#its features remind me so much of a porcelain doll

[pray4dreams]

it genuinely amazes me how utterly unique he is. I’ve never nor will i ever meet anyone who captures my heart as he did

[philliam-writes]

you are in the earth of me [02]

Pairing: Anthony Lockwood x fem!Reader

Content: canon-typical violene, patching up Reader, author pining for Lockwood

Summary: Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their demeanours are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems striking like a flash of bright lightning—quick-witted and assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off that he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Notes: [01] | [03]

Words: 7.3k

A/N: Nothing could have prepared me for the overwhelming positive feedback I got for chapter 01!! Thank you so much for everyone who's joined the ride. I hope you guys will enjoy this as much as I!! (I'm on my 4th rewarch of Lockwood & Co. and I still delight in noticing all the small details they put into the show. Also. Lockwood's voice! Makes! Me! Weak!

02: for whom the bell tolls

each man’s death diminishes me, for i am involved in mankind. therefore, send not to know for whom the bell tolls, it tolls for thee

      — John Donne

The Rotwell dormitory you live in, nicknamed the Lions Den, is a stocky brick house taking up a good chunk of Dovehouse Street. There used to be a hotel there, way before the Problem, and then an apartment complex for the rich elderly until Rotwell bought the whole building and its private gardens just to prove they can. Echoing the classical Georgian townhouses of Chelsea built out of pale toast and earthy red shades of brick, every residence features timber-panelled walls, triple-glazed windows, and smoked oak floors throughout.

The front entrance has glass doors sliding open for anyone entering. Somehow, the foyer always smells like pine needle polisher. To the right side is a row of mail boxes with each tenant’s name, on the left side is the guard’s office, separated from the foyer by sleek glass panels. Someone decided to put a whole rainforest inside, monstera, rubber trees, philodendrons. They nearly swallow tonight’s agent covering the shift: a bulky, young girl with dark curls to her chin looking like a malformed porcelain doll—delicate features on top, sinewy muscle stretching the seams of her wine red agent jacket going down. She stares at you for a moment, blinking with her long black eyelashes.

You wave.

She doesn’t wave back, and returns to painting her nails a vibrant yellow you could pick out from space.

Inside your mail box, you find ads and unpaid bills, reminders to pay said bills, and a very unflattering drawing of you working out in the dormitory’s underground gym area. You crumble the note and throw it back inside, slamming the window shut.

Your two-room apartment lies at the end of a long corridor, facing the backside and gardens. It is a copy paste of all other living complexes inside this building: a small entrance leading into a spacious living area with a cream-coloured two-seater couch at its centre, a solid cherrywood desk next to the curtained window and a heavy antique armoire twice your size pushed against the wall. Behind an ornate cedar door is the small bedroom, king-sized bed and heavy bureau and all that makes it look more like a hotel room advert than a place where you could wind down after a hard day.

As always, you stand in the hallway for a moment before turning the lights on. It is quiet, the room smells of polished wood and washed laundry. As always, it feels as though the walls are closing in.

You flick the light on and stash your rapier inside the umbrella rack by the front door, ignoring the two trash bags waiting to be thrown out. The laundry has been hanging for three days, but there was just no time to clean it away because you’re barely here—every minute spend within these walls is taken up by sleeping, eating or occasionally staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling and counting the heavy thuds from above whenever the agent living in the upper apartment decides it is time to practice tango in high heels at three in the morning.

You cross the room and open the window, letting in the cool night breeze. The smell of dawn hangs in the air, crispy and cold like the crackling of dry leaves. It will take only a few more hours for the sun to rise and draw London’s people from their homes to go about their daily lives. Jobs, grocery runs, late afternoon dates, strolls through the parks. When the world wakes up, you turn in to sleep, bloody, beaten and bruised, but alive.

You wonder if every day will be like this. Fight against the Problem and only chip away at the immeasurable scale of its extent. This night, you have secured two Sources, stopped two hauntings. But how does this affect the grand scheme of things?

Your head hurts. Best to leave the existential crisis for another day; right now all you need is your soft pillow and the familiar smell of your lavender-detergent. The Problem will still be there once you wake up; it will not ruin those precious hours asleep where you don’t have to worry about anything.

Every apartment has a tiny kitchen and bath adjacent to the living area. A cup of tea before you turn in, and maybe one or two of those chocolate chip biscuit a client gave you last week in appreciation for driving off the Lurker in her basement.

The kitchen looks just like you left it: as though a salt bomb has gone off. There was no time to put away the dishes or give the pan a quick scrub before you left for your shift, and now the leftover burnt bits stick to the dark surface. The half-full cup of coffee has grown cold since the morning, left forgotten. You’re too tired to clean up. It’ll have to wait until you wake up, or maybe even after the next shift.

You consider throwing your head back and screaming for a second when all of a sudden an intense hate for this apartment geysers up and threatens to swallow you. It is tiny, suffocating. There is nothing personal about this—you could disappear from the world and it would just become someone else’s responsibility and property. Nothing would indicate that you left a mark in this place.

Putting the kettle on the stove, you pick out your favourite mug with a broken handle—Kipps’s fault when he knocked it off the table a couple months back—and return to the living room. Your coat smells of burnt fabric from ectoplasm. The agency is very strict when it comes to appearance and representing Rotwell's splendid work ethic, so replacing it will put another dent in your account, but that is still better than going through the same trouble as last month when you appeared with a chocolate smudge on your jacket and every supervisor spotting you gave you hell for it.

Half-shrugged out of your coat, you walk back, past the closed window.

And stop.

Slowly, you turn. Only your own reflection stares back at you—wide-eyed and dishevelled from today. There’s a dark patch on your shoulder where ectoplasm has eaten like acid through the fabric of your coat. The lock is latched firmly on the inside, the metal clip winking at you under the Tiffany lamp’s reflection. Suddenly, everything depends on how still you are against the moving world.

Where did you leave your rapier? Ah, inside the umbrella rack back in the hallway. What’s the closest bludgeon weapon you can get your hands on? Only an empty Pringles can, yesterday’s dinner.

In the window’s reflection, the dark patch on your shoulder rises, distorts. Grows a head. Even with the room plunged into silence, your heart beats rabbit-fast and you hold your breath to keep from making a sound. Just this once, you’re thankful you were running late this morning and didn’t have time to clean up the leftover breakfast on your office desk that stands against the wall. Not even five steps separate you from the blunt silver knife glinting under the lamp with specks of dried jam on its blade.

The shadow behind you grows bulky shoulders and broad arms. When it steps onto the small area just a little to the right from the entrance, the wood creaks.

The world jerks back into motion.

You lunge for the knife on the table when a hard body slams into yours. You crash against the wardrobe, your head hitting the hard wood with a loud crack. The room spins as all air is knocked out of your lungs. You notice a blurry shadow rising in front of you, and your body moves on autopilot—rolls to the right and falls to the ground just in time to dodge a fist punching a hole into the wardrobe.

Nauseating headache throbs like lightning flashes in the back of your head as you scramble back to your feet, wheezing from the pain spreading through your body from the impact. Your rapier. You need your rapier.

Wood splinters when your attacker draws his hand back. He is almost two heads taller than you, completely clad in black. Even his face hides behind a ski mask. All you see are two pinpricks of unfathomably dark eyes as though this man has gazed into an abyss and the abyss has gazed right back at him.

He doesn’t move for a second, stands as though frozen on the spot. Only his hand flexes, relaxes. Clenches. Silver glints off his gloved knuckles. He is here with one intention only: to hurt you.

You don’t have time to ask why. His legs are longer; he closes the distance between you with two long steps, swings his arm towards your face. You spin and fling yourself over the backrest of the sofa, bounce off its cushions and jump to your feet on the other side. With furniture between you and the intruder, you finally force yourself to take in deep breaths. Think.

The smell coming off of him. You recognise it. Grainy, woody with a fruity note. The sweetness you picked up earlier this night must have been caramel. Alcohol.

“Look, if this is about me bumping into your table earlier at the Green Goose, you could just ask for a proper apology,” you press out between gritted teeth. Your whole body feels like a giant bruise, sore and laden from exhaustion.

Every step he takes around the couch, you mirror until it becomes a dance of bodies and mind to see who gives in first; who slows down and loses focus.

At first you believe the noise to be your frantic breathing—or his rattling wheeze, but then you pick it up. A rough, scratchy voice.

“Dickey … need … dickey …”

Your muscles are so taut you fear they might snap any second. Another circle around your couch you go. “What? I don’t—I don’t know what that is.”

“The … the key,” he repeats, louder this time. “I need the key.”

“Key? What key?” You feel the gnawing urge to squeeze your eyes shut against the vertigo of this situation. “I don’t have a key—”

The memory flies back so fast it nearly knocks you out like an incoming brick. Bronze, small, resting within the cushions of a small seal. Disappearing into the deep pockets of a black coat. The echo of death and violence still sticking to your fingers even through the fabric of your gloves.

You round the couch again and stop, the desk at your back. The knife is just in reach. “I don’t have that key.”

“I saw it. He gave it to you. You have no idea how important it is to us.” His voice rises to a snarl, the quality rougher than satin scratching over bark.

“He never gave—” Another memory hurtles your way—it is a wonder you don’t pass out from a concussion. The candy. It is still inside your pocket, suddenly heavier than a stone.

Everything makes sense now.

You take a step back towards the table. “You’ve got it all wrong,” you say, your words tumbling over themselves in their haste to get out, “I don’t have the key, and I don’t know where it is. I’ve got nothing to do with it.”

“LIES!” he hollers, and punches the backrest of your couch. The loud thud is like a gunshut, and you move, whirl around and grab for the knife—and completely misjudge where it is. Instead, your hand slaps on the dirty plate.

It could be worse.

Heavy steps thump behind you. You grab the plate, turn and hurl it at the man. It slams into him, shattering into thousand pieces.

You fly past him, towards the hallway and umbrella rack where your rapier is waiting. Stretching your hand out, your fingers brush against the silver handle—

A hard grip catches the end of your trenchcoat, yanking you back. The blow comes out of nowhere, slamming into your face so hard you see stars. Your back teeth clang together. Black dots dance before your eyes and blur your vision as pain radiates from your cheek. Something sharp and hard slides across your knees, slicing the fabric of your jeans clean in half.

Fingers curling, tightening their hold around the familiar hilt, you turn and draw back your arm, and let it snap forward like a snake lashing out and sinking its venomous teeth into its prey.

The silver-tipped edge of your rapier drives into the man’s shoulder and he cries out in pain, staggers back—and takes your rapier with him. He curls his gloved fingers around the thin blade and yanks the tip out of his shoulder, throwing your weapon to the ground where it lies useless and completely out of reach.

He reaches into a side pocket and draws a jagged, razor-sharp knife.

On second thought, maybe you should just run.

You bolt for the hallway once more, this time aiming straight for the door. The sound of a fast-moving object sailing towards you—something moving quickly and swiftly and with enough force to slice the air in half—makes you throw yourself forward, just in time to dodge the glinting edge nipping your hair.

You yank at the handle, letting white light spill into the apartment from the outside hallway.

Two thinks happen at once.

You wrench the door open and squeeze through the narrow gab. The man behind you slams bodily into the door and you hear a pained groan. At the same time, something sharp cuts through your trenchcoat and jacket. Searing-hot pain explodes in your left side.

You manage to push through and shut the door with a loud slam. A second bang shakes the door; he must have run into it again trying to chase after you.

Hot pain radiates from your side. You grit your teeth hard enough your jaw hurts and follow along the hallway all the way back to the foyer.

When you reach the night guard’s office, there is nobody inside. As if this night couldn’t turn even worse. A small glass bottle lies disturbed on the table, spreading yellow nail polish like spilt blood on its surface. The girl must have knocked it over, now gone to fetch a cleaner.

Great.

You throw yourself under the table and disappear from sight; somewhere on the first floor a door slams shut.

There has to be a way out. A way to draw attention; a way to drive him away. As your eyes rake across the room to find something, anything, they land on a red button behind a small glass window. The ghost-alarm in case of hauntings inside the dorms.

You crawl out from under the desk and scurry across the room, heart beating in your throat. If you turn and he is behind you …

Slamming your fist into the small panel, the button gives away without any resistance.

Sirens blare in the building. More doors slam—opening this time as hundred agents emerge from their rooms. Voices echo from the hallways, drowned by the sprinklers going off and raining salt from the ceiling like little diamonds.

You back into a corner, wide eyes staring at the foyer and counting down the seconds until your attacker enters—any moment, any moment, any moment. Only agents begin to spill into the hall, pale faced, groggy from being rudely awakened after tiring shifts.

With the imminent threat gone, the adrenaline pumping through your body slowly ebbs away—leaving behind bone-deep exhaustion, and mind-numbing pain as though your whole body is one giant bruise.

Your clothes stick to your skin, something warm tickles down your side. You cross the room on wobbling feet, forcing yourself not to look; convincing yourself that it is just coffee, just like a few hours ago when you sat in the booth next to Kipps.

The phone receiver on a corner stand is heavier than you remember. Your fingers move as if possessed, finding the familiar numbers on the dial. It rings. Once, twice.

Tears prick in the back of your eyes as it keeps ringing, your call remaining unanswered. Maybe he hasn’t come home yet. Maybe he is still out. Your throat is dry. You feel like an animal trapped against a corner. Suddenly, everything goes blurry.

Click. Kipps’s tired groan is all you get for a hello.

“Quill,” you choke out. Because despite having to call DEPRAC or maybe an ambulance, Quill Kipps will always be the first you turn to in moments of crisis. “Quill, I might have been stabbed.”

Silence. On the other line, you hear fabric rustling, as though he is crawling out of bed.

“What,” Kipps says, his voice rough from sleep, “the fuck.”

You still don’t know what is so special about the address Kipps has sent you to compared to the hospital or Scotland Yard where you assume they are more qualified to handle your dilemma, but you hope that you arrive soon because the daggers the cab driver keeps throwing at you seem more lethal than the gashing wound in your side.

When he finally stops the car—abruptly enough to launch your body against the frontseat—you rummage through your pockets and empty them completely, leaving a generous tip for bleeding on his car seats.

You barely manage to close the door behind you when he speeds off, leaving a dust trail behind.

The sky is turning cotton pink on the horizon. Dawn spreads light and hope across the city, bright and clear, and very painful for your strained, exhausted eyes. You turn away, taking in your surroundings.

The cab has left you in a residential area at the centre of London where the Victorian semis look like they might belong on old postcards from better times, before the Problem. 35 Portland Row is an inconspicuous, four-level house at the very end of the street. Just like its neighbours, it would not suffer from a new repaint, or maybe just a good clean-up.

A lone shadow sits by the stairs leading into the building, rising when you approach. Kipps looks like you feel: his hair sticks out in all directions and there are half-moons of shadow under his eyes, as if they have been smudged there with coal. He rubs the back of his neck as though that would release all the tension from the last twenty-four hours. Worry is etched deep into his face—worry and guilt, and it is an expression you haven’t seen in a long time. It makes your heart clench, turning it into something small, hard, and cold.

He meets you halfway and catches you when you stumble into him, allowing yourself to be held at last. His hold on you is strong and hard, until you hiss when sharp pain from your wound makes it hard to walk. Kipps’s hold lightens.

“What the hell happened?” he demands, his long fingers gently nudging your head left and right by your chin. You’re pretty sure there is a nasty bruise blooming from the punch.

“Turns out someone out there really wants that bloody key,” you say, unable to put quite the heat into the words like you wanted.

The effect is pretty much the same.

It is like a door slamming shut; his expression closes off completely. He puts your arm around his shoulders and hauls you up the stairs. To your surprise, the door is already unlocked and swings open when he pushes against it with his other shoulder.

You enter into a narrow, dark hallway, only illuminated by light streaming into it from an adjacent room. The house smells of iron and salt, leather coats, and a curious dusty, musty tang. On both sides of the walls hang weird masks and odd curios on shelves. Everything about this entrance screams extravagance, but also something inexplicably homely. The complete opposite from your apartment. Voices sound from the first door to your right, silencing upon the front door clicking shut behind you. Now everything is dead silent.

Kipps leads you past an old, chipped plant pot that functions as an umbrella stand and rapier holder. They are old French models with specks of ectoplasm stuck to blades, and dents in the hilts. One long, black umbrella is bent in the middle as though someone had used it as a weapon and didn’t get around to throw it away.

You emerge into a small, cluttered living area containing a fireplace, an old sofa and a few sturdy armchairs grouped around a coffee table. Heavy dark curtains obscure half of the window where the first streaks of sunlight steal through the gap, showing dust dance in the light.

Three heads swivel your way, all in different states of confusion. You recognise one face.

Anthony Lockwood jumps out of his armchair. It has only been a few hours since you last saw him, and so far he has only taken off his black coat. His white shirt is wrinkled, his black tie thrown over his shoulder. There is something restless about him, like a moth fluttering from flame to flame.

Kipps slides you into the free seat on the sofa right next to a giant pile of crumpled ironing. Shirts, pants, and briefs tumble to the ground as you finally allow yourself to slump into the seat and let your guard down.

The room tilts for a moment. You close your eyes, trying to comprehend today’s events. Multiple voices bombard you from all directions and turn into a pounding headache at the back of your skull.

A metal lid clicks open. Careful hands remove your coat, then lift your shirt where the blood has seeped into the fabric, making it stick to your gashed skin. When your eyes flutter open, Kipps kneels before you on the rug, a deep worry crease slicing through his forehead as he inspects your wound.

“Well, good news. It’s not that deep,” he observes. With swift fingers, calloused from handling rapier and tools, he takes the antiseptic and a clean wipe from the first-aid case—expert hands that are used to medical attention; that know the dance of patching up wounds and tending to injuries. You doubt it is something any agent will forget, even when they have served their duty.

When he applies the disinfect after cleaning the blood, you hiss; your body tenses from the pain. “Cool. I’ll thank him next time I see him,” you say through gritted teeth.

Kipps gives you a curt, quick look—but there is still some relief; relief that even now you can be snippy.

“Did you see his face? What did he look like?” Loockwood asks. He’s leaning over the back of the couch, hand holding onto the backrest hard enough his knuckles turn white.

“I don’t know, I was busy trying not go get turned into a shish kebab.” You kick at Kipps when he dabs the gauze a little too hard into your wound.

“Stop moving,” he warns.

“That didn’t work out much,” a girl’s voice notices drily.

You open your eyes. Behind Lockwood’s shoulder, two agents stare at you, blinking their wide eyes like owls.

The boy’s nose twitches. “She bled on the new rug, Lockwood.”

You feel like an exhibit in a museum. Lucy Carlyle and George Karim. Names only familiar to you because you can’t remember a day where Kipps has not complained about them as much as about Lockwood.

“Yeah, why exactly—am I here?” You shift in the seat. Something is poking you in the back. When you pat the cushion, you find an old, dry biscuit.

Behind Lockwood, Lucy gives George a long, pointed look. Seems like this isn’t the first time they witness someone finding leftover snacks in the crevices of their couch.

“You said he was looking for the key?” Kipps is applying gauze to your clean wound which makes everything just a little better; you begin to feel like a human again. Now all you need is a good, healthy amount of sleep. Preferable for the next three days.

“He thought I had it on me. Said something about … how important it was to them.”

Lockwood perks up. “Who is them?”

“Well, he didn’t give me a list or anything.” You pull out some stray socks from under your bum and let them join their siblings on the ground. Slumping into your seat, you notice it is quite comfortable. You’re sinking into the cushions and there is something calming about the smell of old wood and the heavy curtain’s detergent. “But he was desperate. It seemed like … I don’t know. He’ll be in serious trouble without it.”

“Well, good thing it’s with DEPRAC now,” Kipps says, settling back on his heels after he finishes bandaging you up. The silence hanging in the room is stifling. Kipps looks over the backrest of the sofa at Lockwood. “You did bring it to DEPRAC like we agreed to. Right, Lockwood?”

Slowly, Lockwood leans away from the sofa as though that is the only appropriate measure to take in case Kipps decides to hurl himself over the sofa and strangle him. He has the good manners to look almost contrite. “I might have missed out on the chance to deliver it to Inspector Barnes,” he says slowly. His face is calm and betrays nothing, like the blank statue of a saint in a cathedral.

Kipps is on his feet in an instant. Red patches of rage have broken out over his face and throat. “You lying, conniving piece of—”

Lockwood claps his hands loudly. “This just proves that we cannot let anyone except professionals handle this case. Least of all DEPRAC. Someone’s after it because they know whatever that key unlocks is important.”

“Or he was the Visitor’s killer and he knows it could be evidence,” George points out. “Like Annabelle Ward and Fairfa—”

Lucy slaps her hand over her coworker’s mouth. Her wide eyes stare at him, then pin you down. George blinks, then nods slowly.

You raise your hand. “You know, being the one who got stabbed over this, I veto you let the adults handle it.”

Lockwood gives you a dazzling smile. “Overruled.”

“Let’s sleep on it first,” Lucy says, rubbing the exhaustion from her eyes with her sleeve. “We’ll decide what to do next when we wake up. And yes, leaving it with DEPRAC is still an option.” She looks over at Lockwood, her eyebrows raised. You can’t think of many who manages to make a proposition sound like a threat.

“First reasonable thing I hear any of you say today,” Kipps scoffs. There is still anger in his voice, but you don’t think it is directed at anyone specific this time. This anger smells of frustration. It stems from knowing days like these are in the fine print of becoming an agent. The danger from having to deal with the living from time to time, which can be so much more dangerous than the dead. He turns to you. “Let me drop you off at a hotel.”

“I—” You don’t want to be alone, not after tonight. But Kipps also lives in the Fittes dormitories and they are mercilessly strict when it comes to non-employed visitors, despite being a senior supervisor like Kipps who enjoys some privileges.

“We must assume whoever attacked you might be out there still tracking you,” Lockwood says, and leans forward to settle his elbows against the backrest. His white shit stretches taut over his shoulders and back, catches over his spine. He lowers his dark eyes to you, within which swims a quiet, but solid confidence as though he has never faced a situation he couldn’t handle. It makes you want to rely on him, a thought you quickly push away the moment it steps into your mind. “We have a spare couch in the library you can crash on until morning—” He glances over his shoulder towards the window where sunlight peaks through the heavy curtains. An almost coy smile captures his lips, showing the hint of a dimple. “Until we wake up.”

You raise both eyebrows. “I can?”

Both Lucy and George give Lockwood the sideye. “She can?”

Lockwood frowns. “Unless you have somewhere else to go?”

“A couch sounds perfect.” You are tired enough you wouldn’t mind sleeping on the floor. You throw Kipps a quick look. He doesn’t look happy, but even he realises this is better than leaving you all by yourself.

With nobody objecting, George heaves a defeated sigh. “Let me go and pick up the empty chips bags,” he says, and shuffles out of the room. You hear wood creak when he stalks down the hallway.

When you tear your eyes away from where he left through the door, you notice Lucy keeps staring at you with an odd look you can’t place. As though she doesn’t really know what to think of you and why you are suddenly here, only 'here' doesn't seem to apply to the living room of her home. It feels like she doesn't seem to know why you have suddenly stepped into her life. She manoeuvres around Lockwood, painstakingly making sure there’s furniture between you and her.

Kipps is by your side helping you up. He follows Lockwood's directions through the entrance hall. You pass the stairs to the end of the hallway where George is carrying an armful of empty bottles and plastic bags out of what you assume must be the library.

It is a small, oak-panelled room across the hall from the lounge. No light sneaks inside with the heavy curtains shrouding the windows. Up to the ceilings, hardback volumes are crammed into black, heavy shelves that line all four walls. It smells of books and ink and printed paper, making you immediately feel at ease under the dim, warm light of an old standard lamp tucked into a corner.

Kipps makes sure you’re comfortable on the leather couch, throwing a worn, chequered wool blanket over your legs. He looks at you for a long moment. Then he seems to crumple inside, like paper; he sinks down in the leather chair opposite you, and puts his face into his hands. “I should have just told Lockwood No when he asked for someone with Touch. I never wanted you to get involved like this.”

“It’s a little too late for that now, isn’t it?” you state, but there is no malice or accusation in your voice. You are too tired for that.

Still, Kipps makes a sound like a kicked puppy. When you look over at him, you see him pale and slumped down, like someone who’s taken so many blows that the doesn’t want to stand anymore.

Your grab for his hand and squeeze until he returns your gaze. His pale green eyes look haunted. “I don’t think this is anyone’s fault,” you say. “Least of all yours.”

Kipps purses his lips. You squeeze his hand tighter.

“Maybe,” he allows. He scrubs at his face, eyes flitting over the hardcover books surrounding him. You grow drowsy with every steady ticking of an ornate mantel clock above the fireplace. To your side is a small, mahogany Victorian pedestal table with a leftover cup next to a stack of London Society magazines. “Or maybe I should have been more careful,” he continues. “Be more careful. So this doesn’t happen again.”

The fog of sleep that almost takes you is cleanly cut by his words. You blink against the dizzy feeling that tries to pull you under; dragging you down like wet clothes when you swim. You let go of his hand and sit up. “You are not responsible for me,” you say, unable to keep the heat out of your voice now. It comes back full force, scathing and blazing. “I can look after myself perfectly fine, and I would not have you waste your life away because you think you are obliged to protect me.”

“You could barely fend off that attacker by yourself,” he shoots back—his voice strains to remain diplomatic, calm, but this is Quill Kipps, and he has never been capable of putting the lid on the smouldering fire when it comes to your safety. “I made a promise and I mean to keep it until you’re retired and old and stop getting into danger—”

The rage that always lives inside you rears when he says that ugly word—promise. It is an almost physical pain, like nails against flesh.

“You are not my brother,” you snap. “And I don’t want you to be!”

All colour drains from Kipps’s face, then comes back in a rush of angry red as he tries to keep his anger under control. You know a lot about rage. How hard it could be to rein it in without a lifetime of practice. How it could eat you up inside.

He stands, slowly, calmly—and that is so much worse than when he explodes. This is him in his upset mood that you call ‘scary-calm.’ It is a calm that makes you think of the deceptive hard sheen of ice before it cracks under your weight.

“Quill—” you begin, but he is already moving towards the door.

“If I were Matthew,” he says at the threshold, not looking at you, “I would actually be able to protect you.”

It is a blow not meant to be a blow, and yet it drives through your chest like a poison-tipped spear. It stirs up age-old dust from a past you try to bury so hard that now you choke on it.

Matthew. Mat. Mat is gone because of you. And now Quill leaves you too.

You jump to your feet, ignoring the piercing pain in your side and stumble after him. Kipps disappears down the hall, then you hear the front door open, and slam shut.

You close your eyes and bang your head silently against the doorframe. Beneath your gloves your palms are slick with sweat and your fingers shaking. All day you felt like walking on a tightrope, and now a single misplaced step sends you plunging. You have never felt this alone before.

“Do you do that because you enjoy it, or because it feels good when you stop?” says a drawling voice from the corridor outside.

Your eyes pop open. Lockwood is standing at the bottom of the stairs, leaning against the banister with his arms crossed, an amused look on his face. All tousled dark hair and brown eyes as sharp as glass, he is as tall as Kipps, perhaps taller, and lankier. But their presences are quite different. Where Kipps is calm and steady like stone, reliable like the earth that is always solid under your feet, Lockwood seems bright like a flash of lightning—quick-witted, assured in the path he carves as though the mere thought of something standing in his way is so far-off, he just barrels ahead with no regard of what he sets ablaze.

Any retort dies on your lips when he throws something your away, and you catch the first object mid-air, pulling a face when your wound protests. It is cold and heavy—a pack of ice cubes wrapped in a towel. The second thing hits you in the shoulder and clatters to the ground. A package of painkillers. If you would look up the word Oops in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Lockwood’s current expression.

You bring the ice pack up and press it against your cheek. “Thanks.”

Lockwood gives a crooked smile. “Plenty of time to figure everything out later. If you need anything, our rooms are just another floor up.”

Your mouth is dry. He isn’t nice because he wants to; he too does it out of an obligation. “OK. Thanks.”

He crams his hands into his pockets, eyes raking from your feet up to your face. It seems as though there is something else Lockwood wants to say, but he decides otherwise and ends up simply nodding before he ducks back towards the kitchen where you can hear the hushed, urgent voices of Lucy and George.

You retreat into the library and shut the door gently. Only the clock’s ticking fills the room now, so loud it is almost grating against your ears. You tug your gloves off gingerly and place them next to the magazines. The skin on your knuckles and the back of your hand is dry like sandpaper. Later this evening, you have to make sure to get your hand lotion.

Ignoring the unpleasant feeling, you lie down and shimmy under the blanket. You tug your hands close to your chest where there is no danger to accidentally touching anything—you know there is no threat from objects belonging to the living, but after almost a decade of experiencing death echoes ranging from mild joy to severe depression, it is soothing to know that the gloves conjure a sense of separation, of safety. Without them, you feel naked and vulnerable.

Just a few hours of sleep. Then you’ll figure out what to do. Maybe you can pretend the whole day didn’t happen—run a few jobs, clean up your room after the attack. Return to normalcy. Return to your day-to-day life before you got roped into Lockwood & Co.’s business and their wayward modus operandi.

You close your eyes and pretend you don’t feel strangely safe listening to the muffled voices coming from the other room.

Something has taken a hold of your legs.

Your stomach roils with panic as you thrash against its grasp, smelling damp soil and rotten leaves—someone is trying to put you under the ground, bury you alive in unholy ground where all hope and virtue is lost, just like—

You jerk free—

—and fall.

The floor is hard and unyielding, slamming you awake on impact. The pain follows right after, radiating from your side to the rest of your body. Groaning, you try to turn to your other side, but with your legs still half-entangled in the blanket, you don’t make it far.

There was a dream. At least you think there was a dream. You can’t remember much, only the smell of rotten soil and copper.

From under the closed door, you see a slim sliver of late afternoon sun peak into the dark room. You lie very still for a moment, even though your back and neck hurt from being curled up on the small couch all night. It is not the foreign place that startles you, but the noises that belong to a lively home: cabinets open and close. Dishes clatter. Water boils. Voices drift through the walls, muffled but heartily warm and bright. It smells of heated butter, herbal tea, and something burnt.

A home. This is a home where people come to wind down after work, to be vulnerable, to pick up the broken pieces after a case.

For just a minute, you close your eyes and imagine this is your life. Your home. This is your room, smelling of books, ink, and candles. Somewhere downstairs a cup smashes into bits, but there is only laughter, bright and cheerful—someone shouts a jolly “Luce!”

You pop your eyes open; the pipe dream dissipates. Your body is a medley of bruises and aches as you get up. Kipps was right, the cut isn’t too deep, you didn’t even bleed through the gauze during the night. You look at the ornate clock hanging above the fireplace. It is past three o’clock. You have to be at Rotwell’s in an hour.

Blinking against the sting in the back of your eyes, you get up and grab your gloves from the small table and your torn, dirty Coat hanging from a chair’s armrest. The fabric stinks of blood and sweat, but there is no time to get back home and change into clean clothes. You can’t get late to work a second time this week.

Your initial plan to just march through the front door and leave doesn’t work out when you pass the open kitchen door. It is a small, cluttered room with a huge table in its centre like a pillar of strength. Several plates with food have been placed down, breakfast served for three people: boiled eggs in cute little eggcups, sandwiches, a fruit bowl, some hot, greasy sausages just out of the pan. There is flatbread and right beside it a plate with small bites like fruits, walnuts, sliced cucumber and radishes.

The agents of Lockwood & Co. coordinate around each other in a way that seems like a practised dance—Lucy swiftly dodges George carrying a plate with doughnuts while Lockwood steps out of her way striding towards the water kettle without even looking.

When she pauses and says something to him, he does that thing you find annoyingly attractive in men: since he’s much taller than Lucy, Lockwood leans down and tilts his head towards her to hear her better. He has a striking side profile, all sharp lines and elegant curves, a pointed jaw.

You see him smile, and grow increasingly annoyed at how effortlessly handsome he is.

George clears his throat, and then all three are staring at you standing in the doorway.

Lockwood’s mouth twitches into a smile. “Hiya.”

Lucy’s mouth twitches into something that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to be a smile or a scowl.

George notices you looking at the food on the table and promptly says, “We don’t own enough dishes for another person.” He calmly closes the cupboard behind him where you see another stack of plates and cups.

“Wasn’t interested. I’m not much into burnt toast,” you say like a liar. George huffs in offence. “I have to go anyway. Work and all that.”

Three heads nod at the same time, a conjoined Hydra.

Remembering you have something like manners, you quickly add, “And thanks for letting me stay.” That should be enough pleasantries. You hastily make your escape through the front door and manage two steps downstairs before you hear footsteps behind you.

“One more thing,” Lockwood says, propping himself against the doorfrome. You wonder if he owns any other piece of clothing other than his white shirts and ties. “Regardless however we proceed with our case, it would be to both our benefits to work out an association. There is no harm in having friends in established circles.” He puts on a smile, one you recognise from meeting him for the first time. Charming, but bashful, he plays coy to try and pull you around his little finger.

So this is how he wants to play it.

You slip into your jacket and smooth down the fabric to appear at least somewhat dignified. “We are not friends, Tony,” you say, and notice with some satisfaction the tick in his jaw whenever someone uses that nickname. “And frankly, if our paths don’t cross anytime soon, I wouldn’t mind. Now, if you excuse me—“ well aware of the ectoplasm stink and the tears in your jacket, you push your shoulder blades together— “we at Rotwell are quite busy with actually solving the Problem instead of playing detective games.”

With a confidence you don’t feel at all, you grant Lockwood one of your sly grins, your usual selling argument whenever you’re wearing your Rotwell armour. Lockwood’s face remains impassive. When you turn, heading out to the main street to get a cab, you feel his eyes burying like a dagger into your gut. In the distance, a church bell rings on the quarter hour, and you try and remember the poem about the bell tolling.

A/N: I cheated a little, the Rotwell dormitories are pretty much the Auriens Chelsea apartment complex. I'll upload a masterlist for this sometime this week to keep things a little more organised.

Taglist: @helpmelmao, @simrah1012, @chloejaniceeee, @fox-bee926, @frogserotonin, @obsessed-female, @avelinageorge, @quacksonhq, @wordsarelife, @bilesxbilinskixlahey, @che-che1, @breadbrobin, @anxiousbeech, @charmingpatronus, @starcrossedluvr, @yourunstablegf, @grccies, @sisyphusmymuse

(Just a heads up, if I can't tag you, it might be because of your settings)

[gonedreaminggg]

in response to @xerith-42 's post about shadow knights because the brain rot is so real.

all of these ideas come from @xerith-42 i just wanna give my take on some of them

I fully believe SKs run hot. the SKs that died and are now undead are made from fire. their new bodies are created from the lava and ash from the nether. And, with SKs like Laurance, who never died, they still had to go through a transformation. It's mentioned as extremely painful. One of the most painful things in the world is being burnt alive. Shadow Knights are one with the nether, and one with the fire and lava that engulf it.

Since Laurance isn't a full SK, I imagine him just completely forgetting to eat for days and passing out and scaring everyone. The malnutrition and lack of sleep don't actually affect his health, but he can definitely hit a stopping point.

I'm also imagining Aph asking Vylad what day it is and he says some shit like "December 14th" meanwhile its a blazing hot summer.

For the doll headcanons (from @adepressedgaydragon), all I can think about is heavy dissociation and the catatonia that can come with that. Sure, the ragdoll-esque episodes that SKs have are because the doll-like features come with being an SK, however its also because they are all so mentally unwell, and eventually they have to just shut down.

I do think that each Shadow Knight resembles a different kind of doll. Gene being porcelain makes so much sense. He is so chaotic compared to the other SKs we know, yet he seems so fragile. Especially with his temper.

I love Sasha being a wooden doll. I feel like she creaks when she walks.

I think all of the doll features progress the longer you are an SK. The progression stops once you answer the calling, but the symptoms don't get any better. If an SK decides to not answer the calling, they might fulling transform into a doll. It reminds me of Medusa, as well as the amulets that let Zane open the Irene dimension.

Laurance's symptoms took a while to kick in, and they still aren't that bad because he's a very new SK compared to the others we've met. He reminds me of a rag doll. He's very light on his feet, but he also seems really clumsy. Plus, with the disconnection that he can feel from his limbs, he trips over his feet alot.

I do think that Laurance has to let out his anger every now and again or he's going to literally explode. He'll never admit it, but there have been times where he's so close to hurting Aphmau. Then, he just has to leave and let out his anger. He's beginning to hate her. He still loves her, however since the calling has latched onto her, her presence makes him livid. Laurance is just not okay in the slightest. He's had no time to heal. He's a product of his environment, and it's been so chaotic.

I feel like Garroth is the only one who can truly see past Laurance's "condition." I think it's because he has such a one-track mind, in a good way. He sees past people's faults so easily, unless they are there just to cause harm. Garroth just sees Laurance as Laurance. He understands that being an SK is just part of being Laurance.

Being a Shadow Knight is all about balancing scales. There are two sides to everything. The calling being to kill the one you love. Dying yet being so alive. Having so much power, but being as vulnerable as a paper doll. When the scales are finally tipped is when Shadow Knights gain their immortality.

I honestly don't know if this makes any sense I'm quite literally shitting words atp

[superchat]

ITOKI HANA TOBY FAX MV SPOILER RANTING WITH NO PURPOSE

that was so fucjking good wtf, the visuals were amazing. the art the character designs. so much reminded me of houseki no kuni. the long expressions features and limbs, the cracking, shattering, surrealism.

that twist. i never trusted him and i dont think the viewer is supposed to but that was so much much more haunting. that was horror, terrifting i was right there feeling it too.

the confusion and panic, then she looks to him one last time, in my mind she was like "my hope and love, will you keep me safe actually?" like she was scared but saw his face and she was expecting him to save her, life she felt he was her prince at the very start when she first saw him

but he looks to her and says FLY! the show must go on, and it literally jkust. fucking pulls her apart. that was horrying. he did not care about her at all, just her spectacle for the crowd.

like im so conflicted. the whole thing was terror, but they really mixed in this beauty and elegance that just makes it all the more fucked up and horrifying. i have not seen midsommar but i am thinking to it as something that could be similar, idk!!!!!!!! tragic story, it contrasts their other song (47) very well

did they see her? or did they just see a porcelain doll? she saw dolls breaking and cracking but was she seeing real people? was she just seen as doll and did her performance help lure in another to be put into a show? i do not know. there was parallels and layers to this tho, i need to watch again. that was so good and scary and beautiful and tragic and horrific,

Literally pushing her past her limits until she falls apart wtf ;-; he didnt even look at her head when it fell he was just looking at her body, he really did not see her but only a doll for a show

where it was a prince trying to save a princess, the prince went through so many traps and near death moments to reach a princess in a castle, but the princess was a dragon really, and she only finds purpose in luring princes to their death, imo like a form of being wanted. she is desired, and that desire is what fuels her, she has to be desired as an idea andonly an idea, its the pursuit. its like unrequited love. once the prince reaches her its all over, so she kills him right as hes at the door

[rainbowsalt0412]

Osamu Dazai’s Entrance Exam - Chapter 2

11th

Returning home late, I face my inkstone in silence.

Though this is a day I will never forget, I will not inscribe it in my notebook.

No matter how difficult the trial, no matter how great my disgrace, I must laugh. But for now, there is only silence.

I read the paper at my desk at the office. The news has been chaotic all morning. Sensational reports flood the television and Internet.

MISSING YOKOHAMA VISITORS FOUND DEAD

DID A PRIVATE DETECTIVE AGENCY’S MEDDLING LEAD TO THE VICTIMS’ DEATHS?

And then there are the images—the white gas, the suffering victims, and me, grabbing on to the cage. It’s only a matter of time before the pictures make the front page of the newspaper. The agency’s phone has been ringing off the hook all morning with no end in sight. So far, they’ve all been complaints, but it won’t be long before the victims’ families begin to call us to threaten legal action. To make matters worse, we still have no leads as to where the remaining seven missing persons are.

Who took the pictures the moment the victims were killed, and why make them public?

The phone on my desk gives a teeth-grinding trill. I reach for the receiver, but Dazai promptly snatches it up and puts it back in its cradle. The ringing stops.

“Looks like this is exactly what the enemy wanted, huh?” Dazai says cheerfully. He’s carrying a photo in his hand. “If it’s any consolation, this is a really good picture of you.”

I silently try to take it from him, but he nimbly lifts his arm into the air before I can.

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? You look awful.” 

“…No. There’s work to be done.”

“Wow. You’re not gonna take a day off even after all this? You know, someone threw a rock at me on two separate occasions while I was trying to come into the office today.”

I look outside. A few protesters have been standing in front of the agency, causing a ruckus since morning. There will undoubtedly be even more tomorrow.

“‘Take a day off’? Have you lost your mind? We have a mission of utmost priority: Find the criminal behind this.”

“Well… Yeah. You’re right,” Dazai agrees with a blank look on his face. “Where’s Miss Sasaki?”

“She’s in the infirmary getting examined by Dr. Yosano. Sounds like she’s gonna be okay.”

“Let’s pay her a little visit.”

I get out of my chair. Miss Sasaki is the only known victim to have had contact with the murderer and lived to tell the tale. We can probably figure out who the perpetrator is if we can learn how they’re kidnapping everyone.

I casually look down at the picture before following Dazai into the infirmary. You can clearly see my face in the pictures along with Miss Sasaki’s and the victims’, but the most of Dazai you can see is the tail of his overcoat. How was he able to avoid the secret photos?

***

“I’m sorry… I really wish I could help you, but…” Miss Sasaki helplessly gazes at the floor.

“I’ve always been prone to illness, and I’m anemic, which causes me to faint every now and then. I was feeling especially ill the day I was abducted… I passed out at the train station, probably from the anemia.”

In that case, I guess she wouldn’t have any idea how she was abducted.

However…

“Then that would mean someone abducted you in the midst of the confusion after you passed out.”

Kidnapping someone in the middle of a place as crowded as Yokohama Station would be impossible. Carrying an unconscious woman would draw even more attention. Either there are multiple kidnappers or someone’s using a very clever trick…

“Let me just say…thank you so much for saving me yesterday. I… I don’t have any friends or family to turn to, so…”

Miss Sasaki hangs her head low in silence. She doesn’t say another word after that. With her naturally delicate features coupled together with the porcelain skin, she reminds me of a marionette doll whose strings have been cut. Actually, her own experience isn’t too much different. As if her thread of life had been cut, she was almost killed by an unidentified serial killer for who knows why, and her life could still very well be in danger.

“You even allowed me to stay at your home last night…”

……Hmm?

“Hold on. Where did you stay last night?” 

“My place,” Dazai nonchalantly replies.

…………

…………

Are things like this the norm nowadays?

“Thank you so much, Mr. Dazai. You… You were very…kind to me last night…”

Miss Sasaki flushes bashfully for some reason.

“What’s wrong, Kunikida? You’ve got a really weird look on your face.” 

“Dazai… Don’t you think that’s taking things a little too fast?”

“I… I was the one who asked him to let me stay over. I basically forced him.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I simply did what any gentleman would. Besides, I’m used to getting asked for things from people I’ve just met,” he replies with a smile.

…………

I have no interest in frivolous love affairs. Two people must have mutual respect for each other when building a relationship. If you ask me, an unplanned single night of fleeting passion is unforgivable and shameless. So—therefore—for this reason alone, it doesn’t matter how popular a fool like Dazai may be, because I am not the least bit jealous or frustrated.

Not the least bit jealous!

***

“What a beautiful, misfortunate woman,” Dazai says with a smirk. We’ve returned to the office to prepare for our next investigation.

“So that’s your type?”

“I like all types of women. They’re the bearers of all human life, a source of mystery. But I do like the fact that Miss Sasaki would probably kill herself with me if I asked.”

“Go marry a cicada or something, then.”

Relations between the sexes must be pure and strong. The only feminine company I intend to keep will be with my ideal spouse, where we complement and lift each other up, and I will be with her until the day I draw my last breath. That is my ideal. It’s also written in my notebook. “What about you, Kunikida? What do you think of Miss Sasaki?” 

“She’s a victim and a witness to the case. That’s all.”

“I’m asking only because I can’t even begin to imagine, but…what’s your ideal woman like?”

“You’re free to read about it.”

I open my notebook to the page titled ‘Spouse’ and show him. All my future plans are written here.

“What is this, an encyclopedia?!”

His expression slowly hardens as he skims over the page. “…Whoa. Oh no, no, no… This is just… Wow. I’m…” 

“The hell kind of reaction is that? Is it weird?”

“No, not at all. I think all guys can relate to the ideals…of each section.” 

“Right? What’s wrong with having standards?”

“Exactly. I agree with you one hundred percent, Kunikida. A word of advice, though: Never show this to a woman. It’d really turn them off. I mean, even I’m struggling to keep myself from yelling ‘A girl like this doesn’t exist!’”

Is it really that far-fetched?

“Okay, I get it. Now let’s get to work and find that kidnapper. By the way, have you found out anything else?”

“There’s one thing I noticed.” 

“What’s that?”

“If you truly wish to pursue your ideal woman, then we’re going to have to do something about those boring glasses first.”

Dazai swiftly swipes the glasses off my face, then puts them on. They look awful on him.

“Enough! Give those back!”

So long as my work isn’t hindered, then nothing else matters. Besides, simply wearing nice glasses isn’t going to magically improve my life. And Dazai looks even more comical with them on… Even more ridiculous than usual for some odd reason.

��……Glasses?”

Glasses. The photos of the victims. Their faces. The monitoring equipment. The hotel they stayed in—

“Something the matter, Kunikida?”

The missing people all left the hotel of their own accord, and they all stayed in Yokohama alone. So that means the security footage of everyone entering and leaving the hotel is…

“Come on, Dazai. We’re leaving.”

I snatch my glasses and put them back on.

“I figured out who the kidnapper is.”

***

The ocean breeze soars past the Port of Yokohama. Dazai and I stand on the levee at the mouth by the shore. I gaze into the sky. The sun is already high, peeking through the sea of clouds and shining onto us. I do not feel as fine as the weather, however. A familiar taxi stops before me.

“Detective Kunikida! Please get in.”

A familiar cabdriver waves me over, and we waste no time climbing in. “I apologize for the sudden call.”

“Oh, don’t be. I would go through fire and water for you and the agency, Detective! So are you in a hurry to get somewhere? Don’t you worry! The speed limit means nothing to me!”

“It should. Anyway, do you remember the missing-persons case we spoke of last evening? Well, I figured out who the kidnapper is.”

“What?! I saw the news about the abandoned hospital. I feel so sorry for those poor victims… So we’re going to arrest the kidnapper, yes? Roger that! We have to hurry, though, or he’ll get away. So where is this perpetrator?”

“Right here.” 

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the kidnapper, and inside this taxi is where the kidnappings have been taking place.”

“Uh… I don’t think I’m following you, Detective. What are you saying?” 

“I thought, ‘Who would be able to kidnap someone in this city without anyone noticing? Where in Yokohama would a victim be comfortable alone with a complete stranger?’ The answer is here. You used sleeping gas on the victims, then kidnapped them. While wearing a gas mask yourself, of course.”

“Wait… No, no, no. Hold on. I’m pretty sure the investigation indicated that the victims all left of their own accord, by themselves, and mysteriously disappeared. I heard there were no records of them ever getting into any vehicle or going inside any building. If all the victims got into this taxi, then wouldn’t there be a record of a phone call or of them hailing a cab?”

“Yes, there would be. And that’s why there is no doubt in my mind that every victim got into this taxi. Of course, the city police weren’t able to find any records no matter how hard they looked. Why? Because they were looking at the wrong date. The victims didn’t get in this taxi on the day they went missing.”

“What… What are you trying to say?”

“Okay, Kunikida, we’re not going to get anywhere trying to answer each and every one of his questions. Let me explain exactly what happened,” Dazai chimes in. “Driver, you were searching for certain customers during your daily work shift. The conditions for a target were simple: They had to be in Yokohama alone and heading to their hotel, they had to be wearing something that partially covered their face such as a hat, glasses, or sunglasses, and they had to be around the same height as you. You have a small frame, which is why women would be viable candidates as long as they met those few requirements. All of this would make it appear as if you had no relation to the victim, and you could disrupt the investigation.”

“I… I’m afraid I don’t follow. I—”

“Yes, yes. Let me finish first, okay? You’re a taxi driver who operates in the area. Those requirements may be strict, but you’d be able to find someone who matched them in two, three days tops. Then, when just the right person happened to show up, you used sleeping gas on them just like Kunikida mentioned. After that, you went to a secret hideout, held the victims prisoner there, and stole their clothes and belongings. That’s why the victims at the abandoned hospital were in their underwear. Now this is where you really begin to shine.” Dazai claps his hands giddily before continuing. “Next, you dressed in the victim’s clothing and disguised yourself as them. After that, it’s just as you told us last night. All you have to do is put on a little makeup, stuff your cheeks and clothing a bit, and you’re someone else. Of course, you must have religiously practiced and chosen only people you were confident you could pull off, though. Plus, you weren’t trying to deceive people, only video footage. You went to the hotel the victims planned to stay at and purposely made sure the security cameras saw you.”

I think back to the footage I viewed during the investigation. In hindsight, there was an unnaturally high rate of people with their face covered—six in glasses and two in sunglasses. The remaining three had either a hat or long hair, leaving only a portion of their face exposed to the security cameras. This was possible only because he selected victims wearing specific clothing that would be easy to emulate.

“The rest is simple. You leave the victims’ belongings in the hotel room and check out the next morning in broad daylight. By leaving a record of what appears to be the victim entering, checking in, and exiting the hotel, the police would stubbornly focus on investigating what happened to the victim after they left. Naturally, they didn’t find anything, though, since you undoubtedly know Yokohama inside and out. At the very least, you knew where you would be recorded and where you could escape to avoid any security cameras. That’s why the more we investigated, the more it appeared as if the victims intentionally spirited themselves away while making sure there would be no records of it.”

“This is absurd. This hypothetical, purely speculative situation you’re proposing is—is nothing without…without evidence. That’s right—you’ve got no evidence to support your claim.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that. You would have been more than able to conduct Miss Sasaki’s kidnapping on your own as well,” I continue explaining from where Dazai left off. “Abducting Miss Sasaki after she passed out at the station must have been your easiest job yet. I’ll bet you felt like the luckiest man alive. People usually call an ambulance if they see somebody suddenly faint, but it takes time for the ambulances to arrive from the hospital. But there’s always a taxi waiting in front of the station for passengers, and luckily for Miss Sasaki, a Good Samaritan happened to be present to save her. This well-intentioned individual wanted to get her to the hospital as quickly as possible, so he decided to have a taxi take her. That’s when you took her away, bold as brass, except you didn’t take her to the hospital like you were supposed to.”

“I…”

The driver sounds as if he wants to say something, but he doesn’t speak another word. I can’t see his expression clearly from where we’re sitting, either. I shift my gaze to the interior of the car, where I find a few small white particles in one of the crevices. I pinch what I can with my fingertips.

“If you’re going to turn yourself in, you should probably do it quickly. It won’t be long until we have evidence. I’m sure you cleaned the inside of this car, but there’s still some residue from the gas. A lab analysis will confirm it in no time.”

“I… I have no idea where that came from. It must have been from one of my customers. That doesn’t count as evidence.”

The driver barely manages to stammer out the words. Nevertheless, he admitted his guilt the moment he started making excuses.

“Evidence isn’t even necessary to prove you’re the only one who could have done it.” I begin to lay out the basis of the argument. “The only way to use the trick Dazai mentioned would be to get the victims into a taxi, and you had two of the victims in your vehicle, which is no different from admitting you gave rides to the other nine.”

“That isn’t physical evidence, Detective Kunikida,” the driver plainly states while avoiding eye contact. “Everything you’ve presented has been circumstantial evidence. It’s not as if you found a weapon in my house or have video evidence of me committing a crime. Sure, you could file charges, but I wouldn’t be convicted.”

It’s my turn to fall silent. He’s right. We would need physical evidence to connect him to the victims: blood, fingerprints, video recordings, a confession with information only the criminal would know…

We don’t have the necessary hard evidence. In fact, our case could be dismissed due to a lack of probable cause as things stand now. From the way the driver’s talking, it sounds like he made sure to dispose of all the physical evidence. He’s cleverer than I thought. What’s my next move?

But what he says next completely disproves my assumptions.

“Detective Kunikida… Let’s make a deal. If you accept my conditions, I will turn myself in.”

“What?”

“I would like the Armed Detective Agency to protect me and guarantee my safety in return for my confession. I request only seventy-two hours of your time until I receive witness protection following the prosecutorial investigation.”

“A witness protection deal? What are you talking about?”

“There’s no time… I’m going to be killed. They’re going to kill me.”

“Wait. I’m not following. Tell me step-by-step what’s going on. Who’s going to kill you? And for what?!”

“I wish I never did business with that lot… I should have never tried to get into the organ-trafficking business alone! And now I’ve made them angry! This is bad… This is really bad. I can’t get in touch with any of the buyers, either. They’ve cut me loose! But why? They were never supposed to find out… But they’re already onto me. And they’re getting closer…”

“I see. So that’s what’s going on here.” Dazai places a hand on his chin and nods.

“Dazai, what’s going on?! What is he rambling about?!”

“It’s exactly how it sounds. He was selling the victims to an organ- trafficking syndicate, but the month’s supply rose too high relative to demand. Naturally, this led to a drop in prices, throwing the market into confusion. Imagine a private one-man business suddenly entering a supply market more or less controlled by a large corporation. How would the large corporation feel?”

“They would get mad, I guess?”

“It would be healthy competition if these were normal, legal companies. But these organ-trafficking businesses are run by underground groups who profit off blood and violence. Causing trouble on their turf would only anger—”

The next moment, the car is suddenly hit, then hit again so hard its wheels leave the ground. A high-pitched echo follows. The taxi’s right side lifts into the air as the windows shatter along with the sound of gunshots.

“We’re under fire! Get down!” I yell out.

The car rocks back and forth as if being pummeled with a hammer, and shards of glass rain down inside.

“It’s them! H-help, help me… I don’t wanna die!” 

“Hey! Wait!”

The driver opens the car door before bolting in the opposite direction of the gunfire.

“Kunikida, we have to catch him before the enemy does, or we’ll never know what really happened! We can’t let him escape or turn up dead in a grove somewhere!” Dazai shouts, keeping his head down. That’s easier said than done, though! “Okay, I’ll go after the driver! You distract the enemies!” 

“Dazai, wait! It’s too dangerous to go alone!”

Dazai darts out of the car without even listening to my warning. I can’t allow a rookie to go off on his own during his first shoot-out. We don’t have any other options, though. I curse to myself while getting a look at the enemy. Three men stand dressed in black suits and black sunglasses, equipped with submachine guns smuggled in from abroad via the black market. Judging from their attire, their skills, and their ruthless willingness to suddenly turn the place into a war zone, it’s clear who they are…

“Damn it! This couldn’t be any worse… It’s the Port Mafia!”

The Port Mafia is an underground organization that uses the Port of Yokohama as their base of operations. They’re the cruelest, most coldhearted criminal syndicate in the city, willing to follow any orders from their boss and crush all who oppose them. The three men here are from that organization. The longer this goes on, the more they have the advantage.

“The Matchless Poet: Stun Grenade!”

I record the word in my notebook before tearing it out. The sheet of paper twists into a grenade the size of my fist. Aiming at the group, I hurl the grenade out the broken window. Stun grenades are nonlethal sonic weapons used to temporarily disorient an enemy’s senses. It blows up right in front of them, emitting a light so bright and creating an explosion so thunderous that it could give a sick man a heart attack. They fall to their knees while covering their temples, perhaps completely taken by surprise at being countered with a flashbang. I use this momentary distraction to leap out of the taxi and charge the enemies. I elbow the man closest to me in the neck, knocking him to the ground. I keep my elbow out and charge the next criminal, following up with a high kick to the face. The last armed man tries to hit me with his gun, but I swerve to the side, evading the strike. As he staggers off-balance, I grab his wrist and twist while pulling inside. Then I throw him into the air with a four- corner throw. The Mafia member goes flying and lands cranium first, immediately losing consciousness.

“Good grief.”

After making sure they’re all out, I walk back to the taxi.

I really hope Dazai’s all right…

Just then, I suddenly sense an ever-increasing thirst for blood coming from behind. Something flies past my side before I can even turn around. The black torrent runs through right where I was just standing, hitting the taxi and cutting right through it, too. As the vehicle completely splits in half, springs and shafts take to the air, scattering every which way. Without even a moment to let my surprise sink in, I kick off the ground to evade. The nearby sign and handrails are finely sliced into pieces. After rolling across the ground and looking back, I see a small-framed man clad in black in the distance.

“Cough, cough…”

That must be the source of the bloodlust.

“Cough… I came thinking this was going to be an easy side job. I wasn’t expecting to run into someone skilled enough to neutralize three men in the blink of an eye. I’m impressed. Now let’s see how you fare against Rashomon.”

With no weapon in hand, the young man simply walks toward me with his back hunched, occasionally coughing. However, the malice oozing from his body soon transforms into a silent but furious storm.

A man short of stature dressed in a black overcoat, with the skill to control a black torrent—the Port Mafia’s Hellhound.

“You… You’re Ryuunosuke Akutagawa from the Port Mafia, aren’t you?”

“The one and only. I was sent here by the boss to dispose of the fool who trespassed on our turf. Where is he?”

“He’s not here. He ran away with his tail tucked between his legs.”

I point in the direction the driver ran, but my eyes remain locked on Akutagawa. I don’t look away—not even for a second. This man is the worst of the worst. Even the toughest criminals run away in tears when they hear Akutagawa’s despicable name. The Black-Fanged Hellhound, the Skill User of Destruction and Disaster, the Apostle of Calamity and Despair: There are too many aliases to count. This is my first time actually meeting him, but judging by what he did to the taxi, he’s even more dangerous than the rumors made him out to be.

So what’s my next move? It’s simple. His target is the kidnapper, and there’s no reason for me to risk my life to protect a kidnapper against someone this dangerous. All I need to do is back off.

“He’s a witness. I cannot allow you to kill him until he tells us where the other missing people are. If you want to go after him, you’re going to have to get past me first.”

“You’re willing to risk your life for a murderer? Just as I expected.” 

Damn it. I can’t believe how stupid I can be. But as a member of the Armed Detective Agency, I cannot allow our witness to be helplessly killed by this scumbag.

Do what must be done. I mentally recite the phrase from my notebook. Akutagawa’s black overcoat wriggles. It’s as if a thousand specters gathered and meshed, taking form. It’s no longer a coat; part of it transforms into a claw, while another part begins to take the shape of a piercing fang.

“Ryuunosuke Akutagawa, the Port Mafia’s attack dog.” 

“Doppo Kunikida, Armed Detective Agency.”

Akutagawa launches a shadowy blade in one explosive motion. It disperses into a black rain, heading right in my direction. I jump to the side. A few dark blades pierce my shirt while the others stab the wall behind me, leaving numerous holes. I jot down a word in my notebook and tear out the sheet before he can draw his blade to attack. The piece of paper instantly transforms into a wire gun. Squeezing the trigger, I shoot the hook…but moments before the iron-penetrating hook reaches him, it’s deflected by an invisible wall.

“What…?!”

I saw no signs of him moving to defend. Is this another one of his skills? Before I can even reel in my airborne hook, part of Akutagawa’s coat transforms into a shadowy beast. With a roar, it swings its head. It’s quick!

I twist away to dodge, but its fangs tear into my left shoulder. Blood spurts out of the wound, but I don’t have time to stop the bleeding. I step back while evading the beast’s relentless fangs. I have no chance to counter, let alone even get near the thing!

“Is running away the only thing you know how to do? You’re putting me to sleep,” he scoffs, still standing upright. A cold bead of sweat runs down my cheek. He’s strong.

Akutagawa speedily shoots his lethal shadowy blade at me from only a few feet away, giving me no chance to do anything other than dodge. To make matters worse, any projectile I throw at him is easily knocked aside. Even if I do hit him, he’s being protected by that mysterious force field. He has no openings.

I dodge the flurry of attacks until I land on a paved road, where a sudden unidentifiable chill eerily shoots down my spine.

A blade thrusts up from the pavement before shooting back into the air like a fountain of spears.

He was getting me to focus on the aerial attacks while he used another blade to pierce the ground! I try to turn my body and jump away, but the ground is uneven, and I’m too late. The pitch-black blade penetrates my side and exits through my back.

“Gah…!”

My vision blurs from the excruciating pain, and I helplessly fall to my knees. This isn’t good. The next attack is coming. If I stop moving for even a second, I’m dead…but there’s nothing I can do. The black fabric of Rashomon wraps around my neck, lifting me off the ground. It bends like a serpent’s neck, then catapults me into the nearby wall.

“Pathetic. I guess I shouldn’t have expected much from a detective agency that works for chump change. Don’t worry. It’ll all be over when I snap your head off.”

The black fabric tightens around my neck. I start to see red.

“There’s always someone—someone who wants…to get in the way of my work!”

As Akutagawa’s skill strangles me, I shoot my wire gun. My target isn’t Akutagawa, though. The airborne iron wire’s hook directly hits the water pipe running up the building next to him, showering him with water.

“What…?!”

He raises his arm to block, but the high-pressure stream fully drenches him and the ground around him.

“Fool. Do you really think a little water is going to scare me?”

I raise another sheet of paper in my left hand into the air with something else I wrote down while making the wire gun.

“The Matchless Poet: Stun Gun!”

I instantly turn on the handheld high-voltage stun gun before tossing it into the puddle of water. A flash of light shoots out, and sparks fly.

“Nnng—gaaah?!”

Using the water as a conductor, the submerged stun gun emits beams of violet and white light. A purple flash of lightning jolts through Akutagawa’s wet body like a boa constrictor wrapping around its prey. The flash shines as bright as the sun before eventually disappearing along with the hiss of steam and the crack of the ground splitting under it. Rashomon’s grip around my neck loosens, and I land on the pavement below. As I cradle my injured neck and side, I glare at Akutagawa. He’s on his knees as steam and white smoke rise from his body.

“Heh-heh… Ah-ha-ha-ha!”

Akutagawa’s shoulders shake as he laughs. He can still move after taking a shock like that?

“Looks like I was wrong about the Armed Detective Agency. Heh. This is wonderful. Truly wonderful.”

“…Come at me if you want to keep going. I still have plenty more paper left.” I force myself to my feet, then get back into stance with the wire gun.

“By all means, I would love the opportunity to see whether you have what it takes to kill me, but it seems we have guests.”

I follow Akutagawa’s gaze and see the city police approach with their sirens blazing. Somebody must have reported the gunshots.

“A pathetic traitor won’t be able to hide for long before we hunt him down. I will withdraw for today. We’ll continue this soon.” He coughs and turns his back to me. He leaves just like that, with the same nonchalance as if he was going home after a walk. Honestly speaking, continuing to fight and withdrawing probably aren’t too different from his point of view.

“I’d rather you not come back…”

I fall to my knees while watching him walk away. Akutagawa from the Port Mafia is just as— No, he’s even fiercer than the rumors say. No thanks on the rematch. For now, I just want to go home and sleep like the dead.

***

Unfortunately, this is no time for a nap. After a short break, I return to the agency to report what happened. In the company’s infirmary, I have my stomach wound temporarily patched up, then head to the office. That’s where I find Dazai sipping on some tea as if he was relaxing after a hard day’s work.

“Dazai, you caught the taxi driver, right?”

“Of course. I tied him right up and handed him off to the police. He was actually thrilled that the Mafia wouldn’t be able to assassinate him anymore.” I’m relieved. It appears Dazai isn’t as stupid as I originally thought. I was almost worried that he knew it was the Mafia attacking us and used chasing the kidnapper as an excuse to escape. Nevertheless, everything ended up working out, so I guess it was just a groundless fear.

“It looks like the taxi driver will be charged for the series of kidnappings. Case closed.”

I worked my fingers to the bone on this case, and in return, I get paid nothing. The military police will toss us a letter of thanks and a small gift as an expression of their gratitude, and that will be the end of it. Good grief.

“I don’t feel like working anymore. Let’s get today’s tasks over with and go out for a drink.”

“Your treat?” Dazai asks, beaming with joy.

“You’re a real piece of work. I’ll pay, but you better work your ass off tomorrow.”

I return to my desk and take care of my remaining duties. I skim through some documents that are being passed around, then make a few business calls. After that, I start recording the case’s details until inadvertently glancing at my work computer and noticing I got an e-mail. Paying little attention, I begin to follow the sentences with my eyes. After finishing the e- mail, I start over from the beginning.

“Dazai.”

The moment I call for him is the moment I realize I’ve been holding my breath.

“We’ll have to take a rain check on those drinks. We’ve got work to do.” “Whaaat? But I was all ready to drink. There’s a hole in my stomach shaped exactly like a cup of sake.”

“We got a job offer…from the anonymous client who lured us into the abandoned hospital.”

My throat is dry, and my tongue is stuck in place. The next words don’t want to come out.

“It’s a request to defuse a bomb. If we don’t find and defuse it by sundown tomorrow, over one hundred people will die.”

***

[playgroundfadings]

Hello! I hope you're doing well! I have another request, if that's okay. I was wondering if you could do another Brahms x female reader where the reader gets hurt and is in shock for a couple of minutes? Like she falls down the steps or something? If not, that's okay. Thank you.

HI HI HI. Sorry it took so much time for me to complete this, my week at work has been crazy :’) You are always welcome to request anything darling, it’s a pleasure to write for stinky wall man <333

Tw: not beta read, getting hurt.

|| Brahms Heelshire, falling down the stairs ||

You made peace with the noises and cracks you hear from time to time. When you first came into the manor, you used to jump and yelp at the slightest noise. After all, you were supposed to be alone. With a doll, but alone nonetheless. 

Now, you calm yourself by thinking it’s due to the wear and tear of the foundation. The manor was quite old, after all. When was the last time any renovations were done? It was just normal for aged wood to creak once in a while.

You woke up earlier than usual, and spent that extra time in the kitchen whipping breakfast; you tried your hand at a typical British meal. Sausages, fried eggs, baked beans, grilled tomatoes and toasts soon fills, the aromas permeating the air. There’s a smile on your lips, as you’re visibly happy with the results. Not bad, for a first attempt.

You set the table, ignoring the noises happening behind the walls -old manor, old wood, just old wood - then leave the kitchen to fetch Brahms. You’re a bit early on the schedule, but you figure the doll will not mind. It means spending more time together, and wouldn’t that be fantastic? 

The stairs stretch before you, the wood creaking under the weight of your body. One step at the time, you reach the top before you catch something from the corner of your eyes. A shadow, large, appearing downstairs. 

You turn, unsure if you saw correctly. You’re alone in here, you would have heard it if someone came through the door. There was no way- 

The floor seems to give out under you; when you turned, you did it fast. Too fast, however. And now, you lost your footing.

A scream escapes you before you feel the edges of the stairs hitting at your body. 

White dots flashes before your eyes, and the last thing you see is a looming figure. 

┈ ┈ ┈ ⋞ 〈 ⏣ 〉 ⋟ ┈ ┈ ┈

The aching of your body is the first thing you feel the moment you open your eyes. Bruises are probably forming all over your limbs, coloring your skin in various shades of blue and purple. A groan escape your lips as you try to sit up. But the bed is way too inviting, coaxing to stay within its safety. And so, you lay back down… before shooting back up, despite the pain reverberating through your whole body.

Why are you in a bed?

There’s a chair next to the bed. That’s new. By the looks of it, this is your room; you never had a chair in here. How did this -

A gasp, then the sound of rushed footsteps, snaps you back from your thoughts. Hands are on your shoulders, pushing you back onto the mattress. 

‘’You shouldn’t move!’’ the voice is masculine, too rasp to be the delivery boy. You can finally focus on the man in front of you, the one who seemingly saved you. 

His clothes appear to be run down, spotted with stains here and there, his hair a mess of dark curls. But what really catch your attention is the porcelain mask pressed on his face, hiding his identity from you. Though, you do not need to see his features to know who exactly stands before you. The mask too similar to that doll’s face, and green eyes peaking through the holes reminding you of that painting in the hallway.

‘’You’re alive.’’

Though shocked, you remain calm while Brahms sit back on the chair. He’s not meeting your eyes, preferring to stare at his hands. Fingers are twirling together, nails picking at his skin. Everything in his body language, from the way he’s ached over to his breathing, tells you he’s nervous.

‘’Did you carry me here?’’ There’s a pregnant pause before the masked man nod. ‘’I appreciate it, Brahms. I will need to see a doctor, that wasn’t a pretty fall and-’’

He’s up before you can even finish, hands on your shoulders again as a way to keep you down. There’s panic clouding his pretty green eyes. ‘’You can’t leave! You can’t leave me, it’s against the rules!’’ The male voice from earlier is gone, instead replaced with a pleading, child-like tone. It seems so foreign, strange, coming from such a large man. 

You place your hands on his, squeezing lightly in reassurance. ‘’I need to make sure I don’t have a concussion - a brain injury. It would be really bad if I had one. You understand that, Brahms?’’ There’s a tentative nod from him, but he doesn’t let go. If anything, he grips you harder. 

‘’I will nurse you back to health. I will, I really will. You can’t leave me. Pretty Y/N, you can’t leave’’.

There’s not much you can do, not with Brahms forcing you down on the bed, hovering above you. Though you just met him, or at least the flesh version of him, you’re positive he would try anything to keep you here, in the manor. 

He must realize you’re pondering on what to do next, because he backs away from you. Brahms sits back on the chair, slightly shaking - you wonder why - before taking hold of your hand. He presses your palm against the side of his face, eyes finding yours and pleading silently.

‘’Okay’’ you relent after a while. ‘’Okay Brahms, no leaving. But I do need to see a doctor. Is that alright? I can call them here, they will make sure I’m not injured.’’

There’s a shadow of doubt crossing his eyes while he remains silent, most likely thinking over your words. ‘’Can I still take care of you?’’ he asks. Though it hurts your whole being, you let out a giggle. 

‘’Of course you can, Brahms.’’

You will have to ask him where he has been all this time, if he was the reason behind all the creaks you heard. But for now, you simply enjoy having him fuss over you.

[felswritingfire]

*slams door*

I love your mafia AU Vil x reader

Can I ask for more ??

*Physically Vibrates*

Anon, thank you for my life-

Also if you want a continuation of this (or fluff, I'm just addicted to angst, because apparently I'm a DUMBASS EMO--) or anyone else feel free to ask! I fucking love this AU tbh

(Also no I'm not done with April Brain Rot, I'm just working on one that's like- it's turned big as FUCK- ;0;)

TW: violence; blood; strangulation; uncomfortable vibes; creepy men; cursing

The chime to your door rang loud and clear. A happy bounce to your step as you go to greet the first customer of the day (or Dol and Sul). “Good morning!” You say as you step out from your back room, rounding the corner of your little counter to see the two men who walked in. They’re both big, firm mouths and sharp eyes. Your brows furrow for a moment until you school your expression back into a professional and welcoming smile. “What can I do for you two?”

The one to the right offers you a closed eyed smile. You count the piercings that line the cartilage of his ears as he says: “ah, we were looking for something a little…” His hands trail over the purple fabrics you have. Tapping at a roll of fabric that was lavender, light beige roses outlined in a gold decorating the expanse of it. “Delicate looking.”

Seven. You count, frowning. “Delicate, hm? Anything in particular it’s gonna be used for? A dress? A suit? That might help narrow it down.” You stand next to him, skin pricking with the sensation of eyes boring into you. You fight the urge to glance back.

“A suit. For someone with delicate features. Almost like a porcelain doll.” The man says, his thumb rubbing the patterns of the fabric.

“Are they flashy? You seem to really like that particular one, sir.”

He lets out a laugh, something deep and wispy. You don’t like it. “No. It just reminds me of someone.”

You hum. “Any color you have in mind?”

“Red.”

“Red, huh?” You press your finger to your lips, turning around just to almost walk into the other man. You forgot about him. You gulped as you crane your head to look up at him. A shaky smile making its way onto your lips. “And you, sir? Are you looking for anything in particular?”

He tilted his head, his pupils almost being eaten up by the dark browns of his irises. His frown deepens-

You let out an ugly noise as the air is caught in your throat by the squeeze of a hand around your throat. The chill of his rings burning your skin as he raises you by your neck until your fingers dangle above the floor. “Why don’t we just deal with them?” The man hisses at the way your nails dig into his wrist and he squeezes harder. You can feel the slight bulge of your eyes and the blood rushing to your ears in a panic.

“No, no.” The other’s voice sang out, thin hands coming to wrap around your waist and squeezing. You felt dizzy and sick. “We need answers first- you can’t just expect someone to talk through brute strength all the time, hm?”

“Shut up. If we beat them- they’ll talk.”

“Not if you kill them first.” The one with piercings raises his eyebrows as he watches the way you claw at the ringed man; drool dripping out of the corner of your lips and your eyes squeezing shut, tears slipping from your lashes and onto your red cheeks. He shivered, mouth watering. “I can see why Schoenhiet likes them so much.” His finger traces down your spine and you flail your legs at the uncomfortable shiver that shoots through you.

“D- don’t t- tou- hhh-” you try to choke out only to have the ringed man tighten his grip, your words becoming an awful gurgle.

“Where’s Shoenhiet.” He demands, loosening his grip on your neck.

You gulp down saliva while sucking in air into your aching lungs. “I- I don’t know who- who that is!” Your voice goes high near the end as the grip around your windpipe tightens again.

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“I- I’m not-”

Your legs kick and you hear the way your bones creek against each other- one thought floating above the panic that floods your body: they can’t know- they can’t know where Vil is.

“You’re going to kill them.”

“They just need to be a little more force.” The ring man tightens his grip to an impossible tightness, his knuckles turning white and the skin around your throat turning a dark purple. A wheeze escapes your open mouth, the edges of your eyes turning blurring into darkness.

You suck in breaths, greedily heaving in huge gulps of air. You’re suddenly dropped to the hard ground, your body landing with a loud thud! And numbing pangs of pain jumping around your bones. You squeeze your eyes shut. A foot settling on your head.

I hope… Vil won’t come.

***

Vil bounced his leg, impatience and something… anxious settling at the bottom of his stomach. The night lights of the city blurred past him out of the window of the limo.

“Roi du Poison, is something bothering you?”

Vil’s eyes drifted to Rook, the hunter unusually stone faced as he waits for him to answer. “And what of you, Rook? You’re not your usual self.”

Rook lets out a quiet laugh. “You didn’t answer my question.” He claps his hands. “But to answer yours- I’m…” his face falls suddenly. “There’s something wrong, non?”

Vil raises his brow.

“I am worried about our tailleur chéri.”

“You too, it seems.” Vil says, his fingers pinching his chin.

Rook hums, cradling his crossed knee in his intertwined hands. His green gaze drifts down to his lap. “I’m afraid.”

Vil’s eyes widened looking up at Rook. “You are?”

He nods. “Dol and Sul… they haven’t heard from them all day.”

“They haven’t?” He could feel his face heat up in barely suppressed frustration.

“You cannot blame them, Roi du Poison. They have been busy with preparations. They’ve been worried sick.”

Vil grows quiet, swallowing, before he turns to the radio type device next to him and presses the red button. “Epel. I need you to take us to (Y/N) Boutique. Make it snappy.”

The radio crackles. “Got it.” Epel’s says. The limo lurching as it picks up speed. Vil could hear the blares of horns outside the car, but he couldn’t seem to care right now. His leg bounces quicker, the anxiety molten in his tummy.

***

The click of Vil’s heels are deafening as he walks into the boutique, Rook and Epel both flanking him. His eyebrows are drawn into a stern angle. He takes a deep breath and his fingers twitch: the sting of copper sinks deep into his senses. Blood.

Vil clenches his hands into fists and leans towards Rook. “Go find them.”

Rook nods, sinking into the shadows.

Vil gestures to Epel and the purple haired boy reaches behind him, pulling out a pistol and clicking off the safety. He stays close to Vil, stepping lightly as they go through the few aisles there was.

Vil’s nose crinkles at how… cold the boutique suddenly seemed. He hated it, this wasn’t your boutique- not the one that he came to adore as soon as he stepped in.

It was a day that started out awful: realizing he was out of his favorite shampoo and conditioner mid showering, Epel being a touch more unreasonable than normal (speeding, acting unruly every time he tried fixing his bow), and to top it off a rookie spilling his favorite smoothie on his favorite suit. He was seething by the time he was out for his evening walk when he stumbled upon the little shop. He had glanced at it a couple of times out of the limo, even on his morning jogs.

He didn’t know what compelled him to walk in, but when he opened the door and stepped in, he took a deep breath, the smell of vanilla and fresh fabrics flooding his senses. He closed his eyes at the warmth that enveloped him.

“Hello!” He turned to see you standing there, a warm smile on your face and you absolutely glowed in the afternoon light. “Is there any way I can help you?”

“Don,” Epel whispered. “The… the counter.”

Vil glanced at the corner of the polished counter: red glistening under the light from the street lamps outside. He grimaced, gaze trailing down the edge of the counter to the floor. Drips of red splattered across the tile in small specks and towards the back room. His eyes widened.

“Vil.” Rook stood in the doorway of the backroom, his eyes drooping into something mournful.

The man broke into a sprint, his long legs carrying him there in a few steps. Rook makes room for him, his hand coming to settle on Vil’s back.

The breath is knocked out of him when he lays his eyes on your broken body. Your arms were tied behind your back with ribbon. He didn’t miss the fact that they were purple- a light lavender with gold accents. The blood was smeared across your face, already caking with dry blood. Your hair disheveled, white dress shirt stained with red and blurry pink, and your neck a thick ring of ugly, dark bruises. Your mouth half agape as you're curled up on the floor in splatters of blood underneath you.

He takes trembling steps forwards. The click of his heels uneven and obnoxiously loud as he makes his way to you, his head pounding. There was no way… no way this was happening.

You had nothing to do with this. Nothing. Just an innocent bystander in the midst of things. One that he was waiting to spend more time with. One that was special.

He didn't even realize he was grinding his teeth until he saw your eyes flutter open. “Vil?” you mumbled through a bruised jaw. Your hands, heavy like lead, reached to touch his face. He caught your hand in his. “Vil! You’re… you’re ok…” You smile up to him the best you can, your eyes heavy and bleary with exhaustion.

“Who did this, my Sweet Potato? Tell me who.” Vil pressed you close to his chest, turning to gesture to Rook and Epel who nodded.

You hum, pressing your cheek into him and taking a deep breath. “You’re ok…”

Vil can feel the way the tears catch in his throat, an awful choking thing. He cleared his throat. “Who did this to you?”

“They kept… asking ‘bout you but I didn’t… say nothin’... Nothin’ at all.” You mumble against him, voice raspy like it had rocks stuck in your throat.

“Why? Why didn’t you? You didn’t have to do that.” He almost laughs at how he feels a happy blush warm your cheeks. He dips his head closer to your ear, his lips almost brushing against the shell of it as he speaks. “You’re not even mine, my Sweet Potato.”

A giggle leaves you, tired and quiet. “I… I can change that… very quickly, Mr. Schoenhiet.”

He laughs, pressing his soft lips against your blooded cheek as Rook and Epel rush back in with his medic, Dol and Sul, pushing behind him to see you, both clamoring with emotion.

[sunnysviolin]

White Dresses and Wedding Vows

I vow to love you always and forever

I vow to cherish you until the end of time

I will always be there for you. I will always wait for you to come back to me. There will never be a day you are not the first thing on my mind when I wake, and the last thing I think of before I fall asleep.

Hero had created a very elaborate idea of what his wedding to Mari would look like. They would get married in the church in their town, on a perfect summer morning before the heat made the church stuffy. The sun would gleam from the stained glass windows, creating rainbow patterns on the floor, and the air would be sweetened by endless flower arrangements. Lilies and roses, the flowers each handpicked by Basil for them.

In his dream Mari’s dress was always simple. Her favorite outfit to wear was a short sleeved long white dress, elegant in its plainness. Sometimes he saw her in that exact dress, sometimes he saw her in a full length version of it, her hands clasping a bouquet of white roses. Her father would walk her down the aisle and finally give Hero a look of quiet approval as he gave her away. Aubrey would be carrying her train.

They would stand as one in the front of the church as he slipped her ring onto her finger, an unknown pastor asking them to stay together better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness and health. It was all necessary, but Hero just knew it would always be better, richer, healthier. With Mari at his side, how could it not?

In his mind it was always a quiet easy ceremony, and afterward they would go back to their joined households for a simple backyard reception. Basil, Sunny, Aubrey, and Kel would each give a toast, and they would dance until their feet ached and the moon rose bright and full above their heads. Nothing elaborate, nothing fancy. They weren’t the types of people to need any of that. Just their friends, their family, and their love.

The only thing that was wrong were the vows. No matter how Hero dreamed it, he could never get his vows to sound right. They came out formal and distant, promises that fell flat in the epicness of his love for his girl. She was his other half, everything that made sense in the world. There wasn’t a world for him without her, there wasn’t even a way he could envision it. But every time he tried to put that into words, it came out basic and trivial.

They were years away from any real wedding plans, but it was frustrating that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t convey what he felt for her. Marrying Mari was an inevitability, just a step in his plan for his life. Of course he would always be by her side, all of it was just a formality for what he already knew.

He even had a promise ring for her, just a silver band with their initials on the inside. He would give it to her for her sixteenth birthday, only a few months away now. By then he would have a good handle on his vows, and he would tell her what he was going to say in the future when she was ready. By then the words would be worthy of her.

Of course, finding those perfect words didn’t really matter anymore.

Mari was wearing a dress now. Not the slim pale simple dress she loved so much, the one that reminded him of their future life together, but a pale lavender that washed her out. She was already so pale, no blush adorning her soft cheeks, but that lavender made it worse. It was wrong. Mari belonged in white. White was her color. But the reason they were in a church did not call for white, it called for black. It was not their wedding.

It was not their wedding, but she was surrounded by flowers. Delicate orchids instead of the white stargazer lilies he had always imagined. Her parents had chosen to have her funeral be an open casket, and they had carefully arranged dozens of orchids to surround her final resting place. Hero had glanced down at her only once, and after that he had kept his eyes closed the entire time. That wasn’t his girl. That was a delicate porcelain doll with her features, eyes closed and tiny mouth arranged in a neutral position. His girl had always been wildly expressive. Even when she slept her brow furrowed and relaxed and her mouth moved as she mumbled through her dreams.

Mari wasn’t sleeping.

Hero wore his best suit, and he had a diamond ring even though it wasn’t their wedding. The ring was not waiting in his pocket to slip onto her finger, but clasped around his neck on a gold chain. Mari’s mother had given it to him the day before. His own mother had tried to stop her, but Mari’s mother hadn’t acknowledged her protests. She had only given Hero a tight lipped smile and pressed the ring further into his palm, nearly cutting him. Hero was glad she hadn’t. Ruining its perfect shine with his blood would have been a waste.

Now he was fiddling with it, memorizing the shape and texture rather than listening to a pastor who barely knew her try to tell him about the love of his life. They had asked him if he would speak, and Hero hadn’t been able to answer. What could he say?

All he had were wedding vows that always felt like cliches, like words that could never capture how he felt about Mari, and now never would. All he had left were half finished vows for a dream that would never be reality. His life was over, all his plans in a box surrounded by orchids. The only wedding ring that he would ever have was already around his neck. The promise ring he had gotten for Mari tucked into the side of her casket to be buried with her. He was complete in his emptiness.

I will love you until the end of my days. You were the only person who I will ever feel this way for. You were the only one who could complete me.

Still wrong. It would always be wrong.

[diabolik-sai]

A/N: So someone requested a Shu scenario about his s/o comforting him after a nightmare, and this started out as a short drabble that just got longer and longer until it turned into this, so. . . Here we go! I really do love this boy~ Warnings: some descriptions of gore, panic attacks, PTSD

Shu groaned as his eyes slowly drifted open, the blurry but familiar image of the manor’s ceiling coming into his view. As he groggily moved to rub the sleep out of his eyes, he realized that he had fallen asleep in his school uniform on the couch. Four years ago this wouldn’t have been an especially strange scenario for the vampire, but now he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t fallen asleep in bed with his arms wrapped around you.

He chuckled a bit to himself. Who would have thought he would come to be so attached to a mere human? His past self would have mocked him, but it was true. Somehow you had managed to take a step into his world when no one else would, or rather, when he wouldn’t let anyone else do so.

If there was one thing Shu Sakamaki knew himself to be good at it was keeping people at a distance. Over the centuries it just came naturally to him. It wasn’t as if he had no people skills, he simply preferred not to use them. No one was worth the time or energy, and at first he wrote you off into that same category.

Oh, how you proved him wrong.

Somehow, you were just as stubborn as you were compassionate- Impossibly patient, and with a level of empathy he could never achieve or understand. You could have run away at any time, it wasn’t like he was trying to stop you back then. But you didn’t. You stayed; for some unfathomable reason you chose to be by his side.

Eventually it was more than just your blood that he craved. It was your laughter, your presence, your smile- the very essence of your being. It felt like you were a drug that allowed him to feel for the first time in a long while.

Shu resisted the urge to roll his eyes at his own thoughts. Since when had he gotten so damn sentimental? You must be rubbing off on him. . .

He was snapped out of his thoughts as a familiar scent wafted through the air. He turned to face who he knew was the source and sure enough, there you were, standing in the doorway with a fresh cup of tea and that unwavering smile on your face.

“Ah, he lives,” you grinned, shifting your weight from the doorframe as you stepped into the living room.

“Been a while since you’ve slept on the couch,” you said, arching a brow, “Did I get mad at you for something? I can’t remember.”

“Hilarious,” Shu deadpanned, although you caught the telltale trace of a smirk on his lips, “If I did, I certainly wouldn’t remind you.”

He propped himself up, moving into a sitting position on the couch. As he turned back to you he noticed you staring at him.

“What?” He asked.

“This is good,” you said, almost to yourself.

“What are you on about?” He chuckled, shaking his head at your antics.

“This,” you said, gesturing around you with your hands. When the level of confusion on Shu’s face remained the same you stifled a laugh.

“Us,” you elaborated, smiling down at him.

For a while Shu didn’t know how to respond to that. The love between you two was mostly unspoken but not unfelt. It simply wasn’t the way either of you typically showed your affection. Such a bold statement from you about your relationship caught him off guard, even after all these years.

You stalled for a moment, staring absentmindedly at the living room wall, your back facing your lover.

“But I have to wonder,” you pondered aloud, “Will it always be like this?”

The clank of porcelain rang out in the room as you placed your tea cup onto the mantle.

“What do you mean?” Shu asked, his tone still light but with a slight edge of caution.

You turned over your shoulder and smiled at him reassuringly, crossing the room in a few confident strides.

“You’ve always been there for me, Shu,” you said, a hand coming up to caress his cheek, “Even if you didn’t know it, you’ve always been there.”

Shu stiffened a bit under your touch. Somehow it felt foreign. You were abnormally cold. . .

Suddenly, your hands jot out, grabbing his wrists on either side of his body in a vice grip. His eyes widened as he struggled against your grasp, impossibly steadfast as that reassuring smile turned sinister on your features.

“But what if you weren’t?” You asked innocently, cocking your head to the side as your grip tightened painfully, your nails digging into the flesh of his wrists leaving weeping, red crescents in their wake.

“What if this manor were to burst into flames?” You wondered aloud. As if your words were coming alive the smell of smoke began to fill the room, and it suddenly occurred to him that you had lit the fireplace behind you.

Every instinct in Shu’s mind told him to move, to run, but it was as if he wasn’t in control of his own limbs. It felt as though every nerve in his body was screaming as a flicker of vermillion spilled out onto the carpet.

“You want to run, don’t you?” You grinned, your tone of voice sickeningly sweet and unfit for the words leaving your lips, “So what if you did? Don’t you want to know what would happen?”

Shu grit his teeth so hard he thought they would shatter as the flames wove through the carpet towards you. You smiled at him, not letting up on your grasp for a second as you leaned down to speak into his ear.

“You’d only make it to the edge of the courtyard before your guilt caught up with you,” you whispered. Chills racked Shu’s spine as you continued. “Then you’d go into shock- frozen, like a useless little rag doll, and you’d be forced to watch me burn. You’d be safe, though. Far enough to not be hurt yourself, but close enough to watch my skin bubble like the water in a squealing tea kettle. To see my hair turn to white hot ash and my eyes liquify and ooze out of their sockets.”

His eyes widened in horror as the flames reached the edge of your nightgown, creeping up your legs until they reached your torso. You only smiled down at him, the flames traveling down the sleeves of your dress towards him. Shu’s hands went numb from your grip as he watched, unable to do anything. He felt like he was suffocating, and any words he tried to choke out died in his throat.

The next time he blinked, you were suddenly off of him, standing in the middle of the living room that was now entirely engulfed in flames, and just like that, your chilling, unfazed expression shifted to fear and panic.

”Shu?” Your eyes widened as you looked down at your flame covered dress, “What is this? What’s happening?!”

Your hands shook as you tired and failed to put the fire out, looking for something, anything to help you until your eyes landed on Shu, and for the first time in centuries he felt pure, unadulterated terror.

He opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. As he looked down he found a pitch black hand covering his mouth. It was burnt to a crisp, some of the dying embers still ignited in its charcoal fingers. Another pair of burned hands reached out and grabbed hold of his feet, keeping him in place.

“Shu, please!” You pleaded, tears streaming down your face as the fire singed your skin, “It hurts, make it stop, please!”

He desperately struggled against the hands but every movement he made only caused more to appear, grabbing onto his limbs, his clothes, his hair- hundreds of tiny, burning hands holding him back against the couch, forcing him to watch you suffer.

You collapsed on the floor with a choked sob. Your voice was raw from screaming as your face became contorted in pain. In a last feeble attempt to call for help you reached out to him, your skin practically melting off your body.

Shu managed to break one of his arms free from the grasp of the charred hands that covered the rest of his body, trying desperately to reach you. The smell of burning flesh assaulted his senses and he fought the urge to retch as he watched his own outstretched hand turn to cinders in front of him.

“Shu!”

He flinched as another one of your anguished screams ripped through the air.

No, no, no, no, no, no-

“Stop,” he choked out, his voice breaking as he pleaded with whatever force of Hell was causing this.

“Shu!”

“Stop, STOP!”

“Shu!”

The vampire jolted straight out of bed with a strangled cry, gasping for breath. His eyes were blown wide with mania as they darted around the room, first to the unlit fireplace and then immediately to you.

“Shu?” You asked groggily, moving to turn the lights on, “What is it?”

You hadn’t seen him like this in a long time. His nightmares used to be relentless, an every night occurrence. But in the past few years you’d been with him they’d become less and less frequent until he slept peacefully through the night. But this seemed much worse than what you’d seen before.

It pained you to see him like this. You knew how vivid his nightmares could be- they were no ordinary dreams.

“Shu-“

You gasped as he suddenly gripped your wrist, staring intensely into your eyes as if he was searching for something but didn’t know what. You ignored the pain as his hold on you tightened.

You knew what his dream must have been about.

You steadied your free hand as much as you could, moving your body so you were facing your lover. You carefully wove your hand into his soft blonde locks, pulling him into a hug. You could feel the rapid beating of his heart; how each breath caught in his throat just before he held it, trying to get it under control before gasping in another intake of air.

“I’m here,” you said softly, your heart clenching as Shu let out a shudder of a breath.

You stayed that way until you felt his breathing even out and you pulled away to look into his azure eyes.

“I’m always going to be right here, Shu,” you said, meaning every word.

“No, you won’t,” he said, his voice coarse.

Your eyes widened slightly in the dimly lit room, taken aback.

“Yes, I will-“

“Then you shouldn’t,” he said coldly.

The look on his face startled you. For just a moment you caught a glimpse of the steely, indifferent exterior you’d broken down over the years, and it scared you that it was still there- still a part of him, albeit a learned one.

“Have you forgotten you’re just a human?” He scoffed, “the only thing humans can be relied upon to do is die- It’s the only certain thing.”

His words were harsh, but his touch changed from the desperate, steel grip he’d used on you only moments ago. He held you as if you were made of glass, like if he held you too tightly you would break but if he let go you’d disappear into smoke.

He was so terrified of losing you. For so long he was told that he was cursed. That he destroyed everything and anyone close to him, and he believed it. The proof was in his past, what reason would he have to believe you would be safe from him?

Your gaze softened as you brought your hands up to cup his face, breaking his mental spiral of negative thought.

“Then don’t let me die,” you said, to his surprise, “turn me.”

Your words seemed to echo in Shu’s mind while he tried to process them.

“Turn me into a vampire,” you repeated, not a trace of doubt in your voice.

“You don’t know what that means, not really,” Shu said quietly, “To live forever. . . To watch everything and everyone you know fester and rot around you while you stay the same. . . Don’t you understand? You’re throwing away any hope for a normal human life.”

“I think I did that the second I walked into this manor,” you grinned.

“I’m serious,” Shu said, his voice raising, “this isn’t a joke, (Y/n). Why would you honestly throw your normal life away? Why wouldn’t you run? Why. . .”

As he trailed off you knew what he was really asking.

Why the hell would you stay with him?

“I wasn’t joking, Shu,” you said, “I threw away any chance for a normal life a long time ago. The second I stepped foot in this house I knew that. The first time you fed from me I knew that. The first time we made love I knew that. Nothing’s changed, Shu. At least, the way I feel about you hasn’t. . . I love you.”

Conflict swirled in Shu’s mind. Part of him wanted you to leave, to just forget everything about him and this manor and be safe somewhere; you could live out a boring, normal life like humans were meant to- far away from him. You would go to university, meet some business major with a stable job and get married on the beach. Have kids who grow up and make you proud and give you grandchildren who you love and protect until you eventually pass in your sleep from old age. If it meant you would be safe. . .

He looked up at you, sighing deeply as he saw the unwavering expression on your face. No. . . That kind of life, that wasn’t who you were. . .

He pressed his forehead to yours, an unspoken response to your earlier declaration of love.

“Are you sure?” Shu stared into your eyes, looking for any trace of uncertainty, but found none.

“Yes,” you said, so soft a whisper Shu thought he might have imagined it.

“Give yourself to me, Shu Sakamaki,” you said, kissing him gently before bringing your wrist up to his fangs,

“Give yourself to me as I’ve given myself to you, for eternity.”

[miraculous786]

Buried Six Feet Under

Basis

First Ending

First Ending - Part Two

First Ending Art

Second Ending

Second Ending - Part Two

One hour.

One hour was all it took for the memories to resurface. The memories of the past few months containing a broken doll and a shattered heart.

There had been an uproar.

The police were called.

The news were alerted.

The world began to wake up.

And there had been tears that day. Many.

From the same people who were crying now, in a spacious hall with hundreds of seats. They were all full.

The rain pattered down onto the roof above, and lightning was heard to strike every so often. One would think that the gods were angry this day.

They had every right to be - and they were.

The gates surrounding the building were locked tight, leaving out a group of students that were huddled near the entrance. Most of them wept, their tears mingling with the water pouring down. Their black outfits became drenched.

A bespectacled girl at the front held onto the barriers blocking her from getting in. She screamed and yelled until her voice was sore, yet no one cared. All were too busy staring at an enormous screen indoors, that flickered to life to reveal something painfully familiar.

Someone painfully familiar.

Jagged Stone - a man with purple locks who was gripping tight to a pair of Eiffel Tower-inspired glasses - pressed a key on the computer at the stage.

The video began to play.

"Okay, umm...hi!" the person recording greeted, nervous smile gracing her features. "I'm Marinette Dupain-Cheng, also known as the superhero 'Ladybug'. You may know me through Tom and Sabine's Boulangerie Patisserie, since, well, they're my parents."

She let out an awkward chuckle, scratching the back of her neck.

There was a sob from the front of the crowd.

"I'm making this video because...uh, I want this to be seen if something happens to me in battle. An akuma battle, that this. You see...some villains have been extremely tough, and, well..."

The bluenette let out a sigh. Her expression became grim in an instant, and her tone serious. It reminded those watching of the heroine that they had come to love.

"Hawk Moth has found out a way to translate the Guardian's book, which, long story short, allows him and Mayura to become even stronger. That's why I wanted to make this video."

She glanced to the side, and unmistakable tears were seen to be forming at the rims of her glossy eyes. "I...I've seen Chat Noir get hurt before. I've seen him get- get killed too many times. It's entirely possible that I'll end up with the same fate."

A sniffle escaped her, but she chose to wipe at her eyes and let out a dry chuckle. Her tone was wobbly as she dryly stated, "Chat, he...he isn't as serious as I am about this whole thing. About this whole job. And I hope that after he sees this, he learns that Hawk Moth needs to be taken down. If I have to sacrifice my own life for that..."

She shrugged. "...so be it."

Marinette's eyes wandered over to something off-screen, and she beamed at whatever it was.

"Tikki's asleep right now, so I have to make this quick. I...I wanted to ask those who are watching a favour. If, if you get this then could you- could you pass on my earrings to someone else? Well- someone in particular, actually. Paris needs two heroes to take care of it, after all."

She leaned forward and out of frame for a few seconds. Then she returned with a coloured picture, that had two girls grinning at the camera. She pointed to one of them.

"This is Alya Cesaire - my best friend and one that I sincerely trust to take on the mantle of Ladybug. She, she's amazing. I have so much faith in her, and I know that she'll be perfect for the role."

A blond in the audience clenched his fists.

The designer grinned. "I actually wanted to hand over my earrings to her when I first got them but decided not to - it was a close call, though. Please show this video to her, by the way. I want to say something."

Marinette gained a smirk, as she started, "Hey, bestie! How's it going? I'm, I'm sorry about not telling you who I am, but...a secret is a secret, right? I know you would've loved the scoop. You have all of my support to defeat Hawk Moth, Alya. I'm sure that Tikki will guide you though everything. That is, if she's able to. Oh! That reminds me - I have a request that I wanted to ask of you. I...can you show this to Chat?"

He took in a raspy breath.

"Hey, Kitty. I just wanted to tell you that, well...I'm afraid that the mantle of the Guardian will have to go to you, since you're the only one alive that can take it - barring Hawk Moth, of course."

She pursed her lips. "You're my partner, Chat. The best one that I could have ever asked for. I hope that you'll be able to keep your head up and stay strong alongside Alya, and protect the Miracle Box."

And let the tears flow.

"Oh, and if it isn't too much to ask...can, can I stay with Tikki, even if I'm gone? You don't have to bury me with the earrings or anything, but...just visit my grave, please? With Tikki. She's been with me through thick and thin and is quite emotional when it comes to her holders from what I've heard. I wouldn't want her to live with the guilt of my death."

Adrien found himself nodding with a whimper.

That was when Marinette suddenly jumped up. She whipped her head to something invisible to her right and yelped. "What? Me? Recording something? Of course not, Tikki! I'm just-"

The screen turned blank again.

Allowing all to hear the choked sob from Chat Noir.

He covered his mouth to muffle his cries, and yet his pathos was clear to everyone around.

And even those outside.

It seemed as if everyone had broken out of their silent stupor, as murmurs began to break out and fill the hero's ears. Murmurs of what would happen to Hawk Moth. What would happen to Paris. What would happen to them all without Ladybug.

Something inside him snapped.

And a growl tore through his throat.

"Stop it!"

Everyone turned to him in surprise. Most edged back at the anger he clearly had restrained.

His cat ears thrashed. His sharp claws flexed. His green eyes dilated.

"That is enough! You're all horrible!" he hissed lowly. "Why can't you see that it isn't Ladybug gone? It's Marinette!"

Sabine and Tom flinched at the mention of their daughter.

"Whether or not she has the mask, she's the same person! And I bet that if she were here she would have agreed with me!"

A man with slicked grey hair and a striped sash rushed forward. "Chat Noir, I'm sure that there's no need for thi-"

"Shut. Up. Before I make you."

The Mayor gulped.

"I'm going, and none of you are going to stop me," he snarled, as he faced the exit of the place. Beneath his breath, he muttered, "You didn't deserve her. None of us did."

Only a few seconds later did thunder strike loud from outside, but Adrien was already somewhere else by that time.

Already gone.

And with the remains of his very partner.

Rain dripped down from his locks to his face, to the point where none could point out what were his tears and what weren't. There was a hush as all stared with baited breath, observing Chat as he knelt in front of a headstone.

A headstone in memory of the one he loved. Still loved.

"I'm sorry, Princess," he choked. "I-I'm so sorry...You didn't deserve any of this."

The crack in his voice made hearts shatter.

"You'll always be my Lady - my Princess. And I'm sorry that I couldn't do more."

His lower lip wobbled. His eyes drifted to the ring at his finger.

And he reached to pull it off.

"I'm the new Ladybug..."

Until he caught the whisper that made his blood run cold.

His now twitching head slowly rotated up to who had spoken. It was none other than Alya Cesaire.

She was stood at the gates to the graveyard, pipe wrench in hand. Behind her were other students from her class, that had tears - or rain, he couldn't tell - pouring down their cheeks.

So did she.

Yet her lips were still poised into some sort of a smile.

"What?"

There were many flinches from the Parisians nearby.

In a more confident tone, the reporter stated, "She named me the new Ladybug."

Silence.

A harsh flare from Chat Noir's heart made him bare his teeth. "So what?"

None were prepared for the shout that soon escaped his mouth.

"You're the reason we need a new Ladybug!"

Adrien stood up, back arched and irises slit. "You're the reason that Paris will be left in shambles! That people will die! That the Guardian is gone!"

His booming bellows quieted to a mumble. "That Marinette is dead."

A fire flared in his eyes.

"You did this..." he growled menacingly, claws out. "It's all your fault!"

As the police force standing guard grabbed at the lunging cat aiming to avenge, none noticed the creature settled on top of Marinette's grave.

The butterfly.

That glowed a faint purple from its droopy wings.

As if it was mourning like the rest of the population for the death of the heroine buried six feet under.

~*~*~

It had been a day since then.

Since the funeral of one Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

And there was a figure approaching the graveyard where those had previously mourned for her.

They stepped over soaked grass and muddy ground. Scattered petals and jagged rocks. Yet they didn't stop.

Their suit became damp from the rain. Their shoes became soggy from the puddles. Yet they still didn't stop.

Not until they reached the grave at the centre of the yard, that stood tall in colours of black and red. Bouquets of daffodils and roses lay around it, along with plush toys of a girl in spotted fabric.

The figure, the man, bent down to inspect the rectangle of dirt in front of the memorial of stone, that had fancy scripture engraved into its surface. There was nothing on the patch. No flowers. No cards. Nothing.

Except for two hexagonal boxes.

Etched onto their lids were markings in blood-red, that depicted messages in a language that none could decipher - apart from the owner of the porcelain shards buried six feet under.

Despite the grime starting to gather on his clothing, the man continued to stare impassively at the items. His icy blue eyes studied the sight in front of him for a few seconds more, until his lips soon pursed tight.

Fingers gripped at cold objects, and brought them into the open in a stiff movement. They hesitated for a moment, as if worried of what they were about to do, then gently deposited their contents onto the dirt.

The figure let out a weary sigh. He stood back up treacherously slow. Then, he snapped his back straight up, and walked past the gates leading out of the graveyard.

He didn't look back.

He only left two items sitting in the mud. Left two items to waste away until the foreseeable future.

Left two miraculous.

And whilst he made his way down the dark and gloomy streets of Paris, dozens of eyes watched from the shadows.

They only had one goal in mind.

To protect their Guardian. The remains of their Guardian.

Until the end of time.

~*~*~

@soupfilledboots​

@ladybug-182​

@mochegato​

@anjuschiffer​

@gangstaluigi613​

@itskarmalone

@moonystars14​

@amayakans​

@mewwitch​

@agentofscifi​

@pale-lady-dreamer​

@lntimancy​  

@raisuke06​

@thyladyanput​ <3

@doriebell​

@2sunchild2​

@zebrabaker​

@freshbark​

@saphiraazure2708​

@animalgirl05​

@queen-in-a-flower-crown​

@g-arya​

@persephonescat​  

@sapphirewilliams5095​

@colorfulmongerpsychicranch​

@dontbenddontbreak​

@nights-of-fire​

@achefisachef​

@cinnamonrollorder​

@adhd-coyote​

@7-sage-7​

@vanillacoffee-bean​

@heldtogetherbysafetypins​

@dorkus-minimus​

@sassakitty​

@shippernaturalsanderspjoandscifi

@corabeth11​

@echpr​  

@jewishdumbass

@olynix​ 

[virtuosin]

The moment his grip turned the knob he could tell something was off. In the time spent together, Sona's presence had grown into the residence; her magic had seeped into the walls. Jericho always attributed it to this house having an affection for witches - his mother, before and Sona now. With news of Demacia's fall traveling fast, it was no wonder that the walls felt a little more decrepit that day; the candlelight a little dimmer.

Surely Jericho had a reputation for being rather aloof, and rumors would often spread around his person; painting a picture of a cold man with an even colder personal life. Perhaps he's grown softer in the presence of something beautiful. In either case, brows shot up upon entering; yet his look was quick to mellow into a - not necessarily reassuring - frown.

" Good evening. " It is, perhaps, even heavier than usual. As if to warn her; or remind her of where her loyalties should lie now. Still, Jericho is not heartless. Not yet, at least. The kiss he offers on her forehead is a tender one, cupping her cheek with a quiet hum.

Tremendous effort is exerted to keep her emotions in check. Face is pale but otherwise unblemished, much like the porcelain dolls collectors covet. And yet, her bones ache with her unspent cries, trembling for the release she was denying herself. Far be it for Sona to smother out her emotions, but in her tenure with Jericho, she has learned to quell her heart in favor of sterile logic. It is not her way, but his, though she cannot deny the usefulness in placing head above heart. While every bit of her yearned to save the people of Demacia, she remained here, greeting Jericho as she would every night--a bit of gloom now leaking into her features as he acknowledges her presence. "Good evening," She mirrors in kind, her tone a similar solemn melody. There was nothing serene to it, though perhaps that added to the haunting charm of her voice in this moment; the sound of such a harmonic maiden in despair is such a rare thing. Ceruleans veiled in the shade of her conflicted heart would finally rise up to meet his gaze, a flicker of light sparking in her depths as he offers the kiss and touch of affection. It is a bastion of hope in this perilous night of misfortune, and so Sona would lean against that palm, eyes screwed shut as she concedes to her frail state. There was no need to hide from Jericho, no need for deceit or putting on a façade for his sake. "I pray you are well, my beloved," Sona mewls softly, a thin calloused hand coming to partially eclipse his larger hand holding her cheek. Peering through long lashes, the maven would offer a smile, though its warmth held the same reassurance as the rising sun on a foggy morn. "Tell me," She speaks up, studying him carefully. "I must know...how do you fair, Jericho? Let me focus on you so I may banish these other thoughts plaguing my mind."

[somuchnonsense]

“Fluff”tober Drabbles 10-12

Previous drabbles

10. Leaves                    (post-canon Wangxian)

Lan Wangji finds Wei Wuxian lying under a maple tree, its leaves a riot of brilliant reds, oranges and yellows and some lingering green. His eyes are closed, his hands tucked under his head, his body relaxed. He looks at peace, and as beautiful in Lan Wangji’s eyes as the tree above him. A dark red leaf drifts down and lands in Wei Wuxian’s hair, like an ornament next to the bright red of his hair ribbon, and Lan Wangji smiles at the sight.

For a minute or two, Lan Wangji stands there, appreciating the view, until Wei Wuxian opens his eyes. He blinks sleepily a few times, and then a slow, lazy grin spreads over his face. “Were you staring at me, Lan Zhan?”

The answer is obvious, and Lan Wangji doesn’t feel the need to defend himself. Why wouldn’t he stare at his husband relaxing in the dappled sunlight of a perfect autumn day?

Wei Wuxian laughs, accepting his non-answer. “Come sit with me, Lan Zhan. It’s beautiful here.”

“You’re beautiful,” Lan Wangji responds, because it’s true and because he loves the way the compliment momentarily flusters Wei Wuxian.

“Lan Zhan,” he whines, but then he recovers and smirks, tossing his hair. “I am, aren’t I?”

Lan Wangji ignores the question, going to sit next to Wei Wuxian, but while the scenery is indeed beautiful, they both can’t help looking at each other.

11. Moving                    (idol trainee AU Wangxian)

Lan Zhan is so perfect and Wei Ying is torn between being impressed and being jealous. He works hard—they all do or they won’t last long—but Lan Zhan has more talent in his pinky finger than a lot of the guys here, and a lot of experience too, making him much closer to the goal of being a polished idol than most of them. Wei Ying has talent too, but the mentors keep telling him that he lacks polish and discipline and that, essentially, if he doesn’t get his shit together, he won’t make it to the end—or if he does manage it on the power of his charm, he won’t be successful after.

The trouble is that Wei Ying has never in his life been good at discipline, at least not the kind Lan Zhan has, where you speak respectfully to your teachers and don’t interrupt practice to make jokes, even when everyone is stressed out and a joke will help diffuse the tension. He’s never been good at doing things the way he’s supposed to if he doesn’t think it’s the best way, if a different dance move would make it more interesting or a change in the lyrics would make them them flow better, or if goofing off will keep him sane during the long hours of practice.

When they get put in a group together for the next challenge, Wei Ying suspects it’ll be a disaster, but he also sees it as an opportunity. Lan Zhan is the top trainee, after all, and Wei Ying’s been up there too. They have a good song and good choreography. If they pull it off, it’ll get them a lot of attention, and with it a lot of votes. They just, you know, have to not kill each other in the process. Unfortunately, that’s asking a lot, because Lan Zhan is respectful to their teachers, but he has very little patience for Wei Ying, especially after hours and hours of draining practice.

“Why can’t you take anything seriously?” Lan Zhan roars when Wei Ying trips him, which was both funny at the time and, in retrospect, a really stupid idea when they can’t afford any injuries. “Do you even want to be an idol?” It’s some ungodly hour of the morning on their third night practicing until almost dawn and even Lan Zhan is too exhausted to manage himself in front of the cameras. If he’s lucky, they’ll edit this out or frame it in some way that doesn’t make him look too bad, but Wei Ying’s more likely to get the villain edit if he’s not careful.

The thing is, Wei Ying does want very badly to be an idol, and he also wants Lan Zhan to like him, or at least to respect him. He wants to work side by side with Lan Zhan and put out good songs, good performances. He wants Lan Zhan to understand what not enough people understand: that he’s very serious about this, even if he shows it differently. He’s exhausted too, and it’s too hard to explain himself and too revealing even for the middle of the night to show how much he wants this.

“Hey, let’s all calm down…” says Nie Huaisang, fluttering nervously between them.

“I want to be an idol,” Wei Ying says flatly, looking Lan Zhan right in the eye. He can’t say anything more—how this is his last chance, how hard it was to get here without support, how all the criticism doesn’t roll off his back as easily as he pretends it does. He only looks at Lan Zhan, who for a long moment looks back at him, really looks at him for the first time and finally sees him. It’s a scary thing, being seen, and scarier still realizing how much he’s wanted Lan Zhan to see him.

None of their groupmates say a word, a heavy silence persisting until Lan Zhan finally looks away and Wei Ying can breathe again. “Let’s continue,” Lan Zhan says gruffly.

As they move into formation, he catches Wei Ying’s eye one more time and there’s understanding there, at last. He gives a curt nod, and just that acknowledgment surprises a broad smile out of Wei Ying. “Let’s do this!” he yells—and they do.

12. White                    (post-canon Wangxian)

Wei Wuxian doesn’t wear Lan white; he’s not interested in looking like he’s in mourning. He doesn’t wear light blue like Lan Wangji either, or the slightly darker blue his brother favors. He’s married into the Gusu Lan Sect, but he’s still Wei Wuxian, just as he was for all those years in the Yunmeng Jiang Sect. Why should he change his style—or himself—to suit anyone else?

He does wear a white underrobe sometimes, and not just so he has an excuse to steal Lan Wangji’s clothing. Something of a compromise, maybe—he’s not a Lan, but he is part of their sect, and he can show some respect for his husband and their sect leader—or maybe just an amusing reminder of how horrified Lan Qiren was the first time he saw that Wei Wuxian was wearing Lan Wangji’s clothes under his usual black.

He also appreciates how Lan Wangji looks in his whites and delicate blues, the pale clothing only making him look more like a perfectly carved porcelain doll, with his smooth skin and sculpted features. And he appreciates most of all how Lan Wangji looks when he takes those clothes off of him, white fabric pooling around him as he sheds that doll-like illusion of chaste perfection and gives in to pleasure.

[llamagoddessofficial]

Hi, Llama!! As soon as you came out with that Coraline AU to your Aggre(g/v)ation story (especially the OtherSanses’ evil forms), I just had to get something written down before I forgot the idea. I appologize if it seems too long, but I hope you enjoy it!! :D

~

It had started almost in slow motion, then gradually escalading to speeding by you in a whirlwind of destruction. As the four of you made a mad dash through the apartment facsimile’s hallways (had they somehow gotten longer?!) the walls, floor and ceiling around you had started to disintegrate. Almost like loose, faded patches in a forgotten quilt, the matter quickly fell apart and away only moments behind your racing feet, falling and disappearing into the endless expanse of white which you now knew to be the anti-void.

This perfect world…his perfect world…was quite literally falling apart at the seams.

You knew that Sans’ button-eyelighted doppelganger would have found out about your escape soon, but you had still held some of that useless hope that you and your boys would miraculously slip right between his threaded fingers and into the real world.

But as soon as the four of you had finally, finally persuaded Stitch to let you pass, it was like a silent alarm had gone off. The world had started its collapse, determined to never let you reach the exit.

Dart knew where you were, and that you weren’t alone. If you hadn’t have known better, you would have thought all of this terror and chaos was only a game to him. Just to remind you of his presence, ever so slowly closing in on you.

Aside from your collective pants and heavy breathing, you tried your hardest to keep your eyes and ears sharp, listening for any indication that he could be hiding just around the next corner, ready to finally snatch you away.

But to your confusion (and slight horror) there wasn’t any giveaway. The only thing you could occasionally hear was this faint…scuttling noise, coming from everywhere and nowhere, almost as if some sort of animal was fleeing away from your group.

“c’mon, kid,” Sans called over to you, breathless. “i’m convinced we’re going around in circles. you know this place more than we do, right? what’s the quickest way out of this nightmare?”

“I-I don’t know!” You stammered, almost near tears, clinging to Skull’s jacket as he still continued to hold you tight against him. “The apartment was never this big before! I don’t know which way to go!”

“well, we ain’t got much time left to think on it, sweetheart!” Red gasped, momentarily fumbling over his own feet before just as quickly catching up. “in fact, we’ve got no time! i’m not sure we can take much more of this shit…”

Skull chose to stay silent. No one pressured him to talk this time; the look on his face was almost murderous, and he grasped onto your much smaller form like a child with its most treasured doll.

It was only after a couple more turns and a dilapidated staircase when you finally reached the kitchen. The lights were dark, but none of you wasted time to fumble for a light switch. As you all momentarily paused to look around you for another way out, you only just barely registered that the destruction of the building had just…stopped. A blank, open area of white just sitting there at the room’s end.

You motioned for Skull to put you down, and after a moment’s hesitation, he set you back on your wobbling legs. While the boys scanned the area for a path to the exit, you ventured further into the kitchen. Even if there was no way out of this room, the least you could do was arm yourself. You didn’t want to stay completely useless throughout all this chaos.

…Not when all of this was your fault to begin with.

But before you could find a drawer or a cabinet to open, you stopped dead in your tracks. This time, you heard footsteps within the dark of the kitchen, barely audible by someone’s familiar slippered feet.

Sans grabbed your arm and yanked you back towards him. Were he a second too late, you would have had several white strings wrap tight around your unsuspecting body. They hit harmlessly against the wall instead, fluttering to the ground before snaking back to where their owner now stood.

You and your boys slowly backed away towards the white expanse, careful not to fall in, as Dart finally revealed himself from the shadows. His white, buttoned eyelights seemed to glint in the bright light of the anti-void, and that perfect, porcelain grin of his widened almost menacingly, the threads keeping him together stretching with the movement.

“there you are, dolly.” he exclaimed. You outwardly shuddered at the nickname, sickly sweet and dripping with the promise of punishment. “and i see your little friends managed to make their way inside here too! pretty small world, don’t’cha think?”

Your arms were both being held by Skull and Sans, with Red looming protectively behind you. Your fear quickly replaced with seething rage. “Let us go, Dart. I don’t want to stay here anymore. I don’t even belong here!”

Dart’s smile didn’t even try to waver, as he almost strolled further into the kitchen, resting his elbow on the countertop. “oh, i know you don’t. and i don’t intend to keep any of you here for long. just as soon as the three of us have a chance to obtain our real bodies, we can all go back home, safe and sound.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it!” You all but shouted, quickly losing your patience amidst your righteous anger. “They aren’t your real bodies, they’re my friends! I’m not letting you take them away from me, you…you…!”

You struggled coming up with an insult amidst your fury. You backed further into your boys, gaining confidence from the warm and comforting magic almost radiating from their bodies. “…I don’t even know what to call you! You’re not even a monster, I don’t think you were even one to begin with. You’re…you’re an abomination!!” You cried.

“you’re free to call me whatever you want, (y/n)…” the fake skeleton was undeterred, his manic grin softening the slightest bit as he gazed at you fondly, “just as long as i get to call you mine.”

“alright, that’s fuckin’ it.” Red growled, gently nudging you towards Skull as he took one, stalking step towards the fake. “your outnumbered, ya little bastard. just be glad we didn’t take the other me along with us.”

The edges of Dart’s permasmile turned flat. “oh, don’t i know it. you don’t have to worry about that useless puppet of mine, though. now that i know he let you escape, i’ve made sure he’s been dealt with accordingly.”

“What did you do to him?!” You shouted. In the beginning, Stitch may very well have been only a doppelganger that wanted to steal Red’s body, but he had still helped all of you in the end. You could still remember the look of pure unadulterated fear stretching across his boney features as you reasoned with him, the way he subconsciously seemed to cover up all of his joints – where the glowing red strings keeping him together were held.

And when he finally slunk aside and let you all pass, the way that his trembling, broken words seemed to echo around you as you fled away…

“…h-he’ll forgive you…he-he has to…you’ll be f-fine…he’ll forgive y-you…”

Dart answered you, his irritation and his smile twisting into something awfully cruel. “oh, nothing he won’t ultimately recover from. he’ll be able to see you again soon, just after he…pulls himself together first.”

You were going to be sick. You were actually going to throw up. You covered your mouth and choked on a sob, tears finally pricking at the corner of your eyes. It was bad enough that you had seen with your own eyes Dart tear apart Lockstitch with his bare hands…once you finally discovered how downright evil he was. You didn’t think you could take much more at this rate.

“you sick fuck…” Sans seethed, his eyelights extinguishing to let a dialated blue eyelight take the left one’s place. “it’s over. you’re done. once we’re done with you, we’re taking (y/n) home. just try and stop us!”

Skull’s hand around your arm tightened protectively. “…it’s four to one. you’ll lose.” he snarled, his one eyelight shrunk down to a pinprick in its socket.

As one, all three of the skeletons advanced toward the copy, with Skull keeping you behind him for protection.

Dart, however, looked like he was having the time of his life. As he backed up against the kitchen counter, his threaded smile almost broke with how wide it stretched.

“looks like you’ve got me in a corner, huh fellas?” You eyed him carefully, desperate to catch any rouge twitch of his fingers, any movement of white threads indicating an attack. “welp, i guess i’ve got no choice but to break out the big guns…”

Big guns…?

Dart placed his hand to the side of his mouth, amplifying his shout that he directed behind you all. “oh, paaaaaaaatch!”

As soon as you registered the name, your heart sunk down to the floor.

Almost immediately, the scuttling noise from before returned, now growing almost dangerously loud around you all.

Skull turned around first, to pull you closer to him, but as soon as he faced the now illuminated hallway out of the kitchen, he muttered a foul curse, pulling you behind him again. The remaining two skeletons followed suit, jaws falling completely slack.

As soon as you saw Skull’s button-eyelighted doppelganger emerge from the hallway, you very nearly fainted on the spot. He was just as big as you had seen him before, his oversized, patchy jacket falling open to reveal his giant, broken ribcage. His spine, from what you could see, looked horribly misshapen and bent, causing the hulking beast to hunch over unnaturally.

But the sight of the large, spindly, and incredibly sharp spider’s legs that poked out of the holes of his large basketball shorts quickly captured your horrified attention. The monstrous appendages looked almost like individual scissor blades at the ends, as they stepped carefully into the large room, and his clawed phalanges could have passed as pin needles, bared menacingly at the four of you.

The large, red button in Patch’s working socket almost glowed in the dark, twitching to focus on each of you individually. His grin was stretched unnaturally wide, the points almost wrapping around the sides of his ruined skull, and continuous guttural growls and grunts poured forth from his ribcage.

“heya, patch. nice to see ya, boy.” Dart greeted almost too casually, as if he were addressing a pet. “i’ve got a bit of a problem. y’see, these big bad people want to take our precious little (y/n) away from us! isn’t that awful?”

The creature’s button eyelight darted to land on your cowering form behind Skull, and he let out a saddened, almost animalistic whine.

“i know, it’s just so unfair!” Dart cooed, his grin twitching in its manic hold. “i know you’ll be good and take care of it for me, won’t you, patch?”

Patch’s pathetic whimpering instantly changed to a monstrous, feral growl as he took in the three skeletons in front of you. His spider legs bent as he lowered himself further, needle-like claws bared as he poised himself to strike with a word from his master.

Red, Sans and Skull shook off the terror coating their expressions as each conjured their appropriate magic bone attacks, murderous intent in each of their sockets.

They were so focused on the threat in front of them, that by the time Dart’s white threads latched onto each of your limbs and you let out a terrified scream, it was too late. The strings yanked you back so Dart could restrain your arms with his, holding you in a bruising grip.

The boys turned on their heel to aim their attacks at the copy, but Patch’s answering snarl had them twisting back around, trying desperately to discern the greater threat.

“well, i’d love to stay and chat as much as the next guy, but you all appear to have your hands full. try to find us later if you manage to survive.” Dart said nonchalantly, holding you back while you shrieked and struggled like a fish caught in a net.

You could already feel the telltale signs of a shortcut that Dart was charging up. Just before your vision went white, you could see Patch charging toward the skeletons after his master uttered a single, terrifying command:

“s i c  ‘e m, b o y.”

---

@mccloudydays​

ho

ly

shit

that was fuckin amazing,,,,, you absolutely NAILED the characters!!!! bruh i need more 

[airthatkills]

Kiss?

Inside the hidden corridors of the house, you shuffle uncertainly around for a few moments, trying to get your bearings.     It's not total darkness, there's some light coming  from small intermittent bulbs fastened to the ceiling and walls.   You try not to think about any spiders lurking in the webs dusting the corners.  

You see the repaired wall where Brahms broke through the mirror and remember where you are.   At the next brick chimney breast, you swing right up a small set of stone steps.  The door to his lair lies open.  

Inside it's lit with string lights and amber lamps; creating a soft dim glow.  It's as you remember that time you took a mad rush through here; the small kitchen area, bathroom, cluttered living space.   Stuffed animals peer down at you  from the walls and units.   A battered old fox with moth eaten ears; birds and small mammals.  A large tawny owl with eyes so liquid and bright you think for one mad moment it's actually alive.

Tentatively, you walk to the middle of the room and glance around.   There's no sign of Brahms.

His cot bed is neatly made.   No sign of your erstwhile girl doll.  There's a shelf of books filled with leatherbound classics.   Children's books.  Poetry.   Some titles you recognise as more contemporary, George Orwell, John Grisham, Dan Brown.   You smile when you see the paperback spines of a whole set of  the Game of Thrones series.

Gazing in wonderment at a whole wall of taxidermy implements and notions, you don't see the child until you're almost upon it.   Its eyes gleam at you in the dim light, and for a split second your heart lurches.   It's not a child.   It's the doll.

"Brahmsie..."  you breathe.

He's sitting on a work bench, legs splayed, hands in his lap.   The porcelain face is cracked into a mosaic of damage but beautifully mended.  You peer closer, remembering the pristine beauty of  that bisque face.   Now, it's marred and scarred, the features altered; somehow looking more adult than before.  

He's dressed in his black trousers, shirt and tie under a dark sweater.  You reach out, almost affectionately, to stroke the soft real hair then track down to the cracked face.   The urge to pick him up once more and hold him close is almost overpowering.  But you're afraid you may break him again.   You stand awhile, smiling down at the doll.   If not for this simple toy, this surrogate child the Heelshire's nurtured by proxy, you doubt you'd ever have formed a bond with the real Brahms.   This doll was the medium through which Brahms was able to communicate himself to you.   And now it feels precious to you both.

You move this way and that through the room, touching a small Millefiori paperweight here, a thread worn  teddy bear there.  This place feels so intimate it's almost unbearable.  The first time you came here you were an intruder.   Now, you've been invited.

He catches you unawares, and so unexpectedly, you jump.   There, in the darkened corner by the fireplace.  An immobile, statuesque shadow.  Brahms.

As you catch sight of him, he moves forwards. There's a feline grace to him; a furtiveness that reminds you of a cat about to take a bird.  There's always that uncertainty with Brahms...the not quite knowing what he'll do, how he'll behave, or what he's thinking.   You freeze, unable to do much else but stare helplessly as he approaches.  

The doll mask seems now so much a part of him, it barely bothers you.    You have the insane thought that if you removed it, he'd be exactly the same underneath.    You smile shyly up at him.

"Brahms?"

He does that thing where he stands close to you, both arms by his side, his head thrust forwards and down as though he's trying to inhale your essence through the crown of your head.  You remain motionless, eyes closed, longing for him to touch you.  Slowly, he circles your body in his arms and pulls you to him.  This is the physically closest you've ever been, and it feels like home.   You press the palms of both hands against his back, feeling his heat through the thin tee shirt, then rest the side of your face against his chest.

For an interminable time, you both stand there, locked together.   You wonder what he's thinking.   What he'll do.   You don't quite know what to do yourself.   Your fingers find his bare flesh, warm and firm, at the top edge of the tee.   The desire to pull the garment up and over his head is overpowering.  But Brahms has to do this his way.   If any way at all.

The dull thump you hear is his heartbeat, the rhythm neither fast nor slow.  You breathe in his scent, unique to him.  You wish you could stay this way forever.

You're aware of the ridge of the hard, cold mask against the top of your head.  His rib cage expands and contracts with each breath, each inhalation above you quiet and measured.  Now, you raise your head, break the contact.   You see those eyes staring down at you, and his voice, when it comes, is almost a whisper.

"I want to kiss you, Y/N."

He pulls away, holding you at arms length.   Outside the house, somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles.  At his request,  you nod dumbly, unable to look anywhere but at him.    You never realised how strong his magnetism  is, for it holds you, now, totally in its thrall.  Your hands hold his elbows, you don't want to let him go.   But he disengages, retreats to a corner of the room.   He's holding something in his hands.   You stare at the soft strip of cloth, understanding.

"We can turn off the lights," you tell him.  "It will be totally dark in here."  But he shakes his head.  

"I need to see you."

More thunder.  This time closer.   Perspiration sheens your skin.   You're wearing a thin scarlet singlet with no bra beneath, and a long wrap around skirt.  The humidity that's been building all day remains unrelieved now that evening's here.   Above the house, storm clouds condense.

"I won't hurt you, Y/N.   It's just a kiss."

Brahms comes closer, then behind you.  He touches the mask to the hollow of your neck, just above the clavicle, his breath hissing behind it so close to your ear that  your eyes close involuntarily, nipples tightening.

You allow him to tie the blindfold, so gently, around your eyes.  Deprived of vision, your other senses surge to compensate.   You can hear him moving around.  His body heat is gone, so you know he's moved off.   Vulnerable and lost, you reach out with both hands, not daring to step forwards or back.    A thunderclap rents the air, and you almost cringe.

"Brahms!"

"It's OK, I'm here."

His voice sounds different.   Clearer, deeper, more distinct.  You realise he's removed the mask.

Fingers touch yours, strong and long, curling around your hands.  They slide up your arms, questing to the shoulder where they linger at your throat.  You tilt your head back to accommodate him, lengthening your neck, exposing your vulnerability to him; your trust.  There's a whisper of his breath on your jawbone, the caress of a curl as it brushes your cheekbone.   His face is close to yours now, inches away.  

Where's your mouth?   you want to beg him.  Give me your mouth...

He's pressing closer, the  prickle of beard grazes your lips, and you open your mouth and gasp, inclining your head towards it.  But you can't find him.   He's playing with you.  Tormenting you.  The storm seems overhead now, the aftermath of each thunderclap vibrating through the house.    Brahms seems unperturbed.  You don't even notice.  All you can feel is him.

Over your right ear now, the heat of his skin is palpable.  Your breathing is becoming laboured.  Now, down to your cheek, where he lingers.    Oh, God, I can feel his eyelashes, your mind clamours.  And the brush of them as he closes his eyes  is the most erotic sensation you've ever felt.   You're  just about  to gasp, "Brahms..." when his mouth on yours smothers his name.

You breath in so sharply, you actually suck some of the air from his lungs.   You taste the warm slightly Peppermint taste of him as his lips brush yours.  You push your face closer to his, in the same way he'd done with you an age ago when you told him the mask hurt your mouth.  

Brahms is exploring you.  Touching you with small kisses that send the nerve endings on your lips into sensory overload.   Because of the blindfold, you can't anticipate where he'll land or when, and this gives him total control over you.

Each breath you inhale is rasping now, as though you've run a marathon.   Your heart pounds.  The thunder crashing above makes your ears ring.   With a moan you let your head loll back.  He's kissing your throat, the soft pecking of his lips as they travel round to the opposite ear feels like something God devised.  And all the while, your imagination rages like a tortured thing wondering what he looks like.  

You feel his hands stroke your shoulders, gently pulling the thin straps of your red singlet down so that they drape over the top of your arms.  It's not enough to expose your breasts but the action is so loaded you feel your face suffuse with blood.

Through all this; this prolonged and magical kiss, you want to reach out and touch him.  But you don't because that might break the spell and destroy what he's weaving around you.  You wish it could go on forever.  Oh, you wish...  

There's a pause as he breaks the connection.   You wait.  Expectant. Your pulse banging at wrist and jugular.     In this moment, you belong to him.  You've always belonged to him, and he to you.  Lightning crackles, filling the sky with ozone. You hear the windows of the Heelshire mansion rattle in the storm's wrath.   Has he gone?   Is he finished?

You reach up to remove the blindfold, but his hands stop you, gripping each wrist.  He pulls you close; so close you feel the play of muscles on his belly.   He holds you cruciform, so that you can't touch him, or feel for his face.  This time his mouth takes yours with no hesitation.   There's no child inside anymore.  This is Brahms the man.  The storm reaches a crescendo above you.  

[6v6taeminisloveshineeworld]

Homme Fatale -Dentist!Vampire!Taemin X Reader

homme fatale 

i. e. An undoubtedly seductive and dangerous man. One with a smile that would be too cruel not to kiss and a cherubic face with a temperament that’s anything but innocent. 

Summary: He was cloaked by the smell of death and wore it as armor. His life had little meaning, he pillaged through the world only to beguile and destroy as his veins hummed with bloodlust and selfish need. Nocturnal creatures should not be swayed by the beating hearts of the living but when Taemin catches a glimpse of you, a mortal in possession of a treacherous supernatural gift, he is faced with the temptation to claim you as his own. At his mercy, you discover a darkness in yourself that you’ve never dared to explore and you never imagined it could taste so sweet.

Genre: Smut, Romance, Dentist AU, Vampire AU, Supernatural, Horror, Lyric fic inspired by WANT MV and other Taemin song lyrics (easter eggs abound)

Rating: M for sexual content, death, and blood

Pairing: Taemin x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.5k+

You’d always had an unhealthy fascination with death. With autumn winds and the way the colors seemed even more vibrant just before everything fell and turned cold. When you were a child you’d been scared of the dark just like everyone else, until the day that same darkness befriended you. 

Your parents always said you’d had an overactive imagination growing up. That you’d kept invisible friends far longer than your classmates and that maybe this was due to the fact that they had never given you any siblings but they were wrong. Your friends were not imaginary, they were just unable to communicate with anyone else. 

It was on your tenth birthday that you first had a full conversation with a ghost. The little girl with blonde hair and green eyes was named Pomona and she seemed to like the same games and books you did. She loved building tree houses in the woods even though she couldn’t carry anything herself. She took sips of the green tea you served her by leaning into the cup with her tongue. 

Even though your visitor glided through walls with ease she was still able to keep down a meal. You’d laughed at her manners and held her hand. To your surprise, you felt the touch of her smooth skin as you never had been able to before. It was then that you knew you were truly different, you would never be able to unsee the spectors that appeared every day before you walking in the streets beside you. Not only was the veil lifted from your eyes unlike others around you but you seemed to be a part of their world as well and it had made Pomona’s departure from you as she ascended to join her family that much harder. 

When your parents had died in a car crash right on the outskirts of town you had thought that maybe this was why you’d been born with these gifts, that maybe your life of living like a pariah was all so that you could have this chance to communicate with your parents even in the afterlife. But there was no apparition. No voices that called for you from the curtain that separated the living from the dead.  And with that hope of communication gone you were left with a gaping hole inside of you but you continued on living in the world as invisibly as you could. It wasn’t hard to do in the small town of Ampleforth where everyone knew their neighbors but still kept to themselves and their clicks. The crowd around your age kept at a distance and the elders that passed you by in the grocery store looked at you with sympathy or rather through you at the poor orphan who never made friends easily. 

During your teenage years you’d had your share of otherworldly lovers. They came eagerly when you called to them while your parents refused to answer you from beyond. It didn’t matter how many candles you lit in your loneliness or how many beautiful fantoms kissed you with lips cold as hell. You never let them possess your soul. You never gave away the reigns of control to anyone.

That isn’t to say you hadn’t tried making living friends. However, most people in Ampleforth didn’t want to think about anywhere beyond Lastshire the next town over. You wanted to travel, you believed that to see the world was to live and you wanted to leave once you had enough money to do so. The townspeople were stuck in their roots and their old ways and even technology was a bit rustic. You often found yourself using the library wifi outside laying on the lawn with Emma, the only friend who really understood you even without knowing your secret in full beyond your morbid curiosities. And today, like any other Friday night was no exception. 

You looked away from your book to glance at her as she laughed aloud and continued to scan her phone. You bookmarked the page where Mr. Rochester disguised as a gypsy woman tells Jane her fortune for what must have been the tenth time you’ve read it over the years and move closer to Emma. 

“What are you reading?” You asked her curiously. “Fanfiction of course,” Emma said smiling. You joined her, reading along and smiling at the fact that someone was so comfortable around you even when you remained silent. 

The graveyard was especially chilly at sunset. You placed your freehand in your pocket to warm it and clutched the bag of glazed donuts and bouquet of white lilies to your chest with the other. Your parents graves resided on the grounds of St. Samael church, though the grounds hadn’t been tended in ages. After enemy troops from the Battle of Cymadd two-hundred years before took refuge in its walls it was seen as a sacrilege to worship here. Your mother and father however had lovely memories of picnics and stolen kisses on these grounds where no one would look for them and so when their will had stated that they were to be buried here in the desecrated church you hadn’t batted an eye though the tongues of Ampleforth had wagged.

You knelt before their graves and blew off the dried leaves. You divided the flowers evenly between them and placed a donut on each of the stones as you sat beside them and ate the rest. The anniversary of their death always washed you with a flood of anxiety. It was foolish to think that maybe on this day the abyss driven between you and them would be broken and they would appear before you. On the other hand you chided yourself for such selfish wishes. They were happy in their own paradise and only an ungrateful daughter would wish them to visit the earth once more, even if it was to say goodbye. 

The tears came then, unbidden. You lay on your back and shut your eyes. Shutting the pain away simultaneously for crying never could erase the scars.  At least here in the darkness you knew yourself even when your own thoughts were frightening and loud to your own ears. 

Your mind was filled with the epitaphs of the graves that stood tall here around you, phases passed your eyelids like shooting stars.

Life is but the whisper of death, in sleep we are merely participants of a new condition. 

To have loved and lost I know this, there is no greater torment than to love that which parishes.

Just as the last strokes of light were painting the sky you felt the cold hands of death embrace you at your shoulders. You opened your eyes quickly to find a young girl looking down at you in concern. Her wide blue eyes fringed by long lashes reminded you of a porcelain doll. The frigid bite of her fingers and her flawless features confirmed she was a ghost and one most likely buried here in St. Samael by the look of her outdated lilac petticoats. A giant bow rested at the back of her head, holding her raven hair away from her face as it cascaded over her shoulder. 

“I miss my parents too.” the girl said quietly.

“What’s your name? What’s keeping you from passing on and joining them.” You ask softly.

“My name is Callitae, and I stayed so that I could visit my father who still roams this earth visible to the living.”

“That’s not possible, if your father were still on earth he would be a ghost same as you.” You said in confusion.

“My father is very much dead but it is not his time to turn to dust either. However, the wheel of time seems to be running quickly for you, it comforts me to know that in your heart it is not death you fear but loneliness.” And with those bleak words she vanished into the mist of dusk.

You made your way along the path to your car, careful not to trip over rocks and the overgrowth of the untamed forest as all the while you felt the eyes of an unfamiliar presence upon you wolflike in its intensity. You moved a little faster and didn’t look back.

~ One Year Later ~

 Aldermire castle was at the very edge of Ampleforth, it was so named for its seemingly endless grounds of alder trees that swayed in honeyed light green shades against the sun. It was more of a manor than a castle but according to gossip that became legend, the man who once lived there with his wife and servants had the tastes and charisma of a king. He’d been a general during the battle of Cymadd with many honors to his name praising his valor and ferocity on the fields. This granted him favor in the eyes of many of the council but some were wary of him for he seemed to possess an almost inhuman tolerance for pain. 

He’d survived the torture masters of the enemy when he was captured and taken prisoner as none before him had. When he’d come back home to Aldermire and his wife he’d seemed like a living corpse. He recovered quickly under his wife’s care however, and by spring their first and last child was born for the mother died soon after. 

The master of Aldermire grew more reclusive in his grief and never took in visitors. He raised his daughter on his own but she was a delicate creature born before her time and prone to sickness easily. When she died of the plague that ravished Ampleforth faster than forest fire he lost the last anchor to life that he had and in his sorrow, it was said that he burned the castle locking himself inside as well. Even so, Aldermire was spared complete collapse as servants rushed to put out the flames but his body had never been found. 

As you drove past the alder trees and took in the overgrown vines that clung to the castle like the brambles of Thornfield Hall in Jane Eyre, a sense of excitement washed over you. You’d tried to catch glimpses of the castle before in your childhood but the forest had been so thick and the barbed wires attached to ‘no trespassing’ signs had looked so menacing you’d given up until that morning when Emma had called to say that “the creepy castle” you’d always wanted to explore as a child was now sold to the new dental surgeon in town who had renovated it as his clinic. 

It seemed the surgeon had appeared overnight, so quick were these renovations and appointments from patients in towns even farther than Lastshire but supposedly he’d been fixing the place a year in advance before ever stepping foot in Ampleforth. You supposed it was quite odd for a man of his profession to move so often but really what did you know of wealthy people and their judgment. 

The grounds were beautiful with crimson roses and golden apple trees. It was like something out of a fairytale when you pulled up at the driveway and walked up the stone path. You knocked on the heavy wooden door with its brass knocker, your heart racing all the while as you tidied your appearance and took in the words in bronze lettering in Latin above the door that read: VENI, VIDI, VICI. I came, I saw, I conquered.  An intriguing surgeon indeed.

A  middle-aged woman opened the door with a smile, her red heels and black mini skirt made you feel a bit self-conscious in your jean shorts and white blouse as you followed the sway of her hips inside. You noticed the white gauze bandage at her neck and wondered at if for a moment before turning your attention to the interior of Aldermire. 

 You were happy to see that though the new owner had renovated the castle for a clinic he seemed to want to keep the atmosphere of what the estate might have been like before. While some rooms had been entirely rebuilt to resemble a white-walled art studio, others seemed untouched by time and filled with bookshelves, upholstered chairs, and artwork against the old stone walls. 

You stopped in the hall to look at the paintings. All of them were memento mori’s displaying the reminder of mortality in its depictions of flower-filled vases, candles, fruits, and skulls. 

You peeked into room after room till you came to one with a small shooting range. The door was wide open as all the others had been. It seemed the owner loved showing his collections to the public though you felt that this room should surely be locked. Guns lined the far wall along with other combat gear. Well, at least the weapons seemed secure behind the glass cases. 

“The master of the house is an excellent hunter,” The receptionist said, turning to look at you. “I do believe it is one of his favorite hobbies.” You nodded, taking one last look at the room before continuing to follow her down the hall to yet another room with stark white walls.

“You may wait in this room,” the receptionist said with another bright smile as she motioned you forward into what looked like a surgical lounge chair with mirrors facing you on all sides. Before you could protest that you weren't planning on having any teeth extracted she was out of the room, shutting the door firmly behind her. 

The room was far too cold. You shiver under the thin material of your blouse as you take in the smell of cleaning chemicals and fruity furniture spray. Your spine tingles at the waft of air that assaults you from the vent above your head, the metal chair you are seated in presses against the back of your thighs like ice. 

 Along the walls of the room were bookcases, carefully filed papers, a small world globe, and to your trepidation an entire metal table covered in a white cloth that was filled with instruments. Some of which you wondered if they really were for teeth or something else entirely. Your stomach twisted with apprehension as you took in the empty syringes but before you could make your way to the door you heard footsteps approaching and you quickly sat down again.  

The door rattled open and you shifted your attention to the man who walked in. To your amazement, he was younger than you imagined. He in his mid-twenties maybe. He was very attractive which was not to be taken lightly in your mind for you had seen a great deal of beautiful spirits and judging by the way he held himself with such confidence in his stride he full well knew it too. 

If you’d seen him anywhere else you would imagine he was a model or singer instead of a dental surgeon. He was dressed in the most strikingly bright red suit you had ever seen and his blond hair was combed back revealing his forehead in a contradictingly neat but disheveled manner as if he had just run his hand through it before walking in.

 “Hello, are you Dr. Lee?” You said. 

His smile was bright enough to be plastered on every teeth-whitening poster in the lobby. “Please call me Taemin,” he said with a pronounced accent. You remember reading that he had transferred ownership of his successful clinic in South Korea to travel abroad setting up clinics from state to state and renting out large houses. Again you wondered why a surgeon as successful as he would travel so much. But then maybe he just liked the change of scenery. Certainly if you had the opportunity to see the world you would take it. Your brain was trying to piece the whole thing together rationally but under his very direct gaze, you felt exposed and flustered as you never had before. 

“What is your name?” He asked as he went to a drawer at the side of the chair and pulled out a white apron that fastened at the hips. His leg brushed yours as he closed the drawer and you shifted in your seat. His proximity making you nervous and excited even. The way his familiar blue eyes seemed to pierce you as he asked such an ordinary question made you wonder if what he really asked for was so much more. Where had you seen eyes like his before? You felt a bit lightheaded the more you tried to remember. 

At this moment you believed that if this total stranger asked anything of you, you’d give in without hesitation. There was something captivating about his aura, possessive even. For the first time in your life, you found yourself enjoying the feeling of being so inexorably won over, it was more than a little intoxicating. 

You mumbled your name aloud, thankful that your voice didn’t shake.

Taemin proceeded to put on elbow-length black gloves made of soft glittering velvet. Definitely not something anyone would want to use on a patient, you thought. They were more fit for a goth cinderella at a Halloween mask ball than anything else. This image would have made you laugh if it wasn’t for the fact that he looked so damn sexy putting them on. He held one of the gloves between his teeth as he pulled the fabric slowly up his arm.

When he finished he came so close to your ear you could smell his cologne full of spice and gardenias as he whispered, “I think you know I’m not the kind of dentist you’re used to” his hot breath against your earlobe and his words made your heart race and your legs squeeze together. Your curiosity overriding your fear as you answered,

 “I’m more than okay with that.”

He pulled back and smiled warmly, seemingly satisfied by this answer. He brought his gloved fingertip to your collarbone and moved his hand slowly till his fingers clasped your chin pulling it up to look at him. His eyes changed from blue to crimson and before you could fully process the fact that yet another one of your lovers was undoubtedly inhuman, his plump lips were at your neck kissing a trail down your chest as he effortlessly unbuttoned your blouse and unpinned your bra, throwing each to the floor. 

Your entire body was on fire now and he hadn’t even begun. You felt your body arch into his kisses on your skin and you gasped as you looked down to see him unzipping your jeans with his teeth. He pulled the material past your ankles and tossed them aside as well.

His gloved hands spread your knees apart as if you were a book he so desperately wanted to read. His lips moved to the inside of your thighs, nipping at your skin lightly as he went and purposely skipping over where you craved him the most. It was torturous till he blew on your already embarrassingly wet underwear, sending a shiver through you. 

“You have no self-control,” He said with amusement. “We can change that,” he lifted your hips and removed the last article of clothing before kneeling before you. And then he was painting butterflies against you with every skillful stroke of his tongue. Your small whimpers escalated to moans as you disheveled his hair further. 

“You want it more, don’t you?” Taemin said, pulling away and licking his lips. “And you’ll always be left wanting more, thirsting for more of me.”

“Yes, I do want you,” you said boldly surprised by your own shameless actions as you pulled him closer. 

  “My patients are usually so boring,” he said with a devilish laugh. Handsome devil. You thought as he continued. “Usually a syringe of blood is all I take and I tidy their minds so that they forget any unpleasant feelings but with you, no. Compulsion is not necessary, I want you to savor every moment till you fall for me without limit, beyond all instinct or reasoning just as I have fallen for you.”

 He moves to your neck again and this time you could feel sharp teeth graze your skin. He gripped your shoulders before piercing your flesh with his fangs. Your initial gasp of pain soon turns to pleasure as he drinks heavily from you. In a world overrun by ghosts why did the existence of vampires surprise you? You gazed into the mirrors that surrounded you and watched as blood trickled across your skin. Taemin’s reflection was nowhere to be seen, light seeped through him as if he wasn’t there at all.  An airy groan escapes you again when he pulls your hair back to allow better access to your neck. 

You move from the chair to stand and raise one leg to his hip. He loosens his grip on your hair then, taking you by the waist and lifting you effortlessly,  mounting you against him. “What sweet forbidden fruit you are.” He says as he licks the droplets of blood left on your neck and circles the two small punctures with his tongue so harshly you’re sure it will bruise. 

“I’m all you will see now, I’m your new world,” Taemin said before sealing that promise with a kiss. His lips claim yours hungrily and you responded just as fiercely, your tongue probing his in a battle for dominance as you moved against him. The taste of him and the mingling coppery trace of your blood made you realize you’d been starving and only he could satiate you now.

He carried you across the room, opening a door in the back that led to what must have been his bedroom. He gently set you on the floor and you took in the room. It was dimly lit with beautiful candelabras, an armour, and several paintings. The bed with its intricately carved mahogany headboard and satin white sheets was at the center. 

“Get on the bed, love.” He says as he moves towards the corner of the room.

You do so nervously, laying back against the pillows and watching Taemin open a cage. Your eyes widen as black snakes slither free. They seemed to stop and look to him for guidance and Taemin looked them in the eye and said, “be gentle with our new pet.” 

Your heart beats wildly as the snakes come toward you but you dare not move. This was some sort of test you knew and even though a small part of you wanted to bolt, a larger, more insistent thrum of curiosity and anticipation overwhelmed you. The snakes were each quite beautiful in the way that some lovely things are terrifying. Their glossy scales shone under the candlelight as two furled around your ankles and two more held your wrists bound against the bedposts. They were long enough that their bodies circled the posts several times. Their pink forked-tongues seemed to taunt you as they watched you squirm. Another glided up your stomach and between your breasts only to coil itself around your neck and fall asleep against the warmth of your skin. 

“You are a prisoner to it all now, my love,” Taemin said as he removed his right glove with his teeth and slipped two fingers inside you. You engulfed him greedily, blissfully surrendering to the slow movements of his fingers and the way you lost control of your hips as you writhed against your restraints. “You’re a prisoner to this heat, to my touch, and to my voice.” He said in a singsong that encompassed your senses. 

“I’ll tease you slowly,” Taemin said as his gloved hand rubbed circles against you, the velvety fabric sending shockwaves coursing through your body to the tips of your toes as they curled. “-Until the only name you taste against that pretty little mouth of yours is mine.” Your shuddering climax is met with erratic breaths as you will yourself not to beg for more. Here you were bare and shaking sweatily before him as he stood, still fully clothed and collected looking down on you with that deceitfully cherubic face. It sent daggers to your pride and yet how willingly you accepted your fate. 

Sensing your thoughts he began to undress as calmly and languorously as he did everything else. He seemed to take delight in the show he was putting on for you. His eyes glowed with mischief as he undid the last button of his suit and you found yourself unable to look away. He was muscular yet grace filled his form. He was a walking paradox, lithe and powerful all at once.

“My very existence is a sin,” Taemin said as he climbed onto the bed. “An unholy predator whose thirst will never be satisfied. And you love, are my prey.” 

He kissed you again and suddenly you found that the world was no longer monochrome but dripping with color. You felt alive as you never had before. The grey world died as his naked body danced with your naked soul and you felt as if you were drenched in light. Vulnerable yet safe, adrift in a pure deep sea. You wanted to drown in this time with him, you crashed into one another as waves on a moon-white shore. 

You want to trace the valley of his arms, you want to touch him though you can’t reach him. That is when you feel the snakes release you. You embrace him fully and in this moment, words aren’t necessary. 

You surfaced breathless and entranced as you took in his eyes again, they melted into deep blue once more. Your hearts beat to the same rhythm as Taemin moved to lay beside you. It was at that moment as he held you in his arms that your memory resurfaced, his eyes were the same as the raven-haired girl’s in the graveyard you’d seen a year before. She had her father’s eyes you realized.

He seemed to read the question in your eyes for he said, “Yes, Callie is my daughter. She was born here and she died here within these walls just as her mother did. It was my fault she died.” He said, shaking his head. “My wife couldn't bear to see me suffer, when the enemy commander turned me into a monster I turned against them and after that massacre I refused to follow my new instincts and feed. I was stubborn and prideful and when I came back to her arms I was weak. She gave me her blood without care for herself and like a beast, I drained her slowly and gave in to what we wanted most: a child. She couldn’t have known how baring a Child of Night would cause her to suffer but I should have known better. If I hadn’t weakened her so, if-”

“Shhh,” You drew your fingers to his lips to silence him and pulled him to your breast, wrapping your arms around him firmly. “She loved you and she did what she wanted to do for you and for her beautiful daughter. I know that she wouldn’t have wanted anything more than to have her no matter the consequence.” 

He took your wrist and brought it to his lips, then he traced your blue veins with the pad of his thumb before he said, “I knew from the moment I beheld you laying in the graveyard under that brilliant amber sunset that your soul was seeking mine. I pursued you shamelessly afterward as if you were tethered to me and I couldn’t let you go. You haunted my thoughts and made me care as I never thought I could again. It is a lie that the Children of Night are soulless and heartless, ours are bound to this earth as much as any mortal and they burn just as brightly.”

You entwined your fingers with his. 

“In your eyes I saw that we both shared the same spirit.” Taemin said brushing a kiss to your forehead. “We both fear being trapped but most of all we fear the way we isolate ourselves, there is no life, no death for us but rather a long and lonely road filled with people who see straight through us.”

“I know what you mean,” You said. “We are alone in ways no one else can begin to understand and yet I want to know you better than I know myself.”

“I never want to lose the one I love ever again,” Taemin said earnestly, he took your hands in his and squeezed them. “Would you spend forever with me till the earth itself crumbles with the weight of falling stars? Would you give me your soul to hold as my equal? All that I ask of you is to love me, respect me, obey me and I will be your slave for all of eternity.” 

“Then I am yours completely, in heart, body, and soul, I am yours just as you are mine.” You said. 

“It won't be painless,” He said with worry written in his eyes.

“Death is earned is it not?” You said, looking at him confidently. “I trust you.” You said more quietly.

“You scare me a great deal.” He said. You laughed at that, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

“Why?” You asked.

“Because you make me want to be a better man. My love, I am no angel. I am devious.” He ran his free palm against your cheek and you leaned into his touch. “My hands are stained from murder, and yet you trust them completely. I am selfish to want you and cruel to take you into darkness with me. I am a demanding creature but I am your servant.”

He took off one of his rings and slipped it onto your finger. It was gold inlaid with sapphire jewels the color of his eyes in the shape of a laurel crest. “This will protect you from the sunlight once the transition is completed.” Taemin said, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles and over the ring. “Never take it off, promise me.” 

“I promise.”

He brought his right hand to his mouth, his fangs elongated once more as they had when he’d feed on you and in one swift motion he pierced his wrist. His deep purple-red blood spilled like wine across the sheets. He took the blood into his mouth before bringing his lips to yours. 

His blood scorched the walls of your throat and trickled at the corner of your mouth. It singed the skin of your heart till you felt so full of him that you didn’t know whose body belonged to whom anymore. It was a dizzying kind of love, hypnotic and consuming in its luster. Sometimes love is sweet, You thought. You were drunk on this emotion and the taste of him. He was under your skin, he was flowing through your veins.

He licked the blood that had dripped at the corner of your mouth clean and pulled away to look at you. “Until we meet again, love.” Taemin said, before placing a satin covered pillow over your face.

Sometimes love is brutally soft. You thought as you lost consciousness. 

~ Epilogue ~

His scent tickles your nose and calls your limbs to arise from the ashes of your former self. 

“Welcome to hell my queen.” 

The voice in the darkness was sweet to hear. Your eyes open, light purple and full of lethal newborn lust for the blood of your sire, your soulmate, your king who smiles above you.

The impulse to feed is like a maelstrom consuming your senses. All you want is him, his blood, and his body against yours. He lays on the bed beside you and tilts his head in invitation. 

You crawl towards him, straddling his hips and piercing your fangs to his throat eagerly. You nibble and mewl against his collarbone when his skin does not break beneath you. He laughs at your frustration and gently strokes your hair. He reaches for your chin, lifting it to eye level and brushing the pad of his fingers against your small fangs till the tiniest drops of blood fall and you lick his fingers clean. 

“You're like a newborn kitten,” Taemin says in your mind. His voice inside your head sends a ripple of joy through your body. You'd thought you’d learned what true unity felt like but you’d never experienced this, an all-consuming warmth and wholeness. “Try again innocent one, this time tilt your head upwards as you elongate your fangs.” 

Your desire to please him was almost as vigorous as your hunger. You moved to his neck again and did as he instructed. 

“That’s my kitten,” he said. You beam under his praise as you quench your thirst. You find it’s not enough and you move to his lips instead. You kissed him like nightfall devouring the sun, an eclipse under a diamond sky. You were dangerous now you thought with glee as Taemin pulled you closer, closer towards the whisper of forever. And then you smiled when he said in your mind, When we align, will you or I be the moon? You bit his bottom lip and tugged it playfully in reply. 

[whatzaoverwatch]

The Reaper of The Opera Chapter 13: Love Never Dies (FINAL)

The ending come forth! I hope everyone enjoyed the journey of this au fic as I have. It’s great to return to writing again, having put the lengthy fics to the side for awhile after the traction fell short. If you have any interest on my other fics please check out my masterlist in my bio. Thank you for all the love and support and thank you once again for @stormcallart design of Phantom!Gabriel that really inspired me. I wanted to split this into an epilogue but hell I’ll just combined them both.

First Prev

Cruel fate had rested upon your shoulders. Your mentor now turned monster was now forcing you decide your future. Threatening the life of your childhood friend now fiancé for your love. To lose your last bit of light or be succumbed to the darkness once and for all. A choice that made you lose in either situation. Reapers sinister glare showing no mercy for the struggling Genji. Seeing your beloved being pressed further into the rocky wall. Rising from your place, that face of fear no longer cascading your form.

“Why do you give me this choice? No matter what I choose it will be in your favour.” You questioned, watching Genji try to shake free of Reapers hold.

“For the dramatics I suppose,” Reaper hummed, pressing the gun against Genjis temple as a warning, “He is the barrier between the love we could have. I give you a choice that I was never given upon my accident. I know what you will desire, but I also know who you truly are. You could never let your beloved die, I will spare him only if you become mine.”

“Why make her lie to you to save me?” He gasped out, looking over to you with a face of guilt, “[Name], forgive me. I tried to do everything I could for you. No matter what you decide, I just want you to know that I love you. I always have and I always will. I only want you to have the freedom he took from you. Deny him, don’t let him win. If it is my time to die, so be it. I already escaped death once, I’m afraid it may not favour me this time again. Don’t throw your life away for my sake.”

“Genji…” You mumbled. Seeing how much he sacrificed to you on several occasions. Giving his second life to you without a second thought. Unable to let him die from all he has been through. Reapers arm pressed against Genjis throat, cutting him from speaking any further.

“Don’t sway her emotions you little brat! I am willing to spare your life, don’t make me change my mind,” Threatening Genji, he leered over at you with a growl, “There is no turning back now. No use looking for pity or cries for help. What shall it be my dear? Do you end your days with me, or do you send him to his grave?”

“You were my teacher, my guardian and my hope. To think that at one point I would feel sorry for what happened to you, Gabriel. But now I can only spare nothing to you but hatred,” You told him, your stance firm and your eyes growing cold. Watching his stature tense at the sound of his old name. Shaking your head at what he had done to you after all of these years, “I gave you my heart and mind blindly. You used me, and you deceived me.”

The smoke of Reapers form fading. His demeanour not shifted by your words. Those thoughts of hatred and anger meaning nothing to him anymore. Clicking his shotgun at the ready, his darkened gaze grew weary of your speech.

“You are trying my patience [Name]. Make, your, choice.” Warning you one final time. Knowing if you continued hesitating, he would make the choice for you. To blast Genjis head onto the stone wall and taking you as his forever. Noticing that his opponent also waited for your response.

Looking at the men who had taken your heart, you knew your decision was set. Slowly approaching Reaper, he took no sign of letting his guard down. Reaching carefully over to him, you carefully rested your hand onto his burnt mark. Feeling his skin was cold as ice, his body trembling as if contact had never been experienced. Brushing your thumb gently under his jagged teeth, you could feel his shuddering breath from your touch. Guiding him closer to you and away from Genjis form.

Genji collapsed onto the ground, the pressure from Reapers hold taking the wind out of him. Catching his breath as he watched you gently caressed Reapers face into your hands. Keeping your attention upon the black irises before pulling him into a passionate kiss. Startling the wraith by the choice, he is left to be taken into the desired kiss of his dreams. Genji was left disheartened by the decision, turning away from your sacrifice. Dropping his weapon, Reapers guard was dropped entirely. Never minding the idea on if this was a trick or that you truly had chosen him. Feeling him slowly ease into the kiss with his own sense of desperation. Hands delicately cradling you like a porcelain doll.

After so long, he felt like he was human again. Shedding a single tear down his cheek from the love. But the feeling didn’t last, pulling away from you in a state of shock. Catching his breath to look upon your beauty. Gently placing a hand over your cheek. Finding himself breathless when you leaned into his touch. The faint smoke from his touch quickly reminded him of his own curse.

As much as he cherished you, he wondered how long you would last in his solitude. Would you still remained preserved for all eternity like him? Or would you eventually find your own death overtime? Unable to bare the thought of you losing your smile and song. He couldn’t go through with it, to take away the one thing that mattered most to him. Halting you from going for another kiss, stumbling back at the overwhelming fit of emotions. Wiping away the tear, trembling in his form to compose himself. Heading on over to his organ to hide himself away.

“I can’t...I cannot do this to you,” He confessed, his voice drained and powerless. Unable to look at the two of you in his state, “Forget about me, leave this place. Leave me now!”

Reaper had spotted the ring he had taken from you. The glimmering dragon gazing upon him in judgement. Tossing the mockery towards Genji, a token of his victory on his behalf. The metal bouncing against the stone and onto his side. The younger man was speechless of Reapers decision. He was certain that he would’ve been forever heartbroken. Taking the opportunity to grab the ring and his blade that rested just against the rocky shore.

You kept your focus on the trembling Reaper. Knowing he had given up on his life with you in an instant. The kiss revealing what he longed for and what he could never have. He was letting you go. All because he loved you. Denying Genji your hand before he could reach it, knowing you had to make your final goodbye to your angel of music. Placing a delicate hand upon his back, he froze in his place to look over at you. A silent gaze upon you both was enough to share your final moments. The look of grief building inside, finally pulling away from your touch.

“Go!” He commanded one last time. His voice echoing the darkened cave once more.

Taking your leave, turning to Genji who still held his hand towards you. Quickly going to his side for a reunited embrace, taking in the moment with your love in silence. Taking your hand, he guided you towards the gate, heading towards your freedom. Remaining by each others sides by returning to back where you came from.

Reaper kept his back towards you both as you left him once and for all. Unable to look back knowing his mind would be changed when he saw you again. The withheld tears of torment finally coming forth when he could no longer hear your voice. Only greeted to the sounds of the music box that slowly began to play its familiar tune. Approaching the aged box, he looked upon the monkey that had gently tapped its cymbals to the music.

A box gifted to him long ago by his friends the moment the theatre had opened. The memories burned away by the scattered photos beneath his feet. Kneeling himself against the ground, he listened to his faint lullaby. Accepting his fate that was before him. A hand closing the box once it played its final tune.

“It’s over, the Music of the Night.” He croaked, letting his final burst of shadows consume him into the darkness. The final roar escaping him in his agony. The candles slowly flickering out one by one. Black roses scattered across the water, floating against the surface and away.

-

The flames had long destroyed the theatre. Empty and hollow from the destruction. The lair soon discovered by McCree and the rest of the group. Having searched for it long after to seek out the spirit that once haunted their home. Jesse lead them to where Ana had directed him thereafter to discover the hiding place for himself. He searched around the dimly lit area, spotting the scattered paper and broken mirrors.

Kneeling with a torch in his hand to see torn and burnt pictures of the original stage group altogether before the theatre. The memory of it grew heavy in the stage-handlers heart. Continuing his investigation around the place for any sign of life aside from his own. His journey leading him before a bed, where only two things of interest were presented before his very eyes.

A withered music box that he had once seen before, and an infamous mask resting on its side. Picking up the mask, he gazed upon its features. Knowing deep down that his search had finally ended. Looking to the group, mask in hand as he could no longer feel the presence of the spirit around him.

-

Present Day

Maximilian had made his final collections before making his way to the exit doors. Counting over the profit he had received with great disappointment. Overestimating peoples desires for some aged theatre antiques to turn in a decent pay. Knowing that this would be the last time he decided to take in this sort of auction in his future. Just as he was about to lock up, he felt a presence behind him.

“I’m sorry, but I am afraid that the auction is closed.” He informed whoever was behind him. Not wanting to be bothered by an already disappointing day. The person behind him spoke up in a gruff voice.

“I am not here for any profit; I just want to take a look.” Maximilian simply rolled his eyes, turning himself around to the gruff man before him.

“This isn’t a tourist attraction. If you want to stand around and gaze upon memorials I highly suggest-” In his hopes that he could shoo the blue eyed man away, his words were cut by a roll of cash that was presented before him. Twice the amount of money that had been raised from the auction before his very eyes. Taking one look at the older man, noticing his two scars upon his face, he carefully took the cash with a clear of the throat, “You’ve got twenty minutes. I am a terribly busy man you know.”

“It’s more than I need.” The man grunted, stepping inside while Max opened the way for him.

Allowing the man to have his time alone inside, he waited patiently by the doorway. Double checking the money that he had received. Not prying any questions on the man’s reasons. After all, he could never turn away from cash.

The mystery man walked into the theatre in complete silence. His black and red gloves ghosting over the rust and dusty surfaces around him. Approaching the stage to be greeted by a set on untouched auction items.

A flood of memories greeted upon the older man while he approached each piece one by one. Old costumes torn and props that were half broken. Desks and chairs that had been destroyed from the fire. A salvaged chandelier that still contained its beauty after so many years. Taking in the musty air with a sigh.

“Lot of memories of this place…they weren’t all bad.” He muttered to himself. Drifting himself to memory lane by everything he looked upon.

Reminded of the glamour and glory the theatre once held. Cherishing the applause and songs that once filled the opera house. The friends he had met in his time throughout the years. All the laughter and hard work put into make the Overwatch Opera Company come alive.

When the first fire had happened, almost everything was lost. Finding it difficult to take in the consequences and suffering in the blame. Searching for his own peace, he wasn’t at all shocked to hear of the Opera Houses final fall. Receiving messages from his beloved friend Ana on the aftermath on what had occurred.

She had taken Fareeha back home to mend their relationship. The managers had finally retired and wish to simply watch over other shows instead of taking charge. McCree had set out to do his own work, trying to reflect from the actions taken place. The infamous Hana Song announced her tour with Lucio and his partner Baptiste. The other dancers had returned to their countries living out their lives with their loved ones. He was especially surprised to hear that you had left to Hanamura with Genji and Hanzo. Last she heard, you and Genji were expecting your first child together.

He was unaware of the full extent of what had occurred to you. Finding himself taken back on what his old friend had been up to. But he knew of the madness Gabriel succumbed to. Unable to break the guilt of being partly responsible of his fate. It took him awhile to convince himself to make his way back to look over the condition of his old Opera Company. But with the Opera House doors finally closed and the Reaper no longer heard from, he decided to take the risk.

Taking it all in one last time before finally turning away from his past once and for all. Looking out to the theatre, he could picture the audience that once took place in the broken seats. Taking in his words as he presented the show. Memories faded to ash not once but twice.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he turned to take one final walk out of the building. Before taking his steps, the lights flickered from the once broken chandelier. Pausing his reminiscing to hear a faint organ playing beneath his feet. Filling the silence with melody once more. Heart stopping at the familiar music in his ears.

Rotating him his place to hear the music once again. What once was lost, remained within its walls. He knew he could not escape that song. To remind him that The Reaper of The Opera could never be forgotten.

The End