside Azkaban without a wand. It just happened. So, the idea of ancient magic being attached to emotions is actually a good one. Let’s not forget that Isadora created the repository using painful human emotions, too.” 

“I should have seen it sooner,” he said, his jaw clenching at how obvious it seemed now. “We could have been spending our time seeking out locations where emotional magic has been cast. Perhaps we would have been more successful.” 

“Well, we know now, at least we think we do,” she said, her eyes brightening. “We need to test this theory. We need a location where something emotional would have happened. How are we going to find places like that?” 

A thought began to turn in his mind, and he was reluctant to suggest it, but it would make perfect sense. The issue was whether he would be able to handle it. Looking at MC, their hands clasped, and the knowledge that she hadn’t given up on him seemed to lend him added strength. “Emotionally charged magic like the murder of a relative in extreme circumstances? How about that for a location to test the theory?” 

Her blue eyes stared at him, and he could see the echo of his own shadows flickering there. They would never forget that day down in those catacombs, it would live inside them for the rest of their lives. 

“Are you sure?” She asked, her worry creasing her brow. 

No, he wasn’t sure, his guilt and fear seemed to stretch and crawl under his flesh. “I guess there is only one way to find out, sweetheart,” he said, and held her closer as he let the image of the Feldcroft catacomb entrance fill his mind. 

MC

The fresh, briney scent of the ocean greeted them as they landed on the cliff top near Feldcroft, the stiff breeze tugging at their hair and cloaks as they gathered their bearings. Tall pines creaked and swayed in the wind, the happy chatter of songbirds a peculiar juxtaposition to the ominous looking entrance of the catacombs. Carved ancient stones leaned amongst the twisted, gnarled tree roots that reached like claws towards the dirt beaten path. A tomb of the dead, ancient and long forgotten, clinging to magic crafted centuries before. The atmosphere spoke of age and dust, but she knew what lingered down there in the dark. 

MC shivered and looked to Sebastian, taking in the paleness beneath his freckles, his eyes fixed on the darkened entrance with a hesitant look. 

“We don’t have to do this,” she said quietly.

His hand massaged anxiously at her waist as he gave a jerky nod. “I’ll be alright. We need to see if we’re right about this.” 

Taking his hand in hers, they walked into the entrance, leaving behind the soft autumn skies for the damp chill of stone and sand. Descending down the cracked stone steps, aged candles flickered into life casting an eerie pale glow to light their way. 

“Do you think anyone has been down here since that day?” Sebastian asked, his voice low and tight. 

MC scanned the path ahead, water dripping down the walls and the patter of a startled rat echoing down the tunnel carved into the rock. “It’s hard to say,” she said. “I’m sure anything worth any value was looted long ago. What would bring anyone here?” 

“I don’t know, explorers, history lovers, desperate boys with grand plans of saving the world.” 

MC paused to look at Sebastian, the brittle sadness behind his words making her question the wiseness of taking him down into these catacombs. She squeezed his hand, her own apprehension twisting in her chest, but she tried to suppress it. “I can go on alone, you know. I’m not afraid,” she suggested. “You can wait for me outside if this is going to be too much.”

His jaw tightened and he took a breath. “Come on,” he said, tugging her forward. “You are not going down here alone.” 

It could almost make her smile how he still insisted on being her protector, despite the ancient power that lived in her veins. There was nothing in these tunnels that she couldn’t fight off, she was more than capable, but he still had the need to be her saviour. 

They walked on, taking the twists and turns with their wands in hand, their other hands still tightly clasped. The candles lit up as they went, casting eerie shadows on stone walls and reflecting off the huge puddles that flooded the chambers. Their boots echoed off the stone flooring sections, the rest of the tombs appearing empty and quiet aside from the odd scampering rat. 

“I had forgotten how much of a warren this place was,” MC murmured as they came out on a large curved balcony, the huge circular chamber supported by solid stone columns. Candles illuminated the space, revealing the shattered coffins and dusty urns on their shelves. Down in the centre of the chamber was a stone altar, abandoned, but left as it was last used. As they wandered down the slope, trying to remember which archway to take next, countless old skulls stared back at them with dark, empty eye sockets. “Can you remember which way to go?” 

Sebastian paused near the altar, frowning slightly as he eyed the options. “There were so many ancient puzzles to solve to get through here, but it seems the doorways are all still open.” 

MC stared at one archway in particular, goosebumps erupting along her arms as she felt a familiar hum beneath her feet. Her heart picked up the pace and she aimed her wand towards the entrance, a stale stench wafting from the dark maw. She could feel it. There was magic here. “This way,” she said. 

They continued on, their hands still tightly wrapped around each other despite the sticky sheen of sweat that had gathered on their palms. Sebastian was quiet, his face drawn and eyes dark. MC could feel the tension on the back of her neck as memories of that awful day returned and replayed in her head, these walls echoing with the shouts, flickering with the spells of their fight with his uncle. 

It was hard not to wonder what Solomon’s motives were, a question that had plagued her during long hours in the dark serving time for his murder. It was all together more strange and frustrating now that she had discovered he had known her as a very small child. It made her feel cold, numb, a sense of dread that this had all been a cruel trick of fate for them all. 

All the while, she felt the pulse of magic begin to strengthen beneath her feet, the static in the air prickled on her skin, and she tried to remain calm. Sebastian couldn’t feel any of those things, but he could probably sense her tension as they entered a chamber with a staircase conjured from ancient bones. They both stood before it, a sense of dread looming over them, the entrance above the staircase flickering with a familiar blue and white light. The power throbbed and pulsed with renewed strength, and she felt the answering call in her blood.

“You were right,” she said softly, turning to look at Sebastian. “There is ancient magic here.” 

A muscle ticked in his jaw as his gaze remained locked on the doorway, a sheen of sweat glistened on his brow, and he was breathing faster. He shook his head, pulling her back a step. “I can’t…” 

She grabbed his arm, steadying him as he trembled, his eyes still fixed on the doorway with a wide, haunted stare. “You’re alright,” she soothed. “You don’t have to go in there.” 

Tearing from her grip with a tortured groan, he clamped both his hands to his own head, deathly pale as he sucked in panicked breaths. The ghosts of the past were lurking in his eyes, remembering the darkness that had made him flee these tunnels years ago in grief and despair. Their lives had changed down here, his more than hers, at least for a time. 

“I know this is tough,” she said carefully, holding her hand towards him. “But, I’m right here with you, okay? I can run in, absorb the deposit, and then we can get out of this place. We have what we came for, proof of your theory.”  

He looked at her, his eyes dark and glazed with tears. “That magic can’t be good, MC. How can it be? I killed my own flesh and blood. So much hate…” 

His voice trailed off, his eyes drawn back to the catacomb beyond. 

“The hate is gone now, Sebastian,” she said, stepping towards him. Carefully, she placed a hand to his cheek, soothing him with soft touches. “The hate died with him. He’s gone. All that is left are memories, and a spark of magic that I can put to good use.” 

“He’s still in here, though,” he said through gritted teeth, jabbing a finger against his head. “Even in my dreams I hear him. There is no end to it, but I know that it is all my fault. It is the burden I must carry from the choice that I made.” 

Her heart squeezed and she wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. He was stiff and trembling, but returned the embrace. Her earlier observations about him no longer being a boy seemed to melt away as she stroked his back. Deep down, his inner child was still broken, hiding from the pain and guilt of his actions, drowning under the weight of his uncle’s cold cruelty. In these damp and creepy catacombs, he was still the boy slumped against the wall, watching what was left of his family vanish in the wake of his fury. 

“We will be in, and out,” she promised, her hand soothing the back of his neck. “I only need a minute or two at the most to absorb the deposit, and then we can Apparate away from this place. We will never need to return here again, we can leave it in the past where it belongs.” 

He buried his face into her hair and squeezed her to him. “I love you,” he murmured, his voice muffled. 

She kissed his head, her own demons stalking through the dark of her mind, but she remained steady on her feet. Determination steeled her spine. “And I love you,” she declared. 

Leander 

Today’s briefing had an air of expectancy as Harrington shared information to those Auror’s gathered in preparation for tonight’s raid. Leander sat tense and alert, his fingers twisting around the smooth wood of his wand as he looked at the blackboard behind Harrington. A map of Dover had been pinned to it, markers along the coast suggesting tunnels that had been quickly researched by the archive team this afternoon. The Auror crew that manned the docks at Dover had been informed of the state of affairs by owl, and were on alert. 

When MC’s secret message had come to him, his heart had jumped, his nerves still raw from their last meeting. If he was honest with himself, he had been running on automatic, like a steam engine powering through on sturdy rails. He was coasting, his head stuck in a loop of those moments in the kitchen with her. The scoop she had passed on to him about the Rookwood hideout in the tunnels had switched the pace, firing his head into action, and now he was firing on hot coals. Eager to get into the fray, his eyes were keenly alert as the instructions were given out. 

“We are of the understanding that this hideout is not much more than a storage facility,” Harrington said, shifting his gaze around his team gathered. “Our inside information is newly received, and therefore not completely researched. In order to discover more, we need to investigate these tunnels. There will likely be enchantments, and Ashwinder guards, too. I want you in pairs so that you can watch each other’s backs.”

Leander shifted his attention to the blonde witch seated beside him to see her fully focused, quill poised above her little notebook. Montgomery had that eager to please aura that came from the newly qualified, and he remembered his first proper field work when he joined the Auror Office, that hunger to achieve and impress. 

She felt his gaze on her and glanced his way, her eyes brightening with excitement. “I’m guessing it’s me and you, partner,” she smiled. “You’re not going to leave me behind this time, are you?”

He shook his head, smirking at her upbeat expression. “Indeed it will be you and I teaming up. Potentially, your first proper taste of facing down some Ashwinders. Are you ready for possible combat?” 

A fire blazed in the depths of her eyes. “Absolutely,” she said firmly. 

Back at his desk, Leander brushed his thumb over his Auror badge before slipping it back into his pocket, his attention drawn to the framed photographs of his family. The life of an Auror was one lived on a constant edge. Tonight’s raid was another gamble at becoming injured, or perhaps an opportunity to face Death himself. He knew the risks, as did his family. It was the chance you took when you signed up for this life. He wasn’t sure if it was something that you ever got used to, but you faced it all the same. He supposed that was where the bravery came in, and it was telling when you considered that a high percentage of the Auror Office had come from Gryffindor house. 

Adjusting his tie, and donning his Auror robe, Leander tucked his chair neatly under his desk and straightened the quill placed in its holder before walking across to Montgomery’s desk. Already in her robe, she smiled up at him. “Is it time to go?”

“If you’re ready,” he nodded. “We are to take the Floo to the docks, and make our way up the cliff side from there. The border Auror team will direct us.”

“I’ve never been to Dover,” Montgomery said, tucking her wand away. “I hear the white cliffs are rather impressive, and topped by a magnificent castle. I never really paid much attention to history, but Dover is one of those places that really stands out.”

“It’s been a strategic border defence for centuries,” he replied, standing aside to allow her to pass through the office doors first as they walked. “It’s Britain’s closest dock for Europe, and so there has always been a strong border force for trade and military purposes. I have been there a few times. It’s very busy, but well organised by both a Muggle and wizarding world presence, and has been for hundreds of years.”

She gave him a warm smile as they approached the Atrium. “It sounds like you paid attention in history class.”

He felt a blush warm his cheeks, his fingers lifting to touch at his tie. “I suppose you could say that, and I do like to read. It’s a relaxing way to wind down out of the office.” 

As they neared the rows of green flames flickering in the Floo fireplaces, they slowed their step, pausing before one of the portals. 

“I do hope MC has given you correct information,” Montgomery said thoughtfully, offering him her arm. Leander slipped a polite hand around the crook of her elbow. “You don’t think she would send us into a trap, do you?” 

Leander stared into the green flames, a tightness growing in his chest. “No, I don’t think she would do that. Her information is sound to the best of her knowledge.” 

“You place a lot of trust in her considering she is an ex-prisoner,” she said, gazing curiously at him. “A prisoner who was convicted and sent down for the murder of an Auror, no less.” 

Leander’s face hardened with determination. “Things aren’t always what they seem, Miss Montgomery. There is more to MC than what happened with that Auror, and I know that she despises Rookwood as much as we do. What she is doing for us is no easy feat. Deep in the Ashwinder camp, she risks her own life to pass on this information. I doubt she would do it needlessly, or recklessly.” 

“I hope she deserves such stout loyalty, Mr Prewett,” she said, the green glow of the flames reflected in her shrewd eyes. “We are about to enter the aforementioned Ashwinder territory on her word alone. I merely seek a little reassurance as to our chances out there.” 

“As an Auror, our chances are always hanging on the roll of the dice,” he said, but gave her arm a reassuring pat anyway. “Fear not, we are a good team, and I shall watch your back. That’s a promise. Shall we?” 

Her smile had a twinge of nervousness, but she nodded her consent to leave. Leander stepped towards the flames, his hand linked to her arm, and stated the Port of Dover as their destination. 

….*….

Echoes of the sea winds filled the dark, damp tunnel with eerie whines. They were old passageways, narrow and carved by hand through the chalk. Wands raised, and his senses on high alert, Leander stalked carefully through the dark with Montgomery. The Aurors stationed at the port had briefed them well, with some coming along to assist in the raid. He was confident that everything should fall in their favour. 

The tunnel wound upwards, the occasional vent allowing fresh air to circulate, weak beams of light offering slight relief from the claustrophobic atmosphere. They came to a fork in the path and he looked to Montgomery, using hand gestures to signal which path to take rather than speak and risk the echo of their voices giving them away. She nodded and moved to take the path, but the sound of screams and explosions began to come from the opposite tunnel. 

The fight was on. 

There was no time to think, only act. Taking off at a run, with Montgomery at his heels, they hurried towards the sound of spell casting, the flicker and flash of magic soon beginning to light up the tunnel ahead. When they came to the end of the tunnel, the space opened up into a cavern with a low ceiling, crates and sacks of goods stored against the chalk carved walls. 

Two Aurors were duelling with a group of Ashwinders, a few of them already down. Leander blocked a hex that shot past him, falling easily into fighting mode as he dived for cover behind some crates, firing a retaliation towards the rear of the cave. Using the storage as cover, he fought alongside his colleagues, ducking and maintaining a well trained combat strategy. 

A crate to his left exploded, splinters and dust flying out in all directions. He felt something catch his cheek with a sharp sting, but ignored it, rolling behind some more boxes as Montgomery hurried to join him. 

“Prewett! Are you alright?” She exclaimed, putting a hand to his shoulder to try and get a look at his face. 

“I’m fine,” he insisted, immediately spotting a familiar blonde haired witch stepping out from behind crates. Her gaze fixed firmly on him with interest, her wand arm aimed and ready.

”Prewett?” She purred, a slow smirk lifting her mouth. She was prettier than her wanted poster, but there was no mistaking who she was. Luella Rookwood. “I do believe I have heard of you.” 

A spell burst from the end of her wand, and Leander didn’t even think twice before he grabbed Montgomery and pulled her to the ground beside him as spells flew over their heads from all directions. If he hadn’t, the cast would have hit her right in the back, and his new partner was not going to get hurt on his watch. Montgomery grunted as she landed face first into the dusty floor, the brightness of the spell almost blinding him before he felt it slam into his chest. 

He could hear a muffled scream, but his chest was on fire with a searing pain, his eyes seeing white spots from the lingering glare of the spell. He was thrown back against the crates, the back of his head making contact with a sickening crack that made the world seem to spin before it went out of focus. 

It was pain, colours fading into darkness, an unbearable weight on his chest, and a female voice screaming his name. Then all was black. 

Sebastian

The book lay atop his bed bunk. There was not a speck of dust on it, the cover exactly as it had been when he had first laid eyes upon it. As much as it was hard to comprehend how it could possibly be sitting there now right in front of him, a thrill of excitement at the sheer brilliance of it was enough to accept it. 

“What should we do with it?” MC asked. She stood beside him, her eyes also fixed on the ancient tome. 

“Hide it,” he replied immediately, picking up the satisfying weight and resisting the urge to hold it against his chest as though to protect it. “Under no circumstances can Rookwood get his hands on this.” 

MC eyed the book and shivered, folding her arms tightly in front of her chest. She hadn’t touched it, but her eyes had been curious once the initial shock of its discovery had faded. 

Upon entering the catacomb where the deposit had been found, she had moved towards the centre of the room, her gaze fixed upon something that he couldn’t see. His stomach had churned standing in the doorway, dark memories threatening to swallow him whole as he stared at the ground where Solomon’s body had fallen. Seeing his uncle dead on the ground had been jarring, of course, but the pain of loss had been greater when Anne had turned her cold eyes on him and then disappeared. 

There could be no words capable of describing that sense of abandonment and loneliness. 

As MC had paced slowly in a circle, her wand aimed at nothing, Sebastian’s gaze had been drawn towards the stone altar to the left of the room. Every candle and torch had been illuminated upon their entry, lighting up the space to reveal the scattered bones and debris, glinting off the macabre baubles of spider silk wrapped prey above their heads. To add to the visibility, a shaft of sunlight came from a hole in the ceiling, the beams highlighted by the dust motes they had disturbed, lending the chamber an ethereal look. 

A sense of the impossible had washed over him, and he paused for a moment, seriously considering the idea that he had perhaps entered a dream. He’d blinked a few times, taking an uncertain step forward, his boot crunching on an old bone fragment underfoot. There, on the altar, had stood a book. It was propped up and open as though the reader would be back in just a moment, the pages bright from the nearby candle. Forgetting that MC was preparing to absorb the deposit behind him, he had approached the altar and a strangled sound of disbelief had escaped his throat. 

Slytherin’s grimoire stood as solid and legible as the day it was made, right there on the altar, which couldn’t be possible. Anne had blasted the tome to pieces in her rage that day, destroying the chance of Sebastian ever experimenting with the aged magic again. At least, that is what they had believed. Until now.

Of course, he had brought it with them, unable to leave such a precious artefact of significance there in those wasted caverns. MC had been wary of it, and still was, her apprehension compounded by her recent discovery of her Slytherin bloodline. The look she gave him now back in the tent, a glint of suspicion there with her wariness, made him bring the book closer to his chest after all. 

“The last time you used that book, terrible things happened,” she said carefully. “Perhaps you ought to hide it somewhere far out of reach lest you be tempted to use it again. I can’t believe it reincarnated itself. How does that even happen?” 

“You sound like Ominis,” he moaned, rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I’m not about to begin mastering the dark arts. It’s merely educational. Isn’t it just brilliant, though? Slytherin truly was a master of magic. Of course he would enchant his books against destruction. It’s genius!” 

MC sighed and shook her head. “I feel like I should enchant you against destruction,” she muttered, removing her cloak and dropping it onto the bed. 

His smirk at her words faded as he watched her open her bag and take out a hair brush, loosening her braid so that she could smooth out her hair. She was making herself comfortable in his space, and that was a promising sign. Perhaps she would stay in here with him rather than return to her own tent within the camp. He certainly had no objections to that. 

“How do you feel after absorbing the deposit?” He asked, admiring the way her hair shone like silk in the glow of the lamp. 

Her hands stilled and she bit her lip, her eyes sheepish as they swung towards him. “I have a confession to make,” she said, twisting the brush in her hands. “I didn’t actually absorb the magic deposit.” 

His eyes widened. “Why in Merlin’s name not? Was that not the plan?” 

Her mouth tightened. “It’s Rookwood’s plan. I found that once I was there, I didn’t want to take that magic into myself. Like you said, it couldn’t be filled with much good considering the circumstances of how it came to be. Much like Isadora’s huge repository under Hogwarts, it seemed to seethe with darkness. I don’t want that inside of me, Seb, even more so when it was so personally connected to us both. I figured we have enough darkness between the two of us already.”

“So, it’s still down there?” He frowned at the thought. What if another like MC came along and discovered it? 

“Not exactly,” she said, dropping the hair brush onto the bed. “I moved it.” 

He watched as she slipped a shiny phial from her pocket and held it up. “It’s in here,” she said, giving it a wiggle. “This is a flask made of goblin silver. It was a gift from Professor Fig. It belonged to his wife. Through my conversations with Lodgok, I learned a great deal about how ancient magic and goblin silver can work together. So, rather than absorb the magic into myself, I will store it inside this until I have decided what to do with it. Of course, much like Slytherin’s book, nobody else can know about this.” 

“You have my word,” he said, stepping closer to admire the silver flask. 

“I mean it,” she said, her face firm. “This is strictly between us. I don’t even want the Ministry to know about this. Our little secret.” 

He met her gaze, his fingertips reaching to touch against the silver chain at her neck. It felt like bonds were strengthening between them, she was gradually becoming closer, and it warmed him. “Our little secret,” he whispered. “I cannot help but wonder, though, sweetheart. Why not just absorb it into yourself? Surely that would be much safer than risking this flask falling into the wrong hands.” 

“Even if someone did get their hands on this, they wouldn’t know what was inside unless they were a vessel of ancient magic,” she said, smoothing her thumb over the pretty silver. “I’m the only one who can see it, so to anyone else, it’s just a lovely trinket. As for not absorbing it myself, I’m not sure I want it, Sebastian. It’s already such a burden to carry, and it is becoming all that anyone sees when they look at me. The girl with all the power. Do I really need any more of it?”

Her eyes were dark and fathomless, pools you could get lost in. They truly were a pair of lost souls in the dark, but she was beginning to trust him again. He stroked back her hair, his fingers sliding through the silky softness. As he pressed a kiss to her forehead, she closed her eyes. “That's not all I see,” he murmured. “We will keep the magic safe until all this is over. After that, we will have the rest of our lives to figure out the rest.” 

As she was about to lean into him, a commotion sounded from outside the tent, raised voices and the thudding of feet. They exchanged a quick glance of curiosity before he swiftly conjured the book into a hidden pocket. MC did the same with her goblin flask and they withdrew their wands. 

“Is the camp under attack?” She asked as they hurried for the exit. 

“It could well be,” he replied, adrenaline already beginning to spike as he paused to lift the door flap. He gave her a look. “If it’s Aurors, then let’s hope this doesn’t blow your cover. That article in the Daily Prophet about you was rather damning.” 

“They wouldn’t risk it,” she said, shaking her head. “The only one in contact with me is Leander, and he wouldn’t do anything like this without telling me first.” 

Sebastian arched one eyebrow. “Such faith you have in him,” he muttered sourly. 

“Let’s just see what’s going on out there, shall we?” She snipped, jabbing her wand towards the entrance. 

The sun was descending behind the peaks of the mountains as they emerged from the tent. A few Ashwinders were gathered at the campfire, heads bent in discussion. The rest of the camp appeared quiet, no sign of the camp leader, and Sebastian turned his attention towards Rookwood’s tent. The lamps outside were lit, and Ashwinders were entering. He whistled to catch the attention of the nearby camp members. “What’s happening?” 

The taller of the two turned, his gaze lingering on MC. “A raid down at Dover, apparently. Lulu turned up all battle worn, spitting fury. She’s in with the boss man as we speak,” he said, aiming his thumb towards Rookwood’s tent. 

“Dover?” Sebastian frowned. “What kind of raid?” 

“They found the tunnel stores. Whole place was crawling with the bastards. The fight was bad, think we lost a few,” he grunted. Then his eyes gleamed as a wicked grin curved his mouth. “Got ourselves a couple of captives, though. Should make for a bit of sport.” 

MC visibly stiffened beside him, and Sebastian felt a chilling realisation trickle down his spine. Keeping his gaze on the Ashwinder, he nodded. “Sounds like there are stories to be shared,” he said smoothly. “I will check in with Rookwood in a moment.” 

The Ashwinder merely shrugged and turned back to his companion. Before another word could be uttered, he clamped his hand around MC’s wrist and Apparated them both a short distance away into the trees. As they landed onto a thick carpet of leaves, she gasped, stumbling slightly. 

“I wish you would bloody warn me before you do that,” she snapped, brushing the loose curtain of hair back from her face. 

He didn’t want to believe that this warmth she had been showing him was an act of trickery, but the nagging suspicion clung like ice claws to the back of his neck, the dark shadows of his insecurities crowded his head and obliterated all else. The shadows were lengthening, dusk already claiming the darkness under the trees as though in sympathy with him. He watched her carefully, his body tense. 

“Tell me it wasn’t you,” he asked slowly. 

She frowned. “What do you mean?” 

He huffed and began to pace, pushing his hand through his hair. “I’m not sure how you would do it, though, that’s the problem. I mean, you have been with me the whole time.” He turned his gaze back onto her. “It’s just funny how we have a little conversation about the tunnels down at Dover, and now the place is crawling with Aurors. Is it a coincidence, MC? Or was that your word they acted on?” 

She went very still, her face closing off into that cold way she had when she felt threatened. “Even if it was by my word, aren’t we on the same side here? You make it sound like the raid was a personal attack on you.” 

“I don’t care about the damned raid,” he said, stepping towards her. “I’m more interested in the idea of you using me to gain information on the sly. How would you even get that message to Prewett so fast? You have no owl to hand, and you haven’t left my side. Is he nearby? Is he following us?” 

“It sounds like you don’t trust me, Sebastian,” she said, her jaw tightening. 

“I want to,” he said, his voice pained. Those cold fingers of fear tickled at his neck. “If you want information, you only have to ask. I am on your side. If you were going to pass anything on to the Aurors, why can’t you tell me?” 

Her eyes dipped away, her head bowing slightly, and that curdling jealousy twisted thickly in his gut. “It’s because it's him, isn’t it? Whatever secret thing you have going on with Prewett, you don’t want me involved.” 

“You already know I am his informant, Sebastian,” she sighed. “Why is it such a surprise that I would tell him things? We all want the same outcome here. Isn’t that the priority?” 

He began to pace again, thinking fast. Pushing back the encroaching darkness that waited in the wings of his head, he tried to focus on the raid, and the implications of it. Above all else, their self preservation came first. If the Aurors were tortured, or worse, cast upon with Imperio, then their cover would be blown.

“Do you think Prewett would have gone to the tunnels?” He huffed a bitter laugh and shook his head. “Wait, of course he would go. He can’t help himself.” 

“Wait, what are you suggesting?” Her face paled and she turned her gaze back towards the glow of the camp fires through the trees. She shook her head, fear in her eyes. “No, no…” 

“I hate to say it, but I doubt Prewett is one of the captives,” he said begrudgingly. If there was one thing he could credit to the man, it was his ability to hold his own in a duel. He would never tell the proud Gryffindor, but he had been one his toughest opponents growing up. All the more reason to bait him all the time. “Whoever it is, they are a risk to you, and what we are doing here.”

“Where would they take captives? That holding tent where Rookwood had that lad beaten?” 

Sebastian sighed and nodded. “Most likely.” 

He blinked, and she was gone, the crack of her Disapparating a sharp echo under the trees. He stared at the spot where she had been standing mere seconds ago, his gut twisting sharply. “Fuck,” he swore, gritting his teeth. 

MC

Her pulse seemed to throb in her ears as panic restricted her throat, but she kept her steps calm and deliberate as she stalked down the side of the tent where she had witnessed the punishment of that Ashwinder lad. Peering around the corner, she saw two guards at the entrance, and assessed her options. She merely wanted to look. She just wanted to know if it really was Leander inside the tent. If so, her actions had put him there. 

Thinking of the violence with which the Executioner had treated one of their own in punishment, it made her shudder to imagine what they would do to two Aurors. Even if it turned out not to be Leander, could she allow such a thing to take place? In order to maintain her cover, she might have to, and she didn’t think she would be able to stomach it. 

Perhaps walking boldly up to the guards and asking for admittance would be enough. She was very powerful after all, Rookwood’s little pet. Or perhaps a swift Petrificus Totalus would be in order. Either way, she had to know who was in the tent. 

As she was about to step out, a hand clamped over her mouth and she was yanked backwards. Her muffled squeal was silenced as Sebastian fixed his pointed glare up close to her face, his brows drawn down in temper. 

“What do you think you are doing?” He hissed. “Are you trying to get us in the shit, or what?” 

She struggled against his grip, but he held her firm. She glared at him, hoping her eyes would singe his stupid face. Just when she thought things between them could reach an even keel, he had managed to piss her off yet again, throwing around his over protective jealousy. In her efforts to wriggle free, his hand slipped a little and she managed to open her mouth enough to give him a sharp nip with her teeth. 

“Ah, you little bitch,” he hissed, shaking his hand. “You bit me!” 

“You want to treat me like an animal, then expect to get bitten when you corner me,” she said, her words a harsh whisper. “Don’t grab me like that again!” 

“If you go in there and do anything to help those captives, the game is up, MC,” he insisted, taking hold of her shoulders, his face firm. 

He was right, but she kept her head up, determination making her rigid under his hands. “I’m not stupid, Sebastian. I know there are risks, but…” She wavered, swallowing past the tightness in her throat. “I need to know if he is in there. I can’t just stand by and do nothing and let them hurt him.” 

Sebastian dipped his head, frustration coming from him in waves. “Fine,” he hissed, and began to drag her away towards the rear of the tent. “Then we check it out first, but out of sight. This way.” 

He dragged her around to the rear of the tent and dropped to the ground, loosening a tent peg just enough to pull the fabric up. He nodded to the flattened grass before him. “I’ll hold it up, you get down and have a peek.” 

She dropped to her knees and pressed her cheek to the cool grass, a faint glow from a torch appearing under the flap of fabric. She squinted against the light after the dimness outside, her eyes adjusting. Her gaze swept the tent, and then she tensed when she spotted the two figures sitting on the dirt flooring, tied back to back against a post with rope. One of them was a petite, blonde girl, no more than twenty, her head hanging low against her chest. The other was a very familiar, tall red head, covered in blood, his body limp and apparently unconscious. Tears burned her eyes as she pushed herself upright, a hollow opening up in her chest. 

“It’s him,” she said, the words not much more than a whimper. “Gods, it’s him.” 

She met Sebastian’s eyes, not even bothering to swipe away the tear that rolled down her cheek. The hardness she saw in Sebastian’s eyes filled her with a sense of foreboding, but then he sighed, his shoulders dropping. A look of determination came into his gaze, a spark of hope flaring in her chest. 

“Alright,” he said, spinning his wand artfully in his fingers. He met her gaze. “I guess this is where I prove that I will do literally anything for you, MC. We need a plan.” 

To be continued...

Ivy Montgomery is an OC belonging to @eternalremorse and used with her kind permission.

Taglist: @slytherin-paramour @writing-intheundercroft @marketfreshfics @evaslytherpuff @sevprince-91 @loving-him-was-red13 @lucy-withthediamonds-inthesky

[flowercrowngods]

He’s not entirely sure what wakes him, something between instinct, experience, and the dreadful gut-feeling that something is very, very wrong. A voice in the back of his head calls it the telltale sound of nightmare, of fear, of a child that seeks protection. That same voice wants to call it the sound of fatherhood, but it’s shut away before it becomes too loud every time.

Either way, they wake him. The groaning of the bed springs, the creaking of the floor board just behind the door before it opens with a squeak. And then the sound, barely there, of slow steps, old wool scraping over polished wood and worn carpet.

They come to a stop six paces before the couch.

Hopper counts to five before he turns to look which one of the kids it is.

Steve. Of course. El doesn’t come to him, not really. She goes to Steve if she can’t sleep, knowing he’ll be awake. The kid is always awake — and Hopper is almost glad for it, having heard his nightmares. For how quiet he is throughout the day, he sure doesn’t hold back at night.

El mentioned something a few days ago about visiting him in there to make it quiet, but they haven’t figured out how to do that yet. Steve mentioned something about sensory deprivation, but Hopper hasn’t gotten around to finding out more without being suspicious.

Really, the silence of the night should have been a dead giveaway that Steve wasn’t sleeping. It’s the third night, as far as Hopper knows. Three nights without sleep is grounds to worry, sure; but then the things he worries about are countless, so really it’s just one thing among many.

Steve rarely comes to see him, though. It must be really bad then. They made a deal after Christmas.

You come to me. Next time you wanna run, you come to me, understand that? I won’t pick you off the floor half frozen to death again next time, kid, so you got a problem, you come to me, alright?

Steve had only shrugged, and Hopper had wanted to punch him, to pull him in and hold him for a while and then shake him and command him to just fucking talk. He had pulled him in, clapped his shoulder and ruffled his hair before sending him to go eat his dinner.

And now there he is, standing in the middle of the cabin that seems to get tinier by the day, wringing his hands in the dark.

“What is it?” Hopper grunts as he sits up, wincing at how rough his voice sounds. Way to go getting him to talk, idiot.

“Uh…”

Hopper waits, but Steve doesn’t say anything more than that, and understanding dawns. The pit of dread grows, and Hopper sighs, leaning his head against the backrest of the couch.

“It’s Wednesday.”

Steve stares.

“Wednesday, February twenty-second.”

Steve stares, and Hopper hates this.

“It’s Wednesday, February twenty-second, 1984.”

Steve stares, but he inhales now. He breathes. He’s alive. Hopper wonders if he needs a reminder of that, too.

But then he nods, slowly, a little too long. Hopper doesn’t know what to do. He hates this, he hates this, he hates this. The urge to punch something is strong; but at least this time he doesn’t wanna punch the kid. He never actually wants to punch the kid.

“I don’t know what to do,” Steve says then, and it’s a whisper into the cold night that damn near breaks Hopper’s cold, tiny heart in two.

He’s struck by deja-vu. His daughter standing by his bed at night, her bunny clutched tightly to her chest, a sniffle interrupting the silence and waking him up. A nightmare woke her up, and the rain sounded scary, and she wanted to go back to sleep but she didn’t know how.

“I don’t know what to do, daddy.”

“Come here, that’s what you do.”

“Come here,” Hopper says, lifting his blanket in an invitation, and he wonders if Steve even sees it in the darkness. If he even has his eyes open. If his vision isn’t blurred with those silent tears he’s so good at hiding.

After a moment, silent steps approach him, and Hopper is surprised that he listened. The kid must really be tired, then. And scared. Shitless, probably.

But he comes. And he didn’t run. And he’s not freezing to death outside in his pyjamas.

It feels like a win. A heartbreaking, angry little win that leaves Hopper with the urge to burn this whole world to the ground and rip reality to shreds. But still, somehow, a win.

[fayes-fics]

A Closer Shave [fic remix]

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict’s wife helps him get clean shaven… requested remix of my fic A Close Shave

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, d/s tones, slightly domme reader, cockwarming, vaginal sex, flirting, teasing, shaving.

Word Count: 1.4k

Author’s Note: Unbetaed. I got a request from @p0tat0nug to remix my fic A Close Shave with cockwarming reader instead. So… here it is. It starts the same, then reuses some content intentionally, but with a twist. I hope you enjoy <3

“Stop that”, you admonish playfully as his hands run heavily down your sides and grasp your hips, pulling you onto the growing bulge in his trousers.

“Then don’t sit on me in such an appealing way, my love,” he smiles crookedly, a clump of shaving cream sliding down his neck at the movement.

“Benedict, are you really trying to distract a woman holding a cutthroat razor?” you raise an eyebrow waving your hand slightly to show the weapon you wield.

“Your offer to shave me was not meant to include you straddling me like this,” he answers drolly.

“How else am I supposed to do it?” you frown, looking at the reclined chair he is in and your surroundings.

“Stand behind my head?” he chuckles as if the answer is obvious.

“But then your face would be upside down, and I wouldn't be able to see under your chin; that’s a stupid idea,” you sniff dismissively.

“Well, I’m quite sure a barber would not be allowed to practice if they tried this technique,” he jests gently, his hands wrapping around your back, running fingers across your spine.

“What a shame for them. It’s really a rather nice seat,” you smirk and lightly gyrate your hips, pressing down on his rapidly hardening cock.

“You are just doing this for sport, aren’t you?” He shakes his head slightly in disapproval but doesn’t exactly look upset about it.

“Maybe,” you singsong, “but hold still, darling. You want to look nice for the ball later, do you not?”

“I want to fuck you more,” he says casually, but with a tone he knows flusters you every time.

“Benedict Bridgerton!!” You exclaim in mock outrage. Then lean down and whisper in his ear, “you had better. I’m not wearing any underwear today.”

His groan is lewd, and his hands flex on your body. “For god's sake, remove this shaving cream at once. We need to go to bed right now,” he asserts, pushing his pelvis up against you so much your feet leave the ground.

“I have a better idea,” you murmur, running your free hand down his front, all the way to the rigid cock framed by the apex of your thighs, squeezing him through the wool until he is staring at you hungrily and panting.

You hold eye contact with a sly smile as you start to pull open the buttons of his trousers.

“What are you…?” he whispers.

“Shhh, husband,” you interject, twisting your mouth into an authoritative pout and raising an eyebrow at him.

He is suddenly quiet and compliant.

You sheath the razor and place it on his chest, using both hands to pull down the front of his trousers.

“Mr Bridgerton, you just never wear underwear, do you?” you chuckle, wrapping a hand around his warm solid cock as he groans loudly but doesn't answer. “Well, all the better for me, I suppose….” you supplement with a teasing lilt as you shuffle your dress around your hips and push up to lower yourself onto him.

You both moan at the sensation, him at the clinging heat and wetness that envelops him, you at the solid searing presence pushing you open—just the right side of painful but so filling as you sink. God, you will never tire of that feeling.

His eyes are closed, and his breathing is heavy as you speak again. “I’m sorry, husband. I will only have sex with freshly shaven men today,” you tempt, “so lay still, and if you let me get this done, maybe I will fuck you.”

His eyes fly open in surprise. “What do you mean? I am inside you right now,” he sounds so endearingly nonplussed.

“Indeed,” you concur, “but I'm not moving until this pretty face here is all stubble-free.”

He makes a little whining noise and flexes under you, but you hush him and pick up the razor you left on his chest, flicking it open under his disbelieving stare.

You wait until his pout relents, and he relaxes back, then start to shave near his left ear. Small, gentle motions as you hear his stubble rasp under the blade, wiping the cream onto the damp rag to your side. You make steady progress, listening to the sound of his breathing, humming softly to yourself to maintain focus, trying desperately not to think about how good he feels rock hard inside you. But after a while, you just can’t resist a little flirtation, a slight tease.

“You are a very handsome man, husband,” you sigh as you watch more of his face being revealed, and you feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Don’t”, he warns, muffled, trying not to move his lips or face too much as you pass the sharp instrument over the round of his chin.

“What? I just speak the truth,” you shrug, lowering your face right over his. “Can I not tell my husband how attractive I find him? How much he arouses me?” You are goading him now, and just for good measure, you clench around his cock.

His breath is a harsh exhale of hot air across your lips, and there is a loud pained noise from the very back of his throat. “Stop teasing me,” he pleads, looking at you so beseechingly with puppy dog eyes.

“Oh, husband, that’s not a tease,” you chuckle. “A tease would be telling you I sat in the window and touched myself watching you fence with your brothers earlier. So very commanding with your epee.”

He growls and goes to push away the hand that holds the razor, but you block him, holding firm against him. “Nuh uh uh,” you cluck. “You will let me finish, husband. Or I will just climb off and leave you unsatisfied.”

He grips your wrist, breathing heavily, staring up at you, lips parted slightly. “You… you wouldn't?” he stutters.

“I might,” you reply, feeling a little triumphant, and roll your hips, so his tip rubs your hilt.

“Fuckkkkkk,” he moans long, loud, and needy, writhing delightfully under you, hands gripping your waist so tight.

“Mmm, yes,” you smile, “more where that came from if you let me finish.”

“You temptress,” he laments as you bark a harsh laugh.

Realising it’s the only way to end the ordeal, he lays still obediently as you finish the shave, all the while his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows laboriously, waiting patiently for the reward you promised.

"There we go, all done, husband,” you state cheerfully as you wrap a towel around his face. He sighs at the cocooning sensation, but it morphs into a groan as you lift off him slightly and sink back down, grabbing one of his hands and placing it on the heated swell of your breast.

“Are you really going to ride me right here?” his ask is quiet, muffled under the towel before you whip it away.

“Oh yes,” you smile down at him rearranging your legs, so you have better leverage.

“I'm a very, very lucky man,” he murmurs as you start to move in earnest, panting at the sensation of him as you rise and fall.

“And don't you forget it,” you retort with a wink as his other hand land on your hip, encouraging your movements.

You lean in for a passionate kiss that is full of panting breaths and swallowed moans as you speed up, and the chair starts to squeak in protest.

“Are you sure you wouldn't be more comfortable on the bed?” he mumbles as your lips part ways.

“Perhaps,” you concede.

“Also, I fear we may break this chair if you keep ravishing me like this,” his breath dusting hot on your cheekbone as you giggle. “May I carry you to bed so you can continue there, wife?” his lopsided grin is charming as ever.

You pause in your movements and match his smile, “Yes, husband, you may.”

Grasping your hips, he stands up in one swift, fluid motion, wrapping your legs around him. You feel his heaving chest crushed against yours, his cock still so hot inside you, as he strides towards the bed.

Once he is sat on the edge of the mattress, you push him down so he is lying, his feet dangling off the floor; as you find your angle and proceed to ride him so hard, he begs you not to stop. And you don’t—not until you are both spent and gasping.

An hour later, when Eloise asks Benedict why he has whipped cream on his neck, you realise you missed a cleanup spot. Your smirk at him is priceless.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @angels17324 @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet